#// look at them being all cute before they go and terrorize a whole fleet ... her little hand in his bigger one AUGH

[nyt1ba]

   The innocence of desiring a father's love had become the poison running through her veins,   it grew stronger with each rejection,   every look of disdain,   to lead her to a spiritual death before her eventual and more violent one.   She had talked of the man before,   with greater difficulty than with the tragedy of her mother,   a wound she would rather let bleed in the silence than to utter a word of her pain.   But he remains like a ghost that haunted her every waking moment,   his name always echoing in her mind,   with all the sneers of those who came to do his bidding,   like a brand searing at her skin she feels the burn sinking in,   she lashes out when it becomes unbearable and even then it clings onto her more stubbornly                    a curse never to escape from.   Though Adam wanted nothing more than to help ease her ache,   war was not an option he was willing to entertain,   he had lived his own,   all that death had worn his heart until it became a hollow muscle beating for no purpose other than to survive.   There aren't many things that can bring back his old passion,   but just like her,   the mere mention of the man had begun to spark something within,   brief,   yet true.   It isn't just revenge,   Elias' reign had brought much suffering   &.   will continue to do so for as long he lives.   He was an evil his kind had fought against until the very end,   this assumption of superiority that cared about its own preservation at the corpses of the innocent,   it had to come to an end,   Elias had to be killed.

  Her pale complexion is a stark contrast to the color of death she endowed,   a ghost appearing more distinct in the light,   cheeks tinted with a crimson hue by the blood rushing so eagerly beneath the surface.   He needn't look long enough to know,   the fire that raged within her.   It's still strange for him to be this   ...   free,   around her,   she had seen his mutation and proved time after time how accepting she was of his grotesque nature.   The Elder is different however,   no longer the human she knew,   in truth,   that is who he is now,   no matter how much he wants to deny it,   it's freeing to be   ...   himself.   His own conflicts are merely a passing thought now,   for he knows the necessity of the monster over the man,   a brutality that would grant her   &.   many others a long awaited dawn of peace.   She's pleasant as ever,   he would smile if he could but the sentiment expresses itself in the warmth of his palm,   fingers moving with uncharacteristic delicacy to overtake her hand,   hardly seen in the enormity of his own.        ❛❛   Understood.   ❜❜        he nods,   taking heed of her words.   The Elder's brute force was the key to reveal Elias' location to them,   nevertheless,   he wouldn't go charging in blindly and hope for the best,   they had planned for this long and hard.   With that same hand he brings her closer to him,   moving so that his arm wraps around her waist in a secure grasp.   He makes the jump off the deck then,   a flap of wings sends them soaring through space.

       ❛❛   Over there.   ❜❜        As expected,   the fleet comes to view just shortly after along with Meridian as distant dot among the stars.   Utilizing the speed of his flight,   a flick of an arm sends a spear like an arrow,   cutting through space in brilliant trail of light,   it tears through one of the ships,   resulting in a big enough explosion that had the entire formation scramble amongst themselves.   The barrage of canons now aimed at them,   energy blasts ultimately useless against the barrier he put forth.        ❛❛   Are you ready ?   ❜❜        he asks,   turning to look at her amidst the fire,   they need to create a bigger storm than this,   and if there's that knew of such storms,   It's her.

Through a crimson veil, viscera spattered across her frenzied face, had she seen him last. In life, she longed for Elias’ approval, his attention, his love … but death had revealed his true colors in a way that she could finally discern. It wasn’t in her nature to kill unjustly, but even in her shattered state she knew she could no longer tolerate his existence. Her father eats away at her from the inside, their shared DNA scorching her veins; a virus she can’t entirely purge. Elektra has waited a long time to exact her judgment, but she never expected to have someone by her side, aligned in her endeavors. Alone, she could likely claw her way in with a large enough distraction, but – she isn’t alone anymore. The sensation is still new, but she’s getting better at asking for help. Admittedly, killing her father wasn’t something she thought Adam would be willing or able to help with. Eyes fall upon thinly gloved fingers as they curl into a fist; this isn’t only for her sake. The people of the Meridian System need a new leader, one who isn’t so deep in the Coalition’s pockets. If her actions can help the people her mother died fighting for, she will do whatever it takes to see it through. 

Elektra is dressed in black, a stark contrast to the ashen color of her hair, the brilliance of her eyes; she is an agent of death, now and forever. Steps are light as she joins him upon the deck, fingers adjusting her hair tie. The Elder is not a common sight and yet she pays him no extra mind, no matter what form he takes … she knows him. A nod is given and she listens carefully. Tactically, this plan would give them the greatest advantage; the element of surprise grants them the upper hand. Mania swells within her chest, the frantic energy that is familiar to her when she fights without restriction – a deep breath dispels the feeling, tucking it away for later use. Talon tipped fingers invite her closer and she obliges without so much as a second thought, her palm falling into an offered hand – her own much smaller in comparison. Head tilts to look up at him, offering a gentle smile despite her violent inclinations,     “ I know I’m safe with you … just don’t drop me. ”     She chuckles, their intentions haven’t dampened her mood one bit; there is fire in her blood, and Elektra is ready to burn this armada to the ground.     “ Watch out for their ion cannons, each cruiser should have about four. ”     They’ve discussed this in length, studied schematics, prepared themselves as best they could – but despite the fact that she is the one who is small and fragile, El still worries about him. A guardian at heart, always.     “ Get me in there and it’s all over. ”

[nolpat0]

something like this | s. crosby

summary: sidney has always wanted someone like her and confess as much to her

wc: 1,573

warnings: mentions of hospital/injury, one sexual innuendo

The low, metronomic beeping of the monitor keeps a steady, consistent beat to the familiar, dulcet hum of a female voice. In his drugged, cloud nine-like haze, Sidney does his best imitation of a grin, the gloriously soothing tone of her words easing him out of his concern.

"Sid?" her whisper is followed by the warm press of her fingers against the skin of his upper arm, a sweet reminder of her unwavering support. "Are you awake?"

He is; but the boy fights the grin that is sure to give him away in order to keep the easy flow of her rambles going, enjoying her vivid stories and the giggle at the end of her words as she confesses the minuscule details of her day to him. She believes him to be fast asleep, for her words to be nothing but a useless hum, and he enjoys the unexpected imtimacy of the affectionate gesture.

"I see what you're doing," she speaks again, the edge of her words exploding into the melodic tumble of her soft laughter. However, she doesn't cease her talking. "I'll just keep talking and making a fool out of myself so you can pretend you're asleep."

Sidney can't help the glimmer of love that warms his hospital blanket-clad body, a small, tender smile tugging at the edges of his full lips, revealing himself. Her fingertips trail over the carved outline of his cheekbones and brush against his hair as he finally opens his coffee-colored eyes. He gives her a earnest smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his dark eyes travel over her face, his full, pink lips splitting open into a wide grin to reveal shining teeth. She mumbles a soft, calming greeting and caressed his cheek a second time with the tips of her fingertips.

“So you gonna fall asleep again so I can tell you what Mat did next?” She asks, the edges of her lips curled into a playful smirk as she teases him, fingers still running agaisnt the midnight strands of his short hair in a loving manner.

Sidney can’t help the gentle, genuine laugh that rumbles from his chest, his grip on the pale blue hospital blanket loosening as he lets his palm fall flat on the curve of her knee. He nods quickly, eager to keep hearing her soft speech and tease her back, “Yes of course. My bad.”

He doesn’t catch the small smile that lights up her face because his dark lashes are already falling flat agaisnt his faintly flushed cheeks. She doesn’t waste another second launching into a detailed discription of her colleague, Mat’s experience with a particularly awkward run in with their boss. As she gently lulled him farther into the comforting clutches of sleep, Sidney tried his very best to keep his facial expressions netural but failed quite badly, which propelled her further into making him laugh. As the tall hockey player felt sleep finally take him, he felt overwhelmed with the buzzing, delicious feeling of love. He was consumed by the complete love he held in his heart for the girl still talking and running her fingers through his hair. He was too deeply in love to even think properly. And Sidney loved every minute of it.

———

Sidney couldn’t feel the light press of her palm agaisnt his as the white lab coat clad doctor filled the couple in on his prognosis and what the steps leading them forward would look like, a detailed, and frankly terrifying process that would have Sidney recovering and ready to return on the ice in a month or so. His breath was strained through his lungs, his jaw dancing with a clenched muscle as he tried to reign in his fears and desire to lace up his skates without a practical thought about the nasty consequences. Sidney just wanted to return to the locker room and resume being captain, and knew the only way to that was through the plan the doctor was currently laying out. Which scared Sidney to his bones if he was allowed to be completely honest.

“Sid,” she called, eyes watching her boyfriend closely as the hospital room door clicked closed in the wake of the doctors exit. Nerves clung to her limbs but she shook them off in order to ease Sid and his tense posture. She tried again, more forcefully. “Sidney.”

His chin dips and he finally slides his cinnamon coloured eyes to lock onto hers, trying to mask his evident fears. But she knows him far too well to skip the flicker of fear shining in his irises or the slight quiver of nerves that shook his large hands. Instinctively, her palms slide over his, fingers knitting tightly with his in a subconscious attempt to ease his shaking.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she nods, refusing to break eye contact in order to get her confidence across. She could tell he was scared, as was she, but she understood that in the end, all would work out. And they would be ok.

“I know.” Sidney tries again, blatantly deflecting.

Her lips quirk into a soft, knowing smile, her eyes flickering up distractedly as she brushes his hair back from his forehead. She smiles deeper absentmindedly, a smile that Sidney adores with all his heart. He felt a tiny fraction of his terror fading away like ice thawing in his veins.

“You don’t have to act like you’re not worried, Sid.” her eyes dropped to hold his loving gaze, her lips set in a firm line. “You don’t have to always be the strong one. That’s what I’m here for.”

A tight breath eases from his lips as his eyes close lightly, his heart settling back into its former steady pace of calm at her carefully chosen words. He was grateful, for her presence and the pressure of her fingers in his and the weight of her words. He’d never experienced a love like hers, where she loved him wholly and unconditionally, allowing him to remove all his amored layers and bravado. He revealed his true self to her and she had only kissed him passionately and grinned like he’d given her the best gift she could receive, repeating her daily mantra of how much she loved him. Sidney had never felt more loved than he did at that moment. His heart swelled fondly at the memory, the edges of his lips turning up in a doting smile.

“Thank you,” he breathed, a little unsure of what exactly he was thanking her for, but the statement was truthful.

She responded with a light, fleeting kiss pressed to his temple, her palms reaching up to softly cup the sharp curve of his jaw. He waits with baited breath, but soon relaxes fully under her loving gaze content with just staring at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the syllables falling softly from his chapped lips in a unintentional audible confession.

She blinks at the unguarded, genuine compliment she knows he must mean, when she’s been curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chair beside his bed for the past two days, sleepless nights smudged under her eyes and dressed in his old clothes. She feels the burn of her cheeks under his gaze and the compliment. Sidney catches the slight embarrassment and reaches out to brush his thumbs under her eyes. “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

She rolls her eyes in response, mouth curving into a mirthful grin.

“Yeah, yeah, why don’t you fall back asleep?”

Sidney reaches out and hooks his fingers the the belt loops of her jeans, pulling her closer and onto the narrow mattress, shifting his own body to accommodate hers. “Only if you sleep with me.” he replied, coffee coloured eyes gleaming with flirtatious mischief. His fingers don’t loosen their hold, instead going to grip her hips and pull her flush to his side, savouring the warmth radiating from her smaller figure now dwarfed by his size. She curls tightly to his side, fingers digging into the material of his shirt and leg falling over his as his palm cups the underside of her thigh before it gave away to her knee. She hums with a soft laughter, commenting that she’ll think about his desirous proposal, ignoring the fact they both knew she’d already complied. Sidney settled in with a long, adoration filled kiss to her hair that didn’t hold a drop of lust. He grins at the tired lilt to her voice as she mumbles softly into his thin shirt, the reverberations flowing through his chest. His fingertips smoothed over her hair as he breathed deeply, catching her familiar scent. “I love you so much.” Sidney whispered into the layers of her hair as she promptly fell asleep to the barley audible confession, meaning every syllable with his whole heart.

When her breathing has evened out, a soft almost imperceptible whistle of her breath as she falls into a deep, dream-less sleep upon his chest, fingers tightly curled in the material of his thin shirt, as if she can’t fathom letting him go, even in sleep, Sidney reveals his truest confession.

“I’ve always wanted to be loved by someone like you.” his words are hot and hit the top of her forehead before he kisses her skin. Sidney is quick to brush a stray eyelash from her cheek. “And now I have you. And I’m not letting you go.”

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch. 8

Ch.1      Ch.2      Ch.3      Ch.4      Ch.5      Ch.6      Ch.7

It has come to a point where you can’t even pretend to yourself that you don’t care for her.

All the time you spend with Cassandra every evening has made certain feelings impossible to deny, though you are too scared to name them all.

You don’t name the smile you can’t contain when she excitedly pulls you to the armory to show you her collection of blades –and explains, in a very animated fashion, about the optimal use for each one. You don’t want to know what the stutter in your heartbeat means, every time she genuinely laughs, pale neck thrown back, nose slightly scrunched and all. 

And it’s not just Cassandra you grow a tad closer to.  

Bela comes to you whenever the two of them have argued and goes ‘Tell my sister’ this or that. Daniela is apparently not allowed within a twenty meter radius of you, but she approaches to poke and prod at you whenever she wants to annoy Cassandra. She never manages to do either, because the middle sister always swoops in, fuming, dragging her away by the hood of her robes like a kitten.

Lady Dimitrescu is the only one as distant as the day you first saw her –and it’s probably for the better. You don’t see her much, anyway, not with how Cassandra takes you to empty castle wings to have you all to herself.

Tonight is different.

After dinner, Bela leaves with her mother and you go to help the other maids present clean the table. But your lover steps in the way and grabs your elbow, instead, hurriedly pulling you along.

���Do not tell me you’re seriously thinking to make me wait longer.” she says.

Of course, you promised to watch a movie you found on your phone with her and she’s been buzzing with impatience since.

That is, until a certain redhead blocks your way. 

“Daniela, move.” Cassandra huffs. 

“What are you doing? Take me with you.” the younger sister replies, brimming with childlike curiosity. 

“No. Go bother Bela.” A shooing motion is made. 

“Bela’s no fun. I wanna come with you and Alexia.” she drops your name so casually it’s startling.

“Wait give me a moment to think about it –moment over. No.” Cassandra states, fast.

But Daniela shoots forward and grabs your arm like a koala. Your eyes go wide at the same time as Cassandra’s, for different reasons.

The brunette immediately grips her sister’s robes, none-too-gently. “Don’t touch her, she’s mine!”

“If you don’t take me along I’m telling mother where you found that music player and phone!” Daniela answers, her hold enough to cut off your blood flow.

You send Cassandra a pleading look before they break your arms with how they’re tugging at you.

“On one condition.” the elder sister holds a finger up to her sibling’s face. “You sit next to me and you don’t move around.”

“…she’s warm, though.” Daniela says, all but pouting. “Mother says sharing is caring~”

“Find your own human.” Cassandra growls out as the three of you make your way to the main hall and the couch adjacent to the fireplace there.

“You and Bela have gotten the prettier ones!”

“You snooze, you lose.”

Cassandra quite literally pins you to the arm of the couch with her body, to keep Daniela as far away from you as possible. Even as the movie starts, you can feel her sulking by your neck for not being able to touch you the way she wants.

You are not as focused on the movie as you are cute way she plays with your hand throughout its duration.

-

-

It’s getting harder and harder to remind yourself of what they are.

Especially when, ten minutes after the credits have rolled, Daniela is still crying over the death of the protagonist. Even Bela comes to the hall and asks Cassandra what she did to her.

By the time she’s done dealing with her sisters, your lover comes to you sporting a headache.

“We’re leaving this wing right now.” Cassandra says and that is about all the warning you get.

The next second you feel a rush of air and your stomach leaping to where your heart is supposed to be; Your eyes only make out a blur and an augur of black flies.

When she comes to a halt you crash into Cassandra’s side with a gasp. Your arm aches from the pull. The world spins for ten solid seconds.

She laughs by your ear. Low and satisfied as it is at your disorientation –it reminds you of drinking wine by a fire in the heart of winter— you can’t help but bask in the timbre of her voice so close.

“Ugh, why is it so cold in here?” she complains in that same quiet tone you love.

It is very cold compared to the more lived in parts of the castle, but your body is warm enough from your sustained proximity and the rush of adrenaline she always causes in you.

“Oh, well, I can bear it for a little while if it means we won’t be interrupted.” Cassandra trails off and lifts your chin with a chilled finger.

Your lips meet and slide together in a practiced tango. Her manicured nails run over your throat and shoulders, making you shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.

Both of you are starting to get really into it when Cassandra walks you back into the nearest wall. It happens to be a window, covered by a flimsy curtain. You have half a mind to realize it’s probably been forgotten slightly ajar, judging from the frost that graces your shoulder, but you have more important matters to focus on, like the brush of her tongue over your bottom lip.

