#and again its a wip its a draft of a draft and all that

[liquidstar]

april fools is over so now im going to be slash srs instead of slash j. im going to post a little excerpt from one of the oc writing practices ive been doing :) again im not super experienced for a variety of reasons but im doing my best here.

but im going to try and put my self conciousness to the side (thats probably an important part of the practice too, right?) since this isnt final version either way, i can just say im sharing a WIP! so for now it will go the way of most of my other oc stuff..... under the cut

the only context you need is that this would be the opening scene for the story. if i post others i'll have to give more context bc most of them are taken from the middle of something. anyway here goes:

-----

“I love you

I've loved you since the beginning

From when you were only stardust

To when you will rejoin the stars

When everyone will be together again

Understand, you don’t simply live in the universe

You are part of it, taking on a form uniquely alive

You are the universe giving love back to itself

I love you so much”

“Wait!!!”

A lone girl jolts awake, crying a plea into the empty air. Tears stream down her cheeks, as she calls for someone she doesn't know. Her heart aches with a nameless yearning that fades with the memory of her dream. Still, against her will, the emotions linger. A profound sense of love consumes her, an agonizing, grieving love, meant for her. She sighs and wipes away her tears. It was an absurd dream, a ridiculous notion.

As her conscious mind clears, she takes in her surroundings; a forest drowned in the pale blue light of dawn. Her sleeping bag, now encased in dew, was laid on the cold grass. She sits for a while, gazing at the faint sliver of the rising sun’s glow with an indistinct expression, and eventually stands up.

The lone girl begins her daily routine by braiding her hair. With a wave of her hand, she freezes dew on a rock, creating herself a mirror. Her fingers carefully weave her brown locks into a braid, now adorned with a snowflake clip and a scarlet ribbon. She throws on a long blue half-skirt over her shorts, matching her shirt. She forces on a pair of black boots and cuffs on her arm. Lastly, she grabs a moon-themed spear, and she's ready for the day.

Before setting off, she made sure to pack all her belongings, including her numerous hand-drawn maps and a compass. However, she also stops to look into the bag deeper, foolishly expecting to find something new. Instead, she only sighs, "Still no food."

She puts on the backpack and trudges forward anyway, ignoring the hunger pains as best she can. She hums to keep herself distracted.

As she walks, the trees tower above her, shrouding the horizon and taunting her. Birds occasionally fly into view, but seem to disappear in an instant. She wonders if her eyes are playing tricks on her.

The lone girl scribbles on her maps, trying to record a labyrinth of identical tree trunks and twisted paths. This proves useless, as this elliptical forest has her going in circles. Exasperated, she fidgets with her compass, only to see the needle is frantically twitching around. She presses it gently to her forehead and quietly complains, “Don't tell me you're broken…”

Her train of thought was cut short by the sudden sound of running water, so loud she can’t fathom how she’s only now begun to hear it. She decided to put off one problem for another. Following the sound through some shrubs, she quickly finds the source.

Her spear at the ready, she approaches the stream. Scanning its depths for signs of fish, she walks cautiously. Her posture was awkward, her expression was uncertain, betraying her lack of experience. She held her spear to her chest with both arms as she encroached the water’s edge.

She inhales in preparation, removes her skirt and boots, and enters the water with slow, careful steps. The very surface of the stream begins to freeze as it makes contact with her skin. Tiny, thin crystals of ice form as she steps further in. Breathing deeper, as she tries to control the frost, she makes her way to the center of the stream. She stands waiting for fish.

Rather than throwing her spear to hunt, like the intended purpose, she stabs at the water. She’s not good at this, however, and only ends up scaring other potential prey away. She makes several attempts at this but is unsuccessful each time. Refusing to quit, her repeated strikes become more desperate and uncoordinated with each failure. Her growing frustration only makes the water freeze deeper, eventually solidifying around her legs. She yelps, now in a panic, and begins to frantically stab at the ice to free herself.

A mess.

Escaping this ordeal, the lone girl abandons any further attempt at fishing. It probably isn't her calling anyway. She trudges on, lost, wet, cold, and hungry.

She looks at her compass again, her face reflecting in its glass. “You're broken,” she tiredly states, as she feels her eyes begin to well with tears.

“No! No no no! Don't cry! Don't cry Polaris,” The lone girl, Polaris, reassures herself, “Last time you cried you froze your eyelids shut, and that really hurt,” She whines aloud.

Polaris takes a deep breath, slaps her cheeks, and swallows her tears. She elects to follow the river, her only hope of escape, pursuing the promise of a village just beyond this enigmatic forest. She daydreams of a warm meal in a cozy restaurant, and maybe a cold desert too. A glimmer of determination returns to her stride, as she continues her hum from before.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

hey look at them for me ? thanks.

[leedoobles]

Where could fire and kindling go wrong? ☁️🌊🌟💛💜❤️

[styxxsyringe]

freaks!

[cicada-circuitry]

holy crap I am *so* interested in your WIPs for FAM! I will restrain myself from asking about all of them and instead ask about #6 "second only to the moon." (though prepare yourself for more asks from me haha).

Omg an ask from one of the cool kids my day has been MADE

#6 second only to the moon was actually the very first thing I ever jotted down while watching the show!! its molly/margo but mostly just molly - vehicle for having too many feelings re: the solar storm in 2x01

its pretty connected to what eventually turned into woman on a ledge - could have even been a little epilogue/A Few Years Later type deal, but since I only had the vaguest idea what else was coming in the show when i wrote it, it doesn't quite fit there structurally or anywhere without reworking.

snippet under the cut!

"It's too hard to say if I’d trade it.” She studied the blur of the edges of her hand in front of the light on the only ceiling as familiar as her own. “Right now, the easy answer would be yeah, of course. If nobody else’s life was on the line, and I might still be standing on that big gray rock…” 

She dropped her hand down into the sheets, fishing till she found someone else's fingers hiding under the pillow. “But there’s no guarantee I would be. I mean, who else my age hasn’t aged out or died a few miles short of the one thing they wanted?” 

“But you coulda had more time.” 

“Oh sure.” Molly agreed, tugging that hand up to her lips, kissing the backs of the knuckles, slow. “And don’t get me wrong. This bed right here, this view? Second only to the moon.” 

“I can’t even be insulted. That still ranks me above outer space.” 

“Ooh. You ask the real questions. If the moon is in space, was I counting it as all part of— hey!” 

She laughed as fingers found her ribs, curling in, meeting those wide, clear, glasses-off eyes. She ran her fingers through Margo’s hair, not quite long enough to stay behind the ear where she put it. 

“I just meant… I got to see it, Margo. The way the dust shivered and danced… the sun gives us one hell of a deadly kiss up there, but I saw it. No one else did. No one bunkered down in the basement, not poor Wubbo, unlucky bastard, passed out in the middle of the greatest show of 'em all.” 

She stroked Margo’s lip with a thumb. “I’m glad I got to come back and have this. See this. But some part of me knows, if that dust storm had been the last thing I ever saw… might have still been worth it.”

