#it's in third person omniscient which was a bastard to write at first but once i got the hang of it. very fun

[thelawsofdaylight]

Pairing: Enjolras & Courfeyrac & Combeferre Words: 5,863 Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General

Fic Summary: When rumours of the development first surfaced, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac knew that they were going to have their work cut out for them in opposing it. They had always been good at galvanising each other into action and that’s exactly what they did. Enjolras instructed, Combeferre educated, and Courfeyrac rallied. The three of them together inspired more, and then more, and then even more, until a veritable network of allies lay in front of them.

They’d looked at each other, that night after their very first meeting; looked at each other and looked at all the work ahead of them and vowed to face whatever challenges lay ahead in the only way they knew how: together.

***

Or, a fic about the importance of friendship and the beauty of resistance.

My @lesmisholidayexchange piece for @combeauferre!

[supersoakerfullofblood]

Point of View: the Biggest Thing You're Missing!

Point of view is one of the most important elements of narrative fiction, especially in our modern writing climate, but you rarely hear it seriously discussed unless you go to school for writing; rarely do help blogs or channels hit on it, and when they do, it's never as in-depth as it should be. This is my intro to POV: what you're probably missing out on right now and why it matters. There are three essential parts of POV that we'll discuss.

Person: This is the easiest part to understand and the part you probably know already. You can write in first person (I/me), second (You), and third person (He/she/they). You might hear people talk about how first person brings the reader closer to the central character, and third person keeps them further away, but this isn't true (and will be talked about in the third part of this post!) You can keep the reader at an intimate or alien distance to a character regardless of which person you write in. The only difference--and this is arguable--is that first person necessitates this intimacy where third person doesn't, but you still can create this intimacy in third person just as easily. In general, third person was the dominant (and really the only) tense until the late 19th century, and first person grew in popularity with the advent of modernism, and nowadays, many children's/YA/NA books are written in first person (though this of course doesn't mean you can't or shouldn't write those genres in the third person). Second person is the bastard child. Don't touch it, even if you think you're clever, for anything the length of a novel. Shorter experimental pieces can use it well, but for anything long, its sounds more like a gimmick than a genuine stylistic choice.

Viewpoint Character: This is a simple idea that's difficult in practice. Ask yourself who is telling your story. This is typically the main character, but it needn't be. Books like The Book Thief, The Great Gatsby, Rebecca, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the Sherlock series are told from the perspective of a side character who isn't of chief importance to the narrative. Your viewpoint character is this side character, the character the reader is seeing the world through, so the main character has to be described through them. This isn't a super popular narrative choice because authors usually like to write from the perspective of their most interesting character, but if you think this choice could fit your story, go for it! You can also swap viewpoint characters throughout a story! A word of warning on that: only change your viewpoint character during a scene/chapter break. Switching mid-scene without alerting the reader (and even when you do alert the reader) will cause confusion. I guarantee it.

Means of Perception; or, the Camera: This part ties the first two together. If you've ever heard people talk about an omniscient, limited, etc. narrator, this is what they mean. This part also includes the level of intimacy the reader has with the viewpoint character: are we in their heads, reading their thoughts, or are we so far away that we can only see their actions? If your story is in a limited means of perception, you only have access to your character's head, eyes, and interpretations, where an omniscient narrator sees through all characters' heads at once. (This doesn't eliminate the viewpoint character--most of your writing will still be in that character's head, but you're allowed to reach into other characters' thoughts when needed. You could also be Virginia Woolf, who does fluidly move through everyone's perspectives without a solid viewpoint character, but I would advise against this unless you really are a master of the craft.) Older novels skew towards third person omniscient narration, where contemporary novels skew towards first person limited. You also have a spectrum of "distant" and "close." If omniscient and limited are a spectrum of where the camera can swivel to, distant and close is a spectrum of how much the camera can zoom in and out. Distant only has access to the physical realities of the world and can come off as cold, and close accesses your character's (or characters', if omniscient) thoughts. Notice how I said narration. Your means of perception dramatically effects how your story can be told! Here's a scene from one of my stories rewritten in third-person distant omniscient. The scene is a high school football game:

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not much anymore.” “It’s not better, then?” She shivered; the wind blew in. “A little.” His tone lifted. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be better, though.” She placed a hand on his arm, stuttered there, and slipped her arm around his waist. “Did it help to be on your own?” He raised an eyebrow. “You were there.” “Yes and no.” “And the guys, the leaders.” “Come on,” she heckled. “Okay, okay.” Carmen sighed. “Yeah, it helped. I don’t think—I don’t know—I’d be me if they’d fixed it all.” She grinned. “And who might you be?” “Oh, you know. Scared, lonely.” He fired them haphazardly, and a bout of laughter possessed him which Piper mirrored. “Impatient.” “And that’s a good thing?” “No.” He sat straight. “Gosh, no. But I don’t want to be like him, either.” He pointed to the field; Devon recovered a fumbled ball. “He’s never been hurt in his life.” She met his eyes, which he pulled away. “You don’t mean that," Piper said. “Maybe not. He’s too confident, though.” The cloth of Carmen's uniform caved and expanded under Piper's fingers.

