#welcome to my twisted mind level bullshit right here

[stealingyourbones]

they’re toxic exes

[alienwritestoo]

TntDuo Reunion

A revived man strolls idly through Las Nevadas, gut swirling with anticipation as he weaves into late night casino crowds.

“Wilbur?” Quackity appears from around the corner. “Hey man, good to see you!” His gold tooth glints falsely with a welcoming grin. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, I was just…” Wilbur trailed off with sarcastic sheepishness, looking at the man. “In the area.”

“Uh huh, right. In the area.” Quackity shakes his head, head ducking with disbelief. “You’re a funny guy, Wilbur.”

“Glad you noticed.” The revived man teases.

Quackity only hums in response. He stands with his hands in his pockets, stance wide (ready for a fight).

Wilbur appraises the shorter man before him, taking in the worn beanie stuffed onto his head sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the pristine state of his suspenders. It was the same blue hat after all these years. His posture was more slouched than it had been when Wilbur saw him last, straining under the weight of a long presidency.

He decides to continue to play their game of rivals, until he could introduce a new (and better) one.

“I see you kept the sunglasses I gave you.” He gestures at the pair of brilliant red and gold-rimmed frames on Quackity’s face.

“I like to hold onto nice things.”

“That’s a pretty pair if I do say so myself.” Wilbur agrees. “I never told you this, but I actually bought them with you in mind.”

“Oh really?” Quackity’s tone is monotone, gaze cold.

“Really,” The revived man continues. “They’re much too fancy for a man like me. Much better suited for the President of Las Nevadas.” Wilbur gestures at the skyscrapers surrounding them, the needle towering above.

“Well I agree with you, Wilbur.” A smile stretches across the casino master’s face like cutting glass. “Maybe I should continue to hold onto them since I’m that well suited.”

Typically at this point, Wilbur would be expected to scowl or to ‘break character’ away from their charade of friendliness. Anger would feed anger, passion with passion, and they would leave this conversation both viscerally unsatisfied- as their twin black holes would continue to suck away at any chance of happiness between them and others in their lives.

Wilbur wants to try something new.

“I want you to, they’re a gift. And besides.” Wilbur pauses with uncharacteristic nervousness. “I thought that you should have something to remember me by when I-”

“When you left.” Quackity finishes for him with flint in his voice.

“Yeah, when I left.”

A tumbleweed blows in the background.

“You fucking suck, Wilbur.” The words came out with spitting, and this isn’t how Wilbur wanted this to go.

“... Yeah.” He deserves Quackity’s anger.

Quackity storms to him and fists his shirt. His singular eye flashes with rage. “You left Tommy!”

Wilbur stared at him sadly.

“You-” He yanks him down. “Have so much to answer for. You think a fucking pair of sunglasses is good enough for leaving without saying anything?” He yanks him harshly. “And don’t even get me started on what you did to Tommy. He came straight here after you ditched him for Utah.” 

“I couldn’t be around him anymore.” Wilbur admits. 

“What the fuck?” Quackity said with eyebrows pinching. His eyes flash with the start of understanding, hands shaking. “That’s fucking bullshit! You’re basically his-”

“Yeah… I know.”

Quackity’s grip tightens around the lapels of Wilbur’s coat, face twisting unhappily. Wilbur doesn’t hide, letting him observe his unresisting figure.

“I abandoned him. My loyal, dutiful soldier who looked at me like I held the universe in the palm of my hand.” A rueful smile curls his lips, filled with self-hatred. “Tell me Quackity, what happens when someone gives you that level of trust, who cares so much about your good opinion of them that they’re willing to do whatever it takes to be in your good graces?” 

The shorter man’s hold stays firm, eyes glinting with flinty accusation. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I think you do.” Wilbur’s figure is unresistant in the other’s grasp. “Tommy needed to learn how to live for himself. But even more, Quackity-'' He straightens in his old enemy’s hold. “If I stayed, I would never get to be the good guy in his story.” An unspoken addition passes between their locked gazes.

Quackity lets him go harshly, backing away a few steps and eying him wearily. “Why are you here, Wilbur?”

“To say hello.” Wilbur puts his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to see if the year I was gone was kinder to you.” They both knew it was not, but he didn’t dare to say anything.

“...Congratulations, you saw me.” Quackity spits out. “Now leave my fucking country before I make you.”

Wilbur observes the beanie starting to tilt onto the side of Quackity’s head, dark circles etched into his skin. The revived man pulls out his carton of smokes and pulls out a piece of gum, extending an olive branch as he offers the stick to him.

The president of Las Nevadas glares at the offered gum. 

“It’s bubblegum.” Wilbur says helpfully.

Quackity stares at it for a moment before reluctantly taking the stick and unwrapping it. “What the fuck. Where did you put your smokes?”

“Threw them away.” Wilbur states around his gum.

Quackity scoffs. “Yeah right.”

Wilbur steps forward into his space, grabbing Quackity’s worn hand and bringing it over to the carton.  His finger taps the brand, a blue and red poker chip that is worn and scratched. “This is the last box I ever bought.” 

Quackity takes the carton and fingers the dents and aged cardboard. The color of his eyes burn in a way that makes Wilbur want to open his skull and peer into the flames. A few fragile heartbeats pass between them.

“Got rid of them after the first two weeks of working at a gas station.” Wilbur supplies, watching for Quackity’s reaction. “My manager got nicotine patches. Nicoderm at first, the highest dose, until I weaned off of it and wore the occasional home-brew patch she concocts in her lab.”

“You guys had a drug van?” Quackity asks, not moving away from the revived man’s grip.

“More like a rusty recovery shack funded by local addicts.” Wilbur adds.

“You’re kidding me.” Quackity guffawed. His reaction makes a small smile twitch on the revived man’s face. “What are the odds, man. Some things never change.” 

“What can I say, Quackity.” The name passes through his mouth reverently. “An old dog doesn’t learn new tricks to change the way it bites.”

“No way, shut up.” Quackity’s eyes lighten for the first time in their encounter. “You actually did it again?”

“Helped her set up the lab and her first customer.” Wilbur agrees easily. “Though I try to not get on vegan burger duty.”

“Why, cause your burgers are shit?”

Wilbur smirks back. “If Salt Lake City got a taste, the repressed bastards would never let me leave.”

“Utah doesn’t get to have an opinion on food.” Quackity retorts. “And my actually still-running restaurant would one hundred percent wipe yours.”

“It’s had a year to thrive without my interference.” Wilbur draws away, pocketing his carton of gum. “Though I wouldn’t say no to trying one, just to be sure it's up to par with mine.”

“Whatever you say, asshole.” Quackity rolls his eyes before grabbing the revived man’s sleeve (his short stature making it look comically childish) and dragging him away to the diner the block down. “We’re also selling milkshakes now, by the way.”

“I’m lactose intolerant, Quackity.”

“...No you’re not.”

“...”

“Wait really?”

A smile spreads across Wilbur’s face.

“Jerk.”

Quackity later moves a chef aside (only because it's 3pm and business is slow) to make a vegan burger for Wilbur, who only interferes to add in two splashes of paprika to his patty. And then some chopped onions, and a little Rosemary. Another patty ends up in there at some point as well, resulting in a meal they cooked together.

They eat their vegan burgers and split a strawberry shake between them.

Wilbur chucks a fry at Quackity’s serious face.

“Two can play at that, asshole.” Quackity dips a fry in ketchup and smears a glob onto his old rival’s forehead.

“I have been blessed by Prime.” Wilbur reaches blindly to smear a ketchup dick onto his forehead. “Take me to the nearest priest, Quackity, I’m the next Grilled Cheezus.”

“Not if that's how you treat Ketchup.”

Wilbur shrugs before sitting back down. “Maybe Prime's into that. Say Quackity, if I'm a holy relic, am I unbanned from your country?”

“Your ban's just been doubled.”

“I was hoping you’d reconsider now that I am showing humble patronage to the local church.”

“I don’t let dicks into my country.” Quackity flicks the symbol on Wilbur's head.

Wilbur hums, face slightly warm at the contact. “You know, I’m not sure where we should go for our next date then.”

“Go next?” Quackity’s forehead furrows with confusion. “Did you just say date?”

Wilbur’s eyes widened at the slip of his tongue. “Or whatever you want it to be.” He blunders helplessly as his throat closes briefly.

Quackity’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “I'd rather know what you wanted it to be.”

The revived man pauses, scratching his neck. “Well, I’ve moved back permanently so I thought…”

Quackity leans back, scoffing. “What, we could have another little get together so you could manipulate your way back into my good graces?”

Wilbur resists the urge to roll his eyes. The safe route would be to fall right back into their old dynamic of biting words and charged rivalry. It would feel safer, and easier on the both of them. But that wasn’t

The smaller man rolls his eyes. “You expect me to believe that?”

Wilbur puts down his burger, appetite lost. “Quackity, do you want to know the truth?”

Quackity eyes him wearily, gaze hardening at the lack of Wilbur willing to play their game. “What is it?”

“I came here to start over with you. Not because of any sort of guilt really, or to make up for leaving.” Wilbur admits. He exhales resolutely. “There’s always been something between us, and I want to know what it is.”

The president of Las Nevadas’ eyebrows raise. “Wilbur, you want to sleep with me?”

Wilbur steals the shake back. That side of him is a whole can of worms he doesn’t want to open tonight. “Would you believe me if I said I just want to get to know you better?”

“We’ve known each other for years.” Quackity folds his arms. “I’m not hanging out with you for that reason.”

“What’s your favorite color?” Wilbur suddenly asks. “What do you do when you’re stressed, or really fucking happy?”

“Yellow, smoking, and smoking on The Needle.” Quackity deadpans. “So now that I answered your inane question, are we done?”

“I particularly like blue on stormy days.” Wilbur supplies instead of acknowledging his question. “And sometimes when I’m stressed, I chew gum and stick it under Tommy’s bench to piss him off. I haven’t felt happy in years.”

“Wow.” Quackity reacts genuinely, reluctantly intrigued. “Did Tommy find out?”

“Shroud caught me. Clever little kid bribed me for free cookies for a month.” Wilbur answers with a small laugh. He eyes his companion. “Why the Needle?”

“It's my pride and joy.” Quackity answers like it’s obvious. “Represents where I started, and lets me see 360 degrees what I’ve accomplished since.”

Wilbur raises their milkshake. “And what an accomplishment you’ve made, getting these onto the menu.”

“You... do like strawberry.” Quackity admits. 

“Anything fruit.” Wilbur agrees, secretly pleased Quackity remembered his sweets preference. “I have a soft spot for any of the reds. Strawberry, cherry, pomegranate, anything of the sort. I also like long walks on the beach, Guuci, and the attention of a certain little man in front of me.”

“Little, huh." Quackity laughs incredulously. "Wow and I thought you wanted to be friends again.”

“I'd like that a lot, Quackity.” Wilbur realizes confidently as he says the words. 

"...” Quackity looks away to hide his face.

“Really.” Wilbur pushes his shake over to Quackity. “I’ll even share my shake with you.”

“Wow, exclusive shake privileges from the Wilbur Soot. I’m honored.” Quackity composes himself and takes a long sip.

“Sufficiently bribed, I hope.” Wilbur pretends he isn't looking at him hopefully.

Quackity snorted and continued to suck on the straw. “I own this place.”

Wilbur hums, smiling at him fondly. “Fair enough.” He straightens in the booth as an idea pops into his head. “Say, Quackity, what is your least favorite hobby?” 

“Fishing and hanging out with you. Why?”

Wilbur smirks. “Lets fish and spar.”

“Spar?” Quackity scoffed. “Now why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it's my least favorite thing to do.” Wilbur drops, standing up while grabbing the last fry. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

“I never agreed to- hey!” Quackity protests as Wilbur walks out the door, waving behind him. He sits down, shaking his head with a smile of disbelief and sparkling eyes. “Man, what the hell is wrong with this guy.”

[mind-me-n0t]

Like a Dragon: Yakuza - Episode 3

I'm of two minds on this

The last episode of today's triple release leaves me in a weird spot. I want to divorce the show from the games and enjoy it on its own, but I'm constantly drawing parallels and comparisons in my head. And rightfully so, it is an adaptation after all, isn't it?!

Some of the changes I find genuinely cool. Some are choices I wouldn't have made myself, but I'm interested in how they play out. And some are just bad.

I'm not onboard the hate train that's rolling through the fandom at the moment. I am still looking forward to next week where the conclusion will take place. But I also mourn what could have been if the show had been placed in more loving hands.

Thoughts and spoilers below.

Oh my god heyyyy Haruka... Okay, byeeee Haruka...

God, I was yelling at my screen "Don't you dare just drop her off here". I was so pumped after Kiryu saved her at the end of episode 2. But she's not going to be important to the plot, is she? This just feels like a checked box. Aiko and Yumi both got some parental trauma, what with their mom going fishing for kulipaas in the lake, and it would make sense for Haruka to factor into the resolution of that. Now you are the self-destructive mother, Aiko. Are you really going to do Haruka dirty like your own mom did?

It was cute how Kiryu came to Haruka's defence when Yumi got a bit harsh on her, I loved those little moments. Sad we won't see any more of those.

Nishiki still likes Kiryu? Didn't see that coming. An interesting twist and a welcome one. In episode 2 there was a moment or two where Nishiki felt like a background character to Kiryu's story, which could be a catalyst for him going bad, like the game does it. "Oh man Kiryu went to jail? Shame, it should have been someone worthless like Nishiki". But Kiryu probably never gets to that level of recognition here, so it would be a weird aspect to keep. Although again, if Nishiki doesn't turn evil in those 10 years, what the fuck has he been doing with his time?

Although it is kind of a trope in the series that the more polite someone is from the get go, the more evil they get when shit hits the fan. Some of your best buddies start out as rude and even hostile. That's how you know they are great friend material. Perhaps Nishiki will reveal his true colours later.

Yumi: "You haven't changed. It's as if you were frozen in time." Nah, girl. He actually changed a lot. Like a lot a lot. It's one of the things i praised in my post for the last episode. Maybe in the jump from right before prison to now, he hasn't changed. But we the audience wouldn't be able to tell because we are not there yet in this bullshit double timeline. God, it annoys me to no end!

Oh my god heyyyy Taiga... Okay, byeeee Taiga...

My boys have been done dirty. I feel like this is a testament to the show's creators missing the point completely. Solid proof that they failed basic characterisation or worse, didn't care about it. The Majima from the games wears many masks, and it's easy to just think of him as a obsessive, knife-wielding maniac. But what he isn't underneath these masks is stupid. Majima is not stupid. He just doesn't care and weaponises his carefreeness against his enemies.

Likewise with Saejima. He is not stupid. But in the show they are prancing around like buffoons, opening fire in the middle of the street in broad daylight. And none of them seems to understand the gravity of a bullet wound in the torso? "If you die on me, I'll kill you" Woohoohoo, we're so kooky! Ah shit, he ded.

I do like Majima's actor's performance. And I like how in the opening of the fight he comes across as a more seasoned yakuza than baby Kaz and Nishiki. More of that Majima, please. But now I have zero confidence in the show handling post-downfall Majima with any cleverness or skill.

Halfway there, I guess. See y'all next week.

[jamminvroomvroom]

upper hand. part 1

GR x fem!reader

find the other parts on my ✨masterlist✨

ello ello. wrote the bulk of this at 1am when i was very sleep deprived, apologies if it’s terrible lmao. lately george has just been giving so i could not resist the urge to write him any longer and bam here we are!! enjoy, feedback is always welcome and necessary for my fragile ego <333

in which you and george do not get along… until you do.

warnings: 18+!! smut, slightly bitchy reader, bitchy george, lando jumpscare, alcohol, language, just a general flirty, hateful vibe yanno

3.9k words

george russell was an enigma. very few people seemed to realise this.

it wasn’t all banter and overconfidence and wide eyes that seemed to hold an entire universe. you knew how easy it was to mistake him for something a lot more cookie cutter, basic, copied and pasted from the public relations guide for dummies. you knew because you’d spent the bulk of your media career hating him because he pretended to be each of those things.

you couldn’t stand the man, plain and simple. you found him so unbearable, so cheesy, so arrogant. watching him walk towards you from the other side of the media pen never failed to make your skin crawl, jaw tightening as you forced yourself to ask him questions. you hated that you got nothing from him, no matter how hard you tried.

there was something about the way his face changed when he smirked, something in the way all of his features twisted to create this beautiful, infuriating look that made you embarrassingly weak in the knees. it also made you want to slap him. it was a very fine line. you didn’t like the falsity, the way you could always practically see him plaster on a facade before each interview. initially, you wanted to challenge that persona, find the real george beneath all of that media training and cockiness, but eventually you’d decided that his level of bullshit did not appeal to you. at least, that’s what you told yourself.

george seemed to know how much he irked you, it was rather obvious, given the way your eye would twitch as he’d saunter towards you and your microphone. he enjoyed it, toying with you, making you squirm. he wasn’t exactly a massive fan of yours either, a mutual dislike forming, at least one thing you could both agree on. if you didn’t so blatantly hate him, george would have been floored by you. you were an increasingly impressive journalist, a beautiful, intelligent woman, what wasn’t to like? it was a shame that you used your gift with words to throw jabs at him.

at first, he’d found it alluring, the way you’d challenge him in the media pen. george was no stranger to some harmless flirting in the paddock, used to journalists taking the liberty of batting their eyelashes a few times to see if he’d answer their questions. so, when he’d seen you standing there for the first time, legs made longer by your high heels, hair flowing in the breeze, smiling down the lense of the camera you were talking to, he made the terrible mistake of assuming that you’d become a regular highlight of his media schedule. he was quickly put in his place when he left your interview with his head spinning and a headache well on its way.

still, he tried it on with you. it was fun, no one else gave george the same rush. it stopped being fun, however, over the winter break. you’d spent the better part of december and january questioning if he really was the right choice at mercedes and that was his last straw. he knew he was good, he knew he deserved it and he knew that some random woman was not about to change his mind. still, you were credible enough to cast doubt and unfortunately, you weren’t just some random woman. you made his heart race, and not just because of the bad press.

you were stood in the media pen revising your notes of the events of the monaco grand prix. the race in itself had been rather boring, apart from the typical ferrari blunder, and you’d already spoke to both ferrari drivers, as well as both redbull drivers. you looked up from your notepad, slicking back your hair, still slightly damp from the impromptu rain showers that you’d gotten caught in, only to make eye contact with a tall brit. your eyes narrowed as he stepped up to the microphone that another member of your team was holding.

“so, george. best of the rest. getting used to that yet?” you asked, blunt straight off the bat. you didn’t miss the way his eye twitched. he leaned forward, placing his hands on the barrier that separated you, suddenly towering over you.

“well, you know how it is, the car isn’t where we want it to be yet but i have no doubt that the team will get it where we need it to be.” he affirmed with a nod of his head and you wanted to roll your eyes at his picture-perfect response.

“you seem to be continuing this streak of being in the top five, which is fine,” you shrugged, watching him tense up at the word. fine. mediocre. you were enjoying this too much. “but wouldn’t it be nice to get on the podium again? or a win, could that be on the cards?”

“i was on the podium last week.” he gave you a tight smile.

“yes, after a very unfortunate retirement from leclerc.” you stated matter of factly. you could have laughed at the way his face fell flat but that would have crossed the border between unprofessional and too unprofessional.

“i think, as a team, we are capable of podiums, and even maybe a win. we’re making a lot of progress, lewis and myself, each weekend.” he was such a robot, one that you took great pleasure in tormenting. if george didn’t want to give you anything remotely interesting, you’d just have to push a few buttons. he left you with no choice.

“and how are things going with sir lewis? it must be rather daunting to have him creeping up on you, right? we know how much he loves the hunt. how are you finding it, facing up to the greatest driver of all time?” you leaned forward as you spoke, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, just to really let what you were asking sink in. you knew that george was perfectly capable, a very impressive, accomplished driver. that didn’t matter. all that mattered was making him tick.

“there’s no rivalry between lewis and i, working alongside him is a great honour and i think that between us, we are making great progress.” blah blah blah, progress, teamwork, yada yada yada. at least screwing with him a little bit made the interview less boring for you.

“and what do you make of the rumours that monaco will be taken off of the calendar? after another processional race, with very few overtakes-“ you started, only to be cut off.

“i made an overtake. caught lando as he was coming out of the pitlane.” he smiled smugly, now his turn to be be matter of fact. you scoffed.

“well, he was on cold tyres.” you stated, quirking an eyebrow. he shrugged, leaning in even closer.

“an overtake is an overtake, especially in monaco.” george smirked.

“okay, george, congratulations on another fifth place finish. thank you for your time.” your smile was sickly sweet, returned by a scowl from him as soon as he was off camera.

“always a pleasure, sweetheart.” he threw the words and wink over his shoulder as he walked away, a safe distance from the microphone. you froze, eyes widening at the pet name, but more importantly, the way heat shot through your body upon hearing it.

fuck. maybe he’d won this one. you hated it when that happened.

-

after your interviews had wrapped up, you had a few hours to kill before the festivities started. you didn’t always hang around after a race weekend came to a closing, but it was monaco and you’d been invited to more parties than you could count on one hand. a few of your colleagues had roped you into a party on someone importants yacht and how could you say no to that? you got yourself ready and headed down to the lobby, looking forward to a night of fun and the next couple of weeks off before you headed to azerbaijan.

you checked yourself out in the hotel window as you waited for your colleagues, admiring how good you looked in your dress, the way it accentuated every curve, the silky material hugging you perfectly. you wondered what it would feel like, just for a second, to feel someone else’s hands running all over the satin. to hear his voice in your ear, his breath fanning your neck, hand wrapped in your hair, lips against your ski-

god! enough.

you hated it when that happened. anytime you let him get the upper hand, you generally spent the rest of your evening thinking about him touching you. that’s why you were a bitch. you couldn’t let yourself succumb to him, couldn’t let him win the interview. you shook your head trying desperately to rid yourself of those thoughts, praying that you wouldn’t run into him this evening. he didn’t live in monaco and the chances were that he’d gone home. you clung on to that fact as you watched your friends enter the lobby, the group of you heading off for a good night.

you were a few drinks in, barely even tipsy when you saw him for the first time that night. you were stood on one of the upper decks on the super yacht you’d been invited onto, deep in conversation with lando and his girlfriend. you were joking with the brit about something golf related, having joined him and few other presenters in bahrain for a few rounds on the green, when george decided he just had to be a part of the conversation, slapping lando on the back and winking at luisa. you rolled your eyes, barely able to contain your groan of annoyance.

“and how are you on this fine evening?” george rested his hand on the railing

behind you, a bit too close to you, not so subtly raking his eyes up and down your frame. there was a twinkle in his blue eyes, something dangerous, exciting. you gulped.

“wonderful.” you replied curtly.

“and you look it too.” he grinned, catlike, mischievous. you blinked rapidly.

“would you like us to leave?” lando suddenly chimed in, and thank god he did. you were starting to get tunnel vision, almost forgetting that you had company.

“yes, actually.” george… joked? you couldn’t tell. one thing you did know was that you definitely shouldn’t be left alone with him.

“no, stay, after all, all george could talk about earlier was you, lando.” you smirked directly at the tall brit, despite directing your words at the other driver. your words were enough to wipe the smile off of george’s face.

“oh really?” lando laughed, missing, or perhaps ignoring, the obvious tension growing.

“he was so proud of his overtake on you. it was adorable.”

you were oblivious to lando’s laughter next to you, only able to focus on the way that george’s eyes had narrowed, darkening as he glared at you. you smiled innocently at him, but your eyes told a different story. hungry, lustful, maybe even a little bit desperate. you didn’t even care about that, all you could do was stare back at him, waiting for him to snap.

“i think we need to have a little chat, straighten a few things out.” george took his hand off of the rail behind you, grabbing your wrist. before you could even react, he was pulling you through the sea of people. all you could do was trail along behind him, weaving through the crowd until he led you into an empty stairwell.

“so what do you want to talk about? the weather?” you asked sarcastically once he’d finally stopped. he dropped your wrist, starting to pace in the enclosed space.

“why are you such a fucking nightmare? always standing there talking shit while you eye me up like you need to be fucked.” your jaw dropped at his explicitness, feeling flushed in contrast to the cool

wall you were rested against.

“you’re one to talk, you know. walking around that paddock like i’m going to drop to my knees because you overtook a fucking mclaren,” you replied, wanting to get him exactly where he’d gotten you. “not exactly the flex you think it is, sweetheart.” you mocked his closing words from the media pen.

