#i could have wrung her fucking neck

[fox-mulder-gets-pegged]

Fighting the Cain instinct so fucking hard rn.

[adverbally]

Just Like a Prayer (I’ll Take You There)

Written for the @steddiesmuttyseptember prompt “pillow princess” | wc: 751 | rated: E | cw: sexual content | tags: alternate universe - gender changes, female steve harrington, female eddie munson, pillow princess eddie, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, a touch of BDSM dynamics, c’mon you can’t tell me the prompt is pillow princess and not expect me to make it sapphic | title from “Like a Prayer” by Madonna

———

It’s not that Eddie is purposely not reciprocating when Stevie goes down on her. She loves Stevie, and she would be thrilled to make her feel even a fraction as good as she makes Eddie feel. It’s just that, when Stevie wants to spread her out on the sheets and dig in like Eddie is her last meal, why would she protest?

“Oh, Jesus,” she gasps on a shuddering breath, lacing her fingers in Stevie’s beautiful hair for leverage as she grinds her hips up into her mouth.

Stevie’s answering moan feels like it vibrates through Eddie’s whole lower half. It almost surprises her when she feels the sting of Stevie’s fingernails digging into her thighs, holding her securely in place as Stevie’s tongue delves inside her as far as it can go.

The sound that comes out of her isn’t a shriek, exactly, but it’s loud and high-pitched enough that Eddie could understand the confusion if she were capable of forming any thoughts whatsoever right now. Her brain has been wrung out like a wet cloth until all she can think about is Stevie.

The weight of her on the bed between Eddie’s legs, the security of her arms across Eddie’s hips, the heat licking up Eddie’s spine with every swipe of her tongue. And, God, when Eddie cranes her neck to see Stevie looking blissed out on her taste, eyes rolling back in her head as she dives in for more–

“Stevie, oh my god,” Eddie breathes. “So fucking good.”

Stevie’s gaze flicks upward to make eye contact with Eddie as she swirls her tongue around Eddie’s clit just the way she likes.

Stevie knows how much that affects Eddie— seeing Stevie’s molten gaze peeking out from beneath the longest natural eyelashes she’s ever seen, focusing on her with dilated pupils like she’s getting high on eating Eddie out. Stevie knows, and she’s playing a dirty trick to catch Eddie off guard and send her careening into her orgasm.

Or so Eddie thinks, until her thighs tense and her cunt starts to clench around nothing, and Stevie pulls away.

Eddie teeters there on the precipice, half-convinced she’s past the point of no return and going to come anyway. The moment stretches like Stevie is one of the glassblowers they saw at the renaissance fair last summer, and Eddie is molten glass, red hot and liquid, cooling slowly but surely in the hands of a master.

She doesn’t come.

It stuns her speechless. She can’t even breathe, like the shock has knocked the air out of her. All Eddie can do is lie there and watch as Stevie sits up on her knees and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist.

Her stunned expression must speak volumes, because Stevie blinks at her faux-innocently and asks, “Was there something you wanted?”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes uselessly before she indignantly settles on, “I was about to come!”

“I guess you were, huh?” Stevie says wonderingly, like it hadn’t occurred to her. “Sorry, sweetie.” She reaches out to lightly trace her nails across the sensitive skin of Eddie’s inner thighs, making her legs twitch.

She whines dramatically, throwing an arm over her face. “Who are you and what have you done with my sweet, loving girlfriend who never, ever tortures me?”

Stevie laughs. “Ever heard of delayed gratification?”

“I think that kills people.” She scowls and flings her arm to the side in protest.

“I think…” Stevie sing-songs, leaning over Eddie’s body until they’re face to face, “that if you’re a good girl and wait for me to let you come, I can make it worth your while.” Her hand drifts to Eddie’s jaw, thumb teasing over her bottom lip in a promise for more.

Eddie swallows hard but doesn’t look away from Stevie. She’s so gorgeous when she takes control that it’s almost hypnotic. Even when Stevie shifts forward so her thigh is snug against Eddie’s spit-slick pussy, Eddie keeps her eyes on Stevie’s face. She gets a devious smile as her reward.

“You don’t even have to do anything. I know you can handle that. Right, princess?”

Wordlessly, Eddie nods her agreement and tries to ignore the electric spark of shame that shoots down her spine, straight to her cunt.

Stevie pushes herself back down the bed to settle between Eddie’s legs, and Eddie fists her hands in the sheets as she steels herself for the next touch of Stevie’s tongue.

It’s going to be a long night.

[eliorabunny]

deny me

angstyyyyyy!!!!! bestfriend!chris x fem!reader, unrequited luvvvv

𐀔⋆ ིྀ₊𖧧 “i get this twisted and sickening feeling i’m gonna marry you” 🂱*𖦹°‧ ༘

𖦹 genre: fluffy angst, no happy ending (unless i decide to do an alternate version) ✄༝𑁤

𖦹 word count: 547 𖧧

𖦹 a/n: first thing i’ve written on here yippie🧚🏻‍♀️ also do i tell my friend/producer i’m using their song for plot inspiration. stream grace gardner everyone they fucking rock

i’m feeling moody so now y’all are too ᵕ̈ ̤̮

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

it felt painfully safe to lie in his arms.

any moment with him, really, made her heart plummet deep into her gut. her rosy thoughts of him felt wrung out like a towel every time they were together. each minute gnawed at the fragile bones of a fading daydream. for once, she actually wished her best friend liked her more than that.

unfortunately, he was respectful.

they’d known each other since childhood, always seeing movies together at the local theatre and getting ice cream across the street afterwards. she knew which monopoly piece he’d choose (the terrier) and he knew which ice cream truck character she’d pick (spider-man). only those who have surpassed love and found themselves in a deeper bond could remember details like that.

which is why it hurt so much more once she realized she was falling. honestly, it felt more like repeatedly tumbling over exposed roots and snarled branches in a cliffside nosedive. she chuckled bitterly to herself at the cartoonish image, eliciting a raspy “hmmm?” from the sleepy arms around her.

“oh.. was that out loud?” she mumbled bashfully, as reality yanked her back from imagination. she turned to look up at the boy sitting next to her on the couch, who nodded slowly. his half-lidded but steady eye contact would have made her collapse if she wasn’t already curled up against him. a vague redness crept towards her face, and she struggled to ignore the corners of his mouth twitching towards an amused smile.

“what are you thinking about?” he asked softly, laying a gentle finger on the skin between her eyebrows. she tried to disregard the idea that superheroes ever had the ability to read minds. her eyes wandered to the collar of his hoodie, which had slipped enough to let his collarbone taunt her, dare her, to move closer.

and if the lights were dimmer, she wouldn’t have seen it.

a violet, blooming there on his chest. a mark of someone else’s teeth and lust. a tear begged to be set free, pricking the corner of her eye. she prayed her mascara would remain faithful and squeezed her eyes shut.

“hey,” he whispered, pulling her into a tighter hug. she melted against his neck, idly chewing on the sleeve of her sweatshirt as her focus dissolved. this particular sleeve had a heart-shaped patch sewn onto it, a playful gift from her best friend. it felt ironic now, knowing her feelings would only cause trouble if she let them show.

the warmth of his lips just inches from her forehead was devastating. her skin ached for contact, and she mindlessly tilted her head upwards. her gaze met azure, caged by enviably long lashes. the delicate beauty of his features overwhelmed her, and she quickly glanced down to the offensive blossom on his neck.

she contemplated bringing it up, knowing every response would shatter her. the sight was torturous, and she felt her tether to paradise disintegrating as she pointed. her mouth opened slightly, and she felt the pressure behind her eyes threatening to betray her.

his eyes followed the line of her finger and felt his heart wilt. they shared an understanding, silent moment, and he pretended not to notice the tear that traced an apologetic line down his shoulder.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[fairytsuk1]

getting katsuki gifts for the holidays was like trying to teach a monkey to dance, it was impossible.

you'd whined, mumbling about how the two of you had enough money to buy most items you wanted; katsuki also never seemed to never ask for things specifically.

"so, katsuki... the holidays are coming up!"

he's picking at his ordered in take-out, and you can see his displeasure at the lack of peppers as he picks through his kung pao chicken.

"yeah, already got your gift," and he's giving you smirk that makes you sweat, "are you sure you got the right chicken? this shit tastes like the fuckin' kids menu."

your eyes get caught on the wedding band wrung around his fingers, sailing the veins of his forearm till you can see his bulging biceps in the black muscle shirt. was your husband hand-carved by gods? seemed likely.

"mmm, no, it should be the kung pao chicken, want me to chop some chilies up for you?"

you're standing before he can protest, taking out your knives and chopping boards, "and you already have my gift? I don't have your gift, yet."

the box of take-out is set down as your husband circles his arm around your waist to leave soft kisses on the column of your neck.

"yeah, 'cause you don't love me," and a thankful hand squeezes your ass just to show his appreciation for the chopping of chilies, "...whatcha gonna get me?"

his hands are still wandering, and you're thinking more of what his talented fingers could do than his stupid gift, "i'm not supposed to tell, you know. santa's elves might get me into a whole lotta trouble."

he gropes you even more fiercely, and you can feel his pressing need against your back.

"fuck santa,"

he carries you off in a fit of giggles to your shared bedroom.

-

the bookstore was fairly crowded and you felt thankful you could slip by unnoticed and browse the various books of romance or sci-fi; katsuki didn't even seem like a sci-fi guy so each row left you feeling panicky and like a bad wife the further and further you went.

"excuse me, do you have any classical romance?"

the timbre of the voice makes your heart stop. It sounded just like, well, katsuki! your legs are thrumming with the knee-jerk reaction to tackle him to the ground, but you were literally buying his gift! the surprise would be ruined, and you're dashing into the row of cookbooks to calm yourself.

maybe it's not even him. you know what they say, just because it sounds like katsuki doesn't mean it is! you're affirming yourself silently when footsteps grow close, and your husband is flashing by you in seconds.

it is katsuki!

"i'm fucked."

your eyes follow the object of your love, his strong hands randomly pick books out of nowhere, but there's grumbles of displeasure as he skims the summary and grimaces at the cover. he didn't know that much about books, but you deserved something special.

you'd dealt with all the hero stuff (being gone for long periods of time and coming home nearly dead was no news to you), always made him lunch or dinner, and frankly... katsuki found his eyes drifting to a sleeping baby in its stroller.

he'd started thinking more like that. so the gift had to be pretty damn good!

a man strikes up conversation, and you smile at the idea that katsuki wasn't just factually married, but he gave that aura too. yeah, that was your man.

"i'm shoppin' for my wife," straight to the point and he's already grumbling at having to interact with this person for more than a minute.

"wow! a true husband, what's with the books then? looking to open your marriage?"

it's a joke that katsuki doesn't find funny, you do however and you're sure this conversation would be going very differently.

"fuck no. i'm just lookin' for somethin' good," there's a brief pause in his words, and katsuki looks askance at having to provide a reason why, "she does a lot for me. want her to know I appreciate it."

a beating heart is soothed by the words. your hormones run wild at his mild love declaration, and you're grinning like a mad man.

katsuki wakes up on christmas morning to find his absolute favorite thing; you.

and the book he got was pretty damn good, too.

[murdrdocs]

hiii! would you be able to write something where the reader and ethan are dating and she knows he is ghostface and lowkey encourages him to kill people to prove his love for her (like guys who talk to her at class or down the street?)

this doesn’t have to be smut but i’d love it to be <3 thank uu

i don't have enough energy (or hormones) for smut rn but i rlly like this universe so maybe in the future !

You were taught never to settle. Throughout your life, you’d been surrounded by people who had their hearts broken by others –– usually men –– who didn’t deserve to have another’s heart within their perceived trustworthy grasp in the first place. 

“Never settle”

So you didn’t. You knew that whoever you were going to give your heart needed to do anything for you. No matter what. 

Luckily you found Ethan Landry. 

At first, it was Finn from your Communications course. He didn’t really do anything. He just stared a little too long and happened to have made a slightly uncomfortable statement about you when Ethan was just a few paces away. 

“You want me to do something about it?” Ethan asked you, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he leaned down to ask you the ominous question. You looked up at him, noticing that his brown eyes were staring at Finn’s retreating figure. 

“Something?” You’d asked. Ethan blinked twice, his jaw ticked, and then he looked down at you. 

“Something.”

Two days later, Finn was declared missing. 

Then, it was Brody from your foreign language. 

He was a douche. All around jock, but not in the lovable way like Chad. Brody was pushy, constantly inviting you to frat parties, promising that you would get shit faced with a smirk on his face that told you everything you needed to know. 

“He makes me uncomfortable, E,” you told him, your voice low and soft and delicate. You remember the feeling of Ethan’s warm hand caressing your cheek, you leaned into his touch. 

“Okay.” Was all he said. When he came back with a black eye and a busted lip, you patched Ethan up and peppered his face in kisses. 

You remember asking him one night when guilt had begun to introduce itself to you. You’d asked, “Why do you do it?” 

And Ethan replied, as simple as ever, as if he was asked what color the sky was, “Because I love you.” 

Then, there was Olivia. 

Olivia was everything wrong with the world, according to you. Ethan had never seen her in person, only through forwarded Instagram posts, but he saw the way she riled you up. He watched you pace back and forth in your room, ranting, enraged, about how insufferable she was. 

“I just wish someone would–ugh!” Your hands wrung around an invisible neck and you stopped your pacing, dropped your arms, and just looked at Ethan. 

“Do something about it?” He asked you. 

You stepped forward until you stood between his legs. Your hands cupped his face and you leaned down until you were level, your noses almost touching. 

“Ethan,” you’d said, slowly. “I want you to fucking kill her.” His eyes darkened and then he smiled. “And make her suffer.” 

Ethan’s hands were on the back of your thighs and pulling you into his lap before you could really get a hold of yourself. He kissed you, and kissed you, and ground his hips up into yours, and flipped you onto your back. 

You had to stop him before he continued. “Do it first, baby. I’ll be waiting.” 

And you were. When he returned two hours later, his hands still shaking and that delighted glint in his eyes, you were sitting on your bed watching a show on your laptop. 

Your eyes lifted to look at him when he entered your room, and all you did was smile, shut your laptop, and beckon him over with enough energy to last you the entire night.

[carpenterswife]

ALL MY GHOSTS (vi)

series masterlist

- summary: Your life is turned upside down when your ex-fiancé reveals his intentions with you. Jenny and Beau finally locate him, and don’t hesitate to bring him in for questioning. When you’re left alone in the house, you begin to search for an escape.

- word count: 2681

- warnings: Domestic abuse, inhumane treatment, abduction.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Jaw set hard, Beau glared through the two-way mirror at the man on the other side. The file in his hand was crinkled and balled up, from the way his fists had curled into fists at the mere sight of the bastard.

Jack. The man who’d inflicted so much pain and misery on you, for so long. Beau didn’t know the exacts. He didn’t know what exactly he’d done to you, not like Jenny and Cassie knew.

But he knew enough that the fucker was lucky Beau hadn’t wrung his neck already. 

He’s been staring through the glass for up to 20 minutes later, oblivious to Jenny and Cassie. The two women were discussing what their best approach to this interrogation would be. Beau didn’t have time to plan it.

He just needed to find out where you were, and get you back.

Beau stepped away from the glare. “I’ll go in.” He announced, without any hesitation. He knew it was, very likely, a terrible idea — this case was far too personal and emotional for him; but he’d be damned if he sat back and did nothing.

Before either woman could argue, Beau had already entered the interrogation room, shutting the door behind him with a heavy slam.

Jack lifted his head and stared back at him. His glare was angry and dark, rattling his handcuffs against the table. “What is this shit?” He asked, unimpressed. The fact he seemed so… unbothered, acting as if he didn’t know what he’d done pissed Beau off even more. His eyes never peeled away from the sheriff, as he sat opposite him at the steel table.

His movements were stiff, setting down a file. “Y/N L/N.” Was all he said. But it got his point across.

His brows rose, staring back at Beau, in silent disbelief. Then, he just laughed. “You’re fucking with me?” Beau stared back, his jaw set hard and his eyes narrowed. Jack laughed again, apparently finding this whole thing funny. Oh, if only Beau could get away with murder. “Y/N L/N? I haven’t seen her since she vanished into the night and left her engagement ring on the table.”

The bastard deserved worse than that, in Beau’s opinion.

He hummed, unconvinced by Jack’s words. He knew he’d done this. Beau flipped open his file. He didn’t need to. He’d read through it enough times that every word was memorised. It was mostly for show. “You abused her.” He said bluntly.

That earned a tick of Jack’s jaw, before he scoffed. “Abused her?” He sat back, his movement restricted by the short cuffs tying him to the table. “I never abused her. I lost my temper and yelled. But I never hit her.”

“She says differently.” Beau said bluntly. He had no time for bullshit. He needed to find you. Now.

The man’s face changed. The smallest of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lip, and then it was gone. If Beau hadn’t been staring so fiercely at Jack, he wouldn’t have even send it. “Oh.” He chuckled lowly. “You know her? She’s a pretty one, ain’t she?” Beau’s glare hardened. “Got a nice set of tits on her.”

