#i think it is so so so funny that his three words are vain bravado and UNCERTAIN

[emimii]

hi emi could you perhaps draw alonzo.... i adore that little hater and i love how you draw him!!

HI MYSTICC!!!!! i too adore the litl hater

[stay-neurotic]

A Prisoner’s Needs

The Dominion sends a representative to ensure the Federation’s sole Vorta prisoner is “well-treated.”

Weyoun 5/Keevan/female reader, explicit.

Of all the positions you’d been assigned to, prison watch had proven to be – by far – the most tedious. Stashed away on some starbase sufficiently isolated from the rest of the quadrant, passing the slow hours in mind-numbing boredom, you had begun to look forward to even the smallest moments of excitement at mealtimes. As starved for attention as you were during those long shifts in empty rooms, kept company only by your security camera consoles, the prisoners were even lonelier - and the short time they had to hold conversation with you while you delivered their meals was often the highlight of both of your days.

Many prisoners refused, at first, to so much as look at you. After all, you and your colleagues served as a constant reminder of their defeat. But inevitably their defiant silence gave way over time, first to an offhand comment here or there, then to tentative chatter, and finally to warm conversation as you became a comforting constant in their dreary lives.

But one prisoner in particular had yet to follow this preordained path. From the moment he arrived on the starbase, he treated everyone around him with equal parts cold condescension and detached politeness, and for all the months you’d spent bringing him his three squares and trying in vain to initiate conversation, he’d never given an inch. It intrigued you, even more than his violet eyes and curvy, ridged ears had at first glance. But try as you might, the Vorta never appeared to take even the slightest interest in talking to you.

“Lieutenant.”

You snap out of your reverie to the sight of your commander standing before you; you hadn’t even heard him come in. You stand at attention.

“Sir.”

“Today is going to be a little different, Lieutenant. We have...visitors.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, looking off for a moment. You can tell the stress was getting to him; whoever these visitors were, they were trouble.

“The Dominion has sent a representative to check on our Vorta prisoner. To ensure he is being ‘well-treated.’ They know damn well the Federation doesn’t torture our P.O.W.s, but when we declined their visit the first time, they grew insistent. Now I suppose we’re in the position of having to prove to them that we have nothing to hide.”

You swallow, half in nervousness, half in excitement. The chance to meet another Vorta! And in the midst of all this political intrigue as well.

“What is my part to play in all this, sir?”

“I’d like you to stand guard with Keevan while their representative ‘chats’ with him. We wanted a more...established officer with them to ensure no wrongdoing, but they’re worried about intimidation tactics. That he won’t say certain things if we’re in the room with him.”

The commander waves a hand dismissively.

“It’s bullshit if you ask me, but we have no choice in the matter now. We’ll have two guards standing outside the door and I have a security team in place if anything goes wrong. Any funny business and you just say the word, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They start talking about any escape plans or sensitive information, you escort the representative out at phaser-point. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.”

He claps you on the shoulder and steps back, speaking into his comm-badge to order the transporter room to teleport their visitor directly into the prison block. Before you materializes a relatively short Vorta, standing upright with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes, amethyst and wide, dart about the room – hesitating on yours for a split second – before settling on the commander. His mouth pulls into a sharp grin.

“Ah! Commander. Such a pleasure to finally speak face-to-face. I must thank you once again for –”

The commander holds a hand up and cuts him off. “Let’s dispense with the formalities. Lieutenant Y/N will escort you to Keevan. After forty minutes she’ll bring you back here and we’ll transport you out. Any questions, you ask her.”

You’re surprised to be put in such a position, having only been briefed moments ago, but the responsibility emboldens you and you stand just a bit taller. You hold the Vorta’s gaze as it slides over to you, his smile tightening.

“Ah. Well, in that case.”

He holds his arms out at his sides, palms open.

“Shall we?”

“Right this way,” you direct him, voice clear and loud, becoming for a Starfleet officer. He follows closely – a bit too closely – as you walk briskly down the corridor. Every species has a different idea of personal space, you think, trying not to make too much out of it. But somehow it feels intentional.

“Forgive me,” he purrs suddenly, once you are out of earshot of the commander. “I hadn’t the chance to introduce myself properly. My name is Weyoun.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he speaks but don’t glance over. He senses your hesitation to return the sentiment and prompts you: “And you are…?”

“Lieutenant Y/N.”

“A lovely name,” he states, matter-of-fact, and you can’t help feeling as though he meant that genuinely.

You reach Keevan’s cell and input the security code; the two of you stride into the room past the guards posted at the door and you step aside, allowing him to approach the forcefield. Keevan, reclined on the bed, tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in dispassionate interest. You had half-expected a more emotional response but, then, you really should’ve known better.

“Weyoun.”

“Keevannn,” he retorts, dragging out the Vorta’s name, sounding as warm somehow as he does threatening. “You could at least appear happy to see me.”

“Why should I, exactly?” he asks, rising to sit upright. “You and I both know my stay here isn’t entirely Dominion-sanctioned.”

“No,” Weyoun admits, “it isn’t. But we are at least invested in the wellbeing of our operatives. Captive or not, you are still Vorta, and we take great interest in knowing the Federation is not abusing the privilege of having you in their grasp.”

Keevan scowls; you wonder if these two are communicating something beneath the words they’re using, but you have no way to tell. Weyoun turns suddenly to you, his smile unwavering.

“Tell me, Lieutenant. Is this where Keevan spends all of his time? Or is there some communal space, a mess hall or barracks of some sort?”

“The lower-security prisoners do have communal spaces,” you begin to explain, but then curtail yourself, remembering these Vorta are the enemy and you do not wish to supply them with any unnecessary intel. “...Keevan is a high-security prisoner, so he spends all his time in this cell, yes.”

“Ahh,” he sighs, focusing more intently on you and beginning to slowly pace back and forth in front of the forcefield. Has he noted that eagerness to share you just displayed? “You bring him his meals here, then? How often does he eat?”

“Three times a day.”

“Mm, a shame,” he denotes, and at your confused expression, gracefully explains: “The Vorta have a slightly higher metabolism than humans do. We eat four, sometimes five times a day. Still,” here he glances back to Keevan, who tilts his head back defiantly, “he certainly does not appear to have lost any weight. Nor does he appear to be sleep-deprived or ill...”

“We’re not in the business of starving, sleep-depriving or otherwise abusing our prisoners,” you interject sharply, offended by proxy at the diplomat’s hypocrisy; you’ve heard tell of what Dominion prisons have to offer, and he has the gall to stand here and grill you. “Federation prisons are nothing like Dominion ones.”

Weyoun’s head whips around to stare at you. His smile has vanished. Your bravado dissipates as he advances upon you; gripping the phaser at your hip does nothing to slow his approach and, for a moment, you feel real fear.

“I don’t know what kind of lies you’ve heard about Dominion facilities,” he hisses, stopping inches from your face, “but I do not appreciate the implication that we mistreat our guests, Lieutenant. In fact…”

He pauses, eyes leaving your own uneasy gaze to travel down and back up your body. The tight-lipped smile returns to his lips; you feel more unsettled by the second.

“Many things are allowed in our facilities which clearly are forbidden in this one. I assume you do well to meet many of Keevan’s needs...” He looks back over to the Vorta, who meets his gaze challengingly. “But not all of them.”

“We meet our prisoners’ needs just fine.”

Weyoun shoots you a venomous smile before turning his attention back toward Keevan. He holds a hand out to gesture at the Vorta and directs firmly: “Stand.”

After a moment of hesitation, Keevan does so, begrudgingly.

“Strip.”

You glance at Weyoun, alarmed, but say nothing. Fascinated, you stare without restraint as Keevan rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and begins to shed his prison uniform; you’ve never seen a Vorta naked and you're not about to pass up this opportunity.

His skin is paler beneath his clothing, almost to the point of translucency. He is slender, though he lacks much muscle tone. You notice with interest that he sports a pair of aubergine nipples but no belly button; if the latter is no longer necessitated due to their cloning techniques, why keep the former? Heat spreads over your cheeks as Keevan’s jumpsuit falls completely to the floor, revealing a relatively small protrusion dangling at the meeting of his thighs. Your attention is quickly drawn further downwards, however, as you notice the bright red scars that decorate the Vorta’s thighs.

No, not scars – these are fresh. Partially scabbed over with bruises blooming beneath. Five angry lines, vertical, on each thigh – claw marks?

“Ahh,” sighs Weyoun, as if he knew exactly what he was going to find. He looks pointedly back to you, as if you’re supposed to know what this means.

Panicked, you stutter: “I – these aren’t – the Federation doesn’t –”

Weyoun raises a hand to cut you off, and you fall to silence, grateful. He shakes his head, tutting softly as he closes the distance between you once more. You wish he wouldn’t get so close; it makes it hard to think.

