#they smoke and drink and push each other off roofs and frame each other for insider trading

[bitch-butter]

I joked that I was going to make a Lifetime movies rec list a while ago and Truly being bored at work has given birth to worse ideas, so this is one for my fellow cinephiles lol

My Highest Recommended Lifetime Movies in the Order in which they Changed my Life

Small Sacrifices (1989)

I'm honestly unclear whether this was intended originally to be a Lifetime movie because they showed it on a few different networks, but this was the first one that I ever remembered seeing and it Rocked my world. It's a true story about a woman named Diane Downs who attempted to murder her children and my mother and her friends lived for this film in a way that like is actually bonechilling. But I was spellbound by Farrah Fawcett in this movie, I thought she was the greatest actress I'd ever seen, and the story was really dark and scary and felt disgustingly salacious. So everything I'd come to like about Lifetime movies lol.

No One Would Tell (1996)

All my mom loved in the world was to wake up hungover on a Sunday and turn Lifetime on and proceed to fall asleep again while my tiny child peepers beheld Truly heinous shit. This one is one that I continue to make people watch because I can't be alone with the memories, but basically Candace Cameron is in a horribly abusive relationship with her boyfriend, Fred Savage, and he ends up murdering her and it is Incredibly sad and traumatic. There's a historic scene where she's taking a shower and her entire body is just littered with bruises and I will Never forget it!!!!!!!!! Very, very dark. But....iconic.

Odd Girl Out (2005)

This was the point in time where Uncle Television was very much concerned with telling young girls about bullying (for a different and just as good interp of this theme see ABC Family's Cyberbully starring Emily Osmont). But this one was the first and best to me, I related to it very much as an ostracized teen. It stars Alexa Vega, and she's a teen that has her whole popular friend group turn against her and she gets bullied bad lol It gets dark but only for like 20 minutes and then her redemption arc is nice. I loved this movie to death until I discovered Thirteen (2003), which is Way darker and had girls kissing in it for a few seconds.

Fab Five: The Texas Cheerleader Scandal (2008)

This movie was my identity. This movie was my child. Every time it was on TV I stopped whatever I was doing and watched it. I have no idea why, because I have been told people mainly find this one boring, but I think it's mostly due to the fact that I really do love movies where teenagers behave badly with impunity. This was a Ripped From the Headlines Lifetime movie about a roving band of cheerleaders that terrorize everyone in their wake at a Texas high school and basically get away with it because one of their mom's is the principal. I think it is a lol and a half, it's actually pretty competent, and there's like Good performances in it from actual actors. Highest rec possible.

Liz & Dick (2012)

Lindsay Lohan gets so unfairly maligned for her performance in this, it's sick. My most cherished memories of my last year of High School are watching this movie late at night and reading all of Lindsay's blind items and every article that was being written about her failed comeback. Again, I think she's actually okay in this, but for a lot of people it was insulting to cast Lindsay Lohan as Elizabeth Taylor and to those people I say haters get thee behind me. It's fun, it's campy, it's not too long, everybody watch it and relax for a while.

Flowers in the Attic (2014)

DARK DARK DARK but also STUPID STUPID STUPID. Seriously this movie has no business being as funny as it is given the subject matter. Basically a bunch of kids are uprooted by the death of their father and their mother forces them to live in the attic of her wealthy parents home under false pretenses, and incest ensues. Which, again, sounds really upsetting but is actually pretty funny a lot of the time lol. Their evil god-fearing grandma is played by Ellen Burstyn and she's So over the top, and their mom is my queen Heather Graham who is actually pretty chilling. The other movies in the saga are Also pretty dark, stupid, and fun, but this one was a legit phenomenon. Me and my college roommate would host viewings of it in our dorm room, it's really fun to watch in a crowd of people that don't get darked out by poorly handled incest.

Harry and Meghan: A Royal Romance (2018)

This is part one of a trilogy, but it's probably the best one even though the third is pretty fun. Honestly, you guys, this one is just Nice. Truly dgaf about the irl Harry and Meghan but this movie is actually a very fun love story, and it's sweet and has a few legitimately compelling twists and turns, and ultimately has a really satisfying ending. The actors playing Meghan and Harry are stellar, it's funny, it's cute, another highly recced film.

Who Killed Jonbenet? (2016)

An unhinged Eion Bailey performance for the ages with added child murder. Sarah and I are Definitely recording an episode about this one in the future, but truly it's almost too bleak to be chic and gets saved at the last minute by how inadvertently goofy it is. Eion's character develops a psycho-sexual (to me) fixation on an older detective who comes in and basically upends his investigation, and everything about it gives "but daddy please" and I love it and hate it at the same time.

Death of a Cheerleader (1994/2019)

Both versions of this movie are elite, the original is truly iconic and the remake is actually deluxe and makes some changes that I think make it an actually interesting movie. In Lifetime fashion it is Based On a True Story (fun fact: in my younger years I listened to My Favorite Murder and this story gets mentioned in one of their first episodes and they offhandedly mention that the murder weapon was like 8 inches long and That is a fact that has stuck with me in the middle of the night). I'd say watch them both, because the OG has a Tori Spelling performance that cannot be missed and is just a basic mean girls comeuppance story, but the redux is a lot more thoughtful and actually reflects some humanity on all characters which (if you haven't noticed) Lifetime isn't always great at lol.

Too Young to Be a Dad (2002)

UGH. Me and my girlfriend Just watched this and honestly that's a shame because I wish I'd had this movie my entire life. Paul Dano is a teenager that loses his virginity and impregnates his friend in one fell swoop and he has to Step Up and become a Man as like a fifteen year old, which sounds crazy and is but is legitimately a captivating movie. And Paul Dano is sooo fucking good in, it's not even a joke, watch it for his performance alone. I laughed, I cried, a perfect film (even though they never address abortion as a viable option lol Lifetime can only go so far ig).

This was Purely just for me but if you read this and watch these movies please lmk what you thought ~

[lesservillain]

best friend!eddie x reader

cw: SMUT, unprotected piv, pregnancy scare, one sided feelings, sort of sad at the end? an: the prequel to baby daddy!eddie but could be read as a stand alone if you wanted wc: 3.4k

A few years ago…

Music played on the stereo in Gareth’s garage, filling the house through the cracked door that connected to the house. The host himself was passed out on his living room couch, the rest of the boys laughing at him for falling asleep. The only ones left at the party were Jeff, Grant, Eddie and you, the few other guests who came to celebrate their graduations left not long ago.

You rolled your eyes as they placed Gareth’s hand in a bowl of water, a prank that one of them heard would make someone piss themselves in their sleep. Instead of taking part in their stupid prank, you chose to help out with cleaning up. Empty beer cans and other snack bags started filling up the trashcan as you made your way around the kitchen.

“What are you in here doing, sweetheart?”

You turn to see Eddie leaning against the door frame of the kitchen, watching you as you pick up more trash.

“Trying to be helpful,” you say, shoving as much trash into the can as you possibly can. Eddie laughs, pushing off from the frame to walk over to you. He grabs the bag from the can and proceeds to tie it. You smile up at him. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says after a moment of looking at you. You get an overwhelming feeling of domesticity as you watch Eddie take the bag out the back door. You watch him through the window as he places the bag in the can. Lighting up a cigarette, he waves at you from the cans, and you feel your cheeks grow hot from being caught staring. 

