#that there are thirty one pills rattling around inside you and that you think walking to hospital might have been a mistake | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 years

Note

maybe this is too cliche but for the zombie au, what if reader is running low on meds and steve goes out to find her some, because he’s dumb and reckless and doesn’t want her to panic?

baby I love cliche! thanks so much for your request, this is a great idea. i decided to make it so that the meds r needs are not critical but make a big difference to well-being, hope that's OK! ♡ zombie!au | fem!reader

Steve knows he's making a mistake. He's just too bone-headed to turn around and go home. Home as a funny word, home as nowhere permanent, home as wherever you are. He should turn around and march straight back to your side where you're sleeping in a derelict but otherwise secure condo just outside of the Michigan border. He should not be out alone.

He and you have been walking for weeks. It's miserable and exhausting and Steve knows you're not telling him how tired you are. Of course you're tired, as he is, as he imagines every survivor out there is tired of this life.

He scoffs and steps over another smashed bottle. He's not sure you can call this existence a life, anymore. The irony isn't lost on him.

He trudges through the wreckage of a pharmacy about thirty minutes from the condo. Remarkably close. Steve had searched every rest stop along the road you'd followed to get here for usable maps, half too old and simplistic to make proper sense of, the others destroyed by mould or wet or blood. When he'd finally found one yesterday morning — inside the miracle condo, his first stroke of luck in months — he'd immediately searched for a pharmacy. Upon locating it, his plan was born.

Wait for you to fall asleep. Secure the condo. Find your medication.

To leave you asleep and vulnerable isn't the sort of thing he ever wants to do, but he'd weighed his options heavily. Bring you with him, tired and sick and especially open to attack, or leave you behind.

He can't decide if it was the right thing to do even now. He thinks of a geek scratching you in your sleep and has to take pause.

"Fuck," he mutters, wiping his eyes. They start to sting, sweat and dirt rubbed into his bottom lashes.

There's no time to waste. The quicker he can find your meds the quicker he can get back to you.

The pharmacy is pretty badly ruined. He doesn't know where to start or where to look. There's obvious signs of multiple struggles, most anything worth having has been looted.

Steve picks his way towards the appropriate section. He makes no sound that he can't help, practiced now in silent footfall, in holding his arms at a certain height to stop the chafing of his jacket. He tries very hard to remember the exact name that he'd seen on the bottle in your bag, the brand, the specification.

He's stricken when he can't immediately find it. He's put you both in danger for nothing.

A sound echoes from the front of the room.

Steve is immediately on pins, sliding the baseball bat where it hangs from the strap of his rucksack into his hand. Its weight is both familiar and disconcerting.

He holds his breath. The barest hints of daylight stream into the room, the water of a river broken by a thousand rocks. Steve looks between each ray of light and finds only dust, dust, and more dust, motes like pinprick stars drifting between them.

The zombie appears as a dark silhouette.

Steve takes an impulsive, unfortunate step backwards and his bag scrapes the shelving unit. Pill bottles rattle, a minute sound that may as well scream his location in the quiet.

Fuck, he thinks.

There's no telling what kind of zombie you'll be met with. Some are faster, some are smarter, some can smell you from very far away. Like the people they once were, each geek possesses their own strengths and weaknesses.

In life, this one seems to have been an imbecile. Its gory mess of a face looks toward him, looks straight at Steve and his hammering heart, and then looks the other way. He drifts from the room like a grey, disgusting apparition, and Steve's left alone in the room

Somebody grabs him from behind.

Steve shrieks and forces the entirety of his weight down to the floor. It's the first trick you'd taught him, that to be grabbed by the hair is hardly easily escapable, and that your best chance of surviving is to let yourself fall swiftly and fiercely into the force of it. It goes against everything the body desires to do, to move toward the thing grabbing you rather than away, but it always works.

His scalp tingles with shattering pain. His spine aches from the sudden collapse. Above him, a geek turns his dripping maw down to look at him, bloody saliva pooling at the chin. Freshly dead.

Steve scrambles away gracelessly, a half turn, on hands and then up, he stands and brings the baseball bat to his chest. He should run. If he fights this thing the sound might be enough to draw the second, and a second would probably kill him.

But Steve's just spotted your medication.

"Fucker," he says, and snaps the full force of his strength across the zombie's face. Metal bruises its way through flesh like a baton into pear flesh. A depression gets left behind. Steve from before the apocalypse would've gagged.

Steve now takes a second swing.

You're crying with both hands pressed to your face when the door downstairs opens. You immediately choke on your tears, half terror and half hope.

It could be Steve, you think. It could be him. Maybe he didn't leave after all, maybe he just went for a walk, maybe he just-

Of course he left. He was always going to leave. You can't hold him to his promises, because why would he stay? To always look after you? And you've been so tired, so unwell, you've caught him looking at you with this awful unhappy look like he can tell how much of a burden you're going to become.

If it isn't Steve, it's someone else. If it's someone else, you're in danger.

You press your hand over your mouth and try not to breathe. All your things are in the bedroom. If they come in here they'll see what's left. They'll know someone was here, but maybe you'll get lucky. They'll take your stuff and never think to look under the bed. You'll survive.

And then you'll die of starvation.

But if you can drag your things under the bed with you they won't know you're here at all.

You crawl across the floor and breathe hard through your nose, a sluggish tear falling over the slope of your cheek as you go. It falls into the rug, lost forever, and you climb over it. You loop your hand around the strap of your backpack and tug it backward with you, suppressing a sob as footsteps sound up the stairs.

Hidden again, you wait. You hold your breath until your throat burns.

The door creaks open.

"Y/N?" Steve asks. He talks as he always does, quiet and steady. "Are you in here?"

You loose the breath you'd held like a barb. The sound is pathetic, like a crying little kid.

"Y/N?"

You push your bag away from you and crawl out from under the bed, wiping desperately at your tearstained cheeks.

"I thought you were somebody else," you explain quickly, standing on wobbly legs.

You check him over and then avert your gaze, not wanting to look him in the eye, only he's covered in blood. You do a double take.

"What happened?" you both demand, staring at one another in shock.

You press your lips together and wait for Steve to explain first.

He drops the backpack off of his shoulder and unzips it. "I went to the pharmacy. Had to fight a geek for it, but I have something for you."

"What..."

Steve holds out a bottle of your medication.

His hands are white with cold and ice to the touch as you take it. Your ear is ringing.

"Why would you go by yourself?" you ask, numb.

"I don't know if you've noticed, babe, but you're not really up for expedition right now."

You laugh wetly and fight against another oncoming wave with your dirtied shit sleeves. "I'm not that bad."

"No, you are. And that's fine. But hopefully these'll help."

You stare at him, his dirty hair and unshaven face, the blood dried over his jacket and the similar splatters under his jaw. It looks as though he'd tried to wipe away whatever was on his face, iron streaks dissapearing into the shorter hairs of his sideburns.

You're not sure if you're too emotional to see the truth or if you're delusional with sickness or both, but you're almost a hundred percent sure that Steve initiates the hug, and not you.

His arms go over your shoulders. It's a slow, sweet thing, hesitant in his hand placement and the pressing of his cheek to the top of his head. You're not nearly so tentative, desperate for reassurance as you wrap your own arms around his back. The cold clings to him. You rub your open hand uselessly against it, trying to pour every bit of warmth you have into the gesture. Your other hand clutches the pill bottle so hard your knuckles ache.

"Sorry for scaring you," he says, "I would've used the signal, but I thought you'd still be asleep."

You're embarrassed. You want him to forget all about it as fast as possible.

Regrettably, with you and Steve, it seems as though every interaction is its own chapter of an increasingly long book. There's nothing else out there. The desolation and loneliness of your lives has made it so that each interaction is felt in excruciating detail.

Though sometimes that's nice.

His hug seems to go on forever. His arm tightens around your shoulder and his hand encircles your upper arm while the other bunches up the fabric of your hoodie.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're like a Jackson Pollock of gore, Steve."

"What's a Jackson Pollock?"

You rest your cheek against his shoulder and stare at his neck, all his little hairs and pores and skin. "He was a painter. He did, um... splatters. He was quite famous."

To your surprise, Steve still doesn't let you go. He hugs you and hugs you and it's not like he's never hugged you before, he has, usually in similar times of high emotions. But still. He's not exactly tactile. Not with you.

"You shouldn't have- You shouldn't have risked-" You clear your throat. It's a struggle to say it aloud without insinuating a second meaning. "Thank you," you say instead. "I don't know how I'lll..." make it up to you. Make it out of this without you.

"Would you look at the back of my head?" he asks abruptly.

"What?"

"I fell. Think I might've cut myself. Or gave myself a killer concussion, at least."

"Oh no," you murmur, genuinely sympathetic.

Steve and you set down on the bed. He lets you card through his hair, careful, delicate, and search for his injury, a patch of irritated skin and a small lump. You fawn over him and rub a little antiseptic into the wound. Only afterwards when you're laying down to sleep beside him with the door barricaded do you realise what he's done — Steve doesn't care about small bumps or scrapes, he'd let you look after him because he'd known it would make you feel better.

When you're sure he's sleeping, you bracelet his wrist with your fingers. His pulse capers under your touch.

more steve zombie au

#steve zombie!au #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #zombie!au

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wri0thesley · 3 years

Note

omg wait no hold on I just requested overhaul but then I remembered your overhaul thirst post about him pulling a "curing hysteria~" as an excuse and thought I'd request something along that vibe (no oun intended). I think that'd fall under orgasm control, overstim? (hope this is okay!)

hysteria antidote - overhaul x fem!reader (4k)

seeing nothing but the same four walls every day of your life is playing havoc with your brain. overhaul thinks perhaps you're suffering from hysteria. he has the perfect cure for that.

cw: not sfw/minors dni. dark content!!! dubious/non-consent. captive reader. talk of death, blood, etc. medical kink, gloves, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm control. misogyny. mentions of pregnancy/breeding. afab reader, fem pronouns.

[a/n: idk the internet said the 28th of may was his birthday so consider this both a birthday fic and a fic to celebrate 6k followers, sorry that i am gross and horrible but tbh im having a great time <3]

You really don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to be going out of your mind.

Since the Boss was taken ill, and Kai – Overhaul, you remind yourself, though he’s always just a little less sharp with you when you trip over the new name than he is with anyone else – took over leadership of the Shie Hassaikai, you’ve been pretty much stuck indoors.

Considering that you’re pretty sure he only has fond feelings towards maybe three people in the entire world, including you, you guess you ought to feel special about it – but all it actually does is make you feel like a trapped bird, caged and restless. It doesn’t help that all of the other members of the organisation have started being weird around you; people who you’ve known most of your adult life, people who you’ve worked beside and killed beside and done other horrible things beside (for the good of the organisation, of course)--

But now, they look at you like you might break at any moment. They treat you like an invalid. Their brows crease when they see you out and about, quietly murmuring; “Shouldn’t you still be in your room?”, avoiding touching you at all costs. There’s a kind of fear in their eyes, that they’re going to be told off for even speaking to you, that they’re afraid of being caught close to you.

And you know exactly who’s to blame for that.

You’d tried to speak to him about it, once; you’d thought that perhaps he might be amenable to your desire to do something to help the Shie Hassaikai. He’s always wanted to restore them to their former glory, after all! But after you’d let out your little impassioned tirade, his eyebrows had creased over the bird-mask.

“You don’t sound well,” he’d said to you. “Go back to your room. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

You had missed, at the time, that he hadn’t said ‘we’ll talk about it later’. He’d just said ‘I’ll’. When he had come, that is how it had been; the reassurance that he was keeping you safe. That he didn’t want you to be tainted. That he was keeping you well.

Your quirklessness has never been an issue before, but it certainly hasn’t been a boon. Still, for Kai--

“It’s disgusting,” he’d said, agitated by the discussion. You’d stared at his hands, thinking about the destructive power he himself wielded. “Quirks are a curse, and you not having one is just proof you’re not infected.” He’d looked up, golden eyes piercing directly into yours. “I’m going to keep you perfect.”

Overhaul is not a doctor, for all of his talk about illness and disease and plague. You think he could have used his quirk for something meaningful, once; but you also know that his burning curiousity, his disgust of anyone who deems tainted, his utter lack of morality . . . those are all things that would not have been welcomed in the medical profession. So instead, he deals in needles and pills and altering drugs in the underground labyrinth of the compound.

Sterile rooms, with examination tables and scalpels and impersonal, silver-grey equipment. Pill boxes that rattle when he passes them to you and tells you to take three of those a day, one of those, that one has to be taken to with food--

The idea that you won’t take them doesn’t enter his head, and though he has never . . . overhauled someone in front of you, you have walked past other members of the organisation mopping and disinfecting blood and gristle from sterile flooring.

It is better to go along with him, so you take the supplements and the pills and submit to the way he grabs your chin in gloved hands on the doctor’s chair, tipping your face up to shine a light into your eyes and watch your pupils dilate. But inside, you are screaming.

You’re not made to be locked in one room, occasionally allowed out to pace the hallways of the upstairs – never the underground ones, not any more – with restless footsteps and your muscles fizzing with desire to taste fresh air. You’re not made to stare at the same walls and breathe the purified air and think about how empty the compound is, now that Overhaul is in charge of everything--

(Too many knick-knacks attract dust. Pollen allergies act up, if there are too many plants, and he hates hearing people sneeze. Furniture should be easily movable and barren, to assist in the twice-daily cleanings of every room that people walk through.)

But it’s getting too much for you. Suffocating. You feel like you’re choking on air all of the time; you take the pills, because the thought of what he could do to you is terrifying, but sometimes you wonder if perhaps it would be better if you didn’t.

You’d woken up that morning to the sound of rain hitting the high windows in your bedroom, and you had longed to go outside in your thin nightwear and spread your arms and taste the air, smell the rain, feel it hit your body in fat droplets. Your entire being had ached. You’d tried to distract yourself, with what little there was in the barren prison cell that you called a bedroom – but when the door opened at four thirty exactly, and Kai had stood there with his face as impassive as ever, you had not been able to stop yourself.

Hand fastening around his upper arm (you shouldn’t touch him, you know you shouldn’t, but the same four walls are getting to you), you’d begged him;

“I want to go outside.”

If anyone else had touched him like that, they would already be splattered against the walls and floor. But all you get is a furrow of his eyebrows, careful fingers (gloved, of course; the latex against your skin always makes you shudder) pinching at your hand to get you to let go of him.

“No,” he says. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I don’t care,” you’re petulant, you know, frustration bubbling up in every cell of your body. “If I stay in here for one more day, I will tear myself into pieces.”

“You’re being over-dramatic.”

“Kai—”

“Don’t call me that.” His rebuttal is sharp. “You know I’m doing this for your own good.”

Your face twists into something ugly. Overhaul hates it when you do that; hates the way your brow wrinkles, your mouth moves, your normally lovely face (one of very few he can bear to look at unmasked and not feel as though he is going to get sick from merely breathing the same air of you) marred.

“You’re not,” you hiss at him. “You’re doing this because you’re fucked up! Because you’ve got some weird fucking ideas about what’s clean and what’s unclean, because you’re on a power trip, because you don’t care about other people--” Your voice is pitching and modulating, all of the things that you usually try and keep balled up inside of you spilling out that the floodgates of how unhappy you are is open.

