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spookyceph · 5 years ago

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Comfort Zone Pt. 1

A Shigaraki & Toga fic! Because the League becoming friends is just about my favorite thing ever. Also, it's running long, so I split it into two parts.

Rating: T and up

Relationships: Shigaraki Tomura & Toga Himiko, Dabi/Shigaraki Tomura (hints of)

Warnings: Swearing, anxiety attacks, disturbing thoughts, self-harm (in the form of Shigaraki’s scratching), mentions of blood

Even after shoving the door to the downstairs bathroom shut and locking it behind him, Tomura couldn’t convince his heart to stop slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

How he’d let this happen—why he’d allowed it to—he couldn’t begin to piece together. He’d been so pissed when Dabi had intruded on his solitude at the bar. But then…then the bastard had started talking. Worse, he’d made sense. As if that hadn’t been enough, Dabi had given him a gift before leaning in close, so close, close enough to touch—touch!—his face, to tangle warm fingers in his hair, and shitshitfuckinghellwhatwashesupposedto—

Gasping for the air that had suddenly abandoned the room, Tomura sagged against the sink. No. The walls were not closing in on him. He wasn’t about to suffocate. His brain was just convinced that was the case because it was busy drowning in swells of adrenaline and anxiety. One hand flew up to his neck. The sting of his nails ripping open new furrows across old scratches caused his flailing thoughts to freeze. Seizing the opportunity, he groped for another lifeline.

“W-white counter. Lavender soap. Blue…fuck.” He gouged his nails deeper, countering anxiety’s own claws in his guts. “Blue. The fucking goddamn towel is blue. Like his—”

The resulting jolt of shock at what had nearly escaped his mouth knocked panic’s grip right off of him.

Tomura turned the sink faucet on and stuck his icy, quaking hands under the warm stream of water. The sensation of it flowing and sliding between all five of his fingers like nothing solid could helped ground him further. Cupping his palms, he caught enough to splash onto his face and scrub away the clammy sheen of stress sweat. Too late, he remembered the fresh coating of salve. Droplets raining down his cheeks and chin, Tomura lifted his head to confront his reflection.

Cracked and crinkled rice paper skin. Beauty mark like a droplet of ink to one side of his mouth. Vertical scar splitting the symmetry of his lips. White wisps of hair that Kurogiri had long since stopped suggesting he comb curling every which way. Eyes as round and rawly red as the healing exit wounds that shitheel Snipe had given him as parting gifts. Or the thin streams of blood trickling from his shredded neck, soaking into his shirt. The same list of features he’d had as long as he could remember—no more than fifteen years back before recollections slid into oblivion, admittedly, but long enough. Tomura squinted, studying each one, struggling to imagine what they might look like through eyes the bright blue of lightning.

Don’t expect me to share my chapstick, though. You’re on your own with that one, creep.

Tomura’s jaw tightened until his temples throbbed. Sensei had once had him take some standardized tests from the most prestigious schools in the country, just to show him how narrow society’s thinking could be. He’d aced every one…yet he’d walked right into Dabi’s little joke. The bastard had probably laughed all the way back to his room at Tomura’s gullibility. Even with half his skin barbequed, face full of staples and stitches like a campy horror movie character, he’d obviously been born a golden child, tall and beautiful and strong. Probably doted on by everyone around him until whatever little accident had tarnished his shine. Driven into the dark of the underworld, he still retained the same entitled attitude. Someone like Tomura—no pedigree, no social standing, and thus no need to kiss anyone’s ass—would be vermin to him.

Think of this another way. As a show of trust.

There. Better?

Here. Keep it. Should last awhile.

The righteous fire in Tomura’s chest dwindled and fizzled. A smaller but much more alarming warmth kindled along his cheekbones. Okay, fine. Dabi’s expression hadn’t belonged to a purebreed staring down his nose at a stray mongrel when he’d said those things, but so damn what? He’d smirked and teased and bulldozed right through every boundary he found.

Why, then, hadn’t Tomura erased his annoying existence from the world? Or at least beat some respect into him? Just because he’d been nice for two seconds? Tomura preferred to think he wasn’t so pathetic that he could be swayed by such an insignificant gesture.

People always show their real selves when they’re pissed.

The tang of copper coated his tongue as he chewed on his nails—his second favorite method to tear himself apart. What if…what if insults and arrogance were tactics? Ways for Dabi to gather intelligence and gain the upper hand? Tomura did much the same on the rare, awful occasions he had to interact in public, just in the opposite direction—he pretended to be a harmless drone of hero society like everyone else. In that light, Dabi’s intentions had been genuine even though his approach relied on deception.

Aloof characters who nevertheless gave their all for the party when it came down to it were always the most useful in games. Not to mention usually Tomura’s favorites.

Right. That concluded his thinking about the subject for the night. Or eternity.

Door opened a crack, Tomura peeked out into the hallway. Not a soul. He cocked his head, listening. Not a whisper or peep. Mindful of every creaky floorboard, he crept out. Slunk upstairs like a thief in his own base of operations. Hardly dared to breathe until he’d shut and locked the door to his room behind him.

Nerves still crawling beneath his skin, Tomura glanced over at the laptop sitting on the small desk against one wall. To the TV mounted on the other, framed by shelves of games to various consoles. He would’ve liked nothing more than to have a glowing screen absorb his attention, but he knew his focus was too scattered to play anything. Scanning the online news feeds would yield nothing but chatter about Stain or All Might—his fingers latched back onto his neck just thinking about it. He couldn’t wear himself out with training since that meant going back downstairs to use the mats and equipment in the basement. No fucking way was he setting foot in the bar for the next few days. Maybe not for years.

He knew he shouldn’t have let anyone stay here. Now he was trapped, a prisoner in his own goddamned room, all because he’d let an overcooked piece of human yakitori put his soft, stapled hands on him, and—

The rising swells of panic dropped and went utterly still as Tomura’s eyes darted to his closet. Of course. Such an obvious answer. He should’ve known what to do from the beginning.

Aah, you poor thing. What are you so afraid of? All you have to do is follow your heart.

As always, Sensei had provided for him.

Sliding one side of the closet open, Tomura picked up a long wooden box from its resting place beneath his neatly hung clothing. He gently set it in the middle of the room before retrieving a cloth from his desk. Sitting on his heels in front of the box, he wiped a few stray specks of dust from its lacquered surface. Though his memory of receiving it (not to mention its contents) remained lost somewhere in the murky haze of his childhood, the familiar action alone reassured him. Sensei had instructed him to care for it and he had, polishing it every week without fail for fifteen years.

Sleeves over the heels of his palms to prevent smudges, Tomura carefully lifted the lid.

The stench of formaldehyde sprang out immediately. It reached straight down his throat and clenched his guts with corrosive fingers. Despite the urge to vomit everything in his body cavity up, a mantle of calm settled over Tomura’s shoulders. As wretched, as vile, as stomach-wringing as they were, the sensations were familiar. They’d woven themselves into his makeup as tightly as his DNA. The same could be said for what lay inside the box.

Paler even than him against their nest of black coffin velvet, fourteen human hands lay in two neat rows. Well, thirteen—one was merely a replica, a replacement. The metal caps on the wrists gleamed sallow gold under the room’s light. Poised on the razor’s edge between sickened and serene, Tomura reached for them in the usual order.

First, the smallest ones, curled around his wrists. A larger pair with aged, wrinkled skin and knobby knuckles clamped to his biceps next. A similar but slimmer version of those followed on his forearms. The hands with the longest, loveliest fingers encircled his neck in fourth place. Two sets of brutish, blocky ones latched onto his shoulders, then his sides just beneath his arms.

Naturally, the best he saved for last.

Tomura fixed the replica to the back of his head almost absently. His attention was reserved for its partner: a left, the largest hand, the father of its macabre little family. He lifted it with the same care a collector would a preserved butterfly. With a fingertip he mapped out the valleys and ridges of bones and strong sinew along the back. Turning it over, he traced the lifeline etched across its palm that had most definitely lied. The way the scar cleaving his lips tingled and burned had nothing to do with the savage grin that split Tomura’s face. He rubbed his chin to be sure the feeling of blood drooling down it was only a phantom from his buried past.

He didn’t need to know its origins to realize how special Father was.

Revulsion and exhilaration surged up from his center as he pressed the precious memento mori over his face like a mask. His roiling emotions alchemized into something he had yet to name, its crystallized shape strange but stable. At last, the feel of cold, waxen flesh molded to his cheeks, of stiff, dead fingers in his hair, chased away the fantasy of hot, living ones. At last, he could think.

With a relieved sigh, Tomura replaced the box’s lid and stood. After feeling trapped, he needed the reassurance of space. He went to his room’s narrow window, pushed aside the curtains, disarmed the little tripwire surprise he’d rigged, and pushed the bottom pane up so he could slither out onto the fire escape.

The night air reeked of the refuse piled in the alley below. This definitely wasn’t high on his list of favored spots, but it was better than nothing. At least the temperature was being kind to his skin, not too warm or humid, not to cool or dry. The rusty skeleton of the fire escape squeaked as he settled himself on the mesh bottom, hugging his knees. Staring up at the void of the sky, a few stars visible through Father’s embalmed fingers, wasn’t so bad either. Everything he could see was warped, discarded, halfway down the path to total ruin. It almost made him feel at home.

A home with dynamics that had changed overnight. But…like it or not he had two new roommates—with more to come, according to Giran. Tomura didn’t have the kind of power to reduce hero society to rubble and ash on his own. Not yet. In the meantime, he had to make do with the next best thing: strength in numbers. It was just…he got so anxious. The concept of living with anyone aside from Kurogiri was bizarre, the thought of having to interact daily with strangers unsettling.

Yet even someone as powerful, as feared and dreaded as Sensei didn’t work alone. If his mentor hadn’t turned his nose up to cooperating with select people, who was Tomura to? He grimaced behind Father, but he could already feel resolve seeping between the seams in his thoughts. One way or another, he’d learn to tolerate his houseguests and how best to use their skills for the greater goal.

Maybe it was his years martial arts training that picked up on some subtle shift in the air. Déjà vu prickled along the back of Tomura’s neck. His head snapped toward the perceived threat on his right.

He caught a flash of a blonde-haired head just before it ducked back inside the next window over.

I’m Toga! Toga Himiko! It’s hard to live!

“Wait,” came from Tomura’s mouth before his conscious mind registered the action. “I’m sorry. About how I acted earlier.” The surprise of those words, in that order, coming from him fell flat compared to the shock of realizing he wasn’t lying.

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crqstalite · 5 years ago

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SHADOW OF THE SITH. Ch. 1.

TRI'AMA._MANAAN.

There were only a few things in this small galaxy that could piss off Tri'ama Amarillis. Well, that was a lie, she was very easy to anger, she wouldn't even attempt to kick that ideal from her character or people's assumptions of her. Sith, and the Emperor's Wrath, usually she had to pick and choose her battles, decide what was worth getting all up and arms about.

Still, this had to top her list of screwed up missions, rage still rolling off her in waves as her armor soaks through with the salty water of Manaan's endless ocean. Whether Lana had intentionally set her up this way, or if it really had been a fluke had yet to be seen. There wasn't a lot of trust between the two women yet, and she's beginning to see why. Whatever Lord Beniko intended to have her do in the future for her or anyone close to her, she'd have to definitely sign a waiver next time. Not to mention the Republic agent that the Jedi had been so ecstatic to see open them an escape pod, she had plenty of questions for the blonde Sith at the head of these operations.

The woman that had surely followed her and later assisted (as grudgingly as Tri'ama would admit) with the destruction of the Selkath cyborg was a mystery though. Her blonde hair hung in her face, though she'd tied up what she could in a messy bun at the base of her neck while her soldier companion carried her on his back. The way her face contorted in pain, she figured the Jedi had broken her ankle, or possibly simply twisted it when she'd fallen earlier. A reason to allow someone else to take the brunt of the situation, Tri'ama scoffed at the idea. If she'd allowed Quinn to do such a thing, she might as well wilt from the embarrassment at succumbing to such an injury. Then again, she'd never met a Jedi who wasn't out for their precious Order, so she figured it was learned helplessness anyways. No wonder they continued to lose battle after battle, unable to fight through the pain.

The kolto still stung where it'd been applied rather generously on her pale skin, she'd admit that much. Not to anyone out loud, but she shifts an armor plate stealthily to mitigate the pain. A portion of her armor remained in the ocean because she'd had to rip it off to allow Quinn access to do his magic on the cuts that decorated her arms and the blood that gushed out of the many wounds she'd acquired while in the lab. Money lost, though apparently they were oh-so severe that they needed to be dealt with right then and there in the escape pod. She shoved him off her as soon as she could move her arm again, she wasn't interested in being pored over like a holonovel for much longer than necessary, especially by someone such as the Captain. Not to mention they weren't alone either, a Republic soldier and a Jedi sharing the pod with them. Pulling stitches, that was a bridge they'd burn when she got to it.

The Jedi (who still hadn't revealed her or the soldier's name) was still a mystery. Maybe a tad taller than she was, whether she was wearing heeled boots was another question, with blue eyes that were more grey in the sunlight of the planet. Just as the last bolt of lightning from the Shaasa adherent had ripped through her system, a blinding light of green and tan robes had appeared from somewhere in the room and taken down the injured Selkath with a single slash of her double bladed lightsaber. Pissed by the loss of kill, of course, she didn't even offer her own name though the woman had asked. Very conversational at first, but the fact Tri'ama kept ignoring her definitely made her put a sock in it. She'd also believed the woman wasn't half bad at first, but she also had kept Jakarro from murdering Gorima as Tri'ama had originally requested of the Wookie.

Stand in the way of justice then, be that way.

Tri'ama decided she didn't like her after that.

"My Lord. You've returned in one piece." Lana's facial expression is unwavering, but her tone changes slightly into one of being content with how the events had panned out. The woman was nothing short of being infuriatingly professional in the face of danger, though she seems to have a sense of humor, if their past conversations in Vaiken's cantina were anything to go by, "I'm assuming your injuries haven't rendered you inoperable?" She questions, placing her datapad down on the table behind her.

In other news, the Republic agent had also joined them, and he leaned against one of the tables in mock boredom. A red jacket, most notably, and cyborg implants on his temple and above his eyebrow. Good-looking, if she were being entirely honest. She'd never met the man before, much less knew his name. She'd have to ask Lana once he (and hopefully the Jedi) left.

"No thanks to Arkous." Tri'ama responds, crossing her own arms as Quinn stands behind her. She moves away without a second thought, attempting not to seem too at odds with him. That mess was something she'd sweep under the rug for now, probably for the rest of forever while she was at it. If Lana ever asked...she wouldn't get an answer, it was that simple, "You could've told me you were sending me into a death trap before hand, Lord Beniko."

"It wasn't intentional, my lord." Lana reassures her, her expression unchanging and golden eyes boring into her as if she were the one who'd done something wrong, "Manaan isn't allied to one side or another, so the way this mission turned out could not have been foreseen. What Arkous and Darok did is unforgivable, yes."

"Tell me we got more from this mission than only losing two of the Republic and the Empire's more important people in their hierarchies." Tri'ama shakes her head in disbelief, a note of sarcasm in her voice So Lana wasn't the apologetic type she was used to dealing with. Most respected her as the Emperor's Wrath -- there was no one above her in the Empire but the Emperor himself -- but it seemed Lana was not one of those people. That would have to be taken in stride, because she was already in too deep to simply pull out of the mission entirely because of someone who annoyed her for pretentious reasons. A cult on the rise, along with both a Colonel and Darth defecting to said cult? That would make galactic news within the week if it got out. If she or Lana were connected to it, she could consider her reputation destroyed.

So, as self-serving as it sounded, it looked like she was in this for the long haul.

The clanking of the soldier's boots and then the hiss of barely hidden pain makes her privy to him putting the woman down, and the agent's eyes widen in surprise at the scene, though he's clearly trying to keep his emotions under wraps. They must know each other rather well then.

"Master Iresso, I didn't know you'd been injured." The man responds, concern evident in his voice, as the woman hobbles to join their small circle. She has to lean against the soldier to regain her balance properly, but gives the man a reassuring smile, grey eyes tired but still bright after the mess they'd been through. How or why, she wasn't entirely sure and didn't exactly want to know either.

Jedi.

"I'll be fine, really Theron. A few days and continous healing should be enough to have me back up and running. No need to worry that much." Master Iresso says, shrugging him off, a chuckle on the undertones of her voice. Her face falls and loses it's smile though as she shifts her posture to test the weight on her injured ankle before sliding back into the position that she'd been in before, "What matters is that Darok got away."

"Which brings us to our main point, both Darth Arkous and Colonel Darok have escaped Manaan. For now, no one knows where they've gone or where they're headed, though they are tied to the Order of Revan," Lana repeats, moving to stand in a nearly identical stance to most Imperial agents when briefing, hands folded behind her back in a strong stance. "It seems though, that some of us aren't acquainted yet."

"Clearly." There's a touch of sarcasm that she lets slip into that admission, though Lana's glance toward her is one of 'play nice or else'. Getting out of here as soon as possible was her first idea, not making friends with the Republic. She sends a veiled glare towards her Sith ally, but it's easily deflected and ignored to her dismay. Then she'd play this game as long as the players were around. As much as she was the unwilling participant.

"Theron Shan, Republic SIS-and your new ally." The agent nods, seeming not exactly talkative or intending to reveal much more about himself. Tight-lipped and quiet then, how had Lana managed to score him as an ally to begin with? There were more mysteries to Lord Beniko than she'd thought at first then. Possibly they were here at the same time as each other, but to be hunting down the same people they were?

Too much of a coincedence.

At least he had a pretty face. That, she could get used to.

"Master Naji Iresso, Barsen'thor of the Jedi Order, another ally of yours." The Jedi responds, her face falling into a content, blank face as she looks to Lana and Tri'ama. Kinder maybe, but also somewhat younger than Theron, clear from her attentive attitude, and the fact she isn't as quick to shove them off, "My partner here is Lieutenant Felix Iresso."

Brother? Husband? It isn't immediatly clear to Tri'ama when she looks the two over and tries to find the connection between the shared last name. The contrasting skin colors of a sun-kissed tan and even more desert sun-kissed chestnut throw a wrench into the mix. Distant family, maybe. If there was one thing she knew about Jedi, it was that chances of having a lover and still being a Jedi, were very slim. There is no passion, there is serenity bullshit or something along those lines.

Then again, looking at how well her own marriage had worked out, she's considering not pointing as many fingers as she is right now. A shiver runs up her spine at the thought, holding back the want to turn around or even glance over her shoulder at Quinn.

He wouldn't do anything with other people here.

She hoped.

"Lana Beniko." Lana says, as polite as always as she gives a small but tight smile to the three. So her trust didn't lie with them as fully as Tri'ama had assumed, "I trust you both already know Jakarro."

The wookie says something she can't translate, though the Barsen'thor smiles knowingly, as if she knows good and well what has just been said. Because the others don't make any note to ask what he's said, she doesn't either. Even though she knows next to nothing about the furry species and their more-complicated-than-necessary language, she is a woman of appearances. Weakness or otherwise, that wasn't something she was about to admit defeat in front of so many people. Theron says something in response she doesn't immediately catch, but he isn't a bad face to look at, she realizes. He probably meddles less than Quinn ever did, anyways.

"C2-D4, former translator to her imminence, Queen Lina of Onderon." The droid strapped to the wookie's chest answers. A rather sarcastic bucket of bolts that they'd picked up out of the prison, he'd be if the rest of his body was attached to his head if he kept talking though, by her hand or the Wookie's. She wondered what sort of business required a pair like the two of them, and where the rest of the droid's body had gone. He'd been without it for a while, apparently. She assumes that Jakarro must be some sort of pirate, or possibly was just here at the wrong place at the wrong time and got swept up into the mess -- just as she did.

"Darth Tri'ama Amarillis-Quinn, Emperor's Wrath." She keeps herself from growling out her own introduction, though she's still curious about the presence of three Republic citizens. "My medic, Malavai Quinn. Really Lana, I wasn't expecting the Jedi or the agent. Had I known I would've polished my armor before I came."

