#And the moments that strike him as hard spurring him to drink add to that

[archonoclasm]

Dorian, in a measure that is worrying, drinks to cope with his discomforts. His problem with drink, however, isn't at such a level where he constantly finds himself unable to function. He's a mage of great talent, naturally, and is in the Inquisition's close party as an invaluable asset. That said, being coherent is at least substantially imperative and, for the world's fate, the least that's due. Still, though he isn't consistently brined and stewed to a degree without any sense, Dorian nonetheless wants a drink when things get troubling, uncomfortable, and a lot a bit pained.

[Dorian, when being checked on by the Inquisitor after their meeting with Halward]: At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of day.

It isn't that Dorian drinking after such an emotionally loaded conversation is concerning. That's understandable. It's that Dorian seems to reach for something over casual moments as well. It's that he drinks in excess enough that those around him are aware.

Dorian: I'm to be restricted from the wine cellar? That's outrageous. Josephine's Assistant: She's also considering asking you to replace the fourteen bottles you took. Dorian: Just fourteen? I should consider myself lucky.

It's that he drinks alcohol he genuinely dislikes because it's still something.

Blackwall: Dorian, I can't believe you drank that swill at the tavern [...] why did you drink it? Dorian: I couldn't stop. With each sip it was 'it can't be that bad, can it?' Before I knew it, I was analyzing the nuances of its flavor, observing its effect on my nausea. I was in a catatonic trance, fueled by the stench of disgusting dwarven ale. Blackwall: Or you're a drunkard with terrible taste.

Dorian can still carry himself well. He can still hold himself with dignity and with all the grace an over 'indulgent' and 'insatiable' Tevinter can. Dorian drinks to smother uncomfortable feelings and partly because it's a habit he'd developed largely in his youth. For Dorian, he doesn't talk about his emotions and has learned that it isn't very safe to show his heart as a son of a magister. After all, he's rivals up against him and a horde of snapping nobles who would oh so love to reap his position, but saddle that as well with his emotionally barren parents? No. Dorian does not talk. Dorian drinks — for pleasure, yes, but also as a crutch.

[justasparkwritings]

Merry & Bright {9}: Shawty, With You

Previous: May All Your Christmases Be White

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Swearing! Kissing!

Summary: Yoongi’s been too nervous, and awkward, and embarrassed, to kiss you. With a nudge from his friends, will he finally do it? 

          Yoongi moves absentmindedly through the Christmas party. It’s a mix of who’s who in the music scene, a wanna be Quincy Jones Grammy party outfitted with the hottest celebs, elves and a high society mall Santa. Somewhere in the mix of celebrities and B-listers, Yoongi knows, is you.

           You, no doubt dressed in an ethereal holiday outfit, make up flawless and striking, resembling something straight from Euphoria, and if he knows you, laughing. God, Yoongi loves your laugh, the trill notes you hit in your giggle, the way your smile showed your double set of dimples, chocolate eyes squinting as you lost yourself in bliss. The smile you made when you’d calmed down, not gummy like his, but dazzling, blinding, Helen of Troy sent men to war over her beauty, and if you were any less otherworldly, you could destroy the galaxy.

           “You have to talk to her,” Namjoon urges, moving to stand next to Yoongi.

           “I don’t even know if she’s here,” Yoongi says, eyes scanning the crowd.

           “Text her,” Namjoon says.

           “No,” Yoongi shakes his head.

           “Make a move before she finds someone else to kiss at midnight,” Namjoon takes a sip of his drink, eyebrows raised. “I’m right.”

           “Namjoonie, leave me alone,” Yoongi blushes, gently shoving his maknae.

           “At least come dance with us,” Namjoon nudges him towards the dance floor, and he resigns himself to partake.

           “Let me get a drink first,” Yoongi counters, and reluctantly Namjoon allows Yoongi out of his sight.

           Drifting to the bar, Yoongi bumps into a countless number of celebrities, all looking at him with confusion and recognition in their eyes. They can tell he’s important, the way he holds himself, the manner he’s dressed… It screams of his status, but they can’t place him. K-pop absolutely, but which group? And after they determine the group, which member? Yoongi appreciates his anonymity, though racist, as he brushes against Jimin at the bar.

           “Suga-hyung!” Jimin calls, smile dancing on his lips. He wraps his arm around his shoulders, dragging him to the front of the line with him.

           “How deep are you?” Yoongi asks, laughing at the blatant intoxication of Jimin and Jungkook.

           “Get on our level!” Jungkook yells, giggling immediately as the words fall from his lips.

           “Fine,” Yoongi orders three shots, tosses them back and turns to his maknae. “Happy?”

           “Let’s dance!” Jimin calls. He takes the hand of each man and guides them to the dance floor. An EDM version of Last Christmas fades as a dance-pop remix of Jingle Bell Rock takes its place. The seven men have a way of finding each other regardless of circumstance, regardless of the crowds around them… Their hearts beat together. Tonight, though hammered nearly into oblivion, they’ve managed to find one another on the dance floor. To say they’re a spectacle would be an understatement. It’s hard to dance anywhere when Jimin, Ho-Seok, Taehyung and Jungkook could wipe the floor with anyone that tried, and tonight is no different.

           They laugh and sing as they groove, only stopping when Yoongi stands still, eyes staring at a figure in the distance.

           You’re laughing with some guy he doesn’t recognize, the light of the nearby Christmas tree illuminating your dimples, gold eye liner striking a contrast against your warm skin. Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s staring until Taehyung is in his face, drunken smile dancing on his boxy lips.

           “Yoongi-ah go say something,” Taehyung urges.

           “He’s too scared,” Ho-Seok adds.

           “Just remind her how handsome you are… Oh wait, that’s me!” Jin laughs at his bad joke, which elicits an eyeroll from Namjoon and a giggle from Jimin.

           “She doesn’t care,” Yoongi shrugs, ear trying to make out the new song the DJ is scratching.

           “That’s a lie and you know it, she likes you,” Taehyung teases.

           “How would you know?” Yoongi questions, eyes suspicious.

           “Get her under the mistletoe and find out!” Taehyung turns from him, laughing with Ho-Seok as they begin some choreography he doesn’t recognize.

           “Oo, kiss her underneath the mistletoe!” Jungkook says, his mind catching up to what Taehyung had suggested.

           “That’d be so romantic,” Jimin adds.

           “Then you’d know,” Namjoon says. He glances past Yoongi at you. You’re stunning, merriment pouring from you like light from the angels. He knows Yoongi is smitten, the flirting and banter you’ve exchanged over the last few months, the dates that haven’t quite been dates, the longing stares and gentle touches Yoongi hoped he hadn’t dreamed… Namjoon had seen it all. He hoped that being in LA for the holidays would spur his hyung on, give him the courage to seal the deal or be gently rejected, and here he stood, at the hottest Christmas party of the season, standing, staring, unmoving.

           Namjoon turned to his brothers, and in a quick huddle they hatched a plan. Yoongi wasn’t clueless, but he could be misdirected, especially when he was drunk, especially when you were involved.

           Guiding Yoongi back to the bar, Namjoon turned quickly into the crowd, leaving Yoongi alone. Annoyed, he started walking back to the dance floor, only to be grabbed by Jimin who said Namjoon was at the other bar, on the opposite side of the room. Nodding, Yoongi started making his way through the crowd to the opposite side, only to be distracted by Taehyung and Jin, laughing uproariously, guiding him towards the buffet and away from the bar. Somewhere between the buffet and circling around the pool, Yoongi is left alone, taking in his surroundings.

Where the fuck is he?

           He turns to walk back the way he came, bumping into you. In the distance he sees Namjoon and Ho-Seok, giving him a thumbs up. He suppresses his instinctive eye roll.

           “Fuck,” He says, arms intuitively wrapping around your waist to keep you from falling.

“Sorry,” He breathes.

           “It’s o- Min Yoongi,” You smile, lipstick still impeccably placed. “Funny running into you here.”

           “I, uh, yeah,” Yoongi’s immediately flustered, cheeks crimson as he tries to glance away from you.

           “I’ve been looking for you, your friends said you’d be here,” You say, hands tightening around his biceps. He gets the hint and tries to relax but having you in his arms is electrifying.

           “Hmm, they led me on some wild goose chase to I guess, find you,” He shrugs.

           “Isn’t that romantic?” You laugh, eyes glancing above you. Yoongi copies you, eyes going embarrassingly wide as he takes in what hangs above you. Mistletoe.

           Yoongi stops staring at the plant, which he assumes is plastic, and dares to lock eyes with you.

           “I, uh, I’m,” He’s flustered, and it’s making your knees weak.

           “We don’t have to, we can just, walk away?” You offer, a hint of disappointment in your voice. Whether you want Yoongi to detect it or not, he does.

           “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Yoongi says. His dominant hand moves swiftly from your waist to cup your cheek and in a decisive moment, his lips are on yours. They’re soft and gentle, skillful and patient.

           In the distance, Yoongi’s brothers whoop and holler before tossing back another shot and dispersing to go back to dancing.

           Under the mistletoe, you and Yoongi remain, lips intertwined.

Next: All I Want Is You

[s-c-r-i-p-s-i]

Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker

[Dead by Baelight’s Kinktober // Day 8 and 18 : Outfit/Skin, Cornered]

🖤  🖤   🖤 “Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence. “Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair. “Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.” 🖤  🖤   🖤 Pairing: Deathslinger (Caleb Quinn) x F! Reader

Rating: Explicit

CW: non-con/dub-con, bondage, drinking, smut, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4,927

Something… odd had been happening lately.

Not the cankerous growths and sickly orange flowers that were always so abundant this time of year - or whatever passed for a year in this everlasting hell. By no means was that unprecedented.

Ask anyone who’d been there long enough to know and they’d tell you; there was a certain… cyclicity to things. Recurring phenomenon - the red envelopes, the flowers, the mysterious gifts wrapped up like Christmas presents. Always sequential, always in order, like some crude imitation of seasons. (And for what? No one ever aged a day.)

No, this was something new.

And new, in the Entity’s realm, was never a good thing. But… You had to admit, this seemed mostly harmless.

Look - It’s not like you were ever really in control of what you wore here, anyway. Most of the time, you were just stuck with whatever clothes you were wearing when you rolled into the fog. Sometimes She (that omnipotent thing in the sky) threw you in something else. Nobody ever really paid it much mind. The Entity worked in mysterious ways. And people, frankly, had more important shit to worry about.

But then when the flowers started blooming this year, things got a little weird.

She -…

She started putting people in costumes.

Cheap polyester numbers, mostly - the kind you’d buy from a big-box store, straight from one of those awful clear vinyl bags.

…It was starting to look a lot like Halloween. Jack-o’-lanterns even began appearing, scattered around the campfire and adorning the generators.

And nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Hell, not everyone even knew what Halloween was. You had quite the diverse cast; some people weren’t even from the same world as you.

The general vibe around the campfire was just… mild amusement if anything. You had a chuckle, then moved on. That was just the way of things. Everyone had these… survivor blinders on. You guess it was hard to get phased by something so minor when you all got murdered on the daily, but…

But you weren’t content with that.

You always had trouble just accepting things at face value. You wanted to know why.

Like - was the Entity stroking out? Things always did get a little strange around this time. Almost as if She were sick.

It was rare, but there were these little… Well, Feng called them glitches, and it was apt a term as any. Just little things, here and there, like She couldn’t quite enforce the rules of her own game.

Almost everything in this world seemed to be harvested from people’s memories. So… Maybe she was starting to pull things at random. Spiraling.

Was this the synaptic failure of a dying god?

Probably not, but there was nothing to do besides let your mind wander, and it was the only theory you had.

