#it's about women who poise themselves as So Much Better Than You and cry themselves to sleep

[zombified-queer]

My main goal is to get one (1) sole Ianthe stan to find the Hotel herself hot. Then you can bury me in the tomb and roll the rock over my skeletal ass.

[dear-yandere]

succor.

yandere! jotaro kujo 3. major spoilers for stardust crusaders (part 3). word count: 2,600+. tw: bullying, implied depression, drowning, death, gore, and grief.

art credit: ロク. 

He carries himself with poise, an assurity few could ever possess. He is the personification of perfect — alas, a man who appears perfect, like a statue which leaves many in awe, a statue whose marble insides have begun to slowly erode, a statue who’s already begun falling apart. There exists not a soul who can fix him, no sculptor skilled enough, no human kind enough to fix his flaws before anyone else can catch on; Jotaro Kujo is his own sculptor, and he’s forgotten how to mend his broken pieces.

For as long as he’s known, he’s been a soldier. A boy soldier, who bears the weight of the world atop shoulders of steel, shoulders which shake and tremble when no one is looking. He is a soldier without a commander, a soldier without a purpose, and he was content with that. But he is a soldier who’s fought a battle meant for ten thousand men, a battle which has long ended, a battle which still plagues him; he is a soldier who’s fought god and he is only seventeen.

When did it begin, he wonders? When did his marble bones and stone veins start to crack? Was it that day? Becaues he remembers being bullied. He remembers taking each insult, like poison-laced daggers, and thinking nothing of it. He remembers the wrinkles, the eye bags, the grey hairs which had started to pepper his mother’s face at around the same time. He remembers the questions, the sobbing, her desperate pleas, her hesitant knocks on his bedroom door. He remembers her somehow finding out, remembers her standing up for him, one day, in the school yards. And he remembers his bullies trying to hurt her, too.

He remembers nearly killing them.

It was like the flip of a switch, how quickly he changed. Mom became mother, bitch, nuisance. She can’t understand how he felt in those moments — she couldn’t — because until the day he dies, he won’t let her. Keep her at arm’s length, don’t let her in. No one can know, no one can get close — they’ll just get hurt, too. That’s the funny thing about love: it hurts. To feel loved is wonderful, to be loved is tragic, damning, dangerous. He is a catalyst for disaster, destruction, danger, and everything in between.

Death loves him, and love has never felt so lonely.

He lost a friend that day. Metal had bent around his body like silken sheets, water had sod his clothing without care; if his body hadn’t already run cold, the water would’ve made him sick. He would’ve smiled and laughed it off with his dear friend, would’ve said his injuries are no big deal. He can still see, can still move, can still dream. 

If he’d lived.

He lost a friend that day, the only one he’d ever had.

And then there is you.

You are no different from the rest. Just another body to protect, another set of eyes he must keep from prying. Death loves him, and he’d been foolish enough to fall in love; funny how easily it happened, really. Because when you look at him, he feels as if he’s baring his all. All his insecurities and worries, all the times he’s wanted to break down and cry. It’s a feeling he hates, detests, but it’s something new, something unexpected, something needed. You are not those women who look at him with indignant curiosity. You are not his mother who looks at him with worry. You are not his grandfather nor his dead best friend; you are you, and somehow, you are everything he’s needed.

Love is a funny thing, he recalls, and that thought is enough to clear the darkness around him. It’s calming, at first. The nightmare is over and he must be waking up. Your soothing voice will greet him, as it always does; you’ll hug him, cradle him like a child, and he won’t push you away. But you don’t. You shine, so terribly bright that he has to look away for a moment. There’s warmth, comfort, safety in your direction, but he doesn’t walk forward. He doesn’t deserve it.

Not him. Not the man who let his friends die.

Jotaro, a dark, playful voice begins, echoing from the depths of nowhere. It’s familiar; far too knowing, far too cunning, far too demonic. Jotaro feels his mind start to unravel like loose threads, and the voice feeds off this, like a parasite.  If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them? 

“What do you want?” Jotaro barks at nothing and turns toward the dark, turns away from you. Secretly, Jotaro has always been scared of the dark, but right now it was oddly welcoming. The dull beat of that voice, distorted and tinny, still seemed clear, pristine, ethereal. As if the voice had hands which he could not see, they wrapped around his neck like a noose and pulled. Gravity itself seemed to pull at his neck, pushing him further and further into the unforgiving abyss of the darkness as if swallowing him whole. 

Why is he here?

Just as his back hits the waters, the sudden impact knocks the oxygen out of his lungs within a second, before he’s plunged right beneath the surface. His eyes are open, even as salt-water pierced and burned; he was certain before, but this is too real to be a dream. It it weren’t for the fact that he could’ve perished any moment now, the sight before him would’ve actually been beautiful. Nothing but a color palette of deep sea blue clouded his peripheral vision with colors that were excruciatingly breath-taking in real life. 

But he isn’t deceived.

I want to wrap my brain around that head of yours, Jotaro. So, enlighten me... The disembodied voice mocks, feeling like blood rushing against his the insides of his head. It’s closer this time, over his shoulder, next to his ear, and there’s a familiarity to its tone — a familiarity he doesn’t want to acknowledge just yet. Surely telling them you care is easier than breaking your body over and over again.

Jotaro chews on the question with a hint of unmistakable disgust before spiting it out. He hears the voice laugh that mocking song once again, and the light shining from above almost feels like they’re mocking his every movement, too. They watch his arm shoot upwards, silently and slowly for their help — and they laughed. The gears in his brain start turning, willing his limbs to work as legs weakly kicked up in desperate search for air. Realization soon beats itself into his slowly-drowning lungs, and he’s left to face questions that no one but he knows the answers to.

How did he get here? Is he awake? Is he alive?

Answer me, little mortal. We haven’t got all night. The voice goads, and it feels like sharp needles have stuffed themselves into the canals of his ears. Jotaro hisses, and the voice seems content with the response, at the least. Or, perhaps you’d prefer to drown? What a peculiar way for a marine biologist to go, but humans never cease to amaze me.

Jotaro struggles to answer the voice which claims to be inhuman, but dark waters only drain into his mouth like rapids. Time wasn’t even on his mind at this point, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long he’s been underwater. The ocean seemed to pin his legs and arms into icicles, keeping them from thrashing everywhere. Soon, his attempts on fighting for oxygen were getting much more pathetic — much weaker with each kick.

‘Is this how I die?’ He thinks, chuckling at the irony. The feeling of agreeing with the voice is bitter, but its words are not wrong. To think he’d die in the embrace of something he’s spent his life researching. And even so, he wastes no time in reaching a conclusion: ‘Still not a bad way to go.’ 

Not that he'd been holding onto hope in the first place, but witnessing the light stray further from his grasp was anything but welcoming. It’s clear that his mind and body were slowly starting to lose motivation in fighting against fate. His fate.

And right now, he’s drawing nearer to the finish line.

His limbs had eventually stopped responding and allowed gravity to drag his body into the never ending abyss he’d always marveled at when he’d been alive. And despite condemning himself to his fate, the hopelessness seethed in gradually. Human nature, he concluded; to want what you cannot have is human nature. He knows that better than most.

Once his air supply ran tight, his mouth instinctively opened up once again, allowing water to flow in through his nostrils and throat. Every 'breath’ made him choke on the saltiness of the ocean waters, lungs struggling to hang on as the water slowly crushed its cage from inside and out. Barely even able to hear his own thoughts, he assumed his eardrums burst from the insane depths he was being pulled into. His eyelids grew heavy like boulders and finally drooped; he had already succumbed to the thought of death — he couldn’t even cry in anguish or relief, but perhaps the downpour above the waters was crying for him instead. The thought was comforting, to know that someone, some thing would mourn his death.

His back hits the ocean floor like a sunken ship, and he believes he’s dead until the voice speaks again: Have you had enough time to think, little mortal? Its words are scathing, and by far the last thing he wants to hear on his death bed, but with it, came air. It seemed an impossible feat at the bottom of an ocean no human has visited before, but the air is crisp and fresh. Jotaro drinks it up, gulping it down in excess, reveling at how it fills his lungs with life. The water he’d inhaled and drunk doesn’t even seem to exist, at the moment, but he hasn’t the state of mind to dwell on that.

“Where am I?” He chokes out, still tasting the bitter tang of salt against the back of his throat. The voice seems to echo around him, and he finally realizes that he is still on the ocean floor. Sea creatures he’s never seen flit around him, and despite the stark absence of any light, he can see them clear as day.

Only you know that. The voices hums, creating a vibrato in the seawaters, a sound that seems to manifest into arms and once again coil around Jotaro’s neck, like a noose. He wants to scream and thrash and fight, but the comforting presence of Star Platinum within his core is... vacant. 

I shall repeat myself. If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them? The question seems out of place at the bottom of an ocean filled with light and air, but the entity leaves no room for Jotaro to dwell. The heavy stench of iron is immediately recognizable, and Jotaro realizes there’s a gash in his chest. Pale fingers, topped with blackened fingernails which have grown awfully too long, held his intestines away from his torso, the flesh coiled tightly around the hands of a man he once knew.

A man who should be dead.

And yet, here he is. And yet, there is no pain.

“Because...” The words slip past his lips before he knows how to finish. Because what? Because he’s an asshole who can’t put his feelings into words? Because he’s a fool who deserves to suffer alone? Because...

“Because I’m afraid.”

The voice cackles, creating distortions in the sand bed and deep sea water, and yet he could recognize it as clear as day. DIO.

Oh? Is that so? DIO runs a tongue over his lips, deciding to humor his little plaything. Then, hypothetically, if you do tell them you love them, what are you so afraid will happen?

Jotaro doesn’t respond.

I’m waiting.

“...I don’t know.”

Liar. DIO bites and lightly pressing a claw-like fingernail into Jotaro’s jugular. It’s not polite to lie.

“I...” The pool of blood at his feet is disorienting, vivid and real despite the darkness around him. “It’s not that I don’t want to trust them, I...” He reaches out to cup the hand still jutting from his stomach. How odd it is to see such a horrific sight and feel no pain; and it all clicks into place. Jotaro chokes up for a brief moment, hoping a reply will make this all end. “...It’s dangerous to show you care. If they knew, and if my enemies knew how important they are to me, then...”

This isn’t real. None of this is real. How many times has he had this nightmare? And how many times has he imagined just that — the corpses of his loved ones plastered along the streets? The screams that won’t stop? The look of fear and hope on their faces?

That hasn’t happened, yet, and yet he faults himself: how can he be so weak?

There we go. DIO clicks his tongue and gently strokes his great grand-nephew’s hairs — something he no doubt imagines to be an affectionate pat. Not so hard, is it? Jotaro nods, too weak to stand up for himself. This nightmare never ends. You’re afraid of being too vulnerable. DIO coos and twists his blood-covered arm, deepending Jotaro’s unreal wound. You’re afraid of being too... weak.

The ghost’s words always sting, but this nightmare has become so commonplace, so normal — as easy as breathing, despite the waters around him — that Jotaro hasn’t the strength to feel anger. It’s not like DIO is wrong. He is afraid, he is weak, and above all, he’s afaraid of being weak.

But, how curious it is, little mortal. Hasn’t anyone ever told you— the voice begins to chastise, but is cut off; its words don’t reach his ears. Rather, there’s a soothing scent, with familiar aromas he can’t quite place. But the serenity is short lived. The air Jotaro seemed to be breathing dissipates, and he’s drowning again. His throat burns as if a thousand of needles were piercing it all at the same time, chest clenching itself suffocatingly tight; it’s hell all over again. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic for not acting sooner, especially when the exit was right in front of him, even if it wasn’t anywhere near his reach. Now that chance was thrown carelessly out the window, with no means on returning back to his grasp— 

And his sinks.

As he struggled to keep himself afloat and conscious, black spots started to paint his vision one by one, and that’s when time was obviously running out. His eyelids give up —

And then he wakes up.

There’s a gentle, shaking motion, like a boat — as if he’s being cradled and soothed like he had been as a child. He can’t place it immediately, but you’re whispering soft little assurances into his ear, brushing strands of ebony hair which had plastered itself to wet skin. He realizes that the sweet scent from before is you. He can’t discern your words, not fully, not over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. If your arms weren’t wrapped around him a like a safety net, he’d still think he’s drowning, dying; but, the glimpses of words he’d catch every so often were enough to comfort him. You assure him that he’s still very much alive, that he’s awake, that nothing can hurt him, that it was all a nightmare.

It was just a nightmare.

Hasn’t anyone ever told you? The undead voice chimes, but your voice, clear as day, replaces its mocking tone, and Jotaro melts. He gazes upwards, into your eyes which hold the moon and all its stars and he suddenly remembers that wishes are made upon them.

“It’s okay to be weak, Jotaro.”

inspired by this.

[veritied]

ϟ  ━  was  that  WI  “WILKES”  KI-SUN  around  the  leaky  cauldron  ?  they  disapparated  before  i  could  approach  them  !  what  a  pity,  for  they  are  cerebral  and  poised,  but  maybe  it's  best  to  keep  my  distance  because  they  are  also  minacious  and  rancorous.  i  remember  that  they  were  a  SLYTHERIN  back  in  school  but  have  since  made  a  name  for  themselves  as  an  unspeakable.  if  this  alleged  war  came  knocking  on  their  door,  it  is  supposed  that  they  would  FIGHT  FOR  THE  DARK  LORD.  (  demi  woman  &  they  +  them,  she  +  her /  moon  ga - young  /  twenty  four  /  pureblood  ).

hi,  all!  i’m  cc  and  i’m  excited  to  be  here  and  writing  wilkes,  who  is  a  demon  –  but  a  dramatic,  sexy  demon.  i’ll  be  reaching  out  to  plot  with  everyone  eventually  and  again,  i’m  just  super  happy  to  be  here  <3  beneath  is  a  bare  bones  biography  +  some  wanted  plots  i’d  love  to  write  !

extra  links:  pinterest,  task  one  (  stats  ),  application

trigger  warning:  blood  mention.

women  like  you  don’t  have  the  privilege  of  heroism.  you  are  not  carved  from  sea  foam  and  rose  petals,  you  are  instead  made  of  every  thorn  and  blazing  fire  that  brings  as  much  punishment  as  it  does  freedom.  your  mother  brushes  your  hair  when  you  are  as  young  as  five  and  she  teaches  you  of  your  duties  in  this  world.  not  only  are  you  an  heiress,  you  are  made  of  magic  and  prowess  that  your  family  has  always  held.  you  will  always  tip  toward  the  side  of  magic,  but  if  you  choose  to  turn  your  back  on  your  true  heritage,  you  are  still  saddled  with  the  responsibility  of  being  your  father’s  daughter.  some  women  are  born  into  silk  and  delicacy,  you  are  taught  from  the  moment  you  claw  your  way  into  world  how  to  land  on  your  feet.  you  are  not  given  the  opportunity  to  grow  into  a  rose  ––  and  in  the  grand  scheme  of  life  and  death,  your  only  role  is  terror.

with  that  knowledge,  you  are  torn  away  from  your  family  before  you  can  ever  be  given  the  same  opportunities  as  your  cousins.  you  are  better  than  that  school,  settled  into  enemy  land,  filled  with  peers  that  won’t  challenge  you.  pushed  out  of  the  arms  of  safety  and  love  (  cold,  harsh  love  from  your  mother  –  warm,  enveloping  love  from  your  mother  ),  you  land  in  the  palms  of  a  woman  with  eyes  so  blue  they  scare  you  in  the  dead  of  night.  you  are  to  attend  hogwarts,  instead,  the  finest  institute  in  the  world.  in  korean  script,  you  write  to  your  parents  and  stain  parchment  with  tears  that  you  shouldn’t  cry  and  you  beg  them  to  bring  you  home  –  or  at  least,  send  you  north.  what’s  so  wrong  with  durmstrang?  you  write.  what’s  so  terrible  about  the  beauxbatons  academy?  you  ask.  you  aren’t  given  an  answer  that  you  can  understand  at  your  young  age,  but  one  day  you  will  understand  that  the  people  here  fight  the  same  battles  as  you  do  back  home.  their  views  align  with  yours  and  it  is  better  for  you  to  be  knee  deep  in  war,  it  will  only  prepare  you  for  what  will  await  you  at  home.

hogwarts  knows  you  as  an  english  name  that  your  parents  refuse  to  learn.  i  chose  this  name  for  you,  do  you  not  want  it?  your  father  writes  and  you  send  a  letter  back  with  a  sneer  ––  this  is  the  name  i  choose  for  myself,  do  you  not  appreciate  how  i  carved  myself  anew?  you  take  most  after  your  mother,  though  they  do  not  know  her.  they  only  know  you  –  cruel,  caught  in  a  continuous  lament,  always  lurking  behind  a  barbaric  event.  you  are  an  omen  of  a  girl,  a  terror  of  a  beast  and  you  are  only  known  for  what  you  do  and  what  you  lack  (  empathy,  sympathy,  kindness  ).  but,  you  are  the  sole  result  of  sovereignty  –  your  veins  are  pure  and  filled  with  magic  that  serves  you  well.  women  like  you  don’t  have  the  privilege  of  a  choice,  after  all,  and  when  you  are  swayed  to  sides,  it  is  obvious  which  you  will  fall  under.  beauty  is  cruel,  purity  is  evil.

you  struggle  after  your  graduation  –  you  teeter  between  east  and  west.  in  the  east,  your  family  awaits  your  return.  there  is  a  life  for  you  in  the  budding  city,  in  the  elegance  and  luxury  of  your  family’s  fortune.  but  here,  there  is  a  cause  that  you  have  already  pledged  yourself  to.  it  is  a  battle  that  occupies  your  mind  and  your  heart  and  your  lungs  as  you  start  a  new  life  among  your  peers  and  fellow  wixes.  you  write  home  a  year  after  your  graduation  and  announce  that  you  won’t  return.  yet.  in  the  script  that  you  have  memorized  most,  you  promise  that  you  will  come  home  some  day,  but  not  before  this  war  is  fought.  you  tell  your  parents  not  to  be  ashamed,  to  be  proud  of  who  you  have  grown  into  and  to  watch  with  pride  as  you  do  what  they  would  have,  had  they  come  instead  of  you.  and,  you  live.  you  are  a  wicked  girl,  but  it  is  who  you  are.

wanted  connections:

unrequited  love  ––  i’m  just  a  sucker  for  it  –  the  kind  that  she  didn’t  even  see  coming,  the  kind  that  made  them  wake  up  in  a  cold  sweat  and  scream  into  their  pillow.  wilkes  doesn’t  –  get  attached.  ever.  yet,  they  still  sneak  glances  at  you  when  they  think  you’re  not  looking.  she  laughs  a  little  too  hard  at  your  jokes.  she  isn’t  as  mean  to  you  as  she  used  to  be.  they’ve  watched  you  move  on  without  them  and  there’s  nothing  they  can  do  about  it.

finest  friend(s)  ––  the  very  people  that  they  met  during  their  first  year  at  hogwarts  and  never  moved  on  from.  attached  at  the  hip,  she  is  always  showing  up  with  gifts  and  stories  of  her  life,  memories  of  the  old  days,  everything  in  between.  there  is  nobody  else  that  wilkes  would  really  stand  up  for  in  the  way  that  they  do  for  you  and  you  can  always  feel  her  loyalty.

wilkes  assigner  ––  in  my  app  i  said  it  was  a  boy  but  ignore  it.  the  wix  that  she  first  introduced  herself  to  and  you  said  “wilkes?”  and  she  was  like  “yeah.”  i  just  think  it’d  be  a  fun  connection  to  have  and  maybe  you  never  let  them  forget  it  and  they  always  roll  their  eyes,  but  they  don’t  actually  mind  it  as  much  as  they  claim  to.

unlikely  friends  ––  as  in,  the  nice  wix  to  ...  the  wilkes.  you’re  a  bit  on  the  softer  side,  a  kinder  soul  that  doesn’t  seem  to  mind  the  faults  and  terror  of  wilkes  and  they  are  entirely  grateful  for  it  –  even  if  they  don’t  show  it.  you  balance  each  other  out  in  a  way  that  just  feels  natural,  nothing  is  forced  and  she  is  (  a  little  bit  of  )  a  better  person  from  it.

anti(s)  ––  i.e.  full  time  haters  <3  maybe  you’re  too  much  like  wilkes,  maybe  you’re  too  different,  maybe  you’re  just  good  and  you  know  that  she’s  not.  either  way,  you  see  each  other  in  public  and  you  glare  at  each  other  across  the  room  before  getting  into  an  embarrassingly  dramatic  argument.  could  also  be  a  significant  annoyance.

actual  enemies  ––  as  in  much  worse  than  a  hater,  you  cannot  stand  wilkes  one  single  bit  and  your  arguments  are  less  dramatic  and  more  intense.  there  is  real  hatred  between  the  two  of  you  and  a  simple  ‘sorry’  isn’t  going  to  fix  it.

[poptod]

can i get something with webb porter where reader is a competing serial killer and it’s an enemies to lovers sort of plot? kind of a dark idea but i got it from criminal minds and excited to see your take on it. thanks again!

notes: this got VERY morbid so apologies for that, but i hope its kind of what you were thinking of. so, WARNING: some serious violence! psychopathic themes! gore descriptions!

WC: 1.8k

+

Fucking bastard, you thought, sipping on your morning tea. The latest newspaper sat in your hand, folded out open upon the small breakfast table in your kitchen. On the front, 'SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN', written in black letters, accompanied by a dead woman's face.

There were several layers to your annoyance, the most prominent being the fact that you didn't commit it. They put your 'media name' on the front as the perpetrator, but it wasn't you, a fact that had the police seriously mixing up your murders with those of a man by the name of Webb Porter. That was the other layer to it – you caught him at a bad time, he caught you at a bad time, and suddenly it was a race to see who could push the law furthest without getting arrested. Now he had to go and kill another woman and dump her body in front of the police station. Ballsy move for sure, but not wise. Despite knowing better you still bit on your tongue, already thinking on what you could do in return.

You could still remember your first meeting a few months back. It was evening in the city, and though you promised yourself you wouldn't do anything on your night out, there was a man who pushed your patience a little too far. So you slipped and lodged a fork in his chest cavity. Fun stuff, really – not that much blood unfortunately, but the bitter scent of alleyway trash did its' job in intoxicating you.

While you were looking for a bat to finish the job with, you saw him – with wide eyes the two of you made eye contact, a passed out man in your arms and a half-dead woman in his. Neither of you said a word until the deed was done, yours with a drained beer bottle and his with a metal pipe. Blood drained from either side of the dumpster, trickling down into the sewer as the two of you moved aside, reluctant to dirty your feet with evidence.

