#the horrors persist but so do I between the three of them

[impossible-rat-babies]

yes eyrie and Sid and rielle know each other. do I know that relationship? no <3

[cuteniarose]

could suiren x korra happen?

Probably!! They're very similar in terms of temperament, but Korra does have that more grounded element to her that would balance Suiren's general hissiness quite nicely. And actually, back before Kuviren became a thing, I did say to Kat that someone like Korra would be a good fit for Suiren. Oh, and also in the Under the Oak's Shade universe Suiren takes Mako's place as Korra's "I really like you and think we're made for each other!!" crush, but it doesn't go anywhere because Suiren recognises that it stems from a sheltered teen getting close with someone her own age for the first time and thus rejects her, RIP

If it were to happen though, it would most likely have to be in an AU because in canon-adjacent verses their traumas are way too intertwined. Suiren lost her parents to Korra, twice, and Korra was put through her worst suffering by Suiren's parents. Even though I think that post-SotRL they end up on decent terms, Korra would never manage to be fully objective when it comes to the Red Lotus and Suiren still fundamentally believes that the Avatar shouldn't exist, even if she doesn't try to get rid of Korra. But ngl, there is something strangely fascinating to the cognitive dissonance all that would cause between the two of them. Might be worth exploring if I'm ever even more bored out of my mind than I am now

[lesinquietes]

Farmhand!Keigo admires the engagement ring glistening on your finger. It suits you. It’s the one you would have wanted in a few years — instead of a few months — after dating him. He saw your eyes light up when he presented it to you, a couple days after he moved back in. Beyond the horror, and the protests of its too soon, Keigo, he also noticed your face ignite with delight. Whether you want to admit it or not, it’s nice to be showered with affection and desire, isn’t it?

You got sick of resisting him. You got tired of fighting back when he isolated you, and trying to run away from him, and telling him you hate him for trapping you here. Eventually, you realized it’s for the good of you, Keigo, and the other men who live in this town that you concede to his demands.

But hey, it’s not all bad, is it? He understands that he can be possessive sometimes, so he apologizes when you say he goes too far. He doesn’t relent on his demands, mind you, but he knows how to soothe your agitation. Lapping at your clit is a fantastic way to make that pretty mind go blank and dumb for him. After he tips you over into your first orgasm, you’re dazed and overstimulated from his tongue work. It’s the perfect method to keep you pliant.

He doesn’t trust you anymore, so you’re not allowed to leave the house without him. You also aren’t permitted to use the phone or interact with people he disapproves of. He chased your last friend off a few weeks ago. She was persistent, but as soon as he mentioned paying her sister a visit, she folded like a deck of cards. You can’t blame her. If it came down to losing a friend or the death of a sibling, you know what you would choose. Still, the resentment that bubbles in your guts vies for you to despise them all for leaving. Who do you have left, except for him?

He’s taken over your farming tasks. You don’t have to do anything anymore. He expects you to cook the meals and keep the house clean. Oddly enough, you think that’s fair. As much as you would rather be farming, down time is nice, too. But there are only so many hobbies you can adopt. When you voice this complaint to him, in hopes that he invites you to help him in the field, he’s thoroughly pleased. You want somethin’ t’ do, sweetheart? Y’mean it? You walk right info his ploy by asking what he means. Didn’t know you were ready f’r a family, baby. I don’t mind if y’r a li’l pregnant at the wedding.”

You don’t know how the conversation got to this point. Even more strange is how you find yourself agreeing with him. You were never opposed to children. Maybe one or two. No more than three. So, you nod in response to his proposition, and the embrace he gives you is deeply intimate. He’s always wanted a family. He was hoping you would, too. Aren’t you glad you didn’t leave him now?

He brings you upstairs to consummate the decision. There’s a nervousness in your gut. New mother jitters, you guess. But this is what you want. He dives between your legs and suckles on your clit like it bears the sweetest nectar known to man. His tongue flicks and weaves around the nub, stimulating you until your toes curl. When you nearly reach your peak, he stops. He wants you to cum on his cock.

He pushes into you, bullying the tip of his member into your tightness. It’s euphoric. You’re deliciously wet for him. The way he slides inside makes him believe you were meant to be his wife. A low moan that reverberates from your chest to your throat causes him to clench his teeth. He leans down to kiss you on the mouth, panting how much to loves you against your quivering lips. Wrapping your legs around his hips steadies him. His thrusts are more precise. Your eyes lull back when he strikes a particularly gummy spot in your depths. He hisses. You suffocate him when he buries himself. He can’t stop pummelling your core, entranced by the sensation.

Your nails claw his back, captivated by the pleasure he’s giving you. The friction against your clit is drawing you closer to the edge. By the time your orgasm washes over you, drenching you in a wave of unbridled relief, his balls twitch, loaded with semen for your womb. He releases soon after you, holding your body against his, nibbling your earlobe while he cherishes how perfectly he fits in your overstuffed pussy.

If this one doesn’t do it, he’s happy to repeat the process every single night until the tests come back positive.

Previous l

𝔉𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔲

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (IV)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWO is here PART THREE is here and this is part four 💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Our boy is recovering from Bad Stuff in the Watchtower (involuntarily). Danny gets a bandaid for a variety of wounds that definitely are not covered by a little adhesive bandaid, but hey! Bart’s trying.

Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my awful attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Batman clicks on the projector screen. Everyone in the room has access to the slides and note-taking abilities on their tablets. The assembled heroes quietly select their app of choice, sit back in their chairs, and ready themselves for the meeting.

“Good afternoon. For everyone in alternate time zones, good morning or good evening as they apply. Before I begin the approved agenda for this meeting, there are developments on the base that everyone ought to be aware of.”

Click. The slide changes to a fuzzy image of an unusually dense collection of shadows in a typical medical-wing setup. The specific location isn’t clear, but the phenomenon itself is stark against the white walls and flooring. The static on the cameras is atypical for the quality of equipment used on the base.

“There is an extraterrestrial lifeform that has made Medical Wing C their territory. Yes, we know they are there. No, they cannot be moved at this time. Please do not try to take initiative in doing so. Please do not enter the aforementioned medical wing. If you see this entity outside of the medical wing, please leave, ignore them, or otherwise make your presence known. They are generally in search of isolation and seek to remain unseen. All known attempts at self-defense by this entity have been largely non-hostile so far, but we do not know how or if that behavior will change as they heal.”

Batman…takes a breath. Not sighs. The vigilante has more control than that.

“They are severely injured. The exact nature of their injuries are still unknown, based on their—unique physiology—“

Barry squints at the screen. Nope. The cloud still looks like a cloud.

“—But the identified fluids they secrete have been recognized as at least partially composed of red blood platelets and a modified plasma. Based on their aggressive self-defense, the persistent seclusion behavior, and their general lack of responsiveness, the injuries are considered deeply severe and require rest to treat. It is imperative that non-medical staff and on-base heroes maintain as little contact with the entity as possible. We are attempting both delicate medical treatment and non-verbal communication, which have both failed thus far. We have reason to believe that the extraterrestrial is sentient and capable of communication based on—“

Click. The next slide is an image of a nearly-obliterated craft of some kind—tinted glass, wings, debris everywhere, twisted shards of metal that look like they scrape like teeth. Charred black everywhere. Barely visible is a torn–through upholstered seat ten yards away.

A hiss breaks the silence in the back of the room. That’s nasty-looking wreck.

“—This craft. It is relatively rudimentary in its design, and would not have held up to prolonged space travel, but would have required complex intelligence to start and maintain transport. Basic testing has proven that its energy readings, while not precisely contiguous with the Speed Force, show that it has been in contact with extradimensional phenomena. A non-sentient life would not have been able to pilot it successfully enough to crash it—much less to avoid the farmhouse in its path. The result is that we have an extremely wounded entity with no shared form of communication. There have been worrying observations by their medical team, however.”

Click.

This slide is blank.

“We are now pursuing the possibility that the entity has been attacked or otherwise held captive by human organizations here on Earth. There are persistent triggers of aggression brought on by medical settings, adults, and more specifically, any present medical personnel and equipment.”

Batman pauses.

“Their medical team has informed me that their persistent fear has made treatment…difficult.”

There’s a snort from somewhere in the room.

“If you discover any evidence of possible extraterrestrial captivity or torture or experimentation among your usual cast of rogues, please forward everything you are able to base for further investigation. In this time period where the Lanterns are unavailable to return to Earth, Martian Manhunter has been notified of the need of his presence on the base, and will hopefully help settle this matter. In the meantime, as a reminder: do not enter Medical Wing C, do not engage with the entity in any way. Simply make your presence known, and they will flee.

“Now. Onto our agenda. First article: whoever has been taking the toilet paper from the supply closet, stop it. The league is not here to fund your lifestyle habit of two-ply toilet paper.”

*

There’s more food available more often.

It just appears at the foot of his bed. Like magic. Or, like…like a really, really fast human child.

Some of the packaged foods Danny can’t eat without swallowing them whole, wrapper and all. They’re just too fiddly to get with his claws—the solution is to just swallow it and let the whole thing dissolve in whatever weird ecto-acid is churning in his stomach at the moment.

The rest is fresh from the bakery—or, well the base, anyway, however this moon base gets their fresh foods. Muffins and croissants and sausage rolls and other things he would expect to see on a coffee tray or something.

…Danny prods his stomach.

He’s been too sore to notice, but this half-state of being a somewhat-physical half-ghost is super, super weird. He can eat, but it’s not processed like food is in his living body. Everything he can digest just gets incorporated. Everything he can’t just gets…

He looks down at the slowly growing puddle in his bed.

…Maybe ‘spit out’ is too generous a phrase. Expelled? Excreted?

Ew. Okay that thought is kind of gross and he doesn’t want to think about that while he can’t move away maybe.

He knows, instinctually, that he’s wounded, but this half-and-half state stops him from feeling the specifics. Knowing how, exactly, he’s hurt. Experiencing the majority of the pain and distress.

He curls up on his bed.

Danny hates it here. Not because it’s bad (it is) but because he wants to be home. He selfishly, desperately wants to be home. He wants his rocket sheets. He wants his room with its glow in the dark stars.

…He wants his dad to heat up soup and sit with him, like when he was little and had nightmares. He wants Jazz to sit on the edge of his bed and read to him.

Danny wants Mom.

 …There is some other company here, though.

Sometimes, if Danny is mostly sated and kind of sleepy, the quick human buzzes in with a few of its age-mates. The two don’t get as close as the buzzing human can, because Danny can at least read the Excited!! or Nervous!! or Booored! energy on the human, which makes him more comfortable with letting it in close. Its friends seem to respect his space, though. They don’t go past his curtain, even if it’s open. They talk, but they don’t yell.

Danny thinks he’s getting the soft little bones back in one of his ears, but he can’t fully tell. He can hear that they’re chattering and he can hear which sounds they’re making, but he can’t understand any of them.

Auuuuughhhhh. He pushes the pillow more underneath himself. Does he have brain damage?? Is he…is he missing pieces of his brain??

There won’t be a concrete way to tell until he solidifies again. Gross. He doesn’t want to do that yet.

Or soon.

…Or at all, maybe.

Mom was so mad at him. Maybe he’ll be safe and he can come home if she…if he can’t be touched…?

…No. He remembers. Mom makes things for ghosts.

??Concern?Con??cern?

Danny looks up. Oh. He made the human vibrate all nervously. Danny’s fine. Well—he’s not fine but he’s not hurting more than usual or hungry.

The human is careful not to touch him when he doesn’t want to be touched, but Danny’s feeling generous. When the human puts its hands on the bed, Danny willingly brushes his knuckles up against it.

No claws. A peace offering.

The human goes suuuuper still.

…Uh. Did he break it?

And then it zoooooooms away faster than Danny can comprehend (he jolts) and sprints back with a whole lot of stuff in its hands, and a few things thumpthumpthump ono his bed. And.

Well. None of it smells like food? When he bites it, it doesn’t taste like food either. In fact the texture is…

Danny frowns. Turns over the object so he can see it better. (It doesn’t help.) Is that plastic?

Wait. Danny twists it in half. His wrists ache but the pieces rotate.

…It’s a rubric’s cube.

…Huh.

There are other puzzles too—things that taste like plastic and one that tastes like wood, which he might have dented with his teeth by accident. Whoops. Danny puts that one farthest away, in the hopes that he doesn’t accidentally damage it a second time.

…Huh. That’s. That’s nice.

Danny surprises himself and the surprised!surprised! human with a purr.

It’s not a lot. Not even monetarily is this little offering a lot.

But it’s more than Danny’s had in a long time.

[jfouler]

things i’ve heard at school - sentence starters? do as you like

“there are no dumb questions, just the dumb people that ask them.”

“[name], no one likes you.”

"whats that really scary hour? is it three?"

“that’s so scary. i will not be able to sleep for weeks.”

“hip bones can kill people.”

“there is nothing worth celebrating right now.”

“i wanna be happy, but i can’t.”

“i will carve you like a pumpkin.”

“i was cooking pizza and thought of you.”

“i like blood. everyone likes blood.”

“i risked my life to fix it.”

“we’ll get more torture- i mean, practice, later.”

“birds don’t mess around.”

“stop this madness.”

“a pathetic old man. that’s your future.”

"kids, have you seen my glock?"

"comedy is not that different from horror."

"yes, penguins die. that's pretty sad."

"it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission."

"someone's gonna get shanked."

"it wasn't a kid. it was a grown man."

"are your parents rich?"

"i don't know how 'lit' things are today."

"at the end of the day, you can do nothing but cry."

"i have your mom's number on speed dial."

"i might be stupid, but i'm persistent."

"it smells like high school girl in here."

"oh my god, what if we domesticated bears?"

"do stupid shit safely."

"i have big calves! it's from jumproping."

"he just wants to see me suffer."

"if you can't be the sharpest tool in the shed, be the biggest hoe."

"you gotta microwave it, girl!"

"we've only been told the story. now we're discovering the story."

"there are a lot of connections between math and music."

"oh, just stop."

"what are you doing here? i mean, how are you doing?"

"without music? impossible. start singing."

"i'm not gonna stay home just because i can't breathe."

"i think if i were a bug, i'd be a bee."

"we have such a complicated relationship."

"good thing i only drink beer."

"i kinda, like, don't like this place anymore."

"is it okay to murder someone in a church?"

"if we all die, then we're all dead."

"there's a new smell in here."

"that's why god created spellcheck."

"you know how i feel about young people."

"what? me getting arrested by six fucking cops?"

"are you just saying that so i stop asking questions?"

"there are lots of people i wish would just be quiet."

"so, we're all dying."

"oh, so you're selfish. adds up."

"would you rather i hate you or be ambivalent towards you?"

"don't be a hero. it won't go well."

[hogtiedwhorestories]

the ransom

warning - the following stories involves written scenes that include sexual violence that some people may be offended of and have a problem with. if you are sensitive to that kind of content, i do not recommend reading

this story was written by me and a ghost writer who wanted to stay anonymous.

----------------

Part 1

----------------

Part 2

After my ordeal, it took me awhile to sleep, but I eventually did. I needed the rest. I didn't get enough of it that I wanted though. Sometime later, I begin to wake up. I wasn't waking up on my own though. I felt a sensation around my nipples. I groan from the fact of waking up early, and through my hazy vision I see (and feel) a pair of hands reaching round me and under my shirt. I gasp when it hits me what is happening. The uncle is laying in bed with me, behind me, and groping me. I grab his hand and rip it away from me "Wh----mmmppphhh!" I went to yell out, but his hand clamped down over my mouth silencing me. “Shut up bitch or nephew over there will wake up and this will become a three way” he brandishes a knife shiny and cold against my cheek. “Lay back down and keep quiet. This is what I call a bonus”.

I whimpered under his hand, but the feeling of the blade of the knife on my cheek made me freeze in fear. My eyes pleading with him, but I know there's nothing I can do. I accept the situation, and nod my head to him. Forcefully having to submit to him in the moment. He probes back under my shirt. He frees my breasts from the bra and lifts my shirt to just below my chin. This is what he wanted now groping sucking and biting my ample tits all the while I stare at the ceiling accepting it. He forces my mouth towards his, pushing is tongue into me. All I can do is focus on getting through this. I am mortified of his hands all over me, his tongue slipping into my mouth. When will this all be over?! I look him dead in the eyes and see delight and dominance in his eyes. His hands begin to move down my stomach, down to my thighs. I squirm feeling his hands moving down. He lifts my skirt and starts roughly rubbing my pussy. I try to turn away but he persists and pinches my ass to get my attention and to quit fighting. He pulls his cock out of his pants and guides my hand to hold his cock. He tells me to starting jerking him off. I feel his ridged hard cock in my hand and I begin to stroke. I'm not very sensual with it, wanting to be done with this. My skirt at my waist I feel the steel of the knife on your hip as he cuts my panties. He pulls them off of me, and drops them to the floor off to the side. "Please don't do this…please please please" I plead with him, but all he does is laugh and whispers ”What the hell did you think this was going to be? You are in on this with us. You can’t tell anyone without convicting yourself. You were so dumb you came to us on your own. As far as your hubby knows you planned on fucking us while you waited for the ransom.”

The realization of the situation hits me. How stupid could I be?! Now in this situation there was no leaving. I had to take it. His fingers began to split my pussy and i could feel them enter me. My free hand grips the sheet on the bed while I whimper. He is rough and clumsy how he fingers me adding to the horror. His cock has grown in my hand and he is dripping precum on my hand. He rubs my clit frantically causing my body to start betraying me. He tells he to spread my legs so he can get in position to put his cock in my cunt. I reluctantly comply and he clumsily gets his dick inside me and pumps away while kissing me.

The whole situation is awkwardly done which makes it all worse. No subtly to him, no care, just taking from me. The room is filled with silence but the sounds of the bed and him pumping into me. His heavy breathing while looking down at me. I felt so vulnerable and helpless. Now both hands gripping the sheets, whimpering between his kisses. He cums after several long minutes of thrusting his tool in me and emptying his cock in my pussy. Never had I experienced such an emotionless fuck or felt as cheap as this. To him my duty was over, and he rolled off of me, laying next to me. Within minutes he was sleep, and I was left laying there feeling used.

TO BE CONTINUED

[winterandwords]

Writer interview tag

Thanks to @deanwax and @sergeantnarwhalwrites for the tags!

This is a loooong one, so I'm going to leave it as an open tag for anyone who wants to do it. Remember to @ me so I can see your answers. Blank template is under the cut 💜

📝 About you

When did you first start writing?

Forfuckingever ago. Seriously. My childhood was littered with 'books' written on folded and stapled sheets of printer paper.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

I read pretty widely and definitely enjoy reading the genres and themes that show up in my writing, among many others.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

I don't try to emulate anyone, but I'm sure I'm influenced by what I read as much as anyone else is. Someone once described my writing as "if Anne Rice wrote a Bret Easton Ellis book" and I chose to take that as a compliment.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)?

I have a desk in front of a window with a view that I'm in love with. Rolling farmland reaching to mountains in the distance. I've looked at it daily for almost three years and the novelty still hasn't worn off.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Absorbing stories from other places. Books, TV shows, films, the persistent horrors of existence.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Yes, but not intentionally. And the when is as significant as the where. I didn't notice this until someone else pointed it out and now I can't stop seeing it.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Drugs, violence, organised crime, fuck the system, weather symbolism, nice coats. No surprise at all tbh.

📝 Your characters

Would you please tell me about your current favourite character?