Eddie was your best friend. Has been since he moved to Hawkins back in 4th grade. The two of you met after you spent the summer in the trailer park where his uncle and your grandma both live in. You rolled with most of the kids there, but Eddie was like a new toy to you. 

He was hard to get out of his shell at first, mostly due to traumas you weren’t aware of at the time. In retrospect, you really pushed him hard, ever persistent in your daily trips to Wayne’s trailer to get him to come out. But when he finally did agree to play with you, the two of you became immediately inseparable. 

Everyone always joked about the two of you spending so much time together, laughing at the grossed out reactions the two of you would have at the mention of the two of you getting married one day. If your grandma was still alive, she would probably be distraught knowing that you had a massive crush on anyone other than Eddie.

After replacing the trash bag, you decide to join Eddie outside. The cool air feels amazing on your skin. The boys don’t have a lot of friends outside of each other, but when all of them start drinking and playing games they seem to generate a lot of heat in such a small space.

“Want one?” Eddie asks as you approach, smoke billowing from between his lips. You nod and he pulls out his pack. 

“Did you have fun?” You ask as he lights the cigarette for you, your hands brushing as he hands it over. The feeling of your skin touching felt like electricity through your hand.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, taking a drag. “I mean, I think it could have been just the two of us and I would have been happy. I’m just glad to finally not have to go back to that hell hole.”

“I’m happy for you, too,” you smile, taking a step closer to him. “Eddie, you honestly have no idea how proud I am of you. Like, I want to shout from the roof tops that Eddie fucking Munson graduated!”

Eddie giggles at your praise, swaying a bit where he stands from the amount of alcohol he’s consumed tonight. He stretches an arm out and you oblige, accepting his tight embrace. He smells like alcohol, weed, sweat, and notes of cheap cologne that he sprayed on earlier in the evening. It was a bit intoxicating in your current state. 

Drinking either made you super friendy or super horny, and tonight you were heading towards the latter. 

You would never admit it, but you’d been watching Eddie all night. There was an air about him tonight. Call it confidence or call it something else, but it was something you’d never seen in him before. It’s like he’s gotten a new found sense of life knowing that he was finally free to do whatever he wants in life. There was nothing left to tie him down and he knew it.

And, maybe unfortunately, it was doing something for you. You’d never really thought about Eddie like that before, your long time crush on Steve clouding your mind when it came to paying attention to anyone else. But something has…changed.

And after a shot or two that you took with a few of his friends from theater class (those kids are wild), everything he did just seemed to be doing something for you. You almost fell over when he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his stomach that you’ve seen a thousand times on on display looking extra lean and just…

“Hey, are you okay?”

You instantly went from feeling good to being super aware of the way Eddie’s body was touching you. With the way he was holding you, his hand rested just above your chest, almost resting on your breast. The veins in is hand seemed more prominent, the rings on his fingers suiting his hands well.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, letting go of the breath you didn’t know you were holding. When he doesn’t say anything, you slowly turn to look at him. Which was a mistake, because the way he was staring at you took your breath away again. His big brown eyes stared into yours, lidded in a way that made you want to squirm.

“Eddie? Are you good?”

He doesn’t respond, only blinks. His gaze shifts, flickering back and forth between your lips and your eyes and you feel your stomach flip. 

This isn’t how best friends look at each other. Friends don't caress your cheek like he does. They don’t pull you in, making your fronts flush with each other. They don’t start to block out the light from the moon as they lean in. Their lips don’t meet yours, and you aren’t supposed to accept it, kissing them back.

But, before you know it, your kiss turns into kisses. Feverish and hungry, tongues dancing in sync like lovers do. You’re not lovers, but you feel that line blurring as your body is being pulled away. 

The two of you don’t disconnect until you suddenly stop. Eddie is the first to break off the kiss, reaching behind him to open the doors of his van where he pulls you in. You don’t protest, gladly jumping in and pushing him down so that he lays under you. You can tell by the look on his face he wasn’t expecting it. His eyes watch you as you pull the van doors closed.

Once they click together, everything happens quickly. Rushed touches and clothes flying in every direction, the two of you melt into each other.

Your perched in his lap, breasts are pressed into him with arms wrapped around his neck as you almost eat him alive. His hands rub down the expanse of your back until they land on your ass, palming you underneath your panties as you grind down against him.

Eddie is painfully hard under you. For the brief moment that you looked down at him, you were shocked at the size of the tent in his boxers. It was the one thing about him that you didn’t know anything about after all these years. It sent waves to your core that only made you feel things for him you’d never felt before.

In an attempt to speed things up, you let your hand trail down his chest, his stomach, and down past the hem of his boxers. Your brows shot up when you gripped him, his true size in your hand taking you by surprise.

“Mmmm, shit,” he moans under you, and your breath hitches. You watch him carefully as his face contorts in a way that you’ve never seen; a new side of Eddie that you feel privileged to witness.

And then his his hand is on your head, guiding your mouth up and down on his huge cock. Tears threaten to fall down your cheeks with how far down your throat he tries to get you. But you do your best to take it like a champ. Especially with how he praises you.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” The words fall from his lips like flowing water. He lost the barrier to keep his thoughts to himself as soon as you took your bra off. “Please don’t stop.”

How could you possibly deny him? You can’t. You blow him better than you ever have before, until his thighs are clenching around your head. You were fully expecting him to blow his load in your mouth at this point and you would have let him. But he pops you off of him and holds you in his hands until he can catch his breath.

“Eddie, whats wrong?” You ask confused.

“I’m sorry,” he says with heavy breaths, “Didn’t want to waste this chance by cumming too quick.”

Your heart leaped in your chest at his words, insinuating that he wanted more than just a quick bj in the back of his van. You’d never thought you’d be doing this with him, but in your current state Eddie could tell you to kill someone you would without question.

“Okay,” you say with a nod, shifting your body until you were sitting in front of him. There was an awkward pause as the two of you stared at each other. You waited for him to make the next move but it seemed like it was never going to come. You’re sure Eddie is just as wrapped up in the moment as you, so you decide to go ahead and make the next move.

You crawl towards him until you’re sitting just above his lap. His eyes never leave your face, round and in awe of you as you move closer to him. You place a hand on either shoulder and you can feel how tense he is.

“Eddie, are you sure you want to do this?”

He’s frozen for a moment. Until his head begins to nod so quickly he could have given himself brain damage from the speed.

“Yes, yeah, I am. As long as you are…”

“I do, too,” you assure him. You look around the messy interior of his van for a moment before looking back at him. “Do you, um, have a…”

Eddie’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head as his face shifts into that of a state of panic. He starts to babble, words incoherent until he’s able to form a sentence.

“I-I-I don’t, um, I don’t have any…condoms.” The last word comes out in a hushed tone, almost ashamed as he admits it.

“Well, shit,” you say, finger coming to tap against your lip as you think. You’d never done it without a condom before, and even if you trusted Eddie, the last thing you two needed was an accident to happen.

“I’m sorry, I just--I’ve never done this, so--”

“Wait, what?” You say, stopping him in his tracks. He looks up at you like he said something wrong and it kills you. “Eddie,” you try and keep your tone as neutral as possible, “Are you…still a virgin?”

