#but fuck do I feel better in spite of all of the physical strain

[cookies-and-creamless]

Fucked up that the best solution to social anxiety is just to have positive and open communication with people. Why can't it be jerking off

[abiiors]

𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 — 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚒𝚒

✧ — 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

✮ a/n: we're entering sad girl hours beware. also you might see familiar characters in this one

✮ cw: mentions of smut, suggestive content, slut-shaming, physical fights

✮ wc: 3.3k

matty’s hips slam into her ass, and jules moans into the pillow. her long, wavy hair is fisted in his hands, as matty thrusts into her, rougher than he ever has. 

it feels good though—her body is on fire, sticky from sweat and burning with desire, but she can’t get enough of this, of him. once or twice she even bites onto the pillow. 

there’s no one in the house anymore, no one but the two of them, but jules tries not to scream loud enough to alert the neighbours. 

“wanna hear you, darling, please,” matty complains immediately. 

her heart sinks. darling… for weeks she’s not said a single thing against it, against his use of pet names despite it being one of their rules. but now she can’t bear to hear it, can’t bear to look at him while he fucks her. in fact, the last few times, they’ve had sex, she’s insisted they do it this way—him behind her, her cheek squished into the pillow. 

it feels better this way, she lies to herself and to him. 

truth is she can’t bear to look at him without making her thoughts fully known. 

he groans, pounding into her harder, and in spite of herself, she moans. she’s close now, about to cum for the third time tonight. 

“fuckfuckfuck,” matty chants, thrusting deep, and jules feels him cum. 

she clenches around him as his cock twitches, cumming with a cry of her own. her thighs burn from the strain and she practically collapses on the bed, utterly exhausted and completely drained 

matty’s not far behind her, he walks two steps to throw away the used condom and then slides behind her in bed.

“that was hot,” he breathes, sliding her sweaty hair away from the nape of her neck. for a second she’s scared he’s going to place a small kiss on her skin. but he only brushes her hair away further. 

“was i rough?”

“a bit,” she speaks in a hushed voice, still catching her breath, “but i liked it.”

her back is still turned towards him—she can’t face him just yet, not while she feels so vulnerable—but she can feel his mood shift. 

“is…” his voice catches a little, “is something wrong?”

“no, why would you think that?”

for a second he’s silent, and she wonders if he’s going to make her face him. jules just waits for him to speak, staring out the window at the crescent moon. 

“nothing, i—” he sighs, getting out of bed, “i’m probably overthinking.”

she finally turns to look at him then, schooling her face into a carefully neutral mask. he’s in the process of getting dressed, walking around the room completely naked while he looks for the clothes they tossed away so carelessly. she can’t help steal a few glances at his cute butt, at his back and tattooed arms, at his curls that are now slightly longer. 

a second later he finds and puts on his underwear.

“matty?”

he turns to look at her, jumping in place to get his jeans on, “yeah?”

like an idiot she stares—a bit mesmerised—at his stomach and chest and all that skin on display, skin that she has touched and caressed and kissed a million times. and yet she feels breathless.

“jules?” his voice brings her out of her stupid head. he’s grinning, she sees, smiling in a way that makes her heart stagger in her chest. “your head’s in the clouds. did i fuck you that good?” he asks, voice tinged with smugness. 

“don’t call me that again,” she responds. 

matty frowns, about to ask clarification, when she sits up and clutches the sheets around her chest. “‘darling’. don’t call me that again. we agreed on no pet names.”

“oh…” she wonders if his face falls then, at least she thinks it does. the spark in his eyes vanishes giving way to dullness. then again, she’s probably projecting it. 

“sorry, yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles quickly, putting his t-shirt back on. “won’t happen again.”

and that’s what she wants, isn’t it? no pet names? still, her heart sinks when he smiles at her, so much forced and fake this time. 

“good night, jules,” he gives her a little wave, already turning away.

when the door shuts behind him with a soft thud, jules wonders if that’s what disappointment sounds like.

jules: will you come over tonight?

it’s a week later that she’s in bed, bored and horny and missing him. no, she corrects herself, missing his body. 

a minute later her phone dings.

matty: can’t. i’ve got a movie night with cleo  matty: can’t miss that jules: cleo?

her hands tremble while she types the name. it’s unmistakably a girl’s name. another girl’s name. and he’s got a movie night with her which sounds unmistakably like a date night… 

their last rule echoes in her ears—if one of us meets someone, we end this immediately.

matty: oh shit i forgot to tell u abt her didn’t i matty: it’s all been so sudden matty: she’s a childhood best friend. just got back from new york and i want to spend time with her. it’s been so long without her

every words she reads makes her feel worse and worse. she’s not jealous, jules repeats in her head. she’s not, she’s not, she’s not. she’s just…disappointed that she can’t get laid tonight. yeah, that’s what is it… 

matty: wednesday? matty: if ur free? jules: i am :) 

but wednesday morning comes and goes without matty telling her what time he’s coming over. even as afternoon passes and the sun continues its descent west, jules gets no message from him. he’s just busy, she tells herself—busy with his job and music and busy with… with cleo. her stomach feels sour every time she thinks about the other girl. 

it’s all rather dramatic, jules tells herself, he can have female friends. it would be absolutely psychotic of her to be angry about that. and yet as evening turns to night and there’s no sign of him, she can’t help but feel it’s because he’s with the other girl. 

there are no clinks on her bedroom window, no bell ringing in her flat. no new messages on her phone despite how many times she checks it. 

not until practically after midnight anyway when she’s already on the verge of falling asleep. still, when her phone rings, jules jumps on it. smiling like an idiot when matty’s name flashes on the screen. 

“i am so sorry,” he launches into an apology the moment she picks up. “so, so fucking sorry, jules. i know i said wednesday, and then i got so busy with cleo, i completely forgot…”

a stone settles into the pit of her stomach. matty’s still apologising, explaining why he stood her up, but jules can barely hear the words over the blood rushing in her ears. 

he forgot about her because he was with cleo. 

“matty,” she interrupts him, voice as level as she can muster, “‘s alright. she’s your best friend, i get it.”

truth is she doesn’t get it. she doesn’t get how he could have completely forgotten to send her even a quick text to inform her he’s busy. even just a simple ‘rain check?’ would have sufficed. 

but now she looks at the clock, at it nearing half past midnight while on call with someone who couldn’t even be bothered to cancel on her properly, and all she feels is dirty. cheap. like she’s a thing to be used and discarded. 

“jules?” matty interrupts her train of thoughts and she realises he’s waiting for a response. 

“sorry the network’s a bit shit,” she makes an excuse. “can you repeat that?”

“i said are you free on saturday? i’ve got a gig and i want you to be there.”

in spite of herself, she smiles a little at that. any excuse to watch matty on stage is good enough for her. besides, she’s wanted to watch him properly for months now. watch him without running away. 

“yeah?”

“mmhmm.” there’s a smile in his voice. jules smiles too. 

“i’ll be there then, text me the address.”

“oh and,” matty interrupts just as she’s about to hang up. “we’re getting drinks at firebug afterwards. will you be there?”

“i will,” she agrees instantly. 

“good,” he sounds like he’s smiling ear to ear, “i can’t wait for you to meet cleo too. see you saturday!”

and then he’s gone while jules sits there like an idiot with the phone clutched against her ear. 

can’t wait for you to meet cleo…

of course, she’ll be there. of course she will. why did jules think otherwise?

saturday is dull until carly turns up in the evening to get ready for the gig. it’s a nice surprise, jules thinks. she’s missed her friend. she’s been way too alone in this flat. and sure she likes having her freedom and privacy, but jules is still grateful that she’s not a ghost haunting this flat for at least one evening. 

they get ready dancing to paramore hits and belting to classic arctic monkey’s albums. carly helps her with a smokey eye and jules in turn paints carly’s nails for her. mostly they talk. 

it fills her heart with warmth to see how much in love carly looks, how happy she looks while talking about the last few weeks. 

“how are things with nico?” she asks, picking through a whole box of lipsticks for the perfect shade she wants. jules freezes. 

“good,” she says, busying herself in picking a perfume, “casual.”

and it’s not a lie. they are good and casual—things with a boy who is certainly not nico. 

“and you’re happy with casual?” carly opens up the lipstick she’s picked and looks at jules in the mirror. 

“casual is good,” she nods. that is maybe a half-truth at best. 

still, jules refuses to look at carly, refuses to acknowledge her stare that she feels burning in the side of her face. jules knows she will give herself away the moment she looks at carly. 

“should we leave?” she mumbles, practically fleeing out of the bathroom to look for her purse.

thankfully carly drops the subject in favour of blasting songs on their way over. she’s driving, and so jules stares out the window, occasionally singing along to the songs blasting through the speakers just to appease carly. 

she’s even more relieved when the venue comes into view. 

carly drags her to the barricade the moment they get inside. she wants to be front and centre and jules can’t disagree. she wants to experience this properly, wants to see him in his element. 

while they wait for the band, carly taps her on the shoulder. 

“that’s cleo, i think,” she points to a girl only a little farther away from them, “matty’s best friend.”

jules’ heart sinks further. the girl carly’s pointed at is gorgeous. there’s no other way to put it. she’s tall and beautiful, in a tiny black dress that fits her like a glove. her shoulder length black hair shine in the dim lights of the venue. jules even catches the hint of a lip piercing. 

fuck. 

this is the best friend. she has never stood less of a chance. 

and yet when the first notes of piano blare over the speaker, jules instantly turns her attention back to the stage. 

she had planned to get herself a few drinks while watching them, just let loose for today. but watching them is simply mesmerising. 

she can’t stop staring at the way george hits the drums with utmost precision, how he’s always in perfect timing. she watches ross’s fingers move on the bass, watches him smile to himself when he gets particularly difficult parts right. she watches adam get lost in the music, how his whole body vibrates with energy with each strum of the guitar. 

and then there’s matty. 

on that stage, he shines in a way jules has never seen him before. he glows from within and basks in the light that is purely him. he moves like the stage is an extension of his body; a born performer, a natural frontman. she gets lost in his voice. he engages the audience, flirts with them and makes them laugh, then serenades them with the sweetest melancholy.

often he stares at jules, waving and smiling at her, and moving onto other parts of the crowd, moving onto cleo. 

jules can’t help herself. against her better judgement, she stares at the other girl. 

cleo has a camera in her hands, held up and trained on… on george? jules frowns a little, watching more intently. she clicks, takes one photo after the other, all photos of george. 

that is…interesting. 

“cleo, right?” jules is tapping on her shoulder before she can stop herself. “looks like your camera loves george.”

she burns with mortification the moment that sentence leaves her mouth. she had no business saying anything like that! what an odd thing to say to a complete stranger. and yet cleo looks like she’s been caught in a lie. 

“i don’t–it’s not…” she sighs, “it doesn’t.” 

her sentence is short and clipped. frankly jules deserves it. and yet something about the way cleo looks eggs jules on. “he’s really good though, isn’t he?”

as if in a trance, cleo nods. “don’t be shy,” jules continues, “he’s actually a real sweetheart.”

cleo’s jaw drops a little. jules, unable to just fucking stop, continues her word vomit.  

“and you know this…” cleo raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. 

“oh i hook up with matty sometimes, kinda friends with benefits if you wanna call it that,” jules recites it like it’s a practised sentence. 

“they’re roommates,” she continues, “we’ve talked a couple times when he’s caught me trying to sneak out in the mornings.” 

cleo says nothing. curiously enough, she grimaces though. and why wouldn’t she… jules wants to hit herself because she’s already crossed a million different boundaries. and so she retreats, smiling apologetically.  

“anyway, i’m sorry, it’s none of my business. i just got a bit excited.” 

cleo waves it off distractedly, mumbling a quiet thank you. 

“i’m jules, by the way,” she holds out her hand and cleo takes it instantly. 

“cleo,” the girl smiles. a real dazzling smile. 

jules gives her hand one last squeeze and goes back to watching the show, yelling out the lyrics with matty.

“you came,” matty cheers the moment he sees jules, “you came!”

her heart melts in her chest, and she can’t help but laugh along with his enthusiasm. the other three are just walking up behind him. they talk to each other excitedly and just like him, they can’t stop grinning.

“should we leave?” he murmurs, mouth so close to hers she can feel his breath tickling his cheek. “please, i—” he swallows thickly and she sees the desire in his eyes. for her… it’s for her… 

the cool air caresses her sweaty, sticky skin and makes her shiver in pleasure, the moment they step outside. matty holds her hand and pulls her behind him, and he still hasn’t stopped staring. she feels his eyes linger on every single inch of her body, on the dress she’s so carefully chosen for tonight despite knowing better. 

the next thing she knows, matty’s holding her against the wall as he kisses her bare neck. he caresses her breasts through the dress and makes her writhe against him. 

“kiss me,” jules pleads and his warm mouth is capturing hers. 

his lips are soft and electricity zings through her at the contact. he kisses with such reckless abandon that it steals her breath away. her fingers tangle themselves into his hair as she kisses him back hungrily. 

jules can’t care less about how public this is, there’s only him in this moment. she bunches her hands in his t-shirt and pulls him closer. he’s already so hard against her but his hands are so soft. his lips are so delicate but his kisses are nothing but hungry. 

she hears drunken laughter nearby, probably strangers going about their night. she ignores that in favour of feeling the wall dig into her back, in favour of feeling his thigh between her legs, brushing her clit. 

and then there’s a clap. one and then another and another. jules pulls away, freezing at the sight of max.

one look at her face and she knows he’s livid, probably the angriest she’s ever seen him. 

“are you having fun, baby?” his voice is cold and cruel. jules tries not to curl into herself, but her heart speeds up in her chest for all the wrong reasons. next to her, she feels matty straighten. 

“piss off, mate,” matty warns, his voice unlike she’s ever heard. “what she does is none of your business.”

“oh isn’t it, healy?” max sneers, ugly in the moonlight.

“max…” jules warns, “stop it and go, please.”

“look at you, juliette,” he tuts. jules reels back at the use of her full name. her stomach flips and she tastes bile. jules swallows thickly to get rid of the sour taste on her tongue. max just laughs like a lunatic. 

“are my sloppy seconds good, healy?” he taunts. jules knows he’s just trying to goad matty, he’s looking for a fight and she’s not about to give him that. 

“leave,” she says again, more confident than the last time. 

“shut up, juliette,” he barks at her, and before she knows what’s happening, matty moves. 

times slows for her as she sees him balling her hands into a fist, raising it, and then with a sickening crunch, it connects with max’s jaw. max staggers back and falls flat on the ground. he clutches his face and howls, pathetic and sad. 

“don’t fucking talk to her like that,” matty growls. 

jules doesn’t know what comes over her. all she knows is that she needs to get out of here before max gets up, she needs to get matty out of here. and so she holds onto him and pulls with all her strength. it takes a little but eventually she manages to pull him back into the venue, almost on the verge of crying and shaking with anxiety. 

“are you okay?” matty cups her face, so tender and soft it breaks her fucking heart. 

“you can’t do that!” she yells and brushes his hand away with much more force than necessary. “you can’t fucking do that!”

there are tears streaming down her face, salty, hot tears that clog up her throat and make it hard to speak but jules is determined and angry. 

“jules, i—”

“no!” she holds up her hand. 

matty looks nothing like he did just minutes ago. his face is full of confusion and anger and… and heartbreak, she thinks. he looks like he’s about to cry too. 

“when you do shit like that,” she continues, unable to control herself, “when you look at me like that and i don’t know fucking…protect me like that, it makes me want more!” 

she’s yelling now, her voice cracking and hoarse and echoing around the venue. 

“it makes me want things i can’t have!”

matty takes a step forward, his hand stretched out like he just wants to pull her into a hug. but jules steps away and out of his reach. 

“if you’ll just listen,” he pleads. 

jules shakes her head. “no, you listen,” she holds up a finger pointed straight at him. “you can’t make me want things i can’t have!”

roughly she wipes away her tears, still shaking. 

“this was a mistake,” jules mumbles. “this was a mistake…”

and then she turns away from him, not bothering to look back even once. she turns away and runs because she knows nothing good is going to come out of it if she decides to stay.

[carnivorousyandeere]

Darling proficient in martial arts… their yandere could be a competitor, team member, coach, fan, nurse/physical therapist… imagine it’d be quite difficult to subdue someone who spends hours every day training in self-defense and maybe practicing with weapons~! Or maybe their yandere would just enjoy getting beat to a pulp?

By some types of martial arts:

In martial arts like karate, practitioners are encouraged to maintain an intense degree of self-control. Actually striking an opponent with force to injure is grounds for automatic disqualification in a sparring match, and even outside matches, you’re encouraged to be patient and avoid conflict as much as possible. A particularly spiteful yandere could probably ruin a country- or world-class athlete’s reputation if their Darling beat them up, and they knew how to spin the optics in their favor…

Martial artists like boxers and MMA fighters get injured a lot. A competitor or team member could go damn-near all out on anyone that threatens you in the ring (or their chance to fight you themself…), with an audience cheering them on as they do it. I mean, sure, the refs would hate them but it’s not like they care 🤷. Also an incredibly good setup for a nurse/medic yan. Just don’t think too hard about what they do with all the bloody gauze afterwards.