“i can think of a better use for that mouth of yours if you’re going to continue to run it.” he spoke sternly. your legs felt like jelly but you were determined to hold your own.

“and i can think of a few things you could do with yours.” you quipped.

“is that what you want? hmm?” he stepped forward, caging you in against the wall that was definitely the only thing keeping you upright. “do you want my mouth? my fingers? bet you’d take anything i gave you.”

“why are you so sure that i want anything from you?” you made one last attempt at regaining any power that you had over the situation. you knew you’d lost it when he started laughing, breath fanning your neck. he peppered a few kisses on the skin there, sniggering again at the shaky breath you let out.

“you’re fucking shaking, my love. i know, you know, and everyone on that deck up there knows you want me,” he pressed a few more kisses on your neck before he whispered in your ear, “its okay though, sweetheart, because quite frankly i’ve been waiting for a year to see what you look like on your knees.”

his lips were on yours before you could even process what he’d said, his words finally sinking in as he licked into your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. you moaned into his mouth, bringing your hands up to pull on the collar of his shirt, but he caught them, pinning them above your head. the height difference made it easy for him to keep them there, but made it awkward to keep kissing you. ever the problem solver, george found a solution.

with one hand still wrapped around your wrists, the other snaked down to the skin of your bare thigh, skimming the area left exposed as your dress rode up. he mumbled a jump against your lips, hoisting you up in his arms. he kept you firm against the wall, encouraging you to wrap your legs tightly around him, holding you up with his hips, which were rutting desperately against yours.

his lips detached from yours, sucking at your neck, much rougher against the sensitive skin than he had been previously. his kisses trailed down your cleavage until he was yanking the top of your dress down. you were annoyed as you heard the stitches pull at his harsh movements, quickly distracted by the groan he let out at the sight of your bare chest. he dipped his head, sucking a nipple into his mouth, making you arch into him even further. he toyed with the bud, nipping at it until you were gasping at the sensitivity. you decided to use this opportunity to try and gain the upper hand.

“keep doing that george,” you breathed, “i like it when you’re nice and quiet for me.” you teased, taking advantage of how he’d distracted himself with your chest, his grip on your hands loosening. you threaded your hand through his hair, tugging on the strands to keep him in place. “you can do whatever you want with that mouth if it means you’ll shut the fuck up.”

he growled, biting down on your nipple as you pulled a bit harder on his hair, making you whimper. he pulled his tongue away from you, letting you slide back down the wall until your feet hit the floor once more. one hand went to your neck, the other going to his belt, which he began to undo. the clinking of the metal made you tense up, the anticipation killing you.

“i think you’re the one that needs to shut the fuck up,” the hand around your neck tightened as he spoke, “all you do is talk, talk, talk, trying to wear me down with your short dresses and stupid questions,” he pulled his trousers and his boxers down just enough to free himself from their constraints, sighing as he relieved himself. his trousers had only been getting tighter and tighter since he first saw you this evening. hell, they’d been getting tighter since he first saw you on thursday morning. “you can pretend you’re in control all you want, love, but we both know i could have you spread out for me in the middle of the press conference if i wanted to.”

with that, he used his grip on your throat to aid you down onto your knees. it’s not like you put up much of a fight, very willing to get down there of your own accord. you wanted to make him squirm. there was also a part of you dying to make him feel good, desperate to please him. you took his cock into your hand, slowly running it up and down his length, getting used to the way he felt, the weight of him. as you stared up at him, eyes fixed on his, you finally concluded that perhaps he was allowed to be overconfident, considering what he was working with. you were almost salivating, unable to wait any longer. keeping up the eye contact, you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock, kitten licking at the tip.

george threaded his fingers through your hair, encouraging you to take more of him. who were you to resist? you wrapped your lips around the tip, sucking and swirling as you took him further and further down. you hollowed your cheeks, moaning around him, which seemed to finally send him off the deep end. he looked flushed, a little bit beautiful with his head thrown back, thick neck all exposed and in need of a few marks to match the ones he’d decorated you with. his eyes had finally left yours, the pleasure too much for him to maintain it, mouth hanging open as he moaned your name.

“so fucking good for me, such a good girl. wish you were like this all the time, fuck.” you hummed around him in response, pulling yourself off of him. you stood up from the floor, kissing him fiercely. his hands were on your hips, pulling your dress up your thighs until your panties were on display.

“i don’t think i said you could stop.” he muttered against your lips, pulling your bottom lip between his. you reached for his collar, not stopped by him this time, and pushed him back into the wall.

“want me to keep being your good girl? hmm?” you pressed a kiss right beneath his ear, biting down on the skin. “i think you need to earn it.” you soothed the bite with your tongue, running the tip across his strong neck.

“you pretend that i’m the desperate one, as if i haven’t noticed you squirming in every single interview,“ you whispered in his ear. you reached down, finding his hands, and placed yours on top of them, guiding them up your half naked body. “i know that this is what you think about every time you run away, back to your hotel room,” you trailed his hands over your waist, skimming across your abdomen until he was cupping your breasts. “bet you spend your nights locked away wishing you were touching me,” you gasped as he pinched your nipples, every single nerve in your body standing to attention by now, but you kept his hands moving. you laced one of yours with his, bringing the other one back to your neck, guiding his large fingers with your smaller ones. “so come on george, touch me. need you to touch me if you want me to be good for you.”

something in him snapped once more and suddenly, he was very much back in control. before you could even blink, he had moved you both across the narrow hallway so that you were pressed into the parallel wall, lips passionately on yours. the hand that wasn’t choking you lightly was between your thighs, ripping the lace of your underwear which fell pathetically to the floor, completely useless to you now. he had a finger rubbing at your clit, dipping between your folds to discover just how soaked you’d gotten for him. if he wasn’t kissing you, you knew he’d be smirking down at you like the bastard he was. you were boneless, putty in his hands as he plunged a finger into you, working you open deliciously for him, thumb rubbing your clit to create a perfect rhythm.

you were struggling to keep up with him, the combination of his kiss and his hands on your neck and your cunt making you dizzy. you didn’t know what to focus on, mouth falling open, head falling back to hit the wall as he slid another finger inside of you. your eyes rolled back in your head, his name tumbling pathetically from your mouth in the form of desperate whines that only made him fuck you with his fingers even faster. you were proud of yourself for managing to rile him up this much, the knot in your stomach growing and tightening until you were shaking, barely able to stand without his help. his hand left your throat as you came, and you collapsed forward, tears building in the corner of your eyes as you fell into his arms.

you leaned back, arms still wrapped around him and his still holding you up in your weakened state. for the first time since you’d met him, you truly appreciated the sheer beauty of his eyes, the way the colours blended effortlessly to give away his every emotion. if you weren’t mistaken, he was looking rather smitten.

“okay?” he asked you, a bit too smug for your liking. you still had a couple of cards left to play; if he thought you were done, that he’d won this round, he was sorely mistaken.

you nodded at him, opening your mouth. he took the hint, bringing his dripping fingers up to your mouth. you took them in, licking yourself off of his fingers eagerly. you were certain he shuddered, unable to look away from you for even a second. your eyes flickered down to where he was still painfully hard for you, urgently waiting his turn. as he gawked at his fingers in your mouth, you readjusted your dress, smoothing it down. he was in a daydream, ogling you to the point where he didn’t know what you were about to do, as if he was the one who’d just had the mind blowing orgasm. pulling his fingers out of your mouth, you stepped around him, making your way to the bottom of the stairs he’d dragged you down earlier.

“where do you think you’re going?”

“places to be, people to talk to. have a nice week off, sweetheart.” you winked, quickly turning on your heel, swaying your hips just for him as you made your way up the stairs on shaky legs and disappeared from his eye line. you didn’t miss the way he groaned in frustration, cursing loudly, while you giggled.

you were definitely taking this as a win.

-

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[mandoinevarro]

Red Steam Part II

If you want context and even more bullshit read Part 1 here.

Words: 4.5k

Rating: E

Warnings: Mentions of violence, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

a/n: thank god there are so many synonyms for “steam” 

It was only after he bribed the middle-aged Twi’lek clerk���who eyed the credits he set on her desk unimpressed, only to pocket them after an exaggerated sigh—and followed her up a cramped flight of stairs and along the dark, mazelike hallways of the second floor of the healing baths, that the Mandalorian found himself in front of the narrow black door that hid his bounty. Apparently.

The clerk’s molars chewed on a wooden toothpick while she fumbled with the key ring on her hip that rattled metallically with every step. She took her sweet time inspecting key by key and seemed unfazed by the waves of moans and the banging on walls that floated out of closed doors.

“Think he only brought a girl or two with him,” the Twi’lek mumbled as she took out a key from the bunch and held it close to her eyes. After a nod, she inserted it in the keyhole.

Mando scoffed. Only a girl or two. Like the kid hadn’t fucked himself into enough trouble already.

The clerk turned the doorknob, pushed it inwards and headed back to her station. Over her shoulder, she barked at the Mandalorian, “Make it quick.”

Yeah, he intended to.

That was about an hour ago.

The whole place is trashed. Mando gets up from the floor panting and clutching his bruised ribs. Something’s broken for sure. He limps towards his rival, who sits angry and defeated on a bed of splinters that confettied out of cracked staircase balusters when Mando was thrown against them and fell to the ground level. With painful movements, his heavy boot kicks the blaster from his adversary’s reach and picks it up.

It wasn’t his quarry who came after him hard when Mando barged into the little love nest. One moment the poor kid was begging for his orgasm, the next he was ripping his lungs at the sight of the bounty hunter and tugging desperately at the fluffy mock handcuffs that attached him to the bedposts.

The girl who was jacking him off, though. She didn’t even give the hunter a second’s noticed before she lunged towards him, effectively tackling and disarming him. She fought the beskar-clad man fiercely and barefoot in a flimsy pink robe, until he decided that enough was enough and scorched what remained of the balusters to a crisp. And then he pointed the flamethrower at her. The pink figure begrudgingly raised her hands in surrender and slumped on the floor after that.

But her eyes are not exactly waving white flags when Mando throws the strongest pair of shackles he owns on her lap and orders her to cuff herself. She glares up at him and wraps them around her wrists, but not before she spits, “Fuck you. Fuck. You. My father’s gonna kill him.”

Mando tongues a dent that he bit inside his cheek. This was supposed to be the easy job, damnit. He was going to find the quarry, tell him the girl’s family wanted his head, and take him back to the ship with not a scratch on the beskar. Easiest money he’d ever make. He wasn’t counting on said girl being with the bounty, much less her fighting like some trained assassin on spice. Stars, the galaxy’s getting stranger by the day.

Once the girl is done, she shakes her bound wrists in the air to get her captor’s attention. He bends down to yank the cuffs, pulling the feral young woman attached to them on her feet. The effort makes needles pierce his injured muscles.  

Maker, he’d been so sure it’d be some painless in-and-out job that he’d let you come along with him.

His grip on the cuffs falters.

He forgot. He forgot you came to the healing baths with him. Disappeared into the first floor corridors, saying you needed to “relax”. Could you still be here? Somewhere along the rows of steaming pools and massage rooms. Or maybe you hurried outside with the stampede of half-naked women he saw rush away from the healing baths.

No. No, if he had seen you run wet and covered only by the almost see-through cloth like the rest of the clients, he’d remember. He’d definitely remember.

The girl tugs insistently at the handcuffs, testing their strength.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking about you right now. He shouldn’t think about you ever. But. There’s something about imagining you dripping with a tissue-thin textile plastered on your figure that makes him forget the cut in his mouth.

“We fucking love each other.” The prisoner’s squeal snaps him out of his reverie. He drags her to what remains of the stairs. He’ll take the quarry, find you, and leave for good. “We only want each other, we crave for each other.” Yeah, he’ll find you and go back to the Crest. Back to barely speaking to you. Back to silently craving for you. “I’ve never felt anything like the pleasure when he slides into my—”

“Okay, I get it,” the Mandalorian snarls. Maker, he can’t stand Core World snobs. He’ll just take the bounty and find you and go. He’ll just—

“You get it?” The girl stops dead on her tracks at the foot of the stairs. She looks him up and down in indignation. “You get it? You glorified gonk droid. What could scrap metal get about passion?”  The cuffs twist away from his grip as their master climbs a couple of charred steps. Before Mando can take her back in his custody, she turns around to face him, chin up, back straight, and towering over him. Too confidently for someone in shackles. She looks down on the visor with eyes so squinted her pupils look like horizontal lines. “What could you get about desire?”

That…that hits a nerve. Plenty, he wants to growl at her, even though she’s obviously just trying to taunt him. He knows plenty about obsessive lust that leaves room for little else. He’s known for a while that the reason he locks himself inside his quarters pulling pathetically at his stiff cock is not just an outlet for pent of stress. He’s come to accept that it is always your image that his psyche sneaks into his mind when his thumb circles the head. As guilty and disgusting as it makes him feel, he’s aware of the fact that every bead of precum belongs to you. That when he bursts into his glove he wants nothing more but to smear it all over your lovely face.

Still. There’s a little voice poking the back of his head and whispering that the girl is right. That someone who’s spent a lifetime with physical and emotional barriers separating him from all stimuli cannot possibly know genuine want. Even worse, maybe you have that idea of him. Maybe you don’t believe there’s flesh beneath the armor either.

His chest shrinks with a drawn out sigh as if he were the one defeated as he grabs the captive by the arm before she can get any further. He’ll just…just take the quarry…and find you—

Almost as a summoning, the syrupy density of your voice plops into his ears in a shape that feels like his name. The pounding against his chest quickens as he turns and ghosts a hand over his blaster. Waiting. Listening.

A high pitched whine drills a hole through one of the more secluded doors in a corner, urgent and upset.

You’re in danger.

The Mandalorian jerks the girl down from the couple of steps that she climbed, a little tougher than he intended. His neck is warm and the biting pain on his sides becomes an afterthought. One swift movement is all it takes to undo one ring of the usually complicated handcuffs. He spots a pillar and forces the prisoner’s arms to hug around it, securing the missing wristlet once her smalls hands meet at the opposite end.

“Hey!” she calls after the hunter, who is already stalking towards the cornered door. “Hey, you can’t leave me here, what—”

Fuck, he shouldn’t have let you come. He should’ve made you stay on the Crest like always. If something happens to you…

The Mandalorian draws his blaster and pushes the dark door open.

Hot, humid steam trails outside to welcome him, clouding his visor. He wipes it poorly with the back of his glove and steps inside. The heavy door falls shut behind him.

At first, all he sees is red. An angry, flaming crimson that dances around the black chamber and immediately draws strings of perspiration from his pores. Slowly, the smog thins and revels a bulky cube in the middle of the room. As well as another, smaller silhouette to its left, from where the restrained mewls are coming from.

Mando sheathes the blaster and steps closer to the figure, carefully, trying to make out what it is. Once he finds himself right between it and the table, he distinguishes the contour of a head. The mist dilutes and the desperate features of your face come to life under the hunter’s fascinated gaze. Your whole face looks like a crumpled piece of paper in an expression that falls just short of pain. Your eyes are wrenched shut and two fingers are shoved into your mouth. When a wide tongue licks them with lazy strokes, Mando feels the cloth over his crotch shrink.

Eyes wander lower, revealing a layer of sweat over your collarbone and…and…

The Mandalorian thinks the fall must have damaged his brain, because he only puts two and two together once he follows a droplet from your sternum to your heaving breasts. It hangs on to one peaked nipple before letting go and sliding down the line of your arm, down, down, down, getting fatter as it absorbs other smaller beads. It curls around your hand and finishes its journey once it falls from a finger. A finger drawing erratic circles around your clit.

If Mando thought it was hot inside the cave before…well, now he’s certain the seething thrill that rushes from his head to his toes and swells in his lower half is going to kill him. The potent punch of his heart is breaking more ribs than the girl did, and he can’t remember what exactly was hurting in his mouth when he runs his own tongue over cracked lips. His cock is draining all the blood and attention from the rest of his body, swelling bigger and bigger.

Of course he fucking knows he should leave. Walk out of the chamber, wait for you to finish, and take care of his own needs in some lonely corner back inside the Razor Crest. But, suddenly, one leg stretches and your foot sweeps over his cuisse.

Fuck, he can tell you’re close. Your thighs shake and the moans get louder and he really needs to get out. His knees start uncramping reluctantly, buying him some time to be able to at least see you come undone. Until you cry, “S-stars, Mando…!”

Did…did he hear you right?

Was that—?

Did you—?

Your fingers halt abruptly and ease out of both of your openings. Disappointment grabs Mando’s heart before panic crushes it. Shit, did you realize he’s here?

He takes a step back.

Wet eyelashes flutter a few times before your eyes open fully. They’re glossy as they look straight ahead. A finger wipes the vapor off the beskar. Your face moves along his body until your attention focuses on his visor and lingers.

The red light prevents him from knowing whether you’re blushing or not, but his cheeks sure as hell light up with shame underneath the helmet. He feels gravity pull his legs with more strength, holding him down in his place and making him face the consequences of his invasion

Still, his glove wraps around your wrist and gently pulls it away.

“I…I’m sorry,” the embarrassed hunter finally croaks out, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I heard you outside and thought…” He shakes his head and sighs. There’s no excuse for this. “I should’ve left. I’m sorry.”

All throughout his excuse of an apology you stare up at him panting. Your pupils are so wide your irises almost disappear behind them. The leftover surprise of being interrupted pleasuring yourself still hangs on your expression, but something in front of you seems to catch your eye, and your features rearrange to confusion. You scoot to the edge of the bench. Your neck cranes up, placing your face directly below his crotch.

The hot breath from your open mouth warms his clothed balls and makes him flinch.

What? Why are you—? Maker, he wishes he knew what the hell you were doing, because he doesn’t think the seams of his pants can hold the way his shaft is pressing insistently against them. Your nose ghosts over his taint and he jumps back.

A pair of hands rests on the plates over his thighs. The remaining spit on your fingers smears on the beskar. You lick your lips until they glisten, and your head tilts to the side as you study his growing erection. Realization irons the puzzled wrinkles on your forehead and a smile pulls your plump lips softly.

“Could you,” you gasp breathlessly, and the Mandalorian knows the answer is yes before you finish, “could you help me?”

Mando…Mando glitches. He’s almost convinced the girl spiced him and his subconscious is borrowing from his archive of filthy fantasies of you to produce the most obscene hallucination possible. Regardless, reality or illusion, you sit soaked and perfectly bare with your face half-wedged under his crotch. Waiting for an answer.

“I, uh. Um.” He gulps. “Uh, h-help you?”

“Uh-huh,” you purr. One hand resting on his cuisse trails up to palm the tent forming in his pants. Mando hisses. You smile. “Help me pick up where I left off.” Your other hand goes back to its place between your legs.

Staring straight into the lines of his visor, you draw languid circles around your bud.

The helmet feels incredibly heavier on his spine. Your finger pushes into your clit and you gasp.

This isn’t real. The hypnotic red vapor fogs his vision and senses with a dreamlike dimness. You look ethereal behind it, like you’ll turn to steam as soon as he reaches out. He’s going to open his eyes in the cockpit of the Crest hard and alone, like always. He’s going to climb down to the hull and see you and try his best to avoid you. He’s going to wake up from the best dream he’s ever had; from the gorgeous curves of your body open and ready for him.

But. But you’re still here. Delusion or not, you’re still dipping your fingers inside your cunt, inviting him to partake. To prove himself human underneath his layers of barriers. And who can blame him, if he indulges in the one thing he’s wanted for months. Even if he will wake up from this.

Without a second thought, Mando rips both gloves off his hands and throws them into the mist enveloping your bodies. Your sweet smile widens when he wraps his hands around your shoulders and massages the moist flesh. You answer by giving his bulge a faint squeeze. But the Mandalorian has little patience for teasing, and he’s not sure when exactly he’s going to be ripped from this dream.  

“Wait,” the modulated voice orders. “Stand up. Please.” You obey, grabbing him for support to avoid falling on the slippery floor. His palms land on your waist, spreading the sweat there. Stars, you feel wonderful.

“Do you want to, uh…” Somehow, he still can’t bring himself ask, so he pulls you closer, so that his erection presses against your belly.

Biting your lip, you look up at him and nod eagerly. Small fingers press between your bodies to unbutton his pants and explore inside. You hum when you feel how hard he already is for you and scoop his throbbing cock out of its prison. “Please.”

Mando grabs your hips and spins you until you’re between him and the table. He pushes you against its side. The fronts of your thighs hit the black surface and you hiss at the contact, but he barely hears you.

He feels buckets of perspiration pouring down his back and chest, hot and heavy wool sticks to his skin, and there’s barely any breathable air slipping below the helmet anymore. But there’s only you. There’s only you and your shifting shoulder blades and  the elegant curve of your spine and your ass, all tinged the color of blood and soaked with the liquified version of the mysterious substance floating around in the air. The pains that overwhelmed his body are long forgotten.  

The fingers of his right hand spread apart from each other and snake up your back so they can feel your silky skin under his.

You shudder.

Fuck, is this was the girl outside was talking about? Right now, tense and painfully hard and high on the sensation of your soft, sweaty skin against his calloused hands, he feels just as foolish as his quarry. Just as likely to beg for anything you’re willing to offer.

Rough fingers push wet strings of hair to the side and grab your neck. He likes how thin it is around his large palm. How the tips of his fingers almost meet when they circle you. He pushes it down.

When your tits brush the surface you flinch and pull back.

“It—it’s c-cold,” you stutter as you try to look over your shoulder at him, but the grip on your neck is steel-strong and he can’t bring himself to soften it. “It’s freezing, Mando.”

Normally, he’d let go. Normally, he’d drop his hand immediately and apologize meekly. Normally, he would’ve walked away the second he caught you pleasuring yourself and would’ve pathetically gotten himself off to your image back in the Crest, like he’s done so many times, and would’ve never brought it up again.

But here, he has you right where he’s wanted you for months. Right now, he needs to prove to himself and to you that there’s hot red blood running through his veins. That below beskar and wool, he desires just like everyone else. Even more.

Especially when it comes to you.

So he doesn’t let go.

With a stronger grip, he forces you down until your chest is flush against the icy table and keeps you still.

“Fuck,” you nearly sob.

The Mandalorian steps closer to you and flattens the backs of your legs and ass with his cuisses. You whimper at the contact like you did with the table, but the cries turn to moans when he starts rubbing his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

Every nerve in his body tenses like a stretched rubber band at the sensation. Your ass is so fucking drenched he doesn’t even need to spit on it to allow his rock-solid cock to glide against you. Your hips push back and you try to meet his movements, but his thighs just crush you closer to the side of the table.  

He won’t look down. He won’t—he can’t, or he’ll lose it right there. He’s certain he’ll cum right then and there if he so much as peeks at what his doing to you. Or worse, he’ll wake up.

He looks down.

It takes every scrap of his self-control not to spill his cum all over your back at the visual. Your glistening body is folded over the table. Your arms hang next to your legs. Your nails scratch the dark rock desperately. The turbid red steam makes you blurry, like an apparition. As surreal as the mental images he conjures of you sometimes, when the ship is empty and he chases his relief inside the hard clutch of his fist. Only now, the long, husky moans you’re letting him hear are as clear as daylight, the scent of sex and sweat radiating off both of you sticks to his nostrils, and the way your body writhes against his are making him harder and more frantic by the second.

This isn’t a dream. It’s you and he has you all to himself.

He can’t wait any longer.

Mando releases your neck and brings both hands down to your ass. He massages and kneads the plump meat there. His teeth grit together to stop a needy groan from pushing past them. Tough fingers spread your cheeks and hold them open. You turn your face to the side.

“Please,” you suddenly spit out, your back curling and flattening almost involuntarily, “oh, fucking stars, Mando, just—just put it inside, just pl—”

The heat of his cock teasing your folds cuts you off. The Mandalorian inhales what little oxygen he can get and sheathes himself inside you in one strong movement. You cry out and he groans like nobody can hear either of you.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, why are you so tight? You’re—you’re—

“So wet,” he hears himself slur. The red haze of the room spins around him. He sounds drunk.  “Why—who could be this fu-fucking tight and b-beautiful—I—” Mando manages to swallow the last few words. Now is not time for them. Instead, he pulls back. His cock eases outside almost completely, leaving only the head inside. Then he buries himself again, slowly, grinding into you and letting you feel how every vein of his shaft pulses against your slick walls. He works up a paused pace as he spreads your cheeks further apart and dips his helmet to see how he’s stretching you.