With distant-omniscient, we only get the bare actions of the scene: the wind blows in, Piper shivers, the cloth rises and falls, Carmen points, etc. But you can tell there's some emotional and romantic tension in the scene, so let's highlight that with a first person limited close POV:

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not much anymore.” “It’s not better, then?” Frost spread up from her legs and filled her as if she were perforated rock, froze and expanded against herself so that any motion would disturb a world far greater than her, would drop needles through the mind’s fabric. A misplaced word would shatter her, shatter him. “A little.” His tone lifted. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be better, though.” She placed a hand on his arm, thought better, and slipped her arm around his waist. “Did it help to be on your own?” He raised an eyebrow. “You were there.” “Yes and no.” “And the guys, the leaders.” “Come on,” she heckled. “Okay, okay.” Carmen sighed. “Yeah, it helped. I don’t think—I don’t know—I’d be me if they’d fixed it all.” She grinned. “And who might you be?” “Oh, you know. Scared, lonely.” He fired them haphazardly, and a bout of laughter possessed him which Piper mirrored. “Impatient.” “And that’s a good thing?” “No.” He sat straight. “Gosh, no. But I don’t want to be like him, either.” He pointed to the field; Devon recovered a fumbled ball. “He’s never been hurt in his life.” “You don’t mean that.” She spoke like a jaded mother, spoke with some level of implied authority, and reminded herself again to stop. “Maybe not. He’s too confident, though.” Piper felt the cloth of his waist cave and expand under her fingers and thought: is this not confidence?

Here, we get into Piper's thoughts and physical sensations: how the frost rises up her, and how this sensation of cold is really her body expressing her nervous fears; how she "thought better" and put her arm around his waist; her thought "is this not confidence?"; and how she reminds herself not to talk like a mother. Since I was writing from the close, limited perspective of a nervous high schooler, I wrote like one. If I was writing from the same perspective but with a child or an older person, I would write like them. If you're writing from those perspectives in distant narration, however, you don't need to write with those tones but with the authorial tone of "the narrator."

This is a lot of info, so let's synthesize this into easy bullet points to remember.

Limited vs. Omniscient. Are you stuck to one character's perspective per scene or many?

Close vs. Distant. Can you read your characters' thoughts or only their external worlds? Remember: if you can read your character's thoughts, you also need to write like you are that character experiencing the story. If child, write like child; if teen, write like teen; etc.

Here's another way to look at it!

This is a confusing and complex topics, so if you have any questions, hit up my ask box, and I'll answer as best I can. The long and short of it is to understand which POV you're writing from and to ruthlessly stick to it. If you're writing in limited close, under no circumstances should you describe how a character other than your viewpoint character is feeling. Maintaining a solid POV is necessary to keeping the dream in the reader's head. Don't make them stumble by tripping up on POV!

[xephyras]

' A Second Reflection '

MDNI. 18+ ONLY.

a/n: i fear i possibly cooked with this? idk, i wrote it in like 2 hours. first cillian murphy centric smut kinda goes hard.

btw: that new M. Night Shyalaman movie ‘Trap’ sucks. It's basically slutty Josh Hartnett being a dad with mommy issues and everyone not doing their job.

Second, yes, this is fucking diabolical and will in fact be better because I am amazing at writing darker shit.

Third, yes, this is because I watched Red Eye again on my Roku at 1 a.m in my duplex. (Sorry to my upstairs neighbor if you heard my tv.)

warnings: DUB/NONCON. dead dove do NOT eat, 18+, evil!dom!stalker! jackson rippner and sub! reader. jackson rippner is an actual villain, not bastardized, rough sex, unprotected p in v, breeding kink from rippner, dumbification (once again my weakness), heavy degregation, spit kink, biting kink, just overall really mouthy rippner, major power play kink, size difference if you squint, bruising, hickeys, break in, choking, hair pulling, slapping, mirror kink, blood kink, also, jackson rippner is like lowk pathetic bcz, yk... men whining.

word count: 4.18k

NOT proofread, I apologize in advance for any errors or mistakes!

"Keep your eyes on me, slut. I want to see your face while I fuck you.” He barked out, straining on your hair again as he pulled you up.

Darkness filled the room you sat in comfortably, your dust-covered mirror shimmering softly in the cinnamon candles you had lit a few minutes before. Duvet covered pulled up to your chest, and legs shuffling under with a comfort that always seemed to await you, you felt entirely serene.

The day was as usual boring, mostly spent inside working from home, taking a few calls, and mellowing around in your pajamas. These days seem to muddle together into one big mix, but it was nothing you fret over. It was rather comforting compared to the busy streets which bustled from the early hours of dawn to the peak of the night.

Only thing you would say that pinched wildly at your relaxation like a child on St. Patrick's day seeing a person not wearing green, was the overwhelming feeling of a set of prying eyes on you. However, this had become realtively common since you played that damned mirror in front of your bed.

You commonly had liked to rearrange your room; especially on the late nights where your shitty sleep schedule caught up, giving bursts of energy late at night. Hence, you assumed it was your paranoia playing a hopscotch game with you.

Nevertheless, you found the serenity of your window open, blowing a soft wind in, rather comforting. Leaving the blinds open often to let the orange sunset light in, you simply would stare until it went dark at times. Being on the first floor of your home, too, passerby's were actually much more fun to look at than you realized. ‘People-watching’, as some would call it.