Eddie swallows, eyes now looking anywhere but you. Eddie’s never brought up anything about his sex life before to you, but you’d not really been all that open with him for that very reason. But you’d always assumed it was just a mutual respect thing, not that he didn’t have anything to share to begin with.

“It’s okay if you are,” you add, “It doesn’t bother me.”

Eddie looks at you again, though now with cheeks pinker than ever. He sighs, nodding once again, but with less vigor than before.

“Yeah, I’m a…virgin.”

Something inside you flips when you hear him admit it out loud. A giddy feeling inside takes over your thoughts as you come to a realization.

“Do you want me to help you change that?”

You barely recognized your own words, and the look that Eddie gave you told you that it came out just as suggestive as you intended. 

“Are you sure?” He stutters out, “I don’t want you to do it because you feel like you have to--”

“Shhh,” you shush him, placing a finger on his lips. “I’m doing this because I want to,” you say, lowering yourself so that the tip of his cock sits right at your entrance. You feel it jump in your hand at the contact. “You just have to say the word.”

Eddie’s eyes are locked where the two of you touch, his breath hitching as your juices coat his thick head. 

“Please,” he says, still looking between you. “I want to.”

You smile, a heat taking over your body as you realize what you’re about to do. But, you try not to let the idea of taking your best friends virginity take you out of the moment. You had to be in charge here and you didn’t want to let Eddie down.

Without a second thought, you start to lower yourself down on him. He’s bigger than you’ve been with before, so you take your time to work him in since you didn’t get any prep before hand.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, stopping you just as you get the tip all the way in. 

“What, what’s wrong?” You ask, starting to pull off of him. But his hands land on your hips to keep you in place.

“I want to do this. Like, you have no idea how much I want this right now. But, what about the no condom thing?”

You blink, thinking quickly over your options. The two of you are too intoxicated to go and get a condom right now. Plus, he’s already technically inside of you, so what good would one do that pulling out wouldn’t, right?

“Just…when you’re about to cum, just tell me and I’ll get off. Okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you want me to change my mind?”

Eddie mimics zipping his lips, and you roll your eyes at his playfulness.

“Can I continue now?” He nods again, giving you a thumbs up.

You try to get yourself back into the moment by slowly moving up and down, focusing on the feeling of Eddie’s cock inching deeper and deeper inside of you with each movement. Eddie’s head rolls back and you feel his hips bucking subconsciously beneath you. 

You decide not to torment him anymore and fully seat yourself in his lap. He bucks forward, face colliding with your chest as he’s taken aback by the feeling. 

“You okay?” You say with a giggle, though you’re barely holding back a moan yourself at feeling his cock fully stretching you. 

“Mhmm,” he whimpers into your skin, the grip he has on your hips almost bruising. 

“Do you want me to give you a minute?”

He shakes his head. “No, please move.”

And so you do. You take your time at first, really to give yourself ample opportunity to prepare to take him at a faster pace. But with the sounds he’s making, you feel yourself getting wet enough that you can bounce yourself on his cock with more ease. He keeps his face burried in your chest as you move up and down on his cock.

Eddie’s hands loosen on your hips and move themselves up your sides until they land on your breasts. He holds them around his face, fondling and groping as they rub against his face. He takes one of your nipples in his mouth, licking and teething at it softly, sending little shocks of pleasure through you.

All of the feelings were honestly a lot for you to take in. And the more you looked down at him the quicker your own orgasm was approaching. You let yourself forget about his pleasure for a moment as you chased your own high, fully seating yourself to let the thick patch of hair at his base rub deliciously against your clit. You rolled your hips against him and he whined into your chest.

Suddenly, your vision goes white as you feel yourself cumming on his cock. Your body starts to shake, and you’re pussy spasms around him, coating him in your cum.

“Is that you cumming? Holy fuck, I--”

There wasn’t much time to react as your pussy was suddenly being filled. Eddie’s body tenses under you as you’re only just now coming down from your own high. But when you finally realize what was happening, you jump up as fast as you can, head hitting the top of his van.

“Fuck! Damn it, Eddie!”

He snaps out of his post orgasm bliss and jumps up after you, also hitting his head on the ceiling in the process. 

“Shit! Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Eddie’s never been more panicked in his life than right now. Not even when he almost got caught by Hopper selling out in the woods. “I can fix this! I-I-I-”

“Eddie, how the hell are you going to fix this? Fuck me, this is my fault. I should have just said no when you said you didn’t have a condom.”

“No, please don’t be mad,” he says, grabbing your arms and giving you the most pathetic, sad look you’ve ever seen. 

“Do you have any money?” You ask him after a moment.

“I probably have like $3 to my name right now. Why?”

“Shit, I just paid my car payment so I only have like $10. I was going to say we could run to the pharmacy and get a Plan B.”

“What’s that?” 

“It’s like a pill that’s supposed to keep you from getting pregnant. But they’re, like, $20 or something crazy like that.”

“I’ll go to Rick. I can probably get some supply from him and sell it in a couple days.”

“I think it only works like the next day. It’s called the morning after pill for a reason I think.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

“What about Wayne?”

“I can’t go to Wayne.”

“Why not?”

“Why don’t you ask your mom?”

You sigh. He had a point. There was no way you could ask your mom without her asking why. And money was already tight so there wasn’t a good excuse to make up for you needing $20 out of the blue. 

“You know what, it’s fine.” You say, convincing yourself that it was. “My period should be coming soon, so I think we’re okay.”

“How soon is soon?” Eddie asks, clearly not convinced.

“Like, in a week and a half? Usually around the beginning of the month.”

Eddie breaths in, then out, head slumping. He drops to his knees before you and you can see his body start to shake.

“Eddie?” You drop down to his level and get a look at his face. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and it sent an arrow through your heart to see him so upset.

“I’m so sorry.” His words come out watery, his head starting to shake. “I didn’t want this to be how it happened.”

His words hit you like a truck. Of course he didn’t want his first time to be like this. He probably wanted it to be with someone he loved, not with his friend, and definitely not with the possibility of getting you pregnant. 

Guilt washed over you. You should have been the better person and not given in to your sick desire to share something like this with him. 

But it’s too late.

You can only hope that this doesn’t ruin your friendship forever.

than you for reading!

[magalidragon]

paris is always a good idea | a Jonerys Drabble

Thank you @youwerenevermine​ for my wonderful birthday gift, I love it so much and I love Paris so much and Jonerys and you for making this for me so I felt inspired and wrote a quick little drabble thing, lol. It’s only the fourth time I’ve written Jonerys in a modern, non-Westeros world, but it was fun!  And I wanna’ go back so much!  Paris, je t’aime!

They met while in university, oddly enough, as fate would have it, on her birthday.

She had been there to study art, for a year abroad, savoring every last second wandering the wide, arched hallways of the Louvre, staring at grand masters for hours on end, burning the vibrant colors and mesmerizing brushstrokes into her memory, wishing she could be as good as them one day.  One day, someone would have her art in their house, and proudly boast they'd gotten it back when she was but a nobody, painting on the streets or in the grassy parks.  

Since it was her birthday, she decided to treat herself, and instead of heading straight to the university to get some time in the studio, she decided to get an ice cream at Berthillon, heading to the Ile-St-Louis instead of to the metro, taking her time to admire, as she often did, the glory of Notre Dame, it’s gargoyles and buttresses.

