#also it’s that penance always knows when to hold onto and when to let go off amalia

[denkryn]

“You had a chance at life with love and music; dresses fit for a lady and you wasted it. You left everyone behind, again. And what did you do with this life, that you were given? What did you do? What did you do?”

“I told someone our name.”

[unholyhelbig]

wait... it's ending??!

[A/n: I can’t believe that this is over. I also can’t believe that I pigeon-holed myself into writing a fight scene. Who does that?? Me. The answer is me. In all seriousness, I want to thank every single one of you who read this insane story. It was a wild ride (maybe not one that’s actually over yet… I can’t tell).

Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and the kudos and just so much overwhelming love! I’m going to take a little break from the heavy stuff and supply some fluff here in the next few weeks!

As always, I didn’t proofread this, so there may be some spelling and grammar mistakes.]

Summary: Bodies start popping up within the city drained of blood and torn at the throat. Detective Ava Silva and her new partner Beatrice Alexander are determined to crack the case before more victims are discovered. But when recent technological advancements threaten how things are done, Beatrice has to put more trust in her partner than ever before.

Trigger warning: Please respect your triggers- like any creature feature there is blood, and death, and violence.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Request Prompts

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

Dt🧛: @littleskrimp, @moreorlez, @lazyashell, @gold-dust-angel @hypertic

The Blood Ties that Bind | Chapter Six | Ava Silva x Sister Beatrice

“I wouldn’t mind roughing the guy up a little, that’s all I’m saying.” His hands were firm on the steering wheel, thumbs running over the ribbed leather absentmindedly. It was raining and the windshield wipers were putting in the work. They gave Ava a small moment of clarity before everything became warped again, a painting of neons and dimly lit storefronts. “That’s all I’m saying.”

She had her foot up on the dash, preoccupied with rolling the fabric of her pants just up above her socks. Her shoes were soaked and so was the hem of her jeans. What Ava wouldn’t give to crawl out of her skin right about now. It had been penanced for forgetting the umbrella under the seat of the Impala.

“Yeah, I’m sure you would, but the world doesn’t work that way. Izzie would rather have you at her graduation than him, anyway. No use busting your knuckles and ending up in the drunk tank for that low-life.”

Ava knew something was wrong when JC had given up on holding the newspaper above his head to catch the stray drops of rain. The ink was running in black, leaving little black smudges on his shirt. He’d dropped his hand, leaned his forehead against the top of the payphone with a heaving sigh visible through the car’s window.

His father, a man that Ava only knew by reputation, was meant to fly home just a day before JC himself would board a plane and return to his stomping ground. His sister Isabella was graduating, and despite never being present, the family held out hope that just this once, he’d show up.

“What excuse was it this time?” She asked.

“Tammy is sick, the flu, some type of stomach bug.” He pulled onto the freeway, jerking the tires just a little too fast in the rain. He righted the car. “He was apologetic, that’s what Ma’ says anyway. I don’t believe it, though. Not like he’s the one yacking up leftovers.”

Ava cringed at the mental image, but let it go. When JC got like this, it was better to let him stew in it. He didn’t want advice, or comfort. No, he wanted something to take his mind off things. So she flicked on the scanner and filled the cab of the car with the dull hum of radio static interrupted here and there with the signals and codes.

They were patient people, usually waiting for the Chief to assign them homicides. The uniforms would hadn’t the robberies, the APB’s and the traffic tickets. Domestic’s, they stayed away from entirely. But sometimes, if the day was right, they’d take the bait wriggling on a metal hook.

“All units be aware, report of a 10851 in progress. Blue Austin Allegra. License plate number; Victor, Queen, Nora 8765. Advised 22350.”

Ava smiled “You know what would cheer you up?”

“A handle of vodka?”

“Yes, but not on shift.” Ava tapped his shoulder “We should find that car.”

“If we happen upon the car, I wouldn’t mind stopping a theft. But it’s a big city, Silva. Chances, we’ll see it. Slim to none.”

Ava grinned regardless, taking this as a win. It was hard to keep a straight face when she smiled like that. JC let the ghost of happiness pass over his lips, but it made a home in the attic of his eyes. His grip loosened on the steering wheel.

They stopped at a burger place just at the edge of the city. It was wedged between the train depot, long since turned into a museum that had railroad spikes imprisoned in a glass case, and a large, immobile engine that was permanently parked against the tracks.

JC parked the car under the awnings and they placed their order before taking solace on the hood. He laid his jacket down, sopping up the chill of the water. “Such a gentleman Detective Garcia.”

“Shove off,” He said as he shoved fries into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “How much PTO do you have?”

Ava grimaced, tried to the math in her head “Don’t know. Maybe like, a hundred.”

“Just so happens a ticket to Izzie’s graduation has opened up. We can get you a cheap flight.”

“Meeting the family? After all the shit you’ve spewed at them?”

“Ava, come on! You’ve got enough paid time off to take a goddamn year for yourself. I’m only asking for a weekend.” He took a bite of his burger, grease dripping from his chin.

She’d already known the answer the second that he asked. Of course, she’d get on the plane with him. It was effortless, an agreement that came to her like breathing the balmy air around them. Before she could answer, her eyes locked onto a dark blue Austin Allegra. It looked nearly black in the gray light of midday.

“What was the license plate on that 10851?”

JC shrugged, but pushed off the trunk of the car. He opened the drivers side door, pulled out a napkin, scrawled with ink. “VGN8765. That our car?”

“Looking like it.” He nodded at her as she reached for the radio, abandoning the prospect of finishing lunch. She spoke into the receiver. “Detective’s Garcia and Silva, eyes on 10851. Proceeding to Eastbound 95, in pursuit.”

“10-4”

The taillights pulsed like a blinking demon in the stormy weather. Their car was unmarked, but even still, it was Government issued and easily recognizable. JC was careful to stay a few paces behind.

Two miles in, exiting the freeway, JC flicked the lights on the grill of the car on. They clicked, cicadas among the static of the radio. Everything was muted within the car. The Allegra stalled, brake lights bleeding red. The rain picked up enough for him to switch on the windshield wipers too.

“Oh, fucking shit, he’s going to run.” JC said.

The Allegra switched lance, pressed down on the gas. JC followed suit, the tires hesitating on the we asphalt for only a moment before he picked up speed. Car chases were few and far between, nothing like what they portrayed on ‘Chips’.

Cars would pull out of the way as they caught wind of the red and blue lights flashing. The Allegra weaved in and out and JC kept formidable speed. Ava kept her thumb on the transmission for the radio. “Suspect refuses to pull over, requesting backup.”

“10-20?”

“Corner of Montgomery and Alan, heading northeast.”

“Copy. Backup dispatched.”

They turned the corner, nearly swiping a side-mirror. The Allegra picked up speed, the rain fell harder. There was a calm in the cab of the car that did not reflect the quickness of the situation. She felt the car shift gears, the scent of burning rubber filled her lungs.

When the car failed them, it did so with purpose. Things slowed, there was an adept lack of control as it met the road. Metal upon cement, crunching so easily as if it were nothing but tinfoil to begin with. Ava felt the impact of the airbag, smelled the powder that coated every inch of the cab.

They flipped once, twice, something that Ava learned later. She had clenched her eyes shut, braced herself as the Impala landed on it’s roof and slid half a block, scraping against shattered glass and rock.

Two minutes, she was unconscious for two minutes before dragging in a breath that reeked of petrol and smoke. There was blood, blood that was dripping from her forehead onto the roof of the car. The seatbelt sawed into her throat. She rushed to unlatch it, but thought better of it.

The headlights flickered against the storm and her ears rung. She wasn’t underwater but moved as if she was. She was disoriented, fingers shaking. The radio still worked, still grumbled in it’s fruitless hum.

“10-20? Detective Garcia. Detective Silva, 10-20?”

Shattered glass cut into the palm of her hand. She coughed, tried to get the chemical burn from her lungs. Ava couldn’t feel her legs, her feet, her toes. She choked back a sob, trying to push the though aside. Respond. Respond.

“10-20? We have units enroute. 10-20 Detectives?”

Ava hated the quiet, and quiet it was. The car had settled in it’s movements, aside from the operator trying again, and again in her attempt to reach them, there was nothing. She fumbled, felt glass dig into her palm as she searched for the receiver.

“Detective Silva,” Ava’s voice was shaking, forced “There’s been an accident. Send fire, ambulance. Montgomery and… and twelfth, I think.”

“Copy.” There was a pause, she pressed the receiver to her head, breathed “Are you injured?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“Garcia?”

Ava hadn’t looked. Couldn’t look. She knew the answer, just as she had known that she would get on the plane with him and go to his little sister's graduation. It came as naturally to her as breathing.

Ava woke up screaming. She didn’t realize the sound was coming from her at first, that much was a given by how much it shocked her. It lodged in her throat, cut through the quiet of the room that she didn’t recognize at first, and even when she was oriented, couldn’t grasp it in her memory. She’d dreamt of the crash.

The interior was dark, the air cleaner here than in her own apartment. The sheets were darker, softer. There was the scent of balsam wood in the air. The walls were blank save for some tasteful photos of the city, black and white.

Detective Alexander was on the edge of the bed in the few seconds it took Ava to draw in a breath. She’d been sitting in an olive-green chair under a light that seemed much too bright, so Ava looked away, clenched her eyes shut. It was too much.

“Hey, hey” Beatrice’s words were soothing, her hand on the side of her face a blanket of ice. Ava leaned into it. “Take it easy, alright?”

She swallowed hard, trying to sooth the dry soreness in her throat. Her body ached; her limbs felt like they needed a pint of oil to get kickstarted. And her jaw, her jaw was like a loaded gun, the bullets resting just below the soft flesh of her gums. Her only salvation was Beatrice, steady and strong, right in front of her.

“It’s a lot, I know.” Her thumb swiped against Ava’s cheek. “I’m going to turn off the lamp.”

Ava let out a small whimper in response. She missed the closeness instantly, and savored the darkness that followed. The bed dipped once more and she found the courage to force one eye open, and then the other.

“Beatrice,” her voice broke, chin trembling “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m scared.”

The woman shifted her gaze, let a tear streak down her cheek. It landed on the duvet. She elegantly wiped them away, refused to let it get any further. “Ava, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand.” She frowned.

The world was brighter, even in the dark. Everything was more defined. She swore, no, assumed that she could hear something moving past the heavy oak door. A conversation was being had. Hushed voices as if they were trying to keep something from her. Ava’s jaw pulsed with pain in tandem with her heart. Was it slower? Was it just less noticeable?

Beatrice placed a hand on her knee “There is no easy way to say this.”

“It has something to do with the church. That man. He was so angry.”

Beatrice laughed wetly, shook her head. “Yeah, Ava. He’s an angry man. He’d do anything to hurt me, and it turns out, the best way to do that was to hurt you.”

“And he did, didn’t he? He hurt me?”

“Yes, Ava. He hurt you.” Beatrice clenched her jaw, and then unclenched it. “He killed you.”

“Oh.”

Ava drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. The fabric felt too soft, the detergent that clung to it was strong, but she hugged herself closer and the sensations ebbed away into something of normalcy.

There were flashes of teeth, of the metallic taste of blood wetting her tongue. A man in a civil war uniform washed out and gray. A scripture that played like the end credits of a movie. And Detective Alexander- Beatrice- with her honeyed eyes.

“There are things in this world that don’t simply die. A gray area where Adriel, Vincent, and I live. Though, I resent grouping us together. We are not one and the same and” Beatrice slowed her words when she met Ava’s eyes, widened, pulpy with fear. “Vampires. Fright Night style vampires.”

That was ridiculous. Ava knew it down in her core that this could be some type of elaborate prank. They’d gone to lengths, she’d admit- renting out an entire church with a musty carpet and foul-tasting communion wine.

Had it not been for the blinding white pain in her neck, the small start of a scream that was choked down due to her imminent death, then she would have swallowed back all of those longing thoughts about the woman in front of her and filed a restraining order.

“That’s impossible,” Ava whispered.

“I assure you, it’s not. And while I would have greatly preferred to have told you in a gentler way, this is the reality. What happened to you, Ava, it was unfair.”

“And what exactly happened? Because one minute I was having a normal conversation about a connection to our case and then the next, I’m… dead?”

Beatrice shifted on the bed, ran her hand across her pants, it left a small damp mark on the fabric. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, and then thought better of it before finally committing to what was dancing on the tip of her tongue.

“Adriel is a man that preys on fear, and it took me a long time to realize that. It took me until 1919 which happened to be one of the worst years in history, speaking strictly from experience. We were in an eatery, and he had every single person in there slaughtered because attention wasn’t on him for once.”

Ava had to take a shallow breath to swallow back her comment about the year. That, she would ask about later, if she so chose. Right now, she was doing everything in her power not to vomit up whatever she’d forced down.

“I had always despised my choice- my cowardice- when it came to becoming a vampire. I did it out of fear, but I also did it of my own will. I followed Adriel for years, decades, thinking that his way was the only way until I decided it wasn’t.”

“And he did this to me in order to spite you?”

Beatrice nodded, “I finally let my guard down enough to truly care about someone and it made me vulnerable to his tactics. More than anything, it made you a target, and for that, if you never forgive me for that- if you decide that this isn’t what you want, then, I’m behind you. I’m behind you 100%.”

“And if I decide that this isn’t what I want?” Ava’s voice came out as a raspy whisper “What happens then?”

The darkness of the room swam around them. It took a few moments for Beatrice to muster anything that was akin to words. Ava waited patiently, counted the slow beats in her temples. The world was so loud, and Ava was overwhelmed, tempted to give in to the pain without knowing the facts.

“To complete your transition, you need to drink human blood. If you decide that this isn’t what you’d like, then the venom that’s in your system will shut down your organs one by one until you’re gone… truly gone.” Her voice shook, “And if that is the case, then we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”

Ava let out a small noise and flopped down into the bed. Everything was spinning. The dresser was where the bookshelf should have been, and the overhead ceiling fan was now on the floor. But Beatrice was the main constant.

She knelt by the side of the bed, waiting patiently. Ava had draped an arm over her eyes dramatically, but still, her frown was visible. It was a thinking expression and that gave Beatrice a flurry of hope.

“There were countless times in my career when I should have died. Times when guns were fired and knives were pulled. Most notably when an Impala flipped, and I lost the closest thing I ever had to a brother. And when I finally did die it was like something out of a movie rented from Blockbuster.”

Ava moved her arm from her eyes, turned her head to stare at Beatrice. The warmth radiated from her, oozed in waves.

“For so long I believed that I didn’t deserve to live. JC should have been the one to survive that crash, he should have been able to go to his sister’s graduation and he should still be here today.” Her words were choked now, tears streaking across her cheeks, making them damp. “Who am I to make this choice? Who am I to live an infinite life when his was cut short?”

“Oh, Ava” Beatrice reached forward tentatively, using her thumb to wipe away the tears. “You cannot control everything, but you can control this. You’ve fought hard for this long. I’m not trying to force your hand, believe me, this is a weighted decision. But if your concern lies in your value to this world, then make no mistake- it is infinite.”

It was heated up in the microwave and somehow, out of everything she had learned in the past twenty-four hours, everything she had felt, including her own neck snapping under the pressure of an immortal hand, this was the worst. It wasn’t’ that Ava had an aversion to leftovers, it was quite the opposite, but her stomach took a nose-dive at the smarting scent that filled the air as the small machine let out three tonal beeps.

This was normal, she told herself, she was just going to swallow a mug of very-human blood from a novelty mug that had a faded logo for NASA scrawled across the front. Not only that, but she was damned to do it in front of an audience.

Ava was unsteady on her feet at first. They felt foreign on the cold wooden floor. But, as always, Beatrice was there with a confident hand on the small of her back, leading her through the maze of a high-rise apartment. Despite the dark and the multitude of windows, she couldn’t bring herself to stare out at the endless city beneath them. She would most certainly hurl.

“Are hallucinations part of the deal?”

Ava lifted her chin towards her neighbor, who leaned against the counter in the kitchen with her arms crossed. Mary had leveled the girl who stood across the island with a toxic stare. It softened, however, when she saw Ava.

“I assure you; she is really here.” The stranger said, “I’m Lilith, and you must be Ava.”

“Great detective skills, Lestat.” Mary said coolly.

Beatrice cleared her throat, somehow commanding a hush over the room, though Mary clenched and unclenched her jaw as if she was holding back an explosion of expletives. Ava was guided to one of the barstools, and she was thankful to sit down.

It was then that Beatrice set a mug of steaming blood in front of her in a NASA mug. And it was then that Ava began to question her choice. It seemed so simple, chug the scalding liquid, choke it down, become an immortal creature that never had to fear death again, but maybe had to fear garlic or mirrors- she hadn’t exactly asked about logistics.

“So, I just… drink it and then it’s done?”

“It’s never really done.” Lilith got an elbow to the ribs, growled softly “I mean, yes. Technically speaking.”

Ava nodded, and cupped the mug like it was tea and not thick and sticky. She was really, truly, doing this. Mary seemed to have the good sense to turn away, maybe it was out of disgust, or maybe Ava’s fear for the future just carried across the room.

The first sip barely touched her lips. She wanted to reel back, the heat of the liquid scalding. But, when Ava swiped her tongue over it, the aching in her jaw pulsed to something much less painful. It was salty, pungent. She waited a moment and took a gulp, then another.

It was different than the blood she had inevitably swallowed in the church. Adriel’s blood was cold and clotted and clearly mixed with something to dilute the flavor into something akin to very aged wine. This was soothing, like pulling a shawl over her shoulders during an ice storm. There was warmth, but there was also the lingering feeling of how long it would take to get her hands on something more suited for the weather.

She’d finished the mug, and strangely, didn’t much mind the fact that it was warmed up in the microwave anymore. It had stopped the pounding in her temples and the buzzing of her skin, almost as if everything was coming into focus, if only for a moment.

Ava ran her tongue over her lips again, this time feeling the slightest pinprick of her canines. They were sharper, but subtly so. She reckoned, if she really needed to, they could create the type of markings that she first settled on when looking at the cold body of Barry Palmer, something easily mistaken for an animal.

Beatrice took the mug and rinsed the rest of it in the sink, the color of the water fading to a tinted pink before it circled the drain. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Ava admitted.

There was a relief on the woman’s face that made Ava want to rush to her if only she could trust her legs. Not drinking the contents of the mug had clearly plagued the girl for longer than Ava had been awake and she wore it on her face, not attempting to hide the relief that washed over her. It was done, but something in the tension that settled over the room reminded Ava that it most certainly was not finished.

Whoever had done this to her, had thrust her into a newfound life of mythical unkemptness was still out there, and if what he had done to her was only the beginning, a small part of revenge in a masterplan, then they were utterly and truly fucked.

“I have people that I can call,” Mary said, reading the room. “They’ll be reluctant to team up with the likes of you, but if it’ll stop an uprising in the city, then they’ll take the chance.”

“We can pick them off in smaller groups, work our way from the outside in. Even with Adriel in command, I guarantee you that there are disciples that don’t fully adhere to his beliefs. They’ll be easier to track, and deal with.”

Beatrice had both of her hands resting on either side of the sink. She spoke with a commandment that Ava hadn’t seen before, and she certainly wasn’t about to admit that it was the most attractive thing she had ever experienced. So instead, she shifted on the barstool, averting her gaze.

“I want a shot at him.” Beatrice said, “A true and honest shot. He played all of his cards at once, and he expects me to come back begging for mercy, for some type of forgiveness. But Mary, if you have reinforcements, we have a chance to take him down.”

Mary made a small noise “Can’t say what those reinforcements will do after all of this is over, but they’ll never pass up a fight like this. This bastard should have rotted a long time ago.”

Beatrice nodded and took her hands from the counter, crossing them over her chest. Ava saw her in a new light, an immortal light that she stupidly hadn’t caught earlier. Beatrice had never eaten in front of her, she never showed any true signs of fear-driven mortality. Now, in the face of going up against Adriel, terror diminished her dark eyes.

“Ava, no one is expecting you to face this.” Beatrice pulled her from thought with a simple statement. “In your state, your physicality, things might be difficult, and they will certainly be different. Lilith, Camila, they had time to adjust to things.”

Lilith schooled her expression into a frown at the mention of the name, and Ava had a blurry picture of the girl in her mind. She’d been in the church; she’d shown nothing of pity or healing. She hadn’t faked it the way Adriel and Vincent had, and for that, Ava was oddly grateful.

“I know you can feel that power inside your gut.” Lilith said in a blasé manner, “It’s intoxicating. But it can easily make you a liability. We’ve never seen a fight like this before.”

“You’re forgetting I’m an officer of the law.”

“Yes, police officers have always been good at showing restraint, haven’t they?”

“It’s her choice,” Beatrice spoke, voice hard.

Ava would be perfectly content to stay on the sidelines, though she had a feeling that she would regret it for her long life. If something were to happen to Beatrice, or even Lilith (a tad annoying, but in the older-sister type of way), then it would destroy her. More than that, she knew she’d destroy herself without guidance.

Cement gray clouds were crudely drawn against a starless black sky. They were threatening rain, plump with water that would once again push down on the city streets. Ava breathed in deeply, she could smell it so clearly, the way that the air reacted to the impending storm. The foreign sensation clung to her skin, swirled around her as if she could physically see the whisps of rain sparring with mist rising from the heated asphalt.

There were noises too; the screeching of the wet brakes for the midnight bus, the dull French murmur of a radio housed somewhere in an open window. She couldn’t track the words, nor could she decipher them. There were footsteps galore and a woman arguing over the price of cigarettes with the owner of a bodega. How many miles away, she couldn’t be sure.

“Les employés continuent d'organiser des manifestations dans les installations qu'ils habitent, interrompant le flux de travail.”

“This is robbery! I’ve been coming here for years, isn’t there loyalty in that?”

“Cela peut affecter le commerce, la résolution est peu probable.”

“You’ve lost my business forever, you bastard. Take your cigarettes and shove them up your ass.”

Two hands were on her shoulders, firm through the fabric of her coat. Beatrice carried the scent of a beach along the coast, and Ava breathed it in like salvation. She hadn’t realized she closed her eyes, nor that she had stopped only a few paces out of the apartment. Beatrice had dipped her head slightly, meeting Ava’s.

“Hey,” her voice was smooth, grounding. “I bet you’re hearing a lot right now.”

Ava chuckled wetly “Too much, some would say. I can’t speak French, I’m afraid.”

“Je peux t'apprendre, nous avons le temps. It’s boring, political relations.”

“I feel like I can taste the rain.”

“It’s a bit overwhelming, I know. You’ll get used to it in time, but for right now, focus on me. If things get to be too much, you let me know and we’ll ground you together. Is there anything that you notice more than the rest of the world's noise?”

Ava frowned and struggled to focus. While the fuzzy words of the radio had stopped and been replaced by a jazz song with the same amount of static, and the bodega man had given up for the night, flipping the open sign and muttering profanities to himself, it was still too loud. Too much.

“I can… smell you?”

“Good, yes.” Beatrice prided “That’s something to hang onto, something to attune yourself with. Eventually, I’ll teach you to synch with your own heartbeat. Ideally out of the city. It can be quite staggering here.”