It’s also kind of funny to imagine wrestling, with the yan being a huge fuckin heel and a face Darling who genuinely dislikes them (but of course, everybody thinks their distaste is just part of the show).

By the dynamic:

Rivals are a fucking classic, and for good reason. “You’re the only one worthy of facing me.” Obsession masked as hatred, leaning in close to trash talk but failing to hide their glance at your lips… Maybe they stalk you under the guise of trying to catch you doping and cheating ‘cause they can’t accept that you’re really just that good. Losing to you while their heartbeat, quick with anger and shame, begins to beat quickly for different reasons as you stand over them and gloat, or maybe you choose to offer your hand to help them up… Besting you in competition, feeling self-satisfied and smug— or maybe they feel empty, unsatisfied— “go practice some more and try me again.” Bonus points for silliness if this whole dramatic rivalry is between a Yan and a Darling who both objectively suck at the sport

Team members/fellow students for the casual intimacy of training together, of booking hotel rooms to share for out-of-state competitions. Sharing water bottles when one of you forgets (and if you’re not forgetful, they certainly will be 🤭). Maybe they’re better at the sport than you, and so they have the responsibility to help train and guide you, or maybe it’s the opposite, and you have a cute newbie clinging to your every word and instruction. They’d certainly stalk you too, studying your routine like a rival might, though they’re certain down to their bones you can’t be cheating! You must have some special routine that makes you so strong— like extra workouts, or certain foods you eat! Extra points for angst and cognitive dissonance if Darling actually is a fuckin cheat lol

Coach/Instructor for that sweet, sweet power imbalance. Maybe they’re extra strict with you because they can see your potential. Maybe they’re extra lax ‘cause of their gigantic soft spot for you, and the other students resent the special treatment you get. Coach overseeing your training personally, instructing you, watching you run laps and do push-ups. They like watching you get all sweaty and out of breath from training. And the little strained noises you make when stretching are just too cute! It’s a little too easy for them to touch you under the guises of correcting your form, or helping you stretch. They’d barely have to stalk you, especially if you were a world-class athlete— they’d be in charge of your schedule anyway. Workouts, meals, competitions, trips, all under their control~!

[mythicandco]

A Dark And Stormy Night

tw for minor body horror

it's a dark and stormy night.

to be entirely honest, it's cliche. it knows it's cliche, but it's all it can think, looking out the window. raindrops patter against its face and it winces, closing its eyes a little.

the already black sky is completely logged with clouds, lightning illuminating the darkness in spite of stars. it feels something uncomfortable shift in its ribs and grimaces, altering its position in the passenger seat to make up for it.

he glances over at it, looks away again. it doesn't blame him, imagines how it must look now. it notes quietly he doesn't have a rearview mirror or any on either side of the car- that's stupid, and dangerous, but it would also be stupid and dangerous to have them.

he doesn't tell it to roll the window up, but it does after a moment anyways. guilt drags heavy on its bones and skin, and the last thing it wants is to get the inside of his car wet.

it opens its mouth, finds its tongue and teeth aren't in the right positions, and closes it again. if it talks, it'll come out wrong. it doesn't want to make him any more uneasy than it already has.

"you alright over there, kid?" he doesn't take his eyes off the road when he finally breaks the sound of tires on wet asphalt, rain on the metal roof of the vehicle. "I mean, as alright as the circumstances can allow, obviously."

the engine hums in both their bones. bones that click into place. tendons that quietly shift under skin. minds that slowly meld into one. the catalyst was the spark. it's only a matter of time now before it all goes up in a burning inferno of hell.

why did you help me.

it puts a hand over its mouth, but that doesn't stop the sound, if you could even call it that. it isn't... physical, like vibrations from vocal chords. it's something tinged with static, something that curls around the edges of his already-curdling psyche. he winces, and it feels more guilty.

"I don't know," Thatcher admits at length, tapping out an uneasy rhythm on the steering wheel. "you're a kid. you deserve better than that."

it swallows thickly, bleach still burning the nerves behind its eyes. he'd expected it to kill him, but instead it just ate away at all the soft tissue until there was nothing human left but the murky red puddle at its feet. that's why it's an it, not a he.

I'm a monster.

Thatcher lets out a weak chuckle that gives way to a wet-sounding cough. "aren't we all?"

you have no idea how true that is about to be. it hisses and bangs a fist on the center console, startled into speaking out loud. the words are distorted and feel wrong and don't sound like a voice so much as a machine trying to replicate one, but at least they're real. "sh-shit. I didn't mean to-"

"I get it. I get it, it's okay." he doesn't understand what it just said, but he also does, in a way. he can feel it burrowing into the back of his mind, too. he's had MAD for a long time now. "listen. I've been living with that kind of shit for years now. you're not trying to hurt anyone, and as long as you aren't, nothing you say will affect me. alright?"

it nods weakly, feeling sick. half-melted vocal chords strain to get words out. "I'm sorry."

"don't be. it's not your fault."

but it is. I'm the catalyst. everyone is fucked over and it is very much my fault.

Thatcher glares over at it, and it flinches back. he immediately pulls back, mutters an apology of his own. "don't say things like that. if anyone's to blame, it's me. there are at least four people dead because of things I didn't do to protect them. you never asked for any of this, it was all laid out for you before you were even- born, or whatever. but I had it coming."

it closes its eyes again. I want my mommy.

he pauses, processing that. after a minute, he gives up. there's not much to say.

"we'll be back at my place soon. just gotta hold on until then, okay?"

"...okay."

it turns its eyes back outside. it's a dark and stormy night.

[jamiesfootball]

2, 11, and/or 30 for the ask game!

2. Favorite part of writing.

Aside from putting characters in situations, it's a dead tie between 'finding increasingly specific ways to describe something' and 'finding ways to sneak in jokes'.

11. Describe your writing process from scratch to finish.

Ooooh-OOOH. OH. Ok ok jot that down- what was that? Oh, okaaaay. Huh. That's a good start- what do you mean there's more? That's, no. No, I said we have other things that we're working on- okay, no, you're right that is a really good idea and it would be emotionally satisfying, Alright, I'll jot this down, but then we're definitely writing it this time, ok? We are going to focus, we will not leave another project unfinished- where are you going?

It's like that. But here's a more coherent answer.

Step 1- I have an idea. Perhaps it's a scene. Something I would like to see happen, out of pure need or a spiteful malaise from not seeing it happen, whichever.

Ex: I saw Mom City and the Finale and decided I hated what they did with Jamie's dad. I thought up a scene where Jamie and Roy talk about that.

Step 2- I spin the giant wheel in my brain. Without consulting me, it finds an unrelated topic. I then hold the first bit - the THING I want to write - up next to the second bit. I cross my eyes until I figure out what pattern exists between the two that my brain wants me to use.

Ex: The scene with Roy and Jamie talking about Jamie's dad + Roy going to therapy = There are two angry men in Jamie's life. Both of them have taken a step towards becoming better, but I only believe that one of them means it. Why?

Step 3- I start figuring out the whys. I think about which scenarios will strain the narrative. I find the uncomfy bits of dialogue that other authors skip over, and I make the characters talk about it at length until I figure out what the problem is. Slowly, a form comes together in the shape of a narrative. I usually have my climactic moments drafted from the start. I usually have a beginning. If I do not know the end, I find it soon enough. The rest I build with sticks. If dramatic moment one happens, what caused it? What tracks need laid to get me there. I sketch those in. Eventually, I have an outline.

Ex: The dissatisfaction from the end of season three becomes where the post season fic starts. The climactic bits breed out of the Roy Jamie conversation I began with. An ending takes shape- this is the final goal, the place I'd like my character to be. From there I work my way in, tying the moments together, until I can say 'yeah, that looks like a full story'.

Step 4- By exploring all of these scenarios and building a narrative architecture, a theme starts to emerge. I use that theme, and reflect it back on the vague bits I don't have written yet.

Ex: At this point I have realized that the entire impetus of the post-season fic is to stack ammo in the discussion of 'should Jamie's father be allowed back in his life?' The answer is no. What began as a simple comparison in step 2 has now become a multi-armed demon, fleshing out the motivations and backstories of every character it touches. The theme is family--born, found, and made--and so now every other character (Roy, Colin, Isaac, Sam, Keeley, Dani) has their family history being dragged into the light to serve as an example.

Step 5 - Legos. I have my outline (the sketch). I have my themes (the paint). Now I have to write it. Fuck. This step lasts forever.

Step 6 - I just keep trying. Because the story exists already, you know? It's not told, but it exists. I just have to keep putting in the work to make it into the physical world.

Step 7 - I print the things out and I scribble on them until I feel better. Then I take the scribbles, and I put them back into step 5.

Step 8 - Repeat steps 5-7 until you are out of legos. Then you are done, for now.

Step 9 - Walk around in a daze, feeling like you're about to cry. Keep repeating to people, "I can't believe it's over." It is never over. That feeling never truly goes away. You are forever surprised that you created something.

Step 10 - Become annoying to everyone you know by blogging about it online.

Ex: In progress

30. Favorite line you’ve ever written.

Oh, I have lots. Shameless self-plug though, everything I wrote about Moe on his quest to do spoken word poetry in chapter 1 of the post-season fic was a goddamn delight. Up to and including the Machiavelli quotes.

One of my other other favorite parts goes to Isaac in the epilogue. It is the bookend to Moe's poetry. I'm literally so excited about it.

Actually I take that back. I just realized I do have a favorite line, and it's a stupid one.

Right now my favorite line is a running joke, wherein I the author put in the placeholder '[whatever Higgins said]' into Roy's internal monologue about being a better person. This in regards to the scene in the finale where the Diamond Dogs talked about learning how to be better, not perfect. Higgins made some good points. I meant to go back and pull the quote from the episode. It was going to be in italics, the way you do when you're bringing back quotes into an internal monologue.

The only thing is I, uh. Did not do that. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that Roy, who got the gist of what Higgins was saying, maybe didn't necessarily jot down the exact phrasing in his head, the way he does with other lines (the ones that are detrimental to his emotional health and well being.) Also it made me laugh. So now it's just peppered in sometimes, when Roy is trying to be a better person.

'Whatever Higgins said.'

Like I said at the start- I love to sneak in a joke.

[the-apprentice-lia]

Hey! I saw that you do headcanons as well? Sorry if I’m asking in the right place but I loved your post on Asra’s hurt!! Could you possibly do the “mc getting slapped by the m6” ask please? My angsty little heart needs foodddd

hiii!! i’m so glad you liked my post:)) don’t worry, i’ll do my best to not cry when i’m writing this although it probably won’t work

i just wanna say that under no circumstances is it okay to hurt your partner!! please don’t take this post the wrong way:)

the main 6 slapping mc

asra

• it probably started because of how much he keeps from you. you know it’s just because he doesn’t want to see you hurt or unhappy because of how much of your life you’ve lost to your premature death, but it’s still so infuriating. you’re not a child, and you tell him as much.

• as much as you love each other, arguments can get messy. you know so much about each other that it’s difficult not to go for the soft parts in an argument, and you just snap.

• they’re probably running his hands through his hair, tears of frustration and pent up feelings slipping down his cheeks and catching the light of the many candles around the shop, making them glister strangely beneath the low light.

• “asra, you’re being ridiculous. how in the arcana am i supposed to know about who i was if you won’t fucking tell me?” you shout at them, crystals and glass bottles clinking together on the shelves.

• asra breaks, finally raising his voice as well, telling you that you’re acting like a child. you feel a twisted feeling of satisfaction at his loss of control. at least they’re actually treating you like a person— but you’re still so frustrated.’why can’t he just see that you’re not a china doll, easily broken and delicately made?

•you’re screaming now, tears blurring your vision. all you see is red. “if i’m acting like such a child then why did you even bother bringing me back? you should have just fucking left me to rot beneath the lazaret if you won’t so much as—” you’re cut off with a sharp crack.

• asra’s stronger than they look, and he wasn’t thinking as he lashed out in anger and pain, so you probably stumble back into the shelves behind you, or onto the counter of the shop.

• you touch your hand to your hot cheek with a dull feeling of surprise. it’s as if everything is through a haze, your gaze flickering up to meet asra’s horrified one as you take a step back, a dry sob heaving through your chest as your knees give out and you sink to the floor.

• “mc, i’m so sorry, i can’t— i don’t— please. i’m so sorry,” he stumbles over his words as he crouches before you, giving you enough space that you could easily leave. you don’t, and he breathes out slowly as they reach towards you and gently, heartbreakingly softly, cups your face to turn it towards him. he inhales sharply as he takes in your bruised cheekbone, red already beginning to spread outwards in the shape of his hand, and he flinches to see that he’s hurt you, his beloved apprentice.

• he opens his arms slowly, hesitantly, and you sink into them, burying your face in his scarves and then drawing back slightly with a faint hiss as your cheek touches the fabric, and he lets out a sob as well, burying his face in your sweet-smelling hair. murmurs “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” into you over and over again, rocking you back and forth on the floor of the shop.

• he’ll hurt for weeks after, even after the bruise fades, he’ll simply refuse to touch you for days after the incident. whispers “but what if i hurt you,” his voice breaking at the mere thought of it, and you cradle him to you, stroking his cheek as he shakes.

nadia

• the argument was probably about her refusing to ask for help. she’s been alone for so long that the refusal simply comes naturally. she has to prove that she can be successful alone, that she can make something of herself without anyone.

• at first, you tell her gently that she can trust you, that you’re always here for her, and that she doesn’t have to do this alone— but she doesn’t want to hear it, telling you insistently that she doesn’t need any help.

• “your dark circles would say otherwise, nadi! you can’t keep going on like this!” you tell her, your voice strained as you lay a hand on her arm. you just want to help her, but she won’t listen to you. “i can do it myself,” she tells you coldly, pulling away from you and turning back to her work. “i don’t need your help. i never have.”

• you feel the hurt blossom in your chest, but you try to push it down as you close her books, smudging the ink on a document by mistake. “nadi, please.” you tell her, but she doesn’t even seem to hear you as she opens her books and sets her jaw, looking at the ruined document. you bite your lip in dismay and go to apologise, but she cuts in before you get the chance. “you ruin everything. you’re such a nuisance, can you not find anything better to do with your time than to bother me? i am the countess of vesuvia, and i don’t need your help.” she’s shouting by the end of her outburst, and you recoil, hurt now showing across your face— but it’s quickly replaced by anger.

• you laugh disbelievingly, your voice spiteful and pained as you speak. “you don’t need my help? well that’s certainly a different tune than the one you were singing when you came to me in the middle of the night, asking for my help. and even then i gave it unbegrudgingly. you’re so stubborn, nadia! you’re so ridiculously naïve that you can’t even see that not everybody’s against you. so your sisters acted like every older sibling the world over, and excluded you from a few games. you carry grudges as if the world’s out to get you and nobody seeks to help you. you’re such a child! why—” your screaming cuts off at the sharp crack.

• you cry out at the sudden flare of pain. nadia’s also a lot stronger than she looks— i mean, she’s a master sword-fighter. and so, you stumble backwards into the marble table opposite her desk, turning away from her to catch your breath, your figure shaking with quiet sobs. everything seems to fall away, and you hold your arms around yourself in a poor attempt to keep your paroxysms of sobs quiet.

• nadia is completely silent. the jarring force snapped her out of whatever tired grumpiness she had been wallowing in, and now she’s just looking at her hands, a look of absolute horror twisting her features as she takes in the hand, resting palm-down on her knees, that she used to— to— she can’t even think about it. she has betrayed your trust, used your relationship, built on a foundation of love and mutual respect, to hurt you. it’s as if she’s seeing the world through a haze of disbelief. she’s taken advantage of your love for her, she’s physically violated you, and the thought of that leaves her physically ill. hot tears drop steadily into her lap, as she turns her hands over, and her eyes widen even more, if possible, with horror. blood glisters thickly on her index finger, coating the closest section to her palm where a golden ring sits. the countess of vesuvia never takes her rings off during the day, and she’s snapped out of her daze by the quiet hiss that comes from where you stand.

•when the first tears stream down your face, you hiss at the sharp pain, touching your fingers gently to your face and wincing as they come into contact with… is that a wound? you stare at them as they come away a deep, garnetine red. your hair is sticking to the blood running down your face from the wound. you sob dryly as the pain sets in, and by the gods it stings. it seems that even the air twists into your opened skin, burning sharply. you’re so lost in the mist of disbelief you barely notice when nadia comes up behind you.

• “my love?” her voice comes, softly, and you stiffen as she lays a hand on your upper arm. she withdraws it quickly as her voice breaks. “please, mc. say anything. look at me, i beg of you.” you don’t say anything for a minute before you inhale softly and turn to her.