You’re breathing heavy as Overhaul, clearly irked by what you’re saying, tugs at the wrist of one of his surgical gloves. If he’s going to kill you, good – at least it will be better than this, you think, your breath coming in short sharp pants after the outburst.

He lets go. His hands fall to his sides. His golden gaze on you is very level.

“You’re hysterical,” he tells you. An exasperated laugh falls from your mouth.

“Yeah?” You ask him. “Of course I am. Do you know the last time I breathed fresh air?”

“Seven months, two weeks, three days.” He says it without blinking. Your shoulders tense. Has it really been that long? “You haven’t been ill once in that time. The world out there is filthy.”

“It’s normal to get sick,” you try and tell him, but Overhaul is moving forward; past the doorway, and into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound of a lock ominous. You don’t think you’ve ever been alone with Kai in your bedroom.

In the medical examination rooms, sure. In his office. In common areas, back when he was just the boss’ troubled protege and not the boss himself--

His eyebrows twitch in disgust as he notices the dust on your bookshelves. You’d stopped letting any of the cleaners in here a month ago; you’d refused to clean in the mean time, taking whatever small victory against your captor that you could.

“You’ll give yourself respiratory issues,” he says.

“Good,” your voice is cold, but you realise you’ve backed away from him. For all of your attempts to stand up to him, you’re terrified. Everyone knows what he can do. “Better dead than here--”

Gloved fingers around your wrist, so tight you can practically feel them bruising.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. His voice has gotten softer, cajoling. You’re trembling in his grip. “I told you. You’re hysterical.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you say, but your words feel like you’re spitting them out around a mouthful of gravel. “I—I’m calm--”

Your knees knock against your bed, but Overhaul is still clinging to you; still too close. Your heart is beating so fast that you can hear it pounding in your ears.

“You’re not. You’re hysterical.” He repeats it, calmly. The hand not on your wrist reaches up and cups your face, a gloved thumb stroking across your cheek as if you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. The scent of the latex is overwhelming. “But that’s alright. It’s not your fault.” He clicks his tongue behind the mask. “It’s mine. All of this checking for the physical sickness, and I didn’t think about checking your head.”

You fall onto the bed as his knees knock against yours, your back hitting the wall. It’s just a plain, single bed; rumpled sheets, because you’d fought against any attempt for someone to come in and collect your laundry, too. Overhaul looks silly in your room, you think dimly; like a huge black crow in the nest of a small, frightened wren.

“If you fight,” he tells you, “I’ll disassemble you. I’d rather not. I don’t want to taint you by using my quirk. But . . .” He’s sinking to his knees in front of you, those same methodical hands pushing up the skirt of your dress. “If I did, I’d get a blank mind to work with. I won’t hesitate. But I’d still rather simply fix you without having to break you into pieces first.”

You know him too well to think that he’s bluffing.

After all of the vitriol you’ve spat at him, he’s unwilling to kill you. Would it be worse, to be mindless and brainless under Kai’s quirk? You’ve heard some of his failed experiments before; babbling, drooling, broken things. He’s killed them sometimes just to put them out of their misery.

What if he did that, and your mind remained perfectly capable – just utterly unable to communicate with your body? A prisoner in your own skin. Worse than even now. You swallow back the lump of fear.

“H-how are you going to do that?” You ask him.

You start at how cold the gloved fingers are on your bare thighs, as Overhaul pushes them apart. Cold fear prickles down your spine. You’re too scared to fight back, but everything he’s doing is making you want to run.

“Did you know,” Overhaul says, those same hands sliding higher, to tug at the waistband of your underwear. “In the past, there were rumours that doctors would cure hysteria by genital massage and stimulation?”

His words are very clinical, but there’s a thickness to his voice behind the mask that fills you with revulsion.

“It might be nonsense, of course,” he says. Your underwear is being tugged down, pulled around your thighs, your knees, your ankle. “They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth--”

“Kai—” Your voice is a soft whine, fear-filled. This time, he doesn’t snap at you for calling him by the name he’s left behind. He simply says;

“Spread your legs.”

You don’t want to. But you want to risk what he’s threatening you with even less, so you tearfully open them as wide as you can go. He shifts forward, and the tip of the beaked mask digs into your inner thigh as he studies you like you’re nothing more than a diagram, not a living, breathing person--

“Next time I’ll have lubricant ready,” he says, under his breath, and your heart seizes up at the implication that whatever he’s going to do to you, there’ll be a next time.

You start at the sensation of gloved fingers gently parting the lips of your sex, Overhaul’s golden eyes drinking in the sight of you spread open and bare. You’re shaking, but for some reason the way he’s looking at you – the utter concentration in his eyes – makes a curl of heat flare deep inside of you.

“Don’t,” you breathe, trying not to squirm. “Please--”

“I don’t want to have to,” he says. His tone remains calm, unbothered. “I’m doing it for your own good, you know that. Just helping you along.” One finger slides through the slit; the sensation of the gloves against your most intimate, heated parts makes the muscles in your thighs clench. It’s . . . not exactly unpleasant, but neither it is pleasant. “Do you think I’m getting any pleasure out of this?”

He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. You know this; everyone knows this. If this particular thought was so unpleasant to him, you don’t doubt he’d have found somebody else to do it (the thought of one of the other members of the Shie Hassaikai doing this to you fills you with even more revulsion than the idea of Overhaul himself). But you can’t say that out loud. Not after what he’s threatened. So you press your lips together and shake your head, gasp dying in your throat as one of Overhaul’s latex-covered fingers prods gently around your opening.

“You’re getting wet,” he tells you, as if you can’t feel the shameful slick beginning to leak from you. “That will make this easier. Good.”

You hate that the praise makes another jolt of arousal go through you. You don’t want to like the feeling of his gloves, rubbing at your heated cunt; the sensation of a fingertip circling around your entrance, brushing the bud of your clit and making you want to clamp your thighs around his hand.

He sinks the tip of one finger inside of you and you jerk, your hips out of your control as you try and sink away from the intrusion. Overhaul clicks his tongue again in annoyance at you. The hand holding the lips of your cunt open moves, to land on your hip and pin you between the bed and the wall so you can’t squirm again.

“I’ll sedate you next time, if I have to,” he says. “I’m not getting anything out of this. I’d prefer not to have to do it at all--”

He’s lying. You know he is. But you can’t call him out for it, so you press your trembling lips together and try to stop tears spilling out from your lash line as the finger inside of you sinks further and further inside, past his first knuckle, right down to the base.

He crooks it inside of you and your hands curl into the bedsheets, nails digging into your palms through cotton. His touch is curious, exploratory; has he ever actually done this to anybody before? He slides over a rough patch inside of you with the latex-tipped finger and a moan escapes your mouth against your will, your head falling back against the wall. Narrowed golden eyes look up at you as he repeats the motion; taking in the gloss of your lips, the widening of your eyes, the way your shoulders are shaking up and down.

You can feel yourself pumping more slick out; helping the glide of his finger inside of you, as he begins to carefully thrust it in and out of you. His touch is made all the more impersonal by the mask obscuring everything but his eyes and eyebrows; you can’t even hear him breathing.

Your cunt is fluttering around him, pleasure swarming you in breathless waves as he withdraws his finger entirely. He lifts the glove to his eyeline, looking only vaguely interested in how the white latex glimmers with your arousal.

“I’m going to use two now,” he tells you – and that is all the warning you get before two fingers beside one another are opening you up, scissoring your tight channel apart with an ache that you feel up to your hips. You bite back the whimper, but you’re unable to stop the choked breaths that are falling from you as he fucks you with them in steady, constant thrusts.

A covered thumb brushes your clit; swollen, now. Sensitive. Standing to attention. Your hips attempt to jerk in his hold once more, a strangled noise that’s neither pleasured nor pain falling from your throat. You’ve touched yourself, of course you have – even recently, just to try and assuage some of the boredom that fills your exactly-the-same days – but Overhaul’s fingers and thumbs and touch on you are so entirely different from that.

He continues his assault over your clit, those same eyes watching you with that same detached, clinical disposition that he’s had most of the time. There’s a cast to them that suggests there’s something more, but whatever emotion – if, indeed, he’s still capable of that – he’s feeling about having you at his mercy in this way has been pushed to the back of his mind as his thumb rolls and pinches at the bud.

Your body goes all-over heat, Overhaul’s fingers still pumping in and out of you, the slick noises of your shaming wetness echoing around the prison of the four walls you’ve spent seven months in. You’re teetering on the edge of something, hot and needy and wanting – and as Overhaul’s thumb sweeps over your poor aching clit again, you tilt your hips forward for as much stimulation as you can--

And he pulls his fingers out of you.

The heat fades into nothingness as you let out a noise of disappointment. Overhaul’s head tilts to one side, considering.

“What do you want?” He asks you. “Say it.”

No. You don’t ‘want’. He’s wrong. You keep your mouth pressed tight now that the damning noise has fallen out of it; you have managed to not let the tears trembling in your eyes spill forth. Your gaze meets his, defiant and tired and afraid all at once.

“Alright,” he sighs. “If you’re going to carry on being difficult.”

He does it again; his fingers plunging into you, scissoring you apart, rubbing against your folds with a practised agility now that he’s done it for the first time. He has always been a fast learner; always been observant. His thumb is back on your clit with ceaseless assault, and all over again you feel heat begin to build up; tension that crawls into every crevice of your being and worms its way deep inside you despite how badly you don’t want this.

The hand holding your hip loosens somewhat, allowing you to messily thrust your hips into Overhaul’s stimulation. You’re torn; you shouldn’t want to hump against the gloved fingers stimulating you, you should be wriggling and squirming away. But it feels so good; even with the skin-tight covering of rubbery latex, Overhaul’s fingers seem to find every one of your weak points and exploit them.

There it is again, building up on you; a ball of tension in your stomach being gradually wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips flex against his hand, your fingers clenching and unclenching on the bedsheet--

He denies you the peak of your orgasm for the second time.

And a third.

And a fourth.

“Kai--!” You’re too far gone to even think, after the pleasure has been pulled from you so cruelly, over and over again. The tears spill over your cheeks., rolling down in fat, shaming droplets. Overhaul’s eyes narrow.

“No,” he says, vehement – more emotion in his voice than you’ve heard all day. “You know what to call me.”

You know what he wants you to call him. You know that he wants to leave his old name behind, start again, be someone who can drag the Shie Hassaikai out of the shadows and into light and power once again – and he thinks that the name will help. You gurgle out a sobbing, strangled noise;

“O-Overhaul, please--”

Three fingers are plunged as deep inside of you as they can go, crooked to rub against your sweet spot; as Overhaul murmurs, detached but soft;

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

They thrust into you, his thumb rubbing your clit with firm, certain strokes – and this time, as the orgasm rushes up on you all at once, he doesn’t stop. He fucks you with his fingers through it, his thumb not ceasing the circling. Pleasure washes over you, finally, in great waves and crests. You feel yourself gush on his fingers, soaking him in your wetness (his eyebrows furrow again, at how close your fluid comes to spilling over his bared wrist; but you are too relieved to think about anything other than finally getting what you need).

Your hips flex, gasps falling from your mouth with every thrust of them – and you expect Overhaul to pull his fingers out of you. To stop touching you. Perhaps to strip off his gloves and put on a new pair – you know he always carries spares – and sneer at you as he walks out of the room.

But Overhaul’s fingers do not move from inside of you. The fierce rhythm of his fucking and petting and rubbing does not stop, even as the final aftershocks of your orgasm clench loosely about him and his constant stimulation becomes more of an annoyance than anything else on heated, sensitive skin.

You squirm, trying to push your thighs together to get him to stop touching you – but the hand not fucking you forces your thighs to stay parted with the curl of fingers into supple flesh, leaving you helpless to do anything but let him carry on touching you. Carry on fucking you.

A short, sharp shock of an orgasm rips through you as he swirls his thumb over your clit just so, and you realise that you’re drooling down yourself as well as panting; helpless and sloppy, utterly unable to do anything except lie there and take it until Overhaul decides he’s had enough of touching you.

You come, what? Twice more? Thrice? Until the pulsing of your channel is painful, your skin feeling red raw, your whimpers into the ceiling dry and broken. Only then does he pull his fingers out of you with a lewd pop.

A gush of your fluid that his fingers were stoppering soaks your bedsheets, and you watch, dazed, as Overhaul stands up. He looks down at you for just one moment, that stretches unbearably long in the heat-and-sex soaked atmosphere of the room.

He strips his gloves off of his hands, eyebrows twitching in disgust as he leaves the crumpled latex on your bedside table. He’s sliding on another pair as he speaks;

“Feel better?”

No. No, you don’t. You feel worse. You feel disgusted and violated and aching, your body over-stimulated and exhausted, sweat and drool and bodily fluids clinging to your skin. But if you tell Overhaul that--

“Yes,” you say, voice very soft and small and weak. You cannot see his mouth, but you see the way his eyes flash happily, the overall sensation of him smiling.

Why does Overhaul’s smile make you so scared, when Kai’s smile used to just make you feel warm?

“We’ll need to do it a few more times,” he tells you, as your blood runs to ice in your veins. “Such maladies aren’t cured in a day, after all. But . . .” He turns, rearranging himself carefully, his mask readjusted. You can’t see him as he speaks the next words. “I’d like to try some of the other suggested remedies, too.”

You think of his earlier words.

‘They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth.’

You’re never going to escape, are you? You’re going to be trapped in this compound until the day you die, and Overhaul is going to think that he’s keeping you safe--

“Take a shower,” he says to you, as he opens the door. It is not a suggestion. “And stop not letting the maids come in here to clean. I’m not having you get sick.”

You think he might be the sick one.

#overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul #overhaul smut #overhaul x you #chisaki kai x reader #bnha smut #bnha x reader #dark content for ts #5555 event fic #not sfw text #writing #afab reader #fem pronouns #misogyny for ts #bnha posting #medical kink for ts #non consent for ts #dub con for ts #non con for ts

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grownups-are-the-real-monsters · 4 years

Note

reddie 20

Your song is ‘You Gotta Be a Football Hero’ by Ben Bernie !!!

(Send me a Stephen King ship + a number & I will shuffle my music that many times and write you a little one-shot!!!)

Beverly Marsh found out about the empty backyard pool from a classmate named Deborah Hat. Her mother was a real estate agent and in the middle of trying to sell the property (which was not going well). So young Debbie used it as a quiet place to smoke with occasional partners.

Bev was invited when Deb found out the girl had an endless supply of cigarettes & was kind enough to share. Showing her gratitude, Deb welcomed the teen to use the pool as a hang-out place for herself & her weird friends.

Though no one blamed Deb for thinking weirdly of Richie considering the idiot used the same pickup line on her every-time they crossed paths. 'May I try this hat on for size?'

He didn’t even mean it. He just thought it was clever as hell.

: : : : : : : : : : :

Knowing where it all went wrong doesn’t mean a person posses the capability of fixing the situation. Hard to swallow pills didn’t come after a prescription, sometimes they just ended up in the usual round-table of Eddie’s medication. Usually after days of spiraling thoughts about his life.

He was sitting coldly on the last step of the ladder leading to the pool, legs dangling over the side. The Tozier boy was sitting, legs spread out, on the pool floor. His A&W Root-Beer shirt folded as he hunched over to get a sip of Stan’s soda.

