#room & put bucket on his head and hit him hard

[ihateitheretaylor]

My brother needs to go to therapy. He has got huge family problems. His childhood was messed up.

[some-bunniii]

Lucifer meeting an artist reader

・❥ The King of Hell admires your paintings

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

x: reader is g/n :) no use of pronouns or y/n

warnings: some raunchy details of your painting & mild swearing

When you arrived in Hell, the first thing you did was scream.

Where were you? Why was it so hot? What happened to your bed?!

“You’re in Hell, kid.” A blue bat-faced man had broke the news, as you stood helpless and confused on the street.

Hell? Like, demons and dark satanic magic kind of Hell?

That couldn’t be right. Were you that bad of a person to deserve such a fate? Did the few times you passed the Salvation Army donation bucket without dropping a coin damn you to this place?

Your death was fuzzy, a trail of shattered memories that could only give you bits and pieces of your final days. Did you go quickly in your sleep? Maybe, you hit your head so hard it caused you some kind of post-death amnesia?

Whatever had happened, you were here now with no way out.

During your first few days scouring for answers, you began to notice that Hell had an eerie similarity to life above ground. There were clubs, casinos, concerts. Heck, even TV! Sure, the things broadcasted were dark and sometimes disgusting.. but at least you had something to watch.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all? At least, compared to being thrown into dark, fiery pits for all of eternity like some cruel game of sink or swim.

Minus the people, of course. Most of them were pretty bad. Your first day watching a man get shot in the chest and lines of cocaine across tables in a diner made you decide to stay away from the streets of the city.

Which meant you had to get busy making a life for yourself. It started with working odd jobs as a bartender or a bell-hopper. You’d scrap together enough money to head to the nearest art supply store, and fill your bag with paints and charcoal pencils.

“You an artist or something?” The clerk had asked you as she scanned your items, taking note of your vast amount of diverse tools you were slowly collecting every time you stopped by.

“I usually paint, but yes, I used to do all kinds of mediums professionally when I was.. alive,” You had whispered that last part out with a pang of sadness, the reality of your situation still a fresh wound in your mind.

You had found an ad for an art studio, ran by a demon named Alexandre. You had showed him a few of your pieces, some pretty landscapes, a rendition of the Starry Night Sky which you had replaced the backdrop to be Pentagram city instead of whatever little village it was originally, and a self portrait.

“You got talent, i’ll give you that,” He had hummed, as his eyes scanned your paintings with intrigue, “But the subject? Not really what we’re looking for.”

“What do you mean?” You had asked, confusion evident in your voice.

“We’re in Hell, demons ain’t into pretty ponies and happy, little trees. They want more— eh how do i put this — sinful behavior?”

“Like…?”

“Like tits or anything that can be turned into a kink. They like blood and guts, and dead people splayed around. Dead angels too. Stuff like that.”

Tits? Dead people? You didn’t have much practice with that! At least not enough to make a career out of it.

But you had agreed anyway, this was your only shot. You stayed up late into the night, sometimes even into the early mornings, perfecting your skill when it came to much more risqué visuals. You would buy stacks of pornograohic magazines, flipping through for poses to memorize.

Slowly, you began to master the craft, and your time at the studio increased as you finally settled into life in Hell.

All you had to do was churn out painting after pastel after acrylic in the little cramped room you now called home. Alexandre would then take your pieces and sell them to the highest bidder. You’d get a percentage of the commission, using the money for whatever necessary.

Seeing as you could be mugged at literally any point in time, or anywhere for that matter, you made sure to keep a large sum of cash locked away in a double-bolted safe.

“You know Ozzie’s, that club down in the Lust Ring?” Alexandre had approached you one day, excitement in his eyes.

You shook your head as you sat behind the easel, your brush an inch from the canvas.

“Run by Asmodeus, one of the literal seven deadly sins?”

You shook your head once more.

“Fuck, you still have a lot to learn. Well, he really likes your art. He wants to buy a bunch of paintings for his club, and he’ll drop a shit ton of cash too. Ya think you can handle it?”

Your eyes had widened when he told you the exact price this sin guy was willing to pay. You had jumped from your seat, shaking his hand in profuse thanks, before scurrying off to gather more supplies.

And for a time, that’s how it went. You’d sell your steamiest paintings to Asmodeus, and other private commissions you took one after the other.

Apparently, your painting hung up in Ozzie’s was getting a lot of attention. Especially from a certain spider demon named Angel Dust.

After hearing Charlie’s decision to look for another member of their staff— someone who’d be in charge of decorating the premise with promises of love and tranquility up in Heaven— Angel Dust had taken a few snaps of your work with his phone, before showing it to Vaggie and Charlie. He had complimented your work, claiming it was ‘the best’ oil paintings he’d ever seen.

Although, in his line of work, he probably hadn’t seen many to compare yours so.

“ls this what we want in our hotel?" Vaggie had asked, motioning to a woman on the canvas that was drenched in sweat and white fluid, her private parts exposed to the audience as she posed suggestively on a stripper pole.

To which Charlie has responded, "I think it's... unique! You can definitely see she knows how to, um, really bring the scene to life! l'm sure she'll be open to creating our vision!"

Your phone had rung one night, with a voice on the other end begging you to come to her hotel and at least hear her offer for a new job.

Which lead you to the Hazbin Hotel, a slightly run down building that obviously needed more work. Inside and out.

“Oh my gosh! Hi there! My name is Charlie, and this is my hotel! it’s such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Thanks.. but I don’t see many guests around.” You had told her, your eyes darting around the lobby as you absorbed your surroundings.

“Well, we’re still trying to get our name out there. We’re not just any hotel, we’re a hotel set on redeeming sinners!” She exclaimed with pride.

“Redeem?” You had asked her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

She shook her head vigorously, “This hotel.. it’s going to be amazing! We’re going to turn Sinners into well.. non-sinners! They’ll be rehabilitated, and have morals! And honor! Heaven won’t be able to do anything but welcome them as angels!”

This idea had sounded a little far-fetched when you first heard it.

“You’ll be in charge of making art that reflects such views! Something that will make Sinners go, ‘Wow! Now that’s where I want to go!’”

“What’s in it for me?” You had asked.

“Well you’ll have your own room, and your own little studio too! I’m sure it’s much bigger than the one you already have. Plus we have a bar, and good company!”

You turned your head to the small crowd of demons a few feet away. A pornstar, a gambler, a snake guy with weird little walking eggs, and a really creepy man in a red coat that shot you a wide smile with eyes that seemed to stare right through your soul.

This was good company?

You contemplated her words, thinking deeply. Did you really need to leave the studio you were already a part of? You already had a room and place to paint, anyway.

Charlie must have noticed your hesitation to accept before quickly adding,

“Anddd you can sell your pieces here too! Plus, you can keep a hundred percent of the earnings.”

You perked up at that, the money made from your art would be... all yours? And, you’d get a breather from the drawing people having sex? That didn’t sound so bad after all!

“Deal!” You had reached out a hand, shaking hers with delight.

It had taken you a day or two to map out the interior of the hotel and figure out what could go where. You began to slowly brainstorm, what could make a sinner stare at a canvas and want to redeem themselves?

During your time on earth, you studied many artists through history. Most notably however, were those from the Renaissance. You remembered walking through the Sistine Chapel when you were younger,

staring at awe of the paintings of winged angels and heavenly skies.

You perked at that thought. That was it! The inspiration for your paintings, an ethereal perspective on what one would find in heaven. The feelings of bliss and care-free joy.

You spent your first few days in an undisturbed area of the hotel, it was a large room on the farthest side of the lobby. It must’ve been a guest room at one point, but other than a bed and few cushions that the ‘Radio Demon’ had placed for you, it was empty.

It was quiet enough that you could sit there, undisturbed, as you drew upon your memories and vast knowledge of histories in art as you slowly began to bring your ideas to life. Slowly, the room also took form into being yours, personal knick-knacks and stacks upon stacks of blank canvases waiting to bring your visions to life.

At the end of every day, you'd come out with your hands covered in charcoal and paint, your hard work on full display.

You had even grown closer to the other residents in the hotel, beginning to see them as more than their initial appearance. Even Alastor, who still kind of gave you the creeps, you had regarded as someone you could speak to without hesitation.

You’d sit on the couches with Angel Dust, drowning in popcorn as you watched whatever was on TV for the night. Sometimes, you’d sit with Husk at the bar as you listened to his stories from his days at the casino and as an Overlord.

It was there, when Charlie had summoned the courage to call her father, Lucifer, the King of Hell, to come visit the hotel and decide on getting her that meeting with the higher powers in Heaven.

Upon hearing about Lucifer's impending visit, you felta mixture of nerves and excitement. You've heardstories about him-his charisma, his power--but you never expected to meet him, let alone showcase your art to him. Would he even like them? He's no doubt seen much more beautiful sights.

As preparations for Lucifer's visit got more chaotic by the minute, you found yourself back in your Atelier, quickly cleaning up your room and berating yourself for any little mistakes you found in your paintings. Each stroke of the brush carried with it a sense of urgency, a desire to impress not just your friends at the hotel, but also the King of Hell himself.

The current piece you were working on was your most intense one yet. It depicted that of an almost nude man, flying high in the skies. His back was faced towards you, his face hidden from view. He was faced towards the sun, which bathed him in a warm glow. Arms outstretched, knees curled in, it seemed as if the angel was going to give the sun a large bear-hug.

It wasn’t until you heard loud commotion in the lobby did you realize Lucifer had arrived. Quickly dropping the brush you were holding, you sneaked down the stairs and quickly neared the archway of the lobby.

Peaking your head out, you canned the large room. Until your eyes locked in a pale figure. Lucifer.

He was beautiful, definitely held the looks of an angel that fell from heaven. His light blonde hair curled elegantly around his face. The candles from the chandelier above basked him in an ethereal glow, as though he could replace the sun itself. Just like the angel from your painting.

His eyes reminded you mostly of a snake. Calculating and cold, but holding so much wisdom and depth. There was a slight sadness there as well, as though itate at him slowly, consuming his soul. It was masked incredibly well though, and you only caught a glimpse before it disappeared.

His attitude toward his daughter made your heartmelt, it was obvious he cared about her in the way heacted and spoke to Charlie, even if his absence didn't speak so fondly of him.

As Lucifer and Alastor butted heads, you quickly scurried back to your room. You had hoped to finish your work-in-progress by the time he arrived, but the struggle to get those damn angel wings to be anatomically correct was a pain.

You hurriedly continued your work, trying to calm your nerves by busying yourself with the painting in front of you.

Charlie's voice broke you out of your concentration soon after, multiple footsteps closing in on where your room lay. You shot up from your seat, and stood up straight, ready to meet the man of the hour.

You couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension as they approached your make-shift gallery.

Charlie, Vaggie, and— wow, he looked so much better up close— Lucifer stepped through the doorway.

“Dad, this is the newest addition to our staff! They are in charge of helping to inspire our future guests through the power of art!" Charlie proclaimed with glee, pulling you by the arm towards her father.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, your majesty. I apologize for being so messy, I was just finishing up another painting." You had greeted him softly.

"Don't worry, you look great," He assured, a gleam in his eyes, "and the pleasure is all mine, anyone who is willing to help my little girl is someone worth meeting,"

You stood there for a moment. Unsure of where to go next, before you felt a slight nudge from Charlie that pulled you back to reality, "Why don't we take a look at your paintings? I promise you, Dad, they are amazing!" She squealed softly.

Beckoning Lucifer forward, you took him through each painting. You described your feelings for each piece, and what made you choose them for the hotel.

You rambled on and on, and Lucifer never said anything, he just listened as you spoke.

Which made you nervous, what was he thinking? Did he like them, or was he just waiting for you to stop talking so he could quickly escape to something of more interest to him? The thought made sweat dribble down your forehead.

To your surprise, Lucifer's reaction to your art was not what you expected. Instead of dismissing it as mere frivolity, he studied each piece with genuine interest, his expression thoughtful and contemplative.

He mostly stayed quiet, but once in awhile would throw in a joke here and there if he noticed anything of interest in the paintings.

His goofy nature that you caught onto watching him earlier was barely evident though, unlike when he was trying to impress his daughter.

After finishing the small tour, you turned to him in anticipation. Your hands nervously rubbing together, as you shot a glance to Charlie, and she gave you an uncertain look. You both held the same question in your gaze: What is he thinking?

"These paintings.." Lucifer began, his voice low and melodic, "Are different than most i've seen down here, not just some scandalous display, but with real meaning. They evoke emotions long buried, memories of a time before.. all this."

His words caught you off guard, and you found yourself nodding in agreement, unable to tear your gaze away from his intense eyes.

The one he was staring at in particular was a recreation of The Garden of Eden by Jan Breghal, a painting that depicted the place where humanity was birthed, and where it fell.

“Does it look like.. how you remembered?" You had asked slowly, if anyone could validate the truth in your work, it would be him.

"Actually, this is much prettier. The real deal doesn't do your painting justice," He replied, "It was so boring, just green on green."

Also," He added, "An unfortunate lack of ducks. Humanity should be grateful that I got them out of that forest, so they could see something actually worthwhile.. and with ducks."

You giggled softly at his words, have you ever met someone that seemed to love ducks as much as him?

As Lucifer continued to explore the room, you couldn’t help but notice the way he lingered on certain paintings, his fingers tracing the delicate lines with reverence. It was as if he saw something in your art that no one else did, something profound and personal.

Perhaps your choice of baby-faced angels, and ethereal landscapes brought back memories of his time in Heaven. Hopefully, that wasn't a bad thing.

When Lucifer finally turned to you, his gaze softened, a hint of something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. "You have a rare gift," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To create beauty in a place like this... it's truly remarkable."

He looked at you for a moment, before a smile crept onto his lips. He was Lucifer, he knew exactly what you meant. It's what drove him to manipulate Eve to eat from the Tree of Life in the first place.

Was he finally getting a glimpse of the good free will brought to humanity? Was there actually meaning in his past actions that sent him to the depths of Hell?

His gaze narrowed in on the canvas behind you, and he slipped past you. "What is this?" He asked with intrigue, pointing towards your unfinished painting.

“My final piece. I've been working on it for days, but I just can't get the wings right.. believe it or not, i've never actually seen angel wings in person." You said that last bit as a joke.

His smile sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. For the King of Hell, it was surprisingly warm, and kind.

Then an idea struck you, but you tried to desperately to push it down. Except it seemed like the only time you could ask someone with angel wings to let you use them as a reference. How many fallen angels were in Hell, anyway?

"I'm so sorry if this is out of line, but. could I, um, borrow you for a little bit? I've just been having trouble drawing the wings correctly and you, well, have them?”

His eyes widened, and his chest puffed slightly at your question. He shot you a toothy grin, “Paint me? Why didn't you mention that earlier?! I have the perfect figure for such a thing.”

Behind him, Charlie rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. You smiled too, you should've known he'd have no problem with it, he was the embodiment of pride after all.

He plopped down on a stool before you, and removed his overcoat. Beneath what seemed to be a red and white gatsby vest that hugged his frame perfectly. Jeez, he was almost too good looking.

He stretched out his large wings, folding the otherfour behind him, only revealing the two much largerones. They were breathtaking, truly. They looked so fluffy too!

You guided him on the exact position you needed them to be in, before making your way to the canvas and getting to work.

Assuring the group you only needed to get a visual on the canvas, the actual work you would do on your own. Slowly, you traced the frame of his wings, etching out the soft lines of his feathers and the curvatures of its form.

You could only imagine how soft those feathers were and what it would be like to curl around them like a pillo-

You shook your head to rid those thoughts. Why were you thinking such things about Lucifer like that? It's not like he would even want to let you go anywhere near him or his wings.

Would he?

You continued your painting, trying not to meet his gaze as you would occasionally peak your head from behind the large canvas to get another good look at his wings.

There was a moment when you two did lock eyes, and he sent a half-lidded smirk in your direction. Thankfully the large object between you two helped hide your growing blush. He was obviously just trying to get you worked up, you assured yourself. Just like he did with Alastor. In a different way, of course.

"This reminds me of when Charlie was younger" Lucifer began, filling the silence, "We sat for a good few hours trying to get a family portrait painted and she would just not sit still!”

“Dad.. please, not right now." Charlie growled out in embarrassment, her cheeks flushed. Vaggie only smiled beside her, listening intently as Lucifer filled everyone in on her younger years.

“lt got to the point where I had to summon her favorite toy to get her to stop squirming, everything was smooth sailing after that.

"And what was her favorite toy?" You inquired softly behind the canvas

“A rubber duck! Like the ones you play with in the bath? She could not get enough of it whenever it squeaked. One time the squeaker broke, and I went to my workshop and crafted her a magical one that meowed instead! Haha!"

Okay, this family really has a thing for ducks!

“She hated it, but that only inspired me to keep making more. Sometimes, we'd sit together on the work bench, and I would just come up with ideas like confetti-spitting, or color changing ducks. She wasn't too good at speaking at that time, so every time she'd laugh that was my clue that she liked it!"

It was sweet, the way he rambled about his daughter. He never spoke of himself or his accomplishments, despite embodying the sin of pride. It was almost like his only pride was his best creation, Charlie.

He continued, the room full of jokes and laughter, even from Vaggie, regarding Charlie's life as a youngling. You listened intently to his stories, his voice dripping with amusement as he recounted story after story.

lt was so sappy and you loved it. Which made you grumble quietly to yourself, why did you have to have a thing for DILFS?! Concentrate on the painting!

After a moment, Lucifer's eyes turned back to the paintings around him, his gaze scanning each painting once more. "I've noticed that you seem to have a repetition in your work.. not that that's a bad thing!" He quickly corrected.

“But in all of your paintings featuring angels, there's always a swan swimming or resting nearby. Do they hold any significance, or are they just a passion for you?"

You looked up from the canvas, and also traced the angelic figures across the room. He was right, with the images of the divine beings also came the appearance of the large, white water fowl. Lying lazily beside the angels, or swimming across pools of water as the care-free beings danced and frolicked.

You contemplated for a moment, before speaking truthfully.

“I just think Swans are elegant and ethereal creatures. They embody the purest of souls, untouched by the taint of sin that consumes the world, just like how their feathers remain untouched from the waters they glide on"

Lucifer's eyes lit up slightly, drinking up your words.

“Plus," You continue, "they mate for life, and allow themselves to just.. decay once their significant other departs from the world. It's very romantic, and love is one of the purest emotions in the world."

Lucifer wasn't looking at you when your eyes met his again, his stare was far off. Past the room entirely, as your words echoed through him. There it was again, the glimpse of sadness that he tried to hide so painfully well.

“Does such love like that exist?," he murmured so softly you had to strain your ears.

There was a few moments of deathly silence before Charlie piped up, asking her father something about heaven. You tried to listen, but your mind was stuck on his words. Lucifer was in heaven once, and he still didn't fully believe in such things?

If there weren't others in the room, perhaps you would’ve asked him.

It took a few more minutes before you were able to wrap up fully, but you had no regrets of asking this man for help, the angel on the canvas actually looked like he had wings, not just stumps of white tuft.

You got up from your seat and walked towards him, noticing that Charlie and her girlfriend were not present anymore. It was just you and Lucifer in theroom now.

“Well, thank you, Your Majesty. You really helped me out here, and it'll go a long way to make the hotel look even better"

“Please, call me Lucifer. The formalities are only for subjects, not friends," he replied, "l did really enjoy getting to see your paintings, you are quite a phenomenal artist. I wasn't lying when I said your work was different from the rest. If only you were around for those family portraits."

You were so taken aback by his praise that you only shrugged it off, like it was no big deal. Even though, coming from the King of Hell, it was.

Glancing behind him, you saw Charlie and Vaggie whispering to each other in the hallway outside of the door. You assumed they probably wanted to finish up so they could get him to agree to the meeting with Heaven.

lgnoring his previous statement of formalities— he was the king, you thought, you weren't going to just pat him on the back and say 'see ya! —you lowered your head and bent down to curtsy, just like you were taught when you were younger, placing your hand slightly in front of you.

Usually, you'd use that hand to shake or grasp the other person's, but it felt wrong to treat this powerful angel like any other man.

Suddenly, you felt the soft touch of fingers gliding across your hand. In confusion, you looked up at those golden eyes and that charming smile. Trying to get a glimpse of what he was thinking.

His hand gripped yours gently, and with a bow of his own, lowered his lips, and pressed a soft kiss your knuckles.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you feared to blink, soaking in his beauty for as long as you could before he had the chance to pull away. You wanted to say something, but your tongue was refusing to work as your mouth opened and closed silently.

When he finally released your hand, he adjusted his hat and turned towards the door. Leaving you standing there, your face burning hot

He cleared his throat, and turned his head slightly, his eye catching yours. A playful smile dancing on his lips.

“l look forward to our next portrait together, hopefully where I am the motivation behind your strokes. Not just these dull wings."

And with his words hanging in the air, you were left alone, with the growing itch to press your face into a pillow and squeal.

——————

awww man, my first fic! I was trying to make this more dating-centric, but i couldn’t stop writing for their first meeting and it got too long haha! If y’all like this one enough, i’ll make a dating version!

let me know what you think 🙏 i reallyyyy appreciate all comments and criticisms!!

wonderful art i commissioned by DawnDrawnS on twitter! <3

[siriusleee]

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time. 

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him. 

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive. 

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in. 

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern,  the moment you had it everything would reset. 

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat. 

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different. 

It should have been someone else. 

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction. 

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls.  It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it. 

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months. 

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily. 

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use.  Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused. 

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you. 

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz��s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here. 

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace. 

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you. 

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower. 

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you. 

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?” 

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment. 

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips. 

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other. 

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work,  bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder. 

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield. 

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor. 

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags. 

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat. 

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground. 

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here. 

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand. 

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter. 

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries. 

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders. 

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost. 

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away. 

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed. 

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything. 

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side. 

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had. 

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning. 

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow. 

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run. 

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave. 

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail. 

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching. 

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him. 

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier. 

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold. 

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder. 

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow. 

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you. 

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you. 

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt. 

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe. 

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his. 

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down. 

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before. 

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move. 

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster. 

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye. 

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny. 

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder. 

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans. 

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward. 

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness. 

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do. 

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt. 

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. 

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully. 

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there. 

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been.  You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge. 

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you. 

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

[tswwwit]

Here's the second part of Cult Reincarnation Dipper!

The first part is over Here if you missed it.

Hope you enjoy!

“Here we are!” Bill says brightly. He nods approvingly at the room, then glances back at Dipper. “Glad you didn’t take off running during the trip.”

How Dipper could have managed that, he isn’t sure. The instant they appeared in this place, Bill took hold of Dipper’s wrist and hasn’t let go even once. 

The nightmare realm is exactly as advertised. Dipper’s been pulled through mazelike corridors, up and down impossible hallways, over insane physic-defying structures - and past things with too many teeth and eyes. 

He thinks he’s been holding up pretty well, all things considered. 

Being dragged by a nightmare god into his realm of dreams for unknown reasons wasn’t exactly on his bucket list. Without any helpful explanations, or even unhelpful ones, he’s stayed calm and followed along.  Remaining obedient, keeping quiet, and waiting in hopes of Bill either giving up, or giving him any indication of where the hell they are and what the fuck he’s doing.

Now they’ve arrived, and the destination… isn’t exactly encouraging.

Dipper looks over the gleaming instruments hung on the walls. The needles and scalpels and hooks. He drops his gaze towards the white paper on the chair, at the poorly hidden restraints.

A place of insanity and terror, owned by a king of nightmares, dragging along a vulnerable human with a badly injured arm. Of course he’d end up in a house of medical horrors. It’s too thematically appropriate.

So yeah. Dipper’s been holding on fine. Only his legs have decided they’ve had enough for the day, and given up. 

His robes puddle around him as he hits the floor. The tile’s very cold and sterile under his legs, and his arm trembles in Bill’s unwavering grip.  

“Hey! What gives?” Bill tugs on Dipper’s wrist again. Thankfully not hard enough to haul him to his feet. 

Dipper shakes his head. The floor’s fine. He’ll stay right here, thank you very much. Trying to retrieve his wrist doesn’t work, but he makes a good show of it.

“Nice try,” Bill says, dryly. “But there’s no escaping! Now get on up and have a seat already.” 

For the first time, his grip loosens. Dipper yanks his arm towards his chest, attempts to stumble to his feet. His legs fail to cooperate, sliding out in front of him like he’s putting up a tantrum rather than an escape attempt.

With a quick snort, Bill ducks down and tucks his hands under Dipper’s arms. A moment later he lifts Dipper bodily into the air, and appraises him with a smile.

Dipper kicks out in surprise, struggling for purchase - then lets his legs dangle in the air, limp. Flailing around isn’t going to help. Odds are it’d make things worse. 

If there was ever a mistake Dipper shouldn’t make, it would be accidentally whacking a god in the groin. 

