#I JUST. THAT FUCKING FACE - THE MASK HE FORCES ON HIMSELF - THAT HAUGHTY SMILE

[vaggieslefteye]

Appreciating Hazbin Hotel's Character Expressions ↳ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ ᴅᴜꜱᴛ in 1x04 - "Masquerade"

[ashes-and-ashes]

"fuck you" , "fuck me yourself, you coward" with wolfstar please?

Slytherin!Sirius au.

~

He finds Sirius in the hallway, all jet black hair and haughty eyes and that emerald tie slung casually around his neck like some goddamn medal of honour. The curtains were thrown back from the windows, the silvery light from the almost-full moon illuminating everything in narrow slats, streaks of stardust on the blocks of stone.

Remus curses - his ribs still ache from the Changing, pain stabbing through him every time he took a breath. He’s pretty sure the bandages on his back had slipped down as well, the cuts on his skin stinging with every step he took.

“Fuck,” he breathes, softly. The only other way to Gryffindor Tower was using the main staircase - a solid 10 flights of stairs in a dizzying spiral. He imagines it in his head - dragging himself up nearly a hundred flights of stairs, the throbbing in his ribs intensifying with every step, his shoulders aching and back screaming -

Remus grits his teeth, tries not to think about it. With a grimace he turns around, preparing himself for the long hike back up and praying Sirius didn’t see him.

Then again, when were his prayers ever answered? He barely made it five steps before he heard the rustle of fabric and Remus knew Sirius saw him.

Sirius Black, the Slytherin Heir to the Black fortune. He was about as big of a prick as his title would suggest - all cocky arrogance and careless swagger, the type of person who let secrets drop like rain. He remembers first year, eleven years old, walking into the Great Hall and hearing Sirius’ cold voice, the sniggers of his fellow classmates. He’s obviously Muggle born. No pureblood wizard would look that deformed.

Six years. Six years of taunting, of getting shoved into walls and laughed at. Mudblood.

He’s heard stories, of course, all the ones about how he’d mastered the curriculum at eleven and was the youngest and best member on the Slytherin Quidditch team, the long list of conquests he’s had over the six years at Hogwarts.

He’s heard the other stories, too; the ones about the scars on his back and the nights he spent missing from Slytherin dorms.

Remus grits his teeth, hoping Sirius wouldn’t say anything. He stares at the end of the hallway with a sigh - it seemed to stretch out forever, an impossible trek considering the boy in front of him.

He’s not even looking at Sirius but he can still hear the smirk on his voice, that insufferable smirk that made him want to punch him in that perfect face -

“What are you doing so late?”

Remus stiffens, tries to keep the exhaustion off his face. “I could ask you the same question.” He winces - his voice is hoarse from a night of screaming, the metallic tang of blood coating his tongue. Gingerly, he probes at the mess of chewed flesh on his cheek; he must have bitten through when he was Shifting.

Sirius laughs. Even that sounded practiced, Remus thinks - too easy, too smooth.

“I asked first,” Sirius says casually. He’s sitting on the floor against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him. The moonlight sharpened his features - all high cheekbones and dark hair and the edge of his jaw, the pale skin of his neck disappearing into his robes. Remus’s eyes follow the smooth skin, catching on the edge of a silvery scar curling behind his ear.

Sirius’ smile sharpens. “Seeing something you like, Lupin?”

Remus shoots him a flat look - the same one he gave anyone who asked about his scars. “Are you asking out of genuine interest?”

Sirius doesn’t respond. He stretches out on the floor, arms braced on the wall behind him. Remus sways slightly on his feet; one of the bandages has definitely come loose, the torn edges of his broken skin screaming in protest.

“I should go,” he says. “I need to get to the tower.”

Sirius’ eyebrows fly up, his silver eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You still haven’t told me why you’re up this late.”

Remus doesn’t bother to mask his expression into anything but the annoyance he felt, turning an irratated glare on Sirius’ smirking face. “Well, you haven’t told me shit either. Call it a night and let me sleep, okay?”

“Ah,” Sirius says. He grins, the shadows and the light combining to give an eerie look of a Cheshire Cat. “See, I’m self-destructive - everyone knows that. So it really shouldn’t matter why I’m out so late. You on the other hand - I guess it’s more interesting why Saint Lupin is breaking curfew than why poor old me is.”

“I’m not a saint,” Remus says. Sirius’ grin widens.

“You’re certainly not a devil.”

“Like you?” Remus says, mockingly.

“Now you get it.”

“Please.” Remus rolls his eyes. He’d never been able to have a conversation with Sirius for longer than 5 minutes without getting some sort of blinding headache. “Spare your melodramatic bullshit.”

“Melodramatic - “ Sirius cuts himself off, the humor disappearing from his face so fast Remus glances over his shoulder. “What - “

“You’re hurt,” Sirius says. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m not - “ Remus starts but Siruus ignores him. He pushes himself up off the ground - his hand is on Remus’ shoulder, thumb digging into the tear there and Remus just barely manages to swallow down his scream.

“Fuck,” he hisses - Sirius face is curiously blank. “What the fuck was that for - “

Sirius’ hand is at his robes in an instant and Remus wasn’t fast enough to stop him from yanking the soft fabric off his shoulders, the cool night air washing over his skin. He’s wearing his shirt underneath (Thank God, he thinks) but he can tell from the dampness on his spine that a lot of blood must have leaked through.

Sirius’ hand brushes over the deepest of the gashes on his front and this time Remus can’t stop the choked noise he makes. Sirius’ face is still empty; Remus stares at the purpling bruises on his arms and tries to get his pounding heart under control.

He bends to retrieve his fallen cloak and regrets it - the movement makes the wounds on his back tear even more and he muffles his groan with his hand. Sirius is there in a heartbeat, his knuckles white where he gripped the fabric, hard enough that Remus thought it might tear, one hand still pressed against the cut on Remus’ stomach.

“Who did this?” Sirius asks, his tone deadly calm. Remus notices the slight tremble in his hands and forces himself to step backwards away from Sirius’ warm touch.

“None of your business,” he replies shortly.

Sirius lets out a startled laugh, cracking at the edges. “None of my - “ he begins, then cuts himself off. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not, actually.”

Sirius traces the lines of blood spreading across Remus’ back, his eyes hollow and so far away. “Tell me,” he says, his voice soft.

Remus swallows. Irrational anger surges through him, at Sirius, acting like a goddamn saint as if he wasn’t a fucking asshole -

“What do you care?” he says, voice cutting.

Sirius blinks, and Remus can practically see the walls snapping down in his eyes. “Do I need to have a reason?”

Remus grits his teeth. “Who hurt you, Sirius?”

Sirius flinches back as if Remus had physically struck him, a mixture of shock and terror and anger warring over his face. The emotion is gone in an instant; Sirius’ face goes dead, as if he had shoved his feelings deep inside of him, something slicing and cutting up his insides.

“How did you know?” he asks.

Remus forces a bitter laugh. “I’ve seen scars. Yours are intentional. Someone’s out too much effort into making them hurt.”

“No one - “

Remus scoffs. “Straight lines and smooth edges? Perfectly round burn scars?”

“When have you seen - “

“We’ve both been here six years, Sirius. Guess we’re both deformed after all.”

Sirius blinks. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Remus spits.

Sirius just smirks. “Maybe I will.”

“I’m sure your mother will be proud of you.”

Sirius flinches back, and somewhere Remus winces at how easy it was to hurt him. He can’t bring himself to care - he’s tired and in pain and full of burning, irrational rage.

“Let me go,” he says, snatching his ribs from Sirius’ shaking hands, turning and limping down the corridor.

It’s only when he’s in bed later that night does he realize that he’s never met another person as scarred as he was.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Splatter of Rage

Wolmeric Week #1: Formal

A/N: So I was messaged by a couple people that today was apparently the first day of Wolmeric Week on twitter (which I do not have an account on), and at first I was all, “oh jeebus no I just did twenty-eight days of prompts, no more!” But then the first day’s prompt stewed in my brain. And then turned more into worldbuilding than shipping, whoops, but it’s not like I don’t prefer worldbuilding, some days. So. Enjoy?

Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7 || Bonus!

RATING: T WORD COUNT: 1677 WARNINGS: Brief references to misogyny and classism

---

For all that Synnove intensely disliked (an understatement) what Ishgardian nobility considered a proper social function, she moved through the crowd of the Haillenarte parlor with an ease that certainly didn’t appear wholly feigned. Part of that, Aymeric knew, came from being forced to attend the much more cutthroat soirees of Ul’dahn business magnates by her mother and absorbing how they traded barbs disguised as compliments, whether she liked it or not. Part of it also stemmed from the years of maintaining the façade of bureaucratic benignity while serving as a cargo assessor for Mealvaan’s Gate and waiting for the right moment to bury a merchant-captain in so much red tape they couldn’t see the light of day for sennights.

“There is no Ishgardian count or lordling,” Synnove had muttered to him the first time she had accompanied him to a party as his beloved and not a Warrior of Light, “that has an ego to match that of a member of the fucking EATC board of directors. The likes of Lolorito and Lady Shushuha would flay this lot alive with just their tongues and barely consider it sport.”

Tonight was the type of gathering that was focused on gossip and hobnobbing rather than dancing—admittedly something neither of them had overly minded, too tired from overwork to gather the energy for more than idle strolling while sipping fine wines—and he had been drawn early on into a conversation with Counts de Haillenarte and Dzemael and the Speaker for the House of Commons, Lionnet Aucheforne. Artoirel and Lord Edmont had thus taken turns to keep Synnove company for most of the night; he had caught her eye more than once as she had taken leisurely turns of the room with either gentleman, delighting in the spark of predatory, possessive satisfaction in her gaze when it alighted upon himself. She was quite fond of him in the fine blue coat she had brought back from the First for him, and it was his honor to be a source of some pleasure for her this eve.

Unfortunately, it now appeared that in the lull between father and son switching off escort duty, someone had waylaid his lady. It was only years of exposure to the subtle shifts in Synnove’s carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality that allowed Aymeric, even at this distance clear on the other side of the large room, to pick out the sourness lurking at the slightly downturned corners of her mouth, the chill turning her lovely eyes from grass green to sharp emerald. He couldn’t see who it was that was speaking to her, however; leaning around Count Baurendouin would be far too obvious, so instead he kept half his attention on the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating as he flicked his gaze towards Synnove every few moments.

Finally, the crowd parted, just a little bit—

—oh, Seven fucking Hells.

Aymeric was quite certain he had not spoken aloud, but there was no hiding the horror contorting his face at the moment, as both Counts and his House of Commons counterpart immediately ceased speaking to stare at him in quiet bemusement for a handful of heartbeats. And then, in one synchronized movement, all three men turned to follow his gaze. Another heartbeat of silence and then while Master Aucheforne maintained his puzzlement, both Count Baurendouin and Count de Dzemael swore.

“Why would you invite her?” Count de Dzemael hissed.

“I did no such thing, and neither would my lady wife,” Count Baurendouin replied in the same tone. Both men had hunched their shoulders in unconsciousness defensiveness.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in slightly more normal tones, Count Baurendouin turned to him and said, “Ser Aymeric, I will take no offense should you decide to escort your lady home early tonight. Or if anything untoward should happen to another of my guests in ensuring your lady leaves further unmolested.”

Without any further prompting, Aymeric broke away and strode in ground-eating movements for Synnove while the two counts explained to Master Aucheforne why the sight of Lady Isabeau de Torsefers—Aymeric’s mama’s absolute least favorite cousin—struck terror into most of high society.

Lady de Torsefers occupied an unassailable position in Ishgard: widow to a noble knight of means who had died in honorable combat slaying Dravanians. That she was widowed at twenty-one, five months after her marriage and carrying her husband’s heir, had been considered a romantic tragedy among her generation. That her position mere steps away from saintliness had meant no one had been willing to rein in the worst of her snide, cruel comments for anyone who presented the slightest inconvenience to her whims and wants, that had transformed over the decades into the haughty never-wrong surety of an elderly dowager, was considered a waste of potential of a maiden who had been a shining example of proprietary and grace at the time of her betrothal.

“A feral croc in karakul’s clothing, that one,” he had overheard Mama mutter to Hersande when Lady de Torsefers had shown up unannounced for afternoon tea, once.

He wove through the crowd with ease, startling no few of the lords and ladies, leaving a wake of rustling silks behind him. And with every step closer, Synnove’s expression chilled further and further until her face was as cold and expressionless as a statue of the Fury Herself.

(That tiny, atavistic part of his mind recognized that “Fury” was too-apt a comparison.)

Aymeric finally reached his lady’s side, nearly out of breath, to hear Lady de Torsefers say, somehow managing to look down her nose despite age having shrunk her to ilms shorter than Synnove, “—though I suppose you aren’t the worst choice to final beget a passel of Borel heirs.”

Synnove’s hand tightened on her wine glass until her knuckles whitened. Aymeric internally seethed, but this, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time some too-nosy noble had thought they needed to venture their (unwanted, unasked for, absolutely inappropriate) opinion about what type of family Synnove and Aymeric should have. (Never mind they had everything they wanted just as it was.) Still, it never failed to have him see red that anyone would reduce a woman, much less a heroine of the Dragonsong War and a Warrior of Light, to breeding potential.

“Children aren’t in our future,” Synnove said in a voice so frosty it was a wonder her breath didn’t ice the air before her. Aymeric ilmed closer to her, gently setting his hand on the small of her back; she shifted imperceptibly to press back against him. “The carbuncles are rambunctious enough on their own.”

Lady de Torsefers laughed, dry and mocking, her beady eyes glinting. “Oh, children are a much larger challenge than pets, though a proper governess makes that simpler!”

Synnove growled, low and furious, with enough force that Aymeric felt it reverberate up his arm. He may have made a similar sound himself, he couldn’t say for certainty, though he did know he saw red once more. The fact there currently wasn’t blood staining the Haillenarte carpet and walls was likely a product of divine intervention: nothing enraged Synnove quite so much as any implication that her carbuncles weren’t people.

His mama’s least favorite cousin for obvious reasons gave him a dismissive glance. “Two governesses, perhaps, to counteract the late archbishop’s taint.”

Aymeric’s jaw dropped, shock knocking away his rage as he stared at Lady de Torsefers and her mean little smile, so absolutely taken aback that his mind skittered to a halt. He heard more than one outraged gasp from the nearby nobles.

There was a beat of stillness, the sounds of the rest of the party distant and dim—and then Synnove threw her wine into Lady de Torsefers’s face.

The dowager shrieked in surprise and outrage as the liquid streaked her face powder and dripped onto her widow’s weeds. She pulled out a handkerchief and started frantically dabbing at her eyes as a few startled, choked off laughs echoed around them before the culprits hurriedly turned away; Aymeric didn’t bother to do similarly, instead letting out his smirk as malicious glee unfolded in his chest. Once her eyes were sufficiently clear, the widow lowered the handkerchief to glare at Synnove, a nasty sneer curdling her mouth.

“How dare you, you ill-bred cur,” Lady de Torsefers hissed.

Synnove matched her glare, unblinking, as she set her now-empty wine glass down on the tray a server had whisked over to present, and just as quickly whisked away. “Madam,” said Synnove, voice shivering with barely-contained rage, “should you ever again insult a member of my family, whether it be in my hearing or not, I will do worse then douse you with wine.”

The malicious glee morphed into pride and deep affection; even years after she had first done so, it never failed to awe Aymeric that Synnove had chosen him, that she counted him among her loved ones and a member of her family. In as deliberate an insult as he could manage without actually wasting words on the woman, he turned his back on Lady de Torsefers, ignoring her gasp of outrage. Synnove sniffed at his nudge on her back but acquiesced, spinning on her heel, and in unison, the couple left.

They were, fortunately, not far from the large parlor’s exit, so only a few eyes followed them as they swept out with a pointed swirl of Synnove’s green skirts. Her heels clacked loudly against the marble floor of House Haillenarte’s grand entrance foyer, the sound sharp and strident as she near-vibrated with fury, as she growled, “I know we’re rather overdressed for it, but I want a drink from the Forgotten Knight.”

Aymeric used the hand still on her back to pull her closer and kiss the side of her head. “No argument from me, darling,” he said. “And then we can detour to the Congregation and blow up a few striking dummies. We can even dress them in old black rags.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You’d better!”

[zillyeh]

🗣 zipper and smiles thank u

Send me 🗣+ the names of 2 muses on the blog, and there will be a random conversation written involving them.

For context this happens during the Yule Ball. I've been sitting on this concept for like half a year lmfao. Also Doc Version bc this is 1,193 words long lol.

Zippie was a fish out of water in most polite social situations- a ball of all things was far beyond her comfort zone. She hadn’t shoved herself into a suit and doused herself in a haze of cologne for her own sake, of course, but she was still suffering the consequences of being here. Namely being approached by strangers. Short, robbable strangers. The old jadeblood who dared it this time had a haughty air about him.

“We aren’t exactly subtle, are we?” He said, his tone, face, and gaudy gold accents immediately punchable. A half cape? A watch chain? She couldn’t really say anything about the white tuxedo, but it was different when he was so obviously moneyed.

“Can I help you?” She asked, impolite as she’d been to anyone else she didn’t immediately recognize.

“I believe you can, Undertaker.” He said with a smile, his freaky fangs moving with his lips. He tugged at that chain in his pocket, flashing a gold watch with a symbol she was all too familiar with. That crying eye that lined almost every Delhon City alleyway. She’d never seen it outside of a spray painted spot on a brick or the sidewalk or Dale’s wrists before. Of course. Of course.

Zippie clenched her teeth. Did all her feelings of foreboding always have to be right?

“I’ll help you alright you motherf-”

“Tsk, are we really going to have an altercation in the middle of such a pristine event, Miss Undertaker?” He asked condescendingly. Even without the hostility between them she would have wanted to toss him off one of this mansion’s balconies.

“I think you over estimate how much I give a shit about what polite society thinks of me, Smiles.” Zippie spat, clenching her fist. This could be the first and last time she saw the man in person, if nearly twenty sweeps of never seeing tail of him meant anything.

“Believe me I don’t.” Smiles nodded over her shoulder, Zippie followed his eye and released her hand. Bess- who had been catching up with her old co-performers- was talking animatedly with a tall, broad tealblood that was just as obnoxiously dressed as Smiles. He glanced over his shoulder and winked. Bess didn’t seem to notice.

“If you touch her-”

“If you touch me.” He said smugly, knowing full well he had his hooks in. “Join me upstairs, won’t you? It’s so awfully loud down here...”

Zipper said nothing as he lead her through the crowd to a VIP balcony area overlooking the ballroom. She clenched and unclenched her fists, occasionally looking back to Bessba until they reached the top of the stairs.

There were a quartet of massive blue and olivebloods waiting for them at the top, but nobody else. It seemed that this was Smiles’ alone.

“Out.” Smiles said firmly. The four wordlessly removed themselves from the room, but not without giving Zippie some glares. She returned them in full force.

“Champagne, wine?” Smiles offered, gesturing to an ice bucket on his table. “It’s far better up here than down there.”

Zippie wordlessly crossed her arms and leaned against the balcony, trying to find Bess in the crowd. Her white hair made it easy, at least.

“Alright, I’ll get to the point, then.” He said, clearly having underestimated just how unreceptive Zippie would be to this. He placed himself in front of her- too close- gripping the ornate rail in front of them.

“Your little north city group would have better odds working with mine than against it.” Smiles said. Zippie waited for the punchline. She scoffed when he let that hang in the air.

“Oh fuck off.” She said, wondering if he really had that much audacity.

Smiles’ pet teal had convinced Bess to dance.

“I don’t think our goals are all that dissimilar, are they Undertaker? I gather we both want what’s best for Delhon.”

“It’s Anthem unless you’re in my church, Smiles.” Zippie said through gritted teeth. “And you don’t want shit for Delhon besides what can gild your fucking lapels.”

Smiles laughed, stepping back, placing a hand on his chest. Bess seemed to be leading.

“Is that what you think? What has my reputation trickled down to in the streets? My heart’s always been set on the city’s best interest.”

“Uh huh, sure. I know your type. You’re a couple decades too late for me to fall for your shit.” Zippie stood up a little straighter, taller than him by just enough. “That all you want from me then, Smiles? Cause we coulda saved the trip up here if you just let me tell you to go fuck yourself downstairs.” That tealblood was just tall enough against Bess’ heels to twirl her around.

“Oh no sweetheart.” Smiles said with a wave of his hand. “It’s such a barrage of colors down there, it’s hard to sniff out one singular anon.”

Zippie froze, gripping the railing hard enough the wood and the pins in her wrist protested.

“Oh, are we listening now?” He teased, stepping closer again. She took a substantial step back.

“Stay away from me.” She threatened, feeling the hairs on her arms stand up. Zippie couldn’t afford to spark right now, but that also wasn’t entirely up to her, consciously. Smiles grinned, clasping his hands in front of him. Could he feel the growing static in the air?

“Oh now I can’t do that, can we? We just made nice.” Smiles watched her with a critical eye, staying put this time. Zippie couldn’t afford this. Not now.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” He said with a tut. “Get back over here, I’m not finished with you.”

