#and will COUNT/tally how many time it happens and kick them after three

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

[starfirette]

Hello! Can u please write Helena Bertinelli with a Fem!reader tomboy that's a muay thai fighter and look like super cool and cold,but in the apartment its a very soft and lovely girlfriend with Helena? (And how the birds will react when them met her) Thank you,I Love you writing and HELENA IS SUCH A BAE!!! THIS GAL NEED MORE LOVE AND SUPPORT!❤

masterlist | word count: who fucking knows | 🏷 @kurreapormaranet @emofairygay​ | a/n: ;0 There are some things you might want to look up on youtube so you have a general idea of what’s happening. Clinch positions, tactical stand ups, thips

The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth. 

The overall mission seemed simple, but it had Helena dreading this moment since Harleen explained what needed to happen. 

The trust fund brat of the devilish Rossini family kidnapped the Rossini’s pride and joy: their little baby girl, Ayala. Ayala Rossini, four years old, is the Brat’s younger half sister and the new written in heir of the Rossini fortune. The Brat, Carmen, had been written out of the will after she kidnapped the new little bird Batman was keeping under his wing. She’d been sloppy and left behind all marks of her family’s (unbeknownst) involvement. She made serval costly mistakes which included Batman’s uncovering of the Rossini family’s plans of Gotham, Star, and Jump city. Half the family became arrested.

Carmen was all but disowned by her father, whom she already resented for marrying another woman so quick after the death of her mother. To get her revenge, she kidnapped Ayala.

So, Mr and Mrs Rossini employed Harley and her rag tag team of anti-hero thugs.

To get Ayala back, the girls would have to go undercover.

Their heroic deed would get them 30k each, so that was good enough. The Rossinis are precise and focuses; they’d been willing to pay as much as they had to in order to ensure the safety of their little crime lord baby.

Now Harley had her connections. She knew a guy who knew a guy who saw a friend with a girl outside of the 31 Flavors ice cream shoppe, and this girl just happened to know that Carmen spends her free time hosting epic fights in the secret tunnels of Smallville.

It’s a long ways away from Gotham, but is a perfect place to host such gatherings. The fights are frightfully violent and brutal. Also very illegal. No one would ever know that beneath the wheat and corn fields of Lil’ Ol’ Smallville county lays an intricate mafia maze.

Carmen Rossini is notorious for entertaining the winners to a “fine dinner with wine”. The rumors go that she runs an entire harem of Thai Fighting women, using them for sexual favors and personal security.

The entire mission is actually depending on that rumor.

The plan was to send in Dinah as a participant in the rink and hope she would win and earn the attention of Carmen. 

But then Dinah got bronchitis. It was a nasty case, too, in which she wouldn’t stop coughing and hacking up green stuff into tissues. 

The entire thing would have been called off if you hadn’t admitted that you are, in fact, trained in Muay Thai. 

You’re positive that Helena would have rather kept this a secret, because she doesn’t like putting you in harms way. It’s a nuisance to have the world’s most protective girlfriend. Heaven forbid you even get a paper cut, else she’d make you wear rubber gloves while you read a book. 

The entire group (save Helena) jumped for the chance to replace Dinah with you. You’d do perfect, Harley said, sounding so confident. 

You intended to be flawless in the ring. 

You’d not competed since high school, when Muay Thai was still just a recreational hobby. You’d had your wins and losses, but that was before you grew up to spend majority of your time fighting mafia crime lords. 

Once Dinah officially relinquished her role of the mission, you took to the heavy bags. The repetitions became intense and harsh in the following weeks. You spent every night limping into bed. 

Your sweet whispers that begged Helena for a soothing massage fell onto her deaf ears. She is stubborn, and she had been attempting to force you out of this competition since the day you’d agreed to it. 

You were not afraid of Carmen, or anyone else she’d make you fight against. For the sake of the little Ayala, you would do this. Besides, you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? With the Birds and their abilities, there isn’t much that could happen. 

Nothing would slide through the cracks. 

Hopefully. 

The day did come faster than you’d imagined, though. The drive to Smallville was tense, especially in the backseat where Helena was frostily ignoring you. 

Harleen was road raging, passing every trucker on the two way road that didn’t exceed 65 miles an hour. 

“You know the speed limit is 45, right?” Montoya asked after she had taken a long drag of a cigarette. She had her legs propped up on the dash. Between her and Harley sat Cass, who was oblivious to the chaos around her as she sang along to a pop Spanish song. “Yeah, and?” Harley quipped. She cast her bright eyes towards Montoya, a wicked smile playing on her lips.“You gonna arrest me?” 

Montoya couldn’t do much but sigh in defeat. If Harley didn’t mind crashing, then she didn’t either. 

Between the bickering and the loud singing of the three front passengers, you and Helena were sitting silently in the very back seats. Your head was leaned up against the window which rattled as the tires of Harley’s ‘64 Starfire rolled across the gravely road. 

Helena had been refusing to speak to you since the fight you got into last night. It was a real fight. She’s made it clear that she’s against you fighting in Carmen’s ring, and is especially against you joining her harem. 

You’d first thought she was afraid of disloyalty; you had promised her that you wouldn’t ever cheat on her, even if it was for a mission. But it became revealed that’s not what Helena was worried about. 

She feared for your life. She fears for your life every single day. No matter how small of a task, she can’t help but worry. She lost her mother, father, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles; everyone. She’d been so helpless. She could only watch as she became the sole Bertinelli. 

Helena couldn’t live on if something happened to you. 

The fight ended on a confusing note. It didn’t end, per say, and you two did sleep in the same bed. However, neither of you has said a word to each other. You tried this morning, but she’d given you the snippy, cold shoulder. 

As much as you hate putting her through so much anxiety, you know that you can’t back down. A girl’s life is at stake; it’s not the money you care about. Not to mention Carmen Rossini is about to make the top 50 worst criminals in Gotham County. 

Harley rolled the car to a stop around a patch of gravel and dust. Everyone climbs out, rocks crunching under their shoes as they stretch and look around. 

“Where is it?” Cass asks, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose denim jacket. Her chapped lips are stained blue from the tootsy pop that she’d crunched on in the car. The soggy stick now hung from her lips, as if she had been imitating Montoya’s cigarette. 

Harley locked, double checked, then re locked, then triple checked her car. She turned around, using her hands to shield her vision as she scanned the open wheat fields. “Dunno,” she admitted. “I guess I supposed someone woulda been here to meet us.” 

You shifted on your feet. You wanted to try and make Helena happy before you’d at least go inside and get in the ring. The only issue is, she’ll only be happy if your forfeit now. 

You would not. 

Across the way, by a few yards at most, a rustling came through the wheat that came at least up to your hips.

A young man emerged; he approached the Birds with a guarded look that furrowed his thick, blond eyebrows. “You are Carmen’s guests, yes?” 

He spoke with a thick accent. His honey blond hair contrasted his coffee brown features. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw, but something about him seemed off. He seemed intimidated despite being taller and broader than most. 

“We are,” you answered for the Birds. “I am Y/n. I am the contestant.” 

The man beckons you all forward. Helena glared at him, her hand steadily tapping the outside of her thigh. She was prepared to draw her gun and shoot anyone that could get in her way. In your way. 

You tasted a bitter foam in your mouth as you attempted to stop Helena without raising too much attention. 

“We––I––am here for the  Carmen’s...event.” 

The honey blond man tallied the Birds on his fingers, visibly distressed. “I do not thinka’ Miss Rossini expected so many of you...” 

After a brief, strangled silence, the man shook his head and waved his arm along to escort you. “The bunker is just this way,” he explained. Harley and Cass walked after him. 

Helena meets your eyes. Her gaze is firm, and maybe even angry. No way could you defuse that situation while still heading into the rink. 

The wheat and grass crunched under your boots as you marched across the pace-by-pace clearing. A trap door in the ground lifted up swiftly, silently, as if they grease the hinges every damn day. 

You remembered how this turned out for Suzie Salmon; casting one more look over your shoulder, you assured yourself with the presence of Helena. 

Down the hatch, under the ground, you, Harley, Cass, Helena, and Mr Cannoli over here shuffled down the hall to a big dressing room. The entire layout felt more like a stadium then an underground crime rink. The dressing room has lush sofas and fur blankets; in the corner a SodaStream is mounted on an Ikea book table. 

“Miss Rossini will join you shortly,” Cannoli-guy told you, nodding his head regally. He bowed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door after him. 

Cass jumped on the sofa. She sprawled out over the furs, kicking her muddy Chuck Taylors up. “Luxury.” 

Harley snipped to Cass to get her dirty little feet off the merchandise. 

You took a seat in the swivel chair in front of the large mirror. It looked like pure Broadway with the heavy lightbulbs that wreathed the glass. 

“Can’t say they don’t know how to entertain a guest,” Harley squealed as she migrated to the SodaStream. “They got homemade cream soda!” 

Cass jumped off the sofa to run after Harley. 

Instead of facing you, Helena took a heavy seat on the couch. Her legs spread out, looking spectacularly muscular in her tight, black pants. 

Unfortunately, you’re too annoyed with her to go lounge in her lap. 

As much as you’d like to make amends, you know the only way to do that would be to back down. You’re going into that rink.

The door flew open at the second Harley had poured herself and Cassie a drink. 

Carmen Rossini strutted in and you stared in awe. You tried not to let your jaw drop. Tall, voluptuous. Her hair is wavy auburn, her eyes deepest green. 

She looked at you immediately. Reaching out for you as if you were the messiah, she chuckled. “You’re even cuter in person! Oh, sweetie, you––you do know how to drive a hard bargain. Your agent Harleen contacted me, where is she?” 

Harley waved her hand from the corner. “That would be me. Ain’t Y/n a real figure?” 

Scowling, Helena crossed her legs. She glared up at Carmen, and you remembered that Carmen is doing what Helena hates the most; complimenting you. 

It’s not so much that Helena doesn’t like that you receive compliments; it’s just that she prefers giving them to you. 

“I’m so happy to see you all here tonight,” Carmen said, clapping her hands loudly. “There’s nothing more exciting than tonight’s event. Did you know,” she cooed as she ‘boop’ed your nose, “that I’ve got people betting about two million dollars that you’ll win? I am so, so pleased that you’ve chosen to make your debut in my arena.” 

You nod, your neck stiff. “I guess I’m excited?” you mumbled. 

Carmen snapped her fingers. She signaled to one of her lackies to come forward. A box Is presented at your feet. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a little something. A uniform of your own, courtesy of moi. Don’t you love it? I had your photos analyzed by a fashion expert, and they designed your shorts to compliment you perfectly.” 

The high waisted, Thai shorts are a deep ivory shade, with black flowers sewn into the design. They’re the most beautiful Thai shorts you’d ever seen! Your own were cute, but simple, considering that you didn’t usually think to be a fashionista while working out. 

“They’re amazing,” you admitted. Over the top? Definitely. Did you expect anything else? Honestly, you’re not sure. You weren’t sure what to expect. 

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Carmen, as she smiled, reached into the deep pocket of her red silk kimono-blouse. In her hands is a thickly wound prajoud, made of fine threads and paracord. The black and red jumped out at you like an old friend.

“I hope I got the rank right?”

“You did,” you say as you took the prajad from Carmen. “I could have brought my own if you’d asked.”

“It’s really not a big deal, my darling,” Carmen purred. She ran her hand through your hair, taking note of the silky feeling of each strand. “I will be watching. There will be people outside the door waiting to escort you to the arena when you’re done dressing.”

Her fingers are heavy with her bejeweled rings. The heavy tear shaped gems get tangled in your hair.

“You have ten minutes,” Carmen adds.

Helena glowered after her as she flitted out of the room. Her heels clacked down the hallway following the click of the door shutting in place.

Montoya took a long drag of her cigarette before she  chortled.“You just gonna let her mark her territory like that?”

Helena didn’t say anything.

“Oi, Katniss,” Harley said loudly.

Helena’s cloudy eyes finally look to her friend. “What?”

“Carmen Rossini basically stole Y/n from you, and you let her!”

As you pulled out of your jeans, you sent Harley a little glare. “No one owned me to begin with,” you snapped.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s rights,” Harley exclaimed. “But it just seemed like—,”

“I know what it seemed like,” you snapped. “That’s the entire goddamn point, isn’t it? Get in her good graces?”

Case choked back her soda. “If that’s your idea of getting in Carmen’s creepy ‘good graces’ you gotta do better than that. You didn’t act sexy or flirt back at all!”

Helena stood to her feet. She brushed down the front of her black zip-up sweater. “I’m waiting outside,” she declares before stomping out with a frown wrung on her mouth.

Harley grimaced as the door slammed shut.

“Kid, come on,” Montoya sighed.

“I’m right,” Cass scowled. “You know that I am. We knew from the start that in order to get the little girl back, sexual favors would probably have to be granted.”

You pulled up your shorts. “Can everyone shut up?” You asked.

“What’s that?” Cass proceeded to ask, given she couldn’t talk about Carmen anymore. She pointed at the arm band that lay over the counter.

“Prajoud,” you tell her. Thank you pulled out of tour shirt. The heavy duty sports bra was already in place, but it gave you major uniboob.

“What does it do?” Cass asked again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed it off the vanity and fiddled with it. 

“It’s like a belt,” you explained. “Instead of wearing a black belt, I wear a black prajad.” 

“Who come up with that?” Cass asked. 

“Uhm, Thai people?” Harley said as though it should be obvious. She snorted and jerked her thumb towards Cass. “Get a load of this guy.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s alright to ask questions, guys, just try not to be annoying. ‘M a little stressed out already.” 

Harley took a final gulp of her soda. “Well, I guess we know who’s not getting action tonight. And that’s Y/n!” 

“Why is Helena so upset anyways? Because Carmen was flirting?” 

“No,” Harley explained. “See, she’s angry because Y/n’s going out and doing this fight, one, without asking her to begin with, two, for some other little kid, and three, with a evil Italian mafia tigress. She’s projecting her childhood fear that she’ll never be able to protect anyone she loves. She’s also rash, irritable, and possessive, so it’s just a cherry on top that the plan includes Y/n using her charms to sway Carmen.” 

“Bravo,” you plainly say. “It’s almost like you’re a doctor or something.” 

“Yeah,” Harley grinned. “Or something.” 

You pulled the prajad over your forearm. You pulled the band tight, holding the laces in your mouth so you could knot it tight with one hand. You looked in the mirror, unsure of what to think of yourself. 

You kicked your boots off next. 

In socks, you turned to look at Harley and Cass. “Let’s do this,” you sighed. 

Helena had been waiting loyally outside, leaned up against the jamb. Her eyes flitted up and down your figure, before rolling up towards the ceiling. “Let’s do this,” you said, sounding as if you’d already lost. 

Marching down the hall in tow of the honey blond Italian, you tried to make eye contact with Helena. She was good at ignoring you. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s angry, stressed, or both. 

Riddled with anxiety, you wish that she would look at you, or hold your hand at the very least. 

At the entrance of the arena, you could see it was filled massively to the brim of its walls. You hadn’t realized how far underground you really are until you looked at the expansive seating. The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth. 

You stepped to the stairs that wound up to the cage. You could smell the sweat and the matts; above the sound of the crowd cheering, you could hear your blood rushing fast in your ears. 

“Find Ayala,” you muttered in Harley’s ears. “I don’t want to be here longer than we have to be.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but they were momentairly dulled by a silent question. “I thought...?”

“No,” you said firmly. “We shouldn’t be here any longer than we have to be,” you tell her. “I’ll stay here, I’ll do my thing; you take everyone and look for that girl. If you’re not done by the time the match is over, I’ll distract Carmen.” 

Harley couldn’t respond by the time you were dragged up the stairs. Outside the cage’s gate, you were given a little table at which you could rest at. It had a pitcher of ice water, some glasses, a washcloth, and a bottle of brandy. You took a large drink of the brandy first. You peeled off your socks. 

It felt like a blur as you stepped into the cage. 

Your opponent was your size; she looked your weight, too. You suppose that’s fair, at least. It’s not like in the movies. The real competitions are done by weight and height. 

You turned your head to give one last glance to your friends. 

Helena stood beyond the cage, her hand resting over the gun holster. Her eyes were fixated on you. 

You had to look away. 

Tying your hair up in a tight bun, you walked out onto the mat. Your opponent did the same; meeting you half way, you two shook hands. 

You didn’t exchange names; that would only make it harder. 

“The rules,” a voice boomed around the stadium, “are there are no weapons to be permitted in the arena. Please watch as the fighters return to their corners then begin the match on the sound of the bell. The match will consist of two rounds, each lasting seven minutes.” 

You hovered in the corner of the cage. You stretched and jogged in place. You have enough training for this. You do. You know that you can do it; hopefully, you will. 

The bell rang. You take a massive sprint out into the middle of the ring where your opponent had already paced out. 

You wound up a punch. Your feet lifted off the mat as you leap into the air, and you delivered the blow to the side of her face. 

Her teeth crunched under the impact. It was such a hit that you saw it spew out of her mouth, and hit the cage. 

The crowd exploded into a frenzy. 

Hovering at your face your hands remained in constant motion. Her kicks were well calculated and her movements tactical. She gave away all of her tricks, though, by looking twice at the target she would next go for. If she looked at your side once too many times, you would crouch and use your arms to block your ribcage. 

The sweat that built up made the more precise attacks difficult. Your punch began sliding off her face, keeping you staggering forward, and in her wide open range. 

You were struck once, twice, then thrice on your left cheek. It sent blood and saliva dribbling down your chin. 

Your prajad began to slip as you struggled to regain your balance. 

The girl’s long leg extended forward. Her foot jabbed a strong thip into the center of your stomach, practically digging against your bladder. 

The bell rang, then, marking the end of the first round. 

You fell into your corner with a wheezing gasp. You crawled for the little table. You drank directly from the pitcher. 

You looked back to the crowd, half expecting to see a flash of unfamiliar faces. 

Helena still remained at the ringside. Her hands are clenched through the cage, and her eyes are desperate to meet yours. You were confused. Why hadn’t she left with Harley? Did Harley not need her? Or did she want to stay and watch? 

You felt stronger with her just a few yards away. 

You staggered to your legs, where your knees wobbled like jello on a plate. 

The two minutes of rest time had ended, and the bell rang once more. You slid back rather than go for her first. 

She sauntered to you like a bear, her shoulders hunched and her fists close to her face. She swung hooks and uppercuts that you could just barely dodge. You were close to slipping backwards a few times. 

“Y/n, watch out!” Helena shouted suddenly. 

You couldn’t see the girl racing towards you like a battering ram through your blurry vision. Her fist slammed over your temple. You swore you could feel your brain tumbling around your skull as you fell to the floor. 

You clutched your ear with your bare hands. Pain gushed out of you like water. You thought you could see it, visibly, as it poured down bright green and crystalline. 

It wasn’t there; it was the spots dancing in front of you. Disorientation is a real bitch. 

One tactical standup later, you’re back up on your feet. You pushed yourself forward, forcing the remaining energy you had out of your hands. You grabbed the girl by her long pony tail and dragged her into a tight clinch. She attempted to swim out of it; the friction of her wrists against your neck burned. 

You tugged her down, driving a sharp knee into her stomach. She stayed in your clinch for a long time, gasping for air as she couldn’t evade the knees. You finally released her. She staggers back. She falls onto her ass, visibly shaken up and at a loss for breath. 

The crowd began to scream at you. Some did a countdown, others urged the other girl to get back up. 

It was too late for her. 

The bell rang, marking the end of the seven minutes, as well as the second round. She had lost, and you had won. 

You limped towards her. Despite your own pain, you lifted the girl onto her feet. 

“Good game?” she rasped. 

“Hell yeah,” you wheezed. 

It felt like the ultimate orgasm to go back and gulp down the water. The cold, damp washcloth made a good compress for your busted lip. You judged by the twitching of your left eyelid that you had a pretty sizable welt there. 

Helena ran to meet you as you limped down the stairs out of the cage. She threw her arms around you tightly. “You’re alright,” she gasped. 

You tried to hug her back. Your arm hung loosely over her lower back as you tried to laugh. “Did you doubt that I would be?” you asked her. “Where’s Harley and Cass? Montoya?” 

“They went to find the girl,” Helena said in your ear. “I couldn’t leave you...I had to stay and watch. I had to make sure.” 

She pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “Let’s go,” you said firmly, “before Carmen comes for us.” 

Helena helped you leave the arena. By the time you vanished, the stadium was already announcing it’s second match, featuring a woman named Selina. The people went into a hectic frenzy of excitement when Selina’s name was announced over the speakers. You knew as you were walking out she would never be able to escape this place. 

Honey-blond-haired Italian guy jogged to keep up with you. “Miss Carmen asks that you wait in the dressing room,” he called out. “Yeah, yeah,” Helena called out. “We’ll be there.” 

He followed you down the hallway, keeping several paces back to maintain a steady watching distance. He paused as he watched you and Helena head straight into the dressing room. 

Sitting on the sofa inside is Harley, Cass, and a little girl sleeping in Harley’s arms. You were shocked. For a four year old girl, Ayala was incredibly small and fragile looking. Her olive skin and auburn hair is just like her elder sister’s. The hollows beneath her eyes are dark and colored by her greenish veins. 

“Let’s scadadle,” Harley hissed as she rose to her feet, though struggling to keep Ayala in her arms. 

You all rushed out of the hallway, quickly as to make it before Carmen could come back from the arena. 

“Where’s the exit?” Cass asked. 

“It’s this way,” Helena says. She pointed straight down the hallway. “The car’s waiting for us above the trap door.”

“Yeah, unless someone stole it,” Cass mocked. “What if we get locked in? Like in Hotel California?” 

You could hardly begin to understand what Cass was saying. Her words were jumbles of sounds and her figure a blur of her dark hair and red jacket. 

“We’re not getting locked in,” Harley exclaimed. “Let’s just get outta here!” 

Helena climbed up the ladder first. She punched the door up, then open. “Give me the kid,” she said quietly. 

Harley struggled to lift Ayala up. 

Helena scooped her easily into her strong arms. Ayala stirred awake and whined as she became more and more aware. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, her voice quiet and empty. 

“We’re taking you home, pumpkin,” Helena assured the little girl. “I’ve got you.” 