Bill bounces him in his grip a couple times, with a pleased smile, and seemingly zero effort. The human form he’s wearing isn’t bulky; he’s just stronger than he appears. Dipper should have guessed as much. He’s in the demon realm, brought here - kidnapped by -  an eldritch, too-powerful being. Any resistance he puts up is as much of a shield as tissue paper. 

With a nod, Bill turns a full ninety degrees, and drops him directly into the chair. The leather of the seat creaks underneath Dipper as he hits it, and he instantly straightens up, back rigid.

“There we are.” Bill smirks with satisfaction. He points directly at Dipper’s face with a sudden frown. As it comes closer, Dipper leans as far back as he can manage.  “Now stay. Put.”

The tone is very firm, and, well. Obedience is the name of the game, when it comes to a ‘god’.  

Dipper simply nods. Bill beams again, then retreats to start pulling drawers open, rustling through them and muttering to himself. 

Whatever he’s up to, Dipper doesn’t care to guess. From what he can tell, the entire room is made for easy cleaning, and the objects don’t lend him any comfort. Tons of gleaming instruments hang on hooks and boards, pale metal against white walls.  The soaked sleeve of his robe is leaving little dots on the seat and armrests. Every spot of red stands out so brightly in this sterile white environment.

Dipper clutches his arm to his chest again. Not budging. Just as he was told. There’s a thin prickle of sweat building on his skin. 

A sound catches his attention, and he glances up at Bill, who’s wearing a big, bright grin. He’s holding something glass in one hand, and a glint of metal in the other.

Dipper keeps trying to maintain pressure on his wound. Bill’s approaching without even a hint of hesitation - without being able to talk, he simply shakes his head again and again. He’s fine, this is great, they can go anywhere else, just don’t - 

“What?” Bill cocks his head to the side, and grins again. “Easy, I don’t bite! Much.”

He has very sharp teeth, Dipper notices. With how human that form is, he hadn’t paid much attention to the details. 

The white of his smile has fangs. 

“Yeesh, tense much?” Bill raises an eyebrow, carelessly dropping a metal box in Dipper’s lap. The other one shows the glass to be a corked bottle - small, round and filled with greenish liquid. Bill starts shaking it rapidly, beckoning with his free hand. ”Gimme that arm, already.”

When Dipper doesn’t move, Bill slowly pries his arm away from his chest. He pushes it down onto the armrest - and before Dipper can react, the makeshift bandage of his robes is ripped off at the elbow, leaving him bare. 

Dipper watches the blood trickling down over the seat with a nauseating flip in his stomach. He can look away - does, quickly - but worse, he’s oddly embarrassed. Everything in here was so pristine before he started leaking on things.

“Eh, could be worse.” Bill chimes in over Dipper’s thoughts. A brief glance shows he’s evaluating the wound; he waggles a hand in a so-so gesture. “Decent blood flow, but damage-wise? You’ll be wielding a knife yourself in no time!”

God, what a weird thing to say. Dipper half-shrugs in response. 

He hopes Bill’s right, though. Not the knife-wielding, but that it’s not too bad. It certainly feels bad, but Dipper doesn’t have enough experience to tell how, or if, he’ll recover. He’s never seen a sacrifice, with a person, that called for that much blood. Especially one that got so… enthusiastic.  

Or perhaps there was, and Dipper just looked away, like he always does. He’s never had the stomach for this sort of thing. Hell, he still doesn’t; as Bill gets settled, Dipper turns and starts counting all the knives on the walls. 

Yep. There’s definitely a lot of them. So many, and none of them are in Bill’s hand at the moment. He tries to focus on that as well. The box in Dipper’s lap is too small to contain anything but the tiniest of the scalpels, too. Another good sign, if he’s feeling optimistic.

There’s the sound of something uncorking. Then, liquid dripping down Dipper’s arm and over his wrist, a bright, sparking sting - he grits his teeth, ready for the pain to build, and feels - 

Nothing?

Dipper blinks. He’s lost count of the knives, but he does get an excellent view of the empty bottle sailing across the room, and shattering on the opposite wall. Quickly followed by the cork, with a spitting sound; Bill probably pulled it out with his teeth. 

There’s a vague prod. Dipper cringes on reflex, shoulders tensing. The next one feels firmer, and not in a great place, but. 

It doesn’t hurt at all. 

Well, no. It does, a little. If Dipper clenches his arm and makes a fist, he can feel a kind of sting  - and hear Bill mutter under his breath. So he probably shouldn’t do that. But other than that faint ache, the pain is gone, leaving a chill semi-numbness in its place. 

Beside him, Bill makes a satisfied sound. He flips open the box in Dipper’s lap, pulls something out - then starts doing something weird to his arm. 

Dipper feels a pinch, then a tugging sensation. He sucks in a breath.

“Hold still, already.” Bill’s grip tightens, holding him in place. Dipper can tell because when moves his fingers again, he can just about tickle the underside of his arm. “Hey! What’d I just say!”

Dipper stops moving. Obedient, definitely. Totally not questioning what the hell is happening to his flesh, or worried at all. He only flinches a bit at the repeated pinch-tug-pinch, running a line down his arm. 

With the numbness, it’s easy to focus on breathing in, and out, in a steady rhythm. Passing time, until Bill’s done with his gruesome work.

“There we go.” Bill stands up, wiping his hands clean on a bright white cloth. He offers Dipper another easy grin. “Not too shabby, am I right?”

Dipper hesitates, but. He’s going to have to face the damage at some point. Might as well be now, while he’s still numb and lightheaded. 

First, he sees Bill, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Then the arm itself, looking pale and small, with a long, thin line of stitches running up the wound. 

No mutations, no mutilations. Just clean, closed skin.

Wow, that was a big cut. It didn’t really hit him until he saw it sewn up. 

Dipper’s no expert on medical anything, but it must be decent work; Bill looks pleased with himself, for one, and the stitches themselves are neatly placed in even lines. Weirder still - it hasn’t been tinkered with, or experimented on at all.

Bill not-too-gently pats his wrist again, before wrapping Dipper’s entire forearm in bright white gauze. He hums to himself as he works. Just as he snips off the bandage with a pair of scissors, he pauses. 

“Hm, kinda missing something,” Bill mutters, almost to himself. Then his expression brightens, and he snaps his fingers. “Aha!”

Dipper winces at the full-palm slap on his wrist. Ow. Even numbed, that stung. 

“There! All patched up.” Bill says. He sets his fists on his hips, looking triumphant. “What’d’ya think, kid?”

Dipper looks down, and stares. He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to react.

Instead of taping the bandages in place, Bill’s smacked on a sticker. One of Bill himself, triangular-formed, and giving a disproportionately big thumbs-up. 

“Ahem.” Bill clears his throat.

When Dipper checks, that seemingly eternal grin has popped right back into place. Expectant. Almost prompting. 

Come to think of it - it’s the exact same one Dipper saw after the ritual, not that long ago.

The one that he still doesn’t know how to answer. 

Dipper pulls his arm up, holding it close. He touches the bandages carefully, tracing down the line of his wound. All his fingers still work. All his skin seems to have stayed in place. Even the numbness has lingered well past the actual procedure. 

Bill Cipher himself, lord of chaos and nightmares, had a hold of a wounded piece of mortal meat. And as far as Dipper can tell, nothing’s missing, nothing’s mangled, and it doesn’t even hurt. 

Of all the things Dipper imagined about meeting Bill Cipher - and he can imagine a lot more things than the average guy - 

This would never have made the list. 

Bill hasn’t said anything. For a while now. Enough time has passed that the silence has grown awkward, because really Dipper should have done something by now, damn it. There has to be - 

“Oh, right!” Bill breaks the silence with a snap of his fingers. His eye rolls; he even smacks himself on the side of the head in a ‘dang, can’t believe I forgot’ gesture. “Major bloodloss! No human brain works great when it’s improperly irrigated.” 

Which… is true, sure. Dipper does feel pretty woozy, but more likely Bill’s referring to not getting a response. 

That’s one thing he can fix, sort of. Dipper tries another smile. Hesitant, but not forced. 

Bill just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, yeah, you’re cute. Don’t think flaunting it gets you anywhere.”

Dipper lets his smile drop. 

Okay, what? That was not what he was going for, and - and it doesn’t make sense, anyway. Bill must have meant something else, because he’s not cute. Kind of a condescending thing to call a guy who’s just showing he’s grateful.

Even though he should know better, Dipper flashes an irritated glance at this idiot god’s face.  He folds his arms, letting out a huff.

And Bill lunges in with startling speed. 

Dipper jerks back in the chair only for Bill to follow, face inches away, sharp teeth bared in a wide smile. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and his single eye narrows. 

With rising tension, Dipper notes that said eye is actually glowing. There’s intent there, focused and strange - and even worse, the slow stir of magic building between them.

This is what he gets, isn’t it. For being a huge goddamned idiot, and insolent, and why did he do that of all-

“Boop.” Bill taps Dipper’s nose, and stands back up. As if to add insult to incoherence, he also pinches Dipper’s cheek. “Now! Upsy-daisy, kid! We gotta get you settled in!”

Dipper remains seated, even as Bill claps his hands and gestures for him to rise. At one point he even leans over and taps his thighs, in a deeply condescending beckon. If it wouldn’t be suicidally insane, Dipper would flip him off for that. 

How is Dipper not dead yet. How is he not insane yet. This doesn’t make sense. 

Nothing here makes sense. 

But then, maybe Dipper should have expected that. Nightmare logic aside, he’s dizzy and tired, and it’s hard to keep figure out what’s insane demon-god stuff, what he’s simply lost track of.

Waiting for too long has had its consequences, of course. For the second time in an hour, Dipper gets hauled up by a too-strong monster. This time, he’s set on his feet pretty shortly, instead of being swung around like some kind of carnival prize.

Dipper hits the ground as Bill drops him, and stumbles. The world spins around him, and he nearly drops to the floor again until he braces himself on the closest solid-looking object.

The object moves under his arm. Above him, he hears loud, pleased laughter. “Aw, getting touchy, are we?”

Dipper stares at his arm, braced against a firm chest - then up at Bill’s wide grin. Then down again, where he’s wrinkling Bill’s shirt.

Shit. Wrong choice. Bad choice - but there wasn’t much of a choice! If Dipper didn’t want to fall on his ass, he had to grab something.

“I know, I know. I’m too tempting to resist.” Bill says, sounding eminently amused. Almost… teasing? He takes Dipper by the shoulder, turning him around towards the door. “Let’s get outta here.”

Wherever ‘here’ is. Wherever they’re going is even more worrying.

Still, Bill doesn’t seem mad about the invasion of his personal space. Or anything else, weirdly enough. Maybe Dipper’s misinterpreting the signs; he wouldn’t be the first worshiper to do so. 

Mystery is part and parcel of Bill Cipher, one of his core essences. No part of him is uncomplicated or simple, because he loves making things difficult. There’s supposed to be puzzles, layered over each other in complex ways to obscure the truth. Every time Bill talks to one of the devout, it requires careful interpretation - 

But there are too many possibilities, and Dipper’s too disoriented to keep up with any double-talk.  

Bill opens the door into another black-red brick corridor. It looks like it could go anywhere, and everything about it screams ominous.

In a particularly stupid move - though one born of self-preservation - Dipper shoves himself into Bill’s grasp. He grips the shirt, hip bumping against the god, and Bill makes a quiet sound of surprise.

For a heartstopping moment, Dipper knows he’s fucked up.

Then the arm comes around him, and pulls him in tight. Squeezing his shoulder, then dropping around his waist, hand loosely holding his hip.

“Good choice, sapling! Your fleshy human vestibular sense is for shit, and I didn’t patch you up just to watch you break your skull on the ground.”  Bill chucks Dipper under the chin with a knuckle and winks. “If I wanted a corpse, I could get those anywhere.”

Which… makes a terrifying kind of sense.

Bill’s right, of course. He’s an immensely powerful god-creature, who can reach in between worlds, given the opportunity. He commands dreams, and people, and an all-consuming amount of magic. 

If he wanted a corpse, he could have one in moments. And if he wanted it to be Dipper’s, all he really had to do was… nothing.

As Bill pulls him into the hallway, Dipper checks his wrist again. He flexes his fingers, and sticks close to his ‘god’. 

His arm’s a little achy, as the numbness begins to fade. The gauze is tight enough to feel comforting rather than constraining, clean and wrapped with obvious care. Even with the slight pain, it feels like he’s going to heal up just fine.

And though it’s incredibly stupid, the super cheesy sticker does kind of make him feel better. 

Obviously Bill likes Dipper’s blood. He said as much during the summon; that it’s ‘very nice’. Likely it’s the reason Dipper was kidnapped in the first place. 

But instead of juicing him like an orange, Bill took pains to keep all of it inside.

“As long as we’re stopping you from kicking the bucket,” Bill snaps his fingers. A small, squarish carton appears, and he holds it in front of Dipper. “You might wanna drink this.”

Dipper grimaces at… whatever this is. He can’t read the language, but it’s decorated with a smiling thing that could be either a heart, or a severely mutated fruit.

He glances up at Bill again, but no explanation is forthcoming. He merely waggles the carton around again, nearly shoving it into Dipper’s chest.

Welp. A ‘god’ has ordered him to consume something. Obedience, right, still a virtue. Hell, even if Bill wanted Dipper to swallow liquid mercury, he wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Poison isn’t very likely, though. Bill doesn’t want a dead body around, and he’s put in way too much effort to reverse course now. 

Bill raises an eyebrow, tapping the drink invitingly against his chest. At this point Dipper suspects the lack of explaining is intentional.

Fine, whatever. If he’s going to insist… 

Dipper still gives it a skeptical look, but he takes it from Bill’s hand. Not accepting a god’s gift is probably rude. Offending him isn’t any more helpful than dehydration.

And though all the advice about dealing with supernatural beings says, ‘don’t consume what they give you’, Bill does have a point. Humans are full of liquid. Dipper lost a decent portion of his own. Filling it back up isn’t the worst idea in the universe.

The top twists open, though Dipper doesn’t dare glance at the contents. He’ll just shut his eyes and chug. 

He takes several long, deep drinks, tilting his head back. At first to help himself swallow - then more, and eagerly, because holy shit, he’s so thirsty. He didn’t realize until he started, but he really, really needed this. 

With the portion of his tongue he has left, he tastes a faint sweetness, like strawberries.

“Top up your tank, kid.” Bill gives Dipper another nudge, almost playful. “Humans are basically half-fluid. To go at it like that, you musta been practically mummified!”

Weird phrasing seems to be a thing for Bill. Better get used to it. 

Since he’s not looking at him, Dipper rolls his eyes and makes a face. Just a quick, two-second expression. 

Beside him, Bill’s grin inches up a tiny bit. He starts whistling a cheerful tune as he leads them onward.

It’s an indeterminate amount of time before they stop - Bill, fresh and cheerful, Dipper, wondering how much longer he has to be on his feet - but eventually Bill whips around a corner, facing a brown wooden door in the middle of one of the black slate walls.

Great. Another mystery room, and by the look on Bill’s face - one he’s been eager to get to. 

By this point Dipper’s pretty sure Bill’s not about to execute or exsanguinate him At least 90% sure; it’s hard to tell when dealing with a being of pure chaos. 

But he still slows his steps as Bill sets his hand on the knob, leaning back into that guiding arm on his waist. Unpredictability has always unnerved him. 

Bill turns towards Dipper with a brilliant smile. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” He says, almost conspiratorially. He nudges Dipper forward as he opens the door. “Welcome home, sapling!”

With a gust of warm air and a light that leaves Dipper blinking, the door opens.

And with a proud smile, Bill Cipher leads him into the single most luxurious looking room he’s ever seen in his life. 

Dipper stares. Maybe gawks a little, but he shuts his mouth quickly.

No matter where he looks, everything oozes rich, sumptuous leisure. 

There’s paintings, and tapestries, a soft thick black carpet. A huge, soft-looking couch near a fireplace, odds and ends of scattered jewels and technical looking objects on the walls. There’s even a portrait of Bill himself, in his regular form, with a foot upon the world. Large double doors lead to another room, and though the partly open crack Dipper thinks he spots a bed.

On the second glance around, Dipper catches on. That subtle gleam, that catches his eye, seemingly everywhere - is freakin’ gold. Not just the occasional pierce of decoration, either; it’s subtly woven into parts of all the decor, thin lines on furniture and doors and even some in the carpet. 

Bill’s room so far beyond the dark, stoic asceticism of the compound. Miles away. Lightyears.

Why the hell did they have a shitty stone cavern to worship in, if their god lives like this?

No, that’s easily answered -the priest always was a dick.

Dipper’s not thrilled about what Bill did to the guy back at the ritual, but he’s far from upset.

Beside him, Bill’s silent. For once he’s not shuffling Dipper along anywhere. No prompting, no pushing, no force of any kind - 

But definitely expectant. 

Without Bill saying anything, Dipper can feel his arm tense up with anticipation, awaiting a reaction. Probably something flattering to Bill’s ego, or worshipful of his presence.

Truth be told, Dipper might have even given one. Despite all his reservations about the chaos god beside him, it is impressive.

But he can’t say anything. There’s nothing to write down a worshipful chant on. He’s tired and hurt and he’s been walking what feels like all day. Finding focus is hard.

Dipper scrunches his face up, rubbing at his eyes. Things went all blurry for a second, and he has kind of a headache. 

What does he do, another smile? But Bill said that was ‘flaunting’. and maybe that’s not great. Another expression, maybe. Some kind of gesture. Body language has a lot of options and… he’s run out of ideas for that. Maybe his brain really is working with too-little fluid.

“Hmm…” Bill rubs his chin, glancing at Dipper - then staring out into the room again. His eye narrows. 

Shit, right, this was meant to impress. Dipper, fumbling the devout test for like, the millionth time in his life. Only right now, when it truly matters, he’s too messed up to manage even if he tried. 

Before Bill can get too mad, Dipper hunches over. Looking contrite might stave off the worst of it. He can make himself look small.

There’s a long beat of silence. Then Bill claps him on the shoulder. “No worries, kid. This ain’t my first time with a human wandering in with mortal wounds and a poor sense of grandeur! You can tell me how great I am later.” 

The rush of relief Dipper feels is immediately ruined by Bill dragging him forward again. So much for a true reprieve; infinite being of pure energy means never stopping for a second of rest, apparently.

“I got just the thing for a squishy little nervous wreck like you,” Bill says, striding forward confidently towards one of the walls, and a door Dipper’s 90% sure wasn’t there even three seconds ago. “We’ll stash you here until you’re more settled down!”

The door opens, and Dipper’s led into a small, dark place. He can make out vague, squarish shapes in the dim light. Thankfully none of them look too imposing. 

Another snap, and the room lights up. 

For the second time in about as many minutes, Dipper’s totally thrown.

“Kitchen’s through there, bathroom’s thataway,” Bill says, gesturing in the respective directions. He gives Dipper’s shoulder a squeeze, jerking his thumb behind himself. “I’ll be back out this way if you get bored!”

The words run though Dipper’s brain, but he’s not truly focusing on them. The room he’s in has most of his attention. No matter how he looks at it, though, he can’t see any traps. It just looks…

Comfy?

The light reveals a smaller room than the living one, and one that’s far less dramatic. None of the tchotkes lying around. Basically zero ostentation. There’s a wardrobe and a bed, a dark blue carpet rather than the black. A desk, some papers, and an absurdly large and obsessively organized looking bookshelf. The two doors Bill mentioned lie closed, on two different walls.

Dipper’s not sure what he was expecting, but. The simpler decoration, the small but cozy setup - none of which fits Bill’s taste, that’s clear even on a glance. This isn’t meant for the god himself. 

Now there’s a question he’s never considered before: Does Bill Cipher ever have guests in his realm? 

The answer must be ‘yes’, strange as it seems. Nothing in here is Bill’s vibe, but it might fit a human that he needed to stash somewhere.

Beside him, he hears a low hum. Bill’s hand runs down Dipper’s shoulder, onto his back. It strokes down, then up again - then pushes him forward. “Enjoy!”

Dipper stumbles a couple steps before catching the footboard of the bed. He leans against it, blinking rapidly.

“Now, I got a quick errand to run, so take your time getting comfy. Cram some calories in, wash your crevices, take a nap. Whatever human stuff needs doing.” Bill looks up from checking his watch, then gives him a wink, backing out of the room with double finger guns pointed. “See ya soon!”

The door closes behind him without even a touch on the knob. The room goes quiet. 

Dipper cocks his head to one side. Bill’s absence is just as palpable as his presence. That powerful thrum of magic trails into the distance as he heads off, fading in Dipper’s senses, like a too-loud stereo speaker in an obnoxious, demonic car.

After a moment, he shucks off his robe - with the sleeve torn off, it’s weird and uncomfortable. That leaves him in just soft pants and his undershirt, but thankfully with considerable privacy.

As long as he’s here, Dipper does a quick inspection of the room. The bed’s bigger than any one he’s ever seen, minus the one that’s presumably Bill’s. The wardrobe contains a baffling array of flannel shirts, in that they’re almost all identical and oddly… worn? He shuts the doors with a shrug. Hardly the most intimidating find. 

A thorough overview reveals no traps, no knives. The sharpest thing in the room is the pens. The worst thing that could happen to Dipper here is a papercut. Or maybe stubbing his toe on the heavy furniture. 

It’s been a few minutes. Dipper glances at the door Bill retreated through. Still closed.

He hears no sound from the other room, either. He strains to feel some magic returning, a bloom in his limited senses, but it’s calm and quiet. 

Whatever Bill’s up to, he’s long gone.

Leaving Dipper totally unsupervised.

Dipper instantly darts for the opposite door, opening it fast enough that it nearly unbalances him. It swings opens easily, totally unlocked, and he braces himself as he stares - 

Into a kitchen. 

A big one, at that. Lots of cabinets, a fridge, a stove, knives hanging on the wall in what looks like a rather ominous manner, until Dipper remembers that’s where knives are supposed to be. Though maybe not so many of them.

Also, totally not an exit. 

Fine, whatever. They couldn’t all be exits, and there’s another to try.

Dipper rushes over to the second door, yanking it open to reveal… exactly what Bill said, again. 

He lingers this time, leaning on the knob. Rubbing at his eyes briefly, in case that ruins the illusion Bill’s cast. It doesn’t have any effect.

It’s - this is way too straightforward. It has to be some type of trick.

Pretty weird for it to be so clean, then.

Any bathroom Bill has should be blood-splattered, or filled with bubbling acid - but this one only smells faintly of bleach. It’s lined with black and white tiling, with a shower that looks overly complicated and a bathtub that could fit several people inside. At least there’s no knives in this room - though Dipper does see a safety razor, resting on the sink. Right next to the cup holding the blue toothbrush.

He slams the second door closed, and takes a deep breath.

Maybe he’s disoriented. Maybe Bill turned everything around when he left, like every other corridor in this chaotic place, and maybe if Dipper yanks opens the third door -the one he came through - it’ll cleave between the realms, back into the ritual room, where -  

Dipper leans on the doorframe, slowing down his breathing. He shuts his eyes, lips drawing into a thin line.

Or it could just be. Literally the exact same one he came in through. 

Standing in the doorway of Bill Cipher’s personal quarters, Dipper frowns at the fireplace. And at the painting over it. Especially at the even more grandiose door that presumably leads to the god’s master bedroom. It’s beautiful, alright, Dipper can’t argue with that - but also ostentatious, and reeking of smug power.

It’s very quiet inside, too. No motion, no magic.

After a bit of hesitation, he leans his head in, checking both ways. 

No Bill around, at all. 

He must have actually taken off, instead of lying in wait, ready to surprise… The person he  told exactly where he could be found. Which isn't much of an ambush, come to think of it.

Dipper lets his arms drop to his sides, then winces and rubs the bandage on his recently stitched one. 

When he came into this place, he had a lot of expectations. All of them were backed up by years of knowledge about Bill Cipher. His likes and dislikes, unpredictability, and his bizarre proclivities.

So far, Dipper’s seen… not a safe place, by a long shot. But way less dangerous than what he thought he’d face.

In fact, aside from the trip to get here and parts of the medical experience, this has been way too normal. 

Bill Cipher is a being veiled in mystery, or, depending on your viewpoint, mischief. Never totally meaning what he says, rarely acting like you’d think. Even in the most stodgy of ceremonies, the priest had to leave room for the fact that Bill’s not very… conventional. The research Dipper did on his own had similar things to say. Between sermon and study, that alone has been a constant.

Dipper taps his foot on the floor. The carpet remains soft and nonthreatening. The fireplace crackles warmly, and does not consume the room in a terrifying blaze.

What is he supposed to make of all this?

The priest claimed that only he could interpret the subtle signs of Bill’s true meaning, and what actions to take. He was dead wrong about that. Courtesy of the god he claimed to understand, for that matter. 

The rest of the congregation can’t offer any insight, either; they’re back in the compound - but frankly? Dipper wouldn’t trust them to interpret a microwave timer, much less their god.