At the glacier she took her time selecting a flavor, did not even mind paying the exorbitant price and shouldered through tourists taking refuge from a cold rain that had begun to fall. She savored it, the clean water bouncing off her peat coat and the beanie she’d tugged over her silver hair.

She was about to set off, to eat her ice cream and wander into the Marais, perhaps drop down into the Latin Quarter— maybe take a trip to Chanel or Dior or Celine to admire the creations she couldn’t afford— when her ice cream went flying, straight onto the wet sidewalk. Where a mass of pidgins attacked it with gusto.

“Merde! Faites attention!” she shouted, stomping her Doc Marten on the ground in petulant annoyance.

The man who had bumped her because he’d been roughhousing with another friend had been apologetic.  He bought her another and said his name was Robb Stark. He was from Scotland, was on spring break with his buddies, which she didn’t care about. To apologize he invited her for a drink, especially when the worker who she’d told it was her birthday had commented on it again when she got another ice cream.

She figured why not?  He was attractive, sorry, and nice enough so she agreed, although she had commented his French was terrible best to speak English. “You’re English?” he had teased.

“Half and half,” she answered. English father, French mother.

At the comptoir where she suggested they meet, in Montmartre, she brought her roommate Missandei and Missandei’s boyfriend Grey. It was just a drink and they’d leave and go to the dinner Missandei planned to take her to anyway.

Except that’s where she met him.

The dark, brooding figure at the tiny table in the corner, ignoring Robb and Robb’s friend Theon, and a couple others, favoring silence and his drink. He was in all black, barely acknowledging her and slipped out for a smoke when Robb began to shamelessly flirt. She didn’t care about Robb, she cared about him.

Jon.

She exited, saw him lighting a cigarette against a lap post. She flicked her coat collar up and sidled towards him. “Puis-j’en avoir un?”

“Sorry I don’t speak,” he began, and his eyes— black in the orange lamplight glow— flicking to her. He smiled gently “French.”

She smiled and repeated her question in English.  “Can I have one?  A smoke  that is?”

He stuck the cigarette between his pouty, sinful lips, framed with a cropped dark beard, and reached into his coat pocket, removing a pack. She took one delicately and he lit it, cupping his hands around the tip so the wind didn’t blow it out.

A stream of smoke escaped her nostrils when she puffed and she smiled up at him, hoping he got the hint. “Do you like Paris?”

“Not especially.”

“Aw come on,” she teased. She hummed, closing her eyes and taking in the cold night. The electric buzz is people on the street and at the cafes and bars around them. “Paris is always a good idea.”

“Someone famous said that.”

“Audrey Hepburn.”

He sucked on the cigarette and smiled, a tiny one, the curve of his lip sly rather than shy.  “You aren’t in there with the rest of them.”

“Because it’s my birthday and I want to do what I want to do.”  She stubbed the cigarette out on the post and turned, disposing it in the bin by the door.  A quick text to Missandei: I’m going to skip dinner, I think I have a date, she turned and studied him.  “I’m…”

“Dany,” he said. He shrugged, finishing his smoke. “I remember.”  

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you were listening when Robb introduced me.”

“I was.”  He pulled the tartan scarf around his neck tighter.  He glanced towards Sacré-Cœur, illuminated white in the lights around its base. He smirked at her.  “You going back in?”

She shook her head. “No,” she drawled. She followed his gaze to Sacré-Cœur. “Have you been up there?”

“No.”

“You should. Some of the best views of Paris.”

He chuckled, voice tight. “You should invite Robb.”

“I think he might be a third wheel.”

It took him a second, the gears in his mind turning, understanding what she was saying. He cocked his head. His black curls were in a mess around his face. A few scattered rain drops landed on them, and he shook it free like a dog. Or a wolf, she thought, noting the animal embroidered on the edge of his scarf.

He narrowed his eyes again. “I told you I don’t really like Paris.”

“Why?”

“It’s loud. Busy. Dirty.”

She laughed. “Every city is like that but in Paris it’s different.”

“Why?”

Her bravado got the better of her and she stepped towards him, linking her arm through his. If he didn’t get it now, he was a stupid fool who deserved it when she kicked him into the gutter. “Because,” she murmured, rising to her toes, trying to gaze as directly as she could into his eyes, which she now saw were actually gray. His breathing quickened. “You’re with me.”

The wolf got the point with that comment. He allowed her to keep her arm around his and lead him towards the cathedral.  They spoke of nothing and anything on the long walk through Montmartre to the highest point in the city.  

He was in Paris for a research trip.  He was studying medieval weapons and was going out to Bayeux to study some relics. His cousin Robb and friends came along for the free trip.  They spoke about being starving artists in their field-- her literally an artist as it were.  They talked about Paris-- how much he disliked it, how much she adored it.  The top of Sacre-Coeur might have changed his mind, but he pretended he still didn’t get the appeal, so she dragged him back down to the streets, to her favorite all-night boulangerie, into the metro and across town to the Eiffel Tower, spinning in circles on the Champs du Mars.  They ran across the Pont-de-la-Concorde and across the Tullieries.  They wandered down the Seine, smoked cigarettes in the doorsteps of old buildings in the Latin Quarter, and drank cheap wine in one of the tourist-cafes near the Jardin du Luxembourg.  

They meandered back through the streets, the city oddly quiet, the rain stopping, and she brought him to her garret studio in the Bastille, up the six flights of stairs to the top of the building, where she shed her coat and boots adn scratched her fat cat Drogon’s ears, leading him to the wrought-iron bars in one of the four windows she had, pushing the window open and crawling out, up onto the roof where she wanted to show him something.  

“Look,” she directed, when he climbed up next to her-- less gracefully-- pointing to the lit-up Eiffel Tower.  

He cursed under his breath.  “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s my favorite place in Paris.  The rent is steep, but it’s worth it for this.”  She chuckled.  “And it has the best view.”

He whispered.  “Yes, it does.”  

And to her surprise, since she didn’t realize the time, the tower began to twinkle, the 20,000 lights across its metal beams flickering and she glanced sideways; he wasn’t watching the tower, but her face.  She arched her brows.  “You know, the lights twinkle for five minutes every hour, on the hour.”  She smiled and shrugged, whispering.  “It’s a sign that you’re supposed to return to Paris.”

Instead of saying anything, like how silly that was, he leaned in and cupped her face in his wide palm, callused and warm, bringing her face to meet his, kissing gently, in the twinkly glow of the lights.  He pulled back a moment later, breathing, “I think I like Paris.  And you’er right...this place has the best view.”  His eyes were wide on hers, focused.  She chuckled, nodding in agreement, and pulled him back to her for another kiss.

That night she savored every moment with him, as they pulled each other’s clothes off slowly, kissing and touching, every smooth curve and muscle of each other, each hard ridge and plane of his strong, muscular body or her soft, lean one.  He touched her and kissed her and stroked her in ways she’d never experienced, bringing her to heights she’d only dreamed about.  It was intense, the lights behind her closed eyelids when she came, over and over, gripping his shoulders, hair, the bedframe behind her.  He rose up and over her, in and out, their bodies moving as one, thrusting and arching.  