[carwoodron]

finished the first chapter of my fic and it's down to 8k from the 16k original draft!!!!! everybody clap

[gomennasorryyy]

I need to get back to this blog, I miss reading my silly little y/n fics

[almond-tofuuu]

Hi I see you're opening request, so I'm here to ask for one. Thank you so much!

Plot: Zayne anger and his punishment when he find out you lied to him and get yourself in dangerous.

anon are you a mind reader?! 👀 bc I've had a draft of this sat in my wip folder for ages!!!

Hope you enjoy!! ��

Sorry isn't enough...

Zayne x reader

Warnings: angst, lots of angst, no comfort, Zayne is mad (and possibly ooc)

Might do a part 2 (with a happy ending as an apology for this)

Zayne doesn't yell. In fact, in all the time you'd known him you couldn't remember ever seeing him lose his temper. Sure he got annoyed with you sometimes, mainly when you ignored his advice or turned up at the hospital with yet another injury, but it never boiled over into anger. He'd scold you like a child, giving the occasional icy glare, but nothing more. So when you limped into his office today, an hour late for your appointment and caked in dirt and dried blood, you were prepared to receive another lecture about safety from your primary care physician.

The minute you opened the door and took the first unsteady step into his office, you knew something was off. The air held an icy chill, causing a shiver to run down your spine, the tension increasing with every step. You could feel the pressure of Zayne's eyes on you as you approached his desk, piercing green gaze scrutinising every aspect of your appearance, taking note of every scrape and bruise, every smudge of blood that stained your skin and clothes.

"You're late." Emotionless and cold, his voice shattered the uncomfortable silence that had been present since you entered his office. Swallowing thickly, you finally meet his eyes, and immediately regret it. His expression is hard, brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes which usually hold a tenderness whenever he looks at you are dark, and swirling with a storm of fury. Zayne is pissed.

Opening your mouth, the apology on the tip of your tongue quickly dies at the sound of Zayne's exasperated sigh. "If you're planning on apologising I'd suggest you save your breath. I have neither the time nor the patience to listen to whatever feeble excuses you plan on giving." His harsh tone hits you like an avalanche, burying you in the disappointment that is practically radiating from him. "I've warned you time and time again to be careful, to prioritise your safety and yet you seem determined not to listen. I've lost count of how many times you've limped into my office. You refuse to listen to my advice yet you come to me whenever your recklessness results in another injury. Tell me, do you insist on continuing this foolish behaviour until it undoubtedly causes your death?!"

A lump forms in your throat, eyes fixed on the floor as you desperately try to hold back the tears threatening to fall. Every cruel word Zayne seethes is another knife to your heart, cutting deep and carving themselves into your flesh. And despite your best efforts, you can't stop the choked sob that escapes your lips. Because it hurts. Seeing the man who has always treated you so gently fuming with rage, steely glare freezing you where you stand, forcing you to endure the brunt of his anger. His words melt together, flooding your mind and making your ears ring as they echo on repeat inside your head. You're so overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his disappointment that you don't even realise you're crying until a cold hand touches your cheek, thumb wiping away a single tear. His breath fans your face as he exhales a tired sigh, "come here, let me see your wounds" his voice is softer now, having lost its previous venom but his outburst has left a sour taste in your mouth. You pull away from his touch, shaking your head slightly as you wipe away the tears that stain your cheeks.

"I can take care of it myself...I wouldn't want to inconvenience you any further." You utter, keeping your voice steady and void of emotion. "Don't worry, you won't have to deal with my reckless behaviour anymore. Goodbye, Dr Zayne." Turning away from him you quickly make your way out of his office, ignoring the calls of your name, determined not to let him see you fall apart completely. With each step you can feel your heart breaking more, bleeding out and flooding your chest with every crushing word Zayne spat at you. You're not sure where you're heading, vision blurring with tears, you just know that the last place you want to be is with Zayne.

[rednightmare18]

Throwback to when I accidentally wrote the Suchdol Smooch TM two whole wretched years before KCD2 released...

(No real spoilers under the cut and no warnings necessary. This is KCD1-era fic drafted a long time ago and rotting in my WIP folder. Still, thought you Hansry fanatics might enjoy it now, so am letting it see the light of day. Maybe the rest of the fic will see the light of day too, but it is not this day!)

Hans lunges up and slams the door shut again—hard—ripping the ring handle out of Henry’s fingers, stopping him. He leaves the heel of his palm stamped on the heavy wood and his long arm is locked like a lance.

He looks sternly at him, bright-eyed and unhappy, impossible to lie to.

He says, “Are you still my man?”

Henry knows his answer—what it is and what it should be. He wishes often he had more to offer the world than who he is and what he loves.

But he doesn’t. Henry scrapes all his little parts and his chicken guts and his dreams of every color together and hammers them into something like a smile.

“Still your blacksmith, at least,” he says.

Hans kisses him. Just so and Henry forgets he’s not supposed to. He forgets everything. The only thing he knows is Hans’s fingernails fishhooked under his jaw until he is snagged and he’ll never get out. The kiss tastes like a sore throat, sticky with pink wine and some kind of sweet bread; it reminds him of coming inside from the snow.

They are apart. Hans tears in a ragged breath, eyes wet with hunger for air; Henry kisses him again. He seeks out the shape of Hans’s teeth, the sharp ones in the front and the one that’s twisted at a funny angle in the back, as Hans’s fingers dig uncomfortably deep into the fleshy tenderness below his ears. And he can’t tell if it’s that damned perfume or the eye medicine or something else, but Henry thinks of flowers now. He thinks of a rose he accidentally stepped on in the High Castle garden, of a warm night when they were crouched together inside a snarled bush row, hiding from Father Milosh, who had come to pray over the poppies. The sweet smell of its dying was undercut by Hans’s thin sweat after a long day chasing roebucks in the summer sun, and it smelled like all the happiness Henry had left in the world.

For a few fraught seconds, they are each other’s. Until a bell clangs outside, shuddering down the cliff and over the millhouse, and Henry all of a sudden remembers the other things, too. His fists sink into the back of the fine brocade and he pulls Hans away, unsealing them with a loud and embarrassing noise.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he stammers. Hans looks blindsided by the loss.

“No, no. Don’t.” He paws for Henry’s arms, throat tight, frantic to think of a way to convince him not to leave. “Don’t say anything. Come back.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Hans insists, chasing the thread unravelling between them. He pulls Henry closer and replaces his hands and tries to kiss him again, but each time, Henry seems to melt away. “It’s all right. Come here. Like you were. Come back, please.”

“It’s not. You’re wild now, that’s why, but it won’t be all right. You don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, fuck you, then. Fucking go on and—I don’t know. Break your own damned head open. Never speak to me again, I don’t care. I’ll hate you if you talk to me like that.”

“Hanush told me—”

“I don’t care, I DON’T care, I don’t fucking care.”

Hans doesn’t explain what he doesn’t care about or what he does. And Henry supposes that, after it all—after God or Sigismund or Holy Whomever put fire to the whole storybook of his life and broke him—he cannot do anything else but let himself be broken.

