#canon: reckless angry empty

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

OK, people were very nice to me yesterday about my latest absurdly niche blorbo: Guthláf of Rohan. I wrote a little story about him (it's below and it's only 500ish words). But I feel like I can't post it in isolation without explaining myself a little better first.

The fact that he's Théoden’s banner bearer is the only detail about Guthláf’s life in the canon. But just that by itself was enough to grab my interest because I took a class on ancient warfare in college, and one of my major takeaways was that the flag bearers were often the bravest and most selfless guys in a battle. They were highly visible, highly vulnerable, and highly prized as a target for the enemy. That's not an encouraging combo, and they had an appallingly high casualty rate. And yet, the ones who pursued it did so willingly and considered it an honor!

Although Guthláf's name literally means "battle survivor", he did not avoid the flag bearer’s usual fate. He’s listed among the fatalities at the Pelennor Fields (along with Halbarad, the only (?) other named flag bearer in the books). So I wrote the drabble-ish story below about Guthláf’s experience of his own terrifying job. (I also, of course, have a full head canon about his personal life—how he spoke Rohirric with a rural accent that stood out in Edoras, how the early loss of his family drove him toward recklessness, how he was maybe in love with fellow obscure blorbo Wídfara, etc.—if anyone is interested! And I decided that he's the tall, blonde drink of water on the left below, who I believe is otherwise unnamed and is too young to be Elfhelm or Erkenbrand.)

Anyway. Story (ish) here:

Alone among his éored, Guthláf carries no weapon. In his left hand, he holds his shield, his one and only means of protecting himself; in his right, he carries his banner, a charging white horse on a field of deep green that whips furiously in the cold wind above his head.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf does not strike blows. His war is fought not with strength of arms but with strength of spirit. He has only to keep himself going long enough to let his banner do its work. To signal the direction of the charge and mark the vanguard of the attack. To be the rallying point around which scattered troops coalesce. To lead the way, like a torch in the dark, so that those behind know where to follow. He has only to keep that banner flying, set high and stark against the cool blankness of the winter sky, so that every Rohirrim heart can see that they are yet unconquered, that victory still lies ahead.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf can never hide or blend in. His banner draws the eyes of foes just as easily as friends. His every move is visible. Noted. Tracked. Hunted. The hope he kindles in his fellow riders is equaled by the hatred he inspires in their enemies, and there is no greater blow such an enemy can strike than to bring him down, to achieve with the death of one man the turning of a tide that can change the fate of thousands.

Alone among his éored, Guthláf has no hope that he will survive unscathed to see old age. Banner bearers don’t last long in times of war, and Guthláf is his éored’s fourth bearer in five years. He has only to walk the streets of Edoras to be confronted with the reality of how the lucky banner bearers end their days–empty sleeves tied up where an arm used to be, angry red scars across unprotected faces and necks, canes and crutches that will never fully compensate for crushed legs, twisted spines, shattered hips. The unlucky ones end instead in hastily raised barrows, resting eternally in the sometimes distant and friendless lands where they finally slid from the saddle, bloodied and broken and desperately looking for a loyal hand into which they could pass the banner before everything went dark at last.

And yet, Guthláf wanted this job. He fought for this job. It means everything to him. Because even as he rides to his death, charging into battle on his gray warhorse with his banner streaming brilliantly in his wake, he has never felt more alive. He has never felt so much bigger than himself. When he carries his banner, he is no longer just Guthláf, son of Hulac. He is instead the spirit of Helm, and Eorl, and Frumgar and all the great warriors of old. He is the sound of thousands of hoofs thundering together across an open plain. He is the sight of the jagged white peaks towering over the lush green and gold grasses of the Mark. He is Rohan itself, not just a man but an idea. And an idea can never be slain. When he carries his banner, Guthláf becomes immortal.

[siriusblack-the-third]

Headcanons for Sirius black?

YES YOU CAN HAVE THEM

Smart. Like, really fucking smart.

Has silver eyes. Not grey. It's the brightest hue of silver you have ever seen, and he has this habit of staring straight into your eyes that makes him absolutely terrifying.

Intimidating as fuck. He's six foot four and built like a fucking tank, and has the most intense Resting Bitch Face™ ever. People literally scramble to get out of his way when he's walking down a corridor.

French. I know I've posted about Indian Black Family, but I have a soft spot for French Sirius.

Has the best poker face ever. The only time you will see him fazed is when James is hurt, insulted, or in danger. The whole school learnt very quickly (as early as the marauders' second year, in fact) that going after James is a Bad Idea™. Sirius could and would kill them slowly and painfully if they dared.

Gets annoyed easily, but almost never gets angry. He's scared of his own anger, because it's so similar to his mother, and the only times he has ever gotten truly angry was once when he saw Regulus being tortured by Walburga and the second time at Peter on the Samhain of 1981.

The exact opposite of reckless. Contrary to popular belief, he hates jumping into situations before thinking shit through, and has stopped James from making impulsive decisions way too many times to count. Even when people think he's being reckless, he knows exactly what the fuck he's doing, what the consequences are going to be, and how to deal with said consequences.

Wears black and emerald green the most, but also likes sea/sapphire blue shades. Surprisingly, he hates wearing red, because the colour reminds him of the deep red velvet drapes and cushions in Walburga's room.

Plays the violin, and enjoys it. He's good at it, too. At Hogwarts, people will form a silent gathering in the common room to listen to him as he plays in his empty dorm. It's become a thing. Everyone thinks Sirius doesn't know,but James told him the first time it happened. Sometimes, he plays on the first day of school after the summer, winter or Easter holidays, as a form of comfort to the children who don't really feel at home in their own houses.

Absurdly competent. He's outstanding at everything, even if he doesn't work at it— one of those people who don't need to work to get excellent results. James is the same, and it annoys the fuck out of Remus and Peter, but they help everyone out with schoolwork a lot so nobody actually has too many negative feelings about it (ahem- except for one Severus Snape)

N E R D. Seriously. Will talk nerdy shit with James for hours on end, because both of them are Nerds™. I will die on the hill of Nerd!Sirius Black, and your opinion is invalid if it's not the same as mine bc my opinion is actually canon I don't make the rules.

Long, wavy hair. He had short hair up until the end of fourth year, but then puberty hit and he realised long hair went better with his developing features. Makes him look so much like his grandfather that he has been mistaken for Arcturus several times.

School heartthrob, but didn't actually date anyone/have sex with anyone in school. He found out he was on the ace spectrum in fifth year because asked James to kiss him. He liked it, but the thought of going further didn't excite him like he thought it would. So he asked Marlene, and the outcome was the same.

Biromantic. Sex positive asexual.

No man at Hogwarts is straight, simply because of him. He's ridiculously handsome, and has people fawning over him and falling over these to get into his good books. Unfortunately for them, Sirius knows the names of like seven people out of the four thousand students that attend Hogwarts during his school career, and can't be bothered to remember the names or features of the rest of them.

Rude but polite, if ykwim? Gets called mean a lot, but argues that rudeness is not the same as mean. Rude is when you can't be bothered with pleasantries, he says, and mean is when you're cruel just for the sake of being cruel.

Him not being mean does not negate the fact that his cruel streak is wider and deeper than the Grand motherfucking Canyon. He has a particular talent for weeding out your insecurities, and will not hesitate to use them against you if you piss him off too much.

Prefers verbal sparring rather than a duel, but any fight he gets into, he wins. He has both intelligent quips and powerful magic up his sleeves and he will use them to his advantage if need be.

Absolutely loves mint dark chocolate, for some odd fucking reason. James and Peter always give him shit for it, and he always laughs in their faces before taking an even bigger bite out of the bar.

Nobody knows how many languages he speaks. So far, people have heard him speak English, French, Ancient Greek, Old Norse, Gaelic, Latin and Italian. James gets asked the question "how many languages does your best mate speak?" and he breaks into silly giggles. Refuses to tell the answer, says he likes to keep people on their toes. (Sirius speaks nine languages.)

Wears eyeliner sometimes. It's bold and winged and perfectly done, and has caused multiple fainting incidents because of the way it makes his silver eyes stand out even more than they already do. He says it makes him feel powerful when his eyeliner is perfect, and James answers that he is more than powerful enough, he doesn't need any more.

[galactica7071]

let's diagnose the Irish guy from punch-out

disclaimer: I am but a lass with ADD, so while I do know a lot from both my own experiences and research, you should still take my ramblings with a few grains of salt. I encourage anyone reading to form their own headcanons, and would love to hear them!

So, the Punch-Out wiki (in its current state) implies that Aran Ryan has some sort of mental disorder, so I projected onto dissected him like a deep sea specimen, and may have found out what's going on in his very empty and screwed up head

🎉congrats! it's attention deficit hyperactivity disorder! (probably)🎉

ADHD has a bunch of characteristics that go with it, but I'll only be going over the ones that apply to Aran and are displayed in canon. Of course, I'll insert some speculation here and there to further support and reason through some of my points. For more reading, I suggest checking out organizations like Mayo Clinic and the National Institute of Mental Health, as well as any self-reports and blogs by people with ADHD (the latter tends to be more personal and far less clinical-sounding, but are just as helpful). Wikipedia is also a good place to go for anything, and you might even find yourself down a few rabbit holes!

Hyperactivity and restlessness

Aran exhibits this in PO Wii heavily. He has a high-stamina fighting style with lots of shuffling around, always bouncing around Little Mac. He can only be stunned through counter-punches and being faster than him (During round breaks, Doc Louis literally says "beat Aran Ryan to the punch"). It is extremely difficult to KO or TKO Aran without intercepting him due to this mechanic. During round breaks, regardless of how beaten and bruised he is, Aran will bounce his leg constantly in Contender and harass the audience in Title Defense.

Impulsivity and recklessness

This one's consistent between his two appearances, surprisingly. In Wii, Aran is portrayed as a dirty cheater who would "do anything to win", according to supplementary comics. He has the most rule infractions in the Punch-Out series, at 32 combined. He stuffs his gloves with horseshoes before his Contender fight and brings a homemade flail made from a broken boxing glove to his bout with Little Mac in Title Defense. During matches, he makes use of headbutts and elbows quite frequently. These are both illegal and very stupid moves, due to the potential of self-inflicted trauma. His flail in Title Defense could be a sign of creativity by thinking outside the box, which is often seen in people with ADHD. In supplementary material for Super Punch-Out!!, it's implied that a fight usually broke out whenever Aran was made fun of in school, showing that he was reckless during his childhood as well.

Emotional dysregulation

In Super Punch-Out!!, Aran Ryan is rather grumpy, and is one of two characters in the entire game to never smile in any of his sprites (the other being Nick Bruiser). Compared to his Wii portrayal, Aran is as clean as it gets in this game, even complimenting the player during the credits. Supplementary material attributes his lower mood to the teasing he endured during his childhood, and that he got into boxing to channel some of his pent-up anger. Depending on how you view it, him being so angry over his peers making fun of his name could be an overblown reaction. This hot-headedness is retained in PO Wii (which could be a sign of impulsivity), but he's essentially the inverse of how he was in Super. He's boisterous, reckless, dishonest, and smiles even while he's stunned. Many of Aran's reactions to being hit are him laughing, which might imply masochism on some level, but is nonetheless seen as an inappropriate response to being hit. He displays some antisocial traits, even, as seen when he throws aside the referee in Title Defense. This is likely caused by a low tolerance of authority, but is still an extreme reaction to the referee just trying to maintain order in the ring (good luck with that, ref...).

Difficulty starting tasks

This is a sign of executive dysfunction, which is closely linked to inattention in people with ADHD. It's exhibited in his Contender intro, where he spends the first three frames of the cutscene messing around. For this one, I'm going to compare Aran's behavior in his Contender intro to all the other boxers that spend their entire intro cutscene in a gym/dojo/training environment, spend the majority of their cutscene explicitly training, or are in several training environments. Here's a neat little chart, where the numbers represent how many slides they spent being "off-task":

can you tell that graphic design is my passion

I've counted any activity that builds strength and endurance (like eating, running, lifting, or practicing magic in Tiger's case), or requires a large amount of work put in to do (like chopping trees or playing hockey, for Bear Hugger). Some of you might be wondering why I didn't include certain characters, but that's because they're either in a combat setting, switch from training to non-training settings, or are doing unrelated things in what could be a training setting.

If Aran has 3 instances of being off-task, he ties with TD Kaiser, Don, and Macho in terms of how long they're off-task for. If "gearing up" is being counted as being on-task, he only ties with TD Kaiser and himself. Of course, context matters heavily. TD Kaiser, Don, and Macho aren't off-task purely for the sake of slacking off, but show developments of their story throughout Career Mode. TD Aran is off-task for storytelling as well, but it's not motivated by a grudge towards Mac like the other three and falls under the normal definition of "slacking off". Speaking of cutscenes,

Inattention and distractibility

Aran shows this several times in Title Defense. In his intro, he notices a rope in the trash can and gets the idea of making his flail, seemingly forgetting all about training for his match with Little Mac. During round intermissions, he's distracted by the audience throwing objects at him, and threatens them instead of spending the break resting or strategizing.

Anxiety

ADHD is highly comorbid with anxiety, due to executive dysfunction (mainly sensory processing), and the risk of overthinking. I admit that this one is a bit of a stretch, since general restlessness and anxiety are linked in many mood disorders, but it's shared between both of his appearances. Super's version of Aran being caught up in his own past can be a sign of social anxiety as well as falling victim to overthinking. In PO Wii, the leg bouncing can be a sign of anxiety for various reasons, whether it be physiological (ex. outside stimuli being unpleasant) or psychological (ex. overthinking the match). His stance in Exhibition's menu for his Contender match is also a little shaky, which is common in fight-or-flight reactions, though it could also be plain hyperactivity.

Pressured speech

In PO Wii. Aran usually talks very quickly, which can be caused by the classic ADHD experience of "having a lot to say, and feeling like there's no time to say it". It's very likely that it's just be a characteristic of his accent, though.

🍀🌠🌈this is a cool section break🌈🌠🍀

There's plenty more symptoms you could make arguments for, but these were some of his more prominent traits. ADHD shares symptoms with a lot of other disorders, though, so let's see some other possibilities...

Counter-Diagnosis #1: Bipolar II Disorder

Bipolar II, according to the National Institute of Mental Health, is characterized by a a pattern of depressive states and hypomanic states (notice the hypo- prefix). We can attribute Aran's demeanor in Super to a depressive state, and his demeanor in Wii to a hypomanic state. I've chosen bipolar II instead of I due to the specifications of a "manic state" not fitting his Wii portrayal as closely.

Hypomania (literally meaning "less than mania") shares many characteristics with full-blown mania, but is more toned-down. People who have experienced genuine hypomanic states usually describe it as helpful towards their productivity, while manic states are notoriously more harmful and often directly affect productivity. Symptoms of mania include restlessness, racing thoughts, pressured speech, overconfidence, increased agitation, impulsiveness, a disconnect from one's surroundings, extreme anxiousness, and many others. Already, we can observe many of these symptoms in Aran's Wii portrayal that are shared with the ADHD diagnosis. However, hypomania tends to lack the "reality disconnect", and we can see that Aran is very aware of his surroundings. Him being in the World Circuit in both Super and Wii can be interpreted as a sign of the hypomanic states being more helpful than detrimental (maybe less so in Super because of the existence of the Special Circuit, but I digress).

I think this take has a lot of ground, maybe more than the ADHD hypothesis. A lot of my earlier points in favor of him having ADHD can also apply to him being bipolar (specifically hyperactivity, recklessness, and especially emotional dysregulation) as well, which blurs the line in some places, but it's still a very strong argument.

Counter-Diagnosis #2: Oppositional Defiant Disorder

According to Mayo Clinic, ODD is "a frequent and ongoing pattern of anger, irritability, arguing and defiance towards parents and other authority figures". The characteristics of ODD can be observed in both SPO's and Wii's Aran.

I think this one's weaker, for a few reasons. First, ODD is considered clinically relevant only during childhood; from then, it can "evolve" into a number of other conditions, including but not limited to borderline personality disorder and the aforementioned bipolar disorder. Obviously, Aran isn't a child, but he could have had this disorder in the past and "grew out of it" from a clinical standpoint.

You could make an argument for the anger issues due to a few of his behaviors, as well as his voice lines in Wii having a sort of "growl" to them, but his irritability is infrequent and mild enough to where it can be attributed back to emotional dysregulation, and the "growl" could just be how the character or his voice actor naturally sounds (I haven't found any clips of Stephen Webster speaking out-of-character, but if anyone has any, I'd love to hear them).

Counter-Diagnosis #3: Antisocial Personality Disorder

The DSM-5 defines APD as consistent displays of deceitfulness, issues with authority, impulsivity, irritability, recklessness, and a diminished capacity for remorse after hurting someone. Again, a few of these symptoms are shared with ADHD, so there's a significant grey area here. Yet, I believe it's stronger than the ODD argument, since his cheating can be a sign of deceitfulness and his apparent antisocial traits in Wii. However, boxing as a combat sport doesn't leave much room for feeling remorse, since doing so can result in throwing or forfeiting a match. I'm not going to count the lack of remorse due to the nature of the sport, but you as a reader can interpret it how you like.

Counter-Diagnosis #4: Autism Spectrum Disorder

Because of how broad the autism spectrum is, you could easily go crazy in-depth with this. I'll do a miniature version of the ADHD symptom setup, which includes traits observed in canon. I won't be including every shared trait, but do keep in mind that ADHD is comorbid with a bunch of different spectrum disorders, and misdiagnoses, especially in women, are fairly common in the real world because of it. I know I'm going to fail to list certain symptoms due to just how many ASD traits there are, so if anyone reading has any more connections to make, be my guest! This "counter-diagnosis" section is for provoking further discussion, after all, and I'm happy to learn from you all.

Hyposensitivity

In PO Wii. To wind up for his right uppercut, Aran hits himself in the side of the head, and after round breaks in Contender, he hits himself repeatedly. Considering his gloves are confirmed to be loaded in his Contender fight, his relative indifference might be a sign of this. People with autism have reported tuning out various stimuli if they become overwhelmed by a bunch of them (sometimes related to meltdown or shutdown), and it's possible that that's what Aran is doing here. The bright lights of the venue combined with the crowd noise and the feeling of being sweaty could be overstimulating, and the supposed hyposensitivity towards being hit is caused by this "tuning out" to avoid a shutdown mid-bout.

Stimming (repetitive movements)

In PO Wii. The leg bounce in his Contender round break can be interpreted as a stim, as well as the wind-ups for his right uppercut (bopping himself in the head) and headbutt (choosing to wind up on the ropes). His bouncing around Mac could also be stimming.

Pathological demand avoidance

This phenomenon can also be comorbid with anxiety, which happens to be a risk factor for ADHD, so we're looping back around with this one. PDA is characterized by a person exhibiting an intense aversion to something that is asked of them, even if they wanted to do it beforehand. It can be associated with feelings of unfairness and like they don't have any control, so someone with PDA may "break the rules" to feel as though they have some control over what happens to them. Aran's high infraction count in Wii could be a sign of a more obsessive form of this. Avoiding the process of carrying out the demand can be conflated with executive dysfunction as well.

TL;DR get this man into a psychiatrist's office ASAP

[brilliant-red-eternity]

[Psycho-Pass Providence spoilers]

I thought long and hard about sharing spoilers with you on my blog, but here they are: a buffet for Shinkane fans! I can’t guarantee that the spoilers are 100% correct since I haven’t seen the movie myself and translations can be messy, but I try my best – feel free to correct me, to add things or to call me a crackpot and liar!

I had a feeling that many of you would like to know (at least to some extent) what this movie is about and if Shinkane becomes canon. It will probably take some time for PPP to be released outside Japan and as we all know, patience is a virtue. Don’t read if you don’t want spoilers. I’m serious! There are major spoilers in this text! But if you don’t mind, here’s a summary of what I picked up from Japanese fans who have already seen the movie:

1. The first meeting with Unit One after Ko’s return goes as expected: Ginoza is angry and Sugo has to prevent him from going off on Kogami. The atmosphere between Akane and Kogami is described as awkward and tense even when working together on the new case. They travel to Dejima (?) and Saiga accompanies Akane because he’s the only one who can access the Stronskaya document.

2. When Kogami and Saiga have a drink in the apartment/hotel, Saiga urges Ko to contact Akane and to come clean with her. He obeys by calling her. Akane tells him to apologize (“I just want you to say sorry”) but he doesn’t, so she hangs up the phone. Kogami seems to be very irritated and I can’t wait to see his face. Also what is the meaning of the empty liquor bottle on Ko’s table?

3. Ginoza asks Kogami on the boat “Why did you come back? It was our duty to protect Tsunemori” to which Kogami answers something like “For someone else’s sake again.” Does it mean that he came back for Akane? I think so. Ginoza seems to smile a little when he hears this.

4. We already saw the scene where Ko shields Akane from the explosion, but I don’t know exactly what happens afterwards. They say the angle of view is a little erotic (this can also be translated as horny, obscene) LOL

5. When the Peacebreakers attack, Saiga-sensei dies. I think he gets stabbed and then falls over a railing into the depths of the building. Akane tries to save him but he lets go of her hand so that she doesn’t fall with him. Phew! This is going to be hard to watch. No wonder why the Japanese fans cried! When Akane finds his dead body, the one who comforts her is Ginoza. Ko goes after Akira to fight him in a landscape holo room (?) aka that scene with the horse.

6. Now the elevator scene. Akane cries over the death of Saiga but Kogami seems unable to comfort her. Something holds him back (his own grief maybe?) so he just pats her on the shoulder saying something like “Focus on your duty, and cry after everything is over” and Akane says “Yes”. It sounds a bit heartless and reserved, doesn’t it? Why all the drama?

7. Then there’s an interrogation at SAD or PSB headquarters and Kogami gets shot by the arrested Akira whose consciousness was hacked. Ko ends up in the hospital where Akane visits him and finally they talk to each other and come to an agreement. This is very reminiscent of PP1.

8. I was a bit surprised to hear that Akane is invited to Kei’s wedding and that Arata’s dad commits suicide in his car after giving a speech. Really? On the wedding day of his son’s best friend? Did Arata witness this? Holy sh--! At least, I read that Akane followed Arata into the parking lot and perhaps was able to comfort him.

9. Akane leads the operation to stop the Peacebreakers. Before she leaves (gets on the plane?) Kogami is worried and says “Hey, don’t do anything reckless” and she replies “I can’t promise you that, so you better come quickly please.” Is she flirting with him? I think it’s cute and quite self-confident.

10. When Akane is defeated in the fight against the white haired man who points a gun to her head, Kogami rushes to her aid. The plan was to arrest the guy but things went out of hand. Kogami shoots him and then he hugs the injured Akane – yes, that’s what it says in the comments! I can’t wait to see this! I read that Akane says something like “I made Kougami-san kill again” to which he answers “And I will be held accountable for it”. The hug seems to have been a request from director Shiotani, because (as we already know) Akane and Ko won’t see each other for a long time after that.

11. The end is a bit confusing and I’m not sure if I got it right: Kogami is arrested and Akane writes him a letter that is just as emotional as Ko’s letter in PP1. She says that he had a great influence on her life and that she can’t promise him anything. Then she goes off to kill chief Kasei during some public event (?) because Sibyl wants to introduce a new bill that would strip the Ministry of Justice of all authority (?). Akane’s crime coefficient is low because you can’t kill a cyborg. But from the public’s perspective, she’s a killer. She seems to sacrifice herself for the dream of a just society that abides by the law instead of Sibyl’s despotism. Now Sibyl has to judge her. They have to reveal and explain her low CC without looking like idiots. Good luck, Sibyl! Akane seems to have set a precedent in PPP.

12. Kogami goes free and Akane is sent to the isolation facility where she finally breaks down and cries. He promises to pick her up when she is released – and so he does in FI when he finally manages to apologize! Some fans say that even though Kogami’s crimes aren’t punished by law it’s clear from his emotions that Akane’s imprisonment is his punishment. His actions had an impact on others, especially on someone he cherishes and loves. But unlike Kogami who killed out of revenge and violated the law, Akane has committed a crime in order to uphold the law. The Japanese fans cried at the end. Kogami must look pretty miserable! Seems as if Shinkane has a habit of breaking each other’s hearts and ours too, huh? But we know they will reunite in FI, so there’s hope! And who knows what the future holds.

Well, the movie covers many issues: foreign politics, references from the bible, Bifrost, new technology and AI, lots of action and so on. It’s quite exhausting to do research in Japanese as a beginner, so I only focused on the things I wanted to know. In other words: Akane, Kogami, Ginoza and Shinkane! I can’t wait for this movie to be released in my country, although I think it will probably be another year :’(

One last thing: speculations about the nature of the relationship between Akane and Kogami are running wild on social media again but all I can say is that if only a mere 20% of the above is true, then you can’t speak of platonic. Sorry, it’s not possible! There are far too many emotions, far too much awkwardness here that you don’t go through as “just friends”. They’re not a couple, but both of them are probably aware that they could become one if they chose to.

[nabtime]

Our Empty Graves V

Fandom: Danny Phantom / Batman: Under the Red Hood

Pairings: Danny Fenton/Jason Todd (Dead on Main)

Rating: Mature

Tags: batfamily, hazmat AU, Nobody Knows AU, Mute!Phantom, potential ghost king danny, slow burn?, DC means Disregard Canon, AU means AU nothing is exactly the same, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, more than canon typical violence, danny is a Halfa and also a Fetch, no beta we die like basically everyone

Summary: They say that Red Hood has a loyal mutt. The man rules his territory in Crime Alley with an iron fist and a guard dog at his side. They say that Hood calls him Fetch, sometimes Fetcher. No one's ever heard him speak. Anyone who's ever seen him says he looks like an experiment gone wrong, that Hood picked him up somewhere unspeakable. They say he'll do anything Red Hood asks of him and he'll do it well. That he's strong and fast and probably inhuman. The girls say he's sweet; quiet but charming in his own way. Rival gangs say he's vicious; that he'd sooner rip your throat out than let you go.

Jason just wants to help him.

Chapter 5: they call me devil (and you should be afraid)

Chapter Summary: Red Hood keeps running into Fetcher, who disappears on him each time, until he decides to take the matter into his own hands and hunts the other down.

