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kissandtellus · 1 month ago

Note

Hi, hello, good girl request anon here! You absolutely FED me with your response, i need to eat you're writing until it becomes part of my dna i swear.

Mayhaps can i ask good girl sucking cock while they do work at home? just keeping their pretty cocks warm in her throat, totally off in subspace like she was made for it?

(Zanye and sylus again, please! [Maybe caleb if ur feeling frisky] i beg, thank u sm) 🙇‍♀️

Such a Good Partner

꒰͡ ۫ Synopsis: You are a good girl! Always! Even when it comes to solving hard work questions or illegal dealings:)

꒰͡ ۫ Warning: Under the desk action, Voyeurism, choking, praising, Sylus uses you to show off to his rival.

꒰͡ ۫ Zayne

You were the best girl, the best assistant for the Cardiac Surgeon, always following orders.

Zayne was reading over some medical files that had been perplexing the young doctor all night. Between his knees was a warm mouth around his cock and pretty eyes looking up at him

He groaned softly, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him as he felt your warm mouth enveloping his hardening dick. He spread his legs a bit wider, giving you more room to work. “Mm... Good girl..." He praised absently, his attention mostly on the files.

He reached down with one hand, tangling his fingers in your hair - not guiding or forcing but letting you know he was aware of your presence there between his legs. He continued reading through the medical reports but couldn't help letting out small moans whenever his sensitive head pushed to the back of her throat.

The praise made you squirm in happiness, going down on his cock until it was properly lodged in your throat and your nose was buried in the neatly cut dark pubic hair.

He looked down at you, watching as you took him deep into your throat. His eyes darkened with desire but he maintained his composure. “There we go, That's my good girl.” He praised again, his voice slightly huskier now.

He pushed his glasses back up with one finger, maintaining the delicate balance between his professional focus and the pleasure building in his groin. “Keep going just like that... Perfect girl.” He murmured distractedly, flipping another page of the file.

He was deep in thought, trying to solve the medical puzzle on the files. His mind was sharp - one of the best doctors his hospital had. His body reacted without consuming his thoughts.

As he read the symptoms and test results, his hips began to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Fucking your mouth without even realizing it. He was so close to figuring out the diagnosis.

Just a little more focus... and a little more of your warm, wet mouth around his dick.

Zayne started panting, his free hand gripping the pen so hard he was afraid it might snap. "Such a perfect mouth.” He muttered absently, finally making a notation on the file. His free hand tightened slightly in your hair as he reached the climax of the diagnosis. “Almost there... just..." He gasped suddenly as you swirled your tongue in just the right way.

"Fuck... fuck fuck fuck..." His voice cracked slightly as he reached the peak of his pleasure. Dr. Zayne rarely cussed. But something about having his hard length choking you, changed all of that. His hips thrust forward sharply, burying his dick deep in her throat. “Got it!” He groaned, scribbling the final notes with a shaky hand. The diagnosis was complete.

He slumped back in his chair, completely spent both mentally and physically. His glasses were askew, his tie loosened, and his dick still buried deep in your throat as he caught his breath. “Mmh...perfect timing. Diagnosis completed right as I came down that gorgeous throat."

You pulled off of his cock, coughing a little as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “D-did I do good, Dr Zayne?”

He chuckled softly, adjusting his glasses with a smirk. “Outstanding, actually. Both medically and orally." He stood up slowly, tucking himself back into his pants. “You just cured my patient file backlog and gave me one hell of a stress release."

Zayne kneeled down on the floor of his home office and wiped away a dribble of spilled cum.

“You've been such a good girl today." His voice was low and gentle, filled with praise. "I'm so proud of you for taking care of my cock while helping me save lives.”

He helped you stand on wobbly legs. “Over the desk, Sweetpea. Atta girl~.”

꒰͡ ۫ Sylus

Sylus sits at the head of a long table in a dimly lit room filled with tense silence and the heavy scent of cigarette smoke. His rival gang leader sits across from him, surrounded by armed men on both sides. Sylus' hand rests casually on your head.

You kneel between Sylus' spread legs, his large member lodged deep in your throat. You look up at him, eyes slightly watery but you were an obedient girl. He pettingly cards his fingers through her hair while negotiating, "So, Marcus, do we have a deal or not?"

Marcus leans back in his chair, eyeing Sylus with a mix of annoyance and grudging respect. He glances down at you briefly before meeting Sylus' red eyes. “Your little whore is quite the distraction. Makes it hard to focus on business."

Sylus chuckles and suddenly grabs his gun from his holster, pointing it directly at the other man with a sneer. “Oh, she’s far from a whore. She’s a good girl. Now, why don’t you correct yourself?”

Marcus's eyes widen slightly at the sudden display of aggression, but he quickly regains his composure. He smirks, "Apologies, Sylus. Didn't mean any disrespect to your... companion." He gestures to one of his men, who slides a thick manila envelope across the table.

You moves your lips up and down Sylus’ thick length as a thanks for defending your honor. You hum gently, using your free hand to caress his balls.

His eyes flutter briefly as you work your mouth and hand expertly around him. A low growl escapes his throat as he opens the envelope with one hand. Marcus watches with an amused expression. "Smart girl... keeping her leader happy during negotiations."

He slides the envelope back to Sylus. "Everything's there. The deal's done." He leans forward slightly. “But Sylus... next time we do business... maybe leave your ‘good girl’ behind?" He winks suggestively at Sylus' mechanical crow perched nearby. Mephisto squawks, head tilting in curiosity.

Sylus' grip on your hair tightens slightly, not out of anger but as a reflex to the pleasure you’re giving him. He smirks at Marcus. “Jealousy doesn't become you, Marcus. And no, next time we do business, she stays by my side.”

His orgasm builds fast and he praises you with soft coos and words as he sees the tears springing to your eyes at the burn of the stretch

Sylus' breathing becomes heavy as he nears his climax. He pulls your head back slightly, looking down at your tear-streaked face with a mix of affection and possession. “Such a good girl, taking me so well. Showing Marcus what you're made of."

He lowers her mouth back down on him. "Keep going sweetheart... showing him the real reason why I take you everywhere with me." His grip on your hair guides you. "Marcus, you see why I don't leave my queen behind? This sweet mouth..”

He empties into your throat, stroking your hair as you swallow every drop.

Sylus throws his head back with a low groan as he comes, filling your throat with his hot release. He holds you gently now, petting you as you finish every last drop. “Good girl... such a good girl..." He looks back at Marcus, smirking.

He pulls you up just a bit, gently tapping your cheek. “Now why don’t you go and give Marcus a big kiss to seal the deal?”

꒰͡ ۫ Caleb

Caleb's eyes were closed as he leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the armrest while the other was tangled in your hair. You were kneeling between his legs, taking his cock deep into your throat, sucking and licking with a fervor that was both surprising and incredibly satisfying.

Cale opens his eyes, watching you deepthroat him while he's working on Farspace Fleet documents. His hand moves from the armrest to your head, pushing you down further. “Fuck Pipsqueak, even when I'm working on classified documents, you still suck my cock like a good soldier."

His voice grows huskier as he watches you work your mouth on him. “You know, most soldiers wouldn't be this eager to please their commanding officer at this hour." *He shifts slightly in his chair, giving you better access as he continues to watch the documents on his screen intermittently.

"Have I ever told you how fucking perfect your mouth is?" he mutters, one hand tracing down your jaw while his eyes alternate between the tactical maps on his screen and the way your lips wrap perfectly around his cock. “Most wives would be complaining about their husband working late.”

"But here you are..." His hips move slightly forward, fucking your mouth slowly “On your knees, giving the best fucking head while I'm supposed to be running fleet operations.” His voice becomes more tender as he pushes your hair from your eyes.

"I love you," he whispers suddenly, his hand gentle in your hair as he holds you in place while he cums in your mouth. You swallow like a dedicated soldier, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out to show him your tongue.

The documents are forgotten as he focuses solely on you, his pretty little wife who always knows how to make him feel loved and appreciated even during the late nights of work.

You pull away with a slight cough, eyes fluttering up to his with a cocked smile.

Caleb's chest heaves with a mix of satisfaction and desire as he watches you pull away. A bead of cum escapes the corner of your mouth, and he can't help but lean down and lick it off, his tongue tracing your lips. "Come here," he commands softly, pulling you onto his lap.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he kisses you deeply, tasting himself on your lips. “You know what I love most about these late nights?" Caleb murmurs against your mouth.

"That I can have you all to myself. No interruptions, no distractions." His hands slide down to your ass, squeezing gently as he rocks his hips, reminding you that he's still hard. “I think I need a reward for all my late-night work.”