He grabs for his beloved—who is still, no matter the way they are told things must be, his beloved, at least so long as he loves him. He crashes upon Hans as if he has caught a jagged rock in a very cold and brackish sea, and he cannot let slip, not if he wants to live.

And perhaps Henry has never really had a say in whether he lives or dies. He still does not understand how swiftly everything in a good life can spoil; or how happiness tends to tumble over a ledge and smash before you even know to call it happiness; or how it is possible to be as completely battered as he has been, body and soul, and survive. Hans holds him so tight he can't feel anything else, even though his eye’s still black and his leg’s still twisted and his heart is still hurt by how long no one’s loved it.

And Henry really oughtn’t let him. But no one has held him in so long, he can’t help it. He hides his face in Hans’s shoulder and guiltily lets himself be comforted and hopes he doesn’t cry.

And he thinks that perhaps Radzig is right about the world, in his own stifled way. Perhaps they—and Hans, and Sir Peter, and everyone—are nothing more than carven dice meant to be shaken and tossed out by God, to see who will land and who won’t. Perhaps the Lord did not really set Hans Capon upon Henry to kick his soul back to life and save it. Maybe God’s design is chaos. Maybe none of it means a thing.

But if that’s so—if divinity is just joy and disaster scattered wildly about—then no one is righter about life than Hans is. No one knows better that fortune is just courage, unshackled by whatever future some God or uncle wants for you. No one knows better that sometimes, you just have to do something bold.

And there is no one left in God’s creation Henry loves more.

[creaman]

Hi there! I apologize for taking up your time, I am just so curious: When you tackle a comic, what does the process behind it look like?

Asking because I found myself scrolling through your blog once again and couldn't help but marvel at all the beautiful effects you use, at how flawlessly the structure guides the viewer's eye across each page, how the graphic weight seems to always be in just the right places…, and wonder how you learned doing this. Everything you put out looks incredibly professional and I aspire to reach your level of skill 😌❤️

Thank you Finz!! You're no bother at all, I'm an open book. This is such high praise for a guy that really doesn't have a set process, I feel like a hack. Ha. Rest assured my style is still developing. Besides the referencing of the linework and composition of official comic books, (practicing by redrawing panels for fun), explaining the process makes me feel like a serial killer but I will do my best.

(WIP Riddler panel, scrapped Scarecrow composition)

My comics usually stem from a single panel or concept — I like to focus on/emphasise particular panels of my pages, the heavy hitters, the main piece that catches your eye. I know I'm not a profoundly technically proficient artist so I prefer visually interesting elements and formatting, i.e. drawing characters outside their frames, negative space, notation, perspectives etc.

(Kung Fu Panda 4 sketch god I hate Kung Fu Panda 4)

I like to establish 'main focus' panels, the bits of the comic that really, well. make people want to chew on it. This is where the technical effort is concentrated, really, and the rest of the comic is generally build around these concepts.

('Restaurant Balthazar' focus panels)

Textures and effects are done on individual panels first, then the entire page as a whole to even out the unity. Generally, blocking in shadows, hatching for visual interest + middle tones, then textures/half-tones, then highlights.

(Script excerpt WIP)

I'm not a writer per se, but having a vague 'script' in your pages helps with pacing and direction. Comics are a versatile story-telling medium. I only really do scripts for comics longer than 2 pages. An optional but recommended strat is to send your script to a friend for a second opinion.

(Script excerpt — 'Restaurant Balthazar', annotated by @vincepti0n I don't know why he drew a face in the middle)

With the script crudely slapped together, I rough out the thumbnails and composition with the text, prioritising coherence and clean integration of previously mentioned 'main focus' panels.

Settling on a composition sucks the hardest. Drawing is fun, thinking makes brain hurty. Variety is good! Close-ups, wide shots, visual metaphors. Every panel is its own artwork.

The text bubbles are usually added in post, yes, but I'm just one guy and I don't have a writer to call me a good boy for doing things correctly. Bite me.

(Early 'Restaurant Balthazar' drafts)

In addition, keeping the text graphics in mind help create a sounder composition wherein even if the panels don't read cleanly left to right + top to bottom, the text can stagger and create the same reading order effect.

Panels and concepts are constantly tweaked, and my comic process is still highly experimental. A lot of industry standard comics aren't illustrated to their full potential due to deadlines and such — I strive for visual epiphany by treating each panel as its own artwork, and every page as a a bit of a mural.

(Old art hurts the soul)

Constantly experimenting allows you the insight of looking at your current art in comparison to your older works. In more recent works, I've been blocking in more shadows wiht lineart with thinner lines and more line weight, and learned to integrate the subject characters with less plain, abstract backgrounds.

TLDR: I have no idea

[jollyhunter]

. ☆.´☽¸.Tell me about the Stars.¸☽´.☆ .

⋆ ˚｡⋆ Heavy Angst Warning!

[Season5] Dean x ForeignHunter!Reader

Re: The WIP Folder Game - Thank you @bettystonewell and @the-potato-is-lonely for asking me about this one shot (? Maybe I’ll continue this, let me know if you’d be interested <3) I decided to post a bigger snippet / extract of it since it’s been sitting in my drafts for some days now and you just motivated me to write on it some more! 💙

“So, Dean, how’s your mornin’ been so far?” You try to make small talk. The thought of falling asleep to some stranger blabbing about their ordinary life without ever seeing them – yeah, that sounds like a good thing to clock out to.

Much better than the screams of the woman that’s still ringing in your ears. Or the snarling that had clawed at the back of your throat while the sound of shattering bones had filled your mouth.

“It’s in the middle of the night.” He states, his tone confused. “Tell me again, how the hell did my number end up in your contacts?” His voice sounds gravely and thick with exasperation.

You huff. As if you knew? It was just… there. No name, no notes, no nothing. Just a blank number. Last time you’d saved a number must’ve been years ago, way before you-

You stop that thought right there.

“I told you, I don’t know.” You repeat, your energy draining with each word, “I just wanted to know who’s behind the number. Have a little chat. That’s all.”

You spilled a half truth.

“Look, it’s late here and I really don’t know why I’m talking to you but what do you want exactly?” He sounds exhausted. Almost as much as you. And it makes you wonder what life must have thrown at this man to make him sound like he was two breaths away from a breakdown.

Little did you know that Dean was way past the two breaths.

You couldn’t see how his free hand’s rubbing his stinging, red eyes. Couldn’t know the reason for his raspy sound was a voice hoarse from desperate begging into the nightsky. For someone, anyone for help.

“Can you see the stars from where you are?” You suddenly ask in a strained whisper. And your question must have taken him off guard because his side falls awfully silent at that.

Your eyes travel down your limp legs until you witness the first light of the day kiss the forest floor, just out of your reach.

You sigh, shakily. The back of your head thuds against the side of your van in resignation. Head tilted slightly, you lift your gaze to meet the soft painting in the sky. Pink colors frame the endless rows of mountain peaks. A pair of birds sing above you, welcoming the sun to the horizon. So peaceful.