According to scripture, it takes ages of experience, along with deep personal knowledge, to even begin to understand Bill’s motives. One young human like Dipper would never stand a chance.

But if he’s here anyway…

Dipper traces his fingers along the wall, making his way quietly, cautiously, into the room. 

Why not get started? It’s not like he has anything else to do. 

Having something to study will help pass the time, as long as he’s here. And with this wealth of information in front of him, who could resist?

As he walks into the place, he doesn’t burst into flame, or turn inside out, or get tossed into an eternal void of constant screaming. So, it’s probably okay. 

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out. It only shakes a little. 

Besides, navigating around an immortal being of eternal knowledge can’t be that different from sneaking around the compound. All evidence so far is that Bill’s actually friendlier about it.

One thing’s pretty certain - he’s not likely to obliterate a guy he’s just spent several hours getting ‘settled’. If anything, he’s sorta intimated that Dipper’s a ‘guest’. Bill’s likely not magically bound to the rules of hospitality, but violating them is pretty universally gauche.

The thought makes Dipper’s shoulders drop. He pats the wall a couple times, then checks his wrist. The bright yellow triangle stays still, overly-large hand still giving a thumbs-up.

Dipper rolls his eyes. Okay. There’s one fact learned - Bill Cipher’s capable of being kind of a dork.

This could actually be pretty intriguing. Useful, perhaps. In the heart of Bill’s home, with all of his stuff lying around - like that pile of books near the couch, or that pile of dishes he saw in the sink, or the fact that he even has a guest room, what the hell is with that - 

Dipper can get firsthand information. No more dilapidated scrolls, or censored books, or scrounging around outside to find objective sources. 

Bill Cipher, as far as Dipper can tell, actually lives here. In these exact rooms. 

He can try and hide the truth as much as he likes, or lie to Dipper’s face, but he can’t hide his living room. Hanging out in your own place is the most authentic anyone can be, god or not. 

With that in mind, Dipper gets to the investigation.

Without context, it’s hard to discern what most of the objects around mean. Whether they’re regularly used, or just for display. Until Dipper sees Bill actually interacting with the stuff he has, he’ll just file that information away for later.

About three circuits of the living room, Dipper catches sight of the portrait above the fireplace again. The one with Bill himself, crowned and stepping on the world. Scepter in hand, his single eye beholding - 

Ah, right. The eye thing. 

Dipper backs up, very slowly. As a parting gesture, he throws a little wave at the portrait, and another ‘cute’ smile.

Then he darts right the hell back into his room, and pulls the door along with him. He lets his head drop back against the wood, and closes his eyes.

Shit. Shit. Of course he wasn’t roaming around freely. There was oversight. 

Hopefully Bill’s busy enough to not have cared about a couple minutes of ‘wandering’. As far as he knows, that was, uh… Dipper got lost, right. That sounds believable. Maybe he was even looking for Bill himself. 

But snooping? No, definitely not. Why would anyone do that.

Welp. That’s about that, then. Three doors, three results, and zero exits. 

Sure, it’s possible that Bill’s room does have a way out, but between the odds of being caught, and the odds of getting lost in the twisting, recursive corridors if he did manage to find it -

Yeah, Dipper’s going to pass. 

He saw the other ‘guests’ around this realm, and they didn’t look like the types to leave blood on the inside. 

On the upside he’s survived the night. Morning. Whatever time of day it is. 

Bill wants Dipper alive, which is strange and confusing and more than a little concerning- but it’s also a huge weight off his shoulders.

Dipper turns to pull the door fully closed behind him, then hesitates. 

After debating for a bit, he settles on leaving the door slightly ajar. Hearing when Bill comes back seems like a good idea, while keeping him out doesn’t. 

But if Bill were to, say, see a door semi-open and shut it himself, then hey. Kinda his fault for not paying attention. No blame on any humans here.

Ugh, Dipper’s losing focus again; he shakes his head to clear it. His legs feel sluggish too, after the long journey and the.. ‘Getting lost’. They stumble as he takes another step. 

After such a long day. After getting hurt, and dragged around, and everything else that’s happened, he’s just so tired. 

Just like during the sacrifice, he has to focus on the real priority - and right now? It’s not the immortal, insane demon god. 

With a weary sigh, Dipper looks for a place to sit down. 

Even pulling the chair out from the desk seems like an ordeal. And while the bed’s far too large for just one person, it's here and empty. Presumably Dipper’s meant to use it, anyway.

And when he takes a seat, it doesn’t leap up to bite him. It doesn’t release any poisoned spikes when he tests the mattress with a quick press of the palm, or snap closed around him when rolls on top of the sheets. The blankets are smooth, without a hint of scratchiness.

Dipper breathes in, and lets it out slowly. He rubs a hand on the top blanket, patting it once or twice, before letting his eyes shut.

It’s just. So, so soft. 

Weirdly springy too, compared to his old cot. A mixture of sink and bounce, so that Dipper almost feels like he’ll get absorbed into it like jello, or get thrown out of it if he moves the wrong way. 

Shifting his weight, Dipper frowns as he tucks the pillow under his head. How could anyone sleep on something like this? It’s totally impossible.

----------------

Dipper wakes up with a damp pillow under his cheek, a slight headache in his temples, and a sore and aching wrist. 

He rolls onto his side with a groan, moving to a drier section of pillow. 

Great, he drooled in his sleep again. Super gross. Another reason that not having a tongue sucks.

It’s warm in the room, though, and quiet. His head hurts, so he needs some water. And his wrist hurts, too. Which isn’t surprising after being sliced open. 

What’s more surprising is that he actually managed to get some rest afterwards. The whole compound is full of people celebrating or arguing after a ritual goes down. Usually there’s some of both, but right now it’s so quiet that he could swear nobody’s -

With a snort, Dipper jerks his head up off the pillow. He props himself up on his elbow, rubbing at his eyes.

Shit, of course. He’s not in the compound anymore. 

Nobody is around, because he’s been taken away by their literal goddamned god, and stowed in this too-big, too-normal room in this alien place. Without other worshipers, who would… probably make things worse, if he’s being honest.

Dipper stuck here, fending for himself. He’s been subjected to… minor medical attention. And a nice bed, and a drink. Not to mention having his first uninterrupted nap in ages. 

Thinking about it, it’s kinda hard to see a downside. 

One will make itself known eventually. Dipper’s not so naive as to think this is altruism, not from Bill Cipher.

As he sits up, the blankets fall off him and pool into his lap, heavy and soft. For a moment, he’s tempted to pull them back up and curl into the nice, warm bed, under the gentle covers.

But that’s probably not the best idea, considering. 

God, he can’t believe he just fell asleep like that. In the house of a nightmare demon, Dipper just went and dropped off like a total, vulnerable moron.

And shit, it’s dark in here. 

He doesn’t remember turning off the lights. Or where the lightswitch is, for that matter. He can sort-of make out the furniture around him, some kind of ambient illumination, perhaps. A bit of light also shines out from the closed door leading to Bill’s room. 

Somewhere in there, he hears footsteps, and then silence. The feel of that powerful magic, leaking in like the light under the doorframe.

Dipper fiddles with the edge of the blanket. Some kind of quilt, he guesses, one that’s faintly frayed at the edges. It’s very soft. 

At minimum, he’s been in Bill’s house for several hours. His best guess puts it between half to all of a day, depending on how long he slept. 

Despite all Dipper’s learned about the god’s unavoidable wrath, and his infinite, changeable whims -

It hasn’t been too bad. So far.

Dipper rubs his fingers together, leg jogging under the sheets. Eventually he realizes he’s pulling threads out of the quilt, and hisses through his teeth. 

At some point, the other shoe will drop. Bill Cipher is capricious, his favor doubly so.

And nothing ever works out in Dipper’s favor, not even once. 

But maybe, if he works at it now - he might be able to make some headway. Hiding away in the bedroom won’t help with that.

Getting up out of the bed is an effort, but his legs feel steady on the floor and his vision is clear. Dipper takes a deep, calming breath. He turns the knob, and peeks out into the room 

“Hey hey! Look who’s back in the waking world. In a way.” Bill waves at him with a bright grin. Great, Dipper got spotted basically instantly. “Get over here! I need ya to check this out.”

There it is. His first order. 

Dipper shuts his eyes, and walks into the room. He swallows, and drops into the fist form of ritual bow, knees thumping on the carpet. 

This absolutely sucks. The one minor upside is that there is a carpet; Dipper’s not going to ruin his knees if he has to do this ten times a day.

Hanging around a god, he’ll be lucky if he spends any time not bowing and scraping and generally genuflecting. Though the idea makes him burn inside, he grits his teeth. 

He can cope. He’s been through worse. If nothing else, Bill’s more interesting than the daily grind back at the compound. Albeit in a semi-terrifying way.

“Huh.” Bill says. Dipper mentally checks his posture, but no, it’s perfect. Wait - he forgot to press his hands together, right. 

“Huh.” Bill says, this time sounding… 

Not very thrilled. 

Freezing in place, Dipper runs through his options. In a better world, he’d be able to start doing some chant or whatever, but that’s off the table. A quick peek at Bill shows that he’s not impressed, so. Read that right. 

Also not very good. What else is there, though, what can he - 

A long, heavy sigh interrupts his thoughts. Bill’s started rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. A totally devout kinda guy.” Bill’s voice is very dry. He taps one impatient finger on the table. “Really feeling all the religious passion, here.”

The clear sarcasm makes Dipper wince. God, of course Bill isn’t fooled. Seeing into the hearts and minds of men as he does, one small human is transparent as hell. He knows exactly what Dipper thinks of him, doesn’t he.

Shit, he’s likely seen everything. 

“But sure, if you’re so devoted, you should get up already.” Bill’s tone lightens, and he gives a quick beckoning gesture. That eternal smile bounces back into place. “C’mon, kid. You can’t scrape your nose on the carpet and check out what I asked you to.”

Dipper scrambles to his feet, brushing nonexistent dirt off his pants. It’s a decent excuse not to meet the god’s eye.

He shuffles slowly forward until he stands next to the god. Logically that should make him nervous. He should be sweating and terrified - 

But damn it, Dipper really hates genuflecting, and Bill’s total lack of interest is actually, maybe, kind of cool of him.

For a bright moment Dipper thinks there might not be any of that sort of thing,  until a robe flops to the ground in front of him. 

Ah. A not-very-subtle hint, there. Dipper takes a breath to steady himself - 

Then a second robe right on top of the one on the ground. And a third. A fourth follows that nearly hits a cabinet on the wall, and Dipper decides he probably missed the mark. 

Bill’s not making a point. He’s just messy.

“Jeez, with this many robes, you’d think they could make a few of ‘em fashionable.” Bill lets out a low whistle. When Dipper glances over, he’s rifling through those cardboard boxes with a frown. “Accessorize! Embroider! Stain ‘em with ichor! This crap is just boring.”

All their robes were pretty identical, but that was the point. To lose one’s individuality, and become a perfect servant for the god. Bill doesn’t sound as appreciative as he should be. 

And where the hell did he get all of these, anyway? 

The boxes on the table are dilapidated, reused cardboard. None of it matches the style or the reality of this… apartment? House? Something? 

Bill chucks yet another robe over his shoulder with a snort. “And don’t get me started on the shape. Or the color!” He sticks his tongue out, letting a final robe dangle from his fingers like he’s holding a dead rat. “I woulda picked something way cooler.”

Whatever his definition of ‘cooler’ is, Dipper doesn’t want to know. Bill catches his skeptical look and Dipper quickly tamps it down.

That single golden eye blinks, then he beckons Dipper closer with a grin. “Get over here, sapling. I gotta know if we’re dealing with the full inventory or not.”

There goes Bill, again. Talking about something without giving Dipper any context for it whatsoever. Likely that’s a sign of things to come. 

All the books about Bill Cipher say he’s ‘cryptic’. Now Dipper’s wondering if that was supposed to be a euphemism for ‘annoying’. 

Dipper squeezes his hands tight at his sides. Not the kind of thing he should be thinking. Instead, he nods, and checks the boxes as requested. 

His god continues messing with the contents, plucking out this and that. Another robe, discarded easily. He sets aside a small ritual set of candles, a setting for ritual offerings. All very distinct. They could have come from Dipper’s own congregation, they’re so familiar. 

Wait - but they are. 

He remembers Bill asking them to pack up stuff, distantly. He didn’t think about what it was for, other than, like, another weird god request. 

But these aren’t just anyone’s things. 

No, he recognizes that robe, with the chewed-on sleeve, and that set of trinkets. Hell, all of said robes have similar wear and tear, the same, slightly oversized look. 

Dipper glances at the boxes, then back to Bill. Though he can’t speak to ask the question, it must be obvious in his face.

“Yep! This is your stuff, Pine Tree.” Bill points a finger gun, giving Dipper a wink. “I asked those imbeciles back in your cult to grab it for ya. Since you’re staying here with me, and all.”

Dipper’s mouth works, but no sound comes out; he shuts it quickly. Bill, uncaring, flicks a finger at a candle and watches it light with a smirk. 

He just- Said it.

Bill Cipher himself called his religion a ‘cult’. 

He actually admitted it. Under any other circumstances that would be absolute blasphemy, but the ‘god’ himself just casually tossed out that the entire stupid religion is kinda full of it and he isn’t even bothered by it. 

Dipper wants to sit down, but there's no chair nearby. He braces himself on the table instead.

“Don’t get it wrong, I’m still the biggest, baddest being you’ll ever meet! But your group of losers pretended to speak for me.” Bill continues. Something about Dipper’s shock seems to have caught his attention. He throws his arms in the air in disgust. A carelessly held candelabra goes flying. “When I wanna give orders, I handle that crap myself.”

Dipper nods again, kind of numbly.

Yeah, that - that actually tracks. The gap between the Bill he was told about, and the Bill that is, is too vast to be ignored. 

Obviously Bill’s weird, it’s part of his basic makeup - but if anything, he matches up more with the Bill that Dipper read about in forbidden texts, instead of the one heard at every sermon. And that…

Honestly, it feels pretty good. Being right. Or right-adjacent; Dipper’s not naive enough to think he has the whole picture yet. Still, being more correct than anyone else? Makes Dipper almost smile. 

It’ll get clearer. There’s time, he’s not dead yet. 

And who the hell knows what else Dipper’s going to learn, while he’s staying in Bill’s home. The only thing he can predict is that half the things will come totally out of left field.

A nudge on his side catches his attention again. “So! Does this cover everything, or do I gotta nightmare some guys into coughing up the rest?” Bill twirls a thin candle between his fingers idly, and raises an eyebrow. “Anything you wanna keep, or stuff you wanna obliterate?”

The startled look on Dipper’s face must surprise him, because Bill blinks a few times. “What? It’s your crap, sapling.” He offers a half-bow, and a wink. “Your gracious host here, at your service.”

Wow, uh, that - Dipper has to turn away for a moment. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling oddly -

Damn it, getting distracted is bad. He has to shape up. Bill might decide he’ll be less gracious if Dipper doesn’t freakin’ focus, now’s not the time to look incompetent. 

He offers Bill a shrug, and a noncommittal wave, then tilts the closest box towards himself.

If he’s going to figure out what to do with his things, he might as well check what’s shown up. A part of Dipper’s surprised that there’s this much of it. 

Actually... there's that miniature altar that ‘disappeared’, and a pair of shoes that walked off by themselves. A scattering of little baubles, mostly bare-bones ritual stuff that everyone got handed out. Even though Dipper’s seemed to roll down a grate or get flushed somehow. 

Guess Bill’s order really got people motivated to find his things. There’s stuff here that hasn’t made an appearance in ages.

Nearby, Bill’s put on his expectant look again. Dipper’s getting used to it. 

Whatever Bill’s looking for, he hasn’t bothered to explain it in the slightest. Much like every other interaction with the guy. It must be pretty good though, because there’s a tinge of eagerness to his expression.

Dipper turns away to poke at the items on the table.

He almost feels bad that he doesn’t know what Bill’s looking for. Even though there’s no logical reason he should. Mind-reading is Bill’s thing, not his followers’. 

Well, whatever. Bill can put that face on all he likes. Unless he has a few helpful hints on hand, he’s just gonna have to wait.

As for the possessions - A quick evaluation of the first box of stuff reveals… mostly things he doesn’t care about either way. On the other hand, he’s never had this many things before, and it would feel weird to just. Dispose of them this easily. 

But then again… 

He never has liked the robes.

Tentatively, Dipper points at the cloth on the floor, then cuts a finger over his throat. 

Bill made his opinion on them clear, so. If he agrees. Maybe Dipper actually won’t need them during his stay in this -  

A sudden burst of blue flame startles him; Dipper jumps in place, going tense.

Noted - be careful about inviting Bill to destruction, because he does not hesitate.

“Great!” Bill claps his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Half done - now let’s wrap this up and move onto something more fun.”

Patience must not be Bill’s strong suit, because he turns the boxes upside down, dumping everything out on the table. A few broad swipes spread it over the wood, a careless tumble of what’s, honestly, mostly junk.

Some of it was clearly just tossed in to make the box more full; the top layer is all stuff from the ritual room. As for the stuff that is his, well. How much of it could he actually need? There’s candles, a bunch of knickknacks that he didn’t even like when he was still in the, well. Cult. There’s a thick worn notebook, and his journal with its slightly tattered cover and the bookmark still in place -

Shit. Shit, shit shit. 

Dipper’s heart leaps into his throat. He glances at Bill, then back to the table. 

How did they find that, it was under the loose rock in the corner. Did they know all this time that he had this. Did they not care, or was it truly hidden and only discovered later. How the hell did it survive all the way here? 

However it got here - that’s. All his notes, all his research. All his thoughts, lying there for Bill to -

Wait. Bill.  Hasn’t noticed, yet. 

He’s picked up a tiny brass necklace. His eye narrows as it dangles from his fingers. Not surprising; it is a pretty awful portrayal. The angles are anything but even. 

And while he’s distracted, Dipper makes a grab for the books. 

He times it right; as Bill tosses the necklace away and into the fireplace, he slides both books across the table, tucking them into his pants and under his shirt. 

Not the first time he’s hidden contraband - and probably not the last. A quick check on Bill shows a totally nonchalant demon, slightly bored with the junk in front of him. Either he truly didn’t notice - or doesn’t care about what Dipper pulled. Either one’s a win. 

Dipper feels tension seep out of his shoulders, and he shuts his eyes.

Compared to the god of fury and torture Dipper was taught about, the true god is relatively even-tempered. So far. 

But he already knows how bad it gets, when something terrible is spoken about his god. There’s no way Bill would like reading what Dipper wrote about him. 

“Aha!” Bill exclaims, and yanks his latest prize out of the pile, holding it in the air. “Knew there had to be something good in here.”

Dipper takes one look at whatever’s got Bill so enamored -  and makes a face.

Oh no. He forgot about…. that. 

“Maybe being ‘devout’ isn’t your style, but there might be a better term.” Bill’s sharp teeth are white in his smile. He flicks one of the ragged felt arms, squeezing the yellow ‘torso’. “How’s ‘obsessed’ fit ya?”

The stupid awful Bill Cipher plushie dangles limply in his grip. As Bill gives it another squeeze, some more of the stuffing puffs out. Worn as it already is, with one of the legs missing and the pupil in the eye worn away, it makes the entire thing look twice as pathetic.

Dipper staunchly resists the urge to hide under the table. It’s too late anyway. He’s not escaping this now.

Who the hell decided to pack that? It’s ugly and stupid and juvenile. If Dipper had been able to choose what he brought along, he would have deliberately left it behind. Maybe burned it, so nobody else would know he still had one.

As it stands, he’s torn between being glad it’s here - and totally goddamned humiliated.

He makes a quick grab for it, but Bill dodges him with a grin. 

“Ah ah ah! Nice try.” He waggles it again, beaming bright. “I knew it! You’re super interested in me, aren’t you? Was this little guy your favorite? Didja cuddle up with him in bed every night?”

Asshole probably saw all of that happen, and now he’s taunting. Dipper grits his teeth, hands clenching by his sides. 

Damn it, it’s not Dipper’s fault there weren’t a lot of soft things in the cult. Who cares if he had something that made his life suck a little less? Especially one that flatters Bill himself. If anything Bill should be pleased, knowing he got some devotion from this less-than-pious human-  but instead he’s being an ass about it.

“I’m right, of course.” Bill says, with smug certainty. “Ol’ mini-me here got oodles of affection, didn’t he?” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, backing up as Dipper turns around the table corner in pursuit. “Now let’s see…”

Dipper sucks in a breath, watching Bill bring it to his face. His teeth bared in a sharp smile, mouth slightly open. 

Bill shuts his eye, and puffs a breath over the plush. For a second Dipper thinks it’s about to be consumed in fire, he stumbles forward in protest. 

But though it’s blue all over, it doesn’t burn. As he watches, the hole in the side closes over, stuffing concealed. Some of the minor stains come out, the stitching of the bricks turns black and pristine. The second leg dangles beside the other, the eye is full and renewed and only maybe blinks.

Dipper stops his chase, pausing with his hand on the table. 

That plush hasn’t looked anywhere near that good since he was little. Bill acted like it was nothing to him. Bill thought it was funny. He could have turned it into nothing, just for kicks - and it’s. 

Every time he thinks he knows what Bill Cipher is up to, his expectations get turned upside down and shaken for loose change. Dipper doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

Bill looks over his work with pride, picking up one of the arms to shake it. “Nice to meet ya, Bill! I’m the real, better Bill.” He pauses, then nods solemnly, as if it responded. “Yeah, I am the greatest. Glad you noticed!”

And in a stunningly unsurprising turn of events, Bill’s also going to be obnoxious about this. 

Bill brings the plushie right up to Dipper’s face, pitching his voice higher. “Oooh, Pine Tree, I’m so glad to see ya! You’re my favorite human.” He lifts the felt arms in a floppy invitation for a hug. “I love you sooooo much!”

Dipper feels his lips draw into a thin line, while Bill’s mouth arches up in a grin. 

“What’s that?” Bill cups his ear as if to hear better. “You want a kiss?” Dipper shakes his head, but not before Bill starts mashing the stupid plush against his cheeks. He tries fending it off, but Bill’s quick enough to find every gap in his defenses. Also, he’s making exaggerated kissy sounds. “Mwah mwah mwah!”

Dipper snatches the stupid plush from Bill’s stupid hand, then turns right on his heel and storms back to the guest room. 

Behind him, he hears Bill cackling with laughter.

He knew he was in for some kind of trial. A type of torment. What he’s faced so far hasn’t been terrible. Or much at all, compared to when he was back with the congregation. 

This god isn’t quite the creature of eternal nightmares and torment that he was always told about. Instead he has other motives, ones too strange and subtle to interpret. Dipper should be thankful.

A glance backward shows said god slumped on the couch, cackling to himself with one hand on his forehead. 

But Bill sure thinks he’s fucking hilarious.

Dipper slams the door shut, as loud as he can. It doesn’t quite block out the continuing laughter. He slumps against the door, letting out a long, tired sigh.

Great. He doesn’t know what else he expected.

Bill Cipher’s a total asshole.

[rosyjn]

HUMAN!JAKE X READER SMUT!!! 18+ CONTENT

It’s already 1 in the morning and you’re still finishing lab work. Grace left about 2 hours ago.

“Y/N, we should just finish it tomorrow afternoon. Don’t work too hard,” Grace told you as she walked out of the lab, Norm following her.

“Y/N, come on, let’s call it a night,” Norm stopped in the doorway and turned around. His facial hair was grown out, and he had huge bags under his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, it’ll be done by tomorrow morning. I promise,” you squinted as you picked up a test tube and looked through it. Norm sighed and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

And now you’re here, at 1:30 AM, wrapping up work. All you can think about is how relieved your lab colleagues will be, since you’ve finished everything.

You stack up all your papers, leaving a rock on top as a weight, to keep them from possibly moving or shuffling. You wouldn’t want to waste all that time and energy. You reach over and place your pen in a cup on a lab table. You put back all the tubes and samples that you used, and then head for the exit.

The cold air of the lab hits you hard when you take off your coat and leave it by the door. You shiver. You quickly run out and lock the door behind you, barely remembering the code.

“7797182, enter,” you whisper under your breath. You sigh in relief as the door flashes red and the word “LOCKED” comes on the screen. Nobody can mess with anything now. Unless there is an emergency, it won’t open again until 4AM, which is when the the day starts for humans on Pandora.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you turn away and begin your walk back to your bed. It’s a long one. You watch all the doors, all looking the same. You see the signs for different departments. You have to sing to yourself to avoid falling asleep.

At some point, you’re afraid you won’t make it to bed, and that you’ll just snooze on the floor in some cold hallway.

When you turn another corner, you see a folded silhouette in the distance. You have to really squint to make out who it is.

“Hey, Y/N!” it’s Jake. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, filling up a small container at the ice machine. You’re so close to your room anyways, you think you should just say hi, it won’t make you any sleepier.

“Hi, what are you doing?” you walk towards him.

