#Thread - bed bath and beyond pissed

[raijintosworn]

There was nothing like a bath after work. Ryoma could feel the stress leaving his body already as he prepared himself. It was true that he was far less stressed now than he was back in Hoshido, but he was far more aware of it these days. He was taking better care of himself. He was pretty happy, all things considered.

That happiness faded the instant Ryoma saw him.

Camilla had been dismissive upon their meeting. Leo had been cold. Xander seemed confused. Somehow, that angered Ryoma more. He was aware that there were people from home that were not from his home, such as Mikoto who was still alive, and Sakura who seemed to come from a much happier version of events. And this Xander, this man before him, didn’t even have the decency to be the right Xander.

The old injury in Ryoma’s abdomen seared from within. This was insulting. The fact that Xander did not immediately understand why Ryoma might be angry made him wish for a blade to strike him with. Ryoma took a deep breath and tried to steady himself, but a lung full of hot, humid air did not help.

He noticed where Xander was looking, and he looked up at it. No. No. He folded his arms, his gaze steely. “You can’t think I’ll willingly kiss you after all you’ve done, Xander.” There was always a chance, of course, that Xander was feigning confusion. Either way, Ryoma wasn’t letting him off easily.

@paragonknightxander

bed bath and beyond pissed

from here

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 4

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6K

Warnings: Explicit Smut, dark themes, male/female masturbation, bodily fluids, mentions of sexual encounters, dirty words, sexual threats. It’s August, he’s the baddest of bad boys!

A/N: Soooooo this chapter was fun to write, I hope you guys like it :)! Thanks @agniavateira for being my editor and my emotional support! 

Title: Memento Mori

Funny, he’s never seen someone drown in icy water before. With her injury and massive blood loss, the struggle doesn’t last longer than a minute. This is beyond her natural survival instincts, gradually her muscles give up, running stiff as the blood in her veins chills.

August stares with rapt. Not once did the Valkyrie scream for help, or even begged him to save her.

Truth be told, it kinda pisses him off as much as he finds it admirable.

‘Such a strong-willed girl. Would be a shame to rid the world of her so soon.’

“Whatever,” he mutters and carefully steps toward the crack in the ice. His hands hoist the body up before she sinks below the surface. With water in her lungs and her muscles rigid, she’s impossibly heavier.

A red path of blood tarnishes the ice as he drags her body toward the edge of the lake. There is no urgency in his behaviour, relaxed he kneels to stare at the lifeless woman and wonders if in her hubris this is how she believed this day will end.

Her skin is pale blue, lips dark purple. Drained out of wit and life, those delicate Scandinavian features look like something out of a fairytale and he muses whether a kiss will wake her up.

It won’t make any difference to the world if she’s dead or alive, it certainly won’t make any to August Walker.

His digits stroke her frozen cheek, sensing the skin is stretched over the hardened muscles. He tilts her head up and presses at the hollows of her cheeks to force her lips open. For some reason, he thinks of a different dead girl, though they are nothing alike.

Planting his mouth over hers, he breathes oxygen into her lungs. Her chest rises, filling with the air he breathes into her. He repeats the process four times and then begins compressing her heart, watching her corpse lie peacefully on the snow.

Never in his years of service had he needed to perform CPR on another person. It’s not as melodramatic as shown in the bullshit movies he’s seen; no one’s shouting “C’mon girl! Breathe!!!” and hits her chest in despair. The owls and bats that chant between the large trees and the wolves howling at the moon from a distance couldn’t care less if Ingvild, whatever her-last-name-is lives or dies.

On the contrary, they’ll be thrilled to eat her eyes out.

He pauses on his attempt to resuscitate her and watches as no change appears in her face. His hands rest in the air, hovering above her for less than a second, considering if to give her another chance. He leans to capture her mouth again when Ingvild suddenly twitches, gagging as water seeps through her mouth and nose like some decorative fountain.

August observes quietly. Her eyes are shut, her body is only reacting instinctively, coughing out the water in her lungs. He nudges her to the side, draining the water out until she stops coughing and lays unconscious on the ground.

He moves his ear closer, listening to her soft breaths. He wonders how long will she survive in such a condition, suffering from hypothermia and massive blood loss. Letting her drown might have been a favour, he might have just granted her a cruller death.

Blackness surrounds her, chaining her to the ground. An excruciating pain blossoms in her lungs, as if someone placed a massive weight that smothers her while her throat and her nose sear with pain. The rest of her body feels numb, someone might as well leave her limbless.

The image in front of her appears blurry as she attempts to open her eyes and hang on to the tendrils of reality, uncertain when and where she is and what happened at all. Was life just a dream?

Or was it a nightmare?

‘Liam?’

No voice is produced from her lips, she is not even sure they’re moving.

The face that greets her is certainly not Liam. It’s the man who granted her this agonizing death. He looks at her with silent curiosity, not saying a word as her glassy eyes become more and more vibrant.

Her hands suddenly reach to his throat, clutching him with all the energy left in her traumatized body. As battered as she is, he still has to use force to peel her claws off of him. She struggles, grunting and hissing, her nails leave bleeding scratches over his cheek.

“Remember you are only alive for as long as I permit it.” August speaks to her calmly, impressed by her stubborn will to kill him even when she’s hanging by the last thread of her pathetic life.

The struggle takes no longer than a few seconds as her eyes roll back and she falls to the ground, unconscious again.

August collects her in his arms and rises, carrying her through the woods. “Better this way, princess,” he whispers to the sleeping beauty in his arms. The temperature of the water has slowed the bleeding, causing the blood vessels to clot and reduce the pace of her heartbeat. It benefits in keeping her alive, but it’s also slowly killing her.

He returns to the bed and breakfast to be greeted by the receptionist who stares at him, baffled.

“Too much to drink,” he explains, offering her a charming smile as he continues marching toward his room with the unconscious girl in his arms.

~*~

“Fucking mess,” he mutters as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him with his leg. That stab wound may be bleeding slower now, he hasn’t ruptured any viable organs. However, the gash in her flesh is large and still needs to be dressed.

He drags her to the bath and puts her on her feet, letting her limp body lean onto his while he unzips her suit and boots, stripping her to her undergarments. A crescent-like slit gushes blood at the side of her abdomen.

August places her in the empty bathtub before grabbing the first aid kit he bought at the hunters’ shop. Being a wanted man now, he had to be prepared for everything.

It was nearly him tonight that needed that first aid kit.

The scent of alcohol fills the room as he pours it onto her open wound. He waits for a response from her, maybe a twitch from the excruciating pain, yet Ingvild is so far gone she doesn’t react whatsoever. His finger presses to the tendon in her neck, only to make sure he is not taking care of a dead girl.

A faint pulse is there; her heart still beats. Yet her body is as cold as ice, and he knows that if he won’t take care of her soon her systems will begin to shut down one organ after the other. He sews her wound shut quickly, making unfashionable stitches across the wound.

“Sorry love, no more bikini for you.” he mocks the sleeping girl. “Although porn sites must be filled with scar-porn, so you’re good.”

After stitching her up and dressing the wound, he carries her back to the bedroom and lays her on the bed. Her skin is shivering, frozen and pale as death itself. She has hypothermia and needs to have her body temperature stabilized before every one of her major organs will go into failure.

“Not how I pictured us getting into bed naked,” August jokes without humour while beginning to peel off his clothes until he is completely bare. He towers over her trembling form and watches how helpless she appears. His hands run down her spine, reaching to find the hooks of her bra. It takes no effort to unclasp the flimsy soaked fabric and discard it on the floor. Next, he coldly and methodically slips her underwear off.

He takes no pleasure in stripping an unconscious woman who can’t defend herself or struggle, yet he cannot resist observing what’s laid right in front of his eyes.

The sight is indeed pleasing.

‘Hate me later, princess. I am just a man.’

August climbs onto the bed and lies in front of her. He pulls her toward the warmth of his body until her forehead is pressed against his chest and every inch of her skin is covered by his own. With a clenched jaw, he holds her close.

In his arms she trembles, teeth chattering, while her heartbeat is feeble and can be hardly felt against his chest.

He thinks of nothing while holding the cold, half-dead girl against him.

Nothing at all.

Not the memory of another dead girl.

~*~

Ingvild scratches a scab on her knee, watching the other girls as they play without her. They stick their tongue at her and call her a freak. She doesn’t cry, only sniffles gently while her small fingers pry at the itchy skin.

“Ingvild,” Sister Marja walks toward her, making a sour face as she sees the girl. She never liked her either. “Someone is here to pick you up, finally.”

Little Ingvild jumps from the dirty log she is sitting on, brushing her skirt and arranging her braided pigtails before joining Sister Marja. ‘That uptight crone, all she needs is a good fuck.’

The sister hurries toward the orphanage while Ingvild runs after to keep up. Her heels echo on the floor through the arched hallway of the facility.

A man waits for them in the office of the Mother Superior, Yet another crone who looks like she never had a good fuck. But there is a smile on her face, making her loose skin become all creases and wrinkles like a dried rotten potato.

Ingvild looks at the man who stands with his hands behind his back. His hair is black with few threads of silver. She is uncertain if he is smiling or not; the expression on his face is of a person who’s trying to appear pleasant but in a very contained way.

“Ingvild, this is Liam.” Mother Superior speaks in her terrible heavy smoker voice. “He is your new adoptive father.”

~*~

Warm light strokes her face, forcing her eyes to blink open slowly. A basic function that suddenly feels oddly painful. Her eyelids are too heavy as if she never opened her eyes before in her life. The scenery around her is still too vague; she doesn’t recognize the room at all, wondering if she is in another dream.

A word in her own language blurts out of her mouth as she tries to sit up, accompanied by a small groan. Everything feels out of place as if her limbs have been misplaced and her internal organs exploded inside her body. Pain begins to course through her body, starting with the muscle of her right forearm which now feels extremely strained.

“Ah…” she grunts out, tugging at her arm which is in an odd position.. But for some reason, her arm won’t budge. It’s tied to the bedpost above her head by a tight rope.

‘This is hilarious. Like watching a dog wake up from anaesthesia.’

“Hva?” she asks in her mother’s tongue. “What?”

She gives the bind a few good moments of struggling before giving up. It’s when the heavy blanket that covers her slightly descends from her chest. She realizes she’s been completely stripped of her clothes.

Panicked, she hugs the cover to her chest with her free hand. Her eyes were looking around with slight anxiety while she continues to pull her right hand in an attempt to free herself.

The scent of coffee tickles at her nose, alerting her that she is not alone.

August appears in front of her with a red cup of coffee in his hand. He wears that familiar arrogant look with a hint of a smile, so vicious and cold it makes her feel she wasn’t only stripped off her clothes but of her skin and muscles as well.

Would have been better if I was stripped and bound to the devil’s bed.

He takes the wooden chair, dragging it on the floor which makes her cringe at the screeching sound. Fragments of the night before begin to fill the gaps in her memory. She tied him to this chair.

Placing it in front of her, he sits down, legs spread widely with confidence she can only describe to herself as irritating as fuck.

She hugs the cover tightly to her chest, her legs curling toward her torso to shelter herself which suddenly inflicts an excruciating pain in her lower abdomen making her moan involuntarily . Peeking beneath the thick blanket, she finds the large bandage on her torso, stained with a few drops of brownish-red blood.

“Good morning, love, we’ve had quite the night.”

More shards of memory begin to cut through her mind. Like remembering an event that happened so long ago, it almost feels like a dream. Her mind fights to make sense, to grasp at the fuller image. She recalls gasping through the woods at night with weak limbs and a hand full of blood. Then a shot that ripped through the night. Bats were flying everywhere and then her body was cold for some reason.

No, she was freezing.

Like a videotape that’s cut off and glitches in the middle, her memory stops there. Making her stare at the Scandinavian pattern on the blanket as if she will find any answers there.

“Who is Liam?” August asks, taking a long sip from his coffee. There is much amusement in seeing her cowering before him looking so helpless right now. Stripped, unarmed, and bound to his bed after he took her life and gave it back.

He licks his lips at her which only makes the alarmed look on her face become more distinguished.

“You’ve undressed me?” she asks, finding out her voice is aching and hoarse, as if something seared her throat. “And tied me to the bed?”

August’s teeth are exposed to her as his smile widens. She makes a note of two sharp fangs, it makes him look like a vampire. “Perceptive, aren’t we? Wasn’t for any personal interest, you were in hypothermia.”

He gives a small pause, his eyes travelling across her covered body, unable to deny how nice it was to wake up with a naked woman in his arms. “Not that I didn’t enjoy having your tits pressed to me for an entire night.”

Even as lost as she is, she can’t help but roll her eyes at him and groan with hatred.

‘If anyone in Icarus hears of this, I’m done for.’

Was the stinging pain in her chest failure or sepsis? Either way, it stung. This was far from how she imagined this mission going along. Ending up as a captive of psychotic target, tied to his bed as a future sex slave or heaven knows what.

‘How the fuck did I end up here? Like this? Why?’

August watches as she frowns with deep concentration, forcefully trying to evoke some memory of all the lost hours from last night. He wonders if she knows he killed her. He’d very much like to remind her of that, of how she was at his mercy and the only reason she’s alive right now is because he allowed it.

‘And still she tried to kill me right after I gave her back her life. What a woman.’

“Who is Liam? And please don’t make me ask again, given the poor situation you’re at right now, princess.”

More echoes begin to float in her mind. It’s the look of superiority on his face, the piercing gaze that threatens to cut right through her.

“You tried to kill me!”

“No. I have killed you,” he corrects her.

“You were dead for at least 5 or 7 minutes.”

She stares at him completely bemused, her eyes seeking answers on the lines of his chiselled face. There is no remorse, no care, no mercy in it. She doesn’t even bother to look for affection, whatever that looks like. He is as cold as Helheim.