Zippie hardened her jaw, staying put. The faintest twitch of his eye, the way he held the balcony where she just was. That was… frustration. She could feel that in the air over her own fear.

He was bluffing.

“Now.”

“Shove it up your ass.” She spat, still not entirely sure, whether or not she was right. “If you know then you know you’re in trouble if you do shit anything to me.”

“Oh am I?”

“Are you?”

His face fell slightly. Zippie felt the tension melt off of her. She smirked, visible for the most part in the mask she chose for the evening.

“Would love to stick around, but it’s awful rude to leave my date for this long, ain’t it? Been a real displeasure finally meeting you in person, Mr. Smiles.” Zippie said, backing towards the stairs. “I think we both know what’ll happen next time, shithead.”

“If you’re so lucky.” He said, grimacing. Zippie snorted, relieved but still unsettled by the whole ordeal. He didn’t follow her until she was a handful of steps down. Near the top still, she made brief, far away eye contact with Bessba, who looked panicked at her temporary dance partner.

“You’re so hostile to someone you just met.” Smiles called huffily, distracting her. “I almost wonder if I’m standing in for someone.”

“Don’t go grasping for straws old man.” Zippie said, rolling her eyes, ignoring a small chill running down her spine. “I got enough vitriol to power Delhon twice over.”

[hecohansen31]

Secrets Whispered

Michael Langdon x Secretive! Reader

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

Long time no see, right?

I just thought about this idea, since @guiltyfiend (also please do let me know, when you know what you prefer what you’d like as your ko-fi reward!) made me an amazing ship based about this concept and I just couldn’t wait to do something about it.

I am also personally, maybe (since I don’t feel apprecciated in the other fandoms I am in) of making a few comebacks in this fandom, if any of you would like iit obviously!

So, please, if you want more, don’t forget to leave some kind of feedback I truly apprecciate it from the bottom of my heart and it’ll truly make my heart beat stronger and my fingers write faster!

Don’t ever ever forget to support your beloved writers with feedback, if you liked what they wrote!

Have a nice reading!

SUMMARY: Michael is immediately fascinated by you as there are just too many mysteries around you.

WORDS: 2,9 K

WARNINGS: Mention of Trauma, Mention of The End of The World, Apocalypse-Antichrist and all that stuff, Also I am just extremely rusty about writing Michael, so please do bear with me if this sucks...

Michael had noticed immediately how you stood out of everyone else in the Outpost he had been ‘examining’.

It wasn’t some kind of ‘cheery and flashy standing out’, like many of the women and men that threw themselves at his feet or thought to impress him with a few sassy words that would get them instead on his nerves.

No, you simply stood out, because you didn’t try anything to impress him.

And no one in the Outpost seemed to truly know you.

Which was very strange for a group of people that had passed six months with only the company of each other in a closed off place, but whenever he’d question people about their relationships with you, he’d receive always the same answer.

They didn’t know nothing more than him.

You weren’t certainly shy, since you liked chattering with others  next to the fireplace, but there was some mindless rhythm to the conversation that made it particularly difficult for him to discover much about you, since he couldn’t help but feel like you used soft and polite words as a shield.

So, he couldn’t lie when he admitted to you that he had been looking forward to the interview.

Your eyes had ducked immediately down to your hands, a slight blush on your cheeks, but he knew that you weren’t simply faking modesty.

In all truth what you were doing was simply hiding your reaction to him.

To avoid giving yourself away.

He had known back then that it would be quite the power struggle with you and when he had started questioning you, all he had gotten were curt but short answers.

‘Is your name…?’ ‘Yes’.

‘… and your parents are…’ ‘Yes’.

‘… before the whole Apocalypse, you worked at a local library, didn’t you?’ ‘It was actually a bookshop, sir’.

And it was almost unnerving, hadn’t Michael, as always felt, like there was some thrilling challenge in your words and secretive demeanor, but his haughty tone had quickly shifted, when an answer of yours had surprised him.

‘Why, Mrs. (L/N), should you be chosen for the Sanctuary’ he had asked, hoping it would get him some kind of reaction from you, and it had.

Your head had finally pushed itself up to meet his eyes, immediately latching themselves onto Michael’s light blue.

‘… I don’t think that I even want to go to the Sanctuary, sir’ there was some kind of innocence in your reply that would have sounded arrogant from anybody else, hadn’t it been, like in your case, the utter truth ‘… for me it isn’t a question of deserving it, sir’.

The added words had certainly meant to somehow soothe the veiled insult the previous ones had uttered behind themselves.

‘Why do you think such an unconventional thing, little dove?’ the nickname this time got an honest shade of red placing itself on your cheek ‘… must I remind you that one of the few rules I’d like all the residents to follow is to be sincere to the core?’.

But he knew you weren’t lying.

And yet, it would have been easier if you had.

Although he strangely didn’t want this to be easier, because he liked complicated people, even more in a situation like this one, one in which everybody seemed so dull in the face of the end of the world.

But you were anything but dull underneath that defied appearance.

‘I am sincere’ there was fire in what you said, like it thoroughly burned in your heart.

Like you believed it wholeheartedly.

And Michael liked that.

‘… I just…’ now slowly something intimate and personal was coming on your face ‘… if this world had come to an end, is it natural that we continue on living on borrowed time?’.

There was such a longing ache in your words, as if you knew that they were true and yet you hadn’t ever had the courage to utter them, because they would have sounded foolish.

And they would have to anybody but Michael.

He also lived on borrowed time.

‘Humans ache for survival’ he commented, loving the contrast that your eyes made at hearing those words ‘… in any way or shape. It’s a natural instinct’.

‘And yet survival isn’t living’ you spoke softly, your head slowly turning away to look around yourself, as if you had again to hide your true self and Michael couldn’t help but be almost wounded by the move that meant a backward step in your journey.

He had been interested when this conversation had started with you, but now he was… almost enamored with what you had said.

What you hid so attentively, guarding it as a dragon would do with his own treasure.

‘It isn’t the same thing, you are right’ the low tone of his voice was enough to regain your attention ‘… but isn’t surviving better than staying outside where the toxic air would kill you, in a few minutes?’.

And now sadness crept on your face, alongside tiredness, as if you already knew what would be happening, next.

What Michael would have said.

And you were tired of it.

And it was enough to get your blood boiling, in a wonderful reaction in front of Michael’s eyes, happy to have gotten under your skin, but what you said hit him deep inside.

‘I must seem selfish for thinking this way…’ your voice was low, but it had an edge to it that brought, this time, Michael to focus his attention on you ‘… but I never asked to be saved, some people just stormed in my house, because they said I had some kind of special blood… and they… they took me, meanwhile my whole family died’.

He would have laughed in the face of everyone, had they said something similar, because he knew that it was all a show to convince him.

But you thought that truly.

‘There are millions of people better than me, and I got fucking lucky to be the only one to be here, alone and useless…’ now you were through your own ‘delirium’ and although Michael had been desperately looking to dig in your own soul, he felt like he had just hit a moment that was too private.

Maybe a bit too much.

‘… I am not the one you want to bring to the Sanctuary. If the world has come to an end, it must mean something’.

That Michael’s plan had worked.

But he almost felt guilty for it.

‘… I am sorry’ the words were now quiet, as the others you had uttered echoed deeply in the walls of his small private quarters ‘… it must… I must have misspoken myself’.

‘Oh no no’ his tone was rushed and although he knew that he was showing her something that he had always kept inside of himself, treasuring them attentively ‘… had all the interviews been as interesting as yours, Mrs. (Y/N)’.

Strangely the words weren’t of any comfort to you, although Michael accompanied it with a soft smirk on it, definitely less devious than the one he had for other people.

But he guessed he must have still looked like a wolf clothed in sheep clothes.

‘… is this over?’.

Whatever he had gained through the interview had somehow been completely dispersed, now and you looked like you desperately wanted to go away, somehow, probably because whatever mask had been held in place was now shattered on the ground.

‘Yes, it is’ and he hadn’t ever seen somebody raise that fast with a full set of petticoats ‘… but, I’d like to talk to you, more, Mrs. (Y/N)’.

A bitter smile was now on your face.

‘There are better people in here’ you spoke, and he detected finally something that you had hidden for so long: insecurity.

And as much as he wanted to desperately use it against you: he couldn’t bring himself to.

‘… more deserving of the Sanctuary’.

‘I’ll take that into consideration, if you don’t have any other suggestion for me on how to do my job’.

‘Again, my mouth speaks words that I don’t truly mean…’.

It was almost adorable the way you rushed to apologize.

But there was no fear in your eyes.

It was a first.

‘… I was joking’.

A breath of relief still escaped your lips, and as soon as it had appeared it was now gone.

‘I didn’t think that the devil could joke’.

And your last words effectively knocked the air out of his lungs.

Michael knew for sure that you had been avoiding him, probably uncomfortable with what you had shared with him.

Or better what he had forced you to share.

You’d leave supper early, as soon as he joined it and you’d rush your step whenever you met him in the corridors.

And it was such a shame, since he wanted to get to know you better.

So, he had planned like some kind of idiotic male a small strategy to meet you alone in the library, that afternoon, stalking attentively every step of your day, soon realizing that you visited the enormous local at least once a day, after lunch so that you could unwind and another time after dinner, setting up the book that your fellow housemates had left everywhere in the room.

You had an order of your own and you respected it almost maniacally.

A routine of some kind and Michael took advantage of it, catching you as you were completely taken by a reddish volume in your hands a pile of half-forgotten books adjusted beside you, as if you had suddenly been taken by the impulse to search through the pages of the book.

He wondered whether they had asked for you and you hadn’t been able to deny the claim of the paper.

‘… interesting reading?’ he had startled you, and you had immediately closed the book, almost risking to hit your nose, meanwhile Michael wasn’t able to stop a laugh from leaving his mouth  and you lowered your head to hid an embarrassed annoyance on your elegant face.

He had carved its traits in his pillow as he dreamt, a tormented dream of you standing right on the pillow next to him, staring at him longingly but resistance always matched it, in your eyes.

‘… definitely is’ you commented, meanwhile you turned the book so that he could look at his title, the defiance in your gestures didn’t have to speak loudly for it to be fully understood ‘… ‘The Scarlet Letter’ by Nathaniel Hawthorne, have you ever read it?’.

Michael had been a child when books had entered his life in silly fairy tales that his grandmother and then his ‘adoptive mother’ had started telling him, as they slowly got darker by the time grew into the figure he had been shaped in since childhood.

But as he had grown up, he had swiftly forgotten the pleasure of reading, different things occupying his mind and he hadn’t ever had a break to properly catch up with human literature, alongside.

And because of that and much more, he had to admit it that the passion of reading had slipped outside of his fingers quite early.

‘I sadly must say that I haven’t’.

Unsurprisingly insolence stayed on your face.

But it was also some kind of teasing innocence.

‘… it is actually an interesting and timeless story’ you explained, a twinkle of easiness on your face ‘… slutshaming is still very much real in here, since Venable would also oblige us to wear a scarlet letter on our chest, would she ever find out that somebody had sex with somebody else in here’.

Michael wondered whether you were you such a smartass always or only in the book department.

Either way, Michael enjoyed it thoroughly.

You seemed slightly less guarded off in the library and he could only guess that it felt the same way he felt in his own private chamber.

Hidden behind his extravagant clothes and his father’s influence.

‘You think that those rules are ridiculous’ it wasn’t a question and yet you nodded lightly ‘… well, I do find them a bit antique myself’.

‘You’d expect the dresses would be a torture enough’ you muttered, as you shot his a softer look ‘… and the poor Greys… it is almost… horrible how they are treated… very Charles Dickens’.

There was a light twinkle of madness as you said that and he could clearly see that although you had admitted that you didn’t want to go to the Sanctuary, you weren’t neither interested in staying here further.

‘Have you ever thought about stopping your survival instinct’ he wanted to ask you, but he knew that one wrong question would destroy all the soft climate that had appeared between you two, so he preferred to steer the conversation on human literature, something that got you quite passionate.

And he admired that love and that passion.

To be loved with such intensity it must have a thoroughly miraculous experience.

And he dreamt about it that night.

The following day he found himself in the library again and soon enough he discovered much more than your literary tastes.

He discovered your favorite colors and as he dressed himself up each morning, he wore them,  discovering that they immediately caught your eyes, in a way that seemed like some kind of animal mating ritual.

What had the Antichrist reduced himself to be just for the touch of a small flame of your love?

A complete actor and a clown at your service,

But slowly the ice in your personality started melting and he found that you had started to lean on his company as if you enjoyed it, encouraged it, even, although this didn’t mean that you had opened up to him in any way of shape.

And by this time Michael wasn’t sure whether you’d ever open up to him.

But you had your own way of showing devotion and interest.

Exactly as he did.

Once he had gotten quite along with you, he had given you his ring as a way to show that he somehow trusted you.

As a way to get you to know that he felt respect for you, although it was all hidden behind the premise of you ‘taking care of it’.

But it was a different show of rank and also it was a show of devotion and interest.

And when you had started wearing it, on a small chain around your neck, the pendant coming slowly to set itself on your chest whenever you stood up, in a way that made it pass unnoticed to everyone except you two.

And soon your crush had flared up.

Michael had been shocked when you had moved closer to him, in one of his afternoon library session, as you closed the book you were reading, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ one of your favorites definitely.

‘… you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire you’ you had said loudly, almost as if you were sure this would be a big fail or an even bigger success, and then you had moved closer to him, something shy and clumsy in your antics as you pressed your lips against his.

And Michael, exactly like a clumsy teenager, as well was slow in his reply to you, pawing your shoulder harshly but you still kept your lips locked a few minutes more to make sure that it wasn’t an accident.

And when you separated you were looking at him expectantly.

‘… isn’t that what I am supposed to say?’ he asked softly, a small smile on your face, softness and genuineness appearing in both your faces.

‘I just thought that I am more Mr. Darcy between us two’ you commented and Michael suddenly felt very surprised by the fact that you knew about your behavior, your secretiveness and your shyness, the walls that blocked him from properly getting to know you ‘… it is just that… you are… you are not who I expected to fall in love with’.

A strange rage had filled him at that, matched with an uneasy annoyance at himself.

It was always the same story: he got rejected.

And you didn’t even know he was the antichrist.

‘… you definitely looked out of my league’ there was a glint of amusement in your eyes and a peak of relief in Michael’s chest as he came closer to you, the second kiss being definitely less messy than the first one, and the one that followed after.

And the one after.

And before he knew it you were both in his chambers, completely disrupting Venable’s rule about fornicating with each other.

And it felt good.

And those walls that you had up had come down, since you had let him in yourself in a way that had made him feel almost understood, as you fought for dominance and power under the sheets, before it settled in a small victory on his part.

Although from the moans, you definitely enjoyed it.

And now you were simply enjoying the quiet.

The quiet before the storm, since he knew that he couldn’t deny the true nature of his powers, anymore to you.

But he could delay the reveal a bit, as you smiled at him.

And your smile held the sweetest of secrets.

And he was glad he hadn’t solved each one you held.

---

Michael Langdon Taglist (I don’t really have a taglist anymore, so if you are interested on being there for Michael do let me know, and I’ll add you, if I ever think about writing something for him again!):

@blakewaterxx​

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[rayshippouuchiha]

Tbtc Kisuke figured the very lovely Kurosaki-San would sooner or later be warned away from him or find better company. But? She doesn't? Someone asks why she always returns to the 12th division. Always returns to Kisuke. Everyone's noticed. His poor heart might doki doki out of his chest when she bluntly says she likes him best. Which in turn makes him think does she like me or does she liiiiiiike me

More than a few “well meaning” individuals try to tell Ichigo all about how the slightly nervous, unnerving, and yet also somehow skittish 12 Division Taichou Urahara Kisuke is not worth her time at all.

He is, after all, more than a bit morally skewed, is former Onmitsukido, and is also, and somehow worst of all, Rukongai trash.

And they’re not subtle at it at all, announcing such things in the middle of the square of one Division or another when Ichigo goes on one of her rambling sort of perimeter checks in between lounging around wherever Kisuke is or beating some of the other Shinigami a little closer into what she considers passable shape.

Ichigo mostly ignores them.  Yes she breaks a few arms here or there on the idiots who try to touch her or, more often than not, on the ones that say particularly nasty shit about Kisuke.  But over all she doesn’t really give a shit about what they’re saying.

She knows the truth, knows Kisuke even like this, and she’s never been one to judge others like these assholes are asking her to.

But then, of course, it comes to a head one day.

Ichigo’s out strolling with Kisuke after managing to pry him out of his lab for some sunlight.

(Ichigo knows it’s not a date, she knows that, but, well, it’s still time with Kisuke and that’s all that really matters to her in the end.)

They’re walking side by side, shoulders close enough to brush because Ichigo can’t help but want to be close to him and Kisuke, for some reason, seems to almost unconscionably accommodate her.

Ichigo is never unarmed and Kisuke, Benihime secure at his waist, is holding the fan she got him in one hand while his other is down at his side between them.  When they move their fingers brush against each other on every other step.  Ichigo longs to reach out, to take that hand as she once would have in a different time and place when she and Kisuke, their relationship teetering on a precipice, were skating ever closer to the end of all things together, but she doesn’t.

When they pause in the main square together to soak up the fresh air for a bit longer, neither eager to return indoors again, what Ichigo does let herself do is reach up and tug fondly on that loc of hair that still falls down between his eyes.

Kisuke, as he always seems to do when she touches him like this for some reason these days, flushes just a bit, lips tilting up in an almost shy smile that he doesn’t bother to hide behind his fan.  It’s one difference that Ichigo enjoys, the way that the Kisuke of this day and age doesn’t bother to hide much at all about his expressions or the like from her.

Unable to help herself Ichigo sways just a bit closer.

“Disgusting,” a harsh, bitten off almost whisper sounds out behind them.

Kisuke doesn’t do anything so cliche as freeze of course but something warm and bright in the back of his eyes does go shuttered as his expression smooths out just a bit and the fan comes up.  It’s like watching the bare bones of the self defensive, irreverent shopkeeper’s mask Kisuke had worn for so long in Ichigo’s past come to life again.

Ichigo’s eyes abruptly narrow as a displeased hiss rumbles in the back of her head.

She turns on her heel slowly, limbs loose and stance open. 

“What. Did. You. Say?” Ichigo bites out each word with a precise sort of violence, voice low and calm and cold.  The wars and the horrors they had brought, losing everyone, losing Kisuke, had honed her once flaring temper into a thing of cold, bloodied steel and fangs and claws capable of rending the very heavens.

“Kurosaki-sama,” the Shinigami, one Ichigo doesn’t recognize but who carries the familiar haughty features and arrogant aura of a Noble Clan, sneers lightly in Kisuke’s direction, “you should not associate with such rabble. Blood soaked Rugonkai trash is not proper companionship for a lady of your stat-”

Ichigo doesn’t bother to let him finish.

Her reiatsu slams down onto him with crushing force, pressing him down and then into the ground of the courtyard.

Around them all activity ceases, everyone stopping to gape in their direction.

Ichigo doesn’t care.  If anything maybe it’ll help get her point across all the better.

“Let me make it real clear,” Ichigo raises her voice higher than she normally does these days because she wants them all to hear.  “I don’t give a fuck about status or Clans or any other worthless shit you use to make yourself feel superior.  Because you’re not superior to me or to anyone, no matter what Clan you come from.  You’ll die just as easily as anyone else in the end.  So get this through your thick fucking skull before I use Zangetsu to drive it in.  A slight against Urahara Kisuke is a slight against me.  You call him trash, you call me trash.  You want to talk about blood soaked?  I’m drowning in an ocean you can’t even comprehend, boy.  So go home and tell your Clan and all your little friends that no one tells me who I should or shouldn’t spend my time with.  I make that choice, me.  And I’ll choose Kisuke over anyone else in all of Soul Society without hesitation, without a second thought. Understand?”

On the ground the Shinigami wheezes, face white with terror and wet with tears.

Ichigo stares down at him for a moment longer, flicks her gaze up to scan the courtyard where more than one person flinches when she looks at them, and then tisks loudly before she reels her reiatsu back in as tightly as she can.

“Come on,” Ichigo turns abruptly back towards Kisuke who is standing just behind her still, cheeks red, eyes wide, and fan held loosely in one hand.

This time Ichigo reaches out to grab his free hand with her own so that she can tug him out of the courtyard and back towards the 12th Division.  She wants the comfort of his lab and maybe a nap.  Refraining from murdering people really does take a lot out of her.  She’s beginning to understand Starrk more and more every day.

Kisuke doesn’t even attempt to protest, just lets himself be dragged along behind her for a few long and silent moments.

“Ah, Kurosaki-chan,” Kisuke finally mumbles out her name.

“Ichigo,” Ichigo reminds him for the nth time.

“Of course Kurosaki-chan,” Kisuke agrees as he always does.  “Those things you said ...”

He doesn’t have to clarify of course.