• something in nadia breaks. she lifts shaking fingers up to her mouth as your eyes meet hers, and she takes in what she’s done to you. she’s sliced your upper-cheek open from just short of the bridge of your nose to almost the edge of your face. and the cut is deep. bruising spreads around it, in the shape of her hand, and she lets out a sob before dropping to her knees, taking your hand in hers. “by the arcana, mc, i am so, so sorry— i don’t know— i can’t— please, my love, i am so sorry,” she presses her forehead to your hand before you start to cry, sinking to your knees as well and burying your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking. you hiss softly as you draw your hand away and it comes away a glistening, wine-dark red.

• you flinch away from her as she comes to envelop you in a hug. “don’t. please,” you say softly, pulling yourself away from her. you leave bloodstains on the floor. her eyes hold inexplicable sorrow and remorse in them, as she nods haltingly, her heart breaking as she realises— you’re… afraid of her. later, she’ll bury her head into her pillow and sob her heart out but for now, she needs you to know to not be afraid of her. she loves you, you know that— and you need to know she’ll never violate the trust you put in her again.

• “mc… please. i’m so, so inexplicably sorry for what i’ve done to you. i promise it will never happen again.” her voice is soft, and she speaks to you as if you’re a wounded deer she’s found in the palace gardens, her voice breaking as she lets you see that she’s approaching you, her arms in front of her as she holds them out softly when she’s quite close to you.

• you look at her, meet her eyes with yours, and slowly settle into her embrace as she lets out a quiet sob of relief, burying her head in your hair. you pull away with a quiet gasp of pain when her hair meets your wound, and she cups your face (your good side) softly, stroking your cheek with her thumb as you close your eyes and she moves closer to you, giving you the time to pull away before her lips meet your forehead and she kisses you there gently before pressing one just above your cut and pulling you back to her, minding your cheek. you cry softly into her chest, and she does so into your hair. the two of you stay there until the blood starts to dry on your cheek and she stands, helping you up.

• “i’m taking you to the infirmary, dearest one.” “but… nadia.” you gesture to the state you’re in with a raised eyebrow. blood stains your collar and had dripped down your cheek in steady rivulets— and now your entire cheek is coated in blood. the cut itself is deep and thorough, splitting the skin so that the flesh beneath is easily visible, and the black, blue, and red flesh around your cut in the shape of nadia’s hand is enough that there is no room to doubt how your injury happened. “i’m your partner. there’s nobody else that would have done this— your entire court will know.” you look at her gently. “i can hide this.”

• and yet again, nadia’s heart is absolutely crushed. broken. shattered. “my heart, you should not have to hide what i have done. we’re going to the infirmary.”

• the entire way there, nadia weathers the stares and whispers with, for once, a bent head. you tighten your fingers around her hand— you know how important the favour of the court is. when you finally arrive, and you have to explain, haltingly, how you were injured, nadia gets a few looks of unbridled disgust as your injuries are treated. you squeeze her hand every now and again, and she looks at you gratefully. her eyes darken as you bite your lip roughly when the antiseptic meets it, your eyes watering as she strokes your hand, never taking her eyes away from you.

• afterwards, will absolutely doubt herself as a leader and a partner. no matter if you forgive her, no matter that the bruise fades and the wound heals, she’ll still always linger on your scar when she’s kissing your face, she’ll still murmur “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, darling,” into your hair for months after.

• if anyone is so much as even vaguely disdainful towards you with respects to your scar, you’ll literally have to talk her down from having them thrown out/arrested. you forgive her, and she loves you with all of her— but when dark feelings surface now there’s absolutely nothing you can do that will even get a shadow of a rise out of her. is just calm and collected. never so much as raises her voice at you.

• will 100% look at you as you sleep and hate herself for harming you in any way.

hope you enjoyed the angst fest!! these were so long— but i’ll do the next four periodically:)

[strawbabysimp]

Slave To Desire || Sub!Levi x Reader

Genre: Smut

Category: Sub!Levi x Fem!Dom!Reader

Warning(s): Corruption, Dacryphylia, Degradation, Pegging, Pet Names, Mommy Kink

Request(s): "levi riding your strap on 👉👈"

A/N: Thought I'd add some spice~ I hope you enjoy, love💕

"Is that was this is? You wanna fuck yourself on me like some type of bitch in heat? Then, by all means, continue."

~

You had been busy drilling into Levi when the reason behind your harsh words occurred. His ass leaked down onto the toy secured in front of your clit, the wetness making lewd sounds accentuating the filth of the act. You were between the captain's legs, muscular thighs secured around your waist while your fingers dug into the firm flesh.

Levi continued to whine, his cock abandoned and aching with a deep red standing out against his pale skin, it simply wasn't enough. His prostate, lying deep inside his greedy hole, was being hit straight-on, and although he couldn't even try to deny the pleasure that coursed through his body from your movements the man needed something far harsher in order to satisfy the desire in his loins.

So he did the only thing the brain of a desperate slut craving more than just physically induced pleasure could think of. He gave in.

~

Your words were the final straw as his waterline overflowed with tears. Despite the display, his cock still rested against his abs in a perverted show of interest. Levi kept his focus trained on your collarbone, not daring to meet your eyes or allow his tainted gaze to scan across your boy to fuel his desire.

He felt shame burn painfully in his chest as he supported himself on his knees, rising almost completely off of your faux-cock only to slam his hips back down. Levi's soft cries didn't stop throughout, moans mixing in with the sound while the boy sobbed out in ecstasy and shame.

The brunet was so embarrassed. He had used his strength, the very thing that allowed him to fight the bloodthirsty human-like creatures that live in your world, to reverse the two of you's position, resheathing your strap in his ass in one steady swoop once he made his way on top of you. He had become such a depraved thing, the way you brought pleasure to his body an entirely new experience for the man and especially easy to become addicted to.

The previously denied cock now thrust up into Levi's own hand as he brought himself back up to the tip of the sex toy. You thought of bringing your palms to press down on his sides, fucking up into him and denying him control over the movements, but thought better of it. That would then make this situation your fault. He needed to be the one to shove himself back down on your fabricated cock, feel how perverted and needy he had become, a slave to his body's desires.

And you? A mere witness to his unraveling.

"You should be sorry for the thing you've become. You used to be so bashful, now you're nothing more than some slut looking to be stretched around someone's dick." Your voice was cruel and you saw him freeze, silent for a few seconds before producing a sniffle. You felt wetness drip down onto your navel from the force at which his emotions came through his small form. He still continued to slap his ass down against your legs, fingers dipping into his mouth in an effort to comfort himself, attempting to suck on the digits in spite of his mouth opened to let out gasping breaths.

Levi allowed the spit to drip down his neck and his eyes shut in shame as he approached his orgasm from his own movements, too caught up in his pleasure to wipe away the wetness. Your own fingers twitched in want as his cockhead peeked out from his curled hand, small yet coated in precum from the amount he had dispensed. In an effort to prevent yourself from reaching out and wrapping yourself around the shaft you quickly attached both hands to his nipples and began twisting the sensitive buds to bring forth more blush and wracking cries from your lover.

You caught sight of his teeth sinking into the fingers stretched across his tongue, hips increasing their pace as the hand pumping his cock did the same.

A "you gonna come for me," reached his ears in a cocky tone, a smirk adorning your lips at how far you had managed to wreck the poor boy. Levi nodded his head, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes were swollen from all the crying, bloodshot and glistening as he stuttered out apologies.

"I'm- I'm so... so sorry, Mommy!" His voice was wet and cracked between words from how he had strained it. "You're so nice to me- I'm just a- a s-slut. I'm so sorry, Mommy! I'm sorry-"

His voice rose at the end, eyes blown wide as cum shot up from his cock and painted his pecks and nipples white.

"Oh baby," you cooed sympathetically, "what am I going to do with you?"

[yandere-daydreams]

What about Oikawa stealing Ushiwaka’s darling. Not because he wants the darling, but because he wants to take away Ushiwaka’s whole world, same way Ushiwaka stole his in volleyball.

He seems like the type to hold on to grudges, doesn’t he? He’s so vengeful, so quick to spite, and Ushijima wouldn’t know not to show off his precious, vulnerable little Darling… It’d be a recipe for disaster, if their leash ever fell into the wrong hands.

Title: Nostalgia. 

TW: Violence, Physical Abuse (Past and Present), Domestic Abuse, Mentions of Kidnapping, Implied Harassment, and Mentions of Starvation.

~

To be fair, you’d known Oikawa first.

Or, you’d known of him, at least. You’d been peers, teenagers who just so happened to be students at the same school with a handful of shared classes and enough small, polite interactions to warrant a shy smile on your part or the occasional use of a playful nickname, on Oikawa’s. He was a familiar face, a name that brought up a few fond memories, but you hadn’t bothered to stay in contact. You’d always thought he was too affectionate for your taste, and he thought you were too reluctant to warrant a genuine effort, not that you minded - hell, you hadn’t even thought about him after highschool. In comparison, Ushijima was a friend, a companion, a lover. Your conversations hadn’t stopped at shallow niceties, and there hadn’t been a need for polite greetings, not when his was the last face you saw before you fell asleep at night, when his were the first lips you kissed when you woke up in the morning. Oikawa had been first, but Ushijima had been yours. Even after things got bad, after things got ugly, you’d still known him, and even if you hadn’t loved him by then, you’d felt enough betrayal to be sure that you had, once. That’s not something you could say, about Oikawa.

That’s something you would never get to say, about Oikawa.

You wondered if he still thought of himself as your savior, your guardian, your protector, all the pretty, indulgent things you’d called him after he first whisked you away from Ushijima, from Japan entirely, and gave you an allowance and a room in his villa and an assurance that you’d be welcome to stay until you got back onto your feet, until Ushijima stopped looking for the partner who managed to disappear in the space between one game and another. The first had been discarded as soon as you’d tried to turn down the third, and now, the second was less a gift and more of an obligation, something you didn’t want but couldn’t turn down, not unless you wanted to see how strong a setter’s arms really were. Your last attempt to get away was still fresh in your mind, still painted over your skin in the form of dark, splotching bruises, crawling down your spine and across the backs of your arms, forcing you to pull your sleeves a little lower as the deadbolt on your door clicked into place, your door creaking open a moment later.

You didn’t have to look up to know how it was. It wasn’t like Oikawa would ever let anyone visit you, not when he was so determined to keep you to himself.

“Thinking about me, beautiful?” Even if you looked away, kept your eyes trained on your comforter and your hands curled around the stiff fabric, his voice was unignorable, throaty and low and arrogant, as impossible not to hear as his touch was to feel, the latter coming in the form of a gentle nudge to your shoulder as he walked by, dropping his gym-bag somewhere near your dresser as he always did, after he got home from a long day of drills and practice matches. He had his own room, or, he had somewhere to spend the night when you proved too temperamental to sleep next to, but he seemed to prefer yours, his possessions outnumbering your own, even in a space that was supposed to be yours. That, or he just wanted to make sure you’d never forget whose thumb you’re living under. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging,” He added, when you stayed quiet for a beat too long, when you wasted another dear moment you could've spent worshiping the ground he walked on. “You already know what I want to hear.”

“I don’t have much to think about,” You admitted, scowling while Oikawa was too preoccupied with prying off the jacket of his track-suit to notice the small display of rebellion. “You took away my books, before you left.”

“And your consoles, and your notebooks, and all the toys and luxuries and shiny things I’ve given you, all of which you’ve never thanked me for, by the way.” This time, he bothered to turn towards you, to idly wave you over the side of the bed with a sympathetic, synthetic smile. You knew better than to disobey him so blatantly, but that didn’t stop you from flinching as he reached down, cupping your face with both hands and leaning down just enough to push a soft, fleeting kiss into the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair as he went on. “And you know why I had to take them away, don’t you?”

You did. Oikawa tended to justify himself, whether or not you wanted to listen. “Because I tried to escape?”

“Because you tried to do something you’d regret,” He corrected, pinching your cheek. “This is a deterrent, and necessary one, to make sure you have time to reconsider what you tried to do. If you get out, you’ll go home, and if you go home, you’ll be running right into Ushiwaka’s arms. You’ll be making everything you’ve done so far pointless, you’ll be making everything I’ve done for you pointless. That doesn’t sound very fair, does it?”

“It doesn’t sound like something you should have a say in,” You retorted, unable to keep the aggression from working its way into your voice, seeping into your words like a venom you should really, really choke down. In response, he moved to pinch your cheek again, but you were quick to bat his hand away, stubborn reflex rising over common sense. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him anywhere near you, and suddenly, that seemed more important than what might happen if you tried to force him away. “It sounds like it should be my choice, not yours, and it sounds like you’re trying to take that away from me.”

“This is why I need to take it away from you.” This time, it didn’t seem like he was trying to comfort you. It was an explanation, a fact, something you should nod and accept and believe just because it’d be a little more convenient or Oikawa, if you did. “It’s just not what you’re made for. Ushiwaka did too much damage, I can’t expect you to fend for yourself, just yet. But that’s why I’m here, alright? I just need to make sure you don’t do anything you’ll--”

“Wakatoshi used to say he was trying to take care of me,” You mumbled, pressing your curled fists against your thighs. “He said that when he broke my phone, and told my friends I didn’t want to see them anymore, and drained my savings accounts. He said it was all for my protection. He said he was trying to help me.”

“But I’m not like him,” Oikawa assured, but his voice was strained, now, forced out through gritted teeth. “I promise, everything I do, I do because I have to--”

“He said that, too. He said it a lot, when he locked me in the basement, when he waited until I was begging to be let out to bother bringing me something to eat.” You paused, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. It was that, or give in to the tears slowly building up in the corners of your eyes, just beginning to blur your vision. “It’s funny. When you first flew off the fucking handle, I kept telling myself ‘at least this one remembers to feed me’. That became ‘at least I’ll always have dinner’, and then ‘at least he doesn’t do it on purpose’. Still, Wakatoshi never hit me. He was rough, sometimes, but he never hit me. Not you, though. Wakatoshi would try to calm me down when I was upset, but when I fuck up around you, you just keep hitting me, and hitting me, and hitting--”

You should’ve been expecting it. Oikawa was terribly predictable, and you should’ve been expecting it.

And yet, that didn’t stop you from screaming as his calloused palm made contact with your cheek.

It was a righteous kind of pain, a fulfilling pain, the kind that reminded you that this was how things were, now, that things were how things always were, even if Ushijima’s violence wasn’t as easily provoked. Oikawa’s actions were all purposeful, all conscious, unforgiving and harsh and ruthless as he wrapped your hair around his fist and bent you over, forcing your face into the mattress, mercilessly ignorant to the way you writhed under his weight and struggled to breathe against sheets and material and so, so much anger, it was hard to believe he hadn’t managed to suffocate you, yet. “Ungrateful bitch,” He spat, his free hand already reaching for something to make your lesson stick, something to make your lesson hurt. “I’ll show you what he would do, if you talked to him like that. By the time I’m done, you’ll be crying for me to make you forget about that bastard.”

That was right. That was so, so much better. It always felt better, when he stopped trying to be nice, when he let himself be cruel. You didn’t enjoy it, but you were grateful for it. You cherished it.

It helped you remember why you’d always kept a safe distance between you and him, back in highschool.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Mysterious Night Blooming Roses pt 3

Hey look, more of that vampire bodice ripper. 

Things are really heating up at Castle Pankratz!

tw: blood drinking, horny

---

“Many of your predecessors found my feeding to be...pleasurable,” the Viscount shrugged. “So don’t be embarrassed should any such feelings or physical reactions arise during our time together.”

The blush that bloomed across Geralt’s pale cheeks was enchanting and the vampire felt himself falling a little more in love with his most recent pseudo-employee. 

“Wh-What happened to my, uhm, predecessors?” Geralt asked, biting at his bottom lip. 

“The one before you, Moira, she’s off to start a wool trading business in Temeria. She wanted to learn a skill and find a job; you know, become a woman of independent means.”

“Oh.”

“And before her there was Thoren, and he’s probably teaching his children to fish by now. I suspect he has his own fleet of ships with the price cod has been selling for in Redania.”

“They’re still alive?”

“Of course! And they left Castle Pankratz with a hefty payment in thanks for their service. Enough to buy a whole herd of sheep, if you’re Moira. Or a nice cottage and a fishing boat, if you’re Thoren. I don’t know what you’ll choose to do with your money when your ten years is up. How old will you be, then?”

“Thirty-four.”

“You’re the perfect age! I became a creature of the night some time during my twenty-seventh year of life and that’s how I appear now; or so I have been told. I’ve actually been living here for nearly two thousand years.”

The peasant’s went wide and he swallowed thickly. “Hmm.”

“May I have your consent to drink from you, Geralt? I know it’s an odd way to meet and a rushed explanation of things, but it’s been rather a long week and I’m… I’m hungry, Geralt. Would you mind?”

“I suppose not, Your Grace,” the peasant murmured, and tilted his head to the side.

---

Their first time together had been rushed and uncomfortable and awkward. Fumbling. Like two teenagers attempting their first romantic embrace in a barn, avoiding their chores and praying that their parents or siblings didn’t accidentally peek inside and catch them. 