“Y’know, you don’t need to wait thirty minutes after you eat to get in this pool.” Came Mike’s voice from above. With a crack of his neck, Eddie glance up to see his friend bent over the round handles.

Eddie grinned & hopped down to the ground so Mike could climb down. He clapped his back gently and made his way towards Bill & Bev who were digging into their cheeseburger meals. Richie had suggested they stop for a bag of fast-food before headin’ out.

“Need a lift, Ed’s?” Richie wiped grease down his jeans as he stood to make his way over.

“Please.” Eddie decided to let that nickname pass for now and instead he happily enjoyed Richie plucking him from the ground. He placed the smaller boy back on his spot on the ladder with a genuine grin.

His thin fingers snaked around the cool metal and suddenly those scary thoughts of the future were dismissed. Because it was always the age of cartoons & comic books when Eddie looked into Richie’s wonderfully crazy eyes.

“You still mad at me?” Richie tried to act casual but his voice cracked in the tiniest way which nearly broke Eddie’s heart.

His nose scrunched when he shook his head. “No. You were just trying to help me.” He reached out to push Richie’s glasses up for him. “Besides, my mom started it.” He tried to smile but found it hard when he remembered that day.

Because that was just Richie, he understood and planted a tiny kiss on Eddie’s cheek. “Would you tell me to go fuck myself if I gave ya something kinda sentimental?” Anxiety was clear in his tone.

Eddie shook his head, hair tickling under Rich’s chin. “Never.”

Richie grinned and shook something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I want you to wear this as a promise ring, ok?” He smirked, still hiding the actually prize in his palms. “Screw it, right? We don’t know our plans but we do know one thing & what’s that Ed’s?”

Eddie smirked, reluctant to do the little routine but amused all the same. “We go together.” He mumbled, half-embarrassed considering all the Losers were now looking at them.

He hummed happily. “No matter how scary our future may seem, we’ll be brave!” Richie fell victim to another character performance, Eddie watched happily. “I mean, are we men or are we mice?”

From behind him, their friends erupted “We’re mice!”

Richie’s eyes glowed as he watched Eddie chuckle as he joined them. Instead of saying more, he opened his hands and held out the present.

“Holy Shit!” Eddie hopped off the ladder with wide-admiring eyes laying upon the greatest little trinket he thought lost years ago. In the hill of Richie’s palm was a nostalgic little Captain Midnight™ Decoder Ring. “Dude, I thought I lost this like a million years ago.” He swiped it and slipped it on just as easily as he used to when he was eleven.

Those elated eyes of Richie continued to beam with admiration. “Yeah, I found it buried in my old sandbox.”

“Why were you digging in your sandbox?” Mike asked from behind them.

Richie took an amused expression. “My dad said he was excellent at finding lost shit so I buried his keys!” He laughed at the memory and looked back at Mike before turning softly. “So, you like it?”

Eddie grinned, holding his hand close to his chest. “I have such a crush on you, Dick.” He giggled at his useless words but there truly wasn’t a better way to describe it.

“Don’t embarrass yourself!” Richie whistled to distract from his blush.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A paper boat did not float so easily on dampened brown mush but on this day the air was heavy with thick wind and the ground was seeping with foul rainwater. Nobody’s child would be out, in fear of catching their death from the wet air.

Inside the warm car, a cheap paper cup spilled droplets of Root-Beer piss down into Eddie’s cupholders. Not an easy place to clean. His eyes burned a little just from watching the liquid bounce & pour over as the car moved.

“I’ll be back in like...” Eddie spoke with exaggerated relaxation. “five minutes or so-”

He was abruptly cut off when Richie held up his hand. “Wait, we’re having a transcendent moment, Eds. Let it play out...” He leaned the front seat back and Eddie attempted to hush his snort.

Somewhere beyond Eddie’s car, a chain-link fence rattled and someone’s lost umbrella blew in the wind like a tumbleweed. “In the pharmacy parking lot?” He chuckled and flicked a quarter off his thumb & into the air.

Richie hummed.

“I want my ibuprofen, Dick.” Eddie shook his head and reached for the door handle again. “If were going to the homecoming game, I need to be prepared for the headache that always comes with it.”

Richie just smiled and leaned back in his chair, looking at his boyfriend. “You should be excited, Ed’s.” He finally turned the vehicle off, letting Eddie know he intended to join him inside even though the trip would only take a few minutes.

“All the football heroes putting on a great show for us losers in the bleachers. I can suck down a hot-dog with you sitting on my lap. My hands between your knees...” He reached over and took Eddie’s free hand.

Eddie rolled his eyes but felt reluctantly joyful. “Those are basically the lyrics to Jack & Diane...” He raised his brow.

“Well, we’re the gay Jack & Diane, remember?”

Eddie chuckled. “You’re the only one who calls us that.” He slid free from Richie’s grip. “Jack, he's gonna be a football star...” Eddie mocked a singing voice. “Doesn’t really sound like you does it?”

Richie huffed. “I’m Diane, asshole.”

Eddie giggled. “Of course, sorry.”

“And who says you gotta be a football hero to get along with a beautiful fella, anyway?” Richie whistled the tune of that old song. “The sentiment is what we are, Ed’s.”

“Highschool sweethearts?”

Richie shrugged. “To put it bluntly, yeah.” He took a long sip of his disgusting soda. “But we go on. Like the song itself, baby!” He smacked him lightly. “Annoying thousands with our staying power and radio-play.” He smiled.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Richie just hopped out of the car, again starting the whistle of ‘You gotta be a football hero’ as he walked....

#im gonna make this into a longer one shot lol #i like it #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my fanfiction #stephen king #Stephen kings IT #it chapter two #it chapter one

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sweetbunnykook · 5 years

Text

The Tin Can

TW: suicide, depression, mention of alcohol/drug abuse, death

Summary: Hoseok loves you.

Word Count: 1,827

Hoseok sat in the airport staring at nothing in particular. He rolled the small Altoids case between his fingers, listening to the pleasant rattling sound echoing from the inside. He considered himself lucky to be able to book the one-way flight to California early in the morning, before he can see the sun. He can vaguely hear a voice over the intercom reminding him of the time he has left in South Korea; the time he has left with you.

He looked down at his wrist, the friendship bracelet you made in middle school browned from age but still as beautiful as the first day you wrapped it around him. He remembered the chaste kiss he placed on your cheek, the blush that formed as you toyed with the bracelet, before you lean into him and lay your weight on his arm. Ever since then you watched every tennis match he’s been in, every dance competition, every club meeting. This country held the memories stuck to his skin like glue, hardened to the point that he couldn’t separate his individual self from the self that belong with you.

In two hours he will be saying goodbye to you for the last time. He promised, before you took your last breath, that he won’t come to your funeral like you asked and he’ll move on and never look back. He’ll marry someone, anyone, start a family, get a new job, forget about everything. He’ll forget about the way you brushed his hair with your fingers when he was tired, forget about the meals you made for him, the gloves you knitted, the taste of your lipstick on his tongue, your soft whimpers, his coat that still smelled of your fresh gardenia scented perfume. Maybe that was your intention all along; to leave him in the worst way possible because you really are just that evil.

Another rattle from the tin can.

On the day of your funeral, Hoseok went back on his promise and crashed his car into the graveyard, dug his fingers into the cold earth that was going to eat your corpse, humiliating himself in front of your friends and his acquaintances that came to pay their condolences. They were never truly your friends anyway. Time and time again he’d told you they only came to suck the sunshine out of you. While they all moved on with their happy-go-lucky lives, your body has gone cold and limp. No matter how many times he’d dug for your corpse with his bare hands, you wouldn’t wake up, won’t come to his front door and greet him with your saccharine voice.

‘Hobi, have you eaten yet?’

How many times has he stared at the front door ever since you left? No one came to knock, not even your parents, and he spent the last five years drinking his life away, distrust towards people around him spreading steadily like a plague.

You hated it when he drank. It only took one drop of your tears to stamp him as a sober man for the remaining of the relationship. You made him a better man, a man that didn’t have to pick wallets in the slums of Gwangju for the next bottle. He wished he could’ve given you a better life. Even when there wasn’t enough to eat, you never resorted to stealing like he had in high school. Even when you could’ve had a better life with your aunt in Jeju, you chose to stay with him because you wanted to spend the remaining days close to him.

The Altoids tin can rattles again and Hoseok traces the tip of his tongue along his canines.

When did you begin to lie to him? After graduation? Before moving in with him? He noticed your weight loss before you did and took on a second job, thinking that the meals he couldn’t afford was the cause of your once plump and healthy face slimming down.

And you just let him believe such a lie.

You knew how irrational he would’ve gotten if he knew that he wouldn’t be able to afford your medication, much less three meals a day. You played him like a fiddle, pretending to be the jealous girlfriend going on a diet to hide your symptoms (as if you even needed it), faking a pregnancy scare when your periods stopped coming, faking a meltdown and shaving your head because you were scared he was going to see how much hair you were losing on the snow white pillow cases. It wasn’t until he followed you to one of your usual “appointments” at the free women’s clinic that he caught you red-handed with the slip of paper in your hands, reference to surgeons and experts in the United States stacked like bricks.

You threatened to leave him that night, throwing a tantrum and hurting his left eye in the process while he held you still, wrapping his arms so tight around you that you could hardly breathe. The one thing that gave him hope in this world was falling apart and all he could do was keep you close. If he had the power to cure you he would, but not even money can buy the rotten thing inside your head. By the end of the year you lost you ability to walk and the month after that you couldn’t control your bladder. You hated looking at the orange bottles of pills and stuffed your medication in Altoids tins, hoping that at least you can pretend to be healthy before you lost your ability to speak.

Hoseok, despite how much he beat his head with his fists, can’t forget how you pleaded for him to find a new woman. He was so tired, maintaining his two jobs and taking care of you, that he simply promised to do just that and fell asleep right on your lap. You sent him off to work the next day, waving and giggling so happily from the bed, that there was no way he would come back to a corpse in twelve hours.

In the time it took for him to earn enough money to pay for your next appointment, you’d taken the glass of water he placed on the nightstand, crashed the cup against the bed frame, and slit your wrist. Even then you were selfless enough to wrap his coat around your body, as if hiding your wrist from his view would bring you back to life when he arrived.

Hoseok discovered that the human body held a lot of blood that night. Your blood had seeped through his coat and onto the sheets, painting a large red circle on the white fabric. You lied to him that morning, so he decided to lie to you for the rest of his life.

He began drinking again, started robbing at gun-point to many poor store owners, started harassing your so-called “friends” that didn’t even pay a single visit when you were sick. He’s been arrested once, released a year later, and spent the remainder of his time working as a dishwasher for a small motel. He drank with each paycheck, smoked like a chimney, slept with your dresses on the dirty carpet of his cheap flat, and hired prostitutes, only to vomit before he could even lay a finger on them.

It was only by stealing wallets again that he was able to afford a ticket to California.

‘If you can go to any place in the world, where would you go?‘

‘I think...California.‘

‘California?‘

‘I’d like to see the sunrise on my way there. I think looking at the sunrise from the plane is so much better because the clouds would look even prettier.‘

The intercom interrupts the rattling inside the tin can. Hoseok stretched his fingers to the sky and then his legs towards the floor, and made his way towards the terminal. If there was one thing he was grateful of in his life, it was that his parents at least paid for the visa and passport out of pity when you passed away. He didn’t have to steal another wallet to afford that.

“Right this way, sir.“ A woman smiles after checking his passport and points to the walkway leading to the plane. He glanced at his watch next to the bracelet. The sun will rise in an hour and a half.

He sat in the economy seat at the end of the left section and buckled himself in. A new beginning, a new day.

Passengers began flooding in soon after; parents with children, foreigners, elderly couples, students, businessmen, businesswomen. The woman seated next to him was in her sixties at least, friendly wrinkles lining the edge of her half-moon eyes, her lipstick bold and pink. She wore her hair pinned with a clip and she sat happily in her seat, excited that she will see her grandson for the first time. Hoseok bowed slightly in respect and helped her strap the buckle over her lap, as she could not do so with her shaky hands.

“Thank you so much.“

He smiled. “It’s no problem. Do you mind if I open the slider?” He pointed to the small window shut closed. “I’d like to see the sunrise.”

“Not all all, please go ahead.“

As if the sun rose from bed, it began to shower the clouds with warm rays after the first hour of flying. Hoseok took a deep breath and released, clenching the photo of you in the breast pocket of his coat. He took another deep breath, more shallow this time.

“Would you like a glass of water?“ The woman next to him turned, concern gracing her features. “It must be your first time flying isn’t it?“

He nodded, smiling ever so brightly. “Yeah...I’m seeing my fiancee soon,” he took another deep breath, “I’m just very happy.”

The woman patted his arm once, returning his smile and turning back to her magazine. Hoseok turned his head towards the window, eyes closing as the sun finally reached its true warmth and basked his skin with golden light. It felt like your touch, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his temples.

An hour and thirty minutes into the flight.

A stewardess crouches down to see the passengers in row forty with a glass of water in her hand.

“Would he liked some water too?“ She asked the old woman with the pink lipstick.

The passenger nudged Hoseok’s arm, hoping that he would turn his head towards her. She was met with silence, his head still turned towards the sun. She wondered how he can sleep so peacefully with such strong rays shining down on his face. She nudged slightly harder, shaking his body slightly, yelping in surprise when the small box between his finger falls and clatters on the flooring.

There is nothing inside the tin can.

#bts fanfiction #bts oneshot #bangtan fanfiction #Hoseok fanfiction #Jhope fanfiction #Jhope angst #Hoseok angst #Hoseok oneshot #bts fanfic #Jhope oneshot #bunny:fic #I don't know why I had the idea all of the sudden while doing a project but I just had to write it #I haven't been feeling well so I can at least write something from this feeling

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rantingfangirl · 5 years

Text

Phone Home

Summary: When Arthur’s friends get an idea for a way to find him a date, there’s no stopping them.

Pairing: UsUk

Arthur prided himself on being one of the saner of the six Kirkland brothers, and would gladly give a three computer files’ worth of evidence should anyone try to question it. He could quickly de-escalate any of their shenanigans- which was the only way those stupid ideas could be labeled. The same, however, could not be said when it came to his friends. Vlad and Lukas were unpredictable, posing as supportive yet content to stay in the background. At least until they got an idea that they couldn't shake off. Which was exactly what was currently happening. The three of them stood on a beach, if you could call it that. Arthur looked down at the gray, muddy sand collapsing under his feet, cringing when it stuck to his shoe. Next to him, Vlad scoffed. “From the look on your face, you might as well have stepped in vomit.”