However, in this night specifically, the warm breeze flushing onto your shoulders felt rather omniscient of some warning it communicated. You didn't get it, but something irked you. To deprive yourself of your own time, you simply read a book, traveling your mind into the world of your favorite reads.

Conversely, your brain pried at you. Thinking it was simply a lack of sleep, especially because it was now around a quarter after midnight, you set the hard book down. It was a hot night, you might as well have left your window open. After all, it was a safer neighborhood.

After blowing out the residue of your melted candles, you covered the rest of your body with the duvet. Serenity at last, you thought. Gently shutting your eyes, you simply wandered off mentally.

Despite being a rather heavy sleeper, you woke within a few hours to a sense of hefty paranoia. Your eyes couldn't even adjust at first to the darkness and the heaviness of them. Wiping your tiredness away, you peered into your mirror questionably.

The window you leave open, which usually shines in the dim moonlight, was almost blocked? Almost like a shadow. Slowly turning your head to your window to assume it was just your brain, you suddenly saw.

With your heart and sleepiness practically leaping out of your throat in a stiffled yell, shoved the covers off you, preparing to defend your every move. It wasn't just a fucking dark shadow, an entire, short, but rather wide looking silhouette of a man stood quietly, almost mannequin like, against your window sill.

“What the— What the fuck. What the fuck?!” You suddenly screeched out as loud as your throat could allow, the burning of your vocal chords was anything but sensational.

A deep chuckled emerged from the silhouette, shoulders bouncing somehow in a threatening manner. He held something in a pocket of a sweater, of course.

“You need to calm down before I slit your goddamn throat right here.” He suddenly sneered.

You were absolutely frozen, eyes wide with tears you didn't feel even forming. Hands bundled into fists in front of you futily, shaking like you were about to have a seizure.

He stood entirely still once more, practically observing you like some doctor. You decided haphazardly to stand onto your mattress, trying to get a better advantage of higher ground, more area to attack if he did decide to run at you.

“You— need to get the fuck out! Now!” You screamed at the end, trying to not simply break down sobbing. With purpose, your eyes scanned across your room for some weapon.

“I said calm down!” He suddenly grunted out, stomping with one long stride towards you. His palm latched itself to your ankle, dragging you from your sudden position, your head hitting the wall as you fell onto your spine.

A burning familiar to that of a minor concussion filled your senses, a stiffled sob leaving your throat as your vision filled with a dark white, if even possible. Ringing filled your ears as you felt yourself get dragged practically to lay on your stomach, facing your mirror.

He suddenly muttered almost to no one but himself, “You know, you're fucking pathetic. Can't even hold a good fight. All you do is sit—”

A grunt left his throat as he forced his sweater off, tosing it to the side. “And do absolutely nothing. You're a lazy bitch, you should be grateful I’m doing this.” He whispered into your ear, his stubble tickling along your jaw.

Desperately despite your mingling pain in your brain which seemed to radiate to your neck, you flipped yourself to your side, hands raising to try and fling themselves at him. You simply found his hand, calloused and rough, gripping a lump full of your hair, tangling it into his hand. He shoved your head into the mattress, unable to move.

“Stop fighting me, it's useless, whore.” He cursed out to you, a hint of lingering amusement in his poisoned words.

He certainly was talkative. “God, finally able to touch you after so long. You know, I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to do this.” He chuckled out, his voice was unforgivingly soothing while his hands gripped your head like a vice, and forcing the other to grope, pinch, and slap at your back and ass.

Wanting to have his fun, of course. “You need to do more. You're too… lazy. Maybe I’ll fuck a good baby into you, make you mine.” Sneering his voice next to your jaw, licking suddenly. The mixed smell of his aftershave and mahogany-esque cologne was all you tried to focus on.

Your head was utterly pounding, a slight ring in your eardrums forcuing yourself to feel even more of a head ache. Along with his snagging hand forcing you to the bed, and other groping you grotesquely, all you felt was utter pain and despair.

With as much energy as you could have put, you screamed out. Surely someone in this blasted neighborhood would hear. Screaming your pleas of help, Jackson tugged on your hair tight, snapping your neck back and cutting those yells off with a simple yelp into the air like an injured dog.

He dragged his hand from your lower back to your neck, shaking and wet from your tears which stained where he previously pushed you down. With force, he grabbed your neck tight, cutting your blood, but not air off.

“For someone so fucking lazy, only thing you can do right now is put your vocals to use? I will stab you right here and make it look like a suicide. Do yourself a favor and stop gambling with your life.” He enunciated, using his lips to drag themselves along the surrounding area of your ear.

A choke left your throat as the blood rushed back to your brain, the dazy and numb feeling leaving your pained head. You simply felt yourself get flipped to your back, finally being able to see some of the man's face.

He was unfortunately one of the most handsome men you had seen. A sharp jaw, stubbled beard he kept recently, piercing blue eyes. God, why did he have to be doing this?

“Stop it! I'll give you money! Please just stop!” You rasped out with desperate sobs, feeling yourself tears reach to your collarbones. Your nose was running heavy, and lips soaked with your own drool . You didn't care. You were focused enough the fact this man was in your home, hurting you.

