#but hes been alive the shortest time

[mischievousspooks]

Okay, so - hear me out here - Mikey is actually the oldest. He doesn't occupy the space of the eldest child in the family, he's still the youngest in that regard, but he's been alive the longest and Splinter just didn't think about it when he assigned their birthdays/ages. Raph was the biggest, so Splinter assumed he was the oldest, but he was only a tiny fraction of his full-grown size when mutated. Mikey was the smallest, but the closest to full-grown. And Donnie and Leo were about the same.

[starlightomatic]

hi, i just want to remind folks that a lot of people on here have personal connections to people who died or were kidnapped on october 7th. please keep this in mind when you want to understand why we react so much when people denying, minimize, or celebrate it.

a couple of months ago i met vivian silver's best friend. vivian silver was a long-time peace activist who was burned to a crisp so badly on october 7th that it took weeks to identify her body. my ex-boyfriend's family was friends with her as well, and they spent those weeks believing she was a hostage and hoping for her return, only to discover that she had been dead the whole time.

a couple weeks ago i met the sister of a nova festival survivor. she said that the hours when her brother was out of contact and they didn't know if he was alive or dead were both the shortest and longest hours of her life. another friend of mine lost five friends that day. yet another friend lost two friends who were on a biking trip in southern israel.

a couple who i know because they attended my childhood synagogue while in the US for two years lived in kibbutz nahal oz. they always told us how beautiful it was, and how they wanted us to visit it. now we can't; it's destroyed, with several of its residents killed. they and their two young girls miraculously survived after hiding in their safe room for ten hours before being rescued. a good friend of mine's boyfriend is from one of the kibbutzim that was destroyed, but he was not there at the time and so survived.

once, many years ago when the ex-boyfriend who i mentioned above (the one who knew vivian) were on a gap year in israel, i visited him on the kibbutz he was living on on a thursday night, and his friend gave us a ride to a bus station the next day to help us get to our shabbat destinations. the friend was headed on to visit friends at kibbutz be'eri, now destroyed, with over 10% of residents killed. i don't know if that man's friends survived.

another friend of mine, who was my coworker for several months when she was in the US last year, lived in metula in northern israel, on the border with lebanon. because of the war, she and many others are internally displaced within israel, because her home is not safe from rockets. recently, a mutual friend told me her house has been destroyed.

another friend of mine attended virtual synagogue with chaim katzman, a young man who spent time in the west bank protecting palestinian shepherds. when hamas fighters opened the closet he was hiding in to capture hostages, they shot him immediately, before taking hostage the women and children hiding in the closet with him.

in total, i have at least eight friends-of-friends who were killed on october 7th. the actual number is probably far higher, since i have a lot of friends in israel and many israelis lost people; but the eight is confirmed.

all of this to say: please understand when you're interacting with me and other jumblr bloggers that this is not theoretical to us. maybe to some of you, it's an academic excercise in seeing fanon's works in practice. maybe it's about decolonial theory and you might think "ah, well, decolonization is violent, what a shame but it was necessary." please remember it's easier to think that when you're not the one sitting at a shabbat lunch table with your mom's old friend who had to learn within the past few months that a woman she'd built movements with and was best friends with had been burned so badly she couldn't be identified for weeks.

i already know that people will believe the purpose of this post is to "generate consent for genocide" no matter what i say, but i'm going to say it anyway: nothing justifies genocide. nothing justifies the brutality that israel visits on the palestinian people. the people of gaza have gone through an order of magnitude more horror than what israelis have. the entire gaza strip is destroyed; people's homes, schools, mosques, orange orchards, everything. entire families have been killed with not a single surviving member. people have starved to death. people lack sanitation, menstrual products, and safe places to give birth. children are operated on without anesthesia. this is one of the greatest humanitarian crises of this century and it is israel's fault.

we need a ceasefire now; we needed a ceasefire yesterday; we needed a ceasefire months ago; we needed this never to begin. blowing up a child in gaza does not bring back vivian, it does not bring back chaim, it does not bring back my friend's cycling friends. it doesn't untraumatize the girl who waited hours to know if her brother was okay or the young family trapped for ten hours in their safe room. and i know for a fact that vivian and chaim would never have wanted this. not in their names, or at all.

so i am not posting this in an attempt to deny, minimize, excuse, or justify the genocide of the people of gaza, or to deny or excuse the nakba, the israeli raids in the west bank, settler violence, land theft both past and present, burning of olive trees, checkpoints and the restrictions on palestinian movement, the denial of right of return, and the fact that most palestinians do not have voting rights in the country that controls their lives.

i also understand that there are folks on here who have just as many personal connections to gaza -- or more -- than i do to israel. that it's deeply personal to them too, and they have watched as loved ones die, places they love and remember are bombed to dust, and people continue to minimize it, excuse it, or fight over semantics. i understand that this post will not land well for many of those folks, and that it will have activated people to hear me speak of nahal oz as a beautiful place i wanted to visit, because that land likely once belonged palestinian families, and was seized after its residents were herded into gaza during the nakba.

and.

people are human. humans deserve to live in safety. friends of humans who are harmed will feel pain, even if those friends lived on colonized land. i also live on colonized land, i am a settler. i live on the lands of indigenous peoples. when i looked up the nation whose land i live on, i can find information about their history but no information on where they went or whether they still exist. i don't know if they experienced a genocide and were all killed, or if they joined another people. i know i have never met any of them, and i live on their land.

and i'm not the only one. millions of people on this site are also colonizers of indigenous land. if you are not indigenous or Black, and you live in the US or Canada, you are every bit as complicit as my friends' dead friends in israel. your beautiful town is not morally better than nahal oz. you recognize yourself and your friends as people; you see their humanity.

i am beyond begging you to see the humanity of israelis, i think many of you can't. instead, this is my request:

remember, as you're doing your callouts, as you're describing me as evil and a person who needs to be blocked for the safety of your followers to i don't infect you or them with my evil:

i say and feel the things i do in large part from a traumatic event that occurred less than a year ago that i am personally connected to. please use what you know of trauma to understand that.

and then, if you can do that, maybe we can start to understand how trauma plays into why israel is the way it is; why trauma is actually the biggest player. so many of you have asked "how could a people who've been brutalized and oppressed brutalize and oppress another people?" my question: why would you expect that not to happen? trauma responses include fear, anger, aggression, compassion fatigue. when a population of descendants of refugees and genocide survivors, in a world that they believe to be out to get them, either supports or turns a blind eye to their government's atrocities, i am not surprised. saddened, but not surprised.

we then have to start asking: who enacted those traumas? when will we start to see the pain of both palestinians and israelis in light of the violence inflictated by far more powerful entities? by germany in the holocaust; russia and poland in the pogroms; swana arab countries in the persecution of jews post-WW2? who's at the top here? many of you are happy to believe it's jews pulling all the strings, but who set this in motion?

who denied jews safe haven before the holocaust, thus enabling this trauma to be inflicted in the first place? the US, and nearly all countries around the world. who restricted jewish immigration even post-holocaust, thus funneling huge numbers of jewish refugees into palestine, overwhelming the population even if israel had not been a colonial project? again, the US, and many other countries. who made double-promises and drew arbitrary lines in the region leading to decades of conflict? the UK.

who's funding this war? the US. Russia. Iran. don't be fooled that any of them care about israelis or palestinians. they have their own interests.

israelis and palestinians are the collateral damage in a horrible chess game that world powers have been playing for centuries. but they are not collateral damage, they are human beings, and their lives have value. collective liberation demands we look at the levels above the oppressor to see who is holding the strings, who put the puzzle pieces in place, who set off the levers and strings in a noxious rube goldberg machine that left nahal oz and be'eri in ruins and gaza destroyed almost beyond recognition.

my friends' little girls cowering in a safe room were never the enemy. chaim katzman hiding in a closet hoping the fighters would overlook it and leave him alive, or at very least capture him instead of kill him, was never the enemy. and they can't be; not if our goal is freedom and safety for everyone in israel/palestine. choosing who will dominate and who will be the oppressed minority in whatever comes next will not be the answer we need, and will not be liberation. just as zionism was not liberation. what can we build together, when this is all over?

what do we need to dismantle and destroy?

let's start with what we don't: homes. villages. cities. kibbutzim. orange trees. olive trees.

and who do we need to fight?

let's start with who we don't: the children.

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER EIGHT: LOML

AND I'LL STILL SEE IT, UNTIL I DIE - YOU'RE THE LOSS OF MY LIFE.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, consumption of alcohol, (overly poetic) smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, technically unprotected sex even after the idiots discussed protection, minors dni

☆ WC: 3.9K+

☆ A/N: extremely sorry for the shortest chapter in this series yet. also, out of all the songs referenced for the title of chapters, this one might be the most on the nose. i kid you not, i cannot explain how perfectly loml encapsulates reader/sugar's emotions during this chapter. if you'd like the extra hurt, 10/10 recommends listening as you read. :)

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

 “Can I kiss you, Sugar?” 

You’ve made your fair share of dumb decisions in your life. Plenty of moments have slipped right between your fingers due to hesitation that you’d later regret, you have a catalog of embarrassing encounters to serve you a lifetime. You’ve said yes when your answer should have been a resounding no, you’ve made promises you knew were impossible to keep, and you’ve always had an unexplainable habit of digging yourself into graves that will surely bury you alive. 

This moment is no different. 

The correct reaction is to tell him no, to push him away and end the night here. You should leave before either of you make any mistakes and ruin whatever fragile thing resides between the two of you any further. There’s a million other options you should be taking, but at the end of the day, you still nod your head. 

Not even a second later, Eddie’s lips are on yours, and it’s hard to call it a mistake when it’s the first time you’ve felt like you could properly breathe in two years. 

He tastes like bourbon, and mistakes, and regret, and a youthful type of love impossible to grasp onto. A vague memory you never get to hold, but always learn to miss. When his hands travel slowly to your hips, you’re only pressing closer, deepening the kiss with the desperation of someone starved. Someone stained. 

You were an idiot to think it wouldn’t end this way. You were in his apartment, and you were drunk. You were brimming with bad decisions. It was always going to end up this way. 

Your knees somehow end up digging into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, your recollection of how you climbed into his lap nonexistent. Had it been his doing, his own needy hands guiding you here? Or had it been you? You, with an ache that rang throughout your entire body, soothed only by sharing each of his breaths with him when he finally pulls back from the kiss. 

“Are you sure you want thi-”

“Don’t ruin it,” you beg, silencing him as you look into those deep autumn eyes, memorizing rivets of soft auburn that never really changed. An ever changing kaleidoscope, but there were simply parts of Eddie he’d never be able to hide from you,to change, “Not yet. Please.”

You don’t know if you’ll want it come morning. You can’t estimate just how deeply the regret will burrow once it’s all said and done; you’re not in the mood to think sensibly. No hypotheticals, no curiosity for the future. 

You just want him. Right here, right now. Far beyond just sex, and far beyond casual touches. But it’s the only way you can have him, the only way he can have you, for now. 

His fingers are more skilled these days. More deft and nimble as they race up and down your sides, quickly undoing the button of your jeans and easily sneaking beneath your shirt. Two years could be two seconds with the way he still knows you and your body, knowing exactly where to apply more pressure as he plucks on every string beneath your skin that makes you sing out for him. Hums, gasps, moans – they all sort of blend together at some point, don’t they? 

“I’ve missed you,” you swear you hear him mumble against the skin of your neck when his mouth begins to wander, “I’ve missed this.” 

You convince yourself he didn’t say it just to avoid ripping yourself apart any further.  

Instead, you busy your mouth with kissing him harder, faster, more desperately. You’re all but burying yourself in him. Your hips grinding against his, your lips swallowed in his, your hands finding themselves tangled in his hair. 

You’re drunk enough that you convince yourself that this is it – this is home. 

It feels natural to let him run you down this way. It’s instinctual as he takes his shirt off and your hands roam over bare skin that whispers with the ridges of paths you’ve traced before. You know that scar on his right hip from when he got his appendix removed as a child, you know that lightened patch of skin on his left thumb from when he’d managed to burn himself with a lighter while cutting class one day with you. You know him – so much better than you’d let yourself believe these last few weeks. 

“Do you have a condom?” you pant, and you both pretend like your words are choked up from gasping to recover the air you’d offered to the kiss, and not the emotions rearing their ugly heads. 

He does. Of course he does. He’s a rockstar now – he has women throwing themselves at him constantly. Of course he’s prepared. 

It happens somewhere between him pulling the condom out of his wallet, and managing to pull his own shirt off. At some point in which you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, hips grinding down on his in sloppy circles, he lets out a low and drawn out moan. All your movements stutter, nearly halting, as that sound rings out around you. You swear, it echoes off the walls of your own head and not the eerily empty apartment. 

You break as you gasp out, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

Another dumb decision for the books. All it takes is you sighing his name for him to flip the entire script. Suddenly, you’re no longer straddling his lap, no longer biting his lip and gripping onto the back of the sofa for balance. 

Your back collides with the cushions below and he hovers over you, kissing with more intent and purpose this time. Each press of his lips is followed by the nipping of teeth, desperately trying to mark you up along your chest, completely oblivious to the way he’s already left his stain. 

You’re convinced if he presses his lips just hard enough, if he bares his teeth just sharp enough, he’ll see right through you. Your skin will become all but cellophane and he’ll see all those blooming violets and deep maroons still left behind in the shape of his mouth. He’ll see the way another has never followed these paths, not after him. 

All the failed rebounds, all the failed distractions. There’s never been another person capable of taking your mind off of Eddie Munson. No one’s kiss ever made you bleed the way he’s capable, no one’s touch could ever erase the mark of his. 

The wine still makes your head swim as your chin tilts to the roof, giving him all the room possible to paint whatever picture he’s vying for on your skin. You let him leave his physical mark; you let him leave a physical reminder of something to regret. 

“Do you know how many times I played this moment back over in my head?” his voice is a murmur that vibrates against your sternum, words not quite slurring, “Do you know how many times I swore-”

You don’t know – and you never find out what exactly he had sworn time and time again as the trill ringing of a cell phone shatters the entire atmosphere. 

One moment, Eddie’s lips are painting portraits along your chest and neck, the acceptance of making a mistake settling deep into your bones. And the next, he’s lifting up, looking wildly towards his kitchen, where you’re sure that it’s his phone buzzing erratically on the counter. 

“I-” he looks wildly between you and the distant phone, pupils blown out and lips swollen, “Fuck, I-”

All the air leaves your lungs.

There will be no mistakes tonight. 

“Go answer it,” you whisper, deflating as you accept the interruption. The moment’s over, fading in between the lipstick marks on your wine glass and the glow of the lamps scattered throughout his living room, “It’s fine.” 

It’s not fine. It’s written plainly across his face that this is the furthest thing from fine at this moment. But duty calls; his phone is ringing, your mind is buzzing, and the moment is simply gone. 

It has to be fine. You have to be fine with it. 

“I’ll be right back,” he swears as he lifts himself up off the couch, but you know he won’t be. 

Your shirt is already back by the time he’s reached the counter, laptop already tucked safely back into your bag as he answers the call. 

“Hello?” he asks, eyes flitting over to you as he watches you gather your things, picking up the wine glass that had been yours the entire night in order to carry it over to the sink he leans against the counter next to. A bit of chatter comes from over the line, and Eddie’s entire face twists, “Am I busy? Yeah, yeah – as a matter of fact, I am.” 

Just as you sit the glass into the sink, you bring a hand to his bicep, letting it rest there selfishly. Feeling his bare skin one final time, drinking in the heat he radiates through your palm, giving yourself one last chance to memorize it. 

You’re not busy, you mouth to him with a sad smile. 

He’s not. Because there will be no mistakes tonight. 

You go to pull your hand away, prepared to somehow call an Uber or taxi, but he’s quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist just as your skin slides from his. It’s not forceful, but simply firm. Clinging with a desperation you can’t recognize. 

Stay, he mouths back, the person over the line clearly continuing to speak without Eddie paying them any mind.

You almost do. You falter and consider dropping your bag then and there. You nearly stay, wait out the phone call, sit pretty and patient until he returns to you just as he had promised. 

But he had left you with a promise of later once before, and he hadn’t kept his promise then. 

“Oh,” you whispered, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. You missed hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”

Later had never found its way back to the two of you all those years ago – why would it now? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds,” you whisper, soft enough to guarantee whoever was on the other side of the phone call wouldn’t hear you. The fall of his face is almost enough to make you take back the words and swallow them back down. 

“Wait-” he’s not whispering, almost as though he’s forgotten about the call entirely. You can hear the silence over the line, probably in confusion, as you walk away, “Wait- No- I-”

You motion to the phone still pressed to his ear and cheek, trying to remind him that someone else can hear. 

He removes it and ends the call before you can protest.

“Eddie-” you start to scold, but he refuses to hear any of it. 

“No, no,” he sounds as though he might be begging. And you can’t tell if he’s begging you to not reprimand him, or if he’s begging you to not leave, “I don’t care. It was just Matt, he can wait till morning.” 

It doesn’t answer the question of what he wanted from you. 

