#tight leash | rivet

[randomwriteronline]

He hears him before he sees him.

That is not something that will ever change - in a sense it is quite comforting, that even in a constantly mutating world one thing can remain the same: the fact that he is still heavy enough to make his arrival sound like an approaching thunderstorm, that he has not lost the peculiar gracelessness of his brand of speed, that he likes to run his mouth just as much as his legs.

"You're a lot thinner than the last time I saw you," Pohatu tells him.

Krika regards him with half-lid eyes: "And my brother's leash is just as tight around your neck still, it would seem."

"Stop that," the Toa shuts him down instantly, his genuine amiable tone gone in an instant to be replaced by a cold vitriol. If the Makuta had a tongue, he might have considered biting it. "That joke has never been funny in the first place."

"It is no joke, Toa."

"Then find something else to greet me with, Makuta."

To say Krika had felt something deeper, once, for such a sad being - to say any of them had at some point been moved towards him by something other than an awkward pity, a half-hearted annoyance, a slight cautious curiosity - would be maybe not a full lie, but certainly an exaggeration. None of them was attached to him enough to pry Teridax's hold off of him until it was too late to even try to get through to him, after all; so perhaps this sudden rush of melancholic compassion is akin to a crocodile's tears after it has senselessly devoured its own young.

It remains that, for a reason unknown, the towering insect-like being tilts his head to better observe the warrior before him.

"You're much more orange than I remembered," he indulges him: "And somehow even shorter."

A booming laugh: "It's the armor," Pohatu replies so wonderfully earnest and open and bright as though he had never once been angry in his frighteningly bitter life: "Too compact."

He drops from the air onto the sturdiest branch he could have found with his entire weight, bouncing on it as it perilously bends towards the swamp waters before struggling to pull itself back up. He dangles his feet in a carefree manner, like a Matoran who snuck away from work. A tentative fondness that was there many millennia ago rekindles for a moment only within the Makuta, to ache with nostalgia: for a moment he can almost picture his old laboratory, and the suspended catwalk that led to the shelves of viruses and carefully preserved failed attempts upon which the Toa would sit just like that so he could watch him at work without interfering.

"So," Pohatu beams: "It's been a while."

"It has."

"I met Mutran on the way here. Most of the others too - the ones up in the sky. They've gone blind, by the by."

"I was aware."

"Of the Matoran, too?"

"Yes."

The Toa hums. Evidently he does not appreciate the shadow leeches too much.

"I passed through him with my Kakama Nuva," he continues.

"Mutran?"

"Yes."

"Riveting."

"It was disgusting, mostly. Oh, and I saw Gorast. I had to knock out Photok before she'd jump on him - ah, you don't know him, right? No, he's from the stalagmites. Resisting against you. So yes, I had to knock him out and fly him to safety and then get back down. A bit of a hassle."

"How is my sister faring, in your opinion?"

"As positively furious as ever. Maybe even worse."

"She has indeed been degrading."

"Hm. Maybe it's the bog air. Or the humidity. Either way I can't really blame her."

Of course you can't, the Makuta only thinks, keeping quiet.

You are becoming ever more like her.

"Ah - watch for Takua- Takanuva. He's arrived too."

"The fabled Toa of Light?"

A nod. "He isn't supposed to be here. They sent him, I think."

"Who would be 'they'?"

"Probably the Order of Mata Nui - the Turaga don't have the means to set a single foot here, let alone send someone. You'll recognize him immediately, he's gotten huge."

"Duly noted."

"Anyhow, how have things been down here?"

Krika shrugs: "Gorast almost killed your sister," he relays. "Bitil had your Earth brother subjugated briefly, and your Fire brother - Tahu, isn't he? - nearly burnt down the entire swamp."

"Hm," the Toa only hums, monotone. "Shame."

The way he says the word causes the other being to stiffen his spine: "Do not speak like that."

"Like that how?"

"Do not be coy."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You should not wish death upon your siblings."

"Because you don't?"

"The Toa Mata are following the path destiny has decided for them," the Makuta snaps at last. "Teridax has tried to twist and bend fate to his own ambitions, and in doing so he has doomed himself, the entire Brotherhood and you with him. To wish him dead is to wish for the Universe to keep on living - it is far from a childish desire born of an ancient grudge that has no reason to exist."

"Watch it."

The words coil quiet, dangerous, around Krika's neck much like a noose of rock.

The fallen stalactites groan like suffering Rahi as they shift.

One must wonder, between him and the last of the Makuta's sisters, if this kind of taste for cruelty is something innate or if his traitorous brother simply has a talent for driving people to it.

The silent threat is not quite empty. Yes, Pohatu will not kill him: he is a Toa (he takes pride in that for it's all that remains outside of Teridax he can still hold onto to tell himself he is worth anything) so he observes the code like his life depends on it, and it is not at all in his nature to consider inflicting pain fun, or satisfying; but he can trap him with little to no air or agonizingly crush his limbs flat between walls of stone, and his slowly marinating anger will find it endlessly gratifying despite any aversion to torture.

But Pohatu is, fundamentally, a weak being.

Oh, he has all the power he needs. His mastery over his element is egregious and his speed unmatched. But at the end of the day he is nothing but a soft toy, a spineless marionette to pull the strings of; one day - because it will happen, one day - someone will snip at a wire, purposefully or not, and that will be all it takes to send him tumbling to the floor.

His sharp limbs carve holes into the wood.

Slowly, Krika elevates himself from the bog and comes to stand upon the branch, light and graceful like a terrifyingly posed skeleton, towering over the little Toa.

His head bends down to look into blue eyes.

Pohatu simply cranes his neck and stares back, tranquil, unafraid, like a child.

"We will not leave Karda Nui," the Makuta sentences. His tone is low, funerary. "Our brother has planned our demise the moment he decided to betray Miserix. We are nothing to him, as are his Kraata, as are you. He has no need for a court beside him to rule the universe. We will outgrow our purpose soon. He will leave us to die like vermins. This shall be our grave."

A stretch of silence.

The gaze replying to his own is calm.

"Sorry," Pohatu says without even the vaguest trace of emotion.

Krika leans down, down, down, closer, until his mask grazes the other being's and his already rotting breath seeps into the seams of Artakha's armor.

"You are not exempt from this fate, little Toa." he breathes. "You are no different in his eyes from me. We are pawns. Tools to be discarded for the sake of a megalomaniac's ego. Teridax will suppress you as soon as your bones begin to creak. He holds no love for you."

"Do you?"

No answer.

"Do you love me?" Pohatu repeats. His tone holds the certainty of those who are lied to so profoundly that the truth becomes laughable to their eyes. "Do you?"

The Makuta remains silent.

"No," the Toa answers for him, "No, you don't."

There would have been a time where Krika would have scared him with a simple glare. It was the time where Pohatu was only a pitiful being who'd known nothing but fighting and fighting and more fighting, who was too curious to leave beakers untouched and kept almost dropping them.

"None of you do."

"We were fond of you," comes out of the white mask suddenly, a raucous strained sound, like something he didn't know himself.

"Yes," Pohatu replies: "Like my siblings are fond of me now. So nice, and kind, and gentle, because they don't remember they used to be the scum of the world. They've been getting memories, you know?" he pipes up - he smiles, tilts his head, leans it so close that Krika pulls back, looking almost excited. "They've been remembering things."

"Pohatu," the Makuta struggles to speak.

"They don't remember me, of course," he continues, trampling over the words the other tries to wheeze out. His fingers begin to sink into the wood on which he sits. "They have no reason to, of course. I wasn't them. I wasn't worthy of being with them. I wasn't wise or strong or stubborn enough. I wasn't memorable. Despite being there. Despite being there from the beginning just like all of them. Did you know, while we were on Voya Nui - you do know about Voya Nui, right? Ah, doesn't matter - we had to blow up a rock. A rock! A rock. And do you know? Do you know what my brothers did?"

"Your memories are poisoned."

"Tahu, and Kopaka - because they are the leaders, aren't they? They are the ones who take all the decisions and who everybody follows because they are louder than everybody else, aren't they?"

"Your own bitterness has corroded them."

"They started burning and freezing the rock. Burning. And freezing. The rock. Burning and freezing! Because that's what they do!"

"You can't rely on them."

"Because that's what they always do, that's all they can do! And I was standing there, you know, I was right there. Right there, right there next to them! A step away! Maybe two! I had to walk up to them! And blow up the rock for them! And I had to tell them, you know? Remember me? I am Pohatu! I do rock! For them to realize, oh! Yes! There is a Toa of Stone with us! How did we forget! Must have been because he wasn't in our immediate field of vision!"

"You are spiraling into your-"

"SHUT UP!"

The branch produces a ghastly crack as his fingers pierce it.

Pohato heaves, tries to keep talking, then hushes when his throat catches on a knot and the story he was telling stops sounding funny. He exhales out loud, hard, suddenly out of breath. His head feels like it's spinning and the swamp's odor does not help.

Krika observes him silently.

Hasn't this happened before? Something like this?

He'd sobbed too loud and choked on his own sadness, and the room had gone quiet and dozens of eyes had stared at him in a mixture of fear and concern.

When was it?

A hundred millennia ago?

He did not remember being comforted.

"Everybody is fond of me," he manages to wheeze: "Everybody is fond of me, and nobody remembers me."

His arms are shaking.

"My brothers sleep easy because they don't remember abandoning me and the Av-Matoran. They're fond of me because they don't remember hating me. But I know who they are. I know."

"You do not."

Blue eyes pierce through the Makuta: "And you do?" he asks, mockingly.

Krika stands his ground: "I have given your sister the chance to leave this dreadful place behind before her death was sealed."

"How nice."

"She has refused, for the sake of her brothers."

"Give her a minute."

"You have deluded yourself across these thousands of years."

"I am perfectly lucid."

"As lucid as Teridax wants you to be."

"Teridax cares about me," Pohatu says.

It is not a snarl. There is no anger in his voice. He is calm, reassured. Unshakeably certain.

He stares at the Makuta darkly.

"He's cared about me since the beginning. He has never left me to rot in my thoughts like the rest of you. He has never abandoned me." he murmurs.

His booming voice is so quiet, barely above a whisper, and as horribly bitter as Lerahk poison.

"I don't need your forgetful fondness," he speaks softly. Almost tiredly. Maybe he's done it - he's burnt himself thin at last. "Nor my siblings' two-faced kindness."

"Then you will be alone, little Toa. More than you already are."

"Don't push your own grievances onto me."

The branch sways violently.

Caught by surprise, Krika clutches the bark tight between his claws. It takes him a moment to realize he is now the only being still on it as it lashes out wildly: a flash of orange catches his attention at the edge of his vision and he whips his head around.

Pohatu treats him to an empty look, curled up in mid-air, ready to disappear.

Cold bitterness burns in his eyes.

"He is ripping you from your destiny, little Toa!" the Makuta shouts: "He is leading you to slaughter!"

"My destiny is to serve the Great Spirit; his destiny is to become it," Pohatu replies sharply above the sound of his armor's propellers, letting him know his warning has fallen on deaf ears. "If you can stomach to mention my name, tell your siblings I said hello."

His mask glows for a single instant - then he's gone.

Krika only stares at the point in space that the Toa occupied barely a fraction of a second ago, catching for a moment, impossibly slowed in time, his afterimage; for what is merely an instant it looks small and brown and tan, orange eyes gleaming with a guilt he can't let go off and a too focused vitriol that makes his heartlight stutter sickly, hiding behind a shelf in a clumsy attempt at pretending he wasn't poking curiously at the vats brimming with viruses to watch them swirl towards his finger.

[hatredcurse]

It was true what they say: Gaara of the Sand was not one for small talk. It didn't take a whole brain in one's head to figure that one out from a single interaction with the man, but the Uchiha had hopes that they could skirt around the deep topics, for once.

Not that he particularly held a distaste for riveting conversation. It's just that he couldn't gauge how his charge could react to anything he had to say. His thoughts and opinions on the Uchiha remained a mystery, and given the strict, immutable situation they were in, he didn't want to sully what could undoubtedly be fragile relations.

"Mn," Sasuke filled the verbal space with noise of acknowledgement while he gave himself the room to think.

His true feelings were unknown. Sticking to the hip of a kage was another paycheck and a tight tug on his leash. No different than any other task he's performed— in theory. The circumstances had a divergent tension to it. The usual authoritative figure ignored the S-class criminal safely secured away beneath the porcelain mask; the man no more a legend than he was a threat to current peace. However, the kazekage wasn't some other elder who only regard Konohagakure whenever it concerned numbers and rows on their ledgers. Gaara knew him, and more importantly, he was held position far more cherished than an unremarkable colleague to the hokage. Matters are inconceivably delicate now.

There was no sufficient way to neatly describe Sasuke's feelings on the matter, other than if he offended the redhead by any means, then the consequences were more than a rasp on his knuckles and a lashing on his bare back.

Not that he'd imagine anything drastic like that would befall him, but his doubts and missives were stronger than his rationality at times. Especially under the scathing scrutiny of some representatives.

"I don't hate it," he lied.

Half-lie. It was a secure occupation with steady pay— the cons, however...

"You're pleasant company. Far more than others," he complimented instead," I'm likely no more decorum to you, given your abilities, unless you were itching for silent company." Of that he doubts.

He still did wonder though: was Naruto that generous or was Sasuke yet another variable in quiet plans?

The rising threat of a de facto renegade group to the north had set everyone on edge. Last month, a guard at the front gate had reported a foreign chakra signature lurking with no discernible source. Two weeks later, in the middle of reinforcing a crumbling section of Sunagakure's outer walls, Gaara's gourd had surged to life to smack away a blowdart three inches from his neck. Medic-nins confirmed its tip had been coated in a deadly compound of semi-professional origin. Trackers scoured the desert for seventy-two straight hours before trudging home empty-handed.

ANBU presence around the Kazekage compound had doubled until ultimately a plan was made to smuggle him out to Konoha. There, Gaara was to meet with Naruto and a select trusted group to discuss the threat. Temari and Kankuro, his usual travel companions, were to stay behind solely to avoid the trap of leaving Sunagakure undefended and leaderless in his absence. Sasuke had just finished a solo mission in the Land of Rivers and could easily receive a missive via hawk, and was therefore deemed Naruto's ideal substitute.

Gaara's insistence against protective escort had fallen entirely on deaf ears. First among the Elder Council, who believed themseles perfectly capable of rendering their Kazekage disabled or dead entirely by their own hands, if they should wish it, thank you very much; and then with Naruto, whose desire to protect his friends was a well-meaning tsunami which did not account for the consent of those who might drown within it. It was with this reluctance on both parts that Gaara and Sasuke met like two wildcats dumped into the same cage and left to sniff each other cautiously through a grate.

They passed the time with a sort of mutual understanding, exchanging the niceties required to make camp, split rations, and discuss safety precautions en route to Konoha. Today, Gaara only spoke after the sun slipping beyond the western horizon broke the midday heat. Ahead, the smooth brushstrokes of dunes shrank and grew craggy. Pocks of patchy grass and stubby trees and a distinct whiff of loam marked the transition between the Land of Wind and its wetter, more humid neighbor.

The Kazekage squinted slightly at his recalcitrant companion. He had been informed after several minor faux pas over the years that failure to accurately respond to a question often indicated discomfort with the question itself rather than ignorance of its answer. Gaara of the Desert, well accustomed to others avoiding his own presence much less choice of conversation topics, and still testing the waters of what was considered appropriate or not, struggled now to determine the sincerity of Sasuke's response. Gaara did not know Sasuke well, but he did not know him to be dishonest.

"Being assigned my escort," he clarified. Existing Naruto's beck and call; living in Konoha at all. He knew better than to voice these specifics. The desire to learn more of this man multiple teams had nearly died working to retrieve did not require such an intimate dive into his psyche. "I don't doubt your ability to deliver me safely to your village, but I understand this was not your first choice."