Ava swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut. There was a metallic scent that rested under the waves of Beatrice’s skin, a sunniness that reminded her of salt-encrusted waves and sand, the call of birds. A place she remembers from her childhood. Everything quieted.

They were walking along the sidewalk a few paces behind Mary and Lilith, who argued amongst themselves. Ava could hear every word despite the hushed tone until she took another heaping breath of summer tones in the cold, city street.

“Don’t go pissing them off, alright? That goes for all of you. If you think I’m intense, these are the big guys. Kills that stretch for miles. They won’t hesitate.” Mary fretted “I shouldn’t have hesitated.”

“Admit that you like us, and your suffering will be much less evident,” Lilith said.

“I will shove a stake so far up your ass you’ll be chewing on splinters for weeks.”

They rounded the corner and were bathed in the neon light of an electronics store. Despite having been closed for hours, the large television sets played different forms of the news, soundless, but all with the same form of cookie-cutter caster. They were rim-rod straight, clenching papers between their fingers.

Ava tried to ignore the headlines. It would skew her work. What skewed it more was the official statements the Chief had released about Sabrina Patrick’s death. All too public. It went against everything she knew. The vigil of candles by the wharf was like a calling card to those they were about to face. Her smiling face flashed against the multitude of screens and Ava turned away.

Two cars had parked half a block up. From the first, two women and two men emerged, shrouded by shadows. The second, four other women. Ava could smell something sweet on them, could sense their apprehension. Mary nudged Lilith behind her, partly out of contempt.

“What’s all this?” A muscular woman was at the front of the pack, her shoulders were pulled back. She eyed Mary, and the group that huddled behind her. Ava’s hand clung to Beatrice’s. “Your message sounded urgent.”

“It is. I’m calling in that favor you owe me, Dora.”

“You called that in last year.”

“Then I need an IOU.” Mary glanced back at the group. “I’m sure all of you have noticed the recent deaths in the city, the missing persons cases. It’s all tracked down to one man. We know where he is, and what he’s capable of.”

Dark lifted a sculpted eyebrow. “And you need manpower?”

“We need manpower,” Mary confirmed.

There was buzzing amongst those stacked behind Dora, a murmur that rippled through the crowd and fizzled out like a broken wave. They knew, Ava gathered, that Beatrice and Lilith and now her were not cut from the same cloth. She felt a chill move up her spine, knowing that just like her choice, one had to be made.

All this time, she had lived across from Mary. She’d brought take-out food over, listened to rock albums that would swarm her mind. They’d laughed and opened up about the death of Mary’s wife. And now, they stood on the wet sidewalk, separated. Ava had never known about the true nature of someone who hunts. Not for sport- but for vengeance.

Ava flushed and deemed herself the world’s worst detective.

“Have you gone soft?” One of the men asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Working with them?”

Mary laughed, bitter and soft all at once. “I seem to remember becoming a hunter to better the world. And right now, our best bet is to swallow our pride and stop the swarm right at its roots. If we don’t, it’ll keep growing back.”

“Cut off one head and three grow in it’s place.” Dora mumbled, looking back at the uneasily shifting troops. “Right. Well. You’ll owe me infinite favors if we do this. Are we clear? I’m not throwing our family into harm’s way without something in return.”

Mary didn’t say anything, she swallowed thickly and nodded. She took the outstretched hand that Dora offered and shook it. Beatrice seemed to let her shoulders drop, only slightly, not to show weakness, but to show some form of reprieve. Ava sensed it and squeezed her hand.

The lights overhead buzzed like a set of trapped flies begging for a way out. Ava struggled to pay them no mind. Her head had since stopped throbbing violently, but now her heart threatened to bubble over in anxiety. How was it still beating? How was it this loud? These were all questions Ava had at the ready for when she stopped examining her teeth.

She used her index finger to lift one pale pink edge of her lip, leaning close to the convenience store mirror that was bleeding rust. Ava had never paid much attention to her teeth before. After she got a root canal in the fifth grade, she brushed them normally like any other kid scared shitless with a drill.

Knowing that there were lethal weapons wedged under her gums sent a chill down her spine. Easily forgettable, yes, but what if the man behind the counter sliced his hand open on a crisp dollar bill? She’d latch to the wound like a bag clip, and Ava wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to stop.

She startled when a knock sounded at the door- entirely soft but deafening at the same time. Ava took another swallow of stale bathroom air and opened it. Beatrice stood, illuminated by the harsh lighting.

“Guy behind the counter won’t let you use the bathroom without buying anything.” She smiled goofily, holding up a pack of mint gum.

“Oh, I know, I’m now a proud owner of a rabbit’s foot keychain. Figured we could use any luck we can get.”

Ava stepped aside and let Beatrice enter the bathroom. The two of them stood there for a moment, regarding each other, less like strangers and more like acquaintances.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Are you going to be able to do this?”

They spoke at the same time before welcoming the silence again. Then there was laughter, because what else could one do when there was an impending war? The city would be sleeping, the fight drowned out by rain and ignorance that Ava wished she still had the liberty of having. When she clenched her eyes shut, she was curled up in bed, elbow-deep in the Great Gatsby, sheathed into Beatrice’s side.

“You know,” Ava said, breaking the laughter “I always imagined you wearing glasses. Before all of this, I pictured you needing them to read. And that just seems silly now. I can see everything clearly.”

“Believe it or not, I did once wear glasses, before all of this.” She took a step closer, “They were quite the luxury in 1864, but I was as blind as a bat without them. Just because one can see clearly with newfound ability doesn’t mean… doesn’t mean they can forget being human. And if that’s what you’re worried about-“

“No, no.” Ava held up both hands “Well, maybe a little bit. I keep feeling like I have to pee, but I can’t. And that’s freaking me out a little bit. I also accidentally ripped the handle off the toilet, so I might have to buy another rabbit’s foot. Truthfully, I’m worried about you.”

“Me?”

She shoved Beatrice’s shoulder gently “Yes, you. I know I’m going through a whole crisis right now and we’re about to rip through a bunch of vampire drones when I didn’t even think vampires were real, but this is a big deal for you.”

Ava stilled and fixed her gaze on Beatrice, she gently brushed her fingers against the taller girl’s eyebrows, trying to smooth out the worried frown, the small crease between them that was admittedly adorable.

“I would give anything to avenge JC’s death, truly, I would, but that would be a little self-destructive don’t you think?”

“Ava,” Beatrice warned.

“My point is, Bea, you have the option and… and part of me wants to make sure that when you’re standing there, face to face with this creature that you won’t hesitate, or contemplate, or whatever rushes through that gorgeous head of yours. I want you to kick his ass.”

“Kick… his ass?”

Ava beamed now. This was her old partner. Though she didn’t mind the tender care that Beatrice exhibited in all of her guilt-ridden actions, she could do without them for a little while. There was a quiet properness to Beatrice’s actions, even the one time Ava had seen her dislodge a gun that was pointed directly at her head with one swift movement.

She understood now, why there was no fear. But at the time, Ava nearly lost her own footing. She cuffed their target and tried not to let her admiration shine through. There was a shift in Beatrice now, that professional shift that ebbed away at her immortally perplexed thoughts. 

“Yeah,” She squared her shoulders, loosening her stance. “Yeah, alright. I’ll kick his ass.”

“That’s my girl! I’ll help too. I’ve got your six, always. No more shady actions, they’ve gotten me nowhere.”

“Aw, does this mean I don’t get any more pity coffee?” Beatrice pouted. “It always tastes better when it’s pity coffee.”

Beatrice Alexander held a loose beauty as she walked past the large park that was at the heart of the city. Her presence held a match, filling the air with sulfur. The grass was damp, and her shoes sunk the second she hit it. She lingered between oaks, adjusted her hold on the double-barrel shotgun that she held in her hands.

They’d been walking the streets for the better half of an hour as lightning charged the atmosphere. Beatrice had learned quickly that while Adriel’s followers were armed with eternal life and Napoleon complex, under it all, they were still scared.

The second Dora had swung a bat embedded with nails close enough to an ear to slice it open, the packs of them started to scatter. Beatrice shuddered at the joy in her eyes, the leadership that rang through the world as they slaughtered and maimed.  

Ava had winced at the gunshots, the screaming. But it quickly passed as they neared the center of the city. They had a clear path to Adriel, to the higher-ups that had clung to his every single word for decades.

They stood like the four horsemen of the apocalypse: loaded up with weapons and their own hubris. Beatrice could smell the rain and the damp of the day. There was fear bubbling in her stomach. She remembered the day at the protests in the 70s- the heat that bord down on her, and the way she ran. Beatrice refused to run.

Once she took the first step over the threshold of the park, she stilled her nerves. The steeple of the church loomed over them, and the prophet himself stood in the center of the clearing. He looked so simple, so unassuming. He wore a jack-o-lantern smile.  

Vincent was on his right, and Camila was on his left. Both steeled themselves. More lurked within the trees- new like Ava, uninformed like Camila. She noted their unblinking eyes. It was impossible to count. They stopped a few yards away from the line of defense.

Adriel had always fought with American Revolutionary tactics, lines of cannon fodder. She’d never seen him raise a hand in those early days. As time began to wear against his bones and his ideals grew three sizes to oppression, that changed.

He had a proud tilt to his jaw “Beatrice, I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

She was careful with her strength, with her words. A shotgun would be useless with a bent barrel. Mary scanned the trees, calculating their chances of freedom. Lilith’s stare was locked on Camila, unwavering. Anger rolled from her in waves, never waning.

“Detective Silva,” Adriel continued “Death becomes you nicely.”

“Suck a dick!” Ava yelled back.

“Charming.”

Beatrice could count six vampires on each side, possibly seven. Men and women who had drunk from the same glass that Ava had. Their demise was gentler, she was sure. They edged closer to them- and it was Mary who took the first shot, a single hairline trigger that launched an arrow through the center of a man’s heart.

A hiss was lodged in his throat as hellfire consumed him; brilliant oranges and muted reds seeping through the cracks in his veins. Ash floated into the air, crumbled to the ground, and fed the earth. Such a quick death in such a public park. Ava suddenly looked feeble, tightening her grip on her gun.

Adriel’s stare shifted then to something tense and unforgiving. He signaled, something so slight, a movement with his hand, and the remaining eleven figures lurking in the shadows rushed forward. Their shoes squelched in the mud, kicking up rainwater.

Beatrice advanced forward. She was locked in on Adriel, the sounds of an ensuing fight breaking across the silence. Mary was good with her weapon, an expert in her craft. Blood caked Lilith’s fingers and sprayed her face. Gunshots rang out, a crosshatch flash of light blinking in Morse code with each pull of Ava’s trigger.

By the time she reached him, both Vincent and Camila had ducked to the edges of the fight. It was just the two of them and the putrid scent of congealed blood flowing through his veins.

Adriel moved like lightning, ducking the first motivated hit that Beatrice threw his way with the butt of the gun. The second thrust struck bone, a sickening crunch from a shattered nose. He reeled back and laughed as blood gushed over his lips, staining his teeth pink. Resentment rotted under his skin.

“I just want to talk.”

She swung again, striking his temple. Blood bloomed against his skull. “Oh, I’m sure. You’ve created this entire plan, this army.”

“An army we once dreamed of together, Beatrice!” he caught the next throw of the gun, holding it merely inches from his cheek, his voice was a low growl “I put all my trust in you. We could have had everything. Everything!”

“You were never satisfied, Adriel. You always wanted more.”

“And what is wrong with that? We are the superior race! Humans are fragile, they are nothing compared to us. Fodder in a war that the two of us were destined to end together.”

“Write that sentence down,” She wrenched the gun from his grasp “And hand it to your therapist.”

Adriel snarled at her and pushed his entire weight into her midsection. They both crashed to the ground. Its sweaty cold worked its way through her clothes. He brought his fist down on her jaw and she could taste copper. Once, twice, three times before she wedged her boot between them and threw him a few feet away. His fingers dug fruitlessly into the soft, damp earth.

Beatrice raised herself from the ground, placed the sole of her shoe on Adriel’s chest. There was a sadness in his mud-trodden eyes. To her, it was a sign of defeat, a tiredness that centuries roaming the earth had established.

He had never been a good fighter- instead, he employed Vincent for that. Vincent who was pinned to the ground by Mary, Lilith’s nails digging into his soft flesh. Ava fended off Camila, shoving her back, aiming the gun directly between the girl's eyebrows. Beatrice couldn’t’ hear the words that leaked from her mouth, the begging that thrummed.

No doubt, he was waiting for the rest of his army of sires, those who had no other choice. But they were gone, slaughtered in the streets. There were more, she was sure, with the same ideology spread across the world. It was impossible not to fall prey to his charming ways.

Beatrice pumped the shotgun, aimed it directly at Adriel. His hair was cemented to his forehead, his chest rising and falling under the pressure of her foot. She gritted her teeth, could taste the soil and the electricity in the air.

“What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined- to strengthen each other- to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories.” He quoted George Eliot effortlessly, trying to appeal to her.

Beatrice laughed, her words dripping with venom “There is nothing human about you. The things that you willed me to do- killing my parents, burning entire towns. Adriel, I will never get the scent of burning flesh from my lungs.”

“You could have left sooner. You could have said no.”

��You sired me!” She pressed down hard enough for his sternum to pop under the weight. He let out a scream of pain, smirked into it with sick enjoyment. “I had no choice, and when I did get the will to break your hold it was too much for you. My disobedience was too much.”

“Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.”

Beatrice frowned, knelt with her full weight against him. She moved the gun, placed it directly under his chin, pushed hard enough to create angry red circles against his stubble. His breath was labored, bones unable to fuse back together. It didn’t stop them from trying. “Stop talking. Right now, you listen.”

She waited for a beat, heard another gunshot ring out.

“If you had just let me, go you wouldn’t be here right now. Neither of us would be here. But you had some sort of sick infatuation with me, with those that I choose to care about. And I have waited too long with too much patience for this very moment.

“I cared for you once, for a brief moment, or at least I thought I did. You were the only one who understood me, the only one who saw me as more than the daughter of a rich socialite and an investment banker. But that was all an act, and the real you- fuck- the real you was the most deplorable thing.”

Adriel swallowed hard and she felt it rock through the weapon. Rain had begun to fall and it was icy on her skin. When she breathed out, it mingled with the puff of mist that pushed past Adriel’s own lips.

“It wasn’t all a lie.” He said, “I enjoyed George Eliot, and I enjoyed your father, the kindness of your family.”

“You had it all then, Adriel. A simple and beautiful life and your own greed stole that away and led us to this moment.”

He glared at her for a moment but softened. Her finger was on the trigger, her knee pressed so firmly against his ribs that she could shatter them, mold them like putty. Right now, he looked like a man caught in the rain.

“I always figured it would be you,” He said, a sad smile on his lips “The moment I saw you reading under that oak tree, I knew that my demise would be at your hands.”

Ava’s words echoed in her head then. Vengeance. It werewolfed against her bones, took over her mind. This man had chased her like a feral cat for decades. He had watched, applauded with disgusted joy as she used her teeth to tear into her mother’s jugular. He’d wiped the blood tentatively from her cheeks.

Beatrice pulled the trigger.

Detective Ava Silva thumbed the rabbit’s foot that was shoved into the pocket of her black blazer. She felt the rough artificial pads and the hard plastic nails at its tip. She was grateful that she decided to keep it. Rubbing the small keychain like this kept her hand busy, kept her from fidgeting. The other held the metal rod of an umbrella.

If she focused hard enough, she would be able to hear the officiant of the funeral or the quiet sobs that Miss Palmer muffled with her handkerchief. Instead, she counted the drops that fell against nylon and dripped to the ground. They’d worm their way through soil, soak into the mahogany of the coffins that punched holes in the earth under their feet.

Beatrice had her hand on the small of Ava’s back. Her eyes were fixated on the closed casket and the rose that was placed against it. It hadn’t been de-thorned, and she was mindful of each hand that touched it. A small drop of blood could summon a situation that both girls were too somber to acknowledge.

Ava was getting better. With the major threat eliminated, she could focus more on control or lack-there-of. Beatrice had already acquired a farmhouse that had been foreclosed on. It needed work, a long project that would keep Ava’s mind and hands occupied.

Ava had turned in her badge without being prompted. Though, the Chief had her dismissal quick on her tongue. Rules had been broken and were being investigated, but when the gunfire stopped and the red and blue adorned patrol cars finally did show up at the park, there was a distinct scent of ash in the air, blood having been washed away by the storm.

No one would talk and they spent the better half of the night in a damp interrogation room. There was no evidence of a crime, just eyewitnesses who were convinced they’d seen something of a war in between oak trees and picnic tables. It was enough for both of them to pack up the things on their desks into sad cardboard boxes.

They’d come to the funeral for Barry Palmer out of respect. Ava was entirely apologetic, squeezing his wife’s shoulders and apologizing profusely for her loss. There was something in her eyes, something tender- something that assured the woman that she was safe.

The girls didn’t’ linger, it felt wrong and immoral. There was a peacefulness to the cemetery as they walked to the car, stale water pooling around their shoes. Ava’s mind buzzed with the events of the last month. She’d found a body wedged between a load-bearing wall and a dumpster and now she was immortal. She supposed she had a lot of time to think about things.

“Are you worried about them?” Ava asked as they edged through cement grave markers.

“No,” Beatrice frowned, removed her hand from the small of Ava’s back. She was growing cold in the autumn air. “If Vincent and Camila have any good sense, they’ll stay far away to lick their wounds.”

When law enforcement showed up, those who remained scattered within the foliage had scampered away in cowardice. Ava didn’t have it in her to chase after the girl, and Lilith had done enough damage to Vincent that she figured he wouldn’t get far.

Beatrice opened the passenger side door when they reached the car, gently taking the umbrella from Ava’s grasp. Ava lingered. She turned; her front pressed against Beatrice’s. “This feels like the end.” she admitted.

“Mm, perhaps.” She leaned closer and could smell the metallic edge to Ava’s breath. “George Eliot once said only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.”

Ava kissed her then, under the umbrella at the edges of a cemetery to the sound of rain and a soft, smoky wind. Her fingers ghosted Beatrice’s jaw, tenderly, filled with something akin to fondness. Just for a moment, while mourning the loss of an investment banker, and the simplicity of her own life, Ava felt like nothing else mattered. Not even the hunger that burned at the back of her throat.

[superprincesspea]

The Arrangement

Chapter 2 - Perception

Masterlist

The next time you see Joel, you’re up on stage. Lights, camera, action.  

You think of days like these as a circus except there isn’t any big top and the only clowns are the dolls in six-inch heels.  

‘Welcome to Negan’s horrific spectacle.’  

Come one, come all, and, for the low low price of silence, everyone in the Sanctuary can have a front row seat to the greatest show on Earth. Losing the last shreds of your humanity is free and vomiting is optional.  

You laugh grimly but the sound is barely a snort of a breath meant only for yourself. The truth is nothing about this is funny. The room is thick with tension, the entire Sanctuary squeezed onto the factory floor. 

You can’t distinguish between the hushed whispers of the audience and the wives standing beside you aren’t talking. So, in this room of people, you’re alone. Your feet sore, sweat gathering between your breasts and your spine aching for the chance to sit down.  

After a while, whispers turn to grumbles but it's all part of the show. The long anticipation before Negan’s grand entrance and, finally, it’s time for curtains up.  

He winks at you as he steps onto the stage and his smile is all bright white teeth and devilish charm. You’ve always admired Negan’s confidence even when his actions disturbed you beyond belief and today is no different.  

With Negan in full view of the audience, everyone has become impossibly still, choked by the kind of quiet where no one even dares to breathe. The silence makes your stomach churn, your heart race but Negan is relaxed, his smile still captivating as he saunters from left to right with Lucille balanced on his shoulder.  

“Now, I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today,” he begins, the ringmaster in full command of his crowd but you don’t need to hear his reasons. You already know. You’ve already seen Dwight, bound and gagged, waiting just out of view. 

You also know why. Know that he dared to love Sherry and run away. But what you don’t understand is, why had they been caught? Why hadn’t they been smarter? And most of all, why couldn’t Negan just let them go?  

Sherry is still missing and though you like to think she’s out there somewhere, surviving despite losing Dwight, you’re not holding your breath. If surviving was easy, everyone would do it. You would do it.  

Pushing away the thought, you look back towards Negan, still in command, still effortlessly poised as he finishes his run down of Dwight's charges in a court where he is judge, jury and executioner. Then all eyes are on Dwight. But not yours- you can’t look. Won’t look. 

You’d like to say you don’t recognise the stink of flesh as it bubbles and cooks like meat in a skillet, but you do. Sour and fatty, the smell makes your stomach twist into knots so tight you’re sure you’ll never eat a morsel of food again- but you will.  

Survival is so hardwired into your brain that you know you’ll do anything to keep breathing. Even love a man like Negan and you had loved him for a while. Far longer than he really deserved but, after The Duke, he’d felt like Prince Charming and, like every woman everywhere since the dawn of time, you’d thought you could change him. Make him better, make him love you back but when did that really work?  

So, while Dwight's face is melted with the hot end of a poker, you try to let everything fade to black but not Joel. He’s standing in the middle of the packed crowd, and he isn’t looking at Dwight either, he’s looking at you. You hadn’t noticed him before and now you’re not sure how you saw anything else. 

His dark eyes seem to burn onto your skin and while the rest of the audience is still captivated by the show, your eyes lock with Joel’s and neither of you break contact until it's all over. The sizzle, the screams, Negan’s speech on loyalty and penance.  

You’ve heard it all before, but this is Joel’s first time and there’s something on his face which tells you he won’t be here for the next one. If only you could say the same.  

Instead, you say nothing, do nothing and the show is over. The players exit the stage and you’re no exception. You get in line with the rest of the wives and follow Negan up to the apartment where he heads straight to his bedroom, leaving you and the other girls to hover outside the door.   

You glance around, hoping one of them will make the first move to follow him but they’re too upset. Tears on cheeks, sobs trapped in chests and the smell, that awful smell must be burned into their noses likes its burned into yours.  

“I guess I’ll go,” you sigh, and Tanya squeezes your shoulder before you force yourself over the threshold and click the door shut behind. 

Negan is settling Lucille in her usual spot, and you don’t know why today is any different from any other day, but you can’t take another minute of pretending.  

“I didn’t like that,” you say and though something stronger, something more rebellious is brewing under your skin, your tone is still cautious. 

Negan turns, his eyes widening, “neither did I, baby.”  

His words sound sincere but you’re not sure what to think anymore and though your tears have run dry, your voice still cracks when you ask, “then why?” 

“You know why.” 

“You could have just let them leave. You didn’t have to hunt them down and-” 

“And what?” He lets the question linger in the air, but he doesn’t want you to answer it. You’re certain he doesn’t even want to begin this conversation or any conversation at all. Still, he’s not the kind of man to back down from a challenge even a challenge as inconsequential as this.  

He moves closer, his eyes levelling with yours and they’re stern, narrowed in to hold tightly onto your gaze. “Maybe I should let every fucker in the Sanctuary think he can do whatever the fuck he wants? Maybe one of them will decide they want to fuck you, should I let them get away with that?” 