As Cass was going up the ladder, a loud clatter arose down the tunnel. “Uh oh, spaghetti-os,” Harley whistled. She pushed you up the ladder next. “I’ll meet you guys up there,” she promised, sounding entirely confident. “Montoya,” she whistled between her teeth. “Feel like doing some target practice?” 

It was the first time all day that Montoya smiled. 

As you climbed up, you heard Harley’s shrill laugh between the shots of two, little handguns.

“Into the car,” you wheezed to Cassie. She looped her arms around your waist to help you limp into your seat. “Buckled in?” you heard Helena ask the little girl. She looked so shy despite all that’s going on. The curls of her hair were brushed behind her ear as Helena held her tightly. “You’re going back to your parents.” 

Harley came running out seconds later. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she exclaimed. 

“You have the keys!” Cassie shouted back. 

Harley jumped into the drivers seat. She honked the horn loudly. “Renee, let’s move it!” 

Montoya was limping a few feet away, struggling to keep up Harley’s pace. She crawled inside and as soon as she did, Harley pressed the gas, and sped away. 

“Smoking is so bad for you, you know that, right?” Harley chastised. “Maybe if you just used the nicotine patches I bought you for Christmas, then you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up with us.” 

“Take the patches,” Montoya huffed, “and shove them up your ass.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. You leaned back into the headrest of the rear seats. Helena held Ayala beside you, stroking her hair gently as she held her cellphone to Ayala’s ear. Her parents were on the other end, and you could hear the cries of relief. 

You met Helena’s gaze, and you managed a smile on your busted mouth. 

“I love you,” you mouth to her. 

“I love you, too,” she replied. 

[imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul]

Return to Me - Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Penance

A/N: Sorry, sorry, I know it’s late! Thanks for sticking with the story so far! I feel a little iffy about this chapter so let me know what you think! As always, let me know if you want to be tagged, or if you have any questions, too.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader Word Count: 4,878 Synopsis: Reeling from their fight, both Poe and the reader find themselves worse off than they expected after the First Order destroys the base on D’Qar and leaves them stranded in space. 

Tag List:  @xeniarocks​​, @too-many-baes​​, @araceli91103​​, @holybatflapexpert​​, @themihala​​, @idocarealot, @treblebeth​​, @treestarrrrrrrr​​, @thescarletknight2014​​, @charlottie2998​​, @ibikus​​, @mellow-f1​​, @mrsdaamneron​​, @trustme3-13​​ @missjess71, @ella-solei​​, @minelskede​​, @gleigh42​​, @usuallyweepingnacho, @givemethatgold​​, @and-claudia​​, @constantdisgrace​​, @wordsinwinters​​, @readingvogueonprivetdrive​​, @trshbb​​, @kaitlynw011​​, @ihave2muchtimeonmyhands​​, @constantdisgrace​​, @fairytalesforever​​, @thanos-jeep​​

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

“What took so long?” Nové asked, ushering you towards your starship as you stormed out of the base.

“Just had to tie up some loose ends,” you said, hiking up your skirt a bit to keep up with her. She was taking her strides three at a time, trying to get you on your ship as quick as possible. The First Order fleet hovered above you, sending down missiles at your shields that were slowly diminishing. 

“Is everything alr—” An explosion cut her off and sent the two of you flying back as your starship burst into flames. One of the missiles that had penetrated through the shield obliterated your means of escape, meaning that you had to think quickly. Most likely, Zaisa and Nolbowl had both been aboard the ship, which meant that you and Nové were now alone.

“Fuck,” you muttered, struggling to get up off the ground. Nové quickly rushed to your side and asked if you were alright. “I’m fine. What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Nové said, looking around the base. All around you, people were rushing towards their escape pods. You hadn’t intended to stick around with the Resistance, especially not after the fight you got in with Poe, but you also had no intention of dying here. 

“Come on,” you said, quickly grabbing Nové’s hand. You both stood and rushed to one of the escape pods. 

Commander D’Acy was at the entrance of the pod, checking in the Resistance as they boarded. When she saw the two of you running towards her, she gave you a disparaging look but allowed you both onboard. 

The door to the pod quickly shut behind the two of you, and just as soon as it was, the pod took off. Not a moment too quickly, you realized, as you looked back at the base you had called home for so long begin to come under fire as you very nearly escaped it. You frowned, but at least mostly everyone had managed to get off-planet before the destruction began. You hoped Poe had been one of those lucky ones, too.

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

“The hero I’ve always been, huh?” Poe muttered to himself, gearing up for the crazy mission he had planned. BB-8 asked what he was talking about, but Poe brushed it off. He was going to have to do some serious bullshitting if this plan was going to work, which he was used to, but he needed to push your fight from his mind in order to do so. 

He took a deep breath as the commlink with the First Order ship opened up. BB-8 beeped his worry, but Poe tried not to feel it. Or at least, he tried not to show his worry, either.

“Happy beeps here, buddy, come on. We’ve pulled crazier stunts than this,” Poe said, flipping a few of the controls on his X-Wing.

“Just for the record, Commander Dameron, I’m with the droid on this one,” Leia said.

“Thanks for your support, General,” he said, taking a deep breath, “Happy beeps,” he said to himself. 

“Attention! This is Commander Poe Dameron of the Resistance fleet, I have an urgent communique for General Hugs,” he announced through the connection with the First Order. Hux’s snide voice rang through his X-Wing.

“This is General Hux,” he emphasized, correcting Poe on his purposeful mispronunciation of his name, “ Of the First Order. The Republic is no more. Your fleet are rebel scum and war criminals. Tell your precious princess there will be no terms, there will be no surrender.” Poe rolled his eyes, watching as his X-Wing slowly prepared for his attack.

“Hi,” Poe said, trying to sound as confused as possible, “I'm holding for General Hugs.”

“This is Hux. You and your friends are doomed! We will wipe your filth from the galaxy!”

“Okay,” Poe said, “I'll hold.” He couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his face, even though he was staring down his own death.

“Hello?” Hux asked hesitantly through the intercom.

"Hello? Yup. I'm still here,” Poe responded. There wasn’t a response for a minute, and Poe’s heart began to race, worried that they had figured out his plan before his ship was ready. “Hugs?” he asked again. “With an H. Skinny guy, kinda pasty.”

“I can hear you,” Hux said, “Can you hear me?” Poe watched eagerly as his ship readied for the attack, just as the First Order got wise to his trick

"Look, I can't hold forever. If you reach him, tell him Leia has an urgent message for him . . . about his mother,” he added. Poe heard Hux command that they open fire, just as his ship was finally ready. “BB-8, punch it!” he yelled.

The litte droid beeped excitedly as Poe’s ship took off, sending both Poe and BB-8 back as the force of the ship kicked in. Instead of focusing on the control bridge, as he knew the First Order would assume he would, he turned his attention to the dreadnought. Even if the Resistance was to escape D’Qar, they were going to have a hard time getting away if that ship was still here. And even if they got away, it still needed to be taken out. These dreadnoughts were able to kill entire fleets.

“Woohoo! That's got a kick!” Poe yelled as he soared full speed over the dreadnought, weaving through the shots they were taking at him as he shot down their cannons. “All right, taking out the cannons now. Tallie, start your approach,” he commanded.

“Copy that,” Tallie replied over intercome.

“One cannon left! And here comes the parade,” Poe said, watching as a fleet of TIE fighters came for him.

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

“Your Highness.” You turned away from your perch at the window, watching as you flew from the First Order ship, not entirely sure how you were all going to get away, when you turned to look back at Commander D’Acy.

"Commander,” you said with a soft smile.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Y/N, but what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Our starship was destroyed as we tried to leave,” you said. “This was our only option.” D’Acy nodded her head and looked nervously at the First Order ships. “I know,” you said simply, sighing “I’ll speak with Leia. It’s my fault, we should have left earlier.”

“It’s not that, it’s just . . .” Again, she looked at the First Order ships, now firing on something you couldn’t see. “You were supposed to be long gone, far from here and safe.”

“I know,” you said with a frown. D’Acy took a breath, realizing there wasn’t anything more she could do, and stood as the tractor beam from the Raddus pulled you in.

You followed the rest of the rebels off of the pod and made your way towards the bridge, knowing that you’d find Leia there. 

The scene wasn’t much different on the bridge, either. Everywhere you looked, people were rushing around, trying to finalize their escape. A voice called your name, and you turned your head, expecting to see Leia, and instead, finding Amilyn Holdo walking towards you. You smiled widely and quickly embraced her.

“Y/N,” she said again, smiling at you.

“I didn’t see you on base before,” you said, your hand still on the arm of your former mentor.

“Well, I was putting out a few fires. You’re not supposed to be here,” she said sharply. “What happened?”

“My ship blew up before I could reach it.”

“Well, thank the Force you weren’t on board when it happened.”

“What are we still doing here?” you asked, looking over at the map of the First Order’s fleet of ships, still at your tail. “Shouldn’t we be leaving by now?”

“We’re waiting for our bombing fleet,” she said, a definite edge in her voice.

“Bombing fleet?” you asked. Holdo nodded over to the command table, where you saw Leia standing. 

“It seems Commander Dameron’s brilliant plan is going to give us the proper stalling we need to escape,” she said, turning her attention to the two of you.

“What is he doing?” you asked.

“Going for the dreadnought,” Leia muttered. You walked over to her side quickly, watching Poe’s X-Wing flying towards the dreadnought, followed by a fleet of TIE fighters.

“Call him back.” She gave you a look, making you sigh. You knew better. Once Poe had his mind set on something, it was hard to convince him of anything else. Especially when he was upset, which he absolutely was after your fight.

“We need to stall them or we’ll never make it out of here,” she said. You nodded and chewed your lip, watching Poe’s X-Wing carefully.

“General, the last pod has escaped,” an officer on the bridge reported.

“You did it, Poe,” Leia said with a relieved smile, “Now get your squad back here so we can get out of this place.”

“No, General, we can do this!” he yelled, his voice coming in fuzzy through the intercom, “We have the chance to take out a dreadnought! These things are fleet killers, we can’t let it get away!”

“Disengage now, Commander. That is an order.” Poe flicked off his commlink, ignoring her order. She glanced up at you, anger in her eyes, but there was nothing either of you could do. You could only watch as the dreadnought was destroyed, along with your entire bombing fleet.

The escape from The First Order was quick after that. Once the dreadnought was destroyed, the Resistance made a clean getaway, jumping into Hyperspace. There was nothing you could say to comfort Leia. She had just lost her entire base, and now her bombing fleet, with no promise of a safe place to land.

“We need a plan,” she said, turning towards Ackbar and D’Acy. “We are low on fuel and can’t stay in Hyperspace forever.”

“Dropping out of Hyperspace now,” an officer called as the ship jumped slightly. Holdo brought you along as she approached Leia, Ackbar, and D’Acy. Huddled together, the small group discussed what allies might let you hold up where, even if only for a little while. You hadn’t noticed that Leia had left your group until you heard a slap. You all turned your heads and saw Leia standing in front of Poe, his face still turned from the force of her slap.

“You’re demoted,” she said instantly.

“What? Wait! We took down a dreadnought,” he said, stopping her from walking away.

“At what cost?”

“You start an attack, you follow it through,” he said simply.

“Poe, get your head out of your cockpit.” Poe looked away from her, trying to keep control of his frustrations. “There are things that you cannot solve by jumping in an X-Wing and blowing something up! I need you to learn that.” Her eyes traveled over to you as Poe nodded his head reluctantly. You tried to turn away, but not before Poe saw you watching their conversation, too.

“There were heroes on that mission,” he tried, grabbing her arm as she walked away.

“Dead heroes,” she corrected, “No leaders.” Poe looked solemn as she walked away and his eyes found you. The look of disappointment on his face didn’t fade as he approached you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“My ship was destroyed during the evacuation,” you said, stepping away from the group as Leia rejoined it.

“Well, are you staying on board or are you taking a pod back to Naboo?”

“Eager to get rid of me so quickly?” you challenged.

“Just figured you had other, more important things to take care of,” he said condescendingly. You rolled your eyes.

“I do and hopefully with people who know how to listen to orders.” Poe opened his mouth to retort back as Leia spoke.

“Y/N, Poe does bring up a good point,” she said, coming up behind you and interrupting your fight before it could happen.

“You want me to leave, too?” She smiled at you, putting you at ease slightly.

“I told you before, I can’t put you at risk anymore,” she said. 

“I know. I need to go home. I’ll speak to Nové and figure out a plan. I won’t take one of your pods, though. I came here to bring you resources, not take them away,” you said. Leia reached out and took your hand in hers. “Let me reach out to some of my contacts, too. I’ll find you a place.”

“Thank you, Y/N.” You nodded and started to make your way off of the bridge, trying not to look at Poe, just as a red light started flashing and an alarm began blaring.

“Proximity alert!” Admiral Ackbar shouted.

“They found us,” Commander D'Acy muttered.

“That's impossible,” Poe said, watching in shock as instantly, a fleet of First Order ships flew out of Hyperspace, including a ship that could mean nothing but mortal terror. “That's Snoke's ship,” Poe lamented, approaching Admiral Ackbar at his command, “You've got to be kidding me. Can we jump to lightspeed?”

“We have enough fuel resources for just one jump.”

“Well then do it. We’ve got to get out of here,” Poe said. 

“Wait,” Leia said, raising a ringed finger, “They've tracked us through lightspeed.”

“That's impossible,” Finn said.

“Yes, but they've done it.”

“So, if we jump to lightspeed they'll just find us again and we'll be out of fuel. They've got us.”

“Not yet they don't,” Poe said, running in front of Leia, “Permission to jump in an X-Wing and blow something up?”

“Permission granted,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Admiral, spin us around,” Leia ordered. She looked back at you and frowned. “I’m sorry, I would never have invited you to our base in the first place if I knew I was going to put you in this much danger, especially so frequently.” You watched Poe rush out of the room, Finn following close behind. You struggled to pull your eyes from him, instantly regretting the last words you had said to him if this was to be the end. 

“I know. It’s okay,” you said, looking back at her.

“Get somewhere safe.”

“Leia—”

“That's an order. Go!” Leia looked over at Nové waiting at the entrance of the bridge and nodded to her. She pulled you off of the bridge and tried to lead you to the deeper center of the cruiser.

“Y/N, come on,” she pestered.

“Give me a minute,” you said, taking off down the hall. You regretted wearing the dress as you couldn't move as quickly through the halls as you would like. “Poe! Poe, wait!” you called, finally finding him a few feet from the hangar. He looked back at you as he continued to run, and after a few more steps, stopped.

“What?” he asked.

“Just—” you stopped, sighing. “I’m sorry. Be careful.” The corner of his mouth turned up as he nodded softly.

“You too.”

“I'll see you soon.” He sprinted off down the hall, making up time for the seconds he lost talking to you. You turned from the hallway, close enough to hear the scrambling in the hangar, and close enough to feel the impact of the explosion as it was destroyed. Stumbling into a wall, you watched the doors to the hangar close. Ready to scream, you stood and saw Poe. He looked hurt, but he wasn't floating in space.

“Poe!” you yelled, running to help him stand as Finn came up, too. Poe was holding his leg, looking in turmoil at the closed hangar.

“We need to get out of range of those star destroyers,” he struggled to say. You both helped him stand as BB-8 reconnected and beeped at you frantically. “You need to get somewhere else.”

“No, I—”

“You are more important than most on this cruiser,” he said, looking at you with wide eyes. You shook your head as Nové appeared at the end of the hallway.

“You could use my help,” you said, looking at him seriously. He smiled slightly and nodded.

“I know, and I know you want to help.” 

“Don't do anything stupid on that leg,” you said, sighing as you walked to Nové. She looked extremely relieved to see you alive as you approached. She touched your arms, making sure you were truly alright.

“Come on, Zaisa found an internal room least likely to be struck.”

“That's not going to matter if the entire cruiser goes down,” you began bitterly, before realizing what Nové had said. “Wait, Zaisa’s alive?”

“She boarded a transport, too. She left the starship looking for us.” You nodded your head, relieved that at least she had survived. You weren’t entirely sure it was going to matter, though, now. Nové gave you a look, telling you she was thinking the same as she led you to the room Zaisa had roped off.

A loud explosion came from above as you waited, and worry flooded your veins even more. You listened to the clamoring feet from above and looked at Nové pleadingly.

“Better them than you,” she said. You rolled your eyes, knowing that wasn't true. Neither was what Poe said about you being more important than anyone on the ship. The Resistance was necessary to every person in the galaxy who wanted to lead a life out of the controlling hands of the First Order. There was no way your safety was nearly as important as the Resistance’s survival.

A group of people ran past the room, and you pushed past Zaisa and opened the door to hear what they were saying.

“The General? The entire bridge?” 

Nové was at your tail and heard the news, too. You both exchanged a look and looked back at Zaisa. She gave you a warning look, telling you no before you could even do anything. With a smirk, you ducked into the crowd of people running past your room. You didn't stop running until you were two floors up.

“If anyone asks,” Nové said, panting, “I was trying to stop you.” You nodded and gave her another second before you made your way towards the bridge. The door was sealed off, with flaring lights at its head.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” 

You turned around and found Poe limping down the hallway towards you and Nové. Your heart had fallen into your stomach at hearing of the bridge's destruction, but seeing Poe alive lifted it a little. He looked like he wanted to scold you, and even started to do so as he approached, but all you could do was nod at what he was saying and hug him.

Your action threw him for a moment. He trailed off, not remembering what he was saying as he wrapped you in his arms, too, holding you close to his chest. Nové cleared her throat behind you both a few seconds later, reminding you that she was still there.

“What happened?” you asked, pulling away from him. His eyes locked with yours, and a little fire started in your stomach until you remembered why you both were here.

“The entire bridge is gone,” he said sadly.

“Leia?”

“Was the only survivor. I don't know much else. Finn and I watched the bridge explode—”

“Y/N.” You looked behind Poe and saw Amilyn moving towards you. Smiling, she put a hand on your arm, seeing the relieved look on your face. “You shouldn't be here.” Poe tutted slightly, making you smile.

“Where's Leia?” you asked.

“Medical Wing. Stay there until we get out of range of the First Order.” You began to argue but she held up a hand. “Please.”

“Fine.” Poe had a triumphant smirk on his face, and you rolled your eyes as you passed. You bumped your shoulder against his and he laughed softly, waiting for information from Holdo. Nové went down to inform Zaisa that you were alright after dropping you off at the Medical Wing.

Leia was in a coma. You had no idea how she was able to move through space and survive, but you were glad she did. The people you cared about most made it through, you told yourself, trying to look on the happier side of things. However, with the trailing First Order, it was hard to find that side.

Later on, Poe walked into the Medical Wing. You stood from Leia's side and remembered the last time the two of you had stood over an unconscious friend. Shame filled your bloodstream as you looked at him. You had lost your cool before, still reeling from the death of your parents, Han, and now a handful of people you had studied with and admired in your time with the Resistance. You were supposed to be a queen with composure, but there were some times you lost your nerves, too.

“Hey,” you said.

“They're about to give the debriefing. I figured you'd want to listen in.”

“I do, but what about you?”

“What about me?” he asked.

“You should get your leg checked out.”

“I'm fine.”

“You got blasted into a wall,” you said plainly. He frowned and nodded his head towards the door.

“I’m fine. Come on, we can't miss the debrief.” You frowned as you followed him up the stairs. Amilyn nodded your way as you sat near the front with Poe's fellow remaining pilots. Commander D'Acy stood and nodded at the group that had gathered.

“General Organa– Leia– is unconscious, but recovering,” she began, sighing. “That's the only good news I have. Admiral Ackbar, all of leadership, are gone. Leia was the sole survivor on the bridge.”

“Oh dear!” Threepio exclaimed.

“If she were here, she'd say save your sorrow for after the fight. To that end, the chain of command is clear as to who should take her place.” Poe picked his head up expectantly at this and you locked eyes. “Vice Admiral Holdo of the cruiser, Ninka.” He clenched his jaw and looked back down.

“Thank you, Commander,” Amilyn said, coming to the front. “Four hundred of us on three ships. We're the very last of the Resistance, but we're not alone. In every corner of the galaxy, the downtrodden and oppressed know our symbol and they put their hope in it. We are the spark that will light the fire that will restore the Republic. That spark, this resistance, must survive. That is our mission. Now, to your stations and may the Force be with us.” Everyone around you started to stand up. You looked over at Poe and saw that he looked less than impressed.

“Going to go get that leg looked at?” you asked, hoping to coax him away from whatever fight was growing behind his eyes.

“I'm going to see what's going on first,” he said, standing.

“Amilyn just told us.”

“No, she said keep doing what we're doing. That's not a plan.”

“Vice Admiral, Commander Dameron,” he introduced as he approached her, making Amilyn look over at you with a smirk. “With our current fuel consumption, there's a very limited amount of time that we can stay out of range of those star destroyers.”

“Very kind of you to make me aware,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension.

“We need to shake them before we can find a new base, so . . . what's our plan?” Poe asked with the same level of contempt.

“Our plan, Captain? Not commander, right? Wasn't it Leia's last official act to demote you for your Dreadnought plan? Where we lost our entire bombing fleet?”

“Captain, Commander, you can call me whatever you like, I just want to know what's going on,” he said with a challenging look.

“Of course, you do. I understand. I've dealt with plenty of trigger-happy flyboys like you. You're impulsive,” she said, getting in his face, talking low, “Dangerous, and the last thing we need right now. So, stick to your post, and follow my orders.”

“And which orders would that be, Vice Admiral?” Poe asked, clenching his teeth.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and when I need you, I'll let you know.” Poe sighed and began to step away when she spoke again. “Oh, and take Y/N with you. Make sure she stays safe and in the Medical Wing.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Poe said, storming past you as he walked out. He stalked out of the bridge, not bothering to wait for you to join him.

“Poe! Come on, I can't run in this,” you said, struggling to catch up. He slowed and sighed as you caught up.

“No one asked you to come dressed up as a damn princess,” he said, pushing open a door to a staircase leading down to the Medical Wing. You scoffed and grabbed his arm, stopping him in the abandoned staircase.

“I understand you're angry—”

“Of course, I'm angry! What else am I supposed to be?” he yelled, making you flinch a little. He frowned at your reaction and took hold of your arms, rubbing his thumbs up and down softly. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking this out on you, it's just,” he stopped and sighed, “I feel so powerless. About what happened with the dreadnought, and on the hangar, then the bridge, and— and with you,” he added softly.