[animalistic-anomalies]

Soot sat curled up behind the wall, covering his mouth and shaking. That was close. Too close. He knew he should have waited until it got darker. Stupid. Stupid. All it took was one call to animal control and he would probably be killed on the spot. He was a human-made anomaly, he wasn’t in a forest or a national park, and to top it all off he was extremely dangerous as well. He normally wouldn’t dare risk sneaking so close to someone’s house like this, but he was desperate. He couldn’t find much food for the past week, and he was starting to feel the effects of starvation slowly creeping up on him. It always terrified him, no matter how many times it happened. He got up almost painfully slowly, creeping out of the yard. Guess he wouldn’t eat tonight either…

—

Rivet’s monitor blinked on as they finished charging. His owner wasn’t awake yet, good. That meant they still had time to make his food. He always got annoyed when it wasn’t up fast enough to do it, and he had been a bit testy lately so it didn’t want to push its luck. They fiddled with their collar as they made their way to the kitchen, the soft red material felt nice between their fingers. It reminded him of when his first owner was still alive. It let out a wistful robotic sigh at the memory. Their new owner was.. ok, but he paled in comparison to his father. Was that a bad thought? Probably. He was supposed to be the perfect pet after all, he couldn’t think badly about his owner like that. Even if it was true.

Blog List

Muse Info

Soot (Whitty)

Age: 19

Height: 7’7

Pronouns: He/them

Rivet (Hex)

Age: 20

Height: 7’4

Pronouns: He/they/it

[suntrastar]

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful. 

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog. 

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed. 

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him. 

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves. 

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. 

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine. 

You hate him immediately. 

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

 Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance. 

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh. 

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime. 

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say. 

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue. 

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace? 

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left. 

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached. 

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile. 

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good. 

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet. 

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door. 

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better. 

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

*** 

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned. 

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy. 

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number. 

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?” 

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever. 

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right? 

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds. 

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled. 

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says. 

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date. 

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

 He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath. 

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted. 

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face. 

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own. 

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep. 

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say? 

That you like it? 

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

 And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent. 

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand. 

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls. 

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles. 

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier. 

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before. 

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it. 

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet. 

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin. 

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn. 

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for… 

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.” 

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse. 

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him. 

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes. 

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say. 

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold. 

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing- 

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence. 

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn. 

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up. 

*** 

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden. 

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump- 

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier. 

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong. 

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you. 

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.  

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?” 

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks. 

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

[miss-choco-chips]

Umm... I was wondering if you could Maybe do a follow up on your mini fic Last Line from dicks pov? It gave me alot of feelings and i would love to see the fallout?

Your work is really good! Its so cool how your brave enough to put pieces of yourself out there for other people!

Hey babe! Thank you for your kind words! It made me smile getting this, you are very sweet <3

I totally forgot about Last Line lol, but when I saw it reminded me that I actually wrote a bit more of it, both before and after the scene I posted. So, this isn’t exactly what you asked, but here’s some backstory and then the fallout!

---.---

Four years old, and he watches the red string on his finger pulled taunt towards the crying boy, the color of the thread well disguised among the red blood of the murdered acrobats.

Nine, and he watches from the shadows as it swings right and left, following Robin’s pirouettes from building to building. The thread, that usually goes a few feet before ‘vanishing’ from sight, was almost completely visible now, at such a short distance from the person holding onto its other end.

He’s on his twelve when he tries to explain to Dick the importance of him going back home. He wasn’t sure of his success, even though the older hero took him to the manor, because during his whole speech, Nightwing hadn’t looked up from the red joining them together. It wasn’t exactly how Tim wanted him to find out, but… Batman needed a Robin, and he was out of options.

At fourteen, he feels Kon’s hand clenching on his shoulder, as they both watch from the side how Nightwing swept Barbara off her feet and twisted her around, laughter falling from both their lips even as Dick thread’s end was pointing towards Tim. The third Robin didn’t turn to look at his best friend, didn’t meet Bart’s eyes or react to Cassie taking his hand on hers. He just made sure his face was perfectly devoid of any emotion when he muttered, low enough only a kryptonian would hear, ‘I wish it was any of you’. 

(A few nights later, when he and Conner were sitting quietly on the Tower’s roof, the clone took Tim’s hand with his own, his lack of red string blatantly obvious as he said ‘If I had any, I wish it could be you’. To this day, it’s the sweetest thing anyone ever said to him)

He is so, so tired, and he’s only sixteen. But keeping up with the shitfest that was the Battle for the Cowl, helping Dick while ignoring his red string (pulling him towards Nightwing, now Batman, stark contrast against the dark of his suit, with distracting insistency), dealing with Damian’s abuse as expected of him as the ‘mature, older brother’, coping with Bruce’s death, the shock of Dick throwing him, his soulmate, away so so easily…

(Shouldn't be surprising; Dick had been discarding him in favor of others since they met, shamelessly displaying his various relationships in front of him with an attitude that might be called cruel from anyone else but that just earned him playful shoves from other Leaguers while Tim was expected to swallow his pain, because a red string isn’t a promise, Dick is free… and yes, he knows that, but it doesn’t mean shit to his dying heart)

(Maybe, when he left for proof of Bruce being alive, it wasn’t so much for his old mentor than it was for himself)

----.----

Tim is seventeen and halfway across the world, looking at the string attached to his hand that never truly meant anything to any other than him (not to Bruce, who never took Dick aside and talked to him about consideration with his soul mate; not Dick's conquers, who never gave a fuck  about the red string in the hands that touched their skin, even when a lot of them knew who was on the other end of it; not Dick himself, who after asking every thing out of Tim and having it, forcefully took the one thing Tim wouldn't give by choice and claimed Tim was his equal, his soulmate, so he never could be his sidekick... even if it was the first time ever that Dick even mentioned the string tying them both together), when he thinks 'you were always free; now, I'm freeing myself’.

He gingerly bites on the string, and with his other hand takes a handful of it and pulls.

The pain piercing his heart is expected, but not new. He had been feeling it since the first time he saw Dick's back as he walked away with someone else.

He times it carefully, too. He doesn't think Dick would care, but just in case, Tim waits until it's morning in Gotham, when he's sure Dick is probably sleeping after patrol.

Maybe he would wake up without noticing

---.---

In Gotham, Dick is carried by Alfred and Damian to the cave, when the new Batman's screams of pain woke everyone in the Manor up. They are suspecting cardiac arrest, and then Dick looks down to his hand and notices the string, always tense, signaling him where his north is, where Tim is, laying loose and lifeless.

He panics, asks Superman to track Tim down or something, and when the man confirms Tim is still alive somewhere in the Middle East, he knows.

And like a freight train, the parting words Kori told him the last time they saw each other hit him right in the chest.

"He isn't going to wait for you forever"

----.-----

When Tim does come back, at nineteen, it’s a quiet thing. 

He spent the last how many days carefully setting his systems up, making sure his mainframe would outstand Oracle’s scrutiny when she realized he was back in town and tried to hack her way into his life.

(He didn’t blame her, of course not. Dick was charming enough, good enough, anyone he set his eyes into would be helpless to nothing but fall in his arms.

And, wasn’t Tim the one who would have been intruding, had he tried to chase after the first Robin? Everyone knew he and the original Batgirl were a perfect match, thousands of times better than Tim, whom Fate just wanted to screw over.

But not anymore)

The first thing he did, once the safe houses were chosen and his programs up and running, was to ruthlessly hack into the Batcomputer and take a look at patrol routes. 

He would need to keep clear of Diamond District and Old Gotham, least he risked crossing paths with B and R. The Financial and City Hall Districts were apparently Batgirl’s playground for the night, and if he wanted to drop by and let Cass know he was back, he could always search for her by the Upper West Side down to Chinatown.

He would avoid the Upper East Side like the plague, though. Maybe Coventry too, just to be safe. Lots of skintight blue in that direction.

Which left… Crime Alley, the Bowery and Burnley, mainly. He needn't check to know who’s house that was.

And that’s how he ended, on his very first night back on the streets, dragging Red Hood’s bleeding ass away from a blowing up building.

-----.-----

Apparently, saving a recently rehabilitated murderous vigilante was a bonding experience, because Jason didn’t kick him out of his side of town, nor tell on him. 

He couldn't, however, do anything to prevent the criminal gossip mile from spreading, and before a week had passed, half the city was aware of the new player on the board.

-----.------

Jason was taking a breather, smoking while sitting on his favorite rooftop, when the rustling sound of fabric told him his peace and quiet was over.

“I thought you were back at being N”, he greeted, not bothering to turn around or get up. 

“B was out of town, and Robin needed someone to watch over him during patrol.”

A quick glance around had Hood snorting, “Then y’re doing a shitty job. Don’t see the midget anywhere.”

It would never NOT be weird to hear a strangled laugh coming out of the Bat suit, as tight and humorless as it was now. It seemed big ol Dick wasn’t doing so great tonight.

“Batgirl took him to a party in Diamond District. Gang war.”

He humms in response, not bothering to keep on the smalltalk. N, no, B was here for something, and it wasn’t Jason’s job to ask it out of him; if it was important, he would do it himself.

“Where is him, Hood?”, he finally went to the heart of the matter. 

Jason tilted his head, still looking over his city, unmindful of the steps coming closer to his position, “Robin? Ya just said it, B. Going senile? Gang war, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t play around. You know I mean…”

Oh, yeah, Dickie still wasn’t sure what to call Timbo. Criminal gossip only went so far, for someone who didn’t bother to shout his hero name to everyone he beat up. It was very possible only  Jason was aware of his new monicker. All gothamites knew was a young vigilante showed up recently, wearing red and black and hanging out with the Hood, which immediately upped his street rep to ‘not to be fucked with’.

“Lil red?”, he completed for his older brother, feeling both charitable and petty. Batman’s wince was more evident by the rustling sound of his cape; he had hit a sore spot, hadn’t he? 

“Where? I’m not asking again.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not answering. Must be ‘roundere somewhere, the little creep.”

“Hood, I’m running out of patience.”

“And I’m out of cigarettes, your point? I don’t have him on a leash asshole. We just share the same hunting space, it’s not like we go home together and do face masks while we talk about feelings.”

They did go to a safespot, though, and share beer and pizza while cursing their relatives and Fate as a whole, but it wasn’t necessary information for the fucker. He just breathed in the last of his smoke before dropping the cigarette butt and stepping on it, stretching as he did.

“Now, any more of this riveting conversation, or can I go? No, wait, it was a rhetorical question; get out of my part of town, ass. I’ve been plenty generous by letting you come this far, but our truce lasts as long as the lot of you don’t build any sandcastles on my playground and you know it. Now, scram.”

He could feel Dick’s reticence at leaving without what he came here for, but Oracle must be talking him into letting it be for tonight, because he didn't push. Jason turned just in the right moment to catch the way Dick looked down to his gloved hand, as if expecting the lifeless red string to be pulled taunt in Tim’s direction by some miracle. Jason felt the smallest ping of pity, quickly washed away by the memory of the younger hero’s haunted eyes as he told Jason the story of his severed soul bond and how he came to do it.

Thirty seconds after the bat vanished into the night, a little red bird landed softly on the spot next to him.

“Thanks, Hood”, he muttered, just as tired and hurting as he’d been ever since he saved Jason’s ass and they became partners, but with the smallest hint of lightness that made him prouder of driving Dick away than he’d ever been.

“Don’t mention it, but fair warning, the big B scomin back home in a few days, and he’s harder to kick out than a hurting, annoying bluebird.”

“I know”, Tim sighed, well aware of both facts. “I’ll play it by ear. For tonight, what about bashing some skulls and ruining Two Face’s new op? Good intel says it’s just a few blocks from here, and shattering bones always makes you smile.”

“Babybird, you speak the language of love.”

“Wasn’t that french?”

“I’m trying to compliment you, don’t be a smart ass about it.”

“I am smart, and I do have a good ass. That seems like an impossible request.”

----.----

[animalistic-anomalies]

Rivet got to his knees, inspecting the package for any damage. It sighed in relief as he found none, before noticing the other bot. He blinked in surprise, before a large grin spread across his face. He hadn’t seen another bot in quite a while! It seems this one had a similar model to him, even if it was ever so slightly less advanced. “Oh! I’m fine!” He took their somewhat oddly-shaped hand, letting them pull him to his feet. As they did the other could notice the light glinting off the metal tag on his collar. It had his name on it as well as some smaller text saying ‘return to this location if lost’ and the address of his owner. It looked like something you would find on a dog, not a person. “Thank you for the help! I’m Rivet!” He knew his name was displayed on his collar but some people liked their robots to be unable to read, mostly people who were paranoid or didn’t want to pay extra for the feature.

Rivet walked down the street, a spring in his step. It had just picked up the new set of decorations its owner wanted and was heading back to his mansion. He stumbled a bit, tripping on an upturned piece of the sidewalk. “ACK-!” They fell forwards, shooting their hands out in front of them so as to not crush the package they were carrying. - @animalistic-anomalies ((*stares directly at your Hex* 👀))

(👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀)

"Oh dear! Are you alright?"

Hex had noticed the other robot's stumble, having been walking down the street in the direction of the basketball court. Honestly, he was rather excited, there weren't many times he got to meet another robot, after all. He knelt down in front of them, offering a hand for them to grab to steady themselves.

[nadiasalem]

When: 20 April 2021

Where: Along the Thames

Who: @sxint​

Nadia wasn't particularly keen on the idea of a new authority figure sweeping in to string a bridle at the head of Pestilence, made of a twisting leash of blackmail and betrayal. She didn't particularly like the way leadership in Pestilence was being handled lately, a little too willing to let outside forces walk all over them, but she harbored a carefully balance of indifference, resentment, and begrudgingly acknowledgment of the strength Death had held in their first throws of joining the tides of battle. As long as nobody tried to keep her from doing what she pleased, how she pleased, she'd take orders as long as she could enjoy herself in some fashion.

And she had to say, being told to jump the baby Warden was something she could get behind. The complex orchestration of the night's delights held a multi faceted precision to it that sent a minute wave of bitter sweet nostalgia for the years she'd been enlisted. It was her pleasure to sharpen her knives and bear her teeth for such an operation, knowing just how much chaos it was bound to cause.

Saint Warden was someone she'd held a passing curiosity for in the past few years, yet it was not curiosity of interest. But a curiosity in the tabooed involvement he'd had with one Kitty Mallick, a far more important person of interest to Nadia. Kitty had been a fleeting fancy of on again off again from years far before her involvement in Pestilence, a regular pretty thing to warm her bed along the mandated periods of R&R deemed necessary. She’d wanted more than Nadia knew herself to be capable of, clung too tight in that cloying way the concept of a steady relationship so boasted. She'd easily let her go to the wind with little thought, but how fascinating it had been to cross paths at her first attendance at a truce anniversary dinner - she couldn't help but wonder just where the tides had taken her when she'd seen her again, wondered just what had built up the steeled edge to her countenance since the time she'd seen her last. Her involvement with Saint, too, had been a juicy little tidbit of information to discover. Well, a girl couldn’t help but be curious about an ex-something-or-other’s playthings.

He was such a pretty young man. Untouched by the brutality of battle. He looked the type who was used to commanding others to take their blows for them. Someone who exacted violence on others but had never suffered a visceral beat down. Nadia loved to toy with men like that.

She wondered if he'd still look so pretty and refined with the rouge of his own blood on his face.

Her mark is exactly where he's supposed to be, and Nadia slips silently from the shadows, the fingers of one hand sliding home in the knuckles of one of her favorite trench knives. Her feet are noiseless along the cobbles as approaches from behind. He’s a decent amount taller than her, but that does little to sway the confidence from her strides. She’d spent nearly a decade sparring her comrades in arms, men of equal height to the Warden’s but bulk far more used to being a weapon in thyself. She knew all too easily how to bring men down to their knees. 

Its a pity it’s not orders to kill. It would have been so easy. 

Oh well, she’ll have a little fun tonight and she supposed that counted for something. 

There’s a skip to her step, a pleased set to her lips when she falls into step behind him, and all it takes is a stiff blow of a steel toed boot to the leg he rests his weight on to cause the man to buckle, and a swift step into his line of sight lines her up for a solid cross to his temple. The blow of riveted metal is one she knows first hand that can easily daze, and the sharpened edge of the blade is quick to drag across the skin of his temple as her arm follows through with the blow. Blood glittered so pretty in the moonlight.

“Hello sweetie,” she cooed, giving him a blatantly condescending smile. “You need to work on your spatial awareness.” 