And then….

Then She whisked you away to Frontierland in the gaudiest slutty sheriff costume known to man and pit you against the goddamn cowboy.

Yeah, no - that was about a step too far to have been a happy accident.

Maybe you were thinking too hard. Maybe She just had a fucked up sense of humor.

When the fog cleared, you found yourself in the saloon with the others. You half-heartedly laughed it off (“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Very funny.”) and then moved on. Business as usual.

But not before rolling your eyes and discreetly downing one of the liquor minis from the shitty novelty booze bandolier sewn to your costume behind everyone’s backs.

At least She had the decency to stock it.

You were finishing up cleansing a totem when you heard the telltale crack of a gunshot split the air from all the way across the map. Not anywhere close enough to be dangerous, but a dead giveaway as to who you were up against.

…And cold hard proof that your little outfit was far from coincidence. The literal and proverbial smoking gun.

The moment you heard it you deflated, head falling back.

Seriously? What the fuck was She playing at?

Why you?

It wasn’t much of a conscious decision; you found yourself plucking another bottle from your bandolier and knocking it back without a whole lot of thought. You were obviously going to need it. Staring blankly ahead, you incredulously shook your head as you thumbed the moisture from your lip.

Okay. Alright. That was it, for now, you decided.

The Entity gave you a fully loaded bandolier - seriously, you were armed to the teeth with the little mini bottles, to the point it was actually kind of heavy. But you already felt a little weak in the knees after just two shots. It had been a while, so your tolerance was understandably nil. You didn’t want to be useless to your team. More importantly, it now felt critical you get out of there without running into the killer.

The Deathslinger was one of those ones. Not overly talkative, like a couple of the killers were, but he definitely got a kick out of the whole thing. There was a stark difference between the two camps, so to speak - the ones who only seemed like they killed because they had to, and the ones who were completely in their element. And he was obviously one of the latter.

It was that goddamn laugh. Low and sultry. Chuckling whenever he hooked someone or when a survivor did something exceptionally dumb. Even when you weren’t the target of it, you’d come to associate it with pure humiliation.

And you just knew that he’d take one look at you, in your stupid sheriff costume, and… Oh. You were steaming mad only thinking about it.

So you made it your personal mission to avoid him this trial. And to do that, you had to actually get out. Which meant no more drinks for you!

You should have known She had other plans.

You did your best to keep a low profile, tried to make sure you were on the opposite side of the map from him at all times, while still being useful. A difficult balancing act.

But you couldn’t just leave your friends hanging.

When you saw Meg’s aura flare out in distress as she was lowered onto the hook, you began making your way over, quick and quiet and praying to every god you knew that he would be long gone by the time you got there.

And, lucky you, there was no sight of him. So you crept towards the hook, privately taking solace that at least you weren’t alone in the goof factor; Meg was all dressed up like Wendy - the fast-food icon. The Entity really outdid herself, the braids were right on the nose, and you were almost loosey-goosey enough to make some stupid quip. Almost. Maybe when she wasn’t dangling from a meat hook.

You pulled her off the hook with care, but just as her feet touched the ground, another gunshot rang out, this time much louder. A spear whizzed by so close that you could hear it shear through the air just before it embedded itself in the post, inches away from you both. No sooner had you whipped your head around to find the source than the sound of shoes pounding against the ground filled your ringing ears.

You looked back and Meg was gone. Peeled off like a bandaid.

You decided you better get the hell out of Dodge too.

First things first, you needed to get out of the open; that was just asking to get shot. So you made a mad dash for the saloon. You figured you had a good head start since it should have taken him a hot minute to retrieve the harpoon, dislodge it from the hook, shove it back in the gun… Sounded like a whole ass process.

Except, when you looked back behind you he was hot on your tail. Trail. Hot on your trail.

You made a snap judgment, deciding you’d try and lose him by running up to the second story. Was it cheap? Absolutely. He obviously had some kind of bum leg, unless that brace was some kind of bold fashion statement. Not that it had ever slowed him down, any. But you were desperate. And all’s fair in love and war, right?

Swiftly turning the corner, you galloped up the stairs and dove into the first room you saw, hopping through the window.

By the time your eyes adjusted to the indoors and you realized it was a dead-end, it was too late. The only other exit was boarded up, and you could hear his boots unhurriedly thumping up the creaky steps like he was in no rush at all. Step. Step. You rushed to the boarded-up door and gave it a good open-palmed slam to test its strength - you’d seen killers smash through these like they were cardboard, but it just wouldn’t budge. Shit.

He was getting closer. You could hear his spurs. Hissing, you banged your fist against the boards in frustration. What, impending injury wasn’t bad enough? She had to add insult, too?

The footsteps stopped, and so did everything else, it felt like. Holding your breath, you slowly began to turn around. There he was in the window, backlit and silhouette, dusty sunlight filtering through his ghostly white hair. You had to admit, he cut a striking figure, something cinematic. There was just the trouble of the gun. Aimed right at you.

Didn’t have to climb over the window if he just reeled you to him. Smart man.

Before you could think to dive for cover or something smart like that, he began lowering the gun. It was hard to tell what expression he was wearing, backlit as he was, but you could feel those spectral eyes looking you up and down. From your cheap western style boot covers, all the way up your legs to your fluffy petticoat and layered skirts, the ill-fitted booze bandolier slung around your shoulder… and finally, the gold, plastic 5 point sheriff star nestled between your tits.

Oh God. Here it comes…

He didn’t even have to say a word, hot embarrassment already surging to the surface before he even opened his mouth.

“Well. Pardon me.” You could make out the glint of dirty teeth in the dark as his grin spread. “Didn’t know you were an elected official.”

Why the hell was he exempt from this bullshit, anyway? You’d seen Ghostface in a devil costume, and Myers in a cat ear headband, so you knew they weren’t immune. Maybe the Entity thought he looked stupid and campy enough as is. But… she couldn’t have dressed him up as Woody from Toy Story or something? He probably wouldn’t have gotten it, but you would have found it funny. Maybe then you wouldn’t have felt so small and humiliated.

You hated this. You didn’t even know what to say until he started climbing over the window. Then you had a pretty clear idea.

“Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence.

“Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair.

“Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.”

And on that note, he finally tipped it back - you watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed it down. Shaking the empty bottle at you, he slipped it back into its holster on your belt. “Bit frivolous, you know.” He commented, curling his finger in and snapping it back. “A flask does just fine. No need to reinvent the wheel.”

“Right, well,” you huffed, and moved to squeeze past him - he was clearly in good humor, at least, so maybe he’d let you off easy. Wasn’t a little whiskey and a laugh good enough?

Apparently not.

You were immediately met with an arm shooting out, hand landing right beside your head, caging you in.

“Woah there, where d’ya think you’re going, sweetheart?” He smirked down at you, a crooked thing that flashed his teeth, scarred lip snagged over a canine. You’d never noticed before, but one of his incisors had a gold crown. Now that you’d noticed, you couldn’t stop looking at it, the alcohol still floating around in your bloodstream turning you into some sort of easily distracted magpie. He was missing one of his bottom teeth, too. It was… kind of a mess in there, huh? Smelled like whiskey and tobacco.

“You got me all the way up here, I’m not too keen on leaving already.” Sliding his hand from the door, he guided you away by the small of your waist, and you… you just kind of let him, stiltedly trying to follow his direction.

“So how about you…” You reached the bed and he grabbed you by your shoulders, turning you round to face him. “Just sit your pretty ass down.” Just a slight push and you were bouncing on the bedsprings, palms catching your fall.

In the back of your mind you were already fearing the worst, but much to your surprise he just sat down next to you on the edge of the mattress, looking almost comically large and out of place on the twin-size bed. All you could do was blink at him dumbly, unsure what was happening.

He took a long breath through his nose. It felt like forever before he finally released it and said, “Have a drink with me.”

“I…” You drew out the word dubiously, clearly meaning to decline. You were already too tipsy for comfort considering present company was a killer.

“Didn’t ask,” He said gruffly, pulling two bottles from your bandolier and offering you one. “Indulge an old man. Or we’ll do it the hard way.”

Hard to argue with that! You didn’t know what the hard way was, but you didn’t want to find out. So you took the bottle, lips pulling together in a tight, awkward half-smile when he clinked his against yours.

This was weird. Awkward, and in a whole different way than you’d been preparing yourself for.

You actually found yourself glad for the burn that flooded your body as you downed the shot, heat loosening your tense limbs and taking the edge off this… incredibly odd situation, if only slightly.

Besides the obvious threat, it felt like maybe, despite everything… he was really just a lonely old man. In want of someone to drink with. A slice of normality. Isn’t that what you all wanted? You guessed it couldn’t hurt. It was keeping him away from the generators, anyway. Buying you all some extra time.

And… maybe this was what the Entity wanted. The reason she brought you here like this.

“Now, miss,” He spoke, and you turned your gaze up to him, blinking owlishly, your head swimming. There was a lot to take in at this distance. All these different textures. Scars and stubble and pockmarks. You found it all fascinating. “I’ve got to be frank with you.”

You know, you hadn’t really heard him speak at length before, but you were starting to realize that his whole aesthetic, he didn’t really sound straight out of a spaghetti western like you might expect. There was a trace of that, especially in his vocabulary, but his accent was much more reminiscent of… Canada, somehow. With a slightly Irish lilt.

It was ludicrously unexpected, and something about it just made a dopey smile float onto your face. You didn’t even realize you were doing it, until his eyes drifted down, and he huffed with almost fond incredulity.

“Think that’s funny, huh?”

You’re almost positive you missed something he said. You heard it, you just didn’t… process it right. This time when he spoke, you tried to pay attention.

“I don’t usually go taking what ain’t mine, but damn if you don’t look like a present addressed just to me.”

It was your turn to huff, bobbing with amusement. “Okay, cowboy, I know what it looks like, but…” It wasn’t like you chose this outfit.

“Honey,” he interrupted, “I think you’ve mistaken me for the wrong kinda wrangler. It’s not cows I’m after.” He paused, tipping his head as if reconsidering, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But if a heifer’s in need of a good driving…”

It took you a solid minute for your brain to catch up. He was content to watch the cogs turn until it did.

He just called you a cow!

A cow in need of a good dicking!

Your mouth hung open in shock and he - he just laughed.

“Little slow on the uptake, aren’t cha? Had a few already? How bout one more?” His hand began trailing up your leg, dirty fingers slowly dipping beneath your pure white petticoat.

Suddenly, one thing was very clear.

You had to get out of here.

Shaking your head, you tried to stand, but you were swiftly reeled back as soon as your feet hit the ground, pulled into a hard lap, all bones and brace and knobby knees and God knows what else.

“We’re gonna have one more,” his voice materialized right beside your ear, tone final as he pulled another mini from your belt. You shook your head, whimpering some protest between tightly closed lips as he pressed the bottle to your mouth. Behind you, you heard him sigh through his nose like a beleaguered bull. Then his other hand came round your face, pinching your nose shut.

You didn’t wait around for your lungs to give out. There wasn’t any point in that. You knew he wasn’t going to give in. But you did. Almost immediately. Your lips parted for air and got tequila instead, swallowing sloppily as you tried not to choke, rivulets of amber dripping down your chin while he murmured, “There you go… Nice and easy…”

His hand lowered to your throat to tip your head back, your world spinning as a wet sensation dragged across your chin, the man licking up the tequila in one broad and obscene lick. That rotten chuckle inundated your senses. “Awful cute when ya can’t even keep your eyes straight.” He tapped his fingers along the column of your throat, adding in afterthought. “Awful cute anyway, but I’m not really in the mood to fight just for a little company tonight. You gonna be good for me now, darling?”

