#a little slope with garbage all over the place

[boyapologist]

visited two apartments today and came back with absolutely zero will to live

[joelswritingmistress]

Neighbors With Benefits: Chapter 13 (Joel x f!reader)

Pairing: Joel x f! Reader

Word Count: 2000

Warning: Angst

No one said anything for a moment. You were trying to process that your mother was standing right there. You were sure your mother was trying to process what she was witnessing. Joel just remained silent and it felt like everyone behind your mother in the lobby was on pause.

“Mom..” You took a deep breath and you knew the next sentence wasn't the one that should have come out of your mouth. “What… what are you doing here?”

“What am I..” She shook her head, noting that she wasn't the one who needed to provide an explanation. Her eyes transferred you to Joel and back to you. It all seemed to click and her mouth dropped open as the realization came to her.

You were scrolling through your mind for lies, but there were none to tell. You had to come clean. Your hand was on top of Joel's on the table as you ate breakfast in a hotel lobby early in the morning.

“Can I talk to you?” You just asked simply.

Your mother was still in a state of awe, though she finally thawed out enough to answer.

“Your father is right over there making a waffle.” She whispered the words as if he might hear her; but you suddenly realized you didn't want your father to catch the two of you like this. Neither did your mother; you knew that's why she said that.

You retrieved your plate having hardly touched it, whispering, “I'll meet you back upstairs,” to Joel. He went to open his mouth to speak but you shook your head and trailed your mother away from the lobby, tossing your plate of food in a garbage pail as you did.

When the two of you were settled in a nook by a pair of vending machines, you took a deep breath.

“I've been seeing Joel.” There was no hiding it or sugarcoating it. “I was trying to find the right time to tell you-”

“(Y/N), he's married.” She yell-whispered the words.

“They're separated,” you explained, “They're in the middle of a divorce.”

“Not according to Cecille.”

“She's.. lying.” You shook your head. “She came back out of the blue and Joel doesn't want anything to do with it.”

“Honey..” Your mother shook her head, and you knew she had your best interest at heart. “You can't..”

“Can't what?”

“You can't.. do this.”

“Well, it's a little late for that.” Your tone was stern and other than a few stray times as a teen, you had never spoken like that to your mother. The two of you were close and she was always understanding; but you felt stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Have you.. you've..”

“What?”

“You spent the night here with him?”

You swallowed hard, knowing she already knew the answer. “We've been seeing each other since I got home early in the summer.” You added, “Yes, I've been spending the night with him.”

“Next door?”

You hesitated and then gave a nod. “I didn't want you to find out.. like this.”

“I don't even know what to say,” she said quietly, now the one clutching her necklace. “I can't.. I can't wrap my head around it.”

“He's not with Cecille, Mom.”

“He's not divorced, either, (Y/N).” Her motherly tone came out in full force. It halted you a bit.

“I know,” you confessed, “But they aren't living together anymore.”

“They just bought the house this year.”

“So-”

“So, this is a very slippery slope,” she went on. “He's older than you.”

“Dad’s older than you.”

“By two years,” she shot back. “Honey..” Your mother closed her eyes and put her first two fingers on the center of her forehead.

You knew this was a lot. From the outside perspective, especially - and finding out the way your mother just did.

“Mom, I really care about him.” You didn't dare drop the L-word. “And he cares about me.”

“He's too old for you.”

“Stop saying that. I'm an-”

“Adult? Then why are you sneaking around like a teenager?”

“Because look at the reaction you're having. If I had just brought him over for dinner and said he was my date, you would've had the same reaction.”

Fuck. You felt tears welding up in your eyes. You knew your mother’s first reaction was viable, but you were also going to stand up for your relationship with Joel.

“Please don't tell Dad yet.” You blurted that out because you couldn't handle this double reaction in one sitting. “I'll tell him eventually.”

Your mother put a hand on the side of her face now. The two of you stared at one another, not seeing eye to eye for perhaps the first time in your life - at least on something significant. It already stung deep down.

She let out a decompressing sigh and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm not going to tell him.” She added, looking around the corner, “You better get back.. upstairs. I don't know what his reaction would have been if he saw the two of you sitting there.” She shook her head.

“Mom, please just let me explain everything to you. This isn't as bad as it seems.” You looked her in the eye, “Please.”

She let out another deep breath from her chest. “Okay.” That was all she said. “Your father has probably already seen Joel.”

“He got him the room.”

“I know,” she concluded. “And the golf course comped him a second one, so we decided to make a staycation of it for the night.” In a slightly irritated tone she added, “That’s what I'm doing here.”

“I didn't mean..” you shook your head, “Mom, what's-”

She silenced you with a hand. “We’ll talk tonight. Just go upstairs before Dad sees you and we have to do this all over again.”

You were thankful that she would keep your secret for now, but, again, all of the feelings of elation were replaced with that of disappointment and dread. Lately, the highs in your world were skyrocketing but the lows made you feel dead and buried.

First Cecille came back to town. Now, your mother catches you and Joel and is stuck in disbelief.

We knew there would be hurdles, you thought, noting that jumping them would be worth it. Still, in the moment, it didn't make you feel any better.

It wasn't long before Joel joined you back upstairs in the hotel room, leaving the two of you in another stalemate of stares for a moment.

“Did you talk to my parents?” You asked.

“Mostly your dad.”

“What did my mom say?”

“Nothing.” Joel shook his head, “She went back up to the breakfast line until your father and I were done talking.”

You plopped down on the bed and let out a sigh. “Fuck..”

“What did your mother say?”

“She’s under the impression that you and Cecille could possibly work things out. She reminded me that you weren't divorced. She pointed out our age gap,” you then added sarcastically, “You know, just the little things.”

Joel stood with his hands on his hips and you could tell he was thinking. You just hoped that this wouldn't put a damper on your relationship.

“I don't want this to ruin things.” You had tears in your eyes again. “I know my mom will come around eventually..” You hoped anyway.

“I have to figure out where I'm going to stay.”

“I can't believe Cecille just..” you didn't finish the sentence. You swallowed hard and shook your head.

“We have to figure some shit out.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his. You weren't sure what he meant by that but you simply agreed with a quiet, “Yeah.”

“I'm sorry things happened this way with your mother,” Joel said.

“I wish I had just told her.”

“Your old man is going to hate me.”

“She's not going to tell him,” you explained. “I asked if we could talk tonight just me and her. She agreed not to say anything.”

“I should call my brother.. see if I can stay on his couch for the time being.”

There was an extended silence and you finally looked back directly at Joel. It appeared, at least in your mind, that he was almost too scared to approach you.

“I don't want you to leave me,” you said honestly.

When he came and sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, you felt the tiniest hint of relief - even more so when he kissed your temple and put an arm around your shoulders.

“I have no intention of doing that.”

You turned to him and closed your eyes when his hand combed through your hair.

“I don't think I'm even capable of doing that,” Joel added.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

Your eyes reopened when he stopped what he was doing and you looked back at him.

“You might be the one to end it,” he challenged, playfully lifting the corner of his mouth in a barely-there smirk.

“I'm not capable,” you echoed his words. “I'm in love with you.”

Joel brushed your hair back and kissed you on the lips, letting it linger. He let out a breath into your mouth as he parted. “I'm the one who’s done wrong here.”

“How?”

“Pursuing my neighbor’s daughter.”

“Adult daughter.”

“Daughter nonetheless.” He sighed, “I can see how bad this looks to your mom. I'm not even divorced yet. I'm in my forties.”

“I'm going to talk with her.” You let out a deep breath. “This is our relationship. What we do.. is ultimately our business. I'm not sixteen. I'm twenty-three.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He looked around the room and then back to you.

“Don't leave me.” You wondered if you said it enough that it would be programmed in Joel’s brain and he wouldn't.

“Stop saying that.” He looked at you more directly now with a serious stare. “You mean a lot to me, (Y/N). As long as you want to work this out, it'll work out.”

You finally gave in and nodded, feeling more confident about everything after he spoke to you more sternly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He pulled out his phone. “I have to text Tommy. I'm taking today’s events and assuming I'm uninvited to your parents' picnic.”

“I'm not going-”

“You need to go.”

“Why?”

“Keep the peace,” he told you, “Blowing off the party will only draw the wedge further between you and your mom. Go. Help her. Talk to her. It'll be good for both of you if you're there.”

“You're right,” you agreed with a nod. “Can I call you afterwards? Can I still see you?”

“Yeah.” Joel nodded. “I'll be waiting for your call.”

“Where does Tommy live?”

“In town.”

“Okay, good.” You were relieved to know he was close by.

Joel’s eyes were reading you like a book again and he pulled your body against his, hugging you to him and leaving another chaste kiss on your forehead.

“I'll meet you tonight wherever after you talk to your mom.”

“Fishing spot?” You asked, speaking next to his ear.

Joel pulled back to look at you more directly. He nodded. “Text me the time and I'll be there.”

“Okay.”

The two of you leaned toward one another at the same time and exchanged a short series of kisses. Joel let out a hearty breath through his nose before kissing you a final time.

“Okay,” he echoed.

@mellymbee @pedropascal111 @axshadows @mybritishstyle @untamedheart81 @amyispxnk @goodvibesonly421 @cosmic006533-blog @ashleyfilm @maybetomorrowgirl @rebeccawinters @cuteanimalmama @vickie5446 @writlingerz @drewharrisonwriter @churchofjoemiller

[brightdarkness-2013]

Chapter 5: Chapter 5?! No Way!

Summary:Prowl gets a new hang out.

Blaster and I had decided that our mer friend needed a place to go during the day. Being trapped in the cove and swimming in a tight circle around the rock wasn’t the best place to swim. There was no room to stretch and the water was only up to our waists if we stepped in. His injuries were healing rather well and it was painfully obvious he needed more space to move. Thus we set off one afternoon in search of a good spot along the shore. A little trekking through some light brush, grass, and some long stretch of beach littered with so many shells our steps crunched no matter where we stepped we found a little place far enough from the town it was unlikely anyone would head out here. The little cape was void of any garbage or evidence that anyone had been around the area. Even if there were some people who came out there were plenty of rocks and patches of seagrass to hide in. So early the following day we coaxed our mer friend out with some m&ms.

“Come on.”

We were running along the coast, our mer easily keeping up. We’d give him an m&m every once in awhile to keep him from turning back. However he didn’t appear to be thrilled that we were only giving him one at a time if that glare he gave us every time we threw one was anything to go by. Blaster and I on the other hand were laughing like we were having the time of our lives. Once we got to the slope that separated from the water our mer hesitated, giving out a few quiet sounds as he watched us as he lifted his head from the water.

“We’ll meet ya on the other side.” I reassured as I made the motion of going around something though he just gave out another noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine. “We’ll call ya if you get lost. I promise.”

Off we went again. Once we made it to the cape I stuck my hand under the water and snapped my fingers like I did to call him so many times before as Blaster called for him. Thankfully it didn’t take long. All in all the discovery of a safe place with more space had put our friend in a better mood. We’d still feed him in the cove on weekdays, but on the weekends we’d head down to the cape where we’d talk and watch our mer stalk the wildlife there. Either creeping around the rocks or hiding in the seagrass. The fish in the cape were small, but it wasn’t like he needed it to survive with us feeding him. I’d whistle little tunes every once in awhile and Blaster would watch as our mer gave me questioning looks. And one day I had my inspiration. Sunday at ten am I had it.

“Prowl.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I’m going to call our mer.” I answered as we watched him.

“Prowl…” Blaster tried out the name. “It fits. You can only hope he thinks so too.”

“Eh, he’s a fish with-”

Blaster gave me a mildly disappointed look and I just grinned. “Mammal.”

“Ok, he’s a mammal with an attitude, but I doubt he’ll care too much what we call him.”

“Fair enough… Please tell me you haven’t been referring to him as a fish this entire time.”

“In my defense I assumed so because he lives in the ocean.”

“So do dolphins.”

“Oh whatever that’s one example.”

“Whales.” My friend was grinning smugly now.

“Shut up, Blaster.”

Blaster just laughed and I shoved him over onto the beach where he just continued to laugh much to my dismay.

444444444444444444 Even more fours!4444444444444444444

“Jazz! Finally! I’ve called you like twenty times!”

“I’m kind of celebrating my sister's birthday right now.”

“Oh please you’re in the corner with your headphones eating all the sweets.”

“I’m outnumbered and last time they locked me out in the backyard and ate all of the cake in front of me because they thought it was funny.”

“It was.”

“Blaster.”

“And it was good cake. Ice cream and oreo.”

“Blaster!”

“Ok, ok so I went out with Gaven and you’re never gonna believe what happened.”

“What did you find a giant squid? Did you fall in?”

“No. Prowl helped us fish. He herded them into the net. Gaven nearly fell off the boat the way he was leaning over the side. Kept yelling at me to get the camera.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. He must’ve seen me leaving with Gaven and followed. We got a ton of fish and Gaven even shared some with Prowl afterward.”

“I bet he was happy to have some live meat for once.” I couldn’t help, but laugh.

“You have no idea. He seems to be doing much better. I didn’t realize how much those wing fins helped. He can take some pretty sharp turns now that the right one isn’t torn.”

“Maybe if he can keep helping ya and your stepdad he won’t leave.”

“Jazz, if his pod comes I doubt he’s gonna stay and settle for a fishing boat. Not exactly a good pod member to befriend and bond with.”

“And what if they don’t? What if they’re dead? Maybe herding fish for ya guys will be enough to make him stay. I mean that’s basically what he did when he hunted with his pod, right?” I fidgeted in my seat as the girls laughter in the next room erupted.

“Possibly… But he can’t just stay in the cove.”

“And why not? If they’re dead he has nowhere else to go. What is he going to do out there alone? I don’t want him to just die out there.”

“I don’t either, but if he does decide to leave what then?”

“I don’t know… I just don’t want him to go. I mean we’ve made some great progress. He stopped growling at me. He twitches an ear fin when we call his name. I think we’ve bonded.”

“I know what you mean, but… Just… Prepare yourself for the worst and hope for the best. Maybe they’ll come.”

“Is it really that wrong that I kind of don’t want them to?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t want him to go either, but he misses them.”

“... Is there a possibility that he could be accepted into another pod? You know if they are dead and he still leaves?”

“I have no clue. I doubt he’d want another. They’re his family. Pods may mingle from time to time during a breeding season, but I don’t think they join unless they absolutely have to.”

“So that’s a no.” I let my head fall back in my chair as I blindly reached for another treat.

“Certain types are different and have different ways. I only have the barest knowledge on mers. For all I know they could be completely accepting of new members.”

I sighed and silence reigned for a time. In the end Blaster was the one who broke the silence.

“Sometimes there’s just nothing you can do, Jazz, no matter how much you want to.”

“I know… See you tonight at the cove?”

“I’ll be there.”

Next

First

Masterpost

[betweenthings2]

27

I accidentally deleted the ask for this because I'm garbage, but I have written it. Also, thank you for the ask!! The prompt list is here and all the prompt lists on my blog are tagged as 'prompts.' This is another offering in lieu of The Big Light, pt. 2, which is still not done, but I really am planning on finishing it this week. Sorry. I am, in fact, doing my best.

27. If by any means the other has to get up, a series releasing and detangling ensues.

"You've gotta let me up," George murmurs. "I have work to get done."

"No."

George can't help but chuckle and strokes a hand through Matty's curls, blunt nails scratching across his scalp. "Nothing's gonna get very far if you don't let me get up, Matty," he tries.

Matty shakes his head. "No."

"Matthew," George tries. "C'mon. Give me two hours."

Matty makes a noise in protest, a little bit  pathetic and reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and says, "I'm comfy and warm and sleepy."

And George believes that--he's warm and comfy and sleepy, too. Matty is halfway on top of him, head on his chest and limbs tangled together. Really, George hates that he needs Matty to move, hates the idea of getting up, but there are deadlines and responsibilities. Matty has things he needs to do, too, George knows, but Matty is also willing to do everything at the very last minute.

"I know you are, love," George responds, "and I promise that if you give me two hours to get some stuff done, I'll come right back. I'll even bring you a joint."

Matty hums like he's considering, then asks, "Can we also get delivery from that Indian place I like?"

Bargaining with Matty, especially a sleepy, comfy, vaguely bratty Matty is a slippery slope, but George agrees, "As long as you let me get up."

"Fine," Matty agrees, reluctant, but he makes no move to let George get up.

George cards his fingers through Matty's hair again and shifts in an effort to begin untangling himself from Matty. Really, Matty is small enough and sleepy enough that George could just move him, but that feels a little rougher than George wants to be with him.

"C'mon, sweetheart," George tries, rubbing Matty's back. "Just a little while."

Reluctantly, Matty untangles himself, releasing his hold on George's shoulder and untangling their legs, then rolls over, fixing George with a disgruntled expression as if to ask if he's happy now. George isn't really happy now--he'd much rather stay in bed with Matty's head on his chest--but he really does need to get a few things done.

George gets out of bed, presses a kiss to Matty's forehead and tucks the blankets around him, and leaves. Matty does his best to look very sad as George goes, but it doesn't really work. He rolls over and tries to be comfortable on his own, which feels kind of hopeless and sad. He lets Mayhem jump up on the bed, even though George hates it, in an effort to find even a fraction of the comfort that comes with George laying next to him.

As much as Matty loves his dog, though, and he really fucking loves his dog, the comfort he finds in George simply isn't there, so he offers Mayhem a scratch behind the ear, then urges him off the bed and gets up himself. Rather than going in search of George, though, he heads to the kitchen to make himself tea. He makes George a mug, too, which he sets on George's desk wordlessly, pressing a kiss to his temple before leaving him to whatever it is he needs to get done. Matty takes his own tea back to the bedroom, Mayhem padding behind him, nails clacking on the hardwood.

Matty isn't really one to spent all day in bed, but he's been under the weather and he's tried and bed will be comfier than anywhere else. Matty lets Mayhem back up on the bed and busies himself with scrolling through his phone while he waits for George to come back. He comes back before Matty expects him, far sooner than the two hours he had requested.

"You're done early," Matty says, a bit pointed, when George comes back.

George shrugs. "Didn't want you to be lonely," he admits, climbing back into bed.

"How thoughtful," Matty teases, getting comfortable next to George.

George chuckles. "Cheeky. I did bring you a joint, if you want."

Matty shakes his head. "Just want you here," he says.

"I'm here," George promises. "I'm always here."

[crymeariveronceagain]

23 and 25 my friend

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

Ohhhh gosh. Okay, well. I usually write in my dorm room, sitting on my bed. The curtains are usually open, because while my roommate will leave them shut constantly, I need sunlight to function as a human being. So the curtains are pulled back, and the light is streaming in. Outside the window, there are a dusting of trees and hills that I've never climbed, primarily because it seems like a long walk, and I've just never worked up the courage and resilience. The school president's house is over there, somewhere, hidden behind a grove of trees. I went there once, and it was one of the coolest houses I've ever seen. He also was holding a party. That may have been part of the reason that it was so cool.

Anyways, in my dorm room, I have a ton of posters on the walls, and a tiny calendar. Almost all the posters are of impressionist paintings. They make me a little sad to look at, because I've never seen any of the real paintings. I'm surrounded by cheap reproductions of art that no man could ever buy, anymore. There's a watercolor painting on the back of my heavy wooden door. I did it myself, at a painting night. It's a post-apocalyptic picture of a sunset, with the wreck of a city in a valley, and nature slowly reclaiming what belongs to it. From the ruin, a tiny wisp of smoke floats up, and that's the only way you know that someone survived the horrors that came before. Then again, this was all painted by me, and I, my friends, am not a very good artist.

There are stacks of books on the desk next to my bed. I rarely sit there. It operates like a large shelf, coated in stacks of books and paper and art supplies, filled with pencils and notebooks and my first aid kid and stickers. It's a cute set up, for sure, and I would sit there much more often, if it weren't for a few things. The chair is the wrong height and the desk is an even worse height, so when you sit on the chair at the desk, your legs are stuck, slightly smashed, in between the desk and the chair. It's dreadfully annoying, so I sit on my bed.

My bed is covered in blankets, one from each of my grandmothers, and an ombre blue comforter. It's got pillows and my stuffed animals, who I always feel slightly self conscious about having, except in my head I know that every female college student has at least one stuffed animal, they just be better or worse at hiding them. I situate myself directly in the middle of my bed, and I will say, it's a very comfy place to be. I've got a lap desk my brother gave me for my birthday a while back, and it's cracked and chipped and beat up, covered in pencil dust and nail polish drippings, but I love it and love using it. I'll use it fairly often, if I remember, because it's a lot more comfortable for my back and head and posture. It also says "You're doing amazing!" at the top. I think it was made for a little kid. I don't care.

I've got a light on the edge of my desk, and once the sun starts to set, I have to turn it on. My roommate and I don't talk at all, for no reason except that we never tried, so she'll come in and out of the room. Her side of our room is cluttered. There's chaos everywhere on her side, overflowing bags of food and paper and stacks of books slowly cascading to meet their untimely end at the floor. Mine is mostly put together, except for the sloping stacks of books. Usually I put in earbuds and listen to music while I work, and some days I try to multitask and get two birds out of the way with one stone and listen to a podcast or youtube video at the same time as I write(not a good choice, either the writing will be garbage or I won't get anything out of the video).

The night wears on, and if I'm lucky I'll type out enough of a story to satisfy me. Around eleven, I'll feel my brain start to click off, and wind up watching something on Youtube for real, this time. I'll snap my laptop shut a little bit later than I wanted, originally, and then go get ready for bed, my head filled with a sort of static that usually only happens once you run out of words to say. If I take a shower, I'll have a mental breakthrough and probably write for another twenty minutes after i get out, simply because I know if I don't write down my idea, it will be lost to the sands of time.

Anyways. Yeah. that's what it looks like where I write my stories. :D

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

For a given fanfic character, probably that the Dizznees have a TV. It's irrelevant and I never use that scrap of information, primarily because I fantasize about living in a world without screens to haunt all of our interactions and free time. I don't want people to watch TV mindlessly. I want them to sit around a fire and enjoy each other's company. It's my fanfic writing, I'll do what I want.

