#Roughly a thousand years squeezed under one heading

[the-busy-ghost]

Actually our dating conventions are entirely arbitrary and almost anybody’s concept of when the Middle Ages began or ended is justifiable and valid, in fact to some extent even the concept of the ‘Middle Ages’ is entirely arbitrary.

That being said it is hilarious to me that the English pick 1485 as the end of the Middle Ages, that’s so specific. Creates the wonderful idea that the minute Henry Tudor stepped onto a field in Leicestershire all the locals started updating their wardrobe like “Well guess we’re in the Early Modern Period now, better get rid of all this old stuff”

[yeehawbvby]

In Too Deep (Arven x GN!Reader) | Ch. 3*

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: “I nudge my way through his forest of hair and latch onto his throat – wanna give him the same pseudo-bolt strike he hit me with earlier. Gooserene bumps sprout along his skin at the first lick.

Desiring more than that from him, I trail my dominant hand down his broad neck; his strong, stocky chest; and his cute, slightly chubby belly. Finally, I gently cup him through his sweatpants.”

Author’s Note: My headcanon age for Arven is that he’s a young adult, somewhere between 20-24 years old. If this proves to be wrong in the future, please consider him to be aged up to this range!

Likewise, for the sake of the continuity (i.e. Little Buddy and whatnot), you have a similarly tiny stature to the main character in Pokémon SV. For the sake of all of us, your character here is not a teenager lol, but instead roughly the same age as Arven, give or take a few years.

Thank you for understanding!! ^^ Enjoy the final chapter, please let me know what you think, and take care! x

Check it out on ao3!

Prev

“As if I’d ever want to stop.” 

While Arven speaks, he shimmies my pants down just below my butt, and squishes it in both hands. Then, in one swift motion, he lifts me slightly up and lays me down in the grass, slipping my shorts off me entirely. 

As he gets a good view at my lower half for the first time, he looks amazed. Arven wastes no time putting his dominant hand to work, simultaneously nipping and kneading at my thighs. 

“Ahh–Arven!”

I’m fucking mesmerized by how he appears to know exactly where to press to make me quake. Enamored by how well he’s catching onto my responses already. And I sure as hell don’t miss the way his eyes darken, while he drinks in the sight of me writhing and moaning beneath his touch. 

“Look at you,” he mumbles. “Am I really doing that alright?” 

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, nodding at him. “You’re perfect.”

Now that he’s made sure I’m thoroughly enjoying what he’s done so far, Arven kisses his way across my thigh before putting his mouth on me. His tongue is magical. I instinctively buck into Arven’s lips, and deciding that he wants more control, he splays a hand across my stomach to hold me down. Even without my guidance, he sucks and licks in all the right ways. 

Just as he did with his hands, Arven’s paying attention to every twitch of my hips; reading every expression on my face, as if it’s an instruction manual; squeezing on the soft skin of my side and tummy any time my eyes stray from him, to silently remind me that I’m all his. 

He sends me over the edge way sooner than I’d expected. That piercing, hungry gaze bores into mine as I cum, running my fingers through his fringe and moaning his name like a prayer. 

As I finish, I trail my gaze up to the cloudy night sky. Post-nut clarity reminds me that we’re thousands of feet below mainland Paldea. Who woulda thunk that this is where I’d pull my crush and take his virginity?

I easily shake the thought from my head and watch with hearts in my Arceus-forsaken eyes as Arven eats me clean. Overstimulating me so well. I shudder and groan some more, cursing under my breath.

“Please,” I whisper. Wanting him to fill me so badly but not being able to verbalize it through the sensations. Arven hums inquisitively against me, sending vibrations through my body. “Need you.” 

Smirking, he brings his body up over mine. His forearms rest on either side of my head and his hips between my legs while he kisses my lips, then my forehead, and then whispers how good I’m being for him. Arven grinds against me, pulling another whine from my throat while I melt at his praise. 

Continuing to rut his clothed, hardened nether against mine, he teases, “I wonder what everyone would think if they saw their rough and tough new Champ being such an angel for me.” 

My hands move up from their spot against Arven’s chest, and I wrap my arms around his neck. 

“Don’t care what they’d think.”

I nudge my way through his forest of hair and latch onto his throat – wanna give him the same pseudo-bolt strike he hit me with earlier. Gooserene bumps sprout along his skin at the first lick… off to a good start! Desiring more than that from him, I trail my dominant hand down his broad neck; his strong, stocky chest; and his cute, slightly chubby belly. Finally, I gently cup him through his sweatpants. 

…Holy shit, he’s so thick.

Arven sighs my name, preceded by a quiet “Fuck,” as I trail my fingers up and down the outline of his shaft. 

When I notice a wet spot of precum seeping through the fabric, I halt tending to his neck, unable to stop my lips from curling up. I take the silent encouragement as a sign that it’s okay to push his pants down. Arven obliges by elevating his hips slightly, and as his cock springs free, it bounces once against my leg with a satisfying tap. 

I don’t waste time getting back to it, eager to feel what he’s like without anything in the way. I trace each vein, toy with the head, and tease light pumps along his length. Memorizing his shape while he breathes pleasured sighs and hums against my shoulder. Arceus, he sounds so sexy. This angle is tedious — I have to reach between our laid bodies, and don’t have much room to work — but I guess I’m doing fine. 

“Hold on.” 

Oh. Or not. 

I promptly stop, hoping I didn’t do anything to sour his experience. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m…” he laughs, and it sounds a little shaky. “I don’t wanna cum before I can fuck you,” Arven mutters, lifting his head to get a better view of my face. “But this feels so amazing, and–” Feeling evil, I give him a little squeeze. “Shit, stop that!” I stick out my tongue while he laughs, bushy brows downturned.

“Sorry…”

“No you’re not.”

“No I’m not,” I confirm with a goofy grin. 

I fidget with Arven’s tee shirt so that I’m not tempted to mess with him some more. He continues to look down at me, making me feel a little self-conscious after a few seconds pass. I tear my eyes from his with a slight tilt to the side.

“W-what?”

Shifting his weight further onto his left arm, he brings his right palm to my face, lifting it softly to look back up at him. “That smile is…” Arven leans down, and finishes his sentence while barely brushing against my lips. “So goddamn beautiful.” 

Oh.

He closes the gap and places a soft few kisses on my lips. My heart flutters in my heaving chest while I smile through the contact, feeling unbelievably giddy…

And then my eyes shoot back open while I squeak out a surprised (and loud) moan. Just when I thought we were having a sappy moment, Arven slipped into me. That sneaky bitch.

“Gotcha,” he grunts through a cocky smirk that’s only betrayed by his upturned brow. 

I wanna rebuttal, but my “Fuck you!” morphs into an “Oh god,” halfway through, rendering it a lost cause. Arven eases his way further in and we groan in unison. 

“S-so tight, fuck.”

Our breaths struggle in tandem as he bottoms out, my eyes not leaving the sight of him inside me. Something I’ve felt like a creep daydreaming about all this time is finally coming to fruition. I look up and notice Arven watching too… maybe he was thinking the same things all along. 

We take a few moments to gather our bearings, his forehead resting upon mine. I hold my hand against his bangs to keep them from falling directly into my eyes, and I wordlessly let him know that I’m ready for him to move whenever he is by offering a small nod. Arven’s eyes scan my face. As he eases his way out, I bite my lip with anticipation while studying his expression. Thrusting back in, only slightly less slowly than the first time, I lose sight of him. My eyes roll shut, and the grip that isn’t in Arven’s hair is breaking apart the poor grass below us. He pauses again, and I open my eyes to see his shut as well.

“You okay?” I whisper, softly rubbing my thumb against his temple. 

Arven opens his eyes as he nods, then laughs quietly. “Didn’t think my first time would be like this.”

“Like… in a good way?” Answering me through actions, Arven inches out more assuredly before snapping his hips against me. “Shit!” 

“No,” he rolls his eyes to emphasize his sarcasm, picking up his pace. “This is terribleooh fuck.”

Arven plasters his lips onto mine as he finishes moaning my name, swallowing my desperate whimpers. He feels so fucking good. 

Lewd slaps and soft spoken profanities fill the night air. They’re the only things that can be heard – the crashing waterfalls further down the Great Crater and the occasional chirp of wild Pokémon nearby pale in comparison.

Growing sweaty from all the activity, Arven slips out for a moment to lean up and take off his shirt. I’ve always assumed I’d see his half-naked form at some point, but at, like, the beach or something. Never thought I’d be blessed with it occuring in this context. I don’t shy away from leaning on my elbows and drinking in his body, obsessed with how… normal he looks, in the sexiest sense of the word. 

There are patches of short body hair freckling his torso – shaved recently enough that it’s barely there, but long enough ago that it’s beginning to grow back. He has a soft yet sturdy physique, courtesy of all the time he spends eating his delicious creations and exercising via outdoor expeditions. And his bare skin is kissed with pretty little birthmarks, in places never seen by eyes other than his own before now. 

He’s so, so stunning.

I come up to a kneel and steal Arven’s mouth again. Feeling his unclothed chest, tummy, and sides; tasting every bud of his tongue that he allows me; craving every single inch of him. I only retract to slink my own shirt off.

Arven pulls away and mutters some Paldean that I don’t understand under his breath, as his hands roam my body. A soft breeze blows by us as he trails up my sides, thumbing at my nipples and scratching my back with the other eight fingernails. Can’t tell if my prickling skin is because of the wind, or his touch. For the upteenth time tonight, our lips meet, but this time he’s simultaneously laying down and pulling me on top of him. 

Feeling way too eager, I sink myself onto Arven’s cock as soon as we’re comfortable. We both shiver with each bounce I make, and he squeezes my hips tightly while I utilize his chest as leverage. I lean my upper half forward, moving one of my hands to the ground beside him. I then trail my free fingers across his jawline, hovering my lips just above his while I tug his chin up towards me, without closing the gap.

He mewls my name into my mouth, followed by the most earnest “Holy shit~” I’ve ever heard from him. I fill his own jaw with unintelligible swearing and moaning, drunk off his hands, his husky voice, and how full I am.

“You’re s-so fucking thick,” I murmur through hooded eyelids, swallowing through a deep breath before I continue. “Feels s’good.” 

As if my words were the pep talk he needed, Arven takes back the lead. He lifts my hips a little higher than I’ve been bringing them, allowing himself to buck up into me as he cups my face against his. His pumps are borderlining erratic, and the wanton noise that comes from my throat has me worrying that Nemona, and Penny, and the fucking Professor – wherever they are – will all hear this.

Struggling to speak through his own moans, Arven drowns me in praise. “Listen to you, making such cute sounds for me.” I nearly die. “Y’feel so perfect around me…” Oh Arceus. “You like it when I fuck you this hard, little buddy?” 

…

I snort through the pleasure, and then we both fall into a fit of giggles as we realize how weird it sounds for him to call me that in this context. Our foreheads crash into each other as we both keel over a bit, him forming into a crunch while my body folds inward. All the while, Arven doesn’t stop ramming into me, which just makes things funnier. 

I vigorously nod as I lift my head, brushing it off. Don’t care if it’s strange that he called me “little buddy” while [redacted] inches deep inside me, because frankly, it would be weirder for him to stop calling me that. My cheeks hurt from laughing, while fucked-out tears filter my vision. 

“I love it, Arven,” I lilt, both our smiles refusing to falter. “Please don’t fucking stop!”

I gently place my forehead on his, my hands clutching his shoulders for dear life while I gaze into his murky aquamarine orbs. Arven squeezes his hand between us to tend to my front. Working with newly familiar territory while repeating his earlier commendations of how good I am, how much of an angel I am, how tight I am. He seeks reassurance too, and works me harder and faster as I tell him how incredible he is. 

“M’gonna… oh god, Arven, holy fuck!”

Arven wrings another orgasm out of me, patiently fucking me through it while putting off his own. As I’m coming down from my high, my sweaty chest pressed against his, I nuzzle myself into the crook of his neck. I sleepily mutter sweet nothings through more overstimulation. In between soft kisses, I add, “Want you to cum too… please.”

My name is mewled by a raw voice, followed by “Fuuuh— where? Quickly.”

“Anywhere,” I pause to unleash a moan I couldn’t keep pent up. “Please cum for me, just use me~”

Another throaty moan comes from him, and he slams into me a few more times, no longer holding back. It’s utterly animalistic. Not that I’d complain.

He pulls me off, and I scoot down to kiss his hips while jerking him through his completion. I take note of how Arven twitches and humps slightly into my grasp. Watch him scan my body and movements without shame. His elbows are propping him up, and the sexiest expression I’ve ever seen is adorning his face. Once he’s done, I begin to lick him clean of the thick ropes painting his stomach, prompting a surprised gasp.

“What?” I mumble, suddenly feeling embarrassed at how impulsively I did that. Good god. “S’not like we have a rag or anything down here…” I trial off with a poor attempt to cover my actions.

He laughs, shaking his head. “No, you’re… oh Arceus that was so hot, c’mere.”

Arven sits up and motions for me to get closer to him. I oblige, wrapping my arms around his neck while his consume my waist.

“That was amazing,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “Love you.” 

This isn’t the first time he’s said it, nor will it be the first time I’ve said it back, but it’s only ever been — or at least seemed to be — platonic. This exchange takes on a whole new meaning now.

“Love you too, bud… Love you so much.”

[filthyfluffyfantasies]

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . DL;DR - this fic is not meant for anyone under the age of 18 as it contains the following: unprotected p in v, teasing, oral sex, use of petnames for reader/you, breeding k!nk related dirty talk, semi public foreplay, marking, oral sex. writer does not give permission for her works to be reposted, with or without permission. ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

prompt thirteen - creampie / breeding kink

character | fandom - rockstar!eddie munson | stranger things

reader | original character - female reader, groupie turned girlfriend & non -or vague, description.

words - roughly 4.4k

tagging -< taglist here >

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . you and Eddie have reconnected after the one night stand that brought you together years before. bonding with his daughter has made him realize just how much he wants to be a father and he can't think of anybody else he wants to have his kids.. ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1996

You smile softly to yourself as you pause in the door to Rosie’s bedroom to find Eddie seated on the floor, Rosie seated between his legs as Eddie tries -and fails, at French-braiding her hair, the landline phone cradled between his neck and shoulder.

❝ I’m doing that, Emerson. It’s not workin. Hold on..❞ he turns his attention back to Rosie’s braid and swears to himself as he shakes his head. It’s crooked again and he was trying so hard to get it just right for her. He laughs as he starts to talk to Gareth again, ❝I was trying to braid Rosie’s hair for her. Can’t get it right. Poor kid has my hair, man. It’s too fuckin thick t’ do anything with.❞ Eddie’s statement is enough to make you giggle softly as you step into the room. 

Eddie’s face lights up and he ends the call with Gareth, pulling himself off the floor to make his way over to you. Rosie is squeezing your legs, talking non-stop about how she spent the whole day with daddy and he taught her how to play some game called Dungeons and Dragons.

Eddie chuckles, scooping up the 5 year old as he gives her a peck on her freckled nose. ❝ Your ma was a nerd, sweetheart, she doesn’t know what that is.❞ -and he’s teasing, you know it. You pout a little and give his chest a light smack. Then you smirk. ❝ Since you think I’m so nerdy, Munson..❞ you dig around in the pocket of your leather jacket -his leather jacket, and find the tickets you stopped by the theater in town to pick up, ❝ Then I guess that means you don’t wanna go see Scream with me and the baby bat..❞

❝ Daaaaddy, you hafta say yes. I’ve been waitin a thousand years t’ see it. Please?❞ your daughter is looking up at Eddie, giving him those big begging eyes. Eddie pretends to think it over, both of you know damn well he’d never turn down a horror movie or your daughter’s begging.

❝ Are we sure she should see this, sweetheart?❞ Eddie’s just being a shit now, you laugh softly and Eddie rubs his chin as he continues, ❝ I mean.. This is Wes Craven. It’s gonna be a blood bath.❞

You laugh. ❝ Yeah but it’s also not real. Our daughter’s smart, she knows that.❞ you step up into Eddie a little more, your hand finding purchase in the front of his old Hellfire t-shirt. He’s distracted, staring down at your hand. You clear your throat, ❝ I bumped into Nancy earlier… Apparently, Will is taking both of Rosie’s best friends to see it.. With Mike.❞

Rosie’s really begging now.

Eddie pouts and pretends to be upset. ❝ I thought we talked about this, sweetheart. You were gonna marry daddy, remember? Now you wanna go see a movie with those dumb boys?❞ but Rosie is insisting. She pretends to gag when Eddie mentions the fact that she may or may not have just a little crush on little Johnny Byers or Argie, his best friend.

❝ Eww, daddy! I really meant it, they’re my friends. And if I don’t see it now, Argie’s a blab. He’s just gonna spoil th’ endin.. Pretty please? With cherries an’ chocolate?❞

Eddie snickers. ❝ Yeah, that tracks for him. Okay, alright.. What are we waiting on, huh? Let’s go see Scream.❞

As Rosie runs off to find her favorite jeans and change, you melt against Eddie and wrap your arms around his neck, your lips crashing against his in a long and deep kiss. His hands wander,settling on your ass.

❝ Dungeons and Dragons, babe?❞ you pout at him just a little when the kiss breaks a few seconds later. You’re honestly not upset, you’re just teasing him a little. Watching them together always makes you happy but lately.. Lately, watching him with Rosie has your biological clock ticking all over again. And earlier, when you were talking to one of the girls at work, she mentioned the fact that she thought she might be pregnant. And naturally, that got you daydreaming about another little mini Eddie running around. It made you stop and think too.

Everyone is always asking when you and Eddie will have more -and you do want another kid but honestly, you’ve been afraid to bring up the subject because things are still so new. The two of you only just reconnected. And there were definitely more than a few hiccups, - considering that you had no way to tell him about Rosie until last year, when your paths crossed again for the first time since 1988- and you’re just trying to enjoy everything the way it is.

Besides, you think to yourself as you hug against Eddie and breathe in the scent of his cologne and the faintest hint of those cheap cigarettes he still smokes, what if Eddie doesn’t want another? Am I really willing to mess up everything between the two of you? I’m in love with him and I just found him, I just got him back..

Eddie pulls away to look down at you and snickers at the dazed look on your face as he gets you looking up at him. ❝ What’s got you so spaced out, huh?❞ 

He doesn’t say it but.. He hopes that maybe it’s the same thing he’s spent a lot of time thinking about lately. At first, he thought it was regret, longing to see what he missed out on when you were carrying Rosie. But then, while you were snuggled up in the bed reading The Shining to her, as he stood in the doorway watching the two of you, it hit him like a ton of bricks.

He wants more kids. He wants you to be their mom. He wants a big family and he doesn’t want Rosie to be an only child like he grew up. He wants her to have the actual younger siblings that he formed Hellfire specifically to find for himself back in high school.

The problem is, he’s afraid that bringing it up now, that’s going to be too soon. And he’s driving himself crazy over it because the harder he tries not to bring it up, the more he almost does.

He almost blurted it out this morning over breakfast. Twice.

You’re the one laughing now, cupping his stubble lined jaw to get him looking down at you. You’re biting your lip as you stare up at him. Every cell in your body is dying to say something, to bring up the subject and see how he takes it but you’re also a little scared. 

❝ N-nothing.. I wasn’t the only one spaced out, Munson.❞ you mumble, swallowing hard as you melt into him just a little more. ❝ Where were you at just now, hm?❞ you’re turning the whole thing around on him because you know if you don’t, you will blurt it out.

He chuckles, a ringed hand caressing your face before kissing your forehead. ❝ You’re spacing me out, woman.. If we’re gonna go see this movie..❞ he drops his voice to a husky whisper, ❝ you might want t’ go get ready.. Before I change my mind and take you to bed..❞

You whimper quietly as he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off of him and make your way down into the bedroom you’re both sharing to change.

Eddie takes several shaky breaths and leans against the wall. ❝ Emerson doesn’t know what he’s talkin about. It’s not like I can just blurt out the fact that I wanna knock her up, that I think she’s even more sexy when she’s pregnant and I wanna have more kids, there’s a time and place t’ say that shit..❞

Laughter from the doorway of Rosie’s bedroom has Eddie wanting to disappear into the floor. Rosie’s looking up at him, big doe eyes shining in mischief. She pushes the door closed behind her quietly.

Eddie tries to act as if she probably didn’t just hear every single word he said. ❝ You uh.. We all ready now, baby bat?❞

Rosie nods. After a little digging, she finds the pair of Vans she’s currently always wearing, red and black. She holds them out to Eddie. Eddie goes down on one knee, slipping the shoes onto her feet, pretending that they’re a glass slipper, making a fuss when the shoe fits her foot perfectly. She throws her arms around his neck and he breathes in the sweet and clean smell of his little girl. Every time he thinks he can’t possibly love her more, he’s proven wrong.

Even when she’s being every bit as hard-headed as he is.

The hug breaks and Rosie giggles. ❝ I wished for a little brother on my birthday candle… Remember when you were askin me what I wished for?❞ Rosie goes quiet. She’s fiddling with the sleeve edges on her favorite black longsleeve. It’s a Corroded Coffin shirt from the last music festival Eddie tagged you and Rosie along to before Corroded Coffin finally declared they were done, they were retiring to go out on a high note.

Eddie lightly grips his little girl’s jaw. ❝ You did, huh?❞ he asks. Rosie nods quietly. Drops her gaze and shuffles her feet against the bedroom floor. ❝ It’s just.. I’m glad you’re my daddy and I love mama but.. I don’t have anybody t’ play with when Argie and Johnny are being stupid.❞

Eddie nods. Fluffing at his daughter’s hair as he chuckles. ❝ Well, it was a birthday wish. Those do have a lotta power, baby bat.❞ 

Rosie smiles and throws her arms around him again, you step into the room just in time to watch the little moment. To have overheard the little conversation between father and daughter. Eddie’s reaction was so vague that you’re not sure whether it’s a good idea to tell him Rosie isn’t the only one who wants Rosie to have a baby brother or sister.. You study the two for a few seconds and laugh. ❝ Okay, you two conspiring against me already?❞ you joke and Eddie smirks. ❝ Maybe we were, babe.❞

❝ I’m gonna go play with my Legos in th’ living  room. Can I watch MTV?❞ Rosie asks. Both of you nod and Rosie goes into the living room to play. This leaves you both alone together in some thick tension.

At first, neither of you seems willing to shatter it. But Eddie can’t take it a second longer and this results in him, exploding in a passionate rant as he paces the bedroom until you think he’ll pace a hole right through the floor.

You choke on air when you hear him say that while he thinks you’re sexy, he thinks you’d be even sexier if he knocked you up but then he throws up his hands and swears in frustration because he didn’t mean for that to be the first thing he blurted out in regards to having another kid, wanting a small army of kids with you. You’re stunned. Jaw dropped, eyes wide as you watch him have his little rant and stay quiet because you’re still frantically trying to process.

❝ And I just… I never thought me, I.. Eddie Munson, would be sayin this shit. T’ anybody. Ever. But damn it,❞ Eddie trails off, going quiet as he takes a few deep breaths, ❝ I can’t even look at you lately without imagining you pregnant. All our kids rushing around the house, chaos every morning.. I want this and if you don’t..❞ but you cut off his words by climbing into his lap as you cup his face with both hands and kiss him until you feel his mind starting to quiet down, his hands roaming all over your body. When he squeezes your ass and rocks you right over the way he’s strained almost painfully against the faded jeans he’s wearing, you whine against the shell of his ear, ❝ You’re not playing very fair right now, Eddie..❞ and he just chuckles. You lean into his ear, melting against him as you mutter softly, ❝ I want all of that too.. You were saying you want to fuck a baby into me later, I didn’t hear you wrong.. Right?❞

He growls quietly. Groaning as you bare down against the way his cock is hard enough to push against the zipper of his jeans. He nips at your neck roughly and his hands settle on your ass, squeezing. He’s guiding you back and forth over his lap and you whine, nipping at  the way the tip of his spider tattoo just barely peeks out over the neckline of his t-shirt. ❝ That feel like a misunderstandin’, sweetheart?❞ he asks quietly as he stares up at you. You bite your lip and whine, the friction you were getting has slowed down drastically and you want it back. You’re desperate to get it back.

❝ How soon?❞ he asks a few seconds later. Your hand fists the front of his shirt and you pull him against you, your mouth just barely grazing against his as you laugh softly. ❝ Tonight. I.. I wanna start trying tonight.❞

❝Fuck.❞ he groans out as you rock yourself against the way he’s strained at his jeans all over again. His breath catches in his throat and he grabs your ass roughly just to slow you down because if he doesn’t, he’s going to make a mess of himself right here, right now. He leans into you and nips at your neck after he’s nosed some hair out of his way. ❝ It’s a date, sweetheart. Think you’ll be able t’ keep your hands off me ‘til then?❞ and the gleam in his eye tells you that this is a challenge.

That you’re in for it, Eddie is going to do everything in his power to make you cave…

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ ───

It’s just getting to the part where Billy’s about to reveal the truth to Sidney when you feel the cool metal of Eddie’s rings against the inside of your thigh. You can feel your entire body as it heats up. You shoot him a little pout and some side-eye, but he smirks. Slips his hand off your thigh to grab himself some popcorn after he mumbles ❝The bucket is in your lap, woman.. You expect me to control myself?❞ and pouts right back.

Rosie is sitting in the row right in front of you both with her friends, their eyes glued to the screen, a hand paused midway to her mouth to take a bite of popcorn she hasn’t taken in over three minutes. 

Eddie’s hand creeps higher, a finger dragging ever-so-slowly right up your center. He chuckles when you squirm and shift around just a little in your seat. As his finger drags over you again, your legs clamp together, holding his hand between your thighs. 

Your ears feel like they’re on fire. Eddie bites his lip when the two of you lock eyes, two long fingers pushing the soaked fabric to the side as they make contact with your bare cunt. You shiver before you can stop yourself. Shoot Eddie a dirty look and nod to an usher that’s just wandered in, flashlight in hand.

Eddie leans into you, breath warm against the shell of your ear as he whispers quietly, ❝Fuck.❞ breathing heavily as he raises the fingers he just had buried in your dripping cunt to his lips, licking them clean as he holds your gaze. You bite back a whine and he leans back into you, whispering quietly, ❝I can’t fuckin wait to fill up your pretty little pussy when we get back home, babe..❞ as he grabs your wrist and guides your hand to his lap, letting you palm at the way he’s strained through his jeans. You bite back another whine, helpless.

❝Eddie.❞ you whine, helpless. Soaked through in seconds. He chuckles. Your hand ghosts over the bulge strained against black jeans and he bites his bottom lip. Both of you glance at the seat in front of you to make sure Rosie is okay. She’s arguing with Argie in a hushed tone about who the killer is, throwing her hand in his face when he insists a second time that it has to be Randy. She thinks it’s Billy, Sidney Prescott’s boyfriend.