She didn’t know if she’d see him again; if this was a one-time, romantic Parisian adventure, but in the morning when she woke, she found him coming back inside from getting pastries and coffees, the faintest scent of cigarettes and her toothpaste on his lips when he kissed her good morning.  

They exchanged their information, vowing to speak daily, and he would see her when he got back from Bayeux.  She couldn’t believe when he did call and he kept his word.  “When you lie, words lose their meaning,” he’d explained, obviously reading her surprise.  

And when her year ended in Paris, she found herself in London, back at university, dreaming of their magical time there, even when they made time for each other, going back and forth from London to Edinburgh; and he from Edinburgh to Paris during the last couple of months of her year there.  

They made it a priority; every single year they spent time in Paris, like they were students again, on that magical night.  

They grew older, no longer needing to find the cheapest drinks and cigarettes, or staying in studio garrets, eventually able to experience some of the best hotels and restaurants the city had to offer, as he sold books and became a well-known author and professor, and her dream of becoming a famous artist came true, when sure enough, someone bought one of her paintings on the side of the Seine, someone who happened to be an art dealer in New York.  

It was their city, where they met, and where they could remember.  

After they married, about fifteen years after that fateful birthday, they visited again, and spun together on the Pont-Neuf, kissing and murmuring how they loved each other and always would, and he took her back to the tiny studio garret, which was now theirs, and sat on the rooftop and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle.  

“Paris is always a good idea,” she murmured, head in the crook of his neck, her back to his front, wrapped in a warm blanket, and his arms tight around her middle.  She tilted her face up to his, sated, and still hopelessly in love with him.  “Take me to Paris, Jon.”

He nuzzled his nose into her cheek, whispering.  “You are Paris, Dany.”

As it was the city where they’d met, fallen in love, and found true happiness, she grinned, because that was his way of saying how much he loved her.  She brushed her lips over his, sighing, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”  

And they kissed, as the Eiffel Tower lit up, and she curled up into him, falling asleep in the city of love and lights.

[starlightrows]

3 — The Pariah

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

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Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Non graphic violence, fire, hypothermia

Summary: Tempers rage in your small town, you are blamed for the less than savory change in patronage

Eventually the storm blew itself out, and your steady flow of patrons returned to eat, drink, stay the night, and move on. As autumn turned to winter, the storms and rain became more frequent, and began getting colder. Frost settled over the ground each night and melted by mid day.

A few weeks after Boba Fett had left your inn, on a chilly morning, you noticed a shift in the townspeople’s attitude towards you. Instead of quiet resentment or unspoken distaste, now they glared at you in the market. You were just trying to pick up some things you needed. More flour, a replacement pitcher for the one you knocked off the bar and broke, soap, and sewing needles. Many of the vendors would not speak to you, one of them wouldn’t even let you look at her wares. Confused and offended you tried to ask what you had done to have service refused, she met your gaze

“Your business is turning our town into a trading post for criminals and mercenaries” she spits “you can buy your soap somewhere else”

“I don’t choose who comes through this town” you point out

“Doesn’t matter, you let them stay” she snaps the box of cut soaps shut and gives you a look, trying to intimidate you into leaving

When you turn around, many of the other vendors at the market, and citizens of your town have gathered around the soap stall. Their voices rise up from their whispers to angry shouts and accusations.

People begin blaming you for their loss of profit, their stolen property… then the accusations get more and more fanatical. The storm that knocked over a large tree and damaged someone’s speeder, another man’s daughter running away to the next town for a boy, the town children’s new interest in playing “bounty hunters and thieves”.

You back away, try to leave the market and get back to the inn. But the crowd follows you, calling out horrible names and slurs. You pick up the pace and try to block them out, but the faster you go— the faster they get.

You’re running now, running to get away from the mob that seems to be growing with each house or business you pass. You’re almost there, if you can just get to the door. The head of the mob catches you by the fabric of your shirt and yanks you back. To your horror, the rest of the mob surges forward and breaks down your door.

Several men shove you and kick you to the ground every time you try to get up. You beg them to stop, to let you go, to make the rest of the townspeople stop what they’re doing.

You can hear them inside. Smashing your glasses, using rocks to shatter the windows, flipping the tables, ransacking the kitchen, probably stealing your money and your food.

Then there’s smoke rising from the back window. Someone must have knocked coals out of the hearth. People come pouring out of the inn, disappearing back into the town and surrounding woods carrying armfuls of your stuff and coughing as black smoke billows out of your home.

The men who had been keeping you down scattered off with the rest of the crowd. You got up on your knees as the flames overtook the inn… your business… your home… burning before your eyes, and you were powerless to stop it.

The sky darkens as ugly grey clouds mask the sun. You drag yourself away to the edge of the forest just in time for the rain to begin falling. Luckily the rainfall helps to beat back the red hot tongues of fire that have engulfed your home.

You sit for hours, half waiting for the mob to return and continue beating you with sticks. But there is only you, the rain, the ruins of your inn and the smoke that begins to rise into the sky. Rain comes and goes, and the sun begins to set behind mountains. The fire seems to have gone out. You know it’s dangerous to try to poke around in the wreckage, but you have no choice.

You haul yourself up, shivering on unsteady legs and step over what used to be the front wall. Blackened wood, melted and misshapen silverware, the hearth and chimney still stand. The entire upstairs has collapsed. It’s jarring to see burnt bed frames with charred mattresses covered in ash. There’s nothing left. What little you had that actually belonged to you was gone or burned beyond saving.

Night is falling and you’ll freeze if you don’t figure out some way to get warm or have shelter. You’ll figure out what to do tomorrow if you live to see the dawn. You continue to pick through the rubble until you find something you might be able to use. The wash basin you kept in the back and used to bathe and do your laundry. It’s made of metal and miraculously intact.

Dragging it away is more effort than you expected, it’s always been an awkward item to move around. But nevertheless you drag it away from the wreckage, just inside the treeline. Using two sturdy y-frame tree branches you prop it up against the wind, and set about making a small fire to stay warm.

Thank the Maker, it didn't rain again that night. And the fire reflected back against the bottom of the tub and kept you warm all night. At first light you’re up, putting out your campfire and picking through the rubble again to find anything that could be useful. You don’t find much… just an old hunting knife your father had left to you and an iron cup.

You decide your best course of action is to walk the 45 miles to the next settlement and either seek justice for what’s happened to you… or disappear and not make any trouble. The trek to get there will take three or four days, and that’s if you make good time. Might as well get a head start.

————

Word traveled quickly about what had happened. Many mercenaries, bounty hunters and their quarries alike arrive in town to stay at the inn and find that it’s been burned to the ground and the innkeeper has been driven out of town.

The desired effect of reducing criminal activity and foot traffic through the area does occur. But not before they’ve pillaged, vandalized and reaped havoc upon the entire settlement.

The one person in the criminal underworld who seems to miss out on this information is Boba Fett. He returns to your settlement to find the entire town struggling to pick up the pieces of their lives. Your inn is nothing more than a scorch mark on the ground it once sat on with a blackened brick hearth in the center.

His heart aches and his mind turns to dark thoughts of what could have happened to you, and who was responsible for it. He storms back into the settlement, and finds the nearest groveling peasant. It just so happens it was one of the men that kicked you down while your home burned.

“What happened here?” Boba demands. The man cowers from him and doesn’t answer. “I asked you a question. What happened?”

