#it keeps my hands busy and allows my brain to wander freely

[icannotgetoverbirds]

i just did so many dishes and it was so fun peace and love on planet earth YIPPEE!!!!!!

[drippingheart]

Getō Suguru could have laughed. In fact, he did, at least internally . . he thought; it was difficult keeping a stiff grasp on his mental state. Admittedly the cold shoulder was the first thing he had expected to be gifted with if Gojō Satoru @limitlessscion decided to show his face. Satoru's swift appearance and openness, with hands and words, had been another layer of surprise. To have it gone suddenly was . . well, amusing. Suguru saw his own parents in the action, and, just like back then, it had been all of his fault.

He had not been the child his parents expected him to, and he was not the talkative and video game fiending friend of their childhood. When faced with an inevitable demise and emotional fracture, mind tended to wander like a pesky gnat failing to disappear or make any genuine action. Suguru changed in tremendous ways, becoming the person he was always destined to be, so in how many ways did Satoru change. Did he have friends beyond Ieiri Shoko? Had he picked up any hobbies, real hobbies? A girlfriend? Several partners?

Strings were Satoru's voice, connected directly to his brain ( those connected to his heart long severed ), and the vibrating stimulus captured all of his attention. All of his curses had perished in his failed attack and distraction, and that in itself was a punch to the guts. The years of agony collecting every single curse, no matter how small, for nothing. Sleepless nights with nausea threatening to undo all of his progress eating nutritious meals. Tolerating the degenerate smiles from the monkeys as he freed them from their invisible ailments.

Curses small or gigantic, powerful or pathetically weak, all went down throat and esophagus the same way. All. For. Nothing. He would have shot out something nasty had Satoru not followed the obvious with another surprise. Better accommodations? He fully expected to be kept bound and in the dark until the elders made their decision, be it days or months;. He knew not how many days he had already been kept in bondage, but the fact he was kept filthy and in constant pain demonstrated they were prepared to treat him as dog to be punished.

It had to be Satoru's doing just as being alive was. The anger drained out of him, and Suguru felt oddly cold. A shiver crawled up his heavily battered spine, and exposed flesh stiffened into bumps. With tremendous effort, the onyx-haired curse user propped himself upon his single remaining arm and gazed upwards at Satoru. Beads of sweat began accumulating on his brow despite the cold he felt as a result of the effort allocated.

── ❛ I know you're busy. You don't have to stay with me. ❜

The threat of being bound again felt as though the flesh of his cranium was peeled off and corrosive material was inserted. He was breaking already . . Fuck. By that point, there was no masking that Suguru was shattered, a shadow of the sorcerer he used to be, so he allowed a groan of discomfort to fall freely from mouth as he pushed himself to a seated position. He could no longer crane his head far back enough to look at Satoru's masked eyes.

── ❛ I was expecting to be kept in these conditions until my execution. Better accommodations, is that . . your doing? Surely, they must.. . . I don't want to be restrained. What can I do anyway beside claw my own eyes out? I'm broken. ❜

Satoru let go with no resistance this time as Suguru pulled away from him. He was once again staring at his friend's receding back in the crowd, the Strongest himself toothless against the other's harsh words.

He had been happy, huh? He thinks of the long sleepless nights where his active mind would grant him no peace. The fear, the hope, the expectation in people's eyes as they stared at him, wishing for their salvation yet never truly talking to him. The sharp contrast of the world, the mesmerizing revolution of individual atoms swirling in motions he could never share with another, living in a complex, beautiful world of his own— alone. Always, always, alone.

He did not resent his life ( he'd never been allowed to ) but he was not "happy" ; maybe he had no reasons to leave but he'd never had a reason to stay either. He'd had all the power in the world yet he never truly cared to want to do anything, and maybe all he'd truly desired was to cling to those few things that had made him feel something.

He took a moment examining Suguru's words, turning it over in his hands with all the dripping malice and frustration and he allowed it to hurt for a moment, seeping into open old wounds still shaped like their previous final parting. Of being so deeply misunderstood by the one person he'd thought truly knew him.

And then he calmly put it aside; he wasn't that hurt little boy any more, he no longer expected understanding, the longing long buried. The vast lonely world of his had only room for one, and from his throne he could only impose his will upon the rest of the world.

He got his answer, and did not care to justify himself. He was content just to know.

"I've been able to confirm that you have no curses stored anymore," his voice was calm and measured, cold. The elders would believe him, he knew; he was no longer capable of lying to them, "Now we can get you...better accommodations."

He stood then, heedless of the blood and gore that now appropriately stained his clothes, and he gestured to the center of the room where Suguru had been bound not too long ago. "For now, if you want me out of your hair, I'm going to have to restrain you again."

The room was tightly sealed, strong enough to trap even Satoru within its spell, with the key requiring the binding of a Sorcerer at its heart. Perfect for containment such as this. Satoru stood patiently then, did nothing to urge Suguru to make a decision whether it was to refuse or stubbornly crawl into position on his own.

[pascalpanic]

hi i love ur writing so much!! can i request something with mutual pining, denial of feelings, idiots-to-lovers, hurt/comfort/angst , maybe some jealousy and fluff and smut if you want i just need something really angsty with javier peña, frankie m or din djarin?? tysmm!!!!!

The Bantha (Din Djarin x f!Reader)

Summary: Being an animal lover does not work well with the plans the Tuskens and Mos Pelgo citizens have to kill the krayt dragon. A retelling of S2E1 of the Mandalorian: The Marshal.

W/C: 4.4K

Warnings: talk of animals being harmed/dying, lots of arguing and angst, Vanth kind of is gross bc I hate his character aha, we respect the Tuskens in this house and use proper terminology for them, language, tiniest mentions of alcohol

A/N: Not gonna lie, the idea for this fic came to me pretty quickly but it took me a long time to properly figure it out. Lots of drafting and editing so THANK YOU to my beta readers, you’re all the best ever!! Anon, I’m so sorry this took so long but I hope it’s worth it!

Of all the dilemmas you’d expected to face as you traveled the galaxy with a tiny, Force-sensitive, 50-year-old toddler and a Mandalorian with the emotional capacity of the earlier-mentioned child, the last one you’d ever predicted you’d face had to be the challenge of ridding a tiny desert town of a giant sand beast that eats their banthas.

“You are so fucking dense,” you groan as you and Din settle on a speeder bike, the little green child tucked in a wrap on your chest. “You’re a Mandalorian, a battle-worn bounty hunter with a kill streak probably in the thousands, and some random man asks for your help and not only do you fucking freely give it, you decide to help them kill the sand dragon terrorizing their town.” You groan to him, rubbing your temples.

Din nods and starts up the speeder bike. “You don’t need to summarize what we just lived through,” he grunts and you wrap an arm around him.

“I do, because I need to clarify that your dumb ass would do that. Sometimes I really do think you don’t have a brain under that beskar bucket,” you shake your head, trying to keep the anger that you’re feeling. If you’re not careful, it’ll turn to adoration and love.

You’ve been battling your feelings for Din for a while now, trying to force the giddiness bubbling in your chest deep down inside. The man is everything you look for in a partner: strong, committed, tall, protective. He’s good with the child, adorably cuddly and loving. He’s even funny sometimes, making dry-humored remarks around the ship.

“Excuse me for caring,” the man grumbles through the modulator. He’s strong and warm beneath your arms, the Tatooine heat making the beskar warm like your bunk in the morning when you don’t want to get up. Stop it, stop it you remind yourself. This is not the time to be enraptured by the Mandalorian man’s body.

That’s yet another trait you love about him- how caring he is. He’s a bounty hunter, a warrior by oath who never shows his face and probably knows millions of ways to kill someone with his bare hands. Yet he cares. He raises the child well; he even raised him alone before you came into the picture. He puts himself in harm’s way for innocent people on the daily, all because he simply thinks it’s right.

You take a sip from your water canteen and hand it to the baby on your chest so he can drink too. “No, I will not excuse you for caring when you’re doing stupid shit, Din,” you scowl and cap the canteen as two three-fingered green hands give it back to you. “You came here- we came here, our family did, to find Mandalorians. There are none.”

“This man will give me his beskar if we help,” Din hisses, revving the engine of the speeder, non-verbally telling Vanth to get moving. The man is dawdling along, a few meters away, as he packs his bike up.

“What do you need it for, huh?” You ask him, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “I’m not a Mandalorian. This little shit doesn’t need beskar. You have a full set of armor already.”

“Beskar belongs to me, to my people, by my Creed,” he says, articulating himself with his hands too. It’s a habit he’s picked up from you. “You wouldn’t ask a Tatooinian to deprive themselves of the moisture they farm.”

You put your face in your hands and groan. “No, you’re right, because they fucking need water to live. You do not need beskar to survive, Din!” You shout, getting off the speeder bike. “And please, forget I called us a family. We’re clearly just a bounty hunter and his… assistant, whatever the fuck I am, and some little kid we picked up for the ride.” You stalk off towards the building.

“Where are you going?” He asks as you turn.

Cobb is standing to the side somewhere, and you approach him. “You got another speeder? I don’t want to put up with him for the ride.”

The man chuckles and claps your shoulder. “Sure thing, pretty thing.” He wanders off and returns about a minute later with another speeder. Din watches the two of you in annoyance, visible from his rigid body language. “Hop on. You know how to drive?” You nod once and he heads to his own speeder. “I’ll lead. You two follow.”

-

The ride is uneventful at first. Cobb Vanth tells the two of you the story of how he came to be the town marshal, and Din nods his silent comprehension when the man in beskar looks over at him. Most of the stories are aimed at you, desperate to crack your stony anger. It doesn’t work. You stare straight ahead, daring to break your frown into a neutral expression when the little green baby coos excitedly at the wind in his ears.

There are valleys and caverns to navigate through, nimbly ducking and weaving on your speeder bike. The kid loves it, squealing happily when you fly over a bump or turn a sharp corner. It’s a joyride to him.

When Din and Vanth suddenly stop your ride, you panic, holding the child close against your chest. From your holster, you grab your weapon and stand next to the two men. The growling noises are revealed to be massiffs, huge dog-like lizards. You squeal in delight, immediately dropping to your knees and summoning the beast in Tusken.

“What in the hell is she doin’?” Vanth mutters to Din as the big animal comes bounding toward you.

“She’s always like this with animals. Thinks they’re all big puppies,” Din rolls his eyes but can’t help himself: he smiles beneath his helmet as the beast licks your face and you scratch its sides.

You’re such a wonderful person, Din sighs, even though he’s mad at you. You’ve always been amazing with other species, like massiffs and the little green child strapped to your chest. You’re so intelligent too: speaking seemingly endless languages.

“They are big puppies!” You coo and press a kiss to the forehead of one massiff. Another finds Din, who also bends down to give it scratches and attention. “Green bean, look!” You tell the child and put out his hand for the massiff to lick. “See? They’re our friends,” you tell him, admiring the way the little green child giggles at the scaly skin.

From around a corner, a Tusken appears, then several. You stand and lower your weapon, speaking to them first in their native language. “We mean no harm. You have beautiful massiffs,” you tell them then turn to Din and Vanth. “Drop the weapons.”

“Are you crazy?” Vanth shouts.

“We are here to put an end to the krayt dragon,” you explain to them in their language. “Your assistance and knowledge would certainly help us. You want it gone too, yes?”

They affirm you that it’s a yes, and you nod back at the men. You know Din understands. “They’re willing to help if you’ll stop being a douchebag.” Vanth starts to talk but you hold up a hand and cut him off. “I know, I know. We can strike a deal. Are you willing?”

Din’s heart is nearly exploding. In any other timeline, he’d be the one conducting negotiations, using his threat as a Mandalorian to run the show. But here you are, with your gentle nature, making deals and completing them through cooperation and kindness. It’s hard to speak in a soft tone when speaking Tusken, yet you can do it. All with a baby strapped to your chest. Maker, Din thinks, he might be in love with you.

Vanth sighs a few moments later. “Why the hell not?”

-

Din talks with the Tuskens for a while at the camp, planning and negotiating as night falls and the air starts to get cold. To entertain the child, you spend time with the banthas, brushing their fur and letting the baby get exposed to the animals.

The kid loves them. He coos happily as he strokes their thick fur, giggling as one of them gives him a kiss and covers him in slime. You wash him off and return, quietly talking with the Tuskens caring for the creatures.

You’ve taken a liking to them. They’re gentle and soft, like big lumbering puppies, really. They moo when you brush their fur just right, let their eyes slip shut when you scratch them between the eyes. You’ve always had a soft spot for animals, like Din said earlier.

Cobb likes you. That much is clear from the way he finds you when he’s not working with Din and the Tuskens, bringing you food and water as you and the child mind your business. He’s overly flirtatious, to the point of annoyance. He’s rude and crude about the Tuskens, calling them words you’d never use to describe a human.

Politely excusing yourself, you allow the child to run with some of the other Tuskens’ children and spot a silver-plated man sitting by the fire.

“Vanth is such a goddamn xenophobe,” you grumble as you sit down next to the fire with Din, the child off playing with some Tusken children. He’d ranted about the Tuskens as you rode with them, luckily in Basic so that the people couldn’t understand him.

“Thought you liked him,” Din says and cocks his head. “He certainly likes you.”

You roll your eyes and sip the canteen of water, looking at the crackling fire. “Those things are not mutually exclusive,” you chuckle, looking over at him. “What, are you jealous, tin can?” You tease and knock on his beskar pauldron.

“In your dreams, cyar’ika,” he teases. It’s clear to him that whatever tension had been between the two of you earlier has dissipated, enough for him to steal the water flask from your hand and pass it to the child as he toddles past.

“I was drinking that, you fucking bantha,” you laugh and smack him on an unarmored part of his arm. The Tatooinian desert gets cold at night, you find, and you pull into yourself a little more from the cold.

Din unclips his cape and drapes it over your shoulders, tucking it in beneath where your arms press against your ribs so that it wraps tight to your body. “Hm. You do have a heart under there,” you tease and sigh, naturally leaning against Din and resting your head on his shoulder pauldron.

“So it’s been said,” he nods and even dares to rest his head on top of yours. Through the bare spots in his beskar, he can feel the way your body radiates warmth into the chilly night. You spot a little green head toddling past again, much slower than the other children thanks to his tiny legs, and Din scoops him up.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly, the roar of the Tuskens’ conversations creating a soft hum around you. “For what I said, when I yelled at you. You’re right. You really are just caring for them.”

He nods. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m more sorry for saying we aren’t a family. I mean, we are, right? Not that we’re like, a couple or anything,” you say hurriedly, your voice low as you stumble over your words. “But you and this little womp rat…” you muse as you scratch the baby’s little green head. “You are my family. That much is clear to me.”

Din nods once more. “I agree.”

You smile up at him. “What’s going on under that bucket, huh?”

He turns, looking off. “Just going over the plans for how we’re going to get that krayt dragon.”

“Ooh, share,” you ask, taking one of his hands and lacing through his glove-covered fingers. “I didn’t mean it when we said all of this for some banthas, you know. I’ve really fallen in love with them lately.”

Din is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t answer. “Din?”

He knows you’re going to hate him for this. Your big heart, your animal-loving, sweet talking kindness is not going be okay with this, but he has to tell you the truth. “We’re going to have to sacrifice some of the banthas for this mission to work.”

“What?” You exclaim, dropping his hand. “You can’t possibly do that.”

“We have to. We need to lure the dragon.”

“Do it some other way!” You frown, looking over at the big soft desert cows. “Seriously, please, Din.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head. “They’re not sentient.”

“But they can feel!” You exclaim again, standing. “Fuck this. Why don’t you sacrifice yourself to the krayt dragon and see how that feels?” You shout, storming off. You’re aware it’s childish, but you stomp to your tent and lie down. You close your eyes and hope Din doesn’t come to find you.

-

Of course you didn’t mean it. Of course you didn’t want Din to sacrifice himself to the krayt dragon. So why is he doing it? Why are you on your knees, screaming to the sky that he did exactly what you said?

You’d been avoiding him since that night, since you showed vulnerability and subsequently returned to anger towards the man. You’d wanted to apologize, but you couldn’t get over the sacrificing of the animals for the cause. You just couldn’t.

Din had flown straight into the sand dragon’s mouth, just seconds ago, and is now deep inside its bowels, you’re sure. You clutch the baby to your chest and wail, agonized and terrified. Vanth stands at your side, a hand resting on your shoulder as you wheeze and sob.

But this is Din. He must have a plan.  He has to have a plan; he’s a battle-worn warrior and you’ve never seen him lose a fight. You’d stormed off before you could hear the rest of his plans the other night- maybe this was part of it. But the way Vanth stares at the dragon in terror makes you think that maybe it isn’t. Maybe Din just really fucked it up. You set the little green kid in his cradle and stand, sniffling and clinging to the metal sphere as if it’s your last lifeline to Din.

Suddenly, there’s a burst of green goo and out flies a shining silver rocket: it’s Din. “Oh thank the fucking Maker,” you shout as he lands not far from your small group, the wailing and dying sand beast behind him.

He’s covered in slime, but you’ve never been so happy to see the man. You rush to him and throw your arms around him, not giving a single fuck as you jump on him. “Please, never fucking do that again,” you wheeze into his cape, getting yourself covered in slime.

The hug is not comfortable. Din is all beskar where you want to feel his strong body, but it’s all worth it when he wraps his arms around you too. You’re crying, he knows it, and he knows just why. “I didn’t do it because you said it. You know that, right?”

You let go of him, sniffling and wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I was just so scared- oh Maker, Din, I can’t fucking lose you,” you admit, freely crying now. “I love you, I really do, and I can’t-“

“How?”

You look at him in confusion.

“How do you love me?”

This damn man. He’s full of surprises, just getting literally eaten alive by a krayt dragon, and now he’s asking you for a full emotional confession. You’re still reeling from the shock, but the fact that he’s there is enough. You don’t care that Cobb is definitely listening over your shoulder. “Every way. All of them. Romantic, friendship, family. You feel like my home and I want to be with you.” No better time than now, you suppose, to admit this all.

Din walks a step closer. “Romantic. Huh.”

“I hate that fucking helmet,” you admit, trying to deflect the emotion between the two of you. “I can never see your face. Can’t know what you’re thinking, your tone, your-“

Din cuts you off. “We ride back to the village and clean up. Meet me in the home as the suns set.”

What that means, you have no clue, but you nod. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” you murmur, putting a hand on the cut-out cheek of his helmet.

-

The town rejoices when you come back, shouting and celebrating over the dragon’s death and the plentiful meat that came with the creature. You’d joined in the reverie, taking a shot of spotchka and chanting along to a Tatooinian call-and-response they’d started. It was wonderful, really, and you and the little green thing were the stars. They admired the little green thing, cooing over him. You were proud to stand there as his mother.

The party died as the suns set. Din was notably absent from the hubbub, preferring to be alone as usual. You and the kid talked with the villagers, but as the suns started to sink, you excused yourself and found your way to the spare home you and Din each had rooms in.

Vanth and the women had taken the baby when you told them you were going to talk with Din. Not that it was hard: they all loved the little beast, showered him with affection. It was practically a competition over who got to play with him most.

The building has a warm glow as you wander over to it, wrapping your arms around yourself. The night has become cold now that the two harsh suns have sunk below the horizon, and it’s a relief to open the door to the home and feel the warmth radiating from a fireplace inside.

You find Din staring out of a window on the back, watching the endless wind sweep across the sand dunes, a dark sky contrasting the golden ground. Just his silhouette is visible, black against the deep blue. “Hi,” you say quietly as you walk in, the worn floorboards creaking beneath your feet no matter how deliberately you step. “Glad to see you got cleaned up.”

The man tilts his head in an obvious eye roll, even through the helmet. The slime was disgusting, although Din’s adoptive son had seemed to enjoy the gooey texture, as little ones are prone to. “I almost died and you’re already back to the sarcasm.”

“It’s called a coping mechanism,” you laugh gently and place a hand on his shoulder. There’s no beskar there, just soft fabric warmed by his body. It makes you shiver; even in the safety of the Crest, Din never takes off the armor. You wonder why it’s gone. Maybe to clean it?

Din’s quiet for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your fingers splayed over his shoulder in such an affectionate gesture. “You know how much I trust you, don’t you?” He asks and the black visor turns toward you, admiring what’s visible of your face in the moonlight. Your eyes glimmer and he admires them, the color he’s always loved.

You nod and smile just a little, cheeks growing rounder with the movement. “Of course.” He’s trusted you with his son, the most important thing to him in the galaxy. There’s one clear gesture even now: the absence of the beskar from his form. Maker, he’s broad, shoulders just as wide as with the metal.

He nods and shuts the window’s shutters, allowing even less light in before turning to you. There’s just a soft glow in the room, outlining the shape of the helmet and his shoulders. You can’t see any detail, just the shape. He walks over towards the long comfortable seating in the middle of the room and you instinctively follow, standing in front of it and stopping when he stops, facing him. His hands find your shoulders and his fingertips brush down your arms until they find yours. “Take off my helmet.”

“What? No,” you exclaim, frowning even though he can’t see it.

“Can you see anything?” He asks, a hand gesturing, an even darker shadow through the already murky visibility.

“No.”

“My Creed says you cannot see my face. Not that I can’t remove the helmet.”

