#did you know that the length of a blood droplet (or any droplet in general)

[silverior968]

This joke made not one but two people laugh so of course I had to draw it (hbl spoilers)

That one moment where everyone else is doing Dramatic Confessions (tm) and Anton is, presumably, still sitting there on the ground like

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Anton Shudder, a muscular irish-eastern asian man with long black hair and violet-tinted gray eyes, sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall. Both the wall and the ground are cracked and stained with blood. Anton has one of his knees up and one hand to his chest, stained with blood. He is wearing a black jacket, gray trousers, black boots, a gray vest and a white shirt. His hair is tangled and limp, and he is bleeding from his nose. He has eyebags and one black eye. He is looking down with an empty expression. Wobbly thought bubbles are placed next to him, with the following sentences written with wobbly, black handwriting: “What is the gross domestic product of Finland?” “What is Finland?” “Why are the birds angry?” “I love bleeding to death” / End ID]

[uplatterme]

false god

—sub!dainsleif/dom!amab!reader, priest!reader | reader is called ‘father’, throatfucking, cockstepping, first half is plot and then the other is filth.

—and after posting about writing for dain since january, i actually finally finished one for him!

This isn’t the first time that such a thing had happened to the Bough Keeper.

Such a thing was, accidentally teleporting himself to a place he didn’t mean to, partly due to exhaustion and sleepless nights.

It was often like these that the immortality cast upon him mocked him more than anything. 

Droplets of water started to fall onto his hair, then eventually onto his body. He stares into the dark sky, the coldness of the rain bringing more comfort than it does harm.

Dainsleif sighs, and instead of teleporting away to his right destination, he starts to walk and explore this newfound place.

There isn’t much to say about where he’s landed himself, and frankly, he’s thankful for that. Silence is a gift for him nowadays and even when he’s isolated, it’s rare that he isn’t plagued by awful memories that keep him from just closing his eyes for longer than a few minutes.

His slow steps are halted though, when he sees that he has brought himself in front of a very peculiar building. The rain continues to soak his body as the man stares at the white architecture and the statue that is displayed in front.

He chuckles. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. His luck had never been the one to land on his side, he didn’t know why he expected otherwise.

It’s quite big for a chapel, especially since he doesn’t recognize the figure in front. Still, it’s one of a god’s, nonetheless. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised considering the lengths that devotees had gone to.

His curiosity gets the best of him when he goes nearer the said building, wanting to examine the sculpture. However, before he could even get a closer look, the wooden entrance opens.

The Khaenri'ahn’s first instinct is to transport himself away but finds that to be useless as he meets the eyes of another. What he didn’t expect next, is genuine worry.

“My goodness! Are you alright?” 

He almost gets confused as to why one would react in such horror. He doesn’t have any blood on him, does he?

Dainsleif looks down, not wanting to traumatize a random stranger…and discovers that there’s nothing wrong with him?

He lifts his head back up, only to find you nowhere near the doors of the chapel. He wonders where you are for a quick second until he feels something warm covering his body.

“I hope my robe will make do…Come on, get inside. You must be cold.” His reluctance is evident in his face but before he can even say anything, he’s pushed inside the chapel, much to his distaste.

Him stepping inside such a place was too much for him already that he forgot the fact that he’s wearing a robe, one that he assumed was no ordinary one.

Dainleif wants to take it off and so he tries to, at least.

“Keep it. I apologize I don’t have any spare clothes at the moment.”

He really does not want to wear a priest’s robe. 

“Did you come here for the mass? I’m afraid it ended an hour ago…Ah, but you can still stay until the rain stops.” You offer generously.

“No. I just happened to be passing by.” He explains.

He watches as your mouth gapes, looking for the words to say after you’ve just brought him in here out of his will.

“That makes sense…I was wondering why I haven’t seen you before. Not that it matters, you can still stay. The Chapel of our God is glad to help any troubled souls.”

He takes offense at that. 

“Troubled, you say? That’s quite a big assumption of a man you’ve just met.” His tone is as monotone as ever, yet that doesn’t hide the disdainful look that lingers in his bright eyes.

You muse.

“Ah yes, a non-troubled person that enjoys looking gloomy and letting the rain pour all over them.”

Dainsleif bites his tongue at that.

“I’ll show you around.”

While it does interest him that this chapel worships a god that isn’t of the seven, that doesn’t mean that he wants to learn more about a dead god who was defeated in the archon war just like the others. Although he presumes that the way you tell of their tales makes it somewhat bearable.

Even if it’s not what he expected.

It’s not as overwhelming as he had thought, but perhaps that was due to the lack of nuns he usually sees when it comes to churches.

“Is there something wrong?” You ask fondly, stopping your rambling about your said god just to listen to him.

“Does this place have many attendees?”

“Not quite…but it’s a lot if you consider they’re followers of a God who isn’t one of the seven.”

Frankly, Dainsleif doesn’t get it. It’s not as if all these masses you lead would ever lead to something else. It’s just wasted hard work, if he’s to be brutally honest.

He can tell that there’s a lot of admiration and work you have put into this, but for what reason? What reason is there to keep spreading the word of someone you haven’t even personally met?

Would your faith waiver if knowledge of your god performing deemed evil acts is brought upon you?

“Should we continue the tour?” You ask.

He politely shakes his head, thoughts still lingering in his head.

“We must adhere to these values that our God has specified in their writings…that our way of living as a mortal is something that should be celebrated and not frowned upon…”

The non-believer sits at the last row of the chapel, somewhat half-heartedly listening to your words as you read passages from a book in your hands.

He only watches, observing the entire view in front of him. How people reply in unison whenever you say a certain phrase, an exchange that he finds to be quite strange. 

The mass isn’t that long, yet you still manage to lead that hour with grace, making sure that every part of it goes well without any fault.

How you stand to the side, leaning on the podium with a smile as everyone sings along with the choir.

Dainsleif’s eyes meet yours and he sees you mouth a greeting to him.

…He supposed that he can stay for a minute when everyone has gone.

He sees you grin as you start walking towards him, your robe neat and tidy as ever.

Surprisingly, he speaks first.

“I’m surprised you still have a recollection of me.”

“It’s only been a few months.” You reply, your voice soft and soothing, unlike the way you spoke as you preached earlier.

Most people would choose to forget. “You’re different in person than you are earlier.”

“Perhaps.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence in the chapel, the mosaic windows dim the bright sunlight from the outside but that only results in the colored glass reflecting stunningly on your face.

He takes the initiative and speaks again.

“Is it because I’m not a follower?”

Your breathing catches on his ear. “Maybe.”

He wonders if you know of his lineage and if that’s the reason why you had kept an eye out for him, suspicions rousing through your brain.

“Father.” The change of tone to formality shocks you a little that you were forced to question why he’s suddenly calling you that.

Your awkward chuckle echoes through the building. “What are you calling me that for?”

“Just seeing if your attitude would change. If you’re truly as honest as you present yourself to be.”

You click your tongue. “Is there a reason you came here?”

There it is. A snarky tone. He knew he was right to come back here. 

Why was he sent here before? Was someone playing tricks on him? The Abyss? The gods? He knows there has to be a reason for him being teleported here that day.

“May I ask how someone becomes a member of your church, Father?”

He hears you sigh deeply. Why?

Aren’t more members what you want and need?

“If that’s how you want to do this then…I’ll amuse you. Follow me, troubled one.”

Dainsleif’s fists close at the nickname.

He’s brought to a room that you once showed him the previous time that he was here. You never explained what exactly this room was for as he left just before you got to.

There’s a small fountain, clear and blue flowing through it.

“This is a small tradition we have. It’s based on one of the writings that…you haven’t read, but that’s alright. It’s not that difficult to follow.” You start to explain.

“It’s a symbol of starting anew, to wash yourself of the regrets you have.” 

“And if I do not have any?” He questions.

“You do. Everyone does, even Gods.”

“You think gods regret the things they’ve done.” His patience is thinning inch by inch. He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of that sentence.

“That I do. According to one of the passages that—”

“How exactly do I know whether what you’re saying is genuine or just out of a damn book?” He interrupts.

You stare at him with a disapproving look. “You’re deflecting.”

“Excuse me?” 

“What is it that troubles you?”

Nothing. He’s fine. He’s done with everything, there’s no use in pondering over what could’ve and should’ve been.

“Don’t act as if you’re superior to me.” He says, visibly upset.

“So much for becoming a believer.” 

That’s when the grin is swayed off your face in just a few seconds as Dainsleif pins you to the wall, your head slightly tilted up as he grips tightly on your collar.

“Who sent you?” His enchanting eyes cross yours, not even a shade of fear in them.

“What exactly have you gone through that you think everything is out to get you?”

He stills at that. You’re not trying to push him off.

Instead, you’re conversing with him like he’s a lost lamb who’s unsure of where to go. An amenable priest who listens and asks.

He lets go. Your robe is now crinkled, and the mark of his fist is clearly evident.

You sit on the bench near the fountain, patting the empty space right next to it. Dainsleif refuses the offer, choosing to continue standing while he searches for the next words he’d like to say.

You smile.

“You don’t have to apologize or continue this. It doesn’t mean anything anyways if you don’t take it to heart.”

It’s such a strange sentence to hear from someone like you. You’re not..forcing him nor are you trying to sell him your ways by threatening him of what he may face if he doesn’t.

The Khaenri'ahn sighs, the words of apology already at the tip of his tongue.

“I’d prefer it if we were to continue.”

“You would?”

“I can still change my mind.” He jests, seeing you beam from ear to ear.

Dainsleif slowly walks towards the fountain, sitting beside you and laying his head down on your shoulder. The gesture is surprising to the priest but it isn’t turned away.

“I hope you’re quite ready, Father. This might take a while.” He says with his eyes closed.

“Confess your regrets, my troubled one.”

Eventually, it becomes a habit of his to visit you whenever he’s plagued with thoughts that make him anxious and question his choices.

And each time, you’re there to give advice. To lend a shoulder, and sometimes a little more than that.

He will never worship a god, but he’ll sure as hell worship you.

Dainsleif always waits patiently in the last row, watching you and listening to how your voice sounded rather than the message you’re conveying.

It’s soothing, in a way.

He doesn’t say a thing and only waits as you walk down the aisle with a smile.

It’s a silent exchange.

You place your hand on his shoulder and Dainsleif rubs the side of his chin on your hand, his eyes shut. 

“Dainsleif.”

“Yes, Father?” He teases, a smirk forming on his face before opening his eyes.

Your fingers lift his head slightly before bending down to reach his soft lips. He doesn’t pull away, he presses them further as if it’s his salvation. 

It’s somewhat sick that he’s found comfort in someone like you. He contemplates whether he’s walking the path of failure that the gods have planned, if this whole thing will eventually turn over just to punish him even more.

In the end, it’ll all be his fault. He’s the one who revealed secrets that you’ve never asked for.

“You’re making that face again, Dain.” You speak.

“What face?”

“The kind you make when you’re overthinking things. The one I want to get rid of.”

Dainsleif reaches for your hand, asking even if he knows the answer. “Pray tell, how exactly?”

“It makes me wonder if it’s a turn on of yours to get fucked in a place of worship.”

“Like how it’s a turn on for you when I’m on my knees and calling you Father?”

You laugh, caressing his hair as you look down on him.

“You don’t even worship the God of this place.” He looks so sweet like that, his head between your legs. Such beauty ready to kneel for you and do whatever if you ask him kindly.

“What’s the need when I already worship you?” Dainsleif says and takes you in.

Dainsleif never imagined he’d gladly be spending his time inside of a chapel, right in front of empty seats where anyone can walk in through those wooden doors, acting as if the altar is your hips.

And yet he’s letting you use his mouth eagerly, so used to how you taste that sometimes he himself craves for it when you two are separated.

“That’s right, love. Just think of me.” 

He groans as you push further into his throat, his eyes wandering to you despite his breathing getting obstructed.

He loves the things you do. Whether it be hearing you talk so dearly to him, tugging his hair with the right amount of pull, or the way you fill his mouth nicely like this.

It’s yours.

The sound that escapes his throat when your foot presses directly on his crotch is loud and lewd, echoing through the empty chapel.

His cheeks lightly flush, grumbling something incoherent.

“Speak clearly, my lamb.”

He rolls his eyes at the mischievousness of your voice. You know he can’t, and yet you’re still asking him to do so.

He follows still, of course.

“M-Mo—ah!” 

Dainsleif chokes as he tries to speak.

“Too much for you?”

He shakes his head and tries again.

“Mow—Moah-”

It’s not working. He’s stuffed full to even say it.

“Come on,” Your foot steps on his cock again. “There’s another way to plead. I’m sure a smart devotee of mine can figure that out.”

His chest heaves, trying to calm his breathing from the pressure and whining as it stops.

That’s when Dainsleif moves of his own accord, taking you even deeper than you already were. You can feel the vibrations from when he slowly pants, breathing through his nose more so he won’t pass out.

He bats his eyelashes at you, with a face full of sin.

Tears are starting to form in his eyes.

Please.

Dainsleif gags on your cock again, moaning impurely when your foot begins to knead more aggressively on his pants.

Your shoe adds even more stimulation and his cock aches wanting, no, begging for a release.

“Such a sinful body, no wonder the gods haven’t been blessing you.”

Fuck.

He continues to whimper, sucking your cock needily and knowing you’ll stop if he doesn’t do well.

“You get on your knees to be a slut, I wonder if they’ve bruised already.”

They do. They always do when you fuck his throat like this.

His mind is hazy and he’s close, he’s so—

“Hmgh!—”

“Not yet. Be patient.”

His body wants to buck down when you remove the pressure just seconds before he cums, but your hold on his head keeps him from doing that and he’s left to whine painfully.

The tears in his eyes finally fall and he stares up at you to be merciful, to let him have this one since it’s been a month of waiting to finally have you get him off like this.

“You want it?”

He nods and whines, begging for you to hear him out.

“Alright.”

When he gets permission, he sobs out on your cock, cumming inside in his own pants and soiling the floor. You feel how warm his breath is, his body is tired and trembling, but he keeps trying to make you finish as if it’s the only thing he’s made for. Even if he’s barely doing it well, too drunk with his tongue tired already.

The sight of that is enough to get you off.

Dainsleif tries to swallow but he doesn’t do it fully, cum dripping down his chin and coughing on the amount he can’t.

He finds it a waste that he isn’t able to. He stares, wondering if he should clean it up.

“Dain, it’s fine. You did amazing.”

His heart softens.

“Let me help you out, love.”

His head rests on your lap, your fingers playing with his hair. A tradition that you two somehow have ended up doing each time you finish.

He thinks it’s sweet and funny that you act so soft despite the things you say when having sex.

“Tell me.” You say.

“Tell you what?”

“What’s bothering you?” You question.

Dainsleif only snickers at that.

It’s you, Father.

[searidings]

Kara moving in with her best bud Lena for Reasons (maybe her apartment is temporarily fucked up?) and now Lena has to watch her exercise/weight-lift/do yoga in a sports bra in her apartment

It’s already been a capital D type of Day, full of misogynistic potential investors and minor workplace explosions, when Lena opens her front door to the sight of Kara Danvers in a perfect-form downward facing dog on her living room floor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters, dropping her keys noisily onto the kitchen counter and making a beeline for the booze cupboard.

“Did you say something?” Kara asks angelically, transitioning smoothly into a cobra that very delightfully and extremely unhelpfully causes her biceps to flex like a Greek goddess. Her eyes, bluer than ever against the vast expanses of smooth golden skin on display above the sinfully tight cerulean sports bra she’s wearing, flutter angelically. She beams beatifically up at Lena from her yoga mat as if there’s any possibility her superhearing didn’t pick up on Lena’s words. As if she isn’t just trying to make Lena repeat herself for her own amusement.

“What are you even doing?” Lena asks a little more sharply than she intends, jaw clenched as she wills herself not to so much as glance in the direction of Kara’s exposed abs. She treats herself to a heavy pour of scotch, pauses to consider, then adds some more. “It’s not like you need to exercise. Like, at all.”

“Surely I get to indulge in whichever recreational activities I choose in my own home,” Kara replies cheerily, avoiding Lena’s carried-home-after-a-shitty-day snark with practiced ease.

“You gave up that privilege when you moved into my home instead,” Lena deadpans, Kara’s irrepressible affability in the face of her own bad moods beginning to chip away at her steely CEO armour. “That’s what you get for letting a flea-infested mongrel into your apartment—”

“Hey, Toto couldn’t help having fleas—”

“And not only that, letting it all over your couch, your bed—”

“He was cold! He just wanted to snuggle—”

Lena shudders. “You snuggled with that monstrous thing? I hope to god you burned the clothes you were wearing. And maybe the whole couch too.”

“Toto was not a thing, he fit perfectly on my—”

“And isn’t Toto usually the name of a small dog?” Lena asks incredulously, throwing back the scotch in one smooth swallow and pouring herself another. “That beast was almost taller than you!”

“Being a lap dog isn’t about size, Lena. It’s a state of mind.”

“A state of mind that’s meant your entire apartment has had to be fumigated. Twice.”

“And I’d do it again,” Kara says resolutely, pushing up into a high plank and inadvertently flexing her shoulders in a way that has Lena’s fingers slipping around the tumbler in her grasp. “Toto was homeless. He needed someone to take him in and love him, and I did.”

She drops to her knees and pushes back into child’s pose, tilting her chin up to gaze at Lena from between her extended arms. “Just like you’ve done with me.”

And Lena curses Kara and every one of her ancestors right back to the dawn of time for how endearing she is in this moment. For how physiologically incapable Lena is of maintaining her façade of annoyance in the face of those earnest eyes. God, when had she gotten so fucking soft?

But any thoughts of the blonde as cute or adorable evaporate into thin air as Kara pushes back up into downward dog, lifting one leg straight above her in a graceful arch. Her forearms flex as long fingers grip into the soft mat and Lena chokes a little on her next sip of scotch, eyes unfortunately, deliciously glued to the jut of Kara’s hipbone through her yoga pants and the toned lines of her tightened thighs.

“Seriously though,” Lena manages, turning away from the sight and congratulating herself on the fact that her voice is only slightly higher than normal. “Why do you even bother? It’s not going to tone you up any. Not that you need it,” she mutters into her scotch glass, tipping out the dregs of the bottle and reaching into the cupboard for a fresh one.

When she turns back to face the living room Kara’s cheeks are flushed, almost as if she’s blushing. Or maybe all the blood is just rushing to her stupid, unfairly attractive head.

“Yoga is about more than just muscle tone, Lena,” the blonde says disapprovingly, her gaze fixed on her mat. “It’s a mind-body connection. Mindfulness. Inner peace. It’s doing wonderful things for my stress levels.”

“It’s doing terrible things for mine,” Lena mutters, knowing Kara will hear her but finding herself increasingly uncaring as the scotch warming her throat begins to course hot through her veins.

“Then maybe you should get down here and join me,” Kara murmurs, voice low as she switches legs.

The blonde’s tone is practically a purr and Lena chokes for real this time, spluttering out the scotch attempting to find its forever home inside her lungs. Kara is behind her in a second, hand hot through the thin material of Lena’s blouse as she rubs gentle circles between her shoulder blades.

The offending appendage doesn’t withdraw, however, even once Lena’s regained full use of her airways and is wiping the tears from her eyes. In fact, it’s joined by a friend, and both of Kara’s hands slip up and over her shoulders quite without Lena’s permission, fingers kneading into the tight muscle.

“Wow, you are tense,” Kara murmurs, thumbs doing something absolutely sinful to the knots in Lena’s neck. The blonde steps closer, bracketing Lena against the cool marble of the kitchen island with her hips and it takes every single shred of self-control Lena possesses not to sag back into the hot body hovering against the length of her own.

Lena shuts her eyes and bites down on her lower lip, hard. Anything to keep from focusing on the warmth radiating off Kara’s oh God partially clothed body like a furnace.

Long dextrous fingers dig delicious into the tense set of Lena’s shoulders and she barely manages to hold back the breathy sounds of pleasure she’s fairly certain she should not be making at her best friend’s touch. Kara, if anything, seems spurred on by Lena’s restraint, fingers slipping inside the collar of Lena’s blouse to press firmly against her bare skin and oh God Lena is not going to survive this.

In fact, she can actively feel herself giving in to the pull, to Kara’s ineffable magnetism. She sways backwards just slightly, and Lena swears she’s not the only one who sucks in a sharp breath when their bodies fully connect. The frame pressed to her back is warm and firm and God, Kara is solid against her in a way that has all the blood in Lena’s body migrating south with pinpoint precision.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” Kara whispers, her breath ghosting the shell of Lena’s ear and making her shiver. “I could walk you through some asanas. Might help loosen you up.”

Jesus fuck.

“Nope!” Lena squeaks, cheeks aflame, pushing away from Kara and snagging the bottle of scotch on the way to her bedroom. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Enjoy your practice.”

The quiet sounds of Kara’s chuckles follow her all the way down the hall.

Lena spends the first five minutes of her shower staring unseeing at the tiled wall, mind blank but for the image of Kara’s washboard abs over the waistband of her yoga pants, the firm press of her body against Lena’s back.

The second five minutes is spent in intense silent conversation with herself, administering an internal pep talk worthy of a high school spirit rally and trying to convince her racing heart to resume its regular rhythm.

The third interval consists of Lena shampooing her hair in mounting despair, trying desperately to foresee a way of surviving the next three days of cohabitation until Kara’s apartment is deemed safe and fume-free if the blonde is going to insist on doing distracting activities and wearing distracting sports bras and just generally being distracting the whole time.

It’s only by minute sixteen of Lena’s long indulgent shower that a plan begins to form in her mind. She steps out onto the bathmat, appraising the various towels slung over the heated rail until she finds one fit for purpose. Tucks it snug round her body and pulls her dripping curls over one shoulder before making her way back out to the living room.

She can pinpoint the exact moment the blonde notices her entrance because the quiet room is suddenly filled with a rubbery tearing sound as Kara, on her hands and knees for a spine stretch, rips the mat beneath her hands clean in two.

Lena bites her lip to hold back a smirk, watching as blue eyes track slowly up the expanse of her bare legs, unimpeded by the towel that only barely reaches to mid-thigh, and then up to follow the droplets of water tracking their way down Lena’s chest until they disappear into the soft fabric.

Kara’s mouth is hanging open, arms and legs splayed wide where they rest on either side of the torn mat, and Lena relishes the thrill of victory that zips up her spine like a firecracker. Two can play at this game, that’s for sure.

“I was going to ask if you were ready to order takeout for dinner,” Lena says, letting her own voice drop low as she quirks an eyebrow. Her gaze falls pointedly to the sad remains of Kara’s yoga mat and this time she can’t hold back her smirk. “But it seems your mind-body connection might still need some work. I’ll leave you to it.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel and saunters back to the bedroom, Kara’s eyes glued to her swinging hips like a physical weight on her body.

Cheeks pink, heart pounding, she drops onto her bedspread as a heady combination of relief and pleasure courses through her veins. Lena hasn’t had a roommate since boarding school but maybe this cohabitation – temporary as it may be – will end up having a few unanticipated perks.

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 15

Avizon whump time- and you can finally meet Orrien (Ore-ree-en) properly. 

Warnings: The usual pet whump, with Avizon owning Dyan and Ihuka, but he’s more of a caretaker than a whumper now. There’s an arrow wound to the leg in this one, but that’s all the whump there is. 

Master-list Here

Approx WC: 1800

The weather only got worse as they travelled back home. There was hardly any space in the back of the cart but Avizon let Ihuka and Dyan stay there in the dry. The rain was cruel and cold and painful as the wind sped up the droplets. Ihuka had taken to hiding his face in his bandanna and Dyan his face in Ihuka’s chest. Avizon's fingers felt numb. He needed to find somewhere to shelter.

He grimaced, knowing the closest place was Orrien’s little farm was at the other side of the woods to his left. He hoped the man would be generous enough to offer them his barn until the rain stopped. Besides, he did have things to speak to him about, such as his growing conflict with Erix and the cloudwalker’s magic. He urged Secret on, hoping that the thunder and lightning would hold off. At least the trees provided some shelter, but the woodlands were thin.

Avizon glanced in the back, peering through a little hole in the wood to see Dyan and Ihuka were huddled close, keeping warm under their wings. He was glad he’d freed them instead of keeping them wrapped up and restrained. Avizon had told them to get their blankets that he’d bought. The two of them looked peaceful, warm. Dyan seemed to be asleep, but Ihuka was still awake.

He brought his attention back to the path ahead of him and sniffled. He was cold and the rain had soaked through most of his clothes, making him shiver. The wind was biting and loud. He urged Secret on, just a little bit faster. He could tell she liked this situation no more than he did. She made to go right at a fork in the road but Avizon steered her left. “Change of plan, lass,” he mumbled.

It would be another hour until they got to Orrien’s home, but it didn’t take him long to start shivering, for his teeth to start chattering now that the night was setting in well and true. He could barely hold on to the reins. He tried to hide his hands in his soaked sleeves.

Avizon paused, hearing rustling in the shrubbery despite the howling of wind. He turned his head to compensate for his blind eye. He couldn’t help but feel ill at ease. “Ihuka, Dyan, wake up,” he ordered. He heard groans and grumbles. “Are we there?” Dyan yawned. “No, we’re not. Ihuka, I want you at the back of the cart, watch our back.” Dyan translated and Ihuka obeyed, but he didn’t take his blanket off.

“Dyan, at the front. I want you close. Watch my left side- that way. Keep an eye out for any people. Tell me immediately, alright?” “Yes, master.” Dyan climbed out of the cart and ran to the side, heaving himself up on the seat beside him.

Avizon tried to keep his focus as the weather got to him. He blew on his hands. “Would you like me to use my wings and keep you dry, master?” Dyan asked quietly. “No, little bird, I won’t be able to see… but thank you. Keep yourself warm.”

The journey was overpowered by silence, but it wasn’t to last. Dyan yelled out a warning, but Avizon wasn’t able to see the man on his side with a bow. He didn’t see him aim for him or fire, but he heard the swoosh, and felt the heavy jab in his leg. He cried out in alarm, the searing pain quickly becoming noticeable. He groaned and hurled an orb of power in that direction, unlike the man, he didn’t miss. He heard half of a scream, gurgling, then silence.

More men appeared, all ready to kill him. “Heads down!” he bellowed to his birds, flicking the reins, bringing Secret into a canter. The cart shook and rattled badly. Avizon summoned blue fire to his hands and sent it hurtling at anyone he could see. The men soon scarpered and disappeared from sight as Secret tore up the roads.

Avizon groaned, grabbing the reins again. “Steady, girl steady,” he called, easing her back into a trot. She breathed through flaring nostrils and grunted with fear.

“Easy girl.” He winced as the pain in his leg became all the more clear. Dyan stared at his leg, looking in curious horror at the arrow sticking out of his thigh. Avizon bit down on his lip to stay silent as he snapped the wooden shaft. It still drew a curse from him.

“D.Dyan, hold the reins,” he panted. “I’ll tell you what to do as we need. J.just hold them for now. Ihuka? Ihuka, are you alright?” Dyan translated to be sure, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he whimpered he was fine.

“He’s okay, just startled… Master, a.are you alright?”

“We just need to get to Orrien,” he ground out, pushing down on his wound despite how it made him scream. He struggled to suppress a whimper as he sat still, rushing down air. It burned. “Gently pull on the left rein, just to g.guide her head… that’s it,” he grimaced as Secret turned. Dyan screwed up his face in concentration, but it was clear that he too was getting cold, even with his coat.

Things were getting blurry. Avizon wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay awake. When he suddenly found it hard to move his leg, he knew what was wrong. “Venom… blast it all!” He reached down for his satchel at his feet, but his arms were becoming infected with the same heaviness. He fumbled with the cork and gulped down what he could before the bottle fell out of his hands and landed on the floor. He hoped it was enough antidote to keep him alive. Dyan picked it up and offered him it back, but it was empty now.

“‘t’s alright… just drive.”

He struggled to stay quiet as the cart shook him. The cold and the pain and paralysis were a cruel combination. He couldn’t even shiver to keep warm. Dyan kept sending him worried glances, but he had a job to do and he was determined to do it well.

Finally, the little farm came into view. Avizon swallowed thickly, reaching for the reins to bring Secret to a stop in front of it. The paralysis was wearing off, but his legs were still plagued with it.

“H.help me to the door,” he managed.

Dyan told Ihuka and the two of them helped him down. He couldn’t bite back a cry of pain as he reached the floor. His legs buckled and he dropped this knees. The birds strained to heave him back up. It wasn’t easy when he was taller than them by about a foot.

The door opened before Avizon could knock. He must have been a pitiful sight, soaked from the rain, shaking and shivering, weak and limp, draped over the two cloudwalkers so he could even stay upright. Blood slipped down his leg freely.