His demeanor seemed suddenly much more gentle, but falsely. Like a lion acting gentle as it slowly prides itself up to its prey. His knees trapped around one of yours, holding you tight. With one of his hands, he held your chin now.

Leaning into your wet and puffy face as he smirked, he finally tantalizingly reached his lips to your jaw. “The more you plead, the harder I’m gonna get, and the longer I’ll use you.”

Finally leaning back, he raised his hand to your cheek and slammed it down, hard. A sound only described as a clap released itself along your bedroom walls, swinging your head to the side. Pain radiated harshly though your cheek, hot and burning.

He chuckled at this and leaned down his lips to your heaving neck, using his hands to stabilize himself on either side of your head. Wanting to have a bit of fun with his food so to speak, he licked. Starting at your collarbone, leading itself up to your jugular with silent breaths.

When he did reach, he bit down harshly, hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to severely hurt you. A loud shriek left your throat like some horror movie character, your hands flinging up to pull his hair away and desperately claw.

A pained groan left his throat, but he smiled. Finally getting a better view at his face, teeth slightly pink from your neck and his silky hair feeling like knives in your hands suddenly, you realized couldn't even fight him.

Pausing his actions, he developed a nasty sneer of his face, suddenly spitting a glob at your cheek, grabbing your wrists tight enough you knew it'd bruise. Crashing them down into the bed beside you, he dipped his head down once more to your bleeding neck.

Teeth sank into your skin like marshmallows in an out, ranks of pain radiating from your tailbone all the way to the top of your head like you were in a house fire. All you could hear was the ringing of your blasted ears, his heavy breathing and whines, and the shuffle of the duvet.

“God, you taste so fucking good.” He hummed out, licking up the residues and admiring your skin like some sort of art project he made, one he'd surely put on the fridge.

“You know…” he finally leaned back, resting on his knees which trapped you into his touch.

“I've been watching you for a while—before tonight.” Jackson hummed contently, his raspy whisper leaking itself into your ears like honey.

“Especially because… you don't know when—” he spoke, getting up to close the open window. You knew you should've taken it as a chance, but you were frozen. He adjusted your whimsy curtains above it.

“—when to close your goddamn window. It's been such a joy to watch you, you know that? Every morning, you laying in your bed practically refusing to get up… all the way to laying yourself down, leaving it open to feel the breeze.” He chuckled finally at his last words, almost as if to nonverbally stupidly you.

Your head was pounding, the previously persistent ringing now dying down to a simple static noise, deep in your brain. Choked sobs left your throat, your chest heaving with every breath. Barely even being able to see due to the cloudiness of your wet tears, you blinked frantically.

“My boyfriend will be home so—” you attempted to sneer out, getting cut off with a vocal scoff.

“You need to learn how to stop lying, baby.”

Almost as if tantalizing your stupid word choice, he grazed his fingertips up and down your torso, riding your tank top up slightly with every stroke. His breath—you noticed—was heavier, his chest rising and falling every movement.

With a solid hiss, he forced your tank top off you, to which of course to his not-so-very-big-suprise, revealing your bare chest. After watching you for a while, he noticed you would most of the time wear either nothing, or a tank top, maybe paired with some underwear, usually black or navy. Rare occasions, maroon.

A deep chuckle poured out his throat as his rough hands went to your breasts, cupping and kneading them like dough. It hurt, clearly because he had no intent of making you even feel anything. He just craved you like a wolf craved a little sheep. Cries of pain left your throat, trying to claw your hands at his to no avail.

Your hips and legs wouldn't budge as he sat right on them, your head hurt too much to move, your arms like noodles from the sheer anxiety and shock you felt. To this, he laughed in a false-lit pity. Pinching at your nipples, he made sure to leave you as sensitive as possible, with intent to make you cry even more.

Exult filled his icy eyes as his hands dragged themselves down your belly, massaging your sides and hips like fresh bread. It tickled, somehow—the way he moved his hands now around the waistband of your underwear.

They were a deep navy blue, however looked black in this dark room. Shakily exhaling, Jackson dipped his fingers across the line of your clothing, before quickly pulling them clean off, the fabric resting on your shaking legs.

Another shrill howl left your raspy throat, trying to wriggle your hips out of his body weight. He bellowed back quietly in mock, anger mustering his tone. Another hard, cranial slap landed on the side of your head.

“Shut the fuck up.” He berated now; amusement present.

“I’ve always dreamed of this… even nights I didn't sleep.” he cooed out, coaxing one of your hands to his crotch.

You sneered out a messy cry as he pressed your hand to his tented pants, feeling his cock practically throbbing. His breath left his lips shakily as he forced your hand to feel him. Conversely, he kept his hand tight on your hips, not covered finally.

Finally smacking your hand back, he shimmied off the pants he had on after unbuttoning them. He didn't care to pull them all the way down, why not make it a quickie—you know?

“You look like such a whore right now…” he cooed out almost an octave higher, those threatening eyes gazing daggers at you.

An idea suddenly formed in his head as he looked up to himself in the mirror across from your bed. A toothy smile like a sharks spread across his jaw. Piercing his eyes back down, he grunted, flipping you into your stomach once more.

“I want you to see your stupid fucking face while I use you.” he blazed out, sharply snapping your head up by a chunk of your hair.