“…Uh-huh.” You nearly sobbed out the sound, voice meek and pathetic. But you’d be lying if you weren’t starting to feel… sweaty under your skirts, inner thighs getting embarrassingly slick. That always happened when you were drunk, but never this bad.

And despite all the awfulness churning in your stomach, you still felt heat pool in your gut as he cooed, “Good girl. Not at dumb as you look, are you?”

You didn’t even realize he was actually expecting an answer until he probed again, “Are you?”

You quickly shook your head.

Humming, he seemed to accept that, because he was soon re-adjusting you on his lap and catching your lips with his in a messy kiss. He tasted strong and dry, your tongue prickling like your taste buds were trying to retract at the mere slide of his against yours; like salt on a slug. When his hand crept up your skirt this time, you didn’t try to stop him, even as his middle finger began tracing your sopping panties, dipping into the wet seam. You could scarcely think, devolved into a gooey pile of nerves and feelings that he was amusedly plucking at.

Peeling your panties aside, his fingers parted your folds, a pleased rumble emanating in his throat and vibrating in your mouth when his thumb brushed against your clit and your hips twitched in response.

You were gasping for breath by the time he finally pulled his mouth away, but he gave you no time to recover, already pressing two fingers past your resistance. In some attempt to ground yourself, you grasped at his arm as they began curling and pumping inside you, but your weak, drunk grip made it about as easy as catching clouds.

At some point, your barely-there vision drifted towards the window and you dimly realized you were facing it, completely exposed. That if anyone came up the stairs, they’d be able to see everything.

You’d just have to hope his heartbeat would be enough to keep them far away from the saloon. Eyes fluttering to the ceiling, you pushed the thought from your mind. It wasn’t hard. Not when the feeling in your stomach was reaching a fever pitch, nearing the point of no return.

In some ways, he was a lot gentler than you were expecting. Which was good, because you felt hopelessly vulnerable right now, helpless and disorientated in his lap, his looming over you making your mixed up brain feel protected even though some part of you knew that wasn’t right.

Everything felt numb except where he touched you; the heat of his breath on your neck, the kisses he pressed to your skin, the scrape of his beard, the brush of his long hair against your shoulder. All your wires were crossed, every little sensation going straight to your core.

Gasping out as your climax crashed over you, your hips lurched, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand. Unbothered, he just kept stroking you through it until your hips finally began to sink back down and your cunt stopped desperately trying to milk his fingers. Withdrawing slowly, he pressed them into your open mouth, the tang of your own juices spreading across your tongue. You didn’t know what it said about you that your blind instinct was to obediently suck, but that’s what you did, and he breathed out in a low, steady hiss.

“Careful, now. Fool me too good and I might have to keep you.”

Pulling away, he encouraged you to lay on the bed, settling between your legs. You watched the ceiling drift then snap back to place every time you blinked while he fiddled with something - you weren’t sure what until he was fixing your arms above your head and the apparently not-so-novelty handcuffs from your costume were being snapped around your wrists.

Then his hands were skating over you appreciatively, over your ribcage, the curvature of your waist almost reverently. “Guess the good Lord finally answered my prayers.” He murmured, flicking the plastic sheriff star between your bosom. “Not really how I woulda done it, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh? After all…” The man sighed, fingers curling into the top of your blouse and slowly dragging the gingham fabric down over your breasts until they were revealed to his eerie, quietly covetous eyes. “We don’t exactly have all the time in the world, do we?”

What was that even supposed to mean? It seemed to you as if you had nothing but time. Maybe not in this particular trial - and as if to punctuate that thought, you felt a generator kick to life, the familiar thrum of hope in your bones.

Did he know something you didn’t? Or were you just too foxed to follow?

Exhaling, he rolled his hands over your breasts, admiring the feel of them for just a moment. It seemed like he wanted to take his time with you, but the reminder that you were on a timer was the spur in his side that eventually pushed him to move on.

You heard him audibly fiddling with his belts and wondered if you were getting out of this alive. It was cold comfort, but at least you’d probably managed to save everyone else. Not very heroic when it wasn’t even really your decision. But it was something. Maybe. Something to cling to as you felt the heat of him slide across the mess he’d made of you.

Whimpering, you curled inwards from your core as he entered you, bound hands lifting up and both grasping at his chest at the feeling of being run through. By no means was it violent. It didn’t hurt, exactly. But it had been a long time, and he was unforgivingly long and solid and foreign. An intrusion on your body.

“That’s it. There you go, gorgeous. Hang onto me.”

You did, your hands abandoning his chest to loop over his neck, accidentally knocking the hat off his head in your bound fumbling. He didn’t seem to care, swooping down to take your lips again while you struggled to get used to the feeling of him moving inside you.

With how wet you already were, it didn’t take all that long before pleasure started to win out, every little bump and grind against your sweet spot pulling you closer to the edge again, his mouth muffling the pathetic stream of sounds trying to escape yours.

This time, the fall from the top was a slow one, liquid heat spilling out across your core - though you weren’t quite aware how literally until you felt it physically starting to pool beneath you, a wave of embarrassment flaring when you’d realized what just happened. Okay - you didn’t - that had never happened before, drunk or not.

Your hopes that he didn’t notice were dashed as he pulled away to chuckle heatedly in your ear. He wasn’t far behind though, laughter broken by a groan as his hips snapped against yours, burying himself deep as he could go. You felt the alien jerk of his cock inside you, radiating warmth.

Panting, he nuzzled at your neck as he came down, whiskers scratching at your skin. You felt… suspended in place, not sure what came next. But you guessed it wasn’t up to you. Hesitantly, you let your fingers slip into his sweaty white tresses, the texture thick and rough like the mane of a horse, dusty and… probably unwashed for God knows how long.

There was that awkward feeling again. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit no matter how you turned them, but you weren’t allowed to leave.

Eventually, he took a deep, centering breath and withdrew from you, guiding your hands back to the bed and clicking open the safety release of the handcuffs, setting you free and letting them fall wherever on the floor.

Rubbing your wrists, you groaned in discomfort as he dragged his fingers through the mess, pushing his cum back inside you. No. You just wanted to be done.

But then he pulled your panties back into place. Pulled your shirt back up. Smoothed your skirts down.

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he heaved a big sigh and finally dismounted.

Pulling you up by your arm so that you were sitting up, he grabbed his hat from the bed, and you felt him plop it onto your head and adjust it.

“Suits ya.” He said softly, and it was the first thing he’d said in a while. Part of you was waiting for the other shoe to drop, not sure if he wanted a thank you, or…

He eyed you for another long moment, like there was something more he wanted to say, but… Instead, his gaze flicked down to the bandolier round your chest.

You swallowed hard as he plucked the last two bottles from your belt, the thought of taking another shot making your stomach churn and your gag reflex curl.

Patting your thigh, he bonelessly plopped himself in the nearby chair, rolling his eyes as you just stared at him. “Go on, get.” He snorted, uncapping one of the little bottles. “Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out.”

He was letting you go? Just like that?

You hesitated, something about this seemed… unfinished. You weren’t sure if you wanted to go.

But you didn’t want to wait around until he changed his mind, either.

So you uncertainly began heading towards the window, pausing when you remembered - “Your hat…” You reached for it, intending to give it back, but…

“Keep it, I don’t care.” That sounded unexpectedly crabby, and when you looked back, he wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the wall, avoiding your gaze as he tipped back a shot. “Wear it if you want to see me again. Don’t if ya don’t. I can take a hint.”

You blinked, unable to believe he was sulking. Now. After everything.

Your fingers hovered over the brim of the hat. You needed to quash this now, while you still had the chance. Your conscience was screaming at you, leave it, don’t encourage him, don’t even give him hope.

Don’t bring it to the campfire. Don’t anything. Just… leave it on the windowsill, you told yourself. It shouldn’t have even required thought. Nothing about this was okay.

You didn’t even know his goddamn name.

And yet… You found your hand slowly lowering, falling back down to your side. You gave him one last, long look before grabbing the windowsill.

You could always decide later.

🖤  🖤 🖤

Thank you for reading!!!

🖤  🖤 🖤  

Notes:

Thank you Pugge for beta'ing most of this!

I do not know WHY this took me so long to write but I’m fairly happy with it. Sorta wasn’t the direction I originally had planned for this, but what can I say, I’m cursed. I got the Midas touch, except instead of gold, everything I touch turns to non-con.

This piece was written for Day 8 and 18 of the 🔞 Dead by Baelight 🔞 Discord server’s Kinktober. Anyone over 18 is welcome to join here.

[risingsouls]

Recruited: Chapter 10

[I did another thing! This one is a lot shorter than the last several have been and a little more filler-y BUT we’re getting close to canon stuff (that I’m trying to figure out how I want to write and format still). SO here we gooooo!]

Vegeta

Any miniscule time he was forced to spend alone with Frieza aggravated the prince. Whether to bear the brunt of some reprimand, to listen to him discuss business to an audience of intergalactic dignitaries at a stupid feast he was dragged to and forced to endure like some pet, or to nod along with him prattling on about himself and insulting Vegeta or his race in a single breath, he preferred it when running an empire distracted Frieza from his existence. This rare occasion of the tyrant requesting his company on a special mission had the same effects: the usual rage of being helpless to end the emperor's life, the discomfort of watching his every step and word, the humiliation of bearing his belittling commentary and pretending to be his proud, obedient attack dog. It was maddening, and the only solace in the trip was that he left Dodoria and Zarbon both been behind to attend to other business.

Nappa, Raditz, and Nabooru had also been ordered to deal with another assignment while Vegeta accompanied Frieza. Disconcerting due to the fact that, in circumstances such as this, his cohorts would be ordered to remain on base until his return, placed on a schedule that included training and any other grunt work the commanders could find for them. However, he supposed Frieza wanted to keep his top teams busy conquering planets for him. Vegeta hadn't missed the increase in work they had been assigned, and even their latest three day reprieve had been cut short. He tried to convince himself it all meant nothing, that, even if Frieza noticed how the four of them trained more often than usual in their free time, his ego would keep him from getting too suspicious. But Vegeta couldn't deny the increase in his own paranoia with each passing day. Each day he stepped closer to exacting revenge and killing the bastard, and he constantly found himself dwelling on every possible scenario that could skew or outright obliterate his plot.

"It's almost a relief to have different company for once," Frieza mused, a wine glass held between his middle and index fingers. He nodded to the bottle, a silent insistence Vegeta top him off. The Saiyan swallowed his grimace and did as he was bade. Zarbon's or Dodoria’s usual task. He noted the shift of his crimson eyes to the still near full glass in his gloved hand, and took the hint to take another measured sip. "Zarbon and Dodoria tend to bore me after a while. And their bickering...if they weren't so loyal and useful, I may have offed them by now out of sheer annoyance."

Vegeta chuckled, practiced amusement and rehearsed reactions. "I can only imagine," he responded. Another glance spurred him to add, "I suffer the same with Raditz and Nappa. Though it's less their bickering than some inane, disgusting topic of conversation I don't care to hear in detail."

"Yes, I suppose that is an unfortunate vice of the lower classes, their obsessions with sating their lust." Frieza swirled the wine in his glass, black lips downturned in disgust. "A product of lower brain function, I suppose. They have little more than lewd absurdity to keep their minds occupied. Something the two of us fortunately don't suffer from."

The prince bowed his head, performing each gesture that appeased Frieza with loathing. He didn't care for his useless compliments. He found it hard to focus on them when all he could imagine was ripping those horns from his head and burying them in his eye sockets. Or shoving the wine glass into his mouth and forcing him to chew it up and swallow the shards to laugh as he watched him spit blood onto the pristine floor.  "Thank you, my lord. Your compliments are the highest honor."