“It’s getting late, anyways,” you’re still trying to detect your escape route, the longer you spend in the aftermath making your chest tighten more and more.

You can’t do this. 

You can’t stand in this room with him and pretend that it’s all okay. You can’t act as though the wine’s effects are slipping away from you and you can’t brush off the feeling of his lips across your chest. You have no patience left to act as though your lungs aren’t shriveling up in your chest, unable to get enough air when he’s too close all while being all too far away. 

It would have been a mistake, and you’re both better for the interruption. 

Eddie shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh, “We aren’t doing this again, Sugar. We aren’t going to just pretend that didn’t happen-”

“Why not?” you challenge him, “This… it’s better this way, Eddie. If we kept it up, we both would have regretted it, and it’d just be another mistake-”

“Who’s we?” he cuts you off. 

We. You, me, both of us. We’d both regret it, wouldn’t we? 

But you still didn’t regret kissing him. You still didn’t regret sitting in his lap and drinking him in, you still wouldn’t take back whatever moment was shared prior to the phone’s interruption. 

All your regrets are spoken in future tense. All the mistakes are somewhere ahead of you, your mind running to things that haven’t happened yet.

How do you know if you’d regret it? How do you know if he’d regret it?

Your hold on your bag begins to loosen, “I- Both of us. We’d both regret it.” 

“I wouldn’t regret it. I don’t think I could ever regret you.” 

This is the part you walk away. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, you tell him to have a goodnight, and you leave. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you’ll pretend this conversation never happened. 

Except you don’t.

Your bag falls to the ground, a muted crash that probably pisses off his downstairs neighbors. The toes of your shoes knock into the worn bag, kicking it to the side with more gentleness than you should be capable of right now. When he reaches out a hand to hold you, you take it. 

You let him get his hot palms back on your body. You let his lips find their way back to yours. 

You finally just let the mistake happen and take the chance on finding out if the regret is nothing more than shadows in the closet, make-believe once you turn the light back on. 

The couch isn’t the destination this time. You’re almost sad that you don’t get to admire any of his decor as he drags you down the hallway, but you also doubt there’s even a sliver of the ghost of the man holding onto you in any of it. He’s not on the walls, he’s not in the pictures; he’s right in front of you, kissing you heavily and desperately, letting his feet stumble right over yours as he finally reaches blindly for the knob of the door behind you. He’s in the rings pressing into the skin of your hips and he’s in the wavering cologne that bursts from his sheets as he carefully drops you back on a bed far too large for one man. 

He’s in the shadow hovering over you, he’s in the slide of his leg as he spreads your thighs to find home between them. He may not haunt this apartment, but he haunts you. Your body, your mind, your senses. 

Always have, always will. 

Alcohol isn’t clouding the moment anymore as each kiss is gentler, retracing the bruises already forming across your collar bones. He’s taking his time, enjoying himself, no longer rushing through the process of getting to know you again. The loss of your shirt and the unbuttoning of your jeans is done with shaking hands this time. Less sure, but far more determined. 

Your own hands are steady, though, as you undress him. You’re sure. This is your mistake to make, your mistake to regret. And maybe he had a point – maybe it is impossible for either of you to regret each other. For all the tears shed and all the nights spent cursing his name, it’s never once crossed your tongue that you wanted to erase him. You think if someone were to try and take him, take all that you two had shared together from you, that they’d be met with white knuckles and deathly screams. A rancid animal foaming at the mouth, refusing to let go of the one thing it had ever managed to sink its claws into. 

You’d forgotten just how well you know him. 

It was beyond superficial scars and childhood stories. You still remember the exact pulse point that makes him moan out with just a brush of your mouth against it. You can still find that spot above his hips that spasm when your hands grip them, encouraging him to grind down onto you. You know his body, you know his past, you know his mind. 

Words are no longer necessary as it finally happens. 

Prayers of each other’s name, ignorance in the way this entire moment was becoming too gentle for two fools rekindling. A practiced dance you once only ever dreamt of swaying to with him. 

You would have given him everything. You did give him everything. Your youth, your future, your aspirations, your daydreams of a glittering gem on your sacred finger and a list of baby names the two of you had argued over endlessly. All those things still belong to him, even now. Even as this new version of him hovers over you, lips trailing with purpose over your abdomen, making his way down to your core. 

You can’t tell if he’s a stranger when he places a hot kiss over the cotton of your underwear. You can’t tell if you ever spent two years away from him as his hands hold down your hips when they buck in response. 

“Eddie,” you beg, fingers lacing into his curls just as they had earlier, gripping onto him for dear life. You’re looking down at him between your thighs, refusing to blink on the off chance that he’ll simply vanish when you do, “Please.” 

“Please what, Sugar?” 

“Touch me,” you gasp out as his fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, colossus course against soft skin, “Kiss me, fuck me- I just-” 

No further explanation is needed. Your wish is his command. 

Your panties are tossed to the hardwood floor at the edge of the bed as if they always belonged there. His mouth ravishes you as if this was just a nightly routine between the two of you. As if he didn’t have to second think what pace you might prefer, or when to add the first finger. Or the second. He plays you beautifully, crooking his fingers and nipping at sensitive skins and nerves alike, listening to the way you only seem to remember his name. Like you don’t remember the sound of a dial tone instead of declarations of adoration, like you don’t remember the excuses for him denying you all his attention. 

You wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Him, buried between your thighs. All hurt and all stains forgotten when he builds you up to the edge, when he murmurs against your clit about how pretty you look for him right now. 

Cheap wine soaking Halloween costumes. Hazy rooms, smokey with youthful desires and incense. Dancing in an apartment filled with boxes not yet unpacked. Whispers of something being real. Late night trips to the gas station and all the pride in your eyes as you heard his song played on public radio for the first time. The terrible waiting, the messy kisses of more teeth than lips. A simple necklace adorned with a simple ring, burning with more promises than either can comprehend, still gathering dust at the bottom of your jewelry box to this day. 

Just in case. Just in case he ever came back; just in case you ever returned. 

By the time he’s climbing back up your body, you have one foot in the past, cleaving yourself in two as you cling to him like water. 

“Look at you,” he whispers when his face is back above yours, lips still slick with you, “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” 

You swear, for just a moment, his eyes are mirrors. And you can see that dazed look you wear, the face of a woman still trapped by her past. The face of someone who can’t let the dead stay buried. Someone you wouldn’t describe as beautiful, but Eddie would. 

You should have left. You should be regretting this. You only pull him closer. 

His boxers bunch at his ankles, your fingernails dig into his back. When you feel him press against you, the tip of his dick just barely tapping against your clit, your entire body tenses. This was it. This was the mistake you had taken responsibility for, this was the choice you’d decided was worth damnation. A simple slip up, a quick fall backwards, and you’ll be right back where you started two years ago. 

“You still want this?” he sighs into your ear, clearly feeling the way you’d froze up. 

Your breath catches for just a second. More memories, more images that cut straight through you. Every careless afternoon, every serene morning. Every haunted night. 

“Yeah,” your entire body relaxes, muscle by muscle, “Yeah, I still want this.” 

You mean more than just the sex. 

The press of your heels into his lower back is all the encouragement he needs to finally push into you. The stretch burns, but it’s welcome all the same. Just an aftereffect of years of emptiness, of failing to ever find something that could make you feel as whole as he does. 

The moan he lets out as he’s wrapped in your warmth sends shivers down your spine. You swear, laced in it, there lies a gasp of relief. A sigh of coming home after a long tour, the huff of an exhale just before he crosses the threshold of a front door and has you in his arms again. 

You don’t know when the tears started. 

But between his thrusts, between all his wanton groans and your own quivers of excitement, your cheeks turn wet. 

“Then I say let it burn.”

You can’t tell if it’s sweat or his own tears seeping into your skin as your bodies press together harder, your head thrown back in ecstasy. 

“I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.” 

You find your hands tugging on the roots of his curls even harder as you try to tether yourself back to him, but it’s no use. 

“When I get back, all I care about is you.” 

It all comes crashing down on both of you as his face is buried in the crook of your neck and your thighs squeeze around his hips – all the love that was there, all the love that was lost. All the love that still remains. 

“Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

He’d always warned you this would happen. That one day he’d come back to you. That he’d only ever come back for you. 

It doesn’t matter how deep of scratches you leave across his back, or how many hickies he paints your skin with. There will never be enough bloodshed between the two of you to wash away the truth. It’s not a mistake, it’s not something to regret. You wish it was; you wish it were so simple. No, this moment was one thing and one thing only – inevitable. 

They always did say that your life would flash before your eyes right before you die. 

And flash it does – a lifetime of love that was had and love that will never come back to you – as Eddie brings you both to your graves from the most cursed of little deaths.

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[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War Pt II

Summary: Warlord!Rhys takes his mate back to his mountain camp and Tamlin's!sister!Reader has to decide the best way to try and escape

Content Warnings: Morally Grey!Rhys, talks of violence

Part I

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We ride for hours. The first two riders I’d seen join us after the first; they too have wings, tucked tight against their backs. Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to ask why they bothered with horses at all when they can simply fly, but thought better of it. The less I learn about them the better. All the easier to keep them in my mind as some faceless evil so I feel a little less guilty about putting an arrow in their eye when I escape. Rhysand has foolishly left me with my weapons, I'll put that mistake to good use when the time is right. 

By the third hour, we’ve left the bog and the forest behind, riding through what was once a sprawling plain but is now nothing but weeds. There is no magic left to keep this place fertile and thriving. Hybern’s Cauldron backed powers have stripped most of the land of its power, leaving ruin and famine behind in its wake. Little has managed to grow since, he’s been using the Cauldron to make sure a majority of the crops grow in his fields, where his slaves can tend them and ensure he gets the bulk of the harvest. There's nowhere to run out here.

Especially not when the rest of the riders regroup. There are twelve of them in total, all falling behind my captor as his great, midnight black stead takes the lead. 

I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, could not afford to keep one, but the ones that I had, back in my youth, had never been this graceful. Even with my added weight the horse gallops like it has wings, swift as the wind, its blue-black mane trailing gracefully behind it. I almost don’t mind the ride, minus the circumstance and company, as the sun begins to set ahead of us, the sky a symphony of purple, orange and pink.

Eventually, we come to a river, flowing with large chunks of ice from a not yet frozen ice flow further upstream, where they stop to water their mounts. 

My captor dismounts first, large, gloved hands gripping my waist to help me down. By the Mother, his hands are so large against my hips! I’m suddenly very aware of my own size. 

“Don’t try and run,” he warns.

I glance around to my lack of escape routes and roll my eyes. “Darn, I was planning on throwing myself into the river.”

One of the others, the male I’d spotted first I think, snorts beneath his hood. 

Rhysand grunts out a warning before leading his horse to drink and filling a canteen he had tucked in his saddle bag. His back is, foolishly to me, I could easily draw my knife and stab him right here, but a quick glance around tells me that really would end with me taking a trip down the river. All his men carry swords and knives and there’s one with a wicked looking dagger strapped to his thigh; I barely reach the chin of the shortest among them, and that doesn’t account for at least a hundred pounds of muscle difference between us. I know that I have thinned, my ribs poking out beneath the heavy, hole ridden sweater. Some days I feel… brittle. Today especially. I’m not winning any fights against one of them, let alone twelve.

No, I just need to be smart. Wait for an opening, steal a horse, and run as far away as possible. So far, whatever this monster thinks I’m supposed to be to him has saved me from harm, I don’t plan on sticking around to see how long that protects me. Even if I did believe in mates-- as if the Mother ever cared enough about me to give me a soul tie to anyone--I’ve seen the worst in people enough to know it didn’t mean much in the end. What’s a mate but someone obligated to be a breeding mare? What’s a bond if not a magically induced aphrodisiac? I have little doubt that I’m actually safe here; just alive and conscious because it’s too much of a hassle to try and drag my limp body around.

My scheming comes to a grinding halt as Rhysand returns with the canteen, water sloshing the edge as he holds it out for me. It hasn’t occurred to me just how dry my mouth is until I see that water. 

Of course, I’m not going to let him know that. “No thanks.”

“I’m not going to poison you,” he returns.

“Poison's the least of my concerns,” I retort.

He grabs my hand and pushes the canteen into it. “Drink.”

“Bite me,” I snarl.

His men chuckle at that, which must upset him because his wings twitch behind him. He draws a deep breath before saying, “Ask nicely, mate.”

I should dump the water directly on his head, and my hand twitches around the canteen as I debate it, but in the end I decide against it. This male murdered half my family in cold blood, whatever thin amount of protection I might have remains only as long as he doesn’t think I’m a threat. To escape, I need to be smart.

On that subject, does he even know who I am? Does he remember riding into our camp that night, sword drawn, slaughtering my people as they jumped from their mats? Or were we just another blurred face in the mass of lives he’s taken in the name of conquest? He’s as bad as Hybern. Even if he has forgotten, I won’t.

I twist the lid back on without drinking anything, ignoring the way my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he growls as he takes it back and slides it into his saddle bag. There’s a rolled up sleep mat, a blanket, and another sword all tied neatly to that bag. Nothing too heavy, meaning their encampment can’t be far. I need to find a way to get away before they reach it; there will be too many eyes there.

“Your bow,” he says, holding out his hand. 

My hand tightens instinctively around the belt across my chest, the leather worn and cracked from years of use. “No.”

“You can’t ride into camp with them.”

“Great, then you can just leave me here.”

It takes him two steps to be back beside me, and I’m embarrassed to admit how easy it is for him to snag the strap and yank it over my head, despite my best efforts to keep that from happening. 

“Give that back!” 

“The knife can stay, as long as you don’t do anything stupid,” he says like I’m a misbehaving child. 

He keeps his back to me as he ties my bow and quiver up next to his second sword, my stomach rolling at the sight of my things next to his. 

Rhysand orders his men to mount up as he turns back to me, and I get the impression he’s looking me over for more weapons beneath the hood. I still have no idea what he looks like. Ugly and scarred, like most warlords are, I imagine. I’d never gotten a good look at him that night, had only seen those three stars on his hood and that giant sword between his wings, dripping blood. 

“You won’t need any weapons,” he says, in what sounds like it’s an attempt to be gentle, but falls flat. “You’re safe with me.”

I’d have been safer with the kelpie. But I don’t say it, I don’t say anything at all as those large hands lift me back onto the horse, or when he swings into the saddle behind me. I don’t say anything when we cross the river, icy water biting through my thin pants, making my teeth chatter, or when the wind whips relentlessly at us as we leave the grassy plains and head into the mountains. The chill feels like a thousand needles being jammed into my skin, but I will bear it silently. He will not get the satisfaction of seeing me weak; will not be gratified by any sort of conversation for the duration of our journey.

Or at least, that was the plan. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, one hand gripping the reins as he uses the other to slide his cloak off his shoulders and over mine.

The material is thick, lined with fur inside, so startlingly warm between his own body heat and the fur that when it settles over me I give a little sigh of relief. The sleeves are too big, swallowing my hands as I try to pull it more fully over my body. “Thanks.” It slips out of me before I can stop myself.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he replies as he settles around me again.

The smell of him, jasmine and citrus and the sea invades all my senses. I want, more than anything, to get it out of my nose, to keep the knowledge of him far, far away from me, but yet, despite my mind’s protests, my body burrows deeper into it. 

There’s still no encampment or settlement on the horizon, the horses moving deeper and deeper into the mountains as night falls around us. As long as we’re not stopping to make camp, I think I’ll survive. 

“And you haven’t told me yours.” If there must be a conversation, best I can do to buy myself time is steer all conversation away from me.

“I’ve had many names, but most call me Rhys.”

Most called him Death Incarnate amidst a number of things that would make a sailor blush, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone call him Rhys. That was entirely too normal. 

“Ok, Rhys,” it tastes like bile on my tongue, acknowledging him as anything other than the monster he has always been called back home. “Where are we going?”

The moon shines bright above us, illuminating the slender path we take through the mountains, a steep drop off on one side of us, nothing but sheer rock wall on the other. 

“Home,” he replies. 

I can’t help the scowl that escapes me, but at least he can’t see it. “And where is home exactly?”

“You’ll see soon,” he replies as he expertly guides his mount up a rocky path. There is no hesitation in his movements; he’s ridden this path many times.

I run a hand over my forehead. “I don’t remember coming this far out.” It slips out of me. If he knows this path then we’re close to the Illyrian borderlines, where his warband can make a semi-permanent encampment. These are grounds I’m not supposed to be anywhere near, nor did I think I was. 

“Where were you headed?” 

My brother’s made his claim through the Grasslands, the ground barely fertile to feed the livestock in the summer. With winter coming fast, he’d tried pushing his boundary lines into the forests near what had once been the Human Lands. I meant to go through the woods, skirting around Hybern’s slave camps and slip into the Uncharted Territories to find some game. I must have skirted too far past the slave camps when I’d lost my map running from those Highway Men.

“The Uncharted Lands,” I say because I honestly can’t come up with a lie that doesn’t make it look like I belong to Hybern or Amarantha. The boundaries between the warbands shift too often, encroaching too close. Sometimes I can barely tell who’s who and this is the only world I’ve ever known.