“I know, so do I,” you said gently. He nodded and dropped his hands. “Let's just go check on Leia. And get you cleaned up.”

“You don't have to be my nurse,” he said, following you down the stairs.

“I'm not going to be your nurse,” you said, opening the door to the Medical Wing. “They moved Leia to a separate room. I need to contact Naboo. Can you stay out of trouble until then?”

“I think I can manage,” he said with a smile. You smiled back gently and closed the door behind you before making your way to Leia's room. You let yourself in and saw Nové speaking to a blue image on Hologram. You stepped in and saw that she was talking to Broden.

“Ah, my lady,” he said when you appeared in the picture. “Nové was just filling me in on what has been happening. I’m glad to see you’re alright.”

“Thank you, Sarsa. We need help.”

“I know. I’m just not sure what we can do.”

“What do you mean? Send our fleet, we need a rescue,” you said plainly.

“Our fleet is nothing compared to the First Order’s. If the Hosnian system had been spared, we could call on the Republic Starfleet, but now I’m not sure what to do.”

“So, you’re just going to leave your queen to die?” Nové asked.

“Absolutely not, but as far as our people know,” he said, looking at you seriously, “You are alive and well here on Naboo.”

“I know, but right now, the fate of the Resistance, of the galaxy, relies on us escaping. If we don’t stop the First Order, they will continue to destroy all the good left in the world until there is no one left to stand up to them. We need help. Now.”

“Of course,” he said, shaking his head, “You’re right. I’ll get our fleet ready and send word to our allies. We need to turn the attack on Hosnian Prime into a call to action, not a tool of fear mongering. I’ll—”

“Lord Broden? Sarsa?” you called as he looked panicked, looking off to the side. His holographic image began to distort, and the last thing you saw before he disappeared was the helmet of a Stormtrooper.

For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You could only stare at the spot that Broden’s holographic figure had been, hoping to bring him back by sheer force of will. When the silence was finally broken, it was Nové who spoke first.

“I can try calling back, seeing if I can contact Loré or Sondé—”

“If they got to Broden, that means Naboo is taken,” you said weakly. Nové nodded her head solemnly.

“It’s not your fault, Y/N. Even if you had been there, you couldn’t have stopped them.” You sighed and nodded your head. You still hadn’t looked at her, too focused on the spot Sarsa had previously been. 

“Naboo is taken,” you said again, the weight of it washing over you as you sat down next to her, too stunned to speak. The last bit of hope that you would escape from the First Order was gone in an instant, just like so many others who died on the bridge in an instant.

[drethanramslay]

Part 5: Life and Death

Pairing: Aurora x MC (Iris Everette)

Word count: 4.2 K words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Warning: Physical Abuse, Emotional Abuse, torture, mention of suicide, violence slight description of blood. This chapter takes a dark turn and I am warning you guys.

Author's note: I usually keep this for the end but I just wanted to say, keep a box of tissues on standby.

Taglist: @miyakokurono @agent-breakdance @trappedinfandoms @vampiregirlsblog @openheart12 @sekizincimektup @lilyofchoices (let me know if you want to added or removed from the tag list)

Songs: Iris by Goo Goo Dolls , Numb by Declan J Donovan , Forever and Always by Parachute

Forgive me if there are any mistakes

"Seems like we will be here for sometime." Aurora said as she slid down to sit on the floor. Iris sighed as she sat opposite her.

A beat of silence passed over them, no one knowing where to start. Many times Iris opened her mouth and closed it like a goldfish, but nothing came out.

How did we come to this?

"I'm-" Iris began.

"Sorry." Aurora blurted out.

"What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything!!"

Aurora stammered. "I-I- I am so sorry that I called for a break when you were going through shit. I am so, so horrible and such a ginormous asshole-"

"NO." Iris moved towards and held her hands. "Do not for a second think that you are an asshole. You are an angel on this earth. A fucking blessing for my worthless self. You are- just...wow. I am so fucking lucky to have met you."

Aurora gave a small giggle. "You are not worthless babe." Iris smiled.  If she had a future, she would have spent all of the time making her smile and laugh.

"God I missed making you laugh so much.."

"I miss you too... You and me...are we good?"

Iris gave a fragile smile before sighing. "All my life, I have been alone. I had learnt from a young age that the world is evil place and that you can only depend yourself...when you left me, I could have spent a few days moping around and eventually gotten over you. It would have sucked but I would have been okay."

"Are you saying that you don't want me anymore?" Aurora's bottom lip quivered.

"No...the old me would have packed up and moved on....But I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to live alone anymore. I don't want to run anymore. I want to be with you. I want to see you happy. I want to share the good, the bad and the ugly..."

Aurora leaned forward and hugged Iris. Iris clutched on to her like she was the anchor in this shit storm. Aurora placed a kiss on her crown. A pregnant pause later, Aurora spoke up.

"Adara...what did you mean by 'don't waste tears on a dead woman'? Are you....sick?"

Iris sighed. "No I am not sick. Just that my luck is fantastic... Guess it's story time because I am just tired of hurting you and me.."

"I was adopted by Grayson Alejandro and Francesca Everette- Alejandro. My mom could not have babies as a result of a bad accident that's why they were forced to adopt. My mom loved me as if I was from her own womb, and not for a single moment did she make me feel neglected. She would sing me Spanish lullabies and hold me when the thunder would scare me. There will always be a place in my heart for her." Iris teared up a little. Aurora squeezed her tighter, not letting her go.

"My dad? Not so much. He always resented my mom for a problem which wasn't even her fault. And he hated me, because to him, I was just an outsider stealing away all his wife's love. He had his days when he he actually acknowledged that he was a  father and was a good husband... But those were so rare that I could count those instances on one hand.

When I turned ten, his business started dipping into losses. He made couple of bad investments, which just made situations worse. Instead of using his fucking brain and doing something about it, the fucker would go and get drunk. Initially, he would just head to his room and sleep it off... But then, shit hit the fan."

Iris took a deep breath, bracing herself to continue the story.

"I was home alone one day, just doing my homework on the dining table. My mom had gone out to get groceries. I was pretty comfortable staying by myself. He entered home, drunk as usual but, he was angry. I could feel his wrath, emitting from him like seismic waves. He wanted to vent it out. And what is better than a small ten year old girl-" Iris choked.

"He picked me up by the scruff of my neck and threw me across the room. I hit the wall hard and landed on my side. I was in shock. I didn't understand what had I done. When I proceeded to ask him what was wrong he became even angrier. He grabbed me by my hair and slapped me, screaming that 'I' was the reason behind his ruin. That I was just a cursed child."

"I ran to my room when I heard my mom's home keys jingling. I went to the adjacent bathroom and tried to provide first aid as best as I could. I had such a nasty bruise on my hip, that I couldn't sit for a couple days. But I played it of, and prayed that this was a one time thing."

"It again happened within three month's time. The frequency and the intensity of the beatings slowly increased. He broke my left wrist twice in a matter of eight months. He had become daring and it was becoming hard to hide it from my mom. I didn't want her to know this. She was already stressed with the financial situation and I didn't want her to be beaten up by Grayson."

"I had turned thirteen and that was the first time he made me bleed. Earlier it was just throwing me around, kicking me and a ton of nasty bruises. It was so bad. I think I had forgotten to switch off the hallway light that one night. So, he stormed into my room and dragged me out to the kitchen. He bent me over the kitchen counter and he took a steak knife-" Iris sobbed. Aurora was flabbergasted. She had tears streaming down her face.

Iris took a deep breath to centre herself. "The scars you see on the back of my legs? That was his tally. A track on how many times I misbehaved. I have 24 full lines and a half. I just lay there screaming till my throat was sore but he didn't once stop." Iris' hand unconsciously reached for the back of her legs, feeling them through her scrub material.

"Did he ever r-"

"Thankfully no. Otherwise I would have ended my damn life."

Aurora sobbed. "Please don't talk like that Adara..please.."

"I'm sorry Rory..." Iris kissed he cheek as they lay in each other's arms.

"He used to beat me up when my mom was not around. One day, she found him and the meltdown that happened..." Iris shuddered at the memory.

"Did he ever abuse your mom?"

"Emotionally? Yes. Physically? He just backhanded her once when she tried to step in. After he was done beating me black and blue, my mom would tend to my injuries. She would cry and try to kiss them better. She always put forth a strong front, to keep our hopes alive and to keep me motivated. But we knew, that nothing would ever be okay as long as he was around."

"When my mom was hospitalized, god, it was hell. He stopped me from going to school. He would lock me in my room, give me food once a day. He didn't allow me to go meet my dying mother. He tried breaking my spirit by making me weak so that he could easily treat me as his punching bag. Some days I was so bruised that I looked like a Dalmatian."

Aurora was full fledged crying. Ugly sobs poured out of her, her heart breaking for this beautiful trauma in front of her.

Iris continued, rushing to unload all her baggage. "When I got that call that she was going to die, I escaped through my window. I ran to the hospital just in the nick of time. My mom had tears in her eyes when she saw my state. I held her in my arms and comforted her, just like she used to do for me... She told me that she had collected money which was just enough for me to finish high school and get through college. She gave me her will, because she trusted absolutely no one. She apologized for not being brave enough. She told me to never let my-"

"-spirit break.." Aurora completed the sentence, remembering the night she stitched her up in the empty hospital room.

"Yeah... I said my goodbyes and she passed away in my arms. When I reached home, entering through my window, he was waiting there. He wasn't even drunk.. that day I got one of the worst thrashing ever. Broken wrist, black eyes what not. He cut of the electricity to my room. He cut the water supply to my room as well. He even went as far as to nail my window shut." Iris blinked and more tears fell on Aurora's scrub.

"How did you get out?" Aurora asked as she caressed Iris's hair.

"My room was facing my neighbor's  window and they were so close that you could look into the room. Two weeks after my mom passed away, a family moved in. My current lawyer, Thomas's room, was facing mine. When I saw him move in, I immediate stuck a help me sign on the window. It took some time but then it finally caught their attention."

"We conversed through the window and I told them everything. Thomas's dad was a lawyer and we slowly came up with a plan. They both came home one day when I was still locked in my room half dead from thirst and starvation. My father greeted them and let them in. They laughed and chatted. Thomas's even asked him if he had any children, and guess what he said... He didn't?! That motherfucker was so mental that he forgot about his daughter who he hit seven ways to Sunday."

Aurora just held on to Iris, kissing her crown repeatedly.

Shit. This just is so fucked up...

"They bugged my house with hidden cameras and microphones. The local police had been informed and they were just waiting for the right moment. And that moment came."

"Grayson was pissed when he came home that day. He unlocked my room and dragged me to the living room. He wanted me to get water for him or something but I was so weak that I couldn't even pick up a tray. So I tripped and fell. And, he went ballistic.”

“He picked me up and threw me into the coffee table. It shattered under me due to the force. The scars on my back, it was because a six inch long glass had embedded in my back. It was so close to my spinal cord that even if it would have moved a little I could have been paralyzed neck down. He kicked me so hard that I fractured my ribs. He brought his favourite steak knife to carve another tally mark. At that moment I thought I was gonna die. And, I wouldn't have minded that. I would be in a happy place with my mom. I would be free from all this."

"I waited for the final blow but it never came. Police had stormed in and they were restraining him. Paramedics were running towards me and then I blacked out."

Aurora shuddered. Her heart ached so much. Thu carry such a painful party, sure would have taken a toll on anyone. Even the most beautiful roses have thorns, to protect themselves from predators.

"Thomas's dad represented me free of cost. They were going to jail him for 25 years but I don't know how, his lawyer reduced it to 12 years. And as he was leaving the court room, he said quote unquote- ' Don't for a moment think that I am going to give up. When I come out, I am going to come for you and kill you."

"After that I stayed with the Mendez family. They were literally blessings on earth. They paid for most of my bills. Mrs, Mendez, after I came home from the hospital, made sure I ate four times a day. And Mr. Mendez employed a home tutor, to cover up the portion left, so that I could graduate on time. And Thomas, god he is such a sweetheart. Initially, if any male touched me I would go into a full fledged panic attack. He would always be there whenever I had an attack... He would watch shows with me and kept me company whenever he had free time. It had been so long since I felt someone loved me."

"You deserve every good thing in this world Adara. You are always worth it."  Iris gave a fragile smile.

"Thomas had gotten out of law school and I was his first client. I had to go through intense physiotherapy to regain my strength. I was in and out of hospitals, be it for follow-up surgery or therapy."

"Therapy helped a little but I don't think anyone can every get over something like this. I discontinued it when I entered med school because I wanted it to be a fresh start. I could have gone and worked in Seattle or any place I wanted but I came back to Boston. To my roots. To be closer to my mom. And now, he is back. I was running from him when you found me."

"Oh MY GOD. I AM GOING TO KILL THAT SON OF A BITCH. LIKE HOW DARE HE TRAUMATIZE MY GIRLFRIEND!! THE HELL HE IS GONNA LAY A SINGLE FINGER ON YOU. HE IS GONNA CATCH THESE HANDS I-" Aurora's angry rant was interrupted by a giggle.

She looked down and saw her giggling. "Gosh. OMG you look as angry as a little kitten. So cute." Iris giggled again.

"Hey! These hands can giveth life and taketh them as well."

They laughed a little more, before they settled in a comfortable silence.

"Why do you think people say I love you?" Iris asked.

"I dunno man. Maybe because they love each other." Aurora snorted, kind of confused by the sudden change in topic. Her heart was beating faster.

Oh it's happening. Aurora stay calm. STAY FUCKING CALM.

"Yeah I know but I honestly feel there is a difference in 'I love you' and 'I'm in love with you'. The former is with family and friends who most of the times stay loyal to you. But the latter is when you have romantic feelings towards a person. It is just so weird y'know? There is just a difference of one word yet the meanings are so different."

"That's true. But why the sudden change in topic? Not that I mind." Aurora asked breathlessly.

Iris turned towards Aurora with vivid green eyes. "Because I am in love with you Aurora Lucille Emery."

Aurora's breath had been taken away for the second time that evening.

She loves me. SHE FUCKING LOVES ME.

With tears in her eyes, she cupped Iris' face, "I am completely and utterly in love with you too Iris Adara Everette. I have been since the day you broke Vincenzo's hand. I loved you even when we were on a break. And I will, continue loving you till the last breath."

The way Iris' face lit up, was one of the best things she had ever seen in the world. Their lips met and they could feel firecrackers burst around them, their hearts bursting with the amount of love they had for each other.

They were sitting on the floor of an elevator, which was stuck in a storm, but nobody gave a damn.

This was their moment.

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

"So what do we do Thomas?" Aurora asked as she rubbed Iris' back. They were in Ethan's office, deciding what is the steps they need to take. Ethan was pacing in the office, his eyes looking like a slow brewing storm.

"Well first of all, we are going to apply for a protective order. Iris I know how you feel about it but that was a decade ago. The laws now will protect you better. Trust me." Thomas spoke in a very somber voice.

"Okay. Tell me what I need to do." Iris took a deep breath.

"Grayson was made aware of the restraining order filed against him by you. And since he violated them twice once by calling you and the second time by showing up at your work place, we can hold charges against him and that can throw him in a holding cell temporarily."

"That's good right? We need more time so that we can send his ass packing into prison." Aurora spoke with such determination that Iris was blown away.

"Now, Iris correct me if I am wrong, he threatened you, right?"

"Yes. He said that he would kill me. I can send you the voice recording now if you want."

"Yes, that would be perfect. Now I want you to listen to me carefully. I know that no court would be open now. So, go home and get your evidence ready. You will go to court the first thing in the morning tomorrow and sign the affidavit asking for the Protection Order. They will give you temporary one before they set a date for hearing."

"Do you have your restriction order on you right now?" Thomas asked.

"I have it with me. I will send a photo." Ethan piqued in.

"Good, good. After you assemble your evidence, go and stay in a hotel for the night. Take a friend or your girlfriend with you. It's so that nobody can get caught as collateral. And you can stay safe."

"Ethan and I will take her home and then head to a hotel." Aurora spoke into the phone.

"Yes. And I will be coming down tomorrow as soon as possible, 'kay? Luz would like to meet her aunty Iris as well."

Iris gave a small smile. "Thanks Tommy. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, bye Iris. Please stay stay and don't you fucking die."

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

"If you don't come down in five minutes, I will call the police and the fucking army to storm your penthouse. And no, I'm not taking any criticism." Aurora spoke in a stern voice.

"Yes ma'am." Iris gave a fake salute. Despite things being bad, she felt some hope. Hope that this could end once and for all.

Hope. What a wonderful thing.

"I am going in with her." Ethan said as he unfastened his seat belt.

"Okay let's go." They both stepped out into the Boston night. Iris took a deep breath, smelling the night wind with hints of the sea. When she stepped into the lobby, she expected to see Hugh, their security guard but he wasn't there.

Huh. Strange. Must have gone to take a leak probably. Iris brushed off her doubts.

They stepped into the lift and she pressed the button to the penthouse level.

"Thank you Ethan."

"For what?"

"For helping me. You are my boss and you didn't have to-"

Ethan rolled his eyes and stopped her. "Shut up Everette. You are like a younger sister and I would really like to to see that asshole behind bars. So relax."

They reached the her home and she unlocked the door and entered.

"Go and get your stuff. I will be waiting in the living room."

Iris turned to head towards her room. She started packing her old papers, her restriction order and enough clothes for a night into a messenger bag. She was fast and thorough in her work. She was about to head out of her room when a crash and bang stopped her in her tracks.

It could not have been Ethan. Ethan was not clumsy and he had the hands of a surgeon. Stable and sure.

She picked up her trusty pocketknife and hid it in the sleeves of her leather jacket. She knew it wasn't much but it would atleast help her evade the attacker.

She slipped into the darkness, walking softly, making sure her footsteps weren't heard. She almost screamed when she saw Ethan's body, lying face down. She quickly rushed to his side, bend down and pressed two fingers to his neck.

She felt a pulse. It was weak but he would survive.

In the quiet environment of the penthouse, she heard the soft click of a gun. She froze in her place.

"He will survive. Didn't do much damage. But can't say the same about you mija. Get up. No funny moves."

Iris slowly got up. While she was at it, she sneakily speed dialed Aurora's number, so that Rory could hear some part of the conversation and call the police.

"Lift your hands."

She raised her hands above her head and turned around. "Grayson." She spat his name. She hoped that she won't be stick with this guy for a long time.

Stall him. Attack only when necessary.

"God you need to start showing me some fucking respect." He slowly stepped out of the shadows.

"I don't show respect to dickheads."

"Wow. When did you get so ballsy? The old you would be whimpering on the floor."

"I grew up. Matured with time. Can't say the same for you. You look like a wrinkly ball sack."

God Iris why can't you for once use your fucking mind and shut your trap. It's a life and death scenario, dammit.

"I'm gonna enjoy tearing you limb by limb." Iris looked around, assessing the place. The entrance was blocked by him and there was no point running into her room because that would be nothing but a dead end. The only place which looked like a safe bet was the kitchen island, where Sienna's knives set was placed. Finding the fastest route she turned her flashing eyes towards him.

"Try me bitch."

He let out a war cry and started shooting at her. Iris ducked and lithely slipped behind the island counter. She felt a twinge of pain in her arm, where the bullet grazed her but she didn't pay any attention to it. She grabbed the sharp knife and waited with bated breath.

I need to get that gun a way from him.

"Oh, so we are gonna play hide and seek huh? Ready or not here I comeee." Grayson sang out.

She waited and waited and when she saw his shadow approaching her she leaped out her hiding place and struck his hand, forcing him to drop the gun. She kicked it under the fridge. She vaulted herself with the help of the kitchen counter and kicked him in the chest.

"Now this is a fair fight." Iris gripped her knife tightly and ran towards him.

She sent a flurry of jabs and hook shots on him. He cowered, trying to block the best he could do. Her knife sliced his stomach and blood poured out in copious amount. But that victory was not very long lived. He punched her on the face, momentarily disorienting her. He took the hand with the knife and smacked it against his kneecap, resulting in her to drop her weapon.

"You bitch!!" He aimed for her in the stomach again but this time, she was prepared. She blocked and hit both her hands on his temples. She then thrust her palm upwards, breaking his nose.

"You should plan for retirement, probably in a jail cell asshole." Iris taunted, enjoying the blood gushing down his face. She knew it was sadistic but this man, tormented her for six consecutive years. He deserved worse.

"Aaarrghhhhh!!!" He tackled her and landed on top of her, knocking the breath out of her. He wrapped his hands around her throat and started choking. "I wanted to extend this playtime with you but you aren't being cooperative-" he squeezed some more. Iris was choking and her vision was getting darker on the periphery.

I won't go like this.

Iris started flapping her legs, trying to get a good hit but, Grayson's grip was tight. "Adios, puta."

"Why don't you adios your ass outta here!!" Aurora screamed as she hit his head with a baseball bat.

If iris wasn't half unconscious, she would have found it hot. Coughing, she tried to get large gulps of air into her screaming lungs.

Aurora was relentless, she continued to beat the fucking shit out of him. She hit him so hard that the fucking bat broke. Iris had her jaw on the floor. She tried to get up but a sharp pain went up her hand and leg. She saw that she has another bullet embedded in the meaty part of her thigh, bleeding profusely. Her wrist was sprained and she had a black eye.

Grayson, even though he looked more like human pulp, kicked Aurora's legs out and she fell. That guy is like a cockroach, Iris groaned internally. They wrestled and stood up. There were punches and curses thrown at each other. He was about to attack Aurora when gunshots rang through the air. The police were at the door and they had shot.

Grayson collapsed and groaned in pain. Aurora stood there, catching her breath. She slowly let out a long breath. She turned towards Adara and smiled. She tried walking to her, but she stumbled.

Falling.

"RORY NO!!" Iris dived forward, ignoring the pain in her leg, to catch the falling woman. She caught her in her arms and when she looked down, she saw a knife sticking out from her stomach. Blood was just pouring out fast and pooling around them, like a red halo.

"Rory you fucking idiot." Iris cried out.  She took out her top and pressed against the wounds but, there were too many stab wounds.

That son of a bitch!!

"Don't worry..... Doesn't hurt." Aurora wheezed out, but she winced.

"Don't fucking lie to me. Why would you fucking do that?!" Iris cried out, feeling completely and utterly helpless. She tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure, but it didn't help. More and more blood poured out, just like a river.