“My child. I know quite well the Federation is no practitioner of torture. At least, not on purpose.” He pauses to let the implication sink in and tilts his head, studying your measured expression. “However. I believe you have mistaken one of our people’s needs for what your people consider a mere desire.”

The confusion is evident on your face and, to Weyoun, it is amusing. He raises a hand and brushes the back of his fingers, ever so gently, against your cheek. The feather-light touch sends shivers throughout your whole body; your breath hitches. You stand statue-still, frozen, your eyes locked on his piercing violet gaze.

Weyoun chuckles, low in the back of his throat. You wonder briefly if this constitutes “funny business,” but can’t seem to bring yourself to move. Or care.

“You see, my dear, the Vorta suffer quite horribly if they cannot achieve a joining on a somewhat regular basis. Keevan here seems to have taken to self-harm in order to deal with the urges.”

You break Weyoun’s icy stare for long enough to glance at the vulnerable Vorta behind the forcefield, who has diverted his gaze to stare in dismay and frustration at the floor. But the hand that caressed your cheek suddenly grips your chin, forcefully directing you back to the ambassador’s attention.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, child,” he growls, every hint of pleasantry all but evaporated.

The words, uttered so closely, so dangerously, bring a hint of red to your cheeks once more. Swallowing, you manage a whisper-quiet protest: “I’m not a child.”

“Oh,” he sighs. His hand slides to grip the back of your neck, holding you firm. Leaning in, he exhales the rest of the sentence into your ear. “That, you are not. Forgive me. A grown woman...with her own needs and desires.”

You exhale a shaky breath. This is not the kind of diplomacy for which you were prepared.

“I can tell,” continues Weyoun, his hand snaking up into your hair, “yours are not being met either. Why, you’re positively melting under my touch.”

You hate the smug way he says this – you hate that he’s right. But the way he murmurs each word into your neck...the way he tightens his grip on your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. The slow, open-mouthed kisses he’s now pressing into it. These things, you don’t hate.

You realize one of your hands is gripping Weyoun’s upper arm. When it got there, you aren’t sure. But the Vorta takes this as a sign to continue, as if he weren’t planning to do so already. His free hand snakes around your waist and pulls you into him, and the heat radiating between your bodies is intoxicating. His deliberate kisses travel up your neck and along your jaw, and finally he descends upon your parted, waiting lips – cradling the back of your head as you press desperately back into the passionate kiss.

In his cell, Keevan clears his throat loudly.

You whine quietly in protest as Weyoun breaks the kiss and turns to survey the prisoner you’d all but forgotten about. He breaks into a wide grin. “How rude of us,” he laments, still holding you close as he looks back into your eyes. “We seem to have forgotten someone.”

Your eyes widen a bit in panic as you realize what he wants. “I… I can’t just –“

“Ah, but you can,” counters the Vorta, releasing you and backing away. You miss his touch immediately and take an involuntary step after him. His smile widens; ever amused, that one.

“Think about it. There are two guards just outside that door, and surely more just out of sight. There is nothing accessible in this room that constitutes a danger to you – besides myself, of course!”

He laughs in genuine delight at his own joke.

“Keevan isn’t going anywhere. But isn’t it awfully cruel of us to indulge in such a feast in front of the proverbial starving man?”

You consider Keevan carefully. He’s met your gaze now, and behind his guarded stare you notice something else this time – a hunger. A weakness. Between his legs, the soft, lavender-tipped organ has started to swell. He swallows, worried at your hesitation, and after a moment chokes out a single, genuine plea, the first hint of submission you’ve ever heard leave his lips: “Please.”

You could be relieved of duty for this, you think as you stride over to the wall panel.

You could be stripped of your ranking, you realize as you type the security code to neutralize the forcefield.

You could –

“Mmm!”

Your thoughts cease altogether as Keevan descends upon you. Hungry, desperate, his hands are all over you; his lips dominate yours and his (rather longer than you’d expected) tongue shoves its way into your mouth to tangle with your own. One of his hands grips your ass and pulls you into his hips, and you let out a tiny moan at the feeling of the hardness pinned between you. His other snakes up your chest and squeezes a breast, groping, exploring.

Suddenly a second pair of hands finds its way up your back and to the hidden zipper at the top of your uniform. A warm pair of lips presses itself to your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your attention fades from Keevan’s ravenous kissing to Weyoun’s licking and nibbling at your flesh as he pulls the zipper of your uniform slowly down, revealing the bare skin beneath. The jumpsuit falls to the floor, leaving you in only your underthings, but the two bodies pressed against you prevent you from feeling very cold or exposed.

Weyoun’s hips press into your backside and you sigh softly at the feeling of his desire pressing into you. His hands grip your hips, guiding them to rock back and forth between the two Vortas, grinding against both of them in turn. Keevan moans his approval and his mouth leaves yours; in the split second that follows, Weyoun swiftly pulls your sports bra over your head, and Keevan wastes no time cradling one of your freed breasts in his hand and dousing the other with a quick series of kisses and nibbles. He takes your nipple between his lips, sucking at it gently and teasing it with his tongue, and as you arch into his touch, Weyoun takes it upon himself to grab you by the chin once more and force your head back to meet his lips. You release soft sounds of pleasure into the kiss that grow in intensity as Weyoun’s free hand slips down your belly, across your hipbones, and beneath your waistband – finally wedging itself between your cunt and Keevan’s cock.

Your knees grow weak as he strokes your clit, first in soft, circular motions, then in long, harder ministrations. Leaning back into his comforting presence, you break the kiss to allow your head to loll back onto Weyoun’s shoulder and exhale your approval in quiet whines and moans. Each time he moves, the back of his hand also strokes Keevan’s aching cock through the fabric of your panties, and the Vorta rocks his hips in time with the motions – growling lowly against your breasts.

In what feels like no time at all, Keevan’s impatience gets the better of him, and he shoves Weyoun’s hand violently away in order to replace it with his mouth. Falling to his knees, he yanks your panties off your hips and presses a lingering, breathy kiss to your pubic mound. Weyoun – sensing your unsteadiness – holds you firmly against him and backs the two of you up to the bed in Keevan’s cell. Lowering onto it, you settle gently down into his lap.

Keevan follows and positions himself eagerly between your legs. One of Weyoun’s hands slide up to your chest; the other falls to your inner thigh where it meets your groin. The Vorta uses the gentlest brush of his fingers to coax them further apart and you comply helplessly.

“Good girl,” he breathes, husky, into your ear - and you practically melt into his arms. Keevan, nipping at your thigh, reaches the outer lips of your cunt and presses long, lingering kisses along them – never quite reaching the spots you want him to. Squirming, you reach over your head to grip the back of Weyoun’s shirt tightly and turn your head into his neck, burying your soft protests there.

“We don’t have all day,” Weyoun reminds the other Vorta impatiently. His breathing is shallow and quick in your ear; you sense perhaps a hint of jealousy under his irritated tone. Keevan’s attention ceases for a long enough moment that you open your eyes and glance down to see the two Vorta fixing each other with an adversarial glare – but it is over as soon as it started and Keevan’s tongue is lapping over you as though you are the best meal he’s ever tasted; Weyoun’s hand covers your mouth tightly and pulls your head back against his shoulder, and you rock your hips into the mouth pleasuring it and you cry out into the hand silencing you and you feel the world around you spinning as a pair of teeth sink sharply into your shoulder –

And then, just as you are positive you can’t keep from falling over that edge anymore, the sensations all stop at once. Keevan sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; Weyoun presses a soft kiss to the bruise he’s left on your shoulder, his arms having wrapped themselves around your waist. You close your eyes and pant hard for a moment, legs shaking as you back away from the edge. Far more patient with you than they had been with each other, both Vorta allow you to collect yourself before moving on. Your eyes open to the sight of Keevan, leaning back on the floor now, jerking himself off slowly and staring wantonly back at you. A short chuckle resonates from behind you: “Look at him. So desperate. Can’t you tell how badly he wants you, Y/N?”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t told Weyoun your first name.

Your thoughts are cut short as the Vorta pushes you firmly off of him, only to turn you by the hips around to face him. Pulling you down, he directs you to your knees, never once breaking eye contact. As you settle and begin to breathlessly undo the Vorta’s slacks - half terribly nervous, half insatiably eager – Keevan sidles up behind you, his grip tight as he pulls your hips upwards and into his own. The movement forces you mostly horizontal, arching your hips up toward him, and your face is now inches from Weyoun’s still-clothed crotch. You find it difficult to concentrate as Keevan grinds into you, and your labored breathing hitches as you slip the Vorta’s cock from his trousers. He shifts beneath your gentle touch, aching, but you are too fascinated at seeing this alien anatomy up close to give him what he wants just yet.