You gulp hard, your fingers lacing through his. They’re bare. You’ve never felt them before. Often you’ve wondered if they’re calloused and tough from his work, soft from being hidden beneath the soft leather for all those years, or somewhere in between. They do fall into that in between, but they’re warm and strong and large, even without the leather casing them.

“I can’t do that to you,” you shudder, squeezing his fingers. “It’s the very thing about you, that you can’t take it off,” you start to ramble. You want to, desperately, but there’s no turning back now. If you feel his face, if you’re even so lucky as to kiss him, you’ll never be able to get enough of it. You’ll be subjected to an eternity of longing, even more than you’re yearning now.

“I want you to,” he breathes, his beskar-covered forehead falling against yours. “Please, cyare.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” You ask, your voice straining. You need to keep stalling, need to keep pushing it off or you’re actually going to do it. “I’m so mean to you. All the time,” you point out to him. You do it to keep him away, but he’s persistent. He never seems to care. “All we do is argue.”

“I may not be able to use the Force like the kid,” he mumbles, bringing one hand up to cup your face. “But I can sense your feelings. You don’t hide them well.”

“Din,” you plead, biting your lip and closing your eyes to prevent the tears that are threatening to well in them. “You can’t do this.”

“I can, and I want to.”

“Why are you so fucking patient with me when I’m only ever a bitch to you?” You practically wail, half annoyed and half honored. “You’re such a good man, Din. You don’t deserve someone shitty like me. I’ve got no hunting skills, I’m too stubborn, I’m mean and-”

He stops you by lifting your hands, setting them on either side of his helmet. “You can’t see me, so it doesn’t break the Creed. I want you to do this, because I want you.” He’s eternally blunt, but in this moment you can’t tell if it’s breaking your heart or warming it. “I love you too. Please. Take it off.”

“This is your last fucking chance, Djarin,” you tell him with a wavering voice.

“Cyare.”

“Okay,” you nod and take a deep breath. Din unlatches the little bit at the bottom that keeps it sealed against his head, and there’s a soft rush of air. Your hands grip either side and you slowly lift it off. Din takes it once it’s gone and rests it on the plush seat.

Your hands are drawn to his face like you’re being pulled on a string, your skin prickling as you feel the stubble along his chin and jaw. Your fingers trace his face for a few moments, exploring the new terrain. His cheeks feel hot, and his lips make you shiver again with how soft they are. Swallowing hard, you dare to look at his silhouette, noticing his hair is mostly matted down from the helmet. “What color are your eyes, Din?”

“Brown.”

You smile at that, and you rest your head against his shoulder, your hands dropping to your sides. His arms encircle you and it feels perfect, like you were meant to be like this for all of eternity and it took you long enough. “Of course they are.”

He chuckles at that and presses a kiss into your head, his hands finding your waist. “I did take this off for a reason.”

You lift your head, looking at his just-visible shape. “Really? I don’t know what you mean,” you flirt.

He’s silent. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes, absolutely certain. “May I kiss you?”

The words are ever blunt, just like Din. “Yes, you bantha,” you tease, but the laughter is gone as his hands find your face again.

Just like that, his lips are on yours, radiating heat and love and it immediately tops the feeling of his arms around you. You gasp, not expecting him to do it so quickly, but your lips quickly meld to his and you sigh in content.

You stay like that for a while, hands traveling each other’s heads and necks and shoulders and sides as you kiss. He’s so warm and strong, his muscles just as sculpted as the indestructible metal that covers him. He’s so human.

After a bit, Din breaks away and presses his forehead to yours once more. He doesn’t speak, just rests there, his hands on your waist. His breath mingles with yours. For once, you’re speechless, unsure of what you can say back. The sarcasm has been stripped from your body like the beskar from Din’s.

“I better put the helmet back on,” he murmurs.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. You sit on the couch and he follows, desperate not to lose your touch. “Just… we’ll stay like this.”

He nods. He can’t say no when you kiss his neck feather-lightly, when your skin is pressed to his like this. He hasn’t had contact like this in years. He’ll prolong it as long as he can.

You do stay like that, relaxed and curled into each other. His arm wraps around you and you curl into a ball, nestled into his side. It’s been a long day for Din, you know, but the depth of it occurs to you as his breathing slows and his muscles relax.

He’s fallen asleep in your arms. You press a soft kiss to his neck and set a timer on the wrist-comm you’re wearing, so that you’ll both wake while it’s still dark in the room. For now, he deserves his rest. His face nuzzles into your hair, and he gives a soft sigh in his sleep. Yes, this is exactly what the beskar warrior needed: rest and you.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @tacticalsparkles

[13th-hour-reverie]

So I wrote a DP fan-fiction when I was like 12

It will never see the light of day again-

BUT.

I had some weirdly fun ideas, as a kid?? And I’m not even sure if they’d translate to the teen/kid-audiences of today. (But I know there will be people here to appreciate it.)

I think it was all the 90s buzz around how, “TV and your computer screen will radioactively melt your brain,” or whatever. There was this massive campaign for scare-ads that went out, to keep parents from letting their teens use electronics.

The entire plot revolved around Vlad coming back to Earth (I said I had good ideas, not that I was clever) and wanting to take over the world through the use of...an army of mildly brainwashed teen-halfas that were bribed to do his bidding. He had to hide his identity, and lived underground or in the ‘net in some way. (Better than being left to wander the solar system?)

At the time, I think I knew that kids could be given the power to do whatever they wanted, and if threatened with losing that freedom, would work pretty hard to keep it. Not to mention...how much havoc a couple super-powered teens could actually wreak.

So...if you wanted to “offer” kids world-wide a fleeting taste of power, and then use that to bribe them into doing your bidding (in exchange for being given the power again)...how do you deliver “temporary” ghost-powers to the post-pubescent masses?

Simple.

You just use some weird bullshit ghost-virus to make their chunky 1990s/2000s home computer monitors to deliver a blast of ghost-radiation right into their faces! (Ecto-Acne style, but more refined. With powers reminiscent of what we saw in the hospital episode, when everyone caught the “ghost-flu?”)

Being true to the vibe of the late 90s and early 2000s, I think I had it where this ghost would crawl smaller Geocities circles and forums for “obvious” teenagers to spam. They’d send pop-ups directly to the kid’s computer, directly mirroring all the stuff we were told at the time (Don’t put out your personal information, ever! Never click pop-ups! Never download anything!) until a kid got curious enough to click on it.

The result was a beam of green ectoplasm-laced energy to the face, and a kid waking up with a new, bleached ‘do. I barely knew how radiation worked, but in my head, “ghost essence” or whatever had a pretty short half-life. (geddit??) The kid would be allowed to roam around freely for the first few days, their powers would begin to burn out, and then they’d be back to a normal kid after about a week or two.

To get their powers back, they had to start completing weird, but initially-benign looking tasks. Things like...show up at [x] time at [y] place, or deliver a benign package to a specific person. Eventually, once they proved “trustworthy,” they would get stronger and longer blasts of this ‘virus’ to keep their powers for steadily longer periods of time, until they were finally asked to do things that involved breaking the law.

Having this network of halfas was supposed to allow Vlad to make himself known to the public again. Nobody is going to trust him, but if a tenth of the teenagers in every tech-laden city in the world were under his direct control...he may have a shot at taking over the world. And in theory, these kids could be living anywhere. (A revolutionary concept, at the time.)

Needless to say, the main character was a self-insert. But after realizing the families of these ‘influenced’ teens would need to be kept busy, I started having them all collecting in one place under the guise of a mysterious “Summer Camp.” This particular family gets stuck in a storm, lo and behold, they end up in Amity Park, Guess Who, yadda yadda yadda.

The rest was meeting the canon cast, and a handful of kids trickling through town eventually realizing ‘The Kid Who Saved The World’ lived in town. And that, in order to actually stop what was going on, he was gonna need some equally super-powered help, that wasn’t dependent on following directions received via spam e-mail. Because I always thought it was really stupid, how small and under-powered his team felt.

Mind you, if anybody is SOMEHOW magically one of the few who found/read the original one I posted to FF.net way the fuck back when, you’ll probably notice I never actually got that far in what I’d written/posted. But it was the first story I ever re-wrote, did a story skeleton for, and actually tried to “plan out” with “proper writing techniques.” So little ever actually got written/posted.

I think the “moral” in my kid-brain was actually that, if given the choice, someone given PERMANENT ghost-powers would probably not be choosing to help some evil dude take over the world. But that so many people want to feel strong, or special, or do be able to do things that are ‘amazing’...power corrupts. Especially when your powers are dependent on a megalomaniac fruit loop. (Cuz like, c’mon. We all know he’d try again.)

Someone else has probably done this, and probably did it better, but I’ve so missed the DP canon. It didn’t even hit me how outdated some of these concepts were, until I went back through my (15+ year-) old writing. Yikes. If anybody wants to use it/write it better, have at. I’d be really curious to see how this would translate to the current generation of people Danny’s age, or how it would look re-written for 2020 post-Phantom-Planet canon. (Or however else you’d re-write it!)

My early contribution to Ectober, I guess. May participate with some art this year, if I’m able.

[kittydemon9000]

I wrote a thing for @anxiousworm‘s Spirit Kai au which has been living rent free in my brain for the last however long so ENJOY

In all his years of living, his first memories were both the worst and best of his life.

Granted, he was pretty sure they weren’t actually his first. He always had a vague sense he was missing something, something that came before, but alas.

He remembered standing before a rundown home, something inside pulling him like a tether.

He remembered passing through the door and the overwhelming smell of alcohol and empty bottles that littered the entire room.

He remembered following the tether to a small closet in the back of the house.

He remembered the soft sniffles.

He remembered the burning rage that filled his soul.

But it was nothing compared to when he opened the door.

Curled up in a tight ball was a young child, if he had to guess she was maybe three or four years old.

She looked at him with tear streaked cheeks and water eyes and mumbled a simple question.

“Who are you?”

“I….I don’t know.”

Her name was Nya, and she was the first of many children.

He remembered pulling her into a hug, only for her to disappear.

But he didn’t panic. Something about it felt….right.

He remembered the heat of the fires as they consumed the house.

He remembered the look of pure happiness when he visited Nya in Home, a place where no one but him and those he brought could go. A place where he could raise his Children in peace and happiness.

He remembered the first time she called him Brother, saying that he reminded her a lot of her real older brother, someone by the name of Kai

He was never able to find Kai, much to both of their disappointment.

So yes. They were his worst memories, but also his best.

And after Nya, there were hundreds more children, and he remembered every single one.

Most, he brought back Home, so he could raise them along with the others, but some he gave to new families.

A particular case that stood out to him was an infant. The father was always busy and didn’t care for him, oftentimes going weeks without even being in the same room.

He didn’t know how he knew these things, he just did.

Luckily, he’d found the infant a new home, in a scrapyard belonging to a lovely couple who’d sadly been unsuccessful in having a child of their own. Every once in a while he would check in on them, and they were doing a fantastic job.

Another case was a boy he’d found wandering the snow, lost and confused. He couldn’t explain what it was, but despite the child’s older exterior, he was still young. Very young with much of the world left to experience.

He’d brought him Home, but the boy only stayed a short while, claiming he wished to find his place in the world, and who was he to deny his request.

Then, a few months later, another child, this one running away from a special school. He always hated those places. What was the point of having a child if you were going to send them away to be raised by someone else?

But, alas, there wasn’t much he could do for him. He also brought him to Home, but he too wanted to go out.

Then…..there was Lloyd. Poor, sweet, not-too innocent Lloyd.

He had found him wandering the island, causing mischief as he went. But deep down, he knew Lloyd was never bad, simply misguided. Built up to be this great son of the dark lord, when really he was just a young boy who needed guidance.

He had at first hated Home, wanting to go back to Ninjago, but after a few days and some coaxing from the other children, he loved it. He realized there was no expectations for him there or a need to compete for attention. All of it was freely given.

He would never admit it allowed, but Lloyd became one of his favorites, right alongside Nya.

But beyond the troubles, life was good. His Children were happy, safe and learning from the security of Home.

But then there was the Great Serpent. The first of many tragedies.

So many children were lost, so many more lost their families, and even more were traumatized. Like the young Harumi, who had yet to speak a word since he retrieved her.

Then, there was the Stone Army, impenetrable soldiers who wouldn’t hesitate to kill the children they found.

He saved even less that time. He remembered being so terrified, thinking he’d failed, but actually they had been saved by The Protectors, but more on them later.

Then….there was the Golden Spirit.

The Golden Spirit was a creature of destruction and death and suffering. It’s aura was wicked and dark and threatened to consume him completely. It probably would have…..if it weren’t for the White Protector.

And oh the agony he felt when he was killed. He was tethered to every one of his Children, and losing one was already an unbearable pain. But, the force of his tether snapping was more painful than any time before it. Like he was truly being erased from existence.

Luckily he was returned soon, though the scars remained.

Which led him to now, standing before his Children.

“Who are you?” Cole demanded. “And why are you stealing kids?”

But he just smiled. “It is good to see you again, my Children. I hope life has been kind.”

Jay sputtered. “What are you saying?!? And why are you calling us your kids?”

But he just smiled. But of course, his Children were just confused. They’d been fighting for so long, never having a rest. He wanted to give that to them.

“You have been fighting for so long, it is time for you to rest.”

They went in guard. The leader stepped forward.

“We don’t want a fight. Just tell us why you’re taking children and we’ll go.”

“I do not take the Children. I am rescuing them.” He started. “I help them escape from families who do not love them, I give them places to stay when they don’t have any families at all, I show them the love they deserve.” He paused, looking them all over. “Just like I did for all of you.”

They all froze. “What are you talking about?” Zane asked.

It always hurt when he had to alter their memories of Home, but it was for the safety of all. However, he always kept the fun.

“Jay.” He said. “You were too young to remember, but when you were an infant and I delivered you to your parents, I did not leave you alone.” Jay looked perplexed, so he continued. “You recall the blue stuffed creature that you’ve had since you were young? What did you name it….Mr…..Mr….”

“Mr.Cuddlywhump!” Jay exclaimed. “I still have him!”

“Jay!” Cole hissed, but he was already beaming.

His Child loved his gift. He loved it enough to keep it well into his older years, something many didn’t do. I warmed his heart.

“And Cole.” he turned to him. “When you ran away, I was the one to get you somewhere safe.”

Cole glared. “No you didn’t, it was…...was…..” he trailed off, clearly struggling to remember.

“I had to erase your memories, in order to keep the others safe. You didn’t want to remain at Home, so I took you somewhere safe.”

He turned to the last of his Children.

“And Zane. I found you wandering the icy woods, lost and afraid. I brought you Home, then let you back into the word. Surely you recall a handful of years you cannot properly remember, yes?”

The silence coming from him was telling.

“Why did you let us go?” He finally asked. He felt his smile fall slightly.

“I do not mean to keep my Children captive. They all stay there by their own will. Once they are old enough, or if I find them a family, I let them back into the world. But, every child I have taken in, every single one, I watch over. And the second they need me again, I’m right back there.”

His smile fell away completely. “But I….I failed you. All of you. You were placed in danger time and time again because of my decisions. And in the end….” he looked to Zane. “it cost you your life. But not longer.” His cloak has started flaring up and a few of his fire lights started glowing brighter, but he quickly calmed himself. He didn’t want to scare his Children anymore than he already had.

“But that is why I’m here now. To take you back Home, where you’ll be safe once again.”

“Wait a minute, hold on, we can’t just leave!” Jay exclaimed. “Ninjago needs us to protect them!”

Oh boy, he thought this might happen. His Children were quite stubborn, it seemed.

He waved his hand. “The police can handle it. It is, after all, what they are supposed to do. You are children. Your job is to grow and learn, not protect an entire world.”

They started protesting, but he wasn’t having it.

“Hush now, you will be safe.”

He spread his cloak and carefully let it descend upon the and then….

They were gone. Disappeared and sent to the safety of Home, with all the others.

Hopefully they would get along with the other Children. They were definitely on the older end, but not completely out of possibility.

Nya, now quite far into her older years, would probably show them around. She was the only adult currently allowed in Home, but that may change someday. He never could bring himself to let her go, and it’s not like she wanted to leave either.

He looked to the moon, cursing at how late it had gotten. He still needed to check on a few of his Children living nearby, as well as check on the twins that lived nearby. He had a sneaking suspicion something was going on there.

Life for the Flaming Spirit, as the locals called him, was never over and never dull, and he couldn’t be happier.

[aviv-kasyanenko]

NEW YEAR’S EVE 2020 [1 of 3?]:

You’re going to think I enjoyed writing this, but please know that I didn’t.

Date: December 31st, 2020. About 11:30pm. Warnings: Idk, mob stuff. I don’t want to spoil it but if this is too much for you then why are you even here reading Russian shit rn lbr.

Well, he had to hand it to them: they could sure carry on a party in the face of just about anything.

Though Vorya had been plunged into darkness—not unlike the rest of the city, if stories recounted by drunken tongues were to be believed—the Russians had point-blank refused to allow their New Year’s Eve celebrations to be interrupted. The alcohol continued to flow as freely as one would expect from them, and even those who weren’t affiliated with the Vorshevsky family in some way had decided to stick around and ride out whatever was going on. It seemed unlikely there would be a better time to be found anywhere else.

Naturally, his immediate reaction to the blackout had been to blame the weather.

When hushed whispers started to circulate a rumour there’d been an explosion on the other side of the river, however, his mind wandered into uncomfortable territory only another glass of vodka could put to ease. The anxieties he’d been trying to avoid since he’d landed in the shit hole he now called home were only compounded by the text from their boss; evidence in itself that the man wasn’t worried about whatever this was.

Bombs were hardly the style of the French, and the Rutherfords had no reason to make such an ugly scar on the face of a city they were still battling desperately to keep under their control.

So if there had been an explosion the three main culprits weren’t responsible for, it really only left two options:

Either Arkady gave even fewer fucks about London than he’d initially thought, and would jump on just about any tragedy that he thought could be of benefit, or a not so unfamiliar enemy was rearing its ugly fucking head on a country it’d already spent years tormenting, and the old man already knew it was coming.

Aviv’s relationship with the HCA was well understood to be a complicated one. Whilst he couldn’t begrudge the Russian mob doing business with them—money was fucking money, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered—that didn’t mean he hadn’t made his aversion to their goals abundantly clear. Those who affiliated with the Vorshevskys varied in their opinions; some of the Russians sympathised with the group’s goals, where others thought they were fucking insane. For those who’d originated from the former USSR countries the terrorist organization once again sought to control, however, it was a little more personal.

The Ukrainians, in particular, had been dealt a shitty hand by those cunts. Maybe the Kurylenkos had been in Launceston so long it didn’t matter to them.

Aviv didn’t much feel like looking past it, though.

Though he’d been sat at the bar in relative silence, enjoying a moment’s calm from what he was sure would be a party that carried on until the sun was all the light they needed to get home, it was interrupted just as he was about to request another refill.

“Aviv, can you help me with something?”

The Israeli had turned to the Kurylenko loyalist with a glare that said: No.                                

Even in the dimly lit room, it didn’t take long for him to realise that the expression he wore carried more anxiety than any of the inner turmoil he’d been fighting. All it took was a second for his gut to sink. The expectation had loomed heavy over all of their heads after the shit show that had been last year’s celebration, but now, as he looked back at a man visibly sweating, he was sure that their night was finally set to unravel. Something was very wrong.

Deciding the spare the others any concern until he was absolutely sure it was necessary, the fighter got to his feet and followed the green-as-grass security kid out to the back room.

The scene he was met with was not what he’d been expecting.

A second Kurylenko loyalist was stood in front of them, shining a torch downward to illuminate a pristinely wrapped Christmas gift; gold ribbon holding it together like it was the most innocent thing in the fucking world.

Were they joking?

“Bit fucking late for Chanukah, boys,” he mocked.

The man with the torch said nothing.

It was then Aviv noticed that his hands were red.

“We didn’t open it, but—”

Words seemed to fail Artyom, the man who had come to find him at the bar, at that point, and instead he gestured toward the box as if to say ‘take a look.’ It was rare that Aviv ever found himself feeling apprehensive, but as he realised the same red on the hands of the man opposite had since pooled around the bottom of the gift, it was impossible to ignore.

It looked like blood.

Hesitant to touch, he reached out just enough to tilt the label into view.

It read simply: ‘Joyeux Noël.’

“Who delivered this?” Aviv snapped, looking to each of them in turn. “Where’d you find it?”

“Some guy in a suit left it on the doorstep.”

“French?”

“I don’t know, he sounded American. I—”

With each word, Aviv could feel the blood in his veins begin to boil.

“What did he look like?”

“Uh, I don’t know. It was dark, he—” Artyom stuttered.

“Average height. Beard,” the other began in an attempt to save his friend from getting his head slammed into the fucking wall, “expensive looking suit.”

Didn’t narrow it down in the fucking slightest, but who else but a French piece of shit would’ve left such an obvious ‘fuck you’ right at the height of their party?

After a moment’s hesitation he usually wouldn’t have allowed himself, he finally untied the ribbon and removed the lid of the box. The smell hit so fucking fast he was surprised that the container had managed to hold it until now. Unmistakeable every time, pungent and assaulting, the kind that could make anyone sick to their stomach: it smelled like death.