For an original character.... uhm. Amy and Tessa met in third grade, after Tessa switched from private school to public school. *shrugs* It means nothing to you, and it's also completely irrelevant to the story about them. It's so focused on their current happening that the past happenings don't matter. Y'all don't even know what story they're from lol. I should post that sometime.

Thanks for the asks! From this ask game.

[happybird16]

Escape V

Tea

Levi Ackerman / Fem Reader

Mermaid AU

Escape Masterlist Link

Chapter Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 2.5k

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39039084/chapters/97811100#workskin

Last Chapter | Next Chapter

You usually stop and get food on the way to meet Levi, pulling through a drive through for a quick and easy meal. There aren’t many options along the way, especially healthy ones, but you try to vary your dinners when you can. It felt embarrassing at first, gobbling down a greasy packaged burger, or something similar in quality, in your car. Even parked in an overgrown parking lot in the middle of nowhere, it felt like there were eyes judging you. Like you were some sort of wild animal being observed at the zoo. 

 Not this time though. Plodding along the shoreline, crinkly paper bag of fast food in hand, brushing against your leg with every step. You want to eat with Levi, to share some small bit of the human experience with the curious Mer. He’s always bringing you small treasures, and while fast food is nowhere near a treasure, you wanted to give him something in turn. Some little experience, a memory that he can treasure. 

 Turning the bend, his familiar trill of greeting fills the air before you can even spot him. It always amazes you how well you can hear his Mer noises, usually musical sharp clicks and trills, over the rush of the waves. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to realize he’d made a sound. 

 “Hey Levi! I brought a gift!” You hold the white package high above your head, the contents rustling a bit at your presentation. 

 “You brought trash?” You can practically hear the disgust in the word. 

 You plop down a short distance from his side, wiggling your toes in the cool water. 

 ”its food!”

 “I see bags like that all over the ocean floor. You better not plan on leaving it here! I spend so much time trying to gather your human garbage.”

 “No! I promise I’ll pack it back up and take it with me!”

 “What is it?” He sniffs audibly, nostrils flaring as he breathes in the scent of fried meat. You have no doubt that the scent is completely unfamiliar to him. There’s a vaguely untrusting look in his eyes. There’s also an odd glint to them though, something curious and bright, excited to try new things. 

 You place the bag between you, a bit higher up along the sloped coast to avoid the oncoming waves. The white paper is almost glaringly bright against the light brown sand.  

 ”I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to eat, so I got a fish sandwich for you. There’s also a few things that I like myself for you to try.”

 “Sandwich?” 

 “There’s no sand in it, I promise. Just some meat between two slices of bread. Here.” Pulling the slider from the paper bag, the metallic-papery packaging crinkles beneath your fingers. He takes it from you, a confused look on his face. 

 “This is food?”

 “It’s in packaging. See mine is too!” Lifting your meal from the bag, you pinch the tucked-in end of the packaging. You slowly peel back the wrapping, happy when he copies the movement with his own meal. 

 ”It’s… slimy.” He’s almost glaring, eyes squinting at the offending grease coating the wrapper and his hands. 

 “That’s grease, sorry. I hope it doesn’t upset your stomach.” 

 Levi clicks his tongue against his teeth, a sharp very human sound of distaste. “Am I going to shit like crazy later because of this?”

 ”Maybe. It’s a solid possibility.” Almost definite, actually, but you choose not to say that. 

 He clicks his tongue again before taking a bite, his sharp in-human teeth glinting in the sunlight before easily tearing into the breading. You take a bite of your own burger, watching his face as he chews. He remains mostly expressionless, his brows tight in their usual tilt. Almost as if he’s unwilling to emote, not wanting to disappoint you with his disgust. 

 “What do you think?”

 “It’s…odd. Chewy.” He flicks his ears in hard jerky motions, jaw working hard against the sandwich despite his sharp teeth. 

 ”You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”

 He takes another, larger bite as if to prove a point, cheeks bulging a bit around the contents. “I’ll finish it. What’s yours made of? It looks different.”

 “I got a burger. It’s sort of the same thing as yours but with beef. There’s a bunch of other toppings on it too.”

 “Beef? From a cow?”

 ”Yeah! Do you want to try a bite?” You hold out the burger towards him, ignoring the bit of grease sliding from your palm and down your wrist. 

 Instead of taking it like you’d expected him to, he leans forward to bite right into it from your hand. It makes butterflies bounce around inside of your stomach, seeing his lips so close to your digits; the sharp teeth spearing into the bread just a few inches from your fingertips. 

 He shakes his head, making an unhappy face like a toddler who’s just eaten Brussel sprouts. Mouth twisted into a deep frown; his nose wrinkled up in displeasure. You're surprised he doesn’t spit it out, given the sheer disgust visible on his face. His ears tilt down, the tops low along the sides of his head in distaste as he quickly gulps down the red meat. 

 Eager to remove the flavor from his mouth, he quickly goes back to munching on his fish sandwich. It might not be great, but it’s certainly much better than the burger. 

 “You didn’t like it, I’m guessing?”

 “Tasted gross. Burnt, almost like ashes.” His nose twists back up into a tight scrunch at the mere memory. 

 “No beef for you then. You're not used to cooked food anyways.” He’d explained to you before that he mostly eats raw fish. His sharp teeth have no difficulties with the tiny bones. It’s no wonder he finds the fish sandwich oddly chewy, the cooked meat no doubt rubbery in comparison. 

 “Ooh! I got you a drink too! I hope it’s not melted…” You dig into the paper bag again, pulling out a small shake. The white Styrofoam cup creaks beneath your grip as you punch in a long red straw. Eyes curious, he takes it from you almost immediately, nails digging into the soft Styrofoam. 

 ”What is this?” 

 “It’s a milkshake! I got my favorite flavor in case you don’t like it. I have another drink for me too if you do.” 

 You pull the final object from the bag, the dark brown liquid visible through the clear container. You punch the straw into it, making the ice cubes clack against each other. 

 Unsure of what to do, Levi is staring at the beverage in his hand. “It’s cold?”

 ”You drink it from the straw, like this.” You pull the straw of your own drink between your lips, sucking it with a sharp tug. His eyes linger on your pursed lips, making your heart throb a bit in your chest. 

 “Straw.” He repeats the word back at you, glaring at the tip of yours. You’ve kind of stopped noticing his odd accent, the weird rumbly way he lengthens all of his r’s, but it becomes super apparent as he struggles with the new word. 

 Levi once again copies you, pulling the red straw between his lips. You can’t help but watch them wrap around the thin straw, his plush bottom lip jutting out to curve around the plastic. The up and down bob of his Adam’s apple as he takes a large gulp. 

 “Bleh. It’s too sweet!” This time he actually almost spits it out, arm stretching to hold the beverage far away from him.  You chuckle at the twisted look on his face. 

 “It’s probably too much sugar for you anyways…” You don’t imagine he gets much of it in the first place. 

 You take a quick pull from your own straw, the taste acrid on your tongue. “Mine is a bit too bitter for my tastes. I thought this was sweetened tea when I ordered it.”

 “Tea?” There’s that curiosity again. Maybe he’s heard the word before? It sort of sounds familiar coming from his lips, unlike the awkward way he pronounces new words. 

 ”its iced black tea. I like it packed with sugar, but you might actually like it. Here, we’ll trade.”

 You swap drinks, his nails clacking against the plastic in his grip. You notice tiny divots indented into the Styrofoam of the milkshake. Nail marks. The milkshake is pretty melted, nearly soupy, not that he would have known the difference. The familiar taste floods your taste buds, the cold drink bringing a rush of cool sensation along the back of your head. 

 “Ahh, that’s much better!” Closing your eyes, you take a moment to relish the taste. 

 Levi takes a small pull of the tea, cautious after the last beverage. His ears flutter a bit at the taste, something they haven’t done before. Taking a long pull, his eyes close. A short happy sounding trill fills the air. 

 “You like it?” 

 “Yeah. It’s good.” He actually sounds satisfied, his voice a content low hum as he continues to sit and the beverage. 

 “I’m glad.” You're happy that he likes something you’ve brought. Even if everything else was sort of a failure, at least he enjoys the tea. 

 It’s almost comical, watching him happily drink the tea, his ears fluttering every time he takes a new sip. The piercing you’d put high on his ear is jingling, a high metal sound, with every happy flutter. An odd sight, you think. A merman drinking ice tea from a straw. 

 A straw that had just been in your mouth. The thought brings you to a pause, staring down at your own mostly finished shake. This straw had been in his mouth as well. An indirect kiss. You bury the thought before it can cause you to spiral too far. 

 His voice helps ground you, the calm tone relieving you from your twisting thoughts. “Is this…regular human food?” 

 “More than it should be, but it’s not exactly healthy to eat often.” Not that you have any room to judge. “It’s supposed to be more of a treat, or something quick to grab if you don’t have much time.”

 He hums in response, finishing off his drink with a sharp pull. The straw makes a raspy, airy rattle against the bottom of the container. He brings the bottom of the clear plastic up to eye level, jiggling it and glaring at the clacking ice remaining. 

 “I want more tea.” He’s almost pouting, the tilt of his lips is incredibly cute. Like a small child who’d just been denied their favorite snack. He takes another useless pull from the straw, making it rattle again before finally conceding and putting the empty beverage back into the paper bag. 

 “I’ll bring you some more some time.”

 He releases a short happy trill, ears flicking excitedly as he takes a final bite of his sandwich. The greasy wrapper quickly follows the drink, returning to the crinkly paper bag. 

 You turn to watch the sky for a bit as you take the final few bites of your burger. The sky’s so blue, so bright and cloudless, that it’s a bit difficult to tell where the ocean ends and it begins. Some fine line of blue on blue that's nearly impossible to differentiate. The sun is still high, bright and yellow as it glows brightly overhead. Large puffy white clouds meander slowly across the bright blue horizon, your eyes follow them; trailing along the cotton edges as they shift and change shape. 

 The last bite of your burger is a bit heavy on your tongue, chewy and no longer hot. It was good, not the best, and you aren’t really surprised he didn’t like it. It’s about as far removed from his usual diet as one can get. 

 You hear an odd noise from the man beside you, a sort of grumpy hum that sounds vaguely familiar to your human ears. Gaze straying from the bright horizon, you find Levi glaring down at one of his hands. He’s rubbing his fingers together, face pinched tight as if they’re coated in something gross and slimy. 

 “Are your fingers still greasy from the sandwich? There should be some napkins in there if you want to use them.” Though, realistically he could just lean forward to dip his fingers in the tide licking lazily up to your knees. 

 The sound of crinkling paper fills the air yet again, though the waves are getting a bit higher, beginning to drown out the sound. Levi’s face is oddly contemplative as he wipes his fingers on the small paper sheets. “I see these down below a lot too. The red thing we drank from, too.”

 “The straw? I’d like to say that humans are getting better at that but…” 

 A loud, gross, gurgling noise breaks your train of thought. You could definitely hear that above the rushing waves. It’s his stomach, no doubt protesting the greasy fast food. 

 “I… may have to cut our evening short,” the words are punctuated by a finned hand pressed to his belly. He suddenly looks a bit sick, and definitely more than a little embarrassed by the noise. 

 “Oh no! I’m sorry that the food upset your stomach!”

 ”its fine. I figured it would. You warned me beforehand, too.” He looks sort of green, the cast is a bit odd against the blue scales lining his face. 

 There’s another loud gurgle, the hand pressed to his stomach moves to almost soothe the sound away. A futile gesture, you know that first hand. 

 “I’m going to go. I have to shit. Make sure you clean all this up.” He points jerkily at the paper bag; your metallic wrapper balled up into the sand beside it. 

 “I will! Goodnight, Levi! Hope you feel better fast.”

 “Goodnight. Thank you for this. It was fun.” His voice sounds fond despite the hurried words.

 You don’t get to respond, more apologies on the tip of your tongue, before he surges forward into the ocean. You watch his tail flick above the water in the distance. The membrane stretching across his leafy-like tail fin is thin enough that the sunlight shines through it, the webbing lines of muscle black against the horizon.  

 You sit for a while, nursing your drink, watching the sky paint pink as the sun lowers towards the ocean. The sudden strong gust of salty air catches your hair, making it twist to brush against your forehead. The calm waves fill your ears with their soothing rhythm -back and forth, back and forth in an unending tempo against the sand. It’s too quiet without him here. The long stretch of desolate sand doesn’t seem peaceful anymore. Even long silences seem more comfortable in his presence. 

 Taking one last sip of your milkshake, you can’t help but think of his lips. An indirect kiss.

[sugarstickery]

An Allegory Within the Dark

This is an unofficial fan translation of chapter 3 of Jujutsu Kaisen’s first light novel, Departing Summer and Returning Autumn by Gege Akutami and Ballad Kitaguni.

Summary: Mahito stumbles across an unusual human in his search for a place to call ‘home’.

Featured characters: Primarily Mahito, with brief appearances from Hanami and Jogo, along with an unnamed novel-only character

Timeline: An undefined time prior to the events of the Vs. Mahito arc

An Allegory Within the Dark

If you want to hide a tree, you go to the middle of a forest.

So if you’re looking to hide a person, you should go to the middle of a city.

Following that logic, it makes sense for curses worthy of being the true humans to set up their hideout in the city center.

Cursed spirits would actually have it much easier if they spent their time in places crammed with fear where humans and the like can’t live: deep in the mountains or in densely wooded areas, for example.

But for a group of curses plotting to overturn the current era, a base in the heart of the city is crucial for invasion and seeking refuge. That being the case, it’s also better to try aiming for a location with a high concentration of negativity.

Anyway, that’s how some employees from a scam business ended up massacred.

“This really is the simplest way to handle it. All of them nest together up here away from the public eye, so clean-up is a cinch.”

Jogo laughed while trampling the burning remains of a corpse underfoot.

Roughly two minutes ago, there were about six humans in the office.

The curses considered a few ways to handle dispatching them but ultimately decided that burning was the fastest, so Jogo quickly turned them to ash.

“But humans used this building, didn’t they? Won’t it be a problem if there’s property management or something?” Mahito asked, poking at an ostentatious vase displayed on a shelf.

Apparently the concern was unnecessary. Jogo tried to answer with a grin, but a nonsensical language cut into their conversation.

“⏁⊑⟒⟟⍀ ⎎⍜⋏⏁ ⟟⌇ ☊⎍⌇⏁⍜⋔”

“Oi, bastard—! Stop talking, Hanami! It makes my head itch!”

Though Hanami spoke in nothing but meaningless sounds, the intention behind it was somehow transmitted directly into the minds of others. This was usually unpleasant and it irritated Jogo.

When he noticed Mahito still looking his way, Jogo continued to explain despite his frustration.

“Hmph... What? There’s no need to worry. I asked Geto what his aim was, and it looks like these were the kind of underhanded humans who got involved in plenty of unethical things.”

“Hm. So basically, other humans won’t actually come close if they get that curse stuff happens here.”

“Exactly. Any respectable, straight-laced human would never come near this place under normal circumstances. It’s the perfect city-center hideout.”

“Is it really?”

“...What is it, Mahito? You don’t seem satisfied. What’s there to worry about? It would put us in a great position to start preparing our plans for the city, and it’s great for a quick escape if we need one.”

“Mm... No, you’re right, but...”

“But what? Spit it out.”

“It’s just... This room is really tacky.”

“Huh?”

With a pop, a small eruption burst forth from Jogo’s head. His narrowed eye looked like a painting of a gently sloping mountain.

“It’s tasteless, isn’t it? Stuff like that gaudy gold lion in the sparkly jar or this cheap-looking sideboard.”

“What are you even saying?! I have no idea what’s gotten into you lately, but you’ve been so annoying!”

“Movies.”

“Movies? Are those overly-embellished portrayals of humans really that interesting?”

“They’re references for my studies on the structure of a soul,” Mahito replied with an ambiguous smile.

If humans could see him, they might be reminded of a proud elementary schooler discussing the knowledge they gained from a book report.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t find the stories that interesting either, but I don’t hate the sense of visual aesthetics that humans have. That said, this room has too many useless colors and really hurts the eyes.”

“Such bratty, selfish complaints... We can just burn or toss anything that’s an eyesore.”

“No need, I’m going to look for a place to settle down on my own.”

“What? Ah, hey— Where are you going?”

Not waiting for Jogo’s response, Mahito waved over his shoulder and vanished like smoke or a gentle breeze, off to who-knows-where.

“Geez… Maybe it’s because he was born from human fear, but even knowing he’s a curse, he tends to be way too frivolous. Watching movies and all…”

While grumbling out his complaints, Jogo took a pipe from his shirt pocket to put in his mouth.

Unlike human cigarettes, this wooden pipe somehow imitated a screaming face when smoked.

“But that Mahito...”

Jogo spun around to survey the room with his one eye.

“...He says that, but it doesn’t seem tacky to me.”

“⊑⏃⋏⏃⋔⟟”

“I already said shut up!!”

--

You can only find a hideaway that suits you by looking for it on your own.

Mahito wandered through the city with this in mind. He alternated left and right turns on a whim any time he happened across a traffic light, walked alongside stray cats, or sometimes simply went in the direction of clouds that he liked the shape of.

While traveling along his chosen path like this, he keenly felt just how laughable humans were.

Though the city belongs to them, no one walking in and out of it was more free than Mahito.

Everyone seemed constrained. They were captured by ties of obligation and vanity, living in a wide, deep, big city with such narrow outlooks.

Unaffected by the enormous sky sprawling out endlessly overhead, they box themselves into their concrete city with their own hands and limited perception of souls, passing the time by whittling their lives down further and further.

Mahito even learned the words for some of these human concepts to study later.

For example, they call it “morals”. They call it “common sense”. They call it “emotion”.

But a human soul isn’t anything more than the resulting mechanical movement that comes from external stimuli.

And so they let go of freedom and live tightly controlled lives, fearing the judgmental stares of others, stooping to flattery for society’s approval.

“...What a waste.”

Everyone is bound by ostentatious shackles of their own making.

That’s why these curses know there has to be a change, as far as humans go. Those who cannot do anything but crawl in such an unsightly way under the magnificent sky must hand over the world.

Mahito thinks. He ponders over any topic his soul turns toward. He walks wherever the wind blows him.

Before long, the time had come for the sun to descend in the western sky. He could hear the burbling of a river.

--

“Not bad.”

The hideaway Mahito found was under a bridge, across the river.

It was a tunnel, vacant and huge like a temple.

Pipes ran along the inside, clear water flowing from them and into the river. It looked like wastewater was drained here after being purified, so there wasn’t much discomfort.

Apart from the humid air and the moss that emitted a peculiar grassy smell, it seemed wide enough to splash and jump around in, and the concrete’s cool texture provided a refreshing welcome.

There’s a season that curses are partial to.

Negative human emotions accumulate from the end of winter to spring, and it could be said that the rainy season served as the so-called peak of their ripening.

The inside of the damp tunnel held the same atmosphere. There was a gloominess there in the dim lighting that could easily nurture fear. It gently moistened Mahito’s skin; he felt cozy.

“Yeah, let’s stay here.”

When choosing a place to live, it’s best to trust your instincts.

Perhaps humans should do the same, but what they can’t readily do, Mahito can decide without hesitation. If he’s free when he wanders, then he’s free when he settles down, too.

Mahito stepped into the tunnel in good spirits, knocking solidly on the concrete floor.

The soul’s metabolism smooths out in comforting spaces. But…

“Huh?”

After walking a short distance, Mahito discovered “that”.

He initially thought it was some garbage or something that a human illegally dumped. But before long, it became clear that it was a sack-like silhouette leaning against a wall.

At first glance, it perhaps looked like a mere collection of rags.

But the shape of a soul was there.

—Ah, it’s alive.

Yes, just as Mahito had realized, it was a human.

The tattered clothing and wildly overgrown hair and beard hid his shape, but it was undoubtedly a human.

His exact age wasn’t clear from his outward appearance, but whether he was 60 or over 80, he looked elderly.

Mahito thought it was a bit of a pain.

There was already a visitor living in his precious hideaway.

Of course, taking care of this issue would be an easy matter for him. But he felt the same discomfort as a homeowner finding a stain on the wall of their new house.

‘Anyway, if I’m gonna deal with this, let’s get it done,’ Mahito thought, reaching out toward the old man with a little sigh.

Whereupon, unexpectedly, the old man spoke.

“...I’m sorry if you’re displeased.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what you came here to do, but... I’m sure your mood has soured after stumbling across the home of an old fool. But I have nowhere to go, either.”

Mahito was a little taken aback.

The old man was clearly aware of Mahito and turned toward him to speak. This wouldn’t be surprising at all if he was talking to a fellow human.

But Mahito is a curse.

The eyes of a mere human can’t clearly perceive cursed spirits.

It isn’t impossible, though. If humans are born with cursed energy, it isn’t unusual for them to be aware of the existence of curses.

What caught Mahito’s attention was this old man’s lack of ‘eyes’.

As in, he had no eyes in the physical sense. Instead, in the empty sockets that once held them, there was a burn scar that was painful just to look at.

Even sorcerers rely on their eyes to view the world.

They depend on their field of vision to spot cursed spirits. That’s why so many of them use sunglasses and the like to conceal their line of sight, as it helps them remain unaffected. It also helps them maintain a balanced mind when their daily life overflows with curses.

However, that was not the case for this old man.

“Can you see me?”

When Mahito asked, the old man answered with a gentle nod.

“At the very least, I can feel you.”

“But you can’t see the world?”

“Naturally. That includes the scenery, what you look like, what color your skin is, and even your gender. Even so... I know you’re there.”

“...Are you a sorcerer?”

“Most likely not.”

“You’re being pretty vague, even though you’re talking about yourself.”

“For a long time, that’s what I’ve been the most vague about.”

Mahito began to notice something strange.

He can feel the shape of a human’s soul.

He knows the movement of a soul’s metabolism, whether it takes on a harsh form, withers weakly, or flickers with liveliness.

However, this old man’s soul was hardly metabolizing.

It was like a meadow with no wind, or a still sea, or the blue sky on a cloudless day.

No, it would be most appropriate to compare it to a stone.

His soul was like a stone on the side of the road.