“It’s true,” Ichigo admits easily enough as she keeps moving forward because it is.  She’s never made a secret of any of it, not from the very second she arrived in this time.  “You’re my favorite person in all 3 worlds Kisuke.  I like you better than any of those assholes.  Always will.”

Behind her Kisuke makes a low, choked off sound but doesn’t say anything else.

Ichigo doesn’t look back but, after a few seconds, the hand she’s still clutching shifts just a bit until their fingers are tangled together instead.

And, unseen by anyone, Ichigo smiles.

[bbrandy2002]

My Love

 Chapter 11

Pairing: Liam x Riley

Book: TRH

Warning: Gun violence and gun death mentioned.

@emceesynonymroll @romanticatheart-posts @burnsoslow @dcbbw @ao719 @jessiembruno @hopefulmoonobject @texaskitten30 @drakesensworld @janezillow @merridithsmiscellany-blog @mskaneko @loveellamae @queenjilian @sirbeepsalot @pedudley @caroldxnvxrs @jovialyouthmusic @forthebrokenheartedthings-blog @desireepow-1986 @bebepac @patriciaanchrist2019 @kingliam2019​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​ @olympianpantsuit​ @msjr0119​ @lodberg​ @cordonianroyalty​ @princess-geek​ @sparklinglilac​ @annekebbphotography​ @twinkle-320​ @ladyangel70​ @rainbowsinthestorm​ @innerpostmentality​ @cordonia-gothqueen​ @flutistbyday2020​ @marvelandchoices 

__________________________

He lifted his mask to reveal himself. Riley’s dark eyes creased into slits as she gritted her teeth. “Neville! What the hell is wrong with you? Get out!”

With sweat beading along his brows, Neville slipped a gun from his suit pocket and aimed it directly at her. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I believe we have some business to discuss.”

Riley’s eyes widened, and she felt her heart leap from her chest. With his arm outstretched and the shiny metal of the pistol projecting a glare onto its intended target, she took several panicked steps back until her rear side bumped off the wall. She wanted to scream for help, but her throat constricted tightly around her vocal cords. Her mind was racing between thoughts of how to save herself and why the most self-centered noble in Cordonia would dare to threaten the Queen. 

Except she wasn’t the Queen. Not to him.

In a frightened state, it dawned on Riley that there must be a connection between the woman who had killed her and the arrogant bastard standing before her. 

She swallowed hard. “What do you want with me?”

Neville’s face wrinkled up into a devilish smirk, and he inched closer to her. “Amanda, Amanda.” He wagged his finger and pressed the gun under her chin until her head tilted against the wall. “I’m quite displeased with your ignorance, my dear. Though it’s not all that surprising coming from you … a common street whore with no principles and even fewer brains." 

He twisted the pistol harder into her reddened jaw. "Tell me, did you really believe I wouldn’t come looking for you. That I would simply disregard the fact that you made a fool of me?”

Riley held her breath and dug her fingernails into the ornate plaster panels behind her.

She had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but why would she?  There was only one way to find out.

“You’ll have to forgive me, sir.” she finally breathed through a whimper. “My memory isn’t as sharp as it once was.” Her probing eyes met his, and she quirked her brow. “Did we know each other?”

Neville let out a small chuckle; the smell of epoisses and cognac emanating from his breath made her stomach even sourer. “You appeared to know precisely who I was when I entered. You referred to me by name, did you not?”

“I … I did,” Riley’s voice stammered. “It’s just that … you are one of the more, uh …  dignified and well-known members of the court,” she lied. "Obviously, I would know who you are.”

Neville guffawed in response to her answer. “Flattery? I like it. Perhaps that little blow to your skull knocked some sense into you after all. It’s too bad I’m not buying it.”

Riley glared at him piercingly. “How did you know about that? What happened was never made known to the pub … lic …” she trailed off and instinctively placed a hand lightly over her mouth. Riley drew in a sharp breath. “It was you. You’re the one who attacked Aman – me – in the park that day." 

A self-satisfied smile dangled from the corner of his lips as he shrugged smugly in return; his grimy eyes flitted with arrogance.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! You did do it … and you don’t even care!”

“I did … And I don’t.” Neville maintained while he caressed the gun along the side of her cheek, causing her to recoil away from it. Angered by her insolence, he grabbed her chin with his free hand and squeezed tightly, jerking her head to face him again. “Now you listen here, I did what needed to done, you foolish bitch! You refused to follow orders then, and you continue to do so now. The only thing you’ve ever been good for to me was killing that simpleton commoner Queen and a quick fuck. And I had to twist your arm to do both.”

It was like the earth and time stood completely still as Riley processed the words he had just spoken to her. Neville had just confessed his part in her murder.

He had taken her life. 

He had taken her from Liam and Ellie. 

And in all of that reveal, there was neither remorse nor sympathy. Just an annoyance that his accomplice hadn’t completed the job to his satisfaction.

Tears stung behind her red-rimmed eyes, and it felt like the ground collapsed under her. Riley felt a twinge in her heart, knowing he had caused so much pain without as much as a second thought. 

She arched her neck and spat in his face. “You coldhearted son-of-a-bitch! I had a life, damn you!”

Feeling a charge and rush of adrenaline, fueled by anger, Riley heaved a hard and swift knee blow to the groin that caused Neville to groan loudly and double over.  

Riley reached for the gun that was still clasped firmly in his hand and spun her body around so that her back was facing him. She hiked one leg and repeatedly plowed her small heeled shoes into his Venetian loafers while struggling to keep the gun pointed away from her. All of her self-defense training kicked in, and now she was fighting for the survival she didn’t have the luxury of when she died nearly three months ago. She would be damned if Neville Vancoeur would take her down again.

Neither was prepared to lose this battle. 

She had fire coursing through her veins and a belly full of vengeance. 

He had his arrogant pride, a reputation to uphold, and the ire of the Queen of Monterisso. 

As they bounced and fought along the edges of the wall, Riley thrust a sharp elbow to his face. The sound of his nose cracking wasn’t enough to slow him. It was only the impetus for him to fight back harder. 

With blood splattered on his hand, he reached out and grabbed a fist full of her long brown hair, and hurled her to the floor. Her grip on the gun was all but lost to soften the blow of her fall. Somehow her head still hit the ground with a jarring thud. 

Riley could feel the room spinning around her as Neville straddled over her midsection. His nose continued to drain blood like rivulets down his splintered face that seeped into the fabric of her dress.  

Her vision became blurry, and she could hear nothing over the ringing in her ears. As she gasped what she believed to be her final breaths, having felt the cold, hard metal pressed against her throat, Riley prepared for her ending. 

In a split second, it felt like a boulder crashed on top of her when Neville’s upper body collapsed across hers. Riley could barely make out a woman’s voice, and Neville’s haughty cries were whirling next to her ear. Her eyes fluttered with each passing moment to gain a clearer picture of the thin silhouette in red that now engaged with her capturer for the gun. 

Olivia.

With a small blade protruding from his shoulder, Neville and the Duchess battled it out for the upper hand, but he still had the gun.

A loud blast erupted.

The first shot had been fired.

In the small confines of the room, the putrid scent of sulfur and charcoal infiltrated throughout. The echo of the gunfire reverberated into the abysses of Riley’s bones, as well as the abrupt howls of distress. 

Olivia fell to her knees, her hand clutching her side, and collided face down with the ground next to Riley.

A myriad of panic spread across his face.

Neville intended to force Amanda out of the Palace so he could kill her inconspicuously. 

Now, he had shot the Duchess of Lythikos. It would only be mere seconds before the King’s Guard came rushing in.

Everything was starting to fall apart.

The gun was loosely hanging from his hands as he panted for air and stumbled backward into the muscular arms of another. 

Alarmed, Neville whipped his head around to find the commoner whom he despised – Drake Walker.

Time was running out. The sounds of onlooker screams and the clashing of boots and drawn weapons were heard from afar. He needed to escape quickly.

Neville’s finger hooked around the trigger. His arm coiled around his side, ready for the kill shot. If he missed, it was game over for the Lord of Cormery Isle. He would no doubt be arrested and tried for the crimes he had committed this evening. And with that bitch, Amanda still alive, knowing all of his secrets, he thought, she would definitely betray him to reveal his part in killing the late Queen.

If he were to hit Drake with a bullet, he had what he felt was a chance to escape, to make a run for it. 

With one last desperate move, Neville pulled the trigger.

In the ballroom, chaos began to unfold when several guests who had been in the hallway and away from the noise inside, reported hearing a gunshot. As the rumor spread near instantaneously, Liam, who was engaged in conversation with a suitor, was caught off guard when Bastien pulled him away. Two more guards surrounded him as they weaved and dodged around tables, making their way to the kitchen. 

Liam had been through enough assassination attempts to recognize there must have been a dire situation within the Palace taking place at that moment. With Bastien and the guards pushing him through the crowd, he twisted his head around and began to resist their shoves. “Ellie! Riley!”

Unable to counter his guards, he was thrust through the double doors of the kitchen, still struggling to get away to find his baby and wife. A heavy feeling grew in his chest, fearing the worst. He couldn’t help but think about how Riley would have to leave again. No one knew how or when she would have to go back and having not seen her since they danced together, he couldn’t get over this sinking feeling something had happened to her. Amanda had her enemies, which was made clear by the letter Riley opened three weeks ago and the package that accompanied it. And knowing that Amanda was the one who killed Riley, it was reasonable to believe she had an accessory to carry out such a tremendous task. 

Whipping around the corner in the rear of the kitchen and through another set of double swinging doors, Liam took what felt like his first breath in hours. In the corner, he caught a glimpse of Maxwell standing with two guards, and Ellie’s head cradled in the crook of his neck. Pushing his way through them, he gently lifted the sleeping baby from Maxwell and held her to his chest, breathing a sigh of relief.

Placing tiny kisses on the top of her head, he glanced back to Bastien. There would have been no reason for the palace guards to protect Riley, but he hoped that at the very least, she was with Drake or Hana. He needed even the smallest reassurance that she was safe, yet he still wasn’t clear what transpired to cause the abrupt disruption from the ball. “Bastien, what happened?”

Bastien had a finger pressed into his earpiece while he received muffled messages from different sources he had in the vicinity. He lowered his hand and turned to Liam. “Sir, there were gunshots in the ladies’ restroom just outside of the ballroom. Our guards have apprehended the gunman, but there are casualties and at least one deceased … hold that thought, sir.” Bastien placed his finger back into his earpiece, listening as more information came through. He shook his head, inhaled a deep breath and blew out slowly. “I’m not quite sure of what to make of this yet, but it seems the identity of our gunman is … Lord Vancouer.”

Unsure whether he heard correctly, Liam slammed his eyes shut with a gaping mouth. “Vancouer? As in, Neville Vancouer?”

Bastien nodded. “Yes, sir.  He has some wounds that will need to be tended to, however, our guards were very explicit in their identification. They’re transferring him to the cells as we speak.”

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “What the hell is going on?” He muttered under his breath. He turned back to face Maxwell. “Do you know where Riley was?” He asked in a hushed tone.

Maxwell lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Not really. Drake mentioned seeing her run out of the ballroom and he was going to go check on her. Asked if I would take Ellie. You don’t think she could have been there, do you?”

Liam brandished a fist. “Fuck! I don’t even know,” he roared, causing Ellie to stir and squirm in his arms. He bounced and caressed her back, attempting to lull her back to sleep. Worry had blanched his face, and it was apparent he was trying to keep himself together for his daughter. That same bad feeling he had moments ago continued to increase now, knowing she was likely near the shooting.

Maxwell reached out and took Ellie from Liam. “Here, Liam, I’ll take her. Go find Riley.”

Without hesitation, Liam nodded. “Thank you, Maxwell!" 

He ordered the guards who were standing watch over Ellie, to not leave her unattended under any circumstances, and took off with Bastien following closely behind. 

"Sir, we haven’t cleared the threat to you yet!”

Liam slammed through the double doors, retracing his steps back through the ballroom kitchen. “That’s why I have you. Clear the threats, Bastien.”

The scene just outside the ballroom in the hallway was packed with guards, medics, and a handful of elder noble onlookers. Liam hurriedly pushed through the masses, his heart racing, and stopped just short of a medic who had just laid a white sheet over a body.

Bastien stood next to him and placed a grip on his shoulder. Since who he thought of as Amanda was released from custody several weeks ago, Bastien had noticed a particular closeness between her and Liam. It wasn’t his place to ask questions, yet he had a sense there was something more to their relationship than just Amanda being his child’s nanny. “Your Majesty, would you like for me to look?" 

Liam couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, and words were not something he was able to even speak at that moment. There had only been one confirmed dead, and the thought of it being Riley or Drake was not something he would ever be able to prepare himself for. He nodded slightly to his head guard.

Bastien stepped forward and crouched down beside the sheet. Taking the corner, he lifted it, peeked under, and lowered it back. He motioned for Liam to come closer and rose again to his feet. 

Fidgeting with his wedding band, he reluctantly approached Bastien, who then leaned in to whisper to him. "It appears to be one of your suitors, sir.”

Before Liam could ask which one, the sound of a stretcher wheeling out the room and the urgent shouts of medics caught his attention. Liam stiffened his posture and watched curiously while his heart continued to thunder in his chest. Bastien pulled him back to make room for the emergency crew to pass by with their victim. A quick glimpse of red hair, still almost flawlessly styled, was the only part of her that could be seen as they rushed by him.

Liam placed both hands on his head, wholly stunned to see her almost lifeless. “Olivia?" 

"Liam,” a tiny voice called behind him.

He recognized her voice immediately and whipped around to find Riley standing there with Drake holding an ice pack to the back of her head. With his whole body trembling and tears piercing his eyes, he rushed to her and pulled her as close to his body as he could. She too wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling safer than she had all night. 

Liam’s hands instinctively went to her cheeks and placed several soft pecks to her waiting lips. He rested his forehead on hers. “I thought I lost you again, Ri. I thought you were gone, and I … I,” his voice cracked with each word, tears continuing to fall at his relief over seeing her there and appearing to be okay.

Riley cupped his cheeks, sniffling through her own tears. “Shhh. I’m okay … I’m still here … Look at me, Liam … I’m still here.”

He shook his head, trying to make himself believe that she genuinely was okay; that she was still with him.

“Hey, guys. I hate to interrupt, but you have some curious eyes watching you both right now.” Drake motioned to a small group of nobles, gawking and whispering amongst themselves.

Liam turned to see the scowling faces staring back at him, each of them making their assumptions. He placed a hand on Riley’s upper back. “Right. Let’s take this back to our quarters.”

The three of them returned to Liam’s quarters. Maxwell returned with Ellie several minutes later after being escorted by the guards, with Hana joining them not too long after that. 

With the baby sleeping soundly in the nursery, they sat in the living room, trying to regroup after the events of the evening. Hana had made coffee while Riley changed and cleaned up. Liam called the hospital to check on Olivia, who was still in surgery to remove the bullet she took on her right side. She was still in very serious condition, and he was assured they would follow up with any changes.

Riley laid with her legs across the sofa and her back resting against Liam, who had his arms wrapped protectively around her. Drake handed her an aspirin and glass water to help with the headache she had since Neville threw her to the floor.

The four of them listened as Riley recounted how Neville had confronted her with a gun, thinking she was Amanda. She told them how it was clear there was a connection between him and Amanda and that she played into it to find out what it was. As they listened, each one shocked to hear that Neville had confessed to her his part in not only his role in Amanda’s death but her murder as well. Through tears, she described how she fought him for the gun, how he had her on the ground prepared to shoot her, and how Olivia managed to get in just in time before he was able to.  

Liam felt the heat rising in his face and his body brimming with fury, knowing that bastard was part of orchestrating Riley’s murder and trying to kill her earlier. As Drake explained to them how he tackled Neville to the ground after the second shot that killed the suitor, the only thing on Liam’s mind at that point was how to make Neville pay for everything he had done. This was no ordinary crime – it was treason, it was betrayal, and it was very personal. He had wanted someone to pay for taking the love of his life and the mother of his child away from him, and now he had his culprit. As the others continued to discuss what happened, he mulled over how he wanted to deal with this situation. 

Liam wanted revenge so bad he could taste it. With his position as King making him the judge and jury, this was his opportunity to see fit that at least one person would pay the ultimate price for destroying his family.  When an idea finally struck him, he contemplated whether or not he had it in him to actually carry out such a sentence. After everything he had been through the past several months with her death, Neville’s betrayal at the council meeting, his mental breakdown, and what took place during tonight’s ball, it was a chance he was willing to find out.

Drake let out a loud yawn and stretched, rising from his chair. “I think I’ve had enough damn excitement for the night. I’m gonna go throw back a couple of shots and hit the hay.”

Maxwell helped Hana put on her jacket, both exchanging hugs and promises they would call and check on Riley first thing in the morning. Riley followed the trio to the foyer to see them out while Liam remained behind. When the four of them had left the room, he walked over to the fireplace and pulled his cellphone from his pocket. His hand shook as he hesitated to type out the message to his head guard. He couldn’t stop his conscience from taking over, questioning whether he had it in him to carry out this plan on his own. 

Liam’s finger hovered over his phone as he kept talking himself out of it. It went against everything he believed in, but the truth was, he didn’t want to be talked out of it. Images of his wife’s lifeless body lying in their bed while his guards worked to revive her played over and over in his mind. Holding her body in his arms after she had been pronounced dead at the hospital. The days that followed where every part of his body hurt missing her, wanting her, needing her. The funeral. The burial. His infant daughters cries for her mother. 

“Liam?” He jerked when Riley called out to him. “Are you okay?”

He smiled back at her and held his phone up. “I’m fine, love. I just have a few things to take care of first. A lot happened tonight and I …I just want to make sure everything is dealt with exactly as it should be.”

She quirked her brow. “Are you sure?”

Liam crossed the room, flipping the light switch, then wrapping his arms around her. “I’m positive.” He leaned down to kiss her, running his hands through her flowing hair. “I don’t want you to worry about me. You’ve been through quite an ordeal today, and I want you to try to get some sleep. I’ll be up in a little bit, I promise.”

Riley smiled back at him and nodded before they kissed goodnight, and she headed for the stairs. In the back of her mind, she too had a lot to think about. In a way, she was relieved to have a moment to herself before Liam came to bed. Riley was utterly exhausted, yet she wasn’t sure if sleep would even be possible with everything that took place this evening. There was still one lingering question she needed to be answered before her head hit the pillow. She took a deep breath, feeling that same queasiness that sent her running from the ballroom earlier.

Liam typed out his instructions to Bastien and hit send. He removed his outer coat and the regalia that was attached to his collar. After slipping off his vest and ribbon and tossing them over an armchair, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Walking into the foyer, Liam stopped when he noticed his reflection in the large hanging mirror. Sweat beaded along his forehead, his face was flushed, and his breathing was becoming more onerous. He could feel his heart pounding. Placing both hands on the table below the mirror, Liam hung his head, trying to calm his nerves and slow down his breathing. He glanced back at the reflection in the mirror, that same fury and longing for revenge building up once more. With his eyes widened and jaw tensed, he decided to give himself parting words. 

“This is for Riley.”

He clapped the top of the table and exited his quarters.

Riley went straight to her bedroom then into the bathroom. She swung open the closet door and started rummaging through personal care items and hygiene products. Bottles of shampoo and soaps fell off shelves and rolled across the floor. She pushed aside boxes of tampons that hadn’t been used since she came back.

Confident she still had a few unopened boxes leftover from when she and Liam were trying to conceive Ellie, she crouched down. Her eyes lit up when on the bottom shelf, behind her hand lotions, there were still two boxes of pregnancy tests.

Riley grabbed one and squinted as she checked the expiration date on the side, relieved to find it was still good. She kicked a bottle of body wash to the side while ripping open the packaging and removing the wand.

After following the instructions, she placed the cap back on it and set it flat on the counter top. Riley stepped into her bedroom and checked the clock. She paced and twisted her hair around her finger, waiting nervously for the unknown. If it was positive, what would this mean? She would have to go back at some point. 

If this were under different circumstances, there would be anticipation over having another baby. Even though Ellie was only three months old, she imagined her daughter and a new baby, being so close in age, would grow up with an inseparable bond. Liam would most likely be over the moon to have another child; he was such a good father, and in love with his daughter, there would be no question about his elation.

This wasn’t a typical situation, though. Her time was limited and when she returned, any child they may have conceived while she was here would inevitably return with her. Liam was already heartbroken over her leaving again; an unborn baby that he would have no possibility of seeing would be so much harder on him. Why they hadn’t thought to use protection boggled her mind.

Then thoughts of if the test were negative began to plague her. Was this nausea and exhaustion she was feeling part of something more? Was she getting sick in order for her to pass again and return back? She came to help Liam, and she had prepared herself to do that for a short time, but now that she was here with him and Ellie, she didn’t want to go back. At least not yet.

Riley glanced at the clock, and the time to check was ready. She inhaled deeply and made her way back into the bathroom. Her stomach was in knots as she tried to steady her nerves. She closed her eyes and leaned over the counter, directly above where this little stick that held so many answers set.