Until Cassandra braces her bare hand over the unseen opening, to box you in like she usually does.

And-

She shrieks.

She jerks away so powerfully her back crash-lands into the painting on the far wall, knocking it down with its frame broken. You’re left there still and mute, watching in frozen horror as her face distorts into pure, raw anguish.

“Shut it!” Cassandra screams at you. “Shut it now, now!”

Your nerves suddenly kick into overdrive and you pull the window closed like your life depends on it.

What just… happened...?

In slow, cautious steps, you approach her. She’s clutching her hand like a wounded animal, baring its teeth to hide its vulnerability. It is the first time you see her like this. Void of control, bent over in hurt. Gasping.

Something in your chest breaks.

You look at her hand, to find her pale skin nearly crystallized, grey and breaking apart —like cheap china, like weak porcelain— into flies that drop to the floor, faintly twitching.

You thought… you thought they could just control the insects. That dissipating into swarms was just a trick allowed by their mutation. But now you realize, the flies are her body.

All this time trapped under the looming terror of the daughters… and escape was as easy as opening a window on them.

“Cassandra…?” you ask in a wavering voice when the initial burst of rage leaves her form.

She looks up at you, torn, when you hear the heavy sound of heels rapidly approaching.

“Cassandra?!” a different voice calls, this time, deep and authoritative. When Lady Dimitrescu rounds the corner in her immense height, your instincts scream to run.

But one look at Cassandra makes you stay.

Alcina halts for a moment to take in the scene. Then her lips curl downwards and bladed claws extend from her gloves, easily half your body in length. 

Oh my�� God…

“What did you do to my daughter?!” she demands and advances on you, but Cassandra gets in front of you before she can truly threaten your life.

“I brought her here, mother. It’s my fault.” she hurries to explain.

Alcina stares at you like she wants to crush you underfoot… but then softens, somewhat, at the look her daughter is giving her.

“Come with me. Now.” She says in a stern motherly tone that leaves no room for objections.

You clutch Cassandra’s uninjured hand, silently asking if she’ll be alright. She turns, looks at you for a moment, then nudges your head with hers.

“...I’ll see you later, Alexia.”

But, as it turns out... “later” is subjective.

 -

-

 In Alcina’s Private Chambers…

It is not often that Cassandra is reprimanded by herself. 

She has never before been the only one at fault. She’s used to having her sisters beside her while Alcina scolds the three of them… except this time they’re outside the closed door and she is there to face their mother’s ire alone.

She can’t stay still under that yellowish-grey, narrowed gaze. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her robes’ sleeve to keep occupied, while Alcina takes that deep, calming breath she knows heralds no good things. Ever.

“Cassandra. Do you understand the severity of the situation?”

“Yes, mother.” She keeps her gaze downcast.

“Even if the maid didn’t harm you on purpose, she now knows your weakness. Yours and your sisters’. You were careless to allow this.” Cassandra feels anxiety rise up from the pit of her stomach and threaten to swallow her whole at that tone.

“I know, mother. Forgive me.” she replies quietly.

She wants to say that Alexia won’t use this knowledge against any of them, but she cannot bring herself to lie to Alcina. Because the truth is, Cassandra doesn’t know for a fact that she will not.

Why was that window open? Why?!

“You didn’t let me fix your mistake. I assume that means you will do it yourself?” her mother asks and Cassandra’s gaze snaps up.

What…?

At first, the temptation to chain Alexia up and watch as her blood drained from her lithe body had been sweet and strong. But now, at the thought of killing her –losing her— in whichever way, Cassandra is sick to her stomach. It is strange, because she feels like she is hyperventilating when she isn’t breathing at all and the world has tilted and—

Please don’t.

“Since when did you ever hesitate to kill, Cassandra?”

“…If.. that is what you ask of me…” she replies but she doesn’t sound like herself at all, not even to her own ears.

“How can I ask that of you and break your heart?” Alcina throws her arms up in exasperation. “I should have stopped this months ago but I thought it a fleeting fancy. I never imagined you would end up so attached.”

“I’m- I’m not-” she tries to protest, but her mother is having none of it.

“You’re not? You’re with her every day and she barely sports scratches anymore. Your eyes follow her everywhere when she’s in the same room. You instinctively lean closer whenever she comes over to refill your wine. Do you think I do not notice?” Of course. Of course she noticed.

Cassandra swallows, silent.

The memory of laying, too weak to move a single finger, on her deathbed along with Bela and Daniela pierces through Cassandra’s brain like a bullet. Her hand gives a violent spasm and flies break off to buzz frantically around her as she drops her forehead into her palm.

She’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown and it’s just so difficult without her sisters there. They’ve always been together, since the very beginning.

They were born together, learned to control their powers together, they died together-

Alcina is on one knee in front of her the next millisecond, stroking her hair and gathering her into her arms.

“Shh, calm down, my love.” she coos. “I’m sorry to be so harsh on you. I only want the best for you three.”

Cassandra doesn’t talk because she can’t, because she cannot wrap her head around what that flash inside her brain was.

“Oh, my Cassandra. I will not harm the maid if it will harm you, too.”

She waits for the eventual ‘but’.

“But I cannot let this dalliance continue any longer.”

It’s probably for the best. Her mother knows best. It is true, after all, that she has not been acting like herself, lately. So, yes, this decision is for her own good.

But.

Cassandra’s heart has the same reaction upon hearing it as being exposed to sub-zero winter air.

[peachyteabuck]

ceo chronicles. pt iii ~ wanda maximoff

series summary: a set of fics based off of the main au of sugar baby/mommy or daddy dynamics and ceo aus. each fic involves a separate universe wherein each character is the ceo of a different company and you’re their sugar baby. sexy times ensue.

fic summary: something goes very, very wrong at one of wanda’s business dealings. you are left to help her pick up the pieces - no matter what that means. 

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

words: 2398

trigger warnings: possessive wanda, anger-fucking, collars, spreader bars, riding crop, ball gags

notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s “old hollywood” writing challenge, my prompt was “Must I always wear a low cut dress to be important?” - Jean Harlow and has been bolded within the fic!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Wanda storms into the penthouse, her stiletto heels clacking against the dark, hardwood floors.

She’s angry, furious – and whether or not it’s aimed at you doesn’t matter, your heart picks up in your chest either way.

“That two-timing sun of a bitch!” she screams, throwing her purse on the ground. Her coat follows shortly.

You watch her, eyes wide in terror, as you stand in the kitchen. She bought the place for its open floor plan and, initially, you had liked it too.

Now, though, with nothing to hide behind, you regret not going with the more closed space in SoHo.

“That motherfucker undersold me,” she screams, standing in place as she yells to no one in particular. “He told me the piece was worth one point two fucking million, and it sells for less than a hundred fucking thousand!”

Oh fuck. If you weren’t scared out of your goddamn mind before you sure are now.

There are two things in this world no one should fuck with when it comes to Wanda’s possessions:

The first is you.

Once, a man accidentally brushed against you at a gallery opening and Wanda nearly bit him – throwing red wine on his white shirt and screaming at him to leave.

Once he was out of her sight, she dragged you to the nearest bathroom, leaving a deep hickey high enough on your neck that you couldn’t hide it before making you show it off to the guests for a few more hours.

The second, is her money.

It’s not that Wanda’s not charitable, far from it; she claims millions on her taxes every year.

It’s just that she’s in charge of those things. She decides who gets what and when, she controls when her Black card is used and why. When people promise to bring her a certain amount of profit, they better fucking deliver, or else…this happens.

This meaning her getting so mad she looks like she could cause wildfires. All those earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, everything – those aren’t tectonic plates, no, they’re something much more powerful.

Wanda’s anger can move mountains, make species go extinct.

And, most important by far, it can make you shake in fear.

“That fucker, I should have known when he asked that I wear some fucking,” you can hear the venom in her voice, spitting over everything as she grabs the Stoch – the nice stuff, from the lockbox deep in the cupboard. She throws the bags of junk food – the chips you like and the cookies she loves – across the kitchen before stabbing in the code with her perfectly manicured nails. She doesn’t speak until she’s had two sips straight from the container, face wincing slightly before she sets it back on the counter. “To wear some fucking slip to the meet up, as if he needed to see me in anything at all! Ugh!” she scoffs, taking another long swig. “Must I always wear a low-cut dress to be important?”

You don’t reply, staying silent and inert as what could be the scariest thing unfolds in front of you.

Out of nowhere, she stills, taking exactly three, ten-second-in and ten-second-out breaths. It’s after that that she steps over to the large navy-blue sectional, sitting on it with her feet flat on the floor.

“Get on your fucking knees,” Wanda hisses.

You drop to the floor without hesitation, petrified.

Wanda watches you intently for a moment, jaw clenching as she moves to sit on the couch, feet flat against the floor. She pats her right hand against her right knee twice, and you immediately understand what she wants.

You fall across her knees, one arm grabbing her ankle while the other folds behind your back for her to grab – each action desperate to be obedient, to try to throw a fire blanket over the ravenous, burning thing that’s overtaken her.

There’s very little warning before she’s pulled the sundress up and bunching it into your fist, giving you little warning before leaving a slap against your ass – barely covered by the flimsy cotton underwear.

She ignores you, when you cry out, ignores you when tears begin to stream from your eyes and when blood spills from your bottom lip when it gets caught between your teeth.

It isn’t until your ass feels like it’s been branded when she lets up, inadvertently giving you a moment to breathe as she clenches her fists in front of her.

“It’s not enough!” Wanda screams, pushing you onto the floor. You fall against the wood hard, making you cry out in pain as she stomps away. “It’s not enough! Why isn’t it enough!”

Through the ringing in your ears you can hear her in the bedroom, the distinct sound of a six-bolt padlock being clicked open ricocheting in your eardrums. The only thing locked with that sort of hardware is the chest Wanda keeps all your kink-related items in, separating into layers by the degree of play.

It starts light at the top; blindfolds and a few cute collars with equally cute pet names engraved onto small heart-shaped nameplates. One of them is even diamond-encrusted, PROPERTY OF WANDA spelled out in bold print across pink faux leather. You can picture them even as your brain becomes fuzzy, can see them vividly against a distinct white velvet Wanda picked out especially.

The second layer, and the third (due to the size of the collection) are dildos, vibrators, butt plugs of more sizes and varieties than you can count. You can hear her removing those two shelves hastily, tearing through the rest of the box until she gets to the last level, the one you fear the most:

They’re rarely used, only barely broken in. A spreader bar Natasha got Wanda as a gag gift about a year ago. A riding crop Wanda bought at a kink convention awhile ago on an intoxicated whim. A thick collar meant for posture made of pure, soft leather and a solid gold latch. And, lastly, a fine leather ball gag, deep and black and beautifully handmade.

All four of them stiff and mean, just like Wanda in times like these.

She calls you into the bedroom with a shout, smiling when she hears you rushing from your felled position in the living room.

You can see the last fleeting moment of it when you cross the threshold, see that her anger has an end and this is not some permanent fixture in your still-budding relationship.

“Down,” she says simply, and you drop, sitting back on your heels.

Your hands remain palms-down on your thighs with your spine straight as one of those expensive paintings that decorate so many of the walls in the place you and her call home.

It stays that way – your spine parallel to the walls – as the collar is dangled in front of your eyes before being secured around your neck.

“Too tight?” Wanda asks, emotionless.

You shake your head as she sticks two fingers, the pads pressed into the soft skin of your neck. “Good.”

The ritual is repeated for the ball gag, the toy wrapped around your head and subsequently checked for fit.

She then instructs you to get on the bed, perpendicular to her as you lay on your back. You can’t see it – but the rustling and distinct clacking sound of metal pieces moving together can tell you she’s grabbing the very toys you’re terrified of the most.

The plain white ceiling gives you something to stare at, to fixate on as you feel the soft leather cuffs tightening before being checked. It’s almost sweet – the little ritual – if it didn’t immediately lead to your imminent torture.

You can feel her stepping back, heated eyes raking up your body slowly, surely. She watches carefully as your cunt pulses under her heated gaze, watches each muscle twitch as you anxiously await her next move.

Wanda looks at you the same way you think starving lionesses look at zebras separated from the safety of their heard. Her eyes zero in on her pulsing cunt, watching for the perfect moment to-

SMACK!

The riding crop comes down quick against your center, a sharp pain causing a fiery heat to spread up your ribs and down to your toes.

“Does that hurt, baby?” Wanda coos, twirling the end of the crop between the fingers of her nondominant hand.

You nod, trying desperately to gasp for air as drool spills out of the sides of your mouth. “Mmm,” is all you can get from behind the plastic. “Hngf.”

Wanda just laughs down at you, smacking the end light enough not to hurt but hard enough to tease you.

“Aw, my pretty little thing,” a faux pout paints itself across her face. “Such a sensitive baby.”

You whine, overwhelmed and desperate and oh so desperate to press your thighs together for any kind of pressure where you need it most. But no, of course not. Wanda wants to see you struggle, looks down at you with a smirk playing across her lips as you twist and beg, hoping she’ll find it in herself to give you mercy.

Given how the hours previous had gone, though, you doubt she’ll give you any.

“I’m going to give you one of these,” Wanda snaps the crop against your left inner thigh and smirks when you yelp. “For each hundred thousand I lost today.”

You do the mental math – whole body tensing. Nineteen. You’re about to get whipped nineteen times with a toy you haven’t broken in…

Shivers run up your spine and each muscle in your body tenses – whether in fear or anticipation, you don’t know and don’t really care to find out.

The first one comes down against the same inner thigh as before, sure to leave angry hot welts that will need constant care in the next few days. The second goes against the opposite side – skin previously untouched now screaming.

The third and forth are against your hips, fifth and sixth hitting just above your knees.

You lose count after that, mind numb as your wetness pools onto the freshly cleaned comforter. Between your racing heartbeats and the blood in your ears you assumed Wanda had finished with you, but coming to for a breath of fresh air only makes to bring the final blow – this time against your cunt.

With the gag the only sounds that reverberate off the walls come from deep in your chest, screams remnant of a horror experienced from another room. Wanda smiles as she watches you squirm as sparks of pain jump across your center and thighs.

There a few moments of silence as your panting curbs to low breaths, giving you a moment for recovery as your vision clears and the ringing in your ears stops.

It’s only then that Wanda gets up, trailing her fingertips across your sweaty skin as she walks past you.

“C’mon kitten,” she murmurs, stepping out of sight and back towards the chest of toys. “Let me make you feel good…”

Your brow furrows in confusion, pulling weakly at the restraints until you hear a plug being insert into an outlet, and the distinct sound of a long, long cord being unraveled.

The sound of the vibrator makes you groan in anticipation – ecstatic and terrified of how Wanda will use it on you. If she thinks you’ve been good, maybe she’ll be nice – get you off with it pressed against your clit with three of her fingers buried deep inside of you.

Or, if she remains unsatisfied with your performance, she could keep you just on the edge or pushing you over it until your begging meets expectations or she gets bored enough to stop.

As the head is pressed to your clit you nearly scream with relief – the soft vibrations and even softer words hitting you like droplets during the first rainstorm after dry season. It washes over you, coating your skin in delicious relief as your buck your hips and cry out.

Each word, each scream, remains muffled by the sphere in your mouth, but Wanda coos down at you nonetheless.  

“Such a pretty little girl you are,” she says, watching you with the same hawkish gaze as before. It feels more reserved, though, as if she was watching over you rather than attempting to pin you down. “Such a pretty little girl for me.”

She climbs over you, then, never letting the toy leave your body as she pulls your head into her lap. Wanda looks down at you as you fall apart, watches you with eagle eyes as you cum.

As the initial waves of pleasure subside, you sigh in relief.

That is, until the head of the toy is pressed to your center once more. The next orgasm, and the one after that, and the one after that and-

They’re nearly painful as they hit you like a spray of bullet, like you’re being tased. You’re crying and doing your best to wail as you writhe around, Wanda cradling your face the entire time.

Your brain is numb when Wanda decides you had enough, whole body limb in her arms when she switches the soaked toy off.

She unties you with quick fingers, allowing you to slump against her as she takes off the rest of the restraints that litter your body.

“Rest up,” she tells you plainly as you nuzzle into her side. “I’m still pissed.”

You smile into the bare skin of her ribs, leaving a small kiss on the warm skin. Despite her tone, you can tell there’s not much behind it – fury that had settled just beneath her skin long dissipated into something she can save for the next time that man dares show his face in her presence.

There’s a pause once you stop adjusting, a heavy beat of silence that neither of you feels a need to fill. It’s a long while before either of you says anything, and even then the words are quite soft-spoken despite the two of you being the only ones in the large house.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Wanda whispers into your hair.

You give a small nod, unable to move because of the soreness attacking each of your muscles. “Yeah,” you mumble, voice equally low. “Yeah. I love you, too. Do you know that?”

Wanda smiles. “Yeah, yeah. I do.”