Weyoun’s cock is – while girthier than Keevan’s – still only about the average size of a human’s. It tapers from a thick base into a soft, smooth curve at the tip, which sports a concave indentation leading up to the slit (currently beading with a pearlescent drop of fluid). Ridges much like the ones on Vorta ears decorate either lateral side. Engorged, it shows the slightest hint of veins bulging from beneath the delicate skin, violet blood pulsing visibly. You are fascinated to find at its base a smooth parting of the skin concealing a slit, rather than a pair of testes; perhaps the Vorta were intersex. You suppose it would make sense.

“Are you just going to stare at it?” Weyoun prompts sternly, cocking his head at you as you glance up. The expression on his face does little to soothe your nervousness.

“No sir,” you find yourself murmuring, and with a deep breath, you begin your work.

Bracing yourself on Weyoun’s thighs as Keevan presses the tip of his cock against your slick opening, you take the base in one hand and drag your tongue slowly up the Vorta’s length, savoring the taste – not salty like a human’s skin, but muted and sweet. He groans approvingly as you take the tip into your mouth and stroke at the base, swirling your tongue around the strangely-shaped organ. And just as you slide your lips down the throbbing shaft, Keevan’s cock plunges smoothly inside of you, burying itself completely into your cunt in one smooth motion.

You and Weyoun moan in unison. He slides a fist into your hair and pulls your head up – shoves it back down. Your cheeks burn red hot as Keevan matches the rhythm, sliding almost entirely out of you and pumping back in in time with Weyoun rocking his hips up to meet each bob of your head.

You’re not sure how long you can hold out against this feeling of being absolutely, completely filled. Of being used by the both of them, at both ends.

Keevan has picked up the pace, pounding relentlessly into you – you hear his breathing hitching, feel his grip bruising your hips. Every thrust floods you with ecstasy, with pure, blinding pleasure. Gasping, you fight against Weyoun’s hold to break free from his cock and pant heavily. Your hips slam back into each thrust, and you let out a helpless moan into the Vorta’s thigh; his muscles twitch, and, fearful of what will happen if you abandon him altogether, you wrap your hand more firmly around his member and stroke. Zealously. He relaxes somewhat - and then, as you relocate your other hand to the slit at the base of his cock, he relaxes completely.

You notice the opening is slick with lubricant, and after a moment of teasing, you slide two fingers inside with ease. “Kaa’li…” you hear Weyoun murmuring despite himself, and you glance up to see his head falling back, eyes drifted shut. Stroking in time with the thrusts of your fingers, you work the Vorta into a positive frenzy; he squirms beneath you, arching, grasping the bedsheets, unable to keep composure. It’s enough to distract you from the sensations of the other Vorta fucking you - allowing you to hold out that much longer.

“Ah…” shudders Keevan from behind you, his moans growing louder, more urgent. He slows to a drawn-out, steady rhythm, pumping hard into you, and – trembling – you twitch back against him as he pulses inside of you, filling you with hot, viscous cum.

The immense feeling of satisfaction gives way to a flash of panic as you realize what has just transpired. But when you look up to Weyoun, he’s anticipated your concerns and reaches down to stroke a finger under your chin. Through his breathlessness, he remains articulate.

“No need to panic, my dear,” he assures, and you gasp at the sudden emptiness as Keevan slides out of you, “Vorta are not capable of passing on any genetic material. Nor...” You are whisked up into Weyoun’s lap, and you straddle him, holding tight, “...are we capable of transmitting disease.” He pulls you close with a hand on the small of your back, and the other guides his cock to align it with your waiting entrance. Before you can lower yourself onto it, he paralyzes you with a penetrating stare, holding your gaze fast and purring: “You can fuck me quite guiltlessly.”

You slam your hips into his, unable to wait a single second more. Weyoun gasps, tenses, holds you tighter; you begin a desperate, rapid rhythm, moaning like a Vulcan love slave as his cock fills you over, and over, and over. You quickly reach that fateful edge, the tension in your belly growing, heat filling you, pleasure blinding you – and when Weyoun’s deft fingers slide down to massage your clit, you can contain it no longer.

“Fuck – Weyoun – I...!”

Tensing up around him, you cum hard, wave after wave of euphoria racking your body. A long, low, choked groan tears its way from the Vorta’s throat as he reaches his own orgasm, and he clenches his teeth around a tender spot on your neck to muffle the sound, holding you to him until the ecstasy subsides.

You both pant hard, lying still, even as you feel the warm liquid they deposited beginning to leak out of you and drip down your thighs. You aren’t sure of Keevan’s whereabouts after his exiting the foray, but at the moment you can’t bring yourself to care; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath. After what feels like an eternity, Weyoun’s hand brushes your arm, rousing you.

“I’m afraid our time is nearly through, Lieutenant.”

Fuck. Fuck!

Scrambling up, you search for your clothing. “Computer, how long have the three of us been in this room?”

“It has been thirty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds since you and Visitor 1B entered this room,” chimes the computer.

You swear under your breath, trying clumsily in your haste to zip up your uniform, when two cold hands swat yours aside and complete the job for you. You turn and meet Keevan’s smug gaze inches from your face. Though still as insufferable as it’s always been, you sense it’s changed somehow, in some small way. Softened.

The Vorta, dressed again, tilts his head as he regards you. The thin smile on his lips spreads into a grin, and that familiar unsettled feeling you get under Keevan’s sinister gaze settles back into the pit of your stomach. “I look forward to our continued working relationship,” he teases, not breaking your gaze as he steps backward into the open cell. Weyoun, having collected himself, rejoins your side. He stands upright and proper, all smiles once more.

“Well. Following this interview, I am now more than satisfied that the Federation is caring for Dominion prisoners to the best of its ability. I hope it will continue to do so.”

He regards you pointedly, and it takes real effort to tear yourself away from his stare and reinitiate the forcefield. Your hand shakes.

When you turn back, Weyoun beams, one arm extended towards the door.

“Shall we?”

In several months’ time, a routine physical will locate the microscopic surveillance device the Vorta implanted stealthily into your shoulder. Starfleet will be very eager to learn how such a device could have been implanted subdermally without your notice, and you will need to come up with excuses, fast. But for now, you simply escort Weyoun back to security, eyes glued to the ground, wondering all too excitedly when he might next visit – and on earth you were going to find an excuse to spend an hour in Keevan’s cell every week.

[londone-fog]

Friday, Never Hesitate- Reddie Soulmate AU

AO3 Link

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

The next day, his mother told him to swallow a new pill. Oblong, slightly pink in color. It was bitter on his tongue, and he didn’t like it. The back pain went away after a couple of days.

But his Mama told him to keep taking them.

He didn’t want to upset her.

Chapter Four- Tuesday

Eddie hated chemistry. He hated it with every fibre of his being. Richie didn’t exactly make it easy on him either. He sat next to him in class, tapping his fingers against the edge of his desk, the repetitive noises drilling into his skull. He simply couldn’t focus. The teacher kept on droning and droning, and Eddie felt like his brain was going to explode. He ran his finger around the outline of his inhaler in his pocket, trying in vain yet again to focus on this class. Eventually, he leaned over to Richie, teeth gritted.

“If you don’t stop tapping your desk, I’m gonna shove my foot up your ass.”

“That a promise?” Eddie groaned in frustration, drawing the attention of the teacher.

“Mr. Kasprak, may I help you with something?” he asked, tone condescending in every sense of the word.

“No Sir,” Eddie murmured, looking down into his lap. Embarrassment burned hot under his cheeks, anger at Richie swelling in his chest.

“Now, starting with tomorrow, be will be talking about soulmates and how chemistry can be applied to them. How it plays a part in soulmarks and everything.” The bell rang just as he finished his statement, and dread couldn’t help but build up in Eddie’s gut. He hated it anytime anyone in his class would bring up the subject of soulmates. But that seemed to be the only thing people wanted to talk about, the only thing songs on the radio sang about, the only thing that showed up on movies and TV.

It was just a reminder that, even at 17, Eddie still had no soulmark, and by extension, no soulmate.

Richie jogged up next to Eddie as he exited the classroom, grin in place and hands fiddling with the straps of his backpack.

“What’s got you in such a tizz, Eds? That was pretty damn funny, if I do say so myself.”

Eddie mumbled a response, thoroughly agitated. Richie’s demeanor changed a little, his bravado halting and assessing the situation. He leaned a bit closer to Eddie so only he can hear.

“Is your back bothering you?”

Of course it was. It always was these days. The dull itch from his childhood had begun to morph into a low burn as he grew older, aching and raw at all hours of the night and day.

“I guess. I just feel like shit.” Richie nodded, deep in thought.

“Let’s go to lunch, yeah? I know I could use a pick me up.” Eddie nodded, allowing himself to be led outside to Richie’s car.

Richie’s car was truly something to behold. Bright orange, paint peeling from being exposed to the sun for too long. The pair climbed into the rickety vehicle, Eddie trying to ignore the flaps of seat upholstery that had peeled up and now poked at his legs. He didn’t want to imagine the amount of people who’d owned this car before Riche, or even the type of people they had been. Richie started the car, engine coughing to life and radio blaring whichever cassette they’d been listening to this morning.