Again, he doesn’t want an answer just like you don’t want to challenge him anymore, so you look at your shoes, strappy, flimsy and in complete contrast with Negan’s heavy boots.  

Your submission works, his voice is softer now, but he’s still pissed.  

He paces the floor in front of you, his arms gesturing for effect, “maybe I should let every fucker with half a brain cell decide they can just walk the fuck out of here and get themselves killed? Or worse- let them bring back an army to take what's ours?”  

You dare to look at him.  

“You know the fucking score just like everyone else.” 

Now his hands are on your cheeks, his touch so gentle you could mistake it for love. 

“Say it,” he commands. 

“I know the score,” you whisper and Negan sighs, his shoulders losing some of their tension. 

His speech might have been more for his benefit than yours but honestly, he’s right. You all know the score. Negan’s way or no way and you don’t even hate him for it. Society, as you knew it, is gone. This is Negan’s world where he is King, President and God. At some point, you’d all agreed to the new world order.  

There’s no old school penal system for those who broke the rules, no review to make sure Negan’s punishments aren’t cruel and unusual. They are. They’re supposed to be and that’s the point.  

The sad thing is, you don’t even care about Dwight. There probably wasn’t a person in the room who did. Everyone watched his face melt and thought the same thing- I’m glad it isn’t me.  

But you’re done with safety in exchange for oppression and you’re done with Negan.  

Just not tonight.  

Tonight, you’re still his wife, his best girl and honestly, you’re not even mad about it. Negan is familiar. A port in the storm even if he’s the one creating the storm. 

He moves closer, pushing the strap of your dress down your arm to kiss your shoulder.  

His beard tickles your skin, his lips are hungry, desperate to taste and find something satisfying for both of you.  

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to get so-” he murmurs into your neck. 

“I know,” you brush your fingers through his hair and down the soft supple leather of his jacket, pulling him closer.  

Negan isn’t a monster; you know that much. He might enjoy the theatrics, but he doesn’t seek to maim and hurt people. There are only three rules in the Sanctuary which carry such corporal punishment. Rape, Murder and Stealing.  

Dwight and Sherry might be in love, but he stole her from Negan whether Negan wanted her or not.  

Perception is everything. Rules are rules.  

Negan doesn’t say anything more, he’s worn out from the theatrics, and he doesn’t want to fight. He wants this- flesh and pleasure.  

He pushes you onto the bed, legs spread, ankles dangling over his shoulders. He isn’t a selfish lover and maybe that would have made him easier to hate. But he’s on his knees for you, burying his face into your pussy and putting that charismatic mouth to good use. Stealing your thoughts, bringing you to the peak of pleasure before his cock finally pushes inside. 

His jeans are still clinging to his hips, the bite of his zipper nicking against your bare ass with every thrust. He comes fast, a quick release of tension before the real fucking begins.  

[sexyglances]

Dusik's Self-Isolation, the "Doorkeeper" Poem, and Hyejin's Presence

It's been said many times before about Dusik, but episode ten once again showed how he has dedicated his life to a series of active choices that results in purposeful denial of providing love to himself. He deliberately distances himself from others and tries to deny his love for anything and anyone as a way for repenting against his past 'sins' of loving people who all died too soon.

To Dusik, his love has been nothing but a condemnation to others and himself, and he feels like he must live a life in limbo purgatory as penance, neither giving nor receiving too much companionship, lest he condemn another person via his love. Is his carefree lifestyle that carefree? Or is it his way of willfully keeping himself from attaching to anything? Because life has taught him that if he has strong emotion for something, then that is a harbinger of destruction for what he loves.

All the people he cared for most in his life died too suddenly and too early in his life, before he could process how to say a proper goodbye. And he feels directly responsible for at least one of their deaths--we see him say so explicitly to both his therapist in general and in more detail to Hyejin about his grandfather. To Dusik, his grandfather died because he let himself love soccer more than being vigilant, even though he didn't know there was anything to be vigilant for at the time. Then after his last loss in his mysterious five years away from Gongjin, it seems like Dusik abandoned direct expressions of love for anybody. He learned that vigilance is the only expression of love that he should offer other people.

Staying vigilant of other people's needs while also staying vigilant of not getting too close is his way of protecting other people for their needs and from himself. This is partly why he tried to deny his feelings for Hyejin for so long, dancing between the friend zone and something more. (As an aside, this focus on his own vigilance may also play into his love for photography. He seems drawn to capturing moments to look back on, not wanting moments to pass by unnoticed.)

As part of his vigilance, Dusik created a life for himself back in Gongjin as an unemployed jack-of-all-trades, a fix-it man, an unofficial neighborhood chief that can show up at a moment's notice when help is needed. Dusik has made himself into a person that can be reliable in any situation. And he threw himself into that role by learning as many trades as possible so he could fix any problem, from HVAC repair to barista certification to fruit carving and anything in between. But even though he wants to be known as a reliable entity in town, he also makes sure to position himself as a periphery figure only. He only shows up from outside other people's routine lives. He purposefully does not live on any fixed schedule that is permanently tied to anyone else, and he surrounds himself with a thick air of detachedness. This is how he ensures he can't become an albatross to anyone's life again. He can't be accountable for destruction of life if he's simply a hired part-timer and a neighborhood helper; and nothing with any inherent responsibility that can't be explained away by utility rather than love.

Sure, he's a chief that other people turn to for help, but he rejects anything more official than being a helpful neighbor. He refuses to express his love for individual people because experience has taught him that his love can destroy lives, so he only shows his love for the people of Gongjin as part of a whole entity, detaching himself from anything that can be seen as preference for individual people. This is something Chunjae noted in their conversation the night Juri ran away. Dusik accepts other people's problems and their joys, but he doesn't actively share his own in full-fledged reciprocation. The exception seems to be halmeoni Gamri, at least to some extent, but even then he tends to frame any explanation of him going above and beyond for her as a way of paying back for how much she cared for him growing up. Dusik lives in his own manufactured limbo where he has made his existence entirely fixed as an untethered entity.

Dusik has turned his pain into a lifestyle where he knows he must keep his heart guarded from other people by becoming too attached, keep himself from sullying his hometown and the people he's dedicated himself to with the infection that is him asking for reciprocity. His infectious disease is spread through baring himself and his full-fledged feelings to other people, and thus he quarantines that part of himself from anyone. Denial of love is his love. So he flits from job to job, works for minimum wage, and tries to pretend that he does not attach himself to anything or anyone but himself. It's easier for everyone this way. That way he cannot drag anyone down into the surf that is his destruction.

He has decided that it's better for him to be a solitary observer, taking up space in a manmade shipwreck away from others, both literally and figuratively, as is shown by how he made the choice to keep his grandpa's boat out of the water, perching it on a hill so high and isolated that he could barely get it up there in the first place. Even if it is incredibly difficult to do, he is determined to meet his goal of self-exile. It's the only way he knows how to protect himself and everyone else, through self-imposed isolation.

But like the poem Dusik read to Hyejin, once she entered his life, she would not stop showing up for him. She didn't willingly ascribe to the rules he set forth for other people. He told her to cross lines freely, as if she had already been doing so. She may have verbally pontificated about not crossing lines, but her actions said otherwise, and she was crossing Dusik's boundaries before he even knew it. She didn't fit perfectly into Gongjin or Dusik's life, and her stretching the limits of what is 'acceptable' is what he needed to open himself up to a new perspective other than steadfast solitude. It was through her own actions, stepping into his circle of solitude and making her presence known, that he began to question if isolation was really what he wanted and preferred.

From the very beginning, Hyejin asked Dusik to stay with her, literally tugging on his shirt to keep him from leaving on the beach the first day they met. And she hasn't stopped holding onto him. First it was out of helplessness, then when she held onto him and asked him to stay before her first town hall meeting, it was her asking for his support, then when she ran into his arms when she was scared, it was her showing her deep trust for him, and now most recently, in her half-asleep state on the couch, it was her desire to emotionally connect with him in a way more profound than he does with others. Her presence is her way of asking him to open the door to his heart.

And like the poem said, and what Dusik realized as he was reading it, his staunch gatekeeping betrayed him and he fell in love because of his own stubbornness in refusing to leave his post. He found someone who reliably showed up to his post as dependably as he does. Or rather, she showed up and found him in Gongiin. He was always there to keep his metaphorical door closed, and she was always there to check if it was still closed. Dusik was so sure that gatekeeping would keep him safe, so sure that his constant monitoring and vigilance would keep him protected, that he failed to realize what would happen when he began to rely on his denial. His continued refusal became something reliable in itself, though not because of him, but because of her showing up. After all, what is there to refuse if there is not someone knocking at the door every day? His vigilance betrayed him because he forgot that actively guarding his heart was also keeping his heart active.

Dusik tried to deny Hyejin entrance inside his heart, but then her existence in Gongjin took up space all around him. She became like the sea itself, constant and deep and reflective. And just like Gongjin would feel incomplete without the presence of the sea's waves lapping on its shore, so too is Dusik starting to feel incomplete without Hyejin's assured presence. So much that when she's gone, as he said at his grandpa's memorial ceremony after she left, he misses her so-called noisiness and disruption of his habitual silence. He misses her. Without him realizing it, the silence he used to crave has started to feel like an empty void, and it's no longer silence he seeks. Instead, it's the steady sound of her waves crashing against his shoreline that has started to bring him comfort. Her tides coming and going, leaving bits of herself behind with him and changing his coastline with her presence is more dynamic and interesting than the unvarying landscape of the dry hilltop perch he made for himself.

Dusik's gatekeeping has evolved in that its purpose is no longer about resolute solitude and staying away from others, but about taking up patrol in order to be near her. Subconsciously Dusik found himself willing to abandon his sentry, not even noticing that he was walking away from his guard post and leaving himself wide open to her. This is so interesting coupled with the line Hyejin said a few episodes earlier, "He's always around when you least expect it." Both in that she too unexpectedly became a part of his life like she claimed he did with hers, and also how in some ways the reason he is always present is because he actively finds ways to show up around her and enact his gatekeeping. Just like the lines from the poem, Dusik became the doorkeeper whose "job is to wait for you the next day to deny you. / My job is to wait for you the next day and fall in love with you."

And then Hyejin confessed, and Dusik made the conscious choice to abandon his barricaded doorway to go be with her and kiss her. Because his barricade wasn't worth keeping up if she was baring herself to him so openly and and unguardedly. Isolation and vigilance lost their meaning in the face of the buoyancy he feels when he is with her. Hyejin tried to say that he could leave his door closed. She put her hand up to his mouth, and with that she meant she didn't expect anything in return, that he could leave his door closed, and she would still be there, her feelings unwavering. But her bravery made him brave as well. And he made the active choice to pull back his own door, lower her hand, and kiss her. Now, his doorkeeping is meaningless without her. And after all these years, his carefully cultivated isolation is worthless if it means isolation from embracing Hyejin's presence as well.

The poem said, "denying my love is my job," but Dusik finally realized he was ready to accept more than just denial in this life with Hyejin. He was finally ready to make the active choice to accept someone in his heart again. Hyejin's presence made Dusik acutely aware of the weight of his isolation and he knew it was again time for him to firmly reject something. But this time instead of rejecting another person, instead of rejecting the feelings of reciprocal love, he rejected his own self-isolation. His rejection was in favor of love rather than against it. Hyejin knocked, completely content with the closed door of Dusik's existence, but this time he flung his door open and made the move to kiss her and return her feelings back. His purpose is no longer to deny his love, it's to accept love and give love back to her.

-----

And just in case you wanted to read the poem in full, I've pasted it below:

"Doorkeeper" by Kim Haengsook

It's my job to say, "You shouldn't do this here."

It's my job to deny your purpose.

It's my job to deny you the next day.

It's my job to wait for you the next day to deny you.

My job is to wait for you the next day and fall in love with you.

Thus, denying my love is my job.

I will not cry because of my vocation, he wrote. I cried sometimes when I wrote a diary.

[jotunn-loki]

no penance due to innocence

FANDOM: tom hiddleston rpf, mcu rpf PAIRING: tom hiddleston/reader RATING: explicit, NS// FW!! WC: 4,544 WARNINGS/K¡NKS: female!reader, professor/student, daddy k¡nk, praise k¡nk, schoolgirl fantasy, age difference/age k¡nk, voice k¡nk, degradation, spanking, dom!hiddles, sub!reader, pain k¡nk, not a warning but hiddles in suit/glasses/beard

SUMMARY:  Despite your best interests, you can't help but fantasize about your classics professor, Tom Hiddleston. But as it may seem, your thoughts may not be so fruitless after all...

NOTE: the title is a line from John Donne's poem "to his mistress going to bed" which is partially quoted in this fic--you'll see! imagine Hiddles reciting it hehe. also, i typically don't use "y/n" in my fics, but this fic does use "Miss Y/LN" (your last name) thrice! not in the heat of the smut but near the beginning and end:) enjoy!

It was nearly seven p.m.

Tom Hiddleston, your classics professor, stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand wrapped elegantly around a remote clicker and the other adjusting his glasses as he spoke.

You loved his voice; everyone in the class did—the smooth richness of it, the authentic Britishness that was so short in supply at your American university, the elegance and intent he put into each and every syllable. He obviously was quite passionate about his subject, which made not only for a fascinating class, but an attentive group of students. You were sure that there was no one in the section who ever dared to not pay attention to his lectures, much less skip it completely. Why would anyone want to miss the crisp tightness of Professor Hiddleston’s custom-tailored suits or the soft unintentional growl in his voice when he read aloud a section from your readings? He was a talented actor in that regard, but you were glad he had never gone into such an industry...otherwise you wouldn’t be able to watch him in class now, listen to him, soaking in every bit of his perfection.

And that, truly, was the reason that you loved this class most of all. While you were ashamed to admit it, after the seventy-five minutes you spent in the Intro to British Literature lecture, your underwear was always slightly damp as you rose from your seat and tried to ignore your mortification as you passed by the man you couldn’t stop thinking about on the way out of the door, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, Professor.”

It was the same now, and you could barely focus on the class’s content while Professor Hiddleston turned from one completely filled up white board to the next, giving you a splendid view of his glorious tight ass. You shifted in your seat in what you hoped was an inconspicuous way and turned away. This was getting out of hand. You almost were wondering if you needed to drop the class altogether, purely for your own sanity.

But then again—if every student in the class did that, there would be no one left in the section.

Now Professor Hiddleston was running a hand over his beautiful dirty blonde beard, thinking for a moment before he wrote the next name upon the board. John Donne, it read, and you suddenly remembered the poem you had been assigned to read the night prior. It was short, less than one hundred lines, which had lent for easy reading, even for the turn of the sixteenth century. But that wasn’t, of course, what had drawn your attention. The poem was unashamedly erotic, a scene about undressing, a mistress and her lover, vulnerability between them both.

And now, to your absolute undoing, Professor Hiddleston had decided that it was a good idea to read it aloud. You could barely breathe as he spoke, as he again, acted, the poetry, each line sending you further into a frenzy. Around you, the class held its collective breath as well, creating an unnatural silence. Not even a paper moved, nor did a pen drop.

“...shew / thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence / there is no penance due to innocence / to teach thee, I am naked first; why then / what needst thou have more covering than a man,” Hiddleston finished with a flourish, a slight smirk on those perfect lips. His eyes roved around the room thoughtfully, that smirk dissolving into an unabashed grin. “Quite the charmer, Donne thought himself to be,” he added with a laugh. “We can thank him for that.”

Suddenly, his eyes locked with yours, and you could have sworn that he swallowed as he looked at you. Or perhaps that was just a stupid hope. You twisted your lips and looked away abruptly, missing the narrowing of his eyes and the way his hand ran down his tie and fiddled with its tip.

Soon enough, class was over, the hour just passed, and you gathered your things, stuffing the poems you had printed out into your bag and rising from your seat with a grimace. Your body had found itself aroused. Again. Thankfully, now that your day was finished, you’d be able to make it back to the dorms with minimal consequence, and you knew it would be a few hours before your roommate to return, so you’d have a solid amount of time to...get your professor off of your mind.

But as you turned the corner from the descending steps between the rows of chairs towards the door, a voice cleared itself behind you. Heart pumping, you pivoted to find Professor Hiddleston standing there, one hand rolling up the sleeves of his crisp shirt up to his elbows, revealing lean but corded muscle there under smooth pale skin.

“Y-yes, Professor?” you asked him, trying not to let your voice shake. It was almost as if he could read your thoughts, sense that you were clearly horny and in need of leaving the fucking lecture hall.

“I need to speak with you privately,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but clench tightly and swallow.

“About what, sir?” you asked.

Hiddleston smiled. “Just grades. Your recent performance.” Seeing your confounded face, he added, “Nothing serious, of course.”

Slowly, you nodded. “When should I come?”

You didn’t miss the slip there, the unintentional double-meaning, but as it would seem, neither did he, as Hiddleston’s pleasant smile slid into a heavily lidded smirk, one eyebrow raising.

No. It couldn’t be. Professor fucking Hiddleston—into you? Just another one of his sophomore students who was most likely taking the course solely for a humanities credit? Granted, you were not one of those—you loved classic English prose and poetry, but it was such a large class that most of them were not that into the subject.

“Right now,” Professor Hiddleston said then, gesturing for you to follow him. Eyes widening, your hand tightened around the strap of your bag and you waited for him to gather his teaching materials before you both left the lecture hall promptly.

His office was not far, only a few floors up. Luckily, you did not have far to go, as it was in the same building, and so you did not have to dwell in the anxious interim stage for long.

The office itself was spacious and graciously private, with a large modern window that looked out onto the urban campus of your university, and a shade that was currently rolled up to the top. There was a large mahogany desk as well, old-fashioned as you had expected, and a luxurious chair that sat behind it. A plush violet-colored rug laid on the floor as well, completing the look.

You had been purposefully avoiding office hours for this class all semester, unable to trust yourself in such close proximity to your professor. It seems that your goal had now been foiled by the man himself. Oh, well. Hopefully this would be quick, and you wouldn’t have to endure this torture for long.

Sighing, Hiddleston sat himself down behind his desk and rolled the chair away from it, hands steepled with his elbows on his thighs. His thighs... which were currently separated far apart in the most attractive manspread you’d ever seen, no matter what an oxymoron that may have been in any other situation. But not in this one. Not here, with Professor Hiddleston, alone.

This man who you could guess was around forty years old. This man who was probably over twenty years your senior. Unwittingly, the thought sent another stroke of heat down to your pussy. Oh, god. Biting your lip, you waited for him to speak.

He seemed to enjoy holding you in suspense for a moment, that infuriating grin still plastered across that handsome face. “You must have wondered why I called you here.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that, his grin disappeared, and something else crossed his face instead, something much darker, much hungrier. “I do love it when you call me that.”

You gulped. “What’s that, Professor?”

“Either of those,” he replied, that familiar growl filling his voice. “And you must know by now that I don’t give a damn about your grades. That is your own business...besides, you are doing excellently in my class.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say, so you just smiled and crossed your hands behind your back.

“No...you’re here because you are far too distracting. It’s causing me problems during lectures. That is an issue,” Hiddleston said, spreading his legs even wider.

“I...hadn’t noticed that, sir.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he replied simply, that prim accent making it all the better. “I wouldn’t be a good lecturer if I allowed myself to be easily affected by a student...even if you are as stunning as you are.” His eyes flashed. “I wonder...are you doing this on purpose, darling?”

Mouth parting, you shook your head.

“Mm,” Hiddleston murmured, scratching the side of his beard slowly. “I don’t know about that. Are you sure?”

“Why would I be so willing to entice you, Professor?” you asked him, willing yourself not to collapse where you stood.

Hiddleston dropped his hand and ran it instead along the inside of his thigh. Your eyes widened and you had to avert your gaze. “Because you want me as much as I have lusted after you,” he said huskily in reply.

When you didn’t respond, throat too tight to speak, he stood, edging around the side of his desk. “Admit it, Miss Y/LN,” he said sternly.

He was so close to you now, just an inch away. You could barely intake breath—no, scratch that, you couldn’t breathe at all.

After a painful moment, you nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“Yes,” you squeaked, eyes flitting to his, a bright, intense blue.

“Yes, what?”

Steeling yourself, you brought your hand to his chest. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good girl.”

You clenched again, barely withholding an audible moan. Still, Hiddleston had spotted your near slip, and he grinned, bringing one of his large hands to cover yours where it was placed on his chest and entwine both of your fingers. “Say yes to me, then. And I will give you what you so crave.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston. Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said again. “Now. Undress.”

You gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

Hiddleston snatched both of your wrists then, pulling you right to his chest so that your bodies were pressed together. “You do want me to fuck you, Miss Y/LN, don’t you?”

Quickly, you nodded.

“Then do as I say,” he hissed.

You complied easily, removing first your bag from your shoulders and then your light jacket. You hesitated only a moment before sliding your fingers under the hem of your shirt and lifting it from your head, exposing your skin to the slight chill of the room. Still, everything inside you was fire, and it only burned hotter as Hiddleston inhaled deeply, taking in the sight of your breasts, hidden only by the bra that cupped them gently. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Just like I imagined.”

Your breath quickened at that. It was terribly gratifying to know that he had fantasized about you, his student, just as you had fantasized about him, your professor. So you smiled at him through your lashes, putting on a facade of demureness.

“Now, don’t give me that,” Hiddleston automatically smirked, grabbing your jaw and holding it tightly. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “I know how dirty your thoughts have been, my dear, and it would be a lie for you to pretend otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Unable to help yourself, you whimpered. Beside your ear, Professor Hiddleston laughed. “Whore.”

You held your breath as he then unbuckled your bra, the garment in his hands looking like it belonged there—and leaving your breasts bare. “Professor,” you murmured as he leaned forward, cupping both of them in his large hands and placing a kiss to each nipple. “Professor—fuck—”

CRACK.

There was a sharp stinging feeling on your ass, and you realized that Hiddleston had just spanked you—actually spanked you—and was now leaning onto his desk casually again, this time with a stormy expression on his face. His chin tilted upwards in disgust as he said, “Such foul language. When have I ever tolerated that, little one?”

When you didn’t answer, he raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“You didn’t, sir,” you said meekly, grimacing from the pain. You could only imagine what it would have felt like without clothing to cover the sensitive skin of your ass.

“Hence why I needed to punish you,” Professor Hiddleston said matter-of-factly, which somehow only turned you on even further. His confident nonchalance made you want to kneel before him and unbuckle those perfectly-pressed trousers, but you managed to hold yourself together.

It wasn’t long before you were standing before him naked, trying fruitlessly to hold in a tremble as Professor Hiddleston circled your body, eyeing every part of you. “So,” he said when he’d finally turned to face you eye-to-eye again. “You not only are extremely intelligent, but you are a goddess among humans. You look so innocent, but I know you aren’t. Not with those eyes.”

It was true. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from looking at him the way you had been doing all semester.

“Intelligent, sir?”