I can't choose between my children.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Most of them, honestly. If I had to pick one, it would probably be Brett from November Breaks and Spin Cylinder because he's the one with the most of me in him, but it would be a total disaster because the parts of me I dumped on him aren't exactly the best parts.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

I don't know that I'd dislike any of them, but things would get frosty and weird pretty fast if I was in a room with Gillen from Bridge From Ashes and Name From Nowhere.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

There is no process. They just arrive in my head and I write about them to stop them yelling at me.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Obsessive tendencies, rejection of authority, masochism, recklessness, enthusiasm for recreational drugs.

📝 Your writing

What’s your reason for writing?

It makes me happy. I wish it was deeper than that, but it isn't.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

When someone notices some tiny detail I put in there and didn't expect anyone to pick up on. When someone connects with my characters. When someone feels seen because of something I wrote.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc)

I've never really thought about it. Maybe if reading my writing gave someone else the courage to write what they wanted instead of what they've been told they should write? I struggled with that a lot so it would be cool to help someone else through it.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Character voice, I think? Dialogue? I don't know.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

See previous answer 🙈

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question)

It's cheaper than therapy.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yeah. If I was the last person on earth, at least my characters would keep me company while I lost my mind.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

I write what I enjoy and I assume that if I enjoy it, someone else will too. No matter what you do, there's going to be someone else out there who'll get a kick out of it.

About you When did you first start writing? Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write? Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared? Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse? Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about? Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Your characters Would you please tell me about your current favourite character? Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life? Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them? Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters. Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Your writing What’s your reason for writing? Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers? How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc) What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer? What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others? How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question) If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write? When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

[veronicaphoenix]

Chapter tags & trigger warnings: slight angst, but basically best friends' fluff, Japanese folklore. | Word count: 1.4k | Cross posted on AO3. | Series masterpost. ✧.*

General trigger warnings: This work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction and violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

Months were passing by, some quicker than others, and my condition worsened at times, particularly when I found myself without any updates from Lia for more than a couple of days. Despite my attempts to convince myself otherwise —ignoring Grandma’s speculations and theories— there was an undeniable correlation. Whenever Lia was around, I couldn’t deny that I felt much better. The persistent cough subsided, the fever abated, and the general malaise faded, if only temporarily.

A week before Thanksgiving, I awoke to a text from Lia, and we exchanged messages for about ten minutes before she went offline.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and when I opened the door, there she was, all fresh and lovely while I was still in my pjs and trying to adjust my eyes to the bright light of the day.

Jesse and Jolly were absent until December first, so I was alone in the house with my music and my coughed-up flowers. Mitch was also on tour with the band he worked for, which possibly explained Lia’s unexpected visit, a radiant smile on her face as she conveyed that she was there to make sure I didn’t die.

“Very funny,” I mumbled as I let her in.

She pecked my cheek and headed towards the kitchen, her jasmine scented perfume leaving a trail from the door to wherever she went. She asked if I had already had my breakfast. I hadn’t.

“Perfect,” she replied, cheerful. “I brought some things from that bakery that Jolly loves so much. You can send him a picture and make him a little jealous.”

“That looks too much for breakfast,” I said, frowning at the three bags full of foil containers and little brown packagings she was depositing on the kitchen island.

“I also brought lunch,” she said while taking off her coat. “I know it’s early, but it’s been a while since we treated ourselves and I know you probably haven’t been cooking much if you were sick, so…”

She looked at me with those beautiful brown eyes. So, what could I say?

Her gaze swept over the clean surfaces of the kitchen. Everything was cleaner than usual. Jolly wasn’t one to spend much time cleaning, even after years of sharing a living space and countless arguments about keeping the dirty dishes in the dishwasher instead of leaving them in the sink.

“But we should prepare something healthy for dinner, if you’re feeling ok, of course.”

“I’m okay,” I replied, peering into the containers she’d brought. Besides from a crazy number of pastries and sandwiches, Chinese. She definitely knew how to spoil me.

When I said that, my tone unintentionally carried a nuance I hadn’t meant to express. I was fine, really, happy to have her home, especially with Mitch miles away and unable to keep her away from me. Lia, however, must have sensed something else and had other thoughts racing through her pretty head.

After devouring breakfast and spending a while together in the studio, working on the production of a couple new songs, we had lunch, and straight after cleaning up and sorting out the recycling, we settled on the sofa, our knees lightly brushing. I pulled a coin from my pocket, flipping it to decide between horror movies or fantasy. Lia chuckles as my choice emerged victorious. Retrieving the remote from the coffee table, I scrolled through the new fantasy releases on AppleTV.

Focused on removing the subtitles from The Green Knight, I felt Lia’s intense gaze fixed on me. She had been staring for at least two long minutes.

“What?” I inquired. “Do I have something on my face?” I lightly touched the side of my face.

“No,” she replied, suppressing a giggle. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I missed your birthday this year.”

Ah, so this was the internal struggle she’d been battling herself for since arriving. It was obvious because of the way she’d been behaving; something was gnawing at her, likely guilt. Lia had never missed any of my birthdays since we first became friends, except the year I turned eleven. She’d been bedridden with a severe cold. Even then, she had fought to come, but Cristina forbade her to leave the house. Probably one of the only good things she ever did for her daughter.

Though I wasn’t sure if her intentions had been for her daughter to get better or to just keep her from enjoying other kids’ company.

This year marked the second time Lia had missed my birthday. I pretended not to care, but I had gone to bed drunker than usual, and I couldn’t lie to myself; deep down, I couldn’t deny that it stung not having her there, making me laugh and getting constant hugs and cheerful compliments as we moved around the house to the rhythm of music playing through the speakers. The worst part had been that she wasn’t there because she was with her boyfriend.

Frowning, I reassured her, “You don’t have to apologize for that.” I genuinely didn’t blame her. We hadn’t made any pact to never miss each other’s birthday, after all, and Lia was building a life beyond the cocoon of our childhood and friendship. She had every right to do so. “You know I don’t really like celebrating it, anyway. The guys came home, and we just,” I shrugged, “got drunk. You didn’t miss anything.”

She hummed in response, appearing dissatisfied with my answer. Grabbing a folded blanket from the pile on the sectional, she covered her legs, removing her UGG boots and casually kicking them away with her feet.

I wanted to ask her then about her drinking habits. I wasn’t spending that much time with her anymore and I didn’t know how she was doing; if it was getting worse or if she was trying to keep it down. She didn’t look like she was in the right mood to discuss that that day, and the movie started before I gathered the courage to start the conversation. I decided it was best to avoid it for the day and I let the topic slide away.

Midway through the movie, Lia got up to prepare some afternoon tea. When she returned, she nestled beside me, ensuring her arm and shoulder pressed against mine as she warmed her hands around the steaming mug.

Fifteen minutes before the movie’s end, her phone buzzed, and her expression dimmed upon seeing Mitch’s name and number on the screen of her iPhone.

“Can you pause it for a sec? I need to get this.”

“Sure,” I said.

She excused herself outside, sliding the balcony door almost closed. I took the chance to go to the kitchen and fetch a bag of chips. On my return back to the sofa, I inadvertently overheard Lia’s muffled conversation through the glass, a gentle breeze coming in from the cold temperature outside.

“Yeah, of course. No, I’m just out with some friends. Yeah, we might be late. I will call you when I’m in bed.”

I wasn’t sure if she called him or not that night, but what I did know what that she stayed the night with me. We set up the pullout sofa in the studio and I borrowed her one of my t-shirts. We cooked dinner together and had breakfast outside the next morning.

There was a comforting familiarity in falling back into the routine we once had when we lived together. Silly domestic activities, such as preparing a meal together, passing each other things in the kitchen, one washing, the other drying up, and then letting ourselves fall in the sofa and settling comfortable with our skin touching as if it were the most natural thing between best friends.

By the end of the movie we chose to watch at night, Lia’s head rested on my shoulder, and her hand lay peacefully on my knee under the blanket. A pang of desire surged within me as the credits started rolling and she looked up at me with sleeping eyes, batting her eyelashes. I couldn’t ignore how fucking gorgeous she was. When she rubbed her eyes, I saw my eight-year-old best friend, sitting cross-legged in my grandparent’s spare mattress in my childhood bedroom, the first time she stayed the night.

We exchanged a few comments about the two movies we had watched that day, Lia annoying me with her persistent admiration for Dev Patel’s features and the way his brown eyes sparkled in that one scene and some other bullshit. She laughed at my expression and kissed me goodnight before she called it a night.

I stayed in the living room, gazing at the empty hallway, absorbed in the memory of her sleepy walk towards the bathroom. I pondered why she had lied to Mitch, why she hadn’t told him that she was with me. I hoped that it wouldn’t lead to trouble. I cherished these moments with her and would give anything to enjoy them forever, but not at the cost of jeopardizing her well-being.

[lv-iceprince]

the fae of the oktober woods

pairing~ park seonghwa x oc! reader (this is for my bff katt ya'll)

genre~ (au) (h) (lowkey fluff)

ghostwritten for~ @horanghaejamjam (as a part of the atiny halloween project)

synopsis~ when katt had moved to quiet do-gooder neighbourhood they find that they got more than they bargained for. behind each preppy student and righteous priest was a fascination with the occult. what katt really wanted was to find love, but there was no way that they would find love in a town that felt like hell on earth... right? maybe just maybe they would have to look darkness in the eyes to find a love that would last for an eternity or more.

… or the one where curiosity finally got the better of katt.

wordcount~ 6.5k

featuring~ mentions of christianity, talk of ghost sex but no ghost sex actually occurs, an amateur summoning ritual (mentioned but no graphic summoning happens ), a haunted house, course language, a predator/prey dynamic, alcohol and drug consumption (every one is legal in this fic so don't worry and it's mentioned for a brief second, only seeing it if you squint), strange dreams, hints of smut at the end but no actual smut, i don't want to spoil it but seonghwa isn't who he seems to be- but spoiler he isn’t a faerie

playlist~ 🍄

a/n~ hi! it me~ i may have gotten way too carried away in this one, i was a horror writer for ten years of my life. so this really makes me feel nostalgic. and surprise katt!! i nearly spilt the beans so many times while writing this.

i love you so much buddy 🥹

also a huge thank you to @atinyhalloweenproject for giving me the opportunity to participate and for being so kind and patience, i truly truly appreciate it.

this is kind of creepy, like duh it's horror but this is the uneasy type of horror but it's still kind of sexy?

“Tonights terrifying tale takes us to an everyday neighbourhood, the houses are perfect, the American apple pie life we all want and to make it better the people are just as perfect. But this isn’t about them, it’s a tale of lust, deep desire, and a dance with the devil.

In this episode we will peel back the streets of suburbia and you will find something dark and twisted… if you dare to look.

I’m your host Barry Collins and this is…”

There was no bad blood between you or the ancient, living skeleton of a host but with a swift movement you reached for the remote. Upon doing so you were immediately relieved of the grating static of the old re-run of some ancient black and white Halloween special that had been on loop since you moved in. 

Bringing your hands up you lightly pressed your fingers into your temple, an attempt to soothe the persistent migraine that had been lingering since the early hours of this morning.

To say your dreams were getting out of control was a huge understatement, but how could you put it into words. How could you approach your parents and say that you woke up feeling as if an invisible weight was pushing down on your chest paired with sharp ringing in your ears, oh, and don't forget the immediate urge to throw your blankets to the ground and remove your pyjamas that clung to you.

Technically you could, but that wouldn't even touch the surface of everything that had been going on.

One thing was apparent as you looked ahead and saw a human-shaped blur sitting next to you through reflection on the blank screen...The only thing you had control over was the tv.

With a sigh you stood, feigning ignorance as you often did. Three months in this house and such things were a common occurrence, whether it be out of pure exhaustion or extreme confidence you let everything remain as it was. There was no need to search for all your missing items if they didn't want to be found.

Passing by a generous handful of misplaced shadows you made your way to the kitchen, stopping to pet Prince and Gizmo who trailed close to your feet. "You want a treat? You both deserve a treat for guarding my room last night." Crouching low you kept them occupied with a scratch behind their ears before tearing the scrap of bacon that remained on your plate in half. Wiping the grease on the hem of your t-shirt you all but threw your dishes into the sink as you brought your hands up once again.

"Shh stop it, no more headaches, just calm down Katt, it's okay." Your self-soothing was starting to work until a cold hand gripped your shoulder.

A sharp exhale knocked the little air you had as you spun around on high alert. Your sporadic movement startled both you and your mom, you honestly didn't know you had it in you.

"Katt! My god, what's gotten into you?" "Mom, you scared me!" Your shaky voice was a dead giveaway that something was eating away at you, call it luck or mother's intuition but she could sense your invisible thoughts, words that never formed.

"You're so skittish today, is there something I should know?" "I'm not skittish! You literally came out of nowhere, and who grabs shoulders like that. You're like every horror movie mom ever." You were the only one amused by your comeback, which was apparent by your giggle and the fact she just stood their analysing you. So, you decided to break the uncomfortable silence "Don't worry I'm just a little tired."

"If you're too tired you might have to miss the church service tonight, I know they're expecting you to be there but you're honestly not going to miss out on much."

"What?! No! I mean I'm well enough, I'm so energetic right now don't sweat it."

You weren’t looking forward to the bi-monthly sermons that most of the town attended. There were only two things you wanted most in this world, 1. A boyfriend and 2. To spend as much time as possible away from your potentially haunted house. And church could probably give you two of those things but at what cost?

Luckily for you, you really didn't have to submit yourself to an extended church service, opting instead to abandon the sermon and have a bonfire with your friends.

At this point in time, you were being quite generous with the whole ‘friend’ title in a frantic attempt to distract yourself from how shit this town actually was. Normally you would have refrained yourself from being half as critical but honestly Birch Lake was unnerving and the people even more so. Your friends were as preppy as they could get, yet they had their generous dose of duality with their obsession with the colourful history of ghosts and the occult. In any other circumstance you would casually avoid them, but right now you had to make the best of what you had.

"If you need to rest you can stay home, the last thing I want to do is force you to go."

In a motherly fashion she brushed your bangs to the side, resting the back of her hand on your heated forehead.

"It's your call, do what feels best."

Your sleep deprived mind was playing havoc with the words you spoke, resulting in the most gracious word vomit.

"I don't know, I want… I want to, I need..."

"You need to get laid."

“What?”

Phoebe didn't even attempt to hide her eyes rolling to the back of her head “Katt I’m not repeating myself twenty fucking times because you have insomnia or some shit.” Even with all the attitude her eyes met your and she smiled.  “I was just saying, you’ve been here for like what? Five months?”

You nodded your head, trying to play it cool as the rest of the group eyed you, it was hard to tell whether the heat came from the bonfire or from their collective gaze burning holes into you. If it wasn’t for the shitty craft beer flowing through your body, you probably would have had the energy required to give a decent response, but you stayed silent drinking in the flames.

Having realised that you weren’t going to bite the bait Phoebe readied another comment before she was abruptly cut off by Tao “It feels like you’re overcompensating for something Phoebe, the lord asks us to look within, and from where I’m sitting, looking through you I see that you’re the one who needs to get laid.”

Amongst your group of friends who you truly would have avoided under any other circumstances, Tao was the most harmless. Regardless, he was still the leader of your group. He didn’t seem like much, but he had wit and charm, he was the shepherd who led your group away from the bible school hall, past the theatre and into the forest to get to a small clearing. Tao was the son of the head pastor meaning he knew how to skip sermons without anyone noticing. He was also the only person who had your back…when he felt like it…which made him a D+ at best but he was still appreciated.

Each person broke into a mocking chorus of laughter, which Phoebe joined in on “Haha ha ha hahahaha fuck all of you, I hope you all die in a ditch in your next lives.”

Taking her comment with a pinch of salt you all resumed back to what you were doing before, listening to Jeremy as he mentioned some old lost media legend. “That reminds me, Jeremy you’re into lost media and stuff, have you seen this black and white tv show it’s kind of like the Twilight Zone but it’s just supernatural horror?” Jeremy looked over the rim of his tortoise-shell glasses, squinting at you, his attention was peaked. “What’s it called?” “I don’t know the name of it, I always miss the opening credits or switch the channel.” “So, it’s one you’ve seen?” “Yeah, it’s hosted by this old guy Barry Collins that’s all I know.” Jeremy raised a brow contemplating what you had just told him “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.” “That’s strange it’s on probably eight times a day and it’s the same episode on loop, or at least I assume it is.” You may have been far too optimistic assuming he would solve this mystery in a mere couple of minutes “Well, sounds like a good show, maybe I can come over sometime and see it”.

As the minutes passed a layer of fog seemed to cover everyone’s eyes, a result of the weed and alcohol stash everyone contributed to. You initially wanted to dull down your senses, hoping the one can you had would serve as mental cough syrup, even though it wasn’t strong enough you refused to have any more. So, you sat, keeping yourself entertained by picking at your black and orange pumpkin nails.

It was when you looked up once more when you noticed something flicker at the corner of your eyes and your throat tightened, if it wasn’t for the size of the bonfire, you wouldn’t have noticed it. But the silver switchblade was shimmering as bright as the stars above. So, you could confirm that you weren’t jumping the gun or losing your mind you did a double take, what you didn’t know was that this would result in the worst mistake you had ever made.

Phoebe noticed the nervous flicker in your eyes as you looked towards her drawstring backpack that was slouched at the edge of the log she sat on. In an instant you had sprung to your feet, though you wanted to run your body was stuck in invisible quicksand, fear ceasing your muscles. There was a delayed reaction of a couple of long seconds before anyone noticed you jumping up in fear.

“Damn Katt you need to chill; you scared me half to death.”

“No! I’m not going to chill! You can’t tell me she isn’t going to hurt me! She has a knife!”

If this were any other circumstance, you would have taken a chill pill and even laughed about it, but this was a sick kind of déjà vu. It was hard to determine when the dream had occurred, each night blurred into one, but one image you would never get out of your head was the one where the infamous Phoebe stood, knife in hand, a piercing look in her eyes as a foggy darkness outlined her petite frame.

“You’re totally taking this out of context, this knife isn’t for you. I had other plans tonight.”

“But…” “No Katt, you spoilt the surprise, I thought you could all do a favour for me. I wasn’t going to mention it yet, but I did some soul searching and realised people suck, and there is no way I’m dating Justin again, but I totally need some dick so the next best option. Obviously summon a ghost to sleep with and call it a night.”

The saddest thing about that was the fact that you couldn’t tell whether she was that drunk or whether she had always been this insane.

“I can sense the judgement don’t act all high and mighty you would do the same thing.” “As far as I can tell I definitely wouldn’t do the same thing!” “Well, the knife isn’t for you, no blood sacrifice, it’s to cut hair, string and other some other stuff. I did the other part of the ritual earlier, but I needed an open fire, so I thought I’d get some help.”

You took a step back, grabbing your bag, you didn’t have to be superstitious to know that this was something you didn’t want to be involved in.

“You’re seriously overreacting Katt, hey, if you help me with the ritual maybe we could have a threesome with the ghost.” A thin layer of bile formed in your throat at the idea. But what truly made your stomach churn was the fact that no one was batting an eye, they had made it clear that they wanted to be in on this either for the thrill of it or they were all equally as insane as each other.

Having stood your ground as best as you could for the whole entire night, you allowed yourself to turn in the other direction and run as soon as the candles were lit, and the sigils were roughly etched into the dank soil next to the fire.

Feeling permanently stuck in flight mode you found it impossible to catch your breath, though you were in motion already the swamp green forestry started to spin. In that moment you were waiting to fall face first into the mud and be taken out of this sweet misery but instead you kept moving, losing balance you hopped a few steps forward and into something, or more appropriately someone judging by the sharp sound of them being winded.