Beau bit his tongue to prevent himself from losing his cool. How fucking dare he. How dare he talk about you like that. He cleared his throat, keeping his rage settled in his stomach, and looked back down at the file in front of him, sick of seeing Jack’s face. “Y/N went missin’ three days ago.”

He stared blankly. “Why would I know fuck all about that?”

“In the days leadin’ up to her disappearance, she was receivin’ mysterious calls an’ strange gifts. All of which were traced back t’you.” Beau set his arms on the table and leant forward, eyes hard and unforgiving. “D’you wanna explain that one t’ me?”

Jack chuckled, unamused by Beau’s accusation. “The flowers?” He made a ‘pfttt’ noise, shaking his head. “It was the anniversary of her father’s death. I was just being nice.”

Beau still wasn’t convinced. “An’ the calls?”

“Checking up on her.” Jack was lying through his teeth. Beau was sure of it. He just needed to prove it. “I was worried. I still love her.”

He ran his tongue across his top teeth, containing his bubbling fury. He was about to blow his lid. “Y’see.” He murmured, a clear threat in his words. “Y/N is my deputy. An’ my friend. This is personal. I will find her. And you will spend the rest of your pathetic life, behind bars.”

Jack’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything. The way his eyes sharpened gave Beau glee. He was getting to him. He was digging his way through Jack’s facade and revealing the real, disgusting man behind it.

“You can tell me where you’re hidin’ her, an’ maybe the judge will be more lenient with you.” Beau’s voice didn’t waver. His voice was sharp, intended to wound, intended to land on its intended mark. “Or, we’ll find her anyway, an’ you’ll get life.”

He flinched. Bullseye. “Fuck you, man.” He spat. “I didn’t touch the bitch. Why would I waste my time on her? She’s not worth shit.” Hello, the true Jack.

Beau bit back his smirk, watching his true colours come to life. “We’ll do it the hard way, then.” He stood up, staring down at Jack. His figure was intimidating, looming over the man stuck in his chair.

The glare sent to him did nothing but make him grin. He was winning this battle. He would find you. And this asshole would go to jail for everything he did to you. “The fuck do you care so much? You fucking her?” Jack practically snarled. “Let me tell ya — she’s good with her mouth, that one. Looks real pretty on her knees.”

The sheriff tensed.

He was going to kill this fucking dickhead.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Jenny stepped in. She gave Beau a meaningful look, warning him away from tackling Jack and beating him to a pulp right here. She opened the door wider; a silent message that it was time to leave, before things escalated.

As much as Beau wanted to, he knew it would fuck up their case.

So, he settled on glaring dangerously at Jack, and storming out.

He couldn’t decide who’d won that one.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

You’d been stuck in this damn room by yourself for two days now. Jack hadn’t come back — and there’d been no noise in the house. You could only hope that meant Beau had arrested him.

It gave you another day to plan your escape, then actually do it, and run as far as you could. God, you hoped you were still in Helena. You hadn’t seen the outside since he’d taken you.

Maybe it wasn’t Beau who arrested him. Maybe Jack had taken you to a different state. How long had you been out for before you woke up the first time? Where were you? Were you even in the USA? What if he took you into Canada?

Trying to not spiral, you started to come out with a plan. You yanked on your chain experimentally, watching it strain as the metal holding it to the wall prohibited it from moving further. You put both hands on the chain, and pulled harder. Nothing.

Okay, new plan.

Foot planted on the wall, you tugged, putting your entire weight into yanking on the chain. Your teeth ground together in exertion, leaning backwards as you pulled and pulled and pulled. You yelped as there was a crack, and suddenly more slack in the chain, making your back hit the carpet.

Breath ragged, you hurriedly crawled towards the wall, investigating the damage you’d done, hopeful. The loop holding the chain to the wall had bent out of shape. Not enough to release you fully, but enough to give you a few more inches of moving space.

That was good.

That meant, with enough effort, you’d be able to free yourself fully.

You could only hope Jack didn’t return soon.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

“Woah, woah, woah—“ The moment Beau stepped into the station on day five, his heart plummeted. That familiar rage bubbled deep in his gut, taking three long strides towards the two figures. “The fuck are y’doing?” He harshly grabbed the deputy’s arm, who was leading Jack towards the front desk.

The deputies were far too used to Beau’s behaviour these days, so the man didn’t even flinch when the sheriff yanked his arm. “72 hours are up, Beau.” The deputy said apologetically. Beau’s jaw clenched. “His lawyer demanded we release him. We don’t have enough evidence to hold him for longer.”

“The fuck we don’t.” He argued.

Jack grinned smugly. God, he was winning. How did this turn around so fast? Beau had the upper hand at one point. “I was just being a good man, Sheriff Arlen. Sending flowers and calling someone ain’t a crime, is it?” He was boasting, the fucker.

If Beau were a worse man, he’d break his nose right here.

His eyes flicked back to the deputy. “He abducted and abused Y/N.”

The deputy nodded, solemn. “I agree.” Beau narrowed his eyes, frustrated. The deputy’s disdain for Jack was clear as he glanced at the now-free man. “But we can’t legally hold him, Beau. I wish we could… but I don’t think you want a lawsuit.”

He was right; Beau knew he was. Of course he was. They’d hit the 72 hour mark, which meant they had to release him, unless they could place him at the crime scene. Which, right now, they couldn’t. If they kept him here, they’d be facing a potential lawsuit for unlawful detainment. Which was something he did not need to deal with, ever.

With a sharp, reluctant nod, Beau stepped back. He couldn’t keep Jack here, as much as he wanted to. He glared at him, deadly. “I’ll get you.” He muttered to the man. “Y’hear me? You’re goin’ down for this.”

Jack just smirked. Only for Beau to see. He knew he’d won this one. He knew he had the upper hand over Beau right now. And he was so smug and cocky about it, it made Beau seethe.

Yeah, he was going to beat this guy’s ass when they finally charged him.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Jack’s return to the house had put a dent in your plans. It meant you could no longer escape (easily, anyway). It also meant he’d gotten away with your abduction. When he’e returned, he’d yanked you from your prison, and shoved you into the kitchen, slamming down food in front of you and demanding you cook for him.

With the knowledge he could kill you at any moment, you went along with his demand.

This is what you’d become. A fucking live-in maid. As he threw you around and delivered harsh hits that bruised and marked your skin, he demanded you wait on him. You cooked. You cleaned. You made the house up. You did everything, as he sat on his ass and downed beer after damn beer. All with chains around your ankles.

Fucking asshole.

“Your boss is a stuck-up dick.” He announced suddenly, after finishing his second bottle of beer. You fetched him a third before he could raise a hand.

You scurried back to the food being prepared. “Beau?” You asked gently, afraid to set him off with the mention of another man. That was good. If it was Beau who’d arrested him, that meant you were still in Helena. Being in Helena meant it was him, Jenny and Cassie looking for you — which meant they wouldn’t rest until they had you home and safe.

It gave you a little bit of fresh air.

“Beau?” He echoed, his disdain clear as he spat out the name like poison. “You’re on first name basis with that dickwad?” Okay, he clearly didn’t like Beau. It amused you a bit. Beau had really pissed him off. Good on him.

You paused for a brief moment, hiding your amusement with ease. “He’s my friend, yes.” You spoke carefully and softly, head low as you sliced and dumped onions into a pan. The chains around your ankles were heavy, and tight enough that they’d already bruised your skin.

Layers of bruised covered your wrists and ankles from the heavy-duty chains, of which he never took off you. You wouldn’t be surprised if they’d cut into the skin, and your limbs were just numb from the tight vice-like grip the chains had around you.

There was a harsh, low laugh from Jack, not at all pleased with your reasoning. “Not anymore he’s not. That guys a fucking dickhead. I don’t want you talking with him.” He seethed.

Despite your annoyance and anger, you nodded. You knew better than that argue against his wishes. It only made things worse for you.

Jack huffed, clearly still not happy, despite your agreement. “You been telling people I abused you? He seemed insistent.”

“Beau?” Your brows furrowed, head cocking to the side. Beau wasn’t supposed to know about the abuse. But, clearly, now he did.

Jenny and Cassie must have told him. You didn’t blame them. You couldn’t. They’d likely pieced together the fact Jack did this, and their only option was to tell Beau the strength. You cringed as you thought about how angry he must have been.

Thank god you hadn’t been around for that.

“I didn’t tell Beau.” You said softly. You looked over your shoulder and gave Jack a forced smile. “Our other friends must have told him.” Your answers remained polite and short. You knew better than to speak out of turn around Jack. He liked you to only speak when spoken to.

“Fucking bitch. You been telling people?” He shot to his feet, hand clenched tightly around the neck of his beer bottle.

You sighed, and resigned yourself to a long and painful night.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

“Jack has got four owned properties in Montana.” Jenny announced to Beau. She set down four pieces of paper on his desk, accompanied with Cassie and Pop on either side of you.

It’d officially been seven days since you’d been taken (by Jack, they’d decided definitively). Three days since Jack has been released from their custody, and done god knows what to you.

Beau hummed and shifted the papers, skimming each. “East Helena, Marysville, Wolf Creek. And Helena.” He murmured the names thoughtfully, brows knitting together tightly. There was something about those names. The realisation came to him fast. “Those are all in Lewis and Clark. They’re our neighbouring communities.”

Jenny’s brows raised as she nodded. “Exactly.”

“He planned this.” Beau muttered. The realisation made him sick.

This bastard had been planning this for a long time. Long enough that he was able to buy four properties in and around Helena. If Beau didn’t already want to kill this guy, that would be have been the breaking point.

He clenched his jaw, his thoughts he going back to you. Scared, alone, and hurt. “He’s probably planning on moving her to one of these other places now.” He shifted the papers about again; a nervous habit. He wet his lips as he thought, picking up the papers. “She’s gotta be in Helena.”

Cassie nodded in agreement. “He was in town when you arrested him.” Beau glanced up at her as she pointed this out. Beau had bumped into him on the street, and immediately slapped cuffs on him. “The best plan is to search the property in Helena first. Yeah?”

“He probably took her there first, with the plan of moving her at a later date.” Jenny agreed. It was rational. Beau nodded; it was the best lead they had so far. “If we move quickly, we might be able to get there before he leaves town with her.”

Beau chucked the papers down. “No time to waste.” He stood up. “Let’s go get ‘er back.”

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

a/n: please forgive me if there’s any errors — i am so tired. i did proof read this, but i may have missed something <3

taglist: @yvonneeeee @deans-spinster-witch @fanfic-n-tabulous @dwonfilm @foxyjwls007 @just-levyy @i-love-ptv @hobby27

[frogs00]

"I still hate your guts."

Warning: Smut, pure smut, and cursing! Pairing: Regina x Janis Summary: Regina and Janis have a very intense encounter in the locker room showers.

Janis stretched as she felt the warm water wash down her back, humming to herself. She had just finished gym and was showering, having to run the mile, which she had always dreaded, but she did fine regardless. She wrung out her hair and wrapped a towel around herself, the locker room was already empty. Strange, she thought. She heard the sound of a curtain opening and turned and yelped when Regina was standing there in her own towel. Regina looked her up and down, "Hey there." She said casually, a smirk playing on her still perfectly pink lips, despite having no make-up on, all of it washed away from her shower. Janis couldn't help but wonder how she didn't notice someone showering in the stall beside her. "Hey," Janis rasped, her gaze trailing her; Regina had come out as lesbian a while ago, and she had apologized but didn't change the fact they were beyond sour towards each other and had been for a few months. But seeing her in nothing but a towel awoken something in her. Regina's gaze trailed her with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, "You're short." She commented, and Janis scoffed. "And you're infuriating," She sniped back, "I guess neither of us can change certain things about ourselves then." Her tone was teasing and light, but her heart was racing. Regina let out a laugh, shaking her head, "So pissy, it's a shame," She said and took a step forward and ran a finger down her jawline with her free hand, "you really are adorable."

Janis clutched her towel and glared up at her, "Oh fuck me." the brunette said and rolled her eyes, backing up a bit.

"Is that figure of speech or a request?" Regina smirked and leaned closer to the smaller girl. What is with her?! Janis thought, her face reddening. "That is not what I meant!" She basically growled. Regina seemed unfazed by this biting her lip, "Oh really? Because you seem kind of bothered Jan. I could always take you up on that offer. " Janis's blushed deepened at this.

Janis was weighing something in her mind, backing back into the shower, biting her lower lip, "You get on my nerves." She said in a near flirtatious, suggestive, tone voice, adjusting her towel, a bit nervous.

Regina smirked, and followed her into the shower, closing the shower curtain behind her, "I'm sure I do." she agreed with a shrug. "You talk too much, you know that?" Janis said, and with her free hand, grabbed Regina's chin and pulled her into an angry kiss. Regina didn't hesitate to return the kiss, her tongue tracing the seams of her lips demanding access. Janis parted her lips, the blonde's tongue exploring her mouth, and Regina's hands her finger wrapped around her wrist and pulled away, pining it to the wall behind her, her towel falling to the wet shower floor. "Ah, fuck," Janis murmured against her lips and undid Regina's towel after getting a nod of confirmation. Regina chuckled and pressed against her, her finger running down her skin. She slipped her leg in between Janis's thighs, ran one hand up into her hair, and tugged her head back roughly, leaving kisses and nips down it. "Don't you dare fucking mark me," Janis warned, Regina only snickered. Her fingers dug into Janis's soft flesh slightly. One hand slipped around to cup her ass, giving it a soft squeeze, "Shut up." Regina said, before Janis could respond she pressed her lips against her again, and the brunette melted into the kiss.

Regina's lips curved into a smirk as she felt her melt into the kiss, her free hand roaming down her stomach and towards her now aching cunt. She nibbled on her lower lip before pulling back slightly, her breath hot against her neck as she spoke, "I think you're enjoying this much more than you should Jan." She teased.

"I'd like you to shut up and fuck me," Janis said and pulled her into another sloppy kiss.

That seemed to have been what the tall girl needed to hear, as she chuckled, "You're pathetic." Regina mumbled, one hand rubbing at the girl's clit.

"You're one to talk-" she was cut off with a sharp exhale as she felt a finger dip down, teasing her entrance.

With one hand still rubbing her clit, she used the other to push her legs apart. "Be a good girl and spread your legs for me," Regina ordered the brunette. Janis rolled her eyes, and obeyed, but not before mumbling something along the line of 'fuck you'.

As she spread your legs, Regina took advantage of the situation and slipped two fingers inside of her easily, slowly, and steadily, feeling the tightness around her fingers, "Easy." she tsked.

Janis opened her mouth to object, but instead, a breathless moan spaced her lips, and she tightened her grip on the girl's shoulders as they curled inside her, "Fuck you." Janis whimpered.

Regina laughed and increased the pace of her fingers. Janis could already feel her edge approaching, but suddenly she slowed, making Janis huff in frustration, "What the fuck?" She almost whined.

"Watch it," Regina teased, her voice holding a slightly dangerous edge, still slowing till she came to a complete stop, just to pick up the pace again She repeated this over twice, with some, but little argument from the brunette.

Janis's back arched against the wall, and she ran her hand up the blonde's sides, feebly muffling the noises that slipped from her by biting her bottom lip. She squeezed her breast, eliciting a small moan from the blonde as she massaged them.

Janis fluttered her eyes closed, her climax growing again, until she shuddered with pleasure letting out soft moans. Her legs shaking, almost giving out simply from being edged, but the blonde held her in place, panting. "You're...good." She admitted, dizzy.

Regina smirked down at her, and Janis pushed her back by her shoulders after she found her footing and caught her breathe, "Well, well-" she was cut off by Janis flipping her around, then slinking to her knees in front of her, to Regina's confusion.

She pushed the blonde against the wall by her hips, "Not a word about this, you hear?" Regina smirked down at her.

"Like I'd tell anyone." She said smugly.

"Don't even," She teased, her tone lighter and more playful than she had meant it to be, "I'm just returning the favor."

"Oh, proceed," She willed her, and Janis did just that. She licked a stripe up her slit, and Regina gasped.

Her tongue was suspiciously skillful, delving deeper, gently sucking on her cilt. Regina gripped her hair, and pulled her back, making her look at her roughly, "Don't try anything." Janis rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond, but her face was pushed back down.

She continued to eat her out, her nose brushing against her cilt. The grip on her hair brought her both pain and pleasure. She brought her to her climax quickly and kissed her thighs as she came down.

"I still hate your guts," Janis said after a second, wiping her mouth.

"Says the girl who just went down on me." Regina retorted, smirking. Janis scoffed and stood up.

"Fuck you, and now I need to shower again." She said, and looked down at her naked form, she rubbed her neck.

"My bad," Regina purred and wrapped a towel around herself. She left the stall with a kiss on the corner of Janis's mouth.

Janis leaned against the wall, her legs sore, "I'm stupid." She muttered, but couldn't help the small smile playing on her lips.

She turned around, and turned on the water, thanking god this was her last period of the day.