Orrien was quiet for a moment, taking in the sight of him. He let the magic fade out of his hand, knowing he was not a threat. “Master,” Avizon croaked. “C.could I take refuge in your barn tonight? I… Things didn’t quite go according to plan.”

“Remind me to be angry at you later once I’ve fixed whatever mess you’ve ended up in this time,” Orrien grumbled.

“I.Ihuka… Dyan… b.best behaviour. Do as Orrien tells you. No shaking your wings inside.” Dyan translated everything he said, and it seemed like he said more. “Take the horse into the barn- and please don’t eat any of my livestock,” Orrien instructed, grunting as he took Avizon from them. Avizon had to hold his breath to silence a scream.

The birds were uncertain, but did as they were asked. Dyan reached up and took Secret by the head collar to lead her around. “There’ll be a young lad around the back, his name is Blue. He will look after the horse and both of you. Tell him I sent you.”

“Yes, sir,” Dyan answered shyly. Ihuka nudged Avizon’s arm with his head with a soft whimper. Avizon patted his head. “Good bird… go and rest.” It was clear he didn’t want to go but he reluctantly followed Dyan.

Avizon groaned and let himself relax once they were gone. He let his pain show just that little bit more. Orrien struggled to keep him up, to heave him into his chair by the fire. He eased him out of his soaking coat and shirt. “I’ll get you some blankets. Pants off if you can, lad, I’ll need to see how bad it is.”

Avizon nodded weakly and obeyed. Orrien soon returned with a few blankets and wrapped them around him.

“I’m sorry,” Avizon mumbled. “I realise I’m likely unwelcome.” “You have no reason to be unwelcome. You pushed yourself away,” Orrien said, his face heavy with concern. “You are always welcome in my home.”

Avizon looked at his face as he inspected the wound on his leg with a furrowed brow. Life and age hadn’t treated him as well as they could have. He had deep wrinkles around his blue eyes. The scar on his right eye had faded into more of a white line, but the golden yellow tattoo on his forehead still looked as bright as ever. Magical tattoos tended to keep their radiant glow. The enchanted metal dragon ear piece stared down intently at Avizon, half-covered by Orrien’s shoulder-length blondish grey hair. It looked up and stuck it’s tongue out at him before looking back down at his leg.

Orrien was sprouting a beard, which twitched and moved as he grimaced at the sight of the injury. “What happened?” he asked, his voice deep and rumbling. “Ambush… We were on our way here to get out of the weather, things went wrong. I got shot. I think it had cloudwalker venom on. I’ve taken an antidote, but-” “You’ve made an antidote?” Orrien asked, raising an eyebrow. “Aye… L.look after those two. They’re good birds...”

“I will. Now you need to rest. I can take care of everything. Get comfortable, I’ll send you to sleep.” “N.no…” Avizon groaned. “They could come back-” “Aye, and your limp isn’t going to scare them away. I can deal with them.”

Avizon pursed his lips, “Still…”

Orrien put his hand on Avizon’s feverish brow. “I’ve been fighting since before you were born. I can handle a few more buffoons. Sleep.”

The spell worked immediately, throwing Avizon into unconsciousness before he could stop it.

[mulderspice]

have you ever watched an episode of the Emmy award winning sci-fi drama, The X Files?  Maybe you’ve read my original post and yet you’re still wondering where the hell Fox Mulder got all those strands of hair on his jumbo gigantic head.  I am back and here to help you find the answers to some of your burning questions; as we celebrate the hard work and triumphs of the hair and makeup department on the Fox Lot and team up with my big huge brain and my New York State Cosmetology license to give the people what they want once again: another top ten guide to Mulder’s fucking hair..

upon making this post a second time (rip 😔), I realized that just about every episode (yes, every. single. one. even the ones without Mulder and the latest season where he has to share headspace with [redacted]) has its own important and iconic hair looks... You may recognize that some of these are slightly repeated from the last post but that’s ok! What I'm here to do is enforce! So lets get started..

#10 s6:e21 Field Trip: Here again we begin our journey into cosmetic superstardom with a personal favorite of mine.  Mulder rolling with the times by getting a haircut fresh off the FTF wave left our nation in fucking shambles. Can’t imagine going to see a major motion picture in theatres jam packed with Mulder’s most supreme hair looks only to come back to my tv screen to see it all gone away.  For students reading this post for educational purposes, this caused a worldwide walkout on popular salon franchise Supercuts in the year 1998.  However, a haircut didn’t necessarily mean Mulder forgot how to take care of his hair.  The precision and placement as each strand of hair perfectly outlines his jumbo head is revolutionary and inspiring.  Mushroom induced drug high? K. Lemme still grab my teasing comb and my hairspray and make sure I look presentable for when my partner walks into my apartment screaming abt “where's Mulder” and wanting “answers”.  The answer is this: this look is about giving people like myself with big heads rights and looking fuckable while doing so. 10/10 for inspiring hope.

#9 s1:e9 Space: Imagine you’re a few episodes into a show, the core plot is developing right before your eyes and you’re beginning to get to know The X Files three main characters; Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Mulder Hair Strands #1-3.  All is well except, you still have no clue how crucial, and critical Mulder Hair Strands 1-3 will become to the show and to your life and I am here to tell you that you are in for a very rude and bold awakening.  This message goes out to all the haters and all the people who didn’t believe Mulder’s hair was valid prior to season 4. He is here to tell you he DID know how to use dry shampoo and even the occasional blow dry oil and you can suck a dick abt it. Bold of you to assume he wouldn’t pull the round brush and the biosilk out the drawer to impress a visit to fucking NASA. 10/10 for involving science.

#8 s4:e6 Sanguinarium: I sit here writing to you today as the song ‘Handmade Heaven’ comes on shuffle; strikingly fitting for this raw and ethereal image of straight up beauty and wonder and magic and heaven in hair. This special, freshly washed and air dried smells like strawberries and sandalwood and fuckability. The look reaches through your TV and wraps its hands around your neck and sucks the life right out of you.  Are you gonna let it happen? You sure are.  Lucky for you, I just so happened to be there when the angels hand sewed each strand of hair onto his head and here’s what they had to say about it:  this is everything and more and the way Mulder has just washed his hair with fresh mountain water droplets hand collected like nothing else mattered. Put his clothes back on and went on his merry way. Can’t imagine being in Scully’s shoes ready to walk on in her partners room unannounced to go over serious case related matters and theories.  Woulda went bonkers. This truly is a handmade heaven.  Hand crafted by Mulder for Scully and for the good viewers of the globe. 10/10 for embracing me in its arms.

#7 s4:e3 Home: A look from one of primetime TV’s most notorious banned episodes.  Viewer discretion IS advised not only for the horrifying and cringeworthy content displayed in this episode, but for also making it painfully blunt to the viewer that Mulder’s hair follicles are happier and healthier than anybody else's will ever be in their lifetime.  In fact, I can feel my own hair falling out and being respawned onto HIS head as I type this and I’m sure you can too. The way the sun glistens off his golden brown strands makes me want to walk into oncoming traffic.  You might also notice how effortless this look was, as it probably only took a quick run thru with his fingers, and Mulder’s passion and need to look sexy at any time of the day at all times. It’s obvious that this kind of thing comes naturally to him, which just comes off as insulting to men everywhere. 11/10 for striking fear into men’s hearts.

#6 s4:e20 Small Potatoes: Genuinely took every bone and nerve ending in my body to not put this look in the top 5 even though it so clearly deserves it.  Here at mulderspice we believe in diversity, meaning it wouldn’t be right to make my top five greatest hairstyles ever produced on The X Files just of Mulder’s iconic and revolutionizing middle part (though really who is stopping me..). This screenshot in general has me up in arms at how perfectly the blue background matches his eyes, and how it accentuates his hydrated skin and lips.  But you’re not here for that. It’s the hair particularly that really pulls the shot together, as Mulder took the time that morning to spray it with some tinted dry shampoo that most defiantly and absolutely smells like chocolate.   This look feels like a warm hug on a frigid winter day. I feel EMBRACED and I feel CARED FOR thanks to the wonderful staff and team @ Mulder’s head and hair follicles. What the fuck could be better than this. 16/10 for making me feel some type of way.

#5 s4:e8 Tunguska: Currently you may not think anything of Krycek to the left of this image though ill have you know he plays an extremely vital part of this look and all the words I’m about to speak to you directly. So listen up: Krycek may have heroically slayed Mulder’s father in cold blooded and justifiable murder, but we thank him for this, as it caused Mulder to lash out in the best way possible: through looks. “Un-shun: Krycek do you think I’m good to bring my Redkin Rewind 6 styling paste with me or will the Russian TSA think of that as contraband? :Re-shun”.  A sweaty, manly and highly illegal treck through a Russian testing facility and a stint in a violent foreign PRISON surely was not going to stop Mulder from keeping his hair properly hydrated, styled and parted. That’ll really ruffle Krycek’s feathers and make him feel sorry for what he did…. The sexiest way to avenge the death of your deadbeat father. 24/10 for you know why.

#4 s1:e6 Shadows: In the year 1993, Mulder steps onto the scene, young, fresh faced, bright eyed and ready to give men around the globe what they (so desperately) needed: the encouragement to care about their hair.  Any backstreet boy you may know have this scene to thank directly, as this is what encouraged them to reproduce Mulder’s hair onto their own heads time and time again.  What I would give to see with my own eyes Mulder length times width times height his head to equal this perfectly proportionate look of volume and sexy. And who can I write a warrant out to for allowing this shot to take place.  Oh to be the various and expensive hair care products in Mulder’s bathroom …… 899/10 for starting a movement (-1 for making us do equations).

#3: s1:e10 Fallen Angel: The biggest regret I’ve ever had in my short little life was not adding this moment to the last post.  And tumblr deleted it in order to give me this opportunity to present this to you today.  By the way, that absolutely is in fact a choir of angels singing as you view this image. Go ahead and try to think of something on this earth that could be better than this tossled bed headed im-stressed-becos-my-partner-of-2-weeks-isn’t-seeing-the-big-picture-about-how-we’re-all-key-pawns-in-an-ongoing-government-conspiracy hairstyle hand crafted by Mulder all while holding his head in his hands hard at work trying to break through to the truth.  Scully [insert photo of Scully with her eyes popping out of her head here] and I both wanna rip our own hair out and throw it in the garbage. 2000/10 for making our hearts ache..

#2: s4:e10 Paper Hearts: Behold- the image I’m slamming down on the desk at full force when I finally get myself a therapist. I need a licensed professional doctor to help me understand the various angles that this purposeful shot affects my life health and well being. In a paranoia induced out of body experience Mulder took his pinky finger and parted his hair down the middle, took a protractor to perfectly round the tendrils falling ever so gracefully on his forehead and ran out of his apartment and through the woods of DC.  Doesn’t matter if he’s crazy? Doesn’t matter if its fuck all 4am? Who knows if the discoveries of this night is finally going to answer the heartbreaking questions regarding Mulder’s baby sister? Fuck it we’re just gonna make sure Scully has something to look forward to after being awoken yet again in the middle of the night and asked to come wrangle and control this stupid idiot.  This just makes me unhinged.  50000/10 for waking up in the middle of the night and doing the most for us all.  

#1 s4:e3 Teliko: This one will remain number one for as long as I shall live.  I’ve dedicated my life to this cause and I’m ready to make you painfully aware of it. Grab a pen and paper and get ready to do some heavy math with me because this look right in front of your eyes is the equation to happiness and sexiness. Can barely find the words to describe to you how this picture makes me feel. Each strand of hair is personally reaching down and wrapping his head in one big giant hug of protection and solitude.  Unbelievable that Scully didn’t head back to her hotel room and scream at the top of her lungs right after this. There’s no way she went about her day as normal without wanting to kick the shit out of him and then put him back together with soft feathery kisses.  What you are witnessing here is the very turning point of the show where Scully looked into into the very center point of that part and said “guess I have no choice but to fall in love with him 🚶🏽‍♂️”. Chris Carter’s idealistic version of Mulder and the one we actually ended ups seeing as viewers were so drastically different that it’s blatantly clear that he had absolutely no idea the cultural implications that were about to rock the world to its core and tip it on its axis when David Duchovny showed up on set looking like this. I could write a thesis about this. I could conduct research and studies about this.  I got kicked out of college because I cared more about this than I did actual schoolwork. I feel like I’m in a very sexy chokehold. Wish I could live forever in one little square pixel of this image.  Nothing means more to me than this.  1000000/10 no further comments.

and the honorable mentions go to....

s8:e16 Three Words: Dead? Did you die? Did you die and miraculously defy god by rising from the dead and coming back to life? Just got home from the morgue? Think nothing is the same? Left guessing if you’re a soon to be 5 minute father? Did you just fucking die? He’s lost his family and his job and the world just went on without him like it was nobody’s business.  Walked out of the morgue right to his apartment and what did he have left? His expensive array of hair styling and finishing products that’s what the fuck he had left.  Being an all around reject from society didn’t at all stop him from taking his fingers and dipping it into that Big Sexy styling pomade and fluffing his head to high heavens. As a personal fuck you to god and to John Doggett too.  He’ll never let you know the emotional hellstorm going on in his life in that moment but he WILL make it known to you that despite being 8 feet under ground for 6 months he’ll never give up on his hair. For the PEOPLE. Try and go through the nightmare of death and then rejected fatherhood and see if you come out of it with any hair at ALL.  An itty bitty glimpse into what would have been Untitled Mulder Abduction Story (2001)....

I Want To Believe (2008): Here you will see the sluttiest moment in major motion picture history.  Shh im not using this opportunity to show you this screenshot for the 800th time I’m trying to keep you educated.  BREAKING NEWS; Man hiding in home office for 6 years fully off the grid has FULL head of hair and is getting regular sex *not clickbait*. So what if Mulder has gone fully unhinged and off the walls bonkers he’s also gone FULL slut and it shows in that sexy thick voluminous head of slut hair.  If you ever for a second thought prior to seeing this movie for the first time that Mulder would show up a full on son-less wreck and a half think the fuck again babes.  He’s managed to hold on to every single little strand ever grown on his head even well into his middle aged madness and its about time we give him the credit he deserves.  (PS. Please know I wrote this entire spiel without even viewing the shot shown here. Its just permanently etched on the inside of my forehead so its there when my eyes roll back into my head.)  For this we say…..; Whore rights.

s11:e3 Plus One: Incase you were unaware, I have been going through a very slow and painful process of erasing Season 11 from my brain completely.  Its been a long road but its achievable and the end result will save me from a lot of future heartache and trauma.  This however, is a moment I will cherish forever and though you may think its for the hot sex (which is like maybe 30% the case) its actually because it puts together everything I’ve ever loved and believed about the show in only a few thousand pixels. How old is Mulder here? 30? 31? Still has hair and still has an unbelievable amount of love to shower Scully in for as long as they both shall live (which lets face it, she deserves one million times over.)  What this has taught me was to hang up my “Mulder deserved…” hat for good and just be thankful for what I’ve got. I ended up with no son or happy dreamy ending where Mulder gets to die with a family he’s never had in his life, but here we are left with the little things.. Like Mulder and Scully’s unconditional love and most importantly .. The hair on Mulder’s head. Its called growth and acceptance and I am learning it.  Also I just wanted to show you what it would look like if you were like 57 and sexy and still had all ur hair. That’s it :-)

[azwriting]

Priorities (Forget Me Not, Kylo Ren x Reader) - Chapter Five

So in celebration of yesterday’s fantastic trailer, here’s chapter five! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Summary: (Y/N) learns she has a bigger role in all of this than she previously believed and Kylo’s reason for taking her is revealed...

Warning(s): wound description, language, 

Word Count: 4980

Soft billowing sounds of breath greeted (Y/N) as she woke, along with a pounding headache. She weakly propped herself up, taking in her surroundings, her throat which was achingly dry made itself known. The dark gray room, the black silk sheets covering her, the cold compress pressed to her forehead, and her black boots placed carefully on the floor at the edge of the bed. (Y/N) took it all in, the realization dawning on her; she was trapped in Kylo Ren’s quarters once again. The vast emptiness of space stared back at the girl, through the wide-open window ahead, the thousands of stars mocking her, knowing she would probably never escape. (Y/N) slid out of the bed, a shiver eliciting from deep down her spine as her bare feet touched the ice cold tile. 

A soft snore followed by the sound of rustling fabric reminded (Y/N) that she was not alone. Slowly she turned away from the window, seeing a stiff black chair positioned at the foot of the bed, the man with ebony colored hair and matching clothing crammed into it. 

His head hung back, exposing every little freckle that was scattered across his pale skin, the dark circles that enclosed around his eyes in a sickly manner, and the long scar on the right side of his face from his encounter with Rey on StarKiller Base. His plump mauve lips were parted slightly soft breaths jutting out from between them. His thick black eyebrows were knitted together, beads of sweat began to form across his forehead. He looked bothered in his peace-less sleep, as if something was haunting him. (Y/N) shifted closer, against her better judgement, a feeling deep inside telling her she knew him. 

The bridge hallway events came flooding back, her attacks against the Stormtroopers, the red-headed General, her fainting, his voice coming back to her. The voice that plagued her nightmares. How did she know the enemy? Kylo shuffled around in the chair, his large long body stuffed painfully into the uncomfortably small chair. He stirred long enough that (Y/N), afraid of his awakening, rushed backwards into a room… the bathroom.

The door shut down after her and (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief; she felt better knowing he could not see her and she could not see him. She turned to view the bathroom, the same bland black tile enclosing around the small room and the simplistic gray vanity standing out against it on her right. Neatly folded clothing rested on the gray marble counter, the fabric too small to fit Kylo, “There is clean clothing in the bathroom.” (Y/N) peeled off her ruined clothing and tossed them into a medium sized waste bin, besides the vanity, there was no point in trying to salvage them. 

Glancing up, (Y/N) caught sight of an unrecognizable reflection staring back at her in the mirror. The woman in the looking glass was covered in filth, her hair weighed down by dried mud, her face as well caked in the brown substance apart from the streaks of clean skin her tears had left behind. Her body was coated in mud, blood staining the skin on her right side, around the dull stained beige bandages wrapped around her stomach. This was not the (Y/N) she knew… this did not even look like herself, and she had gotten into her fair share of messy fights prior to this.  Carefully undoing her bandages, (Y/N) disposed of them along with her “sympathizing” clothing, eyeing the wound on her side. The skin was scabbing around the edges of the injury, but the middle was still red, agitated, and bleeding. 

It was a miracle she wasn’t dead, but an argument could be made that the situation she was in was no miracle. Turning on the hot water, she stepped into the open shower, only a slab of glass separating her from the rest of the world. But the glass was not enough, not enough to stop the visions swirling around in her mind, all in scrambled bits begging to be put back in the correct order. 

As she massaged her hair with a bar of soap, (Y/N) tried to piece together everything she could: the nightmare of the fire, Kylo’s voice, the man who abandoned her on Hosnian, and the fact she had no memory prior to that. None of it fit together, the only thing pieces she could connect was the nightmare and Kylo’s voice, but even that did not seem real. (Y/N) roughly scrubbed her at her skin, her mind racing as the strong smell of cedarwood, cloves, and surprising hints of lavender filled her nose… Now she smelled like Kylo Ren, wonderful! The drain carried away the brown water along with the pink droplets of diluted blood, washing away most of the evidence of her first encounter with Kylo Ren.

For the past 11 years, all (Y/N) had ever wanted was answers to who she was, to what her part was in all of this. Her throat thickened as she thought of her worst fear: that she was no one, an orphan that nobody loved or remembered, a young girl with no memories of her previously nothing life. She felt like a nobody, was a nobody, but she needed answers. 

(Y/N) stepped out from behind the glass, reaching for the folded gray towel on the vanity counter. She dried herself off and quickly dressed in the clothing provided for her: black undergarments, long black uniform socks, black uniform pants, and a purposefully uneven gray sweater, the sleeves both different lengths along with the bottom hemline. Her heart was beating frantically against her chest as she turned to face the control panel. A part of her wanted to be foolish and believe he was still asleep and she could jury rig the main door control panel and escape into the night, but who was she kidding? Stay strong, you cannot be weak in front of the enemy, even if he wants to pretend to hold answers to your past, (Y/N) reminded herself. Inhaling deeply, (Y/N) tapped on the control panel, the bathroom door shooting up silently. 

The bedroom was eerily quiet, no more soft snores echoing around. Kylo Ren sat on the edge of the black bed, his head in his gloved hands, his back heaving up and down as faint sounds of heavy breathing emitted from his figure. The door closing behind (Y/N), alerted him to her presence, his head shooting up, red sorrow filled eyes locking onto hers. “Hi” He mumbled. (Y/N) nodded stiffly in his direction in return, her words failing her. What were you even supposed to say? “Are you all right? Feeling better?” He questioned, eyes raking over her overall state, in search of any sign of distress.

 ‘I’m fine, besides being held against my will.” (Y/N) shot back, a sarcastic grin on her face. There’s her inner fire. Kylo winced at her words, head dropping shamefully. “Besides”, (Y/N) moved to sit in a chair beside the bed, as far from him as possible, “Why do you even care?”

 Kylo’s head whipped back to look at her, an unreadable look on his features, “What’s that supposed to mean?” (Y/N) let out a short hard laugh as she picked up her black boots. The leather material now gleamed, not an inch of mud to be found on them, somebody cleaned them. 

“Simple, men like you don't care about people like me!” (Y/N) stated shoving her black enclosed feet into the clean leather.

 “And what does that mean?” Kylo barked anger edging its way into his voice. (Y/N) gulped lowly, every rational part of her should have been trembling with fear, Stars parts of her were shaking, but it did not stop her from antagonizing the beast in front of her. 

“I’m really going to have to dumb it down for you aren’t I? Well hmm let’s see… Evil men who have no souls, do not start worrying about women who they don’t know, let alone a woman on the opposite side as you!” (Y/N) heard the fabric of his gloves whine in protest as it was folded in, Kylo’s fists clenched tightly. His ragged breathing returned at an alarming rate as he ran his hands roughly through his hair, fisting handfuls of his inky black locks in his hands. He seemed to sink into himself as he tried to rein in his anger, becoming only a figure of black, a shadow of a monster. 

Kylo whimpered slightly, “Please stop calling me that.” It was practically inaudible but (Y/N) caught the words he whispered to himself more than her. His strange and quick transition had her puzzled, taken aback by the vulnerability in his hushed words. Was he affected by her or simply her words? Surely the “Jedi Killer” had been called worse. Kylo straightened abruptly turning to look at (Y/N), dismissing her harsh words with a simple wave of his hand, instead focusing on a particular phrase in her rant.

 “But I do know you.” He divulged. 

(Y/N) snickered lightly, hand pushing her wet waves out of her face, “I don’t know what kind of delusions you are having Spaceboy but you don’t know me…” she shook her head dropping it, missing the hopeful smile on Kylo’s face at her nickname for him, “I don’t even know who I am.” The room was silent for a few moments, deep breaths being taken by both, the tension thick and suffocating before Kylo spoke once again.

 “Your favorite color was purple. Not like the bright vibrant kind, but the pale lilac. The color you see in the sky before the sun sets, the color that lingers in the clouds.” How did he-? (Y/N)’s train of thought was cut off by Kylo chuckling lightly, “Oh how many sunsets you made me watch with you.” He smiled briefly, the sight unfamiliar and surprising to (Y/N). “Your favorite planet was Naboo. We visited twi-once when we were children, you adored the warmth, the clear blue water, and the endless greenery surrounding us. You were so envious that my grandmother had been from there… You were born amid a week long horrible storm on Chandrila and as the story goes, the minute you were born, the rain ceased. A sign they believed to be from the Maker. You talked in your sleep until you were eight. You-”

“Stop! Please…” Kylo looked back at (Y/N), confused why she wanted him to stop, until he saw the girl trembling with tears pooling in her eyes, the eyes that so easily reflected her sorrow. “H-How do you know all that?” She uttered, a small tear slipping down her cheek.

 “You and I” Kylo paused, a look of hesitation and uncertainty etched on his face, “We were… we were friends.” (Y/N) immediately recoiled, head ducking down as she tried to process his words. It was not plausible, friends? She wanted to refuse him, deny him outright, but the pieces were assembling themselves. How else would she have heard his voice in her nightmares? Why would she be in a picture with him? Deep down she knew it was true, she used to be friends with a murderer. But why did she not remember?

“Why don’t I remember anything?” Kylo shook his head angrily, standing up promptly, heat radiating off of his imposing stature.

 “Luke erased your memory, erased me out of your life. Erased your whole life so you would be safe!” Kylo stalked towards her, undeniable fury rolling off of his body in waves of steam. Luke Skywalker erased her memory? The legendary man who nodded at her on Crait, the Master Jedi? The bearded man had seemed familiar… (Y/N)’s eyes widened finally grasping why, the man on Hosnian. Luke Skywalker was the man who left her on that bench all alone that distant morning. But why had he abandoned her? 

The noise of something heavy thudding to the floor, reined (Y/N) in from the endless confusion of her thoughts. Before her knelt Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader, the Master of the Knights of Ren, the heir apparent to Darth Vader, exhibiting pure vulnerability as he looked up into her eyes. 

“You would have been safe with me, but I thought you died that night. I thought you were dead (Y/N)!” Kylo’s hand came up to softly caress her cheek, (Y/N) wincing at the notion. Kylo’s jaw clenched at her actions, his bottom lip wobbling slightly. “But, then there you were, my l-friend, 11 years later aiding the Resistance with no memory of me. A fate, a punishment crueler than death…” (Y/N) could barely process the words coming out of his mouth, her heart beating too deafeningly. 

“Safe from what?” She pondered, her question no louder than a whisper. 

“I presume me. From Snoke. Your own mind maybe.” Kylo answered, dismissing the question rather quickly with a wave of his hand, too pained by the images flashing in his mind to form coherent sentences.

 “What’s so dangerous about my mind?” (Y/N)’s eyebrows furrowed but Kylo was silent, as if he had not heard her question. How could a nobody be a danger to herself? 

A low chuckle rose from Kylo’s plump lips, “You aren’t a nobody that’s why. Your mind is dangerous because of the knowledge you possess, you have a larger role in all of this than you believe.” (Y/N)’s stomach twisted and turned as she internally tried to come to terms with the fact that the past she did not remember, held more secrets than she imagined. Kylo still knelt before her, having no second thoughts in the amount of weakness he was displaying, staring at her attentively ensuring she would not faint again. 

Refusing to make eye contact, (Y/N) held onto her black boots, the leather appearing even darker from the shadow cast by Kylo. Internally she was questioning how she had gotten to this exact moment, why her life decisions had brought her here, to a murderer holding the key to her past. (Y/N)’s curiosity was consuming her whole, the silence eating away at her as well.

“Who am I?” (Y/N) whispered, the question directed more to herself than Kylo. He was silent as he reached up to tuck a section of her wet hair behind her ear, the contact making (Y/N) flinch once again. Kylo’s jaw bone shifted beneath his freckled skin, clenching together tightly as he attempted not to lose control at the simple reactions. She did not remember him after all, not the old him. 

“Your name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” (Y/N) glanced up at the man who delivered a name that sounds nothing but foreign. She nodded silently and covered her face with her trembling hands… (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

“General you have to listen to me!” Poe demanded racing around the command center after the General. Even in her aging state she was still quick on her feet, leaving Poe to trail behind like a lost Wookie. He had barely escaped that First Order Sympathizing planet with his life, that treacherous Nor Del selling them out, but in his efforts to escape he had left behind a wounded (Y/N). The First Order had her, Kylo Ren had (Y/N)… Poe grimaced as he remembered the skull shattering pain he had experienced at the hands of the New Supreme Leader. He could only imagine the pain (Y/N) was going through, if she was even still alive. The Resistance pilot shook away the distressing thought, she had to be alive, she had to be.

 “Dameron trust me I want to get her back too, but she’s not our top priority at the moment.” The General spoke with the utmost tranquility as she read from a datapad in her hands. Poe let out an exasperated sigh, tugging at the roots of his messy hair.

“She’s in danger and whether or not you support me I’m going after her.” General Organa rolled her eyes, not bothering to look up at the Wing Commander. 

“I can promise you she’s okay. He won’t lay a hand on her.”

 “And how can you possibly guarantee me that?” Poe questioned crossing his arms over his chest, his frustration boiling over. He knew Kylo Ren was once her son, but the man under the mask was no longer him. She could not be blind to what he truly was now… a monster. Leia sighed dropping the datapad down on an old metal table as she turned to the man who constantly questioned every little decision, it was partially what she liked so much about him. 

“Because Poe,” She paused eyeing the surrounding officers who seemed to pay no mind to them, “My son has been in love with (Y/N) since he was fourteen years old.”

Kylo left shortly after revealing (Y/N)’s true name, claiming to have business to attend to, his presence needed back at the command bridge. “Stay here, no more escape attempts. General Hux, although amusing to me, was not particularly fond of your interactions earlier today. I can’t keep you safe if you run around dropping bodies again.” And with that he left, locking her once again in his quarters. 

