#please feel free to keep em coming though! I love being able to flesh out this world I've got going with the inhuman vessels :)

[scribbledghost]

okay one more ask then I Must Sleep

[maddestzoomer]

honey and glass

chapter one - early morning thoughts

read on ao3

summary: The feelings Max has for Eleven both alarm and attract her. Now that the girl she likes has moved away, it's time Max comes to terms with her emotions.

warnings: swearing, violence, homophobia, neil hargrove being an asshole, grief, general angst

word count: 2.3k

a.n.

- i thought this would be a really cute concept, so i decided to turn it into a story :) if you end up with any thoughts, feelings, or helpful criticisms about this concept, feel free to share them by either messaging me or leaving them in the comments! <3

OCTOBER 21st, 1986

Who do you think of in the early mornings?

When the sun flirts with the treetops and your throat aches with dryness, who lingers in the back of your mind?

For Max, it's almost always Eleven. Sometimes it's Billy and sometimes it's even her dad, Sam, but more often than not, it's flashes of that lovely brunette.

Now, though, thoughts of El don't just happen in the early mornings when one's brain is foggy and grey. It happens when she reads a comic or when she skates past the destroyed remnants of Starcourt. It happens when she hangs out with Lucas or when she listening to sappy '80s love songs.

Oddly enough, thoughts of El almost always come whirl around Max's mind when she's around a girl named Robin.

The two had gotten to know one another rather awkwardly, both being sat down on a stretcher as firefighters and other EMS workers buzzed like busy bees around them. There's no better way to meet a new friend than through shared trauma, right?

Robin tried to comfort the shocked, crying Max through distracting stories, but the words got jumbled and the stories turned soupy. Enough so that Max ended up laughing a bit, though it was a sad laugh. It was a laugh that still held pained tears in her eyes- but it was better than nothing.

Over the months, the two had gotten closer; sort of becoming the female friendship equivalent of Steve and Dustin.

Their friendship is pleasant and comforting. Robin acts almost as though she were the big sibling Max never got to (and will never again get to) have. Plus, it was nice to have another girl around after Eleven left.

Max was pulled from her thoughts as she heard Neil walk down the hallway, all slow feet and heavy steps. She felt her chest grow tight and her stomach twist as she clenched her jaw.

Ever since Billy's death, Neil has been absolute hell to be around. An almost constant haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke follows him like a kicked dog, making him sour at his best and raging at his worst.

Max gripped her blanket tightly as Neil walked past her door, which was thankfully closed.

It's officially been a year since she moved from California, now being October in Hawkins. One full rotation around the Sun was enough to completely toss her world upon its head.

It was strange to think about how different her life was when she was back in California. All the people she didn't know, all the feelings she didn't have.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Sometimes she thought about what her life would have been if she'd stayed in California and lived with her dad- but she didn't like paying much mind to those thoughts given how little they changed anything.

Her feet were greeted with cold floors, earning a soft cringe from Max as she stood up. Walking to her dresser, she got out a pair of jeans and an old, sun-bleached t-shirt.

It was Saturday, and Max's plans for the day were relatively nonexistent, though she did know she'd like to stop by and visit with Robin for a little while.

She had a few questions she needed answering and she figured (hoped, mostly) Robin may have been able to help.

She got dressed, then brushed her hair and teeth before washing her face with cold water.

Today felt heavy, which was strange. Normally, once the sun greeted the sky, icky feelings were banished to a corner of Max's mind until the moon again rose. It was easier that way; to smile and laugh without worrying, even if it wasn't genuine.

Maybe the icky feeling had to do with the questions Max wanted to ask Robin, or maybe it had to do with the fact Max hardly got any sleep.

Whatever it was, though, Max didn't want to think about it much longer, and so she ignored it.

Max was fantastic at ignoring feelings. Some would call it compartmentalizing, but Max would call it self preservation.

She grabbed her jean jacket, shouldering it on before slipping on a pair of shoes, then picking her skateboard up. It was still early- 7:48 am to be more specific- so she figured the rest of the party would still be sleeping, but probably not Robin. The girl was the queen of rising early in the morning.

Slowly, she came from her room, already smelling early morning cigarette smoke and misplaced anger.

Her stomach twisted in knots as she heard some rummaging in the kitchen- a glass fall and then some mumbled curses.

Just then, she decided breakfast wouldn't be a priority today. Quietly, she closed her door again before heading to her window.

She opened the window, biting down on her bottom lip as it squeaked open.

Softly, she huffed as she tossed her skateboard from the window, then jumping down with an uncomfortable thud.

Fall whispers in the chilly early morning air, telling of the winter that's to come.

Max runs a hand through her thick hair, picking her board up before beginning to walk to the road where she could ride.

If she were being completely honest, Max seriously isn't a morning person- but she can appreciate how quiet the world becomes when the sun has just barely risen and how it can feel like the world is yours, even if only for a little while.

. . .

If there was one thing Max was usually thankful for, it's the fact Robin doesn't live all that far from her house- Only a fifteen-minute ride on skateboard.

Today, however, Max wasn't as thankful for her friend's close residence. Maybe this wasn't the right thing to do... but who else could she turn to? Who did she trust enough to tell her secret to?

Secrets are what define people, as opposed to what one decides to show the world. There's a type of safety that comes with secret-keeping- but there's also insecurity and doubt.

So... how would the world react to a girl loving another girl?

That single thought made Max chew on the flesh inside her cheek, beginning to feel her pulse quicken. What even was love, anyway? Max knew gay people existed- men who loved men and women who loved women. After all, she was raised near San Francisco.

Robin had already come out to Max.

Well- sort of.

Max had jokingly asked Robin if she was crushing on anyone, to which Robin grew quiet. Quiet enough for it to become worrisome.

Max became stressed when she saw Robin beginning to drift off, and so she immediately apologized for asking a seemingly invasive question, which only made Robin chuckle a little awkwardly

"I... uh," Robin let out a sharp breath, smiling faintly "You wouldn't know her."

Her?

Max didn't press Robin any further after that. She felt she didn't need to, and on top of that, she didn't want to make Robin any more uncomfortable than she already clearly was.

That was a couple of months ago, and the topic of sexuality hasn't come up since. That isn't to say Max hasn't thought about what Robin said.

Max thought of her interaction with Robin often. It was the reason Max hoped talking with Robin would help answer some of her questions... But at the same time, the questions she had made her feel uncomfortably queasy.

The very last thing Max wanted to do would be to damage her friendship between her and Robin, and there was a part of her that thought the questions she had would make the older girl want to sever their friendship.

Max swallowed down harshly as she realized she was nearing Robin's street.

Worst comes to worst- Max can decide not to ask the questions. She can just say something about her wanting to get out of the house- something about Neil being in a predictably bad mood- which really wouldn't be a lie... just, sort of double-speaking.

The feeling of unease only grew stronger as she skated closer to her friend's home. For a quick moment, she considered turning around.

Fuck- Was this even appropriate- to show up at your friend's house unannounced at nearly 8 in the morning with questions one fears the answers to?

Maybe it was.

Max stomped her foot on the ground a few times until she was at a stop, then bent over and grabbed her board. She already felt her chest growing tighter, and so she took a deep breath.

She stared at her friend's house for a few moments (studying it, thinking of the conversation ahead, contemplating what the actual fuck is next) before beginning to walk up the home's cement path and to the porch, where she felt her heart quicken slightly more with every step

Then, taking another deep breath, she raised her arm and gently knocked on the door.

Max knew Robin's mom wouldn't be home just yet considering she was a nurse who worked the night-shift, which made things ever-so-slightly easier.

Robin's mom, Lily, was a lovely woman, but it was better if it was only her and Robin- especially considering Max didn't know what her friend's reaction would be. And, on top of it, she didn't have much longer to think about those possibilities.

"Oh- Hey, Max!" A messy-haired Robin greeted with a smile as she opened the door. "What are you doing here?" Her tone wasn't at all angry or bothered, just genuinely curious.

"I just needed to get out of the house." Max said as Robin moved from the doorway, wordlessly welcoming the younger girl into her home.

"Fair enough." Robin said, closing the door. She knew what Max's home life was like.

"Want some french toast? I accidentally made extra." By 'accidentally made extra', Robin actually meant she was fine with sacrificing some of her food for Max.

"Uh, yes, please." Max replied softly, slipping her shoes off and setting her skateboard down at the doorway. Seeing Robin helped to extinguish some of that anxiety- but still, part of it remained, floating around in her brain.

Max found herself glancing around the home a few times to pictures of a baby Robin and to the occasional small, somewhat floral painting. The house's aesthetic was so completely opposite of Robin's- all peach walls and sea-foam carpets with an almost constant lingering smell of bleach.

"You have any plans for today?" Robin asked, glancing over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen.

Max shook her head as she followed. "No. Not yet, anyway."

"Good, cause' I want you to hang out with me today." Robin turned away, grabbing a spatula so she could put two slices on a plate.

Max frowned a bit, smiling slightly. "And what does 'hanging out' entail?"

"I dunno," Robin said with a small chuckle, placing the plate down on the kitchen's counter. "I just wanna get out of the house for today. I hate being cooped up all the time."

Robin, unsurprisingly, hates staying in one place for too long. She likes going on walks and driving around- exploring and such. There's almost never enough to see and do, especially in a town as boring and conservative as Hawkins.

"Alright then."

Robin added another two pieces of french toast to a different plate, then went to a drawer to grab out two forks. The whole time she did this, Max watched her quietly. Even though Robin was always fun and interesting to spend time with, Max still simply couldn't stop thinking of what her reaction might be.

But Robin likes girls too, right? So what kind of homophobic hypocrite would one have to be to push away a young girl with questions of her sexuality?

"Want some coffee?" Robin asked, which earned a small smile and nod from Max. There weren't many people she knew who'd offer a 14-year-old coffee. She liked it, though. It made her feel more adult in some ways, even though it was only a beverage.  

Silence again fell over the two as Robin prepared for the two to eat. The silence wasn't uncomfortable (at least not to Robin), but it did feel strange to Max.

Glancing to the clock on the wall, Max saw it was a little past 8 now. Fuck.

Getting the question out of the way now might be better, right? If Robin reacts badly, Max can just have the whole day to herself to process possibly losing a friend.

Max ran a hand through her hair, wishing she could simply pause her thoughts. Slowly, she trod over to the counter. Inside, her feelings felt brewed and blended- unable to make any one distinct emotion.

"What kind of creamer do you want? We have French Vanilla and Pumpkin Spice." Robin said, making her way over to the fridge.

Max didn't bother answering the question. Instead, she simply stared at the egg-shell white of the counter, contemplating what the everliving fuck she should do. Her back was turned to Robin, which was comforting in an offbeat way.

Her mind couldn't stop jumping from two opposites- from thinking Robin will in no way help and will think she's weird to thinking she will actually be able to help given she sort of implied she likes girls.

"Robin?" Max finally croaked out, her voice sounding unfamiliarly insecure. She harshly bit down on the inside of her bottom lip upon feeling Robin's eyes land on her. At that moment, she wished she could shrink down and disappear or simply, that she never spoke in the first place.

Robin frowned once she heard Max's tone, just how peculiar it sounded. Almost automatically, something felt off. "Umm... Yeah?"

Just say it.

Just say it.

It's not that hard.

It's not that fucking hard.

"How do you know you like girls?"

[2120hq]

Welcome to 2120HQ! For the following characters under read more, please send in your account within 24 HOURS and go through the CHECKLIST. If you have any other questions, please feel free to send me an IM or inbox as usual. I can’t wait to start writing with all of you!

ABSINTHE aka RIPLEY ( FC: Angela Sarayfan ) written by TARA.

Oof. Ripley has had a rough start in life. Actually, Ripley’s had it rough all through her life but I was so mesmerized by her story that I couldn’t stop reading once I started. The disappearance of her parents, then Joy, her involvement with Synth, then finally venturing into her current work – and the part with the futuristic drugs that you’ve created! I’m tempted to add all of that into a separate page on the main blog right now. Ripley is going to be such a force in Metropolis, I can feel it, and I’m beyond thrilled that she’s here.

BABYDOLL aka LYRA SADIK ( FC: Neslihan Atagül ) written by EM.

Em, I don’t even have the right words to describe how devastated I felt while I was reading your application, in all the right ways. I only had a small seedling of an idea for Babydoll, but you took that and made it make so much sense - why she keeps everyone at a distance, how she took the name Babydoll and made it her own. Everything about Lyra was so beautifully tragic and I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since I first took a look at your writing. So happy to have her (and you) here and I can’t wait to see what she does.

CASPER aka ( FC: Damaris Goddrie ) written by MARLOWE.

I think what helped me make this choice was how clear Juniper’s voice was in your writing. They’re actually quite funny, which I adored, but that lightness and humor quickly developed into something that felt a lot heavier as Juniper lost their family and fell into a partnership with Mars. Radicalization. Sure, it’s a strong word, but I think that’s exactly where I wanted Casper to be - wanting action, wanting to be the sword for the rebellion. Even in their frustration, though, I can really tell that Juniper cares a lot about the people of D3 and the other mutants; I can’t wait to see where this takes them. 

GEMINI aka BOBBY REYES ( FC: Rome Flynn ) written by AARON.

I’m a little (and by that, I mean completely) in love with Bobby. I love all the parts of your application, from the format to the dialogue to that small peak at Bobby’s set – I think he’s meant to be charming anyway but I’m head over heels for him. My favorite part was when Bobby-and-Bobby were talking to each other on his birthday and starting laughing. It warmed my heart and it was bittersweet all at once - exactly what I was looking for in Gemini. I’m super happy that you’re here!

MARS aka IRIS / NADIA MAYS ( FC: Sonequa Martin-Green ) written by RONI. 

This was no doubt the hardest decision I’ve had to make today and I’m, again, very saddened by the fact that both of you went for this one role. I wish I could duplicate Mars and I want to scream! What I loved so much about Iris, amongst many other things, was how smart she is. Her survival instincts just kicked in but it’s also so clear that she’s patient and strong and hurt and angry and it just made me want to see a lot more of her. I also should let you know here that I’m super on board with all of your rebellion plans 👀 - and I’m really looking forward to writing against Iris!

MOONBEAM aka NOEMI ELARA PERRINE ( FC: Jessica Henwick ) written by JORDAN.

This might sound odd, but my favorite thing about your interpretation of Moonbeam was how you showed all her imperfections and complexities. Moonbeam, I think, was one of the harder characters to really flesh out - she can’t be just about her upbringing and she certainly can’t just be about resentment or her sense of adventure. But you balanced each side of her so well and you clearly have so many plans for her - I really love Noemi so much and I can’t wait to write against her.

NIGHTINGALE aka SANTIAGO CRUZ ( FC: Charles Michael Davis ) written by ALEXA.