After you’ve made sure Rosie isn’t too scared, Eddie turns his attention back to teasing you. Bucking himself up into you as you continue to clumsily palm at the bulge in his jeans. His head falls back against the seat and he bites back the urge to groan as you drag a finger over the zipper of his jeans slowly. He leans into you to whisper ❝Fuck, sweetheart.. All this teasin me is only gonna get you in real trouble.❞ against the shell of your ear. You lean into him to mumble back quietly, ❝Oh? Maybe I like the  sound of that, Eddie. Maybe that’s what I want.❞

The movie is coming to an end. Rosie’s triumphant outburst from the seat in front of you when the killers reveal themselves -and Johnny Byers arguing with Argie about her being right all along, is accompanied by snickering from Will, Mike and Jane. As the lights begin to come on, you pout a little to yourself but you pull your hand away from Eddie’s lap. You don’t even mind that you both missed huge parts of the movie, your heart is racing  as the two of you file out of your row and wait by the door leading out of the theater room for Rosie and her friends to come out so the two of you can take Rosie home.

❝Can’t wait to get you home, sweetheart.❞ Eddie laughs quietly as he scoops up Rosie when she starts to yawn and then slips his other arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side closer. You look up at him and bite your lip suggestively, squeaking just a little when Eddie’s hand wanders down, giving your ass a little squeeze.

As Rosie drifts off to sleep in the backseat of your car, Eddie takes a hand off the steering wheel and skims it right up the inside of your thighs, growling before he can stop himself when he feels just how much slicker your thighs have gotten. You slip your hand into his lap and he bucks against it as you palm at the way he’s hard enough to break through his jeans and only getting harder. You’re five minutes away from home but it might as well be five thousand years and it feels like the drive is only getting longer.

Eddie’s fingers brush past the soaked barrier of your panties and bury inside of you and you give the inside of his thigh a squeeze as you just barely gasp. ❝Almost time, sweetheart..❞ he chuckles quietly as he turns down the street you live on..

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ ───

You’ve both just finished tucking Rosie into bed. Eddie turns on Rosie’s Scooby Doo nightlight and tucks her favorite stuffed animal into bed with her. As the two of you step out into the hallway, your back meets the closed door with a soft thud as Eddie’s restraint vanishes in a split second. His hands are all over you, finally settling on your ass as he lifts you up. You wrap your legs around him and he rocks himself into you, making you whine.

❝Ready for bed, sweetheart?❞ he asks the question in a breathy whisper as he nips his way down your neck. You whimper and rub yourself against him, needy. His mouth finds yours as he carries you down the hallway, navigating forgotten toys, a box or two from his old apartment in California and other obstacles that crowd the hallway with ease. He kicks the bedroom door open carefully and steps inside with you. Clothing that litters the top of the dresser is swept off and he sits you down in the space he’s just made, eyes gleaming as the kiss breaks, a strand of saliva between your mouths keeping you connected. You’re rocking against him and moaning out his name, shaky hands tugging the old Hellfire t-shirt up over his head as he strips off your crop top and slips his finger beneath the back of your bra, unhooking the clasps with ease and speed. 

The clothing settles in a pile on the floor and he leans into you, pushing you up against the wall behind the dresser, his mouth moving down your body. He pauses at your belly button to stare up at you, tugging down your panties. You reach out and work the jeans and boxers he’s wearing down and he steps out of them, kicking them to the side. That cute little denim mini skirt you’ve been wearing is pushed up to your hips as Eddie gets caught up in the moment and decides that he can’t wait another second, he has to taste you now. He sinks down in front of you, your legs settling over his shoulder as his mouth moves up the soft dough of your thighs, licking clean the mess he’s made. Your hands tug at his hair and grip the edge of the dresser as he pushes your legs apart a little better and buries his tongue and three fingers inside your drippy cunt. Groaning as the taste of you fills his mouth. ❝C’mon, princess.. Pull harder.❞ he moans out against your sex, fingers pumping into you as his tongue swirls. You rock yourself towards his mouth and he chuckles. ❝Thatta girl.. Gettin’ nice and wet for me..❞

You can feel your orgasm building, prepared to wreck you and you tug his hair a little harder. Eddie pauses and you pout. He stares up at the way you’re about to come completely apart for him and bites his lip, ❝You’re gonna be so fuckin cute all knocked up, princess.❞ he mutters quietly and you whine, begging for him. ❝Eddie,❞ you plead, ❝I-I.. I need you now.❞

❝Not until you give me what y’ know I want, princess.❞ Eddie’s permission to get off needs no further explanation and your orgasm rips through you, soaking his tongue and fingers as he growls quietly, the taste of you filling his mouth. He raises up again, his mouth conquering your mouth as he ruts into you while scooping you off the dresser to toss you gently onto the bed. He follows suit, your bodies tangled.

Touching. Biting. Kissing. He’s marked you up, hickies and bite marks litter your skin from neck to cunt, there are even a few sore bruises lining up the inside of your thighs. 

He lines his cock up with your throbbing cunt, dragging the head down your center. When you shiver because it feels so good, he chuckles against your ear. ❝I’m gonna fuck a baby into you, sweetheart. You gonna be a good girl and take it f’ me?❞ his voice is sex, gravel and velvet all in one as he asks the question. It’s so different than the sweet things he usually says that you’re whimpering, begging him to do it, to take you already. 

He thrusts into you slow. It’s an agonizing pace and you can feel every single inch, every vein that runs through his thick cock as he pushes into you. His hips beat against yours hard enough to bruise and he’s got you caged in beneath his body, his mouth all over you. You meet every one of his thrusts eagerly and when he comes to a stop, you whine about it.

❝You feel so fuckin good, sweetheart. Your pussy clenches around me so fuckin tight.❞ Eddie growls out, ❝Can’t wait t’ fill you up.❞ as he fucks into you slower. At one point, he has to reach out an arm and push the headboard against the wall so it’ll stop banging at it. But the way you squeeze him feels so good and you’re so wet that a minute or two later, he’s fucking at you faster and he’s used his grip on your hip for leverage, angling your hips upward just a little, bottoming out. You’re seeing stars as another orgasm builds, stopped at the brink every single time Eddie feels you tense and dig your nails in his back. 

❝Fuck, princess. –ah shit, I can’t..❞ he groans out against your neck, ❝I’m gonna cum, shit. You feel too good, sweetheart.❞ and you whine, begging for it. It’s so hot that Eddie’s thrusts speed up, fucking into you faster and deeper, hips stammering as his orgasm shatters through and biting at your neck as this prompts you to pull him even deeper inside by wrapping your legs around his waist. His forehead finds your own as his thrusts slow down and he presses soft little kisses against your mouth and cheeks. ❝I love you.❞ is said in unison, the two of you laughing softly in the dark about it because if there’s one thing you’re both good at it’s doing everything perfectly right BUT.. completely backwards.

Eddie’s still fucking into you, slow and steady. ❝Don’t wanna stop, princess. Your pussy feels sooo fucking good wrapped around my cock.❞

When he’s finally finished fucking the seed that leaked out back into you, he rolls the two of you so that you’re on top. You’re both yawning now, sleepy kisses are landing against each other’s skin as he removes one of his hands from your ass to cup your cheek, dragging his thumb across. ❝Wanna go t’ sleep just like this.❞

❝Me too, baby. I love the way you feel inside me.❞ you drawl, sleep making you stumble over words, making your voice all dreamy as the two of you drift off…

[secondtechnicianrimmer]

Space Corp. Directive #1215225

For some ungodly reason, you fancy the second technician, but you'd be damned if you ever admitted it.

Pairing: Arnold Rimmer × (F) Reader

Warnings: Smut, baby! About 6k words of it too, so don’t say I don’t do anything for you

Chapter Fifteen: Legion

//

It was night. Or at least, you thought it was. It was impossible to tell. Legion had grown tired and sent you off to bed, so you’d all done as he said. Considering his great intellect, he’d probably adjusted the time on his ship to match Starbug’s.

Before you parted ways, you had caught Lister’s eye and silently tried to ask him if he had any sort of a plan. He had never been your leader but he was often the ideas man. But Lister had looked clueless, probably feeling just as overwhelmed and unsure as you.

This man, this creature, whatever he was, had been so cordial in his threats. He’d given and taken away so candidly, you were all still trying to wrap your head around the situation. Legion had known you all by name, he had fixed Lister’s infected appendix, he’d reached into Rimmer’s chest and… You couldn’t believe it.

It felt like you’d been pacing behind your closed door for hours now. When you finally worked up the courage to wrap your hand around the door handle, you still couldn’t bring yourself to open it

“Come on… Come on…”

You weren’t sure if you were allowed to leave. Legion hadn't said as much, but his meaning had been clear despite his soft tones and impassive mask. You weren’t getting out of here anytime soon.

One by one, he’d shown you all to your rooms. First Kryten, then Cat, Rimmer, and then you. Lister he had led around the corner, but you assumed he was as close by as the others.

The feeling that rushed through you as you parted ways with Rimmer couldn’t be described if you had a thousand years and all the universe’s poetry at your fingertips. His gaze followed you as Legion led you away, and you couldn’t tear your eyes from him. A silent agreement seemed to pass between you: a promise, a time and a place.

Everything had changed in an instant.

Already bewildered and struck dumb with fear, you had stopped breathing altogether when Legion reached into Rimmer’s chest and plucked his lightbee out of the air. He flickered and faded as his projection failed.

“Stop!” Feeling sick, you staggered forward and tried to grab his lightbee back. “Don’t hurt him, please. Just- Please give him back.”

But Legion had raised a calming hand to you.

“Do not worry.”

The idea was laughable but you did as you were told.

Legion turned the lightbee over in his hand, inspecting the little machine closely. Then to your horror, he opened the casing and began to pull out its wiring

Tears stinging your eyes, you would’ve launched yourself at Legion if Lister hadn’t held you back.

“You stupid bastard, I’ll- Stop, you’re hurting him!”

“Lefty…”

Lister squeezed your arms, trying to be reassuring, but he was watching Legion too, his eyes wide and fearful.

Legion roughly tugged out more wires, dropping them to the floor as if they were nothing. Then he replaced them with a thimble-sized unit, which rattled inside the hollow casing. Legion threw the lightbee back towards where Rimmer had been standing, then with a flash of light, he shimmered to life again.

Rimmer looked shocked but seemed unharmed. As he caught his breath, Legion explained the gift he’d given him, given you.

All through dinner, you had watched each other, hardly daring to believe what had happened. Despite everything, you hadn’t touched once, not when Legion explained that he’d upgraded Rimmer’s technology, not when you were sat opposite each other at dinner, your knees close under the table, not even when you said goodnight.

Slowly, steadily, you drew in a long breath through your nose, filling your lungs until you felt your racing heart begin to settle.

Six years. Six long years. And he was just down the hall. Worries and doubts shook off their wings, preparing to take flight, but never managed to get off the ground. It was too late, you were too in love. And he was just down the hall.

“Fuck.” You laughed, shaking your head in amazement. “He’s just down the hall.”

Still reeling, still unsure that this wasn’t all just some elaborate dream, you wrenched open the door before you could change your mind.

You found the right door and knocked quickly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. You were so full of adrenaline, it was starting to leave a coppery taste under your tongue.

Movement behind the door suddenly made you falter. You realised you had no idea what you were going to say. Your heart had jumped right up into your throat; you weren’t even sure you could talk.

The door opened. Rimmer stared at you, and you stared right back.

“Hi, I-”

You didn’t make it through another syllable.

Rimmer grabbed your hand, pulling you into the room and slamming the door shut behind you in one smooth movement. The next thing you knew, Rimmer had pressed you up against it, crowding your body with his.

“Hi,” he said, and then he was kissing you.

You didn’t have time to think, but maybe that was for the best. You could barely remember your own name anyway. All you knew was that Rimmer’s body felt warm and firm against yours, and that he was the clumsiest, daftest kisser you’d ever known, and you were so happy, you could’ve cried.

You kissed him, hard and desperate, your heart rising up and up and up when Rimmer groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding round to press against the small of your back, pulling you as close as possible.

You couldn’t believe this was real, that he was real. You couldn’t believe you finally, finally, got to touch him and feel him and smell him and taste him after all this time, after years of waiting.

Rimmer kissed you like a man starved, and in a way, he was. Three million years without any senses at all, you thought it might drive him mad to finally be able to feel and taste again, and it seemed you were right.

Your hands found their way into his lovely curly hair and he made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whine. It was the most wonderful sound you’d ever heard, and when you pulled, hard, Rimmer let out a moan that reverberated right through you.

“So soft,” you murmured against his lips, twisting his hair around your fingers. “Didn’t think it would be this soft.”

“You feel…” He shook his head. “You feel incredible, I- I can’t believe…”

You felt Rimmer smiling against your mouth as he kissed you again, the most wonderful feeling you’d ever known.

You couldn’t compute what it felt like, to finally be able to touch him, to finally know how he felt under your fingertips. It had been maddening, all those years separated by an invisible barrier, and now you were so desperate to feel him, every bit of him, you didn’t even know where to start.

Rimmer seemed to have some ideas, though. His big hands slipped round your waist, his fingertips pressing into you hips as he gave you an experimental squeeze, and then he pushed back, pinning you against the door.

Your mouth fell open with a soft gasp, and he took the opportunity to run his tongue over yours. It was clumsy, just like the rest of Rimmer’s kisses. You wondered briefly if this was the first time he’d ever attempted kissing someone with tongue, but you didn’t care, it was so him.

Slipping your hands up to cradle his jaw, you pulled away ever-so-slightly, letting Rimmer catch his breath for a second.

You didn’t know anything about the technology Legion had passed onto him. You didn’t know if this was temporary, if it would still work if you managed to leave Legion’s ship. You didn’t know if the now archaic computers aboard Starbug and Red Dwarf would be able to keep up with the new data pouring into their systems.

Rimmer kissed you like his life depended on it. He touched you like he’d never get the chance again, like he was half afraid you might abruptly come to your senses and realise you didn’t want him after all, or he’d wake up alone in his quarters on Starbug.

Well, you couldn’t have that.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

As you watched his hazel eyes slide shut, you felt the reins fall into your hands.

Grinning excitedly, you took him by the shoulders and span him around, so now Rimmer’s back was against the door. You kissed him hungrily, your hands back to that nice spot either side of his face, his body pressed so tight against yours, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Now that you were setting the pace, you pressed your tongue against his, trying again, showing him how to do it, and heard Rimmer let out a moan you didn’t think he was capable of.

Mouth still moving against yours, he murmured your name, a question, making sure that this was what you wanted, and you answered him with a groan, hands clutching at his waist, keeping him against you.

Then Rimmer tugged at the bottom of your shirt, trying to shimmy it up your body. It surprised you, and he must have sensed your hesitation because he broke away.

“Sorry,” Rimmer shook his head, his lips pink and kiss-bruised. “Sorry, love, I should’ve-”

“Arnie?”

“Yes?”

“Get on the bed.”

“Okay.”

With a grin, you pulled him around so now his back was to the bed. You pushed Rimmer down onto the mattress, flashing him a bright smile as you straddled his hips.

You groaned with relief into each other’s mouths as you sank down in his lap, starved of each other even after a few moments apart.

“Can I..?” Intrigued, you tugged at the front of his new, bright blue jacket. “Can I take this off? How does it work?”

“Erm…”

Looking equally puzzled, Rimmer popped a few of the buttons and found they gave way.

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth with excitement, you helped him the rest of the way until Rimmer had to sit up to shrug the jacket off his broad shoulders. Almost as soon as it slid off the ends of his arms, it shimmered away to nothing.

“I think I can…” Rimmer shook his head. “I can control it. Who cares just- Please don’t stop kissing me.”

Oh, you’d never been so happy to oblige.

Together, you shifted so that Rimmer’s back was resting against the headboard, and you could stay comfortably in his lap. You barely parted the whole time, just so desperate to feel each other while you had the chance, before the clock struck midnight and the spell was broken.

Beneath his sapphire blue jacket was your favourite part of his stupid uniform, the soft short-sleeved shirt that always looked so ridiculously good on him, and the braces, a gift just for you.

You slipped your fingers round them and tugged Rimmer closer as you rolled your hips against his, swallowing his desperate moan with a kiss. You couldn’t seem to get close enough, it was never, ever enough.

“Can I?”

You tugged at his braces again, and Rimmer nodded so quickly, you almost clunked heads.

“Darling, you can do whatever you want to me.”

Laughing softly, you kissed him quickly, then started to pull them down over his shoulders.

“Is that so?”

Your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt and yanked it up, over his pale stomach and beyond, until Rimmer had to raise his arms so you could pull it over his head.

“I might hold you to that, Arn.”

“Please.”

Immediately, you pressed your palms to his chest, your heart beating hard and fast enough for the both of you. His lovely body had been on your mind since the psi-moon. You didn’t think it should be possible for someone as dorky and ridiculous as Rimmer to look so stupidly gorgeous, but here he was.

Running your fingers along the planes of his collarbones, then over his broad shoulders and round again, you smiled to yourself, enjoying the way he looked up at you in awe, his big hazel eyes shining in the low light.

You dragged your hands down over his strong chest before finally meeting his gaze again.

“You’re so beautiful,” you said softly. “Did you know that?”

You could feel Rimmer frowning as you went to kiss him again but you ignored him. You didn’t feel like arguing. There weren’t enough words to reassure him that you thought he was the most handsome man you’d ever met, but you could show him.

Distracted by his mouth, you didn’t notice Rimmer had tugged your shirt up until it got caught under your arms. Beaming at each other, you tossed your hands above your head and let Rimmer drag it the rest of the way.

Almost immediately, he began to press needy, desperate kisses across your chest, his hands shaking at your hips.

You slipped your fingers into his hair again, grazing your nails against his scalp as Rimmer’s mouth sank lower and lower, and his hands trailed up your back.

Somehow, he managed to get your bra unhooked on the first go.

“Wow.” You laughed softly as you shrugged it off your shoulders. “Didn’t realise you knew how to d-”

You were cut off by your own moan. As soon as you’d thrown your bra onto the floor, Rimmer’s lips found your neck again, then trailed down to your chest, leaving behind a series of deep purple marks you both knew would get noticed immediately. You didn’t mind, everyone already knew you were his.

The thought was pushed from your head as Rimmer’s mouth grew closer to where you wanted him. He groaned, low and rumbling, as he pressed his face between your breasts. Biting down hard on your lip, you tried to press your thighs together to ease the growing ache between them, but it was impossible still sitting in Rimmer’s lap.

“This is a dream…” he murmured, turning his face and pressing a soft kiss to your sternum. “I’m going to wake up soon and this will all be…”

You smiled fondly. Even now, even when he had you in his lap, his hands tight on your hips, his mouth wherever he wanted it, Rimmer couldn’t believe something good could happen to him.

“Arn?”

Rimmer tilted his head back to look up at you, and you couldn’t resist pressing a kiss underneath his jaw.

“I’m here.”

You kissed his cheek softly.

“I’m yours.”

The tip of his nose.

“But just in case this is a dream,” You smiled. “I think we should make the most of it. Don’t you?”

You shivered despite the heat between you as he let his slow, almost longing gaze slip over you. Then Rimmer smiled.

“I do.”

You exhaled softly, curling your fingers into his hair, about to reply, when Rimmer’s hands tightened on your hips. He pulled you closer, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, and then all coherent thoughts left your head as Rimmer’s tongue flicked over your nipple, flattened, before sucking it into his mouth.

“O-Ohhh, fuck…”

You let your head fall back, your spine arching into his touch as Rimmer grazed his teeth over you, then his tongue again, round and round, his soft moans making your hips rock. You tried to grind down on him but it wasn’t enough. You let out an embarrassingly needy sound and saw Rimmer’s eyebrows jump in surprise.

He let his hands smooth down your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, then slipped them over your arse, squeezing you between his long fingers and helping you rock against him.

It lit a fire in you, and suddenly you couldn’t think why you were letting him take the lead.

With your hand beneath his chin, you pulled Rimmer’s head up and slammed your lips against his, all tenderness forgotten for the moment as your tongue slipped past his lips, kissing him so deeply, he saw stars.

You felt Rimmer moan against your mouth, deep and low and awed. His ungainly hands flapped at your waist before finding a home again, tugging your hips forward until you were grinding against him through his stupid velvet trousers that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

You couldn’t contain your soft sound of approval as you wriggled your hips, trying to find the right angle to finally get some friction. Rimmer pulled back to look at you, his eyes wide, and you thought he must’ve been able to feel your warmth even though all the clothes that still separated you.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder if this was the first time he’d ever been with someone who actually really liked him, and if any of this was new to him. You wondered if anyone had ever kissed him like they adored him, whispered to him that he was perfect, shown him with their body that he was doing well, wanted him so badly, they couldn’t express it with words.

You kissed his cheek, then his neck, the scar on his jaw, murmuring that you loved him against his skin, and Rimmer shook his head, eyes closing for a moment, as if in disbelief.

“You’re beautiful…” he murmured.

Rimmer kissed you, again and again and again, his hips jumping under yours when you rocked in just the right way.

“Arn…”

You moaned, grip tightening on his broad shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful.”

He kept saying it, whispering the words against your skin as he unzipped the front of your trousers and tried to wriggle them down.

Smiling at his eagerness, you pulled his belt from his hips, perhaps a little more roughly than necessary. Rimmer didn’t seem to mind. In fact he looked up at you like you were heaven-sent.

You took advantage of the newly exposed skin, sucking a mark just below his jaw, his whines making you roll your hips against his again, harder now.

“You sound so good, Rimmer,” you groaned, right by his ear, and he clutched at your hips so tight, you knew you were going to have a bruise.

He was stronger in his hard light form. Practically indestructible, Kryten had said. The thought made the pulsing between your legs even worse. Then you frowned.

“Wait, can I..?”

You wrapped your fingers around his chin and tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck to you. There wasn’t a mark on him.

“Oh, you’re kidding.” You laughed softly. “You’re so tough now I can’t even give you a love bite?”

“I guess I’ll have to give them for the both of us.”

“I guess so.”

You lifted off of him, making you both groan, missing the contact already. Both your hands scrambled at the waistband of his trousers, then yours, then his stupid boxers.

You almost whined at the sight of them straining against the obscene outline of his hard cock. Your mouth was practically watering as you helped him ease his boxers down his toned thighs, as Rimmer hissed slightly at the pressure it put on him. His gasp of relief as he was finally freed made you clench.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered and pressed a soft kiss just below his ear.

Rimmer was panting now, the muscles in his jaw flexing and his face flushed as he looked up at you intently.

You smiled down at him before your lips found his again, kissing sloppily and messily, teeth clashing, all tongues and desperate moans and pawing hands. His inexperience was a perfect match for your lack of practice; it was nice to figure things out together.

“Hang on, love,” you murmured, laughing softly when he grabbed at your hips, trying to keep you close. “Let’s change things round a bit.”

You settled onto your back, pulling Rimmer on top of you. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you reached between you and slipped your hand around him.

Immediately, Rimmer folded in the middle, like an old garden chair. He pressed his face into your neck, moaning noisily enough to make you blush.

“Always knew you’d be loud,” you grinned against his skin, begrudgingly kissing the spot where you’d hoped you’d left a dark bruise. “They’ll hear us if you keep that up.”

“Then stop- Ohhn…”

Rimmer bucked his hips into your hand, so sore and aching that the slightest touch was enough to get him close.

“If you don’t want me to make any bloody noise, you’re going the wrong way about it.”

“Just hurry up, Arn. Please, m’so wet.”

Cheeks burning, you met his gaze to find Rimmer looking at you, stupefied. It had been a long time since you’d said anything like that to someone, and by the looks of things, Rimmer had never heard anything like it.

One thing you’d always liked about him, when push came to shove, Rimmer always did as he was told.

“Can I..? Can I just, er- Ah!” Rimmer grinned as you lifted your hips for him, allowing him to slide your underwear down over your thighs. “Thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome, dear.”

Rimmer paused, taking a moment to enjoy how soaked your underwear was, all because of him, before he threw them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes.

What little confidence he had seemed to fly right out of the window then. You could see uncertainty flash across his face, his eyebrows pulled together as his mind reeled.

You slipped your fingers over the backs of his hands, planted at either side of your shoulders, then grazed your fingers up his strong arms, up and up and up until you could slip them over his shoulders.

You pulled him closer, guiding him into the right position with a gentle smile.

“You ready, hot stuff?” you asked, hoping to bring back his lovely smile.

It did the trick. Rimmer’s grin could’ve put the sun to shame as he slipped his big hand under your thigh and carefully held it against his hip.

You could feel him shaking as he lined himself up. He kept exhaling softly, like he still couldn't believe that this was real, that you weren’t just a wonderful daydream anymore.

Slipping your hands into his hair again, you pulled him down to kiss you, hoping to distract him, but you had to break away when Rimmer finally eased into you. You moaned into each other’s mouths, your nose crammed against his jaw as you finally felt him fill you up.

It had been so long for both of you. You’d been waiting, even though you didn’t know what for. Now you knew, you both did, you’d been waiting for each other.

You swore under your breath at the delicious stretch, your fingernails cutting into Rimmer’s shoulders. The hand not supporting his weight clung to your thigh, keeping your hips at a good angle, clutching you tightly.

Rimmer groaned as he sank lower. You felt unreal; he could barely think straight. He huffed, gasping for breath as you rolled your hips, taking him even deeper, and now you were so close, Rimmer could feel your heart hammering in your chest. He’d never felt so alive.

“Is this okay?” he gasped out, his face all screwed up with concentration. “Does it feel alright? Are you okay?”

“I’m great, Arn. You’re perfect.” You laughed softly and pulled him down for another sweet kiss. “But if you don’t fuck me soon, I am going to go mental.”

“Aye aye, Lieutenant.”

Rimmer’s eyes shone. When he smiled, he put the moons and stars to shame. Then he was kissing you again, slow and delicate, searching and sweet. The change of pace made your head spin. It was clear he’d learnt a lot already. You could feel him smiling against your mouth and realised you were smiling too.

Soon you grew impatient and purposefully clenched around him.

Rimmer swore, his lips still moving against yours, moaning ‘Io, sweetheart’ right into your mouth.

You laughed softly, so unspeakably happy that for a moment, you forgot you weren’t the only two people on the ship, in the whole universe.

With the puzzled look of someone desperately trying to remember everything they’d studied just before an exam, Rimmer glanced up at you then kissed your cheek, probably for his own sake. Then he slowly pulled out, only to thrust deeply back into you, making your breath hitch.