Slowly, Riley opened her eyes; catching sight of the results, she immediately blinked back tears. Both hands clasped over her mouth, and she shook her head vigorously. There were no doubts as to the results as two bright pink lines were shown prominently in the translucent window.

“No.”

[spacemilkies]

gateau→  ; part i of iii

pairing: cal kestis x reader

word count: 2.5k+

summary: “So you had a Jedi as a roommate … that wont be a problem in the future or anything.”

a/n:  a bunch of new things to get me writing. all written at some ungoldly hour. this will probably be a three part series. something short and simple, based off the prologue with some background. hey, no song fic for once. i spent all day in this fandom. i feel ready. put me in coach.

                                                                    _______

“C’mon just this once, please.”

“Oh ho, no no. This is definitely not the first time.”

There was never a good reason for your roommate to visit you on the job. Not only were you stationed on opposite side of the station, you differing positions also lessened the opportunity for you to meet up without explicit reason. 

He was a rigger and you were a builder, simple as that. 

You refrained from lifting your mask, maintaining a sense of distance from the conversation as you continued to weld the two pieces of metal together. Maybe if you did your job hard enough he would eventually give up out of respect of your workload….

Who were you kidding.

A fiery shock of red hair crouched down next to you, apparently uncaring for the wayward sparks emitting from your torch. It was only when he dared to lean closer that you reluctantly cut the power out of concern for basic occupational safety. 

Flipping the hood of your mask, you gave him your sharpest glare to which he combatted easily with a killer smile. If only it was as effective on his conquests as he seemed to think the same applies to you. 

“You’re all just going to melt it down any.”

Any metals and ores that made it up here were better than the average scraps found in the lower sectors and certainly worth a pretty sum of credits. It was your roommate's favorite way to exploit your job and threaten your only means of survival in the same breath. 

 Darting your gaze around, you found that for once your colleges were rather forgiving of personal space. Though it didn’t mean that your supervisors wouldn’t have watchful eyes on your every move. Hence why these daring favors tended to have more impact than meaningless valve. 

You weren’t agreeing. Definitely were not going to get drawn into to those pleading baby blues. You were just curious. 

“And what exactly do two upstanding individuals as yourselves need with my fine metals?”

Cal’s smirk was shallow but no where lacking in its killer properties,” I’d bend your fine metals anyway.”

With a huff, you nudged him away with your shoulder. Practice allowing you to ignore the faint flush it brought to your cheeks. 

“You’re wasting time, Cal.”

“Just something nice. I’ll pay you back.”

You were not going to fall for it Totally, explicitly would not lose resolve on your promise to not give in like last time. You were strong and resilient and Cal was a big boy with his own means of survival and-

“I swear to all above, Cal if you-”

The force of his lips against your cheek nearly knocked you over and you were left momentarily stunned as nimble fingers searched knowingly against your body. Before you knew it, he was drawing away, your access card in hand. 

You should be happy with how quickly he scrambled to his feet, prepared for a hasty departure. It wouldn’t be long before your superiors began making their rounds and the last thing they wanted to see was a scrapper hunting around their stores. 

Gesturing with two fingers against his temple, Cal waved off before he disappeared around the corner. 

“Why are you not working? Your pay is based on your progress, not your time.”

Swallowing down a retort, you merely smiled shallowly in response to the haughty order as you tugged back down your face mask, Cal’s phantom touch still lingering against your form.

“Of course, sir.”

                                                                    _______

It should be said that Cal wasn’t a terrible roommate. In fact, when he first responded to your advertisement you had a feeling that he would actually be a helpful one.

That was a lie.

You knew that he would be a cute one. Someone that you would have to try /really hard to keep your hands off of. Fortunately for you, at the beginning he felt more like a brother than a bachelor. His boyish habits cutting into some of his charm.

It didn’t take much longer than that before the two of you fell into a rhythm of sorts. 

Having another human around was kind of nice too. 

Not to say you preached xenophobia. Some of your closer friends on this desolate planet were part of varying species. But in a way it aided in building a familiar quality of home even as you reside on the opposite side of the galaxy. 

Cal was moderately fair roommate. He wasn’t spotty with rent and you split the amenities, as scarce as they were, fairly. He was a little messy but not in the obnoxious unhygienic way. 

Everything was balanced. 

And you couldn’t really complain. 

He was a great guy. His humor and antics proving to raise your mood after a long day. Just the way he spoke about his own day bringing tears to your eyes and curling your stomach with laughter. 

You were a capable engineer, even though your talents were wasted on rebuilding the same schematics over and over again. At home, you are able to hone your own skills. Working on various knick knacks and gadgets. It was nice to have a second opinion as well. 

The two of you had spent many nights huddled around the living room surrounded by scattered parts and various prototypes. Only to have to separate the more advanced ones in fear of being caught. 

It was nice. 

                                                                    _______

“Damn, I didn’t think the boss would ever let you off.”

With less finesse and not a care in the world, you dropped haggeded into the seat offered by your friends. After another long week it was nice to finally load off with a few drinks and company chatter. 

For some reason the quota skyrocketed in the past few weeks. The recycling of old metal into new vessels becoming an unrelenting force on your crew. 

It turned out to be one of the worst moments to find yourself promoted. 

To think just three weeks ago you were throwing around drinks in celebration and now you were ready to drown out the accomplishment with whatever was on tap. 

“Apparently they’re bringing in a huge freighter soon,” you called out solemnly. Your supervisor had shown you the schematics of the parts that would be salvaged and what they wanted to accomplish with its predecessor. 

After another long shift all you could really make out was work and more work. 

But at least the same would be said for the riggers. 

To your right Reif, a Rodian, spoke crudely over a mouthful of food,” Yeah, been hearing about that one for sometime now. Suppose to be a Separist ship. Going to be quite the project.”

Slouching idly in your seat, you played lazily with the handle of the mug offered to you. Just another long project to keep you stranded on this planet. Not to say you had any plans otherwise. 

If anything you should really thank them for giving you something to focus on. 

Garnering everyone’s attention with a slam of her glass against the table, Enisa a pretty pale blue Rylothian, slurs loudly,” Enough of all this work talk. Let’s focus on something else.”

Then she’s sliding sharply into you, leaving you to fumble with your own glass,” Like your roommate. Why didn’t you tell me he was available.”

Because you weren’t in the market providing companions?

Your furrowed burrow must have voiced your thoughts because she was rolling her eyes without your verbal response. 

“Oh don’t play dumb. You’re harboring one of the few attractive souls on this god forsaken planet. And you’re not even bumping uglies with him, what a shame.”

You were stuck between defending your own choices and wondering when she learned such a human phrase. It was hardly worth the effort of explaining how the two of you just weren't like that. Your inventory of excuses were running dry.

“Stop making it awkward for her, she has to live with the guy.”

Catching Reif’s gaze over the rim of your glass, you give him a thankful nod. The rest of your group takes the initiative to fill the silence and progresses the conversation further into the night. Unlike most outings, neither of you are able to keep up with one another past a few extra hours. The weight of the day taking more out of you as it came to a close. 

You’re not the only one grateful when Reif brings the outing to a close. 

There is just enough alcohol in your system to make you stumble through the threshold of your home, groaning quietly as you try to stabilize yourself. More likely than not Cal was already asleep and you didn’t want to disrupt that. 

Now with the evening settling into your bones, there wasn't a part of your body that didn't ache and the incoming headache didn't make any part of it better. 

Right now the couch was looking a lot more inviting than it should be. You’d deal with the consequences it would leave on your body in the morning. 

Rounding the edge, you collapsed back into the cushions.

“What the hell?”

“Shit, Cal! What the fuck?”

A sharp hiss escapes him when your elbow jabs unkindly into the softness of his side. Before you could try to remedy it, his hand is gripping your upper arm and settling you more safely in the available space rather than on top of him. 

For a moment it's just your mixed breaths as you come down from the unexpected surprise. With more care, you twist more comfortably mindful of your limbs this time. 

It's hardly necessary but you whisper anyway. 

“Why are you here?”

You feel his arm wiggling behind your head and you raise your neck obediently to allow it to rest beneath you. As a reward, the same hand curls inward to comb through your hair lazily. He works his fingers across your nape and back up to your scalp finding just the right spot and drew small circles. 

“Dunno, just came home and ended up here. Kind of like you but less dramatically.”

You snort, “Sorry, wasn’t expecting a party of two.”

He hums to himself, the pad of his thumb pressing inward in a way the manages to reset your whole mindframe and you nearly white out from the release. 

There is more that could be said but the words escape you both as you settle for the night. If you weren't already going to regret this before, you were definitely were going to more now for an entirely different reason. But there was no chance of you altering the flow of what it was now. 

You would just have to lay there and try not to think too hard about the natural slot of your body to Lance’s despite the finite space. It was much easier to count the staccato of his dull thumping heartbeat as it lulled you off to sleep. 

                                                                     _______

“Goddammit, Meeka. You’re going to wake up your mom.”

Too late. 

Though in the defense of your mischievous loth-cat, the warm smell of breakfast permeating from the kitchen was just one waft away from rousing you. Stretching out your arms, you used the length of them to hook around the back of the couch to drag you up. 

Questionably burnt but you recognize the scent of some of your favorites.You has not caught a glimpse of what he was wearing last night but Cal appears to be wearing some fresh clothes. The way the collar of his shirt is damp in the back hints towards a shower. 

Part of you wonders if breakfast is a preemptive apology towards a cold shower you would be expecting later. 

“Where do you have to go so early?”

If you startle him, he doesn't show. He slides a bit of food onto a plate, giving Meeka more than gracious portion before bringing the plate to you. You take it gratefully, balancing it on the spine of the couch.

Alert to your presence and no doubt ready to beg for more scraps, you watch unimpressed as the feline-like creature slinks against you. She gets what's expected anyway as you part with a strip of meat.

Leaning against the counter within view, Cal scolds you playfully. “And you said I spoil her.”

“You start it,” you retort without any bite.

You blame the queasiness on residue alcohol when he laughs warmly. 

“Oh. “ You look up and Cal has a fork pointed at you. ‘’Your access card is on the table there.”

You’d already forgotten about that.

“Get anything good?” Safely, is weighted on your tongue but it seems like a waste to add it. Cal has always been mindful of his self, actions and footsteps in a way that makes you wonder how long he’s been watching his own back. 

In the few years you’ve known him, things like the past rarely came up. No one really came to Bracca chasing a future. It was just a means to an end until you could find something better if you could manage to get out. 

You hard already stopped trying when Cal stumbled into your life. But now it hardly seemed like a bad thing. 

The clank of dishes brings you out of your thoughts. His back is to you now as he cleans his mess.

“It will be a nice personal pay raise, that’s for sure. Prauf sends his thanks too.”

Cal surprises you again when he comes to collect your empty plate. Rather than comment it on it, you lounge comfortably in the domesticity of it all. 

“What’s your plan for the day?”

That was a good question. 

Your body had an obvious vote towards rest but responsibilities made a greater bid on your time. A bit of shopping would unfortunately be necessary but your savings would have to survive. Between the recent raise and this upcoming project, you should survive to hit. 

Replenish resources it would be then. At least if you start early enough it would allow you to relax for the remainder of the day. 

Cal’s gaze follows as you stretch and eventually slink off the couch. Meeka happy to have the entire furniture to herself doesn’t waste a moment to snuggle into your lingering warmth. 

“Down to the Bazaar first, then after that we’ll see.”

But first to see how much hot water you were going to be working with. Yawning loudly, you get to work with untangling the mess of your hair. Just before you can round the corner, Cal calls out to you.

“Want to make it a date?”

It’s an innocent play of words. One’s he’s used in the past without acting on it. 

‘And you’re not even bumping uglies with him, what a shame.’

And just when you finally stopped overthinking it.

Peeking over your shoulder, you found Cal waiting expectantly yet so unaware of the winds of the storm picking up in your mind. Was it even worth it to wonder if similar thoughts ever troubled him?

-nah, it was just easier to smile.

“Yeah, it’s a date.”

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Ridiculous Optimization: The Art of Finding the Right Tool for the Wrong Situation

Chapter Five: THE INFINITY WARDROBE

Three dances.

He could do this.

He hated that he  had  to do this, but he could. The taste of alcohol on his tongue, its burn at the back of his throat... they were tempting, but he knew better than to rely on them. He never tasted any that he hadn't seen served himself, and in a function such as this one, it meant he had only ever carried a single glass throughout.

His lips pinched together, remember the last time he'd forgotten to keep a close eye on his drinks.

A cold grip closed over his guts. Nope. He shouldn't go there. Not the right time. Every notable noble in the kingdom was watching his every move.

Warriors had busied himself teaching his brothers how to best deal with the nobility at his Queen's gala for the past two days. He could say he was proud of Hyrule's and Wind's progress in particular. Neither had had much manners or interest in them before and not one lady had fainted from their crude or frank behaviors. He also had to admire Four's control in accepting the few pinches on the cheeks he got for being so fun-sized.

  I'll give him a bigger part in our next plans of attack. That's a ton of resentment to vent. Whatever monster we face next will be very dead.

“And I was just telling our dear Hero Link here how-” Lady Farosi bragged to Lord this and Lady that and Warriors carefully agreed at all the right places.

He used to like these things. Used to be proud of his role.

'It's you! All this time, the deaths, the battles, it was all because  she  wanted  you !'

Three dances. He had given the first one to Zelda, of course. No one could ever protest that choice of partner. The Queen and her knight. The most important figures in the War of Eras. A splendid couple, though he could not tell if Zelda felt any attraction towards him, the way he...

Warriors shook his head, made an excuse and stauntered to the buffet table, under which he thought he'd seen Legend hide. Two more dances. Then I'm free to leave. Hide in the stables. Play a game with the guards or maybe pay back Twilight for our last match.

He offered Sky a smile when his brother offered him a plate with some meat skewers and a piece of cheese. His stomach protested the very idea of food at the moment, but he appreciated the thoughtfulness. He forced himself to nibble on some of the cheese. It gave him an excuse not to talk to Lady Lanayrou. To dodge her attempt at linking their arms.

  Second dance will be soon.

He scanned the crowd for a proper candidate that wouldn't be draping themselves all over him.

General Impa met his gaze over the crowd of mingling nobles, and his desperation must have shown on his face for she scowled something fierce at him. Right. Sheika. Security detail. Not the kind of person that should be on the dance floor.

With a sigh, Warriors resigned himself to letting whichever lady found him first have first right at a dance with him. Hopefully they'd listened if he said-

“Hey,” said a slightly  off  woman's voice, “do you think you could show me the steps?”

Warriors froze.

A slim, pale Hylian in a turquoise gerudo outfit stared patiently at him. Scars peeked out from under a tasteful veil that hid their chin, mouth and nose, leaving only startling blue eyes. He knew both the veil and the eyes.

Oh.

His gaze flickered down to the extensive network of spider web scars on the sides of the Hylian's torso. The outfit left little to the imagination. It was on full display.

For a second, he struggled to breath, realizing the extent of his brother's action. Warriors needed to apologize so damn much!

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes and he hurried to blink them away, taking the offer with as much gratitude as he could show his brother. Together, they reached the dance floor, and Warriors barely noticed the few times his feet were stepped on. At this point, Wild could stab him and he'd be thankful. Just swaying to the rhythm of the music and making jokes at the expense of the obnoxious people around them was one of the best dances he ever went through.

And then, someone reminded him just where he was.

“Who's this pasty ruin?” Lady Dynral loudly whispered behind her hand fan.

Twilight, who had just previously been attempting to convince a fair maiden that he was mute, tragically incapable of dancing and awaited in a backwater hut where he'd forgotten to turn off the stove, froze.

(It was no secret that Twilight couldn't  quite pull off the neutral look of disappointment patented by the old man. It was a decent attempt, but they all had earned the original too often for the off-brand version to work.)

(What he  could  however pull off was the deadly stillness of a predator stalking a prey that had been just too loud. Eyes that promised death. Eventually.)

The chill alone made hair rise on the back of Warriors' neck and he was barely in the general vicinity of the lady. Now that was some killer instinct. The blatant bloodlust made his chest pang with nostalgia.

Goddesses he'd take another war over this...

However, seeing Lady Dynral's face drain of blood like this filled him with a singular vindictive happiness.

“Never seen Lady Dynral flee a function this fast before,” Warriors chuckled, twirling Wild at the tip of his arm for another round. “Our farmer's got your honor' back, huh?”

The veil hid Wild's face, but not the curious look in his eyes, nor the faint tilt of his head. “He cares about you too,” he said, softly. “We all do, Warriors.”

Warriors couldn't speak with such a soft feeling warming his chest. Wild's fingers squeezed his hands, then let him go. The others all gave him subtle thumbs up throughout the crowd, encouraging him to stay strong in the face of this battle. Dozens of skirmishes flashed behind his eyes, memories where he stood back to back with them, brothers-in-arms before the forces of evil.

(Sky found him another plate, which he did eat this time. Twilight patted him in the back strong enough to make him stumble into a lord, and wasn't that a shame. 'Ah, my mightily sorries, your lordness!' and Hylia alone knew how he hadn't burst out laughing at that one. Wind subtly hinted at the possibility of skedaddling mid dance if things were needed. 'I can fake illness like you wouldn't believe, War'.')

Third dance.  And he had to admit, it looked like it wouldn't be so bad. Wild's assurance and the others' support made it feel smaller than before. He only needed to dance one more time, and he had had fun at a function for once...

Warriors almost felt serene when the bards on stage began plucking at their instruments' strings.

“Announcing... ” one of the guards near the door suddenly shouted, grinding the activities to a halt, “Princess Lore-al of Koholint!”

“What the f-?!” Wind's attempted swearing mercifully was stopped short by Sky's hand covering his mouth. No one even looked their way.

But Warriors deeply understood the sentiment.

The dress was impressive. Cut from the finest fabric, maybe enchanted silk, white with golden accents, and a gentle pink layer in the style of old royalty. Twenty or so rings, gold, silver and platinum, adorned the newcomers' fingers. Some inserted with gemstones, other carved with hylian runes.

Warriors really wanted to know where he'd gotten the tiara. He could have sworn...

Unlike Wild, Legend hadn't bothered with hiding his face. Or transforming it with make-up. He seemingly relied entirely on his natural twinkitude. And the lack of his ever present scowl that softened his looks considerably.

Amazingly, the haughty, confident expression on Legend's face wouldn't have been out of place amongst royalty. His absolute lack of shame as the rest of the ballroom stared did more for his credibility than an actual magic spell would have.

Warriors felt he ought to laugh, but he was too shell-shocked to do so.

Legend strutted, on high heels, right up to him, finally deigning to meet his eyes as if they were meeting for the first time.

“May I have the honor of this dance, Brave Hero?” Legend offered his hand, which Warriors contemplated like he would the head of a particularly vicious and hungry dodongo.

A long series of excuses came to mind, ranging from needing to go iron his wolf and thinking he heard Ganon call his name somewhere. Wild was one thing.  Legend though? The veteran gambling addict would extract so many favors out of this...

Of course, Legend had to raise an eyebrow like he was challenging him to a game of cuccos and Warriors' entire being tossed caution to the wind in a resounding, mental  fuck it .

With all the assurance of a chosen hero of Courage, he snatched a tulip from some of the nearby decoration, bit down on the stem and winked. “The honor shall be mine, Princess Lore-al.”

The musicians noticeable hesitated before starting to play again, and Warriors would have bet that his Queen had subtly instructed them to go on as normal.

The lascivious beat of a tango resonated around them. Legend's smirk widened, his eyelashes batting. “A red rupee you can't lift me one-handed over your head, Brave Hero.”

Despite himself, Warriors grinned. “You're on, Princess.”

 BONUS

“So... where was the old man tonight?” Wind asked as they made their way back to their suite in the guest wing of the castle. “Couldn't find him.”

Hyrule frowned. “Wait, seriously? You didn't notice him? He was really obvious.”

Wind exchanged a glance with Sky and both came to the same conclusion. “What?”

“He was standing next to some of the really snobbish nobles all night. Just looming. Like when he's really pissed at our collective stupidity. They kept glancing around like they were wondering.”

The Links exchanged glances, mulling their recollections of the evening and arrived to a collective conclusion.

“Bullshit.”

Hyrule gave them an uncertain look.

“Was it the mask?” he mumbled, suddenly unsure. “You guys noticed the freaky grayish purple mask, at least? Like, it hid his entire face, but that was still clearly him, body type and stance and all.”

They turned toward Twilight, who shrugged. “Magic?”

They agreed, Hyrule especially. “Magic.”

A few steps later, Wind broke the silence again.

“... So the old man spent the evening just putting the fear of evil spirits in the nobility?”

Warriors snickered.

“Sounds like him, alright,” Twilight drawled.

 DOUBLE BONUS

“You know...” Sky mused, his hands stilling over the piece of wood he was carving. “Maybe I should just ask Zelda to make it Hylian law to never hold balls.”

Four frowned and looked at Time. “Wouldn't that unraveled, you know, the fabric of time and space?”

Time shrugged, looking quite relaxed sitting by an old tree.

“Oh, right,” Sky mumbled, now hesitant.