Your face was a mess. Puffy red eyes, red nose and cheeeks. Entirely wet with tears and snot. Not to mention, you looked absolutely devastated, which was expected, but not this bad.

A choked wail left your throat as you heard his pants shimmy down slightly, and felt his boxers, and clothed cock resting against your pussy. In response, he cooed under his breath. His hand pressed harshly into your lower back.

“It's a shame I haven't done this sooner, you cry like a fucking animal… it's so beautiful.” He mewled out to your face in the mirror rather than looking down at you.

Tearing down his boxers finally, you could hear his cock spring free and tap lightly on his stomach. He was of course hard, more than he had ever felt in a while. hence the fact he'd get off almost nightly thinking of you. Fucking into his fist with throaty groans, imagining it was your cunt instead.

A hearty sigh left his chest as he stroked himself a few times, the precum on his tip shining in the dim moonlight which simmered through the window. He made sure he was slow with his movements, not wanting to end this too fast.

“Keep your eyes on me, slut. I want to see your face while I fuck you.” He barked out once more, straining on your hair again as he pulled you up.

You let out a few whiny sobs, knowing you couldn't get out of this situation. Your scalp burnt. Gazing your eyes up to his face, you saw nothing but lust, and focus. The worst part was you knew he could get away with it.

“Please no— no, no, no, no!” You babbled out with purpose.l

"No, no, no, don't do this!” he mocked an octave higher, looking down to his leaking cock.

“Just sit still, you'll be fine, bitch.” He scoffed.

Lining himself up to you, he spat down on his cock, stroking himself a few more times to give less friction while he fucked you. Emitting a slight grunt, he finally leaned himself into your pussy, feeling your walls and savoring every inch he dove in.

A loud wail left your mouth, you felt like you were practically being split into 2 as he finally bottomed out. His cock was big enough to press hard against your cervix, the feeling was uncomfortable. Desperately, you tried to wriggle your hips off; nevertheless, he held your hips tight.

“I said be still, dumbass.” He hissed out, landing a loud spank on your ass, surely leaving it red.

“God, you feel so—” he enunciated his words, thrusting sharply into you. “So… fucking tight.” He finished his words, chuckling in the air at the end.

Placing his other hand on your hip and holding you steady, he started a rhythmic pace, slow and drawn out. Despite the slowness, he practically pounded into you as hard as he could, savoring your small cries with each stroke.

Craning his neck back to the ceiling, he gently shut his eyes and let his jaw fall open, babbling on in pleasure. A small curse left his lips, his eyes dipping back down to your ass which shook slightly with each thrust.

“Fuck… oh my God, you feel so good. You feel—” he enunciated his words more, sharply picking up the pace, the feeling of the tip of his cock hitting the bump of your cervix was intoxicating to him.

The pain was slightly settling down as he kept thrusting into you, your body naturally making yourself wet to lessen the friction. Almost shamefully, you couldn't lie and say it didn't feel good.

If anything, it felt phenomenal. After that pain settled, the feeling of his cock driving into you so deep—deeper than you'd ever felt—was shamefully pleasureful. Despite head still throbbing with his hand tight in it, and the fact you're still a sobbing mess, you couldn't help but whine out in this twisted pleasure.

You were ashamed, but it was better than feeling any sort of pain. To the sounds of your little cries turning into whimpers of pleasure, he laughed heartily, spanking your ass once more just to watch it shake.

“See? Now that you're being obedient, I don't have to hurt you anymore, bitch.” He leaned down, tantalizingly whispering.

As he kept his head next to yours, you couldn't help hear his heavy breath and the slight mewls leaving his throat, deep and pathetic, almost. From your hips, he ran his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your arch further down .

Darting out his tongue, he licked your jaw slightly, reminicsing his gaze over your bruised bite marks that finally stopped bleeding. Landing his tongue on your jugular once more, he planted rather soft kisses. Much better than biting, anyways.

He continued to kiss around the back of your neck and the sides, the stubble tickling you. The mix of this ticklish feeling and his hips pistoning into yours finally started to postpone your crying, leaving you in a whiny state.

“God, you really are a whore, huh? Getting fucking used and you're over here whining like a little puppy.” He slammed his hand down once more, making you yell loudly.

Grazing your eyes to the mirror, the sight you saw was definitely one you'll remember, both for the horrifying reason and one of the fact this man looked utterly pathetic for you. Higher sounding breaths, head dipped to the back of your neck with kisses, and hands kneading our ass.

His eyes pierced up to the mirror, making eye contact with your still wet and puffy eyes. Smirking softly at you, he turned his head from the mirror to the side of your face. Linking his lips with your earlobe, he started speaking.

“See how slutty you look right now? You love this…” he spoke in such a tantalizing way it made you shudder.

You could barely even keep your head up, resting it on the plush mattress as you kept letting you your small moans. Each thrust was pure and plain pleasure. Shockwaves sent up your spine and fogging up your brain.

It could've been the mix of anxiety and your head hitting the wall earlier, but you could barely do anything but moan out in bliss mixed with agony. He leaned back up, flicking his hair back with a jerk of his neck.

The idea popped in his head to reach his hand down finally under your hips, keeping one on your ass to hold you steady. Delicately, he rubbed slow, intricate circles with his index on your clit. Back arching further down with pleasure, you let out an almost pornographic moan.