You had already made it up in your mind that if it were Tao or literally any one of those phonies you would shove them away and continue running. So, you readied yourself by pulling your arms back, but like an unstable slingshot your arms snapped down to your sides as you looked up to see the kindest doe eyes that were slightly covered by his loose black hair. Considering how you literally winded him, he still held a gentle gaze as he looked down at you, though nothing was said your heartbeat fell into a soft rhythm. For someone who looked as magical as the forest around him it was almost impossible to imagine what his voice would have sounded like. It was up to the stranger to break the silence and he did oh so gracefully, with a comforting smile he spoke his voice just above a hushed whisper.

“It’s okay, you’re safe, deep breathes. If you’re in danger just squeeze my hand.” It wasn’t like you to trust someone so quickly, but this felt different. “I’m fine, they probably weren’t going to hurt me, I just wanted to go home but I don’t know how to get out of here.” He opened his mouth to respond but paused as he heard the ominous snap of branches. Without hesitation he wrapped his arm around you “I can help you get out of here you just need to stick close and tell me everything. His grip was firm, but not vicious as he led you back to where you came from, you hesitated, your pace slowing down.

 As if he could read your mind, he went on to soothe you with his words once again. “We need to cut through here, there’s no way I’m letting you go back there. But now you’ve calmed down I need to know what you were running from.”  “I don’t think you’re going to believe me.” You pause awaiting his name. “Seonghwa.” “Seonghwa.” The way his name felt falling from your lips was addictive, “Well.” He paused too “Katt.” “Katt, I doubt you’d be this shaken up for no reason, plus I definitely heard some shouting.”

“I just escaped one potential murderer, so I hope you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing out here so late?” Without missing a beat, he answered. “I was picking mushrooms.”  Man, he was really out here being the most ethereal forest being in the universe. Noticing your bewilderment, he continued “My grandma used to forage as a child, and she asked me to go get some mushrooms.” Despite his simple explanation many of your questions remained unanswered, yet your curiosity pushed forward. “So, you’re a fan of ghost mushrooms then, interesting.” Seonghwa grinned at your dry retort “I’m more of an oyster mushroom guy, I imagine the poison would be too bitter for me.”

Scoffing at his response you were captivated by the instant shimmer of light that cast itself onto his cheek, as if he was warmed by the rays he hummed in delight, even though it was a mere streetlamp.

“There you go, I should be getting home.”

Your mind had already weaved a beautiful narrative of discovering “the one” hiding out beneath the shady leaves, so you held onto his arm for a few seconds too long. Seonghwa noticed, tilting his head like a curious rabbit before realisation set in. His soft gaze flickered with a sense of confidence, “Unless you’d prefer that I walk you home.” “I would like that but please don’t keep your grandma waiting.” “I don’t think she’ll mind; evening walks are kind of a norm for me.” “Thank you so much, I owe you one.” Seonghwa looked off into the distance shielding you from his suave grin, part of him hoping that you would give him something sensual in return. Despite his sinful temptation he looked back at you his sharp eyes softening as he feigned innocence. “Katt” He savoured each syllable, “You don’t owe me anything, unless…” He dropped the sentence hoping you’d bite back enough for him to charm you. “Whatever it is, yes.” “I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, friend.”

For the first time that night you genuinely laughed.

“It’s your lucky day, I’m definitely looking for new friends.” The transition between extreme fear and instantaneous lovesickness left you in a daze, so much so that you didn’t realise that either A. Seonghwa knew where you lived or B. That you subconsciously knew where your house was, nor had you realised that you had released his arm from your tight, timid grasp. The swinging of your arms brought forward the autumn winds which then brought forward the faint smell of dirt and mushrooms. The conversation itself was way more colourful than the streetlights that made his eyes twinkle.

The house called your name, but you refused to listen, hesitant to leave Seonghwa’s side. It’s not like you fully believed that it was haunted or evil it just wasn’t it.  If he noticed your hesitance, he didn’t acknowledge it. There was something he wanted to say, but instead he glared at the house as if he had a vendetta against it.

“Thanks for walking me home, I really appreciate it.” “Of course, anything to see you safe from the Oktober ghouls and witches.” He said that part with a smooth chuckle, swiping his lower lip with his tongue.

“I hope to see you sometime soon Katt. You made my night even though you practically winded me.” “Hey! I said I was sorry, I think, look I was scared.” “Well, how about you make it up to me with a hug next time? Good night Katt.” One sheepish smile and a polite wave later and Seonghwa was up the road, looking back at you as you entered your house. What he didn’t see or hear was the delighted squeal you let out as you clutched your heart, excited butterflies warmed your heart as you closed your eyes, his face, no his smile, no… his everything was a good enough reason to keep your eyes clenched shut as you walked to your room, again it felt like you already knew this place like the back of your hand. Once you had made it to your room you fell back on your bed, too dazed, and your heart feeling too light to notice the misplaced shadows or the murmuring that surrounded you.

You had fallen asleep, something you found hard to believe, but what was more of a shock was the fact that you also left the door unlocked. Your parents were prepared to enter a house devoid of all your belongings. Luckily nothing had been stolen and even better, after losing sight of you at church, they returned home to find you asleep with a peaceful smile on your face. Even so, they wasted no time questioning your whereabouts as soon as you made your way downstairs for breakfast. You had a keen sense of self-awareness in the way that you knew that your lie was utter bullshit, yet you decided to commit to the bit and claim that you were there for most of the bible study session until you got a stomach-ache and that the church knew about the entire situation and that Tao had walked you home.

“You know you can be honest Katt.” “I’m telling the truth! I haven’t been well lately; it might be a summer cold or like an autumn cold? All I know is it sucks, and I still don’t feel good.” Your dad was certainly more amused by your flailing arms as opposed to your mom who shovelled more syrup-drenched pancakes onto your plate, hoping you would calm down and eat. You didn’t show any sign of stopping, so your mom took any type of silence to interject “Don’t let your pancakes go cold.” Hoping that you had convinced your parents enough you ate, savouring the syrup. You were in no rush to finish them trying to delay the ordeal of doing the dishes today, yet it was that day that your saviour arrived at the door.

As soon as the knock resounded throughout the entire house you jumped up, speed walking away from your parents prying gaze. At this stage you would have been relieved to see the damn mailman, However, you were greeted with something way better. His hair gently fell across his forehead, even though it was a wavy mess it seemed calculated, and he wore a plain white shirt. Only one thought crossed your mind, ‘Were his lips always so rosy?’ Being so captivated by his morning beauty, you overlooked the basket in his hands. “Good morning Katt, I hope I didn’t wake you, but I’m just dropping by to give this to you, see it as a housewarming gift from both of us.” “I, that’s so sweet! You didn’t have to do that, really.” You hadn’t been able to put your finger on it last night but there was something about his eyes, whenever you looked into them you felt even more determined to keep him a secret, he was your own personal fairy, he was magical in every way, a midsummer’s night dream.

As soon as you heard your parents approaching you leaned in close to him, your breath catching the corner of his ear “I’m inviting you inside act like you don’t know me, I haven’t told my parents about you yet.” Seonghwa nodded “Why don’t you come inside?” Seonghwa was about to step inside, but he hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. Cursing on the inside he stepped inside, lured in by the way you looked over your shoulder, beckoning him to follow you.

Seonghwa had always been perceptive, he could sense when he wasn’t wanted and even though he knew you were ecstatic to see him the constant chattering of disembodied voices was headache inducing. Still Seonghwa smiled appearing as charming as ever when he introduced himself to your parents “I can’t stay for long, I just wanted to drop this off.” You couldn’t tell if his ethereal nature was lost on them or whether they were in awe of him like you were. They seemed almost robotic in their response; it was rare for them to be this polite to anybody especially a guy that you liked. He must have had that effect on people.

“Park Seonghwa, I just got back a couple of days ago, out of town for my grandmother’s knee operation, we made this together to welcome you. It’s sort of a tradition of ours.” Your mom stood, impressed by his reserved nature. She reached for the basket noticing that it was predominantly food combined with a few small ornaments. “It’s all homemade.” He had a habit of smiling whenever he mentioned his grandma and it made you wonder if she was just as kind as Seonghwa.

Your mom was somewhat shocked at the revelation she gestured to the wooden ornaments “These too?” “Yeah, we carved them out of oak.”  You knew her silence meant that she was impressed, marvelling at the fine lines etched into the wood but Seonghwa couldn’t read her. “It’s not a good luck charm or anything it’s just something good to look at.” “I think it’ll look perfect right here.” Pushing it into the centre of the dining room table your mom scooped the basket into her arms. “Wait, is that strawberry jam? Pass it here.” Passing you the old hand-painted jar she walked into your kitchen, you assumed they were probably going to wear his name out behind his back, it was apparent by the fact that your dad trailed after her instead of Gizmo or Prince.

“You’re so magical I was literally craving strawberry jam.”  Since they had walked away Seonghwa had relaxed, a flirty smile overtaking him as he noticed you struggling with the jar. The brush of his hand sent a jolt of flaming electricity down your spine, but it had yet to disappear as his cool hands lingered on top of yours. “I’ll get that.” Upon passing the jar to him it was open in one swift motion of his wrist, as a force of habit you reached for the jar “Oh my, I told you I got it.”  Placing the jar on the table he dipped the discarded butter knife into it collecting the jam. He did the following with such ease, tearing off the edge of an untainted pancake and smearing it with red.

It was naïve of you to think that Seonghwa was an innocent man, devoid of any form of lust, in the short time you had known him he was constantly dancing on the fine line of being an innocent boy and a man fully aware of everything around him. In short, he knew what he was doing when he brought the pancake up to your mouth. His fingers were skilfully positioned to ensure that once you took a bite the jam would dirty them, in any other situation he would avoid anything sticky or that wasn’t mud. Unlike those moments he knew that someone, you, would clean them for him. Instead of removing his fingers he let them linger until you licked the jam from his fingers.

“That’s it.”

Seonghwa’s words meant nothing at the time, but that was then after spending each day together that’s the reality you now had. You went from taking comfort into Tao’s kindness to chasing after Seonghwa, or at least you would be the one chasing after him if he didn’t show up at your house or approach you while you were out and lure you away. Following the situation with the strawberry jam Seonghwa was subtle. He would edge you by showing the side of him that was willing to kiss you silly, but for some reason he never did kiss you. He wanted to but not yet. So here you were in a section of the woods that you most likely ran past in a panic on that one night that you never wanted to relive. For once your life seemed like one every suburban teen lived even if you were a little too old to be considered one. You sat on the ratty tartan picnic blanket drowning in happiness.

Seonghwa made a habit of occasionally looking up at you from his section of the clearing, his hands littered with dirt as he ran his hands across the clumped dirt while he hummed along to the radio. “I swear I’m not holding it against you, but you did promise to help me.” “And I will I’m just thinking.” “About?” “Things… but more importantly why don’t you ever wear gloves when you do that?” “It depends on the answer that you want. I can give you sane or insane, take your pick.” “I’ll take the Seonghwa answer.” “Maybe it’s not the weirdest thing ever but I like the feeling of the dirt on my fingers so damp and cool, plus who needs cologne when the dirt makes you smell so fresh.” “Seonghwa, you know that half of the time I can’t tell whether you’re telling the truth or not.” “Yes, and I thought that’s what made you like me. I’m pretty sure you said you liked my Hozier charm, even though he probably copied my likeness.” Seonghwa prodded at the dirt again.

It was the second time you broke your promise to Seonghwa, you did say you would help him collect, mushrooms, acorns, and butterfly wings amongst other things. It sounded like a fun Saturday afternoon but as the time came you just wanted to admire how beautiful he was, a hobby that you discovered days after meeting him. The leaves blocked out the afternoon sun, providing you with the privacy you needed to make the next move.

Seonghwa looked straight ahead, despite being away from you he could hear the thudding in your chest, he sensed fear. But it didn’t make sense he hadn’t done it yet, immediate dread filled him. It seemed you had finally caught on to his lies. Instead of showing his exasperation he kept looking ahead at him, ignoring the centipede that crawled over him he pressed his palms into the wet dirt trying to calm himself. He didn’t feel fear, don’t get it twisted his dread came from the fact that the game of cat and mouse had been cut incredibly short.

“Seonghwa, I have something to tell you.” That’s not what he expected, he sighed in relief he had never been the best at reading human emotions. Bracing himself to be ever the gentleman you knew him to be Seonghwa rose from the ground, patting his on his upper thigh. Approaching you he kneeled peering into the deepest part of your eyes “What is it?” Honestly you were prepared to shout it out to him but having him this knocked all the air out of your body.

‘Get it together Katt’ you thought when he brought his hand up to your shoulder. His gaze was hooded waiting for permission, he was monstrous on the inside, but he wasn’t devoid of sympathy even if it was false in nature.

“I didn’t keep my promise.” “You silly thing, you can always start by searching over there.” “Not that promise… You told me the night we met that you wanted a friend, I owed it to you, and I can’t do it.” He thought he knew how this was going to end, yet you had him stumped. “None of this makes any sense Katt.”

“I don’t know how else to say this Seonghwa, I love you and that’s it.”

If Seonghwa knew how to feel guilt he would have but that wasn’t the way of the incubus, then again, he didn’t know whether he ever acted like his kind. As far as he knew he was the only one who played with his victims before devouring their lustful souls. It was the thrill of the chase he wanted more than anything. After your confession you had looked away from him, your nerves had gotten the best of you. But by the time you looked back up at him your heart that you had so lovingly given to him got caught in your throat. Your first reaction was to scream so you did, but over the loud radio and his hand pressed against your throat there was no way that scream would grace his presence.

Looking ahead all, you could do was shudder at the man in front of you, though he no longer looked like a living man. His skin was light pewter, coated in thick crackling mud that hardened across his arms, except for the mud on his finger which smeared against your skin. And his eyes? Oh, his eyes were something, even in your terrified state you wanted to swim in his too cold to be orange and the too hot to be blue eyes.

“Sshh little one, if you listen to me I… Well, I doubt you’ll be getting out of here anytime soon. But don’t fret.” The creature between you clicked his tongue against his partially sharpened teeth, but he faltered as you gurgled out a panicked gasp. “Katt, Katt, Katt what am I ever going to do with you. You betrayed my trust; you said you would promise to be my friend yet you’re looking at me like I’m a monster. Seonghwa leaned in his cool breath tickling the edge of your ear. “I couldn’t sense lust like I did when I first met Pheobe, she was lying there inside of the string circle oh so desperate. But let me tell you this. I didn’t want her. I wanted you.” Seonghwa released you and to his surprise you didn’t run, and it warmed him. After all, Seonghwa truly felt like he wasn’t like any other incubus, he didn’t know love, he thrived on fear, but you had captivated him. So, he intended to use the time he had with you to present you with the offer of a lifetime.

“Seonghwa, please I don’t want to die like this.” Seonghwa brought both of his hands up again but this time he cupped your face “Don’t be sorry sweetheart, you have no reason to fear me. You’re lucky she was so far north, if she was in any other part of the forest she could have easily summoned San, Mingi or Hongjoong and trust me they wouldn’t have let you leave. It’s still me.” It was frankly insane, this had to be one of your elaborate nightmares. “Katt, I was willing to kill you, but not now, I have other plans. I just want you to hear me out but first I would like you to enlighten me. Tell me… why were you so keen to want me?”

The urge to run was still present but looking at him you still managed to see the man you fell in love with, it was odd to still love something like him but his voice, this everything was enough to have you chasing after him. “I thought I finally found the person who truly understands me, I thought you would fool me into liking this stupid town but turns out I was the stupid one.”

“If you’re a fool then I am as equally so for I have a proposal.” His eyes were flickering like two sleepy flames ready to die out, you would have run but one thing was keeping you where you were, the growing warmth in his touch.

“I recall each word you uttered to me, you want the nightmares to stop, you want the voices to stop. What if I said I could help you?” Your throat was ashen dry, so you gave up on answering him, but your eyes said it all. “Instead of making a deal with the devil I would like you to consider making a deal with an incubus. Even if you failed to keep your promises, I know you will be able to keep this one.” At first you had assumed that your compliance was a way of survival but as strange, sick, and twisted as it sounded your heart already found a way to love him. “Tell me about this deal.”

Today was a day of firsts and Seonghwa finally had the pleasure of saying that he had experienced resting his head against that of someone he would have loved if he were human. “If you agree to do this, let me bed you out here let me give you a part of myself I can guarantee that no one in this town, human, demon, or ghost will harm you. I will protect you Katt, I will take away all the noise and all your nightmares if you let me.” “Please do it.”

He crashed his lips onto yours, you savoured the taste. It was rough but knowing Seonghwa or whoever this creature was it was safety. Bringing your arms up you clasped them around him encouraging him to dip his body down. “I’m trying hard Katt, but I want to taste you.” “I didn’t think incubuses cared about their victims.” “You’re mistaken you’re definitely mine but a victim? Of course not.” Seonghwa’s touch seemed to transition from stone cold to warm and comforting with each lingering kiss. After dragging them across each inch of your body he unbuttoned your black and orange cardigan. One, two or three kisses and you were addicted, it was hard to tell as each kiss bled into the other. Instead of letting the cardigan fall off your shoulder Seonghwa hooked the edge of it with his finger, dragging it down. Expecting more gentle touches you were startled by the sensation of his teeth nipping at your bare skin, ever the mystic forest fairy he seemed to be he made roses bloom in his wake.

You had snuck through the back door this time, another faint smile gracing your lips, another difference was the fact that your parents were home this time. They remained optimistic, you were bright and talkative over the past few weeks, but this time you walked straight past them. Taking a seat on the couch you stared at the black screen ahead of you, you looked a mess, but you loved it. Your eyes were too cold to be orange and too hot to be blue, the mud was beginning to crack on your skin but probably the thing you were the most grateful for was the fact that Seonghwa kept his promises, the voices in your head ceased to exist and for a split second you could see Seonghwa sitting next to you.

“Whatever I feel for you Katt know it’s the most powerful thing in this waking world.” His words melted away along with his smoky figure. Staring ahead of the screen you couldn’t help but sigh as you rubbed your head before laughing, that was a habit you could stop now. The pain and the voices ceased thanks to him. As you closed your eyes, reliving the sensation of Seonghwa’s body on yours, his tongue wrapped around your most sensitive areas and his hands scratching down your back you closed your eyes. All that was heard was the tv turning on as the same ancient host was brought back to life.

“I will let you in on a little secret, listen closely. Sometimes love and terror can prove to be as beautiful as one another, we chase love because we fear that we will be alone but some of us look fear incarnate in the eyes and we fall in love. Next door to that everyday neighbourhood, that American apple pie life, is a forest. And some of us let curiosity get the better of us, but it’s certainly not all bad for we find new life by running away from the old. The piercing yowling of the ghosts cease to exist, because Katt looked evil in the eye and hidden underneath his heaving breath Katt heard a faint thud of a heartbeat."

all rights reserved to ppoppokari

[kissunderthemountain]

Comprehend, the kind of love of which I speak

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo.

In which no small act of observation goes wasted, Thorin yearns like he has no other purpose, and Bilbo's act of kindness saves the line of Durin.

It all began in Mirkwood, really. Well, if Bilbo was being honest with himself - and really, he should’ve been honest with himself much sooner, as what good was a burglar who couldn’t see what was right under his nose - there had been signs much sooner, as early as the Carrock if not before even then, but, well…

The real, notable start had been in Thranduil’s dungeons.