Warriors fell on his knees. “I'd give you my firstborn, Sky! Please!”

Legend huffed. “Well, now he's gonna have to make those officials.”

Four put a hand on his forehead. “Does  that  count as a paradox? How many of those have we caused actually?”

“I meant Sky being straddled with Warriors' spawn, but sure. Tons of 'em.”

“HEY!”

[chelsfic]

Unseemly Desire - Chapter 3 - Guillermo x Nandor

To read past chapters: WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: Nandor and Guillermo deal with the fallout of their makeout session and the almost-attempted mind wipe. Guillermo discovers the untapped well of anger living inside him!

Warnings: Angst, Blood drinking, gratuitous use of the word Fuck, Angry kissing

A/N: Look how frickin handsome Nandor is in this gif. No wonder Guillermo can’t resist this idiot. Also, I wrote this really fast and barely edited it sooooo ehhhhhh sorrayyy.

---

Shit! Fuck! Damn! Fiasco!

Nandor retires straight to his coffin after storming out of his familiar’s room. He’s still fully dressed and the little hair pins in his bun stab the back of his head as he lies down. 

Fucking guy!

Who gave him permission to have those kinds of feelings, anyway? Nandor’s almost certain he included something about not falling in love in Guillermo’s employment contract. He’ll have to check on that tomorrow evening. He growls in angry frustration as he realizes the contract is locked in one Colin Robinson’s basement filing cabinets. Maybe he doesn’t need to worry about checking. He’s positive that he mentioned it to Guillermo before he became his familiar. No falling in love with me. End of discussion!

How dare that little guy ruin his perfect plan? What does he think, just because he has smooth, tan skin, a disarming smile and perfect wavy hair he can just go around forcing Nandor to be horny for him all the time? It’s unacceptable!

Nandor turns onto his side in a huff. He has half a mind to go back there and mind wipe him after all. But the vision of Guillermo’s tear streaked face as he begged Nandor not to hypnotize him floats before his eyes in the darkness and he feels that stabby, annoying pain in his heart area again.  

And now he’s having more confusing heart palpitations again. Great!

---

The movie is still playing on Guillermo’s discarded laptop. Claudia shrieks after learning that she can never grow or change as a vampire. It’s his favorite movie. He’s watched it hundreds of times. And Guillermo is only just now contemplating the real world evidence of that phenomenon. Nandor may have centuries of life experience but emotionally he is still the same repressed, spoiled, arrogant 13th century warlord he was when he was turned, just with a few new pop culture references under his belt. Can he really never learn or change? And if that’s true then what the fuck is Guillermo doing here?

He’s frozen in place where Nandor discarded him like so much refuse. His eyes are fixed on the curtain in fear or hope--he’s not certain--that Nandor might come blazing back into his little room, filling it up with his massive presence for better or worse. Salty tear tracks stain his cheeks and he’s still half wrapped up in the dumb snuggie. His face crumples and a silent sob escapes his throat. He’d been so stupidly happy there for a moment. Nandor--his dream boy, his vampire, his Nandor--kissed him and held him like Guillermo had always dreamed. But the memory tastes bitter in his mouth now as he remembers the cold, blank mask of his face after Guillermo mistakenly confessed his love. 

He fists his hands into the soft material of Nandor’s snuggie, burying his face in the fabric as his tears start anew. He begged for this, didn’t he? How pathetic is it that he pleaded with Nandor to let him hold onto the memory of yet another rejection? He falls asleep like that, crying silently and clinging to the only physical evidence of his master’s fleeting, mercurial affection. 

---

When he opens his coffin the next evening Nandor finds Guillermo waiting to attend him like always. The vampire hides his surprise and holds out his hand for assistance with all of his typical haughty self-importance. He spent all day plagued by nightmares of his familiar running away into the sunlight. Packing up his computing book, his cute little sweaters and his pizza rolls and fleeing from Nandor like he was some kind of...monster.

Ridiculous, of course.

Guillermo won’t leave him. He’d said so last night. He’d promised in exchange for his pathetic memories. But then Nandor notices the human’s hands are shaking as he adjusts his cravat and Guillermo won’t meet his eyes. There is also a strange new smell coming off of him that he usually only encounters around victims.

Fear.

“Guillermo…” Nandor wrinkles his nose “Have you been cleaning the cell? You should really shower afterwards. It’s not hygienic to be dressing me after being around all those human juices.”

His familiar finally looks up at him, eyes narrowed in confusion as he tries to parse his master’s thought process.

“No…” he finally answers and his voice is like a ghost, thin and ephemeral. “I haven’t been cleaning the cell master.”

He self-consciously leans down to sniff his own armpit and Nandor grimaces in disgust. 

“Well, then why--” he stops himself, his deep brown eyes going round as he finally makes the connection. Guillermo is afraid of...him? It is like his nightmares are coming to life!

“Guillermo! Snap out of it now! This is very upsetting and...unprofessional. Why are you afraid?”

Guillermo flinches as if struck by Nandor’s words. He didn’t realize how transparent he was being. His first instinct is to deny it but a flare of anger takes hold of him and he’s speaking before his ingrained habit of suppressing his true feelings can kick in.

“Why am I afraid!? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you almost erased my memories last night? And you could do it any time you want and I’d be powerless to stop you?”

Nandor’s brows knit together and he scoffs, “But that’s always--”

He stops himself, guiltily averting his eyes, but it’s too late. Something changes in Guillermo’s face. The anger bleeds away and his skin goes pale. He almost looks like a vampire or… or one of his victims. The thought sends a shiver down Nandor’s spine.

“Master…” Guillermo’s voice is calm and cool but Nandor has a feeling that what comes next will determine something very important. 

“Have you--” He swallows against the lump in his throat. “--Have you hypnotized me before?”

Nandor grimaces, baring his sharp fangs in an uncomfortable smile and looking like the vampiric embodiment of a dog shaming video.

---

There’s the time he dropped Guillermo while he was helping him dust around the spider houses…

...the time Guillermo saw Nandor fall down at the roller rink and the human children all laughed at him…

...when he shamed himself while Guillermo helped him adjust his orgy suit…

And countless other small, trivial moments that now seem to add up to quite a lot.

And, of course, there’s the other night when Nandor admitted that Guillermo is special to him.

---

“...Once or twice.”

Nandor watches his familiar’s face fall and his eyes start leaking. Guillermo angrily scrubs the tears away and shakes his head, throwing off the hurt as he’s learned to do all his life. From elementary school bullies to the love of his life, Guillermo has been rolling with the emotional punches for as long as he can remember. This is no different. So what if the last five years are a lie? So what if he can't trust his own memory? Guillermo is resilient. Guillermo is rubber. Guillermo kills ‘em with kindness and lives to fight another day. Or...

“Fuck you, Nandor,” he reaches up to finish tying the cravat, angrily cinching it around the vampire’s neck with a painful tug.

“Ouch! Watch it with that!” Nandor complains, batting Guillermo’s little hands away. Guillermo crosses his arms over his chest and glares back at him with fierce, thunderstorm eyes. Nandor’s never seen his familiar like this. So forceful…he shakes his head violently, banishing the stupid horny thoughts attempting to take over.

“Alright! So I hypnotized you a few times. So what? Kind of comes with the job there, Guillermo. Did you even read your contract?” 

“You mean the one you scribbled on the back of a Panera menu?” Guillermo rolls his eyes. “How did it go? ‘I.O.U. one unholy transition. Signed, Nandor the Relentless’?”

Nandor scrunches his face up and he shifts his eyes as he tries to remember. There must have been more to it…

“I don’t think…” he falters, losing steam for a second before riling himself back up through sheer force of will. He is Nandor the RELENTLESS! “That’s neither here nor anywhere, Guillermo! The point is...eh...the point is you should have expected the occasional hypnotic trance when you took the job! It is common sense!”

“You’re right, master,” Guillermo says in the tone he uses when he doesn’t mean the thing that he is saying. “Silly me, expecting that you’d treat me any differently than one of your victims.”

Nandor feels like he’s rapidly losing the thread of this conversation. Or, more realistically, that the thread ran out from between his fingers long ago and he’s grasping at the empty air. Guillermo thinks he treats him like a victim? After all the troubles he went through to get the smelly red flowers and the music for his dirty biting fantasy? After he saved him from Nadja’s horrendous aim? After all of their chess games and strolls through the moonlit hunting grounds and the countless hours Nandor has spent listening for the soft thump of Guillermo’s human heart? This is what he thinks?

Nandor curls his lip and hurls his next words to Guillermo’s feet with disdain, “Didn’t you say you were jealous of my victims, Guillermo? Well, now you do not have to be. You are one. Perhaps I should finish the job.”

Guillermo barks out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, “Oh, please! You’re not going to kill me anymore than you’re going to turn me.”

Guillermo turns away, the job of dressing his master left unfinished and he starts to leave. Nandor looks at his familiar’s back and he sees him running away, abandoning him just like in his dream. 

“No!” he roars, lifting off the ground several inches as he flies at Guillermo, tackling the human into the wall of his crypt and knocking a 700-year-old sword to the floor. He presses his hands into Guillermo’s shoulders, pinning him in place and marveling at the soft give of his flesh layered over strong muscles. “You are my familiar and I have not given you permission to leave!”

Guillermo’s eyes harden and he parts his lips to deliver what Nandor is certain will be a devastating blow. He’s going to leave him. He’s going to quit. All because Nandor wasn’t aloof enough! He can’t let him do this! If Nandor’s heart could beat he’s sure it would be bursting from his chest this very second. He squeezes Guillermo’s shoulders too hard, painfully grinding the bones beneath his palms as he lunges, burying his face into the pristine, smooth expanse of his familiar’s neck and biting down with all the force in his body. Guillermo screams and flails against him, but it’s pointless. Nandor is too strong and he’s hell bent on giving his human a bruise to match the one on the other side of his neck.

Guillermo’s blood was made for Nandor. It floods his mouth, coating his tongue like a thick, sweet nectar. He swallows it with a savage groan and presses harder against Guillermo, digging his growing erection into the softness of his belly. 

Guillermo is lost in a confusing tangle of rage, sadness, fear and arousal. He can’t fucking believe that Nandor is doing this, basically proving that Guillermo is nothing more than another human victim. And it really, really shouldn’t turn him on this much. His words ring in Guillermo’s ears as the life pulses out of him. Perhaps I should finish the job. Guillermo doesn’t believe for a second that his master is planning to kill but just in case…

He fists his hands in the vampire’s shiny, soft hair--hair he’s lovingly brushed and arranged every night for the last five years--and he yanks it back with all of his might. 

“Ouch! Fucking--” Nandor rears back, blood pouring down his chin and his eyes blown with hunger and lust. He captures Guillermo with those eyes and the familiar is drawn in like a moth to the flame. Why is he always chasing the thing that will hurt him?

Before he can second guess himself, and before Nandor can do something stupid like turn into a vapor, Guillermo grabs the vampire’s collar, tugs him down to his level and slams his mouth against his in a brutal, angry kiss. Fuck you for throwing an axe at my head. Fuck you for making me feel inadequate. Fuck you for kissing me and then trying to erase it from my memory. And really, truly, deeply, fuck you for making me love you anyway.

Guillermo’s hands paw at Nandor’s bearded jaw, holding in place as their lips slide together, tongues seeking and massaging. The salty copper taste of Guillermo’s own blood fills his mouth as Nandor plunders inside. The vampire moans, his hands straying down over Guillermo’s chest, his stomach, reaching around to settle over the round curve of his backside. Guillermo whimpers into Nandor’s lips as the vampire squeezes his fingers into his buttocks and simultaneously rolls his pelvis. There’s a sound in the distance trying to attract his attention. As if Guillermo would let go of this moment for anything in the world.

In the next instant, the door to the crypt flings open and Laszlo ducks inside, slamming it shut again just in time to keep out his shrieking, furious wife. Nandor breaks away from Guillermo, jumping back and holding his hands aloft with an obvious, guilty expression. 

Laszlo takes one look at Nandor’s blood stained mouth and Guillermo’s utterly ravished appearance and snorts in amusement.

“I fucking knew it!”

[jet-playin-around]

Sleepovers

“I’m not taking your bed, Potter!”

“Damn it Draco, you’re my guest, just take the bed!”

“Why would I want to sleep in that-” Draco gestured vaguely in the direction of Potter’s bedroom. “That mess? I’d rather sleep with that crotchety old house-elf!”

Okay, so that might be taking it a little too far, but Draco refused to care. This isn’t what he asked for. Just because he was worried that the threats were getting a little too specific. Just because someone managed to get a Howler past his wards a few days ago. Just because that happened at three o’clock in the morning, disrupting his already fitful sleep… Really, none of that warranted this little “sleepover” at Grimmauld Place. And he’d be damned it he’d let Potter make him feel guilty for his favour. To emphasise that point, he crossed his arms and lifted his chin in an effort to look down his nose at the Auror in spite of their height difference.

“Mess? You’ve never even seen my-”

“What else would your bedroom be?” Draco muttered, petulantly.

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing his glasses down. “Draco just - You know what? Fine.” He glared over the rim of the glasses, now riding low on his nose, then turned, waving a hand behind him dismissively as he made his way up the stairs. “Take the couch. I don’t fucking care. Don’t mind the dog hair, it hasn’t been cleaned since Sirius lived here.” He paused thoughtfully. “Now that I think of it, Remus probably left some hair on it, too, when they-”

“Fine!” Draco cut him off, shooting a disgusted glance at the sofa (dog hair? Wait, when they what?!) before jogging up the stairs to push past him. “Fine, Potter. Merlin, you’re a bastard. Enjoy the dog hair!”

A smug smile spread across Potter’s face for a moment before freezing in place.

“Er, wait, actually… I mean, that thing really is…” He scrubbed a hand through his rat’s nest before letting it rest on the back of his neck, eyes shifting sheepishly around the corridor. “And, you know, it is a pretty big bed…”

Draco scoffed. “I doubt a bed exists that’s big enough for us to share.” He sneered, gesturing between them. “Isn’t it enough that we have to sleep in the same house?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you didn’t want stay with Ron.”

“Yes, well,” Draco sniffed, aiming for haughty. “Weasley and I can’t coexist on the same  street, let alone in the same-”

“And,” Potter added, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. “It didn’t seem like such a bad idea, last night.”

Draco swallowed, willing his voice to remain steady.

“I was drunk, Pott-”

“Hardly,” he chuckled. He was even closer, somehow, caging Draco mere centimetres from the bedroom door and safety. “You sat at that bar with one drink for an hour before you came stumbl-”

“I needed your help… “ The argument sounded weak, rehearsed. It was, of course, but it wasn’t supposed to sound like it. And, apparently, Potter wasn’t buying it.

“That must have hurt,” he quipped, cocking his head with a grin. “Only, I don’t think that was just you needing help… Hell, you were-”

“What’s your point?” Draco whined. He couldn’t help it. Potter’s heat was burning him, his voice, lowering as he leaned closer, was too much. Too suggestive, too interested, too-

“My point,” he whispered, stepping still closer, until the wall was pressed to Draco’s back, Potter flush against his front, leaving no room to back away further. “We’re going to be here for a while, I’ve got that big bed,” he tipped his head forward an inch, breathing heavily into Draco’s ear, “and I’ll be damned if all we do in it is sleep.”

Potter’s knee was nudging Draco’s thighs apart, effectively removing the very last of the distance between them, not to mention coherent thought, and Draco let his head drop against the wall. The sensations, Potter’s warm thigh trapping his cock, big hands holding his hips in place, were overwhelming, overpowering. Distantly, Draco realised he was panting and wondered when that started.

“I suppose I could be, ah, convinced to-” he gasped when Potter lowered his head, sniggering, to nip at the pulse point fluttering in his throat. “Re-reconsider the…. um…”

Potter pulled back, circling Draco’s wrist with rough fingers. “Good,” he growled before crushing his lips over Draco’s.

With a whimper, Draco allowed himself to be dragged into the bedroom. The size of the bed, forgotten until Potter lifted him by his hips to toss him into the lake of blankets and pillows, is quite acceptable, he decided. He took a moment, even, to be thankful for the size since it meant there was no threat of Potter miscalculating and landing him on his arse on the other side, before locking his eyes on Potter again. His shirt was  hanging open, his fingers working on the zip of his trousers. But his eyes, darkened to the color of the canopy deep in a forest, were raking over Draco’s form.

When the stiff material finally fell, Draco released the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and let his gaze fall with it. Over the broad shoulders, the bronzed skin that stretched across coiled muscles, to the dark hair trailing into pants, clearly painted onto the trim waist and sturdy thighs.

“You’re drooling.” The amusement, while evident, didn’t mask the arousal thickening his voice and Draco snapped his eyes back to Potter’s face,making an effort to close his slackened jaw.

Shaking himself, mentally, Draco reached for some composure, some fucking balance. “What can I say?” he shrugged, a jerky, one armed thing that had Potter laughing, again. Giving in to the admission, Draco scowled. “What? I’m supposed to stare down the wizarding world’s number one wet dream with any kind of poise?”

Potter grinned and dropped his weight forward, latching onto Draco’s throat again, and fumbling with the clasp of his robes. “Glad to see you’re coming around.”

“Let me make this clear, Potter,” Draco gasped, hands scrambling for purchase in the tangle of bedclothes. “I’m not one of your simpering fans.”

“I don’t know, Draco, looks like you’re simpering, to me.” With a grunt, he pulled Draco’s trousers and pants halfway down his thighs. “You’re fucking trembling.” What does he expect when his hand closes around Draco’s cock like that?

Seeking a level playing field, Draco reared up, catching Potter’s mouth in something resembling a kiss, and pushed him until their positions were reversed. Potter let him, obviously, and tossed his arms up to prop under his head, angling for a better view. On his knees, Draco pushed his restrictive clothing down further before kicking them off, entirely, and straddling Potter where he lay sprawled across the bed. His hands, so much paler against the darker background of Potter’s skin, slid firmly over the muscles, paused to tweak nipples until they were straining and Potter was arching under him.

Leaning forward, he closed his mouth around the corded muscles on Potter’s throat, sinking in his teeth briefly before swiping at the spot with his tongue. Potter’s hands came around, finally, to rest on Draco’s arse, squeezing and releasing, molding the globes and pulling Draco’s cock hard against his own.

“Holy fuck,” Draco moaned, releasing Potter’s throat to grind back against him.

“Too many fucking -” Potter muttered, grasping at the robes still bunched around Draco’s hips.

Draco lifted his arms to help him drag the offending fabric over his head before flattening himself out again to slide his skin against Potter’s. Once started, he didn’t stop, sliding down Potter’s body, licking and nipping at the heated flesh, drinking in the sounds that escaped him when Draco reached his target.

Nuzzling at the hard flesh through the cotton pants, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, laughing when Potter’s flushed cock slapped gently against his face as it sprang free. Potter’s hand on his head, fingers slipping between the strands of his hair and loosening his stubby ponytail, drew his attention and he wrapped the slender fingers of one hand around the base, flicking a sly smile up to him.

“Eager, are we?”

“Fuck, Malfoy, if you don’t -” but Draco already was, so Potter dropped his head with a groan, fist tightening in Draco’s hair as he swiped his tongue over the head, slipping in under the stretched foreskin, before engulfing it entirely. “Jesus fucking  Christ!”

Draco pondered that for a moment. Muggle-borns used the term, frequently, but he had no actual idea what it meant. It seemed to be used as a swear word, similarly to “Merlin.“ Some Muggle idol, then? A forefath-

Potter’s hand tightened almost painfully and Draco shook the thoughts away. What was he thinking? Potter’s cock was in his mouth, leaking onto his tonsils, and he was philosophising semantics? With renewed focus, he applied himself to his task, swirling his tongue around the shaft, pulling away until his lips rested on the very tip before plunging back down until he could feel the blunt head just barely breaching his throat. And then, doing it all again.

Before long, Potter was pulling his head away and hauling him against himself for another kiss, rolling them easily until Draco was molded to the mattress beneath him.

“God, Draco,” he rasped, scraping his barely-there beard against Draco’s jaw, neck, chest. “I knew, I fucking knew you would be amazing.”

Draco jolted. Potter thought about this? About him?

Propping himself on his elbows, he watched that dark tangle of hair dip as Potter bit and kissed and scraped along his hip, his cock, the junction between his groin and thigh. With a shudder, he flopped back when Potter lifted his leg, exposing Draco to his view.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, breath hot against the sensitive skin between Draco’s arse cheeks. “Fucking gorgeous.”

And then, Draco was arching his back, groaning wantonly as a wide, hot, wet, stripe trailed over his entrance. And then, again. And again, until Draco thought he would weep. At which point, of fucking course, Potter plunged that wicked tongue as deep as he could, bending Draco’s pliant body into the air for a better angle and a sob ripped from Draco’s throat. Had thought been possible, he might have cursed Potter for drawing such reactions from him. As it was, he couldn’t force out a curse until, because, Potter was pulling away.

“What the fuck, Po- Oh, fuck!”

Potter was chuckling, again, rotating the slick finger that had replaced his tongue before withdrawing it to add another.