[hosierydarling]

Parade

Samantha twitched…and twitched. There was just no escaping it. Her body was betraying her, all afire with need. She had even had to hold her leash chain within her jaw to keep all her uncontrollable cries stifled, after all it would not do to alarm her passengers. She needed to keep her focus on the road, her white knuckled hands upon the wheel. Her brand new sister, Rubi, was being taken to her first fetish ball. “I want to sit in back with Mistress!!”, she had cried joyously as they left the house. Miss Eva had caught Sam’s eye slyly, tossing the keys her way, replying breezily, “ I guess that means you’re driving, My treasure.” Both of the girls were excited, even if Sam had been to such events before; being there for her sister’s first time would be a delight. Before leaving Miss Eva had selected outfits for both her girls (both hidden presently under trenchcoats). Rubi was decked out in clinging shining vinyl of the deepest black, the catsuit had been designed with strategic cutouts over her breasts and her pussy, for easier access (as Miss Eva would often put it). Samantha was topless under her coat, and wearing nought but a garter and stocking set. The garters black with crimson accents, the welt of the stockings matching that stark red. Each girl was also fitted with a long thick dildo within the roundness of their rumps, buzzing at a none-too-gentle setting. Miss Eva had also had the ingenuity to connect the girls by those dildos stuffed so far up within them, she had threaded a chain through the back panel of the front seat after they had sat, and connected the chain ends to the cap of each dildo. The chain was not very long so that Rubi could not sit fully back against the back seat, not without sitting twisted sideways. But the excitable girl was perfectly willing to sit on the floor of the back seat at her Mistress’s feet. Satisfied with the way Her girls were set up within the limo, Miss Eva sauntered round the back to the passenger side and settled within, and they were on their way. It should have been an easy ride, the venue for the ball was not all that far from Miss Eva’s residence; just a short ride up the freeway. But, Rubi took it upon herself (much to their Mistress’s delight) to pleasure her owner on the way, insinuating herself between Miss Eva’s legs and diving under Her skirt to lash her tongue at that divine sex. This, of course, would not bother Samantha in the slightest…as it gave her the greatest joy to see both of the ladies in her life satisfied to the fullest…except that she was tethered to her sister’s lifting bouncing ass as she was trying to drive. Gritting her teeth, almost chewing on the chain of her leash, her body shuddering, her sex calling to her as perspiration gathered between her tits, she kept her eyes riveted on the road. Eventually however, the call of her body’s craving was to be Samantha’s undoing. After all, she could hear the delicious purrs of her Mistress, and she could feel each and every bob of her sister’s ass as it tugged upon her own, compounding the effect of the incessant throbbing of the phallus. Concentration threatening to slip from her, Samantha eased the limo to the side of the freeway and put it in park. Deftly unbuttoning her coat and pulling it open, she began to pull and knead the soft swell of her tits, teeth firmly clamped upon the leash. She ran her fingers over her prickled and ignited skin, arching off the driver’s seat and issuing the softest of sighs. Her body would jump almost imperceptibly every time either her Mistress’s or Rubi’s voice climbed in pitch, her mind’s eye envisioning the state of the pair behind the tinted screen. Sliding those endless silken stems as wide apart as she could manage, her hand began to slide between her thighs, softly caressing her bare mound as she arched like a cat and exhaled breathily. By this time, her two passengers had recovered themselves enough to realized that the motion was absent from their journey, and had lowered the screen between front and back. Samantha just knew that Rubi had twisted her flexible young form enough to prop her chin on the driver seat, at the same time Miss Eva had leant forward purred in Her way, “What’cha doing, Samantha?” The only reply was a long drawn out moan through gritted teeth that sent shivers down both women’s spines. Miss Eva twisted to one side in the back and leant down enough to unhook Rubi from her sister, and then sat up and whispered something in the sexy little critter’s ear, something that made her eyes widen in joy. As Miss Eva reached along for the power button to open the sunroof, Rubi clambered over the seats to join her sister in front. Samantha’s brow was furrowed and her teeth clenched as she reddened swiftly with her sister’s eyes upon her. The look upon Rubi’s features almost chastising her as she looked upon Sam’s wandering hands, watching as they dipped into the hollow between her legs. With Miss Eva silently guiding her, Rubi slipped herself into the depression between driver and front passenger seat, manoeuvring herself around the shift stick, getting as close to her sister as possible and pushing her up against the seat. At the same moment, Miss Eva was at Sam’s ear, purring as She grasped the girl’s shoulders and lifted her. Samantha whimpered through the chain as both women’s hands were now on her. As she was pushed back and lifted her sky high pumps fell off her curling toes to clatter against the brake pedal. All of a sudden the wind from the freeway was whipping Samantha’s hair back and kissing her nipples with the chill of the breezy afternoon. Her Mistress’s hands had wrapped round her throat, caressing the three black roses and clamping her to the seat, as her sister moved between her thighs and started to lick and devour her pussy, just as she had Miss Eva’s just seconds before. The chain fell from Samantha’s mouth to bounce a few times between her tits as it sank heavily to dangle. Her cries went out to the traffic, spilling from her throat in earnest as her voice was now freed. Rubi’s tongue did not let up in her fervor to taste of her beloved sister. That tongue curled round her clit, and pushed into the folds of her heat with much enthusiasm, and perhaps impatience for her meal. Miss Eva cooed into Samantha’s ear, letting her own tongue trace the coils of the flesh of that shell. Her fingers squeezing just by the mere treat of hearing Her pet cry to the world. As Rubi pulled Samantha’s leg open wider she absent-mindedly propped her foot on the steering wheel, too engrossed in her sister’s cunt to care. In that moment, the blaring wail of the limo horn streaked out across the freeway. Cars were slowing at that point, honking back in response. The wind would carry away random phrases like “nice tits” and “yeah baby!” As Samantha slid into the welcome abandon of her lusts she vaguely noticed that the freeway traffic was coming to a standstill. The swift rush of it was stilling to a complete halt as Samantha’s squeals and urges for more of her sister’s tongue were echoing through the wind. Her cries attracting all the attention of the commuters. The passersby were putting their vehicles into park in the middle of the standstill traffic, getting out of their cars and sitting on their hoods or even drifting close to watch this half naked woman just escalating into the throes of orgasm. Men and women alike, their attention held rapt on Samantha’s ecstasy. Miss Eva’s eyes twinkled as she peered out of the tinted windows at the rush of onlookers delighting in her pet, she leaned up towards the sun roof and whispered to Sam to simply cum when she was ready. Sam planted her hands back on the edges of the sunroof opening behind her, body bowed, tits bared to the world as she writhed along half in and half out of the car. The first murmurings of her climax licking up her spine, bent sharply as she tossed her head back screaming, hair streaming behind her. Rubi would not let up, spurred on by all of her sisters cries and the rhythmic undulation of her body, crying to be undone. She continued to plunge her tongue deep within her sister’s velvet sheathe coaxing her essence from within that tight dewy canal. Curling her fingers round the framework of the roof Samantha let loose a howl of sheer unadulterated bliss as her body unraveled and began to convulse along the roof to the cheers of the masses gathered. She could faintly hear her sister’s moan from within the car as she received the prize she was seeking, and pressed herself even tighter to Samantha’s pulsing sheathe as she drank down every last bit of her nectar. As Samantha continued to quiver, both her Mistress and her sister eased her back into the car. Miss Eva opened the car door and gathered both of her girls by the leash loops and guided them out of the car on their knees, She paraded them up and down a short length of the freeway twice for the (already won) approval of those gathered. She then walked them back to the car to the sound of thunderous applause. The onlookers were swiftly getting back to their vehicles as the traffic up ahead seemed to be clearing. A few of the commuters did attempt to throw themselves at Miss Eva’s feet in the hopes of similar treatment to their own person’s in future. She responded with a few mere blown kisses, rich with the promise of missed opportunity. As She got her girls settled back into the car, She leaned forward to Samantha and inquired gently, “Do you think you might be able to drive, now Mine…?” Samantha turned and nodded softly, “yes Mistress.” Miss Eva leaned back and idly stroked Rubi’s soft short blonde locks and offered a firm wicked smile, “very well, Rubi, let’s get your sister back home so we can punish her for our missing the ball.”

[ussthunderquack]

The Avengers watch “Tiger King”

Thor: Is binging the whole series for the seventh time, while eating cheetohs or something 

King T’Challa: Stares at the TV screen in silent outrage 

Tony Stark: Begins angsting out over all the cubs he’s taken photos with, and all the zoos and sanctuaries he donated to without researching first. Then when Morgan asks for a white tiger cub for her birthday, hurries down to the lab and begins working furiously on a way to safely produce white tigers without the ill effects of inbreeding.

Scott Lang: Begins frantically researching/asking whether husky-sized ants count as exotic pets, and if keeping them on a dog leash counts as abuse. 

Steve Rogers: Gives an impassioned speech (that is, “impassioned” for Steve) about how no animal should be kept in a cage

Wanda Maximoff: Empathizes with the animals being locked up in tight quarters and manipulated for a sinister agenda 

Bucky Barnes: Is having all kinds of memories triggered: by the caged, abused animals; by the manipulated young people in the sex cults; by Saff losing his arm; and by people getting attacked by large cats. 

Ava Starr: Is already using her phasing abilities to free random animals from zoos, houses and film studios across the continent.

Bruce Banner: Argues with Tony that safe breeding of predatory animals is an oxymoron, and urges Tony to go to bed. 

Peter Parker: Counters with his spider-bite, and suggest he himself might hold the key to how to breed dangerous life forms safely. 

Princess Shuri: Laughs at all of them, and confesses that Wakanda perfected safe cat breeding decades ago, then asks Stark what color stripes Morgan would like her white tiger cub to have.

Steve Rogers: Gives an impassioned speech (”impassioned. Woa.”) about how no one has any right to take Joe Exotic’s animals from him. Also, Carole Baskin is not to be trusted. 

Loki: Taking notes on how he will run his own zoo, once he has the Midgardians under his rule. Stark will be the main attraction, wearing a gold chain, and a gold tiger-stripped loin cloth.

Natasha Romanoff: Is most disturbed by the sex cults and manipulation of young adults and teens. Goes to Doc Antel’s zoo pretending to be a naive woman from Russia who barely knows English, then gives him the chair treatment. 

Steve Rogers: Gives a riveting. Inspiring. Speech. About how Carole Baskin is innocent, and Joe Exotic is scum and no animal should be kept in captivity of any kind, under any circumstances. Also, he will defend Carole’s cat sanctuary to the death. 

Sam Wilson: Gives Steve the stare.

Carole Danvers: Is inspired by the woman who shares her first name, and re-designs her suit to have big cat print. 

Dr. Erik Selvig: Attacks a particularly unusual zoo while naked, and sets loose the animals.

Dr. Hank Pym: Watches in bum shock as his giant ants stampede through New York, freed by a naked Scandinavian man. 

Steve Rogers: Gives a speech about how documentaries are filled with lies and agendas, and everyone should turn off “Tiger King.” 

Sam Wilsion: Agrees and suggests “Star Wars.” 

Loki: God of Mischief, he hears Rogers’ words, and uses his magic to change the TV to “Cats”--the 2019 film.

Steven Strange: Is violently making out with Tony on the sofa. They are the only ones oblivious to the horror onscreen.

Steve Rogers: Gives an epic speech about how “Tiger King” is the crucial wake-up call we all need. To animal abuse, to property rights, to bad CGI, he doesn’t know anymore, but what he knows is that there is an AGENDA! 

Shrui: Jumps and screams with surprise when Steve raises his voice and points his finger in the air dramatically; she thought he was a cardboard cutout this whole time. 

Rocket Raccoon: Obviously takes animal abuse personally, and begins planning a “surprise” for Joe Exotic and Doc Antel. 

Goose the Flerken: Confesses that Carole Baskin’s husband was delicious.

Scott Lang: While searching the Avenger Tower for records of giant ant laws, makes a strange find: Cap’s shield, covered tiny plunger darts, and sticky notes that say things like “Animals Don’t Belong in Cages,” “Pets are private property that mustn’t be regulated,” “Sometimes my teammates don’t tell me things,” and so forth.

Nick Fury: Is already on his way to hand the entire documentary’s main cast their asses. 

[thewhumpstuff]

Flashback

Flashback - [So, this got longer than I intended. It probably needs to be cruelly edited. But, nah. I’m just going to throw it into the void!

@badthingshappenbingo​​ [Original Characters and content for - Reopening an Old Wound] Whumptober Day: No. 6 - Please -   “Get it out!” No more. “Stop, please!” [Sorta all three]   Ten Trails: Heart and Soul (2)- Repressed memories [@yuckwhump​] CW/TW: Uncomfortable invasion of the mind. References to interrogation, captivity and potential torture. Reference to implied bullying in the OC’s past. [Please let me know if I missed anything] [I don’t think there is anything triggering about the abstract art, hopefully, so its just out here. FYI-That is a man casually ‘caught up’ in his brain.]

Zach drummed an arrhythmic beat against the edge of his table, when the door to his office slid upon and the framework framed Akira like a painting, “Ah, good! You’re here. I’ve been led to believe you possess a unique set of skills and are the perfect candidate to... solve a little problem I’ve chanced upon. Shall we?”  She wasn’t given a chance to make her way into his office. Within a moment, he was already crowding her. Zach shepherded her towards a vehicle. They rode in uncomfortable silence. There weren’t too many people who could set Akira on edge, but Zach was definitely one of them. She assumed it was because she couldn’t get a read on him. And the tenebrous past he shared with Jared. The vehicle pulled up and she almost opened her side of the door into Zach’s crotch, accidentally. She stopped herself just in time, leaving the door slightly ajar. With a soft huff of disappointment and impatience, Zach opened it all the way and waited for her to step out. Akira really wasn’t accustomed to this level of archaic chivalry. The silence continued to loom as they walked past the wired fence, to the decommissioned lab. It was marked for repair and rennovation. As they rounded to the door, he went on to warn her, with feigned concern, that did fool her. “This is not going to be easy. It certainly isn’t for me, but I trust you know, that as Amity Enforcers, it's our duty to defend the goals of the Global Confederate. ”

Her brows knitted and her eyes narrowed, but she nodded. They made their way inside. Their footsteps echoed in the vacant reception area and continued to click as they walked through the lobby and the labyrinth of corridors. The first couple of floors had already been revamped and restored. From the corner of her eyes, she noted the silhouettes of wrapped equipment. She recognized them with ease, some were bots for medical procedures, others were devices typically used for research… on human subjects. They were flush against the walls haphazardly. He led her into a softly lit room, and stopped by two-sided mirror. The other side was dark. Akira stared at their reflections.  In retrospect, the sincerity in Zach’s expressions, would surprise her. Another guilty reassurance followed. It felt like he was setting her up for some kind of a climax,  “I assure you, I’ve done my due diligence, and grave apologies that I wasn’t able to get to him before the others. He’s a little roughed up. Needless to say, he’ll be fixed up. Perhaps you can help with that too…” Zach fiddled with something that looked like a keypad touch screen. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the room beyond the mirror. Akira did a double-take and didn’t realise she was holding her breath. Jared. She didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. He didn’t have a shirt on and his pants looked scruffy. Angry, fresh bruises covered most of the skin that she could see. Cuffs cinched his wrists behind his back. His cheek sat in a small pool of blood. Crimson that leaked from a cut lip and from his nose. His chest rose and fell erratically. Jared didn’t react to the lights. He was either asleep… Or just unconscious. Zach’s little roughed up didn’t exactly do justice.