Richie loved cassettes, and records, and just music in general. Eddie had boxes upon boxes of tapes his friends had made him over the years. Bev sent them from Portland, and she came up to visit them on holidays and for some time during the summer, always bringing tapes for the members of the loser’s club. Mike had only ever made one, Ben had made a few offhandedly, Bill a few more. But most were from Richie. Slipped into lockers, mailboxes, thrown through open windows, tossed into laps.

Thought you might like this.

And Eddie listened to them diligently, drowning out his mother’s cries and day-time TV with the loud drum crashes and guitar solos that Richie loved so much. It was all a little too harsh, but it stopped Eddie from thinking too hard while his headphones slipped over his ears.

Richie carefully maneuvered out of the parking lot, obviously being more safety conscious for Eddie’s sake.

“So what’s got your goat? You seem like something’s bothering you.”

Eddie brings his knees to his chest, scuffed shoes resting on the dashboard. He balls his hands in the hem of his sweatshirt, running his thumb along the seam.

“I just hate it when they bring up soulmates in class. It doesn’t even have to do with anything. You don’t need another person to make you happy.”

Richie gave a concerned sort of smile.

“I know that, Eds. Trust me, if anyone even has a little understanding of what you mean, it’s me.”

Eddie nodded. Richie’s mark was still just barely a whisper of a thing. There had been a few nights that he’d crawled through Eddie’s window in tears, fearing for whoever his soulmate was.

“I just wish there was something I could do. I’m the outlier. The .1% left on a hand sanitizer bottle. I’m tired of it.”

“I know Spaghetti Head, but think of it this way. At least you won’t be one of those ninnies who thinks their soulmate is the one and only person they need. You have friends who care about you, and that lovely mother of yours.” Eddie refrained from commenting on that last part. “What more could a guy want?”

“To not be ostracized in front of my peers.” Eddie murmured tersely. Richie gave another anxious sort of smile, patting Eddie on the kneecap. For once, he seemed to be at a loss of what to say.

-

Eddie once again sat in class, trying his best not to drift off into a deep sleep. Sure enough, his teacher kept true to his word. The board was filled with the chemical application of soulmates, from how the marks showed up to how the attraction of soulmates was unlike normal attraction. Eddie’s notebook remained empty. He was either uninterested, or already knew what the teacher would say.

He looked over at Richie, who for once took diligent record of the teacher’s lecture. He glanced back at Eddie, giving him the OK symbol with his fingers and raising an eyebrow. Eddie gave a sideways thumbs up. Richie grinned at him, attempting to elicit a smile.

It didn’t quite work.

Eddie thought back to the day he told his mother he didn’t have a soulmark. He’d been about nine years old then, sitting at the dining room table across from her, silent.

“Mama,” he said, oh so quietly. “Why don’t I have a soulmark yet? Everyone else in my class has theirs. They have for a long time.”

She paused, a thousand emotions running over her face.

“Well, sweetheart, you might not have a soulmate.”

“Oh.” The bottom of Eddie’s stomach dropped out of his feet.

“It’ll be alright. You don’t need a soulmate. You have me. A mother is better than any soulmate you could ever find. Eat your brussels sprouts.”

“Yes Mama.”

That night, he’d slunk up to his room, trying hard to ignore the irritated skin between his shoulders. He didn’t cry, too wracked with sorrow to let even an iota escape him. In that moment, he wished desperately that Richie was his soulmate. He was rowdy and sometimes annoying, but he was always at Eddie’s side when he needed help. He stopped people bullying him. He would be soft and understanding when the situation called for just that. They were best friends.

Eddie looked at Richie now. He still sometimes wished for just that.

“Mr. Kaspbrak.” Eddie jolted in his seat, facing the front again. The teacher stood, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

“Since you seem to know everything about this unit, would you mind telling us what exactly animoprophen is and what it does?”

Eddie burned hot, anger bubbling under his skin. But, the word was familiar. It was a drug, one sitting in his medicine cabinet at home. One he took every single day since he was seven.

“Animoprophen is a drug, sir. It helps ease back pain.”

“Only half right, Mr. Kaspbrak. It is a drug, but it isn’t for back pain. Not even close.”

Eddie’s fists balled themselves up, his frustration finally spilling over the edge.

“Excuse me, Mr. Green, I don’t think that’s right. I’ve taken that drug everyday since I was seven. I was prescribed it for back pain.”

“Will someone please tell Mr. Kaspbrak what exactly animoprophen is for?”

A girl in the back raised her hand.

“Animoprophen is a drug given to people with dead soulmates. It makes the mark go away so they are at less risk of depression.”

“Thank you, Cynthia. You must be confusing it with another drug, Edward.”

Eddie knew he wasn’t. People around the classroom did not make their chuckles and whispers a secret, talking behind hands and glancing his way. He could feel his airways closing, breathing growing rapid, fingers becoming numb with static.

The bell finally rang, releasing him from this absolute nightmare. He sprang from his seat, racing into the hallway. He needed to go home, he was going to be sick, he was going to die.

He took mighty puffs from his inhaler, one after another.

One.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t stop. Not even when he heard Richie calling to him from the hallway.

-

Eddie lay in bed that night, examining the pill bottle he’d palmed from the cabinet an hour ago. The light from his lamp shine through the yellowish plastic, turning the pink pills within a sort of orange color. His mom’s name was printed on the bottle. How had he never noticed before? All his other medicine had his name printed on the label. But not this one. Not this fucking one.

He’d run to the pharmacy immediately after chemistry, not waiting up for Richie to give him a ride. Panting, he slammed his palm flat against the counter, drawing the attention of the pharmacist.

“I need you to tell me something,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What’s wrong Eddie. Out of your inhaler?”

“No. I have a question about animoprophen.”

The color quickly drained out of the older man’s face.

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“My mother told me that it was for back pain. Back pain I’ve had since I was seven. But I was just told in my class just now that it’s to get rid of soulmarks? Explain.”

The pharmacist swallowed, obviously nervous.

“Yes, they are for soulmarks. They’re prescribed to your mother.”

“What about the other medication? is it even real? Am I taking things I don’t need?”

A pregnant pause swelled before them.

“They’re all placebos. Sugar pills. They don’t affect you at all. Except the animoprophen.” The pharmacist then looked above Eddie’s head at someone entering the store. Eddie turned to see Richie standing there, breathing a little heavily.

“Thanks. For everything,” Eddie said, turning back to the man before him. His words were sharper than an obsidian scalpel. He waited a beat before pushing a small display of brochures to the floor and turning to meet Richie.

“Let’s go.”

Eddie hadn’t confronted his mother yet. Every time he thought he might be able to, he couldn’t. It was his mother. How could she?

A loud thud sounded against his window, followed by muffled cursing. Eddie looked out to see none other than Richie. He also noticed a small crack in his window from the rock Richie has thrown. He lifted the pane, looking at his best friend.

“You’re going to break my window one of these days, Trashmouth.”

“Only if you break my heart first,” he crooned in a sing-song voice. Eddie smirked before racing downstairs to let Richie in, not caring that his mother lay sleeping in her chair.

Once they are safe in Eddie’s room, Richie released a barrage of questions.

“Okay, what happened at the pharmacy? You ran out of class, and so I followed you, and I find you going all bad cop in the drug store. And the amino-whatever? What’s that all about?”

Eddie let the confusion wash over him, again picking up the plastic bottle and running his thumb over the label.

“Animoprophen. It’s a drug used to get rid of soulmarks after your soulmate dies.” He holds up the bottle. “This is prescribed to my mom. She’s been giving it to me since I was seven.” He pulls his inhaler out of his pocket, throwing it across his room in anger. “All my medication is bullshit, Richie. It was never real. She’s been lying to me for nearly ten years. Ten years! That’s more than half of my life!”

Richie didn’t say anything, just rubbed small circles between his shoulders. Eddie leaned into the touch, grateful for the comforting touch.

“What are you gonna do, Eddie?”

“I dunno. Being in the same house as her makes me feel sick. Thinking about everything makes me sick.” He pauses. “I think she’s the fault I never got my mark. I think that medicine stopped it from coming in. It’s her fault. I have a soul mate out there who I might never find, because of her.”

Eddie was a gutted fish, a shattered window, a knife cut, a tornado, a raindrop. Open. Changed. Irreparably broken.

He did not cry.

Richie reached over and wrapped him in a rare embrace, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I feel like I should do something, but I can’t. I haven’t felt this powerless since we fought It.”

He pulled away, placing Eddie’s hands in his. He traced the scar on his palm, running his thumb over the raised skin.

“Do you want to stay at my house tonight? My parents won’t be there,” Richie asked quietly, and Eddie though he could sense just a little shyness in his tone.