"We need EMT's right now. We have three casualties and two of them are severely injured." The policewoman spoke into her com.

"You...are free...now." Aurora gasped out. The pain was too much. Too damn much.

"What is even the fucking point of being free when you are not there?!" Iris cried as she pressed her head against Aurora's.

"I...love you...so much.. I am so-" Aurora coughed, and blood coating her lips. "-so greatful to have...met you."

"No Rory!! I want to have a future with you. I want to marry you, adopt children with you. Get fat and old with you. Spend every waking moment beside you. I love you so fucking much, I can't see my future without you in it. Don't you get it?! There is no 'me' without you!!"

Tears rolled down Aurora's eyes. At this point, it was hard to differentiate whose tears they were. "I am so lucky...to die in the arms of a...woman I love...nobody gets...that."

The darkness was slowly calling out to Aurora like a siren. It was so so easy to just slip into the other side. So tempting. There was just a single rope tethering her to the world.

Iris. Her Adara. Her little red.

"Rory NO!! You feel fucking stay alive for me okay?! You are gonna fucking fight this and survive. I just can't loose another person I love to that son of a bitch!!"

"It's okay little red... Go live your life for the two of us....Make me ...prou-"

"RORY FUCKING NO!! HEY LEMME GO HEY- RORY PLEASE BABY STAY ALIVE STAY-"

.....

...

..

.

I had to take breaks while writing this because it became so hard to type with blurry eyes.

before you guys come at me with pitchforks, there is an EPILOGUE. Be on the lookout, you do NOT want to miss that.

Thank you for giving me a chance to share this story with you guys:)

[serenzippity]

Viva

Words: 3796 Member: Eventual Hyungwon/OC, mentions of Wonho/OC, OC/ OC Genre: Angst Warning(s): Language, domestic violence, discrimination, dark themes

Chapter One

August 15th, 2019 Starship Entertainment Seoul, South Korea

Every step that I took sent a pang of dread up and down my spine where it nestled in my brain and reminded me how much I didn’t want to be here. Maybe it was the pinch of my heels or the fact that it was 11 in the morning and I still hadn’t had my morning coffee. Maybe it was the fact that I was dreading dealing with my boss, a man of admirable skills but very old-fashioned ideals. But in the end, as I stared at the door to the meeting room I decided that it was because I didn’t want to deal with the topic at hand.

There was another damned dating scandal and the whole building was buzzing because of it.

Rolling my eyes, I did everything I could to steel myself at the knowledge I would be sitting through another round of ‘who is wrong because I’m never wrong’ with the company’s legal team. It was a chore itself just to open the door and take my spot near the head of the table. Soon the room was filled to the brim with men that all had sour looks on their faces.

Doing a quick tally, I counted practically the entire Starship Legal Team ranging from the corporate stooges to the entire Monsta X team, to even a few members of the other artist’s teams. Almost everyone was here because the scandal, despite not being public knowledge yet, was extremely high-profile. It wasn’t often that an idol decided to shack up with an international pop star.

The meeting began with honorifics and a brief on the situation at hand. The senior partner on the team, Mr. Park, spat out all the details as if they personally offended him and his family. Lee Hoseok, also known as Wonho, was currently in a long-distance relationship with singer Reagan Brooks after he met her on the Jingle Ball circuit. They were friends first and foremost, doing public events together when she came to Korea in March and somehow, they were able to keep the relationship quiet until a nosy intern came crying to the company. Shidae called for an inquiry into his contract by the legal team, thus culminating into the cesspool of old-school testosterone that was brewing in the conference room.

“After overlooking his contract,” droned Mr. Park, “It can be argued that Hoseok-goon did not formally violate his dating agreement. However, I’d like to recommend sanctions against him and a formal remand to end the relationship.” I cringed at a mix of the condescending honorific as well as the collective murmur of agreement from the other men in the room.

“This relationship is unacceptable for an idol in his standing, and it should never have begun in the first place,” cried one of the members of the WJSN legal team. If I didn’t have a sour taste in my mouth before, I did now.

‘Those poor girls,’ I thought as he continued to argue in favor of sanctions.

“All in favor?”

Every person in the room, save for me, raised a hand. This did not go unnoticed by Mr. Park, and the glare that he sent my way was intense. He did not like me in the slightest, often citing my connections as the only reason as to how I got this job. He was against me from the beginning— be it because of my last name or my sex— and there was always a tension between us.

“Mrs. Hamlin?” he seethed, eyes flitting up and down with distaste.

“Well, Mr. Park,” I said as I cleared my throat, ready to give my take on it despite the multiple pairs of angry eyes looking at me. “Despite the call for sanctions against Lee Hoseok, we legally cannot file them against him.”

“And why not?” He looked at me like I spat in his face, but after a year of his abuse, I was far from scared of his perpetually angry look.

“His contract states that he isn’t allowed to date until three years after the band’s debut date or until they have two wins, whichever comes first,” I tell him pointedly, looking down at my copy of the contract where I highlighted and marked prevalent points in it. “It has been four years since their debut and multiple wins, therefor he fulfilled that aspect of the contract.”

“We understand that—”

“Furthermore,” I said, forgetting hierarchy and not letting him finish, “Beyond the parameters of the dating restriction, his contract does not outline what will happen to him or the band should he choose to date after the prerequisites have been met. The contract simply moves on to his allowances and expenditures in the dorm. Legally,” putting a lot of emphasis on the word, “we cannot change or amend his contract to fit your moral ideals.”

The last sentence caused an uproar. It was like a bomb went off in the room as many of the lawyers cried out in anger. I understood that it wasn’t the best choice of words, but the law is the law. Despite being educated in America, Contract Law in Korea was virtually the same. Contracts cannot be amended at a whim and this was a case example of adherence over adaption.

“Mr. Park,” I hissed over the uproar, “You know that we cannot amend his contract without having a summit, drafting a new one, and forcing him and all the other members to renew their contracts prematurely. It would cost a lot of time and money to do so.”

The anger in his eyes told me that he was pissed off, but the slouch in his shoulders told me that he knew I was correct. “Enough,” he shouted over the voices of the other lawyers. They silenced instantly, but there was still a palpable tension in the room. “What do you suggest then Mrs. Hamlin.”

Clearing my throat, I flipped to the last page of my brief. I had outlined a plan of attack that would maintain the Starship ideals but keep from breaching his contract. “I suggest that we work with Ms. Brooks’ team. We keep the media out of it and work collectively to keep the whole thing quiet. They can meet on their own dimes, but the terms will be set by both managements. Everything must be quiet, discrete, and maintain a zero-tolerance for social media.”

Mr. Park leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face as he stewed over my plan of attack. I knew I was right, and he knew I was right even though he didn’t want to admit it.  “Alright,” he said with a groan, “We will work with the American team to connect with Ms. Brooks’ management. But in the meantime, you,” he said pointing to me, “will be the one to tell him and Hongsik to stay home. No unexplained trips or outings with her until this is settled.”

“But—”

“That is all. I want the Monsta X team notified today.” With that, he stood up and began to gather the papers scattered in front of him. I felt the fury within me begin to bubble, but I bit my tongue because I knew there was no getting out of what Mr. Park said. The command held the weight of a ton of bricks, and I felt the beginnings of a headache start to pound behind my eyes.

Gathering my things, I practically ran out of the room, ignoring all the nasty looks of my coworkers and team members. My heels clicked as I made my way into my office, and I could only guess that I had a sour look on my face because Seyoung was standing by my desk with a cup of coffee and a bottle of painkillers in hand.

“You’re an angel,” I groaned taking both eagerly. I popped a few and washed them down with the coffee before kicking my heels off and leaning back in my chair with an overexaggerated groan. “Can you find me an intern please?” Grabbing a notepad, I began to work on the task that was draining all my energy.

“Be right back,” he said before dutifully filing out of the room and returning a few moments later with a bright-eyed young woman.

“Take this memo to Hongsik on the fourth floor. Tell him that it is imperative that he, his staff, and the members arrive promptly.” I handed her a folder with the handwritten note. She nodded eagerly and pranced out of my office like a chipper doe. Normally I’d be amused by her enthusiasm, but the pounding behind my eyes was growing stronger and stronger.

“Rough morning so far?” Seyoung asked as he leaned against the doorway.

“You have no idea.” I slipped on a comfortable pair of flats and chugged on my coffee as I thought about a plan of attack for the meeting I was dreading. “I’m just good at my job and that means that I get the bitch work. It’s fine.”

“Well if it will help, do you want me to get you more coffee and some refreshments for the meeting I’m guessing you’re going to be hosting?”

I only gave him a pathetic pout and nod, finishing off the hot, bitter lifeblood in the cup. I tossed it and began to outline a brief for the meeting. I was meticulous when it came to the do’s and do not’s on the list that it was almost painful with the amount of effort I was putting in. Here I was, a partner under Starship, doing the work of an associate. I was thankful for my position and the opportunities I had been afforded the last year, but the blatant prejudice against me was really beginning to wear me down.

Granted, I came into the position with marks against me. I’d only been out of law school for a year before I was “offered” the partner position at Starship. It was a mix of nepotism, bribery, and threats that made me physically ill when I thought about them. However, for the last two years, I had become an expert at burying the darkest aspects of my life. It was like taking a layer of clothing off and throwing it into a bin. Shedding those parts of me became second nature. From the circumstances of my job to my marriage, everything worked against me in an effort to make me crumble. But I worked too damn hard to get to where I was.

Running my hands through my dark hair, I ticked down the minutes with busy work. Making sure everything was set for the meeting, I put my heels back on and began to pour cups of water from a pitcher that Seyoung graciously brought me. Everything was perfect for the awkward, and hopefully short, conversation that I would have to have with the group and their team.

The meeting was set to start at 3 PM sharp, but by 3:05 I was clicking my pen with nerves. By 3:15 the nerves began to die down and unadulterated annoyance began to take their place. By 3:35 I was pacing in my uncomfortable heels as I worked to calm my stewing mind. It didn’t help, rather the pacing just made me angrier.

“Seyoung!” My assistant scrambled through the door, surprised at my sharp tone. His wide eyes were fixated on my hands which were currently clenched so hard that my nails were cutting little crescent moons into my palms. “Find the schedule for Monsta X. If they are in the building I want to know where they are.”

With a nod, he dutifully returned to his desk and within seconds I had the exact location of the sources of my anger. Taking the elevator down to the third-floor practice rooms I stomped my way through the Starship building, scaring associates and interns alike with my angry eyes and gently bleeding palms.

I could hear the music coming from the biggest room the moment I stepped off the elevator. The deep vocals and house beats vibrated through the halls, beckoning me on my way as I rehearsed a scolding in my mind. By the time I reached the door the music was blaring, and I just wanted the thumping to stop. It aggravated the pounding that had returned to behind my eyes, and it only made me that much angrier.

Opening the door, I walked in to see the seven idols rehearsing their choreography with their team standing around watching them like hawks. No one even seemed to notice me come in and somehow that only added to my frustration.

“Pardon!” I yelled, my native language coming out though my reddening vision as I honed in on their manager. No one heard me, which prompted me to stomp over to the in-house sound system and pull the aux chord out of the speaker. A shrill pitch rang out, startling everyone and causing them to finally notice my appearance. The Monsta X members were in mid-position, some falling as the music cut out and they were awkwardly pulled out of their concentration. The team was scrambling to find out what cut the music, only to give me shocked looks at the anger on my face and the chord dangling from my fingers.

“Mrs. Hamlin what—” their manager, Hongsik, asked stepping forward. But I wasn’t in the mood to hear what he had to say. I quickly cut him off, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him with rage.

“Ta gueule,” I shouted in French, quickly switching back to Korean. “You were supposed to be in my office forty-five minutes ago!”

“For what?” Hongsik looked at me with wide eyes at my harsh demeanor. He and I had met in passing multiple times and he was a pleasant man who I had always gotten along with, but right now that established acquaintanceship was out the window.

“I sent a messenger down here to tell you and your team to be in my office at 3 PM sharp.” I hissed the last word venomously, glaring at the older man fearlessly. “We have come to a decision about Hoseok’s relationship.” The blonde-haired boy in question looked down at his feet in shame at the mention of his name.

I gave the idol a once over, before looking at the rest of the Monsta X team with fury in my eyes. I dropped the chord on the floor and moved to walk out the door. “My office, now.” My voice was a dark whisper, offering no room for protest. I turned the handle to the door and slammed it, not looking back to see if anyone was following.

-x-

The meeting itself went well once the team and Hoseok finally made their way in. All of them were understanding of the terms, and surprisingly the idol was very complacent. Despite the relatively acrimonious first impression, Hoseok seemed like a nice guy who had genuine concerns for both the happiness of his fans and his girlfriend.

It only took an hour before I dismissed them, handing over my card to Hoseok just in case some of the other partners tried to change the terms of his contract again. He seemed appreciative, bowing deeply and giving me a beautiful dimpled smile that would have made any other woman swoon.

The rest of the day went on as usual, with the typical snide remarks from my colleagues and the copious amounts of busywork. I left the building at my average time with a wave to Seyoung before going outside and sliding into the car that my husband sent for me. The ride with his driver was silent, something that I had grown accustomed to after two years of marriage. It only took approximately five minutes to arrive at the lavish apartment complex, but he always insisted that I take the car rather than walk.

My feet ached painfully by the time I took the elevator to the top floor of the building and stepped out into the spacious penthouse. Every bone was screaming for release from the Louboutin pumps, and I finally gave them a respite as I walked through the threshold.

Damien was sprawled on the couch, intently starting at a news broadcast playing over his massive TV. Nothing was said, and he didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I made my way over to him and pressed a chaste kiss to his head.

“Hi baby,” I cooed against his soft dark hair, touching his cheek gently. He only grunted in response, and I took that as permission to leave him alone for the time being. I padded over into the master bedroom, quickly stripping out of my suffocating tights and pencil skirt in favor of a pair of leggings and a faded Georgetown t-shirt.

After a quick wash up, I made my way out to begin preparing dinner. Every move I made was quick and silent, the only noise in our expansive house was the droning of the TV and the sizzle of the chicken breasts in the pan. By the time dinner was ready, Damien had made himself comfortable at the dining table with his phone in hand. Like a good little wife, I plated everything and set it down in front of him with a glass of his favorite wine. Placing another kiss to his head, I got my own dinner ready and joined him at the table. The monotonous evening was something I was used to, the silence a lovely companion in comparison to the times when one or both of our tempers got the best of us.  

Damien was clicking away on his phone in between bites of food. There would be no show of thanks or any words of appreciation, but I’d more than likely find some expensive piece of jewelry or perfume sitting on my vanity by the end of the week.

The rest of the evening was silent as the grave, save for the clicking of Damien’s iPhone and my fingers hitting the keys on my laptop. We both worked after dinner for a few hours, practically ignoring each other. I didn’t show it outwardly, but every second of silence felt like a knife was being pushed deeper and deeper into my chest. At one point in time, we were so passionately and intensely in love, neck-deep in a honeymoon phase that seemed endless. We would worship each other and whisper affirmations of love until the sun came up during a time where I was so blissfully happy that I didn’t see the red flags.

I don’t know when it all changed, but somehow everything fell through my fingers like grains of sand.

Eventually, Damien and I retired into our bedroom. He was laying on the bed, phone still in hand with his body shining in the dim lamplight. I was finishing up my routine at the vanity, watching him from the corner of my eye. He was so beautiful as he relaxed at the end of the day, and I felt like I could potentially pretend we were how we used to be.

“Damien,” I cooed as I ran a brush through my hair. “Your birthday is in two days and I was planning on making reservations at—.”

“I’m leaving for London in two days. Raincheck.” He grumbled, not even giving me an opportunity to finish my thought.

I set the brush down hard, shaking my vanity but barely phasing my lounging husband. “You just got back from Singapore and now you are leaving again?” My frustration that accumulated throughout the entirety of the day came raging back in a tidal wave of emotions. I watched him through the mirror, angry at how he didn’t even look up from his phone at the obvious distress in my voice.

“Did you have another way for me to spend my day?” He was completely monotone, never looking up from the illuminated screen.

“Yes actually,” I said, my voice coming out as a broken cry. “I wanted to take you to this restaurant. Seyoung said it was wonderful and—.”

For the second time that night he interrupted me. However, this time around his attention was no longer focused on the device in his hand. Rather he was completely honed in on me, eyes alight with familiar fury. “Seyoung?” he hissed cynically, quickly switching from nonchalant to suspicious within a second’s notice.

It was one of his major flaws: he was insanely jealous. That dark part of him used to turn me on in a way that was unique to us, but after the wedding, the envy within him took a much more sinister turn. There were some things that makeup couldn’t completely cover-up.  

I regretted saying Seyoung’s name instantly. I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, awaiting the cold touch of his hands on my body. I held in my jumping heart when I felt soft, yet firm fingers wrap around the column of my throat. They squeezed gently, forcing my head up as he hovered over me with a menacing snarl on his rugged face. “You and your assistant made plans together? Did you get cozy with him while discussing my birthday dinner?” Every word made him squeeze harder until my breathing was completely cut off.

Gasping as the sensation, I felt tears begin to gather in the corner of my eyes. The lack of oxygen mixed with pure fear had me cowering under his hands. His other hand came around and began to pop open the buttons of my sleep shirt. I began to see black spots in the corner of my eyes as the absence of air began to overtake my body. My hands tried to claw his away, but he just gave me an evil smirk at my struggle.

When he finally let go of my neck I fell forward onto my vanity, knocking products off the table in my effort to soothe my burning lungs. I didn’t have a single opportunity for respite before his hands came down to grasp my waist in a vice grip. He pulled me up roughly and pushed me forward onto the vanity. The edge of the table cut into my hips as he leaned into my body with bruising hands that groped and grabbed anywhere they could find purchase.

Damien bit the skin at the juncture of my neck, causing me to cry out in pain as the tears finally fell over my lashes. “I don’t like other men touching my things,” he whispered harshly into my neck before taking the lapels of my shirt and completely ripping it in half and bending me over the vanity.

A/N: I UPLOADED THE WRONG VERSION I’M SO SORRY! Here is the prologue of Viva! Next chapter will feature Hyungwon. Let me know what you think! Gif is not mine.

[pkmntrainergreyze]

April 9th (Gerard Way Imagine)

"Alright, next stop (insert Country)" Ray announced, as he carried Mikey's luggage subconsciously. Everyone at the hotel was busy packing up. All except Gerard who repeatedly bashed his phone's keypad.

Seeing his friend's lack of movement, Frank snickered "If translated to Gerard Way it means three tours before getting laid"

The aforementioned man sent a prudish glare but didn't take 4 seconds before he went back to texting his wife. The shrill notification sound signaled the conversation will remain one-sided. So noticeably, Gerard's face tarred the longer he lazed on the couch.

Since nothing was expected from the oldest Way, the youngest opted to help him bundle up (much to poor Mikey's dismay). Ray gave Gerard a reassuring pat in the back and a matching smile, before taking away his phone. Seeing as there is nothing left to do the raven-haired man sighed and they exited the room together.

-

The flight took hours, so the band took the opportunity to squander time rather than sleep. Frank tallied the number of flight attendants and counted how many had the perfect built, Ray buried himself in the bassist's neck pillow, and Mikey whined about his half-broken headphone while Gerard compensated his brother's complaints. In the second hour, 3/4 of them fell asleep, which caused passengers to silently cry in relief.

Later on, 2 minutes before landing, the sleepless member of the band flossed his cheeks on the windows. His brown eyes darted from an angle to another, and when the wheels hurtled the runaway he conjured all willpower not to clap. He turned around and looked at his friends.

Everyone's busy.

The younger Way's on the phone. Frank noted Mikey finally accepted his headphone's injury the time it played one of Fall Out Boy's songs he could not remember the title to. He preferred to not be labeled as the "destroyer of PeteKey™" so he let it be.

On the other hand, Ray fetched his bags from the counter. The fluffy haired man must've tuned out when the oldest flight attendant told him specifically not to. It was amusing seeing Ray so he let him tumble down.

However, there was one vulnerable person he can annoy the hell out of.

He grabbed the blonde's pillow and proceeded to high-five the singer in the face.

"Wake the fuck up!" The guitarist yelled.

They received a couple of glares before moving on. Ray nervously chuckled, but knew deep down he and Mikey weren't safe either. He grabbed his arm and left with baggage strained joints.

Gerard sneered and smashed Frank's jaw with the same pillow.

"I was having a good dream, you idiot..." The older Way snarled. Gerard snatched his livid jacket and stormed off. Frank knew he saw his eye twitch in the process. Instead of fake snickering in guilt, the guitarist sewed both his eyebrows close.

As much as the shorter man loved his friend's pace, his reaction bothered him greatly on many aspects. Counting the fact he didn't sass him to a death sentence. That only ever happens it's a blue moon, or when he himself is blue. Either way, he spurned at both choices.

Frank sighed.

"Sir, we have to ask you to leave" Frank's best-bod-award-winning flight attendant bit her lip. Thinking he embarrassed himself enough he followed suit.

-

The concert was eight days after April Fools. When it about to meet halfway, Mikey opted his brother's actions were off. Nothing's wrong if it's in terms of performance, but his estranged facade plastered an astronomical broken heart.

He came up with this because earlier, the three of them had a hard time trying to get Gerard out of the van. It sounds as if he was sobbing and sniffling, at the same time the bassist heard crashes of hunks, which was odd. Gerard's either trashing the place and fake crying or he's absolutely delirious. In the end, it took them 20 minutes kicking him out and therefore 10 minutes late for soundcheck.

In other words, Mikey's spidey-senses said Gerard sucks at hiding how much he missed (Y/n).

Mama ended, and his brotherly instincts solidified.

The lead singer strutted and froze right after he grabbed the mic. The lights pitched black, causing the audience to cheer. The rest of the band focuses their gazes before the confusion peaked its equilibrium. Gerard exuded a chaotic laugh and simpered a carnage look throughout the crowd.

"A surprise party?! FOR ME?!?"

Ray shook his head while the other two quipped for an answer. He lifted his luscious fro and pointed his earpiece then the control booth. They both awed, then proceeded to let Gerard indulge his everyday bizarreness.

"You shouldn't have..." He raised both his jazz hands and pranced away. Frank couldn't decide on whether he was thankful his friend is back to normal or be prepared for a war.

A few seconds later, a glint of joy revived from his hazel eyes. He clicked both his tongue and heels as he smiled at the control booth. When he saw a familiar sillhoutte he then reached for his mic. 