“But you saved me. Why?”

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face straining as he remembers that idiotic idea he had last night, that mistake that’s now lying naked on his bed. For a man who plans ahead, he hasn’t thought this one through, not even for a second.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I only need you for intel. One wrong move and I’d be glad to put you back to the bottom of that lake.”

“You know who sent me, CIA, Erica Sloane.” She shrugs, staring at him oddly.

He leans forward in his chair looking deeper into her eyes, trying to invoke fear in her. Yet she remains stoic, only her eyes glaring at him like two icicles.

“How did you know I was here? Who else knows?”

“I’m a good tracker,” she answers, doing her best attempt to shrug her shoulders with one hand latched above her head. “And you are not as smart as you think you are, August Walker.”

August offers her a dangerous stare, crossing his arms around the wooden backseat while his feet push from the ground to lean closer to her. He doesn’t like to be challenged, especially not by silly little girls.

“Why is that?”

A small smile spreads on her face. “From all the vehicles you could have taken, you stole my bike.”

A hiss of disbelief leaves his nose but the answer doesn’t please him. He leans back on his chair until it lands forcefully on the ground, making a loud thud through the moderate silence in the room. His hand reaches toward her, grabbing her jaw and cupping it crudely.

“No, how did you know I was in Norway?”

She clenches her jaw, trying to escape his touch but his grip becomes firmer, his fingertips painting red marks on her sickly pale skin. “Answer me.”

“I didn’t-”

“Bullshit.” he challenges her, now closer to her face than she would have ever wanted. His hot breath is a breeze on her skin. Her natural instinct to learn details kicks in, forcing her to pay attention to every freckle s on his nose, his bottom lip, and the lines and small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

‘So much anger’, she analyzes. He is not even furious yet it seems he keeps so much bottled up.

‘Does he ever get tired?’

“I didn’t know,” she finally answers, both sincerity and scorn in her voice. Then, a small provoking smirk appears on her lips. “It was destiny that brought you to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head at her with disbelief, recalling their little flirtatious run-in 2 days ago. His eyes observe her while a smug smirk spreads across his face. He allows his gaze to travel further down her neck and her chest, attempting to peer beneath the blanket to get a reminder of what was pressed to his body the night before.

“Telling you the truth, August Walker, would have killed you then in the ladies room,” she provokes, aware of the fact that he’s staring at her chest even though she keeps it covered.

“Oh?” he returns his gaze back to her, a single finger now takes a hold of her chin, tilting her head up violently. “How would you have done that? I’m intrigued.”

Ingvild licks her lips, drawing attention to her mouth. It’s seduction that she offers but with that same cold, now vicious smile.

“Slicing your throat, while you’re were washing your stupid hair below the tap. I’d then shove a tampon up your ass and send a photo to everyone in Icarus and to Sloane so they can have a good laugh.”

‘My phone, shit.’

The mobile device is traceable, if Liam hasn’t heard from her in a few days he could find her. But now August has it, with the rest of the stuff he confiscated from her. She looks around, trying to find where he placed her items.

August interrupts her inspection, his hand wrapping around her sore throat with a menacing gaze. “Don’t give me any ideas, princess. I’m not the one tied up and naked here.”

“I need to go to the girls’ room,”

She ignores his threat, remaining calm despite the hand that can easily snap her neck.

He looks at her dumbfounded, clenching his jaw once more. “What?”

“I need to go…”

“I heard you.” he frowns, letting go of her throat forcefully and then shoving the chair back, making it screech against the wooden floor while pacing the room, irritated.

‘Great, now I’m a fucking babysitter?’

He begins to regret ever saving her pathetic little life. What is there to gain anyway? A guy named Liam? Whoever that is to her. She mumbled that name in her dreams when her body was struggling to fight for survival.

August finds the bathrobe in the shower room and throws it on the bed next to her, before hovering above her chest to cut her bindings with the same knife he used to stab her last night.

She tries to remain as relaxed and brave as she can, wanting him to think she is not intimidated by him and what she believes to be his empty threats. But every time he makes sudden movements. the intimidation shows in her beautiful grey eyes. Her body flinches and squirms helplessly.

If only she knew how aroused it made him, she’d be terrified.

“Try anything and I’ll unstitch you and let you bleed to death.”

Her wrist burns, the narrow rope has chafed her skin so badly there are deep purple marks on her flesh. She rubs it gently, trying to soothe the pain before grabbing the white cotton robe and staring at August with hatred.

He stares back at her while playing with the knife between his large hands. He slides a finger carefully on the edge of the sharp blade, making a harsh statement. No, he is not going to turn around.

Rolling her eyes she hides beneath the cover, pulling the bathrobe beneath and wearing it quickly, the relief of having something other than a blanket covering her feels almost astonishing.

At last, she throws the heavy blanket away and kicks her legs out of bed while wearing his oversized bathrobe. August remains silent, his eyes fixed upon her while the knife is pressed between his teeth.

Trying anything like killing him or escaping is far from realistic as she finds her legs hardly able to hold her own weight. The hardwood floor beneath her feet feels soft and mushy, if someone would have told her she’s stepping onto marshmallows she might have believed them.

She only manages to make two feeble steps before black spots appear in her sight and she falls forward with a pained grunt. She never makes it to the ground. Odd, she hasn’t noticed how big and strong he is when wrestling him on the floor. It seems that August has doubled in size.

“Who was it that didn’t love you, August?” she provokes coldly, grunting as she tries to lift her torso from his elbow. “Was it your mother? Or your dad?”

Silence and indifference is his answer to her query, with only a muscle that twitches in his cheek. He observes quietly as her hands grasp his biceps desperately and pathetically, trying to stabilize herself. It must make her hate him even more right now, to need him as much as she does.

He recalls how much he hated himself when he needed someone.

“Both then…” she answers, slightly panting.

“Did anyone ever loved you at all? Ingvild?” he taunts her back while helping her get to the toilet. He notices how her eyes look around while they move through the room, looking for her things, no doubt. She is smart, he’ll give her that, she is cunning and calculated even in her weakest moment.

But he’ll always be a step ahead.

“More than they loved you, I am sure.”

He lets her into the small room and shuts the door, leaning against it and patiently waits with his arms crossed. The sudden silence and her short absence begin to cloud his thoughts. It’s almost as if he’s dreaming awake, seeing her again, her hair falling from her decaying scalp like leaves falling from a tree.

‘Not more than you.’

The crude vibration of his phone snaps him back into reality. A message from one of the apostles, stating nothing but a location and an hour. He smirks to himself, glad to be soon away from this freezing hell. Now the question left is, what he should do with the little problem he created for himself?

Snap her little neck? Strangle her to death? Make it intimate, she deserves as much. He can already see his body hovering on top of hers, his hands wrapped around her, tight like a lover’s embrace. The robe opens as she struggles, exposing much of her naked flesh.

The thought makes him hum with delight but once again he is interrupted. This time it’s by her face that stares at him, blank of emotion, with eyes like two empty crystals. She leans against the door frame, her face tilted up to meet his gaze. “I need to shower. I smell like you.”

He wonders at all why he should fulfil her request. She’s a prisoner, not a guest, and far from being someone, he’d care for. His eyes run up and down her body and finally at the cold unreadable expression on her face.

“Whatever.”

The bathroom is rather large, surrounded by cream-coloured marble tiles that adorn both the walls and the flooring. There is a large, fancy bathtub in the middle of the room, one that is made to look old and classy with golden taps. An additional shower is placed at the other side of the room, surrounded by a thin wall of glass.

The bath looks so tempting, her eyes fixate upon it, fantasizing about slipping into a warm bubble bath with one of those pink and purple bath bombs.

August notices her fascination and snorts, edging her toward the shower instead. “You should’ve taken my offer back then, princess. Be thankful that I am allowing you the luxury of showering at all.”

For all, he cares she can die of infection, who knows what bacteria these lake water she bled into had.

“I’d take the shower over-sharing anything with you,” she spits back, her hand grasping the golden handle of the glass door. August remains facing, leaning against the marble tile with ease while sucking on his bottom lip with anticipation.

“Aren’t you going to at least turn away?” she asks naively, crooking her eyebrow up, bewildered by the large man who’s standing there with sheer confidence on his face, not bothering to give her an inch of privacy.

“No,” he smirks cockily, licking that small freckle on his lips. “You tried to kill me, I don’t trust you. But don’t worry, won’t be anything I haven’t seen before, princess.” he shrugs and tilts his head. His eyes gesture at the robe as he awaits for her to slip it off her body.

Ingvild chews the inside of her cheek with the fury that courses through her veins. He seeks to humiliate her even more, to show her again how little power she has.

But men are fools, a woman has more power over a man, especially when she is naked. She doesn’t mind what he sees and if he likes it or not anyway. Also, nervousness is not in her spectrum of emotions.

The white cotton robe falls off her body, landing at her feet with a soft thud. There she is standing completely bare before the man who tried to murdered her and who for some sick, twisted, megalomaniac reason nurtured her back to life.

Unlike last night, he has the freedom to linger on what stands in his sight. Milky white skin, stretched taut over an apt figure. Athletic; formed by years of whatever combat training she has endured. There are no scars on her body save for the new one he gave her which is hidden behind gauze. The thought of letting her survive just so she can curse him every time she sees the hideous crescent scar is quite the temptation.

He further inspects her body, imagining cupping her small breasts in his large hands, they will not fill his palms completely, but it will suffice. He was always more into women’s behind and the rounded shape of her tight ass is indeed pleasing.

“As I said, nothing I haven’t seen before,” he speaks out, letting his gaze travel back to meet her face again.

She hisses through her nose, rolling her eyes as she walks inside the translucent room and turns the stream of the water to wash over her body.

The heat of the water immediately makes her groan loudly with pleasure; it echoes through the entire room. Her body is far more battered than she even realized, it feels as almost as if she is being redeemed, baptized, or whatever other religious allegories she could think of.

She leans against the wall for support with both her palms flat against the surface. Her back arches and she lets her head tilt back with her eyes tightly shut. The damp hair sticks to her spine, while she lets the droplets of water slide between her perky breasts and down her torso.

Sweet moans escape between her lips with every second, accompanying the water that soothe her aching muscles.

August can feel the fabric of his trousers tightening as blood stirs through the veins of his cock. She squirms beneath the stream, moving so sensually while making these “fuck me” noises all too clear. It’s meant to tease and provoke him. He is tempted to march in there and fuck the living hell out of her.

Fucking her to death, now that one I haven’t tried before.

“Enjoying the show?” she asks, turning to face him while the water trickles down her back. She can see the hardness in his groin, growing larger and larger with every second she stands there wet and naked.

“I am, actually,” he answers, not bothering to hide his desire.

She turns to face the shower tap, one hand plastered to the wall while the other leisurely runs down her chest. Smooth and slick, she allows it to circle her breast, making sure August can see how her finger brushes the hardening peachy nipple before descending along her flat torso.

His breath becomes rigid, his eyes furiously focusing on how she praises her own body. Her lids are half-hooded, hazy with lust and her mouth is reddening and slight swelling as she bites into her plush lips with delight. He dares, taking a step closer, allowing himself to have a better view of the show.

It is for him after all, is it not?

Tender and slow like honey, she lets her fingers creep between her thighs. In her mind, she fancies larger hands taking control over her body. A man’s hands, hands that are rough and callous, counter to how she is built, yet they caress her gently, working their way up between her inner thighs and spreading her open.

A feverish moan escapes her tightened lips as her fingers rub against her clit. She opens her eyes with her head thrown to the side. Giving August a lustful stare, cruel and full of snide she begins working herself with sensual strokes. She can feel her own wetness, thick and oily against her delicate fingers.

August’s nostrils flare, the bulge in his groin now enormous and aching for release.

Does she think she is torturing him? Does she even know men?

He inches closer toward the shower, close enough until so his hand can touch the glass which is now covered with tiny droplets of water and a thin layer of steam. His hand falls toward the zipper of his trousers, letting it sink before reaching out to pull his erect cock.

There is a smitten look upon her face, and an unpleasant chill runs through her spine as if she is intimidated by the sheer sight of him. Obviously, he is very much aware of how impossibly large he is. She gathers he is used to the look she is giving him, knowing exactly what’s going through her mind.

“Why are you stopping then, princess?” he asks with a cocky smile, his large hand wraps around the base of his hard cock, immediately beginning to stroke while eliciting deep, low groans.

Ingvild finds it surprisingly arousing, unable to help herself but stare at how his fingers engulf the fleshy shaft, feeling herself throb at the sight of the thick bulging veins and the ridges that run across his erection. When she started this little game it was in order to abuse him. But now, there is a certain desperation in her spiteful urge.

Looking at him as if driven to insanity, she lets her fingers massage her mound with increasing force, hard yet slow while her thumb traces the engorged nub. With every intent to let him see what he cannot take, she leans against the wall and parts her legs wide for him, letting him see her pink cunt and how her fingers play and tease while her other hand moves to squeeze her breast.

Her mind escapes into fantasies again, to urge the tingling sensation that burns between her thighs. Betrayed by lust, it’s him that she sees, holding her down as he did the night before, only that instead of trying to kill her he tears off her panties and splits her flesh open with his enormous cock.

The yelp that escapes her mouth is barely human, the image triggering something dark and unfamiliar and despite its wrongness now all she can think of is him.

August, on the other hand, is anything but inclined to indulge this. Pumping his cock urgently, he imagines pounding the little valkyrie against the wall, his grunts so low and loud he is certain the neighbours renting the room nearby can hear.

‘Have you ever fucked an undead girl? Imagine how sweet that wet little cunt must be after coming back to life… milking around you as if you are her saviour, your cock a gift sent from heaven…’

‘Or hell.’