“It was the innkeeper” the man says hastily “She let all the criminals and mercenaries in the galaxy stay under her roof… and they ransacked the town”

He doesn’t buy it… something here doesn’t add up “I don’t believe you” growled pointing a blaster at the man “Either convince me, or tell me the truth”

“No no it’s true I swear! We drove her out of town hoping the crime in our settlement would stop”

Boba nods and lowers his blaster “Thank you”

The man looks relieved for a brief moment before he sees Boba raising his blaster again. Boba dispatches him quickly without so much as a word.

We drove her out of town, the man had said. He had no remorse for what happened. No concern for you, your livelihood they had uprooted. Boba was disgusted by it.

Boba returned to the ruins of your home and began to search for any signs of you, and where you might have gone. It doesn’t take him long to find the remnants of your smaller camp fire and the metal tub you used for shelter. A good sign that you were thinking on your feet and likely survived the fire.

He thought about you, put himself in your shoes and went through what must have been going through your mind. Where to go? What to do? Obviously remaining here would not be an option. So what’s the next step? Finding somewhere safer to go.

He knows of two other settlements in this region of your planet. One is 45 miles northeast and the other 62 miles southwest. Both are long trips to take on foot with no supplies. But if you were thinking strategically you would have chosen the 45 mile hike. There’s water sources in that direction and it’s a shorter distance. So that’s the direction he takes off.

————

It’s been three days and you’re not making good time as you hoped you would. No food and cold weather makes your movements slow. You’ve been drinking water but you can only trick your stomach for so long. Plus you’re traveling in the forest just within eye sight of the road because you don’t want to be seen by other travelers. The last thing you need is another angry mob.

Your head hurts and your stomach is bloated from drinking so much water, but you’re so hungry and exhausted from walking. You sit beside a tree near the stream you’ve been following up higher into the mountains.

You wonder what the new settlement will be like. You wonder what you will do there given that you have no money and nothing to trade. You wonder if they would help you take your money and land back if you explained what happened to you. Or would they too cast you out and leave you to fend for yourself. Winter is well on its way. If they don’t help you, you’ll be dead in a matter of weeks. If not from hunger, then exposure to the cold.

These are dark and scary thoughts. Normally you would push such thoughts away and busy yourself with work, but that’s not an option now. You have nothing but time, and your mind races with all the things you’ve lost.

You’ll never get married or have children. You’ll never get to expand your garden. You’ll never start the projects you’ve always dreamed of doing. Making your own clothes. Learning to paint. Writing stories. None of it. All your hopes and dreams will fade with you into the icy cold winds that will take you.

You have to try your inner voice urges you, you have to try to make it

That thought propels you forward. You force yourself to get up and keep walking towards the next settlement. You have to pause every 50 yards or so to rest against a tree, but you don’t let yourself sit back down. You have to keep going.

Meanwhile Boba takes a speeder and begins tracking you. He can tell you’re slowing down. Good because he’ll catch you soon, but bad because that definitely means you’re getting weaker. Suddenly he can see you on the tracking system in his helmet. He can see how slowly you’re moving. He gets off the speeder and goes on foot to catch up with you.

Switching off the tracking system he follows you from a distance for a moment or two. He calls out your name as gently as he can. You whip around and stumble sideways clinging to a tree to hold you up right. There is fear in your eyes. Usually when he’s hunting a bounty that is a mark of satisfaction for him, to strike fear and command respect. But you are not a bounty. He calls out your name again and removes his helmet and hopes you’ll recognize him.

He’s too far away and your vision is too blurry. In your sleep and food deprived mind he’s one of the people that burned down your inn and beat you on the ground. But you’ve poured all of your remaining energy into pushing forward, and have nothing left to put up a fight. You lean against your tree and stare blankly at the figure that you’ve decided is definitely here to kill you.

Boba approaches you slowly with his hands raised to show you he’s not going to hurt you. His face becomes more and more clear to you as he gets closer. You search your mind for the name that goes with his face you recognize. It’s not until he’s right in front of you, catching you by the arms as your knees buckle under you, that you find the name you’re searching for.

“Boba?” Your voice is small and weak, you barely recognize it “You came back?”

He takes you into his arms and pats your back “Of course I came back”

Tag List: @cannedsoupsucks @otterly-fey @paige6768 @littledragonlady

[cinebration]

Negate (Erik Lehnsherr x Reader) [One-shot]

Premise: Erik Lehnsherr discusses ideology with a human—or so he thinks.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: unearthlydust

Contrary to popular belief, Erik liked to be around humans. He approached it with the scientific fascination of someone seeing the last of a species living its existence without knowing it was facing extinction. They didn’t know that the next stage of evolution sat among them, walked past them, breathed the same air.

Humans were zoo animals to Erik. Dangerous, to be sure, but limited by the bars nature had designed around them.

It was this need to witness the ignorance of humans that made Erik stop at a roadside bar and enter.

The bar made no impression on him. It looked like any other roadside bar in the country, replete with battered tables and stools, warm but slightly dim lighting, and smells aplenty ranging from smoke to piss and vomit in dusty corners. Pool balls clacked against each other as they rolled over green felt. Music played in the background, not quite heard over the subdued din of voices. 

The only anomaly was that despite the late hour, the drunks weren’t rowdy. Perhaps they weren’t drunk at all. Some places like this watered down their beer.

Erik sat at one of the stools at the bar and waved down the bartender with one finger. The man, dressed in the flannels one expected in this particular brand of bar, sauntered over.

“A beer,” Erik said. “Whatever you have on tap.”

The man nodded and plucked up a clean glass from under the counter. Erik pulled out his wallet.

“On the house.”

He paused and slowly turned on his stool in the direction of the speaker. It wasn’t so much the feminine voice that had drawn his attention as it was the quiet authority in it. The kind of quiet authority only wielded by people with true power.

Power of self over others.

Funny how many humans had that despite their inferiority.

Erik’s gaze raked over your frame. You sat at one of the round tables behind him, meeting his gaze levelly.

“That’s very generous,” he said.

The bartender set the beer before Erik. Grabbing it, Erik strode over to you. The chair across from you slid out from under the table, pushed by your foot as invitation. He accepted, sat down, took a long sip of his drink.

When he set the glass back down, he asked, a tone of amusement in his voice, “Why do I merit a free drink?”

“All first-timers get one,” you answered.

Interesting terminology, Erik noted. His gaze swept past you around the room, surveying the bar’s patrons. Now that he looked at them, he realized they weren’t quite whom he would’ve expected in such an establishment. The people ranged from vagrants to upper middle-class. They commingled peaceably.

“I like watching people, too,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “They never know what’s going to hit them.”

Eyebrows arching, Erik turned your words over in his mind. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

“It’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”

He laughed. The presumption of this human.

You smiled thinly and introduced yourself.

“Like the name of this bar,” he noted, recalling the illuminated sign announcing the bar’s presence to passersby on the road.

“The very same.”

“You own this place, then?”

“Two for two. What do I call you?”

“Erik.”

“With a C or a K?”

“No one’s ever asked me that.”

“First time for everything.”

“A K.”

“Very nice. So, Erik with a K, what brings you here?”

He thought for a moment before answering, his teeth flashing, “Passing whimsy.”

“You don’t strike me as the whimsical type.”

“You presume much about a complete stranger.”