You gasped into each other’s mouth, his nose brushing against yours, lips just catching as the two of you moved together.

“That’s it, that’s it, love.” You tugged at his hair, whispering feverishly by his ear, hoping some encouragement might wipe the focused expression off his face. “Feels so good, Arn, fuck- Oh…”

He hit a sweet spot inside you, making your back arch, pressing your chest against his. You wrapped your fingers around his jaw and devoured his mouth as he picked up speed, moaning so loud you were absolutely sure they’d be able to hear you down the hall now, but you couldn’t care less.

Rimmer gave you that look again, like he was completely shocked beyond all reasonable thought, and you couldn’t help cursing every single person who had ever written him off or bullied him or made him feel any less than he was, but you couldn’t help thanking them too, because it had led Rimmer to you, and you wanted to make him feel just like this for the rest of your life.

His movements grew sloppy and desperate and sweet and so, so hot as you felt yourself already tripping towards the edge. A lot of lonely nights and longing looks meant it wouldn’t take long at all, not for either of you.

“Rimmer, m’so close, m’so close-” you breathed out, and felt him nod, his nose bumping against yours.

The pressure was building and building, so you held his face in your hands, kissing him so hard it made him whimper against your mouth. You felt beads of sweat run down your thigh as he lifted your leg against his waist and held you there, his body starting to tremble.

Then suddenly, he shook his head.

“I can’t-”

You lifted your head, trying to meet his gaze, but Rimmer faltered and lowered his forehead to your chest.

“What’s wrong? Is it too much?”

“I- In a way.”

You blinked, confused, then realisation settled over you with a surge of happiness.

“Oh, Arn.” You laughed softly and ran your fingers through his hair. “C’mon, love. Don’t hold out on me. If you need to, you should.”

Rimmer groaned, though it was entirely without pleasure. You knew he was close, you could practically feel it pulsing through him, but again, even in the most euphoric moment of his life thus far, he’d found a reason to be angry with himself.

“Want to make you feel good.”

His face was still pressed into your chest so his voice came out all muffled. It made you laugh again as you kissed the top of his head.

“You will. You are. Hey, look at me.”

You gently tucked your fingers under his chin and lifted his head until Rimmer’s gaze met yours. Clouded and soft, his half-lidded eyes were so dark, it took your breath away.

“This is not going to be the only time we do this, Arn,” you said, quiet but firm so that he’d get the message. “Alright? I want you forever.”

Slowly, he started to nod, even though it looked like every fibre of his being was screaming at him to argue and doubt and depreciate.

“Alright,” Rimmer said, then again, almost to himself, “Alright.”

You kissed him, soft and slow, hoping he’d be able to feel just how much you adored him in every touch of your lips against his. You could feel him gradually starting to relax again, his body sinking into yours, his soft little moans and whimpers getting louder and gruffer as he began to pick up the pace again.

“Just let go,” you whispered by his ear, then let your head fall back against the pillow. “Feel.”

Rimmer leaned into you, and over his shoulder, you watched the planes and muscles in his back contracting and working and shifting under his skin. Mesmerised, you just held tight, watching the light pool on the thin sheen of sweat that lay across Rimmer’s shoulder blades.

“Io, I can’t even think anymore, you’re so-”

You let out a surprised groan when he hitched your thigh further up his side, tilting your hips upwards, the new angle made you see galaxies behind your closed eyes.

“So long as you don’t say ‘Geronimo’, anything’s fine by me,” you managed to get out, his sharp, erratic thrusts stealing your breath away.

Rimmer paused again, his brow furrowed. You could’ve hit him, you really could.

“How did you-”

“They told me.”

“Oh, for-”

“Arnie,” you laughed. “Concentrate. It doesn’t matter what you say.”

He scoffed like he didn’t believe you but it didn’t matter anyway, it was too late. With his face buried in your neck, Rimmer picked up the pace again, his free hand finding yours and interlocking your fingers.

“I’m-” His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth falling open. “Io, I’m going to- Oh, God, darling- You’re-”

You kissed him, swallowing his keening moan, but he made sure to pull away just as he slammed his hips into yours a final time.

“I love you,” Rimmer groaned, his head falling to rest against your chest as his heaved, his hips stuttering and his moans vibrating over your heart.

He all but collapsed on top of you, only the hand by your head kept him from squashing you. You groaned softly as he settled deeper into you, your bodies connected in a way you never would have thought possible.

He said those words again, I love you, but this time it was moaned into your mouth, and you could’ve cried as you whispered it back.

After a moment, he slowly pulled out, his sweaty, sticky skin rubbing against yours as he moved away, but only to sit up, looking down at you with open, honest, aching adoration.

You moaned his name, waving at him to come back to you, but Rimmer just smiled, tired but so, so stupidly happy. Then he began to mouth wet, open-mouthed kisses down your body, over your stomach, round your hips, and down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, leaving behind a trail of marks you couldn’t wait to admire in the mirror later.

“Where are you off to?” you called softly, your heart beginning to skip as he settled between your thighs.

“Your turn.”

His words thrummed through you, the tension in your abdomen like a rubber band, about to snap. Your skin felt hot but you couldn’t stop shivering, kept on the brink of anticipation by his needful, desperate kisses.

You were disappointed when Rimmer moved past where you wanted him most. His teeth grazed the insides of your thighs, then he kissed the spot as if to apologise. He pressed another kiss to your calf, running his hand up the bare skin of your other leg.

He was taking his time. After all these years, he was desperate to feel you, to make a note of every tangible moment, to taste you and burn the memory of you squeezing around him onto his memory forever.

He kissed his way back up your other leg, then you whined as he gently sank his teeth into your thigh.

“Arnold…” you warned, but he got the message pretty quickly.

“Just exploring, darling. You know, I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m shocked.”

Rimmer shot you a weary look, and it looked so ridiculous paired with his messy hair and glistening skin, his bare chest and his pink lips, his big hands wrapped around your thighs and his mouth so close to where you needed him most, you couldn’t hold back a grin if you tried.

“I’ve read a lot of magazines. Hopefully, I’ll remember some of it.”

“Arnie, if I could make one suggestion? Go with your gut.”

He looked up at you, a crooked, dorky sort of smile offsetting the heated look in his eyes. He really did love it when you called him that. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to go all these years without it.

“My gut is telling me to yell in panic.”

“Okay, well, maybe not that then.”

Rimmer laughed softly as he settled deeper into the crux of your thighs.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t have time to respond. The cold air against you was replaced by his warm, wet tongue, drawing a path up your core in a bold and breath-stealing move.

You bit your lip, your hands immediately falling to grab his shoulder and curl your fingers back into his hair, pulling gently, spurring him on.

Rimmer didn’t need anymore encouragement. He dragged his tongue against you, lapping up the mess he’d caused with a soft groan. His eyes rolled back as he pressed deeper, his hands pushing against the insides of your thighs to spread you open further.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, trying to keep your legs apart but it was almost too much to bear. He was moaning against you, whining and whimpering your name as he dipped his tongue inside you, then his long index and middle fingers.

“Oh, God, Arn…”

At the sound of his name, Rimmer groaned again, his voice reverberating through you as you began to rock your hips against his mouth.

God, the sound of him tasting you, it was obscene. You were sure you’d never been so stupidly turned on in all your life, and when you realised he was grinding his hips against the mattress, you honestly could have cried.

It reminded you of a dream you’d once had, a wonderful, mad dream, that led you to right here, right now, with Rimmer’s fingers crooked inside you and his teeth sinking into your inner thigh.

“Now, is this…” His eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes!”

Rimmer wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking gently, his eyes on your face to gauge your reaction.

You gasped, your fist tightening in his hair, pushing his face deeper into you, and the groan you got in response was so low and virile, it made your hips jump.

You didn’t have a chance to warn him, the band across your lower belly suddenly snapped, and you came with a ragged moan, your back arching off the bed, his name and only his on your lips. But he didn’t stop, Rimmer kept sucking at your aching clit, his fingers pumping into you, his wrist coated with your wetness. He didn’t ease off until you came again, breathless, shaking, your whole body trembling under his.

When you finally came up for air, you weakly waved him closer, and with a tired smile, Rimmer clambered back to lay beside you.

Immediately, you fell into his arms, clutching at his toned back like a lifeboat in a storm. Tears began to well so you quickly closed your eyes, feeling stupid but just so happy.

“Was that..?” Rimmer panted, his chin glistening in the low light. “Did I do alr-”

“Oh, shut up.” You kissed him, deep and slow. “You were amazing.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You choked on the word, wanting to say more but you were too emotional to get any further.

Rimmer kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, gathering you up in his arms as best he could.

“Worth the wait?” he asked quietly.

You opened your eyes and found him watching you intently, worry and joy and hope alighting across his lovely face.

You smiled, slipping your hand around his jaw.

“Worth the wait,” you said, and felt your heart burst when Rimmer grinned.

You drifted off to sleep together, tangled and sweaty and exhausted, your hands between you on the bed. Your fingers were interlocked, never to be parted again.

//

Next Chapter

Master List

[vodika-vibes]

Magic and Knights AU

The Sphinx's Riddle

Summary: You are a sphinx, a member of a desert dwelling people who guard the temple to the Goddess. At least, that's what you're supposed to do. There have been no heroes to visit the Goddess in centuries, and you, a Sphinx who is just a little too good at seeing through illusions, learn the sickening truth about the Patron who your people have served for generations...and now you're his prisoner, deep within the temple.

Pairing: Pre-Fixer x F!Reader

Word Count: 7447

Warnings: The Patron is described as a half rotting corpse. Reader is an anxious mess

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Wow, this took forever for me to finish, but I also wrote, like, 30 some odd pages since 5 pm yesterday, so I guess I just needed inspiration, lol.

You sniffle and curl your arms around your legs. It’s cold, so very cold. You must be deep beneath the temple for it to be so cold. You tug the thin blanket your mother gave you tighter over your shoulders, and it does almost nothing to ward off the cold. 

You don’t understand how this happened. 

A chain rattles down the hall, and you wince and bury your face into your arms. You hear the chains rattle down the hall and feel, more than see, someone peering into your cell.

“Are you ready to beg for forgiveness, child?” A voice, soft and silky and smooth, slithers through the room and you clamp your hands over your ears on the top of your head, and you can feel your tail twitching with anxiety under your blanket. You don’t want to hear this. Don’t want to hear him. But his voice cuts like a hot knife through butter, “Not yet ready to beg for my mercy, child?”

The cell door creaks open, and you tremble when you feel a hand, cold and almost skeletal, run through your cropped hair.

“Have I not treated you and the rest of your people well?” Your hands tighten over your ears, pressing them flat against the top of your head, “Have you not thrived while under my watchful eye? Have I not gifted you all with great beauty and great intelligence? And I all ask in return is your undying fealty…and you deny me that one small thing?”

The hand fists in your hair and jerks your head up and back, and you squeeze your eyes shut, to avoid looking into the flaming eyes of the man your people have served for thousands of years. 

Though there’s no hiding from the stench of rotting flesh.

“Look at me, child.”

You, stubbornly, refuse to open your eyes. And a heavy sigh escapes from your captor, the scent of rotting meat washes over you. The scent is strong enough that you gag.

And he finally releases you, and steps away, heavy chains dragging along the stone floor.

“You disappoint me, child.” And he sounds so, very, disappointed. Your heart lurches in your chest, but you very pointedly don’t look at him, or speak to him.

You know, in the same way that you know the sun will rise every morning, that if you give him the chance, he will slither his way into your psyche, like the viper he is, and you will no longer see him for the monster he is.

You hear a deep inhale, and the chains move closer again. You take a chance to open your eyes, and you see his feet, swollen and purple and putrid-

You slam your eyes shut. Just in time as his hand fists in your hair and you’re jerked, roughly, to your feet. “If you will not obey,” He says, “Then you will be punished.”

And then you feel something strange against your cheek. Warm and slightly rough and slimy-

A choked off scream or revulsion slips from you when you realize that it’s his tongue sliding across your face.

Panic wars with sheer terror, and your mind both goes blank and starts racing a million miles per hour.

And then you reach inward, towards that warm golden glow that belongs to you and no one else. You grab the glow with both hands and hold it close, drawing comfort from the natural magic of your people. 

You let the glow grow and fill you, from the bottoms of your broken feet to the tips of your roughly cropped hair, and you lash out with one strong burst of magic.

The room fills with the golden glow of the midday sun, and you hear a vicious scream of pain, before you’re flung against the hard wall, and you slide to the ground.

You hear the cell door open, and then slam shut, and then you release a shuddering sob as soon as you’re alone. You quickly clamp your hand over your mouth, refusing to give that thing any more power over you than he already had.

You are going to die here.

There’s no one to save you.

You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been in this dungeon.

There are no windows, and He comes down to visit you at such random times, that there’s no way to keep track.

You know it’s been more than a week. Perhaps more than two at this point. You’re still getting fed, though it’s 50-50 on whether the food is edible. Everything he brings you is rotten to the point that it’s inedible. It’s something that happened to food in his presence.

Though, sometimes, a member of the family brings you food instead. The meals are simple, soups and breads and water, but it’s enough that you’re not in danger of dying.

But it’s not enough for you to keep your strength up. Which, you suppose, is the point. The weaker you are, the more likely you are to give in.

You roll onto your side, your back towards the cell door, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you curl your hand around your tail, a nervous habit that you thought you grew out of ages ago…but apparently not. You’re so exhausted that it’s a wonder that you haven’t passed out yet.

You tense when you hear the familiar sound of chains dragging on the stone floor. The noise stops in front of your cell, but the door doesn’t open. Instead the cell across from yours creaks open, and you hear the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and then the door slams shut.

The sound of chains drags away until the dungeon is silent once more.

You roll onto your other side and slowly crawl over to the door. You peek through the bars at the bottom of the door and you try to squint into the other cell.

It’s no use, the dungeon is too dark. You can barely see your own cell, let alone into the one opposite of yours.

You hesitate for a moment, and once you’re sure that you’re alone, you hold your hand out and summon a spark of your magic. The spark floats from your hand, across the hall, and into the other cell. It offers enough light to see a young man, maybe around your age, with dark hair. 

“Hey,” Your voice is soft. He doesn’t respond, “Hey!” You repeat a little louder, “Are you still alive?”

There’s silence for a moment, and then you hear a groan, and the young man moves, “Stop yelling.”

“Oh, thank the goddess,” You breathe out, you shift a little closer to the bars, and squint at the man, “W-what’s your name?”

He groans again, and you watch as he rolls over and peers at you through the bars of his own door. He’s bleeding from a wound on his temple. “Fixer, what’s yours?” You hesitate for a moment, and then introduce yourself, and he nods once, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m going to remember that.” He admits as he presses his hand to his head and grimaces.

“It’s okay, you have a head wound. It looks like someone hit you with something heavy. You’re lucky you’re not dead.” 

He grimaces, “You aren’t wrong about that,” Fixer touches the wound on his head and then drops his hand, “Where are we, sarad?”

“You’re in the old shrine,” You explain quietly, “We’re…we’re pretty deep underground.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I…don’t know. He keeps trying to get me to serve him again, but I can’t…” You hesitate, “Fixer, listen to me. When he comes, you can’t look at him. You can’t meet his eyes. That’s how he exerts his control over people.”

Fixer stares at you for a moment, and then he nods slowly, “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

You release a quiet sigh of relief, “How did he even catch you? You look…well, you look like you can hold your own.”

Fixer grimaces and presses a hand to his temple, “I wasn’t expecting to be attacked. This area is so far away from the front lines-”

“Front lines?” You ask.

Fixer stares at you for a moment, “Mandalore is at war with Serrano.” He explains slowly.

“Oh. I didn’t know.” You reply quietly.

“I can tell.” He stares at you for a long moment, “Is there a way out?”

“Of the cells or the temple?” You ask.

“Both.”

“I haven’t found a way out of the cells, but I also wouldn’t know what to look for.” You reply after considering his question carefully, “But the temple has many exits. Just most of them are sealed with magic.”

Fixer frowns, and then you see his gaze flicker to the small orb of light, and then back to you, “Magic like yours?”

“Supposedly. The lower levels of the temple haven’t been regularly visited in…” You shake your head, “I don’t know how long. Before I was born.”

“But,” Fixer says intensely as he stares you in the eye, “If I can get us out of the cells, can you navigate the lower levels of the temple safely?”

“I can try.”

He nods and opens his mouth to say something, only to pause when the sound of chains rattling down the stairs echoes off the stone walls. 

You immediately douse the golden light, and scramble to the back of your cell, screwing your eyes shut and turning your head away from the door as the noise gets closer and closer.

He stops in front of your cell, and the door rattles open.

Your breath quickens in fear as the sound of chains gets closer and closer, until you’re able to hear the sickening squelching sound of him approaching you. 

And then he stops. And, for a moment, you hear nothing but the deep rattle of his breath and you can only smell rotting flesh, and then a skeletal hand lands on the top of your head, and you cringe away from him, or your try to, he’s quick to fist his hand in your hair.

“My dearest daughter,” He coos, and you slap your hands over your ears. His voice hurts, and you don’t want to hear him. “Have you met the sacrifice? I’m sure you have. Your sisters and cousins have been so good to bring me such a fine specimen. And as I was thinking about it, I came up with a wonderful idea-”

He pauses, as if waiting for you to respond, and when you don’t he shakes you violently enough that the back of your head cracks against the wall, pulling a pained cry from your throat.

“My idea, my dear, is that you’ll be the one doing the sacrificing. Aren’t I such a kind and devoted patron?”

You don’t reply, there’s no point. You can’t convince him that he’s wrong, anymore than you could convince your family, so you just shake your head. 

He sighs, and you gag as the scent of rotting flesh grows stronger.

He grabs you and flings you into a wall, pulling a second cry of pain from your lips, and then you hear the sound of him moving away from you, “Unfortunate, but it won’t be the first time I have to sacrifice one of my sphinxes.” He says loud enough to be heard over the sound of rattling chains. And then he’s gone, the sound of the chains fading away to silence.

You clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your sob, you don’t want to die, not to him. Not to make him stronger-

And then you jump as the cell across the hall creaks open. You turn to your cell door, and watch, stunned, as Fixer picks the lock, and slides the door open. He looks…furious. Furious enough that you cringe back away from him.

Fixer’s expression gentles, and he enters your cell and he kneels in front of you. “Are you okay?” He asks.

You slowly nod, wincing as the movement shoots pain through your head. “I’ve had worse.” You admit.

Fixer’s gaze flickers down to your bare feet, which are badly bruised, and then to your tail, which has bald spots from stress, “I don’t doubt it.” He agrees, and then he helps you to your feet, “It’s time to go, sarad. How do we get out of here without crossing that…thing?”

“We have to go deeper.” You explain, pointing further down the hallway. “It’s going to get cold.”

“That’s fine. We’ll go slow, and stick together.” Fixer pins you with a severe look, “If you can’t keep up, you need to let me know.”

“I’ll keep up!” You say quickly, “Please don’t leave me behind-”

Fixer’s touch against your shoulder is so very gentle that you kind of want to cry, when was the last time someone was kind to you? “I’m not going to leave you behind, sarad. I just need to know if I need to slow down for you.”

You nervously lick your lips, and you wince when you taste blood, “I can keep up.” You whisper.

“Don’t push yourself if you can’t. I’m not leaving you behind. I’ll remind you as often as I need to.” Fixer says, and then he lightly tugs you out of your cell and he casts his gaze around, “You said we need to go deeper.”

“Yeah. There’s…or, well, there should be a path that I can open.”

“Should be?”

You shrink under his gaze, and avert your eyes, “Um…”

“It’s fine. We’ll figure it out as we go.” Fixer offers you his hand, “Come on.”

Nervously you take his hand, and Fixer gently propels you down the hall, into the dark.

It takes less than ten minutes for him to stop, a curse falling from his lips, “What’s wrong?” You ask.

“I can’t see,” Fixer says, “It’s black as pitch down this hall.”

You blink at him, and then turn to the hall yourself. It’s…not that dark. Sure, it’s not as bright as it might be outside, but you can see clearly enough. Hesitantly you squeeze his hand and tug him down the hall.

“...you can still see?” Fixer asks, and you can feel his stare on the back of your head without looking over your shoulder at him. “Right. Sphinx.”

“Um, it shouldn’t be far. The tunnels underneath the shrine are probably well lit.” You reply nervously as you lead him through the darkened halls, casting your gaze across the floor and walls as you walk. 

According to the stories, the passage will be marked with a symbol only visible to a sphinx’s eyes. You hope the stories were accurate. Or else this is going to be a very short escape attempt.

You turn to check on Fixer, who’s been very quiet since you’ve started leading him, and…there!

Your head snaps to the side, when you catch a glimpse of something golden glittering on the wall, and you slow to a stop. “I found it.” You tug him over to the wall, and reach up to touch the sigil, your own magic flowing to the surface of your skin as you touch it.

The magic is old. Ancient even. Old enough that it barely recognizes you as a sphinx, and for one heart stopping moment, you worry that the magic is going to reject you, and then there’s the sensation of sunlight against your skin, and a part of the wall melts away into nothing.

You very nearly topple into the opening, and if it wasn’t for Fixer’s strong arm suddenly around your waist holding you steady, you would have.

“Is that the opening?” He asks, his voice low in your ear.

You nod, and then, remembering that he can’t see, you hasten to add, “Yeah. Um, there’s some kind of magic…I can’t see through it.”

“Does it feel dangerous to you?”

Your tail and ears twitch as you consider his question and the feel of the magic in front of you, “It feels like it could be, under the right circumstances.” You finally reply as he releases you and settles a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright. Then we continue.” Fixer says.

“Are…are you sure? I don’t think it will hurt me no matter what, but-”

His grip tightens on your shoulder, “The death we choose is better than any death that this god might give us, sarad. We need to continue. No matter what.”

“...okay.” You lightly take his hand again, and then you take a deep breath and step into the shadow, squeezing your eyes shut as you do so.

Stepping through the shadow feels like walking through cobwebs, and you have to fight the urge to release Fixer’s hand to wipe the sensation off of your face and bare arms. But the sensation dissipates just as quickly as it appeared, and as you open your eyes you’re relieved to see that your prediction about light was correct.

You turn to look at Fixer, and notice that he’s watching the wall slide back into place. “Looks like there’s no way back,” He murmurs, before he glances at you, “And it looks like the only way forward is down.”

“I did warn you,” You say nervously.

He smiles reassuringly, “I know, I’m not mad. I’m actually relieved that you were right.”

“...you are?”

“It means that the stories you were told were right.” He looks around a moment longer, and then he steps off the platform and onto the first step, “So, sarad, what else did your family tell you?”

Fixer’s not sure what to think of Sarad. He knows it’s not her name, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember what her actual name is. It’s frustrating to the point of maddening, honestly, but he can’t think about that now.

Not when the young woman trailing behind him is so nervous and jumpy about absolutely everything.

Not when there’s a literal god hunting them.

She’s thin. Too thin. He has a feeling that she’s been in that cell for a lot longer than she’s even considered. The fur on her tail is patchy, and he can’t help but wonder if she realizes that she’s pulling her own fur out. 

He frowns and reaches back to stop her from pulling some more of her fur out, carefully taking her hand in his as they continue down the stairs. “So, Sarad, what else did your family tell you?” Fixer asks.

You frown and tug on one of your ears, and Fixer sighs, he doesn’t have enough hands to stop her from pulling on her ears when she’s nervous, and she’s always nervous. “Grandmother used to tell a story,” Sarad says slowly, “About how, a long time ago, heroes would come to the shrine to ask for a boon from the Goddess-”

“Wait. Goddess?” Fixer asks, “The person holding us was definitely male.”

She nods, “Grandmother says that the Goddess lives in the realm of the divine, and that the man who the sphinx people serve is her most loyal servant. Though I’m pretty sure that’s not accurate.”

“Clearly,” Fixer replies dryly as he reaches up to stop her from tugging on her ear, “Continue.”

“Um, right. Well, heroes would come to the shrine to ask a boon from the Goddess, and they would have to go through her trials. We, the sphinx people, were the guardians of the trials. It was our job to determine if a hero could enter the trials or not.”

“And what were the trials?” Fixer asks, a feeling of dread filling him.

“Um…I don’t know.” She admits nervously, “There haven’t been any heroes trying to enter the shrine in generations. Sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t have to apologize for not knowing. It’s not your fault.” Fixer replies. “Things get lost to history all the time. It just means we have to be careful.”

“You.” She says, and he shoots her a puzzled look, “You have to be careful.”

Fixer slows to a stop and he turns to look Sarad in the eye, “What, exactly, do you mean?”

“Uhm, well,” She tries to grip her tail again, but Fixer swiftly grabs both of her hands and threads his fingers with hers so she’s not able to pull her fur out, “Well…the trials are meant for heroes, and the Sphinx people were guides,” She says quickly while staring at the joined hands in puzzlement, “The trials won’t…er…shouldn’t activate for me.”

“But they will for me.”

“Supposedly.”

Fixer considers her words for a moment, and then he nods slowly, “Good.” He says decisively, “You’re injured. More injured than I am, and more injured than you want to admit.”

She ducks her head, “It’s not so bad.”

“Sarad,” He says softly, gently, “Did you even notice that you’ve been pulling out your fur?”

Her gaze snaps to his face and then drops to her tail, and her face falls, “I…no…I did that?”

“You’ve been in that cell for a lot longer than I think either of us will ever know,” Fixer continues, his voice still so soft, “So I’m going to take care of you. And when we get out of here, I’m taking you with me.”

Sarad blinks at him, “What about my people?”

“I’m going to be really mean for a moment and tell you that I don’t care about your people.” Fixer says bluntly, “I care about you. And getting you, specifically, to safety.”

“It’s not their fault! They’re just…they’re brainwashed-”

“Does that make it better?” Fixer interrupts, “What they did to you? What they allowed to be done to you?” She hesitates for a moment, and Fixer continues, “Would you be able to live with them, with the memory of everything that happened to you still living in your head?”

“I…” She trails off, unable to answer, which is an answer in and of itself.

“Will you let me take care of you, Sarad?” Fixer asks, “Will you let me help you? Someday we’ll come back, and we’ll set things right, but we can’t do that with just two people.”

She gnaws on her lower lip for a moment, and then she nods. “I can agree to that.”

Fixer relaxes slightly and a small smile crosses his face, “Thank you.” He reaches out and lightly smooths his hand over her knotted hair, and is surprised when he hears a noise that can only be a purr.

She flushes, mortified, and Fixer releases a laugh as he pets the top of her head a little longer, “How long has it been since someone touched you without the intention to hurt you, sarad?”

“I don’t remember.” She whispers, and then she ducks her head, “Can we keep moving, please?”

