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yuebinnie · 5 months

Text

Proverbs 5:19

☾ Pairing : Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) x Fem!Reader

☆ Warnings : mdni. Priest!Alastor, implied chubby!reader, noncanon Alastor, dubcon, coercion, blasphemy, abuse of authority, blood kink, blood drinking, squirting, multiple orgasms, fingering (f receiving), cunnulingus, catholic prayers used in a sexual context, scriptures used to coerce, cum eating, size kink, loss of virginity (implied, not talked about), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, literally just smut

☾ WC : 9.8k

☆ A/N : Taking a break from Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea to write Alastor smut ^^ This contains heavy Christian imagery, so if it's something you are uncomfortable with, this fic might not be for you! I really enjoyed writing this; it's my first time writing smut for Alastor, so hopefully I do not disappoint you all. I also posted the fic on AO3, if you'd prefer reading there. Have fun!

There was something about going to church that felt incredibly soothing. The deafening silence every time you walked in during the early hours of the day, steps echoing against the painted ceiling and colourful rose window, the shadows dancing behind the burning wicks of the candles set on each side of the main aisle, the smell of dust dancing in the air like a reminder of how desolate the people who came to visit truly were. You had not always been religious, but you had found peace in believing that there was a divine truth, that being good in this life would give you eternal bliss.

The church was a small one, and an old one; how it was still standing you had no idea. It was annexed to a small decrepit churchyard with moss-covered headstones that dated from at least two centuries ago. To any passersby, it'd be believed to be abandoned, as the outside of the building was quite literally falling apart, the bricks slowly eroding and the tiles covering the roof covered with the same moss as the headstones. The exterior appearance did not matter however, only the inside did; that's where God resided after all.

Despite its age, the inside and of the church was well kept. Yes, the rose window was cracked, and, as an attempt to keep the place as pure as possible, electricity had never been installed. The candles did the job of keeping the inside lit, and as for the temperature, well, dressing warmly was mandatory during the colder months of the year. The benches were old and the varnish that had once covered them was long gone; dents and chips could be found here and there, but they were still sturdy. The altar was small and simple, a wooden thing settled on a small stage that hovered only a few inches above the floor. Near the entrance sat a confessional which reeked of mould, but in the absolute presence of God, the smell was easily forgotten.

You had a habit of going to pray most days when you were not bedridden from the exhaustion of spending the night reading your favourite verses. 5 AM; the perfect time to pray, just as the world welcomed the sun's warmth and light. Very rarely did you meet anyone else; it had happened a few times, mostly old people nearing death coming to ask for absolution for their sins. Otherwise, the only person you had seen was the priest, whom you only had spoken to once or twice. He would look at you while you kneeled and mumbled prayers and verses, a smile plastered on his face.

It was the only downside of it all, that unsettling presence. The priest, a handsome man you had apologized to God for finding attractive, was always smiling. It was a bone-chilling sight; it made you feel as though he could see right through you, like he had access to every single thought that cluttered the inside of your mind. He had asked for your name once and had told you to have a 'delightful rest of the day'. That day had turned out to be horrible, as you had learned your grandmother was diagnosed with stage four cancer and only had a few months left. You had prayed for her, but God had decided to take her, nonetheless. Your subconscious had linked the priest's words as a direct cause of your grandmother's tragic diagnosis, and you had tried your best to avoid talking to him ever since.

When you woke up that morning, sweaty and feeling stickiness between your thighs, you felt sick to your stomach remembering the dreams that had plagued your mind in your slumber. A faceless man, dragging his lips down your stomach, his fingers touching your body in a way that was so sinful; the only logical explanation was that you had been visited by an incubus, an agent of evil. God was testing you, letting evil reach you to see if you'd be as faithful as Job or if you'd succumb to sin like Eve had. You cleaned yourself and changed your nightgown to proper clothes, putting a slightly warm coat on before leaving your house.

The sun had not yet started to show itself, and a thick fog floated above the quiet streets. The sky was covered with grey clouds that seemed to hang low, you wondered if you could touch them if you reached up, but your mind was too preoccupied with your predicament to try and touch something so close to Heaven. Mind running faster than a hare trying to escape a wolf, you tried to convince yourself simple prayers would do, but a loud voice kept coming back, telling you this could only be forgiven by confessing. The thought of having to talk to the priest whom you had convinced yourself was the catalyst of your grandmother's death made you want to cry, but the thought of failing God and disappointing Him was far more upsetting. You reached the church as the first rays of light made the dew covering the Earth glisten, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Your eyes fell upon the priest, who was bent down in the middle of the aisle, a long match in his hand as he lit the candles up. You froze, your eyes running across his shoulders and back. The door closed loudly behind you, and you jumped; the man's head snapped in your direction, his smile growing when he saw who had just walked in.

"You are quite early today, my dear," the priest stated simply, his focus going back to the unlit candles that still begged to melt under the burning flames. "Luckily enough, our Creator does not sleep; we're under scrutiny every second of our time on this earth."

You gulped at the words, the implications they held. You crept closer to the man, fidgeting as you thought of what to say. You let out a small quiet sigh, biting down your bottom lip as you stopped and stood a few feet away from him. The man straightened up and turned in your direction, his head tilted to the left as his gaze travelled across your face, "Oh my, whatever has you this upset?"

Your cheeks flushed as your eyes shifted from his eyes to the floor, the shame of what you had yet to confess weighing down your shoulders like the cross your Saviour had carried through heat and pain. You felt tiny, the priest towering over you; he had to be close to two feet taller than you. Had this been how Lucifer felt when he was at last pushed to meet his fate in the depths, a force greater than all administrating the final judgment? Sinfully powerless, a mere weak being? Tears gathered at your lower lash lines as you spoke, oh so quietly, your voice like the echo of an echo, "Father, I have sinned."

Seconds passed, silent ones, before the man hummed and walked past you, making his way to the front of the church. You twirled around, your eyes landing on where the priest now stood, in front of the old rotting confessional. You gulped, nodding to no one in particular before slowly making your way to the man who was stepping into the booth, the door closing behind him. You did the same, slowly closing the door after giving the empty church one last look, your eyes lingering a few seconds on the nailed Christ resting behind the altar, seemingly judging you.

You sat down, cringing at the creaking of the wood beneath your weight. The grille was pulled up, the silhouette of the man on the other side vaguely distinguishable. You took a deep breath, then spoke softly as you brought your right hand to your forehead, the gesture almost instinctual, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." You put your hand on your thigh, staring at the unmoving priest, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is.... too much time, since my last confession. I am a university student, in my last year to obtain a bachelor's degree." A low hum was heard, and you shifted in your seat, trying to find the exact words for your confession.

"Father, something terrible happened last night. In my weakened sleeping state, evil befell me. I was plagued with sinful dreams. You must understand, I am thoroughly devoted to Christ and our Lord, never have I let a man, or anyone, disgrace the body I was given; never have I had thoughts or dreams of this kind. I fear my will is not strong enough, that this evil shall come back and torment me. I fear I will fall into sin, just as our first predecessors did. I am nothing but willing, Father, so please, do help me. I am sorry for all these sins, and the sins of my past life."

You sniffled, wiping away the tears that had fallen down your rosy cheeks, your eyes glued on the silhouette of the man beyond the grille. His silence made you want to cry even more; were you a lost case? Had your fate already been sealed, your soul now tainted because of the touch of evil in such sacred places? You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you waited, seconds becoming minutes.

"This evil you speak of, what exactly has it done to you?" His voice seemed to have dropped lower, the sound a bit raspier. You furrowed your brow slightly at the question; you had been clear about the incident. As if feeling your hesitation, the priest continued, "Ma chère, only by knowing exactly what this evil put you through can I give you absolution."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, and flinched as the crack of thunder was heard beyond the church walls; your heartbeat quickened, was this Him telling you to obey?

You let out a small breath, before speaking up, the words shaky, "As I slept, this evil... Entered my dreams. It took advantage of my defenselessness. It disgraced my soul and my body. Upon waking up, there was... Remains of the sinful things it had my body do." You could feel the man's stare on you despite the grille separating you, causing yours to drop to your knees, feeling vulnerable.

"What sinful things did it inflict upon you?" Rain had started falling, as if the sky itself cried for you; the sound of it hammered against the roof, a continuous wail of grief for your poor soul.

"Father, I don't understand how this is necessa-"

"Do you not want absolution? Do you desire to be locked out of His kingdom? The choice is yours," his tone was harsher, demanding, even. You gulped and shook your head; no, that was not what you wanted. It was the furthest thing from it.

"I apologize for questioning your words, Father," you began, fidgeting with the hem of your coat, "From what I can remember... This evil took the shape of a man. A faceless man. I was in bed, and it joined me, and... We, uh, we kissed. It took my nightgown off." Your hands felt clammy, and you couldn't help but press your thighs together as you recollected the events of your dreams. "It kissed my breasts, then my stomach. It went... Down there, and stayed there until my whole body tensed up. Afterwards, it pushed itself inside me, it thoroughly disgraced my body. When I woke up, my body showed signs that it had reacted to the defiling. Father, please, believe me when I tell you that I was coerced by evil."

Thunder was heard again, breaking the silence that had settled between you and the priest. As the minutes passed, you became uneasy; was the man disgusted with you? Could he sense the sins radiating from your being? He cleared his throat, breaking your train of thought. Your eyes went back to his silhouette, waiting for him to speak up.

"I fear this is beyond the power bestowed upon me, dear," his voice was silky, it made warmth spread inside your chest, as if the vibrations it had created affected your very cells.

Your eyes widened; that was impossible. You had confessed and explained the evil that had haunted you. You had done exactly what He told His followers to do, confessed and asked for forgiveness. You shuffled closer to the grille, tearing up as you begged, "Father, please, there must be a way. I will do anything; I will suffer just like our Saviour has if it's what it takes. I'm supplying you, help me get rid of this evil."

“Very well,” the man said. You watched as his silhouette stood up and opened the door of the booth before it disappeared. The door of your little chamber opened, and you turned your head to look at the tall priest, who adjusted his glasses as he stared down at you. You took a few seconds to really look at him. Despite his smile that made shivers run down your spine, the man was handsome. His skin was tan, his hair dark and styled in an old-fashioned way. His features were sharp, intimidating, almost. Towering over you, his shoulders were wider than some quarterbacks’, and his waist was ridiculously small compared to them. His hands seemed to be twice the size of yours, and you found yourself wondering how he managed to button up his shirts with such big hands.

You looked back at his face as you blushed, realizing the man before you knew of your body in such intimate ways. You slowly stood up as you held his gaze, unsure of what to say next. He took a step aside and gestured for you to step out of the confessional, before closing the door behind you. The priest smiled down at you, “Follow me, dear.”

He started walking down the aisle, the flames of the candles on each side of it dancing as he passed by. You hesitantly followed him, looking out one of the small windows to see the rain pouring onto the world as lightning illuminated the sky. He stopped at the altar and turned to you, his smile ever present. You stopped in front of the stage; sinners did not belong anywhere close to that sacred place. The man stayed silent and with a gesture of his hand, permitted you to step up. You gulped and got on the stage, feeling extremely out of place.

“There is one way for you to repent,” he began, his stare fixed on you, “Though it is a bit unorthodox. The choice is yours, but you must remember that there is no place for sinners in Heaven.” He watched as you nodded quickly; you were eager to be forgiven, to go back to being free of sin. The corner of his lips twitched before he uttered one word, “Strip.”

Your eyes widened as your face turned a deeper shade of crimson. Stripping? You searched his face for hints of dishonesty, hoping he was playing a sick joke on you, but to your dismay, he was serious. Your body was frozen as you looked at him, not even the booming thunder making you flinch.

You opened your mouth to ask why, but the man beat you to it, answering your question before you even uttered a word, “Only by showing Him precisely how this evil tainted you can you be absolved. There is no need to be shy, ma chérie; isn’t He all-knowing? All-seeing? Wasn’t the shame of nudity created by His first creations’ sin? There is no purer form of devotion than to go beyond the embarrassment and bare yourself to Him; than to accept the vulnerable nature of your existence.”

He brought his right hand up to lay it flat against the wooden altar, observing you as you fought an inner battle with your dignity. His words were true, the wisdom of a man devoted to God, of someone who knew scriptures and their meaning. As if feeling your unmoving incertitude, he spoke up once again, “Proverbs 28:13.”

You blinked up at him, mind searching for the verse you had read many times before. You licked your bottom lip with your tongue before reciting softly, “He who covers his sins will not prosper, but whoever confesses and forsakes them will have mercy.” The priest hummed, and you raised your gaze to the crucifix hung on the wall behind the altar, feeling as if He was patiently waiting for you to submit to His will. You puffed out a small breath as you nodded to yourself, a hand coming up to the zipper of your coat, slowly bringing it down to then shrug off the piece of clothing and letting it fall on the floor.

You could already feel the wet cold seep through your thin sweater, but you ignored the feeling as you grabbed the bottom of it and lifted it up until it was completely off you; it dropped, finding its place next to your coat at your feet. Your eyes were unfocused, staring into thin air as you slipped your thumbs under the elastic band of your skirt, pushing it down so it pooled at your ankles. You stepped out of it, getting slightly closer to the priest whose gaze was burning your skin despite the goosebumps covering it. You brought a hand to your back, unclasping your bra before slowly taking it off, baring your breasts to the man. Your nipples hardened as the freezing air licked them and you bit hard down your bottom lip as you slid your underwear down your legs, then stepped out of your shoes, leaving you only wearing your lace-arbored anklets.

The man lifted a hand in your direction, a silent request for you to grab it. You did so all while avoiding looking up at him and followed him as he made his way behind the altar, his fingers squeezing yours slightly, “Our Lord blessed you with rare beauty, dear one, what a shame it led evil to you.” You gasped softly as his other hand wrapped around your waist, your eyes shooting up to look at him. He was still smiling, though his eyes seemed clouded with something you could not put your finger on.

He let go of your hand and grabbed the other side of your waist before effortlessly hoisting you up on the altar, the skin of your ass stinging from the cold of the wooden surface. Your gaze was questioning, and the man recited, his voice low and quieter than it had previously been, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” You gaped at him; a true man of God, that’s what he was. “Offer your body to Him, and you shall be absolved. Show Him what evil has done to you, so He can forgive and make you pure again,” he held your stare, his pupils slightly dilated. You nodded once, and the priest stepped aside, leaving you to face your Saviour in your naked glory.

You slowly leaned back, using your left elbow to not completely lie down on the wood. You brought your trembling right hand to your lips, the tip of your index finger stroking the pink flesh as you recalled where the lips of the faceless man had touched you. They lingered there for a few seconds before dipping to your neck, dancing around the column of your throat as your eyes fluttered shut; if goosebumps had not already been covering your body fault of the moist cold, they would have appeared, the feeling titillating. Your chest rose and fell in a timely rhythm as you dragged your touch to your breasts where your finger gently caressed your right nipple. Your lips parted, small breaths making their way out as you gathered with your small hand the heavy fat of your breast, squeezing. You could feel the stare of the priest on you, but you attempted to ignore it as you kept going.

Your fingers went down your stomach, using your nails to slightly scratch the skin, and they stopped a few inches below your belly button. You opened your eyes and looked at the crucifix; His peaceful expression, despite being nailed and in pain, gave you courage and you spread your legs, giving your Saviour the perfect view of your most intimate era. You nibbled on your bottom lip as you slowly brought your fingers down, choking on a soft moan when they made contact with your clit. The simple touch made your composure fall a little, your lips parted as your face reddened, feeling more exposed than you had ever felt before. You gently pushed against the bundle of nerves, gasping as your fingers started to move, following a small eight-pattern.

You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribcage, matching the loud striking of the heavenly fire against the earth beyond the safety of the church walls. Soft pants left your mouth as you started working on yourself, closing your eyes to focus on the memories of the previous night. Every touch and stroke were vividly drawn in your mind, your fingers moving in an almost instinctual way, leaving you a whimpering mess. You moved your elbow that was holding your weight, slowly leaning your back against the cold wood, before bringing the now free hand to your face, covering your mouth with it as your thighs trembled. Your body was thrumming, humming with new sensations, your mind as foggy as the early morning that had welcomed you when you had stepped out of your home.

Lost in pleasure, you jumped, your eyes shooting open as you felt long fingers wrap around your wrist, the priest looking down at you, his own eyes sharper and darker than they had been earlier. Your fingers nestled between your thighs stopped moving as you stared at him, but he tsked, “My dear, you must not hide anything from Him. These lovely, sinful sounds you make, are not to be repressed. Let them be; let Him hear what evil inflicted upon you,” his voice sent a chill down your spine, your back arching slightly. You watched as the corner of his lips twitched and let him pull your hand away from your mouth, gulping as you nodded weakly. “Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise, eyes not leaving his’ as your fingers started to move once again, bringing your legs up to rest your heels against the altar, spreading your legs a bit more. As if in a trance, your gaze fixed on the priest as you moaned and gasped, your hips twitching as you rubbed your clit. You saw his Adam’s apple bob, his eyes narrowing as you used your free hand to caress the skin of your stomach, slowly inching towards your left breast. Your fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and with a bite on your bottom lip and a pinch of your nipple, you pushed your middle finger all the way to the second knuckle, your eyes widening at the feeling. You let out a throaty whine, pressing your head harder against the wooden surface that supported your weight. The cold was long forgotten, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat, muscles spasming here and there.

You slid your other hand between your thighs, the digits quickly finding your clit and gently stimulating it as you managed to push your finger further inside yourself. The faceless man from your dreams had used three fingers, and you could only wonder how your dream self had taken them, as you were struggling with a lonely, short finger. Despite the uncomfortable feeling, you bit down your lip and pushed your index alongside the finger that was already pressed inside you. Your face scrunched up at the stretch, a silent sob echoing through the dimly lit space. You felt your walls clench around your digits, your free hand still working on your clit as a way to make the dull ache more bearable. You waited a minute, giving your body time to adjust to the feeling, before carefully pulling the fingers out and thrusting them back in, a surprised whimper leaving your lips as a new feeling started to blossom in your lower stomach.