Things had gotten better since then. The village’s Samhain celebration was drawing ever closer and the darkness of night came earlier every day. There was more time for Geralt and Jaskier to spend together, talking and laughing in the library or sitting room. Jaskier wrote music, and often played his compositions for Geralt on the harp, lute, or piano. Geralt would read out loud some nights, his fingers playing idly with the laces of Jaskier’s shirt or the fringe of his hair as he did so. 

Then, early one autumn evening, Jaskier summoned Geralt to his private chambers.

“Your Grace?” the peasant asked, peeking his head and shoulders into his Master’s enormous bedroom.

“Come in, Geralt. Please come in and close the door behind you.”

Geralt stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes remained downcast as he turned towards bed where Jaskier lay, reclining comfortably like some kind of presiding deity. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”

“Come here, pet, and have a seat. I’d like to talk to you about something rather important.”

Geralt crossed the windowless chamber and took a nervous seat at the very edge of Jaskier’s mattress. He’d never been in this part of the castle before; usually the vampire took him to the sitting room or his own bedroom to feed because it was easier to tuck him in for a nap afterward. It was, as the vampire liked to joke, a rather draining experience for the young man. 

“Are you displeased, Your Grace? Have I done something wrong?”

“Oh no! Of course not, dear heart! You could not possibly be any more pleasing, in all honesty. I just wanted to know how you were getting along. How do you spend your days in my castle when I am asleep in here?”

“I read, mostly. You have some of my favorites in your library.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve read The Three Musketeers twice. I’ve read Treasure Island, Faustus, and a few collections of poetry as well.”

“Studious,” the vampire smiled, tugging Geralt closer. The mortal man allowed himself to be moved up the bed and into Jaskier’s cold yet inviting embrace. “I like that in a man.”

“In… in a man?”

“Have I misunderstood something, my dear? I thought I saw you peeking at me while I changed for supper yesterday,” Jaskier explained, relaxing his arms enough so that Geralt could easily leave if he wanted to. The vampire was right, however. Geralt had been peeking and he had liked what he’d seen. “I thought that you had perhaps begun to feel the same things for me that I have begun to feel for you.”

“What are you feeling exactly, Your Grace?” Geralt’s voice was low and sweet and dripped like honey. The warm human wrapped in Jaskier’s arms smelled fantastic, like lust and mint; the wine from dinner still sang in his blood. The vampire shivered and narrowed his eyes. The irises flashed from blue to red and then back to blue again, revealing to his guest the intense emotions he usually held in check. 

“In regards to you, my dear Geralt? I’m afraid that I feel significant attachment. I have not tasted blood so sweet and floral in over a hundred years, nor have I had conversations so scintillating. I suspect it has been many more years since I’ve had that, if I cared to actually count, but that would be a waste of time in your presence. You are clever, curious, loyal, and your chivalry seems to know no bounds, dear heart. How could I not feel something romantic in nature towards you when you, yourself, are so naturally easy to romance?”

The peasant’s face flushed prettily and his heartbeat sped up to a pleasant, ringing tempo. Jaskier could smell the mixture of love and arousal wafting off his darling Geralt and it nearly intoxicated him. He felt his fangs go sharp and steely in his mouth and he bit back a predatory hiss. “Fuck!”

“Your Grace? Are you alright?”

“Perhaps you should go after all, my pet. I’m afraid I-”

“No!” Geralt stiffened and pulled out of the Viscount’s arms. He shrank back against the covers and looked up at his Master with wide, worried eyes.  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I’m so confused. I can’t leave again until I know what your intentions are. It’s only been a few weeks since my arrival and yet I still I -” the young man grappled with his language, pleading for something that would get his feelings across to the ancient, all-knowing vampire before him. “- I can’t stop dreaming about you, Jaskier! I can’t get you out of my head! The more I try not to think about you the more I fantasize about sneaking in here and laying at your side as you sleep. I ache to feel your skin against my own. I long for your hands, colder than death as they are, to caress me and hold me.”

The vampire let his lips part, his fangs gleaming in the low light of a few candles. Geralt’s words caught in his throat and his heart-rate rose again. It was nearly frantic. Jaskier would have been worried, but that particular rhythm combined with the way Geralt had started to smell was really getting to his head. 

He allowed himself to give a single, territorial little growl before he rose onto his knees. The vampire placed one hand on either side of Geralt’s head and leaned down, brushing the tips of their noses together as he trapped his human quarry against a goosefeather pillow. “I dream of you as well, my pet. I dream of running my fingers through your soft white hair and listening as you read to me in that deep, rumbling voice.”

“Your Grace?”

“I dream,” Jaskier sighed, tracing his nose along Geralt’s jaw, “Of how delectable you smell when you’re happy. Of how caring you are when you’re worried. Of how you might react to sweet, glorious compliments being whispered in your ear as I hold you close and take you apart. I’ve had centuries of practice, dear heart, and I really am quite good.”

“Your Grace.” 

“I dream of touching you, Geralt. May I please touch you?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Gods, Geralt. When you call me that, it -” the vampire’s fangs lengthened again, pushing and straining towards his sweet human sacrifice, “- It really awakens the nature of a beast in me.”

“My apologies, Master.”

Jaskier groaned and leaned away, his hands covering his face to keep his fangs from finding Geralt’s neck on instinct. “That’s certainly not any better.” 

“Do you wish to drink from me, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. His voice was meek. Nervous. The vampire’s long-dead heart nearly cracked in spite of itself. 

The peasant had never referred to it as drinking before. Always feeding or supping. Geralt understood that he was a food source and kept his distance from the whole process by using such specific terminology for their activities. Yes, the human clearly enjoyed the endorphins Jaskier’s feeding process released throughout his body, and the inhibition-lowering side-effects of Jaskier’s vampiric presence had let a few specific terms of endearment slip through the human’s lips but…

This was different. This was Geralt offering himself up rather than accepting his status as an offering from the village. He was an equal participant, now. 

“Would you like it if I drank from you, my dear?”

“Yes,” Geralt admitted. His face was aflame with either shame or lust; Jaskier suspected that it was a strong combination of both. He pulled himself against the vampire and tossed his hair to the side, baring the pale column of his throat. His voice was breathy and a little higher than normal when he locked his gaze with Jaskier’s and whispered, “I’m all yours, Your Grace.”

The backs of the Viscount’s knuckles swept across the smooth expanse of skin and both men shuddered with anticipation. Jaskier curled around Geralt possessively and ran his icy lips down the side of the human’s neck to his pulse-point. The vampire nibbled teasingly for a moment, letting his teeth and tongue worry the skin to a warm, vibrant pink before placing the tips of his fangs down. As he pressed in, breaking through and tasting the first few delectable ruby droplets, Geralt moaned openly. 

His hand clenched in the material of Jaskier’s night-shirt and his eyes rolled back into his head. It was rapturous. It was ecstasy. And now he didn’t have to keep himself silent and resigned; he could react the way he’d wanted to for weeks as his Master drank deeply from the fount of his heart.

“Jaskier!” The hand that wasn’t the vampire’s silk night-shirt was grasping at the skin of his hip, digging his fingers into the cold, firm crease where Jaskier’s long torso met his legs. He needed to hold on to something. He needed an anchor to this mortal realm or he’d go floating away forever, lost to the pleasures of his soon-to-be lover. 

Jaskier removed his fangs from the human’s neck after another moment or two and slowly licked the wound to clean it. Geralt frowned and glanced up, his eyes bright and his face flushed.

“Done already, Your Grace?”

“Oh, Geralt,” the vampire purred, clambering to straddle the taller man’s hips. “I’m just getting started.”

[jessicajonesrp]

He’s backkkk

 It took some careful planning, but eventually, Rikarah had what she needed to be able to bring Kilgrave back to life.

 She already had a safe and secure location where she would be uninterrupted during times of needed concentration- her open rented home, just outside of Manhattan. She had never bothered to inform Phillip that she had a rental house; it seemed a better bet to keep the information of her multiple living quarters, unused for most of the year, to herself, just in case. Phillip had been far from discreet, and there was a reason Rikarah had chosen a secondary lodging outside of the business of cities such as NYC, Hell’s Kitchen, Harlem, or Manhattan itself. She was a loner at heart, but her interest and her focus tended to be on others, and it was necessary to spend most of her time among them in order to know them and their lives. This distant secondary home was to be used only when necessary, to recharge, or for specific situations such as this.

 It hadn’t been difficult to obtain a picture of Kilgrave. After the incident on the dock, he and Jessica and Patricia Walker had been all over the covers of newspapers everywhere, so it was a simple matter of a few clicks on a smart phone to find and save a picture of the  man in question. It had taken more time to obtain something with Kilgrave’s DNA. Rikarah had attempted to trace the location of his body- somehow she suspected he had been neither traditionally buried nor cremated, and it was her guess that he was likely being used for scientific experimentation or study, legally or otherwise,  within the government or whoever else had been the highest bidder of access.

 With some creative thought, she had been able to trace back several of Kilgrave’s last known addresses, including the childhood home of Jessica Jones, which was unfortunately no longer standing after its bombing. Nevertheless, Rikarah had discovered that the “Kilgrave survivors” group Jessica had formed over a year ago, with the intention of drawing out Kilgrave and gaining information on him, was still active and meeting regularly.

 It hadn’t been difficult to insinuate herself into the group for a few weeks as a new member, pretending to be one of the traumatized survivors of the incident of Kilgrave-directed violence on the dock the evening he himself had died. Rikarah had enough research information to be able to nod along and briefly and tearfully provide her own version of events. Meanwhile she took note of the people who had spent prolonged time with Kilgrave- being his driver for a week, forced to let him live in their home for longer, or forced to wait on him as a cook, bartender, or masseuse.  

 Those were the ones that may possess something that would carry Kilgrave’s DNA, even now. Those were the ones that she made the effort to befriend, to offer a shoulder and a listening ear. And a few episodes of feigned attraction and friendship had been enough for one clearly still traumatized older man to allow her into his home and his bed, and with minimal encouragement from Rikarah, to lead her in a tour of the house Kilgrave had made his lodging for a time- the house the man still lived in.

 “It was terrible,” the man told her, actually tearful as he shook his head, eyes cloudy as though reliving what he spoke of. “I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t speak or even move without him giving me the okay to. He used my house as though it were his, and then one day he just left and didn’t come back. I was terrified that he might return, any moment, and I couldn’t predict when or do anything to stop him. He didn’t even take all of his things with him, and I was afraid to do anything to get rid of them, or even move them, in case it made him angry if he did come back. I know he’s dead now, but even now I’m afraid to touch his things. That’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the truth.”

 It was pathetic, in Rikarah’s view, but it was also fortunate for her. Because among Kilgrave’s “left behind things” were a comb, toothbrush, and some clothing including socks and underwear. All certain to contain Kilgrave’s DNA.

 She had charmed the man with sympathetic words and touches, assuring him of his bravery, lying without a flicker of remorse about her own supposed fear. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for him to be convinced that he was now strong and brave enough to let some of those items go, “just a few to start with, the ones most associated with him personally”- and that she, Rikarah, in spite of her own fear, cared enough about his healing to be the one to take them away to make sure they were disposed of.

 She still couldn’t believe the man was gullible enough to fall for such nonsense. But he had actually leaked tears and hugged her, thanking her for her empathy and giving him the chance to start a new life.

 Ironic, and amusing, really, that in all actuality, she was bringing back what he feared the very most, all in the name of helping him put it behind him.

  So armed in her remote rented home with the personal objects of Kilgrave’s and a clear picture of his face, Rikarah sat cross legged on her bed and emptied her mind of all thoughts but those of her intention. She stared at Kilgrave’s picture, her hands stroking over each object containing his DNA, and pictured him awake, alive, and whole before her. She imagined the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, every synapse and nerve once more sharp with activity and use. She envisioned the blood running through his veins, and as her own small body grew taut and gave off fevered heat with the effort of her actions, she reached out for the knife beside her knee. Grasping it in her left hand, she slashed a shallow x over each of her palms, and then at the surface of each of her feet. Hands shaking slightly, she smeared the blood over the comb, the toothbrush, and the clothing, combining their DNA.

 With a final shudder of effortful focus, Rikarah spoke aloud Kilgrave’s name. She could feel the air grow thick and strained, as though holding something moving and living and shifting in shape, and she slumped back, exhausted, against the bed, watching with satisfaction as a human form began to slowly knit itself into view in front of her.

 It wasn’t a pretty sight. The revived bodies started first with skeletons, then filled up with internal organs and muscles and sinew, before finally being knit over with skin and hair and the other details normally seen on the outside. It was no different with Kilgrave, and eventually, there he stood, naked, panting, and wide-eyed at her bedside.

 Rikarah smiled, more in self-satisfaction at the accomplished task than at the sight of the man’s naked body. She didn’t consider him overly impressive in his physique, but he would do. It was the man and his mind, not his body, that mattered. She more than anyone knew it was a mistake to overlook people for their physicality.

 “Where the bloody hell am I?” Kilgrave sputtered, disoriented, seeming to struggle to draw in breaths. His lungs, being new again, were likely still adjusting to breathing. “What’s the matter with me? And who the fuck are you?”

 When Rikarah didn’t immediately answer, too tired to bother, Kilgrave straightened, pointing a finger at her, and took a menacing step forward, raising his voice. “I asked you a question, are you deaf? Answer me!”

  “I’m sorry, Kevin, but I don’t take orders from anyone if it doesn’t suit me, and certainly not from you,” Rikarah said coolly, lifting an eyebrow from her supine position on the bed. “As you quite literally owe your life to me, I would expect a little more respect and gratitude, but I’m a patient woman. I’ll assume you’re rather in shock at the moment, given you’ve just gone from bones and brain mush to a living body again, and let the rudeness slide.”

 Kilgrave’s eyes bulged, and he recoiled, alarmed as much by the nonchalant response he had just received as the strange situation he had found himself in. To speak an order and have it not obeyed immediately was beyond his comprehension.

 “But I told you to do it!” he almost whined, staring down at the small and clearly unintimidated woman resting on her side in the bed. “I told you to, and you just- the only person who could ignore me was Jessica, and-“

 He stiffened, his face paling, as he pointed an accusing finger at Rikarah again.

 “Jessica did this, Jessica used that sedative thing on me, didn’t she?! You’re with her, you’re one of her people!”

 “Certainly not,” Rikarah corrected him, exhaling with a weary and somewhat impatient sigh. “Jessica knows nothing of this- yet. As far as she believes, you are long dead, and she is glad of it. After all, she was the cause.”

 She sat up, watching wryly as the realization and the memory of his own last few moments of life, just before Jessica snapped his neck, came back into the forefront of his thoughts. Rikarah gave him a few more moments to process this against the obvious reality of his current status of being alive before addressing him again.

 “Yes, Kevin, you were dead, and for over a year now, too. You would have stayed that way, if not for myself and my own unique abilities. Some gratitude and a certain level of loyalty is not unwarranted.”

 “I was dead,” Kilgrave repeated, the words stunned, almost disbelieving. “And you’re saying- what, that you resurrected me? You?” He snorted, looking Rikarah up and down dismissively. “No  offense, love, but you hardly look the type to have that sort of power.”

 “And Jessica does?” Rikarah countered. “I’ll grant you that she has the advantage in height, but she’s of a smaller frame even than myself, and what she may have over me in physical strength, I can outdo in the sheer enormity of my ability. She may be able to kill someone with a punch, but I’m the one who can bring them back from the dead. If you ask me, I have the greater power, and therefore, the greater true strength.”

 Kilgrave looked her over again, more carefully this time, assessing rather than dismissing her. He took a step closer, still seeming not to care for his nakedness as he narrowed his eyes at Rikarah, anger losing out to eagerness in his eyes.

 “You know Jessica,” he asserted. “Where is she?”

 Rikarah wagged a finger at him playfully, a small smile curving her lips.

 “Am I really so uninteresting, that I bring you out of death, and you would forgo all details to chase after another woman? Perhaps I was wrong in my interest in you. Perhaps someone else is more deserving, and you can simply go back to where you were before.”

 “Wait, no, that isn’t it, love,” Kilgrave backpedaled, his smile at Rikarah forced at first as he raked a hand through his hair, then more genuine. “Of course I want to know how you managed this, and of course I’m glad for it. And I certainly want to know how it is you don’t listen to a thing I tell you to do,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rikarah, before addressing her again. “But if you know Jessica, then you must know something of our history, and why I would want to know where she is. She’s the one who killed me, you know. She’s the one-“

   “That,” Rikarah interrupted, to Kilgrave’s barely contained outrage, “is in the past. The present is right here, with me, in this moment. Choose wisely, Kevin Kilgrave, and choose now, while you still have the choice before you. You can realize that I am no ordinary woman you’re dealing with here, that you owe me your life and your loyalty, and I owe you nothing and cannot be ordered into anything you may want from me. Believe me, I hold no liking for Jessica Jones, and as long as I am the woman who comes first and foremost in your world, I care little for how you choose to play with her. And I am certainly not opposed to letting you know every detail of what you have missed knowing of her life over the past year that you’ve been dust and bones.”