Please enjoy! I said I would @ you when I finished so here: @reneeswif3

[mizusnose]

Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I: pt.2

singular warning is that: the title was chosen for a reason

978 words (i’m sorry, i just didnt wanna do a pt.3)

The first time that Akemi told you about Mizu, you’d both been drunk, pushed against the plush of a booth against the dance floor. The music was loud, a thrum that you could feel in your bones, and Akemi’s lips kept brushing your neck and jaw as she screamed out: She fucks me so good it’s actually insane, and her, her fucking hands! god

It was fine, you thought, to talk so openly about sex and girlfriends and hook-ups. That is, until Akemi introduced Mizu to you months ago.

“A letter. For me?”

A sharp tug at your gut sobers you up for approximately two seconds before it sinks back into you and you fall against your bed. Your sheets are pulled up against you—Mizu must’ve tucked you in when she laid you down, your heart hummed at the thought.

“That’s..”

Your curtains were open, if only slightly. The lights off—the only source of light from the low lamplight in the kitchen right above the stove. Mizu was painted in moonlight, her edges a shadow in your mind.

The letter in her hands glinted in the dark—it was a wide yawning secret: a simple loose-leaf page folded and torn from old college notebooks, no envelope because you’d never thought of sending it or addressing it.

And yet—

Mizu’s eyes darted across the page, reading words you’d picked and written out. Her lips parted, her golden chain glimmering.

You felt like a buzzing thing, a livewire with no insulation, dipped in water and coated in no safety precautions. Laid out bare in messy scrawl and ink from a broken pen.

“Mizu..”

It’s the alcohol, Mizu’s hanging silence, the swirl of anxiety that stretches when Mizu’s breathing slows—nearly stops.

“You…your, but—“ Mizu looked up, her eyes unfocused, shoulders tight, and her jaw taut. Her hair pushed into her cheek, her flushed neck, “No. No, no..”

“Mizu, please. We—I didn’t know that—“

“Know what?” And then she was striding over, walking like a miracle, bathed in starlight. Her gaze burned holes into you, left you singed when she met you at the lip of your bed, “You..you wrote this?” Her face an instant away, a little closer and—

Ah, there you are, you think, just as beautiful as the first time.

“I didn’t know that you would..that—that you..”

“You love me?”

A hollowed-out panic bloomed in your belly. A heavy mandarin sitting in your stomach, swaying with every flick of Mizu’s stare into your eyes, then your lips, back to your eyes again.

“Mizu, we’ve got to have it out. I, I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you, and I—I tried to ignore it and Akemi—and this is not, wasn’t supposed to—“

“You love me.” A statement.

Then she was gone again. Standing up fully, a tall smear against your bedroom. She sighed and looked wrung-out and exhausted. The foldings of your heart in an ache.

“No. This isn’t right. You’re..I’m—“ She folded her head into her hands then, the most stressed you’d seen her, the most beautiful all the same, “You will find someone better. Someone who is not me, I-I am awkward and too tall and I—“

“No, no Mizu, I love you.” You say, pushing your legs out of the bed, very suddenly needing Mizu to know. The sheets tangle in your knees and you stumble.

She catches you before you fall, a star falling into the earth: warm and beating in her hands.

“I am not enough for you.” Mizu says into your embrace. She looks unearthed, an anger that melts into panic, a peeled-back vulnerability.

“Mizu I love you.”

“You’ll realize and you’ll leave and I won’t—I don’t deserve it.”

“I love you, Mizu” Your hands cupping her chin, her eyes hot and glittering in the moonlight.

“And I don’t think I’ll ever have anyone. Akemi, she is nice. She is—she’ll find out too and I’ll be alone and—“

“That’s not true. You will love someone.”

Mizu’s eyes fall onto your face, a wave ready to crush the seashore, the tide pulling in. She regards you, and she whispers No, I will not. I can’t.

“You will. You’ll love them so much because that is your way, and… and I’ll watch.”

A train passes in the distance, the refrigerator hums to life once more. You gather the pieces of yourself you’ve slathered onto Mizu, her ears pink and poking out from her bun, and you say:

“and I’ll watch.”

Mizu doesn’t say anything.

Tell me I’m wrong, you think, tell me it’s okay. tell me tell me tell me.

The ocean that stretches between you both is static, a cold that only winter could bring.

She says a singular and awful thing: “I’m sorry.”

She sets you back down onto the bed, your body heavy with the wine and your mouth can still taste it: your confession, Mizu’s rejection—not obvious but clear all the same.

You feel a cloying heavy beating in your chest when Mizu’s palms pull the blankets above you again. A presence that takes your breath.

“Go to sleep.” Mizu says. She bends down, and kisses your eyelids. They flutter open as soon as she pulls away and you know it’s a dismissal.

“Don’t tell Akemi.” You stutter out. A fear that comes with these sort of things.

Mizu nods: once and slowly. Then, she’s leaving, pulling her puffer from somewhere off your bed.

The door clicks when she leaves and the moon is a dim sinking light. No longer fluorescent against Mizu’s skin.

And you lay in your bed, with your smeared makeup, and your wine-drunk headache, and wonder if you’d be allowed to tell her, to say: I’d love the mangled up bits of you, you know. If only you’d have let me.

———

:’D

[neonblessing]

1.

The cats were fighting, and Maggie was singing to them. It was Tater's birthday, apparently. How wonderful.

Shiv cracked her eyes open. The ceiling looked like shit: the paint was peeling, and there was some sort of stain spreading from one corner. The harsh morning light of the street lamps streamed into the room through the busted shade, casting crooked bars of shadow across the room.

The rest of the house looked worse than the ceiling. The cats had left scratches on everything they could reach, and time and neglect had left their marks on anything the cats couldn't. The furniture all looked out of place, collected over decades and haphazardly repaired.

From somewhere in the mismatched house, Maggie was babbling to her cats. "Come on, Candy. Share the fish with your brother. It's his birthday. Share the fish with the birthday baby!" Potato Chip's mournful wail filled the air, accompanied by the sound of chewing and a wary hiss.

Shiv sat up, wincing. She wrenched her head from side to side experimentally, to no avail. Rubbing her neck, she awkwardly swung her legs off the couch and stood up. Shiv picked her way over to the kitchen, for once managing not to stub her toe on the cabinet that protruded into the door frame.

"Morning, Mags."

Maggie jumped as Shiv spoke. "Oh, good morning! I made coffee." Maggie was fucking old. Her eyes were older than Shiv: they were some vintage shit, with protruding lenses that stopped her eyelids from properly closing. An awful little part of Shiv figured their value was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 grand from an avid collector.

"Where'd you get the fish?" Shiv took a mug off its hook and poured herself some lukewarm coffee. The slogan on the side of the mug demanded silence, at least until the bearer had finished their name-brand coffee. The winking face of a defunct coffee logo grinned up at her as she took a sip.

"A trader's in town, just for the day. Some sort of pilgrim."

"Anything else good?"

"Protein bars, holy symbols, ID chips, and..." she looked around, as if Shiv hadn't swept the place for bugs last week, and dropped her voice. "...ammunition. No guns."

"What did you give him?"

"Some of the kitchen knives."

"You gave him knives for a fish?"

Maggie wrung her leathery hands nervously. "It's Potato Chip's birthday! Besides, they were getting dull."

"You have a whetstone!"

"I don't know how to use it right, and you..." she trailed off, but couldn't stop the glassy lenses of her eyes from flickering to Shiv's shoulder. Or rather, to where her shoulder used to be. Maggie swallowed, her gaudily-dyed hair bobbing in distress.

"I could have taught you! And Tater didn't even get to eat his fish." A contented Candy Bar wound her way about Maggie's legs, purring. Maggie opened and closed her mouth a few times, but said nothing.

Shiv wordlessly grabbed her bag off the couch. It still smelled like the factory that made it, even after a month. Much as it irked her to waste money–she’d already owned a perfectly serviceable bag–this one had velcro. Zippers were too much trouble these days.

She tore it open to behold the extent of her worldly possessions. A change of clothes. Her knife, the one Raz had given her. Rope. A pack of bandages. Disinfectant. Four days of nutrient bars. A wallet, empty save for a credit card and a few coins. A well-worn prayer tablet. A needle and a spool of thread. A ballpoint pen. Content that everything was where it should be, she closed the bag.

Shiv swung her bag over her good shoulder, then fumbled with the doorknob for a moment, nearly dropping her mug. Maggie took half a step forward as if to help, but whatever she saw in Shiv's eyes kept her rooted in place. Shiv pulled the hood of her coat up over her head, and turned to leave. "I… Sorry. I'm going out. Be back by midnight unless I get shot."

Next Page

[weltraum-vaquero]

you could have it all (my empire of dirt)

4. hold me (like a knife)

[Chapter 1] ↠ [Chapter 2] ↠ [Chapter 3] ↠ [Chapter 4] ↠ [Chapter 5] (coming soon)

[AO3 link]

Western AU

18+

Jayce Talis x GN AFAB Reader

Word count: 9.5k+

Synopsis: Now that things between you and Jayce have ended, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Until everything takes a turn for the worse.

Tags/warnings: Jayce being the world’s saddest sack of shit. Graphic violence towards the middle and end of this chapter. Character death (but it’s nobody important). Caitlyn being the only person with a brain.

Notes: I can’t quite believe that this chapter is finally done. I’ve had the plot of this specific part of the story in mind for almost two years now, and to say that executing it was daunting is an understatement. I hope I didn’t disappoint, and, just as a heads up, this is about the middle point of the fic. There is still a long way to go, and far from the end for Jayce and reader! As per usual: a big, huge thank you to my wonderful friends, who were so helpful with their valuable feedback, and helped this chapter become what it is now. Enjoy!

“Jayce?” 

The door creaks open slowly, letting in the barest, flickering sliver of light. 

It stings somewhere at the back of his already pounding head to look — he has to squint to even bear glimpsing, but he still does, delusionally hopeful in a way that’s masochistic.

The smudge of a shadow he sees through his lashes takes on the form he aches to see the most — shoulders just the right size to hang onto, neck just the right slope to nestle into, arms just the right size to wrap around him tight and hold him so he’ll stop falling apart — you. 

But it’s not you. Why would it be you? 

Cold hands, colder gaze, you hadn’t deemed him worthy of another word as he’d set to leave. He’d stopped, back turned, shaking with the tears he’d been swallowing, listened to the prairie crickets and waited. Counted all the way up to ten in his head, hoping you’d have the guts to find some inexistent panacea to the wound you’d torn into his heart. 

But you hadn’t said a thing. Why would you?

Jayce had given Topacio the spurs, riding fast enough to dry his tears before they reached his chin, and hard enough to drown his sobs out with the pounds of galloping hooves on the way back.

Why would it be you now, here, in the Kiramman estate, crawling back to him and begging for forgiveness?

“Hi, Cait,” he croaks.

And he wouldn’t fucking give it to you either way. Not after what you did to him.

“Hey.” It’s hysterical just how she draws out the e, hushed little sound, like she’s trying to soothe a spooked horse. 

Empathy’s never been her strong suit. 

But he’s sure he’s a sorry enough sight to be worthy of such a reply. He’d pulled the curtains to his room shut tight to stifle all sunlight, and sat in a sad corner of his room — hadn’t even granted himself the comfort of sitting on his bed — before he’d sobbed the night and day away. And though he’d torn his heart open and wrung it out into every tear, it had not ached any less, it hadn’t grown any lighter. 

How could it, now that he knows the most meaningful relationship of his life matters so little to the one person he would have given everything up for?

“I was sure you were still out and about but… well, Fenton said he’d seen you ride in last night, and I thought… you might be here.” She clears her throat, sliding into his room uninvited. She maneuvers it suspiciously clumsily — it takes Jayce a second to pick up on the fact that it’s because she holds a candle in one hand and a plate of sad-looking, long-cold dinner leftovers in the other. But she shuts the door with her foot, not at all silent, before she sits down across from him on the floor. 

Jayce draws his feet a little closer, hugs his knees a little tighter. Company is the last thing he needs when he wants to wallow in his own misery, when he wants to twist the knife you’ve stuck into his heart and let himself bleed.

But how could he lay in his own metaphorical puddle of blood and physical puddle of snot and tears when Cait is here to watch?

She’s trying very hard to make no big deal of it — of how much Jayce is looking like the world’s saddest sack of shit — as she sets the plate down first, then untucks whatever’s under her other arm so she can put the candle down, a safe distance from the carpet.

“I’m, really— I’m not much company right now,” Jayce tells her. His voice is so hoarse from sobbing it’s just a whistly, airy, pathetic whisper. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated feeling meek. 

You’d nurtured that part of him, had lulled him into believing it was alright for him — protector, hunter, a man of the law — to be everything he wasn’t supposed to be. And he’d let it happen.

Why does he have to be like this? Every part of him seems sculpted for power — his size, his strength, his skills — and still he yearns for weakness. To be cradled and kissed and touched like he’s none of those things.

No other lover had gotten through to him, and he doesn’t blame any single one of them — who would look at him as anything beyond a guard dog with a pretty face, when that’s all he’s supposed to be? Who would want to reach deeper and touch the parts of him that don’t fit the man he’s clearly meant to be? 

But you’d had. You’d called him princess and baby and you’d caged him in protective embraces and had let him grow soft. You’d given him everything he’d never had, and you’d done it all just to fucking hurt him. To wield his own weakness like a knife. You’d shaped it into something sharp and waited for the right time, right place, to tear him open with it.

And yet, he’d let you do it all over again — just to have a taste of the months he’d felt truly understood. He’d lay his head in your hands all the same, willing lamb under the butchering knife. If he’d be back in that saloon, he’d melt in your hands, let you lick into his mouth and sink your teeth into his neck. You wouldn’t need to even ask. He’d just tilt his head back and wait.

Because he loves you.

Choking back a sob, Jayce shivers with how much that realization shakes him — he still loves you, beaten dog licking an abusing hand, runt of the litter crawling back to warmth it will be inevitably chased out of.

You’re gone. And you’ll never care enough to come back.

“Here.” Caitlyn nudges the plate towards him in an attempt to snap him out of the incoming breakdown. “Eat up,” she encourages. “You must be hungry.”

He shakes his head.

Jayce wonders if he ever will feel anything again, except for a dreadful pit of numb pain smack in the middle of his chest. No noxious acid burning in his stomach if he avoids eating, no itch in his lungs when he holds his breath too long, nothing but the sore gaping fucking hole he can’t see but damn well feels so thoroughly he wonders if he could stick his entire hand in his chest.

“Alright.”

With that, she takes the book she’d brought with her and cracks it open. Like they’ve just finished having their late morning gossip session or like they’ve just slurped their teacups dry, like he isn’t curled up on the carpet and shaking with the effort of trying not to sob, Cait starts reading away in deafening silence.

“What… are you doing?” 

She says it like it’s easy. He knows it isn’t — not usually, and especially not now. “Keeping you company.” 

“You don’t have to,” he croaks.

Her smile is so laden with pity it makes him sick. He crawls into the comfort of it nonetheless.

“I want to.”

Jayce doesn’t know what exactly it is about that which does him in so effortlessly, so thoroughly. 

Had you ever wanted to do anything for him? Without an ulterior motive? 

That thought makes him curl in on himself like a hurt animal. A whimper scratches at his throat, and his dignity washes down the drain with a fresh set of tears.

“Shit. I’m sorry.” And he should be, he thinks; maybe it’s his fault, maybe what he had with you could have lasted just a bit longer, if he hadn’t been this… soppy. This sentimental, this needy, this much. “I’m so sorry.”

Wordlessly, Cait shuts her book, and shuffles across the carpet to plop down next to him. Her gentle hand grabs his shoulder, squeezing like she wishes she could absorb some of the pain.

“C’mere.” And he knows how much that means. Caitlyn, raised on proper etiquette and not one for more than the average friendly shoulder touch, offering to hold him though his face is slick with snot and his back’s gone sweaty and he can’t even breathe right.

But she holds him anyway. She holds him like maybe he still matters.

Jayce loathes the way his next sob wrecks him, how he quakes with his whole being. He’d give anything to have you holding him like this, and he hates himself for it.

“I really am,” he whispers. He’s sorry he wishes this weren’t her arm around his shoulders. He’s sorry he doesn’t even know what to do with all the crushing weight of his love, sorry he ever thought you’d want it — want him. He’s sorry it’s so heavy now that he thinks all his bones might crack, he’s sorry Cait has to hold him even though he’s nothing but bits and pieces of himself. “S-so, so sorry.”

She lets him sob through it, rubs at his back. Jayce settles for curling in on himself, as if making himself small would make the pain drip out of his soul any faster, or make his heart mend any quicker.

It doesn’t.

Cait brushes the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead with a careful hand.

“The only one who should be sorry is them.” Her voice is bitter — a smidge too bitter. Jayce doesn’t know why he’s offended for you.

“How do you know?” He wipes at the snot under his nose, and tries not to think about how disgusting he is. 

“I know,” Cait pauses briefly, pondering her words, “that the only mistake you could have made was loving too genuinely.”

The only thing he can think of, the only thing that comes to mind, is to say sorry again. Sorry for being so much — too much. 

And who would want to love so much of what makes him everything he shouldn’t be? 

Who would want to love so much? 

And why had he been naive enough to think you, criminal, cheater, liar, would be up for such a horrific task?