“I dunno. My ma…”

“She shouldn’t control you anymore. Not after what she did. If you want to go, let's go.”

Eddie nodded.

As they walked down the stairs, Eddie felt his life moving in slow motion. He didn’t avoid the third step. His mother stirred, demanding to know what Richie was doing there, where they were going. She tried to stop them, opening her mouth to yell.

“Mom, I know that you did,” he says plainly, placing the animoprophen in her hand. “I’m going to stay at Richie’s house tonight.”

And just like that, calm as the eye of a hurricane, he walked out the door towards Richie’s car.

ANNOUNCEMENT: So, my amazing friend, who’s read this fic from the start, is turning it into a comic! Please go check her out at @sekiims 

Taglist: @anniewdoodles

[lnicol1990]

BatIM - New World, New Rules

4th story written for @squigglydigglydoo. An epilogue one this time.

Also, sorry if this is kinda spamming you Squiggly. I know you’ve read these before, but I want to make sure people go to your page to look at your AU proper. (As if anyone would come to my page and not be from yours. ^_^)

It was a Saturday afternoon when Bendy stormed into Henry’s house, not giving the old man as much as a hello before disappearing upstairs, a tirade of comical squeaks and honks covering up the toon’s foul language.

Well, he was a child friendly cartoon and people simply didn’t swear back in the 30s.

Henry remained seated in his favourite armchair as the little devil raced upstairs and then went silent. He took a moment to fold his newspaper and take a quick look out of the nearby window, only to see an empty street. Sighing quietly to himself, he got up from his chair, leaving the paper on it, and slowly made his way to follow the irate toon.

As he slowly climbed the stairs, he thought about the last five months.

Shit, it had been five months since he’d rescued himself and the toons from his old workplace, Joey Drew Studios. Not wanting to abandon them again, he’d appointed himself the custodian of the three living, breathing cartoon characters, which had brought up some rather unique challenges with his neighbours.

While the local children had taken great delight in living beside real life cartoons, their parents and other adults… had been a lot more negative. Thankfully, most of the complaints and concerns had died down after a couple of weeks, but the local churchgoers and their priest would pay him a visit every other Sunday, either looking to rescue the ‘sweet angel, lost in squalor’, or to banish the ‘unholy wretch’ back to hell where he belonged. As funny as it had been for the first couple of months, Henry now took to answering his door with a loaded Winchester.

He’d received a lot less cold callers, too, thinking about.

As Henry reached the landing, he looked about for where the toon had gone. He was unsurprised to see the airing cupboard door slightly ajar; it was where Bendy always went when he’d wanted to be away from the outside world and it’s harsh, unfair rules.

He stopped at the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he decided to test the waters and quietly knocked on the cupboard door.

“You comfortable in there?” he asked, keeping his voice light as he waited for Bendy’s answer.

“Go away, old man.”

It was a short, curt answer, but still with the affectionate insult. Henry breathed a sigh of relief as he realised this was merely a temper tantrum and not an existential crisis, the latter was never any fun, for anyone involved. Knowing that the matter wasn’t exceptionally serious, he relaxed and settled himself by the doorframe. He kept himself in clear sight of the door’s gap so Bendy would know that he hadn’t left, not that he ever did, and waited.

It was always a waiting game whenever the little devil was in a mood, and one Henry had gotten very good at playing. Arguably, Alice and Boris were better at playing it than him, but they didn’t have old joints that would protest after half an hour of uncomfortable sitting. And with them entertaining the local children at a nearby park, he was currently the only player in the house, otherwise they would have drawn straws.

As time went on, Henry decided to speed the little game along, by doing what would have been considered suicidal in the old workshop.

“Are you just gonna sit in there and mope all afternoon, ya little punk?” Henry needled, adding his own affectionate insult to take the edge off of his words.

Sure enough, the door slowly opened and Bendy peeked out. His eyes were narrowed but the pout on the toon’s face took all ferocity out of the expression. He glared ineffectually at the animator for a few seconds before realising that the old man wasn’t taking back his words.

“I ain’t moping,” Bendy stated in a flat, but petulant tone. When Henry gave him a levelled, unimpressed look, the toon relented and leaned back into the cupboard, curling up and wrapping his arms around his legs. He rested his chin on his knees, huffed, and spoke with a quieter voice. “I’m not…much.”

“You want to tell me what happened?” the animator asked gently, softening his expression as the games and bravado fell away from the little devil. He didn’t move any closer, though, knowing that the demon appreciated his personal space.

“It don’t matter, really,” the toon admitted, shaking his slightly. He sighed forlornly and drummed his fingers against his leg. “It just… made me think of other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like… how much I miss being a toon –a real toon– and doing wacky toon stuff,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders as if it wasn’t as big a deal as it clearly was.

While Henry, for his limited use of toon physics in the studio, didn’t miss such antics at all, he could understand his friend’s dilemma. Alice and Boris, while downhearted at the loss, had adjusted fairly well to losing the majority of their abilities; but, most of their gags on the show rarely contained such shenanigans anyway.

Bendy, however… most of his comedy lived on the abuse of toon logic. And, while the demon always assured Henry that the outside world, with its colours, sounds, new technology and, most importantly, people, was worth the loss of his toon abilities… that didn’t mean he didn’t miss them.

“Some older kids were teasing little Delilah about her pigtails. You know her, right Henry? She’s the kid a couple of streets away with the little brother who’s always got that… thing in his mouth,” Bendy looked to Henry, who nodded in response. “Well, in my show I’d hit them big kids with cymbals or maybe pop their bike tyres so they’d go whipping out of shot, and then give lil’ Deli and Chris a couple of lollipops out of Hammerspace. But… I can’t do that now.”

“Is Delilah alright?” Henry asked, feeling certain it was a redundant question. He knew Bendy wouldn’t leave the little girl alone if she was upset, but he might not have wanted her to see him if he was as well.

“She’s fine,” the toon assured, a ghost of a smile on his face. “A quick hug and telling her they were just jealous made her smile. She took Chris home for dinner.”

“That’s good. That was a good way of making her feel better,” the animator smiled at the little devil, who gave him a genuine smile back, blushing slightly from the praise. Henry cocked his head slightly and watched Bendy for a moment, his smile turning slightly in sympathy. “So, you’re just missing Hammerspace again.”

“What’s not to miss?” Bendy asked incredulously. His eyes brightened as they always did when talking about toon logic. “I mean, seriously old man, don’t you miss it? I know you only had it for a little while but… wasn’t it just so… so… great? That thing had everything in it! Giant mallets, lollipops, even lunch!”

The last item on little devil’s list was unexpected, and his change of tone to comically melodramatic elicited a surprised snort of amusement from Henry, which he quickly suppressed so as not offend the toon. However, the way Bendy’s head snapped to his told him he’d been too late for the demon not to notice. He watched the toon’s eyes widen in delight and a gleeful, eager smile plastered itself on his face.

Oh dear…

“Do you have any idea how many tasty lunches are now stuck in Hammerspace because I can’t reach them?” Bendy asked, his voice pitching slightly higher and his words just a little faster than before.  His eyes seemed to shine for a moment when the animator shuddered as he tried, in vain, not to laugh at the toon, which only seemed to egg the devil on. “And who knows what’s in those lunches! They might have sandwiches in ‘em! Sandwiches! Who knew something like that could have so much stuff in ‘em. They could be anything, like that ‘BLT’ we had at that place downtown. Boy, those were good! Or, maybe one with cheese and pickle.”

Henry, at this point, could feel himself trembling as he tried to suppress his giggles. If he was being honest, lunch and sandwiches weren’t all that funny, but the absurdity, the sheer ridiculousness, of Bendy’s sudden topic change had made him laugh, and now the little devil was milking it for all it was worth.

He turned to the demon, his eyes misted with unshed tears of laughter, who had suddenly fallen silent. The toon’s brain seemed to have caught up with what he was saying, and he was looking away into nothing, his smile faltering.

“Actually, forget that last one,” Bendy stated, his voice deadpan. “I mean cheese is okay, but pickles?”

The toon gave a full body shudder at the thought, and that was it. That was enough for Henry, the end, the pièce de résistance, the final straw that broke his composure, and he laughed. He doubled over, forehead on his knees for support, as he struggled to breathe, and his whole body shaking. Tears began to run down his cheeks, finally free of his vain attempt to hold a straight face.

As his giggling subsided, he leaned back against the wall and gasped, taking big gulps of air that his lungs were screaming for, his ribs aching from laughing. He raised a hand to his face and wiped away the tears streams from down his cheeks. He tittered for a few seconds longer before he finally felt himself calm down and his body relax. With a final deep, calming breath, he turned to the little devil that had caused such mirth.