As he looked down into the depths of the box, the view of whatever it was holding was obscured by plastic wrap; bloodied, and obviously not fit for fucking purpose given the swamp it was now sat in. Aviv never had a weak stomach for these things. His time working with the Vorshevskys had desensitised him to the most violent depths of a man’s imagination and the havoc it wrought. It wasn’t the idea of what he was going to find that bothered him, but more so who. The French had taken a lot of hits lately and he’d been glad for every single minute of their suffering. But it seemed unlikely that however they chose to finally get back at their biggest enemies would be anything short of personal.

It’d started with Svetlana, and would end with this.

Peeling back the barrier, the first thing he noted was the hair; beautiful blonde, eerily reminiscent of his dead girlfriend, albeit matted with so much blood it was hard to discern.

A fucking head.

Now that was absolutely a French fucking MO.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Artyom muttered.

“Watch your mouth,” Aviv countered quietly, though unwilling to look up from the hair in his hand.

He almost didn’t want to touch her. But they needed to know.

“Who is it?”

As he eventually pushed back the hair to reveal the face of the victim, he realised that even the worst case scenarios his brain had been cycling through hadn’t been close. All at once, the striking pain of loss returned with unimaginable force and it felt like his chest was being fucking crushed. All the air in his lungs left him. Even if he’d wanted to answer their pig-ignorant question, he wasn’t sure he could’ve found the words to curse them to fucking hell.

Did they not know the place in which they stood?

Aviv wouldn’t pretend to not understand why their enemies had done this, but for what possible reason could they have chosen her beyond pettiness?

“Go and get Maksim,” he finally said. The sound of his own voice seemed foreign to him. “Andrei, too.”

If anyone was going to break it to the family, it should’ve been them.

Maksim could soften the blow for the Kurylenkos, and Andrei was almost certainly better suited than him to tell Mikhail that another one of his sister’s was dead.

“Aviv…who?”

The man didn’t even have it in him to be angry at the persistence.

Aviv had already lived through the pain of losing family once.

Not nearly as much as they had, though…

As he finally tore his eyes away from the decapitated head of Katarina Vorshevsky, he had only three words left to give:

“That’s my sister.”

[unstoppableforcce]

eccentricity ( 2 )

pairing: the Mandalorian x reader

previous part | next part | masterlist

a/n: I’ve stopped getting notes almost entirety on my works but I don’t care, I like what I’m writing so enjoy or don’t! more touched/attention starved din djarin to come :)

How could he be so stupid?

He scanned the entirety of the small town several times over following his disturbance at the club, but to no avail. The green-skinned twi’lek had run this far into the middle rim to escape the bounty over his head, and it seemed he ran just as fast when Mando found him there.

How could he be so stupid?

This bounty would have been more than a paycheck. It would have been enough credits for some new armor plates, like the worn beskar on his shoulders and thighs. It would have been a sizeable donation to the foundlings. It would have helped, certainly a welcome payment after so many months of traversing the galaxy with nothing to show for it.

Now it was gone. And it was all because he let himself be distracted by your bright flashing lights and shiny colors.

That had never happened before. Not when things mattered, not when they didn’t. He was focused and determined and he didn’t melt when a pretty singer sang to him. He just didn’t do that.

He was better than that, he was the best. And now he couldn’t stop hitting himself in the helmet to get the thought of your ideal lips and perfect form from his mind.

The low growl of your voice still haunted his mind, the gentle bat of your jeweled lashes onto your cheeks sending a continuous flutter to his heart and he just didn’t understand why.

Why was he so caught on you?

It wasn’t a big town, more of a port of sorts. Smugglers, traders, merchants, and travelers used it as a stopping point, only ever passing through, either from the core to the outer rim or back the other way. He wandered as much as he could after his fervent search, just trying to get the thoughts of you out of his head, trying to focus on devising a plan, a next step. But it was a small town, by the time he realized it, he was wandering dangerously close to the club you had thrown him from.

It seemed like you had just ended your show, patrons leaving with beaming smiles and good moods that couldn’t even be quenched by the mud their boots stuck into as they walked or the hot rained that poured over them. The effect you had was infectious, not just to him, but to everyone who stopped in to see you as they passed through little Ramda.

He didn’t mean to get closer to the club, he didn’t really understand why his legs took him there without thought, but by now, he wasn’t exactly fighting it either.

Besides, there was a covering around the rim of the building. He would dip out of the rain for just a minute and he would be fine.

He could convince himself he was just using it for cover. Or at least, he could until the doors opened again and you stepped out.

A light and hooded shawl was thrown over your shoulders and head, just enough to protect your styled form as you stepped out under the cover, purple smoke falling from your lips and a similarly colored flame burning at the end of the stick In your hand.

He remembered very quickly how he had been so easily entranced by you.

“What are you hoping to get from waiting out in the rain?” You turned towards him, the words falling in slow motion with the galactic purple smoke.

It was, surprising his ears, not as dominating an accent as he expected. He could make out every word of basic once his brain caught up to the present, still distracted by the attention you were freely tossing his way. Thankfully, you didn’t seem to expect a response, you just brought the stick to your lips, inhaled a deep drawl of lilac and exhaled it again.

It flooded out into the rain, trampled and fizzling out in purple swirls he couldn't help but follow.

“You clearly didn’t come for my show.”

He turned back to you, your stare waiting there expectantly for the dip of his helmet your way.

“No.”

You chuckled, rubbing over your lip and taking another step closer. “So, why are you back?”

He was using the cover. He was waiting for you. By now, he wasn’t even sure what the truth of it was. But he knew he’d be okay staying there in that moment forever.

“Not much for conversation?” You chuckled, placing the stick back in your lips and allowing it to dangle as you watched him. “Shame, we could have some good ones.”

What did that mean? Scanning up and down the entirety of your form again, no longer intent on keeping it hidden. From your boots, caked in mud the second you stepped out, the hem of your glittering dress, significantly dulled in the greyness of the evening, pulled up by one hand to keep it clean, but still, it hung tight all the way up your body. It cascaded down your arms, sleeves fading towards the bottom until the skin of your hands came out, the same fluid effect happening on your neck, fading in underneath your chin, as if your angles needed the help of a sharp-cutting illusion.

He was lost again, he was barely snapped out of it as you continued talking in his silence.

“You’re a hunter?”

This he found himself capable of responding to with a simple nod, satisfying you enough to pull a smirk at the edge of your idyllic lips wrapped around the stick.

“This your first time here?” You continued, words slurred around the stick that was coming dangerously close to an end with every breath of it you took. “Ramda I mean, not the club.”

“No, I’ve come through before.” He finally let out, silently thankful you couldn’t trace his stare behind his helmet as it poured over you again and again.

He couldn’t stop, nor was he really trying.

“Never the club though, I would remember you.”

What did that mean now? He quirked a head but you didn’t catch it, too occupied by the fading flame on the death stick. Finally taking it from your lips, you smushed the final length of it between two fingers and allowed the remaining purple sparks to float off into the drenching rain just a few inches in front of you, where the cover didn’t protect.

“I take it you didn’t find the man.” You added, covered head leaning back against the wall of the building to turn back to him. “The twi’lek.”

“No.”

You hummed. “And if I knew where you could find him? What would that be worth?”

His head stayed perpetually quirked, tripped up in understanding as he desperately tried to shift his distracted mind back to business mode. He needed that bounty. Distraction or not.

He needed it and he couldn’t let an opportunity to catch him pass him by because of you.

But in needing the credits, he had none to offer to you, and you seemed to sense that on his disposition.

“I do fine for credits, I’ll take alternative payments.”  

He lacked the imagination to even begin hypothesizing what you meant there, just as lost as before.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

[sincerelybluevase]

Either Danvich or Danbecca. Any trope, possibly smut if that’s your thing

Careful, Madam

A/N: I’ve done it. I’ve written a scandalously smutty fic for a pair I’d never thought I’d write: Mrs Danvers and the I (Ich) from Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. I think it might well be the most smutty thing I have ever written, and I had a blast doing it! Hope you guys like it! Thanks to Nita for giving me the idea and encouraging me, and thanks to Illa, too!

 I had just gone up to my room to get dressed for Manderley’s fancy dress ball when the knock on my door came. I sat next to the box with my dress, surrounded by tissue paper, dressed in nothing but my underwear and slip.

“Come in!”

The door opened with a soft snick as I plunged my hand in the box with my wig and held it up to the light. “Look, Clarice, isn’t it lovely? This little curl here has gotten flattened, but there’s still time to fluff it out again, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, Madam.” The voice was cold and soft, a dead, mechanical thing, the voice of an automaton. I jumped to my feet, clutching the wig against my chest. Mrs Danvers looked at me with those strange, fierce eyes of hers, a little smile tugging at the corners of her pale lips. “Careful, Madam; you’ll crush those curls.”

Little cold hands travelled across my spine. Gooseflesh rippled over my arms. “You really shouldn’t be here,” I said stupidly. Then, realising how that sounded, I added, “There must be so much for you to do still, Mrs Danvers, that you couldn’t possibly waste your time with me. If you’ll be so kind as to send Clarice up, she’ll help me get dressed.” I wished my throat and cheeks wouldn’t flush so terribly, and my voice not sound like that of a little girl.

But Mrs Danvers kept standing there, one hand around the doorknob, the other one playing with the stuff of her dress. I did not know what she wanted of me. She kept her eyes trained on my face, and I did not know whether to be grateful for the fact she did not look at my body, or to squirm under that piercing, superior gaze of hers. In the end I stooped to pick up the box in which the wig had come. I placed it on my dresser, simply to have something to do, and knocked one of my brushes off. Immediately Mrs Danvers glided through the room and took it in her hand before I could pick it back up again.

“Thank you,” I said, and took it from her. Her hand was cold. I sat down in front of the mirror and began to comb my hair, humming a little tune, as if I was not wildly excited, as if I did this every day.

“You should put on the dress before the wig, Madam. You’ll have to pin up your hair, or else strands of it will peek out.” She stepped behind me and took a lock of hair between her long, lean fingers. “Like so,” she said, and twisted the hair into a little curl. She pressed it against my scalp, reached for a bobby pin, and secured it carefully. Her touch was deliberate, precise. I looked at the reflection of her hands. They were quite beautiful, I saw; no amount of hard work could destroy that elegant taper to her fingers, or those slender, carefully-trimmed nails. These were hands that could train up orchids, wash the dust out of the fold of a china cupid, embroider initials into silky scraps of handkerchiefs. I wondered why I had never realised she had such good hands before. Mine were ugly in comparison, grubby and broad, the hands of a schoolgirl. I stared at my ragged nails. Even if I stopped biting them, they would never be long and lovely.

“Mrs de Winter once hosted a play here,” Mrs Danvers said, pinning another twist of hair in place. “Shakespeare. She had an appetite for him, knew half a dozen parts by heart, and many more monologues. She chose Twelfth Night. Mr de Winter would have loved to see her play Desdemona – Othello has always been a favourite of his – but my lady wouldn’t have it. She wished to play Viola. She adored dressing in britches, you see. She hadn’t cut her hair then, so we ordered a wig for her. We had to use so many pins to keep her hair in place. I remember her pulling off the wig during the party she hosted afterwards, and she shed pins like a pine sheds needles. It made her laugh, but then my mistress loved to laugh.” Her voice had lost that dead quality, that grating monotony. She spoke quite freely now, quite quickly.

Rebecca, with her wild cloud of hair and her lovely ways, who was so clever she could recite Shakespeare by heart. I had never had a head for poetry and plays. I tried to remember the sonnets I had been forced to learn at school, but the only things that I managed to dredge up were nursery rhymes, Humpty Dumpty, that sort of thing. Rebecca was beauty, brains, and breeding. I was nothing.

A flash of resentment made me frown. These were not the thoughts I was supposed to have, not tonight. For one evening, I wanted to feel sophisticated, smart, lovely. I wanted to be taken out of my web of shyness, inferiority, gaucherie, and here Mrs Danvers was hemming me in again.

“Thank you, Mrs Danvers, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll make sure to tell Clarice how to do the rest of my hair. It’ll be good for her to know.”

Still she would not leave. She pinned another curl into place. “Clarice would not do it properly, madam,” she said. Her fingers had warmed, and there was something pleasant in the feel of them on my scalp, in her sure, strong touch. When my mother brushed my hair as a child, it had made me so relaxed I had often felt loose-jointed, like a puppet with its strings cut. Once, I had even fallen asleep as she had washed my hair, my head lolling against her arm.

I remembered then that Maxim used to brush Rebecca’s hair for her, and felt a twinge of anguish. He never bothered with my hair. I wished he would. I craved intimacy between us, deft little touches that spoke of mutual love. Maxim hardly ever touched me. Only when we were in the library and I sat at his knees did he stroke my head, doing it absent-mindedly as he read his newspaper, and at those moments I often thought that it did not matter much that it was me he was caressing; he would have fondled Jasper in much the same way.

“There,” Mrs Danvers said, clipping the final lock into place. She touched a little wisp of baby hair at the nape of my neck, and something low in my belly clenched. “These locks tend to be very sensitive. I can pin them up if you prefer, but they’ll be hidden by the wig.”

“Oh, please don’t bother. Thank you, Mrs Danvers, I’m sure Clarice wouldn’t be half as quick as you.” I wished the girl would come.

As if she had read my mind, Mrs Danvers said, “Mrs de Winter never allowed one of the maids to dress her. I’ve sent Clarice away.” Then, softer, her finger still lingering at my nape, “Why did you not ask me to dress you?”

I felt the blood beat in my throat. “Mrs Danvers, you shouldn’t have. You are far too busy, and I…” I don’t want you to see me, to touch me, because you always compare me to her, to Rebecca, I know you do, and then I feel so small and worthless that a part of me wishes I could cease to exist.

“I thought this was supposed to be our little secret,” she said. Her eyes found mine in the mirror. Her face was no longer like a dead thing, hollow and pale. Her cheeks were flushed now, and suddenly I could see that she had once been quite lovely, before grief had made her gaunt and emaciated, spanning her skin tightly around her skull. And as she looked at me, she kept tracing patterns on my neck, softly, tenderly, causing little stirrings inside me of… what? Longing? Desire?

Surely not! It was simply that I had not been touched for so long that the simple act of her hand fingering my hair, a very innocent act, business-like, transactional, seemed to my traitorous body to be imbued with great significance.

Confused, I stood, my hip jolting the dresser. “I must get dressed. I don’t want to keep Maxim waiting,” I said. With my hip smarting I gathered up the dress, dropped it, picked it up again. Mrs Danvers appeared at my elbow. “There’s too much clutter in your dressing room, Madam,” she said, swiftly taking the dress from me and draping it over her arm, “may we retire to your bedroom? The light is better there, too. When Mr de Winter had these rooms done up before your arrival, I told him this room was too small and dark to be a proper dressing room, but he insisted.”

Because he didn’t want to use Rebecca’s rooms. They’re haunted by too many memories, remembrances that must remain inviolate, sacred. That’s why he has tucked me away in here, in these inferior, second-rate rooms, I thought, and tasted something harsh and bitter at the back of my throat. To have something to do I wandered to Maxim’s bed and smoothed an imaginary fold out of the sheets. Had Mrs Danvers never been here, I might have been embarrassed about sleeping in twin beds. Rebecca had had a double bed in her room. She dressed in silk nightgowns, thin as gossamer; slipping into one must feel like covering oneself in a thin sheet of cool water. I could see her in my mind’s eye, that tall, slender figure clad in silk the colour of apricots, and Maxim, flicking the straps down her shoulders…

Mrs Danvers’ hand on my shoulder startled me. Instinctively I drew away from her. When I saw the look on her face, that harsh, gloating look, I wished I hadn’t. “Come, Madam. You must remove your slip. It would poke out above the bodice.”

I could cry, but I could not let her see my weakness, no matter how much she sensed it. I pulled my slip over my head, tossing it on the bed, not caring that it would crease, only wishing Mrs Danvers would not look at my belly, at the cheap brassiere I wore, at my white knickers with the fake lace.

She helped me put on the skirts, tugging them into place, her hands hot on my hips. That strange, secret place between my legs felt tight then, and I could not explain it, not really. I wished it would not smart so. It was degrading, how my body turned traitor against my mind, this lingering longing for touch and love coming alive under my housekeeper’s hands.

“They are slightly too big. Clarice must not have measured you right,” Mrs Danvers said, disapproval clouding her face.

“Maybe I’ve lost some weight,” I said, remembering how Maxim had commented on it, and Beatrice, too, saying it did not suit me to be so thin.

Mrs Danvers knelt down in front of me and drew out a little pouch from a pocket of her dress. It was a little sewing kit, two spools of thread (one black, one white), scissors, a set of needles, and a collection of pins. “Careful, or I might hurt you,” she warned me, and stuck some pins into the skirt, making it tighter. “I’ll take it in for you.”

“Oh, please don’t bother, I don’t mind, really I don’t…”

But she did not heed me. Her tongue was thin and very pink as she licked a piece of thread. She threaded her needle in one go, then set about taking in the skirt whilst I still wore it, working quickly, with stitches so small it was like fairy work. She was so close to me I could smell her, the scent of her soap, the laundry detergent the servants used for their clothing, and the sweet, intimate smell of her body. I felt her breath on my thighs, warm and even, and that space between my legs, the one I did not have a proper name for, contracted again. My legs felt very funny, very weak, and I had to put a hand on Mrs Danvers’ shoulders so as not to sway. The stuff of her dress felt queer, slippery, or perhaps my hand was simply damp. My heart was beating very hard.

Maxim has not lain with me in three weeks, I thought. I remembered the last time. I had nearly been asleep, and then he had crept to me, sitting down on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to dip. He had found my face in the dark, and had kissed me in a strange, hungry, desperate way. He had slipped into the bed with me, rucking up my nightgown. When he entered me I had not been quite ready yet, and had cried out. “God, my little love, how tight you are,” he had murmured, and I had not known whether that pleased him or annoyed him, whether it was something a woman would take pride or shame in. I had hoped he would slow down, be tender, but my little cry had excited him somehow, for he had thrust into me harder, faster. It had been uncomfortable, painful, even. I had thought he had been near his climax, but he had been gaining stride, not losing it, his mouth on my throat, his teeth scraping my collarbone. And then, shamefully, I had felt a thrum of pleasure, very faint. He had touched my thigh, digging his fingers into my skin, leaving his prints, and that action had caused another ripple.

“Maxim,” I’d whispered, “please, Maxim, please…” but I had not known whether I was asking him to stop or to go on. It had not mattered anyway, for Maxim had spent himself in me then, grinding his hips against mine. I had touched his head, smoothing his hair, wishing he would kiss me, hold me, but then he had rolled away and padded back to his own bed. Soon, his breathing had evened out and I knew he was asleep. I had lain awake for a long time, though, feeling hollow and near to crying. Why, I wondered, had he come to me now? Why did not see my desire for his love writ naked on my face? It would have been better if he had embraced me, if he had told me he loved me. Then, I could have borne it, the shame of my own arousal, the way he had rutted with me although I had been half asleep. It would not have been so impersonal then.

“There,” Mrs Danvers said. She smoothed the fabric with her thumbs, tracing the blade of my hipbone, then straightened herself. She helped me put on the bodice next. She did up hooks and buttons without any hesitation, working quickly. “The stockings and shoes next, then your makeup, and finally the wig. Sit down, Madam.”

“Please don’t bother, I can do it myself.”

“You wouldn’t want them too loose or too tight, Madam.” I could imagine them slithering down my leg, tangling around my ankle so that I tripped over them. How mortified Maxim would be…

“It can’t be so hard, can it, to tie a stocking?”

“You’d be surprised, Madam.” And she put her hand on my shoulder and pushed down. It did not take much strength; my legs felt like reed, all hollow. I sank down on the bed. A trace of Maxim’s smell came to me. I plucked at a loose thread of his sheets, twisting it round my finger. Mrs Danvers touched the stockings tenderly. They were white and made to fit as they would have in the time of Caroline de Winter, meaning they fastened around the thigh with a ribbon. Mrs Danvers bunched up my skirt and pushed it up. I had not shaved my thighs. Did she see how long and thick the hair grew there, how my skin was pale like a frog’s belly and marbled with veins? My face flushed so quickly the tears sprang into my eyes.

She took my ankle in her hand, her fingers searing hot. Did she feel the gallop of my pulse in the spidery veins that lay so close under my skin? She tugged up the stocking over my ankle, my knee, and tied it quickly. She tried to wriggle a finger between my skin and the fabric and couldn’t.

“This way it is not so tight it will hurt, but not so loose it will come undone, should you dance.” She did not remove her hand but let it linger there, palm lightly resting on the strip of skin between stocking and knickers. Then, her finger twitched and slowly, very slowly, she touched the elastic of my knicker.

“Mrs Danvers…”

But she would not let me finish my sentence. Perhaps it was for the best; what would I have said? “When my mistress and Mr de Winter were just married, he rode her like the devil,” she said softly. “Her knickers were stained with the seeping of their lovemaking, and often torn. He went a little wild when he was with her, but then so many men did. She had that effect on them. I used to let her underwear soak in a bucket in my room and scrub out the stains, and then I’d sew them back together again. My father was a tailor; I know how to make my stitches invisible.”

I tried to imagine Mrs Danvers as a little girl, peering over her father’s shoulder to see how one stitched a rip, but I could not imagine her as a child.

“Mr de Winter hardly touches you.” This last a statement, not a question. I wondered, did Mrs Danvers question Clarice on my underwear, on whether my knickers needed mending? Or did she slip into my rooms herself and quest through the laundry, finding my undergarments and fingering them for stains? I had written to a shop in London and asked for a catalogue, but then Clarice had become my maid and she had not seemed to care how cheap my underwear was, and so I had not ordered any of the slippery, silky things I supposed women of my social standing should wear. I wished now that I had.