It was almost nice, secluded in that little corner of the city, watching all that blood glitter in the seedy backlight of a shitty bar. You adored the sight of it, the way it moved and dried on your fingers, the taste in your mouth, the sight of blood-covered hands, the feel of a blood-splattered kiss.

"You do this often?" You asked quietly, your eyes still trained on your body.

"Sometimes," he mumbled.

You waited a couple more minutes before deciding you should probably hide the body.

"I'll see you in the papers tomorrow, then," you said as you moved forward, grunting with the effort to raise the man from his slumped position amongst the garbage.

"I'll be on the front," he said in the same soft voice, moving to take care of his own body.

"Like hell you will," you muttered, but apparently it was loud enough for him to hear, and motivating enough for him to commit a double murder that landed him on the front page.

Thus your little 'game' began with the only rule being a silent one; don't kill the other. The thought had occurred to you multiple times, imagining what his blood would look like on your floor, picturing the way he would beg for mercy tied up to your bed. A smile made its' way to your face when you thought of it again – he'd be so beautiful like that. Still, that wasn't an option. The only thing you could really do was to try and outdo him and hope it impressed him. Maybe he'd voluntarily come to get tied up to your bed. You doubted it, but kept hope nonetheless.

After finishing up your morning tea and fully reading through the article about you that was really about Porter, you took care of your dishes, cleaning up the rest of the kitchen as you did so. You had no work for the day, leaving your schedule open for some plotting. Just the simple stuff; victim, weapon, place. Most likely you wouldn't commit to it the same day, but stranger things had happened, and you had a bit of a lust for the squelching sound of a dagger twisting in a stomach.

Your motivation for murder was incredibly simple. Just the bloodlust – pools of blood, the snap of bones, that kind of thing. What you were doing was wrong and you knew that perfectly well, but your thirst overpowered it all. The desire too strong, like a beautiful woman, like the call of the sea, like the pull to bite at clavicles and break the skin. Porter on the other hand, you had no idea why he did it – at first you assumed his motivations were close to those of your own, but there was a pattern in his deaths, one that wasn't present in your own. Eventually you decided he probably had some mental issues unfamiliar to yourself. Still, it didn't really matter – all that mattered was you staying out of the police's clutches, which wasn't too hard for either of you with the police on a wild goose hunt for the mystic fusion of you and Porter.

By the end of the day you broke the quiet promise you made to yourself in the morning, which was 'don't do anything murderous today'. It wasn't really your fault, anyhow; you were just checking out the routines of a woman in the city, she accidentally caught you, and you had to do some freestyle. That meant the switching of weapons. Originally you had meant to kill her with wire around her neck, but with scarce materials, you ended up hitting her over the head with a metal chair.

Dragging her body to the nearest landfill, you hid in the dark of evening, scouring the heaps of trash for something to finish the job with. Something sharp. Your last kill hadn't resulted in much blood, and ever since that disappointment you had been itching for the sight of it again. Several times you'd even drawn your own blood, just to watch it trickle down your arm, pooling at the base where your wrist leant against the sink counter.

"You're getting messy," said a voice from behind you, a low and lilting voice whose quiet words grinded against your head. You whipped around, hand instantly going to your pocket knife before you caught sight of the man, a sigh of relief leaving you.

"Porter," you said bitterly, sending a glare his way.

"(L/N)," he said, wandering out from behind a hill of discarded tires. "You didn't even do your research."

"Thrill of the moment, I'm afraid," you said as you rubbed your nose, eyes never leaving him.

"I would..." his gaze fell to the blacked out woman, "never be so.. unorganized."

"I'm not all that much of a planner. I'm assuming you are," you said with a grunt, forcing the woman's dismembered arm into the plastic bag, "considering how anal you are."

"I'm not anal," he snapped, and though he kept the same quiet tone, it was the loudest you'd ever heard him speak. Enough to make you turn and stare at him.

"Someone's touchy," you sighed, turning back to hacking off the woman's other arm.

Hoisting the dull ax, you once more swung it down, blood spitting out onto your face as a sick crack came from the woman's shoulder. You grinned – the copper taste of blood trickled sweet onto your tongue. Behind you, Webb tensed, shivering at the sight of your blown-out eyes.

"Why do you do that?" He asked, breaking you from your spell.

"Do what?" You wiped your bloodstained nose with a bloodstained hand.

"Get... messy," he said, his eyes suddenly turning soft, as they did when his curiosity surpassed his distaste for you.

"I like it," you said with a grin, shifting your feet to face him. Your ax gleamed in the moon's light, his own reflection caught in the dripping crimson, poised to use again. For the first time he took a step away from you. "I love the feeling of blood on my skin. Love how you can warp people's bones and they won't cry. I actually tried to keep them alive, at first – but it's hard to muffle that kind of yelling... hard to hide a live person in your basement. Why, does it scare you?"

His eyes widened imperceptibly, taking another step back as you took one forward.

"I've been wondering, just in my spare time," you mumbled, "why do you do it?"

He wasn't a violent person beyond that specific urge of his to drown women. You hated that you knew that, but after the amount of time you spent stalking him, you had to know. Generally, he didn't hurt people – in fact he was a withdrawn man, quiet but polite and courteous. He kept plants and fed stray cats. In your experience, withdrawn, male serial killers didn't tend to much else besides themselves. So what made him do it?

"It's the only thing that gives me stability," he whispered, voice cracking when he met your eye.

"There's better things to give you that than murdering," you said with a chuckle.

"Says the one who likes the taste of blood," he bit back.

"Well, you've never tried it," you said, a sly grin slowly making its' way across your face. You stepped closer yet, and though his eyes widened further, he didn't move. "You should. Then you'll know what killing really is, and you can decide if its something you really want to be doing."

At your words his shoulders tightened, feet fumbling as he stepped away from you, unable to break eye contact. Before he could make another move you grabbed his wrist, pulling him close to you. Your chest pressed against his, the woman's blood smearing onto his dress shirt and crawling up his arm as he inhaled sharp, nothing but nerves in your touch. You almost grinned – he was so responsive with you.

Leading him back to the woman, you forced him to stand before her with an ax in his hand. You kept close, your chest against his back, your hand over his and guiding it upwards.

"Breathe deep. It takes more force than you think it will," you whispered into his ear, delighting in the shiver that ran down his back.

With your help he brought it down, flinching at the dull squish. He hadn't managed to break any more bone, but he'd gotten through some ligaments, which wasn't worth nothing considering his horrified state.

"How does that feel, Webb?" You asked, dropping the ax in favor of trailing your finger up the blood splatter staining his shirt, a smear of red leading up his chest.

"Warm."

[theangriestpea]

Crowned : Six

Summary: Two blonde princesses, two dark-haired princes, and one plotting marquess. Lily is in love with a secret admirer. Shanna doesn’t want to ascend to the throne. Jughead wants to spend the day writing poetry. Sweet Pea would rather be out on his horse. And Reggie just wants to be king. <ao3> <masterlist>

Pairing: Sweet Pea x OC, Jughead Jones x OC

Word Count: 4.7k+

Warnings: Mentions of wartime and violence. 

A/N: Thank you everyone who has supported me through this series. This is the first completely fanfiction series I’ve completed in quite some time not counting one-shots. I’m pretty terrible at finishing fics because I’m HORRIBLE at endings...and middles....really I’m only good at beginnings lmao. Please enjoy the Epilogue and look for more oneshots that I’ll write for this universe periodically. More “Deleted scenes” if you will, since the last one I wrote did really well. Ao3 is currently down so I’ll updated it there as soon as it comes back up. 

Part Six: Epilogue 

The screams of the two princesses echoed down the hallway. King Owens paced frantically outside the closed door to the special room in the royal infirmary. Sweat beaded on his brow as his stomach turned as he heard his oldest cry out once again. 

He was useless. Just as useless as he was on the days they were born. He fainted when his wife was pushing out Shanna and would have passed out for Lily had he not been sitting down already at the doctor’s request. He did well under political pressure, but not under personal stress. 

Inside the room, divided by a thin curtain, Shanna and Lily were plagued with labor pains. Though their due dates were a few days apart, and still about a week away, both had started contractions heavily that morning. 

Shanna blamed her husband. Sweet Pea had seduced her into a round of wake-up sex which triggered her labor. Hearing her sister’s cries of pain caused Lily so much stress that she then went into labor. It was quite the royal disaster. 

Sweet Pea’s fingers were currently being fractured in his wife’s tight grip. “I fucking hate you!” She yelled, tears trailing down her face, “you just had to get your dick wet!” 

“That’s why this is happening?!” Lily yelled from the other side of the curtain, poised on her own bed. “Because he couldn’t take care of his morning wood himself?” 

Jughead, future king of Riverdale, was doing his best to not laugh at his brother’s misfortune of incurring the wrath of both princesses. In fact, he couldn’t keep the smile from beaming across his face as today would be the day that he’d finally meet his son. 

Sweet Pea would have been overjoyed to see his daughter in person for the first time as well if he weren’t currently being screamed at by two women in an insurmountable amount of pain. Their contractions were fairly closed together, although Lily was dilated about two inches more and was finally ready to get an epidural. 

Princess Shanna was breathing heavily between muscle contractions as she tried to rest against the bed until her next one hit in approximately two minutes. She overheard the nurse letting Lily know she could get anesthetic now and Shanna groaned with the agony of jealousy. 

Her own nurse checked her once more, head bobbing under the sheet that was tented by her knees. “Not quite yet, your highness.” She said, much to Shanna’s disdain. The nurse stood back up, putting the sheet back down. “But soon. Hopefully a few more minutes.” 

“She’s dragging this out because she’s trying to kill me!” Shanna yelled in a fit of dramatics as she noticed Lily’s own pained sobs had mostly quieted. The world was cruel and she’d love nothing more than to catapult Sweet Pea into the sun for doing this to her. 

Sweet Pea tried to soothe her by smoothing down her mussy hair, “no she’s not. She’s just not ready to come out yet…” 

“And whose fault is that?” Shanna snapped at him angrily, ready to break another one of his phalanges. He blanched, knowing that this day might end in his own death. 

Twelve laborious hours after she went into labor, Crowned Princess Lily gave birth to a healthy baby boy and newest heir to the throne. Of course, keeping with traditions, he was named Forsythe Pendleton Jones IV. Although the couple had settled on the nickname “Pax” to symbolize the peace he was to bring to their newly joined kingdoms. 

Shanna was not quite as lucky. Her own labor lasted a total of fifteen hours before the new little princess joined the world at last. Princess Dahlia, after a flower that Shanna was quite fond of and in keeping with the floral tradition of her husband’s name. 

Although no longer ascending the throne, Shanna still had to stay in the Northside castle as her husband was training the ground troops there to get them into shape. Some of his best men had come from the Southside to help him and he spent entirely too much time in his beloved war room, leaving his wife and newborn daughter to fend for themselves.

Well, as much as princesses would need to, considering the personal servants and chambermaids they both had. The king had even tried to order for a wet nurse to be available but the new mothers greatly protested as they didn’t want anyone else to be feeding their newborn children. Unfortunately for the king, he had to accept that his daughters were grown adults now and no longer needed his help with much.

Six weeks after Pax and Dahlia were born, the crowning ceremony was held for Lily and Jughead to finally become the reigning couple. King Owens stepped down from king to simply father of the queen. In truth, he was quite okay with this as ruling solo for so long had been quite tiresome. He had been looking forward to the rest greatly. Although he did stick around for a majority of the council meetings to help guide his daughter in the political processes. Afterall, Shanna had been the one trained in all of it and not Lily. It was an easy fix, however, and Lily was a natural just as her mother had been. 

With Lily and Jughead ruling as equals, most of their day was spent going over new decrees, new laws being passed, having an audience with those wanting to propose changes or new social programs, going over financing the Southside with supplies, and various odds and ends. This meant that for a majority of the day, their son was actually in the care of his aunt as she had no royal duty to do...well anything really. 

It actually caused her a great deal of distress, although feeling mostly fulfilled as a mother and aunt, she still grew depressed with the thought that this was all that was left for her while her sister and husband were off doing bigger and better things. She was left in their dust and was feeling particularly ignored and abandoned. 

She was in her favorite sunroom with the two infants one day, alone as usual, and on this particular day she was weeping silently as she rocked the bassinet Pax was currently fussing in as he was fighting sleep. Her own daughter was already passed out from a belly full of fresh breast milk. 

Duke Mantle, not the old pissant Marty but the new and improved Reginald, came across her there and noticed something wasn’t right. He came in slowly, not wanting to startle her or the little one that she was trying to get to sleep. 

“Princess…?” He asked softly as she quickly wiped the tears from her face, hoping that he hadn’t seen them. But of course, he had. That was one of the reasons why he was coming in here. “May I sit down?” 

Shanna let out a tired sigh. She didn’t sleep much, really only when both babies were asleep was she finally able to drift off into dreamlessness. “You may.” She said, her exhaustion evident in her voice. 

Reggie sat down on the couch beside her. Not too close to be inappropriate, but close enough to try and give some kind of comfort. “What’s wrong?” He asked timidly, a tone that he very rarely took. She didn’t even look at him as she continued to gently move the bassinet back and forth in a rhythm that only she could feel. 

“What do you care, Reggie?” She bit back, not understanding what he was doing here when he surely had some important things to do. Even the duke had a bigger role to play in the kingdom than she did at this point. She never thought that she would one day regret giving up the crown. 

The duke frowned, “I know I didn’t act like it, Princess Shanna, but I have always cared about you. I never stopped caring. Everything I did to hurt you, that was my father’s doing. I never once lied about my feelings for you.” 

More tears flooded her eyes as she tried to get them to stop. Hearing this from him was definitely not something she had realized that she needed. It did help heal some of her past hurts though and perhaps she felt the tiniest bit less used by him. She was quiet, still not answering his question. 

“What is wrong?” He repeated, moving just a fraction closer. “Is something wrong with the prince?” His gaze moved to Pax who was finally starting to settle down, although gave the occasional whimper of protest. 

“No, he’s fine.” She murmured, “Everything’s fine. I don’t have to be queen. I’m married to Sweet Pea. I have a beautiful daughter and nephew...everything is totally and completely fine.” 

This was an obvious lie as if that were truly the case then she wouldn’t be sitting here by herself crying. Reggie obviously knew this as it wasn’t hard to deduce. “Then why are you crying?” 

She hesitated, unsure if she should bare her soul to him once more. The last time she did it bit her on the ass. “My life has always had a purpose in regards to the kingdom. I was raised with an important role to fill. Now that I don’t have that...I feel completely useless.” 

Her shoulders trembled with the threat of another sob, however she held it in. She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this, especially not Reggie. Despite him greatly improving himself over the past few months and flourishing with his new title, she still couldn’t help but feel like he was an old enemy that she just couldn’t trust. 

Reggie put a gentle hand on her shoulder. He hesitated as he felt her stiffen beneath his touch. It was not a romantic gesture, rather a comforting one. Something to assure her that she wasn’t as alone as she felt. “Everyone else has a role to fill and you don’t.” He said, more for clarification than as a statement. Shanna nodded her head weakly. Even her husband had an incredibly important job. The once crowned princess was now nothing more than a royal nanny. 

He gently rubbed her shoulder, “I think you’re greatly minimizing your importance in the work you are doing, princess.” He said softly, hoping she would take his words to heart. “Not just anyone can be a mother. And these are just regular children you’re taking care of. The crowned prince will one day be king of all of Riverdale. To ensure he is a good one, then he must be raised right. It takes a special person to do that. Not to say that the queen isn’t special, she is. I just mean it’s not something a commoner could do.” 

Reggie paused, taking in her countenance. Shanna was still frowning, albeit not quite as deeply. “And Princess Dahlia I’m sure will one day have an important role herself. She could take over her father’s job or simply help rule the Southside for Prince Forsythe. My point is that she will also need a special upbringing as well. You should not sell yourself so short.” 

Shanna chewed on her lip in thought. She wanted to believe him but that was proving to be difficult. The duke continued, “What you’re doing is extremely important, but if you still want to do more then why don’t you think about starting new social programs for the mothers of Riverdale? Help them get the things they need to take better care of their children.” 

Finally she cracked a smile, “Reggie...that’s a wonderful idea. I could totally do that and propose it to Lily, I’m sure she’ll agree with it. Jughead will just have to sign off on the financial aid, but…” 

His face mirrored hers: happy and excited, “I could help you if you want. Give your proposal while you take care of these two. Maybe work out any of the kinks that pop up.” 

She turned to look at him fully, “Thank you, Reggie. This is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me. How can I repay you?” 

“Just stop hating me.” He said softly, eyes downcast with hurt, “forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you. You know the difficult position my father put me in, and-” She cut him off with a wave of her hand. 

“If that’s all, then certainly I can do that. All is forgiven, Duke Mantle. Now, go grab a notepad and a pen and we’ll get started.” The princess declared, a smile still lighting up her face. 

Reggie nodded and quickly did as she asked before joining her back on the couch so they could get to work. 

|\/\/|

Shanna had still not been getting much sleep. Dahlia insisted on eating every two hours, even during the night. Though it relieved the fullness of her breasts, she was starting to feel utterly defeated. Sweet Pea, who slept like a sentient rock, did not wake up to his daughter’s cries. He was totally immune to her hunger pains. 

But today was different. Today Sweet Pea had taken some time off to spend with his new family, mostly his daughter who he couldn’t quite believe the amount of love he had for her. He never wanted to protect something so fiercely as her in his entire life. He didn’t get any kind of paternal leave as there was much too much work to do. Instead he was forced to take time off here and there to get any real quality time with her. 

Luckily this gave his wife some time to nap peacefully without having to worry about being woken up by a baby. Pax was with the queen today as she took her own day off to play with her little boy. Her and Jughead did this from time to time as to not miss these crucial first moments of their child’s life. 

The princess had been asleep for the past three hours, which was more consecutive time than she’d had since Dahlia was born. If she truly wanted to, she could have nannies take care of her, but Shanna was determined to do it herself. If other mother’s could then so could she. 

She was abruptly woken by the loudest burp she had ever heard. It startled her so bad that she nearly fell off the bed. She let out a groan before pulling on the robe and going into the living room of their new suite to see who the hell that came from and to promptly yell at them. 

“I swear to god, Sweet Pea, the best sleep I get in two months and you-” She walked in to find both her husband and daughter in a fit of giggles. It was the first time she had heard Dahlia do something other than cry… Her eyes teared up with joy. 

“She is definitely my daughter. Did you hear that whopper? That was her!” He was so utterly proud of his offspring in that moment that he thought he might burst. 

Shanna did not look nearly as impressed. Mostly she just looked exhausted. “Did you give her gas drops?” 

He grinned before kissing his baby on the forehead. “Of course I did. Looks like they’re working perfectly. Sleep well?” 

“I did until the princess woke me up with the loudest burp in the history of the kingdom.” She grumbled as she tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “Well, I guess I’m up now. I should pump since she just ate. Did she take the bottle okay?” 

“Yes. I told you she would. Just let me feed her sometimes at night. You don’t always have to do it. All you have to do is pinch me and I’ll wake up.” Sweet Pea said, a smile still on his face as he was still entirely too amused. 

She smiled before sitting down on the couch, “I guess I can. I feel bad because you have to work.” 

Sweet Pea sat down beside her. “It’s not like you do nothing all day.” He said, rolling his eyes. “How is the new proclamation going? Mantle behaving himself?” 

Her eyes lit up, “it’s going wonderfully! We’re going to give the formal proposal next Tuesday. It would help every newborn in the kingdom and make sure every new mother and father have all the tools they need to raise their babies. I’m so excited. Lily was very on board when I told her about it at lunch yesterday.” 

Dahlia was staring up at him with big hazel eyes that matched her mother’s. She cooed at him before yawning. 

“I’d be worn out too after that monstrosity you just let out.” Shanna said teasingly as she poked her little girl’s belly. Dahlia grinned a toothless smile before yawning a second time. 

“I’m proud of you, princess.” Sweet Pea said suddenly. “I didn’t know brats could make such good mothers.” His tone turned teasing at the end. 

Shanna’s eyes narrowed and she pulled on his earlobe, making him yelp in pain. “Jerk. I’m only a brat when you’re an ass. Besides, you enjoy it. Don’t try to deny it either because I’m not an idiot.” 

The dark prince just laughed lightly, knowing it was true. 

Meanwhile in what was the new wing for the King and Queen, Lily and Jughead sat with their son who had also just fallen asleep. “He’s so perfect.” Jughead said in a soft voice as to not wake the sleeping baby. “I can’t believe I helped create him.” 

Lily was smiling at the swaddled bundle in her arms. “He has your eyes.” She commented, “the Jones’ blue eyes...I hope they don’t change when he gets older.” 

Jughead grinned, “They won’t, trust me. All the men in my family have the same blue eyes...well, except for Sweet Pea but that’s because he’s adopted. Dahlia got Lav’s eyes anyway.” 

The queen giggled lightly as she got up and gently placed Pax in his bassinet. “The prince who will finally bring peace to Riverdale...Do you think we expect too much of him?” 

“Not any more than my father expected of me.” The new crowned king said honestly. “Once this war with Greendale is over then things should settle and be peaceful again. No other kingdoms are so gungho for war. The one-eyed queen is the last one trying to wreak havoc with her Gargoyles.” 

Lily shook her head, “yes but now we’ll have the best Serpent army training our troops. We are twice as strong now. She won’t be able to even touch us. Especially with Sweet Pea leading them.” 

Jughead was silent for a few moments. “I do worry what will happen when he goes into battle….” 

She ran a hand through his thick hair, “we have to trust that he’ll be smart when he goes in. And pray that he stays safe. My sister would be devastated if anything were to happen to him. Dahlia deserves a father.” 

“I know. That’s what concerns me. His temper or pride will blind him and he’ll get himself hurt or worse.” Jughead said, his face going stoic. 

The queen shook her head, not wanting to discuss something so serious on their day off. “It’s his job, Jug. None of us have a choice. He’ll want to be out there anyway. You can’t stop him from doing what he loves.” 

The king gave an exasperated sigh. “I know. He’s like a bull. At least his strategies are brilliant. Maybe that’ll be enough to keep him from getting himself killed.” 

“We can only hope….” 

Six months later the worst happened. Greendale finally made its move against Riverdale, attacking the border bases and cities. Jughead had no choice but to send Sweet Pea and his best troops to the front line. It was his duty, no matter how much Princess Shanna begged him to not make his brother go. 