“Oh, you like that…” he cooed rhetorically, cocking his head to the side as he observed your reaction almost clinically.

His hands moved almost masterfully on your clit, the nerves sending an overwhelming pleasure over your entire body. Your legs shook diabolically, toes curling. Trying your best to stifle how good it felt, you bit down harshly on your lip, feeling your lower stomach arise with a familiar feeling of pleasure.

A sudden, quiet moan left the bottom of his throat, an octave higher than any of the words he'd spoken to you. He even sounded hot, and it tormented you. You could tell he was close to cumming by the way his hips stuttered slightly, how vocal he was getting.

“Fuck… I didn't expect you to feel so— so good." he whined out, dipping down his head, holding your ass tight as he probably could've. It hurt, but not as bad as being bitten or slapped.

He quickly leaned his head back to the ceiling, mouth agape with small whines leaving his throat. With his hand still on your clit, you could actually feel yourself getting closer. The way he looked in the dark in that mirror was somewhat driving you crazy. Yet, you dared not look at yourself, feeling a shame that you think will never be cured.

“Oh— God… fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbled out incoherently, suddenly burying his hips into you as deep as he could've gotten, dipping his torso down to bite harshly on your shoulder.

Somehow that was the tipping point for you, feeling that bite and his warm spurts of cum burst into you, foreign and good. Feeling your brain go numb and your mouth agape, your legs trembled heavily.

With that, a loud and drawn out whine left your puffy lips, your hands gripping the duvet sheets as tight as they could. He stood still besides the feeling of his cock still twitching inside of you.

His chest heaved heavily, pressing against your back tight as he popped his hips into you a few more times, just to fuck his cum into you. Leaning back up with a shaky groan, he examined the damage he did to you.

Bruised ass and hips, bites all over your shoulder and neck, slight blood, your crying face in the mirror, and despite all that: he made you cum. He was actually rather proud of himself for that, even though he swore he would just kill you after.

Biting his lip and pulling his cock out of you, stuffing himself inside his boxers once more, he began to speak.

“You're pathetic.” He hissed.

Buttoning his pants back up, he tore himself off that bed, leaving you alone in it. Picking up that sweater from off the floor and the knife he had stuffed in it, he examined you once more. He darted his eyes from the shiny knife to your body, shaky and limp, yet still crying.

“Can't even move now, huh? I dumbed you down real good…” he stepped over you, dragging the knife up and down your spine, watching the goosebumps it gave you.

“Too bad I can't kill you. Your cunt feels to good.” He whispered to your ear.

With that, he stuffed the knife back in his pocket and swung your bedroom door open. He would of course rather just leave through the front door. Turning back to your body, he chuckled.

“I’d prefer you leave your front door unlocked rather than your window.”

another a/n: i deeply apologize for how nasty this is! enjoy and take dark smut crumbs, my fellow jackson rippner lovers.

[ourownsideimagines]

Anger Comes In Many Forms (Aziraphale x fem!Reader)

Characters: Reader (Female), Aziraphale

Requested: Yes

Requested by: @walrusgoddess​

Point of View: Third person omniscient

Warnings: Cussing, violence (not a lot), and soft bean Az, and ALMOST NO EDITING

Words:  2379

A/N: OKAY LISTEN, so I had something planned out w/ the reader and Az coming back from the shop from lunch and being harassed (and the reader of course sticking up for Az), but then I had the most wonderful idea of her just fucking decking Gabriel and had to write it. I hope this fits your idea hun!

—

Aziraphale did not get angry often. Some people would assume he didn’t get angry at all -- these people, of course, were wrong. Crowley knew that best, from experience. The angel has been a little more than irked by his fallen friend. His girlfriend has also learned this oddly fast, after experiencing a fight between her angel and his favorite demon. She didn’t have the faintest idea what the argument was about, because as soon as she’d entered the shop Crowley excused himself and stormed out, leaving her to calm down Az.

(Name) on the other hand, had a bit of a tempter, and often it got her into trouble. She’d given Az heart attack on multiple occasions when she would tell off a man twice her size for cutting them in line, or when she would tell men who were very obviously a part of the mafia to fuck off when they entered the bookstore. He loved her dearly, but her temper was going to kill him one day.

Today might as well have been that day.

Aziraphale had told (name) about his boss, Gabriel, on a handful of occasions. Often in complaints about how the archangel didn’t care about the end of the world, and would let everyone burn in the fires of armageddon.

(Name) had never met Gabriel, but she already hated his guts.

She remembers when Az had come to her, upset, because he’d tried once more to convince Gabriel that there was something they could do and he not only rejected the idea, but had made a rude comment about his weight. That was the final straw for (name), and she was prepared for murder.

(Name) had been away from the shop, grabbing some lunch, trying not to think of the fact that the world could end at quite literally any minute. On her way back, she could smell smoke in the air and began to worry. It was when she saw the roaring flames spilling out of the bookshop doors that the food left her hands, and her feet carried her to the building.

She ignored the pain of forcing the doors open, and flung herself inside.

“Aziraphale!” She shouted, but got no response. “Az!” With an arm out in front of her, she took a step towards the backroom, but was stopped when a beam fell from above, effectively blocking her path.

The world around her began to spin, and (name) began to cough violently.