Chapter Notes: title from Call Me Devil by Friends in Tokyo Links: AO3 // Chapter 1 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 6 // Spotify

There was a part of Jason that knew he wouldn’t find Fetcher in the safe house when he returned, but there was another (stupider) part of himself that had hoped to find the sassy little shit where he’d left him. He knew the first time had been a miracle and probably owing to the fact that Fetcher had been exhausted and recovering. He really hoped the kid had healed fully before he left. It looked like he already had a pretty fast healing rate, but Jason still worried. Like an idiot, really.

He wondered where Fetcher went. Jason didn’t believe for one second the kid actually had a place to go. But then again he literally glowed green and walked around in a Hazmat suit, which meant he was kind of hard to miss. So he had to have a place to go, to hide. Because Jason sure as shit hadn’t seen him since he left. And no, he had not looked. Well, maybe he looked a little. But it didn’t matter because he hadn’t found the fucker anywhere. There and gone again in a single night.

Jason should not be as preoccupied about it as he was. He had plans. He needed to focus. Didn’t matter that he’d felt almost calm for the first time since he resurrected around the kid (four long, long years of mindlessness and anger and a sort of helplessness and despair he hated). Fetcher was gone now and all he could do was sink back into his rage and learn to swim willingly within the haze all over again. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. Rage was useful. Anger was something he could mold and carve to his satisfaction. He would use it as a tool to strike down those that needed striking and avenge those that needed vengeance. Himself for one.

Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed wouldn’t know what hit him. The Batman had failed him. Bruce had proven that while he may have loved Jason, he hadn’t loved him enough. And wasn’t that just the story of his life? Jason had never been enough. Would never be enough. Always second-rate. A good Robin, sure, but not near enough to live up to the first one. To Dick’s spark and skill and flamboyance. Dickie had set the standard for what a Robin should be and Jason had never been able to live up to it. His Replacement got closer than he ever could and it stung. Too arrogant, too forceful, too angry, too reckless. Too much, yet never enough. Jason was loved but it always came with conditions. Jason was mourned but his death had still not been enough to put a stop to the Joker. Just another page in his story instead of the catalyst to his end. He hadn’t cared that Bruce was too late to save him, he’d cared that Bruce had still not considered his death enough to put a permanent end to Joker’s murder sprees.

It pissed him off.

If the Batman, so-called protector of Gotham city, wouldn’t put an end to the festering blight on humanity at large that was the Clown Prince of Crime, then someone else would. Jason was not afraid to bloody his own hands if it meant more innocents could live. If it meant that people like Jason had been wouldn’t have to die anymore. Die broken and bleeding and scared. Thinking that Batman would save you, would pull you out of the wreckage and make sure everything was alright. Thinking that Batman would go to the ends of the earth to make sure you lived. Thinking that Batman would do anything to avenge you if you didn’t. He would not let anyone else live that lie. Die with that lie.

Because that’s all it was. A lie.

If Jason, a child he had brought in and personally trained, was not enough, then there weren’t many others that were. How many people would finally be too many? How many lives would end before the Joker’s? His hadn’t been worthy enough to count as the sacrificial lamb to end it all. Though, he supposed, he hadn’t been worth much anyway. Bruce could bluster all he wanted, pretend to be angry that someone had trespassed on Jason’s grave. But the fact of the matter was that nowhere on that headstone had he been given the name Wayne. Unclaimed and unwanted and unavenged. He wondered, sometimes, if it had been Dick that had died instead of him, if that would have been Bruce’s breaking point. But Dickie had never been stupid enough to get himself killed.

Not like reckless, angry, arrogant, Jason.

But, now, now he had a plan and he would put those traits to use.

He would continue to take over the Alley. Expand his territory and take over all trade from Black Mask and any other Kingpin trying to rule the underground. He would control the drugs, the arms, and any other goods. He would destroy what he couldn’t control and control what he couldn’t destroy. Drugs would sell no matter what he did, so he would make sure they were pure and out of the hands of minors. He would provide refuge for the weak and weary, clean spaces and warm places. He would do what Batman could not and rid the city of its more heinous strains of crime. And he would be as ruthless about it as he needed to be. He would not hold back because of some old moral code, not if it meant doing what needed to be done. He would not be so selfish as to put his conscious above the lives and well-being of others.

He would show the Bat what the city could become before he put Bruce’s morals to the test. Before he found out what Batman’s breaking point really was.

═════ ◈ ═════

Six months he’d been running everything. Killing off rival gang members, making sure everyone knew the rules and the consequences for not following them. Pissing off Black Mask and eating more and more of his territory, claiming the Alley for himself. Teasing Batman and dodging his attempts at a take-down. He wasn’t ready to give up the ghost just yet, Brucie needed more patience than that.

It was just another run-of-the-mill patrol of the area. Checking in with his lieutenants, keeping them in line and making sure no one was breaking the golden rule. Checking in on the Corner Workers, making sure they had everything they needed and that no one was trying to rough them up. Checking in on the camps, making sure everyone had food and water and shelter and anything else they needed. Keeping the pigs away from all of them.

So, imagine his surprise when he finds trouble. No, not that he just finds trouble, that was expected and the reason for the patrol in the first place, but that he finds trouble and Fetcher was in the middle of it. Trying to stop it? From the looks of it?

Taking in the scene, there were three figures. Fetcher, some guy in a black jacket and ski-mask (like you couldn’t get anymore cartoonishly criminal), and a girl all done up in high-heels and a short leather dress. Nadi if he had to take a guess. Looked like some bozo had been trying to mug one of the Ladies of the Night. Had been because Fetcher had the guy in a headlock and was- Giving the guy a noogie? The girl in question seemed to just be watching, hands on her hips and grinning, make-up and hair without a single smudge or ruffle. Fetcher must have intervened before Bozo could get very far then.

Jason joined her in watching the show. Bozo tried to pull a knife and Fetcher just kept one arm around his head and used the other to snatch it away without effort. Then he density-shifted it into his suit and gave the guy a finger wag. Like some naughty kid.

“That’s the third knife he’s done that with,” Nadi said, sounding on the brink of hysterical laughter.

Nadi, from what he had learned of the sex workers under his protection, was always one to deflect with humor when things went south. Served her well in this instance because it kept her calm and able to enjoy the show. She wasn’t new to the block either so this probably wasn’t the first time she’d had a knife pulled on her. Probably the first time a walking radiation hazard saved her though. Or, knowing Gotham, maybe not.

“He hurt you at all?” he asked her, just to make sure.

“Nah,” she said turning to him with a smile that didn’t falter at the sight of his helmet.

He was trying his best to keep his reputation good with the ones under his protection, so he was happy to see her without fear around him. The ones who should fear him were the ones that broke the rules, not the ones he made the rules to protect.

“Little man in the funky suit,” she said, pointing to Fetcher with an impeccably sharp nail, “jumped in the second I started yelling at that asshole.”

“Good,” Jason replied. “How long has this been going on?”

“Mm,” she started, brown eyes looking up in thought, “about ten minutes, I think. Glow-boy’s been keeping him down for a while.” Her eyes gleamed. “I just wanna see how many knives is gonna get involved.”

Fetcher had been keeping that man in a headlock for ten goddamn minutes. Amazing.

“Oi, Fetch,” he called, watching as the vicious little nightlight jumped at his voice and dropped the guy, who flopped to the ground, boneless, with a groan. “What are you-”

Jason watched, stunned, as Fetcher held his hands up in surrender and then disappeared. Just fucking vanished into thin air. He switched his helmet to night vision, heat vision, anything and everything. No readings. Nada. Nothing. What the fuck.

“Aw,” Nadi whined, disappointed, “you scared ‘im off.”

“I did not!” he protested. Because really, he hadn’t meant to spook him. He was just glad to see the kid up and about and apparently well enough to take on random muggers. At least Batman hadn’t gotten to him, from the looks of things.

“Big bad Red Hood,” she sang, “scaring off my savior!”

He sighed. At least someone was having a good time.

Bozo groaned, face still planted in ground of the dirty back alley. Oh, right. Assholes to punish. He moseyed over, making sure each boot thunked heavily against the asphalt. He watched Bozo grow tenser with every step he got closer.

“Talk,” he commanded. Fetcher wanted to play good cop (silly cop? ridiculous cop?) to Jason’s bad cop, so be it. He had a reputation. He could be a bit playful with the girls or soft with the kids, but trouble-makers got no mercy.

“I-I didn’t do nothin-,” Bozo started, stammering and struggling to move up onto his hands and knees.

Red Hood took care of that with a swift kick to the ribs.

“Try again.”

He wouldn’t stand for someone trying to shift the blame. Trying to get out of the consequences of their actions.

Bozo groaned and curled up on his side. Jason had no sympathy.

“Fine, fine,” Bozo said, face still one with the concrete. “Know the girls always carry a lotta cash from workin’. Figured it would be an easy grab. Wasn’t plannin’ on hurtin’ her.”

Nadi scoffed. “I worked hard for my money, asshole.” She loomed over him, hands on her hips, and Jason let her. “You thought you could just grab it off me?” She pressed a threatening heel against the guy’s bruised ribs. “I’da fought you off myself if little cujo hadn’t tackled you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bozo said miserably. “Just throw me to the cops already.”

Jason tsked. “No pigs in the Alley.” He paused, thinking it over for a moment. Guy looked young and scruffy. Desperate for money by the sounds of it, if he was willing to go for someone in Jason’s territory. Knew to keep more than one knife on him, so stupid- but with some street smarts. He could work with that. “You’re working for the girls now, as penance.”

“What?!” Bozo and Nadi shrieked at the same time.

Jason held up his hand for silence. He pointed at Bozo first. “Room and board and something better to do than trawl the streets for blood money.” Then pointed at Nadi, “Extra set of hands to do whatever you want.”

Nadi’s eyes gleamed again at that. “Whatever I want?”

Smart girl.

Bozo collapsed back down with another pitiful groan. Served him right. Jason crouched next to him, making sure he had the guy’s attention and letting a little murderous-intent bleed into his voice.

“Pull this shit again and there won’t be another second chance.”

He bared down on him, making sure it got through that thick skull just what would happen if he crossed the line again. He was lucky he’d gotten away without any maiming this time. Next time, Hood would have his head.

Bozo nodded, face pale and clammy. Jason stood up, satisfied, before turning to Nadi again.

“He tries to pull anything, let me or any of my crew know.”

And with that he grappled off, climbing back to the rooftops and running his route with a distracted air. Looking for a neon green glow he knew he wouldn’t find.

═════ ◈ ═════

The second time Jason caught sight of Fetcher out and about, it was a much bloodier encounter.

Some of Black Mask’s men had ambushed him mid-patrol, thinking they could catch him by surprise and bring him in to their increasingly irate boss. Too bad for them that Jason wasn’t a man so easily caught off guard. If there was one thing that Bats taught all the Robins that served them well- it was paranoia. If you think they’re always out to get you, you’ll be prepared for the many times they actually are.

Five against one, but Jason was packing all five of the Bennett sisters tonight and he had more tricks up his sleeves besides.

One shot to the jugular. One pistol whip to the face. One kick in the ribs and two shots to the kneecaps. Two men trying to grab at his arms at the same time, missing, and getting swept off their feet by one of Jason’s own.

One guy got an arm around his neck in the aftermath, pulling tight, and one of the two he’d knocked over popped back up and wrestled Lizzie out of his grip. Two were completely out of commission but that still left three stubborn bastards. The third one got in a shot to his thigh while he was throwing off the others.

He hissed, the bullet was unable to pierce his armor but still left a nasty bruise.

He pulled Mary out of her holster and took a rapid shot at that third guy’s hand, taking out his gun and leaving him out of the game for the rest of the fight- screaming and trying to staunch the blood pouring from his missing finger.

The other two had backed off, noticing that their odds were dwindling fast.

One guy pulled a knife, the blade glinting strangely in the light of the street lamp. Looked like it was coated in something. A paralytic, a poison? No matter what, it wasn’t likely to pierce his jacket or his armor. And the guy should know better than to bring a knife to a gun fight.

He took the shot but the guy dodged.

Idiot number two pulled a gun himself and fired off, three shots, all going large. One to the brick behind him, one to the pavement, and one to the dark of the night beyond them.

Idiot number one, being faster than Jason anticipated, made a lunge toward him and his knife skimmed the sleeve of his jacket on the left side, cutting a long and jagged stripe before just barely nicking his wrist where his jacket ended before his gloves.

His hand went numb. Fuck.

Whatever was on that knife, which shouldn’t be able to cut through his jacket, was potent. The edges of his jacket where it’d been split open began to sizzle. Double fuck. That one was his favorite.

He swung around and shot at idiot number one, being careful to dodge around the bullets being fired by idiot number two.

The tingling sensation of numbness was starting to crawl up his arm.

Idiot number one fell to a bullet in the shoulder, poison knife clattering to the ground while the guy screamed. Idiot number two was starting to look antsy, realizing he was the last man standing. Jason may be down an arm but he wasn’t about to let the guy go running. He shot- but the guy was squirrelly and dodged so that it only grazed his shoulder.

The numbness was reaching his chest. Would the paralytic kill him? Stop his heart? Or just leave him trapped? Either way he needed to end this, now. It’d already gone on too long. If he hadn’t been so fucking distracted… He hadn’t seen Fetcher in a week and a half now…

And then, well, think of the devil and he shall appear.

Last idiot standing was being held in a choke-hold by the glowing green halfling in question, which was a little funny from how short the kid was. Fetcher held him there until he passed out before dropping him and running towards Red Hood.

“Long time no see, Jellyfish,” he said, trying for a casual tone as his left leg started going out on him.

The kid gave him a flat stare before standing underneath him and swinging Jason’s left arm over his shoulder.

Fetcher was- cold to the touch. Like he’d been standing in a snowstorm and the chill had permanently sunk into his very being. He felt like static shock, like pinpricks of electricity were swirling around under the latex-like material of the suit. He felt completely unnatural and yet somehow familiar. Jason wondered, not for the first time, just what, exactly, a Fetch was.

Jason pointed to the dropped knife, sitting so innocently on the dirty pavement. “Gonna need that. Doc Thompkins’ll need to know what got me.”

Fetcher bobbed his head in a nod and scooped the knife up, being careful of the blade before shifting it into his suit like he had all those others.

“How many knives you even got in there?” Jason asked, trying to distract himself from the numbing sensation crawling further through his chest. His lungs were starting to stutter.

Fetcher held his free hand up in a gesture reminiscent of a shrug that didn’t move his occupied shoulder. So he didn’t know. That wasn’t concerning at all. The little glow-worm got them to the mouth of the alley before motioning to the street before them. Asking for directions.

Jason jabbed the thumb he could still move towards the left. Man he hoped Leslie would help him.

It was only after Leslie reluctantly let him go and he exited the clinic that he noticed Fetcher had disappeared again.

═════ ◈ ═════

Twice was a coincidence, three times was a pattern.

This time it was in the rain, heavy downpour obscuring everything in sight and the occasional flash of lightning spearing the dark in a thunderous roar.

Bruce had caught him on one of his runs.

They were on the edge of the roof, his boots slipping just the slightest against the slick concrete that bordered the ten story drop as Batman gripped the shirt that covered his chest armor in his fists, holding him up and being the only thing between him and the pavement below. One hand of Jason’s scrabbled against the slick armor on Batman’s arm and the other held a gun against the man’s head.

Red Hood laughed, bordering hysterical, the sound crackling and grating through the filter on his helmet. “Let me go, Batman,” he demanded, gun digging against the mask over Bruce’s temple.

“Who are you?” Batman growled, agony underpinning his words and it flooded Jason with a righteous glee that made him ache. Oh, Brucie, Brucie, Brucie he thought. You’re so close to figuring it out but you’re still not sure.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, trying not to cackle. The sweet, sweet fury painting his father’s ex-mentor’s face was delicious. He might not be ready to lead Batman to his pièce de résistance but he could still enjoy teasing in the meantime.

“Tell me,” Batman demanded, shaking Red Hood within his grasp, making Jason’s boots slide ever further toward the edge.

“Or what,” he snarled, “you’ll kill me?”

He nudged his gun to an angle beside Batman’s head and shot, the bullet flying into the air but the blast and the noise pushing Bruce away and startling his grip loose. Jason used the momentum to push up and arch in the air, feeling the rain and the wind against him as he flew. He flipped and felt the beautiful, intoxicating rush that came with free falling. Distantly he could hear Batman yelling, but all he wanted to concentrate on was feeling the pull of gravity before he landed.

He pulled out his grapple and aimed. It slipped and he cursed. The building was too short to sustain his fall for long and he didn’t have time for another grapple to hook and swing. He was meeting the pavement fast. Too fast. He wasn’t usually this sloppy. His landing would be messy and painful, but if he moved right, he’d live.

Cold hands caught him a single story from the ground and slowly lowered him down until his boots hit sidewalk. The glow around them told him he knew who his savior was.

When he was released he turned. The hands that had caught him were gone, and so was the rest of Fetcher. He tsked in annoyance. He’d need to hunt the kid down at this rate.

He looked up to see if Batman was still there. But if he was, he couldn’t see anything through the rain.

═════ ◈ ═════

Of course he was living in a graveyard. Because why not, right?

It was one of the last places Jason tried searching. Ever since Fetcher had risked Batman’s wrath again by catching him a few days ago, he’d doubled his determination to find him. He shouldn’t let himself get so distracted from his main goal, but keeping Fetcher within his sights and making sure the kid was safe was now part his master plan, apparently.

He could see a faint glow up in the branches of the single hickory tree planted in the cemetery Fetcher had originally been chased from. The one Jason was buried in. He tried not to have any particular feelings about that. He watched as the green shell of a hickory nut fell from the branches and bounced on the ground. Well, at least the kid was eating.

“Hey,” he called, watching the branches shake when Fetcher startled. “Get your radioactive ass down here.”

He backed up and watched in fascination as the other man swung down from a branch like a monkey before he dropped like a stone. If the forty foot drop did anything to his ankles when he landed directly on his feet, he didn’t let it show. What the fuck was this guy?

Fetcher walked closer, posture cautious but casual. Like there was at least some modicum of trust but he still knew to be wary. He tilted his head to the side, a question.

“How many crimes have you interfered with on my turf?” he asked, crossing his arms. He was genuinely curious though. He’d gotten reports from his lieutenants that mister nightlight had been spotted multiple times preventing a mugging or defending a Corner Girl. A little vigilante in the making, all he needed was the blue eyes and black hair and he’d be perfect Wayne Bait.

Fetcher scuffed his shoe against the grass and hid his hands behind his back before shrugging, trying to act innocent. Little shit.

“Listen,” he said, “if you’re gonna play vigilante here, it’s gonna be on my orders.”

Fetcher raised his head and tilted it to the side again. Another question. He sighed.

He walked closer, steps slow and careful so Fetch wouldn’t disappear on him. He didn’t want to spook the guy. “No more living in trees and popping in and out of nowhere,” he said firmly, close enough to see his curious glowing green eyes. “If you’re gonna work in my territory, then you’re gonna be on my payroll.”

The green glow narrowed and Fetcher crossed his arms. Defiant. Defensive.

Jason scoffed. “If you mess with things you don’t know about you’re going to get hurt. Or get someone else hurt.”

The arms dropped but stayed crossed, his head tilted to the side. Accepting but still questioning.

“I’m not going to stop you from saving people,” he said, “since that seems to be something you want to do.”

“But,” he lifted a finger, “you gotta listen to me. And you’re going to live in an actual goddamn house, you heathen. And eat actual food. I don’t care if you’re not human, no man under my protection is living like a monkey unless they are one.”

He paused. “You aren’t some type of monkey, are you?”

Fetcher seemed to double over. Shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Probably a no then. But, yeah, sure, laugh at him for not knowing what the fuck a Fetch was and trying not to make any assumptions.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled as the other seemed to finally gather himself together. “You coming or not? I’m setting you up in a safe-house and then putting a fucking bell on you so I know where you are.”

He wiped a tear that wasn’t actually there from his tinted mask and mimed catching his breath before nodding and gesturing for Jason to lead the way. Then he paused and tilted his head. He lifted his arms and made a little paw motion beside his head and moved his head back and forth. Jason could almost see green ears and tail appear.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Fetcher leaned forward, arms out in some sort of questioning shrug. Why not? he seemed to say, with some mocking edge. Little shit knew what he was doing.

God, Jason really hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

[transautisticmikewheeler]

talk more on bpd mike!! 🙌

gladly!

i actually ranted about this months ago but never posted the barely-analysis here since i didn't have sources for what i said. i really want to expand someday with sources tho

here u go:

SO MUCH OF THE ANTI-MIKE AGENDA IS HATING HIM BECAUSE HE'S AN ASSHOLE FOR THE SAKE OF BEING AN ASSHOLE, SO HERE. STARTING OFF - NUMBER ONE: FEAR OF ABANDONMENT.

we see this manifest as a fear of not being needed, mainly. for mike, not being needed means he isn't useful enough, which leads to the person leaving BECAUSE why else would someone stay? he doesn't believe that just existing is enough for people to want any kind of relationship with him.

NEXT - NUMBER TWO: UNSTABLE/INTENSE RELATIONSHIPS WITH EXTREMES OF "YOU ARE PERFECT" OR "I HATE YOU".

this is seen pretty much throughout the series; mike's relationship with will is implied to be rocky, switching from losing his mind at will's disappearance in season one to their fights in three and four (the first to come to mind). his relationship with lucas is an example, too, with their fight in season one most glaringly. pretty much every single relationship he has, has some of this at one point or another.

ANOTHER ONE - NUMBER THREE: IDENTITY DISTURBANCE.

wowie this one is so easy to see; identity disturbance in bpd can be explained as not really knowing who you are outside of other people. and we can see this is true for mike mostly because he doesn't really seem to like being alone for too long, even back in season one or during times of supposed peace. and he seems easily swayed/convinced and most of his interests - minus one or maybe two if i'm missing something - are group and/or shared interests, like D&D or comics.

ON A ROLL - NUMBER FOUR: POTENTIALLY SELF-DAMAGING IMPULSIVITY IN TWO+ AREAS.

not gonna mention his st/self-harm tendencies because that's a different criteria number, but sometimes it seems like he intentionally does reckless things without thinking about the consequences; staying in an unhealthy relationship, suddenly starting/quitting something, and general impulsive behavior.

NOT DONE YET - NUMBER FIVE: SUICIDAL TENDENCIES.

quarry cliff scene, quarry cliff scene, quarry cliff scene. the fact that he spent seconds thinking about whether he should jump - which he does. he's intentionally reckless (like i already said), but it goes farther than just impulse control: at multiple points in time it feels like he genuinely wants to die because of the way he puts himself into situations that don't have a visible way out.

GETTING THERE - NUMBER SIX: UNSTABLE MOOD.

seriously? you want me to get into this? the way he goes from happy to sad to angry to whatever seemingly at the drop of a hat? this one can also cause a bipolar misdiagnosis, mainly because mania fits here - the difference being the time frame, which is hours to three days for bpd and 4+ days for a hypomanic bipolar 1 or 2 episode.

LUCKY NUMBER - NUMBER SEVEN: CHRONIC EMPTINESS.

i'm not entirely sure about this one but also by this point he already qualifies for a diagnosis - needed: 5/9, so far: 6/9. but i think this is something he has, too, as someone who also has a rbf and bpd. i don't remember exactly what moments they are, but he gets this look at least a few times where it isn't exactly defeat or annoyance, but i can tell he doesn't really know what to feel/display.

ALMOST ALMOST - NUMBER EIGHT: INAPPROPRIATE AND/OR UNCONTROLLABLE ANGER.

i literally don't have to say a word here.

LAST ONE LET'S GOOOOO - NUMBER NINE: SEVERE DISSOCIATION OR BRIEF PARANOIA CAUSED BY STRESS.

he falls more on the paranoia here than dissociation, but that might be because i'm used to my own dissociative disorder-level dissociation. even then, i'm still pretty aware of what paranoia looks like due to having it in the background all the time, and when you've been through what he has, it's hard not to have paranoia. don't remember much canon evidence for that though.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING HOLY

CHAPTER 3: DANGEROUS THINGS

WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, canon-compliant violence

SUMMARY:

“The darkness will not get you,” he says, his voice fervent and husky. “I will not fucking let it.” 

“This galaxy is filled with dangerous things,” Nova whispers.

“Yes,” Din grits out, hand braced against the column of her throat, “so let’s destroy them.” 

“You think I can do it?” 

For a beat, neither of them speak. And then Din is on top of her, breath warm on her neck, his hand cresting against her cheek. “I know you can.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “And whatever you don’t will have to go through me.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY SOMETHING HOLY SATURDAY!!! this chapter is more setup than action, but if you love character-driven storylines, this one is for you.

This chapter is dedicated to the lovely anon in my inbox. You know who you are.

If you're new here, Something More & Something Deeper are the first installments in this series, available on here & ao3!

Nova can feel something pulsing. It lives in the ground underneath them, chittering in the open, toxic air. Everything here is hollowed out, scraped down to nothingness, a fungus growing in the dark. 

They don’t talk on the way back to the ship. Din pulls Nova behind him. She feels moorless, without an anchor, tossed to the wind. She holds onto his hand, her own lost in his iron grip, tugged along by his current, happy to be in his orbit. 

No one speaks. The planet is hissing, angry, giving off a frequency that isn’t meant to be heard. They head for the rock outcropping cresting over the hill, planning to meet Bo-Katan where they first left her. Over her shoulder, Nova can almost see something moving through the smog, ghosts that aren’t real, here to haunt and nothing else. 

The only other living thing out there is the five of them, like guiding points of a compass, like a multi-headed animal. Nova moves forward, always forward, folding her own arms around herself like it will keep the chill out, like it will fend off the darkness.

*

Bo-Katan can feel something pulsing. It travels through the air, gets absorbed through the helmet, gets pushed back out again. Her oxygen is not poisoned, but it feels like wreckage all the same. When she originally found her way back to Mandalore, the atmosphere had been like this. Razed, down to nothing. Glass in the place of where home once was.

The rubble matched how she felt. Desperate, nothing, in shards in the place of what danger lies ahead. She vaults over large pieces of destroyed buildings, careful to avoid the geysers filled with toxic steam, threatening to invade the barrier of her armor. 

Bo-Katan adjusts her gloves, once, twice. To carry enough fuel for the ship, she can’t be reckless. She needs to be smart, measured, and ice-blue. A soldier. 

Bo-Katan Kryze knows how to be a soldier. She was a soldier before she was a princess, before she carried the full weight of being a Mandalorian. She was raised the same way Mandalore was—on being a warrior, on fighting back. That same drive oxygenates in her blood, fortifies her down to her bones. She’s at the city center. Din was right. There’s a small fuelpost here. A sign hangs from a singular, rusted nail off the evaporator in the center: KEEP OUT.