No fancy ornamentation, no polishing. Unmoving, unwavering.

Calmly passing the time while growing moss.

That was the shape this old man’s soul had.

No matter how calm or how old a person is, the human soul always flickers.

As the years stack up, common sense doesn’t disappear, selfishness isn’t eliminated, and fear isn’t conquered.

But this old man was different.

The old man’s soul was at peace. He had sincerely accepted that everything would decay with time, but that didn’t mean he would throw his life away. It was truly similar to the way in which nature existed.

It was Mahito’s first time meeting anyone like this.

--

For a while, the tunnel became something of a den for Mahito.

He had gotten a hammock from somewhere, which he hung up between the pipes. He lounged in it and read, passing the time in comfort.

In a movie about life on a deserted island, a human who was desperate to survive made a hammock. Through it, he was able to regain a little peace of mind.

Since it looked surprisingly comfortable, Mahito gave it a try and it worked out nicely.

The arguments and fights of the outside world didn’t reach the inside of the tunnel, where only the burble of the small stream could be heard.

It provided a good environment for soothing the soul.

While leisurely absorbing new knowledge from his books, Mahito would sometimes absentmindedly gaze up toward the ceiling, or glance down at the corner where the old man squatted, looking as he always did.

“How do you live like this? It’s pretty mysterious...”

In the end, Mahito didn’t kill the old man.

It’s important to note that the old man wasn’t much of a hindrance for him. If it would make no difference whether he was there or gone, then Mahito figured getting rid of him would be more of a hassle.

The old man was just there, even quieter and more carefree than a stray cat.

Mahito knew the phrase: ‘man is only a reed, but he is a thinking reed’.

He found it hilarious and also genuinely liked it. It simultaneously boasted about being trapped in thoughts of the soul, while also showing that humans were frail as weeds.

It could be said that the old man was an unthinking reed, then.

No – he was even quieter than that; more like grass or some type of moss. In any case, the old man said nothing and simply carried on living.

Every now and then, the old man would suddenly shuffle off elsewhere, but he would be back to sleep before Mahito knew it. He was surely getting food from somewhere, but he never seemed to gain weight. If he lost any while in the tunnel, he would eat just enough to gain it back when he left, and no more.

It was a style of living so close to nature that it seemed more like a phenomenon than a life.

“That’s why I seriously wonder if you can see me.”

The suspicion was uttered suddenly.

Mahito wasn’t exactly speaking to the old man. Rather, his tone was that of someone talking to themselves.

But when he noticed that the old man’s soul didn’t waver even after hearing him speak, Mahito finally addressed him directly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Let’s see… I think a few winters have passed, but I’m not sure,” the old man muttered, his reply quiet.

Since they were two beings with souls who were aware of each other’s existence, Mahito felt it would be more natural to chat every now and then.

“Don’t you get bored?”

When spoken to in a soft tone, the old man also responded softly.

“I’ve forgotten how to be bored.”

“How do you usually pass the time here?”

“I don’t do anything, really. I just listen to the sounds.”

“The sounds?”

“The sounds of the water flowing.”

“...Is it fun?”

“It’s not. But I forgot how to have fun a long time ago, too, so it’s not an issue.”

So it was like that. Mahito nodded.

If this old man could no longer even feel the pain of boredom, perhaps his soul was worn down.

Humans of the city gasp and struggle through the hurt of not having enough, yet always wish for more even when they get what they wanted. Their souls grew fat and tattered through the rich accumulation of these negative feelings.

So in that regard, from Mahito’s point of view, the old man had a thin soul – but it could be said that was clever of him.

A fat and full human soul leads to a fear of losing the gratifying present moment, which in turn gives birth to curses.

“It’s hard to get your attention. What’s your name?”

When Mahito asked, the old man looked into the air for just a second.

“I left that behind. You can call me whatever you like.”

“There are humans without names? Even curses have them.”

“If you don’t meet other people, you don’t need a name.”

“Isn’t it a problem if you don’t have one?”

“When is it a problem?”

“When it’s time to be buried.”

“I don’t need a gravestone with a name. I can just be stuffed into a common grave, or maybe I’ll rot undiscovered and return to the earth that way.”

“Can’t you take a joke?”

“…Was that a joke?”

The old man didn’t laugh. Neither did Mahito.

But Mahito had the feeling that this old man was childish, contrary to his appearance. His lack of attachments created an unsullied disposition that might make him younger than he looked.

His interest in the old man simmered and surged.

It was his first time seeing this type of human, his first time feeling a soul with this form. For Mahito, this was a rare specimen.

What kind of path must life take to make this kind of human? What would be the most intriguing shape to make with a soul like that? What uses could one plan for such a person?

And what kind of curse would be born from them?

With these questions fueling his curiosity, Mahito started to chat with the old man.

“Why are you here?”

“…Why?”

The old man looked up toward the ceiling through his unruly bangs.

His eye sockets were empty, but it seems like even without sight, humans tended to stare into nothing when they were thinking. One curiosity of Mahito’s was satisfied.

“You weren’t born and raised in this tunnel, right? As a human, you must have been in that noisy city.”

“Ah, that. I lived a fairly busy life a long time ago. I inherited the house, worked, made money and supported my family.”

“So you were a human in a pretty good position.”

“In human society, yes. Looking back on it now, it was all meaningless.”

“So... what, you basically started living in a hole like a mouse, then?”

“I did that because I lost everything that I needed up to then. I lost my social status, my money, and a place where I belonged.”

“You lost it all?”

“I was tricked. That’s when my eyes were burned, so I lost my sight then, too.”

Mahito incidentally recalled the company Jogo attacked.

“You got tricked, huh? You seem pretty good-natured about it.”

“That’s because I didn’t care much about being tricked.”

“You’re a weird old man. Is this some kind of hobby where you get your kicks when people deceive you or something?”

“I’m just saying, that’s the kind of person I was back then. The ones who tricked me were my old friend and my wife. My eyes were burned in that so-called “accident”¹; they claimed I wasn’t of sound mind and body after that, and under the guise of caring for me, they stole everything I worked for before I knew it.”

“That’s a pretty flashy way to trick someone, isn’t it? You’re talking like it’s someone else’s problem.”

“Those two loved each other, and I was loved by no one. Knowing that was more monumental to me than being tricked.”

It was hard for Mahito to interpret what the old man said.

Love. Is it really such an important word?

It’s said that curses born from love exist in the world. It seems there are tremendously powerful ones among them, too. But Mahito doesn’t understand how the mechanism by which people love each other is any different from a cat’s attachment to a blanket.

Still, Mahito knows for a fact that people are obsessed with it.

“Didn’t you curse them? The ones who tricked you.”

“Not really.”

“’Not really’, huh. You know, normally a human in that situation would get angry and hold grudges, and it would make the shape of their soul deteriorate.”

“It’s true, though. I don’t think I had the energy to even consider seeking revenge or hurting them.”

“...I get it.”

Mahito nodded, filling in the blanks.

Regardless of whether or not he can guess the trends in human emotion, Mahito has studied many movies, novels and poetry so far.

Then there were the humans he tinkered with. Mahito could put together the pieces he gleaned from those things and use them to break down the old man’s story.

“So basically, you were in despair. So much despair that it was like your soul was about to die. That’s how you broke through the creation of grudges and curses and ended up like this.”

The old man slowly shook his head.

“I may have been disappointed, but I don’t believe I felt the intense despair you’re thinking of.”

“Are ‘disappointment’ and ‘despair’ different?”

“They are; this is just my personal experience.”

The old man raised his face, following the memories.

“There was no burning resentment or turbulent sorrow. It’s just... I was tired, I guess. Between work, assets, reputation, my life situation and duties, dealing with others, caring about the family name... I think I was probably just tired and worn out because of it all.”

“And that’s why you didn’t get mad even after being tricked?”

“I was at peace. They say the soul gets lighter after going through disappointments.”

The old man’s voice was calm.

It had a cool quality to it, like muddy water that had been filtered clean.

“I couldn’t see, I had no money, I had no love... But as I was walking through the city with nothing to my name, it all suddenly became inconsequential. And then, as I looked around, I saw the city in a new light.”

“Even though you can’t see?”

“Yes. When you can’t see anything, it’s just sound and wind that goes on forever anywhere you are. I couldn’t even see the walls blocking the city in. It was just endless darkness spreading out forever, like a starless night. For the first time, I understood how wide the world was. And I thought to myself... ah, I’m free, aren’t I?”

Mahito blinked rapidly.

This old man’s thinking didn’t fit any other case he had gathered so far.

Even hearing about his past, he couldn’t understand the old man’s thoughts.

But even from Mahito’s point of view, the old man was certainly free.

Without so much as leaving the middle of this tunnel, he knew that the sky was vast.

Perhaps he knew it better than any member of high society walking around freely in the city. He knew the wide spread of the sky, the soft caress of the wind, the gentle sounds of the water.

This old man, who looked like a simple rakugoka², had no property or social standing. He even lost his connection to other humans... And maybe that’s precisely why he could uncover the elusive meaning of the word ‘freedom’.

He was just existing, just being alive, without attachments, grudges or curses.

“So basically ‘not all those who wander are lost’?”

“Yes, though quoting Tolkien’s works might be a little tedious.”

Mahito smiled when the man immediately caught the reference to a book he just happened to read.

“Were you a bookworm?”

“All I did was cram a lot of information in.”

“It’s good to be well-read.”

If curses are born from the fear that humans feel, could this old man even be considered human?

As Mahito is, he struggles with the expression of human emotions.

But he was calm.

For the first time since coming into contact with humans, he had a feeling of peace.

“I think if everyone in the world was like you, I wouldn’t have been born.”

Mahito looked back at his book.

The old man, staring into nothing as always, fell silent again.

Curses are born from humans, but they also kill humans. There is no way for the two to coexist.

But in this tunnel, a curse and a human were doing exactly that.

Though distorted, this peaceful period of time flowed by gently.

--

It’s only natural for humans to hate and fear other humans.

Since they can’t see souls, they can only make guesses about the feelings of others, and they’re swayed by their own emotions.

They don’t understand that these things are just a reflection of the soul’s metabolism. They don’t even know where their soul is.

Mahito investigated the matter.

This blind man lost his sight and his connection to others, so his soul received less stimulation.

And so, no longer influenced by unnecessary things in the physical world, he spent a lot of time facing his inner world and reflecting.

“It’s kind of like a monk’s training. Through strong introversion, a person looks at their soul more often.”

Mahito walked around the city, skimming through a beaten-up copy of the Heart Sutra.

It was a sutra handbook that focused on controlling the soul. It looked like humans of the past did their own research into freeing the soul from the material world.

The old man’s life ended up in a similar state without him setting out to do it on purpose.

That was likely how he learned to feel other souls through the darkness he lived in. Mahito concluded this was the reason he was aware of curses.

“I think he was already predisposed, but... seems like it’s easier for introverted humans to show promise.”

If he gave the old man’s situation even deeper consideration, he could probably make a lot of guesses about a sorcerer’s training. There’s even a way to encourage the first manifestation of cursed energy.

In that case, it should also be possible to take a talented person and ‘make’ them into a sorcerer or curse-user.

Unleashing a curse-user made by a curse onto a sorcerer...

That might be a fun experiment. It’s easier to shake up a human’s soul by having them fight other humans, rather than just exorcising curses. Sukuna’s vessel should be no exception.

Although...

—Maybe it’s fine to do that a little later?

Yes, Mahito thought it over at his leisure.

He is free. When it’s time to move, he moves. When it’s time to rest, he rests.

And he was not in the mood to launch that plan into action.

Rather, for the time being, he just wanted to gather knowledge and indulge in thought. He also got some new books and wanted to read fantasy novels while basking in the quiet comfort of the tunnel.

Mahito’s gait became lighter. While walking alongside the throng of people, he even began to hum.

Suddenly, a loud voice rang out from between two buildings.

“—so damn annoying, yeah?”

Looking over that way, he saw two young humans: a man with long, thin hair, and a muscular skinhead. They were undoubtedly people who looked like trouble.

The long-haired man listened as the skinhead rambled on with his complaints, seemingly in some kind of sullen mood.

“Damn, it’s seriously freezing. Anyway, every last one of ‘em just puts on shitty airs, but it’s all just talk. Nothin’ but excuses. Ah, I wanna kill ‘em all...”

“You say that, but come on. You talk big about wanting to beat these guys to death when you’re pissed, but could you actually kill someone?”

“Sure. Ain’t like killing’s hard.”

“Seriously?”

Mahito squinted and listened, the conversation going in one ear and out the other.

It’s not that he disliked the way they acted or how they spoke bluntly about their heart’s desires. But Mahito knew people like this were all talk.

“Yeah– seriously, anyone’s fine, I just wanna kill someone.”

Then maybe you should do it without saying anything.

Better yet, he thought about practicing some killing methods on them. But Mahito felt the light weight of the book in his hand as he reached out, and he stopped.

Rather than sparing any consideration for this, he just wanted to go back to the comfort of the tunnel and read.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

The skinhead’s grumbling voice sounded like a spell.

But the words would find no power or heart to shelter in. Shut away between these buildings, the most a person can do is talk to themselves. It’s best for humans like this to stick to the narrow back alleys, foolishly thinking they’re enjoying a wide world.

Mahito averted his gaze and made his way back home.

--

“Why did Gregor become a bug?”

Mahito suddenly asked the old man, not taking his eyes off the novel.

It was a famous book by Franz Kafka.

A story in which a human unexpectedly turns into a poisonous insect.

“The most popular theory is that the bug is a metaphor.”

“Metaphor?”

“It means he was a person who was hated and oppressed within society, treated the same way a human would treat a bug. Kind of like an old man who was suddenly blinded and tricked one day.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Not exactly.”

It was detached and dispassionate, but an answer would come back any time Mahito said something. When conversing with the old man, it felt like talking to a dictionary. He had a lot of information.

He knew about things like the inner workings of the mind and human culture, and he was smart enough to explain it simply in discussions.

For Mahito, who analyzed human souls through books and movies, this old man’s knowledge and conversation helped in its own way.

When do humans get angry? Why do they grieve?

How do they trust and in what ways are they betrayed?

Mahito lived with a different sense of ethics when compared to humans, so there were many things he struggled to interpret. The old man explained them and helped him understand.

He had a strong interest in the experiences of the old man, who had once lived among humans but didn’t act like them.

“After becoming a bug, Gregor eventually hid away like he was told to, but he still ended up being spotted and it led to his death. Jii-san³, why do you think that is?”

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”

“That’s a quote from Virginia Woolf, right?”

When Mahito immediately and correctly guessed the source, the old man raised a brow slightly.

“You’re a pretty avid reader, too. Conversations with you are really stress-free.”

“Do you have to go back to living with other humans, then?”

“If you don’t have any attachment to the human world, there’s no need to run from it or stand against it⁴.”

“I see,” Mahito murmured to let the other know he was listening, eyes still on the book.

Even if he wasn’t looking at it, the old man’s perpetually calm soul was aglow in the dark like always.

Mahito read his book in the dim room lit by the brilliance of that soul instead of a candle.

Time quietly flowed through the darkness.

Outside of the tunnel, signs indicating the end of summer crept up.

--

The end came abruptly.

One day, when Mahito was heading back to the tunnel with an abandoned poetry anthology that he picked up on an aimless walk through the city, he felt a noisiness that shouldn’t have been there.

There were one, two, three swaying souls.

One had a very familiar shape, but it was terribly frail. It was like the dying flame of a candle weakened by the wind.

With the same unchanging gait as always, Mahito stepped into the tunnel.

As expected, the old man was there.

But the unusual thing was the crumpled, strange position that he was in.

He was also sandwiched between two younger men who were looking down at him.

“Oooi, isn’t this bad? Did this guy seriously die?”

A man with long, thin hair spoke in a tone that was not particularly anxious.

“Didn’t I say it? I said I could kill,” a muscular skinhead replied, his voice casual.

“But ain’t this just impulsive?”

“Yeah, well, the old man had some real cheek, looking down on us when he’s this weak. So why not just kick him?”

The skinhead likely played sports, given that his legs were as thick around as logs. Kicking an old man to death would be easier than crushing a can.

The two didn’t seem to have a single scrap of interest in the old man, his life or his soul.

There was no reason, no grudge, no clear murderous intent.

It seemed like they simply arrived at the tunnel somehow. They took the opportunity to do as much violence as they wanted. They beat him on a whim.

It could be said that this way of being is freedom for humans.

Mahito crouched down, peeking at the old man’s face.

The beaten visage of the man with burned eyes came into view. But even at a time like this, his expression was as calm as always.

“Are you going to die?”

Mahito searched for even a mumbled word or two in response.

“...Seems so...”

The old man answered in a hoarse voice. He likely barely had the power left to speak now. It appeared as though the two men didn’t hear him over their loud conversation.

He intently inspected the old man’s soul.

The peaceful soul was not flickering, nor did it hold anger or grief; it was simply coming to an unhurried end.

Mahito was impressed.

This old man had found the true meaning of freedom. He really was released from every tie of obligation in this world. Even on the verge of death, that didn’t change.

Being able to make sure of that with his own two eyes, Mahito felt considerably relieved. In the same way he would watch a flower wither and fall, he observed the old man’s death.

Nevertheless...

“Jii-san?”

He had a feeling.

It’s like seeing a plot twist you don’t want to see if you keep turning the pages of a book.

Or like knowing the contents of a present before you open it.

That kind of buzz spread through Mahito’s chest.

While he puzzled over the instinctive alarm bells screaming at him to stop watching, everything was heading toward its end.

“...I thought I would die alone.”

The old man’s soul dimly flickered.

A smile was on his swollen face.

“...To have someone... here to witness this old fool’s last moments...”

The flicker might have been insignificant, like a single drop breaking the water’s surface. Even so, for an instant near death, at the end of it all...

The old man’s soul ‘metabolized’.

“...Tha...nk... y...”

The old man died smiling.

“. . .”

Mahito’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment, he was frozen.

He thought the old man was different when compared to other humans. To Mahito, he seemed unfettered.

Mahito thought the unique philosophical views stemming from such an extraordinary state of mind had freed him from all the shackles of this world.

But despite all of that, the old man was still captured right in his last moments.

On the brink of death, he clung to someone else so he could avoid a lonely end.

The old man was only human.

For a human, it was likely satisfying enough. Perhaps it was even the proper way for one to die.

“. . .”

Mahito said nothing.

But what felt like a dry wind blew through his chest, leaving him cold.

He didn’t know the name humans gave that emotion. But his consciousness was like yarn tangling in on itself, wriggling around like a worm—

And suddenly, it all cut off at once.

The only thing left behind was the sensation of standing in a dry and barren wasteland.

“—So basically,” the skinhead’s voice echoed. “Police probably won’t do a proper investigation. Not for this old nobody.”

“Hey, hey, hey; that’s still a person,” the long haired man answered lightly.

“Yeah, well, that guy started it.”

“He shoulda looked at who he was talking to before he picked a fight.”

“Anyway, my pants are dirty from all that kicking... That’s a problem.”

“So fussy. That’s what you’re worried about when you just killed a guy? How funny.”

“That ain’t a person. Anyway, don’t you know I like being clean? Ahh, the blood won’t come off... Water doesn’t do any good, right?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t – but more importantly, if you’ve settled down, I’m hungry. Let’s stop by a convenience store.”

“I dunno. If you’re gonna look, buy a bento and let’s get outta here.”

Mahito quickly stood up in the same way one would when they finished looking for something in a store.

A sense of fatigue was deeply ingrained in his body.

Their incoherent voices persisted, reverberating through the tunnel, smeared with excuses and attempts to escape reality. He couldn’t hear the soft burble of the stream.

With deep-seated listlessness, Mahito approached the skinhead as one would move to pick up fallen trash.

Idle Transfiguration. The technique spreads quickly.

And thus, the moment he tapped the man’s back, its shape was no longer human.

“Ee—!!”

If he just killed them, it would create a nuisance in the form of a corpse, so he simply folded it up into something palm-sized and kept it alive.

Then, with a careless sweep⁵ of his hand, he folded up the other man as well.

“Begh—”

It fell silent.

Mahito gathered up the two, now no bigger than chess pieces, and turned his attention down toward the remaining corpse of the old man.

It was now just a bag of meat full of bones. Not even the soul remained, so he couldn’t use Idle Transfiguration to fiddle with it.

He was briefly troubled by its disposal, which served as the biggest inconvenience.

In the tunnel, there nothing but the sound of running water.

--

--

It was a day where the sky seemed farther away than usual.

Clouds peeked out from around the buildings and a good feeling was carried in on the wind.

Mahito aimlessly walked about the city.

“Maybe I’ll catch a movie. It’s been ages.”

He picked a tiny, somewhat old-looking theater and snuck in.

He’s had high motivation lately, and it seemed like some unnecessary things had peeled away from his soul, leaving him more carefree than ever.

Thanks to that, he had also begun to toy with humans more often.

If he can fold a person up and make them small, he wanted to test out inflating one instead, but he slept on the idea overnight. It was pretty fun, but he knew that he was getting too absorbed. He also felt that carrying on with too much persistence wasn’t a good thing.

A change of pace every now and then was fine, too.

He hadn’t closely checked to see what was being screened. It was mostly just plain and obscure movies, but if one went in with no expectations, they might come across a surprisingly interesting tale.

Curiously, he had that kind of a feeling.

While walking through the hall of the theater, he casually felt through his pocket, which had grown bulky with the ‘small humans’ that he had touched.

—Speaking of which, he thought that was a nuisance.

He carelessly tossed some of them away.

Opening the door, he stepped into the theater.

Perhaps because it was a weekday, there weren’t many customers. The silhouettes of what appeared to be students filled out a few seats here and there.

From where Mahito stood in the corner, he had a good view of the screen.

Soon, instead of a curtain raising, the theater was engulfed in darkness.