“I’m so… s-stupid,” he mutters. Stupid for believing there was something even remotely worth loving about the amalgamation of too much that he is, stupid for believing you, of all people, would be the one to take on the challenge. Caitlyn shushes him, pulling him harder into the hug. But she doesn’t deny it, which is enough of an answer to Jayce. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Jayce wants to parrot it back at her, but the words seem far too small for the overwhelming amount of regret sitting heavy in his chest. So he says nothing, because he knows he’ll break if he even tries.

And they stay like that. Jayce chokes on another snotty sob when she rests her cheek against his head, a reminder of the closeness he’s lost with you scratching at the fresh wound you’d left on his heart. 

She squeezes him close when he weeps so thorough it wrecks him, she pets his disgusting sweaty back when even crying becomes too much and his body turns to breathless, embarrassing blubbering, she tells him to breathe — shows him how, in and out, slow and steady — when his breath gets stuck between more tears and hiccups, and his brain goes woozy with a lack of air and he feels like he wants to throw up the empty space inside his stomach, inside his chest, throw up the pain, purge all remnants of the ache you’ve left in him.

But that’s all he is — feels like all he’ll ever be. Purging you, purging the pain you’ve left behind… he’s not sure what else would remain of him without the ache for you. He can’t remember what he was before it. He’s terrified of what he’ll be after it.

“Believe it or not — you’ve gotten a bit better at keeping silent while you cry,” she says once he settles into just sniffles. 

“The h-hell’s that supposed to mean?”

He hates how his voice cracks on his words.

“I remember when we’d brought you here the night after we’d thrown you that big party for saving me and mother. I was two rooms away and I could hear you sobbing your heart out through the night.”

He had.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d first raised that rifle to protect Caitlyn and her mother, not for days. He remembers the champagne rippling in the flute he’d been clutching his fist around at that party (mrs Kiramman had to teach him how to even hold the damn thing properly), the rare steak wobbling on the silver fork. He remembers hearing his own heartbeat bouncing back at him in the egregiously fluffy pillow the first night he’d spent at the estate, the way he’d soaked it with tears and snot. He remembers wondering if he’ll ever sleep again.

“That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Cait nods. “It was. I remember thinking you were much too soft for the job mother was going to grant you, that it’d been just a stroke of luck that you’d rescued us when you did.”

“You have no idea how scared I was.” Jayce swallows thickly at the bitter memory. “Promoted from a simple cow wrangler to personal bodyguard to the mayoress and her family — god, I didn’t think I could make it either.”

“But you did.”

Jayce nods.

Caitlyn presses her cheek to him a little harder, squeezes him a little closer. “And you will.”

—

He won’t.

It’s enough to have your face flashing before his eyes, to sniff a distant replica of your leather-gunpowder-campfire scent, or to believe the sheets, damp and warm and rolled tight around his waist from all his restlessness from the previous night are your greedy, loving arms, to have his throat drawing tight and eyes brimming with tears.

And when he does close his eyes to indulge, for the briefest moment, in what he has left of you, in the cruel tricks his mind plays on him, longing shifts to rage.

Why wasn’t he enough to love? What could he have done to make you love him? Why couldn’t he be what you needed?

What was it about him that made you want to run from him, from the generous offer of a peaceful, simple life, and straight back into an existence reliant on scraps and crime? What made that life so much better than him and everything he had — everything he was more than willing to give you? 

What else could he have given you, to make you stay? What was there left to give?

That’s about the only thing that gets him out of his bedroom. Saddling up to ride out into fuck knows where and to just scream.

That’s all he’s good for, really. Weeks pass him by in the blink of an eye, spent in the darkest corner of his bed, so much so even leaving his room becomes a terrifying, daunting task.

He hates the pity the people at the estate treat him with, the way the Kirammans are so understanding. They don’t demand he joins them for dinner, not once. Food finds its way into his room at one point or another, they don’t insist he do anything, they just… let him rot away, in the most literal sense of the word.

Caitlyn spends time with him when she can find it, but as he becomes increasingly inconsolable, her visits lessen. 

Jayce can’t blame her for getting impatient with him. He is, too.

He hates that he can’t blame her, either, when he finds bullets from his drawers missing, his knife dulled, and his weapons suddenly cleaned the way they’d only require after serious use.

Of course his inaction couldn’t go on forever.

The sharp, mean daggers Cassandra’s been glaring his way whenever he did scurry out of his room and met eyes with her, Caitlyn’s growing absence around the house — they suddenly fit together like puzzle pieces: Caitlyn has begun picking up his slack.

And he wishes, god, he wishes he could be proud, because Caitlyn deserves it, she’s wanted to fill in his footsteps since the first time he’d taken her with him on a hunt all those years back — but he’s angry. 

He knows that above all else, this means he has become the last thing he’s ever wanted to be: a pathetic charity case. A failure at his one duty. 

She should not be out there by herself. He should be there. Teaching, watching, helping, but he’s not, he’s stuck, he’s drained, and he’s so bone-achingly tired, even though all he does is sleep and cry.

So when Cassandra slips into his room one evening (trying not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of his unkempt beard or food stained union suit) and hands him a bounty poster of some crooked looking outlaw, it gives him the push he needs.

She tries to put it gently — suggesting it might do him some good to get out there again — but he knows what she means. She doesn’t pay him to sit around and sob, and this bounty… he can see why she would not want her daughter anywhere near such vermin. Even with all his equipment, which by now Caitlyn undoubtedly knows how to use. That’s really all the motivation he needs, aside from some much-needed stress relief.

The fact that Caitlyn catches his wrist on his way out the front door and tells him he doesn’t have to  do this — at least not alone — does very little to deter him.

—

Match strikes matchbox. Dry wood crackles under the birth of new, tiny flames. The night grows a tiny bit less dark, but the prairie’s unbothered and taciturn.

He hasn’t smelled a campfire since… well. Since the last night he’d spent with you. But decidedly, the time you’d smelled most markedly of flames and ash was the night he’d let you kiss him after everything.

God, your eyes, glittering and gluttonous that night you’d spent with him after he’d tracked you down. And your hair, the near-animalic scent of your skin tempered by the freshness of cold air, the smell of leather clinging to you where he kissed and licked, the salt of your sweat, the musk—

God, he aches.

“Jayce, don’t shoot.”

His hand already hovers over his holster out of instinct alone, but he drops it the moment he recognizes that guilty tone.

It’s no wonder that Caitlyn’s decided to follow him.

With a sniffle, and a squeeze of his eyes, Jayce rolls his shoulders when he hears the sound of gravel under her new boots.

She’s already been holding his hand — figuratively and literally — an embarrassing amount these past months. 

Now that he’s finally trying to drag himself out of his slump (and slump is a very light word for sleeping and willing himself out of existence), she’s following him around like she knows he’ll stumble. He can practically hear the tension in her joints, ready to catch him not if but when he falls.

“I said I’d do this on my own,” he says.

Caitlin hums affirmatively. “I never said I wouldn’t let you.”

The audacity of her, to just say that like she hasn’t been doing the exact opposite for some time now.

“You’re a shit liar.”

Caitlyn sighs. “Mother told you.”

“I don’t need to be told. Do you think I wouldn’t notice? Jesus, Cait, your mother looks at me like—” Jayce catches himself before his tone grows cutting — he has no right to be mad at her for doing the job he clearly was not able to do. The very least she deserves, if not a grandiose thank you for doing my one and only job for me, is some kindness. He sighs shamefully, burying his face in his hands before he finds his words again, a smidge gentler. “You shouldn’t have to do this. Not by yourself. I should be teaching you, not letting you put yourself in danger because I’m too—“

“You’ve taught me more than enough,” she assures. Jayce wishes he could know how much of that lie is meant to comfort him, or her. 

Jayce wishes he could tell her that there’s more to it than the punches he’s taught her to throw and the target practice they’ve done. Jayce wishes he could tell her there will be bounties that break her (and that is unfortunately not limited to bounties like you).

But there’s a vigor, a hunger in her for this that he has rarely felt, if ever. His form was made for brutality, but his mind never was — and Caitlyn has the advantage of not sharing that predicament. She’s not soft in the ways Jayce is; she’s just inexperienced. And that is much more easily remedied.

“I hope so,” he decides to say. 

“We can start going on hunts together again,” she suggests. “You could teach me more — and you  wouldn’t have to do this alone.”

And that’s not a horrible thought at all. Except…

“Your mother would kill me if she knew I’d let this continue. I think she already has a quill and paper ready for my will considering what you’ve been doing because of me.”

Caitlyn laughs a little. “Let her. Would free up a position as Piltover’s best bounty hunter for me.”

“Hey.” Jayce tries his best to strike an intimidating tone, but it only makes her laughter swell. Something in his chest feels the slightest bit less empty.

Uninvited (though she knows by now that she is invited, always), Caitlyn approaches him slowly, sitting down beside him. They sit in silence for a moment while she picks at her fingernails, apparently nervous, before she puts herself back together, no less anxious, but fighting it. She lets her shoulders settle back, straightens her back, and glances Jayce’s way.

And though the air had been light and clear with shared humor mere seconds ago, the way she looks at him now is far heavier and more sombre.

“I didn’t track you down because I thought you couldn’t handle this bounty on your own.” For the first time since she’d approached him, her voice falters with uncertainty. 

And that’s a rare sight in Caitlyn. 

“Jayce, I… have to tell you something.”

In some fucked, pavlovian response, a part of Jayce rears its head and perks its ears like a starved dog at the sound of raw meat hitting the floor. 

This can only be about something she knows will hurt him. It can only be—

“It’s about them,” she says.

Every part of him hurls, every part of him hurts, every part of him hungers.

His ears ring. 

It’s about you.

Have you come back? Have you sent him a letter?

“What is it?” His voice has gone tight, throaty, and Caitlyn is overcome with immediate regret — she looks like she wishes she could swallow every word she’s just said back up.

His head reels with a thousand questions and a thousand answers. You’ve come for him. You still love him. You want the life he’s offered, finally, you want it, you want him. Maybe he’s not everything he thought he was. Maybe—

Maybe those hopes are too high, too bright, for the way in which Caitlyn stares him down like death looms behind her.

Maybe… maybe you’re gone.

But you can’t be, not, not you, slippery even in his grasp, you, with your mind just as much of a weapon as your arsenal. You, born wielding a gun, you, born holding a knife — death can’t have earned you this easily, this fast. 

Jayce repeats his question, a little more careful this time. It doesn’t seem to ease her doubts, but she gives in. And really, that’s all that Jayce is after right now.

“They’ve been caught,” she says.

That’s the only thing that could make your death sound plausible.

You… would be sooner dead than caught. He knows as much.

Caitlyn reads his disbelief with a frustrated sigh. 

“They made the front page on the Piltover gazette for it. Frankly, I… considered not even telling you.” She searches his eyes, but if she draws any conclusion, Jayce can’t read it. “You don’t deserve to be reminded of them. They’ve had it coming regardless—”

“Had what coming?”

“Jayce…” She goes silent for a beat, swallowing nervously, as if she dreads the words she’s about to speak. “They’re going to be hanged.”

Every fiber in his being protests at the mere word, but his entire body revolts once it really, truly sinks in — the mental image of your face, plum-purple, rope burns at your wrists, your own skin under your fingernails, hands bound behind your back, the body he’d kissed and loved and worshiped every inch of — lifeless.

On trembling legs, Jayce rises from beside the campfire.

You’re going to die.

The very thing he’d wished upon you, your punishment, is now imminent. And it’s only now that it hits him that he wishes his rage would have been gentler. That he realizes that even though you’d torn his heart to shreds and hurt him in ways that made him want to shove his hunting knife into the side of his neck, he doesn’t want you to die. 

He can’t let you die.

“Where?”

“Jayce—“

He takes a step closer, mustering up some of the intimidation that works so well on his targets — but it does little to Caitlyn.

Her breath leaves her lungs in a frustrated, terrified shiver. Not terrified of him — terrified for him.

And what terrifies him is how little he cares about the prospect of his own death, shall it find him when he finds you, helps you.

“Where?”

He hadn’t realized until then, how small Caitlyn’s hands were, until she took one his in both of hers. They’re not dainty — they haven’t been, since the day he’d taught her how to pick up a rifle, and they’ve grown rougher still since the day he’d taken her on a hunt with him. But they’re still smaller than his, and it hits him where it hurts.

It hits him where she wants it to, it hits him in that one spot that, in spite of being crushed under the weight of his responsibility as a protector, wants her safe. Wants her happy.

She’s like — she is family. 

“Jayce, I can’t lose you.” Her voice, though trembling with fear, does not falter. “If you go, there’s a real chance you could die saving them. I can’t let that happen.” Caitlyn swallows her tears, and something in her gaze darkens. When she speaks now, her voice is as steady as her aim. “And you will not die, not for them.“

He wants to make that promise. He wants to, but— 

“Where?”

He can’t.

She squeezes his hand tighter. And though there’s rage brewing in her eyes, Jayce knows that look — above all else, she’s terrified. 

He is, too.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She grabs both his shoulders, rough now in how she nearly shakes him with how hard she turns him to face her. “Jayce.” Cait swallows her tears. “They deserve this.”

And as much as those three words sink in his gut like he’d swallowed solid lead, he knows she’s right. He can’t leave her. 

“It isn’t even about what they’ve done to you,” she continues. Her voice fades behind the ringing in his head, grows quieter still. “Think of everything else they did. All they stole, all they lied.” She goes on, somehow, but Jayce doesn’t care for any of it. Not until— “All they killed.”

That last word hits him like a jaw-dislodging punch.

“They would never— Not unless it was in self defense, I know—“

“You don’t know that.”

And she’s right. 

He hates that she’s right. 

He’d dug his head into the dirt, blissful ignorance and willful naivete, had consoled himself that surely a killer’s hands could never do what yours do. How could your hands wring throats and stab chests when they could make his body sing? 

How could he be so fucking stupid?

You will receive your punishment. Not because you deserve it after what you’ve done to him — but because of all else you’ve done.

He has to let it happen. He has stepped on his morality enough simply by being with you, by loving you. The guilt will — has to — ease once he stops doing that.

Letting you face the consequences of what you’ve done is the first thing he can do for himself.

And possibly the best. It has to be.

“Talk to me,” Caitlyn encourages just as much as she downright demands. Her hand on his shoulder grows laxer, she squeezes his deltoid gently. But behind it all, Jayce can sense the fear, the way her fingers cramp up and her nails almost cut into the leather of his jacket.

He can’t leave her. He mustn’t.

“I’m not going,” he says. “They deserve it.”

It hurts more than saying he loves you. It hurts more than anything he’s ever said — and he’s scared shitless of how little he means it, now that he’s saying it out loud.

Maybe you deserve it. And maybe he’s not going. But no form of lying to himself can change the fact that he will never want you to die, in spite of everything. And there will always be a part of him that would leave everything behind to spend the rest of his days with you, though the opportunity for that is long gone.

But Caitlyn smiles, and she pulls him into a genuine, bone-crushing hug. Jayce tries his damndest not to cry. 

You’re going to die.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she says.

God, he hopes so.

—

God, he isn’t.

It becomes evidently clear, even as he clings to the false hope that he is. He hopes this hunt will be an easy, clean affair — simply holding his bounty at gunpoint, tying her hands behind her back, then taking her to the nearest sheriff’s office. But it isn’t.

When he finds his bounty sitting by her campfire, Jayce cocks his rifle, and says the right thing.

“We can do this the easy way,” he warns. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

When she turns to lunge at him in spite of it all, he doesn’t shoot.

He meets the impact halfway as the both of them tumble into the mud. He lets her get in a punch that he somehow feels he deserves for everything, after everything, before he lets it wake his will to fight. With some difficulty, he wrestles her into the dirt, until her ribs creak under the weight of his knee on her chest.

“Don’t make me kill you.” 

But she does.

With every fiber of her being, she begs for it. Stubborn, she wriggles below his weight until her bones crack, wincing as she draws a knife from her boot. 

But Jayce is nothing, if not trained in the art of catching dirty tricks. Especially after you. His hand finds her wrist, and bends her arm until the blade stabs the mud below her.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he repeats, but it sounds less like a threat this time around. Dauntingly much more like a plea.

She senses it. They always do, the likes of her — the likes of you — feed on weakness, which is why his never goes unnoticed. Her forehead whacks Jayce’s nose so hard he swears he can see every constellation in the night sky shining twice as hard, and maybe they do, because next thing he knows he’s looking at the stars, and she’s above him, her shadow doubling, regaining its contour, then doubling again, and his head spins.

Some twisted part of his mind conjures up the vision of you, framed by a backdrop of the bright night sky, smiling down at him, hands on his chest, roaming his skin in the pursuit of pleasure.

And he considers letting it happen. Whatever cruelty she has in mind for him — be it death or pain — for one brainless, blissful moment, he wants to be swidden with it. Maybe if there was something that actually hurt, other than that part of his upper stomach where it’s gaping and empty and aching, he could be cleansed of the pain, cleansed of you. 

Something in Jayce wakes when he hears the sound of iron bouncing off stone and stabbing mud, barely missing the side of his neck. That something is trained, automatic, raw, fast, unyielding. That something is the part of him that — in spite of everything — is so scared that it has sunk its teeth into staying alive and would rather lose its molars than unclench its jaw.