“Aziraphale!” Someone cried from behind her. “(Name)!”

“Crowley!” She called back. The demon came into sight, storming his way towards her. Tears fell from her eyes, both from upset and from the fire. “He’s gone!” She sobbed. “I left to get lunch, and when I got back… Oh god, Crowley.” (Name) let out a low, pained moan as the demon dragged her into his arms, protecting her from the fire.

“Some bastard,” Crowley growled, making sure nothing fell over the both of them. “Killed my best friend.” He hissed. The two didn’t stay much longer in the shop, knowing that it would kill (name) to stay in there. After grabbing something off of one of the tables, Crowley lead her to his car, tossing his ruined sunglasses away in the process, allowing (name) for the first time to see the yellow snake eyes Az had once offhandedly mentioned that the demon had, when she had asked why he wore them all the time.

“Get in.” He all but snapped, trying to collect himself as he got in the driver's seat. (Name) got in beside him, not strong enough to make any arguments.

“He’s gone…” She croaked.

“Discorporated.” Crowley hissed. “And the bastards probably won’t even give him a new body.”

And Crowley was right. Because as (name) and Crowley sat at the bar, Crowley drunk, and (name) halfway there, Aziraphale appeared to them, albeit transparent to say that he’d left notes in the prophecy book they’d accidentally taken from the girl they’d hit with Crowley’s car (of which, conveniently, was the book Crowley had taken from the shop).

That’s how you found yourself stuck in traffic on the way out of London, towards Tadfeild, and why Crowley was suddenly cursing himself for messing with the shape of the M25.

“Come on, there must be some way across this.” Crowley muttered, reaching over you to grab the prophecy book. “Burning roads. Did you predict this, Agnes?” As Crowley began to flip through the pages, a hand reached of from the backseat, causing (name) to scream and jump away. Hastur crushed the new pair of glass with his hands and tossed it onto the seat beside him as Crowley grimaced. He then pulled you closer to him, in case Hastur got any ideas.

“You’ll never escape London.” The duke said matter-of-factly. “Nothing can.”

“Hastur!” Crowley said icily. “How was your time in voicemail?”

“Funny ha-ha, joke all you like, Crowley.” Hastur grumbled. “There’s nowhere to run.”

“Aren’t you to be lining up, ready for battle around now?” Crowley gave (name) a light squeeze when he realizes just how nervous she had become.

“Hell will not forget.” Hastur replied. “Hell will not forgive. You know where the real Antichrist is, don’t you.” Even (name) knew it wasn’t a question. “You’ll never reach him. You’re done Crowley. You think you’re going to get the both of you across that?” The flames before the car seemed to grow at the duke’s words. Crowley used his free arm to select a CD, much to (name)’s confusion. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Let’s find out.” Crowley slipped the CD into the player.

“What- wh- why are you driving.” (Name) could hear the distaste in Hastur’s voice.

“Crowley,” She muttered.

“Trust me on this,” He mumbled back.

“That’s- what- Stop this thing!” Hastur demanded, and (name) slowly began to recognize the tune of Queen’s ‘I’m in Love With My Car’.

“You know the thing I like best about time?” Crowley drawled. “It’s that every day it takes us further away from the 14th century.” Crowley kept an arm around (name), and one hand firmly on the wheel. He gave her a tight squeeze. “I really didn’t like the 14th century. You’d have loved it then, Hastur. (Name), not so much. They didn’t have any cars back in the 14th century.” Crowley continued to speak as they drove closer, and closer to the raging fire. (Name) had half a mind to force the wheel to the other direction, but she was too scared to even more let alone tussle with the kind demon.

As they plunged into the fire, (name) was surprised to find that it was not hot -- whatever Crowley was doing to keep her safe, she hoped it would last, because even from her seat she could hear Hastur’s skin bubble and ignite. She tried to ignore his screams of pain, and Crowley’s howls of laughter, or the way he screamed at the burning car even after they’d finally exited the fire and entered the London rain.

The next few events happened in a blur -- they arrived at the Tadfeild Naval base, where (name) discovered that Aziraphale had taken possession of an older woman, who herself was accompanied by an older gentleman. They’d followed a group of four kids, led by the Antichrist, onto the base.

(Name) was shocked when Az pulled a gun on the Antichrist, and almost tackled him was it not for Tracy taking control back momentarily, causing them to misfire into the air.

“Why are you two people?” The Antichrist, Adam, asked. Az began to stumble over his words, but Adam stopped him. “I think you should go back to being two separate people.” At his words, Tracy’s form became distorted, and out of her Az stumbled ungracefully into (name). She almost cried in joy, throwing her arms around him. She pulled back suddenly, frowning.

“Were you just about to shoot an eleven year old boy?” She glowered at him. His eyes widened.

“I- oh - ah- Yes! But he’s the Antichrist!”

“He’s a child, Aziraphale.” She scoffed. “If I remember correctly, even you believed in nurture over nature.” That seemed to shut him up, if only momentarily, as they watched Adam’s three friends use a flaming sword to defeat three of the four horsemen.

“Wasn’t that your sword?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Az said. “Yes, I do believe it was.”

“You had a flaming sword?” (Name) asked. “Did you lose it?”