Dahlia was old enough to understand that her father was gone. What she didn’t understand was why. Shanna put on a brave face for her daughter but to be honest she spent most nights crying in her large bed alone. Lily did her best to be there and comfort her sister but she was so busy with her work that she didn’t have much time. 

The unsung hero of the story was really Duke Mantle who helped Shanna immensely with both the children and keeping her head in a good place. Lily practically ordered him to keep her preoccupied so she didn’t dwell on thinking the worst. 

The prince and princess wrote to each other as much as they could. Mail was slow getting to the front lines but letters from Princess Shanna were marked as the highest importance. While some of the older generals protested this, as they saw it as a distraction, Sweet Pea assured them that it was essential to keep up morale. Letters from home was the best way to do that. 

Although, Sweet Pea quite regularly showed concern on how close Reggie and Shanna were getting. She had to keep reassuring him that it wasn’t like that in the slightest and to trust her. He’d always be her prince. She couldn’t even think of having that kind of relationship with Reggie again. The mere thought left a bad taste in her mouth. 

The following week the letters stopped coming. Shanna waited day after day for just a single update on how her husband was fairing, but so far there was no news. At least none that had been released to her. She was almost certain that Jughead knew something and just wasn’t telling her. Hermes was in the stable the night before last on a return trip. This only meant that the king had gotten word from the frontlines. 

During tea time that afternoon, Princess Shanna forced her way into the tea room with both babies in tow. “Jughead, I demand that you tell me what is going on!” The server in the room flinched at the casualness. The princess was giving orders to the king. The lack of proper etiquette was appalling. 

“I don't understand what you’re talking about, Shanna.” The king said dismissively as he took another sip of her Earl grey. 

She stomped her foot, “I know Hermes is in the stable as we speak! I know you’ve gotten news from the front. Tell me!” She demanded once more. 

King Jughead was informal for the most part. At least, in the presence of family. Her accosting him in this way did not bother him in the slightest. Mostly because he knew she was worried sick about his brother and not because she was trying to be blatantly disrespectful. “Shanna, please. Sit down.” 

Lily looked curiously between her sister and her husband, drinking a bit of her own white tea blend that was made special for the royal family. “Bring Pax here, I’ll hold him.” She said with a smile. 

Shanna went around the table and deposited the prince before walking back around to take her seat, Dahlia perched on her lap with wide and curious eyes. She blinked at the adults around her before babbling something incoherent at Pax who merely cooed back. 

Jughead took a deep breath before setting his cup down. “There was an ambush. The Gargoyles have mostly shifted to guerrilla warfare as Sweet Pea had suspected they would. Something happened about six days ago to cause the line of communication to nearly be cut.” 

Princess Shanna bit her lip in anticipation, her heart sinking down into her stomach as she knew bad news was to come. Her eyes began to water in preparation. “Sweet Pea’s unit was attacked at night. The watchers were killed before they could raise the alarm. There were some devastating losses, however we were ultimately victorious.” 

“And Pea?” She asked, growing impatient with him. He should have told her about this as soon as he found out!

“He was gravely injured. He just recently regained consciousness.” Jughead said, “but the doctors assure me he will make a full recovery. They are bringing him home now to recuperate while General Fogarty steps up to lead in his stead. I wanted it to be a surprise when he got here.” 

At first, tears did fall. Sad tears over hearing that he had been hurt badly. However, they quickly turned to happy tears instead at the knowledge that he would be home soon. “How soon? When will he be home?” 

The king smiled, “Tomorrow afternoon. I want him to get as much rest as possible and I need you to see to it that he doesn’t try to overdo it. He was very upset that he was being sent home.” 

“Thank you so much, Jug.” Shanna said, still crying as she held Dahlia close to her chest. “I’m sorry I was yelling at you.” 

Lily grinned, “it’s okay. We know how much stress you’re under. I would be lost if Jughead had to go off to war. Take all the time you need. I can keep Pax tomorrow so you can spend time with him.” 

Her tears eventually stopped as she smiled back at her sister, “you’re the best, Lily. I love you both.” 

Of course there were many, many, more tears when Sweet Pea finally arrived home the following day. Shanna nearly knocked him and his wheelchair over with excitement when she nearly jumped into his arms. The nurse pushing him had to stop her. “Princess, I’m sorry, he’s still very hurt.” 

A worried look crossed her face before she leaned in and kissed him, gently at first until he pulled her into his lap on his own to deepen it. The nurse made a disapproving face at the two of them. “Your highness…” 

“Let me kiss my wife, damn it.” He said back to the girl before hugging Shanna close to him. “Where’s my princess at?” 

“She’s taking a nap, come on.” Shanna got off of him and took the wheelchair from the nurse. “I’ll take you to her.” She pushed him, struggling a little at first, “Christ you’re heavy.” 

Sweet Pea rolled his eyes, “I don’t need help, I can do it myself.” He put his hands on the wheels and began to propel himself down the hallway. 

That night, there was a family dinner in the dining hall. Sweet Pea talked about his more glorious battles, much to Shanna’s dismay. Hearing him in constant danger made her anxiety swell to an almost intolerable level. 

Lily announced that Shanna’s program to provide care packages to the new parents of Riverdale (North and Southsides) would be in full effect within the week’s end. Everyone with a child under the age of one would be receiving guidebooks, equipment, toys, and more information on resources available to them in the event that they needed help with formula, baby food, diapers, wipes, and/or medical care. The support from the kingdom over this decree had been overwhelmingly positive, especially from the Southside who didn’t always have access to the programs that had been instilled on the Northside for several years now. 

The previous king was alight with pride for his two daughters. This was the first major new social program implemented by the new regime and he couldn’t be happier. Former King Forsythe was also quite impressed with the whole thing. He knew that the families in his old kingdom would greatly benefit from this. It was nice to know that the place he strived to make a prosperous home for many was finally getting the second chance it deserved. 

The war lasted for another three years, however Sweet Pea would come home after every four months or so to visit. He would stay with his wife and daughter for a couple months before leaving again. When the war had finally ended, Riverdale proved the winner as they beat back the Greendale forces until they had no man power or supplies left to feasibly continue their tirade. There were great losses on the Riverdale side as well, but not nearly to the same degree as Greendale.

Sweet Pea and the rest of the soldiers returned home for good, much to the joy and happiness of the families that had awaited them for so long. Sweet Pea, Shanna, and Dahlia moved to live in the castle in the Southside while Jughead, Lily, and Pax stayed in the North. They visited each other often and communicated almost daily. Despite the distance, the siblings were still incredibly close with one another. 

And they all lived happily ever after. 

Tag List: @the-gargoyle-queen​, @princesweetpea​, @wayward-river​, @southside-vixen​, @redhairdontcare732​, @lilhemmo​, @iamaunicorn4704​, @jezzabelleserpent​

[nejitenforlife]

The Courtesan's Life

Rated: T

Pairing: NejiTen

World: Edo Japan (1700s)

Synopsis: Tenten is a courtesan who spends her days as a slave to men's desires. All she wants is to be free, but will she ever meet someone willing to take her away from this life?

(This is a story request for one of my IG followers. I'm not familiar with Edo Japan, or the life of a courtesan, so despite research, some of the information in this story will be inaccurate.)

Warning: This story contains topics that may not be suitable for everyone, including mentions of underage sex and prostitution.

~

Days passed by like molasses, slow and torturous for the young courtesan. Tenten knew by now what was expected of her—of the pleasures she was to give to the men who entered the teashop. She did so, since refusing would cost her her life. She had seen enough girls refuse the advances of clients when she first arrived three years ago at the young age of fifteen, and she had never seen them again. Tenten had come close to refusing clients at times during those early days, reasoning that it would be better to die than to live a life controlled by others, but she was optimistic that one day she would leave this hellish life—that someone would find her and take her away.

Tenten still remembered her debut as a courtesan, when she was presented to men from behind a cage like an animal on display. She had been terrified, trembling in her skin as the eyes of dozens of men watched her, their lecherous gaze making her feel naked despite the layered kimono she wore.

Over the years, the terrified feeling she once had, as well as her optimism about leaving, withered. She had once been just like a sunflower—warm, bright, and carefree—but she now lived like a hydrangea—indifferent to whatever may happen to her.

Tenten had raised in ranks since arriving in the teahouse, having started as a lowly Heyamochi. Her beauty and her poise allowed her to rise quicker than most who were sold to the teahouse, and she now occupied the role of Chusan. She spent her days sitting in the window of the teahouse along with her fellow courtesans, until a client picked her out to entertain him. Some days she wasn't chosen at all, although they were scarce, and those were the days she valued. To spend a whole day where she wasn't violated by someone—to her it was a victory.

She was allowed into her quarters before nightfall to eat and change out of her daywear. Then, she dressed into another kimono—one much fancier in the hopes of attracting a rich client—and sat by the mirror to reapply her makeup for the evening. She was no longer a low-ranking courtesan, and she could be picky with the men who would bed her. She chose only the wealthiest, since the richer the man, the more money she made.

Despite her indifference towards her situation, a small part inside her still longed to belong to someone in a way she had never belonged to a man before. Someone to care for her, to cherish her—and not solely for her body. Each night, before she presented herself, Tenten wondered if this will be the night that someone buys her and steals her away from this place.

Tenten had grown skilled at lovemaking, as one would when they had to do it every day, and she had more than a few repeat clients. They were all wealthy and they all treated her well, but none had ever shown any inclination into buying her, and so she remained at the teahouse, serving men with her body as each day dragged onto the next.

The only solace Tenten received from this life came in the form of her dreams. There, she was able to forget the life that her parents had sold her into, and dream of what used to be. Of the life she once had, and of the boy she had once loved. She dreamt about him often, although her mind had long since forgotten his appearance. He now appeared to her in dreams faceless, his arms always extended towards hers, ready to whisk her away to safety. He was smiling, of that much she could tell, and they would play together as they once had when she was free.

It was foolish of her to dream of him so often, Tenten knew that. He had been a friend of hers growing up, though he would have also become her owner one day. Her parents had worked for his family, and she was being trained how to one day work for them too. But the pair had been young and didn't much care for rules and training, and he had not wanted to own her. All he had wanted was a friend, as his family was strict and didn't allow him any. So, they would meet secretly down by the river, away from the visibility of the house, and there they would stay. That was, until they were found by some servants. He had been taken away, kicking and screaming for them to let him go, his eyes wide with fear as he watched Tenten be marched away in a different direction. They had known the consequences of what would happen if they were found together, and he feared his father would truly put her to death for their insubordination.

He didn't, of course. She had been beaten for her disobedience, first by her employer, and then again by her father. He was outraged that his daughter would make a fool of him in front of his master, and in his rage, he had sold her to the teahouse.

And there Tenten went, bruised by the beatings she was given, screaming at the scary men to unhand her, and crying at the feeling of betrayal. The two people who were supposed to love and cherish her most in this world had sold her to a place where unknown horrors awaited her.

.

.

.

Tenten sat dutifully in her cage by the window of the teahouse, her legs tucked under her and back straight as she had long ago been trained to do. Clients entered and left at will, eager when entering and satiated as they exited. Tenten knew not to scowl in disgust at these men—that would only go badly for her—and instead, smiled pleasantly at them. She had learnt that the courtesans who smiled seductively were almost always chosen first, so she chose to smile pleasantly. She didn't want to be someone's first choice—she didn't want to be someone's choice at all—but of that, she had no power over. If she was chosen, all she could do was comply and indulge the man's wishes.

Three of the Chusan's with her were talking amongst themselves quietly. They would be in trouble if the master found out, but they were willing to risk being punished. Tenten had never tried to become close to her fellow courtesans. She didn't want to start caring for the ladies stuck here with her, since she knew just how quickly they could disappear.

One of the girls were crying, Tenten noticed, her dark blue hair poised elegantly atop her head as she buried her face in her hands.

"Hinata, you can't cry out here." Ino, the blonde one, was saying to the distraught girl. "If you get caught, you will be punished."

To her credit, Hinata did try to stop crying, but one look out the window where men constantly were walking past, looking in, had her sobbing again. "I'm sorry. It's just that… I think I might be… pregnant."

The two girls with her gasped. Even Tenten's eyes widened at the news, her heart plummeting at the thought. Poor, poor girl.

"Hinata, what about the herbs? Haven't you been taking them?" Sakura asked, her voice filled with distress for her fellow Chusan.

She shook her head, head once again buried in her hands. "I didn't think I was due for it yet. It hasn't even been a month since my last dose."

The herbs were forbidden, but the courtesans used them anyway. They stopped them from getting pregnant, but it wasn't permanent. The leaves needed to be consumed each month—usually by being mixed into tea—otherwise the effects would wear off. It was dangerous though, and prolonged exposure to the herbs would leave one barren for the rest of her life.

Tenten watched on as the two girls comforted their friend. It wasn't as though Hinata would be harmed for getting pregnant. No, what would happen would be much worse. She would still be used as a courtesan until almost the end of her pregnancy term, then after she gives birth, one of two things would happen. If the child turns out to be a girl, the young baby would be taken away from her almost immediately to be cared for by another, while Hinata would be forced to go back to her duties. That child would then grow up within the teahouse, and when she is of age—usually around thirteen to fourteen years old—she too will become a courtesan. If the child turns out to be a boy, however, he would be killed. Neither scenario was desired, which was why the courtesans made sure they were drinking the herbs regularly.

Tenten pitied the poor girl. It would be harder for her to be bought by someone if she happens to be pregnant. Very rarely do men come in and buy courtesans for pure reasons, and it was even less likely someone would want her when she was to bear another man's child. She sighed sadly for the girl and turned back towards the window. They had been neglecting their duties, and if someone happened to tell their master then they would all be punished.

She watched the people as they passed by the window. Happy looking families hurried past, the parents not wanting their children to look into the window and see the women being used as sex slaves. Some of the women who walked past looked at Tenten sadly, regret and shame in their eyes at the things these women were being made to do. Then, they would shake their heads and continue on their way, knowing they had no chance of helping these women get free.

The men who walked past were different. Most of them looked at the women in the window with lust, even if they already had a lady by their side, and many stopped to stare for an uncomfortable amount of time. Some men looked at the women with pity, but still they made no move to help the caged courtesans.

One man stopped, something in the window having caught his eye. He stepped up to the glass and peered in, his eyes intent on Tenten as she stared back at him. He had long black hair, tied loosely into a ponytail behind his back, and his eyes were the colour of the lavender fields her mother used to tell her about when she was little. He wore fine clothes—she could tell they were expensive from the countless men she had serviced in the past—and he exuded a regal air as though he were someone important.

Tenten never broke eye contact, having learnt she could be punished for doing so if the person was a potential client, and she resisted the urge to frown at him. He didn't have the lustful look in his eye that most men had when they stared at her, nor was he looking at her in disgust—which only a small percentage of men did, having the belief that courtesans were worse than dogs. No, this man was looking at her curiously, almost with astonishment, and it took him a long time to break eye contact.

When he did, he marched to the door of the teashop and opened it, entering with a jingle of the bell. Tenten did frown now, wondering if perhaps she had been wrong about him. If he had come inside, then he was indeed a client.

Before she could follow his movements, the girls were told to return to their quarters and get prepared for the evening ahead. She did so obediently, her stomach having been rumbling for the past several hours now. She ate, washed herself with the basin in her room, and dressed. She took care when applying her makeup, knowing that she had to look her best if she were to find the best.

Tenten entered the room teeming with both clients and courtesans alike, some arm in arm as they made their way to private rooms, while others sat close together in comfortable chairs throughout the large living space. Servants walked around with sake, constantly offering to refill drinks of their esteemed guests, before continuing their rounds. She hadn't gone far when someone grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face them.

The man from the window stood before her, his face flushed as his eyes darted nervously around the room. She could tell this must be his first time in an establishment like this, but she was sure he would soon become a regular. Not many men came once without coming again.

She painted a smile onto her stained lips. "Welcome, Master. How may I service you today?"

The man's eyes flitted back to hers and stay there, his hand gripping her arm tighter. Even though it was starting to hurt, Tenten didn't dare ask him to let go. She didn't have the right to tell a client what to do, and many men she had known had enjoyed using violence along with sex.

"Can I speak with you?" He asked, his eyes searching hers. He frowned, as if he was disappointed by her, though she didn't know what he could be disappointed about. If her features weren't to his taste, he was free to search for another courtesan.

His question was odd, but Tenten had to remember that he was new here. Perhaps he wasn't aware of how clients chose their ladies for the evening. "Would you like a drink before we retire, Master?"

His frown deepened. "What? No. I just want to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can go?"

What a strange man. He didn't seem to be lusting over her, but he was desperate to get her alone. "We can retire to a private room, Master, if you wish."

"Yes, that will be fine. Let us go there." Tenten took his arm in hers and led him towards a private room. She wasn't sure if the man knew about the payment process, but she did not plan on telling him before they had finished their business, lest he change his mind and she is left without payment for the evening.

They entered the private room and Tenten shut the door behind them before preparing tea for her client. She directed him to sit on the bed and he did so, his movements jerky and stiff compared to the elegance she saw as he watched her through the window earlier. She turned and passed him the tea and he sipped on it slowly, never taking his eyes off her.

While he was drinking, Tenten undid the sash of her kimono and pushed the heavy piece of fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to her feet in a heap. The man's eyes widened in shock, his gaze falling to her bare chest before snapping back to her face, cheeks alight. Once it was apparent that he was finished with his drink, Tenten plucked it out of his frozen fingers and placed it softly on the table by the door before turning back to him. She moved in close, her hands starting to tug at the ribbon by his waist.

"Allow me to undress you, Master." She uttered in the sultriest voice she could muster. She may not enjoy this, but if she pleased her client well enough, they would sometimes leave her with a very generous tip.

The man grabbed her hands, stilling her movements as they made to slide his outer garment from his shoulders. "Stop. What are you doing?" His eyes were wide and he looked at her as if she were mad.

Tenten cocked her head to the side, confused. "I will do whatever you wish me to do, Master."

"That is not why I came here." He tried to stand up, but Tenten pushed him back down and straddled his waist, her nimble fingers continuing to undress him. He tried to pull her off him but stilled when she placed a kiss to his neck.

"Don't be shy, Master. I can give you pleasures you have only dreamed about." Tenten had succeeded in pushing his clothing away from his body, and now ran her hands along his bare torso, her painted nails skimming the sensitive skin and causing him to stiffen.

"S-stop. I don't want this." His protest was weak, his will crumbling. His hands gripped the sheets beneath him so tight that his knuckles were turning white.

"Even if you leave now, you will still need to pay for the room and your time with me. Wouldn't it be better to stay and get the most out of your money?" She continued to trail her nails along his torso. She was used to servicing older men with large bellies, so the young, well-built man before her was a welcome change. Tenten leaned in, squishing her breasts against his chest as she kissed his neck once more, her tongue reaching out to lap at the skin.

He stilled her, his arms moving to her bare shoulders and pushing her away from him. His eyes dropped once again to her breasts and he gulped, his face on fire. He tore his gaze away from her chest and looked into her eyes, his own now a mix of lust and concern. "Do you not remember me?"

This stopped Tenten short and she frowned at the stranger before her. "Do I know you?"

The man shook his head, eyes growing sad. "No, I guess not. May I ask your name, though?"

"Of course, Master. I apologise for not introducing myself earlier. I am Tenten, and I will be pleased to perform any task you wish of me."

"T-Tenten?" The man's eyes were like saucers and his skin turned pale, as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Are you well, Master? Shall I bring more tea?" This time it was his turn to stop her from standing, keeping his hands firmly in hers as he watched her face, his eyes darting around to take in all her features beneath her white makeup.

Finally, he shook his head, the colour starting to come back to his skin. "Sorry. I was just caught off guard. I knew a Tenten, years ago. She was beautiful, as you are."

Tenten wondered where this strange man came from. He wasn't at all like her normal clients, and she wasn't quite sure how to take him. Should she ask about this other Tenten? Should she give him some space? Or should she continue what she had been doing, until he was ready to participate?

He chose for her. His hand cupped the back of her head and pulled her close, his mouth claiming hers with a ferocity that startled her. For a man insisting he hadn't come here for sex, he sure was kissing like he wanted it.

The man pulled her close, their bodies melded together from the waist up, and he turned them around to lay her on the bed beneath him. His eyes smouldered as they gazed into hers, though still containing a hint of concern, and for the first time Tenten felt a sense of familiarity—as if she may indeed know him from somewhere.

Tenten didn't enjoy this life. She was sold as a slave by her parents and was forced to pleasure men from the young age of fifteen. But for the first time since arriving here, she felt something other than loathing as she held onto the man before her. His eyes gazed at her as if she were fine china, something special. His lips kissed her with a passion that she had never experienced before, that she had thought only belonged to lovers. And his arms held her with such tenderness that took it her breath away. Finally, when it was finally all over and they were lying atop the sheets, his arms around her, Tenten cried. Cried from the feelings this stranger evoked within her—the feelings she had long ago gave up hope ever experiencing before.

.

.

.

A week passed since their encounter. She had slipped out of the room as soon as he had fallen asleep and made her way back to her quarters, knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep if she stayed beside him. The man confused her; he had brought back feelings that she had long since discarded and it was as if Tenten had to start training herself all over again. If she couldn't get these feelings under control, there was no way she could continue as a courtesan.

She feigned sickness—the only way they were able to have time off—and stayed in her quarters, the thought of servicing men making her sick to her stomach. What had that man done to her? She had been fine before he came along, and yet, now the thought of someone touching her made her nauseous. He had reminded her of something she had forgotten—that it was possible for her to feel cherished.

She knew she couldn't feign sickness for long. It would become suspicious and if she were found out she would be punished. But she could get away with it for a week. After that, she would just have to learn to be indifferent again.

.

.

.

The sky was blue, with no clouds to be seen in any direction. People walked past the window, some stopping to gawk at the women on display, while others rushed ahead, preoccupied with their own lives. Tenten didn't bother watching them, instead deciding to focus on the birds above their heads. The creatures were able to fly to wherever they wished to go, unburdened by a cage that kept them prisoner. How Tenten longed to be free, just as they were. She thought that maybe the strange man she had spent the night with a week past would buy her after he held her and touched her with such care, but Tenten should've known better. No one would ever buy her. If he did come back, it would just be for the night again—she would never be able to break free of this cage.

"Tenten, you're wanted in the master's office." A servant called to her, breaking her out of her reverie.