"... Wait, you're serious? It's a British Shorthair? Holy sh-- Thank you!" His eyes crinkled as his sincerest of smiles stretched larger. "My God I love you so much you don't understand"

And on that seemingly one-sided conversation, the case is solved.

The hypothetical person on the line was his wife, (Y/n) Way. Everyone on the band could infer it was her after she mentioned getting Gerard a cat. Her lack of presence was the reason why Gerard had been so mutilated and listless. She lied about having a business trip to the Philippines but even so, it's pleasing to know she had time to watch Gerard on his birthday-- 

On... His... Birthday...

"Oh shit..." Mikey and Frank muttered in unison.

Gerard stared at his band, who all gave him a sheepish smile. The look on his face inquired a non-verbal question of who remembered, and he got replies he expected.

This time, the pursed smile on Mr. Way's face wasn't just for effect, the same could be said for the quadrillion of psychotic thoughts that harbored control of his mind. A dark chuckle escaped his lips, then he mouthed something Ray could only decipher as 

See you at the van, 

suckers...

[heoneyology]

Misc 1 Hongjoong? 😂😂

hi anon! sorry this took ages! I had a bit of writers block :(( but I’m over it now! I hope you enjoy this, I tried to make it somewhat amusing and probably failed

—misc; prompt 1; “All I do is drink coffee and say bad words.” 

In the silence of the library, the sudden curse that escapes from your seat partner in a hush breath almost surprises you as it breaks the silence, if not for the fact that this has happened multiple times just in this single sitting. You sigh, eyeing the tally marks at the top corner of your notebook page. Over the course of just a couple hours, the marks have been increasing in number. With a small shake of your head, you add one more mark down before turning to Hongjoong.

“Which one, now?”

Hongjoong, fingers nestled deep within his hair—his frustration taking the physical form of him running his hands through his mullet so many times by now, you were sure he must be suffering from hair loss—drops both hands to glance at you. Lips pursed, he throws his pencil down on his notebook.

“I can’t get this fucking equation—I don’t know how many times I’ve rewritten just this part.” Along with annoyance, there’s a desperation in his voice, and you almost feel bad for having to turn away for just a moment to add one more tally to the corner of your notebook page before scooting closer to help him.

From across the table, San lets out a displeased tsk, shaking his head as he watches you move to tutor Hongjoong. “You should just let him suffer alone. At this rate, he’s going to get us kicked out of the library.”

Hongjoong frowns over at him, glancing at you, then glancing around the library. It’s a bit busier than normal, and though no one in particular is staring at the three of you, you’re positive Hongjoong’s frustrated cursing doesn’t go unnoticed. Midterms are just around the corner and everyone—just like the three of you—had decided to cram in some study sessions in hopes of pulling grades up, or hopefully maintaining them. After midterms came graduation season, and while none of you were anywhere near close to graduating anytime soon, the tension of midterms and the role they may play to elder students on campus was heavily felt through the tension that hung in the air.

“Sorry,” Hongjoong mumbles sheepishly, hanging his head and focusing back on the paper before him as you glance over the page and his work. There’s intense eraser streaks and illegible scribbles all over the page.

Giving your head another little shake, you turn to your own notebook and rip a new page out before placing the plank slate in front of the two of you. “Okay, let’s start over,” you amend, not sure if you can even begin to make sense of his scribbles. While he’d definitely tried his hardest, you weren’t even certain where his train of thought had been going with this specific equation, and couldn’t make enough sense of it to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

As you begin writing, San excuses himself from your table with a quick, “I’ll be right back.”

You write a few lines out, and retract your hand from the paper to start explaining, but before you an even do so, Hongjoong lets out a sharp sigh as he studies the page, and hisses, “What the fuck, I did that!”

Another one, you think to yourself, mentally sighing. “Hongjoong be patient,” you chide, before pointing at the page with your pen, slowly going through the process of explaining what you’d written so far step by step for him. He’s frowning in displeasure, having done the same process up until the very last step you’d written out, but he’s nodding slowly and you can see the understanding in his eyes.

So, you move through another few lines of writing. When you lean back to explain this time, however, you can see the frustration within Hongjoong growing. You aren’t sure whether he’s upset because this is where he’d gone wrong or if he’s still simply angered over having done everything correctly, still, up until that point.

Before you can ask, San makes his return, and sets two iced coffees down on the table in front of either of you. Immediately, your eyebrows shoot up, and you glance warily to the side at the edge of the table—where multiple empty cups of coffee from prior hours sit, ready to be discarded when you all pack up your things to leave.

“Do we really need more caffeine?”

“Always,” Hongjoong is quick to answer, snatching his cup up and angrily taking a sip through the straw. “Dammit, this is frustrating,” he mutters around the straw, glaring down at the page in front of him.

And another. You sigh, and while he’s distracted, add two more tally marks to your notebook page with a frown, glancing up at San pointedly.

Sipping his own coffee, San catches your gaze and gives a small shrug. He pulls away from the straw, leaning toward you across the table to whisper. “The coffee is the only thing keeping him sane, it seems.”

To that, you really couldn’t argue. Though you weren’t sure any of your livers would walk out of the library in tact that day. Just glancing at all of the empty cups at the end of your table that were piling up gave you mass amounts of anxiety, probably made worse thanks to all the caffeine running through your system.

Thankfully, the last bit of coffee seems to do the opposite for Hongjoong, helping to ease growing exasperation as you move through the rest of the equation with him. It manages to get the three of you through the remainder of your study session together as well. You all pack your things and collect the discarded coffee cups for the trash just as the sun begins to dip low in the afternoon sky, filtering through the library windows and filling the shelves that line the room with a warm, orange haze.

As the three of you exit the library, you pause just outside the door and flip to the page in your notebook—which you hadn’t stuffed away in your bag—covered in tally marks, shoving it out towards Hongjoong.

“Here’s today’s tally,” you announce.

Hongjoong freezes, briefly, glancing warily down at the notebook pressed against his abdomen with a sigh, before he takes it. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath and opening them just as he flips the notebook over—and blanches.

“Seriously!?” Hongjoong, eyes wide, glances up at you in surprise. “This much, today?”

“How much, how much?” San chirps, sidestepping to peer over Hongjoong’s shoulder at your tally count. “Whoa! Hongjoong, are you buying us dinner tonight? That’s a new record.”

You take the notebook back from him, giving a small, apologetic smile. A part of you feels terrible for keeping track of his daily record for cursing—yet he’d been the one to ask for yours and San’s help.

“If you do buy dinner, I’ll count that as your payment for today.”

Hongjoong lets out the largest sigh you’ve heard from him so far today, running his hands through his hair. “God d— ugh, asking you guys for help breaking this bad habit was the worst idea. All I do is drink coffee and say bad words, anyway. I’m going to go broke at this rate.”

“Just don’t curse, Hongjoong. Maybe you’ll have a savings account left by the end of all this,” San teases, breaking out into a dimpled smile. “Anyway, I want barbecue for dinner!”

You nod. “Barbecue is brain food after all that studying. Let’s go!” Stepping forward, you link arms with San and begin on your way. Glancing over your shoulder, you smile back at Hongjoong. “Come on!”

“Fucking hell,” Hongjoong mutters under his breath once you’re out of earshot, eyeing you and San.

[weretheones]

Just Go Part Three- Daryl Dixon

Plot/Request: Your first solo run with Daryl was supposed to be quick and easy, but it ends up being quite the opposite. When Daryl ignores his only exit to run back and save you, you can’t help but wonder why. (Set in early S3, before the Governor)

Word Count:
 1,168

Warnings: mild swearing lol

Note: yay! the last part :) i know this series isn’t anything great or whatever but it was a good way to get my creative juices flowing. i’m happy to be writing again, and i promise some real angsty stuff is coming up soon ;)

read part one and part two first!

—————————————————————————————

This time as you clung onto Daryl’s waist, you didn’t feel weird. You felt safe, comfortable, even cared for.

The conversations you’d had only heightened your growing feelings for him. You still couldn’t say for sure if he’d felt the same, but at least you could say confidently that he didn’t hate you.

When you rode to the prison’s gates, it was night. The gate slid open, fast when you and Daryl got within fifteen feet. He steered you up, past Rick who was on duty, about halfway up the hill.

Rick ran to you both, shouting, “(Y/N), Daryl! You guys okay?”

You slid off the back of the bike and jogged toward him.  

“We’re fine.” You smiled with a small chuckle.

“What the hell happened?” He interrupted.

“Ran into a herd. There was too many of ‘em, had to wait it out.” Daryl answered, kicking his bike’s stand down as he got up.

“But you’re ok?” He asked again, reaching a hand out to motion to you both.

“Yes, Rick. Really. We’re ok.” You smiled again.

He chuckled, “Good. Thought you might’ve killed each other.”

You laughed. Even Daryl gave a low chuckle. Rick looked to you two, a little off put by your sudden peaceful attitudes with each other. But, seeing it as a victory, he didn’t dare question it.

He smiled, looking past you to the prison. “I gotta get back on watch, let the others know you’re here. They’ve been worried. Then sort what you got if it’s not too much.” You both nodded, then turned to walk up the hill when Rick called out again. “Get some rest, you need it.”

Walking up the pathway with Daryl you glanced up to the night sky. The stars shone brighter than ever it seemed. Wasn’t that funny, how such a horrid thing like an apocalypse brought out the prettiest things in nature. You smiled to yourself.

Daryl was watching you from the corner of his eye. Watching as you looked to the sky, then smiled. It made his chest contract as it had earlier while the two of you talked for hours. He almost.. liked the feeling now.

Maybe it was because of that, or maybe it was the cold air, but a shiver ran down Daryl’s spine. He shook slightly, you noticed. It made you remember what you’d grabbed.

“Oh,” You mumbled softly. Still a small smile on your lips. He stopped a moment, glance back to you as you fumble through your bag. Suddenly, your fingers stop, the smile on your face growing a little. You pulled a bundle of fabric out.

“I thought you could use this.” You offered. He gave you a confused look but still accepted the plush plaid shirt. A soft blush grew over your cheeks. Maybe this was too much. You’d only just gone from fighting to friends-- maybe not even that yet-- a few hours ago.

Whatever. It was done. Plus, you were going to give it to Daryl before everything had happened anyways.

“Thanks.” He muttered with a quick nod.

You smiled, “Think of it as a peace offering.”

He gave you a small chuckle, mumbling ‘Alright’ under his breath before walking back up again. You followed a mere foot behind.

When you reached the inside of the prison, you both emptied out your bags onto the table. The haul wasn’t anything spectacular, the walkers had cut you off before you could find more, but at least it was something. You back away from the table, happy to finally be home again. Able to lay in your bed. Not stuck in some closet.

You rolled your shoulders back, happy to relieve them of the weight of your bag. It wasn’t too heavy, but after hours of wearing it, your muscles were bound to be sore. You then reached up to your ponytail, pulling off the elastic from around your soft (Y/H/C) hair.

Daryl glanced to you briefly while adding new tallies of all the supplies you’d brought to a notepad. You walked the small distance around the table to him, running a hair through your now loose hair.

He’d mostly seen you with it up. It was pretty like that too, the way the loose strands gently framed your face. But this was something that made his heart stop. You just looked so relaxed, so... calm. Again, he felt that weird chest feeling. He cleared his throat as you reached his side, stepping back a little.

You kept your distance, only peeking over the notepad to check the outcome of your day’s work.

“Could’ve been better,” A leading sigh left your lips, “but considering...”

He grunted in agreement before you had to continue.

A yawn came from you, without your knowledge prior to it. Daryl looked back at you a moment, giving you a quick once over while you were still looking at the notepad in his hands. Your eyes sheepishly-- and somewhat awkwardly-- met his when he finished looking you over.

He stared at you and not knowing what else to do, you gave a ghost of a smile in return. It seemed to pull him from his thoughts, as he looked back at the notepad, then mumbled, “Why don't ya get some sleep?"

You gave him a quizzing look as he looked back up to you, nodding at the small stash in front of you both.

"I got this, don't worry."

You nodded, relieved he'd offered.

"Alright, thanks, Daryl." You smiled softly, tucking the loose strand of hair in front of your face behind your ear. You turned, walking toward the cells before stopping briefly.

"Goodnight, Dixon." You muttered, turning back to look at him over your shoulder. He raised his head, giving you a quick nod before you turned back.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)." He whispered, watching you walk away and slowly disappear into the shadows of the cell block.

Morning came again. The same routine with it. Stretch your muscles, splash your face, tie your hair back, grab your hoodie in case it was cold today, winter was approaching after all.

As you left the walls of the prison’s cell block, you breathed in a deep breath of fresh air. It was crisp, slightly nipping at your exposed skin. The wind blew around your ponytail. You liked this. The warmth of the sun, but the chill of the breeze. It made you feel at peace.

Your eyes fluttered open after a brief minute. Looking around the yard, it didn’t take long before your eyes landed on Daryl. He was sitting on the same bench as yesterday, but he was lacking a cigarette this time. Instead, he worked on cleaning and tending to his crossbow, while occasionally stopping to take a bite of the apple in front of him.

You noticed it then, the plaid shirt you’d given him wrapped around his upper body. You smiled at the thought. He’d accepted your peace offering.

Maybe, just maybe, this would be the start of something new.

[alloverthegaf]

So you said you wanted prompts so here's one I tried to write but never did because I'm not a good writer and also I'm lazy: *So the idea is that person A is a barista and person B learns A's hours and come in specifically to see A and order something complicated and annoying. And give A a hard time. But today, A is already having a bad time.* anyway if you want to try that haha

I like it and it’s perfect for Merthur which is not something I generally write but hopefully @dementorsatemysoup will get a kick out of it?

There’s a lot of swearing, mostly a horrendous abuse of the word ‘asshole’, and it cuts off very abruptly because it kept going longer than I meant it to and I ran out of patience lmao but hopefully you like anyway

The first time the Handsome Asshole, as he comes to be known in Merlin’s head, enters the cafe where he works is something of a prophecy for how their relationship is destined to go. He steps up to the counter, six people waiting in line behind him, and proceeds to order quite possibly the most complicated, douchiest beverage Merlin has ever had the displeasure of making. He lists off no less than eight modifications for his coffee, and though Merlin has two years of practice with his customer service smile, he can feel it getting tighter with every specification. Clearly, the Asshole who is Handsome is oblivious to Merlin’s - and his other customers’ - impatience, because he then goes back and lists it all again to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. Merlin assures him, through gritted teeth, that he’s got it all written down and will take extra care not to forget anything, and takes a moment to compose himself before he takes the next person’s order.

Despite the unfairly attractive man - tall, toned and beautifully blond - being an unequivocal douchebag, Merlin does his best to get the ludicrous order right, but they’re understaffed, it’s 8am, and there’s a horde of uni students who are about five minutes away from moaning for brains.

He gets the order wrong, and boy does he fucking hear about it.

It doesn’t stop the man from coming back, though. Two days later he’s back, this time at 4 in the afternoon, and Merlin could swear his face lights up with evil glee when he sees who’s behind the counter.

“Think you can get it right this time?”

Now, Merlin understands that the main reason he even has this job is because his uncle runs the place. He’s very grateful to Gaius for hiring him, and he knows that every time he mouths off to a customer it’s Gaius that has to hear about it. He never actually means to bite anyone’s head off, but he’s never been so great at keeping his mouth shut around bullies and the “think you can not be a prat this time?” slips out of his mouth before he’s even processed the words in his head.

Handsome Asshole’s eyes widen to saucer size and while a part of Merlin is panicking and already trying to think of a way explain this to his uncle, the rest of him is doing a mental self-five. He wishes he had his phone on him to take a photo of the guy’s expression. Maybe he’d print it out. Stick it on one of the front windows.

In the end, he doesn’t get abused. The man orders a flat white with two sugars and doesn’t say another word, but he stays as he drinks his coffee, and Merlin swears he can feel eyes on him the entire time. He waits, afterwards, for the inevitable dressing down from Gaius, but it never comes. Asshole must not have complained after all. Huh.

Maybe he realised he was being a prat after all.

But then, one week later, Handsome Asshole is back and apparently determined to up the ‘Asshole’ levels. His order seems twice as complicated as the first one, and he changes his mind about what syrup he wants about three times. Every time he does so, his smirk grows just a little wider, a little bit more smug, and Merlin can practically feel his blood levels rising. He considers getting it wrong on purpose, just to inconvenience him, but it’s pretty clear by this point he’s just being difficult on purpose so Merlin devotes every ounce of his concentration to making it perfect.

Judging by the surprised look on Handsome Asshole’s stupid handsome face, he succeeds. Mentally, he starts a tally in his head. Counting their first meeting, he sees it as 2 - 1 with him in the advantage. It’s his turn to smile smugly. Asshole looks at him with something like contemplation.

From there the pattern is set. At least three times a week Handsome Asshole - or HA for the times when Merlin’s too busy to properly mentally insult him - comes in and orders something ludicrous. It’s different every time, and every time Merlin makes sure he gets it just right. It comes to the point where Merlin neglects other customers’ orders in sake of HA’s, and as soon as he realises this he curses the man, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Every time the man sips his coffee, or tea, or iced double whip soy latte with extra foam and two straws, and that expression crosses his face, Merlin feels like it’s a win.

Then comes the Very Bad Not So Good Day, as Gwen refers to it, or Absolute Shitfest, as Merlin prefers. It’s exam time for the uni students, and their milk wand is playing up, and a toddler knocks her babycino (and why is that a drink, Merlin thinks as he’s hurriedly mopping it up, just give her a goddamn juice box), and then a woman wearing gold and pearls like a bird that’s collected too many shiny things for its nest yells at Gwen and very nearly makes her cry, and Merlin has just. Had it. With this day, with this job, with humanity in general, Merlin is done, and he’s trying to gather the strength to last the two hours he has left of his shift while squeezing Gwen’s hand in comfort when the Asshole - because Merlin’s not feeling charitable enough for the ‘Handsome’ part today - strolls in like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Merlin takes a deep breath, lets go of Gwen’s hand with a final squeeze, and steps up to the register. He stands tall as Admittedly Still Maybe Slightly Handsome Asshole walks up to the counter and opens his mouth to no doubt make his day twenty times harder, and Merlin just snaps.

“No.”

Asshole stares at him. “Excuse me? No?”

“No.” Merlin knows he should backpedal, excuse himself, just take the damn coffee order and spit in it when no one’s looking like any normal person would do, but he’s started now and he can’t seem to stop his mouth forming the words. “No, I will not make your skinny cap with three sugars and an extra half shot, or your mochachino at precisely 82 degrees temperature and four marshmallows, no, you don’t get a half-water chai latte with no foam and a dash of vanilla, no, okay, no. I’m done. I have had the day from hell, I am tired, my friend is crying in the back, and I’m about two seconds from throwing a mug at someone’s head, so no.” He breathes in, long and deep, and lets it out, taking advantage of the stunned silence. “I’m willing to do a flat white. One regular, plain, no frills flat white. I may throw in a spoon of sugar if you agree in the next five seconds.

To his utter shock, the man nods. “Okay.” Suddenly, it’s Merlin’s turn to stare. The man’s looking serious for about the first time since he ever stepped foot in this cafe, and is watching Merlin with dark eyes, calm and composed.

“Okay,” repeats Merlin dumbly, “okay.” He turns to start the very simple, very plain, very… boring coffee order.

“Is your friend okay?”

“What?”

Handsome Asshole cocks his head in gentle enquiry, and fuck, fuck if Merlin has stop calling him Asshole then all he’s got left is Handsome and he can not deal with that - “you said your friend’s crying. What happened?”

“Oh,” Merlin says, confused and unsure where to step in the face of this suddenly caring and apparently nice man, “uh, yeah, she uh - just, a customer was really awful to her, a few minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry,” is the man’s answer, and okay, what?

“Seriously? You’re sorry?” Merlin sets the mug down on the counter with a hard clunk and the man flinches as the coffee spills over the sides. “You’re sorry? You’ve been making my life hell since the moment you came in here but someone else gives one of us crap and now you’re sorry?”

“To be fair, I’ve only ever given you crap. I’m always nice to Gwen.”

Merlin throws his arms up wildly. “Oh, well, in that case.”

He hears an inelegant snort and stares at Very Handsome Asshole who is poorly hiding a grin behind one hand. Merlin channels his Uncle Gaius and raises a very unimpressed eyebrow. “Okay, seriously, what’s the deal? Why have you got it in for me?”

“I don’t,” is the reply, as the man lowers his hand but leaves the grin in place. “Not, uh, not like that, anyway.”

And that - that just makes no sense to Merlin, who responds with a very eloquent “what?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this but you’re incredible entertaining when you get all riled up.” Merlin opens his mouth to give an improvised but impassioned lecture on the morals of riling up service people for fun when he quickly adds “and cute.”

Merlin thinks something in his brain has fallen out of place. “What?” he says again, because apparently that’s what his vocabulary has shrunk to.

“Your ears get very red,” the man says, and the high points of his cheeks seem to flush in sympathy. “And your eyes get kind of wild and you start biting your lip and, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. It’s the first time Merlin has ever seen him act self-conscious. “Well. Couldn’t help myself, I suppose.”

Merlin stares at him. And stares. The staring goes on for so long that the coffee sitting ignored between them goes cold. Finally, as if only just managing to register what was said, he exclaims “you’ve pissed me off for near three months because I’m cute?!”

Some of the other patrons look over curiously at the rise in volume. Handsome Man shifts uncomfortably under the sudden scrutiny. “I’ve been told I’m not so good at flirting.”

“You think?”

[cardshcrp]

actually that post was a pretty decent one and i’ve never made a post about which things happen to me personally kind of often that i hate, so i might as well? so please take a look at these and try not to do them to me because they really, really irritate the crap out of me. this isn’t to say i’m going to be rude to you, or ridicule you - i’ll just point you to the info, but shit, it makes me tired.

this obviously doesn’t apply to a context where it’s a genuine question, but the things i’m listing below have...never been presented in a respectful context or phrasing lol.

‘oh, wait, he’s trans?’ this is totally fine if we’ve just met. seriously, that’s fine if you haven’t read my about yet, it’s not plastered on my front page or in every thread. that’s the only time it’s fine. this happens a lot like three months in and it’s just - please read my about. weirdly enough, people that say this to me midway through development tend to disappear a bit later! current tally of this happening: 17 times.