He flashes a small grin at her, and then pulls his hand away, only to reach down and take her hand in his once again, “Stay close, Sarad.”

The staircase is massive. And, luckily, it’s not too steep and the stone isn’t too rough on your bare feet, but you’re still grateful that Fixer seems to know when you’re not able to walk any further. In fact, he seems to know when you’re unable to go any further before you are.

At the moment, your arms are around his neck while he continues carrying you down the steps.

“Ah,” Fixer says with a relieved sigh, as he stops and lightly sets you back on your feet. You can see, right away, what caught his attention. An open room, decorated in whites and golds, and a large door on the opposite side of the room. “The first trial, I take it?” Fixer asks you.

You glance at him and shrug, “That would be my guess.”

“Right.” Fixer closes his eyes in thought, “Okay, stay close to me, Sarad. And stay behind me, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You nod and wrap your hands around his upper arm, and then release him again when he shoots you a look, and you sheepishly grab the back of his shirt, “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

“It’s okay.” He gives you a moment, “Are you ready?”

“I…I think so.”

Fixer nods once, and starts down the stairs, slowly so as to not rush you, and as soon as the both of you are in the large room, the stairs completely vanish, pulling a startled squeak from you as you press against his back, “It’s okay, sarad. It’s okay. It’s just a little magic. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You cling to him for a moment longer, and then slowly release him, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Fixer looks you over for a moment, “We need to take a break, as soon as we can. A proper night's sleep will help you feel better.”

There’s a sudden swell of magic, and you instinctively lay your ears flat against your head, “Fixer-”

“I know, stay behind me.” He says, his gaze darting around the room.

WELCOME HERO

A voice, loud enough that you have to clamp your hands over your ears to make it a little more tolerable, echoes through the room. 

WELCOME TO THE GODDESS’ TRIALS

The booming voice continues.

WHAT IS IT THAT YOU SEEK, HERO

“A way out,” Fixer says as he makes sure that you’re still behind him, “All I want is a way out. For both of us.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then, again, the booming voice returns.

WHAT IS IT THAT YOU SEEK, HERO

“I-”

“You have to give an answer,” You whisper, “It’s a spell, designed to activate the trial. Only after you give it an answer. You have to answer in the form of, ‘I seek-’.”

Fixer glances at you, and then frowns, “Seems a bit…convoluted. But fine. I seek,” He emphasizes, “an escape from the temple, for myself and my companion.”

Nothing happens for a moment, and Fixer frowns. Your ears twitch as you search for any sound of movement anywhere in the room, but there’s nothing. 

YOU SEEK SAFETY FOR YOURSELF AND ONE OTHER. CONTINUE TO THE TRIAL.

A wall slides open on the other side of the room, and Fixer grimaces. “I thought you said that you weren’t going to be involved in the trials?” He asks.

“I think…I think it’s because you mentioned me.” You offer hesitantly, not really sure yourself.

“Damn. Sorry, Sarad.” He mutters, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.” And then he pauses, “Wait, what kind of trials are there?”

“All sorts. There are puzzles and combat and combat puzzles-” You reply nervously.

Fixer grimaces, “Alright. I guess we’ll be going blind from here.” He leads you to the opening in the wall, and as soon as the both of you are on the other side, the wall slides shut again.

“No backtracking allowed,” You whisper as you lightly grip his arm.

“We probably should have guessed that.” He murmurs back to you as he leads you down the stairs.

It’s a much shorter staircase this time, and the room that the pair of you come to is massive, though the only thing in the room is a massive statue. The statue looked like it should have been a woman cloaked in cloth, but the statue has been ruined over the years.

“Who’s that supposed to be?” Fixer asks.

“I think it’s meant to be an aspect of the Goddess,” You reply, “There…there aren’t any depictions of her anymore. They’ve all been destroyed by time.”

“By time? Or by the creature who’s calling himself the Sphinxes Patron?”

“I don’t know. Either one is possible.”

“Hm,” Fixer motions for you to stay near the staircase as he slowly walks around the room, looking for a possible exit, “Hey, Sarad?”

“Yeah?”

“When did heroes stop coming to the temple?”

“Oh, uh…” You tug on some of your hair as you try to remember, “It’s been centuries, if I remember correctly. The stories all say that it’s because there aren’t any more heroes.”

“Hm…does that sound right to you?” Fixer asks.

You’re quiet for a long moment, “I think…” You trail off, and then you fold your arms, “I think the heroes stopped coming here because they were all dying. I think they were sacrificed, just like you were going to be.”

“I think you’re probably right,” Fixer agrees, “All the more reason for us to get out. Unfortunately, I don’t see anything that could be an exit, or a puzzle.”

You move further into the room, and the staircase vanishes as soon as you’re far enough away. You make your way over to Fixer, though you keep your gaze locked on the statue. “I think it has something to do with the statue.”

His gaze drifts to the statue, “That tracks,” Fixer moves over to the statue and carefully runs his fingers over the base, “No-there’s nothing…ah, wait.” He pauses and crouches on the side, “There’s something here-”

Fixer examines the item he found closely, and he frowns, “I think it’s a pressure plate. There’s a symbol carved on it.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he frowns, “Come here, Sarad. I’m not activating this unless you’re next to me.”

You cross the room, back to his side, and lightly curl your fingers around the back of his shirt. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Fixer presses the plate, and there’s a sudden surge of warmth. Magic coils around the pair of you, and suddenly you find yourself on the other side of the room. And the floor is covered in tiles with different symbols etched on them.

And on the other side of the room, a wall opens.

“That’s our way out, I take it.” Fixer says, as his gaze lingers on the tiles on the floor, “What do you think?”

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat.

“Sarad?” He turns to look at you, and then he pauses, “What’s that?”

You shoot him a puzzled look. Fixer stands and slowly reaches out to you, his fingers brushing against your neck.

“There’s…some kind of magic wrapped around your neck.” Fixer says slowly, “It encircles your entire neck.” He frowns, “Are you able to speak?”

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat again, and your ears flatten against your head.

“I guess not.” He murmurs, “Good thing you’re so expressive.” He frowns at the magic collar thoughtfully, “I guess this is to keep us from cheating? Even if you know the answer, you can’t tell me because the collar prevents you?”

He lightly squeezes your shoulder, “It’s okay, Sarad.” Fixer says soothingly when he sees your distress, “I don’t need help with the puzzles, you don’t have to worry. Stay here. I think the room will reset to normal once I’m at the other side.”

He squeezes your shoulder one more time, and then releases you to turn his attention towards the panels on the floor.

Fixer examines each panel closely, and then after several minutes of this, he steps on one of the panels, and slowly, carefully, makes his way across the room.

Each floor panel he steps on lights up in a warm golden color, and as he makes his way across the room, you feel your anxiety lessen. Fixer doesn’t move onto the next panel unless he’s sure that it’s the right one, and though it takes time, eventually he finds his way to the other side of the room, and he presses his hand against a glowing sigil on the wall. 

There’s a blinding flash of light, and, as you blink the spots out of your eyes, you notice that the room has returned back to its original state, save for the open wall on the other side of the room.

“Come on, Sarad,” Fixer says as he turns his gaze towards you, “We can move on now.” He doesn’t move from his spot next to the wall until you’re safely at his side, and he immediately taps your chin to tilt your head back to get a look at your neck, “The collar is gone.” He says, sounding relieved.

“Oh, that’s good.” You say, just as relieved that there’s no longer something forcing you to stay silent. You lightly wrap your hands around his arm, and gently, he tugs you through the opening in the wall.

The wall shuts behind you, and for a moment there’s no light, before torches flare to life. This room is much smaller than the previous room you were in, and there’s nothing in the room at all. Save, of course, for the door that leads to another set of staircases.

Fixer rubs his cheek for a moment, casting his gaze around the room. And then he gently untangles his arm from your grip, and he pokes around the room. “Well, this place seems safe enough.” He says after several minutes of very thorough investigation, “And it’s warm enough in here that we won’t freeze. We should take a break here.”

“You don’t want to keep going?” You ask.

“I don’t think you’re able to keep going.” Fixer corrects. He leans against the wall and slides to the ground with a quiet groan, “Come here, Sarad. You need a break more than I do.”

“...sorry.” You whisper, even as you slide to the floor next to him.

“You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Not about this.” Fixer considers you for a moment, and then he, very gently, tugs you onto his lap, and guides your head to rest just under his chin. “There, now you don’t have to sleep on the stone.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sarad. I’m going to be just fine.” He smooths his hand down your back, and slowly, you drift off to sleep with your fingers curled against his shirt.

Fixer keeps his gaze on Sarad’s face until he’s sure that she’s asleep, and then he releases a quiet breath. Carefully, as to not wake her, he checks her over for any serious injuries, and he releases a sigh of relief when he sees that, aside from being too thin and being covered in bruises, she doesn’t have any serious injuries.

Not that it would matter if she did, it’s not as though he has a first aid kit on him. Fixer adjusts her so that he’s a little more comfortable with her on his lap, and then he reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out the only item that wasn’t taken from him, his comm.

No video or audio, but he is able to send a text message to his brothers. 

Fixer, reporting in.

Where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you for days! Scorch replies, almost immediately.

The boys were right, there is something weird happening out here in the desert. Fixer replies, I got caught, I’m in the process of making my escape as we speak, but it’s a little…complicated.

In what way? Boss asks.

Well, I’m not alone, for one. Fixer glances down at Sarad, and adjusts the comm so that there’s no light shining on her face, For another, I have to perform trials to get out of this place.

The person with you, are they a threat? Sev asks.

No. She was being held by the same person who was holding me…and he’s been holding her for a lot longer. She’s been starved-

You were only supposed to find out what was going on in the desert, Fixer. Not get involved. Boss chides.

He was going to kill her. I couldn’t just leave her anymore than you could have.

I suppose that’s fair. What’s the play then? Boss asks.

I have to get out and get her to safety before anything else. But…there’s some kind of living corpse that’s controlling the Sphinx people. I doubt we’re going to be able to handle it alone. Fixer admits grudgingly, only to pause when Sarad shivers and tries to press herself closer to him for warmth. He sighs and wraps his arm securely around her, and only looks back at his comm when he’s sure she’s not going to wake up. I don’t believe the Sphinx people would be a threat if they knew what they were serving, but this creature has them totally ensnared.

Understood. I’ll inform Alpha. Boss sends back. Odds are we’re going to have to wait until the Serrano thing is handled before we try and deal with this situation. Do you need support?

No. But I’ll let you know if that changes.

Understood. Good luck, vod. Boss replies, and then the comm disconnects, and Fixer slips his comm back into his pocket.

For a moment, he allows his head to bump back against the stone behind him, and then he looks down at Sarad. He’s not going to be able to sleep, and since she can’t help with the puzzles anyway-

Very carefully, Fixer adjusts the way his arms are around her, and slowly he gets to his feet. His sarad doesn’t even stir. Now much more sure of his actions, Fixer turns to the stairs and carefully continues his path through the temple. 

Hopefully his Sarad won’t be too upset about letting her sleep.

You stir awake after the best sleep you’ve had in a very, very long time. And the first thing you’re aware of is the fact that you’re moving. You blink up at Fixer, who is now nursing a series of bruises on his face, and you shift slightly.

Fixer glances down at you, and a small smile crosses his face, “Good morning,” He stops moving and carefully sets you on your feet, steadying you as you stretch out.

And then you take in your surroundings.

You’re no longer in the white and gold marble of the upper temple, but rather you’re in the deepest parts. The stone under your feet is cool to the touch, and the only light comes from the blue crystals hanging overhead.

You turn a puzzled look up to Fixer, who, at least, has the grace to look a little sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to keep going while you were sleeping.”

You feel a flash of guilt, “You should have woken me-”

“No need. You were tired, and you can’t take part in the trials anyway.” Fixer points out, “I’ve already gone through three more trials while you were asleep.”

You stare at him, stunned, “You did?”

“Yeah. One of them was a combat trial, which has been the hardest so far since I didn’t have a weapon.” Fixer admits, “But I managed.” He lightly takes your hand in his. “Come on, let’s get to this last trial.”

“Um, okay.”

You allow him to lead you down the stairs, and you press closer to him as you start to get more and more nervous. “What’s wrong, sarad?” Fixer asks.

“I dunno…my fur is standing on end, and I feel scared.” You admit.

He stops and lightly presses his hands against your cheeks, “Hey. There’s no reason to be afraid. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. We’re going to get out of this.”

“But, what if-”

“I promise.” Fixer interrupts, “I promise that you’re going to be okay. Just trust me.”

Slowly you nod, “Okay.”

His smile is gentle for a moment as he lightly strokes your cheek, and then he releases you and takes your hand in his, offering what comfort he can as he leads you deeper and deeper into the temple.

At last you come to a massive room, with beautiful pillars carved out of crystal, and blue flames lighting the room. And there, in the center, is a frail looking old woman sitting on a throne.

Like you, she has rounded ears on the top of her head, and a long tail with a tuft of fur at the end. And as the pair of you approach her, she opens her eyes and pins you both with her sightless gaze.

She sighs, and it’s sounds like wind across the dune sea, “How long has it been,” the woman murmurs, her voice like sand, “Since anyone has visited me?” 

“Do you know her, sarad?” Fixer asks, his voice soft.

You shake your head slowly, “No. But…she feels familiar. Like a memory…or a dream of a memory.”

The woman pins you in place with a stare, and it’s almost as if she’s looking through you. You flinch and try to duck behind Fixer, but find that you’re unable to move. 

And then the woman laughs, “My daughters have tried so hard to forget my name and my face, but even now, one of my youngest knows me.”

“Sarad-?”

“I think…I think she’s the Goddess.”

“Indeed I am,” The woman flashes a fang filled smile, “And you are the first visitors I’ve received in centuries. So tell me, hero, what is your wish? Money? Power? Fame?”

“None of that.” Fixer says, as he tugs you behind him, “All I want is a way to get the both of us to safety.”

The old woman tilts her head, “That’s all?”

“That creature was going to sacrifice her-”

“...us,” You correct softly.

“Right, us, to make himself more powerful. We’re not safe here.” Fixer says, “All I want is to get ourselves to safety.”

The woman is silent for a long moment, and then she sighs, “My daughters have lost their way. If I can save at least one, then all will be worth it.” She gazes at Fixer, “I will grant you your wish, on one condition.”

“What condition?” Fixer demands.

“You protect my daughter.”

He scoffs, “I’m going to do that anyway, with or without your condition.”

And she smiles. “Good.” She closes her eyes, and there’s a swell of magic, “Goodbye, son of man. Live well, daughter of the sands.”

There’s a blinding flash of light, and the sensation of sand swirling around you, and then a sudden weightlessness. 

Solid ground appears under your feet, and you stumble, and the only reason you don’t fall is because of the strong arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Fixer?!” A man, identical to Fixer, hurries over. “You…what…how?”

“Boss,” Fixer makes sure that you’re steady, and then you immediately duck behind him, “It appears that we’ve escaped.”

“No kidding!” Another man, this one clad in yellow armor sputters as he hurries over, “I…who’s this?”

You squeak when his gaze lands on you, and you hide behind Fixer, “You’re scaring her, Scorch.” Fixer chides, “She needs medical attention, and so do I probably, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

“No, hold on…does she have lion ears?” Scorch asks as he tries to peek around Fixer to get a good look at you.

“Scorch! Enough!” Boss orders, “Go ahead and get to the hospital, Fixer. Sev should be around here somewhere…kind of glad he’s not here to scare her even more, though.” He mutters.

“Come on, sarad. There’s no need to be afraid, my brothers aren’t going to hurt you.” Fixer says as he turns to look at you and offers you his hand, “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.”

Hesitantly you take his hand.

After all, Fixer has never lied to you before.

Six months later, you’re largely healed, though you’re still much thinner than anyone would prefer, yourself included. You release a rumbling purr as you stretch out in the sun, your tail flicking lazily as you soak up the sun’s rays.

“Sarad,” you crack open an eye to look up at Fixer, who’s watching  you with a fond smile on his face, “We’re moving on. We have a new mission.” You yawn widely and then roll over onto your feet.

“Where are we going?” You ask, and then you pout as Fixer pulls a wool cap over your head.

“Serrano.”

“I’m going to turn into a Sphinxcicle.” You whine, “I’m not made for snowy weather.”

“Good thing that we made sure to get you winter weather gear.” Fixer teases, “Come on, Sarad. You know I’ll always take care of you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He leans in and presses a light kiss against your temple, “Good. Now we need to hurry, or Boss is going to send Sev after us.” Fixer offers you his hand with a small smile, and you grin as you take it.

This isn’t how you expected your life to end up. You expected to die in that desert, unmourned and forgotten. And yet, here you are, surrounded by people who love and worry about you. 

And you’ve never been happier.

[sofreddie]

Hi! I'm glad you want to write for new fandoms. 🥰 For your requests. Eric Northman from True Blood. I just love the sexy Viking Vampire. The story is up to you.

Jealous?

Characters: Eric Northman x F!Reader, Pam

Warnings: Angst, Violence

WC: 394

A/N: I do love my sexy Viking vampire. Here's me, giving it a go!

Y/N walked from the bar to the small stage situated at the far end of the room. Carrying a True Blood, she approached the handsome blonde currently sitting on his throne surveying the empty Fangtasia nightclub in silent contemplation. With a tight smile, she roughly slammed the bottle on his side table before heading back to the bar, some of the contents splashing out.

Eric smirked lightly, his eyes locked on Y/N as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Her fiery passion was one of the many things that he enjoyed about her. With a wince, he spat out the drink. Eyes narrowed, he was at the bar and at Y/N’s side in an instant. 

“It’s cold,” he complained as he crowded her space, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at the tall vampire.

“Maybe you could get Sookie to warm it up with her thighs,” she snarked back, meeting his gaze with a smirk.

“Someone’s jealous,” he teased, amused by her demeanor.

“More like disappointed,” she pointed out. “You’re a thousand-year-old Viking,” she emphasized, “Pining over some pathetic girl who doesn’t even want you.”

In an instant, he had her bent backward over the bartop, a hand squeezing tight around her throat.

“What did you say?”

“Y-you heard me,” she forced out, her throat constricted harshly in his grasp. 

“Eric,” Pam, his companion, and progeny interjected with a hint of boredom. 

With a scowl, he released Y/N, watching intently as she stood up and rubbed at her throat. 

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Y/N added meekly, before removing herself to the back under the guise of prepping the bar.

Pam sighed as Eric continued staring into the space Y/N had occupied. “That girl has been loyal and honest and by your side, since you hired her,” she defended. “Which, can I point out, was because you were interested and before you met Sookie.”

“I know,” he admitted in a sigh, glancing at Pam before returning to his seat. He had deflated, the momentary anger gone. Though he was still sour over what had happened, it wasn’t really what made him so upset.

“Then what’s the problem?” Pam asked, standing before him with her hands on her hips. Eric looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes and speaking in hushed tones, “I don’t deserve her.”

REQUESTING REQUESTS

NOW expanded into a oneshot: Jealousy

Forevers:

@sis-tafics

@lyarr24

@calaofnoldor

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67

@fangirlxwritesx67

@jarpad24

@flamencodiva

@donnaintx

@writercole

@waynes-multiverse

[veronica-17-hood]

such a genuine headcannon, that damian just loves jason’s and yours baby.

but this story needs to start somewhere, and that somewhere his damian’s behavior towards you.

everyone always thought he despised children of any age, including yourself, as he was very tough exterior really only soft when he came around you and that was due to the fact you gave off a very maternal aurora, one his mother gave off, a woman he respected.

but every other time, around everyone else, he’s tough, annoyed, and spiteful, all the time.

and seeing everyone shocked by damian being rather docile, sweet even around you the moment jason had introduced you, was a cultural reset.

so much so in fact, his siblings would bring you around each time they needed to ask him something, deliver bad news, or even just wanting to talk to him. they seemed it easier to hold a conversation when he was so snappy, and well he seemed to respect you enough to not be snappy when you were around.

but that was just the start.

damian really liked you as a big sister and enjoyed spending time with you often. so much so he eventually loved hanging out with jason as well over the other siblings, though not dick, everyone knew the relationship dick and dami had was much different than everyone else’s.

but he also knew how you and jason acted around each other, he practically lived at your shared apartment and he’s a born wayne, he’s good at picking up on things.

so when you and jay had shown up to family dinner, both of you dressed rather sweetly, homely looking, damian’s interest immediately peaked.

but none the less he tried ignored it, sat himself in between grayson and yourself.

he tried to ignore the way your hand was encircled jason’s under the table and the way your nose twisted up when alfred brought out the first course for dinner that night.

he tried to ignore the way jason’s knee was bouncing almost shaking the floorboards of the whole dinning room.

and he tried to ignore the aurora both seemingly to radiate off you and his bother  simultaneously, but he’s a hot headed wayne, he can’t ignore things for longer than he absolutely has to.

“todd.” damian roughly interrupted the conversation bustling around the table about your new job and bruce’s disdain for you not coming to work for him like he offered so many times.

and in usual demon head fashion, the youngest wayne waited until all eyes were faced on him, staring waiting for him to continue. “care to explain your nervousness?”

your boyfriend scoffed, a defensive mechanism he picked up from bruce when in the confines of his family. “i’m not nervous demon spawn.”

damian’s eyes turn to you with a slight jaw hung, his head snapping away from your worrisome gaze briefly scanning the table to see if someone had been missing, yet the table was full, alfred and his father sitting at the heads with the siblings scattered in between.

damian speaks your name, his gaze taking a final look around before settling his emerald green eyes on your own bare ones, flat. watching as your lips turn down into a straight lipped expression, one that’s unreadable. (that was a trick you learned after dating jason for two years now, how to turn your expressions off and on.) “why are you nervous?”

damian was getting frustrated the longer he attempted to study your features. you were completely flat, like a white canvas waiting for depth and dimensions. your eyes didn’t sparkle in the light though the chandelier of thousands of crystals shone right above them. your lips without a glint of upturn or frown, like a zipper being pulled taunt by its owner, though the owner didn’t seem to be anyone but yourself.

he couldn’t figure out if you were thinking or even reacting. it looked as if you were in slow motion, or like the rest of the family was frozen and damian was stuck within the mind watching like an outsider.

that was until jason gave a small squeeze of your hand, a movement he barely caught from the slightest downward peripheral view, and the world began to regain traction, color coming back into the faces of those looking around between the young boy and the person who changed jason’s life.

“i’m pregnant.”

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3 <3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3 <3<3<3<3

still after months, damian can’t believe the encounter, how you blurted out major life news without blinking an eye, in fact you stared at him the entire time your lips moved and people congratulated you and your lovely boyfriend, his big brother.

he was dumbfounded, pure shock, he in fact needed to ask dick multiple times if he had heard you right.

and on top of that he was already having conflicting feelings from having to be around roy harper’s daughter and hearing you may have one of your own almost frightened him.

what if he was scary? what if he couldn’t be an uncle like he has seen all two of his older brothers successfully do with Mar’i and one be the father of such a thing….a baby he means.

but that was months ago. (it still haunts him that he couldn’t figure it out, don’t let it fool you)

and now he is sitting in your living room making silly faces and noises directed toward the small baby, who’s curly dark locks spread across his knees as she gazes up at her uncle dami.

“one day” damian’s now very deep voice, seeing as he had successfully made it through puberty, sounded causing your daughters ears to perk up, eyes glittering in the light “you will be apart of the legacy, an heir to the-“

“that’s enough, give me my daughter back demon spawn.” jason was quick to interject taking two large strides in his direction. both of you had been watching from the corner of the hallway with such love in your eyes from the interaction, though as soon he damian mentioned legacy your lips fell play into a solid line.

it was rare to see damian so relaxed, so childlike even. and each time he was with your daughter he had a new found tinge in his emerald eyes, his whole demeanor would change, not an eye roll or insult was wafted in the direction of anyone.

in fact, jason joked often that it was like the plot of twilight, damian thought he loved you but in reality he was just gonna he up loving our daughter.

but thinking about it two long makes jason mad because we all know how the movie ended, and jason doesn’t need to think that his kid, demon spawn, brother was imprinted to his daughter.

jason was quick to grab his daughter, scooping her up into his large arms, her babble shooting a destined smile to his lips, turning up with a small coo in her direction.

damian was quick to his feet, reaching and snapping his voice in a low tone “todd give her back.”

“she is my child d.” jason kept his eyes glued on the curly headed girl in front of him, god how she looked like you. “i am allowed to take her from whomever i please, it’s law.”

damian did exude an eye roll at this, though you did too as you sprung from your place against the wall only to find yourself being wrapped in jason’s other very muscular arm, staring down at the most perfect human anyone had ever seen.

“well, technically yes.” damian shockingly agreed with his brothers dumb statement, hoping that his compliance would allow him to be able to hold his niece again, his goddaughter.

that had been an honor you and jay had come to a conclusion on when you were skyrocketed off the epidural, though jason didn’t really feel the need to question it or wonder if it was the drugs talking because in all honesty he wouldn’t want anyone else being the one to look after his daughter if he couldn’t.

damian may be young, but when he loves someone (which is the majority of his siblings even if he doesn’t admit it) he will do whatever for them.

and for your sweet babygirl, damian would lay his life down for her.

a proclamation he made the night you announced your pregnancy.

“don’t agree just to get to hold her again.” jason scoffed, he knew his tricks, all of them.

damian had decided you may need help once the baby was born, so when you lived at the manor for the first month he practically slept outside your door in hopes of being able to help the two of you in anyway.

he really did love his niece, though he never will truly understand why he had such a love for babies (a very hidden love that never really carried much past the age of three, though with your sweet girl he had a feeling this would be different)

(dick also was extremely salty because damian didn’t act like this with his baby girl but yet again damian didn’t act the way he does with you with kori.)

then you both moved out and he all but lived there, he there’s at least 3-4 times a week, which no one complains and your daughter does love him back, so in all honesty it hurts no one.

damian tested your name as jason handed your daughter back to you, hands extending reaching to hold your face. “didnt you have the meeting to attend? i can watch her.”

damian was trying so hard, it had been a few days since he last saw her. he had been away on a mission with bruce, a long mission that was tedious and annoying, and with jason constantly calling bruce for advice or just to talk about his daughter really made him miss his niece even more.

you sighed, knowing damian missed her and knowing you had a meeting that was very important for yours and jays new home that was underway, and even though jay wasn’t going he did patrol last night and looked like he was hit by a bus.

in fact jay was still in his uniform, his gloves rubbing small circles into the sides of your hips as his head rested on his shoulder watching his sweet baby girl being held by the truest form of a pleasing he could receive.