 She paused, tilting her head, and gave him a moment to consider, before concluding, “Or you can choose to be foolish, ungrateful, and quite frankly, a bumbling, pathetic corpse, stumbling off on your own in a world that has moved on without you. You would have none of my help or my connections, none of my knowledge, and you would displease me greatly. When and if Jessica Jones kills you again- and she would, you know, if you just pop up on her in her new life without my assistance- then you can be certain I would not lift a finger to bring you back. So, then. What shall it be? I would think the decision obvious, but perhaps you’re not as intelligent as I believed.”

 For a moment Kilgrave stood there, motionless, perhaps still in shock, or perhaps genuinely weighing out his obsession with Jessica and his desire for revenge against the logical reasoning of Rikarah’s words. But then he nodded slowly, reaching forward to take hold of Rikarah’s hand in his.

 “Well, it would indeed be a fool’s errand to let a woman like you slip out of my grasp. Why don’t we start over with introductions, and perhaps something in the way of an explanation.”

 And as Rikarah began to speak, giving Kilgrave some if not all of the answers he craved, she noticed his body relax further, his expression growing more and more fascinated as he came to understand more of the extent of her actions and her power. It wasn’t quite the way, she was sure, that he had looked at Jessica, but for now, it was enough.

 It was enough, in fact, that after he had dressed in some of his old clothing and taken time to familiarize himself with Rikarah and her home, that Rikarah was willing to give him the phone number, if not the address, of Jessica’s new workplace, Heroes for Hire. And she sat back, interested and indulgent, as he placed a call, from a cheap prepaid phone she had bought in anticipation of his need for one.

 It was Trish who answered, her voice bright and cheerful as the company’s head. “Heroes for Hire, we provide help, heroism, and honorable services for those in need in a time where true heroism is more needed than ever. How can we help you today?”

 “Ah, Patsy,” Kilgrave purred, snickering to himself when he heard Trish suck in a sharp breath, immediately recognizing his British accent and self-satisfied tone. “So good to hear a familiar voice, but unfortunately, yours has never been the one I wanted to hear, and you prattle on enough as it is on that bloody talk show of yours. Give the phone to Jessica. Tell her she has a message from an old friend, would you?”

 “This isn’t funny,” Trish said tightly, her voice controlled but barely keeping back anger. “Whoever you are, pretending to be that man is not a joke, it’s cruel, and-“

 “Ah, but this is no joke, Patsy, can’t you recognize your own  would be lover?” Kilgrave asked rhetorically. “Have you had so many men now you can’t remember the voice of all the ones whose throat you stuck your tongue inside of? Let me help you out, then. I’m the one who told you to put a bullet in your head. Fortunately enough for you, that doesn’t appear to have worked out, I never did find out why. Care to explain it to me, Patsy?”

 He and Rikarah both heard Trish suck in her breath on the other side of the line. He doubted that this incident in the bunker was something anyone but she, Kilgrave, Simpson, and Jessica were aware of- and out of the four of them, both men were dead. Or supposed to be.

 “Who are you?” she asked, her voice softer than before. “What do you want?”

 “Unfortunately, Patsy, for me to really make you do what I’d like to make you do, you’d have to be a good bit closer to me than a phone call, something about pheromones,” Kilgrave said casually. “But I do have other ways of making you do as I’d like you to. Put Jessica on the phone, or I will have six people show up at her doorstep and  cut your name into their own foreheads. If she tries to stop them, they will cut her as well. Is that something you want to have on your conscience, Patsy? For a simple conversation?”

 The line went silent for a few moments. When Jessica came onto the line, her voice was hard and cold as steel.

 “Who the fuck are you, and just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, playing this kind of sick joke?”

 “And hello to you too, Jessie,” Kilgrave exclaimed, putting an exaggerated bounce to his voice. “No joke, you never did have much of a sense of humor to waste any on. I won’t say it’s good to hear from you, since I had to get murdered,  raised from the dead, and then still call your sister first and threaten her for you to speak to me, and I must say that hurts a man’s feelings.”

 “You’re not him. You can’t be, you’re just some sick asshole who needs to fucking go put his dick in a-“

 “Oh, Jessie, I can see your language is as filthy as ever, every bit as appalling as your fashion sense. Let’s cut off all the protests of my supposed death and just check your office email, shall we?”

 Five minutes before the phone call, Rikarah had shot a quick video of him smiling and waving into the camera, with the date and time of the video clearly time stamped at its bottom. With a few clicks, he sent the video to the public Heroes for Hire email address, cutting off the call.

 “But don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll hear from me again soon. If you miss me before we meet again, you have the video for comfort’s sake.”

 As Kilgrave hung up, glowing with renewed feelings of power over the fear, rage, and helplessness he had stirred anew in the two women he had just spoken to, he sent a genuine smile in Rikarah’s direction, who returned it in kind.

 “You know what, I like you, Rikarah Pallaton. I think we’ll get along just fine after all.”

[cozycryptidcorner]

Oryfiel the Alien (Lemon)

So a thing I want to do with my patreon is submit one of the monthly smutty shorts I write for the $5 tier every six or so months just to give you guys a taste. This bad boy takes place in the same universe as Starfall, though this would take place significantly afterwards because you might recognize the aliens. 

Oryfiel is, unfortunately, perfect.

Black, glossy hair that curls slightly at the top, always in a perfect shape even if he’s just rolled out of bed. Eyes that almost glow with a vibrant lavender in the early morning sun. A jawline that could cut through the hull of an explorer-class ship. He’s the kind of guy that would make a straight man say something like I’m not gay, but... and, unlike you, he somehow manages to finish the physical fitness test with barely a layer of sweat glistening on his skin, not even close to the shaking, panting mess you’re in. You’re almost embarrassed standing next to him when he’s flourishing while you’re about to vomit.

You’d think with your numb exhaustion, you’d be safe from his allure, but then he turns around and gives you a smile that makes your brainwaves fray.

“You look like a drowned rat that got hit by a speeder.” It takes you a moment to realize that he’s talking to you, which is probably a fair observation.

You let out a huffing breath, muttering, “I feel like a drowned rat that got hit by a speeder.”

He laughs, then, black, iridescent wings rippling with movement, and you try to keep the pleasant warmth from filling your chest. “I’m sure once you shower and stretch out, you’ll feel better.”

Even with the stretching, you’re going to be sore, you can feel it. Wiping the area around your mouth free of sweat with the tip of your shirt, you shrug noncommittedly, eyeing the fitness trainer with suspicion and contempt. They wave back, completely oblivious to your spiteful hatred.

“And I bet I could make you feel even better.”

You’re so focused on coming up with a way to skip out on the next physical fitness test that it takes you a moment to fully process what Oryfiel said, but when you do, you almost trip over the sidewalk crack. “I’m sorry, I think I heard you wrong.”

“I said that I could help you unwind,” he says, keeping his same, casual pace, only looking over to gauge your reaction.

You’re caught off guard because Oryfiel hasn’t seen you as his usual conquest material, so he’s never tried coming onto you. The fact he is makes you suspicious as to why, though the other part of you is drooling over the fact that he wants to be your shower buddy. “I don’t think I’d have the energy to offer you anything in return.”

“I won’t be particularly bothered by that.” He shrugs, and you’re not sure how to respond to that.

He’s not a relationship kind of male, but, then again, you’re only two months off from graduation, when you’ll both finally receive ship assignment, so it’s not like you’re open to that prospect, either. And you could use a destresser. Even though you would call your “friendship” with Oryfiel a tad bit rocky, again, his body is easy on the eyes, and if the rumors surrounding him is any sort of hint, he’s good. Not amazing, but good enough to be worth it.

So you shrug. “If you’re down for it…”

His smile almost melts your face off. “Last shower stall, no one ever ventures that far unless-”

“Unless they’re fucking, I know.” You’re not so innocent yourself, four years of training is a long time to go without some experience.

“Don’t tell me we’ve done this before.” He opens the door to the dormitories, the blissful touch of air conditioning washing over your body.

“I have, but not with you.”

Oryfiel’s expression goes blank for a moment, you don’t know him well enough to tell if it’s a positive or negative thing. “Huh, didn’t really expect that.”

“The fact I enjoy sex?” You keep your voice down, though there’s not a lot of people to overhear the conversation.

“Well, maybe, but mostly no,” he gives you a cocky grin that you almost want to slap off, “didn’t peg you as the kind of girl who’d do it in the shower stalls, you seem so… vanilla. Like you’d pick out someone specifically with a private room and do missionary twice before falling asleep.”

“I’ll peg you if you don’t stop,” you mutter.

“Is that a promise?” He, unfortunately, sounds thrilled at the prospect.

“Guess you’ll have to see,” you respond, throwing the door to the locker room open. It’s a long, long room, unisex, the showers on the far end, separation walls tall enough to almost reach the ceiling. There aren’t too many people in here, already, and only one of them gives you the congrats on getting fucked look, eyebrows arched, with a slight nod, and almost smiling.

Oryfiel’s hands are on your hips, you have to fight your way over to the end stall as he pulls at the drawstrings of your exercise shorts. Once the door is shut and locked, you’re viciously pulling at his own clothes, finding the simple fitness clothing easy to remove. His mouth is on yours, already nibbling at your lower lip, the fierceness of his movement almost enough to drown you. He’s already gotten your shirt off, though you need to help him with your sports bra, his mouth making a trail down from your neck to your collarbone.

He’s merciless, like he’s wanted to do this for some time, as if he’s afraid at any moment you’ll push him away. His fangs gently graze the skin just above your breast, his breath hot, and your nipples stand on end in anticipation. A ripple of pleasure runs through your nerves as he kisses one of your breasts, and you almost moan, hand reaching over for the handle of the shower to cover up the ungodly mess of noises that will be erupting from your mouth.

Big mistake, because the water comes out ice cold. You shriek, then laugh, the hairs on your arm standing straight up for a much different reason now. To his credit, Oryfiel is also amused, and he pushes you up against the wall to avoid the freezing spray, his chest warm against yours. As the water slowly becomes hot, the kisses continue, leisurely at first, though quickly picking up pace, his mouth trailing back down to address some unfinished business.

His wraps around one of your nipples, and he begins to suck. It’s been so long for you that you just about melt into a goddamn puddle, and the way his tongue moves against the sensitive flesh doesn’t help matters. Your fingers grasp at the smooth metal of the stall for some sort of semblance of reality to focus on, but you can’t seem to find something to anchor yourself to. Swiftly, he moves onto the other nipple, his hand making its way down south, the pad of his thumb working your slit in an experimental touch.

“Spread your legs more.” His voice is as strained as his cock, and he presses a few hasty kisses on your mouth and cheek as you do as he says, lifting one of your legs up and wrapping it around his waist. Wasting no time, his fingers return, two this time, rubbing up and down almost miserably slow. You let out a frustrated his of breath and try to grind against him, but he smiles a wicked grin, almost smug at the tizzy he’s put you into so soon.

You grip both his shoulders, arch your eyebrows, and push down. He doesn’t offer any sort of fight, quickly getting onto his knees, moving your leg onto his shoulder, water from the showerhead spout soaking his hair. Still, he takes his time, pressing a few, slow kisses on your pelvis, sucking a myriad of hickeys to mark his territory. Tomorrow you’ll probably whack him for it, but now? The feeling of his hot mouth around your skin, so, so close to your core? You can only let out a lusty whine.

He has the audacity to chuckle at your disheveled state, mouth in a devious grin, before his tongue lashes out against your pussy, once, twice, thrice. You want to throttle him to hurry it up, but before you can do anything, he kisses your puckered skin and your core is singing. Leaning your head back and letting out a whimpering sigh, you curl your fingers around his hair, the feathers of his wings slowly rippling as he watches, eyes burning.

For all his faults, he is skilled in this particular area. You’re glad for the water because you wouldn’t want him to see the tears forming in your eyes this soon, but you have a feeling by the smug look on his face that he somehow knows. He licks and laps, moving up and down, to the left, to the right, mercilessly, you’re fucking putty against his mouth, your knee buckling under the pressure. It’s a miracle he somehow managed to keep you from sliding onto the shower floor, you’re putting all your weight on him, yet he seems completely unbothered.

He kisses your clit, then takes the bud between his lips and sucks. You almost scream, because you’re so fucking close already, and you don’t want to come yet, not this soon. So you push at him, shoving him away, almost entirely overtaken by the need to feel him inside you, all the way. He looks confused for a moment, maybe even shocked, but you grab for him, using both hands to grasp at either side of his face.

“I need you to fucking rail me against this wall,” you hiss, glad for the sound of the spray to keep anyone else from hearing the demand.

A look of pure elation crosses over his face, as though he had been waiting for you to say those pretty words to him, and he stands, wings fluttering against the water. He kisses you again, this time on the mouth, so fiercely that your teeth clack together, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from his torrent of lust. It’s like something has overtaken him, he raises your legs around his waist, and you help him push inside your core, eyes crazed, breathing wild. When he thrusts, it’s almost jarring, your steady build of pleasure screeching to an unfamiliar stop when the tactics change, but he’s slow, steady, letting you get used to being filled.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice unsteady with what you assume is the pleasure of his cock being engulfed.

”You’re beautiful,” you counter breathlessly, finding the cold metal of the shower wall the only reprieve from the frantic heat of this union.

“Mm,” there’s something he wants to say, but you can see the hesitation in his eyes. Before you can question it, though, he’s picking up speed, pumping in and out with an almost crazed expression.

You can only lean back and take it, this relentless fucking, because that’s exactly what you signed up for. Oryfiel drinks up every whimper, whine, and sob, kissing your face as he brings you closer and closer to climax, straining with the effort to keep you both upright. Then you cum, and you are almost overtaken by the quivering pulsing through your core and outward to the rest of your body. You wrap your arms around his neck and sob, barely able to hold onto your sanity as he continues to pound into you, with no sign of stopping until he’s had his fair share.

When he cums, he moans so deliciously in your ear, the aftershocks of your own climax still tightening in your core. You kiss him on the side of his mouth as he lets out a soft, satisfied sigh, placing both feet back on the ground as he slumps unsteadily. Water trails down his skin, black hair sticking framing his face, his eyes almost glowing with euphoria, and he looks like a goddamn angel.

Maybe you thought he would immediately release you once the original business is done. Still, he seems to want to savor the moment, his closeness offering a different kind of satisfaction. He brings his hands up onto your shoulders, pressing lips against yours in soft, lazy movements, and you let yourself drown in him.

“Do you-” he hesitates, then asks, “do you want to do this again sometime?”

[scrawnytreedemon]

Ooh, how about Hojo for the ask meme?

OHOOOO, I HAVE A L O T TO SAY, BABY-- Especially after seeing that final showdown, oh boy.

(hfhdkjfhjkj sorry for this being late!! had many thinsg to do <33)

For context, I know jack-shit about Dirge of Cerbeus, and I’d rather it stay that way. Vee has scarred me enough with her recollections from the wiki alone, and unless we finally do that shit-movie night we’ve been meaning to for awhile, I’m not touching it with a ten foot pole.

First impression: Horrible rat man; nasty. Your run of the mill Mad Scientist except somehow Even Worse. Perhaps a little generic at times. Pervy fuck. Probably has a bunch of obscenely lewd magazines in his study. Fuck him for fucking over absolutely everyone that’s gotten within ten metres of him. This guy fucks, and that’s how we got Sephiroth. -1/10, Worst Scientist, Husband and Father of the Year.

Impression now: I... I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I like him now, unironically. You win, Hojo Fuckers. Seeing that scene at the control panel, I think that man’s genuinely depressed-- Like, ‘I’ve devoted my entire life to my work to numb the pain but now I’ve realised it’s all for nothing and it’s fucking useless and I’m fucking useless and there’s nothing for me to do other than sacrifice myself for my son, who fucking hates me.‘ Like... Jesus Christ, I did not expect him to be so self-aware. He’s still a downright horrendous person and many of the things he’s done, if I believed in such a mindset, are downright irredeemable. Basically, I actually like his character now-- full-on -- even if he’s still a right bell-end.

Favorite moment: The rooftop scene. Jesus Christ, man, that changed my whole view on him. The way he’s actually becoming aware of how wrong he was, and how it weighs on his mind-- How, almost absently, as if he’s saying it more to himself, he tells Cloud he should become a scientist. It’s a small thing... But it speaks to a level of respect I don’t think Hojo has had for anyone in a very long time. He’s been brought to his limit, willing to give anything and everything so that the one thing he’s done right, his son who he gave up to further his now-dead career, succeeds in world-annihilation. What really gets me is that moment in the fight, where you’ve ended the first phase, when he says, apathetically, how he hopes the Mako juice is going-- And then he turns into a monster. This horrendous, twisted thing that’s barely held together by skin and sinew-- Probably one of the most downright-horrifying things in this entire game --And it’s just... like... wow... he broke.