Hiddleston smiled gently and stepped toward you, finally encircling you in his arms. His hands, placed firmly on your upper back, slowly slid down to cup your ass, pulling you against his form. You could feel the strain of his crotch there, and your heart pounded at the thought. You still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Yes, intelligent,” Hiddleston murmured, brushing a light kiss on your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “Your textual analysis of Much Ado About Nothing a few months ago was one of the best interpretations I’d ever seen.”

Had it been? You’d only been commenting about the way that it had impacted modern fictional tropes and set up socially acceptable gender roles in romance, but you supposed that it had been written in such a way that had greatly pleased Professor Hiddleston.

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” he said then, as if he could sense your thoughts. “Truly...you are a pleasure to have in class.”

You felt your body tense at the way he said ‘pleasure,’ for he certainly knew what he was doing. “Even if I am distracting to you?” you asked.

“Especially when you are distracting to me.”

With that, he pinched your ass firmly between two large fingers and you yelped, flinching into his arms. You felt the outline of his hard cock in his trousers again and squirmed against it, desperately needing friction. “P-Professor—”

He tsked quietly. “Such a cockslut you are, my little schoolgirl begging for me,” Hiddleston tutted. You felt your arousal even stronger as your mind filled with the fantasy he had planted there, imaging yourself in high stockings and a short skirt, a pure virgin teenager with no experience.

Luckily, that was not the case, but he was your professor, and if anyone found out that he’d fucked you, you’d both be in serious trouble. It only made the whole thing more exciting.

“Please, fuck me,” you whimpered. “Professor, I need you—”

“What did I say about foul language, little girl?” Hiddleston said sharply. “Or do you think yourself above such formalities and rules now that you are standing naked like a filthy whore in my office?”

You moaned, and without warning, Professor Hiddleston threw you against the dark mahogany desk so that you were facing away from him, clapping a hand across your ass again. Your eyes watered from the sudden pain, but you only bit your lip, loving every bit of it.

Hiddleston leaned over you so that you could feel his hardness against your body again and tilted your tear-stained face towards him. You watched him remove his glasses silently and place them beside you on his desk, smirking all the while. “You are going to count for me now, alright, my dear?”

You nodded, tensing your body in preparation.

And then it came without warning, his hand on your backside with a sharp cracking sound, leaving the feeling of fire against your skin. You cried out in pain, and Professor Hiddleston cleared his throat.

Oh. “One,” you whispered quietly. “But, Professor Hiddleston, won’t anyone hear?”

He let out a soft laugh at that. “I’ve been tenured here long enough that no one else of importance is in the vicinity, little one. But who knows…”

With a self-satisfied laugh, he spanked you again.

“T-Two,” you said.

Crack. “Three.”

Crack. “Four.”

Crack. “Five.”

With each spank, your voice grew stronger, more sturdy, and you relished in the sting of your ass stuck out behind you and caressed by your professor’s hands. He was rubbing it now, a gentle reprieve before he hit you again, this one harder than the rest.

You shrieked and gripped the edge of the desk, feeling the wetness of your cunt moistening your legs. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston,” you moaned. “Hit me harder, please, Daddy—”

The word slipped out of your mouth without expectation from either you or him, and you immediately stilled, feeling embarrassment cloud your senses.

“You are a kinky bitch,” Hiddleston murmured softly, and he ran a hand along the top of your head, even as you lay panting over the edge of his desk. It made you feel lesser, somehow, and you wanted that. You needed it.

“Be a good girl then, and take what Daddy gives you.”

The spank following was the hardest of them all, making you buck into the desk in all its force. “T-Tom!” you cried. You needed release, now, and him building you up was starting to irritate you.

“One more,” he said through gritted teeth, and you tensed as a final slap hit your backside, causing your eyes to water in pain as you heaved against the desk, nearly bringing you over the edge in and of itself.

“I can’t wait to see that bruise up nicely,” said Professor Hiddleston smugly, flipping you over as you let out a pained hiss. “And now that you’ve been adequately punished, I will give you what you’ve been longing for.”

You let out a long sound, something that was a mix between a contented sigh and a broken moan, and watched as he tore off his belt buckle and pulled out his cock, hard and weeping and flushed a very eager red. “Ready, darling?”

You nodded quickly before your nerves could get the better of you.

He raised his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you murmured, still feeling the familiar tendrils of embarrassment creeping across your neck.

Professor Hiddleston—Tom—smirked and spread your legs with each of those gorgeous large hands, gripping the flesh of your thighs. Between them, you were on fire, evidenced further by the wetness dripping from your core.

“Oh, my dear,” Tom whispered with an air of disappointment, though it was impossible not to see how pleased he was. “You’re so wet.”

“Mm—” was all you could say. With him standing over you, eyes boring into your pussy and flitting back to your face every few moments it was all you could do not to scream.

Suddenly his fingers were upon you—within you, and you let out a long moan as he pumped them deftly, the other hand gripping his own cock. As you panted, completely at his whims, Tom grunted, his eyes fluttering closed.

But then, just as you felt yourself reach your peak, body begging to throw itself off into the abyss, he stopped. “Daddy,” you whined, pouting at him. “Why did you stop?”

“I had to, little one,” he murmured gently, running his hand along the inside of your thigh and sending shivers across your skin. But though you bucked your hips forward into his touch, Tom didn’t continue, only let out a smug chuckle. “I want this to take a long time, my dear. I want every part of your body to remember that I was here. I want it to know—I want you to know—that it belongs to me. Understand?”

You swallowed. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good.” The word was sharp, succinct, radiating with pure dominance. You clenched at the sound of it.

And unfortunately for you, your professor had witnessed that with his very own eyes. Immediately, you felt a sharp sting against the same spot on your thigh where he’d just been caressing, and you squealed. “Professor!”

“Whore,” he spat, pushing your upper body flat onto the desk. “I told you that you needed to be patient, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy…”

“And you disobeyed me,” he replied calmly. “So you deserved that, little one.”

You let out a small sound of assent and he kissed your lips softly. “Now, let’s continue. You’re doing so well, my darling.”

He slid those fingers along the inside of your thigh and caressed the sensitive skin where your legs met your cunt, tickling your skin. You tried to hold in a laugh and failed, a small hiccup escaping your lips. Tom glanced up at you and smirked. “My poor little girl,” he teased.

You smiled at him and bit your lip. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

You couldn’t help the whine that slipped into your voice. Honestly, it awed you. Less than an hour ago you were afraid to even make eye contact with Professor Hiddleston for fear of your own sexual desires; now you were sitting on his expensive desk bare naked with your legs spread for him and pussy dripping with unquenched arousal. Still, he refused to bring you release.

“Will you please fuck me?” you asked him softly, sweetly. “I need your cock, Professor.”

You could see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he tried to hide the way your words affected him, So you pushed out your bottom lip and bared your breasts forward to him for good measure. “ Please.”

Where he had been gentle and sensitive a moment ago, Tom was no longer holding back. “What happened to ‘you need to be patient?’” you hissed as he flipped you over, bending you over the desk as he’d done before.

“Hush, my little whore,” Tom grunted as he shifted behind you, and you could feel the head of his cock nudging at your entrance impatiently. Hypocrisy at its finest, but you couldn’t care less. “You’re going to take all of me, and I will be merciless,” Tom whispered as he took your hands and pinned them beneath his own on the desk. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, difficult as the action was in your current position.

“No,” Tom said softly. “I don’t think you do.” He sighed dramatically as he pinched the spare skin on your hip, making you squeak in pleasure. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, gravellier...that same cadence he had when he’d read some of those poems. “You’re going to take every inch of my cock, and it’s going to be painful for you, my dear. But I’m not going to go slow, not going to rest and wait for you to adjust. And only when you’re begging for me, crying for me like the whore you are will I finally let you come.”

“Oh, Tom,” you moaned and he chucked. “Yes, that’s right, baby. Moan my name. I haven’t even entered you yet.”

You couldn’t even feel the embarrassment hit your mind; you were too fazed over with the anticipation of him fucking you. “Please—”

Then he was pushing into you, and you groaned in pain. He had been right—this was unlike any other man you’d previously fucked. He was large, but just perfectly so; you felt as if the pain inside your cunt should live there forever. His hips snapped as he thrusted into you again, and you pushed your ass into the air to get more friction. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston—”

“Yes, fuck yes,” he panted as his thrusts sped up, and he moved one hand off of yours to finger at your clit. Sensation flooded you, and you cried out again. You could feel the warmth and power of his body behind you, even through the now-sweaty formal shirt he wore. And you could feel the coolness of the desk against your skin, and the rising pleasure throughout your body. “Tom, fuck—”

“Remember what I said?” he growled. “Beg.”

You couldn’t resist. “Please, Daddy, let me come! I want to come so bad around your cock, Professor. Fill me up—please—”

He grunted in pleasure at your words, and you ground into his fingers where they worked at your clit as he continued to pound into you. Each thrust sent you higher, hitting your g-spot just perfectly. “That’s my good girl,” Tom cooed gently, such a contrast to the violet strokes of his body. “You’re doing so well for Daddy. See how well you take my cock? That’s right, little one. Keep grinding into me. Such a good whore—”

At that, you moaned, grimacing in pleasure. “Can I come yet, Daddy?”

“Not yet, my darling,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I need you to be louder for me. I need everyone to know that you belong to me. That you’re my little cockslut who’s only taking this class so you can fuck your professor like a filthy whore.”

“Please let me come, sir!” you cried, bucking into him. You let out a loud cry as he nipped at your shoulder, teeth digging into your skin. “Yes, my good girl. Scream for me.”

“Tom!” you shouted. A shudder coursed through you at the possibility of someone hearing you, but in your haze of pleasure, you could barely notice. “Professor, please—”

Finally, he chuckled, and his thumb pressed tightly into your clit. “Come,” he commanded in a low voice, and you did, gasping as you rolled against his touch and felt his cock find release within your walls and he cried out your name.

“ Tom ,” you moaned, eyes rolling backwards. “Oh, Tom… ”

“Such a good girl,” he whispered, caressing your neck with his free hand. “My sweet darling.”

You were both breathing hard, covered in sweat, and an utter mess against the rich wood of Professor Hiddleston’s desk. “I’m—I’m sorry,” you stuttered, coming back to your senses. “I...didn’t realize. This all happened so fast…”

But to your surprise, Tom only chuckled, helping you to stand and wrapping his arms around you. “No, my dear. This isn’t over yet.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t let you go so easily.”

You swallowed, feeling a pleasant flush spread across your body as you met his gaze. “So…”

Tom smiled. “I will see you on Tuesday, Miss Y/LN.”

As disheveled as you were, and most likely smelling of sex as you left his office, you couldn’t help the giddy feeling that had risen within you. You would see him again, and soon.

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

A/N: thanks for reading! comments, reblogs, likes - all appreciated! this fic is also posted on ao3 under the same name (via my username MavenMorozova). give it some love there if you’d like!

TAGS: let me know if you want me to make a taglist!

[ace-din-djarin]

*peaks over counter* could I possibly have....some Luke whump with Din being protective? *Ducks back under counter*

@ameliajessicawilliamspond

Hi!! Sorry for the delay... I hope this fill meets your expectations!! It's so fun to write Luke whump, tbh. Poor bby. I went a little nuts with it, like always...

-------

When they finally found themselves cornered, Grogu cowering in Din’s arms and Din weaponless, ready to defend the child to the death-- it wasn’t much of a choice for Luke to step forward and surrender himself, and let them take him. They descended on him like the birds on Tatooine that would wait for a creature to be close to death, and then swoop down for the kill. The troopers dragged him forward, away from Din and Grogu, and the last thing he saw before they hit him with a stunner was the look on Grogu’s face. The last thing he felt was Din’s fury and fear, roaring from him through the force like wildfire, before it cut off abruptly along with the rest of Luke’s awareness.

He had no way of knowing whether what they were doing to him was what they would have done to Grogu, or if they were devising new and even more cruel methods just for him. He found it didn’t matter much. If what they had planned for Grogu was even a sliver of what they did to him, it was worth it. Even if they hadn’t been planning to hurt or experiment on the child at all— and he doubted that— but even if they hadn’t, just keeping Grogu from feeling alone and scared, the way he had way back when Moff Gideon had kidnapped him and held him on that huge star destroyer, it was worth it. It was all worth Luke’s sacrifice.

The cruel med droids, stripped of all personality and wielding scalpels and hypos full of unknown substances; the cold-eyed officers and scientists who wouldn’t come near unless Luke was trussed up, force suppression cuffs on his wrists and a double dose of suppressant drugs burning in his veins; the troopers who stood, silent and unmoving, at the door to his cell, two inside and two out, watching him, never giving him a moment alone, even when he screamed and retched and shook… All of it was worth keeping Grogu safe. Keeping Din safe. Their family, their small clan, it was what mattered. Nothing else.

In the dark of the night, when he lay on the cold durasteel bench of his cell under the eyes of two stormtroopers, blasters held across their chests in warning, Luke felt that perhaps this was penance as well as sacrifice. He stared at the troopers, the white of their armor gleaming dully in the dim lights overhead, and considered just how many of their brethren he had murdered. There were those who had been aboard the Death Star, of course — by far his worst, most heinous act — but there were also those who had fallen by his blade, or his blaster, or by Rebel plots he helped to fabricate. He reached out, in the small gaps of time when the suppressants started to wear off and circumnavigating the cuffs was bearable, and felt the troopers’ small threads of light brush against his mind, considering just how many other threads he had snipped. Surely enough to weave hundreds of miles of fabric, within the Force. So many beings— and in the Force, it did not matter their affiliation or creed, they lived just the same— whose lives he had cut short.

The officers who presided over the scientists’ experiments definitely knew who Luke was. They watched with stiff shoulders, with hands fisted in rage... but they hesitated, and they didn’t look him in the eye. Din had told Luke about Gideon, how he had tried to kill himself when he realized Luke was there on his star destroyer, and he supposed these officers viewed him in much the same way. A power both feared and respected, something strange and monstrous, a dark cloaked figure that flitted through Imperial nightmares. A truly fitting form for Darth Vader’s son.

Time passed in hazy, half-acknowledged spurts. The artificial light of the cruiser’s cell block never shut off, and the trooper’s schedules seemed to be random; he watched them with as much awareness as he could muster, but never seemed to be able to latch on to a system that would tell him how long each day was. Even their experiments and interrogation seemed to be done at random intervals. Sometimes he would go what felt like days with only the two troopers for company, and at others he was shaken awake in the middle of sleep and dragged off hours after their last session.

It was during one of these sessions-- woozy from drugs, from lack of sleep and food, from the constant blank nothingness the cuffs forced on him-- that something changed. Luke was strapped to a table, doing his best to ignore the scientist speaking into a voice recorder by his side, not thinking about what they were planning, when the room shook violently around them, his stomach rolling with the movement.

The officer standing at Luke’s head looked up, frowning. “What…?”

He was cut off by another shudder and a distant boom that reverberated down the cold steel hallways outside their room. The officer’s eyes, from what Luke could see, were wide-- he was worried.

“Keep going,” he snapped at the scientist, and stalked out of Luke’s view. He heard the door whoosh open and closed again, and they were alone.

Luke had long since stopped trying to fight the straps that held him down, but now he couldn’t help but thrash against them and hope that somehow they were looser today than usual, somehow he could pull himself free…

“Stop that!” the scientist snapped, even as the room shook yet again and a tool rolled off his tray of instruments and clattered to the ground. He lacked the fear that the officer had shown; he was brutally efficient, continuing to measure out a hypo full of an unknown substance, holding it up to the light with calm, unconcerned eyes. He grasped Luke’s arm and injected the hypo as the sounds of explosions outside got closer, and the sound of booted feet running on durasteel echoed louder and louder down the hallway. He turned and looked Luke in the eye, as he had never done before, just as whatever he had injected started to burn.

“You killed so many, Skywalker.” He said, still calm and collected, but now with eyes that shone with fury, “It’s only fair, don’t you think, that we get to strike back?”

Fire was in his veins, under his skin, burning him from the inside out.

Luke screamed.

______

The scream that echoed down the hall froze Din in his tracks.

He felt, rather than heard, Leia stumble to a stop behind him. He could hear only that scream-- unending, agonized, and horrifically familiar. It sent ice down his spine and through his heart, and he felt himself running again before he really realized it, sprinting flat out towards that voice, Leia on his heels.

He skidded a bit when the ship shook with another explosion-- Boba, Fennec, and Axe were having a bit too much fun with the explosives, but as long as Bo-Katan and Koska were still able to keep the ship flying, Din couldn’t find it in himself to care much. The door opened with a quick blaster shot to the keypad, and he and Leia ran in and stumbled to a stop as one. Horror welled up in his throat.

Luke was strapped down to a table, thick bands around his forehead, arms, and legs, and his hands were bound in front of him in what looked like force-suppression cuffs. He was screaming, thrashing against his bonds, eyes open and tracking some unseen terror. A man stood over him, arms crossed and an expression of sick satisfaction on his face as he watched Luke writhe. He turned to face Din and Leia with no sign of fear.

Leia raised her blaster and stepped forward, face twisted in a snarl. “What have you done to him?”

The man-- a scientist, judging by his clothing and the room, which held instruments and tools that turned Din’s stomach to contemplate-- looked at Leia with cool, calm eyes.

“Only what he deserved.” Behind him, Luke gasped something that may have been a “No!”

Din snarled and before Leia could react, lunged towards the man and punched him full in the face. He howled, hands flying to his nose, and Din hit him again, and again, until he sagged in his grip, unconscious, and Din dropped him to the floor. He stepped over him and reached out to cup Luke’s face in his hands, watching him breathe through clenched teeth, whines and moans of pain slipping through. He didn’t seem to see Din, but he seemed to register something; he turned his face towards where Din stood, even as his eyes rolled in their sockets.

“He shot him with something-- it’s probably causing him pain,” Leia said, holding up a spent hypo-syringe, face grim. “I’ll see if I can find what this was; maybe we can figure out how to help it.”

She turned towards a cabinet along the wall that held all sorts of horrible things, chemicals and liquids that seemed distinctly menacing. Din looked down at the cuffs around Luke’s wrists. It was so wrong, seeing him cuffed and bound like this, and he couldn’t stand it. He pulled the Darksaber from his belt and thumbed the activator.

Leia whirled at the sound of the blade extending, and barked “Wait!” just a second too late-- the Darksaber cut the connection between the cuffs, and a wave of energy exploded outward. Din dropped.

There was a presence all around him… slimy, oily, uncomfortable darkness, brushing up against him, making him shudder even as he walked calmly next to a hulk of a man in black armor…. Rage filled his thoughts as he struck out with his blade, struck the figure that taunted him, that threatened his sister…. His blade sliced through his father’s wrist, a mirror of his own maiming…. He tossed his saber aside, facing the Emperor, watching rage twist that horrible white mask of a face…. And then, pain, everywhere, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but writhe underneath it, couldn’t get away…. And his father looked on, watched as he died….

Din gasped as he was wrenched out of the vision, sitting up from where he had fallen onto the floor, staring up at Leia, who was slumped slightly over Luke, hands on his wrists. When Din pulled himself to standing, he saw that she had managed to get another pair of cuffs around them. She seemed to sense his disapproval, and shook her head, eyes never leaving Luke’s face.

“He’s too out of it to shield, right now, and he’s too powerful to have the cuffs off while he’s unaware. I’m guessing you saw what I saw?”

Din nodded slowly, and she sighed, reaching out to brush trembling fingers across Luke’s cheek, doing nothing to smooth out the agonized expression he still wore.

“He’s told you about our… our father? About the Emperor?”

“That--” Din’s voice cracked, and he tried again. “That was a memory.”

“I believe so. I wasn’t there-- I was leading the fight on Endor with Han and Chewie. But he told me afterwards. And I would know Palpatine’s face anywhere.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked back up, steel in the set of her jaw. “Let’s get him out of here.”

They made quick works of the straps, and it was worryingly easy to lift Luke into his arms. He still struggled against whatever he saw and whatever he felt, but Din held him fast to his chest as they hurried back down the shining steel hallway and towards where they had entered. He could hear the sounds of blaster fire as they got closer, and Leia moved to block the two of them, blaster in hand. Din shifted Luke in his arms, tucking him a little closer so that he could reach his vambrace, and primed his whistling birds. He sent a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the Manda that he had found the Armorer again as he felt them rise and click into place.

They hurtled around the corner, Leia already firing at a stormtrooper who was grappling with Boba, and he whirled around as the trooper dropped. Din’s whistling birds flew, and five other troopers around the room-- one about to slam Axe into the ground, another huddled around a corner taking shots at Fennec-- fell with howls of pain.

“Djarin! Princess! You found him?”

Boba seemed to notice Luke writhing in Din’s arms as he said it, and he cursed even as he ducked a shot from another trooper. “Get him to the ship! We’re nearly done here. I’ll comm Kryze, we’ll meet you there.”

He clapped Din on the shoulder as he passed, and Din nodded his thanks, hurrying after Leia.

The Falcon was waiting for them, and Din quickly laid Luke on one of the tiny bunks, stuffing a blanket along the edge of the wall so that Luke, if he thrashed too much, wouldn’t hurt himself.

Leia slid down the wall opposite, coming to rest with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

“I’m never letting him out of my sight again,” she groused, looking up at Din through her hands, flinching when Luke groaned again. Her eyes were so weary, it hurt Din to look at them. He looked down at Luke from where he sat at the edge of the bed, and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, watching him flinch and gasp.

“I… he told me about the Emperor, and what happened on the second Death Star. But I never guessed it was that bad... “ Leia trailed off. They sat together for a few long minutes, the only thing filling the silence of the ship the sound of Luke’s pain. He seemed to be tiring-- he hadn’t screamed for a while now, and his thrashing had quieted some. Din prayed that it was just the drugs wearing off, and not exhaustion forcing him under.

“I’m going to go get ready to take off as soon as the rest of them are back,” Leia said, rising to her feet and brushing soft fingers across Luke’s cheek once more. Din felt himself slumping a little as she left, closing the door behind her, and he reached up and released the seals on his helmet.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered to Luke. He gathered Luke into his arms and kissed his forehead, ready to wait out the rest of this nightmare along with him.

————

Now with part two here!

[bloobeary]

The hallway light is off when he gets home, but the one over the stove was on. Bucky knows that Steve did it on purpose so that Bucky wouldn’t have to stumble around inside in the middle of the night. It makes his heart stutter in his chest no matter how many times he sees it. So sweet, that guy of his. He’ll buy Steve some flowers, and make him breakfast and kiss him stupid tomorrow.

He toes off his boots at the door, and sets his bag down on the couch, that way it won’t make as much noise. There’s a few hours of night left before the sun starts to come up, a few hours before Steve peels himself out of bed and heads out for a run.

He’s asleep now, Bucky notices from where he creeps in through the bedroom door, arms around Bucky’s pillow, sheets around his hips. He’s even wearing one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one that he’s sure he tossed in the hamper before he left. His mouth is a little open, and his hair is going every which way, and Bucky loves him so much it hurts to breathe.