The girls whispered to themselves, wondering what it could mean. Courtesans were rarely called in by the master—unless they had done something bad or they were being purchased. Tenten worried that they had found out she faked her illness. She didn't want to go without food for a week—not again.

Tenten nodded at the servant waiting for her and stood, following him through the maze of corridors until she reached the master's door. The servant knocked, waiting for approval to enter. She stepped into the darkened room, her hands nervously twisting together in front of her.

"Come in, Tenten." The master's deep voice reverberated through the room and Tenten did as she was told, forcing the fear out of her eyes. "It looks like you have finally found someone willing to purchase you, child."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide with shock as she stared at the man before her. He was terrifying, both in his stature and his temper, and Tenten flinched every time she saw him up close. But his words enthralled her, her heart leaping out of her chest with more joy than she could ever remember feeling before.

"Well, girl, thank your new master for his purchase."

Tenten turned, gasping at the man she saw before her. She hadn't noticed him because of the shadows, as well as her fear of the master, but she saw noticed him now. He had come back for her!

"T-thank you for purchasing me, Master." Her voice welled with emotion and she forced back the tears wanting to escape. She couldn't cry yet—not in here.

Her new master turned towards the desk once more, his face set in a stern line. "I take it that I am free to leave with her now?"

The master of the teahouse flicked his wrist, dismissing them both. "Go."

The man grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the dark room, his legs carrying him quickly through the building. He didn't allow her to stop to collect her few belongings from her room, and he didn't slow down even after they exited the building. Tenten hurried to keep up, her heavy kimono making it difficult to walk fast.

They finally stopped around the corner where a servant was waiting beside a large cart, a horse tied to the front of it. The servant helped them into the cart before climbing onto the horse. The man sat opposite Tenten; his face still drawn into a stern frown.

"Thank you once again for purchasing me, Master." She said, feeling the need to fill the silence between them. The servant was moving now, and they weaved in and out of streets towards their destination.

"Do not call me that." His voice sounded angry but Tenten wasn't sure why.

"But you are master, Master. How else should I call you?"

"You do not need to call anyone master again, Tenten. You are free from that life." She got the sense that he was not angry at her, although his countenance still had not softened in her presence.

She may be free from the courtesan life, but she was still enslaved to this man. "Then, what do you wish for me to call you, Master? And what will be my role under your command, if not to warm your bed?"

The man growled; a noise so frightening that Tenten flinched in surprise. "Do you not see, Tenten? You are no longer a slave. I did not purchase you; I paid for your freedom. You no longer have to do what anyone wants you to do."

She was free? Like the birds that flew above her, able to go wherever they pleased?

Tears filled Tenten's eyes, the dream she had long wished for finally coming true. The man was in front of her in a flash, his arms wrapping around her as she let out a sob. She clung on to him, her hands fisting the front of his outfit as tears streamed down her face.

After some time, the man drew back slightly and lifted her chin in order for her to look at him. "And as for what you can call me, my name is Neji."

Tenten gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as fresh tears sprung to her eyes. "N-Neji? My Neji?"

His smiled at her, his eyes warm. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, skimming his fingers along her cheek as he did so. "Yes, Tenten, it's me. Your Neji."

"I didn't think I would ever see you again!" She wailed, head once again buried in his chest and she clutched at him with renewed vigour.

"Nor did I, my love." He stroked his hand down her back, soothing her with his soft touch. "I was told you had died, and I fell into a depression at the thought of never seeing you again."

Tenten shook her head. "I didn't die. Papa sold me to the teahouse for the shame I caused him, and I have been there ever since."

Neji's arms tightened around her at her words. "I am so sorry, Tenten. If I had known… I should have pressed harder. I should have done something. I am so, so sorry."

She felt tears land on the back of her neck, and she realized that Neji was also crying. "Don't apologise, Neji. None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong."

He was shuddering in her arms, the tears falling onto the cart below. "But you suffered so much. You were gone for three years, Tenten!" He leant back and peered into her eyes. "As soon as I saw you in the window, I knew it had to be you. But your eyes were dull and lifeless, the brightness they used to hold had disappeared. And when you didn't recognise me, I wondered if I were just dreaming you up." Pain filled his eyes as he recalled. "I wanted to talk to you, to see if I was being delusional or if it was really you. But even when we spoke, you didn't know it was me."

"I'm sorry, Neji. It became a habit of mine to forget the faces of the men I met, and in time I ended up forgetting the one face I never wanted to let go of." She reached out to hold his face, her thumbs brushing the stray tears from his cheeks. "But I dreamt of you, Neji. Every night. I dreamt of happier times where it was just you and I."

Her words were his undoing, and Neji leant forward to kissed her. He kissed her like it was the last chance he would get. He pulled her close to him, his hands finding their way into her hair and knocking out the cumbersome pins as he drew her mouth closer, unable to get enough.

He pulled away, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "I promise you, Tenten, that you will never have to through anything like that again. I will never let you out of my sight and I promise to love you for the rest of my days."

Tears welled up again in Tenten's eyes. She knew what he said was true, Tenten didn't doubt his integrity. She knew in her heart that she was safe now, with him. He would show her love and cherish her in the way she had always wanted.

Finally, she was home.

[ashwayssunny]

carry that weight.

hello! here’s a lil fic that nobody asked for. aka, dennis spends the night on the couch. set during “the gang gets romantic,” so it’s tagged for spoilers! warnings for brief mentions of v*miting, drug use, and dennis-typical creepiness.

Like most nights, he couldn’t sleep. He’d felt a headache building for hours, had known it would be a nasty one as soon as the woman Mac had unceremoniously decided to pair him with revealed she was no single woman after all. He wasn’t sure if he’d lost interest in the scheme then, or if he’d simply never had any to begin with. Either way, he’d had to swallow his complaints. It would’ve been so simple - should’ve been so simple - for him to crawl into Mac’s bed, drift away, and forget the scheme altogether, but the way his skin burned like he’d laid down on a bed of hot coals told him it simply would not be. 

The couch was not meant to host an overnight guest. It was uncomfortable on the best of days, and today was not one of its best days. It was cold, the leather warped and torn in odd places, and so lumpy, Dennis felt as if he were trying to get comfortable on the head of a giant mushroom. He was cold, too, as he always was, and the throw blanket he must’ve stolen from his sister no less than ten years ago offered him no support. He dreaded the way his back would ache in the morning, and the thought of it was almost enough to send him running back to Mac’s room with his tail between his legs. Almost. 

The woman - Lisa, he remembered vaguely, though he’d thought he’d made it a rule for himself that knowing their names cheapened the experience - was attractive enough. Slender figure, inauspicious features, a face he’d forget once it wriggled out from underneath him. He liked redheads. Mac knew that, of course. Mac seemed to know many things about him; Dennis didn’t know why that surprised him after nearly twenty-five years of cohabitation. I know you, man, Mac had said to him once in a way that sounded quite like he was saying something else. Dennis remembered fighting back tears for the first time since childhood. Mac was so close, he thought, just in the other room, nothing but paint and drywall between them. If Dennis concentrated hard enough, he could make out the sound of him snoring obscenely; he pictured Mac’s arms and legs tossed haphazardly over themselves, knew he was drooling into his one and only pillowcase-less pillow. He wondered, if he had stayed, if Mac would be drooling into his shoulder instead. 

Dennis rolled onto his side, pushing those thoughts away. The current occupants of his room seemed to still be awake; the walls in their apartment would certainly win no awards for protecting anyone’s privacy, and despite his best efforts to soundproof the room, sound escaped just as frequently and as forcefully as so many failed sexual escapades that passed through that very same door. Twenty-five years’ worth of sexual escapades. Dennis tried not to think too hard about how long twenty-five years truly was. Until recently, he’d been twenty-five in his head, willfully ignorant of the passage of time, but now as he stared down the reality of being nearly twice that age, the bliss that came with his willful ignorance had all but disappeared. At twenty-five, he could shoot tequila till the sun came up, sleep for a few hours, and go on about his day, rinsing and repeating each night in a pattern that became as comfortable and familiar to him as waking up and falling asleep. He would always vomit, of course, because a weak stomach and an easily triggered gag reflex was something, among other things he didn’t care to admit, he shared with his twin sister. Now he was lucky if vomiting was all that came of nights like that. After thirty-five, his hangovers seemed to evolve, lasting days and robbing him of usefulness for what seemed like weeks, like months, like years. Now, pushing forty-five, it was not so easy to rinse and repeat. 

A brief but unmistakable sob came from his room, and Dennis rolled his eyes but was secretly grateful for distraction. His thoughts returned to the woman, Lisa. He remembered trying to stare at her. It wasn’t unusual; he often studied his targets, drank them in like a smooth crème de menthe. He knew it made them uneasy, and he’d liked it that way. But his eyes kept drifting, and it was jarring to him in a way he could not pinpoint. He didn’t feel anything when he looked at her; then again, he didn’t feel anything when he looked at any of them, but a deep, burning lust that boiled in his brain and in his stomach and told him he would combust if he didn’t touch someone was ever-present. Or it had been. It wasn’t now, and that was most jarring of all. Lisa was attractive enough; sweet-faced, red-haired, curvy in the best places, and totally, completely uninteresting to him. He wondered if something in him was broken for good this time, if he could never get it back, if he even wanted to get it back. If he even wanted anything at all. 

Another sob choked its way through the silence of their apartment, grating on Dennis’s eardrums. He groaned aloud, hating Mac for putting him through this. He considered turning on the TV in the living room and popping in a Rambo DVD just to rattle him awake with the sound of gunfire. When more muffled whimpering made him clench his fists tightly to his body, he decided he needed some other noise, anything else, to drown it out. He reached for his phone across the coffee table, sliding past the home screen and opening his Spotify app. With shaky hands, he pressed the ‘shuffle’ button on a Rock Classics playlist, closing his eyes and placing his phone next to his ear. Soft, simple piano chords started to loosen the knot in his chest, and when Paul McCartney’s sweet voice began to dance against his eardrum, he smiled in spite of himself. His eyes drifted shut. “Once there was a way to get back homeward,” Paul sang, “once there was a way to get back home...”

He’d tried to look at her legs. He’d forced himself to stare. They were nice enough, as was the curve of her ass, but he felt no familiar twinge of desire. Why couldn’t he just look at her legs? Instead, he felt fear. Months could by at times without him feeling anything at all, and though that frightened him, he knew he could substitute physical arousal for emotion with a relatively high rate of success. It didn’t make him feel happy, but it made him feel something. And that counted. Every drop of water in the desert of his emotional terrain was appreciated, was needed. Like any desert, he could dry up for months, not a feeling in sight, but once the rainy season began, it ran its course with such forceful agony, he wondered if the therapist he’d seen with Dee so many years ago was on to something after all. 

“Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry...”

Why had he agreed to the scheme at all? As the verses repeated, he turned the question over and over in his mind, poking holes in his own arguments, tearing down his own defenses. Obviously he’d done the scheme to satisfy Mac, but... why? Dennis bristled at the thought of Mac having purposefully booked a married couple to force Dennis into his room, but his reaction to the unfortunate existence of Lisa’s husband seemed genuine. Dennis knew Mac well enough to know when he was lying. He paused, considering that thought. He’d seen Mac lie through his teeth a thousand times, and he was bad at it because Dennis knew that he wore his heart on his sleeve, but how many others knew that about him? How many others could sniff out Mac’s lies, pick his laugh out of a crowd of a thousand, recognize even the faintest hint of his scent when Mac’s clothes inevitably mixed with some of his own in the wash? I know you, man, Mac’s voice whispered in his head. 

Lisa, he said to himself. He needed to think about Lisa. Lisa, with her red hair and her red, snotty nose and her husband. Dennis nearly scoffed. What a ridiculous thing to want to have. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, conjured Lisa’s face above Jackie DeNardo’s chest, it would work. He could rub out a quick one and be asleep in twenty minutes. For whatever reason, however, his mind’s eye could not linger on her. Lisa’s face warped and changed shape, shifting into something so unrecognizable, he could not remember it at all. What was it he’d said to Mac earlier? That this whole thing felt desperate, felt unlike him? Odd, he conceded, for a man who once purchased a boat to help him attract women. But Dennis had run the same course, danced the same steps so many times between twenty-five and forty-five, he’d finally begun to dream about packing up his tap shoes and retiring the show for good. Performing, yes, it was all a performance - albeit an excellent one, he gave himself - but a performance nonetheless, and one he feared may finally be better left to a younger man. But perhaps he could do it. Dennis Reynolds had done everything in his life with grace, with poise and mystique. Why should aging be any different? He could retire the skin of his old self like a baseball jersey; some ill-fitting thing at which he could look back and smile but no longer had the power to squeeze him to fit its mold. Yes, that would be nice. 

The drums cascaded like a waterfall down the track and forced in a new tune. “Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...”

And what would be left there, in the empty space between the old Dennis and the new? Dennis swallowed hard without meaning to as another face took shape in his mind, a much more familiar face. Mac smiled at him so sweetly that morning, his giddiness about scheming together again palpable in the air. Mac smiled at him earlier, too, lying next to him silently, their arms brushing just enough to set that part of Dennis’s skin on fire. Mac had always looked at him that way. It made him seem younger. Dennis wondered if perhaps that was because it reminded him of high school, of smoking pot underneath the stadium bleachers, of Mac staying late at his house and beating him for fifteen rounds of Killer Instinct just so he wouldn’t have to go home. Mac still looked at him that way, even when that Dennis and the Dennis he was now seemed lifetimes apart. 

“Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...”

Feet moving before he even made the conscious decision, Dennis slinked off the couch, feeling his way through the darkness until his fingers curled around Mac’s doorknob. Yes, maybe he’d done the scheme to make Mac happy, to spend time with him, to make-believe their friendship hadn’t taken a turn for the worst in recent years. Dennis knew he had to shoulder most of the blame, but perhaps it didn’t have to be that way. He was so tired of performing, so tired of playing a character that nobody, especially Mac, believed in anymore. And if Mac already knew him, truly knew him in the way that he had so long feared being known, then why play the character at all? 

Dennis assuredly but slowly creaked open Mac’s door, shuffling forward until he nearly tripped over the bare mattress. Mac was snoring, but the sound was familiar, and Dennis was suddenly tired enough to deal with it. He laid down as quietly as possible, but Mac’s cheap old mattress practically screamed beneath him, and Mac rolled over, eyes wide and stark white in the darkness, searching until he found Dennis’s face. 

“Den?” he asked. “What are you doing?” 

“Shhhh, go to sleep,” Dennis said, slipping his legs underneath Mac’s blanket. He curled his arms inward on his chest, contouring his body to fit around Mac’s shape without actually touching him. Mac didn’t protest, only sighed softly and inched just a bit closer. “The couch was killing my back,” Dennis whispered, and Mac chuckled. 

“Figured,” he yawned, rolling back over. Dennis’s eyes popped open, and he stared at the back of Mac’s head for a long moment before swallowing and letting out a little yawn himself. He released the tension he’d been holding since that morning in his jaw, and with the familiar scent of Mac’s hair gel on their shared pillow consuming him, sleep finally came. 

[carryonmywaywardwriters]

Love How You Hate Me - Sam x Reader

A/N: I guess the drabble didn’t post? I’ll have to fix that later. For now, have this. I’m going to have a busy end of the week. So, we’ll see when I post the next bit. But, hopefully this holds y’all over. As usual, feedback is always incredible. If you want tagged, please send an ask or message so I for sure see it. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Show level violence. Injured Reader. Makeout session.

Word Count: Roughly 3,700

The shadowed being was doubled over. Breathing raggedly as she held her middle. Too absorbed in the bombardment of her new senses to hear you approach until it was too late. A single hiss left her as she poised to attack. Finally zeroing in on the thump of your heart. Bloodthirsty, as most were.

Without a moment of hesitation, your arm lifted. Sending the red hair rolling across the room with a single, heavy blow. Blood splattered over your the skin of your face. Warm and sticky. Letting the smell of iron drift up to your nostrils.

You stood there for a moment. Simply basking in the strength that seemed to settle into your bones. It didn't matter who she'd been. Only who she'd become. A danger. One that wouldn't be free to slaughter anyone else.

Straightening your shoulders, you prepared to go to work. More at home in your skin than you'd been just a moment before. Letting the adrenaline take away all the lingering negativity that danced in your mind.

One by one, the other five vampires fell under your watch. Almost too easily. No loud cries. Only a few scratches lined your arms. Their arrogance being their ultimate downfall. The craving for a decent fight danced in your veins. You were desperate for the sense of control that came with the hunt.

As the last body on your wing collapsed at your feet, you stood quietly. Listening for anything more. Short of your own whispered breathing, nothing stirred the air.

With a heavy sigh, you wiped your blade on the shirt of the corpse on your feet. Moving out to the doorway to meet the brothers. Believing that all would be needed was destroying the evidence.

Your footsteps weren't nearly as light on the way back. Daring something in the building to find you. To give you a real challenge.

Half of you wondered if it'd goad Sam into lighting into you. The thought made your lips curl to one side. At least he could be counted on for that.

Just as you got close to the entrance, a loud scream echoed through the halls. Your head jerked up to the noise. Attempting to decipher where the sound had originated from. Tightening your grip on the machete, you were on the move.

Sam blinked awake. Everything blurred together as he tried to focus. To remember what he could. A single tap against an empty can had opened the eyes of the vamp he'd been about to hack up. Another must have been behind him. After that, everything went dark.

Female voices talked over another as he made sense of where he was. Rope bound his arms behind him in the morgue. Being watched by hungry, tired, pissed off women with jagged points emerging from their lips. When he turned his head, he found Dean awake. Trying to undo the knots, quietly.

Twisting his fingers, Sam glanced around. Trying to see where you were. When he realized you weren't there? That the surviving members of the nest only mentioned them? He couldn't help the relief that swept through his body.

He might not have been your biggest fan, but being turned was a fate worse than death. Beyond the endless hunger, and inability to be human in the ways most strove for, it was sentence to Purgatory. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not after seeing it himself. Not after hearing what Dean and Cas had endured in the pit of it.

Everything stopped as a slam sounded out in the hall. A low, heavy thud sounded. Too familiar to be missed. Someone's body had fallen. Sam's chest rose and fell rapidly as he waited to see you being carried in. Sure that you'd fallen.

Instead, when the door opened? It was you standing on the other side. Wearing that damned smug grin on your lips. Blood speckled across the exposed skin. It pooled on the floor from what was carried in your hand. The dark hair blocked the face, but did nothing to hide the fact you held a decapitated head. Is she insane?

Dean's eyes were wide, but nowhere near as frantic as Sam felt. Certain that you'd just signed a death warrant in blood. That you didn't stand a chance against the nest. Knowing Dean would witness it made his gut twist further. 

He didn't know how they'd take it. But, that didn't seem to matter to you. You didn't even look their way as the vampires straightened up to take in their new prey.

“I believe this belongs to you.” The head rolled towards the blonde woman in the middle. Assuming she was the head of the nest. “You really need to invest in better guards.” All tease and no bite. There didn't appear to be any tension in your body.

Doesn't she realize she's in danger? Sam was going to have a stroke. He was sure of it as he watched your calm demeanor.

“Someone like you?” Blonde haired and bloodshot eyes, she stood tall. Eyeing you up as if you were a prize to be held rather than a meal. Sam's heart kicked up as he imagined the fate you'd set yourself up for. “All guts and glory...you'd fit right in.”

“Yeah... I don't know about that.” It was only a second. But, he hadn't imagined it. Your E/C gaze flicked over to him. “I'm not really into the whole blood drinkin' business. I'm kinky. Just not that kinky.” Sam almost laughed at the jab. Knowing it was meant for him. Just as bratty as ever.

You scanned the room as you moved in deeper. Exposing yourself to the vampires as your hand reached down into your pocket. If they didn't kill you, Sam decided he would. Giving you the death you clearly wished for.

It all happened in a blur. The rush of an impatient, overly cocky vampire your way. Flesh slammed into flesh. Knocking you backwards from the strength of the attack. Sam forgot to breathe as he was forced to witness it.  

A scream filled the air as a body fell backwards. Huffs of air left both the brothers when the needle was spotted. Deadman's blood. Curling up, the vamp wailed in agony. Lowering the number you were up against effectively by one.  Your eyes remained planted on the other threats around you while you fixed your balance.

“You're fast. Strong...but you could be so much better.” The leader purred your way. Only seeing a warrior for her cause. Someone to replace those she'd already lost. “You'd never fall victim to a man, again.”

“Again?” It was said, flippantly. As if you didn't really care. “You know my life story?” But something flickered in your eyes that Sam didn't like.

“Downside to being female, honey: we all fall victim to a man at some point or another.” Came the scoff. Dismissing the idea that it had never happened in your life.

“You know,” Your bloody blade spun in your fingers as you played with it. Standing taller than Sam had ever seen you. “I'm all for women wanting to feel empowered.” There was a 'but' hidden in your tone. Sure enough, it was just a breath away. “But, you take it to the extreme.” Your chin lifted as you took her in. “I prefer a nice, happy medium. I'd tell you to try it sometime...But, I don't think that's going to happen.”

“You're making a mistake.” She promised. Fangs slipping down as she prepared to strike. Furious at someone challenging the authority she'd worked so hard to gain.

“Nothing new.” What you lost in strength due to being one handed, you made up for in momentum and the sharpness of your blade. The body closest to you hit the floor with a sickening plop as your other blade came out to sink into the throat of another.

Sam dug his rope against the sharp point sticking out on the pole, struggling harder to get free. Needing to assist. Give you a chance. Dean struggled to find something to tear his own rope apart.

You were fast, but not fast enough. The four newer vampires struck at once. Grabbing onto your arms and weapons. Disarming you in a sweep.

“Don't touch her.” The command sounded as a set of teeth scraped against your jugular. Prepared to rip it out. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared defiantly at the leader.

“So, what?” You bit out, jerking your body forward in an attempt to escape. A pointless, but instinctive reaction. “You can't convert me, so you kill me?” Your chin was still lifted as you were forced upwards. A bloodied heretic willing to die for her cause, Sam thought. “Classic.”

Sam lunged forward as if he could stop what was happening. Ignoring the way his wrists strained at the same time Dean finally called out, “You're really going to kill her? Someone that strong? She just took out two of you in a single sweep.”

His way of trying to give you a chance. To come up with something. Anything.

“Enlighten me,” You fought the hold on you even more as the leader moved towards Dean and Sam instead. Your eyes growing wild. “How does someone so attached to males benefit me?” He didn't have an answer. A short, bark of a laugh left her. Then, she lunged.