When, in between scrambling for dark corners, foraging for what scraps he could find, and trying to get a sense of exactly how to get them all out of this madness, Bilbo had settled in front of Thorin’s cell. Just a breather. He thought to himself, slinking to the ground in a pathetic slouch. Just a moment to catch my breath, and then…

And then what? That was the issue, really. Weeks spent in this shadowed version of the world, not speaking - fearing breathing, for crying out loud, too afraid to make a sound. This underground fortress of a palace was a maze, cold and unfeeling as its king, filled with precipices around every wrong turn. Not to mention the guards. Really, Bilbo was lucky that none were within throwing distance of him right now - else he wouldn’t take this chance, magic ring or not. He hoped, distantly, that Erebor was more welcoming than these halls. At this point he would take practically anything, but hearing how the dwarrow had spoken of their home had given Bilbo some kind of peace, and some other feeling he couldn’t quite place. All that would be for naught, however, if he couldn’t get them out of this blasted dungeon!

Dropping his shoulders in frustration, Bilbo thumped his head against the bars. At the sound, Thorin, who previously seemed to have been dozing in a sort of half-sleep, jolted awake. Muddled in confusion he first gazed blankly out of the opening and, finding nothing, came to sit in front of the bars in a position that unconsciously mirrored Bilbo’s.

Bilbo froze, and moved to shuffle back, only remembering after a moment that-

Ah. Of course. He can’t see you, you fool, there’s no need to alert him with more scuffling sounds.

Guilt shot through Bilbo, smoother than an arrow. Here Thorin was, finally getting some rest, and Bilbo just had to go and- and muck it all up!

Yet as Bilbo looked closer, Thorin didn’t seem all that awake. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered, then blinked firmly as Thorin forced them open again, watching for an unseen danger. Those eyes, though dulled and darkened by the dimness of these caves, were still blue as the Shire-water in spring. Blue as the morning glories that crept up persistently around Bag End, and no less resilient than those pesky vines. 

He watched as Thorin’s eyes closed once again, not more than a breath away.

Yavanna, Bilbo was close enough to count his eyelashes! Bilbo thought to himself with a start, and so his gaze wandered downward. To check for injury, he told himself. To reassure himself that, though this situation was horrid in and of itself, Thorin was doing alright.

Scrapes and bruises and dazed looks aside, there was nothing to be found, and for that Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. Just one - but to his horror, he saw Thorin’s nostrils flare. He froze as Thorin inhaled fully, paused, and lifted his head a bit higher, eyes searching for something. Someone? Bilbo didn’t dare hope it was him, and anyway, he was far more focused on a smaller detail - that Thorin’s braids were undone, with no beads to fasten them in place.

Those tree-shagging bastards! Those- those filthy, rotten leaf lovers -

He had never held contempt for elves, not really (as someone had to keep a level head between Gloin’s disdain and whatever Kili was doing), and though he had never learned the exact significance of dwarven braids, anyone with eyes could see the level of disrespect it took to remove them. And - having been by the rest of The Company’s cells on brief occasions - Bilbo noticed now that it seemed only Thorin’s had been removed. And so Bilbo hatched a plan. Finally the wheels of his mind were turning, set into motion by the sight of the King - he didn’t dare say his King - in such a state.

Of course, there was the plan that got them out of there. Quite well thought out, if one were to brush past the lack of a barrel for Bilbo himself and the surprise Orc party.

But the other plan - his own secret, private project, was another matter. It was a matter of a whittle (in Bilbo’s case, a small Elvish knife swiped off a table when no-one cared enough to look), and a scrapped piece of wood no bigger than his thumb.

There was no thought in Bilbo’s head about propriety when he had been stealing for his life. In a way, this was much the same, he reasoned with himself, in that it was a necessary gesture that Bilbo had the time and energy to spare to do when no one else did. When there were bigger issues to worry about - Kili’s leg, for one, or making it into Laketown, or of course the Lonely Mountain itself. 

No, this was something he would do, for he had noticed something, and now couldn’t let it go.

Thorin lay alone. In Laketown, in a bed far too tall for his size, he lay still, hands folded on his chest mimicking a body and not a person, and thought.

Unbidden, his gaze wandered to Bilbo. When he looked at Bilbo, really let himself look (and this night he did, as there was no telling what tomorrow and the Lonely Mountain would bring), he thought not of gold, not of the throne awaiting him in the depths of that mountain, not of his home, but of far more lonesome things.

Of how the eye was Mahal’s loneliest creation, the whole world passing through it and yet holding nothing. Of how there was another eye, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry. Just as empty.

He thought of the firelight shining in Bilbo’s eyes and remembered nights around a campfire. Remembered the gentle crackling of the flame and nonexistent sunlight found in the hobbit’s hair, remembered warmth. How, after borrowing Thorin’s furs, and rolling this and that way during the night, there had been a patch of ground heated gently by a body - Bilbo’s body - all night long. How he, guilty in every touch, had reached for that earth, desperately seeking a remnant of that heat, that touch, that embrace they had shared on the Carrock. How he had laid there until the only heat left was his own, and the ground grew cold and unforgiving beneath him, and the sun had risen. And then they had to leave.

In Mirkwood, in weeks trapped beneath the forest, it felt as if Thorin had been given endless time to think. Yet now, on the precipice of his home, of his destiny, there was no time at all. 

What time he did have was spent on Bilbo. Was spent wishing, wondering, if there was something more. If like that other eye, Bilbo, too, felt this yawning chasm within him, a hollowed-out sort of feeling that Thorin sensed couldn’t be filled. 

Oh, it came close sometimes, of course, seeing his sister-sons laugh, seeing hope for the first time in a long time within his people, within his Company, but it wouldn’t be satiated by anything less than a lifetime of… well… Thorin let his head drop back to the pillow, heavy with an equal mixture of desire and regret. He would’ve been happy with remaining by Bilbo’s side, he mused to himself, could’ve felt satisfied drinking in that radiance and living for it alone. But now, with his future, his destiny, his people, hanging by a thread, there was nothing to be done. He would live and die by this yearning.

Going lax, Thorin heard footsteps. Barely heard them, as quiet as the hobbit moved across even creaky wooden floors, but heard them all the same. He did not will his eyes to open, only shifted his body over slightly to one side. An opening. An offering, really. One he didn’t dare hope would be noticed or… accepted.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, voice soft as anything. When moments passed and no response came, Thorin felt a dip in the mattress. An additional weight on his bed. This made his eyes open finally, and when they did, he watched as Bilbo frowned slightly and moved to get up.

Out of instinct, Thorin found himself latching onto Bilbo’s wrist with a tenderness that frightened him and that only made Bilbo frown more. But it also made Bilbo settle back down on the bed and lean over Thorin, so he took the successes as they came, even when they came with a lecture.

“Are you feeling alright? You haven’t gone and gotten yourself sick, have you? I’ll go get Oin if I have to, I know you wouldn’t want to slow anything down but we cannot have you-”

“Bilbo.” Thorin interrupted when Bilbo’s hand had already landed on his forehead, feeling for a rise in temperature that wasn’t there. He raised his eyebrows, and Bilbo’s hand drew back at the motion. “I’m alright. But thank you. Your concern is…” Here he paused, swallowed, throat dry as anything. “Touching.”

Touching. All that time and all he could come up with was touching. Forget being a king, hopefully his future would end here and now through being swallowed up by the floor.

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed. Mahal, that expression. “If you say so, but if there’s anything I can do…” His words hung in the air and for a second Thorin felt suffocated. Anything. Yes. If I could request anything of you I wouldn’t ask for much at all. Just forever. Forever with me. Intertwined. Something of that pain must have shown through in his expression because between that moment and the next, Bilbo’s fingers were smoothing his hair away from his temple in feather-light strokes. 

“It’ll be okay, you know.” He continued, and it was so intimate that Thorin was torn between cringing away from it (because it was too much, like a campfire on an already scorching summer night) and throwing himself into it, helpless, a moth drawn to a flame. Instead, he settled somewhere in the middle, somewhere in resting his eyes on Bilbo’s face and resting his head for Bilbo’s hand.

“I do know.” Thorin said, his voice the rumble of distant thunder and his tone something so weary that Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

Fingertips lingering somewhere just above Thorin’s ears, Bilbo tapped lightly. “You might know, but you certainly don’t believe in it.” Saying this, Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “I don’t know what to tell you to make you believe. That’s more of Gandalf’s thing, I think.”

Thorin smiled, feeling small in the stillness of the night. “Our resident burglar, lost for words? Wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day.”

“Ah, well, don’t go getting used to it. Doesn’t happen often, that.”

The both of them smiled, then, and Thorin felt something well up in his chest. He fought back the urge to press a hand there and check it wasn’t physical - for he knew it couldn’t have been something as simple as blood or sweat, but an emotion he still couldn’t place beyond want.

Bilbo deserved more than want.

Feeling Bilbo drawing away, Thorin spoke once again in a desperate attempt - with that same reaction as when he had latched on to Bilbo’s hand. “I fear…” He cast his eyes down, suddenly far too ashamed to look Bilbo in the eye. “This bed feels too empty for me to sleep well tonight.” “I understand.” Bilbo said, to his surprise, forcing that hope - the one that whispered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he felt - to surface again. “After all, after months of only sleeping in shifts around a fire, I would feel the same.” Thorin hesitated. “Do you… feel the same?” Bilbo met his gaze, then. He had the slightest curl of amusement to his lip. “Are you asking me to share your bed, oh King Under the Mountain?”

Mahal have mercy. Strike me down now.

“Well, Master Baggins,” Thorin cleared his throat, breaking that eye contact yet again to stare at a wooden beam across the room. “I would understand if it would not be considered proper by your people, but considering, well, your previous statement, I would think…” And there, sparing him from further embarrassment was Bilbo, sliding under the cover and making room for himself. Barely thinking about it, barely thinking at all, really, Thorin shifted over to make space, and Bilbo gave a happy hum.

“You would be right - in that it isn’t considered properly done - but I would consider these extenuating circumstances. And, to be frank, it’s awfully hard to resist when you dwarves give off more heat than the earth in Wedmath.” His eyes crinkled with a kindness Thorin hadn’t felt in ages and Thorin fought to reconcile the idea of the Hobbit who’s home he’d invaded months ago with this one.

In a beat, Bilbo took on a grave sincerity (the same he had shown repeatedly - after escaping the Misty Mountains, or when vouching for Thorin just a day or so prior) and shifted to face Thorin. 

Helpless, Thorin held still, and waited.

“You’re my dearest friend, Thorin.” Bilbo said, quietly, like it was a secret between the two of them. “And I’d do anything for a friend.”

“Even face down a dragon?” Thorin choked out before having thought about it, caught in the look in Bilbo’s green eyes (Emerald, his mind whispered, Emerald, moissanite, tourmaline) and the warmth and weight of his body beside him.

Those green eyes twinkled. “Especially that.” He smiled, like it wasn’t going to be his doom, like his life wouldn’t end in fire and ash. “So really,” Bilbo continued (cutting off Thorin’s spiraling thoughts rather rudely), “This isn’t much at all.”

Thorin felt that same feeling creeping up, stuck in his throat. 

You don’t understand. There is nothing I wouldn’t give. My kingdom, my riches, my blood. In my deepest heart of hearts, I wish we never would’ve come. That you could have stayed in the Shire, in Bag End, never knowing what it is like to face a violent death and stand tall.And yet, then we wouldn’t have met.I thank Mahal that we are given this night. That I am given this night to lay beside you as your friend. If you name me your dearest friend, then your dearest friend I shall be.

He didn’t speak a word. He just breathed out, long and placidly, and that seemed to say enough.

A heavy weight sat in Bilbo’s chest, made to match the heavy weight in his jacket.

He had woken the dragon. His actions had directly killed many in Laketown - people who had already been suffering, starving at the hands of their Master. People he and Thorin and the rest of The Company had given hope to for the first time in a long time.

And yet in the face of all of this, Thorin felt nothing. He could tell Thorin had changed. He had changed the very moment they had set foot in this wretched mountain. 

Erebor, though once a splendid kingdom of wealth and warmth and home for so many, had become a hollowed out shell of its past. 

Between the way Thorin prowled (and really, there was no other word for it, considering the tense set of his shoulders beneath that gaudy fur coat and the distant look in his eyes) and the way the mountain bled coldness and stunk of death like an infected wound, it was a wonder Bilbo found air comfortable enough to breathe.

When he wasn’t sorting through gold for the very item he already held or avoiding the feverish gaze of The King Under the Mountain (for could that dwarf really be called Thorin Oakenshield anymore?) Bilbo sought comfort in one small object.

Palming it, Bilbo considered the details. There wasn’t any work left to do on it, really, unless he wished to risk the integrity and carve deeper than he ought to. His deft fingers had worked carefully away at it for months, angling a small knife (that he swapped out rather cleverly at Laketown, lest anyone harp on him about carrying yet another blade of Elvish make) just so and now, with countless sections of downtime spent, he was left with this.

One small wooden bead sat in his hand. The size and shape was close to that of Thorin’s original beads, or as close as Bilbo had remembered (as Bilbo knew little about hair fastening in this fashion and didn’t want to risk making something that couldn’t work well at all), but that was where the similarities ended.

Despite having studied what dwarven runes and designs he’d seen intently, Bilbo decided to stick with what he knew best, and made it personal. After all, especially now with Thorin’s… condition, there was no guarantee it would ever be worn. So, he took comfort in it, and whittled the only way he knew how.

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo. A bead that would likely never see the light of day, if Bilbo allowed himself to face the stark reality laying before him for more than a moment to admit it.

Holding it up to what little light reflected in these stone halls, he peered at it, admiring his handiwork for once. Only a few of his previous skills had carried over to this quest and, somehow, he was glad this was one of them.

Then there was a sound, nothing so undignified as a scuffle but scraping, like the drag of claws (Smaug’s claws, he thought to himself, with a shudder) on the rock’s surface, and Bilbo was startled enough to drop the bead back into his palm with one sudden move.

Thorin stood in front of him, tall and regal and unreachable beneath his layers of garish golden metal and furs. “What,” he growled, every bit as animalistic as Bilbo had feared. “Is that.”

He made no clarification but his eyes (that same river blue gone cold and distant like that wretched winter the Brandywine had frozen over) fixed on Bilbo’s hands, clenched tight around his last shred of hope and comfort in this dark and desolate place.

“It’s nothing.” “Show me.” Thorin demanded, and with this King Under the Mountain towering over him, Bilbo had nothing to do but to obey.

His fingers (which were not trembling, no matter what anyone thought) unclasped and he offered, palm up, the bead. Thorin’s bead, really.

At once, there was a small clarity in Thorin’s eyes, in his face. A touch of guilt, maybe, for such a bold confrontation, and something else. 

“A wooden bead,” he mused, and his voice, though rough with harsh use, was the gentlest it had been since that night in Laketown, when he’d confided in Bilbo, and they had shared a bed for crying out loud. “Wherever did you pick this up?” “I, ah, made it. Actually. Myself. Took quite a bit of time.” Hearing this, Thorin’s hand brushed the underside of Bilbo’s, guiding it up so he could look closer. Nearly flinching, Bilbo just held still, and breathed as Thorin examined his work. Thorin sounded tender and Yavanna, almost fond, as he spoke. 

“You made this?”

Latching on to this fragment of humanity he’d found, Bilbo continued with reckless abandon, throwing any sense of secrecy to the wind.

“Yes, just in my downtime, over the last few months. Always had a bit of a knack for whittling, one of the few crafts I’ve gotten comfortable enough with so far. Made it as a gift, actually, I was going to give it to someone- ah- sometime-” “You’re going to give it to someone?”

In that very moment, it seemed as if Thorin had disappeared in the complete opposite direction. 

Where there had been rivers warm in spring or frozen over in the dead of winter was a stormy sea Bilbo had never been privy to witness. That tender touch had become a claw, holding a level of fury he had yet to see in Thorin (even after getting himself flung off a cliff!), and yet, when Bilbo dared to drag his gaze to meet Thorin’s, there was a level of devastating desolation spreading on his face that Bilbo just had to do something, anything to get a drop of that Thorin (his Thorin) back.

“It’s yours,” he said, prying Thorin’s hand off and open enough to let the bead tumble into his tensed fingers. “I made it for you. Please. Take it, Thorin, it’s a gift for you.”

Bilbo watched Thorin’s eyes, cautious. He watched as that same lust, that gold sickness clouded them for but a brief moment, and then startlingly, he watched as they cleared. As how Thorin, gazing at the bead anew with a sudden clarity in his eyes, whispered in a halting voice, “For me?”, and how his other hand slowly reached to rub at some ache in his chest. The touch reminded him of the cloak he was wearing, and, with a warring flicker of disgust and avarice, he cast it to the ground and closed his eyes completely. Bilbo didn’t miss Thorin’s eyelashes going wet, nor how he seemed to weaken at the knees. 

It took minutes before either spoke, standing there, Thorin weathering his storm and Bilbo helplessly caught in the tide, watching, waiting, until Thorin gained breath enough to speak.

“Bilbo… Mahal , what have I done? This mountain, this gold, this- this blasted crown … I have succumbed to the very same madness of my forefathers.”

“Thorin-” Bilbo stilled as Thorin wrenched the crown from his head and tossed it to the floor, a loud clatter echoing in the barren space. “Thorin, do not stand in front of me and say you have succumbed when I can see you looking at me like a new dwarf. You are not your grandfather and you will not yield while I draw breath.” 

In his tirade Bilbo had cleared the space between them and stood almost chest to chest with Thorin. 

“Your company needs you. I need you,” and at this, Thorin gave some strange shudder, shaking his head with his eyes still closed. “Thorin Oakenshield, the same dwarf who threw himself off a cliff's edge to save a lowly burglar.”

There he paused, and waited, barely blinking with the intensity of his stare.

A hair's breadth away from him, Thorin drew in a trembling breath, and opened his eyes. “If,” He began, voice unsteady, then cleared his throat. “If that is truly all you think you are, all of us have failed.” And in that one sentence, Bilbo relaxed more than he had in days. 

Though Thorin was still shaky, and his hand still clutched Bilbo’s bead like a lifeline, he was more himself than when they had entered this mountain, and Bilbo had never been so relieved in his life.

Pinned to the ice, Thorin struggled under the weight of Azog bearing down with his bisected blade. His block had been nearly a second too late - another breath and the tip of that blade would be in his throat. Though it seemed now that would be his fate regardless.

Gritting his teeth, he weighed his options very quickly. It would be a warrior's death, he decided, fit for a king indeed, slaying his enemy at the price of his own life.

And what a life it had been. How weak he had become, buckling under the weight of all the gold in his mountain. In- in the mountain, that was. That mountain (and the gold within) would pass to Fili and Kili, if they managed to survive their wounds.

Oh, his sister-sons. He grieved, now, not only for them, but for Dís, for the knowledge that she very well may be left alone and how he had robbed her of all remaining family with this quest. What good was a home, no matter how grand and beautiful, if there was no one worthwhile to share it with? If it had come at the cost of her sons, of her brother? 

How could he, already so disgraceful in every way, leave this unfinished, leave Azog alive to hunt down the rest of his family, what little remained of the line of Durin?

Thoughts racing, Thorin’s forearms began to burn under the strain, and he had made up his mind.

About to slacken his grip, Thorin felt a weight in his shirt, that which was closest to his skin - unmistakably a bead, the one Bilbo had made for him. Had given to him. The miniscule weight of that, of such a promise, made him - Thorin Oakenshield, who had faced down this mighty orc not once but three times now, who had lept from a narrow ledge to save a stranger with barely a thought, who had taunted a dragon - that bead made him hesitate. And that hesitation was just enough of a break that it gave room for one brave Hobbit to dive in, letter opener flashing in the harsh winter sun and a fierce look in his eyes. Though the weight of a Hobbit was nowhere near enough to make an orc fall, it caused Azog to stagger, thus releasing Thorin from his death sentence, and pulling the focus onto Bilbo.