“yeah, i won’t be more than an hour.” damian smiled at this doing grabby hands for the small babbling 6 month old in your arms, whose eyes were bouncing around from person to person, smile planted on her lips as if it belonged there.

with a heavy jason on your back and a million plans running through your mind you began the pass over to the teen eager and willing to watch your baby, but your body pulled her back into your chest, a giggle fluttering from her lips to the air as you did so.

“but if you even mutter the word demon head, or heir, or assassins, or-“

damian had already seen this coming, the comment he made early wasn’t malicious, for him it was his way of life, being raised to know your place.

but your daughter’s place wasn’t his and he understood that now, he really did. watching both his older brother and his partner hold this angel of a daughter in their arms, he knew better than to project his own life into an innocents one.

he is still learning and he’s thankful you and jason will never hold that against him, that you understand.

“swear it.” he pounced on your words, stopping them before they could even finish leaving his lips, nodding feverishly.

you place both a kiss to your daughters head, jason leaning over and doing the same as damian reached his arms out accepting her with a smile and silly face waiting for her eyes to gaze upon.

and there jason and you stood, his body engulfing you from behind as you leaned into his physic, smiles painted to match that in damian’s face.

“god i love you” jason spoke, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your collarbone, “i love her, my angel” he spoke again, smiling now against your skin, sleepy heavy eyes barley peeking through to see his daughter reaching for the face of a boy he used to find an annoyance (still does from time to time), “thank you for giving me a life, a beautiful, perfect life, my darling.”

[pars-ley]

Try again

Pairing: Hoseok x Female reader

Summary: When your job lands you at one of the most famous Fashion shows in Paris, the last thing you expect is to run into an ex - the current most sought after model in the industry.

Genre: Exes to lovers / Smut / Fluff

Rating: 18+ (NSFW)

Warnings: Model Hoseok / Dior Hoseok / Unprotected sex (you know the dealio, wrap it when you tap it) / Ever so slight exhibitionism / Nipple play /

Word Count: 2.3k

Beta: @birbdae​ thank you for looking over it twice because I’m so extra (sorry) and thank you for all your help.

Notes: This is for my secret santa project with @thebtswritersclub​ for @yutasgalaxy​ really hope you enjoy! And I also used my square “Jung Hoseok” from my summer bingo card for the @bangtanwritingbingo​ event.

Taglist: @mwitsmejk​ @vantxx95​

The lights go dim and excitement blossoms like spring in your stomach as your eyes remain trained on the runway. Phone at the ready to take notes for this month's fashion article you are in charge of. 

The first model comes out and cameras flash wildly, illuminating the outfit. You scribble away rapidly recounting everything to write up later.

Dior's highly anticipated fashion show, one you had been eagerly counting down the days till. Flying out to Paris was the perfect opportunity for you to mark one destination off your travel list and you have not been disappointed at all. From the architecture to the food, you are undeniably impressed and living one of your ultimate dreams.

It's time for the most awaited outfit yet, everyone was on the edge of their seat poised. You look over at your photographer, he's in position and eager, looking ready to spring.

The lighting and music changes and out walks the model all in black. That's all the detail you notice as your heart stutters and stomach flips as your eyes shift rapidly to his face. 

Jung Hoseok. How did you not know he would be here? 

The cameras flash even more wildly, every photographer wanting to get the best pic of the most sought after model on this runway. Your hand however hovers over your phone, unable to scribble away like you were previously, too distracted by his general presence.

Swallowing the panic you feel rising into your throat you glance at your photographer, his eyes are already on you, pity creasing his brow but a message in his eyes that says "Focus on your job and get it together."

You take a deep breath and compose yourself, making notes on the outfit and nothing more. As soon as your eyes hit the harness stretched across his broad chest however, your legs squeeze together tightly, as not only do previous nights of passion flicker behind your eyelids but the temptation for one last night with him is almost too great to bear.

As you watch him strut down the runway, face impassive and professional, your heart pulls in a thousand directions. Memories of the few years spent together cloud your mind, taking you to another lifetime when he was yours and you were his - before fame, before everything.

You pinch the bridge of your nose hard, willing yourself to focus as you type wildly away on your phone, trying to stay focused.

The show ends a short while after your blast from the past's appearance and all you can think of is getting as far away from him as fast as you can. Before all your hard work of burying your feelings in an attempt to get over him is ruined by your self restraint.

As you head for the exit, a hand lightly grabs your arm. Turning you see a pretty young woman, a badge around her neck and a kind smile on her face, handing you an envelope.

"It's from Hoseok. He asked if I could make sure you get it." She said next to your ear so you could hear over the chatter of the other attendees.

You nod and mechanically take it. She's off through the crowd before you even get a chance to say thank you.

You head to the exit in a daze, clutching the envelope like it holds the answers to life's questions. As soon as you're out in the cool evening air you take yourself off around the corner of the building away from the scattering crowds. Your fingers fumble as you frantically rip at the envelope and open the piece of paper inside, instantly recognising his elegant hand.

Many love letters he would write to you with poetic words scrawled across the page, each sentence a meaningful lyric coming alive as your eyes danced across them with a barrier of tears waiting to fall. Those words tucked away in a box hidden deep in your wardrobe for those moments you wish to relive how he once felt about you.

You read and re-read the note, double checking the words are correct.

"I saw you as you came in, I always had the ability to find you in a crowded room and apparently that hasn't changed. 

I can't believe you're here. Please. Please, meet me at Guy Savoy at 7 o'clock tonight. I would love to see you and speak to you properly. I will book a table under my name. I really hope you show, you have no idea how much I've missed you."

That last line did things to your insides you weren't expecting. Your chest felt full and ready to burst open, love bleeding out of a fresh cut. Maybe you should just go back to your hotel and order room service, or go out for dinner with your photographer seeing as you were both here alone.

But you knew, even as you thought it, you knew you couldn't. You knew you had no intention of doing either. 

Folding up the note and shoving it in your pocket and went in search of your colleague to tell him you wouldn't be travelling back to the hotel with him. He wished you luck, even if there was a hint of apprehension in his tone, you ignored it and took a cab to the restaurant.

Sitting there waiting, your nerves were at their peak. You had chewed the skin along your fingernails until they were sore and you had now resorted to folding your napkin to make different origami shapes. Just as you didn't think your heart could take anymore, you picked up your bag but as you were about to stand and run away, you saw him. Walking towards you, shades on and the most familiar beaming grin that had always made your stomach flip. You couldn't help the pull of your lips, mirroring the same smile he wore.

He breezed up to you and wrapped you in his muscular arms, like a whirlwind his scent intoxicated you and jumbled your mind even further.

"You are a serious sight for sore eyes." he whispers in your ear before pulling away and pushing in your chair as you sit down in a daze.

"You're around gorgeous models all day, I doubt that." you reply, attempting to hide your blush.

He removes his shades and places them on the table, before pushing his fingers roughly through his hair. "Believe me, it’s not as glamorous as people think.”

There’s an awkward silence that falls on your table, with sly, shy glances from you both. 

“How’s it been? Your career I mean.” you blurt out, desperately trying to ease some tension.

He leans back in his chair and shrugs. “I can’t complain, at all. It’s going better than I could have dreamed.”

You nod, taking in how nonchalant he’s being. “I have to admit, I’ve been keeping track.”

“Of me?” he asks, shocked.

“Your career.”

“Really? I’m flattered.” his lips stretch into a toothy grin as a faint scarlet hue spreads across his cheeks.

“You should be very proud of yourself. You’ve accomplished so much, there’s no limit on how far you can go.” you find yourself saying all of this without meaning to.

He covers his face with his hands. “Ok, I appreciate this, really, coming from you this means so much, but I am more interested to hear about you.” he leans forward and places a hand on top of yours, the action causing your heart to soar. “What’s been happening with you? Are you still in the apartment?”

You nod as you take a sip of the champagne the waiter is pouring. “Yep, can’t bear to leave it, I love it there so much, a lot of memories too.” you add sneakily trying to gage his reaction.

His eyes soften. “Yes, we made a lot there.” his fingers entwine in yours, a movement far too comfortable for how long it’s been. "I miss it," he looks into your eyes so fiercely you're slightly taken aback. "I miss us."

Your heart inflates excitedly in your chest as butterflies swarm inside your stomach. But is this a good idea to rekindle an old flame, maybe there was a reason it was extinguished in the first place.

He senses your hesitation. "Are you with anyone?"

You shake your head. "No, I've dated but nothing serious. What about you?"

He laughs a bitter sound. "Same. I've not found anyone that could match up to you."

You hesitate again. "Hoseok…"

"Listen," he puts a hand up quietening you. "I know it was mostly me who instigated us breaking up in the first place but that is my biggest regret. I never should have let you go." he bites back the emotion in his words and swallows.

"But if you hadn't you wouldn't be where you are today." you add, squeezing his hand still clutching yours.

He makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. "I left my dream girl to follow my dreams and let me tell you, it wasn't worth it. If someone asked me to choose, it would be you. every. single. time."

He grabs your chair and slides it along closer to him. He reaches out to cup your face. "Please, let me come back." 

His plea does not fall on deaf ears. Your heart knows the decision it's made but you can't form the words to speak. Your libido overtakes the moment and you grab him by the collar of his shirt and crush your lips against his. The taste of him is so familiar and yet new at the same time. Sweet like butter as your mouths melt together as one. His arm around your waist almost pulling you off your chair makes you break away and giggle. The heat in his eyes is almost overwhelming, all your thoughts are no longer in your head but in your groin. He looks so good staring at you like that, like you are the reason for living, how could you not give into him?

"Come back to my hotel?" you whisper urgently.

He nods, throws some cash down for your ordered drinks, takes your hand and pulls you out through the restaurant. You jog along to keep up with his long legged stride. He flags down a cab and you're into it and moving off swiftly while his hands find you again. They roam your body, finding their way under your shirt and to your nipples. He rolls them gently between his fingers as his lips attach themselves to your neck.

His hand glides slowly along your thigh, up your skirt and just when he's about to reach the most desired area the cab stops abruptly, letting you know you've arrived. You groan with frustration but jump out, pulling him into your hotel and leading him up to the room. Your heart pounding so loud in your ears you can't think of anything, nothing but the taste of his lips or the feel of his skin under your fingertips and god, did you want to feel more. 

As soon as your door is unlocked you're on each other. Clothes can't come off fast enough and as they leave a messy path like a trail of breadcrumbs leading towards the bed. 

"God, I have missed you." he says as he glances down at your body before pulling you flush against him.

There's no time for sly touches or exploring, you're both too desperate to feel each other.

Your bare, naked flesh moulds easily together as he enters you, both of your moans echo out across the room. The feeling euphoric as it's what you know and yet what you are no longer used to. He moves inside you with a persistent, desperate rhythm as his hips wind in the most perfect way, hitting that sensitive spot every time and making your toes curl in consequence.

He looks down at you, a soft, determined gaze and says breathlessly, "I love you."

His words are your undoing, as you remember the sweet nothings he used to whisper to you while you were making love before. You unravel around him, blinded by pleasure as your back arches underneath him. He's quick to follow you as you feel his warm seed spilling inside you and you watch his face twist in pleasure, his eyes never leaving yours. The moment, so intense, almost too intense you had to look away.

Both of you breathless and riding on your high, lay back on the bed staring up at the ceiling. A thousand thoughts race through your mind as you panic that you've just made a huge mistake. What if his words weren't genuine? What if he leaves...again? What will you do then? You'll have to start over, all your hard work of pushing him aside.

Almost as if he can sense your rising doubt, his fingers entwine with yours, as he turns onto his side to face you, gently twirling a strand of your hair between his digits.

He watches you closely as if searching your thoughts, your eyes so open and vulnerable - letting him right in, wanting him to silence your fears.

He strokes your face and kisses you so softly your lips melt right into him. You want this. You want him. 

"Hey, I'm serious," he leans back, eyes burning into yours. "I want to come home to you. I want our life back, I want you, always."

Your panicking heart is soothed by his words and you relax and lean into his touch, your limbs softening against him.

"Please, can I have another chance?" he asks, so vulnerable and sincere any doubts are washed away in an instant.

"Let's give it a try." you reply.

He almost blinds you with his sunshine smile as he pulls you against him, his lips dancing happily with yours. And you lose yourself in him completely. You are his, utterly and completely. 

[vinnieswife]

Goodbye—>

[Vinnie Hacker]

Precaution->smut,dirty talk,and I think that’s all lmao.

It had only been a few weeks, but it seemed like months since Vinnie last touched you. You had some rough goodbye sex before he left for a short trip to LA, which left you with plenty of material to think about in your spare time. How could anything compare to his lips marking bruises on your neck?

As soon as he dropped his bag at the door, none of you wasted time instead. Both are tangled in bed before they can greet each other well. Their kisses were careless and desperate, but neither of them cared. You certainly didn't.

"I missed you a lot." You whisper while he’s nibbling your neck

His kisses started going down your collarbones leaving bruises and hickeys all over the zone until he reach your breasts,he prepare kisses all over them,under your boobs,after than he just take one of your nipples on his mouth and he begins to swirls his tongue around it,giving it little bites,while he was giving attention with his mouth to your nipple, his hand would pinch the other one given you shivers,at one point he just change and the one who was in his mouth is now being pinched by his hand,and the other is receiving attention from his mouth and tongue.

You can’t say No to him.

Not with his hands playing with your nipples like that.

His kissing went down again kissing your ribs and abdomen slowly reaching for your underwear,kissing all the waistband and your hipbones biting them slightly.

“Can I take this off?”he whispers giving a kiss to your abdomen.

Yo nod your head “words baby,you know the rules”

“Yes,take it off please”

His hand come to you panties taking them of and throwing them into a part of the room.

Vinnie is a tease,and he enjoys being a tease,he start kissing your thighs stroking them with his hand,his kisses go down on your inner thighs,but without touching the place where you need his the most.

Then he plants a kiss on your clit, suddenly his tongue was sliding through your folds. He groaned at the taste of you, he had never tasted anything like you and he found himself burying his face in your pussy, his curls tickling your tighs.

He massaged your clit with his tongue before sucking on your clit roughly.

"V-vinnie please" you moaned.

“look at your pretty pussy baby.....love it”

A smile broke out on his face as his fingers finally met your core, a large moan breaking through your throat. You can hardly control your moans as his fingers hardly pound inside of your pussy, waves of pure bliss engulfing you at the feel. His cold rings adding a level of chill, making you shake as he speeds up.

“always so wet for me right princess?”

He put his lips to your clit and suck roughly and just-you were ruined, Vinnie felt so proud of himself.

"Does that feel good?" He asked sweetly

You moaned his name again,a little bit louder this time grabbing at his curls pulling on them causing his to groan sending vibrations through your pussy,making you shiver.

A few more trusts with his fingers and you come undone in his face and fingers,screaming his name,your chest rising up and down so fast.

When he pulled his fingers out of you,he looks at them for a second before putting them into his mouth,right after he left a kiss on your overstimulated clit.

“Tasting sweet like always princess”he winks at you,making you blush,it don’t matter the times vinnie eat you out,he’s always making you feel a thousand of butterflies on your stomach.

He gets up walking to his nightstand grabbing a condom from the package.

He puts the condom on his cock,slowly teasing you,he troughs his head backwards groaning at the light pleasure.

He put his hand on one side of your head and the other one aligned his ereccion with your pussy,he plays with his tip putting it in and out lightly.

“Vin please,don’t tease I-“

And before you could finish the sentence he had already slipped his dick into your pussy making you squeal.

“I missed you Vin”you moaned.

"Missed you too, damn it. Fuck you feel so good."

His thrusts were deep, and while they hit you in the right places, he was too slow. You needed more, and you could tell he did it from the growls he let out when you moved your hips to meet his.

"Harder ,Vin please."

Any other night you would be ashamed of how complaining and desperate you sound, he probably tease you and make you beg, but not now. You didn't have time for his teasing. You've waited long enough to get it back and now that you had it you weren't going to be modest.

"I - shit, love."

You kept lifting your hips as he slowly pumped you, saying all the things you know he loves to hear. Things that never stop irritating you and are ready to explode.

As you accelerate and hear him drop a special message from Vinnie and you think he will finally give you what you want. Instead, you have a very firm grip on your hip that holds you to the mattress.

"Why?”You complain petulantly

Why was he stopping you? You hadn't seen him in what seemed like years, and you knew he needed you as much as you needed him.

"You have to slow down" he groans,slowing the pace.

You raise your hands to frame his face. He was so perfect like this, his lips red and puffy, his curls stuck to his forehead by the sweat.

"I do not want to".

Twist your hips again, but this time combine it with a good tug on his hair. It was something that you accidentally discovered that he likes and that you always took advantage of.

His eyes close for a moment digging his teeth into his already swollen red lip.

"Uuhh please, I do, I don't want to get there yet. I've missed you too much, I still don't want to,I just want a little more”

The truth was, you missed Vinnie and wanted him to last as long as he could.

So you pulled him close to you, his mouth returned to the hickey he had been working on, and you let him hit you slowly. It is slow and lazy, but very nice.

Your senses are full of Vinnie.All you feel is him and all you can hear is Vinnie cooing compliments in your ear. About how much he missed you, how good you feel, how good you are to him.

Accelerate just the smallest amount, it all gets so overwhelming, and you can feel that familiar spiral in your stomach tighten.

"Vin,I'm going,t-to-" You choke with a moan on his neck, squeezing his shoulders tightly.

"Yes? Will you come for me princess?come for daddy I know how bad you want it"

There is only a small hint of arrogance in his tone, as he kisses your shoulder.

He puts his hand around your throat squeezing lightly with his palm,you feeling the cold of his rings.

The air is getting hotter in the room and the chain that hung from his neck left soft caresses on your breasts.

His grip around your neck becomes tighter this time, encouraging his movements.

"Come with me," you whisper, pleading.

He growls at your neck, a little rougher than usual trying to resist, wanting it to last longer. He wanted to make you come at least once before he got one of his own release, but he’s losing his resolve.

You pull your face off his neck, forcing him to look at you, leaning his forehead against yours.

“You are mine princess”

“I’m yours Vin”

“What do you want love?”

"Vin,I want you to please."

It's the way you look at him that he allows himself to give in. He would always give you what you wanted and if you wanted to join, he would give it to you.

"Fuck baby."

He lifts your leg up and wraps it around his waist, and it's so deep you swear you see stars.

It's just a few more thrusts before you fully untangle yourself under him, scratching his back and tugging at his hair. He pushes you through your orgasm and you can feel his soon after.

He ditches the condom, comes back from the bathroom with a clean cloth to wipe off, singing your praises for how amazing you were.

He settled back on the bed, wrapping his arm around you, stroking your hair.

"Welcome home." you laugh, snuggling with him.

He looks at you with a cheesy smile and gives you a gentle kiss on the forehead.He start giving your back soft strokes and kisses on your head,both talked about his trip and about life in the future.

He has no idea what he had done in a past life to deserve you, but he thought he must have done something right.

[dynamoe]

Prologue | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 ← You Are Here | Ch 7

In the height of Network TV days, popular sitcoms would do a special "sweeps week" double-length episode filmed in an exotic, trendy location. Consider this chapter one of those. (It's skookum long, man.) ** read it on A03, it's easier on your eyes

THE STORY SO FAR: It's the mid 1990s. To get discounted "Boy Genius" admission to a prestigious Super Science conference, Billy shaves 10 years off his age, gets a bad haircut and wears very short pants. Now, they've finally landed in Jet City.

“How can they lose our luggage? That thing was the size of a frickin’ planet,” Billy spat, incandescent with rage, while storming out of the door from baggage claim of SEA-TAC airport.

“Our bag is not lost, it’s in St. Louis,” White said slowly and calmly, a practiced master in the art of Billy-whispering.

“A direct flight. Point A to Point B. No stopovers. HOW do they lose a bag?!” Billy muttered, still furious.

“They have our number at the hotel and they will contact us when they can get it back to us.”

“All our clothes were in there and all the ConjectTech merch and— ,” Billy suddenly remembered, “Our invention for our presentation was in that bag! Fuck!”

“It’s fine, Billy,” Pete rested his hand on Billy’s head with gentle pressure, “Do you want to ride around on the baggage carousel for a while until you can calm down?”

“Oh no! I have to keep wearing THIS,” Billy furiously indicated the hated and now extra-rumpled short pants suit he had spent an uncomfortable three hour flight pulling out of self-administered wedgies.

“Seriously, don’t worry,” Pete said with more force, tipping down his sunglasses, “All of the essential paperwork I have on my person and I always take the liberty of putting five-large in unmarked bills up where no security’s gonna look for it, if you get my meaning.”

Billy processed. “You put… five-thousand dollars in cash… up your ass?”

↓ continues under the fold ↓

“Yeah, while you were in the x-ray line,” White said casually, looking through his shoulder bag for the plastic raincoat, “I do it before I fly anywhere as extra insurance in case something goes down.”

Billy still processed. “Why would you… I mean, it’s not illegal to have $5000 in your wallet.”

“It’s a habit I picked up when I was flying down to Mexico every week when I was doing a lot of… recreational traveling,” White said, squeezing way too much sunblock onto his palm, “Just puts my mind at ease knowing it’s there.”

Billy stopped struggling with the ‘why’ and shifted to the mechanics “How big around is five thousand dollars? I mean, even if it’s only 50 hundred-dollar-bills coiled really tightly it’s gotta be a diameter of–”

“Let’s get a cab into town,” Pete slapped the oozing sunblock roughly onto his face, “Airports are depressing.” --

Bagless, they grabbed the first free taxi at the stand.“Take us to the SPACE NEEDLE!” demanded Pete.

“Can’t do it, man. It came over the radio–- bomb threat,” the cabby said, “They evacuated and closed the ‘Sneedle down for the rest of the day.”

Pete and Billy looked at each other. That was unexpected.

The driver continued, “People are always trying to blow up the Space Needle. Like, pick somewhere else to blow up for once, y’know? They never actually do it either. Just... lame...”

Is there somewhere else you could take us? We’re never been to Seattle before,” Billy asked, almost apologetically.

“Yea, sure. The Fremont Troll. The Fremont Rocket. The Fremont Lenin statue,” the driver suggested, “I live in Fremont so I kinda know it best.”

“How about where they throw fish?”

“Pike Place Market? Laaaaaame,” the driver dismissed.

They both felt very small and uncool. Schooled by a local.

“Actually though, you should go to the Gum Wall. It’s under the market,” the driver concluded, pulling onto the highway, “It’s a wall... covered in gum.”

“Oh,” said Billy, confused, “Sounds... irreverent?”

“It fucks the paradigm of what an ‘attraction’ is, dude. The semiotics of tourism, like, blown to shit.”

“Lemme guess, you’re a grad student,” Pete leaned forward.

“Naw, man. I got my Masters in Philosophy two years ago.”

“And he’s driving a cab,” Pete emphasized to Billy with heavy ‘I told you college doesn’t matter’ overtones. Billy was more interested in where this philosopher-driver was taking them. Pete leaned back and looked out the windows as they drove. Overcast. Misting. Dark.

“Hey Billy, what time is it?”

Billy checked his watch, “Bit after four. Three hour flight. One hour of BULLSHIT!” Pete rested his calming hand on Billy’s head to stave off another rage attack.

“Jeez. Looks like it’s already, like, dusk out there,” Pete said, admiring the haze.

“We changed latitudes. Higher on the globe, the sunlight is at a more oblique angle,” Billy shrugged, unimpressed by planetary tilt’s effect on climate.

"Nah, It’s more than that,” Pete turned to the cabbie, “Is the sky supposed to be that color?”

The cabby stuck his head out the window, “Yeah, seems normal. The weather’s pretty much always like this, y’know. Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, yeah?”

“I thought it was supposed to rain a lot in Seattle,” asked Billy casually, as if he hadn’t memorized the annual rainfall of every American city.

“It rains, yeah, but mostly it does this,” the cabby gestured to the sky, “It’s just sort of blah, y’know. No sun. Just gray all day.”

Pete looked like he was about to cry, “It’s so freakin' beautiful.”

“It’s a wall. Covered in gum,” Billy stated the obvious, “This is disgusting. Why is this an attraction?”

“Not every city has Carnegie Hall, “ Pete shrugged with his back to the wall, looking up at the sky. They were in a sunken alley, outdoors but lower than street level as the lay of the land sloped down towards the waterfront.

“We should have gone to see the Fremont Troll,” Billy complained, studying a particularly grody chunk of spearmint smeared into the form of a smiley face, “People put all this gum here waiting to go see an improv show, can you believe it?”

“Believe the gum or believe anyone would wait in a line to see improv comedy?” asked Pete, yawning.

Billy looked down all 50 feet of gum-covered brick and shuddered. He pointed back up at the stairwell to the street above, “The market’s just over there. We could buy some clothes to wear until we get our luggage back,” Billy suggested,

He turned to where Pete stood a minute ago but nobody was there. Billy looked down the alley and caught just the sight of Pete disappearing around the corner, onto the Pike Place Hillclimb down to the piers.

Pete pulled off the plastic rain poncho. It wasn’t even misting anymore. Didn’t need it. He dropped on the stairs without stopping. Actually, he didn’t need his hat either. Dropped. He had a better view of the sky here, walking down the terraced stairs.

The sky was half-lit and overcast, the air was clammy, and he was just walking outside unprotected like it was normal. He kept going down these stairs under an overpass, passing quaint shops full of old tourists just disembarked from an Alaskan cruise ship, stretching their sea legs for a stopover and buying casually-racist native-themed knick-knacks for their friends back home.

No sunblock. No hood. No face cover. No umbrella. No nothing. Don’t need my arms covered. (Jacket dropped, too.) He got a strange look from a retired couple in matching windbreakers he passed going the other way. Fuck ‘em. They don’t know how great this feels. He defiantly stripped off his fuzzy cardigan, balled it up and lobbed it behind him.

“Hey! Mmmphh!” shouted a stranger who just got served a faceful of thrifted angora.

“Sorry, man,” Pete whiffed casually, but he was already on the move down the steps.

I can just... walk around with no real destination in mind, just being freed to go wherever I feel like. It’s like being in an open-world video game but real life, Pete theorized. Like King’s Quest VI but you don’t actually do any rescue-the-princess missions but go out and feed the ducks instead, maybe get a coffee. NPC, solve your own problems, I’m gonna sit on a bench and chill.

He could just make out the edge of the waterfront another flight of stairs below him– a street, the pier, a cruise ship in the bay and the far shore of Bainbridge Island. He bet they’d look even better without his sunglasses. Yeah, he didn’t need these either. He pitched them over his shoulder

“Hey, those are prescription. You need those to see, idiot,” Billy shouted from 3 staircases behind/above him, hopping down two and three steps at a time to catch up. His arms already full of Pete’s cast off laundry, he strained to pick up his glasses with his foot.