‘Despite only being a child, Santiago was placed on a pedestal.’ One of the main things I was looking for in Nightingale was their struggle with the burden or responsibility that was put on them because of their power. How incredibly tiring that must have been – there needed to be a reason for them to question what they were doing now. And you showed that so well through Santiago; I can practically feel his exhaustion through the screen that all I want to do is tell him to rest – so I’ll be looking forward to how you develop him in the group!

REAPER aka MIGUEL GARCIA HERNANDEZ ( FC: David Castaneda ) written by EMILY.

I’m not sure that this was what you’d planned, but I was so obsessed with your Reaper the moment I started reading your application that I honestly don’t think anyone else could have filled the spot. And I sincerely hope that everyone will get to read your full application because it was so incredibly detailed and amazing and heartbreaking that I actually might have started crying when I was reading about Miguel. I also am so blown away by the fact that Miguel actually has his own motivations when it comes to Metropolis – and his far-too-complicated relationship with Rebecca and her vision of the city. I could go on forever but I mostly, I’m just really happy that Miguel is now in our lives.

SUNGLOW aka SAFFIRA CITRINE FLINT ( FC: Laura Harrier ) written by MISHA. 

I’m really bummed that I have to make a decision at all - both applications were so, so good that I’m actually kind of mad that I have to choose! In the end, I think Saffira’s voice showed very strongly in the interactions that she had, and the little sprinkles of dialogue you threw in, Misha. From the outside, Saffira really is someone who has everything, but there were still so many complexities you threw in - her relationship with Victor, the end of that relationship, and how curious she actually is by nature. I can really see her going somewhere within this story, and I think that potential is really what drew me to Saffira. Can’t wait to see what she does!

TINMAN aka IDRIS SALEM ( FC: Marwan Kenzari ) written by JESSIE.

How dare you make me love a A WHOLE FAMILY and then make me sad! ‘the salems, a vibrant staple in district three, fades to the background.’ This really broke my heart into pieces and I don’t have enough words to describe how much I feel for them. And Idris is so complicated – he has so much kindness but so much anger inside him at the same time, and the fact that he’s trying to convince Mars that violence isn’t the answer because he’s tried that – ugh. I’ll stop here before I end up writing a whole thing, but I’m so glad to have you!

YOKAI aka PETER FUKUYAMA ( FC: Ryan Potter ) written by ANA.

Honestly, I couldn’t get the image out of a mizuchi flying across Metropolis or roaming through the Graveyard – you really made Peter into a living legend of sorts; a terrifying myth that exist in the darkest corners of the district. But Peter the person is so different from that creature: he’s soft and protective and loyal underneath all of that. I’m really, really curious to see what happens with Peter and the rebellion especially, because the plans you’ve given me could take him to such different places. Welcome, Ana! Happy to have you here.

[gcldveins]

LASTLY but definitely not least ... daniel weaver ! my newest muse, like literally fresh out the oven .. i’m making this all up as we go fdjngdk so this will be the least organized and thorough intro, i ... am extremely sorry u have to read this...

overview

✎⌠idris elba. cismale. he/him⌡❝ — well, look who’s just arrived ! if it isn’t the one and only daniel weaver. though, around here they’re known as the recluse. don’t tell ‘em i said this but the forty-four year old detective kinda has a reputation of being controlling and abrasive. but y’know, they can be loyal and diligent too. typical scorpio. anyways, welcome home and stay safe weaver ! ❞

statistics

full name: daniel gilligan weaver.

nickname(s): none, literally even his full name he doesn’t like fnjsdfkn

date of birth: october 27th, 1976

hometown: boston, massachusetts.

gender identity: cis gender

preferred pronouns: he/him

sexual orientation: heterosexual

hogwarts house: gryffindor

aesthetic: leather watches, awkward silences, the smell of burnt coffee, late nights, tired eyes, forced smiles, a glass of scotch before five, wrinkled collars, crooked ties, the sound of classic jazz on a turntable

distinguishable characteristics: patron saint of Not Smiling

pinterest board: here

their song from the sigh no more album bc i love this album and it makes me Sad™: sigh no more

background: murder, ptsd tw

— i’m so sorry it’s 1 am and i literally had nothing prepared so this is just going to be a summary and everything else i’ll just ... make up as i go along O_O

— so daniel’s not a misty hollow local, he’s a city kid that grew up in boston ! and growing up, daniel’s family didn’t have a whole lot. he grew up as the oldest son, he has one older sister and then two younger siblings, a girl and a boy. 

— so yeah, big family in an expensive city, money was tight. daniel’s parents were your regular, working class folks who had to pick up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. but they made it work ! they were an overall pretty happy family !

— even as a child, daniel always stood up for others. whether it be him, eight years old at the school playground, witnessing another kid get pushed to the ground. or him at eighteen, seeing someone in his class getting bullied at school.

— your typical.. very honourable, golden-hearted type. was taught to always show compassion towards others and to give them the blanket off your back if needed.

— that’s why the decision to become a police office only seemed like the natural one ! so he did that, worked as a cop for a few years before eventually making his way up the ranks and earning his title as detective. 

— he worked in the special victims unit ( because i love law & order ) and daniel was on his way to becoming a lieutenant until a particular case hit him hard. 

— missing girl. reminded him a lot of his youngest sister and letting his emotions get the best of him, had made a promise to the parents that he would find her. daniel got really invested in the case, and when they found the girl’s body, dead and brutally murdered, it devastated him. 

— he took a few months of absence at work before ultimately leaving. he picked everything up and accepted the first job offering out of boston that he could find. he moved to a random town in the middle of nowhere .. misty hollow, which brings us to now !

— daniel wanted a fresh start, to lay low and just .. leave all that behind him honestly. he feels like it’s his fault that the girl died and constantly wonders if he had just acted a little quicker.. he still gets nightmares from the case, and there’ll be little things that remind him of it and it just immediately brings him back. so he’s trying to move on from all that. but not properly cause what is emotional intelligence ? idk

personality

— a very closed off and private person. he’s curt and gets to the point, which can come across as rude sometimes.. put he just doesn’t have a lot of patience for dilly-dallying i guess gjdfnk

— very loyal and caring ! once you’ve demolished those stupid walls of his, literally has one of the biggest, softest hearts ever. will over-dedicate himself to people and things that he cares very deeply about. thank god he never got married.

— he knows that he has a tendency to overly-invest himself in others, which is why he often tries to keep others at a distance.

— erm can lean on being self-righteous... so yeah that can be pretty annoying. has this notion that like .. everything rests on his shoulders and is responsible for everyone.

— as jin perfectly summed up “��would die for you but won’t hug you ”

— jesus this is so basic and awful but... i am very sleepy and my brain is drawing a blank right now. hopefully !! you get the gist !! and i’ll be able to flesh him out some more through plotting <3

wanted connections

give this man some fucking friends please

the first person he met in misty hollow ? maybe they showed him around !

if anyone is from boston ... hellauw.. lets do smth with that

drinking buddies !! someone that ( when he’s had enough drinks ) opens up to !

younger muses ... listen.. he’ll be your dad / big bro figure. literally anyone under the age of 40 he sees as a kid that must be protected at all costs ( from their own stupidity, but that part he keeps to himself )

co-workers !!! 

uhh i wanna say casual relationships but .. daniel’s not really inclined towards that, this would have to be like .. a one-off occurrence after some poor judgement and probably lots of alcohol 

someone that just .. bugs the living crap out of him.. pls.. if ur muse is the complete opposite of daniel.. this wld be perfect

god this is difficult because the man is literally.. socially inept .. like might be a robot but ! i’m more than open to brainstorming. so please, feel free to throw anything my way !! and if we can’t figure something out between these two, we can just throw them at each other in a random thread and see what happens !!

[ms31x129]

@xfpornbattle @muldermakesmehorny @cultureisdarkbeer @season4mulder @peacenik0  @today-in-fic (I’m cheating a bit this is Chapter 1.) 

#61 Somehow Mulder has to pretend to go down on Scully. He teases her until neither of them can take it anymore.

AO3 version HERE. Or read below.

Inner Sanctum: Shadow Play

The universe is conspiring against him. Mulder is convinced. Scully thinks the same thing - although neither of them voice the thought aloud.

In 6 years working together they’d only been undercover as a couple once. Once is all it took - it seemed now every time they needed a pair of agents to pose undercover Mulder and Scully were called in to assist.

Which is how they found themselves here on assignment with 2 other pairs of agents trying to catch a suspect in a string of home invasions. All the victims were wealthy and all had confessed to visiting this particular establishment. 

An establishment that catered to specific vises. The outer business, the Inner Sanctum, was a high class cocktail bar. The right amount of power and money would get you through the secret door and into the real business.

Fantasies. Sex…. Shadow Play.

All the victims had come from this rented room. In the middle of was a circular stage the props interchanged as needed for each fantasy. It was simple this time a bed, a chaise lounge, dresser, an antique looking vanity, with an oval mirror and stool, nightstand - a typical bedroom. 

Some type of glass door system and a curtain on a track would allow for the Shadows of those within to be seen by the voyeur or voyeurs watching without. Chairs, lounges, sofas, tables were spread throughout the rest of the room. All with padded wrist restraints. This room was for instructing the Shadowplayer and then watching, listening to the performance without being able to touch.

Mulder could relate he’d held the object of his affection in his arms many times. Kissed her forehead, her cheek - he tried to kiss her once in his hallway - fate in the form of a Bee. What are the odds of that? Some would call it fate. Even he thought that for a while.

He rescued the girl and himself if he was honest, without her… could he have went on? Attempts to push her away after that were unsuccessful. She’d taken his hand that day and told him ‘if I quit now they win.’

Really not fair to repeat his own words back at him. But that was Scully. Diana had strolled back in and if he was honest - it hurt that Scully even thought he wanted to rekindle anything with her. Especially after kissing her doppelganger and telling her the words he had been so good at keeping locked away in his heart. 

I love you and oh brother as a response was not what he expected. Whey were all these thoughts rolling in his head now before this important stakeout? Maybe it’s because they were all just informed they would have to act out whatever the customer wants - no matter what.

Or maybe it’s because Scully and the other 2 female FBI agents just walked out in their ‘costumes.’ Scully locked eyes with him almost daring him to look anywhere else. It was too late he’d been tracking her movements the moment she stepped into the room.

While he and the other male agents were all dressed similarly in t-shirts and jeans the female agents were dressed for their part - the bored housewife who calls for a repair man. Dressed for seduction and Scully was in black lace.

How was he going to survive this assignment? Mulder could feel the moisture rise to the surface of his skin. He barely resisted the urge to wipe his brow. Was the room suddenly too hot? Was his blood boiling? No it was Scully fantasy #5 and it was live in front of his eyes. To be honest black lace wasn’t a requirement Scully in any color lace would be a turn on. 

Correction … Is a turn on - there’s an undeniable thickening beneath his denim. Shit.

Mulder glanced at the other agents he noticed he wasn’t the only one fidgeting. Scully finally arrived at his side and he resisted the urge to offer her his coat when he saw her shiver. That fact he wasn’t wearing a coat was beside the point.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

She stared straight ahead and responded, “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with. Hopefully one of the other pairs of agents will be chosen.”

No such luck. The universe was dead set on wrecking havoc on Mulder and Scully’s lives.

The client’s came in a couple, they sat down and an attendant locked their restraints. It was like a private production.

“Welcome to Shadow Play. You know the rules choose your couple and once they enter the Shadow Stage they will follow your instructions. They are your puppets and you are the puppet masters.” The attendant paced before the couples and with a flourish of his hand he spoke.

“Choose the lady of play.”

The man was tall with closely cropped blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His voice was a deep bass with a slight English or Australian accent when he spoke, “The little one - the redhead. Darling do you like her?”

His feminine counterpart nodded, “Oh yes she’ll be perfect.” With her husky alto it sounded more like purr-fect.

The attendant nodded to Scully, “Please enter the chamber and the other ladies may exit.”

Mulder saw the deep breath Scully took and his hand automatically went to her back as she walked around him and they started into the chamber. He was brought to a halt with the attendants next words.

“Now who do you chose for lord of the play?”

Wait. What? 

Scully paused and then continued on her way - her shoulders had slumped for a moment and then firmed with resignation. This wasn’t the prearranged plan and his eyes narrowed. There was no way anyone, but him was going in there with Scully. Plan or not.

The three men stood still. Mulder felt like chatel - did the other agents feel the same he wondered.

“Darling? Don’t you want the one in the middle? His hair is the same color as mine?”

“He is quite striking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to you. I won’t be able to see their hair color behind the curtain anyway…. I don’t know how can I decide when they are clothed. I need to see their cocks.”

The attendant cleared his throat, “That is not part of the rules, everything happens in shadow.”

“Fuck the rules MAN, my wife wants to see their cocks and I’ve paid for our time. In fact bring Red back out give them some inspiration… I know I’m inspired.” His erection was clearing outlined by the navy trousers he wore and his wife licked her lips feeling her own body responding.

The attendant was clearly ruffled, Mulder noted the fact and filed it away. Scully stepped back out every eye was one her. Creamy skin dusted with the faintest of freckles she stood unafraid and comfortable in her own skin.

“Drop the straps luv, give the gents something to wonder about. I see firm high breasts a perfect handful - are those nips pink like a kitten's tongue, peachy like a succulent apricot? Or dark rose like the juicy flesh of a woman’s cunt?”

Scully reached up and slid first one strap and then the other, until they draped like a piece of black licorice he wanted to gnaw through. And he didn’t even like black licorice, red - cherry flavor yes. That didn’t help his growing problem thinking about Scully in red.

“Okay c’mon gents don’t be shy we all know why we’re here. Whip out your equipment my wife wants to see your packages. We’ve all got ‘em. If my hands were free I’d whip mine out right now. Wouldn't I darling? You'd suck me off right here on your knees. Yes my pet sucks like a Dyson.”

"Do you like bush, men? My pet has a nice little bush just enough that it tickles my lips when I'm eating my fill of pussy."

Both agents Barber and Kinney unzipped their flys and exposed themselves. Scully didn’t react. She was aloof, waiting for the partner the clients would choose. Could she do it - if it wasn’t Mulder? If it was Agent Barber or Kinney? 

“Ooo those are some lovely cocks. Are those boxers or tighty whities I see … it's sort of like they’re popping out of a little fabric nest, like a bird. Not very lively though… Are you two cold?” The woman laughed and her husband chuckled along and then her gaze fixated on Mulder. “How about you? Are you cold too? You can’t be shy or you wouldn’t be here. Honey if he won’t show me his cock tell him to leave. I’ll just choose one of the others.”

“You heard my wife. If you don’t show us your cock get the fuck out. Do you have a teeny weenie, perhaps?” He picked up on the quick eye contact between Mulder and Scully and a wide smile formed. “Or do you just need a little help? Hey Red, why don’t you help him out.”

Scully took a step toward Mulder. “No!” then quieter, “No, I’ll do it.”

Mulder closed his eyes. How could he forget today of all days? He’d bought these button fly jeans on a whim and his hands were working the buttons through the tightly stitched holes until  …

“Holy Mother of God! Get out! The rest of you get out! He’s the one…. Honey? Tell them to leave!”