(Y/N) sat motionless in the chair, the ticking of a nearby clock the only indication of passing time. She had only moved when a medical droid came in and reapplied bandages to her abdomen, she did not even try to escape this time. How had she been friends with Kylo Ren? It seemed she had spent her childhood with him. He had answered some of her questions but in their wake only a million more arose. Where were her birth parents? Why had Kylo saved her from a fire? Surely it could not have been the infamous Jedi slaughter, she was not a Jedi! And for fuck’s sake what was her role in all of this? 

Kylo’s vague answers were not helping, it only seemed that he wanted to taunt her with her past. Something white on the edge of the black sea of a bed stood out, where Kylo had been sitting, making (Y/N) stand to retrieve it. It was the photograph of a young Kylo Ren and (Y/N), the children only looking to be ten and nine, respectfully. (Y/N)’s eyes watered as she stared into the bright (Y/E/C) eyes of her younger self, the young girl abundantly happy standing next to the sitting down General… The General.

Leia knew she had no memories of her past, many nights (Y/N) would seek comfort from the woman, but why had she never mentioned she knew the girl? Why had she never told (Y/N) the truth? Anger began to boil underneath (Y/N)’s cold skin, warming her instantly. She wanted to be upset, angry, filled with hate because the General had disclosed none of this to her, had let her wander around feeling nothing short of abandoned, unloved, and clueless. But, the anger began to dwindle down leaving (Y/N) to feel shaky, if her past was as dangerous as Kylo said, she could not blame the General for keeping the secret. A part of her knew Leia was only trying to keep her safe. 

(Y/N) reached down her gray sweater and retrieved the purple crystal necklace, the only piece from her past she had, something she clearly had always worn, aside from the massive scar on her neck. She glanced down at the vibrant purple crystal, barely being able to make out her reflection as her mind raced around the new information.

 Her name was not (Y/N) Stryker it was (Y/N) (Y/L/N), apparently she loved the planet Naboo, but she does not recall having ever been there, and her favorite color was purple. That fact was something she had always remembered, perhaps a given thanks to the crystal around her neck. In the previous empty years when (Y/N) would lie in bed, begging for some sort of clue who she was, she would clutch the crystal tightly and a sense of peace would come over her. No matter how tightly she clutched it now though, (Y/N) only felt worse as tears splashed down onto her hands and lap. 

She was so sick of crying, of letting the enemy have the upper hand. It did not matter if Kylo claimed to know who she was, she could not sit here any longer and allow him to taunt her with her own past. It was all just a game to him, he would reveal a small set of clues and watch her gravel and beg for more. (Y/N) had to get out of here and maybe on her own she could find answers herself, Stars General Organa was a good place to start. The Resistance fighter could no longer allow herself to feel helpless, they trained her better than that.

 (Y/N) rushed into the small kitchen, yanking open random drawers until she found the one stocked full of shining cutlery. She grabbed a silver coated knife and walked over to the main door, using the knife to pry open the control panel. The red panel fell down, revealing many interwoven multicolored wires, oh Maker. Sure Poe had taught her how to rewire just about anything, but this was different, nothing compared to her flying days with Poe. Placing the butter knife between her teeth, (Y/N)’s hands rapidly reached for the wires, attempting to detangle them. She had to be quick, if she wanted to get out unnoticed. Who knew when Kylo would be back…

Kylo Ren stood in the command bridge, General Hux on his left droning on about security and how all prisoners should be properly secured in holding cells. “She’s not a prisoner General Hux henceforth I will not lock her up like one. Perhaps your soldiers should be more qualified to handle one Resistance Fighter.” Kylo’s eyes stayed trained on the stars ahead, his mind still in disbelief over the last 13 hours.

 “My men are more than qualified Supreme Leader, but a Resistance Fighter should be held prisoner. Don’t let your personal feelings get in the way Ren.” Hux spit out, the man still angered by the death grip the girl had secured around his neck…. She had made a mockery of him for all to see. 

Kylo’s head pivoted to eye the General, “Personal feelings?” Hux opened his mouth to respond but found the flow of air in his throat being cut off, for the second time today. The redhead sputtered out as Kylo lifted him in a force choke, “It would do you wonders to remember your position Hux and to mind your own business. The girl is of no concern to you.” Hux nodded frantically grasping at his throat and the invisible force choking him, silently begging to be put down. Kylo glared at the man, fury flooding his veins, he did not appreciate the assumptions flying from Hux’s mouth, he knew nothing. 

A sensation flooded Kylo’s mind, making him stagger back and drop the General. It was beckoning him, a calling from the Force, and he knew just who from. The energy was one of pure light, one he had known since the beginning of his time, and would always know till his death. Hesitantly Kylo focused on the energy reaching for him, immediately feeling the surge of Light that flooded his being. They’ll come for her. They’ll come for her. The voice kept whispering in his head, the sentence reiterating itself multiple times before the energy disappeared, leaving Kylo feeling hollow. 

His eyes shot open, General Hux eyeing him in annoyance as he sucked in large amounts of air. Kylo’s eyes shifted over to see two lieutenants, a woman wearing a tight low bun and a man with a sickly thin face, conversing over their data pads, “You two alert the bay to prepare my command shuttle.” The lieutenants nodded quickly before parading off,  Kylo turning his attention back to Hux. “General I am leaving and I am putting you in charge until my return.” Before the man could even put up a fight or question where the Supreme Leader of the First Order thought he was going, Kylo stalked off and out of the Bridge heading elsewhere.

(Y/N) had finally shifted through the multitude of wires, plucking a particular red and a blue one out of the mess. She hoped that this would allow the door to open and not send the entire compound into sirening red alarms. She took a deep breath, silently praying to the Maker for this to work. (Y/N) slowly pushed the two wires together, a spark eliciting from the adjoining wires, and the gray door besides her shot up. She quickly dropped the wires, her hands flying up in victory, her smile making it hard to still hold the knife in between her teeth. Her celebration was ruined by the tall black figure walking through the doorway, eyes wide in surprise, and face looking almost amused. 

“You’ve gotten better at that.” Kylo remarked gesturing to the wires, his eyes never leaving her face or more so the knife in her mouth. (Y/N) quirked an eyebrow up surprised he had not mentioned her attempt to escape, before removing the knife in her mouth.

 “You said you had business to attend to.” Kylo ignored her, his long black fingers plucking the knife from her hand and moving behind her to place it down on the kitchen counter. 

“Something’s come up, we’re leaving as soon as possible.” 

(Y/N) whipped around at that, “What do you mean we are leaving?” Kylo moved past her again, heading down the hall to the bedroom. He was truly sick in the mind if he thought she was going anywhere with him. 

(Y/N) quickly plucked the silver knife off the counter and moved to hide it within her boot, “Put the knife back!” His voice made (Y/N) jump and she groaned slamming the knife back on the counter, deciding to follow after him. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” (Y/N) called as she walked down the hallway, seeing Kylo packing a small black bag with items from his drawers. She vaguely saw him stuff the cylinder wrapped item from beneath the false paneling into the bag as well.

 “You will find I can be most persuasive” he mumbled under his breath. (Y/N) moved to stand on the other side of the bed, staring him down, but the Supreme Leader refused to look at her.

 “I’m not going anywhere with you, this is enough.” (Y/N) gestured to the whole room and ship.

 “If you come with me, I can show you your past.” Kylo promised eyes still down as he packed his belongings. 

“I want nothing to do with my past!” (Y/N) spit out, trying to regain her composure from his words, was it possible? She bit her lip reminding herself that she had been trying to escape him and his taunting games. 

Kylo’s head rose at that eyes reading her, “That’s a lie.” (Y/N) shook her, denying him, he could claim to have known her all he wanted but he did not know (Y/N) Stryker. Kylo’s back straightened as he returned to his towering height, his eyes biting down into her. She raised her eyebrows in response, a silent challenge to be extracted from the action. A

 black gloved hand shot out at her, her mind instantly feeling the strain. “You have spent years crying yourself to sleep wondering about your past. You’re confused about all of this, about your part in the big picture. You’re afraid you’ll never find answers or even worse they’ll be answers you don’t want to hear.” Kylo’s hand tugged even harder on her mind and (Y/N) gritted her teeth in response, trying to fight him. “You’re afraid… afraid of m-me.” Kylo stuttered out, eyes beginning to gleam.

 “Get out of my head!” (Y/N) strained, pushing him straight out of her head, and herself into his.

The image was murky as if it did not want to fully reveal itself to (Y/N). She could see the plush green grass and a boy in brown robes sitting in it. His black hair blew wildly in the warm breeze, his dark eyes trained on something ahead. It was the boy from the picture only a few years older. The fog began to dissipate up ahead revealing a young girl in taupe colored robes, two thick braids trailing down her back, (Y/E/C) eyes crinkling up as she smiled at the boy. The young girl was the one from the picture, (Y/N) not mentally able to admit who it really was. (Y/N) could feel the strange twisting sensation in her stomach, butterflies erupting inside, the same feeling the dark-haired boy felt as he returned the smile.

The image faded and (Y/N) was once again in the quarters of Kylo Ren, the man now standing beside her watching intently, a frightened look on his face. “Wh-” (Y/N) paused the tears thick in her throat, “Wh-What was t-that?” Kylo sighed, reaching up to wipe away the heavy tears pouring down her face. 

“Everything is going to be okay.” He whispered assuringly before waving his hand in front of her face, the darkness once again consuming her vision.

(Y/N) slowly opened her eyes to overwhelming brightness, a white light hanging around her vision. Was she dead? She blinked repeatedly, trying to take in her surroundings, the insignia of the First Order plastered across one wall. Definitely not dead, but on a First Order Command Shuttle, with a familiar dark haired man sitting across from her, his head down in his hands. 

“Ren” Kylo’s head rose at that, a hopeful smile on his face before it dropped, realizing he had misheard her. “Where are we going?” A soft smile spread onto his face, but his eyes held an assortment of sadness and guilt. 

“Somewhere Safe.”

Taglist:

@benpeggycartersolo​

[sukunas-play-thing]

I hope you are doing well may i request Nsfw and Sfw headcannons For Tetsutetsu And Kosei

I am doing quite fine anon bean thank you! I'd love to write kosei and tetsu (god I love my metal hottie) characters will be aged up in the NSFW headcanons!! Also reader is female

Word count: 8559

Warnings: nsfw content below and alotta fluff.

Kosei Tsubarbura

SFW

- very competitive when it comes to you.

- He shows off when you two go to the gym to work out. Dumbbells look awfully sexy when he's looking at you with those bedroom eyes.

- Coffee and ramen dates my dudes this guy dotes on you like you're the queen if England.

- Loves loves LOVES when you support him. Seriously this guy holds so much high standards for himself it's unbelievable at what lengths he'll go to be a good hero to his people. And you.

- complete sweetheart. He melts when you cook for him, help him with his training or anything else to help his life be much mire easier.

- But don't get it twisted. He goes above and beyond for you too.

- Gets mad when you think you have to do things yourself, what kind of a man would he be if he didn't help his old lady?.

- Can't help the lecherous thoughts flood his mind when you're just being. You.

- Wearing skimpy clothes of any kind? Touched him a certain way? Simply look his way with an all too sexy look of any kind? The man falters in his steps and has to stop himself before jumping you.

- You'd think after high school his closet perv would go down? Nope his thoughts only got worse after graduating and going out into the adult world.

NSFW under the cut

- he loves it when you use your tongue on him. Lap at his neck while whispering naughty things to him, making out with him, blow jobs. This man can't help himself your tongue does the hottest things to him. It should be a sin.

-He has a kink for doing the dirty in public.

- Netflix and chill. The dude pretty much invented it. Sex scene comes on the telley? Pssh guess what let's fuck.

- Praise kink. He needs to know he's fucking you good. And that you love him deeply.

- He's competitive in general so I van see this in effect tenfold in the bedroom.

- Sees how much he can get you to orgasm before the actually sex itself. Overestimation is a must in his book.

- of course he doesn't go too far he stops occasionally to make sure you're okay.

- His favorite position is Gemini and doggy style. Gives him a damn good view of your ass and loves watching it bounce and jiggle

- Gives that booty a nice spank too.

- Up to try anything you bring to the table. In fact he's a very adventurous man in the bedroom and isn't afraid of using toys of any size as long as it gets the job done and you both are splayed out on the bed sweaty and chests heaving in pure after glow.

- Takes very good care of you afterwards.

- Makes sure you're cooled off, gets wet rags and cleans you up

- Need a snack or drink he'll get it for you just wants you to be happy.

Tetsutetsu my metal hottie (also I really love this picture of him)

SFW

- GOSH this man here.

- Apple in your eye you fell for this man the moment you came to U. A to train to become a hero.

- Your friends from other classes at first complained about his loud and boisterous behavior.

- You shot them down immediately

- You thought he was the most beautiful man you've ever seen. The main thing that you loved most about him? His eyelashes. You were kinda jealous about them.

- approaching him on the other hand?

- Gosh you couldn't be as outspoken and honest as him

- He is an inspiration to you and you're whole class.

- When you finally had enough courage to tell him how you felt? He was taken aback for sure.

- It was during the villain attack at your camp you fought moonfish trying to protect an unconscious juzo and kodai.

- Running on pure adrenaline you ran to find kendo and tetsu whom you knew were nearby after your fight with the villain. With friends in tow you found the two. tetsutetsu was happy to see you were okay but angered at the sight of your bloody self .

- "TETSUTETSU IVE DISCOVERED MY DEEP SEATED FEELINGS FOR YOU AND I CANT IMAGINE A LIFE WITHOUT YOU IN IT. "

- god you were nervous the silence was deafening.

- "Like... Friends? " kendo facepalmed. "No idiot she just proclaimed her love to you. " his eyes lit up with glee.

- "Oh well why didn't ya say so!!?? " he enveloped you in the manliest hug possible.

- You two work out and eat healthy together now.

- After graduating from U. A you both decided to officially move in together.

- Best. Time. Of. Your. Life.

- you cook meals full of iron to help his quirk.

- The best dates with tetsutetsu are when you both go to arcades. Watching him play fighting games is so wholesome sometimes you forget you're supposed to be playing too and end up losing.

- "Babe!! Plus ultra!! You're supposed to kick that dirt bags ass!!"

- he's a movie night type of guy for sure. Mostly action and the like. Bends when you give him puppy eyes to watch something besides pure action. Your choices in films shocks and surprises him all the same.

- Horror.

- He gets so into yelling at the characters making dumb decisions and ends up dying. "THE CHIN. KICK HIM IN HIS BALLS DONT LET HIM KILL YOU. "you may or may not have recorded his reactions to movies before to show your friends later. He's such a dork

- Behind hugs while your doing anything around the house became a thing to him. Something about watching you work on anything you're doing at the time entices him to go up and hug tf outta you.

- He may be loud and hot headed but he's such a cuddle bug.

NSFW under the cut

- first off. Hes loud. Very loud

- the first time you both did the deed was in your living room. And apparently the walls are not near thick enough for this man.

- Neighbors complained some though gave tetsutetsu fist bumps.

- Eventually have to invest in moving into an actual house. In the country. Away from ears.

- You both wanted to do it way sooner, but being in school and the fact his mother threatened to kill him if he got you pregnant scared you both into waiting till after high school.

- when you realized how bad you loved this man and wanted the relationship to progress to physical intimacy was when he came home real late from patrolling. You woken to him just getting out of the shower and seen his bare back turned to you while he was rummaging for clothes to wear.

- God he was so sexy. Watching his muscles flex and move under his skin while water droplets fell. It made you so wet and the urge to climb him like a tree took over you.

- Slinking from bed as quiet as you could, you walked to him while he was putting a shirt on. Midway he felt small arms wrap around his stomach and stopped. His arms still in the air and shirt still over his head he felt your hands languidly move from his abs feeling every dip and curve of his body. Kissing his shoulder blades muttering words of praise to him.

- When your small hands reached his pecks feeling his clothed bulge grow in size through his sweatpants. He threw his shirt off him turning and picking you up so fast you squeaked a surprise.

- "Aight time to fuck."

- Sometimes his straight-forwardness was timed so right.

- his strength tends to leave him at times and forgets to be gentle. Unless you're into it he won't stop.

- Biting. That's it.

- Loves blowjobs

- His favorite position is any position especially those where he can pet you and see you're face contort in the most sinful expressions

- Gets off on you wearing his clothes.

- Walking around naked or in just a shirt and panties they'll be ripped off immediately.

- He tends to get jealous. Especially if you're around kirishima. I mean they're both nearly identical

- So jealous sex is common. Not that you'd complain. The mans got such a hot blooded personality and needless to say you love it when he's rough.

- The aftermath is messy and at times painful. So he always always takes care of his lady

- Hot baths together and watching a movie after is such a calming high.

- Praise kink

- May be dirty or gross to some but he's used your panties to beat the meat before.

- so all in all 100/10 Tetsutetsu is best man.

((Uhhmmm.... I'm sorry I wrote more for tetsutetsu than kosei I need to practice writing kosei more. I'm sure I am an inner hoe for him just gotta let her lose. But can you blame me? Tetsutetsu is best boy and deserves the whole damn world and then some. Please guys u be sleeping on him!))

Guys got anymore requests??? Send em in show me that inner hoe!!

🐲Queen Targe 🐲

[gyromitra-esculenta]

So, generally, I couldn’t leave this stuff on ending 1. So, ‘Something Begins’, or so called Ending 2, part kind of 2. Mostly unedited, still ‘a bad Witcher AU’. 

Warnings: none (unless you count general creepiness, talk of ploughing, weasels, a little bit of blood, Reginald the cock).

*

"More's the pity, then," she points to the table with her palm upturned. "You still have the night, and tomorrow. Let's eat, now."

Gabriel seats himself on the bench, the swords he puts on his right - ready to be drawn at moment's notice. The message is clear. Lila raises her chin taking her place on the other side of the table, hand reaching for the cloth covering the jug, and, one by one, the other inhabitants join them as she pours the water into the cups.

"Two?" Adan nudges Jack with his elbow.

"We have guests tomorrow."

"I see one, not counting the Lord. Are you inviting some of your forest friends?"

"You'll have to wait and see for yourself." Jack tears off a handful of bread for himself.

"Any friend on your mind?" Mojmira smiles at Adan who now looks at his hands placed awkwardly on the table.

"I would ne..."

"Children," Lila speaks over them, placing a piece of bread in front of Gabriel, the next one she gives to Wernund. "Behave."

"If he's thinking about ploughing the nymphs..." Jack winces after a scuffle under the table. "Yes, mother, no talk of ploughing. Not like they'd be unwilling," he adds under his breath, visibly moving his legs out of the way. "Better than bruxa for tylwyth wife."

"I didn't know she was one!" Adan looks to Lila for help, receiving only a pointed look in return.

"Boys shouldn't wander past the sundown."

The discussion continues with the occasional 'yes, mother' thrown in, the banter not unlike any other heard during a meal shared by a family - if not for the subjects implied that somehow, miraculously, fly over Wernund's head as he partakes in the conversation himself. Gabriel observes, the dissonance jarring in its unremarkable presentation. He barely touches the food and the drink, and excuses himself with the need to wake in the morning.

The stable is clean, his horse taken care of, and on fresh dried grass a couple of blankets are spread. As a precaution, he spills silver dust across the threshold and the small windowsill before he lies down on the blankets in his armor with the hilt of his unsheathed sword under his palm, ready to spend the night in vigil, waiting for the veneers of the illusion to come apart.

It's at night, under the full moon, that the creatures of the ilk that could set a trap so sweetly painful it cannot be evaded are at the height of their power, shamelessly bold and unafraid, and whatever comes - if it does - Gabriel will face it head on. Time passes and the voices coming from the outside fade. Someone - something - crosses the line of poured silver, the silhouette distinct and familiar.

"Mother does not approve of you," Jack laughs, stripping his shirt off, letting it fall to the ground before he strides closer. The blankets dip under his weight, the imaginary heat radiating off him felt through fabric and hardened leather in anticipation even before he slots his frame to Gabriel's and drapes over him with the nose buried in his neck. "Or, rather, she disapproves of your manner."

His fingers curl around the hilt of the sword as Jack's find the spot on his chest where under the armor the small pouch tied securely lies hidden from the sight.

"You still wear it." The tone is changed and Gabriel knows that that the next words will command him to tear it off. But Jack laughs instead, whimsical and rolling sound vibrating in his chest. "Oh, little cub, if I were what you're thinking me to be, would I simply not ask for this gift of mine to be returned rightfully? Or maybe I'd just tell you it is all but ground to dust, powerless now?"

Gabriel slowly lifts the blade, just so the creature cannot see it. Above him, Jack shifts.

"Or assure you that if anything has ever protected you from harm, it had been me, not the flower you carry."

His palm covers Gabriel's hand and guides the sword between them. The angled blade turns and Jack puts his neck to the edge. The reflected moonlight illuminates the blemish running across his throat, a long line of paler flesh no wider than the nail on a little finger.

"Maybe even take it by force since you let me this close, witcher."

The skin parts open on the starmetal steel with each discrete movement of Jack’s neck. Droplets of blood trickle along the length of the blade - and down the line of his neck, to pool in the dip between the collarbones. Gabriel's breath dies in his chest, the sound of his heart deafening.

"Never tell anyone. Never take it off, not even if it is me asking, en'ca minne aep Hen Ichaer," the melancholy smile has his grip faltering under Jack's fingers. "There are those who would kill for it, and there are those who would use you, if not for it, a lesson hard-learned."

He has to blink the tears away, the sword lying forgotten in the straw, trembling hands cupping Jack's face.

"You are real."

The words are like a first breath of air taken in years.

"You gave me gifts I can never repay you for. You gifted me death, and you offered me life. You are my home, for a part of me is a part of you, and a part of you is a part of me," Jack continues, leaning over Gabriel, fingers tracing his cheekbones. "The songs of your mother and the stories of your father, I keep them for you, and I'll continue to do so, forevermore. Once, you had asked me to come with you, and I had accepted then, and so, I would accept it now, again. Eich'en a'bleth essea, Rhenaweddin."

To believe is the hardest thing, but with Jack gently brushing away his tears, Gabriel finds the strength to do just that.

With his head cradled to Jack's breast, and the quiet voice singing songs he knows but does not remember, he finally sleeps peacefully in forever stretching like a dark mourning shroud over the years - until a cockcrow announces the new morn and fingers combing his hair stop.

"You grew it out long."

A new day, finally, with the sun climbing over the horizon, the spot of light crawling down the wall, and a rooster that could use some shutting up.

"It can be cut now."

"It fits you, cub, you have the face for it. I looked like a haystack."

The emptiness floats inside him, the indescribable void bereft of any emotion Gabriel has a name for, refreshing and aching - he lets himself be carried on its calm surface.

"Did you have the whole deal? The hair-cutting?"

"It was awkward. I went from Strach to Mikheil."

"Strach?"

"Tearth."

"She didn't have high hopes for you, then," Gabriel chuckles as the rooster goes for umpteenth repetition, suddenly interrupted by wild squawking and the sound of wings beating frantically.

"What?" Jack feigns innocence for a moment before laughing.

"Lord Murders-A-Lot happens to be useful. Not very often, but it happens."

"You sent a weasel after a cock."

"Truth be told, Reginald isn't a very brave cock. The hens are fearless, though, and they do like to cuddle, did you know?"

"No," Gabriel sighs, closing his eyes again.

Nothing changes yet everything does, and he's simply tired - so tired - the exhaustion of the sort that seeps inside and settles heavy and sluggish at the very core of one's being for so long it remains unnoticeable.

"You should sleep more and I need to help with preparations." His arms tighten around Jack's waist upon hearing the words, loathe as he is to let go of him even for a second, and Jack curls around him, to place a kiss on his forehead. "I'll be back with you soon, little cub. There are things to be done for the feast. So, sleep and dream."

[prettymuchdeadalready]

100 Important Character Questions

Here’s looking at you kid, @wexarethewalkingxdead​ !! XD They’ll be below the cut due to length. {{ I despise ‘read mores’ except that it’s so fucking long! XD }}

1OO IMPORTANT CHARACTER QUESTIONS

taken from beth kinderman and nikki walker’s the 100 most important things to know about your character. a good list to help develop a character’s background, personality, and general aspects. 

PART 1: THE BASICS

·         What is your full name? :: Bobby Autumn Monroe

·         Where and when were you born? :: Atlanta, Georgia at Grace Memorial at 4am on a Sunday.

·         Who are/were your parents? (Know their names, occupations, personalities, etc.) :: Maryann JoMarie Monroe (nee Tippins) and Franklin Roosevelt Monroe ;; mama was a stay at home mother who became an addict to opiates and papa was a worker at the mill in Powder Springs, which was a HUGE (in his mind because he always resented it) drive from where they lived on the outskirts of Atlanta in a little cabin home one a sparce patch of land just outside a trailer park beside the woods. Mama was a strong woman who grew weak after nears of being beaten and bloodied by her drunk mean husband; having 3 kids kept her strong to a degree, however, for as long as she could be, trying to keep his attention on her and away from her kids. When she died (Bobby who was the eldest of them by 15 minutes) that all changed; Michael trying to draw the majority of the brutality because he was the boy and his father always was trying to beat on the girls when given little to no reason at all, even.

·         Do you have any siblings? What are/were they like? :: Michael Henry Monroe and Katherine Emberlynn Monroe, in chronological order of birth after Bobby. Michael is an EMT on staff with New York Presbyterian Hospital, which is also Columbia University’s training hospital. Katherine is an aspiring actress in the LA area of California.

·         Where do you live now, and with whom? Describe the place and the person/people. :: Bobby has never left Georgia. The only time she does is when the group moves on after season 4. She doesn’t know why she’s never left before, not even to visit her siblings that left her behind, but she always feels like, as the big sister, it’s her job to maintain a home for them to come back to, should they ever need it.

·         What is your occupation? :: Bobby is an ER nurse with Grace Fulton Memorial Hospital and regularly assists with trauma cases.

·         Write a full physical description of yourself. You might want to consider factors such as: height, weight, race, hair and eye color, style of dress, and any tattoos, scars, or distinguishing marks. :: Height is 5’4. (Smol but mighty!) Weight fluctuates from 115 to 120 pounds depending on the time of year and stressors in her life; okay, maybe 124, but not an ounce more! She swears. Bobby is Caucasian American. Hair is an auburn brunet. Eyes are chocolate brown; when she is angry they appear almost amber in tone, and when sexually aroused they usually darken to an almost black. Her fashion sense is usually tomboy, wearing jeans and tee shirts; sometimes a little sporty with tight running pants, spandex or loose shorts, and tank tops. Bobby only has one tattoo that transcends any and all verses she might have: a black rose with three drips of blood on the petals, one at the end nearly ready to drop off, at the small of her back which reminds her of the fragility of life and death and the ever presence of the latter, the pain and struggle symbolized by the blood droplets on the petals. She has a long scar that runs the length of the space between where the band on her bra would rest down to her love handle, on the edge where her side meets her back – given to her by an abusive ex that was just like her father when drunk, only worse because he was legitimately a highly functioning and violently brutal psychopath and burn marks on her upper back/right shoulder blade and left outer thigh from where her father and her ex had their fun using her as an ashtray.

·         To which social class do you belong? :: Middle class. Working class.

·         Do you have any allergies, diseases, or other physical weaknesses? :: Maryanne had carpal tunnel and severe arthritis in her left arm from it being broken a couple times by her lovely husband. After her mother died Bobby was cooking dinner one night and her father, who had been drinking all evening from end of work until right that moment, picked up his hammer and hit Bobby in the upper left arm twice, hard. She had to wear a cast for two months (part of that time an extension after being thrown against the wall another separate night that shattered the first incarnation of the cast) to heal the broken bone. Thus, sometimes when its too cold she has bouts where her left arm is weak, not able to carry heavy things, and there was minimal nerve damage in the hand as a result which means she can’t always feel too hot, or too cold. This does not impair her job as she isn’t responsible for surgery where the steadiest of hands are needed; thankfully Bobby’s aid in the field is at most a needle and thread for mending/stitches, of which she can do with her dominant hand.

·         Are you right- or left-handed? :: Right handed.

·         What does your voice sound like? :: Natalie Portman.

·         What words and/or phrases do you use very frequently? :: Y’all. Jesus Harold Christ on crooked crutches. Jiminy Christmas. Calm down there Satan.

·         What do you have in your pockets? :: A pocket knife with combination of other fold out tools. Mini canister of mace. Car and house keys in some verses. Apocalypse verses she sometimes carries car keys.