Your arms lift to your sides to clutch the opposite end of the surface. You’re making the deepest, most arousing sounds he’s ever heard. You take him with a throaty mmm or a trembling ahhh that make his chest collapse with embarrassing gasps that he’s trying so hard to suppress. But your boiling pussy clenches tighter and he can’t help choking on the heated vapor that dances under the helmet and drips on his facial hair.  

“It’s you—ngh,” you finally answer. “I think of you al—always.” His hips falter at the sound of your voice. “I g-get so wet just im—magining what you—˝ Almost as a reflex, he pushes roughly into you and you cut yourself off with a high whimper.

You can’t finish your sentence. You don’t have to. What you said is enough to scramble Mando’s brains like eggs and flick a switch inside him he didn’t know was there.

Maker, he shouldn’t go faster. He shouldn’t overwhelm you. What if he hurts you? But your confession seems to thicken the mist that’s clouding his visor and restraint. Stars, you think about him just like he thinks of you. Maybe there were nights you would both touch yourselves simultaneously to the thought of each other in your separate quarters. What would you imagine? How long has it been going on?

He doesn’t remember releasing your ass nor burying his fingers into your dripping hair. He didn’t even realize how faster and more brutal his thrusts got all of a sudden until he hears how you trade your long, vibrating moans for short mewls that sound like his cock is puncturing them out of you.

And he should stop and he should ask you what you want and he should apologize for being rough and he should be doing so many things that he just can’t fucking bring himself to do when he feels you squeezing around him like you want him to be that much of a fucking savage with you. So he picks up the pace.

Through the haze, though, he manages to glue a couple of broken words together. “Th-this o-okay? Y-you—fuck—it—it fee-l good?” He sounds like he doesn’t even know fucking Basic, but you’re apparently fluent in whatever primitive language he just spoke, because you nod fervently, your cheek still pressed to the cold rock.

Your mouth gapes like it’s trying to suck the words you need from the fog around you and drool spills from your pretty lips. You only manage to breathe out, “Harder.”

Harder he goes, tangling the fist on your hair more tensely until it pulls your neck up. His other hand shoves your thighs and digs around your folds until he finds a hard nub that he rubs up and down quickly. The feeling makes you clamp down so compactly around his swollen shaft that he has to put his back into his thrusts to be able to push in. Still, he manages to slide inside with the help of your arousal and his precum and the sweat of your bodies and whatever the fuck is vaporized in the room. Every thrust shoves your whole body forwards and makes the edge of the table dig more violently into your hips. But you’re not complaining. Your irises are rolled as back as they’ll go into your skull and your companion is not sure you can even hear yourself moaning for him anymore.

Mando is going to black out. He’s sure he’s going to pass the fuck out. He can’t breathe and you’re repeating his name like a prayer and he can tell you’re close and his cock is just begging for release. A cooler breeze brushes the edge of the helmet. He keeps opening you like it’s the last thing he’ll do.

His ears ring with light metallic clinks and you’re muttering incomprehensible gibberish and he clenches his jaw when he makes out the words “I” and “cum” and he can’t believe his fucking luck and his balls pull up to announce that he’s also almost there and—

“I thought I said,” a sudden, chastising voice cuts the dense steam like it’s butter, “to make it quick.”

You both jump at the interruption. Mando’s heart and movements halt as adrenaline shoots into his blood and he looks around the brume for the intruder.

The Twi’lek clerk stands near the door, squinting to make out what exactly is going on in the steaming room. You both stare at her stupidly—Mando still buried deep inside you—as she swats the fog like a swarm of flies she can scare away with her palm.

Finally, the cloud dissipates enough for her eyes to focus on the erotic sight before her.

She doesn’t even look surprised. She simply chews on her soggy toothpick annoyed and rolls her eyes, like this is just another day at work for her.

“We literally rent rooms for that,” she grouses exasperated while pointing a long finger to the roof  like she’s talking to two idiots, “upstairs.”  

[obiwhat]

Hey! I've been reading one of your fics and I kinda felt the need to request one! Your writing is so good! If it's levi/erwin is up to you, but that is the ship I'm usually going with 😍🙃

My rec is; Levi is acting out after his squad is killed (Petra, Eld, Gunter and Oulo/Auro? Ouro? I don't even know anymore-) in the way of how he would let out steam in the underground. He goes out drinking and instigates a fight, intentionally or subconsciously, and ends up getting overpowered by a group of men, probably because of his drunkenness and perhaps because of the injured ankle he sustained after the meeting with the female titan. His injuries after the fight are significant and eventually, he's found in an alleyway (or something), by Erwin who's been worried about his mental state (cause obviously, Levi has been trying to hide it, all though rather poorly), and takes care of him.

I hope this isn't too specific 😅 I take requests myself and appreciate people being as thorough as possible. If not; take whatever you like and run with ut 😄😄

AHH THANK YOU FOR SUCH A DETAILED ASK!! good stuff right here^^ big brain moves^^

Fix You: 

(AO3)

(warning: language, violence, a bit of a emetophobia and drinking ofc)

His heart ached. 

It spread through his chest into every limb of his body, to the point where the horrible throbbing from his ankle felt like a slight ache in comparison.

Every time Levi lost someone, it broke away a little piece of him. Even though he’d never let it see the surface, there were several cracks underneath. When he found his squad; bloody, with limbs dangling from trees and branches, it broke off another rather large piece. 

These were people he had trained closely. Erwin had trusted him enough to assign him a special leadership role in the Scouts and a special operations squad to suit it. When he trained them, he had drilled it into their heads everyday not to die. He gave them every bit of his knowledge on how to survive in the shitty world they had to endure.

He wasn’t a leader. He never had been. Unfortunate people just tended to follow behind him. Levi never knew the right thing to say or how to express what he was thinking, but his squad had still learned quickly. They were smart and skillful and he was… proud of them. Truly.

And their blood still painted that forest floor.

Levi knocked back another shot, numbing the pain for a moment longer. A fleeting escape from the horrors that crept into his mind yet again that night. He was dangling off of his bar stool as he slouched forward even further with his shoulders barely holding his head up. He flagged down the waiter for another round.

It wasn’t exactly clear what had driven him to the rougher side of town, to drown himself in shitty booze. It had a lot to do with his hands, which he refused to look down at. Every time he did, he saw red. Dark crimson. The blood of his comrades. Paired with the echo of radiating pain from his ankle. A pain, he felt, was well deserved.

He wasn’t even supposed to be walking on it, as much as possible at least. Hanji had given him grief about going to an actual doctor for the pain and the swelling. At the moment, he couldn’t find the will to care. As long as he could shove it into his boot and stumble his way into a bar for the night, then he was fine by his standards.

He downed another shot of whiskey, barely feeling the burn in the back of his throat any longer. The room spun, he huffed out a broken laugh quietly under his breath. It’d been years since he’d drank himself to this pathetic point. Not since the underground. Or maybe not since Farlan and…

He threw back the next shot and took in a sharp breath as he stubbornly blocked the memory from surfacing. His eyelids shut tightly as he tried to remove the thoughts of his failures from his mind. All the people he’d failed to protect. Despite his overwhelming strength. 

Humanity’s strongest soldier… 

What a load of bullshit.

He flagged down the bartender once more and asked for the whole damn bottle, slurring his words to the point of near incomprehension. The bartender didn’t seem to mind. Money was money. Even if his patrons drank themselves into a ditch. That’s how it went in these parts of town. Money was the only language anyone spoke, because money was the only way anyone could make it through the day.

It reminded him of home.

He slammed down his money and swiped the bottle from the counter, the bar spun wildly as he stood on his feet again. Levi had nearly forgotten about his injury, the sudden shift of weight onto his ankle sent him stumbling a bit. He hissed in pain, but only responded with another pull of the whiskey, straight from the bottle.

As the chilled night breeze hit him, Levi felt a sudden wave of disgust. It was the smell of sewage and grime. These alleyways were radiating with it. Swaying a bit, Levi grabbed out blindly for purchase. His palm found a brick wall, covered in something sticky. He winced, pain shooting up his leg as the alleyway walls spun dizzyingly around him.

The pain was welcome. In fact, he’d decided he didn’t deserve the numbness that the whiskey brought. He should feel it all. He’d gotten his comrades killed. Again. He wanted to feel something. To hit something.

Levi’s chance was walking down the other side of the alleyway, feet dragging confidently through the sludge of the streets. A group of men walking together, talking irritatingly loud in contrast to the quiet night streets Levi had enjoyed before.

“Haha! He was dumber than he looked!” One hollered confidently.

“What’d you expect from a son of a whore?” A burly man spit as he laughed, his dull voice echoing through the alleyway. He was obviously somewhat of a leader to them.

His last word perked Levi’s attention. He gripped his whiskey bottle tightly in one hand, nearly busting it into pieces.

“That’s a choice word there.” Levi lazily brought up a shaky finger, along with the whiskey bottle, to point in the direction of the burly man. Or at least where he thought he was. His vision was dancing.

The leader laughed a grating chuckle and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What is, you drunk idiot? You got a problem with the word whore?” 

“I gotta problem with your shit leaking face.” 

Levi growled out his words with a half cocked smirk, looking much like a wild animal in the dark of the alleyway. Although his threatening appearance was subdued by the fact that he could barely balance on his feet, without the help of the wall nearby.

“Haha!” The man belly-laughed once more, drawing near, his companions followed closely behind him. 

“You got some guts, short stuff. Got the chops to back that shit up?”

The leader rolled back his sleeves, his friends followed suit. They were all geared up to fight him. Levi laughed hollowly in the dark. A sick, empty, laugh influenced by the whiskey fueling his veins.

He swung hard at the burly man, a bit surprised to have connected with his jaw. Levi could barely see straight at this point. A hit was coming from his left, which he barely dodged sluggishly before grabbing the man’s arm with the hand that wasn’t still gripping his whiskey. He twisted it, breaking the man’s wrist.

Levi took a slow swig of the whiskey before he caught a glimpse of something shiny out of the corner of his eye, coming from his right. Someone had pulled a knife. Interesting.

It didn’t quite register properly until the next man lunged at him and he barely had the chance to grip his hand before the knife could plunge into his chest. This new face looked angry. Angrier that Levi had felt about the burly man’s comment. The cause of this chosen chaos. In fact, Levi wasn’t feeling much anger at all over this fight. 

The knife drew closer and closer. Levi managed to smack it away, not a moment too soon. The sound of metal crossing the stone ground echoed over the heavy breathing of the group. Levi had placed a heavy weight on his ankle with his last move causing a bit of a wince to unconsciously form on his face. Before he could register what had happened, he felt an even more crippling shock ripple through his entire leg. 

He gasped suddenly, vision darkening.

The whiskey bottle hit the ground, spilling the burgundy liquid all over the stone floor. Glass shards scattered all around.

The man had kicked him, hard, in his wounded leg. Right where he’d shoved his bruised, aching flesh into his boot. Levi’s legs gave out beneath him and his knees connected with the stone below with a loud thud. His palms hit glass in front of him as he could barely hold himself upright.

His head was spinning, swirling, and darkening his vision around the edges as he knew nothing but white hot pain for what felt like an eternity.

“I knew it! He’s got a bum leg!” The man who’d pulled the knife shouted gleefully to the remaining members of the crew. 

He must’ve noticed Levi’s wince from before. The man sent another crack into Levi’s wounded leg, sending ripples of agony through his entire body. It sobered him to another level fairly quickly. The other men were getting to their feet again as Levi quivered on the ground in pain, gripping his palms into glass and whiskey.

Everything was dark around him as another anticipated strike came through, this one connected harshly with his ribs. There was a deafening crack of bone. There was nothing he could do but wait for the next impact. He couldn’t help but yell out in pain as the agony overwhelmed him. Levi nearly passed out as his head hit the cold stone, whiskey and grime covering one side of his face.

With the side of his face, not plastered to the ground, Levi could spot more legs swinging, connecting with his side, and more sounds of shouting. He couldn’t tell if the shouting was his own anymore. He couldn’t feel much of anything anymore, everything was fading out slow. He was fading. 

There were six faces dancing around above him in his hazy vision. His head pounded as he tried desperately to get a grip on his consciousness.

Had there always been six of them? Or were they doubling from his drunken, wounded stupor? They all swirled into a confusing mess of faces. Ugly, contorted, swirling faces. He felt sick.

Another shock connected with his ribs. He heard another sickening crack over their laughs and hollers before his vision finally graced him with complete and utter darkness.

—

Another dead end and no sign of the captain. 

At some point he was going to have to send out a missing report. Erwin was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that, but after hours of scouring the near entirety of the city and finding nothing, he was beginning to accept the facts. Levi was missing.

Missing. Out of bed. Injured.

Erwin remembered when he first saw Levi’s leg after the expedition. He’d only caught a glimpse when Hanji was looking him over. It was horribly bruised and swollen, raw. A part of him blamed himself, he’d sent the captain to fight the female titan. Yet again, Levi had sacrificed a part of himself for humanity. His wounded leg was a sacrifice, but Erwin knew there were much heavier weights on him, paining him deeper than flesh would show.

This small section of town was not one he expected to find Levi in. It was full of filth and squalor. A familiar sight to that of the underground. Something he’d assumed Levi would never return to willingly. 

A chill was in the air. Cool breeze passed on the outside of his hood as Erwin pulled it over his eyes. He turned into what he assumed was one of the last streets he hadn’t checked yet. There was a group of men who had just left an alleyway quickly, Erwin noticed a bit of blood on their clothes and faces, not exactly a shock in this part of town.

One man was gripping at his wrist and complaining loudly as they passed Erwin by. 

“Piece of shit broke my wrist!” He cried out and kicked a stone on the ground irritatedly.

“Be glad it wasn’t your neck, I bet he would’ve been a lot more dangerous if his leg wasn’t busted. I think he was trained or something. Did you see the way…” Their conversation trailed off as they disappeared around a corner. 

Erwin was no longer listening, he was more focused on a particular phrase in their conversation.

Busted leg? Erwin thought for a moment, fearing the worst in the back of his mind. It couldn’t be…

The commander broke into a quicker pace, sweat dripping nervously down the back of his neck as he followed the alleyway, where the men had come from. It was dark and smelled of filth, blanketed in whiskey. There was glass covering the ground as he walked further, he could hear it crunch underneath his boots with each step.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erwin caught a glimpse of black dress shoes. A body lay slumped up against the brick wall of the alley. A head of dark hair, shadowing a pale and bloody face. 

Levi.

Erwin kneeled down quickly and placed a warm hand on his shoulder, attempting to rouse him gently. His body was shaking horribly, covered in his own blood and the scent of whiskey. 

“Levi…? Please.” Erwin winced as his voice died in his throat. “Say something. Are you alright?”

There was no response. Erwin pushed his dark locks out of his eyes to get a better view of his face. The blood he’d spotted earlier was dripping from his lips which made him immediately check his torso for wounds. He couldn’t find any blood, but when he lifted his shirt carefully, he spotted it. 

Erwin had looked emotionlessly at many wounds before, but this made him winced in sympathy. Seeing black and blue paint the side of Levi’s porcelain, perfect skin made him want to run and find those men from before. But no. Levi was the most important thing right now and he had injured himself even worse than before. 

The thought over his previous injury crossed Erwin’s mind as he hesitantly lifted Levi’s pant leg. If the bruising on his torso was dark, his leg looked like the night sky. His bruises were black and dark purple, spiraling their way up to his knee. The flesh was swollen and warm to the touch when Erwin hovered his hand above it nervously.

How did this happen? Why was Levi here in the first place? He smelled heavily of alcohol, it was probably what was covering his clothes and turning his cheeks pink. Had he come here to get drunk? To start a fight in an alleyway? 

It would be very uncharacteristic of him. But, of course, finding him here in the first place was very uncharacteristic. He wasn’t himself. He hadn’t been for some time now.

Without time to spare, Erwin pulled his cloak off of his shoulders and wrapped Levi’s broken, shivering form. He frowned as he watched the man continue to shake harshly despite the warmth of the cloth. He hadn’t even noticed Erwin’s presence, unusually unalert and dazed.

“It’ll be alright Levi. I’m here now.” His hands hovered over his chest. He’d have to carry him back. “I have to lift you. Please endure it for a moment, we’re not too far from my house.”

Erwin scooped him off of the filthy stone floor and into his warm hold as carefully as he could muster. Levi moaned in pain in his embrace, Erwin pulled him tighter against his chest as he brought them out of the dark alleyway and back into the light.

—

A bath was in order. Erwin knew Levi inside and out. He knew he wouldn’t be too keen on waking up smelling like alcohol and blood. He’d be better if he was cleaned up a bit and his wounds were wrapped. Erwin was determined to fix this. To fix him.

He laid Levi’s still, unconscious body carefully into his bathtub, kneeling beside him and washing off the dirt and the blood from his face with a cool rag. He was so delicate with him, like he was handling fragile glass.

Erwin surprised even himself with how carefully he guided the rag across Levi’s broken skin. He wasn’t used to being this careful and soft. War and death had all but stripped him of these qualities. But not with Levi. With Levi, he was different.

It had been a struggle carrying the captain back, with his wounds being so extensive. However, Erwin had made it to his house in record time without much unconscious complaint from the shivering form in his arms. He had been light. Far too light for Erwin’s liking. 

He tried to ignore the way Levi’s collar bones stuck out slightly as he washed away soap and the whiskey smell with the soft scrub. Erwin couldn’t bear to glance at the curious patterns of bruises over Levi’s thin body or the way his chest rose and fell with a heavy struggle. He just continued to wash away the soap and water.

Erwin scooped a bit of water into his palms and washed it through Levi’s hair, watching as the last of the blood and whiskey found its way down the drain. As the water trickled through his dark hair, down the back of his neck, Levi stirred a bit but never opened his eyes.

“E-Erwin…” Levi breathed through his words, dazed and unaware of his own incoherent mumbles.

“I’m here, Levi.” Erwin gripped his slender hand tight and ran his other across the man’s creased forehead. “I’m right here. You’re alright.”

“No…” Levi mumbled, voice breaking as his eyes pinched together tighter. “Can’t leave me… Not you… too…”

“I won’t leave you Levi... I promise.” 

Such promises were foolhardy in the work they did, but Erwin couldn’t stop himself from making it. He couldn’t stand the way his captain cried out in pain and heartbreak, it was worse than any gruesome scene he’d witnessed. 

Levi leaned into his touch as Erwin cupped his palms around his cheeks and kissed his forehead gently. He didn’t know exactly what possessed him to do so, but it seemed to cause some relief from his captain so he allowed it. 

Once he was clean, dry and warming up again, Erwin took him to his warm bed to rest finally. He dressed his wounds carefully, glad to see that Levi was finally resting somewhat peacefully. He hoped he could now sense his presence at least. To know he wasn’t alone tonight.

Erwin was concerned with the heat radiating from Levi’s ankle as he wrapped it. He was determined to get Levi to an actual doctor in the morning to look everything over. He would command him this time, to ensure he actually did so. For now, he placed a cool rag on the man’s forehead just in case a fever began, which was entirely likely.

He was in rough shape. Erwin had been lucky to find him when he did. 

What if he hadn’t? Would he have caught his death in the chilled night? Or slept on the cold stone ground, injured and alone?

Erwin couldn’t understand Levi’s behavior. It wasn’t like him in the slightest. He was usually so level headed and composed. It made the commander ache to think that this sacrifice had made the man fall so low.

—

A dark ceiling was spiraling above him. One that seemed vaguely familiar. His head hurt too much to even try to deduce where the hell he was. There was a cool cloth placed on his brow, wrappings covered his ribs, palms, and leg, his shirt was missing.

All this spinning was aggravating.

He was going to be sick. 

Levi crumbled off the side of the bed, hardly making it to the floor as his legs refused to hold him. His body was broken, defeated, exhausted beyond belief. A dizzying roll to his stomach made him clutch it in pain. There was a waste bin by the bed frame which he gratefully and regrettably clutched to his chest.

For a moment, nothing happened. He wished it would, feeling unbelievably nauseous and confused. But he could do nothing to help himself rather than sitting there, shakily clutching the bin.

“Levi…” A familiar whisper found him in the dark. 

He jumped and lashed out with a blind strike that hit nothing but air. Erwin’s hand gripped his wrist softly and lowered it, slow. “It’s just me. You’re here with me, at my house.”

Levi’s chest collapsed in breath as he winced again and dry heaved into the bin. Nothing had come from it. He hadn’t eaten enough. He hadn’t eaten much at all… Since��� 

Blood… Everywhere… 

He dry heaved again, gripping the bin with white knuckles. Erwin rubbed soft circles on his back. The familiar touch was welcome despite the circumstances.

“You haven’t been eating, have you?” He asked, quiet so as to not upset Levi further.

Levi didn’t respond. Not because he was unable, but because he simply did not want to. It was pointless. He couldn’t have stomached food. Not while looking at the blood on his hands as he chowed down. Not while his comrades were left bloody in those damn woods.

He slid the bin to the ground and brought his knees into his chest despite the pain it caused him. Levi rubbed cruel circles into his thigh as his wound echoed agony through his entire leg.

He heard Erwin inhale deeply. 

“Levi… Why were you…? You can’t just do something like this. What if I hadn’t found you?”

“How did… you… find me?” Levi coughed slightly as his breath caught in his injured chest. 

Something deep inside him almost wished Erwin hadn’t found him at all. He shut it away.

“I came to your room to check on you.” Erwin explained, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. “You weren’t there, so I went looking at your regular spots.”

Levi faced his head towards his chest and buried his face deeper, to try to escape this. He wanted to escape again. It was all too much.

“I didn’t think you’d be in the bar district. It was the last place I tried looking.” 

He’s been looking for me all night then. 

What an idiot.

“Why were you there, Levi?” His voice turned soft, a tone that only Levi had probably ever heard from the man. Something sacred between them.

“Why do you think?” Levi’s tone was more venomous than he intended. If his head wasn’t pounding, he might’ve corrected himself.

“I was worried about you.” Erwin maintained that soft voice despite Levi’s defensive nature. He placed a hesitant hand on the injured man’s knee. 

“With everything going on, I can’t lose you too. I need you.”

He needs me, huh? 

Why?

Levi hadn’t realized he’d asked it aloud. 

“Why?” Erwin repeated his words back to him, looking damaged by the question. “Because…”

The words caught in his throat, at a loss for the right phrasing.

“You’re important to me. To humanity.”

Humanity…

It all feels like a bad joke…

What part of humanity am I even helping if everyone around me gets killed?

“Why’d you even let me train a squad? I just got them all murdered…” Levi felt his chest hitch. 

“Their blood… Erwin…”

He finally risked a glance at his shaking hands and clenched his fists so hard he thought his fingernails might draw blood from his flesh.

“It’s all over my hands.”

Erwin was silent. Without his drawing of breath nearby, Levi wouldn’t have known he was even still there with him. But he was, he knew Erwin would never leave him alone right now.

“No matter how many times I scrub them…” He swallowed a wave of nausea as he could see the red start to blanket his palms again. He felt insane. “I can't clean the blood off.”

Suddenly, large warm fingers wrapped around his slender hands, steadying them for him.

“I can't either.” 

Erwin’s voice was hoarse in the dark. He rubbed a thumb across the back of Levi’s hand softly, despite the pain in his voice.

“I’m sorry.” His words soothed something deep inside Levi’s aching chest. “We’ll never be able to wipe this blood away.”

Levi released a captive breath, leaning forward into Erwin’s chest despite the burning in his ribs. Erwin could soothe it. He could soothe this pain. Even just by a fraction. Levi sunk into him with fatigue in his bones.

“It reminds us of their sacrifice. What they did for humanity. What we will continue to do for humanity, with their strength fueling our fight.”

Humanity… Humanity’s Strongest… 

Never strong enough to save anyone important though… 

No one really needs me… Especially not like this… 

Broken…

“Stop. You’ll regret it.” His deep voice was stern now. A command from years ago. A call back to reality. “You were a good leader to them. They did their duty well. Perfectly.”

“Don’t—” Levi’s voice caught in his throat.

“You taught them well. They were able to live as long as they did only because of you. Because of what they learned from their time with you.” Erwin brushed a hand through his hair softly and held him closer. “You did well by them. They were proud to die under your last command, I can promise you that.”

Levi wanted to argue, to refuse this, but he couldn’t find the strength behind words just yet. He could only be held tightly by his commander and hear his voice next to his ear.