Arthur looked at him, his nose starting to ache from being wrinkled. He shook his foot, his toes knocking back and forth between the sides of his boot. The goopy sand swung off his foot, the majority of it finding its way onto his pants. Vlad snickered. He ignored it, scoffing with disgust at the sand as he brushed it off. “What are we doing here, again?” If Vlad wanted him to- “You know why.” Lukas spoke for the first time since they'd arrived, scrawling with spider-like efficiency on college-ruled paper. He clicked the pen closed, sliding its clip in place with the edge of the clipboard. When he spoke again, his voice was matter of fact, and he didn't bother to even glance over to them, scanning over his work. “You know exactly why we're here.” Arthur ignored the first ominous tone in his words. He did, in fact, know why they were there, but he was going drag out the inevitable as much as possible. If only to save himself. “Yes, but-” Gently, ever so slowly, Arthur put his foot back down on the sand, watching as muck engulfed the outer sole of his shoe. “- there's a completely different way we could've done it. And not-” He paused, gesturing to the ocean in front of them. “-this.” Vlad flicked his eyes over to him, his words and smirk mocking. “Yes, but this is more creative.” “It’s more idiotic, that’s what it is.” Vlad feigned mock offense, gaping his mouth open and pressing an open palm to his chest. He knitted his eyebrows together, shaking his head. “And what else could we do? Is there anything you propose?” His voice was in a joking and posh tone, and Arthur couldn't help but smile at it. Arthur took a step back, putting his hands to his hips to stand akimbo. “Anything would've been better than this. Couldn't we have just gone with a dating site? You know, like normal people do?” Lukas paused, slowly turning his head over to Arthur. He frowned, shaking his head. “If we put you on a dating site, you wouldn't get a single match.” “Ouch.” Vlad winced. Then wince then broke into a shit-eating grin, Vlad cocking his head to the side. “Do you think that they would even let him keep his account? You actually have to look somewhat attractive on most of them, you know.” His words were infuriatingly cocky when he spoke, though Arthur made sure than any speck of anger he felt didn't show. Arthur knitted his eyebrows together, lowering his chin and frowning. “Vlad, you look like a Count Chocula Ken doll reject. I don't want to hear it.” Vlad practically squawked, his mouth gaping and his eyes narrowing. He put his hand over his heart, his shoulders caving in an attempt at mock offense. “Don't talk about Count Chocula like that.” “By that, do you mean comparing him to you or to Ken?” “Both.” Arthur couldn't help but smile, breathing out of his nose in a slight laugh. Vlad joined in, his shoulders and stomach shaking in tune with the huffs of breath escaping his mouth. The sight only succeeded in making Arthur laugh harder, even if he tried his best to resist. With the ocean around them, no matter how muddy it was, for a second, Arthur almost forgot about the matter at hand. The key word being “almost”. At that moment, Vlad slipped behind Arthur, sliding his arms to lock under his armpits. Arthur struggled against the grip, jerking his head and shoulders back. Vlad was stronger than he thought. He felt his friend lean in towards his ear, Arthur shoving down the urge to slam his temples into Vlad’s. “Calm down, we’re doing this for-” “Don’t tell me to calm down, you fucker.” A snicker filled his ear, Vlad’s warm breath squandering against the outer shell. “Just accept it, Arthur. The love of your life is waiting for you.” “And you think a message in a glass fucking bottle is going to do anything?” Vlad shrugged. “I saw it as a meme on Instagram. Sounded like a fun idea.” Arthur stilled. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head as best he could towards Vlad. Their cheeks just barely touched, Arthur’s eyes narrowing as Vlad’s gripped tightened. “Are you-”

The scratching stopped. Arthur whipped his head over to Lukas as the latter clicked his pen, shoving it back into his pocket. After a quick proof-read, Lukas thinly rolled the paper, pulling out a glass bottle that looked as if it were straight from a children’s book. That, Arthur realized bitterly, the feeling pooling in his stomach, was what he should've— could've— gone for first. No, that wasn’t it. Arthur shouldn't have agreed to come in the first place. The thought alone snatched his attention, not releasing him until it was too late. Arthur watched as the bottle, a cork stuffed in its neck, flew in a spinning arch towards the ocean. It wasn’t until it slammed into the water with a soft plunk that Vlad’s gripped eased. Arthur ripped himself free, his shoes sinking into the muddy sand. He took several steps towards the water’s edge, stopping just feet away. Arthur sighed. “Go to hell, both of you.”

Arthur had a headache. The chorus of telephones had yet to cease after several hours, much less quiet down, even with how close the time ticked further and further into the night. Every moment brought another call, each call carrying ten voicemails along with it. Curse those bastards for putting him at the front desk. Sighing, Arthur pulled his bag towards him, rustling around for— there. The bottle. One of the first things he had learned on the job was to carry around a bottle of ibuprofen. It came in handy in most situations, specifically ones he was required to listen in. Intern meetings, phone calls, everything. He popped the cap off, placing it on the edge of his desk as he fished out two pills. Within seconds, the taste of paper filled his mouth, the sourness of it drowning out the pounding in his head. Disgusting. Arthur swallowed with a grimace, sliding the lid back onto the bottle and dropping it in his bag. The roller chair he was sitting on creaked as he did so, the noise loud enough that he was unable to ignore it. In the distance, in the office behind him, a phone rang. Someone walked through the door. They lifted their hand in a reserved wave, not even bothering to look at Arthur, the sounds of their footsteps bouncing off the walls. It was all too much. He had a good thirty minutes before the ibuprofen kicked in, thirty minutes before any sort of relief. Another phone call, cut short and followed by a loud laugh. Fuck. Why did these people have to be so loud. He clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into the— Arthur’s phone buzzed. It rattled against the table, quieting everything around him. Slowly, oh so slowly, he picked it up. His phone lit as soon as he faced it, a green banner floating down to eye-level. It was an international number, that much was certain, but the message itself… that was an issue. It buzzed again as he clicked the message and unlocked his phone. Hey. I’m Alfred. :P Arthur paused, staring at the screen, re-reading the messages over and over again. And again. He went to type out a message before deleting it. It happened several times before he finally managed to type something, finally setting on: Who is this? His phone buzzed again. I told you. I’m Alfred. What’s your name? Arthur clicked his phone off, setting it down on his desk. There was no way. No way that he would give his name to Alfred, if that was really his name. Another buzz. In a spur of the moment action, Arthur grabbed his phone, haphazardly dropping it into his bag and zipping it up. Silence, even just for a few seconds. He returned to his work, checking emails and marking his calendar with upcoming meetings and other dates. Arthur went through email after email, either sending it to the trash or to the archives. All the while, his phone buzzed. Curiosity welled inside of him, clawing at him, gently tugging his attention towards the black messenger bag settled next to his ankles. Arthur pushed the urge away, kicking the bag away. He heard it tip over, his phone— along with some other things, the bottle of pills, pens, etc— tumbling out. Arthur cursed, pushing himself out of his chair, dropping to his knees. His phone flickered to life beside him, revealing the new set of texts waiting for him. Arthur stared at the phone before glancing at his tipped bag, going back and forth, back and forth, between the two. He sighed through his nose. Fuck it. Unlocking his phone, Arthur took no time to look through the messages, which had multiplied quickly in the past few minutes. Awwww, cmon. Dont do this Hiiiiiii Look, I know it sounds a bit creepy, but please!!! Ohhhh wait I know what your name is Hi Arthur :) Arthur froze upon seeing his name on the other side of the screen. He glanced up at the header of the screen, making sure that yes, this was a stranger who yes, had his name. For a split second, Arthur’s thumb grazed the keys before sending himself into action, his message typed out and sent before he had the chance to reread it. How did you get my name? A gray message floated to the top of the empty space. There you are :)) It was on your letter A ball dropped in Arthur’s stomach. There was no way. No way that that stupid little stunt Vlad pulled would have ever come to fruition. What do you mean, my letter? Pushing himself back up on his chair, Arthur kept his eyes glued to the screen, waiting for the three dancing dots to finish. They stopped for a split second before continuing, up and down in quick succession until— finally. It was a video. Arthur clicked on it, revealing a tanned man in a swimsuit. His caramel hair was plastered to his forehead, a cheeky smirk along with it. The video began, the man— who, now Arthur thought about it, was assumingly Alfred— moving his lips. No sound. Arthur groaned before restarting. “Now, Arthur, what we have here—” American, definitely American. If not a given by the accent, with its small twang and bluntness, then by the overall confidence the man— no, Alfred, displayed. “—is a glass bottle. Little sandy, little dirty, but it’s damn sure a bottle.” No. It couldn’t be. No way that thing resurfaced after six years. No way that something like that could’ve gone anywhere. “And, in the bottle, I found this.” Alfred held up the paper that Lukas had written years ago, it's edges set in a permanent roll. “You wanna know what it says?” Alfred unrolled the paper, holding it up as if he were a medieval town crier. “Looking for cute guys. Call me. My name is Arthur. And then there are several smiley faces along with your phone number. Pretty funny, aren’t ya?” Whoever was filming the video laughed, a loud, obnoxious noise that had Alfred joining in. Arthur paused the video. It would’ve been funny, if it weren’t for the fact that he was the one at the butt of the joke. Arthur clenched and unclenched his fists, in and out, counting up to ten and back down. Sick. Lukas and Vlad had sick tastes when it came to humor. His phone buzzed his once more in his hand, Arthur’s attention drifting down to the newest message, right under the video. Call me ;) Arthur saved the video before swiping out of the chat, his message menu displaying rows upon rows of others. He tapped on the group chat he shared with Vlad and Lukas and sent the video. You won’t believe what’s come up. It was something that his friends had forgotten about. For the first few months,they had constantly reminded him about it, but now… Like before, Arthur left the chat, returning to Alfred. He stared at the contact number, re-reading over and over again. Weighing. Balancing. He looked at the back arrow and then back at the number. Back, forth. Back, forth. The number. Arthur pressed the dial button.

#aph usuk #aph america #aph england #the fanfiction life of rantingfangirl

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welcometothepenumbra · 5 years

Text

JUNO STEEL AND THE FINAL RESTING PLACE

SOUND: DOOR OPENS, BELL RINGS, RAIN.

MUSIC: STARTS.

CONCIERGE: Good evening, Traveler. Welcome to The Penumbra.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLING.

These may be Detective Steel’s final moments, dear Traveler. Trapped miles underground and abandoned by the thief who promised to save him, only Miasma decides whether Detective Steel lives, or dies.

He’s in there now, Traveler. If we step in, we may lose the old Juno Steel forever. There is still time, of course: time to turn back, time to allow Detective Steel to forever remain as we remember him. And if you wish to turn back, dear Traveler, now is your chance.

Very well, then.

SOUND: THREE KNOCKS. SILENCE.

Come, Traveler. Come with me into room J-18.

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING OPEN.

Juno Steel and the Final Resting Place.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. GATE OPENS.

MIASMA: Juno Steel. I’m afraid your time has come at last.

JUNO: Diving into another mind this early? Should’ve given me some warning – I would have brought my swim trunks.

MIASMA: That won’t be necessary. I’ve found a way to manage the end of this process without you.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO: Hey, hey, w-what are you—

MIASMA: Assistant. Kill him.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It’s been coming down to this for days. A dark cell, in a Martian tomb, two masked assistants crowding me on either side. Miasma standing in the doorway, looking at me with all the interest she’d give an old chair she’s been meaning to throw out for weeks. My name’s Juno Steel, and this is probably where I die.

MUSIC: STOPS.

JUNO: Whoa, whoa, aren’t you putting the cart before the booster here a little bit? How are you gonna gloat if I’m dead?

MIASMA: I don’t need to gloat, Juno Steel. I just need to win.

JUNO: What happened to your plan, the whole—

MIASMA: Assistant, I’ve had enough of this. Kill him, or, give the gun to me and I’ll do it.

JUNO (NARRATOR): One of the assistants places the barrel of a pistol up against my head. Hard.

SOUND: GUN COCKING.

It’s a big barrel for a big, big gun.

MIASMA: That’s more like it. Clean up when you’re done.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The pistol pulls back, just a millimeter. I feel the hand on the other end of it flex.

When Nureyev disappeared, days ago now, he promised me he’d be back before it was too late. Well buddy, clock’s tickin’. Where the hell are ya?

SOUND: TWO BLASTER SHOTS, GRUNT, THUDS.

JUNO: That was cold, killing the two of them so fast.

NUREYEV: Apologies, Juno, but I didn’t think diplomacy would be quick enough for this rescue operation.

SOUND: CLINK.

JUNO (NARRATOR): He pulls off the mask, and there he is: Peter Nureyev, looking like a knight in stolen armor. I don’t want to admit it, but… it’s a weight off, seeing him again.

NUREYEV: If you’d like to swoon and fall into my arms, now would be an excellent time.

JUNO: Don’t get a fat head about it—

NUREYEV: My head is perfectly-sized, and we both know it.

JUNO: Even with Miasma dead, we’re not out of the woods yet. We can’t afford for anyone to raise the alarm before we find the weapon.

NUREYEV: So we have to hide the bodies – yes, yes, help me get them in the cell. You drag the guard, and I’ll take…

JUNO: Nureyev?

NUREYEV: Hmm?

JUNO: Where are the bodies?

NUREYEV: They appear to have… vanished.

JUNO: …That ever happen to you before?

NUREYEV: I’m typically the one disappearing, not the one left behind.

SOUND: HISSING, DISTANT BANGS.

JUNO: The hell was that?

NUREYEV: I have no idea. It could be… this is an ancient tomb deep beneath the surface of the planet. It’s entirely possible that the walls are just… shifting… basic plate tectonics.

JUNO: I might not have done so well in physical science, Nureyev, but I think I’d remember the day the teacher said that the same thing that caused earthquakes also makes corpses disappear.

NUREYEV: Keep your head, Juno. Just because we’ve come up against something unexpected doesn’t mean we should jump to conclusions.

JUNO: Honestly, I would love to, but I can’t think of a single goddamn conclusion to jump to.

SOUND: DISTANT METAL CLANGING, HISSING.

Actually, scratch that. I got a conclusion for you: I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

NUREYEV: Well, dislike it while we walk, at least. We have quite a way to go.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We make our way down the hall; I just wanna get the hell out of there and see the sun again, but there’s something big we have to do first and we both know it.

NUREYEV: Before I came to collect you I did a bit of poking around throughout this base. It sounds like the Martian weapon is being kept in a huge storage and records chamber at the end of this hall.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): So we keep going deeper and deeper down that twisting hall. Those Martians must have had a hell of a lot of people to bury. There’s always another turn, another door, another staircase up or down…

NUREYEV: The final chamber’s behind those large doors just ahead.

JUNO: Does this place seem sort of… I don’t know, empty to you? We haven’t seen a single assistant.

NUREYEV: I’ve lived through too many rough escapes to turn down a smooth one, Juno. Let’s just assume it will all go swimmingly until it doesn’t, shall we?

SOUND: DISTANT BLASTER SHOTS.

Right on cue. Quickly, behind me.

SOUND: QUICK FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We cram ourselves to one side of the hall and wait, holding our breath. Down the hall, a door opens.

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING OPEN, BLASTER FIRE.

NUREYEV: It’s one of the assistants. Shoot him, Juno!

JUNO: Hang on, he’s…

SOUND: BLASTER SHOT.

He’s not firing at us.

JUNO (NARRATOR): He isn’t. In fact, he’s shooting into the room he just came out of. Backing away, hands shaking. He backs himself across the hall, towards the final chamber where we’re headed.

SOUND: RELEASE OF AIR, MECHANICAL HUM. BLASTER FIRE.

Those double doors open. He falls back into it, and the door slams behind him.

SOUND: HISS OF AIR, MECHANICAL WHIRRING.

NUREYEV: What do you suppose he was firing at?

JUNO: That many blasts with a gun that size… I’m not sure it matters, whatever it was before, it’s probably paste by now.

And if it isn’t… honestly, I’d rather not see it.