The demon’s eyes were as large as dinner plates, and seemed to sparkle. His smile, while small, was slowly growing as shock was replaced by something else. The toon’s entire expression seemed to be a mixture of awe and indescribable joy. A couple of happy tears ran down his face as he stared at the old man.

“That… that was… I think…” Bendy stumbled over his words, before giggling gleefully. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds and his face returned to a more normal, but still happy, expression. “I think that’s the first time I’ve made you laugh, old man.”

“No, it’s just the first time you’ve caught me,” Henry assured. He leaned over and tousled the demon’s head, not that he had hair to tangle. Leaning back as the toon tried to smooth the hair he didn’t have, he gave Bendy a gentle, but level look. “And you dodged my question.”

Bendy winced at the reminder, but relaxed at Henry’s mild expression, clearly glad that it wasn’t a reproach. He sighed and lowered his chin back to his knees. Rather than a petulant expression, the animator found his toon sporting a thoughtful one. He made silly faces as he thought, like he used to in his show, moving his mouth around to silly positions on his face. After a couple of minutes of thought, he stilled his movements.

“It’s not really Hammerspace that I’m missing. I mean, yeah, it was useful and all, but that’s not the real problem,” Bendy admitted quietly. He raised his head to look at Henry, rather than the other side of the cupboard, who was listening to him quietly. “It’s what I could pull out of Hammerspace that I miss. My gags and stuff. When those kids were picking on Delilah, I couldn’t do anything but stand there. I couldn’t play any practical jokes or anything like that. They just hurt her feelings and laughed, and–“

“Okay, okay, I get it. I get it,” Henry assured him. He reached out and brushed his thumb against Bendy’s widow peak outline, clearing away the ink that was beginning to melt down the toon’s face. He was glad to see the contact even managed to calm his friend down slightly, the dribbling ink returning to its rightful place. He leaned back slightly as a thought occurred to him. “Maybe, instead of trying to solve this with toon gags and pranks, you use real world one instead?”

“There are real world gags?” Bendy asked, curiosity instantly piqued. His expression morphed into genuine interest and excitement when Henry nodded at him. “Like what? Like what?”

“I’ll have to take you into the joke shop next time we’re in town,” Henry chuckled. “There’re lots of things in there that I think you’ll like. We could get you a squeaky hammer.”

“Not quite what I had in mind, old man,” Bendy explained, his shoulders drooping slightly. “But… maybe there’s something else in there that’ll help me give some payback to those bullies. Nice and clean stuff, of course!”

“Ah, I see. You’re after some harmless retribution, huh?” Henry noted as the metaphorical penny dropped. He smirked as Bendy shrugged in response, once again showing how much it really meant to him. “Well… in that case, you could always spitball the punks.”

“What’s spitball?” the toon frowned, cocking his head to a side at the unfamiliar term.

Henry sucked his breath in through his teeth. For a moment, he struggled to keep a smile off his face at Bendy’s surprised expression, determined to put on the melodrama for the little devil. After a quick thought of how to proceed, he began his grandiose tale.

“What is spitball?” the animator echoed in an incredulous voice. He began to gesture as he continued. “Why, spitballing is a timeless real-world prank that has lasted through the ages! Its ancient art form has been passed down from generation to generation, taught only to those who are worthy of its… its…”

Henry took a deep breath in and tried to calm himself. Clearly his earlier giggles were threatening to come back with a vengeance, and he was struggling to keep up the momentum of his epic tale. He had always been a fantastic animator, but story telling was another matter entirely.

Hesitantly, he peeked back at Bendy, wondering what the toon thought of his antics. He was surprised to find that the little devil had crawled out of the airing cupboard and was all but hanging off his arm. He was enraptured with the old man’s words, by the’ myth’ of spitballing, and Henry had to hold back another threat of giggles at the sight of the captivated demon. He hadn’t even noticed that the animator was struggling to keep a straight face, or maybe he didn’t care.

The toons were all equally as mesmerised by the ridiculous, over-the-top soap operas that they would find on the TV.

“It is taught only to those who are worthy of its mischief,” Henry whispered, leaning in towards Bendy as he quickly finished up his act. “Do you think you’re worthy, punk?”

“You bet, old man!”

Bendy’s eyes were alight with eager enthusiasm and his smile bright at the challenge to be worthy of a gag or prank. The good-natured passion in the toon’s face was reminiscent of the few times in the studio when Henry had done something unexpected and ‘fun’ as far as the little devil was concerned, when then toon had looked… like the truest form of himself.

It was a very welcome sight.

It was then, of course, that the ramifications of Henry’s actions dawned on him. Teaching the demon how to spitball his ‘enemies’ was undoubtedly a recipe for even more numerous complaints against the little punk, which may even extend to police complaints.

And yet…

“God forgive me,” the old man muttered up to the ceiling. His quick prayer of apology sent, he turned back to the demon. “Alright, you little punk, I’ll teach you tomorrow. The good pastor and his flock should be visiting after lunch. We’ll have plenty of targets to practice on.”

Bendy smiled wickedly at the thought.

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 1: An ACOMAF AU Fic

This is the *NaNo* fic I’ve been working on for a few months now. Yay! I will post each chapter here individually on Tumblr over the coming weeks, but the entirety of it is already up on AO3 if you wish to binge it.

This fic is very close to my heart. As I have sort of intimated at times on this blog, my head space has gotten a little tumultuous in recent years as I’ve been working through some things, and so I used Feyre as a sounding board for a lot of those emotions. I have not lived the family or romantic life she has lived in this fic, but the thoughts she expresses internally and otherwise are very much my own throughout. So while my Feyre is going to seem rather different in many ways from book Feyre (and I apologize for all the California culture in advance), I hope this helps explain why.

Major THANK YOU to @kitashiwrites for reading this entire fic over, continually encouraging me to finish it, and for telling me it wasn’t total garbage. You are the absolute best!!!

Summary: After her family falls apart on a night Feyre Archeron would rather forget, she flees to the biggest start-of-summer party around at Lucien’s where the comfort of her boyfriend Tamlin awaits. But as the party drags on, Feyre begins to realize that the cracks in her life run much deeper than she realized. When she meets a rather mysterious new friend at the party with witty remarks and what seems like genuine sympathy, senior year suddenly promises to bring a whole new set of challenges and emotions that she wasn’t prepared for.

Rating: E [Chapter 1 is NSFW, but most of the fic won’t be.]

AO3 Linkage

Beneath the Stars

My throat itched as I climbed the long length of Lucien’s driveway. I had to swallow over and over again to keep myself from coughing all while trying to breathe out my mouth since my nose was still drying up with snot. Hell if I knew when the screams would die out. I could still hear them ringing in my ear even now.

Each one drove me further up the driveway and damn if Lucien didn’t have such a monstrosity of a house, if you could call it that. Home was a funny way to describe where Lucien lived when it took up several acres worth of space, contained fifteen or more bedrooms, and covered every spare inch of space in solid white marble.

It was a wonder I wasn’t more used to it by now - the richness of it all. Everyone in my life ran in this type of circle. Even my own family lived in luxury, though nothing quite what Lucien’s family was packing and who knew how much longer it would last, now that mom had - ah.

Later. I could think about that later. Right now, I was on a mission with one single purpose - to see him.

The lie laughed openly at me as I reached the top of the small hill leading up the entryway. No matter how hard I tried, I was likely never to forget the exchange of words between my parents for a long time coming. But if I could just get close enough to him, close enough to touch him, maybe I could forget even if only for a moment.

That was all I needed when I was with my boyfriend. Just a touch or a shared look and the world would disappear, dragging all of my family’s shit right along with it. There were times I wished it would take me too, but then… what was the point?

Sometimes, I didn’t much care to answer that question.

A flash of hair a tad too bright to be my own…

The crash of the door slamming on its hinges as her perfume swept by me…

The screech of tires on pavement as she spun out…

“Ah,” I growled to myself, waving my hand through the air as if I could physically assault my memory and take it away.

Where was Tamlin?

Even a mile down the driveway, I had heard the music pulsing. Getting to the door only amplified the sound tenfold and I rather liked it. It was a beat you could dance or destroy to, whatever suited your mood. The air was hot out - hot even for early summer in southern California. It only added to the crawling of the rhythm over my skin that pushed me inside the manor, away from the couples exploring each other behind trees and bushes around Lucien’s immense front lawn.

How the hell he and his brothers got away with these garbage parties was beyond me. But I was grateful all the same that they did for the time it got me away from home and in my boyfriend’s pants.

The front door was wide open and I stumbled inside to a madhouse. People were everywhere and despite going to school with all of them over the past three years, I only recognized a handful of faces. The eternal downside of California’s public education system - and it had many - was the thousands of students school districts insisted on shoving into one school with the audacity to call it balanced.

My senior graduating class was expected to top off at just over 1,100 students and that was just one year of students, nevermind the other three.

No one looked at me unfriendly as I walked in. It didn’t matter that we were strangers barely able to recognize one another from a smattering of shared classes we didn’t converse in.