He’s not around enough-- he knows this. Not that it’s on purpose, or Steve would ever hold it against him, but Bucky knows he misses him when he’s gone, just like Bucky misses Steve when he’s gone, too. But Steve gets all quiet and sad about it, mopes around like a droopy flower until Bucky gets home and refuses to admit that it’s hard on him. Usually, it doesn’t take much more than Bucky gluing himself to Steve like a burr to a sock for his smile to reach his eyes again, but Bucky’s not stupid. Plus, Natasha tattles.

Steve goes on ops just as much, ex-Captain America doesn’t get sidelined just because he changed uniforms, so Bucky doesn’t sleep much when Steve’s not around. He sits in bed staring at the ceiling until he can’t take it anymore. Things get fixed when Steve’s gone. Not that any of them are the ones that need to be fixed, but Bucky just needs something to do with his hands. He wonders if Natasha tells on him, too. They’re real pieces of work, two peas in one fucked up pod. They’re figuring it out.

The truth is they work too much, both of them. In and out of the house like it’ll hold them hostage if they stay for too long. Retirement comes up every so often, but even though Steve doesn’t carry the shield anymore, and Bucky’s not the Winter Soldier, they never get around to it. They’ve got too much time coiled in their bones to sit still, he thinks.

Really, Bucky doesn’t trust himself to ever leave if he gets used to being around Steve all the time. It’s hard enough leaving after they’ve got one day off together, Bucky can’t figure what it’d be like to take any actual amount of time off. After the helicarriers and everything else, Steve grabbed Bucky by the shoulders and said dont ever disappear on me again. Bucky shares the feeling. He thinks if they were to retire, officially and on paper, he’d never let Steve out of his sight again. That such a bad thing? He hears it in Steve’s voice, though he’ll never say it, not like that at least.

Bucky undresses quickly, quietly, on his side of the bed, back to the window so he can watch Steve sleep, make sure he doesn’t wake him up. He should shower, really--there’s dried sweat and what feels like a layer of grime caked onto his skin, even though he washed off the dried blood somewhat unceremoniously before debrief and he stinks. He should shower, but that would add ten minutes between him and Steve. It’s a selfish, unhygienic thought, but one he has anyways.

Steve takes a deep breath and stirs a little, and Bucky goes still, holds his breath until he settles again, face tucked into the pillow. Bucky’s heart feels too big for his body, then, and he decides that a shower can wait. He’ll change the sheets the next morning, as penance.

He crawls into his side of the bed, and wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, tucking his face into the rise of his neck and taking a breath. He smells clean and warm and a little like lavender--something about some fancy lotion he bought recently, his brain supplies-- he smells like home.

Bucky hopes a little distractedly that Steve will wake up on his own. He wants a kiss or a thousand and his heart yearns for Steve’s smile, but he also knows that once Steve’s up, he’s up. Bucky’s been jealous of him forever. How the hell can you get out of bed at three in the morning and be ready to go without so much as a cup of coffee? Standing there all chipper, eyes a little tired but bright nonetheless while the rest of the Howlies scraped themselves off the dirt trying to find some sort of energy. He could blame the serum, but the truth is he’s always been like that, even when he was too sick to stand. It’s absurd, is what it is. Bucky takes a breath and presses his lips to the back of Steve’s shoulder.

Steve doesn’t wake up quite, but he does lean back against Bucky’s chest, warm. It’s not a kiss, but it’ll do.

Not such a bad thing at all.

“Buck?” Steve asks sleepily, a few hours later, once the sun is filtering in through the blinds. He yawns and stretches a little. Bucky doesn’t even have to look at the clock to know that it's six-thirty on the dot. “When’d you come home?”

“Few hours ago.” He mumbles, and he feels Steve turn in his arms, and put a hand on his chest right over his heart. Bucky opens his eyes. The fine smatter of freckles over Steve’s nose greet him, and he can’t help but smile. “I love you,” He says, sincere, and Steve smiles, finally. Nearly a century’s worth of hearing it, and it still makes him blush. Some primal part of Bucky's ego swells with that. If he were anywhere near half awake he's probably puff his chest out like a fucking rooster or something equally stupid.

“Aw hell,” He says, laughing a little at himself before leaning forward to give Bucky a quick kiss. “I missed you. You okay?”

Bucky nods and holds Steve tighter, closer. “You gonna go run?”

Steve thinks about it, at least he pretends to. “No,” Steve says finally, simple as that. Bucky kisses him again.

Bucky could sleep another ten hours, and Steve’s liable to let him, even if he himself won’t. Steve puts a hand in Bucky’s hair and scratches at his scalp softly; it feels good, but Bucky makes a face, cause it’s dirty and greasy, and he really needs that shower. “What?”

Bucky shrugs. “I need a shower.” He says but makes no move to get up. “I stink.”

“You don’t.”

“Liar,” Bucky says, and then has to yawn right through it. “Don’t let me keep you if you got things to do.” He mumbles, resting his head against Steve’s collarbone.

It's mostly just so Steve doesn’t think he has to waste his day next to his exhausted and frankly quite dirty boyfriend. Not that said boyfriend will complain about lazing in bed all day next to him. In fact, that’s at the top of his things to do today list. He’s so warm and soft and right there. Bucky slides his hands up under Steve’s shirt, pressing them against his back. Bucky feels like he’s made of silly putty.

“Ain’t a damn thing in the world that’s more important than you,” Steve says, says it in the way he gets sometimes, all serious like he’s under oath or something. Bucky bites him and then kisses right over it.

“We work too much,” Bucky mumbles, feeling himself fall back into that syrupy sleep state. His hand is still in Bucky’s hair. He yawns again, and Steve smiles, kisses his nose. “Should take a vacation.”

“Should retire.” Steve one-ups him.

It’s a joke, kind of. Only it’s not.

“Yeah, we should,” Bucky says. He means it. He means it this time. “Sit on the porch and read the newspaper, and then fuck like married people at the end of the day,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs. He yawns again, and Steve says something, maybe, but he doesn’t quite catch it.

“Did you mean it?” Steve asks later, much later, when the sun’s going down again and they’ve both showered. He’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, holding a cooling mug of tea in one hand, sketchbook open but untouched on his lap.

“Mean what?” Bucky asks, looking up from his phone. He pokes his socked foot into Steve’s hip when he doesn’t get an answer. “Hey,” He says, frowning a little. Steve won’t look at him, embarrassed for whatever reason. “Come here.” He asks, and Steve dutifully sets his cup down and snaps his sketchbook closed before scooching over to sit near Bucky. He throws an arm around his shoulders and manhandles him around, a little so that he’s sitting up against Bucky’s chest.

“Mean what, baby?” Bucky asks again.

Steve shrugs, and then sighs. He turns to look at him. “That we should retire.”

Bucky blinks and then thinks about it. He could do without shipping out every couple of days, he’s getting old, after all. They both are, technically, but Steve wears it better. Probably because he did all his sleeping in one go. Even then, Bucky’s a year older, so he has well earned the right to complain, thank you very much.

“Yeah.” He says, and it surprises both of them. Steve turns to look at him, eyes wide, mouth half caught on a smile like he’s not sure he should yet. “You?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I think… I think I did.” He says, and then a smile curls onto his face. Bucky laughs at him, for good measure, and Steve kisses him. “I miss you, you know.”

“Aw, babe,” Bucky teases, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder and hugging him close.

“Oh, Lord.” Steve chuckles and tries to squirm away, but it’s half-hearted, and Bucky’s got too good of a grip on him for it to work. “You miss me?”

“Course I fucking miss you,” Bucky says, honest, and Steve surprises him by grabbing him by the chin and kissing him. The angle is a little weird, but it doesn’t matter.

“So what now, huh?” Steve asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“Sit on the porch,” Bucky suggests, and Steve snorts.

“We ain’t got a porch.”

“I’ll get you a house with a porch that wraps all the way around it, like in that movie you made me watch,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs.

“The Notebook?”

“Sure.” Bucky says, not sure himself of the name but he does know that the end made him get a little teary-eyed, and Steve full-on cried, like snot-bubble cried, and they didn't let go of each other for the rest of the day. Not a very comedic romantic comedy.

“Yeah, and what else?" Steve asks, still half-joking. "Could we get a dog?"

Bucky thinks about it, thinks about how somewhere in the middle of Europe they found a stray litter of puppies, how Steve carried three of them zipped in the front of his jacket until they found the nearest inhabited town, how he tried to hide how upset he really was when they had to leave. Bucky takes a good long look at him, how there's still a light dusting of blush on his cheeks, and puts a hand on his face.

“Whatever you want, doll.” Bucky says, and he means it.

[crestfallercanyon]

POV, for the writing exercise meme!

THIS TOOK ME A MILLION YEARS TO GET TO but that's because I had another POV for a story and I'm debating using it so I didn't think that totally counted.

This was for the memes and games No Excuses Writing Game.

So I decided to do the one from a short Nally fic I've been working on. The premise of this story is that Gally has shit taste in men, and so does Newt, and they're both burning themselves out avoiding what they really want. It's actually got some humor to it, but this snippet doesn't so... oops.

It's in Gally's perspective, so here's Newt's.

TW: self-hatred/struggles with mental health and cursing

Gally’s always dated losers.

It’s a long penance for transgressions that everyone’s already forgiven and forgotten, but therein lies Gally’s problem: he never forgets anything and he never forgives himself, either. The way Gally talks about himself you’d expect yourself to be sitting in a seedy bar next to a gin-soaked man whose scars have long wrinkled over, wearing a greasy wife-beater exposing miles of prison tattoos, with rusty wedding rings strung around his neck. Instead there’s a bright eyed young man who’s trying his best and it’s never fucking good enough, as if someone’s got a gun to his head telling him that if he’s not the best than he’s necessarily the worst.

Newt’s known Gally long enough to know who takes the shape of the person holding that gun to his head. His parents. Old coaches. Thomas, at one point. In the end, they’re all just mirages. The only person these days whose got their finger on the trigger is him, trapped in his own mind, playing Russian Roulette with himself.

If Gally’d let Newt, he’d help him put the gun away. That’d acknowledge too many things at once, though. That not only does Gally hate himself more often than not, he's not keeping his secret nearly as well as he thinks he is because Newt knows he does. Which would lead to the next spotlight, not only has Newt been in love with him long enough to notice, but Gally in all his infinite wisdom didn’t figure out Newt’s feelings on his own — not before he could try to convince Newt not to feel them.

Not that that’d have worked. The competition of “who’s the most stubborn” of their group is usually a conversation between Thomas and Minho, but when it comes to things like this, they don’t hold a candle to Newt. With things like this, Newt simply does not tire. He can walk forever and ever and ever, limp and all. It truly has to be the end of the road for him to stop.

But Newt’s not going to go into all that tonight. That’d be cruel, and while Newt wants so many things, he doesn’t want to make this night even worse.

Except Newt also can’t watch this. He can’t watch Gally keep burning himself on the same shitty boyfriends he always takes on. This guy, Luke, isn’t the worst he’s had, but he’s up there. Oblivious to Gally’s needs, devouring all of Gally’s care and intention like it’s an eternal spring, which isn’t entirely Luke’s fault because that’s how Gally treats himself. It’s drained him all the same. The look on Gally’s face tells Newt now that he may have finally just realized the reserves are gone, but the pail’s at the bottom asking for more and he doesn’t know what to give it.

Newt thinks he should throw stones in it. Fling them in Luke’s face and tell him to go to hell. Newt’s a bit pissed off, though. All their friends are, because they’ve all thought Luke was an asshole from the beginning and this has sealed the deal.

Another shattered glass. Another cheer. Newt flecks the ashes off of his cigarette and decides it’s time to stop being so careful. Gally won’t get it unless he’s straightforward. That much Newt knows, too.

“Gally, you have the worst taste in men and you always have.”

That's it! Hoping to have the whole fic finished soon. Then it's onto Thomally week roundup. Thanks for being patient! Hope you enjoyed <3

[joonkorre]

To my love,

@drarrymicrofic prompt: forbidden

read Paper Hearts by @dorthyanndrarry and have been completely obsessed w draco doing little mundane things as a hobby or bc it's therapeutic etc etc. i had to fold these paper cranes for an art project once. it's fucking addictive lmao. ao3

tw: very brief mention of blood

It’s just a thing Draco does when he’s bored. A past-time, or a hobby, even. If it’s past midnight and less tiring to be honest, he’d admit that it’s a coping method. But he never really feels like that as of late, as expected from a permanent resident in what is now the Dark Lord’s lair.

Light, clean air, silence, and Merlin knows what else, are lacking in abundance in the Malfoy Manor these days. However, with owl posts too easily intercepted and words too eagerly etched on skin rather than blank pages, paper is readily available. Draco has a lot of free time, being ‘Lucius’s worthless son’ and all. Thus, he writes.

Are you out there? How do you fare?

I haven’t eaten breakfast today. Perhaps I should’ve, but Nagini never leaves.

Will Harry Potter ever get caught?

I tried to go out today. Do you know how it feels to have blood drained from your feet?

Comments of nonsensical nature like so. They help, though. Draco doesn’t quite know the psychology behind it, but he can’t help writing them. A passing interest, then once every two weeks, then every other day, then any piece of paper he can find. Any piece large enough.

To my love,

That Luna girl cries again.

He doesn’t understand why—he’s never understood much, now that he thinks about it—but he’s taken to writing those three words before every message. It feels nice, he supposes, to pretend there’s someone who looks forward to reading his letters, regardless of how boring or awful they are. No matter, a tiny phrase never hurts anyone. He hopes. How many things (small, insignificant things) did he say that—?

To my love,

The last of Mother’s roses have faded to a dull grey. They used to be the color of lilac.

He’s used his wand as a light tonight, a whispered Lumos scarcely bright enough to write down a sentence and cut a strip of paper away, making a square. Familiar folds and creases give way easily beneath his calloused fingers in the dark. Feeling the precise pleats, he bends the wings, then pulls out the tail and the neck. He runs a finger down the neck’s tip. Its head is formed.

To my love,

Should I have killed him?

Cracking open the dirty window right beside his bed, the cool scent of fog and sleepy meadows wafts against his face. A gentle tap of his wand, and the paper crane floats away into the night with minute flaps of wings. Where is it going? He never knows. To his love?

To my love,

There’s a suitcase hidden inside my mattress, ready to go.

Draco closes the window and slides under the cover. Staring up at the swirling darkness of his canopy, he hopes the crane gets to, say, the nearby valley before descending.

To my love,

Let’s run away together.

The scenery is nice there, at least.

----

There’s an analogy to be made about shackles and penance and father’s sins. Draco wouldn’t know. He’s not in the right state of mind to ponder it.

A shame. It’d be nice if his last thought before the Kiss is something poetic.

“He was but a child,” he hears his mother scream. A deafening crash echoes throughout the vast space as her chains weigh more with each word spoken out of turn, forcing her to the dirty floor. “A child!”

Titters and jeers swell in the overheated courtroom. Draco shifts his neck against his collar, silent. Much herculean effort has to be made to ensure his legs are still, lest he rushes to his mother’s side and. Well. He doesn’t know if moving without permission also results in the same punishment. It’ll be improper to collapse in defeat before he’s supposed to: after the Dementor’s had its way with him.

He stands there, unable to do all but look at the particularly orange tile four paces from his position.

“Before Draco Malfoy is given the Dementor’s Kiss as punishment for his crimes, relatives and loved ones are now allowed to say their last words to him,” the Wizengamot judge whose name Draco has let slipped out of his mind in a daze says with a bored drawl.

“If Mrs. Malfoy had just waited for this announcement, she wouldn’t be in her… predicament,” he says, his ‘but what can I do?’ attitude spurring the courtroom to snickers. Draco asks himself, for a brief, horrid moment, if Fiendfyre can be called forth without a wand.

After the laughter has died down, the judge says, “Is there a relative or loved one here who has something to tell Draco Malfoy before we proceed?”

The only one in the vicinity is his mother, whose sobs are choked off by heavy chains. His father has fled. Probably died, too, bless him.

The judge doesn’t even let Draco finish taking a breath and continues, “Alright. Draco Malfoy, you—”

“Wait.”

All noises cease, leaving behind the squeaking of trainers against tiles. Draco doesn’t look up even as the sounds get closer to where he stands.

“Mr, Mr. Potter,” the judge stammers, “you are not Mr. Malfoy’s relative nor loved one.”

“We have history. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Ratty trainers come into Draco’s field of vision. It’s already too late.

“I—yes, that should be enough, Mr. Potter.”

“Thought so.”

Potter’s presence covers up the especially orange tile, and now Draco can look nowhere else but at the many pockets of the man's olive green jacket. Lifting his head remains a horrible idea.

Nothing seems to move, then, even dust particles seem to pause mid-air. From what Draco can deduce, Potter is content to just stare at him for a bit.

“Thanks for helping me out that time,” Potter finally says. Draco doesn’t know what he wants him to say. That night was fucking hell on earth, he could barely remember it with how hard he blocks it out of his head. So what if he didn’t turn Potter in? What does it matter?

Draco stays silent, even as Potter rustles in his innumerable pockets and grumbles when he can’t seem to find what he’s searching for. Before Draco knows it, Potter hums in pleasant surprise.

“I want to give you something,” he says, holding the mystery object out in a closed fist. Draco frowns, tempted to let his face shift into something long-past and glare at the man in front of him. “Come, now, don’t be stubborn.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco reaches for the object, wrists aching from the iron bands, pulsating with heat. To his confusion, Potter covers Draco's hand with both of his. The man is a furnace, his palms possibly even warmer than the iron bands, the sensation sending volatile, feverish streaks of lightning up Draco’s arms. Potter then tucks an item into Draco’s hand, keeping his hands close by as Draco peers at what he is gifted. His eyes widen.

A paper crane.

Potter's left forearm shifts a bit, jostling the jacket sleeve and capturing Draco’s eyes. This can’t be right. Draco glances at Potter’s right arm and the visibly holstered wand that he always carries with him. Back to his left arm, where the head of another wand is but a hint in the shadow. Draco would’ve thought so as well, would’ve thought Potter is being cautious, if not for the instant familiarity striking him like an elbow to the throat.

His head whips up so quickly his neck strains within the collar. Knowing emerald eyes meet his gaze. “Potter, no.”

An eyebrow cocks up. “Did you not say you want to run away?” Potter whispers back. His fingers trail to the edge of Draco’s armbands like they’re trying to sneak under and touch bare skin.

Draco gasps. Nothing makes sense anymore, absolutely nothing at all.

But from the way the court is growing evidently agitated, from the way Potter doesn’t let them bother him one bit, from the way he waits, endlessly patient.

Potter might be the only one able to make sense of anything at all.

Draco leans a hair closer, so his voice is clear to no one but the two of them.

“My mother,” he says, watching Potter’s irises get swallowed up by pure black. “Remember what she did for you, Potter, please. She can’t stay here…”

Potter nods, promising a later date, that they will both get her. And Merlin help him, Draco trusts every word.

A chair tumbles onto the ground. Shouts explode into existence, footsteps thumping. Draco grips Potter’s left forearm as Potter’s wand effortlessly slides out of its holster into a waiting hand. The fizzling heat of hastily casted hexes slices through the air. With his mother’s shout of relief in his ears, Draco succumbs to the squeezing suffocation of Apparition.

[sunlightandsuffering]

I LEAVE FOR A WHILE AND I HAVE SO MANY UNREAD BESTIES TO LOVERS ANONS!!! Imma answer them when I get back from boating but Jfc y’all want this AU bad so here, theres no smut per se but this is the first part of the first chapter from Mikasa’s POV I hope I characterized her okay, I’m trying to stay true to the collective vision 😂

So without further ado Besties to Lovers 💕💕

Her and Eren have always been friends, but she wants the benefits, God does she want the benefits. She’s nineteen, in her second year of university and she’s still a virgin and has done absolutely nothing outside of kiss a boy, and that boy was Eren, in the eighth grade. Meanwhile the very object of her affections has a new girl in his room every fucking night. She doesn’t understand where he gets his stamina from or where he finds all of these girls.

They’ve been best friends since the third grade when he forced her to eat a mudpie because he told poor sweet naïve Mikasa it was chocolate cake. When she’d cried after having her face shoved into the mud, he’d told her to suck it up before giving her the lollipop from his lunchbox as penance. She’s loved him ever since.

And unfortunately, his selfish antics have only gotten worse over time.

Mikasa is aware she’s unbelievably sheltered, it’s not something new to her, that’s what happens when you live with three ex-cops for most of your life and the only friend, you’re permitted to hang out with on a continual basis is Eren. As a result, she’s spoiled rotten and she loves every moment of it, especially when it’s Eren doing the spoiling, but she’s trying her best to be less sheltered! She even finally got a job recently and Eren had told her how proud of her he was.

The job might also be part-time at Levi’s mechanic shop but well a job is a job it doesn’t matter if she got it through nepotism.

She’s excited about it, it means she gets to see Eren even more than usual because he works there part time as a mechanic while he puts himself through medical school.

She knows logically she should be fed up of the boy she’s spent almost every waking moment with since she was seven, but she’s not, she loves living with Eren.

He spoils her almost more than Levi, Hanji and Kenny do, which is impressive because they’re all a little crazy.

She’s also a little in love with Eren if she’s being entirely honest with herself, she lives for when he calls her ‘baby’ and his fingers trail up her thighs and he pinches the curve of her ass, telling her the gym is paying off. He’s always touch, touch, touching every part of her he can get his hands on and she loves it.

Once, Jean had tried to have her sit on his lap too when Eren hadn’t been around and although she’d felt a little weird about it, she’d complied because well he was her friend and it was okay when Eren did it, so why not Jean?

Eren had not been pleased.

Mikasa hadn’t liked it either if she was being honest, it wasn’t the same, he didn’t hold her the same way Eren did and she didn’t have the same pleasant little flutter in her tummy the way she did with Eren when his hands would dip between her thighs and along the seams of her underwear beneath her flowy dresses.

She always felt happy and warm whenever Eren touched her and if she ever felt uncomfortable he’d stop, but he was also more than happy to soothe her back to happiness, he’d kiss her neck or tell her how good she was being for him and she’d be content once again.

Sometimes she’d wriggle around in his lap and he’d hold her tight, and give her a little nibble to her ear as warning. Sometimes she’d heed his warning and sometimes she wouldn’t but when she didn’t that’s usually when Eren would take her home and she loved being alone with him much more than at a boring party while he flirted with a bunch of girls.

When she had him entirely to herself, that was when she was most happy. But these days it wasn’t often, it seemed somehow her best friend had become even more of a man whore since she’d moved in. It’d been a year and still he hadn’t cooled down, he had more sexual partners than an emperor with a harem, it was ridiculous.

The revolving door of girls was getting old for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that she was fed up of having to explain where the coffee was as the girls pranced around their kitchen in underwear and Eren’s t-shirts. It was irritating, they didn’t understand that she would be the one to make Eren coffee or tea in the morning and that she had exclusive access to his wardrobe. The pretty blonde bitch she was glaring at right now should NOT be wearing her favourite t-shirt.