"I'm sure you would've, Wrath." Lana turns her attention away from her though she's clearly a tad annoyed by the sarcastic comments of hers. They'd both see how long this allyship would last, between them and between the Republic, "Then on the matter of Revan and his followers, who it seems Arkous and Darok are..."

"You were on Tython, when the Empire attacked. I remember you."

It's the last thing she expects to hear, preparing to leave Manaan. The still hobbling Barsen'thor is standing rather strong in behind her, frowning with her eyebrows knit together but not inherently angry. Her presence remains stable, though there are chinks in the armor of it. Raising an eyebrow, Tri'ama turns from the panel to open her own star ship hangar. That meant that the woman had followed her all the way back here from the Welcome Center and had finished her debriefing with Theron earlier than expected. Maybe she should feel honored she's even being graced with her presence?

That was most definitely odd. What good was she to the Warden of the Order? Well, that had an obvious answer but the point remained clear. Her weapon isn't even lit, and she's not in any position to be attacking her or starting anything. Clearly Tri'ama has the upper hand, but she'll entertain the woman if that's what she wants.

"And if I was?" She asks, after waving Quinn off to start the Fury's engines. Once he's gone, she turns back to the woman, fully ready to grab her sabers in case this was all a facade for sympathy. What else could she be here for, friendly conversation? Tri'ama would watch Dromound Kaas burn before that happened, "What would it mean to you?"

"Padawans were massacred because of you. Innocent children because of your Empire's unsated thirst for blood." The Barsen'thor narrows her eyes before she continues, "They weren't any threat to you, and yet their bodies litter the courtyard because of your bloodthirsty ways."

"Is that why you came and tracked me down to my hangar? To berate me for killing a handful of whelps?" Tri'ama stifles a chuckle that still makes itself known through her respirator. Shaking her head and putting her hands on her hips, she slides into a more relaxed stance once she realizes that there isn't any actual violence present, "I thought you would've had better things to do than lecture me on my actions, great Barsen'thor."

"How can you just live with yourself after doing such a thing?" She questions, balling her fists at her side, though looking away from her for a moment. She holds back another laugh as the woman breathes first before focusing back on her with a renewed look of passion in her eyes. Containing herself then, lowering herself to a simmer before she continues on her tirade, "And then act as if you're all righteous trying to help track down Revan?"

"If I remember correctly, your Republic assaulted my homeworld as well without any precedence. I'm sure your precious Agent Shan had a hand in it as well, I can nearly promise it. They killed my people, and plenty of acolytes while they were at it. I say we paid you all back rather well in my opinion afterwards. You knew what you were getting into when you stepped foot on Korriban, and you knew the Sith would retaliate. Or is that unfair because we're the bad guys?" Tri'ama raises a well-placed eyebrow, using a tone that was reminiscent of one her mother employed when she was but a child herself, knowing she's caught the Jedi in a trap of morals. The woman's eyes widen, surprised as Tri'ama continues speaking, "Because we're the big bad Sith, it's okay that you've murdered our acolytes but it's a horrible tragedy that your precious padawans were struck down? Pick your battles accordingly, Barsen'thor. That was one you could not win without casualties. I do hope you're firmly aware of that."

"Padawans are children, Wrath. Your acolytes were nothing more than wayward souls." Her words have a bite to them after she collects herself, something she didn't immediatly expect from the woman. A welcome challenge at the very least, though. Tri'ama was one thing, and that was a debater. A welcome one, at that. If Master Iresso thought she was going to take this lying down, well then she'd have to get her eyes and thoughts checked. She was Sith, not some weak-willed Jedi, surely what she was used to dealing with in the Order.

"A moral dilemma then. Our future versus yours, and I see you favor your own more than ours. Were you also there for the decimation of the Academy? To see the lights of overseers and Sith alike go out like a power outage over a city? Were you the one who dealt the final blow to Soverus?" Tri'ama sneers, and the Barsen'thor nearly takes a step back in mild fear. That's all she needed short of the actual admittance to doing the deed. Her rage flares, that meant she had done it. Tri'ama had never been particularly close to Soverus (she didn't bother with the petty in-fighting of the Council) but the ripple through the Force was still evident to most stronger Sith. Now knowing the Jedi aren't even above that, she wonders what happened to these lightsided space wizards that were all so prissy and so perfect. There is a chance that the military was the one who organized this, enough soldiers fell before her as she defended Korriban from the assault, though it wasn't as if she'd just simply pass up the chance to get any more information from the Jedi themselves. She could imagine that this one would be happy to provide in it her quest towards moral righteousness.

"You...you killed Master Traless!" She attempts to rebutt. Her frustration is evident, and it's a welcome difference that she wasn't expecting. Tri'ama wonders where all that 'there is only peace' went as her presence flares. It prickles her own senses, which is confusing in itself as she buries it down within herself. How many buttons she would need to press, and where they all were was still a mystery to Tri'ama, but give it time. She'd figure it out, "You decimated the Jedi homeworld, and all for what?"

"And if I did? All's fair in love and war, Barsen'thor. Whether we come together to fight Revan or not, nothing will erase what the Republic has done to advance themselves in this Galactic War. Maybe the Empire has done some wrong too, but on this side of the fence it seems as if your precious Jedi have more to admit to than they'd like to say." As fun as it is to both tease the girl and watch as she progressively keeps trying to make up excuses for the distorted version of reality she lives in (really, acolytes might be older than a few saber-wielding toddlers who'd sooner whack off their own arms than protect the galaxy from anything more than nightmares, but they are still useful to forward one's own plans), she's also beginning to get angry. Lest the Barsen'thor walks away now and closes her bloody trap, she's concerned she may just choke the woman to get rid of her entirely. Lana would have her head for it, but at that moment Tri'ama isn't entirely sure she cares, "Anger. Does it feel foreign to you Barsen'thor? Tell me, have you ever used it against someone before?"

"I-I, never! That's not our way." She sputters, trying to reign in her emotions once she realizes what Tri'ama tries to get her to admit. She's realized all too quickly that Tri'ama is manipulating her into becoming angry, and instead sets her mouth in a thin line, thinking out her next response, "I'd never do such a thing, everyone deserves redemption."

"Then explain Soverus, please?" Tri'ama asks, her fake smile dropping as she speaks the name. She'd like to know what her excuse is, really. Was it traumatic for her? Was it just another battle? Tri'ama may not want to admit it, but she can't identify the type of Jedi that the Barsen'thor is just yet.

For once, the Barsen'thor is silent. Maybe she's thinking, maybe she tries to combat with her own excuse. Tri'ama wouldn't be surprised. She would hate to admit it, but the Jedi has a point. The Sith have murdered more Jedi than the Jedi have Sith. Capturing and rehabilition seems to have always been their so-called 'way' for some reason. Whether it actually worked was another problem entirely and...well Jaesa was a prime example. Not all Jedi were perfect, and maybe not all Jedi were the lightsided pawns the Order needed them to be.

"If you can't, then don't sputter and act like a fool. I'm not asking for you to admit you are wrong, I already know you are, but think of this Barsen'thor. I will not be told I am wrong for the morals that I grew up with and was taught. I will also not allow you to act as if the decimation of my training grounds did not affect me and did not make me more unable to trust you and your kind. To know what you are capable of now, is enough to convince me of where my loyalties lie. Do not act as if the killing of your homeworld and your people was a moralless job either. I had my reasons, as you had yours." Turning to leave and enter the hangar, she stops for just a moment and says, "Make your decision Barsen'thor. Stab me in the back and lose me and Lana as your allies to the other half of the conspiracy. Hopefully, I won't have to trust you long enough to finish this mess and allow you an opportunity to do so."

A glance over her shoulder shows that she is far from being wrong, as the Barsen'thor has closed her flapping mouth that almost seemed like a fish's before she and her ever-present soldier disappear back into the halls of Manaan's centers. The fury is up and running as she heads up the plank, 2V-R8 welcoming her back into the ship. As frustrating as the Jedi seems to be, she also seems like a feasible partner. Willing to argue her own points until the point of being backed into a metaphorical corner was fascinating, if also not a tad stupid. Good to know that she had someone like that on her side...well, she still didn't trust her, but that was in short supply these days anyway.

She could end up being a worthy ally, Theron included. Whether the woman flew around with a crew or not would be seen down the road, but she also wasn't sure what to tell her and what to leave firmly outside of their little discussions. Allying with Jedi in the past had never gone well for her, there was a lightsaber wound on her left bicep that was proof enough, and she was afraid she'd end up with a vibroblade in her back if she wasn't careful this time around. Keeping her guard up was a firm must.

But, she realizes as Quinn sets a course for Vaiken, if Revan really still is out there, then they could all be in more danger than anyone would like to admit. Revan was extremely powerful from what she did know, and he was no Baras either. Making a gamble of whether she'd make it to tomorrow was already tricky enough. And having a singular, one woman strike team, wouldn't be in the cards for an Empire that wished to survive this upcoming Cold War with the Republic. Forget that she trusted her life to her crew, forget that she essentially had the army on her beck and call if their absentee Emperor willed it, she may admit she needs help this time. And this time, not from Darth Revel.

Settling in to seethe upon her anger in her personal quarters, Tri'ama can't help the feeling of uneasiness growing in the pit of stomach. Something isn't right, but for now this was how things would have to be. An SIS agent, a Wookie with his droid, a Barsen'thor of the Order, Lana and herself.

It was anyone's game, and Tri'ama Amarillis did not intend to lose.

(Edited March 20th, 2020: added 2,146)

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beccarooni · 6 years ago

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Thulk cuddles 3 - featuring Bruce!

AN: in this house we love both hulk and Bruce equally (and so does thor)

The thrumming of the Statesman's engines was an odd comfort to Bruce. So far away from home, but it honestly reminded him of Starks labs. The sound of machinery creaking and beeping provided the same calming ambience, although for once he was asleep in a bed instead of at a desk. The relief and exhaustion of coming back had knocked him into the bed almost as soon as he'd gotten there. He wasn't even sure if Hulk would let him back when he jumped out of that craft.

But Thor had needed him. Asgard had needed him.

The look on Brunhilde's face when he'd turned back had almost been worth all the worry anyway. She'd wanted a lengthy discussion about what in the hell she'd just witnessed, but Thor had insisted on Bruce getting some rest. Deals were made to continue the revelry at a later date, and soon enough everyone had retired to their rooms to gather their frazzled nerves.

Bruce was so close to sleep, his first good sleep in months. It seemed only on course for his luck that something would change that.

The thrum of the machinery beneath his pillow grew into a churning, shrill shriek that sent him sitting bolt upright from the bed. A loud crack echoed from somewhere down the corridor, and he felt Hulk's alarm in the back of his mind.

But it wasn't a gun that had made that noise.

It was a sound Bruce knew all too well, the same sound that had blasted through Asgard as it began to burn.

It was the sound of thunder.

It didn't take long for Bruce to be out of his bed, making a half asleep effort to pull on shoes while running down the hallway. Blue light reflected off of the paneled walls, the distant sound of cracking electricity growing closer with every turn. Bruce rounded a final corner, and his stomach clenched at what he found.

Thor was hunched in the center of the room, arcs of lightning ripping from his body. His whole form was taught, tight, clenched like a fist in the midst of a battle.

Bruce caught a whimper, and his feet moved forward before he could stop them.

"Thor? What's happening?" He tried to keep his voice gentle, to limit it to quiet, soothing tones. But he couldn't hide the slight tilt of panic beginning to creep into his voice. Fear, but not for him.

Thor's single eye flickered up towards where Bruce was standing, the look on his face like a stray animal that had been cornered by a hunter. He raised his hand towards Bruce in a warning, pain and terror cracking his voice.

"S-Stay back. Please. I can't-"

Thor was cut off as a particularly vicious arc of lightning tore through his body, and a cry of pain escaped his lips before he could muffle it.

Bruce swallowed nervously. He'd never seen Thor like this. There were faint memories from Hulk's side of the equation that clawed at his sleep addled mind, but nothing like this. That storm was an impressive feat of battle, a controlled force made to strike down droves of enemies.

It wasn't supposed to hurt.

"Just stay calm, alright?" He took a cautious step forward, arms extended out in front of him in a gesture he hoped was placating. "Tell me how to help you."

"I can't control it, Banner." Thor looked at his fists, and the arcs of light that darted in-between his fingertips like it was the product of a nightmare. "I can't..." His voice petered off into a sob, and Banner caught his knees shaking with strain.

"Easy..." Banner tried to take in a measured breath, careful and slow, hoping Thor would follow his example. He knew about losing control. He knew so much about it that he was shocked he hadn't achieved an 8th PhD on the subject. Even now he could hear Hulk's voice poking through the back of his consciousness, addled with sleep as it was.

'Friend hurt?' The gruff tones of his monster were tinged with worry. 'Hulk help?'

'No.' As much as their relationship had improved through the last couple of days, Bruce didn't fancy bringing Hulk out to deal with an out of control demigod. He was all for experiments, but mixing an aptly described Green Rage Monster with a bucket load of uncontrollable lightning wasn't a formula he was about to engage with.

He could deal with this on his own.

"What happened? Can you remember?" Specific things were usually the catalyst of Banner's worries, be that nightmares of destruction or real world dangers in the form of Thaddeus Ross.

There were any number of these things that could've set Thor off, and he cursed himself for not bringing these up sooner. Hiding emotions was practically the slogan of the Avengers. Thor was never going to be an exception, as good at it as he was.

The question seemed to still the panic at least for a moment as Thor focused on it. Bolts stopped ripping from his body, limiting themselves to the occasional spark and an eerie glow surrounding the demigod.

His breathing was ragged, loud against the silence left by the thunder.

"I... I don't remember..." Thor's voice sounded vacant, far away as he finally answered. His next few words dropped to a pained hiss, and his huge form was visibly shaking now. "Everything hurts, Banner. I don't know why."

Bruce nodded, taking another few steps forward. The storm seemed to be lulling, giving him a chance to get a proper look at the demigod. Still in the soot-stained armour he'd been wearing since...God, since Sakaar. The man himself didn't look like the picture of Asgardian elegance, either. His forehead shone with sweat, skin pale against the harsh lighting of the ships systems.

'Friend sick' came the discontented grumble of his Other. Bruce shushed him down, but it was a plausible theory. One that he didn't mind exploring.

He hadn't seen the bigger man see a medic for anything other than his eye. Originally he'd put it down to Thor being, well, Thor. But battling the goddess of death must have resulted in a lot of injuries. Ones, perhaps, he was hiding.

"You're not well, Thor." He was close now, and he could hear the faint wheezing as his friend took in breath. He saw the puncture wounds underneath the armour, angry and red, clotted with something sickeningly black. "You need to see a medic."

"No."

Well, at least that reply was immediate. If not the typical brand of irritating stubbornness that came from asking a member of the Avengers about their well-being.

"Look, your wounds are obviously infected. They're just gonna get worse if you don't get them at least cleaned up a little."

Thor shook his head, dragging his vision up to look Bruce in the eye, to summon what little authority he presumed he had as King. "My people need them more. They have suffered worse than I."

"Jesus, dude..." Bruce ran a hand over his face.

Maybe a long time ago the authoritative tone coming from the 6"3 actual God of Thunder would've worked, but he'd seen this guy in boardshorts. He wasn't going to take orders from his friend, who was sick, and needed help. Even if that meant being a little...harsher, with his bedside manner.

"They'll suffer even more if they wake up tomorrow and their freakin' King is dead. I know on earth you're the big, strong God of Thunder. But right now you're just my friend, and you're hurting. So are you going to go to the medic-bay walking with me, or do I have to ask hulk to carry you there?"

A moment of silence passed between them, with Thor's eyes finally losing the faint blue glow left behind by the lightning. Now they were filled with something close to shame, his gaze cast down to the floor as his hands nervously toyed with his nails.

For a moment, Bruce thought he had gone too far. Thor had been through a lot these past few days, and here he was, yelling at him. But then he looked back at the angry wounds on the gods arms, shoulders, back, seemingly everywhere. He couldn't let this go on. He cared about Thor too much to let him go down a path of self destruction that he himself was all too familiar with.

"I'm sorry." Thor finally replied in a voice that was quiet and timid, but he seemed to be relenting, at least.

Bruce's shoulders lost some of the tension he didn't realise he'd been carrying. "It's okay, w-"

"I'm sorry, because I can't go to the medics as you've asked." He drew his arms around himself, taking a steadying breath before continuing. "I have tried to avoid the throne for as long as I could, but now it's here and I can't run away from it. And if the first thing my people see of my reign is my weaknesses..."

He shut his single eye briefly, turning his face away to focus on the star-speckled space just outside of the viewing window.

"That can't happen. I will deal with this alone."

Thor turned away from Bruce, trying to burn the sight of the scientists pained expression out of his mind. He'd caused that. Bruce was stranded on a spaceship, thousands of miles from home. He'd turned back into the Hulk to save Asgard, a decision that he didn't know he'd come back from.

Bruce Banner had plenty to worry about, but now he was choosing to worry about him. His intention, for now, was to head down the corridor and deal with the wounds himself. He wasn't as skilled as the medics, or Loki, in healing magic, but he knew a thing or two. Enough to seal the wounds and hope for the best, at least. He'd retire to his chambers, and allow sleep to stitch him back together.

At least, that had been the plan.

Hulk's hand clamped around his arm faster than he could register, stopping him in his tracks and causing him to yelp at the jolt that ran through his injured shoulder.

"Thor go get help." Hulk's voice rumbled from somewhere above him as the green giant tugged Thor back along the corridor.

Thor dug his heels in as far as they could go, knowing that it was futile. At his strongest, fighting Hulk had been a challenge. Now he was weak, much weaker than Sakaar, and Hulk knew it.

His only hope was bargaining.

"Unhand me!" Thor grabbed onto a piece of piping sticking out of the wall, causing Hulk to turn around with a grunt of frustration.

"Thor being stupid!" Hulk turned around to face him, attempting to pry Thor's fingers away from the pipe. For a moment, Thor was anchored, and it seemed they had reached a stalemate. At least until a particularly harsh pull had the unfortunate side effect of ripping the pipe itself from the wall with a sickening clang, sending Thor careening into the Hulk's chest.

Hitting into the expanse of green muscle was what finally pulled the strength out of Thor's protests. The air was knocked from his lungs, and while he made to argue further, he instead collapsed to the floor with a pathetic wheeze.

Hulk looked down at him, heaving a soft sigh that sounded close to pity which only served to make Thor's stomach turn further.

"Come on, Blondie." The green figure stooped to the floor, scooping Thor into an uncomfortable bundle into his arms. "Thor done now."

"This is ridiculous." Thor turned, mumbling into Hulk's chest as they passed the viewing window.

"Hulk have to do everything here."

"I didn't ask you to do this."

"Said no to Banner." Hulk shifted Thor in his arms, making the position a little more bearable. "Baby arms make Hulk do this."

Thor sighed softly, finding his strength to argue quickly failing. It would have been a fruitless attempt anyway- and not just because of the toll of his injuries. If he was being honest with himself, and only to himself, it was a strangely welcome feeling passing through the halls, cradled in arms larger than his own. It may have been undignified, and certainly far from king-like behaviour, but it was comforting.

And after the events of the past few days, he needed some comfort. He felt Hulk's hold around him grow a little tighter, and he settled a little further into his grip, his eyes slipping shut, just for a moment. At least that's what he told himself.

In actuality Thor was asleep long before Hulk reached the med-bay, and thankfully stayed that way as he was dumped unceremoniously onto a bed. To his credit, Hulk had tried to be gentle, but it was difficult when the God was so puny.

Hulk felt Banner stir in the back of his mind as he turned to leave, but the feeling was what stopped him at the doorway. It was praise, at least it felt like it.

Banner was pleased with him. Not disgusted, not traumatised.

Pleased.

'Thank you, Hulk. I can take it from here.'

Hulk grunted in response as he felt Banner start to re-emerge.

'Banner welcome.'

#thulk #thunder science #thunderscience #thorbruce #hulk #bruce banner #thor odinson #writing #whump #gamma hammer #ragnarok spoilers #fanfic

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crystalkleure · 6 years ago

Note

Which Beyblade Burst bey avatar do you think is the coolest?