[toosicktoocare]

Kind of a combo prompt: Jaskier starts to learn about medical stuff while traveling with Geralt, and Geralt starts to teach Jaskier how to fight. It’s a good thing Jaskier knows how to swing a sword and set bones

In hindsight, Jaskier’s not entirely sure how he’s been able to even grasp the basics of swordsmanship since Geralt’s method of teaching is rather... close. Jaskier’s initial thought had been learning through combat, the clashing of swords, one-on-one duels, but Geralt’s method is surprisingly singular, pushing Jaskier to focus more on his balance, his core, and his inner being. 

“You’re still tense,” Geralt growls into his ears, and Jaskier bites back a shudder at the hot breath that brushes against his ear. Geralt’s behind him, curved around his back, mirroring his movements as a sturdy guide. His large hand cups Jaskier’s right hand, and Jaskier grits his teeth, willing the sword to not shake in his hand. 

“Isn’t that the point?” he tries, wincing slightly at the soft burn coating his muscles from holding such a weighted sword upright for an extended time. “If I’m relaxed, I may not have the quick response if battle arises.” 

Geralt sighs behind him, warm breath coating the back of his neck. 

“It’s all about control.” Geralt drops his head to Jaskier’s shoulder with a low grunt. “We’ve been over this.”

“I know,” Jaskier starts, a slight whine to his voice, “but--”

A twig snaps behind them, and though Geralt doesn’t immediately lift his head, his hand slowly smooths around Jaskier’s until his fingers brush against the slightly warmed hilt of his sword. If Jaskier weren’t suddenly incredibly afraid of what’s behind him, he would take a moment to appreciate the controlled tension Geralt’s exhibiting. 

“Well, isn’t this cute.” 

A woman’s voice, Jaskier thinks, a woman’s voice that’s icy and dangerous, and finally, Geralt wraps large fingers fully around the hilt of the sword, lifts his head, and slowly spins around, swinging the sword with careful ease until it’s pointed at the woman. Jaskier follows his movements, looking over Geralt’s shoulder to see an older woman with a crooked smile. 

Her face is half-cloaked by a large, black hood, but her eyes, though shadowed, appear an almost glowing red that Jaskier cannot pull his gaze from. 

“Well, now, is that anyway to treat a guest?” 

“An uninvited one,” Geralt grunts out, and Jaskier shifts his gaze away from the woman to see Geralt’s eyes narrowed, his large hand gripping the hilt of the sword tightly, and a nervous pit pulls into a ball in Jaskier’s stomach. 

The situation is unsettling, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong with this woman. A mage? He chases the idea for a moment, but it doesn’t click in his head. Not a mage, he decides, but who? Or, rather, what?

The woman tsks and begins walking to the left, Geralt follows her movements with the tip of his sword, keeping himself planted in front of Jaskier. 

“Well, will you invite me into your little camp?” 

“No,” Jaskier spits out, voice slightly higher than Geralt’s low growl of a “no.” 

“Such a shame,” the woman starts, shifting her gaze past the sword to Jaskier. “You’re the lovely bard I’ve been following.” Her voice starts to shift, taking a deeper tone, and Jaskier’s breath gets caught in his throat. 

In front of him, the woman’s bones are cracking, shifting, her face is pulling forward, thickening. She’s growing in height, and she grunts through clenched teeth as her form morphs into an incredibly large man staring down at them with a wicked smile. 

Sweat beads at Jaskier’s temple. His body has gone completely still. “Geralt,” he whispers, voice shaking. “What in the--”

“-fuck,” Geralt growls. 

Everything suddenly moves too fast for Jaskier to fully comprehend. Geralt shoves him back as the man leaps toward them. He hits the ground with a grunt just as Geralt swings the sword. Jaskier tries to follow their movements, but everything is too fast, the two dancing rapidly around each other, but then he hears a piercing cracking sound, and the sword slips from Geralt’s grip as his arm goes limp at his side. 

The man forces Geralt to the ground, and Jaskier watches as the man pins Geralt’s arms over his head. He can see Geralt favoring his left side, trying to use pure strength alone to free himself, but the man’s got the upper hand. 

Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes for a breath of a moment, and he can hear Geralt’s voice in his head. Assess, he hears, and he does. The sword is too close to the man to grab, but a quick, closer inspection of the man’s bare back shows little to no wounds despite the amount of hits Geralt got in before... 

His eyes flick over to Roach and the silver sword close to her. He can’t remember exactly, but he thinks he needs the silver since the iron doesn’t appear to be doing much. He’s quick and quiet on his feet, surprising even himself, and carefully, he tip-toes over to the silver sword. He goes unnoticed, another surprise considering his heart feels it’s about to burst past his ribs and right out of his chest, and snags the sword. It’s weight distribution feels different compared to the iron sword he’s grown accustomed to working with, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It actually feels... perfect, he thinks. 

Geralt’s low growl of a curse pulls Jaskier back into reality. He blinks a few times, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and turns toward the borderline one-sided battle behind him. Geralt doesn’t look panicked, but there’s pain pulling at his face, and it’s enough to have Jaskier walking back toward the mess of a fight. He stops right behind the man and clears his throat to get the man’s attention, an uncharacteristically strong wave of confidence washing over him. 

For a moment, he’s not raising a silver sword over his head with practiced grace. For just a breath of a moment, he’s back at a tavern, strumming away at his lute, riling up a crowd of drunks as he sings songs of adventures. But then he swings the sword down, bringing himself back to the woods. He doesn’t aim like Geralt does, but the sword still finds its way to the man’s neck, slicing clean through it until the man’s head is rolling to the ground with a low thump. 

He wasn’t aware that he screamed with the swing of the sword until his faint echo is the only sound to follow the lifeless head hitting the ground. He’s panting, his stomach is in knots, and he can feel Geralt’s eyes burning a hole in him. 

He feels suddenly far too hot, and his stomach lurches. He lets the sword slip from his shaking grip and clamps a hand over his mouth, whipping around and making it close to a bush before dropping to his hand and knees and gagging.

He can’t shake the frighteningly clear image of the sword piercing clean through the man’s neck from his mind, or the wide-eyed look of pure terror. He heaves, throwing up the small breakfast he and Geralt split before training. He’s barely keeping himself up on shaking arms, and he wants to give into the ill-stricken fear clinging to his bones, but his mind, moving as fast as his heart, catches back up to the situation as a whole, and quickly, he scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly. 

Geralt’s managed to sit up, but he’s gripping at his shoulder with a deep frown, and it doesn’t take a doctor or mage to see it’s dislocated. There’s bright red, angry swelling poking out through the tear in Geralt’s shirt, and Jaskier stumbles to him, dropping to his knees beside the Witcher. 

“Are you alright?”

“That’s dislocated,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, not hearing Geralt’s question over the roar in his ears. He’s studied this, has been studying this and similar injuries for a few weeks now. He’s not much of a fighter, but he wants to help Geralt, to prove he’s a worthy companion, so he’s taken to books, learning about medicinal remedies, stitching, and dislocated bones. 

“I can set it--”

“--Are you alright?” Geralt repeats, voice taking a low demand, but Jaskier’s already working through what he remembers from his reading. 

His hands are shaking, but the discomfort pulling at Geralt’s face keeps him moving. “This is going to hurt--”

“--Jaskier--”

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s injured arm and tugs it forward, wincing at the soft pop.

“Fuck!” Geralt’s face is twisted into a sharp grimace, and he’s panting, chest heaving in quick, long waves that’s got Jaskier frowning deeply. 

“Sorry--”

“--are you alright?” 

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, taken back by the severity of Geralt’s tone, and he moves to nod, a habit, but he pauses, considering a previous argument. 

“-- you lack the mere capability to assess your physical health...”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he admits. He feels weak, a result of fleeting adrenaline, and without meaning to, he drops his head against Geralt’s good shoulder with a deep sigh. “But I will be. You?”

“My shoulder tingles a little,” Geralt grunts out, good hand finding Jaskier’s waist. “But, it feels much better.” 

Jaskier moves one hand to cup Geralt’s, and he chases the swelling wave of relief washing over him. “I’ll need to make a sling for your arm until it’s fully healed.” Yet, he makes no notion of moving, not when Geralt’s hand is a warm, steady weight at his waist. 

“The first kill isn’t easy,” Geralt whispers. “But you did well. You knew that only silver can kill a doppler.”

Kill. Jaskier shudders at the word, and his hand tightens around Geralt’s. “Not exactly what I had in mind for this Tuesday, but,” he lifts his head to meet Geralt’s studying gaze, “I have a good instructor.” He smiles weakly, still slightly shaken at the core, but Geralt smiles back at him, a warm, encouraging smile, and just for a moment, Jaskier knows that they are okay.

[eponymous-rose]

I’ve also further progressed in my Vorkosigan re-read! Memory was as wonderful as I remembered (Illyan and Miles going fishing via improvised hand grenade out of boredom is always a highlight). 

I love the way Bujold structures her books---I talked about that a bunch with Mirror Dance---but Memory is just brilliantly laid out. Miles is spiraling, Miles fucks up, Miles gets fired (the closest pop-culture parallel I can think of is a superhero having to permanently revert to their mundane secret identity), Miles’s friends manage to yank him out of the mire, and then... surprise bizarre out-of-sequence murder mystery! The victim’s not dead! Miles keeps finding clues out of sequence and realizing he was meant to be framed! And god, you’re so sure it’s Haroche right at the start and then you have that moment of “oh well shit of course he thinks Miles might have it in for the boss that just eviscerated his identity” and so you’re still surprised when that first instinct was right! And then he offers Miles his life as Naismith back. Even Cordelia placed a bet on Miles giving up his life as Vorkosigan. And... he doesn’t. Mirror Dance was about Mark fracturing himself to survive. Memory is about Miles dragging himself back together to live.

I love how Illyan takes the loss of his memory chip---it’s fundamentally a piece of him gone, but it’s also freedom from thirty years of being a tool of his emperor (and then of Aral), and his embracing this destruction of his identity and learning to move forward is such a great foil/foreshadowing for Miles’s revelation. Everything in this story is about moving forward, not without regrets, but moving forward. It’s so fitting that the romance story going on in the background is Alys and Illyan, two 60-somethings, falling in love (and god, I love the scene where Miles wanders in on them in the morning and thinks something like “huh that dress is more of an evening style isn’t it?” and then like ten hours later the penny drops).

And god, Miles and Elli. I love how this was done, how it’s made apparent that you can love someone, and they can love you, and you can be very good for each other in a lot of ways, but your circumstances can still be such that marriage will annihilate one or both of you. It’s nobody’s fault, but the inevitability and recognition of it means it’s not always a devastation: “He could feel the letting-go in them, with the easing of the tension and the terror, with the slowing of every pulse of their blood. Not pain, or not so much pain, but only a just sadness, a due measure of melancholy, quiet and right.” Even when they’re quite bizarre relationships, the relationships in these books are very mature and well-thought-out from a narrative point of view, and this is a wonderful example.

Just a really, really lovely book:

No wonder he was laughing. He wasn’t mourning a death. He was celebrating an escape.

“I’m not dead. I’m here.” He touched his scarred chest in wonder.

[...]

Harra Csurik had been almost right. It wasn’t your life again you found, going on. It was your life anew.

Aaaand on to Komarr! God! I love this book! The most Miles possible meet-cute for his future wife: board at the home of her family on an investigation, have combat flashbacks on a shopping trip with her, and wind up watching her husband die horrifically while chained to a rail on a planet with a toxic atmosphere, knowing if he reacts too strongly he’s likely to have a seizure that’ll dislodge his own breathing mask, killing him in the same terrible way. You know. Rom-com stuff.

Speaking of relationships portrayed well, Ekaterin and Tien’s disaster of a marriage is extremely chilling in its realism. Even as you absolutely detest Tien, you can see how Ekaterin got yanked into that orbit, and it’s all all all so tied in with the very same aspects of Barrayaran culture that we’ve seen Miles face: Tien destroys everything because of his perception of what the response would be to his illness (where Miles, for better or worse, never had the option of hiding it), and because of his shitty insecurities about Ekaterin’s fidelity (echoes of a young Aral come to mind). We’re given explanations (his brother’s literally impossible-to-live-up-to example) but are never expected to see them as excuses, which is a very fine line to walk. The end result is a believably fucked-up relationship that draws on parallels with every single time you’ve ever thought to yourself about a friend, “Oh god sweetie you can do so much better than him”.

And Ekaterin’s thoughts about being bound to this marriage are right along the lines of the most stick-in-the-mud traditional Barrayaran loyalties we’ve seen Miles exhibit, all tangled up in language about honor. And even though it very shortly (and mortally) becomes a moot point, I love that she gets the chance to decide to leave Tien in spite of that. 

I also love the scene between Tien and Miles, talking about Nikki’s jumpship obsession, partly because of the obvious contrast between the two of them, but mostly because it illustrates how much of Tien’s awfulness is because he’s just... fundamentally a bitter coward with no imagination.

"Well, every boy goes through that phase, I suppose. We all outgrow it. Pick up all that mess, Nikki.”

Nikki’s eyes were downcast, but narrowed in brief resentment at this, Miles could see from his angle of view. The boy bent to scoop up the last of his miniature fleet.

“Some people grow into their dreams, instead of out of them,” Miles murmured.

“That depends on whether your dreams are reasonable,” said Vorsoisson, his lips twitching in rather bleak amusement. Ah, yes. Vorsoisson must be fully aware of the secret medical bar between Nikki and his ambition.

“No, it doesn’t.” Miles smiled slightly. “It depends on how hard you grow.”

The alternating POVs between Miles and Ekaterin are charming because we get to see Miles from an external (non-hostile) point of view and get all excited about each small revelation, and then we get to see Ekaterin both from Miles’s point of view and from the point of view of her own very active inner monologue, giving us insights we would otherwise have missed since she, as Miles says in the understatement of the century, has a tendency to underreact.

Their relationship is built up very carefully: there’s an obvious mutual interest practically from the first, but they both have reason to be cautious. There are those moments of genuine rapport early on, and then the shopping trip! It’s such a clever revelation, and so layered!

Miles was traumatized at Dagoola IV by watching Beatrice fall from the shuttle in front of him: he reached out to try to catch her, and just missed, and she died. And then we have this perfectly safe little parallel, with himself and Ekaterin falling off a water feature in a shopping district, and he manages to catch her, this time... and they both go over. It’s cute and oddly triumphant...

...and then he realizes exactly what it means. If he’d caught Beatrice, he’d have gone over with her. They’d both be dead, and that revelation hits right after he’s had a whole book to figure out just how badly he wants to live. And to Ekaterin, it’s a very quick summary of what and who Miles is: he’s the man who would not let go. BUT Ekaterin ALSO frames her leaving Tien in that context: she’s not just watching him fall, but purposefully releasing her hands. It’s so twisted and so complicated and such a weird little microcosm of their respective states of mind. And while part of it is Ekaterin giving Miles the little push he needed to properly process that trauma, fundamentally and on a larger timescale it places Miles as the “I’ve been in this hole before and I know the way out” path to Ekaterin’s healing. It’s so well done.

There’s also a hell of a parallel in the physical aspect of Miles’s seizures coming on unexpectedly in moments of great stress versus the psychological aspect of Ekaterin’s whole coping mechanism being built on trying desperately not to flinch or show strong emotion.

(And I don’t know where else to put this but special shout-out to the running gag of Vorkosigan House getting gradually overrun with cats, to the point where Miles starts, apropos of nothing and on a totally different planet, asking strangers if they’d like a kitten.)

These kids! Will they make it work? I may be only halfway through the book, but I have a funny feeling things might work out...

Also, here’s the “rescue” scene in full, because it delights me so:

The root-compacted soil of the edge sagged under her weight, and she began to slide precipitously forward. She yelped; pushing backward fragmented her support totally. One wildly back-grappling arm was caught suddenly in a viselike grip, but the rest of her body turned as the soil gave way beneath her, and she found herself dangling absurdly feet-down over the pond. Her other arm, swinging around, was caught, too, and she looked up into Vorkosigan’s face above her. He was lying prone on the slope, one hand locked around each of her wrists. His teeth were clenched and grinning, his gray eyes alight.

“Let go, you idiot!” she cried.

The look on his face was weirdly, wildly exultant. “Never,” he gasped, “again--”

His half-boots were locked around... nothing, she realized, as he began to slide inexorably over the edge after her. But his death-grip never slackened. The exalted look on his face melted to sudden horrified realization. The laws of physics took precedence over heroic intent for the next couple of seconds; dirt, pebbles, vegetation, and two Barrayaran bodies all hit the chilly water more or less simultaneously.

The water, it turned out, was a bit over a meter deep. The bottom was soft with muck. She wallowed upright onto her feet, one shoe gone who knew where, sputtering and dragging her hair from her eyes and looking around frantically for Vorkosigan. Lord Vorkosigan. The water came to her waist, it ought not to be over his head---no half-booted feet were sticking up like waving stumps anywhere---could he swim?

He popped up beside her, and blew muddy water out of his mouth, and dashed it from his eyes to clear his vision. His beautiful suit was sodden, and a water-plant dangled over one ear. He clawed it away, and located her, his hand going toward her and then stopping.