NUREYEV: Agreed. I’ll take point in the final chamber and eliminate the assistant while you barricade the door behind us?

JUNO: Got it.

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS. BUZZ, RELEASE OF AIR, MECHANICAL HUM.

Done. You take care of that assistant yet, Nureyev? …Nureyev?

NUREYEV: I would love to, Juno, but he… isn’t here.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I turn to see what Nureyev’s looking at. An assistant’s mask is lying on the floor, but– but there’s nobody around to wear it.

JUNO: He couldn’t have just disappeared, right? This big room, he must be somewhere in here.

NUREYEV: He certainly… could be.

Up on that pedestal, it looks like the case with the Egg of Purus in it. Let’s just take it and leave – quickly.

JUNO (NARRATOR): There’s something about this room I don’t like. Something besides the fact that someone just disappeared in it, I mean.

Miasma was collecting ancient Martian junk for years and whatever she wanted it for was supposed to happen in this room. The gang’s all here: the key, the mask, the throne, the teleporter, and a bunch of other Martian odds and Martian ends that are all raised on a platform in one end of the room. And even higher behind them sits the Martian weapon: the Egg of Purus. The only thing not here is the Saffron pill.

Well… it was the only thing not here. Until I showed up.

SOUND: CLICK, SCRAPING.

NUREYEV: (STRAINED) The damned… egg… won’t move. It must be fastened to the box somehow.

JUNO: Can’t you cut it off or something? I just wanna take the egg and get out of here.

NUREYEV: If you want to play with a knife around a bomb of this power, Juno, I’ll hand you mine. I will ask that you give me one hour and thirty-seven minutes to escape Mars first.

JUNO: How do you know it would take… never mind, of course you do.

Well, there’s gotta be something in this room to help us with this stupid bomb, right? It’s not like she was gonna just let the thing blow up her base.

NUREYEV: Seems as though she’s kept some records down there. Let’s start looking.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I didn’t even notice the records until Nureyev pointed them out.

The room’s packed tight enough to make a sardine feel crowded, arranged with boxes and shelves and bizarre lab equipment. I don’t know what kinds of experiments Miasma was up to in here, but they don’t look like the kind of experiments you walk away from in one piece.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

NUREYEV: These appear to be Miasma’s translations of ancient Martian texts. If she plans to use that bomb, one of these must have told her how. With any luck, it will tell us how to disarm and detach it as well.

JUNO: Great. So we’re looking for an ancient Martian instruction manual. You know, if she was organized, we’d find it somewhere between the instructions for the ancient Martian egg beater and the ancient Martian blender.

SOUND: DISTANT BANGS, INDISTINCT NOISES.

How about I go check on the barricade.

NUREYEV: I’ll keep reading. Stay within my line of sight.

JUNO (NARRATOR): There are carvings on the walls in this room, too. Pictures and symbols and strange shapes.

SOUND: UNINTELLIGIBLE WHISPERS.

Something about those things always makes me feel like they’re watching me, whispering to one another.

VOICE: (WHISPERING) Juno Steel…

JUNO: What was that?!

NUREYEV: What was what, Juno?

JUNO: I… nevermind. Must be hearing things, or somethin’.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

Barricade’s intact, looks like one of these boxes just hit the ground. Must have been unbalanced or somethin’.

NUREYEV: What’s in it?

JUNO: Must be a hundred boxes just like this one in here. Whatever’s inside must be important.

SOUND: HISS, LATCH UNLOCKING.

Hear that sound? It means they’re freshhhh, uh…

SOUND: RATTLING.

Whatever they are. “Take two daily with ten milligrams of water, wait at least three hours after consumption before attempting… reproductive activities.” Well, that seems kinda personal.

NUREYEV: The door. Is there anything else we can do to secure it?

JUNO: I mean, I could shove an even bigger box in front of it—

NUREYEV: Juno—

JUNO: Kidding. Kidding, there’s a panel right here. I’ll see if I can lock the door.

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS.

Hey, uh, Nureyev?

NUREYEV: Yes?

JUNO: …This says there are two doors to the room.

NUREYEV: There couldn’t be.

JUNO: There are. It could be a mistake, but… I’m just gonna lock ‘em both.

SOUND: MORE BEEPS.

NUREYEV: That sounds like a very good idea.

SOUND: LOUD SUCTION, CLANK.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: Airlocks activated.

NUREYEV: That’s… quite a lock. You don’t think this was where—

JUNO: Where Miasma was gonna hide after she set off her bomb? Yeah, I do, actually. I think the box that fell might have been full of of nutrient capsules, long-term bomb shelter food, the kind of stuff they used to hand out during the war.

Set off the bomb, seal the airlock, and live alone in here on nutrient soup while everyone rots on the surface. She was close. But this means the bomb must be dirty, right? It gets in the air or something.

Nureyev? …Nureyev?!

NUREYEV: Hmm? Oh, apologies, Juno. I’ve just found something we might find useful.

JUNO: Just try not to give me a heart attack every time you pick up a good book, alright?

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: I’ll try not to make a habit of it.

JUNO: So. What’d you find?

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

NUREYEV: These appear to be some sort of instructions for activating the weapon, but… they’re only partially translated. “Press our hand upon our Purus Egg,” something something, “watch the numbers as they fall,” and then “our planet will be clean again.”

JUNO: Then what?

NUREYEV: I thought that was rather a lot.

JUNO: Well, that didn’t tell us a damn thing. Keep looking.

NUREYEV: Of course it did. It told us the Purus Egg has a timer before it detonates: “Watch the numbers as they fall.” And it told us how to activate the egg, too—

JUNO: Yeah, I got that, but it was wrong, Nureyev; it said you just have to touch it to start the timer, and you already did that on the train.

NUREYEV: That is true. But… it doesn’t say ‘a’ hand. It says ‘our’ hand.

JUNO: Yeah, but that thing says ‘our’ everything: our hand, our egg. Martians probably would have called it ‘our Earth’, too, if there weren’t a bunch of monkeys already running the place.

NUREYEV: This predates apes by about ten million years, Juno.

JUNO: Cave-monkeys, then.

NUREYEV: But perhaps – is it possible that the ‘our’ is intended literally? Only a Martian hand can activate the bomb.

JUNO: Well, how do we deactivate it, then?

NUREYEV: …This doesn’t say.

JUNO: Figures.

So… what do we do if it turns out you can’t deactivate the thing?

NUREYEV: Don’t be ridiculous. There must be a way to deactivate it – you don’t just build a weapon that goes off if you graze it and forget to add an off switch.

JUNO: Unless there’s no reason to have an off switch.

Unless you’ve weighed all the options ahead of time… decided it’s better if there’s no turning—

SOUND: BEEP, HISS OF AIR, MECHANICAL HUM.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: Airlocks deactivated.

NUREYEV: What in the world?

JUNO: The lock system must be faulty, I’ll go take care of—

SOUND: BOOM, LOW RUMBLING.

JUNO: Dammit, what now?

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: The platform is now rising.

NUREYEV: The weapon, Juno!

JUNO: And that’s… it can’t be…

NUREYEV: Miasma.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It can’t be Miasma. I’d watched Nureyev shoot her, I’d heard her hit the floor and smelled that dead body smell that you can never quite pin and never, ever get used to. It can’t be her… but it is. Standing on that pedestal, her hands closing around the Egg of Purus. I don’t have time to think, so I don’t.

SOUND: BLASTER SHOT, THUMP.

NUREYEV: That was quite a shot.

JUNO: Compliment me later. That pedestal is still rising, and I don’t wanna know why. I’ll go check on the bomb, you head back to the console by the door and stop the pedestal.

NUREYEV: Alright.

SOUND: QUICK FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I hoist myself up onto the pedestal and check the bomb. Symbols glow through the sides of the egg, and though I can’t read them, I can guess what they mean.

JUNO: Nureyev! Miasma started the damn bomb!

NUREYEV: (DISTANT) How much time do we have?

JUNO: I don’t know – the egg says ‘elephant’s foot, sideways W halfway into a gumbo.’

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS, DULL BOOM.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: The platform has stopped rising.

JUNO: Thanks.

NUREYEV: Check on Miasma. If your laser didn’t kill her, we might be able to get some information out of her.

JUNO On it.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I see where the platform’s been heading: a circular airlock in the ceiling, leading to a long, dark tunnel above. That probably goes all the way up to the surface. We came too close all over again.

There’s one thing I don’t see, though.

JUNO: Nureyev? I’ve looked all around this thing, but I… can’t find Miasma… Nureyev?

SOUND: LOW RUMBLING, GEARS TURNING.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: The platform is now rising.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: (CHOKING)

MIASMA: Juno Steel.

SOUND: WEAK THUMPS.

MUSIC: STARTS.

Just in time to watch me kill your… Peter Nureyev.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Miasma. She’s sitting on Nureyev’s chest, her fingers tightening around his throat. She shouldn’t be able to hold him like that! She’s small, and old, and I’ve seen Nureyev escape from too many things to believe he could be caught by her. But Nureyev’s pinned. He looks beaten.

JUNO: Get off of him, Miasma.

MIASMA: Or what will you do, Juno Steel? Kill me? Again?

SOUND: THUMPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It’s just a hunch, but in a line of work like mine, you live and die on your hunches. Then you cross your fingers, and hope nobody else has to die on ‘em.

At the last second, I turn my gun away from her head and aim at her arms.

SOUND: TWO BLASTER SHOTS.

MIASMA: (GRUNTS)

NUREYEV: (GASPING)

SOUND: RUSTLING.

MIASMA: Very good, Juno Steel. I imagine you must have been a very good investigator… before you came up against me.

SOUND: SQUELCHES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Her arms are still moving. They’re flopping around on the floor like dusty old eels. And she’s standing now, her arms ending a quarter of the way down. And her face… there’s always been something wrong with her face. Something that turns your stomach. Like a mirror halfway to funhouse. Wrong, but not wrong enough to register.

But now… now it’s like her skin was just a paper-thin membrane, floating on something… liquid. Rippling. One of her arms reforms, and then the other. And—

SOUND: SQUISHY, ZIPPING NOISES.

MIASMA & JUNO (NARRATOR): (IN UNISON) —these ones she doesn’t bother to cover.

JUNO: What the hell?!

MIASMA: Don’t look so surprised, Juno Steel. I told you I always get what I want.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Her hateful little eyes are pointed straight at me, bobbing on that waterbed face of hers. Looking at her makes me feel like my stomach is learning a new dance step but it’s worth it, because behind her, perfectly silently, Nureyev’s on his feet, headed for the panel by the door. Just a minute. I just need to stall for a minute.

JUNO: You want this? Seriously?

MIASMA: I have worked tirelessly to get what I want. I wanted the mask, so I took it. I wanted the teleporter, so I made it. I wanted the growth inside you, so I created it for myself. You have no right to stand in the way of what I’ve worked for, Juno Steel. What I’m owed.

JUNO: And… what do you want, Miasma?

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nureyev’s halfway to the door before Miasma catches him. Her arm cracks across the room like a bullwhip, but this time, he has his knife ready.

MIASMA: Back away from the panel, thief!

SOUND: BLADE SWINGS, WHIP CRACKS. SQUELCH. GRUNTS.

NUREYEV: Juno! Cover me!

SOUND: BLASTER SHOTS.

MIASMA: Attack me as much as you like. You’ll tire eventually, and I won’t. I always get what I want.

SOUND: SQUISHY, WET THUMPS. BLASTER FIRE.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Her arms keep lashing out after him. I keep shooting, and they keep coming, and– and then they aren’t her arms anymore. They’re just lashing out from every part of her, like she’s a thing without an outline—

SOUND: WHIP CRACKS.

—constantly spilling into weird, impossible shapes. And then she’s beside him again, and I don’t know how she got there. Just looking at her makes my head feel like it’s—

MIASMA & JUNO (NARRATOR): (IN UNISON) —going to split in two.

SOUND: WET THUD, SQUELCHES.

NUREYEV: (GRUNTING)

MIASMA: You can delay me all you like, but I always get what I want. Always.

SOUND: WHIP CRACKS. BLADE SWISHES. SQUISHY THUMPS. GRUNTS.

NUREYEV: Juno, the Purus Egg! Go deal with the egg!

JUNO (NARRATOR): The weapon. The pedestal’s high now, but I should be able to jump to it.

What the hell am I supposed to do when I get up there, though? I can’t disarm the bomb, and even if I can figure that one out, there’s still Miasma to deal with.

MIASMA: And I’m afraid Miasma will not be dealt with so easily.

SOUND: WHIP CRACK.

JUNO: (PAINED GRUNT)

JUNO (NARRATOR): She grabs me by the leg from across the room and pulls.

SOUND: TENTACLE SLAPS.

MIASMA: Come here, Juno Steel.

JUNO: (YELPING)

JUNO (NARRATOR): And she’s dragging me across the floor, that appendage of hers squeezing tighter and tighter, and more of them are coming. And more.

NUREYEV: Very rude of you, Miasma—

SOUND: WHIP CRACK.

—to interrupt me in the middle of our conversation!

SOUND: SQUELCHES. BLADE SLICING, STABBING. WHIP CRACKS.

Why don’t you and I continue this privately?

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nureyev’s hacking through her, shredding her to pieces, working so fast that she has to let go of me and turn back on him. I have to move quick before she starts trying to shred him. He won’t be coming back. I have to stop her, but we’re playing right into her hands.

MIASMA: Oh, what makes you think that, Juno Steel?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I have to stop the weapon. I have no idea how to stop the weapon… but Miasma does. And I can still look into her head. Can’t I?

MIASMA: No. Juno Steel!

NUREYEV: (PANTING) I told you, Miasma. Me. First.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It’s almost easy by now; I close my eyes, I reach out, feel for the cold, steely thing that Miasma has for a mind.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM.

It feels wrong, like I won’t fit, like her thoughts are wiggling and shifting around mine. I reach. The first spikes of pain push into my eye. I reach further, and finally I find the opening.

I pull.

SOUND: HUM & STATIC GETS LOUDER, THEN FADES OUT.

MIASMA: (DISTANT) Ancient Martians created the only society on record in which all citizens were completely equal. For them, there was no all. Only part…

JUNO (NARRATOR): A conference hall. Miasma’s standing before a near empty audience, her papers lined up in front of her.

I don’t have time for this! I keep pushing. Flipping deeper, deeper, moment after moment. A childhood trip to the park. A girl with her favorite book, reading beneath a shady tree. I keep looking. Birthday presents as big as your head, but… it’s just a lot of nothing.

You know how much of life is just nothing? Just the quiet moments of killing time between big things? You can’t get from ceremony to ceremony or murder to murder without all these times between where you fall asleep on the couch, eat soup for dinner—

MIASMA: (DISTANT) Assistant! Get back in there, you useless – if I have to tell you one more time! Do it properly!

SOUND: KEYBOARD CLICKING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): —write your papers, eat soup for dinner, yell at your employees, think about cleaning the house, eat soup for dinner, eat soup… for dinner. Wow, Miasma ate a lot of soup.

SOUND: SLURP.

But there’s no time! I need to defuse the bomb. So I keep pushing. Even if the pain in my eye is growing, even if it feels like the needles in my eye are taking root and spreading.

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS. LIQUID BUBBLING.