“You cretins heard my wife. Get out.” The room cleared of all but the main players. “Good God Man! I consider myself well-endowed, but Holy Shite! How do you keep that monster under control? And commando to boot.”

“I think my wifes glazed over eyes means you two meet with her complete approval. Let’s get this show on the road. Into the chamber you two. My first request is for you to suck those titties… I’ll tell you when to stop… use the chaise please.”

Mulder followed Scully into the chamber the door snicked shut, the curtains closed with a swish and the lights dimmed. Scully reclined on the chaise and Mulder gingerly sat beside her. Could they pull this off?

“C’mon man speed it up suck her tits and describe them… we want to hear about those ripe tips… make her moan … make her wet for you.”

Mulder dropped his head, nose and lips nuzzled her neck. Traveled down. Skimmed across the slope of each breast. God, Scully you smell so good. There was a hitch in her breath. Did he say that out loud? 

“Hey, Supercock! This isn’t love’s unfolding flower or some teenage romance. I don’t hear any sucking or slurping and we damn well aren’t hearing any moaning Reds or yours. Get on with it.”

Mulder wished the guy would just shut the hell up. He was trying to make this look real, but not be real. But she was so soft and smelled so delicious… He was only human dammit.

And then Scully let out a throaty moan. Uh-oh. His mouth released the nipple he had been sucking, the lace and silk damp. Her nipples were clearly delineated, hard, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been sucking but his mouth and lips felt the loss.

“More…Mu…” Before she could say his name his hands cupped her breasts and his lips went back to feasting.

End Inner Sanctum: Shadow Play Chapter 1

[allthephils]

Smart Casual

Word count: 2362 Rated E (smut)

This was written for @phandomficfests bingo for my chastity device square. I might have taken some liberties with the prompt. This is very much porn without plot.

Summary: Phil’s zipper is stuck.

Read on AO3

Shopping is best done in one’s pajamas. That’s always been Phil’s way. Lounging on the sofa is fine but he prefers to be tucked into bed with a hot cup of cocoa or maybe a glass of wine, and with Dan sitting next to him. A shirtless Dan, rambling on about whatever Subreddit or wiki page he’s landed on, is motivating. He wants to look good for himself but he also wants to elicit a very specific response from Dan. He’s always got heart eyes, even ten years later, the fans really are spot on about that. But there’s another look, a look that he does occasionally let slip on camera but is usually reserved for just the two of them. It’s a certain glimmer to his eyes, a parting of the lips, a subtle drop in the tone of his voice.

To be honest, he can see it anytime he wants. All he has to do is run his fingers through Dan’s hair, kiss his neck, whisper in his ear, guess what I’m thinking, Danny. Catching Dan off guard though, seeing that look in public or in the middle of the day, knowing Dan has to hold back, that is the ultimate victory. So, along with rainbow hoodies, and Pokémon t-shirts, he’ll shop for jumpers that hug his broad shoulders though he’d usually prefer them oversized. He’ll search specifically for black knit that’s soft but not too chunky so they don’t hide the subtle contours of Phil’s chest. He’ll angle the screen toward Dan for approval and wait for a grunt or a shrug or a hum. The hum comes when Dan’s paying attention, when he sees something he’d like to see on Phil.  

This time it’s not a jumper. Phil’s trying to break out of his black jeans rut and Topman has nice skinny grey plaid trousers. It’s like old Phil meets new Phil and he thinks he could maybe pull these off. They are way more fashion forward than he’d usually choose so he runs them by Dan and it happens. The hum.

“Yes. Those are a yes. Those are cool.”

“Really?” Phil says, clicking through the images, trying to ignore the model’s ass in favor of looking at the actual trousers. “You think they’ll suit me?”

“Absolutely.” He raises his chin to emphasize the next phrase he speaks, “Dat ass is going to look so fine in those.”

“I don’t know, they’re kinda smart for everyday.”

“Let that thicc booty shine Phil. It deserves to be showcased.” He’s back to reading about volcanos or nihilism or whatever.

“Okay, I’m gonna get ‘em.” And so he clicks and they’re on their way.

When the package arrives, it could be anything. It’s from Topman but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down. This is a big part of why Phil shops online. He loves getting packages, it’s like having lots of tiny little Christmases. Dan’s gaming but he watches from the corner of his eye as Phil works to free the box from it’s tape. After several minutes, Dan silently pauses his game, stands and heads to the kitchen. He returns with a pair of scissors, takes the box, cuts the tape, hands the box back to Phil, and sits back down to resume his gameplay.

“Ooh, it’s the plaid ones!” Phil laughs a little, “oh my god, what was I thinking?”

The game pauses again. “Let me see.” Dan turns to look at Phil as he stands and holds the trousers up.

“I’m gonna return them, they’re ridiculous.”

“What are you talking about?” Dan reaches over to feel the fabric.

“I’m gonna look like George McFly.”

“George McFly was low key hot. Try them on. Please? For me.”

***

“Hello gorgeous!” Dan sounds awestruck, dramatically stretching every syllable for emphasis. “You styled yourself. Well done, Phil.”

“I do have some sense of style, Dan.”

He wears a black jumper only because it's the one top he has that is solid black. He chose white low top trainers and no show socks channeling Dan’s ankle exhibitionism. He won’t admit that this style is really just him copying what looks good on Dan. This really isn’t him. He’d never wear this out and he still plans on returning the trousers. He did buy them to get a reaction though so he might as well parade around a little, give Dan a little taste of what it might be like to have a boyfriend who stays up to date with fashion.

“Yes Phil, show me those sexy ass ankles!”

Phil laughs, “Ass ankles? Okay Dan.”

“No really, this is the perfect amount of skin for fall, you’re ankles are hot.”

“Your so Victorian Dan, one glimpse of ankle and your all flustered.”

“Oh,” Dan gets up off the sofa and stands, hands on his hips. He looks Phil slowly up and down. “It’s not just the ankles.”

And Phil knows that’s true. He looked in the mirror before he came out to the lounge. The trousers are tighter than any he’d ever wear of his own volition. He feels a little trapped, squeezed into them. In any other setting, he’d be yanking the hem of his jumper down, trying to cover his pornographic bulge. It’s so embarrassing, walking around, looking like you stuffed a sock down your crotch. There’s really no hiding in these, he’s pretty sure you could make out the exact outline of his dick if you looked closely, and Dan is looking. Intently.

“Oi,” Phil says, “my eyes are up here.”

Dan clears his throat, feigning embarrassment, and rattles his head as if to snap out of a trance. Phil giggles. This is fun, totally worth the £65 and the short time spent totally constricted.  

“Give us a twirl then.”

Phil does his best fashion model twirl but Dan just swivels his finger in the air as if to say keep spinning. By the third spin, Phil is dizzy and giggling, “Dan! I’m gonna fall over!”

“Aaaaaaaaand stop!” Dan shouts and Phil freezes in place, facing away from Dan. “That’s the pose I was looking for. Yum.”

Leaning forward a bit, Phil wiggles his arse. Just as he’s about to laugh and turn around, putting an end to the joke, he feels Dan’s hands, both of them. They settle on his hips as Dan steps forward, pulling Phil close until there is no space between them.

Warm breath moves over the little hairs on the back of Phil’s neck and they stand on end. Dan’s left hand slides past his hip, finding his tightly wrapped bulge. There’s a long, slow exhale in Phil’s ear. “I really like these trousers, Phil.”

He’s squeezing him through the thin fabric and it feels way better than it should. It’s just those big hands and Dan’s soft, seductive voice. It’s the way he’d looked at him, the way he’d played. Phil knows he’s still playing. In a minute, he’ll step away, laughing and making fun of Phil for going quiet, for getting just the tiniest bit hard. You’re so easy Phil.

“No making me hard in these trousers, little Phil is suffocating.”

Dan doesn’t laugh. “Just returning the favor.” The unmistakable line of Dan’s hardening cock presses against Phil’s ass and he pushes back into that delicious feeling.

“Oh, you do like them.” He’s trying to sound nonchalant but Dan is squeezing and stroking and grinding and Phil is definitely hard now. He’s slipping into caveman mode. Clinging to the last of his resolve, he clears his throat. “Hold that thought. Let me get out of these.”

“No way, that’s my job.” Dan fumbles for the zipper pull and tugs but nothing happens.

“Unzip them, Dan, it actually hurts a little.”

“I’m trying. It’s stuck.”

“What?!”

“The zipper’s stuck. It won’t pull down.”

Phil swats his hand away and tries but it will not budge. He turns to face Dan. “When did you take your shirt off? And your joggers?”

“I was getting sweaty.” Dan says, stepping back to steal  another look at Phil.. “And I love being naked with you fully clothed, it’s hot.”

It is hot. All sorts of filthy things run through Phil’s mind, right alongside the thought that he’s about to lose a vital organ to asphyxiation.

“Dan, you look fucking edible but if I don’t get these off soon, I’m gonna cry.”

“Okay, okay. I got it.” Dan drops to his knees. This does not help the situation. He tugs and tugs to no avail, then leans forward and grabs the pull with his teeth.

“Are you kidding me, Dan?”

“It’s worth a try!” Dan’s voice is pitched up but then his cheek brushes the straining zipper and they both let out a groan. He does it again, properly nuzzling Phil’s poor captive cock and letting his hand resume it’s exploration.

Phil’s looking down at Dan’s brown eyes through those stupid sexy lashes when he starts kissing down the length of him.

“Dan, stop.” Phil says, deep and breathy.

He slides his mouth back up and the fabric is wet with spit. He pauses. “You want me to stop?”

There’s barely a beat before Phil says, “No. No don’t stop.”

Phil is gripping Dan’s hair and Dan is gripping Phil’s ass, pulling him impossibly close so he can wrap his lips around the head as much as he’s able. He sucks, determined to feel the shape of Phil despite two layers of fabric.

There’s a gasp and Phil’s northern growl comes on strong, “Fuck. Get up here, Dan.”

No sooner are they face to face then their lips crash into one other. It’s wet and eager, all tongue and teeth and frantic breaths. Phil’s fingers dig into the flesh of Dan’s ass, holding him against Phil’s grinding pelvis. His cock pushes at the zipper like a caged animal, like it could actually break free of its cloth prison, hulk style.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Phil says, moving his mouth over Dan neck. It hurts and not in a good way but the need for release is intense and that somehow translates as pleasure. Plus, he’s got Dan, naked and writhing like it’s all brand new, and that is unspeakably hot. He can feel that pretty cock of his trapped between them, working against his own and the thought of Dan’s nipples rubbing the soft, nubby knit of his jumper, it’s too much. He bites down on Dan’s neck, hard.

“Ah. Ahah. Fuck.” Dan sounds wrecked. He turns to face away from Phil and pushes his ass into him, moving against his cock with quick little bounces. Phil is dizzy from the visual and he scratches down Dan’s back in a show of appreciation. Dan hisses just before he practically cries out, “pull my hair!”

Phil can’t help but grin at the request made in Dan’s high pitched, totally gone sex voice. He pushes both hands into Dan’s hair and grabs handfuls. He gasps, his head pulled sharply back. Over his shoulder, Phil can see Dan’s flushed cock bouncing. It’s the cutest fucking cock and it looks so good waving around like that. He needs to touch it, he needs just a little more.

Phil walks them both forward and pushes Dan till he’s bent over, hands on the back of the sofa, knees pushing into the edge of the cushions. He lifts his hand to Dan’s mouth and he licks without hesitation. Phil can reach around now and take Dan in hand, stroking loosely once or twice before setting in to jack him off properly. He’s humping frantically, sliding the hard ridge of his dick between Dan’s ass cheeks, moving like some dog in heat. The thick sound of heavy breathing and wet jacking is soon interrupted by Phil’s uncharacteristic string of expletives.

“Fuck, ow, ow, fuck, fuck, ow, ah, aaaah, fuck.” With one last high pitched moan, he cums, hot and wet, right into his brand new plaid trousers. Dan’s still fucking into Phil’s hand so he reaches his free hand up to yank on his curls and that’s all it takes. He goes still and quiet as he spills over Phil’s fingers.

Slowly, Phil stands, holding his hand carefully so as not to make a mess of the furniture. He reaches down and wipes his hand on Dan’s discarded joggers and then flops down onto the sofa next to him.

“Aw man,” Phil says, looking down, “now I can’t return these.”

“You cheap bastard.” Dan’s eyes are closed, his head resting back, legs spread wide, enjoying the afterglow. “I haven’t even caught my breath.”

“Sorry, they just don’t suit me and they’re faulty.”

“Oh my god, fuck off, I will give you the 50 quid Jesus.” Dan sounds way too blissed out to actually be annoyed.

“50 quid?” Phil says, shocked, “Daniel, what do you take me for?”

They are quiet for a moment.

“They were 65.”

Blindly Dan reaches over, groping for Phil’s zipper. “Ew,” He says, feeling the sog of cooling cum that has soaked through.

Phil hisses, so sensitive after all that torture. Dan futzes with zipper a bit and with more room and less pressure, it opens. Phil sighs a deep, genuine sigh of relief. “Babe. Thank you.”

“Ow,” Dan says, sitting up, “I think you chafed my cheeks.”

“You brought that on yourself. Anyway, no way it compares.” Phil stands up, trousers open. He’s still in shoes so he toes them off and pulls off his jumper. “I’m so gross, come shower with me.”

The hot water is divine. Dan’s ass is a little red and raw so Phil gently washes it with his favorite vanilla body wash.

“I may be stuck with those trousers but I am never wearing them again.”

Dan leans forward onto the shower wall and arches his back, ass on display. He gazes over one shoulder seductively, batting his lashes. “You sure about that, Lester?”

Phil plants a playful smack on Dan’s cute booty, prompting him to turn around. They hold each other, feeling the warm water stream over and between their bodies.

“Okay, I’ll wear them for you but I’m not zipping them up.”

Dan’s voice is sleepy and relaxed as he murmurs in Phil’s ear, “Sounds good to me.”

[bittermarrow]

Imagine Slashers with an Angel S/O: (part 1) Jason Voorhees

I was originally going to do all of the slashers (at least the ones I felt like writing for) in one post, but they were getting ridiculously long so I split them up into different parts! (I’ll post Michael’s tomorrow)

Warnings: There’s some nsfw towards the end but it’s not really graphic.

Words: 1600+ (kms)

Jason

Jason grew up homeschooled and coddled by his mother for the short time he was alive, and any religious type of beliefs he may have had are a void in his memory. So he probably isn't going to think 'Angel fallen from heaven' when he finds you in the woods.

After gathering that you are no threat to his land and are quite obviously injured, he'd take you in. Simply because leaving you there to die would be just like leaving you out there to drown, turning a blind eye to your suffering like those irresponsible counselors had done when those kids had tossed him into the lake all those years ago.

You'd wake up covered in dirt and your wings covered in thick mud, with twigs and leaves sticking in your tangled hair.