Dean's shoulder popped audibly as he rushed forward. Roaring your name as the pained cry filled the air. Sam jerked his head away. Refusing to watch the end of you. So certain he'd been right all along. Hunting would kill you.

Another, higher scream filled the air. He looked up to see you'd pulled another blade from somewhere on your body. It lodged into the head of the nest's throat. Separating the spinal chord from the skull. Another needle was lodged into the one in the back's leg.

Your body dropped from the leader's grip as the corpse fell. The weapons that had been pulled away were rearmed. As you stood, you slashed out at the legs of the women standing by you. Giving them no chance to hold themselves up. Whimpers filled the air. But, it did no good. Their heads rolled unforgivingly.

Not a word left you as you took care of the final two. Cutting the misery of deadman's blood short. Blood rolled down along your throat. Yet, you didn't once reach up to check how bad it was.

Instead, you moved over to Dean, “You alright?”

“You're asking me?” Came the pained chuckle. “I'm fine...thanks.”

“Any time,” A ghost of a smile played on your face as the rope fell away from his arms. He stretched the muscles. Wincing at the pain in his shoulder as he got to his face.

“Told you,” You dropped down behind Sam. Not quite smug. Simply matter of fact. “I refuse to be a victim.” He didn't say a word as the tightness around his wrist faded.

Your small blade was pulled from the leader's throat. Cleaned, and placed away inside a small wrap underneath the back of your shirt. It was thin enough that he hadn't noticed it, but enough to keep the blade away from your skin. You loaded up your machetes. With that, you walked out of the morgue. Not another word leaving your lips.

“What the hell just happened?” Sam asked his brother. Still in shock as he looked around the room.

“I'll take care of this. Set this place up to burn. You go check on her.” Dean rubbed at his wrists, looking at the carnage. It wasn't a question. It was an order. A way to avoid answering the question.

With a sigh, Sam listened. Turning to follow after you. He didn't bother to try and catch up. Instead, he stayed back as you practically ran back to the car. Stewing over every detail of what had happened.

“You're something else, you know that?” The sudden fury surprised Sam more than it had you when he finally caught up.

You kept your attention on what you were doing. He found you sitting beside the Impala. One leg out, the other curled up to your chest as you cleaned your weapons. The wound on your neck was raw and bloody from the bite. Not appearing to be deep enough to kill you. Still oozing slowly from the recent trauma.

“You say it like it's a bad thing.” You didn't look up at him. Focused in on what you were doing. As though you didn't have a care in the world. “I saved your ass.”

“We would have gotten-”

“You two are the best.” You looked up to him, finally. That damned cool mask on your face. “Don't give me that look, Sam.” The dry tone made the surprise turn back to anger. “You've survived against some of the biggest, baddest, things to run in this world.” You turned back to your blade as it didn't matter. “But, you got caught in a bind. And needed help. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You think that's what my problem is?” An easy shrug was your answer. “I expected you to die in a hunt. Maybe even this one.” He blurted out. Trying to get a little bit of something out of you. To get that mischievous glint back into your eyes. To work you up as much as he was.

“Boy, you were wrong.” You threw out, making your brows raise his way. As if asking him if he had a point.

“I figured you were going to be another one on the list.”

“The list?” That made you set down the blades, and look at the younger Winchester. You pulled up your other leg and rested your arms across your knees. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

“The list of the people Dean's lost.” Sam looked down, pushing away the sadness before letting his eyes meet yours. Dean was a weak spot for you. He expected you to get more riled. To give him more of the fight he craved.

“Dean's not the only one who lost people, Sam.” You leaned your head back against the metal. A knowing look in your eyes as you looked up at him carefully. You'd caught onto his game, and refused to play by his rules. After all, you got your fight in already. You were too drained to give him more. “You were there, too. You've lost just as much. If not more.”

“More?” He didn't like how easily you shifted the conversation. Zeroing in on his own insecurities.

“Dean knew your mom. You never did. He was old enough to remember at least a little of the normal life. Your earliest memories are of being raised by your brother as you bounced around the country. You were in Hell for a considerably longer period of time. Trapped with Lucifer himself.” You let out a small laugh, “Sam, you're so blind to yourself, it's unreal.”

“Oh, and you know me so well?” His voice hardened as he looked down at you. Forgetting that it was supposed to be you worked up. That it was you who should've been on the defensive over the way you'd thrown yourself to the vampires.

“Let's just say that I have a unique perspective.” It wasn't said with malice. Simply that easy, blown off kinda way that got under his skin. Almost immediately, you shifted away from it. “Dean burning the place down?”

“Yep.” He relaxed considerably. A deep, steadying breath left him. Until he realized he'd been played, again. You'd turned him every direction you could, until he'd forgotten why he was mad in the first place. Thoughtfully, he watched how carefully you handled your weapons. “I'll give it you, you're good-”

“Not interested in your approval, Sam.” You got to your feet, almost angrily. Something finally digging underneath that empty exterior. “In fact, I really just want to be alone.”

“No can do.” He leaned against the closest tree. Comfortable with the newest shift. “Dean wanted me with you.”

“Since when did that matter?” You turned back to the car, opening the door roughly. Growing angrier by the second. “He's wanted us to be a big happy family from the beginning. It didn't work, Sam.”

“Because I didn't give it a chance-”

“Not going to argue there.” You shot back, reaching inside bag you'd stored there. “But, somehow I don't see you in the brotherly light. So, there's really no point in trying now, is there?” You pulled out a new batch of clothes and a first aid kit.

“Never said I wanted to see you as a sister, Y/N.” Sam had no control over the way his voice lowered. In fact, that's the last thing I want. His eyes slid over your form. Taking in the way the jeans outlined your ass.

Slowly, you turned to him. Forgetting what you'd been about to do. Catching the way the deep hazel raked across your body.

The blood still dried to your skin should have been a turn off. Instead, it drew him closer. It was proof that you were everything he'd never expected.

You weren't weak. You could handle anything he could throw at you. He was sure of it in that moment.

“You are the single most frustrating human being I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.” You turned away, shaking your head. Refusing to give into the urge to lean in.

His hand came out, gripping your upper arm. Forcing you to turn his way. Your hands came out, pushing against his chest. Keeping some distance between your bodies. Eyes filled with heat. He didn't know if it was anger. Or desire. But, it was something he couldn't resist.

“I could say the same thing.” Was his quiet, rough response. His hand came up to your head, pulling you in to press his lips against yours. If Sam had thought about what he was doing, it never would have happened. He just wanted- needed- to taste the stubborn lines of your mouth.

The lack of response made him still. Forcing him to realize the colossal mistake he'd made. Immediately, his hands left you. Backing away, he acted as though he'd been seared.

He didn't get far before your hand came up, wrapping itself in his hair. Your body pressed flush into his as you yanked him back down. Molding those once stiff lips against his greedily. The other hand dug into the meat of his shoulder. Not letting him run like he'd intended.

Sam didn't hesitate once he had his opening. One hand held your hip as close to him as he could get it. The other pressed deep into the middle of your back. His teeth tugged at your bottom lip. Demanding entrance. As soon as he got it, he deepened the kiss. His tongue stroking lightly against yours.

You'd imagined a lot of things. But, nothing could have prepared you for the actual feel and taste of Sam Winchester. The heat of him. The way his long fingers held you so firmly.

Everything about the man was overwhelming. It let him get, and stay, in control of the situation. Leaving you content to follow his lead. To just give for once instead of fighting. Instead of being cold, you were just as heated as him.

It only got better when you were lifted, and pressed against the muscle car. His mouth devouring you. One of those too large hands dug into the meat of your thigh to hold you in place. The narrow hips pinned you to the metal. The other hand slid roughly up the side of your body; pulling your shirt with it. Eager to feel skin instead of cloth.

Your own hands moved between you two; trusting him to support you, instead of clinging to him. His skin felt impossibly warm as your touch slowly moved upwards. Sam sucked in a breath before his mouth jumped to your neck- opposite of the forgotten wound.

A small moan left your lips as he bit lightly at the tender skin at your throat. Primal growls left him at the contact before he pressed an open mouthed kiss against the tender skin to soothe it. You continued to explore his body. Appreciating the bunching muscles as he repeated the process in another spot.

“It's done!” Dean's voice broke past the passion. You pushed Sam away from your throat immediately. He practically dropped you in his hurry to escape once he realized what- who- was coming.

“Good!” You yelled back, fixing your shirt. Searching to ensure your best friend hadn't witnessed your downfall. In the distance, his shadow moved through the brush. You were safe. “Hurry up, and let's go before someone comes to check out the smoke!” The puffs of black danced up into the air. Signaling the end of the hospital.

“We're not done.” Sam promised, drawing your attention back to your most damning problem. You should have been more apprehensive at his words than you felt. Not feeling a thrill shooting through your body as you watched him reach down to fix the tent forming in his jeans.

“We'll see, Samuel.” With that, you climbed into the backseat of the Impala. Shutting the door behind you roughly. Using it as a shield between you and him.

You couldn't deny you'd enjoyed it. Wanted it to happen again. But, the glaring truth stared you back in the eyes. You'd given Sam Winchester a well honed- toned- weapon to use against you. Himself.

Part Eight

Tag: @burningmusicmachine @missmarrinette @sherlockedtash88 @rathersuspiciousbumblebee @sasbb23 @nothinbuttrouble2 @baby-bunker-pie @neii3n

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon @supernaturalginger

[claudiablanche]

✧ ━━ the courts of switzerland present CLAUDIA BLANCHE VON SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN of GERMANY, the FIRST PROTECTOR of the TEUTONIC ORDER. the TWENTY-FIVE year old has been GUILEFUL and ABSOLUTE before the break of war but has now become HAUGHTY and POWER-HUNGRY. SHE is often remembered by her likeness to ELIZABETH DEBICKI and THE THRUM OF FARAWAY DESTRIER STALLIONS IN WARS BYGONE ; CALLOUSED PALMS SLIDING BENEATH A TORN SILK BODICE ; THE INVIGORATING WEIGHT OF A JEWELED CROWN RIGHTFULLY CLAIMED. the rumour mills of europe claim that her allegiance lies with HERSELF and that she is for WAR.

FATAL FLAW.

what retributive, wrathful seeds you have sown in your gardens of dark / how cruelly you have seduced your child to bite the fruits they yield.

tw: physical abuse

Before she was Prinzessin Claudia, announced for the first time in twenty-five years to an awestruck court that had believed her dead, she was Ritter Helena of the Teutonic Order, an iron-clad maiden who, on an ivory steed, single-handedly blooded and seized masses of territory for the Holy Roman Empire. There were other names, too, given to her for this particularly glorious era—War-Monger, Sun-Bringer, First Protector of the Empire, Prophet of the Father—but it was Helena by which Konrad called her. And where Claudia would have happily pierced his gut clean with her Christened blade, a younger, blinder Helena answered to no other name but the one he gave her. 

After all, before she would conquer men and kingdoms in his name, she would conquer needlework and morning mass first as young Freiin Lena: knees rubbed raw from praying at an altar she’d rather spit on, mouth twisted permanently in rebuke, knuckles bruised purple and red by thin-lipped teachers who’d have subjected her to worse if it weren’t for the Emperor’s enduring favor. This is where she learned obedience—eventually, anyway. Before Konrad dragged her out to the battlefield for play, he taught her control and composure: the rhythmic precision of embroidery, the patience needed to recite page after page of Latin scripture, the necessity of being able to sit at a table without upending it in a fit; staining her gown in shades of spilt wine; cutting herself on the shattered glass. The maids who cleaned up Lena’s messes would whisper amongst themselves derisively: Now what kind of lady is this? What feral little thing has the Emperor plucked so lovingly from the filthy loins of war? Why does he continue to spoil her, when she presents nothing but unbridled fury, but monstrous rage? 

And all the while, Konrad himself would watch Lena struggle, and cry, and snarl, with nothing but absolution in his eyes. Her wilderness, her chaos, her hurt—where did it all come from? Ah. He knew. 

For before she was a Freiin, she was nothing at all. They said he’d found her tucked away in the rubble of a ravaged land, a weak babe fussing and keening for survival. They said merciful, pious Konrad had sensed something in her: a greatness, a divine calling, an affection that compelled him to rescue and take her under his wing. She was less than a daughter, but greater than a subject. She was given her own land and title, but denied the luxurious spoils other children of imperial favor enjoyed. In fact, she remained shrouded from the public eye for years to come: locked away in some undisclosed tower, unheard from and unspoken to. 

It was harsh of him, perhaps, to begin at such a young age. Some would say cruel; others insisted it was a stern kindness needed to lift her into glory. To the little girl in the tower, it was simply how the world worked: in endless jabs and cuts, in broken bones and shorn hair—fighting tooth and nail, slammed to the ground over and over until it no longer frightened her to fall. Before she ever wore a gown, she wore armor; before she ever held a needle, she held a blade. Konrad’s best generals taught her, then would bring squires and older boys to drive the lessons home: in barracks, in stables, in dead black fields—

Day after laborious day, year after unrelenting year; he was teaching her, slowly, how to fight—but more than that, he was teaching her wrath. It was important to the Emperor that his weaponry was not only functional, but doused in a rich, dark fury that would ensure her success. He sowed these seeds of rage deep, deep within her: every split lip, cracked rib, denied privilege, clear prejudice a means to cultivate something truly, truly dangerous. 

And he did. Perhaps, more than he has anticipated.

For now, Claudia is a woman truly worth fearing. The years have aged her like honey wine: she is a valkyrie on the field, a vixen in the courts—and carries with her at all times an inaccessible air of perfect, stoic control. Those who see her now, the poised princess returned to a joyous Germany, seated calmly at a table with nothing but a pair of cold blue eyes for accessory—they would not believe she is, deep down, made of molten ire. They would not believe the havoc she wrecked in the wake of the discovery of her birthright: the broken jewelry and splintered bed frames and torn shirts—and Konrad’s blood, caked beneath her nails from the one good swipe she got in before they finally subdued her. Since then, her anger appears to have dissipated, smothered out as she’s matured into a regal womanhood; but in fact, it sits like a fire in the pit of her stomach, both an engine and hazard. 

She has grievances, an appetite for vengeance, an inability to forgive—and with all of that, an increasingly volatile, out-of-control temper to match.

TASTES.

what blood i cannot spill on fields of war, i lick from a lover’s lips / what violence i abstain from in daylight, i pursue beneath exotic moons.

tw: sex, unequal power dynamics, internalized misogyny

The Princess of Germany is, by unanimous agreement of anyone who is asked, an unconventional one. She is a knight, and a war hero, and stands at a height so great she—quite literally—towers over any suitor who would dare court her. Indeed, princess, for as short an expanse of time she has occupied the title, is one Claudia has decisively outgrown. Her most curious, and scandalous, point of unconventionality, however, has to do with her choice of companionship; or lack thereof. 

At twenty-five years of age, Claudia is young for a knight, but old for an unmarried maiden. Predictably, she has refused any offers both prior and after her return as princess—and given her intentions to continue serving on the battlefield, has made it clear that marriage is and likely never will be a serious consideration. A declaration so bold would fare worse for someone positioned less uniquely than she, but such is Claudia’s stance on the matter—and so it has been respected. 

Of course, being unwed does not mean the young woman is without an appetite. In fact, Claudia is an extremely sexual being: she is austere, unromantic, and wholly uninvested in anything but her own future—but possesses an energetic carnality and sophisticated sense of eroticism all the same. Men, however, do not interest her: in youth, they were her foul tormentors and fixed enemies; in war, her brothers in arms and family; and in womanhood, they have proven themselves to be her cunning keepers, her foolish kings, and her negligent gods. Men have consistently wounded her, betrayed her, or simply failed to measure up. No, Claudia finds them entirely unappealing, and more importantly, untrustworthy. If she had once harbored affections for any man at all, the feeling has been cleanly discarded of; at the very least, she refuses to acknowledge it. 

Which leaves women. Women, with their soft voices, smooth skin, long hair—graced with an anatomy Claudia is familiar with, knows how to work with ruthlessness. They are not loud and brutish as men are—but rather, speak with their eyes and hands. Many are intelligent, and know the same truth as Claudia: that this world was not meant to carry them safely into and out of the world. So we must carry each other, and ourselves instead. Claudia even loved one such woman, a long time ago. But just as there are beautiful, precious women in the world, there are even more worthless ones. Conniving women who would see her ruined; desperate women who plead with her in the mornings to be saved and loved and lavished; unmemorable, meek, resigned women who have lost any agency of their own to better their luck. Women who take it like whores and don’t complain.

Then again, it’s oddly thrilling, isn’t it? To bruise her up, to hold her down until she shakes, to push her legs apart and tear her to pieces until she looks at you the way women look at men: helplessly, adoringly, fearfully. It feels briefly powerful to be wanted like that, to know you can hurt, and hurt, and hurt—and she won’t hurt you back.

REFINEMENT.

joan’s downfall: not knowing when to stop kissing God’s wrist, and start biting it. / who needs martyrdom? this is my empire. i strike the flint. i set the torches.

Claudia is a study in duology: she carries herself with both the graceful severity of a knight, and the coy entitlement of an imperial heir. Perhaps she is an unconventional one, but Claudia, in many ways, is a princess. She wasn’t ever pampered or swaddled in opulence, but raised all the same to believe she was deserving of it: every strike against her cheek, every bitter night spent shivering in the dark an unspoken promise of her worthiness. At some point, she understood why things were made so difficult for her: it was because Konrad believed she could do more, be better, rise to extraordinary heights. If an Emperor saw as much radiant potential in her—why oughtn’t she see the same in herself? Besides, few can say with Claudia’s same self-assuredness that they have worked hard enough to deserve anything they please.

Claudia, therefore, is not shy about her desires and standards of quality. She is neither spoiled nor overindulgent, unlikely to splurge on useless merriments, but is unabashedly particular with what she does feel is necessary and proper for a woman of her standing to possess. The few material goods she holds dear have each been carefully curated and adjusted to her exact liking. Her stallion is a white destrier, purebred and an unparallelled companion in warfare; her diadem a halo of luminescent gold, embellished with tasteful sets of Chinese jades, Portuguese sapphires, Russian alexandrites, each piece of jewelry imported from a different corner of her someday-empire. Her selection of gowns remain remarkably slim and extravagant for royalty, but each dress is tailored to immaculate perfection, cut from fine silks and dyed in rich shades royal purple, deep cerulean, vivid crimson. The same quality of care, if not more, is given to her armory and weaponry—each piece of iron casted and crafted under her watchful eye.

Some may call it vanity, but Claudia answers to dignity. She has always believed in excellent living: holding oneself in high regard the same way one is held to high expectations. When all is said and done, it would be unfitting to adorn a future Empress in anything less than the very best her Empire can offer.

[namjuicyy]

Forbidden - Chapter Three

Masterlist | Requests are open.

Genre: Fluff, smut, angst.

Genre of this part: Not really angst but not exactly fluff either.

Word Count: 1.8k.

Summary: Prince Hoseok had never been told “no” until his father lay on his deathbed. Hoseok was ordered to marry, but his eyes were set on the one woman he wasn’t allowed to have.

WARNINGS: A lotta cheese, if you're lactose intolerant or fluff intolerant best to stay away.

Previous / Next

It was amazing to you how quickly you had managed to befriend Prince Hoseok. You had, in the past and especially since marrying Taeoh, had extreme shyness to overcome which meant it took you a good while before you could truly call someone a friend and open up to them. Eunjae was your only friend – a relationship your husband frowned upon as "queens shouldn't mingle with the staff". But what did he know? He could barely keep his own kingdom alive.

Unbeknownst to you, Hoseok was besotted with you. He was completely obsessed by your grace and beauty. The way you carried yourself was with nothing but dignity and poise and it fascinated him to see such an accomplished, beautiful queen be so shy and introverted. Hoseok was never good at hiding his true feelings or emotions, especially to his younger brother. And just your mere presence had snapped the prince out of his old habits and subconsciously made him want to be better; for you, as absurd as it sounded.

Even Jimin had noticed a change not just in Hoseok but in the palace staff too. The palace was running like clockwork for once given that all the female staff were doing their jobs instead of opening their legs for their prince. Jimin, of course, never blamed the women workers. They were simply doing as they were told and giving themselves up for a man they hoped would love them. They were not to blame for anything. But he still chuckled to himself, especially when his mother came down for breakfast earlier than him, when usually the whole household would have a little while to wait before the Queen finally joined them. But your visit to the palace simply proved to Jimin that his brother was the cause of so many delays, but more importantly that he could change; that he wasn't the lost cause their parents had made him out to be. This gentility and gentleman-like nature that had shone showed Hoseok would be a capable ruler.

Jimin was besotted with you too, but not in the same way as his brother. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was about you that captivated him so – perhaps it was solely down to the idea that it was you who saved his brother. He just knew that he wanted you to be around for a lot longer than planned. And had suggested as such at breakfast one morning.

"What are your plans after the engagement ball, Your Majesty?" He addressed you gently as one of the servants poured you your morning juice, squeezed freshly that morning from the orange trees in the gardens.

"Whatever my husband wishes." You replied dutifully. You hadn't noticed a deep flicker of something appear on Hoseok's face when you mentioned Taeoh, but Jimin did. "I believe our intentions are to return home to our normal lives."

"Ah, but it's been such a pleasure having you both here, Ma'am." His attention turned to your husband seated beside you, though his conversation addressed you both. "Surely your majesties could stay a few days longer. It would be our honour to host you a little while more."

"Alas, we cannot." Taeoh responded. "I have important matters to attend to back in my own kingdom. Your father," his attention turned to his counterpart, "has given me much to think about."

The King nodded at Taeoh.

"You are all, of course, welcome to stay with us should you ever find yourselves closer to our home than yours." You offered. "We would be ecstatic to share what we have with you."

"That sounds wonderful Ma'am, thank you." Jimin responded.

Hoseok noticed the look you and your husband shared from across the table – or rather, the look that your husband gave you. He was clearly unhappy with the prospect of having to socialise with his neighbours. Though this diplomatic trip had been fruitful, it appeared he'd prefer to be left alone. Hoseok would prefer Taeoh were left alone too, that way he'd have you all to himself. No, he mustn't entertain such thoughts. He shouldn't have dared to want you at all. Yet there he sat at his family's breakfast table, pining over you and imagining a life with you he could never have.

In fact, sat next to you was the life he was doomed to have, the life he'd rather never visited his house at all and was upset to have to touch. Jieun, as beautiful as she was, looked like hell to Hoseok and he made sure he had little to do with her as he possibly could. He took to admiring your profile as his angel spoke to his demons, calmly and kindly enduring the idle conversation about what you were to wear to the ball and listening to what Jieun had planned. You were a saint... a true saint. No one, man nor woman could compare.