You arched your back and started speeding up the motion of your hands, unable to keep quiet as your body grew warmer and more tense. Your eyes fluttered open to look up at the priest, who was as still as Christ watching you from His cross on the wall. As you exhaled, you pushed a third finger in, welcoming the stretch with a high-pitched whine. Your knees dropped down onto the altar, leaving your womanhood fully exposed; you watched as the man glanced at where your hands were working in tandem to replicate almost exactly what the evil from your dream had done to you. You gathered the little concentration you had left and started muttering through gasps and moans, “Compassionate Father, you are the Lord who rescues His people. When I am overwhelmed with shame, help me find solace in you. You have said that you will help—though my sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool. Remind me that I have been purified by you, that the curse of sin and evil is no longer upon me. In your powerful name, Ame-” You were cut off by a large hand wrapping around your lower face, the feeling making your body jolt.

Right, it had to be the same as the dream; you had not uttered a prayer in it, far from it. You closed your eyes, moaning against the palm covering your mouth, as you focused on the growing tension in your core. Every second felt like minutes and every minute felt like hours as you quickly thrust your fingers in and out, all while you rubbed and nudged your clit. The pressure was almost unbearable, your whole body twitching as your hips tried to follow the movements of your digits as if they had a mind of their own. The priest moved his hand away, and you opened your eyes to watch him bring it to his mouth where he licked his palm, which was covered with your drool.

Something snapped inside of you and a loud sob made its way out of your throat as your muscles tensed up, your walls clenching tightly around your fingers as you stilled them, your mind unable to think about anything beyond the blinding pleasure that took over your body. Your eyes rolled back, pitiful sounds leaving your mouth as your back arched from the altar, your thighs squeezing together, trapping your hands between them. This felt so much better than it had felt in your dream. You teared up; the Lord’s love was so strong; evil could not even compare.

After a few seconds, your body relaxed, and you were left panting and sweaty, as if you had just run a marathon. Slowly opening your eyes, your vision became clearer as you blinked, a smile tugging at your lips as you looked at the crucifix, then up to the priest who had not moved. You removed your hands from between your thighs and brought your left one up to wipe the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of it. You wrapped your right arm around your chest, trying to hide your breasts as you spoke up, your voice small but hoarse, “Have I done it, Father? Am I free of sin? Has our Lord given me absolution?” Hope lingered; you had done what you were told to do, you had been good, and your Lord was good and forgiving, He had to have seen how faithful you were.

The man’s eyebrows raised before he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly, “My dear, this was only your confession. The truest and purest form of confession.” Your smile dropped. You looked at him as he made his way closer to the wall, where he stopped in front of the crucifix that had observed you as you worked on yourself. His chin tilted up as he looked at it, before his head slowly turned to look at you, “But confession is not enough for this type of sin, sadly; you must also be cleansed.”

You sat up, your brows furrowed, watching as the man stepped closer to you. He stood in front of you, his right hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. His touch was warm and inviting, but you still wondered what his words meant, so you asked, “Cleansed?”

His thumb stroked your skin as he hummed and brought his other hand up to your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it, “Yes, dearest, cleansed. Your body was defiled by evil, it must be purified. You’ve shown our Lord and Saviour how, and now He shall reclaim your body as His’.” You looked at him, your eyes round and big, trying to make sense of the words that had just been spoken. A small pout appeared on your lips, and the tall priest bent down, his face now closer to yours as he said, his voice slightly louder than a whisper, “You are so easy to read, you know? But to ease your confusion; I shall represent our Lord and make you pure again.”

You froze, the realization of what the man meant hitting you just like David’s stone had hit Goliath. You gaped at him, your mouth opening and closing, searching your brain for the right words to speak, afraid to insult God and the man who stood before you. You gulped and said after taking in a deep breath, “Our Lord… I cannot think of mentions of this procedure in the scriptures,” you blinked, your eyes shining as you looked into his’. “Father, has this procedure been tested before? Where does it come from?”

His long fingers dug into the fat of your thigh as you saw the muscle of his jaw clench, a small whimper leaving your lips at the feeling. He kept squeezing, his creepy smile growing, “Are you implying my authority was not given to me by our Lord? That my will does not stem from His’? That I would go against scriptures, something I have devoted my life to?” You shook your head quickly; you had messed up. You were to never question the words of a priest, for he was much closer to God than you were, and you had done just that. This evil needed to leave; it made you do, think and say things that would only make you unworthy of Heaven.

“Father, do forgive me! This evil, it has taken control of my body and sou-”

“There’s no need for that. I shall make your sins a purest white than Abraham’s sacrificial lamb. You will be reborn a new woman, utterly sinless,” he inched his hand higher on your thigh, “That is what you want, isn’t it? To let your God make you pure again?” You gave him a slow nod and his smile widened as he brought his free hand to his face, removing his glasses and putting them on the altar next to you. He nudged your knees open and settled between them, sliding a hand against the back of your head as he sang praise to you, “What a good girl you are, ma chère.”

His lips smashed against yours and you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to follow his lead. The hand resting on your thigh slid to your waist and forced you to get closer to him, his chest pressing against your naked breasts. You moaned into the kiss, pictures of your dream flooding your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around his tiny waist and arms around his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair, letting the man run his tongue along your bottom lip, your mouth opening slightly in response. His kisses travelled down your chin, to your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin as you let your head fall back, giving him better access.

His mouth slid to your chest, and you lowered your chin to look down at him as he wrapped his swollen lips around your left nipple. You grabbed a handful of his hair and pressed him closer to you, arching your back slightly. His eye shot up to look at you, humming against your skin, the vibration leaving you a whimpering mess. He separated from your pink, wet bud with a last lick, smiling as he flicked your other nipple with his thumb, “So eager for absolution, aren’t you?” Your soft pants were interrupted with a small gulp as you nodded once again; there was nothing you wanted more. He ran a hand up and down your thigh before grabbing it and removing it from his waist, doing the same motion with the other one a few seconds later. You silently watched as he kneeled, his face a few inches away from your exposed core. The sight made your heart skip a beat.

Something caught your eyes on the wall, and you looked up, seeing a rainbow light up the crucifix hung on the wall; the rain and thunder had dissipated as suddenly as they had appeared, and sun rays were beaming through the colourful tainted glass of the rose window at the entrance of the church. A small smile tugged at your lips, this had to be a sign you were on the right path. You bit down your bottom lip and gazed down, seeing the priest eyeing your womanhood, a hungry look on his face. Your cheeks reddened as you waited for the man to do something.

He slowly inched closer, and let his nose nudge your puffy clit, causing you to gasp softly at the feeling. You felt something warm run up and down your slit, your grip on his hair tightening as he flattened his tongue against your entrance. Your brows knitted, a small noise leaving your lips as he started to move his wet appendage up and down, moving his head slightly as he did so to get his nose to bump against your clit with each lick. His hands went to your ass, and he brought you even closer to his face; you wondered how he could even breathe.

Your mind started to wander as pleasure slowly took over your limbs; was the man between your legs mistaking you for a wine-filled chalice? The slurping noises his mouth was making against you travelled through your body and rendered you dizzy. You pushed his hair back from his forehead and his eyes shot open to look up at you as his fingers dug into the fat of your ass. His pupils were dilated to the point that you could barely see his iris and there was wetness spreading on his cheeks and nose. Lips parted, you sighed and slightly scratched his scalp with your nails, leaving the man groaning as his stare was still fixed on your face. One of his hands made its way down your thigh and disappeared from your view before it reappeared; a dainty wooden-beaded rosary was dangling from his fingers.

The priest took his mouth away from you, a wide smirk painting his lips as he grabbed your wrist and dropped the prayer beads in your much smaller palm. His other hand came forward and started stroking the skin of your inner thigh as he wrapped his long digits around yours, forcing you to hold the rosary. He licked his bottom lip before speaking up, “You know how this works, don’t you?” His smile grew as he watched you nod, “Perfect. Recite them in your head, except the Five Decades; you must recite those aloud. It’s Thursday, so Luminous Mysteries. Whatever your Lord has planned next and does to you, you must keep going, understood?” You nodded again but he shook his head, “Use your words, dearest.”

“I understand, Father,” you said, your voice small.

The man hummed and let go of your hand, dropping it to your other thigh, massaging the skin there as well. His gaze dropped to where your thumb moved to make the Sign of the Cross on the small crucifix pendant. You closed your eyes as you started reciting the Apostles’ Creed, surrendering your body to the faithful man kneeling before you. His lips pressed against you as you finished the first prayer, your finger moving to the first bead. He fell into a now familiar rhythm, leaving you incapable of staying silent as you breathed out soft moans. Something prodded at your entrance and slowly slipped in as you fell back against the altar with a thud. You arched your back as it kept going, much deeper than you had reached with your fingers. It pumped in and out a few times before the man added a second finger, the pressure and stretch making you whimper.

His tongue kept alternating between sucking on and flicking your clit as you busied yourself with prayers. The priest hummed against you before removing himself; you opened your eyes and lifted your head from the wooden surface, eyes widening when you saw blood on his chin and bottom lip. He removed his fingers from you and showed them to you; they were bloody too. You stared at him silently, uncertain of what to say, but he broke the silence, “See what the evil has left in you? Aren’t you so lucky your Lord is ever so forgiving? That he’s cleaning you up to make you free of sin?” You nodded and bit the inside of your cheek. His eyes were gleaming as his fingers went to your lower stomach, smearing the blood on your skin, which made goosebumps appear.

You studied his face, his sharp, dark hooded eyes were staring at you under his defined eyebrows, his plump lips were stretched in a smile; his tanned cheeks and chin were coated with a sheening coat of your wetness and blood. His hair was now messy—your doing—and his fingers were slowly making their way back to your slit. Without thinking about it, you reached out and cupped his cheek with your free hand, rubbing your thumb against his bottom lip. His tongue darted out to lick your digit as his fingers sank back in you, knocking the breath out of you. Your eyes closed shut as you gasped, your hand falling from his face to rest on your hip. You heard him laugh under his breath before the warmth of his mouth was back on you. Your mind reminded you of the rosary you were holding, and you started reciting the Hail Mary.

As you neared the end of the Glory Be, you felt the man add another finger, the stretch making your eyes tear up as you mewled weakly. The words of the prayer passed in your mind, disappearing as he started to thrust them in and out. Your walls clenched tightly around his digits as your chest rose and fell quickly, panting as your body tried to get adjusted to the burning feeling.

Your fingers landed on the first Decade, and you gathered all your strength to start reciting the prayer, your voice shaky, “Then Jesus came to Galilee to the Jordan to John, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” You were interrupted by a yelp as you felt the priest’s teeth grazing your clit, your free hand landing in his hair, gripping it. Your hips kept twitching as you kept going, stuttering through the words, “And when Jesus was baptized, he went up immediately from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and alighting on him; and lo, a voice from heaven, saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’”

The drag of the man’s fingers had turned pleasurable, and you felt your muscles tense up, the feeling in your lower stomach rapidly growing. You pushed on the back of his head, searching for more friction, and you moaned out loudly when he started mumbling against your clit as his fingers kept moving, “Oh my Jesus, forgive me of my sins, save us from the fires of hell; lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.” You could not register the words but the movements of his lips on you made you come undone, your back arching from the altar as your thighs trapped his head in place, your hips lifting to follow his fingers and urge him to press his tongue harder against you. Your every muscle tensed up, crying out as the waves of your orgasm hit you just like the Red Sea had crashed into the Egyptians as He closed its parting. You spasmed around him, your walls trying to push his fingers out, and you felt wetness drip down your ass.

He separated from your clit, kissing it softly as he removed his digits from you, slowly standing up as you cracked your eyes open, your body still jolting randomly as it calmed down from your high. The light coming from the rose window had moved, and from your angle, it looked like a halo surrounding the priest’s head; a breathtaking sight that had you gape in awe. You watched as he tugged at the collar of his shirt, taking his Roman collar off and letting it fall to his feet. Your wetness was dripping from his lips which were harbouring a soft smile, his hands moving unhurriedly to unbutton his cassock. His eyes travelled up and down your spent body, then to the rosary you had forgotten you were still holding; you clenched your fingers around it and moved to a new bead, your lips moving silently as you recited the Hail Mary in your mind.

You kept your eyes on his hands as they reached the last button, the man shrugging off the black piece of clothing, revealing he was wearing a white tank top and black pants underneath it. You gulped at the true size of his shoulders; you had thought his cassock gave the illusion he was large, but even with it off, he looked huge. The smallness of his waist only accentuated how massive the built of the priest was. He had muscles but they were lean; despite it all, he looked strong and exuded a masculine aura that had you squirming in place.

Your observations were interrupted by his voice, “Do you feel like the weight of your sin has lessened, ma chère?” You dipped your chin once; you did feel lighter. The man grinned wider as his hands wrapped around your waist, bringing your torso up effortlessly so you were now sitting. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning over so his lips pressed against the shell of your ear, whispering, “You did so well, dear, you’re almost as pure as the day you were born. There’s only a step left in this procedure, but it will hurt at first.” He pressed a hand on the back of your head and pushed forward, forcing you to bury your face in the crook of his neck. You inhaled and felt his fingers massage your scalp gently.

He smelled so intoxicating; a mixture of moss, rain, coffee, tobacco and a hint of something floral emitted from his skin. You realized you had pressed your lips against the man’s neck when you felt him tense up, his hand stilling in your hair. You backed away slightly, blushing so brightly you were grateful he could not see your face, muttering an apology. His body relaxed again, and he hummed, “There’s no need for apologies. Bite down my shoulder—don’t be scared to bite hard—it will make you focus on something else.”

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant but pressed your lips together when you heard a zipper, followed by the shuffling of clothes between your bodies. You brought your hands to his chest, the rosary still in your hand, fingers fidgeting with the beads as you felt one of his large and cold hands spread your thighs a little further apart. You felt his fingers run up and down your slit and you gasped at the feeling, your nails slightly digging into the muscles of his chest. A wet sound travelled up to your ears and you closed your eyes, a shiver running down your spine when you felt a hand drop to your hip, kneading the fat there, and his voice, now a low murmur, “Bite down.”

You barely had the time to process the words that you felt pressure against your entrance which ceded, your walls wrapping around something so thick you shrieked before sinking your teeth into the man’s shoulder. It felt like you were being split in half; the thickness slowly forced its way inside you as tears gathered at your lower lash lines before they dripped down your cheeks. You bit down harder and pulled away quickly when you felt iron-tasting warmth coat the inside of your mouth, but the hand still in your hair pushed you against the bleeding bite mark, the priest almost growling, “Bite, and drink. At this moment, I am God; I am Christ. His blood is mine, and my blood is His’. Savour, dear one, and let me cleanse you inside out.” You let out a shaky breath before sinking your teeth back in his flesh, your brows knitting as he pushed his length an inch deeper inside you, “So obedient.”

You let the blood fill your mouth and swallowed, cringing at the taste but unwilling to go against Heavenly orders. Your arms snaked around his waist as he kept slowly pushing himself into you. The pain was unbearable, but your mind went to Christ, and how much he had suffered for the sins of all; the ache between your legs was a pinch compared to what he had endured, so you toughened up and let your tongue lap at the blood. Your brain felt foggy, and you could only take it as a sign that it was your body reacting to being filled with the divine energy pouring out from the priest. His length reached deeper than his fingers had, and you wondered how much of it you had left to take in.

You soon had your answer, the man stilling as his pelvis pressed against yours; he was so deep in you, stretching you so wide. Your mouth detached from his neck, and you pressed your forehead against his skin, panting loudly as you tried your best to relax your walls around him. The hand that was in your hair made its way to your waist, squeezing gently as you felt his lips press against your ear once again, “Your Lord is so pleased with you; you’re taking his cock so well. You’ll be redeemed in no time.” He slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip in, before thrusting in you at a medium speed, leaving you sobbing against his neck. It was overwhelming, the feeling of his length rubbing your inside and the warmth spreading in your chest, God’s love making you burn up. The feeling started to transform from pain to pleasurable pressure, your pained cries turning into needy moans.

You had managed to reach the tenth Hail Mary in your mind, your fingers reaching the second Decade. You whimpered out the beginning of the Second Luminous Mystery, “On the third day there was a marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there; Jesus also was invited to the marriage, with his disciples.” The priest started moving faster, his hips meeting yours at a much quicker speed; you whined as his tip hit a certain spot inside you, the rosary dropping on the floor as you dug your nails into the man’s shoulder blades. You could not concentrate on anything other than the drag of his length against your walls, panting and gasping each time he bottomed out.

He slightly pulled away from your body and looked down at you, his hips still moving as he brought a hand to grab your jaw from under, forcing you to look at him. He eyed you before crashing his lips against yours, moaning as he tasted his blood in your mouth. You slid your hands up to his hair, tugging at it and scratching his scalp as your teeth clashed together, tongues dancing. You pressed your chest closer to his’ and sighed as your nipples rubbed against his tank top, the feeling sending electric shocks to your core. You parted away from his lips, catching your breath, and your eyes opened and landed on the crucifix watching you; you smiled softly—oh how good was His clemency. Your gaze went back to the priest who was slightly panting, his lower face covered in blood—just like yours— as he smirked at you, sliding his hand to your cheek, stroking the skin tenderly.