Idea for a story: A fic where him and Sephiroth actually try and make amends. I’ve seen this guy killed off-screen so many times, and everytime, I am deeply disappointed. I get it. Hojo’s probably the worst character in the game. He has no morals and no boundaries, and he’s irritating as fuck-- I get it --But he’s also the reason all of this shit has happened, and is such a vital character in the forming of the story, in Sephiroth’s specifically, that I want him to be done justice. I want to see one of them reach out to the other, and slowly, bit, by bit, by agonising bit piece together something vaguely resembling a foundation for their relationship. I want to see them reminisce over the few good times they had together, and address deeply the many, many bad ones. It’ll be painful, and there will be many bumps in the road where they’ll feel like there isn’t even a point to this shit, and yet push on despite that. Because despite everything, they are family-- And not because they are obligated to, but because they’re choosing to. I want to see that. I really do. I’ll probably write it myself.

Unpopular opinion: I think my newfound appreciation of him in general, lmao. I won’t get into the paternity debate, as I’ve addressed that in Vincent’s post and another one. Perhaps the fact that I think it’s stupid that the scientists in FFVII get referred to by their first names-- Like, who does this shit??? Who out here thinks Hojo sounds like a first name??? It’s just... Really unprofessional and I don’t think Hojo is comfortable enough with anyone to just have them call him by his first name. Also Dr. Faremis Gast sounds better than Dr. Gast Faremis. I know it’s a pun in Japanese but I don’t give a shit. Fight me.

Favorite relationship: Him and Sephiroth, because there’s just, alot of shit. I don’t think he was ever truly close enough to Lucrecia for me to get invested-- It’s clear the relationship, though while initially stable and they probably got along well, was one mostly of work --And I don’t think there’s anyone else close enough to Hojo’s character to serve as another option, either. Maybe Vincent, but again, that was through Lucrecia. Seph and Hojo have this dynamic where strained doesn’t even begin to describe it. Hojo thinks Seph doesn’t know and Seph thinks Hojo doesn’t know that he knows-- And it’s painfully clear that had it not been for Hojo, Sephiroth wouldn’t have been so unstable. There was alot of abuse, physical and psychological, that got framed as ‘work,’ and it’s undoubtebly fucked with Seph’s very concept of ownership, and who owns another. It’s clear that on some level, Hojo feels shame for what he’s done-- Not guilt, shame --And is unwilling to let the boy(and perhaps even himself) from knowing his true parentage. Part of it’s definitely spite for Lucrecia, but there’s more. I could go one for hours, honest to god, so like, feel free to tack on your own ideas, fellow trash conoisseurs.

Favorite headcanon: Him being Wutaian. Not sure if it’s entirely headcanon, but like, it really is ironic. I personally think his family moved to Midgar while he was still young-- Perhaps due to a faction split -- so he grew up on the Eastern Continent, so he was stuck in this weird middle space alot of immigrant or descended from immigrants children where on one hand, you’ve got your family’s legacy, and you probably, if not fluently, speak their native tongue and carry out their traditions, and on the other hand you’ve grown up with people who’ve been here for generations and inevitably get moulded by their ways and their customs, perhaps to the point you’re more culturally theirs than your native land’s. If we’re going with the faction split, I think Hojo leans hard into the latter, out of a deep-seated indignance. Maybe his family were fairly influential, before they had to move to what was, no doubt, a less than idyllic neighbourhood. I think part of what made him want to become a scientist was that need to regain that honour, that dignity-- It’s very self-centred, and clearly didn’t work out.

Thank you Vee as always-- You incredible bastard --For both asking and also rambling with me about this grease-weasel for like, a good long time.

Knowing my luck I just might’ve gotten another hyperfixation. A terrible one. Fuck.

And to anyone who’s read this far, thank you! As always, feel free to throw in your own thoughts, whether they be replies or reblogs. I’m curious to know what the general vibe is about him(other than Haha Stinky Goblin Rat), as I don’t think he’s talked about all that much? Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places.

Anyhow Hojo Fuckers, I owe you a beer. Not a good one, probably tastes of piss, but knowing you lot, that’s probably just fine, lmaooooooo. Keep up the ungodly work <3

[litwitlady]

with you i serve, with you i fall down

Read on AO3.

Angst Prompt #3 - ‘Is that blood?’ (I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING)

Warnings: blood, minor physical violence, guns, gunshot wounds, mind games, mind control

‘We don’t have to do this today,’ Michael begs, eyes shifting back and forth between Isobel and Alex.

Isobel places her hand on his shoulder and tilts her head slightly, trying to make him understand. ‘There are innocent people inside, Michael. At last thirty heat signatures. We might be their only hope. We can’t wait for Max. He’s in California.’

‘We’ll be okay.’ Alex knows that’s not really enough, but it’s all he’s got at the moment.

Michael turns to him slowly. ‘You don’t know that. Me and Iz will go, Alex. Please stay here.’

‘You know that’s not the safest option. We’ve been over this already.’ Isobel tugs Michael’s eyes back to her. ‘There’s no cell reception in that building or even outside of that building. Leaving Alex here by himself cuts us off from communication. But having you out here means I’ll be able to reach you if something goes wrong.’

He makes a strangled noise and shakes his head. ‘Then you stay. Alex and I will go. You cannot ask me to watch the two people I love most on this planet - or any other fucking planet - walk into that building.’ He shrugs his shoulders and takes several steps away from them, needing the space to breathe. ‘I will not do that.’

Alex watches him walk away, kicking at the ground in frustration. Michael has never said the word ‘love’ to him. Not in the present tense, anyway. It makes him slightly dizzy. They’ve only just started finding their way back to each other. A friendship blooming gradually and finally able to talk to each like grown adults. Their future open and waiting for them.

Michael climbs into his truck and slams the door. But he doesn’t start the engine. Alex and Isobel watch him lean his head against the back glass and close his eyes. ‘He’s never going to agree to this.’ Isobel crosses her arms and stares at Alex. ‘It’s a terrible thing we’re asking him to do.’

‘None of us have a choice. I’m not willing to risk someone else’s life to keep my own safe. So, there’s no calling anyone else for help. And like you said, we can’t wait.’ Alex squares his shoulders, frowning. ‘I’ll go talk to him.’

‘No.’ She moves in front of Alex, blocking his way. ‘It needs to be me. Wait here.’

She slides into the truck next to Michael. He doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Just keeps his eyes shut and stays silent. ‘You know it has to be me and Alex, Michael.’ No reaction. ‘I’ve worked on my abilities more than you have. So, I’m better equipped, better armed. You know I’m right.’

Michael’s eyes open and he blinks several times at truck’s the rusting roof overhead. ‘I feel it deep in my gut, Isobel. Something bad’s going to happen if you leave me behind. We don’t have enough information.’ He turns his gaze out the window, focusing on Alex. ‘I love him too much, Iz. And you too.’ Angry tears burn down his cheeks.

‘You’re willing to risk all those lives - more than two dozen people - just because something might happen to me or Alex?’ She squeezes his knee. ‘I know you’re not. And we both know how this ends. So, if you want to sit and watch from the safety of your truck, that’s okay. But Alex and I are leaving.’

Isobel rejoins Alex by his Explorer, one last look over her shoulder at Michael. ‘We better get going. I don’t want to be inside that place after sundown.’

Alex checks that his gun is fully loaded. ‘What did you say to convince him?’

‘Honestly? Not a whole lot and I’m pretty sure he’s not convinced.’ She stuffs several bottles of acetone in Alex’s backpack next to his extra bullets. ‘He loves you, you know. I’m never sure how clear that is between you two.’ They hear a door slam shut and turn at the sound. Michael is on his way to them, sadness etched deep in the lines of his forehead. Alex sighs. ‘It’s much clearer these days.’

He’s left his hat behind and his curls swirl in the wind. ‘I don’t want you to go, but I won’t stop you either. But Isobel? At the first sign of trouble you scream for me. Do you understand?’

‘I promise. The first sign of trouble - even the inkling of trouble - and we’re out.’ She pulls him into a tight hug and whispers in his ear. ‘I’ll keep him safe. As best I can.’

Michael nods into her neck and watches Alex slip the backpack onto his shoulders. Isobel unfolds herself from him and Alex gives a little wave as he turns towards the concrete warehouse. But Michael reaches out and grabs his elbow, spinning him back around. ‘No, you don’t get to just walk away like that. Not anymore.’

He pushes the backpack off Alex’s shoulders and onto the ground. And then they fall into each other’s arms - Alex’s wrapped around Michael’s neck and Michael squeezing at Alex’s waist. Noses buried in hair and fingernails clawing at naked skin. So many words left unspoken but not a single one left unheard.

‘Don’t go playing hero, Alex. Sometimes running away is the right choice.’ Michael holds on tighter and glances towards Isobel who’s already at the electric fence, giving them their space. He pleads with his eyes and she mouths I promise one last time.

They pull apart. Hands lingering at collars and hemlines. Eyes blurry and hearts worried. Alex takes a couple of backwards steps, grabbing his backpack and then turns away. Joining Isobel at the fence and setting off together to whatever fate awaits them. Michael looks on completely and utterly helpless. He knows they are competent and well-armed. Smart and desperate to return to him. But that knowledge does absolutely nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

Once they disappear from sight, Michael heads back to his truck. He stands with his hand on the door handle for a long time, trying to convince himself to open the door and not do the thing his heart wants him to do. But his heart wins. Unlocking Alex’s Explorer with his telekinesis, he slides into the driver’s side seat and shuts the door behind him. It’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever done in his life, but he doesn’t care. That nagging feeling is still punching at his stomach and the smell of Alex surrounding him helps to calm his nerves.

The interior is immaculate. So clean it makes Michael roll his eyes. There’s nothing in the center console but two pens and a roll of quarters. The glove compartment offers only the owner’s manual and a flashlight. But when he reaches around into the seat pocket, he strikes gold. Michael smiles down at the cd case he pulls free. The title is written in Alex’s too-perfect script and black-inked sharpie - Desert Mix.

Starting the engine, Michael slides the cd into the disc player and waits. Static crackles through the speakers and then the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, followed shortly by Alex’s own voice. And Michael knows these songs - remembers the lyrics scratched across the various notebooks tucked under the futon in the toolshed. He’s listened to Alex sing these songs over and over again in the bed of his truck underneath the starry sky more times than he can count. When they were still teenagers with all their dreams still alive and close enough to touch.

Thirty minutes pass and Alex’s songs have nearly lulled him to sleep when he feels the first twinge of fear. It’s faint and distant enough to not immediately alarm him. He just shifts into a more comfortable position and recloses his eyes. The second wash of fear is much stronger and arrives accompanied by Isobel’s screams echoing in his head. Within seconds he’s running harder than he ever has in his life, straight into his worst nightmare.

No doors exist in the building’s central door frame. Just a gaping hole daring him to enter. Which he doesn’t hesitate to do, especially once Isobel begins to chant help us help us help us through his thoughts. He checks behind every door he passes, but finds nothing until he arrives at a large open space. Bleak and gray, the roof leaking water onto the concrete. Isobel on her knees and Alex sitting flat in the center of the room. Farmer Jones behind them, deviant grin spread wide across his face. ‘Welcome, Michael. So glad you could join us.’

Michael’s heart sinks to the floor. He tries using his telekinesis but knows if Isobel has been rendered powerless, so has he. And with that reality before him, whatever hope he’d been trying to hang onto flees. ‘There were never any hostages, were there?’

Alex and Isobel shake their heads.

‘Front and center, Mikey! We’re going to play a little game.’ It points to a spot between Alex and Isobel. Michael has no choice so he steps forward. Stopping when he’s commanded to. ‘Well done. Now, take a good, long look at Isobel and Alex. Spend some time thinking about how much you love them. Let me know when you’re finished.’ He steps back, arms crossed over his chest and still grinning like a madman.

That’s when Michael sees the gun.

It’s Alex’s personal weapon. The one he keeps for protection. Protection he’s needed more than once in his life from those supposed to love him most.

Dragging his eyes down to Isobel, he can tell how broken she is despite the way she holds her shoulders back, strong and proud even in her despair. Her eyes are wet with tears, her chin lifted in rebellion. But he can no longer find her in his head, so Jones must have cut their communication.

Beside her is Alex. A dark red stain soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt. ‘Is that blood?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Just a little scratch. Alex didn’t like my methods at first. But he’s since come around to see things my way.’ Alex’s jaw flexes and Michael watches him try to speak. But no sound leaves his mouth in spite of how hard he’s straining, veins in his neck throbbing with the effort.

‘Let them go and I’ll do whatever it is you want.’ Isobel and Alex both violently shake their heads. Michael ignores them. ‘Please.’

‘Can’t play the game with only one other person. Sorry.’ Jones rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging.

‘Then let Alex go. He’s not one of us. Just a human who doesn’t belong here.’ Emotion chokes Michael’s voice which makes Jones’s eyes light up. Alex continues to shake his head, tears now trailing down his cheeks.

‘Everybody stays, Michael. Are you ready? You’re going to need this.’ He yanks the gun from the waistline of his pants and holds it out to Michael. ‘Go on, take it.’

Dread seeps deep into Michael’s bones, making him dizzy. He keeps his hands at his side and gulps loudly. Brain frantically searching for some way out of this horrific situation.

‘Now, Michael. Before you make me angry.’ Jones steps between Isobel and Alex, shoving the gun into his chest.

Michael takes the gun, hands beginning to shake. Eyes pleading with the monster in front of him, eyes avoiding the two people he can’t afford to lose at his feet.

Jones begins to walk in circles around the three of them. Slow and menacing. Taking his time and enjoying every sick second. ‘The game is simple. The rules easy to follow.’ He stops and puts one hand on Isobel’s shoulder, the other on Alex’s. ‘Your mind is a fascinating place, Michael. An electric minefield of love and suffering. Never a dull moment.’

He pauses for effect. Basking in his control and breathing in their terror. ‘This backwater planet has made you so soft and pliable. Imagine what you could have been had you grown up on our marvelous star.’ He feigns pity and then laughs. ‘But instead, you are this. Pathetic. Now you will pay the price for your mother’s wicked hubris. And the choices she made.’

Jones uses his power to raise Michael’s arm. The one whose hand is holding the gun. Michael fights like hell but it’s no use. The gun wobbles as Jones swings his arm back and forth. Pointing the gun first at Isobel and then at Alex. ‘So that’s the game! Your mother once had to make a decision and now her son will do the same. Isobel or Alex, Michael. You have five minutes or I shoot them both.’

Michael knows the moment his voice returns to him - his arm under his own control again as well. Jones smiles at him and Michael shakes his head. ‘I won’t do this.’ He tries to turn the gun on himself, but Jones just takes control again and laughs.

‘You will do this, Michael. Losing one is better than losing them both. And you’ll make it quick. I’ll make it sweet and so very slow.’ Jones tenderly cups Isobel’s cheek and runs his other hand through Alex’s hair. Michael watches as they both wince and shiver under his touch. ‘It’s not like we don’t know who you love the most. I mean, it’s no contest really.’ With a strike quicker than a snake, Jones backhands Alex square in his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Michael shouts and tries to go to him, but Jones holds him in place.

‘The lover. Well...the ex-lover, anyway. And the purest love you’ve ever felt.’ Jones wraps his fingers in Alex’s hair and yanks him back into a sitting position. His lip is split, blood flowing freely down his chin and dripping onto his t-shirt. All three of them are panting and openly weeping. Michael’s entire body covered in a cold sweat. None of the thoughts in his head coherent with no last minute save-the-day solutions presenting themselves. Wordlessly, he begins to pray.

Jones goes back to lapping the three of them. ‘In case you were wondering, they both desperately want you to choose themselves. Alex is begging you to pick him. Isobel is maybe less enthusiastic about offering herself, but that’s still what’s inside her head. Noble, really. And Max, well - he’s enjoying the show all the way from sunny California.’

He sits between Isobel and Alex like he’s preparing for some grotesque kindergarten story time. ‘It disgusts me how weak the three of you are. Born to wield such power and instead you’re this - something lesser than even toddlers back home. I blink and you can’t move. I blink again and your minds are easy to crawl inside. Another blink and you’ll do whatever I say.’ He tsks with his tongue and shakes his head. ‘And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael.’

He releases Michael again. ‘Choose. Your five minutes start now.’

Faced with an impossible choice, the decision is easy to make in the end. He’s able to talk but decides not to. Not with words anyway. Michael raises his eyes to Alex and then the gun. And Alex smiles. Because he knows it was always meant to end this way.

Michael thinks back to the first time he’d seen Alex in the hallways of their middle school. An unremarkable moment. Alex and Valenti laughing in a classroom doorway. Valenti grabbing his arm, ‘Who are you?’ And Alex smiling, waiting for his answer.