--

T/N: [1] In this sentence, the implication is that the “accident” was very much orchestrated by the old man’s friend and wife, who burned his eyes somehow and then merely made it look like an accident [2] The rakugoka is the storyteller in rakugo, a form of (often) comedic theater that relies solely on spoken word from the rakugoka, who only uses a fan and hand towel as props [3] A way of referring to old men in general, basically like “gramps/grandpa”; Mahito never calls him by an actual name [4] Essentially, the old man’s saying that he (or anyone) can exist parallel to human society without interacting if they have no attachments to it and can still find peace, contrary to the Woolf quote [5] Kanji reads sweep, furigana reads cleanse (the same word for exorcism that sorcerers use)

Thanks as well to Pixi for help with editing and tl checks!  If an officially translated version of the novel becomes available in your country, please consider purchasing it, or consider buying a copy of the original novel in Japanese if possible!

[troubatrain]

runaway - n. patrick

a/n: happy sunday here’s som midday filth i wrote today? i think i might make this a little series (where all the fics sort of connect) but i have decided yet so tell me if you want more! big shoutout to @hookingminor​ for letting me dump ideas in her DMs. Also tagging @texanstarslove​ for encouraging me to expand on this blurb i wrote yesterday! hope you guys like it :)

warning : smut - it’s literally just smut

part two

You were running away if you could even count making a grand escape from Boston to Philadelphia to your brother’s place. You had submitted your final paper in your dorm at Boston College, packing your bags and loading your car in what should have been the direction home. Instead, while you were packing your ex had posted a picture with his new girlfriend, and you felt like an idiot. You couldn’t believe it, gossiping to your friends that you’d slept with him a week ago and you were so sure you were getting back together. Now, you were just heartbroken and when you needed an escape - there was always Kevin.

So you drove in the direction of Philly, calling your big brother on the way down to tell him you were on your way. Kevin was in California, but told you to come regardless, worried about his little sister. You drove in silence, your mind racing for hours, finally pulling in front of Kevin’s building a little after nine. Philly was cold, but nothing compared to the cold December temperatures you were used to. You let yourself into his place, grateful for the key you kept the last time you came for a visit. The place was dark, and you stepped into the kitchen in search of any food.

“Hey Boston.”

You jump, letting out a small yelp and almost falling to the floor. You turn around to meet Nolan’s eyes, a smirk on his face while he stifles a laugh. You huff, crossing your arms and raising your eyebrows at him, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here, what the fuck are you doing here?” Nolan scoffs, looking at you like you’d completely lose your mind. Nolan wouldn’t have told another soul, but he was happy to see you. Kevin would murder him if he ever let it slip, but Nolan wanted to do absolutely filthy things to you. So Nolan settled on teasing you, because if you thought he didn’t like you then he wouldn’t have to cross that line.

“If you really must know, I didn’t want to go home and tell my parents all about my ex boyfriend’s new girlfriend,” You mutter, holding in your tears because Nolan didn’t need to see you cry. You were almost sure he hated you, and you didn’t know why. Nolan was pretty nice to everyone, especially when your family came into town. Kevin loved him, and constantly bragged about his roommate, but Nolan gave you shit all the time.

Nolan let out a deep breath, processing your words and the tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes and he wanted to fix it. He wanted to throw his arms around you, and hold you until it all felt okay but that was a slippery slope for Nolan, “Go put your stuff in the guest room, I’ll get us something to eat.”

You emerged a little while later, your hair wet from a warm shower and an oversized t-shirt hanging from your frame, covering the shorts you had on. You pad into the living room, sitting on the opposite side of the couch as Nolan, tucking your knees into your chest. You looked frail like someone had taken your already broken heart and snapped it again.

“Pizza should be here soon,” Nolan whispers, looking over at you with sad eyes. He looked warm, a hoodie covering his hair that was longer since the last time you saw him, “You-”

“Want to smoke?” You both let out the question at the same time, laughing when you realized what you did. That was the one thing you and Nolan seemed to bond about, smoking with Kevin was awful because his voice seemed to echo afterwards and it was too much for the both of you. Nolan got up, disappearing for a second and reappearing with a joint already rolled in his hand.

“All you Boston,” Nolan drops them in your hands, and you roll your eyes that his dumb nickname for you. You put the joint between your lips, sparking the end and letting the smoke slip through your lips.

“Shut up baby cat,” You tease, coughing from the smoke and smirking at Nolan. Nolan takes the joint from your hand, taking a hit and letting the smoke fall from his lips.

“You don’t get to call me that,” Nolan teases, a hazy smile on his face when he looks over at you, “Feeling any better?”

“I will be when-” You go to tell him that when the pizza was here everything would be fine, and as if you were magic the doorbell buzzed to let you know your delivery was here. You make a surprised face, looking at Nolan to see if he was nearly as excited as you were, but he was just laughing at your face.

You devoured the pizza, the both of curing your munchies and settling on whatever garbage reality show was on at the time. It was a comfortable silence inching over closer and closer to Nolan as time went on, before you knew it, you were practically curled into his side. You were busy on your phone, instagram stalking your ex’s new girlfriend to compare every part of you to her.

Nolan looked down at you, furrowing his eyebrows until he figured out what you were doing. Your head was against his shoulder while you looked at who he assumed was your ex’s new girl. He sighs, taking your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the other side of the couch.

“Nolan what the fuck was that for?” You ask, raising your voice and giving Nolan a look.

“Stop comparing yourself to that girl,” Nolan huffs, his voice deep from exhaustion while he stares at you. He thinks for a moment, carefully mulling over his next words because he had one chance not to fuck this up, “You’re fucking perfect.”

“Yeah okay,” You snort, rolling your eyes and sitting up next to Nolan, “Don’t even look at me and tell if you had a choice you wouldn’t choose her.”

Your voice was shaking, and you didn’t know what answer you were expecting, Nolan was only nice to you because you were Kevin’s sister. There wasn’t any other reason Nolan Patrick would give you the time of day. Nolan's eyes were staring into yours and he rubbed a hand over his jaw while he thought. His lips pressed against your jaw pressing feather light kisses against your skin while Nolan mumbled.

I’d choose you anyday.

You’re so beautiful baby.

Only you.

His lips were ghosting over yours, your eyes closed, just waiting for him to finally close the gap between the two of you, “Kiss me Nolan.”

Nolan’s lips on yours was pure ecstasy, like every part of your body was on fire. Nolan pulled onto his lap and you straddle his hips, grinding down on him while letting out a whimper when his hand smacked your ass lightly. Nolan’s lips were on your neck, leaving a mark you know you were going to have to cover later, “Y/N-”

Nolan’s voice was deep, and your name falling from his lips instead of that stupid nickname was enough to make you wet. Your hands found the ends of Nolan’s hair, tugging on him slightly causing him to groan underneath you. Nolan pulls away, looking up at you with swollen lips, and you’d never looked better. His hands were under your shirt, your skin soft under his calloused fingertips and legs wrapped around his waist while he grew hard underneath you. He slipped a hand into your shorts, ghosting over your core with his fingers.

“Please,” You plead, pressing a kiss against Nolan’s jaw. You needed a release, someone to make you feel special even if you never spoke of this again. Nolan was a hockey player and you’d been around enough to know how easy it would be for this to be a one and done thing, “I’ll be a good girl.”

That was all it took for Nolan to slip his finger under your panties and rub a circle over your clit. You roll your hips in his, desperate for any sort of friction, “Mmm I thought you were going to be good? You’ve got to be patient princess.”

You nod, pouting and looking at Nolan who was smirking at you. He grabs your thighs, standing up and carrying you into his bedroom. You fell back on the mattress, grabbing Nolan’s neck and pulling his lips back onto yours. He slipped your panties and shorts off one swift motion, leaving them to be forgotten about. You pulled of your shirt, and Nolan stops, his eyes wandering down your body, “Nol-”

“This is better than I imagined, god you’re perfect,” Nolan hums, his hands slowly moving down your body. He finally hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “You’re sure about this?”

“Nolan your head is between my thighs I think I’m sure,” You tease, kicking him in the back lightly. Nolan nods, flicking your clit with his tongue, pulling a moan from your body. It was everything he ever wanted to hear. His grip on your thighs tightened, his nails digging into your skin while he teased your entrance, “Nolan, fuck-”

Nolan’s lips wrap around your clit, slipping in a finger and curling it to hit your g-spot. Your hips lifted off the mattress, grinding against Nolan’s lips while he fingered you. You were close, curses and moans leaving your mouth because there were no other thoughts running through your head other than how good Nolan was making you feel.

“I know your close baby, c’mon,” Nolan growls against your pussy, sending you over the edge. You let you a yelp, your orgasm overcoming you while Nolan fingered you through your high. You ran your hands through his hair while you caught your breath, Nolan pressing kisses into your thighs. He didn’t give you much downtime, grabbing a condom from his bedside drawer and kicking off his sweats. You played with your clit, watching Nolan roll the condom over his cock and your pussy dripped in anticipation.

“I want to cum to all over your cock,” You whimper, Nolan finally sliding inside of you. He was big and the feeling was sensational. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, snapping his hips into you while you screamed underneath him, “Harder.”

Nolan was in euphoria, his name was leaving your lips like a prayer, begging him to absolutely ruin you. This was Nolan’s dirtiest fantasy, from the moment Kevin introduced him to his little sister with a threat for Nolan to keep his grimy little hands off of you. His hands were all over you now, gripping your hips while he fucked you, sure to leave bruises in his wake. Nolan’s hand ghosted over your neck, and you let out a deep breath at the contact, “Can I?”

“Fuck, yes,” You nod, letting Nolan’s large hand wrap around your throat. His was using you for leverage, fucking you into his mattress while you let out moans underneath him, “Fuck I’m close-”

“Be a good girl and cum for me,” Nolan spat, teeth grazing your jaw while he watched you fall apart underneath him. He let go of the grip on your throat, giving you no time to rest before his strokes got faster. He needed to chase his high, spilling into the condom while you shook from the aftershocks of your own. Nolan stayed inside you for a minute, his head in your neck while you watched the sweat that was glistening on his forehead. You ran a finger through his hair, wondering what the fallout from this was going to be.

“That was,” Nolan stops, muttering against your skin because he was speechless. The wasn’t just good, it was mind blowing, and the temptation to do it again might be a problem for him, “That was fucking incredible Boston.”

“Sure was,” You breathe out, picking Nolan’s head up and pressing your lips to his. You made out lazily for a while, basking in the post sex glow before you knew you were going to have to kick Nolan out. Kevin would be back in the morning, and if he caught you in bed with his teammate Nolan wouldn’t live to see another day.

“We should do this again sometime?” Nolan asks, watching you collect your clothes from his room. He wanted you to stay, sleeping under his arm in his bed where you should have, but he knew he was playing with fire. You look at him, a smirk on your face and a blush on your cheeks.

“You just might get lucky twice Nolan.”

And Nolan hoped he would...

[densi-mber]

Christmas Movies and Milk Duds

A/N: This idea was kindly provided by mashmaiden. Takes place post “Free Ride” in season 4.

Merry Christmas Eve to everyone celebrating!

***

“Hey, you still awake?” Kensi asked, the silhouette of her head popping around the door to Deeks’ bunker. Callen had decided to stay with some of the crew to celebrate so he was alone.

Deeks lifted his head from his pillow, but didn’t bother to actually sit up on his bunk.

“That depends,” he said, dropping his head back down. “Did you bring me any Christmas cookies?”

“No.” Apparently deciding that the coast was clear, she slipped inside and plopped on the side of his bed, jostling the mattress. “I have something even better than cookies.” She frowned, peering around the dim room. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

“Because my head is killing me,” Deeks replied, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes against the constant ache. “If you recall, I was bashed over the head and stuffed in a garbage can.” He opened one eye, pushing out his lower lip a tiny bit.

“Is it really that bad?” Kensi asked, leaning forward. He didn’t expect her to run her fingers through his hair and stilled as she brushed the goose egg at the back of his skull. “Geez. I’m sorry, Deeks, I didn’t know it was that bad. Do you want me to take you to the infirmary again?”

“Nah.” Kensi’s touch was actually proving a more effective balm than any pain medication. “The noise from the party was just getting to me.”

Kensi was silent for a few more seconds while she mindlessly massaged the area around his bump. He wasn’t sure Kensi was even aware she was still touching him.

“You know, I was pretty worried about you,” she said in a hushed tone. “I thought you might have been pushed overboard or something.” Her hand stilled in his hair and Deeks heard her inhale unsteadily.

“Hey, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” he said, nudging her knee. “You still owe me a trip to Tahoe. So I can kick your ass on the slopes.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s not happening.” Kensi chuckled derisively, folding her arms over her chest. “As soon as we get off this ship and you’re cleared for physical activity, you are on.”

“Sounds like a date,” Deeks agreed, feeling significantly more cheerful than when Kensi found him. “Hey, why did you come looking for me in the first place?”

“Oh, I just thought you might want some company,” Kensi explained with a little shrug. I found a free common room and one of the three available channels happens to be playing “Miracle on 34th Street”.

“One of your favorites.”

“It is. Maybe we could watch it together.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “That is if your head doesn’t hurt too much.”

“I think I can manage it,” Deeks said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Although you might have to help me get there.” Rolling her eyes, Kensi slipped an arm behind his back as he he stood.

They made it to the empty common room without running into anyone, or Deeks collapsing. Kensi turned down the lights before he had a chance to ask and plopped down next to him on the small couch he’d chosen. As little Suzy appeared on-screen, Kensi produced a box of milk duds, offering them to Deeks.

“Where did you even get those from?” he asked, even though he shouldn’t be surprised that his sugar loving partner had found a way to sneak candy on-board.

“It’s probably best if you don’t ask,” Kensi told him, popping a chuck of chocolate coated caramel into her mouth. She sighed and leaned back so she was almost leaning against him. “Merry Christmas, Deeks.”

“Merry Christmas.” Head injury and all, he decided that it wasn’t such a bad Christmas after all.

***

A/N: Apparently most aircraft carriers do have TVs, but they’re in common areas and have a limited number of channels.

[ill-skillsgard]

Faust x Faith - No Looking Back

Warning: 18+ smut, public sex, violence, blood, arson, implied death, mentions of non-consensual touching (nothing explicit and no r-words used,) mentions of stalking, unconsciousness, anti-religious themes, strong language.

Note: Hey, hey. I’ve wanted to write this for a while, but haven’t had much time. This isn’t based on any requests—just something I feel needs to happen to move the universe along. After this, I’ll be basing future FxF stuff off drabble requests instead of going story-heavy for a bit. Likes, comments and reblogs are suuuper ‘ppreciated!

Summary: - Not based on Lords of Chaos. I use Faust!Valter’s likeness only as inspiration - 3.6K words -

Faust makes good on his word to protect Faith, taking drastic measures to assure her assailant never bothers her again.

Read more Faust x Faith here [x]

Thin raindrops pattered the man's leather jacket as he walked through the streets with his hood drawn up and his eyes low. For two days, the drizzle persisted and melted the black snowbanks into slush. Though the dismal atmosphere kept most inside, Sven had good reason to travel across town on foot. The promise of a girl's company waited at the end of his route, and he put off his regular nightly routine of masturbating to fetish porn for—what he hoped was—the real thing.

He glanced at his cracked phone screen every few minutes to check in with her, making sure she hadn't changed her mind, that she was serious. From the earnestness of her messages and the speed at which she replied to his questions, he determined she meant what she said about wanting to meet. Finally, his luck was turning. He’d show that miserable bastard Faust who was the better man.

- What abt ur bf? Lol

- What about him? Not here, is he?

- Thought u were a good girl.

- Haha, not really. Are you close?

- Ya. Y r we meeting at this random place?

- I need you to promise you won't tell a soul. If you can prove that to me, maybe we can keep meeting up.

- Lol ok. I PROMISE I won't say a word😉

- Thank you. Hurry, please. It's cold out!

- Be there in 5. I'll let u wear my jacket altho idk might not need it😉

- Hehe omgosh. You're making me blush.

- I'll make u do way more then blush baby. Just wait.

Sven lengthened his strides and turned the corner onto a hill leading toward the industrial area of town. Down the slope, he walked past several warehouses and legions of trucks parked inside barbed-wire fencing. It was a peculiar site to meet up, but his rendezvous insisted on a place nobody would think to look.

Betting his night would take an erotic turn, Sven popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed away the cigarette taste. He was seconds away from the spot she chose to meet, and his chest constricted with excitement. His boots crunched over gravel and garbage as he walked down a narrow alley between two faceless buildings. There was an open lot at the end of the lane, where he assumed she was waiting. As he made his way through the dimly lit alley, he whistled to make his presence known. The shrill tune reverberated off an overflowing dumpster to his left, and as he stepped to clear the reeking trash receptacle, something hard and blunt swung out at eye-level and flattened him to the ground.

Dazed and blinded from the sudden strike, he tried moving his mouth, but only a bubble of blood popped from his lips. A piercing stream of sound filled his ears as the edges of his vision turned dark. A large black figure came into view above, haloed by the soggy grey sky in the deepening veil. The featureless shadow chuckled deeply before a heavy boot's tread put out his lights.

~*~

Several hours passed before Sven's eyelids shuddered. By then, his assailant had had plenty of time to tie him to a wooden chair and organize his instruments of punishment. A headache blistered through the man's skull, throbbing in his eye sockets until he gained enough consciousness to open them. When he saw the person who had knocked him out, his throat closed and the gasp ripping through came out high-pitched.

"Faust... Please... Don't—" Sven hiccoughed. "Don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm SORRY!"

Faust, who had been facing the doorway at the end of a long red runner, turned toward Sven, holding a hammer's handle in one hand while cradling the head in the other. A malicious smirk peeked out from a curtain of black hair. He took a step forward, the clomp of his leather boots echoing through the church. Each step made a menacing sound that bit down on Sven's nerves and rattled his sensitive skull.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you hate me, but please, don't hurt me. I swear I'll never talk to her again!"

Faust approached, flashing the obsidian hammerhead. He tossed the tool in his grip and stuck his hand into his pocket, producing several five-inch nails.

"No! God, no, please! Faust! Don't do this!"

The black-haired giant stopped to admire the curve of the hammer’s prongs. Sven looked around the empty church and saw a jerrycan taking up space in a nearby pew. He immediately started struggling against the jute rope binding his wrists and ankles to the chair as Faust drew nearer, smile uncoiling.

"I already gave you the chance to never talk to her again. Remember?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry means fuck all to me. You should know that. The only reason you left the campsite with your dick intact is because of the witnesses," Faust said, then spun around with his arms out, showcasing their solitude. "Now, it's just you and me."

"Please don't," Sven muttered through swollen lips. "Fuck, I'll do anything!"

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing a sorry sack of human waste can provide this world to make me change my mind."

"SHE LIED!"

Faust jingled the nails in his jacket, reminding Sven who held the weapon.

"Whatever she told you... It's not true! I was at the party, but I didn't do anything to her!" Sven's voice cracked.

"Oh... So you didn't follow her into my bedroom?"

"No! I talked to her for a minute, and that's all. That's all, I swear, Faust. Don't kill me."

The stomp of boots neared the altar where Sven struggled in the chair. He twisted to loosen the rope and slipped one hand out. Faust grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the arm of the chair, readying a nail between his lips as he gripped the hammer. Sven let out a scream, stifled instantly by the hammerhead. Faust wedged the metal between his teeth and hissed.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll use this to smash your teeth out like a goddamn window. Understand me?"

Sven nodded and quaked as Faust placed the tip of the nail against the soft, flat part of his forearm.

"Stay still. If I fuck up and hit the Radial or Ulnar artery... You could bleed out before I'm done. Gotta get it right between the bones." Faust slapped the pale skin to reveal blue veins. He pressed the nail’s tip in place and rose the hammer above his head, bringing it down and stopping short of the head as Sven shrieked.

Faust cackled. "Jesus Christ, dude. Did you really think I was gonna nail you to a chair?"

Sven groaned, relieved and moist with cold sweat. "Faust, I'm serious. Please, man. You gotta believe me."

His dark laughter continued, bouncing off the high ceilings, the wooden pews and polished floors. As Sven let out his own nervous chuckle, Faust brought the hammer down in one swift pull, then slapped his hand over Sven's gaping mouth to stifle the screams. Howling, Sven rattled his head back and forth as a searing bolt of pain tore through his right arm, crackling in his shoulder where it burned and burned.

Faust tore his phone out of his back pocket and brought up a video, slamming the screen into Sven's face. The video of him grabbing Faith in his room while he was states away watching the live feed from the camera he'd set up on the desk.

"I knew these little cameras would come in handy. See? I know what you did, you stupid fuck. And you know what else? I would have just beat the shit out of you had I not stopped by your place before our little meeting."

Sven whined, tears pouring from his eyes in steady streams.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. I went into your room... Saw some interesting things on your computer. At first, I thought it was just standard fucking creep shit. Snuff porn, torture... Teen girls. None of that surprised me... Until I dug around and found your little stalker file buried in your folders. You didn't even encrypt it. How fucking stupid are you?"

"I'm sorry," Sven shook.

"Why are you apologizing to me?"

"I'm sorry for touching her. I should have left her alone."

"What'd you think was gonna happen? That she wouldn't tell me? Or that I wouldn't believe her? And now I know you've been following Faith around, taking pictures of her, you fucking predator. And what about those other women, huh? You sorry about them, too?"

"Yes! I'm sorry. I know I have problems! I'm trying to get help. Please, Faust. If you let me go, I promise I'll do it. I'll get better. I haven’t hurt anyone!"

Faust shook his head slowly, grunting in refusal. "No. I meant what I said when I told you I'd crucify you if you went near Faith again. I'm doing the world a favour."

Sven hung his head and bled from the grievous wound pinning him to the chair, shuddering weakly from his injuries. Faust would never relent. He'd witnessed the drummer's cold disdain, the malignant hatred living inside that made him turn to the dark with open arms. Faust wasn't an actor. He pledged himself to the darkness with unyielding conviction, never one to take such things lightly. This realization depleted Sven's will to reason with the man.

Faust gripped another thick nail and drove it through Sven's left arm, smiling as blood dripped from the wood onto the church altar. The violent yelps filled Faust with morbid delight as he pressed the bloodied hammer under his victim's chin and raised his face.

"You're gonna die tonight, Sven."

"What makes you better than me? You'll be a murderer," Sven stuttered. "You hurt people, too."