Leaning his forehead against the glass, his breath leaves a veil of steam against the surface while he glances at Ingvild climbing toward her climax.

“Fuck!” She shudders, trying to fight the burning image of him in her mind, but these forbidden fantasies continue to assail her; all the different ways he could take her, exploit and humiliate her. How his body would feel atop of hers while he holds her down and hammer her into the floor.

Her battle wanes, heat spills between her legs as she falls into dark euphoria.

Seeing her arch against the tiles, naked and showered by ecstasy, his control finally snaps. August slams a hand against the glass, spourting white ribbons of cum all over the surface.

‘Oh to see her die and then burst with life…’

They stand in front of one another, both with heaving chests and frowning faces.

Finally, she turns the stream off and opens the glass door while August tucks himself back in. Apparent sweat covers his forehead while his chest is still heaving. She crouches to grab the robe, wearing it again while moving next to him with a teasing look on her face.

Although her legs feel feeble, the adrenaline made the blood kickstart her body again, her heart pumping with excitement as life returned to her system. She pushes past August scornfully, letting him follow her as she walks out of the bathroom.

He grabs her elbow, shooting her a warning glare. “Where do you think you are going?”

She tries to fight him but his grip is fierce and she is too weak.

“You are still a prisoner here,” he warns her and begins to lead her back to the bedroom and toward the bed while grabbing more rope on the way. He notices once again how she desperately seeks her personal belongings, gun, and phone.

“Don’t bother, angel, it’s all in the bottom of the lake.”   

______________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible or August Walker

[phonecallwithsatan]

just look for my owl (three)

a.n. : I am in awe that there are TEN of you that follow me. I don’t even care if I get bullied for geeking out over ten followers. I’m so happy and glad you all enjoy what i’ve written. My lovelies, here is chapter three of this series. I think its getting interesting but im too scared to add mature stuff in here because i dont know how you all will react. Look at me, speaking to my ten followers. It’s a press conference at this point. Chap. four is soon to follow tonight so please keep out for that! This fic is a they/them reader, so  I will only refer to you as they/them. 3k words, fred weasley x y/n, enjoy!<3

Our beloved Fred Weasley falls for Ilvermorny student [y/n] [l/n]. He’s determined to get to them, but the only way he can is through post sent through the two. The only thing left for the pair is to just look for an owl.

Check out chapter two before you read this!

☾

It had been four days since that owl came in to deliver Fred Weasley’s Professor a parcel from [Y/n l/n]. 

It had been four days since Fred hadn’t stopped thinking about [y/n].

Luckily, no suspicions from his professor were brought up about the missing photo, and he was glad. The professor even came in during his quidditch practice to chat with the students cheerfully, even taking a few photos of the team as a whole and separately. 

Today was the 31st of October, and the Triwizard champions were chosen shortly after Fred began to dig into his food, irritated at the interruption that faced him.

Or maybe he should say the Quartet champions now that Harry was facing the tournament too.

Dinner wrapped up a bit after that, and the two twins carried on to their dorms surprisingly silent the whole way. Not causing any ruckus or speaking even.

Perhaps it was because they were disappointed at the selection of Harry even though he was younger than the two twins. They could have had a chance now that he was chosen, but Fred knew that it wasn’t about that.

He didn't know about his twin at the moment, normally he does, but Fred was in a hurry to get to his dorm and sleep, as he had no homework.

Everyday for these past four days, Fred has dreamed about [y/n]. Dreaming, thinking, pondering, it was all connected to them. Not a particular storyline, not at all, his dreams were more of the idea of a real-life physical them.

[y/n] in his jumper, [y/n] in Hogwarts robes, their hand in his under the table during dinner at the great hall, how they would say his name in any context. His thoughts were severely occupied with them and Fred was okay with that.

These ideas followed their way through the portrait hole, into the Gryffindor common room, and up the stairs to the boys dorm. 

He had yet to wash himself off after his long day, so Fred went off to the left side of the dorm to access his trunk at the end of his bed. He takes out a simple orange towel and closes the chest up. He then takes off his sweater vest only to place it on his bedspread.

Walking over to his bedside table, Fred decides to let [y/n] take a dip into his daydreams as he looks in his drawer for the photo of them.

No, thinks Fred. No, no, no, no, no, cascading words now fill Fred’s brain as he panics about the fact that his polaroid was missing.

The polaroid of [y/n] was now missing from Fred’s bedside table, confused as to how exactly he misplaced something so golden.

His whole dresser was obviously rummaged through. There were a few sickles missing along with an extra jar of ink and- his stash of Fizzing Whizzbees and Jelly Slugs. He genuinely frowned at the candy more than anything else, but then he remembered about the photo that was missing- stolen now.

Fred whipped his head back to see who was in the boys’ shared dorm, and the only person he saw was his twin chatting with a visiting fifth year student. 

Now completely turned, Fred walks to the front of his bed and pulls out his trunk, wondering if he had left it in there by accident, but it was no luck.

“George,” started Fred with his back to his twin.

George turned to his brother. 

“What is it, Fred?” He asked with confusion. He noticed the drawer hanging on by a thread off the rest of the table and decided to completely disregard his conversation at that point. “I’ll catch you later.” 

As the friend walks out of the boys’ dormitories, Fred begins to explain what had happened, hand motions waving around. They usually appear when there is something wrong.

“Someone rummaged through my stuff,” Fred motions to his dresser, “did you let anyone else come in here and mistake it for yours?” 

George looked at his twin with furrowed brows until his face lightened up a bit from the clarity. 

“Yeah, actually. Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff was in here and he asked me for some ink.”

“George, what the hell.” Fred was beyond confused as to what, first of all, Cedric Diggory, one of the Triwizard champions, was doing in the Gryffindor common room. Why he was needing ink in the middle of the day and why his drawer. “You let him go through it? Half of my items are missing.” Fred was furious at how irresponsible his brother was at the moment.

“He was desperate and I felt bad.” A simple response from a boy with little to no empathy when it came to using a twelve-year-old student as a lab rat for their inventions. A particular unnamed candy that is still a work in progress gave her severe diarrhea for weeks straight.

“George, he stole money, candy, and t- What is wrong with you?” He cut himself quick before he could expose [y/n] to his brother. He was mad at him and now was not the time to gush about them.

“It’s fine, we’ll talk to him tomorrow.” George laughs at his twin for being unmanageable, but Fred is unamused.

“Piss off.” Fred takes his towel and goes town to the bathrooms, bringing a change of clothes with him.

☾

Fred was a bit after hours for students, but he couldn't wait to get the bath located in the prefect's bathroom.

Yes, Fred had snuck in there, but that's because the boys’ dormitory bathroom was disgustingly filled with too many boys in one perimeter. So with this in mind, Fred knew exactly where to go to relax from the fuming that happened between himself and his brother.

Fred dropped his towel by the edge of the water and took off his shoes. Setting them neatly by the towel, he began to work on his shirt. He loosened his tie but not all the way so the loop in it would stay. He began to unbutton his shirt, hands working a bit slower than normal. He did not come here often, nor was he a prefect, so he took his time.

He looked up from his hands and Fred looked at the mermaid mural on the stained glass, thinking of [y/n], the beauty remarkable from either photo. Not that Fred was comparing physical features from the mermaid and from [y/n], he was rather just acknowledging how both were, to put it literally, breathtaking. 

The colors from it shaded his body in colors of pinks and blues, diluting a bit now that the white shirt was shrugged off his body. The color was not as vibrant now, but his light skin and freckles that were splattered all over his chest created a new palette of shades.

He dropped his shirt on top of his other items and he undid his belt, leaving it on the belt loops of his pants as he takes them off as well, folding them up unlike his shirt and dropping them on his pile of clothes. All he had left were his boxers, and they were soon added to the tower of items on his right side.

He stepped into the water while simultaneously checking for any other visitors. It was a bit late for that, though, considering that he was completely exposed at that point. 

The moonlight shone through the glass, some areas of the floor painted colors with the light. The water was flowing from a few taps and bubbles were flying everywhere. Fred shifted a bit from his old placement in the giant pool so his arms were now propped on the edge.

Now with the photo in the hands of a certain someone he considered a snake, even though they were in Hufflepuff, Fred needed to confront Cedric for not only his money, his candy, and his ink without consent, Fred needed to confront him about [y/n]. What kind of a freak just steals a photo? 

Oh, thought Fred. 

What if, somehow, Cedric gets a hold of [y/n]? Impossible, he reassured himself. Cedric doesn't even know their name. He knows nothing. He's a loathsome rat who steals money, candy, ink, and photos. 

Smiling to himself for coming up with that description, Fred quickly goes down the same road again.

What if, somehow, [y/n] likes him, instead? What if- His mind was filled with ‘what-ifs’ and ‘somehows’ that clouded his brain. Cedric shouldn't have been running through his mind regardless. There’s just no possibility where [y/n] would even meet him.

He was consumed with someone who did not know he existed Fred was jealous that someone else was in possession of that photograph.

The only way to eliminate Cedric was to get to [y/n] first, and he knew his plan from the moment he saw their photo.

He was going to catch his professor at the owlery in the castle, and sneak his own letter in there. This way, both parcels would miraculously be carried over the Atlantic ocean.

His professor wouldn't notice and hopefully [y/n] wouldn't be too freaked out.

The tap finished spewing water and the room went silent except for a few drips coming from one of the spouts. Fred estimated his time and decided to waste none of it, so he dunked his head underwater out of impulse and came back up with his hair sticking to his forehead. 

He needed to write.

☾

Fred was now back in his common room sitting on a couch with his parchment spread out over his legs and couch, and his wet hair slowly dripping on it, making the ink smear a bit. He had crumpled up at least five different drafts of a few sentences while sitting there.

He was wearing grey pants and a gryffindor jumper, keeping him warm on the first day of November. It was about one at night and he could hear his brother, Ron Weasley, snoring from the upstairs dorms.

He dug up a few polaroids he had taken with his brother at the beginning of the year to drop in the parcel. Fred had decided to make this out to his mother, Molly Weasley, hence the photos would have been for her. Molly wanted photos taken with their new camera and photos of their new brooms for Quidditch being put to use properlly.

Normally, Fred didn't really use muggle instruments, but he did have a shared camera with his twin, George. Luckily, a shop in Hogsmeade sold refills for it.

And they would have, Fred and George ended up taking photos of themselves during Quidditch practice, making sure to hide the camera from teachers and spectators so it wouldn't be taken away. Snape would make it his life goal to snatch it away from them when really it did no harm.  They took photos of their jerseys, the field, a few separates, a few with the team, and two separate ones of the twins. They were planning to give them to their mum, but these photos would be put to use differently.

It was a brilliant plan in his eyes. [y/n] would surely respond to his so-called mistake, right? Hopefully they would send a letter back, and maybe a few polaroids for himself to keep. It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Fred began his sixth attempt at writing out a letter to his own [y/n].

Mum,

We miss the burrow. And you and dad, of course. 

As promised, the photos. We think you’ll really enjoy these, since you probably miss our ravishing looks.

There’s not much to write about, mum. Ginny is okay, Ron is alright, and George is asleep somewhere right now. Otherwise, they would have scribbled something on here.

Fred

It was too short but he couldn’t think of anything else to write to his mum. She had written to Ginny a few days prior so he had given all viable information to Ginny’s response letter.

He reacted quickly to the water that dripped off his hair and snatched the parchment before it could bleed and combine with the ink. The script was perfect, absolutely incomparable to his other drafts.

Time moved fast and it was now two in the morning. Fred took his parchment and placed it neatly in the parcel. He took his stack of polaroids and placed them in the parcel.

Almost forgetting, Fred searched through the polaroids and found the two individual snapshots of the twins in their uniforms. Molly constantly mixed the two up when they wore their quidditch uniforms, always forgetting who was #5 and who was #6. Their own mother. It severely got worse every year.

From totally forgetting to absolutely forgetting, Fred forgot that this letter wasn’t even going to reach his mother. He had already marked up the photos though, that was just an afterthought.

He looked at the photo of himself and his twin standing in front of the center field, astonished as to how clear it was. He could see his features perfectly unlike the photo he previously had of [y/n] that was blurry but nonetheless readable.

Shoving the photos back into the parcel, he wrapped it up nicely and carefully wrote the address of the burrow on it.

His plan was slowly coming into action, and Fred was just excited to see it play out.

☾

Fred had ended up spilling everything to his twin the day he planned to sneak his letter along with McGonagall’s.

“So you have no clue who [y/n] is, and you’re providing photos of you and your friends to this person, might I add again, who you don’t know? Fred, this is ridiculous.” George was talking to his twin in the corridor right before the owlery as they were both waiting for the professor to return with a response letter. Fred had been holding onto the parcel for a few days now, and yesterday, he saw that familiar brown owl arrive again.

McGonagall greeted the owl mid-class and took the letter in hand to place it safely in her desk. The owl remained on the window perch for the rest of class.

Fred wasn’t able to see who sent it, but he knew that owl all too well to be mistaken for someone else owling his Professor.

Just as Fred was about to respond to his brothers snarky question, they heard footsteps down the hall and they began to walk up to the owlery.

They had decided to distract McGonagall with a familiar owl, Hedwig. Harry had been complaining how she had been squawking too much for normal. Harry wouldn’t mind, though, because he never had to know that his owl was involved in a hopelessly romantic ploy.

Fred and George were now in the owlery next to Hedwig, feeding her snacks they had brought for compensation. It was only fair to her that she got something in response. A few strange squawks escaped her beak.

“Good morning Mr. and Mr. Weasley. Are you writing someone?” McGonagall was an expert at knowing who was who just off the back of their heads. Granted, she could probably tell the two apart without them turning around. 