She doesn’t listen. Carefully, precisely, she reaches forward to fill an empty tank, praying to something she doesn’t believe in that the gas hasn’t run dry, that she can gather enough to get them off this forsaken planet. 

The fuel runs rapidly for a few moments, then the tap dries up. 

“No,” Bo-Katan says, like she’s scolding the fuel.”Come on.” With a grunt, she pushes the lever all the way up. Slowly, painstakingly, a trickle of sludgy fuel runs through the pipe again, tinkling into the pail like wind chimes. Everything about this place is completely unsettling, raw and undone.

She can feel the unsettled air around her shift and crack. Bo-Katan takes a glance at her blind spot, the hair on the back of her neck standing up underneath the armor. 

Mandalore isn’t haunted. Bo-Katan knows this. 

Parnassos might be. Nova could tell her for sure.

Bo-Katan doesn’t believe in ghosts. 

But if they did exist, it would be out here in the Unknown Regions, where there’s swallowing blackness, a hole with its mouth open wide.

*

Wedge can feel something pulsing. In the low, deep light of Bo-Katan’s vessel, he sits with his legs crossed in the cockpit, peering out at Parnassos’s foggy, war-town surface. Whatever died here didn’t stay dead. 

Luke said those words once, curled up against Wedge’s chest. It was after the power went out on their ship, and the two of them huddled in silence in the corner. To preserve body heat, Wedge had suggested, but Luke’s blue eyes bloomed with the hint of something more. 

Something more has followed Wedge Antilles around since then, yapping at his heels. He’s ignored it for this, for the mission, for the Alliance, but it’s restless. It has a name, this something more. Wedge just can’t verbalize it, can’t put it into words. 

And then his friend’s daughter crashed into him on Dantooine, rebel girl gone rogue, all grown up, and the light came back into Wedge’s life for the first time in years. This is what fighting back feels like—not just going through the motions. 

Outside, the air is still pulsing. Everything here is foreboding. 

But in the corner, Grogu is sleeping, his small green body still. He sighs, turning over on his tiny side, tucking one of those big green ears under his head. And in here, Wedge is safe, on the other side of the door, in the liminal space. 

Wedge, preoccupied with the past, doesn’t notice that Ezra’s blinking hologram is no longer on the ship. 

*

Din can feel something pulsing. It seeps under the beskar, chilling him to his core. As the Mandalorian, he doesn’t get ruffled. Not easily. No, that’s not right. Not ever. Back when he was a bounty hunter, there was nothing that could shake him. He was a killing machine in silver, tempered metal—pushed to the edge, a live wire. Before Grogu, there was nothing that could rattle him. No star, no vessel, no person. 

He made a rule of it, after Xi’an and her ruthless clutches, her purple fingers clasped tight around his own throat. Not literally. 

Din never took his helmet off for anyone. For anything. 

When Nova ran into his path—into him, really—everything shook and shattered. Opening his heart to the little green bounty and killing anyone who stood in their way—that was easy. Like breathing. It was part of his Creed to protect, to defend. 

But Din Djarin never planned on falling in love. It was out of the cards for him. Before the kid—he was a lone ranger, traversing the galaxy in the Razor Crest, bringing in people who had committed crimes. He didn’t think about it twice, the act of it. Dropping them, freezing them, taking the reduced price on bringing the quarries in dead rather than alive. It wasn’t about the morality of it. It was about doing the job, and doing it well. 

And even when Grogu showed up, when Din’s focus shifted from killing to protecting, there was still a wall built around his heart. Built of beskar and steel, not out of sheer necessity, but out of something he created himself, reinforced with the love he had once lost, before the word Mandalorian meant anything to him. 

And then Novalise ran into his path, and that wall shattered. 

Din chances a look back at her, out of his periphery. In the helmet, he can look beyond her, but his eyes are laser-focused on his girl. Everything she is radiates magic. Something beyond what he ever was. Something good. 

Something so much holier than his Creed. 

They’re waiting at the outpost for Bo-Katan. Nova’s inhaling through the helmet, the air harder to hold onto if you’re not used to it. She cocks her head at him, listing to the left like he always does. He wants to climb down inside her heart, breathe his own air into her lungs.

She glances up at him, visor locked on his own. Neither of them speak, but Din holds out one gloved hand, taking her own in his palm. Nova’s not that much shorter than him—a head lower, but not much more—but she looks up at him, obscured by her Rebel-streaked helmet, and his heart surges, pumping faster. 

“You okay?” It comes out low, hungry. 

“I’m alive,” Nova says, and her voice sounds wrong all modulated. Not like honey and salt, like she usually does. Din would hate it if it wasn’t the woman he loves behind that helmet, sending vibrations through their interconnected hands. It reminds him of darker days, of things he’d rather not think about. Stars, he hates it here. 

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s harsh, too deep. Din winces. 

Nova sighs, the sound barely registering through her own helmet’s modulator. “Din, I—”

“Hurry up.”

Nova’s visor connects with something over Din’s left shoulder. He exhales, turning to face Bo-Katan. She looks like a lothcat, something in her posture rigid and poised. Like something ready to strike.

“Waiting for you,” Din mutters, regrettably letting go of Nova’s hand to offer it to Bo-Katan, wielding three giant fuel cans. “We could have made it back by now.” 

Bo-Katan stands still, like she’s listening to the planet’s frequency. 

“It does that,” Din says, flapping his open hand until she relents and gives him one of the cans. “Parnassos. It has a…noise. It always emits it.”

Nova looks at him. Din can feel her eyes burning through the back of his pauldron. 

“What happened here?” Bo-Katan grunts, slinging one of the other cans over her shoulder, jutting her chin up to signal them to keep moving. “Why does the planet feel—”

“Haunted?” 

Bo-Katan affixes Nova with her visor’s withering stare. Nova doesn’t budge, jutting her chin up. Something has shifted between the two of them, something DIn doesn’t know about. Under the helmet, Din presses his mouth into a thin line. 

“It was beautiful,” Din answers, feeling the fuel slosh around in the can as he shifts it to his other hand. “Once.” Over the foggy horizon, he can almost make out the outline of Bo-Katan’s ship. They’re not far away, but Din moves like they are, refusing to be out in this radioactive non-silence any longer than he has to. “Nuclear disaster. Wrecked the planet.” 

“How do you know that?”

Din doesn’t answer Bo-Katan’s question. Instead, he soldiers on. 

Behind the two of them, Nova follows, silent, observing. 

“I’ve spent time here before.” 

Bo-Katan cracks her neck, matching her pace to Din’s long strides. “Why would you ever choose to spend time on this wasteland?” 

There are so many reasons. Din used to be a glutton for punishment. Din had been stranded out here. Din lost contact with his covert. Din met Xi’an, and thought her ruthlessness was something he could adopt, wear it like armor. But he glances back at Nova, hips swinging as she climbs, a lone black curl hanging down her back from the airlock of her helmet, and his heart burns. 

Because I thought I’d never have this, he thinks. Because I thought I didn’t deserve something more.

“Because,” Din says, finally, the outline of their starfighter revealing itself through the muted smog, “I was stranded out here. And the Unknown Regions are much worse.” 

When they get back to the ship and take off into the air around them, the memory of Parnassos’ wasteland filters out of his mind. Space welcomes them with its blackness, its inevitability. 

Even wrong, it feels right. Whatever danger out here must wait. 

*

Wedge refueled the ship back on Parnassos after Bo-Katan silently slung the cans into his hands. Now, they’re listless, floating through outer space, with enough fuel to slowly traverse the stars. 

Nova is trying—and failing—to sleep. In the corner are Grogu’s tiny, fluttering snores. Down the hall, in their own separate compartments, Wedge and Bo-Katan are, too. Din is piloting the ship, moving through the stars. He pulls her in like a magnet, like a tectonic plate shifting. Nova turns over for a third time, trying to clear her mind, trying not to think of the dizzying memory of Din’s weight on top of her, of the visions she’s fallen into, of the galaxy’s end hanging on the horizon. 

In her head, Nova replays the moment she first stepped on the Razor Crest. Bo-Katan’s ship is utilitarian, made of beskar and not much else. The Crest was like that, too, at first, but there was home lingering in the silence, a life to be made within its walls. 

Selfishly, hungrily, Nova longs for those moments—when Din was still the Mandalorian, when the three of them traveled through the stars, aimless except for the bounties Din brought in, drifting, content. 

This is too much. 

The pressure, the heavy press of responsibility. Nova sighs, shoving back the blankets, suddenly sweating. She gathers her hair on the top of her head, loose and wild, trying to feel the air on her skin, the sweet, safe oxygen of the starfighter. Her hands ache from fighting off the danger in her visions, but it’s pitch-black in here. She can’t see if they’re bubbled up from Parnassos’s toxic surface or scratched from clawing away the evil in her head, but they hurt just the same. 

Bottom lip trembling, Nova stands, pulling on a fresh pair of pants, a new top. Her Mandalore blue shawl is draped over the tiny outcropping on the wall, and Nova wraps it around her shoulders, the door hissing as she opens it. 

She moves down the hall, silent, the light growing bigger as the cockpit sprawls open in front of her. There, in the center, is Din, arms crossed over his steel chest, visor trained on the stars. 

“Hi,” she whispers, and he turns his head to the side as Nova pads forward into the room, settling down on the copilot’s chair. For a brief, fleeting moment—she can pretend they’re back where they were nearly three years ago, traveling the cosmos in the Razor Crest. 

Her chest aches. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” It comes out gruff, like he’s arguing an inner war with himself. Nova offers Din a small smile, pulling a knee up close to her chest. 

“Couldn’t,” Nova murmurs, tracing over him with her eyes. The armor is foreboding, sure, but it glitters with the remnants of the space around them. “My head’s too full.” 

Din sighs, leaning to the right, like Nova’s presence is magnetic. Her teeth find her bottom lip, studying him. “What are you thinking about?” 

How monumental and overwhelming this all feels, Nova wants to say, but when she opens her mouth, something completely different falls out. “How badly I want to win.” 

That catches more than Din leaning into her. He turns his full body, swinging his armored legs around to face her head-on. “Win.”  It isn’t a question. 

Nova nods. “To wipe out all the evil, yes, But… this is different. Every other battle we’ve fought together felt…limited. Like there was still danger outside, but that some of it was compartmentalized. Contained. This, though…” she trails off, looking at the stars glinting back at her outside the window, “this feels…different. Like all the pieces of the puzzle are leading us to a bigger threat.” She swallows. “I saw it. In my head.” 

Din studies her, careful. Even through his helmet, Nova can feel his gaze burning a hole through her, straight down to her soul. 

“I want to win, Din,” she whispers. “Not just beat them. The Order, the people rising in Gideon’s place, the man Ezra disappeared with, the threats waiting to come. I want to send them back where they came from. I want to make them hurt.” Her hand clenches down at the last word, and Nova unfurls it, finding nothing on her skin but the impressions her fingernails left. Underneath though—underneath, it’s like fire has swept in, consuming her bones, her throat, her lungs. 

Nova closes her eyes, trying to chase the desperation away, to make it recede.  Her heartbeat is still off-kilter, wrong. When she flutters her eyelashes open, Din’s gaze is trained on her—a locus, a perfect fixture. 

“You can do it,” Din says, so quiet. He reaches his gloved hand forward, stroking over her cheekbone. “Make them hurt.” 

Nova takes in a shuddering breath. “Does that make me…as bad as them?” Her voice sounds derealized, hollow. Small. Like an open wound. “Does that make me worse?”

“No.” A single word, so much power behind it. “You want to burn them all down, Novalise? I’ll get the kerosene.” 

Nova stares back at him, so obscured by the helmet. For a second, his grip tightens, desperate, and Nova’s breath gets knocked clean out of her lungs. The lines blur, and she’s back in her dream where Din was the shadow version of himself—hungry, pulsating like the planet they just escaped. She blinks, and it’s gone. It’s just Din—the man she loves, the one who would tear the galaxy apart to find her, the one who will watch her raze it to the ground. 

“I don’t want it to get me,” she murmurs, “this feeling.” 

Din closes the space between them, standing between Nova’s legs in a flash. Blink, and she’d miss the whole thing. His voice is a cloying, consuming thing. “I won’t let it.”

*

In the dark, Nova sleeps.

In the dark, Din watches. 

His eyes are exponentially better at seeing through the darkness. He doesn't know if it’s from years spent under the helmet, or if it's because he has a preconceived likeness to it. The low light in the ship has faded over that line of nothing at all. Pressed up against his body is Novalise, his Novalise. In the dark sprawling silence, she’s inhaling even breaths. 

For weeks, now, he’s laid beside her in the darkness, trying to get her inhalations to register as normal. Nova’s sleep is filled with restless, fitful dreams—nightmares. Some of them are Force dreams. Din has taken stock of which ones are nightmares and which ones are full of want. It fills the air around them. It makes the oxygen heavier. 

Want is a pulsing need. Din knows the way it feels, low in his own stomach. He can smell it on Nova—the helmet has many perks, but picking up on her arousal is a special one. For days, when they first met, Din tried to stifle the want in his belly, twisting tendrils around his logical, rational mind, turning him into a madman. Weeks passed with Nova sleeping on his ship, eating his food, gentle and kind and so different from anything else he’d ever encountered. 

Pure. Novalise is pure. 

Still—deep inside, she’s depraved. She feels like honey and heaven, like the darkest temptation. But it’s the sweetest kind of sin, every time Din sinks deep inside of her, every time his bare skin gets to brush up against hers. And no matter how troubled she is, no evil lurks under her skin. 

Din would stomp it out if it existed. But Nova would beat him to it. 

Everything Nova radiates is magic. Din Djarin never believed in anything holy, not really. Not until Nova ran into his life, changed his world. Before, the stars above were just something to travel through. Now, he sees them light her eyes. 

Nova sighs in her sleep. Din watches as her mouth parts, closes. He pulls her closer, against his unarmored chest, draping his arm over her hip. His hand palms flat against her lower belly, an anchor, a vow. 

The entirety of the ship is blissful and quiet when Din finally crosses over into sleep.

* 

In her dreams, Nova is back on Yavin. 

It’s gorgeous, as always—sweet and warm, with a gentle breeze swaying across the greenery. The last time she was here, she was fighting off Sparmau—a physical manifestation of her anger, her pain. 

Her refusal to let the light leave the sky. 

Above her, there aren’t any clouds. The sky is a pale, pale blue, the sun shining off somewhere in the distance. Flowers dance on the horizon, climbing up the trees like vines. She turns to the right, and the pyramid-like structure of the base stands resolute, all stucco and sienna. 

It still feels like home. 

“Novalise.” She turns. Din is unarmored—not just without the helmet, but altogether. Without beskar, he seems smaller, lighter. Even though there’s no danger here—Yavin may be altogether mostly abandoned, but it’s still a safe haven—Nova feels fear seize in her chest, rushing towards the man she loves, anxiety kicking her heart arrhythmic. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone, reveling in how soft his skin is for the millionth time, untouched my air, untouched by time, untouched by anyone else but her. 

Din laughs—a long, loud thing. Nova wants to bottle it up, to drink it clean down, to savor it for every time she feels the familiar fault line cracking. It’s not a sound she hears frequently. She’ll take all she can get. “You’re here,” he says, a gorgeous smile splitting across his face, “so I’m here.” 

Nova looks beyond him. There’s nothing—just Yavin, just serenity, just greenness. Bringing her eyes back to Din’s deep brown ones, she traces over his face reverently, drinking it in, soaking every inch she’s spent the last three years of her life committing to memory. “But what about the darkness?” 

Din looks taken aback, panicked. Usually so unflappable, so resolute—the expression looks strange on his face. No, Nova realizes, it looks wrong. “The darkness?” he repeats, his voice a small, untethered thing. 

“The darkness.” Nova nods, sliding her thumb down his cheek, so light, so gentle. “It’s coming for us, Din Djarin.” Her mouth splits open, revealing rows and rows of sparkling teeth. Vaulted from her own body, Nova spills outside of herself on Yavin’s green floor, watching in horror as her shadow-self grins back at Din, glittering and horrifying. 

“No!” She screams out, reaching one hand forward, trying to return to herself, the original vessel, to wrench this darkness out of her eyes, her mouth, her lungs. Din stands, immobilized, a Mandalorian without his armor, as shadow-Nova wraps her hand around his throat, squeezing hard. “Stop!” The syllable is split down the middle as a sob wrenches its way free from her mouth, undone, a lightning bolt.

Looking over at her, Nova’s reflection grins. So many teeth—like Sparmau, like the creature back on Primea, like the nightmares that haunt her every dream. Her eyes are black—hollow, blank blackness. There’s no light left. Like there was no light ever there at all. Nova tries to move forward again, sobbing, but it’s like she’s grown roots, tied down to the battle ground she used to call home. Terrified, screaming, she fights against the invisible force, against all this danger, but Din still stands, wheezing through her own fist. 

“Let him go,” Nova manages, tears streaming down her face, trying—and failing—to wrench herself free. “Take me instead.” 

“Oh Novalise.” Her name sounds perverted coming out of this self’s mouth—so much like her, but so completely different. “I already have you.” Her voice is so unsettled, so wrong. “You’ll become me, destroyer of worlds. It’s been prewritten.” 

“It,” Nova snarls, “has not.” 

Her shadow-self snaps, the sound ringing out loud in the air. Like a bell ringing in the silence. Like thunder threatening to split the sky in half. Nova is transported back into her body, staring in a mirror she’s not sure is even real, held captive by her own reflection. Her fist is still curled around Din’s throat, squeezing so hard she can feel his heartbeat bursting through her fingers. Crying, transfixed, she stares at her own self, so unlike the person she is, so completely opposite. 

“I will never be you,” she whispers. “Do you hear me? I will never give in.” 

“Look what you’re doing,” her mouth whispers, “you already are.” 

Nova screams, loud enough to shatter bone, angry enough to explode the stars. Everything turns black and white, shot into grayscale. The glittering of space surrounds her. For one awful, terrible second, Nova’s afraid she’s done too much—that by banishing this version of herself, she’s damned Din, too, but then her fingers unclasp from his neck and they both topple to the ground. 

“Cyar’ika,” Din pants, and despite all of it, despite the horror here, he still sounds reverent. He touches his hand to her cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb, “you saved me.” 

“I nearly ruined you,” Nova sobs, “Din—”

“You saved me,” he whispers again, finger tracing over the soft heart her mouth makes, “I won’t let the darkness get you.” 

Nova pulls him against her chest, hearing him rattle out deep, unsettled breaths. In the familiar green of Yavin, her head pressed against the hollow of his heart, she whispers something that neither of them can hear. 

“What if it already has?” 

Nova wakes up. Her breath is stolen straight out of her mouth. In the darkness, a soft light blinks on and off, and in stuttered, shuttered frames, she catches glimpses of Din’s beautiful, sleeping face. He looks at peace—like the weight of the world has been removed from his shoulders, like he’s been absolved of a burden. 

Silently, Nova chokes back her sob, gently tracing her fingers across Din’s face. Over the beautiful prominence of his nose. Over his thick browline. Over the ridges at the corner of his mouth—new, gentle wrinkles, proving Din Djarin has smiled more than he’s frowned. In the near-blackness, the danger subsides, and Nova soothes her heartbeat back down to normal rhythm. 

The visions—they’ve been of tangible, fleeting images. Evil blueness. Sinister laughter. White stormtroopers. Sparmau’s teeth. The Order. Everything contained within two words, simplicity—even if the danger here is multitudinal, even if everything is connected—it’s easy to quantify, to put into words.

All of the danger Nova has fought and dreamed over the last few years have been real. Sitting in the future, on the edge of the periphery, yes, but a tactile, real evil. It hasn’t seeped under her skin, it hasn’t rotted away at her heart. This is different—the light stomped out of her green eyes, her hands splitting what she loves most down the middle. It’s terrifying, this danger. This is Novalise coming undone.

Swallowing, she draws her knees against her chest, staring down at her hands in the dark. Soft, blue stitches of light cut through the blackness as she looks down at them. Her fingernails, medium length. Her long, elegant fingers descended directly from her mother. Peppered freckles, drawn like a constellation across her right wrist. Her engagement and wedding rings, ice-white crystal and enduring beskar. The lines that map out her life—as Andromeda, as Novalise, as the woman she has not yet become. 

“I will never choose the darkness,” Nova breathes out. A promise. A vow. 

Beside her, Din stirs. Nova presses her lips together, trying to remain quiet, to stay silent enough for him to fall back into much-needed sleep. He turns over, facing back to her, and through the gentle strobe of the faded blinking light, Nova sees his eyes open. 

“What’s wrong,” he whispers.

It isn’t a question. It’s like he already knows. In the dark, Nova presses her lips together. “I keep seeing things in my dreams. Things that are…after us. Dangerous things.” 

Din shifts closer to her. Reluctantly, Nova drops her knees, sliding back down. The second she’s anchored against Din’s chest, that sharp panic melts away, slides into the background. In the cocoon of his arms, the danger dissipates. Not gone entirely, but it reduces, slinking away to the corner of her mind that Nova locks the hurt away in. 

“You’ve faced dangerous things before.” Din’s voice is half-formed, still eroded by sleep.

Nova swallows. “This is different. This is…more personal.” She doesn't want to cast it into the light. She doesn't want to call it by name. This is the darkest part of her, a razor’s edge. At the forefront of her mind is her vision from what feels like ages ago—just over a week, in reality. Din asking her not to leave. Nova telling him to bring her back. “You have to promise me something.” 

Din stills.

“Anything.” 

“You’re not going to like it.” 

Silence. Then, Din turns over to her in the dark, gripping her cheeks with vigor. His palms are rough, hardened. Nova sways into his touch, tangling her legs in the scratchy sheet, pressing her forehead to his. “What?” 

“If something happens to me,” Nova whispers, “and the darkness…gets me, you have to be the one to end it.” 

Din is so rigid, so still. “No.” 

“Din—”

“We have gone too far to not have a happy ending. You promised me first. You said you weren’t going to be a martyr, Novalise.” He swallows, and when he starts again, his voice is ragged, unyielding. “Do you understand? I will not forgive you this time.” 

Nova’s heart stops. “That’s not what I mean,” she whispers, five little words with so much weight. “I’m not talking about sacrificing myself. I’m… talking about if the darkness swallows me.” 

Beside her, Din’s grip loosens. Not enough—just a hair. But Nova doesn't dare speak until Din draws in a ragged, dangerous breath. “Nova,” he breathes, “what did you see in your dreams?” 

Nova doesn’t want to speak it into existence, to bring it back with her into the light. “I’ve been seeing visions of myself. And it’s not me, Din. It’s not me.” Tears well up in her eyes. “But I’m terrified of her—of me. And I don’t know what I’m capable of.” Under the covers, against Din’s chest, Nova squeezes her hands together, trying to conjure the memory of light, to trace the silhouettes of her own hands, to be a peace-bringer. 

“I’ll tell you what you’re capable of.” Din’s hand finds the back of her neck, squeezing down tight, anchoring her in place. “You survived your parents’ deaths. You killed the man who abused you for months. You struck down the woman who wanted to tear me apart. You got Grogu to trust in the Force again. You wanted to reason with Gideon—not show him the same unspeakable violence he tried to show you. You united the Rebels and the Mandalorians after years of irreconcilable differences. You showed Ladmeny Sparmau that nobody can fuck with Novalise Djarin.” 

Nova shudders, tears welling up in her eyes. 

“You saved me, Novalise,” Din whispers. “Over and over again, you save me. You fight back against all the darkness. I don’t know what’s coming, but I don’t give a fuck.” His voice is low, dangerous, a live wire. “Because I know you can beat them. We can beat them. You hold the Darksaber. You’re becoming a Jedi. You belong to the light.” 

Nova feels Din’s hand stroke through her hair. 

“The darkness will not get you,” he says, his voice fervent and husky. “I will not fucking let it.” 

“This galaxy is filled with dangerous things,” Nova whispers.

“Yes,” Din grits out, hand braced against the column of her throat, “so let’s destroy them.” 

“You think I can do it?” 

For a beat, neither of them speak. And then Din is on top of her, breath warm on her neck, his hand cresting against her cheek. “I know you can.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “And whatever you don’t will have to go through me.” 

The danger is still at the tip of Nova’s tongue—threatening to consume her, to gut her from the inside out. But She reaches up to find Din’s mouth and crashes her own to it, wanting to expel all of it, to drown herself in violet and honey, to taste the man she loves on her tongue. Out here, in her crush of space—this feels so familiar. It feels like coming home. 

Everything fades out as Din’s lips find her own, thrashing against her tongue. Nova tangles her hands in his messy hair, pulling him closer, closer still. His mouth latches onto the pulse point on her neck, and Nova strangles out a sigh. Din Djarin fucks like a man possessed, but that want has a name. 

“Novalise.”

She wants him to split her open, to bisect her. The Din from the dream—the one haunted, the one held captive by demons neither of them can name—he isn’t here. This Din is desperation, happiness, want, need. Nova tears at their clothes, frantic, shoving her panties down to her knees so he can push inside of her and spear away the hurt. The panic has disappeared, given way to something lush and dangerous, maroon and wanting.

Din still smells like cinnamon and gunmetal, even without the interior of the Crest, even without the armor. He is not her Mandalorian right now. Din moans as Nova pulls his own pants down, too, hard and ready against her exposed core. Nova wants to talk to him, to whisper sweet nothing in his ear, but she still has herself captive. Din is here, on top of her, nearly inside of her, ready to resuscitate her from ruin. Ready to bring Nova back to life. 

“Please,” she whispers.

“What are you pleading for?” Din asks, low and gravelly, his voice laced with poison.

Nova swallows. It feels safer, in the dark, to admit it. “For you to take me.” 

“Take you,” Din grits out, his weight heavy and hard as he grinds into her, sending stars through Nova’s eyes, “or worship you?” 

The room stills. “Do you want to worship me?” Something dark flutters around her heart, dives deep into her belly. She can feel her pulse jump, ricocheting as Din’s fingers bisect her legs, teasing at her entrance. She inhales a tiny breath, dizzying, dancing. “Would you get on your knees for me, Din Djarin?” 

Din swears under his breath. “To pray to you, cyar’ika?” His words come out silken and barbed, pleasure and pain in equal measure. “Or to pleasure you?” He licks a line down her body, swirling his tongue around her bellybutton as he gets lower, deeper. Nova bites back a yelp as his tongue meets her clit, pressing flat against her cunt, like a viper ready to strike. She arches up, not away from his mouth, but into it. Din holds steady. “Answer the question.” 