‘so........no dick?’ uh, what? first of all, toys. second of all, i really hope you realize that many trans men use this terminology regarding themselves anyway, especially considering their clits post-hrt. which he does. it also makes him immediately sound like he’s not capable of having sexual relations, which is - lmao. current tally of this happening: 13 times.

‘he’s going to get bottom surgery, right?’ no, he’s not, and all the information regarding his surgery status, intent, when he started hrt and when he had top surgery are linked in a separate page on my about. all this does is tell me you don’t pay attention to any of my disgustingly lengthy sexual headcanon posts and you haven’t read my about. weirdly enough, genitalia doesn’t define gender identity. current tally of this happening: 4 times.

‘but how good were his tits before? can we write smut before he had all the trans stuff?’ ask me this and i will actually block you immediately lmao. it happened once.

oh, yeah, there isn’t some ‘before trans’ and ‘after trans’ stage. it’s not something you can turn off and on. lol ???? he wasn’t, like, a dainty woman who would moan to high heaven if dicked and then suddenly turned into a surly lumberjack. he was kicking kids in the balls at seven for calling him a girl because he didn’t like it. yeah, age of realization differs, but his was pretty early and he’s never really considered himself a girl in how a child would commonly perceive it.

for the love of anything please don’t like...specifically contact me to heap praise on me for writing a trans muse. it’s not a political statement and i don’t want it to be the only thing you see when you look at my blog. yes, it’s a part of it, but if you can’t also provide reasons why you like my writing or characterization, i’d actually prefer to pass on that particular compliment. i write him as trans because i am trans. representation is important but it isn’t the primary point of what i’m doing here. i’m writing my muse because i love writing my muse, and i hope you are here because you also like how i write my muse. this has happened enough times that it’s a little depressing. i realize you mean well, but it comes across a lot like it’s the only thing you know about me.

assuming he’s automatically submissive in the bedroom because he’s trans. i’m not even sure why this is a thing but it sure as shit seems to be based on my experiences. he switches - sometimes he receives, sometimes he doesn’t, he has a top preference and regardless of how you look at it he’s not exactly baby boy material and does not wanna be. i gave up counting this one.

there is a difference between a supportive partner in a ship and an absolutely rabid one using a trans person as a statement. my personal least favorite is people that find out he’s trans and immediately go overboard if we’re talking ships. yes, dude, supportive partners are amazing. maybe don’t talk about (a few that have come up, but definitely not all of them that have) wearing a ‘my trans bf is better than your cis bf’ shirt; literally wanting your muse to start fights over anyone who teases him because any banter is automatically transphobia; having your muse aggressively encourage him to be the face of pride; and starting an lgbt charity in his name. because he’s not publicly out. it’s not a massive secret, but he doesn’t go around flaunting it because it’s not what defines him, which you would know if. you read. my about.

PLEASE READ MY ABOUT????

seriously, if you ever want to know about something in particular about his identity, or sexual habits, or whatever, just ask me directly. sometimes stuff is hard to find. that’s entirely different from all of this. i’m genuinely happy to talk about his dynamics in whatever situation. it’s when you’re weird and fetish-y or super assumptive that it comes off wrong.

just don’t be a weird jerk about it.

[ferociousqueak]

A Review of the Year – Writing Meme 2018

I’ve been really terrible at answering memes I’ve been tagged in these last few weeks. Sorry about that everyone! But it’s a new year, and both @mordinette and @ripley95things tagged me for the thing a couple days ago so let’s get things started right :D

Total number of completed stories:

If you count all the one shots from Desstober (when I wrote a one shot for Dess most days), about 19. Considering the longfics I still have in the works, I’m clinging to that number to remind myself that I can actually finish the things I start.

Total word count:

I’m gonna go with words posted because the words written are kinda scattered and hard to count, so: 45,869. Oof. Probably my least productive year in a while, but that’s fine. Can’t change it now. That just leaves more words for me to write in 2019 :D

Fandoms written in:

Pretty exclusively Mass Effect, but @pagerunner and I are still kicking around a crossover for the shows Lucifer and Leverage.

Looking back, did you expect to write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected?

I definitely started 2018 with grander aspirations, but circumstances converged on me so that I had next to no Me Time for about, oh, nine months. (Not for the reason that length of time usually implies, but the real reason is headdeskingly similar *sigh*)

What’s your own favorite story of the year?

This question is so haaaarrrrd! Because I like a lot of things I wrote for different reasons. I like You shouldn’t have come here because it’s kind of the first moment Dess starts to grow up. I like All’s Fair because it’s finally letting my OTP ship sail. I like I know you do because it’s such a great brother-sister moment between Dess and Hadrian. I like You should have seen it because it was kind of a sweet moment and much-needed support between Dess and Alli. I like Light in the Dark because I don’t write nearly enough Vetra even though I love her with my whole heart. I CAN’T CHOOSE AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.

Did you take any writing risks this year?

Not especially. Well kind of. Not in technique or structure or anything. I’ve held the Hannah/Dess ship pretty close to my chest for a while now, but even though I’ve intended them to be endgame since pretty early in writing Hawks and Doves, I’ve written them almost exclusively platonically with a lot of subtext hinting at more romantic feelings. But in All’s Fair, they finally, finally, FINALLY kissed! I considered that kiss, and this ship, a bit of a risk because I’m working with one canon character who’s basically an OC and another OC, so there’s next to nothing in the games that hints at their story. It’s a whole new ship, specific to my universe, and it’s friends-to-lovers on top of it. I took a risk in hoping I’d written their relationship well enough to this point that anyone reading the story would either 1) at least be able to see the natural evolution of their relationship, or more ideally 2) actively want them to get together. So far, the response to them getting together has been overwhelmingly positive, so I feel like this risk paid off :D

Do you have any fanfic or profit goals for the new year?

YES! I wanna finish All’s Fair (or the gala fic, as I’ve been calling it) because then the whole Hannah/Dess ship will be solidified and I’ll finally be able to get on with things in Family Resemblance without that little turn of events hanging out there. And I know I’ve only got the first chapter posted, but there’s a whole lot more I’ve written. I just started posting it in November and then the holidays started happening so :/ Right now, I’m a couple hundred words away from having the next three or four chapters done :D

Best/most popular story of the year?

I’m not exactly sure how to measure this one, but I’m gonna say the first chapter of All’s Fair takes the cake because it’s a completely new ship that wasn’t in the games, and it’s had a pretty positive reception. And for just one chapter of OC shipping (and so far the only thing that’s happened is one kiss), it has about 100 hits, which is pretty good for me!

Story of mine most underappreciated by the universe, in my opinion:

I don’t quite like the implication behind claiming something is “underappreciated” because I’m always thrilled for any appreciation, but one story I think didn’t quite get the platform I would’ve like for it was Light in the Dark. It’s a good story, but the fandom for Mass Effect: Andromeda petered out a bit when BioWare said they were putting the franchise on ice. What can you do :/

Most fun story to write:

I had an absolute ball writing all those one shots for Dess in October, so I’ll take them together and say Between the Letters was the most fun :D

Story with the single sexiest moment:

I don’t usually write sexy things, so the kiss in All’s Fair is definitely the sexiest thing I wrote last year. Maybe People like you have no imagination is up there too, but it didn’t have the same emotion behind it.

Most sweet story:

I think Light in the Dark also gets this one. It’s a formative moment between Vetra and Sid as they’re trying to make it on their own, and despite the challenges, they can still take a moment to be sisters.

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:

Justification, the chapter of Family Resemblance I posted last year, made me consider other aspects of my OC Bethany Greenwood. Before that chapter, she’d started to fade into the background, but after Justification, I have more plans for her :D

Most unintentionally telling story:

In 2018? Hm… I’m drawing a blank. If I’ve written anything that’s telling, it’s probably more obvious to others than it is to me :P

Hardest story to write:

FAMILY RESEMBLANCE OMG

Write an alphabet fic, I said!

It’ll be fun I, said!

Let’s make it a political intrigue crossed with a family saga spanning 30-ish years! And change perspectives every chapter! No big deal!

*cries about it*

Biggest disappointment:

That I didn’t write more :/ But I’m trying not to be disappointed about that. You can’t drive by looking in the rearview mirror. I might not have written as much as I wanted last year, but I have plenty to write this year :D

Biggest surprise:

That so many people are so enthusiastically on-board with Hannah/Dess :D My heart is so full that so many readers were rooting for them!

Number of fic chapters written in 2018:

One *cries about it*

Number of chaptered fics completed in 2018:

I think I need to call my lawyer…

Relationships:

Mostly Hannah/Dess, but there was also a little Dess/Adrian that was fun (if a little sad) to write! I also wrote a little bit about Dess/Cassia and their . . . interesting relationship. I consider Cassia aromantic and Dess demiromantic, so neither one of them considers their sexual relationship something that would ever last once it stopped being fun. They are friends, though, and Cassia does care about Dess being happy, so she’s actually very happy to learn about Dess and Hannah finally making romantic overtures :P

Proudest achievements:

Honestly, that I was able to write anything at all. I was especially happy about fleshing out some of Dess’s background and character (especially the parts that don’t include Hannah) because I feel like she’s more than just a love interest now. And the fact that I wrote 18 one-shots for her in one month surprised even me! I wanna do that again, but with Sana this time :D

Writing goals for 2019:

Finish writing All’s Fair. This is at the top of my list because I really can’t proceed with Family Resemblance until All’s Fair is done. Thankfully, it’s not supposed to be that long, maybe 40k words at most and I’m already sitting at about 20k.

Continue writing Family Resemblance. The next chapter is K (Kismet) and it’s mostly finished but still needs some pretty heavy editing—and it’s gonna have a special appearance by Adrian Nyx :D Then L (Liminal) still needs Alli’s half, but it’s gonna loop Bethany Greenwood into the story more tightly in Michael’s half, which is already done. Then M (Mindoir) still needs to be written, and I’ve been putting it off because it’s gonna be so hard on everyone :( Then N (Nexus) has Alli’s half done and about half of the second part, which will be from a perspective that’s neither Hannah’s nor Michael’s :D Really if I can work Alli through the rest of her pre-Alliance life (O, for Opportunity) this year, I’ll consider it a win.

Write a month of one-shots for Sana. It was a lot of fun when I did it for Dess, and I have a lot I want to write about for Sana in the same way! And for anyone wondering, yes. There will indeed be at least a brief glimpse at baby!Sana :D

Who knows? I might even post a little smut ;)

I think I’m also gonna start keeping closer track of my word counts this year. I’m not gonna set myself a word count goal, but I think it would be informative to know when I’m most and least productive and figure out why. Let’s say every first of the month I’ll tally the words from the previous month and break it down from there. Yay spreadsheets :D

Now for tagging! How about @pagerunner, @servantofclio, @black-rose4, @tarysande, and @thievinghippo. Only if you want to and if no one’s tagged you already, of course!

[tempestaurora]

Whumptober Day 3: Insomnia

this is part twelve of hydra’s not a home | read it on AO3

(note: i’m not actually doing whumptober. i just saw today’s prompt half an hour ago and had to write it before the day ended. this is no masterpiece.)

It was some time after the mess that it happened. The incident. The accident. Kurt Connors falling to his death and Peter falling, just like him, into a slump he couldn’t control. The anniversary of his disappearance was coming up, too, and despite his presence in his parents’ lives, Peter watched them slow, stop, breathing deep breaths as they tried to forget ten years of disappearance; of uncertainty and heartache.

Eventually, it was all too much.

Peter waited until the dead of night before climbing out of his bedroom window and crawling up the wall to the roof. The nondescript house on the border of Manhattan had three floors; the ground floor being the lab, the first the living area and the second the bedrooms. Three floors wasn’t nearly high enough for Peter to feel okay.

He missed the heights of skyscrapers, but maybe someone would survive the fall from his house. They wouldn’t from the rooftop Kurt Connors fell from. That had been a sickening crunch, the smacking of bones against cement, limbs snapping, blood pooling. The thought had vomit rising in Peter’s throat and he forced it back down again.

He needed to sleep but lately he’d been forgetting what that was like.

Lately, he’d been spending his nights pacing his room, trying to stop the images of a mangled body from slipping into his mind. Sometimes, the images would change. Sometimes, he’d see the men in black with guns – images he’d concocted from his experiences because no matter what he remembered, it was never of before. Never of home.

So he’d see the guns, see himself, see blood smeared across his knuckles.

He’d see death; the people he’d killed, the running tally he’d been told to drop when he hit seven and had obeyed. Now he wished he’d kept going; he wished he knew the exact number and how many times he was supposed to beg for forgiveness, because being good wasn’t settling into his bones next to his kill count. It was struggling and shifting and Peter still fought with feeling like a good person because a good person would never have killed like he did.

He forced those images from his mind and they were only replaced with his Mom. With Pepper, on her knees as the compound crumbled around them. Blood started seeping into his t-shirt, his muscles straining. Atlas, holding the world. Peter didn’t want the sky to rest on his shoulders, so he dropped it each and every time.

He couldn’t be Spiderman. He couldn’t be Peter Parker. He couldn’t be a Stark because a Stark had responsibility and at one AM on a school night he couldn’t fathom the concept.

“Peter?”

He let out a breath, and slipped down to the edge of the roof, swinging his legs over the side. Looking down, his father was leaning out Peter’s bedroom window, looking up at him.

“Hey,” Peter said.

“Would you mind not sitting on the roof?” Tony asked, his voice forcibly light. Peter hummed. “Can’t sleep again?”

“You know about that?”

“The watch,” Tony replied. “It monitors that stuff.”

“And you keep an eye on it?”

Tony quirked and eyebrow. “Of course I do. What’s keeping you up?”

Peter blew out a breath. He couldn’t see the stars thanks to all the light pollution of New York, but he didn’t mind. A clear, starless sky felt calmer; less like millions of balls of gas were exploding at this second. Just a peaceful expanse instead.

“Memories.”

“Bad ones.” It wasn’t a question.

Peter nodded. “I can’t stop seeing it all. I’m fine during the day and then I get into bed and suddenly it’s all I can think about.” Tony didn’t say anything for a few seconds so Peter continued. “I know I make light of the shit I’ve done, but it’s bad, Dad. It’s bad. I’ve done bad things and I’m not in trouble for them – no one has even slapped my wrist over this stuff. And then Connors-”

“Hey, you’re not to blame for Connors,” Tony interrupted. “You tried to save him.”

“And I failed.”

“We all fail sometimes, Pete. It’s how life works. Hell, I’ve failed before, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Like when? When has the almighty Iron Man possibly failed in his life?” Peter flopped back onto the roof, staring up at the night sky, his feet dangling over the edge.

Below him, Tony rested against the window sill. “I didn’t save Pepper.”

Peter frowned. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean there was this terrorist called the Mandarin. He was really a guy called Aldrich Killian, and he stole Pepper. Literally. He took her, took the President, and Rhodey and I tried to save the day.”

“Did you?”

“Eh. Rhodey did. He got the President out of there. But me… I was supposed to get Pepper. But I failed. I didn’t catch her and she fell to her death.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I didn’t catch her. I failed her and since that day I’ve been watching people fall. Rhodey fell during that Walmart parking lot fight with the other Avengers, and you-”

“What about me?”

“You leap off skyscrapers, kid. You fall and you have to catch yourself every time. Just thinking about that kind of shit gives me a heart attack.”

For a moment, they fell quiet and Peter considered Tony’s words. He’d failed, once, and he was reminded of his failure again and again. Peter sat up.

“How is that supposed to be inspirational?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said you failed, but how did you fix it? How am I supposed to fix my failures?”

Tony blew out a breath. “Do better next time.”

“Next time.”

“Yeah. Next time. I’ve added manual de-fibs into Rhodey’s armour. I’ve connected an Iron Man suit to Pepper, so she can call one if she needs it. I put a parachute into your suit.”

“Into my what?” Peter looked over the edge of the roof, finding Tony looking out across the street.

“Into your nothing if you don’t come down from the roof.”

Peter cracked a smile and crawled down the wall without hesitation. When he reached his bedroom window, Tony reached out a hand to pull him through.

“Hey, you said Pepper died,” Peter said, back in his bedroom. He shut the window and frowned.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. She fell into the fire, kid. But she’d been injected with something called Extremis – it kind of gave her superpowers. She survived the fall, got back up and kicked Killian’s ass herself. Pepper saved the day.”

Peter vaguely recalled hearing about this event before; about Pepper killing Aldrich Killian – but it felt different, hearing Tony say it. He nodded.

“I’m glad she’s alive.”

“Me, too, kid.”

Tony squeezed his shoulder before turning to the door. Peter spoke before he had a chance to stop himself.

“I still can’t sleep,” he said. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

Tony glanced back. “Well, future us can figure something out,” he said, “but tonight us- when you were little, there were two ways to get you to sleep: to drive you around the city for hours or for you to sleep in our bed.”

Peter frowned. “Which one are you offering?”

Tony shrugged, heading for the door. “I can’t be bothered to drive, kid.”

When Peter fell asleep, closer to two than one AM, he fell asleep between his parents, wrapped in their arms. He couldn’t remember sleeping in their bed before, and maybe he was too old for it now, but he was warm and safe and for the time being, his thoughts slowed to a crawl.

Peter closed his eyes and, finally, he slept.

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: Okay, so. I couldn't stop thinking about time and how it could affect how Klaus and Caroline would relate to both themselves and each other prior to/after his near-death in 5x13. (Near-death because I reject canon in all forms. Self-care at its finest!) And this is what came out. (Post-TO Finale AU + Light angst + Fluff)

**Disclaimer: The first half of this is literary in nature. It’s written in a more removed POV, and while I usually save that kind of experimentation for my original writing, that's what wanted to come out. I also couldn’t seem to shut OFF the poeticism. So I went with it.**

GOD HELP US ALL BECAUSE THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN I WANTED IT TO BE BUT I’M OVER IT. 

Kudos to anyone who can guess which famous work/author I punned for my title, btw! Happy reading!

(A03) (FF.net)

xx Ashlee Bree

For When The Clock Chimes

The hands of time continued to turn because they could, because they brokered no resistance from anything in physics or grimoire magic. At least not to anyone’s knowledge.

It’s how they functioned. They existed to move, to tock away in subsequence. Their only purpose was to track the moments that the rest of the world took for granted or disregarded completely.

And so many people did: squandering each one with the flutter of an eyelash, or an exhale of the lungs that wouldn’t keep, couldn’t stay, their voices rubbing against the edge of a thought before they let the words fade into letters the mouth couldn’t spell or name out loud because it was too soon, too late, not right or so wrong. The look on someone’s face making a person swallow them all back down where they didn’t belong, and never could since the stomach refused to digest omissive lies in any shape, any form. They’d spurn back up to the surface with a rough lurch so it hurt. Scraping at silence until it stung. They’d burn the esophagus into disrepair the whole way like a warning that wouldn’t ground down or away. “Admit it or else, admit it or else.” Screaming bile into blisters because the truth shouldn’t cower in corners forever, and it wouldn’t. It’d always crawl back out because time waited for nothing. And no one.

Time wouldn’t wait for decisions to be made or listen to a voice as it begged “slow down, slow down; please, please, please won’t you slow down.” Wonderful things fluttered past in the same cadence as the awful, the sad, the loving, the wrenching, or as the missed opportunities which were impossible to reel backwards for someone who’d let them skip past like rocks already.

People probably always would overlook these moments. Waste them, too. So few of them wanted to hear how many more ticks they had left before the quality of everything in their lives diminished, or worse, ended altogether. Killing the future in ways that couldn’t be resurrected.

After all, who could bear to tally all the seconds as they fell? As they died?

Why would anyone want to capture the Before? Catching it, wrestling it into trapped silence with thumbs, knees blackening and blueing from too much squirming on top of it merely to preserve the faint sputters of oxygen it expended. As if such a thing could be rewound or duplicated so that Before’s clockwork stores were always full of hours one could revisit with a blank slate, a new page, yet would never need to be scribbled through with chipping chalk or passed by with a feeling of what could’ve been instead.

Only, that’s not how it worked. The past could not be rewritten. It could not be recalculated for a redo, either.

Why would anyone try to cling to this dream when the dust from the After was bound to choke a person with its grittiness again and again regardless of the promises it’d made to keep the throat clear and dry? Free of regret. Unspoiled by grief. Untainted by all those nasty ‘if’s’ that tasted like tarred feathers on the tongue.

Who would care to listen to each beautifully fleeting moment as it gusted away like a dandelion wish on the end of a swollen green stem? Who wanted the pleasure, the pain of cataloguing them?

How long before each second started to sound less like a soprano note in the fabric of infinity and more like static burnt deep into eardrums? Krshhhing with the noise that all middles made as they neared their endings.

When was it wrong to count the stones of time like precious particles no one wanted to throw away? When was it right to grasp them tight, not letting go? Not giving up. Never, never surrendering to bruises or the fight for more un-lived life.

What happened if someone didn’t? Wouldn’t. If one refused to pay out time in elapsing dividends because it was unfair, because the future currency one was already contracted was about to be stolen from out of pockets before it could be spent.

What happened, for instance, to a girl with a woefully devoted, often under appreciated heart which had been taken, broken, or disappointed one too many times to be able to forget how it felt to be denied - what ruin it wrought inside of her when something or someone left her alone again or far behind in a place where she couldn’t follow so that she was the only one who was missing out on everything she wanted? Everything she almost got, almost loved, but might not receive.

What did it mean when she clung to each peal over her head because a part of her was terrified this was the last bell of extraordinary she was meant to hear? To want. To almost reach out and touch. To nearly have it in the palm of her hands, obscured, but lost in a way that was about to be found. Making her feel strong and certain in herself at last - in them, too - her heart open, adrenalized, embracive of the teethy edges which were to chomp through one of her deepest chambers soon, not long from now. Marking her with a brand of unapologetic readiness, of confidence she owed to the creature she was today.

This girl didn’t need extraordinary on her own - not all on her own - but she desired it with this man here before her. She knew that without a doubt now. Just as he was set to disappear.

The only problem was this: she wanted him out there somewhere still living. Still existing like the constant he was, or came to be over these uncountable years. She needed him to stay a fragment of light that’d never fade, that’d never fall from its spot in the sky so she could see it always - with her eyes closed, soul stretched through every shadow or curve of darkness - so she could chase it with feet one day knowing he’d be there waiting for her on the other side.