“Oh,” said Ekaterin faintly. “Drat.”

There was a meditative pause before Lord Vorkosigan spoke. “Madame Vorsoisson,” he said mildly at last, “has it ever occurred to you that you may be just a touch oversocialized?”

[sonicringbond]

Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey - Scene 30

It’s finally here, and Happy New Year everyone 👋

2021 is finally here, and it’s the perfect time to wrap up the first cour with the big confrontation with Doctor Fukurokov. It should be the last major action for a while (though with this AU one can never say), so please enjoy...

    Sonic was far from in top form, and gathering Rings was proving to be far more time consuming than he had planned. Compounding matters was that he was having a hard time even holding on to his rings.

    “ACHOO~!” Sonic sneezed fiercely, a moment later a shot from a Battle Kukku cannon relieving him of his gathered Rings and sending him flying. Crashing headfirst into the wall of another airship, Sonic let himself slump down and sigh. “Well, the ole danger sense is working, but I’m definitely off my game today. Tearing up all of these airships manually is taking too long too.”

    Pulling himself free from where he took his short break, Sonic grabbed a nearby Ring and casually leaned to the side, letting two bird soldiers shoot each other. “Or maybe the danger sense is a little slow to– AHCHOO~!”

    Rubbing his nose as he walked to the edge of the airship deck, Sonic looked at the burning fleet. He had done plenty of damage in a surprisingly quick amount of time, but the presence of so many Rings made the ships forged with Rings in their development easy to repair with the golden loops.

    “Never thought I’d complain about there being too many Rings,” Sonic mused as he looked around for a solution to his problem. “No way I can gather that many fast enough to make a long-term dent in this fleet either before Amy gets herself in over her head. That Red Star Ring is going to cause me more trouble than it’s worth. …!? Wait a second!”

    With a sudden moment of realization upon him, Sonic turned his eyes towards Battle Kukku Island which now hung above him below the ever-mysterious tiny planet that loomed in the daytime sky. “Heh! I should have thought of it sooner. I can wake up all the Rings in the airships and let them crash on their own. The chaos from the ships crashing into each other and the Ring Gates formed in the process should be more than enough to put these guys out of commission.”

    Pulling the Ring Gate Rosy leant him in its dormant state from where he had hidden it in his spines, Sonic twirled it on the end of his finger while he checked the device he wore on his wrist. Pushing his glove cuff out of the way, he smirked as he noted the location of Rosy’s matching device. “Not bad kid.”

    Looking up at the island, Sonic tossed the small Ring out and missed it grow into a Ring-framed portal he could step through as he was taken over by another sneeze. As he looked up it was just in time to see an arrow come through and expend the gate’s energies.

    “Woah!” barely dodging the projectile, Sonic looked back at it as it lodged itself in a wood plank in the airship’s side. “Well, so much for Plan A. Guess I’m running instead. Fine by me, but what type of trouble did you get yourself into this time kid?”

~|~

    The trouble Sonic questioned about was in fact caused by his spectacular timing. The Ring Gate he opened had appeared just in time to catch the arrow Draw fired and the machine holding the Red Star Ring stood unscathed. “This is why I hate Rings!”

    Draw’s shout was accompanied by him desperately reaching for another arrow as Doctor Fukurokov dove over a low wall and began pulling a series of levers. In response the entire lab started to shake and the contraption that held the Red Star Ring rose up through the opening ceiling.

    “Wait!” Rosy called out, but she could not get her footing as the whole of the room started to collapse.

    “It’s over for you interlopers!” Doctor Fukurokov called from above as the giant propeller on the island’s underside came into view below the collapsing floor. “A shame I won’t be able to make use of you now, but no matter. When my armada rains terror upon the whole world unchallenged, the fool fox will surely know who the true rulers of the skies are!”

    Bursting out into maniacal laughter as rocket thrusters on the underside of the main platform of the once enclosed lab came to life, Doctor Fukurokov felt on top of the world. Or would have except for two things. The little planet hanging in the red sky above him, as though it were mockingly looking down on him, and an ever-irritating voice belonging to a cute, leotard clad, pink hedgehog girl.

    “Sorry, but my destiny is with Sonic!”

    “He’s dead!” Doctor Fukurokov shouted as he rushed over in the direction Rosy’s voice came from.

    “He looked pretty alive when I met him,” Draw countered from a different direction and pulled Doctor Fukurokov’s attention away from where Rosy’s voice came from.

    Looking back and over the edge of the main platform, Doctor Fukurokov’s eyes widened in horror as they followed a massive cable back towards the main wall of the shaft above the impossibly large propeller. “Get away from there!”

    “Oh?” Draw questioned with a sinister smirk. “Is this oversized wire important?”

    “OF COURSE IT’S IMPORTANT YOU USELESS FLIGHTLESS FOOL!” Doctor Fukurokov screamed at the top of his lungs. “THOSE CABLES ARE ALL THAT’S KEEPING THIS LAB CONNECTED TO THE ISLAND!”

    “So, we should break them then?” Rosy asked as she tilted her head and pressed a raised finger into her cheerfully smiling muzzle.

    “OF COURSE NOT! THE ENERGY OF THE RED STAR RING WOULD BE RELEASED UNCONTRABLY IF YOU DID!”

    Though he screamed it out of panic, Doctor Fukurokov knew he had made a mistake. Adjusting his glasses, he took a deep breath and tried pleading with the two troublemakers who threatened to unravel his ambition. “Perhaps being allowed to be left alive by the Battle Kukku Armada is enough to convince you to leave peacefully. Perhaps?”

    “What do you think Draw?” Rosy asked and revealed she had been standing on the central column that had lifted the lab out of the chamber it had been in. Doctor Fukurokov could hardly believe that the design oversight had given her a safe place to survive the collapse of the island’s center, and one that gave her access to where the four massive cables that fueled the whole island connected to the main platform. For all his terror, he knew he had to pay attention to the conversation taking place though.

    “You say Rings are taboo, and this one is threatening to give a bunch of mean old pirates way too much power.”

    “Then let’s break it.”

    “NOOOOO~~~~~!!!!!!!!!!”

    Draw may have gained the speed to keep up with Rosy, but he lacked her spin attack and was effectively helpless. Doctor Fukurokov was not so similarly inhibited, even as Rosy’s spin attack shook the whole platform as a cable was knocked free and crackling red energy erupted from the exposed socket. Instead, he managed to grab a jet pack and immediately flew about opening fire with integrated machine guns on Rosy.

    “Wah~!”

    There was barely any room to build up the speed she needed to leap to safety, and with Doctor Fukurokov firing on her it was unlikely Rosy would make it at all. Fortunately, Doctor Fukurokov had to dodge another fired arrow from Draw.

    “YOU WILL NOT STO–?!”

    “Hi!” Rosy cut off Doctor Fukurokov as she landed on his shoulders and offered him a pleasant wave. “We don’t have to do this you know. If you just turn off the machine and give me the Red Star Ring… Though you should give up this life of hurting people too. There are plenty of other exciting ways to live where you help people too. You’re really smart–!”

    “ENOUGH YOU IMPUDENT–!”

    Trying to dislodge Rosy, Doctor Fukurokov’s erratic flight instead allowed her to jump out and land on one of the outer cable ports. Turning to open machine gun fire on her anew, he was greeted by her pulling down on her eye and sticking her tongue out at him. That and an arrow which ruptured one of the twinjets of his pack.

    “NOO~!”

    As he struggled to recover and return to the main platform, Doctor Fukurokov refused to give up and continued to fire as he spiraled upward wildly. Rosy was more than fast enough to evade him, and then one and two more cables fell as she Spin Attacked through them. The last cable would not go immediately as she had to get herself and Draw safely up it to the main platform. This afforded Doctor Fukurokov the time he needed to land and turn his full attention onto Draw as he was tossed up over the railing.

    “Gyah~!” Dancing about to avoid the machine fire, Draw ran and leapt over a massive pipe to take cover on the other side of the device that held the Red Star Ring. He nearly over did his jump as Rosy’s attack on the final cable coupling caused the platform to wrench fiercely before the rockets holding it afloat were overwhelmed with power and launched the three who occupied it with tremendous velocity towards the little planet above.

    “Not like this!” Doctor Fukurokov denied the impending doom that was but a few seconds away from him and scrambled towards the main control console. As he approached a golden light which bested that of the Red Ring appeared above him and he looked up to see a Ring Gate spin open well above him and soon on top of him.

    “Sorry I’m late,” Sonic greeted everyone as he fell through and gave them a two fingered wave as he extended his other hand towards the Red Star Ring. “Woah!”

    As his outstretched palm neared the out-of-control Ring, the entire platform came to a sudden a stop. For a moment everyone hung in the air and Rosy turned her questioning eyes on Sonic and called his name.

    “Mote!” Draw called out a different name as his fairy companion took advantage of the momentary pause to fly between Sonic’s outstretched hand and the Red Star Ring as it suddenly stopped spinning and fell on its side. No sooner did it fell flat did it start to rotate perpendicular to its axis and start to grow rising up into the sky. As it passed Mote and Sonic, everyone fell to the platform, though Sonic scooped up the suddenly exhausted fairy.

    “Don’t know what you did little guy, but I hope it didn’t interfere with what I was trying to do. Anyway, time to go! Kid! Tyke! Grab on!”

    Running in their general direction, Sonic put his arms out for Rosy and Draw to grab, but Rosy took advantage of them both and jumped into Sonic’s arms while Draw latched himself onto Rosy’s back.

    “Really you two?” Sonic asked with an awkward laugh as he found himself carrying two people at once bridal style. Though with Draw clinging to Rosy’s back, Rosy was free to wrap at least one arm around Sonic as she nuzzled him joyfully. Her other hand was required to hold onto Mote who she pressed tenderly to her chest to keep safe. Sonic noted the motion and smirked a moment before growing more serious and putting on a fierce look of concentration. “Whatever. Just don’t let go!”

    Vaulting the railing, Sonic fell with the other’s hanging on into the collapsing shaft as everything seemed to transform into Rings around them.

    ~I never even saw the Ring Gate there were so many Rings. I didn’t know what Sonic had done either, and though I think Mote told Draw, he refused to tell me. Whatever it was that happened though, there was no denying that the entire world would know the consequences of Sonic’s actions that day.

    ~From the mountain peak we appeared on, and likely from anywhere else too, the Red Star Ring could be seen filling the sky. It was massive unlike what I had glimpsed of the last one Sonic used. But the effects of the Ring Shifts on the world were indisputable. I could see them happening everywhere I looked and there was no stability to the world at all. Even the Red Star Ring was not safe from the chaos it wrought.

    ~In a flash of red light, it exploded and a rain of red motes of light rained down all over the world. Beyond it, and that sinister little planet that was always watching me, a red crack appeared in the sky, like a bolt of lightning frozen in time that arced across from one horizon to the other. If you looked closely enough, you could see lands beyond it as though we were looking at another planet. And as my travels resumed, it became clear that those lands were also affected by Rings Shifts as the scenery beyond surely changed. But what else was beyond that crack in the sky was a mystery, but the world had changed. Everything but that ever watchful planet in the sky. Almost.

    ~It no longer only appeared in the day and had begun to watch me even after the sun had set. And at night, it was clear there were cities up there too as the lights twinkled so bright. But… But those lights didn’t bring me joy like the stars.~

Scene 30 · CLEARED Mark of a Red Star, End

-----

And with that, the first cour is done. From here and as we head into the new year, Sonic Ring Bond will go back to a more travel centric focus, but that is far from meaning there will be less enemies and grand encounters. It’s time for Sonic and Rosy to start learning what is really going on in the world, and whether they can afford to keep looking for their friends or try to stop what is coming.

I’m really excited to keep building up the world and really hope everyone will be able to join me and help the world grow through your prompts and partaking of the occasional survey. Let’s make 2021 a great year, and start it off with something amazing! thank you everyone! Happy New Year!

-----

Special Thanks to Cutegirlmayra Story by @JoshTarwater/SonicFanJ Inspiring Song – Second Advent – Tsutomu Narita, GRANBLUE FANTASY – Granblue Fantasy Original Soundtrack: Chaos

Fair Use Disclaimer

Sonic the Hedgehog and all affiliated characters and logos are the express property and Copyright© of SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS used without permission under Title 17 U.S.C Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976 in which allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. “Fair use” is use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be considered copyright infringement. The Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey alternate universe (AU) consumer written work of fiction is a non-profit transformative work primarily for personal use and can and will be taken down without warning or prior notice at the request of the copyright holder(s) should it not be recognized under “fair use”.

*Sonic Ring Bond logo created by DEE Art – twitter.com/daryliscute.

Sonic Ring Bond AU and Sonic Ring Bond: The Journey are the creation of Joshua David Tarwater/ynymbus/sonicfanj/@Joshtarwater and is to be, including all contents herein considered for all legal purposes the property of the Sonic the Hedgehog intellectual property (IP) and copyright owners, SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS. All story contributors via prompt, suggestion, written scene, art, and all and every other contribution acknowledge that all contributed material is forfeit for legal purposes to SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS upon official request from SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS.

[jessica-doom]

Had Peter known that every kiss to follow would never match up to those first few terror-soaked ones, he never would have let that bittersweet moment end. Looking back, none of those kisses were perfect. In fact, every single one of them was absolutely awkward. Even that last one that really sealed what they were both thinking and feeling. That one that Peter imagined looked straight out of the movies. The one where the guy finally gets his girl. Even that kiss had too much teeth. Peter didn't exactly have a lot of (read: any) practice kissing girls…. So, yeah, there were a few areas he needed to fine tune.

Once they were back in New York, once he was back to being that comfortable friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, he was all too happy to start working on those flaws. Except….

The feeling wasn't right. It wasn't there. Not that he wasn't still very much into MJ, because oh my god of course he was. No, it was something else missing from these new experimental forays. Something that took Peter longer to figure out than he would have liked. Especially since he was kissing MJ in a real and physical world and that was literally the only thing he wanted in life.

The revelation came after Beck's leaked video. After Peter had, admittedly, done some crying, MJ's solution to calm his hyperventilated breaths was to steal his air completely. And Peter thought this was a perfect distraction technique! Until he felt that tingle. Well, not that tingle. Not his 'Peter Tingle'. (How had he not come up for a better name yet?) The tingle was the one he had felt during that first glorious kiss in London.

That day came rushing back like a kick to the stomach. Peter gasped a rough, ragged breath and pulled back too quickly. MJ followed after him for a second before she realized, blinking at him with squinted eyes. "I shouldn't have…," she mumbled, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

"No, no," Peter rushed to reassure her, gripping her hands too tightly in his lap. "No…. I'm just in my own head." And his head was cluttered with too many contradicting thoughts to handle. And the most overwhelming of all of those thoughts – even in that moment where he should be worried about the whole world knowing he was Spider-Man – was how satisfying a tear-stained kiss truly was. And how wrong and slimy that felt in his gut.

How was it that kissing MJ only felt truly at its peak when matched with some sort of turmoil? Why did he only feel exhilarated when the taste of battle was on his mouth? Why did he need tears or blood or ash to actually feel something this beautiful?

Just how messed up was he?

"No one with half a brain is going to believe that you were behind the Elemental attacks. Especially not since they now know you're just a teenager."

"I killed a guy, MJ," Peter muttered, unable to meet her searching eyes. "That part isn't a lie."

The tears were trekking their way down his cheeks again. Visibly frustrated, Peter wiped them away. He thought he'd come to terms with this already. The whole killing the bad guy to save mankind thing. Except this was the first time that the dead bad guy happened to be a real human being with real human blood and real human cold, dead eyes that haunted him every time he closed his own.

Blinking away that image, Peter pulled MJ close again. As close as she would let him. Pulled her onto his lap and into his chest. Kissing her hard and long, spurned on by the taste of her worry mixing with the moisture he was unable to quell. Knowing good and well that there was the high likelihood of far too many terror-fueled kisses in their future. Something he should be panicked by but couldn't help but to feel mild excitement for.

He was no longer Peter Parker. To the world, he was Spider-Man. He was a terror and a menace and a killer. This was his life now – a life in the harsh spotlight of public opinion. And in this life, he would face innumerable battles and experience immense loss. It only made sense that he would need to find some sort of comfort in the trying times to come.

That source of comfort was secured in his arms. That source of comfort tasted real and right when she was covered in sweat and trembling with fear. That source of comfort was likely a fleeting fling who would leave him just like everyone else he tried to love.

But for now….

For now MJ was a grounding weight on his bed, desperate to have her own void filled with fleeting comfort. And for now, he was just a boy kissing a girl. A cute girl. A very cute and strange girl that he just might be in love with.

[headoverhiddles]

Women Are Like Wolves [Dwight Schrute x Reader: The Office]

When Michael Scott hires you, Jim's sister, to replace Angela's position in the Office, Dwight is struck by you immediately... and has a very bad way of showing it.

Warnings: Spanking, wall sex, bad terrible flirting, umm. I don’t know where this came from? 