“It’s not sunny, Billy,” Pete shouted back, smiling like he was three-glasses-in wine-drunk, “Why would I wear sunglasses when it’s not sunny?”

“Because you’re mostly blind from lack of pigment in your retinas, bonehead,” Billy dropped boring reality like a hammer, cranky at being forced to be Pete’s clothing mule for whatever this disrobing euphoria was.

“This city is the true homeland of the Albino Nation,” Pete declared.

Billy looked behind him at a clump of tourists congregating at a beaded necklace kiosk. “Those weren’t albinos, they’re just Norwegian,” Billy dismissed.

Pete’s pupils were pinholes as he unbuttoned his 1970s cabana shirt with the pink squiggles on it.

“No, like, I’m home. THIS was where I was always meant to be.”

“The Aquarium?” Billy pointed dumbly. The Hillclimb ended at Pier 59, the Seattle Aquarium.

“Not specifically.” Pete mumbled as shrugged off the vintage shirt and pitched it into the bay. Billy watched it fall. Down to one layer.

“I’m not going in after that,” Billy said flatly.

Pete ignored him and kept walking along the waterfront.

“Whatever this is a demonstration of is counterproductive to us not having our luggage. We don’t need to lose MORE clothes when we only have what we’re wearing,” Billy punctured.

“I’m free. I never want to leave here. I don’t need any cover,” Pete whipped off his t-shirt and waved it over his head, “YEAAAAAH!” A ferry in the bay tooted at him.

“Aw, c’mon,” Billy whined, “after I just said—”

Pete pitched the shirt into the bay and darted for a bench in front of the Ivar’s Seafood Bar. He stood on it and threw his arms wide to the sky. His putty-colored rubbery torso stark against the purpley-gray clouds above him.

“C’mon, White. Put your clothes on,” Billy tutted, “People are trying to eat and your nipples are putting them off.”

“SEATTLE WEATHER IS THE GREATEST!” Pete screamed to the ocean.

“People are staring,” Billy said, embarrassed. He suspected Pete was suffering from some kind of lack-of-sun-stroke; he couldn’t cope without being boxed in by oppressive sunlight.

Some dick in the crowd pitched a full cup of Ivar’s Famous Clam Chowder at Pete, splattering him from neck to navel. At least it was the cream-base chowder with bacon bits not the tomatoey one so it matched his aesthetic.

“I AM NOT DETERRED! STILL INTO SEATTLE!” Pete continued screaming while dripping.

The dozen-odd pier seagulls caught the scent and stopped picking french fries off discarded trays and rummaging in garbage cans.

"It’s kinda damp here," Billy noted, feeling the air.

"You’re just too used to the desert," Pete muttered out of the side of his mouth, nearly drowned out by the beating of wings and a chorus of shrieking.

The gulls started swarming around him, dive-bombing to nip clammy nubs clinging to his skin and pants.

"You made your point, whatever it was. Can we please go to the hotel now?" Billy begged, protecting remaining eye from gull-strike.

"NO!" Pete screamed into the ocean over the bird riot clawing at his chowder-speckled carcass.

As if on cue, the drizzle started, growing quickly to a full-on pissing rainstorm. The pier cleared. People ran for cover. The gulls dissipated.

Billy pulled the rain poncho out of the pile of Pete’s discards and draped it over himself.

Rainy clam chowder residue ran down his torso onto his jeans. Angry red beak gouges and bleeding scrapes peppered his pallid skin. His waterlogged stringy hair stuck to his face.

"Ok, fine. Let’s go to the hotel."

The hotel was mid-level at best but to Billy who had spent every night sleeping on a brick of disintegrating upholstery foam claiming to be a cabin-bed, the standard room was filled with inconceivable luxury.

As he bounced on one of two (two!) king sized beds in the room he screamed, “This is so sweeeeeet!”

“You know you don’t have to be 11 once I close the door, pally,” Pete said wearily, slipping a ‘a do not disturb’ door hanger over the knob.

He sniffed at the T-shirt he was wearing, hastily bought from a tourist shop on the pier. Day-glo salmon or orcas or something leaping in front of the Space Needle and mountains, already dotted with dark patches where he had bled through. He couldn’t tell if he could still actually smell clam chowder or it was just traumatic sense-memories.

Billy rolled side to side and then front to back over the mattress, calculating, “You literally could fit nine of me on this.”

“Great, I’ll collar whatever cloning lab guys are at the science conference and tell ‘em to lay off the sheep and get busy on those Quizboy nonuplets.” White deadpanned.

He sat on the edge of one of the beds, “I can’t get that excited about a bed unless it’s got a breakfast tray of Eggs Benedict or a passed-out teenage girl on top of it.”

Billy stopped bouncing on the mattress, and looked stern, “Ew, White. No!”

“I didn’t really mean it. I was just trying to get a rise out of you,” White waved off, “Poached eggs are nasty.”

“We have about an hour before the Conference Cocktail Reception,” White unpacked his carry-on of the essentials: blow dryer, hairspray, curling wand, surge-protector, “We should get cleaned up.”

“I call the shower first,” Billy yelped, running for the bathroom.

“Certainly, you get the first shower. Gotta get all that clam chowder some yutz throw on you washed off, right?” White called after him, “Oh wait, that happened to me, you selfish little pick.”

“Oh my god, feel these towels, White.” Billy’s eyes grew even wider, “This is luxuriously PLUSH. Like... the pelt of a mythical animal made of absorbency.”

“Shave your legs again. You’re showing,” Pete demanded, Billy scowled.

“I oughta get a shirt printed -- ‘My mother shot me up with $20,000 worth of hormone therapy and all I got out of it was extremely aggressive leg hair,’” Billy muttered.

“I’ll do your hair and make-up after. Throw me the suit, I can steam it while you’re in there.”

“Only if you promise me you won’t throw it in the bay.”

--

“I feel like one of those inbred dogs at the Westminster Kennel Club show,” Billy griped as White hovered around him with a blowdryer and curling wand.

“Toy breed or non-sporting?”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah. It’s just like school picture day. Remember? Didn’t your ma brush your hair hard to get all the knots out, even though it hurt your scalp real bad, bad enough for you to cry and even a whole bottle of No More Tears didn’t make a difference? And she said she’d burn you with her cigarette again if you didn’t stop simpering like a little girl?”

Billy stared blankly for slightly too long. “… No?”

Pete shrugged and curled the edge of Billy’s bangs under. He was going for the complete mushroom cap effect. Sleek, symmetrical and very “I swear I’m genuinely an actual child” chic.

“I hated School Picture Day,” Billy remembered, “The photographer was always pissy because he had to reframe his shot when I showed up even after finding two phone books for me to sit on.

“But now you have those precious memories forevah.”

“I managed to get a picture of me flipping the bird into the group photo of the Varsity Quiz Bowl team,” Billy perked up, “They printed that in the yearbook!”

“Little victories matter the most,” Pete nodded.

--

“Remember, you’re eleven,” Pete muttered under his breath as a final director’s note as they entered the Conference Welcome Cocktail Reception.

Billy picked out their name badges from a tray near the entrance, handing one to Pete and attaching one to his lapel.

“I know!” Billy snarled, “I’m in character. Get off my back. Why aren’t you ‘in character?’ You’re supposed to be my loyal sidekick.”

Pete turned icy, “I’m not you freakin’ sidekick”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m a ‘parent and/or guardian.’ That’s what the application said.”

“Check your con badge, numbnuts.”

Pete looked at the laminated card on his lapel for the first time:

MR. WHITE (Sidekick to Master Billy Quizboy, B.G.)

“You little shit.”

“I put the name you wanted, Harvey,” Billy burbled in a stomach-churning sweetie voice.

Pete hissed through gritted teeth, “If it wouldn’t put my back out I’d come down there and slice your friggin’ ear off.”

“But you can’t so you won’t,” Billy teased with a cruel smile, “Get your master a drink.”

Pete walked off and stood sourly in the bar line. “But you can’t shssccho you won’t. Meh!” he mimicked to himself, making sure his Billy impression was extra slushy and dumb-sounding.

“Oh, hello,” said an elderly scientist standing next to him in line. Great, now he had to make small talk, too. The duffer leaned in to read White’s badge.

“With what do you assist Master Billy?” an elderly scientist asked, benignly.

“Oh, whatever he demands. I owe my existence to him," Pete rattled off in a high nasal whine, letting his pupils drift in opposite directions, "If I displease him he shows me the others he made. He keeps them stacked like cordwood in the walk-in freezer, waiting for activation to remind me I can be replaced. He took away our pigment so we can not escape into the ‘brightworld’ to mix with the real humans.”

The elderly scientist looked confused.

“I would kill for Master Billy,” White said blankly, his colorless eyes staring into infinity.

The scientist wandered off, waiting for a drink didn’t seem worth it.

Billy found Pete in the crowd, holding two drinks, “What the fuck are you telling the other people about me? I just got the stink eye from the world’s foremost expert on microbial biodegradation”

“Just how I dress you and change your bedsheets whenever you have ‘a rough night’ and ‘piss the bed,’” Pete air-quoted unnecessarily.

“Jesus, White! What the hell's wrong with you?”

“Ooh, canapes,” Pete made a bee-line for the cater-waiter.

Sticking close to the hotel bar, the two looked over the half-full welcome reception. Billy nursed a rocks glass full of apple juice as Pete gave him the breakdown of the room

“The scrum of buzz-cuts and clip-on ties in the corner-- Aerospace. Probably locals. That table of the Eddie Deezens – software executives. Reassuring success hasn’t changed them since they look the same as when they recruited at my college ten years ago. Except now they all have Rolexes.”

White pointed around the room “Academic. Academic. Government. Private Sector. Don’t Know. Private Sector. Military.”

Billy followed his finger “Everyone here is, like, super old.”

“Welcome to Super Science,” White said through a mouthful of bacon-wrapped dates, his eyes never leaving the cater-station by the kitchen door, “Ooh, stuffed mushrooms are coming.”

Billy climbed on a banquet chair to get a better view, “There’s probably more green people than black people in this room.”

“Not a lot of girls either,” White glumly observed, spraying canape crumbs out of his mouth.“Weird that no other ‘boy geniuses’ took up the half-price deal, huh? ”

Billy shook his head, “There are five other Boy Geniuses registered for the Conference. Two are flying in from Asia and haven’t arrived yet. One is missing the first day of the conference to compete in a robotics tournament that overlaps. One is an extreme fundamentalist and refused to enter a facility where alcohol is being imbibed— that’s his mother saying that, not him. He’s up in his hotel room. Can’t speak for the last one. Total mystery.”

“Fun bunch,” White muttered sarcastically, “Aren’t there any Girl Geniuses? We could breed more of you.”

“Geniusing is a Boy’s Club. Maybe in a couple decades they can get out of the Girl Detectives ghetto but the infrastructure seems just as sexist as when I was coming up the ranks.”

Billy sipped his drink and looked across the room, “That old creep in the wheelchair keeps staring at me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. He probably just wants to fuck you.”

“WHAT!?”

“It’s a room full of old weird scientists,” White shrugged, popping another mini-taco in his mouth, “Swing a cat, hit a pedophile,”

“Master Quizboy? A pleasure to meet you,” a suave gentleman extended a hand, startling Billy who now was imagining kid-touchers with tenure slinking around every corner.

“Dr. Alonzo Superwash, chair of the Conference Board. This is my graduate associate, Ms. Krutzburg, who will be assisting me for the conference.”

An unsmiling dark-haired young woman nodded in acknowledgment.

“Um, hello. May I introduce my associate, Mr. White,” mirrored Billy, not wanting to open the “sidekick” can of worms in front of strangers. Pete was tunnel-focused onto the cater-waiters. Billy nudged him to bring him back.

“Oh. Right. How are ya?” Pete inelegantly got in on the hand-shaking. He finally clocked there was a woman in their midst and his eyes lit up.

“Master Quizboy, could I trouble you for a minute of your time?” Dr. Alonzo gestured into the crowd, indicating he wanted to break away from the scrum.

Billy hopped off the chair, internally cursing his luck that he wasn’t going to witness the epic foot-in-mouth embarrassment sure to follow when leaving White alone with the doctor’s young female assistant to deploy his charm offensive.

Billy knew he should feel guilty about the glee he felt watching Pete fail with women but made him feel better about never making an effort himself. Billy had literally never spoken to a woman who wasn’t his mother, a quizbowl judge, child prodigy pageant administrator or working in the service industry while he interacted with them. He was too self-conscious of his limitations to even try.

Pete White was a fascinating case study -- with his mouth shut, he was tall, cool and handsome (after the initial color shock wore off) but within thirty seconds of Pete talking, most people-- regardless of gender-- developed an instinctive revulsion. The harder he tried to be charming the faster the dislike took hold. Billy witnessed total strangers take a swing at White, or denounce him for crimes he had nothing to do with. He was the universal recipient of “How Dare You, Sir” speeches, whether they were applicable or not.

The Germans had a word for someone with a punchable face (“Backpfeifengesicht”), but Pete White was the only man alive with a punchable personality. And his accent certainly didn’t help.

Billy made a note to study the phenomenon. Was it micro-expressions triggering a universal, inborn behavioral reaction? Maybe it was chemical, like a kind of reverse pheromone? Could they synthetically recreate and bottle it? Were there industrial applications?

Dr. Superwash had walked them just a dozen feet into the crowd, talking the whole time, which Billy only caught half of, so lost in his analysis of his best friend’s repulsiveness. Billy could still see the back of White’s head and the grad student’s face from where they were standing. He could tell just from White’s hand gestures he was name-dropping celebrities as the polite attention strained, wavered, and then fully drained from Ms. Krutzburg. She was transitioning to the ‘outright hostility’ phase right on schedule.

“Going going gone,” Billy sighed, before realizing Dr. Superwash was still talking.

“—our residency program in Geneva. Would you say?” Dr. Superwash paused for response.

“Sorry. I missed part of what you were saying. It’s noisy down at floor-level.”

Superwash chuckled benignly, and leaned in, “Of course. I should have considered that.”

“I was inviting you, Master Quizboy, to join our international pilot program for the up and coming generation of Super Scientists. I believe I’m not overstating it to predict we’re on the cusp of some big discoveries in fields as varied as subatomic particles to human genetics.

“That’s what I’m planning on getting into after I finish medical school,” Billy jumped in, neglecting to mention he was attending the esteemed University of the Breakfast Nook, daily lectures by Professor Library Card, “I mean, genetic research and neurology. Both, y’know, for personal reasons.”

“The Human Genome Project has only just begun but it’s doing wonderful things. And I’m sure you could take some time off from your studies to get some hands-on experience.”

“That program sounds incredible. I don’t know what to say.”

“Our foundation has partnerships with several campuses doing research in Germany, Japan and here in the States: locally at the University of Washington, a few sites in Texas and of course, at MIT.”

Billy stifled a squeal of delight. He could actually go to MIT! Better late than never.

“It can’t have escaped your notice that the entire field is at a crossroads. Super Science is ‘graying’ and losing focus in a post-Cold War environment. We need to support and highlight promising young talent.”

“Young, right.” Billy repeated. He forgot this was a scam. He was a liar. He was at the conference under false pretenses and these were not real offers he could actually accept. He turned away to not have to look Dr. Superwash in the eye, only to catch the glance of that old creep in the wheelchair across the room, staring at him intensely.

“We’re having a panel tomorrow on youth outreach, I’d encourage you to attend.”

“Dr. Superwash, do you know who that man is?” Billy asked, pointing at the wheelchair across the room..

“Considering your background I would have assumed you had met Prof. Putnam already.”

Billy’s good eye nearly popped out of his skull. Shit.

“I would be more than happy to introduce you, if you like.”

“No. Please don’t. I mean, don’t trouble yourself. That’s ok. I have to go. I’ll consider the offer but, yeah, I have to leave quite suddenly right... now,” Billy stumbled backwards before he bolted.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

–

“Of course, no one had checked the server connection so I said…”

Billy clipped alongside Pete in his best this-isn’t-running-just-walking-casually-as-quickly-as-possible scramble and stage-whispered, “We gotta go. We gotta go. We gotta get out of here. Like, now.”

“Where’s the fire?” White jovially, throwing in a fake laugh. He threw an arm around Ms. Krutzburg's shoulder who visibly shuddered with revulsion at the liberty taken, “We’re all just getting acquainted.”

Billy pointed accusingly at Ms. Krutzburg and bellowed, “You’re off the hook. Scram!”

She let out a sigh of relief, shrugged White's arm off of her and disappeared back into the crowd.

“D’aw, Billy!” White groaned, “I was really getting somewhere with her.”

“Halfway to another black eye,” Billy leapt onto a chair to get into his face, “I’m serious, White. We gotta GET OUT.” Billy was foaming with panic as he jerked his metal thumb behind him.

White looked back where Billy came from and saw the palsy-faced wheelchair geezer inching their direction, dragging an oxygen tank and a net of breathing tubes. Pete didn’t wait for the whole story – there’s no way this ends well – he just bounced. Skidding in the entryway, Pete whipped his centrifugal momentum into a slide through the door with Billy hot on his heels.

They ran but the old man in the wheelchair followed. Slowly. Steadily. With seething hatred pouring out of every inch of his desiccated 90-year-old face.

“We need distance. We need higher ground. We need camouflage,” Billy strategized.

Just jogging the distance between the hotel bar and the front door had totally spent White, left bent over and wheezing asthmatically on the sidewalk 10 feet behind him, “What are we running from?” he shouted.

“Long story, just don’t let him catch up,” Billy shouted back without breaking pace.

“Why am I running away? He doesn’t even know me.”

“Because if Prof. Peebo Putnam catches me, he’s going to murder me with his bare hands and you don’t know how to work the coffeemaker back home.”

Whatever advantage youth gave them was undercut by Quizboy’s piddling stride length and White’s near-religious devotion to the art of laziness and, of course, the old man having wheels and a battery-powered motor.

All of downtown Seattle was built on an incline. It's practically as hilly as San Francisco but they didn’t make a whole “thing” out of it. The slope probably was worse for the wheelchair but it wasn’t doing Pete any favors.Despite having a head start and years of practice of running away from threats, Pete was barely keeping up with Billy’s hustle.

“Go for the Tsutakawa!” Billy yelped.

“The what?”

“That Jetsons-looking sculpture fountain thing” Billy pointed at a mid century modern piece of public art in front of the Central Library.

Billy leapt into the fountain’s pool and clambered up the base, grabbing for the central stalk to pull himself up higher into the bronze sculpture like monkey bars.

“Aw, I’m gonna get wet again!”

“Do I have to cover you in clam chowder to motivate you?” Billy’s head popped out of a hole in the side of a blobby modernistic bronze form punctured with oval openings to whisper-shout, “ MOVE!”

Pete stepped reluctantly into the pool and onto the first level of the fountain. He grabbed Billy’s extended hand. Billy pulled and Pete kicked off, climbing higher into the sculpture – off the fork-tines of the lower crown shape into the open-sided egg spheroid and out over the lilypad platform on top.

“George Tsutakawa's fusion of Asian, Native American, and Abstract Expressionist forms is deeply evocative of the Pacific Northwest,” Billy tensely whispered as the whine of Putnam’s electric motor grew closer and louder before zooming past the fountain entirely. He had overshot by five blocks at least when Pete lost his balance and fell backward into the reflecting pool with a splash.

Putnam’s chair spun around, searching for the cause of the noise but saw nothing. He started rolling away slowly.

Pete couldn’t hold his breath underwater any longer and exploded from under the water’s surface in a white arc. Peebo’s wheelchair whipped around again to face him but only saw a drenched albino he didn't know gasping for air, sitting up to his elbows in a pool.

Peebo’s chair rotated away from the fountain again, Billy took the window of opportunity to slide off the lip of the fountain and into the pool. Finding his feet, he shook off as much water as he could and then darted up a side street.

“Jesus, Billy, don’t leave me, “ White whined.

Being over 90 hadn’t dampened Putnam’s hearing and he revolved again back to see the wet albino stagger up a side street, presumably also in pursuit of Billy Quizboy (née Whalen). Facing a sleep incline, Peebo shifted gears on the electric wheelchair and started to climb.

Pete padded up behind Billy at a wavering pace, alternately surging and falling behind. Pete wasn’t much of a “running” guy. Or a “physical activity” guy, if he was truly honest.

“Billy!” he shouted, breathing ragged and hard.

“What?” Billy shouted back

“You know I respect you as (pant) a full human being and would never (wheeze) consider you “less-than” based on your (gasp) size or disabilities?”

“I never assumed you would,” Billy shouted, confused, “Why bring that up now?”

“I wanted to establish that ON RECORD,” Pete wheezed and panted harder, “In advance of what I am about to do.”

He took a bracing breath. He scooped up Billy by the knees, threw him over his shoulder like a bag of laundry and leapt on top of a dumpster.

“What the fuck?” Billy screamed, dangling upside down over White’s shoulder, “Don’t drop me! Don’t drop me!

“I’m being heroic over here and your screaming is really putting me off, fella.”

Pete looked at the nearest building – a 19th century wreck, probably abandoned and condemned. A distant sound of a jackhammer echoed from within. He shimmied up a sturdy drain pipe for a few feet before he could just reach the bottom-most rung of an ancient rust-pitted fire ladder. He gripped the ladder and used the last of his panic-strength to heave both of them onto the fire escape. From there they rolled into the building through a half-open window.

They could hear the grinding gears of the motorized wheelchair from their point of departure below before it was drowned out by a repetitive pounding and feedback whine from above them. Pete collapsed to the floor, dropping Billy on his head.

The pounding was even louder now. “We go up through the interior stairs, out onto the roof. Jump to the next building over, go down those stairs and come out…” Pete mapped out their next steps, still collapsed on the floor with eyes closed. Pound pound pound.

Billy shook White's shoulder. White sat up. Billy pointed. A pause in the pounding.

A group of stoned-looking, long-haired dudes in flannel with guitars were staring back at them. The building wasn’t condemned. It was a rehearsal.

“Sorry,” Billy murmured apologetically, “We were just in the neighborhood.”

“Don’t mind us. Just passing through,” White staggered to his feet, “Don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”

They hustled out the door as quickly as they could. The band looked at each other and just shrugged.

The drummer counted them in to start the song over but White leaned his head back in the door,“The bassist’s E is flat. Give that peg a little twist there, pally.”

Billy grabbed him and yanked him back out into the hall.

It was getting late and Prof. Peebo Putnam had probably rolled back to the hotel to wait for them. They still had a room and they were still attending the conference, but going back to the hotel was a risk. They walked a dozen blocks south, just to be sure they were out of Putnam’s orbit. Billy had a destination in mind and consulting his hand drawn-on-graph-paper map, he led Pete to an unmarked door in an industrial district.

“Are you sure we should be here? Doesn’t look too ‘tourist friendly,” Pete asked over the sound of his shoes crunching on broken glass. Broken car windows or spent syringes were equally likely.

“Sorry grandma. I don’t go to a new city just to see if the Olive Garden here has the salad bar in the same place as the one back home,” Billy mocked, throwing his whole body weight into attempting to wrench the steel fire door open.

Pete resigned himself and opened the door for him.

“I got this tip off ALT.CITY.SEATTLE.REAL_SEATTLE. It’s not some Disneyfied rip-off for boring suburbanites. This is the genuine authentic stuff,” Billy declared snobbishly, as if Americanized chop suey was the greatest problem facing them today, not homicidal-minded old geezers with wheels.

A dark, windowless room. It smelled vaguely like formaldehyde. There was a pile of shrink-wrapped counterfeit (maybe?) designer purses stacked in the corner of the room for some reason. A huge aquarium in the back of the room seemed to be filled with more slime than fish but was wired some kind of color-shifting neon that cast green, blue then purple light around the room.

The two approached a sour-faced eight-year-old-girl sitting at a cash register. She looked up briefly from her math homework and then nodded in the vague direction of a table. “Ba! Người da trắng!” she shouted.

Billy and Pete grabbed a plastic covered table decorated with a jar full of chopsticks, an ashtray and a bottle of murky sauce with no label.

“Anh ơi!” Billy shouted aimlessly towards the back of the restaurant.

A man in a shiny silk shirt rose from the only other occupied table. He and the other men appeared to playing some kind of card game that also involved mahjong tiles and huge wads of cash thrown on the table. The others looked over to glare at Billy for interrupting them. The card-player, now acting as waiter, approached the table-- a tough wearing sunglasses despite the darkness of the room with recently inflicted knife-scars on his cheek-- and made a face that dared them to ask for anything.

“Great, now we’re going to be murdered by a Triad gangster” Pete panic-whispered, “We shoulda just gone back to Ivar’s Acres of Clams!”

Billy shushed him.

“Anh ơi, cho con hai chai bia một tô phở” Billy said rapidly before turning to Pete, “How hungry are you?”

“I could eat,” he shrugged, his panic dissipated by confusion.

“Một tô bún thịt nướng.” Billy said, pointing at Pete.

“Phát âm của bạn thật tệ,” the waiter grunted, looking slightly amused as he wandered off in no real hurry.

“You speak Vietnamese?” Pete asked, baffled.

“Not really. I picked up a couple phrases. Enough to get by,” Billy shrugged, “You know like ‘Good morning,’ ‘How are you,’ ‘My father is the British ambassador and will not pay the ransom if I am bodily harmed.’ “

“‘I did not conspire with the Cần Lao Party to rig the 1955 referendum for Ngô Dinh Diêm.’”

“Sure, phrases like that. Basic stuff.”

“Cậu bé xấu xí điếm và ma cô của anh ta muốn một ít bia!” Billy heard the waiter yell at the kitchen staff.

He didn't bother to translate that one for Pete as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, still soggy from the dip in the fountain but smokable. Billy pulled the ashtray towards him.

“I can’t believe you’re smoking,” Pete shook his head.

“I’m under a lot of stress,” Billy defended himself, “I think you’d understand that after today. Actually, I can’t believe you’re NOT smoking.”

“You’re studying to be a doctor. You gotta know better.”

“All doctors smoke and the ones that don’t are alcoholics,” Billy stated flatly.

“Smoking is so dumb.”

“I’d take that more seriously from a man who didn’t spend a decade shoveling 70% of the output of Columbia up his nose.”

“What do you want me to say? It was the ‘80s. I worked in TV and I was a radio DJ in LA before that. I was paid in cocaine. It was just part of the culture,” White waved him off and threw to profile, “It would be an insult to GOD not to use this for blow. This is a gorgeous coke nose. I was made for snorting rails.”

Billy rolled his good eye.

“God, I wish we had some cocaine right now. You’d really love it. It’s so… great,” Pete got misty, “Ask your scary gangster friend if he has any hookups for blow. What’s Vietnamese for an eight ball? I’ll ask myself.”