It was imperative that his coming seconds continued to stretch. Bend. Twist. Multiply. Endure.

But what happened if the hands of time stopped revolving because they intended to sweep the constant of him away for good? How did she feel to know it was nearly over between them? The end? Their last moment? This goodbye becoming the most rotten she’d ever tasted on dry lips since they still thirsted for the hope of another kiss.

It might be the end of every possibility…

The dropping curtain….

The final eclipse…

The threads of a vanishing eternity plunging into a hole that would fray its edges like the snap of a coffin lid…

So what became of her? Of him? Of them and this nearly-something which never came fully to fruition?

What next? What happened after the clock froze with a loud ding to assault their ears, catching their hearts off guard when it resounded out loud into the night with one last chime? Because if they couldn’t reverse the ding above their heads at midnight, if this fate was impossible to prevent, then how come those clock hands halted like lungs holding in a breath before a sigh?

Pssst, let me let you in on a little secret:

Out of time is not where their story ended.

It’s where it stopped—

then started all over again.

Caroline loved to cycle through the city. Preferred it, really. Given the option, she always chose a spontaneous ride over an aimless or idle stroll through the streets when a wandering mood struck her, as one often did. Restlessness dug into her as deeply as fangs anymore; or had, more specifically, for the past three decades or so.

“You’ll hear no complaints from me over it. Wanderlust leads where it wants, where it must,” her companion often said before they kicked off from the curb near their home. “I’ve embraced it myself many times over the years, to be sure, so I have no qualms about following wherever it is it drives you next.”

“Good,” she’d nod, releasing the kickstand. “It’s comforting to know you intend to try and keep up for once, Lance Armstrong. Instead of, you know, tailgating my backside a few tire revolutions away. Like a creep.”

“What can I say? I’m fond of a good chase, especially one with as lovely a view as you.”

“You always were, weren’t you? Fond of chasing me, I mean,” she’d reply with an arched smile, the words soon blurring into an echoed look-back over her shoulder.

“And I will continue to be,” would come the un-ironic answer from somewhere close behind, “thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me, Bonnie, and a few Japanese grimoire spells, you mean,” Caroline would correct in that chirpy, heart-of-the-matter way of hers.

“Certainly. Whatever you say.”

Then off they’d jet together without another word: no particular direction or destination in mind.

As it was, kinetic motion made Caroline more comfortable with her place in the world seeing as how she could travel anywhere inside of it. And she longed to see everything now -  every town, city, country, continent; each day or night; the kinds of things nobody could dare to forget when one fought to remain aware. Alive.

She yearned to be everywhere and nowhere all at once these days, and cycling, she was. It’s why she loved it so much.

There was something about the feel of pedals flat against her soles, the bikey breeze cooling her skin before it blew tendrils loose onto the nape of her neck, the wheels beneath her spinning, screeching smoothly with speed as they weaved along windy, bus-trafficked roads or twiggy park pathways to gain that rush of adrenaline that clattered her teeth with joy. With freedom. Or maybe it was the way in which her butt bumped up and down on the triangular seat while a midsummer dusk descended with a multilingual hush over boats, which were docked bow-to-stern in the stilled green canals to her left, the day’s end cresting beyond the architectural diadem of the Tower Bridge as she continued her odyssey, then later, peaking atop the hedged copses and lush treetops in St. James’s Park to illuminate a family of ducklings as they paddled through the golden ripples. Or maybe it was how the moonlight reflected off rows of bricked homes in the borough of Bermondsey as her tires crunched gravel and debris to dust without slowing. It was in how everything whizzed by her in an indecipherable rush of buildings, cathedrals, faces, vibrated conversation, smogged tedium and bustle. Alerting her to the blended chaos of it all. Her ears buzzing with the familiar novelty of progression, of diversified populace and soon-to-be-digitized antiquity.

Caroline was hastened forward through the city, through a still-untapped eternity, by wonder. Diversion. Exploration. Temptation. Love. Each second tickling the hair in her nostrils as it passed before, then behind her.

The moving world around her became an anomalous combination of fast and slow, and the dichotomy thrilled her. It was something she could race alongside or immerse herself in by grasping the handlebar breaks - hopping off her bike with a swing of her leg to trot into a shop, a pub, an outdoor theater; dawdling along the choppy waves of the Thames with this man’s arm wrapped around her waist like it belonged there (and who’s to say it didn’t?) - but also something which she’d never be able to catch fully no matter how hard she tried. And Caroline was okay with that. She didn’t mind.

The truth was she relished a camaraderie with the world no one else besides the man next to her sensed, or understood, so it gave her the luxury to simply be. Feel. To open herself up to the unvaried rhythm of time as it carried them around every bend in this labryinth’d metropolis. Allowing her to bask in London’s steady changeability wherever she rode.

Caroline adored the taste of life rolling by her as her legs rounded harder, faster. Muscles burning with exertion. Slickened with sweat beneath her jeans, taut against her hamstrings.

She inhaled with eyes closed, breathing it all in without stopping: all the honking cars and laughter, the alcohol mixed with blood many tourists smelled of as they paused by some monument to snap a few Instagram photos, the clink of the Tube rails, applause within the Globe Theater, multicultural cuisine, fresh cheeses huddled within market stalls for selling, couples of all ages, pints of beer drunk in crowded avenues, the lift of a cyclist’s arm as she signaled to turn right, a full moon tacked to a twilight sky, music, tea and crumpets, a gentleman’s eye lingering on her legs too long to be accidental, the pruned sidewalk trees. Most of all, though, she reveled in Klaus’s easy proximity. His pride and contentment to be here, to be with her still (even if that meant flanking her rear sometimes), was more tangible than the kiss he left on her mouth at the last stoplight in Parliament Sqaure.

“How do you do that?” she said as they waited at the intersection with their foreheads still pressed together.

“Do what, love?” he asked.

“Make me want each new moment we share together to last forever.”

“My kisses are that potent? How lovely. I didn’t realize,” Klaus smirked.

Caroline shoved against his chest playfully, “Cut it out, I’m serious!”

“Say it again then.”

“No.”

“Come on, say it. Say it…please?”

Shaking her head, “You’re such a glutton for flattery, you know that? It’s exhausting. Seriously,” Caroline teased.

“Ah, but only when it comes from you, sweetheart. No one else. And just so we’re clear—” Reaching out with his hand to stroke her cheek then, his expression liquified, his irises gleaming with an affectionate blue blaze she’d come to recognize as hers, and hers alone. Klaus’s voice was deep, so much barer in emotion than he ordinarily liked to betray, “I’d gladly surrender it all to live in one such a moment of forever with you. I could pick but one, were it required. However, I‘m greedy so only if forced,” he added with a languid stroke down her spine.

“As could I, no doubt,” she smiled softly in answer, her lips poised near his ear and her fingers tangled in the necklaces at his throat. “Still, I’m glad we don’t need to choose.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Limitations suck, o’hybrid of mine. They leave us feeling stunted and starving to surpass them.”

“True, too true…”

“Plus, I’d rather have all of time ahead and behind us like we do now,” she said just as the cycle light changed to GO. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Truth be told, love, I just want us. This. You.” With a thumb hooked through one of her belt loops, Klaus shrugged while Caroline listened, “To hell with all the rest,” he said.

“And you’ll have me, okay? You absolutely will. I know it.”

“How?”

“Because we happen to have forever, you and I. We won back time, we got a second chance to sample everything the world still has to offer,” Caroline said with meaning before she leaned in to kiss him. “And there’s nobody dead or alive I’d rather spend it with…than you.”

After drawing away from his mouth then and settling herself onto her bike once more with a turn of the pedals, Caroline giggled because Big Ben cut in with its midnight song from Elizabeth Tower right as they disappeared back into the London night in unison, the clock hands illuminated almost in omen, or like a reminder gilded in moments that rang out with the words don’t waste me, don’t waste me. Which they didn’t, and never could again.

In fact, if the chimes of the near-death past had taught these two lovers anything, it was that they needed to chase and cherish every year, day, hour, minute, and second of eternity they were gifted because it wasn’t a given in this life no matter how “unkillable” or White-Oak-stake-prone one pertained to be. So chase and cherish is what Klaus and Caroline did. It’s how they chose to spend their passionate, nomadic existence for however long it coiled forward into the future. They loved it minute-by-minute, chime-after-chime…

Together.

[fleetofshippyships-archive]

Harry Potter and the Seven Owls... and That One Preening Peacock

So, me and Anna ( @starshaping​) were bored one day on skype, and opened a shared google doc, and this was what happened =)

It’s our first time collaborating, and really we were just playing around, but we had fun =)

Anna wrote Harry’s dialogue and actions, and I wrote Draco’s.

Harry Potter and the Seven Owls... and That One Preening Peacock

2.1k | Mature | AO3

The scene: Draco is sitting in an ornate, poncy looking chair, while Harry is shirtless and sitting amongst a pile of metal rods, bars, screws and other materials in the centre of the room.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter. You’re doing it wrong!” Draco sneered, as he put down his teacup and saucer down on the side table.

“Fuck you, I’m not! That’s what the bloody instructions say to do,” Harry grumbled, glancing away from the instructions long enough to glower at Draco.

“Well, then the instructions are wrong, and written by imbeciles who know nothing. I’m telling you, you’re doing it wrong!”

“Do you think you can do it better then? Go ahead!”

“If you think for one second that I’m touching that metal monstrosity, you are ever dumber than you look. And you look like a stupid peasant. Did you even try today? Half of your hair is sticking up, it has been since breakfast. Did I mention?” His fingers itched with the urge to fix it, as they had been all day.

But touching Harry’s hair often resulted in them losing the day, and getting nothing productive done. Besides, fixing Harry’s hair meant he couldn't laugh at him about it. He did so love to laugh at him.

“No, but thanks for that,” Harry replied sarcastically. “Stop being a whiny arsehole and just do it, if you’re so sure that you’re more capable.”

Draco fixed him with a sneer. “Malfoys don’t build things, Potter. We hire others to do it for us. That’s the whole point of having money.” Draco had thought they’d resolved this, the last time Harry had wanted to change something about the house. “You have a somewhat acceptable fortune yourself. You should know this by now.”

“I build things myself, prat. As you well know, since there’s that nice desk over there that you like to... You know...” He coughed pointedly, and tugged at his ear.

Draco smirked. The ear tug. That was the most ridiculous habit Harry had, and Draco loved to pretend he had no idea what it meant.

“No, Potter, I do not know. You’re going to have to be more specific. I don’t speak idiot.”

“You know what, Malfoy? I should leave you to do this yourself. You’re capable, so you say.”

Draco snorted, and added that to the mental tally of all the times he’d got one over on Harry. Making him show how difficult he found talking about sex, outside of sex itself at least, absolutely counted. Anyone would think he was a prude. It was hilarious. Harry Potter was no prude.

“Capable of calling someone to come and make it for me, sure,” he admitted easily. “I don’t see why we need such an elaborate bloody enclosure for all your fucking owls. Just get rid of the owls. I mean, really. Do people not coordinate gifts anymore? Did no one check to see if anyone else had had that fascinatingly unique idea of getting you a replacement owl, after you finally admitted that you might, might, be ready?”

Absolutely ridiculous. They were all idiots. Even three owls would have been too many.

“You leave me and my seven owls alone, you arsehole. They did nothing to you!” That was a lie, and they both knew it. At least two of them were vicious little beasts.

“Verity nearly ripped off my fucking earlobe! Jingle, and who the fuck thought it was appropriate to name an owl Jingle anyway, left a fucking scar on my wrist!” Draco exclaimed, making an angry gesture towards the little white mark on the inside of his right wrist. “Your owls are a fucking nightmare, and they must be contained or gotten rid of. Hurry the fuck up and use what small amount of initiative you must have to figure the damn thing out!”

“First of all, Maven likes you! He’s a sweetheart.” Harry paused, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Though, you’re right, a few of them are quite mean.”

Draco snorted, feeling smug.

“Second of all, Andromeda let Teddy name Jingle, and Teddy is a child, so you can’t judge him for that. I’m sure Jingle makes absolute sense as a name, to a child. Stop being an arse! This is never going to get done if you don’t have some common decency and stop insulting me. It’s distracting.”

“Fuck decency. I’ll speak to you how I fucking like! You didn’t start dating me because I’m some simpering, hero worshipping trollop who’ll never have a harsh word to say.” And thank Merlin for that, because even while in love, Harry did more things to irritate him than anything else, even if it was more of a fond irritation now. He’d have gone mad if he couldn’t taunt him about it.  

Draco uncrossed his legs, and then re-crossed them the other way, leaning back in his chair, and making that hand gesture he knew irritated Harry.

“Fuck your stupid owls. Except Maven. You’re right, I like Maven. And fuck your incompetency with this gigantic fucking enclosure. Fuck your stupid pride, and your inability to let the men who delivered it construct, like they fucking offered, for free. And fuck your stupid fucking hair! Flatten that side of it before I grab it and bend you over your fucking desk!”

Sucking in a deep breath, he glared at the offending hair. It was distracting him from his annoyance. His favourite thing about Harry’s hair was how resilient it was to being pulled, and how much Harry seemed to like it, but now wasn’t the time. He did not want that metal monstrosity to remain unfinished for any longer than necessary. It would be an eyesore when completed, but it was even worse now.

“You’re really pretty when you’re angry. Did I ever tell you that? And just because you said that, I want to fuck up the rest of my hair.”

Draco scowled. “You are a contrary wanker, Potter! And of course I’m pretty when I’m angry, it’s about fucking time you noticed.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“You’re pretty all the time, but I can’t tell you that as often as I think it because your ego is already the size of Hogwarts. Can’t inflate that pretty head any more, now can we?”

Against his will, Draco felt his cheeks flush with warmth. That wanker.

“Cut it out! You can’t flatter me into helping you with that stupid enclosure. I wanted them to construct it, like they offered. You’re the stupid twat that said you could handle it.” Ever the prideful Gryffindor. Idiot. And Draco even more so for not insisting the delivery men do it for them. “And if we’re talking egos, you’re a fucking hypocrite, Mr. Saviour of the Wizarding World, Sexiest Wizard however many years in a row it’s been. Preening like a fucking parrot whenever someone brings it up.”

“I preen whenever you say it, arsehole. I spend the rest of my time trying to melt into the shadows. I cannot believe you actually think I preen. That’s you! You preen every time I call you pretty! Or when anyone else does, for that matter. Now please help me with this stupid enclosure.”

“I’m a Malfoy, I was born to preen. It’s expected of me.”

And so amusing to watch Harry go through the stages of annoyance over it, attempting to ignore it, and then watching with fondness, before Draco did something to make him cycle back to annoyance. It was high class entertainment.

“You’re pathetic for cowering in the shadows, by the way,” he added, looking him up and down. It did no one good to hide that body from the world. “I wish you did preen more often. Your wasting those chest muscles you’ve been building lately, don’t think I haven’t noticed them. And no, I will not help. I told you that you couldn’t set it up on your own. Owl the company back, and get them to send someone, like any intelligent person would.”

“Shut up. I just don’t want to be out of shape by the time I’m thirty, you preening peacock. And why don’t you call them, since you’re so insistent on not helping me? Stop insulting my intelligence!”

Draco snorted. “What intelligence? I see none,” he sneered. The peacock joke. How tired. That had stopped annoying him a long time ago. Harry needed new material. “If I ruffle my feathers at you, will you stop being a stubborn git and owl them? You’re the one who made the purchase, it has to be you. Idiot.”

“You’re a prick. Of the highest degree. Why do I like you again? Oh, that’s right. Because… You know what? I’ll just call them tomorrow. Later today. Fuck, what time is it?”

Draco checked his pocket watch, and looked mournfully at his empty teacup. Why was he still watching this idiot try to construct this? Teasing him while he cursed and got annoyed was amusing. Watching him work was always nice too. Still, he should have gone to bed hours ago and left the stupid prat to it.

“It’s two in the morning, but don’t stop there. Why do you like me, Potter? Do tell. I’ve been watching you struggle with this for fuck knows how many hours, comforted only by you removing your shirt early into proceedings, and by how fucking perfect your arse looks in those trousers. And now you’re admitting I’m right?” That always sent a shiver through him. Every time Harry admitted he was right, it was like he was laying hands on him, and Draco immediately flushed with heat. “Careful, we might not make it somewhere more comfortable, and if we have a shag in here, you’re bound to hurt yourself on all those materials that are lying around now.”

There was the desk, and he did so love a fuck on or over that desk, it was a gorgeous desk, but Harry had managed to cover it in parts for the enclosure as well. If Draco found scratches on that beautiful dark wood, he’d kick the git’s arse.

“You know why I like you, I’m not going to feed your ego by telling you. But my arse does look pretty good in these trousers, doesn’t it?” Harry twisted around, trying to get a look at his own arse, before suddenly freezing. “Wait, it’s two in the morning? Where the hell did the time go?”

Draco couldn't help but snort again. Harry’s idiocy was most endearing, and endlessly amusing. And the stubborn set of his mouth, accompanied by the flush to his cheeks was most arousing. Harry wanted him, he’d been wanting him for a couple of hours now, only delayed by trying to finish the stupid enclosure. The signs were obvious. The more Draco had taunted him while he’d worked, the more Harry had wanted him. Draco had been greatly enjoying his struggle to stay on task.

“The time went into you trying and failing to construct a hideous owl enclosure for your demon owls that are, no doubt, at this very moment, tearing the basement to pieces. But yes, your arse is fantastic, I refuse to even pretend I didn’t mean that. Why don’t you lose the trousers, and I’ll give it some more lasting compliments.”

“Are you teasing me right now? Because if you’re teasing me, I’m going to punch you. Or something.”

“Potter, it’s only teasing if I don’t follow through. When have I ever failed to follow through? I may tease you for a while, or for hours, until you’re begging, and that begging slowly becomes incoherent. But I always follow through... eventually.”

If it wasn’t so late, several hours of teasing sounded fantastic, in fact. He loved nothing more than reducing Harry to an incoherent, begging mess. Even better for the stages of cursing and swearing that preceded the begging.

“Great, now I’m turned on. See what you did? Arsehole. Poncy git. Fuck you. I’m mad at you.”

Draco drank in the sight of him, red-faced, chest heaving as his breathing quickened, and that defiant posture of his.

“Excellent, how about you come over here and do something about it?” Draco uncrossed his legs again, and spread them, leaning back and slouching slightly in his chair. “Or are you the tease now?”

“Fuck yes, I’ve been wanting to break in that chair with you for the past few hours. Let me just… Wait. Fuck, it’s two am! The owls! I forgot to feed the owls!”

“What?”

Harry didn’t respond, as he grabbed his discarded shirt, and left the room without looking back.

“They can…” But Harry was gone, and Draco growled and got to his feet, crossing to the open doorway to yell after him, “Are you serious? Fuck the owls! Get your arse back here you fucking tease!”

Leave us a comment on AO3?

[cagedbycravings]

Iron Necessity

Title: Iron Necessity

Chapter: Collateral 

Warnings: Swearing?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and the OC’s. All other characters belong to their respective owners.

“He who has a why can live bear almost any how.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

Small beads of the sun’s rays warmed her body as Esmèrie thought of pearls on her way to her alcove. The thought of her mother brought a smile to her lips as she turned to look over her shoulder. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched lately. Diving into the water, she shook the thoughts from mind. Rounding the sharp ledge to find her underwater garden rings. She’d been inspired by the Italian scientists who created them, brandishing her own rendition, altering them into a biconic shape. More practical and efficient, she’d been able to double the amount of space providing more opportunity to sustain herself. She couldn’t stop her smile from reaching her eyes as she tended to the growing herbs and plants. She’d long since embraced vegetarianism, limiting herself to the occasional egg when she needed it. Plucking her fruits and vegetables, she quickly swam back to her alcove. Stripping out of her wetsuit, she tossed it into the hamper before pressing a button to wash and dry the suit in an oddly shaped cubed. Another invention she’d tinkered with, it’s original intention was so college students wouldn’t have to use their money at laundromats. It was portable, environmentally friendly and required detergent easily made at home. Grabbing a pair of dark shorts and a matching bandeau, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She’d lost more weight. At this rate, I may have to start making my own bras. The thought made her chuckle. She could still feel the pin pricks at her finger tips from sewing the pillow cases. Missing her collection of Maje and  Comptoir des Cotonniers, she sighed.

Rinsing her vegetables and fruits in the sink, she set to work on preparing her lunch and afternoon tea.

Her laptop dinged as she overlooked her shoulder, licking away the shaved almonds at her fingers.

Sitting hurriedly, she opened the chat window to see her beloved cousin’s message. Her keystrokes relaxed as she had her first real conversation with Ciel since leaving home.

E.L.: Are you ready for Christmas?

C.L.: Yeah. We’re going to be traveling this year.

E.L: Oh? Where?”

C.L.: To some family friends near the Russian border. Papa said there’s some business to be taken care of.

Fear froze her fingers for a moment before she slammed her fingers into the keyboard, frantically pressing the video chat button.

His whisper and shadowy face brought the color back to her cheeks as she steadied her breathing.

“Ciel, did he say who he’d be meeting with?” She tried to hide the worry in her voice.

“No. Just that we had to go as a family at Christmas. Why?”

Her silence was a mistake as her cousin panicked. “Why? Does this have to do with why you can’t come home?”

“Who told you I can’t come home?”

“Maman was talking to the aunties. She kept saying you were…uhm…what’s the word…”

“Collateral?” The word barely escaped her throat as Esmè swallowed.

“Yeah. What’s collateral?”

“Collateral is…” Her voice broke as she looked away from the screen. “Ciel that isn’t something you should fret over. Did anyone say exactly where you’re going?”

“No, just somewhere near Russia. Esmè? Are you okay?” Bags had sunken into his eyes as he struggled to keep his head up.

Her stomach knotted as she struggled to not double over with nausea. “I’m okay, Ciel.” She gripped at her knees, forcing as much composure as possible. “I need you to do me a favor. Every day I want you to take a photo with all the kids. And each city you pass, I want you to take a photo of something memorable and unique to the area.”

“You want to see my photography?”

“Yes! Please…” Her eagerness got the best of her as Ciel’s tired azures lit up.

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Please do.”

“It’s late.” He yawned.

“Yes, get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you.”