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the-californicationist · 1 year ago

Text

he opens the mail

Captain Price opens a package, thinking it’s intel, but it’s a sex pollen. The only cure? Your pussy, apparently.

Warning: sex pollen tropes, extremely dubious consent, attempt at satire?, angry john price

“We’re never going to make this deadline. Laswell’s gonna kill me,” you complained, burying your head in the pile of envelopes and packages strewn over your desk.

“Did this to yourself, lass. Shoulda been keepin’ up with intel duty. Wee bit at a time, ‘s what I say,” Soap patted you on the shoulder, feigning pity.

You spent hours combing through the documents, and by the time everyone had gone to bed, your fingers were covered in paper cuts, and your vision was blurry from squinting at the poorly scrawled Cyrillic words.

You thought you were alone, and as you stood up to stretch and refill your coffee mug, Captain Price opened up the office door, scaring you half to death.

“Oh, hey Corporal,” he smiled and then furrowed his brow, “What are you still doing here?”

You sighed, pointing to the piles of documents,

“Laswell’s intel backlog. I’m the only one with a Level 3 linguistics cert for Russian, so here I am. Gonna be an all-nighter.”

He closed the door and sat down across from your seat, digging into the pile,

“I’m Level 3. Let’s finish it.”

“Captain, you don’t have to do that. I’m sure you’ve got more important things…”

Price shook his head, taking off his hat and hanging it on the chair back,

“Nah, tha’s alright, love. I’ll help ya. Get us a tea, yeah?”

You knew how he took his tea, and you hated that you did. Secretly, you were obsessed with him. He was always around, smelling like balsam wood and tobacco, looking like a gladiator, huge and capable in the most masculine way. It was hard to concentrate when he was nearby. Now that he had offered to help, you had to grin and bear it.

You worked together for a while, chatting, even laughing. It was nice. You had so much in common, the conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself much more at ease. Finally, three packages remained. You opened the first one and found little more than phone records for a local library. Unhelpful to say the least. Price opened a water bill, and he recognized the address of a recent Konni base location. Any intel at this point felt like a celebration. Then, the final box.

“Go on then. Show us the ending,” he smiled, handing it to you.

“Couldn’t take the joy of ripping up the last letter, Captain. Be my guest,” you smiled.

He chuckled, tearing into the envelope. In a flash, bright pink powder sprayed him directly in the eyes, and he writhed in pain, pinching them shut, his whole body going stiff.

“Fuck me!” He shouted.

“Hang on,” you ran over to the sink in the kitchenette, “Here’s some water. Get that shit out of your eyes.”

“Don’t,” he moved away from you like you were on fire, “Don’t touch me. Might be contagious.”

Your chest was rising and falling with your labored breathing, and you were immediately worried. You reached for your phone and called Laswell.

“Laswell, Price got anthraxed by one of the intel letters. What do you want us to do?”

She gasped,

“What? Shit. I’m on my way.”

She hung up on you. You watched Price slowly try to open his eyes. They were stained hot pink from the powder.

“You alright?” You asked him.

“Yeah, love,” he sighed, “Doesn’t hurt anymore. Feeling strange though. Laswell said she’s coming?”

You nodded,

“Yeah, just in case.”

He nodded, running his hand along the inside of his collar. The captain was sweaty and a little pale.

“Captain, are you okay?”

“Mmm, no,” he shook his head, “Something’s not right, love.”

He stood and went to the sink, washing as much of the powder off as he could. You moved away from him and stationed yourself across the room, praying for Laswell to hurry.

Price was in a bad way. He took off his shirt, and he was still dripping with beads of sweat. You tried not to stare, but his temperature wasn’t the only thing heating up. His huge cock was making a prominent tent in his pants, but he was in too much pain to bother hiding it. You felt yourself blushing, and you willed yourself to pull it together.

“…fuckin’ hell,” his hand went to his crotch to squeeze his length, trying to find some relief, “Sorry, love.”

“It’s okay,” you said politely, trying to breathe normally, but feeling the slick rush melt between your legs.

“It’s makin’ me…feel…bloody hell. I can’t hold it off. Can…can you…? No! No, what the fuck am I sayin’? No,” he shook his head, rubbing his hands down his face, hot and very bothered.

You inched closer to him,

“If I haven’t been affected yet, I’m sure it’s okay. How should I help you?”

“No! No, stay back. I’m not…I can’t think straight. My mind’s got one thing on it,” he shoved his hands beyond his zipper and began to jerk himself off, his dick making lurid noises with his hand.

You hated seeing him so helpless. You moved to his side,

“Cap, it’s okay. Let me help you.”

His hand was around your throat in milliseconds. Price shoved you against the wall and began to kiss your mouth, furiously laving his tongue against yours.

“No, no, no,” he whispered through his kisses, not bothering to pull away as he spoke his lamentations.

You made the mistake of putting your hands on his chest to steady yourself. He moaned, trembling beneath your touch,

“Ahh, careful.”

“Sorry,” you pulled your hands away, still trapped in his firm grip around your neck, “did I hurt you?”

“No, doesn’t hurt.”

He said it in a way that darkly implied your touch was igniting a different kind of fire. You put your hands back where they were, and his eyes shot open, piercing through yours with a lustful rage. Unexpectedly, he ripped off your shirt and lay you down on the black leather couch in the corner of the office. He crushed you with his weight, kissing you deeply.

Then, your phone rang. He didn’t allow you to pause, so it went to voicemail. It rang again. You were getting just as hot as he was, and you weren’t that interested in who was looking for you in the middle of the night. Until, however, the door to the office burst wide open and Laswell and Gaz burst through it.

Price snarled. You’d never heard a man make that noise before. Laswell put her hands on her hips while Gaz tried to shield his face in shock. Laswell rubbed her forehead, frustrated,

“Are his eyes pink, Corporal?”

You escaped his jaws for a moment,

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s a sex drug. Forces the user to fornicate as it is only passed through the body in seminal fluid, dissolving in the heat of another person’s body. Are you volunteering here? What happened?”

Her tone was so matter of fact, it was a little humorous, if Price’s length wasn’t rutting against you in earnest, you might've laughed. You tried to explain as much as he would allow,

“Got too close… just… happened. How…” you moaned as Price pulled down the strap of your bra and helped himself to your nipple, “How did you know?”

She sighed, typing something into her datapad,

“Checked the incident log from this afternoon. Four more cases of this have popped up in intel collections. Gonna have to screen for it next time.”

She turned to walk out of the office with Gaz, and you called after her,

“Hey, wait! How long does it - oh, fuck… how long does it last?”

Laswell had the audacity to smirk at you, raising her eyebrows and cutting her eyes at Price’s swollen cock, lolling out of his pants, scraping itself against you.

“Eight hours. Looks like you’re in for a rough night, Corporal. Maybe next time you’ll be more careful.”

Part 2

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #cod #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain john price smut #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #afab reader #Female reader #x female reader

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theetherealbloom · 3 months ago

Text

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.9

Chapter Nine: The Silver Lining's I'll Be There With You

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, Heavy Overthinking, Cecilia deserves her own warning lol, Confrontation,

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: SOOO… lol, this is the longest I’ve gone without writing/posting, I deeply apologise and I’m so sorry T^T I literally had to lock the fuck in with school, each week I had at least two exams/deadlines. I blame our profs for their poor planning lol. Anyways, I have a little bit of a lighter load now since it’s almost finals season… I’ll keep ya’ll posted, and I humbly ask ya’ll to be patient for the next update and oh god, TLOU season 2… Uneven Odds… My backlog is insane right now, oh naur. Pedro babes I love you, but go on vacation boo.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Silver Lining by Laufey

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

PINEWOOD STUDIOS, LONDON — MORNING

You were hella nervous. Pedro held your hand the entire car ride to the studio, his thumb softly brushing over your knuckles, grounding you even as your stomach twisted itself into knots.

"You're quiet," he murmured, watching you from the corner of his eye. "You okay, baby?"

You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… y’know. Nervous."

"About what?"

You shrugged, trying to play it off. "I dunno. Just… going back on set. Seeing everyone. After, y'know…"

The accident.

Pedro squeezed your hand tighter. His jaw clenched, and you could tell — he was still haunted by it too. The way you had thrown yourself in front of him. The way he had watched you collapse under the rig. The way he had screamed for help — like his entire world was falling apart.

"Hey." His voice was soft. "I'm not leaving your side, okay? The second you wanna leave — we leave. I don't care what anyone says."