“I saw the way they looked up to you. Worshipped you in some cases. Loved you in others. They would not do this if you weren’t worthy of it.” He pressed further. “Just the idea of you makes our soldiers confident in a future of freedom. It’s not just your physical capabilities, Levi. It’s the strength within you as well. That is why you’re important.”

He meant it. He meant every damn word. Levi had never heard someone speak so passionately about another person. With such vigor and honesty. It made his heart clench painfully in his broken chest.

“You have to continue. For them.” He whispered in Levi’s ear now, soft and comforting. “For me, as well. I need you, most of all.”

Tears finally found their way onto Levi’s cheeks, eyes turning red in irritation. He cursed himself and crumbled in Erwin’s arms completely. 

“God it hurts… It hurts all over.” He couldn’t tell if he was talking about the pain in his heart or the pain in his body. It didn’t really matter as Erwin caressed him softly and made it fade for just a moment.

Erwin didn’t numb him like the alcohol had. He allowed him to feel, to cry, to express. And he held him tightly through it all.

Until the morning sun rose, finding them fast asleep in each other's embrace on the wooden floor. Soft rays of sunlight crossed their cheeks in unison.

[rebelincdk]

Oh, my God...

I'm having a rather interesting debate in the comments section, on a slightly "blasphemous" cartoon drawing, on Facebook. These christian people – I will not name – reveals not to have a strong ability for rational thinking, and have a hard time distinguishing between facts and jokes, i.e. claimed that I was some kind of believer in witchcraft, because I have stated that I was educated at Hogwarts. Take a few seconds to let that sink in. Now you get the level.

Usually I try to avoid these kind of fruitless debates with people living in their own awkward fantasy universe, but in this case it has been aiding me in a direction, that might make me more capable of understanding why the world is in the state it is in.

That kind of people generally makes a few weird assumptions, primarily trying to monopolise love, compassion and moral standards, and putting them into a box with some "family values", blasphemy-phobia, homophobia, and condemnation, without any rational explanation. Welcome down the rabbit hole!

One: They often claim that there's a relation between morals, love and their superstition. You know, like saying that only people with a specific conviction are fitted with emotions and a moral compass.

I'll leave it to the history geeks, and people with some life experience, to have a field day with this argument.

In this particular thread I have been accused of condoling child pornography, because I find it funny that a priest has a hard time nailing Jesus to a cross (IKEA-style).

So some of them actually believe that their own superstition is the only defence against the evils of the world. And they believe that blasphemy is linked to harmfull behaviour, in some way. I should find it hilarious, but it actually makes me sad. It means that they are trapped in this cirkle of misguided bullshit.

Two: Referring to the number of people believing, as a proof of being right. That makes God present and true in the US, and not true in the Scandinavian countries. So God has a limited territory, and is subject to democratic realities. I don't even know how to respond to that.

Three: As a wise man said "Believing in the Bible will make you a believer, actually reading the Bible will make you an atheist". Many of these christians squeezes their faith into the moral values of their surroundings and present life. Jesus was – according to the gospels found in the Bible – a rebel, who would forgive the traitors and sinners, hang out with prostitutes, vandalise the temple, living a very humble life, and claiming to be the son of God. He never condemned anyone to hell (the concept of hell is actually not mentioned in the gospels), and he did not conform to the predominant family values of the time and place. But it is common among religious fanatics to use their faith as an argument for traditional family values, and against prostitution, premarital sex, and a number of other things, that reveals that they have read the gospels with a preconceived opinion.

Every time I read the gospels I think "Wow – this could make a GREAT religion, if the world needed one!" But sadly, even the gospels could have made a religion focused on the open mind, tolerance and forgiveness of the Jesus myth, it has been turned upside down, ever since the Romans took over the religion: Crusades, inquisition, witch hunts, conquistadors, and so on.

I'll make a short detour here, on the subject of prostitutes, as it is quite interesting. If we follow the mindset of this Jesus character, he would (according to the chosen gospels) hang out with prostitutes, even pointing out one as no more sinful than her persecutors, and thereby saving her life. I can not think that Jesus would condole prostitution. That would just be odd. But embracing the people living a misguided life was right up his alley. That is actually characteristically for the legend about Jesus: Embracing instead of condemning. Setting an example instead of blaming. I actually fail to find a single line in the gospels that claims he tried to make them turn away from prostitution.

So if we take this line of thinking into a different context: How to deal with an alcoholic. Sit down and have a drink with him. Befriend him, and show – by example – how life can be improved by drinking in moderation, as blaming and condemning will only have an alienating effect. And behold: Most people working with addicts actually confirms that this is the only way that works. No shit, Sherlock?

Four: Many of them claim that God makes them do good things for the world. Well... Atheist – for example making up the vast majority of the people involved with Doctors Without Borders – do good as well, without the "divine inspiration". As the world shows good people do good things, with or without God. Even good religious people, loosing their faith, continue to do good things (but with a slightly more open mind).

Faith in God has no more claim to charitable behaviour than it has to love.

Five: Many of them claim that rituals are bound to religion. Rituals are – often – a healthy psychological act, but all they see is idolatry, hidden faith or witchcraft.

Six: In their twisted minds many of them compare religion with science, or see a conflict between them. That's like comparing colour with size; it doesn't make any sense. Religion is a faith in a phantom, often referring to books that are very seldom updated and edited to reflect the progress of knowledge and society. Science is simply the collection of our rational observations, and are updated every time we find flaws, at a rate of more than 10.000 a day (if we count all scientific fields). It happens ever so often that science will prove the religious books wrong, simply because the religious books are venturing into areas where they have no function, like human history or natural history. It's like a professor of psychology doing heart surgery.

If the religious books – and priests – would just keep to moral guidance all would be fine and dandy, and this argument, or weird comparison, would never be an issue.

Unfortunately they do overlap in one context: The mind. Science dictates an open mind, and religion dictates a closed mind, when it comes to examination. A scientist will accept criticism, or ridicule, with joy and curiosity, while a religious fanatic will often be offended and defensive.

Seven: When the romans took over christianity they mixed it up with the ancient greek concepts of hell and condemnation. If he could, Jesus would rotate in his grave with frustration, I'm sure. Suppressing people with alternating values or natures, such as homosexuals, rock'n'roll fans, premarital sex, and people with different faiths is not suited for people claiming to believe in an all loving, caring, forgiving God. But so it went, in so many cases.

And this makes these seven points the "seven mortal sins" of a large group of christians: They have turned christianity into a tool of evil. Sending their homosexual sons off to "rehabilitation", condemning certain kinds of cultural expression, keeping their children from medical treatment, blowing up abortion clinics, etc. – added to the long bloody history of genocide and persecutions.

But worst of all, there is even a point eight:

Eight: The world is a miraculous place, full of amazing wonders. Every grain of sand, every wave, every breath of fresh air, every tone, every colour, every life, and every BigMac is a wonder. A true miracle! The probability of you being alive, as a result of many millions of generations living long enough to breed with success, on this inhabitable planet, is mind-blowing. You, and everything that surrounds you, are such a miracle that it is impossible to wrap your head around it.

Many of these people claim that it is not a miracle at all, but was simply planed and executed by a higher being. On top of that they try to monopolise the concept of "miracles".

Simple people need simple explanations...

So should we detain them, and maybe eradicate them? Oh, no, that's THEIR way, and we are better than that! We have to treat them with a concept they talk about, but rarely put into practise: Compassion.

Loving my cat doesn't make me love everything it leaves on my doorstep. Compassion for a person doesn't mean that you should condole – or accept – their faith, especially not when it is used for suppression. Keep them in the friend zone, show them, by example, the benefits of a life based on rational thinking, keep an eye on their children, so you can pull them away in case the parents commits some form of abuse.

Thankfully, even some change religion, and some religious people see that as a marker of their succes, truth is that fewer and fewer people in this world are religious, and in some distant future our descendants will live in a world where it is a thing of the past, to be puzzled about.

Like with ancient greek and mayan religions, people will scratch their heads, asking "how could they believe THAT???"

Please note that I have only discussed the gospels that made their way into the Bible. There are many other gospels ("apocryphal") with deviating stories of Jesus of Nazareth, claiming, for example, that he was a prophet (not the son of God), that Mary Magdalene was his "companion" (spouse), and not a prostitute, that he was not resurrected, and so on.

Neither have I dived into the wide array of other texts that make up the Bible, as they are so messy and contradictory, that they don't actually make any sense to discuss. In them you can find arguments both for and against almost anything, from animal sacrifices to pedophilia and slavery. The God portrayed in the old testament is racist, vicious, vengeful and petty, in stark contrast to the conception of God presented in the gospels. You simply can not claim to believe in – or follow – the Bible in its entirety, as you would then be suffering from severe split personality disorder.

[theprincesslibrary]

#4: Baleful - Close your eyes

Warning: violence, past trauma, mention of abuse, mention of rape, domestic abuse, blood, torture 

He’s waking up. 

He doesn’t remember much. He was coming home after a night out, drunk and alone, the girls weren’t receptive to his charms. And then nothing. Just darkness and a violent pain at the back of his skull. He’s fully awake now, though his reality looks like a nightmare. His reflection is staring at him from the ceiling, eyes wide from fear. He is strapped to an operating table, naked, unable to move. He doesn't understand why he's here. 

I’d feel bad for him if I didn’t know any better. But I do.

I know what he did to his wife, to his previous girlfriends. I know what type of monster he is. But I’m worse. The saw in my hand is itching to cut, but I can’t start yet. Everything must be done to perfection. So I step out of the shadows and move closer, tape his eyelids open, so he can't close his eyes. Putting that mirror on the ceiling was a real pain in the ass, it’d be a shame if all that work went to waste. I wouldn’t want him to miss the show.

*****

When Thancred reaches the scene everything looks like it did for the previous murders: they still don't have the crime scene, just the dumping area. A godforsaken place where nobody cares what you do or say: welcome to Ul'dah's low town, where the jewel city doesn't shine so brightly. Here only the rule of the three wise monkeys applies: see nothing, hear nothing, and above all shut the fuck up. The perfect place to get rid of a body.

These corpses are not your typical murder victim though: no crime of passion, no hit-and-run. Everything is clean. It’s the third case of the type to end up on his desk, and it's a fucking nightmare. Let’s be clear, the modus operandi is dirty as fuck: shallow cuts all over the body, severed limbs, head cut off… all of that ante mortem, a fucking slaughter. But the scene is fucking spotless, perfectly ordered like a freaking Mog Station warehouse. They don't really have a corpse, more of a human puzzle: the organs and the head sit in separate jars, the limbs are all wrapped up mummy style, personal belongings in a cardboard box... And the cherry on top: not a single witness.  

That’s when Thacred's expertise comes to play. See, a regular cop would harass the lab, call them every 5 minutes, pressure them day and night… be a pain in the as. But not detective Thancred Waters. Nah. He has his way of doing things. He lets the lab rats alone, especially with a scene like that which is as much of a nightmare for them as it is for him. If puzzle number 3 is like its friends, CSI can’t do much for him right now, they need to unpack all that shit, literally. So he leaves them the fuck alone, they’re happy, and when they have something conclusive they call their favorite detective: how far one can go by not being an asshole is astonishing.  

Instead, Thancred likes to interrogate people. Relatives, of course, that’s police work 101, but he pays extra attention to the little monkeys on the streets: the guy no one notices sitting in the corner, the drug dealer in his vintage car, the homeless lady who sleeps here at night. He just knows how to make them talk. It must be his lucky day because he saw his favorite monkey when he arrived at the scene. It would be rude not to check on his old friend, although “friend” might be a bit of a stretch. He met Theodric in Limsa Lominsa, back when he was still a street urchin, stealing purses from unsuspecting passersby. They were in the same band of petty thieves, followed the same path, except one day Thancred targeted Louisoix Leveilleur. Instead of turning him in, the man saw his potential, and took him under his wing. His life changed that day. Theodric wasn’t so lucky. He got involved with the wrong crowd, took the wrong drug, and ended up here, in one of Ul’dah’s worst neighborhoods where not even the refugees dare to come. 

Yeah, not really friends, and considering what he's about to do to him, it's better that way.

 *****

Thancred’s fists hurt from punching Theodric’s ugly face, he needs a break from all that “friendly catching up”. He reaches for a cig and lights it up. Gods, how he loves the taste of tar… finally some stale air to help him breathe. He spares a look to the little monkey slouched against the tainted wall of a shabby restaurant. His face is covered in blood, but he’s not talking. He hates when they stay quiet, he’ll just have to be more explicit. 

“You know Theo, I can call you Theo, right? You know… it’s the weekend for me too. As you can imagine that I have other things to do besides fucking up your hideous face. I'm not asking you to share every tiny detail of your sad existence, I’m not your therapist. I’m not even asking for the name of your dealer. Just tell me who the fuck threw away the mummy. That would make me incredibly happy, I’d be able to go home, have a nice bath, you know, normal people shit.”

Thancred takes another puff from his cigarette and looks down at the man who was once his partner in crime. It’s almost like staring at a twisted version of himself, at the man he would have become without Louisoix. Six months ago, he might have gone easy on Theodric, might have tried to help him out. Six months ago, he would have been the man Louisoix wanted him to be, but that guy died in Lahabrea’s basement. All those months of sequestration and torture did a number on him, fucked him up so bad, his soul died back there. Now he's just this empty shell, pretending to be alive out of spite. Just to say “look at me now, I’m still there”. But he's not, not really.

He draws the last puff from his cigarette and crouches next to Theodric, his face on the same level as the junkie's. The little monkey has one open eye, just one, the other is too fucked up. There’s fear in that one eye, but he’s still not talking. Thancred gets his cig close to Theodric’s good eye, so he can understand what’s going to happen next. He likes to let people understand the rest on their own, it stimulates communication. 

“You might think I hate you Theo, but I don’t. I don’t give two flying fucks about you. But you see, my shrink told me I had to externalize my rage. When you don't talk to me, it pisses me off, so I have to externalize. On your face. You’re not a bad guy, a little drug here, a little dealing there, it’s not that bad. I’m a whiskey guy myself so really who am I to judge? Just tell me who threw this corpse, so I can calm the fuck down. I don’t need to externalize as much and we both go on our merry ways.” 

Thancred punctuates his question by crushing his cigarette's butt on Theo’s arm. His screams echo in the empty street so loudly dogs start to howl, not that anyone cares. Noone would come to his aid, not in this part of town, not when a cop is the one making him scream like a pig. The wise monkey rule reigns supreme. But now he’s in enough pain for Thancred to believe whatever he’s gonna say next. 

“Fuck Waters, I swear I don't know anything. You know me, I'm not that brave, if I knew anything I’d be singing like a fucking canary right now. Please let me go, I promise if I hear something I'll tell you. I swear Waters.”

*****

Theodric looks sincere.

It pisses him off, cause now he’s gonna have to resort to a more classic approach and act like a regular cop: talk to the wife and relatives. He hates to act like a regular cop, hates to talk to the wives. He doesn’t know how to deal with crying people. He used to be good at people skills, he’s not anymore.

He needs a drink. 

He ends up at the Quicksand like always. It’s a second house for all sorts of human trash: bikers, dealers, pimps, him...  

Thancred likes the atmosphere, and the barmaid, Lya. Lya is good. It sounds dumb, but she is. She smiles all the time and listens to everyone’s bullshit without judging. She’s pretty too, beautiful even. When she smiles it's a bit like a breeze blowing over a field of poppy, it shakes him to the core. It shakes up any guy. They all want to throw themselves in her arms and let her lull them to sleep as a mother would. She could turn the most vicious wolf into an obedient little lamb with just one smile. All the guys here come for her: the alcohol tastes like piss, the food is barely decent when it’s not expired, and the walls grow mold. But she's here. They all want her, but no one touches her. She’s broken, they all know that. They might be a bunch of heartless assholes, but they have principles. And Lya is off-limits. Her last boyfriend used to beat her up to a pulp, she still has a scar running down the side of her face. It doesn't take away from her beauty, but it drives him mad with rage.  

One night he was taking a piss behind the bar – mind you the alley’s hygiene is better than the loo inside – he saw the guy slap her, and felt the irrepressible urge to externalize his rage on the asshole’s face, so he did. Repeatedly, until he was the one lying on the ground, pissing himself. They’ve been friends ever since. She listens to his stupid jokes, gives him the best food, stops pouring drinks when she thinks he’s too drunk and smiles at him. She smiles so brightly he feels like a little boy in a candy store, hopeful and fearless.  

She looks out of place in this dirty joint full of heartless assholes, like a porcelain doll forgotten in a construction site, but she’s one of them: damaged. They don’t want to break her, they can all see the cracks in her porcelain skin, so no one touches her. They just pretend, pretend they have a chance, pretend they’re good enough for her. They even play this game where the last guy standing can ask her out. They drink until they either pass out or leave, and only one guy is left. The winner never asks her out, but still, they come every night to drink and dream. 

***** 

I always start with small incisions, quick and superficial. It stings just a little, but not too much. The most important thing is not the pain or the screaming, it’s the fear, the anticipation. It’s a wholesome experience: he gets to feel, see, and smell all of it. People often forget to mention the smell, iron and urea, blood and piss. The mix elicits a primal reaction: run, it says, run. But he can’t. 

*****

It’s Monday and Thancred has an appointment with the third victim’s wife. She looks vaguely familiar, must be from the file or the guy’s belongings. The murderer never bothered to hide his victim's identity. Hell, they even leave a special box for passports and other personal stuff. So yeah, she looks familiar, but he’s been in Ul’dah for a while, so it’s not a surprise. What he can’t stand is the way she's fidgeting on her chair. 

Thancred doesn’t like when the witness fidgets because a regular cop would think ‘hum, that’s suspicious'. Thancred tried being a regular cop once, wasn’t for him, so he stopped, started being an asshole instead with some instinct sprinkled on top, it was a wholesale price. Still, the fidgeting is annoying. And she still looks familiar, more than she should from just a file picture. Thancred can’t put his finger on it. Maybe he fucked her once. He was kind of a womanizer before his life went to shit, before Lahabrea. It doesn’t explain why she’s so nervous, or why she keeps nervously rubbing her arms. Nor does it explain the five layers of clothes. It’s at least 35° out, and she’s out in the sun with a freaking turtleneck. The outrageous makeup has to be the icing on the cake. 

And that’s when it hits him. He knows her, but not from the file, or a one-night stand. She’s from Lya’s support group for battered women. That’s why she’s nervous. Not because he’s her former lover, not even because he’s a cop, but because he’s a man. That’s why number 3’s dead: he was trash like the rest.

"Excuse me for a few minutes."

Thancred gets up and exits the room, leaving the widow alone. He spots Minfilia across the room and strides towards her.

"Hey Min, I'm gonna need you to take this one."

"Why?", she teases, "finally found a widow impervious to your charms?"

"Pretty sure our so-called victim wasn't the loving husband he owed to be."

Understanding flashes on her face, she drops the file she was reading on her desk and follows him to the interrogation room. Relief washes over the widow’s face when she sees Minfilia.

“This is my colleague, Detective Warde. She’s going to take it from here.”

Then he’s out again, leaving the two women alone. He goes to his desk while Min does her thing, and looks for the victim’s name in the database. He doesn’t need to watch Min do her work, he trusts her to get the answers they need. The petite blonde has great people skills, and she’s one of the good ones. She's so good, it's hard not to hate her. He doesn't though, never did, never will. 

She’s one of the few friends he has left, one of the few people to put up with his bullshit after Lahabrea's "incident". He loves her like the little sister he never had, and more than anything he respects her. She's a good friend and a good cop, something this city sorely lacks. Rhabdan runs a tight ship as chief of police, but there's always a few bad apples in the bunch, not Min though. She's one of the good ones, not some disillusioned asshole like him. It's hard to be hopeful in a city like Ul'dah where being rich means one can escape any form of responsibility. Like number 3 here. His wife's medical record is a testament to his behavior: bruised face, broken ribs, even lacerations. It's a miracle the woman is still alive. But her in-laws are rich, and influential: Lolorito's people. That's why Thancred is not so sure he wants to catch the killer, not when they're doing what he's not free to do himself.

When Minfilia is done with the interrogation, she motions for him to join her in the break room. She confirms what Thancred already knows: the guy was an asshole.

He needs a fucking drink. 

*****

First I remove his dick, not like he’s gonna need it anymore. I do this slowly, very slowly. I want him to suffer. This is also what the mirror on the ceiling is for, and the tape on the eyelids, no escape. He must see everything and especially hear everything, the slightest tear of his flesh, the sound of his blood dripping on the sanitized tiles, the scalpel cutting his flesh, my slow breathing. The shock of emasculation makes him pass out. It’s okay, we have all the time. I cauterize his wound, I don't want him to bleed out and die. Not yet.  

*****

Another corpse: emasculated, dismembered, and wrapped up like his buddies. 

Thancred lights another cigarette and crouches down in front of the jar containing the head. He knows this face, he broke that nose: Lya's ex. Suddenly the crime scene doesn't seem ugly anymore, it shines with glitter and shit. It makes him happy to see that stupid face in a jar, means he won't be a problem for Lya anymore. He's also the second "victim" who likes to take out his anger on women, there has to be something there. Thancred needs to take another look at the first three victims, they can't be all that clean.  

He ponders whether he should tell Lya about this. Would that make her happy? It might make her feel better, safer. "By the way, the asshole who used to beat you up is dead, a serial killer took care of it." 

Yeah. Maybe he needed to work on his speech. 

It’s just him and the old Bernie now, playing that secret game of theirs. The old man sends him a dirty look before finally getting up. Thancred wins tonight, and he plans on taking her out for real, not just in his head. It's a lucky day after all, maybe she'll say yes.   

The bar is empty that time around. ‘Good’ he thinks, 'Her smiles will all be mine.'

She’s smiling more than usual, she looks happy even, so he decides not to say anything. She smiles, but she’s seldom happy, no point in ruining the mood. The asshole will be just as dead tomorrow. So he sits at the bar to be closer to her, and drinks while he tells her stupid nonsense. One drink, then a second, and finally a whole bottle.

*****

He waking up again, and we’re back in business. Killing a man isn’t easy work, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. My mom used to tell me: “When things get hard, just put them in different boxes and deal with them one at a time.” So I do just that: I cut him into small pieces, wrap them up, put them in nice little jars.

First his right arm, the one he used to slap his women. I cut just below the elbow, he screams like a piglet being bled out. Then his left arm, all the way up to the shoulder, his legs, and finally his head. 

*****

He wakes up to an empty room. Of course, she’s not here, why would she? She’s in his fantasy, not in his reality. It was such a vivid dream, it left him hard and wanting. He buries his face in the sheets, and he can almost smell her. As if dreams could leave a scent behind. Fucking morning wood. He needs release and a shower, but first, he wants a smoke.

He dreams of Lya that night.

She's riding him like a fierce amazon, her breasts moving to the rhythm of their bodies. Everything about her is erotic, her hungry gaze, her mischievous smile. That smile excites him as much as it soothes him. Fuck, he doesn't want to get out of this dream, but his alarm rings, and the dream is gone.

He walks to the kitchen naked, he lives alone and doesn’t give a fuck about flashing his neighbors. She’s standing in his kitchen, a coffee mug in hand. She’s wearing one of his shirts; it’s a bit too big for her, but too short to be decent. She’s so fucking beautiful wearing his clothes, if he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now. And then he remembers everything.

She kissed him outside the restaurant, he wouldn’t have dared, but she kissed him. They ended up at his place. They made love on his couch, in the shower, in his bed. He didn’t fuck her, no, he worshiped her: kissed every inch of her skin, licked every freckle. He prayed to her body like a mad man, as much as he could, as much as she let him.

She said yes.

All the alcohol made his brain soft and mushy, but he remembers now. He helped her close the bar, and they went to that new place near his precinct. The one that stays open until 3 am. They talked, he told her he was a cop, she said she knew. It was written in the way he moved, in the way others moved around him. They talked all night long, and she smiled. Gods, that freaking smile got him good. They talked so much, they got kicked out. 

He must look like a fucking idiot now, with that surprised look on his face and his hard cock because she bursts out laughing. A laugh that explodes like fireworks and ricochets against the walls of his apartment, leaving notes of bright colors everywhere. It's crazy how beautiful she is when she laughs. He wants her, needs her.

He strides towards her, lifts her off the floor, and drops her off her gently on the kitchen table. He doesn’t want to break her, doesn’t want to worsen the cracks in her porcelain skin. Then he makes love to her, in the middle of his kitchen, with the blinds open for the world to see. Because he can, because she wants him as much as he wants her. 