In half a second, he pulled out and manhandled you, so you were now bent over the altar, your breasts pressed against the wooden surface as your feet dangled in the air, his large hands holding you up. His knee nudged your legs open wider and you felt him slip back inside you, the new position bringing a different sensation. His hips met your ass, and he started thrusting into you eagerly, loud smacks echoing through the church. You held yourself up on your elbows, holding your head up as you looked at the front door; if someone were to walk in, they would see the priest cleansing you, a Godsent blessing.

Your elbows started to tremble, and the man noticed; he slid a hand below your stomach and hoisted you up against his chest, your back pressed against him. He held you up, his arms wrapped around you as his pelvis smacked against your ass, your feet dangling one foot above the floor. He slid a hand down, his fingers running down your slit, groaning as he felt where you two were connected. He ran them up again and pushed his middle finger against your puffy clit, gently rubbing it as he kept working himself in and out of you. Your head fell back on his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to attach his lips to your neck, kissing and nibbling at the skin.

You truly never had felt anything like this; if you had been a fool, you’d have thought you were glowing from how fulfilled you felt. The familiar tension grew in your lower stomach, lewd noises leaving your mouth as the man dug the fingers of his other hand into your flesh, holding you closer to him as his movements became erratic. His groans and grunts were sending shivers down your back, only adding to the multitudes of sensations you were currently drowning in. As if he could feel you were close to reaching your orgasm, he mumbled against your neck, “Let go, ma chérie. Let evil leave your body, let God replace it with goodness.”

Your breath hitched and with a few more nudges on your clit, the pressure building inside you snapped. Your vision went white as you came, the feeling different from your previous releases. Even through the waves of pleasure, you could feel something drip down your thighs and could hear squelches as the priest kept thrusting his length in you. Your mouth was open, silent cries leaving your throat as you clenched tightly around the man. You felt his lips move against your neck, but you were too lost in feelings to understand what he was saying.

Your tensed-up muscles slowly relaxed as the remains of your orgasm washed over your body. You whimpered as the man kept moving, your core feeling overstimulated by his length still burying itself inside your sensitive walls. He quickly pushed your front back against the altar, grabbing your hips as he moved both his hips and yours in sync, your nails digging into the wood as your ass smacked against him. His thrusts were harsh and fast, leaving you breathless; tears were streaming down your cheeks at the delightful ache.

His hips stilled, his length buried deep inside you, as he groaned lowly. You felt your inside be flooded with warmth, whining as you dropped your forehead against the wooden surface, the cold of it grounding you. You were panting, the warmth creating a pleasant pressure inside your core as the priest rubbed his thumbs over your Venus dimples. He stayed inside you for a few more seconds, before easing out of you, leaving you feeling empty. He once again manhandled you so you were now sitting facing him, holding your limp body up as he dragged a hand up your moist thigh, grinning, “See this wetness? It was the remains of evil leaving your body.” His hand reached your slit and he gathered a sticky white substance on his fingers, bringing his hand up close to your lips, “And this is goodness. Do remember, my dear, your sins are scarlet and they shall be as white as snow.”

You gaped at him; he truly was a man of God. He pushed his fingers past your lips, and you let him, wrapping them around his digits as your tongue licked at the goodness. The taste was bitter, but as your eyes met his’, all you could think about was how caring and selfless the man standing in front of you was. You had come to him, worrying about your purity, and he had completely cleansed you of sin and given you his own God-gifted goodness, not asking anything in return. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brushed your cheek with the back of his index, his smile not faltering, “What is this look you are giving me?”

You blinked a few times, your cheeks flushing as you realized you had been staring, “Father, I must thank you. My body and soul were barren, and you made them anew again. I do not know how I could ever repay you.” His eyes narrowed at your words, his hand reaching to grab his glasses before he put them on and ran a hand through his hair. It dropped to your thigh and drew shapes on there, his gaze not leaving yours.

“Alastor,” he said simply before stepping away from you and bending down to grab your clothes. Your expression turned to a confused one as you watched him slip your underwear up your legs, your skirt following. You let him dress you, his fingers skilfully clasping your bra behind your back before he motioned you to lift your arms so he could slip your shirt back on. Once dressed he let his hand lay on your thigh again, before he spoke up, “My name is Alastor. Call me by it and your debt is repaid.” He grabbed one of your hands and dropped the rosary in it before grabbing your waist and helping you down the altar, “Keep this, use it whenever you feel evil is near.”

You nodded up at him and smiled, your grin faltering for a second when you saw that the crucifix on the wall had detached and was now hanging upside down. Oddly, you thought nothing of it and you looked back at Alastor, your smile spreading wide, “Thank you, Fa—Alastor.” You squeezed the rosary between your fingers, watching as he bent down once again, but this time to grab his cassock and Roman collar. You stood silently as he buttoned it up and placed the white collar around his neck. He straightened the fabric with his hands, before meeting your eyes.

“You look quite a mess, dearest, you’d better go home and clean yourself.”

Your hand flew up to your face where dried blood was caked on your chin and around your mouth, and you felt a blush creep up your neck at his words; he did not look any better. Despite it, you nodded, shifting on your feet as you thanked him once again, “I cannot express how thankful I am, Alastor, truly. You, uh, you should probably get cleaned up too; people would probably wonder why there’s blood smeared on their priest’s face.” The man chuckled and nodded before bending down to grab your coat, handing it to you once he straightened up. You took it and quickly slipped it on, putting the rosary in one of the pockets.

You clasped your hands together and bit down your bottom lip as the man put a hand against your back and urged you to walk with him. You walked down the main aisle silently, stopping once you had reached the end of it. You turned to him and opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it, “Go, now. Enjoy your newly found purity.” You smiled and dipped your chin once; he grinned back, “I will see you tomorrow, though I am hoping you will not walk back in here with that same pitiful expression you had earlier.”

You let out a small laugh as you gestured that you agreed before giving him one last glance and turning around, walking towards the door. You could feel his stare burn holes in your back but ignore the feeling, pushing against the door and stepping outside, the sunlight momentarily blinding you. You sighed loudly, looking around to make sure no one was close; the last thing you wanted was someone seeing you limp, your face bloody. You began to make your way back home, ignoring the way your thighs stuck together from your and Alastor’s bodily fluids. You thought about his words, and strangely, you found yourself disagreeing; you hoped the faceless man would come back. You had tasted true goodness, the powerful and unconditional love and mercy of God, and you wanted more of it.

#alastor smut #alastor #alastor fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #smut #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel smut #priest alastor #reader insert #alastor x reader smut #alastor x you #yueyan writes...

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mariacallous · 5 months

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Salman Rushdie has just published Knife: Meditations After an Attempted Murder. In August 2022, he was giving a talk at the Chautauqua Institution in New York. Hadi Matar, a 24-year-old from New Jersey, rushed the stage and stabbed him 15 times. It was astonishing that Salman survived. He lost the sight in one eye and sustained terrible injuries, but he’s still with us and he’s still writing, and unlike Hadi Matar, he’s still worth hearing.

We think of fanatics as stalkers with an obsessive knowledge of their targets. Like the antisemites who compile lists of Jews in the media or the homophobes who so focus on the details of gay sex they might almost be closet cases

Most terrorists and bigots are not like that. They are like soldiers in an army who kill and hate for no other reason than tradition or men in authority have told them to kill and hate. If we were less fascinated by the pseudo-glamour of violence, we would see them for what they are: dullards and jerks.

In Knife Salman is almost as angered by the sheer lazy stupidity of his wannabee assassin as his violence.

“I do not want to use his name in this account. My Assailant, my would-be Assassin, the Asinine man who made Assumptions about me, and with whom I had a near-lethal Assignation … I have found myself thinking of him, perhaps forgivably, as an Ass.”

The ass “didn’t bother to inform himself about the man he decided to kill. By his own admission he read barely two pages of my writing and watched a couple of YouTube videos”.

That was enough, apparently, along with a little light indoctrination in the Levant.

We know from Matar’s mother that her son changed from a popular young man to a moody religious zealot after visiting her ex-husband in the Hezbollah-controlled town of Yaroun in Lebanon, a mile or so from the Israeli border.

“I was expecting him to come back motivated, to complete school, to get his degree and a job. But instead, he locked himself in the basement. He had changed a lot. He didn't say anything to me or his sisters for months.”

Salman quotes a wonderfully perceptive line from Jodi Picoult

“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

Rushdie is openly contemptuous, as he has every right to be.

“I see you now at twenty-four,” he writes, “already disappointed by life, disappointed in your mother, your sisters, your father, your lack of boxing talent, your lack of any talent at all; disappointed in the bleak future you saw stretching ahead of you, for which you refused to blame yourself.”

This has always been the way. Readers old enough to remember 1989 when the Ayatollah Khomeini ordered Salman’s execution for writing a blasphemous satire of Islam’s origin story in the Satanic Verses,will know that Khomeini had not read it. Nor had the furious demonstrators in the streets or the regressive leftists and Tory ministers who upbraided him for the non-crime of causing offence.

Those of us who had read the book pointed out that it was a magical realist fiction which contained sympathetic accounts of the racism Muslim immigrants in the UK suffered. Indeed, the Tories of the day loathed Salman, we continued, because of his confrontations with official racism.

But after a while we fell silent. Pleading with his enemies felt demeaning. It gave them undeserved credit, as if they were reasonable people, who could be swayed by evidence rather than just, well, pillocks.

In Knife Salman attempts an imaginary conversation with his persecutor.

OK, he says, Islam, unlike Judaism and Christianity, holds that man is not made in God’s image. God has no human qualities, it says.

But isn’t language a human quality? To have language, God would have to have a mouth, a tongue, vocal cords and a voice, just like a man. The terrorist’s understanding is that God cannot be like a man, however. So, God could not have spoken to Gabriel in Arabic. Gabriel must have translated his message when he came to the prophet.

The angel made it comprehensible to Muhammed by delivering it in human speech which is not the speech of God.

Thus, the version of Islamic instruction Matar received in his basement when he switched from playing video games to listening to Imams was an interpretation of a translation.

“I’m trying to suggest to you that, even according to your own tradition, there is uncertainty. Some of your own early philosophers have suggested this. They say everything can be interpreted, even the Book. It can be interpreted according to the times in which the interpreter lives. Literalism is a mistake.”

For a while, Rushdie says he wants to meet Matar again at the trial, as if he wants to have the argument in the flesh.

He tells a story about Samuel Beckett, which could only have happened to Samuel Beckett.

Beckett was walking through Paris in 1938 when he was confronted by a pimp named Prudent, who wanted money from him. Beckett pushed Prudent away, whereupon the pimp pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the chest, narrowly missing the left lung and the heart.

Beckett was taken to the nearest hospital, bleeding heavily. He only just survived.

You will never guess who paid for his treatment. James Joyce, of course, he did.

Anyway, Beckett went to the pimp’s trial. He met Prudent in the courtroom, and asked him why he had done it. This was the pimp’s reply: “Je ne sais pas, monsieur. Je m’excuse.” (I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.)

But the more he thought about it, the less Rushdie had to say to his enemy. The idea that you can have theological arguments with a man who wants to kill you for writing a book he hasn’t even read felt ridiculous.

Although popular culture is full of stories about murderers, and true crime podcasts top the charts, killers and fanatics are nearly always less interesting than their victims. More often than not they are just thick. Nasty and vicious, but thick first of all.

We are about to see the stupidity of fanatics deployed on a mass scale. Two thirds of Republican voters (and nearly 3 in 10 Americans) continue to believe that the 2020 election was stolen from Donald Trump, and that Joe Biden was not lawfully elected. They think it because that is what Trump told them to think.

Islamists told Matar that Salman was an apostate, and that was all he needed to know. Trump told Republicans the election was stolen and ditto.

If Republicans were consistent people, they would not vote for Trump in 2024. What would be the point? They would have every reason to fear that the deep state would rig the 2024 presidential election as it rigged the 2020 presidential election.

But they will vote for him because, once again, that is what he tells them to do.

In the end there is a limit to how much attention you can pay the vicious and the stupid.

They are not interesting enough, as Rushdie concluded with marvellous disdain as he contemplated the life sentence Matar will face.

"Here we stand: the man who failed to kill an unarmed seventy-five-year-old writer, and the now 76-year-old writer. Somewhat to my surprise, I find I have very little to say to you. Our lives touched each other for an instant and then separated. Mine has improved since that day, while yours has deteriorated. You made a bad gamble and lost. I was the one with the luck… Perhaps, in the incarcerated decades that stretch out before you, you will learn introspection, and come to understand that you did something wrong. But you know what? I don’t care. This, I think, is what I have come to this courtroom to say to you. I don’t care about you, or the ideology that you claim to represent, and which you represent so poorly. I have my life, and my work, and there are people who love me. I care about those things.”

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jo-harrington · 3 months

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Best Spring Break Ever (Eddie Munson)

Summary: Spring Break 1986, the way it should have gone.

Word Count: 3.2k

Characters: Eddie Munson, Corroded Coffin (Jeff, Gareth, Dave - Unnamed Freak), Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, Will Byers, Wayne Munson

Themes/Warnings: No Upside-Down AU, Road Trip, Lighthearted, Boys Will Be Boys in the purest way possible, Nerd, Pop Culture References, one or two sneaky little references to Store Manager Verse (I had to)

Note: So a LONG TIME AGO I dropped a fun head canon that got lost to the cutthroat nature of the tags. It's not necessarily coming back to life per se but and now that I've promised @br0ck-eddie and @somnambulic-thing that I would do more Gen fics, I'm sort of giving it some more juice.

Gonna also use this for @munson-blurbs and @corroded-hellfire and their Flip Flopped Summer Writing event. (I cheated on the length, sue me.)

Enjoy!

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

---

When one thought of words to describe Edward J. Munson, there were plenty to choose from.

Daring, dashing, brilliant, handsome--

"Douchebag," Gareth muttered under his breath.

"Can it, asshole," Eddie snapped from the driver's seat of the van, angling the rearview mirror so he could pin the younger boy with a scathing look. "Or I'll leave you behind."

"He's got a point though," Dave offered. The rearview mirror shifted again, revealing dark brown eyes that narrowed angrily.

"Sorry," Dave sunk in his seat.

--adventurous, non-conformist, a music legend...

But carpool mom had never been a contender.

Until now.

For Eddie, Spring Breaks were never exciting.

A lot of families in Hawkins took the days off school to go out of town. Vacation to someplace interesting or warm, trips up to the beach, or to a distant grandparent's house for a visit.

Eddie always stayed home. He enjoyed the silence of the town and the freedom to go anywhere and do anything he'd like. Wayne picked up some overtime while some of his coworkers were away, so there were a handful of extra hours for Eddie to play his music as loudly as he wanted, and some extra cash to splurge on a few nights of takeout.

This year was different though.

This year, Eddie had the misfortune of being friend, older brother figure, and role model to Dustin Henderson and his band of merry nerds.

The four of whom decided to enter into the All-State Science Fair in May with a project so ambitious and convoluted, they were either going to crash and burn, or get some kind of scholarship long before they needed to think of college.

And of course, when the time came to gather supplies for such an...extensive endeavor, the lowly freshman came to their good pal Eddie to help them procure some interesting items.

That was the thing with Eddie, though. He was sort of known for being the guy that could find things. Yeah, weed and other drugs from Reefer Rick, sure. But the phrases "I know a guy" and "I can try and cash in a favor" and "you owe me one" often passed through his lips, followed by a glint in his eye and a quirk of his lips.

For weeks he got the little idiots various items for their project, but when things on the list began to seem impossible to find--Rick had practically thrown him out when he had asked where to get liquid nitrogen--things started to get a little tricky.

Eddie, not one to let his friends down, complained about the whole ordeal to a friend he had unexpectedly made working at StarCourt over the past Summer--the Claire's store manager--and she had an interesting suggestion.

"Why don't you just go to the Science Surplus store in Chicago?" Eddie looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "What? Don't let the Cool Mall Girl facade fool you. I'd been known to dabble in science fairs and stuff when I was still in school."

"Nerd," he snorted before he waved for her to continue.

She told him about lab coats and machine parts and mystery boxes.

"It might be fun for you and your friends to drive up there and see it."

Thus, the Great Spring Break Roadtrip of '86 was born.

---

Well, more accurately, it was the Great Secret Spring Break Roadtrip of '86.

Because what parent--specifically Claudia Henderson--was going to let their kid spend a few days with no parental supervision? Where the only adult, technically, was Eddie.

She liked him, of course. Shit, most of the kids' parents liked him. But trust him to drive their kids hundreds of miles in a van that looked like it probably wasn't gonna make it 10 miles up the road?

That was another story.

But he was a schmoozer, a sweet-talker, a charmer, and in the end he got them all to agree to a few days up at the Dunes hiking and swimming and grilling hot dogs over an open fire.

If only the parents had been his harshest critics.

"When was the last time you had your brakes checked?"

"And your oil changed?"

"I heard some squeaking when you drove us home from Hellfire. I think there's something going on with your suspension."

"When did you become my pit crew?" Eddie snapped as he leaned against the front of the van and smoked the last cigarette he would have until they stopped for gas along the way.

Dustin, Mike, Will, and Lucas all froze in place. The older members of Hellfire Club leaned their heads out of the van to watch the interaction like the relentless busybodies that they were. Eddie flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before approaching the kids with his hands on his hips.

"We just wanna make sure it's safe," Mike was the first to speak up.

"It's safe," Eddie insisted. "I checked everything myself; Wayne wouldn't let me cross state lines if I hadn't."

Mike considered it for a second, then jumped into the van.

Dustin hummed doubtfully and kicked at one of the rear tires.

"Do you have a spare tire?" he questioned. "Just in case?"

Eddie nodded and even offered how to show everyone how to change a tire if the need ever rose.

"Gotta earn your keep somehow."

He mashed his hand on the top of Dustin's head as he passed.