She sullenly continues to steep Eren’s tea for him, knowing he’ll need the caffeine when he wakes up while she watches the pretty little blonde march around their kitchen like she owns the place. She grabs all of Mikasa’s iced coffee ingredients from the fridge, drowning two cups of scalding hot coffee in sugary sweet. Syrup, whip cream, sprinkles, everything Eren buys Mikasa because he understands her ice coffee obsession. Meanwhile Mikasa knows for a fact Eren loathes the stuff, he tells her it’s too sweet all the time, making faces every time he steals a sip, as if it will taste different than the last time he drank it. He always gives her little cheek kisses after, awfully close to her lips or on her nose, tells her she’s sweet enough for him, that he doesn’t need anything else.

And without fail she’ll squirm and blush under his praise just like she always does and he’ll get that look in his eye, the one that’s dark and hungry that she knows usually precedes some manhandling. A slap to the ass, a pinch to her waist, something that allows him the excuse to touch her and she lives for it, sometimes if she’s really lucky he’ll tuck her into his lap and let her drink the rest of her coffee from her favourite seat there.

She’s startled out of her thoughts as the blonde girl drops two spoons onto the counter and they clatter against the marble with an angry noise, leaving spills of coffee in their wake.

“Can you be a doll and clean that up for me?” Platinum blonde asks her before she picks up both mugs and starts towards Eren’s room.

Mikasa frowns but wanders towards the sink to grab a washcloth for the mess.

Platinum blonde doesn’t make it two steps out of the kitchen before Eren’s bedroom door opens and shuts and he’s wandering into the open expanse of their kitchen wearing nothing more than a pair of plaid pyjama pants and rubbing his eyes.

Mikasa smirks at the sink, now is her favourite time of the morning, when Eren will kick out the little blonde rather brutally.

“Eren, hi!” The girl tells him breathlessly, and Mikasa turns to watch her hold out a coffee, “I made you a coffee, wasn’t sure what you liked.”

Shit, Eren’s tea! Mikasa drops her wash cloth and quickly removes the tea bag from Eren’s typical Earl Grey, thankfully it’s not too oversteeped. She wanders to the fridge to grab the cream, pretending not to be gleefully listening to the conversation next to her.

Eren takes the coffee from the girl, looking down at it as if it’s going to explode, sprinkles and chocolate shavings floating around the milky brown mixture. He raises an eyebrow up at the girl before placing the coffee on the counter, “Thanks, but I don’t like coffee.”

The girl’s eyes go a little wide and she places her mug on the counter as well, “Oh I didn’t know, tell me what you do like and I’ll make it for you, I wanted you to have a little pick me up, you know after last night,” She sends him a little smirk as she finishes her sentence but Eren remains looking unimpressed.

“I like tea, but don’t worry about it, I already have some being made right now, isn’t that right Miki?”

His eyes finally slide to hers and as usual her heart skips a beat as those intent viridians watch her so intensely, all of his attention is on her, he pays absolutely no mind to the blonde girl as he makes it to her side in a few steps.

She nods softly, she doesn’t want to reply, not in front of this girl, she’s too shy, it’s why she’s barely said three words to her yet. She hands Eren his cup of tea and he grins mischievously at her, before taking it from her hands. He winks at her before leaning in to kiss her cheek, murmuring into her ear softly, “Thanks Miki.”

Shivers erupt all over as his breath hits just under her ear, where he knows she’s most sensitive.

He pulls away and she’s left wide-eyed as he steals his tea and turns back to the blonde girl.

“Sorry what was your name again?”

The blonde’s face scrunches up in irritation, “It’s Katrina.”

“Great, Katrina I’ll walk you out.”

He takes a sip of his tea before leaving it on the counter and grabbing Katrina by the arm and dragging her towards his bedroom. They stop briefly to grab Katrina’s things before making their way to the door, Eren likely hoping to avoid her impending meltdown.

Mikasa doesn’t see it but she hears the irritated whines that turn into pleads as Eren tells the girl not so gently, to leave. The door slams and she hears footsteps as Eren follows the girl outside. Mikasa may or may not scoot a little closer to the main hallway and press her ear to the door to listen.

“But we had such an amazing night—”

“It was okay.” Eren throws in his two cents and Mikasa fights to keep in her giggle, this is her favourite part of the mornings, it’s almost worth all the pain of the night before just for this.

“What do you mean, it was amazing, Eren I think we really have something, it was so amazing—”

“Listen, I don’t do relationships, I do one-night stands and that’s it.” Eren tells Katrina firmly and Mikasa gives a little fist pump, damn right, she never sees the same girl twice and she’ll never admit how happy that small tidbit of information brings her. If he’s going to have someone else, at least she knows he has no feelings attached to it. The day he gets a serious girlfriend is the day her heart really breaks.

“What about the girl in there, Miki you called her, don’t tell me you’re not fucking her.”

Mikasa is shocked, her cheeks turning red at the assumption, how vulgar.

But also a small part of her wishes Eren was, ‘fucking’ her that is. She’s a virgin, completely innocent in every conceivable way, she’s never even touched herself, nineteen and still totally clueless with all things sex. It’s not like she hasn’t considered it or wanted to try before, she’s not a prude, she just has no idea where to even start.

Not to mention, ANY male love interests are squashed like bugs the second Eren gets wind of them, and if it’s not him it’s Levi, Kenny or Hanji.

But lately she’s considering at least buying a vibrator or something, maybe taking her own virginity, Sasha and Annie never shut up about it, she’s curious about what all the fuss is about. Every time she moves her fingers down her stomach, she heats up a little, blushing bright red and wondering if it’s wrong, if its weird.

She usually makes it to the line of her panties, concentrated on trying to figure out what she should do and imagining what she thinks will turn her on, and of course it’s always Eren. Always, always him. Unfortunately, that’s usually where her fingers stop because she feels awful, dirty for imagining her best friend touching her, thinking about his large frame looming over hers and laying kisses on her lips instead of her cheeks. Eren would never want her like that, she’s not his type, small blonde, perky and experienced. No bad Mikasa! She cuts her thoughts off before they can descend into negative territory, she’ll never have Eren romantically but at least he loves her platonically and she’ll take what she can get.

“Leave.” Eren tells Katrina in a tone that brokers no argument, the one he reserves specifically for people who insult her, and it happens often when his one night stands see a girl in Eren’s apartment that’s not them, the jealousy is real. However, what they fail to realize is that she is the one girl he actually gives a shit about, she has a special place reserved in his heart as his best friend, and all the sex in the world has nothing on that.

She continues to listen, waiting for more, but this one surprisingly kicks up little fuss and the next thing Mikasa knows she’s scrambling to move away from the door as Eren opens it, falling swiftly onto her ass in the foyer.

Eren raises his eyebrow at her as he shuts the door, leaning back against it, arms crossed and still delightfully shirtless. Looking up at him, he truly is an attractive figure, arms corded with muscle from working with cars all day, handsome chiselled face with a slit in his right eyebrow and a few tattoos placed randomly along his arms. Mikasa, understands better than anyone why girls flock to Eren like moths to a flame.

“Watcha doing down there love?” He asks, his tone deceptively sweet, she knows he won’t be happy she was listening in, especially since the other girl sort of insulted her. She plays dumb, or attempts to at least.

“Just cleaning up,” she grabs a shoe from the shoe rack next to the door, “Wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“Uhuh,” he says doubtfully, crouching down to her level where she’s splayed out, legs askew and leaning back on her hands.

“So you were’t eavesdropping on me outside?”

She looks away, she can’t lie to him, she’s terrible at it, he knows all her ticks, and she always inevitably caves and tells him anyway.

“Miki,” His voice is chiding, a hand coming up to grab her chin and turn her in his direction. Her full bottom lip sticks out in a pout as she confesses, “I just wanted to know what you’d tell her, she wasn’t very nice to me.”

He leans in closer, edging his way into her personal space and she’s forced to lean back further on her hands as Eren kneels over her, placing his own hands on her thighs, his face getting closer and closer to hers. Her breathing comes quick as his face finds her neck, “You’re not being a very good girl today Miki. My tea was a little oversteeped and now this,”

She gasps a little, her heart thundering in her chest, theres that phrase, ‘good girl’, every so often Eren slips it into conversation and she doesn’t know why but she absolutely loves it, she adores it when he praises her. She wants to hear him say it all the time, wants to be his everything, wants to be the best.

And sometimes she’ll hear him whisper it to the girls he’s fucking, their bedrooms are right next to each other and the walls are paper thin, how could she not? And those are the times she wants to touch herself the most, when Eren tells the girl he’s with she’s being a good girl in that deep raspy voice of his, in the tone he only uses when he’s at the height of his pleasure, gravelly and filled with desire as he fucks some girl so hard the wall of their shared bedroom shakes.

Her face heats anymore at her train or thought, doing her damndest not to let her eyes follow the V of his abs down to the waist band of his pants.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’ll be better,” she responds quickly, she doesn’t want him to be mad at her, not about this, she didn’t mean to eavesdrop, she’ll never do it again as long as he’s not mad at her.

It’s the worst when he’s mad at her, he wont talk to her for a while, won’t touch her and that’s the worst part, no little touches. She’d never realized how totally attached and needy for him she was until they were watching a movie and he wouldn’t let her sit in his lap, wouldn’t lay his head on her chest and hum into her sternum while she fought back shivers because her breasts are so fucking sensitive.

“Eren please, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me.”

His face is stern for a moment, dark strong eyebrows scrunched up and lips set into a line, tears prick her eyes at the thought of him giving her the silent treatment for a week again. She can’t do it.

As a tear escapes one eye, tracing a path down her cheekbones, Eren’s large calloused hand comes up to cup her face, moving from her chin, his thumb darting out to catch the tear before he brings his thumb to his mouth, licking the meagre drop from his finger.

His face settles back into a neutral expression before he buries it into her neck, leaning his whole body weight on her, and pushing her to the ground, lying across her front.

“Oh fuck Miki, what am I going to do with you?” He sighs into her neck, before leaving a little bite there that makes her squeak. Then another, and another and she knows this is her punishment but it feels so nice, bites interspersed with little kisses along the column of her throat, they’ll probably leave marks later if she’s lucky.

He pulls back when she makes a little whimpering sound as he hits a particularly sensitive area of her skin, breaking the quiet atmosphere and they both come back to themselves. She’s immediately sad because she loves it when he gets carried away like that, almost feels like she has a chance.

Eren moves away, leaving her cold and bereft on the floor as he stands up.

She stares up at him, quicksilver eyes wide and needy, she needs something, she doesn’t know what, zings shoot through her core and she’s unbearably hot, she needs something. It’s the weird feeling again, the one she only gets when he’s around and being touchy, he must see it in her eyes because a pained looks crosses his face and he almost moves to grab her again but he bites his lip and settles on holding a hand to help her up, “Come on Miki, I’ll make you breakfast love.”

She pouts but takes his hand, following him to the kitchen and sitting herself on the bar stool while he makes her favourite waffles.

It’s always like this, he’s always taking care of her, he can’t help himself and sure sometimes he’s a little mean, well most of the time, and more often than not he’s teasing her, but he takes care of her so well, she trusts him implicitly.

They’re on the cusp of something, she doesn’t know what but she can feel it building, ever since she first moved in, the tension has gotten worse. Eren is like a caged panther waiting, watching, restraining himself, his eyes are always hungry when she walks around in her pyjamas, which consist of only his old shirts and panties, but she can’t quite figure out for what.

He gives her a little wink as he slides her waffles onto a plate and cutting them up for her, before he feeds her delicately, little bites of chocolate chip and syrup. He catches little dribbles of the sickly sweet mixture that stain her lips, bringing his finger to his mouth, just for a taste. He pulls a face at the overly sweet treat, and she laughs which makes Eren smile her favourite smile, the genuine one with all his teeth only she can pull from him.

The next dribble of syrup she loses, Eren feeds it right back to her, holding out his thumb for her to lick but she does him one better and takes the whole digit in her mouth with ease, sucking the syrupy chocolate up happily. She watches him the whole time and his reaction is everything, his eyes glow greener, he leans in just a little closer and there is that intent hungry look again. It’s beginning to be her favourite look on him, something about it is just attractive.

She releases his finger with a pop, smiling at him before she sticks her tongue out, “All clean!”

Eren’s gaze is so intense she wants to look away as he moves his hand to tuck a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. He exhales before he speaks, his voice quiet, like he doesn’t mean to say it at all, “You’re such a good girl aren’t you Miki?”

“What did you say?” She asks because she wants to hear it again and again, but Eren doesn’t oblige.

“Nothing baby, finish your waffles, you haven’t been eating well lately, I don’t want anything left on your plate.”

He takes care of her so so well. How could she ever need anyone else?

But evidently Eren does, to satiate his more carnal needs, the ones she’s clueless about and the one’s she longs for him to use her for. He gets a call halfway through her breakfast and he departs from alternately stealing bites of her waffle and letting her eat by herself. It’s a call from a regular girl, Selena, she’s pretty sure her name is, a beautiful Brazilian exchange student with blue eyes and a perfect olive hue. He kisses Mikasa goodbye, a swift peck to the cheek, before he tells her not to wait up, he’s going to work this afternoon shift and afterwards he’s going ‘out’.

She’s may be naïve but she’s not stupid, she knows what ‘out’ means, he’s going to spend the night at Selena’s and tomorrow he’ll come home with mussed hair and hickeys, he won’t need anyone to make his morning tea, won’t be home to make her breakfast.

She’ll be all alone in the apartment once again and not for the first time, she wonders if maybe she should be doing the same. Just what is she missing out on that’s so good that Eren can’t go two days without it, what is so great about sex that Sasha and Annie will spend hours discussing it over dinner?

She drops her breakfast dish in the sink, scowling as she watches the water run over the remains of her breakfast, filling the sink with bubbles, maybe she should try it too. Maybe sex is what she needs from her life, maybe Eren is onto something.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Bedroom Blues | Luke Hemmings

A/N; I hope you like it, and that it’s angsty enough. I’m not too great at writing smut, but I took more time with this imagine, and I felt quite inspired with it. Feedback would be appreciated for any improvements, thankyou for the request and please enjoy (Sorry if the smut’s bad!)  - M x

Warnings; includes smut, angst, mentions and complications of miscarriage, cheating, mentions of drug use, drinking, swearing, choking, toxic relationship, spit

Uttering a single word was unsettling, there was an edge driven between you and Luke, a bump in the road that you feared that the pair of you were unable to cross. He had distanced himself, pouring his emotions into his music rather than expressing them to you.

It hurt, that he pushed you away, telling you to focus on yourself when all that you could mull your mind over was his state of self and all that you had lost. You needed him, it would never be a cure for the pain in your chest, but even so much as a word would have dimmed the heartbreak.

But he was ‘busy’ as he put it. He remained at the studio as you sat on the bottom of the cold bed, the sheets made and pillows perfectly shaped. No one had slept in it in days, you’d opt for the sofa and he anywhere far enough away.

Sometimes, he’d even crash at Cal’s, leaving you in the company of Petunia, who always tried to make you feel better, bless her little heart. But there was another suspicion arising in your welded brain.

It was not a puzzle to put the pieces together, the clues were straightforward. He was slowly losing himself, and by doing so, also you.

Whenever you had the chance to see him, there was a cheap stench of perfume that waded around him, giving you hints about his altered aura. The scent was new to you, nothing you owned smelt like chemicalised fuchsias and indigos.

It could only belong to another woman, the one who left red marks upon the collars of his white shirts that he ignored, allowing you to wash them when you extracted them from the laundry basket.

He sat at his desk, phone in hand as he spoke frustratedly to his manager. Feldy was unimpressed by the things that the musician that he bought with his money, it wasn’t legal and if it were to escape to the public’s eye, he’d be cancelled.

Drugs was not the only consumption that he tolerated to ease his childless suffering, he endeavoured out to puns, with new friends that the boys hadn’t even met.

They seemed sleazy, and were accountably not a good influence upon him. As you leant against the doorframe, you tentatively listened to Luke cuss at the man of his label, him oblivious to your presence.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, I have a reasonable excuse. My child died, before he was even born, I have to cope somehow! So before you let your criticisms slip through your barking lips, consider how you would feel if you were in my position!”

Luke gave the man no time to reply, he hung up, sliding his phone across the table, it hitting the stapler that was sat on the hardwood surface.

He was hurting, he was trying to tolerate the pain, but he was not going about it the right way. As he attempted to get through this tough time, he was hurting everyone that he claimed to love, including you.

“You can’t keep using our son’s passing as an excuse.” It was his answer to everything, the penance that he guarded himself with.

At the sound of your voice, he sighed, rubbing his face with his hand, sick and tired of it all. There was never a moment to waste, he had realised that. Life was about living, something that his child never got to experience. He was making up for the future that he didn’t reach.

“Don’t hassle me woman, you don’t understand.” It was as though he was oblivious to how you felt, focusing on yourself wouldn’t have made his words burn any less.

However painful the strike of the match was, it also made you angry. The way he had the audacity to speak to you like it, as though he were blaming its body for the error that it had gone through.

“Fuck you!” It leapt from your mouth far more aggressively than you intended, but you didn’t regret the exclamation. It was a blessing, that your voice box had the courage to speak the pickings of your mind. “I understand more than you could ever know, you think you’re in pain. Perhaps you should take some time to think, sit and remember the life that we were going to have. Because whilst your out partying, fucking other women and being blind to the fact that you’re pushing everyone that cares away, it makes me think that it’s a good job that our baby wasn’t brought into the world. You’re not exactly father material.”

Luke threw himself from his spinning chair, clasping his hands around (Y/N)’s neck, holding your furious body against the wall. He sneered at the sight of her, for the first time in two months, looking into her eyes. She had insulted him, he wasn’t in the right headspace for that.

“Take it back.” He sternly ordered her, squeezing tighter around her throat. Her silence infuriated him further, and so the tall blond man pried again, leaning in closer to her face. “Take it fucking back you - you... Please take it back (Y/N).”

He broke, but (Y/N) wasn’t ready to cave for him so easily, even as he kept a hold around her. Instead she pursed her lips, forming a ball of saliva in her mouth and spitting it straight in his face.

It landed upon his left eyebrow, wallowing further down as he frowned at her crudeness. Finally, he realised his girlfriend, stepping back, shaking his curls at the sight of her. She disgusted him, she had no right to treat him that way when he was in so much pain. You weren’t helping him cope, you were only making it harder.

“I can’t lie to you like that Luke.” Your voice was softer, however your cheeks hollowed at the crumbled sight of him. He had sunk to the ground, he was on his knees, his head hung low.

“I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?” He didn’t need an answer, not when he was already too aware of his own mistakes. There was no redemption, no do overs. No way to revive his son.

Although he had hurt you in ways in which you’d never forgive him for, it drummed an ache in your chest to see Luke like this. The worst part was that through all of his fuck ups and downs, you still loved him.

He was all you had left, you had lost everything else. It made you think that it hadn’t been the right time, or right at all for you and Luke to have a child together. The creation and its demise had split the two of you apart, there was no coming back from that.

But you were both here, on the floor of his studio, and so you got on your knees before him, cupping his downturned face and turning it up to look at your own. He appreciated the warmth that your hands provided, he had missed them, as well as the rest of you that accompanied them.

“That’s one way to put it.” Licking your lips at the dryness that had masked them, Luke watched the action. It was ordinary, as did your relationship to the media. But that things that they did not know was that the string between the pair of you was torn, it was getting old and would soon fall through.

There was still a single spark left, he felt it surpass the contact he had with your skin. Instinctively he rotated his head in your palm, pressing his lips against the smooth skin, placing delicate, harmless kisses upon the skin.

It surprised you, however you allowed him to continue his path, that trailed up the expanse of your arm, across your shoulder, up the hollow of your neck, until he arrived at your lips. They were so familiar, yet he was so estranged from them.

The appearance of them upheld that of an old friend, they had changed, grown away from their friendship and moved on. This was a chance to reconnect, even if it be for only a moment, and so Luke greeted them with the pressing of his own lips, feeling the remainder of passion left.

He would always love you, you’d been the mother of his child, his rock. And thinking of that had you reciprocating the action, opening your mouth and inclining him a taste inside.

His hands ran down the silhouette of your body, feeling every curve and inch for what felt like the last time. And it probably would be, and so he intended to make the most of it, leave with a regretless finale.

Your hands attacked his hair, tugging at the roots, making the man before you groan at the contact. “Bedroom.” You mumbled against his bittersweet lips.

The pair of you stood, and the tall guitarist hoisted you into his arms, walking through the halls that the pair of you shared.

There were so many ghosts wandering the house, it was eerie, nostalgic. He’d remembered when the pair of you had first scoped out this place through an estate agent. It had felt like home, but now it had the aura of a blue sea; polluted and slowly emptying of all life.

He took careful steps up to stairs, as insurance that he wouldn’t drop your body from his amorous grasp, or that he wouldn’t slip somewhere he couldn’t see.

The two of you were already emotionally fragile, it didn’t need to transfer to its physical cousin. And so he proceeded his route, pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder, not bothering to close it in his wake.

Lightly he tossed you onto the neat and unused bed, causing a crease to form in the material, but it didn’t matter. Not as he stripped himself of his white silk shirt that had an opening at his chest, tossing it onto the floor.

His stomach was heaving as he got caught in the moment, watching you expectedly as he tugged on the end of your own shirt. It had been a maternity shirt, one that you had bought in consideration for later in the course of your pregnancy. At last, it was getting some use, but Luke would have preferred if it received less of that.

Removing the article washed away any link that your body showed of a prior pregnancy, momentarily it discarded the memories of the change your body had been due; stretchmarks, swollen feet, a craving for the strangest of digestible combinations.

One reminder remained though. It was Luke, who crawled upon the king sized bed, sliding atop of you and trailing his fingertips down the lines of your bra straps, carefully sliding them down your arms, so that the covering merely stayed on by the back portion.

“Is this okay? I don’t want you to regret it.” He had his own, he know how it ate away at his soul, piece by piece. There was no worse feeling, he didn’t want you to experience the same.

A loose lipped smile came across your face, he was being considerate. It was more than he had been since the miscarriage, then he had resembled a shadow whenever he chose to return home. He was hardly visible, and if you saw him, nothing was uttered, it was just a bleak darkness underneath the sun’s scoping rays that explored through the open blinds.

“I’m okay with it.” With your consent in hand, Luke shuffled atop of you, grinding his half hardness against the cotton shorts that protected the disabled birthing centre that you had been the entrance to this entire ordeal.

Shivering at the feeling, you released a small moan, which further spurred on the man. “Fuck, I can’t wait any longer.” He sat upon his knees, digging them into the mattress as he made easy work of his belt, sliding it through the loops and throwing it aside.

Next were his trousers, and as he removed them and his undergarments, you quickly mirrored his actions, leaving both of you naked, aside from the comfortable bra that you were cooped in.

It didn’t matter if a part of you was shielded, Luke was ready to get down to business and make the most of this last night. But before he could position his tip at your slit, one of your hands softly pushed him back, although he remained hovering above your ample body.

“Condom.” You told him, you not wanting to risk another pregnancy. At the word, Luke’s eyes widened, as though it was flashing him back to the night that the pair of you had forwent using one. It had ended in a miracle, that over time, transformed into the worse curse imaginable to mankind.