“I’m gonna have a drink, want some?” his voice is as charming as ever. And it’s evident that he’s wide awake, unlike you. You rub your eyes and let out a tired chuckle.

“I couldn’t, I’ve gotta- gotta sleep” you reach for your room key. Jake watches as your hands grip as your sides, looking for pockets. “Where, where- oh!!” you facepalm and shake your head.

“What’s wrong?” Jake turns himself to face you completely. A worried expression comes onto your face and your brows furrow.

“My key… is in my lab coat… which is in the lab… which is far away… and locked right now…” you look down at the ground.

Jake’s face lights up, but he tries to conceal it. He swallows, breathes in, and looks up at you.

“C’mere, come sleep in my room tonight. We’ll drink, we’ll have a good time,” he reaches up and grabs your arm, trying to convince you.

“I don’t wanna drink, I’ll just sleep,” you push his arm off of you.

“That’s okay, don’t wanna… pressure you,” he tilts his head and his eyes meet yours. “C’mon,” he turns himself around and makes his way back to his room, ice container in hand. You lazily follow him.

When he gets to the door, he opens it and scoots himself back to let you in first. You walk in a few steps and turn, keeping an eye on Jake as he comes in.

“What? What do you think I’m gonna do? Relax, I don’t bite” he chuckles and shuts the door behind him. When you turn back around and bend over to take off your shoes, he stares at your ass. Then, he takes his ice bucket to the table with liquor.

As you walk towards his bed and sit down on it, he stares at you through the corner of his eye. You lean back onto his bed. Your legs dangle off the foot of it.

“Thanks so much for this, I really don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t help me,” your legs are spread slightly apart, giving Jake a peek up your dress and at your light pink, lace panties.

You tilt your head and look at Jake’s bed. It’s messily made and has 2 pillows, stacked on top of each other. You look around his room, it’s surprisingly clean. You close your eyes as you listen to the clinking of glass and a pouring noise.

“You know, you can come to me anytime…” Jake’s eyes leave your panties for a second and watch his drink go into the cup.

“You’re funny,” you close your eyes and put a leg up on the bed, unknowingly giving him a better view of your underwear.

“Are you really thankful for this though?” he puts his cup down and wheels towards you, stopping at the foot of the bed. He gazes at your face, fighting the urge to take a closer look at your panties.

“Yeah, of course I am. Why? What are you thinking?” you put your leg back down and rest your foot in Jake’s lap.

“Do you wanna really thank me? For letting you stay with me?” he strokes up your leg. You shake your head and sit back up, pulling away from him. You sit on your calves and sigh.

“Don’t. I’m not gonna give you a blowjob to return the favor. I should go, I’m sorry,” you start to get up off the bed. Jake grabs you and holds you in place. Your eyes widen.

“I know all your friends would be disappointed. I know Grace and Norm would never see you the same way. I know Trudy would make fun of you for a lifetime-“ he begins, desperately. You cut him off by giggling.

“You’re right,” you hold his arm and relax, curious to see what he’s gonna come up with next.

“I’m not asking for sex. I think you’re so perfect and smart and beautiful… don’t leave. Just stay. Just for tonight,” he pleads. His grip stays tight on you. His gaze is intense and you’ve never seen him vulnerable like this.

“You’re… NOT asking for sex?” you tilt your head in confusion. Jake lets out a strained laugh.

“No, Y/N. I just think you’re really, um, great- and I really enjoy your company. I want you to stay the night. I- I can just sleep on the floor if you’re uncomfortable. Is that okay?” his grip on you loosens.

He’s so adorable you could cry. You grab his face and kiss him. When your lips meet his, he hesitates in shock before he kisses back. When he reciprocates, you climb onto his lap. He accepts your embrace and holds you tight for a second. You pull away to talk to him.

“Jake, will you accept the blowjob now?” Your hands travel away from his face and down to his pants.

A euphoric smile wipes onto his face and he tilts his head as you feel his boner.

“Let’s get on the bed,” he lifts you back onto it. You crawl back on all fours as he lifts himself up and scoots back until his head is on a pillow.

“Can I take these off?” you pull at his pants and smile. Jake just leans back and laughs in pure joy. You undo his pants, pull them off, and throw them on the floor. You arch your back and bite at his underwear.

“I’m so fucking hard right now,” he clenches his eyes closed. You listen to his words and get his Calvin Kleins off of him, which allows his boner to spring at your face. You gasped at the sight of it. He told you the truth. He was SUPER hard. You licked up the shaft which made him shudder.

“How long have you wanted me to do this, hmm?” You asked before taking his cock down your throat, slobbering on his balls. He moaned and his breath hitched.

“Ever since I met you, Y/N-“ he whimpers as you come back up and lick his tip.

“That’s surprising,” you look up and make contact while kissing his tip. That made Jake crazy and sent him over the edge.

His cum squirted onto your lips and nose, and you stuck your tongue out to catch it. He whimpered as you wiped and licked up every last drop of cum. You never break eye contact, neither does he. He grabs your hair and pulls you up to him, kissing you again. This time, his tongue intrudes into your mouth, and you whine. He pulls away and reaches up your skirt for your panties.

“Still sleepy?” he works circles on your clit.

“No,” you hide your face into the crook of his neck and mewl.

“Didn’t think so, I’m taking this off of you,” he works to take your dress off and you comply, leaning back and putting your arms up as he lifts it off and throws it.

You realize you’re bare with him. You realize you’re sitting in a colleague’s embrace, with the taste of his semen in your mouth, in only your bra and panties. Your hands go back to his face. You give him a peck and then pull away. He stares in your eyes.

“What- what now?” you ask while you trace hearts on his shirt.

“Now, I’m gonna take your bra and panties off and you’re gonna ride me,” he says.

Your eyes widen and you smile. He smiles back as he reaches and unclasps your bra. You eagerly reach to take off his shirt but he stops you.

“Hmph,” you pout.

“Don’t worry honey, I just wanted to admire these tits for a second.” he fondles your breasts. “I’ll leave so many hickeys,”

You laugh as you continue to take his shirt off of him. Last article of clothing left is your underwear. But he takes that slow. His hand travels down your torso and he hooks a finger around the side of the panty. Then, he slowly pulls it off of you while kissing.

Out of nowhere, he grabs your hips and pushes your torso back, while bringing your hips towards his face. You yelp.

“My god, I’m the luckiest man on earth.” he holds your legs open and stares at your wet, dripping cunt.

“Please, Jake,” you arch your back and close your eyes.

“Come here and ride this dick first, then I’ll see if you deserve to be eaten out,” he manhandles you back up and kisses you again.

“Okay, deal,” you say, positioning him around your entrance.

“I’m gonna hold these hips though,” his hands dig into your hips. “You can still handle it, you’re a big girl,” he teases.

As you lower yourself, you feel it tickling your slit and you shudder.

“Jake-“ you whimper.

“You need help? Don’t worry, I got you. I got you,” Jake reassures you. You nod. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” you reply.

He pushes your hips down onto his cock. When it first enters, you gasp and he lets out a guttural groan. When the tip was inside, you arched your back and whined.

“It’s okay,” he whispers as he pushes your hips down further. Your eyes well up with tears as he inches into bottoming out, letting you sit down. You moan and your mouth is ajar as you let your walls adjust. Jake pays close attention to your face, making sure not to hurt you.

“Ah…” your breathing is uneven and you just sit there, absorbing the feeling of his cock. Jake is whimpering out of control and his hands dig into your hips, sure to leave marks.

“You okay? Relax, it’ll make it easier,” Jake strokes your hair. “You’re doing such a good job for me,”

You take Jake’s advice and slowly bounce up and down.

“I wanna see your tits bounce, can you go that fast?” he looks down at your pussy and then back up into your eyes. You mewl and try to pick up the pace.

“Is- that good?” your eyes clench shut as you chase an orgasm on his dick. Jake lets out a smug grin while he watches your titties.

“Yeah, yeah that’s good,”

You yelp and your pussy clenches while a knot of pleasure forms in your stomach.

“I’m so- Jake!”

“Mmm hmm, yeah, I bet you are,” Jake smacks your breast.

You yell out as you clench and pulsate around him, while your arousal coats his balls. He groans and throws his head back, catching his breath.

You hop off his dick and fall down next to him. He immediately takes you in his arms and kisses you all over.

“That was- ah,” you say into his chest.

“Yeah it was, you did so good.” he rubs your back. “Let’s go to sleep now, hmm baby? Let me cuddle you to sleep, sweetheart,”

“Nuh uh!” you giggle. “You promised you’d eat me out!” you playfully bite his shoulder.

“Nah, you’re gonna have to practice riding first,” he says.

[seresinslady]

The Perks

Summary: After an eventful night of trick or treating with your daughter, Jake uses bedtime to sneak some candy out of your daughter’s stash and into your room.

Jake Seresin x Wife!Reader

OC!Daughter (Charlie)

Warnings: Wrote very quickly and did not proof read lol. That is all.

———

“Did you see how jealous Lindsey was when she saw our costumes?” You giggled while pulling the covers back to climb into bed next your husband. “It made every trip to that dreadfully overpriced Halloween store worth it.”

“It sure did, baby.” Jake said simply.

“You know her husband didn’t even help her hand out candy. I would feel bad for her if she wasn’t such a bitch.”

“She’s such a bitch.” He continued to encourage you.

“But she’s only mean to me because she has a crush on you.” You turned to on your hip to face him and smirked. “It’s not my fault she married for money and I married for looks.”

Jake shot you an unimpressed look. “Ha. Ha.” He said. You giggled and reach over to pinch his cheek.

“You know I’m just kidding, honey.” Your eyes sparkling.

“You better be… or else…” Jake teased suggestively.

You raised your eyebrows slightly and leaned into him so that your lips were millimeters apart. “Or else what?” You whispered.

“Or else…” he breathed back before pulling away from you and reaching beside the bed. He let out a satisfied breath as he plopped down a baking bowl from the kitchen, filled with individually wrapped Halloween candy. The bowl settled between the two of you. “Or else I’m not sharing this candy with you.”

“Jake!” You laughed at the sheer amount of candy that adorned the bowl.

“What?” He asked obliviously.

“Is this Charlie’s?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So? You can’t just steal our daughters candy. She worked hard for that.”

“Baby… she’s 2, I had to carry her after 5 minutes and you carried her bucket the whole time, we worked hard for this. Plus…” he said picking up a small KitKat and handing it out to you “this is one of the perks of having children. Stealing their candy.” He smiled, clearly proud of himself.

You looked at him with hesitation, still contemplating your moral stance on this, even though you knew he was right. Slowly, you reached out and grabbed it from between his fingers, tearing open the shiny red plastic.

“There’s my girl.” He praised you before taking a piece of candy for himself.

You giggled a he shoved a whole Reese’s Cup in his mouth.

“What happened to my ‘I only eat grilled chicken and drink cactus water’ boyfriend from three years ago?” You teased him as you both munched on the candy.

“Oh, honey,” he started to say with a mouthful “I killed him.”

You laughed. Jake’s heart still does somersaults at the sound. “Oh, did you?” You egged him on.

“Yep. I made his girlfriend my wife, got her pregnant and then killed him. He put up a good fight though.”

You chuckled at his absurdity as you scooted down to snuggle your head into his shoulder. You reached for another piece of candy before you said “well, I’m glad you got rid of him. He was great and all, but you’re sweeter.”

“Even though I committed petty theft against our daughter.”

“Especially so.” You laughed. “How did you even get it from her?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Say what?” You asked curiously.

“It was like taking candy from a baby.” He whispered.

“Ugh.” Rolling your eyes at his joke, you hit his arm playfully and continued “you’re the worst.”

“I didn’t even wanna say it! You made me.” He said pointedly. Jake grinned down at you, observing all the features he’s fallen in love with over the years. He still can’t believe he got so lucky. “You love my jokes.”

“Yeah yeah, couldn’t live without them. Now hand me a Snickers.”

He obliges and you both stay there for a minute, before Jake said “there’s one flaw in my plan…”

“What?”

“What are we gonna tell Charlie when she wakes up to a third of her candy missing?” He quizzes.

You reached for another small candy bar and simply said “We tell her Uncle Rooster did it.”

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

INEVITABLE [3]

din djarin x female!reader

warnings: language, mentions of the slave trade, canon violence, blood and injuries, PTSD flashback, mention of torture

word count: 6,183

Summary: It was like fate or destiny had planned from the beginning for you to be on the run from the law. With the words ‘I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold’ adorning your rib cage you always wondered what was worse: Knowing you were bound to being wanted or realizing your soulmate was a cursed bounty hunter. You had a mission to finish and no bounty hunter, soulmate or not, was going to stop you.

[previous] [next]

03: CALL IT FATE, DESTINY, CALL IT LUCK

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"luck is my middle name. mind you, my first name is Bad."

⏤terry pratchett

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Every blow to his body made you flinch as if you had been hit yourself. Blood splattered into the air, raining down into the already formed pool, and your cries of desperation had morphed into moans of mourning. Rough fingers dug into your cheeks holding you in place and keeping you from turning away from the assault. Lips pressed against the shell of your ear. Poisonous words hissed out in a voice that made your blood run cold.

‘No, no. You keep watching. I want to make sure this lesson sticks. I want to make sure you know who you belong to.’

You startled awake with a gasp⏤ eyes wide and searching for Viktor. His cruel, cold laugh lingering at the back of your mind. But, he was nowhere to be seen. You weren’t in his palace. The cockpit surrounding you was silent. The lines of hyperspace casting a soft, blue light on everything it touched. The Mandalorian. A breath of relief left you as you sunk in your seat. You were safe. Well, maybe not safe. You didn’t exactly trust your new captor. 

The room was empty save for you and as you sat up you realized the binders were gone from your wrists. Now, you trusted Mando even less. Who in their right mind captures a bounty and then leaves them unrestricted in their ship’s cockpit? You jumped up, staying quiet, and stepped over to glance over the blinking control panel. You were no pilot, but you knew the basics in case of emergency⏤ not that you’d ever put those skills to the test. How hard could it be? You pressed a button and when nothing happened you hit it twice more.

“It’s locked.”

You cried out in surprise and spun. Mando had climbed up the ladder right outside the open cockpit door but he only rose enough to rest his arm on the floor. You set a hand to your chest to try and calm your racing heart. “Maker, bucket head. You’re quiet.”

“You’re not.” He replied, then tilted his head. “Come down.”

Mando disappeared from view and you huffed in annoyance at how cool and collected the guy seemed. You rushed forward, sliding down the ladder, and when your boots hit the floor you spun to give him a piece of your mind⏤ determined to get under his skin. However, your eyes landed on the small, green child sitting on top of a crate now staring at you while his father rummaged through a weapons locker. Mando shifted enough that you were able to see your firearm hanging in the locker.

“Hey, that’s mine.” You barked. You had only gotten a step closer when Mando turned around and hit a button on his vambrace to close the doors. The tell tale sound of a lock being clicked into place. “Give it back.”

“Why do you only have one slug?” Mando asked.

“Why did you take off my binders?” You countered. It wasn’t something you expected to be answered, you just wanted to answer his question with a question.

The man shrugged. “You looked uncomfortable.” You blinked in surprise. “Where did you get the slugthrower?”

“It was…” His first answer had caught you so off guard that you nearly answered his own without thought. You caught yourself at the last minute and shook your head. “I found it at the bottom of a cereal box. I’m trying to collect the whole set.”

Mando sighed irritably and you took that as a victory. Although as great as it felt annoying Mando and getting a rise out of him, you realized that these moments you called ‘victories’ could possibly add up until the Manalorian snapped and murdered you. This scenario was like any other involving a bounty hunter. You had a person to escape from, and though it was a bit unconventional than your usual situation, you were nothing if not flexible.

“Alright Mando,” You crossed your arms and placed emphasis on the name he told you to call him, “What do you want?” He tilted his head and you shrugged. “Everybody wants something. What’s your price? What do I have to pay to get you to crush my fob and taxi me to Corellia?”

“Corellia?”

“It’s next on my list.”

“Why are you⏤”

You forced a frustrated laugh. “Why does it matter? Just tell me what you want and I’ll⏤”

“I already told you, I want answers.” He replied sharply. A soft coo came from the child, and Mando drifted closer to you. “I want to know who you are. I need to know.”

It was confusing as to why he seemed so desperate for something that had nothing to do with him. You rolled through the facts you had gathered. If rumors were true, Mandalorians were all about honor. You had saved his son⏤ sort of. He could’ve done it himself with that jetpack, but you hoped the intention was enough in this case. He didn’t shove you in carbonite, he let you sleep in his cockpit, removed the binders… Even now, he made no move to detain you. Did the Mandalorian want to help you? Was that it? Maybe he wanted to help you, to settle any debt he thought he may owe you, but he wanted to know he wasn’t aiding the scum of the galaxy. 

“You’re not a slave trader.” Mando said. He nodded in your direction, “Not with that collar.”

Your eyes widened, hand shooting up to touch the metal welded around your neck, and gaped, “How… You don’t know that.” You pushed the words out firmly. Nobody assumed the gold choker was what it truly was. “It’s a necklace, bucket head. You⏤”

“No, it’s not.” He replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not with those scars. Nobody claws at a necklace.” 

Mando’s words were jarring. It would’ve been easier to handle him just punching your lights out. There was a slight tremble in your hands and you forced them into fists at your side to compensate. How had he even noticed? Nobody looked close enough to puzzle that out. They saw gold and assumed wealth. Any normal slave’s collar was made of scrap parts. Plus, Viktor had ensured that most of the marks you left had been healed properly. The only ones who hadn’t just lingered right under the band itself.

“Fine.” You forced all your emotions into the back of your head, out of the light, where it wouldn’t been seen or felt. You absolutely hated that this man was able to so easily get under your skin.“I’m a slave seeking revenge, Mando. Searching the galaxy for the man who used to own me so I can put a slug in his head.” He remained a statue as always. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“If it’s the truth, then yes.”

“Well, it is.” Sort of. More or less. That was the quick description of your mission, at least.

“Then why are you visiting cantinas? I can’t imagine a slave trader who is rich enough to decorate his slaves in gold would be hanging around the places you’re searching.”

Again, the Mandalorian wasn’t wrong. Viktor would never set foot in a public cantina, and you knew exactly where he was. Canto Bight. The issue was, in order to get to him you needed to find the ‘Reaper’ for information. Otherwise you’d never get close enough to pull the trigger.

“You’re right.” You said slowly.

Mando tilted his head. “Then who are you looking for?”

“A guy.”

“That’s vague.”

“Yeah,” You snorted, “It’s almost as if I’m being vague on purpose to avoid connecting to you in any way. Funny, huh?”

The cargo hold was filled with an uncomfortable silence. You couldn’t see the Mandalorian’s eyes, but you could feel his heavy gaze cutting straight through you. Growing up the way you did, born from a slave and raised with only one destiny for yourself, you had gotten used to being seen but not acknowledged. The places you worked equated you to a house plant or a piece of furniture.

Then Viktor saw you. He saw you. And the words scrawled on your ribs made you precious to him. He got some sick kick out of owning something fated to another. You joined a collection of others and you were no longer a piece of furniture to be ignored, but rather you were a trophy. An item to be seen and not touched. Admired but not connected to. As Mando guessed, Viktor dressed you in gold and flaunted you to every ne'er do well who visited him. That was your life for years, and it hadn’t changed until six months ago.

Six months ago you ran and your face decorated bounty pucks all over the galaxy, but you felt invisible. Nobody, save for a bounty hunter here or there, sought you out. You were a stranger on the street, a random face in the crowd, and you could live with that. It was better than the alternative.

Right now though? Standing in front of the Mandalorian you felt seen. Mando was actively seeing you at this moment, taking in details nobody had noticed before, and it unnerved you. He wasn’t looking at you like house decor or a trophy. He wasn’t looking at you like you were his next pay day like the other hunters had. Mando was treating you like another living soul and it bothered you that the sensation felt so foreign. How could a man who hid behind a wall of metal see you so clearly?

“If I told you that you could trust me,” Mando said slowly, hesitantly, “Would you believe me?”

“No. But it’s cute that you asked.”

Mando took a step toward you and your confidence faltered. You stumbled back a half step and spat a curse at yourself in your head. If he noticed your slip up, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he heaved a sigh. “I’ll take you to Corellia, with the promise of safe passage, on one condition.” You nodded. “When I drop you off, you don’t contact me again. This? This never happened. We never met. I’ll crush your fob and tell the guild you weren’t worth my time.”

You snorted in amusement. “Deal. That’s a win-win situation for me, bucket head.”

Maybe you weren’t the unluckiest son of a bitch on this side of the galaxy.

Din was tiptoeing through a minefield. And, the only person he had to blame for being stuck here was himself. He shouldn’t have kept you on the ship. Kriff, he shouldn’t have brought you on in the first place. Din should’ve shot you a quick ‘thanks for the help’ and left you behind in Bespin. But, no. Like the karking idiot he was, he brought you along and worse he spoke to you.

There was still a lot he didn’t know. He’d be foolish to think otherwise, but he felt a tinge of truth with your admittance a day earlier. For years, for most of his life, he cursed his soulmark and he loathed the idea of ever meeting his criminal soulmate. Now, he knew differently. Not a criminal, just a person seeking vengeance. Din was aware that a bulk of the galaxy would still consider someone with plans of homicide to be a criminal, but from where he sat Din could hardly judge. He was by no means a good man, without sin, and he had very recent memories of mowing down Imperial after Imperial for the sake of his son. So, your half truth didn’t shock him or fill him with disgust.

No, what Din felt disgusted over was the knowledge that his soulmate had been wronged. The word ‘wronged’ didn’t even begin to cover the atrocity you must have endured. His soulmate. You had been a slave, treated as such by society and owned by some bastard, and that made every single molecule of his body vibrate with rage. 

Mandalorians' belief in soulmates was by no means unique. They were very much like the rest of the galaxy in their reverence for the words. Maybe the one trait Mandalorians shared with the majority.

However, Aq Vetina was different. The culture nearly worshiped the concept of soulmates⏤ saw it as a true blessing and treated it as such. Din didn’t have a lot of memories of his home world. Didn’t have a lot of memories of his parents either. The memories he did have though he treasured, and one of the more prominent ones was this: his parents were soulmates. The reality of soulmarks was more dim than most would like to believe. Soulmates didn’t always end up together. For hundreds of different variables, but just because fate had scrawled words on a person’s skin didn’t mean it guaranteed them a happy ending.

His parents adored one another. Din remembered that. He grew up in a house filled and overflowing with love. An emotion as strong as that wasn’t easily forgotten. Hell, it felt like it was ingrained into his own soul. Tangled with his DNA. When Din lost his parents, he lost everything. Including his culture. The one comfort Din always took was who his soulmate would be. He knew he’d have a soulmark once he hit puberty, with both parents bearing it the chances of him not having one was incredibly low, and though it bothered him his parents would never see his mark he’d still take comfort in it. Just as every man from Aq Vetina before him, just as his father had, he’d find his soulmate and shower them with every ounce of love and adoration he could squeeze from his being. Din would find his soulmate and he would have a family once more. He’d have that love again.

There was no doubt of the love and care his Mandalorian buir and teacher had for him. Din owed the man everything. But the love was different. Not worse, not better, but different.

When his words formed on his skin, Din had never felt such joy and had never felt it turn sour so quickly. It was why the insult of who he thought his soulmate would be stung even worse. It felt like the last bit of his culture, the last shred of his parents he had left, was being taken. Insulted. Spat on. He spent years after convincing himself that a soulmate wouldn’t be worth his time and he was better on his own. Din didn’t seek relationships beyond flings and one night stands across the galaxy because any relationship would be a sad ghost in comparison to the memory of what his parents had. A reminder of what fate took from him.

Now, he sat in the same ship as his soulmate and it felt like so many of his years were wasted on an assumption.

Din was angry that his first words to you were a threat.

He was angry you grew up with that on your skin.

He was angry the mystery and excitement of having a soulmate had been taken from you as well.

He was angry you were treated as lesser than by the people surrounding you.

He was angry that someone had the audacity to put a collar around your neck.

Din was fucking angry.

It burned through his veins and had him seeing red. He was no stranger to anger, but this was overwhelming. And, the worst of it, the thing that made him burn alive from the inside out was the anger he had for himself.

Din never sought you out. He mentally and emotionally tossed you aside without even an attempt to understand. Din gave up on you. His soulmate.

The only thing keeping him from exploding and destroying everything in his radius was the depressing and mellowing thought of his father. His father would be so disappointed in him. His mother would be so disappointed in him. His buir would be disappointed in him. 

Din’s spiraling mind tried to comfort itself. It told him that he was doing better now. He knew better now. He was going to get you to where you needed to go and tell Karga to drop the bounty. He’d separate himself from you and then he’d never have to think of you again. You’d be better off without him. All those thoughts only worsened his shame.