“Why?” He asks as we crest an incline and lead the men over a long, smooth plateau on the mountain’s western face. The wind is worse here, snapping at us like whips and before I can even burrow into my borrowed cloak, he’s drawing the hood of it over my head.

His arm tightens around my waist as he barks at his men to start riding single file. 

“Was looking for food.”

The horse’s hooves echo between the valley of rock beneath us as we press forward, the precariousness of our situation buying me time to figure out my lie. If I’m not hunting for my brother, what am I doing out here? It’s been a long day; a long week honestly. The rumbling of my stomach and the wind at my face and the warlord at my back seem to occupy the limited space in my quickly tiring mind. The hood of the cloak doesn’t help. It is embedded with some sort of magic, because even though it makes everything dark and warm, I can somehow see right through the fabric, right where that cluster of stars are, as if they’re eye slits. Magic items are rare these days, and expensive, I could probably buy out the Grassland’s market of deer jerky for this item alone.

Eventually the plateau dips, taking us down the other side of the mountain, into the misty canyon below. If I didn’t know where I was before, I really don’t now. Mountains are Illyrian territory, as forbidden and unwelcoming as the Imperial City Hybern had erected in The Middle centuries ago. I need to be paying attention so I know the way back; my eyes are sharp, sharper than most, I should be able to make out a deer path or trail easily, even in the dark, but my eyes are so heavy.

I give myself a little shake. Gotta be paying attention.

The swaying, even gate of the horse reminds me of being a small child, sitting in my mother’s rocking chair as she reads me to sleep. She and my father had always loved telling us stories, my father his made up theories and tales from the road, my mother her books and poems. I try to sit up and adjust my position in the saddle so I’m not slouching forward.

“You do not ride often,” Rhys says, his grip pulling me back more solidly against his chest, so I can feel all the hard planes of him. He’s got to be freezing without his cloak, even if he is still wearing long sleeves and gloves.

“No,” I bite back the rest of the story; how my people had suffered with the loss of my father. How Tam hadn’t been able to organize our survivors in the aftermath, how he’d been unable to store enough food for us that first winter and many of our rider’s had deserted. How he’d had to decide if keeping our stables full was worth the price of the lives hunger was stealing from us; how we’d been forced to eat and sell a few of them, my father’s prized war horse included. 

“We’ll change that,” he says, half to me, half to himself. “I think I like having my mate ride with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. At least I’m awake now. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

The mist settles around us as we step into the valley, even as the path ahead becomes nearly invisible, he doesn’t slow or get down to walk the horse. He knows where he’s going, has done this so many times he could do it blind. A rare gift many of our traveling cities don’t receive. Envy swells in my chest. I have never had  a place secure enough to set up a permanent camp. The Grasslands are our borders sure, but we move through them daily in fear of an attack, keeping ourselves vigilant for whenever Hybern or Amarantha decide they want more than they’ve already taken from us. Always changing our paths, our camp layout, always moving. How come this monster gets this luxury and my people don’t? 

“You are so hesitant to give it,” he muses, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Do I know it already?”

Shit.

“No, that can’t be right. Our bond is too obvious, I would have remembered.”

He’s as clever as he is quick on his feet, unfortunately.

“So I will know you by association, is that it?”

I should just fling myself off the horse and try to lose myself in the mist. If I’m lucky, maybe one of his men will trample me by accident and this horrible nightmare will be over. At least, if I’m dead I will not have to explain my failure to Tam, or face the alternative of being this male’s breeding mare. Neither is a future I wish to meet.

It is only then that an alternative solution occurs to me.

Tam said I couldn’t come back without food; I’d made a nuisance of myself back home and had swiftly suffered the consequences of it, and with winter coming in fast, my brother has to know he sent me on a fool’s errand. Perhaps intending to keep me out of his way for a while; or to finally get me to bend the knee and submit to his authority as warlord. I hadn’t been of age to take father’s mark, and my allegiance had fallen through the cracks in the years after. Until I was integrated, Tam couldn’t marry me off, as I suspected he wanted to do often, and was probably using this opportunity to try and make me see reason. A future I also loathed to picture. Perhaps, if I played my cards right here, then I could find something more useful than a deer to bring back. If I played along with this little mates concept, what could Rhysand show me? Couldn’t I use any knowledge he gave to my advantage? Surely Tam would find other uses for me than marrying me off with this sort of leverage. My brother was known for his grudges, if I found a way to offer up his enemy on a silver platter, perhaps I’d never have to worry about being married off again.

My stomach twists as the plot plays out before my eyes: This fool taking me into the lands my people had never been able to access before, convincing him to let his guard down, to show me where his people were vulnerable. I could get my hands on camp movements or their supply lines; I could count the fighting men or the horses, make list after list to take back in the place of a few meals I know deep down I’d never be able to find before winter. 

My parents faces flash before my eyes. My mother, so gentle and…sad. She had been sad long before my birth, always missing a home she couldn’t go back to because of Hybern. But she had always tried to be there for me. To sing to me and hold me. She had been good and kind and if she knew where I sat now… what I thought I might do…

And my father. He was cruel and cold and I’d spent a long time wondering if he’d ever loved me at all, but he had been a good leader. He had inspired the men, even on days that had been bleak. He’d been willing to shed whatever blood was necessary to ensure the survival of my people. If this opportunity had been presented while he was alive, he would have tossed a collar around my neck and dragged me to Rhysand’s doorstep himself. 

As for Tamlin, well if he so much as saw Rhysand’s arm around my waist as it was now he would have torn him to shreds. He would hate it, but I think my brother was as calculating and ruthless as my father had been. His protective nature could be overruled by what he deemed necessary to keep us alive. 

I’d need to play my cards right, if I was to make this work. “Yes,” and I force my voice to a whisper, my shoulders hunching in feign defeat. I will have to find ways not to look so utterly revolted about this male touching me; will have to bury all my base instincts to run and claw and fight every time he calls me his mate. But I can do it.

I will do it. For vengeance. For my angel of a mother. For the survival my father died for. I’d damn myself a hundred times over for a chance Tam had never found. 

He rests his chin on my shoulder, thinking and it takes every inch of willpower I possess to not shrug him off. A few hours together and this prick thinks he can just touch me so casually? As if I have no say in the matter because he is my mate and therefore owed whatever affection he sees fit to grant me?

“You can tell me, I promise I won’t hold it against you,” his voice is… gentle. Far more gentle than a man in his position should be and I have no idea how to respond to it. 

“My name is Y/N,” I saw softly, like I’m scared the wind will hear me. “Tamlin is my older brother.”

He stiffens behind me and I find myself holding my breath. This is it.

“He never mentioned he had a sister,” he says more to himself than me.

I almost audibly let loose a massive sigh of relief. “Yeah, well he isn’t too fond of me at the moment.” Never mind I didn’t know that he and Tamlin had ever talked on a mutual basis. Sometimes, usually over a mutually beneficial wedding ceremony, did rival camps come together and exchange weapons, food and sometimes training. If I remember correctly, I think there might have been times when we’d done so with the Illyrians, but never did Tam mention that he knew Rhysand personally. Rhysand was always a name whispered like a curse, as if saying it too loud would bring death and destruction upon us. 

“He sent you out here? Alone?” That last bit comes out like a growl.

“Banished, is more of the term he used,” I say under my breath, hoping the tone conveys embarrassment. 

“For what?” He hisses, his tone promising violence. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Now what would convince Death Incarnate that I was something meek and fragile and in need of protection from my big, bad brother? If we really were mates, it would be in his nature to want to protect me, from both physical and emotional harm, but I needed to be careful. Too extreme a lie and I was likely to restart the war between our camps that had cost me my parents. I needed something to pack enough punch to convince him he needed to keep me close, to be looked after, but not so bad that it sparked a fight.

Perhaps my best bet was to appeal to the bond. “He wants me to take his mark,” I twist the sleeves of the cloak between my fingers as I speak. “So he can reap the benefits of marrying me off to one of Autumn’s commanders.”

Rhysand has gone still as death itself behind me and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire as whatever dark power lives within his skin comes to life. All my instincts scream at me to run, hide.

“But Eris is… cruel and I told Tam I couldn’t do it.” Eris was probably too old for Tam to try, but there had been talks, even when I was a girl, about how my father had wanted an alliance with Autumn, and Eris had his own history with the Illyrians. “He told me I needed to sort out my priorities and when I didn’t, he threw me out.”

“That’s just like him,” Rhysand snarls.

I bite down on my tongue to keep from snarling all the things I’d rather say in my brother’s defense. 

“How long have you been out here on your own?”

“About a week, I think,” I could say longer, but on the off-chance he has spies that could check that sort of thing--and I’m fairly certain the stories about Illyrians and their shadow agents are not far off--I’d rather play it safe. 

He brings his mount to a brief halt as two, looming carvings in the mountain’s face appear through the fog. The touring statues sporting the same great, talon tipped wings as Rhysand, stand guard over the pass ahead of us, their hewn sword held aloft. Sleeping wyverns lay at the base of each statue, their carefully carved eyes at eye level with us as the men fall in line behind us. The air is tinged with magic--overly sweet and oppressive-- as we approach, some sort of shield.

“From here,” he says softly in my ear, the mask still shielding the lower half of his face from the wind rough against my cheek. “You’ll never have to worry about being alone again.”

I’m going to be sick!  Play it safe. Play the game. For Tam. For Mom and Dad. I will myself to picture their faces again, to keep reminding myself what is at stake. 

Rhysand kicks the horse into motion again, passing through the shield with a flick of his gloved hand, soft ripples of magic parting for us like someone had pulled back a curtain. I’ve never seen anyone use magic so casually, so fluidly. Once all the riders have passed through, I feel the shield fall back into place behind us. No turning back now.

Ahead, the path begins to widen. At the far end of the path, still shrouded on either side by the mountains, sit two torches, the light guiding the way. When we reach them, the path dips dangerously into a valley, all filled with large, midnight black tents. More torches and bonfires light the cloth city, the sounds of drum beats and revelry beckoning from beneath us.

“I see the party started without us,” one of the men says from behind us.

“Devlon must have had a good run,” Rhysand muses as he takes us down into the valley. 

As the lights draw closer, I can start to make out the tribal markings and depictions sewn into the sides of the tents. There’s singing to go with the drum beats, all in a language that makes no sense to me, just like the markings. Something from the Mountains none of my people had ever been privy to. 

When we reach the outskirts of the city, we are greeted by two towering males, wearing little other than loose, dark paints and a smattering of blood red paint along their bare chests and faces. Each holds a spear, a dagger strapped to their muscled thighs. 

One barks something at Rhysand in Illyrian, his slate colored gaze fixed on me, still wearing the lord’s cloak. I’m grateful they cannot see my face, the fear I know will be clear in my eyes. It is hard enough to hide the trembling in my hands.

Rhysand dismounts to greet them, still speaking in Illyrian until they retreat into the maze of tents beyond. Despite the raucous laughter and music coming from the center, the rows of tents are organized into clear streets and sectors, some dancing bodies visible in between the rows, though most of the camp seems to be in its heart at the moment. 

He runs a gloved hand over the horses neck as he turns to face the men, their mounts dancing beneath them. “We will strategize in the morning.”

That is apparently dismissal enough, as his men bow their heads and kick their steads into motion around the outskirts of camp, soon disappearing into the darkness. My stomach drops as I realize I’m alone with my enemy for the first time all night. My anxiety only heightens as he takes the reins and guides the horse forward without a word of where we’re going.

I’m too scared to ask either.

Staying on the edge of camp means I cannot see any of what is happening within, though I glimpse bonfires and revelry often enough to guess. It is not unlike our own celebrations, even if the music is different.

Rhysand still doesn’t speak as we pass another group of sentries and head up a well worn path in the heart of the valley. The grass is lush here, would be up to his knees were it not for the cleared stretch lined by torches. It is quieter here, the music distant.

Overhead, the stars glitter like a million little diamonds, all the constellations I have memorized a stark contrast to the dark shadows of this hidden mountain world. We’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, shielded from view and harm by stone. It is so different to the rolling hills I am used to, it is nice to know that the stars, at least, have not changed.

The path leads to a secluded circle of larger tents, still black but stitched with stars not unlike the ones on the cloak I’m still wearing.

We pass yet another group of sentries as we approach, and only once we’re face to face with the largest tent in the circle does Rhysand finally stop.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I should have run. Should have thrown myself into the river. Should have risked a quick death trying to fight my way out of this than subjecting myself to this.

Rhysand grabs my waist again and lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing. Compared to his size, I’m sure I do. In the torchlight, this is the first time I’ve managed to glimpse his face. I’d been drastically wrong about his appearance. The monster that haunted my nightmares was not some old, scarred thing as I had pictured, I wasn’t sure he was even older than Tam. A young lord, his features sharp, but clean cut. Some of his raven black hair fell loose around his sun kissed face, framing a set of violet eyes so bright they practically glittered like stars in his head, the rest was braided with strands of blue and purple thread. By far the most beautiful male I’d ever seen in my life and I think I hate him a little more for it. 

“You must be tired,” he says finally.

I don’t know what to do or say, so I just nod, which I think might be a mistake because now we’re heading inside the tent and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears because I have made a terrible mistake!

By some magic trick, torches flair to life as we enter, the soft orange glow cast in eerie patterns against the sleek black leather walls. On one side of the tent is a bed large enough to accommodate someone with such massive wings, piled with furs and pelts of various animals. On the other end, a table with some chairs and various weapons and books and trinkets scattered about the top of it. There’s chests piled in the corner, locked and dusty like they haven’t been opened since they’d been moved in. The floor is covered in a dozen different rugs, all overlapping in an attempt to make the place feel cozier but the patterns and colors are all so different that it looks like a whacky patchwork quilt. Clearly a layout chosen by a male.

“I apologize for the mess,” he begins as he takes off the scarf tied around the lower half of his face and places it over the back of a chair. “I… was not expecting to come across anybody out there, let alone bringing anyone back.”

“What were you doing out there?” My voice shakes too much for my liking and I’m convinced I asked that far too quickly to not be totally obvious, but it’s too late to take it back now.

“Scouting,” he says with no further explanation as he tosses his gloves onto a heap of more gloves on the edge of the table. 

My muscles stiffen as I watch him warily. If he starts undressing I might really change my mind and try to run for it.

I am prepared to do what is necessary for my people, but that is a line I cannot cross yet. Not tonight.  

He steps closer to where I stand dumbly in the center of the room, drowning in his cloak, and he nudges the hood off my face with his knuckles. 

I have to remind myself to stop biting my lip as the fabric slides off my head. Even fully clothed, standing this close to him, with those violet eyes drinking me in like that, I feel very exposed and vulnerable. 

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his hand drifting down the side of my cheek.

I hate that I shiver under his touch. Hate that my eyes go to his full lips and how soft they look in this torchlight. I hate that I find him beautiful, hate that I do not pull away as he cups my cheek. I hate myself for putting myself in this position in the first place. 

“I…” this is not an act, I really don’t know what to do or say here. My chest aches with the way he’s looking at me, like maybe there really is some strange, mystical thread linking us together and it’s coming awake the more he has his hands on me. Yet my mind balks and screams all the same and I cannot tell which of them is supposed to help me do this. “This is a lot.”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he assures, his voice low and husky, a tone I think might be better suited to the bedroom. “You are safe with me.”

Safe.

As if he could ever make me feel safe.

His thumb rubs circles in my cheek, the calluses along his palm from years of sword play scratching pleasantly across my skin. Violet eyes rove over me, studying the plains of my face like he’s cataloging every detail. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

I let loose a breath as he heads back to the tent flap, where his horse is still waiting.

“For now, it would be best if you stay here. Don’t go anywhere without me. At least, not until you take my mark.”

And then he’s gone, finally leaving me alone for the first time in hours, but even if I wanted to do some snooping, I can’t. All I can do is stand there as my stomach rises in my throat. 

His mark.

How the hell was I supposed to go home bearing Rhysand’s mark? 

I rub my temples with my fingertips. I need to find something useful to take back to Tamlin and get out of here fast, because if I don’t, I may never be allowed to go home again.

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[adoregojo]

∑ foolish fondness ➛ reo.m

reo was definitely, absolutely, entirely, not jealous.

not when you called this guy ‘cute' 一sure he clenched his fist into an aggressive ball shade, but nothing crazy. not when you dubbed him as you 'bodyguard’一as if reo can't secure you a whole army to watch over you like hawks 24/7. 

and definitely not when you called that ‘mister x’ handsome.

Maybe his looks were enough to kill an entire generation, but no, he wasn't jealous.

to be accurate, he was burning alive.

yet reo forced himself to smile, despite the flames eating him to bits, it was all worth it for you. swallowing the lump that was clogging his throat, trying so desperately to not let out a piercing cry when you keep up on ranting about him when he一your boyfriend, was right there!

“he seems fun to be around, I guess.” uttering ever so bitterly, the words left stains of venom on his tongue.