Lucas and Will were last; they had their backs to him, heads leant together as they whispered conspiratorially. Eddie wondered for a moment if they even wanted to go--it was ok if they were scared--until they pivoted on their heels and began a barrage of questions about handling and off-roading and how prepared he was for any emergencies.

He was about to snap at them, tell them to shut up, when he saw a rolled up copy of Car and Driver in Lucas' hand and his brief annoyance faded.

He took a deep breath and stared up into the clear blue sky, begging whatever gods or devils there were to give him the patience to survive this trip.

"Listen," he huffed, "you either trust me and we go, or you don't and we stay. Even if I didn't have a stocked first aid kit--which, I don't, by the way...best you're gonna get are some crumpled band-aids in my glove box--it's not like we have all the time in the world to put one together.

"I promise. Everything will be fine. You trust me right?"

Lucas and Will turned away from him and whispered furiously once more. Before they stood up straight, looked him dead in the eye, and asked something that made Eddie let out a bark of laughter,

"What about Second Breakfast?"

---

They stopped for gas an hour in.

What should have been a ten minute stop turned into an hour. Bathroom breaks all around and then debates over which snacks to get.

"Don't waste all your money," Eddie fussed over them, pulling bags of candies and chips from their hands and stuffing them back onto shelves. "You're not gonna eat it all for one thing. And I'm not gonna clean puke out of my van if you try and end up making yourselves sick."

Suddenly the four freshman were all talking over each other with "mom never lets me have funyuns" and "what if we get the smaller bag?" Jeff, Gareth, and Dave all snickered and watched from afar as Eddie taught them The Art of Gas Station Snacks.

By hour two, the radio stations became unfamiliar, Eddie's mix tapes got boring, and slug bug was impossible. That's when everyone began fighting over the road map to play navigator, even though Eddie insisted that it was Jeff's job, since he called shotgun. But no one cared, especially not when--

"Hey I know our cover is camping at the beach," Mike piped up from the back. "But we're actually going to pass the Dunes. Can we go?"

Some of the others started to agree, mentioning how their moms packed their swim trunks.

"Hey!" Eddie snapped at them and then reached back to jam a finger into the map. "We passed the exit already. Better luck next time."

"But how about on the way back?" Dave suggested. "It's getting too crowded in here. A little fresh air would be nice."

And Eddie would have fought them, the thing was...he kind of agreed with Dave.

The members of Corroded Coffin were used to just the four of them and their band equipment. Now there were seven of them, on top of all their backpacks and sleeping bags, Eddie's guitar, and a cooler full of snacks and drinks. There was too much noise, too much arguing. One absolutely rancid fart had been tooted without admittance, which led to everyone just ripping one without a care in the world.

On the other hand, did he really want to have to clean sand out of the van once this trip was over?

"Alright," he finally shouted over the others, causing them to quiet down. "If everyone behaves the rest of the way, we'll see about making a stop at the Dunes on the way back."

---

Their accommodations that first night were less than ideal.

Rick had mentioned something once about forest preserves and camp sites once when he'd driven up to Chicago to meet up with some fishing buddies. So Eddie figured renting a campsite would be fun, not to mention cheaper than a motel. They'd sleep under the stars, just like he'd promised all of their parents, grill some hot dogs and roast marshmallows for s'mores.

It would be great.

But building a campfire was harder than it looked--especially when you had six sets of eyes on you--the ground was hard to sleep on, and then at some point in the night, a storm rolled in and they all had to pile into the van to stay dry.

Chalk it up to Murphy's Law.

"Should have sprung for a cabin instead," Jeff joked as they all struggled to fit in the back of the van after they all sought shelter inside.

Come morning, they were all tired and sore and grumpy, and Eddie drove through McDonalds for steaming hot hash browns and egg mcmuffins to shut them all up.

Then they finally reached their true destination.

The American Science and Surplus Center was an unassuming building in a busy suburb north of the city. Busier than Hawkins, at least. Eddie had to drive around the block several times before he realized the entrance was in the back of the building, gravel parking lot and all.

As soon as they set foot inside, it was a sensory overload, but it felt like home.

Colorful signs everywhere, aisles filled with bins of bottles and beakers and corks and machine parts. There was a man who looked like he stepped out of Doctor Who by the cash register, and about a dozen lab skeletons situated around the perimeter of the store dressed to look like famous scientists.

All of the boys scattered once they picked their jaws up off the floor and they, quite literally, spent hours scouring the store finding one amazing thing after another.

Dave and Jeff went to the back corner where there was a display of army surplus. Garerth found an entire aisle dedicated to models and kits. Eddie walked around picking up things at random. Things that just seemed interesting and weird, his imagination putting different bits and bobs together to create mini figures for mechanical foes for the next--and maybe last--campaign he created as the DM for Hellfire.

It was a bittersweet moment for him.

And the kids? Well, they were either the worst customers in the world or the best. They were running around, throwing things into baskets, trying to figure out how much of this or that they needed for their project.

This was a once in a lifetime trip so they were determined to get everything they needed now.

Of course, that ended up causing a problem. Because there was only one of a certain item on their shopping list and Dustin wasn't the only person to grab it.

Eddie heard the commotion before he saw it.

"I need this."

"So do I."

"I touched it first."

"Well I saw it first. Finders keepers."

The other freshman were quick to jump into the verbal tousle, disrupting everyone in the store, and Eddie was quick to abandon his own shopping to go and see what was wrong.

Only to find the dweebiest tug of war on the planet: His four little sheepies versus three equally dorky-looking boys. It was a flurry of gangly limbs, sweaty hands, mom-provided haircuts, and pressed khakis as they argued over the one thing all of the kids seemed to need for their respective projects.

Eddie figured it was better to intervene before someone got a nosebleed from stress.

"Hey guys, cut it out, what are we arguing for?"

"Who's this?" the apparent leader of the other kids snapped. "The barber shop is down the street if you need a haircut Bon Jovi."

"Alright Revenge of the Nerds, calm down," Eddie snapped. "Just trying to make sure this doesn't end in a bloodbath. What's going on here?"

"We need that air pump," Dustin nodded down to the box he was holding onto for dear life.

"Well so do we. And we saw it first."

The kids started talking over each other again until Eddie whistled sharply.

"How about," he suggested and dug into one of his pockets and pulled out a shiny quarter, "we flip a coin?"

"No way!"

"No chance!"

"This air pump is ours," the rival nerd scoffed.

"What if we just beat you up and took it?" came a voice the next aisle over. Eddie glanced over his shoulder and shot daggers at his nosy friends.

"Not helping Jeff!" he hissed and turned back to the kids. "It's either a coin toss or nothing."

Eventually, both groups agreed, and Dustin was even gracious enough to let the other kids call it. Eddie flicked the coin into the air, the nerd called heads, and then time seemed to slow.

Eddie's thoughts raced through all of the possibilities. He really couldn't give a shit about these other nerds but...damn they deserved a fair shot at it. And his friends...he didn't want them to come all this way just for disappointment.

There was a clink as the coin hit the ground and bounced.

Then another clink.

Then a clatter as it landed.

Tails.

---

Another hour passed victoriously in the science surplus store and everyone's mood went up exponentially.

Eddie spent a little extra cash to get a soldering iron that he found in a clearance bin. Dustin and Lucas got to explain their whole project to the wannabe timelord, who was excited at the prospect of flash freezing ice cream. Not to mention Dave, who flirted with the evening manager as she came in for her shift; he even got her number, the lucky schmuck.

The sun was setting by the time they made it back outside, chattering happily about their finds, but they stopped in their tracks as they found the rival nerd standing near the van with a tall, polished boy in a letterman jacket beside him.

"This them?" the jock asked the younger boy.

"Yeah," he glared at them all and then pointed at Mike. "And that's the one who flipped me off."

Eddie could feel Mike tensing beside him--obviously regretting what he had done in the throes of victory--and he took a step forward, hands held in front of him to show he meant no harm.

"Hey guys listen," he started. "What are we doing here? What's fair is fair. We flipped a coin."

"My brother said it was rigged," the jock accused.

Eddie snorted, "how could I possibly rig a coin toss? Here I'll even show you the quarter."

The jock, curious, took a step forward, despite his brother whining for him to "just beat them up already."

Eddie shoved a hand in the pocket of his jacket and rooted around for a moment, before swiping his sneakered foot across the ground, sending gravel and sand and whatever else made up the parking lot into the two boys' faces.

"Go, go, get in the van," he hollered to his friends, who immediately crossed the lot and piled into the vehicle.

Once the doors were locked and the key was in the ignition, they all hollered in triumph, Gareth even yelling for Dave to "hit 'em with the pressed ham" as they pulled out of the parking lot.

And Eddie wondered if it was cowardly for them to have done what they did. For him to have done that.

He didn't want to be known as the guy who ran from trouble.

But hearing his friends' laughter, knowing their safety was ensured, he figured that sometimes running away was ok.

---

Dinner was reminiscent of something out of a heroic legend.

The IHOP off Route 64 had become a mead hall with drinks sloshing over the edges of cups and laughter and cheers in abundance as they regaled each other with more fantastical versions of the non-existent battle they'd just survived.

As though Eddie had been Beowulf and his foe the dastardly Grendel.

"He had to be 7 feet tall," Lucas awed. "And like...400 pounds."

"I'm never worrying about Jason Carver beating me up again if we survived that guy," Mike agreed.

"You're gonna have to fail again this year so you can stick around and protect us Ed. At least until I graduate," Gareth told Eddie, who protested that he didn't even do anything.

Then everyone erupted into a good-hearted merriment again.

Eddie felt a little bad for the waitress who would clean up after them, but he couldn't do anything to stop his friends joy and excitement.

Instead, he left a very generous tip once they left.

Their second night of camping was much more successful than the first. There were no attempts at a fire and no s'mores to be had, but Eddie broke out his guitar and strummed some familiar songs that had everyone asleep in no time.

Almost everyone.

He stayed up for a little longer though, smoking and staring up at the sky through the canopy of the trees. There was something special being out here, and he wondered if all of the heroes in his favorite stories felt like that, seeing all of their companions safe and asleep under their watch and the watch of the stars above.

There was a rustle of a sleeping bag and Dustin looked over at Eddie with bleary eyes.

"Why're you still up?" he asked. "Gotta take a dump or something?"

Eddie snorted and crushed the butt of his cigarette underfoot.

"Just thinking," he waved a hand dismissively. "Get back to sleep. Gotta drive back in the morning, and we need to hit the road early if you guys still wanna go to the beach."

He was about to take his own advice and settle into his sleeping bag when Dustin called his name again.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"I dunno," there was another rustle as Dustin shrugged. "For driving us out here, for getting all of the stuff we've been asking you to get, for protecting us...for being our friend."

"Don't mention it Henderson," Eddie smiled warmly. "What else was I gonna do? Let you guys lose the science fair."

"It's more than that."

"I'm sure that Harrington would've helped you if I hadn't."

"Steve's a cool guy but seriously," Dustin insisted. "He wouldn't have done all of this for us."

Eddie didn't know how to answer that, so he just hummed and closed his eyes.

The last thing he heard before he fell asleep, to dreams of guitar solos and bats and epic adventures...

"Best Spring Break Ever."

#eddie munson #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #flip flopped #summer writing event

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thatmexisaurusrex · 3 months

Text

I wanted to collect the entirety of the Denial-Verse thus far, my canon compliant fics following Tommy and Buck’s love story throughout the show. It's a character study in loneliness, belonging, what it means to be and feel loved, and what steps it takes to finally believe one can have happiness. And while it will be coming back for Season 8 and will probably have a few short stories here and there before Season 8 begins, I wanted to highlight all four of the current fics within the series.

caught in this denial (tell me the day, I’ll say no more)

| Rated: M | WC: 35K | Chapters: 7 |

Summary: Tommy Kinard's life changes for the better when his old friend Chimney calls him out of the blue for help on a rescue and he meets the adorably awkward Evan "Buck" Buckley.

Excerpt:

Was this man looking down to see the hand or – no. No. Tommy knew it couldn’t be checking out. That wasn’t happening here. The guy took Tommy’s hand and shook it. Kept shaking it as he said, “Evan! Evan Buckley. Or Buck. Whatever you, uh. Want to call me is fine.” And it wouldn’t hurt to be a little friendly, could it? Evan didn’t seem to mind as Tommy leaned only a touch closer, looking into the man’s unwavering eyes as Tommy asked, “Are you sure you don’t have a preference, Evan?” That. That wasn’t blush. That wasn’t bashfulness as Evan’s eyes turned away. This had to be what Evan always sounded like as he mumbled at the ground, still shaking Tommy’s hand, “Evan’s fine.”

Muay Thai and Flying Lessons

| Rated: M | WC: 45.6K | Chapters: 10 |

Summary: Tommy Kinard is dating Evan "Buck" Buckley. They're even going to a wedding together in a few weeks. Tommy's excited about this new relationship, if a little nervous. But Tommy has a good feeling about Evan, and he wants to see this through.

Excerpt:

“Wait, so if you’re not here to hang out with Eddie, who are you hanging out with?” asked Hen. Tommy. Heard the thud of someone falling down from the firetruck. And there, on the floor, faceplanted and looking drained of all energy, was Evan Buckley. “Evan?” asked Tommy.

Burnt Lasagna and Slow Dances

| Rated: M | WC: 74.4K | Chapters: 15 |

Summary: Tommy Kinard now has an adorable boyfriend - Evan "Buck" Buckley. And for the first time in Tommy's life, he feels like, maybe, just maybe, this relationship might last.

Excerpt:

And all those different conversations overlapping was overwhelming. Tommy barely knew if he could untangle them, let alone take any of them in. But through all the noise and chaos, he saw Evan’s texts. EVAN: Hey EVAN: Saw that Tay interviewed you EVAN: I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen someone trip her up because of genuine honesty haha EVAN: Today was probably rough, though EVAN: I’ll pick you up, okay? Tommy smiled at that. And Tommy texted Evan back. TOMMY: It was rough TOMMY: Thank you, I’d love for you to pick me up Tommy heard the telltale ding of a cell phone… right outside the locker room. Tommy looked to the door, seeing Evan waiting there with a bouquet of flowers. Tommy’s smile grew wider.

A Surprise Visit

| Rated: T | WC: 2.4k |

Summary: Tommy goes to his first pride parade as a volunteer giving out water.

Excerpt:

“Tommy!” Tommy blinked, turning to the voice as he saw Hen, Karen, Denny, Mara, Jee-Yun, and Maddie walk over. Tommy. Kind of beamed, standing up. “Hey,” said Tommy as the all came over, “What are you all doing here?” There was something adorable to Hen and Karen’s shirts. Hen’s said “I Heart My Tungsten-Iodine-Iron” and Karen’s said “I Heart My Helium-Nitrogen”. The phrases were painted on these shirts in the colors of the lesbian flag, which made Tommy chuckle once he realized that these dorks made periodic table pride shirts. Maddie and the kids didn’t have anything on for pride, much like Tommy himself, but they seemed to find the same pride pin that Tommy was gifted. Maddie raised a hand. “I might have learned from Buck that you were at the stand today, and I thought – I have the day off. Hen and Karen have the day off. Wouldn’t hurt to offer it as an option,” explained Maddie. “We haven’t gone to Pride in a while, and we knew you were working this one,” said Karen thoughtfully, smiling, “So, we thought we’d support your free water stand.”

By A Thousand Cuts

| Rated: M | WC: 11.5K | Chapters: 3/3 |

Summary: Tommy Kinard has his first big fight with his boyfriend, Evan "Buck" Buckley.

Excerpt:

“I think I just had the worst shift of my life,” Tommy said as he dropped his duffle next to the door, a little – a little shocked by what had just happened to him on that shift.

The Fire is Inside the House

| Rated: M | WC: 79.1K | Chapters: 14 |

Summary: Evan "Buck" Buckley is fighting a wildfire with the 118, when he sees a helicopter crash - the helicopter of his boyfriend, Tommy Kinard. It's a race against time to find Tommy before the wildfire hits the crash site.

EXCERPT:

Buck couldn’t stop smiling at Tommy. Tommy was just. Hot. And nice. And he showed up. Always. Fuck. Buck loved this guy. “What?” asked Tommy, and there was a hint of a smile there. “Nothing. I just like you driving me,” said Buck. And Buck could see that Tommy couldn’t help it, he smiled too; not quite the scrunchy kind, but that dimpled one he did. The morning was young. Buck could get his man to that scrunch nose smile. “Oh, you like a chauffeur?” asked Tommy playfully. “Only one as hot as you.” And there was the scrunch. “I only drive the hottest myself.”

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #evan buckley #tommy kinard #tevan #tevan fic #kinley #kinley fic #firepilot #my fics #Denial Verse #caught in this denial (tell me the day I'll say no more)#Muay Thai and Flying Lessons #Burnt Lasagna and Slow Dances #A Surprise Visit #By a Thousand Cuts #The Fire is Inside the House

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the0maski · 8 months

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Not necessarily LU based, but in the overall “canon” -verse the Hero of Time doesn’t exist in two timelines, right? He died in the Downfall Timeline and never came to be a hero in the Child Timeline.

Legend and Hyrule probably only heard about the title Fallen Hero, never his true title. Same goes for Twilight, only knowing Time as the Hero’s Shade or Cursed Swordsman. Which means, only Wind knows about Time, and he is the only one with a legend about him.

Funny detail, if Hyrule Warriors would fall under the Child Timeline that would mean that Time was present during the whole timeline, it gets better if Mask was only dragged into the war, because the goddesses pulled a: You broke it, you fix it! Making it more fun, Time becomes just history’s biggest mystery and meme under historians. To the point where there are huge debates about him, because some records say that he lived after the Hyrulean civil war, but at the same time he is mention being at the War of Ages which was two whole Eras later! Was he ever a hero? Why are they no family records about him? Was he really just a forest spirit, was he even hylian?