And you believed him. God, you did. But there was still this gnawing pit in your stomach. Something you couldn't shake.

Because something still didn't make sense.

The rig was never supposed to fall like that.

The air in the studio felt wrong the moment you stepped inside.

Too still. Too watchful.

The crew was polite — too polite — but cagey. Their gazes flitted toward you, then away. Conversations hushed behind clipboards. Even your supervisor couldn’t meet your eyes. Something was off.

And Pedro… he never let go of your hand.

“Hey.” His thumb brushed against your knuckles, voice low. “You okay?”

You weren’t sure. Your stomach coiled, dread sinking deep into your bones. “Yeah. Just—”

“—Glad you could make it,” a voice interrupted.

You both turned.

Rob, the production’s safety manager, stood stiffly at the entrance. His face was a heavy mask of professionalism, but his eyes… there was something hard in them.

“Rob?” Pedro said, stepping forward slightly. “What’s going on?”

Rob’s jaw flexed. “We need to speak with you both. Privately.”

Your stomach flipped. “Both of us?”

A beat of hesitation. “Yes. It’s regarding the rig accident.”

Pedro’s grip on your hand tightened.

The meeting room was small and clinical. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the walls in a cold, sterile glow. A long table stretched across the center, surrounded by a few empty chairs — and at the end of it, a large television screen.

You sat next to Pedro. His knee pressed against yours, grounding you — or maybe grounding himself.

“What’s going on?” you finally managed, trying to sound casual despite the dread in your throat.

Rob didn’t answer immediately. He set his clipboard down and exhaled heavily, gaze flicking between you and Pedro. We reviewed the footage from the accident. We also conducted a full inspection of the rig.”

Your chest tightened. “And?”

Rob hesitated, his throat working. “We found something.”

Silence dropped like a hammer. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“What did you find?” Pedro’s voice was tight, protective.

Rob didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a remote and clicked it. The television flickered to life.

And there it was.

The accident.

Your throat closed.

You watched yourself on the screen — laughing softly as you secured the cast into their harnesses. Pedro stood beside you, his hand resting on your shoulder as he said something that made you smile. The light rig swayed subtly above you, unnoticed.

And then—

It happened.

The exact moment the rig detached.

A sharp, metallic snap. Your body jolted, instinctively pushing Pedro out of the way as the light came crashing down.

Your mouth ran dry. Every muscle in your body seized.

“Wait—pause it,” Pedro rasped, his voice cracking. “Right there.”

Rob froze the footage. Pedro shot to his feet, pointing at the corner of the screen. “Zoom in.”

The image expanded.

And there — in the background — was someone.

Half-hidden behind a metal panel. But unmistakable.

“Cecilia,” you whispered, ice flooding your veins.

Pedro went rigid beside you. “What the fuck—”

She was watching you. Her gaze locked solely on you. And then — her hand moved.

A deliberate pull.

And that’s when the rig snapped.

“No.” Pedro’s voice broke, his entire body jerking back as though burned. “No — she—” His hand raked through his hair. “She did that on fucking purpose.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Why—why would she—”

And then Rob’s voice cut through. Low. Grave.

“…She wasn’t trying to kill Mr. Pascal.”

The room dropped into an unbearable silence.

Your head snapped toward Rob. “…What?”

Rob’s throat worked. “The investigation revealed the rig was deliberately tampered with during your lunch break. Cecilia was on set when no one else was. We believe she… adjusted the release on the rig.”

Your entire body went cold. “But it didn’t fall on me,” you rasped. “It— it almost hit him—”

“Because the timing was off.” Rob’s voice was heavy. “…It was meant to fall when you returned. She was waiting for you to get under it.”

Pedro’s hands were shaking. “You’re saying—”

“She was trying to kill her,” Rob confirmed grimly. “And when it didn’t happen — she didn’t react. She just… watched.”

Your stomach lurched.

Pedro stumbled back a step, his face ashen. “Where the fuck is she?” he demanded, voice raw.

“We have her in a separate room. Security’s questioning her now.”

Rob’s words sat heavy in the air.

The room was suffocating. You could hear the hum of the air conditioner, the faint chatter from outside the closed door, the scratch of Rob’s pen against his clipboard. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

You exhaled slowly, trying to ground yourself.

"I know she and I don’t get along…” you started, your voice unsteady. “But this is a lot.”

Pedro’s head snapped toward you. His eyes—wide, dark, still brimming with the horror of what he just saw—searched yours like he couldn’t believe you were saying that.

“A lot?” he repeated, voice tight. “A lot?”

You swallowed.

“Pedro, I—”

“No.” He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his curls before gripping the back of his neck, his whole body strung tight with barely restrained fury. “She tried to fucking kill you. And you’re standing here acting like it’s just—what? Office drama?”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—”

“No,” he cut you off, stepping closer. “She planned this, waited for the right moment, rigged that thing to fall exactly when you’d be standing there—” He sucked in a shaky breath. “She watched it happen.”

The words made your blood run cold.

Because he was right.

She had watched. You’d seen it in the footage—the way her head barely moved as the rig came loose, how she didn’t even flinch when it nearly crushed Pedro.

If anything… it had almost looked like satisfaction.

A chill ran down your spine.

Pedro saw your expression shift, and his own softened just a fraction. He sighed, running a hand down his face before reaching for you again, his fingers sliding against yours.

“Amor,” he murmured, his voice low and pleading. “You can’t downplay this.”

You hesitated—but you didn’t pull away.

“I just—” you licked your lips, eyes darting toward Rob. “I need to know why.”

“Then let’s find out.” Pedro’s grip tightened. He looked at Rob. “I want to see her.”

Rob hesitated.

"Mr. Pascal, I don't think—"

“We need to see her.”

There was no room for argument.

Rob exhaled sharply, glancing between you both before nodding. "Follow me."

SECURITY ROOM — PINEWOOD STUDIOS

The moment you stepped inside, the air felt wrong.

Cecilia didn’t look up at first. She just sat there, fingers tapping lazily against the metal table, the picture of boredom. But when the door clicked shut behind you, her lips curled into something sharp, something mocking.

“Well, well.” She leaned back, exhaling a slow breath through her nose. “Look who survived.”

Pedro’s hands clenched into fists.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had questions—you had so many questions—but standing in front of her, seeing the absolute lack of remorse in her expression, your stomach twisted into knots.

“You were trying to kill me.” It wasn’t even a question.

Cecilia tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with something twisted. “You make it sound so dramatic.”

Pedro lunged.

Security was on him before he could reach her, two guards stepping in to block his path. His breathing was ragged, shoulders heaving, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.

“You tried to fucking kill her!” he spat, voice raw with barely restrained rage.

Cecilia let out a soft, breathy laugh.

And then she looked at you.

The intensity of it made your stomach churn. There was something ugly in her gaze, something simmering beneath the surface.

“Don’t act so shocked,” she mused, her voice sickly sweet. “You had to know I hated you.”

You took a shaky step forward. “Why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“Why, Cecilia?”

Her smirk dropped.

And then—

"Because you don’t belong here," she snapped.

The air seemed to still.

Pedro stiffened beside you.

Cecilia leaned forward, her nails scraping against the metal table. "You’re nobody," she sneered. “Some random, awkward little nobody who just lucked her way into all of this.” Her eyes flicked to Pedro with something scathing. “And somehow, you have him wrapped around your pathetic little finger.”

Your breath hitched.

Pedro’s hand found yours, squeezing tight.

She saw it. And laughed.

"Oh, wow," she drawled. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off.

"You walk onto this set like you belong here, like you’re one of us—but you’re not." Her voice was venomous now, her eyes wild. “You think people don’t talk about you? You think we don’t see it? The way you cling to him like some shy, pathetic little puppy?”

You flinched.

Pedro stepped in front of you instinctively, his body a shield. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes. "Look at you. Protecting her. It’s honestly nauseating."

Pedro’s grip on your hand tightened.

"Here’s what really pisses me off," she continued, voice low and sharp. "I worked my ass off to get where I am. I have connections, I have talent, I belong here. But you—" her lip curled "—some quiet, nothing of a girl, you get handed everything. People like you shouldn’t get to win."

Your throat tightened.

Cecilia sat back, exhaling through her nose. "So yeah," she murmured. "I wanted you gone."

Silence.

And then Pedro moved.

Not toward her—but toward you. His hand came up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. His touch was gentle, but his voice was firm.

“She’s everything you’ll never be,” he said quietly.

Cecilia’s eyes darkened.

Rob, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was sharp, cold.

“You’re done.”