One of his hands finds her throat, the other crushes her nose into his second knuckle. She gasps for breath.

She loses enough of her balance to tip over, and Jayce lets his raw strength do the rest. His right hand joins the left on their throat, knuckles bloody. 

And it feels fucking good to squeeze.

It feels good, to have her at his mercy, until her chest draws up to receive air that does not come, until her throat trembles and cracks below his palms, until her hands start clawing at his wrists.

She makes a ghastly, haunting sound, guttural with broken cartilage and wet with blood.

Her windpipe cracks under his palms. It’s fucking satisfying. Like breaking a wet branch or unrooting a weed or hitting the bullseye.

Serves her right, he thinks. Serves her fucking right. She deserves this.

But the words scratch bitter at his brain, at the fresh wound of deserving — and suddenly his hands are not his, but a noose, and the flesh below his hands is not vermin, but breathing, living, eyes glittering with their final seconds of desperate fear, searching, begging, please please please I don’t want to die.

It could have been your neck between his hands all those months ago, outside that very saloon you’d first touched him. It could have been you, in that very bed, before you’d tied him to the bedpost. It could have been you, right beside that creek he’d twisted his ankle in. It could have been you, surrounded by bluebells, it could have been you, in his tent, it could—

It will be you.

It will be you, larynx crushed not by his hands, but by unyielding rope. 

And you will squirm like her. And your eyes will roll into the back of your head just like they had when he’d lick into your cunt just right and you’d squeeze his head between quaking thighs and grab his hair. And you will go slack at the very end, you will exhale what little is left in your lungs like you’re on the verge of falling asleep. 

And then you’ll die.

Her slack hands slide down his clawed up, raw forearms so gently they remind him of what it means to be touched tenderly. 

Touched by a lover.

Cicada squawks scratching at the sweet quiet of the night, arms winded around his shoulders loose, fingers brushing through his hair, reeking of campfire smoke and licking the same smell up from your skin. Kisses at his hairline, fitting together like two cats lounging in the sun, back when everything was alright with the world and he knew what love felt like. 

Before he knew what it meant to lose it.

Before he knew it wasn’t love. 

Before he knew you were going to die.

“Pl—sse…” a voice hisses, pawing at the claw marks on his wrists with a desperate gentleness, the way you would paw at his hips when he told you he had to go now, really, he said he would be back in Piltover by noon—

The neck under his palms swells, her throat gurgles with blood and spit. And he can’t help but let it happen. Jayce lets his palms go slack not because he wants to, a hunter shouldn’t spare, a guardian shouldn’t hesitate, a man shouldn’t back down.

But he’s none of those things. He was never fucking meant to be any of those things and he did them anyway because he had to and you took them from him. You took his perfected charade from him and now he has nothing. 

Not a hunter, not a guardian, not even a fucking man. 

And he can’t remember what he was before he was supposed to be anything– 

And he can’t think of a single thing he could be, when he fails, he fails, he fails. 

He fails at being a son, he fails at being a brother, he fails at being a protector, and he can’t remember the last time he wanted to be anything.

God, he wanted to be loved.

She gasps the way you did when he’d wake you as the moon slid down the sky and he wanted to steal one last kiss, she heaves ugly and pained and human, and she breathes.

It’s a disgusting, moist sound, whistling in and out as she gulps down air, and when his chest quakes and his lungs start struggling as though they’re a newborn calf tangled in barbed wire, Jayce realizes half those wretched sounds are his.

His head spins like he’s been punched again, chest tight, tight, tight, throat strung like he’s the one with a noose – your noose, you’re going to die. 

Fuck, you’re going to die. 

And he’s going to die, the empty space between his lungs constricts as though giving birth to something more rotten than all the months he’s spent hurting for you.

Jayce braces himself against the ground beside her neck with both hands, squeezing at the mud like it’s his convulsing heart. Jayce crawls away from her heaving body but doesn’t make it far.

His windpipe hurts, breathing hurts, he can’t even breathe right, what the hell is he even good for? Can’t breathe, can’t kill, can’t hunt, can’t sleep, can’t stop hurting, can’t, can’t, can’t. Fish on land, he huffs as though he was never meant to draw breath in the first place, never meant to be born at all. He’s going to die and so are you, and someone must be wringing his throat, but when he paws at it there is nothing but his own skin, and she’s heaving and coughing a few feet away, can’t be her. So who’s killing him? 

The answer is obvious. 

His arms cave below his weight, elbows crashing into the mud below him a last resort to keep his face from meeting the ground in an impact that will knock him out if the way his head is pounding doesn’t. 

His stomach clenches as if to purge itself, but there is nothing to purge — except for you, but you’re lodged deep in every fiber of his being. Jayce doubts there will ever be a version of him that isn’t tainted with you.

A gun cocks, the woman’s trembling figure stands behind it. Jayce knows she’ll do what the likes of you and her do. 

He takes his last sob and lets his body shake with the realization and disgusting but oh-so-sweet relief — finally. 

His end.

Out in the wild, bullet put through the head like a lame horse that’s served its purpose, spared from its pain. Spared from a pathetic excuse of an existence. 

The thought of a noose around your neck brings comfort. You’ll join him. It’s all he’d ever wanted.

Instead of pulling the fucking trigger already, she rests her hand on her pink-purple neck as if to appreciate it hasn’t snapped in half just yet. The hatred on her face fizzles out into disgusted pity.

“Please…” He’s not sure what he’s begging for.

Her hand lowers with a tremor, and she inhales a disgusting, cartilaginous-crackling breath that sounds as though it was never meant to enter her lungs. She spits her blood on the ground.

And she leaves. As the likes of you do.

—

Caitlyn,

All the weapons I’ve left behind are yours. 

Jayce considers leaving it at that — but she deserves more than just eight measly, splotchy, shakily penned words. 

He touches the tip of his fountain pen on the rim of the inkwell, and braces himself. Tries not to smear any of the blood dripping down his scratched up forearms on the immaculate paper as he writes, much neater, much prettier.

We both know there is no one standing in your way now that I’m gone. Piltover will be far better off with you protecting it. You have your head on straight — much straighter than I ever will. 

The best thing I ever did was raise my rifle to protect you. Now it’s your turn. May your bullets strike true.

There’s blood on the page. He considers starting anew. 

He won’t.

I love you.

As he folds up the piece of paper and slips it under her door, Jayce wonders if he loves you.

If he ever will again, after everything you’ve done. After everything he’s about to do.

—

To exchange a quarter for such vital information makes Jayce’s hands tremble with the absurdity of it. He presses the coins into the newspaper boy’s hand like it’s something solemn. 

Twenty-five cents to be let in on when and where your death awaits you.

The sound of the cicadas, awake before the first crack of dawn, scratches at the back of Jayce’s brain while the kid fumbles for the paper. He hands it to him with a sleepy smile and thanks him.

He has no idea what he’s just been the catalyst for.

Your infamy spares Jayce the need to manically tear through the whole thing; Caitlyn hadn't lied. You had made the front page, name spelled out in bold letters, the day and place of your hanging jotted down somewhere between a formal invitation and a taunting, final threat.

There will be little sleep to be had to reach you in time. 

—

By the time he makes it past Serpentine River, there’s talk of it already. He doesn’t even need to seek it out; stopping by a general store in one of the bigger but still humble towns down south is where he strikes gold. 

Or his possible death sentence, would be Caitlyn’s opinion. But she’s thankfully not here to talk sense into him — so he pushes the thought to the very back of his mind as he puts on a stunned face and questions the clerk like he’s asking for gossip.

The man is more than eager to indulge. 

“You’d think it’d take some ace-high hunter to bring the likes of them down, but…” he leans over the counter towards Jayce conspiratorially. “I tell you what, when I saw some twig of a kid ride into town with a dopey grin on his dumb face and them tied to the back of his mangled-lookin’ horse, I thought I was havin’ me one of them hallucinations.”

Jayce’s stopped listening to the clerk rambling on about the kid who’d apparently brought you in, and the continental suit he’d bought himself with the reward. He couldn’t care less about who’s caught you or what they look like. He needs to know where you are, and who’s going to stand in his way.

But the clerk has the mark of a good salesman, and he knows when he’s lost his customer’s interest. He’s quick to change the subject: “Can I interest you in some jerky? Now I know the look of hunger on a man’s face, and you, son—“

“And they’re in the sheriff’s office in town? Here?”

That was not the right question to ask. And especially not the right way to go about it. With a slightly wary tilt of his head, the man looks Jayce up and down, then nods.

“Heard so. Not for long, though — our boys — well, I mean, I have nothin’ but respect for our good ol’ sheriff Mallory and that nephew of his — but I sure as shit don’t sleep well knowin’ they’ve got such wretched scum to take care of.”

Jayce nods back, mustering up some solemnity with a dash of malice. “Glad to hear it. I hope they don’t cause any trouble — you’ve got a fine little town here.”

That’s convincing enough. 

The clerk laughs. “Don’t you worry your head, kid, from what I hear, they’ll be taken to the Great City next week and hanged there — for everyone to see. Now that’s a nasty death if I’ve ever heard o’ one; except for bein’ burned alive that is. I’d have me a public hangin’ over that any day, but — speaking of burnt, this bread right here may look it, but trust me—“

“No.” Jayce waves him off. “Thank you.”

—

A sheriff’s office that takes itself seriously would know to double their guards at night. 

This one is either understaffed or ruefully ignorant to the amount of horrifying friends in low places a real criminal could have.

The men who take care of the night watch at the prison in Piltover are some of the meanest-looking Markus has, and they’re never less than three. But you’ve been caught and brought into a scrappy prison in north Demacia, and they’ve bit off more than they can chew before the Great City lawmen show up to whisk you away in their proper prison. 

You always did end up getting too lucky for your own good.

Jayce walks in like he owns the place. His fingers are cold and trembling in his leather gloves.

Two lawmen, one younger and asleep in the corner of the room, the other sitting at a desk, poring over some paperwork with a cigarette hanging loosely from between his fingers. It smells less like tobacco and more like burnt herbs.

“What can we do for you?” He rasps, undoubtedly annoyed at being bothered with the interruption of his midnight cigarette. 

He flicks the ash onto the mucky floor, and clears his throat. Judging by the sound of a chair scratching the floor behind him, the other lawman — presumably his deputy — jolts awake.

The one at the desk not particularly big, and the golden star on his chest is dull with age and lack of care. The gray hairs in his mustache make him look tired not just momentarily, but permanently. Like he’s been plagued with nothing but apathy for well over a decade, like he loathes the day that awaits him tomorrow just like he dreads this very second. 

Jayce can relate.

“I’m here to find myself a bounty,” Jayce says, and consoles himself with the fact that it’s technically not a lie.

“I’d say you have better chances of doing that in the Great City than in this shithole, kid. Better money for it, too. We’re all outta cash ‘til the big boys from down south come to pick up the newest bounty we just had brought in.”

“I’m stuck here for a while,” Jayce insists. “Family matters. And I’d rather bring in a small bounty than nothing at all, sir.”

The man looks him up and down, then, with a lethargic sigh, gets up on his feet. 

“Follow me.”

That’s the first and last time he does as told. 

Jayce’s first step matches the man’s sluggish pace. The second is a stride; wide, quick, intentional. 

The momentum of his weight should have knocked the sheriff off his feet — he’s taken down bigger folks with just an aggressive shove of his shoulder — but all he does is stumble from the impact. So Jayce does the next best thing he can do: act fast. He wraps his arm around the man’s collarbone, kicks his knee in, and unholsters his gun. Presses it to his temple.

“Drop your weapons,” Jayce growls to the deputy. “Or I kill him.”

“Marshall.” The sheriff grits through his teeth, clawing at Jayce’s arm, “Marshall you fuckin’ listen to me, go get—“

A hefty thwack to the back of his head with the butt of his pistol shuts the sheriff up good.

The other lawman looks at him with eyes wide enough to see himself reflected in. Jayce doesn’t care to look too close. He might just throw up.

He steels himself with a breath. Makes sure his voice is as unyielding as his shooting arm.

“You heard me.”

And so he does. The lawman lets his pistol clatter to the ground, reluctantly takes his rifle off his back, and drops it next to his pistol with shaky hands.

“Good.” The sheriff wriggles. Jayce tightens his grip around him. “Kick them away.”

“Don’t do it!”

He does.

The sheriff’s feet take hold against the floor, he wriggles hard enough to make Jayce’s arm muscles strain. He has to end it now, before things get out of control. He has to, he has to— 

The butt of his pistol must have made a dent in his skull. The sound it makes — crackling, visceral — as it hits the back of his head sure as shit sounds like it. 

The sheriff drops back to his knees, then, without fanfare, onto his face. Unmoving.

That’s dealt with.

Jayce looks back to the other lawman, standing trembling and unmoving, one foot placed to make a run for where he’d kicked his guns away, but not daring. Wise move.

“You can get out of this alive.” Jayce points the gun at him. Thumbs the hammer back. A warning. “All you have to do is cooperate.”

The man — Marshall — raises his hands in submission.

“Get the cell keys.”

Cautiously, he approaches the unmoving body of his colleague, kneels beside it. Marshall’s shoulders sag with relief, however briefly, when he hears the sheriff breathing, before he retrieves the keys from his belt.

“Get up. Take me to the prisoners.”

“Mister, there’s law comin’ in from the Great City in two days.” The man’s voice trembles as he stumbles to his feet, Jayce follows him to the door at the back of the office, gun pointed at his head. He drops the keys as he tries to slot them into the keyhole, grabs them in sweaty hands once more, and tries again, the locked door pops open. Before he pushes forward, he turns to Jayce, and looks at him with something putrid. “They’re gonna— you won’t get away with this.”

His patience is running fucking thin. 

“I don’t remember asking you.” Jayce taps the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man’s neck. “Now come on.”

And it’s only now, that he follows him into the moldy, dark room, that his hands truly start to sweat and his heart leaps into his throat and his head goes icy, woozy, at the thought of you, here.

You’re here.

Clutching the bars of the cell so tight your knuckles are white; you must have gotten up because of the commotion. 

You look at him like he’s an angel. You look at him like he can’t be real. 

You’ve never looked at him like that.

“This— this cell.” Jayce croaks. He can’t bear looking at your face. You’re alive. You’re alright. He’s going to cry. He’s going to throw up. “Open it.”

The lawman looks at him over his shoulder, swallowing whatever dumb thing he has to say, before he turns to the lock on your cell.

“I knew it,” he grumbles, “we never should’ve accepted them. God.” The keys slip from his fingers again. Jayce figures a reminder would help, and presses his gun against his nape. 

“Move it. I’m losing my goddamn patience.”

He lets out a shaky, terrified breath, turns the key so hard his fingertips bend. It snaps open with rusty resistance, and slowly, the door to your cell creaks open.

Below the filth and bruises you’re covered in, you’re shining. Brimming with a kind of relieved, dreamy delight that would have made Jayce’s stomach do flips and knees go soft before everything. Some part of him wants to fall into your arms and lick at your lips until they’re raw. Another part of him has his trigger finger itching. He hopes neither part wins.

You open your mouth to say something. Jayce can’t bear the thought of hearing it, hearing you, not now, not yet—

“Wait by the door,” he interrupts. “And get your things.”

Well, what’s left of them. 

You comply without another word, hurrying to a cabinet beside the door, where you start digging through the drawers frantically.

He turns to the deputy.

“Into the cell,” Jayce commands, and makes sure to walk him to the very back of it, just in case. “On your knees.”

“Please don’t kill me—“

“Hands behind your back.”

Shakily, the man complies. Jayce bends down to hold his wrists together, and starts winding some of the rope hanging off his belt around them, nice and sturdy.

A door behind him creaks open.

“Jayce—!”

Your voice shakes him like nails on a chalkboard. Scratches at something angry and brutal in the very center of his brain, at something that doesn’t think. Something that acts.

Jayce shoots.

He hadn’t stopped to notice who it was, arm wrapped around your throat from behind and holding you close enough to be a human shield.

He hadn’t stopped to think how easily he could put a bullet through your head instead of whatever target he’d locked onto. He’d just pressed the trigger.

His bullet strikes true.

Head flying back with the impact of the lead cutting through his brain, the sheriff drops like a stringless puppet behind you. His brains splatter the wall just beside the door.

You cower, clutching your head as though you died with your attacker. You look at Jayce, meek and trembling and utterly terrified, like you fully expect him to put lead through your skull next.

He opens his mouth to say something. 

A weight collides with him before he does, knocks him onto the concrete floor with a nasty impact.

“You piece of fucking shit!” The deputy’s fist crushes his nose so hard his ears ring. The back of his head slams against the floor. 

The edge of his vision pulses, the high shrill in his ears nearly drowns out the noise of the lawman’s growl. 

“M’gonna kill you.” He mutters. “Gonna fuckin’ kill you, bastard!”

The man’s hands are at his belt, groping for a weapon, wrapping around the handle at Jayce’s left hip.

His knife. 

Jayce attempts a tried and true kick to get the man off of him, but his weight won’t budge. He should have budged, he would have, before everything. Before Jayce had spent his days wishing he was dead and eating only when the bottom of his throat burned with acid and moved only when his muscles ached from laying down. 