“very, I also feel safe anywhere near him.” you went off giggling, while reo was on the edge of letting the earth swell him down, because witnessing hell freeze over with everyone dancing flamenco would've been something he could cope with more than hearing you say that another man was making you feel safe一and no. he wasn't being dramatic, at all.

“He even scared a bunch of creeps off my back yesterday, isn't he just the best?”

that's all? well, reo could easily ban them from 12 countries. ‘mister x’ has to get his games up.

He also has a large backyard, but that's for another story.

“Sure he is. ‘mister x’ seems like the most interesting guy to ever exist.” he spat out, hands shaking deep in his pockets. At this rate, he thinks he's all ready to cease a running train with one hand. 

“just because you refuse to acknowledge his name doesn't mean you can call him ‘mister x’, it's mr fuji.” you pointed out, as if reo had offended you with his misspelling. oh now you were defending him? just marry once and for all一please don't. 

“Anyway, I gotta meet him for lunchtime. you wanna tag along?” 

to be bland, reo was infuriated. he wanted to be mad at you, but oh一how could he when you looked so happy? with the most enthusiastic smile and he swore he could define preciousness underneath it alone. Unlike him, you never liked to swim between a myriad of people, always drawing a line when it came to your own personal space. so it's safe to say that reo, aside from being your boyfriend, was the first one to be this adjacent, the one that tackled your personal space wholly. then he wouldn't have to worry about sharing you一all for him to love and cherish. 

even if it hurts seeing someone mimicking his steps to your warmth, where he wanted to be the one and only there. Even if it meant wounding himself, reo didn't have the strength to stand up against your glee for his own gluttony of your attention. 

“of course,” reo would utter undertone, concealing what he had of dreads with a tight smile.

and yet, reo can feel your glances of doubt on him. He wasn't trying hard enough to hide his grimace when the first thing you snatched was a warped up raw meat, was he taking reo’s spot of being the first one on your mind?一and seriously, raw meat? what kind of epoch did this man colonize? when cannibalism was normalized?一 Still, he acted nonchalant. including two warped up sandwiches and just paid with his lips pressed on to a thin line. 

Even when the grip on the card was unyielding to the point he might just twist it if it wasn't for your hand to pat him up on the arm一he found himself easing up. just a little. and maybe his heart skipping a beat for the shortest time possible.

halfway walking, reo had to fight the urge to turn around and take a step back. Perhaps cry himself to sleep while he's at it. although, he found it in himself to straighten up. walk by your side with a stiffened shoulders and a heavy heart.

and when you two stopped, a nearby ditch, he figured that you two were in the place一the place his greatest nemesis of all time settled in. 

unwittingly, he asks, “Can he fight?”

“what?”

“I asked, can he fight?”

you shot him a look, tilting your head to the side in confusion. “You can say his name, y’know?” 

“only if he won.” 

you had to palm your mouth, suffocating your laughter. your boyfriend narrows his eyes at you, “what? you think I'd lose?” reo ranted, now you had both hands to stifle your chortle. and he could feel neck crimson sheepishly to a shade of red, whatever it was embarrassment or pure bashfulness under the tune of your laugh.

“Since when were you after someone's blood?” you managed to let out, wiping your fake tears. leaving reo to wonder how you directed to shone like clockwork一 glistening a smile he’d go to war for一dammit, this wasn't the time to act like his usual lovelorn self. 

“I am not. but if he wanted to dig a hole for himself, I'd be the last thing he'd see.” 

and before you could make out a witty response, a low bark echoes throughout the ditch. deliberate steps of an old dog come to view一if reo may guess, it was a Newfoundland dog breed. 

he sees you leaping up to the senile dog as if he was your longtime aibou. ruffling the feather black fur, the animal leaning lazily against your affection. reo almost awed at the sight.

“reo, this is mr fuji. mr fuji, this reo. my boyfriend.”

reo blinks. 

“it's.. a dog?” he slips out, ever so hesitant.

“not just any dog, the cutest, most handsome dog in the world.” 

Suddenly, he's able to breathe again. He felt like the world's burden just lifted off his chest. He inactively watched as you unfold the raw meat and fed the aged dog. giving it a gentle pat in his head before standing back up to your boyfriend’s side. 

“So it was a dog all along.” he acknowledged once again, a relief chuckle came from him as a soothing spring’s breeze. 

by his side, you lean onto him till your arms are touching, reo could feel your warmth against him一or maybe that was just his body heating unintentionally. “Is that why you were jealous earlier?” you asked, sloping your head to the side as you observed him. his face painted in the slightest hints of red. 

“I wasn't.” he tried objecting, tipping his head to the opposite direction of you. 

“you were.”

“woof.”

“see? even mr fuji agrees.” 

you knew he was a terrible liar when he was around you, it's always his cheekbones, ears and neck betraying him to unfold the chaste truth. with you squeezing the flesh of his arm gently, eyes keening on him. you were so unfair, you can't pull the ultimatum cunning he cannot find it in his heart to turn a blind eye on.

“So what if I was? Is it bad that I ache to be the only person you could consider?” 

there it was, it was a mythical pull一with all his three spies flushing out. “you know that's almost impossible, right?” 

“ the only man then.”

“go easy.”

“fine, the only man that'll get eulogized by you.”

“only if it's mutual.”

“trust, it has been biased for a while now.”

with that, you take his hands in yours. weaving farewells to mr fuji, with reo just side-eyed him while muttering something along the lines ‘geezer’ leaving you to question if it was your own mirages playing tricks on you. dog or not, reo will still count him as his rival of all time.

yet when you tend towards him, interlocking your hands as you walk side by side. from the corner of his lilac hues, he could tone your affluent reddish skin when tucking a lost lock of your hair behind your ear. his knuckles would linger on your cheekbones to flavor the warmth till you had to force him away.

reo would observe you for a while before saying, “I won.” circulating to the world, and to himself. with the stupidest, lovesick smile glued to his lips. you ought to kick his leg slightly, while he would let out a long, fake whine. asking you to kiss it better.

and you would, despite the grimacing peers around you two. it was hard to tell the one who fell harder.

[stitched-mouth-vs-the-world]

Just For Research

Pairing: Professor! Rick Sanchez x College Student! GN! Reader.

Summary: When Rick discovers his top student is a virgin, he knows he must change that so she can write her paper on human pheromones.

Warnings: Smut, Intercourse (P in ?), Virginity Loss, Teacher x Student relationship, Age Gap, Virgin! Reader.

Writing Time: 30 minutes.

Word Count: 652.

Format: Kinktober Fic, Day 7.

A/N:

Woke up in the middle of the night and decided to just write this. Sorry for any mistakes, this is not proofread. I'm just really trying to make sure everything is written before October arrives so the quality is some fics might be lacking a little, this might be one of them. This is probably my shortest fic so far. Oh well.I also have completely forgotten what it was like in college. I did about 3 months of Combined Science in the UK before I dropped out for an apprenticeship instead and I don't remember anything about those 3 months. So this could be all completely wrong but tbh I really don't care.I tried really hard to keep it GN, which is getting harder and harder for me due to the lack of gender neutral terms in the English language but I'll keep managing.Hope you enjoy, I've been eager to write something for Rick for ages now.

Here is the masterlist for all my Kinktober works.

---///---

Thoughts were swarming your head, making it almost impossible to think about what was currently happening.

'How did this happen?' You thought, 'This couldn't of been an accident, but how then did it happen?'

You let out a torn scream, but Rick was fast to cover your mouth and silence it.

"Shut up little Whore, or the whole building will hear you." He huffed.

Just a second ago you and Rick was discussing your college assignment. Your assignment was to write an essay about the human and animal pheromones that tell them to breed and compare the two. Something fairly basic for a Combined Science class and as the class's top student, Rick expected this assignment to be a breeze for you.

But he had been wrong. For a top student with a bright future in Science, you had no idea about pheromones. Especially the sexual kind. It was the one thing you hadn't studied yourself in your own time nor had you experienced it.

You had come to Rick after class to hopefully explain the subject better for you or give you good resources to look up but once Rick found out you was a virgin, what you got instead was a private lessons on pheromones that included an experimental or practical that would give you the experience.

So now you were bent over his desk taking all of him like the good little one you was.

"Please..." You whimpered, tired and stretched out to the max. It had only been a few minutes but this was completely new to a virgin.

"Please what, Whore?" Rick glared down at you, still thrusting in and out of you at an ungodly pace.

Rick didn't think this was exactly the best way to show someone who had never experienced sexual feelings what they were like, but to be honest, he didn't care. He was just looking for a reason to fuck you. His prettiest most innocent and intelligent little Princess/Prince who always sat in the front row, listening to him with wide ears.

But this had been a good lesson for you. Your sexual desire and need for Professor Sanchez now more than alive, it was insatiable.

"Please more Sir!" You cried.

Rick was a little shocked, but more than happy to oblige. And quickly increased his speed, you looked down and moaned into the once clean desk.

"Yeah? You like this cock? You want more of it, my little cocksleeve?" Rick groaned into your ears.

"Yes!" You nodded eagerly.

Obviously, you came first. You did so with a scream and giant smile. Rick came not too long after you onto your back, with just a few loud grunt.

You was pretty confident now you was gonna Ace this assignment.

[itslouisan]

More Q!Philza headcannons:

You guys seemed to like my Philza hc and well guess what? I have WAY MORE of them to share so let's go! Some of them even focus on the obscure colourzas or the deities in his hardcore world!!

• Q!Phil doesn't necessarily adopt anyone he finds, but he does show to need or like to comfort others, creating a scenario in my head where Phil most likely pays attention to eggs that were more abused such as Tilin, Juana Flippa and Pepito in the early days due to seeing just like Tallulah, Tommy and so on, they needed a better caregiver.

• I already mentioned how he doesn't necessarily see Q!Cellbit as a son, but I can view him going to Cellbit's castle to talk about occultism and sometimes lend a helping hand with Richas or any problems Cellbit might deal with

• He does take good care of his appearance for events and such, but in day to day basis he looks for more comfort than style, plus optimizing for clothing that is better for combat wise than looks

• Knows how to speak enderman and pigling language bc Ranboo and Techno taught him

• Knows flower language because of Tallulah knowledge in it

• old. Like REALLY old, around centuries or so, after all he's been into wars, empires and so much, clearly showing in canon he has a lot of experience in things that happened centuries ago

• Due to being old and into a lot of battles, his hearing is very fragile, top it with autism and you have him avoiding crowded places and anything loud.

• Blueza (blue variant of Philza) has a liking towards staying in the ocean monuments and is the cousin of Purpleza and brother of Redza

• Redza has anger issues and tends to need Blueza to calm him down so he doesn't burn everything to the ground.

• Pinkza LOOKS and MOST of the time IS sweet but piss him off and mess with Yellowza and he will get violent.

• Colourzas duos:

Blueza + Redza

Yellowza + Pinkza + Orangeza

Greenza + Purpleza

Blueza + Purpleza

• Phil definitely has a Antartic Empire flag hidden away somewhere in his house

• Every morning he would go to the memorial Chayanne and Tallulah made and throw potatoes, gold and a jar of fresh blood for Techno

• Has a couple of piercings such as in the bottom part of the lips, nose and tongue (he got them to match Techno and Tommy)

• DEFINITELY used the old slipper to teach a lesson or two to Tommy

• Not only has nightmares with DSMP and hardcore, but sometimes has Dreams where he connected directly with Mumza

• Has in the back of his hair some black hair due to Mumza possession in the past which affected his hair

• Has braids in his hair around 6 for people important in his life (not only his children but people in general):

1- the longest is for Techno

2- two of them are intertwined to symbolize beeduo

3- the 3rd shortest is for Tommy

4- the 2 shortest are Chayanne and Tallulah

• Smokes sometimes to release stress but stopped when he adopted the eggs.

Well that's it for the day, hope you liked it my crows

[love-lilly02]

The Challenge- Ch. 7

An- hey. (drops random half edited chapter that’s probably the shortest one i’ve ever written) see ya🚶🏾‍♀️

A total of two months, three and a half weeks and six days. 

That was how long you had been MIA. Each time another day was added to that count, you grew more restless than before. You wanted to go home, to sleep in your bed, eat american food, damnit just to have a different color shirt to wear. 

And yet you were still stuck here. 

Each day started off the same. You would wake up at the ass crack of dawn, eat something akin to breakfast with Nikolai and wait to see if today was the day you were going back. Instead, he would silently place a knife on the table— some days it was different— and walk out of the room. The same routine, every day. for the past two months.

It was enough to drive any normal person insane. and it had almost driven you insane, definitely would have if you weren’t in the military. 

You had managed to work up the courage to ask why he didn’t immediately send you back one day, why he tolerated you staying with him for this long. 

“If i send you back they do things different. Look at you oddly, treat you weirder. Here you can rest, regain your skills.” He had said, not pausing to spare you a glance. 

“I take you back when you ready.”

according to him, you had not been ready in a long time. 

you never really gave up hope. Not actually, you knew logically at some point he had to bring you back to them. And going back on your own was a suicide mission, one even worse than the thing that had gotten you into this mess. So you waited. 

If it took five months or seven years, you would wait. 

Kate Laswell was a woman of action. 

She knew this for a fact, it had been thrown back into her face so many times she lost body parts to count it. Which is why your disappearance bothered her so much. You were a person of action as well, it’s what prompted her to introduce you to the 141. So then why had you been MIA for the past three months? The thought sat there constantly, turning even the best days sour. 

That, and what you were doing to the team.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, although you did have to look a bit harder to see the changes. Especially in people like Ghost and Price, whereas Kyle and Soap might as well have worn their emotions on their sleeves. She wished she could do something to help, to find where exactly you were. Or if you were alive, even. 

All given evidence suggested otherwise. 

She had replayed the shitty camera footage of your disappearance, watched it frame by frame, pixel by pixel. Mutiple times, and she couldn’t figure out how there could be a way for you to get out of there. It just wouldn’t have added up. 

But she didn’t give up there, of course she wouldn’t.

She kept searching, looking for any sign of you. As a civilian, one of the russian’s captives, anyone. anything could come into play, you were a smart girl and everyone knew it. 

Unfortunately, that also meant you could cover up your tracks well. 

It took another month for anything good to come up. And that something good came as salvation always does.

In the form of a call. 

John had made an attempt to push the situation out of his mind, to allow you to handle your own business. His thoughts screamed at him to be more active, to do something more, but there was literally nothing for it. 

Or so he thought. 

The call came in while he was walking out of a meeting, silently dreading the mound of paperwork he would now have to do. When he saw the caller ID he had to do a double take, and he rushed to answer the call. 

“Nik?”

“Captain. It’s been a while, no?”

“Damn right it has. Makes me scared.”

His old friend laughed, and Price could imagine the way he was shaking his head.

“Yes, yes. But i have gift—what? okay, okay sheesh. I have… surprise… for you.”

Price just stared. “Is there someone else there? What’s goin on Nik?” 

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a lot of rusting. 

“Um. Hey.” 

Price almost dropped the phone. 

The process of getting you back wasn’t as hard as they thought it would be, but it certainly took a very long time. 

In reality it took two weeks. But to them each day felt like a decade.  

The entire flight took 11 hours, and they weren’t allowed to meet you halfway (something about using military vehicles for non military purposes. all four boys thought that was absolute bull shit but they couldn’t do anything about it) So they did the next best thing. 

wait. 

And they waited. and waited. Each time a chopper landed on the helipad they were rushing to the window, seeing if it was you. It got to the point that they had someone constantly surveying that area of the base, just so they could be immediately notified. 

And finally, finally you were back. 

It was a whole ordeal, theatrics that even soap had to roll his eyes at. The moment you got off the plane you were swamped with people asking questions, doctors trying to assess how you were alive and unharmed, people just staring in awe. 

But you ignored them all, scanning the crowd with a panicked expression. It didn’t disappear till you saw the four of them, standing far, far away from the mob of people surrounding you. 

Nik walked out behind you, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. The two of you made your way down the ramp to the group, and Price smiled for the first time in a long time when he saw you. 

“Welcome back, kid.”

this was gona be an akward chapter anyways, i had NO idea how to write the reader's return. I'll make it up to you guys next time, pinkie promise

My Masterist

[sunflowervoltwentyeight]

Happy 28th! Here is my June 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!

Oxford AU Series by stylinsoncity / @aliensingucci (130k)

Come As You Are  (77k) “I think it could be like this all the time,” Harry says. “I know it doesn’t make sense but I think you should consider it. I could make you happy if you let me.”  louis is a professor of literature at oxford and harry is his newest and most eager protege. both are caught in a story about forbidden love, loss and second chances, in which one is on the brink of heartbreak and the other comes along when he's needed most. Overwhelmingly You (47k) more reflections post-oxford. Notes on Oxford (5k) glimpses at life before, during and beyond oxford, in no particular order

Satellite by suspendrs / @suspendrs (100k)

“It’s been three years since I’ve had a proper hot meal,” Louis says finally. “I have no idea where my family is, or if any of them are even still alive. The only reason I’ve been able to keep myself alive for as long as I have is because I keep to myself, stay guarded, stay hidden. It’s the only way I know how to live,” he says.