"You and I are not the same. Don't ever compare yourself to me. You're a coward, and I warned you. Tread on what's mine, and I'll destroy you. That's what I said."

"All this over a girl? Are you fucking crazy!?"

Faust stooped to one knee, looking up at Sven as though the insult had cut him. Faust's brows arched, bottom lip jutting outward as he studied Sven, who closed his eyes. Then, Faust rose to his feet, leather stretching from the motion. Faust tapped his chin, smiled, and leaned over to whisper, "yes... Totally fucking crazy."

With a powerful kick to the chest, Faust sent the chair and Sven toppling backward. He then unzipped his pants, pulled out his manhood and giggled as he emptied his bladder on the weeping man. While Sven cried and moaned, Faust closed his zipper, whistling merrily. He left Sven on his back and snatched the jerrycan from the pew, taking slow, calculated steps while twisting off the cap and dousing the altar in gasoline.

As the gas trickled, Sven's desperation mounted. He could not flail, so he screamed. Faust gently reminded him what he'd do to Sven's teeth if he carried on shouting. The pinned man blubbered and begged, but Faust ignored his pleas. Inside his head, all Faust heard was the sound of flames rushing into a circle around Sven, crackling over the carpet and up the old church's wooden beams. By the time the roof caught fire, Faust had planned on being long gone.

"Please, Faust... You'll regret this! I know you're a serious person, but this is too far. You won't be able to live with yourself!"

"Wrong. I couldn't live with myself knowing I let a vulture like you walk this planet freely." Faust poured a trail down the floor runner, far away from the altar. He tossed the can aside and looked up at the Catholic saints' stained-glass portrayals and Jesus at the center of it all, staring down with sad eyes. Faust took a book of matches from his pocket and ripped one from the bunch, running its tip across the ignitor strip until a small flame burst to life. Faust flicked the match to the ground without a second thought, and the flame ate up the gasoline trail swiftly. The church was illuminated, and the colourful glass windows came to life. Faust raised his eyes to the forlorn Jesus and leered while the fire spread.

He did not stay to admire his work or revel in the cries of a man burning alive. Faust fled before the fire consumed the church, not once looking back or wondering if his victim had somehow escaped. He trudged through puddles of slush, hair swinging in the wind, white shadows of breath leaving his mouth.

It was time to get back to finish the tour. But he had one more stop to make.

~*~

Faith left the mall after helping close the book store. She received small smiles and nods from the mall staff as they locked doors and unfolded security gates. Some of the people she had spoken to before, and some she had only seen in passing. Though she returned their pleasantries, inside Faith was fretting. She tried not to worry about her boyfriend or ask where he was under strict orders to go about her day as usual.

She stepped into the evening air as the sun sank, taking the blue from the sky along for the descent. Wisps of white cloud stretched across the pink and violet above. Faith took in a deep breath and walked to the bus stop situated between a movie theatre and a dollar store. She popped her earbuds in and turned on a song that reminded her of Faust; one he wouldn’t like. His music taste had no room for the upbeat indie rock she enjoyed. Still, she smiled when the lyrics reminded her of him.

The scent of cigarette smoke caught her attention, and she looked around, finding no culprit. She wondered where the smell came from if nobody was around but soon forgot when the city bus appeared in the distance. It had to make a long trek around the parking lot before it pulled up at the movie theatre. Faith readied her bus card to scan as another cloud of smoke enveloped her senses.

Faith whirled around, and there he was, all black and leather, white teeth clutching the filter of a cigarette. Faust smiled, his words bolting from his mouth as she clamped her arms around him and crushed her face into his chest. The leather and musk brought tears to her eyes. She ripped out her earbuds and tried not to weep.

He hushed her, lifted her off the ground and retreated into the shadowed alley between the theatre and the store. By the time the bus pulled up, Faust had pressed her against the brick wall behind the building.

"Faust. Oh my gosh, where have you been? I was so worried," Faith gasped.

"Sh, don't ask questions, baby." Faust smothered her mouth, holding her thighs around his waist.

"Mm—I love you. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re here! I love you so freaking much."

"I know you do," Faust breathed against her lips. "I love you, too, babe."

"Tell me where you've been!"

Faust shook his head and kissed her neck instead. She raked her fingers through his hair, knocking his hood down so she could see him unobstructed.

"Told you... Don't ask... Mmkay?... Stop asking... Just let me... Mm—fuck!"

Faith pulled his pelvis inward with her thighs, rubbing against his crotch and the heavy bullet belt wrapped around his hips. In their cloud of lust, Faust pushed his black jeans down just enough to free his erection.

"Fuck, I love your little skirts. Makes it so easy," Faust murmured.

The thought of Faust showing up disquieted her, but his lips on her skin and his desire thwarted these anxieties for a while. She set aside her questions, happy to have him in her arms again and overcome by arousal. When he stretched her panties aside and pushed into her, they both froze in expressions of excruciating ecstasy. Faust tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Faith clutched his shoulders, already writhing from the intense fulfillment between her legs.

Just as she thought Faust might drop her, he bent his knees and hoisted her higher up on the wall. In his arms, she weighed close to nothing. She missed feeling tiny against him.

"Miss my cock?" He growled in her ear.

"Yes, baby. Oh my gosh, of course, I missed it. I missed my big man."

"Yeah? Fuck, I miss my little pussy," Faust breathed. "Mm, show me those gorgeous tits."

Faith unbuttoned her work polo and stretched the collar down around her breasts for Faust to bury his face. Though there wasn't an abundance of flesh to lose himself in, Faust shivered from the first taste of her nipples. With muted groans of pleasure, he rammed into her until Faith could no longer contain her cries, unaccustomed to his girth. Faust absorbed her whimpers with his mouth, coaxing her tongue until she only hummed.

He felt ferocious from the last twenty-four hours. If he could make Faith scream without drawing attention, Faust would have slammed her into the wall and fucked her until she shredded her vocal cords. He had to keep a low profile. Even visiting Faith was a considerable risk, but one he relished taking as she clamped her thighs and rutted against him.

He supported her ass in both hands and shifted off the wall to fuck her standing up. While he took her this way, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered, whispering, "yes, fuck my pussy hard, big boy. Oh, I love that big cock inside me."

Faust unhooked and held her out so he could watch her breasts jiggle with every bounce. "You still taking your birth control? I'm gonna fucking bust so hard inside you, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, baby, do it. Fill my pussy, please. I want your cum."

Her dirty talk and sweet sobs for his cock pushed him over the edge. He cradled her head as he pushed her against the wall and throbbed between her legs until empty. Faust pulled out and immediately turned her around and bent her over to watch globs of fresh cum dripping from her wet slit. He used one finger to push some of it back inside and had her suck off the rest. Afterward, he pulled up his pants and compressed her against the wall, one hand over her mouth while the other worked her clit in gentle circles. Faust didn't stop until she squealed and shuddered against him, muffled in his jacket and writhing from the manual orgasm.

When Faith calmed down, he released her and stepped away, pulling a cigarette from the squished pack in his jacket pocket. The lighter's flame created an orange halo around his face and promptly died. He smoked like nothing had happened while she fixed her skirt, buttoned her polo and zipped up her coat.

Faith smiled up at her lover, the night blotting out most of his features.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said.

"Not for long," Faust exhaled.

Her heart quivered. "Wait, what?"

"I gotta go back."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What? No! But... You just got back," said Faith.

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket speaking for him. The evening matured, consuming the details of her hurt expression until the streetlamps along the road came to life.

"Why did you come here?"

Faust took one last long haul off his cigarette and flicked it down the alleyway. "Listen to me, Faith... You need to quit asking questions. I'm serious. The more questions you ask, the worse it'll be. And you and I did not see each other tonight. As far as you know, I'm on tour. Understand?"

"Yes," Faith said to appease him.

"I want to stay, trust me. But I can't. You know why. All the answers you want, you already have. Don't keep bugging, don't mention it ever again."

"I want to go with you," she whispered.

"No. You stay. Go to your classes, go to work, go visit your parents. Everything normal. And I don't want you moping around either. You put on that pretty smile, and you pretend for me. I'll call you in a couple of weeks before the last show and arrange a way for you to get there."

"What do you mean you’ll call in couple of weeks?" Faith whined. “What about goodnights?”

"I don't have a phone anymore."

"Why—? Oh, um... Okay. I understand."

Faust gathered the girl up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Good girl. I love you, and I miss you."

"I love you, too."

He tipped her face up and sensed tears forming in her eyes. Faust shook his head. "No crying. We'll see each other very soon. Just a couple more weeks."

"I know," she sighed.

"I love you more than anything, Faith. Now, go catch your bus. Should be here in a few minutes."

"But what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm on tour. I'm not even here," he explained.

Faust kissed her again, smoothed his hands over her shoulders and turned her to face the bus stop. He urged her along. "No looking back. Hop on the bus and go do your schoolwork."

"Okay," she said, determined to make him proud. Faith walked out of the shadows and into the lamplight hovering over the depot. Across the lot, the city bus pulled in, and though she longed to turn around to see Faust watching over her, she kept her eyes forward and waited. When the bus pulled up, and the doors drew back, she stepped onto the platform and smiled at the driver as she scanned her pass. Faith took a seat in the back and put in her earbuds. She searched through a list of bands and selected the only one whose logo was illegible. As she pressed play, she listened to the immediate assault of the drums, their constant and violent beat. Faith smiled—warm in her chest and between her legs.

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 5

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

GET. READY. This is a bigger chunk but I really think it’s worth it. 

Title: Dreams, Chapter 5

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 5343

Summary: Dean’s birthday proves easier than expected in some ways and harder in others. 

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, alcohol, s l o w  b u r n

           Sam pulled back from you, opening one eye drowsily. “Are you okay?” he says, voice gritty with sleep.

           “Yeah, I…he didn’t die,” you breathed, confused.

           He cleared his throat. “What?”

           “He always dies. He fell off of Bobby’s roof, but he just broke his ankle, he, he didn’t die.”

           Sam rubbed his face with his free arm, trying to wake up more in earnest. It was still dark, so it couldn’t have been later than 7:30. You hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours but suddenly felt beyond alert. “That’s good, right?”

           “I—yeah, it’s good. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

           “Do you want to talk about it?”

           The reflex was to say no, usher Sam back to sleep. But your reflexes had already been wrong once today. “Can we?”

           The way Sam kept the surprise off his face was admirable. It was the first time you’d agreed to talk about the nightmares that plagued you since losing Dean. He propped himself up on his elbows and flicked on the small lamp beside the bed. “What happened?”

           You told Sam all about the dream, sparing only the details you couldn’t really remember or only made dream-sense, like the way you knew it was 4th of July weekend without having been told. He listened thoughtfully, the focus obvious in his expression. He waited a long beat when you were done, sure not to step on your moment of vulnerability.

           “What do you think it means?” he asked gently.

           You thunked back onto your pillow to gaze up at the popcorn ceiling. “I don’t care, to be honest.” The almost-dark made fuzzy static pulse in your vision. “I think I’m going to write about it, actually,” you said, and startled yourself.

           “Oh, uh, okay,” Sam said encouragingly. “Do you want me to—” he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

           “No, no. I’ll be back in a little bit, see if you can go back to sleep.”

           Sam nodded with more than a little concern and you climbed over him, yanking an old sweatshirt out to throw over your wilted tee and scampering off to the kitchen table.

           The house was ice cold and dark aside from the ever-present Christmas lights and you could feel the needles that had begun to drop from the tree under your bare feet, rapidly cooling on the cheap flooring. You picked up the notebook and pens Sam had gotten you and sat down at the kitchen counter to write.

           In the days that followed, the constant and varied nightmares of Dean’s deaths returned. When you woke up, more and more often making it to the morning, you kept writing to Dean about them and sometimes your day as a way of processing. You never ‘told him’ about exactly what happened and tried to focus on the sweet things you remembered that made the worst dreams a tease, moving them to your daytime memory and trying to wash away the despair the nightmares left you clawing through.

            By the middle of January, you and Sam had fallen mostly back into old patterns. The Christmas lights were still up, a sort of night light against the long Midwestern nights, and you couldn’t help feeling a small sense of despair sweeping up loose pine needles when Sam was in the shower every day. You didn’t want the winter to end, as weird as that sounded with the ice and chill and fingertips that never warmed all the way. It felt like if you moved into spring that you were leaving the time-out that you’d created and would have to figure out a longer-term solution than this rented cabin, all thin drywall and poorly insulated ceilings. Even your jobs didn’t feel permanent, the summer vacationers sure to come back and reclaim their spots in the town as it came back to life with the plants.

           The ‘mostly’ was that the boundary you broke with Sam never truly came uncrossed. When you were washing dishes he would come stand behind you, the heat of his lips seeping into the shoulder of your old sweatshirts. You’d intertwine your fingers with his while he drove, realizing only when you went to open the car door and found yourself tangled, or running your hands through his hair while he read next to you on the sofa. You never met Sam’s eyes in these moments—somehow it felt like a secret, private thing that would collapse into dust if gazed upon, some sweet, small creature you were protecting. Neither one of you talked about it in the time since that tequila-soaked night.

           As much as you’d needed to be close to him before, you began craving Sam in a way that scared you. You’d always found him beautiful in the way you admire someone you love, but you caught yourself taking notice of the pillars of muscles along his back when he broke down stock boxes and the dark swoop of his eyelashes. The comments about how lucky you were to have him that used to make you nervous your cover was about to be blown started to make you ache a little with fear and something you couldn’t place. You felt a bizarre flick of jealousy when some twenty somethings drinking White Claw dragged their eyes over him at the bar before leaving on their snowmobiles, like he really was yours to claim. It seemed like a manifestation of your fierce attachment and unresolved grief not only for Dean but your old life with the Winchesters, when they sort of were: your teammates and no one else’s. You resolved it had to be and explained it away without inspection, even when these ‘isolated’ moments became less and less isolated.

           Before you knew it, you were hurtling toward Dean’s birthday.

           “What should we do on Sunday?” you asked early on a Thursday afternoon, trying to keep your voice light and easy while you and Sam got ready for your last day of work for the week.

           “I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”

           “Did you guys ever do anything when you were little?”

           “I mean, not really. Sometimes like a cake or whatever I guess, but Dean was always better at that stuff. By the time we were in our 20s, he only wanted to go meet girls and play up the ‘kiss for the birthday boy’ schtick.” Sam grinned sheepishly as though you didn’t know who Dean had been.

           You couldn’t help but smile, remembering the cocksure half-boy you’d met all those years ago. “Okay, well, if you didn’t have anything in mind, I have a couple ideas.”

           “Oh, yeah, I had only really come up with a cherry pie and a bottle of whiskey.”

           You stood up from the kitchen table and grabbed Sam’s empty plate, leaning into his drying hair for long enough to inhale the minty earthiness of his shampoo. “I mean, that’s a given.”

           In Sunday’s late morning you slipped out of the house while Sam was in the shower, leaving a note behind that said you’d be back in a few minutes. You careened down the road to the quaint main street, running through the list in your head. The grocery store was first for the only bottle of scotch they kept in a tiny plastic container and the fixings for bacon cheeseburgers, then the coffee shop had a cherry pie that looked better to you than whatever pseudo-Entemann’s they had in the limited grocery bakery section. The hardware store had everything else you needed and some extras; you praised the cold climate necessity of having multiple places in town to get gloves and thick woolen socks as you threw a couple on the checkout with the rest of the haul. It was awkward to get everything in the trunk, and you were thankful in this moment that you weren’t trying to drive the little sedan you’d had years ago when it was just you, even as annoying as it was to park the Impala sometimes.

           Back at the cabin Sam was solemnly cleaning up, his eyes red as he wrung out a mop. You took the pie and whiskey out of the bag and put the other groceries away without removing your coat. In truth you only took off the boots you were wearing as a concession to Sam’s mopping, feeling itchy to get back outside and let the complexity of your emotions explode into fresh air unencumbered.

           You tossed a pair of new woolen socks to Sam, who caught them against his chest. “You’re going to want these.”

           “What? Where are we going?”

           “Somewhere I think Dean would’ve liked. Put on some layers, too.”

           Sam obeyed with a crooked eyebrow, coming out of the bedroom a few minutes later looking like a lumberjack catalogue model. You didn’t say anything when you realized the hoodie he was wearing used to be his brother’s.

           “Ready?”

           “I’m not sure, I don’t know where we’re going,” Sam answered honestly.

           You gestured toward the door and he followed you out to the car. Thankfully it had snowed that morning, and tiny billows of powdery snowflakes blew up around each car that you passed on the way.

           The hill was massive. It was a little surprising considering the flatness of the majority of the Midwest, and you’d had to remind yourself that there were some small skiing outfits in the upper half of the state when you’d found it, sure that it was a garbage dump that had been covered lazily in grass seed and left to its own devices. Less impressive surrounding slopes reassured you when you’d scoped it out a few days earlier, and the fresh glittering snow made it look even more spectacular now than you’d remembered. You decided not to push it taking the Impala onto the snow, instead parking at the dead-end you thought was closest.

           “We’re here?” Sam asked, obviously still confused.

           “Yep. Come on,” you said, enjoying the surprise more than you’d thought you would.

           Popping the trunk made it obvious when the bright plastic sleds were wedged in alongside the miscellaneous weapons whose permanent home it was. You watched Sam’s face as recognition dawned, closely followed by a smirk you knew was in large part to humor you. Yanking them out in one big pull, you handed Sam the green one and one of the pair of gloves you’d gotten that morning.

           “These are huge, where did you even find them?” he chuckled, popping the plastic tie between the gloves and sliding his hands into them.

           “You’re huge, it’s not like I can put you on a kid’s one. Besides they must be pretty serious about their sledding up here, these were just from the hardware store.”

           Sam shook his head and waited for you to put your gloves on. They were comically big on you, but you knew you’d regret not wearing any and tried your best to grip the sides of the plastic sled through them as you took off toward the hill. After a few steps, Sam took the sled from you without a word, able to hold it easily with both his well-fitting gloves and the many extra inches between his arms and the ground.

           The walk up the hill was somewhat of a trudge but the way the crisp air sliced through your lungs was a welcome distraction. Snow dampened the ambient noise so all you could hear was Sam’s rhythmic breathing like a mantra, and with one foot in front of the other, by the time you got to the top you felt like you’d been meditating. The view was amazing from the top, a painting or old illustration with its tiny homes and cottages over meandering fields, the snow washing everything out as if you were watching someone else’s dream.

           “Should we race?” Sam asked, the swirled pigment of his irises lit up by the reflection off the snow.

           The next thing you heard was Sam’s laugh behind you as you took a few big strides and jumped onto the sled. Careening down the hill, your hair snapped around, tiny whips cracking into your wind-tenderized cheeks as you tried in vain to steer the sled in slices across the straight pass. Sam’s cackle was distant but comforting over your shoulder. You closed your eyes to feel the speed underneath you and the wind across your face; listen to that laugh that you’d heard so little recently, an old favorite song to be put on repeat. On January 24th of all days it felt like you were being baptized in the clear crystal sound of it.

           When you came to a stop, Sam was only a half second behind you. You fell over in a fit of giggles listening to him play-whine about cheating and “Totally not fair, after I carry your sled all the way up for you!”

           “I’ll beat you again with no head start! Unless you’re chicken,” you taunted, brushing snow off your legs to start back up the hill again. Sam scrambled to his feet, passing you up quickly with his huge strides as you started to run after him. Gasping with laughter and exertion, you and Sam half-wrestled and chased each other to the top, collapsing to your backs like snow angels. After catching your breath, you propped yourself up on your elbows to look over at him.

           “Rematch?”

           Sam’s smile, all straight pearl teeth and cold-flushed cheeks, was as breathtaking as the icy wind as you tore down the run, this time on your stomach with your head low like a bullet, trying in earnest to win again. The front lip of the sled in your fingertips rumbled against little imperfections in the snow. You glanced to check how much of a lead you had on Sam and had barely turned your head before you realized you were also dipping your shoulder, tilting the sled on its greased-lightning path and therefore you with it. Sam was right on your tail and narrowly missed crushing you when you fell off the sled by bailing out of his, your legs tangling together with misplaced velocity. You tried to hold still so you wouldn’t catch his face with a flailing limb, only moving after a beat when it seemed like the collision was over. Sam’s fall seemed to have been more graceful than yours, as he still had a hand on his sled and only a left arm and hair full of snow that he shook loose like a puppy.

           “Are you okay?” he said, getting to his knees to reach out to you.

           You could feel the scrape on your cheek before you got up, but Sam’s wince was only minor when he saw it which was reassuring. He snatched off his glove and brushed snow off your face gently, barely grazing the broken skin. The warmth felt so nice and you would’ve curled up in his palm like Thumbelina if you could. “What’s the damage?” you asked, trying to think about the way your breath puffed up in clouds around you rather than the snowflakes caught in Sam’s eyelashes.

           He was analytical as he took it in, tilting your head carefully in the light. “Doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?”

           “Nah. Did you think I’d get soft that fast? I used to get stabbed like once a month.”

           Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Do you want to go home?”

           It didn’t feel as odd as it should’ve, knowing exactly what home meant in this context. “And let you think I only won by cheating? Fat chance!”

           “You don’t even have a sled anymore!”

           You glanced around you and saw your sled sitting smugly an easy 30 yards past the base of the hill. “Gimme a ride?”

           It was a little awkward until Sam sat down on the sled with each heel straddled and digging into the snow, allowing you to crawl between his legs without unintentionally sliding down the rest of the slope. He seemed unsure of himself as he wrapped his arms around your torso, and you hooked your hands around each of his legs to do your part to hang onto him. “Ready?” he asked, his breath warm on your neck.

           When you nodded, he unstuck his heels and you shot like a racehorse down the hill. Sam’s chest was solid as a rock behind you, cushioned with his layers and fastened with his seatbelt arms. You could feel the muscles in his legs moving against your hands, trying to balance the weight of the two of you on the flimsy material. Despite your fall only moments ago, it was safe in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. The ride came to a stop only a few steps away from your cast off sled.