"And they do not come lightly, Vegeta. You are an enigma of your kind. Had your race not perished, you would have made a fine ruler. Far better than your father." Vegeta ignored the twinge of rage his words plucked in favor of focusing on drinking the dry wine. "Yes, my tutelage has done wonders for you. Perhaps if my father had done the same with yours as I have done for you, perhaps he, too, could have evolved from a mere monkey playing court and dressed in regalia to a full-fledged ruler."

To keep his grip loose on the stem of his glass and not shatter it proved challenging in the face of his father's mockery. No matter his mixed feelings of the deceased Saiyan king, he did not take insults of his memory well. Especially from the likes of Frieza. He bit his tongue and once more drank to silence the blazing barrage of insults he wanted to sling in retort. 

"You are too kind, my lord." The words burned like acid on his tongue. "I agree that my growth under your watchful eye has favored me greatly. I thank you."

"Of course. I saw promise in you the moment I set eyes on you. However, there is always room to grow and learn, wouldn't you say?"

His tone, the smirk on his lips, ramped Vegeta's paranoia to near overload. Had Frieza found out about his plotting? Led him and his team straight into a trap of some sort?

He was given little time to consider as Frieza spoke up again. "Earlier you only mentioned your Saiyan comrades. It reminded me that you and I have never fully discussed the fourth I added to your team. How has she fared?"

"Nabooru is a competent warrior, well-versed in her craft and battle strategy. She fits in well, and, outside of being mouthy and questioning my authority once in a while, she's proven her worth." He glanced to the wide window before them, to the passing stars and junk, the endless void of space. "She learns quickly and strives to improve where she can. She was hesitant to carry out orders, but has grown out of it for the most part."

Frieza laughed. "Such a glowing report from the commander who pitched a fit over my decision." Vegeta's lips tightened to a thin line and his brows lowered ever further, only encouraging the emperor's delight. "I can't say I'm surprised she has a belligerent streak. Her former king said the same of her when I asked in one of our visits. Your temper must be improving if her first strike didn't convince you to kill her. I have seen you kill for less, after all, Vegeta."

Vegeta clicked his tongue. "She's simply lucky she figured out not to take her insubordination too far with me. Otherwise, I would have. Her power level and skill be damned."

"A lesson well-learned, it seems. I recall it took you some time to learn the same, but I suppose you had the excuse of being a mere child."

Vegeta merely nodded, the memories of the physical abuses doled out by Frieza's or one of his cohorts' hands when he rebelled and the scars left behind all too fresh despite their age. The mental mutilation of the mind games the tyrant played with him. Each had served their purpose because he vowed and showed respect to the bastard with little beckoning. It made him sick, clawed at his pride and convinced him death would be a more pleasant fate. But he wanted revenge more than anything, so survive he must. No matter the cost. It would be worth it someday.

"Sir, we are approaching our target," the captain announced. "T-minus five minutes."

"Excellent. Remember, there will be no need to land here." 

Vegeta glanced to Frieza when his scouter pinged. He pressed the button on the side. "Ah, what good timing, Nabooru. You have landed on Planet Noya and met with the other team there?"

Frieza cut the transmission and sighed dramatically. "Unfortunate, really." He finished off his wine and set the glass aside. "Shikoo and his team were quite the commodity. But one too many rumors about stoking rebellions and insubordination makes it difficult to keep such bad seeds among the loyal."

He waited for her reply, the smirk on his lips growing ever wider. "Yes, yes, I am aware of the success in purging the planet. The instructions to rendezvous with the soldiers sent to Noya were...purposefully vague. The task for you and the Saiyans is to kill that team. Don't worry your pretty head over why, dear. It's unbecoming of a soldier.. Their punishment has been a long time coming."

Vegeta's throat closed up and his mouth dried out. "The proper decision, it sounds like, sire," he managed, finishing his own glass and abandoning it. "Not to overstep my own boundaries, but I assumed we were purging this planet we're going to."

"We are. In a sense." He hoisted himself into his hover chair and propped his elbow on the edge, cheek resting in his palm. His crimson gaze rested on Vegeta, unblinking. "The denizens are...formidable enough, especially en masse, and intel suggests they wish to rebel against me. I have decided the time and potential casualties aren't worth the effort for what little the planet has to offer in the long run, so destroying it entirely will be a far better use for dealing with them. One and done, as they say."

A rare instance in which Vegeta agreed with Frieza’s methodology. He wished he would pass down such an order more often than he did, frankly. Putting down rebellions wasted time when they typically ended up murdering them all anyway. Any extra precautions and instructions usually forced them to hold back or went up in smoke not long after they landed. While he understood that some planets had more value than others, blowing up the planets and washing their hands of the business would allow them to take on more jobs. Send a team to gather whatever resources from the planet beforehand and then he and his team or one like his could destroy the place and move on. Not to mention he liked the thrill, the power behind destroying an entire world on his own.

A blue green planet slowly drifted into view, decent sized with a large landmass facing the ship in its current position in its rotation. Frieza waved for him to follow him to the center of the ship. "Come along. Vegeta. We will approach close enough that your ki will protect you from the lack of oxygen. I will allow you to do the honors." 

Vegeta took the blare of the signal for the opening of the uppermost hatch as his cue to surround himself in a protective barrier of energy. While he could not survive the void of space this way, it offered protection from suffocation for at least a few minutes. More than enough to obliterate the planet and retreat into the safety of the ship once more. He followed Frieza up and through the hatch, hovering over it and facing the planet.

Though only allowed the chance to destroy entire planets on a few occasions, he made a point to remember what it felt like. The exact amount of energy he needed to build in his palms, how to adjust for the size and density of the planet. Back of one hand pressed to his palm, he shifted his arms back behind his head. Violet energy surged around his hands, his body, the draw and thrill of powering up familiar and welcome. Up and up he allowed his energy to rise until he deemed it the perfect amount to accomplish the task at hand. He shoved his hands outward once more and the stored cache of energy fired from his palms and through space, surging through the planet's atmosphere and striking the surface within seconds. The blast drilled through the landmass toward the core, wide cracks and fiery splotches already spreading from the point of contact.

With another beckoning from Frieza, Vegeta lingered a moment longer to watch the spectacle of magma shooting upward and his blast rending the planet in twain before following him back into the ship. The hatch closed and they returned to the navigation deck.

"Not bad, prince," Frieza drawled, scarlet gaze locked on the demolition out the window. "A bit messy, but unfortunately we don't have time to witness the entire fireworks show." A nod to the captain. "To our next destination."

The captain bowed and turned back to the controls. Before they swiveled around fully, Vegeta caught a glimpse of the planet's final moments: a series of explosions peppering the surface as its stability caved. Within moments, it would be nothing but space dust floating among the stars. A mere memory until it faded from it. Would any of its race survive? Would they hear the news of their home's destruction immediately, or only find empty blackness when they return? Would they, too, be plucked from whatever refuge allowed their survival to serve the Cold Empire? Told that a meteor destroyed their planet and they really had little other choice left as the empire still technically owned them?

His jaw tightened. He couldn't dwell on such things. None of it mattered. It never did. I never would.

[lunafeather]

Brio + 11, 39, 76

11.

“I know you, and this isn’t you.”

“Oh, you know me now, huh?”

“Yeah.” She freezes, realizes what she’s said and stares at him, the gears in her head grinding. And then something clicks. “Yeah, I do know you.”

He snorts, shakes his head and turns away. Beth grabs his sleeve and spins him back, her fingers clenching forcefully against his arm, and then she’s in his space, chest to chest, her mouth a thin sharp line when she leans up into his face. She watches as fury is smothered into blankness, and her frustration only mounts. He looks down his nose at her through thick lashes, and she does know him, she does, because when his nostrils flare she knows he’s fighting not to rise to her bait. She knows that he is carefully keeping himself in check by the way his arm tenses beneath her grip, held taut like a bow, the way he looms very slightly over her despite her heels giving her some leverage.

She doesn’t back down, doesn’t flinch, holds his gaze while he glares down at her.

And she thinks that maybe she sees his eyes dart down to her mouth, and it’s too fast, she must have imagined it – but then he’s kissing her, hard, a brutal crash of his mouth against hers and she’s so startled that her mouth opens on a gasp and then his tongue is in her mouth, deepening it. She is knocked off balance by it, stumbling back, but his hands are there to catch her, rough on her hips and then her ass, yanking her against him as he walks her backwards until she’s pressed against the nearest wall. She manages to get the nails of one hand scraping against his scalp, is rewarded with a groan – her other hand scrabbles against his shoulder in a futile attempt at regaining some control.

He shoves a thigh between hers at the same moment that she bites down on his lower lip. They break apart, panting, and Rio presses his forehead against hers while they catch their breath. Her eyes flutter closed even as her hand strokes gently through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him closer, closer still, and a bizarre image unfurls in her mind of crawling into him and just letting go – of this tension, of this fight, of this exhaustion. His hand at her lower back presses her more firmly to him, and maybe he’s having the same thought because the rigidity in his body seems to melt away.

“We can’t keep doing this.” Her voice is hoarse and small, just for him in this small space they share.

Rio shrugs, so slightly, and then leans back to look at her. He waits until she opens her eyes to say, “Then let’s stop.”

Panic surges through her and her mouth falls open to argue – and then his fingers are at her temple, stroking down her face in that familiar gesture that haunts her dreams. But he doesn’t let his hand fall away, like usual. Instead he gently cups her jaw, fingers spread against her throat, thumb tracing her kiss bruised lower lip. He watches the movement, watches as she licks at the skin there, then his gaze flicks up to hers and she understands.

39.

His phone pings, that familiar tone he set to her number only startling him awake from a light doze. He doesn’t move for a moment, breathing sharply through his nose, and then he rakes his palm roughly over his face and scratches at his beard. When he rolls on to his side and lifts his phone, his eyebrow arches at the message staring back at him.

Can you meet me?

1:47AM hovers in the top corner of his phone’s screen. It’s not like her to be up this late let alone messaging him, and he pauses before he responds, flicking over the possible reasons she could have for wanting to meet. Their partnership is tentatively back on, though decidedly secret, which adds that much more mystery to her request.

He briefly mulls over the idea that it might be a booty call, then quickly discards the thought.

He’s not quite back in that good of graces.

Yet.

His curiosity gets the better of him, and – if he’s being honest – his concern. Though she remains tight lipped and infuriatingly vague about her home life, he gets the feeling that it’s not all sunshine and roses (and how could it be, if car man was up and swiping their kids out of her reach?). This thought spurs him up and onto his feet, tugging on a pair of jeans and shooting her a clipped response.

15.

She doesn’t reply, but he knows she’ll be there. When he rolls up to the park in his black Cadillac, her mama van is already parked at the curb. He tugs up on the zipper of his hoodie while his eyes canvas the playground, tracing over familiar twisted metal shapes, searching – there, nestled into a swing, swaying softly in the darkness. He watches her a moment, drinking her in; her copper curls are smothered by a thick black beanie much like his own, her shoulders curled inwards against the Autumn chill. She kicks idly with one boot, but otherwise seems still.

Her head doesn’t lift until he’s ten feet away, and when it does it strikes him somewhere deep, somewhere he struggles every day to smother. Tear tracks glide down her cheeks, the skin rosy with cold and shimmering in the street light that barely reaches them. She sniffles, but otherwise just watches him warily. When the silence stretches on, he shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the swing set support bar, eyes fluttering closed, sleep hanging like a hazy weight on the edge of his vision.