I see her gathering everything she needs down here. I feel how happy the thought of a clean, lonely planet makes her. No other voices – just quiet and thought.

MIASMA: (DISTANT) Yes… yes…

JUNO (NARRATOR): I am so close, I’m almost there. I can feel it. The bomb – how the hell do I defuse the bomb?

SOUND: LOW VIBRATION.

MIASMA: The Egg of Purus – using the teleportation technology – I’ll extract the traces of DNA – trapped in the folds of the Mask of Grimpotheuthis – the Throne of Architeuthis – and the Vampiris Key – my splicing technology will take care of the rest – a society of one, replicated one billion times – but the only one is me. And then, the Egg of Purus will be under my control. Unless…

JUNO (NARRATOR): So. Close.

MIASMA: The Egg of Purus… if I were to change my mind, all I would have to do is…

JUNO (NARRATOR): Damn you, just say it!

MIASMA: Oh, Juno Steel. You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you?

SOUND: RUSHING STATIC. CRACKLING.

JUNO: (YELLS)

MIASMA: Welcome back, Juno Steel. Did you find what you were looking for?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I try to reach for her again – to read her mind, but I can’t. That part of me is just… gone.

JUNO: (YELLS LOUDER, GASPING)

JUNO (NARRATOR): Ow, my head, my eye… no, no – focus, Steel, focus. She has Nureyev against the wall now. He’s still fighting, but he doesn’t look like he has much fight left in him.

I can’t tell why, but the room looks off. Like someone’s tilted it since I left.

I take a shot.

SOUND: BLASTER SHOT, CLINK.

It goes wide. Real wide.

I feel something on my face and without thinking, bring my hand up to it. The hand comes away dripping and red, and I can’t see it until it’s a few inches away from my face.

What did I do? What the hell did I do to myself?

NUREYEV: (PANTING) Juno! Have you figured out how to stop the bomb yet?

SOUND: DISTANT WHIPPING, SQUISHING, STABBING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): As soon as he says that, I have it. I don’t even need to dive into Miasma’s head to figure it out. And the beautiful thing is it’ll take care of Miasma, too, all in one moment.

NUREYEV: Juno – quickly!

JUNO: I’ve got it! Just… hold on for one second!

JUNO (NARRATOR): I go to take another shot and think better of it. I’ll miss again, and I can’t risk hitting Nureyev. When I get close, though, close enough that I have to hit something, I lay into her.

SOUND: BLASTER FIRE.

MIASMA: Shoot as much as you’d like, Juno Steel. I have plenty of time.

NUREYEV: Glad you made it, Ju—

Juno… your eye…!

JUNO: Yeah, it’s beautiful in the moonlight, I know. Mind if we deal with this business right now?

SOUND: BLASTER FIRE. SQUELCHES. BLADE SLICING.

MIASMA: You can’t… hold me back… forever.

JUNO: Yeah, maybe not, but we can hold you back long enough. Nureyev, this way.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We back up to the door, step by step. We work well together, Nureyev and I. We’re holding her back, and she doesn’t like it. My back hits the wall.

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS.

I reach for the panel with my free hand.

SOUND: BOOM, MECHANICAL WHIRR.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: The platform has stopped rising.

NUREYEV: Juno! What are you—

SOUND: WHIP CRACKS.

You’re going to set off the bomb in here.

JUNO: Guns and knives might not work, but we know one thing that can kill a Martian, don’t we?

MIASMA: Don’t be absurd.

SOUND: BLASTER FIRE. WHIP CRACKS.

JUNO: Just gotta make sure we’re not collateral here. Head out the door and I’ll cover you.

NUREYEV: Juno—

JUNO: Now!

NUREYEV: Alright. I’ll see you there, Juno.

MIASMA: Get back here!

SOUND: BLASTER FIRE.

JUNO: Hands off, Miasma!

NUREYEV: Juno, now! While she’s regenerating, you—

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS. WHIP CRACK. MECHANICAL WHIRR, LOUD SUCTION, CLANK.

MIASMA: No!

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: Airlocks activated.

MIASMA: You idiot!

SOUND: BLASTER SHOTS. DULL POUNDING.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Juno! Juno, what are you doing?!

JUNO: This is the way it’s gotta be, Nureyev.

SOUND: SQUELCHES. BLASTER FIRE. WHIP CRACKS.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) No, it isn’t. You self-aggrandizing—

JUNO: If I head out there with you, there’s nobody to stop her from getting to that panel, and sealing herself in here and sending that bomb up to the surface where it’ll make Mars a wasteland all over again.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) You don’t have to do this alone, you idiot!

MIASMA: (GROWLS)

SOUND: BLASTER SHOTS. WHIP CRACKS.

JUNO: And add you onto the bill? I don’t think so. Just think of me as the price tag, Nureyev. The cost of a fresh shot at the world.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Open this door! Open it now!

SOUND: BANGING.

JUNO: It’s too late for that. I can’t read the numbers on the bomb, but I can see that they just dropped a digit. We’re next door to the end, Nureyev.

MUSIC: STARTS.

Smile for the camera.

MIASMA: I’ll kill you! I’ll kill—

SOUND: BLASTER SHOT. CHOKING SOUNDS.

JUNO: Hey, we got a quiet minute while her face is rebuilding itself.

Mind if I let you in on a little secret, Nureyev?

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) You idiot. Juno, you idiot.

JUNO: You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. (CHUCKLES BREATHLESSLY) Wow, that’s a load off. And it’s true! You make me feel like… maybe it’s all worth it. Like maybe there’s something out there worth seeing.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Of course there is. But you need to be alive to see it.

JUNO: Ever since that night I tried to turn you in, I’ve been thinkin’ about that – the adventures we were talkin’ about, the bouncing from star to star? Leaving this dump behind and seeing what the galaxy’s got to offer.

MIASMA: (YELLS)

SOUND: BLASTER SHOT. SQUELCH.

JUNO: I wish we got the chance to do that, Nureyev. If I’ve got one regret, it’s that.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Juno…

JUNO: It’s been nice knowing you, Nureyev. (SIGHS) It’s been a gift I… don’t deserve.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Open this door. Juno! Juno!

SOUND: BANGING, POUNDING.

MUSIC: ENDS.

JUNO: Alright, Miasma. You were tryin’ to say something to me?

MIASMA: Juno Steel. What have you done?

JUNO: Something I don’t think anyone’s ever done to you. You wanted something. I said no.

MIASMA: That bomb won’t just kill you. It will tear you to pieces. Do you know why hardly a shred of Martian matter was left after their extinction? What’s inside that bomb… it chews through you, devours you. You’ll feel it in your every cell.

JUNO: Hey, I’ll try anything once.

SOUND: WHIP CRACK. BLASTER SHOT.

JUNO: If you’re so scared of it, why not disarm it?

MIASMA: It can’t be disarmed, you idiot. It is the final weapon, the punctuation mark on life! (GROWLS)

SOUND: WHIP CRACKS. TWO QUICK BLASTER SHOTS.

Open that door, or we’ll die in here. We have seconds, you fool!

JUNO: And if you really wanna torture me, Miasma, you’ll spend them talking my ear off.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The numbers tick down. A digit drops.

SOUND: WHIP CRACKS, BLASTER FIRE.

I miss more shots than I should, but at this range, I can get her at least, keep her thousand cold appendages from the panel.

MIASMA: (GROWLING)

JUNO (NARRATOR): I’m tired… I hurt… and the numbers tick down. And I just have to hold out a little longer until I can rest—

MIASMA: You can’t take this away from me! You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t!

JUNO (NARRATOR) And then… the numbers stop.

MIASMA: No! I can’t die! I’ll never die!

JUNO (NARRATOR): A crack shines in the side of the egg, then another. And another. And then… it hatches.

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS, RISING IN PITCH.

MIASMA: (SCREAMS)

SOUND: SCREECHING METAL, WIND, STATIC GETS LOUDER, THEN FADES OUT.

NUREYEV: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Juno? Juno, you impossible idiot, answer me! Answer me please!

SOUND: DULL POUNDING.

Juno! Juno, no, no, no…

SOUND: ELECTRONIC BEEPS, HISS OF AIR, MECHANICAL WHIRR.

COMPUTERIZED VOICE: Airlocks deactivated.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: Juno… you’re… alive! How could you be?

The egg. It looks just like it did before. It must not have gone off, is that it? After all these aeons, it didn’t even work! (LAUGHS) …Where’s Miasma?

JUNO: The weapon went off. Miasma’s dead. Every shred of her… gone.

NUREYEV: But… how?

JUNO: I was just wondering the same thing. (CHUCKLES) But you know, it make sense when you think about it.

NUREYEV: D-does it?

JUNO: It’s simple, Nureyev. You just gotta think like a Martian – all that stuff in those writings, right, all that stuff Miasma was after to clean Mars, to make it pure again. That’s what the Martians wanted, right?

NUREYEV: Yes, I suppose—

JUNO: But clean what, is the question.

The Martians were all the same, they bred by splitting so they had the same DNA. They could read each other’s thoughts! If their bodies were the same, their minds were the same, there’s no difference, one to the other.

NUREYEV: Juno, I don’t think—

JUNO: We’ve been looking at this all wrong, Nureyev! The weapon wasn’t a mistake, it wasn’t a product of a war or an experiment gone wrong. It wasn’t a Martian genocide. It was a Martian suicide. They thought it through and they put the pieces together and at the end of the day, they figured Mars was better off without them.

NUREYEV: You don’t know any of that for sure.

JUNO: Miasma’s gone. I’m not. The weapon scrubs Martians clean down to the last cell and doesn’t touch another thing. You have any better theories?

NUREYEV: Only that it doesn’t matter anymore. The Martians are dead, the last of them gone. Their choices have been made and buried in this tomb. You and I, Juno, we’re alive. And free to make whatever choices we please… and I can think of one I’d like to make right now.

SOUND: KISSING.

JUNO: You’re right… they’re gone. They’re all gone.

NUREYEV: What do you say we leave the dead to their rest, Juno? We have some living to do out on the surface, I think.

JUNO: Yeah. The surface. I’d like that, Nureyev… I really would.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: HEAVY RAIN, CARS HONKING. DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: This is quite the hotel. I, for one, am looking forward to a good night’s sleep. It’s been weeks.

JUNO: The hotel’s alright.

NUREYEV: Juno… I’m sorry that the doctors couldn’t save your eye.

JUNO: I… got another.

Besides, it’s not like I needed that eye, anyway. I’m sure there are plenty of P.I.s with one eye. P-one-eyes. Hell, I’ll never shoot straight again, but not a big deal – it’s not like sharpshooting was the basis of my entire career or anything, I—

NUREYEV: Juno, Juno. Shh, it’s alright. There are options. You know, you could always look into a cybernetic eye.

JUNO: You think I got that kind of money to kick around? Only people who can afford those things can afford to buy an army to do their shooting for ‘em.

NUREYEV: I do have very wealthy friends, Juno. I could ask around—

JUNO: Let’s just… not talk about it right now, alright?

NUREYEV: Alright. It can wait. Though I can’t say I understand why you insisted we come to a clinic in Hyperion City when Olympus Mons was so much closer.

JUNO: (SIGHS) I… I just wanted to see the place one last time, that’s all.

NUREYEV: I see. I suppose… I don’t have the penchant for nostalgia that you do.

JUNO: It doesn’t do me any good. City’s gonna change whether I’m here or not. This area used to be crammed with apartment buildings – you’d see people walking up and down the street all the time, carrying groceries, and kids hanging on their arms.

NURYEV: I didn’t see any apartment buildings.

JUNO: It wasn’t even that long ago, couple months maybe… city’s gonna change. That’s just how it is.

NUREYEV: Juno?

JUNO: Yeah?

NUREYEV: …Are you certain that you want to leave Mars?

JUNO: Yeah, yeah, ‘course I am. I said that, didn’t I? Back in the tomb, before… the bomb.

NUREYEV: This city… I can tell it’s very valuable to you. Truthfully, I can’t say I know what that feels like. I was so excited to leave Brahma behind. I’ve been so excited to leave behind every planet I’ve seen.

JUNO: All that bad, huh?

NUREYEV: Not at all. They’re beautiful, every one of them. So beautiful that as soon as I land on one, all I can think of is the next, the incredible future ahead…

I’m excited to share that future with you, Juno, but only if it’s the future you want. And, if it isn’t, I’ll leave alone. For good. And that will be that.

So?

JUNO (NARRATOR): Leaving Mars. Forever. That’s what I said I wanted, wasn’t it? Freedom? Adventure across the galaxy. With Peter Nureyev.

NUREYEV: So?

JUNO: I wanna leave. With you.

SOUND: RUSTLING FABRIC.

NUREYEV: And I am so happy to hear you say it, Juno.

SOUND: KISSING.

Are there any last preparations you need before we go?

JUNO: No. In the morning, I’ll call Rita, tell her to close up the office, sell off the junk in my apartment – that should carry her until she can find another job, but… I don’t think I can go back there again.

NUREYEV: I understand. We’re on the edge of a brave new future, Juno. It’s exciting, isn’t it?

JUNO: Yeah… yeah, it is.

NUREYEV: What do you say you and I begin that beautiful future right now?

JUNO: That sounds exciting, too.

SOUND: FABRIC RUSTLING, KISSING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We spent the night together. It was… nice.

It was like nothing else. Just like Peter Nureyev.

NUREYEV: You know, Juno… call me a fool if you like, but— (YAWNING) I think… I may have… fallen in love with you.

JUNO: I… (LAUGHS) If you’re a fool, that makes two of us.

NUREYEV: (CHUCKLES)

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nureyev falls asleep in minutes. I watch him in the dark for hours. Smell his cologne, see those sharp teeth peek past his lips as he snores. Nureyev sleeps deeply, like someone who knows the tomorrow he’s waking up to will be worth showing up for.

Lying next to him, I feel that way too. And suddenly, desperately, I wanna chase a future of that feeling every single day. With him.

SOUND: FABRIC RUSTLING, CREAKING, FOOTSTEPS. KEYS JINGLING, DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: (MURMURING IN SLEEP) Juno…

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES. FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Hyperion City.

MUSIC: STARTS.

It takes a lot of people to fill up a city like this, big and filthy and beautiful. Killer stars and runaway execs and starving kids and bad parents, old friends who made it, old friends who didn’t, smugglers, murderers, mercenaries and mad anthropologists.

Master thieves and private eyes.

You meet enough of those people in my line of work, and you start to notice something: everyone thinks they’ve got the answer, that silver laser that promises they’ll be happy forever. But no one’s ever been happy forever.

All those people chasing after all those promises, running full tilt towards a thousand paradises that never were and never are going to be, Steel, no matter how bad you want it – well, it makes a big mess.

And sometimes, when the whole thing feels like too much, it’s tempting to lie down and let all of the other runners trample you.

(SIGHS) But I can’t.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLING, DOOR OPENS.

So instead, I take my lumps. The world gets a little bigger, a little meaner. Maybe I did, too.

From my office window, I get a good view of the city: the mansions floating over Uptown, the drunks drifting through the streets, the addicts who’ve turned their skin to pincushions, and the powerful people who profit off every pinprick.

SOUND: GLASS CLINK, LIQUID POURING.

(SIGHS) My name’s Juno Steel. I’m a private eye, and this is my city.

I’m not proud of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth saving.