           You turned into Sam to get to your knees before standing up and slipped on a wet patch on the plastic, the melted snow turning the surface impossibly slick. It made you fall forward into Sam, his seated position not giving him enough stability to stay on balance—the sled shifted back underneath the both of you and brushed your lips across his as you ended up with your scraped cheek against the rough canvas of his jacket.

           “I—oh my god I’m sorry,” you stammered, springing back gracelessly.

           Sam looked somewhat like a little kid or a doll, sitting wide eyed with his legs still spread out around you. You stayed back on your knees feeling like you should move slowly, that maybe you could back away unscathed yet. Sam reached his hands out and you thought it was okay, he understood you wouldn’t cross yet another line with him, that it was a simple mistake and he was going to move past it or ask for your help up, and then his heavily gloved hand slid into your hair and he was leaning toward you, the breath that had felt so comforting on the back of your neck as you flew down the hill now on your bottom lip. Your needle-sharp inhale drew that air from him, and you started to feel dizzy. He waited for a moment, searching between your eyes for you to pull back, to turn it into a joke, but you couldn’t. Something in the light pressure of his hand was an anchor and you found yourself glancing at Sam’s lips and slowly, agonizingly, Sam closed the distance between you.

           His lips were so soft and gentle that it made you feel like you were going to cry and then you were crying, just one hot salty tear that stung the fresh abrasion on your cheek as you moved against him, this foreign and scary part of the person you knew the best on this earth. Somehow kissing Sam was exactly how you would’ve guessed it would be—tender and sweet and reverent. The sound dampening of the snow amplified your other senses: the feeling of the cheap Gore-Tex catching one or two hairs as Sam supported your weight, the small brush of Sam’s breath through his nose, the tight flick of the wind against your coats. It was over as quickly as it started, leaving you and Sam staring at each other bewildered while your hair tangled around you.

           You could feel that your eyes were as wide as Sam’s. Completely unable to formulate a thought or feeling, much less something to say, you silently extricated yourself from the sled. Sam did too, staring at it like it was some complicated spell, even turning away from you as you crossed over to your own store-bought chariot. You could read his tension even in his back, the tight stretch of his shoulders as he clutched at the scruff of his neck, and just wanted to make it better.

           “Okay, rematch for real this time? I would say I won’t fall again but, no promises.”

           Sam looked scared when he turned back to you, his voice gruff when he choked out a halfhearted, “yeah, sure” and followed you up the hill. He was far enough behind you that you couldn’t hear his breathing anymore and it took him a little bit to reach you at the peak. His body seemed like it was cracking around him, aging in moments as he shakily got into his sled beside yours. You wanted so badly to tell him it’s okay, it’s just some dumb mistake, we were just goofing off but you knew it wasn’t true and you didn’t want to lie.

           The only thing you could fix your mouth to say was, “Count us down so you can’t say I’m cheating again,” and hope he heard the apology and forgiveness in it.

           Sam obeyed dutifully and you kicked off down the hill, trying to use the speed you gathered and the clarity in the way it split open your lungs to try to understand what had just happened. The same trip that had felt like glorious ages before was over in a second and you were up out of your sled before you remembered you were supposed to be measuring whether you or Sam had gotten down faster.

           “Tie, we’re going again!” you yelled over your shoulder as you did your best to bound through the deep snow up the side of the hill, not waiting to see if he was following you.

           Once again at the top, ragged and out of breath and only a few steps ahead of him, you took a second to collect yourself before putting your sled back in the snow and holding it in place with one foot.

           “I’m sor—” Sam started before you cut him off.

           “Okay, third time’s the charm!” you said with panicked cheerfulness that you knew instantly was too much, but Sam stopped talking and dejectedly sat on his sled next to you.

           You and Sam spent probably an hour more sledding, your legs turning to jello underneath you as you ran up the hill over and over again and your cheeks getting more and more wind chapped, before Sam finally smiled, exasperated at some joke about still beating him up the hill with legs that were half as long. It was all the fuel you needed to keep chipping away at him until the sun started dropping and the chill broke through all your layers.

           The two of you plodded through the snow back to the car together. Gloves and sleds in the trunk, you flopped into the passenger seat with that sudden too-hot feeling of getting out of the wind and tore at your coat to desperately strip some layers. Sam threw his own jacket in the back. Without giving him a chance to protest or hook up his phone, you turned on the tape deck and Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here pounded out like rocky silk.

           “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you murmured. You looked over at Sam, who burst into a kind of frantic laughter that you completely understood. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing either, because of course this was playing during the tense peace on Dean’s birthday in Dean’s car, and then you and Sam were cry-laughing in the rapidly humidifying air of the Impala while Syd Barrett waxed poetic. By the time the second chunks of Shine On You Crazy Diamond started, you were gasping for air and clutching at your sides.

           You drove home after that in relative silence, the fatigue of fresh air and running all afternoon catching up with you. Sam took a shower while you put together burgers, switching spots with you to cook them while you washed up. They were pretty good due in large part to how seriously Wisconsinites take their cheese, bacon, and beef, and you wolfed yours long before your hair had stopped dripping onto the collar of the threadbare sweatshirt you’d changed into.

           The first shot of scotch burned like it always did, offsetting the sweet tang of the cherry pie and reminding you of the way Dean used to taste when you kissed him at the end of a long night. You looked out the window at the last purple glow of the sunset as it turned the evening into deep, endless inky blue.

           “I’ve gotta—I’m so sorry,” Sam spat out like the words were beating their way out of his mouth.

           “You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmured, unable to immediately meet his gaze and looking down at your pie.

           “I just—I can’t—I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” he stammered.

           You couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the whole thing. “Join the club.”

           Sam smirked but it was mirthless. “No, I know, but it’s just…I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He stabbed a deflated cherry with pursed lips, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. The fork clattered to his plate. “It’s not getting any easier. Every day I wake up and I’m so mad. It’s so fucking unfair that I have to stay here without him because I know that’s what he fucking wanted, and I feel like there’s no point in trying to have anything like good or normal because I’m just running out the clock. And then today’s Dean’s fucking birthday and I kiss his girlfriend—what is wrong with me?”

           The outburst hung in the air, a toxic smoke that excluded everything else. You slammed the rest of your glass of scotch, relishing the way it scalded. “So I’m just Dean’s girlfriend?”

           “No, that’s not what I—I mean I guess—it’s not like you aren’t—I don’t know, it just seems like you’ll always be his girlfriend.”

           “Are you still Jess’s boyfriend?”

           It was the absolute most cruel and wrong thing to say and you regretted the words as soon as they left your tongue and crashed into Sam, not even really knowing why you’d thought them. They distorted his face in incredulity and betrayal but you didn’t back down, maintaining eye contact until he snatched the bottle and refilled both glasses. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly and broken.

           “I guess I deserved that.”

           “Sam, this is fucking weird. It always has been, us being alive without Dean, and if you’re just now getting that then you’re not as smart as I thought you were. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s going on either, but I know that you’re the only thing that’s keeping me from ending up with a bullet in my skull or in a locked ward, so if you’re waiting for me to forgive you for something, for anything you’ve ever said or done, it’s already forgiven. But we’re too tied up together for every tiny redrawing of the boundaries to send us over the edge. Please.”

           “Tiny redrawing of boundaries? I kissed you!”

           “And I kissed you back, Sam! What do you want to do about it? What’s the absolution here? If you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you. Take the Impala and I’ll find some other car, I’ll borrow the Kaisers’ other one or something. Or maybe you want me to go and I’ll go; I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll leave right now, you never have to see me again if that’s what you want but I know Dean loved you and loved me and I don’t think he would’ve wanted you to torture yourself all the time so what is it that you want?”

           “I want us to be fucking normal and I don’t want to feel like I’m cheating with my brother’s girlfriend! I don’t want to have a cover story and I don’t want to keep running away!”

           “Then fucking stop! Stop feeling guilty and talk to me about this stuff!”

           Sam laughed, hard and bitter and choked off.

           “I’m serious. We can’t keep doing this shit, at least I can’t. We need to start talking—about Dean, about everything. It’s like this lump of decay and we’re just spraying Febreze and not dealing with it.”

           Sam’s mouth popped open as he tongued his molars. He bit his lip in frustration before crumpling up his napkin and threw it on top of his half-eaten pie. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

           You weren’t expecting that. For all the ways it had seemed like Dean had been the more emotionally closed off, he was always much easier for you to read than Sam, who managed somehow to talk about things without actually communicating how he felt. It was good if you needed to be supported but made it extremely hard to be there for him. Refilling your glasses a bit more conservatively, you offered up an open palm to let Sam go first. His jaw tensed and he swallowed hard.

           “No bullshit?” he asked.

           “No bullshit. What’s the point of bullshitting anymore? After everything?”

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 6

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[mst3kproject]

Godmonster of Indian Flats

If I had a dollar for every movie I’ve seen about a bloodthirsty mutant sheep, I would have... two dollars.

I was entirely willing to feature Godmonster of Indian Flats based on its strangeness alone, but it does have one connection to MST3K in that actress Peggy Browne was also in Avalanche. Another performer here, Kerrigan Prescott, also had a part in previous Episode that Never Was Fiend Without a Face, so hey, close enough!

Dr. Clemens and his assistant Mariposa discover a mutant lamb on Eddie the Rancher’s sheep farm, and take it up to a secret lab at Indian Flats for study.  This seems somewhat outside of Clemens’ claimed purview as an anthropologist, but whatever, I’m just here to watch the movies.  While the monster grows to maturity in a tank, the mayor of a local tourist town, Mr. Silverdale, is refusing to sell land to a Mr. Barnstable, who is interested in the mining rights.  We soon get the idea that Silverdale is less interested in tourism than he is in having his own private Wild West LARP, and the townsfolk have an almost cult-like reverence for him.  Eventually, their increasingly violent attempts to run Barnstable out of town cross paths with Dr. Clemens’ pet mutant, and all hell breaks loose!

Well, maybe not all hell.  This movie hasn’t got the money for all hell.  Rest assured, though, that they unleash all the hell they could afford.

The hell in question takes the form of a lumpy hunchbacked sheep creature with a rubbery sock puppet head, one long dangling arm, and a huge Kim Kardashian ass.  It interrupts a picnic, and blows up a gas station by knocking over a pump with its bubble butt.  It may or may not understand English, and it breathes poisonous gas when injured.  The puppet is pretty weird and scary-looking in the darkness of Clemens' secret lab, but out in the full light of day it is ridiculous.

Any movie with a mutant sheep monster is going to be weird, and the monster is the weirdest thing in the movie, but make no mistake – Godmonster of Indian Flats sans monster would still be a weird fucking movie. The other story going on here, Silverdale vs Barnstable, is thoroughly bizarre in itself.

Apparently it's not enough for Silverdale and the townspeople to simply refuse to sell Barnstable their mining rights.  Instead, they have to totally ruin his career and both his physical and mental health! First of all, they invite him to their 'Bonanza Days' and have him take part in a shooting contest, where the whole town conspires to make it look like he accidentally shot the sheriff's dog.  Then they hold a funeral for the dog as if it were a person.  The whole time the dog is fine – it was just playing dead, and afterwards the sheriff sends it to live with a friend.

When Barnstable still doesn't leave town after this, Silverdale's toady Phil whacks him over the head with a bottle, then shoots himself in the shoulder and puts the gun in the unconscious man's hand.  Barnstable wakes up in jail and demands a lawyer, but everybody ignores him.  Eddie and Mariposa help him escape, and the sheriff then forms a posse to hunt him down and lynch him!  At the end of the movie Silverdale triumphantly tells Barnstable that he's going to lose his job because his boss is embarrassed by all these goings-on.  At this point Barnstable also has a cracked skull and a broken arm.  He's a PTSD-ridden shell of a man and yet Silverdale is still yelling “I've beaten you, Barnstable!” as the end credits roll.

All of this might become a little less weird (but way more horrible) when I mention that Barnstable is the only black character with dialogue.  And yet, none of it is ever overtly framed as racist.  Nobody ever uses a slur – in fact, Barnstable's race is never once referenced in dialogue, not even obliquely.  You could cast a white actor in this part and nothing would have to be changed. What Barnstable seems to represent, and what Silverdale and the townspeople claim to be fighting against (Silverdale declares that he is 'the custodian of an era'), is decadence and capitalism, concepts traditionally associated with a white elite.

This in itself should be read as a commentary on race.  It's notable that Barnstable is playing by white rules.  He's a smooth businessman representing the interests of his presumably white boss.  When Silverdale invites him to Bonanza Days, he is happy to step into that role, too.  He dresses the part and takes up the six-shooter, and does a pretty good job with it.  Barnstable is a 'model minority' figure, a black man with the trappings of white success... and in spite of that, he is still abused.  Hard as he tries to fit into the white people's world, he is not welcome there.

I don't think that's actually what Barnstable is supposed to represent to the viewer, however.  The people of this town are described in the opening as 'living in the past' and we see that they're very dedicated to it.  Silverdale dresses the part of a nineteenth century gentleman even when he's at home.  Everybody dresses up in period costumes for occasions like parties and church, and the town's status as a tourist attraction requires many people to play such a role full-time.  There's a dark underbelly to this quaint little world, as we see in the opening when a barmaid steals Eddie's casino winnings, but even that fits their chosen period.

Barnstable intrudes into this world as a representative of modernity and reality. If you're paying attention, you soon realize that the 'past' the townsfolk are living in isn't like the real past at all.  The real history of this little mining town would have involved filthy, back-breaking work in the mines, and saloons full of drunks, prostitutes, and crime.  The modern town has adopted the pretty trappings of the 19th century – the clothes, the horses, and nice little shows of piety like the dog funeral – while sweeping the dirt and violence under the rug.  The latter are only to be turned on outsiders.

This fantasy version of the old west is also very, very white.  In the real world, history is always more diverse than we usually think it was – one of the historical figures who inspired the character the Lone Ranger, for example, was Bass Reeves, the first black US Marshall in the west.  The people in Silverdale's town have no interest in that.  There is not a single Native American character in the movie, and I've already mentioned the lack of other people of colour, except for a couple of background tourists.  This is an essential part of throwing away the ugly parts of the past – race brings conflict, and Silverdale and his followers want none of that. Barnstable's race makes his status as an outsider all the more obvious, both visually and as a reminder that the world these people are trying to live in never really existed.

This puts Barnstable in a very strange place in this movie.  He's definitely a victim, but never a hero – in fact, Godmonster of Indian Flats is yet another movie that doesn't have a hero – yet he is not a villain, either.  He's just some poor bastard who wandered into a horror movie and now he can't find his way out of it.

So... what does any of this have to do with a mutant sheep monster?

I dunno.  There seem to have been mutants in this area for a long time, since Clemens talks about legends of a 'mine monster' and even shows off weird fossils he's found, but how does that tie into the theme of clinging to the past?  Maybe it's supposed to be about history repeating itself, since new monsters are being born just as the mines are about to re-open?  I have no idea.

Does the monster die at the end?  I cannot tell you.  I think it dies when the truck it was caged in blows up?  The movie ends with an angry mob pushing the truck over a steep slope where they dump their garbage, while Eddie, Clemens, and Mariposa try to reveal Silverdale's own land-grab scheme.  This all degenerates into chaos and people tumbling down the hill and shooting each other, while Silverdale stands there yelling about how violence controls the masses and how he's beaten Barnstable. It's an ending that seems calculated to leave the audience going, “... huh?”.

Why is it a God monster? Now this, I do have a theory about.  I don't think the sheep is actually the godmonster – I think the titular menace is actually Mr. Silverdale! He wields a god-like authority within the town, even when his evil scheme is apparently exposed at the end, and uses it to do monstrous things!  If that's not what they were going for... then I have no idea.

I mentioned in the opening that I've seen two movies about mutant sheep monsters.  The other is Black Sheep, which is one of those off-the-wall movies they make in New Zealand when they're not doing Tolkien-related stuff.  Black Sheep was apparently inspired by Godmonster of Indian Flats, but it throws out the race relations stuff and runs with the 'mutant sheep' thing to make on of the most perfect dark comedies I've ever seen.  I would recommend it to the strong-stomached in the same way I recommended The Valley of Gwangi to anyone disappointed by Beast of Hollow Mountain – it is everything the older film should have been but was not.

[remmushound]

Beyond the Bay chapter 7: Mutant Town

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @digitl-art-monstr @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz @ilo-artistry

Mikey fell, and he screamed all the way down. A large pile of garbage softened his fall— in fact, it was more like a mountain than a pile. A mountain that he tumbled down like a tossed rock, and once he pulled himself into his shell to escape the tumbling whiplash, he even resembled a rock. The slope of his shell ensured that he landed on his plastron, and only once he was still for several moments did he crawl back out of his shell and look around the environment.

The first thing he noticed, with a wave of relief, was that it was night. The next thing he noticed was the wall; a great, big wall of wire and metal sheets around the perimeter that stretched several feet taller than the highest trash peak, and along the top of it were tangles of barbed wire that made the place look almost like a prison yard. No, not a prison yard— a junkyard! And a pretty big one at that! Mikey couldn’t see much from where he was, expansive walls of junk blocking his view and giving him the sensation of almost being in a giant maze.

Mikey struggled to his feet. He was unstable but, as long as he had the wall to lean on, he was sure he could find his way. The cold, tickling tingle washed over him, but he forced his way through the cloud of misery. He tested the steadiness of the wall before he dared to lean his whole weight into it; at his size, even the most sturdy of things were at constant risk of collapse. The wall supported him just fine, and he was thankful as he used it to guide his way while his other hand cupped around his stomach. Mikey made his way down the first walkway. Trash, trash, and more trash was all he saw, packed together so tightly together that their integrity surpassed even some of the houses back in Mikey’s city.

“Man, and I thought my New York was dirty!” Mikey whistled. He was sure this wasn’t actually a part of his counterpart’s city, but the joke helped him to not completely shut down. “Raph? Leo? Dee?”

No response came. To the left of Mikey’s path was a disturbance that made him yelp and grab his nunchaku expecting a threat; the perceived threat was, in fact, a giant rat running down the side of one of the closer hills. The rat ran over Mikey’s feet, bolting down the path while its pursuers, three very fat cats, were hot on its tail and seemed to take no interest in Mikey.

Mikey practically squealed. “Kitties!”

Mikey hurried after them as fast as his still-stiff body could carry him. For as long as he could remember, he had always wanted a cat! The ones back in his world always seemed to run from him, but maybe these ones could be different! If he was extra quiet, maybe he could even pet one!

“Here kitty kitty. Pspspspspsp…” He fell to his knees when he caught up to the cats; they were all crowded around a small hole in the trash, too small for them to fit through, batting through the opening with sad mewls. “Aw… hey kitty kitties…”

One of the cats almost immediately responded to Mikey’s calls, the other two still too focused on trying to get the rat to care about the mutant. The cream tabby, tail held high, trotted over to Mikey with all the confidence in the world and pressed his face against the mutant’s finger, immediately starting to purr as he danced around Mikey’s hand. Mikey gasped out a sob and started to cry as carefully deft fingers began to massage the tom cats cheeks and head, and in response the cat squinted his eyes closed and started to knead his claws into the dirt; he was even drooling a bit!

“Oh my god…” Mikey sniffled and, on impulse, slowly scooped the fat cat into his hands. The cat didn't seem to mind, so Mikey picked him up and held the cat securely to his chest. “I never wanna leave…”

“Babies!” A voice echoed through the junkard and immediately both Mikey and the cats were at alert. “Babies babies babies!”

The cat kicked himself free of Mikey’s grasp and took off running toward the voice; the other two cats snapped out of their trance and ran just as fast. That voice had been close, really close, and Mikey certainly didn't want to stick around and see the human that it belonged to. In his mind, he still saw the hate in the eyes of the officers that had cornered him and his brothers. He saw it so clearly, and he felt that same fear, and that same sense of smallness like the humans were growing and he was shrinking and he was alone and—

Mikey had to hide. The footsteps were approaching, and the only place to escape to was behind an old, rusted car, and that was exactly where Mikey went. He covered his mouth to hopefully hide the fact that he was breathing so heavy, and he saw the shadow of the stranger as they passed by on the other side of the car. Mikey held his breath. The shadow paused. Surely they didn't know Mikey was? How could they know?

The car gave a groan and Mikey soon realized that it was being moved. Lifted, as if it was nothing more than cardboard, and to Mikey’s horror he looked up to something tall and definitely not human. White eyes were the only part of the creature that wasn’t cast into shadow, two massive claws clicking together in a threat. The stranger was completely covered in thorn-like spikes, and when his eyes focused on Mikey, his lips curled into a sneer.

“Whatchu doin’ crawling around down there?”

Mikey screamed. It wasn’t a very long scream, more like a high-pitched yelp, but it was enough for color to flood back into the other mutant's eyes as he kneeled, looking far less threatening now he was at Mikey’s height.

“Hey hey, it’s okay.” The mutant waved a claw in what was intended to be a deescalating manner, “Don’t scream, kid, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Mikey was able to see more of the mutant now that they were closer. His skin was purple and he had dark hair with streaks of aging gray. His outfit was simple, a stained white t-shirt and a leather jacket, both torn by the jagged spikes that littered his body. Around his waist was a belt that looked like it could have once been the collar of a junkyard dog, black with silver spikes, though it wasn’t holding anything up because the mutant was without pants.

“Didn't mean ta scare ya kid…” The mutant offered a claw and Mikey slowly accepted it, standing with the help of what he now recognized as a praying mantis around the same height as Donnie. “Jus’ wonderin’ why you’s pokin’ around is all.”

Mikey swallowed what little spit was left in his mostly dry mouth. “Hey… you’re a mutant!”

“And uh… so’s is you.” The mantis smiled and pointed at Mikey.

“I didn't know there were other mutants here!” Mikey’s voice did that thing where it went loud without intention, but he didn't care. “Oh my god that is so cool!”

The mantis laughed jovially. “Man, where have you been that you don’t know about other muties?”

He swung his arm around Mikey’s shoulders and prodded the tip of his claw against the turtle’s plastron with nothing but friendly intention. He started to guide Mikey down the path and Mikey was more than willing to go with him.

“Uh…” Mikey rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m… pretty new in town.”