Cecilia blinked, her head snapping toward him.

“Legal is handling the rest,” Rob continued. "You’ll be formally charged. The company will pursue legal action for endangering crew and tampering with safety equipment. And as for Mr. Pascal and Miss—”

Pedro cut him off. “We’re filing charges too.”

Your heart skipped.

Cecilia laughed. "We’re?” Her eyes flicked to you. “Oh my god. You’re actually letting him do this for you.”

Pedro didn’t even hesitate. "No," he said. “She’s not letting me do anything. I’m doing this because she deserves better.”

Cecilia scoffed, but it was weaker now.

Security moved in. "Time’s up," one of them muttered, gripping Cecilia’s arm.

She didn’t fight them. Didn’t struggle. But as they led her out, she turned, eyes locking onto yours.

And then she smiled.

A chill ran down your spine.

Pedro felt it. You knew he did—because his hand never left yours.

Rob cleared his throat. "You two need to come with me. Legal will brief you on the next steps."

Pedro nodded, already leading you toward the door.

But your feet felt heavy.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

And somehow… you had a terrible feeling that Cecilia wasn’t done with you yet.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — LATER THAT DAY

To say the rest of the workday was exhausting was an understatement.

The meeting with legal had been a blur—signing statements, reviewing footage again, going over protocol and next steps. There was so much red tape, so much legal jargon, that it all started to bleed together in your head.

And then there was Cecilia.

She was officially gone. Fired. Out of the studio.

No one was exactly mourning her departure. In fact, you quickly realized that she hadn’t been all that liked to begin with. Crew members exchanged knowing glances, a few even muttering things like, “About damn time.” It was a strange kind of relief, knowing you hadn’t imagined the way she’d treated you—that you hadn’t been overreacting.

Still, you couldn’t shake the sick feeling in your gut.

There was something about the way she had smiled before she left.

Like she knew something you didn’t.

But you pushed it down. You had to. There was still work to be done, cameras to prep, lights to check. The show had to go on, and the last thing you wanted was to make everything about you.

So you pretended.

You focused on your job, gave polite smiles when necessary, forced your hands to steady when they trembled. If anyone noticed how stiff you were, they didn’t say anything. And if Pedro noticed—well.

He was watching you.

Constantly.

Even as he ran through his scenes, even when he was talking to the director, even when he was across the damn set, you could feel it—his eyes lingering, his brow furrowed in quiet concern.

And honestly? It was starting to make you nervous.

So, during a break between shots, when he finally cornered you near the equipment table, you weren’t exactly surprised.

"Are you okay?"

You swallowed, forcing a small smile. "I’m fine."

Pedro raised an eyebrow.

Damn it.

"I’m trying to be fine," you amended, shifting awkwardly under his gaze.

He sighed. "You don’t have to try with me, you know."

Your stomach twisted.

Because that was the thing about Pedro—he was safe. You had known that since the moment you met him. It was in his voice, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he never pushed too hard, never made you feel like you had to be anything other than what you were.

And that—that terrified you more than anything.

Because what if you fell into that safety? What if you leaned too hard? What if you needed him too much?

You bit your lip, glancing down. "I just... I don’t want to make this a big deal."

Pedro was silent for a beat. Then—

"But it is a big deal," he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Pedro reached out, his fingers ghosting over your wrist before he really touched you—slow and gentle, like he was giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

"Someone tried to hurt you," he continued, voice low, careful. "I need you to understand that I—" He broke off, his jaw clenching like he was trying to rein himself in. "I don’t take that lightly."

You exhaled shakily.

"I know," you whispered.

His fingers tightened around your wrist, warm and steady.

For a second, neither of you moved.

And then—

Someone called Pedro’s name from across the set.

He swore under his breath but didn’t let go right away, his thumb brushing absently against your pulse.

"We’re not done talking about this," he murmured.

And before you could protest, he was gone.

Leaving you standing there, heart racing, hands aching with the ghost of his touch.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — EARLY EVENING

The day dragged on like a ghost of itself.

After Cecilia was escorted off set and Pedro’s legal team assured you everything would be handled, you forced yourself to keep working. You were quiet. Careful. Mechanical. Going through the motions like a wind-up version of yourself.

People tried to be nice. Someone handed you a protein bar. Someone else asked if you were okay in that awkward, nervous way people do when they don’t know how to talk about something awful.

You smiled. Nodded. Said, “Yeah. I’m okay.”

You weren’t.

By the time the lights dimmed and crew started packing up, the hum of the studio felt deafening. Pedro had been across the lot filming a short pickup scene—he’d looked back at you three times as he walked off, like he didn’t want to leave you alone, but you waved him on with a soft, forced smile. Told him you’d be fine.

You lied.

Because now you found yourself sitting on a lonely bench just outside the studio’s back lot, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The sun was low in the sky, casting everything in golden haze, but none of it touched the growing pit in your chest.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You almost died.

He almost died.

You didn’t even remember moving—your body just acted, just lunged toward him before the rig collapsed. You could still feel the heat of it brushing past your back as you shoved him out of the way. The sound of it crashing. Pedro yelling your name. The weight of it all hadn’t sunk in until now.

You sat there, heart pounding, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

Then—Footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy boots on pavement.

Pedro.

“…There you are,” he said softly.

You looked up too fast, eyes wide. He frowned when he saw your face.

“You said you were going to the parking lot,” he murmured, kneeling down in front of you instead of sitting beside you. “You’ve been out here alone?”

You nodded. Barely. “Yeah. I just… I needed a second.”

His gaze flickered over you, reading all the things you didn’t say.

“You’re not okay.”

You tried to smile again. Failed. “No.”

That one word cracked something open. Your voice wobbled. “I’m really not.”

Pedro didn’t say anything—he just reached for your hands, gently prying them from where they were clutched around your middle. His thumbs brushed your knuckles as he held them, grounding you with his warmth.

“I keep thinking,” you whispered, “If I was just a few steps slower—if I hadn’t looked up, if the timing was different… you could’ve been—”

“Hey.” He reached up, cupping your cheek. His voice was low and firm and steady. “But I wasn’t. You were there. You saved me.”

You blinked hard. Your throat tightened. “But you shouldn’t have been in danger in the first place. None of this should’ve happened. I don’t know how she—how someone I used to know—could hate me that much. It’s like… like I did something wrong just by existing.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed. His thumb brushed gently under your eye where a tear had slipped free. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You’re not the problem, cariño. She is. Whatever’s broken in her, it has nothing to do with you.”

You dropped your gaze. “I’ve always been the weird one. The quiet one. The ‘who even let her in here?’ kind of girl.”

Pedro let out a breath like it hurt to hear you say that. Then he sat beside you, pulling you into his chest without hesitation. You didn’t even think—your body just curled into him like it was home.

“I don’t know who made you feel like that,” he said quietly, “but they were all wrong.”

His arms were wrapped around you tight. Solid. Safe.

“You belong here,” he whispered. “You’re good at your job. You’re kind. And brave. You didn’t even hesitate today. You didn’t think about it, didn’t flinch—you just moved.”

You felt the warmth of his breath against your temple.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life,” he admitted. “Watching that rig come down, seeing you throw yourself toward me—” His voice cracked, just a little. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you got hurt.”

Your heart thudded painfully at that.

You shifted slightly, your face still tucked against his shoulder, your voice small. “But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “But that doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Silence fell for a moment. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It was full of unspoken things. Of feeling.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. He didn’t let go.

“…You really scared me too,” you whispered. “More than I expected. And I—I don’t think it’s just because I like working with you.”

Pedro’s eyes softened.

“You don’t?” he asked gently.

Your cheeks flushed. You glanced down, shy and awkward. “No. I think… I think I like you in the stupid romantic way.”

Pedro didn’t answer at first. Instead, he leaned in—slow, careful, giving you every chance to back away.

You didn’t.

And when he kissed you, it was soft. Warm. Like the sun finally touching your skin after a long, cold day.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “That’s not stupid.”

You smiled, still tearful, still trembling—but for the first time all day, the weight on your chest felt just a little bit lighter.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Not uncomfortable—just… full. The kind of silence that settles in after your body’s been wrung out by adrenaline and nerves. You stared out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap. Pedro sat beside you, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your wrist with his thumb, like he needed to keep reminding himself you were still there.

He didn’t ask you anything. Didn’t push. Just stayed close.

By the time the keycard clicked and the hotel door swung open, your shoulders felt like they were being held up by thread.

Pedro locked the door behind you. You stood there for a beat too long, not sure what to do with yourself. Like you were suddenly a guest in your own body.