Ohh man, my heart says Wyvern just because that’s my favourite and it looks so sleek tbh, but it’s actually a tough draw between Wild Wyvern, Lost Longinus, Ark Bahamut, and Hell Salamander, bahaha. I’d probably have a different answer out of those four depending on which day you ask me lmao

I love so many of the bey spirits that it’s ridiculously hard to pick an absolute favourite tbh xdcfvcfdcfhb almost all of them have like, SOMETHING Weird and Unique about them that’s A+++

Like:

Wild Wyvern has a flame pattern on its wing membrane, and the cone-shaped thing in the middle of it’s head that’s spraying fire out looks almost mechanical instead of organic somehow? idk what that shape is reminding me of specifically, maybe some kind of engine or exhaust vent

Lost Longinus has a flaming blue mohawk that matches Lui’s hair and that was like the best thing ever, also there are those glowing blue stripes/indentations on its legs and between the scales of its neck/chest that may or may not indicate that the insides of this dragon are glowing bright blue like it’s full of that fire, and just. Name origin. “Longinus” is the name of the guy who stabbed Jesus with a spear. Hence Lost Longinus’s tail spear. Lost Longinus is like, a dragon-ified biblical weapon. Does this imply that Shuu is Beyblade Jesus??

Ark Bahamut’s wings – aside from the membranes being weird iridescent scaly things that may be entirely illusory and made of light rather than actual flesh, which is Fucking Cool by itself – sort of…twist open in a grotesque way? Like, the wing fingers are twirled together like twizzlers before they open up, and they look briefly almost like DNA helixes while they’re peeling open, before the shiny membrane things materialize. You can see the flesh pulling apart like putty. I was going frame-by-frame through the animation for Art Reasons when I noticed it and I was like yooooooo

Hell Salamander just looks really cool. It’s made of hot pink fire/lava and its black scales/armor/whatever look almost like leather biker gear or something [not to mention, they match Suoh’s coat, which also seems to be leather sxdcfdcf], and the white scales/armor/whatever look like they’re made out of bone [its got claws and horns that are the same colour, made of the same stuff]. So, like…Ghost Rider Dragon. Also I appreciate how Salamander came to exist in the anime, and how it promptly burned a scribble into Suoh’s face as thanks for being created hgfdssdffghgf She’s So Dramatic

Screencaps to show what I’m talking about bc I’m bad at words:

Wyvern’s fire tattoos [last section of wing, near the edge]:

Bahamut’s wings:

And many Honorable Mentions under the cut because All Bey Spirits Are Cool:

Valkyrie has six eyes for no reason at all except to look cool, and is also two bey spirits in one bey because horse dcfvcfvhgb [gee Valt, how come your mom lets you have TWO bitbeasts??]

Storm Spriggan has Wolverine claws on the gauntlets on its arms, also for no reason at all except to look cool bc Spriggan already has Actual Claws too dfgcdfggh

Legend Spriggan looks Especially Cool when it does the thing where the black spiky parts of its wings are interlocked together, and then they open up

Spriggan Requiem has an AXE

Ragnaruk looks a little like Baphomet

Deathscyther has BATS. It summons a swarm of BATS when it comes out. Also just, everything else is cool too lmao it’s the grim reaper except dressed for a blacklight rave party

Kaiser Kerbeus has SCALES like a DRAGON and also wears an eyepatch. A Good Boy all around.

Hazard Kerbeus is uhhhhhhh some kind of radioactive mutated creature and he is also a Good Boy sxdcfvdfh

Multiple parts of Zeus’s body are made of what look like plasma balls. Y'know, those desktop toys that put on a cool light show and react to your fingertips when you touch em.

Unicorn would not look out of place in Robot Unicorn Attack

Yggdrasil has fucking plasma cannons

Quetzalcoatl has what appear to be stitches on the sides of its mouth [again, I was going through the animation frame-by-frame for Art Reasons lmao] and KNIVES ON THE TIPS OF ITS WINGS. Also it’s got a hood like a cobra but its body is flat like a Chrysopelea flying snake [they flatten their bodies out to catch air and “glide” around up in the trees] and if that was an intentional design choice then it’s a Really Nice Touch bc Quetzalcoatl is Quite Literally A Flying Snake lmao

Jormungand has TWO HEADS and NO EYES and that is amazing

Kreis Satan is SATAN, TRAPPED IN A PLASTIC TOP. He has claws on his wings, and carries a bright blue-and-yellow plastic fork. Lucifer is on vacation from Hell and decided this was more interesting than screwing around in Los Angeles or playing the fiddle in Georgia and he was right and I respect him.

Drain Fafnir has TWELVE EYES. TWELVE OF THEM. Three sets on its face, three sets on its chest. Faf, donate some of those eyes to Jormungand. ALSO I need to say I really love Fafnir even if it’s not quite one of my favourite designs because Requiem Nightmare Faf tried to fucking vore Shuu once and that was the funniest goddamn thing ever asxdcfcxdf

Geist Fafnir has a bright purple mouth. Love it.

Deep Chaos is made out of gnarled, twisted flesh and is evidently hollow inside, judging by its weird tentacle hands. Clio and his pet eldritch abomination needed VASTLY more screentime tbh.

Alter Chronos exists precisely at the crossroads of steampunk and technopunk and if that’s not one of the Best Aesthetics Ever then idk what is

Beat Kukulcan is made of plasma compressed into the vague shape of a bird, and then dressed up for the circus. All hail Clown King Kurz and his majestic bitbeast that will summon an instant blue-lighting thunderstorm if you piss him off. Easily one of the best tbh – if Wild Wyvern, Lost Longinus, Ark Bahamut, and Hell Salamander are my Top 4, then Beat Kukulcan is in the Top 5.

Twin Nemesis has a hammer that appears to be made out of raw flesh and teeth.

Z Achilles’ looks like one of those action figures made out of cheap bright plastic and his helmet looks like a pompadour shaped like an upside-down A. Somebody make me a Z Achilles action figure and take my fucking money.

Emperor Forneus is a SHARK MADE OUT OF KNIVES. KNIFESHARK. HOLY FUCK.

Bloody Longinus just looks Good, idk. Took a page from Salamander’s book and seems to be wearing BONE ARMOR, also trying to compete with Drain Fafnir for Number Of Eyeballs On Body. Got two sets of eyes on face. Got a set of eyes on each wing, set in weird bird-skull-looking things. Got a set of eyes on each arm, set in DRAGON-SKULL-SHAPED ARMOR PLATES. Now Longinus, too, has TWELVE EYBALLS. TWELVE OF THEM.

Leopard is a dragoncat made out of knives and teeth and it will shoot ball lightning at you

Revive Phoenix is a Giant Fucking Fireball compressed into the vague shape of a bird, and that Extra Intense Bright Light in the middle of its body is Concerning because it makes it look like rP is building up to Literally Fucking Explode At Any Moment. Also the Bird-Shaped Fireball turns an evil pretty purple colour sometimes and that’s great.

Dead Hades is just COOL. YOOOOOO it’s some kind of insectoid creature judging by the six segmented bug legs, and that billowy brown cloak thing it’s wearing might actually be a couple of sets of tattered leathery wings. This fantastically horrifying creature was taken from us too soon, rip.

Orb Egis is a floating scorpion-tailed hydra with necks made out of rainbow holo plasma ig. It’s…*single tear* so beautiful………

Dead Phoenix makes me SO MAD because it SHOULD NOT EXIST but it looks SO FUCKING BADASS. It’s everything rP was except 500% more Goth and Metal now. hhhhhhhh

#*wHEEZE* BITBEASTS...I LOVE THEM.....SO MUCH................#BeyBurst #Beyblade Burst #Beyblade Burst God #Beyblade Burst Chouzetsu #Tagging because my joy cannot be contained within my own blog alone. My Tumblr would explode.#CK replies

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haveyoueverseenoneinnature · 5 years ago

Text

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you have must have nodded off to the sway of Eridan’s arms and the steady beat of his bloodpusher, because the next thing you feel is being plopped into something soft and sinking in.

You flex your fingers and toes and sleepily burrow into the warmth. A cool hand and the texture of rings on your arms shocks you into reality, and your eyes fly open as you struggle to assume a defensive stance. Your feet slip in the avalanche of pillows and scarves and you fall sideways back into the pile with a soft thwap.

As you frantically attempt to regain your footing (your exhaustion and fear making it a nigh-hopeless task), your eyes focus on the source of the touch.

Eridan is standing above you, his hands gestured outwards placatingly. His cheeks are dusted and his lips are twitching slightly in the way you’re coming to realize means he’s trying to look suitably embarrassed while trying not to laugh.

Your shoulders drop and a relief tingles throughout your body. This lasts for only a moment before, now fully awake, you realize where you are sitting. A pile. You can feel your face burning red, and you’re caught between the urge to bury it in the pile and to not appear obscene by doing so.

You knew Eridan was pale for you, and that still feels weird to think, but you’d hadn’t thought of, no- had been desperately trying to not think of this.

Eridan was now leaning forwards and playing with the stitches of a pillow, looking very much as though he intended on sitting. On the pile. With you. You can’t help letting out a little squeak.

Eridan’s eyes resume their attention on you quicker than a bullet. You’re struck more than ever by the intensity of his gaze. You feel paralyzed in your spot, like a mouse who has just looked into the hungry eyes of the meowbeast.

He steps back hastily and swallows.

“I thought...wwe wwould-” He murmurs.

You yawn and rub your eyes. It’s taking expotionently more effort to keep them open. A small, shameless part of you wants to curl up on the pile and sleep, day-terrors and decency be damned.

“Oh. Right.” Eridan looks disappointed for a moment, before seeming to come upon a realization that makes his ear-fins perk up. “Right! Kar, you must be exhausted...followw me!”

He holds out his hand, and you take it gingerly. His hands are so much larger than yours, and so much cooler. You’re hyper-aware of every spot where your skin touches, in between rings and air.

He pulls you up gently, his other hand holding your shoulder heavy. Not letting go of your hand, he wraps his other arm around your shoulders.

The two of you walk through the halls of the ship, Eridan shepherding you along in a tight embrace that toes the line between lover and turnkey.

The ship is different from what you would have expected from Eridan, to say the least. You’re far from an expert on ships, considering that up until a few nights ago, you had thought you would be culled before you ever set foot on one. But you had seen pictures of the massive imperial ships of war, and the accompanying, smaller helms owned by individual highblood officers. You have seen pictures of Eridan’s hive, an ancient water-ship that had once carried his ancestor.

Although from differing times in Alternia’s history, what those ships had in common was that they were machines of war. Massive industrial growths of metal and flesh, and, from what you had seen in military-set-shows, cold and clinical inside, with sharp lines and utilitarian features.

You would have thought Eridan, with his, as you describe it, “massive military hard-on”, would have the most obnoxiously austere vessel he could get his webby hands on.

But as the two of you walk through the ship, you are constantly set aback by the softness of it. The walls are a light violet, and although the hallway floors are hard, the main room you had been in earlier was covered in plush carpets that you couldn’t help but sink your hands into. The lightning is soft, the type that makes you feel safe and a bit sleepy. There are posters for movies you love hanging aroundyou, and although you and Eridan are walking too quickly for you to make sure, you're almost positive those marks in the corners are director’s signatures. The thought is exciting enough that if it weren't for Eridan’s iron grip, you’re sure you would have spent hours fanboy-ing over them.

You crane your neck in an attempt to see over Eridan’s arms and dumb cape and nearly trip in the process. He slows and acknowledges the surroundings for the first time.

“You can stop to look at them. If you wwant.” He gestures sheepishly and reluctantly releases his hold on you.

You leap forward to examine the one closest to you, a poster for “In Which a Rust-Blooded Prostitute Delivers Services to A Visiting Indigo-Blood, Who In Turn Develops Red Feelings For Her, Creating a Situation Which Emphasizes Caste-Differences and the Difficulties Caste Disparity Can Present in a Relationship”.

You run your fingers over the glass case, examining the tiny signature until your puffs of breath make it too foggy to see. To your great embarrassment, an excited little trill escapes you.

Eridan makes a sound halfway between a squeak and a gasp, and when you look over, he looks surprised and thrilled. His foot is paused midair, his surprise and elation shocking enough to pause the habitual movement.

You want to melt into the wall, escape through an airlock, and never be seen again as you suffocate in the cold vacuum of space. Honestly, how many embarrassing and borderline-explicit things can you in one night?

‘Tis a question long debated by renowned killosophers, you think. No need, for you have found the answer! Infinity. An infinite amount of embarrassment can be amassed by one Karkat Vantas.

Eridan’s on you before you can process what’s happening. An arm slung around your waist in something half-resembling a hug. A momentary feeling like of being popped like a balloon, before Eridan seems to reluctantly resist his urge to squeeze. A hand rubs your side apologetically, and you instinctively twitch inward, knowing claws are so so close to your vulnerable stomach. You’re being half-carried away at twice your original speed, and Eridan is opening a door before you can think to say anything.

The room is large by your standards, but you adjusted for your rapidly changing frame-of-reference, you guess you’d downgrade it to medium. The walls are made of white stone, and the floor is a mosaic of different colored stones in geometric patterns and bits of the same white stone offset against each other.

You had seen this sort of room before, in movies. You look around the room, and yup. An empty pool, with mirrors on the other wall. A rack of fluffy violet and gold towels and bottles of stuff you’d probably have to run at least blue to recognize.

You try to bolt, but Eridan’s arm stays firm around your waist. Your hands shake and your vision is tunneling in on the empty tub.

You swallow. Your mouth is dry.

“You said that we were going to sleep.” You whisper, barely managing to choke out the words.

Eridan gives you a soft grin, and you know from the gentleness in his eyes that it’s not intentional but you can see his fangs peeking out of his mouth like a threat and. And-

His hand is cold on the small of your back. It’s grounding in the warm, damp room but your mind strays to his impeccably trimmed claws, razor-sharp.

“Wwell, you’re going to take a bath first.” He looks you up and down and affectionately pinches at your shirt. “You’re covered in sugar, and I doubt you’vve taken a bath or shower in the last wweek.”

“Ascension was only a night ago.” You frown. It seems both so long ago and an immediate threat. The night and day had been long, but a deep-seated sense of fear and resignation still courses through you, the fact that you are spared from culling still not fully registered with your brain.

He cocks his head and ruffles your hair. Indulgent. A little condescending, you guess, but you can’t bring yourself to be mad about it. That’s probably for the best, anyway. On a sliding scale of highblood-lowblood (mutant mutant mutant) interactions, condescending is pretty lucky.

@actuallysylveon here we go

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le-petitmort · 6 years ago

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My ye olde time machine of smut writing

***I used to write smut with a friend of The Peep and mine, and this little piece was the very first one we put together. We went on after this trial effort to write a book series worth of material as two other characters, which was never published. Nor ever will it ever be, because it devolved into a dirty words vocabulary contest which required the reader to have a dictionary available as they read and diddled to the various scenes. That would only work if humans had three hands. Also, the whole editing books thing is too time consuming and neither of us wanted to fuck around with that or getting a literary agent or just about anything to do with anything other than writing smut.

It’s sure nice to see the growth in my writing though over five years.***

****Pardon the typos. This was some quickly done rough draft shit written on the internet for other people who were only trying to get off.***

Chapter I: The madam comes calling (Dez with Finley Strong)

March 8, 2014 at 7:53 AM

Dez Dickerson

A dominant without a submissive is like a car without its engine. It hadn’t taken long, and I was back on the prowl, if you will. The desires needed to be quenched and there was only one way to quell the thirst. It’s how I wound back up at the sex club under that fantastic Mexican restaurant I’d visited so many times before. I took a stroll through, checked out the rooms and tried my hardest to enjoy the goings on. Maybe I’m getting old? Is twenty-six too old or too young for this sex club shit? The place reeked of desperation with the vibe of a holiday vacation. Touristy dominance, Disney submissions. I walked the steps upward into the restaurant stopping to speak with Lorena, the Amazonian proprietor of the establishment who came bedecked in her six-inch spikes, too tight corset and barely there mini. No, I was not interested in Lorena. For fucks sake, she was a domme, there was nothing in it for me. The conversation did prove worthwhile though. Yes, I’m not looking for a commitment. Yes, I’m open newbies and experienced. Would I be opposed to her referring trusted individuals to me? No. Lorena sent me on my way with a promise that I would hear from her soon. The call came the very next day and here I was now, in the loft awaiting the appearance of one Finley Strong. Quite the name for a submissive. Would she prove her surname correct or would she succumb like a flower, wilting under the heat of my presence? Only time would tell. As I heard the clank of the steel outer door slamming shut I tried not to smile as if I were a lion being served fresh meat. Lorena had instructed her well. Walk into the big main room, stand at its direct center, wait. I heard her stilettos click across the grey concrete and halt accordingly. As I strode out of the kitchen I wasn’t disappointed. She stood tall and straight, eyes forward and chin raised with that touch of an overtly defiant attitude. Good show girl, we’ll break that soon enough. The question is how. How does she want it broken? Does she even want what I come to expect as natural? The agreement with Lorena called for giving them what they needed, not necessarily what Dez felt they needed. At least that’s how the bitchy Mexicano had stated it to me. Once in my clutches those tides could change, rolling back out to sea and redefining our meeting like the openness of the sea. Feel her out, do right by her. That was the last words of wisdom from Lorena, who certainly didn’t want to hazard to guess what was held in the mind of Ms. Finley Strong. Feel her out I did. One circle around and I was reaching out, two finger lightly touching at her hip, tracing over the small of her back as I walked, stopping in front with my fingers pressed at her mid-section. If I could say one thing about her, besides recognizing her striking beauty and fiery eyes, is that she was immaculately put together. I let my hand drift upward through the skin bared valley between her two succulent globes, the covered tips aroused to a point. Tasty. At least I imagined them to be quite tasty, once I was afforded the opportunity to partake of her sans clothing. I drew a single finger up her neck feeling her slight gulp as I went straight for her chin tipping it higher. Finley’s eyes remained forward to the same spot on the wall she had been fixated on. Resolve. That in itself shot a lightning bolt to my cock. “I’m Dez, but I’m sure you knew that already. When you’re allowed to speak there are a few rules. The name…Dez…is how you refer to be. I don’t play the sir or master game. Simply Dez. Get it memorized now.” A drop of my hand to her shoulder, letting it slide down her arm then falling over her curvaceous body until I was leaning forward cupping her ass in my palm. Her breath poured against my neck, heated and heavy. “Lorena made it apparent that you had a wish, some hunger you needed to feed that you’ve either been denied or have been denying yourself. A release as it were. Which in itself should be the ultimate goal when you’re with me. Release. My release.” I let go of her magnificent backside and stepped away, firmly in Dez mode one hand lifted brushing over my beard. Yes, she was definitely going to do I thought to myself, if for nothing other than the fact she had as yet shown not one emotion. Finley Strong appeared the type who demanded it be brought out of by a fierce hand. That…I could accommodate. “So, here’s where this goes Ms. Finley Strong. You tell me what your limits are and why you’re here. I will decide if I like what I hear.” I smiled at my fine use of homonyms. “None of that do whatever you want Dez shit, I don't go in for that. Open your mind to Dez. If you intrigue me in a way that separates you from the herd, I will nod towards the door. That doesn’t mean leave. That means get your ass to the entryway, remove every stitch of clothing and reenter. You will walk across this great room and follow that hallway to the first door on the right. Enter, walk to the X on the floor and kneel, open and presented. Make very certain your thighs are wide and inviting, hands clasped tightly behind your head. Back arched, those fucking tits jutting in anticipation. Got it? Go on now…with the talking. It’s the last time you’ll be saying much of anything.”