The narrow path they had taken opened up to show a wide, mostly-clear area in the heart of the junkyard. The first thing Mikey saw, much to his delight, was a congregation of fat, happy cats feasting on a large assortment of food laid out for them

“Well, let me be the first to introduce you, then. I’m Repo Mantis...” Repo motioned to the area beyond the cats, “Welcome to Mutant Town.”

“Wha…?” Mikey’s mouth fell open. The longer he stared, the less he could believe what he was looking at.

What was once junkyard opened up into what could almost be mistaken for a town or, more accurately, a village. The space wasn’t particularly big. And from what Mikey could see of the layout there was only one road, but to him it was the most beautiful thing. Mutants— lots of them! Mammals and reptiles and birds too; Mikey could have almost mistaken it for an actual street if not for the colorful creatures that called it home instead of humans. Then Mikey realized that the structures that filled the area were meant to be houses! Some of them were cars, hollowed out and filled instead with personal items and sleeping spaces, while others were more innovated; ramshackle sheds out built of scrap metal acting as small houses. There were tarp canopies that covered outdoor sleeping spots, and there were tents, and there was random furniture scattered around for shared comfort space. He even spotted a few shipping containers that had been renovated into small hotels with four or five rooms side by side.

“Woah…” Mikey almost forgot to breathe.

“Cool, innit?” Repo smiled, laughing once more as he gave Mikey a playful shake. “Come on! I’ll show you around!”

The mantis led Mikey deeper into the compound. For the first time in his life, Mikey was able to walk down a road, in front of people (more or less) without being stared at! It was him who was doing the staring, his awe getting the better of him the more he witnessed of the small town and its occupants. Mutants of all shapes and colors and species—young and old and skinny and fat and small and big! There were some so large he had to crane his neck to actually look at them.

“This is incredible…” Mikey breathed.

“This is everyday in this city.” Repo snickered, beak wrinkling, “Seriously kid, no worries! You’re among your own kind here!”

“Wow…”

A sudden and unsteady klunk klunk klunk caught the attention of both mutants. They looked further down the trail to see what looked like a tin can running after them! No, not a tin can, Mikey quickly realized, but a tiny cream kitten with a tin can stuck on his head. With every step the little kitten took, he wobbled and stumbled and fell, making very little progress in his search for help. It was like he had four left feet!

Repo clicked his tongue and calmly shook his head, helping Mikey to rest on a couch before heading over to gather the kitten up in his claws.

“Aw, sweetie.” Carefully, his claws started to work the can off of the kittens head until the young cat was free. “How do you keep doing that, sweet thing? Aww…”

The kitten reared its head up to encourage the gentle petting of Repo’s sloped claw, tiny paws dancing in the air while purrs sounded off in quick succession, more than loud enough for Mikey to hear.

“Awww kitty!” Mikey stuck out his bottom lip as he made desperate grabby hands.

Repo gave an amused smile at the turtle’s antics and made his way over, guiding Mikey’s grabbing hands into more of a cradle before carefully placing the kitten in Mikey’s arms. Mikey melted under the warmth and the pleasant vibrations. It was as if his entire body was jello and the only thing keeping him in one piece was the solid mass of happy energy in his arms. He was terrified to move, so went as stiff as a statue, not daring even to blink.

“Oh my god I love him…” The kitten pressed against Mikey’s hand and gave him no choice but to massage the fluffy face with a delicate touch; all the while the kitten was still wobbling unsteadily back and forth as if some invisible force was jerking him along. “Why is he so wobbly?”

“Wobbly kitten syndrome.” Repo said with a sigh and shake of his head, “Normally they’re euthanized but eh… he seems to be handling himself alright for now.

Mikey sucked in a shaky, sobbing breath, “He’s the most beautiful baby boooooooyyy…”

***

“Incredible…” Donnie said breathlessly, adjusting his goggles once more to get an even closer look inside the compound, “It’s like a whole town of mutants down there!”

“It’s not called Mutant Town for nothing.” Leonardo smirked, leaning against the taller turtle like he was a fence post.

“There must be dozens of them!”

“Thirty-four currently, to be exact.” Donatello said proudly, “And we just so happen to know the guy who runs the place, so let us do the talking, kay?”

“Kay.” Leo entertained with a slight nod.

“But you talkin’ us back for a tour the second we get the time to spare.” Raph rumbled, flashing teeth to show his joke.

Donatello took the lead of the group as they descended upon the compound, to a grand door just below a sign reading ‘Beware the Repo-Mantis’ with the ‘tis’ added on with spray paint. Leo felt incredibly small under the sharp watch of the guards on point, two large and particularly nasty looking mutants hidden among the wires, but he stayed quiet as had been requested of him. Quiet, but alert. Donatello rang the bell that said “Ring For Service” and it wasn’t very long at all before the gates were opening, and out from the community stepped a seven foot praying mantis with a sneer on his face; a sneer that faded quickly when he saw Donatello.

“Donnie!” Repo Mantis wrapped his arms around Donatello and heaved him up in a powerful grip, “Shit, man, how the hell are ya?!”

“I can’t complain!” Donatello mused, slipping out of Repo’s grasp faster than the laughing mutant could catch him again, “Pizza’s still a’flowing, and Foot’s still a’kicking, so you know…”

“Business as usual?” Repo offered.

“Exactly!” Donatello clicked his tongue and winked, whisking Repo away for a private chat, “But there is a minor issue.” He gave the mantis man a quick rundown of the days affairs.

Repo considered, and then nodded. “Ah. Sounds like you got’s your hands full. Well, glad to say I can help ya wit’ at least one of your problems. Wait here.”

Repo disappeared back into the compound. Donnie leaned over to whisper in Donatello’s ear.

“How do you know him again?”

“He tricked me, I bug zapped him, he nearly trashed my tank in a Demolition Derby, you know how it is.”

Donnie really didn't know how it was, but he didn't want to ask. Repo returned soon, this time with a six foot tall box turtle in tow.

“Mikey!” Three brothers swarmed the youngest.

“My son.” Splinter raised a hand to touch Mikey’s face, then hesitated when he saw a tiny bundle of orange in his sons arms. “Oh…”

Mikey sniffled as he held the tiny, ginger kitten in the palm of his hand, petting his fingers through the happy tom cats fur. “Repo said I could keep him. I named him Klunk. With a K!”

Michelangelo gasped. “CUUUUUTE! Also, hugs!”

Michelangelo penetrated the wall of muscle to give Mikey a hug, which Mikey returned with a weak arm.

“Mikey, we can’t…” Leo started, but a sharp glare from Donnie made him hold his tongue.

The family started to usher Mikey away, now acutely aware of just how exposed they were out here; the rapidly rising Sun was doing them no favors. Mikey showed no resistance in following, and the rest of the turtles joined the congregation as they passed.

“I’m gonna give him so much cheese…” Mikey sniffled, not bothering to wipe his tears.

“Weee have cheese.” Donatello commented with a nod.

Leonardo laughed and gave Mikey a firm pat on the carapace. “Welcome to paradise, hermano. It’s great to have you back.”

[jangofctts]

Don’t Push Your Luck (Boba Fett x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k wooF

Warnings: smut, language, handjobs, oral (male receiving), fingering, heavy petting, there is SOFT. I REPEAT SOFT FLUFF. but only SOME 

Chapter (1), (2)

a/n: hey y’all...welcome...finally this bITCH IS OUT. thanks to @djxrxn​ WHOMST HAVE BEEN THE MAIN MOTIVATOR BEHIND THIS. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 💖🥵🤠 

(also lmk if you wanna be tagged or just wanna YELL at me)

It’s impossible not to count down the days, the hours, the seconds leading up to your untimely end. A sleep cycle and half to be exact. A perfect amount of time to finish counting each loose wire and rusty screw holding together this heap of junk—a miracle really, that it’s able to jump to hyperspace, let alone fly.       

You’re no expert on the inner workings of a spacecraft, but your familiarity with Imperial grade cruisers gift you the impeccable skill of deducing that the hiss of air every couple minutes out of the hydraulic piping is not ideal. Nor is the solar light overhead that flickers and hums, skirting the precarious line of exploding in your face or simply plunging the cargo hold into murky darkness. 

At this point you’d take either.  

You sigh, resting the back of your head against the wall as the barbed tendrils of an oncoming headache settles behind your eyes.    

  Between that, the stupid light, and your boredom; it’s enough to make anyone stir crazy. Stars—even the arduous task of talking to Boba Fett is morphing into something akin to craving. Even if his idea of a conversation runs parallel to the art of smug, male pride and snide words meant to pick and prod—it’s better than whatever this is. 

Scoffing, you curl your knees up to your chest and rest your chin over your knee. This is pathetic. 

You should despise him—feel like kicking his teeth in—or helmet—whatever. He aided in the killing of you friend—probably took care of all the other poor souls who even dared to breathe your way too. Boba Fett is a despicable, no good bounty hunter who finds far too much fun in the misfortune of others.  

And yet… 

The task of attaching your hate to the man is proving to be more difficult than you would’ve guessed. You don’t regret what you’ve done with him—far from it in fact—but your tolerance, bordering enjoying his company, is concerning. To say in the least.   

Nothing good will come out of the conflicted ball of knots that settle in your chest, ensnaring your heartstrings into that endless monstrosity. 

Though none of it stops the way your chest constricts, heart skipping a few vital beats at the familiar sound of his spurs resonate through the ship. They chink against the metal pegs of the ladder, boots settling on the ground with a heavy thump. A moment later Boba steps into your line of sight, tattered cloak and chipped armor in all its battered glory. 

He isn’t an immanent threat, but your eyes still track each movement. The rational part of you knows he won’t lash out, but you’re still his quarry and even a wolf with a severed head has the power to bite. No part of you wants to brave the sharp points of his teeth.  

Not even a fraction of his attention is thrown your way as he does his routine inspections of your fellow captured quarries, frozen in their carbonite prisons. You just hope none of them spontaneously reanimate—you’re not too keen on another shipmate. Your little corner is crowded as is and forget sharing your blanket. It’s tattered and smells like dust and mothballs and you have a sneaking suspicion it’s just one of Boba’s old cloaks he outgrew—but you’re thankful for it anyhow. 

You flinch as he punches in a code, the loud grate of metal on metal piercing your ears as the carbonite slabs swing back into their storage space. With an incline of his head, his weighted gaze settles on your person.

“Still nervous?”

You sniff and shake your head. “You just…startled me is all.” 

Boba snorts in disbelief and pads closer. He reaches the toes of your boots and squats, one gloved forearm resting over his knee as the other reaches out to capture a lock of your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and gently tugs, quiet as he studies you behind the visor. The action is familiar—doesn’t scare you as much as it once did, but his closeness still overwhelms. 

“I see you’ve found some courage, gentle Rabbit,” he surmises, untangling his fingers from your hair to tap beneath your chin. “While we’re at it…any last favors I can provide?” 

It’s whiplash—so stupefying it renders your tongue speechless, a heated blush rushing up your cheeks and to the tip of your ears. He snickers and shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels to stand as you sputter for words. 

It’s a joke—a garbage one at your expense. Always at the butt-end of things with no room to snap back. Yet, as he turns on his heel to return to the cockpit—it’s the perfect opportunity. Not the sort of favor he’d be expecting, but a favor nonetheless. 

“Can I—“ He pauses and casts a glance over his shoulder as you muster enough bravery to follow through. “Do you think I could—could sit in the cockpit? Just for a little while…” 

It’s a long-shot—like launching a flimsy javelin at a target no larger than a thumbtack three thousand clicks away. Not happening—more likely to beat a rancor in a fucking wrestling match then sway the bounty hunter’s opinion. Regardless, the question must stun him—the terse silence drags on for an agonizing amount of time, amping up your anxiety tenfold. 

“I’m sorry—I just—I wanted to see the stars one last time,” you mumble, curling into yourself with a wince. “It’s stupid—“     

“It’s hyperspace—not much to look at.” He curtly interrupts. “An asteroid if you’re lucky.” 

Your spirits plummet further—scraping against the dirt like a crashed speeder geared to the highest velocity and headed straight for a brick wall. Maker this was dumb—

“The second you try anything funny—“

You perk up, your spine straightening as he turns swiftly on his heel and marches back. He leans down at the waist, firmly ensnaring your chin between his forefinger and thumb, straining the muscles in your neck. “—you’ll end up in there.” 

He jerks his head over his shoulder at the carbonfreezer. Yeah. No thank you. Absolutely zero interest in becoming a human popsicle. 

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” you breathe, holding your stare steady. “Promise.” 

Boba hums in thought, releases your chin and pats your cheek. He straightens and taps at his vambraces and with a hiss of air the stasis cuffs around your wrists clatter to the floor. You stand and sigh, rubbing at the angry raised lines, just shy from a dark bruise.   

The bounty hunter ushers you towards the ladder, his hand anchored to your shoulder. You stop yourself from scoffing. The action is useless—you’ve got no clever scheme up your sleeve or malicious motive but you can never be too cautious you suppose—not with this line of work.  

You try not to snoop once you clamber up into the second level—but Maker—it’s interesting. There’s a small bunk on the other end of the short corridor, messy blankets thrown on top and a deconstructed blaster that’s seen better days. Gray and off-white undershirts hang off the metal rigging on the bunk and the sight of his laundry is undoubtedly jarring. It’s silly not to think he doesn’t do laundry but—imagining the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy washing his tidy whities is hilarious.

“Come on,” Boba urges, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Your tiny smile never falters as he leads you into the domed cockpit, the neon blue of hyperspace reflecting across his chipped armor with miniature streaks of light. He gestures at the co-pilot’s seat tucked beside the com board, a litany of buttons blinking and flashing as you gingerly sit. 

The hinges squeak as the chair spins, your eye catching the mess of beaded and jeweled necklaces that hang on a tiny hook above the board. You recognize a few—Kashyykian ceremonial beads, the glittering coil of pure, refined diamonds from Pantora and the braided strands of bantha leather common on Tatooine. Your fingers drift up and thumb at the carved wooden Wroshyr beads. 

Trophies—

“Don’t touch those.”

You jump and yank your hand back. “So...all I can do is...sit?” 

“Isn’t that what you asked for?” 

You have to agree—there isn’t much to look at. Hyperspace, as fascinating as it is, looses its charm once the vertigo sets in. To be honest—you weren’t expecting to get this far. 

Oh well. 

A change in scenery is always nice. Different loose wires and screws to count…

And the seat spins. Score. 

Boba however, does not share in your bemused sentiments. Your mopey sighing and the constant squeak of loose bearings on your spinny chair is not pleasant to the ear, apparently.   

“If you’re that bored, Rabbit,” he sighs, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. “You could always put those hands to work.” 

You pause and swipe a finger through the dust between the toggles on the comm board and absentmindedly respond. “I don’t think I’d be much help. I’m not very technically inclined and oh—“

Your cheeks flush when he tilts his head. “You, uh...didn’t mean that sort of work, did you?” 

Boba snorts and crosses his ankle over his knee and rests his helmet on the headrest. The stretched out figure of his body is alluring—fascinating to studying each nick and scratch on his armor without the repercussions of him staring back. His vambraces clink against his cuirass as he laces his fingers together, resting his hands just above his codpiece.      

“Do you need something, Rabbit?” 

You swallow, your eyes flicking back up to a more respectable place for them to linger. “Um..n-no. I’m fine. Just…”

He rolls his head to the side, the shadows from hyperspace carving out the sharp lines of his helmet into an even deeper dramatic cut. You squirm and focus your eyes on the frayed laces of your boots.  

“It’s alright. You can tell me, sweet girl.” His goads, tempting you out onto that slippery slope of desire. 

He uncross his legs and uses the tip of his boot to languidly spin himself around, his knees spread wide in a display of mock easiness. Boba’s thumbs drum against his ammo belt, the quiet, rhythmic tap…tap…tap…the only sound filling the charged silence. It’s the Academy all over again; sat down and scrutinized until you crack—spill every secret until they’re satisfied— and Boba Fett is no different…   

You scramble for words, wrangling your thoughts into something somewhat comprehensive.  “I’m—I—well—“

He cocks his head, light bouncing off the silvery pockmark on his helmet. Boba’s hand idly travels lower, brushes off imaginary dust on his thigh and settles his fingers over the clasps to this codpiece. His thumb flicks it open then closed, all too keen on where your eyes are glued to.    

“You want your hands on my cock again? Is that it?” Boba purrs in amusement. You tongue passes over your lip as you wrench your eyes off of him yet again. 

“There’s no need to be play coy, girl,” Boba snickers, “Tell me.”   

The words jump out of your mouth—no forethought and apparently not an ounce of self control. “Yes—I want...to p-put my hands on you.”  

“On me or my cock?” 

You mouth goes dry as you mumble out a feeble agreement. “Your…cock.”

Boba huffs in self satisfaction. “Come here then.”   

On already shaky legs you stumble out of your seat and plant yourself in front of him. You have no visual confirmation but the hair-raising sensations as his eyes rake down your body sends shivers up your spine. 

Your mouth parts, but before you’re even able to ask what he wants—he beats you to it. 

“Your choice, Rabbit.” 

Not helpful, you think.  

Regardless of the lack of direction, you chew on the inside of your cheek and slowly lower yourself onto your knees, sliding easily between his parted legs. The only indication you know he’s aware you’re there is a quick shift of his hips, settling further into the leather cushion.    

His leg jumps involuntarily as your fingers skim up his knee. If you weren’t interested in receiving a lovely black eye, you’d have the nerve to accuse him of being ticklish. 

Biting the corner of your lip to stave off your coy smile, your hand continues its path up along his inner thigh. There’s a short huff of air that filters through the vocoder as your fingertips reach the codpiece. They brush over the circular dent left by a blaster, curiosity piqued at the strange location. 

You want to ask—but—the thought is fleeting, far more interested in finding the tiny clasps on the side that easily pop open, the offending piece of armor going lax in your grip. You toss it to the side with little hesitation, greeted by the firm outline of his cock filling out the front of his trousers. 

Boba Fett is not a patient man and your lecherous gawking, enough to notice, irks him. With a grunt he snakes his fingers around your hand and presses it against his cock. He rolls his hips, guiding your hand into applying a firmer touch until you’re palming him without the extra help. You give the hardening flesh a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

By the time your hand sweeps up to ease off the heavy ammo belt around his waist, the bulge in his pants is considerable—a fucking pain to maneuver around as you tug down his trousers into a dramatic ‘v’. Boba’s hand, hanging off the arm rest, jerks the moment your fingertips brush along the dark curls, trailing up and taking a hold of his cock with a careful grip.  

He’s heavy in your hand, thicker than the circumference of your forefinger and thumb pressed together, and harder than kriffing durasteel. You can feel his watchful gaze carve a burning path over the contours of your face, drifting to where you hold him. 

He grumbles an inaudible complaint under his breath, curling his fists by his sides. Despite his obvious irritation with your feathery touches, he lets you continue without so much as a grumpy sigh or snippy redirection. You preen at the small victory, delighted you’re able to explore before the short rope of his patience runs thin and snaps. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through the vocoder as you lightly tug on his cock, mesmerized by the firmness and the searing heat beneath your palm. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the dark flesh, flushed and pulsing as wetness pools at the tip as you pull down the foreskin, exposing the entirety of the wide head.

With your thumb you spread the bead of liquid around, intent on continuing your little exploratory endeavor until Boba shifts and grumbles out an order to stop. 

“Not like that,” he huffs, laying his fingers over yours that hold his cock. “Harder.” 

A fiery blush licks at your cheeks as he squeezes both sets of fingers into a firm fist, leading your hand into the pace he desires. 

It’s rough, much firmer than you’d think would be pleasurable—but you oblige. The wetness that dribbles from the flushed tip lessens the friction but with quick lick over your palm, he glides easily in your hand. Boba’s head rolls back against the headrest, exposing a sliver of brown skin beneath the lip of his helmet. 

It’s not long before your wrist aches—just shy of a couple moments. Luckily enough for you and your poor hand musculature, it doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes—rough and with no real discernible technique other than just fucking into your fist. Boba’s knee jerks as he lifts his head and arches his hips, chest heaving with shallow inhales.    

“Take it in your—in your mouth,” he orders in a rough rasp. His chest heaves as his hand finds purchase in your hair, jerking your head closer to his cock. It stings—Maker, why does he pull so hard? 

With a huff, you listen and part your lips. The tip of his cock slips into your heated mouth, twitching as your tongue rolls against the small slit leaking a near continuous stream of precum. With a couple short tugs and a gentle suck around the head, his fist clenches tight and drags you further down his shaft.

You gag around him, a low grunt rattling through his diaphragm as he cums. It’s warm, thick and fills your mouth, but the heavy weight on the back of your head leaves you no other choice than to swallow. Boba curses, cock still twitching when he lets you up and pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for precious air as you wipe off your lips with your sleeve, sparring a look up at the bounty hunter.   

The reclined figure of his body molds into the chair, a strip of dark skin peeking out from beneath the cowl has his head rests back against the seat. His fingers twitch when you shift, squirming as the twisting heat in your lower stomach festers and grows. 

You watch his throat bob as he speaks, “If you want something...take it.” 

The hard enamel of your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you carefully rock forward, dragging yourself off the ground. It takes a moment to shuck off your pants and perch yourself over his knees after shimming his trousers further down his legs. Boba only bothers to look up with lazy interest once your cunt, soaked and smeared over your inner thighs presses against his upper legs, wetting the muscled limbs. 

You steel your nerves against the sharp analytical gaze through the carved lines of his vizor and give your hips a tentative roll along the length of his softening cock. For all you know he could be asleep—yet you have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eyes are glued to. You’re no idiot.  

Boba’s gloved fingertips skim up your thigh, tempted to go higher but instead they drop back onto the armrests. You chew the inside of your lip, shooing away the urge to frown. Whatever—dwelling upon the quick movement is best left in the dark.

He sucks in a sharp breath of air as you rock your hips for a second time, your slick folds gliding smoothly along his member. It’s a light pressure, no more than a gentle caress so as not to overwhelm—but nonetheless still pleasurable, sating that untamable fire that burns bright in your belly. 

Your eyes drift back to those white gloves, his fists balled and stationary on the armrest. You want them on you. You want to feel his callouses scrape over your skin—one last craving you need to put an end to. 