“Hey,” his voice came from behind, soft. “Why don’t you sit down, okay?”

You nodded, toeing off your shoes and sinking onto the edge of the bed. The moment your weight settled into the mattress, your spine curled forward. You didn’t cry. Didn’t break. Just sat there, small and still, trying to hold it all in.

Pedro crouched in front of you.

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until he reached for them.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, eyes glassy, and gave the smallest nod.

He took your hands into his, warm and steady, his thumbs brushing slow circles over your knuckles.

“Pedro…”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly, eyes focused entirely on you. “Hm?”

You hesitated. Your heart fluttered in your chest—nervous, raw, still carrying the weight of everything that had happened. But his hands felt like an anchor. His eyes were kind and open and safe.

“Thank you,” you said softly. Barely more than a whisper.

His lips parted—just the smallest bit—and then curved into something achingly tender.

“Anything for you, mi amor,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

The way he said it—it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t performative. There was no teasing lilt in his voice. It was soft and full of meaning, like every word had been carefully chosen. Like he meant it with his whole chest.

You tried to look away, but he was already watching you with that gaze that always made you feel like the most precious thing in the room.

“I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me,” you said quietly, your voice cracking just a little. “I’ve been weird all day, I barely said anything, and I just—there was this moment where I couldn’t stop shaking. I still feel like I can’t breathe right.”

Pedro didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he brought your hands up and pressed a kiss to your fingers, slow and reverent. Like you were something delicate and sacred.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said gently. “I know what today was. I saw what it did to you. And I saw how hard you still tried.”

Your throat felt tight.

“You didn’t shut down,” he continued. “You showed up. You protected me. And then you went right back to work like nothing happened. But sweetheart… that wasn’t nothing. That was a lot.”

Your lips trembled.

He let go of your hands just long enough to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheeks. “You don’t have to be okay right away. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I didn’t think it’d affect me this much,” you whispered. “It’s just… I felt so stupid for freezing up earlier.”

“You weren’t stupid,” he said immediately. “You were brave. You were human.”

You looked down, unsure of what to say to that. You were still getting used to how he talked to you—like you mattered. Like your feelings were real and valid and worth holding space for.

Pedro tipped your chin up with a gentle finger. “Hey.”

Your eyes met his again.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You don’t owe anyone a perfect reaction. You don’t owe me anything except exactly who you are.”

“I don’t know how to be that around you,” you admitted, cheeks burning. “I still feel like I’m tripping over my own feet when I talk.”

His smile turned playful—just for a second.

“I think it’s cute.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t say that.”

He laughed softly, arms wrapping around you again.

“I’m serious,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re so hard on yourself, mi amor. But I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Your heart fluttered painfully in your chest. You stayed like that, pressed close against him, letting his warmth sink into your skin like sunlight through linen. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, and he held you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“Will you stay?” you asked softly.

Pedro’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Of course.”

“No, I mean…” You hesitated. “All night.”

He reached up, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You want me here?”

You nodded. “I feel safe when you’re here.”

His chest rose with a quiet breath, and then he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead—slow, lingering, warm.

“Then I’m staying,” he said simply.

And he did.

You both climbed under the covers a few minutes later, your back to his chest, his arms around your waist. He held you gently, like a promise. You were still a little shy, still unsure of how close to be—but when he murmured, “I’ve got you,” into your shoulder, something deep in you finally let go.

You fell asleep wrapped in his warmth, the world softening around you.

End Notes:

I know, it's not a super long chapter update, for that I am so sorry, but I swear the next one will be longer tehe!

Will they catch a break?!?! I dunno. There’s a lot of things that come with dating a celebrity… and soon enough, the public will find out. I’m sure it will be fine! ...Right?

Anyways, I apologize once again for the wait and thank you for your patience! See you soon 🤍

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove @ashhlsstuff @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @youusunshineyoutemptress @klajmekkk @aomi-nabi @churchofjoemiller @pascalitobarnes @ccmoonshine @its-different-for-girls66 @bunniboo0015 @kneelforloki @sarcasticamentegiulia @joelmillerpascal

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader masterlist #pedro pascal x reader masterlist #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x ofc #pedro pascal x plus size reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal series masterlist #pedro pascal x reader series #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedrohub

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fict1onallyobsessed · 6 months ago

Note

Just watched act 1 and I'm actually feral for Sevika. Like omg what?! How is she so hot?! Anyway I've had this idea of sharing a smoke with her. Specially shotgunning. Um. Yeah. Anyway maybe that would turn into something a bit more - NSFW should we say. Definitely biting. You know what I'm talking about lol anyway this isn't a lot to work with I know.. I just saw your post asking for Sevika requests so I figured I'd pop in

Sevika x F!Reader 18+

Her lungs burnt as she inhaled her cigar, watching you fix her arm for the hundredth time this week. Your eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, screwdriver carefully pulling out the broken metal parts in her arm, clinking in the silence.

She could feel your frustration before she even entered your little mechanic shop. People were being more demanding for fixes as Zaun practically relied on prosthetic limbs, and you were rated the best one for the job. Sometimes you felt like a pawn; people didn't even pay that well. You might have to think of increasing the prices...

"You think too much."

You sighed, looking up at your girlfriend who huffed out smoke through her nose. She knew you were busy, and a part of her felt bad last time you stayed late to fix her arm, so she tried really hard to keep it in a manageable state for longer than usual.

Heavy on tried.

"You should learn how to fight." You snapped back playfully, looking back down at the arm for the final few fixes. The arm hissed and popped once, finally being fully functional again. "Even Ran doesn't come in this often. Might have to start charging you."

Sevika scoffed as she watched you stand up to toss your tools onto your very littered desk, your hands coming up to wipe your tired face.

"You're processor is fried. I'll make you a new one soon, but this one should hold up if you can hold off fighting for a few days."

She was listening but all she could focus on is how exhausted your eyes looked. She asked if you were done for the day, if you wanted to go home but you were already backlogged for weeks with new projects and fixes. You politely declined, walking over to her again and taking the cigar from her lips only to put it in your own mouth.

Sevika didn't flinch. It was something you did often, especially on nights where you needed something to keep you awake for a little longer.

Sevika sat on the small couch, looking up at you as you inhaled, smoke escaping your nose before you even got to exhale. She thought for a moment, then grabbed the back on your thighs and pulled you to straddle her.

"'Vika, I need to get-"

"To work. I know." She casually said, taking the cigar from your hands and inhaling deeply herself. Her eyes remained on yours while her hand reached up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you up to her lips.

For a second you thought she was going to kiss you, like she did always in thanks when you fix her up. But instead, she stopped you right before her face, hand now moving to open your mouth with her thumb. Then she exhaled.

You felt dizzy. You had smoked plenty of times, and since meeting Sevika you smoked plenty more. But this was so intoxicating it felt better than any cigarette you've ever tried.

You relaxed on her lap, sinking onto her as you tried to breathe normally. Her mechanic hand held your waist, the other firmly on your jaw to keep it open against her mouth. Just as the smoke began to fade, she pulled you fully against her, lips clashing together in a kiss.

You pulled away only when you felt you couldn't breathe, both of your chests rising and falling as you stared down at Sevika, her pupils blown wide, devouring you.

Work could wait.

You grabbed the cigar back, inhaling so deeply you felt your throat close up momentarily. Still, you leaned down and grabbed her jaw while her hands fell to your hips, gripping tightly to pull you even closer.

You exhaled the smoke as slowly as you could, relishing in the moment for a while before the smoke faded again. You wasted no time in kissing her again, a slight moan escaping your lips and into her mouth. You could taste the smoke in her mouth but it only seemed to rile you up more.

Your hips bucked, unintentionally, and you felt Sevika smirk into the kiss.

"That's all it takes to get you going?" Sevika teased. You replied with a breathy and rushed 'shut up' before going back to her lips, rocking your hips more now she was aware of your intentions. Her grip on you tightened, moving you so that you were straddling one of her thighs.

You really tried to keep your groans in, but the way your clit was grinding against the inside of your jeans. Fuck.

"Fuck. Do it again." You lifted the cigar to her lips, making her inhale it and letting her grab your jaw once more, shot gunning the smoke right into your mouth. You tried to breathe steadily, but her hand made you grind on her thigh more.

"So fucking pretty. Barely touched you and you're gonna cum already?"

You were so fucking close, a whine leaving your lips as you hid your face in the crook of her neck. She could feel the small puffs of air you breathed, trying to maintain some kind of control. Your teeth nipped at her skin, her own composure slowly failing.