Harry wants to cry, but he tries to put on a brave face when Louis finally meets his eyes. “You’re safe here. You don’t have to be so guarded around me,” Harry says quietly, earnestly.

 “That’s very sweet of you,” Louis says, putting his fork down. “But yes I do. Especially around you.”

Or, Louis needs a house. Harry offers him a home.

Just Pretend by kingsofeverything / @kingsofeverything (90k)

Louis Tomlinson is a divorced dad who doesn't date. What free time he has, he likes to spend with his teenage daughter, and if he wants to take someone home, he does it when she's spending the weekend with her mom.

Then he meets Harry Styles, another divorced dad with a teenage daughter, who convinces him it’s a good idea to pretend they're dating to keep their kids happy.

Into The Midnight Sun by summerwine @smrwine (63k)

Every day without Louis was a never ending blue Monday. Every day went without his sweetness and warmth and the radiant colours of his flame. The tenor of his voice became unfamiliar and muddled between going so long without the sound of it and getting lost with every other voice clouding Harry’s memory.But he was here now, warming Harry’s bones with lips like summer. Every moment in his arms felt like a Sunday stroll through London. Beautiful and stormy and feeling every bit like home. or, It's 1983, Harry embarks on his first world tour and Louis is a budding actor in LA. Life spent apart isn't easily adjustable, but somehow they make it work.

Everything of Mine Is Yours by blueskiesrry / @blueskiesrry (33k)

"Did you two have a good time?”

Harry in his bathroom, brushing his teeth with frizzy hair and tired eyes. Harry on the couch cuddled up with Posy, cradling her in the crook of his elbow, humming a soft song. Harry laughing with his friends in a pub on a Friday night, a flower field in his eyes. Harry in his bed tucked under the covers, naked against fresh sheets like a shock of moonlight cutting through a storm.

“Yeah,” he says. “We did.”

or: With Harry in New York finishing up his PhD and Louis in London working as a solicitor, they try to navigate their eight year situationship including almost-daily phone calls, the occasional indulgence of casual phone sex, and endless gossip sessions as the feelings they have for each other get harder to ignore.

Changing Weather (For Worse or For Better) by haztobegood / @haztobegood (3k)

Five times it's raining and one time it stops.

Spoon Time by shiptattou / @wecantalktomorrow (2k)

There was nothing going on between them outside of the normal bro-pal-laddy-dude things every other set of best friends did. All sets of best friends did things like this. You know, hanging out every day, staying up late, and chatting until the wee hours which usually ended up as a sleepover and bed-sharing. There is nothing going on between them.

That is what Harry was going to keep telling himself and everyone around them, anyway because it is the truth, after all.

[deejadabbles]

Take a Ride (Rex x fem!Reader) Spice!

Summary: Rex had always had amazing thighs, but now there was only one fantasy you wanted to fulfill with them.

Fem reader, no mentions of physical description.

This is a 18+ content! Minors be gone!

A.N: So, after @littlemissmanga gave her analysis of Rex's armor in this post, I had way too many thots about how to abuse that armor. This is the result! Nothing but filth here folks. I sort of had a jedi reader in mind when writing this, but that's never explicitly stated, just has general "forbidden relationship" vibes.

Word Count: 3388

Warnings: Thigh riding, slightly dominant Rex, secret relationships, dirty talk, armor kink (sort of?), clothed male, praising, mutual masturbation, porn with minimal plot (riding Rex's thigh into the sunset. that's it. that's the plot)

Rex was a smart man. Observant, tactical, intuitive. And you were an open book to him.

Or at least, that’s how it felt whenever you locked eyes across the room. You didn’t have to spell out your desires to him, not now, not after so long of learning every inch of each other. He didn’t need you to bite your lip or bat your eyelashes, it was all there in the subtlety of your gaze, the rise of your chest, the clench of your fingers.

All he had to do was catch your gaze, and he knew what you wanted.

It was good, for so so many reasons, but paramount among them was the fact that you could hardly flirt so openly with him. The two of you had to learn to communicate with nothing more than the smallest of gestures, the shortest of glances. The only times you could truly call out to each other, beg for each other, demand each other, was in the stolen moments of a locked office or cheap hotel on Coruscant.

So really, it shouldn’t have come as a shock, that he could read your wants, when he caught you staring at something more specific than his whole (damn sexy) person.

No one could blame you. Rex always had amazing thighs, you loved biting them as you teased him mercilessly, loved gripping them when you had him moaning at your mouth, and you loved being tangled in them as he buried himself inside you. You had always loved his thighs, but this made something new flare in you, now that you had noticed a certain…detail in the new clone armor.

How had you never noticed it before? Every free moment you had near him was taken up with staring him up and down, knowing you’d never get your fill of him. You had memorized every inch of his body, gazed endlessly at the armor that kept him alive day after day.

So why had it only been when he pounded you from behind while in full armor that you noticed his tassets had ridges to them?

Your body throbbed at the memory, the way he had sought you out the moment he was back on the ship after weeks apart, the way he had ripped your clothes off with such desperate need, the way he took you hard and impatient.

It was only in that moment that you felt them digging in, the subtle little peaks cresting the full length of the armor piece. And now they were all you could think about. Rex had always had amazing thighs, but now there was only one fantasy you wanted to fulfill with them.

Rex was observant and tactical and intuitive. He knew all your subtle looks and gestures, so, it didn’t take him long to figure you out when you started staring at one part of him in particular.

The first time he caught you staring was during a briefing. To your credit, you were still listening to Anakin’s report, you were just also stealing glances because you were a skilled multitasker. You had been feigning contemplation, letting anyone who might look your way think that you were staring at nothing in particular, while you were actually focused on those little raised ridges. When you sensed you had been ‘gazing absently’ for too long, you made yourself look up- only to catch Rex’s eye.

He tilted his chin up just the slightest bit before looking away.

In the private language of your subtle gestures to one another, that might as well have been a knowing smirk. 

Of course, he knew you were thinking about him, but, he probably didn’t know exactly what you were thinking; besides general heat and need, right? Force, he probably assumed you were staring at his codpiece, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. The knowledge of your exact fantasy was safe.

But that was an assurance that became harder to hope for the second time he caught you staring.

You were helping him run drills, stopwatch pulled up on your bracer, clocking every trooper who ran Rex’s course. At first, Rex had been pacing along the end of the track, hands behind his back in an authoritative stance as he watched his men work. Then he stood to the side, hands on hips as he barked orders. If both of those hadn’t been distracting enough, then he had propped his leg up on a crate as he called for them to keep going and live up to the 501st standards. 

That did you in.

The way his thigh was level, lined like the perfect seat, was too much. Your mind was racing with the most impure thoughts, the ideas of what the hard, angled plastoid might feel like made heat fill you almost instantly. It just might be the perfect shape, slotting perfectly against your clit, between your folds. And with Rex being the one under that armor piece? Maker, you knew he’d buck and roll you perfectly against it, make sure it moved just right for the friction you’d crave and-

Kriff!

You almost- almost didn’t stop your watch in time when Fives came darting past you.

You could already feel the mess pooling in your panties, just the thought of it all making you wet- that would be fun to deal with for the rest of the drills. Somehow, you managed to keep your voice mostly steady when you called out Fives’ time, but, when you met Rex’s eye again, you knew you were caught. He held your gaze firm, a silent knowing passing between you, that he had heard the barely there shake in your voice. The stare was practically a smug scolding, reminding you that it would be a long time before you could change out of the sopping underwear. He allowed his gaze to slide south, glancing over your core as they turned to Fives. Something no one but you would notice.

Considering all the other times you had stolen glances at his thighs, you had thought that he wouldn’t make the connection, having only caught you twice. But you should have known better, you should have known he’d figure you out.

Once the drills were done and everyone was making their way out of the simulator, you trailed far behind everyone else, trying to get your breathing under control. Keeping your mind out of the gutter for the rest of the training had not been easy and you were ready to change into clean undergarments.

Until you passed an adjacent corridor and felt hands grab you.

You gasped as they pulled you in, but the familiar feel of your captain filled your senses as your back hit the cold wall. Lips closed over yours before you could so much as blink up at him, gloved hands scrambling to find your wrist and pin them beside your head.

“You should know better than to look at me like that in public, mesh’la,” Rex growled against your mouth.

“You’re one to talk,” was your panted retort as you glanced down the empty, but still very open corridor. This was not like Rex, he never indulged in you in such an easy place to get caught. As appealing as the fantasy was, neither of you could stomach what would happen if you were caught.

He hummed in response, even as his legs started moving, “That look of yours worked me up too much,” one slotted itself between your thighs, shoving them apart as it pressed into you.

And you let out a shaking moan.

Rex only chuckled as you clamped your hand over your mouth, face hot as he pressed his armored limb against your throbbing center. “So, that is it,” he mused into your ear, “That’s what you’ve been thinking about. You think you're so sneaky, stealing looks at-”

He paused suddenly, going stiff as you heard it too: armored feet closing in. Rex flew off of you as fast as lighting, but you still barely had time to lower your hands into a dignified position before the troopers rounded the corner.

The men instantly saluted when they saw you two, but otherwise paid no mind as they marched by. Still, it was enough for both of you to come to your senses. Rex still looked at you out of the corner of his eye, breathing just a little ragged as you both waited for the group to be out of earshot.

When Rex spoke again, it was low and clear. “My office. Tonight,” the pupils of his eyes were still blown wide as he flicked them downward, to where he had likely felt how soaked you were. “And don’t change out of those.”

“Sir yes sir,” you hummed, because you knew it would make him just as wet as he made you. The shuddering breath he let out told you it took all his willpower not to pin you against that wall again.

The night couldn’t come fast enough.

It was only through years of self-discipline that you were able to get any work done at all, between your mind replaying that scene over and over again. Rex’s body holding you at his mercy, his hot mouth devouring yours, even the thrill of almost getting caught. Above all though, you ached at the brief preview of his thick tight bucking up against your core.

You were glad you hadn’t bothered with changing (as per his orders), because the clean pair of panties would have just been ruined as you turned the memory over in your head again and again. 

Getting through your daily reports was the worst part, Rex’s words coming back to you between each line of text you managed to type. Of course, it was almost a blessing, because when Skywalker came by to check on you, you still had a pile of work to groan about: the perfect cover. Everyone would think you were busy working all night, not sneaking off for a secret rendezvous.

And when you finally thought it was late enough to slip away unnoticed, you never flew through reports faster.

The corridors were empty save for the occasional trooper who saluted you, so there were no setbacks when you reached the door of his office. 

“Enter,” came his voice after a short pause when you knocked.

When the door slid open, you were greeted with the sight of him sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide, and chin resting on his fist. You sealed the door the moment it closed, not taking your eyes off him as it locked.

“Finally,” Rex hummed, a hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Then he beckoned you closer with the hand that wasn’t supporting his head, “Come here, cyare. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice, you made your way across the room, shifting off your first, outer layer of clothing as you went. The garment fell to the floor as he slid his chair back, leaning forward to pull you between his legs. 

Rex’s hands were instantly pushing your shirt up, “Take this off, sweetheart, I want to have a nice view.”

A whimper at the combination of his words and hands left you, but you did as told, stripping your top half while he pulled at the belt of your pants. Fingers worked their way across your skin as he slid them down your legs. He had obviously regained his patients in your hours apart, because he took his time sliding his hands over the backs of your legs as he made his way up to your underwear.

Only then did he take his eyes off your body, lifting them to meet your own, right before his hand cupped your pussy. Your head fell back with a moan as he massaged you through the fabric and hummed with approval at the wet state of them.

“You’ve been like this all day, haven't you, mesh’la?”

“Yes,” you breathed, but managed to look back at him again, “that’s what you do to me, Rex, just thinking about you gets me wet.”

Once upon a time, Rex would have turned red at such filthy, bold words, so awkward and unsure of himself, but you two were well past that now. 

He proved it when he said, “Oh, I know what you’ve been thinking about, cyare.” 

Rex always struck fast when he had a plan in mind, and here with you was no different. He grasped your hips, those big hands of his able to move your body any way he wanted, and he wanted you against him. 

An ‘oh!’ of pleasured surprise rang through the room when he pulled you down to straddle his thigh. He didn’t say a word as he shifted you, lining you up perfectly with the ridge of his armor. However, when you tried to rock yourself against him, his hands gripped your hips in warning.

“No. Not yet,” he said and despite the firmness, his tone was gently patient, “You don’t move until I tell you, mesh’la.”

Your skin prickled at the soft command, you loved it when he got like this. “Anything for you, Captain,” you made sure your own voice was delicate, practically a moan of its own.

And oh, did Rex’s smile turn dangerous as he said, “Good girl.”

With that, he kept his eyes on where your still-clothed core met his armor, and started pulling you forward. Pleasure rippled up your body instantly, and he let out a pleased chuckle when you had to reach out to grip his shoulders for support.

“You’re already soaking my leg. Just thinking about this got you so worked up?” Rex let out a little mock of a disapproving noise, then started back in on the sentiment he wanted to say back in that hallway. “You thought you were so sneaky, stealing glances at me like that.” 

His hands gripped your hips harder, digging in just enough to leave a faint mark as he kept dragging you forward against the hard length of plastoid, sending pulses of pleasure through your core. 

"You don't think I notice, the way you look at my thighs? Is this what you were imagining? Were you thinking about how perfect it might feel, hard between your legs?" He finally looked up from the mess you were making of his armor, eyes locking with yours again, "Tell me how it feels, cyar'ika.”

The answer came out like a needy whimper, “Perfect!” The ridge got higher and more pronounced the further up you went, and it pressed so deliciously against your clit. “Maker, it feels perfect- you feel perfect, Rex!”

He hummed approvingly, then looked back down at his handiwork. Rex heard the sounds you let out as he pulled you higher and higher up his leg, and as always, he was a smart, intuitive man.

“Right here,” he whispered, seating you right at the point where the peak of the armor was highest, digging into your most sensitive spot delightfully. “There we go, perfect.” 

That’s when Rex started rocking you back and forth in short motions, making rapid bursts of pleasure coarse through you. He was testing the waters and loving the resulting cries you let out. 

“Just the right spot for you, and the perfect view for me,” Rex hummed in approval.

He wasn’t wrong, your bodies were close, but not so flush against each other that he couldn’t see you grinding against him. Unfortunately, that’s when he stopped his rocking motions and let go of your hips.

You didn’t bother hiding your whimper of disapproval, but he only cupped your face lovingly.

“You’ve been a good, patient girl, cyare. Now, I want you to get yourself off. Ride me until you come, understand?”

“Yes- yes, sir.” Your mind was so hazy with need, but, the desire to please your Captain broke through the blissful fog, ���but what about you?”

“Me?” he chuckled again as he dropped his hands and leaned back, eyes drinking in your almost naked body, “I told you I wanted a view, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

In that case, you would give him more than a view, you’d give him a show.

Despite still feeling shaky, you managed to let go of his shoulders. Your half-lidded gaze stayed on his as you started trailing your fingertips across your collarbone. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched made you smile. Then, just as you started moving your fingers between the valley of your breasts, you rocked your hips forward.

That pleasure burst through you again, making you throw your head back, not caring how graphic you sounded as you took what you had been craving, what you needed. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Rex scolded, “keep your eyes on me, mesh’la,” his hand reached down and cupped his codpiece, “want you to look at me while you have your fun.”

You obeyed, whimpering as you rocked back and forth and met his eyes again. Maker, the way he looked at you, hand rubbing himself down while his gaze took in your wandering hands and your thrusting hips, only to dart back up to your eyes again. Since the first night he saw you bare, and all the other heated moments, Rex always looked at you like that. He looked at you as if you were the most intoxicating sight in the galaxy.

That alone made you quiver, but the way your climax was already starting to build had you shaking. You knew your body and knew how to get your end, and as much as you wanted to relish the moment, you weren’t sure you could last long with his hungry gaze watching your every move.

As your lower body pulsed with every rub against his thigh, you cupped your breasts, biting your lip at the added sensation. Pleasure wracked through you on both ends now, and it was hard to keep eye contact with him as you moaned and gasped.

Rex let out a pleased noise at the show you were giving him, “By the force, you look so perfect like this, my perfect girl-” his breath hitched on the last word as his hand continued to work at his cover cock.

You were close now, climbing to the peak, spurred on by him getting off from nothing but the sight of you. Fingers pinched your nipples, as your own thighs clamped on either side of his. Somehow, as your rocking became fast and shallow, you still kept your eyes locked on him, that coil tightening and tight-

“Scream for me, cyar’ika,” Rex growled, “scream my name!”

That’s what did you in, and his name came out a ragged wail when your orgasm ripped through you. It was a whole-body kind of climax, the kind that sent numbing ripples of pleasure all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes.

Rex’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you against the hard plate of his chest as you shook and heaved your ragged breaths. The armor was cool against your burning skin, and Rex rubbed his hands up and down your back with care.

“That’s my girl, doing as asked, keeping your eyes on me the whole time, making pretty sounds. Now look at you, so spent, you enjoy riding my thigh that much?”

Despite the fact that you knew it was a rhetorical question, you nodded your head against his chest, which made a chuckle vibrate under the armor.