“Just paying a visit to Hedwig here, professor. We need to get going soon.” George glanced at Hedwig mid-sentence and gave the professor a small smile.

Their plan was failing terribly. McGonagall was getting her owl ready for the journey by winding the ribbon around its leg to hold the letter more in place. 

Normally, Fred and George would just place a note in Errol's beak, but since it was a longer distance they would have to find a way to tie it around the owls leg.

Luckily, Hedwig served as an amazing distraction as she began to choke and squawk on the snacks they were giving her. It was a time of crisis but the twins had to act fast.

McGonagall turned to the twins and quickly discarded her owl to help them. She pushed them aside and began to aid the choking owl, George began to laugh a at the visual of an owl choking, but quickly put it away as he got a scolding look from McGonagall, who was now shaking the owl. 

Fred used this distraction to run over and tie his letter to the owls leg, attaching his and his professors letter to the owl. The animal began to flap its wings, confused as to why an unknown ginger was picking at his feet, but Fred was too busy to yell at it.

By attaching his letter to McGonagall’s owl, Fred didn't need to get authorization from someone to send it. He also did not have to get it searched, as he was sneaking it through.

He turned to see George motioning him to hurry, laughing at the same time because his professor was still talking to the bird, trying to get it to stop choking. 

Fred was able to tie the letters successfully and shooed the owl quickly, noticing how the two letters weighed it him down a little, making Fred laugh too. He didn’y understand how he pulled it off, but he was happy it worked- somewhat. The owl was steadily flapping it’s wings but Fred could see that it wasn’t used to that type of weight on its feet.

He speed walked back to his professor who was oblivious as to what happened behind her back. The twins were wrong for laughing at the McGonagall who wanted to just help them deal with the animal cruelty they put on Hegwig, but it was a visual they would never forget. And truly, it was a little funny and dramatic.

Fred wondered again how the hell his absurd plan worked, but he was glad that he was able to send out the parcel, and avoid murdering his friends owl with food.

“There, girl. You’re alright. You spit out.” McGonagall consoled the owl by patting her head. She turned to the twins and scolded them for being so irresponsible with someone else's owl.

“Potter doesn’t know, does he?” She asked.

The two twins looked at eachother and ran off laughing, leaving McGonagall clueless to everything that just happened. 

Soon after that, Fred realized that he had just created the beginning of something new in his life. Something that he had yet to receive not in person, but rather in a form of a letter.

All he had left to do was look for that Brown owl.

[mauserfrau]

Mau's Very Silly Headcanon Post

Since I have two pieces of fiction going live this weekend and they’re both going to be late due to butting into each other XD.

I did another one here and there’s going to be some overlap, but less bodily function stuff in this one (mostly spit) (also some vague references to medical trauma).

A lot of this is small potatoes because I didn’t want to spoil anything.  How Phaseleech actually works ends up being a plot point in what I have pending, so I actually can’t just come out and say what’s going on.  That said, I’m sure there are people here who want to know what’s on my mind, but who don’t want to sit through 50K words with half a dozen squick warnings.

That said: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mauser_Frau

Questions welcome, about this, anything else I think about Borderlands, what exactly is in Chapter 13 of Satellite, if it’s true the one flashback actually happened to Mom... 

Both

-Look, the only thing I did that’s appreciably off-canon is let them have emotions.  Maybe I drove into left field with what those emotions were, but that’s really all anybody’s got to do to fix this situation.  Go with the deity of your choice.  

-If I was headed for a Gearbox ending, it would be for the scrapped one, not the one we got.  See this and this other thing.

>>>I would still have written the twins as having something resembling a meaningful relationship regardless of whether that turned out romantic or not.  As things went and are, them as a couple was something I knew how to write and my mom shipped them (no, I’m not kidding).  

-I’m not going for a canon ending.  Mercy, did I find a thread I could snap and take the whole sweater out.  

-Both had blue siren markings when they were born; Troy’s turned red after they were separated.

--Which was a complicated mess-- they were upside-down verses each other and had several secondary adhesions, the most notable of which was Tyreen’s face to Troy’s thigh.

---Leda never 100% recovered from the emotional or physical trauma, but she put on a brave face for the last sevenish years of her life.  

---Troy’s tissue loss was severe and left him with a notable pit in his upper right side.

---Tyreen also has heavy scarring running from her right armpit to her right hip.  It’s not as complex, but it is very visible.  Missing a fair amount of intestine compared to the average human, but this has apparently never bothered her beyond the fact that visiting the toilet when you don’t eat is not fun.

-Semi-identical twins. Have 82.5% of their genes in common.  LSS, neither one is a parasite.  They’re two sperm plus one egg and they didn’t divide right.

--Ms. Phaseleech* didn’t know any better.  #oops  

--If you get them relaxed enough, they will indeed curl up together in their “fish” position.

-Tyreen is the one who would wail first if separated from her brother when they were very small, but they don’t like being apart even as adults.  

-Both very well-read, used to recite The Odyssey to congregants instead of scripture (‘cause they didn’t have any scripture). 

-Good to excellent hunters. Depends what they’re hunting and if they’re together.  Prefer to go barefoot if there’s no one else around.

-The circumstances surrounding Leda’s death are appreciably worse than fanon baseline to the point I don’t think I ought to leave them lying around in a Tumblr post.  

-Both have wavy hair if they don’t iron the daylights out of it.

-Prefer to be on the road and around people, even if a fair amount of those people are going to end up dinner.

-Get weirdly soft-hearted around kids, especially little boys with a similar complexion to their own.

-Do they have any concept that they’re horrible people? Yes, but it’s very academic and not something that motivates them.  You’d be way more likely to hear them frame themselves as hedonists, which also explains their worldview to a certain extent.  

~*~

Troy

-Skinnier than most other Troys.  You could put him in a room with every fandom Troy and sort them by muscle mass, you’d find him at the bottom end, partying like this was an accomplishment.  

-Has an X-linked connective tissue disorder which is more extensive than he lets on.  He really should not do about 90% of the stunts he does because of the vascular involvement.

-Made a categorical decision to treat the associated pain with a lot of cannabis and massage.  Has a distinct resin and honey body butter smell because of this.

--Also, if you get him off-hours, there’s going to be a fair amount of “but why are we here, man?” discussion.

-Has a kink in his upper back.  His spine tilts to his right.  Not super noticeable, but if you were on massage duty, you’d realize something felt out of place.  

-Used to get catastrophic nosebleeds, though these have lessened in frequency and severity over the years.  

-After a certain point, has a permanent latching socket port installed on his right side, allowing him to switch arms out as he likes.

--Because he has a selection of eccentric ones.  What? It’s a challenge to learn to use non-human aspects like claws or feathers or forty joints in a tentacle.  

--Still flounces around without one if nobody of consequence is watching and generally won’t sleep with one in.

-The insides of his ear gauges are messy and don’t even get him started on changing the jewelry on any, erm, other piercings he might have.  (Nipples and one off-center PA.  That was QUITE enough after what it took for his tattoos to cooperate.) 

-Will frame any illness or off-day as a migraine, which he does get.

-Had really bad teeth before his mouth mods.  After that, has none of his natural teeth remaining.  Primarily uses his exceptional bite radius to annoy others, show off, eat sandwiches in a disturbing fashion and do unspeakable things in bed.  They’re for show.  They’re not functional in any serious way.  

-Doesn’t have great control of said mouth mods in the heat of passion or if you get him laughing hard enough.  Hope you like spit!

-Still has rather heinous-looking feet, but he’s concerned about losing his calluses if he has them fixed.  You’d be more likely to see him open on an operating table than barefoot in public.  

-Always wants to be the little spoon.  You’re a tink? You’re a third his size? So what.  He wants to be the little spoon.  Just give in.

-Genuinely likes tea, especially flower-based tea.  Favorite foods include grits, polenta, tamales, campfire beefy rice, beef and broccoli layered onto somebody else’s leftover noodles, beef curry, beef sandwiches soaked in jus, steak tips on day-old fries and look just give him a sloppy plate of starch and dead cow if you need him to shut up.  

-Drinks vodka so cold and over-filtered it tastes like water, then follows it up with extra greasy, burnt-to-hell texas toast while talking about his mother.

-Lactose intolerant.  Please do not feed the rat child pizza. Or chipped beef on toast.  No, not even if he begs.  

~*~

Tyreen

-Abnormally acute senses, especially hearing/smell and including a form of intuition which targets where things she can leech exist nearby.  She’s only aware of any of this in the context of it being different from how Troy’s senses work.  She knows where to get food.  Don’t most people?

-Doesn’t perceive herself as 100% human.  The Leech is part of her and she likes herself.  Mama said she was perfect.  The details are whatever.  You got a problem here? Well, that’s easy to fix… 

-Would have been sorted as a tomboy growing up, but had no companions to do so.  As is, prefers the company of masculine individuals, loves showing people up in a boyish fashion and is absolutely going to tune you out if you start talking to her about the topic.  

-Reeks.  You might smell something “off” with her around in a meeting room, but get her sweaty or worked up and forget it.  It’s not even a human smell.  Petrichor and spray paint, menstrual blood and chlorine, dead leaves and solvent.  It’s chemical, it’s uncannily biological.  It’s really not OK.  She can’t smell it and Troy’s used to it.  

-Doesn’t shave.  Has fluffy armpits that don’t match her dye job and a rather spectacular bush that extends onto her upper thighs.  Does pluck here brows and the witch hairs on her chin, but otherwise, you know what, nah.

-Heavily tattooed, but this is limited to her torso.  The viewing of said tattoos, as well as her scars, is a ritual in her particular CoV.  

--Not that she cares about being naked.  A body is a body.  You people are so uptight.  

-Will reflexively guard her lower stomach before anything else and sometimes in error.  Do not call her on this.  You will piss her off.  

-Has an eye-shaped siren marking, but it’s on her left shoulder blade and she tends to forget it’s there.  More aware of the “pointer mark” underneath her navel.

-Poor tolerance for any drugs.

-Can only ingest salt, sucrose and 80 proof or better clear alcohol without retching.

--Which is to say she doesn’t eat “people food”.  

--Fatty or high-fiber foods tend to make her ill faster.  She could possibly keep tofu or chicken breast down for an hour or more, but it’s still not going to end well.  

--Can and does eat cinder toffee because it’s one of the few things she can chew and digest.  Konpeito is nice too, but sometimes the dye upsets her stomach.  

--Milk, maybe.  Human works better.

-Enjoys swimming or long baths.

-Ambidextrous.  Was either born that way or picked up doing certain things left-handed because that’s what her brother had to work with and she had to show him how to do stuff somehow.

-Good with a forearm-mounted crossbow.  Either hand is fine.

-Used to drool precipitously when she leeched something “good”.  Mostly has a handle on this by the time the CoV gets to be a thing.  Mostly.  

-Deeply immature love language which might include her actually asking to play with her prospective partner and a good bit of bullying.

-SHE IS NOT SHY ABOUT HER NEEDS AND KINKS.  THE HELL WITH YOU.  YOU’RE MAKING SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING.  HOW DARE YOU.  DO YOU WANT TO BE SKAG BAIT ON THE NEXT LIVESCREAM.  UGH. #nottsundereatall

~*~

* The Leech IDed herself as, erm, herself in some stuff I’m not sure I’ll ever post but ANYWAY.

[voyages-extraordinaires]

C:R ~VE~ Chapter 45

“I feel disgusting…” I pace back and forth across the room the guards led us to. In actuality, Conseil is bunking with Ned and Barbicane farther down the hall, but I asked him to stay with me until I calm down.

“He was listening to EVERYTHING, Conseil!” I turn towards the man sitting on my bed looking thoughtful as always. “I could bathe for months and I don’t think my skin would stop crawling!”

I hug myself before sitting down next to Conseil. “What’s worse is all those awful things he said. Conseil, what should I do?”

“I hate giving advice,” Conseil says flatly. “And I wasn’t there for the majority of it, anyhow.”

He taps me on the shoulder and gestures for me to turn around, which I do. He begins to undo my braid and thread it out through his fingers before taking a hairbrush to it.

“Where did you even find a brush?” I say with a laugh.

“I like to think I’m prepared for anything,” he replies.

The soothing motion of the hairbrush begins to make me relax, and I slump forward slightly.

It’s still difficult for me to speak, though: “You really weren’t planning on killing Nemo…?”

“Of course not,” says Conseil. “Believe me, I’m not proud of such underhandedness, but Ned’s actions were… well, they weren’t unexpected but I was still surprised… whatever that means.”

Silence settles back in and I close my eyes, using the time to think about everything that’s happened.

“I don’t need to be protected.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” replies Conseil.

I shake my head, making him fuss as he has to sort my hair back out.

“I’m not the only one who’s said that,” I say. “I think I understand where you’re coming from a little more, Conseil.”

“Do you?” he asks.

“Sometimes, you want so badly to protect someone from the bad choices they’re making. You might say or do things that you swear is in their best interest, but you forget to listen to them in the process…”

I turn around and look at my best friend. “I love Nemo. I know that makes you worry, but I can’t stop loving him.”

Conseil just sighs and pulls strands of my hair out of the brush.

“But I shouldn’t have left you behind,” I continue. “I think I have a better understanding of what you went through.”

Conseil looks at me. “Professor, please don’t say things like that until you have to sail around the Atlantic Ocean for a month looking for any sign of a submarine! Oh, and all that with a man twice your size who is an absolute brute and—”

“And… calls you sweetheart?”

Conseil turns me back around to give my hair another brushing, but not before I see his cheeks redden.

-----

“Putting this place to good use!”

The next day, Ned swings his arms happily as he looks around the shooting range. “Okay, Polly, over here.”