This was a party. The party. The one that said summer was officially underway and that the nights were already too unbearably hot for everyone not to be drunk and still fully dressed.

And blast it all if Lucien’s house wasn’t perfect for just such an occasion I cursed silently as I made my way through the maze of hallways and bonus rooms and living rooms trying to isolate one individual among many. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.

A needle my shaking hands were ready to bend and break if I didn’t find Tamlin soon to take the edge off.

Just breathe, Feyre. Breathe. You’ll find it. It will work. This will work.

My fingers rose to my lips where my teeth were ready to chew on the tender skin around the nail beds I hadn’t already bitten to bits when I saw the distinct flash of red bobbing towards me through the crowd. And then I heard his biting voice.

“That’s what I’m going to do if he so much as steps one foot out of - Feyre!”

Surprise interrupted the red-headed bravado as Lucien came to a full stop in front of me. My hand fell back to my side at ease, a light lick of saliva barely coating my forefinger before I could get to it properly.

“Lucien, thank the stars,” I said, feeling the first glimpses of relief settle into my veins. “Where’s Tamlin?”

“Tamlin?” Lucien snapped the name in two at me, almost indignant I would ask. It made my nose curl up around my eyes.

“Yes, Tamlin,” I said, with obvious irritation. “Do you have any idea?”

Lucien seemed to cool out of whatever had caught him by the long hairs of his auburn head, his voice going even while he nonchalantly handed off his drink to the pretty blond he’d been chatting with. He touched the long jagged scar that ran through one of his eyes unawares, the one that permanently marred his vision.

“I didn’t think you were coming tonight, Feyre.”

I crossed my arms feeling defensive because it was true. I hadn’t planned on coming tonight.

Exams had been exhausting and sleep sounded like a great way to cap off the last day of school - not a party. And then mom and dad exploded in the living room and I knew I had to get out and that was before mom had given me her own parting farewell.

Lucien didn’t need to know that though. It was none of his business.

So I swept past him heading for the stairs and said as smoothly as I could muster, not at all bothered by him, “I know your house is the size of a whale, Lucien, but I’d like to find Tamlin now, so if you’re not going to help-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lucien cut in quickly, but it was the way he grabbed my arm sharply that made me feel like there was more to the gesture than a simple fear he’d offended me ignoring my pleas. “I know where he is. I’ll get him for you. Just wait here, okay? There’s beer in the kitchen.”

Beer.

My stomach turned at the thought of all that golden ale running down my throat. It was too much like dad for my own liking even if I knew how to keep myself in check with it.

“You know I can’t stand that nasty stuff. I’ll just come with you.”

“No,” Lucien insisted and he actually physically turned my body towards the kitchen. “Just stay here and do something. Try a beer, a water, a CapriSun for all I care. You look like hell, Feyre.”

He was gone before I could swivel back a disgruntled retort, but ah, what did it matter? I was used to it by now with Lucien, our back-and-forth way of biting at each other to say, Hey, you’re actually kind of alright. If that’s what it was. Like me or not like me - I could never really tell with him.

The kitchen, however, I did not make for content to stay away from dad’s poisons of choice for as long as I could. Though I would never have admitted it aloud to another soul - even Tamlin - part of me was desperate to crack open a bottle and chug it all down in one bitterly delicious gulp, see if it wouldn’t taste as soothing and wonderful as my body felt whenever Tamlin touched me, ran his hands over my skin in ways that sent little shocks of electricity zinging all over until I lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.

That had to be it, right? I eyed the kitchen door wondering. Why else would dad drink so much if it didn’t make him feel that amazing all the damn time? What would make him choose the bottles over other more important things if it didn’t -

“Feyre!”

I turned at the sound of my name and found Tamlin coming down Lucien’s stairs from the second floor; They were almost as long as the driveway. He looked impeccable as he always did, his blonde hair combed back smoothly though I could see it was still fresh with an unbelievable amount of gel. I stifled a secret smile at how secretly vain he could be.

He stopped a few feet away looking wary and the gap left between us struck me. I didn’t want a gap. I didn’t want separation. I wanted him in that soft red vest and faded denim jeans pressing against me until there was so little space, nothing could get between us. The fact that it wasn’t already happening, agitated by the fact that Tamlin himself had stopped short, did little to quiet the anxiety I’d been fighting for the greater part of the evening. My fingers twitched once at my side as I ground my teeth in response.

But then - he smiled and I felt instantly silly for thinking anything could ever have been wrong. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight. What happened?”

I rolled her eyes, not ready for that just yet. “It’s such a long story,” I said and snatched his hand. Tired of waiting, we made for the stairs from which Tamlin had just descended. I cast a not so apologetic look over my shoulder at Lucien. “Sorry, Lukey, but I don’t think you’re going to want to hear me recite the whole thing to him.”

“Ugh, Feyre, could we not?” But Lucien was looking at Tamlin when he answered and there was something of a hard concern in his eyes that I ignored for other instincts.

I found the bedroom quickly enough. It wasn’t like we hadn’t used it before. I just didn’t normally throw the door open quite so hard as I did tonight and for once, it caught Tamlin’s attention.

“Feyre,” he said like a question, but already I was pressing my lips against his. He tasted sweet, a cool breeze in early spring before all the miserable heat of summer had come to snatch it away from us. “Fey-ruh,” he mumbled against me. “What’s going on?” But there was no denying the distraction mounting by the second in his pants.

“Later,” I pulled away just far enough to say before grabbing him by the collar of his vest. “Just kiss me first. I need you to kiss me.”

The pleading tone that was dripping with more beggary than I cared to admit was enough. Tamlin pulled me against him and utterly engulfed me in his arms. A chill broke out on my skin as the clothes came off, but it was quickly replaced by the fervent heat between us as Tam took me on the bed and entered me in such a blaze of movement, I wondered if he’d been hard for me before I’d even dragged him up the stairs.

Everything in the world started to slow as Tamlin worked against me. My parents. My sisters. School. All the little aches and pains were replaced by his skin, his lips, his body. I moved furiously against him, wanting as much of him as I could get my hands on. It was the only thing keeping the nagging aches at bay every time they tried to claw their way back in. Even while we were connected and moving together, I had moments where my mind drifted back to the fight, the car pulling out of the driveway, and my dad opening the liquor cabinet up and I hated myself for it. So I concentrated on how he felt because thinking about me was too much of a mess to even begin to deal with and Tamlin’s body numbed the pain.

Numbed it, I thought, but didn’t take it entirely away.

We were silent for a while after Tamlin had pulled out of me. I nestled into his shoulder and stared up at the ceiling while he ran his fingers up and down my arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind about coming?” He didn’t ask what had changed my mind, I noticed, only why I hadn’t told him. After how quickly I’d shut him up to have sex when he’d asked the first time, I could hardly blame him.

And maybe I was a tiny bit relieved. I could deal with my bizarre family drama later. For now, it was nice just to share a bed with a warm body in it.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just sort of happened, but who cares? I’m here now anyway.”

I looked up at him and leaned in to kiss him. Tamlin sighed into it. “Right you are,” he said. “I just wish you had told me first.”

This time, he leaned in to kiss me, but the high of the moment was already starting to fade and there was something off with him that wasn’t quite sitting right with me. “Are you okay?” I asked, breaking off the kiss.

“Never better, why?”

I shook my head after a moment, content to brush it off. I was probably just making up things again. “No reason. Want to go back to the party? I don’t even know what I dragged you away from.”

“It was nothing important.”

“Well, I’m going back.” I gathered up my clothes and started dressing, but Tamlin didn’t move from the bed as his eyes dragged over me in a lazy fog. “You coming?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me teasingly. “I already did, Feyre.”

“You’re gross,” I said not unfriendly, throwing his shirt at him and making to leave the room, but not until I’d had one more kiss and a whispered goodbye because without Tamlin joining me downstairs, the party no longer seemed so appetizing. I’d gotten what I’d come for.

Ahem, come.

Okay, I could be pretty gross too when I wanted to be.

Lucien was nowhere in sight when I made it back downstairs, but I had the distinct feeling someone somewhere in the crowd was watching me, noticing my sudden presence. The music was loud and pumped the start of a dull headache behind my eyes that reminded me tonight was not exactly my best night.

I didn’t mean to end up in the kitchen. But somehow, that’s where my feet carried me. I turned the sink on and ran some water over the first clean hand towel I could find and gently rubbed it against my skin. It felt cool and refreshing, but I still felt sick.

A few years ago, my sisters might have been at a party just like this. We could have gone together if there hadn’t been such an age gap between us. I wondered what they would have done tonight when the yelling started. Would Elain have popped her headphones in to pretend it wasn’t happening? Would Nesta have joined in the fray, always content to share her strong opinions?

Would either of them have bolted from the house the second mom left?