No. Oh, Mahal, no, not him too. Thorin could think of nothing else, couldn’t tear his eyes away as he lay sprawled aside and momentarily forgotten. He watched, helpless, as the elven dagger was knocked out of Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo fell to the ice, fumbling for something - a ring? - that skidded across the frozen surface before sinking down into frigid, endless waters. He prayed that the Mithril under Bilbo’s coat would be enough, that his gift (though nowhere near as priceless, in his mind, as the bead he had been given) would protect Bilbo when he couldn’t.

Azog seemed to read his very mind, as his foot slammed down on Bilbo’s chest, knocking the breath out of him with a wheeze that struck Thorin in the depths of his heart. Struggling to his elbows, Thorin stopped dead at the blade pointed to Bilbo’s vulnerable throat.

The orc smiled, a sick and terrible thing that twisted his face into a horrendous mass of teeth and pale scarring. Thorin had never been so afraid in all his life.

“The line of Durin,” Azog snarled, “brought so low by a halfling . Lay down your weapon, dwarf, or I shall kill him.” That smile grew wider. “Brutally. In front of you. Surrender or the ice will be red with his blood.”

In his right mind, Thorin knew there was no reasoning with an orc. That no matter what he did, their deaths were inevitable at the hands of such a foe in this circumstance. Yet that didn’t stop his hand loosening around Orcrist, willing him to yield as he had to the trolls that threatened his burglar’s life so many months ago. The sword was dangling from his very fingertips when Bilbo, trembling with effort, dug his nails into Azog’s flesh just above his shin armour and pulled. The shock gave him a moment to claw his way up Azog’s leg, surging out from underneath a slackened pin, and sink his teeth into the meat of Azog’s thigh in one deep bite.

Staggering to his feet, Thorin put weight on his injured foot (that was still sluggishly leaking blood onto the ice) and pressed forward, through the pain, through the fear, gripping Orcrist ever steadily and dodging a strike from Azog that aimed to slice across his chest.

One swing took Azog’s head clean off.

One swing and he fell back, back, and for a horrifying second Bilbo fell with him until his jaw released and he, too, lurched, but away from Azog, and onto the ice a distance away from Thorin.

Thorin collapsed, releasing Orcrist from his grasp. Reduced to an ungainly, helpless crawl, as if he were naught but a babe, Thorin dragged himself to Bilbo’s side. “Bilbo,” At first was all he could say, hands nearly numb with the cold clutching at every part of him, feeling for wetness, for blood and wounds, and finding nothing, he rested his hand between Bilbo’s narrow shoulder blades. Bilbo was hunched over, sputtering, trying to rid his tongue from the taste of orc blood and flesh.

Thorin panted, voice nothing more than a rasp, and said “Sorry about the blood in your mouth,” I wish it was mine. It should’ve been mine, is what he didn’t say, though he thought it and they both heard it. I should have died in that fight. It would have been a noble death. A worthy death. Now I must live an unworthy life - unworthy of my kingdom, of those around me, of Bilbo.

Bilbo looked up at him. His teeth were stained black. Thorin had never found him more beautiful.

Alive. We’re both alive. Mahal, how I thank you. How I thank the strength of mithril, the strength of hobbits.

Tears rose to his eyes unbidden. Too overwhelmed to feel shame (though he had not truly cried in an age), Thorin bent his forehead low and touched it to Bilbo’s, the stinging of his cut only making him press closer. “Bilbo,” He began, voice thick with emotion.

Bilbo shushed him, gentle, one hand finding the back of Thorin’s neck. Both of them were frigid, and they clung to each other there on the ice, breathing the same air until the eagles came.

Of course, lots of work had to be done. Cleanup, for one, and things Bilbo knew far too little about to help with - structural integrity of a mountain kingdom wasn’t really his forte - but also healing and dying and mourning. Not a day went by that Bilbo didn’t gaze at Thorin and feel that overwhelming sense of relief wash over him, filling every crack and crevice in his very soul. When he looked at the boys, Thorin’s sister-sons, battered, bruised, and bloody, but still so alive, warmth filled his chest and stayed there, keeping him shielded from the growing cold better than any liquor he drank ever could. 

It all could have turned out so differently.

The taste of orc blood still lingered in Bilbo’s mouth (when he thought about it too long), turning to ash in the dark stillness of the royal family’s medical tent and flooding his senses (the bitter winter wind whipping in his hair, a persistent smell of death that would probably stay on the terrain for years to come, frigid ice beneath his feet that did nothing to quell his fevered memory of the Fell Winter, and above all else, desperation like he had never known).

A moment later to have intervened and Thorin would have let himself be gored on that ice. A second later to have, in a rather shameful way, (if it hadn’t been for the fact that it had saved Thorin’s life and the way Thorin had looked at him after, orc blood smeared on his teeth, like he was seeing all of Bilbo for the first time and liked what he saw) pulled himself up and Thorin would have let Orcrist slip through his fingers. After everything.

And so Bilbo sat, breathing through it, until Thorin woke and stared at him in a way that felt like it said many more things than Bilbo understood, and that strange gravity Thorin carried with him everywhere grounded Bilbo once again. Somewhere in there his hand had found Bilbo’s, holding it tightly, his thumb running in patterns over the hair on the back of Bilbo’s hand.

It wasn’t proper; Bilbo couldn’t find the energy to care. Along the way his propriety had vanished (maybe between being used as a troll hankie and sharing a bed with a future king for no real discernable reason), and at this very moment, it struck Bilbo.

I will never be at home in the Shire ever again.

Of course it would be familiar, worn to golden like a well-loved statue or a doorknob that had seen many guests and many good days. But family - a family that made him feel like he belonged, and not like something to shy away from or take pity on, but someone to embrace, a family like he had seen with all of the brothers, and Thorin with Fili and Kili, something… something he could be a part of. Here. In Erebor.

Bilbo stared at Thorin. Thorin stared back, unwavering emotions behind his eyes and a steady hand holding Bilbo’s.

The days went on like this, until Thorin could put weight on his foot without flinching (and Yavanna, how utterly murderous Bilbo had felt, seeing that angry scarlet split in Thorin’s pale, smooth skin) and Fili and Kili got out of their cots far too fast (ending up sprawled on the floor, as Fili had been using Kili for support to stand and they went down together as always), and after living in the mountain for a season proper, Bilbo had broken the news of his intent to stay.

Erebor, once a barren relic of its people, was once again filled with chatter, an ever-present heat from the working forges, children (or ‘pebbles’ as Bilbo soon learned they were called), and a burning sense of home Bilbo hadn’t felt since he was young.

The brief trip back to the Shire in order to retrieve some belongings he couldn’t do without long-term only confirmed what he was already sure about, and his return to Erebor was met with a set of misshapen doilies, handcrafted by the members of The Company with visibly differing levels of skill. Each one warmed Bilbo’s heart nonetheless.

One unusually balmy night saw Thorin at Bilbo’s door. Though Thorin appeared majestic as ever, the way his hands clasped tightly at the small of his back betrayed his nerves in a tell that, miraculously, never showed in court and always showed in front of Bilbo. It was either that, or the wild look in his eyes, like he had just seen something too good to be true.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started, elegant as ever with his sudden starting and stopping of sentences. 

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, cheerfully deadpan as ever. “What can I do for you?”

Thorin’s mouth quirked (and Bilbo couldn’t look away), “Many things, apparently. Stand in front of orcs and dragons and goldsick kings alike.”

“Like I said, anything for a friend.”

Flushing a little at the reminder of how brazen he had been that night (really, Bilbo, extenuating circumstances?), Bilbo opened the door wider to allow Thorin inside in an unspoken invitation. 

When he had turned back around to face Thorin, having shut the door, his breath caught in his throat. Thorin had shed his outer layers, wearing a thin tunic that clung to his softer sections and would have left him looking gentle had it not been for the tense set of his shoulders.

“You…” Thorin halted, once again, casting his gaze to the floor. “You have been living here for months, yet you know little of dwarven customs.” Confused, Bilbo took a step forward. “Now, Thorin, I wouldn’t say that…” “You know little of dwarven courting customs.”

Well. That was true enough. Bilbo didn’t quite see how it was relevant, or that it was really such a dramatic matter. Yet Thorin, bathed in the gentle light of a candle, had gone from nervous to determined (almost battle ready, for crying out loud!), and set his jaw. His hands opened in front of him to reveal that bead Bilbo had painstakingly carved all that time ago.

“With this bead, you not only saved my life - for I am sure I would have fallen much farther into gold sickness otherwise - but likely that of my family and my kingdom. I am forever in your debt, for I don’t know how to even begin repaying you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to interject, to say that there was no such debt owed, that Thorin had saved his life as well and other true things, but at that moment Thorin looked up and the honest bashfulness on his face startled Bilbo into silence.

“I am aware you did not know of what such a gift means to a dwarf. That a bead - a personal, handcrafted bead, whether it be welded or carved or molded, is most commonly given as a proposal to begin courting.” Here Thorin’s face began to grow red, and, nervous, he sped up his explanation. “So while I am fully aware you meant nothing of- of that nature- by your gift, I come to you this night to give a completely unreasonable request.”

Aware that he was still staring, wide eyed and silent, Bilbo’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“Anything,” Bilbo said, and meant it, as he had meant every word back in Laketown. 

You’re my dearest friend. And I’d do anything for a friend. Except, this wasn’t just being friendly anymore, was it? 

Oh how traitorous his heart had become - to consider Thorin attractive, beautiful even, was one thing (one thing practically anyone with eyes agreed on, he had moaned to Dwalin on an exceptionally drunken night), but to long for him, to love him, was another entirely. Now there was nothing left to do but to let those eyes, blue as a river and just as ensnaring as the fiercest rapids of a spring flood, push him to do one more risky thing.

Bilbo closed the distance between them almost entirely, slipping his hands into Thorin’s own. Panicked like a fawn caught in an open glade, Thorin startled, breath catching audibly in his throat. Bilbo held still.

“Thorin?”

“Please braid my hair.” Thorin all but whimpered, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s hands, forgetting himself entirely in a rush of hushed embarrassment and desperation. 

“So that- so that I may never forget what led us here, how my greed nearly became the downfall of us all, so that I may display your- your work, your commitment and bravery and loyalty in that braid, Bilbo, will you braid your bead into my hair?”

What fools we both have been, he thought, watching Thorin’s shoulders tense and straighten as perhaps some of his sensibility came back to him.

Thorin lifted his head, but looked down still. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He said quietly, sounding far more like he was trying to convince himself of that than Bilbo.

“And what if I want it to?”

Yavanna, how sick Bilbo was of propriety. So many of his habits had all but disappeared on the road, travelling with dwarrow. But moreso than doing away with things like salad forks and matching ties with pocket squares, he had finally begun to speak his mind, truly and honestly without layers of social suitability nonsense in between.

Thorin just looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“What if I want it to mean something, Thorin?”

Here Bilbo met his eyes and raised one hand, tracing his fingertips behind the shell of Thorin’s ear and tucking stray hairs back in what he assumed to be an incredibly intimate gesture for dwarves. It appeared to work, when, instead of giving a verbal reply, Thorin just shuddered, eyelids fluttering, then melted all at once. He didn’t lean into the touch, but when his eyes found Bilbo’s once again, he whispered soft and sweet. “Yes, Bilbo, any… any braid you place in my hair I will wear with pride.”

“Even if I find some way to make it say you’re absolutely ridiculous?”

“Even that.”

“Even if I let it show you have an unbelievably flawed sense of direction?

“Well, it would be true.”

“Even if I make it so the whole kingdom knows I am truly, horribly, smitten for their king?”

“Especially so.”

Thorin smiled in a teary-eyed way then, and by that point Bilbo had no other option but to kiss him thoroughly until Thorin forgot his shame, and his madness, and his lonely desperation and allowed himself to just experience this simple feeling. It was only later, with Bilbo sat in his armchair, feet wide apart enough on the floor for a dwarven king to kneel between them, his hands in Thorin’s curls, that they truly spoke of feelings. That Thorin confessed, in one flood of words as he was prone to do, of late nights looking up at the stars and a hollow feeling inside and most endearingly (as his face flushed red) how he had felt all this time. And Bilbo, hands caught weaving a deceptively complicated braid down Thorin’s hair, kissed his forehead and smiled and told him about sitting in Thranduil’s dungeons. 

Told him about looking at Thorin’s eyes and thinking of water.

[rwateringcan03]

Can I rq a IT tword fic any lee(s) and ler(s) thanks!

So i left this one in my inbox for months because i couldnt think of an idea 😭 anyways, here it is, and sorry for the wait!

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As the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the small town of Derry, Maine, in hues of soft orange and fading pink, the three familiar figures gathered in Eddie Kaspbrak's cluttered basement. The musty smell of old books mingled with the faint scent of popcorn, remnants of their previous movie marathon, which had left the remnants of half-eaten snacks strewn about the room. Eddie sat cross-legged on the worn carpet, a slight furrow knitted his brow as he half-heartedly fiddled with a toy in his hands.

Beverly Marsh, her radiant auburn hair cascading in waves, reclined comfortably against the wall. She wore a simple yet stylish outfit—an oversized sweater tucked into high-waisted jeans—that spoke to both her effortless charm and understated confidence.

Sitting across from them was Richie Tozier, ever boisterous and animated. His glasses perched crookedly on his nose, their lenses reflecting the dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He leaned back casually, legs stretched out in front of him, teasingly wiggling his fingers in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “So, what’s next, huh? Horror flick? Or do we move on to the more riveting subject of Eddie’s love life?” he quipped, amusement dancing in his tone.

Eddie rolled his eyes, cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment, “Shut up, Richie! My love life is none of your business.” He tossed the toy at Richie, who deftly caught it and laughed. Beverly chuckled, relishing the iconic banter between the two boys.

Beverly's eyes sparkled with a playful idea. “Richie,” she began, tilting her head and leaning forward, “you know what you really deserve?” Without waiting for his response, she suddenly lunged at him, her hands reaching for his sides, fingers splaying out to tickle him playfully. Bev had known Richie was ticklish for months now. Even the slightest touch to his sides or stomach would make the boy giggle.

And now, she was about to confirm it.

Caught off guard, Richie burst into laughter, a high-pitched sound that bounced off the basement walls. “Ah- WhAHAT THE HELL, BEV!” he cried, squirming away. But her hands were quicker; she seized his waist, gently digging her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, his laughter infectious as Richie wriggled helplessly.

“Come on, admit it—you're ticklish!” she teased, her playful competitiveness shining through as she kept her relentless assault, fingers dancing along ribs and sides, careful not to be too harsh but enough to send waves of laughter erupting from Richie.

Eddie, witnessing this playful attack, couldn’t help but join in. “Oh, I can help with that!” he exclaimed, his voice trailing off into laughter as he joined Beverly, diving into the fray. He reached for Richie’s other side, his fingers moving deftly and quickly along the soft fabric of Richie’s shirt. “You’re going down, Tozier!”

"NOAHAHHA- NOT FAIR!" Richie wheezed between gasps of laughter, his vitality as remarkable as ever as he bucked and twisted, trying to evade their persistent fingers.

"Life's not fair, Rich,” Eddie grinned, leaning forward, his fingers now targeting the most sensitive spots he could find. With each little giggle and squeal, the basement was filled with a symphony of joy, a poignant reminder of their childhood innocence amidst the chaotic world beyond. They seemed lost in time, a bubble of warmth and camaraderie enveloping them like a familiar embrace.

"HAHAH- OHOKAY! OKAY!” Richie finally cried out amidst his laughter, “ENOUGH!"

But neither Eddie nor Beverly seemed particularly inclined to relent; they exchanged an impish glance, each savoring the carefree moment that was fleeting.

Beverly took advantage of Richie's momentary pause to quickly wrap her arms around his sides, immobilizing him slightly while Eddie tickled at his sides, creating a beautiful chaos of sound—Richie's laughter resonating with the walls like music.

“Admit it, you’re ticklish, aren’t you?” Beverly teased again, her laughter blending with Eddie’s as she leaned in closer, their expressions bright with joy and mischief.

“FIHIHINE! FINE! IM TICKLISH!" Richie gasped between laughs, surrendering amidst the violent shaking of his body in response to their playful torture.

Eventually, they relented, pulling away slightly but still encircling him, their camaraderie enveloping the space. There was an assurance in their bond, an understanding that they were invincible together, even when the world outside threatened to tear them apart.

Breathless, they reclined back onto the floor, the lingering laughter slowly fading into gentle giggles. The room felt warm, safe, the shadows outside the windows more distant than ever.

And Richie was left a giggly puddle on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\\\\\\~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[theluckywizard]

WIP Wednesday

wooo Wednesday!

Tagging @nirikeehan, @carnalapples, @spicywarl0ck, @crackinglamb and @monocytogenes AND YOU to share what you're working on (any fandom!)

I'm about done with my 'Garrett Hawke, Varric and Alistair ride to the Western Approach to search for Carver' fic. As you can imagine there are many Hijinks & Shenanigans™, but it's really a fic about returning to the world after many years of emptiness to find there's beauty in it (it's also still really fucking hard). This is the fic opener where the three of them encounter something nasty stuck in a bush.

Read below cut 👇

“So, Cupcake. What’s it like abdicating royal responsibility? I have an idea for a new adventure serial.”

Alistair scowls at Varric as forcefully as he can, which is about as fearsome as an irate Brecilian Retriever. He flicks his head toward Garrett. “Is he really going to call me that?”

“Afraid so,” grins Garrett.

The five of them are halfway across Orlais already, Garrett, Varric and Alistair and their two scouts, Feyrith and Liska, en route to the Western Approach to rescue Carver from some kind of Warden falderal. Past Lake Celestine now, the verdant, lofty forests of the Heartlands dwindle away into scrubby, sad woodlands as they near the blight-ruined lands of the Approach. They’ve slogged through and dodged all manner of horrors that they note in journals for the Inquisition: bandits and Fade rifts and army deserters, abandoned villages streaked in blood, remnants of red lyrium. They slip into dark discussions about all the ways the world is falling apart before buoying their limp spirits trading tasteless stories and roasting each other. It’s an old habit between Garrett and Varric and Alistair slides right in like he’d been there all those years, too.

Alistair shoots them a feeble, sulky look. “But why Cupcake?”

Varric shrugs in his coat. “It’s just a vibe.”

“Baked goods though?” Alistair presses. “Really?”

“Adorable baked goods in pretty colors,” Garrett says encouragingly. “With sprinkles.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Well, I don’t see it,” argues Alistair.

Varric turns to him with a wicked grin. “Would you prefer Prince Charming? Dreamboat? Bright Eyes?”

Alistair’s torment is delightfully manufactured. He knows it means he’s been adopted at last. “Maker, you’ve been stockpiling them? I’ll take bloody Cupcake, thanks.”

“I’m a fan of Dreamboat, personally,” notes Garrett.

“Well I suppose I can’t blame either of you for developing a crush. I am the best looking one of the bunch. And the most charming. And the best smelling.” Alistair draws up short staring at a thicket at the edge of the road up ahead, where a black mass flutters on the persistent breeze. “What do you make of that?”

“A garden-variety bad omen?” suggests Garrett, never one to waste an opportunity for foolishness. 

“Probably just a lost cloak,” suggests Varric, riding alongside him atop his donkey. “Maybe it blew off a corpse. Damn near enough of them around here.”