The first confrontation between you had been rocky, you were panicked, and afraid, not allowing him to stalk within 10 feet of you. You curled up in the corner of his barely-held-together cabin, with the deteriorating walls and the roof half-caved-in and rotting away from years of water damage. You looked like a scared animal, shaking from the cold air that the structure did little to block out. You had the overwhelming urge to fly away, and you would have too, had your right wing not been so painfully mangled from the fall and brutal attack.

Jason is not entirely sold on trusting you either so he keeps his distance and stays on the other side of the cabin, it became unclear of which one of you actually needed the space more. He can't blame you for being terrified of him, he knows he's huge, and his appearance was likely that of a beast to you.

Once you’ve realized that he is not actually trying to kill you, your shaking settles down and you curiously crawl out of the corner. You're incredibly cautious in your first approach, and when he moved even slightly you got spooked and scrambled back a few feet.

You had just been attacked, so you weren't exactly in the mood for any more potential threats, and this man... if you could even call him that, practically radiated an aura of red flags, he almost smelled like danger. But you knew the difference between the monster that had ripped you from the clouds and the one that stared curiously from across the cabin. Despite your instinctual hesitance, and frustrating struggle to communicate in the beginning you decide to trust him, at least until you've healed enough to leave. 

.   .   .

Your wing's recovery stretches into long months of slow, natural healing. The pain has subsided, and as has the tension between you and Jason, whom you'd quickly learned the name of through rumors and stories of the few humans in town you’ve made contact with. He couldn't really tell you, so for a long time you just referred to him as "big guy," "mister," or "hey you" which hadn’t minded initially, but the first time he heard you say it he was all smiles, even though you couldn’t see his face you knew he was happy.

You'd grown fond of each other over the past few months, you could even go so far as to say you've never felt more at ease with someone like you did with Jason. It was the start of a promising friendship you hoped, maybe... you could stay a bit longer...

A year and a half rolled by without you realizing it, and in that time you had healed, chosen to stay with him—  much to his delight, and caring for this undead murderer more than anything else. You understood his need and cause for killing, it was not a hobby, it was an overwhelming need to fulfill his mother's wishes and punish people like the ones who'd made him suffer. You didn't like it, but you knew it was something you just had to accept. Besides everything else in the package was more than enough to make you love him, he was the sweetest most precious thing.

His gentleness with you and nature was a shocking contrast to the fierce, boiling rage and strength he shows while on the hunt. For someone so big he is so submissive, so shy, and so incredibly cute. You knew that under all that deep-seated anger was an innocent boy that needed love, needed acceptance.

He was; however, incredibly protective of you. He prefers you to stay inside when there are too many reckless teens running around his woods, not wanting you to get involved or possibly hurt. If you got hurt he'd never forgive himself, you've become his light, his angel, his whole world now. The last thing he wants is for that light to be taken away from him, or damaged.

Your strong, tightly-knit friendship shifts naturally into a love that can't be expressed in words. You've got him wrapped around your little finger, and neither of you is willing to let go. You can expect mask boops, fiberglass-cheek nuzzles, and indirect kisses until you finally convince him to show you his face. And the moment he does it's heartbreaking because he his expecting your revulsion, your horror, and most importantly, your rejection.

But it's the most satisfying thing when you take his deformed face in your hands and place a kiss on his forehead like it wasn’t horrifyingly disfigured, like he was normal. Your eyes and fingertips exploring curiously across grey-mottled skin with a gentle tenderness he’s only ever gotten from his beloved mother. When he realizes that you accept him, and his face, no matter how ugly, he’s practically shaking with the effort not to break down completely. In the end, it’s a useless effort because he’s already wetting your hands with his tears. (no don’t cry bb)

And it's enough to get you sobbing too— because no one should have to feel so incredibly grateful for simply being loved for who they are and not what their face looks like. His heart, although dead, is more beautiful than any of the faces you see in magazines.

Soon Jason is only wearing the fiberglass hockey mask outdoors, and you are able to kiss him whenever you want, it's a kind of freedom you abuse around the clock, but in a good way. He loves your affection.

Your wings started darkening the moment you touched the earth, but now they were almost completely black, it's not important to you anymore though, you don't want to return home like you once did.

Speaking of wings! Jason likes to touch them any chance he gets. At first, he expected them to be soft, but when you let him touch them he found that they were more scratchy. Not unpleasantly so, they were still soft in some places, but certainly more rough than they looked. Whenever you’re cuddled up somewhere he likes to smooth his big hands over them, almost petting them like he would a bird, and you never seemed to mind. It was comforting, and you liked the feeling of his hands on any part of you, whether it is covered in feathers or smooth flesh doesn’t matter to you.

NSFW

Sex is a touchy topic, and while you have your intimate moments his insecurities and thoughts about sex get in the way before you have a chance to get too far, but with lots of time and trust-building, you can count on him to come around to it eventually.

Patience little angel, this boy’s got some issues that need to acknowledged and dealt with before you can jump his bones. (I promise it’s worth it)

And when he begins to see that it is different between you, and not the kind of careless act he’s seen drunk teenagers have, he will begin to form his own perspective on it through experiences with you. And once he starts getting into it, he’ll start looking forward to it, it's likely to become a nightly occurrence. In his eyes, it’s an expression of your love for each other and another way for him to show that he loves you without needing to speak.

You will; however, have to be a bit mindful of your wings in certain positions. If you’re laying on your back with him on top of you, hips nestled between your legs your wings will spread out at the very most, but during particularly long sessions or intense orgasms, they like to wrap around him. But, it's something Jason actually likes you to do, so holding them down isn't necessary. Trust me, he loves being in your wings almost as much as he likes being inside your arms and inside of you.

But on the occasions where he takes charge and is slightly more rough with you— entirely at your request– with your face buried in the sheets and him pumping into you from behind, it can get a little complicated…

Your wings like to pop out or jerk when you feel sudden bursts of pleasure, so you’re inevitably going to accidentally whack him with them sometimes and he barely feels it but if it makes you self-conscious, and if you can convince him it's okay for him to hold them while he fucks you, he will definitely oblige.

Your wings are also a bit of a 'spot' for you, so having them held, scratched, or petted feels pretty good during some slow, soft, and romantic sex. Jason is observant, and once he knows, he's not gonna stop touching 'em. If he gets you up there a good tug on the wing can reduce you to shivers in no time.

A pet name he likes particularly much in bed is “my angel,” because to you he is the angel here. If you’re soft-spoken please feel free to whisper sweet things and how good he’s doing, and he'll be sending you straight back to heaven!

[hrina]

Four Hours

PAIRING: Harry/Y/N RATING: S for smut WORD COUNT: 2.2k REQUESTED: nope

i literally feel like i need to bathe in holy water after writing this. it’s just porn w/o plot lol, and i am SWEATING bc i was in a mood 🙈 if u like this one shot, please leave me some feedback here ! and if u wanna see the rest of my harry writing, here’s my masterlist :-) enjoy!!! 

~*~

The sound of the lock clicking open might as well be a starter gunshot.

Your head snaps to the side, and you watch with wide eyes as the door creaks open. Harry takes his time, sliding his key card into the pocket of his dress pants as he steps into the hotel room. You squirm uncomfortably, hyperaware of the fact that he’s not even trying to be discreet. Anyone could walk by, and with a quick glance inside, they would see you naked with your wrists bound to the headboard of the bed.

Thankfully, he’d been merciful when he’d tied you up, opting for the silk binds instead of a harsher material. He’d also left your legs free, which had allowed you to somewhat sate the heat in your stomach as you clenched your thighs together. There’s only a faint light coming from a lamp on the bedside table. The duvet is soft beneath your body, and Harry had left a record playing faintly in the corner of the room, deep basslines and sensual beats wafting quietly through the air.

“Hey, love,” Harry finally speaks up, his voice low and hoarse. “Didn’t see you there.”

You bite your lip to keep from whining. He’s baiting you, and though you want to counter with a snappy remark, you know it’s not wise. If you protest, he won’t give you what you want.

You watch attentively as he pulls his suit jacket from his shoulders, kicking the door shut with the heel of his foot. He’s left in only a white tank top, the words Treat People with Kindness stitched in black over his ribs. Your breath hitches in your throat when he turns around to lay his jacket over the back of a plush armchair—you get a wonderfully full view of the way his pinstriped trousers cling to the curve of his bum.

“Been good for me?” Harry questions, though it’s clear he’s not expecting an answer. He faces you, slowly making his way over to the bed. You suddenly feel much more vulnerable, especially when he removes his loafers and hikes one knee up onto the mattress.

“Didn’t struggle too much, right?” he asks, reaching out and trailing his nimble fingers against where the silk is tied tightly around your wrists. “Y’know if you move around a lot, your skin gets irritated.”

“I know,” you whisper, and then you purse your lips tightly. The words had just slipped out.

Harry doesn’t seem bothered, though. He merely hums, reaching for the button on his pants and flicking it open. You watch eagerly as he wrestles his trousers down his thick thighs, leaving him in only a pair of black boxers. The material had ridden up slightly (you understand why), and he straightens himself out before focussing his attention back on you.

“’S too bad you missed the show,” he rasps, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. His gaze lingers on your erect nipples for a few seconds before sweeping down to where your thighs are pressed firmly together. “But you understand, right? Understand why I had to punish you?”

“Yes.” The affirmation is breathless.

Harry nods. “Tell me,” he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I wanna make sure you know.”

“I touched myself,” you whisper. Your voice is scratchy from having kept silent for the past four hours. “Without your permission,” you add, just for good measure.

Harry hums again, and your shoulders relax a bit. He seems to be satisfied with your answer, and with your behaviour in general. He’s had time to cool off, after all. Plus, the successful execution of a concert always delights him.

“You’re pretty,” Harry mumbles. He climbs up onto the bed, swinging one leg over your stomach so that he can straddle your torso. You swallow heavily, toes curling with anticipation. Harry brushes some of your hair away from your forehead, and you almost want to cry in relief—one particular strand had been tickling your nose for at least an hour, and you hadn’t been able to shake it away.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Harry looks down at you expectantly, cocking an eyebrow.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you correct yourself, and he smirks.

“Being so polite,” he notes, his voice lilted with mockery. “Know what you’re doing, pet. Hoping I’ll go easy on you, hmm?”

“I’ve been good.” The words are garbled as they fall from your mouth. “I promise, I’ve been good.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Harry sighs, running his thumb along the bruised flesh of your bottom lip. You’d taken the skin between your teeth probably dozens of times, chewing down until it was swollen and plump. Harry can tell how much the situation has affected you. Your arms are tense, your nostrils are flaring, and an anxious anticipation brews in your irises.

You’re usually very good for him. Patient and cooperative, and you’re always eager to drop to your knees wherever he sees fit. When you do misbehave, he understands that you’ve usually got a reason for it. And he’ll admit that he has been quite busy these past few days. It makes sense as to why you would feel neglected.

“Love you so much, y’know that?” Harry flashes you a small, sincere smile, momentarily breaking character. You return the gesture, your fingers twitching with excitement. He’s gone soft (figuratively), which means that you’re making progress.

“Love you too,” you shoot back breathlessly, “So much.”

Harry chuckles, tilting your chin up with his index finger so that he can stare you squarely in the face.

“Think you deserve to be fucked,” he says, trying not to smirk when your back arches subconsciously at his words, “Been very patient, haven’t you? Waiting here for me and keeping yourself in check.”

“Yes, yes,” you nod frantically, trying to keep in your enthusiastic whimpers. Harry shuffles down your body, his large palms dipping in between your thighs so that he can spread your legs. He groans when he sees your cunt, your folds shiny and soaked—all for him.

“Made a mess,” he tuts, but he can’t hide his smug grin, “Thinking about me got you this wet?”

You moan in affirmation, a shocked gasp flying from your lips when he runs a single finger along your slit. Your thighs twitch reflexively, but Harry places one hand on your hips, shooting you a stern glare. “Keep ’em open,” he orders, “C’mon, pet. Been doing so well.”

“Sorry,” you say, swallowing down the itchy lump in your throat. You gnaw harshly on your bottom lip when Harry slides his index finger into your cunt, stopping only once the band of his ring catches at your entrance. A breathy curse escapes his mouth when he feels your walls clench down around the digit.

“Nice and tight,” he muses, “Just how I like it.”

And then he’s withdrawing his finger from your heat, wiping his hand against the bedsheets and straightening up onto his knees. You bite back a whine, feeling your walls flutter around nothing. He’s cruel, he’s so fucking cruel, but he’s…

He’s yanking his boxers down his legs, just enough to bare himself to you. Your lips part in awe when his cock bobs out, hard and firm and enticing. The tip is blushed a faint shade of purple, and there’s already precum leaking from his slit. It looks nearly agonizing, and you want nothing more than to ease his pain.

“C’mere,” Harry mumbles, and you lift your hips eagerly. He glides his prick against your folds, snickering when you whine. You’re about to start begging, but then he finally takes pity on you, placing his tip at your entrance and sinking in inch by inch.

And it’s a lot.

You’re not sure why you’re this desperate for it, why your eyes roll up into your head when he finally bottoms out, why you try to wrap your legs around his waist to bring him in closer. Harry merely grunts and shakes his head, grabbing your thighs and pressing them down so that they’re snug against your abdomen. He’s got you practically folded in half, your knees to your chest and your arms still bound by the silk tie.

“Fuckin’ t-tight,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. You can’t say anything, unable to put a coherent sentence together. Your mind is hazy, taken over completely by the satisfaction of having been completely and utterly stuffed.

“How is it, pet?” Harry asks, his words strained, “Tell me how it feels.”

“Full,” you breathe out—you can’t muster up a pitch any louder, “I’m s-so full, Daddy.”

“Fuckin’ shit,” Harry’s chin drops to his chest, and his cock twitches inside of you. He looks up at you with stern eyes, but there’s also a hint of sorrow melded into the stare. “Not gonna last long, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—,” you whimper when he pulls back, “Don’t be, please, just—God!”

The last word escapes as a squeak, because that’s when Harry decides to drive back into you. He gives you no warning, instead choosing to pick up a brutal pace. It’s one that has your bodies slanting up the mattress, his hips slapping crudely against yours as his fingertips kiss welts into the underside of your thighs.

“’S mine,” Harry grits out, sucking his lips past his teeth, “It’s my fuckin’ cunt, isn’t it? Belongs to me.”

“Yes!” you sob, tears pooling in your eyes as his thrusts grow—impossibly—more vicious. “Yours, Daddy, it’s yours! Please, please, please—!”

“That’s right,” Harry grunts, his muscles aching with the amount of force that he packs behind each drive into your body, “I’m the only one who gets to have you like this. Only one who gets to see how fucking slutty you are.”

“Harry, please,” you weep. The tears are now streaming freely down your face, tracing tracks along your cheeks and your temples. You can’t feel your arms, and your fingers are lost to you as well, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Harry’s plowing into you so deep, so fast, so fucking good.