They sit like that, in silence, and somehow it’s comfortable and calm. Even standing this far from her he feels that undeniable tug, that thread that binds them together, dragging him towards her, always. It’s becoming harder and harder to stay away from her, to not gravitate into her space and let their energies collide and meld into one. He had thought it was difficult not to touch her constantly after their encounter in that bar bathroom, but now? After tasting her in every sense of the word, after drinking directly from the source, swallowing her moans and her whimpers, and knowing what every delicious curve felt like, heavy in his palms…

The urge to have his hands on her, always, buzzes like lightning beneath his skin, making him jittery and tense and agitated. She often takes it the wrong way, believes its something she did – and it is, it is, but not in the way she thinks.

Even now, he wants to crowd into her space and nudge her chin up with his thumb, meet those blue, blue eyes and draw out every thought and every desire, wants to catch each one and bottle it up and hide it in that place he keeps shoving way down.

She sniffles again, and he opens his eyes to find her staring. The openness of her expression, the vulnerability, knocks him in the chest like a horse kick. He’s frozen, afraid to move and scare her off, his face a calm mask of neutrality.

“He found some of my notes.”

The corners of his mouth curl downwards, and his brows furrow just so, but he doesn’t speak. He knows her well enough to know that her words will come in time.

“He got suspicious, and we fought – it woke the kids, they were crying. They didn’t… they didn’t want me to…” She huffs, finally breaking their eye contact. She lifts a hand to rub at her nose and tilts her head back until her face welcomes the stars. When she meets his gaze again, her expression is carefully blank, though even from his position he can see the tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes.

“I need a place to stay.”

He doesn’t ask why she doesn’t call her friend or her sister, doesn’t really want to. It’s a rare gift for her to let him see this far inside her, and despite the fact that it sometimes feels like there’s a gulf they’ll never be able to cross between them, he can’t deny how warm it makes him feel.

He can do this for her.

He jerks his head in the direction of his car and starts off. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know she’s following – he feels that thread taught and thrumming between them and keeps walking.

76.

Everything happened so fast. They had been on the couch, talking then touching then kissing, because when have they ever been able to keep their hands off one another? And then Dean was there, yelling, red faced and spitting, waving a gun. Rio hadn’t jumped up or shown any emotion, rising calmly and standing between Dean and Beth. And then she had been on her feet, too, and everything was tense and loaded and she didn’t think he would do it, didn’t think he had it in him – she had seen the hard line of Rio’s shoulders, ready to strike, voice laced with the threat of danger and she isn’t sure who said what that made Dean raise the gun and pull the trigger, but she is sure that her instincts took over and she shoved Rio sideways, slotting her body into the bullet’s path.

Everything thereafter was a blur – screaming, crying, hands everywhere on her body then nowhere and she was alone and then not, eyes snapping open to meet Rio’s as he gingerly shifted her and then pain, unbearable and agonizing, and it felt like her side had split open and her guts had spilled out, and maybe they had, maybe they had.

Her last snapshot of consciousness is the look on Rio’s face – guarded, cool, murmuring softly to her, but the pain at the corners of his eyes stands out the most, the tiny pull of a frown at the edge of his mouth.

She wakes to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom, bathing her bed in warmth. She’s on her back, laid carefully out and straight as board. When she tries to sit up, pain ricochets from her right side across her belly and her chest and her hip, and she yells, the sound hollow and tinny.

“Beth!” Annie surges out of the bathroom, her hands insistent on Beth’s shoulders, pushing her back down. “Jesus, I turn away for like 10 seconds and you’re trying to escape.” Her little sister tries to inject some levity in her tone, but they both know it’s a thin facade.

Beth trembles with the pain throbbing in her side, nausea washing through her. Annie keeps a hand pressed to Beth’s shoulder, the other gently brushing Beth’s sweat soaked hair from her face. She sits on the edge of the bed, and when Beth can finally manage to open her eyes, she is struck by the worry and panic hanging heavy on Annie’s face.

“Don’t move, okay? It could rip open the sutures.”

Beth nods, and they sit quietly. Then, “What happened?”

Annie’s brows pucker together. “You don’t remember?” At Beth’s small head shake, Annie sighs, glancing distractedly down to Beth’s lap. “Dean shot you.”

Beth doesn’t mean to, but the words startle her into another attempt to sit up and another shove back down to the bed and an annoyed growl from Annie. “He what?” she pants, swallowing thickly against another wave of pain and nausea.

“Well, I think he meant to shoot Rio, but…”

Beth’s eyes pop open and she moves again, panicked. “Rio! Where is he? Is he okay?”

Annie is prepared this time, holding her down with a palm on her shoulder, and watches her curiously, almost surprised. Her mouth falls open to answer–

“I’m fine.”

Both women turn to see Rio leaning against the door frame, hands buried in his pockets. His expression is closed, guarded, but rough. He and Beth lock eyes and she feels her breath leave her in a whoosh at the intensity in those black depths.

Annie looks between them, put out at being so obviously forgotten. “Yeah, he’s just fine,” she retorts. She watches them for a long moment, and when no one says anything else, she helpfully provides, “he actually refused to leave your side. Dug the bullet out himself and sewed you up. Held your hand all night. It was, like, kind of sickeningly sweet.”

Two pairs of eyes flick to her, and she knows a dismissal when it’s staring right at her. She throws her hands up and scoffs. “I’m going.” If she notices that they immediately go back to gazing at one another, she doesn’t mention it.

With Annie gone, Beth takes her time in absorbing the man before her. His face is cracked and red, dried blood crusting over a wound or two – eerily reminiscent of the last time the two of them and her husband had found themselves in a room with a gun. Blood stains his dark blue t shirt – his blood? Her blood? Dean’s? Maybe all three? There’s marks on his tanned arms, marring the smoothness there. Dark circles cushion his eyes, his skin is pallid – but god, she still finds him so devastatingly beautiful.

“You look awful,” she says, and smiles when he smirks.

“Yeah, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

He’s lying, and not even hiding it. His smirk briefly swells into a grin – a warm, affectionate, dare-she-say loving grin – and then it deflates and ebbs away, dragging her own smile with it. Suddenly he is oh so very serious, and her heart drops. They stay like that, the tension so thick that she’s afraid it may smother her and something painful and thick is rising like a tidal wave up from her toes through her belly through her chest and then there are tears in her eyes and she’s not entirely sure why.

That’s what breaks the moment, her tears. He swallows audibly, and she would swear that his breathing hitched, and then he’s ambling over and sitting next to her, hands still shoved in his pockets like he’s afraid if he has them free he’ll shake her.

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, you done some real dumb shit during the time I’ve known you, but this is a new record.”

She shrugs. “I think that depends on who you ask.”

The memories are jagged and blurred, swirling together in a colorful mess in her mind, but she knows, without a doubt, that she saved Rio’s life. And even though barely moving any part of her body feels like someone is stabbing her in the gut with a dull knife, she doesn’t regret it. She’ll never regret it.

And she says as much.

Rio just shakes his head, but when his eyes meet hers, his expression is open and vulnerable. It takes her breath away all over again.

“Elizabeth.”

How can he fit so much into just her name? It comes out as a sigh, a plea, a prayer. She can hear the annoyance, the pride, the fear in it, the judgement and the forgiveness. He speaks her name like a caress, and she feels it as a ghost of his fingers trailing down her face, pushing her hair back.

She wants to ask about what happened after she jumped in front of him, about Dean, about where they go from here, but she knows it’s not the time. This gentleness, this softness, is too fragile and for once she allows herself the selfishness of indulging in it without guilt. She just wants to be close to him, to soak up his realness, his vitality. She wants to revel in this thing between them, and the fact that they somehow managed to cheat their way out of another bad situation.

“Rio.” It’s a murmur, and it’s laced with just as much emotion as her name on his lips.

He gets it, though, he always gets it, get her, reads her like an open book, and she’s glad for it now. He stands and sheds his sneakers, then climbs onto the bed next to her, stretching languidly along her side on his back, careful not to jostle her too much. Her eyes flutter closed, suddenly exhausted. When his fingers intertwine with hers, she smiles, warm and content. She is halfway submerged in sleep when she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead, and she knows better than to hope it’s real and not her imagination – but she lets herself believe it anyway.

(thank you to @cpt-falcon​ for the inspiration and idea for this one – she has this amazing theory about how the final episode is gonna go down and I love it. This may become an entire fic cause I was feeling inspired.)

Please send me prompts from this list!

[cle1024]

abstracted | lmh

member: lee minho 

genre: angst 

summary: art was his passion, his vivid daydreams, yet it was also the thing that caused him the most pain. when he saw art personified, so rare and exquisite, it only hurt more.  painter!au 

warnings: mentions of anxiety 

a/n: i intended for this to have a different ending but it became way too long for me to write the full ending, so it’s kind of rushed towards the end. i also apologise if the formatting is really bad, i’m still figuring out how to post on a functioning blog lmao

His life was a paradox. Paint splattered his skin, the secondary hues mixing in with his moles and scars. The canvas suffered more so, fat strokes painted in shapes he couldn’t quite identify. By the time he had completed the work the syndrome had already gone too far, clouding his vision with dizziness and a thick smog that only seemed to disappear when he ripped his eyes from the canvas he spent hours hunched over. It was a punishing gift, and a hugely ironic tragedy. 

A painter, Lee Minho, who couldn’t look his own art in the face. Waves would crash on his body, pinning him to sharp rocks until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Only then would he drag himself away, wheezing out of his studio as he clutched the doorframe. It had many names, though most commonly Stendhal syndrome. He never truly understood what it entailed, but from what he had experienced it was nothing good. There were parts of the diagnosis he had cut out, his eleven year old mind figuring his older self could fill in the gaps - he was wrong. The doctor had mentioned it was psychosomatic, would cause him physical and emotional anxiety, dizziness, fainting, maybe hallucinations if it was particularly bad. They were selective symptoms, in the fact they would only occur when he viewed art. No one was quite sure how it happened or what it meant, just that it had originated in the 19th-century with French author Marie-Henri Beyle. Some thought it was poetic, some thought it was bizarre, Minho tried not to think about it. 

 A deep sigh left his defined lips as his hand came up to wipe his forehead. It was only transitioning to spring, yet the heat had already picked up dramatically. Sweat tickled at his hairline, threatening to spill down his forehead in river streams. All he wanted was some water, a fan, anything to cool him down. Instead he stood in front of an incomplete canvas, the light breeze from the window doing nothing to calm his rising body temperature. He could distinctly make out half of a face, oddly familiar in its features and dimensions, but still no masterpiece. At first, he resented all forms of art. How dare such beauty bring him such immense pain, so much panic and suffering. It wasn’t until he tried picking up his own paintbrush that he realised how freeing it was. His hatred soon transformed into appreciation, which then upgraded to motivation. In Minho’s warped reality, a hard time breathing and remaining conscience while viewing his art was rewarding, as it proved to him he’d made a masterpiece. If that didn’t happen, then he’d hang the painting up in his house and try again. Three out of forty works remained in his house, the rest being shipped off to independent collectors, friends or family. Not once did the thought of his art being in a gallery strike him. Nothing about his style was traditional, nor was he. The top layer of strokes shook with overwhelming emotion, some having large lines out of place from where he’d collapsed in the final moments of painting. Yet in his eyes, there was something perfect about them. The way they shook so meticulously - such a beautiful contradiction. His hand reached for the damp cloth hanging from the waist of his shorts, touching it to his forehead as he closed his eyes in momentary bliss. When he was looking for the best room for his studio, the one with the most sunlight seemed like a good idea. Perfect lighting for almost all hours of the day, never a need to adjust his easel to reflect such light. He hadn’t considered the lack of fans and air conditioning in the room that would surely make him suffer during the warm weeks spring and summer. But it was okay, he was used to suffering. 