Draco was begging, fuck, yes, more, please! but he couldn’t care. And when Potter finally covered him, again, stretching out over his limp form, it was all Draco could do to sling his arms over those broad shoulders and return the kiss as Potter pushed into him in one, swift, determined stroke.

Tearing his mouth away, Potter panted into his hair, grunting. “Simpering yet, Malfoy?”

“Fuck, Potter, please-”

“I am,” he laughed, pulling out and driving back in to prove it. “God, so fucking tight!”

Any more words either dissolved unspoken or hung unheard as Potter set a punishing pace, slamming into him, again and again, rocking the bed with the force of his thrusts. As Draco alternated between clinging, flailing, and sagging into the mattress.

Draco was vaguely aware of his building orgasm and hooked his legs around Potter’s waist, desperate to take the other man with him when he crashed over that jagged edge. He flexed his muscles, clenching, gripping Potter tighter and thrilled when he cried out, his rhythm stuttering. He held tighter to Draco, reaching blindly for a kiss and Draco met him halfway, moaning into his mouth when he came and swallowing Potter’s shout when he followed, moments later.

Ragged, gasping breaths echoed in the sudden silence as Potter collapsed, his chest pressing fully against Draco’s again. His weight forced too much of the air from Draco’s lungs, but he didn’t care. He tightened his legs around his waist, locking his ankles to hold him there, and slid his arms over broad shoulders, toying lazily with the soft hair at the nape of Potter’s neck. A smile stretched his lips, one he couldn’t stop if he’d bothered trying.

After a bit, Potter hummed, shifting only to find himself anchored to the bed. Turning his head to blink blearily at Draco, he opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it on a tired smile.

“Hi,” he finally managed.

Laughing, Draco craned his neck back so he could see better. “Hi, yourself.”

Potter cocked his head, a slight frown crinkling his brow. “You look awfully pleased…”

“Do I?” Draco tried to scowl but was pretty sure it came out as a grin. “Hmm, what do you know, I am a little pleased.”

With a laugh, Potter reached up to disentangle himself, groaned when he met with resistance. “Alright, I gotta piss, let me up.”

The grin turned mischievous and Draco tightened his grip. “Huh-uh,” he shook his head, playfully. “Not until you admit that I do not, nor ever have… simpered.”

Draco squealed when Potter rolled them to their sides and dug his fingers mercilessly into Draco’s ribs with a shouted “Never surrender!”

Okay, so maybe sleepovers weren’t so bad.

[el-gilliath]

A Not So Easy Choice

Welcome to the kidnapping fic I’ve been teasing. Thank you to @winged-fool and @bestillmyslashyheart for holding my hand, reading and looking this over, as well as telling me no, you are not allowed to kill any more people.

Part 2 Ao3

WARNING: Implied minor character death (Mimi)

He feels everything in him go cold when he gets the texts. Opening them and seeing pictures of Mimi and Alex, bound with the words If you could only save one, who would you choose? Decide quickly, you only have two hours.

He knows instinctively who’s behind it, there’s only one person who would willingly use a woman like Mimi and his own son to try and get to him. He also knows without a shadow of a doubt that Jesse is one hundred percent sure Michael is going to come to the rescue.

A petty part of him doesn’t want to prove him right. But there’s no way he can leave them in Jesse’s clutches. But if he can only save one of them… How does he choose between his girlfriend's mother and the man he’s loved since he was 17. It’s an impossible choice, which means he needs help. He needs Isobel.

He throws himself into his truck and drives to Izzy’s house. She still lives in the house she owned with Noah, since ‘it’s a perfectly good house’. He doesn’t understand how she can handle it, but then again he never understood Isobel’s overbearing stubbornness. But it has saved her thus far, so he will continue to not say anything. But the day she’s ready to move he’ll be there.

But until then he has other things to think about. Like the fact that Jesse is a torturous madman. The drive from Sander’s to Isobel’s normally takes him 20 minutes. He manages it in 10.

He launches himself out of the car as soon as he’s stopped, making sure the doors are closed with his telekinesis as he runs into the house.

“Isobel! Isobel!”

“Why are you shouting, Michael?” She’s her usual haughty self as she comes into the hall from the living room, looking perfectly put together the way she always does.

“Jesse Manes has Mimi and-”

“Slow down, Michael. What do you mean Jesse Manes has Mimi?”

“I got a text. It has a picture of Mimi tied to a chair but it’s not… It’s not just Mimi.”

Isobel gives him a look he recognizes instantly. She’s given him the look many times over the year he’s been dating Maria. It’s a look she started giving him after the first time she watched him interact with Alex. After the first time she felt what he himself feels every time Alex is around. She doesn’t need to hear his name to know who else Jesse has, she can probably feel it through their bond.

“He told me I can only save one of them. And I only have two hours to decide.”

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?”

“It’s Jesse Manes,” he replies. “There’s no reason to doubt it. And as I said. Pictures.”

“Show me.”

He does, handing his phone over. He watches as Isobel looks at the text, scrolling through the pictures. He feels the deep sigh she releases as she hands back his phone in his gut.

“You need to tell Maria.”

“How the fuck do I tell her, Iz?”

“You just do.”

He doesn’t want to, but he knows Izzy is right. He also knows Maria is at the Pony, doing paperwork. He doesn’t want to tell her, but he knows that he has to.

“Okay. I guess we’re going now.”

-----

He gets another text on route. Who’s it gonna be, alien? The mother or the ex? 60 minutes left with another picture of the two tied to chairs.

He grits his teeth, inhaling and exhaling sharply as he tries to calm down. He’s mad, worried, shaking. Why is it always him?

Isobel takes the phone from his hand, replacing it with her own hand and holding him tightly. She knows exactly what he needs, his sister, she always does. And with Max still being dead… It’s just the two of them. Even if they are coming closer to the answer to that riddle.

“It’ll be fine, Michael, she’ll understand.”

“Understand what, Iz?” he asks.

“That you have to save Alex.”

He very much doubts that Maria will understand that, her mother is her whole world. And Alex. Alex is more competent than Mimi is, especially now with her confused state of mind. He doesn’t know what he’s gonna do if Maria wants him to save her mother instead of Alex. He doesn’t want to think about it.

But it doesn’t matter, he thinks to himself as he parks in front of the Pony and gets out of the truck. He’ll decide soon.

He strides inside the Pony, opening the door telekinetically as he nears it. He knows Maria doesn’t mind now that she knows about his powers.

“Maria?” he asks loudly just in case, he doesn’t want to scare her atop the shitty news he comes bearing.

“Inventory!” She yells back. He still hesitates in walking forward, hesitates enough that Isobel takes his hand and gives him another reassuring squeeze, their connection radiating with calmness. He squeezes back quickly in thanks before he gathers his everything and walks forward.

Maria is exactly where she said, behind the bar doing inventory. She grins widely, putting down her clipboard and getting out from the bar to greet him. She stops when she sees Isobel, their relations might be better but they’re not even close to friends yet, before visibly steeling herself and continuing to give him a kiss. He turns away slightly, so her kiss lands on his cheek and not on his mouth. He just can’t, right now.

“Hey,” Maria asks, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want to see her face. He doesn’t want to-

“Jesse Manes has your mom.” He blurts it out, no softening, no censoring. Just blurts it out.

“What do you mean Jesse has Mom?” her voice is hard now, the furrowing of her brow deepening.

“I mean he has her hostage. And he’s giving me 45 minutes to decide-”

“Decide? Decide what, to save her? To go get her?”

He looks over at Isobel, just a glance to ask for help but Maria moves her head so he can’t really focus on her. He still sees Isobel mouth ‘Tell her’.

“Michael, wh- why are you even here if Jesse has Mom!” Maria’s voice is rising, panic setting in as she picks up on the fact that he’s completely serious. “If this is true you have to go!”

“It’s true, I have proof,” he says, and tries to show her the pictures. But Maria shuts her eyes, turns away and hides her face. He gives Isobel a helpless look, but Isobel just sucks her teeth before mouthing ‘Tell her’ again. Her face is a harder mask now, her annoyance not showing but still felt by Michael.

“I don’t want to see, I can’t see her like that! She’s already so vulnerable, I just can’t!”

“Okay, I won’t show you but Maria, I have to tell you-”

“No!” Her voice is pitching into screams now. “Just go and get my mom! She doesn’t deserve this!”

He wishes he could close his eyes and not be in this situation, not be in this predicament, not be in this place.

He doesn’t know how to choose, doesn’t know if he can. How do people make choices, like these, and live with them.

“Michael, you have to go save my mom!” Maria screams at him. “Please!”

But it’s not that simple. She doesn’t know that Jesse has another hostage. He doesn’t want to know what she would ask of him if she knew that Alex is also in his father's hand. Considering she knows one hell of a lot of what happened in the Manes household when he grew up.

He knows he should save Mimi, save his girlfriend’s mother. After all, Alex is an Air Force Captain, he’s gotten himself out of worse jams than this and Michael knows he’s probably capable of whatever he needs to do to get himself out.

But the thought of leaving him. Of letting him feel alone and abandoned. It reminds him too much of how he felt when Alex had to leave. So how can he leave him when he had the chance not to.

“What are you waiting for, Michael?! My mom needs you!”

Maria is getting decidedly more frustrated, the anger and fear in her voice clear as she yells. She doesn’t understand, he gets that. He might not have a mom anymore but he gets it.

“It’s not that-“

“If you try to tell me it’s not that simple I’m gonna hit you. My mom is in the hands of Jesse fucking Manes, the reason she’s like this, and you’re hesitating when you can go save her!” she seethes. “I know how he treated Alex growing up, I can’t let her stay in his clutches! It’s my mom, Michael!”

He shares another look with Isobel as Maria mentions Alex. Their relationship is not the best since he started dating Maria, though thankfully he and Maria managed to spare their friendship even if his spiral tried to fuck with that too. But Alex will always come if anyone needs him. And he knows, intimately, just how good Alex is at getting himself out of tricky situations. But leaving him with Jesse when he has no idea if Jesse would keep him alive or not, it shakes him to his very core, like acid burning through the inside of his stomach, like holding your hand over a fire as it slowly burns.

“Maria… I-”

“I’ve done a lot of shit, Guerin. Hurt people that I shouldn’t have, for you. I’m begging you, go get my mom. She doesn’t deserve any of this!”

He looks at Maria who’s watching him with tears rolling silently down her cheek. He doesn’t say anything, just swallows hard as he bites his tongue.

“You owe me.”

And he does. For the shit he put her through, for being stupid enough to try to ruin her friendship with Alex when he pursued her without even thinking about that, for all the times he hasn’t paid at the Pony, for all the times he’s taken it out on her and been in a mood when he’s fought with Alex. He loves her, he adores her. He can do this for her. Alex can get himself out, and he has to believe Jesse wouldn’t hurt him. He can do this to make up for the fact that he will always love Alex more.

“Okay. Okay,” he says, a grimace in the shape of a smile on his face as she throws herself in his arms, sobbing and whispering ‘Thank you’ over and over again. Isobel walks into his line of sight behind her, her patented ‘You’re an idiot’ mask firmly on. He knows he should’ve told Maria that it’s not just her mother that’s at stake, but he can’t. He has to keep her happy if he wants to keep her. She deserves to be happy with what she gave up for him.

He extracts herself from her grip a few minutes later, giving her a smile he hopes looks slightly more genuine, but probably doesn’t with the way she frowns.

“I have to go if I’m gonna do this. I need to get the location.” He kisses her on the forehead, cradling her face sweetly in his hands. “Stay with Isobel, you’ll be safe with her. I’ll be back as soon as I have her.”

He nods at Isobel, waiting for her nod back before he lets go of Maria and walks out of there. He ignores the thought of her frown as he texts the unknown number back, writing simply ‘Mimi Deluca’. He ignores it still when he gets a set of directions in reply. Maybe if he can ignore Maria’s frown, he can ignore how much it’ll hurt knowing that he’s leaving Alex to fend for himself. Even though he doesn’t deserve it, even though Alex always comes through for everyone else. He’ll do what Maria asked him to do and get her mom. It’s the right thing to do.

He wishes he could believe it himself.

-----

Maria watches Michael leave with a sour taste rising in her mouth. She was, she is, distressed, but now that he’s gone she knows there’s something he didn’t tell her. Her psychic sense is tingling, has been tingling since he came in but she ignored it when he started talking about her mom. But now she can’t anymore. Not with that grimace Michael had on his face as he left.

“Why did Michael have that look on his face?” she asks as she turns around to face Isobel. Isobel, who always looks impeccable in both manner and clothes, but right now looks a little nauseous as she looks down on the floor.

“What do you mean?”

It pisses her off that Isobel doesn’t even consider that she can see straight through her bullshit. That’s the thing with Isobel Evans, they might not be each other's biggest fan, but they’re far too similar not to know when the other is trying to lie or deflect.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Maria-“

“Isobel. What. Aren’t. You. Telling. Me,” she says. The edge in her tone is hard, and she narrows her eyes as Isobel sighs irritably. But she knows she’s won when Isobel opens her mouth.

“Jesse Manes might have your mother behind one door,” Isobel replies. “But he has Alex behind the other. And by begging Michael to save your mom, you might just have killed Alex.”

The room is silent for a minute, long enough for Isobel to get worried.

She’s deeply relieved that Michael’s already left when Maria lets out an anguished scream shortly after, screaming in anger and grief.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” she yells in between the tears.

“You didn’t give him a chance,” Isobel answers. And she didn’t, with her demands as soon as she heard Michael mention her mother. She still regrets being quite so straightforward when Maria bursts into tears. The only thing she can do is hug her close and let her cling to her as she cries. She just hopes Michael hasn’t lost the love of his life because he thinks he has to do everything Maria asks him to, just because he feels guilty that she almost threw away a friendship for her brother and because he still can’t stop loving Alex, regardless of his feelings for Maria. But Isobel also knows it’s not that easy.

She still really hopes Michael returns with Alex and not Mimi, cruel though it may be. She doesn’t think Michael will survive if he doesn’t.

-----

His heart beats fast as he nears the directions from the text. He can feel it racing in his chest, his breath quickening as he sees the old, decrepit house on the side of the road. He hates that his mind is telling him not to stop, to drive on. To send a text and ask for Alex’s location instead. He hates that he’s unable to let it go, even if he promised Maria.

He wants to go get Alex. He wants, he wants, he wants. But he won’t. Alex can get himself out, he has to. Jesse won’t hurt his son. He really hopes he won’t.

He forces himself to stop in front of the house, getting out of his truck slowly while he listens to his surroundings, listens in a way that Alex taught him to try and make sure nothing bad is hiding around him. He reaches out with his powers too, tries to feel if there’s anything around. But there’s not; as far as he can tell he’s alone. He still approaches the house slowly, carefully, but nothing stops him. Nothing jumps out, nothing seems weird. It’s just an old house on the side of the road, close to falling apart and decrepit as all hells.

It’s creepy. It’s also perfect for Jesse Manes and his own brand of torture.

He opens the, admittedly shabby, front door and looks inside. There’s nothing there. Nothing besides a door to a room that seems to have been switched out lately. The pounding of his heart intensifies, though it’s more of a hard beat than a race now. A hard beat of regret. He pushes onward still, walking over to the door and taking deep breaths. One. Two. Three. The handle is in his hand, and he wrenches it open before he can second guess himself, his telekinesis at the ready. He moves into the room and stops. He can’t help but feel a deep relief course through him.

“Alex.”

The sight of Alex sitting tied up in the chair in front of him makes him want to weep tears of joy. It makes him want to jump in joy and take his face between his hands and kiss him, deeply, truly, as he runs his fingers through Alex’s hair. It makes him want to love him forever.

It makes him the happiest he has ever been before. Before he remembers Mimi. The person he was meant to save. The person he promised to save. Who is now most likely dead. A part of him cries out in fear of what will happen with Maria, now. Now that he’s failed her too.

But Alex is here. Alex is alive. He can’t help but be grateful. It’s who he wanted to save all along.

Alex looks at him with an unreadable look on his face, before he looks down and a soft, sob like sound leaves him. Michael rushes over, talking nonsense as he unties him from the chair.

“Hey, Alex, hey, I’m gonna get you out of here, I swear,” he babbles, helping Alex stand, letting him lean on him as he groans when he puts weight on the prosthetic. Alex doesn’t really say anything, just lets Michael lead him to the car, lets him help him into the car and close the door. He doesn’t say anything as Michael gets into the truck himself and drives away from the old house. Doesn’t say anything as Michael asks him if he’s hurt, or okay, or in pain, just shakes his head or nods where he needs to. It makes Michael feel unsure, makes the grief of Mimi linger in his head because in many ways Alex doesn’t seem happy to see him, just blank. He doesn’t want to know what happened to him before he got there.

“Alex, I-”

“Where are you going?” Alex finally asks.

“I need to go to the Pony. I need to tell-”

“You need to tell Maria about Mimi. Yeah, Guerin, I know it was either me or Mimi. My dad likes to torture me, you should know that by now.” Alex shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Let’s just… Let’s just go.”

Michael can’t really do much more than nod, especially as Alex turns away to stare out of the window of the truck. He wants to console him, wants to hold his hand and make him feel better. He doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to, given that he didn’t actually pick him.

-----

They get to the Pony half an hour later. Half an hour in awkward silence that Michael can’t seem to break, a silence that Alex won’t break. He’s tried, asking him if he needs food or water or if he would prefer Michael to drive him home. Alex has just shaken his head every time. No answer, no noise, just a shake of his head. Michael is worried, so very worried. But he doesn’t want to pry.

“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” he tries to offer. The derisive snort Alex releases tells him all he needs to know about that suggestion, so he just nods and gets out. Alex is just getting out of the car when the front door bangs open. Maria runs out, tears and hope on her face. She freezes as she sees Michael, as she sees Alex. Michael can see the way her teeth clench, how her hands tighten into fists, how she starts to slightly shake from trying to hold herself together. So Isobel told her then.

“Of course you picked him,” she bites out. “Of course Alex was more important than my mother.”

He looks at her, doesn’t know how to tell her that Jesse gave him the wrong coordinates. If he tells her Alex will hear, Alex knowing he didn’t pick him would be worse than Maria thinking he decided to leave her mother. He won’t think about why that is yet.

“And my mother is left in the hands of Jesse fucking Manes. How the fuck could you leave her with him, Guerin!”

She rages. He lets her. Lets her curse him to kingdom come, lets her yell all her hatred at Jesse and sorrow over her mom at him. He let her down, he knows what. He still can’t help but feel happy that Alex is alive.

“I should’ve known.” Her eyes fill with tears, her clenched hands releasing, her jaw softening. “I knew the second Isobel told me that you would show up with Alex. And I guess I can’t blame you, I know you still love him, after all.”

He opens his mouth to answer, but stops when Alex walks closer to Maria, taking her hands between his. She’s crying openly, big fat tears running in rivulets down her face. But the happy smile she gives him through her tears, her relief to see him makes Michael feel marginally better. Especially when she lifts his hands to her face and lays small kisses on them.

But Alex doesn’t look relieved, nor happy. He just looks full of sorrow and pain. Michael doesn’t understand, especially when a tear slowly rolls down Alex’s cheek as well. He doesn’t know what’s going to come out of Alex’s mouth as he opens his mouth to speak.

"He chose her," Alex answers for him. "He just didn't know Dad switched who was behind which door.”

All the air in Michael’s body stops circulating at that point. His heart beats faster in response, his hands start sweating, his nerves tick behind his eyes. No, no, no no nononononononono.

Alex scoffs. He extracts his hands from Maria’s, whose eyes are wide, shocked and distraught. Just like Michael feels to his very core. “I’m sorry about your mom, Maria. But I’m not sorry I’m alive.”

Michael can only watch in horrified shock as Alex turns and walks away. All thoughts of Maria are gone.

“The worst part is, I would’ve picked you,” Alex says as he stops a few feet off and looks back at Michael. “I always pick you.”

Michael doesn’t think he could feel worse if he tried.

[mavmax]

The Art of Detachment

When: Throughout Maverick’s Life 

Where: Santa Monica 

Major Warnings: Bullying, Mental Health 

Featuring: Lexa Maxwell, Izzy Maxwell

Maverick was always a very happy child. He loved telling jokes and pulling pranks. He was always known for his smile, the way his nose scrunched up like a bunny and he’d show all his teeth (and lack thereof during the tooth fairy days). Lexa called him a bunny when they were young because of his smile. It’s why she’d chase him around to try and tickle him because she always found his smile endearing. But with happiness came sadness, frustration. Mav remembers their mother telling his sisters, but specifically Lexa, that “princesses don’t cry.” Especially in the public eye where cameras flashed and reporters held out their microphones excitedly. In the public eye, Maverick saw the masks everyone put on, including his own. Lexa was the strong one, Izzy was the kind one, and Maverick, was the charismatic one. He didn’t understand at first why but learned to get into it and smile for the camera, while Izzy sweetly smiled, and Lexa’s lips would curl into a haughty smirk, or often times, she didn’t smile at all. 