“Cum.” His order reaches your ears, though it sounds like you’re underwater. His voice is muffled and thick, and you’re so lost in your own head you don’t even know if you’ve heard him right.

“Cum,” he repeats, the command barely audible over the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin. “Been so bloody good for me, pet, so you can cum.”

Moments later, you’re falling apart beneath him. He’s able to hold out for only a few more seconds, but the way your cunt pulses around his cock is enough to finally do him in. His back stiffens, and his mouth pops open cutely, a long, guttural groan soaring from his lips. The low, scratchy noise makes you tremble, and your eyes fly open when you feel him cram his load deep inside of you. He doubles over with the force of his orgasm, catching himself at the last moment so that he doesn’t crush you.

It’s silent after that, save for the heavy breaths that rock the both of you. You gulp forcefully, your thighs burning from having been held up so long. Harry slowly withdraws from your heat, his eyes trained intently on where the first stream of his cum trickles out of your hole, dripping down onto the duvet and staining the fabric.

“Shit,” he rasps, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “That’s so fuckin’ hot.”

You giggle quietly, still trying to catch your breath. Harry smiles at you, clambering up your body. His tank top is soaked with sweat, the faint sheen making his skin glisten in the gentle light provided by the lamp. Harry sighs, his gaze falling subconsciously to your mouth, and something clicks in his brain.

“Haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, almost like he’s berating himself. 

You tilt your head up eagerly, and with a low chuckle, he seals his lips to yours. A soft sigh echoes in the back of your throat, but you have to break apart sooner than you’d like, seeing as you’re still finding it difficult to breathe.

“Lemme—,” Harry breaks off, reaching for the silk binding your wrists together. After a few long seconds, the tie is falling onto the pillows in a crumpled heap. You flex your fingers and twist your hands, hoping that the movements will bring some sensation back to your arms. You hum when you feel a faint tingling beginning at your elbows, and Harry lifts his eyebrows.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before clearing his throat. “Gotta get up. Need to shower, unless you want my cum dripping out of you for the next twelve hours.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?” you tease, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Harry chuckles and shakes his head, his green eyes alight with a vulgar kind of mischief.

“Came a lot, love. You really don’t know what you do to me.”

~*~

if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[banditchika]

ran’s emo hours? always

fandom: bandori

ship: ranmoca

words: 2796

ao3 link

author’s note: based off of this au!! 

"Oh," Tsugu says, and the smile freezes on her sweet face. "You mean you're not... going?"

"No." Ran picks at her cuticles. Anything to avoid the crashing disappointment in Tsugu's eyes.

Moca sighs noisily and plants her elbows on the table, a solid, heavy weight by Ran's side.  "There's no such thing as major for bread consumption, so Moca-chan might as well not bother, y'know~?"

"The university offers home ec though! And design!" Himari's voice is a little wheedling, a little frantic. "You like design, Moca!"

"But I like an easy-going life even more..."

"And Ran, right?" Tomoe's voice is mild but her gaze is sharp. She's always been better about cutting through Ran's bullshit than Himari or Tsugu. The five of them like this, sitting two and three in the booth's seats? It couldn't be more obvious what's going on here, but Tomoe smiles anyways, warm and sincere. "Hey, I get it though. Uni isn't for everyone—that's why I'm takin' a gap year, to be sure."

"Yeah. To be sure." Ran doesn't mention that she'll probably never be sure.

She doesn't want to be that person—so-and-so's good-for-nothing daughter, who rocketed through college in a whirlwind of mediocrity only to lock herself up in her room the second the certificate of graduation passed into her hands. Half-assing her way through a major she doesn't care about, fighting for a job that she knows she's going to hate, then feeling bad about not getting what she wanted when she hadn't really been trying anyways; who the hell would want to resign themselves to a lifetime of that?

Irresponsible, Dad calls her. Free-spirited, Tsugu would probably say. Ran knows the truth. Her itchy feet and restlessness are a symptom of fear, and no amount of excuses or slammed doors is going to change the fact that Ran is nothing but a born coward, doing everything she can to pretend otherwise.

"Well, that's fine! No matter what you do, we'll be behind you no matter what!" Tsugu brings her fists up beneath her chin. It's an expression of conviction; has been, probably always will be. But right now, with her eyes too-bright and a faint tremble in fists, she just looks like she's trying to convince herself and failing miserably. "Even if we're not together, we can still make time to see each other! I plan to come home a lot to help out, so..."

Tsugu's eyes are shining with an earnest hope, but she has to know—no, she does know. They've already tried this before. Without Afterglow, the five of them might have fallen apart; broken up into their own little cliques without time and proximity and shared interests to keep them glued together. Moca and Ran, Himari and Tomoe, and then Tsugu—everyone's cherished friend, but no one's special somebody.

(It feels so cruel to even think that, even if—even if it's probably true. You can love someone perfectly well and still not be able to talk to them. Tsugu's so honest; so eager to please. Ran's words shrivel up on her tongue in the face of that candor. Someone like Moca; someone tricky and shifty and despite it all, patiently understanding—that's the kind of person that can draw Ran out of her shell.

That kind of person, or maybe just Moca.)

Tears are starting to streak down Himari's cheeks. Tomoe yelps and blots her face with napkins.

"You guuuuys," Himari wails, and obligingly blows her nose into the damp tissue Tomoe holds out for her. Tomoe grimaces and tosses it in a soggy heap on top of her empty plate. "I'm gonna miss you so much... but we'll always have the group chat! Promise me you'll check in every day! Ran, you have to reply to my messages! Don't leave me on read!"

"I won't."

"You'd better not be saying that to get me off your back! I'll call you every night at 3 a.m. if you don't answer for more than a week—no, five days!"

"I'm pretty sure that's one way to guarantee Ran'll never call you back, babe," Tomoe laughs, stretching an arm behind Himari's shoulders.

"Then I'll visit her myself. Ran's dad will let me in, you know he will!"

Ran flinches. They all notice, of course; Himari's tears cease like someone's turned off a faucet inside her. Tomoe frowns. Tsugu shrinks in on herself like she's waiting for a blow to come.

Moca steals the last fry from Ran's plate. "So, about that..."

“So this is gonna be your new place?” Tomoe asks. She turns slowly on her heels, taking it all in. Ran knows it’s not impressive. If she’s being honest, when she and Moca first scoped this place out—she thought it was a real shithole. Cracked tile, peeling wallpaper, and water that refuses to stay hot for more than a minute, but it’s far enough from Ran’s house that her family would probably never bother, and more importantly, it’s cheap.

Desperate girls can’t afford to be picky, so Ran shrugs noncommittally and drops a box filled with kitchenware onto the counter.

“Hii-chan, you can put the fridge in the corner~”

“Okay! Leave it to me!” Himari’s all but disappeared behind the mini-fridge in her arms, but it’s nothing compared to her muscles. She shoulders into the apartment and sets it down with a clatter and a gusty sigh. Tomoe stares at her, betrayed.

“Himari! You were supposed to let me know when you were bringing that up!”

“Nuh uh!” Himari flexes, cradling the ball of her bicep in one hand. “If you want to stand around chatting with the married couple, then Tsugu and I are just gonna move everything ourselves.”

“I’ve been helping,” Ran complains. She cuts open the top of the kitchenware box before realizing that she hasn’t actually cleaned out the moldy cabinets yet. Fuck.  

“Me too,” Moca says from where she’s sprawled out on the futon. It was the first thing they brought in and she hasn’t moved from it in the hour they’ve been unpacking. She grins foolishly at Ran’s glare and sticks her bare leg up in the air, one worn out sock dangling from the very tips of her toes. “I’ve been controlling Hii-chan with my mind.”

“It’s true,” Himari says very helpfully. She digs her fingers into her temples. “And right now she’s telling me to go grab… the cleaning supplies!”

“Yep. That’s exactly right.”

“So she can clean the mold out of the toilet,” Himari continues, “because she knows her good friend, her best friend Uehara Himari just had a large latte and needs to pee!”

Moca gestures at the empty cup on the counter. “And Moca-chan says that if Hii-chan needs to go, she can just recycle~”

“You’re disgusting,” Tomoe says cheerfully. She loops an arm around Himari’s waist. “C’mon, babe. I’m hungry and Tsugu’s still with the car. Maybe she’ll drive us to get burgers if we ask nicely.”

Himari lights up. “You’re a genius.” She presses a great, smacking kiss on Tomoe’s cheek. “Tsugu, we’re coming for you!”

And before Ran can so much as blink, Himari drags Tomoe out the door, leaving her alone with Moca and the echoes of Himari’s voice ringing in the living room.

Moca shoves her hand into her hoodie pocket. “I’ll text Tomo-chin to get us our usual order.”

“No thanks.” Ran reaches into the box of kitchenware and starts dividing it into plates, bowls, cups, chopsticks. It doesn’t take too long. Anything more than three of each would just be vanity, and with their cooking skills, more than one or two pots and pans would be a waste of precious space. "We said we'd budget, remember?"

“Aw, don’t be like that, Ran. We don’t even have groceries yet,” Moca says. She props her head up on her chin. “Let Moca-chan have her last taste of good bread before she goes on an instant ramen diet.”

Ran hesitates. “But…”

“We can get the kids’ meal,” Moca prods. “If Hii-chan picks up Tsugu and swaddles her in Tomo-chin’s jacket, they can probably pass her off as like, six.”

Ran snorts. Nothing short of a national disaster could rob Tsugu of her rosy cheeks and cherub face, but even she would have a hard time passing herself off as a child. "You get the kid's meal. I don't want it."

Moca drops her phone on her chest with a dull clunk of flesh, bone, and plastic that Ran swears she feels in her own sternum. Her eyes slide shut, as though that one text has drained her of every drop of energy in her body and nothing short of a flash sale at Yamabuki could rouse her. “Y’know, Ran.”

“What?”

“This might be the last meal we can have together for a while. Ran doesn’t wanna send ‘em off just yet, right?” Moca rolls over on her stomach. Her voice is soft and ponderous when she says, “To be honest, Moca-chan doesn’t want to either.”

“Moca…” She swallows past the lump in her throat, and what was once a comforting silence now seems sour, weighing heavy on her shoulders.

Sometimes Ran wishes her loved ones could be less kind, less understanding. If they weren’t kind, then she’d have a justification for being angry. If they weren’t kind, then Ran’s fear and fury would have somewhere righteous to go instead of churning in a writhing knot inside her chest, jolting her awake in the middle of the night and soaking her pillow with hot, helpless tears.

But they are, and Ran drowns in it. She can’t help but feel as though their time is wasted on her when she’s going nowhere, doing nothing but spiraling somewhere dark and deep, running as far away from their open arms as she can.

What the hell is she supposed to do with herself? It hurts when people are cruel and it hurts when they’re kind. She can't exactly make a life out of running away from everything that scares her when everything scares her.  And then there’s Moca, staring at her with gentle eyes. Moca, who she’s dragged all the way out to the middle of nowhere, far from everything familiar and everyone they love.

Moca can do anything she puts her mind to. She could have gone to Todai like her mother did, and with her grades? God, Moca could have made it. Moca could have gone anywhere, and she chose Ran. She’s always chosen Ran.

That devotion scares her. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know what she’d do without it.

Ran’s lip wobbles. God, what the hell. What the hell. She’s standing in the middle of her stupid mildew-covered kitchen and crying because she caught feelings about her girlfriend while talking about burgers. It's the worst. She's the worst.

“Ran?” Moca clambers to her feet. She cups Ran’s cheeks. “Hey…”

Hey yourself, Ran wants to say, and ends up making a noise like the time they were at the beach and Himari served a ball right into Tomoe’s gut. Moca dabs at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie and stays mercifully silent, guiding Ran’s head to the crook of her neck.

“Hey,” Moca says when Ran’s choked sobs subside. She presses a kiss to the side of her head, scraping her dry lips over the tip of Ran’s ear. “C'mon. Save the tears for when I propose." Her arms wind tight around Ran's waist, like in spite of everything Ran's made her give up, she can't bear to lose Ran just as much as Ran can't stand to be without her. "Everything will be alright, you’ll see. Moca-chan will let you have her Happy Ranger toy.”

Ran snorts despite herself. “I don’t—don’t want it.”

“Well, you’re going to get it. I’ll leave it between us on the futon.”

“Don’t.”

“I will,” Moca swears. “It’ll be our pet.”

“I’m allergic.”

“Then it’s a good thing that Happy Rangers don’t have fur, right?” Moca says, and when Ran’s shuddering sigh transforms into a weak laugh, gropes her ass.

"See? Not so bad."

"There was literally a wasp nest over our doorway."

"And neither of us got stung. So not too bad, right~?"

"We have to call the landlord tomorrow," Ran says, tugging her shirt over her head. Cold, calloused fingers trace the knobs of her spine, then wrap around the strap of her sports bra.

Moca pulls it back and snaps it against her skin. "Don't worry, Ran. Moca-chan will protect you."

"From wasps?"

"I'll open my mouth and swallow them all."

"I'd never kiss you again."

"How I suffer for your safety," Moca says. She presses her dry, cracked lips to Ran's shoulder. "You can also hide under my hoodie."

Ran peels off her jeans—a task made all the harder by Moca clinging to her back like a parka-clad koala. "How's that supposed to help me?"

"Moca-chan got stung by wasps once, remember~? She's immune now."

"Immune to being stung?"

"Don't you trust me?" Moca finally steps away to watch Ran pull on her sleep shorts. "Wasps can't sting through jackets, right?"

"If you're not sure, I'm not going along with it." She snatches a tank top off of their rumpled futon. It's Moca's and hasn't been washed in a couple of days, but they don't have enough clean clothes between them to be picky.

"Aw, and here Moca-chan thought you might wanna be cradled against her chest." Moca strips and collapses onto the futon in her underclothes. She holds her arms open. "C'mere Ran~"

Ran pointedly lies down beside her. Moca, never to be deterred, wraps her arms and legs around her anyways. Her skin is clammy from sweat, and the two of them stick together, uncomfortably warm but for the places that Moca's icicle hands and feet touch.

Her heartbeat is strong and steady against Ran's back. Her breathing is noisy in her ear.

"Hey," Moca whispers, pressing her cold feet against the back of Ran's calves. "Y'know, people usually plan to get married when they elope."

"Have we eloped?" Moca's fingers trace patterns against her stomach. Ran grabs her hands because—damn it, Moca knows she's ticklish!

(And if she laces their fingers together too, well. That's just the best way to stop Moca from trying anything funny.)

"Lessee... left our friends, family and everyone we know behind," Moca mumbles. She presses a sloppy kiss to the back of Ran's neck. "Got a shitty apartment together." Another kiss. "Livin' off instant ramen and sandwich bread. Also together."

She nips at Ran's nape. "And you're definitely Moca-chan's lover, unless the girl at the konbini actually calls me, so. Definitely eloping, right~?"

Ran flushes. Moca trails her lips over her jaw, up to the shell of her ear. "I-is that what you want? We can't afford a ring right now, you know that."