Flora would absolutely have a field day, if the chain ever stepped only a foot in Wild’s Hyrule. Seeing how she is extremely interested in history.

For real: there is to little mention, in the fandom, that the Hero of Time is only known to one person (Or two if Mask had been in the war). Everyone else had never heard of him, less knew that there was a hero that came after Four. How had they all found each other? I know that, there is a fanfic troupe of the chain slowly forming, while hopping through portals ending in a new Link’s Hyrule. But in comic, the first time they all walked through a portal together, was after visiting Malon. Meaning they all met in Time’s Hyrule, in the Timeline were he is no “hero”. How did they find Time, since asking for a hero would not worked? What makes me also believe, that Time is only leader of the group, because he is the oldest and apparently has a high rank among Hyrule’s military. Maybe he showed the Triforce mark on his hand? But less likely since he hides it most times.

My money goes to Wind or Twilight. Wind talking randomly to this soldier, about the legend of his time, not knowing he is speaking directly to said person of the legend. The rancher only because, he got flashbacks of Shade, and he needed to find out more. Bonus would be Warriors lost at words, because that one deity that sometimes possessed his little brother, became the Milkman!

#the only reason Time can be cryptic is literally only because NO ONE knows his story #except Wind but than he just pulls Termina out of his leaves #hyrule historians hate him so much for time traveling #linked universe #lu time #lu thoughts #lu chain #linkeduniverse #lu four #lu wild #lu legend #lu theory #lu wind #lu mask #lu headcanons

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willowed-wisp · 2 months

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THE WAYWARD AND THE WARDEN - part one

previous | next

Cregan Stark x female!OC/ x reader

WARNINGS: swearing, injury, threat… not too bad really

She was just a girl. Eighteen years of age.

A fresh university student on her Christmas holidays- venturing up to Scotland to be with her aunt and uncle.

Philippa had nothing. Parents gone…

At least the remaining family she had were kind, no children of their own to dote on.

She had living in Scotland for those past four years- venturing down south for her education - so she knew her way around.

Driving, “Just another left and then a right,” but the snow made it difficult to navigate; caught in a rife blizzard. One minute she was listening to rock music in her small Mini Cooper. Then the front bonnet was wrapped around tree bark. Philippa unaware as her skull bumped back against the seat’s head; she was dead to the world.

Not able to help a groan leave her lips, thrumming pounded against her temple. Philippa unable to feel the rest of her. Her lower half powdered with fresh fallen snow.

Where was her car? She had been wearing a seatbelt… why was she waist deep in the snow?

Philippa’s gaze burned by the iced haze, whatever she bored her eyes on happened to be a wasteland of frost. That wasn’t the same spot…

When she thought nothing of her body could be felt, fearing paralysis, a crackle of kindling spread her thigh. “Fuck…” looking down she found a bare leg, and a bare stomach… naked chest. And quite a splash of blood from where her fingers met her forehead.

But there was nothing except trenches of tundra for miles… “I’m gonna die here,” no she wasn’t, death would have to drag her by the ankles…

Despite the numbed ache waking throughout her skin, she laboured; dragging through knee deep snowfall and more piled up.

She could no longer feel that sting, unaware to the frostbite reigning of her flesh. “I’m not fucking dying here…” Toes numbed yet scorched. She had almost ignored the wall of ice up ahead, but it was the last thing she saw before a void of black.

It was warm?

Had she died?

Philippa felt at peace, crackling of a log fire to her left without the bitterness of the outdoors.

Fingertips wandered across soft fur while her eyes opened- wishful thinking came to an immediate shatter. A circlet chandelier, candlelit, above her with pure stone casting shadows above itself.

Similar to a castle- auntie Carol and Uncle Gyles made frequent day trips to visit historical monuments around the United Kingdom; her parents had shared that same interest, so she was well versed in the differences of Carlisle to Windsor.

She was in neither.

The girl sat up, covers gathered around her hips. She took in the room- plain yet plentiful. She found herself in a massive bed, standing candelabras casting light amongst the darkness of night. The fire place roaring prevented her from being frozen.

Snow dripped in flurries the other side of the windows.

Heaven nor Hell looked like that.

Where the fuck was she?

Eyes cast down into the folded pile of clothes, thick layers.

She wasn’t being tortured, it seemed she was a guest.

Philippa had been dressed in a simple white cloth gown. Alike the clothes placed down for her, they looked… medieval; lace-up dress and a thick cape which pooled on the ground.

Twas not an easy feat lacing the dress in lonesome, and she was pretty damned sure she had made a sham of it.

But she needed to get out of the room. No matter how calm she appeared on the surface, beneath she suffocated.

Along Philippa’s way down the intricate halls, barren stone. She bumped into a wide-shouldered, broad obstacle, “I’m sorry,” polite yet dismissive, she just needed to get some kind of sense.

She continued down the corridor. Lit by torched-sconces that flickered, while wind whipped behind her speeding paces.

‘Did that guy wear a wolf pelt?’ Shaking the thought to the wayside- not looking back.

It was a castle.

Not the largest she’s visited but that didn’t take away from the stone complex- mostly obscured by freezing mist.

Arms wrapped around herself, it felt like Scotland although it certainly was not. “Where am I?” She asked the neck-snapping breeze.

“The North,” A rough, rich voice boomed from the door behind. It was confident and foreboding- Philippa quivered in secrecy.

Ominous. “Of course I’m in the north, could you be more specific? Because it’s fucking chilly,” A hint of sarcasm and a sprinkle of jesting, wholly serious. Meanwhile her eyes focused on the silhouettes forward.

“You’re in Winterfell,” still as rough as steel.

That atmosphere was too heavy, “Is that near Glasgow? Because I need to be in Edinburgh…” Silence followed.

He didn’t seemed awfully amused.

Heaving steps- clanking of metal in sync. A charcoal section of fur had been the first thing in her peripheral.

That wolf pelt.

“I said I was sorry,” a squeaky to the man- almost a foot taller. And she wasn’t even short. Philippa couldn’t help but admire handsome features, made harsh and rugged by the murky light. That presence was unshakeable… a mountain of a man.

His eyes looked brown- though she could be mistaken. “Why were you over the Wall?” Philippa feared in utter bemusement. She’d never experienced that combination before.

“What-,” one movement made her flinch. But the one hand grappling her wrist, dragged her close to him- her chin raised staring into that icy gaze.

Teeth gritted while he spoke, “Why were you over the Wall?” Eyes made her cower.

Pleading with wide-eyes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man let her go but that closeness remained.

“You sound like a southerner… what’s your name?” Brows crossed and lips scowling. Maybe that was just him.

“Philippa.” He circled her slowly- studying her.

He stopped in front of her again, catching her in his gaze, “And what is it that you do, Philippa?”

She tried to put it into basic terms, “I’m a healer, i think you do things differently.”

He still frowned, “Maester Samm will hone your craft,” she simply nodded- shaking whether it be from the cold or the nerves. “Those chambers you woke in are yours, we’ve been in need of a healer for a while now.” Without a second word he brooded off.

Nobody would understand her predicament- if this ‘Winterfell’ was anything like the history she knew she’d be burnt at the stake as a witch. And being a healer wouldn’t aid her, but she was a quick learner and knew holistic approaches.

Philippa just needed an education on the herbs and flowers they had because if medicine was anything like the medieval age… she needed to know what was potent and what was outright deadly.

And so she went back to her room. Twiddling her thumbs until the morning.

A knock at the door, “come in.” Like a mouse but the person heard and the door creaked open. A long mop of black- gorgeously glossy.

Smile on her face, “I’m Melaine, and you must Philippa. You’re training with Maester Samn,” an accent similar to those of her aunt and uncle.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get much information about that…”

A laugh. “Lord Cregan doesn’t mince his words, never has, even when he was a wee ankle-biter,” free speaking like a Scotsman. “He’s a good man, but the North shapes a lad even if they are eight-and-ten,” the woman was much older than Philippa, probably in her forties which meant she had been in service more than two decades maybe three.

“He looks older,”

“It shapes them to have rough edges, lass,” the sky was clear- and though snow had settled none descended upon them. And so she could take in the massive gates; one in front and one to her right. “It’ll change you soon enough. Get rid of that politeness, make you more bold…”

A quizzical look from the teenager, “I doubt that. My parents, even as a child, called me a stubborn mule.”

“We’ll see about that as a healer in Winterfell… lads here draw swords like us maids light matchsticks…”

Melaine reminded Philippa of her auntie Carol- comforting and a safety blanket while Cregan Stark was something she wanted to hide from but she had a feeling they’d have a few run ins with each other whether that be locking heads or weaving stitches.

——————————

If you wanna be tagged leave a comment or message me! x

Hope that wasn’t too awful, I’m getting into the groove of writing again.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd fic #hotd spoilers #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd s2 #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #hotd cregan #cregan x oc

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tennessoui · 17 hours

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Number 8, please, for hold my heart more gently than you hold my throat

thank you for sending this one in!!! (throat fic verse is a/b/o)

[from this prompt list]

8. What happens if one of them gets sick?

you KNOW throat fic obi-wan would rather die than admit to being sick because his master already thinks he's weak and not to be trusted in a fight. he'd be incredibly stubborn about the whole thing and block their bond and try to carry on even if he's got a burning fever and is probably actually a liability in a fight. master anakin is incensed that his padawan has the nerve to block their bond. if he hadn't already fallen years ago due to padawan related strife, he'd definitely fall rn

but then there's also this other side of throat fic obi-wan:

Obi-Wan's head is killing him. Like, physically, actually, really killing him this time. He rolls his head to the side to peer blearily at the chronometer by his bedside. 16:06. On one hand, that can't be right. On the other, it must be. He'd fallen into this bed, fresh from Quinlan's, at roughly 9 in the morning after being a state of perpetual wakefulness the entire night. A combination of death sticks, alcohol, and teenage rebellion does that to a person.

His eyes fall to half-mast as he rolls--carefully--onto his back and stares up at the ceiling of his room. He wonders if Anakin is back yet. He'd left shortly before Obi-Wan the previous night, something about a dinner with Padmé's family. He hadn't sounded excited, but then, how could he have not been? Usually when he leaves the Temple to visit with Padmé, he is gone until the morning.

Obi-Wan wonders bitterly how many nights his master spent with his wife while Obi-Wan was on Melida/Daan. It took him five weeks to track him down. Perhaps he didn't even notice for four.

The thought is more self-pitying than he usually allows, but his body is sore and his head is killing him and his master's probably out there cozying up to senators. Or, even worse, just the one senator.

He gives his bedding a careful sniff before he wrinkles his nose and forces himself to sit up. A change in location is what he needs. He should rot on the couch instead of his bed. It will surely help him feel better. And then, when his master returns from flaunting his lovely relationship with the senator, he can see his padawan's deceased and lifeless corpse on their sectional and feel terribly guilty that he was away as his poor padawan succumbed to his affliction.

Obi-Wan swaddles himself in a comfortable outer robe that he thinks may have once been Anakin's and makes the treacherous journey from his room to the couch. He collapses onto it and curls up around one of their throw pillows, cushioning his aching, poor, hungover head with the other one.

An undeterminable amount of time later, a rough, dry hand falls against his shoulder and then moves up to cup his neck. Without even opening his eyes, Obi-Wan recognizes the touch of his master.

"There you are," Master Skywalker says. He smells like sweat and the training salles. Like mechanical oil and something floral and soft and sweet. Obi-Wan fights against the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste. "Have you been here all day, padawan?"

"No," Obi-Wan croaks, opening his eyes only enough to see the underside of his master's chin before he closes them again.

"Hm," Master Skywalker says.

"What did you do today, master?" Obi-Wan asks, tilting his head just enough that Anakin's fingers slip from his neck to slide through his hair. He sighs at the feeling. It is so nice. Master Skywalker is so nice when he is here, when he is Obi-Wan's.

Master Skywalker's voice carries a hint of amusement as he obliges and begins to stroke his head. "Hm, I had breakfast with Master Secura, led a class on meditation to the newest batch of younglings, and sparred with Master Fisto until supper." He punctuates his words with a tug of his hair. "Which you missed, by the way."

Obi-Wan turns his face away. He doesn't want Anakin's touch if Anakin is going to be mean about it.

"And now I'm needed at the opera for a performance," his master adds. "Padmé's idea, not mine."

Obi-Wan's frown increases tenfold. It isn't fair. She already had him for a night. He's Obi-Wan's master. How dare she think her claim extends further than the Temple's doorstep.

"Master," he says impulsively, turning back to look up at Anakin with pleading eyes, "I'm not feeling well, Master."

"I suspect that may be because of the amount you drank last night, padawan," Master Skywalker replies, tone strangely light as his fingers run down the length of Obi-Wan's face.

Obi-Wan frowns. "I think I really am very sick, master," he says. "I shouldn't be alone, I don't think."

Master Skywalker's eyes flash. His hand stills.

"But if you're going to be at the opera tonight, I suppose--I can manage," he adds. It's a delicate line to walk. If Anakin weren't planning to go see his--his--wife, then Obi-Wan would never admit to feeling unwell. But he is. So, Obi-Wan must. It is the natural order of things. Anakin is Obi-Wan's master. No matter the root cause of his sickness--his hangover--his master should stay with him when he feels so wretched.

"I can call Quin again," he mutters, even as he tilts his face into Anakin's featherlight touch. His master's face darkens like an approaching thunderstorm. "If I start to feel really poorly. He can take care of me."

Master Skywalker's lips turn down into a fierce scowl, and Obi-Wan holds his breath. "No," he snaps, and Obi-Wan has to bite his lip to hold back his automatic purr. "No, I'll stay in tonight. If my padawan is feeling unwell...I should stay."

Obi-Wan bites his lip. It's only been six weeks since they'd arrived back on Coruscant from Melida/Daan. He shouldn't push his luck. He's lucky to still have Anakin's attention at all. To still have a master. "But what about the opera?" he asks carefully, sitting up on his elbows to peer at his master. "The senator will want you."

Once more, Master Skywalker's eyes flash, and he slips onto the couch next to Obi-Wan, resting his thigh in the space where his head had been. His hand falls back to rest on his neck, using the grip to push him back down. Obi-Wan goes easily. This is perhaps everything he's ever wanted in the galaxy.

"Unfortunately, I will have to let her know that priorities have shifted," Master Skywalker murmurs as his hand falls back to that scent-gland beneath his ear. He thumbs at it. If Obi-Wan didn't feel quite so close to nausea due to his hangover, he thinks he'd be getting wet from the sensation. "Mine have at least."

They're strange words, yet Obi-Wan welcomes them because they mean that Anakin will stay. It is everything he wants; it is far more than he deserves.

#asks #throat fic #obikin #squick tag: a/b/o dynamics #obi-wan: if i am to DIE i am going to do so on our shared couch so that my master knows that his neglect caused me to PERISH #anakin who has already fallen and joined sidious because he's insane about his padawan: oh so you want to usher in the end of days

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eu-nicola · 11 months

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Max Verstappen x Fem Reader Part 2

part 1

summary: when you met max your life started to sound like the verse ”But with everybody watching us, our every move, We do have reputations, We keep it secret”

warnings: infidelity everywhere you see, not morally safe, I didn't correct this but I will

The holidays had started and since you had become good friends with Lucas you were going to spend part of the holidays with him in Spain. After that fateful night at the club, photos and news appeared everywhere about Max's infidelity, but as it was obvious they had not broken up and were still together as if nothing had happened. Now they were here with you and Luca on a yacht enjoying the sun in the Canary Islands. Despite everything, you got along well with Max because there was no problem after all, if Kelly wanted to stay there it was her business and you didn't have to give her advice which Kelly wasn't going to listen to.

They were actually good days, the four of them spent a lot of time together and the cameras followed them everywhere they went. Many people were talking online about how you were the new one in the group and also about Max and Kelly's relationship, which seemed to have taken a different direction, a better one. For your part, those days you had been close to Max and Kelly helping them in their relationship and every time you did it, the time not long ago came to mind when you said that you weren't going to give any kind of advice but well, It was stronger than you. They both always listened to you as if you were the only and absolute truth so you helped them improve.

Two weeks later they had decided to return home to Monaco and it seemed that Luca didn't want you to leave because he also invited you to stay with him for a few days. The first night you went to eat at a restaurant with Lucas for the first time but not for long, barely an hour later Max and Kelly joined you too. You were cold all night and had a strange feeling while every time you turned Max was there looking at you without taking his eyes off of you, you tried not to pay attention to him or talk to him more than necessary but his gaze on you was very intense.

You couldn't continue standing there as nothing, so you apologized to them, saying you needed air, and left. Minutes later Max was there with you again.

"What are you doing here?". You asked him. “I thought you were missing company.” He responded, approaching you.

“I thought you were fine with Kelly.” “We are fine but I need something more, I need more emotion, something that I think you have.” Now he was so close to you that you could feel his breathing.

“The races will be back and you will be able to have all the excitement of winning again.” You told him touching his chest trying to get away.

He didn't leave you; Taking your arm, you approached him abruptly and he kissed you. At first you didn't reciprocate and when he grabbed your waist you freed yourself, letting him kiss you, when he finally let you go you were ashamed of yourself for letting him go that far.

You left there as quickly as possible, you said goodbye to Lucas and Kelly, asking their forgiveness but excusing yourself that you had to go because your head hurt a lot, you arrived at Luca's house, you took a shower and went to sleep trying to forget about what had happened.

The next morning it was around 1pm and you were walking around the house exploring it, Luca had left a couple of hours ago because he had to do some things and you were left planning to spend the whole day in the house quiet and in peace. The door started ringing and you didn't know whether to open it or not because it wasn't your house but you did anyway, finding Max there.