"Hey Jimmy," you say as you enter the office and hang your coat up. Your brother looks over, and your sister in law, Pam, glances over with a giggle.

"Hey uh... no calling me that at work, remember?" Jim says.

"Yeah, he's right!" Andy cuts in, "He's got a better name, (y/n)!"

"Oh, that's right," you grin, going over to your desk, "How's my big brother, the Big Tuna, doing?" You slap Andy a high five, and Jim makes a pinched face. He hates that you've become friends with Andy Bernard, skyrocketing how irritating you both are by combining your powers of annoying him. At least you haven't warmed up to Dwight- it would be his worst nightmare if you two joined forces against him.

Still... he loves you more than anything, and can't stay mad.

"Alright. Get lost," he laughs, and you smile, sitting down.

"GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!" you hear, and there's a collective groan as Michael enters. "How's my family doing this lovely morning?!" He's been putting a huge emphasis on family lately, ever since he hired you as Angela's replacement and since you're related to Jim.

"We're not your family," Stanley speaks up.

"Well... you can't choose your family, Stanley," Michael shrugs.

"Thank god," Stanley replies, going back to his work, and your boss looks down.

"Alright, well... (y/n)! How are you doing? You're always happy, make me happy."

"Uhhh, I like your suit Michael," you blurt, first thing coming to mind, and Michael points at you.

"Hear that everyone? That is a pick me up, given to me by my loving daughter."

"Well," you wince, "I mean, I'm not your-"

"My daughter loves me, as does my son and my other daughter and... all my children!" he shouts. Dwight raises his hand. "Okay, what is it, Dwight?"

"I think your suit looks good, Michael."

"Yeah, well..." Michael rubs his lip, "You had your chance. You can't just repeat what (y/n) said."

"I can do it better," Dwight points out, "Just like everything else she does." You scowl over at him.

You honestly don't know what's with that guy. On your first day, you had been intrigued by him, as he seemed to be a very smart, pretty attractive guy in his own right, but since then, he had been a complete asshole to you without fail. Jim had offered to talk to Dwight about it, telling you that he's always like this, but you just left him to his pranks- you didn't want your big brother standing up for you every time an office feud happened. And that's all this was- Michael liked you better than Dwight right now, so he was just jealous and lashing out because of it.

You look over to Jim and Pam, and give them a dismissive wave- it doesn't matter to you.

A little later in the day, you walk over to the copier, going to finish up some printing-- just as you do though, Dwight cuts past you and slaps a stack of papers down to copy, effectively knocking your papers out of your arms.

"O-kay," you murmur, bending down to collect them with the help of Kelly. He just gives you a smug smirk, and your jaw clenches as you sit back down. His smile quickly disappears as you leave, and he bites his lip. You miss that, as you're reorganizing your papers.

After helping Michael with something in the parking lot, Dwight comes back to the office to find a group gathered around you.

"When did you get it?" Oscar asks.

"When I was 18," you say, looking down at the Star Trek tattoo on your ankle where you had pulled up your pant leg. "I'm a huge fan, have been since I was a kid."

"What's going on here?" Dwight asks, and rolls his eyes when he sees. "You'd all better get back to the phones before I report you to my superior."

"To me?" Jim crosses his arms, and Dwight purses his lips.

"We were just looking at (y/n)'s tattoo," Phyllis supplies, and Dwight scoffs.

"Tattoos are stupid..." He trails off, gaze falling upon the Star Fleet insignia. His right eye twitches, and he rubs his neck. Pam had told you how much Dwight loved anything nerdy, so you were hoping to win a few Brownie points here with the guy who apparently hated you.

"I always preferred Star Wars," he finally says, and you deflate, letting your pant leg fall as everyone dispersed to their corners again.

"That's totally not true," Jim says to Dwight, "You've told me numerous times how scientifically superior Star Trek is."

Dwight looks over. "Please be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate."

-

"Hey Dwight," Kevin says later in the break room, "What's with you and (y/n)? You don't seem to like her very much."

Dwight snaps his head over. "Good, I don't."

"Oh," Kevin nods, and steps closer. "You know, I do the exact same thing when I've got it bad for someone. That is, after I've asked them to have hot sex with me and they turn me down."

Dwight makes a disgusted face, giving Kevin a once over, then huffs and turns back around. "What makes you think I like her? I just told you I didn't, you idiot."

"Right," Kevin nods with a grin, "Your secret's safe with me buddy." As he turns to walk away though, he thinks of something. "Oh... you'd better make a move fast. Word around the office is, Andy's gonna ask her out tonight."

Dwight goes pale, and his eyes widen.

"Excuse me, move," he says, shoving past Kevin, and he storms out into the office. "(y/n)!" he shouts. You look up, startled, and everyone eyes Dwight as he suddenly feels very nervous, looking around. "I, uh... you... I'm giving you a new... client, get to work," he says, and puts his head down, marching back to his desk. Jim frowns at him, smiling.

"What's up with you?"

"Shut up, I don't need two Halperts on my mind."

"Oh, so one Halpert is on your mind?" Jim asks, swinging around in his chair, "Is it the shirt I wore today? Didn't think you were one to notice the little things, Dwight, but it appears I underestimated you."

"Alright, stop," Dwight looks up again, glaring, "You know very well it's not you I'm thinking about."

"Oh, so it's my sister," Jim raises an eyebrow at him.

"No," Dwight says matter-of-factly.

"My... dog?" Jim cocks his head, and Dwight lets out a long sigh.

"Just... leave me alone, Jim."

Jim shrugs. "Whatever you say. Just stop thinking about my dog, okay? I'm sure you've got plenty of animals on your farm."

Dwight doesn't even fight back this time, instead wearily answering another call. Jim spends a moment staring, wondering what was wrong with him today.

"I'm gonna grab some more coffee," you say over at your desk, looking at Oscar, "You need any?"

"That'd be great, (y/n)," he smiles, "Thanks."

You and Oscar had also hit it off, as you had a lot in common with your taste in music and TV shows.

You go into the kitchen, and Dwight looks around conspiratorially before stretching.

"I think I'll just... grab some more coffee."

"Okay. Don't terrorize my sister, she's in there," Jim says absently, yawning. Dwight nods slowly, then clears his throat.

"Well, I don't even wanna talk to her anyway."

Jim looks up at this. "Hey, what's your deal with her, man? She's a great person if you get to know her."

"I'm sure she is," Dwight says in the most level voice he can maintain while remaining expressionless, and gets up to head to the kitchen. Jim shakes his head, mouthing "what the fuck" to Pam, who shrugs back.

In the kitchen, you hum some John Denver to yourself as you brew the coffee.

"Almost heaven... west Virginia... Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah river..."

Suddenly, a voice behind you surprises you.

"Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze."

You blink at Dwight, a smile curling at your lips. "You... like that song?"

"Like it?" he huffs, coming up beside you at the counter, "It was the song I taught myself to play the guitar with."

"You play?" you ask, "That's so cool! I tried to play, but I couldn't get the hang of it, really."

"Not surprising," Dwight puffs out his chest, then catches himself. "Uh... I mean, it's completely surprising you couldn't get it. All it takes it a little practice." He cracks the closest thing to a smile he could manage, and you narrow your eyes. Is he pranking you? Just this morning, he was being nasty as ever, and now he's offering you guitar advice? He seems to catch this too, as the half-smile on his face quickly disappears and replaces itself with a scowl.

"What kind of coffee are you brewing?" he asks.

"Medium roast."

"Figures," Dwight scoffs, "You couldn't handle the dark roast. Too strong for your weak taste buds, obviously."

"For your information, Schrute, Michael told me you brought this roast in, so you're basically just insulting yourself now."

"I..." Dwight opens his mouth, then shuts it again, clenching his jaw. "Well, tastes change. They develop. They refine."

"Yeah. Yeah, they sure do," you nod, "Like, I thought you were kind of cute on my first day. I wanna go back in time now and smack myself silly!" With that, you snatch yours and Oscar's cups, and leave Dwight standing there aimlessly, wanting to say something but not fully bringing himself too.

"Ooh, harsh," Dwight hears, and looks over to see Kelly eating in the corner of the room. "You know, I think you should really-"

"Wait, wait- you were here the whole time?" he asks, and she shrugs.

"I can be quiet when I want to be."

"Impossible, go on."

"Well... for me, it's always a super huge turn on when a guy plays hard to get and is a total asshole to me, cause it just makes me want him more right, but there are other times I just want him to cuddle me like a big teddy bear and want him to whisper sweet nothings in my ear as he feeds me pizza, y'know?"

Dwight blinks. "What is the point of your verbal diarrhea?"

Kelly sighs. "If you like her, feed her pizza while you two cuddle!"

"Why does everyone think I like her!?" Dwight practically shouts, "I HATE HER! SHE IS THE WORST! And I am saying that while Andy Bernard still exists in this universe!"

"You called?" Andy pops his head into the kitchen.

"I did NOT!" Dwight barks, and Andy puts his hands up, retreating back to his desk. "Now can we just stop talking about her?"

"You mean the girl you like?" Kelly smiles.

"Who, (y/n)?" Michael comes in, punching Dwight's shoulder playfully. Dwight opens his mouth incredulously, but Michael waves a hand. "Please, everyone thinks Jim's little sister is hot."

"There is nothing about her that is hot!" Dwight growls, "Her stupid hair and her boring face and her... her radiant eyes, as bright as the reflection of the sunrise on my freshly-harvested beets."

"Okay, well, you and your beets need to get in line, pal," Michael huffs.

"Um Michael, just this morning you were calling her your daughter..." Kelly begins to point out.

"I guess you'll be getting "blue-beets" waiting while I'm still on the market," Michael continues to joke, and Dwight crosses his arms.

"False, I would never let myself get blue balls. This is the kind of situation man invented masturbation for."

Toby pauses as he opens the door, looking dismayed.

"Guys, this is... this is not an appropriate workplace discussion..."

"Oh, like you don't choke your chicken," Michael scoffs, "You're divorced, it's probably all you have left in your life."

"Actually, I've taken up painting landscapes..." the HR Rep whispers, and Michael shakes his head.

"-In fact, I'm sure that's all you do." Michael suddenly slaps his face, convulsing. "OH GOD!"

"What is it, Michael, are you okay?" Dwight rushes to him as their boss splashes a cup of cold water in his own face.

"No, no Dwight I am not okay, I just imagined Toby jacking off and I think I just died."

"Okay," Toby says quietly, taking his binder and closing the door behind him. Michael decides he's going to head back to his office as well, and when he does, Dwight turns, glaring daggers at Kelly.

"You will not tell anyone of this conversation about (y/n). Remember, I have swords, knives, and ninja stars at my ready disposal all over this office, Kapoor." He leaves the kitchen, and returns to his desk.

"You didn't get the coffee," Jim comments, not pausing his typing.

"I changed my mind," Dwight snaps.

-

You let out a long sigh, typing in some numbers in a PowerPoint you were setting up for the new client you'd been given. Oscar looks over.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and he nods.

"Okay."

You bite your lip, and put the papers down, turning to him. "It's just that-" He smiles, and you roll your eyes. "Shut up, it's just that I tried so hard to get on everyone's good side without being a kissass... I mean, it sucks to have bad blood with someone you basically just met, right? But he just makes it so hard and... aghh!"

"Yeah, that feeling you're trying to vocalize?" Oscar laughs softly, "Dwight inspires it in everyone, even Michael."

"But..." you groan, "I find him..." You give him a look, and Oscar's eyes widen.

"No..."

"Yes."

He spends a long time looking at you, before shaking his head in resignation. "He's not my type, but I guess that's a good thing."

"Oscar, I don't still like him or anything. He's rude and obnoxious."

"Good, I was worried for a second there," Oscar smirks. "I think Andy's got a thing for you."

"Andy?" You frown. "Nah, we're just really good friends."

"I'm telling you, there's something there. Don't date him, please."

"Why, you want a chance with him?" You grin at Oscar, and he eyes you warily.

"Oh, I'm not that desperate for a mistake rebound, thanks."

You giggle, then run a hand through your hair, getting back to work.

-

"So that's when he said her eyes were as bright as beet juice or something weird like that," Kelly says to Phyllis.

"Really? He said that?" Phyllis marvels.

"Yup, I was there and everything."

"Well, it does sound like something he would say..."

"Wait, but did you actually see the words come out of his mouth?" Kevin asks.

"Yes, Kevin!"

"Knew it," Kevin nods.

"What're all the cool kids talking about here?" Michael pops in, "Huh?"

Michael, I need you sign these-" Toby begins to say behind him, but Michael just swings around.

"I said the cool kids, Toby!"

Toby just nods, and sits back down. "So what're you talking about?"  Michael grins.

"Oh nothing," Kelly says.

"Just Dwight's massive crush on (y/n)," Kevin chuckles, "He's in love."

"Dwight's getting married?" Creed interjects, "Oh, congratulations, man!"

Dwight turns, confused. "What? No, I'm not getting married-" He suddenly freezes up, seeing Kelly talking to everyone, and gets up quickly.

"I am going to kill that woman. Kelly, can I speak to you for a second?" He asks, sweetness up to the full. She stares at him.

"I know my rights, you can't make me."

Dwight smiles. "I have a lot of friends at the police station. Maybe you'd like it if I called one of them over here, get them to help me take you to the station to do a little private interrogation."

"You need a warrant for that, and you can't get a warrant if you don't work there anymore," Kelly says indignantly, and Dwight clenches his fist.

"Dammit." He storms away, and you look over. He looks seriously upset.

-

Over at his desk, Dwight shakes his anxiety off and settles back into his calls. The phone goes off, and he picks it up.

"Dwight Schrute, Dunder Mifflin and Schrute Farms."

"Hi Dwight, this is Pam Beesly."

Dwight hesitates, before taking a deep breath. "Sorry Pam, our rooms are all booked up at the-"

"Dwight," Pam said, looking over pointedly, "What's wrong? You've been strange today."

"Nothing's wrong," Dwight tries to protest, but he catches Pam's eye, and he knows she won't give it up. "There's someone in the office who is attractive to me."

"Oh," Pam nods, "Okay, so you like them?"

Dwight swallows. "They are aesthetically pleasing and their personality is adequate. They're a suitable mate."

"Okay, cut the crap for a second and just tell me how you feel."

"I've got it bad for (y/n) from accounting."

Pam was silent for a second. "Really?"

"Like you didn't know," Dwight deadpans, "Kelly just went around telling everyone."

"Well she didn't get over to this side of the office, obviously," Pam murmurs. "Wow... (y/n)? She doesn't seem your type! Whenever I see her at home she's so bubbly and... friendly!"

"I know. Her personality has a few defects, but I'm sure we can work past them."

"Assuming she likes you back," Pam points out.

"She said she does," Dwight says, "She told me she thought I was "cute" when she first saw me. I would've preferred handsome or strong, or possibly chivalrous, but I'll take what I can get."

"Oh. Well good, I mean, you both like nerdy things... I think she really likes beets..."

"Really?" Dwight perks up, narrowing his eyes over at you.

"Oh yeah! She's like... the only one at the table who eats them when she comes over. and she likes bears too!"

"You're lying."

"No, I'm serious. She also lived in this ski town for a while around lots of black bears and grizzly bears... she thinks they're really cool." Pam bites her lip. "Just... never let Jim hear about this, okay? His pranks will escalate to murder."

"I know," Dwight mumbles,  looking over at his desk-mate, "We'll have to be stealthy. Which is half the fun."

"You know, um, there is one little hindrance to this whole thing," Pam brings up timidly.

"Yes?"

"(y/n) thinks you hate her."

"Yes," Dwight repeats, "That is a problem. But that makes the chase sweeter. When she's least expecting it, the predator will catch the prey."

Pam blinks, and looks up worriedly. "Dwight, that sounds very creepy."

"Okay," he murmurs, and Pam sighs.

"Look, just... offer her a compliment. Be nice to her! Then maybe things will get better."

"Kindness killed the cat, you know."

"Dwight, that's..." Pam rubs her face. "Just try, okay?"

"Fine," Dwight snaps, "Thank you." He puts his phone back down, and tries to focus back on work.

-

Finally, five o clock rolls around, and Dwight gets up, packing his briefcase. You look at the time, and over at Dwight. He was leaving... you wouldn't see him until Monday.

Well, good. Maybe then he'd give you a little peace.

Suddenly, Andy gets up, and fiddles with a button a little as he approaches your table.

"Hey, little Tuna," he smiles, seemingly nervous.

"Hey Andy," you smile, "What's up?"

He sits on the edge of your desk. "You're a really cool lady, (y/n), and I, um... I just wanted to, uh..."

From over at his desk, Dwight looks up to see if you were still there... and sees Andy.

"Oh no," he breathes, and drops his briefcase, sending his papers scattering. "(y/n)!" he interrupts again, and Kevin glances over from the door, nudging Meredith.

"Oh, here we go."

"(y/n), I need to see you in the parking lot right now. There's an issue with your parking."

"What about my parking?" you growl.

"We received a complaint today that you didn't park your compact car in the compact spot. That's breaking company policy."