He was curious about that, especially when he started school because often times he got in trouble for slingshotting a kid who’d piss him off or slugging someone in the jaw. It wasn’t an anger issue but more of, kids were mean and he defended himself using physical force rather than verbally, especially with how often he’d mix himself up between Korean and English. Sure, he was pretty popular and had many friends, but with that popularity, came the challenge for the title. That was when he went to Lexa. His hands were bruised yet again from angrily punching the punching bag in his room bare-handed. Mav was 10 and just starting the 5th grade, Lexa was 14, her hair tied high in pigtails as a high school freshman. 

She sat him down and sighed, icing his knuckles, and wrapping them up. As much as they often fought the most, she still always had a soft spot for her little brother. 

“Bunny,” she sighed, ruffling his hair. “How are you supposed to play basketball if you keep fighting and ruining your hands like this, huh?”

He shrugged silently. She tilted her head and sighed once more. 

“Well, you’ve got to stop otherwise mom and dad will pull you out and then Izzy and I won’t be able to watch you. Is that what you want?”

“No,” his lower lip began to wobble as his eyes watered and he lowered his head.

“Hey,” she frowned and pulled in Mav for a hug. “I know it’s not fair, Bunny.” 

“I-I’m j-just s-so m-m-mad,” He stammered through sniffles. 

It hurt Lexa to see her little brother this way. He didn’t have to prove to the world that he was likable because of how sweet he already was, but she knew deep down that he’d continue to get hurt and so, the princess who didn’t cry would teach the charismatic prince the art of detachment. First, she let him cry it out, rubbing his back in a soothing way until the sobs subsided. 

Wiping his tears away, she then said, “Princes don’t cry, remember?” 

He nodded slowly. 

“I promise, no one’s going to make you cry ever again,” She promised him. 

And so, it began. On the weekends in between bickering and poor Izzy mediating, Mav was beginning to learn the art of detachment. Mav’s fiery anger only simmered rather than boiled over. There were less wrestling matches once Lexa got him to channel his anger into his words. 

“You have to let it roll off your shoulders,” She instructed, rolling her own shoulders to show him. He mimicked her in the mirror and rolled his neck. 

The next step was easy, Mav was crafty with his insults, but it was all about not letting the anger boil over. Lexa taught him to maintain a composure, to straighten his shoulders back to appear taller, mimicking their dad’s posture before saying what he needed to say. 

The final step was the hard part. Lexa would say it was because she was a Leo, where she could easily act her way through everything. It was why she was able to play the role of the ice princess so easily…and now she was teaching Mav, to protect himself. 

“When they ask you to smile, start with the eyes. They’ll be able to detect any falter of a smile very quickly if your eyes don’t match it. So, we’ll practice in the mirror.” 

Mav practiced each and every time. He smiled with his eyes, then followed up with his nose. After a while, he managed to nail it and then began the tests. 

When he started public school, the method worked. He was quick to cut off people that showed their true colors without hesitation and remorse, even though he silently took the loss in the comfort of his own room. Between basketball, music, and art, they were his healthier coping mechanisms to let the repressed emotions breathe. 

His big test was always around the holidays. Benji was his biggest bully but he was also quick to play the victim and put the blame on a fiery Maverick. So the insults flew like daggers towards his cousin. He picked him apart like his mother’s charcuterie board, calling him everything under the sun from an inbred big-headed bitch baby to the human version of herpes to 병신 새끼 [byeong-sin saek-ki], aka, motherfucker. Each and every time, Benji would tear up, and each and every time, Maverick smiled. 

His downfall would be relationships, however. In high school, he dated the head cheerleader of his class but she had a knack for flirting with everyone under the sun despite them being together. Maverick was pretty observant of that, and with him having a lower tolerance of bullshit, heartlessly dumped her at homecoming as he was coronated as homecoming king, and lost his virginity to her best friend. He never apologized, and this, branded him as the heartbreaker. Throughout the rest of high school he had crushes, he had flings, but nothing really stuck. On the upside, he was able to be friends with many of his ex-flings. 

It wasn’t until college when he entered his first serious relationship. They were both scared first years with completely opposite personalities. She was studious, a good girl, from a well-mannered family, the youngest of four. It was a slow burn relationship as they often studied together in the library, leading to wild make out sessions in his car. The thing is though, this good girl wanted more adventure from this hot bad boy, and although Maverick could do it and give her the world, it wasn’t enough for her. So when he caught her having sex with some heavily tatted guy at the party they both attended and watched her beg and plead to have him back, all she saw was a blank stare. There was no hurt in his eyes, no anger, no devastation, just, blankness as he pulled her arms off of her and said, “Fuck you, Anna.” That same night he wound up screwing some other girl, as if nothing bothered him and went about it as if it didn’t bother him. 

But he broke down the moment he went home for the holidays. He punched the wall so hard that his knuckles bled as he sank down to the floor with tears streaming down his face. The heartbreak strangled him and left him breathless, but he cleaned himself up, quietly tended to his wounded hand and went about his day, with a big smile on his face. 

Lexa knew she had created a monster right then and there and that, ate at her. All she wanted to do was to protect her siblings, the brightest rays of sunshine. Maverick argued that night that he was fine until she blockaded him in, and he fought his tears so hard until he crumbled again. 

“I just want to be as strong as you, Lex,” He admitted.

Lexa sighed. She wasn’t completely honest with her siblings about her own mental health and could only hug Maverick just a little tighter. 

So, then a few years passed. Now he’s in his senior year and the prettiest girl he promised he’d purposely annoy dished everything right on back and he was hooked. He’d chase her down, but then, between the fake phone number and later finding out that she was dating his best friend, Eric, Mav’s wall went back up. He spent the week hooking up with multiple people on a whim while his friends worried about the fact that he was still happy and moving through life like he didn’t just find out his crush had moved on. Even Gossip God was flabbergasted. 

It became easier to detach overtime but harder to attach. Nothing could hurt him to his face, but behind closed doors the ache was powerful. He didn’t want to be seen as the weak kid on the playground anymore, however, so to show others his vulnerability meant he truly cared about them. 

[disregardcanon]

i did some star wars sequels rewrites today! i’m not going to sit here and say they’re good enough to make a whole new trilogy of movies around or anything, but i like them.

a few major changes include: kylo has some more consistent characterization and is the big bad, rose tico is a former stormtrooper (insert fic rec), and the stormtrooper revolution.

So, one important sequels change is that Snoke is his own character. He was a Palpatine sycophant who was eighteen years old when the chancellor became the emperor, and watched from a close advising position, studying how Palpatine managed to manipulate those around him and his use of the force. Palpatine figured him out quickly, of course, but Snoke’s ability with the force was far beneath him and at the time, his primary goal was keeping Palpatine in power. 

He studied the best tactics for keeping storm-troopers in line, the best ways for lording power over those with some and those with none, and he undertook extensive study on Darth Vader. He was able to figure out exactly who Darth Vader was, and he studied all available information on Anakin Skywalker. He figured out exactly the ways that Palpatine manipulated this man into becoming his guard dog, and took notes. Someday, he would need one of his own. Snoke was never exceedingly powerful- only smart. If he was powerful enough, he might have struck the Emperor down himself to get that power. 

After the fall of the Empire, he tracks down imperial loyalists and sets himself up a stronghold far enough out in the outer rim that no one from the New Republic is going to come to its rescue. He offers a spot of honor to Brendol Hux for implementing a stormtrooper program with stolen children. 

Then, he starts bribing territories to join them. He starts conquering. The First Order is becoming a small, but mighty force. By the time that Luke Skywalker’s Jedi school is gaining traction, he has his own small country. He goes to visit, claiming that he will be on the look out for force sensitive youths in his area. Luke does not trust him, at all, but allows him to stay a few days out of curtesy for a fellow force sensitive who isn’t an enemy combatant. 

Snoke’s strongest force power, similar to Ahsoka Tano, is reading force signatures. He is able to pick up on the the frustration and entitlement radiating off of young Ben Organa-Solo in waves. He whispers in the boy’s ear about the good old days, when he could have had a place of honor and power instead of a life of living in his mother and uncle’s shadows, without being able to utilize the full power of the force. 

He comes from the line of Darth Vader, after all. Most powerful man in the galaxy- able to have whatever he wants. Why should he be restricted to a children’s summer camp where he is only allowed to wave around wooden sticks? 

Little Rey, daughter of no one of importance beyond the love they gave her, feels something is wrong. She runs to Master Luke’s room and says that Ben feels wrong. Luke follows her to the door of Ben’s room, and feels the anger and resentment radiating off of him in waves- strong enough to kill. Strong enough that it means he will kill. 

Luke tells Rey to run to the room with the other children and then run to the ship to fly away. Then, he opens the door quickly and quietly. Luke tries to kill his sleeping nephew who feels like murder, and is instead knocked out with a force choke. 

“Master Snoke warned me that you would try to kill me,” Ben says, clamping his hand down so hard that it nearly ruptures the arteries in Luke’s throat. 

Rey hears the sound of children’s dying screams so close behind her that she’s too afraid to try to wake the other children- she just runs. Runs and runs and runs towards the ship that Luke was helping to teach her how to fly recently, and she runs until she can run up the stairs. 

She hears heavy breathing coming from behind her, and turns around. 

“Little Rey,” Ben says, smile quirking on his lips, “it figures you’d be the one to survive. You were always stronger than the others.” She feels her breath hitch in her throat. 

“I don’t think that I’ll kill you,” he says, “I think I could use an apprentice.” She pushes sideways, hitting at the button that closes the hatch. He rips out his lightsaber with a hiss, crystal corrupted to a bright red, and slashes at the door of the Millenium Falcon. 

Rey hears the hissing as he grinds at the metal, and she rushes through the halls to the pilot’s chair, gearing up the ship. Then, she pushes the button forward. She flies and flies, adrenaline coursing through her veins- before she lands on the deserted planet of Jakku. 

She blocks out her memories of the temple, and makes a home of her ruined ship as she tries to get it flying again. 

She eventually gets it back to the point where it’s functional, but she’s afraid enough that she doesn’t fly it- until Finn shows up. 

That’s how they get the Falcon. The rest of the plot doesn’t change for the rest of the first movie. 

Cue Beginning of the Second Movie

Finn has been in a coma for three months, Page Tico is returning to the Resistance after a few months of shore-leave with a sister that no one knew existed, and Rey has been training with Luke and now is Good At Lightsaber Force Ways.

Kylo Ren is caught in a depressive, angry, tantrum funk because lo and behold, killing his dad didn’t magically make any feelings go away. It just made him feel gross and angry and it didn’t get him any closer to his goals. He monologues at his burnt to a crisp Darth Vader mask. He destroys First Order property. He force chokes some guys. 

Snoke is like. Okay. We gotta channel this into something productive. The goddamn primadonna is destroying all my plans. And he notices that Kylo is obsessing over this one girl and is like. Okay let’s channel that into a Padme Amidala thing. Sew the seeds of Darth Vader’s obsession with one woman who led him to the Dark Side and how this is a perfectly normal, dark side thing just as long as he GETS HER. This will keep Kylo focused on one, small side quest and away from that Maybe I Should Just Kill the Old Bastard And Be Done With It thoughts that Snoke has been feeling coming off of him. 

I don’t have the whole plot thing down, because I doing this for fun and free on the internet, but the main things are

1. Rose is a former storm trooper who was inspired by Finn to desert the First Order and help the Resistance. She just lost the girl who took her in and called her sister, and she is angry and frustrated with Finn that he’s not immediately the person that she wants him to be. 

2. Rey doesn’t believe that Kylo needs to be redeemed, but that he needs to be confronted. She goes with him to beat Snoke, then he tries to convince her to come with him because she is a “nobody” who was left with Luke to train, and if Luke had bothered to track her down after she escaped with the Falcon instead of fucking off to exile she wouldn’t have grown up alone. He is “the only one who understand her” and the “only one who loves her” and Rey doesn’t buy into it and gets tf out. 

3. One of the most important conversations in the film is between Rey and Luke, as he tells her the true story of Anakin Skywalker, and how his love for Luke finally brought him back from evil. 

4. As the newly appointed Supreme Leader, Kylo decides that his goal is to get rid of the people who still hold claims to the legacies he wants solely for him (his mom and uncle) need to die, and that he will get Rey and rule the galaxy. 

5. Rey and Finn reunite with the Resistance base, and they talk about some Revelations and hug tf out of each other. They lose the base and Luke dies, checking off one of Kylo’s to-do list. 

6. Leia moves the base to a new location, and says that soon, she will face her son herself. She brought this terror into the world, and she’ll take it out of it. 

The next one opens with Finn, Rose, and Poe leading an assault on a storm trooper training facility, where they free children and convince an older battalion led by Jannah to desert and join the cause. 

The climax comes when the protagonists break up into 2 groups- the ones who will infiltrate the ranks of the stormtroopers and turn them against the brass, and then Leia and Rey, who will allow themselves to be captured and take down Kylo Ren themselves. They allow themselves to be dragged to his new chambers and he like, shows off all the opulence of Rule ™. 

“Don’t you think that I’ve done well for myself, mother?” 

“You’ve certainly done something,” she mutters. 

“I am the heir to the legacies of Vader, Skywalker, Organa, and Amidala,” he says, haughty and entitled, “who better to rule the galaxy? With my own queen by my side, of course,” He sends Rey a look, and she rolls her eyes at him. 

“I taught you nothing, didn’t I?” Leia asks. 

“Considering that you were never around, yes,” he says. He goes onto claim that he was a self-made man, all the while calling claim to the legacies that he’s “entitled” to. 

“I wasn’t present enough, I will admit,” she says, “but you’ve outworn my sympathy. And my regret.” 

“Leaving me with an uncle who treated me just like any other student,” Kylo Ren seethes, “you only did what a mother should, right? Ignoring her child.” He was special; why didn’t anyone treat him that way?

“I wasn’t perfect,” she says, “but I didn’t cause this, Ben. You did this yourself. Just like your grandfather.” Kylo takes out his lightsaber, and he stabs. He twists it, and he brings the blade back in. Leia falls to the ground, dead.

Rey lets out a scream, because this monster- he thinks that he can just kill everyone because they didn’t treat him enough like a king. He’s killed both of his parents, people that Rey is sure she loves far more than he ever did.

Rey struggles against the hold of those stormtroopers and lets out a growl. 

“You are a monster,” she hisses. 

“One that you’ll come to love,” he says, and there’s a smile on his face. He’s run his mother through and he’s smiling. 

“I will never love you,” she spits. He shakes his head indulgently, and walks towards her. He puts a hand gently under chin, tilting it upwards to look him in the eyes. 

“Once I destroy that stormtrooper,” he says, “you’ll have no other choice. There will just be me, the only one who deserves your love.” Rey has been a feral, desert creature for most of her life, and she leans forward, mouth bumping against the fragile skin of his inner arm. 

Then, she leans in and chomps down in a devastating bite. This time, it’s Ren’s turn to howl in pain. 

He reaches in the force for her blue lightsaber, and clutches it in his hand. 

“This was my grandfather’s, you know,” he says, “it’s finally back in the right hands.” Rey smiles, big and wide and nasty. 

“He would hate the man that you’ve become,” she says, smashing the red blade into his blue one. Then, as they fight, she goes on to spin the story of Anakin Skywalker, a loving man who fell down a dark path to try to save the one person he felt hadn’t betrayed him and his unborn child, who spent years an emotionless husk before he finally saved Luke’s life, defying his master for love and love alone. 

“You killed the people who loved you for power,” she says, “Anakin Skywalker would be so disappointed in you.” Kylo hisses, and he misses her blow for one that cuts her along the arm. 

“I love you,” Kylo says. Rey shakes her head.

“You don’t know what love is,” she says. This is where the “team turn the stormtroopers against the brass” come in. Finn, Rose, Poe and their stormtrooper brigade has been working through the ship, culling the officers who were children of imperial officers who thought that it was alright to steal other people’s children to mold into the soldiers to fight the wars keeping them in power. 

Finn bursts open the door to the throne room, and Kylo and Rey both turn their heads to see him for a moment. 

“Oh,” Kylo Ren says, “it’s just your stormtrooper.” 

“His name is Finn,” Rey hisses, but Kylo just keeps laughing. How insignificant. Nothing but a stormtrooper- a nameless, worthless soldier designed to keep those worth more in power. Rey growls, and continues their fight. 

Finn can tell that he’s being completely ignored by Kylo, and runs in close. He sets off a blaster bolt in Ren’s direction. 

Though Ren is perfectly capable of stopping a bolt mid-air, he doesn’t even notice it coming until it cuts into his back. 

He falls to the ground in excruciating pain. He starts screaming, and tear-drops fall down his face. 

“The stormtrooper did this?” he squeals. Rey smiles down at him, and nods. Finn walks up beside her, and takes her hand in his. 

“But you’re nothing,” he says, “you’re not force sensitive, not royal-” Finn puts his boot to Kylo’s chest, and pushes him down. This stormtrooper doesn’t even have the gift of Kylo’s love that makes Rey special. He’s nothing.

“I’m not,” he says, “I’m just a stormtrooper.” He’s wearing a jacket that looks all too familiar- and Kylo’s breath hitches as he realizes that’s his father’s jacket. Nobody, smuggler Han Solo. 

The troopers that restrained Rey look between themselves, then they throw down their guns, and rip off their helmets. 

“We’re with you, FN-2187,” a woman with medium brown skin and black hair says, smiling widely. Finn nods at her, and smiles. 

“No,” Kylo says, shaking his head even as he feels the life leaving him, “this- this can’t be. I’m special. This was all supposed to be mine.” The new Empire- the legacy- the stormtroopers- the love and devotion of the most powerful force user of a generation. 

They were supposed to be his. How has this Finn taken everything from him?

What Kylo doesn’t understand is that Finn and Rey looked at each other, and decided that they were worth something; they were the first ones who ever did that for each other, and there’s a bond there too deep for anyone to wrest from their hands.

Rey smiles, and kisses Finn on the lips. Then, she kicks Kylo in the head. He doesn’t ever wake up. 

After that, Finn and Rose start a program that helps match former stormtroopers with job opportunities and lives in the new republic, that runs adjacent to Rey’s home for wayfaring force sensitives. Poe collaborates with both of them, flying new recruits back and forth from where they’re coming from to when they’re going and starts campaigning for the importance of a proper air force in the nascent new republic, and other people- politicians, start building it. 

The heroes of this war are going to work more from the ground to try to undo the damage that was already done. Someone else can try to make sure that governments happen and don’t collapse.

[ohnojustimagine]

Change Your Mind

Walter/Reader; Smut, 2440 words

As requested by a very inspiring anon.

-

It's not so easy to even get him inside your house after your dinner date. Walter's been the perfect gentleman all evening; holding out your chair as you sit down, keeping your glass of wine filled, making polite (if somewhat stilted) conversation and now walking you to your door.

He stands there, not saying anything, looking at you, and you hesitate, but then you see his gaze flicker ever so briefly down over your mouth and so you stand on your toes, tilting your face up towards him. He leans lower, closing his eyes, his mouth meeting yours, soft and careful and measured, and for a minute you don't push things, but then you open up, tongue teasing over his barely parted lips, and he suddenly pulls away. And your first reaction is disappointment, because you could have sworn he was into you, but then you see his face, and it's possibly the first time you've ever seen that resolutely stoic expression he wears like an unreadable mask slip in even the slightest. Because while he might look a little panicked, he mostly looks a lot turned on, like a whole lot, and oh yes, you think, this is a man who wants you.

"Maybe," he says, stumbling over the word slightly, but then he coughs, awkward, straightening up and looking you directly in the eye, his face once again neutral, but now you know what's lurking underneath that impassive exterior, and you're not buying it, not even a bit. "Maybe," he repeats, "we should say good night."

And fuck that, you scoff internally, but what you say is, "Or, maybe you could come in." He stares at you, silent. "For a coffee," you add.

He nods, slowly. "Well," he says, "for a coffee, yes."

You unlock the door of your house, ushering him inside. "Sit down," you tell him, gesturing at the couch, and he does, his hands resting in fists on his knees, almost oddly formal. And maybe you should keep up the pretense, say something about coffee, just for the sake of it, but instead you simply climb into his lap, straddling his impressively huge thighs and kissing him. And this time, he kisses you back, and he doesn't stop, not for what feels like a very long time.

"Are you sure?" he asks, when you take his hand and tug him to his feet, leading him into your bedroom, walking backwards, urging him along. He's serious, and it seems he's always serious, because the question is sincere, but even so, he still follows you, unresisting, waiting for your answer.

"I'm sure," you tell him, lifting his hand over your head, ducking under his arm and turning, as if this is a dance, and maybe, you think, that's exactly what it is, the push and pull of it; seduction, temptation, persuasion.

"I don't want to rush you," he says.

"No rush," you tell him, but that's a lie, because you're already impatient, your blood quick and hot in your veins, hungry for this, for him.

He glances around your bedroom, standing in the middle of the rug that covers the floor at the foot of your bed, and the way he just simply fills the space, the bulk of him, is so breathtakingly hot that you give up on any semblance of subtlety, no longer able to wait for him.