Finley Strong Well shit, she hadn't expected that. Fin had already forgotten about the seemingly insignificant conversation with Lorena two weeks ago; Lorena hadn't. They rambled on about their sex lives over margaritas--as they often did. One too many and Fin was spouting off something to the effect of 'I just want someone to tie me up and fuck me proper.' Apparently, that had stuck with Lorena, because Fin was the first person on Lorena's list when just such an opportunity presented itself. Hello opportunity, insert Dez Dickerson. Fin hung up the phone, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips, a slow ache sitting steadfast in the pit of her stomach. Nerves? What the fuck should she be nervous about? Finley thought as she plucked a pair of black skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweater out of her closet. Because it was so completely out of character for Finley Strong. She ran a brothel for fucks sake. Which, in itself didn't necessarily dictate a personality with a propensity for maintaining control, but it did enhance every domineering quality Fin already possessed. In all honesty, she had been hard wired to run the roost. It had been that way all her life. And now what? She was going to relinquish most, if not all, of that to a perfect stranger? Fin shook her head and shimmied into her jeans, stepped into a pair of ass-jacking Louboutins and headed to the address Lorena provided. She already had fucking instructions, Fin thought with a smirk, and it hadn't even really begun. You got this, Fin. Piece of cake. Piece of pie. Perhaps the thing that worried her the most was her ability to let go. . .or lack there of. When it came down to it, was she going to be able to submit? Oh sure, the concept seemed simple enough, but when you got down to the nitty gritty, Fin feared she would have to fight herself every single step of the way. Turning a control freak into a sub wasn't going to happen overnight. Don't talk back, be obedient, leave your attitude at the door--all of which seemed like impossible tasks at the moment. Exhaling deeply, she brushed her mahogany locks out of her face, yanked the steel door open confidently, and sauntered into the main room, standing as instructed with her eyes locked on a single point in the wall. The nerves had gone, Fin had constructed her wall, the stage was as good as set. She stood straight shouldered, chin tipped up, eyes never moving from the original point. Yea, she fucking wanted this--she knew it the instant she felt that tingling sensation in her fingertips. The second Fin saw him walking towards her out of her peripherals, her pulse quickened. If she had a 'type,' Dez Dickerson fit that mold perfectly. Tattoos, check. An air of 'I don't give a fuck' masculinely unkempt demeanor that screamed 'I am who I am, if you don't like it, kindly fuck off,' check. But the nail in the coffin was his fucking voice. Low, smoky, direct, unwavering. Like warm honey dripping over every inch of her skin. The small of her back arched just slightly as his fingertips etched their way along her skin, her body instantly responding to him. Finley slowed her breathing and firmly instructed her body to get its shit together. At least as of now, Fin was in control of the way her body reacted--not him, not yet. Eyes straight forward, she listened intently, expressionless, his hands exploring as he pleased, finally resting on the curve of her ass. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every touch calculated, perfect by design, expertly placed to optimize pleasure. Fin knew one thing for sure, if this endeavor continues, he was going to play her body like a fucking flute. . .and, at the end of the day, there was nothing she could about it. And then came his questions. They had caught her completely off guard for whatever reason. What are your limits and why are you here? The first inquiry was simple: there are no limits. But the second, well, that one required a little more inward exploration. Jesus, every primitive instinct inside her was chomping at the bit to shove him against the wall and fuck him senseless. That's what she wanted. Yet, she remained silent for a moment, still contemplating her answer. That's not why you're here, Fin, she reminded herself. I want you to tie me up and fuck me proper, was the next answer that popped into her mind. Well, fucking duh, Fin. She wouldn't be standing here right now if that wasn't eventually going to happen. I want you to own my body in ways I've never imagined. Okay, she thought, that's going somewhere. Why are you here, Fin? It was something more than an orgasm. The myriad of response all led to one thing: control. In every thing she did, Fin had to have control. It was an exhausting endeavor, yes, but relinquishing control to her meant something more than a rest from decision making. She had never just /let go/. She had never experienced the imperforate feeling of subjugation. The freeing of awareness that comes only when you've surrendered everything--mind and body--to another. For the first time her eyes met his. She studied his facial expressions and mannerisms. Those fucking eyes, Finley mused. They look right into your soul, straight to your very core. Her emerald orbs held his stare for a moment before she spoke. "No limits." She paused to emphasize her seriousness with the first answer. "And what I want is to let go. Completely. To the point that it terrifies me." Make what you will of that, Dez Dickerson, but it's just about the most honest answer you will ever get out of Finley Strong.

Dez Dickerson

The first two words out of her mouth set me off like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. Either she was looking for chastising or she had no clue about my opinionated manner on all thing dom/sub. Two fucking words, that's it. I sucked in air through my flared nostrils, filling my lungs until I thought they would burst like a balloon. No limits. I exhaled out a furious rush of breath, my hand lifting and grasping at back of Finley's neck, wrapping my fingers tight as I prodded her towards the corner. "Keep your mouth shut, unless asked to speak. One hand up high on each wall. Lean forward balanced on your toes. I want that ass pointing for me. Calling for my hand." I took a step back, drinking in her form. The way her back arched in a perfect curve, a striking contrast to her straight as a board legs. the cascade of her dark hair a barrier shielding her facial expressions from me. One step forward and I was pressing my jeans covered bulge against the crack of her ass. Just enough to make her wiggle with heady anticipation. I wrapped my arm in front of Finley and began unbuttoning her shirt in the most painfully slow manner, my cock pressing harder at her backside. "No limits, huh?" I barked it out, closing in on her ear as my fingers worked at the buttons. "That isn't something you should ever say to a dominant. A lot of crazy people in the world." With her shirt now hanging loose I moved to the side. One glancing blow of my hand to her ass. "No limits?" My palm cracked downward again, an shocked audible umph of air came blasting out of Finley. "So what you're saying is that I could do anything to you that I want. I could put a collar on you right now. Make you walk around this loft like a dog. Make you bark for me. Is that what you want Ms. Strong." I lowered my hand swift and merciless on those tight as a second skin jeans of hers. A yank back at her shoulder and in on motion Finley was off the wall and shirtless. "Scat Finley...piss. You just told me those things were fine by you. No limits." I pushed her flat palmed against the walls, both hands to her stomach. Rising them higher I cupped Finley's pert round tits, my dick back to grinding on her. Yes, this was all a change of plans from my status quo. No strip down in the entryway and get to the play room today. No limits meant Dez changing things up. Maybe that's what I needed, something different, something extraordinary. I took my thumb and forefinger over what I imagined to be the pinkest areolae, taking each budded nipples for a twist and pull, both now pointing like the tip of an arrow, as if I was commanding it to happen. Which I most definitely was. "Interesting Finley. You have given me the go ahead to lock you in a cage and bring you out when I want to. Hell, I never have to let you leave this place. No limits. I could decide to own you now. Would you prefer I call you pet or bitch or what?" I kept up the manual torment on her right breast as my other hand dropped to her jeans quickly unbuttoning and dropping the zipper. My hand slid inside and over her thong, a tap tap tap of finger like her snatch was a dewy drum head. "Kick off the hooker shoes and strip down." Finley hesitated, the kind of apprehension that said is this guy for real or what the fuck have I gotten myself into. Which ever it was I wasn't in the mood for a dawdling submissive. "Now! Or else I'm going to go grab a sharpie and write "Dez's pokey ass slut" on your forehead. I can do that. No limits. You said it yourself." I wasn't waiting on her to get moving, I tugged at the band of her pants, puling them down as I heard her shoes rattle off the wall. "Good girl. Daddy likes your newfound listening skills." There she was nude before me and I wished I could see the look on her face. I would soon enough, for now I lived with my imagination and the vision of her body heaving in a combination of heart racing, breath fighting for more air, nerves edged and unsure of what would happen next. "Hands back on the wall, get up on those toes. You're getting twenty to the ass. Instead of counting them out for me like a good little sub I want you reminding me...no limits...after each one. Boom, I dropped the first one, then the second like a thunder clap. Each one in succession with a response from Finley as her uplifted ass turned a pretty shade of crimson, the imprints of palm and fingers on full display. Finished, I fisted at her hair, a rough pull that spun Finley facing me. I leaned down eye to eye, my mouth close enough to almost capture her trembling lips. I let my voice drop deep, gravelly and domineering. "Lucky for you Ms. Strong I do not believe in the theory of no limits or else this could have gone terribly wrong. Do not ever...ever..say that to any man. That's your first lesson for today. Are we clear? And don't even think of calling me daddy." I let go of her long tresses and watched her head fall. "Eyes back up. You need a safe word also. It will be..." I had to think on that for a moment. That word I purposely wanted to be slightly off the wall. "...Toyota. I will be getting myself water, because this will be a long night. While I do that I want you marching to the play room...reciting your safe word loud enough that I can hear it. Get that sweet little ass in front of the St. Andrew's cross in there. Keep reciting your word..." I dropped my eyes over Finley. "...get one hand working over those perfect tits the other strumming that tense, ready clit I haven't had the pleasure of tormenting yet." I gave a crooked smile. "I'm assuming that pussy is wet and wanting right now. Probably throbbing in need of being filled. That'll happen soon enough." I turned towards the kitchen and made an abrupt spin back to Finley. "What are you waiting for. Get going. Now."

Finley Strong

She had set him off. Like a pile of fucking dynamite a mile high. As unintentional as it had been, something sick and sadistic inside Finley was mildly pleased that she had triggered him so quickly. Fin’s jaws clenched instantly when his hand wrapped around the back of her neck, one of her hands palmed the wall as instructed as she teetered on the tips of heels and arched the small of her back as deeply as she could. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She chanted, squeezing her eyes shut at the feeling of him pressed against her. His hand expertly unfastening each button of her blouse. Her mind was spiraling, reeling at the anticipation. Of not knowing what in the fuck he was going to do next with her poised like a damn show pony. . .and no limits. What in the actual fuck had she been thinking by saying that? In her naivety, she had meant it. And then the pit in her stomach resurfaced, nerves eating at her insides like a ravenous plague. The carefully devised wall she had constructed was being torn down, brick by agonizing brick, Dez Dickerson there with a sledgehammer beating the shit out of it like it owed him money. Finley sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth at the first smack; the second had pulled soft whimper from her lungs. Immediately, she pressed her lips together, swallowed hard, and fought every urge to shake her head disgustingly at herself. Damnit! Fucking damnit, Dez Dickerson, you’ve made your point! She was an absolute amateur for saying ‘no limits.’ Her eyes snapped open, his curt tug on her shoulder snapping her back to reality. The reality that this was his world—and she, quite obviously, had no fucking clue what she had gotten herself into. Then back to the wall, both hands this time. A chill ran up her spine the first time his skin met hers. Parting her lips, Finley slowly inhaled and held her breath. Yes, even the slightest of contact sparking a deep aching fire inside her. His fingers coaxing the peaks to perfect hardness. Her back bowed, pressing herself harder into his hand. Jesus, she thought, like a fucking flute. Before she even had time to digest one perfectly placed hand, the other was buried between her thighs. Shit, Finley cursed as her knees gave way slightly under the pressure of his finger. Get your shit together, Strong. Now! Her mental reorganization had caused a seconds delay. It was happening so fast. No sooner had one command been given, then he was barking the next order, all while his hands mind-fucked her body into submission. Now! He barked. With two indignant kicks, she heaved her eight hundred dollar pumps across the room to smack against the wall. So help me, Dez fucking Dickerson, I will shove that goddamned Sharpie. . .her thought trailed off with the rest of her clothing. Two rapid movements and there was nothing left to hide her flesh from his eyes. Hands back on the wall. Fin’s eyes searched the blank canvas as if it had some unspoken answer written in the cracks, her jaw still clenched tightly, lips pursed, mentally preparing herself for the impending twenty lashes. One. The sound of smacking flesh echoed off the walls like an audible aphrodisiac. “No limits.” She spat in a seething whisper. Each subsequent smack eliciting an even louder “No limits.” Each subsequent smack striking to her core. Part of her was wildly turned on by the way his hand felt on her ass, the lingering sting intoxicatingly erotic. Her fingernails dug into the wall, as the other part of Finley fought every urge to spin on her heels and introduce his cheek to her palm. With each swat Finley found herself letting go twenty times until finally, the last stinging slap was followed with an nearly inaudible “No limits.” Point made again, Dez, she mused, the tender skin on her backside now hot and undoubtedly a lovely shade of crimson. A gasp slipped past her lips as her body was twisted like a top around his fist in her hair. Her green eyes staring daggers into his the moment they were finally face to face. Her pulse raging at this point, but her expression stoic and unwavering, her upper lip curling slightly at the instruction to avoid calling him ‘daddy.’ When he barked for her to look up, Fin’s gaze remained steadfast on his face, studying him, half-heartedly listening to what he was telling her to do, rewinding what the fuck had just happened in her mind and playing it in slow motion. You’re trying to break me. To the extent that, to Dez Dickerson ‘no limits’ was an absolute abomination to the dom/sub world, she got it. Yesterday’s Fin would have promptly grabbed her shit and walked out that door butt-ass naked just to prove a point—you’re not going to break me like I’m some wild fucking horse. But today’s Fin knew better. Because, in the end, that’s exactly what he was going to do. That didn’t mean Finley Strong wasn’t going to put up a little bit of resistance. Okay, probably more resistance than he was interested in dealing with. Finley stood there, staring at him walking into the kitchen, wondering just how much Lorena had told him about her. She was quite confident that the next thing that came out of her mouth was going to get her another twenty licks or worse. Finley waited until he turned back around to face her. She strode through the main room and into the kitchen, standing close enough to him that their toes touch, her eyes capturing his. “I know you didn’t give me permission to speak. And perhaps this will be the last time I ever break that rule, but you can lay off the humiliation bit. I get it. You’re teaching me a lesson. I’ve never done. . .” She stopped herself from completing that sentence, confident that one, her ‘no limits’ response made it painfully obvious she hadn’t done this before, and two, he, in all likelihood, didn’t care. “Just. . .That’s my limit. I’m not here for you to humiliate me. I understand there are varying subjective definitions of humiliation, but I think you get the jest. Unless you get off on having me bark like a dog or scribbling rubbish on me like I’m some insignificant piece of trash. In which case, this is probably not going to work out.” With that, Finley spun on her heels and padded towards his play room. “And yes, my pussy is wet and wanting right now.” She called back over her shoulder to him. “Toyota!” Fin shouted as she rounded the corner, cupping one delicate breast in her hand, her index finger and thumb coaxing the peak to a hardness, a pulsating throb setting in warmly between her thighs as she envisioned his hand as the maestro. “Toyota!”

Dez Dickerson

My admiration for Finley Strong would be off the charts, if she could just keep her trap shut. This was one of those rare situations where I would, in fact, break from my beliefs and jam a ball gag into her pie hole. Well, not really, I hate that shit. I must be allowed to revel in her gasps, moans and groans. Every last one of them I deserved. Yes, I will admit, she was under my skin to even make a gag a passing thought. "Toyota." I could hear it clear as a church bell chiming in a belligerent tone from her voice as I filled my jug to the brim and headed towards Finley. For the second time tonight I had a change of heart on the direction of our encounter. This time it was the crux which had fallen like a brick out of a wall from my plans. No, I had something a little better in mind for Ms. Strong. I wanted full access to her skin. Every minute curve and line that defined that magnificent, majestic body. Of course, once again I would also make each inch pay for her obstinate ways. Fall out of line and get in my face? That would come at some cost. Pain to pleasure. Earn it Finley. Entering the room I listened as she kept up her mantra, which now seemed less a safe word and more a commercial for mid-sized Japanese cars now made in America. Yes Finley, I will pound you like a Tundra being driven through a mud bog. I will make your engine red line and your tires smoke. "Enough." One simple word as I headed for the closet, grabbing a twisted bundle of rope before strolling to Finley. "Arms out, palms pressed in prayer." One hand encircled her tiny wrists, the other began the arduous task of winding the cord to perfection down her slender forearms. Her skin was vibrant and milky and my head wandered to afterward when I released Finley from her binds. The flow of blood would return full force through her veins, each ply of the rope now defined as valleys and peaks in her skin. I was feeling in a peculiar, driven to chat mood today which may be attributed to my seething anger from Finley having the audacity to confront me. Compensation. "Point taken regarding humiliation, however that is far removed from the realm of anything that would ever happen in the confines of my home. Those were...for instances." The twine was set and I ran a loop inside being certain I wanted to keep Finley well restrained. "I have a tendency to provide my point of view in an over the top style. I have always felt the strongest statement, no matter how it is taken, best proves my point. Suffice it to say, should you run across a less than accommodating dominant..." I broke my eyes from my craft and captured hers "...a shady and selfish fucker. I don't want you allowing yourself to be used. That isn't what this is about. Ever." One last cinch and Finley Strong was under my control. I looked up at the ceiling and pulled her out and away from the cross. A new device had been installed and now was as good a time as any for some usage. I had replaced the old strappado which connected to a reel on the wall with an electric hoist. Yes, I was moving into the twenty first century, forsaking manual labor for ease of use. Besides, this way I could grab the controller and have my choice of how high I wanted this lil' ol' smartass. I grabbed the controls, lowering the hook and silently raising Finley's arms straight above her. Attaching the hook to her bind, I hit the button and watched Finley rise until her toes were en pointe, the tips barely able to keep her steady, but low enough that there wasn't undue stress on her limbs. Just enough to make Finley think. To think what next and to remember who was running the show. "This is the part where that safe word comes in handy. Don't try to be too willing. Too up for anything. If you at all get uncomfortable, I want to hear it. I'm not here to ruin you. At least not in that way. I'll save that for the fucking." I lurched off towards the closet, digging through the baskets and grabbing a flogger. The right flogger. I needed to remember that she wasn't experienced, only here to give this piece of the lifestyle a try. I gave the instrument a spin in my wrist as I approached Finley, a sudden swing forward and I brushed over her taut belly, which sucked in hard at the touch accenting her curvaceous hips and protruding tits. "I want three deep breaths and heavy exhales from you Finley." I kept the flogger spinning, the black tendrils a waterfall against her ivory skin, which was now flaired with rouge brush strokes and developing a noticeable sheen. I'd have her sweating it out good momentarily, of that I was sure. "Your mind must be clear of all other thoughts. Focus. Let your gasps of pleasure ignite you into a pyre." Eloquent motherfucker. As the third breath rushed from Finley I started in, doing the counting myself one to one hundred, watching her struggle, then relax. The thought of her pussy getting worked into a fervor, dying for a frenzied explosion of exquisite sensation. "One hundred." I tossed the flogger to the floor and stalked the couple steps to Finley. My hands wandering and massaging, tempting her to writhe with delight. I dropped low, my tongue tracing the bubble of her ass, which now was heated, thoroughly covered in my marks. My hand forced between her thighs, cupping her pussy in my palm like I was holding her aloft. My middle finger dipped, stroking between her folds before diving deep, buried to the hilt. I flicked down hard on the spot I knew would bring a flowing gush of wetness from Finley and I gave my instructions. "I know what this is going to do to you. I know you will melt like a cube of if ice to my touch. I want to hear it. Tell me every detail of what you feel. But most of all. Do. Not. Let. Yourself. Come. That crashing orgasm is the one thing I own in all this. Don't disappoint me Finley."