 She couldn’t tear her eyes off Jared, but she found her voice and addressed Zach in an indignant hiss, “What the fuck is this?” Zach ran gloved fingers through his silken strands, “I told you this wasn’t going to be easy. I recognize that your relationship, predisposes you to defend him. To take his side. And that’s good. Because-” Aki interrupted him through grit teeth, “Get to the point damnit. What reason do you have to hold him like this?” She found it very hard to maintain composure. Her eyes still riveted on Jared, till Zach’s fingers found Akira’s jaw. He held it to force her to turn and look at him. She did turn, but also jerked away from his hand. He didn’t press for contact. Zach’s voice darkened. It got colder and softer with a bridled rage, “I’m going to let that tone slide. Compelling evidence has surfaced, that declares him responsible for the death of my mother… and my subsequent capture. And that he either is, or was associated with SpecSyn.” His tone reminded her of the chilly one that Jared assumed, when he had reason to truly mean whatever threat he was uttering. The comparison was unsettling. Zach went on, “And I’d like very much to believe this evidence is bogus, because I don’t want it to be true. As much as you probably don’t. We grew up together, him and I. We trained in G.C.A together, served in Sector Nine together… ” She noticed a sort of hurt in Zach’s eyes. The kind of pain that screamed betrayal. For the briefest of moments it made her trust him, as he went on talking, “And I’m doing my very best to not fall prey to my anger… Akira. So please… help me. Help me wipe these allegations once and for all. You convince me, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Akira sounded hesitant, she was processing everything a little too slowly to immediately recognize what Zach wanted. So she defended Jared rather simply, “Look, I don’t know what to tell you, he never told me anything-” Zach’s voice changed to something practical and detached again, like this was just any other mission detail. This also reminded her of Jared. “No, of course he didn’t. Despite how intimate you two are, I doubt he would’ve trusted you with anything important, or too personal. He’s always been an agent first… Apparently, just not for G.C.” She could sense that he was provoking her now and instilling doubt again… Somewhat successfully.  Jared had always been rather tight-lipped. Even more so around the subject of the events that led to Azrael’s death and his missions. They’d argued about it on more than one occasion. Now was not the time to get hung up on the way the truth of his words stung. She turned her back to Jared and leaned against the two-way mirror. Zach went on, “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t simply-” She challenged with another interruption, eager to defend the relationship he sounded so dismissive about. “What? Just read him? Relationships don’t work like that, Zach... I trust him. Still do. Always will.” Her heart sank when she finally realised what the man wanted. And he made quick work of confirming Akira’s assumptions, “Well, push has come to shove. And if you trust him so much, you shouldn’t find anything in there-” He rested one hand against the glass of the two-way mirror and tapped it. ‘-In there, that’s too alarming. I say you- and by that I mean we, because we’re running out of options. So, convince me, he truly doesn’t know anything. And I’ll make sure he’s free to go. And you.” And me? She folded her arms across her chest, “I didn’t realise I was not free to go. So what, I’m a prisoner now too?” Zach stepped in closer and placed his other hand on the surface of the mirror behind Akira. Her face was between his palms and she felt a little trapped, by the situation and literally by Zach’s proximity, but she did her best to not show it. He shrugged, “The Jared I  know, would’ve worked alone, but the others would not hesitate to assume your involvement by proxy. And it doesn’t help that you’re a Niner. But, like I’ve said before I’d like to stay on your side, on his side.” She drew in a long shaky breath, her voice fell to an uncertain whisper, “It…. My power doesn’t work like that. It’s not so perfect… I can’t just give you what you want.” He smiled, realising that she’d understood that her options were limited and was at least, considering compliance. “I know how your power works. And I’ll guide you. We’ll have to find a way, for his sake.” Nonetheless, she obviously had to check if there was in fact, any other way. She wasn’t too keen on breaking that sacrosanct trust, “What if I say no?” Zach huffed brusquely, “Then I’ll have no choice but to give the two of you up. I can only buy so much time. They’ll either force a confession false or not... or kill both of you in the process of doing so… So, Akira, I really don’t want to spend our time constantly reminding you, that I’m the only thing standing in the way of a very… very bleak future for both of you.” So, no real choice indeed. A small part of Akira rejoiced and then recoiled with guilt. The part that did want to know all of Jared’s secrets, just so they could clear the air once and for all. The part she’d leashed, with difficulty and upon his insistence- out of respect for what they shared... Another part of her curled up in fear of what she’d actually find. And how she’d hide it from Zach, if it was indeed incriminating. “How do you expect me to convince you?” Zach looked beyond her, presumably at Jared, as he laid out the plan, “To make sure you aren’t lying, I’ll first have you dredge up memories of his time with me, details that I can confirm. Things you’re unlikely to know about, at least not in all their specificity. Then we can work towards the rest. It’ll be a process… But hopefully, Jared gets out of this absolved and we all walk away unharmed. I’ll have Mark monitor your stats when we get to the important stuff. So I’ll know if you’re lying. You know Mark right, I believe you’ve worked with him? That should make all this a little easier...”

-

Carrying a glass of water, painkillers and some tissues, she walked into the cell alone. Her SmartNeura was connected to Zach’s, so he could instruct her without Jared’s knowledge. Jared was still curled on the floor. He had not moved almost at all. His knuckles were unbruised. But his wrists bore evidence of struggle. She gathered that Jared had not resisted arrest and that they’d hurt him after he was already cuffed. Presumably to get quick answers. Knowing him, he must’ve chosen silence. She assumed he was in some drug induced stupor now, she was wrong. “Jared…” He sat up so quickly, she and her heart jumped. “Shira? What the hell are you doing here?” Why did his tone sound accusative? “Z-” Before she could tell him, Zach interrupted her sharply, “No. Don’t name me. He doesn’t need to know of my involvement yet. Tell him someone else asked you for help with the interrogation-Better yet, tell him you heard and volunteered. Keep it vague.” Akira chewed the side of her lips and looked at Jared as intently as she could, she wasn’t sure if he could see truth in her eyes. She went and flopped by his side, cross-legged. And put the water beside him, along with the painkillers and tissues. He picked up the latter to wipe away the blood. She repeated Zach almost word for word, “I…  heard they caught you and volunteered to help.” She was hoping Jared would recognize the foreignness of her words. Unfortunately, given his current state, he either didn’t, or did a damn good job of hiding it. His eyes widened. She knew he was definitely closing in on her intent. And desperately hoping it wasn’t true, just like she had been, just moments ago. “Help how?” She was at a loss of words. Aki jerked her chin towards his head. She really didn’t want to spell it out, “You know… I’ll just… Read and confirm you innoc-” Jared shot up like a spring, and was on his feet. He staggered as he backed away from her. He sounded uncharacteristically flustered, his words as choppy as his faltering steps,  “Why the fuck would you- We’ve gone over this… We agreed- It’s the one thing I’ve asked for- Wait you told them about your- Just…Just… Get outta here and let them do what they want. You don’t need to get involved. Why would they believe you anyway?” He kept shuffling away as he talked, to literally stay out of her reach. Till he had nowhere left to go. Akira didn’t move towards him, she remained on the floor and stared at it. She wanted to yell. To let him know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want any of this. That she had no choice. That it wasn’t going to be a damn walk in the park for her either. That she’d been summoned. And that she was glad that she’d been called. At least she could buy them some time to figure this out. That she couldn’t, in good faith, just… let them do what they wanted. She sat frozen, screaming internally till Zach was compelled to intervene. He sounded impatient… but Aki could swear, he also sounded mildly delirious, “Tell him, it's too late and you’re already involved. Tell him, he doesn’t have a real choice. Then ask him about Erebus at the C.T.F we did for training at G.C.A. Read the memory that comes up. I’m staring us off easy.”

In his impatience, Zach was revealing himself with every suggestion and Akira was glad that he was. Though she wasn’t sure if Jared was truly catching on, or not. She’d heard him speak of Erebus - now an Acer himself, working in the resources department- and not too fondly. She had nothing specific enough for her to fib her way through this. Akira cleared her throat and repeated Zach’s words, paraphrasing just enough to change the perspective, and couch her question as a memory-trigger, “Look, I’m already here. So this is happening, whether you like it or not. Let’s talk about Erebus. You two were in G.C.A together, right? Did both of you participate in the capture-the-flag game? Were you on the same team?” She hoped that the confusion that flitted on Jared’s face was a sign that he was starting to catch up. He had to have figured out that they were being watched by someone, if not specifically Zach. Jared asked, “Erebus? Why? I’ve barely mentioned him” She made up a lie, now improvising without Zach’s direction, “He’s... A suspect too...” She was grateful that Zach needed to confirm her compliance with… hopefully benign memories. But, with the way Jared tensed up, perhaps even this was not as benign as she was hoping. It’s just C.T.F… How bad could it be? Jared sighed, like he’d curtailed an exasperated warning, “Shira… please just...” After one last look of what she perceived to be despise- aimed either at her, or at the very least at the situation, he closed his eyes. With a dark, heart-rending resignation, he slid against the wall, till he was sitting on the floor with his knees pressed against his chest. She knew he wasn’t the sort to protest once he realised it was futile. She sat there feeling a little paralyzed. There was no going back once she crossed this line. Zach prompted her into action, “Go on! Remember we’re still time-bound. Wordlessly, she inched closer to Jared and set his hands on his exposed arms. -

Lying on the ground, stomach first. The wetness of dewdrops against the cheek. The chilly breeze against a bareback. The smell of damp earth and grass. The blurry sight of the green blades and the soil - shuffling shoes and ankles in the distance.  The recently-cracked awkward husk of a pubescent voice, “This’ll teach you to fucking play decoy for Pixie-dust!” The sound of vague, bitter and cruel jeering. Shoes sliding closer. Fingers curling around wrists and ankles, tightening with a certain envious sourness. The soles of shoes against the back of the knees… and the elbows, with the wobbling, inconsistent, but hurtful pressure. The body, contorts and twists to see the sneering face of the kid who spoke. A raspy, baleful protest, claws out of the throat, “Get your lackeys off me ‘Rebus!” An unavailing struggle that ensues. Another soul pressed against the lower back, with a pathetic finality. And then the sound of the marker, shot at point-blank range. The smarting slap of the bullet splattering between the shoulder blades. The strangled roar, interrupted by another shot… and then another. The headache-inducing grit teeth and set jaw. The metallic tang of blood and the annoying stab of a bitten tongue- completely overshadowed by the aching throb of the back. The burgeoning tenderness and the blooming bruises. Finally, after half a dozen shots, the deafening silence. The splattered, viscous paint, that felt as good as blood, rolling down the sides of the torso. And a soft, defeated whine. The vague thought that this must appear rather comical to an onlooker… but sure didn’t feel that way. -

Jared’s quieter whimper met Akira’s louder groans, they tapered to an uncomfortable silence, first him, then her. She blinked away, the tears that collected on the side of her eyes. When she let go of him, she noticed her fingers had left a print on his pale skin, blanching through a bruise. She had just experienced his memory in first person and forced him to relive it too. Aki could still hear the echo of the shots and feel her back smarting. He probably felt the same lingering effects. She knew it’d fade soon enough, but it left her heaving for air. Her emotions were mingled with young Jared’s- contempt for this Erebus kid who pressed him into the ground and shot him. Despair... that it happened. And her instinct was more violent than his, “What a fucking tool. I’d have kil-” She cut herself off when Jared opened his eyes. The dejection in them tore at her. And Zach’s voice broke the moment, “Why did you stop? Tell him you want to know what happens and go back.” Akira hesitated, till Zach made the order in no uncertain terms, “Do it, now!” She echoed his suggestion with a slight startle, like a spurred horse, “I… I want to know what happens next-” He let his fingers lace with her approaching hands. A plainative squeeze followed, “No! Stop it… Shira… Please. Please no more… Not again.”

[tabloidtoc]

OK, November 23

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Jeff Bridges opens up about the fight of his life 

Page 2: Contents 

Page 3: Contents 

Page 4: Lori Loughlin’s life behind bars -- Lori’s been having a hard time adjusting to her new reality

Page 6: The holiday season will look a little different for Prince Harry this year -- originally the plan was for Harry to travel to England around Christmastime and Meghan Markle reluctantly agreed though she was far from happy with the idea but now with new travel restrictions in place due to Covid-19 she’s told him there’s no way they’re leaving California which is crushing for Harry who was looking forward to spending the holidays with the royals especially since he missed out last year and he’s been horribly homesick these last few months and he misses the holiday traditions he grew up with even though he loves his life in America with Meghan and son Archie 

Page 7: Newly single Kelly Clarkson has been swooning over country crooner Brett Eldredge her collaborator on the flirty new Christmas tune Under the Mistletoe -- they spent lots of time together in the studio and on the phone and really bonded while they were cutting this sexy song, Brad Pitt’s most recent ex-girlfriend Nicole Poturalski has started talking to friends about what happened between them in detail and it’s an embarrassing mess for Brad who prides himself on privacy, after 16 seasons as colleagues and sparring BFFs on The Voice Adam Levine and Blake Shelton are besties no more because there was a lot of talk between them about keeping in touch and hanging out after Adam left the show but amid lingering tensions neither has made an effort and Adam may not even be invited when Blake marries Gwen Stefani

Page 8: Ever since Sofia Richie split for good from Scott Disick she’s been out every night with some really shady types to the dismay of her dad Lionel Richie who is not liking what he’s hearing about her partying and dating habits -- Sofia has already jumped into a new relationship with Cha Cha Matcha founder Matthew Morton and is hanging nonstop with his crew -- Lionel thought breaking free from Scott would mean a calmer life but it just sees like she’s gone off the rails, Betty White is already gearing up to celebrate her 99th birthday in January with a low-key yet reverent bash, she’s been linked to several Hollywood hunks of late but Lily James just wants her old beau back and she’s regretting breaking off her five-year relationship with Matt Smith -- since the split she’s been linked to Dominic West and Armie Hammer and Chris Evans and the onslaught has only made her miss Matt more -- Matt’s always had her back and Lily knows she made a mistake letting him go but Matt feels duped regarding all the rumors about her and other guys but she swears nothing happened and that she misses him

Page 10: Red Hot on the Red Carpet -- stars wow in romantic ruffled gowns -- Keke Palmer, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kirsten Dunst 

Page 11: Lupita Nyong’o, Halsey 

Page 12: Who Wore It Better? Renee Bargh vs. Alessandra Ambrosio

Page 14: News In Photos -- Paris Jackson posed for a portrait in Beverly Hills days before releasing her debut solo album 

Page 15: Adam Brody with his newborn son in Malibu, pregnant Jinger Duggar stepped out in Venice with husband Jeremy Vuolo and their daughter Felicity for lunch, Lady Gaga on stage at a drive-in concert in Pittsburgh 

Page 16: Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O’Connell headed out for brunch with one of their twin daughters in Encino, Camila Cabello held on tight to one of her three pups while chasing another one who escaped from his leash in Miami, Pierce Brosnan playing golf in Hawaii 

Page 18: DJ Diplo took a dip in the ocean in Miami, John Legend took his Ford Mustang out for a spin with wife Chrissy Teigen and one of their dogs in Beverly Hills 

Page 19: Bella Thorne and boyfriend Benjamin Mascolo in Rome, Scott Disick was Ace Ventura for Halloween in L.A. 

Page 20: Ruff Life -- stars show love for their canine companions -- Ariel Winter and her latest rescue Cobey, Jamie Chung and her dog, soccer star Alex Morgan with her dogs Kona and Blue 

Page 21: Nev Schulman cuddled up with Dancing With the Stars partner Jenna Johnson’s dog Ziggy, PLEASE ADOPT, DON’T SHOP  

Page 22: Shawn Mendes on a walk in Miami, Kate Mara stopped by Target with her daughter, Ellen DeGeneres dressed up as a nurse who is her favorite superhero 

Page 24: Skai Jackson headed to rehearsals for Dancing With the Stars, Elizabeth Lyn Vargas of Real Housewives of Orange County gave a tour of her home, Joe Jonas strolling daughter Willa around the neighborhood 

Page 25: Thomas Brodie-Sangster attended the premiere of Stardust a biopic about David Bowie in London, Donnie Wahlberg and Steve Schirripa filmed a scene for Blue Bloods in Brooklyn 

Page 26: Taking over duties from Prince Harry his stepmother Duchess Camilla arrived at the Field of Remembrance to commemorate those who lost their lives in the armed forces in London, Amber Heard enjoyed a hike with her dog in L.A., Renee Elisa Goldsberry and Sara Bareilles and Paula Pell and Busy Philipps filmed a scene for Tina Fey’s upcoming series Girls5Eva in NYC 

Page 27: Offset delivered free food to voters waiting in line on Election Day, Ciara in Seattle 

Page 28: Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendes have finally become husband and wife in a low-key ceremony in the backyard of their L.A. home with just a handful of family and close friends like Steve Carell and Emma Stone were in attendance -- Ryan wore jeans with a button-down shirt while Eva wore a red dress from her own collection -- now that the party’s over Eva and Ryan have been talking about having a third child

Page 29: Reality hit Love Is Blind hooked viewers with its OMG premise but the show’s married cohosts Nick Lachey and Vanessa Lachey were decidedly less riveting and their presenting style was laughably wooden and stiff and while the duo is slated to return for the show’s second season Nick and Vanessa have been put on notice to spice it up, Tori Spelling is freaking out at the prospect of her husband Dean McDermott spending six months alone in Toronto which is the same town where he cheated on her seven years ago -- Dean has signed on to star in Canadian TV show Lady Dicks and while Tori should be thrilled that that he’ll be bringing in some income for their often-struggling family of seven she is preparing for the worst 