Billy folded his arms. Pete got defensive.

“I have been stone-cold sober since the day you moved into the trailer,” White protested, counting on his fingers, “No blow. No smokes. No hash. No go-pills. No dust. No rock. No H. No booze.”

Billy raised an eyebrow as the waiter dropped a couple of sweating bottles of Tsingtao on the table

White reneged and grabbed one, “Within the rage of standard deviation it rounds down to ZERO.”

“The only time I got to leave my desk at work was for ‘smoke breaks’ so I just picked it up.” Billy explained, stubbing out his cigarette and slamming the bottle on the edge of the table to pop the bottle cap, “To be sociable.”

“You’re not twenty-one yet. You shouldn’t be drinking that,” Pete noted. Billy really wasn’t 21 but at this point what age he was or wasn’t seemed just academic. And confusing.

“I know, I know. I’m eleven,” Billy said hoarsely. He had sweated off all the make-up in the chase. His worry-lines, eye-circles, stubble and acne re-emerged, making him the most haggard-faced 5th grader who ever lived, “But I’m also smoking, swearing and talking about scoring you an eight of a phiện trăng, so a beer with dinner is a drop in the bucket.”

The waiter breezed by and indifferently dropped a bowl of phở and a grilled pork chop over rice noodles on the table with a clank.

“At what point do you want to tell me why some old fart on a hoveround chased you 20 blocks with murderous intent?”

Billy grimaced as he slurped a seemingly endless mass of noodles out of the broth.

“Holy shit, this is really fucking good,” Billy lit up-- the happiest he’d been all day, “Nice one, USENET.”

“You’re stalling.”

“No, try it. This is fucking incredible.”

“I will, but I still want an answer,” Pete warned, scooping up some of Billy’s phở.

Billy sighed, “I’ve told you before I was kind of a shit when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there, remember?”

“No, before that. When I was a kid kid. When I really was a boy genius, not whatever this is,” Billy waved his chopsticks over his soggy conference disguise.

“And I absolutely was not a shit when you met me, by the way,” Billy added defensively. White just shrugged.

“The old man in the wheelchair was my agent. Or maybe was he a manager? He was the guy my mother had hired to make me famous.”

White didn’t like the acid Billy spiked the word ‘mother’ with. White had never met Billy’s mother. She wasn’t chaperoning him at any taping of Quizboys, which seemed odd but he wasn’t paid to care about that and he had better things to snort at the time.

“That guy Putnam stuck to us for years,” Billy fumed, “I blamed him for making me do all the stupid contests and publicity stunts. I thought if he went away... if it went back to just my mom and me our lives could be normal again.”

Billy sucked down another tangle of noodles and swallowed hard. It was hard to “eat angry.”

“He absolutely was banging my mom, too,” Billy seethed, “So I got rid of him.”

“You got rid of him?” Pete tilted his head, his mouth stuffed with rice vermicelli.

“I blew up his car,” Billy said.

Pete choked, “You blew up his car?!”

“And I burned down his house,” Billy scratched his head, straining to remember the details, “One of his houses. I flooded his other one with raw sewage.”

Pete looked perversely proud of his junior partner, “You did all that?”

“I was trying to kill him,” Billy said icily, “I didn’t, obviously.”

“No kid likes mom’s new boyfriend but that’s… intense.”

“After that he just left without saying goodbye,” Billy said, staring into his phở, “Mom was pretty upset but I assumed she’d get over it.”

“People tryin’ to murder us is, like, almost routine now,” White considered, “But, y’know, this is the first time I think the guy actually has a real justification.”

Billy sighed, “But Putnam wasn’t the real problem. With him gone I found out Mom was calling the shots the whole time. It just got worse. I finally figured out what she was doing. Doing to me, I mean.”

Pete looked worried and asked cautiously, “What was she doing?”

Billy looked up, “Are you sure you want to hear this? It gets pretty fucked up.”

AO3 | Prologue | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 ← You Are Here | Ch 7

Author Notes

Uploaded this chapter to A03 for easier reading

The Tsutakawa fountain in front of the Central Library is way too small to for two people be able to hide in it. In reality, it's like the size of a large birdbath.

I like the idea Billy learns dozens of languages, enthusiastically tries them out and speaks all of them near-unintelligibly. (I have him speaking slushy Spanish in another story.)

Seattle today has as many pho shops as coffee bars. My historical consultant said, unlike other cities with big Vietnamese communities, Seattle had no Vietnamese restaurants in the '90s. (The details of wandering into a restaurant that's clearly not meant for you {with self-appointed Anthony-Bourdain-Jr. foodie dudes insisting on going into them} is based more on New York Chinatown experiences.)

[wondernimbus]

breaking point — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: draco reaches breaking point.

a/n: i wrote this for @nebulablakemurphy​‘s writing challenge !! congrats again and i hope i did your prompt justice <3 the prompt was “i had no choice” and will be in bold (also can i just say this was so sad to write .. draco just needs a hug my dudes)

[Y/N] knows every inch of Draco better than she knows herself. Knows all of the quirks that he thinks are flaws, all his little insecurities, his habits and his innermost secrets and all the worries that plague his head even before he tells her about them.

But she doesn't know how long he has been like this. She notices, though, that the light in Draco's eyes has begun to dim; he is losing some of his color, the bags under his eyes deepening, the frown lines drawn across his face growing more prominent. The worst part is that she doesn't know exactly when this started—how long he's been like this—but one day she knocks on his dorm room, when all of his roommates are home for the holidays and only a few Slytherins have chosen to stay.

When she pushes open the door, Draco is alone, hunched over at the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, bowed down like he's trying to become as small as possible.

She stops in the doorframe. 

"Draco?" she says softly, rapping her knuckles against the open door as she steps inside the room. It's dark. The lanterns are off. "Why weren't you at dinner?"

Draco doesn't respond. Only as [Y/N] draws nearer does she realize that Draco's hands are trembling in his hair, and [Y/N] panics a little, feels her breath catch in her throat with dread as she pauses halfway to him.

"Draco?" she asks quietly, tentatively, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to touch him—

But then Draco recoils like he's been struck, standing up so suddenly [Y/N] lets out a quiet little gasp.

"Get out," he whispers, eyes wide but not quite meeting hers, and his voice—he doesn't sound like himself. Doesn't look like himself, either; he looks more tired than ever, like he's aged a thousand years older, his face gaunt and sunken. [Y/N] stares at him, at a loss for words.

Since when had it gotten this bad? She'd known for a while that something was up; something he wasn't telling her. Something she couldn't figure out. But she thought she was helping him by not bringing it up and by giving him space.

Guilt blooms inside of her chest. Should she have tried harder? Found out what exactly it was so she could help him properly and not just sit by the sidelines, thinking that she was helping, but in reality she'd watched him get worse?

Like a ticking time bomb, she thinks to herself. And I just let him explode. 

She takes a hesitant step forward, hand held out before her as she says, gently, (and yet there is only so much she can do to mask how her voice shakes), "Tell me what's wrong, Draco."

"Get out."

"Darling," her breath rattles in her throat. "Let me help."

"GET OUT!"

[Y/N] pauses several feet away from him. He has whipped out his wand, pointed it directly towards her, and [Y/N] freezes in place.

"You can't help me," Draco says, breathing ragged. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," his voice cracks, his wand shaking in his hand. "Get out. Please."

[Y/N] inhales sharply. But even then, she doesn't stand down. She isn't afraid of Draco; she could never be. She should see a dangerous boy with his wand pointed at her, capable of doing anything he wants to to force her out of the room, but instead all she sees is Draco. The boy she has loved for so long, who, for some reason that she doesn't yet know, is in so much pain.

"You're not going to hurt me," she says. There isn't a sliver of doubt in her voice.

Draco makes a frustrated noise, his lips curling in a way that lets [Y/N] know he's trying to hold it together. "You don't.. you don't know that. You don't know what I'm capable of, [Y/N]," he says, and it should sound threatening, but all she hears is anguish. "You don't know what I've become."

[Y/N] risks another step closer to him. Five feet away. The hand holding his wand stays up, pointed directly towards her, but she knows, the same way she knows that the sun will rise and fall everyday, that Draco wouldn't hurt her.

"Draco," she begins, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Just let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."

And then Draco does something that knocks the breath out of her throat—roughly, he pulls up the sleeve of his robes, revealing the skin of his left arm.

A tattoo of a skull, with a serpent protruding from its mouth.

The Dark Mark.

And all of a sudden everything makes sense.

[Y/N] blinks and forces herself to breathe again, mind untangling bits of logic, stringing them around her throat, pulling tight. "Draco—"

"I had no choice!" he screams; a guttural sound. Something so pained it doesn't even sound like him anymore. But he doesn't look or sound or seem angry at her—no, the way he tugs at his hair in frustration, the blazing look in his eyes all suggests that he is more angry at the world than anything. Angry at himself, even. But not at her. "He said he'd kill everyone I loved if I didn't take the bloody mark—he said he'd murder my entire family—and [Y/N], he knows you, I don't know how but he knows you and he—"

A cut-off sort of choking noise leaves Draco's lips. "He said he'd force me to watch you die."

“Oh, Draco.”

She rushes forward just as he sinks to his knees, face contorting as he begins to cry—heartbroken sobs that surge straight through the spaces between her ribcage and sink into her heart. But the pain she feels as she wraps her arms around Draco and holds him close no doubt pales in comparison to what he feels.

"It's okay, it's okay," she whispers into the crown of his head, letting him cry into her shoulder. And it hurts, how this is the only thing she can do to help him, and it's excruciating—it's torture, how his chest lurches with the force of his sobs, how he tries to stifle the whimpers that leave his lips and he keeps choking out apologies as though this human show of vulnerability is something to be ashamed of. And it's not. It's not.

“It’s fine, Draco,” she murmurs, raking her hands through his hair, pressing comforting little kisses to the top of his head. “It’s okay. You can cry. It’s okay.”

She can't rid him of all his pain. God, she'd love to—if she could only reach straight into him and pull all the pain out, even if it means she has to bear the weight of his burdens herself, she would do it. With zero hesitation.

But she can't, so all that she is left to do is hold Draco as tightly to her as she can, his tears soaking into her collar. At some point—she doesn't know exactly when—she realizes that her own cheeks are wet, and that salty taste on her tongue is likely her tears, but this isn't about her. This is about Draco and that blasted mark on his arm and everything that he has been forced to endure. So she presses her lips together into a tight line, holding back her own sobs, silent tears dripping down her chin and onto Draco's hair.

She holds him until she loses track of time, sitting curled up on the floor as she waits for Draco's sobs to turn into quiet sniffles. When they do, she feels his shoulders sag as the fight in him dies down, replaced only by weak sort of defeat that has his head hanging low, leaning still on the crook of her neck, shoulders hunched over.

[Y/N] stays silent. She knows this isn't about her. So she waits, rubbing circles into his shoulder blades and carding her hands gently through his hair because she knows that it calms him. She waits for two, three minutes, but she doesn't count the seconds as they pass; just stares out the window of the Slytherin dorm room, watching the water ripple just behind the glass.

And she waits.

And waits.

And she knows she will wait for as long as it takes.

Finally, after some time, Draco makes a move to lift his head off of her shoulder. She lets him, slowly, hands sliding from his back to cup the side of his face as he draws away to look at her.

Draco stares at her through bleary eyes, and oh—[Y/N] feels more tears stinging at the back of her eyes, burning at her throat. He looks even more tired from up close. So, very tired. His eyes are swollen and his cheeks tinged pink from all the crying, but what has [Y/N]'s tears spilling over again is that sad frown on his face—and [Y/N] realizes, with yet another horrible rush of guilt, that this isn't the first time she has seen this look on Draco. It's the same expression he has worn every single day that [Y/N] convinced herself wasn't something to worry too much about, but now she sees it clear as day: that look of resignation, as though he's been through so, so much and just wants to rest. To have it done with.

So, so tired. And so sad.

And it's that sudden realization—that she might not know Draco as well as she thought she did, that he has been here, struggling, all of this time, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders without anyone to help him bear it, and [Y/N] has never realized—it's the realization of that that has her whispering, "I'm sorry, Draco."

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against his, the tips of their noses just brushing as she closes her eyes and rakes in a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, darling. I should've known. I should've helped sooner."

But Draco is patient and loving and good, so much more than she deserves, so all he does is shake his head and say, quietly, "It's not your fault." Her eyes are closed and she misses the way Draco is staring at her—like he always has, like the entire sky is opening up after weeks and weeks of rain. "It's not your fault," he repeats, voice scratchy, but he finds the strength in him to lift a hand and cup the side of her jaw, thumbing at the tears that have fallen on her cheeks despite the ones on his own.

[Y/N] swallows down the lump in her throat, squeezes her eyes shut for a few more moments, then opens them again. She pulls away and moves her hands to hold his lower arm—the one with the mark—and gently, she makes Draco hold the tattoo up between the pair of them. Her breathing is still erratic, but she says, her hands cradling his arm, smoothing over his skin, "This doesn't change anything."

Draco's eyes swim with all sorts of conflicting emotions—anger and guilt and disgust and sadness—as he stares down at the mark, lips turned down into a frown.

"Draco, listen to me," she whispers, urging him to look at her. "If you think that this stupid mark makes you any less of a person, you're wrong. You are still the same boy I fell in love with. The same boy I'm still in love with, and that's not going to change, Draco, do you hear me? You're—" she pauses as a tear slips down her cheek and onto his arm, landing on the Dark Mark. "You are brave," she says, voice laced thick with emotion as her grip tightens. "And I love you."

And Draco is still scared. Still so terrified of what's to come. The mark on his wrist isn't going away—no amount of regret will ever have it fade—but sitting here, sharing the same breath as the girl who makes his heart feel like everything is going to be okay, no matter how bleak things may get, no matter how hopeless life may seem, Draco allows himself to think, even for a few, meager moments, that everything is going to be okay.

taglist:  @dancing-in-the-moonlight3 @kalimagik @alittletoomanyobsessions @hariosborn @obsessedwithrandomthings @emcchi @sxrensxngwrites @enjoying-fantasyland21 @masterofthedarkness @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @bforbroadway @hufflefluff-writer @summer-writes @chaotic-fae-queen @firewhisky-kisses @dracosvftie @heloisedaphnebrightmore @idont-knowrn @dreamer821 @peachesandpinks @slytherinprincess03​ @chocfrogaddict @nebulablakemurphy​ ​

[melissa-kenobi]

1: congrats on 300!!

2: may I request anything fluffy with Wolffe. Maybe some cuddling or taking a nap together?

Hiii Alyssa 💕

Hehe thank you so much sweetie!!! & yesss of course you can!! I live for soft, fluffy Wolffe, I absolutely adore this man (he is by far my favourite clone, I shouldn't have favs - I know, I'm sorry!!) Also I don't even know if this is fluff... 😑

"Wolffe?"

"Hmm..." The man in doubt let out a low hum of acknowledgement, eyes downcast on his holopad, reading through the thousands of reports that had happened in the past 2 weeks. The past two weeks, maker knows what the 104th had been upto for him to have gathered such a plethora of reports. Stuck in his own little world of reports, he had accidentally ignored what you were saying only to look up and see you stood infront of him, your arms crossed with a slight frown on your face.

Raising an eyebrow in disbelief, you snatched the holopad from Wolffe before locking it away.

"Y/N! What are you doing? I've got th-"

"I don't care. You've been at it the entire day, and I mean the entire day! Have you even had a look at the time?" You grumbled in annoyance, your boyfriend was tiring himself out, his armour was scruffly thrown on the chair, his usual styled hair was curling out in all sorts of places. But worst of all were the bags under his eyes. His cybernetic eye watched you carefully, while his normal golden brown eye watched you tiredly. You could see the exhaustion creeping up on him as he let out a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes harsly.

"Wolffe..."

"I know cyar'ika, I j-just need to finish these!" Wolffe protested as he got up from his seat, ready to get his holopad back before you stood infront of him and blocked his way with a hand on his chest.

"No."

Wolffe blinked back at you a few times. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean no. You are not going back to that holopad for the next 8 hours at least." You guided him to the bed that was located on the left side, roughly pushing him to sit down. "Don't make me force you Wolffe."

"Y/N, cyare, you don't understand. I need to finish them. The General needs them for tomorrow." Wolffe sat up in bed, getting ready to stand once more.

"Maker help me, I swear to you Wolffe if you do not go to sleep right now, I will use the force to make sure you do." Before Wolffe could get another word in you cut him off. "And besides, I can talk to Master Plo about this."

Wolffe let out a little growl. "No. Do not talk to the General about this."

"I will if I have to." You retorted, standing your ground. Eyes glaring at his as you crossed your arms, a frown etched onto your face, ready to keep Wolffe in that bed at all costs.

"Cyare..." Wolffe spoke softly, his eyes tired as he watched you. You shook your head in reponse.

"Please Wolffe. Just for an hour or so, I can't- you look exhausted, hell you look worse than you did when you had your cybernetic eye done." You pleaded, cupping his tired face in your hands.

Wolffe gave you literal puppy dog eyes, and if you weren't such a stubborn woman, you would fallen for them. "Please cyare? For me?"

Wolffe let out a deep sigh, the minute you had touched his face he was a gonner, and then you had to go and use his words agsint himself. "Only if you stay with me..." He murmured in a small voice, looking down at your robes as he fiddled with them.

Your heart clenched in adoration for this beautiful man, he was still so shy with you after being together for a year or so. His fingers twiddling with your robes as you placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "Of course cyar'ika. Just let me get out of these robes and I'll join you."

Wolffe let out a little grin as your lips left his skin, and watched you quickly change out of your clothing before tucking yourself into his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you even closer to him as he snuggles into the crook of your neck.

"Y/N?"

"Mmhh..."

"Did you set the alarm?"

"Of course I did. We'll be up and ready before you know Wolffe." You whispered, leaning up to kiss his lips.

Little did Wolffe know you planned to let the man sleep til dusk.

***

Hours later, well 7 hours later to be exact, Wolffe had woken up. His eyes fluttered as he rubbed them, not feeling you beside he abruptly sat up, scanning the room for any sign of you. He saw your Jedi robes were still here, lightsaber too, but your brown cloak was gone, as were your boots.

Where on earth could she have gone?

Wolffe muttered to himself, he would have called out for you, commed you even but he didn't know where you were. Slowly but surely he pulled himself out of bed, tracing a hand over where your body laid with him, the mattress was still warm, so you couldn't have left that long ago.

Pulling on a shirt he slipped out from under the covers in search of his girlfriend only to open the door and bump straight into her.

"Y/N!" He yelped as he held onto your waist for stability, eyes frantic as he finally focused on who else was stood there. "General!"

"Commander. You look well rested, I'm glad you've been taking care of yourself." General Po commented as he took in Wolffe's dishevelled state.

"I-i er. I was jus-"

"Do not worry Wolffe, there is no need to explain yourself. I'm glad the reports have been done and on that note I will leave you to be."

"Padawan?"

"Yes Master?"

"Do not forget what I said." You nodded in response, a small smile curling onto your lips as Plo walked away. Wolffe guided you back into the room, sleepy eyes watching your every move as you took off your boots and joined him back in bed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked, squeezing his cheeks before placing a soft kiss directly on his lips.

"What was the General doing outside? What did he mean by the reports are all done? Why did he question you?" Wolffe let out in one entire breath, softly grabbing your arms too look at him. "What have you done?"

You blinked rapidly before letting out a little giggle. "I've never heard you talk that fast before! Can you do it again?"

"Y/N."

"Don't worry about it Wolffe. It's sorted, and no I didn't tell him about the work piling up but I did mention that we have other people having their jobs for a reason." You smiled before lying down in bed and pulling the covers up to your chin, then covering your face.

"I- I don't- Why would you do that for me?" Wolffe asked as he climbed over you, settling his legs on either side of your body while he pulled the covers down from your face.

"Because I love you silly. And I don't like seeing you stressed." You smiled as he leaned forwards, placing his forehead against yours, his tanned hands cuping your face. "Plus you have this cute little wrinkle that appears in the middle of your eyebrows and it makes you look old."

Wolffe let out a small huff before rolling his eyes kissing you deeply. His lips against yours as he sweetly conveyed his love for you into his kiss. "I love you too cyare. So much. You have no idea how grateful I am for you."

"I know sweetheart. That's why Master Plo gave us the day off." You giggled. "We can finally spend some time together."

You swore you'd never seen Wolffe grin so hard before he flopped right onto your body, wrapping his arms around your waist as he lay on your chest.

"Thank you Y/N."

***

[tennessoui]

1. Soulmates AU please! It is definitely my guilty pleasure trope

hello im only three months ish late maybe four but this is also 3.4k long and it's just wild i mean we're talking soul mates, superheroes, rushed world building, superhero names this is a trip this is something i wrote after waking up from a four hour nap this ever had a chance and also it's sad

1. Soul Mates (+ 42. Star Crossed Lovers)

“You shouldn’t have come,” Obi-Wan says harshly, pulling the children--they’re just goddamn children--into his apartment and slamming the door behind them. “Did anyone see you?”

The children--all four of them--stay quiet. Obi-Wan wants to wring their necks. He knows why they’re here. He’d rather them die on the streets than suffer through what they’re obviously here about.

But if that were really true, he would have just left them on his doorstep.

“Did anyone see you?” he asks again.

“Not that we noticed,” one of the girls in the middle says. Shili, dressed in a blue and white striped sensible jumpsuit and sporty cape. The leader of the new generation of superheroes and she sounds like she hasn’t even hit puberty yet.

Obi-Wan is suddenly very, very tired.

“Kam,” Shili gestures to the person next to her and a little behind, a tall boy with a helmet covering his face and white and blue armor covering the rest of him, “says he didn’t pick up anything with his sensors. We were safe. We’re not trying to get you caught, sir. We just need to talk to you.”

“You could kick us out,” the other girl points out, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s not even bothering to wear a domino mask, but Obi-Wan doubts very much he’s looking at her real appearance. She’s Mirial, of course.

Which makes the other boy in a padded white and orange suit Mando. Four of the fifty or so remaining Jedi superheroes are in his house.

Obi-Wan sighs and turns to pad down the hallway. “Shoes off,” he calls behind his shoulder. “And does anyone want any tea?”

“No thank you,” Shili responds politely, falling into step behind him.

“Sit,” he tells them roughly when he notices the four of them standing awkwardly in his cramped dining room. “Sit down.”

He puts the kettle on anyway, and bangs around the cabinets for a few seconds to find an unopened bag of chips and a sleeve of probably stale cookies.

He doesn’t have much else to offer them though. Not now.

Weren’t you the one always telling me to eat my vegetables? A laughing voice murmurs into his ear. Look at you now.

Obi-Wan has to stand for a second in his small and dirty kitchen, chips clutched in one hand and cookies in the other, and breathe for an impossibly long moment.

This is why he had not wanted to ever see another Jedi in his life. All they brought with them were questions and ghosts.

Obi-Wan has enough of those as it is.

The kettle goes off and he pours the hot water into his mug. The cowardly part of him that hasn’t faced a fight in ten years now wants to wait here until the tea has finished steeping and then think of a thousand other excuses to not ever leave the kitchen again. He's good at thinking of excuses. He calls them reasons and lives his life with them.

But he has always known someone would eventually come looking for answers. That had always been one of the prices he knew he would eventually have to pay.

He notices immediately upon entering the dining room that they’ve saved him a seat, if it counts as saving someone a seat when they’ve rearranged the chairs so one is on one side of the table and the other two are squeezed opposite it.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought snacks to my own interrogation,” he says blithely, depositing them onto the table in front of the children.

Kamino stares intently at them for a second, and then nods once to Shili, who reaches out to open the bag of chips. In a show of good faith, she takes one and eats it. Obi-Wan can’t see her eyes underneath the white lenses of her domino mask, but he’s quite sure she hasn’t stopped looking at him once.

“Are you sure you do not want tea, now we have established I am not going to poison you?” he asks, crossing his ankles and taking a sip from his own mug.

“It’s a bit too warm out there for hot tea,” Mirial says disdainfully, looking at her nails. “You know, what with the world on fire.”

“But I’d take an iced one, if you have it,” Shili leans forward.

Obi-Wan pauses, drink halfway to his mouth.

He sets it down gently on the wood of his table. “Ah. Going straight in, aren’t we?”

“There’s not much time for anything else,” Mando says, and at least he sounds a bit apologetic.

“A weighty statement from someone who can manipulate time itself,” Obi-Wan hums.

“Only for a few seconds,” Mando mutters behind his helmet, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That’s because you don’t have much in the way of training, young man,” Obi-Wan tells him gently with a hint of steel behind it “Back in my day--”

He cuts himself off. He doesn’t know why. Clearly, they know who he used to be. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here. He’s really just delaying the inevitable, but his throat feels tight. This truth, so long unspoken, is hard to drag into his mouth. And yet, every second he doesn’t speak it, it’s bashing itself to death against the backs of his teeth.

“Would you like us to tell you what we’ve found out about your days?” Mirial asks, looking up from her nails. “Would that make it easier for you, Ilum?”

“Meer--” Shili starts to say, reaching out to touch the girl’s arm, rein her in, but it’s too late.

The planes of Mirial’s face change and shift and suddenly for the first time in ten years, Anakin Skywalker is sitting across from him. “Would you like to talk about the old days, or would you like me to talk about the old days?” Mirial in Anakin’s smooth baritone asks.

It’s cruel. It’s so cruel that for a second Obi-Wan wishes his heart could just stop from the pain of it all. “Please put that away,” he tells the tabletop coldly. “And please. Do not call me that.”

“Meer,” Shili murmurs, and there’s a shift in the air.

When Obi-Wan looks back up, Mirial is back to the way she always appears in press releases, green skin and all. “That was a decent impression,” he tells her. She bristles at the perceived slight, but he holds up his hand. “But when I knew him, his eyes weren’t gold. They were blue.”

“Mustafar has had golden eyes since he joined the Imps,” Mirial argues back in a way that reminds Obi-Wan of another young teenager, who never could learn how to take criticism well.

“And he was someone else before then,” he tells the girl. “He had another name and he had a mother and he had a soulmate and a--fiancee and everything.”

His hands have started to shake, so he clasps the mug tightly, though it burns him.

“Tell us,” Shili insists forcefully but compassionately. Obi-Wan had wondered before why they had chosen to make the girl whose only ability is to fly the leader of the newest Jedi team, but it must be that. It must be her compassion. “Please. You’re the only one who can.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “I know. I’m the only one who is left. But if I am to demask myself, I will not do it to a table of strangers.”