And hell, it’s not like I had anywhere better to go.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOUND: RAIN & MUSIC.

CONCIERGE: I’m afraid this concludes season one of The Penumbra Podcast, dear Traveler. But worry not: the travails of our dear detective and his fellow guests will resume in March, and in the meantime, we’ve plenty of surprises planned for you.

Are you concerned you’ll miss us? You can stay up to date with all of our establishment’s plans by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, and following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast. If you check those pages today, Traveler, you’ll find instructions to submit questions for a Q&A with The Penumbra’s co-creators to air next Tuesday, the fifteenth of November. They’re waiting to hear from you.

If our first season of tales has impacted you, we hope you will consider showing your appreciation by supporting The Penumbra on Patreon. For the donation of just a few dollars per episode, you can access our scripts, art raffles by our artist Mikaela Buckley, and other tantalizing rewards. Your support helps ensure that we will be able to keep creating these stories for you in the future. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast. If you support us on Patreon at the $10 level or higher, you’ll receive access to commentary tracks like this one from actors Joshua Ilon, Kate Jones, and Noah Simes:

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING OPEN.

NOAH: Right, right.

KATE: Oh, that grumpy Juno. Like, he’s… he’s really struggling, with some—

NOAH: Yeah!

KATE: Dark stuff.

NOAH: Yeah. It’s striking.

JOSHUA: It’s– it’s an interesting peel-away of the curmudgeonly, hard-boiled detective. It’s the—

NOAH: Right.

JOSHUA: The everything that we blindly accept with this genre are real symptoms of a real thing.

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING CLOSED.

CONCIERGE: We would like to give thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Hannah Tsim, Elizabeth Miller, Angel Acevedo, Eliza Grey, and Sarah Richardson for their incredibly generous contributions per episode. Thank you.

If you cannot afford to support us, we understand – but we hope you will take a moment to rate and review us on iTunes or your podcast service of choice so that we can spread our tales further than ever before.

This tale, Juno Steel and the Final Resting Place, was told by the following people: Joshua Ilon as Juno Steel, Noah Simes as Peter Nureyev, and Kate Jones as Miasma.

On staff at The Penumbra: Kevin Vibert is our lead writer and recording engineer. Sophie Kaner is our director and sound designer. Grahame Turner is our script editor. Original music by Ryan Vibert. Promotional art by Mikaela Buckley.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert.

We’re sad to see you go, but worry not. The Penumbra will find its way to you again. Farewell, dear Traveler. For now.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

#juno steel

18 notes · View notes

dreamworksworddump · 6 years

Text

Hidge sex worker au

Hunk closes the bakery early, for the third time since he’s opened it. The first time was for his Grandmother’s funeral. The second time was to visit Lance, who was hospitalized from a gas tank explosion. In comparison, this seems trivial. Who is he to shut the stoves off a quarter to six, to wipe the counters and flip the signs, for a meeting with a prostitute? But no, he thinks, shaking his head in reproach. The woman called her comrades sex workers, and when she’d handed him that card, it’d been in the middle of the afternoon, during his lunch-rush. She had been without shame at her job as the Madame, and had seen no wrong in passing the card over sandwiched between her neatly stacked twenty’s. Why should he?

Hunk pulls off his apron, folds it neatly, and sets it on the counter. He surveys his shop one last time before he leaves, and then locks the door behind him. The house is within walking distance of his shop, just a block away, where the preppy, residential front blends with the dying historical sector. He has searched the address up, and studied the route so well that he could walk there backwards. Still, anxiety lingers in the pit of his stomach.

He fingers the card, and brushes his thumb over it’s worn edge. The Castle, it reads in gold enamel lettering, where you may rest, a stranger no more. A woman bumps into him as she passes by, and nearly falls off the side of the curb onto the wet asphalt. Hunk catches her, out of reflex more than anything, and then steps back. The woman is tall, and thick-boned, like his mother. There is little else to link the two figures; his mother is twenty years older than she is, and the girl is the wrong color, has the wrong eyes. Still, when he smiles at him, his throat tightens, and his skin itches where she touched him.

“Thank you.” She says, her arm brushing against his as she passes by.

Hunk gurgles a belated reply, but his heart is in his throat, and the thought of having embarrassed himself in front of a stranger only makes it worse. He picks up speed, and pulls a bottle of pills from his vest. The familiar shape of the oblong pill steadies his shaking hand long enough for him to swallow it, dry. He can see the front porch of the house from here. He sits on a bench and tries to calm himself down.

There is nothing wrong with me, he thinks. I am a survivor, and I am doing my best. He brushes his hair back from his bandana, and sighs. He’s going to a prostitute today because he needs human interaction, and he doesn’t have enough friends to fulfill the aching hole inside. Great. He stands up, and stretches, relishing each cracking joint. Things could always be worse.

Hunk feels better by the time he gets to the door. It’s painted a nice, deep blue that contrasts nicely with the white and yellow siding. The Victorian style house reminds him of his Grandmother’s house, that his Grandfather had spent years building by hand. It seems cozy. He hesitates for a moment, hand held over the iron-cast knocker, and then decides to knock by hand.

From behind the door, he hears a thud, and the familiar voice of his customer calling to him to hold on. Her name comes to him as she opens the door, wearing an expensive silk robe over a pair of pink leggings and a t-shirt.

“Hello, Allura. Nice to see you.” He catches himself before he asks her for her order. His hands start to sweat.

“Oh, there’s no need for formalities, Hunk.” Allura drapes herself on his arm, and steers him inside and to a leather loveseat. “You’re here to do business after all.”

“I, um,” Hunk swallows. Allura does not make him anxious. Her demeanor has always reminded him of that of a monarch; not the queen, poised and prompted, but the mistress, who rules from behind the throne. However, this is her territory, and Hunk never feels at ease until he knows how he is supposed to react. “Yes.”

“Do you have a type?” She prompts, picking up a cup of tea, half drunk, off of the coffee table. The furniture is oddly muted- all browns and sepias, and it confuses him. He’d thought she’d be a prints, and bright colors kind of girl. “Or if not, I can set you up with one of my nicest girls. Plaxum, she’s great for a first time.”

Hunk starts, not realizing that he’d been silent for so long. He messes with his hem. A type, yes, a type. He doesn’t think he has one. He just doesn’t want anyone that’ll remind him of Her. Of the kneeling on rice, and running around tracks, and washing her feet after she’d whipped him. “Small.” He finally says. “Someone small.” And completely unlike her.

Allura nods and sets her tea down on a matching coaster. Her hand trails on his, flour still lodged in the beds of his nails, as she leads him deeper into the house. They walk through a kitchen, beautifully furnished, but sparkling clean, and up a flight of stairs. Pictures guide them; pictures of smiling girls, candid shots. Allura isn’t in any of them.

Allura stops before the first room at the top of the stairs, furnished simply with a bed and vase of flowers. “You can wait here while I get her. Is there anything you’d like to request?” She smiles conspiratorially. “We don’t judge.”

Hunk shakes his head.

Allura nods once more and disappears into the hall. She returns a moment later with a girl in tow. Allura leaves her in the doorway for a moment, and then, hearing no complaint, leaves, closing the door behind her.

The girl Allura has chosen for him is short, perhaps four feet tall, no more, with short, hazel brown hair, and eyes that gleam mischievously behind round-rimmed glasses. She wears a green sweater that swallows her, and a pair of brown cargo shorts, and no socks. She is nothing like Hunk thought a prostitute would look like.

He admonished himself for stereotyping, and then blushes, because the moment that he was supposed to start the conversation has passed, and now it is awkward.

“Hey.” She says, sitting beside him on the foot of the bed. “My name’s Pidge. You’re Hunk, right? From the bakery down the street? I love your peanut butter cookies. They’re the best.” Pidge smiles at him warmly, and leans on his shoulder, as if they were old friends. “You’ve never done this before, right?” Hunk nods. Pidge pulls a wrinkled and worn sheet of paper out of her back pocket, and then holds a finger up to her lips. “Don’t tell ‘llura, but I wrote this down so it’d be easier for you, ‘kay? We charge forty bucks the first hour, thirty for the following ones. If it’s sex, that is. You don’t seem like you’re too sure of yourself, and that’s okay. It’s twenty bucks for cuddling, though to be honest, we’ll both probably fall asleep and loose count, if that’s the way you wanna go. If you’re rough, that’s an extra twenty an hour. If I like you, I might take twenty off.” She winks, and Hunk isn’t sure how to respond.

Ah, but that’s a lie, isn’t it? His dick is already at half-chub, just from sitting next to her, listening to her rattle off prices. Her warm personality, and her ‘girl-next-door’ appearance have him feeling more comfortable than he has in ages around a woman.

He places his hand on her knee, and she stops talking, startled by the sudden contact from this statue of a man. “Can we- can we discuss the prices after?”

Pidge blushes, cheeks dusting pink like salmon. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to turn this into an infomercial. I can be quiet, if you want.”

Hunk shakes his head. “I would- I would like you to keep talking, please, about anything, and well, I’d like you to ride me.”

Pidge nods, and pulls her sweater off. It falls to the floor beside them, haphazard, like a burst of moss growing under a bridge. Hunk picks it up, and folds it neatly. When she takes her pants off, he folds that neatly too. Satisfied with the state of things, he pauses to study her. Pale, white skin; areola, dusty pink. A mole rests under her right breast. She pushes him down onto the mattress, a show of strength that is just that- a show. She unbuckles his pants, and tugs them down until he can kick them off.

“I’m going to school to be an engineer. I know that’s vague, but I can’t decide between robotics, or prosthetics, or some mix of the two. See, I’ve got this friend, who got a prosthetic overseas, but he hates it. Reminds him of what happened. Ever since he came back, I’ve wanted to make him a new one.”

From underneath the mattress, she produces a condom, cherry flavored, and rolls it onto him with expertise. Hunk feels awkward, just sitting there, but he knows that he’d feel even worse if he tried to touch her. Pidge doesn’t seem to mind his lack in participation. He’s got a feeling that she’s seen weirder.

As she lifts herself onto him, and slowly starts to lower herself onto him, her voice deepens, and starts to waver. He likes the sound of it, likes the way it makes him feel. Hunk forces back a groan just to hear her better. “I’ve got this idea for connecting nerves to the prosthetic so that it can move more- ah! More intuitively. The whole process would start with-” She takes a shuddering breath as she bottoms out. “Double modulating the-”

“Double modulating is redundant.” Hunk says, panting. He finds it hard not to thrust up into her when she feels magnetic, like she’s the South pole to his North. “Single modulating works fine.”

“Maybe, but when you’re dealing with a person’s limb,” she grunts as she shifts, and then starts to rise back up, skinny, deceptively strong arms steadying herself with his waist. Brown, and white, and scarred and unscarred- it all looks so aesthetically pleasing. The anxiety that usually smothers his heart eases, and he allows himself to touch, to trace one delicate nipple, to cup her tininess in his hands, so large compared to her. “It’s best to be extra, instead of unprepared.”

When she sinks back down, he can see his dick pressing through in her stomach, a bulge, hardly identifiable, if he wasn’t looking for it. He grips her shoulders, and pushes her onto the bed, one hand holding her hands above her head, the other pressing a thick finger against her clit, rubbing off-beat circles until her voice starts to break. “I-ah! I’m thinking wiring inside the arm, which is invasive, but ultimately- for gods’ fuckin’ sakes!” She moans, and fidgets beneath him, unable to break free. She muffles her noises into her arm, and when he fucks her, hard, and deep and everything that he didn’t know that he wanted, she comes apart like a present beneath him.

He comes after her, slow and receding like the tides, and the confidence, the sense of pride in himself disappears.

Hunk slumps against the wall, and brushes sweaty hair out of his eyes. He ties his bandana, and ties a knot in the condom, and dresses quietly as Pidge lays on her back, breathing heavily. If it weren’t for the rising and lowering of her chest, he might’ve thought he’d killed her.

As he tugs his pants on, she opens an eye, and smiles. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you? S’okay. I’m weird too.”

Hunk smiles back, and hands her two hundred bucks, fresh and crisp from the till. “Thanks.” He says, and hopes that that can convey all that words cannot; he feels free, for the first time in a long time, from his demons, and all else that lurks inside.

#vld #voltron #hunk #pidge #you asked for this

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90simaginesandfanfics · 6 years

Text

Cradle Broken Glass - Chapter Thirty Four

Layla woke up to the faint sound of snoring. She looked to the other side of the bed to see Eddie, completely naked without the blankets covering him, laying on his stomach, his hair looking like a bird’s nest, his mouth slightly open and snoring like a caveman. She had to hold her hand up to her mouth to stop her from bursting out laughing at the position he was in. She ran her eyes down his body and couldn’t help but appreciate the toned nature of his form. His shoulders were broad, his back muscled and his waist tapered. And his ass was a thing of the Gods. She leaned over to his side of the bed and rested the side of her body against his back, leaning down and biting down on his ear, before she started to lick and kiss his neck. The snores turned into moans and Layla giggled as he breathed out her name, not knowing if he was awake of dreaming. She was about to move down to kiss his shoulders when he jumped up and grabbed her, rolling them over so that she was underneath him, both wrestling around in the sheets as she screamed and laughed in delight.

“What time is it?” Eddie asked, mumbling into the pillow as he rested his whole body on top of her.

“If you stop suffocating me I will check.” She said and Eddie laughed, before rolling off of her back to his side of the bed. She picked up her watch from the dressing table next to her.

“It’s nearly midday.” She said

“Shit.” He replied and quickly got out of the bed.

“What?” She asked confused.

“I should have put an alarm on. We’ve got to leave soon if we have any chance of getting to San Diego by tonight.” He said as he started to get dressed, and she soon followed. She noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes and put it down to the driving he had done yesterday. It was nearly a 20-hour journey and they still had about 9 hours to go. Layla moved and packed all her things up as Eddie did the same, and they both left the room, Eddie going to the front reception to pay while Layla put their things in the car. Once everything was paid and set up, they got on the road again.

*****

It had been five hours and Layla was bored. She had ended up continually poking Eddie in the ribs as he drove just to give her something to do, and every time she did, he would jump out of his seat and try to push himself as much as he could into the door on his side to get away from her. But even that had become boring. She sighed loudly as she fidgeted around in the passenger seat, trying to find something to entertain herself with. The radio was turned on and Eddie had been putting tapes in the whole afternoon, but she only started to pay attention when she heard the opening notes of Big Dumb Sex by Soundgarden playing. She tapped her fingers on the dashboard to the beat.

“Don’t you, don’t you want to thrill me?” She sang out in her best high-pitched Chris impersonation. Eddie turned to her and started to laugh his ass off.

“Yeah, IIIIIIIIII know what to do.” She sang out and pointed towards Eddie.

“I’m gonna fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you.” She finished and she felt like she deserved both a Grammy and an Oscar for her Cornell impression. Eddie nearly swerved in the road as he watched her rendition and laughed so hard he was crying. After the song was over he was still laughing and Layla felt proud of herself that she had managed to cause that.

“If you keep on singing that I’m going to have to pull over and we may never make it to San Diego.” He said, and Layla burst out laughing too.