What else could he do? It wasn’t just a thought. It was a prayer to the universe, to fate who got them stuck like this to begin with. What else could he do? Din wasn’t the wide eyed little boy starstruck at the notion of a soulmate anymore. The years had changed him into someone that didn’t deserve that. That left him pleading as he sat in the cockpit fuming silently. What else could he do?

The answer given to him was the sound of your feet climbing the ladder to meet him. He huffed out a quiet sigh and when you entered his peripherals he questioned your presence, more gruff than he intended, “What?”

“Maker, relax.” You dropped into the passenger seat with a scoff. Din cursed himself. Again. “Your kid fell asleep downstairs and I’m not desperate enough to start talking to your walls.” He stayed silent and you let out a chuckle. “Although, maybe your walls would be a better conversationalist.”

“You should sleep.” Din replied. It was his best case scenario right now.

“Not tired.” You slouched in your seat, finding a comfortable spot, “So what’s your kid’s deal? You have a mid-life crisis and find the closest kid to adopt?”

You were annoying. You never shut up. Din liked the sound of your voice way too much.

“No.”

“Then how’d you end up with him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s still two days until we reach Corellia.”

Din shouldn’t answer. The less he knew about you, and the less you knew about him, the better. He should keep his mouth shut, get you to the world you wanted, and speed away as fast as he could. Travel to the clear other side of the galaxy. He knew all of this, and yet his mouth opened. “He was a bounty.”

Fuck.

“Seriously?” You chuckled. “Why would there be a bounty on a kid?”

“It’s hard to explain.” And Din really didn’t want to. “Empire wanted him.”

You hummed and he was caught off guard when you didn’t ask any further questions on his vague statement. He was surprised further when you chuckled, “Good for you.”

Din turned in his seat to look at you. “I turned him in.”

“And then obviously went back for him, I’m guessing. Since he’s, you know, here.”

“That doesn’t change what I did⏤”

“We’re all assholes and it’s human nature that the first thing our brains think to do, our instinct, is sometimes selfish and stupid. It happens.” You said without missing a beat. “The only thing that matters at the end of the day is if you’re willing to fix what you fucked up and the conscious decision you make from there.” Din could only stare at you in response as your words rolled around in his head. You said it so simply, like an offhand comment or passing thought, but it felt so profound to him. You shrugged. “I know, I know. I can be inspirational sometimes. It happens.”

Din found his lips twitching up into a small smile and he forced himself to look away. The only safe spot to stare was the control panel. You stayed silent and Din realized that if he focused hard enough he could see your reflection in the glass panel that sat in front of you. Without any attention on you, without the business of a conversation, Din watched your features soften. There was a melancholy in your gaze that stirred something in his chest. 

“I can…” Din began and your eyes darted to look his way while he stayed facing forward, “I can remove that for you.”

“Huh?”

Din spun in his chair so he faced you, and he motioned to your neck where that damned collar sat. “That. I can remove it. If you’d like.”

Your eyes widened marginally and the surprise dissipated as quickly as it came. You shook your head. “No. I don’t want it off.”

“You don’t…” Din tilted his head in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you want it off?”

“It’s a story for another day.” You mumbled.

“But, I don’t understand.” Din blurted before he could reign it back. Never, ever would anybody in the entire galaxy claim him to be the nosy type of person. Din kept to himself and expected others to respect him in that same way. Silence never bothered him. Yet, that same sensation that stirred in his chest, urged him to learn more. It was the most unfamiliar feeling he’s ever had.

You shook your head. “You never take your armor off, right? Even when it’d be more comfortable to shed it all?”

“My armor is not the same as a slave collar.” Din bristled.

“You wear your armor because it stands for something. It represents a part of you, and carries a belief.” You replied sharply. “Right now, this collar serves the exact same purpose for me.  So, no, I don’t see a difference.”

Din leaned back and found himself speechless. That was all true of his armor, but he couldn’t fathom a person feeling similarly to the kind of metal soldered to your neck. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows. “I chose to wear this armor. I put it on willingly.”

“Who says I didn’t choose to put this collar on? Who said I wasn’t willing?” You replied and Din found himself floored again. The melancholy in your eyes hardened and turned to something sharp, mean, and cold. “You can find a sense of protection, of belonging, and what once brought you comfort can just as easily turn into a prison.” You stood up abruptly and Din’s gaze followed you. You motioned to him, “Are you telling me that beskar never feels like a prison?”

You turned on your heel and left. Din didn’t understand how easily you were able to spin him in place. The question you left him with felt like a blow to the chest. Din stiffened in his seat and shook his head. He needed to get you off this ship as quickly as he could.

“You’re kind of a weird kid, you know that?” You were laying on your stomach in the cargo hold, kicking your legs in the air, while leaning on one fist. The child, Grogu, sat in front of you munching on a ration bar that you had scavenged for him in all the the Mandalorian’s supply. You hadn’t asked permission, but you figured Mando couldn’t be upset at you for feeding his child. “Not because you’re green with giant ears. I have no issue with that.” You continued. “You’re just an oddball. In a good way, I mean.”

The boy babbled between bites and you nodded your head as he spoke.

“Mhmm.” You agreed to whatever he was saying. “Yeah. Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Three days on this ship with the Mandalorian and his son hadn’t been the worst thing in the galaxy. You were fed, you had a place to sleep, and the walking tin can hadn’t murdered you. It had been a while since you came away with this many wins back to back. The last bit of real tension you dealt with was when Mando offered to take the golden band around your neck off. You hadn’t meant to take it so personal or make it personal back. You must have seriously pissed the guy off though because since then he had maybe only spoken a total of ten words to you. Even when you tried to egg him into an argument. You found you missed talking to him which meant you must have been more desperate for interaction than you thought. Why else would you crave to hear his voice? 

You could always apologize for comparing his armor to your collar. The dig had been a guess. An attempt to get under his skin as he had gotten under yours. You pushed yourself up off the floor to sit criss cross and your hand drifted to the gold band around your neck. It’d be nice to have it off, but you couldn’t yet. Not until you dealt with Viktor. For now, you would just have to daydream about the day you’d walk around with a bare neck.

“I’m sorry.”

The sound of the modulated voice had you whip around in surprise, eyes wide and heart racing. Mando was leaning against the wall behind you. He must have come from the kitchen area or fresher, but considering you thought he had been up in the cockpit it really caught you off guard.

“Maker, how are you that silent? You’re basically covered in pots and pans.”

“Practice.” Mando shrugged. His hands were resting on his belt. “I’m sorry about,” He paused and nodded toward you, “you know.”

Your hand fell from your neck. “Why are you apologizing? That was like 48 hours ago.”

“We’ll be landing in Coreilla soon. It’s now or never.”

“Okay.” You mumbled. It surprised you again when the child waddled from around you and crawled into your lap. You scratched his head while he continued to eat. “I’m sorry too then. I didn’t have to drag your armor into it.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

Your eyes widened at his admission, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with it. There was an energy between you and the Mandalorian you couldn’t quite explain. The close quarters made you naturally want to bond, but from experience you knew that was a poor plan. Plus, Mando didn’t seem all that interested in starting up any kind of friendship. Which made sense. You’d be out of his life soon enough. You just wondered if you had gone too long without any real social interaction. Back when you were with Viktor, he had others in his collection that you had grown close to⏤ like sisters. You missed being social.

Before you could think of a bridging conversation, Mando pushed off the wall and climbed up into the cockpit. You blew out a breath of air as soon as he was out of view then glanced down at the kid in your lap.

“Why is your dad so hard to talk to?” You asked. “I can talk to anyone and anything, but that beskar may as well be a wall.” Grogu babbled another string of nonsense and you nodded. “Yeah, I mean he probably doesn’t make a habit of befriending quarries, huh?”

It was fine. It didn’t matter.

And, a few hours later when the ship was landed on the tarmac and the ramp was lowering you repeated those phrases to yourself again. 

“Well, uh, thanks.” You nodded. Mando had given you back your weapons and he now stood inside the cargo hold with his son in his arms while you drifted down the ramp. You paused at the bottom. “It’s been fun, bucket head.”

Mando didn’t reply, but Grogu did offer you a wave which you cheerily returned. With one last nod, and a mocking salute, you spun on your heel and began to tread away. You had only gotten a few feet from the ship when you heard Mando call out after you. The sound of his voice calling out your name grinding your feet to a halt.

“Just…Be careful.” Mando said tensely. 

“I always try.” You replied with a grin and a shrug.

As you continued to leave, your stomach churned in discomfort. The Corellia shipyard was dreary and gray which could sour anyone’s mood. When you reached the gates, the overwhelming urge to look back slammed into you. In fact, you nearly turned on instinct alone. A moment of weakness born from a desperation to connect to someone again. Shoving it as deep down into yourself as you could, burying it with the bloody memories and traumas in the graveyard of your mind, you pushed forward deeper into the city of Corellia. 

It took you only ten minutes to travel through the city and find the first cantina of many. By time you arrived thoughts of the Mandalorian had been successfully shelved and you were seriously craving a strong drink. The bartender was kind and cheerful, the opposite of how this city of Corellia looked, and after he poured you a drink you drifted to a back table. 

You decided this was going to be your least favorite world. Even in comparison with Jakku. Never before had entering a city filled you with such dread and distaste. Like a cloud of darkness had rolled over your mind to match the stormy clouds above the city itself. You were honestly just in shock that there could be a place worse than Jakku. That rolled into the realization that the galaxy was a big place and you still had a lot of ground to cover. There was a chance you had yet to see the worst this universe had to offer. That only worsened your misery.

Something solid, something you unfortunately recognized as the end of a blaster, pressed against your spine. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

Fate just couldn’t give you a fucking break could it?

With a sigh, you turned around and began to mumble your usual spiel, “Would you really arrest your⏤” The words died in your mouth as your eyes landed on the man standing behind you. A Nikto wearing a grin filled only with malice and eyes that shone with rage. One who gripped the blaster tight in one hand while his other hung loosely at his side with three missing fingers. You grimaced, “Oh, my luck can’t possibly be this bad…”

Din was pacing the cargo hold while Grogu watched him curiously from the cot. Already he had climbed up to the cockpit just to immediately come down twice. He wanted to leave this kriffing planet. Why couldn’t he leave this kriffing planet? He mumbled a string of curses after the rhetoric question. Of course he knew why. 

“This is a bad idea.” Din scoffed aloud. Grogu chirped and his feet came to a stop so he could stare at the kid. His son. Saving Grogu had been a bad idea too. A life changing one at that. That didn’t make it any less important that he went through with the rescue. Din had gambled, taken a chance, and his pay out had been worth more than he could’ve ever imagined. Could he take a gamble on you?

Considering how quickly he had given up on you years prior, taking a gamble was the least he could do.

Din sighed and grabbed his satchel to place Grogu in before hurrying off the ship. He didn’t have a plan. Then again, he rarely did. What would he say to you? Admit that he was your soulmate? Din probably should have done that three days ago. But with the way you had blown off the idea of soulmates, he had a high suspicion that telling you the truth would only worsen the situation. Besides, he was not interested in exploring the soulmate relationship further. Din didn’t deserve that. What he could do, what he owed you, was help in your mission. If he told you the truth, you wouldn’t let him help. If he kept it to himself, then maybe he could help you meet your goals and put you on a path to a better life. One you deserved.

There. Plan made.

Din knew he needed to find a cantina but he wasn’t sure which you’d be in since there were a few in this city. He picked the closest one and hoped for the best. 

The hand knotted in your hair roughly threw you back to the asphalt ground of the alley behind the cantina. You landed on your back, the air briefly leaving you, and you stared up at Nivor. With a wince, you spoke, “You know, for only having two fingers you got a pretty tight grip.”

A boot slammed into the side of your rib cage before Nivor knelt down and pressed his knee against your sternum. Your hands reached out to claw at him, shove him off, but he grabbed your wrists with his one good hand and pinned it to the ground above your head.

“You always have something to say.” Nivor spat. “Don’t know why Viktor liked you so much.”

“You and me both.” You replied.

He applied more pressure to your chest with his knee and you clenched your teeth to bite back a moan. Nivor chuckled, “He wants you back.”

“I’m aware.” You snapped, breathless.

“Told him I’d bring you back, but I don’t think he’d mind a few missing pieces.”

“Wrong.” You glared up at him. “You bring me back less than whole and he’ll rip your head off.”

Nivor shook his head, “You’re overestimating your worth, little bird.” Your glare deepened at the nickname. “Viktor’s found a new favorite plaything.” The Nikto pulled a vibroblade from his belt. “Besides, you owe me some parts.”

“Is this about the fingers thing?” You replied. “That was an accident. I wasn’t trying to shoot off half your hand, I was trying to kill you.” You couldn’t help but paste on a smug smirk. “So really you should be thankful.”

“What is it they say? A leg for a leg.” Nivor dragged the blade up from your knee to your hip. Not deep enough to cut through your clothes, but enough to make you uncomfortable. “An eye for an eye.” The blade kissed the skin of your cheekbone as it circled around your eye softly. “How about a hand for three fingers?!”

You shook your head. “The math is not adding up there, buddy.”

With a cry of anger, Nivor lifted the blade in the air and at the motion his knee lifted off your chest. Using the window of opportunity, you rolled into him as hard as you could and he fell back on his ass. However, though his grip had loosened some, he still had a tight hold on one of your wrists and it kept you from running. You tried to twist out of his grip to avoid the blade he was swinging wildly now, and your free hand shot to grab your own dagger. Nivor was stronger than you gave him credit for, and once he gained his footing he was able to yank you back to the ground. The dagger you managed to grab clattered away from your grip when your chest slammed into the asphalt and a cry of pain slipped from your lips as Nivor twisted your arm back to keep you pinned down. Now, his knee dug into your spine.

You tried to reach around and grab him, but your fingers only grazed the leather of his jacket.

“For that, you’re losing your whole arm.” Nivor chuckled. 

His blade pressed into your shoulder and panic flooded your entire body. No, no, no. This was your dominant arm. This injury would put an abrupt end to your mission and that was only if you survived it. Between blood loss and Nivor choosing a grimy alley to operate, your chances were slim. With another scream, you tried to shake your entire body in a poor attempt to knock him off of you, but you only felt his blade begin to dig in deeper. Heat flare in your shoulder as Nivor deliberately sunk it in as slowly as possible. 

“Stop!” The plea left your lips and you immediately felt shame for begging this man for mercy. You heard his chuckle, the blade sunk a bit deeper, then with the familiar sound of a blaster going off the weight suddenly fell from your back. You were gasping for air, your heart still pounding as you felt hot blood drip down your back and shoulder, and when you glanced to the side you saw Nivor slumped to the ground. The sinister light in his eyes was gone and his features were slack. There was still smoke rising from the blaster burn in his back.

You turned the opposite way, whipped your head in that direction more like, and there stood the Mandalorian now holstering his weapon. You had tucked his memory away, sure you’d never see him again, but now you felt so relieved to be wrong. Seeing that shine of silver may as well have been the glowing end of a long tunnel. The little green child, resting in his bag by his side, lifted his hand and gave you a small wave.

With the arm that wasn’t numb with pain, you waved back.

taglist:

@onceinamando @hrtsforpascal @lil-dragon-draws @harriedandharassed @aheadfullofsteverogers @elfamosotoga @the-anchored-sailor-girl @garbo-lesbo @moonlqghts @stokeholdsblog @morks-watermelon @http-onie @chonkercatto @xalphafox @pedrojoe @zarahbronstein @cockscombkingdom @ale0m @shelbyteller @fallinallinmendes @grandtheoristpeach @perilous-pasta @love-the-abyss @kneelforloki @insomniac-nerd-posts-things

a/n: this was supposed to be my silly, funny, light hearted story, but the reader in this grabbed me by the shirt collar and went 'bitch nah'. soooooo here we are :)

[navnae]

The party finally got together for a movie night after weeks of putting it off. Everyone thought it was good idea to meet up at Steve’s house because it was in fact the biggest. All kinds of snacks were bought and a few blankets from Steve’s closet was put in the floor as the kids gathered close to the tv. The older teens sat down on the couch and ended up being crammed but overall comfortable. Steve didn’t realize that was last to the seating arrangement and there wasn’t a place for him to sit or there wasn’t a good spot for him to see the movie well. While he was trying to find a place to sit the group noticed that he was just standing near the wall.

“Don’t just stand there, Steve. Sit down and enjoy the movie.” Dustin said waving his hand towards himself. Steve took a step forward observing the floor and the couch and just like he thought there really wasn’t a place for him to sit.

“I guess there really isn’t a place for him to sit.” Lucas also took a look at all the seats that were filled up and the floor was completely packed.

“I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere.” Argyle said happily. Jonathan, Robin, Nancy, and Eddie were taking up the couch along with the big buckets of popcorn that were on their laps. Steve pressed his lips together, this entire situation was stupid.

“Guys it’s fine I’ll just stand up.” Steve shrugged. He didn’t think having a seat was that big of a deal.

“There is no way you’re standing up the whole movie. I’m willing to bet money on it.” Robin joked. That caught all of the kids attention immediately.

“I’d like to be apart of the bet!” Mike chimed in while raising his hand. Obviously he was betting against Steve and that didn’t go unnoticed most of the time when Steve is involved with anything. Mike made sure that he knew that.

“All my money is on Steve!” Dustin yelled with excitement. He gave Steve a wide smile showing him that he believed he could win the bet even though Steve wasn’t going to be apart of it.

All the kids were talking about how they were on Robin’s side or on Steve’s side when it came down to the silly bet that’s been created in the last second.

“Alright guys no one is betting on anything because I’m sure Steve can sit down on the couch with us.” Nancy slid over slightly creating a little bit of room for Steve.

“He’s not going to be able to fit in that tiny little spot.” Jonathan said while shaking his head. Nancy frowned slightly realizing that he genuinely wouldn’t fit. Steve ran a hand through his hair, never thought in all his years of living that he would be stressing over a seat during a movie night.

Five minutes past of everyone deciding where Steve was going to sit and how they could make arrangements for him to get comfortable with all of them. He tried to tell them that he was perfectly fine with standing up but his words went in one ear and out the other. It felt like years was being taken off his life when the discussion was finally out to an end, sparking up a new one.

“Why don’t you just sit on my lap?” Eddie was casual when he asked the question. Everyone’s eyes widened as they turned to Eddie then looking at Steve who was still processing the question. The image of him sitting on Eddie’s lap made him blush a little too hard for his liking.

“Well, that is an open spot for you Steve.” Nancy said in between a laugh. The whole room was filled with giggles as Steve’s face turned a light shade of pink. Eddie didn’t make things better by leaning back into the couch and patting his knee with a smirk on his face.

“Looks comfy too.” Max teased. She’s definitely been hanging out with Robin for too long because that was something that had Robin written all over it. Steve rolled his eyes and waved everyone off.

“For the love of god I’m fine with standing up. Can we just get to the movie already.” Steve blurted out. Felt his entire body getting hit from everyone looking at him especially the way Eddie was looking at him, Steve couldn’t describe the way Eddie’s features changed in that moment. All of it was overwhelming.

“Steve are you okay?” Will asked worriedly. Now everyone was observing like he was under a magnifying glass.

“His face is really pink… max told me that meant-“ El was interrupted instantly by Steve grabbing the remote from off the table and fumbling with it as he tried to press the start button.

“Hey! Would you look at that, everybody let’s focus on the movie. That sounds like a good idea.” Steve started the movie before anyone could say anything else and all of their attention was focused on the tv screen. Steve silently thanked his that the conversation had finally come to an end.

Thirty minutes into the movie the kids were already drifting off to sleep and the older teens weren’t that far from it themselves. The movie had another hour to go but realistically no one was going to be up to watch it. In reality Steve and Eddie were the only ones up keeping their eyes on the tv and they were actually interested in the storyline. Steve made quick glances towards Eddie when he started to feel himself getting sleepy and he started leaning back against the wall with his arms folded. Eddie laughed to himself as he watched Steve desperately trying not fall asleep while standing up.

“You’re so stubborn.” Eddie said getting Steve’s attention from across the room.

“What?” Steve couldn’t focus on what Eddie was talking about because sleepiness was starting to take over him.

“You rather stand against a wall fighting sleep instead of sitting on my lap. Which I would argue is comfortable or at least I think it is.” Eddie made a confused face and that made Steve laugh lightly at how silly he was. He hated to admit but Eddie being apart of their friend group added something extra he never knew he needed. “Did I just make the king laugh? Oh what an honor it is to be in this position.”

“Is it really that shocking that I have a sense of humor?” Steve asked, now he was fully awake and he wasn’t leaning against the wall anymore.

“Kind of, my offer still stands if you change your mind. I’ll be here all night and I’m not going anywhere.” Eddie left the offer in the air just in case Steve wanted to sit down after standing up for almost an hour.

Eddie closed his eyes slowly and prepared himself to go into a deep sleep. He’s woken up by the feeling of something heavy weighing on his legs and the feeling of it pressing against his chest. He opened up his eyes to see Steve’s head laying back on his shoulder, Eddie could see Steve’s eyes fluttering closed when he made himself comfortable on his lap. Eddie smiled softly as he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and pulling him closer. Surprisingly Steve didn’t protest against it he just leaned into Eddie’s embrace. Eddie nuzzled his nose against Steve’s shirt then proceeded to close his eyes while snuggling up to Steve. Both of them fell asleep in each other’s arms letting the movie become background noise to them, neither of them knew what that they liked this feeling of comfort from one another. This was something that both of them needed and hopefully this wouldn’t be the last time.

[kvthgok]

Cooler Idiot | Miguel O'Hara x Teen Spider Reader (Platonic)

Warnings- none

Summary- Its roasting in the HQ and your literally dying while Miguel makes fun of you for it.

Side note- not proofread!!!! This was such a random ass ideas it doesn’t even make sense tbh 😭

It was the time of the month everyone dreaded.

It was summer.

Summer in the HQ.

Everyone is roasting in their suits dying of heat It didn’t help that we’d still go on missions.

I groaned loudly as I was dripping in sweat, it was wayyyy too hot. “Someone put an end to my misery”

“Your fine. Suck it up.” Miguel chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and tried my best to stay focused. The heat was killing me.

I looked over to Miguel and saw him completely unbothered by the scorching heat. Why is he fine, while I'm melting here? I wondered. “How are you literally not bothered by the fact it’s like Satans butthole in here?”

"What? I don't feel a thing," Miguel replied nonchalantly.

I stared at him, completely baffled. How was it possible that he was unbothered by the heat?

"You're not sweating?" I asked.

"Not at all." Miguel shook his head. I let out a deep sigh

"I swear I'm gonna pass out from this heat," I grumbled.

"Oh come on now, you're just being overdramatic," Miguel chuckled.

“Over dramatic?! It’s 119 degrees Miguel!” I shouted

"It's not that bad," Miguel replied unfazed.

I scoffed, "Maybe for you. I'm literally dripping in sweat."

I was getting frustrated with Miguel's nonchalant attitude towards the heat.

I looked around and saw a water bottle across the room. Using my webs I grab it and bring it towards me, opening the cap I dump it on me to cool down. I was so desperate.

"Smart thinking," Miguel said as he looked at me. "It's only temporary relief. You'll be boiling again in no time."

I felt like running towards him and dumping a bucket of cold water on him. Unfortunately, there were no buckets of ice water lying around.

I looked at Miguel, who was still staring at me as if I'd grown two heads.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" I accused.

"Maybe," Miguel taunted, still unbothered by the heat. "The heat is getting to you, isn't it?" Miguel asked me slyly.

"Shut up," I snapped back. I felt so yucky in the heat and wanted to escape.

"Aww, poor baby. Can't handle a little sweat," Miguel chuckled.

“I swear to god I will snap your neck..”

"Oh calm down, I'm just playing with you," Miguel said as he continued to mock me.

My temper was rising. I couldn't stand to be in the heat anymore and I was starting to lose my cool.

"Shut up! It's so damn hot in here!" I snapped.

Miguel continued to laugh at me.

-Skip few minutes later-

I had had enough of Miguel, who was still laughing at me and teasing me about the heat.

I lost my cool and decided to douse him in a cup of cold water. He let out a loud shout as the water hit him.

"What in the hell?!" Miguel yelled.

I laughed

"W-what were you thinking?!" Miguel shouted angrily.

I shrugged, "I thought you might want to cool down." I replied sheepishly.

Miguel looked at me angrily as the water clung to his hair and suit. "I hate you," he growled.

I continued to laugh my ass off.

Miguel was getting tired of me laughing at him.

He marched over to me and grabbed me by the shirt collar. He put his face in mine and said in a menacing tone.

"Stop laughing."

"Or what, what are you gonna do?" I asked, trying to contain my laughter.

Miguel glared at me. Despite how angry his expression was, it was hard to take him seriously with how drenched he was.

He grabbed a towel and wiped off his hair.

"You're an idiot," he said in a low tone.

"Yeah," I replied sheepishly. "But at least I'm a Cooler idiot."

[happy-hermit]

HI GUYS I'M BACK ON MY BULLSHIT <333

Have some Scar angst featuring Clockers comfort :) Enjoy!!!