“I know, I know. It’s a Hanged Man. Somebody knew we were coming,” says Garrett. 

“Maker, Hawke,” says Varric. Well. Not every joke can be a winner.

As Alistair advances toward it, his horse protests, jerking to the left and stuttering its steps while she snorts and squeals. “Come off it, Winnie,” he scolds her. He fights a moment longer then circles back and dismounts, handing the reins off to Garrett.

With crossed arms, Garrett watches in some amusement as Alistair approaches the flotsam with a stick and a drawn longsword in each hand.

Carver is gone. Just like Mum.

The notion creeps in slowly, like the bleed of cream into tea, an overwhelming feeling that they should turn back to Skyhold.

“Now I know the Hanged Man thing was a joke, but— there are… feet.”

“Shit,” hisses Varric, jumping off Fluffy to investigate. “Yeah, those are feet.”

“Surprised Liska and Feyrith didn’t ride back to warn us.”

“They probably didn’t look that hard.”

Perched on Rosco, Garrett is placid as his mind wanders to a familiar place, a basin of hopelessness as vast as the Waking Sea. It almost feels like going home, the home that can’t be replaced— his mum’s kitchen— now only a hollow grasping spot inside him. 

You can’t fix anything. 

Old empty thoughts flock about him like gulls, chattering and clawing at him, edging him toward some precipice.

He falls. Flemeth once spoke of watching for an abyss and he used to joke that he’d found it, hiding in the Vimmark foothills in that little cabin with Beth. 

That’s where you belong. Where you can’t make another blazing mess.

But he’s distracted by a spark, not a real one, but a wisp of feeling that flits across the void. He captures it. Laughter first. Then cheeky looks and traded sketches.  Fingers laced and noses squashed. Light feet skimming the floor to an allemande.

He snaps to awareness, perfectly acquainted with the mess in the thicket.

“Hold on that’s a—” A splitting, dissonant shriek startles both of his companions straight onto their arses. “—despair demon.”

 Muscling out the intrusion, his head smarts and a warm trickle falls from his nose. The creature thrashes and screams and prods around in Garrett’s head some more, scratching around for purchase, but he holds fast to that spark. 

“Try again, you walnut,” he laughs, suddenly aware of the demon’s predicament. 

“It’s stuck in a bush,” says Alistair. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“This shit just writes itself,” snorts Varric.

Garrett has never seen anything more pathetic. “Bastard started mucking about in my head. Did it get either of you?”

“Dwarves are pretty resistant to that sort of shit.”

Alistair winces when the creature’s face-sized mouth begins snapping at him between saplings. “No— I, think it must have gone straight for you.”

Garrett snorts to himself. There’s plenty to latch onto, but it didn’t know about Rose. Hard to free fall into the depths of darkness when he’s got his own blazing goddess of the sun.

[xiaoluclair]

☕️my unpopular opinion (fanfic related) is: lestappen are so vanilla they have never even tried the simplest of kinks! And when they do they end up crying cause "just so wrong"

Also Lando is the kinkiest of the entire grid! He absolutely gets them the most horrifying (to them) gifts for literally any occasion just to watch them try to figure out how it works or what it does!

warnings: implied/referenced smut -- implied/referenced kinks -- my writing

word count: 826

Everybody knows the drill by now. Lando, Max, Charles, and - Lando is almost three hundred percent certain - Sassy. She's eyeing them from around the flowered E on Charles's piano (Present #3 - Max couldn't handle the feeling of petals getting in the way of Charles's skin apparently), tail looped through the end of an emotion she definitely isn't feeling. Jimmy is somewhere - probably out on the balcony playing with discarded solo cups. He's a macho man. Lando might join him at some point.

"Okay." The cushions sink beside him and Lando twists to throw his feet into Max's lap. Fingers fit to the bones of his ankles, warm through the white ankle socks. "Get this over with, mate."

Max sounds about as uncasual as he can sound while trying to sound casual. Which is to say, the air is practically tripping over the trepidation. Lando grins and grins wider when he hears the footsteps.

Charles pulls to a halt by the piano seat. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," says Lando with glee. He sits up straight, sliding free of Max's fingers. With a groan, Charles drops onto the floor by Max's feet (Present #11 - the smell of cheese was simply too persistent for Charles's fragile nose).

"Okay," he says, a man readying himself for the final fatal blow of a bludgeon. Regardless, the words bite out of him in punctured monagasque sounds. "What is it?"

Lando remains, wordlessly scratching an itch behind his ear.

"Mate," says Max. "Lando."

Continuing to the edge of his jaw, Lando hums, a laugh thrashing against his teeth as he keeps his face cool. Then his nail catches on a pimple, startling a wince out of him and completely ruining the jaded vibes he was going for. Fucking puberty.

"Lando," snaps Charles.

"What?" drawls Lando. Or, what he thinks is a drawl, and not simply the impression of someone with a swollen tongue. The other two are glaring shiftily at him now, and Max even twists to look behind the couch, hand disappearing between the cushions while Charles's gropes underneath.

"Where is it?" demands Max. "Lando, where-"

"Oh my god, is it already inside?"

The laugh is torn, rather viciously, from Lando's throat.

Suddenly scandalized, Charles's groping flies to his own ass, his ears, his crotch. Max watches, a sort of horror in his features and fingers floating in the air as if unsure whether he should help or stuff his own ears to block out voices.

Lando cackles. "No, you idiot. How the hell would I manage that?"

The look Charles throws him communicates enough, palms poised around his nostrils (Present #25 - pegs are for hanging clothes only, got it).

Max arms are raised defensively when he speaks. "Is it in this room?"

"Yup," says Lando cheerfully. This is going even better than planned, to be honest. The build up - teasing, edging, whatever the word - is, as always, the best part. (Present #26 - subsequently, rings are for specific purposes only. More specifically, Not This One, Lando!)

"Is it small?" asks Max, eyes flicking around.

"Hmm ... averages would suggest no."

"Can we see it?" presses Charles, over the sounds of Max threatening averages. He's still pressing fingers to his body, as if his subconscious still hasn't stopped believing the notion Lando could somehow squeeze an entire dildo into it completely inconspicuously.

Lando nods.

"Is it yellow?"

"A bit."

"Black?"

"Uh ... technically no, but also yes?"

"What the fu-"

"White?"

"Ha, yeah."

"Green?"

"A small bit." He makes the symbol with his fingers for the hell of it. Max and Charles fit like two floating heads of aggravation in the space between his index and thumb, shared glance of exasperation flying across the fingerprints.

"Red?" asks Charles, only then Max says, "Hang on," and his face starts to twist.

Lando raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

Squinted, wide, blinking, narrow and protruding are the five emotional states Max's expression cycles through as Lando and Charles wait. Lando enjoys it particularly. Charles just touches Max's knee, looking so anxious it's almost not funny. But then Lando remembers the reason for it and it's not funny at all.

It's hilarious.

"Max," says Charles, gaze flitting over to where Lando is getting comfortable against the arm of the couch and Lando's pretty sure it lingers. "Are you-"

"He-" is all Max manages to get out, before simply twisting Charles cheek around and waiting for the message to sink in.

To help, because he is nothing if not helpful, Lando cheerily spreads his arms as far as they will go. "Surprise!"

The twin looks of terror are priceless and do nothing to hide the heavy swallow of Max's apple, nor the sharp dip of Charles's eyes.

This, thinks Lando with a grin, is going to be great.

(Present #31 - one small step for man, one giant orgasm for- JIMMY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING GET INSIDE BEFORE YOU CATCH A COLD-)

(*Present #31 - purge the earth of cats cockblockers.)

[lovelessdagger]

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Repetition of Poetry

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC

Rating: Mature

Summary: So this is it. The end—or more accurately, its climax.

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

WARNINGS: Explicit Language. Graphic Violence. Implied Torture. Derealization. Drugging. Angst. Medical Horror. Sith Nonsense. Someone loses a limb. Again.

Words: 8k

Summary: So this is it. The end—or more accurately, its climax.

A/N: Trying out a new way of formatting. The other chapters will be changed to reflect this eventually.

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Doctor Pershing insists on keeping Lumina restrained during their sessions. Her ankles are tethered to the legs of an iron chair. Her hands, free yet restricted in binders, inhibiting her access to the Force. He claims it’s imperative the holds not conduct electricity, a fear of intervention in his study. Monitors to her left attach to her skin and skull through stuck on wire.

Heart rate, oxygen, brainwave activity. A handheld device on the table remains constantly pointed in her direction, reading out any electromagnetic emission. He says she’s radioactive. She isn’t entirely sure what that means.

He asks, “Have you heard any more voices since beginning your medication?”

She answers no.

He requires she take three pills a day, one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one just before night hours. The morning acts as a super nutrient, the middle for her supposed psychosis, the last for sleep. He watches her swallow, and checks under her tongue after each. 

“Any visual hallucinations?”

“No.”

She’d just taken the first of the day.

“Mania?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Paranoia?”

She shrugs. “Always.”

“But no voices?”

“No voices.”

He types, maintaining eye contact. She looks away. He stands.

“You’ve made excellent progress,” he tells her. “You should be proud of yourself.” He kneels, untying her ankles. “Your levels have finally stabilized to a healthy rate. Many of your symptoms are from a typical trauma response. With time and more sessions they should fade as well.” He takes her wrists, removing the binders.

“Finishing early?” she asks.

He stands, but tells her no, not quite. He asks her to stay seated, and leaves saying he’ll return.

Lumina listens. 

She considers helping when Pershing returns, struggling to manually open the doors. Even without the restrictors, there’s no point in it. She sits with her head pressed on the table, sure to leave a mark when it rises. The emission reader pushes against her scalp. She couldn’t understand the numbers if she tried. 

“It wasn’t easy to get this approved,” Doctor Pershing says, grunts in-between as he closes the door again. “But, I considered it necessary. For both your healths.”

Both?

A baby coos. She gasps, sitting up and only feels slightly faint.

Grogu squeals, babbling with hands in her direction.

She wells with tears before she can think. “Can I hold him?” she breaks. “Please?”

Pershing nods. “Of course.” He passes the Child over, he clings to her. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. Again and again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Lumina inspects every visible part of him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” To Pershing, “What did you do to him? Did you hurt him?”

“No,” he says immediate, sitting again. “No I would never. He’s only a child. To be truthful, all I’ve done is extract a blood sampling. A majority of my time aboard has been with you.”

She ignores. “Did he hurt you?”

A wave passes through the Force; No.

She pets back his ears, nodding. “Okay.”

“You should know he’s incapacitated a total of eight stormtroopers aboard.”

“Did he kill them?”

“No.”

“Good.” She taps his nose. “Good job.”

“You’re proud of this?”

“He’s defending himself.”

“And how do you suppose he’ll react himself when he discovers you have rejoined the Empire?” He makes a wave to her uniform. “Is he expected to combat you as well?”

“If I ever to pose a threat to him, yes.”

He types again, clicking a persistent nuisance. “Were you ever expected to combat Lord Vader?” Readings on the monitors increase. “Yes or no,” he pushes.

“On his request. Yes.”

“Can you present an example of a request?”

Her foot taps. “When he first presented me with a second lightsaber. He threw it at me, turned on his own. The expectation was that I fight him.”

“And of the other times when he would become physically violent towards you. What was the expectation?”

Lumina’s head shakes. “That never happened.”

“No?”

“No.” Knuckles crack, pressed against her thigh. She grows quiet, confidence stripped away. “He never hit me. He wasn’t a monster.”

Doctor Pershing stutters. He says the Machine’s name, covered in disbelief. Like he were here in the room, standing behind her. She tries to imagine the Machine, feel his presence, his scratching electronics, his towering figure. The red eyes of his helmet, the pumping of his iron lungs sounding into their dead space of silence.

It offers little comfort, instead she’s supplied with resentment. She becomes the source of what he has left behind. Impatience. Intolerant. Arrogant. Miserable.

She becomes a vessel of her fathers torment.

Beeping from monitors become shrill cries. Doctor Pershing grabs the radiation monitor, waving it over her form. He remains unfazed by the results. He produces a lightbulb, holding it out. His datapad props up, camera aimed to her.

He announces the experiment. “Holo Log One-Twenty-Five under CF-318F1. Test eighty-seven.” She preforms her role, removing her gloves, taking the glass in her right hand. She holds its base, figures pressed around the metal. It indents her.

The results are null. She places the glass down, hands return to her lap. To the Child.

Doctor Pershing sighs, typical of this routine. The camera turns off. “That’s alright,” he says. “Let’s explore something else. Your bond to the Child. How did it begin?”

Lumina leaves him without response in favor of Grogu. Her fingers tickle his stomach, blowing kisses in his cheek. “You’re stinky,” she mumbles. “It’s okay. They didn’t clean me either. I’ll make sure you get a wash soon Bug, I promise.”

“Your relationship to him is greater than I suspected,” Pershing says, a glimmer of awe. “I never would have guessed you could be so… maternal.”

“I try,” she says. “I’ve only really known one before.”

“One mother?”

“Yes. She was kind. Gentle, but strong.” Lumina looks to Pershing. “You’ve seen my genetics. Do I have one?”

“Well,” he stutters. “Theoretically, every being has a mother.”

“So I’ve been told. But do I?”

“I… I’m sure,” he admits. “Though with no match in the database, it’s impossible to say who.”

“Do I have any matches?”

“I am not at liberty to say. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have one? A mother.”

He softens. “I did. Though it has been many years since her passing.”

“How long?”

“Decades. I was only a boy. She got sick.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes. Very much.”

 Lumina nods, pensive. “Would you like to see her?”

He freezes. “Pardon?”

“I can help you see her again. If you’d like to that is.”

“How?”

“I can enter your consciousness through the Force, granting me access to your memories.” She bounces Grogu. “I’ve done it with him. It won’t hurt if you consent, and I won’t touch you if you’re too afraid.”

He’s hesitant. “How do I know you won’t harm me?”

“You don’t. Not really. I know there’s nothing I can say to make you trust me. I could snap your neck if I wanted to. Make your brains blow from the inside. But you’ve been the only one aboard to listen to me. Respect me. Despite, everything,” she says to the monitors. “And you brought him back. I have no reason to harm you anymore.”

Doctor Pershing stares at her, he removes his glasses, wiping it on his jacket. “Okay,” he whispers. “What do I do?”

“Close your eyes,” Lumina guides. “Think of her. I’ll go from there.”

The art of presentation of one’s self is not a endeavor to be taken lightly. Absolute perfection must be achieved, errors will not be tolerated. A single strand of hair for example, raised away from the rest, shows a carelessness in grooming, lack of attention to detail, insufficient use of styling tools, stupidity.

Fingers with scooped gel run over white hair. Ghost glares in the mirror to achieve a flawless partition along her scalp. “Regulation states you must straighten your hair,” she says to the girl behind her. “Or at least pull it back. You look like an animal.”

There holds no truth in the statement, an unnerving admittance. The assessment of a mane isn’t too far off however, it’s fitting. Voluminous dark curls not too loose nor too tight. Slept in, cared for. Framing bright eyes, alluring everyone into a dangerous trap. 

“I still prefer you with brown eyes,” she continues. Hers meets herself, ice blue into ice blue.  Chilling to the bone. “In certain lighting ours look the same.” She grabs tweezers, plucking a single hair from thin brows. “I should tell you I agree with Doctor Pershing’s assessment of you. You are unsettling. I never thought of it much when we were in our younger years, but seeing how we’ve grown… how you’ve grown. It’s undeniable. You’re a freak.”

Ghost turns around, approaching. “How did they do it? Preselect you with such precision?” She whispers, “It shouldn’t be possible.” She circles, a vulture to prey. A pit of darkness in her hungry stomach. Starved. “Who else are you taken from?”

There is no response.

“A Jedi, I’m sure. Your genetics are your only flaw, and yet it is the reason you’re so…” She groans in frustration. Her bun pulls tight on her head, inducing frequent migraines. “You should have been kept in a lab,” she says. “Let Lord Vader keep his mutt for play, not legacy. It isn’t fair. Every day, years spent competing for his attention when you were preselected the whole time. Created for this purpose alone, and you remain who you are. The rest of us were left to starve, fight. You lived in a palace. Everything you could ever want. Power. Money. Glory. It’s should have never gone to you, you’re ungrateful. Even now, when they all praise you for merely existing.”

It’s worse with her presence in practice than it was in theory. They watch her every step down the corridor, every request is met with unnerving acceptance. They salute, they bow, they excite in the knowledge of shared air. Like she were the first and last woman in the galaxy, the answer to every problem, an immaculate creation from the Force itself. They’re all ridiculous ignorant fools, clawing for attention.

She revels in it too, this much Ghost is certain. She has to, it’s only logical conclusion for their position. Unending gratitude for doing nothing at all. A crowd at her feet, submission willfully given.

That’s the worst of it. The power. It suits her, she wears it on her uniform, in every stitch. The meek stray from their mildness, the arrogant from their ego. Ghost has seen so much happen without understanding any of it at all. The most loyal troopers in steady conversation with her, spewing glory to the Empire until she touches them. Their arm, helmet, hands. The intimacy cannot be afforded and should weaken her, yet it does not.

She asks of their person, their interests, where they are from. Irrelevant anecdotal information with no use. No purpose. Wasting time, energy, resource.

They feed from her because of it.

And Ghost waits for the break every time, for the branch to snap, wood falling to echo. Someone will make a mistake. Cross the unspoken line. This is a ploy to goad them into false security. A lesson on trust and naivety. To prove her rank, be the reason for fear and nightmares.

Ghost was so sure it would have happened earlier, with the TK she spoke to. She believed he’d done it, unleashed the monster. Be the cause of revelation of the inhuman creation Gideon boasts of, that Pershing obsesses over. They’ll all fall in terror. Realize truth never lives to legend. Understand an idols facade is riddled in a constructed narrative.

Then, only then, will they crawl to Ghost. They’ll rally, worship. Beg for her to claim the mantle, rise to the greatness of the Sith stand by the Emperor. Become the daughter that should have been.

And it should have happened. He touched her. He grabbed her arm. No warning, no context, only a firm hold. She stopped talking, animated gloves frozen. Her head turned. It should have happened. They should have been made to believe she is none other than Lord Vader’s child. She should have snapped his hand. His neck. Push him through the Force, impale him on her saber.

Ghost should have watched every light behind every visor fade to misery.

Her arm moved, her hand cupped. He should be hit, tortured, executed.

She should have done every horror imaginable.

The demon from her capture, the one who tore limbs and bathed in blood. She should arise.

Instead, her hand fell gently on his. It squeezes, then rests. She nodded. His shoulders shook like he cried. 

“I’m sorry. I’m certain they miss you as well,” she told him, quiet. 

Ghost didn’t understand at first. Having no lead of conversation to source from. It didn’t make sense, she didn’t make sense. It came upon her later, through an overheard conversation between Pershing and Gideon. 

“I theorize her abilities could be useful during interrogations, should the captive party not be willing to divulge information. It would be far safer than a mind flayer.”

“How do you mean?”

“She’s done it to myself, with my participation of course. She’s able to infiltrate consciousness, resurface memories I did not know I possessed. I saw my mother, heard her for the first time in years like she were here. It’s extraordinary Moff Gideon. Like I could speak to the dead.”

Ghost understood immediately, and suddenly years of TK programming flushed away. 

“You’re a disgrace to the Empire,” Ghost says. She reeks of venom, it drips from every word. She looks to the air.

“It should have been me!” She shouts. “You promised me everything! Where is it? Have I not done enough for you? I expect my dues!”