Moca hums and peels away from her. Ran sits up and gets an eyeful of Moca's ass and washed-out underwear as she crawls around their cramped futon.

"What are you doing?" Ran asks. Moca gropes under their covers and pulls out a cracked ballpoint pen.

"Raaaaan," she whines, wriggling her fingers insistently. Ran squints, then relents and puts her hands in hers.

"Hey, that tickles."

"Hold still, this is importaaant~"  

Moca's pen traces wobbly blue lines over the ring finger of Ran's left hand. Her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she draws. Sitting there in their shitty, run-down apartment and worn-through futon, sweating hard because they can't afford to turn on the air con; Ran doesn't think she's ever been more in love.

They still have to get jobs. The money they've saved from their share of Afterglow's ticket and album sales will run dry before summer's through, and even Moca's magical couponing skills can't fill their mini fridge when their food budget is two thousand five hundred yen a week.

But right now, as Ran plucks the pen from Moca's grasp and gets to drawing her own wobbly ring around Moca's finger, those concerns seem unreal, almost faraway.

This is their time, their space. Their problems aren’t going away anytime soon; neither are Ran’s doubts. Their friends and family are a city and three train stations away. Next month will mark a year since the last time Ran touched her guitar. She’s pretty sure Moca is two ramen packets away from jaundice.

But they have each other. They have each other, and if the soft smile on Moca’s face as she stares down at their laced fingers is any indication, they’ll always have each other.

Ran makes a point of not letting Moca see her blush as she leans down to kiss Moca’s knuckles.

They’ll make it work somehow. Same as always.

[oneshot-twoshot-redshot-blueshot]

Bring ‘Em Home, part 2

Requested

Part 1

*Dean-centric

**Vietnam War AU/Soldier!Dean

______________________________________________________________

Dean had been at the hospital for almost two weeks. The doctors had taken his measurements and were having a prosthetic made for him. Meanwhile, an empty room had surfaced in the hospital and Dean was moved.

He liked it better in this solitary room. He was free to brood without having to listen to the moans of the other soldiers. Nights were more peaceful here, too; the only screams that woke Dean were his own.

You still made a practice to come see him every day, checking on his overall health and attitude. When you stepped into the room, Dean immediately felt lighter. He would put on a brave face for you, not wanting you to leave him like a parent leaves a fussy child.

“Things are looking up for you, Mr. Winchester,” you said one day, noting the chart. “And the doctor believes your prosthetic should be done in about ten days.”

“Wonderful.”

“That won’t be your final one, though. It’s just a practice, to make sure it’s going to fit properly. Any adjustments that need to be made will, and your final one should show up about a week later.”

Dean nodded. While he knew that prosthetics were meant to make him feel whole again, he couldn’t help but feel broken. He would never been a whole man again.

One day, you stepped into Dean’s room just as the lunch cart was leaving. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winchester. My schedule has been completely wacky today. I meant to stop in earlier. I’ll leave you to your meal and check in later.”

“You… you don’t have to,” Dean said.

You gave him a tiny smile as you stepped to the end of his bed, picking up his chart.

Dean studied you. “Y/N… would you… maybe want to stay with me? You could have part of this sandwich if you wanted it. I’d even share my pie with you.”

You chuckled. “Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Winchester?”

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart. A wonderful meal of hospital-mandated food followed by a roll down to the rec room.”

You said nothing for a few moments before sitting down in the chair next to Dean’s bed. “I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Winchester. I’ll stay in here while you eat if you actually go through with the rest of your promise and go to the rec room afterwards.”

Dean shifted in his mattress. He’d gone to the rec room once or twice during his stay, but he never enjoyed his time there. While he knew he was no worse off than any of the other guys here, he always felt as if they were staring at his stump, even though it was hidden under the blanket in his lap. But if you were going to stay down there with him… “Deal.”

______________________________________________________________

And so, just like that, you somehow convinced Dean to go down to the rec room every day. He found a comfort in being pushed down the hall by you. His self-consciousness over his stump was lessening because… you treated him as whole. You seemed generally happy with spending time with him: playing cards or completing puzzles. Things Dean hadn’t really been interested in before he’d gone to war. But you made the ordinary seem extraordinary and Dean wanted to experience more.

You pushed Dean into the rec room, positioning him in the corner of the room, nowhere near a table.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“You’ve got some visitors today, Mr. Winchester.”

“Visitors? What?”

At that moment, three people stepped into the room, shattering Dean’s world. His baby brother’s smile threatened to split his face, his mother’s shaking hands were covering her mouth. Even his father’s eyes seemed to be shimmering with a tear.

It had been months since Dean had seen them. None of them looked any different, but Dean felt as though he’d lived through four lifetimes without them.

“De,” Sam said, leaning down and wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders. Sammy always was the go-getter, the first one to cross the bridge over troubled or unusual waters. Dean wrapped his arms around his brother, holding him tight.

When Sam pulled back, Mary immediately took his place. Dean felt tears spring to his eyes—he hadn't been sure he’d ever see his mother again in this life. She smelled the exact same, the scent that had infiltrated Dean’s dreams when he was overseas, the scent he desperately tried to find in the letters she sent.

When she pulled back, John stepped forward. “It’s nice to see you,” he said, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Y-yeah… you, too.” Dean swallowed. He’d gone through drill, he’d gone through war, but his father was still one of the most intimidating men he’d ever encountered.

Dean’s family sat in the chairs you brought over. He desperately wanted you to stay, but you disappeared down the hall with a small wave.

Dean spent the next hour with his family, trying to enjoy his time with the people he loved the most. But he couldn’t help but notice that his father’s gaze lingered on the blanket, knee-level.

“Does it hurt?” Sam finally asked. John smacked him upside the head.

“No,” Dean said. “I barely notice it anymore.”

“What’s the care plan?” Mary asked. “How long do they think you’re going to be here?”

“I don’t know. But they’re working on a prosthetic for me.” Dean was surprised with how easy his tone was—you must be rubbing off on him.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie.”

John said nothing, but Dean could sense a hardening about him. Soon, he stood, indicating that his wife and other son should do the same.

“We’ll try to come back soon,” Mary promised. “I’ll make sure that nurse contacts us when you get your prosthetic.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Dean said, closing his eyes as Mary pressed her lips to his forehead. He was a grown man, but the moment she did that, he felt five years old again. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to look his father in the eye as manly as possible.

“Take care,” his father said, turning and heading down the hall.

______________________________________________________________

“Oh!” you said, nearly running into John. “Mr. Winchester. Thank you so much for coming to visit your son. I know it lifted his spirits and I think it will really help in the long run.”

“Is it true what he said about the prosthetic?”

“Yes. The doctors and surgeons are working on a test model which they hope to get done by Friday. His official one should be done by the end of the month.”

John nodded, but his jaw was clenched.

“Mr. Winchester, is everything all right?”

“You have kids?”

You laughed slightly. “No, sir.”

“Then you can’t understand what it’s like to see your child, your flesh and blood completely disfigured like that.”

His words took you aback. “Well… I understand that it’s hard, but I assure you that Dean will be able to walk soon and–”

“It would have been better if he had died over there.”

“W-what?”

“I’m damn proud to have a son that served our country. But to have him come back with such a huge piece of him missing? To have him have a fake leg for the rest of his life?” John shook his head. “It’s shameful. He’s not the same man anymore.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to find something to say. At that moment, the other two members of Dean’s family stepped up; his gorgeous mother trying to hide tears and his brother trying to keep a strong smile on his face.

“Thank you so much for helping him,” Mary said, reaching out and squeezing your hand in hers. “It means a lot to us.”

“N-no problem, Mrs. Winchester.”

“Please let us know when the prosthetic arrives. I want to come see him walk again.”

You nodded, watching the family walk down the hall. John slipped his arm around Mary’s shoulders, a moment of faux compassion and understanding for what she was going through.

You peered into the rec room. Dean was sitting stock-still, eyes trained on the floor. You could practically see the grey cloud hanging around him.

You fully understood the idea of doctor/patient confidentiality, but you knew that in order to protect Dean, you would have to enact nurse/parent confidentiality; Dean could never know what his father truly thought about him.

[sundaymisogeny-blog]