Finley Strong

Those few seconds she waited for him in the playroom seemed like an eternity. The chanting of her safe word didn't help either. It reverberated off the walls as if it were a mocking reminder of his impending arrival. Finley wasn't sure just how much trouble she had gotten herself into by insubordinately invading his personal space. Perhaps that was the most nerve wracking part--the unknown. Strike that, it was the combination of the unknown and lack of control to dictate the next step. The sound of his footsteps behind her made her skin prickle with goose flesh. And as insubordinate as she had been with him two minutes earlier, her body was similarly disobeying her with each passing second. Finley's back arced responsively to his presence, her safe word becoming nothing more than soft sigh. "Enough." He barked from behind. Immediately, Finley shut up and ran her tongue across her lips nervously before pressing them together as she steepled her fingers and pressed her palms together in front of her. Her eyes followed his hands meticulously working the rope around her wrists and forearms, the sensation of restricting the blood flow to her hands causing her fingertips to tingle. Finley listened intently as he spoke, her green orbs tracing the barely visible curves of his lips until finally he paused in his monologue and met her stare for a second. Those eyes. . .they in themselves could wrestle a strong woman into submission. Her stomach sank, and the whole fucking room was silent except for the hypnotic sound of his voice and the rhythmic twisting of rope to flesh. Her body lurched forward slightly as he tugged on the last cinch--her mind absolutely clear. And that was it. No more Finley, or at least no more yesterday's Finley. She tipped her head up, her dark locks spilling over her shoulders and down her back, tensing her body as her arms were pulled taut above her head, the tips of her toes barely grazing the floor. Goodbye to the attitude formerly known as Fin. With a sighing moan, Finley adjusted her wrists to a comfortable position and looked down to find that Dez was no longer in front of her. She squeezed her eyes closed, tying to pinpoint his location in the room only to be awakened by the wisp of leather to her torso. One deep breath in, slow exhale, as instructed. The leather against her skin eliciting a plethora of responses from her as her muscles tensed with anticipation for the licks to get progressively harder. Oh yes, Dez would have his pound of flesh. Another deep inhale, the exhale so painstakingly slow that the sound of her breath echoed in her ears. Clear your mind, Fin, he said clear your mind, she repeated in her head, nodding to him slightly as an acquiescence to his command. Final inhale, exhale. Smack! Fin's body tensed, every muscle tightening. Smack! Her hands balled into tiny fists. Smack! Fin's toes curled as she exhaled slowly, a soft moan riding on her breath. By the forty-second smack, Fin had stopped counting. She had closed her eyes, hands still in white knuckled fists, but her body gave way, relaxing, absorbing the sting of the tassels, her mind wandering to the memory of Dez's hands. Rough, calloused, aggressive, but most of all, fantastically possessive. Smack! Finley cried out his name. It had been totally inadvertent, but it was the first word that came to mind. Jesus, those hands, Fin introverted once again, picturing his fingertips slipping past the cusp and dipping deep inside her. Smack! A low whimpering sigh escaped her lips. "One hundred." Fin's eyes fluttered open. What? No. A hundred? The warm feeling of Dez's tongue along her ass caused her to gasp and tense again, the stinging burn deliciously countered by a soothing wetness. And then his hand, Fin's lips parted but not so much as a peep came out as she tried to decipher if it was real or just her imagination playing her again. As she felt a finger slip into the wetness of her desire, curving perfectly, Finley moaned and let her head hang, her dark tendrils cascading down her torso. The anticipation of which nearly being enough to send her over the edge right then and there. No, this was most definitely real. She pulled her head up when he spoke again, trying to wrap her mind around his instructions while she her fought her body tooth and nail not to climax. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Finley tried to find his eyes, as if to ask for permission to answer his request to tell him what she felt. Melting like an ice cube was a fucking understatement. "M-may I speak?" Her lips finding it hard to form the words; stopping your body from coming when it was so close to fruition was like stopping a freight train with one hand. "I feel overwhelmed?" What the fuck, she hadn't meant for that to come out as a question. "L-like my entire body is going to explode. I um," Her mind raced, all of her thoughts now just jumbled nonsense swimming around in a murky abyss. "I um, God, I want to come, but I don't want to disappoint you. . ." She stopped herself from saying anything else for it would have been nothing more than rambling gibberish. So much for great detail, Dez, her green eyes looking down at her feet that were now perfectly arched.

Dez Dickerson

Overwhelmed? Darlin' we're just getting this dog and pony show started. I'm going to overwhelm you tenfold before this night is over. Get that hot little body quaking, those knees shaking to the point that you have nothing left in the gas tank. You'll be begging me to keep you stable, mind and body, and at the same time you'll be begging for more pleasure. Overwhelmed? I want you addicted to the process. To know the perfection of your own personal freedom. "Then don't disappoint me." I could feel her walls clench with involuntary rhythmic contractions, like she was about to let loose with a torrential pinnacle that would culminate in a whimpering climax. Her ass pressed back against my hand yearning for more. My thumb sliding over her wetness until it was rubbing over Finley's back door. A press against her opening and I was in, circling against the tight ring in her back side. My free hand went to grip her hair, ripping back to expose her neck. Head lowered, a lick of the the exposed skin, a nip, another lick back down. I caught the tight skin between my teeth and tented it, eliciting a yelp from Finley. All the while with hands raising the stakes, alternating motions, speed, pressures to both entrances. I caught a glimpse of her emerald eyes rolled back, mouth agape in a show lust filled enjoyment. Another look at those captivating eyes and I had my next move. My digits dropped from Finley and her body slumped as much as it could given the way she hung like a rag doll. I stalked to the closet and rummaged through my wares. I was back in a flash and Finley was none the wiser as to what came next. A dollop of lube to my finger and I was slipping back inside the warm sanctity of her ass. A second finger and I was getting her loosened, prepared. She wasn't fighting me now, rather ceding herself over to me. Groans being her only responses. It was as if Finley knew I would provide what she needed and it was no longer in her best interest to fight in an unneeded show of pride. My other hand grasped at her ass checks spreading her wider to my advances. Then I gave myself a smirk. "I really love the color of your eyes Finley. I think you need an accessory to match them." My long fingers slid fast from her ass and POP, I slipped an emerald jeweled ass plug seated deep and snug inside. Finley's body shot forward in an arc of semi-resistance to the intrusion, her voice piercing the room with a surprised moan. I latched onto her hips steadying her as she settled back in. "Green's one of my favorite colors." I did a bend down admiring the anal accoutrement. "You had a damn fine ass before. Now it's...it's simply fuckable Ms. Strong. Well, fillable...for now...would be the better word." I gave a little laugh as I raised my shirt up and over my head, flinging off to the side, pouncing on Finley, spinning her towards me. The granite slab of my chest pressed against her pillowy breasts. My fingers splayed through her locks palming the back of her head. A lean lower and I captured her mouth. A dart of the tongue past her puffed lips and I met hers. Hesitant at first, I felt Finley sigh against me. Her tongue giving a devilish swirl over mine as if she had succumbed to the last temptation. This is what I had strove for, Finley to make her own move. Show me how fucking bad you want it girl. Her mouth was doing just that. Mere words could not describe the fire that was burning, the ache that was throbbing inside Finley Strong. I dropped a palm cupping her ass, fingers pressed and twisting at the toy stuck full inside her. Enough teasing to work her up to the next level. The pain of my own molten member engorged and leaking was all I could take. I broke from Finley and moved across the room. Full view for her as I took my hand to my belt buckle. Snapping it open, unbuttoning my jeans and dropping them down the sinewy length of my legs. My dick sprang to attention catching Finley's eye. For my part I could only smile at her response. I took my sweet time walking back, my cock leading the way until I had the hoist control in my hand, lowering Finley flat footed. Unhooked, I grabbed her bound wrists and led her towards the tan bricks of the wall. At first I had her facing the bricks, her waist under my control. My feet kicked between her separating Finley wide. My palm went between her legs, five hard greedy slaps to her waiting entrance. I reached for her rope cover arm, spinning her facing me in a wicked pirouette. Smack, smack, smack. My hand bore down hard between her legs. Finley seemed lost to it all now, breathing jagged and body unsteady. A hot little fiery mess. In a swift motion my fingers were corseting her waist. A lift and her lithe form and tulip stem legs wrapped around me. I banged Finley off the wall and her tied arms dropped around my head, resting on my shoulders. I pressed her back against the bricks my mouth on hers, adjusting the bulbous head of my iron hard tumescence so that it was rubbing against the slick wetness of her excitement. Sliding up I hit her rigid, responsive clit, flicking my head back and forth across it, feeling her shimmy in response. "This is the part where I fuck you silly. Remember the rule Finley. No coming until I say so. It's going to be mind shattering when I allow it." That was it. One thrust and I was between the stretching walls of her body, bottoming out at the place where she most ached for engulfment. Her private satin flesh a receptive, desperate dark haven of all Finley Strong's urges.

Finley Strong

There were a million different things crashing together in the most elaborate way imaginable. For Finley, she had always been the “dom.” Perhaps not to this extent, but she was was used to running the show. If she wanted it, she took it. She fucked and was fucked when and how she said so. But now, Jesus fucking Christ. Her body was being pulled in so many directions that she hardly had time to comprehend what happened thirty minutes ago. Stop. Stop right now, Fin. Stop thinking and react. Let. Go. His goddamned hands worked her over, her hips bucked against his fingers, her breath hitching in her throat as he circled a pressure point from behind. Finley's hands gripped the rope and pulled herself up slightly, parting her thighs for him, one knee cocked to the side. The hard hand in her hair and teeth to her neck were it, she wanted to jump out of her fucking skin. Spurs to a rodeo bull, was more like it. Finley gasped a hissing breath, turning her face to Dez in an attempt to capture his mouth, but he and his magic fucking fingers were gone. With a heavy sigh, Fin’s body went limp for a second. In the second following, her body lurched forward; the penetration from behind catching her off guard. Her muscles went taut, and then relaxed, her mind trying to wrap itself around everything. With choppy breaths, Finley spiraled and writhed, concupiscent as she drank in every erotic sensation coursing through her with a raging fervor. He had done it, with seemingly effortlessness, Dez had unraveled Finley Strong from the inside out. When their lips melded together, Finley sighed heavily against his mouth, her tongue meeting his and twisted around it, tasting him fully for the first time. She leaned into the kiss, and pressed her mouth onto his hard, almost aggressively, trying to take as much of him in these brief seconds of contact that she could. His hands reached around to her ass and oh-my-god--the weight of her body proving to be a momentary hindrance as her knees gave way. Still fixated on his mouth and the way his tongue traced every contour of hers, Fin captured his bottom lip and raked it between her teeth as he pulled away. Licking the rest of him off her lips, Finley released an exaggerated exhale through her nose. Let me down, Dez, so I can rip you apart. She was ready. Dripping wet, ready, and insatiably hungry. He had teased her to the point of delirium; revving her up such that nothing existed outside the world of fucking Dez Dickerson's brains out. She had been docile for a round or two. Even asked for permission to speak. He quite literally spanked it out of her, Fin couldn't deny him that, but she could feel the finale nearing, the anticipation was unbearable, and she was going to eat him alive or die trying. He lowered her down and walked them over to the wall. With her palms flush to the bricks, Finley bent over, ass in the air, for him. Wasn't it all for him? Her skin trembling under his hands as she counted the seconds that mockingly lingered on. Each calculated move by him devised to elicit a very particular response for her. . .and it did. Every. Single. Time. Finley rested her forehead on her hands, moaning uncontrollably at the deliciously electric feeling of the smack of his hand between her thighs. A vibrating cadence rocked her shoulders forward, Fin tapping her head against her hands a few times, ardently contracting her velvety walls and biting her bottom lip, trying with unimaginable strength to keep quiet and not come. Fuck, she was so close. . .dangerously so. Don't come. Don't come. Don't you dare fucking come, Finley Strong. Spinning her like a top, Dez's hands lifted her up, Finley giving little to no resistance as her back slammed against the wall, her arms falling to drape around his neck like a noose while she vised his body with her legs around his waist. Jesus Christ, yes, Finley thought, a desperate sob exuding off a sharp breath, the feeling of his hardness slipping between her dewy lips, pressing farther up with exacting precision to message her throbbing clitoris caused her body to tremor uncontrollably with desire. Yes! At the sound of the word 'fuck' rolling off his lips, Finley's bound wrists tugged at the back of his neck as she looked up at him from behind her thick lashes with bedroom eyes. God damnit, I get it, just fuck me already! And before she could even finish the thought, with one artfully executed thrust he was buried deep inside her. "Oh my fucking God. . ." Finley whispered, her head hanging for a moment before she whipped it back up and, with a forceful yank, possessively took his lips with hers again. Raw, sweaty flesh to flesh. Rolling her hips into his, Finley held his mouth to hers with her wrists behind his neck. Her thighs tightened around him as his hands slid down the small of her back with hard fingers finally digging into the taut muscles of her ass. She arched and bowed her back, grinding her hips against his like a python slipping through turbulent waters. "Dez. . ." She moaned, his name like a fucking incantation. Curving her hips up as she leaned back, Finley pressed off his pulsing cock, almost sliding off him completely, then bucked against him, slowly lowering herself down until he was completely entombed in her milky wetness. Finley's breath hiccuped in her throat, each becoming more shallow than the last. She leaned the back of her head against the bricks and rode each of his deliberate thrusts with matching enthusiasm, small whimpering sighs transforming into cries of ecstasy. The shortness of his breath only spurring her on as she rode the prelude of her climax almost as hungrily as she rode him. I want to see it, damn you, Fin cursed him. I want to see it in your eyes, that wanting. . .that telling elation as the pupils of your eyes dilate. Give it to me, Dez. Give it to me.

Dez Dickerson

Much consideration must be given to Finley Strong, even now as she rides me like a rodeo bull. I’m blasting another fast and frantic frenzy as her hips hinge loosely in response, her quim devouring my tool like a salacious sheath. We’d avoided the chit chat upon her appearance at the loft, but I had learned enough about her from Lorena. Finley’s eyes became hypnotic as I caught a glimpse while rocking her with a measured, insistent rhythm showing the disregard one only holds for a those that can handle themselves in such a situation. She was more than capable, I knew that coming in. Lorena had intimated her profession, that Finley was a madam. For many that would be a judgmental moment. A madam? A whore? Not me, no interest in that. Actually, maybe a great deal of interest because it meant one thing. Whether or not she had prior experience with a dominant she knew how to handle herself accordingly. First on her agenda in any skin on skin scenario? Wild, uninhibited recklessness with the sole purpose of providing pleasure. As a madam how many women had been under her tutelage? Countless I’m sure learned this arch in groaning protest she provided. Others I’m sure had caught on to the way that protest abandoned to longing. With a grind Finley crushed down against me and those viridescent pupils brimmed with ecstasy, prodding me to give a slice of the power over to her. That’s her job, she knew no other way. With a rutting grunt I slammed upward lifting Finley in my final culmination. We moved in total harmony, her pressing down to meet each thrust as if it were the last. Undulating and rippling against me our mouths met fierce and relentless, her's as sweet as sugar. This is the sliver of time when you have to decide if holding out is better than relenting to pulsating waves of pleasure. With her breathing forced from her lungs deep shuddering and desperate I mounted my last stand resigned to defeat like Custer at Little Bighorn. Was it defeat? To admit that it wasn’t necessary to make her beg for that orgasm she was teetering on the brink of. Just the sound of my name gasped and falling from her tongue was serendipity. The most pleasant of surprises. Our open mouthed clash of tongues fell away impeded by the need to suck in every last lungful of air as spasms of delight began to rocket through us. It began. “Come with me.” Not my usual insistent demand for her orgasm. I felt Finley lose control, that first cry of deliverance as she convulsed in a chain of spasms, milking from me the pulsing life that flooded her like hot molten lava. My weight leaned driving her one last time against the wall, breathless and dizzy as we rocket through the universe. As fast as we started, we ended. Finley clung to me her heart pounding a beat against me that slowed to a murmur as consciousness was regained. My fingers still dug in at her ass raised her, my relieved cock firmly held in her care. I stepped away from the wall carrying Finley off to my bathroom. It always goes the same. The one thing that will never change. She had allowed me to bring her to a new plateau and now was the time to show some gratitude. I rested her thoroughly worn out ass on the cool of the granite counter. Dipping down and out her arms were now in front of me as I silently released her from the ties. One hand leading the other in a smoothing massage over each curve of rope indented skin I asked if she was ok. Satisfied, I took her hand, sliding her off the counter and spinning Finley facing the mirror. Once again my hands touched at her back assessing each mark, trying to provide a different relief than we had encounter minutes earlier. Fingers once again at her ass I jerked the plug from Finley stealing a startled gasp. I reached inside the shower running the multiple jets, letting the heat rise as I turned back to her. A lift of her chin, a brushing kiss, another question of her state. I wasn’t sending her home fucked up and unsure of what had just transpired. I could only imagine the call from Lorena. The crazy spanglish cursing me for not doing my due diligence, assailing my manhood and honor. Whisking Finley into the stall I set her in the midst of the rushing, pulsating and misting water, the soap in my hand built a lather that washed over her weary, but perfect body. “When we’re done in here it’s your choice on whether you leave or not. I’m not rushing you off.” I smiled for emphasis. “I usually build up a hell of a hunger so I’ll be making something to eat. Feel free to stick around. If you like.”

Finley Strong

When Lorena had described what was supposed to transpire with Dez Dickerson, Finley had to admit, she had sort of unintentionally brushed it off as a sport fuck. Oh, Lorena went into great detail about his um, proficiencies. The tragic part was Finley switching on her selective hearing as Lo fawned over the greatness that is Dez. Yea, yea, tie her up, spank her tight little ass, and a roll around in the hay for some mid-day cardio. Nervous, yes. Questionable ability to meet his submissive expectations, absolutely. However, her incorrigible cockiness had, quite honestly, diluted her. How sadly mistaken she had been. So utterly naïve that it was almost laughable—in more ways than one. Because as their bodies moved together synchronically, feeding off each other like ravenous, visceral animals, grinding into one another with this tenacious tempo, one thing was unquestionably obvious. . .he had owned her unlike any one else had before. Plain and simple. Owned. “Come with me.” Her eyes heavy and glassy with desire peered up at him as if she had misheard. Three simple syllables was all it took, and, as if Dez had flipped a switch, Finley came crashing violently to a climax, crying out his name once more while aftershocks surged through her body in explosive waves. She leaned into his chest, her elbows bent over his shoulders pulling him hard against her as her fingernails dug into the sinew of his back, and drove her hips into his until she felt the warm rush of his release. Panting like a thoroughbred crossing the finish line at the Preakness, Finley rested her forehead on his collarbone planting wet lipped kisses into his hot, salty skin, the haze of an earth-shattering orgasm steadily set into her tingling fingertips. Finley descended into him as he walked them to the bathroom, her head bobbing slightly with each one of his steps as she relished the warmth of his body against hers. The cold granite revived her somewhat, heavy eyelids pressed together while he unwrapped her with almost delicate hands. The lulling hum of rushing water in the background creating this sort of serenity that she hadn’t expected. Gently, she was placed on her feet and turned to face the mirror. Even now, the slightest contact of his fingertips to her back prodding at her, apparently, insatiable appetite. Finley watched him, studying him, scribbling little notes about his mannerisms into her subconscious. What a fucking anomaly he was. A walking, talking, breathing Rubix Cube. A slight tug, and Finley was fully cognizant by the time the hot water rippled down her body. Silently, Finley let his soap lathered hands attempt to wash away some of the reminiscence of the this indescribable day. Smiling at his offer, Finley just simple shook her head in the negative and let her fingertips wander over his slippery skin, following every curve and edge of his arm beneath a cascading waterfall, basking in the afterglow of amazing sex and in how pleasantly surprised she was with him. In between musing over his remarkably perfect physique and the soapy playground for his hands, something in Finley snapped. Her fingers dropped from his arm, she stood curtly on her tip-toes and placed a soft kiss on his lips before stepping out of the shower, suds still dripping down her legs. “I hope this isn’t the last time I see you, Mr. Dickerson.” She said as she ran a towel quickly over her body, making it appoint for her eyes to meet his before her next sentence. “I had an amazing time.” Mind-blowing, mountain-moving, earthquake colliding with a tornado kind of amazing time, she was begging herself to say, but couldn’t pull herself to form the words. “Amazing.” She repeated, hoping that would provide him some sort of reassurance when her body language was screaming otherwise. What the fuck are you doing, Finley? Stop. But she couldn’t. With a nimble step out of the bathroom, she blew him a kiss, and trotted to the living room to gather her clothes. A few more seconds, and half-dressed Finley was almost out the door. Stop! This time listening to herself, and dashed to the kitchen, scouring the area for a pen and paper, finding only a crumpled up receipt on the counter. Taking her lipstick out of her handbag, she scribbled her name and number on the back of the receipt. How fucking cliché, Finley. Jesus Christ, could you be any more Cracker Jack? Why don’t you just hang your panties on his doorknob on your way out? As asinine as she felt, Finley couldn’t bare skipping out without leaving her number. At least some indication that she wanted what happened today to happen again. Perhaps it was the fact that he had shown her something life-altering today that freaked her out. He had so expertly pulled from her every possible emotion a person could ever feel in one afternoon. Without even knowing she was doing it, she had revealed parts of herself that she had sworn she locked away in some dank swampy corner of her subconscious. She told him she wanted to let go, and he had given her that. . .and so much more, most likely without even knowing that he had done so. Her body was still reeling from it and probably would be for the rest of the week. Dez fucking Dickerson, with his mysterious playroom and awe-inspiring cock. A smile crept over her lips as her red soles clicked against the concrete. It would be interesting to see just how long it would be before Fin was itching for his fix again. Soon. . .very soon.