·         Do you have any quirks, strange mannerisms, annoying habits, or other defining characteristics? :: Bobby doesn’t consider anything she does as strange or annoying but just ask one of the people she considers family and he would say she talks too damn much. At least the other man in her life appreciates that she knows how to turn out the lights…

PART 2: GROWING UP

·         How would you describe your childhood in general? :: Stressful. Her days were constantly spent fearing what would happen when daddy got home, what mood would he be in, what would he do, would he just hurt mama or would he come after her and her siblings too…? Bobby grew up worrying about things no child should ever have to worry about or fear.

·         What is your earliest memory? :: Bobby doesn’t know for sure if this is a memory or some part of her subconscious trying to bring her peace, but in the quiet moments when she closes her eyes she can hear her mother’s voice softly singing to her as she’s being held, cradled in safe arms with worn delicate hands gently rubbing her back. “Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night and wouldn’t you love to love her…? Takes to the sky like a bird in flight and…who will be her lover? All your life you’ve never seen a woman…taken by the wind…”

·         How much schooling have you had? :: Bobby went through two years of high school before she was forced to drop out to care for her other siblings and make sure they got the best lives possible. It wasn’t perfect anyway, but she tried. She went back and got her GED when she turned 21. Immediately upon her father dying ( when she turned 19 ) she began putting some money away toward furthering her own education, enrolling in community college once her GED came through. She got a bachelor’s degree in science and biology, and earned certification and licensure as an EMT and trauma nurse.

·         Did you enjoy school? :: Bobby loved school. It was the only thing she could do outside the house that was usually constant and unbreakable, a schedule that the state decided for children and one her father couldn’t stop. This was she could be free of the worries and fears that usually plagued her days and simultaneously learn things about the world at large, all around her and beyond. It was refreshing and awe inspiring.

·         Where did you learn most of your skills and other abilities? :: Anything she didn’t learn from her mother and her father ( positive or not ) she learned from school and the teachers and children in that environment.

·         While growing up, did you have any role models? If so, describe them. :: The only role model Bobby had growing up was her mother, Maryanne. Mama taught her the strength and the tenacity she needed to make it in the world, both in her father’s house, and later.

·��        While growing up, how did you get along with the other members of your family? :: Bobby and her mother started as adult to child relationship and then at the end when her mother was dying Bobby became an almost equal to her mother, taking care of her and herself and the siblings she had. Likewise, with her siblings, it was mostly a jovial peer to peer relationship ( and what sibling relationship was complete without the occasional fight and attempted murder ), which eventually merged into a motherly feeling over them, protective of them when their mother passed. Her relationship with her father was always strained, always wary and tumultuous and it only worsened when Maryanne died. He became more possessive of the kids and Bobby feared being raped or sexually abused by him after a time ( she looked more like her mother than Kath did ) as he would get drunk and beat her, yelling things like ‘how dare you leave me’ and ‘I’ll show you something to cry about you weak whore.’ That relationship was strained and haunted until the day he died.

·         As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? :: She wanted to be an astronaut or a pirate. Anything that could take her far far away from where she was and keep her safe, eventually far enough to make her happy in life.

·         As a child, what were your favorite activities? :: Anything Bobby could do outside the house. She spent AGES outside in the woods, roaming with nowhere in her mind to go in particular; she could sit on a stump deep in the sea of green and just space out, let her mind wander for hours. She would try to fish. She made friends with small woodland creatures like something out of a Disney film. She sometimes sat alone out there all night, looking up into the moon under a blanket of stars and a bed made of fallen leaves and long grass.

·         As a child, what kinds of personality traits did you display? :: As a child, Bobby was pretty devoid of personality; at least when she was at home. At home and when she was alone she was quiet, too quiet. A mousy brown haired brown eyed little girl with nothing to say and who would lay low on purpose, anything not to catch her father’s attention. Outside of the house she often put on a brave face, smiling and laughing and acting like nothing was wrong. Sometimes she could even forget that she was a victim of domestic violence and forget her usual invisible act, coming out of herself and being herself, talkative ( almost too much talking for some ) and bright. Her light shines bright from within her and her strength and perseverance really show in her eyes.

·         As a child, were you popular? Who were your friends, and what were they like? :: Bobby was not a popular kid at school. She often sat alone or with her siblings. Even the losers didn’t want to sit with them because everyone knew what the Monroe home life was like and who their father was, what he did to them and their mother. No one would claim them as friends, at least not outwardly or in public.

·         When and with whom was your first kiss? :: Daniel Dunn was her first kiss in most all her verses. He was a messed up kid, a psychopath that was highly functioning and much too sadistic, even as far as most psychopaths are concerned. He used her and abused her for most of her young adult years, as her father had her mother. ( What was it they said about emulating what you saw as a child and being doomed to repeat it…? ) In one of her verses she has known Daryl Dixon all of her life and he is her first kiss…her first everything.

·         Are you a virgin? If not, when and with whom did you lose your virginity? :: Same as the question above to be honest. Most of her verses features Daniel Dunn in that role, as fucked up and cruel as that is, and in the one it’s Daryl Dixon.

·         If you are a supernatural being (i.e. mage, werewolf, vampire), tell the story of how you became what you are or first learned of your own abilities. If you are just a normal human, describe any influences in your past that led you to do the things you do today. :: Bobby was definitely informed by her childhood and her mother’s and father’s relationship as far as what kind of person she wanted to become. She would consciously always pick a path that led her to be her mother, kind and sweet and a pure heart with passion despite being regularly beaten down and broken by outside influences because of her goodness. She was also inspired to become a trauma nurse thanks to all the times she had to help fix up her mom, her siblings and herself over the years, some of the things she’d come into schooling being self-taught after a bad couple of nights.

PART 3: PAST INFLUENCES

·         What do you consider the most important event of your life so far? :: The night Dan almost killed her and she survived, barely, to be present and the star witness at the trial that would send him to prison for at least 20 years for attempted premeditated murder. And every so many years when probation is brought before the review board, release for good behavior, she makes sure she’s available to speak. She even takes the day off work to make sure she can go down and make herself and her story with him heard.

·         Who has had the most influence on you? :: Mama.

·         What do you consider your greatest achievement? :: Bouncing back from being a high school dropout ( even though her reasoning was perfectly acceptable and understandable ), getting her GED and her degrees. Putting herself first. Finally.

·         What is your greatest regret? :: Bobby blames herself for her mother’s death. Obviously her mother became addicted to opioids and died of an aortic rupture, which were things no little girl could have realistically been able to help or prevent. Nonetheless she thinks, and has believed all her life that maybe she wasn’t strong enough to help her mother through the worst of their lives, to survive past it and watch her babies grow up and succeed in the way their mama had always wanted and hoped.

·         What is the most evil thing you have ever done? :: Bobby pulled the wings off a fly once. Another time she pulled the back legs off of a grasshopper. It was, in her mind ( at least as a pretense ) all for science, but some psychologists and therapists might think otherwise.

·         Do you have a criminal record of any kind? :: Bobby has gotten arrested a couple times, all for misdemeanor things like stealing a candy bar from a convenience store and for indecent exposure in her small town when she was caught with her pants down around the bend, side of the road, peeing in the brush while drunk.

·         When was the time you were the most frightened? :: Bobby was frightened to the same extent twice in her life. The first when her mother was being beaten for the last time ( which was also the night she died ) and when Bobby herself was being beaten and broken and nearly killed by Dan.

·         What is the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to you? :: When she was 15 ( which is not a legal age of consent and no, I do not condone anything happening to minors, this is just FICTION ) she was being diddled by Dan in the back seat of his car ( he was older than she was by 2 years as well ) when she opened her eyes to find the window down and a couple of Dan’s older friends jerking themselves off to what Dan was doing to her, turning her on and playing with her. She immediately wanted to stop and thankfully there were other people walking by when she started screaming or she most likely would have been forced to continue against her will. It was both embarrassing for her and equally as dangerous and twisted a situation.

·         If you could change one thing from your past, what would it be, and why? :: Bobby often wishes she was older and stronger than she was when her mother died. She wants to be able to go back and take her siblings out of that environment altogether. She wants to have been able to maybe even save her mother.

·         What is your best memory? :: The ones alone in the woods. Anything where the woodlands creatures accepted her as a part of their world, knowing inherently she wouldn’t hurt them.

·         What is your worst memory? :: The way her mother died, in her arms, at home. There were no police and no ambulance until it was too late to save her, much too late.

PART 4: BELIEFS & OPINIONS

·         Are you basically optimistic or pessimistic? :: Optimistic.

·         What is your greatest fear? :: Being powerless and out of control of her own life.

·         What are your religious views? :: She’s spiritual but does not ascribe to any one particular religious sect or view. She tends to take a little of this and a little of that from various religions, whatever she feels she can identify with in the moment and incorporate into her lifestyle.

·         What are your political views? :: Progressive Liberal Independent.

·         What are your views on sex? :: The more the better. Well, provided it’s the right person and it’s consensual. Also, sometimes a little kinky if she trusts the person she’s with implicitly.

·         Are you able to kill? Under what circumstances do you find killing to be acceptable or unacceptable? :: In any verses where the apocalypse doesn’t exist ( or not yet ) she could only kill if it was someone threatening her life or the lives of her family/spouse/kids. In the apocalypse, she begins just as they all did, saying they would never kill the living, then only if she had to, and progressing until doing it regularly because she had to and there were rarely other options. Not to say there are moments when she should kill and doesn’t, for one reason or another, but she makes sure to weigh the call. Taking a life, being a healer as she is and continues to be, isn’t an easy call to make.

·         In your opinion, what is the most evil thing any human being could do? :: To abuse physically, emotionally, mentally, and/or sexually a child. To Bobby that is the most reprehensible crime.

·         Do you believe in the existence of soul mates and/or true love? :: Yes.

·         What do you believe makes a successful life? :: The impact one has on the world around them, whoever or whatever they touch/influence. What a person leaves behind, their legacy.

·         How honest are you about your thoughts and feelings (i.e. do you hide your true self from others, and in what way)? :: Bobby is pretty honest about her feelings now, almost to a detriment. She’s brutally honest about thoughts and feelings and has been pretty intense in all aspects of her life since her father died and set her free from the binds of her past.

·         Do you have any biases or prejudices? :: Bobby has biases against rapists and child molesters, child abusers and domestic violence offenders. Really, she feels as though anyone who breaks the law for more than stealing some food ( if a person is desperate to eat or feed their family ) they should do the time applicable to the crime.

·         Is there anything you absolutely refuse to do under any circumstances? Why do you refuse to do it? :: Bobby doesn’t like to lie. She won’t do it. If asked to lie she will retreat from the conflict altogether, saying nothing to either party. If asked for the truth, therefore, she would have to tell the truth. Her replies at being asked to lie always include some formulation of ‘if you want to propagate lies and slander then do it in your name.’ Her refusal stems from years of her mother and her family lying to the authorities, to medical professionals, to the world about what they went through at her father’s hands. ( Whether they knew or not otherwise wasn’t the point. )

·         Who or what, if anything, would you die for (or otherwise go to extremes for)? :: Family and friends that have become family. Her spouse, her partner, the person she’s chosen to spend the rest of her life with. Her children, adopted or natural, blood or not.

PART 5: RELATIONSHIPS W/OTHERS

·         In general, how do you treat others (politely, rudely, by keeping them at a distance, etc.)? Does your treatment of them change depending on how well you know them, and if so, how? :: Bobby is always guided by the other person. She will usually begin friendly and polite, if a bit wary and gruff depending on the circumstances. It always depends on the first impression and expression of the other person how she reacts and treats them from there, forward. Sometimes a rude or dislike situation can be changed over time if both parties work toward making it positive or a catalyst turns the dynamic around. Likewise, if someone starts off friendly with her it can turn to dislike and even hatred if given the right cataclysm. She read this quote once that she lives by : ‘if you feel it necessary to judge me by my past, don’t be surprised when I put you in it.’ Most often, however, if a person is able to get past all the walls she’s built over time against being hurt viscerally by someone intimately, they’re in her heart and they’re usually there for good.

·         Who is the most important person in your life, and why? :: It depends on the verse. Sometimes all she has left are her brother and sister. Other verses are dependent on her family/attachments/spouses/significant others. Rick, Shane, Daryl, Charley, etc. Family is important to Bobby, especially at the end of the world. Her children are first and foremost the most important people in her life in the verses in which she has them.

·         Who is the person you respect the most, and why? :: Carol. No matter what verse is concerned, this holds true. She sees a lot of her mother in Carol. A lot of the same strengths and hopes and dreams that have been tramped down by a man with a heavy hand and an awfully small constitution. Of all the people Bobby has the pleasure to meet in all her travels and all her realities, Carol is the one person she loves and supports and looks up to the most.

·         Who are your friends? Do you have a best friend? Describe these people. :: Bobby has very few friends in the real world. As stated before she was never a popular kid growing up and only got any recognition for her beauty by boys or girls with one thing on the mind. The only people she considers as true friends she made after the world as she knew it already ended. Carol. Daryl. Rick. Shane. Maggie. Glenn. Enid. King Ezekiel. Jerry. Jesus. Aaron. Etc. The only exception to this is the verse where she’s known Daryl all her life; in that case she’s always had him. He is her best friend. And her cat, Patches, a gray and white tabby cat with darker gray almost black ears, definitely constitutes as a best friend.

·         Do you have a spouse or significant other? If so, describe this person. :: Daryl – nickname Tracker; annoyed and frustrated with how much she talks but loves her for it anyway and finds it kind of endearing despite himself; afraid of intimacy in the same way that she is and was and what makes them a good fit is their willingness now to grow together solely with one another; can’t live with her and can’t live without her; hillbilly grump with the most honest, pure, innocent heart of anyone she knows. Shane – nickname Deputy; knows who the real boss of the house is; is probably afraid of Bobby…maybe…like a lot; strong willed, passionate, and has an easy anger reflex; they fight a lot about the silliest things but it always come back to love; the thing he probably loves the most about her is that she knows how to turn the damn lights off. Rick – no nickname as yet; he really stepped into the leader role over the time they’ve known each other; Bobby never expected to follow him as closely as she does now; they don’t always agree but they rarely actually fight; he’s the epitome of calm and problem solving in dire situations; he’d walk through Hell and all its fire for her and his kids and probably everyone else he cares for and that’s the one thing she loves the most above all else about him. Mac – nickname Cupcake; strictly a fanfiction/headcanon ship at this point; used to ship this pairing exclusively with macxtheanimal way back when; a meth head, rapist, murderer, criminal, muscle and enforcer for his father’s crystal meth operation; he’s a villain that makes no apologies for his actions but she can see the broken little boy in him, abandoned by his mother so long ago to his father’s lifestyle; kept her hostage as a sex slave for a long time until they had an intimate exchange one night and she whispered to him that she just wanted to be free to make the choice; he let her go, saying she was free and he knew she’d always leave because they all did if given a chance; she stayed. {{ All are subject to change based on verse or partner writing this with us. Mostly these listings as spouses or SO’s are exclusive right now to wexarethewalkingxdead and macxtheanimal. }}

·         Have you ever been in love? If so, describe what happened. :: She’s only been in love a couple times in her life. ( Verse dependent. ) It almost always ends in pain and suffering for her, be it physically or emotionally, but there are a few over the verses/years that she’s found true happiness with.

·         What do you look for in a potential lover? :: Connection. Chemistry. Sexy/pretty eyes. Rough pads of their hands and they have to be steady and firm. Stable.

·         How close are you to your family? :: Bobby and her siblings are VERY close, even though they don’t live in the same place anymore. Sometimes herself and her sister Kath haven’t always been as close as they should have been. Those moments are almost always based on imagined slights of some kind because Bobby is and always has been an outspoken person; she never sugar coats things that should be communicated. It follows in the same vein as her always being truthful. Hence, sometimes hurt feelings. Bobby and the people she’s come to think of as family are likewise, VERY close with these same issues of hurt feelings now and again, resulting mostly in a short time of silence or avoidance between the parties.

·         Have you started your own family? If so, describe them. If not, do you want to? Why or why not? :: This is dependent on her verses. In some she does make a family with someone special. In others she hasn’t, whether because she hasn’t found that someone yet or because she’s afraid of finding a man like her father and subjecting herself to the same life her mother lived prior to her death – not to mention subjecting any children they might have to that lifestyle.

·         Who would you turn to if you were in desperate need of help? :: Bobby would turn to her siblings first, provided it was something they could solve realistically. If they aren’t available or they can’t fix it because they live out of state, etc, the next stop would be her chosen family, friends she’s made along the way that would go the extra mile for her, and she for them.

·         Do you trust anyone to protect you? Who, and why? :: Very few people and they have to prove themselves to her with their deeds, not just words and promises coming off lips and tongues that have lied so many times they probably don’t even know they’re doing it anymore.

·         If you died or went missing, who would miss you? :: Her family ( her brother and sister ) have been living in different states from her for quite a few years now but that doesn’t mean they’ve become distant. They would definitely miss her. Also any of the family she’s made in the apocalypse. Obviously this is verse dependent.

·         Who is the person you despise the most, and why? :: Actually, I think Bobby despises her mother the most of anyone she’s ever known in her life. It’s a very complicated relationship. Bobby still loves her mother; while she was alive she was the only kindness Bobby and her siblings knew. She was strong and endured a lot but that same strength could also be considered weakness. Why couldn’t she have left their father? Why couldn’t she have taken them away and made a go of it on their own? Maybe she’d be alive today. Maybe a lot of things. So Bobby is constantly fighting with love and hate for the woman that bore her.

·         Do you tend to argue with people, or avoid conflict? :: Bobby has a good sense for whatever a situation calls for, usually. In most circumstances she will listen and hear someone out before saying her piece. But she is southern and strong willed, a stiff backbone, and sometimes the outrage comes dripping off her teeth like venom before she can stave them off. In moments when she can’t be smart and hold her tongue, and even when she does, Bobby is a woman who is definitely not afraid of conflict if she feels the situation calls for it.

·         Do you tend to take on leadership roles in social situations? :: Bobby is strong enough to take the weight of the world on her shoulders. It certainly depends on what the situation is, but in the case of her primary verse – in the Walker apocalypse – she doesn’t hold back. As a healer, a nurse, she will absolutely take on a leadership role if one is needed. If another leader is present, and she respects that person, they will only gain support from her; likewise, if they do not have her respect, all they will get it push-back until they either utilize her and her ideas to their potential or she potentially replaces them as the leader. She’s very strong but she is versatile. She knows when to step back and let things shake loose.

·         Do you like interacting with large groups of people? Why or why not? :: Bobby has always been a little bit of a loner. She’d personable but she also likes her alone time. As previously discussed, there wasn’t a lot of silent time in her home and she much rather would have been somewhere alone with her thoughts instead of lined up ready to catch a beating. Large crowds do tend to make her a little anxious. She’d much rather only deal with a few people at a time.

·         Do you care what others think of you? :: Bobby does care what other people thing of her, to an extent. She doesn’t dwell on it, however, and if there are ever opinions that are misconstrued or wrong she will make sure not to ever think on those things again. The only thing that usually can get to Bobby is when people she loves and is devoted to make comments to her that can be considered derogatory or hurtful, judging.

PART 6: LIKES & DISLIKES

·         What is/are your favorite hobbies and pastimes? :: Hiking and taking walks in the lush green forests. Photography. Reading. Her grandma taught her mother how to sew and thus, taught Bobby enough to get by; those nursing lessons on stitching wounds up didn’t hurt either.

·         What is your most treasured possession? :: Patches. He is a grey and white tabby cat with dubious bloodline origin with black ears. She’s had him with her for a long time and she’d walk through fire for him if she had to.

·         What is your favorite color? :: Blue.

·         What is your favorite food? :: Seafood boil.

·         What, if anything, do you like to read? :: Bobby is an always will be a fan of anything she can get her hands on. She does go through moods, however, devoted to certain genres over the others. Predominantly she reads works of fiction about murder and crime, who done its and thrillers. Horror novels are a must as well. A favorite series of hers is the By The Numbers novels about Stephanie Plum and her life fumble bumbling through the Bounty Hunter business by Janet Evanovich. Romance novels, unless well written with a predominant plot encompassing one of the aforementioned genres, can go suck lemons!

·         What is your idea of good entertainment (consider music, movies, art, etc.)? :: Bobby is mostly a music person. Movies are fine and television can captivate her attention if its done well but there’s nothing better than putting in a CD, or plugging her headphones into her phone’s jack and playing some tunes on the digital frequency. It sets the mood, no matter what that mood is, 100% of the time.

·         Do you smoke, drink, or use drugs? If so, why? Do you want to quit? :: Bobby used to smoke. It was something to do with her hands and a nervous tick that she adopted mostly in crowded groups of people to help calm her nerves in those situations. Social smoking. Whether or not she still does it verse dependent. Bobby also drinks alcoholic beverages but within reason and rarely ever to excess.

·         How do you spend a typical Saturday night? :: In the apocalypse there is a lot to do, all of the time. There’s never a dull moment. Saturdays are usually reserved for whatever needs doing that wasn’t done the day before, as well as making time for family and friends trying to reclaim what was stolen from them by the world as it exists now. In the other verses where the world is normal, Saturdays are usually reserved for family time, the park, the zoo, barbecues with family and friends, etc. On the rare occasion work comes calling – she is an emergency room nurse – she will sometimes go in. And sometimes not.

·         What makes you laugh? :: Stupid jokes, dad jokes, horrible puns. Her husband. Her kids. New airings and reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

·         What, if anything, shocks or offends you? :: Racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, slurs and swear words used in conjunction with said slurs and behavior, etc. Anything that could be considered along the same vein by small minded people who are afraid of anything they don’t know and haven’t bothered to become educated about/in.

·         What would you do if you had insomnia and had to find something to do to amuse yourself? :: Insomnia does sometimes strike. It happens in those moments when something exceptionally traumatic happens at work or there happens to be a scare with her husband, kids, or siblings/family, those moments when she’s in the dark of the night, sometimes alone, with her own thoughts and fears. Sometimes there is no amusing herself. Sometimes she has to talk herself down off a very high ledge. Sometimes she has to wake up her significant other ( if present ) just to know they’re there, they’re alive. Sometimes the heartbeat and the steady breathing isn’t enough.

·         How do you deal with stress? :: Bobby reads. She keeps her hands busy cooking, cleaning, and caring for her family. Killing Walkers in the apocalypse, keeping a tight perimeter. Yoga and pilates in the verses where the world hasn’t changed.

·         Are you spontaneous, or do you always need to have a plan? :: Bobby is usually a very plan oriented person. She’s learned over the years that the only way to be is concerned, vigilant, if a bit controlling. That isn’t to say that she’s a control freak, but she does have strong opinions and will be heard on them. She wishes she was more spontaneous and sometimes makes attempts to purposely exit her comfort zone in certain situations she deems it appropriate, such as her sex life, dates, etc.

·         What are your pet peeves? :: People who can’t follow directions or laws of an ordered society. People who lie or steal unless circumstances are such that would overwrite the negative or somehow make an allowance for it. People who judge others or presume to tell other people their business when they don’t even have their lives together.

PART 7: SELF IMAGES & OTHER

·         Describe the routine of a normal day for you. How do you feel when this routine is disrupted? :: Regardless of what her work schedule works like ( days or evenings ) Bobby gets up around 5 a.m. daily. She makes coffee through the slits of her eyelids. She then returns to the bathroom where she showers and brushes her teeth. By that time she usually is ready to start breakfast for herself and whoever else is present. Morning shifts she works until 3 p.m. She will usually run any errands she has to do at that time before coming home and making dinner. Night shifts she works until 11 p.m. doing the errands and prepping dinner before leaving for the night for her shift. If her routine happens to be interrupted or subverted in any way, she usually gets a little perturbed, might make a dramatic comment about everything being a mess, and carrying on with things as best as she can.

·         What is your greatest strength as a person? :: Her heart and her generosity. It helped her overcome a lot of odds that were stacked against her from the beginning.

·         What is your greatest weakness? :: Her heart. Sometimes she’s loyal to a fault even though the people she let inside of it use her and abuse her. Also her stubborn as a mule attitude and her stiff backbone. When she’s made up her mind there’s very precious little that can change it.

·         If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? :: How her past shaped her to be numb and emotionless in certain situations that require feeling. She doesn’t always respond in the right ways to tragedy or loss. Sometimes not responding at all. It’s a more calloused wounded part of herself she wished she didn’t have.

·         Are you generally introverted or extroverted? :: Generally extroverted but in small doses. Large gatherings or venues kept to a minimum.

·         Are you generally organized or messy? :: Organized.

·         Name three things you consider yourself to be very good at, and three things you consider yourself to be very bad at. :: Good – 1) Problem solving, 2) Nursing/healing, 3) Being a wife and mother. Bad – 1) Spontaneity, 2) Letting go, 3) Cleaning vomit.

·         Do you like yourself? :: Yes. For the most part.

·         What are your reasons for being an adventurer (or doing the strange and heroic things that RPG characters do)? Are your real reasons for doing this different than the ones you tell people in public? (If so, detail both sets of reasons…) :: It’s a choice you make. When things get difficult, what kind of person would you want to be? If a child cries in the dark, scared, alone; would you help them? Or would you turn away? Tell yourself it’s not your concern. If a mother and father are fighting for their child’s life as the child is being physically removed from their arms, wounded, killed before them. Would you intervene if you could? Or turn your back? Would you do everything you could because you have the ability, because you have the choice or do you do nothing, make the choice not to, and perhaps blood be on your hands…? It’s a choice she makes every day to do better, to be someone she could be proud of, that her family would remember and be proud of long after she was gone. Her sacrifice, if needed, would not be in vane.

·         What goal do you most want to accomplish in your lifetime? :: Leave the world a little better than she found it.

·         Where do you see yourself in 5 years? :: She can’t say. She hopes to be alive and well, actually living a life and happy within its confines. But she knows that may never come. Not even tomorrow is guaranteed…

·         If you could choose, how would you want to die? :: Old and grey in her sleep. In the apocalypse, if she could choose and she was bitten/injured beyond the ability to be healed, she would want to shoot herself in the head before changing. She wouldn’t want to leave it for any of her loved ones to do; she doesn’t want that burden to be on their soul.

·         If you knew you were going to die in 24 hours, name three things you would do in the time you had left. :: 1) Write little notes or letters to those she loved who would miss her and feel her loss the most. 2) Love on and spend a lot of time with the children, 3) Clean, load, cock and ready her gun and wait.

·         What is the one thing for which you would most like to be remembered after your death? :: Her kindness. How many people she helped. How far out of her way she sometimes went to make that happen.

·         What three words best describe your personality? :: Brave, Generous, and Loyal

·         What three words would others probably use to describe you? :: Bold, Daring, and Realistic

·         If you could, what advice would you, the player, give to your character? (You might even want to speak as if he or she were sitting right here in front of you, and use proper tone so he or she might heed your advice…) :: Bobby. You are without a doubt the biggest pain in my ass, second only to Shane and Daryl. You are the most generous, kind, loyal person I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. You’re also one of the most stubborn. A word of advice might be you think too much. You plan and you organize and you get shit done. I get it. But sometimes, you’re a little too extra. Learn what it’s like to be a girl. Let your hair down more. Unscrew the dick sometimes. It’s fun being a girl. And I know that you know that but you’re too afraid to lose control because you think if you do you’ll lose everything good you ever had. And I know it’s because you don’t think you deserve all the good you have received over the years. You’re beauty. You’re grace. You’re the kind of person I wish I could be sometimes; but you need to be a little less afraid of what you could lose and more willing to risk it all. A man in my life asked me once if a moment of happiness was worth a lifetime of anything else. And the answer is yes.

[sweetlangdon]

From Eden: Chapter 2

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence. 

This fic is currently in progress. 

Chapter One       Also Available on AO3

She’d been listening to the steady drip of water hitting the tiles for at least a half hour now, though time didn’t matter much anymore to her, not here. The haze of steam that had filled the room and wrapped her body in its warmth had long since disappeared. She sat on the floor of the shower, her back pressed to the freezing tile, her arms hugging her knees, as the air chilled and goosebumps rose along her skin. Droplets rolled down her back from the strands of wet hair plastered to her shoulders, and she shivered absently, half aware of the cold but too distant to do anything to remedy it.

It’s always been a part of you.

…it will find you eventually.

And you’d do anything to make sure you’re not abandoned. Not again.

Langdon’s voice filled up her thoughts, haunting her hours and hours later. She couldn’t shake him from her mind, couldn’t stop pulling apart what he’d said to her on a relentless loop. Eighteen months and he’d been the first person in this godforsaken bunker to see her. Maybe part of that had been her fault—she’d kept everyone else at arm’s length in an act of self-preservation, but something about him had compelled her to confess, to bear fragments of herself that she’d tried to ignore. What was it? How could a stranger make the words fall from her tongue so easily? It surprised her, even now, that she’d kept her own fear restrained enough to speak with him like that. Langdon—or maybe the impression of him; brooding, emotionless—had scared the shit out of her. She didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of him digging through her soul, chipping away pieces where he saw fit.