“When did I become Polly to you?” I ask as I follow the large man.

“About the tenth time I heard Impey call you that,” he replies. “Okay, we’re going to have a shooting lesson.”

My eyes widen. “Shooting lesson?”

“Yeah, like pew-pew? Ever shot a pistol before?”

“I was taught how to use a hunting rifle when I was younger, but I never used it,” I say. “I’m really not one for violence.”

“Yeah? What about defense? What if your beau decides it’d be fun to try and blow you up?”

“Ned Land, that’s--”

“You don’t think it could happen? Fine, then what about that Hatteras guy? What if he shows up under your bed one night?”

“…………”

Ned Land and I stare each other down before I slowly reach out my hand and say: “Give me that gun.”

Ned Land puts the gun in my hand, and I’m surprised by how heavy it is.

“Okay, now aim it at the target.” Ned takes a step back and watches as I lift the gun.

Then he bursts out laughing.

“What, are you going to a fencing match or something? Does m’lady want me to fetch her rapier?”

I glare at him out of the corner of my eyes. “There are a million reasons to laugh at me, Ned, and most of them don’t require you taking the time to put a gun in my hand.” I lower the weapon and begin to walk away when Ned shoos me back to the target.

“No, no, come on. Here, spread your legs apart and don’t lock those knees up. Keep them loose, bend them a bit. Use both hands to hold the pistol. You don’t want to look tough, you want to be effective.”

I follow Ned’s instructions and take a deep breath when he takes a step back.

“Okay, on the count of three, I want you to fire. One—”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait a minuuuuuuute!”

My breath is gone in a moment, but I’m too nervous to tear my eyes away from the target so I can only hear Nemo as he swaggers in.

“Wheeeeeere are you aiming, my dear? You’re more likely to hit the ceeeeeeeiling than any person with a stance like that!”

His words are so acidic that my chest burns when he calls me ‘my dear’.

“Looks fine to me,” says Ned.

“It looks fine to yooooooooou because you’re a 200cm tall imbecile who can’t looooooook beyond his nooooooooose! Or maybe you’re so used to harpooning that you’ve gotten your angles mixed uuuuup! Either waaaaaay…”

I shiver when Nemo steps behind me and put his hands on my arms.

“Lower,” he says. “Looooooooooower…”

I bring the pistol down to the height he insists on.

“The man was right about oooooone thing… accuracy over style is beeeeeest for beginners. Don’t aim for the heeeeead…”

He pokes the back of my head.

“Aim for the torsoooo…”

He drags his finger down the back of my neck and the length of my spine, making my hairs stand on end.

He puts his hands on my hips and moves one of his legs in-between mine, making my eyelids flutter for a split second until I realize he’s trying to fix my stance.

“My sweetheart wouldn’t forgive me for leaving you alone with that creep,” Ned mutters, crossing his arms. “But I really don’t want to stick around for this. Just remember, Polly: that guy’s half the reason I wanted to teach you how to fire a gun in the first place.”

“She would neeeeeeeeeever have shot me with such a bad stance!” Nemo guffaws. “Shoo.”

I hear Ned Land groan as he exits, shutting the door behind him.

“I wasn’t planning on—”

“You shush,” says Nemo. He runs his hands back up my body and adjusts my shoulders while muttering: “And people say myyyyyyyyyy posture is bad…”

It feels so good for him to touch me again. Even if it’s just for a lesson, I never want to forget this sensation. His hands are so warm I can feel the heat through the fabric. I’m losing my mind just being close to him again.

Damn it all! Damn Aleister and damn me too! When Nemo lets go of my shoulders I lower the gun to look back at him.

He looks a little surprised—at least, that’s what the noise that comes out of his mouth tells me—but he still bends towards me as I arch up to press my lips to his.

Closed mouth, lips to lips. It’s still so wonderful that my mouth aches for more as we part.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

I finally speak to fill it: “Hatteras wanted me to tell him if I was a good person,”

I’m surprised when the edges of Nemo’s lips tug into a smile and he lets out a giggle. “Now you’ve got meeeeeeee curious, too! What did you tell hiiiiiiiiim?”

“I don’t know…” I say. “He wanted to know if a person could still be good if they willingly stay at the sides of those who hurt others. Do I really do that...? I don’t know how to answer him. What do you think, Nemo? Am I…”

I look away. “Am I a good person?”

Nemo tilts his head and idly toys with the gun that—when did he take that?! I look from my empty hands to his awful grin.

“I have a better questiooooooon for you, my darling,” he says. “Do you caaaaaaare whether you are or not?”

I look up at him.

‘That crazed, dangerous grin that you fell in love with.’

Hatteras’ quiet voice shoots through my mind like ice, and my stomach lurches. A realization hits me, no matter how much I want to keep it buried.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t. I really don’t care… not one bit.”

Nemo shrugs, swinging the gun back and forth on his finger like it’s a toy instead of a weapon. “The definiiiiiiition of a ‘good person’ is uuuuusually dictated by victors. The magnetic puuuuull of a moral compass is skewed by politics, biases, wealth… that’s why I laughed when the Royal Society tooooold me I didn’t have ooooone. My ‘ethics’, if they can be called that, are dictated by nobody but myself.”

“And what are your ethics telling you now?” I tilt my head.

Nemo scrunches his nose and looks deep in thought.

“Weapons are fuuuuuuuuuuun,” he finally says as he sets the gun down.

“That’s… it?”

“That’s aaaaaaaaaaall I feel the need to tell you.”

His serious voice is a grim reminder of the distance between us. That even though we were touching only moments before, our minds were separated by a valley of distrust.

And our hearts…

My thought process is interrupted by Nemo grabbing my wrists and yanking me up so I’m barely on my tiptoes and staring into the cold metal of his goggles.

I try to tell him that I really do want to understand him, but when I open my mouth he covers it with his own, sliding his tongue in so deep that I’m afraid I’ll choke. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to fend his tongue off with my own, but this only makes him moan and grip my wrists tighter.

I flush as I realize that I’m moaning as well, though it’s drowned out by his volume. He must hear it, though, because when he finally pulls back his breathless smile tells me that he knows everything.

“I really… reeeeeeeeeeally wish you hadn’t pissed me off…”

He leans forward and runs his tongue over my lower lip before taking it into his mouth and nipping it with such sharpness that I can taste my own blood when he kisses me again.

“Even now I’m a slave to the beauty of sciiieeencee…..” his voice is muffled by our kisses. “You don’t understand me at all, and yeeeet…”

He pulls me to stand on top of his boots so we’re closer in height before kissing me again, this time gently as he wraps his arms around me.

“You have my body completely ensnared… feeeeeeeel it?”

He moves his leg and pushes me against him, and I nod breathlessly.

“You’re the biology professooooor, Polly-chaaaaaan. Tell me, what should we do noooooow?”

I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him so hard that even his confused noise is crushed under my lips. Nemo stumbles back against the wall, making it easier for me to keep his shoulders pinned as I continue to kiss him.

But why do I feel so empty? He wants it, I want it, but… it’s not the same if there’s no connection behind it, no desire to express love for one another.

Even as he runs his fingers through my hair and practically rips my braid undone, I think about how much I would rather hold him and tell him how much he means to me. Something he surely wouldn’t listen to right now.

“I…” I keep on kissing him, despite tears welling in my eyes. “I miss you so much!”

I wrap my arms around his waist before I melt into sobs, burying my head in his shoulder.

It’s a long time before Nemo shifts.

“Mmm…” he turns his head and rests his cheek on my shoulder. “It’s so nice to be the ‘wanted’ ooooone…”

He gently begins to pet my hair, shushing me like I’m a fussing child.

“Do you know what feels even better, though… my Pauline?”

I lean my head into his neck, enjoying his warmth again. It’s been too long.

He continues to pet my hair as he murmurs: “Holding that power over someone else.”

I furrow my eyebrows as I try to make sense of what he’s saying before I’m suddenly shoved back. As I stumble, Nemo grabs the pistol and aims.

I’m not breathing as I feel the bullet whizz past my body and thunk into something hard. Trembling, I look over my shoulder to see a small device in the wall, now smoking and sputtering sparks.

“Scaaaaaaaaaared?” His mad smile widens. “Gooooood…” He tilts his head as if to examine me before straightening up. “But I really was just tired of our intimaaaaate moments being broadcast…”

“Hatteras,” I mutter. I look back at Nemo, trying to think of what to say next.

“Nemo, I’m…” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to understand. I was just so angry and hurt, I…”

He cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand before turning on his heels.

“See you laaaaaater… Aronnax.”

He looks away, humming to himself like I’m not even there anymore.

[signutai]

16 charagaro for that drabble thing HHHHHHH

16. “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”When Charanko returned home and tiredly unlocked his apartment door, the only things on his mind were the prospect of a hot meal, a long bath, and then falling right into bed and staying there until the heat death of the universe.That’s when his door hit something that sounded a lot like an empty bag of chips, and reality sinks in.He has no words. Not anymore. All he can do is stand in the doorway, looking at every piece of debris on his once-clean floor and cataloging it away for a time when he’s just a little more sane and a little less exhausted, until he can just make out the faintest hint of a path in the chaos, one that leads from his paltry excuse for a kitchen, winds throughout the room, and finally ends in the corner where he sleeps.The long-legged, white-haired, golden-eyed figure reclining upon the ruins of the bed he so meticulously made before leaving that morning doesn’t even acknowledge him staring at it. Garou, wearing nothing but his tangled blankets and a grin, laughs low, vicious laughs at whatever children’s show is on–some superhero thing, where a character who is probably the protagonist is currently being beaten to a pulp by what looks like a fish monster–and, eyes sparkling, grabs a handful of cheese puffs out of the bag by his side and crams them into his waiting, orange-dusted face-hole.“Dude, come on,” Charanko groans. “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”“Shhh,” Garou shushes, and spews half-chewed cheese snacks all over Charanko’s nice white sheets.“Is there even any food left?”Garou just shrugs. He hasn’t glanced Charanko’s way even once.Charanko heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh, debating whether to go inside or just leave and find a new place to live, and, after careful deliberation–and the realization that Garou would probably find him no matter where he went–he steps in and kicks the door shut behind him. He should probably clean up Garou’s mess, he knows, because his landlady will murder him if she finds the place like this, but as his eyes take in each individual discarded wrapper once more, he finds he can’t dredge up enough energy to particularly care.“I ought to tell Bang-sensei where you are,” he half-threatens. No heat comes to his voice no matter how hard he tries. He’s just too tired.“Probably,” Garou says. “But you and I both know you’re still too pissed off at him to do that.”“Am not,” Charanko argues, and it rings of a lie even to his ears. He mentally kicks himself and stammers, defensive, “If I were still–I wouldn’t have gone back if I was still mad at him. So…there!”“Cute.”That smirk is infuriating.“And I expect you to have this cleaned up by the time I get back with our food,” Charanko says, trying his absolute best to dredge some firmness up into his words. “When I said you could stay here, I thought you would behave like an actual human being and not a bored husky.”“You thought,” Garou says. “That was your first problem right there.”“Asshole.”“Ooh,” he deadpans. “Clever.”Charanko glares at him for a moment longer, but then his capacity for feeling anything but hunger pangs and the niggling need to sleep runs out and he blows out a breath, tosses his bag wherever–not like it can make the place any messier–and trudges towards the bathroom, grumbling, “I’m going to take a shower.”“Like hell you are,” Garou growls. For the first time since he walked in, he’s looking at Charanko, his wolfish eyes distinctly annoyed. “It’s Garou time. Get over here.” He lazily shifts aside the blankets with a few sweeps of a long, very bare leg, and pats the newly-uncovered spot impatiently with one hand.More arguing is beyond him, so he simply gives in, shuffles over, and plops his ass down, pointedly facing away from the douchecanoe in his bed. Ignoring that, Garou is immediately upon him, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and nuzzling into his neck, utterly oblivious to his lack of reciprocation.“You stink,” he purrs.“That’s why I was going to shower, stupid,” Charanko grouses.“Bomb having you sweep the stairs again?”“No!” A pause. “Yes.” He leans back, into Garou’s hold, and whines, “He’s even more of a hardass than his brother. It’s ridiculous.”Garou’s chuckle is dark and silky and warm on his skin. It’s nice, actually.But he can’t stay. Things to be done.“I mean it,” he says, pulling out of Garou’s clingy arms. “Get this picked up while I’m getting us take-out. Or I start charging you rent.”“Yes, sir,” Garou replies, amusement lacing his tone like a silver thread. When Charanko looks back, he’s lounging, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes, his lap only just barely covered by a single fold of fabric.Before he can be pulled in again, he stands. Nothing will ever get done if Garou traps him in bed again. Sure, it’d be fun, and he’s cute, and those hands–Something crinkles loudly under his foot, pulling his attention away from the distraction hitting him with his best bedroom eyes. He looks down, thankful for the excuse to tear his gaze away, and immediately feels every urge to crawl under the covers with Garou evaporate.“What the fuck, dude? You got into my chocolate, too?”

[youcancallmeelle]

Pleasant Surprise // Hungry Eyes prompt: Part 1 of 2

Read Hungry Eyes here

I wasn’t stupid; I knew when something was up with Rosie.

I was immediately suspicious when I’d find her hunched over the toilet and throwing up everything she’d consumed, always in the early evening.

She also refused to let me anywhere above her waist which was also a massive giveaway, combine those two symptoms with the fact she hadn’t sent me out for tampons in over two months then it was a pretty clear indication that something wasn’t right.

This had been happening for the last two weeks and tonight was no different; I’d put Freya to bed and found her leaning over the toilet.

I rushed to pull her hair from her face, she spluttered and heaved into the porcelain bowl.