The corner of your lips melt into a smile at the sight. A weary one, at best, but it did manage to redirect the red streak dripping down your cheeks.

There’s a long pause on the other side of the line and for a moment you fear he might have hung up.

But then he responds in a low, husky voice, “Yeah, I see ‘em.”

You hum, eyes briefly fluttering close. Thank God, he's still there.

After a moment of sinking into the silence that's between you, he adds in a softer voice now, “What ‘bout you, what can you see?”

“The sun’s rising here,” you murmur, your voice sounding heavy, but he can pick up on the hint of a smile to it. Albeit a sad one. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

It was true. But you also wished you could have seen the night sky one last time. Watch the stars twinkle and bath in the moon light. Instead your eyes linger on the tree tops, filled with bitter envy. How the God rays caress the leaves with a gentleness you could only dream of. And its shadows dance across your sprawled out form while the fresh morning breeze weaves through your blood soaked tangled hair.

You shudder. The sound of your lungs grow heavier as every raise of your chest fills the distance between you.

The realization has your trembling fingers curl around the phone like it’s your only lifeline.

Dean must have noticed how your breath comes out a little too ragged and a little too weak for someone just calling a random stranger for a chipper small talk.

“Hey uh, you all right? You sound like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“‘M fine.” Your lips press together, swallowing back a hiss at natures cold touch against your exposed skin. The smell of earth and pine trees flood your senses.

Thankfully the sharp inhale through your nose instantly dampens the taste of metal in your mouth.

“Tell me about the stars.” You prompt softly.

𓃦 A/N: I started writing this after I rewatched the "My Bloody Valentine" episode with Dean's breakdown in the end. 🥺 [The entire setting is inspired by an original story of mine, about a female solo-hunter in Scandinavia who lives off the grid with her dogs. 🤭] Dean Tags:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3

[thedilfdiaries]

wip thursday

tysm for all the tags last week and this week from @myownwholewildworld @sunshinehaze1 @letsgobarbs @kedsandtubesocks @sawymredfox @probablyreadinsmut @evolnoomym @aurorawritestoescape @pedges-world <3

I have too much going on in my docs this isn't even half of it but this is the current stuff I want to finish/ I have finished/ I want to post - acacius angst for @almostfoxglove angst challenge I hope to post this week so today or tomorrow

- groundhog Day AU where Dave York keeps waking up to the same morning trapped in an endless loop of trying (and failing) to seduce his neighbor.

- clint rents porn and then fucks his video store employee to it

- pirate joel x siren reader

- delivery driver Joel x reader

- coffee hoe joel (qz!joel trades his body for coffee) (this has been in my drafts since like april lmaoo maybe for its one year ill post it)

- a late valentines day fic

-dbf! catches you masturbating (ik again.... like will i ever finish it)

Sorry if youve been tagged npt: @milla-frenchy @thundermartini @itwasntimethatdidit40 @tateypots @arcanefox207

@cxrsed-angel @yxtkiwiyxt @slimybeth69 @almostempty @gothcsz

@savedyounine @syd-djarin @jazzy96scorpio

[skibasyndrome]

may never make it out challenge

Thank you so much @saynomorefic for creating this very fun game and for the initial tag 💜💜💜 Equally big thanks to @goldenwilmon and @toffeelemon for tagging me as well 💜💜💜

Post a 1-5 paragraph excerpt of a WIP / fic idea that may never make it out of your drafts but is near and dear to your heart

I've been dragging this one around for a WHILE (seems like I created the doc in decermber '23 oh my god). And you've likely seen parts of this already. Essentially, the idea is that Simon and Wille never got back together and when Simon starts university in Stockholm Wille reaches out again and, even though Simon would love to think he's over Wille, they start hooking up again. Simon is... angry in this. This is far from 5 paragraphs, but. Uh. If I never get to actually finish it, then at least it's here, lmao. Beware, there's some smut (NSFW) down there.

When he first spots Wilhelm, he immediately regrets his decision. Wishes he'd just ignored the text, maybe even told him to fuck off, all decorum and pretense of being over the past be damned. He shouldn't have agreed to this. The smile he flashes Simon as he starts walking towards him, moving around tables and bags people have placed on the ground in the small coffee shop is every bit as crooked and cheery as Simon remembers it from four years ago and he can't stand it. He shouldn't be able to act like this is okay, like they are okay, like he just gets to burst back into Simon's life like that and smile about it.

But that's the whole problem. Simon let him, let it get to this. “Hey, Simon,” he hears him say as soon as he's standing in front of him. And it really shouldn't affect him that much, the simple utterance of his name shouldn't hold that much power. He twists the napkin he's subconsciously grabbed with one hand, forces a neutral expression. “Hey,” he replies.  If he has to be here at all, he's sure as hell not going to be cooperative in conversation. Wille's smile falters ever so slightly. It really wouldn't be noticeable, but Simon knows that face, knows all its traitorous tells and he seemingly still has all that info filed away neatly. As Wilhelm sits down opposite of him the initial enthusiasm has seemingly left him and he's starting to pick at his nails. Simon knows all the signs and if he were a better person he'd try to reassure him now, make him feel a little less anxious about their encounter. But he fights the urge, tightens the grip on the napkin when his hand threatens to reach out to grab Wilhelm's. He hates himself for wanting to give in so easily. Before any other body part can betray him he decides to speak instead. “So what do you want?”

[...]

[Simon] does wonder, too, in between his moans and gasps that mirror Wilhelm’s sounds, whether Wilhelm does this with other people, whether Wilhelm has ever held anyone so close and made sure their bodies aligned perfectly. Whether Wilhelm has lost himself like this with anyone else, since. There’s a spark of anger at the thought of it, then a crashing wave of pride when he feels Wilhelm start to shake under him. A heady warmth, thick and sticky, when he realizes that it’s him and him alone that made Wilhelm spill into the condom. It’s powerful enough to spur him on, to give him enough fervor to raise and lower his hips once, twice again. He messily fucks into Wilhelm’s fist and finally he’s coming in streaks that lay claim on the man that’s turning boneless underneath him. He doesn’t say any of it out loud, doesn’t repeat his traitorous thoughts about wanting to be the only one to fuck Wilhelm like this. He doesn’t lie about sex with Jacob, but doesn’t feel the need to mention that it’s been weeks since they've done it like this.

[...]

Simon’s gotten into the habit of lying. Says he’ll have to be back in his apartment soon, says he can’t possibly stay overnight, that he needs to get up early for classes tomorrow. Says he can’t on weekends because that’s when Sara comes over. Or that Ayub is planning to visit him. Or that he’ll have to take an extra shift at the café. Wilhelm never questions him. He never really pushes, simply adjusts his schedule somewhat and ends up parking his car down the alley from Simon’s apartment building on a Tuesday evening, Wednesday evening, any evening Simon hasn’t given an excuse for. It’s bitter-sweet. There’s something thrilling about the fact that the Crown Prince will roll up any time of the night just to get his fix of Simon, no matter the ridiculous restrictions Simon gives him. It feels good to be the one calling the shots for once.