“I see all kinds come and go here,” you said slowly, your attention casting about the room. “I’ve seen them all. So I can tell things.”

“Not all of us are the same,” Erik countered. “Some of us have evolved.”

Silence.

Your eyes bored through his. “Metaphorically or literally?”

“Literally.”

Your gaze dropped from him. Plucking some lint off your pants, you said, “Like those mutants.”

Erik stilled. A feral smile spread across his lips. “Yes, like ‘those mutants.’”

You nodded. “Evolution is a funny thing. Do you think humans are the Neanderthals? Or are the mutants?”

A slight crease formed between Erik’s brows. The conversation rang mild alarm bells in his head. “Humans.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I hope humans can continue on as part of mutant genetic code like the Neanderthals.”

Erik leaned forward. “That’s quite an attitude toward your own species.”

You shrugged. “If mutants are the next step, what have I to fear? Nature has chosen.”

“Humans fear everything that scares them.”

“They can’t change the inevitable.”

“If there were a mutant in this room right now, you wouldn’t be afraid?”

“Far from it.”

Erik’s gaze dropped down to the simple necklace around your neck.

“And what if I were a mutant?” he asked. “If I showed you my power, you would change your opinion.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You’re the one in for a surprise.”

Erik squeezed his fist, his eyes on the necklace’s metal chain.

It didn’t move.

Erik squeezed again.

Nothing.

Panic reared in his chest, clawed up his spine. He suddenly couldn’t sense any metal in the room. Had he been able to when he entered?

He glanced at the beer. Had he been drugged?

Your voice cut through the panic.

“Tell me,” you said, “where exactly would a mutant like me belong?”

All eyes in the room suddenly turned on him.

He glanced up, brow furrowing in confusion even as his eyes widened a fraction in alarm.

“The only mutants who like to be around me are the ones who don’t want the world to see their real faces.” You gestured around the room. “Everyone here is a mutant, Erik. Can’t you tell?”

His gaze swept over the stony faces of the bar’s patrons. No, he couldn’t tell. That had been Charles’s ability, not his.

He would have brought the whole roof down on a group of his own kin.

“Everybody out,” you declared.

Reluctantly, the customers filed out of the bar. As the door swung shut behind the last of them, Erik glimpsed the furthest ones changing back into their normal forms. Beautiful, all of them, to his eye.

The door clicked shut.

“If you create a world where we are the norm,” you continued, your voice strong in the silence, “I would become obsolete. After all, what good is someone like me, who negates mutations, in a world where we are proud to display our mutations?”

“I…”

You leaned back in your chair. “Exactly. You see, Erik, you believe any mutant who wants to coexist with humans is a traitor. But for a mutant like me, I have to coexist with them. Why? Because otherwise I would be alone.”

You stood, your chair scraping along the wooden floor. Erik watched you disappear into the back room and return a moment later with your jacket and your bag. Slinging it over one shoulder, you gave him a long look. He felt it rake over his soul.

“Think about that,” you muttered, “the next time you say mutants protect mutants. Would you want to protect me?”

Striding past him, you paused at the door and clicked the overhead lights off. “Lock up for me, would you? I don’t want this place robbed.”

Erik sat in the dark and the silence for five minutes after you walked off into the night, turning over the conversation in his head.

Closing his eyes, he felt around with his senses. The metal bar stools and the fixtures overhead creaked slightly as he tugged lightly on them, testing his powers.

They had returned.

Erik breathed a sigh of relief and stood. Following your path out the front door, he paused to click the lock shut from the outside. He stepped back a few paces to look up at the sign overhead. Your name no longer glowed, the lights extinguished.

Would he protect someone like you?

His stomach twisted as he recalled the helpless panic he had felt.

No, he wasn’t sure he would.

[ddullahan]