I did not what to say. She had not said it with any menace, but it was such a personal, intimate thing that I could not stay silent. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you think,” I whispered, the words coming out all choked. I swallowed thickly, balling my hands into fists. “There are moments my husband does want me, you know. Moments when he takes me, doing it roughly enough to bruise, leaving me marked as his.”

She stopped stroking me and looked up. Her eyes flashed something fierce. A little lock of hair had escaped her pins and curled against her temple. When she spoke, it trembled, and that little curl shot through with grey somehow made her more human than anything. “I don’t doubt it, Madam, but is that how you like it?”

Her question threw and flustered me both. “How I like it?” I repeated stupidly. I blinked, shook my head in confusion.

“Do you not know, Madam?” Her tongue darted between her lips, pink and wet. She stroked my thigh. “Do you like this?” She bent closer to me, her breath hot and quick, and kissed the inside of my leg, very softly. “And this?”

God forgive me, but I wanted her. I was aching with it. “Mrs Danvers,” I whispered.

She kissed me again, sucking my skin into her mouth. A hot thrill of arousal shot through me. “Mrs Danvers, you shouldn’t…”

She smiled; I could feel the tug of her lips against my skin. “Oh, Madam, I can smell you,” she murmured. “You’re wet with want, but are you willing?”

She tugged at my knickers. I raised my hips so she could pull them off. I don’t think I thought about it; I simply did as she wished me to. She smirked. “Yes,” she said, “I’d say you are willing indeed.” She dragged my underwear down my leg and tossed it on the ground. She pushed my legs apart, seated herself between them with her hands splayed on my thighs.

A sharp bolt of panic tore through me. What woman would sit on her husband’s bed with the housekeeper cradled between her thighs? I might have pushed her away, might have cried, but then her mouth was on me, and pleasure smote me. She dragged a strange, guttural moan out of me, the sound so shocking I put a hand in front of my mouth. The other one had found its way into her hair somehow, and though I did not wish to hurt her I could not help but squeeze as she lapped at me, as she licked and sucked and kissed. She was flaying me. It seemed to me that there was a thread coiled in my belly, and she was winding it up, pulling it taut with her tongue. It was a miracle I did not unravel into her mouth and hands. Whatever Maxim had done to me was nothing compared to what I felt now.

When that tread of want snapped, I bit the fleshy mound of my thumb so I would not scream. She kept her tongue against me as I rode it out. When I came to myself, I realised I had yanked some of her hair out of its pins. I took my hand away from my mouth. I had left a seam in my own flesh from where I had bitten down.

Mrs Danvers took hold of my wrist and pulled my hand out of her hair. My fingers tangled into it. I was weak with pleasure. Her lips were swollen and wet. She took the hem of my skirt and wiped her mouth on it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your hair,” I murmured.

“God, what a schoolgirl you are, always flushing and apologising.”

That hurt. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… I was overcome.”

“Of course you were. You’ve never felt anything like it before, have you? He has never made you come,” she said, and then she laughed.

I slapped her. It happened so quickly, I don’t think I knew I was going to do it until it had already happened. For a moment neither of us spoke. We did not even move. We just sat there, she with her cheek reddening, me with my hand tingling.

“Mrs Danvers, I am so sorry…” I began, but she would not let me finish. She stood, quick as a cat, and then she was on me.

“How dare you,” she hissed, those long fingers of hers closing around my wrist like a vice, “how dare you, you foolish little girl?” I tried to push her away, but she was stronger. I fear there was a tussle between us then, a weird sort of scuffle. She was on top of me, pinning me to the bed, and I could smell my sweet shame on her breath. Her leg was between mine. It was thin and very long. I felt the bone shift, and could not help that my hips surged up to meet it, God, I could not help wishing to rock against her, that longing so recently sated already flaring up again.

“Don’t, don’t, please,” I whined, but she cared nothing for my protestations, perhaps did not even hear them.

“You’re a silly little girl, a mere child. You don’t know what you want because you’ve never dared to ask. You’re nothing like my lady, you’re nothing like Rebecca! She seized life by the throat and would not let go, she squeezed every drop of pleasure from it and still demanded more because that was her right, her due. How dare he replace her with you? You scuttle where she once strode, clutch at her things with your grubby little hands, covet what she had with those sly little eyes of yours, and you think there shall be no retribution because you think she is dead and gone…”

“Mrs Danvers, you’ve got to stop, you shouldn’t speak of these things!” I tried to put my hand over her mouth but she nearly bit me, her jaws snapping together with the sound of a jewellery box closing.

“Not speak of these things? That would suit you, wouldn’t it? To bury my lady with silence like he is doing, pretending the past can be blotted out, that he cannot feel her in every room. Do you think I do not see? Do you think I do not feel? Do you think because I am poor and plain and merely a housekeeper that I’ve no thoughts, no desires?” It was horrible, the way she spoke, how the words came out rough and choked. I had to stop her from laying herself bare like this, but I did not know how. And all the while my legs were still wound around her, and the weight of her bearing down on me was sweet, scandalous sin. In the end I did the only thing I could think of: I grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked her head close to me, and kissed that raving mouth of hers.

We had a completely different sort of fight then. We were joined at the hip, cleaving together, and she rode me and I rode her, the two of us panting and flushing. Her mouth stoppered mine, and I could scarcely breathe. It felt as if she wished to suck the life out of me, every little wisp of it, from my flesh and muscle, from the meat of my spine. I fought back. I licked her gums, tasting that queer taste of my unravelling, sharp like vinegar. I clawed at her back, my fingers slipping on the smooth fabric of her dress. She was so slick and fast, it was neigh impossible to hold her down, to pleat her against me and be certain in the knowledge she would not leave me.

Her hand found its way between our bodies. She pushed a finger into me, and that was wrong, but it was also bliss. She thrust it into me.

“Goddamn you,” I panted. She added another finger. This was what Maxim did to me, invading me, but with him my body rebelled and wished to expel him, whereas it welcomed Mrs Danvers.

She had done this before, of that there could be no doubt, but had she done it with the only one who mattered? Had she pleasured Rebecca like she pleasured me? “Did you and Rebecca…” I began.

She curved her fingers inside me, dragged them out, and it was too much. “Don’t speak her name,” she growled. “Don’t talk about her.” She pushed her fingers back in, and I came apart.

“Danny,” I moaned. I could not help it. “Danny, goddamn, Danny…”

I had hoped she’d go easy on me now that my muscles rippled and clenched around her digits, but it seemed to excite her, for she set a quicker, harder pace, almost brutal, dancing on the edge where pain becomes pleasure and pleasure becomes pain. She added the weight of her hips behind her hand, thrusting more fiercely. I clutched her shoulder. When I came a second time, I bit at her face, her cheek, her chin, her jaw, and she had to grab me by the throat and push my face down against the covers. My hairpins dug into my scalp. I smelled Maxim then, that rugged, masculine scent of cigarettes and dogs and leather. If I had not been so afraid, so desperately passive, would I have gone to him on one of the many nights we had spent here at Manderley? Would I have slipped between these covers and put my hand on his manhood to feel it stir? Would I have straddled him, plunging him inside me? Would I have wished for him to flip me on my belly and take me from behind, my face buried in his sheets as it was now?

Why did I have to think about that now? And why did it make my belly clench, why did it make me shiver and sweat all over, the ripples of orgasm tugging at my consciousness? When I had ridden out my third climax, Mrs Danvers stopped squirming against me. “I knew you’d flush from nipple to crown when you come,” she laughed. She pulled her fingers from me and pushed them against my lips, her nails clicking against my teeth. “Don’t you dare bite me,” she said. I had nicked her jaw, I saw; a little trickle of blood had come down her throat.

I took her fingers in my mouth and sucked the silty wetness from it. When I was done, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed it between my legs. I flinched; I was very sensitive. She took the sodden handkerchief and wiped it on my throat, smearing my desire into the little bluish hollow at the base of it. “My mistress used to do this before every party. The men would smell it on her, and trail after her like dogs. I’ll wash my hands now. Go sit at your vanity so I can pin up your hair again and make up your face.”

She went into the bathroom. I could hear her fiddle with the taps and let the water splash into the basin. I came to my feet. My legs trembled. I had to hold on to the bed to keep from falling, and lean on the furniture as I made my way back to the dressing room.

The face that looked back at me from the mirror was not my own. It was flushed, with sparkling eyes. Mrs Danvers had bruised my throat. My hair had come down in damp little locks that curled against my cheeks. I began to take out the pins. My fingers felt queer and wouldn’t do what I wished them to do so that I dropped pin after pin.

Mrs Danvers came to me after a little while. She had wiped away the blood at her jawline and pinned her hair back up. She had brought a wet flannel for me. “Press this against your throat,” she said, and her voice was without animation again, the voice of someone not quite alive. She took my hairbrush and without a word began to brush my hair. Her hands were cold from the water. She helped me fasten my hair to my scalp and put on the wig, then painted my mouth for me and powdered away the bruises at my throat. She was very cool, very efficient, not at all like the impassioned woman of half an hour ago.

“All done, Madam,” she said.

I could not look her in the eye. “Thank you, Mrs Danvers. I suppose I should go downstairs. They’re probably waiting for me.”

At the door she stopped me. “Madam, you shouldn’t,” she said, and there was an urgency to her words, a simple sort of honesty. Then, the mask slipped back into place. “You’ve forgotten your hat.”

I stared at the beribboned thing. “You’re right, so I have.” I took it out of its box.

“I’d keep it in your hand if I were you,” she said. “It would crush the curls.”

“Indeed.”

I stepped out into the hallway. I was no longer excited. I just felt tired, drained. But Maxim will see you and adore you, and then all shall be well. You can forget about Mrs Danvers and all she did to you, all you wanted her to do to you. You need not think about Rebecca, and whether Mrs Danvers pleasured her. You can push it all away, down where all the hurtful things go. It can be your secret indulgence.

Afterwards, when Maxim had roared at me and sent me back up in front of everyone as if I was a naughty child, after I had locked myself into my room, my eyes red and raw from weeping but my mind a little clearer, I felt a new thought intrude on my grief. It was an insidious little thought, snagging into my mind like a thorn, humiliating me further, and it would not be pushed down, it would not be indulged in secretly: had Mrs Danvers only lain with me because I had been dressed like Rebecca?

[yesloverboy]

Neighborly (mgk!Tommy Lee x Reader) Part 5

SUMMARY: Desperate to explain himself, Tommy runs out of the party to find you after drunkenly kissing a groupie– despite his claims that he’s in love with you. Realizing he completely fucked up, Tommy vows to do whatever it takes to make it up to you and prove that he really means what he says. Something tells you it’s going to take a lot of convincing, but how far is he really willing to go?

word count: 4,327

[Warnings: swearing, body image, little bit of angst, a lot of fluffy goodness, drug and alcohol mention/usage.]

NOTE: Sorry for the big ass delay on this chapter, I started a full time internship and haven’t had a lot of time to myself lately. That being said I do have some stuff planned, so hopefully writing the next few parts won’t be nearly as difficult. There’s even a smut chapter coming (fairly) soon, so don’t worry Reader and Tommy will most definitely fuck. Cross my heart.  

tags: @kwyloz, @scarecrowmax, @lavendersoundbarrier, @stevenandsam, @totallynotkaibiased, @rogertaylur, @fatheadtheroger, @secretly-a-groupie, @kickstart-myheart-sixx, @abbysdogcollar, @dirtysixxers, @black-tights-black-heart, @valentines-in-london, @colsonbakersnoseringmain, @hxllywood-whxre, @ccidk, @sharon6713, @myshakespeareandarling, @moon-beame, @carmineharry

 You manage to sprint up to your apartment before Tommy is able to catch up with you. A chorus of yelling and screaming can still be heard from downstairs, but it seems more aggressive than before. Deciding whatever’s happening is officially none of your concern anymore, you rush into the safety of your apartment. The door slams behind you with a heavy thud, causing the brittle walls to shake and echo in its wake.  

 With your back against the door, you find yourself unable to move. The events of tonight keep replaying in your head– from Tommy kissing you at your dining table to watching him become colored pink by some other girl’s lipstick. All the memories were meshing and molding together, burning a hole in your mind like a bad reel of film.

 Your ruminating thoughts are promptly interrupted by a harsh knock on the door behind you. For the first time since you moved in, you spin around and secure the door chain, preventing anyone from fully entering the apartment.

 “Y/N, it’s me! Open up!”

 You say nothing, stupidly hoping that Tommy will get the hint and continue the rest of his evening downstairs. Instead, he only pounds on the door harder, making you worried it may very well fall off the hinges.

 “I know I fucked up! Will you please just open the door so we can talk?!”

 Tommy tries opening the door this time, but the door chain catches the movement, only allowing it to open about four inches at most. Through the crack in the frame, you can see a sliver of Tommy’s washed out expression as he gazes at you with wide eyes.  

 “Y/N, what the fuck is this?” Tommy gestures to the chain fastened firmly in place, his face fraught with worry.

 “I have nothing to say to you,” your voice shakes as tears threaten to leak out once again. Gritting your teeth, you avert your eyes to the floor, unable to look at Tommy without trembling.

 “But, Y/N I love–”

 “Don’t,” you interrupt, finding that Tommy wanting to admit his supposed love for you after what happened was the final straw. “You don’t get to say that.”

 Summoning your courage, you take a few steps toward the door. Tommy watches you with glassy eyes, looking more like a kicked puppy than the party animal you witnessed downstairs. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they’re the same person.

 “Please Tommy, just leave.”

 Tommy bites his lip, and you know his leg is bouncing nervously by the way his shoulders involuntarily rock back and forth. “I-I can’t. I won’t.”

 With a heavy sigh you go to push the door the rest of the way closed. Surprisingly, Tommy doesn’t resist and allows it to slam in his face, eyes remaining fixed on the ground.

 For the first time since that morning, you’re finally able to breathe. You’re proud of yourself for being able to deny Tommy’s effort of engaging in damage control but, for some reason, it still doesn’t feel very good. The music from the party downstairs reverberates against the old floorboards, reminding you of the growing pit in your stomach.

 Deep within, you knew going to the show wasn’t a good idea, but Tommy’s deep blue eyes and gentle touch brought something out of you that you didn’t recognize. Now here you are, confused and hurt at the hands of your crazy neighbor who claims to already be in love with you. You thoughts wander back through visions of Tommy kissing the brunette downstairs, causing you to reflexively clench your jaw.

     I deserve this, don’t I?

 Feeling exhausted, emotionally and physically, you decide it’s best if you just turn in for the night. Trudging into your bedroom, you immediately shed Tommy’s jacket. It falls to a sad heap on the floor, coiling up in the corner of the room like a poisonous snake. Although the sight of it inherently sickens you, you still recall the way Tommy’s goofy smile and contagious laugh had lit up your apartment for the past week.

 In an attempt to drown out your thoughts and some of the party below, you switch on the radio and tune it to the oldies station, hoping that the white noise will be relaxing. You yank off your jeans and switch off the light, not bothering to wash your face or change into pyjamas. Nothing seems more important than allowing the softness of Ella Fitzgerald’s gentle croon lull you to sleep.

 You close your eyes, trying to cleanse your thoughts of all the stress and anxiety from the past few hours. Still, you dream of lipstick coated kisses and endless, blue eyes.

     I’ll be seeing you.

...

That morning, you allow yourself to sleep in, awakening only when the sun is just about to dip into early afternoon. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you look up at the cactus bathing in the sunshine on your windowsill. It’s standing taller in its jar than when Tommy left it for you. With a bitter scoff, you kick off the covers and exchange last night’s halter top for an oversized t-shirt. 

 Although you didn’t get wasted last night, your steady consumption of beer on a near empty stomach left you with a throbbing headache and a sour taste in your mouth. You try to busy yourself by starting a pot of coffee and jumping in the shower. No matter how hard you scrub, it seems you can’t get the scent of Tommy’s cigarettes and cologne off of your skin. If last night were a phantom, it would surely be haunting you. 

 By the time you’re able to get a sip of coffee, the entire apartment is hot and sticky with shower steam. Feeling hyper-aware of your raw skin and heavy eyelids, you decide now is a perfect time to make use of the balcony. Maybe getting some fresh air would even be good for you. 

 You remain in just your old t-shirt and a pair of underwear, permitting your hair to drip freely onto the floor. Typically you’d feel more inclined to cover up, but it seems you have much bigger problems than your idiot neighbors. Even if one of them was the biggest problem of all. 

 Coffee mug in hand, you unlatch the chain and pull open the door. As you go to step outside, you foot caches on a soft object blocking your way. What the fuck? Looking down you discover a long, lanky body curled into itself on your welcome mat. 

 “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, recognizing the tangle of limbs and brown curls as none other than Tommy fucking Lee.

 Tommy stirs at the sound of your voice, stretching out and rolling onto his back. You hesitantly nudge his arm with your foot, trying to shake him awake before he has time to process where he’s at. If you were being honest, Tommy was the last person you wanted to see. You assume he must have been a lot more fucked up last night than you thought, judging by the fact that he’s presently passed out on your doorstep.

 “Tommy,” you whisper harshly, wanting so desperately for him to get up and go away, “Tommy get the fuck up!”

 “Hmmm?” he hums in confusion, his saltwater blue eyes squinting against the invasive rays of sunlight. Tommy’s eyes meet yours, and you try to ignore the little flutter of hope your heart feels when his face lights up with recognition.

 Tommy pulls himself up on his feet, jutting upwards as if awakening from a dream. You take a step back, afraid he may lose his balance and collapse on top of you.

 Noticing you recoiling away, Tommy grabs ahold of your shoulder with a firm hand. You scowl as coffee sloshes out of the cup and lands on your bare feet, stinging your toes.

 “Wait! Don’t go yet– please don’t go yet, I have to talk to you–I have to explain,” Tommy’s words come out in an incoherent babble, “I waited all–all fucking night, just like I said and I, uh, can you please just let me come in?”

 You mouth falls open in utter astonishment as your weary brain puts the pieces together. Tommy didn’t pass out, he slept on your doorstep in the hopes that you would eventually open the door. Technically, he succeeded.

 Tommy doesn’t wait for your answer, and instead continues to plead with you, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, “I couldn’t leave, I didn’t want to.”

 Sighing, you step aside and open the door all the way, wordlessly inviting him inside like you had in the past. You hate yourself for empathizing with his dark circles and broken posture from sleeping on the ground, but figure it very well may have been punishment enough.

 Tommy makes a beeline for your tiny sofa, flopping on it so forcefully that you fear it might snap in half. With his head hanging limply off the arm of the sofa, he buries his face in his hands and groans up at the ceiling in relief.

 “No offense, Y/N, but that welcome mat of yours fucking sucks.”

 You abandon your coffee mug by the sink, deciding you don’t have the patience to reheat it, and perch on the opposite arm where Tommy’s feet are resting.

  “That’s because it’s a welcome mat, not a please sleep on me when you’re being an asshole mat,” you retort, still unable to rid your voice of its residual bitterness from the night before.

 “I know, you’re right,” Tommy sits up straight, hugging his impossibly long legs to his chest, “But I had to see you.” 

 “Why?”

 “Because I–well, you know what I’m trying to say,” he picks at his shoelaces absentmindedly, cheeks pink with something that resembles embarrassment.

 You sigh running a hand through your hair, “You know I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Tommy.”

 “Look, I know I royally fucked up, but I just don’t know how to do this,” he gestures between the two of you as if there’s some kind of tangible force holding you both together. You swallow hard, wondering if maybe there is.

 “There is no this, Tommy. It’s obvious that there never was,” you can’t help how harsh you sound as the ghost of self-doubt starts to creep into your head, making you wonder if Tommy ever genuinely liked you to begin with.

 “God, but I want there to be. I want this to be something so bad, you don’t even understand.”

 I do, you think, wanting nothing more than to just shout it at him and end the conversation. You decide that you can’t, choosing now to guard your heart better than before. “I’m just not sure I believe you,” you answer honestly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

 Tommy leans forward and grasps both of your hands in his, the sudden touch causing your skin to prickle with goosebumps. His hands are warm and secure against your own, fitting together just as comfortably as your lips had when he kissed you.

 “Hey, Y/N, look at me. Please.”

 You comply, meeting his gaze and seeing nothing but honesty. No alcohol, no drugs, no pushy bandmates– just happy-go-lucky Tommy.

 “Let me prove it to you, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes, I swear,” Tommy grazes your palms gently with his thumbs, settling the uneasiness in your stomach. As much as you want to move on with your life, you can’t help but wonder if there’s something in the universe that keeps dragging the two of you together. Even though Tommy fucked up, you had never met someone so eager to gain your approval and keep it– especially not someone you didn’t officially belong to.

 Tommy awaits your reply with bated breath, obsessively searching your face for any indication of what you might be thinking.

 “I’ll think about it,” you decide, giving Tommy’s hands a gentle squeeze of affirmation.

 Tommy releases your hands and claps his together victoriously, “Oh thank fucking god!”

 “You do realize I didn’t say yes, right?”

 “I know dude, but everyone knows that if it isn’t a no then it’s definitely a maybe. Which is code for almost yes.”