[...]

Underneath him, Wilhelm is writhing, moaning, arching his back, doing everything to meet Simon’s thrusts, offering his body in a way Simon is not quite sure how to take in. This openness, the unguarded way he lets go while Simon is pinning him down, the desperate pleas for moremoremore that he’s uttering, tumbling over his lips and glinting in his eyes whenever he stares back up at Simon, it twists something deep inside of Simon’s soul. Wilhelm is letting him in, he’s laying out his soul, opening up his chest for Simon to reach inside. It’s fascinating to watch and it’s scary to think about. Another thrust and Wilhelm is throwing his head back, baring his throat, pale and soft and long and claimed by the violently purple bruise Simon has sucked into the skin of it. And somehow it all wraps up in that sight, this vision. Wilhelm would let Simon tear into him, no questions asked. Would offer himself to him, bleeding.

I'm not sure who has and hasn't done this before, but I'm tagging @saynomorefic (if you want to do another one <3) @impossibleknots, @earlgrey-lateatnight, @the-impala-is-my-home, @shouldntbearevolution, @grapehyasynth, @pagegirlintraining, @wilmonsfolklore, @iwouldnevergetintofanfic @caramelpenguin, @willesworld &&&&&& can we make this about gif-art as well? Probably right? In that case, maybe @sobadbad & @books-books-smolderinglooks have any projects to share? Anyone else who would like to share one of their may-never-make-it-outs, you've been tagged as well💜💜💜 Tag me if you do so I can read it!

[djarins-cyare]

I thought it would be harder to pick and then I saw "Be-All And Endor pegging bonus scene" and anyway here I am. 😍

Ahaha, I hoped someone would ask about this one from my WIP folder! 🧡💚

This is set several months after the main story ends. My plan was – and still is (eventually) – to write some random scenes from Din and Reader’s future in lieu of a sequel.

Several readers commented they would’ve liked to have read the scene in the final chapter where Reader tells Din to go shower and meet her in their cabin to cross off another item on their “things that’ll happen eventually” list, which suggests some type of ass play for Din, based on an earlier comment in chapter 37 where he indicates he’d be interested in trying it.

As usual, the smut slowed me down when I started drafting it. Honestly, I don’t think I know enough about pegging to adequately describe it, so I put it on the back burner until I could do sufficient research.

That said, when I got your ask, I went back and checked how much I had already written, and I realised I actually have a decent-length scene leading up to the smut… it just fades to black (again) when they’re about to start.

So, Kate, since it’s you and you definitely deserve a reward for all your cheerleading of Be-All (for which I’m forever grateful), I’ve decided to give you not just a snippet but the whole of the 1k+ word scene that I’ve got so far. I’m not posting it on AO3 yet – I’ll do that later once I’ve written the second half of it and converted the AO3 version into a series – so for now, please enjoy this Tumblr exclusive bonus content!

⚠️ Please note the following contains heavy spoilers for anyone who hasn’t read the original story!

Be-All And Endor Bonus Chapter (excerpt): The Solace

Rating: Mature (18+) Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader Word count: 1,150 Tags/warnings: References to sex, anal play, pegging (nothing explicit); brief reference to a past attempted SA; the dildo is referred to as a cock; some swearing and explicit language; one (1) Mando’a insult

You find the toy tucked away in the back of your drawer, hidden from prying eyes for weeks. Even though Din knows you acquired it before leaving Glavis, you’d insisted on keeping it a surprise until you could finally try it out.

But things had got in the way.

His painful Darksaber injury, worse than Nantoogen’s concussive blaster bolt on Endor. His discovery of that mythosaur marker in Kolzoc Alley, faded and ominous. His bitter disappointment at reaching the lowest level of the substrata and finding it empty. The thrill of uncovering hastily painted coordinates that revealed his tribe’s new location.

Just like that, your fun and games were on hold.

In the weeks since, everything that’s happened has overwhelmed you both – physically and emotionally – for better and for worse. The covert, the recognition of your union, your shiny new helmet… Din’s exile.

The Armorer’s final words and your defiant retort still ring tragically in your ears almost a day later, as if your helmet has trapped them there:

“You have not yet sworn the Creed; therefore, you are not an apostate. You may stay.”

“But I have sworn riduurok to Din Djarin and the gai bal manda to Grogu; therefore, I am a wife and mother. I am loyal to my clan and could never abandon them for a tribe that exiles one of its own despite his wish to atone. You taught me that loyalty and solidarity are the Way, and I will honour that. So, I thank you for your offer, but nariti lo’shebs’ul.”

You can still feel the sting of tears on your cheeks, still see Din’s dejected body stiffen as you told his alor to shove her offer up her ass. Amid the grief, you sensed a spike of shock – even pride – flicker within him for a fleeting moment.

Now back in hyperspace’s safe and superluminal embrace, you both need the relief of the release you’re about to partake in. But he needs it more.

He still hasn’t really talked. Not properly – not like you know he can. He’s been barely responsive, stiff, twitchy, and every subtle quiver speaks of his deep turmoil. Apostate. It’s an awful label. His inner storm has been yours to share through your connection, but you’ve resisted. You saw his need for solitude on Anantapar, so you’d granted him several hours alone in the cockpit – helmet on.

After several failed check-ins for food and comfort, it was to this suggestion alone that Din had responded. Once you’d assured him that Grogu was asleep in his cubicle, he’d immediately risen from his chair, awaiting instructions. You’d told him to shower and to meet you in the cabin without his helmet, where you’d unveil your purchase from Glavis.

Now, with a determined breath, you face the final hurdle: figuring out how to attach the damn thing.

You’d liked the look of the ‘strapless’ versions, but the vendor had advised that a strap would be best. More stability and a better experience for your husband, she’d insisted. Fewer distractions for you while it’s his turn, she’d winked. Fair point. You’re not sure you could concentrate solely on his pleasure with something nestled inside your pussy, rubbing your G-spot to distraction.

It takes a few minutes of fiddling, but you successfully secure the harness. It’s actually more comfortable than it looks.

You turn back to the drawer and run your fingers along the dildo’s length, marvelling at the silky texture. It cost a kriffing fortune, so it’d better be worth the credits. A snort escapes you at the thought that Nantoogen’s bounty reward paid for this. It’s almost poetic that the man who tried to sexually assault you has now purchased you your very own cock.

Once it’s nestled securely within the harness, you spend several minutes pacing around the cabin, watching it bob along in front of you. Kriff, you’re oscillating between nervous, curious, and aroused. It makes you feel… powerful.

You and Din have an established sexual dynamic, though, and he’s always in control, even when he’s seemingly not. He has also previously rejected the idea of using toys in the bedroom, fully confident that (for you, at least) he can do better with his own dick. But as much as he’s enjoyed taking your fingers in his ass on occasion, he’d eventually agreed that something more substantial would guarantee him a more gratifying time.