The chat ended as she closed her laptop with a shaky hand. Looking down at her well-manicured fingers, the cuticles free of pin holes, she heaved a heavy sigh. Ignoring the disgust and regret pooling in her stomach, she reached in the desk computer desk for a sewing needle while trying to convince myself that what she was about to do wasn’t self-harm. Pressing the needle between her nailbed and cuticle, she inhaled sharply. The pain was instantaneous as her hand stopped trembling. Her eyes fluttered as endorphins flooded her body. Poking deeper into the skin, she stopped when blood began to stain the needle. Removing the object from her finger, she breathed, lifting her head to the ceiling. She tried to justify her actions. She wasn’t a cutter or a burner. She didn’t leave scars or welts. She just caused a little bit of blood to surface before stopping. It’s not truly self-harm if there’s no proof, right? Convincing all but her conscious that what she was doing was fine, she tucked the needle away before sucking on the blood threatening to slip from the wound.

Her finger stopped throbbing after a few moments, her trice of reprieve lasting no longer than a minute. The pain offered an escape in a moment’s notice, taking her away from constant dread of her decision. It had been months since she’d arrived in Rio. The people were kind, the land was beautiful, and ocean cleansing--softening the edges of reality. However, the twisting in her gut continued as she realized that this was just one of many caveats to come.

Not following through with the agreement would come at a cost. Time was running out, she needed to find a better solution. Her thoughts floated towards the green ledger hidden underneath her computer desk.

Removing it carefully, she opened the pages, finding some solace in the few answers to her many questions. She’d figured out that the locations shared a commonality. They were frequented by a task force that had traveled from Azerbaijan, to Ukraine, to Afghanistan over the years. The booklet had expanded into a small portfolio case as her notes had grown too numerous to be contained between the thin little pages.

She’d deduced that this task force was compiled of special force members ranging from the Americas, to Europe and Australia. However, she’d yet to decipher the reason as to why they were in the ledger. Her fingers tapped on the encircled 141 in red ink.

The hissing from her teakettle caused her to jolt. She bounced her leg beneath her desk as she bit at the wound on her finger. As much as she wanted to remain under the sea, free from the gaze of Cillian, she’d need to return. Her face flushed painfully as she clutched the cross at her neck. She’d been gone nearly a year now. Vanished in a rainstorm. It is a blessing that Ciel doesn’t resent me.

Thinking quickly, she pulled up the last chat she’d had with Santiago. Messaging him would hold its risks knowing that Cillian was likely trying to monitor her.  

Her fingers rapidly struck the keyboard as she eagerly sent Santiago a message. In seconds, he replied as her heart leaped.

The Inventor: Would it be possible for me to come up to the lab a bit earlier than expected?

Santiago: Sure. Meet there in an hour? The Professor just arrived last night.

The Inventor: Sounds great. See you then.

Gathering up the materials, technology, and notes she’d need in the coming days. Reaching under her desk, she felt for the small leather ledger beneath. She still didn’t quite understand why her mother had left it behind, but Esmèrie had spent months decoding her scribbles into proper notes. She’d learned of the Task Force 141, mapped out their locations over the years, placed an X over their targets, and left question marks for the answers she didn’t have. Her thumb slipped over a square with the image of a skull in the center. Her mother had written an array of symbols Esmèrie couldn’t quite translate. Sliding the ledger in a waterproof pouch along with her other essentials, she retrieved her backpack from under her bed. Quickly changing into her diving suit, she entered the water.

Reaching the cove, she changed before slipping into her tunic dress and stockings before awkwardly sliding into her ankle boots. If she were to make it to the lab in time, she’d have to hurry.

Santiago was fortunate. He’d been able to live abroad for half his life, studying at the best schools in London. He was tall, mildly attractive, and well spoken. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, Esmèrie seems oblivious to his advances. They’d met when she first arrived in India as he was immediately taken with her. He’d showered her with compliments, took interest in her inventions, and even offered her a guest house at his family estate. When he received her message, he felt almost insulted that she would much rather stay at the Apotheosis laboratory rather than at his home. Rounding his fists, he stood abruptly from the bench he and Mateo sat on.

Mateo was quieter, gawky, and often too timid to say anything. He was convinced that the only reason he hadn’t dropped pompous Santiago was to learn more from Professor he’d heard so much about. The two waited in the bustling train station for any sign of The Inventor.

“Are you sure she’s even coming?” Mateo looked up from his phone to see Santiago pacing, hands shoved in his pockets.

“She will be.” He gritted through his teeth. The hissing of the train nearest to them drew their attention as Esmèrie waved towards them.

“Ah, there you are. We weren’t sure if you’d make it.” He plastered a fake smile to his lips as Mateo frowned. Santiago’s hubris caused many of their other scientists and inventors to leave often with their desperately needed funding. Their work in eliminating nuclear radiation may not have been as expensive as climate change denialists claimed but still, it wasn’t like it was cheap. Esmèrie had brought both the funding they were using as well as showing significant progress in their neutralizing project.

“Sorry, I was a little caught up with something.” Esmèrie sheepishly rubbed at her neck.

“It’s no problem.” Mateo stood with a smile. “Come on, the Professor wants to meet you.”

Their walk to the laboratory was short as they entered through a sliding metal door that led down concrete stairs. Motion detector lights illuminated their way as she was welcomed by different labs with ongoing projects. Esmèrie glanced at either side of the hall seeing various scientist at work.

“How many scientists are down here?”

“Right now? Two dozen of us. But we’d like to expand, obviously.” Santiago lead the three down the hall.

“We’re really appreciative of the funding you’ve brought with you.” Mateo felt slightly out of place standing beside Esmèrie as she smiled.

“It’s no trouble. Anything to help further the scientific community.”

Santiago smirked as he glanced over his shoulder before stopping in front of an iron door. “The Professor’s domain is through here. He’s wanted to meet you for quite some time.” He motioned her to move forward as Esmèrie paused. “Are you two not joining me?”

Santiago and Mateo shook their heads. “Everyone meets the Professor on their own.” Moving his weight from the door, Esmèrie tensed as he grinned. “Good luck, Inventor.”

The staircase leading to the Professor’s lab was dimly lit as her footsteps echoed against the walls. Clutching her cross beneath her brightly colored scarf, she swallowed her fear as she entered the glowing lab. The crackling of a stone fireplace greeted her as she glanced around. Two tables were perfectly aligned on either side of the room. The objects organized with precision as she realized that the room was nothing short of immaculate. She’d turned to face the bookshelf whenever a door creaked open behind her. A man with a stout build entered the room, his eyes taking one look at her before he burst into laughter.

“You look as terrified as a church mouse with those eyes.” His thick Russian accent wiggled his whiskers.

She gripped at her wrist nervously as he eyed her up. “You are…different than how Santiago described.”

“Different?”

“He did not mention that you were a woman.” The blunt response caught her off guard.

“I see.”

He sat down to pour himself some coffee. “Guessing by your accent you are French, da?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“ENS Lyon, good school.”

She smiled, eyes brightening. “It is. One of the best.”

He nodded. “So did you bring your netting?”

“I did.” Shrugging off her bag, she knelt to retrieve the netting. “It’s been tested in its final phase. It is set to remove over years’ worth of radiation spillage in just under a day.” She handed off the netting to the Professor, who raised a curious brow. “Why this material?”

“It’s used by the local fishermen. I thought it would help familiarize the locals with the invention.”

He nodded. “An empathetic gesture.”

Esmèrie smiled, tilting her head slightly.

“You do things out of empathy. It drives you.” The Professor eyed her strangely.

“Yes…” She felt a twinge of embarrassment at being read so easily.

He smirked. “Science and empathy don’t ever work out the people hope they will. What else have you come up with?”

Withdrawing the iridescent warp shaped lantern, she watched his lift his brows.

“I’ve found a means to speed up the process of stabilizing isotopes but yet to discover a-“

“Means to completely neutralize the radiation?” He reached out for the lantern, sticking his fingers between the coils. “That’s because it can’t be done.”

The slightest irritation knitted her brows for only a moment before Esmèrie tensed. “It may not be known tensed. “There may not be a solution yet but that’s not that same as saying there isn’t a solution out there. These lanterns for example,” She reached for the cylindrical object. “were created utilizing the integrated rate law and…”

Her voice drifted off in his mind as the Professor watched Esmèrie. Her passion emphasized by her gestures. Her smile reaching her eyes. The joy radiating from her. The visage of the mentor from his youth came to mind as he allowed a small smile to tug at his whiskers. He’d been hesitant to bring in more inventors, his past teaching him that a healthy case of paranoia was crucial to surviving. And yet, a glimmer of hope filled his eyes as he watched Esmèrie explain her latest theory…Perhaps a bit of hope is exactly the change we need around here…

 Elyse lie on her bed, one arm tucked behind her head, the other absentmindedly tracing her tattoo. A vesica piscis on her left side, designed by her twin. One of their many secrets, they had their tattoos done just before Elyse left to live with their godfather in the UK.

She could still feel Esmè’s warmth on her shoulder, as they sat up together on the last morning before she left. Their bodies shared a mutual soreness from the previous night’s activities as images of the two rolling around in their bed came to mind. Elyse felt heated, a surge of pleasure rushing between her legs as she shook away the perverse thoughts.  They’d long since struggled with their abominable desires, knowing full well that what they did wasn’t acceptable, even in their mother’s liberal eyes. Our greatest secret. The key to our connection. She remembered how it felt when they kissed as more than just sisters. They were changing, newly developed as Elyse glimpsed her sister in a new light. She’d always been so shy, so demure, so trusting. Reaching out to her, placing a kiss too deep to be considered sisterly, she remembered feeling as though they’d woken up from a dream. Their bond as twins only grew from there. Their sixth sense, their individual knowing of each other grew. Their dreams, their most powerful means of communication became almost overwhelming in their first few months apart.

Their mother in her every omniscient thinking, separated them knowing that it would be their downfall to stay together. She knew she’d be leaving to follow their godfather, and that keeping her daughters together would result in too easy of an opportunity for their uncles to get rid of them. The plan had been so simple then. Elyse would go and live in England where their godfather grew up where she enlisted at seventeen. And Esmè would stay home, helping keep the litter safe while Maman was away.

The ache of loneliness blended with suffocating uncertainty filled her heart as her eyes were overwhelmed with tears. At that very moment, Clover entered the room. Wiping her face quickly, Elyse watched the exhausted medic crawl into bed with a sigh. “I’m pooped. What about you?”

“Much of the same.” Her voice cracked as she swallowed.

“Elyse?” Clover sat up, raising her head. “You okay?”

“I’m-“ Elyse cleared her throat. “I’m fine. Just a sore throat is all.”

Clover nodded twisting her mouth. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

Elyse sighed. “Just missing someone.”

“Someone like a boyfriend…or…”

“No.” Elyse forced a chuckle. “My sister.”

Clover stood on her mattress, holding her weight on the ledge between their bunk beds. “Older or younger?”

Elyse looked pensively at her roommate before answering. “Younger.”

“What does she do?”

“She was- is an inventor.” Elyse pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Cool. Do you want to talk about it?”

“It?” Elyse asked, lifting her eyes to meet Clover’s.

“The reason you’re crying.”

There was an intense pause as Elyse sharpened her gaze. “Not just yet.”

Clover put her hands up in mock surrender. “Alright. Just let me know when you’re ready.” A gentle smile spread across her features as Elyse nodded.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Perched in a tree, Ghost lowered his binoculars. He’d heard his name whispered in the shadows, his reputation proceeding him years after his mission to neutralize Roba. He’d tracked down his latest target within hours, spending the last several days monitoring her routine. She was younger, meeker, smaller than the brief described. He knew that she’d been in contact with the Black Dahlia organization, a shadow group of mercenaries that held ties to wealthy families across the globe. Cillian Hawke, an Irishman around his age often accompanied Esmèrie according to his intel. However, he’d yet to see Cillian near the target anywhere. He followed her to the edge of the city, her watchful eyes weary of the foliage camouflaging him. She froze mid-step, senses on alert. When her brightened hazels locked with his sharpened amber, he knew she’d bolt. He rose slowly in the shadows, the lights from an oncoming truck revealing his skull balaclava. The truck couldn’t move fast enough for his liking as his suspicions were correct. She’d slid down a trail leading to a cove as he cautiously followed her scattered, panicky footprints in the sand. Readying his gun, he slowly approached the entrance to the cove. A jagged edge extended from him as he felt someone’s gaze on his shoulders. Whipping around he took aim at Esmèrie. Time slowed as the wind blew through her curls, revealing the dismay in her eyes. She hesitated, as if waiting for him to pull the trigger. When he didn’t, she dived from his sight. Time resumed as the crushing waves swallowed her up by the time he reached the ledge as he cursed under his breath. Inhaling sharply, he turned towards the inside of the cove.

Flashing a light inside, he found a backpack with a change of clothes folded messily on top of it. His acute amber eyes traced the shore spotting an odd, blue glow in the oncoming waves. He could make out a figure swimming in the midst as he flicked off his light. The uneven trail made for an irritating walk towards the oncoming bioluminescent waves as he glimpsed Esmèrie wadding in the water. Her back was towards him, she swiped her mess of clingy curls as she searched for him amongst the cove above them. He had two options. He could wait for her to tire herself out and come back to shore or he could extend his hand just a bit further and grab her. Deciding on the latter, he kneeled on bended knee stretching his body outwards. Her hair was just inches from his grip whenever a sudden wave slapped the surface, causing Esmèrie to vanish underwater. His amber eyes narrowed as he tried to predict where she’d appear from. He’d seen her eyes first, striking hazels connected with his intense amber.

His balaclava startled her as she tensed. Esmèrie’s eyes winced as they adjusted to candescent aura in the water. Her hair had escaped its hair tie, floating around her shoulders, as she wadded in the water. The mask looked familiar as she tilted her head. Ghost mimicked her almost simultaneously as she worried her lip. Images from the ledger flooded her mind as she tried to pinpoint where she’d seen that mask before. A faded sketch of the skull with question marks filled her memory as she placed her hands on the jagged edge of the cove, lifting herself just enough to see his face better in the dark. “Who are you?” Clicking on his flashlight he watched as she shielded her eyes with her hand.

“Who I am is of little importance.”  His cockney voice was just above a whisper as Esmèrie resisted the urge to shudder. He leaned closer as she felt his chilling gaze through his balaclava. “What you should be more concerned with is telling me exactly who you are.”

[xxleondraxx]

The Unknown’s Pandora

This fic revolves around two OC Mass Effect characters and takes place on Omega after Mass Effect 3. This chapter is SFW. This fic contains spoilers. This fic clocks in at 1,740 words. Enjoy. 

This whole fic should probably be rated M for violence.

Prologue

    Three shots rang out in rapid succession through the red-lit night on Omega, three Blue Suns mercenaries falling to the ground. They were dead, with perfectly placed holes in their skulls. Two Turians and a human. The kills were quick and clean. They never knew what hit them before their bodies hit the ground.

    Around the bodies the crowd quickly parted, forming a circle around the corpses. This was a familiar MO. Everybody recognized this as being the work of The Unknown. Murmured whispers about him sprang from the lips of those in the crowd. It had been months since The Unknown had struck, but that wasn’t uncommon.

    Rumor had it The Unknown did brief ‘stints’ on Omega. He’d kill dozens a day for reasons nobody knew. Some tried to compare him to Archangel, the turian that had fought the three largest gangs to try and make Omega ‘a better place for everybody’. Nobody really knew what happened to him, but everybody said he had been killed by a Blue Suns gunship.

    Archangel had made his motives widely known. He’d been on Omega for months, disrupting illegal trades, killing mercs and even recruiting others to his cause. He’d been a thorn in the side of Omega, and subsequently Aria T’loak.

    The Unknown was different. The people of Omega called him that since his motives, and even who he was, was unknown. And he didn’t only kill mercs. Seemingly innocent people were occasionally found dead with his MO shot through their skulls. Or what was left of them. The only known facts about him were that he was a male turian, and if you had enough credits, he was the best damn assassin one could hire.

    But one doesn’t just find and hire The Unknown. If one wanted to hire him, he found you. It was even said that he would refuse any offer that didn’t involve killing the target, no matter how many credits were offered to him. And the credits were always transferred to an untraceable account.

    It was said that not even the Shadow Broker could find any information about him that the average Omega citizen didn’t already know.

    The only other thing commonly known about The Unknown was there was a line of people seven miles long that wanted him dead. But with the lack of information on him, it was unlikely that anybody would succeed anytime soon.

    And now it seemed he was back, leaving everybody in the crowd on edge. Who would he kill next? It could be any of them. He was completely unpredictable. A moment later a fourth shot rang out and a male turian in the middle of the throng dropped to the ground.

    The moment after that, panic broke out. Everybody started running, trying to keep to cover and hoping The Unknown wouldn’t be able to get a shot off on them. Unbeknownst to them, high above their heads a lone figure sat upon the roof, smirking to himself under a black mask.

    Nothing like watching the roaches scatter, the turian, Remus Malum, thought to himself. He knew he was in no danger of being detected from his spot crouched on the roof. He wore all black. His thin but durable armor, made of flexible plating and strong synthetic fabrics, covered his entire body from neck to toe. Over it he wore a black trenchcoat. Concealing his entire head was a deep, black hood and hiding his face from view was a black mask that covered his mouth and nose and a pair of red-lensed goggles hid his eyes from view unless one could manage to draw close enough. What little part of his face that wasn’t shrouded by cloth he had covered in black paint.

    Outwardly there wasn’t a single distinguishing physical characteristic that would give away who he was. Nobody knew who he truly was save for the name the locals had given him.

    The Unknown. How quaint. I should kill one of them for it.

    Bringing his Spectre issue Black Widow sniper rifle up he put the butt against his shoulder and looked down the scope. He scanned the fleeing crowd, his eye catching a human male trip and fall to the ground. His mandibles twitched in anticipation under his thick mask and he ran his tongue over his sharp teeth.

    Through marbled green eyes he watched for a moment and chuckled darkly at the way the human, in his panic, scrambled to get his feet back under him. He braced the rifle against him and repositioned his hold. Shoot ‘em while they’re down. He pulled the trigger, savoring the sound of his rifle responding to his touch.

    The force of the slug shot from the high-powered rifle rendered the human’s unprotected head to nothing but bits and pieces. His body fell to the ground, dark red blood pooling around his lifeless body from what was left of his head.

    Oh, baby, that was a good one. Love it when their heads explode. He grinned and patted the side of the rifle. You done me good, Elizabeth. When a particular sound reached his ears he quickly looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. Looks like they finally sent in the reinforcements.

    Over the rooftops off in the distance he could see a gunship racing toward his general direction. He knew it hadn’t seen him yet, though. Collapsing his rifle and putting it on his back he stood and ran across the roof toward the gunship. He knew these roofs as well as some people knew the streets. This was his domain, and nobody could catch him within it.

    Kicking up his pace Remus headed for the edge of the roof, his coattails fanning out behind him, and jumped. He didn’t have far to fall. He landed on a thick metal pipe stretching from one building to the next. He slid across the pipe, the metal bottoms of his boots sending out sparks as grinded. He’d had the boots made specifically for that reason after he’d been living on Omega for two months.

    When he reached the end of the pipe he crouched and pushed off it with his powerful legs, launching himself into the air. He grabbed the edge of the roof, kicked off the side and flipped up onto the building in one seamless motion.

    The gunship was closer now, but it still hadn’t spotted him. He slid behind a vent so it wouldn’t see him anytime soon, and peered out from behind. His predatory eyes tracked the progress of the ship as it flew closer. When it was within yards of him, flying just over the space between two buildings he bolted.

    This should be fun, Remus thought while he leapt off of the edge of the roof with a powerful kick. Time almost seemed to slow for a moment as he sailed past the front of the gunship. He glanced into the windshield, right at the pilot, and smiled to himself at the shocked look on the batarian’s face.

    The turian tucked and rolled his landing onto the other rooftop, coming up on his feet and bolting across the top of the building.

    “It’s The Unknown!” Remus heard over a loudspeaker behind him. His keen hearing caught the sound of the gunship turn and speed toward him. “Kill him!”

    Go ahead and try, you four-eyed bastard, he thought, ducking, bobbing and weaving through the various structures on top of the roof. The gunship shot at him, but couldn’t get a direct line on him. He was fleet on his feet, and no bullet fired from the ship managed to get within so much as three feet of him.

    Remus nimbly jumped from roof to roof, running ever closer to a gap between two buildings that would be impossible to jump across.

    “We have him cornered!” he heard over the loudspeaker of the gunship.

    Not as much as you think you do. Just as most of the roof space of Omega, he knew this place. Skidding to slow down, Remus dropped off the edge of the roof out of the sight of the gunship. He dug his talons into a metal pipe and swung his body around. His feet crashed through a window of the abandoned building and he landed in a crouch inside. He quickly grabbed his sniper rifle and pressed his back against the wall next to the window.

    He heard the gunship stop over where he had jumped off the roof.

    “Where are you?” the batarian roared over the intercom.

    Remus reached forward and turned on the incendiary rounds for his sniper rifle. He leaned to the side just enough to peer through the window with one eye, spotting his target hovering just above him. I’m right here, he thought before bringing up his rifle and shooting the fuel line on the underside of the gunship.

    The blazing slug flew true, hitting its target and igniting the fuel. Remus flung himself back against the wall just as the gunship exploded in a blazing inferno, spiraling down toward the ground. Only when he heard it crash down below did the turian look out the window and down at the flaming wreckage. It was letting off so much heat that he could feel it warm his face through his mask six stories above the pile of burning metal and fuel.

    He grinned as he popped the thermal clip and replaced it with a fresh one, having spent the last of his three shots to take down the gunship.

    They never know I’m there until they’re dead, he thought. I believe that makes the twenty-fourth gunship I’ve taken down on Omega. He put his rifle on his back and stood in the windowsill. He grabbed the pipe he had slid down and swung out the window, climbing hand over hand using the pipe to help him scale the side of the building and get back up on the roof. Need to check my tally when I get home.

    Remus strode toward the west and stepped off the roof, dropping ten feet down onto a shorter roof. Ok. So what was my death count for today…? I think it was sixteen krogan, eleven turians, five humans, ten batarians, eight vorcha and two asari. Hm… only fifty-two? Not a personal best, but I think it deserves a trip to Afterlife. Just gotta run home and change.

Prologue to my OC Mass Effect story. Remus is my special little insane turian and I love him.