Dez Dickerson

I am a creature of habit. As with anything in my life I perform the role of dominant within a framework, rarely straying outside the box. She appears, I do my assessment of her, I provide what she came for, I take care of her after, I give the choice to leave on her terms. So mechanical in nature. Her and she is how it had always been, having placed that priority for as long as I could remember. A priority that was the definition of who I am, what I’d been taught and truthfully was all that I knew. Why deviate from a course that had thus far proven successful? Finley had opened my eyes. The way she picked up her things leaving silently into the night. The quiet retreat may have been her own version of creature of habit. I could only assume that being a madam she lived by the rule never get too close, this isn’t what we are about. Pleasure and pain was the name of the game, not some forced romantic illusion. Did it come as a shock upon entering my kitchen to find her name and number scribbled on the back of a receipt? Not at all. Finley Strong didn’t seem the type to go on a one time exploratory excursion to Dezville. Would I call Ms. Strong again? I had an impetus to place myself into a new frontier, no longer setting the expectation for when and how a submissive would return. A direct beeline towards a new style, which I hoped would begin to redefine me, broadening my horizons and leaving the potential to open my eyes to what could be. Isn’t that what a journey of personal growth entails? As for Finley? Yes, I would call her again. There wasn’t a need to question that.

©DB/MP 2015

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murdochmysteriesimagines · 6 years ago

Text

Parabellum- Emily Grace

Request: The John wick 3 trailer makes me thirsty and it gave me an idea. Male reader being a acrobatic assassin and wooing Emily when she was at the morgue?

A/N: It’s unusual writing about another franchise I’m familiar with. I do not know what was expected of me but I have confidence in what I wrote.

__________________________________________

A flash ripped across the night sky, sending vibrations across the city and its citizens. The heavy rain added to the nose of the storm. It acted as a overhanging melody peaked by rhythmic lighting to your work. The weather was not a hinderance however. Although you were cold and wet you still had a job to do, more than just a pay grade was on the line that night.

From a distance you could see a man shiloetted underneath an awning by the light inside. You watched him for a moment, hands snugly curled behind his back, a revolver likely ready for a quick draw in case any threat presented itself. A hypothetical threat such as yourself.

The guard turned his attention to the door, allowing you an oprotunity to creep closer through the rain. Another thug inside inside was asking brief questions to the one outside. Moving along the brick you got close enough to pick out spoken words, simotabiously gaining the ability to take action.

Stepping into the doorway you pushed the first hard inside with your forearm. Forcefully pressed into his comrade you fired two shots into the guards back and another over his shoulder to land a fatal into the second mans head. Now past the door frame you scanned the compact opening for more targets; this time finding another man brandishing a rifle who fell after staining the door behind him with blood. You heard a commotion from the same enterance the man entered as a reaction to your theatrical arrival. Before proceeding with the bloodshed you turned your pistol back to the first guard’s head and squeezed the trigger symotaniously with another strike of lightning.

Emily froze when she heard the sound of broken glass. Her belief that she she was the only soul left in the morgue evaporated in a matter of seconds. The echo of footsteps challenged any remaining doubt left to linger. Her first instinct and action was to lock the door to the back room she was in.

Light from the main area crept underneath the door, followed by the frantic sounds of rummaging. If Emily was a lesser woman she would stay hidden in her relative safety. However, she knew of the oprotunity both her and the intruder had. It was late at night in the heat of a heavy storm, if someone wanted to tamper with a corpse or remove evidence Emily could not think of a better setting. For herself, Emily could identify or potentially scare off who ever broke in, assuming there was only one. All thoughts of protest were pushed out of her mind as she unlocked the door and slowly moved to the source of the light.

You pulled another set of bandages from the drawer, relieving pressure off your bloody abdomen to bend down. Droplets of blood spilled onto the tiled white floor from the wound. Causing a grunt of pain to escape from your clenched lips. Dark red liquid continuing to leak through your leather gloves until pressure was reapplied.

You staggered over to the morgues slab, originally intended for dead bodies and not the wounded. You would be laughing at the irony of a dying man breaking into a morgue for medical supplies if it didn’t send strikes if pain through your body. When you turned your head however, instead of an empty building you caught a glimpse of a face, a bushel of hair that retreated behind a corner.

You were unsure what to do, retreat back into the rain or prepare for an attack. Instead you did something unexpected to the other party. “Hello?”

Emily knew she should be running away. But her nature wouldn’t allow her to leave a wounded man to likely die alone. One other unexplainable motive about the unknown man had an impact on her desision. Compelled by her profession and other emotions Emily stepped back into view.

You saw the woman reemerge from behind the wall, both staring at each other waiting for someone to make a move. Leaning against the slav you took the initiative. “You’re not here to kill me are you?”

“No,” The woman responded. You could assumed she had no ill intentions but she remained unsure if you were the same. “Are you?”

You chuckled softly until you saw her reaction remain unchanged. “No. I’m not in much of a position to put up much of a fight anyway.”

Emily slowly walked towards the stranger, keeping to his word he did not react defensively. Even as her hands moved towards the red patch on his shirt, wet from a combination of blood and rain he remained relatively still. “Don’t worry, I plan to take care of that.” You lifted the equipment in your hand slightly into view. She rolled up her sleeves and relinquished the supplies from you. “Allow me, I’m a Doctor.”

Emily knew she was taking a risk with the unknown man, but if she played nice she could get information or a name to put to the face. Regardless of situation a man needed her help.

“So you run this place I assume.” The doctor confirmed your suspicion, leaving temporarily to gather more bandages and vials while you undressed your top half on her command. “I apologize for going through your stuff, and breaking a window.”

Emily was about to respond when she saw your now bare figure. As requested you removed your coat and dress shirt, aside form a painful looking wound and pistol grip poking out of a concealed holister Emily was stunned by your physic. If she wasn’t caught staring it’s unlikely she would have stopped. In the exchange you wordlessly removed the weapon and placed it on a nearby surface, assuming it was the cause of the woman’s pause.

“I like your tattoos.” Emily’s only defence to her reddening face.

You thanked her, slowly lying down on the cold morgue slab with minor help from the doctor. “Thanks Doc, it’s not easy to do this alone.”

“You’ve been shot before?” Emily asked as she cleaned the area surrounding the wound.

“Afew times unfortunately. I’ve survived worse but-” you groaned in pain when the doctor touched a tender patch of skin, “but it still hurts.”

Emily apologized for the discomfort before continuing with the conversation and probing questions. The man was surprisingly pleasant to talk with. “Since I found you breaking in and not visiting a hospital. I assume getting shot involves, shall we say unlawful means.”

“You should be a detective.”

Emily laughed quietly, her risky question was answered; she decided to push further.

“Would this have anything to do with all the bodies coming though the past week?”

You hesitated, “Possibly. I’m just taking care of business.” An answer to her question but not a direct confession.

Emily prepared her tweezers to extract the bullet. She gave a final look of sympathy before proceeding. “I’m sorry about this.” You nodded, clenching your jaw for the pain to come.

In no less than ten seconds the doctor pulled a piece of metal out of you. “We’re lucky it didn’t break up inside.” She smiled slightly, holding the utensil up to the light. “I don’t feel lucky.”

Emily continued with her questions masked as polite conversation as she started with the stitching. “If you don’t mind me asking, what type of “business” involves getting shot at?”

Your vision was still unfocused from the bullets extraction, bright overhead lights spinning into a blur; the doctor repeated her question. “It’s best if you don’t know the details Doc. But let’s just say you won’t find any upstanding citizens in here tomorrow.”

You continued muttering to the doctor incoherently. Emily was only able to understand ‘pimps’ and ‘two cent gangsters’ from the apparently humours ramble. She was able to pull you back to reality with a command to sit up for a bandage to be applied. You grunted when attempting to move to an upright position, the doctor helped guide you to ease the stress off your abdomen. Emily continued while wrapping white dressing; no longer acting as an impromptu cop but out of her own interests.

“That doesn’t make it right, morally speaking at least.” Emily took her eyes off the bandages to look directly at you. Managing once again to get lost in the mans eyes. “It’s still a crime.”

“True, however I would sat there’s a difference between a normal family man and a gun wielding crook.”

“Does that include you?” Emily spoke before her mind caught up. This man, this criminal could still pose a threat and retaliate. However, something about him made Emily think twice whenever she stared in his eyes. Your response was the truth, “I prefer the term hitman.”

Her hands stopped with the dressing when she started gazing so you carefully removed the bandages from her tender fingers and continued tying a suitable knot. For the split second his gloves hand touched Emily’s it made her heart skip. You then allowed the woman to give you an injection soon after, whatever it was made the pain fade from a constant stab.

“So what now?” You inquired while reaching for your still damp shirt and tie, “Are you going to turn me in or am I going to have to make a run for it?”

“I wouldn’t recommend running with those stitches.” Emily alternated between looking at the mans face and chest while he slowly dressed, both locations having the same results on her. “It’s my duty to notify the police, I’m sorry.”

She hesitently placed her hand on top of your abandoned gun. Without any motion or wish to pick it up the weapon.

“I understand.” Your only response to the situation.

You knew you could likely overpower the woman and escape before she could get a finger on the trigger, but for reasons unknown that idea hurt more than the gunshot from earlier. You wondered if she had the same notion.

Emily led you to the freezer to act as a temporary jail cell. She left the gun behind but you made no attempt at retaliation. Only a hand lightly pressed to the new stitches combined with tired foot steps. She unlocked the metal door and you hesitantly stepped inside, met with a wall of frozen stale air.

“The police station isn’t far, I won’t be long.”

“Will anyone be in this late at night?” You asked as she handed you a dry blanket your suit jacket. She didn’t answer but just repeated her previous “won’t be long” statement.

“What makes you think I can’t get out before you get back?” You half grinned to the doctors amusement, already formulating a slightly panicked to act out once she was gone.

“I’ll be very impressed if you do Sir,” “y/n.”

You immediately wanted to kick yourself for giving out your real name. It felt right in the moment but it would no doubt come back to haunt you later.

“Emily,” her first reaction was to return the pleasantry, “Emily Grace.”

Doctor Grace apologized again as she started to close the door but paused when hour voice spoke out.

“Emily.” She stopped, looking directly into your eyes. “Thank you Doctor Grace, for helping me.”

She smiled and nodded, giving you and unintentional and untaken opprotunity for escape. Emily left you with a final statement before locking you in, alone with a blanket and dampened overhead lights. “It’s my duty y/n; and don’t mind the bodies, I’m sure your already acquainted.”

#murdoch mysteries #murdoch mysteries imagine #murdoch mysteries fanfiction #reader insert #imagine #fanfiction #emily grace #emily grace imagine #emily grace x reader

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junker-town · 4 years ago

Text

The best and worst of the 2021 MLS kits

footyheadlines.com

We have some good, some bad, and a lot of ugly.

With the dawn of a new MLS season comes the promise of new beginnings and new opportunities. New fans can discover the game for the first time, new memories and magical moments will be made, all of them with the crest of your team donning the athletes.

Since 2005, Adidas, one of the biggest names in global soccer apparel, has been outfitting each MLS team with their jerseys. The investment Adidas has made in the North American game has had a significant impact on the growth of the sport in the U.S. After signing on, Adidas’s reputation in America grew and their array of products have dazzled fans from the beginning.

Which is why we have been confused and disappointed by Adidas over the past few years.

What we have seen is that for some reason, Adidas has decided to recycle old templates from their European clients and dump them to MLS. Beyond that, there have been a slew of white away jerseys that seem to never end.

Last season, teams like Houston, Minnesota, Nashville, NYCFC, and New York Red Bulls launched away kits that didn’t use a white base. However, with the addition of the white home kit for LA Galaxy, the teams in Atlanta, Portland, San Jose and Orlando got the white washed treatment (with Montreal and Toronto getting a white adjacent treatment in gray).

This trend was immediately noticed. Fans were not happy with the results. With Adidas feeling the pressure, the company announced their intentions to launch less white jerseys this year, and explore alternative away jersey colors.

Well if Adidas’s goal was to cut down on white-looking shirts, they failed.

Despite their promise, Adidas released seven new jerseys using either grey or white, bringing the number of jerseys using those colors up to 14.

Some of the white jerseys are not bad. Some teams, like in the case of NYRB or LA Galaxy, use white in their traditional home kit. But this is a continuing problem that we - and many other MLS fans - have noticed. There seems to be a consistent lack of desire for creativity among MLS kits. If it was there, then we wouldn’t be seeing re-used templates, the same colors, or jerseys that look like they slapped logos on t-shirts.

We want to see Adidas do better. We hope Adidas does better. Otherwise, we hope MLS goes to a new model of letting each club sign their own contracts with kit suppliers. We might finally get some diverse and exciting results that way.

With that being said, we’ve compiled a tier list of the best and worst kits in MLS. Here’s what each tier represents:

The BEST: pretty self explanatory, the best kit made this year

A: among the best kits in the league, deserving of full acclaim

B: a unique, creative effort was put forth and seemed to have payed off

C: Kits that are creative and bold, but seem to be missing something

D: Either the details added don’t work, there’s something missing, it’s bland or all of the above

Delete This: The most bland and uninspired kits of the bunch

And while they are clustered in tiers, these are ranked from our favorites to least favorites in order.

Let’s plunge right into this starting at the top.

The Best: LA Galaxy away

footyheadlines.com

This shirt managed to make Adidas’s horrible, stupid, no good, very bad shoulder stripe template look like a part of the shirt that’s meant to be there. That in itself is commendable, but mix in the color combination and the gold tracing the stripes and you have a classic, which is very rare to do in MLS.

A Tier

FC Cincinnati home

footyheadlines.com

The alternating blue and orange pinstripes atop a base of deep blue is a really solid look. It doesn’t have the gorgeous color combo of the Galaxy kit, but it does manage to also incorporate the template elements well, and in a way that actually complements the overall design.

Vancouver Whitecaps FC away

footyheadlines.com

Yes, we did go on a rant about how we dislike the white away kits. However, in this case, Vancouver’s white away kit is a classic and a throwback to an original Whitecaps jersey. The logo that fits perfectly in that blue band in the middle, the sleeves with great cuffs, and the clean collar wrap up this kit which should just be Vancouver’s permanent jersey.

B Tier

New York City FC home

footyheadlines.com

This one has grown on us from the beginning. The mini NYC’s in the stripes seemed tacky at first, but after sitting on it for a while, we’ve grown to love them. Add to it the solid white accents and this is a kit fans of The Pigeons should be proud of.

Seattle Sounders FC away

footyheadlines.com

We allowed ourselves one rant each in an effort to cut down on how long this article was and while we both thought this was a good kit, one of us had an especially strong opinion: “I was fine with this kit being wacky and fun before I saw the release video linking it to Jimi Hendrix. If you’re gonna do a legend, do a legend right. And to me, linking this to Jimi Hendrix, whose style and flair is so much more extravagant than this kit, ruined it for me. If it was called the ‘Purple Haze’ kit, I’d feel better, but they didn’t, and so I must protect Jimi because such a legend deserves better.”

Toronto FC home

In this list, we decided to reward teams that had creative elements that worked well together. Considering Toronto’s away kit has stripes that are similar to this one, we put this in the B tier. Fitting the theme works well for TFC and overall, this kit is one that stands out.

C Tier

Orlando City SC Home

footyheadlines.com

All in all, this is not a bad shirt. We’re not massive fans of gradients unless there’s a design element used to assist the transition and this kit accomplishes that. It’s not fancy or a classic, but it’s still good. The main question we have is why the MLS logo is on both sleeves. While this is a great kit, it’s nothing compared to the effort released by their NWSL sister club, Orlando Pride SC (also, yes, NWSL jerseys being better will be a common and accurate theme on this list):

footyheadlines.com

CF Montreal home

footyheadlines.com

We can debate the rebrand and take points off for it (we will later), but not on this kit. It’s clean, the accents are nice, and the sublimated club logo is bold enough that viewers at home will most likely be able to see it. However, they lose points here for the lack of blue which we’ve come to expect from previous Montreal Impact kits.

Chicago Fire away

It’s a good kit. As ugly as the Fire crest is, the monocolor badge doesn’t look nearly as bad here. The sublimated Chicago stars are a fantastic idea and addition, but they lack red. In fact, this whole kit is sorely missing the color red. Therefore, it’s only the second best soccer kit in Chicago. If you want to see a Chicago flag kit done right, look at the NWSL’s Red Stars:

footyheadlines.com

Portland Timbers FC home

footyheadlines.com

We both really liked the promise this jersey brought, but thought they messed up the execution. The stitch motif down the middle is unique, but the too-chunky collar disrupts it. We also found it weird to include dark green on half the front of the kit, but not on the sleeves. If this went back to the drawing board, we think it’d be a B at minimum.

Atlanta United FC home

footyheadlines.com

This one reminds us of the time Inter Milan decided to ditch their iconic blue and black stripes for a black kit and light blue pinstripes around it. The Five Stripes stuck to their nickname as close as you could, and while this is a great shirt, it seems like it would be much better served as a third kit.

Philadelphia Union away

footyheadlines.com

It’s...unique. The design is wild and gives us 90’s flashbacks. The color of blue and lightning bolt design is wacky in a fun way. However, a darker shade of yellow would have improved this jersey a lot because we can barely see the stripes, league logo, club badge and sponsor in these pictures. We can’t imagine how invisible they will look during a day game.

Chicago Fire home

footyheadlines.com

This shirt makes us sad because they were so close! Imagine just one other complementary design element laid on this shirt. Even a thin red cheesy oversized outline of a flame would have made this shirt so much better given that the base design is so solid.

D Tier

FC Dallas away

footyheadlines.com

This seems eerily reminiscent of Chelsea’s away kit from this season in terms of the pattern. It’s missing solid red elements we’ve come to expect from FC Dallas. But the one major detractor has to be the size of the MTX logo on the front. It just seems way too big and makes this feel tacky.

Real Salt Lake away

footyheadlines.com

This kit gets a few things right: the red monocolor crest, the red Adidas logo, the red MLS logo, and even the red on the sleeves. The blue sponsor and shoulder stripes look good as well. However, we think it’d be hard for a viewing audience to see the designs and adding a red outline to the sublimated graphics would have helped. Did we mention we liked the red in this kit?

Sporting Kansas City away

footyheadlines.com

This kit gives us the same vibes as this year’s West Ham United away kit. If we’re being honest, it just seems like something is missing. If some small piping stripes in either white or silver were at the top and bottom of the navy bands here, we think SKC has a much better kit.

Nashville SC away

footyheadlines.com

We liked these initially when it appeared to be black and yellow, but once we noticed it was navy our shoulders slumped. Navy and yellow is a wonderful color combination, but navy so navy it looks black doesn’t lend itself to that classic palette. If the navy was more vivid, this shirt would have been very high up the list, but instead it’s this, which is bad – therefore it’s bad.

New York Red Bulls home

footyheadlines.com

The problem with every Red Bull team’s shirt is that the logos are so massive, so intense and such a striking contrast of colors that it’s becoming difficult for any of their teams to have a decent shirt. This jersey is no exception. The base is much too simple and doesn’t include design elements that complement the kit. Also, the small Red Bull logo in the crest just above the big Red Bulls logo is goofy and unnecessary. If you’re going to be your own team and sponsor, please find a way to be more creative.

Austin FC home

footyheadlines.com

A club in its inaugural year should come in much stronger than this. It’s your first season, capitalizing on that energy and giving your supporters a dope shirt is important. It’s unlikely you’re going to have much more success beyond that, so it’s really disappointing to start the season with a non-memorable shirt. (Side note: Again, another team outdone by the NWSL. Racing Louisville is a new NWSL expansion team and dropped this beauty.)

footyheadlines.com

Minnesota United FC home

footyheadlines.com

This is how our conversation went for this jersey:

“I feel nothing toward this kit. It’s not ugly, it just seems like a light blue adidas shirt. D tier.”

“Yep, I’m good with that.”

~End of conversation~

Colorado Rapids away

footyheadlines.com

This kit has a lot of unique design elements. Unfortunately, no one will see them in action on the field and they are hard to notice if you don’t buy the jersey. The kit is a light green color (but it looks white) and you can barely notice the silver star above the crest. The biggest disappointment is the really cool embedded topographical line design paying homage to some of the high peaks of Colorado. Sadly, it’s the same color as the kit so you won’t be able to see it on your screen. For a look at a better crack at this idea, look at Kelme’s effort on the away kit for Spanish side SD Huesca.