"What are you doing here?". You asked him. “I came to visit my friend.”

“Well he's not here so you can go.” You said trying to close the door on him. “Well then I came to visit you.” He responded as he opened the door more forcefully.

“Max, go away, you know that what happened was wrong and it won't happen again…” You didn't even finish talking when he had already kissed you again.

You didn't accept it and you weren't going to accept it but you liked Max and that's why you didn't push him away like you should.

Max wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead. "I need you baby, don't I?" Max asked seductively as he pulled you closer to him. “Just say you need me.”

“I need you Max.”

Max smiled. "I knew you needed me." He said as he kissed you passionately, his hands squeezing your hips as he pulled you closer. Max took you to the nearest room and laid you on the bed, making sure to treat you with care.

“Your arms feel good around my body.” You said.

Max smiled before pulling you closer. "I like the way I can make you feel." Max whispered seductively, his hands sliding down your body before kissing your neck. "This will be fun." He whispered seductively. "But don't be any louder than me, okay?"

Max then kissed your forehead again before kissing you again. Then he slowly undressed you until you were only wearing your shirt. "You're beautiful, aren't you?" Max whispered as he kissed your neck and his hands caressed your hips. "Can we get rid of this too?" He asked before slowly removing the rest of your clothes. That was a long and very good afternoon, you were surprised by the fact that Lucas hadn't been there all day but at the same time you were happy because you had a lot of time with Max. You couldn't even bear the shame of looking at him but he didn't seem interested.

“This is bad Max, I shouldn’t have.” You told him, covering your face.

“It's worse because I did things I can't talk about.” He told you, laughing at the situation.

“This can't happen again, Kelly is your girlfriend! Oh my God!". “Don't get upset darling, that doesn't matter now, but the fact that I have to leave before Lucas comes back does matter.”

“And don't come back stupid.”

“Did you call me stupid? I felt hurt.” He told you in a mocking way.

"Yes stupid. How can something be both hot and stupid?”

“I was flattered and hurt but it doesn't matter.” He approached you, gave you a quick kiss again and left immediately, leaving you there confused by everything that had happened and not knowing how to continue.

Lucas never knew what happened and you planned for it to continue like this. Those days were quiet except for Max's messages every minute asking how you were and that he got worried when you didn't answer him. You let him know that everything was fine but that you didn't want to see him, you don't were able to see it right now.

The day after the last message you had with Max, you knew that you would see him again for a dinner that had already been planned for a long time.

You had put on a beautiful black bodycon dress with some red embroidery with stones and your makeup was natural as always, Lucas for his part had put on a very elegant suit the way he liked it.

In the place when you both arrived some eyes were on you, the two of you seemed like the perfect couple in the eyes of others except for one particular blue eyes that was looking at you from inside.

Inside there Max couldn't take his eyes off you and your every movement, he noticed if you were talking to another man or if someone was flirting with you and if someone tried to do it he was already there to bring up a new topic of conversation.

When you excused yourself to the bathroom you saw him again. "Why you follow me?". You asked.

“I didn’t follow you, I just went to the men’s bathroom.” He answered you and you knew very well that he was lying because the men's bathroom was on the other side.

“Well, I'll come back.�� You said but he caught you like he always did. "You know, you don't look that bad." He disgusted you.

“Don't do this again.” "Why not, you look cute." He was staring at you, his piercing blue eyes staring at you.

“Because I want to sleep alone in my bed.” “You mean you don't want to come with me?". He looked at you, almost disappointed.

“I'm not going to fall into this silly game again Max.” “Just one more time, I promise you it will be worth it.”

“I repeat what I already said before. I'm not going to fall for that again”. “Come on! Don't you love me?". He walked over and wrapped you in a hug, his muscles pressing against you, "Please?" He whispered in your ear.

It didn't bother you at all that he was like that with you, rather you liked him, but it made you feel worse and worse with the thought that you were just one of the many he already had, not to mention that he actually had a girlfriend. “Are you always so insistent?” “That's why I'm a two-time champion, and soon three times.” He told you with a mischievous smile.

"We have to go back". You said, releasing yourself from his grip and returning to dinner. He waited a few minutes before returning so as not to arouse suspicion.

From that point on, the dinner went without problems, Max seemed to have lost interest and he didn't bother you again the whole night, even at one point he invited Kelly to dance in the middle of the place and on your side you also did it with Lucas, they passed a pleasant night between laughter and talks. In the early night when you had to go home you walked with Kelly to the parking lot while the boys came behind you talking too, you felt your cell phone vibrating and you looked to see that it was a message from Max, which when you turned your head you saw that he continued writing while walking a few centimeters behind Lucas.

Max: See you tomorrow?

You: No

Max: Why not?

You: You know why not

Max: But I want to see you.

You: And Kelly?

Max: She doesn't have to know...

You: You’re really stupid, I'll talk to you when I get home

Max: You don't have to be cruel.

You: Arrive

You: And I already told you a thousand times what we did was wrong and I would never be a second option.

Max: You don't have to be the second choice. You can be the main option.

You: Yes of course with Kelly there as your girlfriend and everyone else you sleep with.

Max: I don't have to have other lovers... it can just be you and me...

You: What would happen to me if I said yes?

Max: You'll be the only one, I promise.

You: I don't know, we'll talk later.

After that you left your cell phone on your nightstand and immediately went to sleep after a long day waiting for some peace of mind.

#fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #red bull racing #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #kelly piquet #max verstappen fanfic #f1

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thisbarbiereallylikesbirds · 3 months

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Why Tang Shen is soo interesting to me

Okay with all the Nameless Trio content I’ve been posting I feel the need to let you guys know why I find Shen so interesting. This may be a long one but I have LOTS of thoughts so please hang tight.

“If we interfere Splinter will never move to New York and buy four baby turtles”

Donnie in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2012) S3 E19

First of all Shen is literally the reason the story happens in most iterations. If it weren’t for her death, Hamato Yoshi likely never would’ve moved to New York, never bought the turtles, and they never would’ve gotten mutated. Without her there’d be no story. And yet she’s barely ever mentioned in canon.

Now I could talk for ages about fridging women and why it’s a stupid out-dated, over-used, misogynistic trope. And I’m not even going to pretend that’s not what happened to her. But one of the main problems with fridging is the fact that after the woman’s death sets the plot into motion (usually for some sort of love interest) she’s eventually forgotten by the plot. Women in fiction deserve better treatment than that. Real women deserve better representation than that.

However there’s another way that characters who die before the story starts can be utilized. One that I’m absolutely OBSESSED with. And that is the idea of haunting the narrative. Two of the best examples that I can think of are Mara from She-Ra and Caleb Wittenbane from the Owl House. Both characters are dead before the series begins. For a while the only way that we know about them is through what the other characters tell us. And, of course, this is a very biased view of the person. Sometimes it’s very one dimensional.

But even though we know almost nothing about them, they linger. They are everywhere in the story. So many things only happen because of them. Memories of Caleb are everywhere in Phillip’s mindscape. Hunter’s entire life is dictated by the memory of a man who died hundreds of years ago. And even the door, the things that brings Luz the the Boiling Isles and sets the whole story into motion only is opened for her because Caleb stole it from Belos and buried it in the backyard of his family home. We don’t know much about Mara but we know that Adora is in a way doomed to follow in her footsteps.

“In every other universe Gwen Stacy falls for Spider-Man. And in every other universe…it doesn’t end well.”

Spider-Gwen in Across the Spider-Verse (2023)

So we’ve talked about out-of-universe stuff. But what about what’s in the actual story? Due to the crossovers we know that all the iterations of TMNT sort of exist in the same way all the universes exist in the Spider-Verse world. They all have their own dimension. I can’t help but think of the parallels not only between the worlds but the characters who live within them. Gwen Stacy dies in every universe but one. She knows this. Unfortunately, the universe where she survives isn’t exactly kind to her. She loses her best friend. She loses Miles. She loses her father. She loses any chance at having a normal life.

In 2012 the turtles have a conversation with Shen where she is trying to pick between Oroku Saki and Hamato Yoshi. Of course they don’t know this at the time, but one of the choices will lead to her death. However, it will also lead to the world being saved from a variety of threats. But what if she did know? What if Shen knew that she would be sacrificing herself? What if she knew that in every other universe she was doomed to die? In every universe but one, that is.

Tang Shen is never said to be dead in ROTTMNT. But we only see her once in a movie poster. We know she exists but she has no relevance. As far as we know, she’s out there living her best life. So what is she like? What would a person be like in the one universe where she gets to live?

I really hope this wasn’t too long but thank you so much for reading this whole thing! If you want some content about Rise!Shen then visit the Nameless Trio tag on my blog, she’s one of the three main characters in that au.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #nameless trio #rise shen #rise tang shen #2012 tang shen #2003 tang shen #tang shen

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reivelation · 2 years

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literary references in evangelion

toji suzuhara, kensuke aida, and the last name horaki are lifted from characters within ryu murakami's novel ai to gensou no fascism / fascism of love and illusion.

nerv's motto is a quote from pippa passes, a 1841 verse drama.

"God's in his heaven— All's right with the world!

this line is also quoted in anne of the green grables.

"'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,'" whispered Anne softly.

isao takahata's anime adaptation anne of the green gables also includes a scene similar to the ending scene of the anime series.

the name of episode 26 (the beast that shouted i at the heart of the world) is a reference to the book by harlan ellison, the beast that shouted love at the heart of the world, a collection of short stories. "i" sounds very similar to "ai", meaning love in japanese.

the greek tragedies, oedipus rex and electra which is fairly self-explanatory... i hope... with the show's use of freudian concepts (shinji's oedipus complex and misato's electra complex respectively.)

the human instrumentality project is a reference to the book series by cordwainer smith, instrumentality of mankind.

despite that, the human instrumentality bears a striking resemblance to the plot of Arthur C. Clarke's 1953 novel, childhood's end.

plot synopsis on goodreads:

The Overlords appeared suddenly over every city--intellectually, technologically, and militarily superior to humankind. Benevolent, they made few demands: unify earth, eliminate poverty, and end war. With little rebellion, humankind agreed, and a golden age began.

But at what cost? With the advent of peace, man ceases to strive for creative greatness, and a malaise settles over the human race. To those who resist, it becomes evident that the Overlords have an agenda of their own. As civilization approaches the crossroads, will the Overlords spell the end for humankind . . . or the beginning?

in asuka and kaji's introductory episode asuka strikes, there are four battleships in the UN convoy named after the shakespeare plays titus andronicus, cymbeline, othello and tempest.

in 2.22, kaji says he feels like urashima taro, referencing the japanese legend named after it's titular character, a fisherman named urashima taro. the legend goes that the fisherman rescues a turtle and is rewarded by a visit to the dragon palace where he is entertained for several days but when he returns to the human world, he finds that he had been gone for at least a century and everything around him has now changed. this is a metaphor for how kaji left tokyo-03 for only two years yet feels as though everything around him has now changed.

episode sixteen being titled (there are alternate titles to several evangelion episodes) sickness unto death after the philosopher soren kierkegaard's book of the same name exploring christian existentialism.

speaking of episodes being titled after philosophical works from the victorian era, is the hedgehog's dilemma. originally described in arthur schopenhauer's collection of philosophical reflections, parerga und paralipomena. the hedgehogs dilemma is a theme seen over and over again in evangelion with episode 4 being titled after it.

the title of evangelion 3.0 + 1.0: thrice upon a time references the book with the same title, thrice upon a time by james p. hogan.

It's amazing enough when Murdoch Ross's brilliant grandfather invents a machine that can send messages to itself in the past or the future. But when signals begin to arrive without being sent, Murdoch realizes that every action he takes changes the future that would have been...and that the world he lives in has already been altered!

Then a new message arrives from the future: The world is doomed!

as qmisato pointed out, anno has referenced james p. hogan's works previously as well (nadia: secret of the waters' final episode being titled inheritor of stars referencing hogan's novel inherit the stars)

#my work #analysis #evangelion #toji suzuhara #kensuke aida #hikari horaki #asuka langley soryu #shinji ikari #misato katsuragi #yui ikari #ryoji kaji

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moobloom-mention · 3 months

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The Broken Pleas of a Familiar Face (And an Exhausted Shadow)

Summary: The Great Sage finds himself a moment of reprieve from his Journey to the West and decides to visit Flower Fruit Mountain for the first time in centuries.

Unfortunately, it's not joyous cheers and festivities that greet him, but his own shadow's tired eyes and lashing tongue.

Content Warning(s): Angst, Brief violence

Word Count: 3761

To find the Great Sage straying far from the side of his Master was an odd thing to discover.

After all, the grand king's predicament was well-versed in both the celestial realm and mortal plane, humanity's fear of Wukong's supposed "freedom" having forced the Heavens to announce that the nuisance would be kept beneath a careful thumb.

Under control, Macaque had interpreted, tail kinked at such an outlandish proclamation. As if Wukong, the epitome of chaos, could ever bare to exist under the cautious eye of another.

And yet two years had reigned since the beginning of his sworn brother's journey to the West, two years since he'd been spared from centuries more of wasting away beneath a mountain. At the first sign of freedom, the Great Sage's shadow had assumed that he'd be visiting his kingdom to meet the newest generations of Flower Fruit Mountain, to laugh amidst monkeys who'd grown up beneath Macaque's watchful eye instead of their righteous king.

But the rulers of Time and the cruel grin of Fate cared not for the occupants of their home, as two years of the king's freedom turned into three.

And three into four.

Wukong's continuous absence from his homeland was such an oddity that it had been the reason Macaque had left the safety of the island's hidden cave in the first place. Had he felt twinges of guilt for leaving the little ones curled up and fast asleep by themselves? Of course, he had been their sole protector for the past five centuries after all, but he couldn't bare the thought of his king's subjects awakening to find him tormented by self-doubt and concern.

Besides, a walk had always done well to dissipate his frequent fears and trepidations of loneliness, feeling welcome beneath the moon's merciful light and the vegetative flush of the island.

Five centuries of recovering from Erlang's fury had done well to regrow the dense forestry, he'd thought kindly, as though it wasn't sinful pride and mockery that such a thought ignited within his chest. Everything about Flower Fruit Mountain was soon to be righteous again, and after having convinced himself of the mantra's truth, he'd waved aside the guilt of leaving the little ones asleep without his presence.

But to feel the breakage of one of his many seals protecting the island? And to find the Great Sage himself, Equal to Heaven, to be the culprit? Macaque had expected the Heavens themselves to come crashing down behind the reckless king, screeching of betrayal and fury.

The sky, however, does not fall as the shadow expects it to, instead calm and but a witness to Wukong's barreling form.

"Mihou!" his king cries, nimbus cloud but a figment of the past as he crashes into his shadow with chitters of delight. It's small blessings to find that the Heavens had not crushed the celestial monkey's energetic spirit, still ever-so-generous with his infectious smile. "How I've missed you."

The foreign sensation of embarrassment carves itself within Macaque's chest at the way his own face floods with relief, feeling at ease enough to reciprocate such a loving sentiment. There's far too much he'd missed in the five-hundred years of the Sage's disappearance, from the playful arch of his king's eyebrows to the subtle gleam of light illuminating his golden pelt. It was a feature so unmistakably Wukong, just as was the way his voice could naturally blend between English and ape-speak.

It was a talent not even the king's shadow had been destined to master, and he finds delight tapping oddly at his heart. How adored will the little ones be to learn of such a quaint detail of their king?

"It's been too long," Macaque agrees, trying his hardest to melt into the embrace of his sun. He feels almost uncomfortably warm within the other's arms, trapped in close range to body heat no pile of little ones could dream to accomplish.

Easily had he grown used to seeking warmth in the comfort of the actual sun, forced to make due in the absence of Wukong.

But it mattered no more, he decides joyously, for his sun had finally broke free from that of his captives and returned to tend thoughtfully to the island.

"How are the little ones?"

"Handfuls," Macaque admits, the vulnerable words uttered freely. It is not often he finds himself willing to express his own challenges, but his king deserves to know the mischievous antics of his subjects.

"The newest generation is curious about your plights with Heaven," he comments, voice soft with joy in spite of the teasing lilt to it. "I'm worried I've run out of stories to tell them of your reckless past."

"Reckless!" his king exclaims, faux offense present in not only his voice but the playful rise of his fur. "I'm sure you've only run out of stories because the rest involves your own mischief."

Guilty the king's shadow may be, but the little ones would never let him hear the end of it should they find out such a detail. "Causing trouble is a requirement to be a General of yours."

Wukong's head tilts in exasperated laughter, practically bouncing on his toes. It's only when Macaque finds himself searching the other's gaze that something amiss makes itself known.

"Y'know, Wukong, you don't need glamor with me," Macaque smirks, unused to seeing the other without his blood-red eyes. "And golden eyes, really?"

"They're fashionable!" the king protests, but the glamor remains. Perhaps the Heavens themselves had made a mark on Wukong's mental state as the king's shadow had feared. Yet it was nothing that time surrounded by little ones could not erase. "Besides, I worry I'll scare someone with them."

"The little ones won't care," his shadow declares with an uncharacteristically kind expression. "They'll just be happy of your return."

Something uniquely anxious captivates the his king's gaze then, and suddenly, it feels as though the scene has almost turned monumental.

A shadow and its owner standing face-to-face, one baring an expression of childish hope and the other of raw emotion.

Wukong had always been the type to extend himself amidst moments of concern, to offer sanctuary for others within a joke or grin. But now his king resides, eyes unfocused as though waiting for the Heavens to condemn him once more beneath a mountain.

"You are staying, right?"

But silence is the only reply.

"Stay."

It's a simple plea, a rare one that drips sorrowful and foreign from his tongue.