“Now I… gave it away.” He said, his cheeks flushing pink. (Name) would have questioned it further if not for Death’s departure. “See Crowley, it’s like I said-”

“Oh it isn't over.” Crowley said, shaking his head. “It’s far from over. Heaven and Hell still want their war.” Crowley stepped away, towards the children. “You, boy. Antichrist. What was your name again?”

“Adam Young.”

“So your friends got together and saved the world. Well done, have a gold star, won’t make any difference.” (Name)’s head swamped with confusion as a man and woman approached, the woman shouting at Crowley about how he had stolen her book, of which he tossed back to her. A slip of burnt paper floated downward, which Az caught, but would not let (name) see before slipping it into his pocket.

(Name) jumped out of her skin when a crack of thunder rang through the air, and a bolt of lightning struck the ground behind them. Az held her close as a nicely dressed man appeared, another figure appearing shortly after, rising from the ground, a gigantic fly adorning their head like a hat. They approached, moving past the group to stand on the other side of them.

“Lord Beelzebub.” Crowley said as he did an over exaggerated bow. “It’s an honor.”

“Crowley.” Said Beelzebub. “The traitor.”

“That’s not a nice word.” Crowley grimaced as he stood back up

“All the words I have for you are worse. Where’s the boy.” Crowley turned to look at Adam.

“That one.” The nicely dressed man spoke. “Adam Young.” He moved closer to the kids, stopping a few feet from Adam. “Young man… Armageddon must.. Restart.” He said with an unconvincing smile. “Right now. A temporary inconvenience cannot get in the way of the greater good.” By now, (name) had determined from Az’s previous descriptions that this was Gabriel, and that he was just as much of an asshole as he had been described. She watched as, together, Gabriel and Beelzebub attempted to convince Adam to restart armegeddon.

“Excuse me,” Az began to move closer to Adam, you following along, not wanting to leave his side, and him not wanting to argue. “You keep talking about the great plan.”

“Aziraphale, maybe you should just keep your mouth shut.” Gabriel demanded.

“One thing I’m not clear on.” Az ignores him. “Is that the ineffable plan?”

“The great plan!” Beelzebub snaps. “It is written. There shall be a world, it shall last for 6000 years and end in fire and flames.”

“Yes, yes, that sounds like the great plan.” Aziraphale gave your hand a tight squeeze as he spoke. “Just wondering. Is that the ineffable plan as well?” That’s when the realization hit (name) -- neither of them knew. Of course they didn’t know!

They just wanted war.

“Well, they’re the same thing!” Gabriel exclaimed after a few tense moments of silence.

“You don’t know.” Crowley and (name) said in unison, catching attention. Crowley sauntered over to stand with his friends.

“You know, it’d be a pity if you’d thought you were doing what the great plan said, but you were actually going directly against God’s ineffable plan.” Crowley looked around as he continued. “I mean, everyone knows the great plan, yeah? But the ineffable plan… It’s well… It’s ineffable isn’t it? By definition we can’t know it.”

“But…” Beelzebub frowned. “It is… written.”

“God does not play games with the universe.” Gabriel argued.

“Where have you been?” Crowley scoffed.

“Obviously not on earth.” (Name) muttered as Gabriel took aside Beelzebub to speak. (Name) turned again to Az, about to say something when the archangel shouted.

“Well at least we know who’s fault it is!” He snapped, eyes landing on the group. (Name) had had about enough of him, and tore herself away from Az to take the few steps to Gabriel. Az and Crowley both called to her, curiosity laced in their worry. Gabriel sneered down at her. “And what do you want-”

(Name) had only punched two other people in her lifetime, one of those being Crowley (for reasons she would rather not mention), the other being her older brother. Neither had felt as satisfactory as landing a perfect punch on the angels stupidly perfect face. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Beelzebub was almost amused by the situation as Gabriel held his face. (Name) didn’t know if it was out of actual pain or from surprise, but she glared at him all the same.

“That’s for calling my boyfriend fat you bloody prick.” She spat. “And for all the other times you treated him like shit.” There was suddenly a hand on her shoulder, and she allowed Crowley to pull her back towards the group.

“She-“ Gabriel resurfaced, hand still over his face, but (name) was satisfied when she saw the slow drip of blood onto the pavement. “She broke my nose!”

“Oh, get over it, she could have done way worse.” Crowley gave her a knowing glance and she looked away sheepishly. She ignored the constant returning glare from Gabriel as he and Beelzebub promised to tell Adam’s father (Satan) about him ‘misbehaving’. As they finally disappeared, (name) brought herself to finally look at Aziraphale, whom had been staring at her with flushed cheeks.

“Did you… did you really do… that,” He fumbled over his words as he took a step toward (name), his cheeks only burning hotter as he refused to meet her gaze. “Did you just punch an archangel… for me?”

“I’d have done much more to that asshole if Crowley hadn’t pulled me away.” She promised. She grabbed his burning cheeks and planted a soft kiss to his lips. “No one insults my angel and gets away with it. I’d do anything to protect you, my love.” Az pulled her into a tight hug, too flustered to do much of anything else.

“Hey, you two.” Crowley said. “There are kids, don’t go getting call cutesy.” You rolled your eyes, but gently took your significant other's hand, prepared for whatever might come next, because he was at your side.

Then, the ground began to shake.