 “Unbelievable,” you roll your eyes, trying to fight off the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. For the first time that day, Tommy is grinning. Tommy’s smile was something you didn’t know you needed to see until it was gone, but being able to bring it back makes it all worthwhile.

 “You know you say that a lot,” Tommy averts his eyes, a hint of shyness lingering in his voice. Apparently you weren’t the only one turning into someone unrecognizable since the two of you crossed paths.

 “That’s because you haven’t given me a reason to stop,” you nudge his knee playfully with your own, “now get out of my apartment before I change my mind.”

 “Whatever you say, pretty girl.” 

...

 After Tommy left, you decided to busy yourself with flipping through the Help Wanted section of the paper, hoping to find some odd jobs to do while you wait to see if UCLA will let you transfer for the semester. If you were lucky, maybe you’d even score a scholarship. You try to shake the thought, attempting to be a little bit more realistic about your life choices. Help Wanted it is, then.

 Store clerk, housekeeper, secretary, assistant manager– nothing seemed to be jumping out at you. At this point, you know you can’t really afford to be picky, but it would be nice to find something that you won’t mind doing just in case college doesn’t work out.

 Chewing thoughtlessly on the end of a pen, your eyes slowly drift downward to a cluster of small print at the bottom of the page.

     ‘Help Wanted – Record Store Sales Associate’

 The possibility of working in a record store didn’t sound so bad. At least if something were to fall through with UCLA, you’d still be able to get involved with music in some small way. You go ahead and circle the small ad, think that you may even try giving them a call later.

 Your job search is halted by the shrill ring of a telephone coming from your kitchen. Perplexed, you get up and eye the old phone cautiously. In the short amount of time you’d been in Los Angeles, you hadn’t had any reason to give anyone your phone number just yet. Who could be calling? The old tenant, maybe?

 Picking up the phone, you barely catch it before its final ring.

 “Hello?”

 “Y/N! Hey, it’s Tommy!” his low voice crackles softly through the static. You can hear the sounds of cars and people talking in the background, and figure he must’ve stopped at a phonebooth.  “Tommy? How the hell did you get this number?” you try to ask calmly, but hiding the surprise in your voice is nearly impossible.

 You barely know your own number, and highly doubt Tommy’s memorization skills are better than yours. Tommy chuckles on the other end and you can practically envision the goofy expression on his face.

 “The landlady, dude! She may or may not have a thing for me, and I may or may not have asked her for your number.”

 Tangling your fingers through the telephone cord with an unthinking hand, you feel lucky that Tommy isn’t able to see the girlish smile forming on your face.

 “Of course you did,” you say, stifling a giggle.

 “Yeah well, you know me– oh yeah! I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

 “Shoot,” you reply, racking your brain for any ideas as to what could be so important that Tommy would go through the trouble of getting your number and calling.

 Tommy takes in a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Would you–would you go on a date with me?”

 You nearly laugh out loud. “So this is what you couldn’t wait until you got home to tell me?”

 “Well, I just thought that taking you out would be the best way to show you that I really care, ya know?”

 You feel your heart soften at Tommy’s words, but there’s still something inside of you that wants a little bit more payback for what he put you through yesterday. As much as you appreciate the attention and his eagerness to please you, you want to make absolutely sure that he isn’t trying to play you.

 “Tommy, you know I said that I’d think about it.”

 “Yeah, but that was before I had a plan,” he scoffs impatiently, “and now I have one and I want to take you out.”

 “Okay well I’m pretty busy, so talk later–okay?” you go to put the phone down when you hear the faint sound of Tommy’s excited yelling coming from the receiver.

 “Wait, Y/N! Before you go, can I ask you one more thing?”

 “I’m listening,” you say.

 “Do you like flowers?”

 The question catches you off guard, “Uh, yeah. Doesn’t everyone?”

 “Okay cool, I was just wondering. Anyways, I gotta jet! See ya, dude!”

 The line goes dead as Tommy abruptly hangs up, the dial tone echoing flatly in your ears. As usual, Tommy leaves you confused and smiling to yourself. Just last night you thought you never wanted to give him the time of day, and now here you are, grinning like an idiot alone in your house.

     Why him?

...

 There’s a knock on your door about an hour after Tommy’s phone call. It certainly doesn’t take much brain power to figure out who’s probably waiting for you on the other side.

 “What do you want now, Tommy?” you ask, pulling open the door.

 Tommy looks down at you with a crazed look in his eyes, “Whoa, Y/N! How’d you know it was me?”

 “Lucky guess.”

 Tommy leans against the doorframe, head cocked to the side to get a better look at you. “So, uh about that date…” he wastes no time getting to the point of his sudden visit, “...do you think you might wanna go?”  “I said I’d think about it,” you shoot him a wry smile, finding yourself relishing in the opportunity to make him squirm for once.

 Tommy runs his hands through his hair, tugging at his dark waves in mild frustration. “Yeah but that was hours ago and–”

 “One hour ago. At most.”

 “–and I just really want to show you I’m serious okay? Let me take you out, Y/N. Please.” Tommy’s giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes he can, resorting to his boyish charm to win you over.

 You rub your chin for show, attempting to give the illusion that you’re lost deep within your own thoughts.  “Hmmm…” Tommy looks at you expectantly, hanging on your every syllable, “...still thinking about it.”

 “Oh come on, now you’re just being mean.”

 “Maybe,” you laugh, a playful lilt coloring your voice, “but don’t worry, loverboy, I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

 “Fine,” Tommy pouts, looking oddly adorable for a nearly grown man in such a disgruntled state of being.  You give the toe of his sneaker a reassuring nudge, “I’ll come to you.” It wasn’t just a possibility, it was a promise. After all, he was impossible to say no to.  “When?” Tommy asks, chest swelling with hope.

 “Eventually.”

...

 It’s almost evening when yet another knock sounds at your door. With a frustrated sigh, you fling the book you’d been reading down onto the coffee table, letting it splay out in a heap of crumpled pages.  “Tommy, how many times do I have to tell you that I’d think about it,” you groan, rushing to open the door.  When it swings open you look up, expecting to see Tommy’s looming figure, but instead look across from you to find Mick standing at your doorstep. In one of his hands is a bouquet of crimson roses wrapped snugly in a sheet of parchment paper. They’re absolutely stunning, and look extremely expensive.

 “Sorry to disappoint, neighbor,” Mick says, voice weary and bored as always, “but your idiot boy is off doing god knows what.”

 “Then what are you–?”

 Mick holds up his free hand, gently cutting you off before you can finish. “He wanted me to give you these.” He points the bouquet in your direction so you can take it, the parchment paper it's wrapped in rustles gently against the summer breeze. “‘Says you told him not to come up here.”

 “O-oh,” you stammer, unable to control the flush of heat rising rapidly to your cheeks. You aren’t entirely sure why Tommy was so hellbent on getting you to go out on a date with him, but you can’t deny that his methods are starting to work on you.

 “Look,” Mick huffs, as if being bothered to speak is an unbearable burden, “I can’t vouch for Tommy often, but what I can say is that he really wants to make this right. Whatever it is that’s going on up here.”

 “But I thought you said he does this shit all the time?” you don’t mean to sound argumentative with Mick, but part of the reason why you had a hard time buying that Tommy really cares is because of what you had heard and seen for yourself.

 “I’ve seen him fall in love a dozen times, but I’ve only ever seen him want to stay in it once– and that’s right now. He even called off our gig tonight just so he could go and figure everything out.”

 You swallow hard, knowing deep down that Mick would never had come up here to do such a ridiculous errand if he doesn’t at least partly believe what he’s saying. You think back to last night’s party and recall Mick’s shocked expression mirroring yours when that girl kissed Tommy. If anyone had even an inkling of what you had experienced, it was him.

 “Thank you,” you reply, voice softening with sincerity.

 Mick rolls his eyes, “Don’t thank me, go downstairs and tell Tommy that you’ll do it. I know you’re not that dumb, neighbor.

...

 “Hey drummer, special delivery!” Mick yells as the two of you step into the Crüe apartment.

 The boys’ apartment is in the same state of disarray as when you had fled from it the night before. The only difference is that, now, it was devoid of rambunctious party goers and populated by the occasional roach or two. From down the hall, you can hear Tommy’s wide steps approaching as he struts toward the living room.

 “Mick! Hey man, listen. I really don’t have time for this I have to get everything ready for–” Tommy stops dead in his tracks when he sees you standing by the busted window, hugging a dozen roses securely to your chest.

 “Y/N! What’re you doing here?” Tommy’s face lights up, his eyes brightening as he approaches you.  

 Mick interjects before you can respond. “She’s here to tell you that’s she finally come to her senses. Although I can’t blame her for being...apprehensive,” he punctuates his statement by glowering in Tommy’s direction.

 Tommy is only able to raise his hands in a form of surrender, taking an instinctive step back away from Mick.

 “Now,” Mick continues, “I leave you to it.”

 With that, Mick saunters out of the window ledge and into the sunshine, his back ramrod straight to support the slight limp developing in his leg. When he’s finally out of sight, you and Tommy exchange a bewildered look that quickly dissolves into an amiable fit of laughter. The roses are still pulled firmly against you as you look up at Tommy. You love the way his nose crinkles when he laughs, and know that–one day– he’ll probably have crows feet from a lifetime of smiling. Hopefully you’d even be around to see them.  

 “You know,” Tommy starts, pointing at the bundle of roses in your arms, “if I had known flowers were going to do the trick I would’ve bought you a hundred.”

 “Let’s just say that a certain alien may have put in a good word for you.”

 Tommy lets out a huge sigh of relief, “I’m so happy to hear you say that. Sending the old man up there was a gamble, and he definitely wasn’t happy with me today. Guess I owe him one.”

 “Can’t imagine why,” you smirk, satisfied with the fact that you aren’t the only one around here that isn’t completely willing to let go.

 “Anyways,” Tommy asserts, stepping into your personal space and placing his hands on his hips impatiently, “isn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”

 You gingerly pull one of the roses out from the bunch and hold it out to Tommy, careful not to prick your fingers on the thorns.

 “Tommy, may I go on a date with you?”

 Tommy accepts the rose, a broad smile breaking out across his face, “Hell yeah, baby girl. Pick you up at noon tomorrow?”

 “Sure thing, drummer boy,” you say.

 In a moment of sheer impulse, you stand up on the tips of your toes and place a soft kiss on Tommy’s cheek. His thin layer of stubble tickles your lips as that familiar, electric feeling courses through your being. When you come back down to the ground, Tommy is stunned to silence. He gently places a hand on his cheek, securing it to the spot where you kissed him as if were trying to preserve the delicate gesture forever.

 “So now will you leave me alone?” you laugh, making your way over to the open window.

 Just as you are about to climb on out of the Crüe apartment, Tommy suddenly comes back to reality and rushes over. “Wait! Uh, don’t forget to wear a bathing suit tomorrow.”

 “A bathing suit?” you ask incredulously, a single eyebrow raised, “What for?”

 “You’ll see.”

Part 6

Masterlist

[bat-losers-inc]

Collisions in the Dark (Ch 11): Dead Draw

Summary: Jason’s holding him in his arms as they talk of fate and everlasting promises, but there are predator birds circling in the skies above them and Tim can’t hold himself to any promises he makes in that moment. 

Pairings: Tim Drake/Jason Todd

Chapter Notes: Dead Draw: A dead draw may refer to a position in which it is impossible for either player to win.

“What if I lost all those things. Humor, wit, beauty. What if I lost it all and there was nothing left of me. And what if I were just a corpse. And what if I were less than that. Would you still love me? Would you tunnel into the ground until the sun came out so that you could have my body to hold?” —“ Thunderbird ” , Dorothea Lasky.

When Tim awoke from his short nap, he was alone in the cabin of the car. He blinked groggily at the space across from him, staring at the field of dried brown grass that rolled out in front of his eyes like waves on the ocean. The sunlight, where it cut through the blades, made them glow golden. The scene was almost beautiful and it lured Tim’s mind into complacency. It was a stupidly long minute before Tim realized he should only be able to see the leather interior of the passenger door from his slumped position in the driver’s seat. There was also the added problem of Jason disappearing from Tim’s side.

“Fuck. ” Tim’s knee slammed into the underside of the dashboard in his hurry to shift his body up and over towards the empty seat beside him. Tim placed his palm on top of the cushion as his eyes continued to scan the area outside the car. He felt heat but it was impossible to say if it was from leftover body heat or from the sunlight that slanted across the right side of the car.

“Fuck, I should have never stopped the car. I should have never let Jason convince me to do something so fucking stupid.”

Just a few hours to rest your eyes, Jason had said. You’re no good to anyone if you’re brain dead from fatigue. I’ll keep watch. Tim blamed his exhaustion for his weak comeback that had lost him that argument.

Tim lifted his palm from the cushion and twisted around in his seat to scan the area that surrounded the car. He’d pulled them off the highway and parked them behind one of the long, squat buildings that dotted the landscape every ten minutes or so. It had been the only cover offered to them as the sun rose over the mountain tops and glided down over the barren, flat area they were in the process of crossing.

Tim stepped out of the car. He stood still for a long moment, shivering as his body adjusted from the cozy warmth of the car to the frigid, billowy, weather outside. Tim glanced around nervously. Despite the fact that his blood was pumping through his veins like a high speed train down the tracks, he knew that he needed to be careful about drawing attention to himself. Sleep hadn’t eased the feeling of eyes on him.

Jason was worth the risk and it wasn’t like Tim would be standing around like some defenseless prey, waiting to be picked off by a lurking predator.

He pulled the shotgun out of the backseat. The barrel had been sawed off to allow it to fit into the small space of the car. Tim held it out in front of him as he moved forward through the grass. Tim was aware of the weight of the shotgun, clumsy in his hands, and the way the tall grass brushed against his knees through the fabric of his pants.

“Jason!” called Tim.

He swiveled the shotgun from side to side as he walked, each step crunching. Too loud . If Tim didn’t find Jason soon, they would surely be found by anyone hiding nearby. Just thinking about it made Tim’s stomach tie itself into knots. What if Jason hadn’t just wandered off but was taken and being used to lure Tim away from safety?

In the distance Tim spotted a grey mass, its body parting the grass around it. Tim broke into a run towards it, stumbling and jumping over divots hidden underneath the tall grass.

Tim stopped a foot away. There was perspiration dripping down the back of his neck by then. Jason was still and pale in front of his eyes. Tim watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, reassuring himself with every breath he counted that Jason lived still.

It was strange how Jason’s name used to breathe freely from his lips and now it lodged in Tim’s throat, hiding inside of him like it was afraid it was the last time the name would be spoken.

“Jason.” It was more a croak than his name.

Jason groaned and shifted. Pale green eyes blinked up at him and quickly flickered from Tim’s worried face to the gun gripped in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jason.

“I woke up and you were missing. Did you fall asleep out here?”

Jason pushed himself upright into a sitting position and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead with a groan. “No I— ugh— came out here to take a piss and I got a little lightheaded. I sat down to wait for it to pass but I don’t remember falling asleep.”

That didn’t exactly uncoil the knot in Tim’s stomach.

“Give me that,” Jason took the shotgun from Tim’s hand and placed it across his knees, then he reached for the hand that had held it only a minute ago. Jason’s hand was rough and warm in Tim’s own and Jason’s body was even warmer as Tim was pulled down to sit curled up against Jason’s side.

Jason tucked Tim’s head into the crook of his neck and planted his chin on top of Tim’s head. For a while they sat quietly, the only sounds were the wind in their ears and the cries of the vultures and saker falcons that circled the air.

Finally, Jason spoke.

“Tim… we need to have talk.”

Tim grunted a laugh at that. He was pretty sure he knew what Jason was ready to talk about now. “Why now? I’ve been trying to have this discussion with you since we started this journey and you’ve blocked my every attempt.”

Jason shrugged. “I needed a little normalcy… some time to collect my thoughts. And this needs to be discussed before thing get… messy.”

Jason sighed and wrapped Tim in his arm. He kissed the top of his head like a balm to soothe the pain he was about to inflict.

“If I don’t survive this, I don’t want you to try to bring me back again.”

Tim jerked so hard that he elbowed Jason in the ribs. The other boy coughed as the air was punched out of him, but refused to release him. Refused to look Tim in the eyes and see the hurt he was causing him. Jason was playing dirty to get his own way, but Tim couldn’t really blame him for trying.

“You can’t just—”

“I said no, Tim! No cheating death. I’ve already gone through that once against my will and it was worse than death. I never want to go through that again… it’s something that I believe you can only ever go through alone. And it’s so, so, lonely. Better to die if it’s meant to be that way.”

“But Jason, if there’s a chance to bring you back, so that we can live out the rest of our lives together, how can you not take it?” asked Tim.

“Because,” said Jason. “I’d rather live a few days with you in safety then send you down a road that leads you back to the devil. We both know that only Ra’s al Ghul knows the locations of the lazarus pits. The man who sent me to my death isn’t going to bring me back to life without a price and I have a feeling that if I were to be resurrected, we wouldn’t be living out the rest of our lives together. If I send you to him, you wouldn’t be coming back.”

“What if we didn’t make a deal? We could infiltrate—”

“You’re telling me that you’re going to sneak into one of Ra’s compounds carrying my dead body?”

Jason’s disbelief was audible. Tim had angry tears in his eyes by then. He couldn’t tell who he was angry at, however. Perhaps the universe for pitting everyone and everything against them. It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t right the way the world had conditioned Jason to be so accepting of death.

 “I just don’t understand how you can just sit here and let it happen. How can you not fight it?”

“I have been fighting it. Since the day I was brought back.” Jason’s voice didn’t rise with anger, but there was a tinge to it that made Tim believe that he’d struck a nerve. “But it’s tiring fighting something that might have been destined a long time ago.”

He doesn’t believe he should be here, Tim realized with a pang in his chest. It hurt him to say the words, to let his thoughts wander down that dark road. “So what do you want me to do w— with your body? Afterwards.”

“Bring me home, I guess. Put me in the family plot.” Jason laughed, all dark humor. “Whatever you do, don’t leave me with the monks around here. That whole ‘sky burial’ is not my style. I don’t fancy being picked apart by vultures. I’m too pretty.”

He knew that Jason was trying to put a smile on his face, but Tim was too busy thinking it’s not going to happen. It doesn’t matter that we’re talking about this because he’s not going to die.

“Glad we talked about this. We should get going. There’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

Tim broke free of Jason’s grip and tried to rise and walk towards the car. Jason’s hand latched onto Tim’s forearm before he could move away.

“I need to hear you say, it, Tim. Promise me that you won’t resurrect me.”

Tim stared down at him. “I promise.” An empty promise for an outcome that would never come to be.

Tim got back into the driver’s seat and waited for Jason to join him. When he did, after the the other door closed with a click, Tim started the engine.

They were stopped for gas at a rinky-dink petrol station when Tim started to hear talk that had his thoughts taking a sudden worrying turn. Who was it exactly that they were meeting? The thought hadn’t been in the forefront of his mind, he would willingly admit, but now they were there front and center.

There are certain things that are hard to describe in any spoken language, which usually means they are expressed in the same words every time. Like, for example, ‘bubbling green pit that brings the dead back to life’. That one was hard for Tim to miss even with his rusty understanding of Tibetan.

Tim’s eyes were drawn away from the numbers ticking the price of gas up, up, up, towards the two local men leaning close together as one of them made work on filling up a gas can. He didn’t dare hold his gaze there, instead shifting until he could glimpse them in the window’s reflection. All the while his ears were perked to the sound of their voices, piecing apart the foreign words and turning them into english as fast as he could.

The men’s voices took on a note of fear as they traded tails about a mysterious and deadly figure. Tim was ready to jump in the car and tear ass out of there, his thoughts swarming with Ra’s al Ghul and his servants, but the next bit of conversation had his hand stilling over the gas pump. For it wasn’t an eloquent and deadly man that they spoke of, but a woman, young, dark, and deadly. Tim would have sworn they were talking about Talia al Ghul but he knew that was impossible.

Who was she? Tim wondered. And that same nagging worry…  was Tim driving Jason further into danger or into salvation? He would only figure that out if he kept going and a large part of Tim understood that it was worth it to take the risk. He’d sworn to Jason that he wasn’t going to go searching for a lazarus pit, but Tim had started this adventure in search of a person. If a lazarus pit fell into his lap then so be it.

Tim could play dirty as well.  

When they pulled off the road thirty miles outside of their destination dusk had already begun to set over the area. It was still outside of the car except for the breeze that stirred the grass. Tim was ready to curl up for the night, his body yearning to move into its usual position up against the driver side door, no matter how uncomfortable it was. Before he could, however, Jason pushed open his door and walked around towards the back of the car. He popped the trunk, the interior lighting blinking on overhead.

Tim squinted his eyes against the light and turned around in his seat to watch as Jason rummaged through the contents in the trunk.

“What are you doing?” he asked and Jason started back around the side of the car. Tim caught sight of the item held in his hands. A blanket.

“Come on,” Jason urged.

Tim stepped out of the car and made his way around the front of the car, taking his time as he watched Jason fling the blanket out before him letting it spread out to lay over the tall stems of grass.

Jason sat down and Tim perched on the blanket beside him. At this position their bodies were completely hidden by the grass.

“What are we doing out here, Jason? It’s too cold for this.” said Tim, after a long moment of silence, “Can’t we go back into the car?”

“Not for this,” replied Jason.