And so you step out of your shoes, unzip your dress, shimmying out of it and letting it fall to the floor. You pause when you're in just your underwear, watching the way he stares at you, his eyes dark under that overhanging brow, and you hear him breathe in as you unhook your bra, slip off your panties.

He looks you up and down, not saying anything, not making any move towards you, and you like it, you decide, having to encourage him, seemingly needing to tell him what to do, the intoxicating feeling of a man like this being even somewhat under your control. "Now you," you tell him with a smile, climbing onto your bed, kneeling up, facing him as you run your hands through your hair, shaking it back over your shoulders.

He nods, as if obedient, kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his pants, and his chest is broad; wide and so very solid, speaking of a strength far deeper and more powerfully dominating than the pointlessly gym-sculpted muscles of the guys you usually date.

He unbuckles his belt, unfastens his pants, bending ungracefully as he slides them off down his legs along with his underwear and then stands upright, and you breathe in sharply and the sight. Because there's just so much of him, and naked, it's even more overwhelming.

His cock stands out hard in front of him, and it's not that long, considering his height, but it's very, very thick. He stares at you as he strokes it, running his hand from the base to the tip, pulling his foreskin down over the head and then sliding it back and your mouth is watering and your cunt throbbing just to look at it, because you really, really need that inside you and you're not even sure you care where.

"Do the thing," you say, and he looks at you, puzzled. "Like you do for your entrance," you explain, "with the..." You clasp your hands behind your back, lifting your chin, and you could swear he smiles, so faint and subtle you barely see it, but it's there, and the knowledge of that sends a rush of heat through you.

He assumes the pose, indulging you, his face hardening into that defiant, arrogant look he wears in the ring as he glares down at you, haughty and imperiously assured.

And god, you think, fuck, because you've pictured it, more times than you could even count, him standing here, in that pose, naked and with a hard on, but it's so, so, so much better that you could have ever imagined. You shift your knees on the bed, widening your legs, your hand between your thighs, pressing down on your clit as you look at him.

His eyes are on your hand, observing, silent, and you're pretty sure you're making him nervous, but you're even more sure that he likes it.

"Tell me to suck your cock," you say.

"What?" he asks, as if not understanding, though his stance doesn't waver for even a second.

"Tell me," you repeat. "To suck it."

He's silent for a minute, staring at you, seemingly thoughtful, and you wait, holding your breath. "I want you to..." he starts and you interrupt, because that's not what you need from him.

"No," you say. "No, don't ask me, tell me."

He nods, then straightens up, raising himself to his full height, his accent maybe a little more pronounced than normal as he says, enunciating each word, consciously deliberate, "Suck my cock."

You lick your lips, moving so you're on your hands and knees, beckoning him closer with a smile, but he's quite still.

"No," he says, shaking his head, just once, authoritative. "Not like that. Off the bed. On your knees."

And oh yes, you think, because this is what you want, slipping down onto the floor, gazing up at him, giving him a dirty little smirk as you open your mouth.

You slide your lips down over his head, sucking lightly, tongue teasing, getting used to the feel of him, wide and full in your mouth, but then you go down further, seeing exactly how much of him you can take in. You inhale, trying to relax, but he's so thick that you quickly start to gag, throat stinging, eyes burning. You force yourself through it, holding on for as long as you can, and you're just about to pull off when he pushes you away from him, hard enough that you fall back onto your heels. You draw in a deep breath, and when you look up, you're taken aback to see he appears to be utterly unimpressed by your efforts.

He frowns at you, and says, "Don't do that."

"It's okay," you tell him. "I like it."

"No," he says. "I don't like it when you do that."

"I can handle it," you assure him. "I want to."

He looks at you, for what feels like a very long moment, and you're suddenly unsettled to realize that you have literally no idea what he's thinking. "I don't care," he finally says, "if you want to. Don't do it."

And he means it, you can tell, and to your surprise, you don't feel the need to argue with him. So this time, when you take him into your mouth, you focus only  on the head of his cock, and it's good like this anyway, your mouth working, nice and wet, one hand sliding up and down his shaft, circling around him.

"Better," he murmurs, and yeah, you think to yourself, because now he's into it. His hands rest on your shoulders, moving slowly up until they're either side of your face, his fingers light on your neck, his thumbs on your jaw, stroking as you suck on him.

You can hear him breathing, and when you look up, he's closed his eyes, his mouth slightly open, slack, and you can't tell if he's going to come, but you know you need more than just this, so you stop.

He opens his eyes, though he doesn't speak, watching you as you crawl back up onto the bed, lying back, your legs apart, thighs splayed wide enough to make sure he can see you, how wet you are, and you wait, wanting to see what he'll do.

And after a minute, he climbs up over you, the mattress dipping beneath you with his considerable weight, and then he's above you, dark-eyed and looming, and you hold your breath as he grasps your wrists, big hands gripping you like it's nothing, raising your arms, pinning them either side of your head.

"You like games," he states, and it's definitely not a question.

"Games can be fun," you reply with as much of a shrug as you can manage in this position.

"I don't like games." He shakes his head, serious. He's staring at you, and you swallow, because now you're the one who's nervous. Good nervous but you're not used to ceding this amount of control, letting a man dictate the terms of any encounter.

Yet you're beginning to suspect that Walter is not like any other man you've been with, that maybe, just maybe this is someone who might actually be worth letting down your guard for. And you're not so very certain how you feel about that, but for now, you breathe in. "There's..." you say, then stop. "There's condoms, in the nightstand."

He releases you, but you keep your arms exactly where he's placed them, waiting as he leans over, opening the drawer, taking out the box, his brow furrowed in concentration as he rolls the condom down over his cock.

And then he's on top of you, holding himself as he enters you, carefully, and you can feel yourself opening up to him, stretched around the sheer girth of his cock. You moan as he slides in, exhaling, and when he's fully inside you, he stops.

"Good?" he asks, and you can't answer, can't speak, so you nod, quickly. He starts slow, with shallow thrusts, and if this was anyone else, you'd quickly be demanding more, harder, but you don't say anything, letting him set the pace, trusting him to give you what you need, even if it's not what you think you might want.

And he seems to be in no hurry, at first, building up gradually, pausing every now and then to kiss you before starting up again, and just when you think you can't take it anymore, he looks down at you, and his expression changes. "Yes," he says, softly, nodding as if to himself, this time pulling all the way out before slamming back into you, so hard you gasp, have to hold on to him, and he doesn't stop, fucking you like he means it, grunting quietly with every forward thrust, relentless.

And mostly you can't come from just being fucked, needing some extra touch to get you over the edge, but you can feel it, that you're going to, and you don't know if it's how thick he is or just the way he's moving, but all at once it's as if you're taken over by it, something breaking open inside you, helpless to resist him.

You've barely even started to breathe again before he lets out a long moan, his head thrown back, eyes closed, before he slumps down slightly. You hear him panting for a moment, but then he pulls out of you, sitting up enough to toss the condom before he lies back down, beside you.

"You know," you say, "you're... not what I expected." He raises his eyebrows at you, curious, and you add, hurriedly, "I mean, in a good way."

"Ah," he says, as if he understands. And there's something so contained about him, the way he's so very within himself that you’re not certain if you should even touch him, but you reach out, running your fingertips gently across his stomach, tentative. He smiles, wider now, and pulls you over on top of him so you're lying on his chest, draped over him, and then kisses you again, like there's all the time in the world.

And perhaps there is, with his body solid and reassuring beneath you, grounding you. "Can you stay?" you whisper.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hand running down your spine, coming to rest warm and huge in the small of your back, just above your ass.

"Yes," you answer, without hesitation. "Please." You look at him, hopeful. "Can you... can you fuck me again in the morning?"

"Well," he says, "we don't have to wait until the morning." He sniffs, breathing in, shifting you off him, arranging your body so you're nestled in the crook of his shoulder, snuggled in next to him, and you seem to fit in the space perfectly, feeling small and somehow very, very safe.

"We don't?"

"Wake me up in a few hours," he says, arms around you as he closes his eyes. "I'll take care of you."

"Yeah," you say, thoughtful, careful, warmth spreading through your chest, and the comfort of it is unfamiliar, but you're pretty sure you like it. "Yeah, I think you will."

[darthrena]

(Your Kisses) Taste like Come what May

Excerpt:

“I promise you will love her.  She’s funny, smart, absolutely gorgeous–Just one date is all I am asking.”

“What has gotten into you all of a sudden.  Is this girl on the run from ICE or something?”

“Armie asked me to marry him.”

Ben felt his world collapsing.  His mild amusement long forgotten under the weight of a thousand unspoken words, missed opportunities, and imagined confessions.

Rose’s voice seemed to come from far away.  "Ben?  Aren’t you going to say anything?“

Ben swallowed, forced his throat to produce sounds other than screaming, or worse, a sob.  Oddly, when his mouth felt capable of speech, it was a faint rasp, no hint of the tempest which roiled within.  "Congratulations.  You deserve to be happy.”

o-o-o-o-o-o

Summary:

Ben, Rose and Hux grew up together.  Ben loves Rose, but Rose and Hux are together.  After Rose and Hux become engaged, Rose tries to set Ben up with her friend Rey.  He reluctantly agrees to go on a date.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

A step over the threshold and the familiar creaking of wood, weakened by time and salt-air, and aroma of hearty chowder and ale engulfing his senses, Ben knew he made the right choice.

Nestled between a trendy Korean tapas place and a shoe repair shop with flaking blue paint Ben could recall from his childhood, Takodana was sedate even on a Saturday night. Eclectic knick knacks ranging from a Rico Petrocelli bobblehead, a 1984 Bruce Springsteen poster yellowing at the edges, a carved wooden mask allegedly depicting a warrior of Venezuelan origin, to vibrant weavings of alpaca wool, lined the walls and cluttered the entrance way. Questionable decor aside, the whiskey, unpretentious beef stew, fries and a decent chowder on the menu had long ago made it Ben's favorite bar.

The proprietress, Maz, eyed him from beneath thick rimmed glasses and a bevy of judgement as he slipped into his favorite booth across from the bar. "Ben Solo," she drawled, giving little reassurance in either tone or posture, hands on hips and brow arched.

"Hey Maz," he greeted warily, as Maz stepped from behind the counter.

At last the petite lady put him out of his misery. "I ran into your mother the other day. Said you haven't been home since Christmas."

Right. It wasn't like Ben was avoiding his mother, at least, anymore than usual.  After quitting his job, and getting away from Snoke's insidious manipulations, it had been cathartic almost, reconciling with his mother and Uncle.  your father would be proud, his mother's voice hoarse with tears of grief and pride.  As lovely and neat as the story would appear on the cover or told over dinner parties when his mother was three Merlots in and giving him meaningful, tearful glances--prodigal son returned home and joined his mother's firm--things were still a bit strained.  Their specialties of law differing as they did, weeks could go by without seeing his mother at the office.  Ben made a concerted effort to call his mother once a month, or at least have Kaydel order her flowers or a bottle of wine when he couldn't bring himself to.  "I've just been busy," he mumbled, unable to summon even a modicum of coolness in the face of such obvious disapproval.

Maz tutted at the flimsy excuse, but seemed to relent slightly, moving back toward the bar.  "It'll be the usual then?"

"Yeah."

Silence reigned but for the hub of other patrons chatting and the slight clink of glass as Maz's weathered hands deftly prepared his usual starting drink, an old fashioned.

Maz brought him his drink, laying it down on a lacy, crocheted coaster.  "You want the stew?  I also have a Saturday Chowder."

Ben twitched a smile.  "What makes it a Saturday Chowder again?"

"It's Saturday, isn't it?"

"So just the regular chowder then?"

The spry old lady made a swatting motion with a ladle nowhere near impacting him.  "Don't be fresh with me, Benjamin Organa Solo."

"Oh I wouldn't dare."  Ben took a savoring sip of his old-fashioned.  It was perfect as always.

Maz was shaking her head, a gleam in her eye that should have been a warning of the subject she had been warming up to.  "Just like your father, you are."

Ben forced himself to keep his shoulders from tensing.  It was easier now, breath in, breath out.  When he spoke, however, none of the grief and anger that had once roiled like an summer storm within him escaped.  "I guess so."

"You should go next week, Ben."  Maz's voice was so very gentle.  "Your mother needs you."

"I'll think about it."  Ben cleared his throat.  A burning feeling was crawling up his chest to gouge his eyes.  A judicious sip of his drink doused it slightly, but a distraction was welcome.  "I'll think about the Saturday chowder too.  Hux is joining me though, so I'll wait for him to order."

"Alright then."

After a brief pat against his shoulder, Maz went to attend to a middle aged couple across the bar, and Ben was left alone.

Three gnomes and a tarnished silvery ash tray shaped like a crab on the table beside him were his only company.  Ben spared them a slight smile touched with nostalgia.  The crab shaped ashtray had been a favorite as a child, tagging along with his Dad to Takodana on sweltering afternoons.  A whiff of tobacco, his father's gravely voice and lopsided smile, Don't tell your mother we came here instead of the zoo.

Ben had never minded.  Maz gave him coloring books and the best lemonade, sweating over lace doilies.  Uncle Chewie would drop by, ruffle his hair and tell stories about Mara, the Chieftain of Coquivacoa, who fought the Spanish Conquistadores, or of stomping through the rainforests of Java, weakened by Dengue fever and harangued by monkeys.

There was the sound of the bell ringing, a familiar red head ducking beneath a bright colored talisman.  Dark circles starkly shadowed Hux's steely green eyes, but he still lit up in a smile as his long strides brought him to the seat across Ben.

"Solo, sorry for running late.  Rose was piqued at the sudden boys night, and decided to distract me until I divulged the nature of our evening.  Alas, despite her efforts I kept mum."  Hux regarded him with raised eyebrows, a satisfied grin softening the highhanded tone.

Ben tried not to think too hard about the nature of the "distraction," while remarking dryly, "Easy enough when I haven't told you anything to divulge."

Hux remained unfazed.  "I had high expectations the lovely Rey would be featured."

Absurd though the impulse was, Ben felt a current of displeasure to hear his friend say her name so casually.  "You've met her?"

"Of course.  Rose has had her over several times.  As a fellow countryman, naturally I approve, but she's delightful company and holds her liquor well."

He thought back to the other night, of Rey, six drinks in straddling his face as he ate her out.  "That she does."

Old friends that they were, Hux allowed the topic to drop momentarily, waving over an only too happy Maz to place his order.

Food orders taken (Saturday chowder for Ben, the stew for Hux, with fries to share), Maz drew a IPA from the tap, while fixing her eager sights on Hux.  "'heard you finally made an honest woman of your girl.  Congratulations, dear.  Shame Rose couldn't come tonight."

Hux grinned back, the same beatific look he'd been sporting ever since Rose accepted his proposal lightening his naturally haughty features.  It was easier to focus on his glass and slowly diluting brown liquid as the ice melted, than Hux cheerfully accepting Maz's congratulations.  "--tonight's just us.  Rose sends her love."  Shooting Ben a wink he could do without, Hux continued slyly, "Perhaps next time we'll be back on a double date."

Fuck.

Maz swiveled with super human speed to bring the full throttle of her bespectacled gaze upon himself.  "Started seeing someone?" She cooed with feigned casualness than fooled no one.  Already Ben could sense the gears turning--Maz wasn't one for smartphones, but in the next 24 hours he imagined she would be calling on his mother for tea, or using Takodana's ancient rotary if she deemed the matter too pressing.

While glaring at an unrepentant Hux, Ben hurried to deescalate the conversation.  "It's nothing serious.  Hux is just giving me a hard time."

The man himself merely smiled innocently.  "Rose made it sound different.  Perhaps I misunderstood."

Maz seemed a little disappointed, if skeptical, but she left them to bring their orders to the kitchen.

Finally left alone, Hux dropped all pretense.  "Sorry, I had to tease you a little.  But you know Rey would love this place."

Rey would fit right in to Takodana.  It was easy to imagine Rey cozying across the booth, a tequila neat or a Belgian white ale in hand, cheeks flushed and hair loose as she gossiped with Maz and laughed too loud with Rose.  She would love hearing Uncle Chewie's tales that sounded half like fiction.  He could imagine her asking in that charming lilt about all the odd bops and bits in the shop, and telling her about the time he spilled a customer's beer over the velour bar seat or the time first he snuck a sip of alcohol and Dad had just laughed and Dad--

Dad would have loved her.

"Yeah, she would.""Ben..."  He glanced up at the rather serious tone, and solemn look Hux was sporting.  "Did you mean that?  About it being nothing serious."

Did he mean it?  He thought of Rose, smiling sadly as she told him, So do you, you know.  Of Rey's knowing hazel eyes.  You have feelings for Rose, don't you?

"I don't know," he admitted.

There was a sound of huffed laughter from his side.  "Dude, you have it bad."

Ben grimaced.  "Please, don't say Dude."

"Hombre."

"Please stop talking."

"Homie?"

The next couple hours passed in a blur of warm food and easy conversation.  Hux let Ben off the hook for the most part on the subject of Rey.  After Hux had drunkenly complained about the wedding planning for thirty minutes--"Why do we need to have a rehearsal dinner and a wedding?  Why must the party favors match the bridesmaid dresses?"-- Ben surprised himself by bringing it up.  Although, alcohol likely had somewhat to do with it.

"I don't know what to do about Rey."

"You should just call her, mate," Hux slurred with exasperation.

"And say what?" he snapped back.

Hux shrugged.  "I like you.  I want to date you?  Doesn't seem all that complicated."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered under his breath.  His head felt muddled under the weight of alcohol and confusion of his emotions.  "On our date, I told her that I'm not looking for a serious relationship."

"And?"

"And now I don't know what to do."  Hux was poised to argue again, so Ben cut him off hastily, "I don't know what I want to do."

After a moment's pause, Hux rubbed his face blearily.  "Look, Ben, I think you're overthinking this.  How do you know she's looking for a serious relationship?  She's what, 25 years old?  If you want to see her, tell her you want to see her.  If you want to date her, tell her that."

That seemed...reasonable.

Hux was right.  He didn't have to have everything figured out just yet.

If he wanted to see Rey again, then he should just ask her.

Which was how he found himself standing on the corner as he waited for his cab, dialing Rey's number.

It rang a few times, a length sufficient for Ben's anxiety to stir to life restlessly, before a sleepy voice answered at the last ring.

"Hello?"

"It's Ben."

"Ben!"  The voice sounded much more awake now.  There was a low chuckle that sent a warm, molten pulse through his veins.  She must have been sleeping.  Ben wondered idly if Rey slept bare as she had in his company, or if she wore a ratty t-shirt over panties, if her nipples pressed through the thin fabric.  His fantasies were interrupted by Rey continuing with obvious amusement, "I was following the advice of all those Just Seventeen magazines I read growing up, and planned to text you in the morning.  Seems like it paid off."

"Oh."  Ben considered this information for a moment.  "I read mostly read F&SF.  The fantasy and science fiction magazine.  They didn't offer much dating advice."

Now Rey laughed full out.  "No, I'd imagine not," she replied after catching her breath.

"I want to see you again."

Inebriated though he was, Ben could detect the smile in Rey's voice.  "We literally just saw each other this morning."

"Technically it was yesterday."

"That should tell you something of the appropriateness of your phone call."

Oops.  "Sorry."

There was another huff of laughter over the receiver that briefly whited the sound.  "Look Ben..."

That beginning was not promising.  Nerves bubbling up his gut, Ben was helpless against the flow of babble as he cut her off: "I can't stop thinking about you.  The way you taste.  Your cunt clenching on my tongue, the sounds you make when you come.  And the way you laugh.  Whether you like green tea tiramisu or hate IPAs."

"Fuck, Ben."  There was a weak laugh on the other end, overwhelmed and something else his alcohol impaired brain couldn’t translate.  "Are you always like this?"

"No," he breathed back.  "Not at all.  Never."

"Ben."  Her voice was a sweet sigh.  There had never been a more lovely sound than her lips around his name.  "I want you too.  It's just, well, what about Rose?"

"Rey."

His mind was in free fall.  The ground beneath his feet had slipped away.  What about Rose?  He loved her, didn't he?  He grasped at bits of thoughts, stray feelings, a warmth that was Rose's smile and nose scrunched in glee, and a smoldering burn that was Rey's lips parted in ecstasy--but those sum of parts defied revelation, no, he refused to summate them.  He was vaguely aware of his panicked breathing, but remained in paralyzed impasse.  When Rey spoke, her voice was tentative and gentle and far better than he deserved.

"Ben?  It's alright.  I understand."

"You understand?" he repeated dumbly.  How could she make sense of what he barely comprehended?

"Yes."  There was a pause, and a hitch in Rey's breathing.  "Well, you want something more casual.  I get it.  We had a lot of fun together.  But if you don't mind, I'd like to think it over.  Maybe you should too, when you aren't drunk."

No, that's not what he meant.  Tell her now.  Open your mouth.  "Oh," he said.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

There was a pause that stretched on and on.

Then.

"Goodnight, Ben."

His name spoken like a caress lingered in his mind long into sleep.

Also posted on AO3