But the next barrage of memories collapses his lungs. The first time Alex had come to school with his ear pierced, the septum ring hanging from his nose. Always with Maria and Liz, right in the middle. The occasional what’s up, Guerin. Valenti slamming him into a row of lockers after the first rumors started to spread. And eventually, a stolen guitar.

His hand shakes violently. But Alex softly and nods his head. Resigned and ready for what comes next.

Michael takes a moment to step back inside the UFO Emporium. Bright Eyes playing through the speakers overhead. Not a soul in sight. Other than the prettiest boy he’s ever seen with a bigger heart that he could have ever dreamed. A flood of quick flashes - Alex naked beneath him, making out at the movie theater, the desert sky as Alex strums his guitar, Alex’s hair shorn to regulation, letters written and never sent, first glances after long absences, hands on hips and lips on necks, harsh words and bitter tears, i loved you and i think that you loved me, the toolshed destroyed, another soft smile and would you come home.

Michael pulls the trigger.

The gunshot ricochets around the cavernous warehouse, reverberating off the back of Michael’s molars. And then everything falls silent and time stops. Alex crumples to the floor, blood leaking from the hole in his forehead. Eyes dead and lifeless. Michael’s heart claws its way out of his chest and throws itself on Alex. Alongside a screaming Isobel who can move again, hand covering Alex’s wound trying to staunch the bleeding.

But it doesn’t matter because Alex Manes is dead.

Jones tugs the gun from Michael’s hand and pistol whips Isobel on the temple. She collapses across Alex’s unmoving chest. Then Michael is thrown through the air, landing with a thud against the cylinder block wall. He hears the crunch of his skull and then mercifully blacks out. The gunshot playing one last time through his mind before the world disappears.

Time inevitably continues to pass. Alex growing colder and colder as the seconds tick by.

Michael reawakens to Isobel’s gargled cries. Shouting his name over and over again, hoarse from the effort. Michael has no idea how long he’s been out. Looking around, Jones has vanished. A ghost in the night. He squints into the darkness, Isobel slumped over Alex still trying to save him. Beating at his chest and pressing her hand over his wound.

Alex remains dead.

And to think you were meant to save us all, Michael. That line replays in Michael’s head as he sits watching Isobel’s struggle. It’s those words that convinced him to choose Alex. He closes his eyes and goes to the place deep in his gut where his power lives. An electric minefield of love and suffering. He rests his mind, truly hushing it quiet for the first time in his life. Laying the love and suffering aside long enough to connect his brain with his power. Completing a circuit that his trauma had never allowed before.

Energy flares in his nerve endings, clearing all the muck and grime. He thinks of Isobel and easily slides into her mind. There’s chaos and panic and an overwhelming gut-wrenching fear. Bile rises in her throat. She’s convinced that both of them are dead and that she’s all alone in this hell house. Michael reaches out for her and settles her nerves. Sends his own energy through her arm and down into the palm of her hand. The one pushed tight to Alex’s forehead.

Michael concentrates on picturing Alex’s face, whole and happy. Warmth from his belly travels through his connection with Isobel and begins to weave Alex’s brain back together, one fiber at a time. He can feel Isobel gasp when the wound under her palm slowly smoothes away. Her fear subsides and big, choking gasps tear from her lungs the minute Alex’s eyes reopen and his chest rises. She starts to scream Michael’s name again, but this time for a very different reason.

He climbs to his feet and is amazed at how good he feels. Not drained at all - slightly light headed in a pleasant way. Alex sits up and Isobel pulls him into a tight hug, waving at Michael wildly with her free hand.

It takes Michael a moment to take that first step forward. Questions twist in his mind and he knows in his gut that his relationship with Alex will never be the same again. And while he’s excited for what comes next, he’s also terrified of what it might all mean. The overwhelming desire to feel Alex’s heartbeat eventually tugs him forward, though, and before long he’s dropping to his knees beside them.

Alex paws at him, crawling into his lap with Isobel not far behind - clinging to the both of them like she never intends to let go ever again. ‘I felt you, Michael. You did this. How?’

Michael feels Alex bury his nose in the crook of his neck and reaches out to pull Isobel closer. ‘What he said about me being meant to save everyone. It just clicked in my brain and I knew I could save us.’ He presses his lips into Alex’s temple. ‘But I had to choose Alex in case I was wrong and needed help.’ His voice cracks and falters, a sob catches his breath and Michael collapses into them. They hold him close while he cries. The crash of adrenaline and the weight of his choice catching up to him.

They sit tucked tight together for a long time while the sun sets outside.

‘Is he going to have a handprint on his forehead?’ Isobel asks, pushing Alex’s hair aside to see if his skin has started to glow.

‘I don’t know - I don’t think so.’ He cups Alex’s cheeks and inspects his face, finding nothing. ‘Do you feel any different?’

‘Yes. I feel you everywhere. All over me. Inside of me.’ He wraps his fingers around Michael’s wrists, gently knocking their foreheads together. ‘It’s hard to breathe around, actually.’

Michael laughs. ‘Well, I’m having a lot of feelings right now.’

‘About me.’ Alex smiles.

‘Yeah, baby. About you.’ Michael hovers his lips over Alex’s, waiting. Alex doesn’t hesitate to answer, instantly closing the gap between them. And when their mouths finally lock together, both whimper at the touch, kissing each other like it’s the first time all over again. Eager, a little shy, and once again filled with so much hope for their future.

Isobel stumbles to her feet to give them space. She’s still covered in Alex’s blood, needing fresh air. And desperately wants to call Max to explain everything. Reaching out with her mind, she searches for signs of Jones somewhere nearby but finds nothing. Glancing back at Michael, she supposes Jones must know what he’s awakened inside her brother. Michael - the savior. Honestly, she’s not really all that surprised.

Michael hugs Alex flush against him. ‘I’m going to do something, Alex. And you’re going to feel it.’

But Alex shushes him. ‘I already know. Are you sure?’

He nods and shuts his eyes as Alex pushes them as close together as they can get. Offering Michael everything he has to give. Michael smiles and whispers. ‘I love you.’

And Alex responds, ‘I know.’

Michael searches across the desert, not knowing exactly what he’s doing. But before long, he spots what he’s looking for - a mind signature frantically fleeing from his wrath. Alex puts on a hand over Michael’s heart and Michael snaps Jones’ neck, his mind signature blinking out as he crumples to the dirt. He reopens his eyes and looks down at Alex. ‘Let’s go home.’

They rejoin Isobel and Michael informs her that Jones is dead. She nods her head. ‘It was the right decision, Michael. I guess I just wish we’d been able to find out more about where we come from.’

‘We don’t need him for that. I took his mind from him, Iz, before I killed him. I know everything he knows. And we have a lot to talk about. But first, I’m taking Alex home and crawling into his bed for at least a week.’ He hugs Isobel and she looks at him like the marvel he truly is and always has been before climbing into her SUV and leaving them alone.

‘I haven’t said I’m sorry yet.’ Michael turns to Alex. ‘And before you say I don’t have to,’ he holds his hand up to Alex who is already trying to stop him, ‘let me finish.’ Alex reluctantly nods. ‘I know I made the right decision. But I’m so sorry that means you can close your eyes and picture what it looks like to watch me hold me a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Because I can’t fix that part.’

Saying it out loud breaks something inside of him. Something he’s not sure will ever heal. So, he doesn’t bother trying to stop the tears that burn down his cheeks.

Alex grabs his hands. ‘Look at me.’ He waits for Michael to meet his eye. It takes a while but eventually he gets there. ‘I have seen a lot of horrible things in my life. My father’s fists aimed at my face, his hammer breaking your hand. Friends - brothers - riddled with bullets and bleeding out in my arms. Innocent people dying at my hand, riddled with my bullets. My leg shredded to pieces on the side of a dirt road in Iraq.’

He pauses to take a breath. Michael threads their fingers together to give him comfort. ‘You pointing that gun at my head? It is an image that will stay with me. Forever. But not for the reasons you fear. Because you didn’t get to see your face in that moment. The steel and certainty in your eyes. The courage and the love. And the defiance, Michael. I knew I could trust you. I knew I’d open my eyes again and get the chance to tell you how much I love you.’

‘But it’s even better than that. Because now it’s like you’re tattooed underneath every inch of my skin. You’re the oxygen expanding my lungs and the blood pumping through my veins. Yes, you shot me, Michael. But when I opened my eyes, I was so much more than I was before. You gave me that and only you could have given me that.’

They push against each other, chest to chest. Fingers clawing at whatever purchase they can find. Nose in necks and the first flares of arousal spreading through their hips. The scent of rain and Alex’s shampoo mingling together for the first time in over a year.

Michael feels something insistent pressing between his shoulder blades. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Alex and turns to find his cell phone floating freely. He concentrates on his power and realizes it’s not coming from his mind. Alex laughs behind him as Michael yanks his phone out of the air, stunned into silence.

A death. A homecoming. Something bright and new.

[untamed-era]

Come Out and Level Up, Part 2

(part 1) (EDIT: link now leads to both halves of part 1)  (EDIT 2: AO3 Link) 

Wei Ying does not look pleased with the situation. This is unexpected. Lan Wangji remembers finding proper labels as a deep relief, a sense that other people matched his experience. Wei Ying, on the other hand, comes and sits down, staring at his phone again, looking dejected.

Lan Wangji waits.

“I’m. I guess it’s good I know this, right? Let me make better choices, going forward. It’s good to. It’s good to understand, why I never particularly wanted to date anyone that asked me out. That’s good.”

He is trying to talk himself into the idea. Lan Wangji continues waiting.

“I just —“ He looks up, suddenly, meeting Lan Wangji’s eyes. “Lan Zhan, I really did want to get married.” He sounds forlorn, lost. “I mean. You remember, I talked about inviting you to a farm, someday? And like.” He shifts, uncomfortably, curling his arms around himself. Lan Wangji wants to hug him, comfort him. He does not know how. “I never pictured a wife, but I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

Lan Wangji remembers the fantasy Wei Ying had described. It had been so casually referenced, the idea of a little farm and lots of children running around and food cooking inside. It’s featured heavily in his own fantasies, since, when he allows himself to forget that he was invited only as an interloper.

“Action does not equal attraction,” he tells Wei Ying, quietly. “You may yet find a… wife. If you want. If they are happy with the arrangement.”

“Maybe. But like, how do you know when you’ve found someone you’d be willing to spend your life with, if you don’t have the whole true love thing to work with? I mean, you were the only specific person I ever put anywhere near that whole dream. I can’t think of anyone I know who’d be… who’d fit…” He trails off, thinking.

Lan Wangji looks away, breathing through the emotional turmoil of that. He knows Wei Ying doesn’t mean it like Lan Wangji wishes he did. He’s as good as saying he can’t picture Lan Wangji there all the time, can’t see him as a true life partner of any sort. Lan Wangji will respect that. Of course he will. None of this is about him.

“How did you even figure all this out?” Wei Ying asks, suddenly, and Lan Wangji flinches. Wei Ying plows ahead without noticing. “I mean, there’s so many terms here, and I don’t know — maybe I’m just overthinking everything! I like thinking about sex, I like the idea of kissing! But apparently not like everyone else does? How did you ever sort all this out?”

It was the best words for how I felt about you, Lan Wangji thinks but does not say. It was the only way to make sense of the intensity and specificity of his feelings. How can he help, when Wei Ying’s problem is not knowing, instead of knowing too much?

“I mean,” Wei Ying continues, not waiting for any sort of response, “I mean, like, sure I’ve contemplated kissing people in the past. Specific people, even! I mean, I’ve thought about kissing you, who hasn’t, obviously, that’s just… That’s just part of friendship, isn’t it?”

Lan Wangji stares. All of his deep, meditative thoughts are crumpling around him. He cannot feel any part of his body. He cannot interpret any of this. If he tries, he may actually explode.

“Oooookay you’re looking at me weirdly,” Wei Ying says from very far away and also about two feet from Lan Wangji’s face. It should be farther. It should be much less. How can he cope with any of this. “So what you’re saying is that imagining kissing isn’t a normal part of any close friendship.”

How is Lan Wangji supposed to answer that? It’s certainly a normal part of his closest friendships. Friendship. Singular.

Wei Ying laughs, high and strained. “I don’t suppose we can just forget about what I just said, move back to. Uh. Some other topic? Um.”

Lan Wangji physically cannot. He thinks his entire brain has rewired itself to play “I’ve thought about kissing you” on repeat. He cannot think of anything else well enough to respond. He cannot muster the strength to echo it.

“Maybe I should just. Just go? Sorry, I know I made things weird, I wouldn’t blame—“

“Don’t,” Lan Wangji says. It’s spoken from his instincts, the ones that never want Wei Ying to leave, the ones that he overrules when he has any brainpower left over for them.

“Uh. Okay, Lan Zhan.” He looks nervous, Lan Wangji notes. He should say something to reassure Wei Ying. That sounds good.

“You’ve thought about kissing me,” he says instead. Hmm.

Wei Ying avoids his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah? I… I didn’t think that was a big deal but. I’m also kind of thinking of… a lot of other. Things. I’ve thought about and. Oh, I don’t know. They’re my problem, I guess. I already made things weird enough.”

“What things,” he says.

Wei Ying looks at him, eyes wide.

Lan Wangji struggles to gather his words. “I want. To hear. Your thoughts.” His hands are curled into fists so tightly they hurt. “Always,” he adds.

“Lan Zhan, no, I’ve already made you uncomfortable enough, I wouldn’t want to —“

“I am not uncomfortable.” He hesitates, and self-evaluates. “Or. That is not my primary emotion.”

“Confused you, then.”

And he can’t quite dispute that one. He is confused. He is dumbfounded, and… It takes a long moment to sort through everything else and identify the most prominent emotion.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “But I am also hopeful.”

That finally leaves Wei Ying speechless. It is nice to turn the tables again. He waits, in silence.

“What the fuck, Lan Zhan,” he finally says, weakly. “What the fuck do you have to be hopeful about.”

“You asked about how I figured my identity out.” Lan Wangji says. He can see the shape of the conversation again, he thinks. He does not know the end, but he is hopeful.

“We’re well past that!” Wei Ying says. “That was before I — before — Before —“

“I found the terms,” Lan Wangji says, ploughing ahead heedlessly, “because they best described how much I wanted to kiss you, Wei Ying.”

He has flabbergasted Wei Ying again. He savors it, watching Wei Ying blink and gape and wave one hand wildly. Finally, Wei Ying opens his mouth, and quietly says “Wanted? Past tense?”

“Want,” he admits. It comes easily, in spite of everything. Years of hidden pining, all leading to this one needle-point admission.

Wei Ying stares at him. It’s easy to meet his eyes.

He’s scared, of course he’s scared. He’s on tenterhooks, waiting for the response. But he has had no hope, no reason to say anything, sometimes not even a chance — and now he has them all.

“What the fuck,” Wei Ying finally says, “is this conversation.”

Lan Wangji inclines his head in agreement.

“I mean seriously, what the fuck. I mean this started with me mentioning a gay person at work and now you’re… we’re…. I’m….” He shies away from saying what, exactly, any of these pronouns are doing, which Lan Wangji thinks is deeply unfortunate. He, himself, has been uncomfortably vulnerable multiple times and Wei Ying has mostly just floundered at him. In fairness, he himself had a complicated process of coming to terms with his sexuality and would not have been balanced or coherent about it in the first ten minutes of questioning. He can and will be patient with this. In the part of him that does not care about fairness it rankles, that he spent the last ten years slowly making peace with his identity and here Wei Ying is with the exact same internalized heteronormativity that characterized middle school.

“So, but. You want to kiss me, though.”

Lan Wangji had been very clear on that, he thought. “Mn.”

“Why, though. I mean just… Why?”

Lan Wangji stares at Wei Ying, the love of his life, his best friend, the smartest person he knows, for a good long minute. “Because I am attracted to you. Romantically and sexually.”

They stare at each other for another long moment, Wei Ying’s mouth hanging open. “What the fuck, Lan Zhan,” he says, finally, weakly.

If he were someone else, he could, perhaps, rhapsodize about Wei Ying’s sterling qualities, the foundation of his attraction. He certainly has the material, but lacks the skill to shape it into something convincing. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

“Uncomfortable? Uncomfortable? I’m not uncomfortable, Lan Zhan, I’m just baffled. I mean, you’re you! Who wouldn’t want to hear this stuff from you! How am I supposed to deal with this! How am I supposed to figure out — wait hang on I’m calling Jiang Cheng.”

Lan Wangji blinks. He did not anticipate Wei Ying’s irritating brother being part of any of these confessions. To borrow a phrase from Wei Ying, what the fuck is this conversation.

“Jiang Cheng? Hi, Jiang Cheng, hey, quick question: how much do you think about kissing your male friends.”

The faint but irate voice of Jiang Cheng says “What the fuck, Wei Ying.”

“No, this is important. Do you think about kissing your friends? How often are you hanging out with like, other men, and just start thinking about kissing them. Like just occasionally, or.”

“Never! I never think about that! Why would I?”

“So like. If one of them — let’s say Lan Zhan — offered to kiss you. Would you want to?”