"Who complained?"

"I'm sorry, that's confidential."

You toss your hands up, and roll your eyes. "Sorry Andy," you say apologetically, "Can we talk Monday?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Andy blushes, rubbing his neck, and turns to see Dwight smiling smugly at him. Andy frowns, and Dwight comes over, taking you by the arm and basically escorting you down to the parking lot.

"What the hell?" you ask, trying not to focus on the hair falling into Dwight's eyes as the wind blows them.

"Parking violation is a serious offense, you could be-"

"Oh, what are you gonna do, write me up?"

"I could very well do that, I could also handcuff you right now to this car."

"Oh god, do it."

Dwight goes to argue some more, before stopping. "What?"

You blink a few times, staring up at your coworker, and suddenly reach up, grabbing his face and smashing your lips to his. He lets out a startled noise, then moans deep, lips humming against yours. You begin to smile into the kiss, as does he, as you lift your leg up for him to hold. He grabs it, backing you against your car, and begins to roll his hips against you as you hook your leg behind his pants.

You suddenly break away. "I think this is against company policy too."

Honest to god, this is the first time you'd heard Dwight Schrute laugh.

"So how about those cuffs?" you ask.

"I've got a better idea," he smirks, nerdy salesman quickly replaced by a womanizer. He opens his car door, and beckons you in. "Leave yours here... I'll make up an excuse to Michael in Monday morning."

Monday morning? Oh, yes.

-

"So is this how you treat everyone you like? Making them think you hate them?"

"It worked on you."

"Barely. It could have gone either way- I was either going to kiss you or slap you. You're lucky I listened to what's between my legs rather than what's in my head."

He smirks. "On the contrary, I think it was an intelligent decision."

"Where are we going?" you ask, looking around.

"A place very special to my heart," he says, turning down the long dusty driveway. Your eyes widen.

"Wow... you took me to a romantic barn!"

"I live here."

You gasp, and the two of you get out. He leads you through the fields, and you gaze around at the endless rows.

"I bet this is where all the teenagers come and make out."

"Unfortunately," he mutters. He leans down, and plucks a beet from the ground.

"They're looking nice this year."

You pick one too, and hold it up against the moonlight. "One beet to rule them all!"

Dwight's eyes widen. "Oh my god." He drops his beet, and grabs your face, kissing you again with intensity and reverie. You moan, dropping your beet as well, and wrap your arms around his neck. He picks you up and carries you to the barn. Setting you down, he walks over to the corners, peeking around.

"What are you looking for?"

"Mose. He's my cousin... he likes to watch."

You blink, and swallow a little nervously as Dwight claps.

"MOSE! If you're in here, you're not getting any peach cobbler tomorrow!"

Suddenly, you scream as someone jumps down behind you, and runs out. Dwight shakes his head.

"He won't be bothering us for the rest of the night."

"Uh huh," you breathe, watching the strange man tear into the house, before Dwight takes your arm, spinning you back around and pushing you against the wall of the barn. You groan, and he scrapes your hair away from your shoulder, attaching his lips to it and leaving a dark mark there.

"Everyone at the office is going to know," you whisper, and he nips at your ear.

"They already do," he whispers, and you smile.

"You told people you liked me?"

"No, Kelly did."

"Oh..." He captures you lips again, and your hands fall to his belt buckle, undoing his pants. He shrugs off his jacket, and lifts up your skirt as you unbutton your top. Once you're in your bra, he stares down at your breasts, speechless. He licks his lips, lightly massaging them in his hands, and you look up at him in lust, plucking his glasses off and tossing them away.

"Take me from behind?"

Dwight groans, biting his lip, and flips you around so that the side of your face is pressed to the wooden panels. "You're a naughty girl," he chastises, "I think you need to be taught a little lesson in manners." Then, he brings a hand down against your ass, beginning to sing softly. "Learn your rules. You better learn your rules. If you don't, you'll be eaten in your sleep."

You moan. "That's hot."

Dwight looks enthralled. "Really? Nobody's ever found that hot before."

You shrug, and grin. He gulps. "Want me to keep going?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he spanks you again, and you wiggle your hips back.

"God, fuck me Dwight!"

He lets out a little noise, and takes himself out, positioning and-

"Ahhh yeah," you smile, "Holy bananas you're big."

Dwight smirks. "I am an above average size. The Schrute gene pool is a well-endowed one."

"Harder!"

He quickly buries himself deeper, giving your back the occasional slap as you shout his name.

"Oh god I'm gonna come!"

"Fact, most women come within the first two minutes of sex. You have surpassed this, therefore you are a durable woman. This is very attractive to me."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Good. Keep doing what you're doing and that record won't last long."

The barn creaks with your weight being shoved against it repeatedly, and it only takes you both about five minutes before you come hard, breathing heavily and panting each other's names. Dwight's glasses are lost in the hay somewhere, and you both try to find them while giggling afterward, you still in your bra and him in his boxers as you scour the barn floor, trying to avoid piles of manure in the process.

"So," you say, standing at his car. He places his glasses back on, folding his arms.

"So."

He looks at you, and you look at him.

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

"Shit, you're right," you bite your lip. "My car is-"

"Right."

"Can I-"

"Would you like to-?"

You both pause, and nod as you follow Dwight back into the house, holding his arms.

"Make me beets and honey in the morning?" you whisper.

Dwight grins at the camera.

"It was then I knew, I'd found my future Mrs. Schrute."

-

Monday at the office, you both come in at the same time after much debate. Everyone looks over at you two, Oscar's mouth dropping and Andy's jaw clenching, and Pam looks down, keeping her lips sealed. Jim frowns.

"You gave my sister a ride, Dwight?"

"None of your business, Jim," Dwight snaps, then smiles. "But yes. Because I am a gentleman." He wasn't about to tell his desk mate he had also nailed you all weekend as well, even though he would have loved to rub that in his face.

Jim looks at you at your desk, smiling as well, then looks at the camera and shrugs.

[atmosphericflyboy]

Five times kissed bc fuck u i have a need

I NEVER REBLOGGED THIS MEME BUT IF YOU SEND ME THINGS I WILL WRITE THEM ANYWAYS? I GUESS? > @freckledcybernetics : always accepting? i guess?

Mild NSFW in section 3, continued under cut because this somehow became over 3,800 words and yeah wow it’s 7:46 a.m., I have no excuse.

Trying to think back on the beginnings of your relationship with your husband while playing tonsil hockey with him pinned up against your front door is—probably not a stellar idea, but Poe Dameron has never claimed to have good timing.

It’s just—he’s having a moment, okay, because after all these years he still can’t quite believes that Fergus is his and he is Fergus’ and they are theirs, ad infinitum. To have and to hold, for better or for worse—although in his mind there is no worse, has never been worse since the very first day they met.

Focus, Poe.

They break apart for air and Poe takes advantage of the brief pause to pick Fergus up. Still, he can’t stop thinking, This love story—how does it start?

Fergus’ lips find his own again, and his mind goes blank for a little while.

It starts, he thinks as he hitches Fergus’ legs a little higher around his waist and begins to walk them to the bedroom, gently kicking cats and dog out of the way. The two of us, we start, it starts—

1. With two cups of coffee.

The cute guy in a button-down and tie stutters. It’s adorable; Poe gives him his warmest smile and promptly gets caught up admiring those ginger curls and bright green eyes as he waits for the customer to finish his order. The early sunlight filtering in through the thick glass windows has a flattering effect on everyone, but especially so (Poe thinks) on this gentleman, painting a warm blush across soft cheeks that look positively delectable, they really do—

He jerks out of his reverie, realizing that the customer is done talking. “Alright, let me see if I got all that,” he says with a wink (because, as Finn is fond of reminding him, he is shameless). “One regular Americano with an extra shot and one large caramel macchiato, and can I get a name for your order?”

Rey shows up just in time to take over for him at the register. As he bustles about preparing Verin’s order, Poe keeps sneaking glances over at him, wondering who the other person he’s buying coffee for is. He pulls his special marker out of his pocket on impulse, adding a purple heart after Verin’s name on both cups before sticking them in a cardboard holder and handing the whole thing over to Verin with a smile. And, because he is truly, unapologetically shameless, another wink.

Verin takes a sip from the larger cup on his way out the door. Poe didn’t think he was a triple-shot-no-sugar sort of guy, anyways.

It takes close to four months of sporadic meetings and soul-sucking early shifts after even earlier-late night gigs, but Poe finally learns that A: the person Verin buys coffee for is his terrifying boss (Verin hadn’t actually described his boss that way, but Poe knows triple-shot-no-sugar types, and they are not to be reckoned with), B: Verin will drink anything with a lot of caffeine and sugar and milk in it, and C: the sunlight looks even better on those cheeks when said cheeks are already colored with a faint blush at one of Poe’s guileless attempts at flirting.

Oh, and D: Verin’s name isn’t actually Verin—that’s the boss. Cute suit guy’s name is Fergus.

(Somehow, the name makes cute stuttering guy even cuter. Albeit perhaps not so much when Poe remembers he learned that by mistakenly asking “Verin” out.

Fergus did say yes, though, so maybe the extra cuteness is warranted after all.)

Poe picks Fergus up at seven with a small bouquet of wildflowers and his most charming smile. Afterward, he walks him home, feels the blush he’s been admiring from behind the counter for so long warm the tips of his fingers as he leans in for a kiss.

It’s short and sweet and chaste, yet it makes the butterflies that have been in his stomach all evening shiver and flutter. He knows it’s too soon, but Poe’s falling for this man who kisses like he’s not entirely sure he knows how. Who looks at Poe with sparkling eyes and the softest smile, and always seems a little startled by his own laughter. Like he wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of making such a sound.

Poe hasn’t done slow and steady in a very, very long time, but he finds that he wants to, for Fergus. Wants to take him out to countless dinners and movies; wants to introduce him to everyone important to Poe, his father and godmother and band buddies (the coffee shop buddies have obviously already met him). Wants to have picnics in the park with him in summer and hot chocolate by the fire in winter, and to hold his hand until they have to kiss goodbye at his front door.

Wants his front door to be Poe’s front door, too, someday.

He strokes Fergus’ cheek and steps back before he can say something stupid like I barely even know you, but I know I’m stupidly in love with you. It’s too soon. Fergus deserves better. Poe knows how to do better.

“See you tomorrow?” he says instead. Fergus nods, mirroring Poe’s half-shy smile, and gives him the most adorable little wave before shutting the door.

Poe walks backwards down the road, hands in his pockets, reluctant to part with the sight of Fergus’ building just yet. A blonde woman looks down on him from an upstairs window with a gaze that could curdle fresh milk.

But then—a light comes on in the room next to her. The curtains are drawn, but Poe sees the fleeting silhouette of a slim person with a mop of tousled hair cross the window.

A grin spreads slowly across his face, and he turns and half-skips the rest of the way down to the subway station.

When Fergus comes into the coffee shop the next morning, there are two steaming hot cups covered in purple marker hearts waiting for him in a cardboard holder. And one barista (pretty hot, himself) behind the counter, with purple-stained fingertips and the dorkiest smile.

2. With a nightmare.

Poe has a secret.

It’s a good secret. He prides himself on being an open book (and no, L'ulo, it’s not just because he’s a terrible liar), but this is one secret he’s more than happy to keep.

The secret is this: He’s been taking private lessons in ASL in exchange for private guitar lessons. Paige is an old acquaintance, so he already knew Mrs. Tico raised her hearing children fluent in ASL and was quick to volunteer when he heard her sister wanted to pick up an instrument.

The not-so-secret part of the secret is that he’s doing this for Fergus. They’re going pretty steady at this point, steady enough that Poe’s settling in for the long haul. They’ve spent several nights together so far just cuddling and making out in bed like shy, awkward teenagers. And Poe knows he’s a sap, but already there’s nothing that makes him happier than getting to wake up and see that soft mop of red hair on the pillow next to him.

So, yeah, it’s a pretty great secret. A true act of devotion or whatever Finn calls it when he teases him about it at work; Poe may be a hopeless romantic, but he’s not doing this as some grand, symbolic gesture to be waved in Fergus’ face like a pennant.

No, he’s doing this because he wants Fergus to be comfortable around him, plain and simple.

Poe isn’t unobservant: Fergus doesn’t talk about his past before working for Verin and doesn’t like having attention drawn to his cybernetic implants. Has nightmares sometimes that leave him crying (and tried to hide it from Poe, the first time it happened when he slept over), and finds it difficult to speak aloud when he’s particularly sad or upset or tired.

Poe knows there must have been something deeply, terribly wrong done to him for him to act this way. For him to wake up in the middle of the night shaking with terror.

Poe doesn’t need to know how the cybernetics happened. He doesn’t want Fergus to tell him anything that Fergus doesn’t want to talk about. He does want the names of every single person who has ever caused his sweet boy harm, but he doesn’t need Leia beating him over the head to realize that that won’t help his cause. He loves Fergus, implants and all, and he never wants to push Fergus beyond his limits.

Which makes it difficult when he has to. When he has to get Fergus to put in his hearing aids just so he can ask “What’s wrong?“ in the dark. When he has to either guess blindly at what Fergus needs and wants or try and get him to talk, and by the time he gets the words out, the need or want has often been superseded by pure frustration.

It’s horribly uncomfortable for Fergus and it’s horribly ineffective for both of them, and Poe wants to understand when Fergus is unable to talk or type or write. He’s had enough of the heartbreaking loneliness in Fergus’ eyes as he signs over and over again like a broken record stuck on loop, because this is all he can say at present but Poe just doesn’t understand.

So, he’s taking ASL lessons, and he’s getting to be fluent enough that he means to tell Fergus soon. But Fergus’ subconscious, it seems, has other plans.

He’s a pretty light sleeper, so he’s alert and sitting up within moments of Fergus starting awake. There’s something different about the nightmare this time, something worse: Fergus is curling up into himself, shaking and sobbing, looking like he’s not entirely sure of where he is or whether the four walls of this room will hold against the force of whatever it is that plagues his dreams.

And Poe—Poe reaches out, almost without thinking, and gently taps Fergus’ hand till he gets his attention. Signs, slowly and a little gracelessly, You’re here with me and you’re safe, and I love you, and we’ll get through this together.

Fergus blinks. Poe signs it again, trying to project as much calm and reassurance as he can.

Next thing he knows, his arms are full of a sobbing Fergus. He hums softly and strokes Fergus’ hair, knowing Fergus can’t hear him but hoping the vibrations will soothe him anyways. Kind of like a cat purring, he reasons, except Poe-sized.

Afterward, he’ll blame his preoccupation with calming Fergus as well as his own exhaustion from squeezing those ASL lessons into his day on top of coffee shop shifts and band practices and gigs. But, in this moment, Poe doesn’t realize that that was the first time either of them had said I love you.

When Fergus’ sobs subside into small hiccups, he pulls back just enough to kiss him like it’s all Poe knows how to do.

You’re here with me and you’re safe, and I love you, and we’ll get through this together. He signs it again before pulling Fergus back down onto the mattress with him and tucking the covers in over them both.

When they wake up the next morning, Fergus signs it right back at him. And then, once he’s put his hearing aids in, proceeds to grill Poe on how he seemingly learned sign language overnight.

3. With their first time together.

Fergus is stammering and blushing, which Poe takes as a cue to stop putting his tongue to, ah, rather creative use. He pulls back, props himself up on his elbows, and raises his eyebrows instead.

Fergus gives up and curses him out in ASL. Poe smirks but relents, signing back, Tell me, what do you want me to do?

He—didn’t expect Fergus’ response to be quite so descriptive or profane. He’s impressed. He pushes himself up, ignoring the way his spine protests after standing behind the counter all day, and captures Fergus’ already swollen red lips with his own.

It’s not what Fergus just asked for, but Poe’s pretty creative with his tongue in this regard as well, so Fergus doesn’t seem to be complaining. A slight thrill runs through him at the thought of his boy showing up to work tomorrow, looking thoroughly kissed and very well fucked.

(This is followed by the realization that Verin will probably want to castrate him, and yeah, no, Poe’s never thinking of Fergus’ boss in the bedroom again.)

He pulls away, breathless and a little dizzy, to say “As you wish” like a total dork (he’d shown Fergus The Princess Bride for the first time a couple of dates ago). His back and arms both protest this time as he lowers himself slowly, trailing a flurry of kisses all the way down Fergus’ torso before setting about to do his love’s bidding.

When he looks up at a particularly well-timed moment, he’s lucky he has his mouth full so he can’t say something stupid like Now there’s an O-face I could get used to seeing. Not so lucky after all when the thought makes him choke, which results in the worst-timed bout of coughing and spluttering in the history of oral sex.

It’s embarrassing as hell and, once he recovers, Poe’s cheeks are flaming redder than Fergus’ well-kissed lips. Apparently, he’s a masochist, though, because he explains the whole thing to a thoroughly bewildered Fergus with a sheepish smile.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Fergus bursts into peals of laughter. Poe finds himself joining in, the nerves he didn’t even realize he had dissolving under the weight of his relief.