Page 30: While it appears Nina Dobrev and Shaun White have spent 2020 in hardcore flirt mode Nina’s friends have cautioned that this is a dead-end romance because Shaun shows up and posts pictures of them on social media but the fact is they’ve barely spent any time together and they hook up and then he goes back to his own place -- Shaun rarely invites Nina to either of his two Hollywood Hills pads and is proving his flaky reputation is legit, things are looking up for parents-to-be Kit Harington and Rose Leslie after a rocky start to their marriage the two are finally in a happy place -- Kit has stopped boozing and this baby has put a fire under him to be more accommodating and besides helping update and baby-proof the couple’s 15th century countryside manor Kit’s been more attentive to Rose in every way, Love Bites -- Erika Jayne and Tom Girardi split, Maya Erskine and Michael Angarano are engaged and expecting, Ashlee Simpson welcomed her second child with husband Evan Ross 

Page 32: Cover Story -- Jeff Bridges: I’m not giving up -- how the beloved star is coping during his brave health battle 

Page 36: Katherine Heigl why she disappeared -- the reason Katherine walked away from the spotlight ad how she found her way back 

Page 38: Home Alone turns 30 -- in honor of the holiday classic’s milestone anniversary secrets and trivia about the movie and its stars 

Page 40: Feel the Burn -- fitness fanatic Morgan Coleman is here to take your home workout up a notch 

Page 42: Healthy Holidays -- how stars stay fit and feeling their best during the festive season 

Page 46: Style Week -- Olivia Culpo has teamed up with her siblings on an exclusive collection for Macy’s 

Page 48: What’s Hot Right Now -- Madewell wants you to Make Weekends Longer with its new sustainable MWL collection 

Page 49: Steal Her Style -- Drew Barrymore 

Page 50: Dress the Halls -- festive pieces to rock through the holidays even if you’re celebrating at home -- AnnaSophia Robb 

Page 54: Entertainment 

Page 55: Q&A -- Jake Tyson

Page 58: Buzz -- Just weeks after Kim Kardashian West was slammed over her 40th birthday bash Kendall Jenner received similar criticism for throwing a jam-packed soiree for her 25th birthday 

Page 60: Sound Bites -- Cameron Diaz on having a baby at 47, Conan O’Brien on the props that were stolen from his late-night set, Sacha Baron Cohen joking that he and his wife Isla Fisher are not A-listers, Anne Hathaway on the embarrassing ways she handled the lockdown 

Page 61: Florence Pugh on her close relationship with her Black Widow costar Scarlett Johansson, Christine Quinn on not being bothered by negative comments, Chelsea Handler on crushing on New York governor Andrew Cuomo 

Page 62: Horoscope -- Lisa Bonet turned 53 on November 16 

Page 64: By the Numbers -- Colin Jost

[animalistic-anomalies]

No problem, I hope it will help you! Oh and- whenever you want me to put more food and water there, you can pat the backpack twice when it is empty- *a smile for the boi, giving him a hug. He deserves it*

A- *a few surprised blinks, then giggles a bit- a small pat for his back.* You are very strong, that’s impressive! :]

He is just. In awe. “R-really? You- you would..?” He had been so worried about the anons being mean, b-but this one was so nice! “Th-thank you!!”

His screen gained a light blue blush. “Ahah, thank you!” He set them down. “It’s quite useful for everything my owner needs me to do.” Having a rich owner did have its perks after all.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 2

I just couldn’t leave you guys with a solo chapter so I’ve upped the ante in this next one.  ;)  Expect future updates to be between one and two weeks, though.

Also, keep in mind that this fic is Stark-centric, and the plotlines I'm following won't necessitate the inclusion of certain characters, even ones I love. So don't be surprised if some of your faves don't make an appearance. This ensemble piece can only ensemble so much without losing cohesiveness.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter Two: Don’t Look Away

“She has had enough of men playing to roles they haven't the right to fill." - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

“My lady, if I may,” Baelish calls to her, catching her after a council meeting, halting her in the hall to her chambers.

           Sansa stills reluctantly, nodding to Brienne when she eyes the Lord Protector warily.

           “Was there something we missed in the meeting, my lord?”

           Baelish makes his way up to her, a smile just this side of a grimace gracing his features.  “I had hoped to speak with you outside the council meeting.”

           “We’re speaking now,” she grants him, and grants nothing else.

           Baelish glances to Brienne at her side, eyeing the way she keeps a perpetual hold on the hilt of her sword.  Sansa wonders wildly if he remembers that day, so long ago.

           “What if I want you to die, here and now?”

           “Privately, if you please, my lady,” he says, head inclined in deference.  

           Sansa watches him for just a moment, contemplating, and then she’s nodding to Brienne, continuing the walk to her chambers where she invites Baelish inside, and Brienne stands guard dutifully by the door, though not without a last lingering look of concern.  Sansa offers her a small smile of reassurance before closing the door behind her.

“I do wish to grant you what time you need to reacquaint yourself with your long-lost sister, unrecognizable though she may be,” Baelish starts, puffing his chest out with the words as he takes in her solar, “But I do hope you haven’t forgotten that there is a conversation to be had between us now, especially so because your brother has gained yet another supporter in your sister.”  He turns back to her with something like self-satisfaction – keen and impossible to miss.

           She begins to remove her gloves.  “I have not forgotten.”

           “Good.”  A step toward her.

           Sansa drops her gloves to the desk beside her.  “Nor have I forgotten your warnings.”

           A gleam lights in his eye, perhaps pride (though it is only a vague measure she can discern), or perhaps simply greed.  She is disappointed with herself for not having the skill to distinguish them yet at this point.

           “My dear Sansa,” he begins, already edging toward her, and it is an endearment that sets her skin to tingling, the base of her spine slipping into a rigidity quite like a familiar armor.

           His hands light along her shoulders.  She wonders when his attentions and his affectations turned from fatherly to that of a lover.  It isn’t in the motions themselves, the touches, the caresses.  It’s in the way he looks at her all the while, the words he spews when he touches her so.

           And she has had enough of men playing to roles they haven’t the right to fill.

           “Did you interpret our last conversation as a warning?” he asks curiously, a false touch of concern lighting his voice.

           She knows better than to answer such a question truthfully.

           His fingers curl around her arms, drawing her closer to him.  “Oh Sansa, you must know I never meant it as such.”

           “I know very little, Lord Baelish, where it concerns you.”  She allows herself this small honesty.  Truth can sometimes tempt the best of them.

           The self-satisfied grin that tugs at his lips makes her quiver, though she tempers the reaction before he can register it.  “I’ve been rather transparent with my desires, Sansa, wouldn’t you say?”

           She only looks at him, unblinking.

           “As transparent as the King, I would wager.”

           Sansa’s eyes narrow instantly, her shoulders stiffening.

           Baelish keeps one hand curled tight around her elbow, anchoring her to him, his other lifting to trace her cheek.  “You’re much too smart to think you can play such a game under my nose without me catching wind of it.”

           She gulps, lips pursed, offering no rebuke, but no admission either.  Her skin feels hot – blistering and not her own. “I’m not playing at anything.”

           “Yes, perhaps that’s the tragedy of it,” he muses, a mockingly smooth finger edging the length of her jaw.  “Tell me, Sansa, how long did you let your bastard brother beg before you finally spread your legs for him?”            Sansa jerks back, but he holds her tight, far tighter than he’s ever dared to touch her before, and something flashes in his eyes that looks dangerously like possessiveness.  

“You will unhand me, Lord Baelish,” she grinds out.

           He only grips her tighter, bruisingly so, hand clutching at her jaw now, mouth hovering close to hers, a hiss seethed through his teeth.  “Or are you the one who does the begging?” he murmurs, eyes fixed to her mouth, brows angled down sharply in an anger she recognizes all too easily.

           Joffrey had that kind of anger.  Ramsay, too.

           “Not the sort of boy who gives away his toys.”

           “I said ‘unhand me’, sir.”  It’s a command now, a wolfish sort of thing snarled through grit teeth.

           “I wonder what it took to hear such begging,” he croons at her mouth, dark and promising, ignoring her protest.

           “If you want to keep that hand,” a voice says smoothly from behind them, jolting them apart, “then you’ll remove it from my sister.”

           Sansa whips her head to the far corner of her room, watching as Arya materializes from the shadows.

           Baelish clears his throat, backing from Sansa almost unconsciously, his hands blessedly free of her.

           “Arya, what are you doing here?” Sansa hisses at her, breathing heavily, hands curling at her sides until her nails press half-moons into her palms.

           Arya swings her steady gaze toward her, cocking a brow.  “Minding snakes, it seems.”

           Sansa bristles at the answer.

           Baelish collects himself easily, stepping toward Arya.  “My lady, if you would only – ”

           “I’m not your lady,” she answers swiftly, gaze cutting back to his.  “And neither is my sister.”

           He swallows, chin lifting.  “This was a private conversation you intruded on, Lady Arya.”

           “Yes, and all the more shame that it’s now made public.  But don’t let that stop you.  Please, do continue.”  Arya motions toward Sansa with a daring scorn.

           Baelish looks between the two.  Sansa never takes her eyes off her sister.

           “Arya, you need to leave.”

           Arya glares at her, but then she’s looking back at Baelish, taking a step, and then another, making her way smoothly toward him until she’s standing just a foot away, head cocking as she looks up at him.  “I only ever make threats I intend to follow through,” she tells him, dark grey eyes wide and unblinking, harrowing in their intensity.

           Baelish stares back at her, riveted.  His throat bobs uncertainly.

           Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth.  “Arya.”

           And then the younger Stark is offering Baelish a mocking smile, a false comfort beneath her deadly gaze.  “My list isn’t so long that it can’t fit another name,”

           Baelish furrows his brows, uncomprehending, but she doesn’t wait for a response, stalking away from him to stand beside her sister.

��          Several moments pass in silence, and then Baelish smooths his hands over his robe, clearing his throat.  “Well then,” he begins.

           “Well then,” Arya says almost smugly, hands linked behind her back.

           Baelish levels her with a steady stare, before looking up to Sansa.  That anger is back, brimming just beneath a still, composed surface.  Its sourness is no less visceral, even with her sister at her side, and Sansa thinks this must be how poison works – slow and unseen.

           “I bid you good evening, ladies,” he says in farewell, before stalking to the door, unlatching it, and slamming it behind him.

           Sansa takes a long, solid breath, hands finally uncurling at her sides. She glances down to Arya.  Her sister is staring up at her, lip curled, a sneer playing at her features.

           “You’re being reckless,” Sansa throws out on a harsh exhale, shaking with it, and shaking with more.

           Arya schools her face back to passiveness, making her way to the door as well.  “And you’re being stupid.”  She says it with no remorse, and Sansa didn’t think it’d hurt quite so much to hear the familiar words again after so many years.

           But Arya leaves without saying more, and Sansa’s word of thanks is lodged somewhere between her barren tongue and her clenched teeth, as sour as Baelish’s anger had been.

* * *

           “Littlefinger will make his move before long.  Arya’s seen to that,” Sansa huffs reluctantly, glancing toward her younger sister as they sit gathered in her solar.

           Jon sighs, leaning his elbows over his knees.  “We can’t afford this – not now.”

           Arya doesn’t look the slightest remorseful.  “He threatened Sansa.”

           Jon straightens at this.  

           “Arya,” Sansa hisses.  “That’s not what happened.”

           Arya lifts a brow her way.  “That’s exactly what happened, even if he didn’t say it in so many words.”

           Jon opens his mouth to press further, but then Arya is scoffing, arms crossing over her chest.  Her words still him.  “You leave yourself too open to threats, Sansa.  Too open… in other ways, as well.”  Arya slips a look of accusation toward Jon out of the corner of her eye.

           The bile is ripe on his tongue – sharp and pungent.  Just like the anger.

           “Arya, that’s enough,” he bites out warningly, purposely not looking at Sansa’s suddenly wet eyes, her jutting chin, her stiff, yet trembling hands bunched in her lap.

           Arya rolls incredulous eyes his way.  “You’re both fools.  You’re both foul, selfish fools,” she seethes.  Her arms tighten over her chest, her jaw locking tight, like collaring a wolf.  Like leashing anguish.  “And you’ll be the end of us.”

           “I wasn’t the one who threatened the Lord Protector of the Vale,” Sansa snaps meaningfully.

           Arya’s face hardens, her throat flexing.  “Should I have let you be, then?”  Her voice is impossibly soft.  “Should I have let him touch you?”

           A flare of possession streaks through Jon – white-hot and instant – but it’s dampened by the look upon Sansa’s face.  It’s a look he’s never seen before, all at once guilty and pleading and proud.

           “They’re our family,” Bran says from his quiet place beside the hearth, nearly forgotten in the sudden vitriol splashed across the room.

           Arya spares him a glare as well.  “I know that, Bran.  And that’s what makes it all the worse.”

           Jon clamps down on the spiteful rush that floods him.  She is his sister, after all, and gods, does he miss her. But this is not what he wanted. “Only the pack survives, Arya.  We have to – ”

           “Don’t you dare use Father’s words after fucking his daughter beneath this very roof,” she spits.

           The scrape of Sansa’s chair is jarringly loud in the sudden quiet, and Jon can do nothing but watch her stalk to the window, his knuckles white wear he grips his knees, his teeth sinking into his tongue as he bites down on his rebuke, the shame tart and instant and utterly unspeakable.

           (There can be no rebuke to truth though, he knows this.  Even when he wishes he didn’t.)

           It’s the first the nature of their relations have been brought to air – the first that exactly what it is they’re doing has been spoken of so clearly  And perhaps it isn’t the vehemence with which Arya says it that startles him to silence, or the crudeness in how she says it. Perhaps it’s just that it was said at all.

           The blaring reality of their sin laid out before them, in no uncertain terms.

           Arya digs the heel of her palm into her wet eyes, teeth gritting.

           Sansa stares stoically out the frost-lined window, taking a single, long breath in, and then exhaling just as slow.  Her jaw works beneath the flicker of candlelight.

           Jon looks away.

           “We’ll need Baelish,” Bran interrupts the silence

From her position along the window, Sansa’s shoulders stiffen, a look of wariness passing over her shoulder when she glances to Bran.

           Jon doesn’t like the taste that floods his mouth at the sight.

           “We’ll need his spies,” Bran corrects.

           Sansa rubs a worrying thumb into her opposite palm.  A sigh like he’s never heard from her passes through her lips then. She is an altogether different woman suddenly.  “Is there a difference?”  Her voice hardly wavers.

           Bran’s eyes shift to Arya.  “One face – many faces.”  

           Arya glances up at the words, her ire momentarily forgotten in place of cautious interest.

           Something of a smile tugs at Bran’s lips, but it’s barely-there and fleeting enough to make Jon question its presence entirely.  “Perhaps it’s not such a difference,” their brother muses.

           Jon thinks he should feel cold at the glint that passes through Arya’s gaze, but he can’t summon anything beyond a vague apprehension.

           Instead, he looks to Sansa.

           She does not look back.

* * *

           She leads Baelish to the godswood in the dead of night, and he doesn’t see the wolves circling until the mark of his own grave stops him stock still in the clearing.

“Sansa, please,” Baelish begs, knees sodden with muddied snow, a gleam of moonlight casting through the weirwood trees to land in slants upon his sweaty, pale face.  At his back, Needle stays pressed just between his third and fourth ribs, Arya’s wrist poised in shadow, her other arm held at her back, spine straight. She watches Sansa expectantly.

           At the gasp of her name from Baelish’s lips, Jon takes a purposeful step forward, lip curling, hands fisting at his sides.  “Don’t you even speak her name,” he threatens in a low growl.

           Bran’s hand at his elbow stays him.

           Arya flits slate-grey eyes up at him, narrowing, her lips pursed tightly.

           Jon shares a look with her, before he averts his gaze, a heated scoff leaving his lips.

           Brienne lights a tentative hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “My lady, you do not have to see this.”

           Through all this, Sansa has stayed resolutely still, a thrum of disquiet washing over her.  In her mind’s eye, she sees her mother.  She sees her father.  She sees a brilliant grey banner, direwolves in the wind.  She sees a house bloodied by betrayal.

           She sees the last song of the mockingbird – words for poison – and she remembers that she has learned the weight of such venom years ago.

           “But I do,” she answers Brienne, eyes already wet, throat already constricting, even as she nods to Arya.

           “Sansa – ”  Baelish ends her name on a cracked exhale, Needle sliding between his ribs with a quiet slickness.

           His mouth is red instantly, lungs flooding with blood.

           Sansa starts to shake.  She feels Jon’s hand at the base of her spine.

           “Don’t look away,” Bran says from his chair beside them –

           (Arya is wiping her blade clean before Baelish even hits the snow.)