Tim turned, confused, and found his lips captured by Jason’s. Tim hummed, the soft noise escaping without his consent. He’d forgotten how soft Jason’s lips were and how thoroughly Jason was able to take Tim apart with just the hot press of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth. It was different from their first time, Tim realized. There was no fear of being caught at any second and the burning heat that they’d showed each other that night so long ago had cooled to a caressing warmth. Enough to fight off the chill in the air.

It calmed Tim in a way that he couldn’t explain.

Jason laid him down on the blanket and stretched out his body over him. Their clothing was removed slowly, piece by piece, the warmth returning to their skin through searching hands and ghosting breaths.

It wasn’t long before Jason was pushing into him. Tim couldn’t help but notice how Jason’s body had changed since the last time he’d seen it. The moonlight cast both of their bodies in its pale light, but Jason’s skin seemed paler still and speckled oddly across his chest. Tim realized it was not freckles he was seeing and the added sight of Jason’s lank form, where it had once been toned and firm to the touch, struck him hard in the gut. When it hurt too much to look Tim let his eyes float up above Jason’s form as it rocked and gasped above him to stare at the star-filled sky. He would count the stars until he felt ready to return to where his body was spread out on the ground, but from then on Tim’s eyes stayed fixed on Jason’s face and nothing else. His eyes are beautiful enough sight, Tim told himself, the rest doesn’t matter.

When they’d finished, they laid together staring up at the sky.

Jason coughed, hunching into a tight ball on his side as the spasms racked through him. Tim felt a wetness splatter onto his naked chest before Jason laid back down breathing heavily. Tim touched his fingers to the streak of wet on his chest, but in the darkness it was impossible to say. If he wasn’t so smart he might have passed it off as nothing. If he wasn’t so smart he might not have looked towards Jason’s hand, where the side of his palm was streaked with the same darkness that was anything but saliva.

Jason was staring at his hand as well, but not with the same choked shock that had seized Tim. Tim’s limbs felt like they were full of ice, like he’d stayed in this frozen landscape to long and it had changed his DNA. The feeling didn’t last long within Tim. After all, how could it with the life that Tim led? Night after night with nothing but pain and shock and death, but that need to keep moving. Just keep moving and maybe things would turn out better. It never really did though, as least it never felt like it did. Not to Tim. No matter what he did… how far he went… everyone just kept leaving.

Tim stretched his hand out, sliding it through the grass in search of his discarded clothes. Why had he let Jason take his clothes off? Why had he distracted himself? Why was he always so stu—

Jason pulled him towards his chest. “Tim—”

“No!” Tim shoved at his chest, “Just let me get my clothes on and—”

“Tim,” Jason’s strength wasn’t gone for good and what he did have he used to lock Tim’s arms in place. “Stop it, please. I just want to stay here. I just want to stop fighting it, Tim. I’m just so tired.”

Jason tucked Tim’s head against his chest. Tim was still trying to break his hold. “We’re so close, Jason—”

Jason shook his head. “Too much damage has already been done. Even if we did make it to this person, what would they do for me now? I’m terminal.”

He was right, Tim knew it like he knew his own name, but it hurt too much to admit it to himself. He couldn’t help the tears when they came, the flood breaking open and pouring out onto Jason’s warm skin. Not again, thought Tim. Not another one. Please God what would he have to do to stop the cycle?

As always there was no answer from the sky. Only Jason’s unsteady humming in his ear as his shoulders shook with sobs.

[ourmrmel]

Mel Feller MPA, MHR, Looks at How Meetings When People are Disengaged

Mel Feller MPA, MHR, Looks at How Meetings When People are Disengaged

 Mel is the President/Founder of Mel Feller Seminars with Coaching for Success 360, Inc. and Mel Feller Coaching. Mel Feller Ministries. Mel Feller is an Innovator and Business Leader. Visit www.melfeller.com and www.melfellersuccessstories.com Mel Feller currently maintains office in Texas. Currently an MBA Candidate.

  Have you ever been in a meeting where one person decided to display a negative attitude? You know the person who starts reading his cell phone, or the other one who suddenly falls quiet, or what about the one who starts to slide down his chair and on to the floor. Well if you are the one in charge of the meeting what is your role in this dysfunction? I recently heard a speaker, who was talking about the culture of accountability say, "You get what you put up with". Bad behavior and rudeness happen because people continually get away with it.

 So let us break down bad behavior into three primary categories:

 Checked out or disengaged

 Negative

  Rude

  Because of the proliferation of cell phones, I want to specifically discuss the scenario of disengagement. Reading on cell phones and "multi-tasking" have become commonplace in business meetings. Therefore, you are leading a meeting and notice that one or more participants are texting or reading email on their phones. What options do you have now? First, you need to assess if this is a theme or an instance i.e. does the person disengaging have a reputation for checking out and not actively participating or is this something unusual for the team member. If this person has, a reputation for disengaging then it should be addressed within the meeting. As the leader of the team, you have the following options:

 You can ignore the behavior, limiting the team to less than high performance and continue the dysfunction by not managing the bad behavior. If this is your choice, you may want reevaluate why you are managing a team.

  You have the option of communicating to the person that you recognize that they are not currently part of the meeting. Ask them "Is there something urgent that you need to take care of at this time?" It may be that an emergency has come up which she needs to address. In addition, if this is the case and she is key to the meeting, then reschedule the meeting. If she is not key to the meeting, then dismiss her to her emergency. However, in my experience this usually is not the case.

  You can wait until after the meeting and then pull the person aside to discuss what was driving the behavior. If there was not an emergency, find out how they think their behavior impacts the meeting, other team members, as well as their effectiveness in the job.

   You can wait for an opportunity to ask her a pointed question specific to the conversation, such as "What do you think of Rick's idea? This will either bring the person back into the conversation and/or will create a moment of embarrassment. Depending on their response, you may need to have a follow on conversation with them one on one.

  Alternatively, you can address the whole team and open the discussion to everyone. What are their thoughts about team members checking out? What would their suggestions be to become a more high performing team and have everyone engaged? This option may uncover process or content issues of the meeting that you have not considered may be part of the disengaging behaviors.

  So as a leader it is your choice, allow the dysfunction to continue and you may wake up without a job in the future. On the other hand, address the issue and set the tone for more productive meetings that will lead to team success.

  However, there are some things you can do to make your meeting interesting. I know that we have all been to those golden meetings full of energy and real productivity. Too many meetings end up being a waste of time where everyone is dozing off or doing other work.

   According to a study reported by Fortune, the average employee sends three emails for every 30 minutes of meeting time. Conference calls make it even easier to zone out. Another study found that 43% of conference call attendees spend part of the meeting checking social media while 65% are doing other work.

 Why are attendees so distracted? They are bored!

  Here are five common but easily fixable meeting mistakes that could be the real reason your attendees are bored.

  It is too long.

 Because they typically need to meet every day, software development teams often have a “daily stand-up.” It is exactly what it sounds like: Everyone stands and discusses what needs to be done that day and potential blockers.

  The idea is that is everyone has to stand for the entire meeting; it will not be a 90-minute talkfest. People will not ramble or get off-track. In addition, nobody will be hiding behind their laptop, appearing pay attention but really checking Facebook. In fact, the daily standup usually lasts no more than 15 minutes.

  You can do something similar. Give your meeting a start time and promise your attendees it will not go a minute longer than necessary. Maybe that means it will take the full 30 minutes. Alternatively, you will all be done in 14.

 Even if a stand-up format will not work for you, chances are you can still make your meeting shorter and more focused.  Here are a few tips:

 Cut out unnecessary information

 Distill information to the key, actionable points

 Only invite truly necessary people

  Make sure everyone has relevant information they need for the meeting beforehand

 Actively moderate discussions and keep everyone to the point

 Narrow the scope of the meeting (try a series of shorter meetings with a clear purpose rather than a long meeting where you try to cover everything)

 Prepare more than you think you need to, which brings us to the next mistake

 You did not prepare.

 There is a saying in the literary world: “Hard writing makes for easy reading.” The more effort you put into drafting your novel, report, or email, the easier (and more enjoyable) it will be to read.

  The same is true of your meetings. Do not pull everyone into the conference room or ask your remote team to hop on a conference call if you do not have a clear purpose for the meeting and a plan to get through it.

   Prepare a thoughtful and detailed agenda then hone and revise it. An effective meeting agenda includes:

 Meeting topics

How you plan to cover them

 Who is responsible for each topic

 Time allotted for each topic

 Questions you need answered

 How attendees need to prepare

 The ultimate goal and takeaway

   You have invited a blowhard.

 Some people just like to talk. They like attention. They like to let everybody know how much they have accomplished and to share all of their great ideas. We all know that person.

 As you might expect, these people tend to love meetings. Avoid inviting them to yours. However, if you must, do what you can to reign them in. They should be able to contribute without derailing the meeting or keeping others from freely participating.

 Start with having a clear agenda that outlines timeframes and do not let the motor mouth hijack the conversation.

  Therefore, what?

 There is no reason to pull your team into a meeting unless those attendees will be able to take some action on the items you discuss.

 One of the fastest ways to guarantee everyone will check out is to start riffing about big-picture thoughts they know they will not be able to do anything about. On the other hand, talking in circles about a problem without ever getting to actionable solutions.

   If you want to brainstorm with your team, go for it. However, even brainstorming sessions should have a clear purpose. What kind of ideas are your brainstorming and what will be done with these ideas?

  For every meeting, you and your attendees should know what you would accomplish. Is this a knowledge transfer, and if so, what is everyone supposed to with the information?  Do you need to come to a consensus and make a decision? Do you need to devise a plan and assign action items?

  You have invited your coworkers for a specific reason. Make sure everyone knows why they are there and what you’re going to accomplish.

  There is nothing to look at.

 Humans are visual. More than 90% of all information our brains process is visual, according to research reported by Inc.com.

 Therefore, when you invite your team to an audio-only conference call, you are leaving all that collective brainpower left to wander. This might explain why their computer monitors or their phones distract so many conference call attendees: screens are visual, and voices on the phone are not.

 The solution? Host a video conference. Give your team something to look at your screen, their screens, everyone is smiling faces. Make your meeting visual, and you will instantly up the energy and focus.

  Mel Feller, MPA, MHR, is a well-known real estate, business consultant, personal development Consultant and speaker, specializing in performance, productivity, and profits. Mel is the President/Founder of Mel Feller Seminars with Coaching For Success 360, Inc. and Mel Feller Coaching, a real estate and business specific coaching company and Mel Feller Ministries. His three books for real estate professionals are systems on how to become an exceptional sales performer. His four books in Business and Government Grants are ways to leverage and increase your business Success in both time and money! His book on Personal Development “Lies that Will Sabotage Your Success”. Mel Feller is in Texas. Visit www.melfeller.com and www.melfellersuccessstories.com  

[negans-network]

Pull My Hair Part 6 - Observations and A Little More Conversation

Summary: For @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash and her 2nd Negan Writing Challenge, this is for the hair-pulling kink prompt introducing OFC Susan.

Word Count:  4275 (Sorry, this is a little shorter than usual)

Warnings: Foul language, Sexual References and Imagery

Author: @genevievedarcygranger

Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay and lack of smut! I always over-do everything and I’m fully fleshing this out even though it’s a smut prompt.

When Dwight left, he didn’t even so much as glance at Susan. For that she was grateful; Dwight was a nice guy, but she didn’t want to complicate things. No attachments, no commitments, no friends, no enemies. As of now, the only person she had to talk to was Negan, and he himself was already a handful. Negan, alongside Susan, watched Dwight leave. Once he was gone, Negan whipped around to face Susan.

Under his heavy gaze, Susan slightly shrunk back. With all that flirting and just whatever the hell that was with Dwight earlier, Susan still wondered if it was a test of both of their loyalties. She hadn’t exactly been opposed to Negan’s suggestions. Would he be upset with her for it?

For a long moment, Negan stared at her hard, bottom lips pulled tight into his mouth by his teeth. Susan was wilting, falling into a nervous mess. It was only her second day here. She can’t screw this up yet. Her backpack was still sitting heavy on her back, a heavy guilt she had to hide from him. Briefly, she wondered if either the Savior Laura or the Savior David or even the Savior Gary came and told Negan about her and Dwight’s little adventure trapezing about the Sanctuary. Suspicion from anyone – especially Negan – had to be avoided at all cost.

Eventually, Negan spoke, voice low and rumbling like ominous thunder. “Well, Susan, I got you pretty worked up, didn’t I?” He simultaneously stepped into her personal space and leaned closer to her, his height an advantage for intimidation – and, of course, seduction. Despite everything she knew about him – from torturing Daryl, killing Daryl’s people, burning Dwight’s face, the way he ran the Sanctuary – Susan could care less about it all. At the end of the world they had all been forced to do things they didn’t want to do in order to survive and protect others. Susan herself became a killer, and if Negan coped by living with it and sleeping peacefully, she couldn’t begrudge him for it.

 “Pussy got your tongue, Susan?” Negan’s voice reminded her of his earlier question. “I thought that was supposed to be on me.” Despite the joke, his face was still deadly serious, but Susan couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or not.

 “Um, earlier,” Susan hesitatingly began, her words halting in her throat, “what you said about Dwight a-and … me.” Nervously she swallowed, and her eyes flitted about helplessly to look everywhere but at Negan. “Were, were you serious?”

Once again, Negan buried his ungloved hand in her hair and tilted her head back. The motion, while not too forceful enough to hurt, forced her to look at him now. He took his other hand – the one wearing a leather glove – and grasped her chin, gently. It was an unusual sensation for Susan, feeling leather on her bare skin, one she didn’t necessarily oppose. “Why do you ask, Susan? Were you interested in my ideas?”

 By his firm touch, his heated look, and lowly spoken words, Susan was blushing, unsure of herself. “I,” she wet her lips before continuing, “I was under the impression that you didn’t share. I am your wife, after all, Negan.” Lower under her breath she added, “One of your wives.”

“That’s right,” Negan answered her quickly, voice cutting over hers with ease. “You belong to me. I provide for you. I meet all your needs.”

Though he wasn’t cursing at her, Susan was only more uncertain of his mood. Unmoving, helpless to do otherwise, Susan only agreed with him. “Yes,” she admitted, eyes searching his face for some kind of sign of what he was thinking, what he was feeling, “I am yours, Negan, only yours.”

 In return his eyes searched her face, hungrily roving over her features. He swiped the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, and her mouth fell open for him, pliant. Negan gave her a closed-mouth smirk before he placed a hot, wet open-mouthed kiss on her own mouth. Immediately, she melted into his touch. It was still unknown whether or not she was to be punished for something, and she still felt that something might happen but curiously enough she was internally relaxed. Somehow Susan felt that she would be safe with him no matter what, though she didn’t know why she felt that way.

Eventually, Negan pulled back and released his hold on her completely. He squinted his eyes at her, licking his lips in the aftermath of their passionate kiss, and then he finally broke out into his familiar smile. Any lingering doubts that Susan might have had dissipated as soon as he smiled, too. “Damn, Susan,” Negan exclaimed, “I just knew there was something about you as soon as we found you out there in those woods.” Tilting his head to one side and leaning back on his heels, Susan idly wondered how he could keep his balance when her own head was spinning after that kiss. “Yeah,” he continued, “I like you a-fucking-fuckity-fuckton-lot.”

Suddenly, he bent down, snatching up Lucille from where she had been resting against the railing. Susan had hardly noticed her, distracted by Negan too much. Entranced by Negan’s fluid movements, as Susan watched him collect his baseball bat, she then remembered where they were. This was hardly the privacy of his bedroom. No, this was a landing overlooking the entire open factory floor. Any of the people down below could look up at any time and see how Negan had her like putty in the palm of his hand.

In a wave of dizziness and embarrassment, Susan reached out and grasped the railing hard in her hands, shifting her high-heel clad feet nervously. Looking out over them all, Susan wondered just how many saw their kiss or witnessed Negan openly teasing her in front of Dwight. The more she looked out at the workers below, though, the more Susan felt that none of these people had the strength to lift their heavy heads higher than they already were from their defensive, hunched shoulders. None of them would ever have the courage to raise their eyes. These people were cowed, miserable… broken. Just like Daryl will be. Just like Dwight fell in line. It took a lot of power to do that to so many, and for one heady moment, Susan felt like she had that power, too, standing by Negan’s side up here on the landing. Then she looked at Negan, casually resting that deadly and barbed-wire covered bat against his shoulder, and she knew that she was only a few steps above the prisoners and the workers and the Saviors. Eventually, she will have to leave, too.

As soon as she looked back at Negan, their eyes met, and Negan smiled warmly at her again. “You need a fucking moment, Susan? I know I am a bit fucking much at times. Probably the best kisser and the best fucker you’ve ever met,” he boasted proudly, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Not wanting to inflate his ego bigger than it already was, Susan didn’t comment any further on that. Instead she asked, “So, um,” here, she blushed again, “are you busy for the rest of the day or can you, uh,” she trailed off. Standing up a little straighter, she took a deep breath before continuing, “Will you end the night with me?” She remembered the dirty things he had been whispering to her earlier, and she couldn’t deny that she was very interested in doing those things. That’s why she was here, after all, for a fucking vacation in all senses of the phrase ‘fucking vacation’ of course.

“Susan,” Negan began in a sing-songy voice, “are you fucking propositioning me?” He laughed before she could answer. “Well, lucky for fucking you, Susan, I get to do whatever the shit I want and right now I would like to screw your brains out.” His tongue ran over his teeth before he smiled widely at her, shaking his head back and forth like he couldn’t believe that Susan would want to have sex with him again. “Yeah, I would like to do exactly fucking that.” Switching Lucille over to his other shoulder, he spun on his heel and began to walk back down to the factory floor. Over the shoulder than Lucille didn’t rest on, he called back to her, “Let me just clear my fucking schedule and I’ll fucking schedule you in for fucking. You stay right fucking there.”

Obediently, and not sure of where else to go or what else to do, Susan waited where he told her to. That was another reason she had ‘propositioned’ him. Being a wife, she wasn’t really allowed to do anything, and she was restricted mainly to the parlor. If she were to wander freely without an escort of some kind – like Dwight – she would most likely arouse suspicion. She didn’t need that kind of attention. Besides that, it seemed like there was nothing fun to do, really, at the Sanctuary. Everyone had jobs they needed to do.

Of course, Susan would be lying to herself if she said that see was only sleeping with Negan out of boredom. No, he was right to boast because he was the best screw she has ever had. Despite being forcibly celibate so long due to the end of the world, now that Susan has already had sex once she was getting back into the swing of things. She wanted to sleep with him again.

Watching him slip into the crowds on the factory floor, Susan observed with growing interest how as Negan approached and past by people they fell on their knees, kneeling – even the Saviors. One of the Saviors didn’t kneel as Negan approached, though, and Susan recognized him as Simon from before in the blue pick-up truck. Negan began talking to him, gesticulating wildly, and Susan quickly grew bored. It wasn’t like she could hear what either of the men were saying.

Her eyes swept over the factory floor again, not focusing on anything in particular until she noticed something out of the ordinary. A younger looking man – hell, probably a teenager – had swiped something from a display table, quickly shoving it in his pockets. Susan hadn’t been mistaken, she was sure he had just stolen something. Theft – even in the apocalypse – was a crime, especially within communities. She doubted that that kind of behavior would be tolerated here. Was it her place to say something though? The boy was obviously not a Savior, otherwise he wouldn’t have had to be so sneaky about taking the fruit, and yes, Susan was sure it was a fruit. Maybe he was hungry, though, but Susan couldn’t help but take note that the boy did not look starving either. Who says he stole it for himself, though? He might have a hungry younger sibling who relied on him. For that possibility alone, Susan forgot she ever saw him, and quickly looked away.

No good deed goes unpunished, though, because as soon as she looked away from him, her eyes were drawn to a familiar blonde in a black dress. Unescorted, Amber was walking confidently around the edge of the factory floor. Though she didn’t have the sly qualities that the teenaged thief had, from Susan’s viewpoint it seemed obvious that she was avoiding going close to where Negan was and that she was making an effort to stay out of the man’s line of sight. Curious to see what kind of privileges Amber held as an unaccompanied wife, Susan watched Amber walk over to the lingerie storage room. Instead of that creepy Savior David guy being on guard, there wasn’t anybody on guard. Amber glanced over her shoulder before she entered the room, closing the door behind her. Patiently, Susan waited for Amber to come out, but she never did. She was taking her time in there, browsing through the fancy clothes offered or perusing something else entirely.

Piecing it together in her mind, Susan supposed that it was either creepy David in that closet or that David was busy elsewhere. Guard duty for the lingerie closet hardly seemed important when there were other matters to attend to, like say, an orange situation – if she remembered that Savior Arat woman’s words correctly. Maybe he was one of the saviors collected for the job with Dwight and no one replaced him on guard duty. Or more likely, they didn’t have a guard at this time, which is why Amber would be able to know it was clear to come down. It was unlikely that Amber would’ve heard the radio call anyway. Thinking back to the gossip Tanya and Frankie told her, they had been implying that Amber was being unfaithful to Negan, that she was messing around with her old boyfriend Mark. Susan would bet every Jolly Rancher in her backpack that Amber was down there in the lingerie closet fucking Mark. The only reason Negan wouldn’t know is because he hadn’t been spending time with Amber because of Susan and before Susan, Sherry, the other recent addition to the harem.