 Your eyes drifted absentmindedly, taking in the full lecture hall. A 10:00am lecture, yet you could barely keep your eyes open. The eyelids would weigh heavily on you momentarily in the hopes of making you crumble under the pressure of exhaustion. Everything had been building up lately - you had design tasks due left and right, and you still had to haul ass to the Art Theory lectures you were expected to do, despite not having art as your main course. A sigh forced its way up your throat at the thought. Every night it became harder to sleep. You could practically feel the bags under your eyes sinking as each hour passed under the moonlight, but nothing changed. Of course you’d tried sleeping pills, three different kinds in all honesty, yet nothing could defeat the heavy weight of anxiety that kept you up at night. There were too many questions inside your head: what will my design be? How many materials will I need? Who should be my model? Why do I still drink coffee when it just makes me crash in the middle of class? It was exhausting, tiring enough to make you rest your head on the table for a second. Your laptop was open in front of you, a fresh word document open and waiting for you to type some notes about the lecture you begrudgingly attended. But your hands never met the keyboard. They remained in your lap as you kept your head down throughout the lecture, fading in and out of sleep as your professor droned on about the theoretical concepts of art. Line, shape, colour, what good were they to you? Art wasn’t your major, you shouldn’t have cared. Key word: shouldn’t. You still cared, far too much evidently, as you woke up and came to the realisation that you missed an entire lecture. You cursed yourself repetitiously, how could you fall asleep like that? You probably missed important information for the exam! You bunched your hair in your fist. You were truly and utterly screwed. 

On the opposite side of the hall, Minho had sat with his back against the wall, half-focusing on the lecture and half-searching for a new art inspiration. He tended to get bored of subjects easily, so painting the same people he saw everyday was utterly dissatisfying. Perhaps the curve of the professors bald head, or the glow of the rectangular laptop, or the sunlit person sleeping through the lecture. Minho’s eyes darted back to their figure to confirm what he had thought so absentmindedly. There, in plain sight, someone had the audacity to sleep through Professor Kang’s numbing lecture. He smiled slightly to himself, what a reckless maniac; I love it. The sun filtered through the window gently to form an angelic glow around their head. He had a clear view of their face, forme with delicate and peaceful eyes, yet sharp cheekbones and distinct lips. Something about them was so perfect, as if they had been hand sculpted by the gods, hours spent meticulously crafting every last feature. They were truly a masterpiece - Minho’s smile dropped. Oh no, his vision began to cloud, the pressure around his neck tightened and he found himself struggling to breathe. Get out, get out, get out, get out. He packed his things in a daze, based purely off of muscle memory. His sight was stripped from him and if he wasn’t quick enough then his breath would be too. Clumsily, he stumbled out of the lecture theatre, muttering profuse apologies until he had left the suffocating area. Go home, go to your studio, get the fuck out of here. Something wasn’t right, but it simultaneously felt as if everything had fallen into place. All of his painting life, Minho had searched for the muse that would bring him to his knees in agony, reflect the very distress his paintings caused him. Now, as he speed-walked back to his home, he was convinced he had found that in the mysterious person at the back of the lecture hall. Inspiration was a vital part of his work, his hobby, his future career, but at what cost did he owe? Part of him was conflicted. Shall he fall to his knees, burn under your gaze without a second thought? Or shall he hide in the shadows, paint around the panic and become breathless from his imitation of life? No matter which choice he went with, Minho would still suffer. Life truly liked to do that to him. 

 Minho panted slightly, his movements getting more erratic as the colours melted together. Yellows trickled into browns trickled into whites, yet in all the chaos he still managed to highlight beauty. His vision was getting spotty, rarely moving his eyes from the canvas even if it meant dipping his paintbrush in the wrong colour - he could find ways around that, but letting himself lose the momentum he built up was something he simply could not compromise. Line after line, shape by shape, the detail slowly filled in as he recreated the image in the lecture theatre. The one that had him wheezing all the way home, clutching at his dry chest as he ran and silently prayed his legs wouldn’t collapse under him. His sharp eyebrow furrowed in concentration, the light tickling of his bangs going unnoticed. Stay awake, just a little longer. He urged himself, pleading with life to be on his side for once. Frantic, maniacal movements spurred him on at this point, his eyes darting to different sections of the page where he could add something new. More detail on the shirt, more lighting on the hair, quickly, just a little more. With a finally stroke of his smallest paintbrush, he allowed himself to step back heavily. He haphazardly threw his palette on the stool beside him, hoping his paintbrush landed in the cup of water before his vision went out completely and he collapsed. It was truly a scene, one that would baffle yet inspire anyone who walked in on it. A palette placed perfectly on a stool, right next to a paint-tainted cup of water with numerous brushes poking from it, all diagonal to the man laying on the floor unconscious. His eyebrows were furrowed, hair blowing slightly as the breeze trickled in, light blue shirt unstained despite his vigorous work. His work, almost photograph like, good enough to bring anyone to the same state as he. A simple scene, yet a devastating impact. Someone sleeping on a table, opened laptop and sunlight threading through their hair. It was an accurate representation of the life of the student, yet it was captured so surreal. Not a stroke was out of place, no shaky final layers or misplaced colours in moments of intense emotion. Everything was perfect, just as Minho had always hoped. Something had changed in that one painting - it had proved to him that he could work through shaky hands and spotty visions, still producing paintings that could be mistaken as photographs. When Minho’s eyes eventually fluttered open, only to be met with the image of you sleeping across from him, he truly thought he’d lost his mind. He recalled the painting, but this wasn’t about the painting. You weren’t in the painting anymore; instead, you were lying beneath the canvas in front of him. Minho’s dark orbs rolled back into his head as he fell backwards once more, I suppose I’ve truly lost my mind. 

 “It’s been awhile since you came in for a checkup,” the crinkled man smiled from behind his glasses, gesturing for the patient to sit in the plastic chair across from him, “so, what seems to be the problem?” Minho rubbed his hands together slightly, eyes darting to the side as he went over his pre-planned explanation. 

“Uh, I was painting the other day, and I passed out. But, when I woke up the painting was-like-alive,” Minho blinked rapidly before continuing, “the… thing, I painted was in front of me when I woke up. It-it wasn’t in the painting anymore, it was mimicking the painting in front of me.” 

The panic began to rise in his chest as he awaited a response from the doctor. The older man had sat there, nodding every few seconds to indicate his understanding of what Minho was saying, but just because he understood didn’t mean he had an answer. He adjusted his glasses before unclasping his hands, “it seems that you had a particularly vicious episode, this time including hallucinations. Minho, I really wish I could do more, but we just don’t know enough about it. The best advice I could give is to find an anchor of some sorts,” he gestured with his hands, “you know, something that can just ground you in that moment.” Minho nodded softly despite his dissatisfaction. They don’t know enough about it, even after two centuries have passed. 

 The paintbrush lingered over the canvas, tickling the material with saturated hues of blue to mirror the Spring sky. Flowers had quickly bloomed, cold weather had been temporarily eradicated, tranquility whistled through the trees and along the crystal clear water of ponds. Though Minho could not be at peace, even if he tried. As his colours blended together in a dance of dark and light, he allowed his mind to be captivated by the sight - directly ignoring the doctor’s advice to “find an anchor”. This artwork wasn’t for the purpose of bettering himself, it was rather to experiment on how far he could push it. How much of his mind had he truly lost? White paint arched into the blue background as Minho delicately stroked the canvas, watching his work form intently. Something about it was soothing to watch, but caused him such stress and anguish. What an awful paradox. The black dots started to stipple their way into the clouds, darkening the sky into a thunderstorm. Minho panicked - he wasn’t done yet. Frantic hands reached for the purple-stained paintbrush, swiftly striking the canvas with dark slaps of the colour. Petal after petal, stroke after stroke, Minho created a new landscape through blurred vision and shaking hands. His lungs begged for air, releasing wheezes and gasps from Minho’s throat. He couldn’t breathe, not yet, not until he was complete. The painting was a simple still-image, mirroring the purple Bellflower that sat in a crystal vase by his window. Light twinkled in the fragile possession, framing the flower in an angelic glow. It was a simple image that caused much harm to Minho, making him stumble over his feet and straight to his knees, paintbrush and palette still in hand. Unconsciousness beat him stiffly, but at least the painting was complete. Thirty minutes later, his eyes fluttered open as a hefty weight fell on his head. The painting stood across from him, no change in its contents. Nothing out of the painting, nothing replicating its contents. There was no hallucination, everything stayed the same. Minho pushed himself into a sitting position, mouth open slightly as the wind blew outside. Now he understood why doctors didn’t understand how to help people with the illness, he couldn’t even make sense of his own symptoms. 

 Your head rested on your palm, pushing your cheek upwards as you attempted to keep yourself awake. In your head you whispered thank you’s to whatever higher power made sure your teacher did a theoretical lecture today, you didn’t think you could stay attentive enough to avoid sewing something wrong or stabbing yourself with the needle. Although you certainly enjoyed sewing, the possibility of spilling your own blood on your work wasn’t appealing - sure, the symbolism of ‘blood, sweat and tears’ becoming a reality sounded artistic, but blood stains were harder to remove than you had expected. Your eyes focused on the digital clock stationary behind the professor, only ten minutes left. In your mind, you pleaded for no assigned work - no extra reading or online theoretical tests. At the moment, you had a major work for your practical due. An entire fashion collection, birthed out of your colourful imagination in dark shades of soft fabrics, velvet that would hug the skin of your model. If you even had a model. With a heavy sigh, you packed away your belongings into the leather shoulder bag beside you. 

Minho checked the time on his phone as he strolled through the campus, absentmindedly calculating whether he should bother catching the bus or running home. Majority of the time, the bus was late enough for Minho to walk home before it even arrived, though he was never sure why. The route it traveled wasn’t typically congested on a Wednesday afternoon. Lowering his phone to the pocket of his jeans, he allowed his eyes to raise across the campus. An exploration of the blue sky, old brown brick buildings and cobblestone path began in his mind. He drifted, allowing himself to imagine painting such a scenery, wondering whether the shades of brown would blend as easily as he would like. Though his fantasy was cut short, sliced through with a sharp and unexpected knife. His footsteps halted as he watched. Again, the sleeping person from the lecture, fell into his line of sight. With open eyes he could clearly distinguish pigmented skin from deep-sunken eye bags, it was no wonder they slept through that lecture. In the two times Minho had observed them, the light had managed to cascade down on them to provide a heavenly glow. Perhaps it was a message from the beyond, singling this person out as the muse he’d always searched for, longingly. Then, it started. Blurry, the buildings shifted, and Minho felt himself moving without thinking. There was no time to catch the bus. 

 He lay still, head tilted slightly to the left as an arm rested on his upper abdomen. The painting was once again replicatory, vividly so. To the point where any passerby would question how you could print a photo onto a canvas, only to then become aware of the unconscious artist who lay across from his work. His work. It was a large portrait of you - that nameless, sleepy person - as you moved through the campus. Surroundings blurred, colours melted together to convey your speed, but there was a distinct fixation on you. Every feature mirrored to perfect, even the attention to your eye bags. Minho had only glanced for twenty seconds, yet he had managed to perfectly replicate the glance hours later. With heavy eyelids and a bruise forming on the back of his head, Minho lifted himself into a seating position, rubbing his eyes. As he focused on his surroundings, his eyes widened and he jumped back in shock at the sight ahead of him. The painting, a blurred background of brown buildings and greenery. That was all. In front of him, you stood. Side-on, the exact direction of the paintings, mimicking his work as he woke. If he reached out and touched you, surely you’d disappear, evaporate as a figment of his imagination. But, you seemed so real. Just as you did in his painting, only this time you weren’t a two-dimensional subject on a canvas. You were a physical, life-sized artwork come to life - almost like a sculpture, but less obvious. Minho allowed unconsciousness to tug his hair backwards and into the realm of darkness. He had no answers to his questions, nor did he have an understanding of what was happening, but he had already made the decision that avoiding you - a random student at the same university as him - was the best option. 