“Would you pray to me?” 

“Oh, Novalise,” Din sighs, “you’re the only holy thing I believe in.” But before Nova can digest that—can think anything else, his tongue is inside of her. She screams out, unable to clap a hand over her mouth in time. It just spurs Din on, licking a line clean up, teeth scraping against her clit. This is want in its purest, depraved form, cloying and desperate. Nova writhes in the stuttered light as Din moves inside of her, hips digging into the thin mattress, too crazed with her taste to keep from bucking up against anything. 

When he’s driven her to oblivion—once, twice, Nova pulls at him, yanking hard, until Din’s body collapses on top of hers, cock twitching. 

“Fuck me,” she whispers, “please, Din.” Nova thinks she’ll shatter if he doesn’t, want hungering low in her pelvis. He doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t need to wetten his cock before he pushes into the hilt, sinking in until they’re intertwined. 

A long, low moan  falls out of Din’s mouth. It’s the sweetest divinity Nova has ever heard. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder as he fucks her—snapping his hips up, down, an unyielding rhythm, a desperate need. This is how it’s always been with them—star-crossed, love burning so loud it lights up in the darkness. Din’s breathing hitches as Nova pulls him closer, closer, both of them moving toward oblivion, framed against the low, blue light. 

The low blue light, emitting from Ezra’s hologram. With a yelp, Nova tries to sit up, but Din doesn’t stop, doesn’t yield, and she surrenders to his desperate want, burying himself inside of her until both of them reach their shuddering, unanimous end. Din presses his forehead to Nova’s, breath choppy and uneven, cupping a hand to her warm cheek. “You,” he breathes, “are everything, Novalise.”

Nova’s eyes flutter back down until the warmth of his words subside, edging her arrhythmic heart back to groundedness, to clarity. “Ezra,” she breathes into the darkness. 

Immediately, she regrets it. Din twitches inside of her. 

“Dangerous thing,” he grits out, “saying another man’s name while my cock is still buried inside of you.” 

Nova’s face burns. “That’s not what I meant—look, Din, there’s a new message.” 

He turns, staring at the blueness, and immediately, the two of them are scrambling to get up, to get dressed, to leave their tiny bedchamber that smells like sex and sin, to wake the others. 

“I should be jealous,” Din mutters, as he pulls his helmet back on, “that there’s another man in your head.” 

Nova grins as she pulls her shirt over her head, opening the airlock to the mainframe of the starfighter. “You’re the only man in my heart, Din Djarin.” 

Obediently, he follows after her, an eternal star. 

“Well,” he grumbles, letting the door hiss closed behind them, “I still don’t like it.” 

*

“I’m awake,” Bo-Katan slurs through a sleepy voice, rubbing at her eyes. Wedge appears a second later, still in his orange jumpsuit. He doesn't look like he slept at all, purple rings under his eyes. Nova watches him carefully, knowing Primea got under his skin, but Wedge doesn’t speak a word about it. 

They convene in the cockpit, the four of them huddled around the center, Gorgu silently observing with wide eyes from the side in his cradle.

“Play it.” Bo-Katan watches Din hold the hologram out in his hand, eyes trained on the azure figure in front of them, blue and distorted. 

“Wait,” Wedge says, stopping Din’s thumb from hitting the button. “Let’s just… stop for a second.” 

None of them move. 

Wedge sighs. “I want to bring Ezra back,” he says, and his jovial voice has lost its luster, “I do. But… we’re walking into uncharted territory, and none of us are equipped to handle it out here. I think maybe… if he’s somewhere we can’t easily get to, that we at least call in reinforcements.” His gaze snaps over to Nova’s, distant and longing. “There’s so much we have to fight,” Wedge says, carefully, “so we need to do it carefully.” 

Still helmeted, Din cocks his head to the side. “Who do we call in?” He asks, visor studying Wedge, “Rebels or Mandalorians?” 

Nova opens her mouth to speak, but it’s Bo-Katan that beats her to it. “Both. We’re on the same side.” 

All of them appraise her. Wedge has a tiny smile on his face. Din’s head is still to the side, even more tilted than it was a second ago. And Nova is biting back her own grin. 

“What?” Bo-Katan asks, exasperated.

“Nothing,” Nova says, quickly, before anyone can antagonize her further, “Bo-Katan, play the hologram.” 

Ezra crackles through static, leaning into the camera. Again, Nova is stunned by how similar they look—the same coloring, the same ridge of their eyebrows. Their eyes are different, even though Ezra’s currently washed in blue—Ezra’s purple, Nova’s sage-green. Right now, though, they could be mirror images of each other, 

“I don’t have much time,” Ezra says, his words garbled by the sound of the hologram. “I don’t even know if I’ll be here when—” He turns around, looking at something beyond a wall, obscuring his view and their own. He turns back to the hologram, a haunted look in his eyes. “Don’t follow me. Do you understand?” The hologram chitters and pulses, the sound so familiar to the frequency Paranssos frequented that Nova shivers. “Do not come after me. Everything has changed—” The static cuts in again, dangerous and tangible. “Do not follow me.” He looks right into the recording. It sends a knife through Nova’s heart. “You will be too late. It’s not safe—” 

And the recording cuts out. Nova’s breathing is all shallow. Everything in the ship flashes, once, twice, three times, and Nova feels Din reach out and grab her in the blinking blackness. He whispers something in her ear, desperate and low, caging her and the hologram against the durasteel floor. Nova cries out, reaching for Grogu, for Bo-Katan, for Wedge—

All she feels is Din, beskar and cinnamon. Out of the front window, the stars pulse and stream, moving down, down, down.  

No, Nova realizes with an awful jolt, the stars aren’t moving. The ship is. 

The starfighter chitters and pulses, one last death rattle.

And when the light leaves the starfighter, so does all the gravity, sending the dead ship and her crew down to the swirling, awful blueness of the planet underneath them.

*

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*

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! thank you for being here <3 please leave a kudos or a comment if you're so inclined!

Chapter 4 will be up at 7:30 pm EST on Saturday, April 22nd!

xoxo, amelie

[ruiniel]

A Memory

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings

Characters: Arwen, Glorfindel

Relationship: Arwen/Glorfindel

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Count: 2.9K

Tags & Warnings: Longing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Smut, Imladris, Angst, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, lace-what-lace srsly, first time, oneshot

Also on AO3

Summary:

This came about as a prompt from @pickingfightswithsprites:

Aim for: dark/angsty. Lonely/lost, virginal Arwen OR married/not quite happy Arwen (I took a stab at the first one)

I had to insert this Quenya phrase:

Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince ~ Tie me up so that I cannot run, Master (phrase courtesy of realelvish.net)

In Imladris, the night before setting out for Minas Tirith.

The marble floors were cold beneath her bare feet. The house was still at this time of night, a gentle beast in slumber as she rushed forward, disheveled, dark strands trailing behind her like shadows.

She’d retired early from the celebrations marking the last night spent in Imladris as a daughter of the Vale. Resting for the journey at hand would be wiser, but try as she did, Irmo evaded her and the daughter of Elrond had paced through her garden of reckless desires for a time, pondering, despairing.

At last, she could take no more. The wind sighed through open windows set along the corridor, its warm breath lifting the sheer draperies like shivering wraiths in her path.

Arwen blinked away the unwanted visions, and her steps gained a flow aligned to the thumping in her breast. She climbed winded stairways and crossed wide, lofty chambers, until at last the radiance of a bright moon fell upon her with the opening to the solarium.

Hesitantly, she halted at the entrance.

The aura was familiar, distinct; most times it rose strong and lively, searing and so bright it hurt; but now it dwindled to the bruised shade of a withered sunset and its warm tendrils waded through her, fading as summer rays swallowed by twilight. Lips parted, eyes closed, Arwen breathed deeply, the effort rattling her very bones. She passed inside, closed the door; barred it.

Her vision accustomed to the gloom, she first glanced at the great divan set in the middle of the chamber. It occupied most of the wide space, and many nights she had spent here in her youth, stargazing. It was empty now, of course, and Arwen looked to the clear night sky beyond its glass dome. She watched the stars, silver on the tides of night, careless and free beyond the world.

A small measure of envy swelled within her, but Arwen shook her head, gaze turned to the entrance that led to an outer terrace. She followed the long shadow cast across the floor tiles; longing.

He was silent as the night, his back turned to her, palms propped against the carved stone edge. The echoes of thrashing waterfalls reached her, attuned to her trepidation, restless waters splashing into their glittering pools. Losing her fortitude, Arwen settled there and watched. Late, she braved two steps forward.

His long hand reached for the chalice by his side on the railing. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, golden head falling back in a careless tilt. The chalice struck the stone with a metallic cry. He lowered his head.

Before she knew it, Arwen stood on the threshold. She took the view before them: the angry river, shearing through the valley like a great serpent. Tilion glowed round and bright, his silver layered over the mountain tops. The Hithaeglir rose as dark, imposing guardians, and their sharp shoulders held the stars.

“Stay where you are.”

His voice was hoarse and lowered in warning, trodden, the opposite of earlier that evening; when he sat smiling and serene with her father at dinner, jesting with her brothers. He would not look her way then, either.

Arwen faltered in her step, watching his spear-straight back. She breathed, not daring to move or speak. His shoulders fought a shiver just then, and Glorfindel turned to face her, slowly, as though the mere effort ached.

Her mouth fell open; Arwen stared.

His face was drawn, ghostly in the moonlight, and the glint of inebriation sparked in his gaze. She’d never seen him this way. “I thought… you might be here.”

Glorfindel looked at his cup, downed the rest of his drink. The rich smell of wine and marigold wafted through the air, and an open bottle stood abandoned on the floor near his feet.

Memories flashed in her mind’s eye, of long nights spent together in silence, watching the astral circles. Of days lying sprawled amid flowering fields, shoulder to shoulder; for years; centuries. Things were simpler then. Arwen took a step, then another, and emboldened by his stillness, she struggled forward.

His jaw was working as his hand slid away from the empty chalice. Standing before him, Arwen reached for a lock of gold, twirling it around her slender finger. He’d lowered his head to her, eyes closed in surrender. Unmoving, he sat, propped against the cold stone, his long legs crossed. When Arwen reached around his neck, Glorfindel raised his chin—the gesture sharp in its rebuke. “This amuses you?” He sounded breathless.

“How can you think that?” Arwen sighed, shivering in her nightdress. It hurt to see his misery. Her other hand splayed over his fine garment, and before she knew it, she was leaning into him like a lonely reed. “I only... I wanted…” her forehead rested on his collarbone. A steady beat thrummed against her temple. “Laurefindil,” she implored, using a name he seldom heard in this Age. “A farewell, only once, only...”

His grip was heavy on her, his fingers trembling into her tender flesh. Glorfindel unlaced her arms from around his neck, hands sliding to her wrists. He held them up, stared at them, then at her, grimacing at the craving in her eyes. Through the Ages, there had never been the right time. Not one shred of it. “You know not what you ask of me,” he broke with finality, though his starved gaze never left her.

A bold flame licked at her reason, fueled by his indecision. “I need this,” Arwen insisted. Her voice wavered, words crumbling over each other. “I want it to be you.”

The hold on her wrists tightened, drawing her closer. His eyes skimmed over her dewy features, fevered and regretful, and full of need.

“A memory,” she pleaded, struggling, though his grip stood firm.

Arwen knew he did not resent her choice. He was strong and had seen the dawn of time in the world, and he’d understood—or so she thought. Honor kept him away, and all was as it should be.

Despite this, desperation ruled for a shard of time, enough for her knee to shift and brush his inner thigh; the muscle tensed, and his sigh misted in the night.

Faster than she could preempt, Glorfindel reached around her waist, bringing her in, his face hidden in the crook of her neck. “Why have you done this?” his words glazed warmth over her skin. “Why have you done this?...” he repeated, his other arm come around her. He would never see her again; the light of the Eldar would fade from her eyes, and she would take another path, her spirit hurled to none knew where. The only measure of comfort: he would not be there to see it. On selfish impulse, Glorfindel leaned closer, his taller frame nestling hers, hands running up and down her back.

His mouth was soft on her skin and Arwen heard herself moan, needing him to quench the burn that hissed through her. “A memory...” she gasped as his touch became rough, fingers pressing in the spaces between her ribs, his breathing hot and erratic.

Glorfindel stilled; all Arwen felt was the tickle of his lips, warm and wet, opening against hers; she was lost in the taste of heated wine. The air in his lungs left angry and harsh, and her legs melted beneath her, and lost in him she gasped at the sudden, shearing noise of her shift being torn at the shoulder. He righted himself, lifting her off her feet with an urgency that finally freed them both.

This was real, her troubled mind warned—his unyielding arm around her waist, his other hand gripping her rear, and she could barely draw air against his starved mouth. Her arms and legs coiled around him and darkness swallowed them as they passed the entrance, and the open sky came into view through the thin dome of glass.

Glorfindel knelt and lay her onto the divan, “You will have to release me,” he whispered softly, a swift gleam of the Elf she knew.

Arwen slowly did so, allowing him to rise. They stared at each other longingly as he undid his belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. The stars were cold beyond the glass, but even they melted as his long-lashed eyes locked on her.

Glorfindel slowly descended to his knees on the divan, rose-marble skin covering taut, restless muscles that rippled with his movements, glossy hair falling over his back and shoulders like a golden mantle.

Arwen had risen on her elbows and now felt so small against him, huffing a strained breath as he caged her; she fell back down while Glorfindel adjusted his weight to hers and trapped him in her own right, willing the anguish away with soft nips of her lips.

His touch ghosted the sensitive skin of her chin, his warm kiss become bruising and hasty. Hand shaking, he unlaced her garment while Arwen struggled with his confining trousers. He had the first victory, revealing her easily, first one breast, then the other; he feverishly cupped each, grazing the tinted flesh with his thumb before leaning to kiss, sucking the hardened tips into his mouth.

Arwen arched into him and fiery blood leaped in her veins at the delicious sensation, that weakening pull; at her gasp, his eyes cut to hers again, and Glorfindel smiled, rising and tilting his head down to capture her mouth in another breathless kiss. He grasped her thigh and pushed down against her with a near hostile advance that hurt them both. Her heartbeat sang—a fluttering bird in a cage of bones. Her long hands were prying and eager around his torso, slipping over his fine skin. Arwen felt a scar or two across his back and ribs, scrawled indentations of a life spent guarding and guiding others.  

Arwen sighed when he sank onto her, his cock searing hard against her through thin layers of material; fear of the unknown pooled into her, wilting to nothing when their eyes met.

“I will mind you,” he said, eyes closing as his lips sought the tip of her nose, her chin. He knew.

Arwen smiled unsteadily. He rose to slide his trousers down completely, releasing himself. She licked her lower lip, a spark rushing between her legs at the sight of so much bared skin, eyes on the shapes of him and the arousal that slapped thickly against his abdomen.

“I like you watching me,” Glorfindel said, “but I enjoy watching you more.” He reached for her legs and caressed up her thigh, lifting the folds of her nightdress above her hips, her breasts, her head, disposing of it entirely after Arwen wriggled out of the material.

He fell back on his knees before her. “Show yourself to me,” he said, taking himself in hand. “Please.”

A moan struggled from her at the sight of his fingers slowly stroking, and unsure what to do, on her back as she was, Arwen spread her legs, a hand reaching down her body, fingers parting the wet lips to her core. She felt the heat inside, wondered what it would feel like for him.

His head tilted back as Glorfindel pumped himself faster, his eyes on her hand, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He’d barely touched her, and this waiting was driving her insane. “Please, I want...” Her fingers went deeper, seeking up her exposed slit. “I need you, I need you so much... Glorfindel, please...” her cheeks flushed with pleasure and need.

He ran his hand over himself one last time, then knelt above her, and Arwen was melting into his skin, savoring the pulsing heat pressing against her. She melded her mouth to his, eager to taste, as she had dreamt of doing all those nights when she could not help herself. She shuddered as Glorfindel brought her wet fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, her other hand smoothing down his strong back.

He brought one of her slender legs around his hips. “Á nute ar lá lertan nore, hérince,” his words filled her parted mouth. His brief smile glittered as her legs eagerly bound around him. He rested his forehead on hers, his lower body angling slightly as his hand reached down.

“Show me how...” Arwen said and went still, his touch ghosting the soft dark patch between her legs; he sighed into her mouth, feeling her mound tenderly before one finger found her slit, running a languid trail up and down. It felt good, and she lost herself, opening for him while her hands felt the dips and swells in his muscled arms. Arwen gasped at the silk of his hot lips as he kissed his way down her body, soon nipping warmly just below her hipbone. Their gazes met over her disheveled surrender, and his hand ran up her middle while he breathed warmly onto her flushed slit.

Arwen was biting on her lip; he kneaded the soft flesh of her inner thigh as his nose pressed into her mound. Her legs tensed around him, and closing his eyes, Glorfindel ran the length of his pink tongue over her once—she cried out in pleasure; he did it again, taking the time to lick inside, lapping at the softness and teasing the sensitive flesh as her hips tilted up and her hands found purchase in his hair.

“So... good...” Arwen cooed, a languid hand playing with golden strands. He kissed and suckled and did not stop until she cried and shuddered against his mouth, then fell back limply on the bed.

Glorfindel slowly crawled back to her, and she’d never seen him this way; demanding. “You are ready,” he said, rubbing his slick fingers together before sinking onto her; the tip of his cock slicked this way and that against her inner thigh. His eyes fluttered closed, and her own lifeblood burned and flooded the hollow ache within. Arwen seized him close, hissing with the foreign sense of discomfort.

He took a deep breath, unmoving, his body halfway melded with hers, welcoming her tightness. “Slow,” Glorfindel whispered, claiming her mouth again. He pressed his lips to her cheek, and his breath hitched as he moved carefully, hips rocking against her with purpose until her face softened and her lips parted, curling into a smile. He kissed that smile and thrust deeper, her hands pressing on his rear, pacing his drawled movement. Her sighs soon struck against the glass roof as he dragged his entire length in and out of her, the scent of their bodies melting together drifting around them.

“I want... to hear you,” he teased her ear between his teeth, driving into her faster; it did not take long to gain what he asked for, and she was singing her lust in his ear.

“More, yes... please, I need you... It feels so good and I need you so much, I need this so much...” she begged mindlessly.

Glorfindel released her and rose again to his knees, leaving her empty and moaning. He easily slid her supple body towards him, hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed her legs to her chest so she was open before him.

Arwen gazed up at him wantonly, flushed and ready. Her skin glistened, and her dark hair was damp around her forehead, long strands stuck to the tips of her breasts; he slid inside again, thrusting deeper and harder. Soon he was stifling her cries with his hand, and as her eyes rolled back in relief, Glorfindel reached around her waist, raising her to him and turning her around in his lap.

Bright strands fell over her pale shoulder like warm waves; his chest rose against her sweat-drenched back, and with a helpless moan into her hair, Glorfindel commanded her down onto him. His grasp was tight, and there followed a moment of utter tranquility, broken only by their smothered breathing as he filled her again. “This will feel different,” he said, his smile a beacon in the dark. The silk of her hair brushed his neck and jaw as Arwen nodded, feeling the repeated twitch of his cock inside her.

He tried recalling the obvious—this was nothing but a brief escape, all that should never be. Nothing would change. Neither his guilt nor his regret would fade. But she consumed his essence and boiled his blood, and so he took her in harsh, near angry thrusts, his fingers splayed over her reddened breast, his grasp bruising on her thigh.

Her head fell back against his shoulder and Arwen gazed into the night, lost in sleek skin and warmth and brief, delirious happiness. One breath, then another, and a sharp shudder hurled her into a spiral of surging relief, and she was one with the swift waterfalls spilling outside. And the golden one held her so close, pushed her so deep she hissed from the strain; panting, he muffled her whimpers with a firm hand.

It was as though she would break and disperse, but with one hard plunge he ceased, shaken by a fierce shiver, groaning softly against her neck; there was a sudden rush inside, and his fingers hurt as they dug into her flesh. Arwen slumped against him, and for many moments, none dared move, lost in the dying throes of their joining.

Stunned, she tipped her head forward, her body soft and depleted, and spent in the purest primeval satisfaction.

She was hedged down on her side, felt him covering her like a shield; his chest, warm against her wet skin, his arm heavy around her waist, bringing her closer. Arwen turned her face to the night again as his body cupped hers. Galaxies spun their coiled shells, heedless above them. Neither spoke, unwilling to lift the veil. It was all they had left.

[ipreferfiction]

Revan Adarii

(mandalorian wars revan by @stellorc and kotor era revan by @hnnny; click for full images. under a read-more because it's going to be very immensely long)

Revan was raised on Dantooine, given to the Jedi as a baby when her singularly powerful Force-sensitivity revealed itself. as a young child, she grew close to another Jedi youngling, Alek Squinquargesimus, who was a year older; the pair became fast friends, and as young teenagers, a latent Force bond between them began to reveal itself. the closeness between the two, as well as Revan's ever-growing power and hunger for knowledge, concerned some of the masters of the enclave - Vrook Lamar was chief among these, and his dislike of Revan only served to make her angrier as she grew older.

at twenty-one, Revan discovered the massacre on Cathar and swore an oath of justice against the Mandalorians. going against the Jedi Council's wishes, she took Alek and a group of dozens of Jedi and joined the Mandalorian Wars. her strategic gifts became apparent almost immediately - within a year, she was named Supreme Commander of the Republic Military, and with every battle she won, her strategies grew more vicious.

Malachor was, as it always goes, the moment of her fall. Revan's powerful visions, visions she'd been having since she was a child, revealed the threat of Vitiate, and Revan took Alek to investigate. a year later, Darth Revan returned at the head of an empire, nearly destroying the Republic in her conquest. Bastila Shan's strike team was a last-ditch effort to stop the war - until Malak fired on his master and Bastila made the choice to save Revan rather than let her die.

Revan's mind was shattered, but a chance remained of her memories returning on their own. the Dantooine Council elected to break from High Council orders and wipe Revan's mind in secret, programming her with the false identity of Mica Kasra, a scout who joined the army after the Jedi Civil War broke out. after months of recovery, training, and simple missions to ensure that no trace of Revan remained, Mica was assigned to the Endar Spire, where an attack left her stranded on Taris. she narrowly escaped Malak's bombardment, alongside Bastila and the rest of her newfound crew, and Bastila brought her to Dantooine for training in the Force - and to ask the wisdom of the Council.

the Council elected to train Mica, with Bastila acting as supervision, and after being deemed ready and uncovering the first Star Map, Mica and her crew were sent on the hunt for the coordinates to the superweapon Revan and Malak had both used to subjugate the Republic. the mindwipe, however, didn't hold, and Revan's memories began to return, alongside dreams facilitated by her Force bond with Malak.

eventually, between the bond and her own determination, Revan lured Malak out and into a confrontation. her inevitable victory led to him being thrown into the Ebon Hawk's brig - Revan was able to destroy the Star Forge, and she took Malak and the few members of her crew that she trusted and fled to a derelict space station in orbit above Yavin IV.

Revan and Alek, having given up the ways of the Sith, found their way back to Dromund Kaas after Revan began to see visions - Alek was handed over to Vitiate and thrown in stasis, and Revan spent the next three years as a prisoner before being enveloped in a plot to kill Vitiate after Mireya Surik came to rescue her. however, in the resulting confrontation with the emperor, Mireya was killed and Revan taken captive, placed in stasis a galaxy away from where Alek was held. three hundred years later, with the aid of a Revanite Jedi Master and Mireya's long-suffering Force ghost, Revan is rescued by two Jedi knights: Lia Vhoss and J'lima Akarr.

Revan, placed in charge of the Foundry and tasked with fighting for the Republic, soon finds herself making a deal with Avaanla Ki, a young Sith Lord with as much knowledge of the Rakata as Revan herself. in exchange for Avaanla's help in locating Alek, Revan allows her to take control of the Revanites - while the pair follow a lead on Alek's location, a coup is staged among the Revanites, and eventually the fighting and Revan's ironclad determination to kill Vitiate lead to a confrontation on Yavin IV.

defeated and without control of the Revanites, Revan disappears into the wider galaxy, eventually meeting her descendant, Khisren, and undertaking her training. as of the Alliance era, she lives on Odessen with Alek, occasionally giving strategic advice to Alliance high command. mostly, she communes with the Force and attempts to figure out how to live without Vitiate's death to drive her.

[vrronica-sawyer]

i've seen you post about jd and heather duke's mental health a lot but what do you think is going on with veronica? clearly something is but i dont know what.

Firstly the way you worded that is hilarious,

Anyway I think it's clear she's depressed and that was the intention canonically, but looking back at her as an adult whole emotional attachment to Heathers as a whole stemmed from Veronica being the most accurately I've ever felt represented as a mentally ill teenager when I first saw it, I view her as having BPD. You could say it's self projection obviously but almost all the symptoms and behavior she displays that made me feel so seen by the character are the symptoms I learned later in life are BPD.

The depressive episodes turned constant emptiness, the impulsivity usually revolving around self destruction, and her entire relationship with the Heathers and the problems she has with them at the start of the story all just scream borderline to me. Going from being someone's best friend for years and (according to chandler) being okay with their bad behavior and finding it funny to all of a sudden hating them and thinking they're a bad person when their behavior hasnt changed and Veronica's worldview and personality really hadnt either sounds a lot like splitting to me. Most people's idea of splitting is the opposite, when people talk about it they always talk about the scary concept of you being a good kind friend and then your scary borderline friend has an episode and makes you out to be the devil on a whim, but a lot of what I've experienced is that because of the black and white perception of people the disorder causes I will meet someone who is really really not great, treats me very poorly and has a million red flags, but because they were nice or entertaining in our first couple interactions all bad behavior of theirs is completely excusable if not invisible to me until either they do something big enough to trigger my splitting on them or I just have an episode and in this case it ends up being a good thing (for that relationship at least). So like when I was younger and unaware I had bpd i would look at Veronica's relationship with the Heathers and didn't question it at all, I was like yeah sometimes youre very close with terrible people for a very long time until you realize the things they've been doing are bad even though you... wouldve morally thought those things were bad from the start. I never understood why people questioned Veronica's logic in the situation or didnt realize from context clues they were supposed to have been close friends at the start of the movie.