Susan wasn’t sure how she should feel like for that. Amber was the one choosing to play a very dangerous game, and it would only be a matter of time before Negan would find out. Hell, Susan had only been here for two days, and she all but found out. In the end, though, Susan didn’t care if Amber got caught by Negan or not. Cheating on Negan is a pretty big and outrageously stupid mistake to make.

Of course, it was a double standard that Negan could have multiple wives, but his wives couldn’t sleep around. He was the one in power, though, so he got to make the rules. Besides, it’s not like he hid his wives from each other, and if he slept with a woman who wasn’t a wife, Susan doubted that he was hide that. Negan would probably brag about that, too. Personally, Susan abhorred the idea of cheating, but at the end of the world she supposed that adultery couldn’t be the worse sin. Besides, she doubted people really fell in love anymore when there were so few people left to find someone that truly special. If Amber and Mark are in love, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Amber is technically Negan’s ‘wife’ now.

No matter what it won’t end well.

A hand on the small of her back nearly made Susan jump out of her skin. She flinched around, defensive, but as soon as she saw it was Negan imperceptibly relaxed in his presence. “Damn, Susan, why are you so jumpy?” Negan asked her, and for good reason, too. If she jolted any harder at his touch she might’ve fallen over the railing to the factory floor below. “I mean, I just come back up here to collect you for some good fucking, and I walk up these stairs to see a damn pretty sight of you staring off into the distance like some kind of fairy tale princess shit. You got my cock hard, and you’re not even doing anything. Hell, you’re wearing a fucking backpack, but damn if I don’t think you look good enough to fuck right here and now. I just put my hand on you to slip my arms around your waist and carry you off fucking caveman style to my bedroom – and you damn near spin around like you’re gonna punch me in the nose.” Negan rambled to her, still smiling, though his eyes are serious, concerned. He inquired, “What the hell is keeping your attention? What the hell has you thinking so hard?”

Despite his flattering words, Susan was more concerned about not ratting Amber out. Susan caught herself before she looked back at the lingerie door. Though she didn’t care if Amber continued cheating or not, Susan didn’t want to be the one to drop the ball. That would cause waves for sure, and she’d rather not have to deal with Amber’s ire if she found out that it was Susan who tattled on her. Apologetically, Susan stepped into Negan’s embrace, wrapping her arms around his middle, and he was so slim that she felt like she could almost encircle him twice. “Sorry, Negan, I was just thinking about this place.” Susan didn’t think she should fully lie to him. “I’ve seen communities, but never one like this, and certainly never a group this large.”

Clearly pleased with her words, Negan hummed, “Yeah, I run a pretty tight fucking ship. People are important. It’s our job that we rebuild society. It’s a brand new fucking world out there, and I take in these sorry shits and whip them into decent fucking shape. I keep people alive. It’s a big fucking job, but someone has to do it. Someone has to call the fucking shots without being a hotshot themselves.” Unexpectedly, he pressed a kissed into her hair, hugging her back. “But you don’t have to worry about anything anymore, Susan. I got it all handled and under fucking control.” He changed the subject, “In fact, how about I go fuck you so hard that you can’t think about anything else except how fat my dick is and how good it feels buried balls fucking deep inside your pussy, huh?”

Glad for the change of topic, Susan heartily agreed by pushing herself up taller on her toes to catch Negan’s mouth in a kiss. Looks like the heels were coming in handy. Yes, Susan would like very much for a healthy dose of Negan’s dick to help her forget about all of her worries. Earlier all she wanted to do was devour her entire bag of Jolly Ranchers, but now all she wanted to do was devour him completely. If only she could dip him in some chocolate first… Suddenly, realization hit her like a ton of bricks. “Wait, wait, Negan.” She pushed back from him, putting space between him but leaving her hands on his hips, fingers looped through one of his belts.

Looking a little dazed from the ardent kiss, Negan groaned, disappointed that it stopped. “God, what the shit is it, Susan? You can’t get so hot and cold with me like this, my blue balls won’t fucking thank you. Is it because we’re up here? Fuck, nobody is fucking looking at us, Susan.”

Reminded again that they were publicly flaunting their relationship, Susan ducked her head, muttering under her breath, “Shit, fuck.” She tugged at his shirt, urging him to move away from the landing with her to somewhere more private.

Understanding, Negan grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away, back towards the administration levels of the factory where the wives’ parlors were and Negan’s own room. Once they were out of sight of everyone out on the factory floor, Negan stopped and released Susan’s hand. Turning around to face her again, he carefully tapped Lucille against the side of his boot. “Okay, what the fuck is it, Susan? I don’t think I can wait to fuck you again any longer.”

“Um,” Susan didn’t know how to phrase this. It was a little embarrassing. “Well, uh.” She coughed, nervous again. “I’m sorry. Please, promise me you won’t be mad, I didn’t mean to hide this from you.”

“Spit the shit out, Susan, I don’t have all day to wait until I can get my dick in you again.” Negan impatiently interrupted. “I won’t be fucking mad unless it’s fucking bad, Susan, baby girl. I’m a fucking reasonable guy.”

The pet name was what put Susan at ease more than anything. Feeling a bit better, she gathered all of her confidence and took a deep breath before she blurted out, “I start my period next week.” Immediately, she flushed red with shame for the hundredth time today. “So, uh, if we keep fucking you can’t come inside me. That and we need some kind of protection, you know, if you have that. If you have implants, I can’t use them or I’ll have a really bad allergic reaction.” She quickly added, “I don’t do anal either, so don’t get any damn ideas of that. I’ve tried it and I don’t like it.” Looking up at him earnestly, she bit her lip and shrugged helplessly, apologetically. “I understand if you don’t want to risk anything and you’d rather be with one of the other wives. It won’t hurt my feelings. I know I probably should have told you when you picked me up or earlier when we were fucking. That was my mistake. I don’t expect you to take any responsibility or anything either –”

“Jesus, Susan, shut the fuck up and let me get a word in before you go supposing otherwise,” Negan interrupted sounding more than a little amused. “First of all, it’s my fucking fault, too. I forgot to grab some of my condoms in my rush to fuck you right in the pussy. Also, I can’t believe I fucking forgot to take you to our doctor. I guess when I met you with your fantastic fucking tits practically hanging out, I thought you looked healthy and dismissed. Mistake fucking number two for me.” He shook his head, and shifted from foot to foot, still grinning despite everything.

Secretly, he was pleased that Susan was so easy-going for him. She didn’t cause a fuss. Susan wasn’t going to risk a pregnancy scare with him like Frankie had before. In fact, Susan was honest with him, upfront about her cycle. Susan was even willing enough to step aside and let him be with another wife when she would be too risky to fuck. All of that, though, made Negan want to fuck her more. By all means, Susan wasn’t the prettiest wife. That was probably a tie between Amber and Michaela – maybe a tie between Michaela and Sherry if Sherry would chill the fuck out once in a while. Susan was attractive in her own way, though, and Negan would pick Susan a thousand times over any of the other wives if it meant he didn’t have to deal with brattiness. Still, though, he could tell that Susan thought he was only here for the fucking, but that isn’t entirely the case. Another bonus to having a bunch of wives waiting on him hand and foot extending to far more than getting his dick wet. Hell, one of the wives gave him back massages whenever he liked. He could talk to Michaela without having to worry about her blathering his secrets or attempting a coupe. Negan was just going to have to show Susan that she could be worth more than sex to him to, if he could just prove to her that he was a decent guy.

“But it’s like a fucking said, Susan,” Negan lectured her, “I will always fucking provide for you and the other girls. You’re all my girls. You don’t have to worry about anything or want for anything either. I fucking got you, baby girl.” Twirling Lucille around in his hand, Negan broke out into a full smile once more. “So, fucking relax, and come on, now. It’s time you saw Dr. Carson.”

More than a little surprised, Susan went along with it as Negan once more took her by the hand and led her away to the Sanctuary’s resident doctor. Negan’s reiteration that he would take of Susan and the other wives. It was left unspoken, but implied that Negan’s care would even extend towards children if something were to happen. That was really shocking considering a man with a harem who led a community would also be willing to take care and raise children, too, which was very possibly considering how many different women he was fucking. What was more so surprising was that he would be willing to risk conception with Susan just to have another chance to sleep with her so soon. To Negan’s knowledge, it wasn’t like Susan was going anywhere so soon. Was she really that good of a screw that he’d want to fuck her again so soon, even when they had to use condoms? Susan was definitely starting to feel flattered now.

On top of that, Susan was also more confused about Amber’s cryptic behavior. Sherry’s hatefulness Susan could understand completely. Negan burned her husband’s face. But Amber didn’t have such an excuse. Was Negan not enough for her or did she really love Mark that much? To Susan, if Amber really loved Mark, she wouldn’t risk everything to endanger him that way. Surely, if Negan knew – when Negan finds out – Mark will be severely punished. He very well may be killed. It all seems so foolish, it just doesn’t seem worth it.  

As Susan was forced to pay attention to where they were going in order to build on her mental-map of the Sanctuary, she took the chance to look over her shoulder and catch the last glimpse of the open factory floor where they came. She repeated in her mind like a mantra: Just a matter of time, just a matter of time. A matter of time before Amber’s dirty laundry was aired out to Negan. A matter of time before Susan was going to escape. And also – something else Susan left unaccounted for – a matter of time before Susan realized that she was developing romantic feelings for Negan just as much as he was feeling a similar kind of way towards her, too. Just a matter of time. 

[transientutopia]

apostasy - third fragment

WARNINGS: the rating’s been bumped up ♪

****Please be gentle, because it’s my first time ♥

Read on AO3 (highly recommended)

~~

He knows his own limits. He's recognised them to the point that it's painful for him.

"You want someone dead," he drawls, "but you're too helpless to do anything on your own."

How ironic.

~~

An entire week has lapsed, and Tetsuya still hasn't left.

Nor has Chihiro kicked him out.

God knows why.

In this time, Tetsuya has discovered every secret to Chihiro's self-proclaimed hideout.

One: revising his initial impression, it is extremely luxurious, and Chihiro refuses to tell him why. There is a hidden trapdoor -- evidently, assassins must like trapdoors -- that leads down to an open space, where there is working water, electricity and even a proper food supply.

Two: he has a lot of light novels. A lot of light novels. Tetsuya isn't sure he's ever seen this many in one location before. It rivals the shelves of those in the large Animate stores back in Tokyo.

Three: the suspected pitfall is actually a pitfall. When Tetsuya shines light in on it, he can see a few skeletons at the bottom. Chihiro argues that they fell in by themselves and that he has nothing to do with them, although he has ransacked all their belongings. He does not tell Tetsuya how he got all the way down, nor how he got back up.

Four: Chihiro has to be seriously lacking in friends and any sort of social contact for him to not have thrown Tetsuya outside yet. All the latter is doing is using his precious resources without any compensation. And his bed. They're sharing a bed.

Soon enough, something is bound to happen. Chihiro hasn't taken any jobs in the past week, and it isn't like Tetsuya would let him get away unscathed if he were to -- albeit, not that the assassin particularly cares.

Tetsuya is only waiting. Akin to a ticking time bomb that they both know will go off sooner or later, he will come.

"He's been waiting for you all this time."

"Mayuzumi-san, may I use the bath?"

"Hell no."

"Thank you very much," Tetsuya says with his back turned, hands already on the trapdoor.

"Oi!"

Chihiro groans. He's fallen so deep, it's like he doesn't know how to get back up anymore. If someone had told him a week earlier that he'd end up housing a cute detective who barely even reaches his shoulder, he would have laughed and slit their throat (he wouldn't have, it goes against his standards), probably.

How things got here, he isn't sure.

No--

--he knows exactly how.

By housing Tetsuya, he's only really delaying the inevitable. He can't harm him, which rules out a lot of things that would make his life easier: namely, killing the said male.

They both know it's only a matter of time for Seijuurou to arrive.

You could always just leave, a voice in the back of Chihiro's mind says. Leave him here and go off by yourself. You've had so many chances to do it. When his back was turned, when he was fast asleep... Even now, as he soaks himself in your bath.

But his pride won't let him.

At the same time, he isn't stupid. He's not a dreamer -- he's realistic. He's pragmatic in his decisions, and above all, he honours the senses that he's honed through years and years of being in the business.

He can't win.

He knows that more than anybody -- there's no way he can win against Akashi Seijuurou, the rumoured "strongest of the underworld". It's like waging war on the King himself -- guaranteed death.

So why doesn't he move?

He doesn't have any attachment to this place -- no matter how opulent it is in a city like this, riches mean nothing if the owner is dead.

He knows that more than anybody.

Better than anybody.

"I came to apprehend the both of you."

"What an idiot," Chihiro laughs sharply. "You won't be able to do shit."

"It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs."

Chihiro swings around, eyes wide, chair swiveling.

Except his chair doesn't have any wheels.

Realising his mistake far too late, Chihiro lets out a string of curses as he falls backwards, slamming onto the ground. The chair makes a sound of splintering wood.

Well, fuck.

Tetsuya stares at him, jaw agape in shock. Chihiro stares back, equally shocked. He hasn't done something so clumsy in over ten years.

...

And then, Tetsuya laughs.

He bursts into pure, unadulterated giggles; then full-blown laughter, as Chihiro gawks at him.

(It definitely isn't because he's smiling beautifully-- freely, for the first time, either.)

Still on the floor, Chihiro realises something.

Tetsuya's hair -- it isn't black.

"You-- your hair--"

"This?" Tetsuya tugs at a lock of his own hair absentmindedly, "I realised that there isn't any point anymore."

"Your natural hair colour is light blue?"

He raises a brow as if to say, "Your natural hair colour is light grey?" but Chihiro is too preoccupied attempting to take in the bizarre sight before him.

'How the hell did he even wash out the black so easily?'

As if hearing his thoughts, Tetsuya holds up a small bottle. Chihiro recognises it as a certain, liquid solution made several years back that eradicates all traces of hair dye immediately on application -- it had spread across the globe like wildfire.

"Oh," he says eloquently. Then, his gaze travels downwards, and his mind goes entirely blank.

Tetsuya is wearing his clothes.

"Ah," he looks down at himself innocently, as if he hadn't just destroyed several sections of Chihiro's brain, "I took the liberty of borrowing some clothes, as mine ended up getting stained slightly. It'll only be for today, is that okay?"

Since the beginning of his stay, Tetsuya had been washing his clothes minimally, making sure to keep up his façade as a citizen of the city: there was no doubt it had been discomforting for him to stay in such an outfit for days on end. He had done so without any complaints, but now, Chihiro wishes he had lent him his clothes earlier. It isn't as if Tetsuya goes outside at the moment, anyway.

...Or, alternatively, he wishes he could erase the sight from his mind altogether.

(He really doesn't.)

Swallowing dryly, Chihiro allows his eyes to wander even further down, regretting it instantly.

The air in this city is polluted, and humid, though not too hot -- it has always been like that.

'I've never been more grateful-- I mean, spiteful towards it. Right.'

He's extremely "spiteful" for a good reason.

After all, Tetsuya isn't wearing pants.

To be more accurate, the boy is donning nothing but an oversized, white, button-up shirt with sleeves that have been folded up several times to his wrists ... And a pair of boxer shorts that have been tied to stop them from falling.

Chihiro swallows again.

It was already evident before, but even more so now: Tetsuya's skin has an alabaster, milky, smooth paleness to it that extends from the tips of his toes to his forehead. He looks as if he's never gotten a sunburn, much less a tan, in his entire life. His body is slim, lithe and toned. His cheeks are slightly flushed, too, and his locks have small droplets of water dripping from them that fall to his bare expanse of collarbone before slipping out of sight beneath his shirt. Chihiro's floor has always been freakishly spotless, and Tetsuya has evidently taken advantage of that fact, opting to go barefoot.

He's close to killing himself. He wants to kill himself, when the very essence of his job is to kill other people.

'Fuck,' Chihiro thinks repeatedly.

Remembering that he still hasn't gotten up yet, he quickly rises and reaches for the chair. Before he grasps it, however, he stills, and then strides over to the couch.

Inwardly, he praises his mind for recalling the crack in the chair's frame in time. The last thing he wants to do now is to embarrass himself even further.

...Though, he isn't sure what's more humiliating than his own dick going erect at the sight of someone who is, supposedly, his "enemy", dressed in an oversized shirt, that specifically belongs to Chihiro himself.

He's never going to see that shirt the same way. He makes a mental note to burn it once Tetsuya leaves.

Raising a brow, the detective pointedly looks towards the table, and then to the taller man.

"...Do you want to continue reading? I apologise for scaring you."

'You aren't sorry at all, you bastard.'

When Tetsuya's lips tug upwards, Chihiro realises that he spoke aloud.

"I apologise," he repeats, eyes still sparkling with mischief.

And fuck if that doesn't turn Chihiro on even more.

Tetsuya, the damn cause of everything that has begun to turn the renowned assassin's world upside-down -- has he mentioned that he kills people for a living but can't even deny a cute boy over a head shorter than him anything -- walks over to the abandoned desk.

Then, he fucking bends down.

He bends down and picks up Chihiro's light novel from the floor. He dusts it off lightly and then puts it back on the table.

Fuck.

Judging by his barely-visible, sly smile, he knows exactly what he's doing.

'Well screw you, too,' Chihiro seethes.

Two can play this game.

Footsteps entirely silent, he traipses over. Tetsuya's back is still turned, and naturally, Chihiro takes the chance to lean over. He places his palms on the table, arms on both sides of the shorter male, essentially trapping him in.

He's so close that he can feel Tetsuya tense up without even looking.

"Thanks," he purrs, head dipped down so his lips are right beside Tetsuya's ear, "for picking it up."

"...!"

Tetsuya inhales sharply.

Then, he makes the biggest mistake--

--he turns around, still cornered between Chihiro's toned, muscular arms.

Their gazes clash in a mix of cobalt blue and dark grey, both widening simultaneously.

It's as if time stills in that moment.

Everything fades out to white noise behind them.

And then--

--Tetsuya's tongue darts out to lick his lips, and that's it.

That's it.

Chihiro breaks the standstill first. He dives in, mouth locking onto Tetsuya's, taking advantage of his small, muffled gasp -- god, it turns him on -- to thrust his tongue inside. Tetsuya's hands come up instinctively to push back on his chest, fingers clenching around the material of his shirt -- albeit, not reluctantly. Whether it's a conscious gesture or not, Chihiro doesn't know, but Tetsuya pulls him closer, harder--

--and then he jerks back a little, breaking free, completely out of breath. Panting, saliva dripping down his jaw, Tetsuya is a mess.

He's never looked more attractive.

Chihiro licks his lips almost mockingly, tauntingly. He swipes his thumb across his own, bottom lip, and then presses it against Tetsuya's.

"Thanks for the meal."

The phantom's cheeks flush even more, and even the tips of his ears go visibly red. It's the cutest thing Chihiro has ever seen, and he feels his own face grow warmer, too.

"U-um--"

Before Tetsuya can continue, Chihiro kisses him again, pushing him back against the edge of the table as he does so, almost as if he's trying to block off his escape. Tetsuya kisses him back with little resistance, and Chihiro allows him no more than a second to catch his breath each time they break apart.

"Nn...!"

Chihiro can feel all the blood rush straight down to his groin at the sudden moan. Tetsuya's eyes widen, but he doesn't have time to feel embarrassed before he's reminded of the reason he let out the noise in the first place.

Chihiro is pressing up against him.

The sensation isn't anywhere near as jarring as it could be, if they were both unclothed: but through the thin, flimsy material of his boxers -- Chihiro's boxers -- Tetsuya can feel the obvious bulge in the taller man's trousers. It's pushed onto his own, and he knows Chihiro can feel him, too.

Before he can even think about saying anything, Tetsuya catches his heated gaze, and it's all the warning he gets before the assassin slips a hand inside.

"Ah--!"

Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, tears begin to form at the corners of his eyes, and Tetsuya squeezes them shut. He trembles beneath Chihiro's skilled hands, only growing hotter, harder, wetter -- and when Chihiro thumbs at the head of his cock, he gasps, eliciting a low chuckle from the man. It takes everything inside him to stop the sounds that spill from his lips. The abrupt feel of a hand on his forces his eyes open a little, and Tetsuya can barely make out Chihiro's form through his tear-blurred vision. He blinks, feeling them slide down his cheeks.

"Let me hear you."

Lacing their fingers together, Chihiro doesn't hold back on his torturous movements with his other hand. He leans in, biting Tetsuya's collarbone softly, successfully drawing out a loud moan from the boy's lips -- it's sweeter than music to his ears. Smirking, he brushes against the tip of Tetsuya's member with light, fleeting movements, and the boy whines.

'Fuck it,' Chihiro thinks, hoisting Tetsuya up by the ass. He picks him up, throwing him onto his bed unceremoniously. Tetsuya doesn't get the chance to complain before a tongue slides between his lips, hot and intrusive. Chihiro is pushing him down against the bed, and almost like a reflex, he lifts his hips up to press their arousals together--

The groan that falls from Chihiro's mouth doesn't sound human.

Exploiting the moment Tetsuya lifts himself off the bed, Chihiro reaches down to untie and pull his boxer shorts off roughly. Swallowing the shorter boy's moans, he begins to unbutton his own shirt -- and somehow, he manages to undo his belt, kicking off his pants without giving into his growing urge to rip them off instead. When he slides his dick, slick with precum, between Tetsuya's legs, the latter stiffens, freezing up. Chihiro pauses, licking into his mouth a final time before pulling back.