Given his general dislike of sex aids, you’d asked the vendor for a realistic dildo to match your skin tone, especially since you know he’s been attracted to men in the past. Hopefully, this will help him feel less like he’s having something plastic shoved up him and more like he’s enjoying someone’s body.

With the trusty Tatooine lube at the ready on the nightstand, you strip off everything but your bra and your new appendage, then perch on the edge of the bed and wait.

You’re so accustomed to every rattle on the Crest by now that even his bare feet can’t hide his ascent up the ladder, and your pulse quickens in readiness. You stand, wanting to present him with the full spectacle upon entry to the cabin.

Din steps through the door as it slides open, but he stops dead the second he catches sight of you. His uncovered gaze plummets straight down to your cock, eyes widening in surprise, brows rising in tandem with a sharp inhale.

He swallows, staring… staring…

You gulp, hoping… hoping…

And then you see it – the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s nothing compared to the wide grin you’re used to seeing on your husband’s face, but you reach out with your mind, trying to decipher that almost-smile. There’s still a heavy soup of grief, but there’s more now, too. Intrigue, anticipation… a hint of excitement. Sexual excitement.

“Do you like it?” you venture, gently steering him toward those positive feelings.

He swallows again and nods, still staring. “It looks… real.” Taking a careful step forward, he comes within touching distance yet still only uses his eyes. “I like how real it looks.”

A rush of relief pulses through you. Those credits were well spent.

With a grin, you comment, “Well, it doesn’t have balls, but I don’t need those to fuck you. My metaphorical ones are big enough.”

Din’s eyes finally rise to meet yours as he steps even closer, the smirk on his lips now more obvious, and you catch another spike of his pride over how you handled your exit from the covert. “I fucking love you,” he declares, pressing a hard, grateful kiss to your lips before pulling back abruptly. “Where do you want me?”

“On your knees, on the bed,” you command, knowing full well that this is an illusion of power he’s giving you. “I wanna see that tight little ass in the air.”

His smirk grows. “Yes, Sir.”

Mando’a translations, in case they aren’t obvious:

riduurok [REE-doo-rok] – marriage agreement

gai bal manda [guy bal MAN-dah] – adoption ceremony (lit. “name and soul”)

nariti lo’shebs’ul [nah-REE-tee loh-SHEBS-ool] – shove it up your ass

Notes:

“Trusty Tatooine lube” is a reference to the scene in the final chapter that I mentioned above – Reader picked some up before they left, which is why she suggested that particular activity as soon as they’d left the planet.

In case anyone’s forgotten, Din tells Reader in chapter 30 (after their shower sex) that whatever sex aids she used before he came along have no place in their relationship, indicating his general dislike of sex toys. I don’t think he’s a prude, but this version of Din has a preconceived notion that he needs to be the best lover he can be without any ‘cheating’. Reader could easily talk him into using toys on her, of course, simply by educating him a little better – just as she’s done regarding other things he’s been somewhat naive about. But here, she decides to respect his prior avoidance and give him an experience that feels as ‘real’ as possible. Perhaps this will help him realise that toys might be fun for her, too!

Reader also refers to having “seen his need for solitude on Anantapar”, which, as a reminder, refers to when he had a teensy bit of an emotional breakdown at the tail end of their honeymoon in chapter 38.

I adapted the lovely insulting Mando’a phrase from a previously existing phrase in Karen Travis’s novel ‘Order 66’ – Kovid lo’shebs’ul narit – which is supposed to mean ‘shove your head up your ass’, but the grammar is a little off. So I put the verb in the correct place and properly conjugated it, then removed the word for ‘head’ (it doesn’t need an object as she’s just said the word “offer”, so it’s clear what she’s talking about).

Holy crap, I’m scared now I’ve put this up. This is the first new Be-All content since July 2023! 😭 Fun timing, though, because I have another two Be-All bonus posts coming out in the next few days as the fic is about to hit a milestone, so stay tuned!

Permanent tag list lovelies:

@bergamote-catsandbooks @chiyo13 @cw80831 @finalgirl-96 @harriedandharassed

@howhighwepose @kirsteng42 @leithatnight @lilac-boo @lucienofthelakes

@pigeonmama @punkygreeny @roughdaysandart @sadisticheskiy @samarys

@syd-djarin @wrathkitty

Please feel free to JOIN MY TAG LIST

➤ MAIN MASTERLIST

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: first draft of my final assignment is done, just need to do a few other things for class and I'm pretty much done.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

As night falls, you feel woozy. You don’t know how much longer you can hold out. The boxed macaroni and cheese only made your stomach hurt and you’re pretty much out of water. Tomorrow you might just have to venture outside and hope he’s not around. Somehow, you don’t think he’s ever gone. He seems to always be watching. 

You can’t focus on your book. The edges of your vision are hazy and your head is pounding. You close it and look for something to watch. You just as quickly forget what you’re doing and shut off the television. You’re too weak to make it to the bed. You're tired, you just want to sleep. 

You look at the window before you lay down, then glance down. The light isn’t there yet. Its absence unsettles you. You wouldn’t exactly prefer it was but it not being there makes you wonder if something else is coming. 

You’re too exhausted to worry about it. You close your eyes as you lay flat on the couch. You exhale and let your body relax. The tension is as tiring as anything else. You’re always wound up tight, always waiting, always watching. You just don’t have anything left in you. 

That familiar drifting sensation takes over you. Your eyelids itch and your muscles grow heavy. You slip into your unconscious little by little until your shrouded in a deep unbreakable darkness. You’re not scared or frustrated or happy or sad. You’re just tired. 

The shatter of glasses splices through your momentary escape. You groan as you eyes snap open and you lay in the dimness of your apartment. What happened? The light was on when you passed out. What was that noise? 

You push yourself up to your elbows and look at the window. There’s not green light but something worse. The window is broken. The jagged glass shines with moonlight as shards litter the floor. You sit up all the way and scramble around, unable to make sense through the darkness and your own sluggish perception. 

You reach for the lamp and try to turn it on. On, off, on, off. You shake your head, trying to free yourself from the clouds, and stagger to your feet. You go to the wall and flip the switch for the overhead light. Nothing. The power must be out. You can’t even hear the hum of the fridge. 

A tickle crawls into your throat and you cough. You smell smoke. You go to your desk and feel around for your phone. You wait for it to turn on as the dryness in your nose and throat build. You finally get the flashlight glowing on your cell and shine it around the room. 

The haze isn’t in your mind. The apartment is filling with smoke. You pull your shirt up over your nose and cough again. Your eyes burn as you try to see through the fog. There’s a dark shape on the carpet spewing fumes. What the heck? 

Adrenaline kicks in and instinct has you feet moving before you can think. You can’t breath. The smoke gets thicker as your eyes stream and you rack with coughs. You hit the door with your body, clawing at the lock, fingers aching as you twist back the latch. You waver as you step back, pulling the door inward and stumble into the hall. 

Your feet hit the floor clumsily, flat and thumping, thunderous in the hue of night. You hack again, hand on your chest, and tumble to your knees. You grip your head as the strength drains from your body, seeping away little by little. Are you dying? Is this it? 