Same with her handling of the JD situation, she goes from encouraging and going along with things to very against it and angry that he would even think shes okay with it all without vocalizing any of this to him once because the jumps happening in her head make sense to her and it doesnt occur to her to communicate these things to him.

And again just the overall emptiness, anger, self harm and recklessness, all that very much reads as BPD to me. Most of it overlaps with depression but most symptoms of depression are also symptoms of the disorder, plus its very rare that bpd and a form of clinical depression aren't comorbid.

Though I do want to note that there is a reason BPD is avoided as a diagnoses for teenagers around Veronica's age, a lot of the symptoms stem from emotional dysregulation that you can also experience just from being a teenager with a developing brain and unstable adolescent hormones and it's debated on how long it takes for the disorder to develop, some people believe it grows from having something like depression untreated as a child/teen and doesnt fully form until adulthood. That is to say,,, teenagers reading this if you also relate to these things I listed I'm not telling you that you have borderline personality disorder, nor am I saying Veronica has it canonically. This is just my opinion as someone who related to the portrayal of depression and mental illness that is Veronica Sawyer as a teen who later learned what my specific disorder was, giving me a certain bias context for hers.

[jinmukangwrites]

Day 5 (6-17): Aged-up | Mother and son | Brothers

Warnings: near death experiences, drowning, canon typical violence, kidnapping

Note: I felt like I've written a lot of Dick and Damian bonding this week... So I'm switching it out with Jason. I had other things I wanted to write for this prompt, but it got too late at night to write something long. Enjoy this short, hurt/comfort Jason and Damian bonding instead <3

-o-o-o-o-

Damian's only been captured for a few hours... and already he feels more miserable than he has in a long time.

None other than the Penguin stands before him, sneering cheek to cheek as his associates finish tying the knots around chest and the damp wooden pole his back leans against. The sand underneath him is rocky and sharp; he can already feel the curious laps of the returning tide against his tailbone. His hands are restrained behind the pole as well, while his legs are tied by his ankles. He's sitting, and stuck sitting thanks to the rope around his chest.

His head aches, which isn't very surprising considering the thing that got him in this situation was a well placed hit to his skull via a brick.

He didn't mean to get caught. He simply wanted to blow off some steam after getting fed up with Jason while on patrol. Of all people to be paired up with, it had to be Jason. It couldn't have been someone Damian gets along with like Richard, Duke, or Cassandra. It couldn't have been Timothy where they at least know when boundaries are being pushed with their banter. It couldn't have even been Stephanie, where she's at least funny.

No, the entire family was there, and Damian got paired with the one he doesn't know how to deal with. He got annoyed by the constant, demeaning tone Jason would use on him, and after one too many backhanded insults that only Jason found funny, Damian snapped. He doesn't even remember what exactly was said, he just knows he yelled at Jason to go on without him, and Jason didn't stop him when he turned the other direction.

Thinking back on it, Damian probably insulted him back, and the reason he let Damian go was because he was just as annoyed as Damian was.

It doesn't matter now. What matters is that he didn't intend to stumble upon the Penguin and his goons in some warehouse by the coast. He was just going to take down a few classic muggers or something of similar nature and go back to Jason and act like the argument never happened.

He intended to go back and tell his father about the Penguin's actions, but he didn't notice a pigeon until he almost stepped on it. Startled, it flew up at his face and he fell backwards right through the already broken skylight. He barely managed to slow his fall with his grappling gun, but he still hit the ground pretty hard. Hurt and surprised, he didn't have time to even stand up before the brick was smashed against his skull.

And now he's here, under Gotham's docks, being tied to a poll while the Penguin laughs to himself.

"I'll just let the tide kill you for me," he says to himself, yet his idiot goons still cackle. Damian glares at them, but they only laugh harder, sending down their own insults until the ocean water begins to pool up to Damians toes.

The Penguin makes a remark that it's time to go, and that he doesn't want to get his new dress shoes messy, and then they're gone, leaving Damian to attempt to tug on the ropes holding him against the pole. He tries to reach for the small blades he keeps in the compartments of his gloves, but his fingers come away empty. Curse Gotham's Rogues and their ability to actually use their brains and disarm their captives when they get their hands on them.

He strains harder on the ropes now, twisting and trying to reach any knots with his fingers, but all he succeeds in doing is cutting off the circulation to his hands and pressing the rope into his chest.

He relaxes with a frustrated huff and glares at the water that's already risen a few inches to ripple close to his hips. He knows that not long from now, the water will be above his head.

For now, it's freezing, and once it reaches his fingers, escape will become all the more impossible thanks to numbing appendages.

He tugs on the ropes, then tugs some more, and he keeps going until he has to stop and let the blood come back to his fingers.

The water continues to rise, seeping through his suit and into his bones, rising to his fingers, then his arms, then his shoulders... It's when it finally touches his chin when the despair and terror finally settles.

He can't get out. He can't get out. The ropes feel no more loose than what they were when he began trying to undo them, and his fingers are so numb now they must be turning blue under his gloves. His jaw aches from his chattering teeth, and his nose is beginning to run.

He pulls desperately on his bonds now, his attempts to escape becoming more and more reckless the longer he sits here. He's hyper-aware of the movement of the water around him, and his panic is making it difficult to breathe.

Through his terror, he hears something. The motor of a bike. He hears the engine cut out nearby. He can probably shout for help.

It's his last hope. He can only pray that whoever came to the docks at this hour of night, that they are friendly. He opens his mouth to yell for assistance, but he chokes when sea water enters his mouth. He scrambles his bound feet against the rocky sand, attempting to lift himself up the pole just a little higher, but he doesn't go anywhere. The ropes are too tight.

He's not sure if the water near his eyes is from him flailing in the water, or if it's because of frightened tears. Either way, he can feel the water tickling his nose, and he only has a split second to suck in one last breath of air before the water rises above any means to breath.

"Robin?" A deep voice shouts, and Damian could sob at the irony of it. "You here?"

Someone came looking for him, but they don't know where he is. He's going to drown under the feet of someone who could have saved him if they had come just minutes before.

The water rises over his head now, and he can no longer hear anything besides the racing of his heart. He can't feel his fingers or toes anymore, and he's sure he will drown with bruises under the ropes on his chest.

He's going to drown. He's going to die. His lungs hurt, already his oxygen is running out. He's panicking and it's cold and he's going to die-

He doesn't know how much longer he holds his breath, only that eventually, his mouth opens against his will and sucks in water that may as well be fire going into his lungs.

Black creeps into his vision... and with the last sight of dark bubbles erupting around him, he loses consciousness.

-o-o-o-o-

He wakes up vomiting. A strong hand wraps around his arm and holds him on his side so he can empty his lungs and stomach of salty sea water. It feels like his insides are being torn apart, but eventually it calms down a little so he can finally suck in a gasp of air.

The hand on his arm becomes two, snaking around his shoulder blades to sit him up and squeeze him against a broad chest.

"Holy shit," a familiar voice gasps, "Jesus fuck."

"J'son..." Damian murmurs, trying to make sense of what's going on. His throat feels abused, and his head pounds like drums. He's so tired, his eyes begin to drop.

"Nah don't you fucking think of it," Jason growls, pulling him away from his chest and giving him a hard shake. Damian blinks, trying to focus. Jason brings a hand up and brushes his dripping hair from his face.

Then, it all comes back to him. The tide... The water... He was drowning...

He thought he died.

But here he is, untied from the pole and on the docks, looking at Jason's bare and dripping face with his helmet castaway on the ground. He must have given him mouth-to-mouth... And his chest aches like he's taken a beating. Must be the combined bruises of the ropes and from chest compressions.

He's suddenly overwhelmed with emotions, all of his fear slamming right into him.

"You came," he croaks, not sure if it's because of his abused respiratory system or if it's because of his rekindled tears.

Jason's face twists, then he pulls Damian back in to squeeze him tightly once again. The hug is a surprise, and it hurts, but Damian doesn't fight it. He's too relieved and scared and confused and ashamed to fight it.

"When you didn't answer the comms, I thought you were still mad," Jason explains. The rumble of his voice in his chest against Damian's cheek is oddly relaxing. "But then it started getting late and I didn't feel right, so I asked Babs for your coords and- fuck- I thought I got you killed."

"How did you know...?" Damian asks, not willing to go further into the sentence and endure the pain of his throat.

Jason gives a laugh, and it's almost hysterical. "A lucky guess? I don't know, I guess it's just habit to look in the water when something goes wrong at the docks." There's a pause. Then Jason releases Damian once again. "I'm sorry. I said some things I shouldn't have. This wouldn't have happened if I kept my cool."

Damian shakes his head. It doesn't matter now. "You came."

Jason's lips twitch. "Of course I did. We're... Brothers. Even if we don't get along all the time, I still don't want anyone beating you up other than me."

Damian let's out a laugh, though it dissolves into a fit of coughs. Jason rubs his back during all of it, then once he calms down he helps him to his feet.

"C'mon," he says, "let's get you back home so Alfred can check on you. The sooner we get back, the sooner I can get getting yelled at out of the way for letting you go off on your own."

He helps Damian up to his feet, and Damian gratefully clutches to his jacket to steady himself. "I am to blame too. Once we tell father you helped save me, he will be less angry."

Jason snorts. "You think I'm worried about the old man? It's Dick I'm worried about."

"Ah," Damian grins, all the fear finally ebbing out from his system. "I'm afraid I cannot help you there."

Jason helps Damian onto the bike and returns his helmet so it's over his head. He holds Damian in front of him with one arm securely around his chest as he drives. He feels safe nestled against Jason like this. It's strong and unyielding. His relationship with the older man has always been strange, considering they weren't always on the same sides when Richard was Batman.

But this? This is safe. It's warm. Is careful and gentle. Normally he'd be embarrassed to be so vulnerable like this near Jason, but like Jason said... They're brothers.

He cannot help but feel a little disappointed once they finally make it back to the cave. Yet it seems he's misjudged Jason once again, because after he was rushed to the med-bay and Jason got an earful from Richard... he fell asleep and awoke the next morning with Jason still there.

Things may not be perfect with Jason, and they argue a lot, but Damians sure things have a chance of becoming better.

They're brothers, after all.

[felinedetached]

u mentioned a possible wilbur analysis 👀? very interested by this

This is gonna be a hell of a lot less sourced than the Dream one, because I am lazy and because my focus on c!Wilbur analysis has always leant more towards his authoritarian tendencies and how he ran his country! But! He, like c!Dream, gives me extremely strong BPD vibes.

Once again: this has no bearing on canon, it's just my thoughts as a person with BPD, and has no intent to vilify c!Wilbur or BPD!

SO! A quick run-through of each symptom and if I think c!Wilbur has it or not, with mini breakdowns of the ones I think he does:

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment (Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behaviour covered in Criterion 5)

Absolutely. To a different extent to Dream, however, as Wilbur is fully confident in his ability to manipulate those closest to him. He destroyed L'manburg because if he couldn't have it, nobody can. He made sure Tommy was loyal to him, made sure Tubbo and Jack and Niki were all loyal to him (through L'Manburg, and through pushing the idea that you have to sacrifice for your country, e.g. pushing Tommy to sacrifice his house for L'Manburg).

He doesn't want to be abandoned, so he ensures they won't abandon L'manburg.

2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterised by alternating between extremes of idealisation and devaluation

Ooof. This one's a hard one, because like, yeah. His opinion of people shifts at the drop of a hat — usually one that's inspired by something, but that's true for a lot of people with BPD anyway. A good example is how swiftly he turned completely on Eret! He barely spent time to process the betrayal before he was vilifying Eret, turning on them and denouncing them as a member of L'manburg. It was a quick, immediate switch in perception, and that's just— vibes.

I'd say it fits his perceptions of other people too! Turning on Techno, the shift in his perception of Fundy and Quackity, even how he saw Tommy and Dream.

3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self

Hell yes. "Are we the villains, Tommy?"

4. Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g. spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating) (Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behaviour covered in Criterion 5)

Going into war without armour, apparent smoking habit (not entirely sure if this is canon or not, but if it is: yes), the fact that he ran a drug empire and that they used those drugs themselves, repeatedly announcing himself as the traitor despite knowing it would be harmful to him if people knew. Once again, it's hard to make a one to one comparison with Minecraft when a lot of these things don't really exist, but from what we can see: yeah.

5. Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour

Well. It's a bit hard for it to be recurrent when you succeed.

6. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g. intense episodic dysphoria, irritability or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)

Oh my god, yes. This and (8. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g. frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)) combine a lot for Wilbur, in my opinion. He's anxious, irritable, angry and manic in Pogtopia, as his mental health takes that downward spiral. He starts encouraging fights, getting into them more himself and gets increasingly frustrated and mad about Fundy, Manburg as a whole, Schlatt and Quackity.

7. Chronic feelings of emptiness

Considering he actively committed suicide and started thinking of himself as the villain, probably! But we don't know for sure because none of these people talk about their emotions.

9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms

100%. He doesn't think he can trust Tubbo, struggles to trust anyone, gets increasingly paranoid about spies and Manburg finding out where they are. He plots the explosion of L'Manburg with no care for the lives of everyone else there, and forces Tubbo to be the one to decide whether it happens or not as a test. Large amounts of his paranoia are justified, but it's still there.

So that's 9/9 for Wilbur! I have hit this man with the projection stick.

I have a large amount of thoughts about Niki too, tbh, and I also think Tommy probably has BPD, but I'm really not the person to ask about that because I'm not much of a Tommy scholar. It's just vibes, with him. I have much more reasoning with Niki, Dream and Wilbur.

[bored-storyteller]

Oh my, thank you!  Thanks for bringing this to me, I love Sally Face! It's one of my favorite indie games ever! I really hope it meets your expectations.

NOTES: I imagined the more adult Sal, but beyond that there are no other references to the timeline of the original story, except some canonical episodes mentioned.

34- Sally Face - Sal Fisher x Reader

"You can see me"

With a last glance at the clock, you quickly close the water bottle, at the same time grabbing the full glass in the same hand that you also hold the medicine box.

You're pretty sure you find Sal in his room, probably bent over his guitar. Surely it is for that reason that he has not paid attention to his therapy.

It doesn't happen often, in fact, it rarely happens that you have to rush to his rescue, nor do you really like doing it. You don't know how he really feels about it.

Knowing where he keeps his medicines and knowing when he has to take them doesn't make you two a couple. Not even living under the same roof makes you a couple - especially if you are not alone - nor does sharing the same room often and willingly.

In fact, even though someone often mistakes you for two young lovers, you don't really know what Sal thinks of you. As close as you feel him, you are not sure that he feels as close to you; on the other hand, he doesn't seem to share the same kind of intimacy with you that he shares with Larry or Ashley, or at least that's what you think.

Besides, you've never seen his face.

Yours is a purely selfish thought, and you are ashamed of it, but you cannot command feelings.

You know that the first time Larry saw his best friend's face was an accident, with Ash instead, she was the one who took the initiative. In neither case was Sal's will to make him show himself. Yet, despite this deep down, inside you, something stung excruciatingly.

When your friend had lifted his mask, Sal that time was not angry at the intrusiveness - as perhaps you would have done -, nor had he tried to escape later. It is logically normal that he now has less trouble showing himself around them. Sweet Sal, always so loving, so perfect.

You shouldn't feel offended. You know well that for Sal the prosthesis he wears is in effect his face, so it's not that he wants to hide from you, you are simply already seeing him.

Yet you know that under that face another is hidden, however much it may be disfigured. You can't pretend it isn't.

That slight annoyance you have repeatedly tried to ignore has slowly grown, but only now have you dared to call it by name. Because you like Sal. You really like him. And when you have understood this, when you have found the strength to admit it to yourself, everything is put in the right place; the joys, the jealousies you felt and feel… and also that desire to see him, to see beyond, to really see him.

But you'll never force on him for it. As simple as it would be to lift that mask to him with an excuse, you will never force him to show himself to you, even if you die with the regret of never having seen him. It's not the same, it's not the face you want to see, it's the trust you want him to give you. But you can't expect it, and you know it.

You could live with this obsession that has become so present in recent weeks that you can hardly forget it. Maybe it's just your mind that doesn't want to focus on your duties, and then it always wanders to him, aimlessly.

"What is Sal's face like?"

You asked Larry one day without realizing it. You didn't really know what you were doing with him, you just know that for a moment your brain was shut down, and when you woke up you whispered that question.

The astonished look of your friend had poured into you a flood of emotions so sudden that they almost made you cry for no reason: you felt guilty, selfish, reckless, stupid, meddlesome and terribly fragile.

You immediately lowered your gaze to protect yourself, muttering an "sorry, forget it" but never would have canceled that damn question. You thought Larry might misjudge you for that, but instead his big hand pulled you to him, ruffling your hair affectionately, saying nothing.

He seemed to have understood more than you hoped for, yet ...

You shake your head and your hand tightens on the glass of water. You knock on the door and softly call Sal's name.

"Yes?"

His answer comes a few seconds later and you feel safe in opening the door slowly.

It's not exactly what you imagined; he is sitting on the bed, his legs stretched out on the mattress and his back resting against the headboard. The guitar is stored in the case, but in his hands he holds a book with a dark cover.

His kind gaze meets you beyond that face that is always the same. It's amazing how expressive that guy can be under that stiff mask. That damn mask. That lovely mask.

"You didn't take them, did you?"

You ask softly as you lift the medicines to show them. Your voice is cracked against your will, and you're praying he didn't notice.

"Oh ..." his eyes snap to the clock hanging on the wall "thanks, I was completely forgetting about it."

His voice is soft, almost cheerful. He is not bothered by your gesture, or he is very good at hiding it.

You watch him get up to go to the bedside table where you put what he needed. You don't pay much attention to it, you just sit on the bed, picking up the book he was reading, making sure you keep your thumb between the pages, so as not to lose the mark he left.

You read the title and a few lines of the presentation absently. You're just trying to buy time with him, and you know it.

You hear it as he handles the pill box and plastic, and hear the rattle of the straps as they unfasten to release his mouth.

You don't watch it, you're used to the process and now, despite you insisting on staying there, you don't really want to watch it.

You don't understand much about the book, you just know it's about music.

"Do you like it?"

You ask, trying to give a semblance of normality.

"Enough ... actually I'm just at the beginning."

You just nod, not really being able to continue the conversation. Your head feels too full confused, but extremely empty at the same time, and you don't know why.

"Hey ... is everything okay?"

His voice makes you jump, as if he has stung you with a needle. Such a simple question, but you suddenly feel discovered, as if he has just proved he can read your mind. As if you were obliged to tell him the truth.

"Yup!"

You exclaim immediately, and without realizing your head jerks towards him, as if you wanted to assure him of the truthfulness of your words.

You don't notice it right away. You see only his blue eyes for a moment, he is looking at you with concern, more than he should.

At first you wonder if your attitude really is that troubling, but then you start to focus.

His hand trembles slightly around the glass of water, and out of the corner of your eye you can see his mask lying on his pillow.

He swallows the medicine by throwing his head back slightly, perhaps to take a break from your gaze, or to escape a little from the agitation, the fear he is having.

Sal, Sal's face. You are seeing him, free from his hiding place, while he drinks.

Surely he is disfigured, excruciatingly deformed. It's not just a few scratches, it's more, it's a real pain, yet you don't notice it.

Again, this is Sal. You're really seeing Sal's face, the face you've always loved, beyond the mask, like his mask.

He sits next to you, he's trying to act naturally, you see him, but you still see his fingers shaking against the cardboard as he puts the tablet away in the box. He did it for you.

Emotions explode in your chest and you don't bother holding them back. There is no time for any misunderstandings. You are free with him, you always have been, you don't know how you forgot this.

"Sal ..."

You call him softly, and he turns to you despite the hesitation. A light "tell me" sweet and helpful pronounced by the spoiled and shy lips.

Silently, you curl up against him, your arms glide smoothly around his chest, expressing your need to feel him close.

He welcomes you - he always does.

"Hey ..." is a faint call of him, as you hide against his neck to prevent your happiness from going out too violently.

"Thanks..." This is all you can say in your voice damp with emotion. Long last. You are like a child in front of the much desired Christmas present. You are so happy that you could carry the whole world on your shoulders.

"Thank you!" You repeat him with more conviction, and finally your eyes return to his sky-colored gaze. So beautiful, always so loving even in his placid surprise.

He looks at your wet eyes, so wet with affection for him. Your smile is so warm and true, and his lungs slowly empty of all the accumulated tension.

He didn't think anyone could look at him that way, not without his mask. He did not think that a look could be so full of love in front of his disfigured face, yet it seems that you are seeing an angel.

You look at him with your eyes shining with all the admiration you feel, and not because you can lie by saying that you are seeing a beautiful face, but because Sal is the most beautiful person you know.

"I-" His voice tries to say something, but it is cut off; this time it's up to him to be overwhelmed by emotion.

You approach slowly, and the tip of your nose touches his, practically non-existent, but you don't care. You cannot resist the desire to cuddle him, to touch him, to perceive him in every possible aspect of that intimacy that he has decided to give you.

At first he has a little jerk back, of surprise rather than fear, and soon after he is there again, looking for that touch. He is extremely uncertain, but he still responds to your unspoken requests, slowly letting his forehead rest on yours.

He exhales, as if he is releasing a great weight, but he immediately stiffens when you, without realizing it, are approaching his lips.

You wake up immediately from your numbness, before making a probable mistake, and try to get away, at least as long as his arms allow you.

"Please…"

That prayer from him is so feeble yet so meaningful. His gaze asks you to do it, to continue, because he wants it but he is still afraid of taking the initiative. He is putting the responsibility on you, and rightly so.

He is tense, you see it from his swallow and feel it from his tense muscles around you, but it's okay.

You approach again, slowly, gradually lowering your eyelids, a little by instinct and a little in the hope of putting him more at ease.

Kissing him is a special experience, and you like it - you wanted it so much -.

You are not intrusive, it is just a delicate touch, but it persists, leaving him time for him.

When he reciprocates, he does it slowly, unsure of how to proceed, probably troubled by the feelings he can give you or maybe just agitated by the situation. Yet, slowly, you feel it melt against you.

Slightly open your eyes to see that he too has closed them, and then you allow yourself to return to enjoy that moment, more peaceful and serene.

You huddle more, between yourselves, and let the desire flow through you, without going too far, simply enjoying the presence of each other, in your breaths that merge.

When you separate you do it only with your lips, but your gaze remains affectionate and aware.

In the end, that is nothing more than the confirmation of everything: of your knowing what time he should take his medicines and of his letting you know, of his knowing your favorite drink and which shower gel you always use, of cooking one by one. other, of looking so much like a couple for a long time already - and some of it is also the result of Larry's long tongue letting out a few too many words with his best friend.

You watch him as he puts his mask back on, and now you don't care anymore, because you know what's under it, and if that's his face then you've seen his soul.

Suddenly all your happiness is back. You are so happy that not even the bickering between Larry and Todd coming from the kitchen can upset you.

It must be something about the finished milk.

"I'm going to get it!"

You hum loud enough for the two to hear it, as you jump three steps at the same time, happily landing down the stairs.

Sal's laughter reaches you, and you turn to look at him. You like to see him happy, whatever the nature of that happiness.

"I come with you."

He tells you coming to you, reaching out his hand so that you can take it.

You're pretty sure you won't be able to stop smiling all night long.

*The image above is an old drawing of mine

[flowerflamestars]

Let's ask the hard questions here, baby. What do you think the series would have been like had it been Nesta Archeron under the mountain?

BABE this is it-this is the best question I’ve ever been asked. 

For one thing, chaotic. For another: I think the simple substitution reframes the whole structure of the narrative. It’s not about a journey to power that fights Evil Tyranny (abused Human to Hero to High Lady).

It’s a story about the people working around, beside, under the powerful Lords- and the difficult choices they make. Less Hero’s Journey more, Look, These Are the Real Heroes.

Let’s start with Spring. We know now that the whole you killed a faery now you have to come to faeryland thing was an insanely shitty ruse. So maybe Andras is still alive. Maybe Feyre killed him and Nesta successfully protected her sisters. Maybe Tamlin is just a twat and went that one is pretty. ANYWAY-

Nesta gets to Spring. Lucien doesn’t immediately despise her, for, you know, murdering and skinning his only friend (a handy sublimation of the anger he can’t express against his High Lord). Nesta was raised in the fucking gentry and Nesta can play the game- it’s a question of willingness.

Feyre is a lot more willing to roll with weird circumstances for caution.  Nesta is, to her bones, an aggressor. Empty manor doesn’t add up? She’s going to say something so cutting, and so infuriating to Tamtam she ends up seeing all the faeries. She steels herself, refuses to be afraid of Alis, and asks questions. (See, Nesta’s first IC dinner, zeroing in on the scariest faery and refusing to flinch)

At some point, there’s a confrontation. 

But it’s not between Nesta and Tamlin. Now, in canon Tamtams is extremely willing to drag his feet on the curse. In this version, that is so much worse- sure, he’s into Nesta (Nesta, recall, just looks like sharper Feyre), but Nesta takes one look at this fragile immortal man child and roasts the shit out of him. What’s he going to do? Kill her? Negates all the stupid trouble he went to. Punish her? He clearly needs her for something.

Tamlin cannot handle that. There are no Romantic Moments. Nes spends calanmai watching faeries do weird shit out her window. She sure as fuck doesn’t drink faery wine and dance for Tamlin at the solstice. It is not happening.

 So Nesta spends a lot of time alone, wandering around. Talking to Lucien, Alis, random-ass faeries out of sheer reckless ego, reading every book in the ugly manor.

Nesta confronts Lucien. I’m going to go with after the wingless dead faerie and the head in the garden. The stupid blight conversation.

This works differently and better than Feyre’s attempts to get more information for I think, two important reasons. 1) Lucien and Nesta speak the same language in acotar. It’s all anger babes- sharp edged, sexy, bullshit. There’s no cycle of forgiveness then softening- they are the same, too the same, tired and self-hating survivalists bored out of their minds in a gilded death trap. 

and 2) Nesta and Feyre are quintessentially perceived differently. Feyre is hopeful- tenacious, young, free. She shakes up things for these old ass faeries and gives them something to believe in. It’s youth for the eternally young. 

Nesta...is not that. She gets under your skin, forever. Multiple faeries meet her throughout the books and have very extreme reactions to that- but what matters at this point, as a mortal- Nesta reads as an adult. She’s immune to glamour. Her strength isn’t kindness or an open heart, it’s fucking steel that might take your last breathe.