D.C. United away

footyheadlines.com

Obnoxiously patriotic symbolism. DC is more vivid and interesting than cheap American iconography. The marble pattern is much too light and the red, white and blue is annoying. It looks too similar to the current US National Team jersey. DC, real DC, is a magnificent place, and we swear to God if DC doesn’t give us a Cherry Blossom shirt we’re gonna go mad.

Delete This Tier

Houston Dynamo FC home

footyheadlines.com

This shirt is actually fine. Perfectly fine. It’s OK. It’s not disgustingly memorable, or classically memorable. It’ll be forgotten as soon as the team stops wearing it and moves onto something else. But for now, today, it’s fine. I’m not sure that’s what they were going for but it’s difficult to see any other intent given the extreme lack of, anything. (Once again, a MLS team outdone by an NWSL counterpart. They look similar, but there’s no sublimated graphic for the Dynamo. Meanwhile, the Dash have this cool hexagon pattern)

footyheadlines.com

San Jose Earthquakes home

footyheadlines.com

We like the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves. Even the sponsor logo seems like a good size and a good color. But outside of that, we see nothing but a light blue t-shirt. We get that it’s your home kit, but you couldn’t have added anything else to it?

CF Montreal away

footyheadlines.com

Yes, this is the same kit as last year. Yes, we didn’t like it then. But, this is where we punish CF Montreal for their rebrand. It seems unnecessary to blow up a well established brand for the sake of making things more European. The Impact had a unique name and a fanbase that loved it. It’s sad to see it go. Also, if you’re going full rebrand, then Adidas should’ve given you a new away kit - so this ranking is as much on them as it is on CFM.

Los Angeles FC away

footyheadlines.com

LAFC’s Roma impression is hilarious. Like that old meme of a woman trying to hair flip rising out of water:

The base color is much less in the vintage category and extremely in the dirty socks category.

Inter Miami CF away

footyheadlines.com

Fashion icon David Beckham continues to be disappointing in an area in which he should never be disappointing. Not only is the kit bland and basic, and the Miami design is hidden in black, but it’s not Miami at all! The biggest problem here is that anyone who has never been to Miami could produce a more Miami shirt, and that is embarrassing. ADD. MORE. PINK.

Austin FC away

footyheadlines.com

See Austin’s other kit, but also the worst thing you can do is make no effort and sell a shirt at MLS shirt prices anyway. If you want to buy this shirt with a name and number on the back you’re going to pay $119.99, and that’s just criminal.

Columbus Crew SC away

This shirt is so bad it’s funny. It makes no sense and it’s hideous. The best part of this kit is that it’s just the setup to the punchline: the full kit.

footyheadlines.com

The Worst: New England Revolution away

footyheadlines.com

Cue the other rant:

“This has to be one of the most lazy and confused kits I have ever seen - made worse by the descriptions of the design elements. I’m from New England, and a lot of these design elements don’t make any sense at all.

“The one positive comes from dedicating the jersey to “The Fort”, a supporters section of the Revolution at Gillette Stadium. A logo on the lower left side lists the sections the group stands in, and overall, that’s the most unique thing about this jersey.

“The description of the design elements say the stripes on the shoulders represent “the colors of the water and the sky that surround the war-era forts throughout New England” and the lines on the main body of the kit represent “the blockwork of American Revolution Era war forts.”

“So let’s tackle each of these. The colors on this kit are confusing. While they claim the left shoulder stripes are navy, it looks closer to black in multiple pictures. In addition, the club crest and Adidas logo look black, leaving the United Healthcare sponsorship as the only navy thing on the jersey. As for the light blue, the messaging is wrong if they think that’s representative of the sea. The waters of New England are not that light. If it’s representative of the sky, they got that wrong too. The skies of New England are not turquoise.

“But, more importantly, the line design on the shirt itself doesn’t represent what they aimed for. A majority of the major forts in New England left over from the Revolutionary War are either: a) made of wood, not stone blockwork or b) pentagonal in shape, not square.

“All of this is just distraction from the main problem with this kit: it’s a template. The design is taken directly from the kit Spain will wear to the Euros in 2021.

footyheadlines.com

“Overall, this kit is a representation of everything wrong with Adidas’s MLS kit rollouts. The Revs deserve better.”

Finally, here’s our full tier list visualized:

Let us know what you think! Were we right? Were we wrong? Did we put too many in the C, D, and Delete This column? Leave a comment down below.

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beganaskiddy · 6 years ago

Photo

Smoke signal , alarm asleep on Grandfather’s Dresser, Why didn’t you incarnate as a Man? octopus above this space inside occular, Benevolence . Prayer to

the Emperor and Empress. where were we? You were above this left shoulder balancing tray whispered napkin telekinesis Grandfather left tangent arrowhead table sky dark ceiling lofted table this pleasance. You arched to pass the vessel the word a state with this tongue dear , Ive posted lots of leverage all the way to nogales via hermanas searching for your remembrance. Not so much to date or haggle , just precipice’d after Grandfather asked this if it had enough to get wherever, without hesitation /Plenty hesitation with Faith based upon companionless. You were wearing ink your back left shoulder, what ghost? That was all __though like FEVER relative of… Forest Spirit it was humonnguess. You have magical a-ddress though his is red him and his get away with person.whatever. I found my Grandfathers space temporally. translates (narcissus ball (((HAIL)))) and it was hovering one mountain on our center right (wright) my other Grandfather “sideways out the periphery vision” cain’t look straightonatit it looks back (octopus ceiling) kundalini in this room (Beast)HIVE)) emanating soundcloud stress day afterwork jam. archived hive sound stereo like sinking any ship within range with pure holy spirit. if you Look up later it could come within side of periphery then conscious allocution without spite visually it articulates telekinetic hologram of our mind (mined)IT”S) transmorphic uno geometry sit tight the Lord has angels with Play.yya (terra) yesterdays Raven today’s please do not steal the light, as we are nearing something immeasurable sides down. This not so much/ different incarnation forward/ You why are we living so much longer yet dying to be with the Lord quicker? spiritual calamity or build your strength decay rate quickening like falling if the Lord shows up with the Kingdom lessons started long ago it matriculates as it draws near. awareness. if the sky should ever scroll down stand up please many times before this one. Where were we? Thirsty. reading recent events. Didn’t feel like starting anything until we met. I mustve lost you in Albuquerque at the pearl. English and Espanol JIC. Ohh all the dreams. Sleeping Beauty, outside gravel or whyoming dirt I thought you were deceased knelt beside you. know motion nose to sky. Daphne (archetype) lifted chin leant breath ear mouth ajar and then instead of words only air between us until your lungs filled oxygen twice twilight then big box truck two redneck twangy friendly (noticed tire parked on both your feet) he talked niceties ;ike returning to scene of rhyme nursery. Justice is in the ROOM. Turned to you and you had gotten up and vanished. Some previous life Is till Love you, the mystery between us is not so much mystery though our Souls departed long ago then returned stranger; our physical connection is missing though our hearts beat to a single drum, forever how could one forget Love? Your life is quaint as it should be almost like a reward for Faith, this is just a tramp timestamp “dandy lion” found Teacher and God. the ones especially afterlife the goto or not. in the WIND. nothings definitive. some other person thinks this about them and whamo. although intent was omniscience perspective within time continuum has not occurred within realm of substrata consciousness timed delay lightning first storm of the season yet.i. could not bear contact bowed my eyes despaired meow meow I’m sure a man could comprehend and celebrate internally nearness with Death, temporally maybe it swings around for a downtempo three feather condor soaring bighorn Crow chorus symmetrically depth chasm watery eyes how the sunny side feral bees crawl all over ya looking for some way inside to cauterize no dice. Others are pure relations. Dark Brother. almost seem to demarcate boundaries (LOTS) worked out months ago though when Angels guard the insides The Lord is near enough to show like how our learning phase continues throughout life based upon too many indiscriminate factors to even contemplate without you there is abundant recovery time.All things Grow WithLove. including the buzz of ethereality. Expressionless, there are abundance of our Teachers. yeah, like potter. One day walking spotted the ROSIcrucian, steepled in someones frontward as a wild rosebush, same colors variegated. it was like the whole existence of the vision was based upon majesty with the earth and all sentient beings. What does it indicate? Oh and (alarm) those Hellcat’s. Spinach just in time. Bloodhounds our relativity possibly what you perceive as otherworldly; what you don’t yet actualize couldn’t hurt yourself due to the proximity with whim. Lightning has yet reached our perimeter . where does it strike first? mt or wy? then witching season over for a spell. i.e. the bridge between the gap of when in the priors of seen lightning before its charge arrives (CHART) dreamings anybodies they hand of time to the winged elements, they initial light i.e. messengers. where were we? ohh I know the violent femmes (trio) like starchy and hush + oversized tranny in back seat. cruisin. red river tribe. well, the person in from of me onto a soft cushion like a bed side diagonally facing wall 110 socket knee high to a moment steeped in forever I could not see you directly only from a strange position. the quiet lasted for some time to eject inside poem each glance between a sweetness drawn and confabulated return to sender from Lunar City, Lunacy USA don’t waste your time you are already voice inside mined learning dharnmic cardio if ever you see the orb dancing is what is on the inside steering time sideways clockwise neutral lipstick and Apex Twin lost ingress visualized blush with Love rose hips 2nd Amendment Guaranteed one in the kitchen , pointed unmerciful. Not the time for ill will, Defense . The Good Lord Provides when we reach within our existence Voodoo SAC’Mcised beyond alert edge of seat Prayer to first responders. perspective. praying with any bike self aware breath cleated Raptor flesh for flesh fetish anima bride whirlwind rode hard and put away wet in the wind of coldness (ostracized) before the age of 5 years of age , I knew bachelor for life was set with her grimaced snarl that day in 1973. You were alive somewhere in 1973 no matter our age today. wilderness. Some female growls. guards blood. Conch, sometimes seams willow and the stand of fervor in the wind skies are like surroundings live at your discretion. how obsolete is kiss when myth is missing from constructed life based upon input from everything since first breath and before idealized as the dreamtime of nectarine or copper )it’s hot IV of Pentacles, the bedside of OCD (this typing) for one afternoon of Romp to celebrate cardio. ohh theres the sigh… the periphery of the her origin. think in any room without border (although borders are good, they demarcate (LOTS) anyway, you there is only light , though the light is unique, intensity from the same veil of Hue. how hot is your sustain for living everlasting versus short term free for all as though karma were irrelevant , nurture as nature.forgiving based upon how we circumnavigate each moment. this is was a channel of what comes to the near surface of this typist in terms of spirit residuals for dictation to syllables as such; “poetry” self contained psychonautical storied as reverb from past adaptations of time travel. stitches to Yawn helped with energy from a haven unrealized cart placed horse early to tantra eyes trance Yagya. illness from internet fever. “Lids off the HIVE SYNDROME” please put the lid back soon or the hive will locate your weakest point and eliminate the threat of so and so, how near the end only the Good Lord knows the date. where are we? subconsciously the we arrive before the presence conjure locality spell weaver dreams silk path radial arched in the middle vortice flowering prayer …… How to walk with the Beast civilized not to spill the light as though to Vanquish time from timeless via internalized questions at some pace equidistant with fervor to avarice with Life versus condition based upon selfless,, what remains of this day? where were we when in the backseat at twilight some hilly city not sf, hovering above the earth one foot clubbed anima in some old jalopy blue vinyl bench front seat, you and I in the backseat with our legs calfs resting onto of bench seemingly floating backwards downhill without anyone steering the vessel moving at a rate sublime excite you were talking forever like a bus inside twilight central and san pedro albequerque dusk heading nSE towards cemetery crack hoetel big spider left behind, if she only remembered how I wrote and wrote and wrote her bonnets of forget me knots squinted between her toes clover girls buzzing lily pads of seance if only I could sting your absorption with death and sling you within the perspective of current before the beginning months before time slips possibly art once ricochet around the rosies slump test with three Cords of Wood stacked vertical plus don’t forget to go back and get the D chord horseman the headless sERAPHIM . her shirt said “PLAY” , and so I wondered how, till now temporally until the spell wears off FUN, If I told you you were beautiful, would you check it off your list of to do or if withheld like a bonnet of funshine, squandered intermittently forever to salve the lifelong painless of aloneness oddity inland catch yours spirit twin inside spirit world or this land when pure/ There were two that would not vacate…. without work involved magic. time is contracting slow now or near earth outside realm of impure (border) what constitutes boundaries in spiritland ?

#Tarot #rider-waite #iv pentacles #praying #40 bags crete #doors #free agent #ufo #ufology #angel

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heartbreakcity · 8 years ago

Text

Romeo And Juliet (Cole Sprouse Imagine)

College Cole Sprouse Imagine ;) Requested by @ateliefloresdaprimavera A/N : sorry it took so long! Hope you like it 💓 ------------

“Yes! OK, I will call you after Y/BF/N, my tour is here,” you rushed down the phone, aware that a teacher was walking in your direction.

“Ok Y/N, good luck babe!” She cheered from the other end of the line. Without another word to each other, you hung up. Today was the day that was going to shape your future. You were starting college.

Your family had only just moved to North Carolina from London, and you were starting your new school. Ever since you were little, you have wanted to act. It has been your life ambition and finally, it was coming true. Your parents new how much this meant to you, so when you got accepted into The Royal Academy of Performing Arts in North Carolina, you moved out here. It was hard saying goodbye to all your best friends; Y/BF/N had cried so hard and given you a beautiful photo of the two of you taken at your 16th birthday, two years ago. It was even harder getting on the plane and watching the home you knew so well just fade away, and eventually turn to nothing.

But the hardest thing was how you stuck out like a sore thumb by wearing a woolly jumper and jeans in one of the hottest states in America, on one of the hottest days of the year. It wasn’t your fault you had packed wrong, your clothes were suited to the rain and wind of England, not the sun and sea of North Carolina. Now you had to suffer. Excited as you were, there was a small downside; you were joining in the middle of a term. People would already have partners for their projects, and you would be lonely at the back of the classroom.

But there was no point in complaining – your dream was coming true at last.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” The teacher asked in a strong American accent as he eventually arrived in front of you, a clipboard and pen in hand.

You smiled shyly, unsure how to react to a new person in a new place, “Hi.”

The man gave you a reassuring look, “I’m Professor Warren, your drama teacher. The receptionist told me you would be here, and,” he continued, handing you a colourful piece of paper, “this is your time table.”

You looked down at the busy schedule in your hands.

“As you will notice,” Professor Warren kept going, “you actually do have two periods of drama now, so we’ll get going, shall we?” He finished, and before you could reply, he started to walk.

Grabbing your bag off the bench and shoving both your timetable and phone into it, you started to walk into the colleges main building. It was a relief to be out of the sun with your thick jumper on, and you were already looking forward to arriving to the classroom when you could take it off for good.

After a couple of minutes of walking in silence, Professor Warren slowed down in front of a classroom with a fully black painted door.

“This,” he indicated towards the door behind him, “is a sound-proof room where magic happens. It’s also your drama room for the next two years so I would make yourself at home. Are you ready?” He asked nicely.

You took a deep breath inwards, and nodded firmly, trying to convince yourself more than anything.

You were an actor – even if you weren’t ready for a new step in your life, you could at least pretend it. But there was no need.

Because Professor Warren opened the door, and a whirlwind of noise was released like a dragon awakening.

Brightly coloured posters littered the walls, and rails and rails of handmade-costumes stood proudly at the sides, each stitch holding someone’s blood, sweat and tears. The graffiti covered desks were pushed into circle around the outside of the brightly lit room, and in the middle, there was a performance taking place. It seemed quite extravagant, with the use of a mannequin and a feather boa, but everyone seemed to be enjoying it due to the roars of laughter erupting every five seconds. The actors were tall, both boys. You could only see the back of the their heads, but when their audience looked in your direction and silenced, they stopped abruptly and turned.

Automatically, your heart stopped. The two boys were most definitely twins, the only difference being one had blonde hair, whereas the other had raven-coloured and bluer eyes that were looking directly at you. His gaze made you shiver slightly and react in such a way that was unusual – it was almost like you loved the attention, but hated his eyes directly upon you. Conscious of you standing awkwardly, you tucked your hair behind your ear and broke contact with the cute boy. “Guys, I would like to introduce Y/N Y/L/N,” Professor Warren announced, answering the stares of the onlookers whose thoughts you could all hear judging you, “she’s new, just moved from England. Please make her feel welcome.” He gave a stern look to a particular girl at the back of the class who had her feet on the desk and was chewing gum quite obnoxiously. You made a mental note to keep away from her.

You stole a quick glance at the tall, dark and mysterious boy in the middle of the room and took in his appearance: white shirt, blue flannel over the top with black skinny jeans. He was tall enough too be attractive, not too tall to be weird. His fair skin contrasted elegantly with his ocean blue eyes…which happened to still be directly staring at you. A tingle went down your spine like lightning at the thought of someone finding you remotely interesting to look at - you never thought your looks were of such a high quality standard.

But obviously, he thought otherwise.

“Ok so the groups you were in yesterday, I want you to rejoin and I will give you your new assignment. Y/N, you can join Dylan’s group,” Professor Warren instructed.

You didn’t have to ask who Cole was, because at the sound of his name, someone whooped. Glancing backwards, you saw that it was the blonde twin who looked highly excited to have you joining his group. Someone was making sure everything was going effect for you today, and you made a note to thank them if you ever got to meet them.

Turning on your heels, both hesitantly and eagerly, you started to make your way to the centre of the room. Nobody was paying an interest to you anymore as they were all focused on their own groups and trying to swap so they could be with their friends like they were back in high school.

As you silently walked towards the group, Professor Warren started writing on the board at the front of the room.

“Your assignment in your groups is to re-enact a scene of Romeo and Juliet. It will go towards your final semester grade so make sure you work on it properly,” he justified.

The blonde twin stuck his hand out to you, “Hey, I’m Dylan.”

You smiled graciously, thankful someone was making an effort to get to know you.

He was definitely nice on the eye, but he wasn’t the one catching your interest.

The tall blonde boy on his left spoke next - “I’m Luke.”

You smiled at them both, and a feeling in your stomach told you that you were going to be friends for a long time.

The girl who had previously had her feet on the desk was in your group, but she just stared at you in disgust. There was always one girl who was judgemental so you weren’t particularly fussed.

“Emma, don’t be rude,” Dylan told her, his American accent sounding particularly good on him.

She huffed, “well you’ve just said my name, so there’s no point in me saying it then.” And with that she started to bite at her perfectly-precise-hot-pink nails.

The one person you wanted to speak still hasn’t. He was staring intently at you, as if you were some sort of puzzle he was trying to decode. “Dude, say something!” Luke hit him playfully, following his gaze and seeing the intense eye contact you two were inducing.

The mystery guy was snapped back to reality, clearing his throat and looking at you once again with his soft eyes that melted your soul.

He smiled at you, and you returned it.

“I’m Cole.”

—-PRESENT DAY—-

“And that is our story!” You proudly told the group of people in front of you.

They were in awe at you and your boyfriend holding hands at the table.

Camilas eyes were full of longing, “So you honestly just met in college two years ago?”

You nodded at looked at the smitten boy perched on the arm of your chair. Cole smiled back down at you, a simple action making your heart erupt.

“No, I don’t believe that’s the end. What about Romeo and Juliet?” Lili questioned, her ears not fully satisfied until they had been exposed to the cuteness of the ending.

“I can explain this part,” Cole told you, his eyes lighting up like stars when they looked straight at you. “So we worked on the Romeo and Juliet play, and Professor Warren wanted to see what Y/N could do, so she was given the part of Juliet. Dylan was originally given the part of Romeo, but when he found out that I had started to like Y/N, he swapped for Mercutio. It just went on from there - we had to spend so much time together to work ok out parts and eventually we became best friends. Something just clicked and we just had a laugh. Trouble is, I was more than friends. Honestly, I would be lying if I said I didn’t love her at first sight. And little did I know, Y/N liked me back. Remember the other girl Emma? Well turns out she had had some sort of thing for me, so on the day of the performance she tried to sabotage it by ruining Y/N’s costume. The security cameras told the truth though when she tried to lie her way out of it. In the end, the show went on and she was given detention. The show was amazing, one of the best I’ve ever done, but that might be because I had a good partner.”