***** 

His instinct about the victims being trash was right. 

After some heavy digging in the first two victims’ past, he finds what he needs. Victim number one’s a serial rapist: used to slip roofies in women’s drink, raped them, and filmed the whole thing, threatening to release the tapes if they tried to report him. Not that they would, the guy was filthy rich, another one of Ul’dah’s “cream of the crop”, these women knew they didn’t have a chance to see justice. If it wasn’t for his “barely legal” deep dive in the guy’s personal belongings - he might have stolen his computer after breaking into his parents’ house - Thancred wouldn’t even know about it.

Victim number 2 was no better, he had a long history of domestic violence and child abuse, but no open case, not even a complaint. Now adding number 3 and Lya’s ex to the list… these guys all deserved to die like pigs. He should say it, should even think like that, but he does. He doesn’t even want to catch the culprit, for all he cares they should be free to rid the city of these predators. Should even get paid for doing public service.

Looking at the so-called victim’s file drives him mad with rage. He wants to drink, but more than anything he needs to see Lya; He can even pretend to do police work while he’s at it. She knows at least one of the women, she’s a victim herself, maybe she knows more. 

The Quicksand is packed. He has to share her smile and his time, it annoys him, but it's okay. Tonight she will be his, and his alone. He sits at the bar, she smiles at him, and he’s not mad anymore. He orders whiskey, then another, and another. After the third glass, the rush finally dies down, and they can talk. He tells her about his investigation, and tells her about her ex. She's a little shaken up, but it's okay, she is strong. 

He shows her pictures of the victims, not the one from the autopsy, he’s not that stupid, pretty pictures with happy smiles and perfect lives. Moments of happiness he knows to be fake. He asks her if she knows the victims or their wives, through her support group, or by word of mouth. She nods. She knows the wives of 2 and 3, she talks to them often. She recognizes the last victim, of course, he was her monster. 

Thancred’s curious to know what she thinks about all this, that’s the cop in him, but he’s also worried about how it’ll affect her.

“I don't know… well I do. I know I shouldn't be happy, but I am,” she admits. “I'm a little less afraid.”

He hates that she feels guilty.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” he states, hoping she’ll feel relieved that those words are coming from him. “Now, I know he won’t  prowl you around anymore.”

She smiles softly, and he has the urge to make love to her on the bar, in front of everyone. But he won’t, Lya is a goddess, not a girl who gets fucked in a bar. He’s going to buy her flowers, and maybe a nice bottle of wine. He might even light some candles to set the mood, then he’s gonna make love to her, again and again until they both pass out in blissful exhaustion.

*****

I dispose of his body in one of the city’s garbage dumps. It’s the perfect place to get rid of a body. And this open sky trash dump is perfect for me: exactly what this trash deserves. The people who live here all look dead, the only thing that sets them apart from my guy is the steady movement of their hearts. That, and the fact that they’re all in one piece, for the most part.

*****

Reports come back on Lya’s ex.

Toxicology’s clean, no head trauma either, he wasn’t drugged or incapacitated like the others. He might have known his assailant. The rest of the report looks similar at first glance, cuts all over the body, severed limbs, emasculation, beheading. It’s the same MO but somehow it feels messier: the body shows hesitation marks, the cuts are deeper, meant to hurt... it feels more personal, like an act of revenge. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

*****

He opens up his flat’s door and practically runs towards the kitchen. He needs a drink before seeing Lya. It can’t be her, when she smiles the ground shakes, she turns wolves into lambs. She’s so small, with soft porcelain skin, tiny hands… It can’t be her, yet his guts tell him otherwise.

He’s halfway in the kitchen when he spots her. She’s waiting for him, his backup gun in those tiny hands of hers. When he dreamt of coming home to her that’s not what he had in mind.

 She’s smiling at him, a sad little smile because she doesn’t want to kill him, not really. He might be an asshole but he doesn’t hurt women. Maybe she likes him too. She’s crying now, tears rolling down her beautiful face. It’s stupid but he still wants to throw himself in her arms. It’s stupid because she’s going to kill him. 

She’s gonna try anyway. 

*****

Gunshots echo in the room, followed by the loud thud of a lifeless body hitting the ground.

[inessencedevided]

Once you're done with the entire show, could you maybe do sorting for all the characters? I usually know the house for each character, but I have literally no idea with The Untamed. WWX for example I can equally see him as a Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff and my brain hurts trying to decide.

First of all: I'm so so sorry anon! This took ages to answer! I hope you're still out there to read this! I started answering ages ago and then trailed off because I had to think about it. So here goes:

Thank you so much for this opening! I LOVE sorting non-HP characters into Hogwarts houses!! And for some of these, I’ve already done so in my head ages ago :D

Disclaimer: I’m mostly going off live action canon here, but will make some comments about the novel from time to time.

Disclaimer 2: Obviously, these are extremely subjective. If anyone disagrees, I would love to hear your counter arguments! I love discussing these things!

Wei Wuxian

GRYFFINDOR!

I know you said you weren’t sure but in my book, he’s a textbook Gryffindor. I’m not saying he doesn’t have Hufflepuff or Raveclaw traits (his sense of justice and his “out of the box thinking” kinda genius come to mind), but those aren’t the main drive of his actions imo. WWX follows his confiction and he often does so without even considering a second option or a compromise, especially before his death. And he is not afraid of deviating from the law or societal expectations to do so. This alone could also make him a Slytherin. The reason I wouldn’t place him there is the way he acts very much in the open. He doesn’t try to bring about change by quietly working in the background. He openly calls people out on their bullshit, even when it is clearly to his disadvantage and might just come back to bite him in the ass. Imo, WWX is a brilliant example of how a gryffindor might be driven to doing some very questionable shit given the "right" circumstances.

Lan Wangji

Now, he’s a different story. I have a lot more problems sorting him, maybe because he is not our point of view character. And he's the reason why it took me so long to answer this ask. My conclusion might be controversial, so let me work up to it. Slytherin? His most slytherin trait, imo, is his determination and drive, which I think stems, among other things, from a desire to prove himself. However, I believe his main reasons for this were family loyalty and (somewhat headcanon territory) the rejection he must have felt at his parents absence. And I don't see him as cunning either, as that always carries a certain level of deceitful intent, even if it's not malicious. And deceitful? That's one thing lwj certainly isn't. So, Slytherin is not a good fit for him. Ravenclaw maybe? He is certainly very intelligent, but that intelligence is more due to his studious nature and his focus, imo. And wisdom and out-of-the-box-thinking are not traits I would associate him with, especially in his younger years. So gryffindor then? He is certainly brave in many ways. He is enduring and stubborn, both gryffindor traits. But he also someone who takes his time to arrive at decisions, unless he is under extreme emotional duress (losing his mother or the love of his live). His bravery, to me, seems to be deeply rooted in his deep deep devotion. He goes through extreme, long lasting pain for the few people he holds close to his heart. In the end it all comes down to his heart, his loyalties, his devotion. Ironically, even more so in the book than in cql. And that loyalty, that steadfastness, that devotion is extremely hufflepuff.

So here you go:

HUFFLEPUFF! (There is no yellow:/)

(And now I really wanna write that AU :D on first glance, lwj would make such an unusual hufflepuff, with his cold and aloof behaviour. I want to play with this idea now!)

Lan Xichen

HUFFLEPUFF!

Aaaahhh! Now I really like the idea of the twin jades of hufflepuff. :D and Lan Xichen is a bit more obvious right? He certainly has the intelligence of a ravenclaw, but his defining characteristics are his devotion to his duty, his kindness, his fairness and his willingness to carefully consider all sides. A hufflepuff to boot. No wonder, I love him so much.

(And now I can't help but imagine lan Xichen, welcoming his little brother at the hufflepuff table, beaming with pride. And later, making sure that they eat at least 1 meal per day together because he knows his brother doesn't make friends easily, even in a house as theirs. Until there's a certain rebellious and bright eyed gryffindor, with a penchant for DADA ...)

Jiang Cheng

He, too, gave me a hard time sorting him. Ravenclaw, I discarded immediately. Gryffindor came next. He's definitely brave in his own way. Going on after the devastating loss of his entire family is brave beyond anything I can imagine, but his motivation why he did it, I believe, was a mixture of family loyalty and his competitiveness and drive to prove himself worthy. Thise are hufflepuff and Slytherin traits, respectively. I would tip the scale towards the latter, simply because his inner conflict is so defined by his feelings of inferiority, his feelings of never living up to his parents expectations. He's in that weird place of being both extremely privileged and emotionally neglected. It reminds me of Draco, come to think of it. So, my favourite angry grape, I'll place in ...

SLYTHERIN!

(He's even rockin' the snake aesthetic already :D)

Jiang Yanli

With her association with cooking and motherly love she seems to be a rather obvious hufflepuff. She is certainly brave, too, enduring her family's near destruction and moving on, or standing in front of her adoptive brother and defending his place in her family and in society. But again, it's very much tied to the people she loves. So yeah,

HUFFLEPUFF!

Nie Mingjue

The jock to end all jocks and still he's got a heart of gold. He's kinda the cliche gryffindor and I can't find a reason to not place him there. So *head barely touches him*

GRYFFINDOR!

Nie Huaisang

SLYTHERIN!

If the twist at the end didn't happen, I'd have placed him in Ravenclaw, as it is, he is such a quintessential Slytherin and also, just ... my favourite kind, especially in cql, where he just fuvjs off to paint his fans and leaves others to do the heavy lifting. He got what he wanted, revenge for his beloved older brother. It reminds me a bit of Horace Slughorn (minus the people collecting). He doesn't want to be at the top. He just wants a comfortable enough life and the possibility to reach his very specific and not at all mainstream goals. A legend. (In mdzs, where he becomes chief cultivator, he's still a Slytherin, albeit a slightly less interesting one.)

Wen Qing

Now, she is another hard one. Another fiercely loyal person (although that's a common trait in mdzs/cql), she also had to show incredible resourcefulness to survive and still stick to her principles throughout her life. But to mention that she invented and su subsequently performed the first core transfer in history. (In the book, it is specifically mentioned that the essay on this subject was written by her). In short, this woman is s genius in her field and forward thinking and incentive. All of those are textbook Ravenclaw traits. So, with her we have ...

RAVENCLAW!

Wen Ning

Puh, he is hard. I know, with his timid behaviour and gentle nature, hufflepuff comes to mind BUT ... he strikes me as a neville. As in, his bravery lies in the fact that his own insecurities hinder him constantly and yet he overcomes them every day in a hundred small ways. He is brave precisely because he is afraid of so many things. And, like Neville, when his sense if right and wrong demands it, he takes a stand. His rescue of wwx and jc extremely dangerous circumstances and the core reveal come to mind. So, even though he probably argues with the hat to place him in hufflepuff, I'll place him in ...

GRYFFINDOR!

Jin Guangyao

SLYTHERIN!

Do I have to explain this?

Luo Qingyang

I know, she's a much more minor character than the others but I love her and this is my post, so she's in it. Do i have to say it? I hate to be the "Gryffindors ftw!!!"-one (as a proud snake), but yeah, Nie Mingjue was goddamn right when he said that she's got more backbone than half the cultivation world combined. My queen snapped and removed herself from the narrative and I love her for it!

GRYFFINDOR!

Let's get to the juniors:

Lan Sizhui

Now, maybe the hufflepuff does run in his family because I do think he belongs there, too. His defining characteristics are shown to be kindness, fairness and filial piety, even though he also has a mischievous streak and does not shy away from confrontation when he thinks his warranted (politely defending "Mo Xuanyu" in front of the Mo clan comes to mind). So yeah

HUFFLEPUFF!

Lan Jingyi

His brash and outgoing nature would make him a good gryffindor fit, certainly. However, the trait I associate with him the most is his nonconformity and that in a sect where that is highly unusual. He might not be as much of a social butterfly as Luba, but he still reminds me more of the kind of eccentricity associated with ...

RAVENCLAW!

Jin Ling

Now he's hard. Maybe because he postures a lot though that's something that's true for a lot of these characters. He tries to imitate his uncle but has non of the trauma to back it up, though he is an orphan and,in his position, probably pretty lonely which leads to the kind of breakdown we see him having over his confrontation with the person who killed his parents and he can't even really blame and so he just... crumbles. And non of that really helps me in my search for a house for him. I don't really see him as a Slytherin because while he loves to posture and play his privileges, he mostly crumbles under pressure and I don't think there's conviction behind it. He's certainly not sly either. Rabenclaw? Nah. I see neither outstanding amounts of eccentricity or wisdom. Gryffindor? Maybe. He's certainly impulsive. And he displayed bravery both in Yi City and even more so in the Guanyin temple where he had to face the fact that one of his uncles, the men who raised him, would kill him to achieve his goals. Still, what left the biggest impression on me was how, after his own world had just completely changed, he send his dog away because wwx would fear him. And how he then tried to get his uncle to talk to wwx. So I'd tentatively go with

HUFFLEPUFF!

Ouyang Zizhen

Another hard one because we don't know him very well in canon. But what we do know is that he is very emotional (passionate one might say) and has no qualms going against his father in a fit of teenage rebellion. I love him for it but that's not that much to go on. Both of these point to gryffindor however, so that's where he goes. :D

GRYFFINDOR!

So ... that's where I'll leave it. I know I missed the Yi city arc but it's getting late and I'm tired. 😅 If anyone wants to add them, feel free!

Congrats of you've made it this far down! :D

Please, do come and discuss these with me!

[thorne93]

The Softest Fire (Part 15)

Prompt: Rosaline Vaughan had it all: fame, money, power, glory, a high status job. Until, one day, she woke up, and realized something was missing from her life.

Word Count: 2785

Warnings: angst and anger

Notes: First Fantastic Beast fic! I could NOT have done this at all without @arrow-guy​​​​. They have created a counterpart to this fic, writing it from Nora Vaughan’s perspective (Rosaline’s cousin/adopted sister). Fic aesthetic done by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​.

I sat in a room that seemed vaguely familiar to me, a soft scowl on my face.

“I want my wand back,” I stated evenly, sitting at a table while Nora and Theseus peered at me.

“Tell us where Grindelwald is, and you’ll get it back.”

I leveled my gaze on hers and told her, in a flat voice, “No.” 

“Okay then, tell us where Credence is,” she attempted.

“No.”

“Okay, what about his next move?”

“I have no idea what it would be.”

Suppressing a sigh she continued with the interrogation. “Why did you go see Dumbledore?”

“To see an old friend,” I sweetly said, the annoyance obvious in my tone. “This is ridiculous. I’ve committed no crime, why is my wand being held hostage? I should be free to go.”

“You may not have committed any crimes yourself but you’ve been with one of the Wizarding World’s most wanted criminal for months and you have the audacity to say you don’t know anything,” Theseus shot, his nerves getting worked up.

I peered at him, a mischievous smile playing on my lips. 

“Come, Theseus. She isn’t going to tell us anything soon.” 

“Give me my wand!” I said a little louder, becoming enraged.

“You’re under investigation,” Theseus stated. “As soon as we find a place for you at the Ministry, you will be transferred there.” 

My eyes widened before narrowing. “You would really lock me up, cousin?” I questioned, my eyes flashing to her.

She gave me a sad look before somberly saying, “You’ve left me no choice.” 

“Is this punishment? Are you seeking a surrogate for your own pain? The fact that you can’t have Theseus here, and I found true love. It eats at you. That’s why you’re doing this. You have nothing to hold me and yet you refuse to give me my wand or treat me like a free citizen.” 

Theseus and her glanced at each other with something in their eyes I couldn’t quite make out. 

“Speaking of lovers, how is Leta, Theseus?” I questioned with a glint in my eye.

A redness consumed his face as he took a step toward the table that separates us. Nora grabbed his arm and kept him back, making me laugh. 

“Oh, Theseus. You always were a half-wit. No wonder they were begging me to replace you.” I looked off away from them, my interest shifting from the current encounter to my time with Gellert. 

He ignored the remark but they continued the questioning. 

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

The next day, I was in fact transported to the Ministry. Theseus, along with five other aurors, Nora, and Tina attended to my transportation. I suppose they were worried I, or Gellert, would do something to sabotage the relocation. However, I gave them no grief and neither did any outside sources. The interrogation continued there. I answered nothing. 

“What could he possibly mean to you?” Nora begged. “The longer you refuse to talk to us, the longer you will stay in here. If he were in your spot, he would not hesitate to give you up.”

“Don’t speak as if you know him,” I warned, the threat barely in my voice. 

“Well what else can I do, Rosaline?” she challenged. “You won’t talk to me. It’s been two days.”

“What is it you want from me?” I snapped. “You took me from the love of my life, you refuse to give me my wand. I have told you I will not give up his location or his plans. You’re just doing this to hurt me, like you’ve always done.”

Nora straightened slightly before peering at me curiously. “What--Hurt you? When have I ever hurt you, Rosaline?” she asked, sincere curiosity and pain in her voice. 

“When haven’t you? You and your family weren’t exactly welcoming,” I muttered.

“We have been nothing but kind to you. You’re practically my sister.”

“Well you’re nothing to me. So unless you have something more…” 

Her face twisted into a firm, unreadable expression as she stood to leave the room. 

“Someone else should be in here shortly to deal with you.” As soon as she said that, she shut the door behind her. 

I shook my head. This was ridiculous. I committed no crime. 

The door opened and my eyes remained on the table. I didn’t need to see the goon that was going to try and get information out of me.

“Ros--Rosaline?” a soft voice spoke and immediately my eyes met the source of the sound. 

Newt Scamander… 

“Ah, Newt, lovely to see you again,” I greeted kindly. 

“I… I have to know,” he started, his eyes averting away from me.

“Know what? Are you here to ask me about Gellert? I won’t tell you anything.”

He shook his head. “I’m not… I’m not with the Ministry, Rosaline, you know this. They have their duties, I have mine.”

My gaze narrowed as I turned to face him more directly. This was curious.

“Then what could you want?” 

“I only want to know… why him?” 

“Why… who? Gellert?” I asked, perplexed. 

“Yes. Before you entered the flames, you had just confessed that you loved me, and the next thing I hear you’re engaged to him. I know I’m not exactly a well versed romantic but something about that doesn’t sound right.” 

I peered at him a moment, a good long moment, trying to remember if I ever told him that. If I did, what about him would ever make me love him? How could I love anyone but Gellert? Newt was my boss, we had nothing in common. He asked me to do a job, and I did, simple as that.

“I told you I loved you?” I questioned, still frowning at him. 

He nodded.

“Why would I have ever told you that? You’re nothing more than a zookeeper with a brother who can barely do his damned job. You loved a woman who was vile. You could never hold any interest in my mind or heart, and above all else -- and listen closely, Scamander,” I ordered, leaning forward, “you could never be half the man he is.”

His expression morphed quickly from sad curiosity to absolute heartbreak. He said nothing before standing slowly and exiting the room. 

I hoped that would teach them to leave me alone. 

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

Nora stormed into the room they held me in, her eyes lit with rage. 

“Are you serious?”

“Serious about what?” I questioned, my tone tired.

“Did you seriously lie to Newt about loving him? After I had to watch you pine over him for years?” 

My gaze narrowed at her, confused. “I didn’t lie. I never loved Newt Scamander. How could I?” 

“That’s complete bullshit,” she spat. 

“What is this? Is this because Theseus won’t look twice at you?” I wondered. “Get over it, Nora. Besides, anyone who wanted a Lestrange is trash and you shouldn’t concern yourself with him.” 

She rounded the table quickly and grabbed my collar, shoving me against the wall. 

“You selfish child! You can't even see you've been bewitched! Grindelwald hasn't come for you. His little minions haven't come for you. No one is tearing through the streets of London looking for any trace of your magic. He didn't care about you. He cares about your power. That's it. There was no end where you ruled alongside him. You would have been thrown onto the rubbish heap with whatever poor souls he's used up along the way."

“At least he cared enough to consider me,” I stated, unfazed by her words. “Can you say the same for Theseus, or do you just serve as a rebound for a dead woman?” 

She shook her head as she let go of me, backing away. “You… You aren’t my cousin. Whatever he did to you, whatever he’s turned you into. You’re cold, heartless. My cousin, my sister, would never be this cruel.” 

“The sister you knew was weak!” I shouted. “I’ve outgrown being the little Ms. Perfect.”

“So now you’re little Ms. Murder?” 

My gaze narrowed on hers. “I never murdered anyone. I simply came into my own.” 

She simply shook her head and left, slamming the door on her way out. I felt fully satisfied. I smiled to myself and sat down.

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

Five days had passed. I was given one meal a day, and a cot in this godforsaken room. I wasn’t escorted to a jail cell, but this might have well been one. It only contained the cot, the interrogation table, and three chairs. I swore I was losing my mind in here. With each day, my rage burned less and less and worry replaced it. Why hadn’t Gellert stormed the halls for me? Why wasn’t the Ministry turned upside down to rescue me? I had given him most of his numbers through these very people, and yet he could not find a way to get me? Had he forgotten about me? 

Perhaps not. Perhaps he knew the risks and trusted I would escape on my own. I’m sure that was it, his faith in me was stronger than anyone’s. 

“Rosaline,” Nora’s voice floated into the room as she cracked open the door. “I have someone new today.”

“What idiot have you decided to grace me with today?” I questioned, tired of the interrogations. I hadn’t given anything up and I wasn’t going to. 

She opened the door wider to expose herself and the person she brought. To my great surprise and pleasure, it was Albus Dumbledore. 

“Dumbledore?” I gasped. “What… what are you going here?”

“I’ve come to see you. To see… how you are.” 

“I would be fine if someone would simply give me my wand and allow me to leave. I haven’t committed a crime so I have no idea why I’m still trapped here.”

Nora closed the door, leaving the three of us alone in the room. 

“You’re here because it is the Ministry’s belief you aren’t yourself.” 

“The Ministry’s or the people who chose to treat me as a second class citizen all my life?” My eyes shot to Nora who stood beside him. 

“Everyone, really,” he corrected. He pulled out the chair in front of me. “Tell me, what do you remember from Paris?” 

Paris… Paris… I remembered… Gellert… His beautiful face. 

“What about Paris?” I wondered. 

“Do you remember anything from the Lestrange mausoleum? The blue flames?” Nora suddenly asked, her voice more tender than usual. She sat down across from me as well. 

Something about her voice, about the look on her face. She wasn’t here to attack me or charge me with a false crime. She wasn’t even looking for information on Gellert. She was asking me to recall a simple memory. 

“Of course I remember.”

“What happened?” she urged. 

“Gellert was asking people to join him. When I got closer to the fire, he invited me in. He told me he would give me salvation. That he would protect me and value me as I should be treated.”

“You don’t remember… that you went into the fire? He didn’t invite you?” she questioned, confused. 

“I remember stepping in but his hand was outstretched. He told me we would make the world a better place together, with me at his side. How could I refuse that?” 

The two of them stared at me a moment before glancing to each other. 

“Rosaline, what else do you remember, before Paris?” 

“I remember how you kept me in your shadow. How Newt never let me live up to my potential. How your parents always treated me like dirt.”

“Rosaline, none of that happened. None of it is true.”

“Of course you would see it that way,” I argued.

To this, Nora stood and Dumbledore followed, leaving the room without another word to me. 

She eventually walked back in, alone. 

“Where is Dumbledore?” I asked, slightly miffed to see that the one person I wanted to see wasn’t there. 

“He’s taking care of something. He’ll be back.” 

“How long do you plan on keeping me here?” 

“As long as it takes.” 

I groaned and stood up, pacing for a moment before I finally said, “I'm not your dog, Eleanore. You can't push me around or tell me what to do anymore. You've treated me like a child far too long.”

“I’ve only treated you how you deserve to be treated. And it isn't me who has you on a leash. You may look at your left hand, to remind you of who collared you, cousin.”

My eyes cut to hers, hate in them. “Don’t. He has nothing to do with this.”

“He killed Leta, Rosaline! He has everything to do with this!  He killed innocent aurors! What kind of a man does that?” she shouted. “How many souls did he take while you were together? How could you be with him?”

“He was just trying to get us peace,” I implored, tears in my eyes. “You don’t understand. None of you do.” 

“Then help us. From where I stand, he’s murdering anyone who gets in his face.”

“That isn’t what he wants. He just…”

“Just what, Rosaline?”

“He just wants the muggles to let us live freely. I don’t think he meant to hurt those people.” 

“People are dead because of him. He has to pay for his crimes. Please help us.”