You fall onto your side and suck in deep breaths. Your head lolls and your arm falls slack beside you. Your eyes roll up and a black silhouette appears above you. A tongue clicks and a whistle blows out. 

“I didn’t want it to be like this, baby cakes,” the timbre skews in your ears as your lashes close, “don’t worry...” the world shifts beneath you, “daddy’s got you.” 

👄

You don’t dream. You don’t think. You don’t feel. There is only endless black. 

A sliver of light pierces the void. It's too bright. Painfully so. Your eyes slit and you peek out from beneath heavy eyelids. You don’t recognise those walls, the bed is too soft to be yours, and this place doesn’t smell familiar. You take a deep breath and force your eyes open. 

Soft light glows through large panes to your left. The bed on which you lay is swathed in the dull tones of the morning rising just outside. You’re laid beneath blankets, several layers that make you sweat, and a cushy pillow cradles your head, many more litter the bed along the top. There’s too much of everything. 

The ceiling and walls are black, the bed frame too, the silky and dark, with a fluffy zebra print throw across the foot. You can’t see much more as you lay on your back. You might not know where you are but you can certainly figure who brought you there. 

On cue with your consciousness, the opposite the bed opens and you raise your head to watch a shadow enter. It reminds you of another figure, that one rippled with disorientation and impending darkness. He reaches to flip the switch beside the door and the two sconces mounted above the bet light up. 

It’s him. It wouldn’t be anyone else. That stranger from the cafe. Your personal tormentor. The man who calls himself Lloyd and a litany of ridiculous names. 

He stares back at you. You’re struck dumb with the dregs of you unconcscious and disbelief, meanwhile he looks almost giddy. A smile curves his lips under the line of hair and he rubs his palms together as he shifts his weight between his feet. He raises his hands appeasingly. 

“Jellybean, before you scream, please hear me out,” he pleads. 

You couldn’t scream if you tried. You’re too weak. This can’t be happening. Why would you be here? In a nice bed, in a nice room. You should be in some twisted torture chamber or out in the middle of the woods. If he’s going to kill you, he needs to at least be straightforward about. 

He turns and strides over to another door; a closet. He slides it open and tuts as he browses the contents. You can’t see past him. You barely even try as you let your head fall back against the pillow. 

“So, thoughts?” He turns to face you again as he holds up two hangers, “the navy is cute. I like the polka dots and the see throughness here and here, but the pink would bring out your complexion.” 

Your eyes flit down and you gape at the two dresses, one in each hand. You shake your head and blink. You bring a hand up and touch your forehead, a grumble slipping free. 

“You’re right, jellybean, it’s late,” he turns to put the dresses back in the closet, “we can deal with that in the morning. It’s not too far away... just a few hours.” 

He nears the bed and you shrink down, curling your shoulders in as you fold your arms over the blankets. He lowers himself next to you, an elbow in the pillows as he peers down at you. He reaches to touch your cheek and you try to move away. He barely seems to notice as he strokes your face. 

“I’ve just been so excited I can’t sleep,” he drags his knuckle around lightly, “but I didn’t want to wake you up. You need to rest. After everything you’ve been through.” He brings his legs up onto the bed and wiggles down to his side, “I know you don’t take care of yourself like you should, baby face, but that’s okay, because you have me now.” 

“Why... are you doing this?” You wisp out. 

He laughs, “you’re so funny...” he pets your chin, “and cute and...” he trails his hand down and squeezes your shoulder, “small. You’re adorable.” 

“Please,” you groan. 

“Why am I doing what?” He asks coyly, “why am I taking care of you? Why am I ready to give you everything? Why am I dying just to hear your voice and see your face and...” he stops and leans in, giving a deep sniff, “smell your hair?” 

You want to shrivel up. Your lip quivers as the daze recedes and the fear sets in. He’s delusional and you have no way out. You don’t even know where you are. It hardly matters, you doubt you could get very far. 

“You’re right. We should sleep. We have tomorrow to get settled in,” he reaches back to flip the light switch next to the bed, dimming the sconces back to black.  

He lifts himself to free the blankets from beneath him and sidles under them. He nestles close as you go rigid. He slips his arm under you as he nuzzles your cheek. 

“And every day after that. We have a whole lifetime ahead of us, jellybean. Me and you. Together forever...” he stretches his other arm over your stomach, “I never liked fairy tales before, babes. Not til you.” 

You close your eyes. You’re tired but there’s no way you’re falling back asleep. This is a waking nightmare. 

👄

The man, Lloyd, starts to snore. You feel his muscles relax and feel his breath steady against you. As much as you want to push him away and run, you can’t. You don’t know what it is. It’s akin to sleep paralysis. You’re awake but you can’t fight what’s happening. Something in your mind tells you it’s futile. 

The sun rise on the other side of the large windows. In any other circumstance, you would admire a place like this. The sleek furniture, the luxurious blankets, the expansive view. It’s a far cry from your cramped apartment and its small windows. 

You can only wallow in helpless self-pity. How did this happen? How did you let it happen? If you hadn’t been so indulgent, you would’ve never been seen. You should’ve known better than to go down to that cafe and splurge on something so menial. You could have made your own tea. You could’ve stayed inside, stayed safe. 

His closeness has you sweating. It’s uncomfortable and itchy. You want to rip your skin off. 

He moves and you hold your breath. He’s waking up. That can’t be good. At least asleep, he can’t do much. You curl your fingers into your palm and wait. 

“Mmm,” he leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against your cheek before planting a kiss, his mustache tickles, “this is heaven. I can’t...” he pushes himself up, planting his hand on the mattress, “I can’t believe this is real. You’re really here.” 

You look at him, almost glaring as you let your distress burn through. He doesn’t even notice as he rubs your arm and his blue eyes dance over you. Laying next to him as he looms over you, his size is more obvious. He’s much bigger than you. 

“Coffee?” He asks, “I got this new dark roast. All the way from Colombia. I haven’t even tried it. I’ve been waiting on you. Bet it’s much better than that InstaCafe.” 

You blink at him. All your fears are coming true. It’s not that he’s snatched you, it that he’s been watching you. You might never know how long but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change this moment. 

“And breakfast, if you’re hungry. I know you usually skip that but--” 

“Please stop,” you croak, “please...” 

“What? Honey, I’m just trying to show you all I can do for you. You don’t have to do all the work anymore. Staring at a screen is bad for your eyes. And your posture.” 

“I... I didn’t mind...” 

“Ah, that’s just you. You’re a hard worker. Resilient. You do what needs to be done. You don’t complain and you don’t make demands. Baby, you don’t have to. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you without you even asking.” 

“I liked... being alone. I want to be alone,” your breath hitches between words as panic pulses in your chest. 

“Do you want to be alone or do you not know what it’s like to have someone? Jellybean, I’m scared too. You’re the first girl I’ve had in my bed that made it past dawn. Hell, the first girl I didn’t... you know,” he gives a crooked grin. 