You huffed when she accidentally made a sound when you bit into her neck. Your hips stuttered and bucked uncontrollably as you came, lips remaining at her skin until you were stable enough to pull away.

"That's all it takes to get you going?" You teased, mocking her words as angry red marks appeared on her neck. She was flushed and panting, your hips still held by her hands. She smirked, kissing you again before standing up and making you stand on your wobbly legs.

"Home. Now."

#sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #sevika x female reader #sevika i love you #sevika x you #sevika smut #sevika x y/n #sevika my love #sevika imagine #arcane league of legends #arcane lol #arcane imagine #arcane x reader #arcane series #arcane #sevika arcane imagine

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kabr0ztrousers · 5 months ago

Note

ngl kinda just need oviposition with ftm reader. thats all LMAO

An FtM reader? A little tricky seeing I don't have any lived experience in that field, but this series was about pushing myself in new creative directions, so let's see what happens!

Kabr0z Writes Episode 35: Interdiction

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: oviposition; noncon; brainwashing; weird science; loss of property; alien abduction; kidnap; forced impregnation; inflation; egg inflation

A/N: Another sci-fi story because I did a feral egging scene recently, and while that's pretty hot variety really is the spice of life. I'm also couching this one in the world of Elite, so that's fun.

Still taking the time to remind you all that requests are free and open, I have a bit of a backlog after yesterday to work through but if you ask for something, it'll probably happen!

#####################################

Exit Frameshift in three, two, one...

Bang. You pulled hard on the stick, steering away from the star and zeroing the throttle. The reality of supercruise means you're still moving at about 30 klicks a second, but that's as close to stationary when considering distances measured in light-seconds. You steered to your next jump vector and rose from your flight seat. Not best practice, your engine emissions a beacon across the whole system, but you're well past the pirate belt in uncharted space. The only contacts you'll see out here are either enterprising extreme-range miners or the desperate pirates preying on them, even they're vanishingly rare.

Space is big. Really big. Even a star system is small in comparison. There's a good chance nobody's ever been here before.

The thought comforted you as you rehydrated some food and applied your hormones. You thought back to home: a dump of a refinery station in the middle of Alliance space. You'd watch the spacers in the huge type-9 haulers bring in kilotons of ore at a time. You'd tried flying freight. The money's good, and there's no passengers to annoy you, but the trade routes were samey and the pirates were always hungry for a mark. You did exactly as much as you needed to kit out your Diamondback and set off for Beagle Point. They say reaching the end of everything changes you. You needed to see for yourself.

You never made it there.

Halfway through your tray of food-flavoured protein paste your instrument panel lit up. Something was flying hard up your tailpipe, probably not friendly.

You hit the leather of the flight chair and gunned the throttle, wrestling the interdiction beam threatening to pull you out of supercruise. You were moving too slow, and the other ship had the headstart on you. Lights dimmed and smoke rose from your console as your FSD struggled to dump heat into the rest of the ship. You'd lost main power, battery backups kicked in to maintain air as you craned to see what had caught you.

You couldn't see the ship so much as see where it blotted out stars. A great dark silhouette threatening to crush you in its absence of form.

A great maw opened on the surface of the object, drawing nearer to you. Your docking computer flared to life and started calculating vectors, bringing you in to land even as you struggled to disengage it. The whole ship jolted as you touched down, almost throwing you from your seat.

You grabbed a pulse rifle and flipped your table, it wasn't much cover, but it'd have to do.

Splintering glass. You flew backwards in a rush of wind as the cockpit depressurised, the emergency helmet in your flight suit deploying around your head, just before something hit you, and you lost consciousness.

You awoke connected to monitors, a tube sticking down your throat. Two large reptilian... men? were talking. You assume they were talking, and assume they were men. They were heavily built, upright, bipedal, and wore long white gowns, the purplish light in the room casting them in faint lavender.

They looked at you. One clipped a smooth piece of metal to the side of its face

"Greetings, you have been captured" The alien's voice was strangely familiar.

It was the voice from the Galnet broadcasts

"Where am I? What have you done with my ship? You tried to pull the tube from your mouth, but your hands were restrained to the slab you were lay on.

"Your vessel has been disassembled for study. Your technology and biology has been categorised."

Your heart broke. That ship was your pride and joy, you knew every inch of it, and now it's gone. You slumped back, staring up at the ceiling as the newsreader voice continued.

"We have identified that your biology is acceptable to host our eggs. This is the reason you have been revived. Implantation has a greater success rate when the subject is not anaesthetised"

You jolted up. Eggs? The fuck?

The lizards approached you. You could see now their robes were open at the front revealing their bodies. They were each holding scissors.

They cut you out of your clothes. First opening the reinforced kevlar of your flight suit as though it was tissue paper, then snipping through your binder and boxers revealing your naked, hairy body.

One placed a metal disk on your midriff, where you felt it stick. They pressed a button on a control pad and electricity started pulsing through you. Your hair stood on end as your nipples hardened and your cunt moistened, your bulbous clit standing erect. The lizards looked at one another, and their hands fell upon you. Two fingers were shoved down your throat, making you gag as the other set to work on your pussy. Both ends of you were being worked, forced to produce fluids and lubricate you for what was to come. The throat slime rising in your mouth and the insistent fingertips on your slit. The one at your pussy grabbed your clit between two fingers and started jerking it, rubbing the hood over your tdick.

Your struggling against your bonds turned to writhing in pleasure, bucking your hips against the lizard's hand. Its fingers pushed inside you and started pumping, his other hand still jacking you off. You couldn't resist sucking on the fingers in your mouth as your orgasm washed over you, moaning around the hand in your mouth and squirting thin fluid from your cunt at the alien servicing you. The hands released you. You held your mouth open and presented your cunt to them, eager for more.

You could see cocks emerging from the slots on their crotches, dripping fluid and pulsing.

They fell upon you. In a flash your cunt was filled, your clit grinding against the rough scales on the lizard's belly. The other lizard followed suit, burying himself in your throat. His precum was sour and slimy, easily lubricating him as he pounded into your mouth and throat. The tube seemed to be to breathe through, otherwise you'd definitely pass out on the rod forcing its way down.

You could feel another orgasm pressing against you, making your cunt clench against the cock inside you as the lizard's thrusting rubbed your clit. The device on your belly pulsed harder and you heard both of the reptiles grunt in anticipation. They could clearly feel it too, fucking your holes even harder and filling you with that slimy pre. The pulses made you ache. You kept humping against the cock in your cunt, tongue sticking out to lick at the one in your throat even as it ravaged you. One of them grabbed your tits, rubbing your erect nipples and pushing you over the edge.

Your body twisted as you clenched and squirted all over the one in your pussy. Your eyes defocused and crossed. Both lizards hilted in you at once, the lewd sounds you kept making clearly pushing them over the edge.

The bases of their cocks expanded, locking them in. One pushed against the entrance of your womb, the other halfway down your throat. They started to throb and pulse, twitching as the lizards groaned. You felt thick cum flood you before solid objects started moving down them. One after another, eggs pushed into you, bulging your belly and pressing up against one another.

Your skin stretched until the metal device popped off you. The cloud of desire lifted from you and you tried to scream, wheezing down the tube leading into your airway until one of the aliens grabbed it and pressed it against your ass.

You almost orgasmed again when it started back up, each egg driving a wave of excitement and arousal through your body as they flowed into your womb and your stomach.

You were bulging and round when they pulled out, gravid and pregnant with dozens and dozens of eggs. The one at your pussy slapped your ass when he pulled out, the sudden shock sending another firecracker-orgasm through you, making you whimper and twitch, unable to move for the volume of eggs in you

The lizards left the room, and you felt numbness flow through you again, surrendering yourself to drugged sleep

You never did reach Beagle Point

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I feel like I was able to keep the Elite technobabble to a minimum here, most of the terms are pretty self-explanatory and no worse than Trek can be

Either way, my research has shown that if I remind you at the top and bottom of an episode to send an ask if you have a request, I get traction. So please, if there's something you want me to try out, revisit, reimagine, or you just want to send a dirty picture, my asks and DMs are open and I'm always hungry for ideas!

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copperbadge · 3 months ago

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ADHD and (Communications) Productivity

Recently @goodnightmoonvale hit me up by email to ask about some of my processes for keeping myself from getting snowed under when it comes to digital communication. The main question was about finding ways to ensure that you stay in touch with people and, at work, give updates in a timely manner.

I sent back a long email about the systems I use, then asked if I could post up my response publicly as well, since a couple of other people both online and in brickspace have asked me similar questions. I've cleaned it up a little and included it below -- although I feel just slightly weird about posting it since admittedly outside of work I am still not fantastic about prompt responses to email.