Long buried is his pride, forgotten amidst the demanding voices of their subjects that the Great Sage return forever to the domain he proclaimed to be his home. They'd begged Macaque to be merciful and allow them to meet a king they'd only known through the shadow's tales of Wukong, as though their protector had any ability to rise against the Heavens and rescue the chaotic monkey.

Their demand to meet the grand deity had only barely faded in passing time, still eager to see for themselves of the courageous and caring tendencies that had instated Wukong as the island's king in the first place.

The same tendencies and familiar habits that Macaque could never imitate nor perfect to his own liking.

His destiny lies comfortably in between the lines of Wukong's own tales, and there is a reason he remains nothing if not the shadow of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. His job will forever define itself as someone unfearful to stand alongside his sun and protect whomever Wukong wishes.

It was the very reason Macaque had agreed to never stray far from Flower Fruit Mountain in the absence of his king, ordered to protect the kingdom and upkeep the morale of Wukong's subjects that eventually things would be okay. That their king would return soon and beg for forgiveness for ever abandoning his adoring kin.

He is but a monkey who has spent centuries watching the island's population grow from younglings until they eventually pass into the afterlife. And one who had grown to confuse selfishness with selflessness, declaring his aching plead to be from the mouths of the ones Macaque protects, and not from the shadow's own heart.

"I can't."

And there.

There exists the crack, the temperamental divide from reason and logic that defines the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. It's the same split that brings upon the banishment of "Sun Wukong, the Handsome Monkey King", and the very one that declares Macaque to be a hopeless fool.

Ego tainted with surprise, terribly so does the warrior wish for his body to lunge forward, for his mind to grasp ahold of the instinct to lash out against the being responsible for his rupturing sanity and his fear of abandonment. So fiercely does he demand to sink to the depths of Diyu, to the level of the Great Sage, and start a fight against one he'd sworn his eternal allegiance to.

Instead he denies himself the waste of breath that is the question of "why".

"You know I can't."

The Sage's mind and expression stand as firm as the stone that had birthed the stubborn ape, position unchanging in the face of his own shadow.

"You can't," the shadow repeats unamused, his ears long having flattened themselves against his head. "The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, can't return to his home because the Heavens said so."

Grating is the Great Sage's nervous laughter on his shadow's nerves. "I mean, it's more complicated than that, but-"

"Oh, of course. If I found myself equal to Heaven, I too would happily abandon the little ones to instead kneel before a monk," Macaque agrees, voice venomous with spite. "What, is the cost of your pride to be able to live without the weight of responsibility? To find yourself protecting one instead of thousands?"

Wukong's tail flicks, and the warrior mourns for how familiar the gesture stands. Their bond long extends past that of the centuries his king had spent away from the island; a simple twitch of the other's tail still stands as familiar as the route of patrol Macaque had been taking the day his king was condemned to punishment.

The Sage's calm facade had encountered a crack, and soon his mask of humor was to follow. "He saved me."

How viciously does the shadow grin, if only to hide the layers of disappointment rotting beneath his skin. "Saved you? Don't make me laugh. He serves the very deities who damned you beneath that mountain."

Oddly does such a comment affect his king openly, tail now lashing in irritation. "I wouldn't have escaped elsewise."

Lies had always been an awful thing to pour from the king's mouth, so expertly and beautifully crafted to befit whatever narrative the Great Sage would attempt to create. Had the king attempted such a trick to someone else rather than his own shadow, he may have gotten away with it.

"Bastard," the shadow's lips curl back in a snarl. "Don't lie to me. The Heavens could not leave you to rot forever beneath that mountain. But what did you, notoriously impulsive and selfish Great Sage, do? Traded your kingdom, your most loyal subjects, at the first offer of freedom."

"Mihou, I-"

"It's been four years. Four years and not a word from you, even by letter."

It mattered not how keen Macaque is to the fact that the king is not gifted in writing. However, a true ruler, His Wukong, would have learned just for any chance to communicate with his shadow and kingdom.

"Was being able to stretch your legs worth being imprisoned in a worse way? Was it worth having to use glamor with me to cover the fact that you're tortured the moment you refuse a command?"

The king's head swings, as if to further hide the golden headband he'd attempted to conceal with glamor. How foolish Wukong must think his shadow to be to not recognize the odd hint of glamor not only found in his eyes but forehead as well. Little did the ape ever use glamor in the first place, wearing his scars as though to prove his strength against the trials of the world.

"That's enough."

"No," the warrior objects, voice thin with patience. "It's not enough, is it? If it were, you would be begging, swearing to fight the Heavens once more in an attempt to free yourself of this quest. At the very least, you would have found time to visit the ones you've sworn your loyalty to.

"Great Sage you may be," he spits, furious, "But it's been long since you lost the title of 'King'."

"I am still king-"

So desperately does Wukong play into his shadow's grasp, eager to refute the truth with fury.

"Oh that's rich. Remind me of that the next time I have to explain to the little ones why they'll never be able to meet their king in their lifetime. Your absence is soon to outlast the lifespan of those who were young when you disappeared, and your throne has been reduced to nothing but ivy and a broken legacy of what once was. Why should a king need his shadow to describe what His So Gracious Majesty looks like to his subjects? What am I to tell them if you leave now, and your return is when only I have lived long enough to recognize you? When even the island's oldest generation has solely known your looks from murals and your personality from the bitter words of their elders?

"What is to happen when you return as their proclaimed king, and your subjects turn against you? When they mock you for your arrogance or point at me and-"

("Macaque!" one of the little ones, a peach-furred monkey, had once screeched, eager to disturb the warrior's attempts to bask in the evening sun. It had been during a time in which Macaque was still growing used to such a name, "Mihou" having faded from ape-speak. "Why are you not our king?"

It had been a question that had surely taken the shadow by surprise, uncertain he could trust his tongue with answering. Even still, he kept his response lame and tensely guarded. "The throne does not belong to me."

"But you've been our protector for as long as I've lived," they'd chirped, confused. "Is that not what you've said a king is meant to do?"

"Oh, Èzuòjù," Macaque sighed, his laughter gentle and grin exaggerated if only to hide his true exhaustion. "He'll return someday soon, and when he does, you'll realize that I could never upstage the 'Great Monkey King'.")

The warrior wants to snarl at the way his throat closes over the memory that'd occurred nearly a century ago. Unfortunately, Èzuòjù never lived to see the Great Sage in person, passing at the devastatingly small age of fifty-three. The little one's belief he'd meet the grand king had never wavered, however, even as Macaque held his tail during his passing.

How dare Wukong stand tall with the expectation that he will one day return to Flower Fruit Mountain and be allowed to act as though he hadn't abandoned them? The king was already lucky to of not been turned away the instant he stepped onto the mountain with the knowledge that the Great Sage couldn't stay for long.

"What will happen," Macaque breathes, tempting fate to deliver him the consequence of his words. "When you perch atop your throne and your subjects demand that I am more befitting of its seat?"

He tries not to grow surprised at how quickly his king throws the shadow to the ground, a hand grasping mercilessly at Macaque's neck.

Not often had the warrior ever found himself to be the target of the king's unbridled fury, a powerful emotion capable of shaking the Heavens themselves. It's a terrifying thing to stand in the ire of, surely, but not nearly enough to disturb Macaque's spitting anger.

It shouldn't be easy to reflect upon the loyalty both Wukong and Macaque had sworn upon each other with blood and grinned promises, reinforced through late nights of playful bickers and sparring matches. It was such a bond that meant little had the king and his shadow truly argued against one another, with the exception of the occasional bared teeth or harsh mutter amidst tension. Macaque had always thought that the patience and trust Wukong had earned over the course of their lives would never be able to dissipate at a moment's notice.

And yet, as he lies with his silver fur growing brown with dust, he can't help but find his chest heavy with fear.

Of all beings, Macaque knew better than most that his king was impulsive and stood not for the tainting of his ego. To an on-looker, it may have seemed as though Wukong would follow through his notorious temper and crush his shadow for testing his patience.

But how foolish it would be for the king to exercise his frustrations on the sole being capable of protecting Flower Fruit Mountain from destruction. It could take years, decades even, to fetch the scriptures of the West, and without a celestial monkey's protection, the island would be prey to the thousands Wukong had wronged in the past.

It shouldn't be satisfying to watch the king's eyes alight with fear of his own as his shadow falls limp, Macaque's stance one of gloating nature in spite of the submissive posture.

"Kill me," the warrior demands with a sneer, two words that he prays will shatter that world of the Great Sage and appeal to his shadow's plea for him to stay. "Go on, banish me from this island. Leave the little ones defenseless whilst you cause mischief with your Master and ontourage of demons. Prove me right. Prove to me that your loyalty lies with Buddha and not the innocents you once swore to protect."

Silence and grief is a pitiful look for the king, the shadow decides.

It's cowardice, resigned, and a mere shell of the explosive sun Macaque had learned to seek refuge and comfort within.

"I don't have to prove a thing."

Gone is the weight that had once pinned the shadow, Macaque instinctively shuffling his red scarf to hide the reddened print on his neck. He would not grant the Great Sage the satisfaction nor guilt of knowing he'd caused any bit of damage.

That for a beat, he'd existed as a threat to the safety of someone he'd once grown so close with.

"Bloodshed isn't needed to prove your betrayal," Macaque comments, his note of the Great Sage's inability to look at him an irritation stirring in silence. "You're going back to them."

"I don't have a choice, Mihou-"

How miserable their native language sounds falling from the king's throat.

"Don't."

Macaque's word is not a plea to be reasoned with, more-so a demand born of selfish desire to keep his world from crumbling.

"Great Sage, 'Equal to Heaven' you are not. You stand before your own shadow, fearful of Heaven's power, of what they will do to you should you think of betraying them. Are you too busy hiding behind your Master to understand that the Heavens will not dismiss you once your scriptures are fetched?"

The king's tail flicks, irritated. "I don't have time for this. Master expected me back three minutes ago. I'm a lucky monkey to of not been cursed with aching headaches already."

How benign of the Heavens to not of gifted the king with six ears like his shadow. Maybe then, Wukong would have debated the logical roots of Macaque's growing fears.

"Don't bother with the pleasantries of 'goodbye'," the warrior dismisses as though his stomach doesn't twist at such a thought. "Go make fun with your Master and demonic brothers."

"That's your final word to me?"

"If the Heavens are merciful, your question will be the last words I ever live to hear from you."

A nimbus cloud swirls beneath the tense posture of the king.

Despite Macaque's wishes, it is a staring content that exists as their true bidding of farewell to one another, Wukong disappearing surely to seek affirmation from his new Master that it had been moral to part with his subjects.

Dense ape, the shadow snarls to himself.

So selfish and naive, unfitting to hold the title of king.

It's a poor coconut tree that pays for the king's idiocy, obliterated by the purple flash of shadow magic. Such a childish rampage would have continued if not for a soft chirrupt, gentle and offering of comfort. It dismisses the warrior's rage at an instant, having grown used to bottle his rage in the face of needing to comfort a little one.

Wukong may have been able to run off and slip beneath the ruling thumb of his Master, but he had not dismissed his shadow of the duty to protect the occupants of Flower Fruit Mountain.

"Hey, kiddo, what are you doing all the way out here?"

How the little one could have bared to slip from the comfort of the island's waterfall by themself is beyond Macaque's understanding. Perhaps, the celestial monkey entertains bitterly, the poor thing had grown nervous of their guardian's absence and wanted proof that they had not been abandoned once more.

It is a fear that Macaque finds himself all-too acquainted with.

"Don't worry, little one. Six-Eared Macaque isn't going anywhere."

The young monkey gives a single nod before they nestle themselves atop the shoulders of the island's rightful warrior.

His tail flicks, adrenaline nothing if not prey to the growing flame of anxiety within his chest.

As furious as he is with the selfish king, he finds Flower Fruit Mountain miserable without Wukong lounging about. The king had never failed to grace the island with care and a sense of belonging Macaque could never replace. It'd be weaponized naivety to not identify that it was longing that had weaved itself between his heart and lungs, a longing for someone so incapable and selfish, yet irreplaceable all the same.

And so he struts, making his way back to the caves with ease as though new expectations and responsibility had not found its way onto his back. Conflict would arise from this, he thought, undoubtedly so. Every shadow was needing of a sun to cast it into existence, and every kingdom was doomed to fail without a king.

How foolish, though, to expect a shadow to be both his own host and owner of such a grand title.

#lego monkie kid #lmk fic #shadowpeach #lmk wukong #lmk macaque #angst #this is old af but I forgot to post it to Tumblr #these monkeys need therapy

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partypoisonzz · 1 year

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letters and sodas (90s!trey parker x fem!reader)

Part One of the FWB-verse series

Content:

- friends with benefits/rebound messiness

- dry humping

- praise kink

- marking

Word Count: 5,189

Disclaimer: This explicit story was written by an adult for consumption by other adults only. If you are under 18, please do not read or interact in any way.

You stand out in the hallway, a warm paper bag clutched tightly in one hand as you knock with the other. You inhale the scent of the warm French fries, worrying that Trey won't even come to the door.

Of course, you know that he's in there. He hasn't been anywhere else except for a handful of his classes all week. That isn't to say, however, that he'll answer. Ever since the incident, he's been effectively isolating himself, not seeming to want to see anybody. You can't really blame him for that, — the whole thing is majorly fucked, — but you're worried, for fuck's sake. Lots of people are, whether he thinks so or not.

The few times you've seen him, he was visibly a wreck. Despite looking like he had just rolled out of bed, he was obviously exhausted, his eyes in a perpetual state of puffiness and ringed by dark circles. He didn't seem to be putting any effort into taming his hair or shaving his face, which resulted in him looking sort of homeless. Then there was the fact that his clothes just seemed to be looking looser and looser, which raised your alarm bells more than anything.

Your concern deepened when Jason paid him a visit earlier on in the week, only to shake his head and sigh when he reported back to the rest of you.

"Jackass isn't eating anything," he informed you, Matt, and Dian as you scarfed down your respective shitty cafeteria dinners. "He's living off fucking SlimFast. That's all. No wonder he looks like a coke addict all of the sudden."

Deeply concerned by these new developments, the four of you worked out a plan to keep tabs on him without him immediately chasing you off. You decided that all of you would alternate dropping by his dorm throughout the week, but never together and never with an established plan in place. That way, it wouldn't look rehearsed, — because it wasn't, — and would illustrate your genuine concern in a manner that didn't seem forced… because it wasn't. Each of you would approach the situation using whatever method seemed fit at the moment.

When you left your final class for the afternoon, you decided that the appropriate method for the day would be to bring him food. The thought of him, holed up in his dorm and depressed, choking down weight loss shake after weight loss shake, made your heart sink. He needed something substantial. Maybe not healthy, but something he could chew and swallow.

So you went to McDonald's and ordered a couple of combo meals. It wasn't gourmet cuisine, but it was affordable. It was the same junk that you ate together back when things were okay. The image of a bunch of high, giggling college kids piling into a booth and decimating a couple baskets of fries reminded you of simpler times… Those being, the times before Trey walked in on his fiancee in a state of post coital bliss with another guy and consequently started spiraling.

You ruminated on the reasoning for all of it as you drove back to campus, digging into your bag to angrily chomp on a fry every now and again. As much as imagining him getting married put a lump in your throat and a pit in your stomach, you weren't selfish enough to take delight in his current situation. It burned you up, really.

Trey had been the type of boyfriend and fiance that made people envious of Liane, and she fucking cheated on him. If she hadn't gotten caught, she would have kept dragging it out, all the way to the altar. She would have continued after the wedding that was going to empty their pockets, and he would have been none the wiser. Now he was fucking starving himself with graduation fast approaching, and your blood pressure was going through the fucking roof even though it technically wasn't really your problem… And your fries were already gone by the time you pulled into your parking space. Great.

You're hoping to God that he opens the door before you can start eating his fries. Luckily, not long after this thought crosses your mind, the door swings open, only to reveal an impressively-disheveled Trey.

He looks from your face to the brown paper bag and back again before clearing his throat. "Come in."

He doesn't have to ask you twice. You nudge the door closed behind you and reach for the lock. "I brought you dinner," you tell him as you sit your drinks down. "It's nothing special. Just a Big Mac. But I thought…"

You freeze as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. You are infinitely grateful that your face is being crushed into the fabric of his shirt. Otherwise, he would see that you're turning bright fucking red.

"Thanks," he mutters, still holding onto you. He seems to be in no rush to let you go. You lean into him, soaking up the feeling of his arms around you in a way that you can totally pretend was possessive when you're letting your imagination run wild in bed tonight.

After a while, however, you feel the need to speak up, knowing that you're still holding a bag full of McDonald's in your hand. "Trey," you speak up. "The food…"

"Right. Sorry." He gives your waist a slight squeeze before releasing you from his grip.

You force a smile onto your face as you take the sight of him in. He just looks so fucking tired.

Still, you ask him the dreaded question as you take a seat on the floor: "How's it been going?"

He doesn't hesitate to respond. "Fucking terrible," he says, rifling around in the bag for his burger. "I wish I was dead, honestly."

You frown as you reach for your own food. "She isn't worth all that," you mutter quietly.

He laughs humorlessly. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I was going to marry that woman." He takes a needlessly-aggressive bite out of his burger before pulling back. "Forgive me for being a little torn up about my fiancee cheating on me."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The bitchiness is nothing new. The situation itself is a bit harder to deal with. "You know I didn't mean it like that," you say.

"Yeah. I know." He looks away from the burger that he's devouring like the starved man that he is to fix you with wide blue eyes. You do your best to keep your face from bursting into flames again.

He sighs, reaching for one of the brown paper napkins in the bag. "Sorry for being an asshole," he concedes. "I know it's not an excuse, but I've kind of forgotten how to interact with other people over the past week."

"It's fine." You take a sip of your soda before pulling back. "I've just been worried about you."