“You good?” I asked her once she’d finished gagging; she made a noise and shut the lid; flushing the toilet and taking a seat on it with her head down and between her legs.

“Stupid food poisoning.” She muttered, rubbing her face.

“Funny how this food poisoning has lasted for two weeks and seems to strike at the same time everyday, if I didn’t know any better then I’d say you were pregnant again.” I accused, she shook her head rapidly and pushed me away so she could stand up.

“No, it’s definitely food poisoning.” She shot back, rinsing her mouth out with toothpaste and glaring at me through the mirror.

Rosie left the bathroom with me on her heels; she strolled into our kitchen to begin tidying up.

“Hey, fancy a beer? Wine? Rum and coke?” I tested, crossing my arms and facing her from behind the counter.

“No thanks, I’m not thirsty.” She replied, shooting me a look and beginning to spray down our counter from where we’d had dinner as a family.

“Right, so it’s not because you think you might be pregnant?”

“Nope.”

It wasn’t hard to decipher that she was lying through her teeth, we’d been together long enough and I’d spent enough time with her to know when she was talking out of her backside.

I decided to try another approach, one she usually couldn’t resist.

“You know, I’m so up for some sexy time with you.” I told her in the huskiest voice I could muster, stalking around the counter to wrap my arms around her slim waist.

I began pressing kisses along her shoulder and over the curve of her neck, my hands glided under her jumper and up to her boobs, she pulled away before I could touch them and I smiled triumphantly.

“I’m not in the mood.” She dismissed, continuing to potter around our kitchen.

“That’s how I know you’re lying, you’re always in the mood. Are your boobs hurting by any chance?” I pressed further, tilting my head and watching her bite her lip anxiously.

“Okay, Sweets! You win!” She quietly yelled at me, throwing the rag she’d been using in my direction. “There’s a good chance I’m pregnant again.”

“You think so?” I scoffed; she looked at me guiltily as I stalked out of the kitchen to grab from keys from the small table in the hallway.

“Where are you going?” She called after me; her arms limp at her side while I pulled my jacket on.

“To the drugstore!”

I left Rosie at home and drove to our nearest drugstore; I was beyond over faced when I found myself in the aisle that was stacked with a multitude of condoms, lube, ovulation kits and pregnancy tests.

There were tests for an early response, digital and even a fancy kind that told you how many weeks you were; I recognized this type from when Rosie had discovered she was pregnant with Freya. I scratched the back of my head as my eyes wandered over the different options, who knew there were even so many?

I shrugged and grabbed a box of two; I took them to the counter and promptly threw some notes at the cashier in my need to get home to Rosie.

When I got back she was sat at the kitchen counter with her hand wrapped a large glass of water that was nearly empty, she looked at me nervously when I handed her the simple package.

“Take them now.” I demanded and she shook her head at me with big eyes.

“I don’t want to.”

“Rosie, come on.” I urged, taking her hand and pulled her off the stool she was on; wasting no time in pushing her into the bathroom.

She gave in and slammed the door behind her, I braced myself opposite the bathroom and waited for her to finish doing what she needed to; after a few minutes I heard the tap run and the door creaked open to reveal a very stressed looking Rosie as she motioned for me to step in the small room with her and close the door behind us so we didn’t wake up Freya.

“How long do we have to wait?” I quizzed and looked over the two tests that were sat on the bathroom counter while they developed.

“Three minutes.” She answered and looked over the back of the box that told us what they results meant and how they’d be displayed.

One line for negative.

Two lines for positive.

“This is longest three minutes ever, was it this long when you were waiting last time?” I complained, Rosie glared at me with her hands on her hips.

“Yes, it was and it felt like a lifetime back then too! Only you wouldn’t know because you weren’t there, you were probably practicing your pyrotechnic skills with Fangs! I’m actually having flashbacks.” Rosie stammered, she began pacing the short length of the bathroom so fast that it was making me dizzy.

“Will you calm down? I’m pretty sure we already know the answer.” I chuckled and reached out for her, pulling her onto my knee where I was perched on the edge of our bathtub.

“I feel like I’m sixteen again, like I should be in a bathroom stall and back in high school.”

“You’re twenty one, you’re acting like this is the end of the world.”

“I know, but we’ve never really discussed having more kids.” Rosie told me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and resting her chin on my head. “I always thought that we’d actively try for another baby, not end up being shocked when it happened.”

“I’ve always wanted more kids.”

“Kids? Pfft! If you’ve got me pregnant again then this is the last one I’m having, I’m serious.”

“What if you end up having twins? Or triplets? Or even quadruplets?” I gasped as I poked fun at her and she pinched my arm in retaliation.

“Stop, Sweets! You’re freaking me out!”

I laughed at her horrified expression and kissed her bottom lip, we sat for a few more minutes before I realized that the tests were probably ready and could be looked at.

“Ready?” I inquired and she nodded slowly, I leant over from the bath and grabbed the two tests in my hand.

“I’m too scared to look, you do it.” She pleaded, putting her hands over her eyes and I looked down at them with a neutral expression on my face.

“They’re negative.”

“What? Really?” Rosie frowned and uncovered her face, trying to reach for the pieces of plastic. “They can’t be.”

“No, Rosie. They’re both positive, we’re having another baby.” I grinned happily, giving her the pregnancy tests.

“Oh my god, that’s a really dangerous game to play, Sweets.” Rosie breathed and stood up from my lap, looking down at the tests and seeing two, very bold, pink lines that were displayed in each of the square windows. “Jesus Christ, I’m pregnant.”

“You certainly are, I’ll accept your thank you later.” I teased and pulled Rosie into my chest, ducking down to kiss her deeply in my delight, threading my fingers through her long hair.

“I wish I’d have gotten that reaction from you the last time I told you I was pregnant.” She panted and pushed on my chest, her lips plump.

        ************************************************************************

Later that night, Rosie and I were lay in bed; I was spooning her with both my arms around her as we got used to the idea that our family of three would soon become a family of four.

“Do you think we should tell people now or after our first scan?” Rosie wondered out loud, I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s up to you.”

“I don’t know, I’m just scared to tell people and then for something to go wrong… I bled with Freya and we thought I’d lost her, that was way after my chances of miscarrying dropped.” She whispered sadly and I held her tighter, pressing my lips to her shoulder.

“Everything’s going to be fine, baby.” I reassured her, she relaxed under my hold.

“Are you going to be disappointed if it’s not a boy?”

“Why would I be dissapointed? I love my girls and having another will certainly make my life more fun, I’d have three to protect and hide from the male species.”

“You do know that one day your daughter will have a boyfriend, right? And there’s going to be nothing you can do about it.” Rosie giggled when I growled in response, denying the fact my first-born, little girl would ever grow up.

“I’ve already told her she’s never allowed to date, there won’t be any boys in her future.”

“You’re crazy, Sweets.”

“I think we should make the time to finally get married before the baby comes, you’ve kept me waiting long enough.” I told her, stroking her hand and admiring the dainty ring that I’d placed on her finger 3 years ago on her eighteenth birthday.

“It doesn’t look good if I’m walking down the aisle when pregnant, people will think we’ve got married because you knocked me up.”

“You’ll just have to suck it in.” I joked, running my hand under her t-shirt and feeling the firm skin of her lower stomach.

“I don’t like you right now.”

“It’s not my fault you’re incredibly fertile, it’s been five years since the last oops arrived though and that’s pretty good going, don’t you think? Anyway, I think you liking me too much is the reason we’re in this predicament again.” I teased her, running my hand over her hip.

“You’ve never been less funny.” Rosie uttered, rolling over to mount my hips and kiss me.

“You sure? What about the first time I got you pregnant? You seemed pretty pissed back then, I distinctively remember you screaming at me a lot.” I grinned against her lips and gave her backside a good squeeze. “Isn’t it ironic how we’re going to celebrate you getting pregnant by having sex?”

I practically heard Rosie roll her eyes at me as she moved to kiss my jaw and down my neck, my eyes closed at the sensation but the pleasure didn’t last long before I heard the sound of footsteps approaching our bedroom.

Rosie heard them too and climbed off me in a hurry because when you have children you quickly develop bat like hearing or you learn the hard way when you’re in the middle of a compromising situation, it’s never fun trying to make up an excuse as to what you were doing.

Our door handle turned and it opened a crack before I saw Freya try and slyly sneak in without making too much noise but this plan backfired the minute she clumsily climbed onto our bed and noticed we were still awake.

“You should be in bed, you have school in the morning.” I told her sternly but lifted the covers so she could slide under after she’d given me the look that always turned me to putty in her hands.

“I couldn’t sleep, Daddy.”

“You can stay here for awhile then, Daddy will put you back to bed once you’ve fallen asleep.” Rosie told her and looked at me, motioning the words ‘tell her’ to me silently.

I coughed and cleared my throat, peering down at Freya whose attention was on her bunny, the same one she’d had from birth.

“How do you feel about adding another member to our family?” I asked my daughter, she made an over exaggerated thinking face while she took in my words.

“Are we getting a bunny?” She quizzed, looking up at me hopefully while Rosie smiled from behind her.

“No, but you’re never going to stop asking for one are you?” I sighed, she shook her head rapidly.

“What about a little brother or sister?” Rosie interjected and Freya turned to face her, confusion evident on her face. “Mommy’s having another baby.” She finished; I studied Freya for her reaction.

“I’m getting a brother or sister?” Freya boldly asked Rosie who nodded and pushed our daughters fringe away from her face.

“Yes, you are, sweetheart.”

“Is the baby a surprise like I was?” My breath caught in my throat at her seemingly innocent question, Rosie gaped at her.

“Who told you that?” I gawked and Freya turned back at me with a shrug, she pouted at my unimpressed expression because she seemed to think I was angry with her.

“Uncle Fangs.” She revealed and looked between Rosie and I, not understanding why we looked so shocked at her revelation. “Is Uncle Fangs in trouble?”

“I’m gonna kill him.” I whispered to Rosie, she was trying to hide a grin at the current situation.

“Can I have a sister?”

“Mommy can’t choose what it is, we have to let nature decide that one.” Rosie answered and Freya frowned before cuddling under the covers with her soft bunny toy in her arms.

“Daddy?” Freya piped up, curling into my side cutely and shoving her hand in my hair and face in my neck as she let out a big yawn. “Daddy, where do babies come from?”

My face paled at her question and Rosie let out a giggle, trying to stifle a laugh under the comforter while I stuttered like an idiot to my five year old daughter.

“Daddy doesn’t know where babies come from, maybe that’s why all my children have been surprises.” I lied and I felt the bed shake while Rosie let out a chortle, I let out a loud exhale and to my relief Freya didn’t press the subject further because by the time I’d finished my sentence; she’d fallen fast asleep between us.

“You’re so going to hell.” Rosie giggled quietly, peering at me from over Freya’s sleeping body.

“She put me on the spot, what was I supposed to say?!” I defended, trying to get comfortable around my little girl who always insisted on smothering me in her sleep.

“Maybe not that she was an accident.”

          **********************************************************************

Two months later Rosie and I were at our second scan, we were finally finding out what the sex of our second child was and I don’t think I’d ever been so excited; obviously with the exception of finding out what Freya was.

“So, you guys already have a daughter?” The midwife asked us as she began to prepare Rosie by lifting her top up and exposing her small bump, squirting the sonogram gel on to her skin and pressing the probe over her abdomen.

“Yeah, we do.” Rosie answered her, giving my hand a gentle squeeze at the sight of our baby on the screen who was wriggling up a storm.

“Everything’s looking really good, Rosie. Baby’s the correct size and very active by the looks of it, they’ve got very long legs like Daddy.” She chuckled, watching the baby kick out. “Do you want to know what you’re having?”

“Definitely.” Rosie giggled and I pressed my lips to her hand, the anticipation was killing me while we waited for the midwife to finalize her decision.

“It looks like your girl gang is going to be growing by one more, I hope you’re ready to be outnumbered even more, Dad. You’re both having an extremely healthy baby girl.” She revealed and Rosie gasped excitedly while I chuckled in disbelief, unable to believe I was actually having another little girl.

Another daughter.

Holy fuck, I’m in trouble.

[bdfanfic]

From Elsweyr With Love #4

An hour later and Ra’Jirra had stripped to her underwear, panting on the bed like an overheated dog. Sarosh was on the balcony and dressed similarly (except for the bra) and settled in for the night. She might have been a little jealous, but he was right. Another Redguard sleeping on a hotel balcony was nothing to attract attention. A khajiit in her underwear would be.

When he’d pulled his shirt off, she was pleasantly surprised. The man had been training. Her estimation of him rose a notch. But now she was just miserable. “How do people live in this heat?” she asked him quietly. They were still speaking in Ta’agra but fortunately he was fluent.

“Any way they can, Raj.”

Her hair was bothering her. She pulled it up and flipped the pillow over again. At least the place was clean. She did give it some points for that.

“You want to go back to the Pendant later?” he asked her.

“No. Like you said, it might attract attention. I’ll manage.”

“In the morning let’s go back to my place. I need to write a message for Romanov and the drop off is near it. We can get cleaned up there.”

“Do you have Air Ice?”

“No. But it will be cooler in the morning. You’ll see.”

Ra’Jirra picked up the flyer beside her and began fanning herself again. She couldn’t sleep. She kept running the scenario over and over in her mind. The noise, then the man falling dead, a hole through him. Square through his chest. Everything screamed of another gun, but the only other person who was there was the amateur in the street. But surely the three were working together. And from that distance… From her own practice with her weapon, she knew it was inaccurate at range. In a pinch it might work - with luck - but things just didn’t add up right. And how would a Redguard, and amateur spy no less, have managed to get his hands on a top secret weapon designed by Elsweyr?