*****

Layla could smell the ocean before she saw it. They had been in the car all day and her body was cramped up from the position she was in. Eddie started to slow down and turned off a road. Layla looked up and saw a beach house at the end of the road. She immediately fell in love with it and looked up at the white-washed wood with wonder. Eddie stopped the car and got out, grabbing their things from the trunk while Layla slowly got out of the car and admired her surroundings. Even though it was dark, the house was illuminated by garden lights, and she could hear the waves crashing into the beach to her left. Eddie moved in front of her and got to the door, taking a key out from under a plant pot and opening the door. He gestured for her to walk inside and she was enamoured even more. It was all open plan, with white washed wood walls and flooring, everything was either white or blue. There was a simple kitchen at the back, leading to double doors which lead out to a veranda. The living room had two couches and a small table, but looked like the most comfortable place to curl up in after a day at the beach. She looked to her left and saw a door leading to a bedroom that had a massive bed, filled with pillows. It was the most amazing place she had ever seen, and she couldn’t believe that Eddie had decided to take her there.

“Do you like it?” Eddie asked from behind her. She turned around and noticed the nervous expression on his face as he awaited her reaction.

“Do I like it? Eddie this place is absolute heaven!” She exclaimed, and Eddie’s expression changed to one of joy. She ran over to him and threw herself in his arms and he returned the embrace, laughing as she nearly squeezed him to death.

“How about I get the rest of out stuff out of the car and you go and order us some takeout, ‘cause I doubt there’s any food in this place.” He said and Layla nodded before placing a kiss on his lips. He pulled away and started to walk out the door.

“There’s loads of leaflets in the draw by the sofa by the way.” He called out to her and she moved to the living room to hunt for them. She looked through all the restaurants, slightly at awe over the amount of leaflets, until she found a Chinese place that looked like it was the best out of her options. She called them up and ordered everything, trying to remember what Eddie had brought her the night they had first kissed. She tried to order as many vegetarian options as possible, even though the picture of the crispy chili beef made her mouth water. By the time she had hung up, Eddie joined her on the sofa. He collapsed on top of her, his head in her lap.

“I’m so fucking tired.” He said as he released a sigh.

“I’m not surprised, you’ve been driving for two days straight.” She said with a laugh and he only groaned in response. She moved her hands and placed them in his hair, massaging his scalp and temples as he closed him eyes.

“Fuck, that feels good.” He said and Layla continued doing what she was doing, giving him a head massage and kneading the tops of his shoulders. They stayed that way for ages, their breaths and the faint sound of waves the only things that could be heard in the beach house. Eddie groaned as Layla massaged his temples, nearly falling asleep at her touch. And then someone knocked on the door.

“I’ll get it.” She said and Eddie moaned in thanks, barely even moving to let her up from the sofa. She paid for their food and placed it on the table in front of the couch, before retrieving plates and cutlery from the kitchen. Eddie sat up and began to open the boxes of food, pilling everything on his plate, and making Layla laugh. For such a small guy he had the biggest appetite, no matter how tired. They ate in a comfortable silence, until every last bit of food was gone.

“We better go shopping tomorrow unless we want to live off of takeout for breakfast.” Layla said, and Eddie laughed quietly. He stared up at her and pushed a tendril of hair away from her face, leaning in and kissing her on her collarbone. He leaned back up and gave her a sly grin, going back to his original position, and not paying her any attention. She knew he was doing this on purpose, trying to get her to beg for attention. But she decided that two could play at his game. She stood up from the couch.

“I’m going to go and take a shower.” She said innocently, and Eddie looked up at her, amused, thinking that he had won, and she was too shy to come onto him. However, the amusement dropped from his face when Layla pulled her shirt up and over her head, taking her clothes off as she moved around the room and eventually made her way into the bedroom, a smile on her face at the way she was teasing him. She heard his groan from the living room and she grabbed a towel from near the bed, draping it over her body barely, before she walked back out into the hall. Eddie’s eyes widened as he saw her walk out of the bedroom with the towel hardly covering her naked body, and Layla laughed to herself at his reaction. She moved to the bathroom, turning back to blow him a kiss, before she closed and locked the door, feeling confident and cocky that she had managed to give him a taste of his own medicine. It wasn’t long however, before, over the sound of the running water, she heard a hesitant knock on the door. She decided to ignore him, laughing to herself. He knocked again more forcefully. She continued to wash her hair.

“Laylaaaa…” Came Eddie’s voice through the door. She nearly burst out laughing at how whiny and childish he sounded, like a kid who was trying to convince his parents to stay up late. She got back to her task until she heard the doorknob start to rattle and could see the keyhole being turned. The door slowly opened to reveal Eddie with a small bobby pin, presumably used to unpick the door. They stared at each other from across the bathroom until he launched himself into the shower, throwing his shirt off in the process. Layla screamed in delight, but was silenced when Eddie’s lips met hers, kissing her harder than he ever had before. He took off his shorts and underwear, already damp from the shower, and then pushed her up against the shower wall, water running down both of their bodies as he pushed himself against her. She tangled her fingers in his wet hair as he ran his hands down her body, taking in as much as he could. She could feel his hardness pressing into her thigh, and it turned her on even more. Eddie grabbed one of her thighs and brought it up to wrap around his hips as he positioned himself at her entrance and started to move into her. Layla threw her head back in pleasure as he started to move, kissing her neck as the water rolled off of them both and drowned out their heavy breathing. She scratched her fingernails down his arms and he growled as he took her mouth in a kiss once again, still pushing into her and grinding his hips as he did. His thrusts started to become more urgent and Layla felt herself tighten around him, her senses being overloaded. Eddie grabbed onto her thigh as he started to come, his hand constricting the skin so hard Layla thought it might bruise, not that she minded. Once they both came back to reality, Eddie leaned his head into her neck while Layla grabbed some shower gel and began to wash his upper body, in a complete daze from what had happened. She had never in her entire life had sex life that before. He repeated her actions, and they both got out of the shower, drying off. Layla followed Eddie into the bedroom where he collapsed onto the bed, covering himself with the sheets. She followed soon after, too exhausted to clean up the kitchen or change into any clothes. Eddie drew her close and buried his head into her neck once again, laying the side of his body on her as he used her as a pillow, not that she minded that either. If the extra weight she had always hated about herself was a bad thing, at least it meant he cuddled her like this. And they both fell asleep.

*****

I literally loved writing this chapter and I hope you like it as much as I do, be sure to tell me what you think! Have an amazing day everyone xx

#eddie vedder #Eddie Vedder Fanfic #eddie vedder fanfiction #Pearl Jam #pearl jam fanfic #pearl jam fanfiction #grunge #grunge fanfic #grunge fanfiction #oneshot #imagine #imagines #fanfiction #fanfic #90s #alice in chains #soundgarden #nirvana #cradle broken glass

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annakinskywalker13 · 7 years

Text

Lisa?

Rain poured off the sides of my black umbrella. I was zoned out, only the sounds of my feet hitting the wet ground floated into my mind. It was chilly, just cold enough to see your breath, and I was struggling to hold the umbrella still due to the wind. The smell of blooming spring flowers was dampened by the rain. I was stressed. In fact, I was heading to a bar at three in the afternoon just to drink the stress away. I ran into something. I looked up to see beautiful brown eyes staring at me. The color of milk chocolate, but with hints of honey in it. I look down because the front of me feels wet. I finally look at the woman in front of me. She had very delicate features, soft bone structure. Her hair was short and jet black. Everything about her was soaked. She was hunched in on herself, trying to be as humble as possible. “I'm sorry,” she said to the ground. She was looking at her feet, which were clad with sandals. Her entire outfit was a shirt and shorts. She was shaking almost violently from the cold. My heart hurt for the girl, and in that moment, my problems didn't seem to matter at all. I pulled her under the umbrella and gave her the handle to hold over us. I took off my thick wool coat and wrapped it around her. “I'm going to a bar. Would you like to join me? At least get out of the cold for a bit.” The girl smiled the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “Thank you!” She hugged him tightly. It was weird, but I allowed it. Kinda cute. My eyes flicked open. It was pitch black, but that didn't mean much. There were no windows in this bedroom. I reached over and looked at my phone. The bright light hurt for a second until my eyes adjusted to it. 3:17. Ugh. What an ungodly hour. I roll over to notice the other side of the bed is empty. My heart skipped a beat. Had she just gotten a glass of water? Or were her sleeping pills taking her elsewhere? I ran my hand over the sheets. They were still warm. Maybe she hadn't been up long. “Lisa?” I got up and walked to the bathroom. “Lisa? Are you OK? Lisa, where are you?” “Lisa!” I ran through the playground, trying not to run into little kids. "Polo!” I heard to my left. I chuckled to myself. She had such a free spirit, and I loved that about her. “That's not how you play!” I called after her. I saw her head poke out one of the windows in the wooden tower. “Come get me!” I was glad she was staying in one place. I had worn my joints out with sports, and my age didn't help either. It was amazing that she was thirty and still had the wonder of a child. I climbed up the stairs to the tower, and when I got there, I found my beauty waiting. Smiling ear to ear, she wrapped her arms around me and nestled her head in my chest. “I'm really becoming especially fond of you,” she giggled. I lifted her chin up to look into her warm eyes. It was then. This was the time. I leaned into her face, and our lips met. The universe just stopped. Our breathing gone. All we had was sharing our souls, and that was all we needed. I stuck my head into every room in the upstairs. And with every empty room, my heart got faster. I opened my eyes when I heard a noise downstairs. In one swift motion, I pulled out my gun from the wooden nightstand. I slowly inched towards the stairs. When I got there, I thanked God the stairs were carpet. I made it down and into the kitchen without noise. All I could see was the light from the refrigerator. “Show me your hands!” No response. “Show. Me. Your. Hands.” Still nothing. I walked around the island and saw Lisa rummaging through the fridge. “Lisa?” She pulled out things and began to make a sandwich. I waved my hand in front of her, but she didn't respond. I shook her, and finally she snapped out of her daze. “How did I get to your house?” she whispered. I wrapped my arms around her. “I don't know, but let's get you settled.” After making sure every room was searched thoroughly, I made my way down the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something was off. I turned my head and noticed that my favorite picture of Lisa was tilted. She was sitting in a beautiful violet field, head back, not a care in the world. Small hands held out a crown of daisies to me. I laughed. Everything she does made me smile, inside and out. “I'm not wearing that,” I said as I playfully pushed it away. She grabbed my hands and put pouty face on. “Pleeeease David!” My heart melted. “Fine,” I sighed as she placed the crown on his head. I pretended to be upset, and she wrapped herself around me, like she always does. This time was different though. She looked up at me with wide eyes. “I love you.” I looked down at her, wondering if she had actually said that. She always said what she felt. She was just afraid to say it. “I love you too.” She pulled me into a field of green grass with a cool wind blowing away the heat from the unblocked sun. She pushed me down and laid her head on my chest. “I love you,” she whispered again, almost in awe. As I was descending the stairs, I knocked over a bottle that rattled. I picked it up. Great. Her pills. Was it supposed to be half empty? When did they get it filled last? I laid in bed, not asleep, but wanting to. My heavy eyes looked over to my spunky girlfriend. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands wrapped around the edge. It made me anxious. “What's wrong?” I asked for the millionth time. She didn't move. Her frame was hunched over. “Nothing.” Her voice was empty. She had lost her vibrancy. Something was very wrong, but she wouldn't tell me. The shrunken girl got up and went to the bathroom. I watched as she pour a plethora of pills in her hand and take them all at once. Did she really need all that? I made it down the stairs, and I looked around. “Lisa! Lisa, come on, this isn't funny!” I sighed and decided to check the living room first. At this point I was as close to a full blown panic attack as one can be and still function. “LISA!” The neighbours are probably going to think we're fighting again. I looked at the blue couch textured with raised straight lines. I looked at the blanket and pillows that were permanently there because I had been kicked out of my bed more times than I got to sleep in it lately. Lisa was ripping her earrings out and storming into our bedroom. “Are you serious right now?” I followed, tired. My whole body felt like lead. “I don't understand where I went wrong.” I face planted on the bed. “Really? You couldn't pretend to have a perfect life for two hours max? Those were my parents! And not only that, but you got plastered.” I sighed and mumbled into the sheets. “No! Get the fuck out!” She pulled me off the bed, forcing me to stand up. With that, I walked down the stairs and passed out on the couch. “Lisa!” I turned the corner, and ran into a crib with a motion activated mobile. “Jesus fuck!” My heart was beating out of my chest. Why the fuck was that there? Why hadn't we sold that yet? What was sitting in front of me was a shell of a woman. It wasn't the woman I fell in love with. She had something to say though, so I listened. “I have bad news.” I raised my eyebrows. “I figured as much.” Shouldn't be sarcastic now. That was stupid. She buried her beautiful face in her hands. “I'm so sorry.” She cried like there was no end. I moved over to the couch and tried to put my arms around her, but she yanked away. “What's wrong?” I asked in the calmest and most loving voice I could. Through sobs that ripped out my heart, she managed to spit out, “I had a miscarriage.” I slipped her hand into mine. My heart was aching. I wanted to have a child possibly more than Lisa did. But now, I was concerned with where her mind was. I was going to do anything possible to make sure she was ok. I wiped her eyes and pulled her head into my chest. “It's ok. We'll get through this.” Maybe she's in the kitchen. Maybe she's just getting some water. I walk in there, afraid of what I'd find. I saw black hair towards the ground. Eyes which had lost their light a long time ago looked up at me. “Lisa, what are you doing?” I held out my hand to help her up. She didn't take it. “Let's go to bed.” Usually if I could just get her to bed, everything would be OK. My breathing was erratic, and my heart was fighting between stopping and going a mile a minute. It was then that I noticed the knife in her hand. “Lisa, hand over the knife.” Without warning, the beautiful woman sliced down both of her arms. The wounds were so deep I almost passed out. Blood was going everywhere. “Jesus! What the fuck did you do?” I ran over and grabbed desperately to stop the bleeding. With one hand, I reached for the phone. 911. “Hello? My girlfriend has attempted suicide. 7159 Baker Street.” I went back to holding her arms. “Why did you do this?” Dying eyes looked up at me. “You don't love me anymore.” We walked down the cobblestone streets near the bay. Holding hands, we looked at all the store fronts. I was completely happy like this. I never wanted to leave this. I bumped up against her. “Hey.” Her cheeks twinged pink. “Hey.” I leaned in close. “I have to tell you something.” One of her eyebrows popped up. “Oh?” She was so cute. “I will always love you, no matter what.” With that, she wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my chest. “I will always love you too.” I held her arms as tight as I could. Tears streaked my face, but I couldn't wipe them. This didn't feel good. It was like I had no control. My life was spinning out of control. “I still love you,” I whispered. Resting her head on my chest she said, “I’m sorry.” She grasped clumsily at my hands. I tried to clear my eyes of tears. “I wish I had shown you more,” I whispered. I couldn't close her arms. No. No. No. Her breathing became slower and eventually stopped. I started doing CPR. I didn't know what to do, but I had to do something. I couldn't let her die. The paramedics arrived quickly and carted her off. I sat in the puddle of blood she had left and just cried. My life would be so empty without her. I couldn't face Lisa’s parents. It was just too hard. She died on my watch. I don't think they'll ever forgive me. As we placed flowers on the coffin, I pulled out a box and opened it. I laid the engagement ring that I had been saving for the perfect time on the casket.

#horror #suspense #flashbacks

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