-------------------------------------

Scar kills Cleo.

He doesn’t mean to do it, doesn’t mean to break the rules, doesn’t mean to hurt his own ally. It’s still a shock that he even has allies — it is still something that hits him all over again, every time he opens his eyes and they're still there. 

But Scar kills Cleo. They won’t be there for much longer. 

“You dropped it right on her head,” Bdubs says, solemn, and Scar feels sick. His heart is skipping in his chest, his breath is frozen in his lungs. His hands feel like they’re being assaulted by pins and needles. 

He’s made a mistake. He’d known, of course, that it was only a matter of time, but. Well. Sometimes he likes to pretend. 

He can’t anymore. Not now. Not after that. 

And Cleo didn’t even seem all that mad, is the thing. She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t even frowned, really. She’d been quiet though, at first. And she’d laughed after, but— But people could laugh and still be mad, couldn’t they? And Bdubs had seemed pretty disappointed. 

Scar can’t do anything right. If they hadn’t known that before, they certainly did now. 

Scar kills Cleo.

 That night, he packs his bags. 

It’s not at all hard to sneak out, which is a fun change of pace. Cleo slept like, well, like the dead, and Bdubs had fully mastered the art of sleeping at this point. Nothing short of breaking the bed was going to get him out of it. So Scar just… walks by. He’s got what little possessions he’s collected stored safely in his bag, and the rest he’s left for them. They’ll make better use of things than he will, he’s sure. 

The night is clear and quiet, the same stars as always hanging silently in the sky and watching him while he walks. Those little twinkling lights have been witnesses to every misstep and mistake he’s ever made. He was a bit surprised that one of them hasn’t yet taken it upon themselves to fall out of the sky and end his misery. Though he supposed that might’ve been the moon's true motive. Maybe it had been rude to avoid the inevitable crash. 

Tonight, though, the stars stay where they are, and Scar does not. 

He walks by the Bad Boys burned mansion, the earth around it scorched and bare. He looks up towards the roof for a while, thinking. He almost wants to go up there and find Grian, because at least Grian makes sense. At least Grian hurts him in a way that he is used to. 

Selfish, he thinks, shaking his head and turning away. Grian never meant it; he isn’t cruel. Scar just tends to awaken in people the need to get away, is all. Like how all anyone ever thinks about when carrying a heavy object is a place to put it down. 

Scar wanders for a bit, dodging mobs as he stumbles through the darkness, until finally the sun starts to rise. Scar drops his bag down at the bottom of a hill and sits down heavily beside it, as dim light transitions to golden rays. He’s not going to build on a mountain, he resolves. Not this time. Not when he’s trying not to be noticed.

He eats a quick breakfast of steak and bread,  heavy silence sitting like a cloak on his shoulders, and then he starts carving a hole into the hill. He spends the rest of the day like that, hollowing out a home as hollow as he feels, ignoring the buzz of his communicator in his pocket. Either someone was trying to get a hold of him, or no one had noticed at all. He’s not sure which he would prefer, and so he doesn’t look. He doesn’t look, and he tries his best not to think about it, either. He builds a new base of stone and brick into the hillside, and then he shuts the door behind him and lies in bed and doesn’t sleep. 

There is the steady and faint noise of water leaking through the roof across the room, single drops of water falling in intervals into the bucket he’d placed haphazardly before crawling under the covers. There is the crackling of the oven a few feet away, still warm from the steak he’d cooked earlier. There is the quiet howling of wind from outside, as it tugged on grass and trees and at his door. He can hear himself breathing, can hear it hitch as soon as he becomes aware of it. 

He’s cold, and he shivers, tugging the blanket up further as he stares at the ceiling. There’s moisture stinging at the corners of his eyes, and there is a lump in his throat, and even though there is no one around to hear he still can’t quite break the habit of crying silently.

He wakes up to birds singing, and dried tear tracks on his cheeks. Scar sits in bed for a moment, lost, and then he grabs his hoe and wheat seeds, and he goes outside. 

There are a few pigs on his hill that he spends an hour herding into a pen, and then he finds a good stretch of land and gets to work tilling it. By the time the seeds are planted and watered, it’s mid afternoon, and Scar jumps straight into cutting down a few trees for wood. His muscles are sore and straining, but still he swings the axe. As evidenced by the unintended brutal murder of his pretend mother, he really doesn’t know when to quit. 

At least now with no one else around, there is no one else to hurt. It’s just him. Which is fine, really, because he’s done it before. He knows how it goes. This is how they play the game. 

So Scar is not expecting anyone to come after him. Which is probably why he almost takes Bdubs’ head off with his axe when he’s suddenly just there.

“You’ll clear out the forest at this rate,” Bdubs says casually, very close behind him, and Scar yelps in alarm and spins around mid swing. “Maybe you— Hey, watch it!”

It’s only thanks to Bdubs short stature and quick duck that his head remains on his shoulders, and in the aftermath they stare at each other with wide eyes and heaving lungs.

“Bdubs,” Scar manages, strangled and high-pitched, and then he rapidly clears his throat, pasting on a smile. “You— I didn’t see you there! Not that—”

“If you’re going to make a short joke I will stab you on the spot,” Bdubs grumbles, and he tears the axe out of Scar’s slack hands, throwing it to the ground a few feet away. “I’ve been out all night looking for you, I hope you appreciate the lack of sleep I’ve had to endure.”

Scar stares, awkward smile slipping a little as his mind sluggishly attempts to comprehend the conversation. 

“Why?” Scar asks eventually, interrupting the other’s unintelligible grumbling as he smooths his clothes. “Did I forget something? Or— I didn’t take something of yours by accident, did I?”

Bdubs goes still and looks up, brow furrowed slightly and eyes unreadable. “Did you— You forgot to say goodbye, for one thing!” Bdubs crosses his arms and glares at him. “And didn’t tell us where you were going! And didn’t answer our messages! You— You disappeared!”

He seems angry, or at least frustrated, and Scar’s heart beats a little faster. He doesn’t— He’s confused, is all. He’s not sure what this is about.

“Oh! Well, I thought— I thought it would just be easier, you know?” Scar says, and shrugs like it's no big deal, like his chest isn’t constricting. “So you didn’t have to say it.”

“Oh what are you blabbering about?” Bdubs scowls, but can’t quite hide his confusion. “So we didn’t have to say what?”

“Just— You know.” Scar looks away in defeat, because now Bdubs is gonna make him say it. “So you didn’t have to ask me to leave.”

“...What?”

Bdubs says it like he has no idea what Scar is talking about, like he’s talking nonsense, and something desperate wells up in his stomach and crawls into his throat. He has to make him understand.

“Look, I’m— I may be clueless, but I can still read a room,” Scar says, quick and shaky and filled with false bravado. He tries for a smile, and it sits on his face like a wound would. “Trust me, I know when people have had enough. Just— Let me leave with my dignity this time?” Scar chuckles, like it’s a joke, but it’s a sad little sound, and he can’t look Bdubs in the eyes. “You don’t have to… ask. It’s fine, really. It’s better for everyone like this.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Scar almost thinks Bdubs already left. But—

“You’re right,” Bdubs says, and something about his voice is strange. Strained and soft. The words land like a blow, but Bdubs isn’t finished. He comes up next to him and touches his arm. Scar closes his eyes. 

“You are clueless,” Bdubs says, still in that gentle, choked tone, and Scar gasps as he’s pulled into a hug.

His hands hover aimlessly over Bdubs’ back for a few long seconds, tears stinging at the back of his wide eyes. His heart is beating fast, and his chest aches, and for some reason, Bdubs is hugging him. Tightly, like he’s not planning on letting go. Like it’s not a goodbye. 

“I killed Cleo,” Scar chokes out, because his throat hurts and he doesn’t really want to say it, but he has to make sure Bdubs knows, even though there’s no way he doesn’t. 

“Yeah, you did,” Bdubs replies easily, and squeezes Scar’s middle pointedly. “She thought it was funny. She’s not mad.” He pauses, and continues a little softer. “We didn’t want you to leave. We don’t.”

Scar lets his hands rest carefully against the other’s back, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. “Please don’t be lying,” he says.

“You called me out for being the Boogey, Scar,” Bdubs says, a bit of amusement returning to his voice. “You know what I sound like when I’m lying.”

“You’re bad at it,” Scar says weakly.

“Exactly. So are you.”

“We make a good team?”

“We do,” Bdubs says, and finally pulls away. His eyes are a little puffy, and Scar blinks in shock. Bdubs grins. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

Their clock tower raises high in the distance, and as they approach, Scar spots Cleo standing outside of it, tapping their foot and checking her communicator. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until Bdubs calls his name in question. 

“She’s really not mad,” Bdubs insists, tugging at his wrist lightly. “Well, maybe that you left, but not about the killing thing.”

“I don’t know, Bdubs,” Scar says, nerves making his voice waver. 

“That’s because I’m in charge of knowing right now,” Bdubs scolds, and Scar finally relents and starts walking again. “Just don’t run away again.”

About halfway up the mountain, Cleo spots them, and her shoulders sag. In relief? 

“It’s past your curfew!” Cleo calls out, and has their hands on their hips when they finally make it to where’s she’s standing. She raises an eyebrow at Scar, who shrinks a little beneath their gaze. “Where have you been?”

It’s like they’re upset that he left, that he wasn’t there, that he was gone, and Scar— Doesn’t know how to deal with that. It is so far outside the realm of his recent experiences that he’s struck speechless, for a moment. Bdubs seems to take pity on him. 

“He thought you were mad,” Bdubs says, nudging Scar forwards a little. 

“So you left?” Cleo asks, as if that’s not the rational conclusion that Scar thinks it is, and he swallows hard, avoiding their eyes. 

“Well, I thought—“ He wrings his hands into his shirt, heart pounding. “I thought you… wanted me to leave?”

Cleo’s face falls, almost imperceptibly, and Scar winces. 

“Why would I want that, Scar?”

His mouth is dry, and right now he really does feel like a little kid in trouble with his parents. 

“I killed you,” Scar says, quiet and ashamed. He’s studying the ground beneath his feet with rapt attention. There is dog fur stuck in the cracks. 

“Yeah.” Cleo shrugs, and Scar glances up in bewilderment. “And Grian, and Jimmy. It was amazing, actually.”

Scar stares, and something in his face must give him away, because Cleo’s softens. 

“I told you I was proud,” Cleo says. “I did mean it, you know.”

“But—“

“Why is it so hard to believe?” Cleo interrupts, voice suddenly commanding, and yet still gentle. It’s something only she can pull off. “Why is— Your first thought is that we want you gone. Why?”

“Because no one wants me around,” Scar snaps, finally fed up, some overwhelming and burning emotion building in his chest as his voice raises. “You know I— All I ever try to do is make allies, but no one ever— Only one person has ever stuck by me, but it was never because he wanted to. He had to.” Scar makes a grand sweeping gesture, manic smile breaking under his trailing tears. He lets out a shaky laugh that’s more of a sob, and he lets his hands fall back to his sides. 

“Everyone leaves,” Scar says eventually, after a few seconds of oppressive silence. “And maybe it’s— maybe I’m made for it, but I don’t—“ His voice breaks, and he closes his eyes. “I don’t want to be alone.”

It’s not something he’s ever admitted out loud. It’s not something he ever really felt like he deserved to feel. 

“Then stay,” Cleo says, and her hand appears on his wrist, cold and careful. “We have a choice, and we want you here.”

“What’s a little death between family, anyway?” Bdubs pipes up, and takes Scar’s other hand. “Just brings us closer.”

Scar doesn’t realize he’s crying again until Cleo lets out a soft sound. 

“Oh, Scar…”

Scar lets out a watery laugh, wiping fruitlessly at his eyes. “I don’t want to leave,” he says, small and tired. “I want to stay.”

Cleo pulls him against their chest, and he buries his face in their shoulder and his hands into their clothes, and his shoulders shake. 

“Good,” Cleo says, sounding a little shaky herself, as Bdubs tucks up against his side and sighs a little in relief. “So do I.”

The sun has long since set, and Scar can feel his eyelids drooping as his emotions finally catch up with him. He feels hollow, but in a good way. Like there’s finally room for something better to take its place. 

They’re still hugging, still standing in the dark in front of their cobbled-together clock tower, and somehow, Bdbubs starts snoring. He’s fallen asleep, leaning against Scar’s side, still standing up. 

“I think it’s time for bed,” Cleo says, laughing quietly, and Scar cracks a genuine smile for the first time in a while. He carefully feta goes himself from Cleo and scoops Bdubs up in one smooth motion, heading for the door. It’s missing something; maybe a doormat. 

When he turns to check on Cleo, she’s still standing where he left them, but she’s staring at the Bad Boys mansion with a stony face and clenched fists. It’s almost like she’s angry at one of them, for something. Scar can't think of anything recent that would’ve justified her anger now. 

“Cleo?” Scar calls, uncertain, and they jolt a bit, turning to look at him. “Are you coming?”

With one last glance at the mansion, she sighs and follows him inside, ruffling his hair on her way by.

“Welcome home,” she says, and Scar feels something in his chest piece back together. 

And, well. That would be a pretty good thing to put on a doormat.

[imagines-by-cleo]

Alright I’ll be adding another one to your numerous kaz requests😅can we get one where a female assassin (not Quiet lol) attempts to murder mgsv!Kaz and despite the hate he falls in love with her? I just thought the idea of Kaz having an ex assassin lover might be interesting.

and like everyone is saying…please take your time and don’t rush. Love your blog xoxo

~I'm back~ and omg I can't believe it took me until the new year to finish this. I've been writing this one bit by bit for the last couple months and I liked this prompt so much I'm almost sad to finish it. Thank you friend for thinking of this! Maybe I'll do a part two after I finish the rest of the requests and the few of my own I have in the works that should hopefully be out soon.

CW: SMUT, kinda dubcon, bondage, nipple play, teasing, fingering, orgasm denial, switch!Kaz, rough sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling

You gasped as another bucket full of freezing water was dumped over you, making you shudder and strain against the chains that held your arms above your head. Ready to shout another insult at the overdressed bastard that had been interrogating you until the swish of the sliding door echoed across the room and a stranger stepped in.

His presence held weight and his silence added to that, while you held your breath the only sound was the clanking of his cane on the metal floor slowly coming closer and closer.

"I tried everything, but unless you want me to seriously hurt her she's not gonna budge." The cowboy spoke, sounding just a little too excited as he hinted for permission to really get to work.

"That's not necessary." Kaz replied, sounding just the slightest bit defensive. "Let me talk to her. Alone."

"I don't think that's a good idea..."

"I don't care what you think." Kaz snapped back.

With a shrug the other man walked out of the room and you were left alone with your former target. If he wanted you dead it's likely he would have just killed you already, it was more possible that he wanted answers, secrets that you were in no position to be giving away. There was still a chance that you could save this mission from failure but if you cracked and gave away any information you would be dodging assassins better than yourself for the rest of your life.

He came closer in no hurry at all, clanking of his crutch hitting the metal floor echoed through the silent room like a doom drum. As he stood between you and the only light in the room he made a rather intimidating silhouette, towering over you in complete silence. Though you knew that his calm collected nature was just a ruse to put you in suspense you couldn't help but feel a little defeated as it was working.

"Let's start at the beginning." He said before starting his interrogation. "How did you get in?"

"Wouldn't you like to to know soldier boy?" You quipped, earning the smallest hint of a growl that he made quick work of silencing before he continued.

"Who do you work for?" He asked.

"You have a lot of enemies. Kaz." You teased, staring him down. "Just pick one to blame it on for now, it won't matter in the end."

"This doesn't have to be difficult." He stated, more reasonably than anyone who was almost murdered had a right to sound.

"Oh you haven't even seen difficult yet." You challenged, sounding more like a bratty child than a deadly assassin.

He quickly raised his hand, thinking he was going to hit you you flinched, not expecting to find him only reaching for the top button of your fatigues. It really did catch you off guard when he started to pop open each button slowly, one after the other until your whole front was undone and chest ready to be exposed by the slightest pull of the fabric.

Though the clothes still covered all that they were supposed to, the chilly wet fabric clinging tightly to your skin left little to the imagination. The sunglasses covering his eyes made it hard to tell where Kaz was looking yet you could still feel yourself shrinking under his gaze and fought your restraints with the urge to cover yourself.

Raising his hand to his mouth and biting down on the fingertip of his glove he pulled it off with his teeth then spit it onto the floor. He touched his bare hand to your neck, feeling how your breath was starting to quicken and more so when you knew he noticed, then pressing his thumb lightly over your windpipe he felt it stop. You found yourself wondering, doubting and then fearing again if a one handed man could even strangle you. Something in his firm grasp told you that he was ready to, and threatened, no, promised that he would.

His fingers moved, tracing your collar bone then stopping on the center of your chest, feeling your racing heartbeat for just a moment before slowly pulling one side of your shirt open. The touch of his hand on your skin felt both foreign and warm against your cold skin, even when he started to cup your uncovered breast it was difficult to reject.

"What are you doing?" You asked with an all too telling shake in your voice, receiving no answer from the man touching you.

You wanted to kick him away, spit at him maybe, call him a pervert or something worse, but the way he touched you was so meticulous and not at all a rushed taking of an opportunity. His touch was deliberate yet gentle, and the bitter scowl still stuck on his face told you that this wasn't for his enjoyment.

The cold water had already made your nipples stand out leaving them much easier to touch, he circled one with his thumb lightly toying with it and making you shudder. You did your best not to show a reaction and began to bite your lip in fear of making a noise as he continued to squeeze and massage the soft flesh in his grasp.

Soon his fingers started to wander lower, until they had reached a point that made you assess whether you should reject his touch or open up to it you found your body had already answered for you as your legs parted without any resistance. Truth be told there were certainly more horrible people to be captured by, even when you were looking at his file and saw the messy blonde hair and the mysterious shades you thought it would be a shame to kill him.

His fingers ran slowly up and down your slit, only brushing your clit with every other languid stroke. You could feel yourself getting wetter and eventually hear it too when you started to soak his fingers and make it easier for them to glide over your folds. When you rolled your hips forward to grind against his palm only finding he suddenly pulled his hand away, now you knew what his goal was.

"That's a dirty trick." You huffed, rubbing your thighs together though it was no substitute for his touch.

"Talk." He demanded, returning just one finger to rub little circles around your clit without ever really touching it.

"I can't." You growled in frustration. "They have other assassins ready to kill anyone that cracks."

His fingers moved down to circle your entrance, making you more and more desperate with each stroke. The satisfied look on his face as you got visibly closer to breaking was your only motivation to stay quiet. He leaned in close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin, the ghost of a touch of his lips on your ear seemed to hit every nerve in your body as he whispered.

"Are you sure you're so worried about that?" He asked, challenging the last bit of strength you had left.

One finger pressed in slowly, enough that you could savor the slight stretch which you couldn't tell whether it came from the thickness of the digit or how hard you had been clenching around it. Sliding in as deep as possible before curling, you moaned out loud as the feeling in the core grew more intense and demanded relief.

Kaz leaned in close until his lips where just ghosting over your own, you wanted to lean forward to kiss him but he was just out of reach. Still he lingered, tasting every breath growing deeper and faster while his fingers pumped in time. Just as you were sure you could cum all over his fingers he pulled his hand away.

"No, no, no, please!" You whimpered, trying to get his touch back before your release was lost.

"Tell me." He reiterated much to your frustration.

"It's XOF, okay? They sent me to kill you." You finally broke down and admitted not even caring about the consequences.

"What else do you know about them?" He continued.

"They don't tell me that much, probably in case I got captured, but they have more people they're gonna send if I don't come back."

"In that case we're gonna have to tighten up security around here..." His attention drifted off as he started to mentally plan.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a damn tease?" You jeered.

That seemed to be the only thing that broke his scowl as he let out a short laugh, he even seemed to stay amused as he turned and walked away. "Well if those assassins are only as skilled as you I guess we have nothing to worry about."

"Hey, where are you going?" You asked though you received no answer

Totally unbothered as he kept walking and not the slightest bit guilty for leaving you so desperately untouched as he entered the code and stepped out the door.

"Kaz, you can't leave me like this." You shouted after him shamelessly bargaining. "It's gotta be against the Geneva convention or something."

As as the door shut behind him and your begging shouts had turned into frustrated curses as you strained against your bonds. The room was left deadly silent making the sound of your pounding heart echo louder through your neglected body and you found yourself wishing that someone would have mercy and dump another bucket of cold water on you.

~

Ever since that day you had been working exclusively for the diamond dogs under the direct orders of Kazuhira Miller. Doing odd missions and assassinations that Big Boss was too busy to take care of, your most difficult mission so far was convincing everyone that you were no longer a threat, but for the most part you left that up to Kaz. Your loyalty lied only with him and for the worst reason, every day that you worked you counted yourself lucky that that no one else knew the truth or what your goals really were; although every once in a while you would get a knowing glance from that cowboy you met earlier.

Soon enough you had earned enough trust to have the privilege of a room of your own, it was hardly an upgrade from your cold cell but it at least had a proper bed, the only real problem was how empty it felt. The nights there were unbearable alone and you constantly found yourself tossing and turning with an insatiable need burning through your body. Your own touch was hardly enough to satisfy, even when you pretended your fingers were his while tracing all the places he had touched before.

One night you couldn't take it anymore, frustrated with the growing wetness between your thighs you ventured out to go find the relief you had been craving for far too long. Without even bothering to put on more than the t-shirt you slept in and a thin pair of panties you snuck out through the halls avoiding detection much like you would on a real mission.

Security had increased since you first infiltrated the base, but luckily for you not in the places it mattered. The routes patrol took were the same and the direction cameras were pointed never changed either, both faults practically inviting you into Kaz's quarters.

He wasn't a very sound sleeper, just like the first time you saw him he was tossing and turning in a fight with his own dreams before he even woke to notice an intruder. Quietly and carefully you crept onto his bed watching him twitch and mumble for a moment before you crawled over and straddled him, pushing the sweat dampened hair back from his forehead you noticed his breathing start to steady as his eyes fluttered open.

The peace didn't last long however, when he woke up enough to realize there was someone else in the room his expression changed to pure rage. His hand flew to your throat squeezing tight even after he recognized you almost as if you were the nightmare he had been fighting with. Only gently setting a hand on his arm while trying not to give in to your instinct to fight back, eventually his grip relaxed though he didn't let go of your neck.

"Trying to kill me again?" He questioned, baring his teeth.

"No." You answered simply, a blush crept onto you face along with a hint of a nervous smile.

Kaz was about to say something else, most likely a follow up question until he felt the answer in your fingertips creeping along the waistband of his boxers. He was stunned at the boldness of your touch, giving you the opportunity to grab his wrist and pin it to his side.

"You never told me how you got in here." He confidantly remarked, as if he was still in control.

"The same way I got in last time." You answered proudly. "And you didn't even bother to lock the door this time."

Noticing the hint of a smirk on his face you could almost assume that he knew, even as you felt him strain in your grasp but never really fight against it made you think this vulnerability was just an act or more likely a trap. Suspicious as his behavior was you couldn't help but take the opportunity before you, hooking your finger on his boxers waistband and slowly pulling them down.

With a few light strokes you soon felt his cock stiffen up in your grasp then once it was nice and hard you gripped tighter and pumped a little faster. Watching his chest rise and fall as his breathing grew deeper you were hoping to get something like a whimper or maybe you could even get him beg and look as pathetic as you must have when he was teasing you.

The idea swirled in your head as you softened your grip and slowed down until you were only giving him short lazy strokes. Kaz let out a deep frustrated groan, while it wasn't what you were hoping for it was a start. He opened his eyes to see you staring down at him with sadistic intentions then gave you a defiant smile while shaking his head.

Pouting at his reaction you became even more determined to get him to crack, with only your thumb and your forefinger you continued to work his shaft until you could practically hear him grinding his teeth. He had almost wiggled his wrist out of your grasp but you kept a firm hold on him.

After deciding you had enough of teasing him you let go and moved up to hover your hips just above his, though he tried to hide it his twitching and squirming gave him away. Your mouth watered at the sight of Kaz held down panting with his swollen leaking cock out and proud just waiting for you to touch it while the growing ache between your own legs was getting too much to ignore

Too impatient to even take them completely off you simpliy slid your panties to the side before straddling him and lowering down, taking a minute roll your hips and drag his tip across your slit and feel it twitch while you soaked his cock. He let out the most delicious gasp when you slammed down on him and took the entire length with little resistance, for a moment you stayed there just savoring the feeling that was so much better than you had imagined in the long lonely nights.

The small victory wasn't yours to enjoy for very long, you held still long enough to feel him writhe impatiently and try to raise his hips in protest, you kept your resolve and only lifted slowly off of him then lowered back down taking just one inch at a time. Kaz groweld at first, then he sighed, then he whined. It was just like how you were when he left literally hanging in that cold cell, maybe even worse. The idea of that revenge made you dizzy with the promise of relief like you had been wanting, and you found yourself feeling just merciful enough to use him to get it.