She thought about the position of her assailant when he’d been killed. He was turned a bit away from her, which is why the blood hadn’t hit her. And leaning down to ready another swing of the iron. But the projectile had to have entered almost exactly parallel to his body to pierce it so straight.  And then she saw it in her mind’s eye. An imaginary line, from the man’s chest to his back, then extending not only outward but upward. He had been bending over to attack her when the noise had happened. The projectile must have come from up high. How high? Not across the street. That would have been too far.

The roof. The shot had to have come from the roof beside the alley. It had been, what? 2 floors? 3? But it lined up. Someone had shot him with a weapon similar to her gun from the rooftop.  Another player? On her side?

“Dammit,” she said, turning the pillow over for the fifth time. “I can’t think straight in this heat!”

Sarosh was snoring lightly. The sounds outside were dim and far away. A couple talking on another balcony, maybe across the street.

“Fuck it. He’s a professional, and I’ve got my fur to cover me. Mostly. Modesty be damned.”

She took off the rest and closed her eyes, continuing to fan herself. It helped. She drifted off, imagining someone on the roof of the building with a gun. Still a long shot in more ways than one. The mysterious gunman might well have intended to shoot her instead, but she somehow didn’t think so. Romanov? From all she’d read, the girl was just a mid level cyber security expert. Not the type for field work. She dreamed of a khajiit on the roof, looking down at her. The khajiit was naked.

She woke at the first light of day. It was cooler. She put her underwear back on and checked on Sarosh. Still sleeping. She roused him and they got dressed. The streets were empty at this hour, and she hadn’t gotten enough sleep, but it was a good time to get moving. There was no sign of any patrolling guardsmen on the street, so they hailed a cab and made good time to Sarosh’s apartment.

The building was just like the man. Nondescript. Average. Not rich, not poor. He must have at least lived like one of the mythical middle class he had mentioned. Maybe there weren’t many in the city, but there were a few. No rising boxes here, they climbed the four flights of stairs and walked down towards his apartment.

He pulled out his key, then stopped.

“Wait,” he said, and looked around the floor. He found what he was looking for a few feet away. A thread, too small to notice unless you were really looking for it.  It served the same purpose as her scrap of paper had. Someone had been here since he had left. He signaled to Ra’Jirra. She nodded and pulled her weapon from her pocket and held it in safety position, pointing up and standing beyond the door frame while he opened the door.

“Relan? Phelix?” he called as he opened the door, but Ra’Jirra noticed the tripwire in the gap at low level. She rushed at Sarosh and tackled him at the waist, sending them both to the floor on the other side of the door frame before the explosion hit. The wall of flame that instantly burst from the apartment singed the leather of her boot. Then, just as suddenly as had started, it was over.

She couldn’t hear a thing at first, but the ringing in her ears slowly faded. Sarosh was saying something, but he indicated his ears and shook his head. He was deaf too. They looked inside the apartment, but it was utter devastation within. She heard voices outside, her hearing returning. Sarosh recovered a metal box and they left quickly.

***********************

“Good. Very good indeed!” La’Dasha said quietly to the grate. “You’re sure she wasn’t hurt?”

“No. The weapon performed perfectly.”

“Where are they now?”

“I lost them last night, but I picked them up again at his apartment this morning. There was an explosion.”

“WHAT?”

“Not my work. Someone booby-trapped the door.”

“Are they okay?”

“Yes. No one was home and the khajiit stopped him from entering. I must assume she sensed something.”

“Dammit, she can’t die yet!”

“Continue with the plan then?”

“Of course.”

The voice was gone. They bombed the man’s apartment? Someone must be really pissed off. And that was good. That was the point. But she mustn’t be killed this soon. She rose and hailed a taxi.

“The Pendant,” she said to the driver, and closed her eyes, remembering the previous night’s entertainment. It had been glorious. Against all odds, the man had made for an excellent lover, and he fought well for a human. But she would have to find another hotel. The mess had been too much to clean up. She imagined the look on the maid’s face when she came in this morning. What a sight that would be!

******************************

Sarosh had written two letters that morning, one encrypted that he placed in the drop, the other she didn’t ask about, but he explained anyway. “A contingency plan. The family won’t be returning.”

She took his hand as they sat on a bench near a park. “I’m sorry Sarosh. I didn’t expect anyone to recognize you.”

“No need. It’s a good thing. I had no idea my cover had been blown. Now I know and everyone is still alive. It is the best outcome. But I will have to leave Rihad.”

“Any ideas who did it? It’s doesn’t sound like the work of a Hammerfell agent. They would just have swept in and taken us both.”

“I’ve a good idea. I think it was retribution for that guy last night. Bombing is a favorite of the local secret police, and those guys looked like the type. And their clothes were classic ‘plain clothes’. Cheap but spotless. But it wouldn’t have been officially sanctioned. My guess is it was that other guy. We killed his buddy, and he knew where I lived.”

“But we didn’t kill him!” Ra’Jirra protested.

“He thinks we did. I need to find out who he is. He won’t stop when he finds out I’m still alive. He’ll be stationed at the main headquarters downtown. I’m going to stake out the place and see if I can spot him.”

Ra’Jirra shook her head. “No Sarosh. He knows you. He doesn’t know me. I’ll go.”

“He knows you too,” Sarosh protested.

“Ha. Even you’ve said we khajiit all look the same. A change of clothes and I’m a different cat.”

“The hair is pretty distinctive.”

“I’ll wear it up. You leave that to me. I got a good look at him too. I’ll recognize him. No, you lay low for a while. I’ve got to go back to my room and change.”

Sarosh nodded. “I’ll meet you tonight at dusk at your room.”

She returned to the hotel and found the scrap of paper still lodged in its place, opened the door, and spruced herself up a bit, but she did not bathe. For the role she planned, she should be unkempt. Then she pulled on some shabby clothes, tied up her hair, making sure it was mussed a bit, then caught a taxi to the police headquarters.

“No!” she said to the desk officer. “This one will remain here until they bring him in.”

“Okay ma’am, but I’m telling you there’s no report of a khajiit kid arrested last night. But if you must wait, you can have a seat over there. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

She nodded acceptance and made herself as comfortable as she could. It was getting hot again. She spent the next four hours scanning the personnel that came and went until at last a big man came in wearing civilian clothes. He waved to the desk officer who unlocked a side door and let him in. She watched the man until he was out of sight. Hadn’t even changed his clothes, and he looked pissed off.

“That’s him,” she said to the desk officer when he had gone. “That’s the man who took my boy.”

“Who? Detective Royan? Couldn’t have been. He was on a stakeout last night. Besides, he doesn’t do grunt-work like arresting shoplifters.”

“That’s the man,” she insisted.

“Listen, lady, if he took your boy, I don’t think you’ll see him again honestly,” the desk officer said quietly. “I’m sorry, but he’s on a special task force, and your boy was involved in more than shoplifting.”

“Oh!” Ra’Jirra squealed, as if suddenly in anguish. “It’s those hooligans he hung around with, wasn’t it? Always talking about revolution this and insurrection that. This one knew he was in with a bad crowd, but she never thought… This one told him they would cause him trouble.”

“Look, I could go bring the Detective over to talk to you, but I wouldn’t advise it. He’s not very friendly. If your boy comes home with a black eye and some broken bones, count yourself lucky. If he doesn’t come home at all… well, that happens sometimes.”

“Oh!” Ra’Jirra began to cry. “No… No, I’ll do as you say. I’ll wait at home.”

With that she walked out of the station, caught a ride to the hotel, and went back to her room. The maids had been in, but she found nothing out of place. She took a long, leisurely bath, then put on her most elegant gown. A black affair, blackless and cut so low the top practically met the bottom. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Perfect, if she did say so herself. Then she went down to the casino.

She relished the looks she garnered when she walked in the door. She was in no way overdressed for the place, but when properly outfitted and trained, a khajiit woman was a rival in beauty to even the most elegant Altmer. Smiles went up on men’s faces, frowns on the women. Mostly. She crossed to the long bar.

“What does a cat have to do to get a bite to eat in this place?” she asked the bartender in a pretty good imitation of a Hammerfell accent.

“Why, just ask!” he responded with a chuckle. “What would you like?”

“What I’d really like,” she said, intentionally using the forbidden first person pronoun, “is a good sized plate of ground meat, lightly seared, water and a good stiff drink.”

“You’ve got it lady! What kind of drink?”

“You pick. You’re a bartender. Make me something special. But don’t forget the water. I might not like it.”

She scanned the crowd behind her. Various table games were set up. She watched carefully to see who was looking at her surreptitiously, but she caught no one, beyond those who obviously were watching her for other reasons.

The bartender returned with a colorful drink and a glass of water. She smiled at the bartender and dipped a finger in the drink, touching it to her tongue. It was sweet and strong.

“Mmm! What’s in it? Is that pineapple juice?”

“It is. My own concoction.”

She sipped and indeed it was tasty. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Sam,” he said simply leaning on the bar towards her.

Probably a lie, but she wasn’t one to mind. “Listen, Sam. I need your honest truth. Which of these tables are fixed? Who’s the sharks and who’s the fish?”

“All our gaming is as straight as an arrow, ma’am. There’s no…” he began before she interrupted.

“Sam,” she started, giving him the Sultry Eye. “There is no such thing. Look, you can check my cleavage out as much as you want. I don’t wear a dress like this because it’s comfortable. But be a dear and give me the straight scoop, okay? By the end of the night I’ll find out anyway, and you’ll lose a nice tip.”

“Table on the left is rigged,” he said quietly. “Dealer is a card shark. Can deal himself any card he wants. The roulette table is legit, as is the card table behind it. But it’s high stakes. That’s where the local bigwigs go for an honest game though.”

She smiled and bent over the bar a bit. A little tip for his honesty. “The drink really IS good. But I’m getting hungry. Would you mind checking on the food?”

“What?” he said, distracted. “Oh! Sure. Be right back.”

He brought the meat back, with a little salad.

“Thanks Sam. Um… will they mind if I… eat this properly?”

“Maybe you can step behind the bar instead? There’s a little room back here. No offense but, we’ve had khajiits in here before. I know what you mean.”

She nodded and went to a little room where she wolfed the food down as she really wanted to, then came back to the bar, dabbing her mouth with a napkin delicately.

“Thanks,” Sam said sincerely.

“No, thank you. It’s annoying not to be able to eat the way we want to.”

“By the way, your Hammerfell is excellent. Where are you from?”

“Oh, from here and there. I travel a lot. But sorry Sam, I’ve got to take your favorite cleavage away now. Nice to meet you!”

“You too! Say, want to go out later? I’m off at midnight.”

“Sorry. Can’t stay that long. Raincheck?”

“Sure. I’m here every night.”

She took her drink and water and slunk her way around the tables in her best sultry walk, tail sashaying behind her with abandon.

“Say,” the bartender called. “What’s your name?”

She smiled. Bingo. “Ra’Jirra’, she called back. “My name is Ra’Jirra.” she repeated, emphasizing the forbidden first person possessive..

Heads turned. Some at the unusual sound of a khajiit voice speaking in a Hammerfell accent, others at the name itself.

“The problem with being undercover,” she thought as she advanced on the high roller table, “is that you never know who sees through it. Better to have your cards exposed. Then you don’t have to wonder.”

[wxldchxld]

10 random headcanons

what do they sleep in? pj’s, normal clothes, nothing?

It depends. I’ve pointed out that Beck travels with a minimal amount of clothing. In most verses that is comprised of a few shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a set of shifter’s robes. The robes are the softest of which… but they’re odd. They’re long sleeved but the ends of the sleeves, from the elbow down, are wrapped. It’s one long continual piece of cloth to wind around her forearm down into the crook of her hand, so that only her thumb and fingers are exposed. The pants are the same from the knee down, and there’s a cape that is affixed to one of the shoulders that can be removed but is a pain. As a consequence she only wears them when she’s very cold, usually under a normal shirt, using the cape as a pillow and then ducking under a blanket.

If she’s hot, she just starts taking off layers until she’s comfortable. 

When she’s staying in verses like the one with Ros, she probably just sleeps in her jeans or whatever until Ros undoubtedly finds out and harps on her for not having any actual clothes.

Beck would be super into pajama sets if they were practical. The flannel plaid kind in the winter or just those sets that say something stupid on the shirt and the pants have a matching pattern. Unfortunately looking cute isn’t worth lugging extra clothes around when you travel 24/7. Her most common sleeping outfit is whatever the fuck she was wearing that day.

how many blankets / pillows do they like to have on their bed?

Ummmmm normally that’s a grand total of zero as she doesn’t have a bed. Bunched up clothes are her go-to pillow. She does have a special blanket that has a temperature regulating charm on it. The blanket is rather large but she keeps it because if her dogs so much as stick a paw under it (and they usually cuddle on cold nights anyway), they’ll all be suitably warmed. Likewise in the summer, laying on top of the blanket will lower her temperature if it needs to be lowered. 

Cora wove the blanket and enchanted it herself and if it were to go missing or be damaged in any way she would but VERY distressed. It is made of blues and greys with little orange foxes and grey owls alternating in a pattern around the edge.

Again in domestic situations Beck most likely has a pillow. It probably takes some time to adjust to. She isn’t picky about how many, and for the first few weeks she can probably still be found with her jacket bunched up under her cheek. I feel like if she were in this situation for a long period of time she’d come to want LOTS of pillows to cuddle into because Beck likes to be snug.

do they have social media? do they like it or hate it? obsess over it?

Heeeeell nooooo. Beck doesn’t own a phone, a computer, or anything that she can be tracked by. In fact in more domestic scenarios Beck will actively protest having a phone for a very long time. If she ever breaks and decides to carry one, it will be used to call or text like one or two people, and frequently allowed to die/be left somewhere. Beck sure as fuck doesn’t put her name/face out there. She wouldn’t even be comfortable using a fake name for twitter. No. No to all of it.

what are their phobias? do they have any at all?