           – “Father will know if you do.”

* * *

           Arya wears Baelish’s skin with an ease that quietly terrifies.

           Sansa watches the false-Baelish stride across the hall, calling Lord Royce’s name in a voice she still finds sets her skin to tingling.

           Sansa stares at the cover that is Littlefinger.

           A stranger’s eyes stare back, unfamiliar in their familiarity.  

           She had thought condemnation would look different on a face that wasn’t Arya’s.

           She knows now that she is wrong.

           “He’s not worth crying over,” Jon tells her the next night, when she’s busy unlacing his tunic, fingers trembling and frantic.  Something of sorrow lines his words.

           Sansa stills, looking up at him.  “I know.”

           His hand slips up her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheek so achingly slow that she suddenly feels the wetness along it.  “Then why are you?” he asks her, not unkindly.  It’s a whisper between them, an indiscernible secret let to air.

           “I’m not,” she bites out.

           But oh, she is –

           She is, she is, she is –

           “Sansa.”  Something breaks in her with how he says it.

           (Or perhaps it was always broken, and she’s only just now finding the pieces.)

           It’s a terrifying tangle of grief and relief that fills her at the image of Baelish’s face in the red-filtered moonlight, his pleading mouth forming her name so ardently she wants to strike him for it.  “I don’t regret it,” she admits on an exhale, her fingers slipping from Jon’s chest as she stumbles back a step.

           He follows her, doesn’t let her pull away.  He cradles her face in his hands, her tears running freely now.

           “I don’t regret it,” she mumbles, head shaking.  “I don’t regret it, I don’t – I…I don’t regret it, I – ”

           He silences her with a kiss, nothing of kindness to it, nothing of mercy.  He doesn’t give her mouth the chance to form any more words, least of all those.

           She’s back to unlacing his tunic, and she isn’t crying anymore.

           But the tangle has only knotted further.

           She doesn’t know anymore, what to regret in this life.

           Her hand meets his flesh.

           (She just doesn’t know anymore.)

* * *

           Daenerys razes the northern lands of the Crownlands, pushing toward Harrenhal, and what Sansa assumes will be even further toward the Westerlands.  She imagines she could take King’s Landing if she wanted, but perhaps vengeance urges her west first.  A thirst Daenerys must quench before she takes her crown. A kingslayer she must bring to heel before the whole of Westeros.  She must recognize by now that King’s Landing is not the seat of power it once was, not with more than half the population already fled.  If she wants the seven kingdoms to kneel, then she will have to bring the fight to them.  Shouting her claim in the middle of an empty throne room will not get her the subservience she craves and sitting the Iron Throne is not so meaningful without witnesses. So she holds her court at Dragonstone, and pushes west.

Jaime Lannister gives up Riverrun to Brynden and Edmure Tully when the dragon queen’s forces push too close for comfort.  He focuses on The Reach instead, halting their advance towards Casterly Rock.  The Lannisters face enemies on all sides from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, even with having the largest contingent of men.

And yet, it’s still surprising when Jaime Lannister is the first to answer one of Jon’s many ravens calling for a peace summit.

(‘To fight the horde’, Jon had said.

‘To ensure peace amongst the kingdoms’, Sansa had urged him instead, a hand squeezing his wrist, and she watched as the huff of frustration blew from his lips.

Still, he heeded her advice, dipping his quill to the parchment and adopting her calculated words in his missives.)

Jon tosses a scroll to her desk, raking a hand through his curls.  “He says he’ll come only if he’s granted an audience with the Lady of Winterfell,” he spits almost mockingly, eyes boring into the parchment as it lays innocently atop her ledgers.

Sansa’s brows furrow, fine-boned fingers picking up the scroll to peruse it herself.  She licks her lips, looking up at Jon from her seat.  “He’ll want to know about Cersei.”

“You had nothing to do with that.”

“Not in his eyes, I imagine.”

Jon rests his knuckles along the wood of her desk, leaning over it.  “I will kill him before he lays a hand on you.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, easing back in her chair. His quiet, violent outburst settles something low in her gut like spitting coals.  “And would you have me turn him away over this?  When he commands the largest force in Westoros – the kind of numbers we’ll need if we want to defeat the dead?”

He doesn’t answer her.  But he doesn’t need to.

Sansa sighs, shaking her head.  “We can’t win this without allies, you said it yourself.”

Jon tears his hands away from the desk, stalking across the length of her solar, staring darkly at the wall, a hand gliding over his mouth.  He stalks back along the stones, stopping at her desk again.  “I don’t like it.”

The indignation is easy, ripe in her throat. “It’s not your choice.”

His eyes flash, his hands curling into fists at his sides.  “Aye,” he bites out.  “It’s not.”

It doesn’t sound like a surrender or an agreement, but Sansa hasn’t the patience to argue such a point.  “Then the Lady of Winterfell accepts.  You can tell him as such when you pen your answer.”  She links her fingers atop her lap, lips pursed.

Jon clenches his jaw, chest heaving just the once – like trying to rein something in.  But then he’s nodding his farewell, turning from her, throwing the door to her solar open so harshly that Brienne braces a hand reflexively to Oathkeeper, glancing in on her lady as the King sweeps past.

Sansa scowls at his retreating form, fingers curling into a knot in her lap.

* * *

           He thinks maybe the right words will come to him at the tip of a sword.  They usually do, and he’s never been much good without one.  So when he invites Arya to a spar at the far end of the eastern courtyard, well enough out of earshot of any passersby, he doesn’t waste time.

           “Sansa misses you.”  He sees the moment the smirk slips from her mouth.  

           She’d been enjoying the spar, he can tell, and while some part of him aches that he’s the one to shatter that moment, to temper that glee, a larger part of him knows how to recognize the temporary and the fleeting at this point.

           Arya doesn’t blunt her swipes, Needle clacking against Longclaw with a sharp ringing.  “I doubt that very much.”

           Jon steps into the parry, teeth gritting.  “I know why you’ve been distant but – ”

           “If you know, then it shouldn’t be so hard to understand.”  Her swing lands dangerously close to his cheek.

           Jon stumbles back, breath breaking from him with a jolt, a flush of anger heating him.  “She’s your sister.  Shouldn’t that be enough?”

           Arya straightens, a hand held primly at her back, a single brow arched.  “It wasn’t enough for you, was it?  To have her as a sister?”  She doesn’t hide the contempt now.

           Jon huffs his frustration, swinging low, teeth bared when he meets her blade for blade.  “Whatever I’ve done, whatever I’ve – ”  He swallows his words behind a grunt.  They meet in a clash, eyes locked.  “I won’t apologize for what I want.  Not even to you.”

           Arya’s eyes wet instantly, even while they harden.  She shouts as she shoves him back.  “You should have known better!  You should have – she should have – ”  She swings again, too wide, staggering back when he parries her almost effortlessly.  “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”  

           He imagines she hadn’t meant for her voice to break on that one, and he understands why she covers it with a snarl, another lunge, but he’s finding it harder and harder to brace against her vehemence.

           Jon knocks her back, bracing his boots in the dirt to steady himself.  His chest heaves, the breaths coming ragged and full.  “You’ve no idea what she’s been through.”

           Arya narrows her eyes at him, twirling Needle into an overhold.  “The people talk, Jon.  I know what Ramsay – ”

           “I’m not just talking about what Ramsay did to her!” he bellows, stilling her instantly.  His gut churns at the name, even still, even now when he bears the marks of that bastard’s ruin on his scarred knuckles, even when he carries him with him beneath his skin (and oh, how he would scar worse if it meant he could mar him again and again and – )

           Jon closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he swallows back the rage.

           Because Ramsay was not all of it.

           “What do you mean?”  Arya is standing eerily still, hair slightly disheveled, gloved hand curling around Needle’s hilt.

           Jon opens his eyes.  

           (Just a stupid, little girl, Sansa had muttered in a voice so scathing he knew he’d never know the whole of it.

           She doesn’t like mirrors, he finds.  And this, perhaps, makes him saddest of all.)

           “I meant down in King’s Landing.”

           Arya doesn’t respond, but Needle lowers minutely.  Jon takes it as a motion to continue.

           Something strikes him then, instant and resounding.  “Could you have done it?”

           Her brows sharpen down in her confusion.  “What?”

           Jon licks his lips, continuing.  “Could you have held your tongue in the midst of those who killed Father, knowing it would be your head next?”

           Arya’s chest puffs out, her hiss high and biting.  “I would have died to avenge Father.”

           “And could you have held it knowing that if not, it would be your mother next? Your brother?  Your sister?”

           Arya stops, throat flexing beneath her tight swallow.

           Jon takes a step closer, Longclaw still at the ready.  “Could you have taken the beatings, the humiliation, the constant reminder of your helplessness, your uselessness?  Could you have listened day after day to the threats on your family?  Could you have done nothing, because to do more meant worse than death for those you loved?”  He’s panting by now, quaking in his own skin, desperate, wretched, lungs full with his woe. He can see her trembling from where he stands.  Longclaw tips to the ground, forgotten.  “Do you know how she cried for you?”

           Arya turns her head away, eyes riveted to the stone wall.  The tears are more apparent now, though they never fall. Her jaw works beneath her tight words. “I never asked her to.”

           “Aye,” Jon says, nodding, voice cracking.  “Sansa did a lot of things for us we never asked her to.”

           She looks back at him then, her face fierce, a shadow of distress glancing through her eyes, and then gone.  She blinks back the wetness.  “I don’t know what she’s been through, no.  Not truly. Not entirely.”  She tilts her chin up, her voice steady.  “But neither does she know what I’ve been through.”

           And there it is.

           The reminder of how he’s failed.

           Jon crumbles beneath the weight of such guilt, his head lowering, and he digs the knuckles of his free hand into his eye socket, clearing his throat when he looks back at her and his hand comes away salt-tinged.  “I know.  And I’m sorry, Arya, I’m so – ”  His breath catches, and he has to choke back the break, start again.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t – ”

           “I’m not saying it because I blame you.”  Arya sighs, glancing away to the wall once more.  It seems a comfort.  “I’m not saying it because I blame her either.  It just… it just is.”

           “Would you wish it upon her?  What you went through?”  He asks it softly, plaintively.  

           She considers him a moment, eyes a hauntingly familiar grey.

           (How like his sister he’s always been – and how not.)

           “No,” she finally answers, Needle lowering to her side entirely, the crinkle of her glove resounding in the blaring quiet.

           “I think she feels much the same,” he offers her, stepping closer, until he is standing right before her, until he can reach a gloved hand up to brush a lone strand of hair behind her ear.

           Arya’s eyes flutter shut at the motion, leaning into the touch unconsciously. Her lashes glisten with the unshed tears.

           Jon’s hand retreats, a long-forgotten fondness creeping out between his ribs.  He waits until her eyes shift open once more.  He waits until she’s looking at him, really looking at him.  He waits until he knows she’s ready to listen.

           “Sansa isn’t weak,” he tells her, voice steady.  “She’s just strong in ways you’ve never had to be.”

           Arya stares up at him, and she is all at once exactly the sister he left, and yet nothing like her at all.

           He wants to reach for her once more, but something tells him not to.  Something tells him they’re not there yet.

           Arya flits her gaze to the side, a heavy sigh leaving her.  She wipes at her eyes, clearing her throat.  She sheaths Needle without further word, stepping back from him.  “I’m not okay with what you two are doing,” she says finally, voice clear of tears. She looks back up at him and her eyes are dry.

           Jon shakes his head.  “I’m not asking you to be.”  It’s easy to be unapologetic.  It’s easy now that he recognizes how little condemnation means to him.  Not with this.

           Not with her.

           (He will never be sorry for that.)

           “But,” Arya starts, swallows, starts again.  “But I hear you.”

           Jon stares at her, blinking swiftly.

           “I hear you,” she says again, and then she’s turning and stalking away, their spar forgotten.

           He doesn’t think they’d have ended in anything but a stalemate anyway, but he hopes.

           He hopes.

* * *

{The hearth spits another log to cinders before them, and she thinks he means to keep this damn silence always, until, “Because she is needed.”

Sansa nearly scoffs, her throat catching on the noise.  She blinks the wetness from her eyes.  “We never needed her,” she says on a harsh exhale.

           “We do,” Bran counters, no malice in the correction, no reprimand.

           “We needed Jon,” she manages through clenched teeth, fingers curling over her armrests like talons.  She wants to strike him – her little brother.  She wants to claw those desolate white eyes out and find the monster beneath – the monster that did this to them.  “We still do,” she grinds out.  It almost seems a pointless grief now.

           Bran gives her a long moment of silence, eyes frustratingly vacant.  “There can be no Jon without Daenerys.”}

[kinky-miss-quinn]

Amos and Naomi Skip Shore Leave

Reading Time: 10 minutes

Rated: E for either "Everyone" or "Explicit", depending on who you ask. sex, emotion, aggression, light violence.

Story takes place after Eros, before Ganymede.

Synopsis: Amos is lost, figuratively, after Naomi starts spending all of her time with Jim. Neither is feeling up to a night on a pissant astroid visiting brothels, so they stay in to give the Roci some much needed love. Working in confined spaces with an Unleashed Amos is dangerous work, though...

It’s not like it was official “shore leave” or anything. They certainly weren’t fucking soldiers. And this was just some two-bit hunk of rock in Belter space. With their luck the whole station would collapse in their wake anyway, so Amos and Naomi let Jim and Alex have their fun at the brothel for the night while they stayed aboard the Roci.

They had too much work to do on the ship anyway. So as soon as the boys left, they ventured to the midsection of the ship to begin repairs. It was hot and cramped in the compartment they had to work in. A maintenance walkway three feet wide that ran the length of the ship wasn’t the ideal place to spend the day with a brooding Amos. They could stand, but any time they tried to turn, they collided, causing Amos to growl.

His attitude cut deep. Naomi had been missing her one on one time with Amos. He’d been giving her the cold shoulder all week, and while she could handle a puppy-dog pout from most men, this doggy had teeth.

She knew he was likely to rage at her once the dam had broken. But she knew she’d be safe from his wrath. Angry or not, he was still her dog. She cringed thinking about it. She’d lied and betrayed her relationship when she’d claimed otherwise, but it was just too damn weird to think about.

Naomi didn’t know what to say though, so she trudged on, re-enforcing the hull in tense silence.

AMOS’S MIND

Amos was fuming as she worked beside him. He could smell her so distinctly in their confined quarters and all he wanted was for her to hold him as she had before…before Jim.

Personally, he liked Jim. But if Naomi touched him one more time when Amos wasn’t getting any affection he was going to beat Jim to death. It was so simple in Amos’s mind: she could just fuck them both.

For a brief moment, he saw Naomi fucking Jim, himself sitting at attention in a chair nearby, hand furiously pumping his cock, eyes locked on his Goddess as she ignored him.

Amos was torturing himself. He loved the vision so much that he groaned in frustration, uttering a single “shit” under his breath.

Amos had to calm himself down so he changed his daydream to something familiar.

He was imagining Jim’s blood dripping from the corner of the command console, his body broken in half, in fact, when Naomi shifted. All of his work was undone.

CONFUSION

He growled when he wanted to whimper. Let me serve you. She was so warm and soft, and everything he never wanted to be. I’m not lost. I’m not lost, he thought desperately as Naomi flinched away from him again.

Every time she pulled away it felt like she didn’t want to be like him either and until now she’d managed to hide how much his differences disgusted her.

At that moment Amos and Naomi were in dangerous territory. Because right then Amos didn’t believe he was anyone’s dog. Outwardly he seemed mechanical as he inserted rivet after rivet. Inwardly, he was more dangerous than ever.

He was so fucking hard. Every brush of her elbow made his fingers twitch with frustration. But she’d never given permission, and now he felt like he knew why. Like any well-trained dog in front of steak, he waited instead of taking. But he was losing his focus. With no collar, no leash, he didn’t know what to do.

AFTERNOON WOES

Naomi, for all of her empathy and intelligence, sensed only brattiness from Amos. She knew he was hurt that she’d been preoccupied with Jim, and assumed he was jealous that it had evolved into more. He’d seemed more than ok when they’d told him they’d been sleeping together, but she didn’t trust it. There was some piece of the puzzle that she was missing.

She wracked her brain trying to figure out what had Amos so tense while she worked on panel after panel of the hull. After every rivet, she followed with a sort of caulking gun, ensuring that vibration the of the Roci wasn’t going to pop them free. She gave up on figuring him out and kept working.