They can barely look at each other for hours afterward without setting each other off laughing again. Poe’s whole abdomen aches and he can’t even see through his tears, and yeah, this is something he could really get used to.

(Even if Fergus never lets him live it down.)

4. With a home.

The day Poe’s band finally scores a record deal, he calls Fergus at work to ask, “Do you wanna move in with me for good?”

It’s something they’ve been talking about for awhile now. Admittedly, Fergus spends far more time at Poe’s than the other way around, but each of their places has long since been encroached upon by the other’s belongings to the point where cohabitation is no longer so much a possibility as a fact. Poe’s lease is up in a couple of months, anyways; it only makes sense to start looking for a place together, and the record deal means Poe can finally afford something a little bigger than the place he shares with Karé and Jessika and Snap in Washington Heights.

Verin, predictably, throws a fit and a half about Fergus leaving. She can’t exactly stop him, though, so they pack up the last of Fergus’ things and drive off one day while she’s out, giddy and giggling like students playing hooky for the first time.

Cinnamon, Raison and Toast yowl in unison when Poe’s dog greets them at the door.

Their new apartment in the Village still isn’t much to look at, but it’s enough for the two of them and BB-8 and Fergus’ cats. They spend their weekends putting together (then promptly christening) Ikea furniture; on weekdays, they make breakfast side-by-side while Raisin meows underfoot.

They hold hands on the subway all the way uptown until Poe has to get off, two stops ahead of Fergus.

He’s working fewer shifts at the coffee shop, but much longer hours in the recording studio. Fergus waits up for him. Poe feels bad about it, especially when he comes back one night to find Fergus already asleep on the couch.

He stands in the doorway for a long time, taking in the soft curves and lines of Fergus’ face in the flickering light of the TV.

When Fergus stirs and wakes, it’s to the gentle rocking motion of being carried to the bedroom in Poe’s arms. Poe sets him down carefully, then disappears into the bathroom: there’s the sound of running water, and the soft rustle of clothes.

By the time he returns, Fergus’ hearing aids are resting on the nightstand. Poe slides in next to him, signing Sorry I’m late and Love you and Get some sleep.

Fergus pulls him close and kisses him, sloppy and sleepy and utterly sweet. He’s asleep again almost at once. Poe wraps an arm round his waist, pressing another, lighter kiss to his forehead.

It’s not perfect this way. Far from it: once the EP is out, Poe will be playing concerts left, right and center to sell it. Then, if it sells, there will be a tour, and if it doesn’t, there will be another EP to make, or his band will be dropped by their label entirely.

He won’t go back to working early shifts at the coffee shop. They’ve come too far for that; he’s going to make this work, one way or another. That means sacrifice, and that means long hours at the studio or on the road, and that means days or weeks or months away from his love. He knows it’ll hurt them both and he hopes they’ll survive it, and he needs to talk about this with Fergus soon, because he wants Fergus to understand.

Fergus’ front door is finally Poe’s own. And it’s not perfect; far from it, when he’s too tired to even really see it as he stumbles through it after dark. But then he’s greeted by four soft fluffy bundles of fur and an even softer, even fluffier mess of ginger curls, and Poe knows he will never tire of coming home.

5. With a promise.

Poe loves touring with the band more than anything in the world—except his boyfriend and their cats and dog and cozy apartment on Greenwich Avenue.

Poe’s boyfriend also loves him and their cats and dog and cozy apartment on Greenwich Avenue more than anything in the world. Which is why, when the prospect of touring the world becomes a reality, it takes a great deal of time and effort for Poe to convince Fergus to leave the cats and dog and apartment behind and come on the road with him.

“A month,” he tells Fergus, time and time again. “That’s all it’ll be, a month! All these years you’ve worked for Verin and how much time off has she given you? She can spare you for a month. Come on, starshine, I want to see the world with you.”

In the end, Fergus only comes along because Poe’s dad flies all the way across the country to look after the pets and the apartment for them. Poe may have inherited his determination from his mother, but there’s a stubborn streak in old Kes yet.

The first three shows are in Dublin, London and Paris, which Poe and the band tackle alone. Nothing would ever make Poe force Fergus into coming back to the UK, not when it holds nothing but bad memories for him. Even France is too close for comfort. Poe looks hard at every middle-aged, red-haired man he sees, half-wishing [ Papa ] would cross his path so he could sink his fists into the bastard’s teeth.

Poe picks Fergus up from the airport in Amsterdam and makes sure he gets settled in at the hotel. Very, very well settled in, as it turns out. So well settled in that they both show up to soundcheck late, hair somewhat tousled and hastily dressed.

That night, Poe’s even more keyed up with nerves and excitement than usual; this is the first time he’s playing this particular set for Fergus, though he knows Fergus has heard the album a thousand times before and come to every single show the band has put on in New York. But then he steps onstage and the lights are blinding and the crowd is screaming and yeah, wow, Poe could do this for the rest of his life.

Fergus runs to him and throws his arms around Poe afterward, and yeah, wow, Poe could do Fergus for the rest of his life, too.

In fact, he will. Or at least, he hopes he will: the ring’s been sitting on the chain round his neck since he was six, and he’s known for awhile that Fergus is the one it belongs to. He’s just been waiting for the right time to give it to him.

The days blur into the usual rhythm of rehearsal-performance-rehearsal after that, interspersed with the small, self-contained bubbles of time that he gets to spend with Fergus. They get brunch together in Antwerp and dinner in Hamburg, walk along the remains of the Berlin Wall hand in hand and marvel at the Hofburg in Vienna. Karé and Snap tease the lovebirds but Jessika just waves them off with a knowing smile, and introduces Fergus to her girlfriend, so he’ll have someone to wander around town with during the long hours the band spends setting up for the show.

It’s Rome where Poe finally gets down on one knee, presenting Fergus with the ring on top of his coffee cup, which he’s covered all over with purple marker hearts. He wrote his speech in purple marker, too, on hotel notepaper that Fergus later has the good sense to find a sturdy envelope to pack in.

They’re both smiling a little too wide for the kiss to be anything but clumsy. Poe presses his forehead against his fiancé’s in the quiet, cobblestoned street, and together they laugh, and together they cry.

Karé is, predictably, the first person to spot the ring (which is half a size too large and keeps slipping off, they’ll have to get it resized) when they walk into soundcheck hand in hand the next day. Poe’s pretty sure her wolf-whistle reverberates around the entire world, but he’s honestly too happy to care.

(Wild fan theories about the lead singer’s obvious exuberance spring up like mushrooms in rain after the show that night.)

From Barcelona to Bangkok to Melbourne to Taipei, their wedding photo album begins to take shape. Fergus bought a little Polaroid camera for the trip; by the time they’re bracing for the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to JFK, their suitcases are crammed full of glossy paper memories.

When they get home, BB-8 and Cinnamon and Raisin and Toast greet them at the door. Poe holds up Fergus’ hand with the ring for his dad to see; Kes looks at it for a long time before hugging them both tight, shoulders shaking as he cries.

It’s past midnight and they’re jet-lagged and exhausted and giddy with delight, and all Poe can think is that forever begins today. Maybe it began when Fergus first walked into his life stammering over his coffee order, or maybe it’s been beginning this whole time and the truth only sank in when he gave his love his mother’s ring.

Maybe there was never a beginning, only a forever that goes on and on and never ends. And yeah, maybe Poe’s a massive dork, but he’s promised Fergus his forever—and he can’t wait to spend forever promising his love to him, again and again.

[5hfanfiction]

I ain't all bad

saw this prompt on tumblr and just yeah

wattpad is longerr_hours check out my other stuff

Camila’s very strict with her schedule. Not that she like, freaks out if she doesn’t get something done as she would like to, but she’s set in her ways. 

She wakes up at the same time, gets coffee at the same place with the same bagel and the same amount of sugar every single morning and has done her mornings this way for almost five years straight. 

Then she takes the same backroads and stops to wave to the same old lady on her porch and later orders the same sub for lunch and you can get that she has a distinct day planned out for, well, all of the days to come. 

She goes to her same evil laboratory everyday and walks in to greet her evil dog assistant every single day at the same exact time down to the minute (sometimes second if she’s feeling lucky and extremely cool). 

She fights with the same annoying super hero every night on the tracks of her least favorite, favorite city, and she usually (not really intentionally but it is part of her schedule at this point) gets her ass kicked back to her cosy apartment in the rough side of New York City. 

One of her favorite parts of her week though, is her friday night plan. 

Now, don’t think that she doesn’t like planning evil things to do in good cities. She prides herself in her abilities as a super villain and wouldn’t exactly say that her friday plans surpass the feeling of joy when she sees terror in the general public caused by her, but to Camila going to the diner is peaceful and a perfect way to end a usually perfect week. 

So yeah, she went to a diner right outside of her neighborhood named Dorothy’s, the sign bold and bright and kind of annoying probably to neighboring condo owners because Camila is sure the lights never go off, but she doesn’t mind, it’s actually what had drawn her towards the place in the first place. 

The first night she went in she ordered what anyone would order at an old fashioned restaurant, a burger and fries and chocolate milkshake and, guess what she still gets every single friday night? Damn right it’s a burger and fries and a chocolate milkshake. 

That’s what keeps her coming too. The delicious taste is something she hasn’t been able to find in all of her twenty five years of existing and she’ll be damned if she - that’s not true actually, like yeah it tastes fine as fuck but that’s not what keeps her coming, it’s kind of -and not to sound sappy or lovestruck or stupid of anything that Camila claims she isn’t - but it’s kind of a girl. 

Lauren was her name, and that’s about all Camila knew about the girl other than the fact that she looked like an angel and smiled and laughed like one too. She’d been serving Camila for the three years she’d been going into the diner in the same back booth (Camila was afraid of falling off bar stools which in her defense is understandable) every single friday night, until finally she knew the villain’s order, but they’d yet to make any small talk. 

Camila had made occasional jokes, some small chit chat about the weather or some shared laughs about another customer, and there was a clear connection since Camila was there so often she basically worked there, but there was nothing direct about their relationship. 

But yeah, in case the whole, “she’s the reason I come every friday” thing didn’t make it clear enough, Camila kind of - totally really has a crush on this girl. 

In her defense, she’s pretty sure everybody would have a crush on this girl though if they saw her and everybody else who goes into the diner is obviously fond of her. Like, she’s pretty but she’s also charming and cute and hot as fuck and like all the good in the world, and Camila can’t figure out why she loves that since she herself is so so evil (don’t fight her on it, she’s the evilest), but she does. 

She wouldn’t go as far as to say she loves Lauren since whoa slow down, they’ve never talked like real talk, chill, but she’s definitely in love with the thought of her, and she definitely has the biggest, most powerful crush in the world. (when you’re super evil you get used to describing everything as powerful soo).

But still, even if it wasn’t love per say she went into that diner every week to see her favorite waitress for an hour, to watch her (in the least creepy way possible) and to enjoy whatever small time she spent in simply giving Lauren her order, which the girl had down already but checked every time just in case it changed. 

This friday was much like every other one too. She’d just been defeated by Mr. Moseby, New York’s favorite super when she stumbled into Dorothy’s. She had a slight limp from being thrown a few blocks, but besides that she was in, well she was in a better mood than every other day of the week.  

Because the pretty waitress was serving an older couple near the door and smiled at her through the window when she saw her approaching. So now, she’s sat in her normal booth, looking at the menu as she does every week despite only ever getting the same thing, and trying not to get caught in her fleeting glances over to her waitress floating about just as charming as ever with a smile to each customer. 

That’s one thing Camila’s always loved about her presence. As you can maybe infer, Camila isn’t the most… positive person in the world. She’s a super villain, meaning she’s mastered evil and beyond, but every super villain has a super villain story and Camila is evil because she resents her awkwardness. Her ability to seem like a weirdo in every conversation she’s ever had.  (don’t say that’s not a good cause throw your h8 elsewhere.)

She resented people like Lauren in most circumstances. Their ability to charm their way out of any awkward encounter. The ability to make anybody laugh, or feel better, or anything other than uncomfortable. She hated people svn more when they were understanding of the awkward. The type of people who were so fricken charming that they would know when to change the topic, know when to take the weight of conversation off of someone else’s back. 

She thinks maybe she just doesn’t hate Lauren because she has a cute laugh. A cute everything else too. Lauren is too cute to hate. (And the first night she came Lauren gave her a free chocolate milkshake so yeah.)

It’s just, okay so Camila isn’t necessarily a bad super villain, but her name is Lady Terrordrome so yeah she’s kind of a bad villain. (she got it off of one of those websites that creates a super villain name for you when she was fourteen and okay it’s not good but dumb ass fucken Mr. Moseby won’t stop making fun of her for it so it stuck.)

(AN i totally just used one of those to give Camila a name and fight me if you don’t like it)

But so Lauren cheers her up, and as she approaches the table with a smile and little wave that’s so cute it hurts, Camila forgets all about the defeat that tasted so bitter tonight. 

“Good evening Camz,” Lauren grins, reaching for the menu which Camila hands her with a grin right back. “What can I get you tonight? Would you like to hear our specials?” she teases, a familiar glint in her eyes since she has been teasing for a while now after picking up on Camila’s tendencies to follow a strict schedule. 

“I would,” Camila agrees easily just because she likes hearing Lauren talk, and Lauren doesn’t hesitate to talk. “That all sounds lovely, but after thinking it over I’d like to have the usual please,” Camila smiles after a few moments of listening to Lauren list off their “specials”. (Really it’s just the funniest named meal combos they have, she’s been doing it for three months now, every week with a new one). 

And so yeah, it’s a good way to end the night, the week for Camila and she enjoys a nice meal and complimentary shake with it, not watching Lauren but keeping an eye for her favorite girl, lighting up a little more whenever she comes to ask Camila how her meal is going. 

Watching Lauren is usually just a thing she does cause she’s low-key creepy and also Lauren is Lauren. But tonight something different happens. 

So, like, there’s a biker gang type group that comes in every now and again. Not as much as Camila, but she’ll see them at least once a month and usually she’ll think nothing of it. It’s not really a biker gang, Camila is just childish and calls any gang a biker one since yeah. 

But the point is it’s a group of six thirty ish year old guys who come in and spend the whole night, and not in the peaceful way that Camila does, but they’re rowdy. They’re usually obnoxious in a way that has Camila cringing, but she’s never had to step in. 

Tonight is different. 

You see, they’re usually served by Ellen, a forty seven year old mom who’s been here long enough to know how to deal with guys like that and keep them on a leash. 

Ellen isn’t here tonight though, since she’s gone Lauren is on their table. 

Now Camila isn’t deaf, she actually has absurdly good hearing since she created a device to help with that years ago so she could enjoy the quieter cries of her enemies more, but she’s been hearing the cat calls all night and keeps wanting to step in but Lauren shoots her a look and she doesn’t because she doesn’t want to be too overbearing. 

“Gentlemen, if that’s what you want me to keep calling you I’m going to have to ask you to quiet down, there’s not a lot here but it’s been a long week, I don’t need this right now,” Lauren asks, after half an hour of having tot ell them to quiet down. 

“I can think of a few ways for you to get us to quiet down baby, you’ll just have to ask a little bit nicer,” one of the guys pipes up and, yeah those have been their disgusting responses for a while now but Camila is trying to let it go. 

“I’m going to have to kick you out if I have to come back one more time, and for good you hear?” Lauren threatens, spinning on her heal to make her way to the back. 

One of them smacks her ass on the way out though and Camila is on her feet before Lauren can send her the look of panic that she does. 

“I believe the lady asked for you to quiet down,” Camila pipes up, voice strong and stance stronger, leaning against the side of the booth behind the group of men and Lauren, who all startle at the voice and turn to face her. 

“Oh yeah? I think you misheard buddy,” one of them smirks, rolling his eyes as his friends chuckles at the seemingly weak girl trying to step in. 

Lauren sends her a look, pleading for help or to stop, but Camila doesn’t listen as she moves one hand slowly to her waistband. 

“I don’t think I did actually,” Camila replies, tone flat and hand ready to go if one of them moves. “And I think you owe her an apology for being so fowl with her as if you have any right.”

“Oh do you now?” one of the bigger ones asks, standing up and leaning forward, “I’d like to see you do something to try and stop me from-” as he’s saying this he’s reaching for the waitress, who easily slides away and towards Camila, but she doesn’t pay her mind as she pulls out her weapon and shoots at the group of men, quickly taking out one of them until there are six ice sculptures sitting at the table, eyes wide like Mr. Krabs’ eyes were when he was frozen by King Titus for stealing his crown. 

It’s silent then. Since they’re the ones who were making all the noise and the chefs in the back haven’t noticed the commotion out front yet. It’s just her and Lauren and the room, space they’re in is a little bit colder now. 