“Well then, we’re going to have to do this again, aren’t we? I liked watching you get off like that, mesh’la. You were stunning.”

“Thank you,” you panted, sounding tired and half dazed, breath fogging up his armor, “thank you for always knowing what I want.”

Rex kissed your temple, then he was pulling your body into the position he wanted again, this time curled up in his lap as his hands wandered where they liked.

“You know giving you what you want, is what I want, cyare. Always.”

As soon as you were able to move without shaking, you were going to give this perfect man anything and everything else he may want.

Tag list: @blueink-bluesoul @dystopicjumpsuit @sinfulsalutations

@freesia-writes @wings-and-beskar (you two seemed interest so I hope you don't mind the tags lol)

[butchsophiewalten]

Q&A Answers and other notable moments from the July 4th Twitter Space:

-Martin says that in 1982, Kevin is alive and well, and is "probably still working for Bunny Smiles Incorporated."

-Someone asks if Brian would be a "film bro", and Martin says that Brian would be the kind of person to enjoy recording stuff to make personal films, comparing it to the way some kids will like to film a bunch of random shit and put it together as a "movie." He says, "I think Brian would be very into films, and trying to do his own stuff. I don't think he would have gotten too artistic with it, I think he would just fuck with common or mainstream movies at the time. But he would still love going to the theatre, probably. He would be that kinda guy."

Kyle says he thinks Brian would be really into the MCU.

-Someone asks, "What would you say was the biggest setback in development for The Walten Files?" to which Martin answers, "I Think we can all agree that by far, the biggest setback there was ever been for the series was the Episode 5 script." He goes on to explain that what is now episode 5 was originally the shortest segment of what was going to be The Walten Files 4, "... because it was the segment I cared the least about. And now, it's probably one of the most emotionally dense episodes in season one."

-Someone asks what animal Boozoo would be, if he was one. Kyle answers "A lion!" and Martin agrees emphatically.

-Coral asks about what the BSI Crew's favorite animatronics would be. Martin says that Susan's favorite animatronic is Banny, because that was the first animatronic they built. Charles' favorite animatronic is Sha, Rose's favorite would "probably be Bon", Jack's favorite would be Sha or Boozoo, and Felix's favorite would also probably be Sha or Boozoo.

-Someone asks, "Did Brian have any qualifications at all [to work at BSI] or was he just fucking around?" and Martin answers, "He was just fucking around."

-Someone asks about Jack's relationship with Linda. Martin answers, "They were friends! There's no- no more than that. Jack didn't know her very well, so, yeah."

-Someone asks for a Jack and Rosemary Walten fun fact, and Martin answers, "They smoke inside their homes! They smoke a lot, they smoke everywhere. They- they probably smoked while Sophie was a little baby. Maybe- maybe not, I don't know. But, a lot of people in the 70s--" then Coral interrupts, saying that they hope Rosemary didn't smoke while she was pregnant.

-Someone asks, "Does Jack Walten ever think to stop smoking?" and Martin answers, "No he doesn't! Thank you for joining the spa--" and immediately ends the twitter space.

[snackugaki]

...visdev really is my enrichment activity for i am just a bored tiger in my enclosure, looking to figure out how to get this steak out of this metal ball.

________

my tmnt au (where everyone made it past their 20s, splinter’s alive just old, venus is here, and they deserve some goddamn respite and shenanigans)

tmnt au part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

tmnt au omake 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

lny visit 1 | 2

also uhhh... i guess still idw, next mutation, and like 1 mirage spoiler? mostly for the kids who haven’t but were planning to read/watch

you’re about to perceive so much

p r e p a r e

so close to getting this AU looking as crunchy as i want it, almosttttt tttthhhhhere...!

just somewhere tasty between Mignola’s use of deep black shadow, what MTV Liquid Television woulda greenlit re: The Maxx, a dash of 2007, 1 part Next Mutation, 2 parts funny proportions

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh str ugglingggg

Leo’s shortest because haha (family baby gang, get rekt)

this is so much thought for something I’m just doing to give these turtle ninjas some softness and the genx/millenial pop culture references gag comics

Splinter is full of ghosts

(specifically the onryo borne from the murdered Yoshi Hamato and Tang Shen [because oroku saki a bitch])

[ redacted ] and Tang Shen’s ghost gained control and guided Splinter to raise the boys in love and not [ redacted ] to [ redacted ] in [ redacted ]

Splinter was just a regular little rat... who on his 1000th birthday witnessed the death of his friend/unwitting master and his wife, and thus transformed into a wrathful kyūso (minus the kitten eating) and chased Shredder until losing his trail in New York

Shredder’s fuck around and Splinter’s rampaging as the find out caused the tengu to repo some of the mysticism from ninjutsu

now all the (remaining) ninja clans debuffed and mad about it

The tengu bestowed the ninja the ability to summon shit (kuchiyose), enact mystical effects upon people and objects (kuji kiri), going invisible, minor flight (actually just qinggong/light body technique), and manipulation of the 5 elements, and creating doubles (bunshin)

but again, Shredder fucked up so now ninja can like barely control anything bigger than a lit torch or a 16 oz bottle of liquid and that’s if you got in enough hours to do even that

I mentioned elsewhere but for me in any AU I make, Venus is a cultivator and the more I think about it the more I will die on this hill, not only does it fit better than her being a “shaman” or “shinobi” it’s sick as fuck

Jennika’s origin was pretty fkkn metal, she still falls in with the Foot, gets shanked, Leo gives blood-- bam, turtle time

Jennika goes to hang with Venus in China and get a better understanding of her new turtle body

Keno’s here, still tried to infiltrate the Foot (with Jennika) but bugged out when she couldn’t stay without being made (Jennika refused to leave womp)

teaches Leo some arnis techniques for Leo’s dual wielding; Donnie also just in case his bo is shattered... again. :)

Irma has made all the boys blush at least twice

Irma is also soap opera buddies with Splinter

they meet up at least twice a month to gab, gush, and groan over what’s currently going on in their stories, when Venus visits she also joins in, Irma also has a conversational grasp on Japanese and Venus’ regional dialect because of these visits

April has a full out shoujo manga romance with Chu Hsi

and he’s a hot dragon prince uhuhuhuhuhu

Irma is privy to all the steamy details

keeping Leo and Karai as character foils

both received scars from one another

both released each other from sealing wards from [ redacted ]

now they just meet every so often to eat the greasiest fast food and unclench of an hour

Raph still gets his ass worked by Ninjara, folded like an omelette sat on a lawn chair

Vam Mi is also here, she’s fought first (because honestly she should’ve been either brought in earlier in the season or had a few more episodes because that shit coulda resolved better)

Venus is brought to NYC for this antagonist instead of Dragonlord escaping (and murdering her father figure forcing her to seek out his friend Splinter for aid)

Donnie doesn’t take the news of real vampires or real magic well

Donnie and Venus have a knock down drag out fight over it (because they’re 17 at this point and being li’l shits to each other about their respective fields of expertise)

“The nerds are fightingggggg!” cries Mikey, Leo and Raph don’t believe it so imagine their surprise when they get a demo in real time on how scary competent staff fighters are

Leo gets Splinter when one of Donnie’s missed strikes cracks the concrete

Splinter breaks them up like talking a walk in the park and it’d be comical if they both weren’t bleeding from the mouth and peppered with swelling contusions

Venus begins accepting Donnie when his tech prevents her from becoming a thrall of Vam-Mi

Donnie begins accepting Venus when she uses a massive amount of chi to manipulate gravity just before he becomes street pizza when Vam-Mi throws him off a bridge

they also combine skill sets to save Mikey so there’s that

Venus goes from calling Donnie, “Horatio (derogatory)” to “Horatio (affectionate)”

they now have a dumbass long-as-fuck handshake that’s unforgivably nerdy 

April is still a magic drawing-brought-to-life baby, Venus puts her in a painted scroll when she starts phasing in and out of existence (she and Chu Hsi have a great time in the scroll... while everyone is shitting bricks until Venus and her sect stabilize her and get her made real, Pinocchio style)

April’s grandmothers gifted Venus 2 pieces of jade jewelry, and her family’s recipe for sweet potato pudding respectively for saving April

the boss fight against Dragonlord is dope as fuckkkkk, Chu Hsi is being cool as fuck, fiddled with some concepts* that has Leo and Karai being a champion of Genbu, Raph for Byakko, Mikey for Suzaku, Chu Hsi’s retainer (a good dragon, wink wonk) steps in for Seiryu because Donnie and Venus are siphoning and redirecting an enormous amount and variety of mystical power

*i’m just pulling from fushigi yugi honestly

splinter, the boys, and venus (and others) mutating from mutagen laced toxic waste was a pure accident

Splinter was investigating a lead on Shredder’s movements concerning the Foot the same night an animal liberation sleeper cell ‘freed’ some animals from the back of a pet store (that was a front for black market domestic and exotic animal trafficking) that is also the same night a stolen truck driven by some corporate spies filled with a competitor’s chemical waste, which then collides with said liberation sleeper cell’s truck and... ooze happens

Leatherhead, the Mutanimals, Mondo, Mona Lisa, Slash also get mutated from the events of that night, either leading up to or following the aftermath

plus some others etc etc

Venus still washes down the gutter, gets rube goldberg pinballed onto a crate of plums where Chung I finds her and still gets named Mei and taken to live in China and eventually learns to cultivate

Tokka and Rahzar get made, and unmade ala TMNT II; the mutagen made them a little silly tho, April adopts Rahzar and passes him off as a low content wolfdog, Leatherhead takes in Tokka

April went through a couple of major changes so now she’s a journalist with a computer programming background who now does a podcast as an informal neighborhood news reporter with a segment for chatting with people from around the street

Mikey’s the most frequent guest and co-hosts sometimes; Donnie troubleshoots free of charge

Venus brings her province’s regional delicacies when she comes to visit, Splinter and Leo both get pu er tea cakes (she managed to get one the same age as him; Splinter is too old so she got the oldest she could find, Leo has so many tea pets and a nice yixing collection); Raph, Keno, and Casey fight over the pickles, meat jerkies, and chili oil; Mikey has an artillery of cool shirts and a lifetime supply of haw flakes, Donnie has a mountain of doodads with increasingly specific uses, April gets neat accessories and the occasional care package sent with Venus from her grandparents, uncles, and aunties; Irma gets neat frames and coats that never fail to get a “Where did you get that??”

Raph rides a Kawasaki Ninja because it’s funny

A lot of bodegas give Mikey free snacks because the bodega cats love him, and he’s also saved some from being run over or ripped apart by stray dogs or the few large angry raccoons

Donnie’s the only one of his brothers to wear both a top and bottom with shoes because once he figured out how to integrate a motherboard and miscellany wiring onto clothing... he’s been a walking computing menace ever since

Splinter does his best to enjoy his time with his sons (because as a kyūso, he knows the chances of outliving his precious sons is very high (ᴗ‿ᴗ✿)  ...give or take one of the many opponents and obstacles his sons take on takes him out first ( ◕ᴗ◕✿ ) )

god whathefuck, I was just going to make silly comics for them. how did it come to this.

[m-y-fandoms]

COMMISSION: SDR2 Boys x Female Reader - Seven Minutes in Heaven

Details: Takes place during the killing game, timeline switched around, creative license taken to imply everyone is alive and has known each other for at least a few weeks and has had time to get to know each other. The threat of the killing game is still looming though. It’s also implied that the reader has a crush on the boy in each section however whether or not the boy is oblivious to that fact or feels the same varies.

Word Count: 5K Words

Warnings: SFW - fluff, probably mild angst, possible SDR2 spoilers

Intro:

Everyone needed a distraction. It was getting pretty hard for the group’s self-proclaimed leader, Byakuya, to keep their minds off of the threat of a potential killing game, and he wasn’t the most creative when it came to having fun. Unfortunately for him, having fun was probably the only thing that would help a gaggle of anxious, on-edge teens relax right about now. It’d been weeks without incident since that malicious-looking monochrome bear appeared and told them he expected them to kill each other for sport in order to go home, but nobody seemed to feel safe despite that fact. There was no cold hard evidence to prove this wasn’t some long, elaborate prank or social experiment, and two facts made them believe Monokuma’s words, made them believe they were in danger: first of all, they’d seen those “Monobeasts” blast their innocent, adorable self-proclaimed teacher Usami to pieces, and secondly, nobody from their lives back home had even attempted to contact or rescue them. With each day that passed, they trusted each other less, and the bags under their eyes grew darker. Yes, they needed to have fun.

A game was suggested. It was something simple, well-known to most of the group, even if they hadn’t played it since middle school or really at all. It would pass the time, and maybe create some romance or drama. Any feeling was better than impending doom and the fear of death.

Seven Minutes in Heaven: a game where two people go into a small room or cramped closet alone and have seven minutes to do anything they want to each other. Usually, the goal was the get handsy, to kiss or hug, to confess to someone, to make each other nervous, or to engage in casual romantic activities. It was supposed to be steamy and awkward, to put pressure on the two people. They would all randomly pick straws, and the two people who got the shortest straws would have to go in together while everyone else sat outside and timed their seven minutes. Knowing your peers were mere feet away outside the door only added to the tension.

The location was set: a small, cramped closet in the old building next to the hotel. It was dimly lit by an ancient yellow overhead lightbulb hanging on by a thread and had just enough room for two people once the abandoned supplies, tools, and cobwebs were scooted to the edges.

And so, the game began.

Teruteru Hanamura:

   You were standing in the back of the dark closet, having been the first one chosen to play the game. Figures it would be you. Out of 17 students you picked the first short straw, and now waited patiently for whoever you'd be matched up with. It could be a girl, a guy, someone you hung out with often, or a weirdo you actively avoided. It was nerve-wracking knowing that if you embarrassed yourself, 15 people would be listening right outside the door, but on the bright side, at least no one could get away with killing you when classmates waited within earshot. One scream for help and your attacker would be caught, right?

It didn't take long for your partner to make themselves known, as the closet door busted open before you and was closed in a flash, barely giving you time to process what was happening and certainly no time to see who entered.

You were swarmed in an instant. A warm, soft body clung to your own and engulfed you in a flurry of hands. You were being poked and prodded and the excited mutterings and giggles gave away who this was immediately. You knew those salacious squeaks very well.

"Teruteru?" You grappled with him, grasping out in the dark for his hands to settle them.

"Ohoho~ yes, my queen?" The flirtatious chef snickered, fighting off your attempts to calm him. Queen? Given your little secret crush on the Ultimate Cook, you would've blushed if you didn't have the knowledge that he spoke to everyone like this.

"N-now just hold on a second! Wait!" You squealed, ticklish in odd places and your heart racing at your luck. You often spent time with Teruteru as he seemed harmless, and he made you laugh with his antics. You never meant to develop feelings for him, and sometimes you swore it was just infatuation because he gave you attention and could be quite charming, but regardless here you were, feeling this way. "Don't you wanna slow down, take our time a-and make the most of our seven minutes?" You sputtered, trying to appeal to a sense of reasoning you didn't really know Teruteru to have.

"Huh...?" To your surprise, he halted all movement, seemingly confused by your words. You were just as shocked to get through to him at all. Soon the closet was quiet, filled with just the sound of two souls breathing.

"What's wrong?" You gulped.

"Well... I entered fully expecting to be kicked out expeditiously... either that or you would make a break for it, so I figured I would try to rush in and at least get something out of this experience," he spoke candidly. It was true that he was someone used to rejection, to being an object of repulsion. He probably expected you to be like everyone else.

"But, Teru... I mean… you and I hang out all the time. Do I ever treat you like that?" You posed the question, a bit hurt that he thought of you the same way as everyone else after you’d put what you thought was a lot of time and attention into building a friendship with him.

"Hmmm... I suppose not... but this is something different altogether. I - wait a second! Are you saying you want to do this with me?" He sounded astonished, incredulous. His hands trailed down your arms to take your own in a gentle grasp.

You felt your face heat up, your pulse in your throat, like maybe you'd been too frank, too honest. Maybe your little crush was being worn too plainly on your sleeve.

"Umm... I mean, well..." you chuckled nervously. You could almost feel his smirk, the little devilish rosiness creeping up his cheeks.

"Well, well, well, it looks like my little sous-chef has been hiding something from me. All this time, I never would've guessed~ I thought you were just tolerating me," he teased. You squirmed as he ran his hands up your arms then down the sides of your waist. "Looks like I need to give you some private, one-on-one cooking lessons more often~"

Byakuya Twogami

Cramped even further into the already tight closet by his rather robust figure, you stood there looking up at Byakuya, feeling rather small and exposed, vulnerable. He looked down at you with his arms crossed confidently over his chest. This was a condescending look and stance that he often displayed. It made you feel even more inferior this close up.

"Let's be very clear here. I volunteered to go first for one reason and one reason only: as the leader of you braindead group of cretins, it is my duty to keep up morale so you don't all completely lose it. A true leader," he sneers, "leads by example. I'm tired of seeing you lot run around depressed and terrified so here I am, to save the day as usual. If this silly game makes you all stop whining, I’m willing to lower myself to your level for the night." He rolls his eyes, an expression you can only just barely make out in the dim warm lighting.