This wasn’t the place to have this conversation. Amos would need things to throw, and directions to throw them in that wouldn’t hurt Naomi.

So they worked in silence, the tension growing. The hours passed and Naomi’s arms started getting tired. Her mind was wandering to her latest tryst with Jim and she stopped caring about Amos’s growls. Let him fume for a while, she thought as she received a particularly deep growl.

UNEXPECTED

They slid slowly across the narrow hallwayesque perimeter of the ship until Amos was cornered against the far wall. Slowly, they worked their way counter-clockwise from the middle of the bottom, all the way around until they had just the bottom corner to finish. They sat on the floor, knees pressed together, and Amos wanted to die…or kill something.

Naomi reached across him to seal the final few rivets, starting above his head and slowly encroaching on his space more and more. His eyes were wide and wild as she leaned forward across his body. He watched a bead of sweat slowly descend her neck, down to her dark tit and couldn’t look away. As Naomi shifted to another rivet, the bead trembled and fell right into Amos’s outstretched hand.

It was too much. Too tempting. He had to get out.

Amos tried to jump back but there was nowhere to go. Where was his direct nature now, when it could actually save him? His body slammed into the wall and he bounced forward. Before he knew it, he was climbing to his feet, ready to bolt.

Naomi was quicker though, and intentionally blocking his way.

“Stop. Stop! Look at me, Amos! What’s going on?”

He was too far gone to answer. She stood there with her flight suit tied around her waist, just a white sweat-drenched tank-top covering her soft torso. His cock was throbbing and he wanted so many things.

“Answer me, Amos!” Her concerned tone drew him in. This was his Goddess. She couldn’t reject him. All he had to do was go to her, she’d understand.

TOO MUCH FOR AMOS AND NAOMI

He took a step forward, meaning to go to her. But she flinched, stepping back. It was a slight that even Naomi comprehended. It was his turn to flinch. As she stepped forward, trying to amend her betrayal, he whirled, cowering in the corner.

She knelt beside him, her hand hovering over his back. He was so reliable and strong for her that she forgot how broken and young he truly was.

“I’m sorry. I’m not afraid, I swear. Just confused, Amos. Talk to me.”

She let her hand lay upon his back, only slightly hesitating at the low groan and stiffening of his shoulders. As he crouched over his dripping erection, Naomi closed the distance even more, wrapping herself around his back, understanding nothing.

A war raged inside of her dog as she whispered in his ear.

“Do you remember when this used to come so naturally to us? You and me, I mean, just holding each other? What happened, Amos? Why was today to tense?”

How could he possibly answer? He didn’t even know what he wanted. Every time he imagined her disgust his cock twitched, demanding the opportunity to let her see the error of her ways. Part of him wanted to chop it off and offer it as a gift, though. I’d rather chop my dick off than let it offend you would be a nice gift, right?

LOSING IT

All he knew was that he was losing self-control and he’d never forgive himself if he hurt his Goddess. The words all jammed in his throat as he trembled. He needed an anchor. Reaching back, he grabbed Naomi’s hand, tugging it into his arms.

She was patient with him, only rolling her eyes a little bit when he tugged her arm into his “den”, but she feared for him. Only once had she seen him so broken: when she’d first found him. The thought made her hug him tighter, pressing her firm tits into his back.

Naomi felt his whole body spasm when she did it, and her eyebrows drew down as she grew more concerned.

“Come on Amos, let’s go. We’re all done here. We can go talk somewhere else…anywhere else actually…please, Amos.”

She tugged on her arm gently as she finished, and Amos whimpered. He knew he had to let go, but he couldn’t follow her, not like this. The though of being left alone with this desire, confusion, and emptiness was too much for him.

Lightning fast, he spun around, grabbing Naomi by the neck with one hand. She couldn’t go.

“You can’t go. I can’t do it. Please. Please!”

He squeezed, his eyes glazed with fear. No, stop, Goddess! He relaxed his grip so that his hand cupped her jaw, pinning her to the grating gently, thoughts swirling through his head. Her arms scrabbled at his hands as he laid her back. He lowered himself after her, knowing he’d crossed too many lines to count.

He let his head rest on her chest, listening to her thundering heart and released her neck.

“You can’t leave.”, was all he said.

AMOS AND NAOMI: REELING

Naomi could feel his desperation now and she wanted to erase it. She still had no idea what had sparked this insecurity, but even if Amos couldn’t find the words, he was speaking a language she understood: violence.

She no longer feared what he would do next because so long as she let him know she wasn’t leaving, he’d be ok. Naomi hadn’t felt his hard cock yet, though. She didn’t get that his need for her ran deeper than his need for a stand-in conscience.

So she stroked his hair and held him tight as he trembled above her. From his perspective, he’d fucked up massively. The moment he let her up, she was going to run off and tell Jim. Amos would then have to kill Jim, Naomi would leave, and he’d be alone. Again.

HEATED

But his dick was so hard. And his Goddess was beneath him for the first and possibly last time ever. He had to at least get them both off.

Amos was essentially laying on his side between Naomi’s legs, his hips pulled back to keep his cock off of her. His hands were on either side of her, gripping the grating. With a shift of his hips, he let the tip of his dick barely touch her lower thigh.

The pleasure was immediate. She didn’t feel it yet but just knowing that a broken creature like himself had gotten to do it drove him wild. Turning his head to the side, he nuzzled into Naomi’s tits. She gasped underneath him as his teeth tugged at a nipple.

He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Everything was instinct and desire, and before he knew it he was cupping her pussy through her flight suit. Amos squeezed it as his teeth tugged her nipple. His hips thrust forward without his consent, pressing his full length into Naomi’s thigh for the first time.

She felt every ridge of its thick girth press into her, Amos could tell. Her hands flew up as if to cup it, but stopped at the last moment. He wanted to cry in frustration, but instead, he began slowly humping her leg, groaning around her nipple with each thrust.

He could do this for hours if she’d just let him. But she deserved more. If only she knew what he had to offer…

SATISFYING A GODDESS

Amos kept humping as his eyes rolled up in his head. If felt so good to be this close to Naomi. She deserved so much pleasure. He had so much to offer her. Fearing what would happen if he let her up, though, he pressed his thumb into the material of the flight suit right between her pussy lips.

In time with his own thrusts, he moved his thumb up and down her slit. She was panting beneath him, but so much quieter than the times he’d overheard her with Jim. He had to make her scream. His mind tacked on an ominous one way or another and his cock strained even harder.

Amos picked up the pace of his humping and fingering until he was convinced Naomi was too horny to run away. As quickly as he could, he raised her up, yanked her suit and panties to her knees and tugged her tank top over her head.

Before he’d even fully laid her back again, his mouth was suctioned over her cunt while his arm pinned her below her breasts. He spread her legs over his shoulders and let his tongue wander over her clit. He desperately wanted to just sink his tongue into her pussy, but her pleasure came first.

AMOS AND NAOMI LET GO

Amos stayed on her clit even as Naomi’s hips bucked. He kept his arm firmly in place and used his other to tease the outside of her pussy. His eyes darted to hers, his mouth still locked on her clit, when she let out a whimper.

Fear welled inside of him for a brief moment until he realized she wanted more. With a smirk only he could see, he quickly pressed a finger inside of her dark pussy.

“Amos!” , it came out as a gasp, reverent and shocked.

He needed to hear it again. Desperately. For the rest of his life, it would be the high that he’d chase, but for now, he needed to focus.

With one thrust his finger had been coated in more pussy juice than Amos could have imagined. His mind dreamed of pumping two fingers in and out as hard and fast as he could, but if he made her cum all over his hand he’d never get to experience it for himself.

He knew it was a liberty he had no right to take, but he needed it. Desperately, he looked for a solution. As he contemplated, he sat up, resting Naomi’s thighs over his own. Deep in thought, he unzipped his pants and presented his Goddess with his thick, throbbing dick.

He couldn’t take any chances because he physically couldn’t take no for an answer. Amos grabbed his dick around the base, his eyes on Naomi as he rubbed it against her slit.

AMOS AND NAOMI: DEEP

“You have to ask. Please. Please, just ask for it. I’ll do anything you want, just please, you have to…”

Naomi silenced him with a finger against his lips. She sat up, pressing her forehead into his, her lips so close he could feel each word when she spoke.

“Will you make me cum, please, Amos?”

With a peck on the lips, she laid back, her dripping pussy wide open to Amos. He sat forward, cock in hand, and let it catch ever so slightly on the bottom of her pussy. He hesitated, still not trusting that his Goddess’s pussy was actually going to surround him.

With a growl, he slowly pressed forward. Inch after inch sank inside, until he was balls deep in his Goddess. It felt so fucking right. Like being home. He thrusted upwards into her gspot as he focused on her pleasure. She gasped and Amos lost control. Every smooth wall of her pussy squeezed his cock as he rocked in and out, gaining momentum.

He began fucking her in earnest, lifting her legs higher as he slammed into her warm, perfect pussy. His mouth dropped open when she started squeezing him and he had to hold back the waves of cum ready to explode. He’d gotten permission to make her cum, not permission to blow his load before her.

READY

He was close to the edge though, so he did what any reasonable man would do: He took his thumb, coating it in spit, and slowly pressed it into Naomi’s asshole. He’d lick her perfect body from the inside out if she’d let him, but for now, he’d use just a light fingering to help get her off.

It worked, to say the least. Amos pumped into her so fast that his balls slapped with each thrust, and when he added his thumb to her ass, it was over. Her walls fluttered around him, at first. Soon, she lost control fully. Her mouth tightened into an O and her pussy convulsed and squirted around Amos’s dick.

He pressed his cock as deeply inside of her as he could for a brief moment, gave her two more thrusts and then pulled out. It was barely in time. He came all over the outside of her pussy, his hand firmly guiding each rope of jiss to her cunt.

As the last drop landed on Naomi, he flopped onto his back beside her. It was what he’d needed, but it was more than he could have ever hope for. What would come next, what with Jim still not being murdered and all, he didn’t know. But he knew that “Amos and Naomi” would figure it out.

[frcscrs]

“Don’t you wish to be great?” Her words ring in his ears, fingers twirling through his hair. His head rests gently on her chest, fingers dancing along the flesh of her waist. He can hear her heartbeat. But her words seem to pull him out of the sweet comfort of her skin.

“Your highness.” There’s a stiff tone. Fraser’s more appropriate attire had collars that were much too tight on him. He sat far too straight. Paying attention to political agendas was always a drab. He was close to taking a nap. Or maybe… he already had. “This conversation isn’t optional, Your Highness.”

“It’s far from riveting.” Fraser rolls his eyes. His fingers are dancing along the table and he’s waiting for when he can be dismissed.

“You don’t quite seem to care about the future of your people.” One of his father’s counselors was preparing him for a summit. One he had profusely tried to back out from. 

“We’re not in the sixteenth century anymore, Martin, my people will be fine whether I do this or not.” He waves his hand. “Father hardly lifts a finger and the economy prospers. I just have to do the same.”

“That’s not true.” Martin huffs, closing his laptop and adjusting his glasses. “The king does many things to make sure the country prospers the way it has for so long.”

“Well, it’s hard to notice.”

“That’s the point, Your Highness.”

Fraser grunts, standing from his chair. “Well, Martin, I don’t have plans to be like my father. If I am to rule, I will just follow my gut.”

“Fraser.” Martin slams a hand against the table, causing Fraser to jump.

Martin, unlike Fraser’s parents, has been teaching him since he was old enough to process what international affairs meant. Martin has been holding his hand, guiding him through every choice, and picking up after every mess he made. When Fraser becomes king, he knew Martin would be right there, picking up after him again. Unlike his father, Martin provided support.

The two stared at each other for a moment. Fraser, down at Martin, and Martin up at him. “We might not be in the dark ages, but you will see, if you chose to be king this way, your life, and the lives of your people, will change dramatically.”

“That’s what you’re here for, Martin. To make sure I don’t fuck it up too bad.” He sighs.

“Your highness,” he sighs. “If I may speak candidly.”

Fraser rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Even if I said no, you would do so anyways.”

Martin clears his throat, folding his hands on the table. “Sir, if you were to become king, even if I fed you everything you needed to know, and every choice you were to make, I have a great deal of confidence you will still find a way to make the country plummet.”

There’s a pause in the air. These were words that Fraser would suspect to hear from his parents. His father was constantly telling him he was going to be the downfall of the country when he took the crown. His mother said that he wasn’t born with a king’s heart. Whatever the fuck that meant. But Martin, no matter how difficult Fraser was, he would always try to encourage him. Martin was the man in his corner. The one who would nag and nag until he found some semblance of hope in Fraser. And to Fraser, that gave him a bit of hope too.

“You have to make a change, Fraser.” He says, but Fraser’s hardly listening.

He knew people didn’t believe in him. There was no reason to considering all the partying, the sex, the alcohol. He didn’t really act like a king, he didn’t take on the persona of one. But this was his life. This was everything he knew. Martin was supposed to help him get there. 

“Alright.” Was all Fraser could reply with. He didn’t respond otherwise. He nodded, turning around, and moving back towards the room.

“Fraser,” Martin called out to him, but he hadn’t stopped. 

It shouldn’t hit him so hard. He knew this wasn’t a job he was suited for, so why did it matter what Martin said? He wasn’t meant to be king, he was meant to be some American socialite with far too much money and time. He didn’t do these tight collars and formal postures. Kissing asses he didn’t respect, hoping to court women who would empower his country and were far too bland for him. This wasn’t his world. He knew that. He’s known it for a long time. But from Martin… something in it crushed him.

He couldn’t make it back to his chambers. His chest grew tight and his breathes were begin to grow a bit shallow. He knew his mother would hate to find him like this, but he was having a hard time keeping his vision straight, so he found a seat at the nearest staircase.

/-/

“Fraser McCormack, Crown Prince of Scotland.” The announcer had said, and Fraser stood, undecorated like his father, but still in the princely attire. His siblings were sat on the sidelines with their mother, who watched proudly as the two of them faced the room.

“Your Majesty.” One of the men stepped forward. He bowed, and Fraser saw his father nod from the corner of his eye. It didn’t matter what he said, Fraser was already not listening. He was much too focused on the scratchy feeling against his neck. Then he couldn’t wait until he found something more exciting to do. 

The man in question, who was talking about something, most likely regarding a proposal, then brought forth a woman. Tall, with dark hair. She glowed and radiated a beam of light. Fraser remembered her. Hard to forget what he face looked like when it was pressed against his pillow. Or what he skin felt like when he pressed a fine line of powder on her ass. He smirked, and she did the same. 

His father was keen on this, as he had to be by now. Seeing Fraser eye up the young woman, he groaned. “Excuse me, Sir Gerald.” He raised his hand, leaning to Fraser. “You didn’t do anything regrettable with this family did you.”

Fraser looked around for a moment, searching for the right response. “I did coke off her ass and then fucked her raw. But both parties enjoyed it, so I don’t think it was regrettable. By the way she’s looking, seems she’d like to go again.”

His father groans, and maybe, if they were in private, and Fraser wasn’t wearing the crown, his father would smack the back of his head. But he had the nature of the situation on his side, and his father kept his arms to himself. “My apologies, Sir Gerald, it seems my son has made a mistake, which he will now apologize for before we continue forth.”

“What am I, four?” He shrugs.

“You will apologize.”

“No I will not. She was screaming my name all night. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He looks back to Sir Gerald. “Which, if I may add sir, your family’s supplier for cocaine is magnificent, and I’d love to know where you get it.”

There’s shock across the room. He looks to see his mother covering the youngest’s ears. In response, Fraser stands, giving a polite nod, and a wink to the young woman. 

“This can’t possibly be the future king, Your Majesty.” Sir Gerald gawks.

His father scowls, but Fraser’s back is turned as he walks out of the room, and back to his chambers.

/-/

“You seem solemn.” There’s a soft voice, and Fraser turns his head to see a dazzling woman saunter towards him. “Care for a cigarette?” She offers, and he happily takes what is offered. “I’ve heard much about the Crown Prince of Scotland. You are quite the legend.”

“Ah, good legends I hope.” He grins.

“Depends on who’s telling.” She shrugs. “So what is such a legendary prince doing out here?”

“I hate these gatherings.” He might be dressed as the crown prince, and he might typically try to find the party somewhere, or make one happen. His parents, however, had a tight leash on this ball, and was only meant for political gain. In every conversation, there were words said he couldn’t follow. Topics he absolutely couldn’t understand. Everyone asked him for his goals when becoming king. They all said something like, ‘Of course you respect your father, but what would you change in our reign?’ all he could say was he didn’t know, and walk away before they could try and find it in him themselves.