But there was still that infuriating part of her that regarded him with a strange reverence. And she couldn’t explain it, not yet. The weight of Langdon’s presence, standing in front of him, it had been unlike anything she’d felt before. It was terrifying. It thrilled her, too, though she wasn’t ready to concede that. It was like he’d made something come alive in her veins with a mere glance, a tilt of his head. They hadn’t even touched—she hadn’t dared to get close enough for that—but she still felt him on her skin, in her blood, breathing deep into the shadows of her soul.

Langdon had stared right into her and found something familiar.

And what he’d said couldn’t have possibly been obtained from whatever paperwork The Cooperative had on her.

A loud, persistent knocking wrenched her from her thoughts. Someone called her name from the other side of the door.

“We keep a schedule for a reason,” Ms. Venable said. Her exasperation permeated the room. “You know I don’t tolerate lateness.”

She exhaled. “Sorry,” she called back, “I had a headache. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

“Don’t make this a habit,” Ms. Venable warned.

“I won’t.”

Once she heard the slow drumbeat of Venable’s cane fade and the door to her suite click shut, she dragged herself up from the floor of the shower. She knew Venable kept her neurotic schedule and all of her strict rules to maintain order. To give them a life—though that seemed too generous a term for what they had here—full of structure leftover from the old world. It helped some more than others; it’d helped her once or twice when the isolation became too much to handle. It gave the illusion of normalcy. And illusion was all the mind needed sometimes. But now, over a year later, it had started to wear on them in varying degrees.

She was sure that Emily and Tim’s poorly kept secret romance would backfire sooner rather than later. The amount of bickering among the group had escalated to critical levels within the past few weeks, at least by her own estimation. How much more of this could they possibly take? She didn’t know if whatever Langdon offered was true or just a ruse, but at this point she’d consider anything else just to get the fuck away from most of these people. She couldn’t tolerate another afternoon of idle chatter, another dinner spent watching them tear at each other’s throats and obliterating Venable’s fine china and crystal glasses.

A bitter gust of air doused her skin the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. She left a trail of water behind her, not bothering to towel off, hoping the cold that stung her bare body would smack some kind of sense back into her. Or at the very least, help steel her for the night ahead. She dressed as quickly as she could, acutely aware of Venable’s lack of patience for disrupting order.

The nineteenth century-inspired dress she chose for tonight was blissfully free from the abundant lace that plagued most of her wardrobe. A gorgeous shade of lavender, it had full layers of cascading ball gown skirts and an off-the-shoulder neckline. A tiny pattern of crystals adorned the bodice, sparkling under the light of the candles in her room.

Her hair was still damp when she joined the table for dinner, but she’d at least pinned it up into an adequate style, though she was sure Gallant would say otherwise. She wilted a bit under the gaze of Venable and Mead and the rest of the outpost residents, guilty for being the one to hold up their meal. Not that it was anything to look forward to, especially with rations dwindling by the week. She didn’t think the Purples were irritated with her, per se, but she’d become so accustomed to flying under their radar. She shifted in her chair, rearranging her napkin and utensils, waiting for their attention to drift away from her. Thankfully, it didn’t last long; the hum of conversation picked up again, plates and forks scraping as they forced down yet another tasteless cube.

Venable’s unflinching gaze caught her like a helpless insect in a spider’s web from the opposite end of the table. She looked away first, scooping up her fork.

“Are you okay?” Emily whispered from her right, leaning closer. She lifted an eyebrow. “Venable looks like she wants to murder you.”

She poked at the beige cube in the center of her plate. “I’ll live,” she answered. “If only out of spite.”

Emily suppressed a giggle, turning her face into her shoulder to avoid Venable’s hawk-like eyes. She stabbed the gelatinous cube with her fork. “Did Langdon say anything to you yet?”

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.”

The rest of the evening passed as it usually did, the group of them gathered in the library ruminating over their current situation, trading stories about the way things used to be. There was a hush of nervous energy among them all, a quiet worry about the newest occupant of Outpost 3 and what it would mean for their continued survival. Like everyone else, she didn’t know what her chances were. During their brief encounter, Langdon hadn’t given any hints one way or another, only regarding her with the sort of amusement that she couldn’t exactly read.

Gallant and his grandmother provided the evening’s entertainment in dramatic fashion as only the two of them knew how. She shrunk into the corner of the couch, exchanging furtive glances between Emily and Andre while Gallant sparred against Evie, the flurry of quick-witted barbs charging the room with an awkward tension. She could nearly feel the explosion of rage crackling in the air like the wind before a thunderstorm. When at last the aftershocks of their shouting match started to weaken—Evie wearing a haughty expression as if it were a piece of lavish jewelry, an art so refined from her days of Hollywood glamour that it was almost impressive—they moseyed on back to their private rooms for the night.

The rest of the Purples wandered off at intervals after that. Emily and Tim laced their fingers together the moment they crossed into the hallway, as if no one would notice. Coco left in a huff muttering about her own soul-crushing boredom, Mallory obediently at her heels. Andre and Dinah were the last to go, yawning and stretching, bidding her goodnight before their voices drifted down the corridor. She sighed and unclenched her teeth, finally able to release the tension that had worked itself into her jaw from the Gallant incident.

Her skirts rustled around her ankles as she approached the bookshelves. Fingertips skirting along the titles that glittered on the spines, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth in consideration. She’d finished the book from last night before she’d showered, amazed at her own level of focus. She’d made notes, too; scribbles across notebook paper that were now relics from the old world only because she had some of her college belongings when the alarm went off.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Langdon’s slow, lilting voice mused from somewhere behind her back. “A creature of habit, even now at the end of the world.”

She hadn’t heard his footsteps this time.

“Can’t help it, I guess,” she answered, still inspecting the titles. “It keeps me busy—keeps me from getting depressed about the old world, if I try hard enough. Anything’s better than listening to Coco whine about how much she misses sushi.”

That earned her a low, wry laugh, which made something flutter in the pit of her stomach.

She abandoned the thought of choosing a book and turned on her heel to find him. Langdon stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, half of his face bathed in golden light. The long black coat lined with buttons had disappeared, but he was still dressed in elegant black from neck to foot. He cut an imposing figure in his tailored clothes: slender, tall, and not a single hair out of place. She kind of hated herself for how captivated she was, how the fear that had gripped her before was beginning to fade.

“You were a college student—an English major,” he recalled.

She nodded. “Would’ve earned my degree if the world hadn’t been nuked.”

“With highest honors,” Langdon said, lifting his chin. “You were an exceptional scholar…not that anyone cared enough to notice. Apart from your professors, of course. Do you miss it?”

She studied the shadows on the floor, thrown by the way he spoke about her life in the old world. Langdon knew intimate details—her feelings, her insecurities—that would have never been of any interest to The Cooperative’s files. At least, she thought so.

“I don’t know,” she breathed. Slow, calculated footsteps brought him closer to her. “Maybe some of it. I enjoyed the learning part of college, not so much the stress and cramming for finals and term papers. It’s a shitty thing to say, but I’m relieved.”

Langdon narrowed his gaze. “In what way?”

“I don’t have to participate in a lifestyle that was never going to make me happy, or satisfy me,” she admitted. “There’s nothing left of that world now…and yeah, there’s always going to be parts of it I’ll miss, but I’m not exactly opposed to a clean slate. Provided your assessment of me goes well.”

She thought she saw that smirk again, just for the briefest of moments. Langdon brought one of his hands up and swiped his thumb along his chin. “Your parents,” he said evenly. “Does it upset you that they aren’t here to share this…new beginning?”

It felt like a stone had dropped into her stomach, a lead weight crushing her chest. The words dried up on her tongue.

“They sacrificed everything for me,” she answered, though her voice wavered. “Their lives, their money. I’m only here because they aren’t.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Langdon countered. His voice rose a little, demanding more from her. She swore the temperature in the room plummeted a few degrees. “Does the guilt of their deaths eat away at you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie,” he warned. The command pierced like the edge of a knife. “I know you’re not being honest with me.”

She felt the emotion welling up inside her, burning the back of her throat and prickling behind her eyes. She forced it to stay where it was, but her vision still blurred as the tears came dangerously close to sliding down her cheeks. The hardcover spines on the bookshelf pressed into the small of her back through layers of fabric, and she braced her hands on the wooden shelves just to have something to hold onto. Langdon covered the remaining distance between them until his boots brushed against her skirts. The warmth from his body enveloped her own—she figured his touch would be cold like the undercurrent of his voice, but instead he radiated heat.

“They’re my parents,” she reasoned.

She bit into her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and tasted blood on her tongue. Langdon cocked his head to the side, inhaling as if he could smell it. One long finger reached out to trace down her bottom lip before he took her chin in a surprisingly delicate hold. His hands were much softer than she imagined. Clear blue eyes searched her own; unlike the solid presence of his body in front of her, they were pure ice.

“It’s a very convincing story you’ve sold these people,” he said. “A loving daughter tormented by the guilt of her self-sacrificing parents, who built an empire only to destroy it all to save their only child.” He let go of her chin, but kept two fingers hovering beneath her jaw.

“A noble end for two of the least deserving people on this godforsaken Earth. You were far too kind to their memory,” he continued. “I can see the truth—I have a certain talent for it: staring right into the darkest parts of you that you can’t run from. There’s no reason to lie anymore.” He grinned, and his eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “It wasn’t guilt you felt when they died and you survived. You were relieved. They got what they deserved, didn’t they?”

Her voice broke. “…Yes.”

Langdon’s grin widened, pleased. “You were nothing but a mere afterthought in their lives. An accident they didn’t plan for—of course they never dared to say that in front of you. No…but somehow…you already knew.”

When a sob finally broke free from her throat, he brushed his knuckles across her cheek, then cradled her face in his hand. She shivered at his touch but found herself leaning closer into the warmth of his insistent hold.

“They were selfish, neglectful, and it only got worse once they had enough money to stop worrying. You hated them. All of that fucking rage burned in your veins for so long, tearing you apart until you figured out what to do with it.”

She closed her eyes. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, but he wiped them away with his thumb. The gesture, a simple, fleeting thing, surprised her.

“Your parents didn’t die when the bombs went off.” Langdon’s face was now inches from hers, his breath tickling her collarbone, his voice just barely above a whisper. “I know the truth, I just want to hear you say it.”

She exhaled a ragged breath. “I killed them.”

@lastregasolitaria  @mylippo  @zeciex  @lvngdvns  @langdonsdemon  @yourkingcodyfern  @sojournmichael  @gabnelson98  @rainbowrosesjas  @antichristlangdxn  @keavysmithxoxo  @artistlunadrayne  @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride  @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998  @gentianea  @cryptid-coalition  @langdonsrapture  @kinlovecody  @yuriohoe04  @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean  @langdonscurls  @jcshadowkiss-blog  @frozenhuntress67  @sebastianshoe  @dixmond-taurus @mr-langdonn @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon  @queenie435  @holylangdon  @weareallevilmotherfuckers  @langdonfern  @angsty-otters-blog  @denaexr   @micheallangdons @lostin-fern  @crazedcatcuddler  @satansapostle @monsucre @softlangdvn  @ritualmichael 

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (21 of ?)

A OUAT WINTER WHUMP FIC

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, and @courtorderedcake <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE!!!!!******

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!**********

***NEW!!!!!!! LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

5 weeks ago...

“So… we’re really doing this?”

Emma and Killian were both red-eyed and exhausted, having spent most of the night fleshing out their plot and the remainder in the grip of anxious nightmares that weren’t fully driven away by the morning sun. Fresh off of an emotional farewell to their achingly oblivious daughter, it was no wonder that they battled second thoughts now.

Leaning against a tree trunk, his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel, Killian fidgeted with his hook. “I don’t see that we’ve many alternatives. The monster must be stopped; this may be our only chance. Even the bloody Crocodile thinks so.”

“You know we’re desperate when we start turning to him for opinions,” sighed Emma. Killian could only roll his eyes in agreement.

“Believe me, Swan; I’m well aware.”

“This is such an idiotic plan,” she groaned. “They’re all gonna kill us when they find out.”

“Well, by that time, the abductions will have stopped, so they’ll be obligated to thank us while killing us. There’s that, at least.” Killian smirked suggestively. “And if I’m going to be sharing the proverbial dog house with someone, I’m most pleased that it will be with you.”

Emma gave him an assessing once-over. “There’s generally not a lot of room in those things. Do you really think we could still…”

“Oh, most assuredly. Limited space is no obstacle for the determined. And you, lass, are the most determined of them all.”

Drawing closer, Emma ran her hand up his exposed chest hair, grinning. “Damn right.”

She tugged briefly and Killian pounced, trapping her in a tight embrace and locking his lips over hers. She pushed back, inching him backwards until he was sandwiched between her and the tree. They shared the kiss of the desperate, knowing it may be one of their last in a very long time.

Annoyingly, Rumplestiltskin popped up nearby only seconds--minutes?--into the kiss. He cleared his throat to announce his presence, but neither Killian nor Emma would allow him to dictate the length of their contact. And when they did break apart, it was only by inches. Face to face, they soaked in each other’s gazes, communicating wordlessly their love, their fears and promises. Emma broke the silence first.

“In case we don’t get another minute alone before you… go… just... I wanted to say…” Her voice wavered and she trailed off. Killian reached up to wipe away a tear from her cheek, and she leaned into the touch, sniffling. “Sorry. I… I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

“It’s okay, love,” he murmured, continuing to caress her face. He fixed her with his most earnest expression as he offered the words of encouragement that, in all honesty, he needed as much as she did. “I have faith in you, Emma. You can. And if you can… then so can I.”

She still looked stricken, devastated at the thought of what lay ahead. But somehow, she managed to compose herself, gathering the determined courage that Killian so loved in her, focusing on the practical, the present moment, what her husband needed from her right now. What she could give him… while he was there in front of her. Finally, after one more shaky, centering breath, Emma echoed the words she’d said to Henry all those years ago.

“I’ll miss the hell out of you.”

The corners of Killian’s mouth twitched and he gave thanks for her presence, both now and in the days to come. He may not always be in receipt of such direct support from her, but he knew he would never stop sensing her well-wishes, no matter what happened. “Likewise. But with any luck, we’ll immediately hear something useful, and you can come rescue me within the day.”

“You won’t be hearing anything unless we get this done,” Rumple broke in, and both Killian and Emma rolled their eyes in irritation.

“Would it kill you to wait a few minutes, Gold?” Emma growled.

“Not me. I could probably endure a moment more of your PDA. Not sure the same could be said of the Vocivore’s current victims, though. I can’t imagine they’d be thrilled about your groping each other while they're having their brains shriveled.”

As intentionally inflammatory as his statements were, they did bear a kernel of truth, and reluctantly, the couple pulled apart. Emma pivoted to face Rumple as she took Killian’s hand. Finally tearing his eyes from his wife’s face, Killian shot a cold look at his former foe. He caught sight of a plastic contraption, shaped like a pistol but bigger and with a longer barrel. Rumple held it up obligingly, and Killian raised a defiant eyebrow.

“That’s it, then?”

He managed to sound casual, scornful even, but his finely honed self-preservation instincts were jolting a warning: do not let that bastard anywhere near you with that bloody thing!

Rumple was wearing a bland smile. “As I mentioned, just a little something I picked up on my travels. May I?”

Killian nodded permission, trying to regain control of his pounding heart. Emma squeezed his hand in reassurance.

“It’s normally used to implant tracking devices in wild beasts, I’m told. I made some… slight modifications, to suit our needs.” He held up a small metallic shape, similar to a medicine capsule but thicker and longer, with sharply tapered ends. “Your transmitter. It has a battery life of 2 weeks but can recharge itself using the electrical energy of your body cells.”

“I’m not convinced you’ve handled it enough, Crocodile; why don’t you go ahead and give it a lick, for good measure?”

Rumple sneered. “Listen to that; the pirate’s up to speed on his germ theory.” He opened a hidden chamber in the back of the device and dropped the transmitter into the slot. After sliding the tiny door closed with a click, he waved his hand over the whole implant gun, presumably sterilizing the transmitter within. “Satisfied?”

Killian glared at the gun, not saying anything. But Emma cocked her head.

“Why not just use magic to implant it, too?”

Killian half expected the imp to say, Where would be the fun in that? Instead, Rumple explained,

“If this monster truly can influence magic, we wouldn't want him to be able to sense its presence, now would we? Magical insertion leaves a trace, no matter how carefully done. Best not take the chance.”

“More importantly, Swan, the number of times I've had his hand inside of me is more than enough for three lifetimes.”

Emma snorted a laugh, running her fingers along his arm soothingly. “What about healing it afterward? Wouldn’t that leave a trace as well?”

“It may, but the Vocivore won’t be able to discern what’s been magically healed. For all it knows, the pirate is simply clumsy and prone to injuring himself.” Rumple flashed a nasty grin. “Now then. Do you need to be sitting down for this? Wouldn't want you to pass out on me.”

“Just get on with it, Crocodile.”

The Dark One hefted the implant gun, pulled back on some sort of spring mechanism, and then waved vaguely toward Killian’s shoulder. “If you would be so kind…”

With a short-tempered huff, Killian disengaged his hand from Emma’s grip and pushed aside the gaping collar of his shirt to expose his left chest and shoulder. He patiently held the fabric in place in order to give a clear field for the procedure. Rumple produced an alcohol wipe out of thin air and scrubbed roughly at a patch of skin just below the collarbone as a wary Killian watched for any sign of duplicity. Using one hand to stretch the skin taut, Rumple positioned the gun at an angle, its specially-designed guard at the tip of the barrel guiding him as to the proper placement.

Killian wasn’t expecting a warning, and he didn’t get one either. A loud snap preceded what felt like a very hard and focused punch to the area, then a sharp, hot lance of pain immediately followed. It spread into a bright throb as startled nerves scrambled to react. A tightening of his jaw and a slow breath were Killian’s only concession to the discomfort; he certainly didn’t want to give Rumplestiltskin the satisfaction of a wince, not if he could help it.

The absurd image of a cartoon he’d watched with Hope flashed into his mind: a dog is guarding a sleeping bear and keeps injuring himself, but in order to avoid waking the bear, he runs miles away before letting loose with a torrent of reactionary howls. Not that this relatively minor pain merited such an extreme response… but Killian was grateful for the brief distraction all the same.

Rumple pulled the gun away and exposed a dark hole with a diameter somewhat larger than a pencil. A faint, diagonal purple line tapered in the direction of the shoulder joint. Milliseconds later, blood welled from the puncture and dripped down Killian’s chest. The first of many droplets to be shed, came the morbid thought unbidden. Emma spread her fingers, obviously intent on healing the small wound, but the Dark One stopped her.

“I wouldn’t. Not yet.”

Gingerly, Killian pressed a finger over the hole and raised an annoyed eyebrow. With strained patience, Rumple explained,

“We haven't tested it yet. We need to make sure no… adjustments are necessary.”

As Killian massaged the ache, he could feel an irritating shift of the foreign object embedded in his flesh. Emma lowered her hand, impatient.

“Okay… ready when you are.”

Rumple stepped back calmly, addressing Killian with his usual aloofness. “We’ll need to travel to a distance equivalent to that which separates Storybrooke and the monster’s lair, to be sure we can hear clearly through the transmitter. So keep talking, Captain. Impress us with your… nautical knowledge, or something.”

The pair of magic users vanished in an abrupt swirl of smoke, leaving Killian alone among the trees. With a roguish smirk that was entirely wasted on the empty forest, he began to speak.

“It’s a damn shame, the fate of the Wish Realm’s Dark One. That can’t have been a pleasant way to go. Still, one could make a very strong argument for why he deserved it.” He allowed a pair of heartbeats to elapse, then added, “Swan, I’m not entirely sure I haven’t gotten the tales mixed up with all the time that’s gone by. If I remember correctly, both Crocodiles had their own brand of suffering to endure, but was it this version or the other who--”

As anticipated, Emma winked back into existence just in front of him, her arms crossed and a look of staged exasperation on her face. “You know you can’t get into that, right? He can’t know that stuff until he experiences it for himself.”

Killian winked at her. “Oh, but darling, wouldn’t it be loads more fun to give him just a hint of what awaits him in his future?”

“You wanna risk changing something, go right ahead.” She reached forward and gently pulled his hand away from the irritated flesh of his shoulder. “He needs you to stop rubbing at it. It’s making it hard to do the sound check.”

Ignoring the small amount of blood dribbling from the puncture, Killian scoffed.

“What’s that, love? I’m making what hard by rubbing?”

Emma simply rolled her eyes and poofed back to wherever Rumple was. Killian took a moment’s pleasure in imagining the sour frown that had hopefully crossed the Dark One’s face as he listened; otherwise, what was the point of winding him up? Sighing, Killian tucked his thumb into his belt and then, in the driest monotone he could summon, he began to list crew and cargo capacities for every type of ship in the Royal Navy.

His two companions were back in short order; without the threat of punishment hanging over their heads for failing to learn all of the details, they must have found the trivia to be mind-numbingly boring. Killian raised an eyebrow at his wife.

“Well?”

She answered by resting her hand over the streak of blood near his collarbone. As she sealed the break in the skin--this time without the protests of a disinterested Rumple--she confirmed,

“It seems to be working. For the next five minutes, I could tell you how many standard-sized crates fit in the hold of a schooner. Just don’t ask me after ten.”

The majority of the pain had vanished with the puncture wound, and no visible trace remained to mark the presence of the implant. But Killian could still feel a strange hardness within his shoulder, the smallest hint of inflammation where tissues were compressed by the new metallic structure trapped inside.

“I may have failed to mention: it won’t transmit across realms,” the Dark One pointed out. “So best not fall through any portals along the way.”

Emma adjusted her husband’s shirt, not bothering to do up any buttons, and Killian’s own emotions were reflected in her eyes. In a way, the success of Rumple’s device felt like some kind of death knell. One final obstacle to the plan surmounted; they were out of practicality-based excuses, and it was now down to courage alone.

Going for nonchalant--Rumple was watching, after all--Killian caught Emma’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze.

“Well then, love. I’ll see you back in Storybrooke.”

She mimicked his act. “Yep. Sheriff station, right?”

“Aye.”

He pulled her close for one more quick embrace. Then Emma produced her magic bean, tossed it toward an empty patch of forest floor, and disappeared through the resulting portal without looking back.

Perhaps she feared, as he did, that any hesitation would cause their tenuous resolve to come crumbling down around their ears.

[adamsvanrhijn]

fanfiction: to be between two religions

title: to be between two religions fandom: Les Misérables rating: general/teen relationships/characters: Enjolras/Marius; Marius, Enjolras word count: 4,660 keywords/tags: Swimming, Canon Era, Enjolras Has Feelings, Awkward Marius, Physical Fitness as Bonapartist Democrat Praxis summary:

Early one morning, Marius Pontmercy attends the swimming school where Enjolras is a regular.

notes: written for AO3 user CharlesLindberg for the 2019 Chocolate Box exchange.

{read two religions on AO3} {read two religions on Dreamwidth}

Marius is in a daze in the dressing room, in the showers, as he walks from that cloister of dry rooms to the lukewarm and humid area of pool facility.

His visit to the swimming school this morning marks the return of a habit he had many months before discarded: owing to his obligations — concerns at the publishing house which had drawn him from his reveries, forced him to work more than he was inclined — he has not slept properly in some days, and if the years of his adolescence are to be any evidence, the physical exertion of swimming never fails to rejuvenate and reset his body to its natural state. Besides that, newfound independence, penniless independence at that, distracted him from his old routines; he has neglected his body in favor of his mind. But he is here again, and has resolved to continue to be here even on days when it is not strictly necessary to wake him up. Courfeyrac was generous in giving him the sous to spend his morning bathing, indeed, he gave enough for a month's worth of patronage; he does not wish for the loan to be in vain.

(A year ago he would not have accepted a loan at all.)

Once he is in the water he feels momentarily as though he does not remember how he became so, but ducking under solves this problem, and then he is able to attempt once more that rhythm of the arms and legs which is only possible for a man submerged.

The first thirty meters are slow; on the second length he goes a little faster. The third and fourth are taxing, and when he nears the side of the pool where he started, he realizes that in his absence he has forgotten how to properly breathe.

A queue has formed at the end of the lane, in the shallow end. He surfaces to join it, treading water, bobbing: the floor is just enough inches beneath him that he is underwater entirely if he tries to stand upon it.

"Marius Pontmercy?"

In a careful balance, Marius tilts his head sideways to press the water out of his ear, presses his curly wet hair back from his forehead with the heel of his palm. The length is growing bothersome, but with all his distractions he has not yet seen to a barber. Now that he is attempting swimming practise, he is more cognizant of that necessity.

If he remembers, he'll ask Courfeyrac about it later.

"Marius Pontmercy."

He remains in place, another point in the line of swimmers. No one knows him, here, so whatever voice is saying his name must be an imagined one. It does sound a little familiar, but all imaginary voices must; it is not so uncommon to hear one's name amongst a din of human speech. Sound in the natatory room echoes.

Something brushes against his knee under the water, and he flinches.

Then he blinks. The something was someone, and the someone was saying his name indeed. It is Enjolras, Courfeyrac's friend, who is before him now. Marius feels blood rush to his cheeks: in recent months he has spent plenty of time with Courfeyrac, some even with L'Aigle and Jean Prouvaire, and although they have been not too long ago in the same room, his most prominent memory of being alone with Enjolras — even if it is from years ago!— is not one he is fond of. And it is alone, here, a quick glance tells him that everyone else in the swimming school at this hour indeed is a stranger.

"What a pleasure it is to see you, Citizen," says Enjolras, gracious. Although he does not smile, not really, he gazes into Marius with light in his eyes, an earnest turn in his lips; the discomfort dissipates. Looking at him, Marius forgets to paddle his hands and kick his legs, and he nearly sinks.

Then Enjolras takes his elbow and holds him upright, completely level, until he starts again. Marius looks down and sees that only his legs move beneath the water.

"Huh," says Marius, for he sees also that Enjolras looks very different while undressed. And too: were it not for the fact that he has on previous occasions accompanied him elsewhere, alongside Courfeyrac, Marius might assume that the man existed solely in lamplit backrooms, speaking of Thermidor and guillotines and Rousseau and crime and whatever other conversational matters to which republicans so devout as he were prone.

(In fact, Marius has never before in his life heard Enjolras utter the word "guillotine".)

It is difficult to shake the impression that Enjolras should not be here, for in a swimming pool is a far cry from in the street, bathing clothes have little in common with an overcoat, Courfeyrac is not here to mind him, and thus there is nothing about this encounter which Marius can relate to any others.

Enjolras looks at him with an unreadable expression – high forehead smooth, head tilted. Droplets of water are still upon his cheeks, flushed only slightly with exertion; a damp lock of hair falls at his brow. In daylight, when dry, Enjolras's hair is pale but with a golden sheen; here it is nearly translucent. It curls about his face like a girl's.

...he is, however, very much a man, even if Marius had thought them each the same age at one point — that horrible cusp when one is between adult and child — until Courfeyrac had mentioned otherwise. Marius thinks to himself that if young women were to smile at Enjolras, it would be because they think him handsome, whether he wore a threadbare coat or not. Himself, he has no such good fortune.

Another man begins his next length; they move up in the line. Marius grabs the curved edge of the wall so that he need not exert effort simply to stay in place.

Enjolras does no such thing. It seems to Marius that he ought to have better things to do than attend open hours at the swimming pool so early in the day. He nearly asks the question — 'why are you here, at a quarter to seven in the morning?' — then thinks better of it, but he senses that his mouth is opening and closing like that of a fish.

A fitting comparison for the setting, even if any respectable fish ought be far more comfortable in the water than Marius himself.

"You think it odd that I attend the swimming school."

...even after time apart, it is as though Enjolras knows everything he has ever thought, and thinks him wrong for it.

Marius presses his lips together and nods.

"Man ought to be in water as he is on land."

Dimly Marius recalls that this was an opinion published by Rousseau, and determines that his impression of Enjolras was at least not entirely inaccurate.

He makes no reply, however. What is there to say?

They are splashed by a turning swimmer. The wall is not really meant for conversation.

Enjolras touches his shoulder, and a thrill travels down Marius's back. "And indeed," he says, "my mother will need her navymen," and then he moves nearer to the wall, bends his knees, and pushes into a swift, effortless crawl stroke.

Marius watches the contraction of his back and curve of his elbow, dazed.

So he continues swimming laps. So early in the morning is an unusual time to be at the pool; the room is hardly crowded. There are but four other men in his lane besides Enjolras, each of whom seem to match his own capability and speed. Enjolras passes them all at various points and is utterly considerate about it.