Your lips part as you stare at him, dumbfounded. Sure, he didn’t do more than forcibly cuddle you but it doesn’t change what he did do. You shake your head and sputter as you search for words. 

“You followed me.” 

“I kept you safe,” he insists. 

“You turned my water off. I...” 

“That’s what the IV is for,” he reaches over to touch your other arm. You don’t know how you didn’t notice the tubing before. “I brought you tea. All you had to do was open up--” 

“You threw something through my window... there was smoke...” your lashes flutter as the memories creep back in. 

“I did what had to be done,” his grin falls away and his expression turns stony, “what you made me do.” 

You stare at him, speechless. 

“I haven’t given you any reason not to trust you. I mean, all you had to do was have a coffee with me. Or even open your door. Honey, I should be mad at you. You hung me out to dry but I can forgive you,” his face softens again, “how can I not?” His eyes go doey, “you’re so beautiful.” 

You lay there, unmoving. You feel as if any suddenness might trigger him. He traces along your cheek and jaw and down your neck, “did you decide?” 

You narrow your eyes and frown. 

“A dress? Blue or pink?” 

You don’t answer him. You just look at him as he continues to touch you. Your skin speckles with goosebumps as a chill rolls through you. 

“You know what, neither. I get it. You want something more classy. Yeah, given the occasion, I think you’re right, baby face,” he leans over you and looks you in the eye, “we’ll have a look in the closet after breakfast.” 

Before you can react, his lips are on yours. You let out a surprised squeak as he holds your chin in place. His mustache tickles you again and his tongue flits across your lips, wetting them just slightly before retracting. He pulls away and sighs. 

“Wow.” 

[keeping-writing-frosty]

Unnamed Western WIP Snippet

[Author's Note: This is a VERY rough draft. Very first draft actually. I am sure there are typos, and other BS. I am just trying to share a little. I hope it is enjoyable despite it all. Most of it is under the cut.]

Seven Years Ago

There came a wind that whistled through the tiny cracks between the wood of the cabin’s walls, bringing with it a chill that caused tiny pin-prick bumps to cover Alexandra’s arms. A small fire in that old cast-iron stove crackled and hissed as it burned away all the volatile elements in the dried-out firewood within. On top, bubbling softly, a small pot filled with the strong, bitter coffee that she had grown so fond of; mother didn’t like it, but it was something she shared in common with father. One of many things.

Despite its relatively tiny size, there exuded a lonely kind of way from it. With just herself, and this cruel, frozen winter, leaving her to just her thoughts. What has come to mind over and over again is a desire for more. To do more, to earn more than just squeaking out a sort of life day-to-day.

At the foot of her parents’ bed, sat a weathered chest, bound by iron and locked since Father passed. And in truth, Alexandra had never looked in it. Both Mother and Father never let her look within, yet as she stared at it from her perch on the rocking chair. She stood up, there were no other family, no siblings, or uncles, or aunts, or grandparents. Everything that belonged, and would belong, to the O’Sullivan’s family, belonged to her. Despite lacking a key, she removed the Winchester rifle from off its rack on the wall. One solitary, solid strike from the butt hit with a thud, then another, and once more to finally cause the lock to break off and clatter onto the floor below.

Within were relics of Father’s forgotten and old life, before he met Mother and settled down here. From the life he lived by the gun, “a righteous man in an un-righteous time. Must bring about the judgement of the Lord,” he told Alexandra this one night when he was deep into the drink shortly after Mother’s death. His words still rung in her ears, “there is no greater calling, lass, than the culling of evil. That it pays well is just a bonus. To be taken care of both in this life and the next, nary a greater calling than that.”

Stuffed in an old, time-worn holster was the Colt Walker revolver that Father used to end the lives of so many bad-people that plague the relatively lawless lands. Despite its age, it still gleamed in the low light, as if freshly-polished and cleaned. On the left side of the wooden handle, there were twenty-six tally marks. She bit her bottom lip whilst pulling it from the soft confines of the holster. Stood up to hold the heavy, yet somehow, familiar weight of the rather long-barreled gun. Alex looked down its sights, pulled the trigger—having already checked that it was empty. Maybe this was meant to be, her destiny as well.

Wrapping the belt around her waist, pulled it taut and buckled it securely. Alexandra pushed the gun down back into its holster and squatted beside the chest again to go through the rest. An old photo of Father from before he met mother, still just as large as ever but youthful, seemed more careful and without a beard, a rather dashing fellow—Mother had good taste after all. Her face scrunched up at just the mere thought of thinking her father was handsome.

“Gross,” she said to the empty cabin.

Through the other mementos of a nostalgic past, of when the west was free for everyone and anyone without the encroachment of civilization from those posh, lazy folks east of the Mississippi, Alexandra found her father’s old, wide-brimmed rawhide that fit rather loose on her head. It didn’t matter to her. It felt right—it all felt too right. As if this was her calling, perhaps the blood that ran her veins was the same that ran in the crusaders of old. The same that fought against the darkness, to keep it at bay so the light could live and grow.

His hat still smelled of him: deep, richness of tobacco and the beautiful astringent peat of the scotch father would constantly take a nip of. The thick woolen Union jacket, just as warm and comfortable as the day it was made, smelled of his comfort and kindness, of his fierceness and his sense of duty. When Alexandra wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it tight across her chest., it felt like a strong, loving hug—almost.

Knock-knock-knock! A heavy hand almost beat on the door.

“Alexandra! I need my rent money, or I have to call upon the sheriff. I do not want to do that,” Old Man Jackson’s gruff voice carried with it both authority and sincerity.

With a deep breath, she stood up and walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Come in, please. I don’t have your money, but I am a-thinking of leaving anyways.” Alex pulled out a chair as she walked over to the stove. “Coffee? Get a bit of that chill off the bones, sir.”

“Please and thank you,” a puzzle expression crossed Old Man Jackson’s weathered face as he spoke. “What do you mean you are leaving? I am pretty sure your parents would have wanted you to settle. Start a family. Turn the land into something fruitful. We can talk over new terms, if’n it helps. Get you the deed over time.”

With a warm-hearted smile, Alexandra placed the steaming mug of coffee in front of the man and sat down across from him. “No, I appreciate it, but there’s something burning deep inside. These lands are in desperate need for a righteous soul—”

“In such an unrighteous time.”

“—aye, yes.”

The old man, who had seen more sunrises than most ever will, took a long drink from the coffee and thanked the young woman for the libation. “I’ve known your family a long, long time. Longer than even your mother knew. Did your father ever speak on our history?”

Alex shook her head and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Figured not. No one likes to speak of the bleakness, even if done for good reasons. We used to ride together. Hell, I taught him about the bounty hunter business. When he was still fresh-faced, hardened by the war. As we all were then. No side won that shit show, and all got broken up over it. It’s why everything is so…well, more people like you would not be a bad thing.

Listen up, okay? I want to tell you about the time your father and I took down Black Hat Bailey and his Psycho gang. It all started when Red Rock Mines were raided, dozens killed, more raped and wounded…”

****

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