A dense thud sounded on my left. Some jock I didn’t know had set down a huge ice chest full of fresh beer bottles and ice before cracking one open for himself and strutting back outside with a whoop at his friends.

Drinking. Beer. Right. I could do that if I wanted to. I didn’t have to be like my dad just to try one.

I grabbed a bottle and realized I didn’t have anything to open it with. So I pressed it underneath the countertop the way people did in TV shows and movies and pulled to no success.

“Heh, thank you for finding that for me,” a low male voice said coming up behind me and snagging the bottle from my hand. “I’ve been looking for a Sam Adams for a while now.”

I spun around and came face to face with a tall, slender guy with dark inky hair and a wicked teasing smirk fixed on me. His eyes were so blue, they were nearly violet. I had the sense that I’d seen him before, undoubtedly at school, but I couldn’t pinpoint how I might know him. He was something kind of handsome, I thought.

And he had my drink.

“Excuse you,” I said snatching back my bottle. “That one was mine. Go get your own,” and I pointed at the ice chest. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

“No harder than watching you pretend to know what you’re doing with that.” He took the bottle back and fished a ring of keys from his pocket. The clip had a bottle opener on the end, but he didn’t use it. He seemed to be taunting me rather.

I glared at him. “Well are you gonna help me or not?”

With a smug look I was starting to get sick of, he cracked the bottle open and handed it to me. “Of course. Why do you think I came over here? I’m all for helping ladies in distress.”

“I am not a lady in distress and you’re a stupid prick.”

“A prick with a name - Rhysand.”

“Pri-ick.”

Rhysand. That name was familiar. I searched my mental catalogue of classes and couldn’t find him in a single one, which meant I had to know him from some kind of extracurricular, but other than art, I didn’t participate in those if I could help it.

Rhysand worked into another smile, probably thinking I was getting caught up in his bold attempt at flirting. But this smile was a little more charming than when he’d first walked up and suddenly I knew where I’d known him from.

“You’re the senior class president,” I said and was pleased when his smile faltered a tad.

“What of it?”

I shrugged carelessly. “Just didn’t imagine Mr. High and Mighty himself would grace us with his presence at a party like this. That’s all.”

“Well I would hate to deprive the masses of this beautiful face. Your reaction alone was worth the night.”

Against my better judgment, I flushed with heat. I hadn’t been that easy to read, had I? I’d only thought he was rather handsome, nothing over the top even if the more I looked at him the more I found I liked. Especially in those clothes. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of us who wore ripped jeans and school sweaters. No, Rhysand wore a dress shirt in dark purple and pressed khaki pants. Even his shoes were dressy and he’d definitely polished them up before coming.

Rhysand suddenly chuckled. I hadn’t replied to him and I gathered from his laugh that the silence was beginning to stretch on. He was toying with me, nothing more. Egging me on to see how much I’d overthink things and indeed, he’d been right.

“Are you going to drink that?” he asked, pointing at the still untouched bottle in my hand.

“You’re doing it again - that thing where you’re a massive prick for no reason.”

“Call me whatever you like. So long as you still look at me like you just did.”

I scowled and almost lifted the bottle to my lips on instinct just to fill the space so I didn’t have to answer him, but stopped short as the scent filled my nostrils. It was heavy and nauseating. “That’s kind of creepy, actually. Do you know that? Has anyone ever told you that you’re really creepy?”

He scowled, but this time he didn’t come back at me with another flirtation. Good.

“And what exactly has got you so fired up this fine evening, hmm?”

A million answers came swimming to mind, each one less savory than the one before it. My sisters. My parents. The fight. Mom leaving. Heck, even Tamlin hadn’t been quite as fulfilling a distraction as I’d hoped for. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so much like standing here arguing or flirting or whatever the hell this was supposed to be even if the boy leaning against the counter next to me was kind of cute.

As if he could sense my unease, Rhys took the bottle out of my hand and set it down. He placed his hand tentatively on my shoulder and though it was such a soft touch and far less a connection than what I’d had with Tamlin a few minutes ago, it somehow felt much more comforting. “Are you okay?”

Rhysand stared at me with those eyes that up close I could tell really were a deep kind of violet. They pierced me and I couldn’t stand it anymore: the beer, Tamlin, the party, Rhysand. What was I doing here?

“I’m fine,” I said shrugging him off and storming from the room. I made it outside and fumbled in my purse for my keys before taking off down the driveway. But a moment later, Rhysand had caught up to me.

“Hey!” he shouted and then again until I finally stopped so he could catch up. “I’m sorry for being intrusive. You just looked, well, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets when he was done and I thought he sounded sincere.

“Just go away, okay? I’m fine. I’m going home.” I turned away, but Rhysand pestered on.

“Can you drive?”

“Yes, I can drive!” I’d stopped to shout it at him. “I may not be able to open a beer bottle as eloquently as the gods among us mere mortals,” and I waved dramatically in his direction, earning a small snort, “but I’m pretty sure I can operate a vehicle just fine. It’s how I got here in the first place.”

Rhysand nodded, giving me a contemplative look. “Pull out your phone.”

“What?”

“Please?”

“I didn’t think you were capable of begging,” I said, but I did begin searching for my phone.

“Oh I’ve been told I’m very good at begging for it, among other things.” By the time I realized the comment wasn’t quite so much a harassment at me as it was at himself, Rhysand was already laughing it off and I thought the sound was oddly pleasant. He looked nice when he laughed like that, rich and full and less intense. “Unlock it and add this number to your contacts.”

I did as he said and added the number he rattled off. I had no doubt it was his own.

“I suppose you want me to text you when I get home so that you know I’m safe? If you think you’re getting my number out of this, that’s absurd on a number of levels because I have a boyfriend and I’m certainly not giving you-”

“I don’t want your number,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets finally and holding them up like he could slow me down. “I just want you to have a way out if you get stuck on the way home.”

“What?” My stomach dropped. Rhysand stepped closer to me, took my phone, and locked it shut before dropping it back into my purse for me. His eyes again met me with that piercing stare, the one that said he was really looking into me as opposed to at me. Like I wasn’t just an object to walk around, but someone to talk to and understand.

“I know you have a boyfriend. I saw you go up the stairs with him. But you were a little… shall we say intense in the kitchen? And I don’t know if that beer was intended to be your first or your twentieth.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Maybe not on beer, but…”

There it was again. That odd sensation that he was reading me.

“Just go home and if anything happens on the way home, you can call me and I’ll help you, okay? And if not, you can delete my number while you lay on your bed thinking about the gorgeous, mysterious gentlemen who entranced you with his wit and charm at the party.”

“Oi,” I said, stepping back from him in a quick jerk and bustling down the driveway. “You’re a stupid prick, you know that!”

“A stupid prick who’s telephone number currently resides in your phone!”

I turned around so I could see him, but kept walking backwards down the drive. “You don’t even know my name!”

“Don’t need to.”

He gave me one last smile and then I was out of view, too far away to keep my eyes on him.

Feyre. My name is Feyre.

I drove home going over and over our conversation. Every little word had felt like a game, but I couldn’t tell which one we were playing exactly. Rhysand had circled between flirtation and seriousness the way water danced on a stream - it was rocky at times, but effortless for him regardless.

And his eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes. The way he’d looked at me like he’d known the kind of night I was having even though he didn’t know me from Adam.

It wasn’t until I’d laid down on my bed and taken my phone out to stare at it a little bit that I realized I hadn’t thought about the night I’d been having since talking to Rhysand. Even when I came home and mercifully found the lights off and only a few sips stolen from the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, I didn’t think about my dad or the fight with mom. Dad was always more of a morose, depressed drinker anyway. No reason to fear a destroyed house.

I unlocked my phone and scrolled to his number, intending to text him before I thought better of it. Nah, that was probably what the stupid prick wanted. Just my number. I was just some chick he thought was mildly cute that he could work into sleeping with, so he bantered and smirked his way into my phone hoping I’d give him something to bite.

I know you have a boyfriend. I saw you go up the stairs with him.

I clicked my phone off annoyed at the audacity of his comment and then remembered I had meant to delete his number from my phone. I stifled a yawn. It was late. I could delete the number in the morning. Funny how something as simple as unlocking a phone could make you feel so lazy in the middle of the night, but there I was.

When I finally fell asleep, I tried to imagine the bright green flecked with gold of Tamlin’s eyes as we’d slept together in Lucien’s guest room.

But it was a struggle to remember the moment and in the end, everything kept turning up violet.

Feyre. My name is Feyre.

xx

AN: I live in Southern California where this fic takes place. When I started my freshmen year of high school, there really were just over four thousand students enrolled and the senior graduating class was about Feyre’s size - 1.1K. So that’s why her school is huge. It’s what I had to deal with and it made for a good excuse why she and Rhys wouldn’t already know each other. Easy to get lost with 3,999 other kids running around.

Comments welcome!