 It was successful to say the least. Not that you noticed, but Minho stopped looking at you for inspiration. In fact, he didn’t paint much at all anymore. There was a period after his discovery where he tried, even without seeing your face prior. Yet his pink sky ended up having your face blended into the hues, the city scape had you looking out a window, and the bowl of fruit had a hand reaching in with an identical dainty ring on. Subconsciously, you became the focus of all of his work, and it scared him to no end. Certainly more than the first time he passed out or panicked while seeing art. So he had temporarily retired his paintbrush and freshly woven canvases, opting instead for the limitless control of the sculpting medium. Clay gave him more control than painting. With painting, it was an out of body experience. There are no thoughts, only movement and creation. But he has a conscious thought process while shaping clay, making note of which areas to push which way. His temporary retirement from painting extended to longer than anyone could have expected. One week turned into month, turned into three months, then into six, then to where he was now. Eight months without stepping into his studio or analysing his environment as if it were an incomplete painting. Eight months closer to his practical assessment.  

The concern about Minho’s artwork had grown, only in his professor, though. His art wasn’t something he indulged in with friends or family, it was more an off-handed gift under the guise of “spring cleaning”, even in the middle of autumn. Though his professor had somehow figured out his work. He could sense the passion in every painting, and the rate at which Minho produced them impressed him to no end. So when Minho seemingly gave up on the medium, he obviously found it concerning, “Minho, a word?” Minho shoved his hands in his hoodie as he approached the professor, raising his eyebrows confusedly, “you’re not in any trouble if that’s your concern,” it wasn’t, “I just wondered why you’d given up on painting so suddenly.” Minho grew tense - that question was his concern. 

“Oh-uh, I-I’m just not feeling it anymore, I guess.” 

“You guess, or you know?” The professor raised his eyebrows as Minho silently cursed himself for his revealing slip up, “Minho, you’re an incredibly talented painter. Whatever has put you off painting needs to leave your mind, just let yourself be guided by the paintbrush. I expect to see it for your major work,” the younger male nodded softly before leaving the room. With a sigh, he began the walk to the bus stop. Although he hated late buses, he didn’t want to go back home. Something in him didn’t want to be confronted with the closed door to his studio. He didn’t want to unleash his talents again, as strange as it was. Though when he made it home, yellow coated paintbrush hovering over the canvas with the intention of letting the paint guide him, nothing happened. No emotion overwhelmed him, there was no exiting of his soul as passion took over. He just stood there, blank faced as he stared at the blank canvas. Then the questions came to him: I wonder how sleepy student is doing. Is their hair any different? Do they still sleep through Art Theory lectures? Are they still the inspiration I need? He couldn’t paint without inspiration, and you’d unknowingly become his muse. Neither of you knew it, you’d never even made eye contact before, let alone spoke. Minho let out a huff as he slammed the paintbrush on the stool beside him, golden toxicities spilling onto the wooden material, certain to stain if he didn’t clean it up fast enough. He didn’t. Instead, he turned his back on his paintings, the bare canvas and fresh paint. All he did was turn around and walk through the door. 

 Minho tried his best to approach you, running over ways to start conversation in his head, but as soon as you even glanced in his direction - not necessarily at him - it became far too hard to breathe. Pitiful, slightly. Pathetic, certainly. In his utopia, you would be the anchor to ground him, the sense of tranquility to calm his flurry of emotions brought on by messy paint and beautified canvases. Clearly, you were not. You were a paradox. You brought so much inspiration to Minho, so many bursts of inspiration in the midst of lectures, enough for him to start frantically sketching you over his notes - which was certainly a mess, but so was he. Simultaneously, you made life so much more difficult for him. You gave him a muse for his major work, but you made it hard to get reference glances. All you did was make him dizzy, high on a perfect mix of elation and panic, before sending him crashing down as you disappeared from eyesight. You would never know about it - mainly because Minho would never be able to tell you, but also because he’d be too embarrassed to let anyone catch a glimpse. It was almost stalkerish of him. Only almost. The most he knew about you was your face, the way your hair framed it, the way the light brought out the colours that tinted you, the way you slept through lectures or typed notes one letter every half-a-second. No name, no major, nothing. That didn’t stop the concern growing in him as every time he saw you your eye bags were darker than the last. He would never have the strength to ask about it. 

 You still appeared in front of him when he woke up, sometimes he could even poke you gently and feel smooth skin. There was never a heartbeat, there never would be. But, Minho was okay with that. Perhaps you wouldn’t be the anchor he wanted, perhaps there was no anchor. As long as he had the muse and passion to paint, that would be enough for him. 

[franklyshipping]

Marvin The Mischievous ~ A Septic Ego Series ~ Part 7

Things are hotting up in the series now as we come to out next part, now....lets see how Jackie-Boy Man fares against our aspiring cheeky villain. LET'S HECKIN GO PEOPLE!

TAGGING: @marvin-lee-magician @jackleeboy-man @the-dapper-switch @robbie-lee-zombie @robbie-the-zomblee @schneeplesteinthetickledoctor @chase-brody-thelee @the-survivelee-hunter @shawn-flynn-the-switch @shawnflynn-thetoymake-ler @anti-switch-glitch

Productive days are always pretty marvellous, you're engaged in your tasks and whenever you reach a stage of completion or success it just spurs you to push forward, to pump out thing after thing....and then that feeling of pride you have within yourself is like nothing else in the world. Jackie-Boy Man was enjoying such bliss right now as he wandered over to his exercise machinery in his training room. He'd re-sewed parts of his costume, filed away villain reports and organised them, had a nice lunch, and had organised a proper, safe exercise timetable for himself. He was grinning from ear to ear as he stretched, fully focused on getting into his workout mind-set.....and oblivious as to the events that had preceded this little scene. We can assume that his obliviousness won't last forever though. For now however, he got to work, focusing on biceps and triceps work with rowing, push-ups and light weights, having water and bites of energy bars at regular intervals so that he wouldn't get too tired but he'd also feel that he was testing his body, keeping it strong.

He was moving onto his final activity in this hour long session, pull-ups; they were the most gruelling, which is why he took the utmost care when performing them. He had water and an energy snack at the ready, the music coming from his radio helping to psyche him up as he reached up for the bar.....and began. He had a set order of things, do five pull-ups, stretch and take a drink, do five, stretch and have a snack, do five, drink, you get the idea; he intended to repeat the process until he'd done thirty, then he'd leave it for the day. He knew how to be sensible and not over-exert himself, as a superhero he always worked on maintaining and strengthening his physique and had worked hard to get to a point where his body could take more and more. Jackie was proud, and he deserved to be proud. He was well into his stride, breathing well and focusing on his pace....so he didn't notice that as he continued, the lights in the room started to flicker. It was only when Jackie reached his final five pull-ups that he noticed all was not well; he'd taken time with his snack-bite and looked around the room, and only then noticed the lights properly dimming down at a steady rate. Jackie was about to dismount the exercise and investigate, supposing a fuse was uneven or faltering somewhere; however as soon as the notion came to his mind....everything went downhill for him at once.

One, the lights went out and left the room in complete darkness, two, his radio somehow turned off despite it being wireless, and three.....Jackie couldn't move.

'Wh-what the hell?!'

Before you fret, Jackie's whole body hadn't been immobilised or frozen or anything of the sort....it just wouldn't be able to move away because something had bound Jackie's wrists to his pull-up bar. He was grunting and tugging, straining his eyes to try and gauge what was restraining him, but his mind and body were tired after his exercising so it was practically impossible for him to focus on getting his strength up. He'd been trapped at the perfect time of weakness.

'Okayokayokay think think c'mon Jackie think.....'

He forced his mind to whirr. This couldn't be the plot of one of his villains, primarily because he made sure none of them knew where he lived, but also because this didn't match any of their intimidation styles. Mainly because those villains HAD no style....whoever this was, they had flare and dramatics up their sleeve. He sighed. His mind jumped to Anti, ever the miscreant pulling tricks and the like; it made sense to him.

'Alright glitch bitch, c'mon joke's over!'

.....no reply. Huh. He was always the first to take credit for a wrongdoing, he was always proud of his own cheekiness after all. Jackie pursed his lips, thinking over it all again....maybe....maybe he'd been wrong. There had been no creepy, crackly laughter, no static from his radio; these were Anti's classic tactics, why would he abandon them now? Jackie huffed in frustration at his own brain as he thought-

'Boo.....'

'AHWHATTHEHELL?!'

Jackie jumped and yelped at the sudden whisper, shuddering as he felt the breath of the whisperer right over his ear and neck....behind him. Someone was standing behind him. The culprit was behind him. His....captor, was behind him. Jackie shivered again when the mysterious figure chuckled.

'Sorry to disappoint, but there's no glitch here.'

The voice of the man was deep, purring, smooth....just as Marvin intended. Yes, it was really him. No fancy tools or spells. Marvin had brainstormed so many plans and ideas and concepts for how to get Jackie.....but no thought was more satisfying than the notion of gliding his fingertips all over every weak spot he could find. Jackie meanwhile let out a grunt, trying to twist round to catch a glimpse of who it was, but he had no luck; Marvin began to drawl tauntingly.

'Finally, the great Jackie-Boy Man in my grasp....I can't wait to add you to my list of success.'

Marvin's eyes glittered deviously as he watched Jackie twist and squirm before him, he had to admit it was quite a beautiful sight. Jackie meanwhile was trying to get his head round this. A list. He wasn't the first to be involved in this presumably, but he wouldn't be able to understand what was happening until he got more information first....or rather, tried to.

'Who the hell are you? Why are you here? What are you planning?'

Jackie endeavoured to project boldness and insistence; lesson one of a captive situation, assert your own strength. However instead of making his captor feel taken aback, it seemed to merely amuse him.

'So many questions, but no answers for you, as of yet anyway.'

Jackie growled in frustration at how smug the person seemed, and tried even harder to look behind him; that made Marvin tut and sigh with exaggerated exasperation.

'And I'll be having none of that thank you very much!'

Marvin's cold fingers found the edges of Jackie's vest, and with much protesting, pulled it up over Jackie's face....so he could see nothing. The hero shivered when he felt his torso become exposed, and this blindfolding action made the previous darkness of the room feel like a blessing....this darkness was close, real, and intimidating. All that could be heard was Jackie's shaky breathing as he whispered.

'......wh-what are you g-gonna do to me?'

Oh how Marvin had longed to be posed that question. He leant in behind Jackie, and rested his chin on the hero's shoulder. He hesitated, just so he could listened to Jackie's hitching breaths and feel the warmth of his skin after his exercises, so soft and warm and beautiful-Marvin sharply inhaled. He needed to focus. He let out a small hum into Jackie's ear as he took a fingertip, and dragged it down one of his hollows.

'I'm going to make you my sweet victim, make you submit and crumble and wail for mercy....'

Jackie flinched and bit his lip, already wearing a flustered, shaky smile as he understood what his captor wanted to do to him. That single finger ignited the rest of Jackie's nervous system, as if every vulnerable place on his body was priming and preparing itself for what was to come. Jackie already knew he couldn't be defiant.....he knew the things that broke him, and this was weakness number one; he whimpered when Marvin continued to purr.