Luke reached over to the bedside draw, extracting a single packet and delicately ripping it open, taking out the form of protection. He held it in his hand, rolling it upon himself from tip to base. And then all was ready for him to proceed.

Hooking one of your legs around his waist, he pushed into you, which emitted a gasp from both the involved. It felt almost foreign, like a one night stand. It had been a while since such a natural presentation of affection had dawned in this room, or anywhere in this house.

The angle gave him a deeper point to hit you at, and he took full advantage of that. His pace had began slow, but it increased as your hands traced undecipherable shapes upon his nude back, knowing that in this minute, everything went away.

All the pain was gone. The distance was nowhere to be found, it had been crushed by the closeness that your bodies now emitted. It was all replaced by pleasure, the exotic feeling flowed in flushed lines through your skins, and out of the sinful sounds that emitted from your mouths.

Biting lightly into his shoulder, it made the singer groan, it sounded almost musical. It brought you back to the days when he would sing lightly whilst making breakfast together in the mornings, that was in the old apartment, before you had risked such a great commitment into buying somewhere as a couple.

He didn’t fault in his languid strokes, they weren’t fast or slow; they were the perfect in between. However he was going deep, reaching far into your cunt, which was clenching over and over again around his impressive girth.

“Do that again baby.” The name made the pair of you freeze, staring solely into each other’s eyes as the train stopped on the tracks once more. “Shit, fuck, sorry.”

It pained him too, but there was no other thing that didn’t mean stopping other than pushing through the sensitive clause. And so you dragged his face to your own, allowing him to entangle your lips, clenching around him with your inner walls as he had asked.

“Oh god.” You moaned as he had rammed further inside of your core, he sped up at the sound of your approval. He was driving you closer to the edge, and so were the noises of your bodies battling against each other. The entire ordeal was euphoric, you couldn’t help but let go.

Luke noticed that you had came, and from realising that alone, followed shortly after your bust. And then it was the prompt, the realisation that this was the end, there’d be no more love, no more sex, only ghosts trailing through your brain.

The fact was depressing, but it was healthier for everyone involved, Perhaps one day, you’d return for each other, but first you and Luke would both have to heal from the scarring, separately.

[alula-fujotings]

Dear Riza, I come to you to humbly request Hiei admiring Kurama and just feeling absolutely unworthy. (This is not Gabi ask for more body worships stuff…nope not at all)

Thank you anon for giving me the push to finally put some ideas I've had for these two together🙈! Hopefully I've done your request justice🥺❤️‍🔥

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It was a long road to recovery for the both of them, but Kurama especially.

When they’d finally gotten to a demon medic, he’d passed out again and Hiei and the baby brat had to carry his weight up three flights of stairs to his sickbed.

“He’s a lot heavier than he looks,” Koenma had wheezed, the pacifier somehow managing to stay in his mouth as he gasped through it for breath.

“If you’re going to complain, then just leave it to me.” Hiei had shouldered more of Kurama’s weight, noting that as a human he still wasn’t as heavy as he could be.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself Hiei,” Koenma snapped, though Hiei felt him give over more of Kurama’s weight to where he was only holding a limp arm. “But, since you’re offering to take care of this, I’ll leave you to it.”

Hiei considered complaining, but they were already at the room number they’d been given to by a harried nurse earlier and he was tired of looking at that stupid pacifier. “I hope to be compensated for this.”

Koenma let out a laugh in response before walking back down the stairs and Hiei had to resist the urge to drop Kurama and chase after the brat. But as he adjusted Kurama’s weight, something hot and wet soaked through the back and side of his barely intact shirt. Blood.

Hiei took a deep breath and shouldered on, all but dumping Kurama onto the hospital bed. Before he could try to adjust him, two nurses and a doctor rushed in, pushing him to the side.

“Another casualty from the games.”

“But why did they bring a human—”

“—ah I see, Cheri, can you bring me—”

Hiei tuned them out, leaning against the wall to be out of the way, but also because his lower back had begun to throb uncomfortably but he’d be double damned if he asked for a chair. Plus, if something goes wrong…

Hiei refused to follow that train of thought and decided to focus on other things, like the human that had blown all his expectations of what humans could be. For a human, Yusuke Urameshi wasn’t that bad. Even the loud one proved to show true grit every now and then. It had been the farthest thing he expected when he and Kurama were thrown together by the pacifier sucking baby as penance for their crimes against humanity. Hiei was determined to survive, and preferably be free, so there really was no choice; even if it meant momentarily serving the greedy baby grubber. But he’d eventually get his revenge; he had the time after all.

And though he hadn’t been prepared to become Kurama’s “partner” and being dispatched on missions together, it was better than working with that human. Over time though, he’d realized that the fox demon spirit he’d always had a quiet respect for was different. It was like being human was an illness, and Hiei refused to have any parts.

A hand suddenly rested on his shoulder and he jolted, hand at his dagger handing in his belt loop. He relaxed a fraction when he realized it was the doctor.

“We’ll check on him in a few hours. Alert us when he wakes.” The demon nodded at him before rushing out the door.

The nurses were slower to follow, hooking Kurama up to different monitoring machines and jotting more things down in their notebooks. Hiei was tempted to ask questions regarding recovery time and prognosis, but held himself back. He’d be leaving behind the nurses anyway, his job done in his eyes.

“Make sure to finish cleaning his wounds, or they might fester!” Before he could ask what the hell they were talking about, the nurses were gone and he was left with an unconscious Kurama, fresh towels, and a bowl of steaming soapy water. When did they bring this?

And then they were alone. Hiei let out a sigh, feeling his own muscles scream from holding him up, but that was nothing and apparently he had a job to do. If Kurama had awoken to a stranger, regardless of their gender, he would lash out and probably kill them before succumbing to re-opening his wounds. So, Hiei resigned himself to seeing over him, at least until Kurama awoke.

“I hope you know that you owe me for this one, fox,” he ground out, messily dumping the towel into the warm soapy water. “And if you or that fucking toddler speak of this to anyone, I’ll cut your throats.”

Hiei made quick work of the hospital gown, and under the fluorescent lighting, the bruised skin and cuts scabbing over were like personal affronts, ruining what would have otherwise been a perfect picture; a chest that was wider than it appeared under the school uniform Kurama was forced to wear as a human, and even in his passed out state, Hiei could see the definition that lead to a string of strong abdominal muscles. A good place to start as any.

Hiei wrung the towel out of excess water before getting to work washing Kurama’s chest, ignoring the comfort he took in feeling it rise and fall under his scrubbing. He moved to Kurama’s arms next, noting that though strong, they were somehow slender, with large hands with long fingers and perfectly trimmed fingernails. When he scrubbed between them, he flinched at their sudden lengthening before they retracted again.

“If you wake up right now, I swear I’ll kill you,” Hiei growled, drowning the towel in the soapy water bowl before wringing it out again.

Kurama’s legs were just as toned as his upper body, something unusual in male demons, and Hiei idly wondered if this too was a side effect of his human form. He started at the feet, freezing when a low moan came from Kurama’s throat and his toes twitched. When he braved looking at his face, Hiei breathed a sigh of relief finding that he was still asleep. Is he… ticklish? Filing the information away to use at a later time, Hiei moved up to his calf.

Kurama’s skin was cool to the touch, but quickly warmed under his ministrations. Though he could feel the muscles, pressing along the definition, Hiei couldn’t help cataloguing how thin Kurama’s skin felt, and in some places where he pressed into the skin, plum-colored circles the size of his fingertips blossomed. It was another reminder of how fragile humans were, and that reminder had him finishing the job aggressively and quickly.

But even so… Hiei couldn't help but think Kurama was beautiful, liking the color the shock of red hair added to his face. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, fox.”

Satisfied with his work, Hiei threw the towel into the now lukewarm water, determined to walk away as if he hadn’t spent the past few minutes doing something for someone else.

{Drabble request are open! Send your requests to my asks🤗}

[thewhumperinwhite]

And Then You Kill Me (part 5)

story masterpost

TW for: referenced dubcon; guilt and self-hatred; suicidal behavior; angst and misunderstandings; under-negotiated sexual behavior. Nothing directly nsfw here but it is very much The Morning After.

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

----

Usually, the morning after he eats, Karim sits on the roof with a cup of coffee and watches the sun rise.

It’s half indulgence and half penance. He can’t actually drink the coffee, which makes the smell exactly halfway between comfort and torture. And, depending on the…volume, he guesses, of the person he’s fed from, he can only stand the sun for about an hour on a clear day. Though sometimes he stays longer than that, to feel it prickle and burn against his skin. It depends on how much he feels like a thief, how much his mouth still tastes like lies.

This morning, of course, is different.

On the one hand, he isn’t as full as he normally is. It’s cloudy out, but he still needs the sunglasses he borrowed from Diana ages ago, that take up half his face; and he pulls a cap down low over his ears and forehead, too, for good measure.

On the other hand, he didn’t say a thing last night that wasn’t true, and that feels so good he’s almost drunk on it.

There’s warmth in his belly that’s more than blood.

Karim leans forward, cradling the still-hot mug against his chest, and squints down at the street below him. There’s a little shop on the corner, where he goes for batteries sometimes; they sell some simple groceries. Karim’s never had a reason to buy them before. He can’t think of any reason he’d like better than this.

----

Art wakes up with a screaming headache and absolutely no idea where he is.

Which. What he’s learning—what it feels like it’s taking him forever to learn—is that no matter how many times you wake up naked on someone else’s couch and don’t remember how you got there, it never gets easier or better.

And then he does remember. And that’s much worse.

----

Karim pauses inside the door, in the act of setting down the single bag of food and drink he’s bought. He’s just realized that orange juice belongs in the refrigerator, and he doesn’t actually have one of those. He doesn’t eat, and it hadn’t seemed worth the electricity.

Possibly the boy can drink it all in one go? It’s been so long since Karim’s drunk anything that comes out of a bottle, he isn’t actually sure how much—

He’s still standing there, in the doorway, holding Diana’s sunglasses in one hand and the carton in the other, and then a lamp hits him in the side of his head.

It doesn’t hit hard enough to rock him backward, but it does crack in half, and land at his feet in three big pieces.

Karim stares for a moment, down at the wreckage, and then up to the bathroom doorway, where the boy he picked up from the docks is standing. He’s wearing his sweatshirt again, and he’s trembling.

“What was that for?” says Karim. The boy’s face twists.

“We had a deal,” the boy says, and that’s when Karim realizes that the boy is shaking because he’s very, very angry.

“…Huh?” Karim says. It’s the wrong answer, apparently; the boy makes an unintelligible noise and lunges for a ceramic vase sitting on a nearby end table. Karim scrambles to set the orange juice and sunglasses down (Diana likes these glasses, and she’s terrifying when she’s angry) and throw his hands up in surrender. “Woah—Hey wait!” The boy pauses, holding the vase like a grenade. He’s swaying slightly under its weight. Presumably like someone who’s lost about a liter and a half of blood. Karim kind of can’t believe he’s even on his feet right now.

“…I bought you some orange juice,” Karim says, hesitantly. “The internet says it’s good for—”

The boy throws the vase.

“Oh my god!” Karim says, ducking into the kitchen, more by instinct than any actual fear of injury. (He is full of blood and almost indestructible; and also the boy aims like someone who has lost thirty percent of their blood by volume.) “What is your problem?”

The boy gapes at Karim, and has to grab the bathroom doorway to steady himself.

“My problem,” he gasps, sounding like he wants to shout it but is too out of breath. “Did I fucking stutter last night, you asshole?” He presses his hand to his temple and closes his eyes; his head must feel like a rotten melon by now. “What part of dead by sunrise was too fucking complicated for you?”

Karim blinks at the boy. Feels borrowed blood rise into his cheeks.

“Oh, that,” Karim says. “I, um…” He has no idea what to say. “…Sorry?”

His apology—which is half-hearted, admittedly; for once it hadn’t even occurred to him to feel guilty about this—hits the boy like a blow to the stomach, and the boy covers his face with one hand and slides down the bathroom doorframe until he’s sitting in a little heap on the floor. Wearing his still-damp sweatshirt and nothing else, his bare legs splayed out to either side. He looks—small, and less alive, and ah yes, there’s the guilt Karim has been missing.

“—so fucking stupid,” the boy mutters, into his hand.

Karim puts the juice down on the counter. He wants to move closer, but that cannot possibly be what the boy wants right now.

“God dammit,” the boy says, and he turns away from Karim, and climbs forward, easing himself back up to his feet against the wall. “Fuck this,” he says, and then Karim realizes he’s crawling-stumbling-falling toward the door, like he’s going to leave that way, swaying and half-naked.

“Woah,” Karim says, darting out to catch at the boy’s shoulder, “Hold on a s—”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” the boy spits, spinning away from Karim’s touch. His back is against the front door again, like it was when he opened up so sweet and easy under Karim’s mouth and hands—what, six hours ago? Less? The boy is incandescent with rage for a second, his eyes—they’re green, an ordinary alive-person green, shot through with brown, and achingly pretty—almost glowing with it, and then his face shutters like an empty house and he says, voice cold and precise, “Get out of my way.”

Karim hadn’t even realized he was in his way. But the door opens in, so the boy really can’t get out unless Karim moves. Karim holds his hands up instead, leaning back out of the boy’s space.

“Just—just wait a second, okay?” Karim says. He tries to pitch his voice as low and nonthreatening as possible, like he isn’t looming over the boy whether he wants to or not. “Let’s just—can we just talk about this for a second.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the boy says. He’s supporting himself against the door, but if Karim didn’t already know he wouldn’t guess how unsteady on his feet the boy is; his voice is steady and flat and colder than Father’s basement in January. “It’s my own fault for being so fucking dumb and gullible, fair enough, glad that worked out for you, now back the fuck off.” That last part is said with so much sudden venom that Karim actually does stumble back a step without really meaning to.

“Gullible,” Karim repeats stupidly, like if he can understand just one word of what the boy is yelling at him this will all make sense suddenly. And then—suddenly—it does, and he gapes at the boy.

“Wait,” Karim says. “Do you—you think I was lying?” He almost expects the boy to deny it, except the boy is still giving him that same flat, blank look (with incomprehensible emotion underneath it, disgust and anger and maybe even hurt). “What—why on earth would I have—”

The boy looks at him. There are splotches of color in his cheeks, and his eyes are slightly too bright, and when Karim stares at him he tugs the hem of his sweatshirt down just a little farther, like he’s trying to cover his ass.

Karim takes a step back, dropping his hands to his sides.

“I wasn’t,” he says, nonsensically. “This is—Boy. I swear to you. I did not say a single thing last night that wasn’t true.”

There are big raised welts on either side of the boy’s throat, where Karim’s fangs went into him last night. The boy must have seen them, if he was in the bathroom; his reflection works just fine. They don’t look like hickeys or bruises or anything other than what they are. There’s no way the boy shouldn’t believe him, this one time when he only took what was given willingly, and not even all of that. There’s no way—

“Then explain it to me, asshole,” the boy says, and his voice is shaky with unshed tears. “Explain the world where everything you said is true, and I’m not dead yet.”

Karim wants—Karim wants. Karim wants to reach out and touch the boy. Karim wants to hold the boy gently, wants to wrap him up in something warm and safe until he tells him why he talks that way, why he wants to give his life—this thing he has that Karim doesn’t, that Karim won’t ever again—away so badly his voice trembles like that whenever he talks about it.

“It’s,” Karim says. His Father is always in despair about how bad he is with words. “Well, it’s just—I like you.”

Karim hasn’t told a lie in almost eight hours, now. This isn’t a lie, either.

The boy’s eyes go wide, surprise and then fear and then anger, and then without warning he dives down, flops onto his knees, grabs a shard of the shattered vase, and jerks it toward his own throat.

“No!” Karim grabs the boy’s wrist, too hard; it creaks alarmingly in his grasp, but the jagged ceramic piece falls from his hand and clatters to the ground. He wants to let go—the boy is far too still, his eyes too wide, and Karim already knows his wrist will bruise—but he can’t. There’s too much broken pottery and glass, and the boy is such a fragile thing.

The boy stares up at Karim. He is kneeling wide-eyed at Karim’s feet, and Karim can hear his shallow too-fast breath and his hummingbird heart, and it is almost more than he can bear.

The boy doesn’t scream, though; he doesn’t even call Karim a monster, or any of the other things Karim deserves. What he says, his voice tight, is, “They’ll find me,” and then, soft and desperate, meeting Karim’s light bulb eyes with his pretty dull alive ones, “Please.”

Karim doesn’t let go of the boy’s wrist. He gets carefully to his knees beside him, instead, meeting the boy’s gaze like it doesn’t even hurt.

“I’ve been killing in this city for nine years now,” he says, and there’s fear in the boy’s eyes, but still no fear of him. “They’ve never caught me.”

The boy’s eyes flicker. Karim has no idea with what. But this is the moment. He throws caution to the winds.

“Give me a week,” he says.

The boy stares at him.

“I like you,” he says again. The boy’s pounding heart hasn’t sped or slowed, so Karim keeps going. “You’re—I’ve never met anyone like you.” That’s true, like everything else he’s said, but he knows the boy won’t like it, so he presses ahead, fighting hard not to trip over his words. “I want to spend a week with you. Not to—we can do whatever you want. I won’t touch any way you don’t want me to. I know how to hide in this city better than anyone, no one will know where you are. And at the end of the week—” He swallows; he doesn’t want this to be a lie, but also the thought of it turns his stomach; he makes himself say it anyway. “And at the end of the week, I’ll kill you any way you ask me to. I promise.”

There’s a too-long moment of silence. The boy’s heart flutters painfully, and neither of them blink.

“…a week,” the boy says slowly, after an eternity.

Karim nods, maybe frantically.

The boy pulls his hand delicately out of Karim’s grip; Karim, useless heart pounding, lets him.

“For a week,” the boy says, “you’d better give me the flashiest murder scene in history.”

Karim grins, so hard it almost hurts his face. “Flashy,” he says, giddy and stupid. “I can do that.”

[lihikainanea]

Bill thrusting down Tigers throat is such a kink. His hand with all the veins out as he grabs her hair. Maybe it escalates where her mascara is all down her face and spit is all over. But he pulls away as she catches her breath, wiping her chin and mumbling, “My pretty girl” Before kissing her.

I really, really do love Bill’s slightly sadist side. And the reason why I love it is because it’s so consensual--because when Bill feels like being a bit mean usually coincides precisely with the time when tiger wants him to be a little mean. When she wants to be a bit manhandled, when she wants to push her Good Dude’s buttons and see that tick in his jaw and that little thrill that she’s in big, big trouble.

I think at the beginning, way back when their whole dynamic kicked off--I’ve written drabbles about how Bill was a bit...scared to do this with her. Tiger was a real reluctant sub, you know? He never forced it, not in the slightest, but he did notice that she was always calmer when she had his thumb in her mouth, that every once in awhile if he could get her feeling good enough to get on her knees, she would somehow be so much calmer. But she always over-compensated after, always swung the other way to try and prove that she wasn’t submissive. Bill had a hell of a time getting her to just bask in it and enjoy it, to feel safe enough with him to give into it. It was new for tiger too.

And as their dynamic evolved, as tiger got more comfortable with it--I’ll bet she purposely started to push his buttons, because she liked the punishment. She liked being ordered to her knees, she liked his authoritative demeanour, she liked it when he spanked her. She liked this feeling that he just took away a lot of the bad stuff--the guilt associated with bad behaviour, the responsibility, the pressure that she always had to choose or decide or do things for herself.Over the course of their dynamic suddenly a wrong step didn’t mean endless guilt and cyclical thoughts in her perfectionist brain--it meant a spanking, immediate correction from Bill, and it meant subsequent forgiveness. All of a sudden bad feelings had an end for her, a definitive end, and that was an incredibly freeing concept.

And slowly but surely tiger also kind of...she started to like the pain, you know? And yes she absolutely goaded him into a punishment a few times when she shouldn’t have, because she was after penance. And they set boundaries for that too, because hurting her was a hard limit for him--and in those instances, tiger was after the penance. That’s against the rules.

But some other times, like this....tiger just like a little bit of pain. That tiny, fragile precipice between pain and pleasure that is just delightful when it’s toyed with in the right way. Sometimes she pushes Bill’s buttons because she wants the punishment for what it is--punishment. A bit of coyness, a purposeful mis-step out of line just to have that euphoria of correction.

So maybe she misbehaves. Misbehaves enough that just a little spanking won’t quite do it, and this merits something more. I’ll bet this is what happens when tiger kind of innocently flirts with someone else--”innocently.” She does it to get a rise out of Bill when she wants to, and I will scream this from the hilltops: Bill’s jealousy is only hot because tiger allows it, because she likes it.

Jealousy is not hot unless it is consensual.

JEALOUSY IS NOT HOT UNLESS IT IS CONSENSUAL.

But like, tiger likes it when Bill gets a little possessive over her. And knowing that, Bill likes that tiger likes when he gets a little possessive of her--so he doesn’t hold back. Which means if one evening she’s flirting with some random dude--nothing intense, but she’s laughing at all of his jokes and keeps touching his arm--it means that Bill’s blood is progressively boiling.

And he knows what she’s after. He knows it the minute he pulls her aside to give her a warning, and all she does is cock her eyebrow and roll her eyes. She wants to play, too.

And it means that that night, this is exactly what happens. Bill stakes his claim. Her orders her to her knees the minute they get in the door but tiger ain’t doing anything the easy way tonight, and she resists. Puts up a fight like a hellcat, shoves at him, tries to wrestle away. And all it’s doing is amping up BOTH of their resistance kinks, the more she shoves the more Bill tries to grab her, and the rougher he gets the more turned on she gets and the more she fights. It’s a struggle but eventually he overpowers her--her sheer strength takes him by surprise every time--and he finally all but throws her onto her knees.

“If you want to be a brat--” he starts, unzipping his jeans.

“Booooooring,” she rolls her eyes--and oh, that’s it. That’s more than it. Without a word, in an instant he has her hair wound in his fist and he’s thrusting in to the back of her throat. She grunts, her throat clenching around him but he doesn't let up.

“What was that sweetheart?” he taunts. He feels her gag around him, and he pulls out.

“Were you trying to say something, kid?” he asks. She coughs, sputtering, and right as she goes to answer he yanks her forward until her mouth is all the way down on him.

“I can’t hear you,” he mocks. He pulls her off again and she heaves a little, mascara running down her face a thin trail of spit from her mouth to his cock.

“Messy messy,” he swipes at his head, rubbing the spit back over her mouth and then pushing two fingers inside.

“You can do better than that tiger,” he taunts again, stepping forward and forcing her down onto his length. He feels her throat constrict around him as she gags again, whimpering, but he doesn’t let up. Pulling out, he forces himself back in again and then holds her there as she cries. Her hands are braced on his thigh so he knows that she knows what to do if she wants to stop.

Pulling her off, she grunts and gasps for air as he bends to meet her gaze.

“My sweet girl,” he says reverently, swiping at the spit on her chin, “I know she’s in there somewhere.”

Tiger takes a few sputtering breaths, her jaw slack as she fights back her gag reflex.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, “Is that all you’ve got, big guy?”