You don't miss the change in expression that this confession provokes. His eyes flash with something soft. Guilt? Relief?

"I wish I could say that you don't have to," he finally says. "But, well… All you have to do is look around to see that I'm a fucking wreck."

"Anybody would be," you tell him.

There's another pause. If the two of you were talking about literally anything else, it would probably be comfortable. You've always been the type of friends who could just do things together and not talk. His company was enough to put you at ease, and vice versa.

But now you're looking at the shadows under his eyes and the scruff on his face, the pure dejection in his expression, and the silence feels like things that you should be saying but can't conjure into acceptable words. You worry that you'll be sitting across from each other all night, plastic straws squeaking and tension palpable.

It gets to the point when you're itching to say something just to say it. So, without even worrying that it's the wrong thing, you do.

"I've missed you," you confess quietly.

He gives you that look again. You always feel like he doesn't just look at you, — he looks through you, searching for something. You don't know if he's found what he was looking for as he balls up the paper wrapper that his burger came with and tosses it at the trashcan. Somehow, it lands where he intended it to.

He turns back to you and tries to smile. Though he still looks like a recently-kicked puppy, it seems a bit more genuine this time. "I missed you, too."

Stupid as it is, your heart sinks as he stands up, leaving you sitting on the floor with your legs tucked under you. You watch as he takes a seat on the unmade double bed in the corner and settles back against the pillows. You wonder for a moment if this is some sort of silent dismissal, a wordless plea for you to go home and leave him the fuck alone to grieve, but then…

"Wanna come sit?" he beckons you.

Okay, fuck. You have got to stop turning bright red every time he says something that could be construed as being mildly suggestive, but there's something about the fact that he wants you in his bed…

You need to get a hold of yourself.

"Sure." You feign nonchalance as you discard the trash from your own dinner and walk towards the bed.

The mattress squeaks, settling beneath you. There isn't much space between Trey and the wall, but he shifts to accommodate you, anyway.

"Thanks," you mumble. He hums an acknowledgement before the two of you settle into silence.

No background music, no television. Just the two of you, silently soaking up one another's company.

It's not as awkward as it was before, because you know that he genuinely wants you here. You feel even more sure of this when he stretches as an excuse to loop his arm around you. You take this as an invitation to lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder.

The closeness is nice. You breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent and body wash, — he's still been showering while in this sorry state, thank God, — and wait for him to speak.

After a while, he does. "I haven't just been laying around, you know," he tells you. "I'm scripting something for this trailer project I have coming up."

"Yeah?" You shift, looking up at him. "Care to elaborate, or am I just gonna have to be surprised?"

"It's a musical, actually." You try to conceal your surprise as he brushes a loose strand of hair from in front of your face, then continues running his fingers through the strands, and… He's just playing with your hair while he talks to you. Alright, then. "About all the stuff that happened with Alferd Packer. I'm thinking that if I can get Matt and Dian in on it, it could be fairly decent…"

"That's gonna be your big comeback project?" you ask. "Eating your friends?"

He laughs. "How do you know I'm casting myself as the lead?"

"Because I know you," you reply easily. "Plus, you're like… made to play Alferd Packer." You cast him a mischievous grin. "You've got those crazy eyes…"

He huffs out a chuckle. "You're so nice to me." His hand stays in your hair, working out the tangles that you sustained while driving back to campus with the windows down. "Wanna hear the best part?"

"Of course."

You can hear the smile in his voice as he continues. "So, there's this horse…" he starts. "Named Liane. She's the type to let everyone ride her, you know…"

"So that's how you're dealing with it?" you ask. "Creating a slutty horse character and naming it after her?"

"That's one of the ways," he replies with a shrug.

Against your better judgment, you cast your gaze to his other arm, which is now looped around your waist as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Is this another?"

His face goes bright pink as he unthreads his fingers from your hair. You regret saying anything for a moment, worrying that he'll pull away. Somehow, he doesn't. "I guess?" he says instead. "I mean, it's kinda nice, having someone care so much…"

You lean further back into him. "It is nice," you admit. "I kinda figured you were touch-starved, anyway. You've been all over me since I walked in…"

"Sue me for being excited to see one of my best friends." He wraps his arm back around you, pulling you closer to him. "You were like some sort of guardian angel, showing up with dinner…"

You attempt to swat at him, which isn't a very successful effort, considering he's got you in a rather-sturdy grip. "I bought you McDonald's," you say. "You shouldn't be so easy."

"That was what I needed tonight." He glances down at you, offering you a smile that is so much gentler than the one you usually get. The kind of smile that confronts you with the disconcerting realization that, unlike most of your exchanges up until this point, this isn't a joke. " You were what I needed tonight."

The sentiment surprises you enough to look up and meet his eyes, startling when you find that he was already looking down at you. You hold his gaze for a moment, wondering when one of you will break away and laugh it off.

But neither of you ever do.

You just get closer and closer, slowly but surely. You keep testing the limits. Trey rests his hand against the side of your face. For a while, he just holds you there, looking into your eyes. You wait patiently, just in case he changes his mind. The warmth in the pit of your stomach spreads from the way that he's looking at you. Like he doesn't believe he should get the opportunity to even touch you, let alone...

You lose your train of thought as he suddenly presses his lips to yours.

Your eyes stay wide open for a moment, in total shock that this is actually happening. Once your surprise wears off, however, you close your eyes and relax into his touch. He kisses you slowly, tenderly, as though he's trying to commit the moment to memory. Like he wants to preserve the feeling of your mouth on his, your hands on the back of his neck, every first touch the two of you are sharing right now.

You moan as his tongue brushes over yours, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair. He gasps into your mouth as you tug on the strands, deepening the kiss even more in response to your slight tugging.

Okay. He likes having his hair pulled. Noted.

His mouth wanders from your lips to your jaw before trailing down further down. You lean back in satisfaction as he presses long, insistent kisses against the side of your neck.

"Marking me up, huh?" you manage to ask breathlessly.

"Mmm-hmm." Sharp teeth scrape lightly over a fresh bruise, inspiring a gasp from you.

You throw your head back, exposing even more of your neck to him. He promptly takes the opportunity to attack every inch of the skin available.

You draw in a shaky breath. Your hands wander aimlessly across his body as he explores your neck with his mouth. "You want everybody to see, don't you?" you ask quietly. "Want them to look at me and know that you've been here?"

He gives another affirmative hum. Only this time, it turns into a whine.

You've obviously done something there. It's hard for you to bite back the sly grin threatening to surface. "You like that?" you question. "You want everybody to know how good you are for me?"

He halts his kisses, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets out an unmistakable moan.

Satisfaction consumes you.

Oh, yeah. This is going to be fun .

"Yeah? That's good, isn't it?" Your hands travel over his back ever-so-gently, tracing circles that might be soothing in any other circumstance. "You wanna be my good boy?"

Another whimper passes his lips as you shift against him, pressing your hips into his just slightly. "Fuck. Please."

You giggle. "Please, huh?" Abruptly, you pull away from him. He stares at you breathlessly, taking in your mussed hair and the way that you're looking back at him, eyes on fire.

His own eyes go wider as you swing your leg across his lap and straddle him. He lets out a groan as you wiggle a bit in a mock attempt to make yourself comfortable. You are immensely pleased when one of his hands wraps around your hip.

"It's a little hot in here," you comment, reaching down to tug at the hem of your T-shirt. You quickly tug the garment over your head before tossing it haphazardly to the side.

You giggle when you look down at him, only to find him staring back up at you with a look of utter awe.

You grin before cupping his face, pulling him in close again. "That's better." Your lips brush over his in a quick peck, followed shortly thereafter by another. When you pull back, you give him a demand. "Touch me."

His eyes are wild as he looks up at you. "Touch you where?"

You chuckle. "Wherever you want."

"Shit." Almost as soon as the words leave your mouth, he's kissing you hard again, fingers clumsily grasping to touch every inch of skin that he possibly can. Finally, he settles on a particular spot, sighing against your lips as he clumsily gropes you through your bra.

You let out a contented sigh as he kneads at you desperately. You are reminded in the fondest way possible of the movie theater shenanigans you got up to with your suitors a few years ago, — clumsy, but so passionate that it makes up for it.

Still, you can't help trying to spur him just a bit further. You nudge him slightly, signaling for him to let you sit up before reaching for the hook on your bra. "Wanna see more?"

Though the question is clearly rhetorical, he gives you a fervent nod, watching intently as you unclasp the article.

You smile at him as he stares at you with that same awed expression on his face, only magnified this time. "Well?"

Blue eyes alight, he shifts restlessly beneath you. "Fuck," he curses. "C'mere."

He wastes no time before pulling you closer to him. He plants small nips and kisses from your collarbone to your chest, trailing down until his mouth lands on your bare breast.

For the first time since all this started, you momentarily lose your composure. You toss your head back as your fingers tangle in his hair again. "Oh, fuck. Such a good boy."

The noise he lets out results in a vibration against your sensitive skin, inspiring another mewl from you that totally betrays your control over the situation.

His mouth travels over your skin, leaving behind warm, wet kisses. Every now and then, he stops and sucks, leaving behind yet another mark that is sure to bruise later. You maintain your grip on his hair, reveling in the feeling of his lips against you.

You squirm in his lap as his mouth travels back up your body, stopping just above your collarbone. He groans against you, tightening his grip on your waist.

Deep down, you know that you already have him exactly where you want him. Still, you pause for a moment before rocking your hips against him again, — slow, teasing.

Your heartbeat picks up speed as he makes another choked sound before rolling his hips up against yours. "Please," he whimpers.

Your only reply is a quiet chuckle as you push yourself against him with less hesitance this time. He lets out a breathy gasp at the feeling of you pressing against him before returning his attention to your neck.

It takes you a bit to find a rhythm. Impromptu dry humping sessions aren't exactly a regular thing for you, and your uncertainty about how to position your legs makes you feel a little awkward. After a while, though, things start to come more naturally, allowing you to grind down against him at a steady pace.

A satisfied moan escapes your lips when you feel his hard cock pressing against you through his jeans. He pulls away from your neck with a hiss as you deliberately rub against the area that you know will be the most sensitive. You bite your lip as you roll your hips. Your head spins, knowing that, if it weren't for a couple layers of fabric, you could lower yourself onto him and erase any distance between the two of you.

Another choked, high-pitched noise meets your ears. You look down at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

Your heart skips a beat as you take in the absolute sight underneath you.

Trey has his head thrown back, his eyes screwed shut. His lip is caught between his teeth as he digs his fingers into the sheets. He opens his eyes when he feels you stop your movements.

Your stomach flips. You swear that you've never had anyone look at you the way that he is now.

Though you've never considered yourself a greedy person in the past, you're beginning to reevaluate that judgment. Two hours ago, the thought of him, hard underneath you and looking up at you like this, would have seemed like the ultimate fever dream, nothing more than something to imagine when you were getting yourself off.

Now that it's actually happening, all you can think is that you want more. More of this. More of him. You would do this every night if you could.

Of course, you can't. A sick feeling gnaws at the depths of your stomach, telling you that he'll probably consider this a mistake once it's all over. In the long run, this moment will probably be nothing more than a messy, opportunistic rebound in his eyes.

That's why you ought to make this time count.

You reach for one of his hands, untangling his fingers from the sheets as you thread them through your own. You guide his palm back up to your chest. He groans, bucking up against you as he goes back to clumsily grabbing at you like your horny high school boyfriends.

When his eyelids begin to flutter, you speak up. "Look at me," you demand, voice hoarse with utter want.

To your shock and delight, he immediately complies.

You stay still for a moment, staring into lust-clouded pools of deep blue, before beginning to slowly roll your hips again.

As soon as you hear the muffled whimper that your movement elicits from Trey, you give up on maintaining eye contact. Instead, you crush your lips against his again, reveling in the thrill of having him fucking moan into your mouth. His hands wander from your tits to your ass and back up again, exploring every bit of you that he can possibly touch without either of you shedding your jeans.

Your head spins at the thought of how real this is as his tongue brushes over yours and his thumb rubs over your hip. It's dizzying to think that you're as new to him as he is to you. For all the times that you've gone to dinner or done your homework together, gotten drunk and/or high in this very dorm room, playfully pushed one another around and made each other laugh until your ribs were sore, you've never done this. You had never known what his hands felt like, hungrily roaming over your bare skin. He's never gripped you like this, marveling at how perfect your figure had been under your loose-fitting shirts this whole time.

His hands tighten around your waist as he comes up for air and you pick up your pace. The combination of the friction of denim against denim and the noises that he's making have left you soaking wet, inspiring you to release a few moans of your own as you move against him.

You melt into the warmth of blissful pleasure as his whimpers grow louder. As you throw your head back with a debauched moan, Trey looks up at you with pleading eyes.

You can't find it in you to worry about the aftermath of this anymore. At this point, you're just working towards your release. You are fixated on the idea that you're so close to falling apart on top of him, that this is all real. The thought itself gives you a heady rush, which doesn't subside when you hear him let out a particularly desperate whine.

The sound causes you to look down at him, only to find him looking back at you like you're the only thing keeping him alive. The word reverence crosses your mind as he opens his mouth.

"I'm… Fuck, " he stumbles over himself. "I'm getting really fucking close. Can I…"

He lets out a squeak of surprise as you dig your nails into his shoulders through his shirt.

"Good boy," you coo, pressing your hips harder against his. "My good boy… Fucking come for me, that's it…"

Something between your encouragement and the quick rhythm of your grinding causes him to lose control quicker. He gasps. "Baby…" he murmurs before burying his face in your neck and stilling underneath you, releasing a long, trembling moan. He melts into a shaking mess as he rides out his release with you on top of him, slightly shifting your hips until his tremors die down.

At that point, you go still on top of him. To your surprise, he shifts beneath you, straightening his posture before pulling you onto his thigh.

"Come on, keep going," he urges you. "Wanna see you come. Come on, please."

It doesn't take you long to reach your peak with his hands against your waist and the warmth of him pressed between your legs. With a broken moan, you collapse into his arms, trembling in his grip.

He lets out a quiet sound of awe as you shake until you eventually relax.

Once your pulse and breathing begin to level out, you note the feeling of his hands still on your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin as he speaks softly to you.

"There you go," he says, still slightly breathless. "So pretty…"

You only manage a sigh of acknowledgement as you rest your head against his chest.

You lie there for a few moments, allowing one another's body heat to ground the both of you.

As you predicted earlier, your mind begins to swim with worry. You wonder what will come after this, how awkward it will get, if he'll ever even want to talk about it again. Hell, you're waiting for him to kick you out as soon as the endorphins wear off and he realizes that the two of you just pretty much fucked less than two weeks after his engagement imploded.

For now, though, he's holding you and playing with your hair again, fingers trailing over your back after running through the strands.

Your eyes grow heavy as you fleetingly think that this is almost as good as what you just did, — the intimacy that comes in the afterglow. It's sickeningly on brand for you, — this greed, this aching desire for more. You didn't even take your pants off, and you're already worrying that no one else will ever make you feel like he did.

You guess that's what happens when you fuck around with the friend you've been in love with forever.

Trey's fingers still before he nudges you. "Hey," he says softly.

"Hmm?" you hum, dreading whatever it is he might say.

He pats your back gently. "Can you get up for a second?" he asks. "I should probably, uh… Go clean up."

You nod, trying to act like this awkward dismissal doesn't make you want to punch yourself in the teeth. "Yeah. Go ahead." You sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and reaching for your discarded bra and T-shirt.

You're surprised by the feeling of his fingers threading through yours again when you begin to stand up. "You don't have to leave," he says. The hint of desperation in his voice takes you aback. "I mean, you can stay a little bit longer, if you want."

You turn back at him, taking in his pink-tinged face. You shift uncomfortably against the bed, cringing at the wet fabric between your thighs. "I at least need to go get a change of clothes…"

He shakes his head. "I've got some you can borrow," he says. "There's an extra toothbrush under the cabinet, too."

You blink at him. "You want me to stay the night?"

His blush deepens as he shrugs. "I mean… I don't see why not."

You can see why not. Couples spend the night at each other's places, wearing one another's clothes. The two of you don't exactly fit that bill.

Then again, you just made each other come. You're pretty sure wearing his clothes and sleeping in his dorm isn't the most glaring boundary that you've overstepped. Besides, a few more hours of confusing closeness is preferable to returning to your own dorm and worrying that he hates you now.

So you nod and take the shirt and sweatpants that he offers you. You change while listening to the shower run in the bathroom. You sigh and decide to forgo keeping your soaked underwear on, tucking them between your other clothes, folded and stacked in the corner of the room.

You settle into the change of clothes and sit back down on the bed, waiting until you hear the water stop running. Finally, the quiet washes over the room, followed shortly thereafter by the creaking of the door.

And there's Trey with wet hair and his own loosely-fitting clothes. Your heart leaps at the mere sight of him, despite the fact that you were quite literally on top of him not even twenty minutes ago.

He crosses the room and crawls into bed beside you. "C'mere," he says quietly. You look down, only to see him holding his arms out to you. Inviting you to return to the place that you were.

You oblige him, collapsing into the pillows and his warmth.

You can't find it in you to say anything as you lay there, soaking up the feeling of his arms around you and his steady heartbeat against your ear. Once again, you don't know what to say.

Apparently, he thinks that he does. "You're an amazing friend," he murmurs, chin resting on your shoulder. "You know that?"

Your heart aches at that word. Friend. Because, yeah. This is what friends do. What the two of you do, anyway. Or did. Just this once.

"Hush," you urge him weakly as your eyelids grow heavy.

Taglist: Idk if my MCR taglist wants to be tagged for my non-MCR fics but @treyp4arker asked me to tag her so

#trey parker x reader #my writing #trey parker x you #trey parker smut #trey parker x female reader #fwb-verse

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