Before you’d made him as weak physically as he’d always been within.

But he can’t, he can’t, and this is how Jayce is going to die.

He tries a desperate right hook and hopes it will hit something.

And it does.

His arm stops mid-swing, but not because his fist has met a target.

Something in his forearm pulls, pulls at skin, pulls at muscle, pulls at nerves. He opens his eyes, tries to see, tries to see — sees red. Pain, shooting all the way up to his shoulder and down to his pinky, everything in his precious shooting arm screams.

The knife. Lodged inside his forearm.

Your voice.

“I’m gonna paint the fuckin’ floor with your goddamn brains.”  

The next thing he knows, the lawman’s weight is hauled off of him. Something rings as loud as a church bell on Sunday noon. Once. The lawman tries to scream, but only manages a moist, bloody, nasal snarl. Then that grueling sound rings out once more, a metallic resonance. Again. And again.

Blang. Blang. Blang.

Two blurred moving shadows finally fall into one coherent image as Jayce’s eyes refocus — and he’d give anything to hit his head again hard enough to make sure they don’t. 

You’ve grabbed the lawman like a mangy mutt, fingers digging into the back of his scalp. And you’re slamming his face into the prison cell bars with the relentlessness of someone who does this often. Does this easily.

“Fuckin’ filth is all you was.” You grit out. Blang. “All you’ll ever be.”

You ram his skull into the bars until the last bit of his resistance seeps from his body. With a heaving chest, you retreat to let his corpse slide down bloodied steel onto the floor. You brace yourself against the bars, then bring your foot into one last, thorough kick against the back of his head. There is no doubt about it being a killing blow.

“(L/n).”

Jayce flinches at the sound of your name, not coming from himself. A man in another cell, a fellow prisoner he hadn’t even noticed, holds his hand out between the bars of his own cell.

“Gimme the keys. Get me outta here, please.”

You bend down for the lawman’s gun. Put a bullet in the chamber, then turn to the prisoner.

“No,” the prisoner cries, “I won’t tell a soul, I swear! Not a goddamned soul, please don’t do this, please, please, please—!”

“Sorry.” You thumb down the hammer. “I can’t take that chance.”

[calinaannehart]

The Parts We Play

Chapter 3

The entire drive home after shift Eddie can’t stop looking in his rearview mirror at Buck’s truck. It’s enormous, bigger than Eddie’s, and the latest model. A Ford F-150 Raptor, with blacked-out windows and custom matt paintwork, and which probably cost three times Eddie’s yearly salary.

Every time he looks back at it he feels another jolt in the pit of his stomach. There’s an A-list celebrity following him. An A-list celebrity who got paid, according to Chim, over $3 million for his last movie is following him back to his house. To meet his son. An A-list celebrity who—

Fuck.

An A-list celebrity who is going to see Eddie’s tiny little two-bedroom house, his poor excuse for gardening, his kitchen sink full of dishes, and his fucking boxers that are probably still hanging on the clothes horse because the fucking dryer has broken for the sixth time and Eddie can’t afford to replace it until his next paycheck.

He contemplates calling Carla, asking her to stash the offending articles of clothing in his room, but remembers his phone is in his duffle bag on the back seat. He also realizes how ridiculous he’s being, it’s only underwear. Everyone wears underwear, even Buck. Unless they decide to go commando, that is. Does Buck go commando?

Fuck.

The turning to Eddie’s street springs up on him and he takes the corner way too fast, yanking the wheel around sharply to avoid mounting the curb, and glancing back in his rearview once more in time to catch Buck breaking to make the turn safely. He indicates as he approaches the driveway, rolling down his window and pointing to the curb out front to indicate that’s where Buck should pull up, and hopes he can get inside the house to deal with the laundry before Buck makes it out of his truck.

He has no such luck, however, the second Eddie has closed the driver’s side door Buck is by his side, surprisingly full of energy for someone who has just completed their first night shift in a fire station and managed roughly only twenty minutes sleep in the back of the engine on the way back from a call.

“I thought Rodriguez was a wanna-be rally driver,” Buck grins, pointing back to the corner of Eddie’s street. “But with the way you took that turn, you could give him a run for his money.”

“Just a little tired,” Eddie lies, rubbing at the back of his neck while eyeing Buck’s truck and contemplating whether it’ll be safe parked out on the street. Maybe he should have gotten Buck to park on the driveway instead, Eddie’s truck is worth less, but then it’s a safe neighborhood with a very low crime rate which is rare in a city like LA.

“You sure you wanna do this now? I can shoot off, let you catch up on some sleep—” Buck thumbs back over his shoulder at his truck, turning slightly as though he’s about to make a start toward it.

“No!” Eddie blurts quickly, embarrassing himself with how desperate he must be coming across. “I mean, I won’t be sleeping until later anyway. Carla, Christopher’s home health aid has another client today so it would have just been me and him anyway.”

“Oh, ok,” Buck nods, squinting at Eddie. “If you’re sure I’m not gonna be intruding?”

“Not at all,” Eddie glances at his watch. “We’ve probably got half an hour before Chris is up, that’s time for at least three coffees.”

Buck practically skips up the path next to Eddie. “Three? Jesus, I’d be bouncing off the walls after the second.” Eddie doesn’t add that Buck doesn’t need any caffeine to be bouncing, the man is pretty much the human equivalent of a space hopper. Eddie opens up the front door, leading Buck through, and is met instantly by the offending presence of the clothes horse, his boxers hanging pride of place on the top wrung.

“I’ll just…um,” Eddie starts grabbing at the items, bundling them in his arms and hiding them from view, only moving to head to his bedroom when he thinks he has them all. But a polite cough and a tap on his shoulder stops Eddie in his tracks and he turns to find Buck holding a pair of boxers that had evaded him. Eddie’s whole face flushes which is completely and utterly ridiculous and just makes him feel like an even bigger idiot, but then again, Evan fucking Buckley is holding his boxers out to him.

“I pegged you as more of a briefs guy,” Buck smirks, but it’s not an unkind smirk, on the contrary, it’s more teasing and there’s a spark in Buck’s eye that can only be described as flirtatious. Eddie snatches the boxers from Buck’s hand, stuffing them into the pile in his arms.

“S-sometimes,” Eddie stutters, backing away when he realizes how close Buck is standing to him. “Boxers don’t sit well under the uniform so I tend to wear briefs at work—” Eddie slams his mouth shut, utterly perplexed as to what on earth possessed him to share that titbit of information with a Hollywood movie star.

Read on AO3

Please support me by reblogging so I can reach a bigger audience!

[mercurygray]

Happy weekend Merc! How about 'gravel underfoot' and 'broken zipper' from the small details prompt list for Billie doing something ill advised 😏 Juno xx

Juno, these three little snips have been sitting in my drafts for the better part of a week now, so I suppose I'd better publish them if I'm not doing anything better.

Fair warning: this is a TDS AU where the Girl Gang is flying. And it is🌶️🌶️.

--

He'd known the girls would be trouble, but why was it always her?

Harding looked at the pilot across from his desk and exhaled heavily. "I need officers who obey orders, Mitchell. None of this write your own rules nonsense."

The woman herself didn't seem to think too much of that. "Seems to be fine when Major Cleven does it, sir."

And maybe it is - for Major Cleven. But not Lieutenant Billie Mitchell, fresh from the states and here only on the sufferance of God and the manpower needs of the United States Army Air Force. "Major Cleven is a decorated officer with more flying hours than you."

"And a man, sir."

"What do you want, Mitchell?" He was in front of his desk, his face inches from hers.

"A fuck against the wall would be fine, sir." She stared him down, her smile just visible in the midst of his stunned silence. "Come on, Colonel. Who lets you off your leash? It'll be fun."

"You tired of the squad room?" He was trying not to let her get to him, and he wasn't sure he was succeeding. Had she disobeyed orders just so she could be here, in front of his desk, in front of him, alone?

"I'm tired of boys who think they know what they're doing." Her smile widened knowledgeably, trying to coax him out. "Come on, sir. I've danced with you. How long's it been?"

Too damn long, he'd almost said. "Get out of my office" was what came out instead.

--

He gave in later.

He did not say her name - did not even speak - only grabbed for her wrist and pulled her away into the dark, cool shadows of the supply shed.

He only had to shut the door behind them then she'd pulled him back by his lapels to start undoing his jacket, her lips greedy for his as her hands fumbled with belts and buttons and the front of his fly and he was pulling the shirt out of her trousers and pushing her back against the wall. His hand pushed for a moment into the front of her now- open trousers, thinking he might try with his fingers first, but she laughed into their kiss and pushed his trousers open a bit more. "A fuck, sir," she said, like she was reminding him.

"Against the wall," he growled, rubbing himself against the mound of her body and their hands, her underwear and his own. He could smell her perfume, faint and distant on her skin. "I heard you the first time."

"A real one," she replied, groping him so that he moaned. "Don't take your time."

He didn't. And she dug her nails into the back of his neck and panted with pleasure into his ear for it, hot and urgent and human, until he remembered just in time where he was and who she was and pulled himself from her so he might come between them, breathless and heavy, his whole body wrung out and, impossibly, longing to do it again. How long had it been? Too long, and now he wanted it a second time, and a third. The night was dark and full of secrets and he wanted all of hers.

How dare she stand there like that, smiling and flushed and looking for all the world like she knew what he was thinking? "Damn you to hell, Billie."

“I thought we were already here,” she said with a smile. “Might as well make the most of it.”

--

Wasn't it always the same story?

Marion's office had a view of the supply shed door - hardly busy on a Friday afternoon without a mission in the air tomorrow. The sound of footsteps on the gravel made her look up. Who was it this time, looking for privacy?

Billie Mitchell, hair a mess and uniform crumpled, was struggling with a zipper that was probably broken, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary. Not a surprise - those blue eyes and red hair had never had a problem getting a date for a dance, or for something after, either. Marion couldn't help watching the door, wondering whose heart she would be breaking in a few days time when she moved on to her next conquest, who would be mooning after her when she told him no.

But the face that emerged next was not one she expected to see looking around with boyish, fearful eyes like he expected to be caught, carefully closing the door behind him. Oh, no. Not you. In the moment she could smell his aftershave.

He stepped out from the supply shed and looked carefully around in the approaching evening light, adjusting his tie, smoothing his jacket, and then, somehow, impossibly, his eyes found her window and the semi-open shade. The guilt in his eyes went straight through and left her breathless. She stepped back from the window, feeling shaken. He'd seen her - and seen that she knew.

Oh, Chick. What have you done?

[sweeter-innocence-fics]

Click My Heels But I Am Stuck Here - Chapter One

Pairing: Rolan x Tav

Work Summary:

Rolan is battered, beaten and exhausted. After everything he's been through to get to Baldur's Gate, he still has no reprieve from violence and prejudice.

But wouldn’t it just be so sweet to fuck his master’s pretty little wife?

AU where Tav is Lorroakan's wife.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1710

Read on AO3.

Masterlists.

Taglist info

Notes:

I was trying to write the next chapter of my fic Learn to Love Again but I literally couldn't do anything else until I'd started writing this.

Warnings for infidelity, arranged marriage, abuse, implied sexual assault, violence, anti-tiefling racism, and Lorroakan

---

The doors to Sorcerous Sundries were heavy. They would be hard enough to close on a good day, but today, when Rolan’s ribs felt as though they were screaming at him, it was taking all his energy to shift them.

Would that he had the energy to cast telekinesis, but his magic was also drained. Lorroakan had foisted a lot of menial magical tasks on him today, and he needed a long rest before he could think about casting anything more than a cantrip right now.

The doors had almost closed when he heard a cry of “Wait!” It stopped him in his tracks because he recognised the voice.

An arm shoved its way through the narrow gap left by the door and then his master’s wife wiggled through the opening, undoing some of his hard work in the process. She was clutching her bag to her chest.

“Thank you,” she said, “I didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to the upper city.”

It wouldn’t be the first time. A few tendays ago, she’d gone for an impromptu lower city shopping spree, and made it back to the shop ten minutes after he’d locked the doors. When she’d turned up on the doorstep of the tower, in fine spirits but looking rather sweaty and tired, Lorroakan had taken it out on Rolan’s skull.

He had waited until his wife had gone off for a bath, and then he’d cornered his apprentice, hissed something about forcing the lady of the tower to walk several miles alone at dusk, and slammed his head into the wall.

Even as his vision whited out, he had to bite his tongue. He had long since learnt that excuses and arguments meant more beatings, so as much as he wanted to point out that it wasn’t his fault that Lorroakan’s wife was late, he kept it to himself.

All of this to say, as she scooted past him into the shop, it took all of his energy not to glower at her. The sweet, flowery scent of her perfume assaulted his nostrils. The bag she was holding moved, and Rolan realised that it wasn’t a bag at all, but a fluffy, white cat.

So surprised was he that he said, “Where did you get that?” and then cursed himself immediately. If Lorroakan heard him talking to his wife without all the requisite, snivelling titles he’d bestowed upon her, he’d surely have wrung his neck.

“He was wandering around the lower city,” she said, shifting her grip on the cat. She was holding it like a baby, and it seemed perfectly content, curled up in her arms and purring loudly.

Rolan nodded jerkily, uncertain what to say to that. He was sure Lorroakan wouldn’t be please about his wife bringing an animal home, but of course, she wasn’t the one who would see the consequences of his displeasure. She scratched the creature behind its ears and then headed off towards the portal that led to the tower.

With the last of his strength, Rolan slammed the door shut and locked it.

By the time he made it through the portal back to the tower, he could hear raised voices.

“I can’t just leave him, he thinks I’m his mother!”

“Tavya, you cannot just bring any mangy old stray to Ramazith’s tower! We’re already full up on strays!”

At the sound of his master’s voice, Rolan instinctively drew back into the shadows to try and evade his notice. The two of them were out of sight. From the sounds of it, they were on one of the upper balconies.

“Strays?” She sounded slightly affronted. “The tower is hardly full. And it’s magic. Can’t you just make more rooms?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT! You have no idea what kind of diseases-”

“I live here too!” Tavya snapped back at her husband. “But if you’d rather, I can take Myshka and go and stay with my father.”

Lorroakan scoffed. “He’d send you right back to me.”

Rolan edged forward until the couple were in view. Tavya was still clutching the cat to her chest, and Lorroakan’s face was almost as red as his hair.

“Well, perhaps I’ll get myself a room at the Elfsong then. I’m sure my old friends will be happy to-”

Lorroakan hurled his goblet at the wall, effectively silencing his wife. Red wine splashed over the one of the bookcases. Rolan winced. Lorroakan had evidently been drinking even before this conversation had started.

To Rolan’s surprise, his master took a few steadying breaths. Lorroakan had never given him that courtesy.

“Fine,” he said, sounding slightly calmer. “You can keep the wretched beast. Just keep him away from me.”

“Fine,” said Tavya. “I’m going to get started on dinner.”

Lorroakan didn’t move as his wife swept off down the corridor. Rolan realised too late that he should’ve taken the opportunity while they were distracted to sneak off, but he had been too engrossed by their conversation to do so. His master’s gaze fell upon him and he watched his face twist into an unpleasant smile.

“Enjoying yourself, boy?” he snarled. “You like listening in on my conversations with my wife?”

“I wasn’t-” Rolan started, but Lorroakan raised a hand, silencing him.

“Come here.”

Rolan’s knees were trembling but he knew better than to argue. He didn’t make eye contact as he climbed the stairs and approached his master, but he could see that Lorroakan was still smiling.

As soon as he was in range, Lorroakan slapped him. Rolan barely even flinched. As punishments went, it was fairly mild. He stepped into Rolan’s space, breathing heavily. Rolan fought the urge to back away.

“If I ever catch you spying on me and my wife again, you’ll get a lot worse,” he spat.

Rolan just nodded. It would be futile to say that the room Lorroakan and his wife had been arguing was hardly private. Rolan would’ve had no choice but to pass them to get to his room. His master grabbed his jaw suddenly, unexpectedly.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you, boy,” he hissed.

“Yes, master Lorroakan.”

He shoved him away. Rolan’s back hit the edge of the balcony and his ribs protested fiercely.

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

Rolan didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried off down the corridor towards his room. As he rounded the corner, he almost collided with Tavya.

“Sorry. My lady,” he said, clearing his throat. The motion made his ribs ache, and he instinctively brought his hand up to cradle them. Tavya looked up at him, a flash of concern in her big, dark eyes. She had finally put down the cat, and her dark blue dress was covered in patches of white fur.

“Rolan, are you alright?” she asked, and he felt a spike of rage.

Of course not, and it’s your fault.

“Yes, my lady, thank you.” He rushed past her before she could stop him, and scurried off to his room with his tail between his legs, feeling more pathetic than he had in months.

Lorroakan’s rage he could handle. He had gotten used to it in the months he’d been here. But what he couldn’t abide was the pity in Tavya’s eyes. It made him want to punch something.

Since his bedroom door didn’t have a lock, he used the last dregs of his magic to cast arcane lock and then threw himself down on his mattress. Lorroakan hadn’t even seen fit to provide him with a bedframe.

He was breathing hard. He needed to relieve his frustration somehow, and there was only thing he could think to do right now.