Swimming, Marius believes, develops his mind and body at once. He once regularly attended the school at the quai d'Orsay to hone the skill, for lessons and for free-time alike, but with all his practice he has not become exceptional, and his year upon dryland only has certainly not done him any favors. It is very well, he supposes, for while Enjolras has mentioned the Navy, the Emperor's conquests were made upon land, not water; a honeybee can fly but not swim. There were no seas to be crossed at Marengo or Borodino.

In any case, he does not aspire to join the military, or at least, not for a France under the House of Bourbon. Still, he would like to be skilled at it, and devotes himself to lessons wholeheartedly, practices on his own time. Physical fitness is important. He imagines, too, that his father would have valued a son who strives to be competent in all man's capacities, being ranked so in the military, and dreams that he is growing up in the fashion of Baron Colonel Georges Pontmercy. Yes, Marius would like to be an upstanding young man in his father's image: versatile, well-rounded, a superlative version of himself, suited for a nation united under the Empire.

Since leaving his grandfather's house he has lapsed in discipline; it used to be that he might go swimming whenever the thought passed his mind — on his returns from Vernon, after a lecture, upon waking, before retiring. He did not exert himself only when he thought he needed to, but regularly, with the cognizance that to do so improved him as a man; once he learned the truth of his lineage, his desire for that improvement only increased.

Well: he has lapsed in this discipline; without discipline he could not have learned to read in German or English, nor maintained steady work, earned his keep. Without discipline, he would not have made up his mind upon his employment and devoted his free-time to pondering and reading and listening, to taking walks in the city and dining at old-fashioned restaurants. But while his thoughts have flourished, his form has suffered.

Luckily, even after time away, the water still refreshes him. He will much prefer it to accompanying Courfeyrac to see his friends on his days off, and at times when he is not inclined to be social, to passing the hours with old Mabeuf, as well. He will allow himself plenty of time to improve again.

Meanwhile, Enjolras is as comfortable in the water as a dolphin – although perhaps he would not prefer precisely that comparison. His technique and his vigor are mesmerizing; he cannot help but watch whenever he has the chance. He glides more than double the length of his body at once and turns his head to breathe without altering the positioning of his torso and legs; the muscles in his narrow shoulders and back tense and relax in rhythm. His strokes and kicks have strength behind them. The wool of his bathing costume conforms to his thighs and his shoulders and — to his body, generally, in a manner that would be inappropriate, were ladies present. When he swims upon his back, Marius finds that he must avert his eyes.

The hour continues on, and Enjolras does not leave.

Each time Marius feels they are distant from one another, he then notices Enjolras approaching from behind him. Enjolras simply has more stamina. It is unfortunate, thinks Marius, that the months of absence from the swimming school have rendered his own body foreign to him. He must breathe more frequently, pause at the end of the course for longer – once, he was more capable. He feels as though he has entered into a competition against his will, that he need prove something, he begins to kick harder, pull with more effort.

But it is too much, too soon, and so as he finishes the fourth length of a repetition of 120 metres, pause he does.

Some seconds later, Enjolras performs a gymnastic somersault beneath the water beside him, and continues on without taking a breath.

Marius lays his forearms upon the edge of the floor above the pool and rests his head upon his elbow, breathing heavily. His pulse is still racing from the exertion.

He stays like that for a little longer, allowing the other men to pass him by, until an old man in an impermeable waistcoat and garish taffeta water-cap leans over to him to say, "have you finished, then?"

Marius, his arms keeping him buoyant at the wall, feeling as dazed as he had upon his arrival, can do nothing but blink up at him dumbly. The old man tuts and begins to dip his toes into the water beside his shoulder.

He understands this message, and so hoists himself out of the pool, the session concluded.

When Enjolras enters the dressing area from the shower room, holding his wrung-out swimming costume in one hand and a linen towel around his waist with the other, Marius himself is nude and examining a hole in his chemise. He tries not to let this new presence phase him, but finds he can think only of the thoughts which must run through Enjolras's head: he is poor, he cannot afford even a patch for his shirt, he thinks little of his own appearance, he is foolish, he does not finish what he starts, he lacks in self-government... He cannot imagine the words in Enjolras's voice, for Enjolras has only ever been kind to him; nonetheless he cannot shake the sensation that he is being sneered at.

"In the interest of verity," begins Enjolras abruptly, "I shall say that I may speak only on my own behalf." He retrieves a stack of folded garments from the shelves, sets them upon one of the benches — diagonally from Marius — and then lays the towel down and sits, begins patting himself down with a smaller one. Marius turns from him before he sees more than he ought to. "But, I have missed your presence at society gatherings."

This is not sneering.

Marius does not look at him.

"Thank you?" he manages to reply, but the words leave his lips with garbled intonation; he sounds to his own ear a schoolboy unsure of his recitation. He has not actually attended a meeting of the society of the Friends of the ABC in nearly two years.

"No need." This is accompanied by a sound resembling a laugh, but softer, somehow kinder. He has the impression that behind him Enjolras is watching him – waiting for him, perhaps, to say that he misses attending them, or that he would like to come again soon. But there is nothing to wait for: Marius has long-since made his decision upon the state of things, and though he maintains friendly relations with some of the society's members, he does not wish to be a friend himself.

"I am glad that I am graced with it here, nevertheless," Enjolras continues. "Do you swim often?"

He sets down his shirt. In any other circumstance, confronted with a man he knows in such a strange environment, he is sure he would feel compelled to dress and depart as quickly as possible. To do this to Enjolras, however, seems as though it might be disrespectful —

The fact that he is even considering this facet of etiquette makes him feel as though he ought to follow his instinct, and stay.

"I used to."

"Perhaps you might begin again."

Marius does not look at him.

"Perhaps. Yourself?"

"Yes, thrice a week, in winter."

Marius says, "it is very cold this year."

In an ordinary conversation they would be seated or standing across from one another, able to observe the other's countenance, and fully clothed. Owing to the latter aspect, Marius is unwilling to turn around. He gazes at the wall, instead, and simply hears: an occasional splash from the corridor to the pool, the squeak of a hand-crank in the shower room next door, the whir of water through pipes. He feels his arms hang limp at his sides and becomes suddenly aware of his own body and his state of undress, as though he ought be doing something with himself; he crosses his arms at his belly and clenches his hands, a little.

"And to be moving is to be warm," says Enjolras, breaking the quiet. His tone gives Marius the impression he might be quoting something, but he cannot imagine what. It is not so complex a thought. "In summer, there is more to do out of doors; I maintain the habit in winter for the body's sake. One does not feel cold so much if he exerts himself regularly."

"That is true," says Marius, and he fidgets, rubbing his knees together awkwardly, before adding softly — "you do swim very well."

"Ah — thank you, as do you."

There it is: perhaps Enjolras intends to mock him, perhaps his flattery is insincere. Marius scoffs a little too loudly, and begins to arrange his clothing that he can depart sooner.

"You do not think so? You've excellent technique, Marius; I imagine only that you are out of practice. Yours is a problem of stamina."

Excellent technique, with a problem of stamina.

Perhaps Enjolras is simply the most earnest man he has ever met, and wishes only for the improvement of others. Perhaps Marius is being stupid and ought to stop thinking that Courfeyrac's friends see him a half-wit.

"I do not intend to give unwelcome criticism. Indeed, I hope to see you continue. Yes, I come here to be warm, but so too does swimming develop not only the musculature of a man but also his discipline and character — a regular practice from which we may all benefit," comes his voice again, falling into the same, lofty tone from before, and uncharacteristically wistful.

"Are those your words?" blurts Marius, for he cannot help himself.

"No, in fact, they are my father's, though the idea cannot be attributed to any one man."

"Your father!"

Yes, this conversation is sincere, after all.

Marius attempts to picture Enjolras-the-senior, and only succeeds in imagining a broad and graying Enjolras-Courfeyrac's-friend. He thinks to himself, with some bitterness, that Enjolras has words from his father, in his father's voice; perhaps Enjolras visits his father at Christmastime in the provinces, wherever he is from, and swimming in winter is a strange sort of family tradition that began there.

"How — yes, my father."

"How splendid!"

"Among numerous other things, he taught me to swim himself; I learned in the Loire. I am fond of those memories."

Questions come to him at a rapid pace; he says everything that comes into his mind at once, unable to stop himself.

"The river, you mean? Wouldn't it be cold, in wintertime? Well, you are from the South, I can tell by the way you — never mind, perhaps it is warmer there, do you swim together still?"

"Indeed the river, and yes, very cold in all seasons. We swam out of doors only, and only in summer: the water comes from the mountains. There were no heated baths and steam pumps as in Paris."

This only partially satisfies Marius, yet he stops himself from continuing the interrogation, cognizant of his running mouth. After a moment, Enjolras adds quietly, "My father died, however, when I was twelve. By that time I was living with my uncle and did not see him regularly."

Marius's heart stutters, and he at last turns around to look at him.

Enjolras sits with his back straight as a soldier's, his legs parted at the thighs and crossed at the ankles. His hair is soaked, still; Marius watches a drop of water fall from a curl to his shoulder, along his toned chest and abdomen. No matter how frail or feeble he may seem while clothed, owing to lean limbs and reedy hands and skin that at times was more wan than rosy, in the water, clad in clinging wool and always in motion, it had been clear that Enjolras had the build more of a warrior than a wilting flower. Perhaps he was raised as Marius imagines he himself might have been, in different circumstances: he mentioned lessons, so it is that his uprightness and his constitution and his fitness are products of his parentage.

Here, stripped, the look of him makes Marius wonder for a moment what else about Enjolras ought be obvious to him that isn't.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks when he realizes that Enjolras sees him looking, and turns his gaze to the floor, instead, just for a moment, to rid himself of the sense of impropriety.

"I didn't know," he says, mouth suddenly dry, and then he looks at Enjolras once more — now in the eyes. Here they can hold one another's gaze, where before Marius was utterly incapable of it.

"Thus I have told you. I do not think of him often; you needn't offer commiseration."

"But you see — you see — I was seventeen."

"Pardon?"

Breathe.

"When my own father died, I was seventeen. I never knew him. As a boy he did not teach me to swim, nor anything else, but I come here now in his honor. My mother died when I was five. I have a grandfather, but he is nothing to me now, and an aunt, but she lives in his house."

Enjolras tilts his head to one side, quizzical, and says nothing. Marius cannot think of what to do, but once more his mouth continues for him, and once he has started he finds he cannot stop — whether or not Enjolras understands, or wishes to hear it, is of no consequence, for the need to justify himself has risen in him, and can only be satisfied in this way. "I was kept from my father. I've neither fond nor unfavorable memories of him in life, for I learned the truth about him only upon his death, from reading a letter he left me and then the newspapers, the army bulletins. I never knew him at all. At my age he was fighting in the Army of the Rhine — you will know about the battles of Jemappes, and Pirmasens, and Mainz, surely — "

"Of course — under the Republic."

A font seems to come up from within Marius at Enjolras's hallowed tone as he pronounces the word, Republic.

"He fought under the Republic in his youth, and he fought under the Empire as a man. Under the Republic he rose in the ranks, but achieved no glory; the Republic was a stepping stone for my father as it was for France. I respect it, do not have that air; I respect the Republic. I must respect what laid the foundation, but it is the construction which I venerate. The Emperor was the builder; his method was as conqueror. To France he brought triumph, the gleam of the future, a territory united in greatness; that is what my father fought for. Under the Emperor my father became a captain and then a Major. At Waterloo it was he who seized the regimental colours of the Limburg Rifles; doing so earned for him a Legion of Honor and a barony, and now that is mine. I cannot be all what he wished for me, not after my childhood, not after the theft of the throne, but I — "

From experience, he is careful not to end his speech with a question.

"I endeavor to honor him in all that I do."

Enjolras is neither solemn nor amused; he does not scoff, but he has lost a little of the approval in his gaze. He seems almost sad. He says, "thus you admire Buonaparte," and clasps his hands before him, looks at Marius with searching eyes.

Marius is incapable of processing this. "Why — "

"You do not care for my pronunciation; I do not care for yours. '95 was a service, '97 a warning, '99 a betrayal. I shall call a tyrant as I please."

"It is a matter of principle," says Marius, and there is more he wishes to say, but Enjolras's tone is sobering, final. Enjolras looks him up and down; he becomes once more aware of his undress, and turns away a little.

"It is good for a man to have principles," begins Enjolras. "You have them, as you say, and you've a vehemence about them; for that I respect you. Apathy is the adversary of progress and good-will, Marius, and that is a matter upon which I daresay we agree. You speak of foundations: that laid by the people in '89 and '93 has not crumbled despite the efforts of those who sought to rule France by force, but I cannot agree with you that Buonaparte built upon its legacy, and I should not agree were someone to say the same of Louis XVIII or Charles X." – then he pauses, and goes on only with, "forgive me for my untowardness, Citizen, for I do not wish to discomfit you. You are an intelligent, impassioned man; you have bared your soul to me; you have confided in me, and I have met you not with consideration but with contrarianism."

The contrarianism itself is of no consequence, for Marius cannot imagine that Enjolras will ever understand him, nor he Enjolras. This matter is one upon which he has made his mind, but now he is confronted with it again. Marius does not want to be a pupil, as Courfeyrac said once; he wants to keep to himself, stay true to what he knows is right, remain steadfast. In a way, this is worse than the scorn he has imagined receiving, than the words he perceived as mockery, from Enjolras, for now that he is receiving such clear praise, he cannot even think ill of his intentions.

He and Enjolras are different in their views, in their routines, in their beliefs.

But they are alike, in some ways, too.

"You are not untoward."

"No?"

"You are always discussing politics. It would be foolish of me to expect otherwise, but I am not uncomfortable to do so as well; it is only that I disagree with you on the fundamentals. I have laid out my reasons for you."

"Which of them?"

This gives Marius pause.

Enjolras looks almost pleased with himself.

"I refer, of course, to your fundamentals, Marius."

"I — have we not established this? You want to discuss now?" For it is rather a miracle they've not been intruded upon, in the state they're in, the conversation they've had. Neither of their philosophies are particularly palatable for most, Marius imagines, but to please the palate is not why they keep them.

"Of course there are better venues for this discourse," he continues, and at long last he pats himself down with the ends of the towel before retrieving and donning his shirt, which is bright white and seems freshly laundered. "Have you yet plans for your day, Marius?"

Now Marius turns from him entirely, back to where he started, and he picks up his own to do the same. The new tear in his chemise - he has a little money now, Madame Bourgon can darn it, if he remembers to ask - is right at the collar; his coat will not conceal it. The old one is inconveniently revealing. It is laundered, but worn and yellowed.

Another difference between them.

"No," he says, shirt over his head. He pushes his arms through, adjusts it, and fastens each button of the placket — Enjolras does the same, and at the same time.

Each across from the other they wrap their shirts, don their trousers; Enjolras has more pieces in his outfit than Marius but takes somehow less time to dress. Enjolras fastens his overcoat at his throat.

Another similarity.

He gathers his own things; Enjolras offers assistance. Once they are orderly he clasps Marius's shoulder, just like in times before, and then his hand slides along his back that they may link arms.

"Allow me to take you to breakfast."

"Oh," replies Marius, a little caught off-guard. "All right."

And so he allows himself be lead, just this once, and they depart together.

[lentaska]

Apaixonar - OMC/Tessa Blanchard

A/N: OC, third POV, part of a fanfic project This is a work of fan fiction using characters from wrestling, I do not claim any ownership over them. Tag: I don’t even know who wanna read this...

She hates to be called “little girl” by him, she hates when he mouths her “I’m proud of you” when she wins, and she hates to see him chatting with other female wrestlers while waiting for her like a loyal golden retriever.

“Can you stop calling me ‘little girl’? I’m an adult and a wrestler. That nickname is stupid.”

He is surprised at her wording but soon returns to his regular manner. He smiles and pats her head, “but you’re my little girl, Tessa.”

Tessa Blanchard hates it when he is so tender and elegant, yet she enjoys his touch. Although they’re dating, Tessa still occasionally feels uncomfortable to “show off” this relationship. She gets a glimpse of the oVe guys grimacing at her, so she acts cold and shakes off his hand, “don’t do that, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m sorry.” The cheerful light in his eyes dims, but his smile does not fade. “I won’t again. Promise.”

She bits her lips in agony and walks towards the exit, as always, he follows closely like a shadow. They stops at a corner of parking lot, Tessa turns around, asks, “Emyr, why are you always nice? ”

The question confuses him.

“How can you still smile after being yelled? What’s wrong with you?”

His head lowers like a ragged doll, Tessa can’t help feeling guilty but she forces herself to swallow back the apology. She gets into the car and starts the engine.

After all the time being together, Tessa still considers Emyr as a puzzle. She has never seen such impeccable person, although he told her that he was raised in such manner, something about him makes Tessa feels inferior. They are contrasting - she is extroverted and obstinate, while he is quiet and docile. Despite of his height, Emyr seems to be feeble comparing to the wrestlers Tessa works with, but somehow even Sami Callihan has decided to not mess up with the man - Tessa swears it’s not because she said she’ll kick between Sami’s legs if he bullies Emyr.

Tessa doesn’t understand how Emyr’s gentleness and genuine smile provoked her to an intolerable level today, to be honest, the man did nothing wrong. In general, Emyr treats her well, he always knows what she wants and enjoys spoiling her, even though she has emphasized that she is nothing like a princess from medieval time who needs to be taken care of all the time. On the other hand, she does have problem with him being too nice.

Frowning, Tessa opens the door.

You shouldn’t frown much. Emyr once said. Frown makes you look unapproachable, but we - I and your friends - all know how beautiful your nature is.

Shut up Emyr. She murmurs, as if the man is standing right beside her. Shut up.

Too many petty things about him playing in her mind: his gentle and persuasive utterance, his low-pitched voice, his brown eyes with lights dancing inside, his profile when sitting by window, the warmth of him that radiates from the tip of his fingers... And that damn nickname.

Little girl.

 Gasping, Tessa wakes up. She struggles to sit up, but she feels dizzy. She looks around, behind the worried friends are medicine cabinet and pale walls of hospital, a place she has become a regular visitor to because of all the wounds she receives from wrestling matches. It doesn’t take long to absorb information and figure out what happened: she was attacked from behind while walking home from grocery. The odd thing is, the attacker was found nowhere and there’s a pool of blood left on site - definitely not from Tessa, she would have died after such loss of blood.

One of her friends says she has been in coma for only couple hours, so she leaves the hospital in hurry. Leading by her blurred memory, she finds the alley she walked along, the police tapes verify her guess: something went wrong.

She notices several drops of blood lead a trail into bushes, so she follows. The trail ends at the entrance of an abandoned sewer, and this is where her investigation should end, the curiosity is no longer necessary as the impulsion of seeking for answer is cooled down by the dreadful image presented in her eyesight.

The young and brave wrestler huddles in a shell created from shiver. The formidable shadow in front of her has extended to her feet - it is snake and lion, fangs and claws, and everything rusty and devastating.

The first time ever in her life, she wants to flee, but she is welcomed by a pair of arms.

“You shouldn’t leave the hospital.” Says the man, he is not smiling this time. “The world is dangerous.”

 Tessa wakes up on her own bed this time. The vivid image of dismembered human parts sickened her, she thought those are only in stories and movies. She drags her exhausted body out of bedroom but freezes when she sees the man standing in the kitchen. Emyr - or a creature in the skin of Emyr - is washing hands, water gurgles down into sink sewer, droplets drip down from his shoulder-length hair. He is not wearing shoes, his white shirt is in a mess. Tessa sees dark-colored footprints on floor, tries to recall the if Emyr has ever lost his manner before, the answer is unsurprisingly negative.

At this point of time, fear is already shed away like wolf shedding its winter coat, Tessa craves to see his face - will he smile like he always does? Is he going to call me “little girl” again?

When the floor squeaks under the pressure from faltering, the sound of water stops. Emyr turns around to Tessa, eyes hid under hair, there are horrific slits from both corners of his mouth which crossed half way up on his cheek, spikes and thorns thrust out of skin and flesh like they grow from seeds planted in his heart. He grunts with congested throat, “don’t...”

Don’t what? Don’t come closer? Tessa wonders.

“Don’t look at me...”

He sounds like sobbing, but in a monstrous way.

In Tessa’s memories, Emyr does not cry, he has no reason to, and she hates to see him in such shape, so she walks up to him, brushes his hair away. He won’t scare me, because he is Emyr. Her mind is determined. No matter what he is.

Her hand finds its way to his face, his skin is cold. Emyr attempts to keep distance from her, “you will get hurt.”

But she is Tessa Blanchard and she can be stubborn, so she insists, “I don’t give a damn.”

Spikes and thorns fall off from him as Tessa throws arms around his waist, the slits on his cheek slowly close up. He hugs her and place head on her shoulder, “I’m here, little girl.”

“Welcome back.”

 Epilogue

Sami Callihan has been wondering why Tessa is fine with that nickname given by Emyr - he personally thinks it’s a cute nickname but Tessa hated it. Moreover, she doesn’t even shake off Emyr’s hand anymore when the Crist brothers and he make fun of them by heckling and grimacing. The whole thing of embarrassing the couple becomes as vapid as a bad monodrama.

“Did you hear anything about them?” Sami asks the person walking with him.

“Nothing.” The muffled voice sounds annoyed. “I am not panto-pragmatic like you.”

Turning his eyesight to the couple afar, Sami shrugs, “I’m just curious.”

“Callihan.”

“What?”

“Get a life.”

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs 9: The Bath

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

In this chapter, Belle cleans herself up but then gets very dirty.

Read on AO3

Belle slept with her new robe wrapped tightly around her body. The thin, smooth material provided enough warmth that she was able to sleep comfortably, even in the open dungeon. On this, her second night in the Dark One’s castle, she was able to lay down properly and curl up to sleep with her head on the pillow he had given her.

A pillow, a robe, and now a never-ending cup of water--the Dark One doled out comforts one by one, each a reward for her good service. Why did he bother being so generous? She had given him the right to take her and hurt her and deny her everything. That was the price they had agreed to, the payment for saving her people from the ogres. Surely she wasn’t giving him more than they’d bargained for. He didn’t need to repay her by treating her well.

The morning dawned gray and dreary, one of those dull autumn days that made Belle long for even the cruel brilliance of winter snow. When she opened her eyes, Belle had no way to tell how late it was. The sun would be just as flat and weak at dawn as at noon or twilight.

But even in this sad light, Belle could see well enough to admire her robe. It was a vibrant, lustrous blue, deep and rich as a precious gem. The golden sparks that had so enchanted her last night were still there in glimmering lines along the hem. Swirls of gold shone in a way that did not exactly reflect the natural light. It was a beautiful thing and Belle felt beautiful in it.

For all she was still in a dungeon, she felt well, overall. Her body hurt less than it had in the past few days. Her thighs didn’t feel as stretched, her back had grown accustomed to sleeping on a wooden bench. A slight ache in her jaw reminded her of what Rumpelstiltskin had taught her last night, the new way to please him with her mouth.

How often would he want her to do that? Was it more appealing for him than taking her the traditional way? Did it feel better for him, or did he just enjoy looking at her when she was gagging on his manhood? It hadn’t been humiliating or degrading for Belle, though the Dark One seemed to think of it that way. He seemed to think that act was worse for her than when he took her body.

But it wasn’t. Even as Belle took a drink from her water cup, then rinsed her mouth and spat into the waste bucket, she couldn’t say that having the Dark One use her mouth was any more or less terrible than letting him inside her secret places. Whatever way the Dark One wanted to pleasure himself with her body was within the terms of their deal.

The cup filled itself again, and Belle took another drink. It seemed a such an unassuming thing, glazed clay, small enough to fit in her palm. Who would suspect that this cup was magical? Around the brim, there was a design of slanted circles that changed subtly as they went around the cup. Examining the pattern, Belle thought that the circles might actually be letters, some alphabet she couldn’t read. What language was it? What did the words say?

Why had the Dark One given her something so valuable?

Perhaps he would let her ask him, when he arrived. Until he did, Belle decided to clean up a little.

The clothes she had worn to the castle were still in a pile on the floor. Her golden gown, her wedding dress, lay crumpled in a heap on the filthy ground. Belle picked it up and shook out the wrinkles as best she could. There was no place to keep it safe. Even if she folded it neatly, the dress would still crease. It would still be ruined no matter what she did. In the end, Belle decided to drape the dress through the iron bars in the window over her head. It almost looked like curtains. Perhaps that would keep out some of the cold.

She did the same with her silk stockings, tying them together so they would remain a pair. A ruined pair, perhaps, but at least they would stay together, like star-crossed lovers in a romance.

She placed her slippers under the bench near the water cup. The slippers she had worn on her last day as a free woman. Did she dare wear them now? It seemed the Dark One wanted her barefoot. If he caught her wearing shoes he might take them away as he had her necklace. Even if Belle could never use her slippers, she would rather have them near her than stolen.

One of her petticoats was already ripped in half. Part of the linen had been touching the damp dungeon ground and the mildew had seeped into the fabric. So last night Belle had ripped the undamaged side into rags that she might find a use for. The other petticoat was fine, so she folded it into a square and placed it under her pillow.

Picking up the cup again, Belle gulped down all the water and watched the cup fill itself. She took the it over the slop bucket--which had magically emptied itself during the night--and turned the cup over into it. Water poured out steadily, a stream that didn’t end.

“Mmm-hm!” Belle grinned. Just as she’d thought.

She set the cup down for a moment, then slipped off her robe and looped it around one of the iron bars in the windows. Naked, she took one of the linen rags and poured a cupful of water over it. When the rag was soaked through, Belle brought it to her face and began to wash.

The water was cold, but Belle told herself to think of it as bracing, refreshing. It was better than being dirty. She rubbed her face and neck and behind her ears, shivering all the while. When she was done she wrung excess water into the waste bucket and poured more from the cup.

There was no soap, so she couldn’t call herself truly clean, but she still felt better for trying. Cold water droplets ran down her back and between her breasts. She stretched her arms over her head and scrubbed up and down the length of them. She washed underneath her breasts and in the crooks of her elbows and knees. Belle noticed faint scabs on her kneecaps, from when the Dark One had made her crawl. Her knees were dirty too, as dirty as her bare feet. With cold, soapless water, she did her best to wash everything.

Saving the filthiest part for last, Belle poured water over the cloth and set it between her legs. Her curls had clumped together down there, sticky and stiff from the dried fluids. Rumpelstiltskin had satisfied himself there twice, and Belle had found herself wet--how many times since her last wash? Three? More times in a row than she would have ever thought possible.

Belle lifted one leg to the bench so that she might be able to clean everything. She pressed the wet cloth between her legs and hissed at the contrast. Her feminine places were so hot and so tender that the sudden coldness felt like a physical pain. Belle closed her eyes and took a few shaking breaths. Then she began again.

“You always wanted to touch yourself at bath time.” The Dark One’s voice was soft, playful. Belle opened her eyes and saw him saunter over to her, the dungeon door swinging closed as he entered the cell. “Do I recall correctly?”

Belle bit her lip and nodded. How strange it was, to hear her words in his mouth, to hear her private confession repeated back to her so casually.

Slowly, Belle removed the cloth from between her legs, and stepped off the bench to stand with both feet on the floor. She kept her eyes downcast, as though washing were something to be ashamed of.

“Oh don’t stop on my account.” He wasn’t wearing his coat today, just a leather waistcoat and breeches with a red silk shirt. His boots today were brown, the leather soft with wear.

The Dark One bent at the waist to pick the water cup off of the ground. His gaze shifted from the cup to Belle, to the rag in her hand, and her shivering, naked body. He tilted his head, making the connections. “What a clever thing you are,” he said lightly. He set the cup down again and reached out to her. “But let me help you.”

He took her by the wrist, wrapping his fingers around the cuff. Standing behind her, he held the hand that held the cloth and Belle felt the heat transfer from his body to hers. The rag grew warm in her hand, hot as a proper bath, wet and comforting.

Pressing his torso against her back, Rumpelstiltskin moved her wrist and made her rub the cloth over her secret places. He pushed her in and out of herself, in a steady rhythm that entranced Belle and made her moan. His body was so close to her, so warm and so solid. She wanted to cling to him, wanted to open herself to him, wanted to invite him inside her, to beg him to pin her down and fill her up and put an end to this yearning, this sudden need he had created inside her.

A noise escaped her throat, a high-pitched whine that ended in a gasp when Rumpelstiltskin slid away from her. He pulled her hand away from her body, taking the rag with him before he let her go. Belle could feel her face flush, feel herself panting and staring at the Dark One in glassy-eyed confusion.

“Breakfast?” he offered, too loud and too bright, acting as though he hadn’t just been two touches away from making her orgasm.

He was teasing her, Belle thought as the blood slowly retreated from her cheeks. He was taunting her with the prospect of pleasure. At least he seemed happy about it. That was better than those times when giving himself pleasure made him turn cold and distant.

“Yes, Rumpelstiltskin,” she answered, blinking out of her daze. “Breakfast would be lovely.”