"Oh... yeah, I know-" you are promptly interrupted as he continues, blonde hair moved casually out of his face and properly back into place.

"This is beneath me and my breeding: this musty, disgusting closet, this silly child's game, this island, but I know you'd all fall apart without me so here I am. I don't intend to participate in any activities beneath me in this closet here today, however. I simply refuse."

"Yeah... I suspected as much," you twiddled your fingers nervously, looking down at the ground, attempting to get the sentence out once more. "I figured you volunteered for those reasons, and not because you saw it was me coming in here first... that would be too good to be true," you spoke shyly, voice breaking. You really admired Byakuya and the immense pride and status that he carried with him. You found him attractive even though he was extremely intimidating.

A shade of pink dusts over his cheeks at the implication behind your words, his eyes widening under his spectacles for just a beat before he took on that nonchalant, confident expression once again. He couldn't let the facade fall, not for anything or anyone.

"Well then," he cleared his throat, a little too awkwardly for someone of his usual poise, "I'll allow you to admire me. It's not like I'm unused to praise and reverence... envy even..." His voice trails off and he holds one large hand out to you as if you were a peasant expected to kiss a king's ring before being allowed an audience.

For a second you didn’t know what to do, heart racing wildly in your chest. You felt like no matter what you did, you'd mess up, earning a scolding from him, an insult perhaps... but why did even the idea of that excite you so much?

Body shaking, you leaned down, took one of his hands in both of yours and kissed his knuckles. He tried to hide any and all instinctual responses but you felt him stiffen up, his knuckles flexing at the touch. The skin there was unexpectedly rough... not the pampered, soft hands of Togami nobility you'd anticipated. You didn't linger on the thought though, too anxious to see his reaction. Pathetically, you kissed him now on his wrist, agonizingly slow. It was more out of embarrassment then trying to be a tease, however, he was getting impatient all the same. He felt himself sweating over a certain emotion for the first time in forever.

"Oh for the love of-" he scoffs, ripping his hand out of your grasp, "You're embarrassing yourself." He spoke curtly. Roughly, he grabbed onto your shoulders firmly with both hands, pulling you into his chest. With a fervor that frightened you, he took control, crushing his lips skillfully onto yours.

Gundham Tanaka

When Gundham Tanaka burst into the closet with zeal and anything other than an expression of displeasure on his face, you immediately knew he was there under false pretenses. He was the last one who would want to rush into this game, to want to have anything to do with it, so the fact that he was clearly entering by choice told you everything you needed to know. This man was clearly confused. You couldn't help but chuckle as he slammed the door closed behind him, leaving you two alone with a little privacy.

"I see I got here not a moment too soon! The imp Hiyoko Saionji let slip that this unassuming closet in fact contains a portal to the Nether and revealed you'd gotten yourself trapped in here with no way to escape! Of course, only I, Gundham Tanaka, can resist the energetic pull of a Netherworld rift! Fear not, foolish mortal, I am here to save you!" You let him rant, shaking your head at the theatrics. You found his outbursts so entertaining, his personality cuter than even his soft hamsters.

"Gundham... I fear you've been tricked," you sigh, taking a step back to give him some space. "This is a game, there is no portal... but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us will be having any fun." You spoke dejectedly, seeing as you truly would've loved indulging in this game with someone as attractive as Gundham. He was dark and mysterious, with a sexy deep voice and amazing hair. He was kind to animals and such a unique character. Truly one of a kind. How could you not fall for him? "I refuse to play now, knowing that you didn't consent to this. I'm sorry they roped you into thi-" Your words were halted as another thought crashed into the previous one impulsively like a train off its rails. "Wait a second... why would you come save me? You came in here... to rescue me from danger?" You smiled, a big, cheeky grin.

"Think nothing of it, fiend. I would've done the same for any mortal here!" He blushed and stuttered, hiding his face in his purple scarf. "Do not look at me like that! I feel accursed by your gaze alone!"

"No... no you wouldn't," you giggle. "You actively avoid us all. You've been a loner since day one." You step closer, emboldened by his response, by the words you were reading from in between the lines.

"You... you're less insufferable than the others. Nothing more, nothing less." He crosses his arms, a violent red covering his normally corpse-toned face. With a gasp, you look down in surprise when you feel the skittering of claws and fur brushing up your arm. One of the Dark Devas, small and swift, clung to your sleeve and made its way up to your shoulder, buying its master time and a distraction. It presses its little lips to the side of your cheek as if to mimic a kiss as best as it could, rubbing its tiny claws into your skin playfully. It looks up at its master with shiny, telling eyes. He knows exactly what it means to convey, a savant of animal behavior. "It seems you've earned the blessing of one of the most powerful beings to walk this plane of reality. Rejoice and feel blessed that he approves, for the opposite reaction is far more common and fatal!" He was back to his performance again it seemed.

"And..." you feel more confident than before, knowing Gunhdam took the opinions of his hamsters extremely seriously, "what about you? Do you approve?" You took his cold, bandaged hand into yours gently, looking for his consent, for him to let his walls down just enough to allow you to do more. You wanted more.

Nekomaru Nidai

This closet was tiny, criminally so when you considered its newest occupant. You found yourself crushed between a dusty wooden wall and the largest, firmest pectorals you'd ever seen. You were sweating profusely, a nervous mess. Most people slowly got to know their crush, observed from afar, had lunch and chit-chat maybe, and here you were, suddenly pressed flush up against the steel-like muscles of the object of your desires.

"Why do you look so... worked up, (Y/N)?" Nekomaru grins genuinely down at you, oblivious of both your crush on him and how uncomfortably you felt about this forced skin-to-skin moment (probably because the man had never felt shame in his life).

"I- I'm not!" You squeal a little too defensively. You try to shuffle past him, closer to the wall, anything. It only serves to chafe, to make him readjust as well until you're even stickier and smushed than before.

"Anyways..." he continues heedlessly, "I don't really get the rules of this game or whatever." He stretches his arms upwards carelessly, easily hitting the ceiling. Your eyes can't help but rake over his flexing arms and lumbering frame.

"Well if you don't understand, then you can leave... I don't wanna make you uncomfortable," you state sympathetically, not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of your crush.

"Nah, everyone wanted me to play so I'll play!" He beamed. "I'm no killjoy. You just go first, maybe I'll pick it up and understand along the way!" He was so authentic, so sweet, and positive. You wanted to melt under his gaze.

"Are you sure?" You rubbed your forearms restlessly. He nodded enthusiastically. "Well... I've always liked the idea of being carried by a big, strong man... to feel dainty and.... small and... ohh!-" Before you could finish your thought you were swept off of your feet and scooped into a pair of secure, firm arms. You felt safe, impossibly tiny and protected.

"Like this?" He questions, obviously eager to please. Now level with his eyes this high off the ground, face-to-face with him, you were stunned into silence. His strong features, so unbelievably masculine and striking, hypnotized you.

"Yes..." You felt breathless, lost in a trance. You couldn't stop staring at his lips, at his intense eyes. "Just like that..." It's silent for a long while, and he tightens his grip on you almost instinctively. He feels the need to be your shield, to keep you to himself, and finds himself staring right back.

"I think I'm starting to understand... so, it's only fair that it's my turn now?" He speaks plainly, some glimmer of want in his eye.

Nagito Komaeda

You feel like a complete oaf, heart nearly bursting out of your chest. You were an agitated, sweaty mess, staring across the mere feet of space in the tiny closet into the eyes of a boy who had you cornered like a fox with a rabbit. You felt like prey, as his eyes, always mysteriously unreadable to predator-like, combed over you shamelessly. He was always up to something, and everyone knew it.

This had to be planned. Of all people, it had to be Nagito. Someone did this on purpose... they knew you had a huge crush on him and made sure he picked the second short straw. Someone wanted to see you squirm and suffer. Everyone here knew you weren't the type to be bold or romantic enough for this game. This wasn't for your benefit, to gently help you shoot your shot. This was rigged.

"It's like your thoughts are written all over your face, (Y/N)... They might as well be," he teases, backing up until you are cornered, crushed against the wall with only his slender frame to brace you. "I know you like me, (Y/N). There's no denying it." He knows using your name, hearing your name spill from his lips will drive you wild. The little shit. "You're a wreck right now," he chuckles fiendishly, feeding off of your energy and positively basking in it. "Just my luck, to be chosen at random to come in here with you~" He grins devilishly. "Well... drawing straws is child's play for my 'talent.' Oh well! You should probably make the best of it." He shrugs dismissively.

"So... you wanted this? You did this on purpose?" You were trying to glean the meaning behind his words, his true intentions, anything to make this situation less vexing. You tried to read his pale, beautiful features, begged him with glistening doe eyes to give you space or mercy. At the same time, you wanted him closer, to feel his touch. It was unbearable.

"Why are you fighting your feelings?" He spoke so casually, as if asking what time it was. How did he seem to know everything, all the time? "Are you embarrassed to like someone like me, for the others to find out?" He snorts, exhaling dangerously close to your face. He places one hand on the wall behind you, the other on your waist. "I can understand why. I would be embarrassed as well. I'm a nobody here. Everyone thinks I'm a weirdo and my talent is useless. However, seeing you flustered, riled up for someone like me... it fills me with a sense of hope."

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu

"Get off of me! I'll fuckin' kill you!" You are startled into the back corner of the closet as the second participant of the game stumbles clumsily in. Obviously having his small frame pushed forward none too gently, he's pissed off (not that this was a rare occurrence for him) and determined to give your classmates a piece of his mind. He screams threats of violence at the giggling teens who pushed him one last time before the door is slammed in his face. "I already said I'd play, you dipshits! You didn't need to fuckin’ shove! Next time you put your hands on me I'll cut them off!" He huffs, face red as a tomato.

"Um..." You're at a loss of what to say, and how to begin. It's not starting off well. He was in a foul mood, and it seemed you'd never get to indulge in the fun of this game with him. Upon hearing your voice, he is brought back into the moment and finally turns to face you.

"Oh great, it's you," he scoffs, determined to make someone, anyone hurt the way he was hurting. If he had to feel embarrassed and have his night ruined, so did you. A shiver of sadness ran down your spine. It was like a surge of palpable hurt. Why would he say that? Why did he feel the need to hurt you? You felt nothing but admiration and attraction toward him. You'd never judged him or pitied him for his height and baby face, never annoyed him on purpose or brought up the topics that others used to rile him up. In fact, you enjoyed your conversations with him and found him exceedingly handsome. It made it hurt twice as much, that he would so casually insult you. When he sees that flash of insecurity, of pain across your face, he instantly regrets his words. He blanches, mouth dropping open for just a second before he begins to backtrack in remorse. "Hey... don't look at me like that." He forces an airy snort. "I guess you're not so bad... I mean, you're way more normal than the rest of these weirdos we're stuck with." We? "Actually, after that story you told me in the market that one day about your dad, I'm starting to think we aren't so different..." He crossed his arms, looking up at the ceiling. You perked up at that.

"You remember that? I didn't even think you were listening..." Your heart beats, and flutters with hope.

"Of course, I was listening. I'm not deaf, am I?” He rolls his eyes. “And like I said, you're not like these freaks. I don't mind spending time around you..." He sounded like he was fighting his own words, pouting. When he sees you start to grin sheepishly, he frowns. "Don't go getting a big head now just because I tolerate you!" He points at you in a warning way.

"Sorry! I'm sorry..." You cover your smile with your hands as you are unable to relax the muscles of your mouth.

"So what, are we supposed to make out now or whatever? Is that how I win?" He speaks as if this were some competition, yet another thing in his life where he must excel or be looked down upon, or bring shame to his family name. "I'm not letting any of these losers upstage me at a stupid child's game!" He huffs.

"Well, you don't have to do anything really..." You shrink into yourself, feeling silly and really exposed all of a sudden now that the actual game was supposed to begin.

"Nah, nobody is gonna call me a pussy," he snarls, marching two steps toward you with purpose until you have nowhere to go. You gasped in surprise as you were pulled into a fiery, forceful kiss that set your skin alight and left you dazed.

Kazuichi Souda

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!" The magenta-haired boy across from you was riled up, revving like an engine. He was practically drooling, shaking with anticipation and excitement in the low lighting of the dimly lit closet.

"Kazuichi, may I ask why you're so hyped up?" You couldn't help but giggle at the display before you. He licked his lips and sharpened teeth, restless and full of vigor like a male bird doing a mating dance to attract a female. He was so adorable when he was in good spirits like this, so hyper and oozing energy like the engines he tinkered with.

"Huh, what do you mean?" He smirks mischievously, but there is a hint of genuine, innocent confusion in his tone.

"Well, I'm only wondering why you're so excited. It's just a silly game, and it's just me," you scoffed playfully. You'd had a crush on the skillful and eccentric mechanic for a while now, but you'd never dreamed he would be this excited to show his feelings for you in return. Maybe he would be satisfied with any female classmate showing up in that closet that night, especially someone as regal as Sonia or perhaps someone who played hard to get like Peko, but you weren't used to boys giving you this type of attention and wanted to bask in it.

"Whaaa?" He sounded incredulous. "Just you? You're super hot, why wouldn't I be pumped? It's not every day I get to spend time alone with a hot chick, and you're super chill! I've always liked you! I think you're a ton of fun. Such a unique talent, too." He sticks his tongue out teasingly, almost daring you to play with him.

"Are you serious?" You can hardly believe his words. "Well... I really like you, too, Kazuichi... I think you're... 'hot' as well." You chuckle, cheeks warming up. His bravado fizzles a bit at that. He was certainly not used to that reaction to his advances. He suddenly feels quite sheepish, overly flattered, and it makes him want you even more than before. Your words are not the kind he hears often.

He was a flustered mess.

"C-can I... would you mind if I kissed you?" He stuttered, sweat beading on his forehead. You eagerly, enthusiastically nodded, wanting that and much more from him.

He endearingly, awkwardly pulls you in by your waist, slotting himself in so your bodies meld together comfortably. When his jittery lips press against yours they are a bit chapped, as were most body parts on a blue-collar tradesman. It was expected, but not unpleasant. It was what made him, him. He parted his lips and you mirrored him, deepening the kiss. You let your hand wander, playing with his hair until his beanie slipped off and onto the floor.

Hajime Hinata

Hinata was closed off, arms crossed, expression uninterested, dull, and neutral. It was no surprise to you. Hajime could certainly come off as the "Tsundere" type you'd read about in manga comics and see on TV shows. He never struck you as romantically inclined, more interested in practical things like trying to get off this island, or platonic conversations. He seemed to love making friends and all of your classmates liked and trusted him. He was the true neutral, often a moderator. People seemed to open up to him, but not romantically. He could be quite sarcastic or cynical at times but was reliable and kind. That's what you found alluring about him. He was handsome, with a wide chest and broad shoulders, a good height, and an attractive voice, but in a less shallow vein, he was also an ear to listen, an intelligent mind, and an excellent friend.

"They pressured me into playing. I assume they did for you, too. We don't have to do anything..." He shrugs and grumbles. His eyes seem to quickly dart between you and the wall. His Adam's apple bobbles once, twice. Little gestures betray his heart and mind. Maybe he wasn't as cool and collected as he seemed.

"What if we want to...?" You counter, unable to look him in the eyes for fear of rejection.

"...Well, do you?" He retorts, just as sharp-witted as always. He was terribly good at deduction, reasoning, and reading between the lines.

"I don't know... I played this game in middle school once but I guess since we are older, we know more... we do more? I don't know the exact rules."

"I don't think there are any rules." He takes a step closer to you, a glint of curiosity and interest in his eyes. "...Do more? How much are we talking?" You see something like intrigue arise in him, more awake than before. It seems like he wants to play... that he wants to play with you, but Hinata was not promiscuous, he was not one to chase skirts or flirt casually like Kazuichi and Teruteru. He wasn't one to engage in anything sensual or even mildly suggestive with a girl unless he truly had feelings in the first place. You started to wonder if maybe, after weeks of spending time exploring the island with him, getting to know him, your crush was mutual... "Well... we don't have much time." He looks you up and down, not so innocently. He bites the corner of his lip, thinking of what to do with such little time. He was effortlessly seducing you and he didn't even know it. He lowers down to the ground, sitting with his knees bent up.\

"Hajime?" You nearly whisper, puzzled by his actions.

"Sit." He doesn't need to ask twice. You sit beside him on the dusty floor of the cramped closet. You inhale sharply in surprise when his arms, much stronger than they appear, encircle your waist and pull you effortlessly onto his lap until you straddle him. Your face is inches from his, your warm thighs hugging his hips. "Is this fine to start?" He speaks in a new octave, lower than you've ever heard from him. A shiver runs down your spine.

"Of course..." Your eyelids feel begin to feel heavy, your head dizzy. Was this really happening?