A silence. “Why the fuck would I want to kiss Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng says. Lan Wangji thinks maybe he should be offended, except that it is an exact mirror of his feelings toward Jiang Cheng. Besides, Wei Ying is making a very endearing offended face on his behalf.

“Why wouldn’t you want to kiss Lan Zhan — wait I just realized I could be doing that instead of arguing with you so I guess live on in your delusion.”

“What the fuck, Wei Ying! Don’t you dare go harassing —“

The line cuts off before Jiang Cheng can finish his threat. Fortunately, Lan Wangji cannot find it in himself to give one singular fuck about his opinion right now. He stares at Wei Ying, who looks, suddenly, nervous. He licks his lips, and Lan Wangji stares more. “Uh,” he says, finally. “I still don’t. Exactly. Know where I stand on most of this? Like I’m pretty sure I want to, uh, experiment with, with everything, ‘cause suddenly I have a ton of questions, but mostly I think it’s frankly very rude that you aren’t already kissing me, what’s up with that, Lan Zhan —“

Lan Wangji’s tattered patience abruptly snaps, and he is pulling Wei Ying’s face to his before the other can finish talking. After all, he was not raised to be rude.

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

Supernatural AU

So I’ve been playing with this concept for a while now and have finally started writing short snippets. Throwing this out into the void to see what sticks basically. Might actually write this properly some day. Who knows. 

Notes for this au - Castiel is about but not nearly as present in Dean’s life as in the show. Other than that, it runs fairly close to the shows arc. Except when it doesn't. 

Notes for this short - set late season 4 (On The Head Of A Pin). Alastair who?

Enough waffling. Have a Dean/Orias snippet. TW: torture (but nothing too graphic) 

This was his fault.

Dean knew he shouldn’t feel guilty. Orias was a demon. A very powerful, relishes in chaos, maliciously evil, demon. He’d seen the carnage Orias left in his wake. Had to contain the aftermath of some of his more vicious kills. But over the last two years, since making the deal with him to save Sam’s life, Dean had gotten to know Orias a little.

They’d drank together in a bar once. When Dean was too exhausted, too tired of being lonely, desperate for some sort of company. The demon had a fantastic sense of humour that Dean couldn’t help but get swept up in, as well as a keen eye and could spot a hustler a million miles away which had led to Dean witnessing the best hustlers-being-hustled-at-pool he had ever seen.

Orias was very different to a lot of the demons Dean had encountered. And… he was handsome. Short brown hair that looked almost auburn in certain lights, clear blue eyes, a soft jawline. He didn’t want to admit it, but he actually felt... something when he was around Orias and for Dean, that was huge. Especially with everything going on at the moment, especially since... coming back from hell.

Orias had even helped them out on occasion, more out of spite for his own kind than any sort of loyalty or friendship towards Dean but the Winchester couldn’t knock that the demon has been invaluable. But then, Dean had accidentally led the angels to him and now Orias was strapped by his wrists to a rack in the middle of a very complex demon trap with Uriel bearing down on him. One of the angel’s hands clamped to the demon’s throat, burning the flesh underneath, the other was buried deep inside his chest, prodding around in his very essence. The scream that ripped from Orias as he struggled curdled Dean’s blood, and he did, he felt guilty. This was his fault.

Dean had point blank refused to torture Orias for information, so Uriel, with a gleam in his eyes, had been more than happy to step up.

Dean was standing in the corridor outside the room, deliberately not looking through the meshed window as Orias’ scream reverberated off the walls. The Winchester was trying not to remember the pain of an angel’s touch, his own burn scar on his arm tingling unpleasantly.

When an angel touches a pure demon, it leaves a mark. He knew that Orias wasn’t possessing some poor sod. His body was his own. He was stronger and more powerful than most demons and Dean still didn’t fully understand it, but at the moment it didn’t matter because he was at the mercy of Uriel and his attempts of resisting the angel were failing.

“Come on. Let go. Let me in,” Uriel twisted his hand inside Orias’ chest and the demon’s scream climbed an octave, “that’s it. Come on demon. Tell me what you know. Tell me about the last seal.”

Dean wasn’t entirely sure how long Urial tortured Orias. It could have been hours, could have been days. But eventually the strain became too much, the angel too powerful, the demon too exhausted, and Orias broke.

“Lilith!” he screeched, “Lilith breaks the last seal!”

Uriel let him go, removing both his hands and Orias slumped forwards with a shudder. The only thing keeping him up were the braces around his wrists.

Dean felt sick to the stomach.

The angel strode out of the room with a smirk, quirking a brow at Dean and leering at him as he sauntered past. The Winchester ignored Uriel’s comment, eyes firmly fixed on the demon trembling in the other room.

Dean stood there.... for a long time. Guilt churning his gut. And another feeling. One he couldn’t place. Burning away in his chest.

He took a long breath and forced himself into the room.

Orias flinched as the door clicked shut, his head snapping up, his blue eyes barely focusing on Dean’s face. He looked scared. And that twisted painfully in Dean’s stomach.

“Fuck off Dean,” Orias muttered, hanging his head again, his entire body shaking.

“I... I’m sorry. It... it wasn’t meant to be you.” Dean hated how pathetic that apology sounded, and the demon’s lip curled.

“Brilliant. Now I feel loads better.” Orias’ voice was thin and pained.

“Orias...” Dean approached rigidly, pausing at the edge of the demon trap chalked onto the floor. He could see the sweat rolling off Orias’ brow, the skin of his wrists rubbed raw by his bonds, the livid handprint burn that covered the left side of his neck with the thumb just above his Adam’s apple, the fingers coming up over his jaw and onto his lower cheek. The demon’s breathing was laboured and the shudders that rolled through him rattled the metal rack he was strapped to.

“You can’t trust them,” Orias grit out, lifting his head and fixing now black eyes on the Winchester, “the angels. You can’t trust them, Dean. They’ve been lying to you.”

“What are you talking about?” A cold crept down Dean’s spine.

“Sam is Lucifer’s vessel. Who do you think is Michael’s? Huh? The Michael Sword. Think about it,” Orias sneered, “Lucifer, younger brother to Michael. Sam, younger brother to you.”

The realisation hit Dean like a ton of bricks and his knees went weak. He grabbed onto the pipes lining the wall to catch himself.

He had absolutely no reason not to believe Orias. It had occurred to him a little while ago that the demon was the only person in his life who had never once lied to him or betrayed him. He knew he shouldn’t, but he’d found comfort in that. Yes, Orias was a soldier of hell, but Dean knew he could trust his word.

“I’m Michael’s vessel.” He ran a hand over his face, “It all... it makes sense now. Why the angels are so-”

He was cut off by Orias tugging at his shackles and whimpering in pain, trying to curl in on himself with his eyes squeezed tight shut.

“Please,” the demon sounded so broken, and it hurt, physically ached in Dean’s heart, “just leave me alone. Please just go.”

Dean turned to hurry back towards the door, stomach in knots, heart thundering in his chest but he slammed to a halt as Orias choked back another whimper and he spun to face the demon.

“I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure it out,” he promised, blazing green eyes meeting watery blue.

After a moment Orias barked out a laugh.

“I’ll hold you to that Deanie bean,” he forced a grin through another wave of pain, “you owe me that much at least.”

Dean gave him a nod, determination burning through him. No matter the consequences, he would get Orias somewhere safe because something deep in his soul was telling him that he needed this demon, and right now, Orias needed him. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t comprehend it. But it was what he knew. And who was he if he were to ignore his gut?

I’ll get you out, he promised again silently, and he was starting to form a plan. He just had to hope luck was on his side.

[airiat]

Boy with the Sun Song (VI.)

iorveth/f!oc | m | friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, hurt/comfort | no warnings apply

vesta aep maghenn knows iorveth (iorveth aep mirbrach, to her) in a way that no one else can claim: they grew up together in the blue mountains and have been the closest of friends ever since. when iorveth’s unit is wiped out in an ambush by a powerful but unknown  adversary, he seeks shelter with vesta until it’s safe for him to rebuild.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

[read on ao3]

VI.

The days passed slowly and lazily like fog that rolls down a mountainside. Iorveth seemed to struggle with the transition from his fast-paced, unpredictable rebel lifestyle to my calm, steady world of caretaking and creating. It was almost too hard for me to be around him, the way his energy buzzed frantically and restlessly, threatening to crumble the walls of my home. We were fortunate that the enchantment extended beyond the physical house to a line around my property, which meant he was able to spend most of his days outdoors. 

That time was spent fletching an absurd stockpile of arrows and shooting them with his bow at the trunks of poor, hapless trees in the vicinity. To me, this seemed like a futile endeavor, but every time he did it, I could feel his energy streamline and settle, honing in on that singular task. But it also became a vicious energy, one that thirsted to see death and destruction. I could begin to imagine the fear his victims felt when they found themselves at the other end of his arrow or with his blade cutting into their skin. This was a part of him I had always avoided thinking about, but to see it take shape before my eyes made the thought unavoidable.

There were two sides of the coin. When I heard the name Iorveth, I thought of my best friend and protector, someone who had, despite all his life has asked of him, managed to stay by my side for most of it. A man whose pride was both his greatest strength and his deepest wound. A man who loved summer sunshine and played sweet music so that the birds sang back to him. But when most others thought of Iorveth, dh’oine and nonhumans alike, their minds became clouded with hatred, with cold-blooded fear. 

He was a criminal, a terrorist, a bloodthirsty villain who ought to have hanged for his misdeeds long ago. I knew this, and yet, I still forgave him for all of it. Even if I wasn’t Aen Seidhe, even if I didn’t understand the reasons for why he did what he did, I would have still loved him.

What did that make me, then, if I could still love him in spite of what he’d done? Did it make me a monster the same as him? 

The loud squawk of a bird pulled me out of my thoughts from where I stood leaning against the doorframe watching him shoot. When I refocused, I was met with the sight of Iorveth holding up a shot pheasant by the neck.

“Dinner,” he announced, a triumphant look in his eye, like this bird had been his white whale, like he’d not faced and cut down bigger, more fearsome foes before.

When was the last time he killed somebody, I wondered. 

I smiled at him. “I have a soup recipe that’ll go really well with that.”

“Sounds good.”

I watched as he left for the side of the house where he hung the bird for one of us to clean later. But my eyes didn’t follow his actions, they settled on the bow slung across his back, on the quiver full of arrows hanging from his waist. How they might feel in my hands, what it would have been like to do what he does.

“Do you think you can teach me that?” I asked when he returned, pointing to his bow.

His face lit up as I’d never seen it before. “How to shoot?”

I nodded. “Well, I mean, re-teach me how to shoot.”

He graced me with one of his rare, hard-won smiles. “I’ve been waiting for this day for so long.”

I couldn’t help but return his smile--it warmed me from within like I was standing in a patch of sunlight. “Well, here it’s arrived.”

“About time,” he replied, reaching behind him and pulling his bow out of its holster.

Iorveth approached me and presented the bow balanced on the palms of his hands like a knight would to his queen--all that was missing was him getting down on one knee. I saw a sparkle in his eye at this performance, so I played along with it, taking the weapon into my hands with gentle reverence, as though it was made of the most fragile glass. 

How many had he killed with this bow?

Then, he unbuckled the quiver from around his waist and fastened it around mine. The two objects felt so foreign to me, so cumbersome and awkward on my body. The quiver was heavy and knocked against my hip, the bow large and unwieldy. I looked down at the state of myself, feeling much like a child playing dress-up in her parent’s clothes. The feeling of this shouldn’t have been unfamiliar to me, but it still was. How did anyone fight like that? Much less with the unearthly grace Aen Seidhe are meant to possess? 

“None of this is suitable for you,” Iorveth said when he saw the apprehension that was surely written on my face. “I’ll make sure you get all your own equipment, but in the meantime, we can start here.”

“Alright…” I said slowly. “What do I do now, then?”

“What is it you think you should do?” he countered, going to lean against a nearby tree.

“...nock an arrow?”

He inclined his head towards me. “So you do remember.”

I had, of course, been taught archery as a young Aen Seidhe--right alongside Iorveth, in fact--such a rite of passage it was. But it was never something that I latched on to, preferring instead the lessons in creative arts and literature. And so, while Iorveth flew ahead in his archer’s training, in anything pertaining to combat, actually, I laid down my weapons as soon as I was possibly allowed to. Thus, it had been many, many years since I had last gone through these motions.

I reached for an arrow, fumbling around with the bow in my sudden bout of nervousness under his assessing, waiting eye. Eventually, I managed to get one in my hand and held it up to him victoriously, but he hardly looked impressed. Rolling my eyes, I slid the arrow into place and raised the bow, one eye squinted closed and my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth. I spent so much time aligning myself with a tree trunk in the distance that the veins of the wood began to blur with the brush behind it. 

When I loosed the arrow, it missed spectacularly, going wide and sailing into the forest beyond.

Iorveth pushed himself off the tree with a shake of his head. 

“You must not overthink it, Vesta,” he chided. “It should be effortless, without any thought.”

I shook my head, furrowing my brow. “I’ve never been able to do that. It never worked for me.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’m going to teach you how to do,” he responded as he came to stand behind me.

Iorveth’s hands settled lightly on my waist in a way that was very distinctly unlike how I’d been taught as a child. There was a very brief flash in my mind of something heady, like candlelight and dark wine, but I pushed the thought away, startled by its appearance. He removed a hand to give me another arrow, and I nocked it, raising the bow back to the tree.

“Your enemy won’t stand there stock-still as you take your aim. There’s no time to think, only to feel and then to shoot.”

His last word came as a command and I obeyed instantly, without thought, but the arrow still swung wide, disappearing into the brush. I exhaled sharply, with frustration, and lowered the bow.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “Try again.”

I did as he said, but fell short of my target once more.

“What am I doing wrong, Iorveth?” I asked.

Another arrow passed to me. I nocked it and took aim, drawing back the string.

“You’re not breathing,” he said softly, and when he returned his hand to me, it slid down my back, over my waist, settled on my hip. ”Your core is too tight.”

In my surprise over the heat of his words, in the boldness of his touch, my fingers released the string and the arrow flew forward in a blink, embedding itself firmly in the trunk of the tree. The tree was wide, and my arrow hit far, far off to the right of center, but it was still there as plain as day.

 Immediately, Iorveth took his hands off me and stepped back, but I remained standing there bewildered by what he had just done and what it had made me do.

“Look at you,” he said from behind me. “Just like a real Aen Seidhe.”

I turned around to face him. ���But I missed my mark.”

“Between missing your mark and missing entirely in the heat of battle, which would you prefer?”

“...I suppose.”

“An arrow wound is still a wound no matter where it hits,” he said. “And believe me, that shit ploughing hurts.”

I pulled a face, imagining what exactly that must feel like. 

“We’ll end here for today,” he said. “Better if you didn’t overdo it on a bow that isn’t right for you.”

I nodded, almost relieved at this out. I didn’t know if I’d have been able to handle another maneuver like the one he’d just pulled. Iorveth took his bow and quiver back from me, and we walked to the house. 

I felt much lighter, better, without them in my possession. I realized then that I’d been feeling the death emanating from them. The strain hadn’t come entirely from the fact that they were too big for me.

“I’ll make the proper bow for you,” he said. “Then we can try again.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Of course I do,” he answered, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “I made mine.”

“You did?” I asked, glancing at the bow on his back. “It’s beautiful. I mean, it fucking reeks of death, but beautiful, nonetheless.”

He chuckled. “A lot of dh’oine blood on it.”

We arrived in the house and he pulled it off, leaning it against the wall near the door. 

Iorveth continued. “You’ve always been perceptive to things like that, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “The things I could say about the way your energy manifests.”

He looked at me curiously, but didn’t ask me to elaborate. “If that’s the case, surely you can feel the danger you’re in here. You’d honestly be safer in Vengerberg itself.”

“The enchantment protects me.”

He shook his head. “Magic is fallible. Very much so.”

“I’d know if it fell.”

“Maybe so, but then what? You’d be defenseless.”

I shrugged. “It hasn’t yet.”

Iorveth made a sound that sounded almost like a growl. “I’ll make you the bow, you’ll master that, and then we’ll move on to the blade.”

His angry panic rolled off of him in waves. I stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. Instantly, he stilled and we stood there, me waiting, and him trying to calm himself down.

“If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself,” he said simply, in a low voice.

“You won’t need to. Nothing will happen.”

He let out a long, slow exhale. “Let me teach you how to protect yourself.”

“I will. Anything for you, remember?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”

“I know, Iorveth. I hear you. Show me everything you know.”

“Thank you, beag’aine.”

Then, I released him and we set about the house, settling in for the evening. When I read him again, there was a different sort of feeling lingering in the fringes of his usual pain-anger-desperation. And when I took it inside myself, separated the layers, all I could think of was my writing, the purple-pink-wine red hues of an emotion I’d only ever known in fiction. I knew exactly what it was, but I didn't dare attach its name. Not now. Not yet.