The air rings hollow until a knock comes at the door. She grants entry. An officer, one of Gideon’s pets. His favorite. Kane.

“Thirteenth Sister,” she says, holding a data pad. “A report has come in from your Inquisitors on Coruscant. You’ll want a look at it.”

“What’s happened?” Ghost asks, taking it. She skims the words.

Code cylinder, Inquisitors, New Republic, Arkanis, investigations, the Senate, information leak.

“It seems the effects of the initial reprogramming weren’t as successful as we once believed,” Kane says. “Gideon has already been informed. He’s awaiting your word of action.”

“Where is she?” Ghost asks.

“Her quarters. Preparing for her last session of the day.”

“Is the alien with her?”

“Yes. It hasn’t left her side.”

“Tell Moff Gideon I will meet him in the bridge momentarily.” Ghost looks behind herself, static figure remaining. “Until then, you’re dismissed.”

Officer Kane bows, the doors close.

In an instant, Ghost’s lightsaber flies into her hand. The right end powers on, she swings rapid at the girl, a feral beast. Her red blade passes though the illusion with no reaction.

She screams at it. She thrashes like a child. She forces the figment to crane its neck, instills fear in its eyes. She makes it bleed.

Somehow, even now, it’s still perfect.

A gentle waterfall washes over the Child’s face. He growls annoyed, feet kinking in the sink of his bath. “Look at you,” Lumina coos. He splashes, giggling at floating bubbles. “You’re so handsome.” 

And decisively less dirty.

She pours water over him again, taking extra care behind the ears. “Your dad is coming,” she whispers.

The room they’ve given her isn’t a far shot from her previous home of a cell. She has a cot, a desk and chair. One tall lamp. A mirror. A small fresher area with a door that refuses to close. She’s been assured there are no cameras in the space, her own detection skills confirming. Still, there’s never a thing as being overly cautious.

Grogu perks up, ears standing alert.

“I heard him,” she goes on to say, draining the basin. “He found out where you are. I think he’s coming today. That’s why we’re washing you now. So you’re nice and clean when he comes. He’ll be so impressed.”

Lumina lifts the Child onto the counter, wrapping him in a towel. “Don’t worry. Come tomorrow you’ll be back on the Crest and no one’s gonna hurt you again. I promise.”

Grogu calms, but falls into this type of silence she hasn’t seen in ages. He knows. He has to, he’s smarter than he looks. Stronger. He asks no questions after, yet Lumina finds the urge to explain regardless.

“I can’t go with you, not anymore. But it’ll be okay. You’ll be with him again, that’s all that matters.“ She pulls his coat on, fixing his feet. “You’ll have to take care of him now. Make sure he’s okay like how he does with you. And you have to listen to him. Be good, do what you’re told.” She taps his nose. “But stay sweet. Keep training. Not be afraid.” Adjusting the collar, Lumina takes him in her arms. “Do you think you can do that?”

He nods. A promise of sorts.

“Good.”

Suddenly, something shifts in the Force, the unbalancing of a scale, slowly tipping. Grogu senses it too, she’s sure. He tries to stand, examining the room. It’s a cold presence, whiskers on his head upright. 

“Okay,” Lumina whispers. “Grogu I need you to listen to me. I don’t know how much time we have, but we have to play a game. We have to play pretend, and it might be scary. But it’s just a game, okay? Remember that. It’s not real.”

He listens to her every word.

A recorder clicks, a holoscanner powers on. Doctor Pershing introduces the recording as their hundredth and twenty eighth. He’s granted her freedom from his machines, just this once she’s sure. Lumina holds the Child in her arms, rocking him steady in a bundle of her old cape. The Mandalorian’s old cape, technically. Debates are still out to whom it gives greater comfort to.

In front of her, a green medication bottle, a cup of water. The second pill of the day. She takes the single dose, drinking away the taste, unusually bitter.

“How are you?” Pershing asks.

“Fine,” she answers, soft. “He’s been hungry, no one is answering my request for food. I’ve had to give him my rations.”

“I apologize for that.” He’s sincere, a growing frown and lines of worry on his forehead. “I may have something in my lab for him. Would a travel biscuit suffice? I have plenty to share.”

“You’re getting travel biscuits?” She asks in disbelief. “I’m lucky if I have more than one piece of nuna jerky. My portions are less than half of what’s normal.” 

“That is to do with the medication,” Pershing explains. “Your nutrients, most of your allotted income for a day comes in the pill. You aren’t starving, I assure you.”

Lumina makes no comment on herself. How she wore the torn shirt she came in after a wash and it hung to her differently. Her muscles less defined. “He still needs food,” she argues. “Real food. Meat especially, he loves it.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“You’ll do,” she pushes. “I’ve made it clear I don’t care what’s done to me, he needs to be taken care of.”

“Of course. I’ll speak to the Moff.”

“Thank you.” Lumina locks onto the recorder, she presents better, more fitting to her station. Her chin lifts, a facade of pride, her feet plant on the ground. “Let’s begin,” she says. “I’d like to spend the rest of the day with him in privacy.”

Pershing presents her files, adjusting his glasses. “Certainly.” He coughs, reading the screen. Though, quite uncharacteristically, he puts it down. “Let’s try something different,” he says. “There are pressing matters we should discuss.”

Blast doors slam open, an echoing bang into the walls. Moff Gideon enters, three troopers follow. They keep their blasters aimed for assault, focused on Lumina.

Pershing flinches. “Moff Gideon.”

Lumina asks, “Why is he here?”

“You promised me one more session, we aren’t done.”

“You are now,” Gideon says, then to his men, “Hold her down. Grab the Child.”

At first step, Lumina startles bumping the table, glass spilling. Commotion ensues, her chair falling back, left hand extended. Troopers begin to yell. They say they’re prepared to shoot. Pershing tries to intervene.

“Moff Gideon you must not hurt her!” He’s somehow more scared than she is, stepping between her and the blasters. “You can’t!”

“I am well aware,” Gideon says. “Worry not doctor, it will be delivered to your new laboratory as expected.”

“You’re not taking him again,” Lumina fights. “I just got him back, you can’t take him!”

Something crosses Gideon’s face. Something sick, activated. He looks at her like a starved to a meal. She could swear he salivates, smiling, teeth and all. “I don’t want the Child,” he says. “I want you.”

Lumina’s hand dashes to her hip. She ignites her saber, red blade waving it out. “Call them off,” she says. “Call them off or I kill every single one of them.”

“Moff Gideon, please,” Pershing begs.

“Quiet,” Gideon barks. He steps forward, between the troopers. “You have a child in your arms. You’re in no position to fight,” he tells her.

“You should know not to underestimate me,” Lumina says. “Last time you did that half your fleet disappeared.”

Moff Gideon repeats a similar motion to her, his hand drawing to his hip, gripping a cylinder of black metal. A blade ignites from it, dark and light all at once. Humming at a rapid and dangerous pace.

She stills. “What is that?”

“You aren’t familiar?” Gideon hums, matching pitch to the saber. “You will be.” In a violent strike his arm raises above his head and swings down on Lumina. She blocks, plasma clashing inharmoniously. Instinctively she turns out, creating space between Grogu and the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance Gideon,” she says. “I don’t play fair.”

“Neither do I.” And his blade swings again, lower. She matches, a scorch mark on the floor.

The stormtroopers fall back, lining the wall. They know better than to intervene, Pershing follows though his guidance comes with fear.

Gideon swings again, and again. He uses two hands on his hilt and all the strength he can muster, the full weight of his body. Lumina predicts his moves, the sole explanation he can think of for her excellency. Still, he moves in, taking advantage of her occupied left side. 

It doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

He can’t win.

In a desperate urgency, Moff Gideon miscalculates. For the duration of their spar she’s worked solely on the defense. Until now. His blocking is just a second too late. Her swing, right on time. Moff Gideon’s saber flies across the hold. His hand goes with it. Cauterized at the point of impact. He crumbles to the floor, clutching to his chest what was once his hand, now a deformed burnt stub. He screams.

Stormtroopers and their weapons flood Lumina’s eye line. Her saber powers off.

She says, “You forget what I come from.”

“I haven’t forgotten thing.” Gideon snarls, a beaten animal. He glares at Pershing as if he were responsible for this outcome. “Has sedative been delivered?”

Pershing answers, quiet. “Yes.”

Sound fades, hollowed in a canyon. Lumina’s vision darts to their table, green medication bottle toppled. Pills spilt. Her heart drops to unsinkable levels.

“What did you do?” She asks, shaking. “What did you give me?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Grab her,” Gideon barks.

They do. The troopers, in her shock they swarm her, yanking her arms. The Child falls. She snaps out of her daze when he yips. Pershing picks him up. Struggling, Lumina’s lungs burn with rapid breath. “What did you do?” she asks again, screaming. “What did you do to me? Ghost! Let go of—Ghost!”

“I’m sorry!” Pershing cries. “I’m sorry! I had no choice!”

“Let go of me! Ghost!” Her breath moves faster than she can manage. “Let me go,” she sobs. “Let me go, please. I’m sorry. Please.”

“Moff Gideon—“

“I’m disappointed,” Gideon interrupts. He stands on bent knee. “I expected so much more from you,” he tells her. “I imagine your father would not take well to your behavior.”

“You know nothing about him,” Lumina snaps. 

“I know he wouldn’t tolerate you betraying the Empire. Leaking sensitive Imperial data directly to the New Republic. You have compromised the very foundation of your being.”

“What?”

“The Arkanis Imperial Academy is currently under siege by journalists and investigators. It seems your efforts have taken effect quicker than you expected.”

It hits. Relena.

“She did it,” Lumina whispers. Her eyes flash wild. “You’re fucked.”

“This, is merely a setback. We will overcome.”

“We?” Lumina asks. “This Empire is nothing. What forces do you have now? Admiral Sloane? Commandant Hux? Scraps of what once was? You don’t even have Thrawn. You won’t win. You can’t. It’s over Gideon.”

“I already have,” Gideon says. “I win because I have you.”

“I’ll die before I help you.”

“If you insist, that can be arranged,” he says. “If the reprogramming doesn’t take that is. Of course, once Doctor Pershing harvests your cells, you will no longer be necessary.”

“What?”

“The drugs should take any second now. I should warn you, hallucinations are a harmful side effect. Although,” he muses, “you’re no stranger to that.”

It’s comical, the activation on his word. The flash of heat, beading sweat. “What did you do to me?” Everything is light, floaty, words sound seconds after they’re spoken.

“I’ve done nothing. Yet.” He addresses the troopers. “Time to move.”

They echo, “Yes sir.”

One push, her legs give out, a second, her arms. 

“Sweet dreams,” Moff Gideon says. “318.”

A third, her head.

The last thing she hears, “Take her to the mind flayer.”

They throw Lumina on a type of operating table, room separate from the rest. Her head bangs against the base board, jolting consciousness. They strap down her arms, legs, chest, forehead. Nearby electricity stings.  Her vision flashes in and out, hazed at the edge.

“Moff Gideon,” Doctor Pershing says. Muffled, miles away. “I must protest.”

“I’ve heard enough from you.”

“Sir please—please. There’s no telling what damage the voltage will cause. Her body will not be able to process high electrical currents in the state its in.”

They had taken her to the mind flayer, hadn’t they? It would explain the burning. She’s heard stories, seen first hand what the machine does to its victims. 

Extremist electroshock therapy mixed with sensory overload. To put simply, her own personal hell. The results enough to make Tatooine shiver. Stripping the sentient of all identity. Soulless, they become trapped in a shell of their own bodies. Some lose the ability to speak, to walk, some become so far gone their own organs forget how to function.

They become nothing. A permanent member of the walking dead.

“Moff Gideon I am begging,” Pershing says. “Allow her to come with me unharmed. I assure you—”

Heels click, entering the room. “The Moff is not interested in your negotiations.” Ghost. “Your services are no longer necessary, Doctor. It’s time for you to go.”

“You’re her friend, are you not? Please, tell him to spare her.”

“Doctor,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re attached to it?” Her face appears above Lumina. “Personally, I don’t care for mutants.” She rises, turning to the doctor. “If it dies, make it again. Make a million of it and keep one to fuck, I don’t care. It isn’t real.” 

“You’re wrong,” Pershing says. “She’s more human than you’ll ever be.”

Silence infects the room.

“Then she’s weak.” Shoes squeak against tile, turning. “You two,” Ghost says. “Escort Doctor Pershing to the hangar. A shuttle is waiting for him. If he resists, kill him.” Her face enters focus again, she grabs Lumina’s chin. “You once said you have an uncanny inability to die. Prove it.”

Bo-Katan Kryze is found on a planet called Lafete in the Outer Rim. Cara and Fennec opt to in the Slave I while Din goes with Boba Fett. Their brief discussion of a plan is the most they’ve said to another since Nevarro. Boba warns Din that he and Bo-Katan may not see eye to eye. She doesn’t like clones, he doesn’t expand, but something tells Din the river runs deep. The situation is far more personal than he can divulge from silence, but he knows not to push.

They agree to let Din do the talking.

He and Boba walk into the cantina, finding Bo-Katan with Koska Reeves. The younger one snickers, signaling Bo-Katan with a toe tap to the calf. 

He tells Bo-Katan of the Child. Stolen by Moff Gideon. He tells her they have coordinates to find him. Everything is ready, he just needs muscle.

Her interest turns. Din mentions her of his light cruiser, preemptively offering it to her. 

“You want to retake Mandalore,” he says. “You do it in that, not a gauntlet.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Boba mutters. “Mandalore? The Empire turned that planet to glass. There’s nothing left. Reclaiming is a spice dream.”

The domino starts here. Back and forth spats. Who is and isn’t Mandalorian. Boba’s armor. His father. His existence.

“You are a clone,” Bo-Katan sneers. “I’ve heard your voice thousands of times.”

He responds on instinct. “Does that include my sister?”

Her brows raise. “So, you’re the Imperial lapdog I’ve heard so much about.” Her stare flickers to Din. “You sure know how to pick your company.”

Boba responds before he can. “Where are they?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Conversation lulls. Din can sense Boba’s eyes on him, through the visor. Bo-Katan follows, exposed, she frowns.

“Where’s my sister?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She’s earnest. “Omega dropped off the map after the war ended. I haven’t heard from her since.”

Boba’s nod is robotic. Up. Down. “And the other two?”

“Alive.”

“Where?”

Intention falls behind every word Bo-Katan speaks, mimicking a knife’s edge. “If you know what’s good, you’ll leave them alone. They don’t need you in their lives. You clones have done enough.”

“Is that what you tell him when he asks of his father? I recall only clones being at the wake. If you care so much, where were you?“

She says nothing.

He continues. “The Empire has taken his child, you know how this ends. You’ve seen the effects. Frankly princess, I don’t care how much you hate me or my kind. But if I find out there have been days where you’ve looked that boy in the eye and told him that his father was a bad man—”

“I haven’t,” Bo-Katan says, quick on the draw. “His mother is one of the only friends I have left. She’s my family. I know what he did. The sacrifices he made. How happy he made her. I would never disparage him,” she says. ”I don’t know where your sister is, but I do know that none of them would want to see you. Not after everything.”

Boba is quiet, just for a moment. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t scoff or shake his head. He just stands there.

“They took her too,” he says. “Moff Gideon took her. She’s gone.”

Bo-Katan asks, “Who?”

Din answers, “Lumina.”

She looks at Boba. “How do you know her?” 

He answers slow, accent thick and low. “Why do you think the Empire hired me?”

Bo-Katan freezes where she sits. Din can’t make out much, she hardly gives anything at all. But he watches her eyes, how they flash. Her subtle but present hitching breath. She doesn’t look at Din, only Boba Fett. Boba Fett who says nothing else but nods. 

She nods back.

Koska looks just as lost as he is. He can find comfort in that.

“We will help you,” Bo-Katan says. “Both of you. In exchange, we will keep that ship to retake Mandalore.” Then to Din, “If you should manage to finish your quest, I would have you reconsider joining our efforts. Mandalorians have been in exile from our home world for far too long.”

“Fair enough,” Din says.

“As for the girl, I will take her—“

“She stays with me,” Boba interrupts. “I raised her, I’m the only one she trusts. She won’t go with anyone else. I will not debate this.”

Bo-Katan concedes. “Fine.” She turns to Din. “One more thing. Gideon has a weapon that once belonged to me. It is an ancient weapon that can cut through anything. Except for pure beskar. I agree to your conditions on the terms that I be the one to kill the Moff and retake what is rightfully mine. With the Darksaber restored to me, Mandalore will finally be within reach.”

“Help me rescue the Child and you can have whatever you want,” Din says. “He is my only priority.”

Capturing Doctor Pershing is a task easier said than done. Information from the data capture on Morak detailed a scheduled departure for the scientist on a Lambda class shuttle. Tracking coordinates included.

Boba makes quick work of it once discovered, blasting the fighter with an ion cannon. “Lower your shields,” he pings. “Disengage all transponders, prepare for boarding.” He turns to Din, standing behind. “That means you too.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I got that.”

He threatens Cara, or he tries to threaten Cara. The older of the two pilots. He shoots his companion dead for trying to negotiate. He brings up Alderraan, boasting at its destruction.

“I was on the Death Star,” he says. “My brother pulled the switch.”

Cara spares Din a look through the corner of her vision. “Maybe they were friends,” she says.

“Not the time,” Din mutters.

“Do you have any idea how many millions were killed on those bases?” The pilot asks. “Mothers. Fathers. Sons. Daughters. How many people were there just for a job?”

Funny, the point is less sympathetic when he says it.

“The Rebels slaughtered them with no mercy and the galaxy cheered.”

“Last chance,” Cara says, turning her blaster. “I don’t have time for this.”

He says, “Destroying your planet was a small price to pay to pay to ride the galaxy of terrorism.”

Cara shoots him between the eyes and steps over his body. She grabs Doctor Pershing by the arm, pulling him forward. “Let’s go.”

The room is dark.

No, dark does no justice to adequately describe the state of things.

The room is filled with ink.

There are no lights, no sounds, no breeze coming from ventilation shafts. Everything is off, not a hint of energy, not a spark. There are no wires, no monitors, no trackers. The Force itself ceases to exist.

For a long time, Lumina stays in the ink, unmoving. Hours pass with believing she still sleeps, or worse. Caught in a limbo, trapped in her own consciousness she’s rendered unable to move even muscle.

Feeling returns slow, unnoticed until recognition comes with the familiar pressure of fingertips against her thighs. A cool block against her back. In an instant her eyes flash open, greeted by the complete nothingness. Her nerves reawaken through pumping blood, a small fire throughout her body.

Slow and in desperation, she feels along herself. For each of her limbs, fingers, all still attached. She pinches her tongue, then runs it along her teeth. There are no cuts on her face, no tenderness which indicates bruising. She’s clothed, left in the base of a skintight suit.

She explores the cell in caution, running her hands over every inch she can. The walls are smooth, cold. Seams of panelling are flush, nothing is loose, not a screw out of place. The door is found by its indent in the wall, sealed shut with no forgiveness for movement. 

She knocks, startling herself with the echo.

She knocks again.

Mouth dry, her tongue sticks to the roof. Nothing hurts, not really. She holds tension in her jaw, a light headache but nothing more. 

She can’t remember much of anything, but against all odds she feels refreshed.

What happened?

Her voice is hoarse, crackling. “Hello?”  She coughs. “Hello?”

She can’t exactly call for anyone specific, names evade her at the moment. There’s no guarantee anyone would hear her anyways, let alone come. She slumps back, stepping to what she assumes is the rooms middle.

Very well. 