Bill just smiles, sickeningly sweet as he caresses her cheek with his fingertips.

“You’re going to regret that,” he snarls.

[hansoulo]

toccare

Pairing: The Mandalorian/f!Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: cursing, mando’s kind of an ass but he’s old and his back hurts so we’ll cut him some slack, Touching, Tension, Drama, Spicy Stuff (not anything too spicy tho)

Rating: T for the aforementioned spiciness

Word Count: 2.5k

Gift Credit: gif by @/doortotomorrow​​

A/N: here it is!!! my mando massage fic. if enough people yell at me i’ll entertain the idea of a part 2. for science. also this probably isn’t even his bed but whatever!!! canon has no consequence in this household!!

“Mando,” you called out to him, “Are you alright?”

A grunt, barely audible from beneath his helmet. You pushed away from the console, standing in the cockpit and turning towards where he sat in the pilot seat. Mando didn’t turn his head away from the front viewport but he stiffened slightly at your proximity, his shoulders tense and his hands tight around the ship controls. He was always so… wound up. Some might call it vigilance, but you preferred telling him he had a stick up his ass. Right now, he had a whole forest.

You reached to rest your hand on the pauldron of his beskar, fingertips only barely grazing steel before a firm grip was locked around your arm. Soft leather pressed against the underside of your wrist, his hold unrelenting and silent. He still hadn’t looked back at you. Stubborn. Quiet and stubborn.

You pulled away - although you knew you were only able to because he let go. Heaving a dramatic sigh, you shook your head and flopped back down into the chair. So the walking tin can didn’t want to talk. Fine. Maker knows he barely spoke anyways. Still, he could at least tell you what was wrong. Not that- not that you cared. About him. No. It’s just that when he was in a bad way, like he’d been for the past few days - he didn’t exactly lend himself to good company. It just made for an unpleasant time, is all. You didn’t care.

——-

Another groan, deep and heavy as the Mandalorian stood up from the pilot’s seat. His movements were slow and strangely stiff, a far cry from his usual posture. You imagined a rusty droid, unoiled and worn from years of use, and the image prompted a laugh to bubble up in your throat before you silenced it with a hand over your mouth. Apparently it wasn’t quick enough, though, because a gravelly “what?” accompanied the slight cock of his helmet.

“Nothing, nothing,” you shook your head, the smile slow to fade from your lips. “It’s just- are you sure you’re not hurt or anything?” Shifting around in your chair to rest your feet on the center console, you narrowed your eyes with a teasing smirk. “Or are you just getting old?”

You knew he really was in a bad way when he didn’t bother to answer, only sighing as he - finally - managed to reach his full height. “I’m going to take a look at the engine,” the Mandalorian said gruffly, stepping towards the main hangar. You hummed in acknowledgement, examining the beds of your nails with an air probably too casual for someone who was sharing oxygen with a known killer. You could hold your own, though. He knew that. Maker, that was half the reason why you were here. The other half had to do with a very small, very strange baby who was now napping in its pod behind you. “Get your feet off my ship.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to look back as your hand came up to form a less than lady-like gesture. So much for class and decorum.

——–

You were going to kill him. You were going to rip the beskar off his stupidly toned chest and use it to beat him into the damn ground. He was being such a… such an… an ass!

The Mandalorian had always been terse, you were used to that, but this was something else. He’d nearly driven you to tears the other day and barely apologized, only stalking off to his quarters like a petulant child with nothing other than a “m’sorry.”  Yeah, sorry your ass. If he was sorry he would tell you what was going on. It wasn’t the bounties, which were plenty and easily found.  It wasn’t the child. It wasn’t you- at least you hoped it wasn’t. So what was it?

It took Mando snipping at you one night for no particular reason, his tone patronizing and clipped, for you to finally confront him. Jamming an angry finger into the metal of his chest plate, you raised your head to meet the slit of his visor. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Mando?”

Your voice was harsh but whispered, not wanting to wake the child sleeping in the cockpit. He moved to push your hand away but you shoved it back, fingers splaying against leather and beskar as your gaze stiffened. “No, stop it. What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

“It’s nothing.” He ducked his head down, the chin of his helmet meeting his chest. Scoffing, you stepped back and shifted your weight to one leg, your eyes on him unrelenting. For someone whose job description included lying, he wasn’t very good at it. At least, not with you.

“Obviously it’s something,” you said a little softer. He let you touch him this time, your hands coming up to the dips of his shoulder that lay uncovered by armor. Another groan escaped him, barely audible but slightly pained when you pressed the stiff muscles. You furrowed your brows at the sound. “Are you hurt?”

The Mandalorian shook his head at this, but you remained unconvinced. Realizing something, you resisted the urge to laugh as you pushed your hands down against his shoulders again. It wasn’t very hard and you doubt he could feel much through the thick fabric of his shirt, but it was enough for a deep gasp to be clear through the modulator. He wasn’t injured. He was sore.

You dug your thumbs into the cords of muscle, your tone lighter than it had been in weeks. “You really are getting old, aren’t you?”

“I’m-” he hissed when you flattened your palms, “fine.”

“Mando…”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hands reaching to pull you away. Fingertips ghosted across your arms, hesitant. You sighed, shaking your head as if to rid the air of perceived ill intentions. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you haven’t exactly been pleasant to work with lately.”

You imagined a smile beneath the helmet when he huffed at your words, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I know. M’sorry.” Ah, there it was again. This time, though, you could tell he meant it. You let your hands fall to your side.

“Y’know…” Oh, this was a bad idea. You were definitely overstepping. Completely off your rocker. “I could help you.”

“What?” Were you dreaming, or did his voice really just drop an octave?

“I could um-” you swallowed, steeling yourself for the rejection you were almost certain of. “I could help. You. If you wanted me to. I mean I wouldn’t- kriff I don’t know! I don’t know why I-”

“Stop talking.”

You swallowed again, lips parted in shock and your voice wavering slightly. “Okay.”

“Help me how?” He stepped closer in the darkness of the hall, his feet coming near enough that you widened your own to compensate.

“You’ve got to have like, a thousand knots in your back, Mando. I’ve seen your bed.” You laughed to cover the rising flush in your cheeks. “Not much of a bed, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Funny. He was funny. It was a joke, right? Even after so long, you could barely tell. Hazards of the helmet, you supposed. It made things, at least for you, very, very awkward.

“Look, just-” you screwed your eyes shut, fingers rubbing circles into your temples. “If not for your sake then for mine and the kid’s, alright? If that’s all that’s making you act like an ass, then it’s something that I- that we can fix.”

Armor shook slightly with another deep breath, his sigh bone-deep and echoing slightly through the ship. “Fine.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

———

He was just… standing there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. Maybe he was. “You’ll have to take off all your armor, you goof.”

“I know.” The words were tight, stretched over with something you couldn’t place.

“Hey, it’s fine,” you assured him, your voice kinder. “Relax, tin can. I’ve seen a lot worse.” You winked when he reached to undo his pauldron. “Need some help?”

Sighing, the Mandalorian sat on the edge of his bed, although calling it that was a bit generous. It was a pad probably six inches thick laid on a slab of metal. No wonder he was in such a foul mood lately. Your own cot, shoved in a too-small storage closet with an old cape (his old cape, actually) as a blanket, seemed much more appealing. Maybe he was just a masochist or something. Maybe this was some sort of weird Mandalorian penance. Or maybe he just didn’t have anywhere else to sleep.

A cough you drew your mind out of your thoughts and back on the man behind you, his armor now a careful pile on the floor. Shedding anything else was apparently a bridge too far, but it was still the most exposed you’d ever seen him. “It’d probably be easier if you um… laid down. On your stomach.” The Mandalorian nodded slowly, pushing himself up on the bed and letting his head fall. Stifling a laugh at his movements, you stepped closer. Oh. Oh no.

“Mando?” He grunted in acknowledgement, his arms straightening besides him. “I- I won’t really be able to reach standing. Is it okay if I-” you winced at your words, hoping he wouldn’t be able to notice the way your face burned. “Sit? On the bed?”

The Mandalorian sat up slightly, his elbows knocking against metal. “You mean on me?”

You nodded, tongue heavy and dry on the roof of your mouth. “It’s fine, really. If you don’t want me to I can just-”

“You can. If you want to.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Okay. That was good, right? He trusted you. You trusted him. You could give your co-worker/associate/bounty hunter-you-flirted-with-when-you-got-drunk a back rub without it being weird, right? Right.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You climbed onto the bed, careful not to ram your head into anything. This was the nearest you’ve been since- since never, actually. You can’t remember, in all your years of hunts and missions and times aboard the Crest, ever being this close to him. Every rise of his chest, every jostle of his hips and micro-movement that had never been afforded to you before was on display now, inches away and undeniably human. His shirt had ridden up slightly when you moved to straddle his legs and you could see skin, tan and strong and battle-wearied. Not a tin can, after all.

You’d rested your hands on the Mandalorian’s shoulders for balance, not realizing it until his own curled into themselves, gripping the hems of his shirtsleeves until his knuckles stretched pale. Frowning, you coaxed his palms open until they rested at his sides. There. Much better.

The metal against your knees was cold, uncomfortably so, but he was warm underneath you, solid and impossibly still. You moved to the juncture of his neck, the skin there drawn tight with the weight of armor and expectations, and strings of hurried apologies followed every knead of your hands. He called your name, the sound rumbling through his chest, and you bit your lip.

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing.”

You grew quiet. Exactly why you listened to the Mandalorian so easily you didn’t want to think about. You blamed the water. He was probably slowly poisoning you until you went mad for his own amusement.

Everything was dampened in recycled air and hazy blue light, pulsing something that had always been present but now was coming to a head and growing a face that you refused to look in the eye. Now was not the time. There would never be a time. You would sooner step out of the limits of space itself until you were stretched thin, enveloped and spun dizzy in the quiet horror of a supernova, than admit there could ever be a time.

Catching a swollen cord of muscle along his back, you pushed down with the heel of your palm and something big shot out to grip at the side of your thigh, its touch unrelenting and so sudden that a gasp was caught in the back of your throat. It was his hand. It was just his hand. So why the fuck could it cover half your leg and then some? Why the fuck was he pressing enough to probably leave bruises?

His hand retracted as quickly as it came, accompanied only with a low noise you could’ve sworn was a whimper. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were disappointed, only returning your attention to the task at hand. Maybe you should treat this as a mission. Keep yourself sane and from doing something irredeemably stupid. Great, yeah. Mission to get the knots out of Mando’s back so he would stop being a prick. An awesome game plan, really. Infallible.

Squeezing slightly at the flesh between his shoulder blades, you let your fingernails scrape against the bare skin of his neck until the fabric of his collar gaped. The smallest hint of curls peeked through the underside of the helmet. Brown. Huh. You thought they’d be darker.

Every drag of your knuckles brought a sound, whether it was a huff of air or a downright moan, but you tried not to think about it. You just blocked everything out, warbling your senses until you felt submerged in imagined water and not-imagined skin and words better left unsaid. You mapped every curve of stiff muscle, down the deep slope of his back and over fabric that wasn’t thick enough to conceal the ridges, the landscapes and jagged reminders of enemy encounters. You found yourself liking them, though. The scars.

You’d pushed the shirt up eventually, whispering “is this okay?”  before the Mandalorian nodded quickly, dark cloth gathering around his shoulders and bunching up where it lay against his neck. His skin was hot now, burning and lighting fuses on every frayed nerve on the tips of your fingers until you swore you’d grown numb, drunk on contact and the twilight fog of shared lifetimes. It really had been lifetimes. Since you’d met him. Since you’d touched someone like him. Like this.

You were too caught up in it, lost in your own thoughts and so focused on trying not to cross a line or hurt him that you didn’t notice he’d turned onto his back, his hands coming up rest at the swell of your hips.

He pushed up onto his elbows until your forehead fell against the helmet, the beskar against your skin like ice on a desert morning. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands coming to brace themselves on his covered chest. Everything was slow, like syrup was poured into your head and down your throat until it settled into something biting at the base of your spine, a crawling smoke of ungloved fingers and parted lips. He lifted the hem of your shirt and the edge of his helmet dipped to the curve of your neck. The words were shaky through his modulator, hoarse and dulcet. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, reaching to grip at his biceps. “Yeah that’s okay.”

——-——-

part two

[seasonsofeverlark]

Adventus Everlark

Author: @mandelion82

Prompt: Special request: Everlark celebrates Advent by focusing weekly on hope, peace, joy, and love. [submitted by @hutchhitched​]

Rating:  T (for suggestiveness and a trigger) 

Trigger Warning:  Mention of physical abuse.  

Author’s Note:  This story will have both religious (Catholic/Christian) and secular elements. This is part 1 of a 4-part ficlet series. To be continued on A03 at a later date. Thank you. I hope you enjoy!  

______________

If Katniss knew anything about her boyfriend, Peeta Mellark, she knew he loved this time of year‒the Christmas season.  He loved everything about it; he was practically giddy as a child over it, and he’d been eager to share his traditions with her for some time.  Truth be told, Katniss didn’t always understand or share Peeta’s excitement for this time of year, but she loved to see it, and she loved him for it. 

Having grown up in a Catholic household, Peeta celebrated Christmas in the traditional Catholic way‒with Mass, prayers, and the lighting of Advent candles.  Of course, there was always a Christmas tree, presents, a big dinner, and tons of baking‒Peeta was a baker, and came from a long line of bakers, so there had to be.  

The Everdeens, by contrast, weren’t expressly religious; although, they were open to the possibility of a greater power in the universe, and they would partake in the typical holiday activities around this time of year.  Katniss had gone along with those activities for years, even tried to replicate them for her beloved sister, Prim, after their father died and their mother suffered from a crushing depression, but she’d never gotten the joy out of it that Prim did.  

Or Peeta.  

Peeta was a lot like Prim.  Maybe that was part of the reason why she loved him so much.  The two were kindhearted as they came and fresh as raindrops, both giving, loving, and selfless individuals.  Too good for Katniss, in her opinion.  They even looked alike, with their light skin, pale blond hair, and blue eyes.  Honestly, Prim looked more like Peeta’s sibling than her own‒she with her olive skin tone and gray eyes.  

Another thing Prim and Peeta had in common was their faith.  Despite growing up in a secular home, Prim held strong beliefs, similar to Peeta’s.  

For Katniss, faith was a challenge.  It required a great deal of trust and devotion, things which she’d always struggled to give.  At least, that’s how she felt about it.  But Peeta said otherwise. Peeta always said he saw Katniss for who she truly was, even if she didn’t see it herself.  He said he saw a loving and compassionate woman, dedicated to caring for and providing for her entire family.  

She’d argued that it was because they were family.  It didn’t make her compassionate; it was just the way it was supposed to be.  Directly after, she’d felt awful for her statement.  Families were definitely not created equal when it came to love and affection, and Peeta was proof positive of this. 

When Peeta first told Katniss about some of his childhood experiences, particularly his mother’s physical abuse, she was furious.  She couldn’t understand how he could have anything to do with his family, let alone uphold their traditions as he did, and she wanted nothing to do with them, either.  

Katniss had put off meeting Peeta’s family for that very reason.  Quite frankly, she wasn’t sure how she’d stand being in the same room as his mother.  If she even looked at him wrong, Katniss was certain she’d go off the deep end.  

But Peeta assured her that his family wasn’t all bad, nor had his home life been.  In fact, he’d mentioned a lot of good memories with his brothers and his father.  And regarding their holiday traditions, those were the ones he held closest to his heart.  

Peeta was so good, almost too good. 

If anyone could be a religious prophet come to earth, it would be Peeta.  But maybe she put him on a pedestal because she loved him so much.

No, Peeta was not perfect, and sure, he did things to annoy her, like the time he jokingly called her pure.  She’d gotten huffy about it and refused to talk to him for about two days.  In hindsight, her reaction was a bit extreme, but they’d made up, and then some.

Besides, if anyone was pure, it was Peeta.  

Not that he was a saint; there were certainly things he…bent the rules on, such as them sleeping in the same bed before marriage.  She was glad for that one, because she hated not sleeping in his arms. 

And Peeta felt the same.  

One time, after a particularly nasty fight with his mother over what she suspected to be an ‘improper arrangement’ between them, Peeta had told Katniss, “I don’t care if she thinks it’s a sin.  Now that I’ve slept with you in my arms, it’s impossible not to.  I’m not going back.”

“Sometimes you do,” she’d said cheekily.  Considering they weren’t ‘officially’ living together, she did occasionally sleep at her place.  

“I know, but those times are unbearable,” he’d responded, leaning in for a soft peck.  “If I had to do it all the time,” he whispered against her lips, “what kind of life would that be?”

Katniss concurred.  

Of course, the whole sleeping together thing had started innocently, when they were still just best friends.  It all began with Katniss’s nightmares…  

One night, after an especially bad one, she’d called Peeta, who lived in the same building, hoping he’d talk her to sleep.  On a whim, she’d asked him to come over, and she’d asked him to stay.  He did. 

After that, they shared a bed frequently, and it was all very innocent.  But the more they slept together, the harder it became to fight temptation, especially after revealing their true feelings for one another. 

It was sort of a mutual confession, but Peeta had been hinting at how he felt for a long time.  Then one night, in bed, he’d asked her directly, “You love me.  Real or not real?”  This was a little game they played.  

Without hesitation, she’d answered, “Real.”   

This would be Katniss and Peeta’s first Christmas as an honest-to-goodness committed couple, and they were both thrilled.  Peeta usually went to his family’s for Christmas, but this year, he’d said that he wanted to spend it with just her.  

And they’d decided to celebrate Advent together by focusing on hope, peace, joy, and love.     

Week 1:  Hope 

On the first Sunday of Advent, which fell this year on November 29th, Peeta taught Katniss about the lighting of the Advent candles, and they lit the first candle on the wreath, one of the purple ones.  Peeta explained that it was called The Prophecy Candle and symbolized hope and God’s forgiveness of man’s sins.  They proceeded to light it every night, together, and Katniss even prayed with Peeta, or at least remained by his side, holding his hand.  

Her favorite activity during the Hope week so far was when they spent an entire evening wrapped up in each other on the couch under the blankets, eating junk food and talking about their hopes for the future, their own wishes and those for their loved ones and all humankind. 

At first, Katniss had been fearful about speaking some of her own because she didn’t like to think too far ahead.  To think ahead was to ultimately be disappointed, in her mind.  She was so afraid that if she spoke aloud what she hoped for, as with one of those elusive birthday wishes parents talked about, it would never happen, or be taken away.    

But Peeta reassured her.  

Something else Peeta had been doing for Advent, which he hadn’t expected her to do was fasting.  It wasn’t a complete fast; he was still eating, but he wasn’t eating between meals or having meat on Fridays or any sweets.  

First, we fast; then we feast, was what Peeta had told her, referring to the period of penance and preparation leading up to the Christmas celebration.  

Peeta was being really good about it, so good that she worried he might waste away to nothing at this rate. And she liked a little bulk on his body.  Healthy and strong like an ox, that’s the way she liked him. 

Of course, she wasn’t making things easy on him.  

Katniss imagined it must be difficult for him to bake up all kinds of treats for her this time of year and not eat any himself, so she’d offered to fast with him.  But Peeta refused, saying he enjoyed the act of baking, which she knew, and that he enjoyed serving her.  She also knew that.  And naturally, he had to bring up her cheese bun and Christmas cookie addictions.  

He was right, though.  

What could she do but thank him and kiss him, then prop her head between her hands and watch him bake? 

As creepy as it might sound, she loved watching him.  She enjoyed seeing the muscles of his forearms twitch and pulse when he whipped a mixture.  And she enjoyed watching his long, pale golden eyelashes flutter in concentration when she got close while he read over one of his recipes (also when he sketched or painted).  

Presently, Katniss was seated on the edge of the counter watching Peeta boil fudge in a saucepan.  God, she loved fudge.

Peeta was multitasking today, so he also had a batch of cookie dough laying in wait in a mixing bowl.  When he looked over and smiled at her, she smiled sweetly back.  And then, partly to freak him out and partly because she wanted it, she scooped a bit of dough onto the mixing spoon and brought it to her lips.

“Katniss!”  He tramped over and smacked her hand lightly like a child’s.  

“Hey, watch it,” she said, grinning.  She’d been asking for it, though.  She knew Peeta hated when she licked the raw cookie dough batter.  Something about salmonella.  Although, she’d done it as a kid and never got violently ill from it.  

“But this was one of my traditions.”  She cocked her head and licked the very tip of the spoon in a seductive manner, hoping it’d get to him.  

It didn’t.  

Peeta simply sighed.  “Fine, go on and eat it if you want to end up in the hospital.”

Poking her lip out at him, she put the spoon down in its bowl.  He smirked over at her, then returned to the oven to check on the fudge.  After a few seconds he turned back, spoon in hand.  “By the way, trying to entice me while I’m baking isn’t going to work.” 

“No?”  She was honestly surprised.  

“Nope.  You should know that when I bake, I go into a zone.  And as you’ve seen, I have some self-restraint.”  He smirked impishly.  “But nice try.” 

Katniss pressed her lips together.  

“Don’t get me wrong, though.  I’m gonna carry the image of you licking the spoon with me the rest of the day, minus the unsafe cookie dough, and later…I might have big plans for you.”  He winked at her. 

“You mean big, big, big, big plans?”  Katniss imitated Miss Trinket, their ‘eccentric’ (to put it mildly) neighbor with the wild, colorful wigs and affected accent.  

“Yes, very big plans.”  

“Can’t wait.”  She bit down on her lip and reached for the spoon again as if her hand was magnetized.  

“For all that is holy, please stop eating raw cookie dough!” Peeta exclaimed.   

“Okay, okay.”  Katniss dropped the spoon back in, the corner of her lip twitching.  “But you might need to give me something else to snack on.”

“Will do, sweetheart.” 

With that, he walked over purposefully, placed his hands on either side of her face, and captured her lips.  Sofly, but insistently his mouth moved across hers, sending a pulsing sensation straight down.   

“How’s that?” he asked as they broke apart.  

“Hmm…you think a lot of yourself, Mellark.” 

He raised a brow then kissed her again, longer and slower.  

“Better,” she said, slightly breathless.  He began feathering hot, wet kisses down her throat, and Katniss sighed.  

With a low growl, Peeta gripped her hips, causing her to let out a small squeal.  He tugged her closer to the edge of the counter, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her pelvis into his.  She could feel his excitement growing, and just when she was sure he was about to carry her off and take her upstairs, he disentangled himself.   

“That’s self-restraint,” said Peeta smugly.  

Katniss felt like whipping a ball of deadly cookie dough at his head like a snowball.  “Tease.”  She groaned, shoving his chest.  “Sadist.” 

“No, masochist, sweetheart.  Trust me, this is a lot harder for me than it is for you.”  Katniss chuckled, and he pecked her cheek.  

Just then, Katniss’s phone began to ring.  She fished it out and took a look.  “Oh, that’s Prim calling.”  She hopped off the counter and prepared to tap the green button.  “Hey, Peeta, what do you think about inviting Prim over for Christmas Eve?” 

“Sounds great.” 

“Okay, I’ll tell her.”