And look, Lucien would respond to that. Tamlin...isn’t even talking to the girl his people died to get him. The curse is almost over and they’re all going to get tortured. Nesta, has, from day one, known something is wrong- she’s so angry, and it makes it easier for Lucien to be angry.

It’s not hunting bros who become Real Friends, it’s fire and gasoline. Empowerment.

So, I haven’t read acotar in ages- but I’m pretty sure they literally couldn’t tell her about Tamlin’s curse. But Lucien can communicate around the magical fuckery- there’s a great evil. The kids in Winter are all dead because of another High Lord. 

And look, Nesta cares about dead kids. She even, begrudgingly, cares about Lucien. She does not give a single flying fuck about the High Lords.

But Lucien, in this world, is the first one to say it: Hybern. 

Amarantha is Hybern’s general, and Hybern wants all of Prythian. All of it. 

Nesta is absolutely going to walk into the fire to keep the humans- and by extent, her sisters- safe from faeries. 

Tamlin- because he does not love Nesta- doesn’t send her away. Doesn’t crush any savage hope Lucien harbored, doesn’t do shit. He gives up.

And so Spring is dragged beneath the Mountain.

Nesta has exactly two advantages on her side: she can see through glamour, so she’s not 100% disoriented and vulnerable (just..you know, terrified), and sheer force of will.

Amarantha likes will. She likes to break it, and there are so few real contenders left after her victory. 

Nesta doesn’t bargain- Nesta doesn’t beg for Tamlin’s life and love- she asks to win her own. 

Amarantha wants to crush her like a bug. Insignificant little human- but wouldn’t it be more fun to watch each little crack form?

So she gets the riddle. Tamlin’s power is thrown in like the boring chekovs gun that it is. Lucien (probably) gets beat up because Lucien always gets beat up under the Mountain. 

Nesta has two choices: she can answer the (stupidly cliched, easy) riddle right there, and try to walk out. (Nesta knows she’s not making it out alive). Or she can wait, and play the game. (She’ll be damned if she doesn’t take that insane bitch and maybe Tamlin down with her. Her only ally is Lucien and he’s being hauled off with a bleeding headwound soo..)

Nesta lets herself be dragged away. She doesn’t fight. 

Let us remember again, that the Archeron sisters are built like a triptych. A presumable almost mother maiden crone. They look alike, especially Nesta and Feyre. If Rhysie boy thinks Feyre is hot at first glance, guess what he also thinks about Nesta?

So, yes, of course he goes to offer a deal. And let’s be clear on something- when Feyre hated Rhysands guts, what did he like about her? That she was beautiful, absolutely didn’t give a fuck, and what’s that? Fought with him.

She lets him heal her, but then- Nesta won’t even talk to him. Nothing he does works. They come to agreement (which Rhysand finds fascinating, a human with loyalty, that human heart) that Nesta will listen to Rhysand’s offer if and when, he delivers to her a whole, safe, Lucien Vanserra.

Rhys frames this as emotional torture. Incentive. He doesn’t need to play evil as well- Nesta hates fucking faeries. And she knows he killed a bunch of children. 

So Lucien gets thrown in the cell. Minimally healed. About to embark on the misery train, self-deprecating laughter at the fact he’s healed, now, because of Nesta. 

Lucien: so nice of you to make sure we’re all pretty before we die, Archeron. Final night spent huddling for warmth together?

Nesta: Shut up. Shut up- tell me why the fuck Rhysand would be trying to make a deal with me.

They come to the conclusion that, while Rhysand is a monster, he also has no control of his own. He’s completely under Amarantha’s thumb, and apparently, wants out.

Nesta, because she always goes for the jugular, has another thought: Are you really going to go back to Spring after this? He gave up. He gave up and you were rotting in a cell.

Lucien, to whom Nesta is both gasoline and mean friend catnip, but who is also a Sad Boi: where else can I go?

So they make a plan. Rhysand thinks Nesta is the key to killing Amarantha? Cool, Amarantha needs to die. Tamlin is the only High Lord who has access to his power more readily? Tamlin needs to do the killing. 

What does Nesta want? There to be no Hybern coming to burn the land where her sisters live. To go back, to go home- but Nesta doesn’t think, even for a second, she’s really going to make it out alive. And if she does, as she thinks late at night, of Feyre’s laugh, or Elain’s quiet humor- how will it ever be safe? They live on the Wall.

Nesta is known to faeries now- Nesta is infamous, and there’s nothing to stop anyone, should her presence lead them back to her home.

Nesta privately decides Tamlin should die too.

So when the time comes, and Rhysand is like, I’ll protect you, you’ll be mine and you’ll be healed- Nesta says no. Nesta, because she really has never learned to back down- looks dead in the eye of the High Lord of Night, the monster who sleeps beside Amarantha and says: safe passage.

She’ll do what Rhys wants, for this: Lucien Vanserra’s safe passage to a safe place, and for Rhysand to promise not to get in her way when she answers the riddle.

Rhys still wants her to come to the Night Court- for whatever nebulous reasons he wanted Feyre to...which only make sense AFTER she’s changed by the High Lords...which Rhysie couldn’t have known, BUT ANYWAY- Nesta says yes. She doesn’t expect she’ll be alive to pay.

Lucien sulks back to Tamlin’s side, and spends a few weeks between challenges laying it on thick. A quiet whisper that grows, a perfect stroke to Tamlin’s volatile ego. How dare Amarantha, how dare Nesta- Tamlin is a Lord, Tamlin is Spring- Tamlin, who has suffered so much more than the other Lords, deserves his power back. 

Nesta is dragged out for the final challenge.

In one of the long, dangerous hallways, her guards look the other way for just a moment- for a visitor. The High Lady of Autumn knows her son is safe because of this girl. 

She hands Nesta a knife. A small gift- all she can. Steel, not ash, small enough it will go unnoticed.

Nesta is dragged before the throne, before the High Lords, Tamlin and Amarantha, Rhysand.

Nesta answers the riddle.

And when Amarantha refuses to abide the rules- Tamlin, carefully manipulated without coordinating by both Rhys and Lucien, goes apeshit.

This does not stop Amarantha from hurting Nesta. The opposite- she’s trapped in the fight between them. When Amarantha does give Tamlin over the power, it doesn’t stop- unloved by even a human, and now she’d take any chance he’d had to win her as he really was.

Nesta doesn’t stab Amarantha. Nesta lays there, bleeding to death, biding her time.

Tamlin murders Amarantha. Rhysand doesn’t beg, but he’s there, getting growled at by Lucien as he tried to staunch Nesta’s wounds.

Amarantha dies, and Tamlin, glowing with power, makes his way to Nesta. They think he’s going to heal her- to try, but Tamlin is Tamlin, so he pulls her into his arms.

Nesta, who knows she’s going to die- Nesta, who was taken from her home, her family, deprived of her life by the choices of this man- Nesta lets Tamlin embrace her, the arrogant, stupid bastard, and stabs him in the throat.

It is the golden, desperate words of Lucien Vanserra that convince the High Lords to heal her. It is Rhysand who tries first, who gives the most. After all- Tamlin had been too selfish to try, and they’d all suffered for it. Faery justice: swift and bloody.

Nesta had died victorious. Nesta died with a bloody autumn court dagger in one hand and the grip of her only real friend in the other- but death was chaos. Skies and stars and howling wind, love and blood and war.

A thousand miles away, Cassian awoke screaming, clawing at his own chest.

She climbed through blood and battle, dreams and hope, floated to an infinite sky: and found herself alive.

Breathing, whole, an immortal monster. On her way to the Court of Night with Lucien by her side. 

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,��� he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Trois:

Chapter One. 

The leading lady will be introduced eventually but I feel like with the way this is written I need to focus on Adonis and Erik first. 

Warnings: AU!Erik, AU!Adonis, smut, bisexual, mentions of blood, threesome.

The 2019 Comic Con at the Los Angeles Convention Center was populous to say the least. Adonis Johnson felt like he was elbow-to-elbow with the animated and roused crowd of event goers. Everyone is grouped like teenagers in those cheesy high school flicks. You have your Nerds—never worried about being challenged to prove their knowledge about the gaming character or superhero on the shirt they're wearing, yelling out quotes in a spirit of shared fandom. Then, you have your cos players—rehearsed smiles on their faces whenever they are stopped to have their picture taken, sort of deteriorating and looking less magnificent as the day goes on due to wig issues, broken weapons, or itchy and hot costumes. Then, there are those individuals like Adonis who endure the hectic universe. 

Adonis is wearing a faded orange muscle tee with a mixture of his favorite anime characters such as Saitama, Goku, Sasuke, L, Yusuke Urameshi, and Spike Spiegel. He styled the tee with a pair of Nike Dri-FIT Basketball shorts in black, black Jordan socks, and a pair of orange and black Air Jordan 1’s on his feet. He couldn’t forget his layered silver chains and finger rings to make it more stylish, or his charcoal black Coach backpack to carry his essentials like the sun screen he needed and some water from standing in that long ass line in the blazing afternoon sun. The cast of Zombieland: Double Tap will be there, and over 800 exhibitors. Adonis didn’t even know where to start or end and at first he figured the map in his hand that he grabbed at the entrance was a great idea but he tossed it in the closest receptacle. 

Adonis scratched at the steri-strip on the corner of his pouty bottom lip since the regular stitches were removed by his doctor almost 48 hours ago. Adonis earned that busted lip from a fight he triumphed in. He didn’t get that wound from the type of fights you see on paper view—he’s an Underground Boxer who participates in Street fighting. Yes, Adonis fights in ‘unlicensed’ matches. This means it operates outside the governing bodies of the sport and is susceptible to rules being broken and fights being fixed. It is illegal in many countries because it is dangerous and disruptive to daily life—running the possibility of being charged with several crimes especially. It’s Adonis’ personal fight club, a badge of honor for him. 

Adonis was introduced to the idea of a fight club by a childhood buddy of his that died five years ago. His name was Clark Wilson. Adonis and Clark used to be in Juvie together—two angry kids who used their fists because of the violence and hatred surrounding them. When Adonis’ father, famous Boxer named Apollo Creed’s wife Mary Anne came looking for Adonis while he was in Juvie, she took him in as her own son and started him out in therapy and anger management groups. For the most part, Adonis felt as if his anger was suppressed but he missed the way fighting made him feel——alive. First, Adonis had to understand the reasoning of a Fight Club. Fight Club is about releasing his anger and stress; about fighting his problems; about going against normalcy and the safe little bubble he has become accustomed to living in. 

Rules were put in place and Adonis found a private property hidden from the public eye so that the authorities can’t interfere. Adonis uses a basement of a record shop for his Fight Club location. If someone would die in Fight Club, there isn’t anything anyone could do. There has only been one case where someone died in Adonis’ Fight Club and he swore to make sure it didn’t become deadly. Brutal, yes, but no murder. Pinching the steri-strip on his lip to keep it in place, Adonis visits an exhibitor—Comic Madness. Pulling out his iPhone so he could use his Apple Pay, Adonis sifts through the comic books to find the ones he wanted. The price tag on them was a bit much but this was a once a year weekend event so he could break the bank. 

Entrepreneur of a fitness company called Elite Body Edge, Erik Stevens strolls through Comic Con after checking out the Hellboy cast members doing a Q&A. Stylish per usual, dangling gold cross earring in his right ear, yellow and black camouflage cargos on, all-white creaseless Nike Air Force 1s, and a lax graphic tee with The Lost Boys on it, Erik pans his Canon PowerShot G7X Mark lll Camera around him, Vlogging his Comic Con experience for his YouTuber’s. When he’s not recording fitness and nutrition videos, Erik is vlogging about his daily life or giving advice to the anonymous subscribers who send him emails. He wanted to edit the video to look like a VHS video for a different aesthetic. Erik strolls past a group of cos players dressed as The Avengers and stops to record them, smiling at the enthusiasm and flashing his gold canines. 

Erik sips from his souvenir cup, the straw making an annoying suctioning noise since it was nearly empty. Shaking the cup, ice chips clanking around, Erik stops to get some more footage. Just when he was about to end his vlogging, there was a rather sexy, good-looking dude with chestnut eyes, amber skin so smooth and velvety looking. The muscle tee he was sporting didn���t leave anything to the imagination. Clearly, he’s lean, and chiseled. Erik haltingly lowers his camera, his inky black eyes trailing over this mystery guys frame with enthrallment. Just when Erik thought he would be coming to Comic Con for some fanboy fun, he spotted a distraction with a nice ass. Erik is a bi-sexual man. Friends jokingly called Erik a hoe that got off on pussy or dick—a reckless hoe that played with fire. Married couples, closet homosexuals, threesomes with women, anything that caused mayhem and wreckage with relationships. Anything to get his thick dick wet. 

Erik’s Adam’s Apple bobbed in his neck and his lips parted. When the mystery guy turned around Erik grunted deeply. Lips so thick and plump. Oooh. His breath became ragged and he felt himself swelling. Why did this have to happen to him right now? Donnie must have felt Erik’s hard eyes burning into the back of his skull because he looked back over his shoulder at him with a raised brow and obvious annoyance. The corners of Adonis’ eyes crinkled with suspicion. Erik found it comical, giving Adonis a sly half smirk when their eyes connected. Adonis shook out his shoulders, focusing back on the stacks of comic books in front of him. Why is his heart skipping a beat and his stomach in knots? The back of his neck prickled and he glanced over at Erik again before he cocked his head to the side. The devilish smirk on Erik’s face sparked Adonis’ short temper. 

Thinking back to his anger management tips, Adonis tried to take a timeout by using “I” statements—to stay in control. Think before you speak, don’t make assumptions, calm yourself. As much as he wanted those methods to work, Erik’s smiling, smug face bothered Adonis. Who is this random ass nigga and why the fuck is he smiling like there’s a joke? Adonis started to feel more and more uneasy about Erik staring at him. Does he know about the Fight Club? That seemed to invigorate Adonis’ irritation because he began charging through a group of cos players and walked right up to Erik with his pectoral muscles puffed out and his hands in fists so tight he could feel the aftershocks from his fight almost two days ago. Erik stood his ground with a single brow raised, waiting for Adonis to cause a scene. As soon as Adonis crowded his personal space that was already so little with how many people surrounded them, Erik made it his business to allow his inky black eyes to drop to Adonis’ crotch and back up swiftly. 

“The fuck is your problem staring at me, nigga?” Adonis spoke with a harsh whisper that caused his jaw muscles to clench, “You know me or something?” Adonis paused before he nodded his head slowly, “Let me guess...you wanna fight me?”

“Fight you?” Erik’s eyes become slits, “Why would I want to fight somebody I don’t even know?”

“Well, then you must have heard about me…” Adonis says with a questioning tone. Erik licks his lips and with no regard allows his piercing eyes to memorize the shape of Adonis’ mouth. Adonis couldn’t fight the urge to do the same. He’s turned on. Just as the tension between the two of them reaches a fever pitch, Adonis steps away before he could even realize what he was doing. Adonis didn’t even know he had been holding his breath until he drew in a shaky tone. He’s noticeably quieter now, his aggression tampered. He knew his bewilderment was written across his face. Adonis squared his shoulders and shook out his limbs as if Erik had a bind on him. 

“You good, fighter?” Erik asks sarcastically, “You’re a boxer? I can tell by your reflexes. For a second I thought you were gonna try and knock me out,” Erik smiled. Adonis swallows a hefty amount of spit to calm the tingling sensation in his abdomen. 

“Yeah...I box...underground,” Adonis clarified, “Been doing it for seven years now.”

“Ahh, dirty boxing, I see,” Erik strokes his goatee, “how does one get into that shit anyway? I’m interested.” 

“You don’t choose it like you choose your next meal..you gotta be initiated in...they like to weed out the weak ones…” 

“That hardcore?” Erik took a few steps towards Adonis.

“Hell yeah,” Adonis stares at Erik’s feet as if he were overstepping, “I can tell you more about it if you’re serious.” 

“As long as it’s from the pro himself I’m all ears.” 

This foreign feeling that washed over Adonis’ body was something he felt before when he questioned whether or not he wanted a man to suck his dick. He looks back at Erik just as he smiles and Adonis rolled his eyes away slightly. What the fuck is happening right now? 

“I don’t even know your name, bro,” Adonis held out his hand to give Erik dabs, “I’m Adonis.”

“Erik,” He raised his hand to shake Adonis’. He didn’t want to linger too long but the feeling of his calloused palm teased his hand and it made him want to stroke it. When Erik let go, he allowed his fingertips to brush across the center of Adonis’ palm and that little touch caused Adonis’ biceps to flex. Good to see him react. 

“you gotta be serious...this shit is...it’s rough,” Adonis cleared his throat, “Ain’t the place to really discuss this—“

“Nah, I’m cool,” Erik says with a chuckle—a teasing grin on his face and his eyes now following the definition of Adonis’ arms. Adonis didn’t like Erik staring at him so openly. Maybe Erik got the wrong vibe from Adonis—believing him to be a possible fuck he could conquer after this crowded event, “I’ll stick to boxing in my gym. This underground shit sounds like some kind of deadly contract.” 

“It’s not for everybody,” Adonis says with a smirk, “But if you change your mind, how do I reach you? I usually don’t recruit fighters out in the open like this.”

“Here you go,” Erik pulls out his black leather wallet, retrieving a business card before handing it over to Adonis. It’s a black business card with a gold metallic painted edge for his fitness club Elite Body Edge. The business card is twice as thick as standard cards, since they are printed on 32 pt. uncoated cardstock, offering a superb heft and feel everyone will notice. Erik’s contact information is at the bottom of the card. 

“I’ve heard of this fitness club, all good things too, I’ll keep in touch if you’re ever interested.”

“I’d like to come and watch the fights at least...is that cool?” 

Adonis ponders for a bit, “We have people come and watch but it’s mainly members…”

Erik notices Adonis’ hesitation, backing away a little, “Listen, you hardly know me, I don’t want to intrude on your little secret society. However, you have my card, you can stop by the gym anytime. We have boxing equipment that you can use too.”

“Aight...cool...I’ll come and check it out,” Adonis pockets the card, “Nice to meet you, Erik, sorry for the way I came off at you earlier, my anger can be a bit out of control,” Adonis lets out a nervous chuckle. 

“A bit? I get this vibe that it’s more than just a bit,” Erik turns to leave, “Don’t hesitate to stop by and get a good work out in! Enjoy the rest of your time here at Comic Con.”

“Will do,” Adonis salutes Erik before turning away and disappearing into the sea of people.

________________________________________________________

Elite Body Edge is designed with the purpose of building strong foundations by balancing flexibility, mobility, strength, conditioning and nutrition as well as giving you the perfect sculpt to turn heads; because a strong and sculpted foundation makes a power house. With an arsenal of knowledge, from competition preparation to rehabilitation to strength and conditioning, Elite Body Edge can design a program for any body habitus to achieve any fitness goal. They offer one-on-one training, group sessions and accountability programs to best fit your needs. Why train with Elite Body Edge? No contracts with affordable month-to-month membership, a safe environment to learn proper technique from experienced trainers, a flexible schedule with a variety of group classes to fit your schedule, and an encouraging atmosphere to make working out fun.

Elite Body Edge is a high-end gym experience. Some of the club amenities include, locker rooms complete with sauna and massage chairs, rooftop deck, group fitness classes, premium strength and cardio equipment including LifeFitness, HammerStrength, Precor, and Star Trac, and an amazing aquatic area for swim-fitness. Some of the classes include Restorative Yoga, H.E.A.T Camp, TRX, Feel Fit Naked, Boxing, Self defense, Spin, H.I.I.T, Yogalates, Circuit Burn, and many more. It’s located at 8053 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA. It’s striking architecture was designed by National Design Award winner Ian Jackson of Studio Sofield. It’s 30-foot video wall for virtual-reality cycle classes is exceedingly popular, and it’s soaring 25-foot ceilings supported by illuminated linear columns and over 40,000 square feet of state-of-the-art equipment, Elite Body Edge is a modern-day escape straight out of a sci-fi film. 

Erik is no stranger to the gym. Over the years he has received multiple certifications in performance enhancement, TRX Suspension and is a EliteFirst Certified Level 1 trainer, which he has employed as a strength and conditioning coach for the nationally recognized Fremont High School Basketball Team which has produced multiple athletes in the NBA. He supports the youth and employs them to stay active and live a healthy lifestyle. The fitness mogul himself was wrapping up a TRX tactical training course. Most of the occupants are military trained or athletes and with Erik’s skills it can keep them performing at the highest level. Sweaty, heart rate spiked, muscles fueled, and a round of applause, Erik puts up one hand with a black training glove to settle the cheers from his hard working pupils. 

“Nah, y’all should be clapping for yourselves,” Erik wipes sweat from the tip of his nose, “You guys did an amazing job today. The shit is tough but I see improvement and progress. We’ll meet at the same time next Wednesday. Remember, get some rest, stay hydrated, and eat a well balanced diet.”

Everyone gathered their things and exited the class. Erik grabs some cleaning solution and a few disposable cloths to wipe down the equipment. Gym playlist on, you wouldn’t be able to keep Erik’s energy down for one second. He’s so amped up that he could go for another training session; work on his hamstrings and calves some more. Satisfied with his cleaning, Erik exits the classroom, the double glass doors closing behind him. The energetic, hip-hop music pumped up his clients to finish their workout sessions. The air circulating the gym masked the usual odor that comes with sweating and his gym staff are very vigilant on keeping the place tidy. His staff wears black workout gear from head to toe with the gym logo on the front. 

As Erik walks through his gym, checking things out, a familiar face catches his eye. Training on an Everlast Powercore Dual bag with a speed bag attachment is the eye-candy from Comic Con just a week prior. He’s shirtless with a blue Adidas face mask on and fingerless black MMA gloves. His gym shorts hung low on his hips and his feet danced back and forth in his Speed-Flex boxing shoes in time with his fierce punches. Erik wondered when he became a member. He didn’t expect for Adonis to even take up the offer on joining the gym. Smirking, Erik strolls over towards Adonis at the same time as one of Erik’s pilates trainers, Andrea does. Andrea is wearing a black sports bra with the gym logo and black biker shorts. Her sleek platinum blonde pixie cut made her glistening peanut skin pop. Her dark brown eyes held recognition as well as lust. 

“Donnie?” Andrea says with a sultry voice, “I knew that was you,” Andrea popped her hip out, staring Adonis up and down with a big white smile, “How are you?”

Adonis takes off his face mask, those thick lips extra moist from the perspiration on his skin, “Andrea, w’sup? I’m doing good…” Adonis seemed to be thrown off by her presence. From the way he looked at her with his chocolate eyes, they must have had an interesting relationship. Erik took note of the way Adonis sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and Andrea licked her lips and touched his arm with her fingertips. 

“Why don’t you come and see me anymore? We used to have a good ass time...what happened with that? Got tired of me?” Andrea says with a single brow raised.

“I’ve been busy,” Adonis looked away awkwardly, the fresh scar above his right brow catching Andrea’s attention. 

“Busy getting into a brawl? What’s that scar about?” 

“You know me…” Adonis turned away, “Can’t pass up a good fight.”

Andrea didn’t hide her sexual appetite for Adonis from the way her eyes swept over his body, silently telling him how his ripped physique turned her on. Just when she allowed her eyes to drop to Adonis’ crotch, Erik was there next to her, the form-fitting Under Armor short sleeve grey top he wore drenched and molding with his well-built curves straining against the fabric. Two sexy men with twin facial features that made her drool like a love-sick dog. 

“Didn’t think you would show up,” Erik held his hand out to shake Adonis’ hand, “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s dope, I love the set up, I especially enjoy this boxing section...I mean, you have everything I need to help me train.” 

“Where were you training before?” Erik asked.

“Delphi Boxing Academy, but I need more free roam, too many new people to train.” Adonis replies. 

“...so, you know Andrea?” Erik looks over at her, her peanut colored skin immediately turning red and the top row of her teeth chewing on her pouty, pink bottom lip nervously. 

“Yeah, we got history,” Adonis cracks a smile, “Maybe I should catch one of your Pilates classes...watch you do that seated toe touch.” 

Erik arched a single thick brow at Adonis’ words. It wasn’t directed towards him but the seductive way he said that had a pool of desire filling the pit of his stomach. Erik knows exactly how that seated toe touch looked. Seated on the floor, knees drawn towards your chest, feet in the air and toes pointed to the sky, a complete view of a woman’s phat pussy or a man’s hefty bulge straining against the fabric of their stretchy leggings or shorts. Erik enjoys fucking a woman with a malleable body just as much as Adonis does it seems. He wouldn’t mind seeing how malleable Adonis can be.

“Let’s see if you can keep up,” Andrea gives Adonis one final look up and down before walking away, “my number is still the same.” 

Adonis watches Andrea walk away, “you got a good selection on your staff, bruh.”

“Yup,” Erik agrees, head tilted to the side, dreads shifting across his forehead before he grins, baring his teeth, “gotta have options, a pretty face brings guests, it’s all business.” 

“Well, I admire your business. The dedication and strive to pull something like this together is inspirational. I put my membership in a day ago and was trying to meet with you for a personal tour but your front desk staff said you were out for the day.” Adonis says. 

“Yeah, I’m also a Biological Science Lab Tech two days a week pulling twelve hour shifts.”

“Damn, how the hell do you function?” Adonis says with a shocked voice. 

“You gotta love what you do. You should know, with your own fight club and all, living a double life...working a regular 9-5 during the day I’m guessing?”  Erik says with curious eyes. 

“I’m a Senior Trading Analyst for Smith Boardley Financial Group so, yeah, it’s like living a double life. They don’t ask questions though, which is good.” Adonis’ face shows annoyance as if he didn’t want to talk about his job. Erik senses that maybe Adonis isn’t satisfied with his daytime life, that he feels more free at night and in the ring. He hardly even knew this guy and yet he wanted to know every little detail; ask him questions. He has so many layers to fold back, and besides his reasons behind fighting, Erik hopes to make Adonis admit to his attraction to him. Only thing is, Adonis has to believe it. He’s still uncertain and confused. 

“Why do you fight?”

Silence settles between them for a short while before Adonis finally speaks. 

“Freedom mainly. I want to stop controlling everything and just let go,” Adonis closes his eyes briefly, “if it’s not working out for me...I need to find something that doesn’t...something that doesn’t define me as this perfect dude with a perfect job, and all this fucking money. The things you own end up owning you. The people around you can drag you down. When I fight, I lose control. I’ve been taught at a very young age to bottle up my aggression but all I wanna do is use my hands and to experience some feeling in this numb world...this ‘cocooned society’.” 