Clumsily, he removed his robe and then unbuttoned his trousers. He hadn’t jerked off in a tenday or more, so it only took a few strokes before his cock was approaching full hardness.

His mind went to Tavya. Infuriating she may have been, but she was also undeniably beautiful. The daughter of a patriar, she had noble features, and long dark curls that fell almost to her waist when she let it, though it was usually braided back.

She also had the small, rounded ears of a human, which Rolan couldn’t deny intrigued him. He’d never been with a human before. She was petite and delicate, but with womanly curves that were hard to ignore.

And wouldn’t it just be so sweet to fuck his master’s pretty little wife?

He imagined the pleasurable moans she’d make as he drove into her from behind, forcing her face down into the mattress with one hand. Would she beg him to let her cum?

Had she ever had a tiefling? Or would his ridged cock hit places inside her that she’d never even known existed before? He was well-endowed, but had no idea how that compared with his master.

He thought about her on her knees. Maybe she’d let him shove his cock in his mouth and fuck her throat until her eyes were watering. She behaved like such a brat, and her husband indulged her, but not Rolan. No, she would service him and let him use her for his own pleasure, like his own personal little fucktoy. Then perhaps he’d pull out and spill his seed all over her pretty face and tits, painting her as his own.

His hand on his cock sped up. He pictured her spread out beneath him, his tail curled around her ankle to keep her legs apart, his cock pressed against the entrance of her cunt. He imagined the sensation of her stretching around him, squeezing his cock to try and mimic the feeling.

Oh, Rolan, you’re so big.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her voice.

Take me, I’m yours.

Cum splattered all over his hand and stomach. For a moment, he lay there, just listening to the sounds of his own breathing. Then the regret began setting in.

First of all, he regretted not fully removing his clothes. He wiped his hand on his already soiled robe and began to clean himself up.

He tried not to feel guilty about fantasising about Lorroakan’s wife. Gods knew that his master deserved it. But Tavya didn’t.

Gods he was pathetic.

Next Chapter

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 14

💥Flashback chapter💥

he isn't the most powerful demon, he just likes to think he is (or he did...)

—  

masterlist

warnings: blood, torture, past whipping, partial nudity (he's just not wearing a shirt), weird thoughts on purity and sin that isn't specifically mentioned as religion but pretty close, light gore (not described much), clawing at own throat, scratching

—

The angel came back.

Envy had spent an uncomfortable amount of time in these blasted chains, which left his arms without feeling from the position he found himself trapped in. The holy water used to clean his wounds had dried, but the sting hadn’t dissipated. Like the aftereffects of eating overly spicy food, it lingered on after the original offender was gone. He’d suffered through what he thought must have been a day and a night before the angel returned, brightly burning in her righteousness.

Maybe if he begged her to wash the holy water off, she’d listen. He was disgusted with himself for the thought.

The angel stepped inside the cell with the same damned crystal bowl as yesterday, or the day before, or whenever his last torture session had been. It irked him not to be able to tell the time, but he knew he had more pressing concerns.

“I’m still clean,” he said by way of greeting. “Didn’t get up to any trouble, don’t need a bath.”

He waggled his eyebrows in a way that he hoped was condescending. The smile he plastered on his face was a forced effort; he didn’t want the angel to catch how scared he was. Knowing the bite of holy water on his skin and in his open wounds did nothing to diminish his fear of it. If anything, it made it worse. He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking and rattling the chains.

“This is for that mouth of yours,” the angel intoned.

She didn’t look at him, only set down the bowl on a small wooden table that looked to be not a table at all but a giant wooden spool turned on its side. It came up to her hips. She set a white cloth into the water and pressed down, letting it soak up what would surely be Envy’s future pain.

He tried again. “I’m sure I can think of better uses for it, if you give me a chance.”

His voice shook a little on the delivery and he cursed himself for it. The angel wrung out her pristine cloth and Envy watched every single drop of water that came from it fall back into bowl, sending ripples across the surface.

“I need to fix that attitude of yours. Then you be made pure.”

The angel spoke with perfectly even intonation, not a drop of cadence out of place or showing any emotion at all. She strode over to him and stood directly in front this time, rather than moving behind him where the lashes where. At least he wouldn’t be going through that again, though he was sure whatever else she had planned for him was equally as terrible. He hated the anticipation. The unknowing.

Envy tried a different tactic, seeing his options wearing thin and time running out. Water dripped from in between the angels slim fingers. It mixed with his blood on the floor.

“Listen here you little bitch, when I get out of here, I’m going to rip you to fucking shreds. You hear me? I’m the most powerful demon there is, I could compel you to—”

The angel slapped the cloth to his neck. It was so sudden that it cut off the entire tirade he’d constructed in his head and all he could manage was a weak gurgle as the holy water ate through the fragile skin at his throat. He gasped, and the motion alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes. No. He would not cry again. No.

The angel wrapped the cloth around his neck and smoothed it out, then stepped away to admire her work.

“Hck—”

Envy opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even scream. The holy water ate through the skin at his throat and into the tissue and muscle. He didn’t know where the water started and where the blood began, where he started and where the pain ended. The pain never ended. Tears streamed down his face, and those, at least, washed some of it away.

It burned it burned it burned.

“Ple—ack—ples!” he yelled, coughing in the middle.

The angel watched him impassively. Envy thrashed in his chains, trying in vain to move his arms down to rip the offending cloth off his skin and only succeeding in bloodying them more than he already had.

After what seemed like an eternity, the angel made a satisfied “hm” and took him down from the chains. Envy fell to the ground in a pathetic heap, his limbs not strong enough to support him under the weight of his pain. He wrenched the cloth from his throat and lunged, a feral gleam in his eyes.

He was free he could kill her he could compel her—

The angel kicked him in the face, one shiny shoe connecting with his nose and Envy was back on the floor. A sickening crack reverberated through his skull and lights flashed in the darkness behind his eyes, bright and twinkling like stars. He cried out and raised his hands to his nose. Blood already began to seep from in between them.

The angel put a foot on his chest to keep him down, and he would have been indignant about it if he weren’t so fixated on the bowl in her hands. She poured the remaining holy water over his exposed throat and he screamed. He bucked under her hold, his back arching fruitlessly under her heel, but the angel stayed in place regardless of his efforts. Envy’s hands went from his face to his neck. Fingers scratching, tearing, clawing desperately at the skin to try and remove the source of the pain but there was none he could grasp.

He made a loud keening sound like that of a dying animal, half-gurgle and half scream. Fog filled his vision while a wretched smell invaded his nostrils. He realized it was him—the smell and smoke of his flesh being burned away. He rolled on the ground, ripping up the wounds on his back, grasping at his damaged throat.

He didn’t even realize the angel had already left. When he finally did, he spat weakly on the floor, wishing that it was enough to say he still had the upper hand. He knew that he’d never had it to begin with.

—

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[whumblr]

Destination

Continuation from Roadtrip - Chapter 1

Okay, so they have names now:

Caretaker: Kieran Whumpee: Noa Whumper: Armand

-

“Do you want to switch?” Armand hurried along, half running, half walking to keep up with Kieran’s brisk pace.

Even with Noa draped over their back, they didn’t slow down.

“No,” Kieran brought out in-between fast breaths for the umpteenth time, shifting Noa’s weight a little. Uncomfortable fever heat radiated from the small body and it spurred them on to go even faster. Hot breath brushed over the nape of their neck. They were still breathing, that was good, but would be better if the irregular, shallow puffs slowed down a bit.

“You’re still hurt, you know. And exhausted. And fucking stubborn.”

“I carry them.”

Armand shrugged a suit yourself.

Wading through the underbrush, the rough forest eventually parted when they reached the top of the cliff, revealing a more controlled, man-made landscape; trimmed shrubbery that didn’t restrict and challenge every step and, finally, a road.

A wide bridge over the cliff towards the facility signalled their arrival.

“Finally!” Kieran panted, still not slowing down in the slightest. In fact, without the tall grass and roots prompting them to be careful, they sped up, nearly running over the bridge towards the entrance.

The two glass sliding doors remained shut as they approached and Kieran kept pressing the button near the intercom until it finally crackled to life.

“Hello—"

“Hi, yes,” Kieran spoke very fast. “We’re here returning a missing patient. And they’re not well.”

A short silence. Some hushed voices in the background. Then the doors slid open. “Doctor Murray is expecting you. Please come in,” the disembodied voice spoke.

Kieran didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence and wrung though the sliding doors. Armand awkwardly followed, as if he were just tagging along by now.

The doors opened to let them in to a large, round area, with a round reception desk right in the middle of the circle. The woman behind the desk looked up as they entered, a curious look on her face. As did some of the others walking about; mostly people in white coats, some huddled together, halting their conversation as three – or two really – dishevelled individuals rushed in.

Kieran didn’t pay them much mind, their gaze now on the man who hurried to intercept them. He nodded at them, rested a hand against Noa’s forehead, letting it slide down to cup their cheek and he sighed.

“Follow me,” he said. “Through there please.” He extended an arm, gesturing for them to follow. “Ah, wait.”

A gurney rolled out and Kieran gratefully let Noa slide from their back, gently lowering them until their shoulders hit the gurney. They rolled their tense shoulders, cricked their neck, but didn’t relax yet. Before the man could even take charge, Kieran positioned themself behind the gurney, already pushing it towards the door the man gestured to.

The man ran up behind them, catching up and sliding his keycard over a terminal to unlock the door.

“Will you chill?” Armand muttered, leaning towards them. “We’re here. We made it.”

Kieran shot him a withering glance. “I’ll chill when Noa wakes up or when we’ll know they’ll be okay.” As long as they had no idea what was going on, the guilt of pushing Noa past their limits for days now to the extent that they collapsed with fever wracked Kieran’s heart.

Armand opened his mouth to counter, but a voice in the room interrupted their bickering.

“Oh, thank god.” A man in a long white coat turned to them and made straight for Noa. His shoulders sagged with relief as he exhaled and he let a hand rest over Noa’s damp forehead, brushing some of the dark strands of hair away. Fingers pinched their wrist, feeling for their pulse. After a few seconds of silence, he tutted, and abruptly let go, stepping away.

He turned to Kieran holding out a hand. “Doctor Murray, I oversee Noa’s unit.”

Kieran shook his hand over the gurney. “Good to meet you. We’re really worried and—"

“You are Armand Garnier?”

“No. No, my name is Kieran Casey. That’s him.” They stayed behind the gurney, hand resting on Noa’s shoulder, and nodded with a scowl to Armand.

Something resembling understanding lit up behind the doctor’s eyes and his eyebrows lightly rose. He looked at Kieran, eyes drifting up and down taking them in from top to toe, before he nodded and merely said: “Ah, yes.”

Kieran too raised a brow, but the doctor didn’t elaborate. He stepped towards Armand and heartily shook his hand.

“We were so glad you contacted us. I won’t say their whole treatment came to a standstill, but it is rather time sensitive to keep up. I’d hate to start all over again.”

“You said they contacted you?” Kieran spoke up, glancing up as they fussed over Noa, also brushing the hair from their forehead and feeling for their pulse as well to see if the doctor found anything strange. It felt calm and steady.

Armand shrugged.

“Are they okay?” Kieran prompted the doctor. “I’m really sorry, but something happened along the way and I don’t know what caused this but they are at least better than this morning—”

They caressed their fingers over Noa’s cheek. Luckily, their breathing had calmed and they weren’t as searing hot as before.

“Mr Casey, please. Calm down. I can assure you they will be fine.” Murray turned back to Armand. “What happened?”

“We’ve trekked through the forest for five days trying to get them here. Last night they fell ill.”

“Were they exposed to any triggering events?”

“Erm…”

Kieran exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Armand, hoping they could get Armand to silently agree to keep the bloodied knife incident under wraps for now. Or maybe just… everything that had occurred in his base.

“Well, they were lost without any food or water in the forest,” they started, cautious but bitter.

“Found by someone who hasn’t a clue what they’re doing,” Armand continued.

“Picked up by someone who—” Kieran swallowed and adjusted course, “doesn’t care in the slightest about others!”

Armand didn’t counter that, merely responded with the tiniest side-nod.

“So all the time, basically…” Murray pondered, but without scorn, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

“Well… yeah,” both admitted, Armand with a soft shrug, Kieran with more guilt in their voice.

Armand grinned. “They were… triggered. We couldn’t get them to calm down. I have no idea what you do here, but that little thing fought off me and four of my best men.”

“Really?” Murray looked up. “That is interesting. Especially considering their treatment came to a halt after we lost them. Did they calm down?”

“Yeah, they like Kieran here.”

“We’d be happy to entertain your offer then.”

“Then let’s conclude this business,” Armand said.

Murray let out a sigh but nodded, and gestured to one of the orderlies who left the room.

Kieran’s brow furrowed; most of the words sailed right past them, what with their focus on Noa, but the few snippets that did reach them confused them. But just as they were about to ask, something moved beneath their hand.

Noa stirred with a soft groan. They blinked hard, eyes somewhat softening as they noticed Kieran hovering over them, but they tensed up again when they glanced around.

“Hey,” Kieran breathed out. “Oh thank go—" they lowered their voice as Noa flinched, continuing in a relieved whisper, “Hey, it's okay, we made it, you're safe. Bit of a fever but they can help you here. With a bit of rest and medicine you'll be right as rain—" But their words didn't seem to land and Noa kept shrinking in on themself, eyes darting furiously around. "What's wrong? Are you hurt, are you in pain?"

They followed their gaze as Noa’s eyes went wide and they gasped. And Kieran’s own eyes went wide, mouth falling open slightly, as Noa was staring intently at doctor Murray.

And they mewled.

Everything suddenly hit at once; all the words they’d heard but that had failed to fully register, all the little pieces that had tugged at their attention but they’d ignored, too worried over Noa, suddenly snapped into a place that they really didn’t want to form a full picture of.

When they glanced back at Noa, they startled, for their eyes were now filled with a sense of betrayal.

“No…” Kieran started, both in disbelief and denial. They reached out, but again Noa flinched away. “No… no this is… I didn’t—” They had to make this right because as things stood now, they could see the little trust they’d build up evaporate before their eyes. “Do you want to leave?” they whispered.

Noa whimpered but nodded, squirming on the gurney in attempt to make themself as small as they could. If they weren’t wracked by a paralysing fever, Kieran had no doubt they’d drop to the floor in search of the smallest corner to hole up in.

Kieran took a deep breath, swiping a hand over their face in an attempt to literally iron out the worries, before they turned around.

The door where they’d come in was the only exit. And Kieran could only hope that they wouldn’t need a keycard from this side, but somehow they doubted it.

They glanced at Armand, who was still talking to Murray, and Kieran silently willed him to look at them. They pointedly glanced from Noa to the door with a curt nod, signaling that they had to go. But Armand raised his shoulders in confusion and shook his head, not understanding.

Kieran held in an exasperated sigh. Then they firmly settled behind the gurney again, whispered a soft “Don’t move, just lay down”, and pushed them towards the door.

“They’re awake,” someone said, a voice that sounded very much like the disinterested drawl from Armand. And before Kieran could even cross the room, one of the orderlies blocked their way.

They stuttered, all eyes on them now.

“I... I think there's been a mistake... Noa seems... okay, and, we'll be fine. Thank you for— Well… We’ll be leaving.”

“No,” Murray started slowly and two orderlies took a step forward, their hands brushing over something on their hip. “No, I don’t think so.”

They glanced at Armand again, hoping he’d back them up, but this time, he had his lips pressed tight together, as if trying to hide a smile.

Gears slowly slid into place, but didn't turn all the wheels yet. Kieran watched, astonished as the orderly who'd left the room earlier returned carrying a large metal briefcase and gave it to Armand.

"Your only mistake, Kieran...” Armand started, playing with the clasps on the case, “Well, second mistake besides the glaring obvious one of listening to me – was assuming a medical facility meant something like a hospital.”

He snapped the briefcase open and let out a whistle. He pulled out a stack of dollar bills, fondly running his thumb over it, flipping through the bills.

“Five million. For the return of their precious patient, and I even gave them a freebie.” He waved the stack at Kieran.

And the wheels rattled to life.

“You goddamn louse!” Kieran launched at Armand, but was intercepted by two of the orderlies who held them back.

Armand barked out a laugh, watching how Kieran snarled and fought against the two men, shaking off the hands around their shoulders, their wrists, their waist, only to be pulled back just when they’d found the leverage to propel at Armand. “If you’re looking for a weak point, try the arms,” he called out with an amused smile, eyes fixed on Kieran’s.

And Kieran yelped hard, nearly buckled when strong hands crushed around the bandages, squeezing hard, running up their arms and instantly finding the weak spots Armand had created. Blood blossomed up through the fabric of the dark fatigues Armand had given them. Those goddamn fatigues; Kieran just wanted to rip it off. Maybe if they struggled hard enough, the orderlies could help them with that.

“Oh, before I forget…” Armand turned, one hand firmly around the handle of his new case, the other rummaging about in his pocket. “Their fever should go down by the end of the day.” He handed an ampule to Murray. “This stuff isn’t too potent but just in case you need a sample for an antidote…”

He winked at Kieran, who gaped at him.