Being caged/locked up is one of her big ones. She can handle it for a short period of time, and then as hours and days go on she will become increasingly hostile and eventually violent. At this point she has generally reverted into one of her animal forms and is dangerous to interact with.

Needles is another big one. And it’s a lot less about the needle and more about she doesn’t trust anyone injecting anything into her or even taking anything out. In fact getting Beck to use any sort of traditional medicine at all, even a couple of cold pills, is an incredible pain. She will not give blood for charity or even medical testing. If you want to stick her, you’re gonna have to hold her down tight.

Tryhophobia too. For those of you unaware it is the fear of holes. Pictures of those flowers with the small clusters of holes and shit really gross her out and she’ll get really pissed really fast if she’s forced to look at them. I do not know why, I just know it bugs her.

do they like living alone or with another person / other people?

I think Beck, ideally, would like to live with one other person. She has no desire to live in a large communal family. She would be happy with one person, and having close family members not too far away, but also not up in her business. Unfortunately her insatiable desire to travel often overpowers her desire for company. Many of Beck’s relationships end because Beck just can’t stay in one place for very long. Her lovers/friends have to come to accept that they either go with her (which Beck would love) or they patiently await her return. She doesn’t think this is fair, and has broken up with multiple partners because of this.

The fox in her usually lets her be totally content on her own and she’s spent the majority of her adult years in scarce or fleeting company. Holidays are hard, as well as birthdays, but she doesn’t generally crave attention

where do they see themselves in 2 / 5 / 10 years?

Off in the wild, doing the same thing she’s doing now. Even in verses where she’s in one place, like the one with Ros, Beck doesn’t expect to stay there. I’m not saying that won’t change in time, but that is currently where she is in her life.

are they possessive over their things? or over other people? both?

Yes and no??? Beck has a few things that mean a lot to her. For instance Cora’s blanket and her father’s music box would be defended tooth and nail. She has a few other magical items that she doesn’t give up but that’s basically because she doesn’t want them in the wrong hands, it’s not a possession thing.

When it comes to people Beck is… complicated. Beck doesn’t share lovers. She’s cool with them flirting with other people, because she does, because that’s just how she communicates, she is not cool with anything beyond that. She is much more likely to get her feelings hurt if her significant other is say, constantly hanging out with some other chick. She’s insecure in her relationships because a lot of them have fallen through and over all she just doesn’t have great luck staying with other human beings in lasting relationships (romantic or otherwise). So I don’t think that’s really jealousy.

She is possessive in the way that those are her people though. It takes a long time to get this level of loyalty from Beck, because Beck is NOT a self-sacrificing kinda gal, but she will protect what is hers to the death if it comes down to it. She’s also very emotionally protective of her people. Actually Beck has an almost compulsive need to protect most people emotionally. Beck constantly wants to comfort people, even strangers. She doesn’t like seeing anyone sad or scared or in pain, and she’ll go out of her way to stop this. (That was a major mókus moment, and had nothing to do with the prompt but whatever).

what do they never, ever want to speak of, ever?

Beck doesn’t like to talk about her abuse. Especially the abuse she suffered at the hands of her brother. But she does want to tell someone, she wants someone she can put that trust into, she wants someone in her life that understands. She is way too scared to do so unless her back is against the wall for fear that people won’t understand. Beck doesn’t demonize or even dislike her brother. She loves him deeply and worries for him and wishes every day they could go back to being childhood BFFs getting into shit and driving her Aunt B nuts… but they can’t. She knows that no matter how good things might be for a little while, Fen is a sick man and she has an inescapable wanderlust. Eventually if she went back, things would get bad again. But it hurts her. She doesn’t think anyone else would understand this, so she doesn’t say anything about it.

do they have a short temper? what’s most likely to set it off?

Not at all. You’re much more likely to upset her/make her cry than you are to piss her off. Luckily the former doesn’t happen that often either. I don’t think Beck has ever actually lost her temper on this account. I have one thread where she got pissed because she’d been locked up for days, but I count that more as a response to stress than really just getting pissed at someone.

Beck is nonviolent AF and her response to frustration is generally to just leave when someone is getting on her nerves. Occasionally she’s stuck in a situation where she can’t get away from people that get on her nerves/she doesn’t like. And she fox in her says that is her cue to make their lives absolutely miserable. Harry from our Foxy Ladies verse would fit into this perfectly. And Ros should thank god that Adam isn’t there anymore because Beck would have NO patience for him. But she’s not really... mad. Or losing her temper. She just thinks it is fair. They make her miserable and she can’t get away, so she’s going to annoy the piss out of them. Fair is fair.

do they take baths or showers? do they prefer one over the other?

Beck wants to know if getting rained on constitutes as a shower? She’s pretty sure it does. Because sometimes the weather man calls them showers.

Normally, in most verses, Beck will bathe in creeks or truck stops or those places hikers can stop for supplies and shit. It’s maybe like twice a week, sometimes less in the winter, sometimes more in the summer. 

If given the choice Beck likes baths. She dislikes things spraying in her face, and she doesn’t like the tiny holes that make up shower heads. They gross her out to look at. But she doesn’t like to soak too long. And daily bathing is something she has to readjust to in more domestic verses.

[willsnow8]

Episode 2, in which I kiss a girl for the first time

My fledgeling sexual encounters were with nobody but I. (Presumably that's the case for almost every adolescent. Presumably even our ape ancestors, before they felt the invisible pull from other ape ancestors, would have first become adept at the manual pull upon their own erogenous bits.) And for a long while such selfish stimulation was enjoyable enough to stave off any sense of lack; I yearned for nothing more substantial or complex than tossing myself off. Certainly then had I no desire for girls to come between my erection and I! This was not due to disinterest in heterosexual intercourse. (Far from it: the fornication fantasy dominated the imagination as I reached each regular climax.) But fantasies were all they were - fantasies that remained internalised, stimulating no interaction with the opposite sex. 

My attitude towards girls was still that of an 8-year-old boy intimidated by these prevalent female wonders due to their otherness, what with their general preference for clandestine incantation over squabbling one-upmanship. They were really more like adults, albeit much smaller and obsessed with hair-braiding. Apart from one unusually-confident and quiffed boy whose name I now forget, my male classmates and I co-existed immiscibly with girls - cheek-by-jowl yet somehow also separate - their giggling chatter at once compelling but indecipherable.

Gradually, though, as we progressed through High School, these fluid dynamics were disturbed, and inter-gender mingling started to occur. The earliest occurrences of this effected me greatly by challenging my perception of what children could or should do; in fact, they challenged my very status as a child. 

The first such occurrence was heralded in Maths one morning by the Chinese-whispered announcement that Jenny Lee and Gary Carr were going to 'get off' with each other on the school-field during break. Stunned and unable to concentrate on the sums we’d all been set, instead I spent the rest of that lesson glancing across the classroom either to Jenny or to Gary, both of whom had a newfound air of celebrity, like fully-fledged soap-stars sat amongst us lowly children. Gary in particular, though unchanged in appearance, now possessed an inner power betrayed by a flickering smirk. A smirk that made a fool of me. That was how I felt: fooled, deceived. Granted, we were not best friends - rather mere acquaintances - but he had been 'one of us'. He’d been like me, or so I thought. Yet it turned out that, all along, he'd been cultivating secretly the chutzpah to commit the preternatural act of plaiting tongues with Jenny Lee. Never before - never - had I experienced such envy.

At last, when the lesson ended, our entire class made its way as one along the narrow corridor towards the nearest exit. Drunk on collective consciousness, we stifled grins like circus-psychics teasing one another by refusing to acknowledge aloud the elephantine force which propelled us to the field. A small crowd (how did they know?) awaited our arrival with palpable anticipation. This we joined and formed a loose ring that attracted towards it more ambling clumps of pupils exiting behind us. 

For a few uneasy minutes this human circle shape-shifted around two gravitational centres; Jenny Lee’s female friends huddled closely to her, cooing compliments about her complexion; whilst our male group (including an unusually reserved Gary) continued to ignore the real reason we were there by reverting to our default tone of insecure piss-take punctuated by arm-punching. The crowd expanded and grew restless. Some of the older, more disinterested boys at the fringes began to pierce our group’s omertà with outspoken bawdy goads that stoked the prevailing impatience into a gathering hum of discontent. Eventually, a silver-backed sixth-year called Oggy grabbed hold of Gary’s bomber-jacket and thrust him towards the supposed object of his affections. 

A thrown, careering Gary caused the huddled girls to scatter, leaving him and Jenny Lee alone at last inside the circle. It was at this moment of sudden union that something happened to Jenny, to overtake her. Whether this was an all-encompassing Big Bang rapidly swelling from within, or the first outward appearance of a long-held conviction, I do not know for certain, but it appeared to be the latter - a flowering of feeling the buds of which she’d tended for a while. Calm and in control, she threaded her fingers through Gary's so that their hands clasped together like spring-clamp combs. Then she lifted up their long joined arms and twirled half around, confidently nestling her arse into his groin and pulling him close. In his embrace she swayed a little, causing them both to rock stiffly side-to-side for a second, Jenny’s half-closed eyes staring at the empty air in front of her, Gary peering down as though carefully counting the cowslips, his face racked with self-conscious seriousness as he awaited further manipulation. 

Entwined around each other, Jenny led Gary on a slow and clumsy four-legged walk to the sparser end of the circle furthest from the school. Here they stopped. She raised their threaded hands and twirled back to face him, rubbing her hair against his chest before pointedly meeting his gaze. Mobilised by a cue he finally recognised, Gary lurched forward abruptly and clamped his open mouth around hers. They French-kissed vigorously, with amateur-dramatical desire. There was neither subtlety nor tenderness in their competing attempts to swallow one another. The moment had the dispassionate industry of a mid-shift bed-bath. The gathered audience witnessed this brief encounter in complete silence. Only when it ended did someone half-heartedly jeer so as to ease the awkward transition back to normality. 

Released from the clutches of Jenny Lee, Gary returned to our group wearing an ill-fitting mask of nonchalance. Being sure to avoid eye-contact, I searched his face for signs of romantic feeling, but saw only braggadocio. A couple of the other lads asked him strangulated questions in an attempt at worldly experience that fooled no-one and to which Gary responded but with deep-throated chuckles; a baritone amongst castrati. He was distinct from the rest of us now; we all knew it. Having graduated from our childish world of Top Trumps, sweets and wheelies, he occupied now the time zone that we all wished to reside in but to which we daren’t yet venture. 

Never again did I witness such a public display of affection in broad daylight. But there did soon follow similar (albeit more private) encounters amongst my peer-group. Legendary was Kim Lazenby’s birthday party to which my pals and I were invited: a long, unchaperoned evening eating Pringles in front of Friends, culminating in a game of ’spin the bottle’, during which I had my first ever proper kiss, with Kim’s slightly-older cousin called Sarah. My own substandard contribution to this kiss was to close my eyes and repetitively gape my mouth open and shut like an oversized goldfish, in the hope that it looked and felt roughly as it should. I did not enjoy it at the time, and was in fact thoroughly relieved when it was over; nevertheless for many years afterwards did I think of it when masturbating. 

As I occasionally found myself the object of adolescent fumbling (whether determined by the settled position of a spun bottle or by the undammable determination of a hormonal teenage girl) my ‘wank bank’ of titillating memories from which to draw began to accumulate slowly. But it did not occur to me to progress beyond mild foreplay. The snogs preluded a climax that was a solo refrain rather than a duet. This was due in part to my stereotypically British reserve - just as I was reluctant to chat to a stranger on a bus, was I also reluctant to start fingering a girl I was kissing - for one shouldn’t presume that a word spoken or a digit inserted will be welcomed by the open ears or legs of its recipient. Associated with this reserve was my low self-esteem, because, surely, an acne-ridden gibbon with a smelly palate brace should be grateful for a kiss and should certainly not strive for anything more. My frigidity was also due in part to the prudishness that lingered from my Church-going days, when the 'desires of the flesh' were preached about with such pious disdain. 

Plus there was the Peter Pan factor, my unshakable attachment to childhood. Surely sexual intercourse with another was something only adults did, whereas I was still determinedly but a boy, a status which ejaculation did not invalidate by itself. And, always, one of my defining characteristics as a boy was that I never ever rushed towards the bustling fun of the playground, but instead would I hesitate at the unlocked gate, overwhelmed by the sight of such communal enjoyment, before heading back, alone, to my bedroom, to make perfunctory use of my toys.

[raijintosworn]

Strangely, Ryoma could believe there would be mistletoe here. This school was full of young people discovering urges, and full of professors who needed to indulge in urges. It wasn't appropriate, but he remembered being young and wanting to sate the curiosity of the human body and kissing at the same time.

These were not musings to have in front of Xander. Those thoughts should not even be in the same room as Xander of Nohr.

“No. No, I'm afraid you don't get to leave as you please, Xander.” No honorific. He knew he should, he knew it was the polite thing to do, but he would rather contend with his own blade a second time than acknowledge the man before him as a king or prince. No; here, they were on equal footing. Ryoma would not lose that edge so easily.

“I believe this is the perfect time to talk. As you can see, I can't stash weapons - nor can you.” It was the safest option, unless Ryoma felt like drowning him. If this were a different Xander, and if Kamui had not returned, then maybe his life would be forfeit.

“Come, Xander. We'll go together.” It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was barely below a demand. He stepped forward, his eyes cutting a glare to Xander. “Unless you're feeling cowardly. I would call you many things, Xander, but I would not wish to add coward to that list.”

bed bath and beyond pissed

from here