"Feeling a little lovesick, Hyung?" Jimin murmured to his brother.

"Of course not." Hoseok lied. Jimin raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Come on, you've got this look on your face. It's gentle and unsettling."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course, you don't – you can't see yourself. I've never seen you so soft, Hyung."

"Jiminie, I don't know what you're insinuating but honestly, there's nothing going on with me. Everything's as it always has been."

"Except you're actually sat with your family for breakfast rather than being inside Mother's hand maid."

"So, Prince Hoseok," your voice interrupted the brothers whispering and drew the attention of the room to you – something you certainly didn't intend on. However, Hoseok was awed by your ability to not let the sudden attention distract you from what you had to say. You were quieter than a queen should be, but even as an introvert you were still able to command the room. "Are you looking forward to the ball tonight?"

Hoseok usually told you the truth. "I am indeed." He lied. Even in the short amount of time you had known him, you knew that this wasn't the truth. You'd hoped there was some honesty in the words he spoke – you'd hoped that he'd make a reference to you attending the ball that night. But his silence went on a little longer than you anticipated, and you felt yourself growing more and more disappointed at the prospect. "I'm excited to be able to spend a night with the few people I hold dearest to me – new friends and old."

Oh.

There was what you wanted – exactly how you wanted it. His charm ever present, and his eyes bearing into you; almost going right through you. You felt exposed almost – heating up with each passing second his attention was on you. You had nowhere to hide or no way to shelter yourself from the intensity, and your breath became shallower and shallower with the racing of your heart. No person had ever had this effect on you – not even when you'd been upset with them – so what made Hoseok so different?

He caught you after breakfast during your routinely stroll around the palace gardens, suffocating you with his charismatic demeanour. You were quickly falling for him and this was worrying to say the least.

"How did you sleep last night, Your Majesty?" Hoseok asked you, his voice dripping with genuine kindness.

"I've told you, there's no need to be so formal."

"My mother would have me lynched if she heard me referring to you as ___."

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry. I'll try harder for you."

"Are you really looking forward to tonight?"

"Yes. I can't believe I'm saying such a thing, but I am. If not for the reason the ball was intended, but for the reason I'll be able to see you."

"You're seeing me now."

"Perhaps for the reason I can hold you then. Without the consequences."

"Hoseok."

"Your Majesty, please. Since you walked into my life everything has changed for me. I'm no longer scared of the future with you by my side."

"I'm married Hoseok, you too are to be wed - we can't."

"He doesn't have to know. No one does." He grabbed hold of your hands and forced you to look him in the eye. "Your Majesty... ___... I am hopelessly, undoubtedly, irrevocably in love with you. You're unlike any woman I've ever met including my own betrothed. I don't love her. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with her. I know you don't love your husband either. Why shouldn't we be happy? Why shouldn't we make time to love one another? Our futures need not be so bleak."

"Hoseok, the world works in your favour. You are allowed as many mistresses as you would like, you can father as many children as you see fit - there are no consequences for you. I would be lynched if the world found out I were carrying on with the future king of our neighbouring kingdom. I'd be punished while you were praised."

"___, please. Being without you – even in my own palace knowing you're a few feet away from me – makes it hard for me to breathe. I can only eat when you're with me and eating too, I'm sure I'd sleep better holding you in my arms. I'd rule better with you at my side, even if it was just a secret. With every fibre of my being, I adore you." You had no idea you were crying until Hoseok wiped a tear from your eye. "I would jump off that bridge under your instruction and fall to my death if it ensured your happiness."

"You shouldn't say such things."

"Why? It's the truth."

He leant forward to kiss you. Or was it you who leaned into him? You weren't exactly sure. All you knew is that your lips were so close to touching, his palms caressing your face while yours encased his hands. His breath tangled with yours as your eyes closed feeling a pull towards him you'd never felt with anyone else.

A throat clearing pulled you two out of the little world you created for yourselves, forcing him away from you with a harsh push only to discover Eunjae standing there staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows were raised, but there was no hint of condescension or berating in her eyes. Just a playful, mischievous glint and a small smirk on her face that told you "I've got your number".

"Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. Your Highness." She said politely.

"N-no intrusion Eunjae." You responded. "Is everything okay?"

"Your husband is looking for you, Ma'am. He is in the King's drawing room."

"Thank you, Eunjae." Without turning, without saying goodbye, you simply exhaled and composed yourself before walking away from the Prince, leaving him the gardens to watch you walk away. This would be the last time you rejected him in favour of your husband – that he vowed.

[crqstalite]

pt. 18, into the lion’s den, pt. 7 (bisauur && nadia)

so i kind of lied because in between these two chapters i made a new consular baby, and her name is bisauur! no, she and nadia aren’t together, because i intend to write bis with zenith (don’t kill me, i really, really like the few fics i can find with zenith/female jc), but i think they’re a cute pair as sisters :)

written: 10.5.19. word count: 4,029.

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character song: run boy run, woodkid

character file: bisauur & nadia grell, padawans to naji iresso

-

bisauur has met quite a few interesting characters since she joined the crew of the defender class starship, the polaris. something the young miraluka jedi still isn't yet over, as everything is still so new. without eyes, using the force to become familiar with her new surroundings is fascinating work. from seeing how the ship's gears fit together, how the engines whir at night as she slips off into sleep. sometimes she still runs into a wall or two because of all the years she spent in the temple, but the warm, familial energy that courses through those of the crew makes it easy to laugh it off, no matter who passes by.

qyzen is an interesting character. someone who kills for sport is an interesting idea, if not also rather morbid when matched up against the jedi code. the trandoshan doesn't offend her though, and she's accompanied him on a few hunts over the three years she's been on the ship. he's good to keep conversation with, even thought it took her a while to fully grasp the guttural language. he doesn't ever mind when she speaks in basic, but he and naji were proud once she managed to figure it out.

tharan and holiday are also two very interesting characters. tharan's scientist background makes him an exciting person to talk to as she learns about chemicals and the such. he's taken her to see the stars many times over when they land on certain planets, and her favorite so far has been the cool air of alderaan. holiday is a darling, but she has a hard time sensing when she's near her, lacking a force signature holiday tends to be a surprise in the darkness. the woman (or hologram, as bisauur has had to learn) is still kind though, and apologizes when she does startle her.

zenith confuses her more often than not. bisauur typically doesn't agree with his methods of getting things done, but she has learned the apparently very helpful skill of sharpshooting. or at least, can aim without shooting herself in the foot. the polaris' crew seemed surprised when they came back off of balmorra with zenith chuckling as she slipped the rifle off from around her shoulder. she enjoys the twi'lek companionship, and the things he can teach her in the art of war. he and tharan tend to ask quite a few questions about how a miraluka can really see, but she counters with how eyes work and why they work. that shuts zenith down, but tharan is still firing back with answers.

lieutenant felix iresso is still a bit of a mystery to her. naji mentioned something rather odd occurring to the man years before they'd met, but his force signature is kind and warm. he often smiles, and like zenith, is talented with weapons of the long-range kind. as much as naji doesn't want her to know (or possibly she knows bisauur knows), a large portion of his force signature is tied with hers. as forbidden as it, they make an adorable pair together, and fight well side by side. he was the one who taught her basics of piloting, though she's confined to the co-pilot's chair indefinitely.

nadia makes her smile in a special kind of way. the others are years upon years older than both of them (nadia is still only 24, and bis is only just catching up to her now), and it's like having the sister she'd always wished for. though there's a clear cultural seperation between the two, they're happy to spend their days together and learn side by side as the world twists and changes around them. nadia teaches her about the world outside the temple, and in return, bisauur teaches her of the more advanced force abilities she posesses.

in all, bisauur is rather happy with her new station on the polaris, and the others have accepted her wholeheartedly so far. though they've been through so much more with naji than she has (she only joined them while naji was stationed on corellia, fighting the first son. a terrifying expedition for a brand new padawan, she was confined to the polaris), the woman treats her as a daughter nearly. given, only a year or two seperates them, but as kind and as sweet as she is, bis wonders if this is what it's like to have a mother. everyone else on the ship she'd assume has a mother, no matter how fractured their relationship might've been. bisauur has none to remember, or even try to remember because her records seem to have been erased. it's a sad and disturbing thought, but she reassures herself because the council must've had a good reason.

the way the force flows around her without her even trying as she sits across from nadia leaves her bored while they both attempt to meditate in the medbay without dissolving into giggles and gossip as they always do. it's rather hard, even if both young women are trained properly in the force. they're simply too good of friends to be trusted to carry out naji's lessons by themselves, and it seems nadia's edging on forgoing it as well as her concentration wavers. something's troubling her, and bisauur just barely opens her mouth to ask what has her force signature all frazzled when the datacron they've been levitating together drops to the ground and she takes her head in her hands, crying out in pain. "nadia!" bisauur cries, shuffling over to her on her knees to take the pained girl into her arms, "nadia, what's wrong?"

the initial pain doesn't pass as quickly as bisauur would've hoped, as tears flush the pale girl's face, a ghastly shiver falling over her body as she holds her tight. once it seems to, her force signature and breathing pattern drop considerably, not quite relaxed but better than it once was as bisauur allows her to recollect herself. this is rather odd, what's gone on that has nadia in such a fit? she'd never seen her like this before, and that concerns her, "nadia?" she whispers, trying to scare her any further, "nadia, are you alright?"

"i-it felt like...l-like i was being shocked!" nadia tries to explain, stumbling over her words as she stumbles to her feet. her eyes are bloodshot, as if some invisible force really has sent volts of lightning through her body. furiously wiping away tears, the girl dashes out of the med bay and because she can hear it, stomps up the stairs as fear leaves whispers imprinted on her aura.

"nadia! wait!" forgoing her own shoes, bisauur collects the datacron and hurries up the stairs to the flight deck to follow after her. what could've caused such a sensation to rip through her body like that, especially without any other interference? looking down at the datacron, she wonders if possibly what she found inside could've caused something like that to happen. bisauur hasn't actually gone poking around in one for a long while, so she's afraid for her friend.

however, her thoughts get the better of her once she reaches the landing, so much so she runs headfirst into zenith, who she quickly apologizes to before rushing into the common area, where nadia's fingers are dashing across the holoterminal's buttons. "wait a moment, nadia. what are you doing?"

"trying to contact naji. the only other reason i can figure i would've felt that is if naji was in a similar state of pain." nadia nips at her bottom lip for a moment as her fingers still, poised above the controls, "you don't think she's died, do you?"

bisauur tries to comfort her in the best way she knows how as her own worry pierces her heart. she's forgotten that she and naji had an amazingly strong bond between the two of them, and just the thought that their master might be in some serious trouble causes her to frown as well. the way that nadia described it, she's terrified the woman might've encountered a sith. they're the only force users that could've overpowered her, and got her guard down so far that whatever shield she should've had present would've failed. twirling a strand of grey blue hair, she pulls nadia's hands away from the console, "i doubt she would fall to such a force, nadia. and remember, she specifically told us not to contact her while she was planet-side."

nadia seems conflicted as her eyes refocus on her fellow padawan. "but what if she's in trouble and really needs help?"

"then i'm sure she or the lieutenant will contact us when they are safely out of harm's way. but for now all we can do is wait." she responds as nadia's gaze drops from her's to the ground. "whatever happened, we both know the lieutenant would put his life on the line for her. there's no way they wouldn't come back without the other."

"i guess you're right." nadia mumbles, sniffling away any tears that remained, as bisauur brushes away the few that escaped her bare knuckles, "it's just that our force bond had never responded to pain like that before. i really hope she's okay."

"you and me both." she says, as the ship shudders under her stress. just enough for only her to truly notice, before nadia squeezes her hand in hers. nadia's own calming heartbeat allows her to breathe again,

"i felt that. it's not so horrible to be scared, bis, as long as you channel it correctly." nadia's trying to be brave, repeating nearly exactly what naji had told her the first time the polaris had been attacked and the ship sustained more damage from her own anxiety than the oncoming ship. "we can be scared together."

"we heard screaming, is everything alright?" holiday asks as they both hear footsteps behind them, finding not only zenith (her face heats once she realizes just how hard she ran into him), but tharan and the aforementioned hologram (she can only tell because of her voice and as friendly as she is with her, a shiver runs down her spine because she can't tell where she's projecting herself) as well.

"we were only startled a bit, is all." bisauur responds as she reaches out in the force foolishly to find the projection or listen closer for when she speaks again before she turns her tone serious, "have any of you heard anything from naji or the lieutenant?"

"not lately, no. now that i think about it..." zenith trails off in thought, "usually they check in around dinnertime. it is rather late, isn't it?" his force signature is flooded with concern, as is tharan's. she wonders if qyzen has left on another hunt, as his signature is nowhere to be found among the group that had come to find them. "you think they ran into trouble?"

nadia only nods and tharan frowns. "our fair naji surely must be caught up with something. there must be no reason to panic just yet." the reassurance doesn't help too much, as tharan must've seen her instinctively frown, "i'm sure it's nothing serious. she'll be back to tell us her adventures when she and the lieutenant return."

"sith aren't exactly known to be the merciless type." nadia frets, clasping bis' hand in her own in terror, "what if someone found them out?"

"i'm sure whatever trouble they ran into, they can handle themselves. lieutenant iresso is rather protective of naji, he wouldn't let her get hurt." bisauur's nerves are on end as the hairs on the back of neck stand up straight, holiday's voice having moved from in front of her to behind her now. "we'll just wait a little longer until they check in again. they're supposed to come back soon, aren't they?"

"after they gather enough information about that sith they were hunting, we're supposed to extract them." zenith finishes. a tad bit of annoyance enters his aura, possibly from the mention of said sith. "shouldn't be too much longer."

even though they're all aware they're talking about the barsen'thor of the jedi order, they're all on edge when the seperate to go to sleep and no message comes to the polaris. it's late, and no one should be up worrying about the pair. but, tharan stays up tinkering, zenith is doing something other than sleeping obviously, and qyzen has yet to return.

she and nadia dress almost silently as they go off to their own bunks before bisauur beckons her over to her own bunk instead, not wanting to be alone for the night without the others also sleeping in the crew quarters. nadia pauses, but quickly dashes over and snuggles into the blankets beside her. has it always been this cold without her fellow padawan, she wonders as nadia warms her. she hadn't expected to feel so alone without her master, but still surrounded by the other occupants of the ship. even though she can't truly see nadia, she still smiles as senses the other girl roll over to look over at her. "she'll come back, she has to come back. she wouldn't leave us alone, and you're right. i would know if she was dead."

"that sounds about right." bisauur whispers, rearranging her hair so it can lay freely behind her instead of over her eye covering, "she's still out there."

nadia's force aura is clouded over with fear at first, before her resolve shines through. "she's naji iresso. no one could kill her that easily." bisauur grins, before nadia's warm hand presses against her cheek to turn her head just a bit. her warm lips press a kiss against left cheek, then she snuggles her head into the crook of her neck. a bit startled, she returns the favor by lifting her bangs and kissing her forehead playfully as nadia giggles. "sorry, force of habit."

"with naji?" bisauur asks. it seemed she also treated nadia as more of a padawan than a sibling or lover, but bis has learned a lot since joining the polaris' crew.

"no, with my father. don't take it the wrong way, you're like the sister i never had, but i love you like family bis."

bisauur must've paused too long after she admits this odd fact, because nadia panics, "if that bothers you, i'm sorry! i should've asked first."

"no, it's quite alright, nadia. it's just...i've never had a sister before. i don't know what that's like, but i do believe i like your version of it." she hugs the girl tighter, nuzzling her head into her hair, "i love you as well, nadia."

"glad to hear it. good night, bi-sis."

"good night, nadia."

-

naji almost can't run fast enough through the crowd of sith to find felix. the other, much more dignified than she is now (all with shoes on, unlike her after she'd ditched them outside to run faster through the garden), all grunt and gossip in disapproval. usually, she'd care and hide within whatever garment she's wearing, but all that matters is getting through the court and finding felix, master delux or kira. and not run into the women that had just shocked her hard enough to cause her to still be twitching now. barely being able to hitch up her dress high enough to keep running, she nearly knocks over a drink or two on the tables she passes in panic, all the while still trying to pick out darth nox's force signature among the other sith. it grows colder and colder as her vision begins to black out nearly from pain but also from fear. nox had left some burns somewhere, one that the strap on her dress is brushing against with every step she takes, and a few others on her arms.

all naji wants is to find felix and get out of here.

thankfully, it doesn't take too long to get to the furthermost wall and retrace her steps to the ornate couch she'd been sitting on, fake nursing her ankle earlier in the evening. felix's force signature is giving off that's he's rather uncomfortable talking to the other man, but both of their eyes lift from one another once she just barely stabilizes herself against her husband, panting hard as her vision blurs. the pain is becoming too much to handle herself, and it sounds as if someone's stuffed wampa fur in her ears, as felix calls her name.

"what's with her, she drink too much?" the other man asks, cocking an eyebrow as she can barely make out his words.

naji beckons for felix to lean down a bit, their universal signal for that something's gone wrong and they can't talk about it in front of present company. once he does, she's barely able to whisper, "she's knows. get out." before she loses consciousness completely, slumping in his arms as he can barely keep her upright.

-

"what'd mier do to her?" andronikos (as he's learned the man's name after a night of his slightly drunken rambling) mutters under his breath as he stands to help felix, "gave her a run for her money, from the looks of it. your girl has a sharp tongue, huh?" he chuckles, as if it's an inside joke both of them should understand from their one-sided conversation they'd had that night. he whistles with clenched teeth, "burn marks? doesn't seem like something mier would do unprovoked."

felix isn't sure how to answer his pestering questions, but his eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of the burn marks adorning her porcelain skin, her blonde hair framing her face as strands stick to her sweaty forehead. gathering her up in his arms, he turns back to andronikos before departing out the opposite direction from where she'd run in, "it was nice meeting you and the darth, give her our regards!"

once he's out of earshot of any other sith and down a few halls, he lets his own fear flood his emotions. "by the stars, what did you do, naj?"

he's never been one to panic, and with his wife incapacitated he's not going to now. his first thought is getting back to their suite and letting her sleep off whatever happened for a couple of hours while he collects their things and contacts kiveqil and kira of the violent occurrence but quickly scratches that idea when he realizes whatever happened would cause darth nox to come looking for them. nothing would keep her from getting their suite location from any of the thul servants.

alright, screw that thought. first order of business is getting in contact with the polaris. he's not sure whether darth nox can track either of them, so his first thought is getting back to organa. but, there aren't any direct taxis from house thul to house organa, and if he asked for one some suspicion would immediatly be raised. and, the polaris would probably be shot down by anti-orbital canons as soon as it hit the surface if he called them down here. his best bet would be finding a speeder and riding that as far as he can towards organa.

it'd look suspicious if kiveqil and kira left nearly at the same time naji had bolted inside, most likely with a sith on her tail as well, so though 'communication was key', he figured giving it a bit of time before contacting them would serve them all well in not getting killed outright. setting her down gently on a couch far from the dance hall, he tries not to pace as the call rings the polaris. surprisingly, zenith is the first to pick up. "lieutenant. your check-in period passed hours ago."

"i know. look, plans failed and we need to get out of here now. how fast can you get here?" zenith must hear his frazzled thoughts through the holocom because he stands up just a tad straighter.

"something went awry?"

"you could say that." he tries to keep his fear out of his voice, but his eyes keep darting away to naji's slumped over form.

"we'll be there soon." zenith responds, and his pictures flickers away into darkness again. the sun has finally set outside and the moon seems to be on it's way to providing them with the moonlight needed to travel. picking her up again, he figures stealing a speeder would be faster than getting one from a droid because the preset location would surely be imperial controlled anyways. he's not sure how many credit chits he has on him right now, but thank the stars both of them kept their weapons on them and had arrived in this same outfit. nothing important would've been left in their suite.

finding one left unattended on the far side of the palace courtyard, he prays naji won't be mad at him later for getting her out safely. as lawful as they both are, she'll have to forgive him later as he sits her in front of him, one arm around her waist as he manages to get the struggling safety harness around both of them. revving the engine, they're off through the courtyard. thank the stars it's late, and they manage to make it into the snowdusted countryside without running anyone over.

the moonlight would be beautiful, if he wasn't noticing the burns on her exposed back. it only strengthens his resolve, as he promises to make whoever did this to her pay dearly for it.

-

"andronikos!" he's sat back down, bored without the soldier to talk at, and is considering getting another few champagnes from the servants walking around the ballroom (knowing full well if he got too drunk mier would smack the alcohol out of him). no one bothers talking to him, most likely because of who he is and what he looks like at the moment, but thats how he likes it. but, mierrio doesn't look exactly happy to see him as she stalks up to him, as he stands from his seat on the couch. "where is fess?"

"why're you looking for him?" he asks, and he's afraid if he was force sensitive, she'd burn him down or whatever it was they felt when others were angry around them. he was never very sure.

"the woman he was with was not a sith, andronikos. she's a jedi, and you let her go?!" andronikos doesn't particularily like being scared of his wife outside of the bedroom, but the murderous look in her eyes sets a different kind of fear in him. like second-hand fear, but worse. "i suppose i can't be angry with you, you wouldn't have known. however, i'm sure she wouldn't have come alone..." she trails off, fingering her saber staff in her hand. mierrio must've chased down the woman from the garden, as he can still see the evidence of leaves on the trail of lavender tulle behind her. "unless she had a death wish, but most jedi seem to have plenty of those these days. stay here, would you? i need to find lord x'ire."

"wait a second, would you?" andronikos asks, and mierrio whips around angrily.

"what? i don't have time for you right now."

well that stung in a way he didn't think it would, not after so many years, "hold on before you go off on your violent tyrade, babe. look." she rolls her eyes, before following his finger to a discarded holocom. her eyes widen, before it's replaced with a murderous smile, and she picks it up, looking at it curiously.

"why, you may be a genius and a half, nikky." she says sweetly, "i still need x'ire. he may be tied to all of this, iridonians still aren't commonplace among the sith. but, this holocom could get us more information than interrogating him could."

"does that mean you'll pay even a bit of attention to me now?" he asks slyly, and she rolls her eyes, before stepping on her toes to reach her mouth to his. she nips his bottom lip as he pulls her closer, though just a moment later she pushes him away, "really sith? just when things get exciting in this stuffy ballroom."

"i promise i'll make up for it later. but for now, i have a jedi to catch."