I choked on my tears as I kept my face away from hers. “I can’t.” 

“Why?”

Finally, I spun to face her. “I don’t know why. I just can’t,” I confessed. 

“This is futile. You’re never going to give him up, are you?” she asked, hopelessness in her tone. My gaze stole hers for a moment as tears mystified my eyes. I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. 

She shook her head, humorlessly laughing as she stood. “If you’re not going to help us, then you’re just wasting our time.” 

“Nora, no, please don’t leave me. Nora! No!” I begged suddenly as she swept out of the room. The door closed and I slammed my hand against it. “Nora! Please!” I slid down the door, tears running down my face. “I don’t know why I can’t talk to you,” I whispered to the air. 

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

That night, I cried myself to sleep. I felt like I was going mad. My loyalty to Gellert was still there but slowly, I felt this huge rush of familiar love when Nora would enter the room. Something wasn’t right and I couldn’t figure out what it was. 

Memories with Gellert were becoming as faded and blurred as those with Nora, Newt, and my Aunt and Uncle. But why? Why couldn’t I clearly remember anything?

And Nora had been right. No sign of Gellert had reached me. No one was coming to save me. I was going to be his wife and yet... he was nowhere to be seen. I was abandoned, yet again, by the one man I loved and trusted. 

The following morning, Dumbledore alone visited me.

“Oh, thank Merlin, it’s you,” I breathed as he walked in. 

He smiled as he sat across from me. 

“Please get me out of here. I haven’t done anything wrong…” 

“I know that, Rosaline. I just have to do one simple thing, and I’ll do what I can to prove your innocence and get you out of here. You’ll have to help me though.”

“Anything,” I agreed, scooting forward.

“Let me extract one memory from you, to prove to the Ministry you’re innocent,” he requested. 

“One memory?” I wondered. “How is one memory going to do that?” 

“I just want you to show me the first memory you have after Paris. Once you joined Grindelwald.” 

“Why? What will that help?” 

“It will show your intentions.”

I peered at him, wondering what his game was but the more I looked at him, the more I trusted him. 

“Alright. I’ll do it,” I agreed. 

“Fantastic. Now, just relax, and think of that first memory.” 

I closed my eyes and did just that. Remembering how he looked, how the soft light of that dark parlor glowed on him. I remembered how Queenie stood a few feet to his right, telling him about me. I remembered how he asked me to do some things for him, and I complied, completely. How Vinda got me a new outfit, and how Gellert asked me to go to the Ministry. 

That last part was an accident, but before I could unthink it, Dumbledore pulled it from my head and stored it safely in a small vial. 

“Thank you, Rosaline. You’ve been very helpful.” 

I nodded at him, unsure of the feeling that wrapped around my chest. He took the memory out into the hall, while I waited to be released.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Somebody Else ~ Part 4

SOOO, I got inspired last night and ended up starting/finishing the next update. I hope you enjoy it and stay tuned for the next part! I have excellent plans for a few more chapters. Feedback is always welcomed! 

Angel Reyes x Reader/ Ezekiel Reyes x Reader 

Word Count: 1.6k 

CATCH UP HERE

Warnings: language, general angst, brother jealousy 

Translations 

He estado mejor: I’ve been better.

Estás preciosa: You are beautiful.

Por que, mi amor: Why, my love?

Vigila tu espalda hermanito: Watch your back, little brother. 

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

She knew he was here before she ever heard the knock at the front door. It had been fourteen pathetic days since she asked him to leave her alone and he walked away. Her body tinged with anxiety mingling through her nerves, she wasn’t ready for this to see him. Y/N gaze shifted when she heard the inevitable sound of a motorcycle turning onto the street, Y/N reluctantly braced herself against the counter trying to find any courage still residing within her. The door rattled open as the cool air found residence on her skin, Angel Reyes was a goddamn Adonis. 

“Hey Ba-.. Y/N. ¿cómo estás?”  

Angel stepped closer to her immediately causing Y/N to recoil, her new-found courage evaporating into momentary fear. When he noticed her hesitation his right hand unknowingly found home atop his heart as he gently rubbed at the aching spot. Angel felt his heart break all over again. ‘This was all your fault’ constantly replayed on an infinite loop as a haunting reminder, ingraining itself into his daily thoughts. Why did Adelita get under his skin? How did he stray from the one girl who’s remained by his side since the very beginning?

“He estado mejor.” Apprehension lingered in the room; unhappiness etched its way into the bare concrete walls. The air maintained a stagnant, stale, and smothering ambiance. But if she knew one thing for sure it was her undeniable energy with Angel even when he the cause of her heartbreak.

“Estás preciosa. I miss y—” Suddenly, she stormed towards him firmly placing her soft hands over his smooth lips effectively cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Cut the bullshit, Angel. Have you talked to her since we broke up?” Her ocean blues were glazed with unshed tears as she impatiently awaited his response unsure if she was actually prepared for the answer. Even on Y/n’s deathbed she would never admit it aloud, but some deeply rooted and fucked up piece of her yearned to be by his side once again, and that terrified her more than raising their unborn child.

Seconds crawled by before a tear slid down Y/N’s blushed cheek. Angel’s muteness was more than enough of a response to her question. She was officially an idiot…again.

Y/N’s lip quivered with melancholy; her pulse raced against her skin; her once quick-witted tongue momentarily muzzled as defeat seeped into her very core.

“I need to stop imagining situations in my head that aren’t going to happen.”

Once more Angel attempted to close the gap between them slowly inching her way. She was so close he could almost graze his fingertips against her freckled skin. Too focused to comprehend his surroundings, Angel neglected to hear the tiny whimper leave Y/N. Her hand placed defiantly in front of her frame halting his movements. “Please, stop. Don’t come any closer.”

“¿Por que, mi amor? His breathe tickled along her jawline causing her spine to shiver. Angel was a man of many skills. He so desperately wanted to push the loose tendrils of her blue hair and look into her eyes. They always reflected nothing but the honest truth, it was her God-given power and imminent downfall. But Y/N refused him forgoing his selfish whims.

“When I think of our love, I think of pain, and that shouldn’t be so. But I love you so much. That’s what makes this next part so tricky.” Stay strong, Y/N.  

The fire blazing in her dark and injured heart seemed to glow around her like an unwavering flame. She loved him because Angel had seemingly brought her back to life. She had been like a lonely caterpillar in a cocoon, and he had drawn her out and shown her that she was a butterfly. Then he proceeded to rip off her delicate wings.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Y/N?” He was losing her. There was no absolutely doubt in his mind.

“Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell, Angel. I’d say this is pretty fucking close, wouldn’t you agree?... I’m pregnant.” Y/N shuddered as air rushed past her lips releasing itself from the confines of her lungs.

Shock radiated every neuron in his entire body suddenly feeling himself come alive. Suddenly Angel was hyper-acute of the stunning figure in front of him. The edges of his vision darkened as blood rushed throughout his ears. It reminded him of the first time he heard the ocean; distressingly peaceful.

“Angel, you, uh, look a little pale. I think you need to sit down.” Still lost in translation, Y/N reached for his forearm guiding him towards the kitchenette chair. Stagnant electricity remained claustrophobically between the duo. She kneeled against the cold tile finally at eye level since he walked in.

“I’m sorry for coming in and fucking up your life. I never meant for things to get so fucking twisted. You have to believe me, Y/N. You are genuinely the best gal I’ve ever had the pleasure to call mine. Never forget that.”

A sad smile graced her lips, her muscles pulsated with uneasy energy. “That doesn’t change the fact that you want her. It was my fault, I fooled myself into ever believing I was your end game.” Her gentle hands rested on his dark denim jeans rubbing small circles all while subconsciously soothing his anxiety, allowing him the luxury of simply inhaling some much-needed air. Even after he dumped her, abandoned her for his interest in another dangerous woman filled with her own deceitful secrets, Y/N still somehow grounded him.

“Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it all happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a murderous landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes pry themselves open, I’m heavy, like there’s too much gravity on my heart. I’ve been in love with you my whole life but I think it’s time for me to walk away. For good, this time. I’m ... letting you go. Consider yourself free.”

Y/N pivoted off his knees standing up straight while taking a few steps away from him.

His voice a mere murmur; “When did you find out?”

She internally chuckled recalling the shitty day in question. “The day we ended things.”

Unexpectedly, Angel became the question king in concerns with all matters of Y/N’s life.

“Does anybody else know?”

The words left her mouth before her brain had a moment to register. “Simple, Ez.”

“Why did my brother know before me??”

“Because he’s my best friend.”

Shaking his head in disagreement; “He might be your best friend but he’s in love with you. He’s been drooling over you since elementary school. You run into his arms literally any time something happens. You think I don’t see this shit?” His angered tone seemingly increased forcing the veins along his tanned neck to bulge out ferociously.

“He was always the better Reyes brother. Papa Reyes never could understand what made me glued to his eldest son.”

Before Y/N could blink, Angel rushed her, invading her personal space. Her breath quickened as she quietly huffed. Angel’s hand was clasped securely along her jawline forcing her to see him, to feel his all-consuming, unbridled rage before he leaned in even closer. The hair on her neck stood up sickeningly straight as he spoke into the shell of her ear.

“When I was balls deep in Adelita, there wasn’t a moment where I even considered how you’d feel. I was blinded and betrayed by lust. You think my baby bro would want my sloppy seconds?” His malicious tone oozed with venom scaring Y/N into suspended submission. Down the road Y/N heard the tall-tale rumble of a engine cruising towards her house.

“I just wanted you to know, Angel. No matter how much I hate you, this is our child and I won’t deny you your basic rights. Trust me, I don’t expect anything from you…not at this point. Hopefully one day soon you wake the fuck up and see that I’m not the goddamn enemy. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

The wood frame rumbled as a strong fist met Y/N’s yellow front door breaking the already shattered tension. The moment was spoiled as Angel walked towards the foyer. He fingers connected with the chilled knob, twisting until success. He was met with rich, hazel eyes gleaming back at him. Fucking Ezekiel.

“Vigila tu espalda hermanito.”

Y/N appeared in Ez’s line of sight deciding to stay quiet in the background. Curiosity and awkwardness engulfed the threesome.

Ezekiel wasn’t going to back down. He finally had his chance and he would be damned to maintain his silence.

“The best man has already won.” With that, Ez clapped Angel’s rigid shoulder before moving to greet Y/N. He didn’t dare glance back no longer caring about what his brother thought and proceeded to close her front door.

“You sure do have perfect timing Mr. Reyes. I think you pissed him off.”

His chuckle aerated the room bringing a warmness to the peak of her slender neck. His muscular arms found her waist pulling her close into his chest for an embracive hug.

“Don’t shoot me. I just came for the hot meal…and enticing company.”

It was good to hear her laugh, and not just any plain laugh, but one buried within the borders of your chest that vibrated the room. His nerves soon calming as he dared a look in Y/N’s direction. She smiled sweetly, sincerely happy to be in his presence. All her life, she had learned that passion, like fire, was a dangerous force to reckon with. For it so easily spun out of control.

-----

Tags: @pupyluv247​ @feelingsonfiire @partypoison00

[rutilation]

hi I have some theories about the Problematic Rock

In my essay for chapter 82, I said that I had settled on a theory of What The Deal Is With Cairngorm.  My thoughts on the subject are a bit all over the place, so in the hope of presenting things in a coherent manner, I’ve laid out my thought process from the past eleven months or so in roughly chronological order, beginning with the nitpick that started it all.  Welcome to my twisted mind, and all that.

For the most part, the way the series applies fantasy concepts to actual geology has been fairly sound.  For example, tourmaline generates an electric charge when heated, so Melon radiates electricity when upset.  Cinnabar the rock often comes out of the ground covered in native mercury, so Cinnabar the character is surrounded by magical floating mercury.  Alexandrite turns red or purple in incandescent light, so the light the Lunarians give off changes Alex’s color and gives them a mood swing to boot.  It’s exaggerated and fantastical, but it’s nonetheless grounded in some nugget of geology trivia which one might find on the back of a Snapple cap.  But, Ghost and Cairn’s condition in the story does not line up with how phantom crystals work, even within the science-fantasy framework we’ve got going here.  At first, I just filed it away next to other inaccuracies such as Antarc shouldn’t be able to trudge through snow without dissolving in a puddle of their own brine, much less dive into the ocean unscathed.  However, if my theory(s) is correct, then this apparent lapse in the internal logic of the story might have in fact been deliberate foreshadowing.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

First, some context. Phantom crystals form by way of two distinct but related processes:

During a crystal’s formation out of a solution, its growth is temporarily halted for one of any number of reasons.  During this time, dust falls onto the surface of the crystal.  As the crystal begins growing again, these tiny debris become trapped within, and if the rest of the crystal is sufficiently transparent, the included material appears from the outside as the outline of a crystal within a crystal.

The other process to which this term applies involves color zoning, and is a bit easier to explain.  During a crystal’s formation, the chemicals that make up the solution change slightly, and these impurities cause one part of the crystal to become a different color from another part.  If the color zoning is concentric, and the different colors in question are visible from outside the crystal, it can be labeled a phantom crystal.  Ghost and Cairn appear to be this second type.

So here’s what I’m getting at: a phantom crystal is not two separate crystals, in much the same way that the rings in a tree trunk aren’t a bunch of separate trees.  Therefore, it doesn’t make sense for Ghost and Cairngorm to be two separate people, and if they are actually intended to be examples of this phenomenon, it raises some questions.  For one thing, watermelon tourmaline forms via the exact same process of concentric color zoning I described in example number two; since you usually can’t see the pinkish part from outside of the green layer of crystal, it’s not often labeled a phantom crystal, but it’s the same phenomenon nonetheless.  So, why is it that Cairn and Ghost are two different people, but the green and red parts of Melon aren’t?  For that matter, why aren’t the two halves of Euclase two separate people? There’s certainly more of colorless-Euclase than there is of Ghost.  If mere color zoning were enough, then why are Ghost and Cairn the only examples of highly-conjoined-twins amongst the cast?  Unless of course, we weren’t given an accurate picture of how these two came to be, and there’s something fishy going on.

Of course, whether or not this little contradiction is actually meaningful wholly depends on if Ichikawa was even aware of the distinction as she was writing.  As I recall she once said in an interview that she wasn’t very familiar with geology in the first place before she started writing hnk.  But, like I said at the beginning of this essay, this is what got me started down the rabbit hole.  From this observation arose two different trains of thought.   One came to me pretty quickly, but the other took a few months to materialize.

The first idea that popped into my head when I realized that this inaccuracy could have been deliberate was that Ghost and Cairngorm might not be separate people, and there was some split-personality shenanigans going on.  I’ll quickly list the things I think this theory has going for it with some bullet points.

Remember that one time, when Cairngorm referred to Ghost as their “former self?”  And that other time, in the official translation of volume 6, when they referred to Ghost as their “other half?”  That is rather curious terminology for referring to one’s sibling.

That one time in chapter 39, where Cairn repeated Ghost’s sentiment about being “tired of praying” verbatim, and the composition of the panels seemingly called attention to it.

It would serve to explain a certain contradiction in Cairn’s personality: despite their aggressive—and at times violent—demeanor, they nonetheless act like a total doormat in all the ways that really matter.  They live their life according to someone else’s wishes, they’re quick to pass off decision making to others, and they fold under pressure pretty easily.  What if Cairngorm is, in fact, Ghost’s idea of what being assertive is like, without any understanding of what it means to actually be independent or confident? 

A common critique of the story is that Ghost’s character was rather perfunctory, and their death felt like a second-rate retread of Antarc’s fate.  Well, if Cairn and Ghost are the same person, then they weren’t actually unceremoniously dropped from the story after all.  Come to think of it, right before they were supposedly taken, Ghost said they wanted to change; what if they actually did?

As many of you have noticed, Ghost is one of the few characters who isn’t ProblematiqueTM .  Doubtlessly, Ichikawa now regrets killing them off before they could do something kinda nasty.  Even Antarc got the chance to cluelessly trample over Phos’s self-esteem before getting turned into road salt.  But, if it were revealed that Ghost was actually the same character as creamed corn, then Ichikawa could drag their good name through the mud with one fell swoop.  (I’m just trying to think from her perspective, guys!  Her cruel, sadistic perspective…)

But ultimately, when I got around to wondering why on earth they would have a split personality in the first place, I found that this line of inquiry raised more questions than answers.  Unlike my second theory, which mostly just raises answers.

(I know I just dumped a big tinfoil hat at my readers’ feet like a cat gifting its owner a decapitated bird, but please keep bearing with me, I’m not even halfway done.)

The idea that I’ve found to be the most fruitful came in the weeks following chapter 75.  I’ve brought up this line from Aechmea multiple times (probably to the point of redundancy,) because it’s the biggest hint we’ve gotten so far that there’s some Cairn-related context we’re not yet privy to.  And the more the narrative keeps reminding us of it—usually by way of Cairngorm bringing it up with varying levels of anxiety—the more it seems to be alluding to something important.  So I got to thinking that whatever my little plot twist was, it would have to account for Aechmea’s cryptic bullshit.  I put forward a couple preliminary ideas in my essay for chapter 75, but I’ve since discarded those in favor of my second theory.

So, somehow Aechmea knew Cairngorm before they came to the moon, and neither Cairngorm, (nor Ghost for that matter,) remembers meeting him.  When I tried to think of how this could be possible, while also keeping in mind my little bugbear about phantom crystals, I developed a theory that’s much more pedestrian by the standards of the hnk fandom.  I am of course, talking about the mysterious artificial gem experiments that the Lunarians conducted.  That sure is a plot element which has been left dangling, huh?  And since no one, least of all myself, believes Stinkmea when he claims that the experiments were a complete failure, it has been a favored pastime of people who write walls of text to speculate on who amongst the cast might have been planted on earth by the Lunarians; e.g. Obsidian, Antarc, new Morga and Goshe… I imagine someone at some point has even postulated that Phos themselves is from the moon.  But, if you pay close attention to how Aechmea, and later, Barbata describe the process by which they attempted to create artificial gems, it lines up strikingly well with what we know about Ghost and Cairngorm, and it also serves to explain the geological inaccuracy I was talking about earlier.

Aechmea describes how the Lunarians tried to create their own gems by grafting pieces of gems they had captured from earth onto artificial bodies, and that they were dumped on earth before being retrieved after they showed no signs of life.  Barbata also mentions it later, in more oblique terms.  He’s speaking vaguely, but his warning to Phos feels a bit odd in its specificity. The use of the phrase “emotionally delicate” also raises my eyebrows a bit.  I may be reading too much into this, but I feel that his hypothetical example is less hypothetical than he’s letting on.  Perhaps, he is in fact referring to a certain someone in particular, who is emotionally fragile, and subsequently lost their sense of self after being subjected to this experiment.  Hmmm…

So here’s what I think went down: once upon a time, probably before the current generation of gems had been born, there was a gem on earth who was just plain old colorless Quartz. I’m going to call them OG!Quartz.  One day, OG!Quartz is captured by the Lunarians, and Aechmea uses them for his little gem experiment, probably with Barbata being the one to carry it out.  He shaves off the outermost layer of OG!Quartz and discards the rest of them. Then, he grafts those pieces onto an artificial body made of black Quartz.  The inclusions from OG!Quartz permeate into the artificial material, and thus Cairngorm is born.  The Lunarians subsequently dump them on earth, at which point Kongou, who may or may not realize what’s going on, picks them up and names them Ghost Quartz, despite the fact that they didn’t come about via that process.

This would explain a lot of things.  If so little of OG!Quartz was used to make Ghost Quartz, they would likely be unable to remember their previous life, or the ensuing events on the moon, for that matter.  And since Cairngorm would be a newborn at the time, they wouldn’t be able to remember Aechmea either, thus solving the riddle of how Aechmea knew Cairngorm before they came the moon.

It would also clue us in to what Aechmea meant by love, why he was quick to swoop in and take advantage of Cairn, and why he kept Cairn’s original arm around.  If they were the one success after a series of failed experiments, it’s possible that Aechmea feels a sense of ownership over Cairn, as if they’re his accomplishment.  (Yikes.)

It would also explain another thing that has stuck in mind.  The way Ghost was taken was kind of weird, wasn’t it?  At the time, the Lunarians were being oddly particular about nabbing Ghost instead of Cairn.  Usually, the Lunarians try to shatter the gems and be done with it, not shave a bunch of little pieces off the outside.  Furthermore, Cairngorm was thoroughly wrecked by the end of that fight.  The Lunarians could have easily grabbed them both and gotten away before help could arrive, but instead, they pushed Cairn off of the vessel and only took Ghost.  If we assume though that Ghost and Cairn are the result of one of those gem experiments, the Lunarians actions during that battle start to make sense.  Perhaps the Lunarians wanted to see if Cairngorm was alive in their own right, or if the pieces of Ghost were just dragging the rest of the body around.  They wouldn’t be able to tell the difference from their distant vantage point.  So, they nabbed Ghost and intentionally left Cairn behind in order to further observe their experiment.  

(I should point out that when I say “the Lunarians,” assume I’m referring to Aechmea, Barbata, and perhaps a handful of other unnamed extras.  Aechmea probably doles out knowledge of his obtuse schemes on a need-to-know basis, and I doubt people like Cicada, or Quieta, or Goshe’s gnarly skater friends know anything about this.)

Going back to this page, Cairn’s expression has stuck in my mind.  They’re trembling, and have a fearful look on their face.  By all accounts, even if what Aechmea just said was confusing, it should still be something Cairn would be happy to hear.  But their immediate reaction is one of understated horror.  It’s almost as if they intuited that there was something very wrong with that statement, even if they can’t put their finger on why. This leads us into another question that’s been on my mind which this theory might serve to explain.

In my very first essay about Caringorm, I ran into a bit of a wall when trying to figure out why Cairngorm’s personality is the way it is.  I figured at the time that Cairngorm’s issues arose from having no agency for most of their life, and that their relationship with Ghost was perhaps much less amicable than we were lead to believe.  And while it’s hard to argue that being a prisoner in their own body for most of their life hasn’t messed them up, I don’t think that’s the only thing going on here.  Furthermore, as far as Cairn’s relationship with Ghost was concerned, we haven’t heard anything about it since, which leads me to believe that it’s not where the trouble lies.  While I still stand by most of what I said in that essay—particularly about how Cairn’s dependency complex compels them to treat themselves as a vehicle for someone else’s desires—there’s a major aspect to all of this that I overlooked at the time.  During their brief tenure in the series, Ghost exhibited a lot of the same issues that Cairngorm does now.

The way they talked about living life following Lapis’s orders—as if they were Lapis’s lackey rather than their partner, the way they latched onto Phos so strongly after they showed them the barest hint of interest, their abysmal self-esteem… It all seems eerily similar to Cairn’s issues, even if it manifested in a more muted fashion.  So, why is it that Ghost exhibited some of Cairngorm’s maladaptive coping mechanisms, despite the fact that Cairn should have been the only one of the two who needed to develop them in the first place?

I haven’t exactly put too fine a point on it since I don’t live with the condition myself, and thus don’t want to risk putting my foot in my mouth, but I can’t really elucidate on this in a concise manner while dancing around the subject.  Ever since chapter 68, I’ve been looking at Cairngorm through the lens of borderline personality disorder.  Since they seem to check more and more boxes off the symptom list with each new chapter, I think it’s a useful lens through which to view them, whether or not it’s one that Ichikawa had in mind.  But, BPD generally arises from trauma, to the extent that many psychologists see it as an alternate manifestation of PTSD.  So, for the longest time, I’ve wondered how it was that Cairn and Ghost ended up the way they did.  There’s no clear answer in the narrative at this point.

This brings us to what Barbata alluded to, that the process of trying to create an artificial gem was damaging to the minds of the those who were subjected to it.  If Ghost and Cairn were (re)born as the result of something terrible, something that destroyed their sense of self, it might explain why they both have mental issues that are indicative of past trauma, despite those issues not having any obvious source.  The only other possible source of trauma I can come up with is that the relationship the two of them had with Lapis might have been an abusive one.  But if that were the case, then there should have been some buildup for it in the chapters following 67.  And while Lapis and Ghost have barely been mentioned in the interim, there’s been a whole lot of incremental reminders that Aechmea’s a shady bastard who’s hiding something from Cairn.  Where there’s smoke, there’s probably a fire.

Well, that’s about it.  Thanks for sticking with this to the end; hopefully, I didn’t make too many flagrant leaps in logic.  Ichikawa, if you would be so kind as to confirm my theories, and also let Phos peacefully live out the rest of their days with their snail friends, I would really appreciate it.  See you all in the essay for chapter 83.