'I am going to tickle you until it's all your mind will ever know.'

Marvin was smirking softly against Jackie's ear, and he chuckled at Jackie's weak reply.

'......wh-why?'

Jackie waited with bated breath.

'Because it is the only thing....that I truly desire.'

Jackie-Boy Man was an instant mess of giggles....now, it had begun. Two hands were at work, ten fingers having their playtime. They were so light as they started at his hollows, swirling a few times before dragging themselves down, down, down, his ribs, playing them like a xylophone. After a bout of skittering at Jackie's delectable sides, they thus rose back up and merely continued to the process. Every time Jackie thought to himself....this time, this cycle, this sequence must be the last, he must be getting bored? But it didn't stop.

'P-Plehehease nohot thihihis plehease i-it'stoomuch!'

Marvin was grinning from ear to ear, still keeping his and Jackie's bodies close as he kept up his technique. He knew Jackie well you see, and he knew that intensity wasn't always the key to getting what you wanted. It was patience, knowledge....and having a good set of words.

'Poor hero, so affected by such lightness and what some may even consider a soothing touch....you're such a delicate thing aren't you?'

Jackie's cheeks burned as he shook his head, no no no he was strong and resilient, hard as nails.....hm. Though, with the way he squirmed and quivered and babbled the word please, perhaps he was more akin to being as soft as feathers.

'Nohohoho n-nohoho t-thahat's wrohohong!'

Marvin, unseen by Jackie, raised an amused eyebrow, and proceeded to let his lips brush Jackie's neck as he murmured in a growl-like tone.

'Wrong eh? So it doesn't make your heart quiver to think of how exposed you are in my grasp? How I could strike, change action, or do something on a whim....at any moment?'

Marvin was euphoric with the power and joy that came with having Jackie like this, the happiness that came from feeling him squirm and feeling his skin twitch at his touch was just beyond satisfying. Jackie had arched his back and thrown his head back, letting out whimpery wails of desperation as he tried to jerk away from the constant tickling, but it was no use. His captor's words were just the cherry on top because they were precisely true.

'Nohoho ihit f-fuhucking dohohoesn't! C'mohohon juhust lehehet me gohoho!'

At Jackie's whiney begging, Marvin felt his heart jump in his chest....he'd always found Jackie cute and amazingly sweet....but this was a new beauty. A beauty he wanted to see over and over again for as long as he could spend time with him. The hero in question was having a bit of an issue with sight ironically, amidst his squirming he was shaking his head to try and dislodge his vest, but his tormentor had secured it well.

'Oh but this is ever so fun isn't it?! You're so exposed for me, and I may never get another opportunity....so I intend to take my sweet time exploring you, sweet Jackie.'

And explore he did. Jackie was in paranoid ticklish agony, never knowing where his tormentor would tease or prod or scratch next. A stroke with a single finger down his spine made him squeal and jump, a poke to his navel made him snort and let out a half-cackle, and a lick to the shell of his ear made him shiver and bow his head out of embarrassment. This person didn't just tickle him....they ruined him.

'Fuhuhuck EEEK!! STAHAP!! T-TOHOHohoo mahany plahahaces-AHNATFAHAIR!!'

He was a mess of reactions, his vocals just didn't know what to do with themselves....it was frankly extremely adorable. Marvin was chuckling menacingly into Jackie's ear, just because he was having such a good time. Marvin had even stopped thinking about his endeavour....all he thought about was Jackie. He craved more of his laughter, snorts, squeals, begs....it all just sounded infinitely more stunning coming from him.

'You're just cursed with the most sensitive body in the world aren't you? Though....for me it's rather a blessing to see you so desperate.'

As Marvin teased, Jackie wailed. That voice. That deep echoing voice. It seemed everywhere at once, around him, in his mind, like a predator in itself on top of the sporadic strikes to his nerves. They were relentless. A flutter behind his knee made him kick out with a squeak, a nip to his neck made him whimper, a massage to his hip made him whine as he got caught between ticklishness and relaxation. Jackie's mind was caught in a limbo, it couldn't focus, he couldn't focus, and that proved to be most detrimental.

'PLEASEPLEHEHEASE IHIHI Cahahahan't tahahake ihit eheverywhEHERE!!'

Jackie was undoubtedly embarrassed that he was proving his captor's point about how desperate he was, but funnily enough the desperation took precedence within the hero. Marvin hummed and mused.

'Hmmm....but I find this ever so fun....catching you off guard and keeping you on alert. Why should I change my tactic?'

He grinned as he posed the question, tweaking at certain parts of Jackie's ribcage now which made the hero's reply lovely and yelp-filled.

'BehehecAHAUse Ihihi'm beheHEggihing yohohou!!'

Oh that was music to Marvin's ears. Jackie's hidden cheeks were magenta as he wriggled, eyes watery and nerves aching for relief from those dastardly digits of tickle torture. Marvin let out little thoughtful hums in the hero's ear, making a show of pondering as he traced his hipbones.

'Mm, a valid argument. So, instead of treating all of your nerves, would you be agreeable to, say....me choosing one place and remaining there....and only there?'

Jackie nodded without even having processed Marvin's words, all he heard was an end to the uncertainty and he jumped at the chance for that inviting mercy.

'YESYESYES OHOPLEASEYES!'

Jackie practically yelled with joy, and swiftly let out a gasp of happy relief when he felt the two offending hands draw back from his body for the first time. Jackie breathed deep as he listened out for his captor's reply. Though....he'd probably wish he hadn't, since it marked the bout of REAL tickle torture.

'As you wish.'

Marvin's voice trickled out in the form of a smooth growl....and that was the first sign to Jackie that he'd made a grave mistake.

'Wh-what do yo-AAAEEEEE!!! FAHAHAHACK NAHAHAHA SHIHIT!!!'

During his reply, Marvin had slowly but surely been manoeuvring so he was down on his knees....his head level with Jackie's legs. He had hugged one of Jackie's shins to his chest before going to town and nibbling every inch of Jackie's thigh that the cheeky magician could reach. 

'Now, now language! I knew I should have brought a gag.....'

Marvin teased as he nipped the flesh, Jackie's shrieking laughter spurring him to continue with true vigorous enthusiasm. The hero himself.....had never known such ticklishness. Sure, he'd been tickled countless times....but the situation, the technique, the place...all these circumstances combined just made the experience so unbearable and evil. Jackie had never felt more ticklish and weak, and it broke him.

'AHAHAHANYWHEHEHERE BUHUHUT THEHEHEEERE!!!'

Jackie cried out frantically, he was in disbelief. It tickled so damn much it tickled so damn much, the voice was echoing and teasing and....it was...almost....freeing, in a way. Jackie's mind hardly had the time to settle on any specific thoughts now of course, particularly with Marvin sneering.

'Not here? But this is what you asked for Jackie!'

Marvin's smirk was diabolical as he moved onto the second thigh, starting to reach the inner flesh which coaxed a new bout of mirth from Jackie.

'IHIHIHI DIHIHIDN'T MEHEAN IHIT LIHIKE THIHIHIHIIIIS!!!'

Jackie was thrashing like his life depended on it.....and that's when he realised. His captor had been right....true to his word.....''I am going to tickle you until it's all your mind will ever know.'' It WAS all that his mind knew.

'Oh Jackie....if only you had been specific before.'

Jackie thought he was going to scream at what his tormentor did next....he didn't even hear him take the breath, he only felt the sloppy raspberry rippling up and down his thigh.

'PLEHEHEHEEEEE IHIHIHIHI-!!!'

Jackie did scream....he couldn't hold it in, and Marvin was preparing himself to unleash an onslaught of that delectable fruit; but rescue reared its righteous head. There was suddenly a loud banging emanating from the door into the workout area, which made Marvin move sharply away from his task. Jackie could have cried out to the heavens right there and then as the barrage of muffled voices reached his ear, and he managed to gasp for air and whimpery thank yous trickled into the air from his lips. Marvin meanwhile couldn't help but frown....he hadn't finished.....but he concluded in his mind that he'd subjected Jackie to more than enough. He'd taken down the hero. Marvin observed Jackie's shivery form for a few moments....like he was thinking. Jackie sharply gasped when he felt a hand cup his covered face and a voice in his ear.

'It seems our time is to be cut short, dear hero.....goodbye. I hope you had as I did.'

Marvin planted a swift kiss where Jackie's hidden cheek was....then he was gone. No sooner had he dissipated away, there was a crash, and Jackie could hear the voices getting closer....familiar voices. The voices he needed.

'Qvick qvick, oh he must be exhausted-'

'Help me with the ropes dude, yeah yeah, okay get his vest....'

Jackie could see. He had to squint at first, since the lights were back like they'd never been tampered with at all. Then he saw them....everyone. His wrists had been released and he was being supported by Chase and the good doctor, both of whom were looking at him with concern. Jackie's senses were coming back to him at normal levels now, first the supportive hold of those two, then the feeling of someone holding his hand. Jackie blinked a few times, then smiled fondly to see Robbie cuddling one of his hands affectionately. Next was Jamie....the sweet mute man was dabbing his forehead with an intricate handkerchief whilst moving his hair....stroking it softly and fixing it back into place. Jackie could feel himself coming back to a state of calm security, the soothing contact working wonders.

'We were too late.'

Jackie blinked a few times as he looked to the side, curious as to the source of the gruff voice. Everyone else did too, and soon Shawn Flynn had everyone's attention. He'd been examining what had kept Jackie restrained....and at his words, everyone in the room seemed to understand what he meant. Except Jackie. The hero cleared his throat, looking around as he tried to speak.

'Wh-what....h-how....?'

'It's okay bud, we can explain everythin' to ye.'

Jackie tilted his head when he saw Angus approach him with a reassuring smile, he noticed Anti at his side too, they both seemed a little out of breath-ah. Of course. They'd been the ones to get the door off its hinges. Jackie looked at Angus patiently as he began to speak.

'Yer ah....not the first. To be....tickled uniquely. It's Marvin. He's had this....mission, seeking all of us as a task. Every time he gets someone he ticks em off. I only realised cuz he revealed himself to me...'

Angus' next few sentences became a little fuzzy for Jackie....all he could think about was Marvin. Marvin was saying those things, touching him like that....Marvin kissed him. Jackie could feel himself getting breathless so he snapped out of it, refocusing on Angus.

'-Anti's te' only one he hasn't gotten, but anyway te' point is we need a fuckin' plan to get him back!'

Before Jackie could reply properly, the room became filled with everyone's voices, and Jamie's signing, as suggestion after suggestion flew through; it was rather hectic, but when AREN'T the septics hectic?

'Ze important part is catching-'

'-see us coming though!'

'Not if we anticipa-'

'I'm gonna get that cheeky fuc-'

'OBVIOUS!'

Everyone. Frickin. Jumped out of their skins. Anti even glitched back a few centimetres when Robbie the Zombie interjected the rabble with quite some confidence. He bowed his head softly when everyone stared....but they were his family, so he continued resolutely. He raised his arm....and pointed.

'Last one. We.....set trap?'

Anti. He'd been pointing at Anti. Everyone realised simultaneously....of course Marvin had wanted to save Anti till last; victory over the glitch would be his crowning glory. Everyone shared a look....it was a look of agreement. Soon, seven pairs of eyes were locked onto Antisepticeye. It didn't take long for him to smirk resolutely and muse.

'Well....seven down, and one to go I guess.'

WOOOOOO I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN A FIC SO FAST H E C K YE WHO NEEDS SLEEP ahem I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT LUV YOOOOUS XXX