“Then get on the floor,” he ordered, “and crawl on your belly to me.”

“Wait!” Belle protested, but the cuffs had already pulled her to the ground. The dungeon floor was filthy and they made her crawl in the dirt, pressing her body into the grimy stone. Everything had changed so suddenly. He had been pleasuring her and now he was humiliating her again! Belle ground her teeth as she crawled, fought to keep herself from shouting or crying. She didn’t know which she would prefer.

The Dark One stood in front of a tray on the floor, blocking her path to the food. He waited for her to finish crawling from one end of the cell to the next. The cuffs pulled her arms and dragged her legs behind her. As she glared up at him, she saw him watching her. He licked his lips.

“Kiss my boots before you get started, dearie. Thank me for being so very kind to such a lowly creature.”

Trembling with rage, Belle placed one kiss on one boot. Then she opened her mouth and forced the words out: “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin. You are very kind.”

The Dark One laughed out loud and bent down to cup her chin in his hand. “You need to get better at lying to me, dearie.”

“I don’t like to lie.” She pulled herself away and he let her go. He straightened up and stepped backwards over the tray of food.

“But you do it anyway, like a good lady should, especially when lying means saving your lovely skin.”

Belle had nothing to say to that. “May I eat, Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Do you think you deserve to eat, little whore? Have you earned that privilege yet?”

“I--” Belle stammered. How was she supposed to justify her body’s needs? What did he expect her to say? “I need to, Rumpelstiltskin. I must eat. Even just to have the energy to serve you properly.”

“I don’t know about that,” he rocked on his heels. “Hunger can be an excellent motivator. And there’s an awful lot I can do to you, even as I let you waste away and starve to death.” His voice was full of malice, but also full of glee. For the first time, Belle wondered if the Dark One would ever kill her, or let her come to death for his own amusement. The power he had over her was so complete, so absolute. He could do anything he wanted to her. Anything.

“Please let me eat, Rumpelstiltskin!” Fear lept raggedly out of Belle’s throat, adding a cracked shriek to her plea.

He seemed to like it. She heard him chuckle and he kicked the tray over to her. Creamy porridge sloshed in a bowl, and a goblet splashed wine over the tray so it dripped into a bowl of fried apples.  

“Thank you,” Belle whispered sincerely. He wouldn’t kill her today. Whatever else might happen, he wouldn't start starving her today.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” he ordered before Belle could even reach for a spoon. There was a spoon right there on the tray, but she couldn’t get to it!

The cuffs lifted her wrists off the floor and pulled her hands behind her. They settled on the small of her back, just above her bottom, one cuff on top of the other. Then they locked to each other, just as securely as they locked to the wall or to the floor. Lifted up as she was, Belle could balance on her knees. She could kneel before him even with her hands bound behind her.

But the tray was on the ground. She couldn’t reach it if she stayed upright. When she bent at the waist, locks of her hair dangled into the porridge and the apples. When she straightened up to shake her hair back, the motion made her lose all balance and she fell headlong into her breakfast.

She wasn’t hurt. Twisting her body as she fell, Belle landed on her side instead of her face. It was a low fall, a slow fall, and she took the impact on her arm. But her head had turned with the rest of her and one side of her face and hair landed in the porridge.

She couldn’t get up. She was stuck, lying on top of her breakfast, warm milk and oats soaking into her skin.

“Ugh!” Belle groaned, unable to contain her misery.

“Mm!” The Dark One answered, a happy little noise.

Belle opened one eye and saw him crouching in front of the tray, watching her trials with a merry fascination.

“Does this pleasure you?” she asked him bitterly

“Of course it does,” he smiled at her. “You’re adorable!”

She closed her eyes against the heat of tears. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Not now. Not over something as stupid as this.

“Will you help me, Rumpelstiltskin?”

“No, dearie,” he said in a cruel parody of gentleness. “You can figure it out on your own.”

“I hate this,” Belle hissed as she wiggled her shoulders to push herself off her side.

“I know!” The Dark One cackled.

Lying on her belly again, Belle was as filthy as the dungeon floor. She could feel the dampness getting into her skin, ruining her like it had ruined her petticoat. Porridge was in her hair and on her face. She blinked several times to clear the goop out of her eye. A glob of the hateful stuff ran down her cheek and plopped to the ground.

And throughout all her ordeal, the Dark One was looking at her. His black and gold eyes gleamed with merriment, as though she were a show for his amusement. Yes, she was just a jester to him, a sad clown with pie on her face.  

“What are you waiting for?” he asked brightly. “Eat up!”

Belle breathed. Eyes closed, she took deep breaths and waited for the fear and the anger and the indignation to subside. She breathed until she felt the firm foundation of determination, grim though it may have been. By the time she opened her eyes, she had filled herself with a resolution: No matter the cost, no matter the pain, she would eat breakfast.

Slowly, she creeped up on her belly to reach the tray. Nudging the bowl of fried apples over to her with her nose, Belle stuck out her tongue and sucked the fruit into her mouth. She glanced at the Dark One and his eyes were focused on her, serious and fascinated.

The food was good, just as the soup had been at her last meal. At least the Dark One could conjure up quality. The apple slices were soft and sweet, cooked in their own juices and seasoned with costly spices. When she lapped up the wine, it was cool in her throat, refreshing and lovely. Even the porridge, her nemesis, was drenched in cream and studded with nuts and dried fruits. She felt better for having eaten, even if getting to that point had been miserable.

When she was done, she sat up on her knees again. She forced herself to look at the Dark One. He was still crouched, balancing himself on his toes with his knees bent. They were the same height this way. He could see her eyes as well as she could see his. Belle hoped her expression was as steely as she felt.

“And now?” she asked, even as she hated to think of the answer.

“You didn’t wash your hair this morning.”

Belle blinked, breaking her gaze with the Dark One. What kind of a thing was that to say? What did he care when she washed her hair?

“It hardly seems to matter,” she said coldly. “It seems there was no point in washing at all, you just made me filthy all over again.”

“Well, no one ever admires whores for their cleanliness.” He stood up and clapped his hands together. “‘Filthy whore’ is the usual term. Filthy whore, filthy liar, dirty deeds and unclean thoughts. Bathing isn’t in any part of your job description!”

Belle clenched her jaw. “Am I supposed to apologize for wanting to be clean?”

“No, no, no.” The Dark One danced his way around the cell. “Though this could be a good lesson in you telling me what you want.”

“I told you I wanted to eat and that didn’t exactly work out.”

“Oh?” he paused, mid-step. “Did I not provide for you? Are you still hungry?”    

Belle opened her mouth and then shut it again. He was right. He had given her what she had asked for, even if he had made her take it on his terms. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She shook her head, half her hair weighed down with cooling porridge.

“So you did get to eat after all?”

That wasn’t the point! “Rumpelstiltskin--” Belle began, but he cut her off with a firm hand  around her throat.

“That tone was very close to whining, dearie,” his voice was somewhere between a growl and a hiss. “I can tolerate a great deal of impertinence from a whore, but whining gets on my nerves. You sound like those stupid people I deal with who think they can get something for nothing. But you are not stupid, so you will not whine. Do you understand?”

Fine. Belle nodded, and porridge dripped from her face onto his hand. “Yes, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Good,” he said and let her go. When he saw the glob of creamy whiteness she had shed, the Dark One raised his hand to his mouth and sucked the morsel off his skin.

Then he looked at Belle and licked his lips.

With one finger, he tilted her chin up, raising her head up to him. Then he bent at the waist and kissed Belle, gently, on her open mouth.

She let him kiss her, let him keep one hand on her throat and cover her mouth with his. She even allowed him to slide is tongue between her lips. After all, his cock had been there last night, why should his tongue upset her now?

Eyes closed, Belle allowed the Dark One to have his way with her body. He moved her neck to the side, exposing the dirty half of her face. His tongue moved, slippery and insistent, in and out of her mouth.

Slowly, Belle became aware of how he was moving away from her mouth. He was still kissing her, but kissing her jaw and her cheek and her temple. They were wet kisses, possessive. More than once his jagged teeth scraped across her skin. Then Belle felt a slobbery swipe across her chin and she realized: The Dark One was licking her.

He stayed on the side of her face that had been covered in porridge. He licked up the residue of milk and oats, smacking his lips and making pleased noises.

Did he realize he was cleaning her? Did he know that this was what she wanted, even if not in this way? Of course he did. He knew he was giving her what she wanted. He was just making her take it on his terms.  

Belle opened her eyes and let tears seep out. Why was she crying? How could she be sad now? How was it that an act of kindness had broken her more easily that cruelty ever could?

Still with his face pressed against her skin, Rumpelstiltskin stuck out his tongue and licked up Belle’s tears.

He paused for a moment, and Belle breathed as deeply as she could. He stayed close to her, too close for her to see his face. But his nearness was a comfort, and she could hear him breathing with her.

“Do you want more?” he murmured.

“More what?” Belle asked.

In answer, Belle felt a hot, wet cloth applied to the side of her face. The smell of lavender filled the air, and Belle realised that Rumpelstiltskin was rubbing her with the rag he’d taken earlier. He was washing her.

“Yes,” Belle whispered. “Yes, please, Rumpelstiltskin.” She closed her eyes and surrendered to his ministrations, trusting him to treat her well.

He did. He washed her face and neck, covering her with soap and hot water. It was so much better than what Belle had been able to do for herself. It was better than any bath she’d ever had. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the rag steamed with hot water and bubbled with lavender soap.

He had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. The skin of his arms was the same dappled green of his face. Dots of brown and gold dusted over him the way freckles covered other men. She could see the tone of muscles there, lean and sinewy. There was something fascinating about having even this small part of him exposed. When would she see more of his body?

“Lift up your hands, my dear,” he ordered. The cuffs broke the hold they had on each other and pulled Belle first to her feet and then to the tips of her toes as they locked into a fixed point in the air over her head. She hung there like a side of meat, while the Dark One continued to scrub her clean.

Suds trickled down Belle’s body, from her collarbone to between her breasts to her waist. His hands on her were firm, but not demanding, not now. The hot water warmed Belle up entirely, filling her inside and out with a feeling of comfort and peace.

He worked his way down, rubbing her abdomen, washing away the dirt she’d gathered when he’d made her crawl to him. He wiped away the grime from her legs and knees, cleaned up the messes he had made between her legs. He washed away all the hurt and humiliation he had caused. He never had to stop and refresh the cloth. It was always hot, always soapy, always soothing and lovely.

He even made her extend her legs and washed in between her toes. Belle had never felt so pampered in her life.

“Don’t touch the ground,” he ordered and he pushed her body over to the bench. The cuffs kept her upright, holding her above the floor while he lead her along.

He sat on the bench, underneath Belle’s hanging gown and robe, and guided her down to him. He had her lie flat across the bench, with her head in his lap. She looked up at him, and even upside-down, she could see the quirk of his grin.

“Do I please you, Rumpelstiltskin?” He wanted this, surely. The Dark One wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do. He wanted to comfort her, to please her, to give her what she wanted.

“You will,” he answered. And then Belle remembered the other side of the Dark One’s coin: it all comes with a price. Right now he was giving her something, but he would make her pay for it later.

She heard the sound of water pouring and felt the heat on her scalp. His hands were in her hair now, coating her untamable tangles with more lavender soap. She tensed as his fingers combed through her curls, waiting for the agony that always came whenever anyone touched her hair.

But the pain didn’t come. It didn’t hurt at all to have Rumpelstiltskin touch her. What magic was he using to spare her that?

The sound of water again and he rinsed the soap off her hair and body. Belle sighed and closed her eyes, letting her fears and troubles flow away with the water.

“Would you like a little more pampering, my dear?”

Belle rubbed her face, felt her own cleanness under her fingers. “What else is there for you to do?”

“Quite a lot, actually.” His voice was calm and his fingers ran through her hair gently. “I knew a sultan once who gave his wives a full year of beauty treatments before he allowed them into his bed.”

“A year?” Belle opened her eyes.

“Six months of oils and six months of perfumes.”

“I imagine that would get boring.”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. “Perhaps not, for a beautiful woman in a harem full of other beautiful women. I’m sure the wives found ways to amuse themselves. Would you like a taste of that treatment?”

“If you want to, Rumpelstiltskin.”

Her head was still in his lap, so he had to bend down to kiss her forehead. “Good girl.”

He kept his hands in her hair, rubbing through the tangles. Slowly, Belle became aware of a new fragrance added to the lavender.

“What is that?” she asked him.

“Oil of roses,” he said. “Have you never put oil in your hair to keep it smooth?”

She shook her head softly. “We had a tonic my cousin swore by, but it never helped me.” Jeanne used to spend hours wrangling Belle’s hair into something manageable, trying to contain her wild tresses in hats or hair pins. Was it really so simple as rubbing it with oil? Why had none of them known about that?

She tried to see what he was doing, where the oil was coming from. Had he summoned a bottle of the stuff? He never paused as he rubbed her hair, never stopped to get more. The oil was just there, as the water had been, in exactly the amounts he wanted.

Rumpelstiltskin was so gentle with her hair, she almost didn’t feel him touching her at all. Then the nature of his touches changed and Belle realized he was brushing her hair properly. But it was still so smooth and soothing. When she looked up at him, she saw that he had a wide-toothed comb in his hand. Jeanne had always used a horsehair brush and it had always hurt.

But this was perfect.

His hands rubbed oil into her temples and down her jaw, covering her in the lovely fragrance and softening her skin as he went.

“Sit up, my sweet,” he ordered gently, and the cuffs pulled her into position. They didn’t lock her in to place, however. Her hands swung freely as Rumpelstiltskin held her against his body and rubbed oil into her chest.

Belle leaned back into his embrace, letting her bare skin melt into his leathers.

He was able to reach down her legs and to her feet, cupping her soles in his hands. When she was covered in oil, he trailed his fingers back up her legs to rest over her secret places.

Even that slight touch made her jump and Rumpelstiltskin chuckled deep in his throat. “Do you think you’re ready for me?” he murmured into her ear. “Are you wet for me, Belle?”

“I can’t see how I wouldn’t be,” she answered.

“Let’s find out.”

As soon as he put his fingers inside her, Belle’s breath began to shake. Close as she was to him, she could hear Rumpelstiltskin’s pleased noises. He spread her wetness around her folds and held her close when she tried to jerk away. With the arm that held her over her chest he also grabbed her breast, rubbing her nipple with oil until it was hard and red. His other hand stayed inside her, rubbing her slick heat until she moaned.

The pleasure mounted higher and higher. Belle wanted nothing more than to curl up around Rumpelstiltskin’s hand, the way she curled up around herself at night. But he held her back against him. He forced her to stay still, to feel this pleasure in her body and give it no outlet but the one he wanted.

She orgasmed. Throbbing and clenching her thighs against his hand, panting and shuddering at the shock, her pleasure reached its height then began to ebb.

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a moment to breathe. Then he said, “Where was I?” and started rubbing the oil over her again.

He started with her back this time, bending her forward to coat her shoulders. Belle was happy to slump over, happy to make herself pliant and malleable. She still felt her pleasure between her legs, felt the echoes of her orgasm with every heartbeat. It was hard to judge, but it felt like that one was more intense than any of the others she’d had recently.

Her head felt strangely fuzzy, as though she’d had an overabundance of wine. It was a pleasant feeling, a soft comfort after the sharp, jerking madness. She could still feel the heat between her legs. She felt it even more than she felt Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on her back.

“You still look innocent, from back here,” he said casually. “Your flesh is still untouched.”

Something about his words made Belle blink out of her haze. “But you intend to touch me?”

“Oh, obviously,” he tapped his fingers against her spine. “But more importantly, I intend to mark you. Mark your lovely skin as my property.”

Belle stiffened, her breath coming in sharp huffs. “That’s the hurting?”

“Yes, my whore,” the Dark One murmured. He pressed his lips to her bare back. “I will damage you irreparably, permanently, so that anyone who ever sees you will know what kind of girl you are. Now sit up on your knees.”

The cuffs lifted Belle up and locked in the air to hold her steady. She was shaking, but they would not let her falter. The Dark One’s fingers traced the column of her spine, rubbing oil down the small of her back.

He didn’t stop when he reached her bottom. He covered her flesh with oil and then reached around to gather up wetness from between Belle’s legs. She jerked forward at his touch but the cuffs still held her up. He chuckled.

“Will you tell me something, Belle?” he asked. “Will you tell me about your dark and terrible fantasies?”

Even though he was behind her, Belle still closed her eyes when she spoke. “What would you know of me?”

“Did it ever occur to you,” the Dark One used one hand to rub her privates and the other on her bottom, “in your wildest imagination,” his fingers slipped in and out of her cunt, spreading the wetness further back, “that a man would ever be interested,” suddenly Belle felt a new, terrible invasion, “in this?”

For a moment, Belle was too shocked to speak, too shocked to make any noise. Too shocked to even blink. She bit her lip against her first, instinctive retch and swallowed down her disgust in a gasp.

“Answer me,” the Dark One said in a sing-song voice while his finger pushed in to her asshole.

“No.” Belle heard her own voice, shaky but definite. “This never occured to me.”

“No? Well, I suppose that would be too much to ask for. A maiden who thinks of getting fucked at all is a rarity, let alone a maiden who thinks of getting fucked in the arse.”   

Belle winced, and clenched her jaw. This was too much. It was too strange, too foul, too personal. She couldn’t bear it. “Please!” she gasped.

“Am I hurting you, Belle?”

The sound of her name calmed her down a little. “No,” she admitted. “No, it doesn’t hurt, but it feels wrong.”

“Yes, that’s what makes it fun!” He pinched her nipple and Belle felt her whole body tighten. She clenched around his finger and the sound he made was obscene in its delight.

“Please,” she whispered. “I don’t like this.”

“Alright.” With his free hand, he rubbed her reassuringly. “You will have to bear it, but I won’t make you suffer for long. Not today.”

He took his arm away from her chest. Belle heard a sound behind her, a rapid, rhythmic, sloshing.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” she asked timidly. “What are you doing?”

“Covering my cock with oil,” he answered. “So I’ll slide into you easily.”

Oh. “Is this act… pleasurable? For you?”

He chuckled. “There are few things a man willingly puts his cock in that don’t feel pleasurable.” Belle felt his breath against her ear. “And eventually, if I train you well enough, you’ll find it pleasurable too, my sweet whore, my perfect slut.”

Belle couldn’t imagine that. She closed her eyes and pressed her weight onto the cuffs. The magic would hold her wherever the Dark One wanted her to be.

He leaned her forward and she felt his hands opening her up. Slowly, he eased his cock into her ass and she heard his soft exhalations as he enjoyed the sensation. He pressed himself into her and Belle dug her nails into her palms.

How could she describe it? It was like when he had put his cock in her mouth last night--the strange invasion, the foreign object filling her and overtaking her, replacing whatever sense of control she had over her own body and making her a vessel of its will.

It was Rumpelstiltskin’s cock she thought of in that moment, not the man himself. In this state, she lost all sense of him, of a person who could be spoken to and reasoned with. Now, everything was about the cock in her body, the demands it required of her, the pleasure it needed to bring her ordeal to an end.

As when he went into her feminine places, he slowly slid in and out of her, over and over again. At first, he kept her bent over, but gradually he tilted her back onto his body. They were both sitting upright, Belle in his lap, him buried inside her most intimate place.

He used one hand to hold her close to him. He lifted her body up and down in a frenzied bounce. The faster he went, the closer the feeling came to pain. But by this time Belle knew that the faster he fucked her the closer he was to finishing. He would orgasm and then it would be over and that was all she wanted at that moment.

Grunts and obscenities filled the air. His grip on her grew ever tighter. His claws dug into her skin and with a final shout the Dark One poured his seed into Belle’s rectum.

“Ugh,” Belle groaned. It was disgusting, hot and fluid. She felt like she had fouled herself, a feeling that only grew worse when he pulled his manhood out of her.

She wanted to run to the bucket, to hide her shameful body from him, to wash herself all over again. But his arms were around her, tight as any ropes. He pressed his face against her back and her hair and she could feel his body shaking behind her.

Belle’s own body shook in time with his. With every breath and every heartbeat, she quivered. Her whole being pulsed and throbbed in a way that was horrible in its familiarity. This was pleasure! He--he had pleasured her! By doing that! How was that even possible?

“I’ll leave soon,” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice behind her was dull and flat. “I will demand nothing more of you today.” The arms around her loosened, became an embrace and not a stranglehold.

Belle breathed and felt both their shakings subside. They breathed together, as he clung to her.

“Tell me,” he ordered in a whisper. “Tell me you hate me and would kill me if you could. Tell me you’re miserable here, that every moment is torture, and that I’m only a mad demon for thinking you get any pleasure out of this at all. Tell me you want to leave and never come back. Tell me how evil and twisted I am. Please, Belle, tell me the truth.”

Momentarily wordless, Belle shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t say those things and also tell you the truth, Rumpelstiltskin.”

He made a noise, half a sigh, half a laugh. “And you won’t lie to me, not even once?”

“I’ll say what you order me to say, but that doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

His forehead rested on her hair and Belle could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “This will get easier,” he promised. “You’ll get used to being used.”

“And you’ll get used to using me?”

He stood up quickly, sliding Belle off his lap and onto the bench. He stood before her, breeches laced, face composed, not a drop of water or oil on his clothes. His expression was blank as he looked down at her. After a moment, Belle realized how deliberate that blankness was.

“Keep the cloth,” he said briskly. “You’ll want to wash again.”

The rag he had enchanted still steamed and bubbled on the dungeon floor. Belle knew it would keep going forever, for as long as he wanted it to.

“Thank you,” she said. She tried to keep her tone light and friendly. She had insulted him without meaning to, and she wanted to make amends.

But he was already walking out of the cell. The door swung open at his wave. “Until next time, dearie!”

Then the door shut behind him with a thud.

[yourprayer]

pop culture chapter 8

“Adulthood in a town like Derry is even worse than childhood. The listless, empty ramblings of days dragging on in a town that felt like one-size-too-small-shoes sat heavier on the recently graduated than the younger children. Before you were eighteen and responsible for your own lunch money, you could spend your interminable afternoons exploring the surrounding environment, friends of friends abound. Escaping to the arcade and seeing the same films six times at the same theater was an acceptable amount of nothing to do at twelve years old. But when nineteen years hit Bill Denbrough and college acceptance letters didn’t, the sudden, overwhelming, nothingness of Nowhere, Maine became too heavy to bear.”

chapter 8 (wc: 4k)

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“Someone’s knockin at yer back door, Stanny.”

“Couldn’t kill you to answer it?”

“Not my house.”

“Well you’re not getting any of my pizza, then.” Stan griped as he marked his place and set down his novel before crossing the room.

“Wait, you ordered pizza?!” Richie extracted himself from his position on Stan’s bed, where he had been reading comics upside down.

“You’d know if you got the door.” Stan called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. Another knock rang through the empty house.

“Coming dear!” Richie yelled with a ridiculous trill as he attempted to slide down the bannister.

“Don’t break yourself. I don’t want your blood on my carpet.” Stan yanked Richie’s sleeve, returning the wily boy to his feet.

“Buzzkill.” Richie muttered, crossing his arms as he followed Stan sullenly.

“Reason you’re still alive?” Stan quirked an eyebrow, walking backwards with a finger pointed at himself.

“Touche, douche.” Richie rhymed under his breath as they crossed the kitchen.

“Heard that.” Stan commented as he opened the door.

��Hey.”

Stanley and Richie’s eyes went comically wide as they took in the sight on Stan’s back doorstep. Before them stood a disheveled Mike and Eddie, both sweaty and breathing like they’d ran all the way there. Eddie was holding the collar of his shirt to split and bleeding skin of his chin, droplets of the blood escaping and dripping down his neck, leaving dried trails like lay lines. Mike was smiling almost apologetically, like he was sorry to have stopped by.

“Got a first aid kit?” Mike broke the silence, smile almost manic as he joked.

“What the fuck happened?!” Stan inquired, pulling Mike in the room and out of the way before Richie practically launched himself at Eddie, who he promptly shoved over to the sink so he could begin cleaning his wound.

“It’s a pretty, uh, funny story actually.” Mike said with a strange, nervous laugh. Stan studied him crossly between cupboards he opened in search of some bandages. “Mind if I have a glass of water?”

“Go ahead.” Stan replied warily, watching Mike grab a cup out of the cabinet to his left with trembling hands. Richie moved Eddie away from the sink as Mike came over, meeting Stan at the kitchen island and grabbing the box of band-aids he’d successfully scavenged. Mike drank three full glasses while Richie diligently attended to Eddie’s chin. Stan and Eddie caught each other’s gazes just once, and at Stan’s questioning eyebrow Eddie only shook his head. Stan waited a moment more before starting in on Mike again. “You gonna tell this funny story?”

“It’s a real doozy.” Mike braced his hands on the sink, back facing the others.

“I think I can handle it.”

Mike took a deep breath before turning.

“You want the long or the short of it?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“I think I just controlled fire with my mind.”

Richie dropped the bandage he was opening.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. That’s the short.”

“Does the long explain this?” Richie pointed at Eddie’s band-aid clad chin.

“If I tell you it involves Hockstetter and Belch, does that answer your question?”

“Shit. Yeah.” Richie adjusted his glasses reverently, eyes downcast as his mind easily grasped the general specifics.

“So you what, turned his flamethrower contraption off?” Stan crossed his arms and leaned against the pantry.

“More like turned it around.” Mike paused to drink more water. “It didn’t burn me.”

“It touched you?” Mike nodded. “And it didn’t burn.” Another nod. “And you’re sure it was real fire.” Richie continued incredulously.

“It was. A whole lot of it. And it couldn’t touch me.”

“Bullshit.” Richie said with awe.

“You literally turned invisible a couple days ago.” Stan glared at Richie.

“Yeah, but- that’s nuts!”

“More nuts than your thing?”

Richie qualmed. “No…”

“So shush. Let the man continue.”

“That’s pretty much all there is to it.” Mike shrugged. “I guess fire can’t burn me anymore.”

“Let’s test it.” Richie pulled a lighter out of his jean pocket. “Experimentation.”

Mike spoke at the same time as Stan, his acquiescence overlapping Stanley’s protests.

“It’s fine, Stan.” Mike repeated, stepping over to Richie with an outstretched arm.

“What if it was just a fluke?” Stan folded his hands in concern.

“It’s just a tiny little Bic, what can it do?” Mike said casually as Richie flicked on the flame.

“You sure?” Richie asked, lighter in one hand and Mike’s arm in the other.

“Go right ahead.”

Richie watched Mike’s face with pinched eyebrows, disbelief and uncertainty on his face. He titled the flame to touch skin, eyes going wide as Mike did not flinch.

“Nothing?” Richie pressed the flame into Mike’s skin, which was not burning or bubbling as all laws of physics deemed it should.

“It feels like hot wax, but not super hot wax.” Mike took another sip of his water with his free hand.

“Are you the wax in this equation?” Richie questioned as he moved the flame up and down the length of Mike’s forearm.

“I think so?”

“Fucking hell.” Richie sighed as he let go of the trigger, pocketing the lighter once more. “Of course you get a useful power.” He complained as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“The fuck do you mean?”

“I mean that’s what this whole thing is, right? We’re all getting superpowers or something! And I get this bullshit where some of my organs go see-through, and it hurts like a bitch, mind you, and you get to be fire-retardant! Stan can fuckin’, I don’t know, levitate things, which is helpful-”

Stan and Mike spoke over each other again.

“Stan can what?”

“You’ve been reading too many comic books.”

Stan looked guilty after he realized what Mike had said over his comment.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Last night. My book was floating.”

“That’s it?”

“I made it fly into the ceiling.”

“Did it stay there?”

“No, it fell.”

“Who cares if it stayed up there? Point is Stanley actually gets something that doesn’t suck-”

“Eddie, you’ve been weirdly quiet. Are you okay?” Stan interrupted Richie’s rant, desperately wanting to shift the subject away from himself. Eddie blanched at the sudden question, shuffling his weight awkwardly on his feet. He thought for a moment about saying something, but settled on a shake of his head. “What’s up?” Stan pressed.

“I’m with Richie.” Eddie said after a moment, voice unsure. Richie definitely didn’t dig his nails into his legs from where his hands were clenched in his pockets in response to the thoughts Eddie saying the phrase I’m with Richie conjured. “I got dealt a really shitty hand.”

Richie swallowed, wishing away the heat in his cheeks. “How so?”

“You know how so!” Eddie went from reserved and shaken to bitterness teetering on the edge of rage in a matter of seconds. “The only ‘power’ I got is being scared so shitless I can’t even fucking move every time something goes wrong!”

“Eds.” Richie pleaded softly, hoping to head off the explosion he knew was coming.

“You should have seen me today, Richie. I was fucking useless. Mike was about to get barbequed and I just fucking laid there!”

“Belch was holding you down Eddie, he had his boot in your back-” Mike protested.