“So it’s not about the violence for you? I can understand that. I guess working out is a release for me...that’s an interesting method that I support,” Erik’s eyes scan Adonis’ body, taking a step back so he can blatantly check him out, “I wanna know how this fight club operates...you think I can come watch?” 

Adonis lets go of a laugh, his dimples flashing, “Yeah, man, you can come watch. I’m gonna warn you now though, it can get pretty graphic.”

“Blood? Broken teeth? Nasty scars? That shit don’t phase me,” Erik smiles, allowing his eyes to drop over Adonis’ body. Adonis leans down to grab his water bottle, taking a sip of it and completely avoiding Erik’s unwavering eyes. Why were those eyes making Adonis’ nerves spike up with excitement. It disgruntled him and had Adonis frowning from the feeling. 

“Listen, just don’t be late,” Adonis spoke with finality, placing his face mask back on, “Can’t have people wandering in at the last minute. Come by tomorrow night around 10.” 

Adonis’ change in demeanor has Erik chuckling. He has a habit of wearing his emotions on his face. 

“Will do, bro. Catch you tomorrow...champ,” Erik jeers before leaving Adonis to his training. 

____________________________________________________________

Going Underground Records was Erik’s destination for the late evening. Founded in 2001, Bakersfield's Going Underground Records is Central California's largest and longest running vinyl record store and has recently expanded with a new brick-and-mortar location in Los Angeles. They buy, sell, and trade LPs, 45s, stereo equipment, local concert promotional items (posters, flyers, one-off recordings, etc.) and more. They purchase collections of all sizes, so whether you have a handful, or thousands of records to sell, call or stop by any day of the week. They buy daily and travel to you for large collections. It seems completely deserted from the front but Erik’s instructions from Adonis’ text was to go around back through a basement door. Parking his red Audi R8 across the street, Erik puts out his weed, leaving it in his car. Opening the door, Erik’s left foot hits the wet street. 

Fully out of his car, Erik closes the door, turning to walk across the street towards the record shop. Erik is wearing a camouflage pullover hoodie with black sweats and white Jordan 1’s with a low cut style. Bringing his hood up to cover his freshly twisted locs, Erik saunters down a narrow alleyway before making a left turn ending directly behind the record shop. As soon as he approached the red stainless steel cellar doors, Erik knocks twice, stepping away just in time as a tall, carob-skinned man with a bald head and a single gold hoop earring dressed in a black bomber jacket with a dark purple T-shirt and dark blue denim jeans opens the cellar doors. He looked at Erik in an angry or threatening way, his bug-eyes practically sizing Erik up like he wasn’t welcome. Erik was expressionless, no signs of fear towards this shaq looking man whatsoever, instead, Erik pockets his hands and clears his throat to speak. 

“I’m here for rebellion.” Erik says. He was told to say this at the door from Adonis’ text after the gym yesterday. Erik stopped him before Adonis took off in his matte black Chevy corvette. They exchanged numbers so that Adonis could text him the address and password for entry into the fight club. 

“Why do you seek rebellion?” The man spoke with a voice as hard as the blade of a shovel. 

“Because of this effeminized society that forces me to live a dull and meaningless life,” Erik says with an even tone. 

“Come in, quick,” The man says, “I’m Damion, the owner of this record shop.”

“Erik,” He shook hands with the man before entering the basement of the record shop through the cellar doors. There are metal shelves filled with boxes and janitorial items. Following Damion, Erik could hear hoots and hollers growing louder and louder within the basement. A black drape ahead separated Erik and Damion from the fight club. When the drape was pulled back, the badly lit room with a boxing ring and a crowd of at least thirty people awaited Erik. The shouts and roars are angry and free in Erik’s ears. It smelled like sweat, liquor, weed, and Vaseline mixed with coagulate. 

There, in the middle of the ring with his fists tightly clenched, black boxer shorts hanging low on his hips, and left nose bleeding is Adonis himself. What would be his excuse this time when he went to work the next day? Maybe that he tripped and fell face first, bloodying up his nose. He bares his teeth that are just as bloody as his nose, punching his opponent so hard that they fall to the floor of the ring, his head pinched between the floor of the ring and Adonis’ left knee. Adonis kept slamming his fist into the bridge of his opponents nose——a beefy looking white man with ginger hair and a large leprechaun tattoo on his broad back. He did it again and again in flat hard packing sounds you could hear over all the yelling until the ginger-haired man caught enough breath and sprayed blood to say, stop. Just as those words fell from his lips with difficulty, Adonis stands to his full height, fisting the air with triumph. 

“WHO WANTS NEXT? The night is just getting started!!” Adonis yells, voice like a rising storm, “THE RING IS FREE!”

“I’ll take him on!” A random black guy wearing a FedEx uniform says, pointing to a tall blonde-haired alternative-looking white guy with arm tattoos and nails painted black, “He’s been giving me a dirty look all night, let’s see what your hands are like. I had a long fucking day too,” The FedEx worker removed his hat revealing a clean faded haircut with waves, “Lets go!!! Don’t act scared now!!”

The ginger-haired white man was pulled from the ring, a bloody trail from his face following him. Adonis slid between the ropes and hopped out of the ring, walking through the crowded room until he reached a table with a series of water bottles and towels. Adonis grabs a bottle of water to drink, his grip crushing the plastic bottle before he tosses it away. Erik’s attention was brought back to the ring when the black guy kicked the air out of the alternative white guy then landed on him pounding him limp. The white guy clawed his neck for him to stop and that’s when he backed off with a viscous laugh. The blonde took this opportunity to give him a taste of his medicine. His left fist connected with the black guy's face, spit flying from between his full lips. 

Yeah! Yeah! Kick his ass! 

It was like a raging storm in that room. Erik walks further into the room, bumping shoulders accidentally with a wild amped up Al Pacino look alike with slicked back hair and what looked to be a waiter’s uniform on. These men came all the way here from their boring jobs to relieve some tension. Erik took his spot in a corner, his commanding yet piercing eyes scanning the room. He sought out Adonis again, finding him shouting into the ring. Erik was standing under one of only several lights in the after-midnight blackness of a basement full of men. In the ring two new guys are fighting. One of the men has his opponent's arms behind his head in a full nelson and rammed his face into the ring floor until his teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek. He kept going, even when the guy yelled stop. Adonis jumped into the ring, yanking the guy away and earning a right hook to his face. Erik hisses before grabbing his own jaw as if he could feel it. 

“WHAT ARE THE FUCKING RULES, HUH?!” Adonis head butts him, knocking the guy to the floor before looking down on him with vengeful eyes, “WHEN THEY YELL STOP! YOU FUCKING STOP! Get up,” Adonis throws up his fists, “I said get the fuck up!”

Yeah Adonis! Teach him a lesson!

Body glistening from sweat and muscles perfectly sculpted as if they were carved out of limestone, Adonis beats this man down with just his fists, no special combo move like he’s some wrestler. The guy had enough, throwing his hands up in surrender. Adonis smiles with his blood stained teeth. There’s grunting and noise at fight club like at the gym, but fight club isn’t about looking good. There’s hysterical shouting in tongues like at church, except this isn’t a holy sanctuary like your grandmother would drag you to every Sunday morning to praise and worship. Erik briefly wondered who is responsible for mopping up the blood and sweat from the ring floor after all of this is over. Just standing there watching has his adrenaline spiked. Adonis raises his head towards the ceiling before opening his eyes, the low light making the blood on his face glisten. 

His chocolate eyes scanned the room and when they landed on Erik he seemed to freeze with shock but then a knowing smile appeared on his face. Erik returned the same smile bobbing his head in greeting. Adonis left the ring and squeezed through the small crowd of men before finally coming face to face with Erik. Erik’s eyes sparked as they quickly swept Adonis’ drenched body. He had to suck in a quick breath to calm the pulse coming from his dick. All this charged up, aggressive energy is what Erik craves every time he fucks a man. That fighting back before surrendering to him when all his fat dick enters them. Adonis looked like the type to fight back, Erik really wanted to see that for himself. He hoped it would be sooner rather than later. 

“Looks like underground street fights are a new favorite of mines,” Erik chuckled. 

The corners of Adonis’ eyes crinkled as he smiled, “Didn’t think you would really show up.”

“I’m not all bark and no bite, bruh. When I say I’m gonna be somewhere, I make it happen. Anyway, I ain’t never seen shit like this so I wasn’t about to pass that up,” Erik’s lashes fluttered and his tongue glided across his bottom lip, his gold slugs twinkling in the low light like diamonds. Adonis’ brows knitted and his eyes fell to Erik’s lips. He caught himself staring and backed away, scratching the tip of his nose and taking a deep breath, his pectorals dancing one at a time. Erik’s eyes flickered with mischief and he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I broke the code inviting you here, you know that?” Adonis looks around, “I’m surprised nobody called you out to fight them. When that happens, you have to fight. That’s the rules.” 

“I don’t abide by rules easily,” Erik’s eyes are ablaze but his voice is like melted honey, “And clearly neither do you. I do my own thing. Is there some contract you have to sign to be involved in this shit?”

“First thirty names on the list get in, if you get in, you set up your fight right away, if you want to fight. If not, there are guys that do so maybe you should stay home.” Adonis points to his left brow, “A couple of stitches fixed this, some of these guys leave here with injuries so bad they need a bed in the hospital...It ain’t for everybody.” 

“But yet here they are getting their asses handed to em’,” Erik shakes his head, “Looks like you need a drink.” 

“I do, I was actually headed to the bar around the corner after this,” Adonis lifted a single brow as his eyes peered into Erik’s, “You’re welcome to join me if you want...I can tell you more about the fight club...looks like you’re interested in joining.” 

“Maybe,” Erik surveyed Adonis’ face, “We could get to know each other a little? You know, I feel like you’re a cool dude, wouldn’t mind kickin’ it over drinks.” 

“I don’t see why not,” Adonis gives Erik a quizzical look before backing away, “Meet me at The Spare Room around the corner from here.” 

Erik chuckles as he watches Adonis back away, stroking the length of his beard while he takes in the vibe of Adonis’ body language, “Aight, I’ll be waiting for you at the bar.” 

_____________________________________________________________

“I ordered for you if that’s cool? Whiskey.” 

Adonis is sporting a black and grey Nike zip-up hoodie with matching track pants and black AirMax on his feet. He settles next to Erik at the bar before drumming his fingers nervously on the polished wood of the bar countertop. The bartender serves them two glass tumblers filled with whiskey and a black cocktail straw. Erik removes his straw and drinks straight from the rim of his glass. Adonis stirs the ice in his glass around before taking a hefty sip over the rim as well. 

“What are you going to tell your job tomorrow about that purple bruise under your eye and that bloody nose? You tripped and hit your face against a brick wall?” Erik cracks a smile.

“I’m off tomorrow,” Adonis touches the bruise under his eye, wincing a bit, “That punch was brutal.” 

“I felt that shit myself. Damn, he got your ass good.” 

“And I got his ass right back,” Adonis proclaimed. 

Erik finishes his drink before calling on the bartender for more.

“After a fight I usually get some pussy to calm me down but good pussy is hard to come by these days,” Adonis stretches his back, “I ain’t been in good pussy in a minute…”

Erik’s jaw clenched at the way Adonis said pussy. He glanced over at Adonis, watching him drink from his glass. 

“Shoot Andrea a text, maybe she’ll stop by and give you that pussy you’ve been craving,” Erik motions for 

Adonis to pick up his phone, “The night is still young, ain’t too late to get in that puss...ain’t never too late.”

Adonis arched a single brow at Erik, “...You fuck her?”

“She yours?” Erik twirled his glass while studying his drink.

“Nah, she’s not...but did you hit?”

Erik bites his bottom lip, “Once, around the time I first hired her. She got it.”

“I know, I been it before,” Adonis shakes his head, “You fuck all the women on your staff?” 

“Yeah, if they want this fat dick.” 

Adonis stirred in his seat, “Another round, homie.”

The bartender fills his glass, the liquid sloshing around the only sound between them until the bartender walks away. 

“You mad I dipped into Drea?” Erik asks casually.

“Can’t be mad at that. She’s not mine...remember?” 

“I got this feeling that if she was yours...you would use this bar top to crack my head open,” Erik flashes Adonis a dimpled smile, “That’s if you can though.” 

“You talk like you would want that,” Adonis squinted his eyes. 

“I like aggression,” Erik says with a hushed tone. Adonis looked away, pondering Erik’s words. He couldn’t explain it but the way he said that felt as if he were flirting with him. Adonis pulls his phone out of his pocket at that exact moment to find Andrea’s number. He shoots her a quick you up text before returning to his drink. 

“You from around here,” Adonis asked to clear the growing tension. It only worked a little. 

“South Central. You?” 

“Crenshaw up until the age of twelve, in and out of Juvie until my dad's wife found me…”

“Your mom wasn’t around?” Erik asked.

“She died when I was ten. Never knew my dad until his wife took me in...from there I moved to Tarzana to live in this mansion. My whole life changed. Found out who my pops was too. Apollo Creed.” 

“Shit...you serious?” Erik’s eyebrows disappeared behind his dreads, “Bro...that’s WILD...why didn’t you follow in your father's footsteps?”

“I didn’t want to be known as Apollo Creed’s son and expected to be the next Creed star. I wanted to do my own thing, you know? That pro boxer shit didn’t stroke my curiosity. All the fame, all the attention. Nah, underground street fighting is my thing.”

“I’m sure your old man would be proud either way though, you’re a hot head just like him.” 

Adonis smirks, “That’s what I’ve been told.” 

“I know mine would be proud of me...lost him to the streets back in 92’ when the riots were going on. He was an activist like my momma. He protected me from getting shot on my tricycle. It humbled me...Still got my momma. She moved back to New Orleans two years ago.”

“Those riots were crazy. I’m sorry about your father...shit is tough.” 

Erik sighs, “It is, but it just reminds me of how lucky I am to have him as a father. Made me the man I am today.” 

“Yeah...I got nothing but love for my dad even though I never met him. Took me a while to get here though, it wasn’t a walk in the park. Got siblings I didn’t connect with in the beginning but now we’re tight. Mary Anne...that’s my step-mom’s name, she didn’t have to raise me, could have left me in the system.”

“What was your real mom’s name?”

“Vivica. She was an aspiring model. My dad met her at some Hollywood party. They slept around for a while but then Mary Anne found out so he ended things. My mom got pregnant, kept the pregnancy a secret until she passed from a brain aneurysm. By then my pops was already gone. Mary Anne found out and raised me.”

“Man,” Erik dragged his hand down his face, “This whole conversation turned heavy so quick. Let’s fill up these glasses, we need more liquor.”

“I second that.”

The bartender gladly refilled their glasses. For a little while longer, Erik and Adonis talked, learning more about each other. They argued about their favorite Anime, the best clubs in LA, and other random shit that had them laughing. They had only met about six days ago and they talked like old friends catching up. Adonis asks for a bottle of water since he has to drive. The bartender brings him his bottle at the precise moment that his phone buzzes. Picking up his phone, Adonis unlocks it to find a text with an image attached from Andrea. Opening the text, Adonis’ eyes became stormy with lust and his bottom lip poked out with need. 

“Goddamn,” He muttered. Andrea always knew how to get him worked up. She’s on the floor naked with her legs spread wide in front of her floor mirror, peanut skin glistening from whatever body oil she used and that phat, creamy pussy with all her glistening pink spread open and freshly waxed for him to come play with. He remembers how sweet she tastes. Adonis’ tongue rolled around his teeth before forcing his eyes away, locking the phone and placing it within his pocket. He was about to be all up in that pussy. 

“Andrea?” Erik says with a sly smirk. 

“Yeah...she really miss me,” Adonis retrieves his wallet from his pocket, “I can cover the drinks—“

“It’s already on my tab, bruh. Don’t worry about it. Go ahead and handle your business.” 

“You ain’t have to do that, Erik,” Adonis stands from his stool.”

“Think of it as a victory drink for the champion of underground street fighting,” Erik held up his glass to Adonis before knocking back the rest of the contents. 

“I hope that’s your last drink, your eyes are so fucking low.” 

“It is, I gotta get home, I’m pretty tired,” Erik tells the bartender to close his tab before standing from his seat. He dabs Adonis, bringing him in for a brief bro hug, pulling away so that his cologne wouldn’t have his dick brushing up against his. He didn’t need that to happen so soon. 

“I’ll holla at you, Erik,” Adonis turns to leave the bar. 

Erik watches him exit before short, heated breaths escaped his mouth. Erik signs his receipt before leaving himself. While walking to the car, Erik pulls his phone from his hoodie pocket, scrolling through his messages, and finding the person he was looking for. 

Erik: Still on for tomorrow night with you and hubby?

Jodie: Absolutely💕 we’ll see you tomorrow night! Can’t wait 😘

______________________________________________________________

Andrea has an apartment at the Madison Toluca in North Hollywood, CA. It’s a three bedroom, two bathroom apartment with a black, red, and white color scheme. Adonis arrived shortly after 12:30 AM and knocked on her door. Her All black Yorkipoo—-a mixed breed of a Yorkshire terrier and a poodle, named Cookie was barking at the door when he knocked. Andrea could be heard yelling at Cookie before opening her door. Andrea beamed at Adonis with her big round eyes bewitching and her smile wide and pretty. She was wearing a teal blue Nike sports bra with a pair of black high crotch panties and bare feet. Her platinum blonde pixie cut is wet and slicked back from her shower and her peanut skin still glowed from the oil on her body. 

“I didn’t get a response from you so I didn’t think you would show up,” Andrea stepped to the side to allow Adonis entry, “What made you text me tonight to see if I was up?”

“You know how I get after a fight.”

 Adonis closed the space between them and grabbed the back of Andrea’s neck, tilting her head back enough to have her back bending before his thick tongue slithered up her neck and to her lips for a kiss. Adonis always itched for sex after a fight. His dick on swole and his hands unexcused Adonis cuffed Andrea’s ass, damn near pulling her from the ground. They continued to kiss, suck, and lick all over each other’s mouth to savor the taste. 

“Damn, got my dick heavy right now, girl,” Adonis squeezes Andrea’s ass, “come on, I want that pretty pussy.” 

“Donnie,” Andrea moaned, voice as pure and sweet as if from heaven, “I miss the way you used to fuck me.” 

“Uh-huh?” Adonis lifts Andrea off her feet, wrapping her legs around him, “How I used to fuck you?” 

“So good baby,” Andrea thumbed Adonis’ pouty bottom lip before peppering light kisses along them, “I miss your lips on my pussy too.” 

“I can’t wait to taste it again, is she still nice and creamy?”

“Always, daddy,” Andrea’s body shook with anticipation in his arms, “Damn...I’m shaking.” 

“It’s because you need this just as much as I do.” 

“I miss your big dick stuffing me,” Andrea dragged her kisses down Adonis’ neck. 

“You miss the way daddy used to give it to you?”

“Ooh, yes—“ 

“I’ma tear you up, Drea.” 

Adonis brought Andrea to her bedroom, flopping down with her straddling his lap. Andrea giggles like she always does while Adonis kisses along her neck and tongues her cleavage. Andrea’s breath is coming out shallow and fast. Adonis grabbed her face, making her look at him. 

“Breathe,” Adonis pecked her nose, “This dick ain’t going nowhere,” Adonis smirked, “It’s all for you, girl.”

“This my dick?” Andrea leans back so that she could grab for Adonis’ crotch, “It’s so goddamn thick goddamn baby.”

“I’m tryna make you cream all over it.”

Adonis was in an intense tongue-lock with Andrea while she stroked him through his track pants. She broke the kiss with a trail of spit before lifting from Adonis’ lap and dropping to her knees. A constant hiss escaped her mouth as she fumbled with his track pants. Discovering his waistband, Andrea pulls his pants and briefs down and around his ankles. That fat, long, swinging dick almost hit her in the face. Andrea grabs it before putting it right in her mouth where it belongs. While Andrea Gluck-Glucked Adonis removed his hoodie and the black T-shirt beneath it. 

“I just wanna fuck your face and eat your pussy until you can’t take it anymore,” Adonis tilted his head back, “Drea, fuck.” 

Adonis curses under his breath when Andrea gave his heavy balls some attention before bringing her lips back to that fat tip. Adonis dragged his fingers through her wet, short platinum blonde strands before palming the back of her neck and forcing more dick into her mouth. The loud slurping was something Adonis missed heavily. His hips were practically off of the bed now, lip between his teeth and eyebrows knitted together. 

“I miss this fucking mouth,” Adonis fucked Andrea’s mouth, “Shit, Drea, you still got it girl, this mouth is still a beast.” 

Andrea smirked before stroking his spit covered dick while sucking the tip. She really missed his dick from the way she was eating it up. Adonis wasn’t about to stop her, he simply widened his legs and laid back on his elbows. 

“You finna have a nigga bust,” Adonis’ abdomen flexed, “I needed this so fucking bad, make me bust, girl.” 

The eye contact she was giving him had Adonis balls so full with his tasty cum. 

“Just loving on me,” He says before chewing on his bottom lip, “Mmhmmm,” his eyes closed and his brows pressed together tightly. 

Andrea planted her hands on the bed and started bobbing her head up and down his dick while moving her head in a circular motion. 

“Slow down...yes, yes, like that,” Adonis’ lips parted. 

He could literally feel the corners of the inside of Andrea’s mouth and her tight pouty lips nice and steady on his dick. She manipulated that muscular organ in her mouth to flick back and forth on the base of his dick and his balls each time she went down. 

“Love on my dick, babygirl, Drea I’m about to bust, you ready?” Adonis’ eyes squeezed shut and he completely fell back against the bed, “good girl slurp all that shit up oh my fucking God,” Adonis exploded in Andrea’s mouth damn near making her choke. 

“Get up here,” He says, picking Andrea up and bringing her on the bed. Andrea was on her knees, shaking her slim thick booty in his face, her pussy wide with anticipation. Her cream made a mess of her pussy and it was begging to be licked up. Adonis smacks each ass cheek before giving both of them a nice, appreciative kiss. His lips tickled and they felt so moist against Andrea’s skin. She widened her thighs and arched her back more, practically pushing her pussy into Adonis’ face for him. 

“You shoving this beautiful pussy in my face?”

Andrea nods her head with a bite of her lip. Adonis turns around, laying his head between Andrea’s thighs before wrapping one arm around her waist with the other hand occupied with jerking his fat pole. Andrea sat on his face fully before grinding Adonis’ lips. He leans forward to place his lips on her pussy, serving her tongue with long trails of spit. The wiggle of his wet tongue had her lifting up on her hands, thighs shaking. Adonis takes both of his thumbs, peeling her open.

His damn tongue.

“Ooh, yes, Donnie.” 

Her entire body shivered.

Adonis’ tongue was dripping with spit and warm against her inner folds. He was in the middle of spelling out his name with the tip of his tongue all up and down her slit. With the D Andrea’s body shivered. With the O she started shuddering in breaths of gasping completion. With the two N’s Andrea clawed the bed. The letter I made a shape over her clit at the right angle. After the E He sucked her pussy into his mouth. 

“When you lick me you never miss a spot,” She said with a voice like the harmony of angles. Adonis lapped at her pussy some more in response to her words, “Donnie, please don’t stop, baby...I’m gonna cum, Donnie keep doing that to me.” 

Adonis gave her sloppy suction kisses down to her entrance and back up to her clit, keeping her lips apart so he could really get inside. He repeated and repeated, slurping and sucking and licking and kissing. He went faster and faster and she bucked her hips into his mouth, cries getting louder and louder.

“Mmmm, yes, do it like that,” Andrea said with a sensual voice. 

“How bad do you want to cum?” Adonis said before he slurped on her clit and her labia at the same time, moaning himself feeling his precum wet his fingers.

 “Really bad daddy...I wanna cum so fucking bad from your dirty mouth...make me scream.”

“Fuck. You may be a sweetheart but you a freak for sure.” 

Adonis concentrates on tonguing and sucking all the spots that have Andrea’s hips bucking and her pussy smothering him. 

“Daddy...guess what?” Andrea’s eyes watered and heat crept up her body. 

“Uh-huh, I got that pussy cumming?” Adonis’ words are muffled with the way his lips trailed all over Andrea’s pussy. 

With that Andrea’s body froze as her orgasm washed over her. Remembering how good Adonis ate her pussy wasn’t enough for her. Now she was experiencing it again while sitting on his face. He was going for round two from what it felt like. He kept saying over and over how much he needed her beautiful phat pussy and how he was going to dick her down just like that with her back arched. Andrea was ready to crawl off of him when her second orgasm hit her. She squealed so loud her throat went raw. Satisfied, Adonis resurfaced, his lips and freshly shaved chin glistening from her juicy folds. 

“Come taste how sweet you are.” 

Andrea turns, wrapping her arms around Adonis’ shoulders before licking his lips. She hummed with satisfaction while pulling him down on top of her body. 

“Pussy is gushy baby,” Adonis held all his body weight up on one hand while the other played with Andrea’s folds, “That pussy just needs me in it...I could tell from how your eyes lit up when you saw me… miss the way I bust this tight kitty open...I wanna stick my dick so deep in it.”

Adonis leans down on his elbow to kiss Andrea again while he rubbed her clit. His dick is like a swinging pendulum between his legs right now, desperate and hard for Andrea’s pussy. Adonis has enough of teasing Andrea with how fast his heart beats and how painfully hard he is. Grabbing his dick, mixing the wetness on his fingers from her pussy on his pre-cum laden dick, Adonis lined up with Andrea’s pussy before thrusting in slowly, widening her thighs at the same time. Adonis groaned when he was fully inside, making sure to watch her face so that he could see all of her expressions. 

“Ahhh, yes, that’s it.” 

Adonis’ muscular body was mesmerizing from that angle. He began to roll his hips, working all that girth and length in and out of Andrea. Adonis felt Andrea’s pussy squeeze his dick and it only made him go harder. Adonis pulls Andrea’s sports bra off, her perky breasts with dark brown nipples reminding him of Hershey kisses blessing his eyes. Adonis sucked on each titty while he strokes her pussy. The double sensation has Andrea creamy and the macaroni and cheese sound of her pussy grew louder and louder between them. 

“You taking this dick just like you used to,” Adonis pushes her thighs back, “Fuck all that moaning call me daddy while I’m in it.” 

“Daddy,” Andrea whispered. 

“Look at it Drea,” Adonis whispered back. 

Andrea’s eyes traveled down the length of Adonis’ magnificent body to his long, thick dick spreading her open. She couldn’t put into words how full she felt. 