His neck was getting scratchy and he kept feeling like his chest was a bit heavy. His mother said he was just whining. She always thought he was whining when his chest grew tight. He started to believe it too. That that just came with the territory. 

“Things were getting a bit dizzy so I needed fresh air.”

“That’s no good.” She comments. 

“I’m fine.” He takes a drag of the cigarette. “But either I’ll remain here all night, or find a way to leave.” He looks over to his now companion. “Maybe we should find a way together.”

“Very flattering, but I prefer to watch the wreck from afar.” She smiles. The tone is kind but he can feel the twinge from the words said. “No one likes these parties, You Highness, but some of us are more equipped to get over it.” She shrugs, flicking off the ash from her cigarette. “Some just get eaten up by it. Or maybe some were so far from it, they hardly even touched it.” She looked back to the party. “I’m interested to follow your story, Fraser. Every country needs a reminder that they aren’t perfect. I have a feeling that’s your legacy.” She smiles, taking a long drag before flicking her cigarette off the ledge. “Have a lovely evening.”

Cigarette alone, the feeling in his chest spread, and he had to lean against the railing of the balcony to keep himself upright, otherwise he was confident he’d fall.

/-/

“Some of us aren’t meant to be great.” He mutters, his thumb drawing small patterns into her stomach. Her skin was damp now. If he lifted his cheek he knew he’d stick due to the thin sheen of sweat. 

“We are the monarchy, we’re born to be great.” He chuckles, raking her fingers through her hair and tugging playfully. “That includes you.”

He hums, pressing his lips together. It’s been a long time since someone said that, and it’s been an even longer time since he’s believed something like that. He wants to forget it. He hates that he has to be compared, the be thought of as something other than who he is. Even in bed, after reaching orgasmic bliss, he’s being asked to testify for himself.

No longer king, no longer with promise, and he’s still held to something. Someone still thinks he’s meant to bring promise to this world and it’s making his chest grow tight and he has to shut his eyes to keep his mind from growing far too fuzzy.

“I don’t want to be something great.” He says, his voice a bit firmer than it should be for pillow talk. “I want to be me. I don’t care if I’m laying on my deathbed, and I’ve amounted to nothing other than being the man people have laughed at for decades. At least I will know I’ve never compromised myself for another person. I will have only lived for me. My choices, no matter good or bad, will have never been influenced. Everyone will have been right about me but it never mattered. At least my life wasn’t a waste to me.”

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

ninth circle

A Fae AU side story. The core concept here was originally going to be a meta post sometime after Chapter 17, and then I came up with some dialogue I liked and thought it should be a story, and then I proceeded to not write it for a couple more months, but we’re finally here.

[ao3]

They ask her name when she goes to visit, because that is what humans do, ask names flagrantly and carelessly and even if it takes more than just knowing the name to snatch it away and leave its bearer a shadow, the knowing is the first little step closer and little steps add up. Her sister taught her that because Nick taught her that, watching Nick put the little pieces together in court taught her that, and even though the name she offers up is not one that can do her harm for anyone to know she still hesitates. Her name in this realm is borrowed pieces of her sister’s name in this realm and her sister is important and a piece of her sister should not end up in the claws of the devil.

But they need a name to keep record of all of the visitors who move in and out of the prison, and so she tells them anyway, “Maya Fey.”

They don’t blink and that might be nonbelief and that might be fear deliberately acted as nonbelief, fear of pulling her evil eye if they let on to knowing what she is. And they tell her to wait because Maya Fey is, despite her name, a human with brown skin and glossy black hair and a thin mouth that pull apart into a smile made of flat teeth. She is only so much here, out of her realm, and she is so much less in this prison with iron running through its walls like veins, this cold iron tomb meant to shut away her kind as easily as humans are shut away, and that is one thing they’ve managed to do. Within iron they are equal. She is so much less here and even less without Nick, and sometimes even with Nick she is less.

Nick is a lawyer like her sister is a lawyer – was, was a lawyer, her sister was, end of sentence – and evidence means something to lawyers. Motive means something. Knowing why means something, not like in the Court where when the wind blows word of someone meaning to do harm to you and yours, there is no waiting. There is no trying to uncover why before acting; there is only the action, the reaction, that is what her kind are made of. That is what her family did, her aunt and her cousin, that is what they were, reactions coiled tight to spring within a body of magic and they saw a threat and acted. They moved with the barest breeze.

It is human to wait, to mitigate, and sometimes she thinks this is why so many of her kind become lawyers: to simply see if they can, to see if they can temper their nature, their culture, the lashing forth, the fae acting of prosecution, judge, and executioner all in one. And her sister is-was a lawyer and died for it and Nick is-was a lawyer and was cursed for it, and she—

She is the Mystic, ascendant to her mother’s throne, and what is hers was harmed and she could not harm back in return because what is hers bound her otherwise. What is hers wished otherwise and she helped Nick jail Redd White when her teeth wanted red blood and white bone, because it was the way Nick wanted to do it, because it was the way that Mia wanted-would have wanted to do it. And with Nick she did little things, little steps that added up, and with Nick she is Maya and she is human because that is what she wants to be with Nick.

She is Maya is tempered pride and selfish possessive fury. How dare someone think they can harm what is hers. How dare Manfred von Karma lay a hand on Nick. How dare Matt Engarde and the assassin even think to try threatening Nick into doing as they wished. How dare they. She would put a hand through muscle and sinew and pull a bullet out of a shoulder herself to return the hurt; she would put new scars down their faces. Her Court agreed that the human court was a good place to litigate their disputes but what of disputes between human and fae; there is no law, no rule, binding them, because what of her kind does not just react and immediately destroy the little weak human thing that vexes them, that is not an enemy because that implies equality, as her aunt would never think a human more than a fly to swat and that is why she lost, because Maya had Nick. Maya had Nick and Maya had her own humanity, a borrowed skin that she’s kept in pieces and patches, in love, because in the Court there is no love wasted on someone who could turn threat, there is only the reaction, and family is always a threat, but Maya loves her sister loves her youngest cousin forgave one of two other cousins. Like Nick would. Like Nick does.

And Nick knows this all of her, knows that when she leaves the Court, steps out of a ring, she is Maya and Maya is human – and he still twisted his words around her, bound her to behave in line with his morals, did not trust her but bound her to be sure she would not act until he knew why, what motive. She promised him that if he was killed, she would kill the man who did it; and he didn’t trust her not to do it even while he was still alive.

He pushed away his human friends and allies – he tried to hold his own daughter at arm’s length – and he to her he did more than that; he put the Queen of Winter on a leash and tied her out in the yard, unable to trust that she wouldn’t just kill someone he wanted information from.

It wouldn’t have mattered if she did. Nick never got the motive, the why, the evidence, he was so keen on, and she warned him there was nothing but misfortune and misery down that path and she was right. There never was an answer.

She doesn’t expect an answer, either, now; she doesn’t even expect to be allowed in. She just has spent too long tangled in Nick’s contract to stay away that now that she’s free she has to come close. For petty spite, for righteous fury, for other feelings she can’t put name to, the reaction, the lashing out. That she has spent this long wanting to sink her teeth into something, and she could now – Nick never said she couldn’t kill him after the case was closed, Nick’s name untarnished.

She could. She could, if she was let back to visit, and she doesn’t expect to be – but she is, and she could. Easy, easy.

They lead her in, deeper into the iron forest, lock her into the iron sarcophagus that presses down on her chest and expels all the magic from her lungs and her bones and she is left with crude teeth and claws. It would be enough, even in iron. Easy to end this the way her aunt would, the way Dahlia would, the way the devil would.

And the devil has his own teeth and claws but she thinks he would hate to get blood on them. He sits above the fray with poison and weak, clumsy curses, the kind that are self-taught after a life of not knowing. Were he someone else she would feel bad for the desperation woven into his every curse, and the way he has been buried in this iron tomb that makes her skin crawl and her spine go cold and hangs a weight off of every muscle in her body. What a hell for one of her kind to be locked away in.

Red and blue battle for space in his eyes, the way the colors of his skin, brown and gold, flicker back and forth, blurring between his two faces, and in the lamplight even when his horns have blurred away they are visible in his shadow. Even to her eyes that should see him clearly, he is fighting to show a different face, to dock the tips from his ears and teeth, to drain the magic from his blood, but his long white claws hold steady. The claws, he’s accepted as part of what he is, whatever it is that he thinks he is.

He holds his chin high, like he isn’t the prisoner, like she isn’t the queen, like they aren’t both drowned in iron, sunk and suffocated in it, and he smiles without showing teeth, and behind his glasses his eyes still don’t know if they’re fae or human. “Did he send you to gloat?” he asks lightly. “Too much of a coward to come again himself? Phoenix Wright, the—”

She lunges, finds she can still reach something cold within herself in fury, slams her claws down onto his desk and even with the iron around her, the bars shutting them both in this cell, she digs deep, leaves scars in the wood. “Keep his name out of your foul mouth!”

He casts one last glance about for a marker for his book and then with a sigh, shuts it without. His cage is well-furnished with wooden bookshelves and a nice desk and she would love to leave rivets with her claws in the former, in everything he has here, in all of the gilded trappings that he can only try to distract himself from the crushing iron sensation all around them. Does he feel it as strongly as her, when he lived half a lifetime not knowing why it burns? “You people and your thing with names,” he says. “Do you give everyone silly childish nicknames like my brother? Or has the Court found a more elegant way around that?”

He sneers every word about his brother, spits the mention of the Court, poison in his own mouth, and she casts a bored look around the cell for a chair. There’s nothing. Is that the way he wanted it, shut himself away from two different words, no one allowed to stay long, and she would sit in the air to mock him if she was certain she wouldn’t collapse halfway through with the force of exerting magic against the iron pressing in on every side. “Well,” she says, and she is Maya and the Mystic all rolled into something furious because in everything she is, she loves Nick. She knows that much. “If you know that, you’ll at least understand how exactly it is that I hate you, Kristoph Gavin.”

The taste is bitter on her tongue, his name spat back at him, but his name is hers to sneer, a prize claimed in Nick’s victory over him, the way Dahlia is a name she can also force forth from her throat. Names, tricky things, but all to the victor they go.

Kristoph’s eyes settle on red. “For what?” he asks. “You’re here for what? You’re mad, that I broke the badge off your favorite toy?”

When she walks into iron while glamoured, wearing her human face, Maya, Maya human Maya, it sticks to her, melts onto her skull, two dark eyes and lips that don’t stretch the width of her face, and she cannot just let the glamour drop, she has to peel it off, with force, stretch out her mouth to show her teeth, and she already made sure to show her claws, but now when she sneers, Kristoph sits back. He should have been able to properly see her, even among iron, with his fae eyes, but he doesn’t seem to want fae eyes the way his flicker, but now he can see the full extent of what she is and the teeth that she would use to crush both his heart and the chains tight around it.

“I’m mad that you hurt my friend!”

He laughs. He is afraid and even he knows he can’t hide it but he laughs all the same, at her, laughs loud and long and she glances about the cell to find something to sink her claws into that isn’t the bone of the man in front of her, the one whose name is Kristoph Gavin but because he stole it. Names, tricky things, and she could barely disentangle the two Gavins when she first learned of them, because Kristoph and Gavin belong to them both and neither of them quite know who has more the claim.

“That’s something I’ve never heard from your kind,” he says, and when the snarl twists his face only a few of his teeth are barely sharp. And then they aren’t, everything about him twisted and confused and torn and she would feel sorry for him, lost between two worlds, if he were someone else. “Friends.”

“My kind?” she repeats. “Our kind, you mean?”

That makes him move; he laughs again but even more bitter, more ice, and he stands and leans forward on the desk and even leaning he is taller than her but he knows how to use none of it, not the claws or the magic or the height, knows how to use nothing but his head and that he has already lost in laughter and fury. “I am nothing like any of you.”

“You’re as petty, from what I’ve heard.” She doesn’t have to try to hit her mark; he presents the target easy to her, too easy, easier than how long the battle took Nick. He cracked the devil open and she is here to scavenge among the pieces, pick at the scraps that Nick leaves behind for her when she follows in his wake, because first she chose to be there and then when he tied her there she resented it but even free of that contract she is still here, feasting on the bones that the firebird hunted and dragon’s fire scorched clean. Last on the scene, nothing useful to contribute, and maybe not even if Nick had let her. She found Nick his daughter and that was all she could do.

“And you don’t have friends either,” she adds. “So – alike, except where I actually do have the friends.” She blows some wood shavings off her claws. “What I wanted to tell you,” she continues, because he has no response but to laugh and she has heard enough of that, “is that you’re lucky that Nick is a good man. That he wanted to earn back his name the legal way, catch you and destroy within the courts system. It’s him that you owe your lifetime in hell to.” She spreads her hands wide, gestures around the room. “It’s nice, except the part where it’s an iron hell. But better to rule in it than to serve, yeah?”

He snorts, his claws curling under his palms still on the desk. “Milton, really?” he sneers.

“Who the fuck’s Milton?” she asks, wandering over to the bookshelf, running her knuckles down the spines. “I dunno, that’s a thing from a story my cousin talked about. She did a year studying human literature.”

“Milton is the – it doesn’t matter.” He turns to keep watching her, stands up straight, and his face is holding steadier, now, and fae, more steadily fae, his horns having found their place and solidity and his mask and resolve of what he thinks he should be is crumbling. “You don’t care, because you’re only playing at human and understanding our culture and us.”

She goes still, her hand still raised and touching the books, and he is still flickering at his desk. “I don’t care,” she agrees, “about anything you’d tell me, because I’m telling you that you’re lucky Nick played the long game that spared you while I would have just ripped out your heart and it would almost have been a fair exchange.”

“My heart for Wright’s badge?” he asks. Her claws hurt digging into her palm. Nick’s name has been polished clean and has no place on the devil’s venomous tongue. “My heart for his heart? Or—” He tilts his head to the side. “Or do you think that trade would be my heart for what you think is your heart?”

“Dunno,” she says. “You think I’m a moron playing at being human, so why don’t you tell me what you think I’m saying?”

“Of course you’re a moron, and pathetic,” he says. “You keep company with Wright.”

She’s about to draw her own blood stopping herself from drawing his out of his throat.

“It’s funny, listening to you – really, it is,” he continues. “Funny and pitiful, to hear you talk about friends and hearts like you’re capable of anything but selfishness – like you’re capable of love, like you’re human enough to love.” She circles past him, knows when a welcome is fading even if usually she doesn’t bother to heed it, but she’s almost got what she came for, what she never expected to pry loose. “I see plainly how you are, Ms Fey – almost like my brother, actually, rather cute, how you think the amount of time you’ve spent in this world is enough to make you human.”

She looks at him, brushes some hairs out of two of her eyes. “Nick thought it was about power,” she says. “About you wanting to be strong in magic, about getting Magnifi’s grimoire and whatever else and your anger that it escaped you.”

His jaw tightens; his mouth twitches.

“Did you think it was about the grimoire, too?” she asks. “You must have. You locked the rest away.”

His claws dig into his own arms. “Guard!” he calls in a voice that quavers at its core, and satisfaction settles in her stomach. “If you would please escort my visitor out of here.”

“You’re jealous,” she says, and the guard isn’t here yet and the two of them disturbed nothing else in the cell, nothing moving but his claws flexing and hers tapping lightly against themselves, but she hears the sound of breaking glass. “You’re jealous of your brother, in every way that matters, and you thought if you were a powerful magician the feeling would go away—”

“Miss—” the guard says, and she takes a step back out through the barred door that would burn her if her skin, whether brown or purple, touched it, the mouth of hell that she can step forth from and he never can.

“—but you’re just jealous that he gets to be human,” she adds, and she grins at him with all her teeth, and his face blurs, again, cycling between human and fae features, torn and tearing apart and coming back together with the cracks all visible, again a shattering, and Nick said there were five but some of it must already have come undone because next to sound is the chains clattering away and she is left here with the answer that evaded Nick, that evaded Kristoph, and that – that is what she can do. That is the offering to drop at Nick’s feet, the last of the marrow cracked out of the sun-bleached bones.

“Also,” she says to his unsteady face behind the bars, and if she couldn’t have his heart in her hands then she has just damaged it so that he cannot keep it either, “just, by the way – I’m not a moron.”