You blushed.

Cole continued, “so many people congratulated us afterwards and asked if we were dating in real life. Y/N here was about to answer no, but I managed to say yes before she could. She just looked at me and smiled, held my hand and that was it. We started dating there and then.”

You smiled up at Cole, your heart longing to hold onto this moment forever.

Lili and Cami stared the connection you had lighting up between you two. It was magical.

“ALL ACTORS FOR SCENE 7 PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE STUDIO,” a voice over the loud speaker announced.

You had managed to snatch a last minute starring role on Riverdale, which was incredible as you got to do your favourite thing in the world with your favourite person in the universe.

Your entire table stood up, Cole taking a hold of your hand. The scene would only be quick, it was a shot of the gang on the school field.

Before you had chance to follow Lili out of the room, Coles grabbed your arm gently, keeping you rooted to the spot. You waited until the girls had left and turned around to face a sincere looking boyfriend.

“Y/N?” Cole spoke quietly, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Yeah?”

He gave you such a small smile that it was almost missed, but his eyes lit up like fireworks. The lingered on your face, taking every inch of your presence into his mind, body and soul.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips against your own, the invisible shield between you shimmering away and melting into his arms that were resting carefully on your waist. Your own entangled themselves into his soft raven hair, keeping you connected at all costs. It just felt right with him. It was cliché, but the truth when you said - you were falling deeper in love with Cole Sprouse every day.

And little did you know, he was feeling the exact same way.

#cole sprouse imagine #cole sprouse #jughead jones imagine #jughead x reader #jughead imagine #jughead jones #riverdale

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bandit-writes · 8 years ago

Text

The Promise of Sunbeams

This was originally for a kink meme prompt, but as the kink meme has moved I can no longer link to the original.

The gist of it was “What if the human Inquisitor had tranquil parents because human nobles are fucked up.” Well, two years later and an entire playthrough dedicated to this boy, I came up with this.

If anyone can find the original prompt that would be great! My eyes can’t really parse the new Kink meme very easily so there’s no way I would be able to.

“When will I get a mark on my forehead, Mama?” Mattie says, sat on the floor amidst his mother’s billowing skirts.

Mama looks up from her stitching, put there by one of the servants, “Never.”

“But you have one, and Papa has one.”

“Yes. We do.”

“Why?”

Mama does not smile. Mama never smiles, “We were mages, and our parents did not want us to be.”

Mattie looks down at himself. Considering his feet, “Will you give me a mark? If I’m a mage?”

Mama does not answer for a long time. “No,” She says, just as Mattie is about to ask again. “I think not.”

Dorian slides into a booth at the serviceable tavern Haven hold within its walls and aims a charming smile at Sera, sat across from him. “So, our dear Herald,” he starts.

“Out with it already,” Sera interrupts, “don’t try to use all of those floofy words on me, I can’t stand it.”

“Or understand it as the case may be,” Dorian muses. Sera wrinkles her nose at him.

“What do you want to know about him?” She says.

“Merely if you know anything about him,” Dorian says, “I’ve come to believe you are the girl to ask if one wants to know about our merry band of outcasts.”

“And you think I have the dirt on Mattie?”

“Let’s just say that I think you’ll know more than me, being as you’ve been around our little bundle of joy for longer than I have had the pleasure to be.”

Sera leans back in her chair. Dorian takes a drink of the utterly foul Fereldan ale the bartender managed to talk him into and raises an eyebrow. The rogue is frowning, biting at her lip. Obviously there is something here then, Dorian isn’t just barking up the wrong tree.

He’d thought so. The normal response to being thrown into an alternate timeline where the world's gone to shit is not stony silence and a face that had been so utterly expressionless it had given Dorian chills. And that’s not even mentioning the dull acceptance of Dorian’s flirting.

“Even if I did know something, what makes you think I’d tell you?”

“Camaraderie among friends?”

Sera snorts, “We aren’t friends!”

“Enemies then,” Dorian amends lightly. He gets a laugh for that, but he also get a shake of Sera’s head, and a roll of her eyes.

“If you’re so interested in him, ask him yourself.” She gets up from the table, done with the conversation, and done with Dorian entirely.

Dorian doesn’t talk to Matthew. Doesn’t have time before the entire world goes to shit. Or at least the part of the world that currently has Dorian in it anyways. It’s really not playing fair when the other party brings a dragon to the field.

Then of course they’re busy hiking through the wilderness to get far enough away from the ruin that was once Haven, and is now the grave of their dear Herald.

They set up camp not too far away, can’t move too far with no directions to go in, and with too many wounded who barely made it this far. Dorian lends his services as a medic for awhile, all he can do unless he wants to be pressed into laundry service. Apparently he’d be good at getting out all the bloodstains, being from Tevinter and all.

Dorian has a feeling that most of the Inquisition is not pleased to make his acquaintance. And the parts of it that are have daggers behind their backs. It’s enough to make a fellow homesick.

His task affords him one advantage though--he’s one of the few who get to see the Herald of Andraste emerge out of a blizzard like one possessed.

Dorian gets one look at Matthew’s face and shudders. Cold blue eyes. Blank face. No exhaustion, no worry, no fear, not even happiness at finally reuniting with the rest of the Inquisition. Simply calm acceptance, before the boy takes one last step and would have fallen flat on his face if it hadn’t been for Cassandra swooping in at the last moment to save him from the ground.

Judging by the other’s expressions, none of them are worried about Maxwell’s lack of emotions. Maybe it’s a southern thing, Dorian muses. But that doesn’t feel right. Especially when he compares Matthew to the Commander, or even to Cassandra. Neither of them give him the chills.

In fact, Matthew makes Dorian think of-- but no. No, it isn’t possible. With the information he has he already knows he’s throwing fire up the wrong tree. For one thing, Matthew doesn’t have a brand on his forehead, and he throws lightning better than Dorian does. He puts that theory out of his mind. It must be something else, that causes that strange blankness that means Dorian can’t read Matthew’s intentions at all.

“How is Skyhold for you, Hellisima?” Dorian hears from his nest in the library. It’s Matthew, judging by the calm even tones that lack almost all intonation.

“Inadequately,” The tranquil says-- Dorian thinks he’s talking to the tranquil anyway, he hadn’t caught her name the first time he had run into her and he hadn’t thought to ask for it after. “I cannot at the present complete my duties to my fullest ability.”

“Do you have any recommendations as to how to improve this state?” Matthew asks.

Dorian resists the urge to crane his neck far enough out of his alcove to see the two parties. Honestly, it’s none of his business. Nor is it even a particularly interesting conversation. Except of course for the fact that it includes Matthew, which automatically makes everything interesting.

He is after all, The Inquisitor.

Dorian tries to focus on his book. He does a bad job of it, all of his attention is still on the conversation happening outside of the stacks. Annoyingly, considering how utterly dull the conversation happens to be.

The tranquil offers suggestions to improve Skyhold, good ones considering how the building is falling apart around everyone's ears. Matthew makes comments, directing who would be in charge of all the minutiae of the requests. In that same, calm measured way of his that drives Dorian up the walls.

Just once he’d like to see Matthew have an emotion.

“How are you being treated?” Matthew asks the tranquil.

“No one is taking advantage of me, and I am free to pursue my studies with minimal interference.”

“Tell me if that changes,” Matthew says.

“I will.”

Judging by the silence afterwards, Dorian presumes the conversation concluded. Good. He needs to get back to his studies, and work out whatever the author of this book was taking to think that fire matrices could be combined in such a way as to produce whatever they were babbling about.

He gets through about a page before the distinct feeling someone is watching him permeates every inch of his being. Dorian snaps his head up to meet the cool gaze of one Matthew Trevelyan, Inquisitor.

Dorian does not make a startled sound, but it’s a close thing. Instead he raises an eyebrow and drawls, “Do you want something, or just here to look?”

“I wanted to know if Skyhold is adequately providing all of your needs.” Matthew says, bland as ever.

Dorian sneers, “And you could gain that knowledge from staring at me?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Interrupt away, Inquisitor.”

“Mattie.”

Dorian blinks, “What?”

“My name. I respond better to Mattie.”

It’s such an odd way to phrase it, I respond better, like the boy doesn’t care what Dorian calls him.

“Mattie then,” Dorian says, “My needs are fine, save for the complete lack of decent wine and all my clothes are designed for much warmer climates than the top of a mountain in a room that lets in a terrible draft.”

“I could find more clothes for you,” Matthew says.

Dorian smiles thinly, “That won’t be necessary,”

Matthew blinks, obviously in confusion and Dorian resists the urge to sigh, “I will be fine,” he says, “go worry about more important things than my complaints.”

“If that’s what you want of me.”

Matthew turns away, Dorian lets his gaze linger on the man’s body until it disappears out of his field of view. As much as the rest of Matthew makes no sense, Dorian would be the first to admit that the mage has an excellent ass. Even through the awful fashions he insists to wear.

Plaidweave does not go with anything. Especially not green silks. One day, Dorian is going to have to join Vivienne and stage an intervention. And then burn the rest of the clothes. Possibly while cackling. He does have a Tevinter Magister image to keep up, what with Mother Giselle having such firm eyes on him.

“Did you know we’re related?” Dorian says, “Second or third cousins a multitude removed. Don’t you think that’s remarkable?”

Matthew gazes at him. “You looked up my family?”

“Oh just a bit. Thought your last name sounded familiar, that’s all.” Buried in a book, Dorian misses the way Matthew’s expression turns considering. By the time Dorian looks up again the Inquisitor is gone.

PAGE BREAK

His hands are shaking. Even hours later in his alcove his hands still tremor slightly with rage. Dorian refuses to consider the possibility that it’s more than rage doing this. Making his jaw tighten and the words of the dusty tome skip and repeat themselves as his eyes skim over the page.

Damn him. Damn everything.

He turns, giving up on research. He needs a drink, needs in fact several drinks. He almost runs headlong into Matthew, standing in the entrance of the small alcove.

Dorian swears. a horrible oath in Tevene before he manages to bite his tongue and compose himself.

“What do you want?”

Matthew appears to have no reaction to almost being bowled over. Dorian is really starting to hate that poker face of his.

“I thought I should check up on you,” Max says.

“I’m not one of your tranquil friends,” Dorian hisses. Absolutely affronted for reasons he doesn’t care to elaborate on. “I don’t need you to check up on me.”

Matthew tilts his head slightly, like Dorian is a particularly difficult puzzle box given at Midwinter.

“You’re upset.”

“Yes. Well one tends to be when confronted with the very man they wished to never set eyes upon for the rest of their life.”

“I didn’t know it would be your father.”

“And you didn’t think it would be worth mentioning to me that someone from my family would want to talk to me?”

Matthew looks at him with those cold, practically dead eyes. “The Chantry mother said not to.”

“And you trust her?”

“Of course.”

Dorian’s fists clench. His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to grind his teeth. “Then it appears we have reached an impasse, dear Inquisitor.”

Matthew inclines his head. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, Dorian.” The words are mechanical, lacking any type of sincerity. Dorian can’t even glean the false platitude that would normally infect the tone of the words.

He sneers, haughty. “You don’t even know why I’m upset. You have no idea what it’s like to have a family who detests everything about you. To have to look at the man who should love you unconditionally and know that he would betray every moral he has in order to mold you into something you aren’t!”

Matthew’s face, blank at the best of times twists into something resembling an actual human expression before it flatlines again. Dorian thrills with the knowledge that if he pushes hard he can crack what looks like an impassable facade.

“I’m a mage,” Matthew says. “Of course I know what it’s like.” He leaves then. Muttering something or other about another obligation. As is always the Inquisitor’s way, running to and fro around the keep and all its inhabitants. Dorian is left to stare at his back, mouth agape and feeling like a fool. That’s the problem with being in a foreign country; Dorian always forgets that here it’s mages who are at the bottom of the ladder, instead of at the top.

Dorian resolves to leave the man alone. The Inquisitor, Matthew. Obviously the man isn’t interested in bedding him and while Dorian isn’t the best at the whole privacy thing he can work out when his nose isn’t wanted.

It lasts for about all of a week.

Skyhold takes in another group of mage refugees and templar platoon with nowhere else to go. Dorian, up in the rafters of the library can only vaguely ascertain the screaming match that happens when the two groups meet each other. By the time curiosity sends him down the stairs the argument is mostly over, reduced now to silent glares from either side of the courtyard.

At the very center stands Matthew, Cullen, and a templar that Dorian doesn’t recognise. The air around them makes the hair on Dorian’s arms raise when he slinks forwards to if not intervene at least understand what all the fuss is about. The area is saturated with static--the surest sign that a lightning mage is being pushed to the end of their tether. Matthew’s face is as blank as it always is. It is the two non-mages who show any sign of being angry.

“Inquisitor we need all the support we can get.” Cullen is saying in an undertone. “We don’t have the option of just refusing people. Especially after we’ve granted them shelter.”

“You granted them shelter,” Matthew says. “If I had known about this beforehand then there wouldn’t be a problem.” His gaze is firmly fixed on the other templar. Not Cullen.

“It said that all were welcome,” the Templar says. The smile he gives is all teeth, “Now be a good boy and do what you’re told.”

“How about you do what you’re told to for once,” Matthew says. For the first time Dorian hears an undercurrent of emotion there. In every single syllable Matthew oozes with pure hatred. “How about you leave me alone as both the knight commander and first enchanter of Ostwick both ordered you to do? How about you stop chasing me across countries and go back to being the stain upon the makers breeches that you are?”

“Inquisitor!”

“Haven’t you grown a spine. Leadership doesn’t suit you Mattie.”

“Matthew.”

“Is that any way to treat an old friend, Mattie?”

“You aren’t my friend!” Matthew’s voice cracks, and so does his magic. Lightning arcs across his fingers, and then the courtyard, reaching for the templar that still stands, sneering at Matthew.

Cullen curses. He grabs Matthew by the back of his robes, blue light shining from his closed fingers. The lightning stops. Matthew slumps, puppet cut from it’s strings. A smite, Dorian recognises from fighting alongside Cassandra. Even from his safe distance Dorian can feel the smites power pushing at his magic.

“Should have branded you while we all had the chance,” the Templar says. “Then you could have joined mummy and daddy and been a good boy for everyone instead of pretending to be the herald of Andraste. As if any Trevelyan has the chance to make anything of themselves.”

Matthew snarls, struggling to keep upright under Cullen’s hold.

“What?” Dorian says, before he can think better of it.

“You mean you don’t know?” the Templar mocks. “Oh Matthew, how is anyone meant to keep you safe if they don’t know about your little problem?”

“Don’t,” Matthew says. The rest of whatever he says lost as the Templar laughs.

“Matthew Trevelyan should be tranquil,” The Templar announces. Loud enough for the words to carry across the whole of the courtyard. “Your Inquisitor is an emotionally volatile, immature mage who is a danger both to himself and others. The only reason he’s not branded like the rest of the mages in his family is because the Knight Commander of Ostwick gave him to the mage hunters so he could be used as a weapon until he went and ran away. Isn’t that right Matthew?”

Dorian scoffs. “Matthew? Emotionally volatile? Until today I didn’t think the man had any feelings at all! Matthew, surely you can’t let this man slander you like this.”

Matthew’s head bows. His silence all the answer anyone needs.

“Ah,” Dorian says. “I see.”

Matthew shrugs out of Cullen’s lax fingers. For the first time since the fall of Haven he doesn’t stand at his full height. His shoulders hunch in on themselves, hands buried in pockets. He doesn’t meet anyone's gaze.

“Rutherford lock this man in the dungeon. Someone else will have to try him.”

“What is he being tried for?”

Matthew just snorts. “Where would you like me to start?” He asks. The question made rhetorical as he turns on his heel and stalks towards the tavern. Dorian watches him leave. For the second time in as many conversations with Matthew, he feels like an idiot.

Later, Dorian leans across a chessboard and says in an undertone, “Is there something that I don’t know about Matthew?”

Cullen doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t understand what Dorian is asking. “You know I used to work in Kirkwall before here.”

“Yes, it’s all anyone could talk about for months on end,” Dorian says. “What does this have to do with it?”

“Ostwick is next to Kirkwall. The conditions there aren’t as infamous but they’re by no means pleasant.”

“Like all mage towers south of Tevinter.”

Cullen nods. “In particular Ostwick and other parts of the Free Marches are known for an agreement that the noble families have with the knight commanders. The nobles hand over a lump of gold that goes straight in the templars pockets, and the circle looks after any of the families offspring until a marriage has been set up.”

“As far as I was aware mages can’t marry here.”

“They can’t.”

Dorian tilts his head. “Then how does this agreement work?”

“The same way everything in the circle works.” Cullen’s eyes close. “The Trevelyan family is governed by Matthew’s grandmother, in part because she won’t let anyone else take the title from her, but the real reason is because both her son and daughter in law are tranquil.”

It takes Dorian a moment to work out the sick feeling in his stomach. Revulsion, he finally settles on as Cullen trounces him at chess. Horrified and fascinated revulsion.

“And everyone but me knew about this?” he asks.

“It wasn’t uncommon knowledge in Kirkwall.” Cullen checkmates his king. “And he told the others who didn’t know. It’s why his emotions don’t work the way you expect them to; for most of his life he’s been surrounded by tranquil, and after that the circle treated him as being only slightly better than one.”

“Do I not count as being worthy of being told? Should I be insulted?” Dorian smiles as he says it but he does feel betrayed. “Is it because I’m an evil Magister?”

Cullen looks up at Dorian. “He thought you knew.”

The lightning flickers between Matthews fingers. Purple energy coalesced into a ball about the size of his palm. Matthew throws it into the air, catches it. His room smells like the evening before a storm, rain on the horizon but still only threatening to fall.

Up.

Down.

On his other hand the mark of the breach burns with foreign enchantment. It hurts. A dull pain that promises to get worse before it gets better.

His staff sits in the corner of the room. Dawnstone and dragon bone and runes for frost.

Up.

Down.

Tranquil do not have emotions. They’re incapable of them, as well as of wanting more than the basics. No one cares what happens to a tranquil. Matthew is not tranquil. His emotions rise and fall like tides. Blinding in their ferocity one second the next he barely feels anything at all.

Matthew is angry almost all of the time.

Up.

Down.

He is emotionally volatile, only allowed to exist because of his high amounts of magic. A side product of tranquil pairings; the offspring are more likely to be mages as well. The footnote of Matthew’s existence written in the informal language of a textbook. He had burned the textbook after reading it.

The nobles, already unhappy with him, will demand the brand for him. The mages will be split on the issue; some agreeing that a dangerous mage is better dead, the others crying about the abuses that tranquil suffer.

His inner circle will be similarly split. Sera will be afraid of him, as will Bull. Solas will not understand and Vivienne will misinterpret the results to fit herself. Cassandra will take it as her duty to fell him if his magic goes too far out of control.

Up.

Down.

Blackwall is a mystery, could go one way or the other depending on what he views his duty to be. Dorian, who lives in a world where magic is used from everything from powering colossi to fight the horned invaders to courting gifts will fail to see the issue entirely. Varric will want to write a book.

Cullen will institute a guard and Josephine will agree with him to fend off the angry letters. Leliana will deal with the templar in the dungeon without asking Matthew beforehand. The mages and the Templars will argue with each other before realising that in Skyhold there’s no point, especially when the world might be ending in a few months. Weeks. Days.

Up.

Down.

Matthew is volatile. The Inquisitor is not. The Inquisitor is the one who must lead them all to victory, to fight against Corypheus. To win, to close every breach in the fade with a power that no one else is able to replicate.

Up.

Matthew draws the sunburst on his forehead.

The Inquisitor has no emotions save one: Will to go on.

The ball of lightning fades out of existence, tendrils of magic escaping to the fade.

Matthew closes his eyes, breathes.

Tomorrow he’ll go to the Hinterlands. It’s about time he dealt with that damn goat.

#Matthew Trevelyan #Male Inquisitor #DA I #Dragon Age Inquisition #Origin stories

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