Gentlemen At Pleasure - A Club

Across a golf course, half-hidden by tall trees and flanked by neat lawns, one of those houses that an estate agent might describe as 'substantial' was hosting the seventy third meeting of the 'selection committee' of one of the most exclusive organisations in the country, Masonic Societies not excepted. The lady of the house was away visiting her sister in Bournemouth; The Committee had no need to fear interruptions - they were free to concentrate completely upon the 'Candidate' which kindly providence had provided for their delectation that afternoon. Through the terrace windows of the sitting room at the back of the house, golfers could be seen wheeling their trolleys across fairways and taking detours through small copses and around bunkers. Distant though these perambulating figures were, the young subject of the committee's appraisal felt for all the world as though she were on public exhibition, even though commonsense told her that it was unlikely that anyone on the golf course would be able to see into the house. Yet, although the outside world was actually unaware of her presence in that most private room, the inescapable fact was that the pretty, chestnut haired girl was on show and with ample reason to be feeling acutely embarrassed about it too! Four chairs, on which were seated the members of the committee, had been placed at the corners of a small rug, each chair and its occupant facing into the hollow square. In the middle of the rug, and at the focal point of everyone's attention, the girl could hardly have been dressed more provocatively, considering that each pair of eyes, as they wandered and loitered and lingered here and there about her saucily endowed young figure, were windows onto the souls of some very lasciviously-minded gentlemen indeed! None of those attentively-watching roués could have failed to guess that their visitor had at some time been a member of the Girl Guides, and it would not have taken much imagination to have worked out from the close fitting skimpiness of what was left of the Guide uniform, due allowance being made for those girl-shape enhancing alterations that had been made to it, that it's wearer must first have been fitted out in that particular outfit at least two years, and a couple of smaller sizes ago! No Girl Guide one would ordinarily see, no matter how lustily embosomed, could have countenanced appearing in public with her breasts so lewdly uplifted and blue cuddled; with her nipples made prominent even without erection, simply by the closeness of the fit of her uniform blouse; as were the deliciously handful-sized young tits which this 'Girl Guide' thrust unwillingly yet unavoidably out in front of her. Badges on the breast pockets pulled at their stitching - as did the pockets themselves - and enhanced the out thrusting burgeoning of the girl's firm and up tilted titties. Buttons tugged at buttonholes and threatened to disengage on the instant, at the onset of a passage of heavy breathing. Lanyards, tags, tapes, and name panels, all were arranged in such a way as to highlight the uniform and to catch the eye, yet all conspired to lead the onlooker's attention to those succulently out-pressing young breasts. Pulled in snugly at the waist, the blouse led the eye down to navy blue shorts with white piping at the side seams, not entirely authentic Girl Guide rig, but once seen, enough to persuade anyone with a passing interest in teenaged female anatomy that such a change in Guides uniforms could only make for greater appreciation of the movement's underlying qualities and substantially inflate 'Bob A Job Week' into 'Fiver A Peek Week' if only you could have one of the little darlings come and dig up your garden! The shorts were a delight in themselves. Tight around the out swells and incurves of the 'Guides' impudently cheeked bum, the legs were somehow still loose where their edges gave way to bare girl-flesh at hip and thigh top and under-buttock, so that in the imagination a finger slipped up between shorts and skin might traverse the high-cut hip and slide down the cross-bum cheek diagonal and still have just enough freedom to interlope between close pressed inner thighs and seek out warmth and inviting moisture in shadowed nooks. And yet again, this finger-tempting looseness of fit around much of the edges of the shorts somehow snugged up around the girl's plump pubic swell, the indiscreet centre seam being perfectly placed and sufficiently taut-stretched in a vertical direction as to coax a visible labial division precisely in the middle at the very apex of bare and soft-skinned thighs. Upon this tantalisingly displayed involution, two pairs of eyes rested in between excursions up and down, while the girl's bottom too, and the palm-tingling slap-ability of the backs of her thighs, caught the eye of those two of the committee immediately presented with the half-bared aspect of the girl's decidedly asking-for-it bum. Ankle socks, clean and crisp against lightly tanned claves, and shined-up black patent shoes with flat, school-girl heels, neatened the whole presentation; those shoes, turning slightly inward at the toes as would those of a child as her confidence slipped away from her moment by moment, were what the girl's eyes focussed upon, for want of anywhere else to look not rife with the risk of encountering an ironically smiling face, as she fought back her feeling of helplessness and framed the desperately supplicant word on her soft pink lips. "Please -" "Please, sir," prompted Alec, with a patient smile. The girl stammered a "Sorry -" then licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. She tried again. "Please sir -" The note of humiliated pleading in her soft voice did not go unappreciated; around the room tweedy twitches and worsted stirrings in seated laps recognised the promise that the girl was beginning to show. "Please, what, Charlotte?" enquired the "Chairman" of these proceedings, with a benign and sympathetic smile. "Please -" Charlotte hesitated, confused. Asked directly, "what?" she found that she couldn't exactly say what. "P-please sir - I'm - I'm," her protest stumbled and lapsed into silence. "Think she's tryin' to say she's shy, Mr Chairman?" "I think that's what it is, old boy," murmured Algernon; he raised his voice so that the girl turned nervously towards him "Don't want to show us your little titties, my dear? Eh? That what it is?" Charlotte's pink cheeks warmed instantly - she cast her eyes down to the floor again in consternation. "Not so little titties," said Max, unhelpfully. Charlotte's freshening blushes scorched her cheeks. "Rather nice titties, actually," chimed in George. "Perhaps it's because she's not wearing a bra," said Algernon. "Tut-tut," cooed Max. "Naughty little Charlotte - eh? Naughty little girl, aren't you, hmm?" Charlotte's hot cheeks positively glowed with shame! "Vote," said the Chairman, keeping order, "As to whether or not the committee wishes to have a peep at this young lady's tits, her protests notwithstanding." "Hear, hear," said George enthusiastically. "All those in favour?" "Aye." "Aye." "Most certainly!" declared Max. "Motion carried," said the Chairman unsurprisedly. "And a stroke of the strap, for being awkward," suggested someone. "Stroke of the cane, old boy," insisted Algernon. "Lovely cheeky young bottom like that? Needs the cane, that's what I say!" "Ooogh!" That's what Charlotte said, though under her breath. "Vote," said George. "I vote for the cane too!" "Haven't seen her bottom yet!" complained Max. "I say we decide once we've got her pants down, that's what I say." "Let's have 'em down, then!" said George. "Order!" said the Chairman, and everyone shut up, whilst Charlotte's chubby young bottom twitched involuntarily, not entirely unfamiliar with the sting of both those perfectly-designed castigatory instruments. It was at this emotionally charged juncture that the telephone rang in the hall outside the sitting room. "Brief adjournment," declared Alec, and went to answer the 'phone. It was Charlotte's 'sponsor' wondering "how are thing's goin', old chap?" "We're - ah - still considering the matter," said Alec guardedly. "Let you know just as soon as we've completed our - er - deliberations." The caller, anxious that nothing should go wrong, insisted on bending Alec's ear for several minutes more. Back in the sitting room, with the embarrassed girl now hiding her crimson- cheeked face in her hands, the "selection committee" congratulated themselves on having hit upon so delicious a prospect as young Charlotte seemed likely to prove. Blushes! How delightful! "How old did Alec say she was?" asked Algernon of Max in a half guarded whisper. "Sixteen and a half - I think", said Max, his eyes loitering around the invitingly out curved bit at the tops of the insides of the girl's thighs where the soft-pouting peach-cleft bridged the little opening at the very top of her legs. "And - said to be still quite intact," said George not bothering to modify his voice for the sake of the girl's blushes. "'Quite' as in 'almost', or 'quite' as in 'absolutely'?" asked Algernon, pedantic as ever. "Quite, as in 'intacta'," said George peevishly. "She'd hardly be 'intacta' if I'd meant 'almost', would she!" Algernon and the others stared wonderingly at the bewildered Charlotte, who had never realised she was in - in - whatever they had said she was. All three speculated that if it was actually true, then Charlotte was a novelty such as none of them had ever supposed they would come across in a lifetime of interviewing girls sponsored by would be members. The reasons for this shared wonderment, verging on frank disbelief, were as convincing as they are shameful to relate. The 'organisation', the 'society', the 'club' if one wished to think of it as such, had at one time been called the "Guardians' Club". To outsiders overhearing those intrinsically innocuous words in a pub, they might have meant nothing very exactly but would have given an impression of a responsible and respectable organisation engaged, in all probability, on 'good works'. To those select few made privy to the real portent of the title, an entirely different picture of the club's activities would have manifested itself! Potential 'recruits', discreetly yet eagerly sought out by established members, would all have two things in common; each would be in a position of responsibility in respect of a ward or step-daughter or at least a teenaged girl having not yet attained her majority, and all, this last to be ascertained by cunning, discreet enquiry or, if all else failed, by setting a temptation and closely watching the "bait", all would have a taste for girls of exactly the same tender and vulnerable kind that they had in their care or charge. It would be put to them that the subject of their guardianship was an invaluable asset; a chap willing to share his good fortune with others - to put "his" girl into a common "pool" in the sense that he would be prepared to let her go off to another member's home for the odd weekend and not ask awkward questions when she came home slightly cross-eyed and short of a pair of knickers or two in her suitcase - such a fellow, provided he was discreet, would be entitled to stake a claim on another chap's "contribution" and have her to his house for a day or two. Because the "vetting" team did their work carefully, refusals were unknown; girls who were packed off on trains on Friday nights with only the vaguest idea of where they were going or why, and equipped only with the instructions that they were to be "good girls" when they got there, came home on Sunday evenings somewhat more broadly educated than when they had left. With regard then to the three committee members whose eyes still wandered speculatively around the briefly covered little bits of Charlotte which most took their fancy - Charlotte who was still blushing profusely and worrying what it meant when they'd said she was in - something or other, only if she'd but known it she needn't have bothered, because whatever it was, she wasn't going to be it for very much longer - and with regard to those members doubts as to the likelihood that young Charlotte was what she was said to be, even if for not much longer - well, their caution in accepting the truth of that statement was not entirely without foundation. Because, if one worked it out, there was a glaring inconsistency in the notion that a chap who was so anxious to get inside the knickers of another chap's girl, that he would let his own girl, in the hands of a complete, indeed unknown stranger, to be used or abused in just the same way as he meant to take advantage of that other girl, that he would nevertheless have declined all the opportunities that having a girl of his own and all to himself must inevitably have presented him with all along. In short, it was asking them to believe that the delightful, nubile Charlotte had long been in the clutches of a self-confessed lecher, yet that same lecherous gentleman had apparently entirely overlooked the fact that she was unquestionably available and unarguably fanciable! Well, if it was true, then Charlotte's sponsor was a man in thousands - certainly there wasn't one of them, nor was there any other member they could think of, who hadn't failed miserably in the art of self-control where he alone had succeeded! When Alec returned from his evasive one-sided conversation with Charlotte's sponsor, he wasted no time in getting the meeting under way again - he had other things to attend to back at the school and time was getting on. "Right then - a vote, wasn't it?" he looked around and then treated the flush-cheeked girl to another of his sympathetic grins. "Some doubt as to whether Charlotte ought to be made to show us her titties, wasn't there?" The aforementioned tits self-evident in the most unconcealable way, Charlotte stood with close pressed thighs and childishly in-turned toes as the vote as to whether she should be made to render the committee visible evidence was taken and found to be in the affirmative, a tear or two slipping heavily down her cheek as she was made to unbutton her blouse, whilst the vote in respect of the punishment she was to receive for having dared to protest at being treated so humiliatingly was called for and passed. Six, after all - six strokes of the strap, on her bared bottom, and the few tears became a frightened outburst of sobbing as the instrument itself was produced from a hook behind a chair. Charlotte's buttons almost popped open once the first was undone, and together the girl's firm young breasts bobbed free of the over-washed and stitch-straining blue blouse, nipples unaccountably stiffening even as they made their appearance. "Shorts off!" she was told, and her blouse was taken from her, then aflame with blushes, she groped for the waistband of her skimpy little shorts and pushed and wangled and wiggled them down over her hips until her plump bottom-cheeks spilled out and thrust themselves saucily towards Alec and one of the others whilst her close little haze of blonde pubic hair attracted its own share of attention at the front. Charlotte's shorts dropped to the floor at her ankles and all at once, there were no more secrets. Just helpless, humiliating nudity and teardrops, which fell uncontrollably onto her uplifted breasts. "Turn round," said Alec, and again, "Turn round." Shuffling steps took Charlotte through three hundred and sixty degrees, with peeps through her fingers at all four faces in turn, the men's eyes wandering unashamedly up and down her naked body. She stumbled, her breasts bobbing, and she looked down to find that she had tangled her feet in her shorts. She stooped to untwist them but was told to take them right off; she wasn't going to need them! She picked the shorts up and they were taken from her, so that she had only her ankle socks and her shoes to show that she had ever been a Girl Guide. "Pretty little thing, isn't she!" said Max condescendingly. No-one dissented; Charlotte's bottom trembled as she was made to turn round yet again. "Hands on your head," said Alec coaxingly, and Charlotte had to do as she was told; red-faced she folded her hands together on her head and her tits lifted and pushed out even more. From the corner of her eye, she could see the firm erectness of her nipples and she began to wilt at the knees as she saw eyes taking in that unwitting demonstration of feminine arousal - certainly she wasn't aroused! She was panic-stricken! Several comments were made which she was too confused to catch, but the words "strap" and "bottom" permeated her bewilderment. "Over here -" said Alec. Charlotte turned to find him indicating a table standing to one side of the circle of chairs; the strap was on the table. "Please -" she pleaded, but she was nudged towards the table and in a moment she was bent across it, hands led to fingertip holds on the far edge and her bottom elevated by something cushiony placed under her hips. "Oh, n-no -!" They strapped her deliberately, no one bothering to remark that only six strokes had been decided upon, the strap visiting her jiggling, wiggling bottom perhaps two dozen times whilst she squealed and struggled but got her bum well strapped for all her frantic demonstrations. She wasn't allowed up even then; slowly her tears cleared from her eyes and she found herself looking out of the long window across the golf course while murmurings and shufflings went on behind her. Max's voice raised itself a little above the others claiming priority on the grounds of seniority, while Charlotte strained her will power and kept her legs wide apart in accordance with the last instruction she'd been given, her bottom singing still with the lingering tingle of the strap's harsh kisses. Behind her, it seemed that some measure of agreement had been reached; her hands were taken one by one and folded together in the hollow of her back, where they were held in a grip that was firm but not painful. The insides of her spread-eagled thighs flinched suddenly from a scratchy contact with rough tweed trousers. When Alec called Carlotte's guardian some thirty minutes later the phone seemed to be answered almost before it rang. "Mr Romsey? This is Alec -" A startled squeal from the back of the house prompted him to cover the instrument with his hand; "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible - the committee has decided to accept your application for membership -" He waited for the enthusiastic gentleman on the other end to subside; "Perhaps we could have a chat about that when I bring Charlotte home later?" Another squeal, distant but quite loud enough to be heard on the telephone, rather undermined Alec's attempt to keep the conversation formal. "Er - yes, it is, actually," he had to say. He felt awkward for a moment, and then an imp of devilment nudged him into saying "I think she's complaining that someone's pinched her knickers." He remembered that she hadn't been wearing knickers. Oh well - that wasn't what she was yelling about anyway! He left it to the man on the other end of the line to make of it what he would and returned to his pretence of formality. "Ah - perhaps you'd let me reconfirm a detail or two whilst we're speaking. Guardianship - she is your legally appointed ward, I think you said?" He made a note on a pad. "Yes - yes, I see. Until she's eighteen, I presume. Yes - which will be when?" His pen hovered over the paper, then it's top fell off with a plop. Alec's eyes wandered guiltily around as he listened. At last, he made the note on the pad. "Oh, I see - I must have misunderstood -" Alec ran a finger round his collar. "So she's actually -" he wrote it very small, subconsciously. "And a half - yes, yes - oh, no - no, I don't suppose it'll make any difference." Not now, it wouldn't anyway. Alec put the phone down quietly and tucked his pen back into his pocket. Another muted cry from the committee room made him start, but he kept his pace even as he went back to the others, a man with a secret now.

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, NINA!

You have been accepted for the role of IRA SOROKIN. Admin Em: We’d received FANTASTIC, beautifully written applications for Ira and I had the worst time trying to make up my mind - but Nina, it was your headcanons that ultimately swayed me. You fleshed out areas not elaborated on in the bio to create a complete, vibrant portrait of a wolf of a girl - I especially loved how the tale of Ilya Muromets inspired her original name, and her goal to prove Durasts are as much warriors as any of the other Grisha, the invention of a weapon that was most effective in the hands of her fellow Durasts a clever accompaniment. ‘She decided that, if the birth of greatness wasn’t her natural calling, the death of it could be just as useful.’ What a beautifully succinct line that perfectly captures her adaptability. Thank you, so much for your beautiful application and welcome to R&R! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Hey there! I’m Nina.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: I’m 21 yo.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m currently finishing undergrad school, and that’s pretty much all I’m focusing my time on rn. So, I’ll be checking the dash every day and plotting/answering to threads every time I can get to my computer. I would be a solid 7 out of 10, I think.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: -

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Ira Sorokin.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

My first option when I found this rp was Valerian Petrov, as it was the first one I wrote for, but upon reading the other characters, Ira was the one who stood up. I love how wild and master of her own fate she is. And also how her savagery gives me so much ground to work with. She has this infinite possibilities look that pretty much made me choose her.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

Warriors.

The order of Fabrikators isn’t usually acquainted with combat skills, since their work’s focus lies elsewhere. But Ira doesn’t believe that her work and training are enough to keep her afloat, and to be adrift was never the position she favored in life. The Durast believes she, as any soldier, should be able to fight not only with her claws or the will of every metal on a battlefield, but with everything she had. Therefor, Ira decided to seek a partner who could train her on combat during nights and hidden from curious eyes. This is the person she chose to teach her, to destroy every bit of her confidence and rebuild her into something new, stronger. But this is also the one who knows her secret: Ira Sorokin doesn’t like to feel vulnerable, and if she felt it was necessary to trust another being to give her the skills she needed to survive, she would. One can only hope her trust isn’t misleading her.

Both a friendship plot or a manipulative one would work here. It all depends on who takes this on. I would like to see both happening, so there’s that.

Honesty versus Refinement.

When standing side by side with Fyodor Drugov, something rather curious seems to happen. The contrast between them only bring them closer. At the same time Ira presents herself as something wilder, savagery in its true form, to be with Fyodor is to belong. They’re her kind. Undoubtedly. And it urges her even closer to see how refinement suits a beast so well, when she spent a lifetime believing there was no such monster. Ira knows Fyodor is intimately acquainted with the limits of a cage, and she can see in their eyes how they loathes it too. This could be the birth of a true alliance, or the death of her. She isn’t quite sure. But Ira isn’t quite searching for an answer just yet.

The best opportunity to do all sorts of things is right here. Those two have lots of potential and I can’t help but wonder what we can do with that.

The leash.

A wild thing does not wear a leash. But time after time, Ira seems to find herself in the end of one. First, it was her parents and the dead weight they had become in her life. Then, came hunger and its way of driving her to the edge, towards an abyss that stole years of her life; – those she spent in the Sorokin household. Now, it seems the Darkling holds the end of her leash and Ira is growing anxious about holding it herself. She knows this was her choice, and she’s also aware that going against the Darkling’s domain is a step taken towards death, but a wild thing can’t help but feel claustrophobic in a cage. For how long can she keep her claws to herself, then?

Discussing if the Darkling would bother to make her respect him enough to ignore the leash, or if she is as insignificant as the Darkling keeping indifferent towards her, would be very nice. Depending on what he sees fit, Ira’s inclination to once again fight for her freedom would either settle down or grow into another war inside her. Treason or loyalty? That seems to be the question.

Angel of small death.

To lay such a violent devotion upon a fragile thing is to choose a doomed fate, but Ira had no choice. She only knows love as a violent act against the world, and when her heart found something in desperate need of nurturing in Stasya Belov, she forced her claws to be as gentle as she knew how, just to see the other’s wall building up faster than she could possibly understand how. This was rather ironic, if looked closer. The beast who knew no human trait finding the urge to devote all her love to a human who wanted no part in it. At least, this was what Ira perceived. Both the need and the walls separating them, Ira never had the courage to ask. To come closer.

Since this is a one-side connection, it would be very interesting to see Stasya’s side of it. If Ira is imagining it all, or it Stasya indeed had no interest in Ira’s devotion.

Humor me.

If there’s one thing Ira indulges herself in, is the liberty of instinct. She loves how it fits her so well, and how in control she seems when her inner beast manipulates her way through life. The very materialized form of this, is her relation with one certain Druvik Jadeja. Had she spared a moment of consciousness to consider the matter, Ira might have had the idea of how cruel that dance must’ve been to the other, but truth to be told, she neither cared to be moral nor did she have the interest to hide her cruelty. Ira loves to make Druvik dance for her like a monkey to whom she taught some very nice tricks. Manipulation is an art she began to understand through him, and one she would be very disappointed to lose in case of Druvik getting tired of their game.

Here, I would very much like to see what Druvik’s player thinks. Either see him falling deeper and deeper into her game, and wait for Ira to grow tired of how easy it has become to her, or see him revolting against her and allowing another kind of fun to present itself to Ira: the one in which she finds herself between his struggle to get rid of her cruel game and her urge to be so very violent about it all.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: I believe so, yes! As long as it makes sense to her story, I believe it would be quite the final touch.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

BEFORE

The taste of blood in her mouth was a rather pleasing one when the girl opened the door to the Sorokin’s Household. It meant freedom in such a twisted way, that Bo grew fond of provoking the children in the streets of Ketterdam just to get into a fight and come home bleeding all over the Sorokin’s things. Every time they sent her to do errands around the city, her way of protest came with bloodstained packages and a face so bruised, the mistress wouldn’t want her in the house.