“My thanks,” the doctor merely said, dismissively, as he pocketed the ampule.

“And mine.” Armand grinned. “Don’t worry, Kieran.” He held the case up and flicked a salute in farewell. “I’ll be sure to share some of this with your base. By rocket express.”

It was like the ground just tore away under them.

How could they have trusted him. How?! They’d been so relieved just… minutes ago. Relieved to reach the facility, to be able to help Noa. And all of a sudden, it had turned into the complete opposite. They heard Armand laughing as he left.

The glee in it made them snap from their daze. Punching Armand in the face was not an option anymore but they still fought, the pain from their wounds opening be damned, to try and get to Noa.

Noa too struggled, but not in a fight. They struggled against their fever and their fear, twitching and trembling on the gurney, yet they still tried to sit up. But a hand to their chest effortlessly pushed them onto their back.

Where was that strength that exploded when four of Armand’s men had tried to restrain them? They could really use some of that now. Damn Armand! He’d known he wouldn’t get Noa to enter the facility willingly and would probably fight tooth and nail to get out again.

“Give them a full checkup,” doctor Murray instructed. “It’s been a week since the last injections. But if I’m to believe what I just heard, their adrenaline levels shouldn’t be down that drastically.” He roughly grabbed Noa’s arm, wanting to roll up their sleeve. But the rough, inflexible leather of Kieran’s jacket didn’t go all the way up to the crook of their elbow and Murray snarled. He pulled the lapel of their jacket impatiently back and forth as if it were in his way, before he let go with an aggravated sigh.

“And do get rid of that jacket.”

Noa’s eyes teared up, hand reaching out to clutch at their sleeve and pull it back down. But their wrist was caught and pulled down and they didn’t fight, just whimpered as their hands were strapped down to the gurney.

“Leave them alone!” Kieran nearly shrieked. “Don’t touch them!”

“Contain them,” the doctor said, all casual, flicking a hand at Kieran before he turned and walked off.

And before Kieran could even double their efforts, something pressed against the side of their neck. A soft psh hissed in their ears, a white pain shot through their neck, and they swayed, the effects of whatever entered their bloodstream immediate.

“No…” The hands around them fell away. They stumbled, one boot crashing hard in front of the other to try and catch themself, hand rubbing over the little pinprick in their neck. “No…no…” They crashed hard to their knees, channelling every bit of strength to remain upright.

No one attempted to catch them, and they dropped face-forward to the floor.

-

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @mcjcxx @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @pigeonwhumps @briars7 @roblingoblin285 @gala1981 @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @those-damn-snippets @queenofthenoobs @soheavyaburden @worldofwhumpcraft @bloodinkandashes @suspicious-whumping-egg

[couldntbedamned]

A Sweet Escape (To Better Days)

Pairing: Stephen Strange/Reader, Strange Supreme/Reader, Defender Strange/Reader, Supreme Strange/Reader, Sinister Strange/Reader

Summary: While it at first it weighed heavily on her, the knowledge that five of the most powerful beings in the multiverse were with her instead of protecting all of reality, she couldn’t deny the thrill that also came with that. The universe truly revolved around her. Her loves revolved around her and everything she was, she had, she did was for them in return.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Obsession, Sexual Content, Spanking, Blatant disregard for responsibilities to multiple realities

Note: This isn’t really a prequel to There's Only Butterflies (Take Me Away), so much as it’s a companion piece, I suppose. In my mind they simply go together.

Stephen was her first.

It wasn’t as if she’d been waiting for Mr. Right, marriage, or anything so sentimental. There had been plenty of opportunities, but sex just hadn’t seemed important. She had her vibrators and her imagination. Men, from what she’d experienced, were simply more trouble than they were worth.

Until Stephen.

Stephen had flown - literally - into her life and everything she’d known had turned upside down.

She’d been captivated by him. He was intelligent, charming, handsome, and just a little bit mean. Which would be a red flag to anyone else but just set tingles afire deep in her belly.

Why he’d settled on her of all people, she didn’t know, but after the first time he’d taken her, moved in her, filled her, she’d decided it didn’t matter.

Sex with Stephen was better than any orgasm she’d wrung from herself with her vibrators. He was unrelenting, demanding her pleasure several times over before he’d take his own. Passing out from sheer pleasure? Yeah, apparently not something that only happened in books.

She lived with him in the Sanctum, days and nights filled with time spent together reading, talking, fucking. He could be fairly useless with words - especially the three words most people held above all. There was something in his eyes that told her he wanted to say the words but couldn’t stop from saying the wrong thing or just saying nothing at all. It never mattered to her; his actions said more than simple words ever could. Why insist on silly little words when he bared his soul to her in every way that truly mattered?

He had to dash off to save the world, obviously, but he always came back to her. They’d inevitably end up fucking for hours, as if to reaffirm that he was still alive.

Strange found them, fittingly, she thought, on a chilly and storming Halloween evening.

At first, she thought the ritualistic sex had gone terribly wrong. (Or wonderfully right. What? She was horny and, thanks to the magic, unable to get off until Stephen finished his part of the ritual by finishing inside her.)

“The Runes of Rapitu,” Strange had said, circling around them. He didn’t look well, this version of Stephen. His face was leaner, the circles under his eyes purple and pronounced. Even his Cloak appeared almost feral. “A little on the nose for Samhain, isn’t it?”

Unashamed of his naked form, Stephen stood, conjuring his shields. “This isn’t your universe.”

“I have no universe,” Strange replied. His eyes raked over her nude body as it glistened in the candlelight. “I see you have one, though.”

He studied the runes intently, each flaring to greater life under his gaze, the glow red rather than orange. “What is it you’re hoping to bind?”

Shakily, she fingered the torq around her neck. “A new relic.”

“Allow me to assist you,” Strange said suggested. He caught her gaze and oh how she found herself wanting him! “Or I can simply absorb your magic for my own and continue on my miserable existence. It’s your choice,” he said to her. “But the loss of you would be a tragedy.”

Her? Her and not Stephen, the Sorcerer Supreme?

“You’ve already lost her, haven’t you?” Stephen asked, lowering his shields.

“Yes, and it led to losing everything,” Strange answered, never taking his eyes off of her. “Do not take her for granted, we - your reality - cannot withstand her loss.”

At her nod, Stephen parted the runes and Strange stepped into the circle, divesting himself of his robes as he did so. His Cloak went to join their Cloak off to the side.

Between the two of them, there wasn’t a coherent thought in her head until the ritual was complete. All she’d known was the feel of hands on her, two scarred and shaking and the others elegant and sure along with their cocks taking her, worshiping with her as they imbued magic and protection and strength into the torc and paid their homage to Rapitu. She was little more than a blissed-out, satiated mess, dripping of them both and the newly charmed relic buzzing and warm around her neck when all was said and done. Stephen and Strange surrounded her and took their time bringing her back to herself as she was washed and dried and protected. She woke between them and after kissing Stephen, turned to Strange.

“Stay.”

Months of bliss followed Strange’s arrival into her and Stephen’s world.

Strange touched her whenever the opportunity presented itself - a hand on her shoulder, the small of her back, no touch was ever too small. He kissed her as if doing so could wipe clean the fact that he’d destroyed. an. entire. universe. in the name of some version of her she’d never known.

Stephen, already the most jealous man she’d ever known, had assured her he wasn’t envious of Strange. “He’s me,” Stephen said, watching as Strange devoured her pussy like a man starved of water, drawing out quaking release after quaking release until she couldn’t lift her head in her exhaustion. “How could I possibly be jealous of myself?”

The two of them took turns whenever there was a threat to reality or a day that needed saving. They were skilled enough to hide the differences in front of the outside world… but not to her. She could always tell them apart.

The arrival of another variant, her Defender, came on a bright and sunny day. She was running from an alien invader on a rare trip out of the Sanctum when he appeared like a righteous angel, harnessing the brightness of the sun and saving her life. Who needed the sun when she had her very own Sol ready to slay any demons that might haunt her?

Strange and Stephen were unsure, but her Sol’s devotion to her could not be questioned.

“I was fighting a giant eyeball,” he told them over drinks. “I killed it but there was an interdimensional portal that sucked me through. I don’t know how to get back.” He looked at her, expression soft. “And I don’t know if I even want to.” He’d lost her too, she realized.

“You saved my life,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can stay for as long as you want.”

He couldn’t swap places with the others out in the world since she put her foot down on his hair.

“You’ll break my heart if you cut it,” she pouted playfully. “I like to run my fingers through it.”

He smirked at Stephen and Strange. “I like when you pull it, too.”

He stayed inside the Sanctum with her, keeping her busy whenever Stephen or Strange was away protecting the reality. He was rigid and unyielding in many ways, absolute in his belief that it was his duty to keep her safe and cared for. If he told her to do something, he expected it to be done. And the thing was, his orders were never unreasonable, not really.

The first time he hauled her over his lap, vanished her shorts, and spanked her ass to a cherry red after she’d disobeyed him was… well, it was an experience. And then he’d comforted her, asked how he could help her do the right thing going forward. She hadn’t been angry with him, instead, she’d felt… cherished.

“I will always protect you,” he promised with a tender kiss to her lips that had her near tears all over again. “Even if it’s from yourself.” Then he made love to her, showed her just how good things could be if she stayed good for him, trusted him to take care of her.

At first, she ignored the cracks in the world that started appearing. If her lovers weren’t worried, why should she be?

They were actually more worried than they ever let her know.

Travelers started to appear, those who didn’t belong with voices insistent about the threat of annihilation, of how sacred timelines were diverging and converging. Her lovers were having visions of universes disintegrating into nothing but blackest chaos even as reality tried to re-forge itself again and again. She herself began to dream of losing everything until she was alone in nothingness, far away from her loves.

They were not meant to live in the same reality; she knew that to be true. But surely, they could stand against the inevitability of the multiverse ensuring its own survival at all costs?

Then parts of the population started to vanish, parts of people themselves started to glitch - there was no other word to describe the horror that was looking at someone only to see them turn slightly and be missing an eye or a mouth, replaced only by a void or whatever passed for normal in another reality.

The universe was about to end, and she knew it was because of her, because they’d never leave her.

She planned to run, to leave them because who was she against the fate of the multiverse?

She never got the chance to run. They’d planned, too.

“We’re so sorry, Cielo,” Defender whispered as he bound her in magic so Stephen and Strange could bind her further, sigils appearing on her skin and the world fading around her. “When you wake up, everything will be as it should be, always.”

“Sleep, my love,” Stephen implored. “Sleep and dream of us.”

“We’ll be here with you the whole time; we’ll never leave you.”

The universe she was born into was created over the course of billions, perhaps trillions of years.

It only took her lovers a little over three to create her new one.

She awoke to a world unlike any she’d ever seen or even imagined.

“It’s yours,” Stephen told her. “Everything here is for you.”

“We hope you like it.”

The voice was Stephen’s but new, the cadence unique.

“You’re another Stephen,” she whispered, stunned. He was so similar and so unique among them. She had never seen him clean-shaven, nor a blue Cloak. “How?”

“We’re all Stephen, my Dear,” yet another Stephen said. “That’s how the multiverse works.” His hair was wilder, his goatee grown into a pointed beard. He looked sinister, in a way, though he was undoubtedly, like he said, a Stephen.

“You found a way to stop the incursions?” She asked, looking to her first three. “How? I thought more than one variant couldn’t co-exist in a given reality. The universes have rules!”

Her selfishness had nearly broken her universe, after all.

“That is true,” Strange said. “So, we created a universe where we could make our own rules.”

Something sick settled in her belly. A new universe?

“What about ours?” she asked Stephen. “Are they… what have you done?”

“We’ve repaired the damage we were creating as best we could,” Clean-shaven said. “Some damage was too great in one or two realities, but they’ll have several billion years before they’ll even start to fade.”

“The others are safe now,” Sinister said. “As long as we remain here, they’ll remain safe.”

“And what is here, exactly?”

“A pocket universe,” Defender says. “We exist outside of the multiversal branches and therefore we cannot damage them.”

“And who exactly constitutes ‘we’?” she asked.

“You, and us,” Strange answered, motioning between the five of them. “Just the six of us, together forever.”

She turned and ran, ignoring their calls after her. She pushed open the doors and flung herself out into this new world they’d created, terrified because who did that?

They hadn’t even chased her down, simply let her exhaust herself in this new, remarkably stunning universe they’d created. She’d run through a forest of pure white trees with purple foliage and azure grass and then a field of orange clover that never seemed to end only to find herself at what looked like a safe little cottage. The inside, however, was right where she’d started.

“There’s no running,” the clean-shaven one said when Sinister blocked her exit and Defender embraced her from behind. “Every path will bring you back to us.”

“Don’t lead me to punish you, Cielo. This is our home and you’re safe here.”

“I want to go home,” she insisted. It was part-truth, mostly-lie because how could she ever leave them - even the newest two - but how could she let them abandon their roles?

“You are home,” Strange said. “Your home is here now, with us.”

“This is the only way,” Stephen told her, stepping close and caressing her cheek. “Dearest Love this is the only way.”

She nodded, cautiously.

She ran a few times after that.

It never mattered. They either caught her, or she ended up back where she started. Either way she found herself over Defender’s lap, sobbing as he punished her for running. Then she’d cry in other ways as they demonstrated just how she was theirs.

Supreme, as she thought of the clean-shaven one, was as controlling as her Sol is protective. If no one else was around, he would pick out her clothing, her food, anything. He had to be around her all the time, much like Strange but there was a desperation to it that Strange has never had.

“Isn’t this universe supposed to be about me?” She once asked after his suggestion they visit the beach rather than her offered trip into one of the many cities that existed just for her.

“Do you dislike what we do?” He asked her in response. “Have I displeased you?”

The thing was, he hadn’t. He never did. The clothes he chose for her were inevitably perfect, the food the best she’d ever tasted. Even the books he suggested for her were fantastic reads and as she lay with him massaging (unneeded) sunscreen into her back, she could admit that he was perfect for her.

She was always sure to tell him whenever they were in bed, where he again devoted himself to her pleasure, bringing tidal waves of bliss to crash over her again and again. “You’re so perfect for me.” His eyes would close then, peace stealing across his face at her words, as though they were a benediction.

If ever there was a lost soul in her universe it was her Sinister. The man had spent years searching for any kind of a happy ending, any scenario where he wasn’t miserable and alone and he looked at her as though she were his salvation. When he wasn’t overwhelming her, that was.

“I’ve searched for you,” he told her one afternoon when her other Stephens were away re-enforcing the protective barriers of their pocket universe. “It wasn’t just happiness I searched for, my Love. It was for happiness with you.”

“I suppose you’ve found me,” she said. He was broken and she didn’t know if she could ever fix him. He, like Supreme and Strange, had destroyed entire universes.

“I have,” he said, stepping closer, hands linked behind his back. It was his default position, she’d learned. “I have and I will never let anything take you away.”

“It’s not like I can ever escape.”

He barked out a harsh laugh but stilled her flinch with a blackened finger under her chin. “We’re your prisoners every bit as much as you’re ours.” He always told her the truth, in his own way.

He leaned in, claimed her lips with his, the scratch of his wild goatee rough against her skin.

He terrified her in a multitude of ways, but he kissed her in the very best of ways. Sex always left her bruised and marked and exhausted but she’d never deny she loved it. His touch was strong, this side of too hard, too much, too wild but every time she found herself pushing back in kind, even seeking out the abandon he offered. 

Time was both too short and infinite for her and her beloveds. Her Stephen, her Strange. Her Sinister, her Supreme, and of course, her dearest Defender.

While it at first it weighed heavily on her, the knowledge that five of the most powerful beings in the multiverse were with her instead of protecting all of reality she couldn’t deny the thrill that also came with that. The universe truly revolved around her. Her loves revolved around her and everything she was, she had, she did was for them in return.

They created a universe, rewrote the very rules of all of existence, simply for her. All so they could be with her, forever.

Yes, there were more versions of them, and those sorry souls (to use the phrasing both Sinister and Strange use) were no doubt protecting their respective realities. Her own monitored the multiverse whenever the mood struck them. They watched from their pocket universe, unseen but one occasionally dipping out to offer the briefest yet most crucial of assists before returning and then seeking her out.

“You are our most important reality,” her Defender, her Sol told her.

“But at the cost of trillions?” She once asked helplessly.

Could she be so selfish?

“We can’t go back into our realities without risking even greater casualties,” Stephen said as he helped remove her tunic. “Here, in our home, we are safe.”

“And because we are, so are countless other realities,” Supreme added, kissing down her neck.

“By keeping us here with you,” Sinister whispered against her ear, hand gliding down her front to dip into the waistband of the flowy pants she wore. “You are ensuring the continued survival of the multiverse.”

It was hard to argue with that. And hard to think when Strange was kissing her, coaxing her lips open so he could lick inside. And fuck her Defender was kissing up her bare back.

“Is it so terrible?” Strange pulled back to ask. “A life with the men who worship you, knowing that this life is keeping trillions upon trillions of lives safe?”

Sinister’s fingers busied themselves stroking through her wet folds, dipping in, and teasing.

“Oh, I suppose it’s just my burden to bear.”

They’re five men with the power of gods and yet she is the one who is worshipped.