Squeezing around him and making him moan without any hint of shame, his wrist went limp in your grasp and he relaxed and allowed you to continue your sweet torture. It did feel like a victory to render him as helpless as he was beneath you, even the idea of it made you wetter than you thought possible and the sight of it made you shudder. In that moment you needed release more than you needed revenge, the bitterness you felt toward him slipped further away every time you sunk down on his cock.

Your hips were moving on their own at that point, it was hard to tell who was getting more pleasure out of it all you knew was that you were getting so close to that sweet relief you had needed since he first touched you. Reminded of that night you had the idea of bringing his hand up to your chest, having him touch you like only he could.

As soon as you released his wrist his hand flew to your thigh grabbing tight and using it as leverage to throw you off onto your back, already stunned at being tossed off like that you never expected him to flip you again before climbing over and using his weight to keep you pinned down with a hand on the back of your neck.

"Fuck! Not again." You groaned, feeling your release slipping away.

His fingers twisted into your hair while he pushed your face into the pillow, the way he held you down made nearly impossible to even shift your weight let alone break free. Although his still hard cock rubbing against you from behind curbed your want to escape.

He laughed as you tried to wiggle yourself out to no avail. "I expect better from my best assassin, I should teach you a lesson."

Fighting his grasp just enough to turn your head for a moment to ask while sliding your panties down and coyly grinding against him. "Would you call this a lesson, or maybe a punishment?"

"A mission, now shut up and take it." He answered bluntly before forcing your head back into the pillow.

The first thrust buried his entire length deeper than it had gone before, without even realizing it you were whimpering helplessly while he pulled out to the tip and repeated the action again. Over and over the cycle continued of him leaving you nearly empty just to plunge in even deeper and quicker.

It was almost too much but you were so afraid of him stopping and not letting you finish that you spread your legs farther and took even more. Your cheeks grew red in pure embarrassment as you lost all control over the noises coming from your mouth, more so when Kaz pulled your head back by the hair and forced you to cry out in the open.

"C'mon, let everyone know who you're loyal to now." He demanded, twisting your hair and earning another scream.

He was so cruel, but honestly that was what you wanted, the violence, the insults, the brutal manhandling, all of it. Ever since that day you were wishing he would just pound you like this, all the while giving you that blood chilling scowl.

That feeling of reaching your peak came creeping up through your body again, and with it a fear that you would be denied release. You arched your back and bucked your hips in rhythm with his trying to take in as much of him as you possibly could while fully expecting him to chastise you for being so desperate.

"Don't... Don't make me beg for it again." You panted out, lifting up and pressing your back to his chest.

He snorted at your request. "You're so lucky I'm bored of teasing you."

Having him so close while you came made the sensation so much more intense, feeling his breathing get deeper while he pounded even harder and pulled your hair even tighter. He tugged your head to the side so he could put his mouth on your neck and practically taste every moan that flowed out, his lips felt scorching on your already burning skin consuming you completely in a wildfire of passion.

Kaz pulled out and turned you over while your legs were still twitching, before he could even push back in you caught a glance through the glaze in your eyes and saw the first spurts of cum dripping out of his cock. He shut his eyes and bared his teeth while he continued to roll his hips forward, letting out long low groan and gripping your thigh tight. The feeling of him twitching inside while he while he filled you up was just too much for your sore overstretched hole, but the lingering need to keep him close kept you from telling him to stop and instead making you wrap your legs around his waist.

Spent, exhausted and finally finished he dropped down, his face only a few inches away from your own. Your breath mixed and your eyes locked in a moment of honest exposure, the bitterness and tension being released finally allowed the two of you to really see each other for a brief moment.

He didn't hold back at all, touching and kissing you wildly wherever he pleased while you were still shivering and giving you all the contact you had been begging for all this time. While you were a little taken aback by his treatment you readily accepted and even returned the affection where you could.

"Do you know how bad I wanted to do this while you were all tied up in there?" He revealed through heavy breaths.

Even his affection was violent. Kisses from a man who forgot any other way to be intimate could nearly drown you in wave after brutal wave, but you wouldn't just survive without returning in kind. Not simply allowing Kaz to take over your body, you savagely took his as well. Becoming nothing more than a tangled mess of tongues and teeth, hands grabbing and pulling desparately whether they landed on hair or skin.

In one of the rare instances when your lips had to part for oxygen you took the opportunity to say. "Kaz. Don't take this the wrong way but, I'm so glad I came to kill you."

"There's no right way for you to take this but, I'm glad you're bad at your job." He replied with a grin.

With the slightest urge to prove him wrong right there you laughed and kissed him again. For the rest of the night it continued like that, with the two of you sharing banter while holding each other close. The end of the agonizingly tense relationship you previously had sparked the begining of something that would be a challenge to explain if anyone on base found out. If they found out.

[last-herondale]

We Could Have Been Everything

Loki x FemReader

Warnings: Cursing, heartbreak, lying

This is angst. Pure heart break 💔 I apologize in advance.

A/N: i had this idea of a scene where y/n is just utterly heart broken by Loki but she refuses to let him have the last word.

Enjoy…? 🤘🏼

Masterlist

It was pouring buckets outside. This planet was known for its constant downpours and thunderstorms. Loki figured it was as good as any place to lay low for a bit. He had messed up, as he always seemed to do. Pissed off the wrong people, made enemies on the wrong planet. All of that he could handle with grace and finesse, but there was one monumental hiccup that he never expected.

You.

He sat alone at a small diner, staring down at a cup of what he hoped was coffee, but with this planet he couldn’t be sure. He had been jumping around from planet to planet for months now, hoping for one of these spots to be promising for a new home. But he was always disappointed. Every place seemed to be missing something. He amazed himself by how nitpicky he could be, even in this time of uncertainty.

But he knew what was missing, or rather who was missing. But he pushed those thoughts far from his mind. He made his decision. It was for the best, at least that was what he had tried to convince to himself. Leaving you behind on Earth was the hardest thing he ever had to do—but he had to do it.

The image of you flashed in his memory as it always did. He sighed and pushed his mug away as he put a few local currency on the table and left. He didn’t bother with an umbrella, he could always use his magic to make himself dry later. Right now he wanted to feel the cold, fat rain drops hit his skin. He wanted to feel anything but what he had felt the last few months.

As he made his way through the streets towards his rented room, the sky turned a dark grey as the sun dipped low in the horizon. The streets were quiet— nearly silent compared to the traffic on Earth. Loki had come to miss the constant roar of traffic in New York. He missed watching you stir at the sound of sirens, tangling the sheets under your legs and your rested your head on his chest.

The feel of your bare skin on his. The scent of you—

Loki was knocked back by a strong force that took him completely by surprise. He landed on his ass, his pants soaked from the impact. He looked up with a murderous rage, his eyes glowing green as he saw a figure before him. He pulled back his upper lip in a snarl, his mouth ready to yell out all of the worst profanities—but the figure stepped closer and the outline became horrifically recognizable.

His expression went slack.

“Y/n?”

You glared down at him, your hair was wet and it clung to your face. Every inch of you was soaked from the rain, but your body was burning with rage as you looked down at him. He scrambled up, his expression in utter shock from seeing you here.

“How? What are you—“ you slapped him hard across the face. Your hand stung from the impact but you kept your composure as he looked at you with shock, one hand holding his cheek.

“Do you really think that you are in any position to ask questions?” You hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. Words seemed to fail him. He wanted to explain himself, to explain why he left— but he was too happy to see you again. Even if you seemed dead sent on beating him to death, he could not hide the spark of hope that ignited in his chest.

“Just…let me explain -“

“FUCK. YOU!” You yelled at him. He flinched at your words but shut his mouth as you continued to yell. “You leave me a letter— a fucking note, Loki! Is that all I get? After everything? The best I get is a fucking sticky note?!”

Loki bit his lip. He remembers the words he wrote clear as day.

I’m not good for you. Please Forgive me.

It was not one of his prouder moments, but he knew that if he lingered to long on what he needed to say, he would never be able to leave you.

“And then you just leave? Like a fucking coward— you skip town?? Try to hide in this shithole system? Do you really think it’s that easy for a god to disappear, you piece of shit? Did you think it was okay to have me worried sick for months not knowing whether you were alive or dead? Did I really mean so little to you?”

“You meant everything to me!” Loki shouted. He took a step closer to you but you kept your finger jabbed against him to keep his distance. He frantically searched your eyes, feeling his tears bead on his face.

“I had to leave—don’t you understand? Everywhere I go, I make a mess of things. Always running—always fighting. That’s not a life I wanted for you.”

“That was not your choice to make!” You yelled. You pushed your hand away from him and began to pace the sidewalk a bit as you threw your hands up in exasperation. You turned back to look at him, your eyes a mixture of anger and sadness.

“You do not get to come into my life like this—make me feel this way for you—make me fall so in love with you—that I can’t breathe when you are away from me“ your voice shook as you said this. Tears rolled down Loki’s face and they mixed with the rain.

“You don’t get to decide what I want my life to be. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be the one that was there with you every step of the way—no matter what may happen. You made me want that. You made me want it all— then you just fucking ripped it all away.”

Loki looked absolutely defeated. He took a step closer to you, waiting for you to push him away. He deserved it, he knew. Everything you said was right, and it killed him inside. You didn’t flinch from him, and he took a few more steps until he was inches away. He watched a few drops of rain fall from your face, getting caught up in the beauty of you.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, my love. I never wanted to hurt you, I just needed— to protect you.” He said in a low whisper. His throat was raspy with emotion as he looked into your eyes. “Im not worthy of you.”

Your eyes softened a bit at his words. You leaned in a bit, and Loki caught the scent of your perfume and inhaled like an addict. How he longed for you these past months. He thought you might kiss him, hit him again, whatever. He would let you do it to him willingly.

You stopped until your foreheads were touching. The two of you savored the contact for a minute before you spoke. “I believed in us. I believed that we could do anything together— be anyone we wanted to be, together. I had hope—so much hope and love for us, Loki.”

“And now?” Loki asked quietly.

You shivered once, not because of the cold or the rain. You broke apart from him, watching his face fall as you took a step back from him. Your heart ached, as it had for the past few months in thunderous waves of pain.

“Now I don’t believe in anything.” You said flatly.

Loki felt his chest deflate as his heart shattered. “Y/n-“ he tried to beg before you cut him off.

“I just came to make sure you were alive. Nothing more. I know I shouldn’t, since You’ve made it clear how much you care, but what can I say, old habits are hard to break.” You said bitterly. You let yourself take one last look at Loki, seeing him so disheveled broke your heart. You finally looked away from him.

“Goodbye, Loki.”

He called your name loudly as you disappeared without a trace. He fell to his knees sobbing, clutching his chest as if his heart didn’t just evaporate from his body.

[bellysoupset]

Soup! Rn I would looooove to see Luke and sick Vince with Luke being the comforting force this time? Just wanna see those two beans talk and recheck how much they care about each other @writing-whump

Some sickific with heavy brotp, the chef's special.

-------------------

Wendy groaned, pressing her forehead to the cool surface of the chilled water bottle she was holding. She had the start of a headache, from stress, from the lack of rest, from heartbreak...

Vince had just plateau, after almost two whole days shaking with a high fever and throwing up everything he had ever eaten, he was finally sleeping and seemingly able to keep water down. Just when she had considered dragging his ass to the hospital.

Jonah had left early morning and now it was well into the evening, almost night, and Wendy knew she should be getting something to eat for them both... She was just so tired.

Her cellphone startled her and Wendy nearly dropped the water bottle, squealing as she caught it just before the hard plastic could hit her toe and then grabbing her phone before it could wake up Vince sleeping a room away.

Bella's pictured appeared on the screen, her sleeping with her head tilted back and a cowboy hat sitting upon wild curls and blocking most of her face.

Wendy rolled her eyes at the picture the ginger had assigned herself and picked up the call, "hello?"

"Hi Wen," Bella's voice was a touch too soft, but that was expected. Wendy had talked with Luke the day before and learned the ginger had also caught the flu, "how are you?"

"I think I should be asking you that," Wendy chuckled nervously, leaning against the sink of her kitchen and rubbing a hand over her face, "Luke mentioned you got sick as well."

"It'd take a lot more than the flu to knock me out," Bella scoffed, "I'm fine, I'm bored out of my mind and wondering if you wanna come over?"

Now!?

Wendy frowned, "I- what? Come again?" the question was so out of the blue and weird, given the circumstances, that Wendy wasn't sure what to make of it. Girls night while Bella had the rest of a stomach flu and Vince was down for the count in Wendy's bedroom?!

"Yeah, I'm- Luke, I'm telling her, would you wait-"

"Give me the phone-" Luke's voice travelled through the line and Wendy muffled a giggle as she heard them wrestling for the phone. Then it was Luke talking with her, instead of the ginger.

"Can I go over?" straight to the point. Wendy raised her eyebrows and nodded, before she remembered he couldn't see her.

"Yeah, Luke, of course-"

"Let's switch? You can handle my darling wife - stop pinching me, Isabella! - who's bored out of her mind and I can watch Vince?" Lucas' voice was breathless and Wendy's heart squeezed. She felt a weird sense of camaraderie with him, which was entirely misplaced, given Luke knew Vince would be leaving for weeks before Wendy did.

Water under the bridge, she knew it, since Vince was leaving and she was still dating him... But the resentment was still there. Resentment that she couldn't find in her when Lucas' was clearly out of his mind with worry over Vince.

It would be good, to have Luke come over and clear the air with Vince. Make things normal again, so Vince could stop looking like a kicked puppy all hours of the day... Besides, she could use the rest and Bella was already ahead of recovery than Vin was-

"Wendy?"

"Yeah, of course. Can I spend the night?"

"You're gonna end up catching this bug, Wen," Lucas said, sounding relieved, "yeah, we can trade places in the morning, how does that sound?"

"Honestly sounds heavenly..."

"See you in a bit then- Oh my god, Bella, give me the fucking remote and stop messing with my watchlist-"

Wendy chuckled as he hung up and she made her way back to the bedroom to pack an overnight bag. Vince was curled on his side, the empty bucket sitting on the ground next to his head, his black curls sticking out everywhere.

She put everything away inside a backpack, the dropped it by the door and climbed on the bed, combing her fingers through her boyfriend's hair.

He was still overly warm to the touch, a fever that just wouldn't break, and even in his sleep his brows were nearly meeting in a frown. Probably cramps, she thought sympathetically, feeling Vince's tummy growl since she was sitting on his side.

"Vin," she whispered, debating waking him up or not, "Honey...?"

She always forgot he was a light sleeper, because just with that small whisper Vince stirred on the bed and his eyes fluttered open. Drowsy and lost, he struggled to focus on her.

"Hey," Wendy rubbed his arm, "how are you feeling?"

"Gross," Vince groaned, curling up further, "what time is it?"

"Around seven," she stroked his cheek, "Luke and I are exchanging places, okay?"

Vince's dark eyes widened and he suddenly was a lot more alert, "Luke's coming here?"

"He's worried," Wendy shrugged, deciding not to tell Vince just how exhausted she was as well. This could be all pinned on Luke for all she cared, "and he misses you, honey."

"Well, he's the one not talking with me," Vince scoffed, before grimacing as his belly let out a growl. She pressed closer to it, kicking herself mentally for enjoying the sensation and sound when it clearly was making him feel like hell.

"So you'll be an adult and talk with him," she squeezed his bicep, "do you remember anything from the last days?"

"Nearly crushing you to death twice," Vince groaned, closing his eyes, "and barfing everything I ever ate."

She rolled her eyes, "worst is past now," Wendy promised, even if she wasn't so sure. His fever refused to break and he seemed to not be as nauseous, but the way his tummy was churning wasn't promising, "I want you to try some water again."

"It's just gonna come back up," Vince's face scrunched up and Wendy sighed, ignoring the complaint as she reached for the water bottle.

"Just a sip, Vin."

He was pouting as he obeyed, taking a small, tiny gulp, then a larger one when his stomach didn't immediately reject the previous one. He fell back against the pillow, wrapping a hand around her wrist and bringing it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her pulse point.

"I'm sorry I'm being such a hassle, and right when I'm leaving as well--"

Wendy rolled her eyes, scratching at his scruff, "I don't mind taking care of you, I just wish we didn't spend our last days together with you feeling so wretched."

"I know," Vince pouted, "but I'll see you in five days and-"

There was a knock on the door and Wendy sighed, "hold that thought. I'm going to go, you'll be alright, okay? Text me if you want me to come back, I'll kick Luke out in a heartbeat."

Vince chuckled at that, "I can handle Lucas, he's an idiot, but I sadly love the guy."

She hated how sweet Vince was, it woke up a viciously protective part of her that Wendy didn't know what to do with. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his brow, "I love you. Don't let Luke be a prick to you."

"I love you as well, have some fun with Bell. Catch some sleep, you look like you need it, honey."

"Uhm, I do," Wendy yawned, kissing his cheek and getting up.

Lucas was waiting in the hallway outside her apartment, with a backpack thrown over his shoulder and grocery bags in his hands. Unlike Wendy, who felt dead on her feet, he looked like he had chugged an energy drink.

"Hi," Lucas said, bouncing on his feet, "thanks for letting me come over-"

"If you make him cry I'm gonna have your liver," Wendy warned him and Lucas couldn't help but open a wide smile at that.

"I know," he nodded, "I swear I'm not here to fight... How is he?"

"Sleepy," Wendy yawned, rubbing her eyes, "watch out for the fever, it still hasn't broken and I'm a little worried about it."

"Yes, ma'am," Luke hit two fingers to his forehead in a salute, "get some rest, Wen."

"Yeah," she yawned again, "thanks for proposing this, I could catch a break... Have fun."

"Sooo much fun," Luke teased her and they crossed the hallway, Wendy leaving and him entering.

The house was fully silent, so Lucas dumped his backpack on the couch and then headed to the kitchen, putting away the multiple bottles of gatorade, the canned soup and all the medicine he had brought, just out of precaution.

There was a noise and he turned around just in time to see Vince slumping against the kitchen's threshold, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulder's like a king's fluffy cape.

"Hi," he said roughly, his voice all raspy, "nice of you to show up in time for my funeral."

Luke rolled his eyes, feeling something horrible settle in his stomach. Guilt, "dying of the flu is just sad."

"Uhm," Vince leaned against the wooden frame that separated Wendy's cramped kitchen from her dining room, pressing his forehead to the surface, "are we gonna talk about it or...?"

"Sure," Luke wrung his hands, quickly regretting even coming over. He wasn't sure how to put into words that he wasn't angry, he was just... Just sad, "I'm sorry. I've been a dick, ignoring you since graduation- Uhm, that wasn't cool."

Vince raised his eyebrows, letting out a bitter huff, his forehead still pressed to the wooden frame, "not cool indeed," he groaned, "why are- Why were you acting like that?"

"Because I don't want you to leave!" Luke blurted out, unable to keep the words in, "because I think you're- You're making a stupid decision and I don't want you to leave and- and I'm afraid you're gonna go and we won't be friends anymore and-"

"Jesus, Lucas," Vince interrupted with a groan, pinching his nose bridge and glaring at his best friend, "I could move to fucking Italy and we wouldn't stop being friends, you're the one who's being stupid. It's four hours, I don't know why you people keep acting as if I'm moving to a different country."

"It fucking sucks to be left behind, sorry," Luke exclaimed, bitterness he wasn't even aware he possessed coating his words, "everyone's got their shit together and big plans and I don't know what I'm doing and- And I thought you'd be here with me, but you won't be and I'm not sure of what to do with myself."

"Luke..." Vince sighed, rubbing his face, "man, you're making a much bigger deal out of this than it is. I'm not going to war, I'm going to teach 4 hours away from here. I'm coming back on the weekends. It's not the end of the world..."

A heavy silence settled over them and Vince turned around, so he could rest the back of his head against the kitchen threshold, instead of his forehead. He was really pale and gulping down...

"Do you want me to go?" Luke asked quietly.

Vince frowned, looking at him, "no, of course not."

More silence.

"I'm really sorry I haven't been there for you," Luke said, his voice even smaller and Vince's knees gave up on holding him up, so he crumpled down and fell on his ass, trying to make it look like he was purposefully lowering himself down.

If Luke noticed the farse, he didn't say much, only watched him intently, looking extremely out of place in Wendy's pink kitchen.

"I forgive you," Vince shrugged, leaning forward and resting his forehead to his knees, breathing through his mouth, "...Do you forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive," without looking up Vince could hear the relief in his best friend's voice.

"Uhm- I don't feel good, Luke..." he finally voiced it. Part of him meant the past couple of weeks, though mostly he meant the current state of his body and its lack of cooperation.

The water Wendy had forced him to drink was churning in his belly and his head felt heavy.

"Wendy mentioned your fever didn't break," Lucas' voice suddenly was much closer, the other man crouching next to him and planting his cool hand to Vince's forehead. He instinctively leaned on the touch, letting out a breath.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Vince groaned, gulping down nervously when his mouth filled with salty saliva, "...I'm so tired of feeling shitty."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Luke whispered, grabbing his arm, "c'mon, back to bed."

Vince swayed as Luke pulled him up, fully leaning against his best friend and turning his face, burying his nose on Lucas' hoodie. He felt like crap... And better than he had been feeling in a long time.

"You're gonna get sick too," he warned and heard a small scoff, Luke's hand in the middle of his back rubbing in circles as they stumbled through the apartment.

"Definitely," Lucas agreed, but instead of pulling them apart, he pulled Vince closer.

[dwarvenchords]

WIP Wednesday but its Thursday

I may be cooking. Blame @i-am-church-the-cat for the inspo

Name TBD, 751 words

its a loscar boat thing idk man enjoy

___

“Oscar?” He hears Benny call from inside his office. “Come here, please.” A chorus of ‘Ooo’s emanate from the group at the table, one of which Oscar knows, softly flicking him on the crown, earning a squawk while he walks away, snickering.

“Hush, Doohan.” Oscar jokes as he walks to Benny’s office, leaning in the door frame as he takes a sip from his water bottle. “What’s up, mate?”

“Hey, I’ve got a new family in today. They want a full tune up. Americans, just got in from Dubai last night, apparently.” 

“Jesus, Dubai?!” Oscar’s jaw drops at Benny’s explanation. “They definitely need the tune up, Christ. That takes like- three weeks!”

“Here’s the information,” Benny hands him a paper, Oscar flicks his eyes over it briefly, gagging at the model name. “Pretty hard to miss it, biggest one in the dock now.”

“What are they- billionaires? Why on earth did they end up here?” Oscar reads over more of the paper. ‘Sargeant,’ “Are they celebrities or something?” he didn’t know the name personally, but his pop culture knowledge is limited to begin with, much to his sisters’ complaint. Maybe they’d be able to tell him when he gets home tonight.

“Not my problem, not your business. Be polite to ‘em,” Benny laughs, dismissing him with a waved hand, “Oh- also, check on the James’ mainsail again, they’re still having loosening issues. Thank you Oscar.” 

“Of course. Any time, boss.” Oscar snaps his fingers, giving a thumbs up before walking into the break room once again.

“Dude, look at the size of that thing!” One of the boys says, motioning out the window. Oscar’s eyes follow it, and the absolutely massive yacht fills his vision, the sun illuminating it from behind, a kind of halo around the beast of a machine. 

“They give it to you, Piastri?” Jack asks over his cup of coffee.

Oscar doesn’t answer, opening the granola bar and taking a bite, shrugging. 

“God- of course they did! How come none of us ever get to do the cool stuff.” One of the other boys complains. “Seniority is bullshit.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try to do any work on that thing without blowing a gasket.” 

The boys continue squabbling as Oscar grabs a piece of gum from his bag, throwing away the granola bar wrapper. He sticks his keys in the pocket of his shorts and puts his sunglasses on, tipping his hat to the table. “Later.” A slight smirk on his lips as he walks out of the office again. He pops the gum into his mouth as he heads out the main door once again. The heat hits him in a wave as he leaves the comfort of the building, heading for the storage shed. 

He takes the moment to look over at the boat again, its white shell gleaming in the sunlight. It looks big from here, already. He hasn’t even had the chance to get close yet, Jesus. He blows some air out of his lips, stretching his neck to the side as he folds the gum over itself between his teeth. 

Oscar can’t quite wrap his mind around how a boat like that ends up here? Melbourne was nice and all, but it wasn’t the fanciest travel destination. He’d think people with money like that would want to spend their time on some ski slope, somewhere that isn’t blistering hot this time of year. Or if they needed sun and sand so badly, they'd at least go somewhere mediterranean where the sun is a little bit softer on them and the water is a little bit warmer. Maybe spend some time off a Greek island, eating delicious farm grown food in fine restaurants. He flicks on the light in the shed after unlocking the door, grabbing a few items he needs from the shelves. 

Whatever made them choose to end up here regardless, he’d seen the type before and he knows he’ll see them again. He chucks the items for the James’ mainsail into a bucket, grabbing it by the handle after doing a once over before heading out the door.