“Wait, Belch had his boot in your back? That son of a-”

“The point is that I’m useless now! Who am I if I can’t protect my friends?!”

“Eds, you are not useless-”

“Richie’s right, Eddie-”

“You don’t get it, Stan-”

“Eddie, I don’t think you have a super power.” Mike said firmly, breaking through the chaos of everyone’s voices overlapping.

“Excuse me?” Eddie blinked at him.

“I don’t think you have a ‘super power’.” Mike air quoted, glancing at Richie. “I think you have a panic disorder.”

“Mike.” Richie warned quietly, almost subconsciously raising a hand as if to placate a wild animal. Stan stared at him shocked, genuine surprise and fear overtaking him as he worried over the results of the statement.

Eddie went white, his whole body eerily stilling. His eyes started out laser-focused on Mike’s face but began to dart around the room. He tried to form words, his brain working in overdrive as he scrambled over a response. To Richie it looked like he’d short-circuited.

“I- you- how dare-”

“Eddie, I’m not trying to offend you-”

“How dare you, Michael.” Eddie spat. “You have got to be fucking kidding me right now.”

“I’m not.” Mike stood his ground.

“If I wanted someone to stand here and list a bunch of fake illnesses I don’t have, I’d be at home!” Eddie nearly screamed. Stan clasped a hand over his mouth. Richie swallowed again before laughing nervously with the teasing, though-”

“Shut UP Richard. I’m not fucking around.” Eddie rounded on Mike again. “I can’t believe you, one of my best friends treating me like my fucking mother, trying to find some fucking disease you can blame me on-”

“I am not acting like your mother, Eddie.” Mike yelled back, surprising Stan and Richie with his intensity.

“You know what hurts the most about it?” Eddie pushed on, apparently unaffected by the bite back. “What really gets me about being told I’m sick all the time? She says my behavior is what makes me sick, the things I do or like or say. It’s not my temperature or my complexion or whether or not I throw up, it’s my fucking personality! To her, I’m the disease! And I thought you of all people would see me differently. But it’s clear now you don’t. I’m something you want to cure too.”

“Eddie-” Mike protested feebly, shocked beyond belief.

“I am sorry I was such a useless pile of shit today.” Eddie said through angry tears forming in his eyes. “I feel terrible about how I acted. But you don’t have to be so vicious about it. You don’t have to treat me like a germ.”

With that, Eddie was turning on a heel and leaving, storming out of Stan’s back door as the other’s scrambled after him, Richie yelling for him to come back.

“Let him go.” Mike said calmly, a hand on Richie’s shoulder as the three stood in the doorway. They watched Eddie storm out of the garden, the brand new and almost frighteningly large cactus plant near the door escaping their notice.

______________________________________________________________

“I’m the world’s worst boyfriend.”

“Oh come on, Ben.”

“No, I really am. I mean, absolute shit.”

“Th-there are p-p-plenty worse boyfr-friends than you out there.” Bill clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, smiling at the sight of Ben idly fretting.

“What kind of asshole waits until a week before an anniversary before they even start thinking about a gift?” Ben put his head in his hands, soda and fries forgotten on the bench next to him. He and Bill were on one of their regular excursions to the downtown district of Derry, where they would both get a coke and fries to be eaten as they walked around and windowshopped for all the things they couldn’t afford.

“S-some people forget the d-day entirely.” Bill pointed out, popping a french fry into his mouth. “I did.”

Ben looked up at him incredulously. “You forgot yours and Bev’s anniversary?”

“She b-broke up with me for a reason.” He joked, taking a drink of his soda. Ben laughed at his casual admission.

“No offense, but I’m glad the bars not so high.” Ben said through giggles.

Bill snorted. “Wh-what bar?” The two broke into fits of laughter, trying their best to contain themselves in public.

“Well, shit.” Ben leaned back, picking up his styrofoam cup of cola and taking a sip. “Guess I’ve only gotta do something mildly impressive.”

“What k-kind of gift are you th-thinking?” Bill tucked a leg under the other as he ate more of his fries.

“It’s cliche as shit, but I was thinking jewelry.” Ben scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, it is only our six-month, but still…” Ben trailed off, Bill watching him intently as he continued to eat. “I’m really fucking serious about her. I wanna get something that says I am.”

“Jewelry is good, then.” Bill said seriously.

“What do you think she would like?” Ben asked, vulnerability and desperation clear in his eyes as he locked them with Bill’s.

“C-can’t go w-w-wrong with a n-necklace.” Bill took another drink.

“Yeah…” Ben sighed, contemplatively taking a bite of one of his fries. “That doesn’t feel like… special enough though.” He finished the fry. “I feel like it should be something, I don’t know, more. She deserves it.”

“Yeah she does.” Bill agreed sincerely as he took another drink. The boys sat in silence for a few moments, watching Derry townfolk shuffle around on their nameless errands.

“Would it be the most embarrassing thing in the world to get her a promise ring?” Ben said after the silence had stretched too far. Bill shook his head, swallowing the fry he was on.

“Nu-uh. I think sh-she’d love that.”

“Really?” Ben asked nervously.

“Sh-she told me sh-she did s-s-so, yeah.” Bill grinned.

“Oh. I didn’t know you guys talked about…” Ben fiddled with his fingers nervously.

“Y-you guys?” Bill supplied. “B-b-bev and I are still fr-friends, Ben. We talk ab-bout all kinds of stuff.”

“I just didn’t think you’d want to hear about it.” Ben looked at his feet. “I wouldn’t want to if I were you.”

Bill was silent for a beat, thinking. “You l-liked her when we w-were dating, d-d-didn’t you.”

“Yeah.” Ben admitted after a breath. “I’ve liked her since we first met.”

“Th-then you really should get th-that ring.” Bill ate his last fry, wiping the grease from his fingers on the corner of his flannel. Ben watched Bill nervously, almost as if he were afraid he’d angered him. “You kn-know I’m not huh-hurt over you g-g-guys dating.”

“You’re not?”

“No. B-bev and I have always b-b-been better off as fr-friends. You guys were suh-supposed to be tog-gether.” Ben’s jaw dropped slightly at the statement as Bill stood up from the bench, garbage clasped in one hand.

“Bill, it really means a lot to hear you say that.” Ben admitted as he stood as well.

“Sh-shoulda said it s-s-sooner. It’s always b-b-been true.” Bill shrugged, looking up and down the street at the row of stores. His eyes landed on a pawn shop nestled at the end of the block. “Now c-c-c’mon. Let’s go g-get your girlfriend a pr-promise ring.”

______________________________________________________________

“Well that sure was swell, Mikey.” Richie commented bitterly as he paced the Uris living room, a slice of pepperoni pizza in each hand. He had been alternating between the two, taking an angry bite out of one, then the other, then back again. These are technically his third and fourth slices, Stan thought after a brief glance at the pizza box.

“Richie, don’t get pissy with me. If you’re worried about him, go take it up with Eddie.” Mike tore off the end of his breadstick and ate it.

“You’re the one who pissed him off.” Richie took a bite from the left slice, speaking before swallowing. “You should apologize.”

“For what? Looking out for his best interests? And you should chew with your mouth closed. God, what are you, five?” Mike grumbled before finishing off his breadstick.

“Je-sus, Micycle. Bee in your bonnet?” Richie teased, proceeding to take a bite out of the right slice.

“Forgive me if I’m not in the mood, Tozier.” Mike glared at him.

“Would you two cut it out?” Stan cut in, depositing his pizza crust in the lid of the box. “If you’re gonna keep bickering like this, I’m gonna kick you out.”

“On what grounds?” Richie squinted at him.

“The ‘no-whiny-assholes’ clause.” Stan returned the look as he went for another slice.

“Sorry.” Mike mumbled as he grabbed another breadstick.

“I will not yield.” Richie said with a stubborn flourish, polishing off the left slice. Stan rolled his eyes as he shook his head.

“Of course you don’t. Mike, do you think we should have another meeting and tell the rest about what happened?”

Mike looked contemplatively at the carpet. “I’m not opposed to it, but don’t we have a movie night in a couple of days?”

“We could wait till then if you want.”

“That’s probably best. Oh, and Ben got those pictures developed. He’ll probably want us all to take a look at them.”

“What for?” Richie muttered to himself, finishing the crust of the right slice, his now pizza-less hands he wiped off on his jeans. “Said it yourself, won’t do any good.”

“Ben’s peace of mind will probably appreciate it.” Mike quipped. “Besides, he was gonna give a bunch to you.”

Richie folded his arms and turned to look at Mike, who even while sitting on the floor with Stan, still seemed tall, immovable.

“You shouldn’t have said that to Eddie.”

“I’m not wrong.” Mike rebutted, unphased by the quick turn of subject.

“That doesn’t matter. You know he hates being told he’s got something wrong with him.”

“I never said having a panic disorder is wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not going to jump to that conclusion.”

“That’s on him.”

“You hurt his feelings, Mike!”

“I was being honest!”

“That’s not always what Eddie wants.” Stan cut in. “We’ve been friends with him for a long time, Mike. He’s always preferred easy lies over hard truths.”

“It’s how he was raised.” Richie muttered under his breath as he fiddled with the carpet with his bare toes.

“So you baby him and tell him what he wants to hear? How is that any better than his home life?”

Richie and Stan remained silent.

“I’m not going to patronize him. I know he hates that shit even more. I’m going to be honest with him because he’s my friend and he deserves that, even if it makes him angry.”

“That’s fair.” Richie aquiesced after a beat. “But he’s still gonna be pissy with you if you don’t apologize. And he probably won’t listen to your reasoning if he doesn’t like your accusation.”

“He’ll come around.”

______________________________________________________________

Ben arrived home a little later than usual, pocket heavy with the weight of what he’d decided to do that evening. His whole demeanor was effected by the choice, his smile giddy as he unlocked the door. His mother was waiting with freshly reheated dinner, a telltale sign she was near the end of a pay period. The sight of the cheap, frozen meals steaming in their plastic wrap on the table made Ben feel a little sick, and abruptly wish he hadn’t just spent so much of his money. It was supposed to help with groceries you idiot, Ben chastized himself.

“Hey sweetie. Dinner’s on the table.” His mother greeted as she entered the room, smiling at Ben as he shed his shoes.

“I saw, looks delicious, thank you.” Despite his reservations about the situation, Ben would not refuse a meal from his mother, no matter the context. He knew he should sometimes, knew her constant over feeding was an almost exclusive reason for his issues with weight as a young man. But he was also aware it was one of her ways for making up for his father’s absence. She used food to show her love, and if he said he wasn’t hungry, she took it as rejection. Ben may not always be hungry, but God did he constantly love his mother. So frozen dinners it is.

“You look particularly at peace this evening, Benny.” His mother commented as she crossed to the sink and began washing her hands. “Anything exciting happen today?”

Ben smiled shyly to himself as he got a glass and poured some juice from the fridge. “Uh, yeah actually.” He leaned over and set his cup down at his seat, then raised the jug of juice so his mother could see. “Want a glass?”

“Sure, thanks. Tell me about this excitement!” She pressed, drying her hands before sitting down.

“So, remember how I told you Bev and I’s anniversary is next week?” Ben couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he returned the juice to the fridge. “I got her gift today.” He beamed at his mother as he handed her her cup and sat down.

She returned his grin. “What’d you get her?”

Ben looked around conspiratorially, preening when it made his mother laugh. They loved to joke that others might be around, that things must be secret, ever since Ben was a child and loved playing spies. When he deemed the coast was clear, he pulled the small ring box out of his pocket.

“I got her this promise ring.” Ben said as reverently as he held it out under the light. His mother took it in hand, regarding the ring in awe.

“Oh Benny, this is gorgeous.” She breathed.

“Think she’ll like it?” His tone betrayed his nervousness. “Bill helped me pick it out, I was so unsure.”

“Honey, she’ll love it.” She smiled and returned the box to him. “It’s perfect.”

“I sure hope so.” He pocketed the ring box and picked up his fork, using it to tear back the plastic wrap over his food.

“Sorry it’s not plated, I wasn’t sure how late you’d be and I wanted it to stay warm.” His mother said as she took a drink.

“Oh no mom, this is fine. I don’t mind a bit.” Ben shook his head.

“Oh, and speaking of miss Beverly, she left a voicemail for you a little while ago.” She added, cutting into her meatloaf.

“Thanks, I’ll listen to it after dinner.”

They ate in silence for a bit before she spoke again.

“I like that girl, Benny. I like her a lot. Think someday you’ll put a real ring on that finger?”

Ben smiled down at his food.

“I sure hope so.”

______________________________________________________________

“Georgie, can you get the door for us?”

“Sure momma.” Georgie Denbrough responded with a smile as he jumped down from his makeshift vegetable cutting station. His brother, who was tenderizing meat next to him smiled as he watched his brother happily run off.

The doorbell rang again as Georgie rounded the corner. “Coming!” He called sweetly, beaming as he reached the door. He pulled it open easily with his one arm.

“Oh- hi Georgie.”

Georgie squinted at the sight before him, happy but perplexed. Eddie Kaspbrak was on his doorstep, which he was excited about, because Eddie was his friend and he loved seeing him. But Eddie also looked hurt, his chin covered in bandaids and spots of dried blood on his yellow tee shirt.

“Hi Eddie.” Georgie kept his smile plastered on his face, reminding himself of what his mother always tells him; don’t ask people invasive questions, Georgie.

“Is your brother home?” Eddie asked nervously, wringing his hands on the bottom of his shirt.

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.” Georgie gestured across his body, jerking towards the kitchen with a thumb. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Eddie gave a short, airy laugh. “I’ll have to ask. Can I talk to him?”

“Billy!” Georgie suddenly switched to his outside voice. “Eddie’s here!”

Eddie gave Georgie a slightly surprised expression, impressed by the kid’s volume. A moment later Bill arrived in the doorway, chiding Georgie about yelling in the house. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Eddie in the doorway.

“Ed-eddie.” He crinkled his brow. “You alright?”

“Uh, sorta. I’m- can uh, can I stay over tonight?”

“Yeah, of course. W-we’re just making-”

“Dinner, yeah, I’ll help.” Eddie scurried into the house, not bothering to give Bill a chance to finish the thought. The boys shared a look as they left the doorway, its meaning indecipherable to Georgie. He huffed to himself, feeling a bit angry about once again being left out of things, and went to close the door. He stopped his motion at the sight of the edges of their front garden, his gaze on the bushes that came up to the side of the doorstep. The small yellow flowers that usually bloomed on its stems in spring were opening up, unfurling at an unnatural speed, leaving the bush covered in fresh blossoms before it stopped. Georgie watched with wide eyes, confounded by the sight before him.

Momma’s right, he thought as he finally willed himself to close the door. I’ve been watching too many cartoons.

______________________________________________________________

authors notes: sorry this took forever to come out! i told myself i’d put it up on wednesday. i did not accomplish that lmao. anyways he’res another installment, things are really starting to pick up! in the pop culture universe georgie has one arm; the denbroughs were in an accident when the boys were young, where georgie lost his arm and bill sustained the brain damage that causes his stutter. also no one is more of a benverly cheerleader than bill. 

tagslist: @s-s-stutteringbill @gazeboseddie @misssiriusblack @mythgirl96 @crackhousetozier @reddieaddict @wincestklaine @beepbeep-losers @ayyyymichele @megelizabethvh @tapetayloe @flickerflies @ghostbustermike @i-is-gazebo @reddiesetrichie @wyttolff @gayzier @kaspbrak-is-our-king @mikedenbrough @28shoes @nicoperryy @kinghanscom @eddiecare @shadysandi @fyeahreddie @reddieforlove

[ohthatbunnygirl]

What I love about your fics is how you're not afraid to write some "dark" stuff. And you have a flair for debauchery that is just my jam. It's not exactly a prompt, but I'd love something involving Asshole!Kylo who is in love with Rey, and Rey who wants him back but plays hard to get lol

This is the best kind of praise!

Dear anon, I’m honestly delighted that you appreciate my stuff since dark debauchery is obviously my jam too. It means a lot that ya’ll like anything I write, and so I drummed up this little drabble for you, and for the earlier anon (who probably will not quite like the turn of the events but maybe will), and for @dvrksister who offered prompt advice that I was soooo down for. 

A super filthy drabble with an asshole Kylo, a dance with Poe, and a war-ravaged leader pulled in too many directions.

                                          __________

Yet again it’s a rough day in a long string of rough days. Despite the submission of thousands at his feet, it appeared that ruling wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

Ruling wasn’t anything he wanted at all.

Months after his failure to abandon the First Order with Rey at his side the invisible feeling of a crown only tightened around Kylo’s curls. Day in and day out, that squeeze intensified, and Rey hated that she experienced that suffocation down the bond. The pressure, and him, and him, and him.

“Good, you should feel bad,” Rey mentally mocked across their connection, baring her teeth.“You should suffer. You should burn.”

Delighting in her flash of malice, Kylo’s fingers splayed against the shower wall: a predator extending his claws as his free fingers drifted lower. Smoothing down his wet, muscular chest, he traced the taut skin that she remembered too well. Teasing all the way to the length so gorgeously heavy between his thighs.

“I only burn for you,” Kylo growled, stroking up. “Come and find me again so we can see who suffers- who begs.”

Bitterness mixed with want flooded into Rey’s body, and turning on her side in her bed didn’t change the image. As sure as Rey were in the same room, she watched the salacious glide of his closed fist up and down his thick shaft. Working himself into obscene steel, relieving the strain of his life with her grunted name on his lips. Crudely telling her what he’d do if she were there with him and Rey sat up in her bed.

Knuckles gone white against the sheets.

Pulse racing.

Livid that he’ll abuse himself again to innocent images of her drenched in the rain that he’s turned sordid, but more angry at herself that sometimes she’s joined in. Touched herself in tandem. Unburdened her shoulders from the increasing weight of endless obligations, lightening the load with rapid finger flicks. Selfishly transported away from expectations, and having only him to thank for the tawdry peace.

It’s addictive to join as they do.

It’s also equally as destructive as any known poison.

But he’s back again to give Rey her fix, and gripping her head in her hands, she groaned out her misery. Tugging her hair as he tugged. Overwhelmed with the guilt of pleasing someone who everybody expects her to kill, but not kicking him out either. Smearing pre-cum pearls along his cock, a less troubled Kylo breathed harder and harder. Getting off as he felt her emotions gnarl. Turned on that the roles that they play aren’t easy for her either, and all the more sadistically pleased that Rey still hasn’t confessed to anybody that she knows which planet his ship lingers near.

I know why you haven’t told them what you learned during our last visit, pretty pet.

You’d miss me.

This.

Licking the wall in place of her cheek, he rutted faster into his grip.

Flesh met flesh as the butcher of galaxies chased his full body high, and the louder he moaned, the more Rey shook her head. Looking away from the frantic debasement, she called him names under her breath. Putting on an act of hating him above the shoulders even as she soaked the slip of satin between her legs.

“Show me,” Kylo ordered, panting against the tile. “Show me what I’ve earned.”

Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t, Rey tilted her hips up. Following through though she was a leader, the last hope of the galaxy. The damned beacon of good with shaking knees and toes curled for her enemy. Hating herself for doing it, but parting her legs so he could see the sheen against her skin. Possibly even smell the proof of her arousal as her fingers inched closer to claim her own pleasure before a knock at Rey’s door had her scrambling out of her bunk.

“Kriff-” Rey gasped, not bothering with pants on the way to the door.” Sliding the metal open a couple inches with shaking hands, she then croaked out, “What is it?”

“We’ve found him,” Poe announced, unleashing a toothy smile.

Despite his clear excitement, Rey’s brow pinched in confusion. “Who?”

“Ren.”

“Where?”

“The Ryloth system.”

Where nothing before could slow the hammering heartbeats in Rey’s chest, Poe’s news did the trick. Her blood slowed to sludge. Every inch of her world going from smooth to skipping against the needle when she considered meeting up with him again, and Rey’s hand collapsed against the control buttons along the wall. Accidentally opening the door wider, she stood barely clothed in shocked silence until repeating, Y-You found Ren?”

Taking the opening as an invitation, Poe breezed by Rey. Chuckling as he unbuttoned the top of his collar, revealing the dangling necklace with a ring on his chest that he hoped to have her wear one day. “Yeah, the cocky bastard should hire less conspicuous supply freighters.”

“It’s almost like I wanted them to find me,” Kylo mused, continuing to pump his hand up and down, and Rey’s eyes widened twice after first forgetting that he was in the room and then sensing that Poe couldn’t see him.

“We strike in the morning if that’s okay with you.” Sitting on the end of Rey’s bed, Poe couldn’t stop grinning. “It’s insane to think about that, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve waited so long to have him, and now we got him.”

“Send him to me,” Kylo purred, accelerating his strokes. “Send him so that I may send back his handsome head all wrapped up for you.”

No!

Mistaking her decisive head shake for uncertainty, Poe’s smile faltered. “It’s good intel,” he assured her, dark eyes glittering.  “I know that it’s hard to believe, but it’s our best shot in months.”

“A shot they’ll miss,” Kylo’s gravelly laugh broke into a guttural moan.

One then two then too many droplets dribbled down her thigh, and Rey cringed over Kylo finally finding his end when rubbing it in. All it took was a splash of her panic for him to climax, and to splash her in turn. Leaving a filthy, wet reminder sliding down her skin to punctuate his point that they worked better together without any pesky armies or morals in the way.

Rubbing her legs together to smear his stain off of her, Rey couldn’t meet Poe’s eyes.

This is awful.

I’m awful.

What kind of monster enjoys any part of this?

They were friends. At one point, she’d never thought to have a single friend let alone many, but the hotshot pilot and Rey were friends. You don’t go through what they went through without forming a bond. You can’t possibly face death again and again and win without joining a part of your soul together to one of the few that understands, and his humor and bravery didn’t hurt the situation. As any woman- and even some men- on the ship could tell you, Poe Dameron was a lethal combination of charming, confident, and talented. Depending on the day, he could be a hero or even a death sentence to the pilots he leads, but he was also the kind of guy who’d grab Rey for an impromptu dance in the hangar on the worst days. Reminding her with his easy smile and effortless moves what it was they hoped to save.

“Don’t go,” she whimpered, and the crack in her voice made Poe’s chin jerk up to take in her appearance. For the first time since barging in, his grin slipped. Many had noticed Rey’s figure thinning over the past few months, the haunted look lingering in her hazel eyes. They all assumed that it was mourning for Finn, for Leia, for the thousands they lost. On some days, Poe figured that she was only hungry for the end of the fighting, and he wasn’t wrong. More than anything, Rey needed a rest. She was exhausted, pulled thin in too many directions, and Poe blamed that for the disheveled hair, the pale cheeks damp that he mistook for teary. Everything about her appearance shouted out that something was off with Rey, and when she stood there in her underwear and tank top he made the mistake of assuming her fragile as opposed to what she knew she really was.

A bold traitor.

A shameless libertine.

A lovesick general who couldn’t pull the trigger.

Pushing his palms down against the squeaky mattress, Poe got up to his feet again. Reaching out for Rey, he drew her in closer. Strong arms banding around her slender waist, offering comfort, and all the while completely unaware that another man’s affection dripped on her toes. Clueless that each step towards him splattered her skin with Kylo as Poe did his best to improve Rey’s spirits. Thinking that he could fix her with another slow dance. Naively believing that some of her inner battles could be so easily conquered by somebody who couldn’t possibly fathom the warring darkness in her.

Knowing her, but not knowing her at all.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she let Poe comfort her. Step by step allowing him to assume that he could sooth whatever troubled her with another elegant spin. Dredging up a small smile for him, she hoped that the boost to confidence might help him in the battles of her making. Let him believe for a while that they were on the same team- no conflict in her heart- and when he left the room Rey pressed her forehead to the door with a low sob.

The tears coming fast, quick, and uselessly.

The shame already nipping at her heels even before she felt his leather glove skim down her spine.

“Go away,” she gasped, rolling her lips in. “I don’t want this.”

Placing a small kiss on each shoulder, Kylo hummed against her skin.“You’re only upset because you know that he’s not your path.” Dragging his teeth down to her hips, he licked between bites. “Mmm, it would be easier to desire someone so simple, but that’s not you, Rey. You grew up in filth. You wouldn’t know what to do with something so pure if you had it.”

Clapping a hand against her mouth, Rey sobbed harder.

“But you’re worth more than him,” Kylo continued. Resting his gloved hand against the base of her spine, he slowly bent her over. “Oh, you’re precious, but you’ll never want easy. You’ve fought too hard and too long to have anything handed to you. Hating me is the most fun you have all day, and that’s why it’s okay to admit it because the universe didn’t join us together so he could fulfill you with a cock still warm from the last bed he jumped into.”

As much as her mouth twisted in disgust, Rey couldn’t flat out reject that the universe didn’t devise a plan for them. Many Admirals, Commanders, and Super Leaders had failed to sway this endless war one way or another, but always Kylo and Rey remained at the center of the struggle. The heirs apparent to the light and dark feud but bound together, bonded by a tie that cared nothing about the inconvenience.  

Quieting her cries, Rey glared over her shoulder. “You don’t know anything about Poe.”

“Tsk,” Kylo gripped her hips possessively, tender with a dig of his nails. “You forget that I’ve been in his head. I know all about Dameron. All his fears that wouldn’t even make you blink, all his insecure weakness.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Snapping her hips back to let her feel his hardened erection, Kylo tsked again. “Now why would I be jealous when I know that you’re mine, pet?”

“Because he’s here and you’re not,” Rey spat out, lip curled up.  

Fighting him where she could, she lost anyway. All at once, the sound of his zipper going down filled the room, and Rey whipped her head back towards the door. Breathing out heavily, she flushed. He’d obviously dressed so that she could feel the scratchy fibers against her skin, listen to the mouthwatering sound of leather sliding through belt loops. Smell his masculine cologne mixed with the freshly laundered uniform. The plan was to taunt her with every sense, and she clenched her jaw in aggravated understanding. Yes, her tormenter dressed to grab control again, and she refused to meet his eyes. She wouldn’t give him sight- not yet.

Hiding the eagerness in her gaze, she masked the want building with every touch- the thrills rippling down her skin that came from hearing him call her his. Ever since their initial hand-holding, Rey frequently wondered about who acted as the host in this symbiotic relationship. One could easily assume that it was Kylo Ren in control, but Rey wasn’t so sure when he knew every dirty way to please her. Answering her each time she needed him without knowing it, and he was the one on his knees that very morning doing her bidding.

“How shall I prove how very here I am?” Kylo snarled, voice sharp as he softly grazed her inner thighs and up. Sliding her underwear down, playing with extremes. Stroking a finger then two in and out mercilessly around the wet from earlier, burying his seed deep in her with words and touch. “Will you accept it when I fuck you?”

“Uhh-”

“Is that what you want, precious thing?”

Groaning against the door, Rey nodded.

The end of denying him having arrived.

The beginning of fulfilling her now commencing.

Shifting forward, Kylo entered her with a hard thrust.

Answering her prayers and fears, he slowly impaled his little martyr. Quickening the back and forth with every stroke. Stretching her around his girth until the door shook and Rey choked on his name. Words lost, everything lost when it felt this good, this wrong, this all-consuming.

“Please,” she gasped, carving her nails into the door. “Please-”

Shoving his hand between her thighs, Kylo Ren gave her what she needed.

Swirling around her clit in sloppy perfect circles, slicking leather until even closing her eyes couldn’t hide the stars.

With an arch of her back, she cried out through her orgasm. Putty in his hands while breathlessly repeating his name. Hopelessly soft and sweet for him, but he wasn’t anywhere close to done with her yet. Spinning Rey around, Kylo yanked her thigh up to his hip before plunging back inside of her. Face to face. Smacking her back against the door with each savage thrust, fucking her raw and relentless when she gave in and sucked on his throat. Marking him. Licking where nobody could see this symbol of good gone bad. Shaking already on the edge of a fresh wave of passion that she didn’t believe possible, but she was tensing around his cock. Close again, feeling her stomach tightening before Kylo slowed while staring at where they joined together. “Tell me what time you’ll launch them tomorrow.”

“Kylo-”

“Tell me,” he ordered, ripping off her tank strap. Smacking, pinching, and torturing how she wanted him to. Rough with her softest parts, making her mewl for him to go harder. “Tell me what time you’ll send Poe and the others.”

Closing her eyes, Rey whined. “I-I can’t”

Drawing her nipple between his teeth, Kylo purred against her flesh, “I’ll have them all crash into each other- all of our troubles gone like that. Only you, me, and this left,” he lapped at her, biting down. “Both sides gone so I can feel your tight cunt all day long, work only for all your sounds. Stars above…mmm, tell me when.”

Writhing in his grip, the truth came as they both did.

“Eight,” Rey whimpered, claiming his lips for the most selfish kiss in her life. “I’ll send them at eight.”