[takerfoxx]

We’re in the endgame now, folks. 

And the fav(s) of the day are...

TETSUYA NAITO!

Wrestling may be a work, but when it’s at its best it’s because it has become entwined with reality.

Naito’s path to stardom is almost bizarre in how it worked out. As a young talent, he was pegged as the eventual heir to Hiroshi Tanashi’s throne, given a gimmick and demeanor very reminiscent of the man he was destined to replace (because that always works out so well), won the G1 Climax Tournament to face fellow rising star Kazuchika Okada for the IWGP Heavyweight Title in the main event at Wrestlekingdom in what was no doubt intended to be his coronation...only to be rejected by the fans and rejected hard. They saw through his Tanahashi-lite character and reacted by not reacting. No cheers, no boos, just silence whenever he’d make his entrance or give a promo, except for that one time when they burst out laughing when he tried to proclaim himself as the company’s top star.

And the company noticed.

In short order, Naito’s title match was voted by the fans out of the main event spot (in favor of Tanahashi’s bout for the lesser title, to add insult to injury), he loses the match, loses the secondary title he already held, gets pushed down the card, has an all around terrible year, and leaves the company in disgrace, headed for Mexico.

When he came back, Naito was a very different person.

In Mexico, he had hooked up with his friends in the Los Ingobernables faction, who were more than happy to welcome him into their ranks. There, he was finally allowed to cut loose and be the total asshole he wanted to be. Months of pent-up frustration at how everyone had turned on him came spilling out, making for a transformative experience. 

And when he came back to Japan, he brought everything he learned with him

At first, fans hated the new Naito even more than the old one. He was lazy, he was dickish, he disrespected everyone from his opponents to his tag-team partners to the fans to the company to even the championship titles themselves. He founded the Japanese branch of Los Ingobernables and thus ran around with a crew of misanthropic miscreants that just spread chaos and disorder wherever they went. He went from the white-meat good boy intended to be the top good guy into becoming the most reviled man in the company.

But then, something happened. 

People started to appreciate Naito. People started to empathize with him. People who had been screwed over in life, passed over in work, had gone unappreciated by society and their peers. To them, Naito had becomethe standard bearer for the overlooked and rejected, those who had done everything right but still lost anyway. 

And now, only a few short years later, Tetsuya Naito stands as the most popular man in New Japan Pro Wrestling. 

Every show will have scores of people wearing LIJ merchandise. Every time his music hits, the audience goes nuts, and soon everyone in the building is clapping in sync and chanting his name. He has finally become what he was destined to be, and he did it by rejecting what others tried to force him to become and instead paved his own path.

As someone who has watched Naito perform live, I can tell you firsthand that the man’s starpower is palpable. The room just changes when he makes his entrance, and he becomes the coolest motherfucker in the place just by existing. And all it took was taking a step back and chilling out. Or, as he would put it...

Tranquilo...assen na yo. 

And...

THE UNDERTAKER!

It is very difficult to convey to non pro-wrestling fans the mystique, the aura, the legend of the man known as the Undertaker. Born of the era of silly, cartoonish gimmicks in the early nineties, the Undertaker is a character that ought not to have worked. An undead old-west mortician with supernatural powers that, for some reason, decided to become a professional wrestler? Okay, it might work as a fun novelty gimmick, but it should have died the same death as all of the other weird gimmicks of the time.

Today, over two decades later, fans still collectively lose their shit at the sound of the Undertaker’s gong. And that all comes down to the man behind the name, Mark Callaway.

Despite being such an outlandish character, Mark Callaway plays the Undertaker 100% straight. There is no trace of irony to his performance, and his size, his poise, his utter commitment, and his presence has caused years and years of fans to suspend their disbelief and believe in the Deadman. There is a chill that sweeps over the arena whenever the Undertaker makes his entrance, one that raises goosebumps. His matches are mesmerizing, with his signature sit-up never failing to get a reaction, and everything he does causes one to start to think that maybe, just maybe, the Undertaker is for real.

And the streak? Oh, his Wrestlemania streak was the stuff of legends! Every year, even the most cynical fans, many who had fallen away from wrestling for one reason or another, would tune into Wrestlemania just to see the Undertaker defend his undefeated streak. It was something wholly unprecedented, something that no other wrestler has been able to come close to matching. And when it finally ended at the hands of Brock Lesnar, grown men and women were openly crying, mourning the end of something that no one wanted to see die.

But having the coolest fucking gimmick in the history of wrestling and playing it to perfection alone doesn’t account for his incredible longevity. Because as much as the Undertaker is beloved by the fans in the seats, the man Mark Callaway is just as respected by his peers. There is nary a single wrestler who has a bad thing to say about Mark, and given the history of selfishness, backstabbing, and skullduggery in the wrestling business, this is exceedingly rare. By all accounts, Mark Callaway is a man who works for the betterment of the business rather than just himself. He mentors the younger wrestlers, puts a stop to infighting, does what he can to get others over, and uses his reputation to put an end to bullshit and keep order, even if it means standing up to Vince McMahon himself (true story, that). 

As for me, what can I say about the man responsible for my internet handle? I remember channel-hopping as a teenager one night and stumbling across an episode of Smackdown. At the time, I was squarely in the “Oh, wrestling is so fake! How could anyone watch it!” 

But then I saw a seven foot badass ride a motorcycle to the ring and take on three men by himself, and so I kept watching. 

Sixteen years later, I’m still watching.

And then, the next year, when he returned to his old school Deadman gimmick and tombstoned Paul Heyman...well, let’s just say I was in absolute awe. I had that episode taped on a VHS, and ended up ruining it through rewinding and rewatching that specific scene.

A few years ago, I spend a few thousand dollars to fly out to Florida to be at Wrestlemania, just to see the Undertaker’s final match. And sure, he’s had guest appearances here and there, but it really was his last ride, the end of a story about a mythical being over two decades in the telling. The Undertaker has ascended into legend, and now...well, no one says it better than him.

Rest. In. Peace.

Gong!

[gaycrouton]

Horny

Words of Lust 8/27 [”If you need a stress reliever, let me be your vice instead”]

Horny: (adjective; slang) sexually aroused; provoking or intended to provoke sexual arousal; sexually eager or lustful.

She was ashamed of it, but Scully was a stress smoker. It was very, very, very rare that she would succumb to the temptation, the last time she did it was on the Detective White case a year or two ago. Ironically, she was stressed out about a similar issue to then. The memory of today’s events causing her to place the cigarette back to her lips and take a long drag. Mulder was such a fucking flirt and he didn’t even seem to notice or care.

Granted, she added to the situation. Their irritation with each other was like a dog chasing its own tail; Mulder hits on a woman in front of her, she gets hurt, she lashes out when she’s hurt, she won’t tell Mulder why, Mulder thinks she doesn’t trust him, Mulder seeks out someone who will talk to him without biting his head off, that someone usually tends to be the woman he initially flirted with, rinse and repeat.

Mulder always is kind to women, it’s one of his best traits, but what could she say? She’s a modern day women with plenty of insecurities, and she’d seen the women of Mulder’s past. Long legged, brunette, busty. They were all a far cry from her. She was short, had bright red hair, her breasts pretty much grew once during puberty and then stopped, and she always was turning down his ideas. Whenever they got to a case, like this one in particular, where they are met with a cute, young, beautiful woman who just seems to think the world of every word that comes out of Mulder’s mouth, she gets jealous. She knew she was being ridiculous. He didn’t treat the woman any differently than any other woman they came into contact with, but her insecurities got the best of her and she snapped at him all day.

She wasn’t the only one to blame though. He was plenty rude back to her throughout the day. Of course, he was probably doing it as a defense mechanism like she was. She knew Mulder thought highly of her opinion of him, and getting mad at him for, seemingly, no reason probably really hurt his feelings. However, no matter how petty she had been, there was absolutely no excuse for him to pull rank on her, especially when he knew that was a touchy spot for her. They prided themselves on being equal, a team, reiterating his seniority made her feel like that was something he always thought about. Their last conversation earlier tonight rang heavy in her ears.

“Why are we even here? To look for a few missing cows or so you can leer at young, pretty police officers?” She almost regretted being so blunt when she saw the look of hurt flit across his face before quickly being replaced with indignation.

“We’re here because I’m the senior officer and I chose this case, and as the junior agent you do as I say.” Apparently she wasn’t the only one immediately regretting what they were saying. The words hurt as if he had physically slapped her and she took a step back. She could see he had to restrain himself from reaching out to comfort her. Letting out a sigh, he continued in a calmer, defeated voice, “I don’t even understand why we’re fighting. I wasn’t leering at anyone and I would have thought you knew me better than to assume that.”

“Looks like we both overestimated each other.” She didn’t even look to see his reaction before storming into her room and slamming the door.

She let out a long puff of smoke remorsefully. Slamming doors? What was she twelve again? Shorty after their fight, she heard Mulder slam his door shut and take off in their rental car. Yet again, abandoning her. Not having anything to do, she went to the vending machine and saw, next to it, they had one of those old fashioned cigarette machines that you usually only saw at bars. Without a fleeing thought, she got a pack of green Morley's and went to sit on the cheap patio furniture outside of her room.

She was on her second cigarette now, and feeling more shame than anger at this point. Just because she had a childish crush on Mulder didn’t mean she should force him to live by her expectations of him. He was a grown man, and he didn’t treat her any different than the other women. She needed to get over herself and move on and let him live his life. She came to the decision that she would apologize to him when he came back. However, she hadn’t seen him arrive a moment earlier, too lost in contemplation, and as soon as she announced himself, her tranquil state vanished.

She felt him before she heard his voice. She had been sitting cross legged in a patio chair in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, one hand resting on her knee while the other was poised to her lips, taking in a long drag. Out of nowhere, Mulder’s hand forcefully ripped the cigarette out of her hand and waved it in her face, “What the fuck, Scully? I thought you were smarter than this.”

Instantaneously, all her fury came back in full force. He was currently bent at the waist so that his face, expectantly waiting for an answer, was right in front of her own. She knew it was rude, but in the moment she just wanted him out of her personal space. She opened her lips, as if to answer, looking him dead in the eye, before pressing her mouth into a little ‘o’ and blowing the last stream of smoke right onto his lips. He coughed a little bit, wafting the smoke away as she stood up to get more leverage. “What do you care?” After the question left her lips, she turned and opened the door to her room, not expecting to get a reply. As she turned to close the door, Mulder’s hand slammed onto the other side, keeping it open and allowing his body to slide inside before shutting it himself.

“What do I care? You’re my partner, Scully, whether you like it or not. You just had a cancer scare, and yet, here you are smoking . What, brain not good enough? Wanna try lungs this time? You’re a doctor Scully.” She was glaring at him openly and he knew he was treading on thin ice.

“I know that, Mulder. I also know occasionally smoking one or two cigarettes to alleviate stress won’t give me lung cancer. You’re not a doctor, so don’t go around giving half-assed diagnoses,” she spat back at him. The tension in the room was practically crackling from the charge.

“Do you care to share what exactly has you so stressed out, Scully? You’ve been in a piss poor mood all day, but have refused to explain why. I can’t read your mind.”

“You haven’t been listening to me all day! I tell you my opinions, but since they don’t align with yours, you instead turn to the biggest pair of tits staring at you with the widest eyes and seek validation there instead.”

He was silent for a few moments, his eyes flitting across her face as if he was reading a new book, before taking a few steps closer to her. Advancing with an amused, predatory gleam in his eye. “Scully, are you jealous?”

She felt her face flame up in embarrassment and she jutted her chin out in an attempt to seem unfazed. “In your dreams, Mulder,” she spat, her voice shaking a little bit at his ever nearing proximity.

He was about a foot away from her when he stopped, lowering his voice, though she couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, “Most definitely.” His casual admittance made her heart skip a little, but she would be damned to let him know that. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“There’s nothing for me to be jealous of. She fits your type, it’s perfectly natural you’d pay attention to her.” That sounded weak and she knew it. She felt like an animal being backed into a trap.

His eyebrow quirked up in curiosity and, even though his feet were firmly planted, she still felt like he was continuing to get closer. “My type? Scully, please enlighten me. I didn’t know I had a type.”

Keeping her voice even, not letting her nerves betray her, she stated, “Brunette, tall, busty. Usually they seem to be smart, but love to inflate your ego. So to answer your question once more, no I’m not jealous. I’m not even your type, it would be ridiculous for me to get jealous.” She thought she was being convincing, but the gleam still hadn’t left Mulder’s eye.

He chuckled lightly, muttering “I can’t believe you have no idea,” before taking another step towards her, she instinctively took a step backwards and felt the back of her knees ram against the edge of the bed, sending her toppling down on the mattress so she was on her ass, looking up at him. She could feel her heart practically hammering in her chest in hopeful anticipation of what his next move was. He leaned down so he had a hand resting on either side of the bed next to her thighs, and he moved his mouth so it was right next to her ear.

She felt his soft breath move the hair near her ear as he built up the courage to say his next words. “Do you really think I don’t want you?” He nipped at the delicate skin of her earlobe and she inhaled a quick, shaky breath, earning a chuckle from Mulder that tickled the sensitive flesh of her neck. “I couldn’t look at someone else even if I wanted to, all I ever see is you.” He placed a few kisses down her neck from under her ear to where her should began. He stopped his ministrations, much to her distress, and pulled back so they were face to face again. “I want you to tell me why you were smoking.”

The voice that came out of her mouth sounded foreign to her, a desperate want tinging the words in a way that only her bedroom walls had heard before, “I-I told you. I was stressed. I smoke when I’m really stressed. It’s very rare.” She could barely focus on the words she was saying as Mulder was slowly, tantalizingly, nudging her legs apart with his knees, making it so that he was poised between her spread thighs.

“Be honest, why were you stressed?” He asked, acting like this was a situation they found themselves in all the time. Her eyes darted up to his and as she opened her mouth to speak he cut her off with another, “Be. Honest.”

“I was jealous about the way you were paying attention to that officer,” she whispered, her arousal taking the sting away from her pride.

His hands slowly crawled their way up the bed, inadvertently lowering her body down on the bed since she was caged underneath him, he stopped when her back was flush against the mattress. He moved one hand to move a tendril of hair away from her face, letting his knuckles linger against the soft skin of her face. “Scully, I don’t know what you thought I was thinking of back there, but all I could focus on all day was how hot you looked in your short little skirt.” To emphasize his point, his other hand slowly made its way up her thigh, trailing against the smooth expanse before reaching the hem of her shorts. He slipped his hand underneath the edge, but instead of going up higher, like she desperately wanted him to, he let his hand linger there on her upper thigh, tracing small circles into the uncharted territory.

“You only wear that skirt when we’re going to be alone on a case for a long period of time. Too short for the office, but not for me.” He leaned down a bit more so she was forced to look at him, “Yeah, I noticed. You have no idea what it does to me.”

She was still spread eagle at the edge of the bed, Mulder’s body in between her thighs as his eyes raked over her body like an unexplored canvas. His eyes lingered an extra few moments on her chest, as if in disbelief that she wasn’t wearing a bra in front of him. Her nipples tightened under his gaze, peaking the fabric which made Mulder involuntarily lick his lips. She was so wet. But all she could do was stare up at him and wait for what he was going to say, or hopefully do, next. “I just want you to know, you will never have anything to be jealous of. Also, if you really need a stress reliever, let me be your vice instead.” To emphasize his point, he closed the distance between them and ground his erection into her eager arousal, causing her to arch her back into him and cry out.

“Do you feel how hard I am?” It took her a moment to realize he was actually asking her, she looked up and nodded, trying, and failing, to resist grinding against him. He smiled at her sexual anguish. “It’s all for you, it’s always for you.” Then, in a move of pure torment, he leaned away, taking away the sweet friction with him and she almost cried at the loss. Standing up, smile still on his face, he stated, “All I need is to hear you say this is what you want.”

She nodded vigorously and he tsked at her, “Use your words.”

“Mulder, I want you so bad, please,” she was genuinely begging right now, but she was too aroused to care. Her words made a coy smile break out on Mulder’s face and he resumed his position in between her legs. He leaned down over her once more, using one hand to cup her face while the other played with the hem of her shirt. He leaned down to kiss her, but when his lips ghosted against hers, instead, he whispered in a taunt, “Please what?”

She had no idea Mulder was such a fucking sexual sadist, but she needed him and was done playing around. She used one hand to grab the back of his neck and used the other to grab his rock hard erection. “I want you to fuck me right now,” she practically growled before crashing her lips into his. He practically melted into her touch, his mouth eagerly opening to mash with her tongue as his hips helplessly bucked into her grip.

She couldn’t have predicted it, but she was glad to see their talent as partners continued into this dynamic as well. They didn’t even need to communicate as they danced on the bed. They broke off the kiss at the same time, their lungs crying for oxygen, and immediately, Scully raised her arms so Mulder could yank off her shirt, immediately grabbing and fondling the newly exposed flesh. Somehow, he had rolled onto the bed and pulled her with him so she was straddling his lap, his erection almost painful against the flesh of her ass.

She moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, and while doing so, sinfully rocked her hips against him, causing him to grab her hips with unadulterated force, grinding her against him manually on top of her own ministrations. His mouth was practically agape with pure ecstasy as she finally rid him of his shirt. As soon as he was free, he pushed her down so she was on her back and he was taking off her short, grinning at her lack of underwear, before removing his own pants, with her help.

When he was free, she kneeled in between his legs, naked as the day she was born, and grabbed his rigid cock. She reached between her legs and scooped some of her own lubrication before spreading in up and down his length, wetting him from base to tip. “Fuck, Scully, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he panted. She sent him a coy smirk before flipping her hair to one side and leaning down so she could take him in her mouth. Before her lips even touched him, he placed his hands on her shoulders, lightly pushing her back. “Scully, I would come in an instant if you did that. I want to be inside you.”

She wasn’t about to argue with that. “Sit with your back against the headboard,” she commanded, switching their roles from earlier. He did as she asked and she swung her legs so he knees were on either side of his hips and she was perched on top of him. She cupped her fingers under her chin and let some saliva drop down, then moving her fingers to add some extra lubrication to Mulder’s throbbing head. Mulder moaned at the sight and squeezed the flesh of her ass where his hands were resting.

She placed her hands on the headboard for leverage, kissed him on the lips once more, and then slowly lowered herself onto his length. He was desperately gripping her hips to keep himself from bucking into her, letting her have time to adjust to his invading girth and length. She spent a few seconds resting on him after making her way all the down until they were pubic bone on pubic bone.

Then, without giving him any warning, she started riding him like it was the last thing she’d ever do. Keeping a sweaty grip on the headboard, she bounced up and down on his length, undulating her hips, and grinding into his pubic bone. He was keeping pace with her as he thrust up and it was creating a sinful friction. Their moans were pretty much constant and melding together to become one.

Mulder, being the ever generous man he is, licked the pad of his thumb before resting his hand on her moving hips, circling her clit with his thumb. She had never felt such unabashed pleasure before and she knew she was close. “Please, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” The words tumbled out of her mouth almost like a religious chant and Mulder was more than willing to oblige.

“I want you to cum on me, Scully. I want you to look at me when you cum,” he commanded in a groan. She didn’t know if it was the ministrations, his words, or a combination of full stimulation overload, but the world ceased to exist around her. The only points of focus were her, Mulder, and the best orgasm of her whole damn life. She froze instantly on top of him and screamed his name on top of him. Her body was literally trembling with convulsions and it only made Mulder buck into her faster and harder, all inhibitions long forgotten in the haze of pleasure.

She was just coming down when he moaned out her name, violently grinding his pubic bone into hers, causing an unexpected second orgasm to rush through her veins. They looked into each other’s eyes as they both came. In this moment, she didn’t know where her body ended and Mulder’s began. His pleasure was hers and hers was his. It was pure bliss.

They collapsed onto the bed, her body resting spent on top of his, and they tried to catch their breath. The pleasure had knocked them both out, but not enough for them to overlook the new development in their relationship. He looked towards his chest and her peaceful face and wiped her sweaty hair from her face, placing a kiss to the top of her head.

She looked at him with a sated, sleepy smile, and teased, “Yeah-that’s a lot better than smoking.”

[raymundsuacillo-blog]

TABOO: The Medieval Mind Within the Modern Filipino

In an era where humanity trails behind the coattails of technology, it is inevitable and evidently expected that people alongside their values progress in pace with the environmental shifts occurring around them. Not much can be said about the Philippines. We are in a nation with conservative presets backed with roaring liberal judgments. As much as history tried to weather the eastern storm with a more westernized narrative, it only gave birth to a nation and people whose sights are poised towards the future yet whose minds are grappled in the past.

Traditions, beliefs, and values are intertwined with history and the culture that serves as society’s foreground. But these historical and cultural facets should not overwhelm the business of politics and the social advancements we have made so far. It is wrong to disregard and sideline these factors in political movements. But to let our medieval values hold our social norms and politics by the neck is a sin in its own sense.

This is taboo. These are the conversations we tried strenuously to avoid and the discourse we vied to kick under the dinner table. In a conservative-esque nation like the Philippines, there are lines one must not come across and there are moral boundaries planted within every social framework. These restrictions have been in place for centuries and we haven’t grown since. We can never genuinely comprehend and understand these issues we deem taboo if we aren’t open to discussing it freely. Only if we learn to pin the obscure will we only find a clearer path to modernity?

Religion in the Philippines is no taboo. But its side effects have been evident long enough for it to mend the social fabric and tinker with our politics. Over 90% of Filipinos are Christian, 80% of which are Catholic. Banking on such foothold, the Church has held power in its pulpits and has even used its sweltering influence to dictate the change in society and in our government. The Church bore the power to take down a dictator. And it still has the power to do so. There is a reason why you can’t look down upon the altar.

But where does the Church fit in this medieval discourse? Frankly, it sits pompously at the center. Like tradition, the Church has embedded its values down to the very helm line of our society. Its propositions, morals, and policies are infused with our cultural norms and have even become our norms. It is through this fusion of Church and stately influence which has quarantined the Filipino mindset from tackling issues that the world has learned to take inconveniently. We have been living with one-sided truths. It is not in the Church’s doctrines neither is it in the Bible where we establish our policies. For the Church heeds its own narrative. And that narrative is not shared by everyone.

The Last Man Standing

What God has put together, let no man separate. This beating mantra has been the battle cry of people who stand at the frontlines against Divorce. We have been told tirelessly told to honor the sanctity of marriage in Filipino households. But when taps run dry, emotions run deep, and domestic violence remains a common Filipino feature, there is really nothing to honor here.