[who-is-olivia]

Track 6. Only Angel

Harry Styles x OC

Olivia has to perform in the Victoria Secret Fashion Show but struggles to deal with her mental health. [3.7k]

Genre: fluff, angst

Warnings: nudity, sexual language, mental health struggles

December 2014

  They hadn't been on speaking terms.

  Two years ago, Olivia had a breakdown and decided to go back to her hometown in Brazil, right when One Direction was set to perform on Madison Square Garden. They split up to give her room to recover and it was working... until Taylor came into the picture.

  Harry never regretted the choices he made, he knew he would be miserable with Taylor knowing that Oli was just around the corner. So he broke up with her on the day they were set to travel to the Caribbean. It was very harsh on her so it’s understandable she wouldn’t take it nicely.

  Now, Oli and Frank have to perform on the Victoria Secret Fashion Show right after Taylor.  It’s an honor, Olivia will introduce two Brazilian models wearing a special bra thing, she’s gonna be wearing a beautiful lingerie piece, but she can’t control her nerves efficiently enough to enjoy the opportunity.

  This is the last rehearsal before the big performance, they mark the steps along with the sound check and the last costume fitting all at the same time. Frank’s standing around with his guitar waiting for the production’s queue to dismount while Oli leans over Nadine’s phone to watch a short news outlet on Twitter hyping the show tomorrow.

“... but the supermodels are not the highlight of the show, instead is someone who won’t even walk the stage: Harry Styles is the talk of the town as tomorrow both his ex and his current girlfriend will take the stage one after the other. Who do you think will deliver the best performance? Comment down below and don’t forget to subscribe-“

“This is bullshit” Oli shakes her shoulder trying to seem unfazed but secretly crumbling in anxiety.

“Total bullshit, I’m sorry you had to watch this-“ Nadine revolts.

“No, it’s fine, I’m just gonna get my stuff-“

“Hey, do they have extra wings?” Frank asks from the other end of the stage.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“I was dying to wear wings” he grunts and Oli rolls her eyes.

“You can wear mine after I walk the stage” Candice winks at him teasingly.

“Frank, we have bigger fish to fry” she walks up to him, leaving the girls to themselves. “We should call this off”

“Wha-Why?!”

“Because it’s drawing too much negative attention, I don’t need that at this point” she fiddles with her fingers, desperate for a cigarette.

“Oli, this is huge for the us, we can’t bail out”

“Frankie, please”

“No bug, I’m sorry” he pats her shoulder and walks away. From the corner of her eye she notices someone familiar approaching.

“Hey there, crazy!” Zayn nods.

“Holy shit, what are you doing here?” she jumps down the stage and lands in his hug. Apart from Harry, Zayn is the only 1D member she’s got to befriend. Nothing against the other boys, they all speak to each other, but he’s her actual friend. Doesn’t hurt that she got to work a lot with his girlfriend’s band recently.

“Harry told me you’d be here, I thought I’d give you a ride”

“Perfect! Let me get my things-“

“What about Frank?”

“He’ll find a place to sleep tonight” she chuckles.

  Since the show’s in London, she at least gets the comfort of staying at Harry’s place. Although they share a nice flat in New York, he needs a place in London due to the label and also to see his family. To ease their expenses, he bought a smaller place that she hasn't seen yet. Harry feels quite lonely in it, and having the expectation of her visit did nothing for his internal peace.

  On the way there, she and Zayn share a couple smokes and make small talk, planning a few tattoos while she’s in town. Soon enough they arrive and there he is, waiting to open her door for her.

“Hey love” he smiles, pulling her out of the car and into his loving embrace. At the very sight of him a huge weight is lifted from her shoulders. “Thanks mate, appreciate it”

“No worry, we’ll catch up later, eh?”

“I’ll text you, bye Zayn!”

  As he drives down the lane, Harry walks with an arm around her waist up to the flat where her things are already in place. With that out of the way, they head straight to the shower.

  He presses her naked body against the wall, her wet chest against his as their lips clash in a sensuous patient kiss. His small pecks fall to her jaw and down her neck as his wet hair tickles her, distracting her from the pleasure he’s giving.

“Haz?”

“Hm?” he hums in her sweet spot.

“Do you think I should do the gig?”

Harry stops kissing her, bringing his gaze back to her and sighing worriedly. “What could possibly make you not do it?”

“Everyone keeps speculating about the performance, they keep comparing me to Taylor and I’m just...” she cracks, hiding her face on his wet neck. Harry strokes the back of her head and shushes her tenderly, trying to get a glimpse of her.

“If you don’t wanna do it, don’t do it love. You can tell everyone you’re feeling sick and just stay here with me”  

“Yeah, but it would be amazing for Frank and I and it’s been really amazing to meet all the models and spending some time with Nadine...”

“Nadine’s great”

“She’s the fucking best” he relaxes at the sight of her smile.

“Whatever you wanna do, I’ll have your back, alright?” she nods and he leans in to kiss her playfully.

  They dry up and head to the bed, exhausted. Before she arrived, he was craving for her, desperately. He would remember their times together and twitch in his pants at the thought of it, always keeping in mind that she was x days away from coming home and putting away his misery. But having her in his arms so fragile, so unprepared, it felt wrong and he had to stop. What he feels for her is not only physical and he can’t let her emotional needs unattended.

  Oli falls asleep curled up to his side, one of her legs straddled around his waist, breathing calmly on his chest. He takes a little longer to doze off just watching her peaceful sleep, the lovely way her parted lips blow against his shirt and her eyelids twitch while she’s having a dream. Her hair is wrapped in a light pink silk sheet, soaked in coconut oil, and he can’t resist burying his nose on it and taking in the sweet scent. He loves her so much it burns, and seeing her anguish feels like walking with a knife craved in his heart, he wishes he could make it all go away... so he tries something stupid.

  At approximately 2:00am, he calls Frank.

“Aren’t you calling a bit late?” he growls on the other end of the line.

“Hey, I’m sorry, there’s just something that’s not letting me sleep”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Probably can, I just wanted to clear my head about this” he excuses, feeling like he’s already drawing towards the unwanted results with this call. “You and Oli have to perform tomorrow at all costs?”

“Look man... I know she’s stressed out, all that bad press is getting under her skin but after we ditched Fiona and Gina we haven't been selling, at all, and we need the show if we want to stay signed for another year”

“Yeah, but aren’t you scared she’ll just... lose it?”

“I am, I still feel guilty about her breakdown... but that’s the job, she loves it, the good and the bad. Trust me, she’ll be amazing tomorrow, you won’t tell the difference between her and an angel”

“I bet I won’t... night, Frank” he hangs up. Frank is a level-headed guy, he must have thought this through already and taken the most logical conclusion but deep down it doesn’t feel right. Anyways, Harry quits his crusade to spare her and returns to the bedroom, settling in her arms again.

  But their domestic bliss is cut short by the day’s schedule. At 11:00am sharp she’s already getting her nails done and her braids fixed at Harry’s while he chats with everyone who’s busy. However, he notices Olivia is dead silent – which is very unusual.

“Guys” he calls after the nails and hair are done, “can I steal her for a second?”

“Sure... don’t mess her up!”

“I promise” he leads them to the door and shuts it, turning to where she has her head hidden behind her knees. “Love, please don’t let it get in your head”

“Too bad” she leans on her freshly manicured hands and he can see tears on the corner of her eyes.

That’s the last drop. “Hey, look at me” he tips her chin so she looks at him reluctantly. “You can both do great, it’s not a race, no matter what the bloody papers say”

“I know”

“Do you?”

She sighs, dropping her head on his palm. “No”

“Then you have to believe me, just do your best” he soothes, stroking her hair, “and if you can’t, your 50% is already bloody incredible-“

“Haz! Shut up” she laughs sadly, wiping the little droplets from her eyelids. To have her at least smiling is enough.

“I love you, alright?” she nods, “Trust me on this one, you’ll be fucking amazing”

  They both get pampered and ready to the red carpet, as usual arriving in grand fashion. He leaves the car first then opens the door to help her out, making a huge scene as she gets up on her heels and throws her thin Havana twists out of her face gently, which is quite a spectacle to the paparazzi. Once she feels the luxurious climate, her attitude shifts and she immediately grows more confident. She welcomes Harry’s arm around her waist and supports her wrist on his shoulder, staring at the cameras with a focused glance. He can feel it, her posture changes, she looks powerful, he can’t hide his gobsmacked grin at showing the world how intimidating and formidable is the woman who literally owns his heart and soul.

  Once the photographs are over, they walk to the dressing room together.

“Mr. Styles, you can’t go in” a producer holds him back.

Olivia frowns at her. “What?”

“This area is just for performers and models, you can’t go in”

“Can’t he come to my dressing room?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not allowed-“

“It’s ok” he interrupts, knowing pretty well it’s what he set up to surprise her later on. When she steps back, he takes Oli by the hand and hugs her tightly, pulling her close enough so he can whisper in her ear. “No matter how many people step on that stage tonight, you’re the only one I see, alright?”

She smirks. “You better...”

“You’re the sexiest, most talented person I know, you’re gonna be amazing”

“I hope so” she leans into him, cupping his cheek in a passionate kiss that catches him completely off-guard.

“I’ll be on the front row” he says a bit out of breath before letting her go.

  Once she turns towards her dressing room, she sees her standing there: tall, slim, fair, blonde, piercing blue eyes following her every step. Not willing to make another scene, she salutes her with two fingers in a friendly gesture, and in reply she smiles politely. Their interaction ends there.

  On her dressing room, Frank is already dressing up and strangely giggly.

“Candice is giving me her wings after the first run!” he cheers, making it really hard for the stylist to work on his outfit.

“You’re winning already then” she mocks, pulling her dress straps down and asking for Frank’s help to unzip the rest. She’s not used with the rest of the backup band so she awkwardly slides to one of the changing booths. “Where is Morgan? The show’s about to start”

  While she waits for their agent, she quickly puts on the black combo of hot pants, torn t-shirt, up the knee boots and a boa. At some point she hears something above the noise of the backup band tuning their instruments and everyone shuts up.

  The show starts.

  Taylor is the first one to perform, walking down the catwalk with some of the biggest models in the industry. They run to the side stage to watch them but the producers don’t let anyone get on the way of the running models, so she has to watch on the TV’s spread across the backstage. Taylor’s presentation is straight up perfect, she moves like fucking royalty and interacts naturally with all the models – she looks so good she might as well be mistaken for one. Oli’s legs begin to shake as the song hits the second chorus.

  Fortunately, there are two other performers watching, and they come to greet her.

“Hey Oli” Andrew is the first, thank god for a familiar face. They used to hang out after rehearsals, he’s a giant dork who’s also not used to fame. Also, his poems make her cry all the time.

“Andy! I’m passing out!”

“Wow, hang on” he holds her by the shoulders.

“I can’t follow up, everyone’s talking about it-“

“Hey, what you’re talking about? You rehearsed this, you’re gonna walk down that stage and be fucking incredible” he talks her down in that convoluted Irish accent of his.

  From the front row, Harry nervously watches top models in tiny clothes pass one after the other, trying to focus on anything else but Taylor on that moment. Every line she sings feels like she’s spitting on him. A show that lasts minutes feels like hours, and when it finally ends it’s time for Olivia.

“Holy shit” she breaths out raggedly.

“Do you want some water?” Ariana asks.

“Where’s Frank?” Oli pleads, seeing black dots on her peripheral vision.  

Frank, who had been talking to some of the models, promptly excuses himself. “You ok?” she barely hears through her thumping ears.

“I’m having a panic attack...”

“Hey, let me handle this” she hears her voice distantly, as if she’s drowning on her heartbeat. “Come with me” Taylor helps her up and takes her to one of the bathrooms, just the two of them.

  She pulls her hair out of her face and shoves it over one shoulder, helping her lean over the sink in case she feels like throwing up. She then wets her hand and throws some cold water on the back of her neck.

“Breath in, hold, then breath out, just like me” she insists. Olivia closes her eyes, breathes in, holds, then breathes out, time and time again until she can grasp her surroundings. Slowly, the thumping on her ears recedes and she can actually feel herself again. “Better?”

“Yeah...”, she takes one last deep breath, “thank you”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been there” she dries her hand on a paper towel.

Oli sighs heavily, “I don’t know if I can pull this off”

“Of course you can” Taylor counters, “Just think: you’ll be on stage with your brother, singing a song you already sang a hundred times, your fans will love it, the models will love it... and Harry’s on the front row, he’ll love it anyway”

She hesitates before starting, “I’m sorry about what happened between you”

“Don’t... I’m actually glad it’s over” Taylor looks down and nods her head, trying to figure out her next words. “Sure, I didn’t like the way it ended but I was just so anxious around him, I feel like I can breath now, it’s so funny... when I was with him I was always so nervous, afraid to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, like you were just then” she points to the door, “but you’re... effortless together. I wish I had something like that in my life”

“Hey” she looks up at her, “these things just... happen, I can’t explain it. Just do your thing and wait for someone to show up who happens to like you just like this. It might take a while but it’s worth it”

Taylor smiles, pulling her in for a tight hug. Olivia relaxes on her shoulder, welcoming all the energy she lets out. “I think you should go out there and rock that stage” she whispers encouragingly. “It doesn’t matter what people will say tomorrow, we know what’s up, they never will”

Olivia nods, taking a bit of distance. “Thank you so much” she squeezes Taylor’s hands.

“You’re welcome... now let’s go”

  The show-runner asks for the audience to be patient as they’re having a few technical difficulties and Harry is this close to invading the backstage and checking on Oli. His knee bops up and down frantically, looking at Liam beside him for guidance. At the first sign of applause, his eyes shoot up at the stage and there she is. Frank’s guitar riff fills the room as they walk in, him leading the way with his tall angel wings, sunglasses and skirt, his guitar wailing as if calling for Olivia to join. Then she does, parading to the beat until she reaches Frank.

“How’re you feeling tonight?!” she calls before getting her queue.

  He couldn’t look away even if his eyes were gauged off. His breathing increases, his body responding to the feast upon the stage. Two Brazilian models pass in front of her, he doesn’t look away. The entire cast of the show walks up but still, he doesn’t look away. The way her vocals reach all the way to the back of the venue makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She looks so powerful yet so ingenue, as if the way her hips swing is completely pure.

  But there’s nothing pure about her. The way she dances with Frank’s guitar solo, the way she smiles and bops with the models, how her braids barely cover her bare ass cheeks, it’s too much. All he can think about is ripping that lingerie with his teeth and let her encircle him with that boa, he wants to be at her mercy.

  At some point, their gazes meet and he feels a bit love drunk, lost in her beauty. She walks to the edge of the stage closest to him and blows him a kiss and he catches it in the air, keeping it on his internal pocket and winking back at her. He wants her to kiss him, he wants her to lose all decorum and just disgrace him right then and there.  

  But just as it began it ended. As she takes a bow and walks out with one of the models, Harry applauds on his feet. She smiles proudly, holding Frank on a side hug and bowing once again. She did it! It was amazing, sexy, vibrant... and Harry can’t wait to see her, not another ten seconds.

  She’s welcomed in the backstage with thunderous applause. After all, she did it! She was super scared but soldiered on and now that’ll live in history as one of her best performances ever. As soon as the clapping dies, she walks up to Taylor and hugs her tightly.

“Thank you for everything” she whispers through a smile.

“You were a-mazing!” Taylor cheers getting some distance between them and then hitching. Oli follows her gaze and finds Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the commotion.

“Haz? I thought you couldn’t get in”

“Yeah, don’t say it too loud” he mocks, pulling a flower bouquet from behind his back. Olivia chuckles amusedly and runs to his embrace, leaving a very uncomfortable Taylor standing empty-handed.

“You were something else tonight” he whispers to her and hands her the flowers. Sensing the eyes around them, she restricts her displays of affection to a small kiss on his cheek. “How about we skip the after-party and just grab a bite with the band?”

“Sure, I just wanna watch Andy’s then we can go”

“Alright” he nods and his gaze accidentally catches Taylor’s. It would be extremely impolite to ignore her after looking her straight in the eyes so, for education’s sake, he walks up to her. “Ms. Swift”

“Mr. Styles” she replies with the same cocky attitude.

“It’s nice to see you”

“You too” they exchange a kiss in the cheek and part ways. Once Harry’s got his back towards her, Olivia and Taylor exchange a knowing wink.

  Before they watch Andrew’s performance, Oli and Harry head to her and Frank’s empty dressing room. As she walks in first to get the flowers on a pot, Harry locks the door behind him and moves to hug her waist. She closes her eyes in delight, feeling his desperate lips already trace her shoulder up to the crook of her neck.

“You looked really fucking sexy in that stage” he mumbles, taking gentle hold of her neck.

“I could tell, you were giving me bedroom eyes from the moment I stepped in” she mocks, stroking the hand that holds her on a choke-hold before turning inside his grasp and kissing him teasingly, making him dangle on the edge of sanity. He presses his parted lips on her but she pulls away slightly, licking a single strip of his bottom lip before bitting it lightly and kissing him back.

“Can’t wait ‘til bedroom love”

“Yeah? What a shame” she pushes him away playfully, “I’m not doing anything here with a zillion people outside”

“Fuck’s sake” he dramatically flops down into the sofa, “you’re killing me, honestly”

“Dead men can’t talk!” she replies, changing into her party dress and overcoat.

  Harry keeps groaning on the sofa, calling out for her until she’s ready. She leans over the back of the sofa and hugs his shoulders, he holds on to her arms for reassurance. Looking down, she notices he’s a bit too excited to go out in public, so she has an epiphany...

“... you got that James Dean daydream look in you eyes” she sings.

“Oh, fuck you-“

“And I’ve got that red lip classic thing that you like”

“Oli, don’t” he whimpers through a struggled laugh.

“We never go out of Style... es” with that one improv, he loses it, laughing his life away. She pecks his sweet cheeks over and over, leaving several dark-brown stains on his fair skin. “Come on, you’re good to go”

“Thanks, angel”

She narrows her eyes, hand hovering over the lock before grinning arrogantly, “I like that”

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Masterlist

[qualquercoisa945]

could you love this? would this one be right? well if i'm being honest, i'm hoping it might

AO3 link

Title Inspiration- If I'm Being Honest by Dodie

so. here we are. last chapter, huh? we've come a long way, honestly- can you believe it's been six months?- and i've changed a lot since the first chapter. not just as a writer, but as a person. and this is gonna sound sappy, but i owe a lot of it to this fic. it's the first multi-chapter i've finished and the first fic i've ever posted. i don't know where i'd be without it- and quite honestly, i don't want to know. but i do have some people to thank, in no particular order (and these are all tumblr urls so just bear with me here). first of all, one of, if not the first person to ever know of this fic's existence, @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts, who was the actual sweetest when reacting to it and was one of the main forces behind me beginning to post my stuff. thank you so much for everything, i owe you so much 💙💖 then, the actual ray of sunshine who beta-read through this fic, @lailaliquorice, who has been nothing but a positive force in my life and is just an all around great friend and is again, an actual ray of sunshine personified. so laila, thank you for everything and i hope i get to hold you again soon, sunshine 💖💙 next, @i-was-a-writer, someone who's been nothing but supportive and enthusiastic about everything i've told them about, and who's helped me keep a level head when my mind decided to be bitch so many times. thank you for helping me and supporting me, rico, i'm so glad you're in my life 💙💖 but obviously this wouldn't be complete with the actual angel in my life who's been there for me since fucking day one, @the-quiet-winds. when i first dmed you julie, with that crappy ass maragon fic, i had no clue that i would find one of the most supportive and fantastic people in my life. i'm not joking when i say that you've changed my life. i love you so fucking much my angel, you're the best older sister i could ever ask for 💖💙 and last but definitely not least, you all, who have read, liked, reblogged and commented on any of my fics. i wouldn't be where i am today without you all, and thank you all for giving me a reason to keep on posting them. i love you all 💙💖 i'll probably rewrite this fic eventually. i've considered maybe from a different point of view? we'll see. but for now, this is the end. so with all the sappy stuff out of the way, sit back and enjoy the last chapter of the kitty snaps fic. it's been a wild ride, but a good one. thank you all for everything 💖💙

Trigger Warnings- Hospitals, mentions of appendicitis, surgery, and stabbing in the context of a metaphor. As always, ask me to tag anything

The day had started… Well, definitely not well, considering her and Kitty’s… situation, but not terribly, all things considered. At least, Jane had managed to stick to her usual routine, which considering how chaotic things had been lately, was a win in her books.

Well, until she’d gotten that phonecall while on her way back to the theatre from her break between the two shows. She’d nearly let her phone fall right then and there as she heard Cathy retell how Kitty had fainted and how she’d had to call an ambulance, and that they were currently on their way to the hospital.

As soon as she knew where they were heading, Jane made her way to her car, not daring to hang up in case she’d miss any updates from Cathy, just barely keeping herself from speeding there as she drove to the hospital.

She was just barely out of the car when she noticed Cathy running over, and swiftly she pulled her bandmate into a hug, that was cut short by the latter pulling away. “It’s appendicitis.” Cathy explained without much pretense, and Jane herself could only barely mask her panic. “She’s in surgery right now.”

She felt Cathy’s hand give her own a light squeeze as, at least she assumed, her expression begin in morph into one of panic. “Hey, breathe. Times have changed, love, especially in this regard. It’ll be alright.”

Jane forced herself to take in a deep breath, nodding quickly. “Right, well, let’s go in, yes?”

The time spent in a waiting room felt like torture for Jane. The other queens had tried to get her mind out of it, but eventually they’d had to go on and thus it was just her and Cathy, whose mood wasn’t much better than her own. Finally, she resorted to simply watching the time, waiting in silence as she tried not to slip into panic.

She looked up from her lap when she hear three sets of footsteps rush over, watching as Catherine, Anne and Anna rushed over. She vaguely listened as Cathy gave them the same explanation she’d given Jane, before they all sat down near them. To her surprise, she noticed Anne sit down on her free side, and then they all fell into silence.

It was a few minutes later when she felt a light tap on her knee, and she looked up to face Anne, who nodded towards the door before getting up- a silent invitation for her to follow.

So she did. Jane followed Anne outside, and they stood there in silence for a moment before the latter spoke. “How’re you holding up?”

Jane couldn’t help but role her eyes at that. “Take a guess.” She muttered out, a seldom-heard bitterness lacing her words.

“Welcome to the club.” Anne replied with a shrug, leaning against the wall. They fell into silence for a while longer, before Anne spoke up again. “I’m not gonna say all that “oh, times have changed” bullshit because you and I both know that’s not gonna help. But Kitty’s tough, even if she doesn’t seem like it. She’ll be alright.” Anne seemed to pause for a minute, and Jane opened her mouth to speak before she continued. “And if you need to talk about it, which no one can blame you for, we’re all here for you.”

Jane nodded, but whatever she was going to give as a reply disappeared when she noticed Catherine go through the doors.

“Jane, she’s awake, and she’s looking for you.”

Kath had woken up to dull noises and a hazy vision. She just barely remembered asking for Jane, but now that she was slightly more awake and sitting on the hospital bed cross legged, she couldn’t help but lightly bite her bottom lip in anxiety as she waited for Jane to come.

If she did come.

The thought snaked its way into her mind nearly silently, only to immediately hit her like a truck. Would Jane want to come see her? After her outburst, and her behaviour following it… She couldn’t help but worry, wrapping her arms around her waist as tightly as she could without it hurting.

She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the door opening, and she swallowed dryly as she waited to see who it was.

And it was Jane.

Kath wasn’t quite sure what went through her mind once she’d seen her. All she knew was that a sudden wave of emotions hit her far too quickly, and a word she’d been wanting to say for god knew how long finally made its way out her mouth.

“Mama.”

She wasn’t sure what Jane’s immediate reaction had been, but she did remember quiet footsteps hurrying over, and a gentle kiss being pressed on the top of her head, followed by a dip on the mattress next to her and Jane pulling her into her hold, which she sunk into, her face buried in Jane’s shoulder as she let out a week’s worth of emotions through her tears.

“I’ve got you, love.” Jane’s voice felt just a bit more distant than it should be, and so Kath pulled her tighter, whimpering softly. “It’s alright.” She focused on Jane’s soft touches and words, using them to keep herself grounded as she cried in Jane’s hold.