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Adonis whispered, “This how Erik fucked this pussy?”

Andrea’s eyes flicked up to Adonis’ face quickly. She went red with embarrassment, ragged gasps leaving her mouth. 

“What? Answer the question,” Adonis pushed his dick all the way in. Andrea could feel it tickle her navel. 

“Yessssssss,” Andrea answered with an uneven breath. 

“He fuck this pussy in your bed, Drea?” Adonis’ hips were smacking into the back of her thighs, “What he do, girl?”

“He-he fu-fucked me in my b-bed,” Andrea stuttered. Adonis heard himself grunt at her response. Had he ever gotten off on another man fucking the same chick as him? No. Probably wouldn’t have cared in the past but for some reason, knowing that Erik hit Drea too has him harder than he was seconds ago.

“You call him daddy?” 

“Yes!!! Donnie, baby, it’s so much dick,” Andrea’s face frowned with ecstasy.

“And this pussy is good so you’re getting all this dick, baby,” Adonis reaches up to grab onto Andrea’s headboard and she knows what that means. Andrea held onto his waist with a death grip to prepare herself. Adonis started descending his dick all at once in Andrea’s pussy. No pause, no warning, just nothing but a fat dick with all its length sinking into her drenched pussy fluently. It felt like she wasn’t in control of her body anymore. 

“Donnie, please please please,” Her mouth opened, no words escaping. 

“Did he call you his nasty little girl?” Adonis says with a voice so gruff and guttural. He looked down at his dick working the hell out of Andrea’s pussy. The muscles in his back and arms burned in a good way. He was tearing Andrea up from this angle, “Got me going crazy in this pussy...I needed this pussy.” 

“Daddy, daddy I’m gonna squirt,” Andrea’s toes curled. Her body didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore with the way Adonis was taking her pussy. Andrea trembled while her pussy leaked it’s sweet juices all over his dick. 

“Got that pussy cumming?!! You ain’t answer my question...he calls you his nasty little girl?” 

“No,” she spoke faintly, “He called me his nasty little bitch.” 

Adonis bit down on his lip hard. He pumped her fast a few more times before withdrawing from her tightness, flipping her over and arching her back deep. 

“Nasty little bitch? Huh? You like that name?” Adonis sounded harsh, “Keep that ass up Drea, come on baby...I got something for you.” 

“DADDY!!” Andrea wasn’t prepared for that big surprise just now. Adonis has both of his large hands on her waist while he plowed her. She never had this rough amount of treatment from him. 

“Daddy, shit,” her shoulders fell forward against the bed. High-pitched moans filled the room and her cheeks smacking and ricocheting off of Adonis’ rock hard hips was stinging her flesh. He was hostile and she loved the change. Sure, Adonis’ much gentle side was always just as good but to see him use her body the way he was it had her squirting and she never experienced squirting while having sex with him. She needed more of this. 

“Throw it back, Drea, keep going, baby,” Adonis watched her struggle. It didn’t matter to him, his big dick was nice and wet. 

“Nasty little girl, huh?” 

“Yes,” Her breath was rattled. 

“Come on and make this dick cum.” Adonis grabbed her hips, forcing her back to take all his length. Andrea screamed.

“That’s how you do it, so do it, girl, I’m not showing you again,” Adonis watched her do it right this time with a smirk, “That’s my nasty little girl… take this dick...keep taking this dick.”

“Daddy-“

“Why is this lil’ pussy so fat? Damn,” Adonis felt his nut sack jump, “Look at this beautiful, fat pussy, go ahead and cum Drea, go ahead baby.” 

“Yes, daddy, Unh!!!!!” 

Andrea slows down, Adonis taking over again, giving it to her and moaning the closer he got to cumming. 

“That pretty pussy, fuck, take this nut girl,” Adonis’ words were stuck in his throat the second he let off in her pussy with his thick cum. Thank God she was taking contraceptives because she would be pregnant with all his damn babies with how thick and heavy his load is. Adonis retracted his hips, dick sliding out and his cum dripping from Andrea’s gaping entrance. His dick left a serious imprint with how much wider her slick hole is. 

“Damn,” Andrea’s body turned over, “That was some kind of fucking,” she giggles, wiping sweat from her face, “What’s gotten into you, Donnie? baby, you were wild in this pussy tonight.” 

“Lack of pussy does that to you,” Adonis stood from the bed, stretching out his back muscles. Andrea tilted her head while staring at his dick. 

“Round two?” Andrea begged. 

Adonis sighed, “I need some water first.” 

“How do you know Erik anyway?” 

Adonis shrugged, “Comic Con. It was a random situation. He gave me his business card and that’s how I ended up at his gym.” 

Andrea gave Adonis a playful smile, “Are you mad that I fucked him? It was only once, Adonis.” 

“Nah, I’m not mad,” Adonis gave Andrea a once-over with his chocolate eyes, “But you liked that I brought it up...that pussy was choking my dick.” 

“I did. Maybe we should have a threesome. I would love it if you both fucked me.” 

Adonis felt his chest grow tight from her words. His face twisted up with confusion at the feeling. Was that...anticipation? Nervous excitement? 

“Maybe, you should get on all fours again so I can come back and get some more of that pussy,” Adonis responded before leaving her room to grab them both some water. 

_____________________________________________________________

Parked on a hill on Valley Ridge Ave. in View Park, CA,

Erik pulled out his phone to remind himself of the address. 4515. DVSN- Still Pray for You stopped playing when Erik turned his car off. Air Jordan 3 Retro’s, Khaki cargo pants, white T-shirt, a denim jacket, and layered gold chains was Erik’s outfit for the evening. His dreads are side swept, a few of them falling in his eyes. He slouched slightly in his gait, oozing confidence. The home is an iconic 1930 Spanish Revival with stunning city views, exceptional vintage details, custom modern updates, a large beautiful private yard with a tiered flat grassy area, patio, and an herb garden. Jogging up the steps, Erik knocked on the green door, stepping back before swatting away a moth that lingered near the porch light. 

The door unlocked, Jodie standing before Erik with a glass of red wine in her hand and a long charcoal grey T-shirt dress with a high slit, coffee brown eyes fringed with false lashes and copper skin looking soft and silky. Her lush lips are glossy and her blue-black hair is in a sleek low bun. Erik’s eyes traveled from her toes that are painted a fuchsia pink up her shapely legs, over her poked out hip and up to her heart-shaped face. Sweet notes of apple and apricot wafted from her skin the closer Erik got to her. He leaned down to kiss her glossy lips delicately, his tongue tasting the gloss. Jodie’s oval-shaped pink ombré nail skimmed Erik’s jawline with fascination. 

“Hi,” Jodie said with a pleasant voice. 

“Hey,” Erik whispered back, the suave way he said it causing Jodie to nibble on her lip. 

“Do you want some wine?” Jodie offered. 

“I’ll take some wine,” Erik closes Jodie’s front door, “Where is the party?”

“For now, in the living room.” 

Jodie pointed towards the area in question before walking away with a sway of her extremely thick hips towards the kitchen. Erik found the living room, Jodie’s husband, Vance, seated on the couch, smoking some weed, denim cut-off shorts on, an olive green linen short sleeve button-down shirt with a bandanna print open and revealing his athletic body. The deep brown complexion of his skin looked satiny beneath the living room lights. His chiseled face with sharp cheekbones made him look like a male model and Erik especially loved the nose ring on his broad nose. His full lips smirked at him before taking yet another puff of weed. That fresh fade with glossy waves and perfectly groomed beard has Erik lusting even more. 

Vance spoke with a husky voice, “Erik...glad you came.” 

“Me too...let me hit that.”

Vance shared his weed with Erik. 

“Training TRX on Wednesday next week?” Vance asked. 

“I am. I’m not here to talk about my gym though, you know that,” Erik said, savoring the weed, “I ain’t know you went both ways, Vance.” 

Vance cracked a smile, “Yeah, I’m bisexual. Me and Jodie. We’ve been trying to hook up a threesome with a man for a while and then Jodie said she saw you out a few weeks ago at the Avalon with some dude tonguing him down.”

“A date I met on Tinder, fucked him good that night too,” Erik’s head relaxed against the couch, licking his lips to the memory. 

“I bet you did,” Vance passed the weed, “He takes it well too?”

“He needed to be trained, but I’m good at that..have them coming back for more in no time.” 

“Mm,” Vance’s eyes glossed down to Erik’s crotch where his dick print was visible on his left thigh. Vance shook his head as his breath rushed out. Erik was a big boy. 

“You looking for something?” Erik spoke softly, the sensation of the weed sweeping deeper, “it’s right here,” Erik squeezed his dick, the cargo pants molding around the shape of it, “You want this dick?” Erik’s eyes looked at Vance’s big lips and he just knew those juicy lips would feel fucking fantastic sucking on him. 

“I do, I want that dick.” 

“Put that weed out and come get it, that’s why I’m here right? Get the fuck over here,” Erik takes off his denim jacket, widening his thighs, “That pretty ass mouth you got...I need my dick sucked now…do it slow too.” 

Vance’s hand gripped Erik’s dick through his pants. Erik made it jump against his hand. Vance let out a groan. 

“Come on, boy, my shit is thick right now.” 

Vance went to work on Erik’s pants, pulling them down and around his ankles. He couldn’t wait to satisfy the beautiful massive dick in front of his eyes. Slide that big dick in his hungry mouth and drain his balls. Speaking of balls...they are heavy and soft to the touch. Erik slouched, pulling his T-shirt up to reveal his taut abdomen, defined pectorals, and bulging biceps. His dick was standing up and the veins looked like a work of art on his chocolate pole. 

“From the way you’re looking at it I can tell you’ve been wondering just how big this dick is...right, nigga?”

“Yes…”

“Yeah...it’s here for you and your wife...where is wifey at anyway? Jodie!” Erik called for her.

“I’m here—Ooh,” Jodie sauntered over and placed Erik’s wine on the coffee table. She’s in her purple lace bra and panties set. Jodie dropped to her knees next to Vance. She stared at Erik’s dick in a trance. 

“Let me feel those soft ass lips, Vance,” Erik slapped Vance on the cheek, startling him, “Yeah, you taking too long, baby boy, all this fat dick in front of you. Show your wife how you suck some nut out of the dick.”

“Damn, Erik,” Jodie’s eyes are love-struck. 

Vance gripped Erik’s dick and pumped him nice and steady, making sure to squeeze a little just beneath the tip of his dick so he could watch his pre-cum spill from his slit. Spreading the pre-cum along the sides of Erik’s dick, Vance’s big lips engulfed half of Erik’s dick, bobbing his head while reaching down to gently squeeze his balls. Erik kept his gaze pointed downward, looking from his dick being sucked by Vance and Jodie watching with envious eyes. Jodie has to grab hold of something so she placed her hand over Vance’s erection, his visible erection pressed hard against his denim cut-offs. 

“Two big dicks just for me,” Jodie spoke with excitement. 

“Don’t worry, ma, you’ll have some of this dick in your mouth too, Fuckkkk...yeah, suck that shit...suck that fat dick...oooh, you really wanted this shit, hungry ass nigga...don’t get too greedy your wife need some of that too.”

“Yes I do,” Jodie has Vance’s jeans and briefs down with his dark chocolate dick in her hand, nice and warm. It’s more so long than girthy. She jerked him while watching Vance slurp up Erik. 

“Vance...baby...get that dick,” She whimpered. 

Erik will never get over how good Vance’s lips feel. He thrust his hips, forcing more girth and length into Vance’s greedy mouth. Damn, he can deep throat too. 

“Look at you deep throating this wood, boy. You miss big black dick in your mouth, yeah? Miss a nice pair of heavy balls too? I got a load waiting just for you...all you gotta do is be a good boy…”

Erik’s eyes went so low that his long lashes made them seem like they are closed. Jodie’s hand twisted Vance’s erection and each time Erik’s dick hit the back of Vance’s throat, his dick would jump in Jodie’s hand. She arched her back and brought her lips to Vance’s dick. Jodie wasted no time slurping along Vance’s dick. One look at Jodie’s ass in the air has Erik reaching down, his thick fingers clawing her lace panties and yanking them from her ass in pieces. That action made her lips tighten around Vance’s dick and Vance moaned. 

“How that dick taste Jodie?” Erik asked. 

“Delicious,” She said before slurping Vance up some more. 

“Got that phat ass in the air...I already know that pussy phat with the way it sits in your leggings at the gym…”

“Mmm,” Vance cast his eyes upwards watching as Erik’s toned abdomen is exposed, reaching up to run his hand along the deep ridges of the cut muscle, slurping along his dick. He worked more of Erik into his mouth until his nose touched his trimmed hairs, feeling his length curve down his throat as he took him all the way. 

Jodie was in the middle of gagging on Vance’s dick, her spit staining the carpet the more she tried to swallow him. She reached beneath her, hand finding her creamy pussy before spreading her folds to rub her clit in circles. Erik could hear Jodie’s pussy from his seat on the couch. He groans deep, mouth hanging open from the way Vance was sucking him. He tilts his head to watch Jodie while holding the back of Vance’s head to fuck his throat. 

“FUCK!” Erik let out the curse before gripping Vance’s throat, hips jerking from how purposefully tight Vance’s lips are as his mouth slipped off, “Let Jodie have some.” 

Jodie’s lips popped off of Vance’s dick. Erik gazed at Vance’s dark brown dick. All that dark chocolate. He’s long as fuck too. Ain’t nothing Erik can’t handle down his throat. Too bad tonight was his night to get all the work. Jodie moaned before gripping Erik’s spit covered dick. Her tongue flicked Erik’s dick before she locked eyes with him, batting her false lashes like she’s innocent with all that fat dick in her mouth. 

“Damn, girl, crazy with it,” Erik leaned forward to slap both of Jodie’s cheeks hard, “Got all this hard dick down your pretty little throat...got your Hubby taking off his clothes...you see your wife sucking my dick, Vance? She a dick hungry bitch.” 

Vance is completely naked now. He pumped his long dick while leaning over Erik’s lap to hope for Jodie’s lips to slip off so he could take over again. Jodie lets her throat get fucked, gagging only slightly before fighting it back down, eyes turned up to watch the pleasure on Erik’s face as she feels Erik’s dick stretching out her esophagus. Jodie moans around his length, reveling in the taste of Erik on her tongue.

“Jodie,” Vance calls to her while gently squeezing Erik’s balls, “put his dick in my mouth.”

“You want some more of his hard, thick dick? Here,” Jodie feeds Vance Erik’s dick, “Suck it baby…”

“Husband and wife working together...Jodie...let me see that pussy,” Erik showed her how wide his tongue is. 

Jodie climbed onto the couch, turning with her ass facing Erik before bending over on her knees. Her pussy lips are pushed between her thick thighs. Two slippery lips that he wanted to kiss. 

“Spread your cheeks so I can see all that pink pussy...mmmmm,” Erik hisses, “Pussy creamy as fuck,” Erik licks his fingers before resting them on Jodie’s protruding clit and labia. He loved how smooth and soft she is. It looked like chocolate and from the way she tasted on his fingers it was just as sweet too. 

“Come here,” Erik spoke firmly, slapping Jodie’s ass, “lay on your back and spread your thighs so I can finger fuck you.”

“Unh—“

“I wanna feel how tight this little pussy is.” 

Vance jerks Erik’s dick before slobbering on the tip of his dick, “It’s tight...she’ll grip you.” 

“That’s what I want, right Miss Jodie?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Jodie says with a lick of her lips. 

“There you go, baby boy, suck that fucking dick up, suck daddy’s dick up,” Erik demanded. He could feel his balls grow tight and he knew what that meant. He didn’t want to cum yet, not until he had his dick in Vance’s ass and Jodie’s pussy. 

“Erik,” Jodie called to him with a melodic voice. 

Erik watched her bring her knees to her chest, that pussy wide open and her slippery hole winking at him. Erik couldn’t hold back from rubbing Jodie’s clit back and forth before slapping it, causing her to whimper. Erik smoothed his fingers down her pussy before pushing two fingers inside, biting his lip at the way Jodie gasped. 

“Tight fucking puss,” Erik strokes with a curl of his fingers, “I’m digging baby?”

“Yess,” She cries.

“I hear that pussy,” Vance says with spit hanging from his mouth. 

“Come suck her clit,” Erik commanded. Vance and Erik got down on the floor between Jodie’s thighs. Vance spreads her pussy lips so wide that her labia stretched. Erik was astounded when he saw how much cream spilled from Jodie’s pussy. Vance’s tongue curved at the tip while he teased her big clit. 

“Clit big as fuck, Vance stop playing, suck that shit up. Clit nice and phat like that you better suck it.” 

When Vance’s lips wrapped around Jodie’s clit she moaned to the ceiling. Vance reached up to pull the cups of her bra down, her big, round breasts spilling over, creating a mouthful. Erik damn near drooled. He sucked one of her nipples into his mouth while his fingers played all in Jodie’s pussy. Vance was slurping loudly on her pussy and it had Erik slapping Vance’s firm ass. 

“Yeah, nigga,” Erik says, “Got the whole puss in your mouth, make this bitch cum...say, I’ma make this pretty pussy cum.” 

“I’ma make this pretty pussy cum,” Vance says before French kissing Jodie’s clit. 

“I’ma make it squirt,” Erik flicked his tongue on Jodie’s nipple before showing some attention to the other. Jodie gripped his dreads when he went back and forth with sucking her nipples. He had her thrusting her chest into his mouth. 

“Grip me like that again, go ahead, ima put my face in your pussy next,” Erik spoke roughly. 

“Eat my pussy up,” Jodie widened her legs, “There’s plenty...slurp me up daddy.” 

“Nasty bitch, I like you,” Erik was face to face with Vance, “Let me see how that clit fit in my mouth.” 

Vance chuckles before giving Erik some room to eat on Jodie. He helped him by keeping her pussy lips open. Erik was still working his fingers, practically stirring all in Jodie’s creamy cavern. Erik kisses Jodie’s clit, the pecks slowly turning into full blown French kisses that has him opening his mouth wide to wrap his lips around her. 

“Mhm,” Erik’s eyes rolled shut.

“Taste good, yeah?” Vance said while extending his neck to kiss Jodie’s lips, “That’s your pussy on my tongue.”

“Mmm, I taste lovely.” 

Erik spits on Jodie’s clit before working his tongue with so much gusto that Jodie and Vance watched with awe. 

“Ooooh, He’s stroking my pussy with those thick fingers...oooh, I’ma squirt…Vance, baby, he’s gonna make me squirt, baby,” Jodie grabbed for the back of the couch. She became spasmodic and Vance had to hold her down and kiss her lips to distract her so Erik can keep going. That bitch was leaking all in Erik’s mouth. He sucked her up again before tasting his fingers. Vance leaned over Jodie’s lap, getting some of Jodie’s pussy too. 

“Pussy is so goddamn good,” Erik gripped Jodie’s jaw, pressing his lips into hers, “I can’t wait to bust your shit wide open, let’s take this shit to the bed.”

Pulling his lips away, Vance stands with Erik, both of them picking Jodie up. She had her legs wrapped around Erik while Vance stood behind her cupping her titties. Erik bounced Jodie on him like he was fucking her standing. Vance kissed and sucked on her neck at the same time. All three of them took their fun to the bedroom. Jodie grabs some condoms from her dresser, begging to watch Erik fuck Vance first while she rode his face. Vance went to lay on the bed, his knees drawn to his chest. Erik was blessed with the sight of Vance’s tight asshole and heavy balls with his dick resting against his toned abdomen. Jodie climbed on top of Vance’s mouth, turning to give Erik the condom and lube. 

Erik spits on Vance’s asshole before sticking his finger inside. With his free hand, Erik jerks Vance’s long dick 

To keep him solid so he could have something beautiful and chocolate to look at while he banged his ass. Jodie was currently popping her pussy on Vance’s tongue, legs in a squat so her pussy could be nice and spread for him to suck up. It was a beautiful sight. Erik almost wanted to bust from that alone. Staring at Vance’s body now made him think about Adonis. He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. Adonis. Nice big lips, sexy rock-hard body, aggressive and competitive, sexy smile, chocolate eyes all intense at one minute then gentle the next, the way he fights…

“Erik I love the way your finger feels in my ass.” 

Vance’s words broke him out of his trance.

“Yeah? Ain’t shit compared to this dick, boy,” Erik removes his finger, grabbing up the magnum to place on his dick. Rolling it over his glans all the way down to the root, Erik applies a little bit of lube for some extra slip. Bending his knees, Erik forced Vance’s thighs back before slapping the weight of his dick against his ass, sinking inside of his warm, tight ass. 

“Damn boy...damn...ass tight as fuck,” Erik started grinding his hips, “Feel all that thick dick pumping?” 

Jodie looked over her sweaty shoulder and saw Erik’s fat condom covered dick thrusting in and out of Vance’s ass. She felt chills all over her flesh and the sexy moans against her pussy and groans from Erik made her cream even more. Jodie can see Erik and Vance’s muscles ripple and flex with their movement. Jodie turned around so that she could 69 with Vance, grabbing his long dick up and going straight at it with a bob of her head. Vance clapped her cheeks before eating both of her holes. 

“Fuck, that’s what I’m talking about Jodie, eat that dick up,” Erik pushes her head down further, “There you go, deep throat that shit.”

Vance was working his hips to take all of Erik’s dick, Erik caught that, rolling his hips to meet Vance half-way so that his dick could be all up in his ass. 

“Got this nigga working his hips to get all this wood,” Erik bites his lip, “ass is creaming already too.” 

“Mmm, I wanna see,” Jodie jerks Vance’s dick while admiring her husband's creamy asshole grip Erik’s dick, “Vance...baby...he got you creamy, mmmm, Vance.

Vance moaned into Jodie’s pussy with each suck. 

“That’s it baby, make this pussy cum...oooh I feel you tugging on that clit, make me nut baby,” Jodie’s eyes almost crossed, Oh God...Oh God...fuuuuuuckkkkkkk babyyyyyyyyyyy—“

“Face hella sexy when you bust, girl,” Erik wrapped his arms around Vance’s thighs and started ramming his dick deep, big balls slapping against his ass. Vance’s core tightened and it seemed to shoot straight to his dick because now he’s cumming in Jodie’s hand. Jodie licked as much away as she could but he kept on erupting. It was Erik’s pounding deep in that ass that had him making a big mess. 

“Oh shit, Erik, fuck,” Vance stared between Jodie’s thighs at Erik, “Dick is all up my ass——“

“I’m taking this ass?” 

“Yes, daddy.”

Jodie could not stop looking at Erik’s hard dick fucking Vance so good. Erik leaned over Vance, his naked chest and those gold chains hanging over Vance’s body. His dreads hung low and he bit down on his lip, working his hips fast and skillful. Jodie needed that dick in her pussy. 

“Ima nut again,” Vance’s handsome face crumbled, “Fuck, Erik, ima bust—-“

“Yeah, nigga, I’ma make that dick cum while I beat this ass up good.” 

Jodie cupped her pussy and rubbed it up and down to the sight of Vance shooting out yet another thick load. Erik pulled out and rocked back on his heels, watching the way Vance’s ass quivered. There is a creamy puddle beneath his ass. Erik removes the condom, walking to Jodie’s dresser to grab another. Rolling it over his still hard erection, Erik walks up to Jodie picking her up and wrapping her legs around him. Erik sits back on the bed, Jodie over him with his hands cradling her ass.

“It’s time to get in you now...nothing but dick deep in your guts…”

Vance stood up from the bed and jerked his dick watching Jodie grab Erik’s dick herself, squatting over his dick before lowering her hips, that thick dick nothing but a flesh covered pole for her to fuck. Jodie was up on her feet, upper body bending over so she could bounce her hips. Her ass cheeks clapped with each bounce while she fed her pussy some dick. Vance went to lay next to Erik so that he could have a better look at his wife handling Erik’s dick. 

“You see that sexy little pussy taking all this dick?” Erik says to Vance before his eyes zeroed in on Vance’s erection, “Dick long as fuck...tear some ass up with this.” 

Erik started Jerking Vance’s dick.

“Get that dick, ma, nasty ass bitch...got my dick all in that pussy...I bet that ass looks real juicy bouncing…”

“This big ass dick.”

Jodie’s cream coated the condom.

“Good dick…” She moaned, “mmmmm, some good fucking dick...so thick...Unh, so good.”

“She’s loving that,” Vance says before grunting from Erik’s thumb stroking his tip, “I love that fat dick too.”

“I know you do, baby boy,” Erik gives Vance a sexy smirk. 

Erik liked the feel of Vance’s dick in his hand but he couldn’t stop wondering how Adonis’ would feel against his palm. Is it thick with a little bit of curve? Does it have length to it for Erik to deep throat? Is it soft to the touch yet textured from his thick veins? He couldn’t shake it. He let go of Vance’s dick and grabbed Jodie’s ankles, picking his hips off the bed and serving her more dick. He didn’t let up on his strokes, knocking the wind out of her chest and making her shout. Vance took over with jerking his dick while his eyes focused on Erik’s powerful hips. 

“KEEP FUCKING ME!” 

“Make her cum, Erik...Make that pussy cum,” Vance said.

“Ahhhhhhhhh,” Erik gritted his teeth, “cum on this dick, bitch...get you some of this dick...she about her business look at her,” Erik and Vance watched Jodie work her hips on his dick, “bounce that shit.”

“Hell yeah, I love watching that big dick pound her pussy,” Vance leans over to tongue Erik’s neck. Erik gripped his chin and flicked tongues with Vance. He broke away from him to moan out. His balls contracted rhythmically with his dick and that was a sign that he was ready to pump his fat load all over their faces. 

“Get down on your knees, both of y’all, hurry up, fuck, I gotta bust!”

Vance and Jodie are on their knees and Erik stands before them, snatching his condom off before fisting his dick. All of that cum squeezed out from his heavy sack all over Vance and Jodie’s face, mouth, and wiggling tongue. 

“Clean this dick up,” Erik spoke with a gruff tone. Both of their tongues battled for a taste. The feeling of two sets of lips on his dick made more cum dribble. Vance took over and sucked him, Erik pulling his dick from his mouth to give Jodie some. He allowed his dick to swing back and forth for them to catch and suck. 

“Y’all gon’ have me fucking again,” Erik shook his head, “Damn...y’all love this dick.”

Watching them attack his dick had Erik satisfied but there was still part of him that needed more. 

Adonis was going to be trouble...if only he would accept his attraction for Erik so he could really show him how badly he needs him. Erik wasn’t going to wait too long either. 

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