According to recent data by the Philippine Statistics Authority, over 30% of women experience spousal violence from their current partners. In a society where love and matrimony are held to such a high standard, we can never truly tell that love is a safe haven for all. This domestic abuse has led to physical, emotional, and mental bruises that no man can even dare to bear. Abused partners have merely one option to turn to, annulment. But the tedious and blaringly expensive process takes months even years to come into motion. It leaves the abused with no other choice but to exit the process and force themselves to stay with their violent partners or leave such abusive households and face retaliation from a hypocritical society where religious presets become a way of life and personal values become the morals of a 100 Million.

In the years 2017-2018, the Senate has made progress in legalizing divorce. This conversation sparked headlines internationally as the massively conservative state is finally taking steps in swallowing the divorce pill. This is considering that the Philippines is the lone sovereign state to still have divorce illegal after its anti-divorce partner Malta made the act legal in 2011. While commendations trickled down from the thrones of the Vatican, on a global and more realistic sense, we are left grappled in an idea the world has long kept in the past. The world cannot imagine a life where divorce is illegal. But as they say, there is always something unique and painstakingly exotic about the Philippines.

The Talk

In an age of advanced technology, social media has usurped the need for newspapers and tablets have seemingly overtaken the necessity for books. Social media has tightened the loose ends of communication and has engaged millions of people into easier and more convenient discussions and conversations through online platforms. It is easy to think that topics such as Sex Education are more openly brought into light with such technology. But how can the youth initiate such crucial forums on such if Sex Education remains a vague construct and talks about sex and health are literally still kept under the sheets?

According to the Commission on Population (Popcom), Filipino parents still refuse to discuss the barebones and complexities of sex to their children. Sex discussions and Sex Education go beyond the flirtations and the foreplay the general public tags them to be. SexEd opens about sexual health, sexuality, and the repercussions that early and premarital sex may have. Encapsulated within this is the necessary measures in preventing the rampant spread of Sexually Transmitted Diseases such as HIV and AIDS among others. While sex education is being dabbled upon by educational institutions, what echoes within the classroom aren’t generally comprehensive enough for the youth to grasp. These discussions must come from their parents in order to break the stigma around the topic.

It is through this stigma why troubled youth fear opening up about their sexual past. It is in this stigma why HIV/AIDS are set to peak at 15,000 cases in 2019 in a 140% jump because we try desperately to keep the conversations quiet. 500 Filipino teenagers become mothers each day. If Premarital sex, HIV/AIDS, and Teenage Pregnancy aren’t enough to spark discussions, then it is basically useless to even try to fix the problem.

In a country where the age of sexual consent is age 12, parents must exhibit the necessary precautions to keep their children from engaging in premarital and unsafe sex. Schools cannot stress this further for textbooks could only do so much. Despite the common notion, leaving our children ignorant about sex does not safeguard them from doing the act. The retaliation of youthful curiosity is lethal. It’s best we hand them the information rather than letting them seek the information themselves.

#Pride

The colors, festivities and the celebrations are blinding. But if you deep dive into the segregated sectors of society, there is nothing worthy of celebration for the LGBT+. Pride marches are symbols of unity, strength, and the progressive march society is willing to take for the LGBT Community. But that’s all there is. We see gay fashion icons trailing the asphalt in Instagram-worthy outfits together with LGBT couples that find their way at the pulpit of Twitter stardom. Pride marches have only become a mere symbol of the flamboyance of coming out and is somehow sidelining the fight for basic civil rights.

The Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity and Expression (SOGIE) Bill has breezed through the House of Representatives yet has been gripped with strict judgment and brash political backlash at the Senate. The overtly over-religious solons have lionized themselves as preachers to turn LGBT rights into an over-sensationalized lobby for Same-Sex Marriage. While it is respectable to heed religious belief into the Senate floor, it is despicable to use subjective religious doctrines as an excuse to deny people of their right to self-expression.  

While we tirelessly demand genuine separation of church and state, what the system dictates, the operator does not follow. Numerous religious groups staged a rally against the legalization of the SOGIE Bill for some stated that it would eventually lead to Same-Sex Marriage. It just goes to show how we only value the LGBT on-screen as best friends or comedic figures but not for the humans they are. We are only tolerant of their actions but never respectful of it.

There are currently no laws protecting LGBT from hate crimes or workplace discrimination. While the Philippines is open to homosexuality, its mindset remains clasped in the past. We will constantly deviate from this conversation long enough for the people to forget. Long enough for the Filipinos to forget once more.

This is a nation that has cultivated numerous ideologies and ideas yet has faltered in comprehending them all. There is no grey area. For as long as we keep these topics and issues in the shadows of the conversation, we can never truly taste the fruits of the progress we have long yearned for. Because these should be embedded into the foundations of our social structures and yet they aren’t. Progress isn’t really about technology. Or how many asphalts we’ve paved and concrete we’ve poured. Progress and change still rest on our moral presets. Our values dictate where we trace our future and where we build a better nation. Unless we are willing to open ourselves to new values then we shall remain in the crevices of our past, in the castles of our Medieval mind.

[hardlyfatal]

first line meme

Tagged by @notpmahalem: List the openings of the last ten stories you published. Look to see if there are any patterns that you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any!

Tagging @ladytp, @lauraann1013, @frostbitepandaaaaa, @raginglittlehurricane, @jaimebrienneonline, @wackygoofball, and anyone else who wants to seduce everyone into trying their work!

1. Desperado

In 1887, Kingsland, Texas was a prosperous little town, as towns went in that place and in that time. The land upon which it stood had first been claimed by the Targaryens, an enterprising family from Boston, forty years earlier. It lay empty for almost a decade, the Targaryen-built shops sitting vacant on the dusty main street, but then the Martells— aristocrats newly arrived from Spain by way of Mexico— saw the value of land which, even if not arable or grazeable, would still need to be owned by someone, somehow.

The Martells bought everything the Targaryens hadn’t, and soon had made themselves a fortune by selling the bottom land around the river to the Tully family, and the lush area out by the lake to the Tyrells. Half of the huge rocky outcroppings of granite and and sandstone (and, it was rumored, gold) was bought by the Lannisters and the other half by the Arryns. Whatever was left was snatched up for the purpose of farming cattle by the likes of Starks and Baratheons. The empty shops filled up, as did the Targaryen coffers, and soon everyone was prospering and happy.

Well, most everyone, at least. There would always be those for whom prosperity was not enough; they had to reach ‘prosperity’ and then go another mile or two past it to ‘obscenely wealthy’, and even then, it might not suffice.

2. slowly stars go out each night

“…and then a friend told us about the most amazing marriage counselor, and we figured, what have we got to lose?” 

Walda Bolton was an effervescent person, every sentence more like a burbling brook than human speech. Jaime had been charmed by it. At first. 

Now, as a headache burgeoned behind his eyes, he found he hated it. Hated Walda. Hated everything. He set the phone on his desk to rub his temple and slung his feet up on the squat filing cabinet, trying to get comfortable. Walda kept talking, clearly audible even with the phone face-down.

“And it worked! Not only have we gotten past the little… hiccup… that almost broke us up, but we’re more in love than ever!”

3. Shoot the Moon

Jaime Lannister's assistant edged warily into his office, poised on her high heels like a gazelle ready to spring away from the lion before her at the first sign of danger. He wasn't in the best mood of his life, but he tried to foster an amicable, productive working relationship with his employees, especially Pia, who'd confided in him an unhappy past. She didn't deserve his ire. He forced his lips into a semblance of a smile.

"Yes, Pia?" he asked her, feigning a pleasant tone well enough to be impressed with his own acting skills. Thank the gods the day was almost over; he couldn't wait to get out of the office and go home.

"Your father's assistant emailed," Pia said miserably. "The OB just called a meeting in five minutes."

4. Love’s Disguise

Brienne Tarth was having a much better time at Tysha’s and Tyrion’s engagement party than she had expected. She’d wanted to enjoy it, of course, but having heard the groom’s tales of woe regarding various of his family’s less pleasant members, she’d harbored no real hopes of it being anything but drudgery. Fortunately, the joint was jumping and smiles abounded thanks to an excellent band and Tyrion’s insistence on a lavishly stocked bar. It was going well, if she said so herself, being Tysha’s second-in-command in organizing it.

She and Tysha had gravitated to each other as classmates in college, both being quiet and studious. They’d become and remained the closest of friends in the intervening years, and when Tysha had announced her engagement to one Tyrion Lannister, of course Brienne volunteered whatever talents she might possess in the way of planning the celebration. 

5. This Never Happened Before

Brienne struggles, at first, to keep from crying as she watches the sun rise over the lake. Then she gives up and lets the tears fall; there is no one here to mock her for it, except the dog, and he's too busy licking his balls to care.

When the sun finishes its ascent into the sky, she scrubs at her face with her hands and then goes to put her coat on. At the door, she pauses and looks back into the beautiful, weird house in which she'd lived for a year. Stripped of the drapes that had framed each floor-to-ceiling glass wall, and all the furniture, the view through it is practically unimpeded. It appears to hover over the lake, with only its slender, stork-like supports interrupting the vista over God's Eye's silver-blue water.

From her coat, Brienne draws an envelope.

"Time to go," she says to the dog.

6. Sparks Ignite

Her phone dinged at an unwelcome time; Brienne was knee-deep— figuratively speaking— in an instrumental scene wherein her intrepid heroine narrowly escapes capture and certain death by the murderer against whom she is pitting her wits for the sake of truth, justice, and American cuisine. Scowling, she snatched up her phone to see who had messaged her.

Jaime: you home?

Brienne stared at it for longer than warranted. It was Wednesday, only three days after the Friday-night-that-had-turned-into-a-Saturday-morning with Cowboy Lannister, spent in a haze of sensuality. They hadn’t really established anything in the way of what was between them besides deciding they'd continue to see each other every weekend.

Brienne: Yes, why?

Jaime: i want to stop by

Brienne: in the middle of the day?

Next came a series of emojis: a winky face with tongue hanging out, a lipstick print, a kissy face.

Brienne: Is this your way of saying you want to come to my home and have sex?

He sent her a row of hands in a praying position. She rolled her eyes. If this was what passed for flirting chez Lannister, they were in for a bumpy ride.

7. Coup de Foudre

A sudden storm blew up and drove Jaime, walking down the street, to take shelter under an awning. A tall blonde person— a woman, he soon realized— was already standing there, arms wrapped around her waist to keep warm.

She turned to him with a wide, delighted grin on her face, and for a minute, his heart skipped a beat, because it was almost as if she were thrilled to see him, thrilled that he was there with her, and Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he’d been welcomed so warmly. That his presence had been so wanted, that he could be so valued.

But of course that wasn’t it, he realized when that first disconcerting moment had passed. She didn’t know him from Adam, and he didn’t know her from Eve. She was bizarrely tall, and ugly as homemade sin. But her pleasure was almost a palpable thing; he could nearly feel it vibrating in the drenched air around them.

8. Wherever You Will Go

The sun had not been seen in months, the last of the horses had been eaten, all three dragons had perished, and they were out of the wood needed to burn the dead; only Beric Dondarrion’s sword could be counted upon for that grim task.

Thus in that despondent state did commence the last of the battles, on the darkest of days.

9. Easy

The doorbell sounded, sooner than Brienne had expected, and she blew out a huge sigh of relief. Arya had been put in charge of booking the stripper for Sansa’s bachelorette party, regrettably, with the predictable result that she had forgotten completely. She had tried to convince Brienne that her own boyfriend, Gendry, would pinch-hit but Brienne put her size-thirteen foot down.

No, they were not getting Arya's attractive-but-not-a-dancer-and-it-showed boyfriend to substitute-strip. The band of drunken women currently lurching about the Starks’ living room in thigh-skimming bathrobes and clay mud masks (the first half of the evening being an indulgent spa experience, complete with pedicures and facials) would likely tear him to pieces— they needed a pro with experience in fending off groping hands and evading attempts to pluck his g-string, or the entire party would descend into chaos.

Well, more chaos.

10. None But You, Part 2

Sunday, 2 January 1813

Astapor, The Gods Only Know Where, Essos

My Dearest Fiancée,

I hope this letter finds you well. Apologies for the delay since my last; did I send it from Volantis or New Ghis? These cities are all blurring together, I’m afraid. I haven’t been able to tell one from the next since Lys.

I have just arrived at my deployment in Yunkai. I had been looking forward to enjoying some balmy heat, after a chilly and damp winter in Pentos. What a fool I was; in this part of the world, there is nothing but dry, choking red dust that sneaks it way into everything. And I do mean everything, wench.

(There, have I got you blushing yet?)

[violet-greengrass-blog]

A Fine Match

Violet knew something was going on even before she could step off of the crowded and stuffy train. The Hogwarts Express came to a stop with a mighty screech, and Violet, who spent most of the journey staring outside the window with very little interest, caught a glimpse of a veritable committee waiting on the platform. Her mother, looking serene and poised an unbothered by the commotion around her was framed by her mother looking rather cheerful, and, even more worryingly, Violet’s father. 

She masked her confusion with her usual mask of propriety as she walked up to the trio, greeting her mother with their customary kiss on the cheek before she nodded her head in polite deference to her grandmother. Violet then turned to her father, took one good look at his dour, hesitant expression, and she knew.

They found her a match.

Waiting until she was finally left alone with her mother and grandmother was torture-like, and Violet needed all of her self-restraint to not fidget with her utensils during dinner, or not to blurt out her questions. But at last her father��looking more uncomfortable than she has ever seen him—excused himself and she could turn to her grandmother.

“Don’t ask me his name,” Ivy Greengrass said before Violet could open her mouth, “we agreed with his father to have a chaperoned meeting instead of all the formalities.”

“Are we in a hurry?” Violet quirked an eyebrow. Such arrangements in the matrilineal Greengrass family were usually preceded by months of negotiations before the potential partners could even exchange brief pleasantries. “Or by ‘chaperoned meeting,’ did you mean that I’ll be arranging my own engagement?”

“Of course not,” her grandmother waved her questions off. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to do that for your own daughters. It would be a very comfortable arrangement, so I saw no reason to progress slowly. The sooner you take over the estate, the better. I might die any day now, you know, and your mother is too attached to her fool of a husband to take over even temporarily.”

“Merlin himself couldn’t kill you,” Flora Greengrass sighed, exasperated. “And I did say that if anything happened to you while Violet was still attending Hogwarts, I would of course fulfill my duty and step in for a bit.”

“Anyway,” Ivy huffed good-naturedly, “we are going for a dinner at a very discreet, very upscale place, the two of you, me, and his father. Let me tell you the only things that should interest you, Violet: he has the sufficient social standing, a handsome face, and he is a rather independent young man from what I’ve gathered.”

“He would make a fine match,” Flora agreed. “The two of you could have a very agreeable marriage where you do what you want and he does what he wants, within reason. Oh, and I’m sure you will appreciate this; he was never even rumoured to be in a relationship with anyone, so the chances of... an unfortunate surprise or a scandal are very low.”

“All things considered, he would be much better for you than that Lestrange boy was,” Ivy snorted. “Good thing he kicked apart the little dating thing the two of you had. Deplorably stupid on his part to reject a Greengrass even casually, of course, but good for you.”

“I’m not rising to that bait right now,” Violet declared imperiously. Ivy cackled. “Very well, it sounds like I would like this match. What about him?”

“His father assured us that his son will gladly marry whoever he picks for him,” Flora said. “But of course, he might have some resistance to the idea of a Greengrass marriage—”

“Doll up a bit and have your usual charm,” Ivy interrupted. “You will want to see how easily you can manipulate him, just in case. And, of course, have a feel for any secrets his father might have wanted to hide from us. But overall we are very pleased with this match, and it’s high time we look for an engagement before the other families snatch all the good men available. I waited with your mother and look how that turned out!”

“I married a Selwyn and bolstered the Greengrass fortune?” Flora asked drily. 

“You married an arse.”

“And you arranged it.”

“True,” Violet grinned. “Not sure I can trust you with engagements, grandmother. What if this one is an arse too?”

“Then you whip him into shape,” Ivy scoffed, “like I did with your grandfather. That man was a straight-up bastard and I still made him to be a good father to your mother, which is where Marcellinus, the arse he is, has been failing. Well, I guess at least he’s better than all those foreigners we used to keep marrying.”

“Congratulations, you are getting a British husband,” Flora turned to Violet with a smirk. “No need to brush up on your languages. Ten years of private classes wasted right there just because your grandmother hates foreigners.”

“Does she?” Violet smirked back at her mother. “On a completely unrelated note, do we know what Monsieur Rosier is up to these days?”

Flora Greengrass, the undisputed queen of poise and perfect manners in pureblood circles, threw her back with an absolutely undignified, rambunctious laugh. Violet’s smirk widened into a shameless grin, and her grandmother rolled her eyes with a fond, exasperated sigh.

“You do what you have to do when your husband can’t perform in the bedroom,” she shrugged, pouring some wine for all three of them. “Besides, just imagine what would’ve happened if you inherited your nose from your grandfather and not my little French one-night stand.”

“I’m so grateful for your good taste in men,” Violet clinked her glass to her grandmother’s. “Here’s to hoping it extended to my future engagement too.”

“You’ll make it work,” her mother lifted her wineglass too, the three of them touching the delicate crystals in toast. “Women always find a way.”

“And Greengrass women make their own,” Violet and Ivy responded together.

“How do you feel?” Ivy asked, examining Violet. They still had quite some time until they had to leave, and the three Greengrass women gathered in the drawing room of their own estate. “Nervous?”

“Excited,” Violet responded honestly. She trusted her grandmother’s judgement and besides, she trusted her own skills to make an agreeable situation out of her marriage. The only two people who could’ve made a horrid match were out of the question; both her ex-boyfriend and her best friend were engaged already. Really, there was nothing to worry about, and Violet was looking forward to finally becoming the head of the family instead of an heiress. 

“Good,” Flora smiled at her. “You look radiant, dear, absolutely lovely. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to throw tradition away and just proposed you the moment your eyes met.”

“That would mean he has no self-control” Violet laughed. “Not what I’m looking for in a husband, mom, as romantic as that sounds.”

“Have you ever seen a more sensible young woman?” Her grandmother sighed happily. “Oh, Violet, I’m so looking forward to you becoming the head of our family. Won’t lie to you, it’s been a lot of pain in the arse, but you will do wonderfully with your reason and poise.”

“Thank you,” Violet smiled warmly. “I had two great women to thank for that, you know.”

“You’ll make me cry,” her mother said, pressing a hand to her heart. “And I’d rather cry in private about what an incredible daughter I have, you hear me?”

“I do,” Violet chuckled, giving a quick hug to her before she hugged her grandmother too. She opened her mouth to ask how much more time they had, when someone rapped their knuckles politely on the door. The three women straightened themselves immediately.

“I thought he left already,” Ivy grumbled under her breath. “Doesn’t he have some urgent business to do, like kissing Riddle’s arse?”

“Come in, darling!” Flora said loudly, shooting a warning glare to her mother who smiled back at her innocently. Marcellinus Selwyn opened the door carefully, face a brittle mask of politeness that Violet examined with interest. Amongst themselves, they referred to these moments as ‘little realizations’; when a man married to a Greengrass had to reckon with the fact that her female relatives weren’t under his control at all. Some men bore it with grace, some with humor, some with great unease, and yet some with violence—and that latter type was the one they tended to avoid.

Marcellinus Selwyn belonged to the third one, the type that felt like the rug has been pulled from under them when they were forced to realize their lack of power over the women they thought should obey them. He cleared his throat awkwardly, being faced with the silent trio of his mother-in-law, wife, and daughter. 

“I came to give my best wishes,” he finally said, voice stilted, full of uncertainty. There were, of course, traditional ways of acknowledging a Greengrass heiress’ impeding transition to being the head of her family and wishing her all the best, but Marcellinus Selwyn never bothered to ask his wife about any Greengrass traditions. Which always irked Violet and Ivy, who now felt a modicum of satisfaction seeing the usually overconfident man fumble. “So, er. If you’ll allow me to, I’d like to wish her—you luck,” Marcellinus pressed the words out from behind his gritted teeth, not receiving any nonverbal guidance from the women regarding the person he should be addressing. Was it the current head of the family? The soon-to-be head of the family? Or, since there was a marriage to be had, her mother?

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Selwyn,” Violet finally said, letting the silence last just a little longer than comfortable for her father. Ivy suppressed a smirk and Flora finally gave her husband a gracious smile, inclining her head towards their daughter. 

“Ah yes,” he turned to Violet, taking a deep breath. “Vi—Miss Greengrass. Please, accept my warmest wishes for your meeting. I hope you will find a fine match in the young man and that you will make your family proud, preserving the noble blood that has been bestowed upon you, and—”

Ivy inhaled sharply, as clear a warning sign as any, and Marcellinus stammered to a halt with an angry frown. He was clearly spoiling to snap at her, to spit out something deprecating about the Greengrasses and storm away in all his offended glory. Violet waited for a moment for her grandmother to rise from her armchair and either reprimand him or smooth the incident over—but Ivy remained seated and there was almost a palpable shift in the tension of the room, clearly felt by all three of the women.

Violet could decide what to do. She could actually tell her father to go and make an obstinate fool of himself somewhere else for the first time in her life, knowing that she had the authority to do so. She could reprimand him for all these years of mistreatment and casual cruelty, for all the faux-pas he committed in treating her like she was merely a simpering, inconsequential daughter and not a Greengrass heiress.

Her eyes met her mother’s gaze, and Violet could feel her almost jubilant anger cool. Telling Marcellinus off would’ve been a show of strength, but also a show of hostility. It was now her duty and foremost responsibility to make sure the Greengrass family was safe, and safety didn’t come from making enemies just because she felt like insulting someone back. She couldn’t get drunk on the power so few women of her social standing were ever allowed to hold for even a second.

“Thank you, Mr. Selwyn,” she said amicably. Her father snapped his head to face her. “You are a most gracious friend to the Greengrass family.”

It was a long, tense moment, when Marcellinus finally took a good look at her for the first time in years. Violet could trace the course of his little realization through the minute shifts of his expression; her father was angry for being denied his usual power over others, then resentful at what felt like a plot to diminish his authority; he then understood that he couldn’t change this course of events, and finally, her father looked at her and stopped seeing a silly little Selwyn girl. 

Now that was a heady rush of power—watching the man who constantly belittled her and sneered at her every decision swallow hard, realizing at last that they were equal. It felt like she was unstoppable, like she could do anything.

It tasted like victory, and Violet was ready to marry a bloody beast if that’s what let her keep that power.