As the tears slowly started to slow, Kath’s hold on Jane slackened while she slowly, slowly processed just what she’d called Jane before her outburst. Once it hit, though, she all but jumped out of Jane’s arms, not even able to look Jane in the eyes as she mumbled out a teary “I’m sorry.”

“What for, love?” Jane’s gentle yet confused tone only served to push the metaphorical knife deeper into her heart, twisting it around so it’d cause her even more agony.

“For calling you…” Kath gave a sideways nod, hoping Jane would get the message. It would seem she did, though her response was nothing like the one Kath had been expecting.

“Oh, darling…” Kath froze when Jane cupped her cheek, finally looking up to meet Jane’s soft gaze. “It’s alright, dear. I’m not mad.”

“You should be!” Kath finally exclaimed, sitting up straight. Jane recoiled her hand in shock, and so Kath made herself slow down a bit. “I was awful to you last week. An- And I’ve been ignoring you ever since and I-”

“Kitty.” Jane’s firm yet soft voice snapped her out of her reverie, getting her to focus on Jane. “You were understandably angry, love. I should have listened to you, and I’m sorry you felt like you had to lash out for us to listen. And…” Jane paused then, and Kath braced herself for the worst.

“And you’re right.” She blinked at that reply, tipping her head to the side ever so slightly. “You’re right, he wasn’t- he didn’t love us.” Jane finally murmured out, and it was then Kath noticed an odd sort of vulnerability that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen on the eyes of the third queen.

“M- I mean, Jane-” “If you want to call me mum, you can.” Jane interjected softly, giving Kath a soft smile when she looked up in shock. “I mean it, love. We can ignore it and pretend it never happened, or, if you’d like, you can call me it. Whatever you’re comfortable with, love.”

Kath found herself pondering on that for a few moments, she’d wager maybe a minute, then nodded and fell back against Jane. “Well, mum,” she spoke the word slowly, almost hesitantly, but the light squeeze from Jane’s arm around her shoulders pushed her to continue, “it’s alright. And, I’m sorry for losing my cool like that.”

She felt herself relax even further into Jane’s embrace, struggling to keep her eyes open as emotional and physical exhaustion began to seep in after the incredibly loaded conversation she’d just had. She perked slightly when she felt a light pressure on top of her head. “Sleep, my little love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jane’s soft words were all she needed to fully relax, and although she didn’t feel like everything was fine just yet, she felt like things were heading there. Slowly, but surely, she’d get there, she found herself promising to herself, no matter how long it took.

[shawnsorangeglasses]

Peer Pressure

2.2k words

idea and proofreading credit to @rulerofnocountry. this one really put me out of my comfort zone and i thank you for that 💛.

synopsis: Months of sneaking around with his social media manager finally catches up with Shawn when he has to confront her about where they stand

warnings: angssstt, and a smidgen allusion to sex

sorry in advance

…

He wakes up in the middle of the night again. Brian is still snoring in bed on his side of the hotel room. Shawn sits up, rubbing his face, then falls back into his pillow, which is now warm and damp from his sweat. That had to be the worst dream to date. It was the kind you get where you’re not totally asleep, just hallucinating. Everyone he knew had him surrounded, yelling and screaming at him, but no sound came out of their mouths.

Shawn flips his pillow over to the cool side and buries his face, hoping to find some relief. His hand bumps into his phone on the bed sheets so he unlocks it. She still hasn’t texted back.

He knew deep down that this— whatever it is— couldn’t last forever. Somebody would find out and that would be the end of it all. Just picturing what that day will look like, feel like, makes his throat close up. He just has to hope it won’t blow up in his face.

Kristiana came on board the team about six months ago. Andrew introduced her during a press week as the new social media manager. At first, there was nothing but business. The industry could be unforgiving at times and he grew to dislike putting all his cards on the table for introductions. Somehow, Kris broke down those poorly made walls and found herself comfortable in his bubble. And Shawn welcomed it, of course, because why wouldn’t he? She was witty and affectionate and genuinely interested in him. She still is. At least, that’s what she said multiple times in a multitude of ways. Whenever she helped him with fan interactions, joined his now frequent live streams, and reminded him to go dark and take a break from the endless stream of information, life seemed to get easier to cope with. She never changed what he wanted his online presence to be, but rather helped him articulate his personality more. He owed so much of his peace of mind to her. Kris cemented herself as his anchor without even trying.

Needless to say, the level of intimacy has increased since then. Shawn deliberately reserved his doubts about her intentions, though they stayed in the background to some extent. Was she taking advantage of his age or his position? She had her own business going for herself so she didn’t need anything from him. She isn’t all that interested in making a spotlight for herself. And she made him feel so good, and wanted, and— as childish as it sounds— grown up. To let go now, at this point, might hurt too much.

It’s sleepless nights like this that make Shawn wonder if he made the right decision. If everything really was fine, why is there so much weight resting in his chest right now? Why does he feel like no one will understand if they come clean? Why does he feel the need to keep it a secret from everyone, including his family?

He turns on the bedside lamp and looks down at his bare chest. The marks he let her leave behind a few nights ago are starting to fade and heal. She’s certainly good at everything she does. The first time it happened was spontaneous. They were both missing home and only got a little drunk. Not enough to be unaware of the decision to have sex, but definitely enough to let go of their inhibitions. Weeks of pining for her and writing songs no one would ever hear all spilled out of him that evening. It felt right then. And every other time after.

Shawn unlocks his phone again and taps the Instagram icon. Her post happens to be the first thing on his timeline. Every photo of him on her profile looks so innocent and regular at first glance. Only he and Kris know the truth of what happened before that shutter clicked and she made him blush with a whisper. He was guilty of doing the same to her.

But something in him felt sick tonight. He got up and darted into the bathroom, gripping the sink to stop his hands from shaking. The dream was far too clear and vivid to be forgotten so easily. He knows trying to force the images out will only make them stronger, but to just sit in this anxiety, by himself is a nightmare in itself.

The truth is Kristiana had changed. She’s no longer carefree person she was before feelings got involved. Everything became so hush hush and secretive. What used to be fun and off the cuff hanging out turned into calculated sneaking around. It got to the point where she was scheduling the times the rest of the team would fall asleep so she and Shawn could visit each other’s hotel room for a few hours at a time. Although, he enjoyed the effort at first, it started to kill the virtue of their actions. He was losing sleep and had no appropriate explanation. It’s only a matter of time before the work starts to suffer.

A chime from his phone catches his attention. She finally replied.

[meet me in the lobby?]

…

Kris looks tired, but kind of the way a flower looks after being weighed down by the rain. Her hair is wet, twisted into a coil on her right shoulder. She’s biting her nails again, eyes glued to her phone, and he feels his heart soften. No one else is around this time of night except the front desk clerk. It feels like they’re past a nonexistent curfew.

“Kris,” he says quietly. Her head snaps around and she hops to her feet.

“Shawn,” she slides her cell into her pocket. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you?”

She shakes her head. “I never went to sleep.”

Shawn glances at the desk clerk who’s not paying them any mind, but he still worries. It’s a byproduct of sneaking around. “Could we go somewhere else?”

“Yeah sure.” Kris folds her arms over her chest, a thinking habit of hers. “There’s no one by the pool.”

They head for the back of the hotel to the gated outdoor patio. Shawn holds the door for her, taking the opportunity to see if they’ve been followed. He knows they haven’t, but his mind won’t let him rest without checking.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she starts.

“No you don’t, Kris.”

He takes one step towards her, single handedly capturing her in a feverish kiss. She reciprocates with the same vigor, and her fingers snake under his shirt and trace cold lines up his waistline. Her mouth is the only one he’s kissed that seems to melt into his perfectly. A surge of energy courses through Shawn’s body like it always does when he’s skin to skin with Kristiana and he knows this feeling is still very much real. That is until she pushes back, painfully removing his hands from her hips.

“Shawn, that is not what we came down here for. You and I both know that.”

Shawn goes numb from head to toe. It’s just now hitting him that he hadn’t decided on what he wanted to say to her or if he wanted to end it at all. The thought crossed his mind, but only long enough to leave a dull ache in his chest. It’s definitely going to hurt.

“You’ve been different lately,” he admits.

“Yeah well,” she crosses her arms. “What’s life without a little change every once in a while?”

Shawn rolls his eyes. “Change isn’t always good.”

“Change is necessary,”  she reflects.

Shawn’s jaw sets. “I didn’t come down here to argue with you. Neither of us are happy like we used to be. But Kris, I still want to be with you and you’re not going to stand here and tell me you don’t feel something too.”

“I want us to be happy again too, and there’s a simple solution for that.“ She clears her throat. “I thought it over for a long time. I’ve decided to go remote again. For good this time.”

“What?”

“It’s the best move for both of us. Maybe the distance will clear our heads-”

“Kris, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Shawn paces the width of the pool, wetting his bare feet on the damp concrete. Kris steps out of his way, eyes trained on the ground. When he turns on his heel a third time, she’s briskly wiping her face. She never was one to cry in front of anybody, not even him. She obviously doesn’t want to end this, so she’s trying to make this business and not personal. That was the only part of her he never liked, when Kris shut down.

“You can’t just stand here and pretend like the last five months never happened.”

“I’m not. I already booked a flight for next week,” she finally says.

“Fucking cancel it!”

Kris steps in front of him. “Shawn, you don’t need me here.”

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna bail, after everything we’ve done together?”

“I don’t have a choice!”

“Bullshit. You do this every time it gets too real for you. We’re not in a boardroom meeting, Kris. We’re in a hotel. Standing next to a neon blue pool. Nothing about this is business.”

Her face holds its cold expression in spite of her growing red in her eyes. “I’m still going to be around, just not physically. When you need me, I can make myself available, but it has to be strictly work related. Boundaries have to be set.”

Shawn scoffs. “We’re way past setting boundaries, don’t you think?”

“There’s no use going through all the formalities, so I’ll just cut to the chase.” Kris stands up straighter. “This was a mistake and we’re better off separated. I can pretend it never happened if you can.”

“Stop it,” he says sharply. “I never said I wanted to stop.”

She exhales. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Kris, I get that you’re scared of what people will say. I do. But, if we just come clean-”

“Shawn, I can’t,” she blurts. “I- I can’t be that person for you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Kris doesn’t respond. Shawn pulls at his hair. His lungs fill with cool night air. “You don’t want it to be this way. I know you don’t.”

“Well then what do you want, Shawn? Because I can’t stand to watch you fall apart knowing it’s all my fault.”

“I want…” Shawn stops himself short. He has to be honest. “I want to not feel guilty about us anymore.”

“What does that have to do with me?” She tries to sound indignant, but a voice crack takes all the bite out of her words.

“It has everything to do with you, Kristiana. You’re the one that said we had to be under the radar. You’re the one that doesn’t want anyone to know about us. And I’ve tried to be understanding, but how do you think that makes me feel?”

Kris shakes her head. “All the more reason for me to leave. You’ll have room to think when I’m gone. I shouldn’t be in your life if I make you feel so terrible.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says softly. “Stop twisting it to fit your reasoning. We can just tell everyone the truth!”

“No. We can’t.” Kris finally holds eye contact with Shawn for the first time since they left the lobby. “No one will forgive us for this. Be realistic.”

Her face is puffy and flush from all the tears and it’s almost scary to see her this way, like finding a wounded animal. She’s just as lost and hurt as Shawn is in this moment.

“I’ve booked the flight and I’m leaving,” she says through her broken voice. “My mind has been made up for a while.”

Shawn sits down on a foldable chair, deflated. The shakes were gone by now. Even when she’s being infuriating, she was calming him down.

“Fine. You win.”

“Shawn, please.”

“No, you’re absolutely right, Kris. We’re done.”

She cautiously places a hand on his shoulder and he swears it stings. “You’ll realize later on that this was for the best,” she promises.

“That’s your problem Kris.” Shawn rises to his feet again, rubbing the burning wet from his eyelids. “Always thinking ten steps ahead and forgetting what’s right in front of you. Life isn’t some fucking Instagram post or tweet for you to plan.”

Kris falls silent, marking her end of the discussion. Shawn doesn’t wait around any longer. In about six long strides, he’s back to the hotel entrance. He swipes his card key and pulls the handle. Even though he knows he shouldn’t, he turns around. Kris is stood at the edge of the pool, checking her phone. It’s as if the fight never happened and she’s back to work as usual.

The further away he gets, the harder it gets to breathe. Taking the elevators isn’t an option, should somebody see him in this state and wonder what’s wrong. He ducks into the stairwell and the tear tracks are made before he can reach the first step. Shawn stays there on the frigid tile until the sobs stop coming. He doesn’t want to wake up Brian.

…

taglist:

@rulerofnocountry @sinceweremutual @enchantingbrowneyedgirl @shawnmendes048 @onigirishawn @shawn-youth @nevermindmisha @ashwarren32 @witch-bitch-life

[fc5holidayexchange]

An Inconvenient Longing

T- Rating: mentions of violence.

Hey, hey, Happy Holidays! My beta and I had to co-write some of this, especially the end, because I was running a fever for most of the last two weeks. I hope this is okay.

Rook first thought Joseph Seed only referred to his brothers and counterfeit sister as his family. Father, after all, was a common enough title for a priest. None of the Seeds used social media but some members had profiles hiding in strange little corners of the web. Yet, as the investigation wore on, those rare profiles disappeared. The idea filled Rook with a strange longing to delete their own profiles. What had one of the audio files of Seed's sermons said again?

Our family does not live in the digital cloud, or some bullshit.

Yet, like most mildly inconvenient things, Rook shook the longing off. Marshal Cameron Burke made it even easier to shove the feeling into the back of their mind. A kind description of Burke would be 'dedicated to his job'. Rook mentally deemed him a self-important asshole the moment he waltzed into the station. Still, someone had to arrest the guy.

The strange longing didn't strike Rook again until a few days into the Resistance. As they scouted the Durbman Marina one night, they caught sight of a female cultist kicking a vending machine. Although his gentle whisper could barely be made out over Mrs. Durbman's irate words, a male cultist reacted with strange familiarity. "Sister, calm your wrath, please. What would the Father think?"

The two looked nothing alike, didn't even pass as the same race. Rook watched as the woman relaxed into the touch. They didn't catch her response over the sound of their own heartbeat. They fled the scene, and tried to squash the longing. True, Montana was not Rook's home. The other deputies and Whitehorse were not their family. The other fighters were barely even friends. Still, Rook had a job to do.

Learning new skills became the easiest way to distract themselves. Want to lure a Peggie away from a hostage? Blow up a car nearby. Bow hunting? Well, Rook didn't consider themselves to be much of an outdoors person but ammo and food didn't buy themselves. Want to learn rock climbing? Sure, grappling hooks can be useful. Those ridiculous stunt courses some local hero set up? Why not!

It didn't take long for Rook to start traveling alone. They cleared entire outposts without alerting a soul. The missions turned into a twisted but soothing routine. First, survey the area, choke someone out, drag their body to a dark corner, loose an arrow at someone else, turn off the alarms, and call in the Resistance. Rook suspected that they'd need therapy after this violence but that inconvenient line of thought got pushed down with the longing.

Of course, the Seeds didn't let Rook do this undisturbed. Jacob called it 'playing soldier' and threw them into a red-tinted world of horror. Pratt, poor, downtrodden, equally broken Pratt, told them they shouldn't have come. Boy, did they believe it. Fleeing the north made sense. Faith pulled them into The Bliss twice. Images swirled in Rook's head. The Marshal's leap. Jackalopes. Joseph's Vision. The world covered in ashes. No, not ashes. Nuclear. Fucking. Fall. Out.

Oh Lord, the Great Collapse. 

They moved to into Holland Valley. It only took a few interrupted baptisms, complete with drowned VIPs, and exploded silos for John to take notice. Rook's own baptism came with Bliss sparkles and too little oxygen. They stopped drowning VIPs after their escape.

The people of Fall's End did great things to squash the longing. Welcoming folks, with warm flannel and lukewarm beer. Boomer, a trusty old dog, became Rook's constant companion. The Spread Eagle turned into a place that felt like home. Rook saw themselves fitting right in here, when the dust and gunpowder settled. Not a Montanan by blood or upbringing, but by sheer grit.

It all changed when John took Rook again. It should have been straight forward. Get out, preferably quietly, and get back to Fall's End and Boomer. Rook prepared to jump a man kneeling for prayer. Unfortunately, the longing had other plans. The prayer, a simple 'help me accept these people', struck deep. Despite the fact that these people were doing evil, this one man had nearly pure intentions. 

Rook didn't mean to cry. They went from a crouch to sitting awkwardly on the floor like a child.

The man startled and grabbed his baseball bat. "Hello?" Then, just like that, he was squatting in front of them. "Aren't you the Junior Deputy?"

Rook nodded once.

"My name is Eric. Is Rook your name or just something the sheriff's department calls you?"

"It's my first name, yeah. I picked it myself," they croaked.

Eric took a deep breath, straightened up, and offered his hand. "Let's get you back where you belong before John becomes too wrathful. You'll have to confess to trying to escape."

Rook nodded and followed behind Eric. They ignored the staring eyes of the other Peggies until they got back to the torture room. John came bursting through the door they were about to enter. "Brother John, I found Rook."

Rook watched, fascinated, as the televangelist facade slipped onto John's face. Before he could say anything, they blurted out, "My sin is Envy."

John smile turned dark. "Confessions are private, Brother Eric."

"Good luck, Rook." Rook stepped back into the blood soaked room with John. The door slammed and Rook flinched.

"We'll have to do this on the floor, Deputy, since you destroyed your chair. Sit."

Rook found a spot that was mostly dry and sat ungratefully. With their shirt collar ripped, the room felt cold. "What happens now?"

John knelt beside them with a roll of duct tape. "Legs out straight. I need to make sure you won't escape. You must reach Atonement."

Consenting to it all felt strange. John quickly cocooned Rook's legs in tape, like some redneck mermaid. Unlike Eric, there was no compassion or affection in John's eyes. He seemed excited as he moved his equipment to floor level. The light shined painfully in Rook's eyes. "This isn't meant to be comfortable. Let's start at the beginning."

"Well, I said my sin was Envy."

Rook should have expected the smack but it still stung.

"I mean your beginning, dear Deputy."

***

It took hours of punches, smacks, and swallow cuts for John to accept Rook's rather undramatic life story as truth. He examined everything for truth. Yes, their birthday really was Christmas. No, there's no deep reason why they aren't close to their retired parents anymore. Yes, they'd legally changed their name to Rook when they were 22 and stupid just because they wanted to. Weren't you a lawyer John? Those things are public record. Fuck, there wasn't even a noble reason they moved to Montana and joined the Sheriff's Department. It was just a job.  They were pretty confident they had never spoken about themselves that much. Everything hurt, seven their throat. Satisfied, John stood. "Now, why Envy?"

Through their sore throat, they whispered, "I envy the Project's sense of community." The room fell into a tense silence. Rook closed their eyes, expecting a kick. 

"Why is that a sin, Deputy?" Since they closed their eyes, they only felt John push the ripped fabric of their shirt aside and the tattoo gun buzz to life. "Come on now, open your eyes."

Rook didn't. "Because there's a community in Fall's End that isn't a brutal, murdering, doomsday cult?" The attempt at snark came out weak, with a questioning tone that turned into a painful cough.

"No, Deputy, try again. Surely you can figure it out." The buzzing temporarily stopped. "Hold still. It's not supposed to be only an E."

Rook took a deep breath to stop the coughing fit and raced through every impression they had of the cult and John. What did he want them to say? It was the truth. In those moments of profound loneliness, they could have gone to the jail, or the Whitetail Milita or talked to Father Jerome instead of the dog. As far as they could tell, it was an honest confession. They opened their eyes.

John sighed, then stood again, walking back his tool bench. "Deputy, Deputy, Deputy. Should we add pride as well?"

"Joseph does disappointed better than you." A familiar flash of anger crossed his features, like the moment he almost drowned them. Inspiration hit and the lie tumbled out. "I should have said yes. I could have turned myself in at any time. What I wanted was right there and I was too prideful to say yes. Instead, I fought against what I wanted."

"Are you going to say yes now, Deputy? Will you work towards Atonement?"

"Yes."

***

Rook came out of that bunker with three tattoos: Envy, Pride, and Wrath. John explained the last one for them. "You don't kill that many people without being fueled by anger, Deputy." They hadn't expected to come out at all. Waiting for the Collapse in a cell in an abandoned missile silo seemed fitting somehow. Yet, Joseph wanted to ensure a genuine conversion. Rook moved into the Invidia dorm on his little island with only a single radio announcement of their conversion.

Before returning to the island, Rook assumed Joseph's compound housed some of the elites. Instead, it housed everyday Peggies. Devout, yes, but they weren't major players. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a need for Joseph's direct attention. Many beds were empty. On duty elsewhere or dead, Rook didn't dare ask.

A certain familiarity coursed through the compound. Everyone knew everyone's name. Rook expected the Peggies to use all sorts of cruel nicknames for their newest convert but instead 'sibling' slipped out.

Like he did with most people, Joseph called Rook his child, and, more surprisingly, little lamb. Rook's role appeared to be following him, just like Mary's lamb. Rook wasn't extra security, even though they were trained. They weren't allowed weapons. Part of their conditions of atoning for wrath, according to John. Rook didn't understand why Joseph wanted them near. Part of them longed to know but it terrified them

By day three of prayers, sermons, and the random things like gardening, canning, and laundry, Joseph realized Rook wasn't speaking. The group that didn't have guard shifts were eating lunch. Most sat around a picnic table. Those with prominent Sloth tattoos stood. "I watched the play back of your confession, my child. Did I miss the part where you took a vow of silence?"

It took a moment for Rook to catch that he was teasing. "I--I'm sorry?" A rather unfortunate voice crack and a cleared throat later, they tried again. "I'm sorry. I've never been super talkative. I work alone, usually."

"You aren't alone now," a Peggie said. "You have us."

The words, the lie, slipped out naturally. The longing for it not to be a lie bubbled up but they squashed it. "And I'm thankful for it. I just need time to process this."

"Of course you do." Joseph's sympathetic smile seemed almost genuine.

Things fell into a routine. For two weeks, things stayed peaceful. Rook even let themselves smile and relax around Joseph and the cultists. Simple touches stopped making them flinch. Joseph let them work alone with the others while he prayed. Rook helped wherever they were needed. Weapons were still, regretfully, off limits. Rook understood why, but the lull in action made all the inconvenient thoughts simmer on the surface.

Then, Faith's body washed onto the compound's boat dock. An attempt to take the jail must have gone horribly wrong. Rook had to shut down the part of their brain that enjoyed investigation. Instead, they watched Joseph mourn. Joseph filmed the eulogy alone, just the two of them and a camera on tripod.

Rook stood awkwardly near the door of the Church. "My children, a seal has been open."

Rook quietly stepped outside the church, leaving Joseph to his broadcast. Sitting on the floor, or in this case, the ground, had become an unexpected past time. Rook at for as long as was reasonable and then returned to work.

No new Faith took the mantle but Rook briefly wondered if Joseph meant for them to take the job. He never broached the topic. Joseph withdrew, spending more and more time praying and fasting in the church. Rook made themselves indispensable around compound.

Rook consciously recognized the moment they started believing in the coming Collapse. While waiting for some freshly and taking a break in some shade, it dawned on them. The government didn't react to a Federal Marshal going missing or an entire county going off the map. Hope had decommissioned missile silos. Was that information declassified? Was Hope a target?

Joseph appeared seemingly from nowhere. "My child."

"Father. Forgive my sloth." Rook got to their feet.

"You see now."

"I do." It felt like another confession but they couldn't force out an apology. Something bad coming didn't excuse the kidnapping and murder. Their eyes went to the fence around the property. Despite the longing, they were technically a prisoner.

He did that strange forehead touch. "Child, I have news. Sheriff Whitehorse and Marshal Burke are dead. They were beyond saving."

"Oh." Rook blinked. They expected some inconvenient feelings but nothing came up. It was as if they'd been made blank. "I was only a Deputy for a few months, Father. And, this is an unchristian to say, forgive me, I didn't particularly like Burke. We'd only just met."

"I assumed they were your friends."

"No, Father." Rook didn't feel the need to explain further. "I didn't belong there."

"Do you see where you belong now?" Joseph asked.

"Here?" That longing, inconvenient as it was, surged. Shame came along with it. Murderers, kidnappers, thieves, and Rook wanted to be one of them. Although they would never admit it out loud, they'd been interested in the cult from the beginning.

"Yes, my child. This is your home."

Rook sank into the feeling, the longing finally gone.