It’s a risk—a big one. Yet, throwing your worries out the window is easier than your indecisiveness.

Both your hands slowly crawl over the white gloves, cautious in pulling them off as if he were some rabid Nexu ready to bite. He is, in a way and your sneaky little ploy certainly does not go unnoticed. 

Boba jerks his hands up the arm rests. “What makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

His tone is scathing—knocks you so far off that small pedestal of bravery you’ve mustered and leaves you wilting. You should’ve known, stopped while you were ahead. Though knowing in the back your mind that something like this would happen, doesn’t take away from the razor sharp embarrassment that cuts through your chest.

Your forearm shoots up to rub away the burning itch of tears that threaten to fall, your head turning away in a mixture of shame and regret. Stupid—

You’re about to retreat, slide off his lap like a miserable pile of goo, but the delicate touch on your chin, coaxing you to face him startles you. Even more so when he tugs at the offending glove and brushes a bare finger down your cheek, a mere whisper against your skin. “You have a soft heart.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he slips the other glove off, settling one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other tentatively slip between your legs and presses against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. 

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into the little bundle of nerves. 

With a chuckle his hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. “Good little Rabbit—cum on my fingers.”

Your body seizes as white hot heat sears through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a long whine filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely conscious of your actions as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. With a satisfied hum, he slips them out, allowing your head to finally rest against his chest.   

His hands are warm around your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re sure you’re imagining it. You chide yourself—there’s no space for these kind of things. Not now.   

The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay your cheek on—cold too—yet his soft sigh convinces you to stay put. Just for another second, suspended in a strange intimacy that neither of you should be dipping your toes into. 

A gentle hush encompasses the cockpit, lulling you into a light doze. Though as your eyes struggle to stay open, the subtle inhale before a sentence is spoken keeps them from shutting. You wonder if he’ll muster the courage to speak or if he’ll let the words settle back into that lake teeming with uncovered mysteries and things better left unsaid.     

“What would you do...” The beginning of his words tapers off as if he could pretend you wouldn’t hear it. It’s low, almost...uncertain. Well, as uncertain as Boba Fett could be with a head so full of his arrogance and pride. 

His fingers drift higher up your back, ghostlike and teasingly soft.You hate the goosebumps that are left in the wake of his bare fingertips crawling up your spine. Swallowing, your fingernail taps at the chipped paint and circles the little brand on his cuirass. “Do what?” 

He doesn’t answer right away—chewing on his words like they’ve stuck to the roof of his mouth and don’t intend to leave. He shifts and you’re afraid he’s about to shove you off his lap and storm away, but all he does is clear his throat and settle a palm on your upper back. “If I...if I let you go. What would you do?” 

Your brows furrow, your heart kicking up into a rapid flurry of panic. That’s not fair—that’s not fair of him to say. You look up, your own twisted features staring back at you in the muted spectrum of blacks and grays in his visor. This is a joke—another one of his games to push you over the edge while he gets to bask in his idea of proclaimed hilarity. “That’s not funny.” 

“It’s not supposed to be.” 

You ball your hand into a fist as a tidal wave of resentment, followed with chilly anguish washes over you. Your head spins and battles with opposing opinions and reasons why he should just go through with delivering you to his employer. Be done with it and get his moneys worth without any consequence. 

And yet, there’s a minuscule part of you, sprouting away from the dark cloud of inevitability, that wonders. Wonders if you should fight—convince him you deserve to live, untangle you from the disastrous web the Empire has cast around your limbs with no hope of escape. You sigh and shut your eyes. 

“I’d never escape from the Empire even if you did,” you murmur. “The only time I’d be free is if I were dead.”

                                             <><><><><><><><>

He promised himself that this would never happen. 

Never let his own desires and emotions interfere with a job. 

It’s irresponsible, bad for business and frankly quite stupid. This could cost him his credibility, his credits, his life.  

You don’t double cross your employer—it’s the first rule of business that even a child would understand.   

Boba Fett is cunning and clever; always one step ahead of his enemies. Always methodical, refusing to leave any loose ends that even hint at coming back around to bite him in the ass. He’s convinced himself that a will of iron is necessary—the only way to survive and to grow stronger than those who’ve hurt him—bested him in the game of life.  

Cold, methodical, a legend.   

And you…

You are soft. Gentle and too kind for someone to be caught up in this sort of mess. He shouldn’t be delivering you to Death’s doorstep in exchange for credits. You should be off living on some remote planet, far out of the reaches of the Empire. Away from him. Billions of miles from his bloody fingertips that stain your skin like black ink against a white canvas.  

But you’ve made your choices and he’s made his.    

And none of it soothes the festering storm, with winds more forceful than those on Kamino, that rattle through his ribcage. It tears through his sternum, cuts through the beskar and leaves an open wound—raw and tender that grows tenfold the second your eyes land on him. 

You don’t beg when he hoists you up from the floor, no blubbering tears or last minute bargains to spare your life. Not even as you both reach the loading ramp, one mere tap of the button that would reveal you both to the man waiting on the landing platform. One button and he’d be free of you. You’re braver than most. 

He’ll give you that. 

He shouldn’t have said anything—saved himself from the steady ache that comes with having to look you in the eye. Drives a stake so deep into his chest the second you spare him a precious smile that twinkles like unrefined coaxium and thank him. You’re thanking him for the barest amount of kindness he offered to you on your last days of life. 

Boba isn’t sure who he hates more; himself or you. 

He must be staring too long—committing each soft slope and contour of your cheeks, the freckles, your softly parted lips, to memory—because the gentle nudge to his arm startles him. 

“I’ll be alright,” you grin. You make a poor impression of a blaster with your finger and thumb and mimic the sound of it firing. “One shot to the head and I’m gone.” 

“I know how blasters work.”

You shrug and glance at his hand that hovers over the button. “Then why are you hesitating?”

The million credit answer. One that you both know the answer to. 

“Because you won’t be dying. Not today and not while I’m still alive.”  

                                     <><><><><><><><><><><>

The outfit is garish. 

Too white.

Too clean. 

A color that deceives his true nature and masks what he truly is— a viper laying in wait for unsuspecting prey and witless victims. The smile that curls along the man’s unshaven face is meant to charm, but all it does is unsettle. 

Boba has never once trusted a man who relies solely on the weight of his words rather than his own actions. All that this man has are words. Words, and a flimsy position within the ranks of the Empire. That, and twelve heavily armed Death Troopers that guard him, if you count them as well.  

Orson Krennic. 

A man that’ll get what’s coming to him. Perhaps not Boba’s own plasma bolt through the middle of his finely pressed uniform—but something equally as satisfying.

Grey hairs that escape his hat glint like shards of metal shrapnel in the midday sun, the Director’s smile steady as he speaks. “Took you long enough, bounty hunter.” 

Boba’s teeth clamp onto his tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding his tastebuds. “Too bad you have to rely on one, Director.” 

Krennic snorts, folds his arms behind his back and saunters closer. “And your bounty? What of her?” 

“Dead.”

[the-possum-writes]

Can you make a part 2 to the candy fern story 🥺🥺🥺🥺💕

Sure, sorry if this took longer than it should have. 🍬

Part 2 of Sticky Sweet. [Candy!Fern]

Gender neutral

Warnings: none

Brainwashed.

That's the only word that comes to mind after seeing the current candy citizens.

Their sticky sweetness feels forced, almost like you're the protagonist of one of those silent invasion alien horror movies.

Not only that but now you had Fun following you around like a lost puppy.

Things were starting to freak you out, even to the point you weren't sure about having Fun tag along with you.

"I know, maybe your friend is playing hide and seek? 123 for Fern, you can come out now!" Fun shouts happily.

"We're not playing hide and seek," you  rub the side of your forehead with a sigh.

Maybe bringing him along was a bad idea.

You were starting to have your doubts regarding the candy boy. Sure he meant well but that didn't mean he made things any easier.

The sound of sniffling and crying pulled your attention from candy Fern, recognizing a large figure running around from within a pink candy forest. Wait a minute, is that...?

"Sweet pea!" you ran up to the boy. "Are you okay?"

"(y/n)!" the little boy lifts you off your feet in a bug hug.

Sweet Pea was sniffling softly, small little tears running down his face as he constantly looked behind him.

"You need to get out of here, or else they'll turn you into candy like Finn and Jake," he warned you.

"They what? How did that happen?"

"The candy people, they-" Sweet Pea tried to explain but the sight of Fun terrified him, backing away behind you for safety. "Oh no, it's one of them!" he squeaks.

You piece together what Sweet Pea said about the candy people and your own paranoid feelings. Eyeing the candy Fern like an enemy.

"So that was your plan all along? to distract me and turn me into a candy person?" you ask him with a suspicious glare.

Fun gave you a confused look. "What are you talking about (y/n)?" he asks innocently.

You held up a threatening fist at Fun, holding an arm as you wanted to protect Sweet Pea behind you from this candy imposter. Apparently you were attracting attention from the rest of the candy people looking for you, causing Sweet Pea to tremble in fear. The candy citizens started surrounding you, holding onto you while singing something about 'becoming one of us'.

"Sweet Pea save yourself, run away! I'll save you some time." you shout, struggling to free yourself.

The candy people picked you up like a music star, but instead of riding a wave you were being sent to candyfication. You could've fought back, but honestly you weren't feeling it. Not only did both you and Finn couldn't save Ooo from turning into a mess but also Fern is gone forever, unable to confess your true feelings for him. So being brainwashed didn't sound so bad.

"Leave them alone!" Fun exclaims.

The candy citizens turn around to look at Fun, running after them with a gallon of rootbeer in hand. He threw the gallon at the crowd holding you, bursting into a sticky mess of soda and bubbles, causing the candy people to drop you. Amoung the confusion, Fun jumped in and picked you up, running off into the cotton candy forest and loosing the crowd.

Fun didn't stop running, even when he could no longer hear the candy people singing.

Eventually he slowed down, lowing to your feet as the two of you hid behind a slope on the outskirts of the candy part of Ooo.

"We should be safe for now," the peppermint boy pants, looking behind himself.

"What was that for?" you ask him, "I thought you wanted me to turn into candy like them, since it's so great being delightfully brainwashed-" you added with a hint of sarcasm.

"It is to a certain point," The candy Fern looked back at you with a sorry smile. "Unable to feel anger, sadness or generally like garbage... like I used to when I was  grass boy."

"Wait, you still remember...?"

Fun nods, "Yeah, I remember my past life as Fern the human, or  should I say the grass boy? In any case, sorry for lying to you (y/n), but I'm different now, it's like having a new start. I'm not plauged by any nasty feelings anymore, just smiles and sunshine. I wish I could help you, but I'm  afriad i can't help you find the person you're looking for."

You drop to your knees in front of this peppermint boy, feeling like garbage yourself.

"Fer- I mean, Fun i'm so sorry. I didn't know this was a new change for you," you apologize, looking away. "If that's how you feel then who am I to take that away from you." 

Fun extends a hand to place it on your own. "What's that message you want to tell your friend? Maybe I can send it to him if we ever stumble to eachother," he tries to reassure you.

You give him a gentle but knowing smile. "If you ever meet him, tell him that I missed him terribly after being away for so long. That I missed his sense of humor, his smile and the way he gets flustered when I compliment him," you look down at where your hands conjoined with Fun's, your fingers delicately brushing over his.

Fun looked down as well, his smile slowly replaced with a thoughtfull expresion.

He stood up, dusting his baggy shorts. "Let's go,"

"Where are you going? Don't you wanna go back with the candy people? where you feel happy?" you eye him in confusion.

"They don't make me as happy as you do," Fun said without hesitation. "I said I'll help you get your friend back, and that's what I'm gonna do. I'm sure he misses you just as much, and would want your happiness more than anything."

You run up to Fun, wrapping your arms around the candy boy, he still smells like root bear and peppermint but you want nothing more than to hug the air out of him. You could feel tears pricking your eyes, shutting them even though it only caused them to fall down your face. 

"Shh, it's okay (y/n) this is what I want," Fun tries to reassure you as you start to tremble, he rubs a hand on your back as he starts to sing in a soft tone. "Let me call you sweetheart~"

A sob unconciously escapes your throat.

"I love you~"

He's too sweet for his own good.

[petergrantkavinsky]

RED QUEEN Spoiler Chat with Victoria Aveyard on Instagram (04/17/2020)

Q: Who’s the inspiration for Mare? VA: The RED QUEEN series is written in first person point of view, which means you’re in the character’s head. The majority of it is written in Mare’s perspectives. The inspiration for her - because so much of the books was her and so much of it was me - naturally, there were things in there and character moments that came from my personality. She also has a lot of things I wish I was and also things I’m glad that I’m not. I think that we as writers get to explore being other people the way that we write. Another character that had a lot of me in him was Julian. Julian was probably the closest to my personality. Maybe a little of Evangeline if I didn’t have the rules of society.

Q: Why did Shade have to die? VA: I firmly believe that character deaths have to mean something, and you have to feel something because if you get to the point where you’re desensitized, you’ve lost the audience and there’s no point in what’s going on. I knew [Shade] had to be removed from the narrative because he made things too easy for Mare both emotionally and physically. It’s very hard to write any kind of set piece or action sequence around someone who can teleport. I had to find really creative ways to knock him out every single time. But mentally he was such a crutch for Mare. When you’re writing, there’s supposed to be many obstacles for your characters, you’re supposed to make things as difficult as possible. That’s when they really start to shine, when shit hits the fan. So I knew he would be removed, and I knew removing him would be a major turning point in [Mare’s] character.

Q: Maven broke my heart a lot of points in the book. VA: Yeah... Yeah.

Q: Did you ever consider to have Maven’s “good side” back? VA: It’s interesting because I don’t see him having good side and bad side. I don’t see a firm delineation in his brain. It’s not like he was switching between people, it was all one. And I think that’s how most people are. We all have different sides of ourselves, but they all conglomerate into one person. I never really considered an about-face for him. I didn’t think it would be realistic to his character, to the world, to the path that he’d set himself on. I think he was really really dedicated to the idea “what if everything I’ve done has been in vain?,” and he almost wanted to make the bad things he’s done worth it, so that in his mind they balance out and there was never any way to square that. I do think - in this part of my dedication to writing real characters and writing people - I think that Mare and Cal maybe made a mistake or maybe wrote him off a little too fast? I really wanted to include that confusion and that sort of moment at the end where Mare is thinking “did we make the right choice?” You’re never really gonna know because that’s how life is, you wonder about choices you made, and you never know.

Q: What was the song Mare and Cal were listening to when they were dancing in the moonlight? VA: It was COME ON EILEEN. In the very first draft of RED QUEEN, there were so many more references to modern-day life. There was a dialogue where Mare said “we’re dancing to this song about someone named Eileen,” which honestly in hindsight wouldn’t make sense because language had changed by that time. Our English today would have been similar with what Old English is to us now in that it would be very very difficult to understand.

Q: If you could revive any character in the series, who would it be? VA: That’s a hard one. It almost makes me feel good about who I lost because I can’t immediately answer “oh, I want this character back.” I think it would probably be Shade. I feel bad for him, the hole he left behind. And it was so fun. I guess?

Q: How far in the future is RED QUEEN set? VA: Post-post-apocalyptic setting. The world has fallen apart and put itself back together. More information about that in BROKEN THRONE.

Q: How did you start writing the series? Where did the thoughts and idea start? VA: I remember I was sitting at the desk and I had this image of a girl in the arena about to be executed, and instead of dying, she electrocutes her executioner and kills them. I was like “what is this?” I remember I wrote a little snippet of it down and e-mailed it to myself, and RED QUEEN sort of built from there. The questions I asked myself, “who is she?,” “why was she going to be killed?,” “what kind of world exists for her to have this superpower?” That helped me build the story and find what sort of facet I wanted to tell and how.

Q: Were you inspired by House Lannister to make House Samos? VA: Not directly, but GAME OF THRONES inspired so much of the RED QUEEN novels. I would say the biggest inspiration I took from GAME OF THRONES - A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE - was the way that the books are structured and written. The chapter endings are almost always an insane twist. I got to the point when I was reading those books and I was covering the end of the chapter because I knew my eye was going to drift, and I would look to the side and “oh, this character just got their throat slit. Great.” I wanted to write that way, so a lot of the chapter endings in RED QUEEN and all of the endings of the books have this twist. It’s one of my tricks for getting you guys to keep reading.

Q: Do Mare and Cal get back together? VA: Well, I don’t know, maybe we’ll find out in BROKEN THRONE, who knows? But I was really really proud to get to that ending and have my characters in a place where they know they need to heal and maybe sort of find themselves again. You can’t necessarily do that with another person - some people do - I just don’t think they could. And they’re so young. I’m so happy with many different endings, but to me it didn’t feel true to sort of bookend a life that young. I think it gives the world more reality if you feel there’s more to come and there’s more going on as opposed to the door has shut, the book has closed.

Q: Which power would you like to have? VA: My favorite superpower is not in the books. It was in the first draft of RED QUEEN, but wisely my agent was like “everything up to this point was great. You’ve got to take this out.” It was time travel, and I’m so glad she told me that. But I would love to be a time traveler. I just want to check out what’s going on back in the day.

Q: Did you cry writing a scene? VA: I’m not a cryer while writing. Some authors are, some authors aren’t.

Q: Did you ever give up while writing RED QUEEN? VA: Yes. I distinctly distinctly remember this. I was about three months into writing the draft. I was halfway through, and I thought this was garbage. I remember I reread CATCHING FIRE, the second HUNGER GAMES book. That sort of gave me this motivation to refill the well essentially, and I wanted to write again. But that wasn’t enough. The thing that really pushed me over the top was both my dad and my best friend who were reading the book as I was writing the chapters. I slowed down so much that both of them were like “can you just tell me how it ends because i really wanna know if you’re not gonna finish it?” And I was like fine, okay, I will write this book. And I did. It just came down to that moment of decision to push through. I work best when I’m under pressure. I was really really under pressure then, my back was so against the wall in terms of career. Looking back, I see what a precarious position I was in. I’m really glad I didn’t realize it at that time, but I’m very glad I pushed through on that.

Q: Was there a different ending to WAR STORM? VA: No. I knew the emotional ending I wanted for RED QUEEN when I wrote the first book. I knew I wanted to end this with the main character and the love interest not together. I knew I wanted to have that reality of too much has happened, we’ve been broken, and we need to heal on our own. That was the message I really wanted to send. In GLASS SWORD, I figured out the plot ending and where it was going to go, and it never changed from there. I’m so happy that my editing team didn’t push back on that, my agent never pushed back on that. Everyone was go for it. I got really lucky.

Q: How did you come up with the names for the characters? VA: A lot of them just popped into my head for the most part. Cal was the only one that was really constructed. I knew I wanted him to have a cool nickname but a really good-feel royal full name, so Tiberias Calore. Calore means heat. And I shortened his last name into Cal.

Q: Maven and Thomas? VA: As of now, no plans to return to that story, short story or a novel of its own. But it was a relationship I was really keen to focus on and show how much that colored Maven and his relationship with his mother. His mom is such an interesting character because she does love her son, and so many things she did to him, she did out of love, like trying to take away pain from him by messing with his brain. It had a lot of repercussions later on, but Thomas was definitely the first thing that was so painful, and he went to his mother and said “take this from me.” I think that was really a slippery slope.

Q: Tyton was good character. VA: Thank you! I liked him too. I really loved the electricons getting sort of a little squad going. That moment where Mare realizes she’s not alone. She’d been kidnapped at that point, and people are coming for her, but she’s not alone in what she is. Up to that point while learning “oh, I’m not the only Red who has powers,” she was the only Red with her power, and finally people who deeply understood what was going on...it felt like giving her a hug.

Q: How many times did you think of Maven’s ending? Were you sad to write him the way you knew you had to? VA: I don’t have those emotional downturns with work. There are definitely scenes where I’m so excited because I cannot wait for someone to read this. His twist in RED QUEEN when he reveals where his true alliances lie, that was one of the things I was so excited to get in front of people and to experience with you. But no, I don’t think I was sad. Does that make me a bad person?

Q: Do you think you would write a book in the same world as RED QUEEN? VA: I would say never say never, but I’m definitely playing in different sandboxes right now.

Q: Do you worldbuild as you go or do you know every backstory beforehand? VA: For RED QUEEN - and maybe this is why this is the first book I ever finished - I did a lot of the worldbuilding as I went. I got my bases, but then I really pushed myself to start writing as quickly as possible. In the past, I worldbuilded so many books, and you kind of burn out your inspiration on trying endless maps, trade routes, character backstories, and family trees. I think RED QUEEN was little bit of both. This new story, I did a little bit more of worldbuilding to begin with, but it really made myself jumping. I think there’s definitely a benefit to extensive worldbuilding. Most of it, at least in my experience, does not make it on the page, but it does help the author metabolize the world and the characters to the point where you’re writing it second nature, you’re not entirely thinking about what they’re doing, it’s just happening because you already know.

Q: Do you have an exact vision of every place? VA: Some places, yes. Some scenes, yes. Some scenes, it’s like shot for shot in my brain, it’s like watching it on a movie screen. Some places, it’s fuzzy at the edges and it’s just the people’s faces I see. But sometimes even those are fuzzy.

Q: RED QUEEN characters in Hogwarts houses? VA: Mare - Slytherin Maven - Slytherin Farley - Gryffindor Cal - Gryffindor for sure, he’s such a blockhead. Kilorn - Hufflepuff Elara - Ravenclaw Evangeline - has Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw tendencies. I do not believe in split houses.

Q: Did Maven and Thomas have a romantic relationship? VA: Yes. I believed and wrote Maven as bisexual.

Q: What inspired you the powerful and amazing ending of GLASS SWORD? It’s iconic! VA: GLASS SWORD is definitely my weakest of the four books, I think. That one was tough. Adjusting to writing a book in a vacuum versus writing a book when you had a first book and there was a third one coming, that was really tough. But the ending of that book is probably my favorite. “I kneel.” I remember I wrote those words and [screamed].

*Transcript by me :) (Yes, for the first time in maybe two years, I finally have all the time in the world again.)

*You may also watch the live session on VA’s IGTV.