"Don't worry," he murmurs lowly -- he can barely recognise his own voice, "I'm just going to stay between your thighs. Could you tighten up for me?"

"N-nngh... O-okay," Tetsuya moans. With a touch of hesitance, he lifts his legs up to rest around Chihiro's waist before squeezing his thighs together softly.

It feels like pure bliss to Chihiro, who lets out a low, guttural growl.

And then, he moves.

Body jolting instantly, Tetsuya becomes hyper-aware of their positions: with his back on the bed, his ass lifted and his legs wrapped around Chihiro's waist, he's definitely giving him an eyeful--

--but it feels so good that he can't bring himself to care.

Chihiro, on the other hand, is towering over Tetsuya, hands laced together with his as he thrusts between his thighs. With each push and pull back, his cock rubs against Tetsuya's dick and, occasionally, his balls, causing a delicious friction that sends pleasant shivers down Tetsuya's spine with each movement. There's no doubt that Chihiro shares that sentiment -- he's so hard that it borders on painful. Speeding up his thrusts, the only sounds that echo through the large room are his bed's creaks; the sloppy, wet, erotic squelches of their members rubbing together, practically dripping with precum; and of course: their moans.

Feeling his climax draw near, Chihiro looks down at Tetsuya's face. He has his eyes closed in euphoria, his mouth open as he whimpers, a trail of saliva on his jaw, tears tracking down his cheeks--

It isn't enough.

He wants more.

More.

More.

Formerly blank eyes glinting maliciously, Chihiro's hand dives down to wrap around both of their cocks without a single word of forewarning. Tetsuya's eyes shoot open, and his voice chokes up in his throat. Whilst he's distracted, Chihiro shifts a little and bites straight down on the creamy expanse of his neck, piercing it almost immediately. He licks up the blood, and Tetsuya sobs out his name--

It's all Chihiro has to hear to cum.

Pumping the both of them with one hand, he scrapes his nails lightly against Tetsuya's cock, and the boy is gone. They make a mess of both themselves and the bedsheets, but to Chihiro, it's entirely worth it.

Thoroughly spent, Tetsuya collapses. He doesn't even have the energy to curl up on the bed at the moment -- not that he particularly wants to, considering he's covered in both his own cum and Chihiro's. He barely notices when the latter leaves the bed and comes back with a wet towel to wipe him off, along with fresh pairs of boxers.

"Thank you... very much."

"No problem."

He doesn't realise when he passes out until he wakes up.

***

"Mm..."

When Tetsuya opens his eyes, he's met with Chihiro's handsome, plain features gazing back at him. He blinks.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Chihiro echoes, lips quirking up sardonically. "Had a good rest, huh, Sleeping Beauty?"

Ignoring the logical voice at the back of his head, Tetsuya shoots back, "Thanks to you."

Chihiro raises a brow at the boy's audacity, but, well, they did just have sex. Even if it was just intercrural. He smirks, propping himself up on one elbow.

"You brought that on yourself."

Tetsuya opens his mouth to argue, blushes, and closes it. It's adorable to the point that it's unfair, and Chihiro swallows down the urge to cover his face. He's pretty sure he's blushing, too. Luckily, Tetsuya has his eyes averted.

(Unfortunately, his embarrassed expression is also another shot to Chihiro's heart.)

"Y-you played a part in it, too," Tetsuya says, refusing to meet his eyes, "every time you just..."

Trailing off, Tetsuya rolls over so that his back is facing Chihiro, who is more than slightly confused.

"What do you--"

Oh.

Oh.

'"Every time you just", huh?' Chihiro smirks knowingly. So Tetsuya had caught on -- over the past week, he had been coming out of the shower shirtless, or with nothing but a single towel draped around his waist, or...

(He couldn't help it -- bored out of his mind, he hadn't gotten any action in the past, what, ten years? -- he's an assassin, for god's sakes; it isn't as if he can just fuck his victims before slashing their throats apart: that doesn't sit well with him. With a cute, delectable, defenseless creature like Kuroko Tetsuya sleeping by his side every night, refusing to leave his hideout -- no man would be able to resist such a temptation, and he isn't -- wasn't -- willing to try.)

"Hmmm," Chihiro hums smugly. Tetsuya refuses to turn back, and the taller man doesn't make him.

After all, what they're having is a lighthearted conversation, but they both know it won't last.

***

That night -- to be precise, at one in the morning -- Chihiro wakes up suddenly.

Someone is outside.

Someone who is calling for him -- no, calling for the "Mist". He shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He would've never thought of people giving him such a ridiculous nickname, had it not been for Tetsuya's interference.

Tetsuya.

The detective is fast asleep, but he stirs, half-conscious.

'He's got good senses,' Chihiro thinks, 'but not good enough.'

It isn't a bad thing -- no, it's something Tetsuya should be grateful for. Only those who thrive in the underworld should have razor-sharp senses -- they determine whether you live or die, after all. Tetsuya mumbles something under his breath, and Chihiro turns his back to him.

Before he can move, however--

--a hand shoots out, latching onto his own. He whips around in surprise, eyes wide.

"...Where you are you going?"

Tetsuya's voice is soft, coated by a thin layer of sleep.

He's good.

He isn't a detective for nothing, Chihiro realises. His lips tug up involuntarily.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"..."

Tetsuya's brow furrows slightly, but other than that, he gives no indication of what he's thinking. It's enough, though.

"I won't let you leave."

"Let me?" Chihiro raises a brow, fully turning to face him properly. "You won't let me, you say -- I don't require your permission to leave, kid."

Tetsuya is silent. He's hell-bent on stopping Chihiro, it seems. The assassin only shakes his head.

"Just because we fucked doesn't mean you can make me do shit about my job."

Impressively, Tetsuya doesn't physically react -- he doesn't reel back, his fingers don't tighten. But pain flashes through his eyes for the briefest of moments, and Chihiro feels powerful.

It's a sickening thought.

"Let go."

"I refuse."

"You really don't understand the situation you're in, do you?"

"I won't let you leave," Tetsuya reiterates, and Chihiro's brow ticks in annoyance. It's like they're re-enacting their initial meeting.

(It pisses him off.)

In a single, fluid movement, he has both of Tetsuya's wrists pinned to the bed--

--only for Tetsuya's slim, toned legs to swing upwards with the full intent of kneeing him in the jaw. He dodges smoothly, but the instant he does so, Tetsuya takes advantage of the literal millisecond his grip shifts to tear his own wrists out of the hold. His hands launch forward to push Chihiro off the bed, but, as expected, the male catches them in his own.

If this turns into a battle of power, Tetsuya will lose in a flash -- they both know that.

However, all he was looking for was a single second where both of Chihiro's hands were occupied.

'Got you.'

The moment Chihiro pushes back against his palms, Tetsuya allows his own shoulders to drop, power draining from his hands--

Chihiro's eyes widen as he falls forward.

He has almost no time to react, and Tetsuya is already moving--

--then, their foreheads smash together.

"FUCKING OW!"

"Hh--!"

Chihiro mentally commends Tetsuya for barely letting a hiss out, because fuck he would've never been able to keep his voice back like that, even in a million years. He's very vocal about pain for an assassin. Nobody hears: much less sees: him during the job other than his targets, though, so it doesn't matter.

"You little--"

Tetsuya has tears in his eyes, and Chihiro sends a swift, furious chop to his temple. With the both of them thoroughly disoriented, it's obvious who will win -- after all, Chihiro kills for a living.

He hasn't been done in like this for a long time, though.

Before his strike hits--

Chihiro inhales sharply, and he softens the blow at the last second.

Tetsuya blacks out on impact, and he falls towards the bedframe. Catching him, Chihiro lays him down on the bed.

...

He could have killed him.

He could have killed Tetsuya with a single strike in that moment -- he's damn lucky that Chihiro caught himself before he did so.

He's still angry. He still hasn't calmed down, and he's more agitated than he has been in a long time.

Gritting his teeth together, Chihiro glares down at the boy's sleeping form. So small. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

He could have died.

...

'I have to leave.'

He has to go before he does anything. Chihiro doesn't trust himself to be near Tetsuya right now, not after that stunt -- he's never fought anyone without killing them, or being put near-death himself, and his fingers are instinctively -- naturally -- itching to finish the job.

This isn't a job.

No matter how many times he repeats the words to himself, his body refuses to stay still. It's hot. He can feel his adrenaline pumping.

Letting out a loud "tsk", Chihiro pulls his discarded shirt on. He grabs the unsoiled trousers he'd prepared hours earlier, pushing his belt through impatiently. He pulls his socks on, shoves a gun and knife through their holsters with uncharacteristic carelessness, then stamps into his shoes. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he closes his eyes.

'I have a job to do.'

He can hear their voices. Please, they say. Avenge me. I'll do anything.

His lips curl up into a sneer and he walks out, steps silent, without a single glance back.

He can't bear to look at the boy on his bed right now.

***

By the time Chihiro's back, only a couple of hours later, Tetsuya is still asleep. He's calmed down considerably by now, and he snarls as the graze wound on his waist starts to sting. He disposed of the body as usual, and the kill was next to effortless: but he didn't get out unscathed, and that dampens his mood. Virtually ripping his shirt off, he glowers down at the bloodied cloth: being torn and stained with crimson, it's as good as gone.

He's still pissed off at Tetsuya -- there's no way he isn't.

But his body isn't screaming for him to finish him off anymore, and that's enough for now.

He takes a step closer.

Tetsuya is wincing in his sleep, evidently in pain, and Chihiro feels a brief, brief pang of remorse in his chest.

...Remorse?

How low he's fallen.

He can't contemplate the feeling before a chill runs down his spine, cold sweat forming at the nape of his neck instantly.

He recognises this sensation.

He knows.

He turns his head back reflexively to face the exit--

--he only has a split-second to take in the cold breeze, why is there a breeze coming in--

--and then there is nothing but black.

"Good evening."

He knows that voice. He doesn't even have to think to place it.

"Fuck... you."

He struggles to speak, choking as he feels his body fall. He feels himself being held back by something sturdy -- an arm -- as it lowers him to the floor soundlessly. He forces his eyes to squint open, and he can barely make out the shape of two polished, leather shoes.

"How low you've fallen, Chihiro."

'You don't have to say it, asshole -- I already... know...'

He can't feel, or see anything anymore. The last thing he remembers is the soft, derisive chuckle that rings through his ears, the same way it did eight years ago.

[biggme67]

“CALIGINOUS”  Short Story

                       Before B even opened his eyes, he realized that he was unable to move his arms.  He felt some sort of nylon straps had his wrists bound to cold metal bars on each side of him.  He knew that he was lying face up on a comfy mattress, but the soreness in his back still made it unbearable.  He didn’t remember his head weighing so much, it felt as if there was a gravitational force pushing it deeper and deeper into the pillow.

            Never mind his head, B’s mouth was fixed in an open position, not just open like for a doctor before he or she asks a patient to say “Ahhh”.  Hell no, his mouth was forced open to the point where he felt that both ends of his lips were about to split apart and his jaw would freely fall to his chest.  

           Even though he had at least a half of dozen new aches and strains that affected him in his head, B still had a few more new ailments to add to the mental list had created since he had gained what he thought was consciousness.

           While he attempted to take grip of another thought that was floating in the abyss between his ears, B felt the presence of someone.  If he had to guess, he would say that the presence he’s feeling is a nurse wandering about.  Just a short moment before, B came to the realization that he was in a hospital.  The unique sounds of medical machinery that he heard over the constant ringing in his ears, helped him conclude his whereabouts.

           “Paging Doctor So and So”, faintly heard was a tell-tale sign too.

           B’s situation finally hit him like a batter catching a fastball of the head, the first time he attempted to speak.  The calmness he was putting such great effort to keep was instantly siphoned out of the air and he instantly felt as if he was in a vacuum.  He was left with a brain full of fraught and exhaustion.

           Something was obstructing the movement of his tongue.  Even sitting in a dentist chair, B could move his tongue enough to garble out a few words.  This was something completely different.

           “What the…, This is really happening to me.  Am I in a coma or am I dead and the torment I am feeling right now in my personal hell? he frantically thought to himself.

            Before this troublesome feeling got the best of him, B called every bit of his facial muscles to come to his aid.  He needed to break whatever was keeping his eyelids firmly shut.  Finally, with one last jolt, he felt his eyelids break free.  The burst of bright artificial lighting on the ceiling caused him to abruptly cringe, closing his eyes tight creating crow’s feet on his young face, but he gained a hint of relief.        

           “I’m gonna have to take this slow, I don’t want to freak out anymore.”, B thought to himself.  

           After a few seconds, B slowly opened his crunchy eyes.  While they gradually focused, he discovered he was unable to turn his head no more than an inch or two to the right or left.  B scanned the area the best with the little neck movement available. A heart monitor and blood pressure machine stood beside his bed to his right. He was unable to see any further because a curtain blocked his view.  Nonetheless, he knew that past the curtain somewhere the door to the room he was in and the hallway was located.  The hospital P.A. System gave that away.      

           To his left past, the medical machinery next to the bed in this unfamiliar place, a cascade of soundproof windows refused to allow him to hear thunderstorm outside until he had seen for himself.  B had a pretty good idea what was keeping him from speaking, but he tried to avoid admitting it until he saw firsthand.  Unfortunately, his suspicions were made fact when he lifted his head just enough off the pillow to follow the tubes that lay beside him up his chest to his mouth.

            At long last B got another burst of energy, a second wind despite his brain being cloudy and murky. Even still in his terrible state, B wanted to stay conscious and keep his eyes open while a nurse took his vitals. He looked up at the profile of the young female nurse.  Long straight dark brown hair tied together by a pink scunci flowed past the back of her neck to her teal green scrub top.  He could see that she was busy with some task, he hoped she was doing something to alleviate the pain that covered him like a blanket of thorns.  Finished with her task, the nurse turned, B finally saw her face. He gazed into her clear blue eyes, her soothing smile and her soft hand touching his wrist quelled his anxious spirit. Pangs of hurt disappeared, the lids of his eyes suddenly became heavy, his vision blurred then darkness, as B drifted to sleep once again.                        

[medicalmarijuana-news]

High Horoscopes | March 2017

Now monthly: The HIGH TIMES astrological forecast, complete with strain recommendations!

Ask Aelie anything! Find her on Facebook and Twitter.

ARIES

While watching the Oscars this year, audiences around the globe gushed over the beautiful and unique gowns, most of which were accompanied by some version of the tuxedo.  Some might think tails to be a timeless masterpiece, but isn’t it just the same old look, over and over again, even if you add a sparkly bow tie or a jaunty cummerbund? This is your tux month: a mindless revisit of the same damned suit—heightened and intense yet super repetitive. It might feel like the madness from 2016 is upon you again, but fear not: it is in fact a secret penguin suit, armoring you for a deep dive into the icy waters of release and self-care. Swim! Leave those silly celebrities behind and whip your way through the blue waves. Strain recommendation: Blue Dream

TAURUS

Your energies and wellness levels have been low lately; it’s difficult to rise up and challenge the day when you feel like you need a nap 20 minutes after waking up. You’d think that the cure would be to get more sleep, but in fact the opposite is true. What you need is some stimulation, inspiration and excitement. Your blood needs to course freely, your breath needs to be deep and your muscles must be flexed. Your monthly prescription is to drag your fatigued body into nature, awaken your creativity with a collaboration and soothe your heart by taking your honey out on a date, or taking a chance with a new love. Strain recommendation: Grape Ape

CANCER

While most memories fade with time, some root themselves into our subconscious so deeply that we can feel helpless to them. They surface without being called, stay as long as they want and leave an ache in your bones. I am reminded of the aunt who would arrive without notice and no specific date of departure. Despite the love we had for her, the weight of her presence could not be ignored. I invite you to make friends with your visiting aunt; tell her that you understand why she has come, but that you need her to move on. You need to lay down the law. She is absolutely welcome to visit but on your terms only. I know it’s hard, but if you don’t make a conscious decision to control what your brain fixates on then it will control you. Strain recommendation: Four Way

GEMINI

You have always been a sensitive flower; ready to take things personally and blame yourself for imagined slights and invisible scowls.  A shift is coming, however; someone will send a thought to your brain at the exact moment you have a window of emotional flexibility and mental sponginess open. This will allow the thought to fly in and settle into your guest room: ready to be considered, analyzed and ultimately adopted. The thought is this: Let it go, no one cares anyway.  So now all you need to do is pay attention to your inner monologue. Every time you hear yourself thinking the same old tired refrain “nobody liked me’, drag the needle across the record like a bad 90’s rap break. Make red lights flash, bells ring and sirens alarm and then let this new thought swarm your senses. Strain recommendation: Jack Herer

LEO

Ah poor misunderstood Leo; the lion who is more pussycat than predator, humble not proud, almost unaware of his own beauty, full of brains without the need to mansplain. What a wonderful catch you are! You’ve been working that tail off lately and finally now you have been given a moment to breathe. Are you taking it seriously enough? Will you allow all that piled up desert dust called stress to be washed off in the cool rain, freshening up your dirty fur? All of those wonderful Leo qualities are hidden when you don’t take care of yourself. Your frustration turns to aggression and your subtly is replaced by unnatural forcefulness. Please put those paws up and drink a freakin’ mojito already. Strain recommendation: Lee Roy

VIRGO

When I think of you I hear The Beatles chant “Good-day-sun-shine!”. I see you strutting down a sunny street, local vendors waving hello, children handing you hand picked flowers, stupid bunnies hopping by your side. It’s just lovely, super sweet and sugary. In fact, I am getting cavities. Where’s the grit? You used to have a bit of funk in your trunk. You used to be called Ms. Nasty on the sly. You weren’t scared of getting a little dirty. Your task this month is to let the skank-shine in. Dip down low when you boogie my friend. You have all the permission in the world this month to do all the fun consensual adult things you want but have been locking away in your rainy day closet. Freak flags must fly! Strain recommendation: Destroyer

LIBRA

You are a rolling stone: wherever you lay your hat is your home. You visit all the parts of you that have been scattered by time, barely stopping between each to catch your breath. What is of more importance than this work of keeping your loved ones bonded to you? However, while you flit across the globe, seeing your beautiful family and friends, hugging their bodies, laughing at old stories, wiping away tears and dancing, you must remember there is more to you than just your relationship to others. Yes, absolutely, connection is crucial, but so are your own interests: the things that make you an individual. Some of your passion has dulled and it’s time to relight the flame. Can you channel your old fire to serve you on this new family focused mission? Strain recommendation: Blue Mystic

SCORPIO

How much of your day do you spend thinking about what others are saying about you? And how much time is spent thinking nasty thoughts about others? For such a kind person you can get caught up in this mean girl preoccupation of letting your insecurity feed your bitterness and vice versa. This is a childhood pattern that you have yet to take in hand. You’ve done great work on yourself in the past, but this is a blind spot that continues to elude you. Now is the time. See the space this cycle takes up in your life and do away with it. Highlight and hit delete. It’s clogging up your hard drive and slowing down your operating system. Strain recommendation: Deep Cheese

SAGITTARIUS

Stanford researchers have confirmed what everyone already knows: walking helps promote creativity. Is it the movement, the repetition of the steps, which allows the brain to wander? Or is it the fresh air that gets the oxygen into the brain? Maybe it’s the solitude, though many creative walks are taken with partners. Whatever it is, I am prescribing a few good long strolls for you this month. It’s time to get out of this artistic slump. Weighed down by so much blah-blah lately, you’ve forgotten to let the juices flow. You have a big idea coming, it’s brewing and it’s a good one, so do what needs to be done. Drink the imagination prune juice, so to speak. Strain recommendation: Sunset OG

CAPRICORN

So much sitting on your butt lately! You’ve got a serious case of flat ass. Sciatica been acting up? Let me introduce you to Kaizen. The Japanese practice of gradually implementing a new practice in your life, one minute a day. Set an alarm to ring at the same time every day, and right then, stop everything you are doing, get up from your goddamn chair, and dance or jog or do jumping jacks for a minute. Don’t stop mid way! You’ll see how quickly you get bored and want to do something else, it’s remarkable but you must push through; it’s only a goddamned minute. Maybe by the end of the month you will be a little less sloth-like. Good luck with that. Strain recommendation: Purple Elephant

AQUARIUS

The opportunities you’ve been waiting for are going to pop up earlier than expected. This March will be beaver month. Busy. Busy as a beaver. No other meanings of beaver are to be applied. Just the pervy little animal with the big teeth. So, loads of career pressures and many hours to be spent slugging away to achieve them are coming your way.  Do what you can to prepare ahead of time: pack your lunches, clean the dishes, do the laundry. Call your pals and tell them you can’t come out to play for a while. Don’t get caught with your pants down during beaver month. Those teeth are sharp. Strain recommendation: White Nightmare

PISCES

Maeve Higgins, the Irish comedian who co-hosts Star Talk with Neil deGrasse Tyson, was discussing political correctness in comedy on the show recently. She said that when she is wondering if a new joke might be considered offensive she asks herself “Is this punching up or punching down?”. This is a great quote for you this month, as you work your revolutionary magic. Firing folks up, getting your righteousness on, speaking your mind – keep in mind that when attacking an idea, you want to punch those who are not traditionally on the bottom struggling for place. Punch upwards, at the bullies who loom. Keep up the good fight! Strain recommendation: Lemon Pie

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