He takes one last look at the bright figure looming in his vision as he locks the shed door.  Give them enough time to wake up before he intrudes, he reasons, as he pulls out his headphones again, placing them in his ears and shuffling his playlist. He picks up the bucket and heads for the adjacent row of sailboats.

___

Hope u enjoyed <333 hopefully coming soon, lmk what you think

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Friday Week Two: Blackmail au

First

Prev

The cheers were deafening. Overwhelming. Too much noise and too many people and-

Jak clamped his hands over his ears and shrank behind Sig.

Ahead of them, Damas carefully navigated a throng of warriors, all of whom seemed to want to slap his back or tousle Mar's hair. Jak didn't like them touching his brother. He wasn't their kid. He wasn't theirs!

"Easy, kiddo," Sig murmured, and wrapped one thick arm around his shoulders. "There's not too many kids in Spargus. Losing Mar hit everybody hard."

There hadn't been too many kids in Sandover, either. But Jak could say with reasonable certainty that no one would've kicked up this much of a fuss if he or Daxter had gone missing.

Well, maybe they would have if it had been Keira. She had a parent to miss her, after all.

Jak swallowed down a prickle of envy. It tasted like anger, and stale bitterness. In Haven, it was easy to look at people there and think of his childhood as ideal in comparison. But Spargus made it clear that Sandover had provided the bare minimum of what a child needed to survive. Necessities, but no true emotional investment. No genuine love.

Mar seemed to be getting as overstimulated as Jak. He grew quiet and subdued, huddled against his father's chest. There was just too much happening.

Damas smiled softly at him and hefted him a little higher in his arms. "I know. You're doing so good, baby. We're almost home."

"Want Dax an' Jakky," Mar signed, beginning to look zoned out.

Damas turned to face Sig and the older boys.

"Jak," he called gently, "Could you come take your brother for a moment? He's asking for you."

It was as much strategic as it was simply responding to Mar's needs.

Jak needed something to ground him, and by the looks of it Daxter was too overwhelmed to help.

Mar needed his older brother to feel a sense of normalcy.

And Damas wanted- needed- to make it known that this older boy was his.

Jak stepped up beside him and held out his arms for Mar. Honestly, Damas had no idea how he could carry his little brother and an ottsel the same approximate weight without a hint of difficulty. Had he always been so strong? Damas pushed away the questions for later and put an arm around Jak’s shoulders -- shielding him from the crowd and silently declaring to the onlookers that the boy was his at the same time.

A buck-toothed child sitting on her parent's shoulders called out in a voice just high-pitched enough to be heard over the crowd, “Who's that guy?” as she pointed at Jak.

Damas smiled in the girl's direction. “This is Jak, my firstborn!” he declared proudly. “We were separated when I was first exiled. My enemies could not find him and so they told me instead that he was dead. Yet here he is, the thorn in Praxis's side he cannot remove!”

The praise set Jak’s teeth on edge. It reminded him too much of hero talk. But at the same time it was an uncomfortably unfamiliar experience. Someone was talking about him to others as if he was proud not of Jak's accomplishments so much as his mere existence.

Jak pulled his eyes away from the crowd to focus on Mar. He could put aside the discomfort of crowds for his brother.

“Hang in there, kid,” he murmured.

Daxter patted Mar's head, almost falling off Jak’s shoulder to do so. “Just try to think of whatcha wanna show us first when we get to your room, okay?”

Mar brightened a little at the suggestion. “Show you my toys!” he decided. “You can play with me?”

Jak hefted him a little higher. “Uh…sure kid.”

As long as his idea of play wasn't “hold on to Jak’s back while he goes Dark and play Flut-Flut Ride" like they did in Haven sometimes. Jak really didn't feel like explaining that to Damas and Sig.

________________________________________

Mar had...a lot.

Just. A lot.

Jak counted six picture books sticking out of a bright red crate in a corner that had been furnished with a stack of pillows and a bucket of blocks. There was a drawer of clothes, long outgrown, with a scant two shirts that still fit. He had toys-!

So many toys!

Jak sat on the floor in something akin to shock as his brother ran back and forth from his cot to deposit things into his arms.

A soft Lurker made of cloth and feathers.

A little leather thing that looked like a bald Flut-Flut.

An old, worn-out teddy-bear with a crude "P" stitched onto its chest.

A rubber ball.

A wooden top with a string on it.

Jak frowned and held up the top, keeping it out of reach of Chopper's curious jaws. "I've never seen one of these with string on it before. What's it for?"

Damas looked up from sorting out the clothes that no longer fit Mar. "Oh. That's a trompo. Loop the end of the string around your finger, then throw the top. If it lands on its point, it spins."

"Huh."

Jak set the other toys to one side. This did not deter Mar, who proceeded to hand them all to Daxter.

"So you...just pull it and throw? Like a grenade?"

Jak took the toy and wrapped one end of the string twice around his middle finger. With a shrug, he flicked his wrist and let go of the trompo. It bounced, only barely glancing the tip to the floor, and rolled away. Jak's eyes narrowed. There had to be a trick to it. He picked it up and began winding the string around it again. Maybe he'd thrown too hard? Maybe it was more like casting a fishing line than a grenade.

The second time, the trompo landed on its point and spun around once or twice, but soon wobbled and fell. The third time, it spun for nearly four seconds before clattering to the floor. The fourth attempt was too fast and sent it rolling across the room again.

Sig sat down beside Damas to watch the boys. Daxter and Chopper had both been completely buried under Mar's four beloved stuffed animals -- none of which had been forgotten in the last two years.

Mar had grabbed his weighted Star Blankie from his cot and was menacing Daxter with it, intent on tucking him into "bed".

And Jak crouched barefoot in the center of the nursery, watching the spinning top with wide, fascinated eyes. It was as if he'd forgotten the rest of them existed, hyperfocused on unraveling the secrets of a little wooden trompo.

"Well, at least two shirts still fit. Pants will be an adventure, but-" Damas looked up and his words trailed away.

Beside him, Sig was watching Jak with such a sadness in his eye that it drove thoughts of clothing from Damas's mind entirely.

"...Sig?"

The breath Sig took was shaky. He swallowed hard.

"I've never seen him play," he whispered.

"I didn't think he even knew how after what they did to him. I-"

He stopped and covered his mouth with one hand. He didn't want Mar to see him looking so distraught. But he couldn't help wondering how many years it had been since Jak had played. Since he'd even been allowed to act his age. Had the "training" started early? Did he ever know what it was to be coddled? To be tucked into bed, or held close during thunderstorms?

Would he allow them to fill in the holes Haven had left behind?

Sig's throat ached when he looked at the innocent smile on the teenage mercenary's face. There was still a sweet little kid in there, there had to be. But they had to make him feel safe enough to come out.

"Daym, we have to get him some toys," he whispered. "I...I don't think he's ever had any."

The same realization Sig had made dawned slowly on Damas’s face. His brows knit together and the lines etched around his mouth deepened. Perhaps he needed to take his resolution to treat both boys equally a little more literally than he'd first planned.

"Oooo!"

Mar had finally noticed the trompo.

He stopped trying to bury Daxter and Chopper in toys and scampered over to lean on Jak’s back.

"Oowow, Za!"

That innocent look turned bashful as Jak twisted to look at his little half-brother. "Pretty cool, huh?" he asked.

"Do it again!" Mar signed enthusiastically, "Make it go all the way to the door!"

Jak shrugged. "Why not. We'll give it a go."

"Heads-up, in five minutes I think Mar needs to get ready for bed," Sig warned suddenly.

"I'm not tired!" Mar protested.

"Mar-mar you've been rubbing your eyes for fifteen minutes," Daxter tattled from under the stuffed animals.

Jak bounced his shoulder, causing the toddler to slide off. "And you turn into a Lurker when you're overtired. We'll do one more spin, and then I'll-"

He frowned. No, they weren't in Haven anymore. Things were different now. He didn't know the rules here.

"Uh. I guess they'll get you ready for bed?"

Damas actually looked embarrassed, and even a little sad. He blew a breath out through his teeth.

"Jak," he began, "It's been…It's been two years since Mar was home. As much as I want to fall back on the routine we kept…before…I- I don't think that's what Mar is used to."

Sig nudged Damas’s elbow in an attempt at comfort and nodded. "He's right, cherry. Do you…want to show us what you usually do?"

Jak exchanged a look with Daxter. Daxter shrugged and extricated himself from the pile of toys. He brushed himself off and eyed the room critically.

"Yeeeeahh….I don't think he's gonna sleep. Not without the lights on. Those barbarians in the Underground never turn the lights out. And lemme warn you now: this kid? He's a climber. That dresser better be anchored to the wall, or he will try to monkey his way up it in the middle of the night."

“Ah. So he still does that.” Damas chuckled ruefully. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

He raised his brows at Mar.

“And for the record, little one, Daddy, Ba, and Jak and Daxter are all on the same page here. You're not staying up to break of dawn just to play with your toys. They'll still be here tomorrow, I promise.”

"Well, then can Dax and Jakky sleep over?"

Mar ran to climb up into Damas’s lap, beaming winningly at him and Sig. "So they can play with me tomorrow?"

"Of course, Marmo," Sig answered warmly. "They can stay as long as they want."

Mar's eyes lit up and he threw his arms up with a jubilant hiss. Then a puzzled look came over him.

"Does he have to ask his grown-ups? With the scribbly face and Mr. Green Man?"

Jak's face hardened. "I don't have to tell them anything," he scoffed.

Sig nodded with a hard set to his jaw. "They aren't his grown-ups, baby. Me and your daddy are, or close enough to it."

If anything, this only seemed to confuse the little boy more. He wrinkled his button nose at Sig, then looked to Damas. "But I thought Jakky lived in the stinky city!"

"Not if I can help it," Jak grumbled. He let out a gusty sigh and shifted his eyes away. "Look, um. Your dad is...we...we kinda...share the same dad. It's weird, I know."

He missed the gentle expression that passed over Damas’s face. It was the first time he'd acknowledged their connection at all, let alone out loud. That was a promising sign. Damas could only hope his firstborn would continue to be open to getting to know them.

Mar blinked slowly as he digested this information. The big boy had been calling him "little brother", now that he thought of it. But Mar had thought they'd just decided to be brothers, like how he decided to adop' his puppy! But if he and Jakky shared the same daddy-

"Are you Jakky's Ba too?"

Sig laughed awkwardly. "Uhhhhh no. At least, not originally. I wasn't related to his ma."

He glanced up at Jak.

"You can call me what you want," he joked, "long as you aren't knockin' my marksmanship."

Jak looked just as awkward. "I'll uh, I'll stick with Sig."

He fiddled with the string of the trompo and wound it up. When he was satisfied that he'd twisted the cord correctly, he shifted his weight and prepared to throw the top again.

"Okay squirt, last spin, then you pick which side of the bed the dog gets tonight."

Daxter stretched out his spine and leaned on the stuffed Flut-Flut.

"You want us to camp in here with ya, kiddo?"

Mar started to nod, then a thoughtful look came over him. He snuggled closer to Damas’s chest.

"Um," he mumbled, then looked a little guilty as he signed, "Yes, only I think maybe Daddy might get scared tonight. And I am a big kid now, so I should help him be not scared."

Jak actually cracked a grin, alleviating some of the guilt on the little boy's face. "Oh yeah? You're gonna be his bodyguard tonight?"

"Yeah!"

"Well who's going to stay with Chopper?" Jak teased.

A look of consternation wrinkled Mar's brow, then just as quickly melted into stubbornness.

"You! You sleep in my room with Chopper!"

The boys sent a skeptical glance at Mar's alcove bed. While it had been commissioned with growth in mind, it was still over a foot shorter than would be comfortable for a teenager. If he stayed in a fetal position the whole night, Jak supposed he could manage it. After all, on his first night in Spargus, Jak slept in the indoor oasis, curled up between potted palms and safely out of sight.

Apparently, that wasn't acceptable for a long term stay. Not that Jak intended on staying that long. Not while the Baron was still alive and still a threat to his brother.

He told himself he didn't need a bed. Why bother when he wasn't even meant to stay that long? He'd done his part, he'd brought Mar back to his -- er…their -- family. Any moment now they'd probably give him an air train pass back to Haven.

Keep your expectations low enough, and it's harder for people to disappoint you.

Sig noticed his quiet and cleared his throat meaningfully at Damas. And for his part, Damas interpreted the sound as quickly as Daxter could read Jak's faces. He stood and, after reluctantly handing Mar to Sig, excused himself.

Daxter folded his arms. "Where's he off to?"

Sig held Mar's hands and bounced him up and down. He smiled. "Oh, just moving some bedsheets around to make a curtain."

"Is he into interior decorating on the side?" Daxter demanded, "And does he do free consultations?"

"What."

Daxter shoved Jak's skeptical face. "Hey, if Krew's dead, the bar's mine. And the way that man decorated is a travesty!"

Sig laughed outright. "Well, the "incident" left poor Tess at the bar all by herself for a couple days, so I'm sure she's tweaking lots of things here and there."

He leaned back against the squishy blue bean-sand-chair thing. "Nah, this is just a privacy curtain for the sitting room. Til we can find just the right room for you two chili peppers."

With a wink, he added, "You won't have to fold in half just to sleep if we put you on the couch. If your old man remembers to get his clean laundry off of it."

"I'm working on it!" Damas shouted from the other room.

"You...don't have to do that," Jak mumbled.

This much attention without a task attached to it was...weird. It made him nervous.

Sig gave him a no-nonsense look. "You're teenagers," he said bluntly, "You need boundaries. As much as you and Mar love each other, he can't be up in your space every minute of the day. Having a room of your own lets you...regroup, y'know? Have some privacy when the world gets to be a little too much."

Jak started. It was as if the big man had been reading his thoughts. He did feel overwhelmed. He needed a safe place to withdraw to. But he didn't know this place. He didn't know where the safe places were! Jak folded his arms tightly over his chest and let the channeling ring dig into his skin, cold and hard and proof he was there, and real.

"What's the catch?" Daxter asked on his behalf.

It didn't seem like the question surprised Sig much. He wrapped Mar in a tight hug, then set him down on the floor. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and feigned nonchalance.

"Well, you gotta keep your room clean enough to walk in. Easier said than done for some kids."

Jak relaxed slightly. So there was an exchange. Easier to accept things when he knew exactly what the terms were. Borrow a room for a while in exchange for keeping it clean. Made sense, they'd need it again later, probably. But it didn't seem like a fair exchange. Surely there had to be something else they wanted from him!

"What else do we have to do?" he asked.

There was no hostility in the question, only mild curiosity. But Sig winced all the same.

"Well, considering we ain't Krew, or whoever you worked for in the Underground, nothing. This isn't a job, cherry, it's a home! We're not employing you, we're trying-"

He scratched his head, stumped for how to phrase it. How to explain to the boys that they were entitled to being cared for.

"We- Damas and I- we just want to give you back the childhood they took. Dunno what that looks like yet, but...give us a chance? We just want you to be okay."

First

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[rachey899]

What The Actual...

When did Matt find out about Luke’s size shifting abilities?

Another short story featuring Luke and Matt approximately 2.4k words.

Luke was sweating buckets by the time he’d gotten to school, the walk from his house seemed to blur as his mind recited everything on his revision notes for the upcoming test today. This test was worth 80% of his math grade and would determine whether he failed the class or not.

He had done so poorly in all his other subjects that if he failed math as well, he would need to repeat the year.

His mind raced as he tried to think up the formula for Pythagoras theorem, he’d literally just looked it over again that morning and now he was drawing a blank, what if he continued to draw blanks for the rest of the day, what if by the time he was looking at his test book he couldn’t remember anything.

“Whoa watch it!”

Luke stumbled as he bumped into someone and continued to then trip over his own long legs and fall, sprawling on the hard concrete ground.

The person he had barged into had long since gone and Luke sat there stunned like a deer in the headlights, in fact he almost wanted to cry, he just wanted today to be over already.

Standing up, he brushed himself off and shouldered his backpack, he had grazed his elbow on the way down and it stung but it would heal. He seemed to heal faster than the average person and he supposed he could thank his unusual gift for that neat trick.

“Luke, hey dude you’ll never guess what Linda said to me this morning!” Matt bounced beside his friend and continued to babble excitedly.

“I got on the bus and her seat was the only one available so naturally I asked if I could sit there, you know all casual like, and she said yes! Can you believe it! She actually spoke to me, Luke are you listening? You don’t look so good.” He eyed his friend who was obviously tense, he looked much paler than usual, and he could see the perspiration on his forehead.

“Are you sick or something?” 

Luke felt sick, he felt like he was going to throw up, and his nervousness only grew as he felt his skin tighten like he was about to shift, he could not let that happen today, he had enough to worry about without worrying about turning into a giant freak of nature.

“Yeah, sorry, I guess I’m just nervous about the test, sorry dude.” Luke excused himself to duck into the bathroom, he literally had to duck his head so he wouldn’t hit the frame of the door, he hoped his friend didn’t notice that he’d just shot up a few inches.

He whirled into a stall and put the lid down on the toilet, sitting there with his head in his hands trying to take steady even breathes, if he could calm himself down, he could resist the shift.

“That was close.” He sighed letting out a long breath as he watched the toilet cubicle shrink back to its regular size. The test was during the first two periods of the day, if he could just get through that and then go home with the excuse that he was sick, then he could grow and get it out of his system and feel much better.

He rejoined Matt in the hallway where he was waiting for him, Matt looked at him with concern. He wondered if there was something else going on for his friend beside the test but chose to believe him, he had no reason not to.

They parted ways at home room and Luke made sure to sit right at the back to avoid anyone who might want to sit and chat with him, he didn’t have the energy to focus on anything else today besides this stupid test and remaining an average human height for a few hours.

The bell rang to signal first period and he shot out of his seat, darting out the door and straight to the hall where the math test was being held, he entered through the large double doors and scanned the room.

Thinking strategically, he should sit at the back closest to the door just in case he had to make a quick exit, however fate had other plans and he spotted Matt waving at him from the middle of the room, signally to sit next to him instead. He wondered with annoyance how on earth he had managed to get to the Hall before him.

“I’ll be so glad when this is over.” Luke sighed slumping into his seat beside his friend.

“You and me both bro.” Matt chuckled good naturedly nudging his friend in the arm.

“Students take your seats, this test will commence in two minutes sharp, you will have ninety minutes to complete your test, use this time wisely.”

With that, everyone in the room watched in silence as the timer began and then simultaneously flipped their test booklets over and began scribbling furiously.

Luke was feeling confident about halfway through, all his answers he was sure were correct so far, that was until he looked up at the timer and saw he only had thirty minutes left and still half the booklet to go. He felt his muscles tighten and his skin felt like it was swelling, he closed his eyes and took a breath, he just had to keep going, focus on the work and take deep breaths. His seat felt smaller.

He only had two questions left when the alarm on the timer sounded, jolting in his seat, he flipped his booklet over and bolted for the door, the pressure in his body was becoming too much and he had to get out of there. Running full tilt toward the forested area that backed onto the school oval, he knew of a clearing there he had used to grow before, he just hoped he could make it there in time before he exploded.

His legs felt longer, his strides stretching further as he ran, the grass looked smaller, he knew he wasn’t big enough to be noticeable, but it was coming, and it was coming fast.

Once in the cover of the trees he let his body go, that tight feeling felt looser as he let himself grow, his forehead brushing against the tops of the trees, he took a few more steps mindful of the smaller foliage, he didn’t want to leave an obvious trail. He reached the clearing and stretched his aching body, letting out a groan from the relief, the anxiety gone and the pressure previously raging through his muscles was gone.

“What the actual-.”

Luke whipped his head around scanning the forest floor until his large blue eyes landed on the small form of his childhood best friend staring up at him with wide eyes, he held Luke’s backpack in one hand with his own slung over the opposite shoulder. Matt had watched his friend’s odd behavior and worried about him, so he’d picked up his bag and followed him into the forest to check on him.

“Matt.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, how to explain himself, he took a step toward his friend who stood comparatively around six inches in height to him, and he immediately regretted it. He watched with the sick feeling of guilt in his stomach as Matt took multiple steps backward, tripping over the branches of the forest floor and falling back on his rear.

Luke knelt down instead, planting his knees into the ground, and flinching as he saw the rumbling effect it had on his friend causing Matt to shake either from the large movement or from fear, neither of them were sure, probably both.

Matt shook his head as if coming out of a trance and before he could think it through, he dropped both bags jumping up onto his feet and made to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Luke shouted, throwing caution to the wind, he reached out his large hands that moved much faster than anything that big had a right to and scooped up his friend closing him in between his two hands as though he’d just caught an interesting bug.

Luke’s eyes widened as he felt Matt kick and punch at his large digits, he could hear him shouting from within his hands, but it was muffled. He felt horrible holding his best friend against his will like this, but he needed to explain what was going on, he owed it to him at least.

Once he’d explained he would let him go and he would understand if Matt never wanted to see him again, who’d want to be friends with a freak like him anyway.

With a deep breath he slowly opened his hands letting the light shine within the enclosed space until his eyes settled on Matt sprawled on his back and staring up at him fearfully, he had his arms over his head in defense and his chest rose and fell as he took quick short, panicked breaths.

“Matt, I-it’s me.” Luke’s words caught in his throat, he blinked back the tears that were threatening, he hated that he was the cause of Matt’s fear.

“Luke?” Matt’s small voice reached his ears and he let out a breath of relief ruffling his friend’s shaggy blonde hair in the process. He watched avidly as Matt’s breathing began to slow and recognition was beginning to show on his features.

“Yeah Matt, it’s just me, I swear I won’t hurt you; I can explain all of his.” His words rushed over Matt’s body, and he shuddered at the bizarre feeling of such large breathes washing over him, but he recognized those blue eyes, the freckles that were scattered across his cheeks and nose, his curly brown hair bounced and hung around his eyes, this was Luke, just magnified.

Matt pushed himself up to sit cross legged in his friends’ hands and craned his neck to look up at his gigantic best friend.

“C-can you p-put me down Luke?” Matt internally beat himself for stuttering over his words, he tried to push the fear away knowing Luke would never truly hurt him, but it was hard to do when your life was literally being held in someone’s hands.

“Promise you won’t run?” Luke appeared hesitant to put his friend down even though he wanted nothing more than for his friend to feel comfortable and safe, he just needed to explain.

“I promise.”

Luke lowered his hands to the forest floor and flattened them out so Matt could step off onto steady ground once again, Matt really wanted to kiss the floor once he’d stepped off but refrained from the dramatic display of relief for the sake of his friend’s feelings.

“So, what happened to you dude? Fall into a radioactive pit or something? Is this permanent?”

“I’m a size shifter, as far as I know I was born with this ability, but I can’t always control it very well, particularly when I’m stressed like today, I’m so sorry.” Luke settled himself into a sitting position and crossed his legs, keeping a few feet between himself and Matt.

“How does this even happen? So, what, your parents obviously know right? Does anyone else know?”

“Yeah, my parents know, but no one else, I swear I wanted to tell you, but my parents said it was best to keep it secret, for my safety you know?”

Matt shook his head in disbelief and looked up and up at his best friend’s face, he looked so concerned, he knew Luke had always been the quieter and more self-conscious of the two, but he found it hard to believe that someone who stood ten times taller than anyone else could look so much like a hurt puppy.

“Okay so if you can shift sizes, why don’t you, you know, shrink back down now?”

He watched with curiosity as Luke closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before letting out a frustrated groan.

“I can’t yet.” He looked so apologetic, like all he wanted to do was be his regular size and hug his best friend but couldn’t.

“The burst I had was a pretty big one, sometimes it takes a little while before I can shift again, I’m sorry, I know I must seem really scary to you.” He looked down at his hands that were resting in his lap like he was a monster.

“That’s okay, no harm done.” Matt slowly walked towards his large friend and held a hand out, hesitating only briefly before resting it on Luke’s jean clad thigh and patted it comfortingly. Luke’s lips twitched into a smile watching his friend trying to be comforting despite him being obviously still uneasy around the giant. He appreciated it all the same.

“So uh, is this the real reason you live in that granny flat instead of in your folks house?”

Luke chuckled softly and nodded.

“Yeah, when I was younger, I would have bad dreams and shift in my sleep, it was safer to have me out of the house, that hasn’t happened in a long time though.”

“I still can’t believe you kept this a secret from me for so long, we’ve known each other since first grade!” Matt stood back again, not out of fear but so that he could see all of his friend while he was talking to him.

“I really wanted to tell you dude, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine I get it, just pissed because all this time we could have been using this power to you know fight crime and stuff! We could have scared bullies away or something.” Matt threw up his hands in dramatic exasperation but smiled anyway. Luke rolled his eyes.

“So? You’re cool with this? Really? And you won’t tell anyone?” Luke leaned forward looking earnestly at Matt.

“Yeah gigantor, your secret is safe with me.” Luke chuckled at the nickname and smiled.

The two hung out in the clearing for a few hours, chatting as if nothing had changed between them, just two friends hanging out and passing time.