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Two)

Summary: He shuffled back some, giving her plenty of space. Enough that she could get out of her hiding spot and run away, if she wanted to. He would follow her again if she did, a hidden, monstrous protector. But he didn't want to hide. He wanted to be next to her, to have her ask him more questions, to not be alone, anymore… Word Count: 2129 Warnings: no smut this chapter (this fic is the slowest of burns y'all, strap in for a looooong ride), vague, brief references to unspecified abuse in the OC's backstory, semi-graphic violence, POV switches denoted by line breaks Notes: This is by far the shortest chapter in this fic as it currently stands. I am thinking of doing a double update today to make it up to the few of you who read this, whoever you are XD let me know if that is something y'all would like. AO3, Masterlist

Lelia woke up slowly, sore and confused. She wasn’t in the bed she shared with Andrew, back at the base, stealing precious hours of sleep in the time that he was gone, unable to relax when he was lying next to her. No, she was somewhere else, somewhere that smelled of damp earth and—rot?

Lelia opened her eyes, trying to figure out where she was—and then screamed at the nightmarish sight that greeted her.

Milky white eyes stared at her through a dirty, broken skull mask. The zombie’s jaw hung open, bloody, grey flesh peeled away from its sharp teeth and blackened gums, leaving them exposed threateningly. Lelia tried to back away, but she was cornered, stuck in a trap of her own making.

It was then that the events of last night came back to her, and she sucked in a breath as she realized the zombie in front of her, who was now groaning quietly as it—moved away from her? What?—was the same one from last night, the one that had scared off all the others that had left her stranded in a tree. The one that had almost seemed to understand her when she’d begged for help, and then for it to go away…

***

Ghost hadn’t left his little dove’s side all night, standing over her like her very own guard dog. The comparison would’ve bothered him, when he was human—but he was more beast than man, now, so he simply thought it was fitting.

The zombies he’d heard earlier had indeed caught his dove's delicious scent, but one deep, rumbling growl from him had scared them off when they’d gotten too close for comfort. He’d checked afterwards to make sure he hadn’t woken her, but the poor thing hadn’t so much as twitched. Her utter lack of survival instincts dumbfounded him. He had no idea how she’d made it this long. But he was oddly glad for it, even if it concerned him. The end of the world hadn’t taken her softness from her, and he knew it would have been just as intriguing to him when he was alive as it was now. Ghost had never had something soft in his life, and his undeath had stripped him of everything warm, too. She was both. It made him want to curl around her like a shield, and protect her from the horrors of the world. To keep that innocent spirit from breaking. And he could, now, in a way he wouldn't have been able to do before. Because he had no other purpose, anymore. She could give him one, and if only she’d let him stay, maybe she could give him some of that warmth and softness, too…

Hours later, he heard her begin to stir. He took another step back from her little hideout, but crouched down so she could see his face, his stiff knees creaking ominously. He knew it wasn’t exactly a comforting sight, but he hoped that she might be slightly less frightened if she recognized him from last night, the zombie that had saved her and then let her go, rather than thinking he was some random infected.

When she screamed bloody murder upon seeing him, though, he reevaluated. It had been quite a while since he’d seen his own reflection—maybe he looked even worse than he thought…

Ghost automatically raised his hands as if to show he wasn’t a threat. That only made her curl in on herself, though, like she was expecting him to lunge for her. Which, well, of course she was. He was a zombie. A flesh eating monster. And she smelled so good…

He grunted as he shook the thought out of his virus-laden brain. His little dove let out a small, terrified noise, burying her sweet face in her knees, so he stopped. He wished he could tell her that he wasn’t going to hurt her, but every noise or move he made only seemed to scare her further. How was he supposed to explain that he was different from the other walking corpses? That he wanted to protect her, not eat her?

He looked down at the dirt, and he had an idea. He clumsily swiped away the leaves and other debris, then began to drag his fingertips through the clean patch of dirt. He was trying to write a single word—safe—but as he went to draw the first letter, he realized he didn't know what it was.

The thought made him go still. How did he not know how to spell such a simple word? He was no genius, but he wasn’t a bloody idiot, either.

Ghost growled, frustrated and more than a little bit afraid. He didn’t want to admit what he knew to be true—that the virus had destroyed so much of his brain that he was now illiterate. It was maddening. It was terrifying. He’d already known he was just a shell of his former self, barely clinging to his humanity, and yet…

“Wh-why aren’t you trying to e-eat me?”

Ghost looked up so fast that his broken jaw wobbled precariously, almost looking like it was about to fall off. He reached up and tried to put it back into place, to seem just a tad more human, but it simply fell open again as soon as he let go, dangling uselessly. None of that mattered, though, because she was talking to him. For the first time since he’d been infected, he was having a conversation. He would have smiled if he could have, so bright that Johnny would’ve asked him who he was and what he’d done with the real Ghost.

Who’s Johnny?

Ghost didn't know the answer to that question, but he didn’t linger on the wisps of longing and grief that came with it, nearly giddy from his dove’s question. She looked like she didn’t truly expect him to understand her, let alone answer, but the fact that she’d asked at all was enough. This was his chance. He couldn’t fuck this up. He couldn’t.

He shuffled back some, giving her plenty of space. Enough that she could get out of her hiding spot and run away, if she wanted to. He would follow her again if she did, a hidden, monstrous protector. But he didn't want to hide. He wanted to be next to her, to have her ask him more questions, to not be alone, anymore…

He settled down onto the ground fully, and then stiffly patted the spot next to him, inviting her to come sit. He didn't expect her to, even if he hoped she would—he just wanted to show her that he wasn’t a mindless animal, nor a threat. He wished he had food to give her, or even just a blanket. Anything to prove that he came in peace, and that he was useful to have around.

***

“You… you want me to sit with you?”

Lelia could hardly believe the words coming from her mouth, or the sight in front of her. A zombie, staring at her rather than eating her, inviting her to come sit next to it. A zombie that bobbed its head at her question and let out a soft groan, like it was trying to say why yes, yes I do.

Lelia was officially insane.

“Are you going to eat me?”

She was crazy, and she was going even crazier for entertaining the notion that a walking corpse could understand her, could communicate with her. All the survivors on the base had said the infected ceased to be human the second they turned. The second they were bitten, in some of the more ruthless soldiers’ opinions.

She shivered at the memory. She didn't like soldiers. She didn’t trust them, not anymore. Not after what they’d done to her. And as she really looked at the zombie, she realized something terrible—he was one of them. Or he had been. It was all so confusing…

The zombie shook its head stiffly, broken, hanging jaw clacking as it jerked back and forth at the movement. It was incredibly disturbing. She looked away.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed in a whisper after a long moment, still not looking at the undead soldier. She didn't know why she was still talking to it. She should stop. She shouldn’t play into whatever delusion this was. But she couldn’t seem to control herself. “I don’t know how to survive out here. But I won’t go back. I won’t.”

The zombie made what could have been considered a questioning noise, if Lelia was insane. She turned to glare at its terrifying, rotting face and its black, bloody, ragged tactical gear.

“The military base,” she answered, like it had actually asked. Her narrowed eyes were haunted as she stared at it angrily, tears threatening to fall. “I know what evils you soldiers are capable of. And I won’t suffer them, not anymore. I’d rather be torn apart.”

The zombie groaned quietly, lowering its head, almost as if it was ashamed. Of what, she didn't know. Being military? Or its fellow soldiers’ cruelty? No. Lelia was just projecting. It was probably a groan of hunger.

She swallowed nervously at the thought, shifting like she was going to try and make a run for it, because she was. But the zombie’s gaze darted back up, and she froze. But when it didn’t move, she slowly began crawling out of her little tree hollow again, until she was standing over it’s crouched form, staring down into empty white eyes. Gathering her scraps of bravery, she turned her back on it and began walking away from it as quickly as she could, still too sore and tired to run like she wanted to.

She looked over her shoulder so many times during that first hour, she lost count. The zombie had followed her once already—what was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

That was, if it was even real. She had begun to convince herself it wasn’t, at least not this second time. It had to have been real last night, there was no other explanation as to how she was still alive. But today? There was just no way. It had seemed far too intelligent to be real, today. She’d practically had a conversation with it!

She shook her head, letting out a huff of disbelieving laughter. No. Last night had been an anomaly, a fluke, some sort of strange zombie infighting, maybe some territorial hierarchical dominance ritual…

Lelia was definitely losing it.

Finally, she felt confident enough that no zombie soldier, figment of her imagination or not, was following her, and she stopped bothering to check. She was on a mission to find… something. Something to eat, something to drink, somewhere safe and warm to rest. Just… something. Anything to help her live another day.

After several more hours, in which Lelia had truly begun to flag, fate took pity on her, and brought her to a run down cabin in the middle of the woods. She quickened her steps, stumbling through the door, desperate to get out of the cold.

She barely had a second to notice the infected waiting inside before it was upon her.

Lelia screamed, trying to get away, but the woman’s stumbling corpse held on tight, jaws snapping in her face. Lelia barely managed to keep it from biting her, using all her strength to hold it back. But her arms were already trembling, and with every second, the gnashing teeth were getting closer.

This is it, she thought, terrified. This is how I die.

Suddenly, the zombie was ripped off of her, and Lelia fell to the ground, watching with wide eyes as her zombie—the one she’d seen last night and hallucinated this morning—slammed the other against the wall, over and over again until it finally stopped moving. A dark patch of black blood stained the wood where its head had been after the undead soldier dropped it, and Lelia stared at it, dazed and confused.

Suddenly, she felt gloved hands on her body, quickly running up and down her limbs. She shrieked, kicking out as she tried to scramble away. Her foot connected with something hard, but it didn’t move. It just let out a familiar grunt and released her.

Lelia froze, her panic clearing enough to register her zombie standing over her, taking a step back as it let out a gurgling noise. It had touched her. It had killed the undead that was trying to eat her, and it had touched her. She’d felt it.

It wasn’t a hallucination. “You’re real,” she breathed, feeling dizzy at the realization. “You’re real, and you’re not eating me, and you’re— you’re protecting me. How? Why?”

[beautifulpersonpeach]

I'm still here ngl..

*

Listen, I see this and feel so much happiness. Jimin dancing, showing who he is, showing the versatility of his style and giving us just a glimpse into the extensive, vast range of his talent.

There's been some revisionism happening regarding BTS that's ratcheted up in the last three years or so. I can't be the only person who's noticed it. People more forcefully asserting things about the members that are just plain absurd, like saying this or that member isn't that talented, or that xyz member has this massive character failing that's only just apparent now for some reason, or that things they've said and done aren't actually the case. After FACE, I noticed people saying shit like Jimin can't sing and can't dance...

That reminds me, I went to a cup-sleeve event in June for another group and someone told me to my face Jimin can't dance and I almost uppercut that bitch. It ticked me off but I didn't actually assault her. What I did instead was ask her to explain what she meant, told her I disagreed, and showed her why by playing Jimin's Black Swan solo DP. She took back her initial claim and said she'd just been in a k-pop group online and all those people were saying is how none of the BTS members are that talented especially Jimin who apparently can't sing to save his life and whatever dancing he can do is limited to a few moves from 6 years ago.

Plain insanity.

Jimin, out of the kindness of his sweet, magnanimous heart, is giving the amnesia patients a crash course in who he is. He's reminding people he is Park Jimin of BTS. The dancer who joined a nearly bankrupt agency, had the shortest training period in that agency's history, and with the least resources, and debuted as the main dancer and lead singer of what is now the biggest group in the world. The man who critics from all over the world laud as a virtuoso, in voice, dance, and performance. His voice has brought men to their knees, calmed babies, enchanted concert halls, made stadiums full of people cry out in pure joy. There's nobody alive or dead like Park Jimin, and the fact we all get to exist in the same time as him is a blessing too many people (for my liking) take for granted.

ThisIsJimin is a gift I'm thankful to Jimin for giving us again.

*

Anyway, I was watching that clip again with a friend and she pointed out how cool the dance practice room was. Noted how it's a massive improvement from the old BigHit halls that had mold growing on the walls and water dripping on live wires in the back. It's taken years, hard work by the members, good business sense from BigHit/HYBE, and a lot of my own hard-earned money as well as the resources (time, money, otherwise) from ARMYs over the years to get to this point - and I just want to say, speaking for myself, even though I still see massive room for improvement, I feel very happy with the state of things.

HYBE is cultivating a solid roster of talent built on BTS's hard work. The world-class facilities in the building is the first good sign, as well as the talent now being fostered there. I love the quality of the army of dancers Jimin had access to for his SMF Pt2 performances, I love that NewJeans is doing so well that Riot Games sought them to feature on their new World's anthem, I love that a whole new generation of incredible groups are growing in the environment created by BTS's own trials and success.

BOYNEXTDOOR is a group that continues to have my attention because all six boys are just that good. They posted their dance practice for Crying today (my favourite song from a rookie group in 2023), and I noticed they did it in a similar dark coloured dance practice room Jimin filmed his #ThisIsJimin choreo in. And that really just put a very silly smile on my face for a reason I can't pinpoint yet.

*

Maybe it's aftereffects from the Jimin Effect after streaming his reel as hard as I'm streaming Indigo lately.

I see the asks you send, about Golden, JK in general, jokers, this or that thing happening in fandom, and I'll get to them at some point but I don't want to talk about them right now. Because I'm still stuck on Jimin showcasing himself in that air conditioned, world class dance practice room that's only possible because of his hard work, tenacity, talent, and love for his group.

I'm still stuck on Jimin and legit cannot move on. He's such a beast. Such a calculating, proud, stubborn, and kind beast of a man.

I'm not sure what's going on with me.

We're in Jimtober so maybe his juju is just extra strong and I can't escape his grip no matter what I try. Anyway, it's a good idea to stream FACE, allow yourself to re-experience his album, check out his other solos as well (played Christmas Love over the weekend and realized it sounds even better on low frequency speakers), and eat a lot of spicy food followed by warm/hot drinks because Jimin is curious about such things (and it really does work).

[cawsceries]

your ocs 🔫 tell me everything and anything you wanna share

HI CRYPT i have a lot :]

so i have four main guys with an actual storyline (avry arlo rass rocks). technically five but the fifth doesn't have a name yet so we're not talking about her. and then i have funky little guys (moth, some other clones who i havent posted, and my newest guys cobra and lio!!)

avry is in her early twenties! she was knighted roughly a month before the clone wars began and wasn't supposed to lead a battalion at first. the jedi master who was going to lead the 409th battalion was several weeks away from kamino as the clone wars started, though, and avry was temporarily assigned to the 409th because she's closer and there isn't time to wait.

this temporary assignment is when she first met arlo, who at the time was a captain. in their third or fourth battle, the LAAT/i that was carrying arlo was shot down and his helmet was knocked off in the crash. avry lifted the rubble of the LAAT/i off of the survivors of the crash using the force-- if she hadn't been there, arlo probably would've bled out from his head injury before anyone managed to get to him.

shortly after this, the jedi master in charge of the 409th finally arrives! she's an older rodian training her second padawan, rass. she and avry's master are padawan siblings. avry leaves the 409th in the jedi master's capable hands and is assigned on several small relief missions.

of course, a few months later the 409th has an encounter with general grievous. the jedi master does not survive, but she does make sure rass will make it out alive.

avry is in the area, so she returns to the 409th. rass is supposed to go back to the jedi temple but they can't fathom leaving all of the clones they've befriended and fought beside-- they've already lost their master. so avry (impulsively) offers to take rass on as her own padawan.

and. well. this solves some problems. this also creates more problems. avry is already absolutely terrified about being responsible for a battalion. now she's also responsible for rass as well, who's basically her little sibling. she's not prepared for either of these things, but she's good enough at faking it so she's not going to think about it too much because she might break down and there isn't time for that. she can process everything when the war is over and everything goes back to normal.

she's very good at convincing herself that things will go back to normal.

arlo is doing better overall-- he's been promoted to commander (the original commander died a few weeks after avry left). he has a lot of confidence in avry. between avry saving his life early on, and the jedi master's competence and poise, he's a little ridiculously loyal to the jedi.

he's also a little bit blind to avry's flaws.

hold on. about arlo's pronouns: she is not thinking about her gender in universe until pretty late in the clone wars. i swap between she and he because she will end up using she/he pronouns.

rass meets rocks when their first master is still alive, while scouting out a droid factory. rass is leading rocks' squad and there are droids coming their direction. rass asks the clones if any of them have something that rass can throw to distract the droids. rocks hands over a rock. a few minutes later rass asks for another object. rocks hands over another rock. he has at least ten more.

rass nearly compromises the mission by laughing at the fifth rock produced. after this rass and rocks are inseparable. rocks, who is about an inch and a half shorter than the average clone, is delighted that he's no longer the shortest person he knows.

rass and rocks are my beloveds i love them dearly.

i also have a fair amount of info about avry here and some assorted info about all of these guys here

beyond my "main" four, i have moth (can be summed up by this and this) and cobra (very new guy. hes living his best life. having an affair with lio.) and lio (full name lio veniid. senator. a bit pretentious. not very significant politically. extremely disappointed by cobra's lack of appreciation for wine, has made it his goal in life to change this. its not working very well so far but they're both having a great time)

also fun fact: i have a curse in which i am incapable of drawing arlo's scar correct on any full piece. it's on the left side of her head. (forgot it) (flipped the canvas too many times)