The children turn to look at each other. Kamino cocks his head at Shili, who inclines her own head. Mirial shrugs. Mando shakes his head once, but Shili seems to override him, because she turns back to Obi-Wan and takes off her domino mask.

“My name is Ahsoka Tano,” she says, stumbling over the name. Obi-Wan wonders how many times she’s unmasked herself before. “Or Shili.”

She nudges Mirial, who sighs. “I’m Barriss,” she tells him grudgingly.

Kamino takes off his helmet to reveal a strong-jawed boy with a blond buzzcut. “His name is Rex,” Ahsoka says. “He can’t speak except through minds.”

Obi-Wan blinks in surprise at this. He had known that Kamino had an advanced sense of the senses, could tell something’s molecular makeup just by looking at it, could smell a gas leak from two miles away, etcetera, etcetera, but he hadn’t known the boy could communicate telepathically as well.

“And I’m his twin,” Mando sighs, taking off his own helmet and revealing a startlingly similar face, marred by a scar just across his temple. “Cody.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Obi-Wan tells them, drumming his fingers on the table. “You know already. I fought under the name Ilum. I could--”

He searches for words to describe his own powers, and settles instead on a demonstration. With a flick of his hand, the liquid in the mug rises and freezes into a miniature wave, suspended in the air.

He lets the ice drop into the mug, and inclines his head to Ahsoka. “Iced tea?” he asks wryly.

“Tell us about Mustafar,” Mando demands. What a heavy thing to carry, Obi-Wan finds himself thinking. The knowledge of all that time.

What Obi-Wan wouldn’t give to be ten years younger again. Not to even change anything, though he would be stupid to not try to. But to just enjoy the moment for what it had been in the end: just a moment.

“We didn’t call him that then,” Obi-Wan sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “We called him Iego in uniform, and Anakin in civvies.

“He was...radiant. In battle and off the field. I was the leader of our team for six years until Anakin came along. And I just knew as soon as I saw him that he would take everything from me. But he wouldn’t have had to take it. I would have given it to him right then.”

“I didn’t think he was that attractive,” Ahsoka mumbles, and then slaps a hand over her mouth as if afraid she’s spoken out of turn and ruined the story so completely that Obi-Wan won’t say anything else.

Instead, Obi-Wan laughs but it doesn’t sound much like a laugh at all. “Well, to each is his own, of course,” he says when he thinks the hysteria has worn off. “And finding out he carried my soul mark certainly helped.”

The room is blissfully silent, which Obi-Wan is beyond thankful for. He just wants to let those never-before admitted truths hang in the air, just for a few more seconds. He almost wants to say them again actually. Anakin Skywalker is my soulmate. Anakin Skywalker carries the same mark I carry, and he always has.

“But…” Barriss says slowly, “But Mustafar’s soulmark is on his neck.”

“It’s not,” Obi-Wan murmurs, staring at the wall behind their heads. “What he has on his neck is an ice burn scar in the shape of a hand. In the shape of my hand. His actual soul mark is on his mid-back, right over his spine.”

“You tried to kill your soulmate?” Ahsoka gasps, looking horrified.

Obi-Wan smiles with no joy behind it. “I tried to save the world,” he corrects her gently.

“You said earlier…” Cody speaks up. “That Mustafar--that Anakin had a fiancee. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Obi-Wan admits. “I never told him. I...couldn’t. I wanted to wait I suppose. I. Well. My soulmark is identical to his, but it’s on my thigh. And. You know what they say about a soulmatch whose marks aren’t in the same spot.” “Star crossed,” Ahsoka whispers.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirms. “I decided to wait. I was a few years older than him, he had so much to learn, he needed a friend more than he needed a soulmate. I had a long list of reasons, all as iron-clad as the next. But they were excuses. I was afraid. This man, my soulmate, could control fire and sunlight itself. He burned with passion, shone with power. And I...I was cold. Too pragmatic, too quick to criticize when he needed praise. The marks were just marks. Maybe they fit together, maybe they matched. But I was terrified that we wouldn’t.

“And by the time I thought to tell him, he came to find me instead. He was in love, he said. He had been seeing a girl for months and was going to ask her to marry him. And I suppose I must have asked about his soulmate, because he told me he would rather never know his soulmate, if knowing meant losing her.”

So. So Obi-Wan had let him go, though that part doesn’t make for a good story. He had distanced himself as much as he could get away with, which is not much really, seeing as how Iego and Ilum fought best when they fought together.

But in the end, his heartbreak had been too much, even for someone as cold as Obi-Wan had been known to be. He’d put in for a temporary transfer. A remedial medical leave, a Jedi-sanctioned sabbatical so he could ostensibly connect with himself and his powers. Nothing longer than a year.

You’ll miss the wedding, Anakin had told him, heartbreak shining in his own eyes.

But his heartbreak had been nothing compared to Obi-Wan’s, and so he had left. He had needed to. It had felt like rending his soul in two, but he had.

Two weeks into his stay at a different Jedi training base, Obi-Wan had died in an explosion. “That hadn’t been Jedi sanctioned,” he tells the children in front of him wryly. “We thought it was an accident at the time, but there were too many coincidences. Too many casualties.” But Obi-Wan’s death had been the only casualty Anakin had felt. It hadn’t mattered that someone had managed to restart his heart only a few minutes later. He had died. He had died and Anakin had felt his soulmate die. He had burned his fiancee in his own uncontrollable agony. She had not survived Obi-Wan’s death, even though Obi-Wan himself had.

“I...I don’t know what happened. Still. It’s been years and I have thought of little else. She may have been standing too close to him when it happened. Or...the house may have caught on fire and she was trapped inside. Or...I don’t know. I don’t know,” he spreads his hands palm up on the table and looks at the faces of the children.

He sighs and continues. There is so little left in the story now. “The Jedi Order decided to tell the press that there had been no survivors, though there had been a few. We couldn’t know if the Imperials were behind the attack or not, so we had to be careful. The survivor’s families were told, and their soulmates. Officially, I had no family. I had...no soulmate. They didn’t tell anyone I had survived. Ilum died in that explosion. Still to this day, he's dead.

“Anakin had always been absurdly powerful...and dangerous. He’d killed the love of his life, had felt his soulmate dying, and then...heard that I too had died. The first two had destabilized him, but my death and the Jedi Order’s staunch rejection of his request to see my body, to give me a funeral...it made him even more vulnerable to outside manipulation.”

“The Imperials….” Cody murmurs.

Obi-Wan nods, lip curling up. “The Imperials,” he agrees. “The timeline is fuzzy. I spent a good part of these weeks partially dead, one foot in both worlds. I didn’t know what was going on. When I was well enough to watch the news, the Jedi told me there was a new super villain working with the Imperials, going by the name Mustafar. I trained to kill him as he was helping the Imps decimate the Jedi. All of my old team was dead. Anakin was missing. I didn’t--”

He cuts himself off and runs a hand down his face. The children are waiting on his words. He’s telling them why they’re fighting wars adults should be fighting. He’s telling them why they’re out in the field after only a month or less of training. He’s trying to tell them why he isn’t out there fighting with them, but he knows already they won’t accept his excuses.

They shouldn’t have to.

“They gave me a new uniform and a new name,” Obi-Wan picks up the story. “Hoth. And I went off to kill my soulmate.”

“But you didn’t,” Barriss says, and she sounds vaguely confused and vaguely accusatory.

“I almost did,” Obi-Wan admits, like it’s a sin, like it's salvation. “Everything about him was different. He was not the passionate but warm boy I had known. He was a forest fire. A volcano. And Mustafar’s fighting style was completely different from Iego’s. I only realized it was Anakin--my Anakin--when I managed to knock his mask off. I had my hand around his throat, but when I realized who I was fighting...I let go. I couldn’t kill him. Even after everything he did. Even knowing...knowing Iego was gone.”

The dining room is silent for a second, before three voices burst out angrily at once.

“Why aren’t you helping the Jedi?” Ahsoka asks the loudest. “Hoth--Ilum, Obi-Wan. We need you. Mustafar--the Imperials...they’re not going to stop. They’ve killed so many Jedi. We need you to help us.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says. “I cannot.”

“You used to be a hero,” Barriss accuses. “Now what are you? A hollowed out, sad man.”

“I was never a hero,” he snaps. “I followed orders. Anyone can do that.”

“You were the best,” Cody says quietly, cutting Obi-Wan to the bone. “You led the Geonosis team for six years. I studied you in class. You were...the best.”

“I wasn’t,” Obi-Wan disagrees just as quietly. “But perhaps you all are.”

“You haven’t even told us any weakness we could use against him in battle!” Barriss shouts, standing up suddenly, which causes the chair to clatter over. “You’ve been no help at all! I’m leaving, this is a waste of time!”

“Barriss--!” Ahsoka cries after the girl, grabbing her discarded mask and taking after her.

Cody opens his mouth and then closes it. He jams the helmet back onto his head. “The soulmark. You said it’s on his hip?”

Obi-Wan smiles mirthlessly. Cody is trying to see if he can catch him in a lie, if this is actually good tactical information or not. “It’s a few inches below his shoulder blades, right over his spine.”

Cody nods once and then files out, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the room with the silent, still helmetless Rex.

“I just told him how to kill my supervillain soulmate,” Obi-Wan tells Rex, even though he’s really talking to himself. “Soulmarks, even dead ones, are extremely sensitive. If Anakin had hit me with his fire on my other thigh, I would be dead. Not just crippled. Muscle, young man, doesn’t grow back easily.”

He rubs a hand over the leg in question, staring down at the uneven way his pants lay over the old injury. It aches from the walking he’s forced it to do today, from trying to walk normally im front of these powerful strangers.

Rex taps the table to get him to look up, and then gestures to his own eyes.

“I?” Obi-Wan asks, confused.

Rex rolls his eyes and then mimes writing something.

“Ah, there should be a pen and pad in the kitchen?” he trails off as the teenager goes to retrieve the aforementioned things.

It takes a second longer than it should, and he comes out carrying just a slip of paper with his helmet forced back onto his head.

With a flick of his fingers, the paper’s lying on the table and Rex is following his teammates out the door and out of Obi-Wan’s apartment and hopefully out of his life forever.

Curious, Obi-Wan grabs the note and unfolds it to read.

We thought Musta. had yel. eyes because all the top Imps have yel. eyes. But if Ankn had blue eyes, then mybe none of the imps should have yel eyes.

No one knows what sidious power is -> what if it’s mind control?

Obi-Wan puts the note down onto the table with shaking hands. He wishes desperately he had never read it.

Because those words plant a seed of hope in his chest he isn’t sure he’ll be able to live without now.

What if Anakin--his Anakin--what if he’s in there still? What if Obi-Wan had abandoned him to ten years of brainwashing and mind control with not much of a fight at all?

But more pressingly, what if there’s hope for him? For both of them? Still, after all this time?

[sofreddie]

Jealousy

Summary: Y/N's jealous of Eric's infatuation with Sookie. But does she really need to be jealous?

Characters: Eric Northman x Reader, Pam, Sookie

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Implied Smut

WC: 1106

A/N: So I had several requests to expand Jealous? into a oneshot. So, here you go! Feedback is appreciated. : )

Y/N walked from the bar to the small stage situated at the far end of the room. Carrying a True Blood, she approached the handsome blonde currently sitting on his throne surveying the empty Fangtasia nightclub in silent contemplation. With a tight smile, she roughly slammed the bottle on his side table before heading back to the bar, some of the contents splashing out.

Eric smirked lightly, his eyes locked on Y/N as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Her fiery passion was one of the many things that he enjoyed about her. With a wince, he spat out the drink. Eyes narrowed, he was at the bar and at Y/N’s side in an instant. 

“It’s cold,” he complained as he crowded her space, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at the tall vampire.

“Maybe you could get Sookie to warm it up with her thighs,” she snarked back, meeting his gaze with a smirk.

“Someone’s jealous,” he teased, amused by her demeanor.

“More like disappointed,” she pointed out. “You’re a thousand-year-old Viking,” she emphasized, “Pining over some pathetic girl who doesn’t even want you.”

In an instant, he had her bent backward over the bartop, a hand squeezing tight around her throat.

“What did you say?”

“Y-you heard me,” she forced out, her throat constricted harshly in his grasp. 

“Eric,” Pam, his companion, and progeny interjected with a hint of boredom. 

With a scowl, he released Y/N, watching intently as she stood up and rubbed at her throat. 

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Y/N added meekly, before removing herself to the back under the guise of prepping the bar.

Pam sighed as Eric continued staring into the space Y/N had occupied. “That girl has been loyal and honest and by your side, since you hired her,” she defended. “Which, can I point out, was because you were interested and before you met Sookie.”

“I know,” he admitted in a sigh, glancing at Pam before returning to his seat. He had deflated, the momentary anger gone. Though he was still sour over what had happened, it wasn’t really what made him so upset.

“Then what’s the problem?” Pam asked, standing before him with her hands on her hips.

Eric looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes and speaking in hushed tones, “I don’t deserve her.”

Pam scoffed and rolled her eyes as she dropped her hands from her hips, her heels clicking across the floor as she went on about other business. Sooner or later his indifferent attitude was going to boil over. She hoped it was sooner, and she hoped it would take his mind off Sookie for good. 

It didn’t take long, the fairy-blooded nuisance making an appearance in the club only a few days later. 

Y/N glanced up at the sound of the door, scoffing and returning her attention to cleaning the glass in her hands. 

“I’d like to speak with Eric,” she stated, standing with her back straight in a crisp and clean summer dress.

Y/N looked up from her task, setting the dried glass amongst the others as she flung the bar towel over one shoulder. Palms flat against the bartop, she leaned in, “Yeah, see, I don’t think he wants to speak with you. Not after the last time you saw each other.”

“I don’t really think that’s any of your business.”

“What are you doing here?”

Eric’s voice made both women turn their gazes to him, Pam leaning against the other end of the bar, keeping her distance as she watched with a vested interest.

“I need your help.”

“You always want something,” Eric spat at the blonde, “But you never give anything in return.”

“I-I don’t have much,” Sookie explained, but Y/N could see her readying a supporting argument. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it. And she especially didn’t want to hear Eric giving in to her, again.

“You have nothing I need or want,” Eric stated firmly, his gaze hard. 

Sookie swallowed hard, her eyes traveling between the others in the room before landing on the tall man once more.

“Fine,” she responded with a tight smile and a bounce on her heel, turning and marching out of the club with a dramatic flourish.

“Good riddance,” Pam spoke up, shrugging when Y/N gave her a questioning glare.

“You’re not gonna hear her out?” Y/N timidly asked the man, surprised at his response to the woman he pined over. She was quick to stamp out the glimmer of hope that swelled within her.

“I’m no longer interested in anything Sookie,” Eric stated, his intense stare now leveled at Y/N. She kept her head bowed, her eyes flitting up to sneak wary glances at him through her lashes.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she smiled tightly, letting out a heavy breath and turning her attention to the glasses once more.

Y/N’s muscles grew tight, feeling Eric’s steady gaze on her even if she couldn’t see it. The gentle click of heels growing quieter signaled she was now alone with the older vampire, her nerves fraying just a little further under the suffocating silence.

“Y/N,” the sound of his voice saying her name always sent a pleasant chill through her. Turning, she was startled to see Eric standing directly behind her. His fingers under her chin gently urged her gaze up to his. The intensity of his eyes made her take a sharp breath.

“I want you to be mine,” he stated. 

“Since when?” her voice was small, a slight tremble in her smaller frame as she tried to hold her ground. 

His amused, crooked smirk should have pissed her off, but it only entranced her further. She’d always wanted him, intrigued and attracted to the Vampire, the ancient Viking warrior. When he hired her, she assumed he reciprocated, but he never made a move and never responded to her advances. It left her head spinning on the regular.

“I have always wanted you to be mine.”

The next moment -that smirk still on his lips, his fingers gently holding her chin in place- he leaned in and kissed her. The gentle introduction of his lips quickly changed as his hand slid along her jaw, tilting her head and kissing her deeply. It was better than anything she’d ever imagined. The cold of his touch against her heated flesh sent a current running through her. When his hands found the back of her thighs, she jumped, willingly going into his arms as he carried her away to become his at last.

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[wasithard]

Percy wakes up on his seventeenth birthday in his own bed.

One year ago today, he’d woken up in a room at the Plaza Hotel from a vision of the Titan Lord Kronos planning his attack on Manhattan. One year ago today, he’d woken up in the middle of a war – and that’s not even the most recent war he’s fought.

Percy wakes up on his seventeenth birthday and immediately goes back to sleep.

**

His day goes like this: waking again to blue pancakes and waffles and eating them with his mom and Paul. Having a picnic lunch with Annabeth and Grover in Central Park, then driving with them to camp for dinner and a bonfire with their friends. Roasting marshmallows and singing songs and kissing Annabeth by the fire. Getting too lost in the way the firelight tinges her grey eyes red to notice the rest of the campers gathering around them before they pick them up and throw them in the lake, just like last year. Sitting around the dying embers of the fire, remembering the friends they lost in the war that ended one year ago today, the heavy silence of that moment burying itself in the middle of his chest, sitting there like a weight. Going to bed in his cabin, Tyson snoring in the bunk above him, wishing the love he’d felt from his friends that day would be enough to silence the voices in his head yelling it should’ve been me.

**

Percy wakes up on his nineteenth birthday, three years after the war.

He wakes up and wonders if he’ll ever stop thinking of it as the anniversary of the war instead of a celebration for another year he’s lived, or another year he’s spent with Annabeth.

Annabeth, who’s living on campus in the city they almost gave their lives defending three years ago now and comes over for breakfast that morning with Sally and Paul. He’s sitting at the table with them all, laughing and grateful to have them, but wondering if he should be worried that it’s been three years and he still wakes up on August 18th with a tightness in his chest at the thought of getting another year older than his friends who will never see another day. He knows they’re in Elysium. The thought should bring him peace.

Breakfast trickles into the afternoon and he and Annabeth go for a walk in Central Park before driving up to Camp. On the way there, Percy takes a detour to a small beach he’d scouted out a few weeks before and surprises his girlfriend with a picnic on the sand. He helps her build a sandcastle that’s almost taller than he is, holding the waves back so that they can use the hard, wet sand near the shoreline to make their castle stronger.

By the time they get to Camp they both smell of salt and seaweed and his spirits are high. It makes it worse, somehow, when they have their annual memorial to those they lost three years ago that he’s had such a nice day so far. Annabeth notices his change in mood, presses a kiss to his shoulder as she entwines their fingers.

After the campers start to trickle off to bed, Chiron catches his eye and Percy follows him to the Big House. They are sitting on the balcony, crickets chirping around them and a glass of cool blue Coke in Percy’s hand when Chiron fixes him with a stare that has seen countless tragedies and asks him if he still blames himself for being alive.

It’s jarring to hear someone so bluntly say out loud the thoughts he hasn’t dared to speak for so long. He swallows, can’t bring himself to hold Chiron’s gaze so flicks his eyes down to his feet instead, the only part of his body that doesn’t feel like it’s shaking. His fingers clench around the clear glass in his hand and he watches beads of water slide down the outside of it. Chiron doesn’t speak, but the silence is heavy and Percy feels like it’ll suffocate him if he doesn’t break it.

“I don’t– ” he clears his throat. It sounds too thick. “I don’t blame myself.”

He takes a sip of his Coke, swallowing it completely. “I don’t blame myself. I just don’t understand…”

He doesn’t want to finish the sentence, doesn’t want to say the words, I don’t understand why it wasn’t me, but when his eyes meet Chiron’s again he knows the centaur understands. How many other heroes has he seen feel the same way? Does he feel the same way?

“Percy,” Chiron says, his voice steady and deep with thousands of years of wisdom and loss and hope. “You help no one by holding on to guilt that isn’t yours.”

Percy exhales roughly, running a hand through his hair. In his head, he understands this. He just doesn’t believe it. If he had been a little bit better, in any sense of the word: faster, stronger, smarter. Maybe Charles wouldn’t have gotten caught in the engine room of the Princess Andromeda. Maybe Michael wouldn’t have been caught in the earthquake Percy had caused on the Williamsburg Bridge. Maybe Clarisse could have been convinced to fight in the war earlier, so Silena wouldn’t have had to impersonate her.

“Percy.” Chiron repeats, voice firmer. “You might be a hero, but you are also a person. And all a person can ever do is their best.”

Percy closes his eyes, bows his head. Chiron continues speaking. “The gods have done wonderful things, but they have also made many, many mistakes. More and far more devastating mistakes than the ones you have made in your short life. The benefit and curse of immortality is seeing how the actions of a moment can fade over time. How they can be made up for when a similar situation arises in the future. How it is not one’s past that defines them, but how they learn from it.”

Percy doesn’t want to look up at Chiron now, because there are tears in his eyes and it’s embarrassing, frankly. But he owes it to him.

He looks up. Chiron’s gaze is as steady as before, and Percy exhales one more time, releasing air all the way down to his belly. One tear slips down the side of his face and stops at his upper lip. He licks it away, using a hand to wipe his eyes as he turns his face to the now quiet camp. He can see the volleyball court, the rock climbing wall, the smoking embers of the campfire and the beginning of the circle of cabins. He sees his home: safe, intact. Filled with his friends, the survivors. He breathes it in.

“Thanks, Chiron.” He says, turning back to the centaur who gives him a soft, understanding smile in return.

Percy finishes off his drink and leaves the empty glass on the same wooden table he saw Chiron and Dionysus playing pinochle at when he first arrived at Camp, all those years ago. He stands up, wishes Chiron goodnight and starts walking back to the cabins.

Cabin 3 stands there: dark, alone and familiar. He feels tiredness tug at his eyelids and muscles but inside he still feels too wired to lay down just yet. He heads for the beach.

Annabeth is already there. Her legs are bent in front of her, arms tucked underneath them and chin resting on her knees. He sits silently beside her and they stay there, no sound between them except the gentle crash of the waves on the shore. After a few minutes she leans her head against his shoulder and he rests his atop hers, closes his eyes.

“Do you remember when we were in the Sea of Monsters and I wanted to hear the Sirens?” Annabeth asks, voice quiet. “I would’ve killed myself on those rocks swimming to their island but you dove into the ocean and pulled me out of their range, even though I was kicking and screaming at you to stop. We were thirteen.

“And remember in Mount St. Helen’s? I know you didn’t have a plan, but you made me get out anyway. You made sure that I was safe before even thinking about how you would survive.”

He feels her weight leave his shoulder then, glances over to see her sitting up and turning towards him, crossing her legs under her. The light of the full moon washes her in an ethereal glow, and her eyes are gleaming wide and bright as they lock onto his, pinning him in place. Annabeth is always beautiful, but when she’s determined – whether in battle or in convincing her boyfriend that he doesn’t deserve the pain he inflicts on himself – she has a face that could launch a thousand ships.

“And in Rome,” she says, her voice catching. “You wouldn’t let me face Tartarus unless we could face it together. I don’t know how many times you saved my life down there…” Percy sees her eyes begin to well with tears. “When we were fighting the arai…” She closes her eyes as a few tears escape them. Percy reaches forward and wipes a few away with his thumb. She opens her eyes into his again and gives him a small smile.

“My point is,” she continues, her voice thick. “Being a demigod is a high risk life that none of us asked for. An occupational hazard of us just being alive is death by monster attack. This is the first thing we learn when we find out who we are. All the friends we’ve lost over the years…they knew that too.

“And that doesn’t mean that their deaths were ok or justified or that we can forget about them, but I think that shouldering the burden of their deaths is stopping you from remembering the beauty of their lives. And it’s stopping you from remembering all the people who haven’t died because of you. Every single person in this camp owes their life to you, either directly or indirectly. Yes, a lot of people died on this day three years ago, but even more people were saved, and you had more to do with the last thing than the first.”

Percy’s getting teary again, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed this time. Annabeth shuffles closer to him on the sand and grabs both of his hands, squeezing them tightly, bringing them up and pressing her lips against them. “Percy Jackson, you have the purest heart of anyone I have ever met. It’s glaringly obvious to anyone who knows you – except yourself, apparently. I will spend the rest of my life trying to help you see it, but until then you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

Her face changes. It goes from open and pleading to playful, one eyebrow raised and a challenge in her eyes that makes his heart skip a beat, even when the rest of his system is in emotional overwhelm.

“Do you trust me, Percy?” Annabeth asks him.

He lets out a laugh, shaky from tears, and nods, “Yes, Annabeth. I trust you with my life.”

She beams at him, sitting up on her knees to bring her face closer to his, until it’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath as she speaks, her eyes still locked onto his. “Then believe me when I tell you that you deserve forgiveness. And you need to give it to yourself.”

It’s too much. Percy swallows, jaw clenched and glances down. Annabeth releases one of his hands and grabs his chin, not letting him get away that easily.

“You. Deserve. Forgiveness. More than anyone in this world.”

He’s searching her eyes, frantically almost. It feels too easy. There has to be a catch.

“Ok?” Annabeth prompts, her voice still soft but firm, uncompromising.

He opens his mouth to speak but any words get caught in the knot at the base of his throat. Tears are leaking down his face and he can’t. He can’t. It can’t be that easy. It shouldn’t be.

Annabeth exhales, removing her hand from his chin and instead running it through his hair, stopping at the back of his head and bringing it forward until their foreheads touch. She doesn’t say anything else, just sits there with him.

With him, while he closes his eyes and thinks about the Minotaur choking his mom when he was twelve. Thinks about imaging Tyson drowning in the Sea of Monsters when he was thirteen. Thinks about losing Bianca di Angelo and Zoe Nightshade later that same year. He thinks about the campers that fell in the Battle of the Labyrinth whose names he didn’t know, and the campers that fell in the Battle of Manhattan whose names he made sure he did. He thinks of a Titan and a Giant at the Doors of Death, sacrificing themselves so that he and Annabeth could get to safety.

Percy sits on a beach at nineteen years old and thinks of all the death he’s seen in such a short time, all the death that’s been haunting him for years.

A cool breeze passes by him, coming from the water. As it brushes his skin, he comes back to the warmth of his best friend’s forehead pressed against his, her hands: one clutching his, the other tangled in his hair. He feels her soft exhale of breath and thinks about how she is alive, here, with him. Against all odds. He thinks of the campers asleep in the cabins just metres away: alive, here, with him. He thinks of his mom and Paul and Rachel, his friends from Camp Jupiter, all the people he cares about who are alive, here, with him. He thinks about the fact that they outnumber the dead, and realises he’s never really thought about that before.

Percy lifts his head and looks at Annabeth. She cups one side of his face with her hand, eyes still trained on his intently.

“I love you.” He says. “I’m so happy you’re alive.”

Her smile is small and bittersweet, her eyes wide grey pools of understanding.

“Me too,” is all she says.

It is enough.

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.