Still, I feel like it's good to share this stuff -- I think people take away what they can from this kind of post, and it's nice when something works. So here's what I wrote, tidied up a bit for posting.

SHORT VERSION

When I have a backlog in email or asks or similar -- as I often do -- I set aside a time, between 15 minutes and an hour depending on how I'm feeling, to do "communication rotation". I open up every inbox I need to respond to in a separate tab, and crucially these are the ONLY tabs open -- I set up a new browser window if I have to.

So I have a browser open and I have tabs within the browser -- Gmail, Tumblr Askbox, AO3 Inbox, etcetera. If you have Discord you might open the DMs in Discord to see if you have ones to respond to there. If it helps, you can create a bookmark file of "inboxes" so you can open them all at once every time. Sometimes I have multiple browsers open so that I can have multiple Gmail inboxes (personal, fandom, work) open at once.

Then I cycle through them, answering messages in one inbox until I feel like I can't anymore, and I move on to the next one. I try to set a goal -- say, five messages from each platform, or one "difficult" message that I've been putting off per platform. Or trying to get every inbox down to under 20 messages that need response, or similar.

The goal is not to answer every single message, but to attack the mountain. If you find you're skipping one inbox because only the really hard-to-respond-to messages are left, close out the other inboxes and just focus on replying to ONE hard-to-respond-to message, then get up and walk away and give yourself a treat. Maybe come back and start again in ten minutes, maybe you're done for the day. The point is to reduce the backlog little by little while still retaining enough energy to respond to new things as they come in, so they don't add to the backlog.

There may be a better way for some people -- maybe some people would do better to pick one platform each time and just deep focus on that one, for example. I always say that people need to find what works for them, but the attitude in this case is what's important -- not "Gotta do it all now" but "Little bit now helps me later".

NOW, for the long version that's more work focused!

LONG VERSION

Responding to people and keeping them updated are two different things, and I think there's an implicit third thing, which is "making sure I make time to respond to messages". So in sequence what you need to figure out how to do is:

1. Set up your workflow so that you are consistently reminded to read and respond to email.

2. Respond in a timely and appropriate manner to email.

3. Set up your workflow so that you are reminded to provide update emails as you progress in various projects.

So for 1, only you know what will trigger you to consistently read and answer email. For me, I just constantly have my work email open on one monitor (I have two) and whenever a new email comes in I see it. Sometimes I need to use both monitors for other things, and for that reason the only email notifications I get on my phone are work email notifications*. So if I'm working on something and my phone nearby dings, I know it's probably important, and I see what it is fairly quickly.

* Reader, if you have ADHD and have not tried turning off all but the most necessary phone notifications, I do recommend trying it. For some it might be difficult or even counterproductive, but for me, it helps enormously with brain fog and executive function. The only notifications I get on my phone are text messages, work emails, and alarms. Nothing from social media, nothing from retail or game or banking apps. Zippo.

Once I'm aware I have a new email, before I read it, I decide: do I want to read and reply to this now? If not, if I'm in the groove of something else, I leave the email unread, so that it's there nagging at me when I'm done with whatever I'm doing. If I'm in a good place to break, I open the email -- but only if I have concluded that I will respond to it immediately if response is needed.

This is a difficult habit to form. It may not work for some people. The key is to figure out what will a) draw your attention to new email, b) allow you to decide whether to read it, and c) respond if you do read it.

2 ("respond in a timely and appropriate manner") is actually the easiest of the three steps in my opinion because you don't always have to have all the answers at once. I sometimes fall into the pit of "I can't respond unless I have a full answer or a finished assignment" and have to pull myself back out. It helps that I have become master of the "acknowledgement email" -- basically if you open an email and you can't answer the questions in it immediately, or if you can't work on the assignment that moment, you fire off a quick email just to let them know you've received the message and are working on it.

For this, I have several stock phrases such as "Thanks for the email! Let me look into this a little further and I'll get back to you" or "Sure, I can get that done in [timeframe]." Importantly, if they have not given you a deadline, it's SUPER helpful to say, "I'll have this to you by [reasonable date in your opinion] -- if you need it sooner please let me know ASAP so I can prioritize it." (or "If you need it sooner let's discuss the scope of the project, since I have a lot on my plate.")

You then need to make sure that you do the task in the allotted time, but that's a different ballgame -- we're focusing here on responding and updating.

People, truly, just want to know that you've seen their request and are working on it, and just sending that email goes a long way towards giving the impression that you are a prompt responder and strong communicator. Also if you have any questions ("before I proceed, can I ask") now is the time to ask them since that puts responsibility back on them to provide information before you go further and possibly waste your time.

3 ("Set up your workflow so that you are reminded to provide update emails") is where I struggle, because it's not just about remembering to Do The Thing, you have to also remember to update the person on the thing. The way I do this is to use my inbox not as a temporary repository for new emails but as a to-do list. Until a task is complete, the email regarding it does not leave my inbox (see next paragraph for exceptions). If it's important I might even mark it unread (despite having replied to it) so that it "bugs" me when I look at my inbox.

If I have replied and can't go further until I get a response, I might file the email in a folder. I make a new folder for work every month, so for example any requests from February are in the 2025-02 folder, and for big projects with multiple emails I make a folder like "2025 Holiday Cards" or "2025 Database Audit". Since there's nothing I can do until the person hits me back, it doesn't need to stay in my "to do" inbox -- when they email back it'll get moved there anyway. However, if I have replied and need a response but can work on other aspects of the task, even if I'm not going to immediately, I leave it in my inbox. That way, whenever I'm concerned I've forgotten something, I can check my inbox and see all the stuff I need to either reply to or update people on.

I also use Google Tasks to run my life, and have it open in a sidebar next to my email, so any task I should be working on is generally noted there as well, but that goes back to the "make sure you do the tasks promptly" which again is a different issue.

CASE STUDY

So, say someone asks me for a spreadsheet on Monday. I reply "Thanks, I'll have this for you by end of day Friday, let me know if you need it sooner." They don't respond so I assume Friday is fine for my purposes. I leave the request email in my inbox and start work on the task OR I put the task in my Google Tasks with "Due Friday EOD" on it. (Sometimes I do both.)

I work on the project all week and by Wednesday I've made reasonable progress but haven't heard back from the person who asked for it. Around the end of day Wednesday, I might open the thread again and send a quick email saying "Hey, I'm making good headway on this, still on track to have it to you EOD Friday." Or I might have a question, and shoot that off. For some people, you get a feel of whether or not they need that kind of update. I don't do this for, say, my super laid-back boss, but I do for the head of Data who definitely wants status updates.

On Friday, I open that same email thread as the original request (for consistency) and send them the finished product. At that point I know I'm done with the task so I can shift the email into my 2025-02 archive for good. All the communication is in one place, and it's neatly filed away, so I no longer have to worry about it.

CONCLUSION

The ultimate point is that you want to develop a system for your own personal use that reminds you to check email frequently, helps you respond immediately when you read an email, and reminds you to send updates as they're needed. Maybe that's alarms instead of Google Tasks, or a calendar app, or a handwritten to-do list in place of keeping stuff in your inbox. The point is to know what will cue you to do things you wouldn't do naturally, then implement those -- and change them if they stop working. What I wrote above is my system, but it's mostly demonstrating the framework I used to build it, which is what I hope other people will also find useful.

#sam has adhd #adhd #coping mechanisms #organizational systems

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yescking · 4 months ago

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Ur streamer AU has been living in my head rent-freeeeee 🙏🙏😩 thank you for this

- Would Black Sapphire be SMilk's editor, to keep their employee-boss thing from canon?

- Hear me out. Wouldn't it be REALLY funny if Silent Salt was. a Dark Souls challenge YouTuber. Or like The Backlogs where they challenge run other things too but are mainly known for their Fromsoft stuff

- Idk if this fits with what you had in mind, but I also think it would be really funny if SMilk, unlike every other gamer on the planet, WASN'T a college dropout and had a full-on finished college degree in, like, English Lit or something. This would mirror his being the Fount of Knowledge from canon. His corruption is then analogous to becoming a gamer/streamer

- Where every other thin, conventionally attractive male streamer is asked to put on a maid costume, would SMilk instead have a sub goal on his streams for a clown costume... (this would be born of a channel meme, probably, and SMilk is committed to the bit at this point)

SORRY LONG ASK ARGH... the brain worms...