It was easier to spend hours in her master’s workshop, playing with metals as she pleased, than to spend countless hours pinning the mistress’ hair, feeding her false words and listening to her disgusting compliments in between threats. And once the woman saw the face of her child slave, what Bo had predicted unfolded right in front of her.

“This is unacceptable, child!” the woman yelled at her, “I do not wish to see your ugly face inside the house”, and against her scum, Bo hid a smile as she looked down and left the room. The pain that came with all those bruises was never so great as the one of serfdom. The girl wasn’t born to live in a cage. Wild things belonged somewhere else. But the Sorokin seemed blind to such a small and meaningful truth. It was rather convenient to keep her at an arm length. And so they did.

Every day she was moved as the masters pleased. Obeying every word in order to feed, to be kept warm and to have a bed at night. More frequently than not, the girl missed the soft brush of leaves against her skin, and the smell of freedom surrounding her. Those were days of happiness, – the ones spent in the wilderness of Ketterdam’s outskirts. She had no family, no master and no mistress to pin her down. Bo was free.

Shame that hunger brought her to a gun point. Now she knew this world wasn’t her place of right. She was told just how much otherworldly and beast-like she was at every bullet she escaped by the will of her mind. “Grisha”, the man had called her, and Grisha she became in the hands of her master.

That man only knew how to take advantage of Bo’s abilities, and though she despised every inch of him, this was a lesson the girl soon learned upon living with the Sorokin. If Bo wanted something, she had to take it from whoever had it. If she wanted to be left alone in the master’s workshop, she had to be beaten up badly by the lost children of Ketterdam and return home with barely no dignity.

But the girl knew, deep down, that this lesson would thrive into something greater. Time was all she needed. For as she manipulated steel into the form she well pleased, unnerved by the bars in her cage, Bo planned the future days of freedom. Those who waited for her in the end of that piece she was working one: a blade. The instrument to buy her way out of this hole.

INBETWEEN

Tw: slavery, torture.

The sea crashed against the hull of the ship as the whip of a master against his slave’s bare skin. It had the cruelty of who feared nothing and respected no one but itself. And it reverberated on a certain Ira Sorokin who knew that reality far too intimately to not spare a minute of recognition when the structural entity of the ship was set in a fierce wave.

At this point, the men on board seemed to be so acquainted with the violence of the sea and how it reflected so perfectly on Ira’s eyes, that they settle themselves on not bothering the girl once she was balanced on the bowsprit at the end of every day of work. For this was the time she devoted to the past. The moment of every passing day on the sea where she would close her eyes and feel the wind upon her face. Where she would poise herself as the daughter of feral things and travel back to the world of a girl whose name was now lost. “Bo Murometz”, she would whisper to herself and into the wilderness. In an attempt to hold on to that piece, to keep herself from forgetting.

She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but the thought of letting go was rather a sharp one. It left disfigured cuts on its way and more often than not, bathed on her blood. Ira Sorokin could never let Bo Murometz fade away. It was a stupid name of a stupid girl, but it belonged to her. There wasn’t many things in her life that she could call her own. Freedom, Bo Murometz, the chance of a glorious future… these were the things Ira possessed, and to devote herself to those small details, was to hold on with all her violence, in all her cruelty.

With the traders as her witnesses, Ira became the sea of unwanted things, and with no one to care for them, she took upon herself to be their guardian. Every day she stopped at that same place, climbed the wooden structure towards the bowsprit, and let her mind wander. The men feared her, despite the prejudice of women bringing bad fortune on sea. And they admired her, far beyond the immaculate beauty of her face. They knew she was something else entirely. Not the woman who worked her way into that ship and woke up every morning to prove her value to the crew. Not the girl who seemed lost in those split seconds of solitude. But certainly the being whose claws were beast-like.

They knew better than to ask, though. And she was grateful for it. Her hands were still wet with her masters’ blood. Her tongue still poisonous with her mistress’ name on it. She wasn’t just about to spill it all out, nor did she cared to do so. They kept to themselves, and Ira did the same. For the day she would set her feet on Ravka’s shore, was the day she would not have the time to the past. This was her way to say goodbye. This was her way of, utterly, and reluctantly, let go.

AFTER

The sound of chains made of Grisha steel whipping the ground was like a thunder ready to bring down a fortress. Ira greeted that old force with the devotion of a lover.

This was the moment she waited for the entire day. The fall of night when she could escape the curious eyes and hide as far way from both palaces as she could, with nothing to accompany her but the chains around her torso and a handmade tobacco roll burning between her lips. And though the drug was the one erasing all the insignificant beings that crossed her way, the weapon was the one to calm her down.

With time, she grew fond of the grip of metal between her fingers, or the rush that using her power brought. Ira liked to watch the tsepi unfold and move like a snake by her feet under her command. She could see, there, how promising her order was, for her dreams of glory always came hand in hand with the Durasts being able to be something other than workshop’s rats. Within those walls was another cage, and Ira wasn’t just about to confine herself again.

So the woman raised the roll to her lips and breathed in the smoke of tobacco. Her dark eyes falling shut as she stopped and ordered the tsepi to wrap around her torso once more. She smiled fiercely. A part of Ira knew she wasn’t meant to be displaying her pride like a trophy, but the part born beast made her loose hair and untidy clothes fit naturally to the chains she summoned back to her body.

That moment, Ira Sorokin was made of warning, of danger. This was the girl who murdered the man and woman who dared to imprison her. This was the wild thing that survived in the forest for so long and with no help at all. And this was the sailor who bought respect from the traders that led her here.

Strange was the path of a monster such as Ira Sorokin. One she, herself, couldn’t understand. Yet, she managed to conquer a few great things. A brief moment of freedom. The liberty to be otherworldly amongst her equals. What would her mistress tell her now?

There was no blood staining her clothes, her ethereal beauty as intact as the real Ira Sorokin liked. But her mistress was long gone. She couldn’t see her child slave now, and that piece of satisfaction, that small accomplishment, made the beast thrive.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

   x The lost child.

There’s a name whispered at night that Ira holds close to her heart and out of danger. It belongs to a girl who could barely remember her first years in this world, but who had known, with every inch of her soul, what her father had cried out in his vices and what her mother dared never to say. She believed it meant “wave” in her mother’s tongue, for she knew it was different from the one she learned in Ketterdam. It was an easy-to-remember name, a simple and sonorous one to Ira’s ear. It was Bo. Just this. No family name.

Until, there is, she wandered off and went to the outskirts of Ketterdam, where once, upon hearing voices between the trees, the girl found a father and a son traveling north. Hidden and far too curious about their ways, she heard a story about one Ilya Murometz, a bogatyr whose story started with “From the famous city of Murom, out of the village of Karacharovo, the valiant, doughty youth Ilya Muromets, the son of Ivan, set out far into the open fields…”.

She wasn’t sure what that word bogatyr meant, nor where those cities and villages were, but the girl was certain they were very much real, like Ilya himself. She learned how he spent his first 33 years of life on a stove, unable to move, as the consequence of a curse put on his grandfather, and how, upon the arrival of three religious men, the bogatyr found himself able to walk for the first time and became the owner of a super-human strength.

Enacting battles and great heroic moves, the strange traveler described how Ilya single-handedly defended the city of Chernigov from invasion and how he, afterwards, killed the forest-dwelling monster who murdered travelers with his powerful whistle. And with every victory, Bo celebrated as fiercely as she knew how. Ilya Murometz defeated bandits, three-headed flying serpents, possessed knights and even princes. A true bogatyr, a true hero.

When the night fade away and Bo lost the travelers in her sleep, she woke up the next morning to one decision: she was to be a monster slayer, a hero, just like Ilya. From that day on, she was to be called Bo Murometz. The girl who survived on her own and left on her path many victories.

This was the name Ira Sorokin kept a secret: the easy-to-remember word her useless parents gave her and the tale of glory she stole from a traveler in Ketterdam.

   x The tsepi.

Ira isn’t as devoted to the creation of things as she’s to their destruction. For a Durast in the Second Army, who was supposed to tailor equipment and build ships and fortresses, then, it was a tough path to fit in. But as always, Ira managed a way. She decided that, if the birth of greatness wasn’t her natural calling, the death of it could be just as useful.

Upon settling her mind to the task, Ira excelled on designing weapons to fit every special need. In the beginning, it was a rather disappointing project, but Ira didn’t rest until she left the workshop with triumph between her fingers. She created something called the Tsepi, a weapon that could only be useful to very skilled hands or to the Durast, It consisted of a chain made of Grisha steel that could be wore as a defensive weapon upon attacks in hand-to-hand combat, as well as one that involved knives and objects alike. But also one that worked as a whip and followed every command of the people who controlled metal as she did.

And once tested and proven worthy of her every efforts, Ira decided to be the first to show that Durast were warriors as much as any other Grisha. She knew it wasn’t exactly the description of her kind’s endeavors, but she didn’t really mind. Ira wears her tsepi wrapped around her torso, beneath her kefta, as the most beautiful and priceless jewel, and dreams of the day it will be a success in the Second Army, because the Durast will be encouraged to leave the workshop if they wish to.

   x The True Sea and the Shadow Fold.

On her way to Os Alta, Ira had two paths to choose from. One used the land bridge between Kerch and Shu Han to cross the True Sea and get to Ravka through the mountains that divided Shu Han’s and Ravka’s territory. The other was a wagon to a Port City where she would find her way into a Trading Ship with its course settled for Ravka, where she still would have to cross the Unsea to get to Os Alta.

Aware of the stories that travelled all the way to Ketterdam about Grisha who were experimented on in Shu Han, Ira decided she would rather cross a million times the Shadow Fold than risk being caught by the Shu Han and become a slave again. So she settled for the wagon, and once in the nearest Port City, found her way into a Ship that carried tobacco to Ravka. It wasn’t an easy journey, but she found out she loved the True Sea. Had she not dreamt of glory in Os Alta, Ira would’ve settled with a life on a ship, traveling back and forward to wherever the wind would take her.

This was particularly why the sight of the Unsea made her partially regret her decision. From something so beautiful and pure, to that aberration. From freedom itself to her grave. At least, this was how she defined the Fold the very moment she entered it. Rather unnerving was to realize, once she heard the volcra surrounding them, that she was more curious about them, than it would be wise. Something about those creatures just found an echo in her. Ira was afraid of them as any other sane human being, but that thing reverberating in her with the wings of the volcra and the blood they left in their path, just seemed right. After all, like calls to like. Beasts feel at ease between their kind. Why wouldn’t Ira be curious about the volcra?

  x The way to vices.

The girl Ira once was would never dare to nurse a vice. The reality of its ruination still fresh on her mind from all the disgusting things her father meant to her. But the woman Ira became needed a vice so desperately, that she took upon the opportunity to learn from those tobacco traders how to roll tobacco to smoke and which were the best to chew. It became a rather strong and reliable thing to do whenever she was unnerved or displeased with something or someone, and since the trip to Ravka, the Durast is still nursing that poison on her mouth.

If she’s not in the workshop or training, she’s most certainly smoking by the lake or wandering through Os Alta to buy her stock of tobacco.

EXTRAS:

    x Personality.

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN

Scorpio.

MORAL ALIGNMENT

Neutral Evil.

TYPE

Entrepreneur // ESTP-A.

TRAITS

Cruel. A conscious is a luxury not many were granted on birth, and Ira just isn’t one of the lucky. She was born to a world of cruelty, where the only ones who survived were those who learned how to be just as fierce and cruel. And as time went by, this particular trait of her developed with every drop of blood to ever touch her skin.

Independent. There’s not a thing or soul in this world that may control Ira, if she doesn’t allow them too. She has become her own master and made sure no one would ever rule her around once more. Now, the only one she respects enough to follow is The Darkling, for she also knows how to preserve her own freedom.

Feral. Everything Ira does has a heartfelt and powerful intensity. She may be small and rather fragile-looking, but those are the traits no one seems to perceive once she enters a room. For Ira walks as the person who knows what are life’s barriers, but has conquered them all. She’s involved with the world, with this life, in such an unique way, that powers emanates from her. And it’s wild, beast-like. So otherworldly, that she could very well be the monster on her favorite bogatyr’s story.

Devoted. To love is a rather violent act to Ira. She knows nothing about gentle emotions and thereof how to display them in such manner. But she, as anyone else, can love. And hers is a rather strong and fearless one, – though Ira won’t offer this rare and precious form of devotion to many. She’ll love whom she chooses with all her soul, mind and body, but she won’t know how to tune it down, how to be civilized about it. Ira will do it as fiercely as if it was a battle for her life, and though it may not be healthy, she knows no other way of loving someone.

Self-centered. When you live a life as she did, you learn that the one person to be trusted is oneself. She doesn’t trust anyone, no matter how strongly she feels about them, and won’t rely upon any other. Therefore, Ira is the most important person in her life and that’s final. All she does is based on her interests only, and all she thinks about is how to benefit from everything surrounding her. For as long as her distrust in mankind exits, this will be the way of Ira Sorokin.

   x Aesthetics.

Here.

    x Quotes.

1. “Nada do que fui me veste agora (Nothing I was fits me now)." — Maria Gadú.

2. "Her violence was art." — Rachel Vincent.

3. "I am made of untamable demons and unfillable voids." — Ira V. Simon.

4. "The passions we cannot control are the ones that define us.” — Simon Van Booy.

5. “Re-create yourselves: and let this be your best creation.” — Friedrich Nietzsche.

     x Playlist.

1. Iron by Woodkid.

“A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way I’m riding up the heights of shame I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest I’m ready for the fight and fate

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates The rhythm of the falls, the number of deads The rising of the hordes ahead

From the dawn of time to the end of days I will have to run away I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste Of the blood on my lips again”

2. Running with the wolves by Aurora.

“Go row the boat to safer grounds But don’t you know we’re stronger now My heart still beats and my skin still feels My lungs still breathe, my mind still fears But we’re running out of time, time All the echoes in my mind cry There’s blood on your lies The sky’s open wide There is nowhere for you to hide The hunter’s moon is shining”

3. Youth by Daughter.

“And if you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones ‘Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone We’re setting fire to our insides for fun Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home It was a flood that wrecked this home

And you caused it”

ANYTHING ELSE?

Regarding the book question, as I said before: I confess I had a really hard time thinking about my answer. I know it’ll probably change, as it did a few times, but The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, The Secret History by Donna Tartt and Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgueniev are my favorite books rn. I’m an Oscar Wilde trash 4ever, as in I pretty much love everything that guy wrote (and also Teleny, that no one actually knows if he wrote it or not, but wtv), and that’s the only constant regarding books and myself, but those three are the favorites of the season, or something like that kljdslfkjsdlfkjs