“That was umm… that was my freeze ray,” Camila supplies, hoping Lauren won’t freak out and call the cops or something. The raven haired girl is leaning against one of the tables, eyes wide still and pointed at Camila’s face now instead of the gun but she doesn’t really look scared, more shocked. Nows your time to shine Terrordrome. “I’d umm, I’d try it on you, but I figure you’re too hot for it’s effect to really-" 

"Holy shit,” Lauren cuts her off and Camila is kinda of shocked that instead of panic it’s laughter coming out of the girls mouth along with the swears, “Please tell me you’re Lady Terrordrome, please holy fuck nothing could possibly make my night better,” she continues and Camila would like, she’d kind of be offended, maybe, if Lauren wasn’t chuckling so cutely. Like, Lauren is so cute and she’s not teasing, she’s just laughing and Camila is laughing too now and. 

“I am,” she replies with a chuckle, “I’m hoping the fact that you’re laughing means you aren’t going to rule out giving a super villain a shot?” she continues, moving in a little closer and meeting Lauren’s smiling eyes with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well,” Lauren starts, still red with laughter and a hint in her eyes that Camila has seen and never quite placed but always found amazing, “I’ve always thought you were pretty super so I guess it makes sense now,” she smirks and Camila lets out a sigh of relief before Lauren continues, “and after the blow you suffered at Moseby’s feet tonight for running in the lobby, I wouldn’t want to add to it." 

Well like it’s kinda a soft spot bringing up the fresh defeat, but Camila doesn’t really care because it’s Lauren and she’s smiling. "That sounded like a yes to me,” Camila smiles and yeah, being evil has it’s perks sometimes. 

[redditnosleep]

The Aftermath

by Sergeant_Darwin

On October 16th, 2009, a boy by the name of Finn Carlton walked into the band room of my high school and closed the door behind him. He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and fired six shots. Then he tied his belt around a pipe on the ceiling and hanged himself.

Six shots; seven bodies. That’s what the authorities found when they entered the room. Finn’s victims were apparently made to kneel in a straight line before they were executed, and their half-eaten lunches had been spoiled by the carnage. Six rounds. Six heads. One bullet each.

Chloe Cannon—15 years old, loved the color blue, played the French horn. Cute in a mousy sort of way. Murdered.

Xavier Mayweather—15 years old, on the track team, always rode his bike to school. Murdered.

Ronald “RJ” Saldaz—16 years old, had a notebook he sketched in, already bought his tickets to the midnight premiere of the new Harry Potter movie. Murdered.

Zach Trainor—15 years old, 280 pounds, played the tuba. Refused, several times, to join the football team. Murdered.

Marianne Ortega—15 years old, barely spoke English, liked horror films. Murdered.

Christopher Carlton—16 years old, played the French horn, secretly dating Chloe Cannon. Murdered. By his older brother, no less.

I didn’t know any of these students in life. But I know them all too well in death. And I hate each one of them with my whole heart.

This all went down during my junior year. Our school was closed for a few days, but it’s amazing how quickly business as usual returns. A grief assembly, a memorial plaque in the band room, and bam—it’s like everyone’s forgotten. Everyone’s moved on. Everyone except me.

Myself, I never experienced the grief. I didn’t know any of these kids, and while I felt for my peers who were close to them, my life wasn’t really affected by their gruesome ends. Sure, there was the existential shock, the “life is fleeting” realization, but I’d already lost a sibling in a freak accident years before. I was familiar with death. That’s why, in the weeks following the tragedy, I didn’t have any trouble sleeping.

So there I was, a month after the shooting, on a school night, not having any trouble sleeping. I had forgotten to silence my phone, so when I got a text, it buzzed on the wooden nightstand near my bed. Groggily, I rolled over to check it and was instantly jerked awake by what I read:

IM GOING TO KILL HER BOTH OF THEM SURE WHY NOT

“Jesus,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the macabre message, a threatening collection of black pixels backed by a heartless electric glow. I found a morbid fascination then, as I do now, in letters—meaningless squiggles, by themselves, which can combine to strike with more terror than the steepest cliff or the most menacing beast. The combination of these particular squiggles drilled a strangely familiar fear into my heart.

I glanced to see what number the message had come from, but that field was blank. It appeared as though the text had not been sent by anything at all. Frantically, I hit reply: “What? Who is this??” I waited for a few minutes, but received no response. Unsettled, I got out of bed and turned on the light. I wanted to do something, I just didn’t know what. Finally, after staring around my room for a moment, I decided I’d splash my face with water.

I went to the bathroom and looked myself in the mirror. A good, long, hard look. Staring myself down, willing myself to get a grip. Finally, I splashed my face with the icy pour from the tap. I patted dry with the hand towel and went back into my room. My phone’s LED was blinking from the nightstand—I’d received a text message. I shut the door, turned off the lights and took a step toward my bed, wondering somewhat anxiously if the new message was a reply from whoever had sent the previous one. But I’d barely moved before I stopped dead in my tracks.

I wasn’t alone. There, hovering in front of my nightstand, faintly luminescent and barely visible, was a girl—a tiny, mousy-looking girl, a girl who was strangely pretty in a non-obvious way, a girl who would never celebrate her Sweet 16 or stretch her undersized legs to reach the pedals of a car. A girl who was dead.

Chloe Cannon wore a thin blue nightgown that reached her knees. Her feet did not touch my floor. She bobbed slightly, up and down in the air, seemingly staring not at me but at a point in the wall directly behind me. She appeared both solid and not—her skin had a distinct silver pallor yet I could see the light on my phone blinking through her torso. Her face looked vaguely sad. I could not move; I could not speak.

We remained still, together, for what felt an eternity. Finally, I convinced myself that I was imagining things. I took a step toward her. Then another. Another. But not another. I could not bring myself to step closer, because as I neared her, her face began to change. Her left cheekbone began to sag. Her skull began to dent. Her eyeball began to rotate and protrude from its socket. A dark spot began to appear amid her fine, silvery hair. I backed away in horror and the bullet’s fatal blow faded from sight as quickly and seamlessly as it had appeared. In desperate panic, I flicked the light switch up.

She was gone. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had been seeing things. I thought perhaps the shooting had affected me more than I’d let myself believe. Still, my knees wobbled—I could barely even stand. Bracing myself against the wall with my arm, I stared at the blinking notification light on my phone. Eventually, my curiosity over who had sent that morbid message was too much. I flicked off the light—no hovering girl, that was good—and scrambled into bed. Safely under my covers, I grabbed my phone and opened the second text message. This time, I found no morbid fascination in the squiggles before me. These five letters and two punctuation marks, backed by a harsh glow in the comfortless dark, carried only dread.

CHLOE :)

I didn’t know Finn Carlton. To this day, when people hear what high school I went to, they usually ask me if I was acquainted with the scrawny kid who murdered his brother and five others before stringing himself up in the pipes. They ask it with a sort of reality-show fascination, and it feels like they’re only asking so they can later tell their equally fascinated friends that they knew a guy who knew the guy. And their face always falls a bit when I say no, no I didn’t. I’d never seen him before.

Of course, that’s not entirely true. Finn actually didn’t live too far from me, and we both walked home from school most days. I was a year younger than him, and we truly didn’t know one another in the least. Not a word was ever exchanged between us. Still, I knew who he was. I stared at his backpack some days on my way home—black, with bright green trim. The green was my favorite shade. I have to admit, it was a pretty cool backpack.

I suppose part of the reason I tell people I didn’t know Finn is that it’s simpler than going into detail about how I really didn’t know him but I knew of him and sometimes stared at his backpack when I walked home from school. But there’s another reason, too, and I’m reminded of it every time his victims come to me, when I’m scared and cold and in lonely moments: I’m ashamed.

I checked myself into a loony bin (oh, pardon me, a psychiatric hospital) the year after I graduated. That’s how bad things had gotten. I’d never seen Chloe again, but I’d seen all the others. By this point, Xavier and Zach chilled in my room practically every night. They never hurt me—but if I got too close, their faces would fall out of place and their death wounds emerge.

If I’m being perfectly honest, they didn’t scare me that much. They didn’t seem to bear me ill will—apart from that bizarre message the night I saw Chloe, they seemed content to merely hang about, and their presence had become almost comforting. If they were real, I figured I could handle that. No, what truly frightened me was the idea that they might not be real, that I might in fact be out of my fucking mind. All I wanted was to live a normal life. Xavier, Zach and the others weren’t getting in the way of that, but a mental illness certainly would.

I thought it would be an easy process—“Hey, doc, I’m going nuts, can you lock me up for a while and hit me with some meds?”—but it’s not that simple. As it turns out, there’s a lot involved in admitting oneself into the farm, not the least of which is a series of probing interviews with psychiatric professionals. I know they mean well, but in my experience, chats with these quacks usually do more harm than good. They drag up stuff that your mind hides, and sometimes your mind hides that stuff for a reason. I must have met a dozen people who went in for a five-minute checkup and came out remembering how their uncle used to touch them when they were kids.

For me, it didn’t happen quite that way. I was in my third and final interview, this one with the head of the institution herself, when I finally remembered. It wasn’t gradual. It came all at once. I broke down sobbing, realizing what I’d done, what responsibility I bore. It’s a surreal experience, to forget. Not just to have something slip your mind, like where you put your keys, but to really, truly, forget. I wish I had forgotten forever.

Seeming a bit taken aback by my outburst, the hospital administrator signed a piece of paper and tried to hand it to me, telling me it would account for at least a ninety-day stay. But I barely heard. I wiped the snot from my nose, blinking back tears, and stared behind her in horror, where Chloe Cannon hovered, the strange sad look still etched on her face. It was the first time I had seen her since that night, long ago, in my room. I pointed behind the lady, shrieking.

“She’s there! She’s there!”

Now thoroughly alarmed, the administrator whipped her head around, and then, apparently seeing nobody, pressed a button on her desk. The paper she had been trying to hand over fluttered to the ground. As the men in the white coats came to restrain me, I wrenched my gaze from Chloe and looked at the paper, face up on the concrete floor. And as they dragged me from the room, I saw a message written, in the unmistakable handwriting of a teenage girl, where the administrator had signed:

WITH MY DADS GUN I GUESS OF COURSE I KNOW WHERE HE KEEPS IT

Chloe’s face, twisted in a cruel smirk, was the last thing I saw before all went black.

October 15th, 2009. Chloe Cannon and her friends had less than 24 hours to live. Of course, they didn’t know that then. Nobody did. It was just a regular day in our regular town.

School had been out for half an hour, and I was on my way home—and who was right in front of me? You guessed it, boys and girls, Finn Carlton. I walked a few dozen paces behind him, my feet crunching the leaves on the sidewalk, my breath barely visible in the brisk autumn air. I stared at the green trim on his black backpack. God, it was a good-looking backpack.

His head hung and his shoulders were slumped. That was odd. I mean, the kid never had great posture, but on this day he looked like his books weighed a hundred pounds. He was sniffling a lot, too. I can’t be sure, but I think he was crying.

I didn’t care much about that, though. Finn Carlton’s problems were none of my concern—at least, that’s what I thought at the time. No, most of my thoughts were on my mother. She didn’t have work that day, and that usually meant she had a damn fine meal waiting for the family at home. And I know you all think your mothers can cook a damn fine meal, but trust me, they wouldn’t even compare.

Anyway, Finn had barely even crossed my mind until he reached in his pocket. He pulled out a ringing cell (a flip phone—2009 was a simpler time) and answered it.

“What do you want?” His voice seemed thick, like a guy trying to sound more masculine than he felt.

At first, my ears barely even registered the first half of the conversation.

“No, I can’t . . . I can’t ask her . . . Because, man, I think you already know . . . Dude, she’s with Chris . . . Yes, my brother Chris, what other fucking Chris would I be talking about?”

My ears perked up a bit. Drama. Just what I needed to take the boredom out of this brutally dull walk. I quickened my stride somewhat, hoping to get a bit closer and catch more of the conversation. I took care to avoid the leaves on the sidewalk, not wanting to draw Finn’s attention to my presence. He continued:

“No, I’m not guessing, I saw them kiss . . . I don’t know, next to the band room . . . Are you fucking high? Of course it was her . . . Yeah, you’re telling me. I feel like shit. I’m losing my fucking mind over here.”

I didn’t know who the girl he mentioned was, but I did know of his brother Chris. He was a year younger than me, and it always struck me as strange that he and Finn were related—while Finn was quiet, scrawny, and a bit morose-seeming, Chris was a handsome, upbeat kid who gave off the impression that he was going places in life.

“Oh yeah, dude, that was the last straw,” Finn continued, his voice shaking with rage. “You have no fucking idea how done I am with this shit.” Then he was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke again, and his voice sounded different. Lower. Meaner.

“I’m going to kill her . . . Both of them, sure. Why not?”

My blood instantly turned to ice. I stopped dead in my tracks. Did he just say what I think he just said?

Finn laughed, a harsh, excited laugh, then spoke again. “With my dad’s gun, I guess . . . Of course I know where he keeps it.”

My head was reeling. I stood, alone, on the sidewalk, my breath short and my heartbeat quick. I tried to force what I had just heard from my mind. Surely he couldn’t be serious. But God, he sounded like he was. He sounded deadly serious. I don’t think I’ve heard that tone of voice from anyone else in my life.

Finn had continued walking and was almost out of earshot. He stepped further and further away, and I had no interest in hearing any more of his conversation. I felt sick to my stomach. I was only close enough to hear one final sentence before he trailed off:

“I don’t know, man—tomorrow’s as good a day as any.”

It happened the next day, at lunch. I was in the cafeteria, sitting at the usual table with the usual people, when a pop, muffled but clearly audible, rang through the air. A few seconds passed, then another. Another. Another. By the third pop, the cafeteria was silent. By the sixth, pandemonium had ensued. Students trampled over one another in their flight to the west exit, away from that sound. Teachers tried unsuccessfully to give the mob order. Everyone—myself included—was getting the hell out of there.

As I ran with the crowd, my thoughts were with Finn Carlton, who was presently undoing his belt and staring at a pipe on the ceiling of the locked band room. Those pops rang in my head, grisly echoes playing over and over and over, getting louder and louder and louder. This is your fault, is all I can think. This is your fault.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang!

The final knock on my cell door awoke me. Perhaps cell is too harsh a word—it was a nice room. They took good care of me. Still, when I climbed out of bed and saw those beautiful words on my calendar—DAY 90—I dressed with a little pep in my step.

I could have left at any time, of course, but the paperwork would have been so complicated. That, and I couldn’t think of anything better to do on the outside. So I stayed, for three long months, talking to therapists and swallowing pills and sharing my feelings in hilarious group circles with other inmates who were actually crazy. And that’s the thing, the one thing I learned from my time in the funny farm: They were crazy. I wasn’t.

No, Chloe Cannon was real, in life and in death—as real as my fingers flying over my keyboard right now, telling you my story. Her secret boyfriend, Christopher Carlton, he’s real too. So is Xavier Mayweather, and Marianne Ortega, and RJ Saldaz, and every last pound of big Zach Trainor. They’re all real, realer to me than they ever were alive, even though they’re all lying in the frozen December ground with traces of lead still in their heads. They’re all real, and they won’t leave me alone, and why should they?

I’m the reason RJ never got to use those Harry Potter tickets. The newspapers reported tirelessly on the victims after the shooting, and one of the details they really harped on was that RJ was a huge Harry Potter fan and that he’d bought tickets for the upcoming midnight premiere months in advance. I think J.K. Rowling even sent some nice shit to his family. I didn’t catch the movie in theaters, but I got it on Redbox a few months later. I wish I could say I was alone when I watched it, but RJ didn’t miss a single frame.

I’m the reason that the kiss shared between Chloe Cannon and Chris Carlton, the kiss they meant to hide but that was seen by a jealous brother anyway, was their last. I’m the reason Xavier never broke five minutes in the mile, the reason Marianne never learned better English, the reason Zach never lost all the weight he’d meant to. I’m the reason they’re all dead.

I got Chloe’s final message in an email two years ago:

TOMORROWS AS GOOD A DAY AS ANY

--CHLOE :)

Though I see her every night, she hasn’t spoken to me since. There’s so much she could say, but I think she’s choosing—somehow, some way—to let it remain unsaid. Isn’t it better if I fill in the gaps?

What’s it like to still be alive?

How can you live with yourself?

You could have saved us.

She never says it. None of them ever do. I don’t even know if they can. But as they crowd around my bed every night, all six of them, I can feel it in their stares. They all want to be alive, and they’ll haunt me as long as I draw the breath they crave. I’m not crazy, I’m not hallucinating, I’m not a freak—I’m simply and overwhelmingly consumed by guilt.

I have a gun that I keep in the corner of my closet, a gun not unlike the one Finn Carlton stole from his dad’s dresser, in a box that you could only find if you’re looking for it. I look for it sometimes. I pull it out sometimes, too. And every once in a while, I put a bullet in it, close the chamber, and hold it to my temple with a trembling, sweaty palm. Every time I do, I feel my six friends, my six tormentors, cheering me on. But I’ve never pulled the trigger. Not yet. I guess the time’s just never seemed right, but perhaps there’s no sense in putting it off any longer. From where I sit now, I can see the box—just the corner, peeking out from the top of my closet. Taunting me. Daring me. When will I give in?

I don’t know, man—tomorrow’s as good a day as any.