“This is Moff Gideon’s Imperial light cruiser,” Bo-Katan says within the Slave I. “In the old days it would carry a crew of several hundred. Now it operates with a tiny fraction fo that.”

“Your assessment is misleading,” Doctor Pershing says.

“Oh great,” Cara snorts. “An objective opinion.”

“This isn’t subterfuge, I assure you. There’s a garrison of dark troopers on board and the Empire’s strongest Inquisitor. She is the one who abducted the Child—”

Something in the air shifts, tangible inside Din.

“What?” He asks.

“What’s an Inquisitor?” Koska asks.

“The strongest Force users left in the galaxy,” Pershing says. “In the case of CF-313, trained from infancy to be high grade assassins.”

“So, murderous Jedi?” Cara asks.

“Jedi killers,” Fennec corrects. 

“A crude definition, but yes,” Pershing says. “313 has taken it upon herself to enact as Grand Inquisitor, their leader. She possesses all the skill and strength of Jedi, only dangerous, violent. Unlike Jedi, she has no moral code preventing her from victory.”

“You’re saying she took the Child?” Din asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s not right,” he mutters. He feels the sensation of a migraine, lingering in the entrance of his mind. He swears under his breath.

Cara asks, “You okay?”

“What do you mean—she didn’t take the kid,” he argues. “She… Lu…”

Bo-Katan says, “Take him up to Fett.”

Cara grabs his arm, he pushes her away. “No, no. What are you talking about?” He asks Pershing. “What does she look like?”

“Mando,” Cara whispers.

He repeats. “What does she look like?”

Pershing shifts, his vision flickers from side to side. “Her physical make up places her height at 180. She is extremely pale, white hair, thin. Overall in excellent health.”

“Who told her to take the Child?”

“Pardon?”

“Someone gave her directives. Who?”

“To my knowledge, Moff Gideon prepared strict instructions to all forces that the Child… and you, remain unharmed. The Empire’s use for the Child is now minimal, his extraction was not necessary. She disobeyed on her own volition. The Moff was not pleased, I can assure you that.”

“Wait,” Cara says. “If you don’t want the kid, why attack?”

“To retrieve the Daughter, of course. It was at the demand of her that the Mandalorian and Child be left alone should Moff Gideon pursue a second bombardment following his failure on Daro. I’ve seen the communication myself, she was quite clear on her threat.”

Din discovers his voice travels without his knowledge. “What did it say?”

“In short,” Pershing says, “Moff Gideon extended an invitation into the Empire and a total pardon. The Daughter declined. She stated should Moff Gideon attack again it be directed at her alone. Harm to you or the Child would result in an attack to his family.”

Cara reacts first, physically at least. Din’s stomach drops and twists. She bumps his arm.

“Who said this?” She asks.

Din answers, breathless. “Lumina.” 

No one else speaks, not until Bo-Katan raises the question. “Where is she now?”

Pershing adjusts the map. “When our final session concluded, she was delivered to this holding cell.”

“Session?” Din asks.

“We hold various appointments throughout the day. Psychoanalysis, medical, physical, etcetera. At the time, we had completed one for her psychology and mutations.”

“Let’s move on,” Bo-Katan says.

Din ignores. “What mutations?”

“She exhibits a variety of genetic anomalies. Strength, intellect, standard organ function.”

“Energy?” 

“Yes,” Pershing says. “Yes precisely. She’s a remarkable piece of bioengineering. I’ve never met anything like her.”

Cara voices Din’s thoughts. “Bioengineering?”

Fennec interrupts. “Your dark troopers,” she says. “They’re droids, right? Where are they bivouacked?”

The map changes. “They’re held in cold storage in this cargo bay,” Pershing says. “They draw too much power to be kept at ready.”

“How long to power up?”

“A few minutes, perhaps.”

Din asks, “Where’s the Child being held?”

“The brig, here. Under armed guard.”

“Is the Inquisitor?” Koska asks.

“Perhaps. More likely the bridge. Wherever Moff Gideon is, she will follow.”

“Very well,” Bo-Katan says. “We go in two parties.”

“I go alone,” Din says.

“Our strength is in numbers.”

He repeats. “I go alone.”

“Fine. Phase one, Lambda shuttle issues a distress call. Two, we emergency land at the mouth of the fighter launch tube, cutting off any potential interceptors. Koska, Fennec, Dune and myself disembark with maximum initiative. Once we’ve neutralized the launch bay, we make our way through these tandem decks in a penetration maneuver. Afterwards, Fennec and I will retrieve Lumina before entering the bridge. There, I will challenge the Moff. If the Inquisitor is an issue, we leave it to Lumina.”

“You’re kidding,” Cara deadpans.

“I wish I were.”

“What about me?” Din asks.

“We’ll be misdirection. Once we draw a crowd, you slip through the shadows, get the kid.”

“What about the dark troopers?” Cara asks.

“Their bay is on the way to the brig.” Bo-Katan looks to Pershing. “Can he make it there before they deploy?”

He nods. “It’s possible.”

“Here. Take his code cylinder and seal off their holding bay. Anyone else, we can handle.”

Din responds, “We’ll meet at the bridge.”

So this is it.

The end—or more accurately, its climax.

The end is yet to come, when it does it will not be mistaken. The end will arrive slow, with agony, lingering words unsaid, and acceptance. This is not that, it is entirely too calm. 

At a vain attempt to track time, Lumina counted three hundred minutes before giving up. No one has come for her. No one has knocked. 

If this is the afterlife, she isn’t impressed. Though, it is fitting for one of her station. Whatever that may be.

Admittedly, the stoic peace is a welcomed wash from the usual chaos filling the day to day. As a part of her training rituals, the Machine would place her in rooms just like this. Completely isolating her from the outside world. In hindsight, he may have meant it as a way to desensitize her to torture, but she always enjoyed it more than she should have. Now is no exception.

Is this the future in which she swore to resent the past? What an odd declaration of intent when taken into consideration that her whole life—every broken fragment of her being, every lie, every name, every mask, every droplet of forced anger, every will she has held for good or evil—has been in reaction and the direct result of the past. 

This has all happened before, in one way or another.

The Machine, the war, the after.

Becoming a waitress, a mercenary, something to be wanted but never kept. Someone recognized but never placed. 

She has never been of herself.

Not really.

Those days, the before, they have no greater reason to be hated than the rest of it all. There’s no point in it. Directed anger towards one but not another. Acceptance of one but not all.

Why waste thought? Why bother when loss is inevitable?

Lumina looks to the ceiling, head tilting. She can’t see anything, true, but lack of proof does not equate to a lack of existence. The first outward sound she heard echos, turning metal. Landing in her hand, round glass. A lightbulb.

Commotion comes from the outside, a siren alarm, boots running across tile, shouting.

Truly, nothing has changed. 

It ends in the absence of peace, as it always has.

She suspects it is night.

Though an argument can be made that night as a concept holds no meaning here. Not in space.

The story has concluded long ago and there is still dark. Ink and tar.

And she resents no one—not for the lack of rivers, forest, mountains, farms. Not for the missing child to hold and call her own. Not for the Mandalorian—not even herself.

She has nothing left.

Finally.

No flowers.

No sun.

No stars. 

Though, somehow, through some conception unknown to all but the Force itself… there is light.

It flickers, just now in the palm of her hand. A faint golden glow. There it is again, quick as lightning.

Just as before.

When it comes a third time, it is violent. The door opens, gears rusted, light from the corridor blinding.

"Get up." She hears. "It's time."

So it is.

According to Din Djarin’s internal display, it's been exactly three minutes and eighteen seconds since Bo-Katan departed into Moff Gideons cruiser.

She instructed him to wait for five.

In the allotted time since, he has removed and replaced his helmet eight times. Once every fifteen seconds. Now, he removes it again.

Nine.

When before he was trapped in a slow moving vessel of spacetime, praying for the days end. Now, he prays for the vessel to stop. Time refuses to wait for him.

He stares at his own reflection in the window with no visible emotion and nothing but turmoil inside. What does he do? What can he do?

Nothing.

The headache grows.

Boba said it should have faded days ago. That she used to do the same to him, its only ever lasted three rotations. He refuses to dive into specifics.

Din isn’t sure it would make a difference anymore.

Hands rub across his face, sighing. He welcomes the fresh air like it were his first experience with it. It might as well be. This is something he cannot become accustomed to. No matter his personal wants. 

Delusions.

Fears.

It’s all the same.

All meant to be locked away.

The time for thought has passed.

His priority is in the Child, as it should have been all along. He must rectify his mistakes. Retrieve the Child, discover his covert, atone for his sins. Disappear. Forget everything. 

Okay, he thinks, okay.

The countdown on his vambrace rings. Five minutes. 

The Mandalorian lowers the beskar over his head until it hisses and clicks.

Ten.

This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force. This has all happened before. It was inevitable. Nothing has changed. It is the will of the Force.

There is a reason attachments are forbidden.

It is the repetition of poetry.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Apocalypse

Taglist: @lexloon​ @jay-bel​ @xsadderdazeforeverx​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny​ @hello-th3r3​

[h0rr0rsaxo]

OKAY OKAY ANOTHER IDEA THAT CRACKS ME UP! Now this will also be up to you for the most part! But Raven and Nightmare fighting...

Just Vesper and Anni standing there, just annoyed and Fang not knowing what to do with herself, especially when Raven flirts with her. BUt ohhhh imagine Toby being there, Vesper and Anni would have to break up a fight between those three? But yeah...the main themes are chaos, fighting, and exasperation from Vesper and Anni.

Add anything you'd like, change anything you'd like. I just know this is gonna be funny though, so tysm!

[ confusion. || simp party.]

Warnings; Raven being a pervert..

Tags; @insane-horror-movie-addict

A/N; Heh...it got a lil flirty at the end.

Word count; 1,245

Fang had absolutely no idea how to deal with this situation.

She wasn't used to this unnecessary amount of attention she was gaining— in fact, she was so used to being constantly ignored by everyone. Right now, she'd wish to go back to being completely ignored, for she didn't want to be involved with this strange situation.

“For the hundredth time, Raven, I said no!”

Sighing in exasperation, Fang tried to walk away from the persistent man in hope she could get some work done. Being suddenly noticed by everyone wasn’t easy, but she liked observing and ensuring that everything that happened with everyone went smoothly.

And to her advantage, she got to spend a lot of time with people, and actually have them tolerate her. However, to be blunt, some people, like Raven, were just a pain in the ass at times, especially when he wanted to know a specific something. His stubbornness made her rethink as to why she had continued to talk to him in the first place.

So, here she was. A relentless Raven wanted to know something, and as far as she knew he wouldn’t stop until he got the piece of information he’d set his mind on. Seriously, this guy needed to grow up.

“Fang, stop being such a stubborn girl and just tell me the color of your panties already! As your boyfriend, I’m allowed to know this kind of stuff.”

A bright red blush crept onto her cheeks and she fought back the urge to snap at him. However, being the strong hearted and proud girl she was, she tried to compose herself, for he wasn’t worth a penny to let herself lose it. “Let me tell you something, Raven, so you’d better use your damn jelly head you call a brain for once.”

Fang saw his eyebrows twitch in annoyance, his nose wrinkling, and mouth twisting into a grimace. His expression was priceless, and she tried to suppress the giggle threatening to emerge from her throat. That didn’t stop her from grinning internally, for she finally had the upper hand in this conversation. Being sassy was just her territory, she couldn’t help herself.

‘Good job me!’

“1. First of all, you are not my boyfriend and even if you were, the color of my panties is none of your business. 2. This is a very personal subject I’d rather not talk about, so just shut up. And 3. You’re being a pervert right now, you know that?”

He looked at Fang with such a blank look she felt the necessity to leave this weird situation.

Snapping out of his momentary trance, his signature Cheshire cat grin carved its way onto his face, signaling this meant trouble. That was her cue for leaving. Without saying anything else to him, Fang turned on her heel, ready to escape the rather awkward situation. However, she didn’t get the chance to even make one step, and she abruptly stopped dead in her tracks, for she felt her skirt being pulled up, flashing her panties to him.

“What the—“

Before Fang could do anything, she heard Raven click his tongue in disapproval as he eyed her cotton panties with disappointment, his irritating smirk ever so slightly widening as he had noticed her bright-red face.

“Tch, Fang, those are definitely not sexy enough. But I do say, it matches your incredibly cute personality.” Fang pulled her skirt down, so her panties were invisible to the world again. His grin widening as he tried to keep his voice steady, her bright red face made him chuckle slightly before pulling her into a tight embrace, ruffling her hair in the process. As he pushed her against his body, her face pressed against his muscular chest— damn, he was ripped. His demon tail curled around her waist and wrapped around her— as if to declare to the world that Fang was his.

An eccentric snap of envy became apparent in Toby's eyes, his eyes narrowed as he settled his gloved hand onto the handle of his hatchet, he was about to gut this son of a bitch. But before he had a chance to take a shot at beating Raven to an absolute pulp— Nightmare had beat him to it.

“RAVEN! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” Nightmare proceeded to scream at the top of her lungs, not even caring about the odd looks people were giving her. Anni desperately tried to keep up with the woman, but it was too late. She tackled Raven with little to no remorse—- and once again, they began to fight while Fang was left a flustered mess.

"Should we…stop them?" Anni asked with the shake of her head and Vesper stared over her. Anni crossed her arms, and took a sharp exasperated breath. The two of them have been at this same routine for weeks— every time the twins saw each other, it would immediately end up in a rather hilarious yet unnecessary fight.

"Oh please, they've been at this since they were children. Best thing I've learned is to just let them fight it out." Vesper stated with an annoyed eye roll, leaning his body against a tree as his two siblings were tearing each other apart.

Anni's amused eyes trailed over to Vesper, a glint of excitement igniting her eyes as she smiled, "Is that a new tattoo?"

"Oh— this?" He pulled his shirt up slightly so it would reveal a small portion of his tattoo, showcasing a sneak peak of his incredibly toned body, "Oh— heh, i-it's nothing." He quickly pulled his shirt back down so she couldn't see the full thing.

She smirked, "Just show me! It can't be that lame." A little hue of blush grew onto his cheeks as she looked up at him teasingly.

"Well, it is that lame, trust me." Vesper said, though his brow was furrowed together just the slightest bit. His lips tugged at an amused grin at her curiosity— her stubbornness was an endearing aspect of her personality— alongside how occasionally playful she could be.

"Oh c'mon," Anni stepped forward, cornering him against the tree. Vesper had to draw his eyes away as the blush on his face worsened, taking a deep breath to calm his boiling mind. His control wasn't that good, because his eyes couldn't help but steal another look as he locked eyes with her again, "I'm not playing any games with you. Am I?" Anni questioned teasingly,

"N—not any that I know of," His back bumped against the tree as the shorter woman cornered him. Anni's hand hesitated to move, but it finally managed to cough out its courage and slid up against Vesper's face. Her thumb trailed over the scruff on his jawline and she heard him let out a deep breath at her touch, smiling softly at the sound of how nervous he became.

"You seem so nervous," His body heated up at her teasing intensity and he absolutely didn't know what to do with himself but just rolled along with her. He felt like a puppet under her control and the more she teased him the more he boiled in the pit of his stomach. "What's the matter?" She questioned with a smirk. Vesper's eyes opened again and he stared down at her, he could feel his heart thumping soundlessly against his sternum.

Anni was a little glad that Nightmare and Raven started fighting again..

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Schoolgirl Hitchhikers (Rollin, 1973)

Don’t you hate it when you stop at secluded chateau for some lesbian sex only to run afoul of a gang who thinks you’ve stolen their loot? This common and deeply relatable scenario provides the plot of Jean Rollin’s Schoolgirl Hitchhikers, where Joelle Coeur and Gilda Arancio find themselves in exactly that situation. (If they’re supposed to be schoolgirls, my guess is that they’ve been held back a few grades.) Now, this is not my first Rollin film, and I know the man likes to film really attractive ladies taking their clothes off and rubbing up against each other. And as a straight dude, I’m not normally one to complain. But there are a series of extremely low energy sex scenes, first between Coeur and Arancio, then between Coeur and a mustachioed gangster played by Willy Braque (who keeps his pants on), then eventually with all three of them, that, how you say, tested the limits of my enjoyment. In this eighty or so minute movie, these scenes take up somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes, and feel like they run for eight hours.

The momentary prurient enjoyment provided by these scenes quickly transforms into excruciating boredom, proving that you can have too much of a good thing. Imagine of instead of eating a delicious piece of cake as dessert, in the context of a complete meal, you make the entire meal nothing but cake. And it’s pound cake. And you don’t have any tea or coffee or milk or even water and are stuck eating it dry until you choke on the pound cake. That’s what these scenes feel like. It also didn’t help that due to a production malfunction, there’s a pretty persistent wobbling of the image during these scenes. I never thought I’d get a headache from les seins et les derrieres (hope I translated that correctly), but here we are. At this point I should note that this chateau looks like it’s been somewhat neglected, and I hope somebody gave it a thorough dusting before filming began, for the comfort of the actors.

Things pick up when the rest of the gang arrives and finds the loot from their robbery missing. Their leader is a forceful dominatrix type played by Marie Helene Regne who subjects Arancio to a number of kinky tortures in a gazebo (boob in a vise is the highlight), again filmed in the most low energy way possible. She also wears a shiny purple satin blouse and leather bellbottoms, so she is easily the most strikingly dressed in the movie. Yet Coeur proves resourceful, escaping from her captors by doing a weird dance wear she reveals her breast and unzips her pants without having them fall off in order to seduce one of the gangsters in what might be the least sexy sequence I’ve seen in a Rollin film. (Snake charmer music plays over the soundtrack, which I suppose is what she’s doing in this scene. *euphemistic elbow nudge*) She ends up enlisting the help of a private detective and his pigtailed assistant (who wears an outfit that feels like the female equivalent of Steve “How do you do, fellow kids?” Buscemi), at which point the satirical dimensions of the movie come into focus.

Rollin has a certain lightness of touch that can work really well in his horror movies, giving a certain delicate atmosphere to his tales of lesbian vampires and their surrounding textures of flowy (sometimes see-through) dresses, tomb-like chateaus and the scenic French countryside. To the extent that his work feels dreamlike, it’s that the atmosphere feels so delicate that it might fall apart if you reach out to touch it, which you’re inclined to do as those textures seem so inviting. It translates less obviously to the kind of sleazy thriller he’s making here, a genre that benefits from a certain forcefulness in delivery. It’s something I noticed when watching The Sidewalks of Bangkok (which similarly has some interminable softcore footage in its first half), but here he seems more aware of the limitations of his style in this context, and uses it for comedic effect. The most forceful his direction gets is a shootout set to jazzy drumming while Coeur and Regne wrestle on the floor. (Coeur’s top comes off right away, but the mechanics of this escaped me.) The construction of the shootout is so slapdash that the participants might as well be in three different continents. Yet that seems to be the point, as it does pretty much nothing to further the plot, and the movie settles into an amusing cycle of inconsequence, the tables turning each time a different character enters the room with a gun.

If this sounds like I’m being generous, I will only hint that the movie’s denouement, which I won’t spoil other than revealing that Rollin himself makes an appearance, seals the deal on the comedic intent. But you go back to Coeur’s dance. Rollin knows how to make a great seductive image (think of Brigitte Lahaie with the scythe in Fascination). This is him doing a piss-take on that idea. So yes, I enjoyed this, although it took until the second half to warm up to it. But in the grand scheme of things, the first half may not be such tough going. Coeur and Arancio rolling around in the nude? The (not) horror, the (not) horror. Enjoy your pound cake.