- bs could help him sometimes, but most of the time smilk does his editing himself bc he's rlly good at entertaining. bs had been watching sm for a long time and started streaming himself Because of him, he's his inspiration, and at one point they met and formed a friendship:) i like the SS streaming idea!!!

- yes smilk finished his education! and even worked for some time in an educational field, but got fired Or left himself and became a streamer

- LOL!!!! he would get that sub goal higher and higher every time tho. and his fans would still fall for it

#asks my beloved #crk #streamer au #thank U for liking this little (or not so little atp..) au :)#i loved ur ideas!

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ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Five: the help of someone else feels foreign

tw: wound cleaning

Your ears are ringing again.

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. It drones on like the engine of a car—a bug buzzing near your head. It’s nothing but a painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it.

Dehydration torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in like the transition of a movie; poetic and painfully slow. The sting in your palms, the way you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth only to let out a confused, gargled groan. Everything feels too bright as mood lighting illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room. Lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you as your muscles scream at the build up of lactic acid.

You blink at the foreign room around you. You’re resting in a lush conversation pit with throw pillows, but there’s no one to converse with. There’s no company but a bare glass coffee table in front of you and a chandelier overhead that’s darkened to its lowest setting. Taking a shot in the dark, you guess you’re still at Terminus, but something seems uncannily off about it. There’s no faint hum of brooding music or overwhelming chatter. Sour alcohol doesn’t fill the air—there’s nothing.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache or churning sensation of nausea like after a long night drinking; there’s only a slight thirst for water and a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, leaving behind rusty brown spots like freckles.

Then, everything hits you at once. The ache that weighs in your chest. The backlog of adrenaline that tickles the sides of your spine. You recall Andrei. How you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn. You think of his warning—how he’s always warning you—and how Simon found you. You cautiously rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much. Attempting to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay seems like an impossible task.

How do you keep messing up?

“Morning’ sweetheart.”

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers over you at an odd angle as he stands outside of the conversation pit with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. The sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor seems like a den—tucked away far out of sight from any reprobate eyes.

He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away. Thankfully, he sits on your right. He holds out the glass for you to take, but you don’t miss the way his eyes wander over your face.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss.

You reach your hand out to take the glass only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands as if it were a warm cup of tea on a bitterly algid day. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bit of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, mouth half full.

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. Its cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned into an oasis. Your eyes flicker around the room once more, this time noting the rich, marble floors. “Where… where are we?”

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down and it’s nearly half devoured already. You think back to the food you brought him from work—the delicious capellini pomodoro—and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside. A pang of guilt rattles your chest at realizing how long he’s been starving for.

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “You were a little out of it after everythin’ went down. Hardly responsive. Was worried, so I brought you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa. Completely shut down.”

Ignominy rises in your face, searing your cheeks and the tips of your ears until it boils over into your stomach. The mental image of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. You hate being vulnerable around others. Most of all, you hate how your vulnerability oftentimes isn’t a choice you get to make.

“Tried to clean up your hands as best as I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep beneath your skin. “I’m not a doctor, but it should keep you together for now.”

“I… thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How did you know where I was? Or that… or that anything was happening?”

“Boys up front messaged sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so I went out lookin’ for ya. Though you’d gotten yourself lost, and then I heard people talkin’ in the alley. Well, you know the rest.”

When you look up from your hands, you find Simon staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room—endless but so warm. The muscles lining his jaw flex and relax as he chews and swallows his meal.

“You know ‘im? That cunt in the alley?” he asks.

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes—the bored expression of his tone. How flippantly he deals with life. The soft warning soaking his words. You are very much aware how bad his bite hurts. It’s a bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No. I have no idea,” you lie.

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before—like he’s already got every bit of you memorised. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food.

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon admits. “Probably just another ugly wanker sniffin’ for some fun. I see ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds trouble. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.”

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say—you blame it on the anxiety.

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.”

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes, making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before.

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. Amaranthine seeps into the paleness of his face—a deep bruise sits at the crest of his cheek.

“Simon, your eye,” you point out as you lean forward.

Fingers absentmindedly reach up for his face as he gently prods at the wound. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.”

Guilt rips through you like a bullet rips through a brain—you think you’ve finally realized the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just a simple run in with some bum on the street; this is Andrei. This is worse than Andrei—this is Marco.

Situations brainstorm in your mind as you attempt to mentally fabricate excuses. Some way to beg Marco to believe that this isn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. It’s too late. You can already smell his cologne and feel his hand on your jaw.

Back pressed against the wall—breath on your face—mint in the air—blood on linoleum—

“Hey, stay with me.”

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your grasp, forcing you to blink away your panic and focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours—this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle.

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine—that fresh cotton. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts before you can make a further fool of yourself. “Long night. We should getcha home. It’s gettin’ late.”

Your lips press tightly together as you force a breath into your lungs, praying your heart will steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize. Heat radiates off of him like apricity, warming you from the inside out. Yet the look in his eyes is the softest thing you’ve seen for quite some time.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until you make it outside that you realize just how late you’ve been out. The faint periwinkle glow of the sky bleeds over the city as the sun attempts to break through the horizon. Around this time, normal people are getting up to start their days; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can handle any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you.

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alleyway. A part of you still fears that Andrei might be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do worse. Yet, there’s no such boogeyman waiting for you, not when someone like Simon is around to ward them off.

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and you feel your stomach drop at the sight of his motorcycle. It’s beautifully kept and maintained. A sleek black body reflects the flat sunlight, and the seat looks comfortable enough for cruising. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than sitting through a miserable ride on public transit.

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out for you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t wanna freeze to death.”

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.”

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can recall some faint memory, but it feels false.

How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign?

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter frost that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?”

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you. He sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before giving you his full attention.

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Aelin about this?” you ask.

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got big palms and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates them, and you feel your mouth go dry again.

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes.

You nod, and he nods back.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the edge of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken—as if they aren’t already intense enough.

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable—as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate—but you settle behind him with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist.

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling.

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of his jacket to keep them warm as he begins to pull out of the car park. The ride is smooth as he pulls onto the street, and he coasts along the pavement with ease. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat.

It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you squeeze them shut and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct that you can almost convince yourself you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body to meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to wander. You think it’s the first time that your hands have stilled without driving you insane.

That comfort is ripped from you as Simon pulls up to your dingy apartment.

Silence falls as he kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget all about it in your slumber.

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your palm up where you notice your gauze caught on the jacket. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free, but that only earns you another jolt of pain.

“Careful,” Simon warns. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further. You stare up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.”

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your skin and the gauze.

Despite the refreshing sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens the scabs enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with your palm lines. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to know exactly what he had to pull out of your skin.

Simon’s thumb swipes over the cuts as gentle as a feather, and you find your eyes darting to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring.

So caring that it makes you feel sick.

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t flinch. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting.

“Doin’ what?” he challenges.

“Why are you… Why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “My door, my sink, now my hands. I mean, you don’t even know me. Not really. Why are you wasting your time?”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste,” he corrects as he begins to lower your hand. “Everythin’ I do is intentional.”

“But why?”

Simon doesn’t answer you, but his silence sings. The answer is written all over his face—hidden in the twitch of his lips and the glint of his eyes. Espial hits you square in the face, nearly knocking the breath out of you.

“Aelin put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft.

Simon drops your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.”

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You know kindness never comes cheap, if it ever comes at all. Yet, relief overwhelms you in a violent wave. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you—yet he’s not doing this because of you.

You don’t owe Simon Riley a damn thing.

“Yeah, she always is,” you humor with a dull titter. “Good. I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.”

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, incessant ache that stems from his cheek bone, down the back of his neck, and all the way through his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body in some way he doesn’t expect. He ignores the throe as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold, and instead focuses on the events of the night.

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon wouldn’t have ever noticed if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man—this freak with his stony face and sharp knife—you said no.

He doesn’t believe you for a second.

Which is why he’s back at Terminus, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film as he witnesses the events of the night for himself. It’s grainy, poor quality, and stuck in black and white, but this stranger—now a freak with a broken nose—arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds.

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. You set off on your own after a quick chat and make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose.

He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before.

It’s just past eight in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker.

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting.

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips.

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply.

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him.

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says.

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases.

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.”

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastard has a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers.

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes.

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he swears he could fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going.

You’re in trouble.

As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man while trying to save his life back in the butcher shop. He doesn’t know why his brother was so surprised to see that he—a butcher—was able to slice flesh so easily, but he didn’t like seeing that fear in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours. That primal, agonizing fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to all but carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground.

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

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