hadestown au 1

HI SO My anxiety has been through the fuckin roof for the past few weeks and in a fit of stress I deleted the first look of the bees hadestown au that I posted a few weeks ago. I’m feeling much better now and I wanted to repost it because I really am super excited about it >< Anyway, second verse, maybe same as the first, here we go! ---------------- it’s an old song As all tales begin, there comes a moment of question. The precipice we all stand at, toes hanging over the edge, eager to take the plunge. The question, different for every eye and ear turned to the story, starts as a feeling. It buoys us through the long swathes of paragraphs ahead. It seeps into our minds, and pushes us off the edge. We have that moment of freefall. Of realisation. We have to trust in something to catch us. Like most fairy tales, it begins with once upon a time. There laid a railroad track.   If you've ever heard the rails sing on a good, windy day, you'd know the sound sticks to the back of your mind. There to stay until the dark of night, when it creeps up to whisper wanderlust into your bones. The song of the rails is a low and resonant thing, humming into the willows scattered along the railroad sides. They used to say the rails were the Fates groaning in your ears. Urging you along. Waiting in anticipation for the train to come to call. Waiting for the story to start its freefall. The metal likes to wail beneath blackened wheels on hot, summer days. Days much like the one in which our story begins. Once upon a time - Metal chatters under the weight of an ancient, scorch-marked train. Decorated with blacked out windows. Panes of glass soot-stained, like they’d been brushed with fire one too many times. Coal smoke bursts from its chimney with a grudge, flooding the gray skies in the type of black smog that you can taste in the back of your mouth, long after the train’s disappeared. It was painted white once, a long, long time ago. A gift from the boss man down below for his flowering wife; but it’s one of those gifts you shove in the back of your drawer. One of those things that you spend your nights lying awake in bed, thinking in guilty chords. The train still runs, but the old white sides are now black and cold. Like the panting of dogs on the skin of your heels, the wind still blows hot behind it. The only thing it tows are souls to their final destination, but it won't take you if you ain't got the gold to board. It’s a fact almost everyone knows. ‘Cause the old legends say the road to hell could lead you out of poverty, but you gotta pay the toll to get that good money. The wind cracks and snaps after the train; sends the short ribbons of inky black hair whipping. Snapping into the brown-skinned face of a hungry young woman.   Blake Belladonna’s eyes glint like knives with a debt to pay, and her steps are sure footed against the rolling rocks under her boots. She wears a weathered bag slung over her shoulder, and a once-warm leather duster now worn to shit and hole-y. She seems small among the billowing willows and smoggy skies. She doesn't know where she's going or how she got to the railroad at all - but she knows how to turn her collar against the wind. And she knows how to run.   Metal shrieks, pulling her eyes up like a hand to the chin. She’s left to watch as the ruined, black omen of a train screams past a small, dilapidated station. It’s the only structure for miles. The cicadas are screaming along to the wailing of the tracks in a symphony, until the locomotive vanishes over the curve of a distant hill. The station's dry, mud-caked windows send silt drifting to cracked, rotting floorboards. The coke-bottle thick panes rattle angrily in their fragile frames, and then come to find their peace once more. Damn this is a dump, the young woman thinks, approaching the station. But it'll have to do. The sun's rays sink into her skull and turn her warm brown skin hot to the touch. It's far too hot for April. Stepping into the shade is an immediate relief, until the hot wind kicks up again. It blasts in her face as if to remind her it's there. As if she could ever forget. She's used to the way it whispers starvation in her ears. She throws the door open and escapes from the wind; stumbles her way into the empty station. Small and dusty like it’d been forgotten, filled with only two benches facing each other and a single door hiding behind them in the gloom. There's a sign on the door that reads "End o  th  line Caf ". Faintly, she can hear music behind it. Blake doesn't hesitate, and heads for the door. The knob breaks off in her hand, but it feels familiar and solid so she pockets it and heads inside. Follows the hallway and the pull of her feet to the music. The walls grow darker and thicker with polished wood. Her steps don't seem to echo and the music has since paused. The quiet starts to make her anxious. She doesn't like dark hallways. She's dreamt of them enough for a lifetime. The further she goes, the more her unease starts to grow and the more she starts to wonder if she's been here before. It's ridiculous, really. This is the farthest south she'd ever gone. Or was she in the east? Her anxious heart speeds up for a reason she can't see, and it's like her feet already know where to go. The hallway turns suddenly and she finds herself standing at the rim of an amphitheater of sorts. The music fades back in. There's a band jamming to soft jazz in the stands, people crowded and conversing at tiny tables scattered about the flat floor at the bottom. There's a man at a piano playing a diddy, there's a flicker of gold in the kitchen beyond. It's alive in a way that she hadn't seen in a long time, and she finds her feet eager to join the dancing 'round the tables below. She takes a step and nearly runs into another woman, decked out in a crisp white and red suit. She’s older, maybe late thirties or mid forties - has this eternally kind, yet melancholy smile. Her features are fair, but tired. Her black hair is pulled back like Blake’s, but tipped with red like the ends had been dipped in paint. Blake apologises immediately - "E-excuse me, sorry," and starts picking her way down to the tables. "No worries dear," She hears faintly behind her, the older woman's face already blurred from her memory. She blinks and suddenly she’s on the bottom floor, with the movers and shakers rattling cups with their stomping jive. She wants to move with them, but she's already reaching for an empty chair, like her hand was following its own storyline. The flash of gold catches her attention again. Her feet slip into a shallow groove in the floor, and she is rooted. Something crashes, and her eyes follow the clattering sharp shards of porcelain. One piece with purple trim bounces off a brown boot. She notices a hole near the big toe. Blake looks up, and her heart decides to freefall.   All the way across the floor stands a young woman in an apron. A bucket of newly broken dishes lay at her feet.   Her eyes are so pale and pretty they have their own orbit amidst the aging lights above. Her blonde hair ripples into liquid gold, twisted messily into a bun. Broad shoulders are cinched into position with suspenders and there's an off-white shirt rolled up to her elbows, the hem tucked into a pair of trousers. The skin of her strong forearms are tanned and riddled with freckles, spreading constellations all the way up her neck and across the gradual slope of her nose.   Oh, there's something familiar about all of this. Blake feels it in her bones. There’s something familiar in the ‘o’ of her startled mouth. Something about the empty hands she hovers, still holding an imaginary bucket of plates. She's got those sharp lilac eyes pinned on something in front of her.   It's a jolt to realise she's staring right at Blake. Though suddenly, that older woman in the white and red suit sweeps by that freckled face, and it's with a smile and a wave that their staring contest ends. No one claims the victory as the spell breaks. The older woman asks something that Blake can't hear, but she knows her voice is soft and sweet. Her feet move like she’s skating on air, and Blake decides to focus on that. She focuses on that instead of the heartbeat in her chest. She doesn’t think about how her pulse no longer feels like it belongs to herself. The golden woman nods stiffly and turns. Follows the gliding woman to the back of the house, and Blake is left with a heart migrating into her throat. The hungry young woman quickly tears her gaze away, uproots her feet from the grooves in the floor, and sits at the table she'd claimed. Her skin feels clammy. Her body is buzzing. She shrugs off her bag and coat, then pulls her bag into her lap. As if there was anything in there worth protecting. It could be minutes, it could be hours. She's really not sure, when a shadow falls over her table, and the sight aches like an old friend. A bottle of some fizzy drink is set gently before her, the bottle cap rattling towards her side of the table. Sunflower Pop, it reads. She looks up. The poor young woman, with her liquid gold locks wrapped in a messy topknot, stares right back. They're both struck speechless.   If there was ever a moment where destiny fills the lungs, it was then. Anticipation strings itself between their ribs, the cords like telephone wires humming their universal tune. I found you. I found you. I found you. But neither of them say a word to each other. The anticipation feels closer to a noose than a cup-and-string, the longer they spend breathing in the other's presence. The hungry young woman with hair black as night, just couldn't look away. Couldn't make her voice work right. The gold haired woman's jaw seems to work, but there was still no sound to be heard. Eventually the woman just turns around and walks away, toddling and tripping like her knees were unsteady. Blake sits where she left her, feeling much more than sympathy. She feels like her chair would collapse with her if she tried to follow. And again, there are voices whispering in the back of her mind. The wind already found her inside this place, its voices groaning and hollow. It always finds her, and she knows. She knows it always will. But as her slender fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle left on her table, Blake tastes the fizz and hums. Feels the crackle of carbonation all across her skin as she tracks the tall blonde with her eyes. The wind doesn’t feel like a whip in this vibrant, lively place. That has to count for something. Maybe she should stick around, just for one day. Maybe she would stick around and wait for the band to play.

[highsviolets]

It’s one of those rare weekend afternoons in which your schedules align and you are savoring every minute; taking in the view from your spot on Javier’s couch.

Draped along the leather, you rest your chin on your hands and watch the scene in front of you: the hot hiss of the iron, the soothing, low stroke of it against the cotton of Javi’s dress shirts; the man himself, standing shirtless, wearing only jeans; a cigarette dangling from his lips as his face is a frown of concentration. Your gaze lingering on the tight bunch of his broad shoulders as it moves the iron back and forth, his long, lean arms as he stretches across the board, the cinch of his belly as he twists with the movement.

“See anything you like?”, he teases, bringing you out of your dazed stare.

“Always”, you reply with a smile and he winks at you, leaning to blow one last puff of smoke up at the ceiling while stamping out his cigarette.

You watch him for a while longer and when he finishes the shirt he is working on, he holds it up to inspect his handiwork, sharply snapping it in the air before reaching for a hanger.

The snapping though. Why is that so arousing? Was it the sharp sound? The frown on his face as he did it? His broad shoulders flexing with the effort of it? The way his body moved with the whole motion of it?

Your eyes still on his body, you focus now on the waist band of his jeans; the soft trail of hair that leads into them, the dip just to the side of his hipbone, the way the top button is undone.

Getting off the couch, you walk over to his neatly hung rack of shirts and making sure you are facing him, you peel off your tank top and toss it onto the floor, along with your bra. He stops ironing; watching.

You smirk, fingering through the fabrics until you find his favorite shirt; a soft teal one and you pull it off the hanger, shrugging it on. Your frame engulfed in it, he only has eyes for the strip of skin that shows straight down the middle; your throat, your chest, your belly. Watching you slowly button it, he finally speaks.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I just wanted to check out the fit. You know, as someone who deals with clothing all day.”

He hums in response, setting the iron down and turning it off. Walking towards you, he stops your hands with his; much larger against your own and you look at him, waiting.

“I think”, he murmurs, his voice going straight to your core, “as someone in the costume business, you might actually want to check out the construction of the seams.”

“Is that so”, you reply, your mouth gone slightly dry with how close he is standing next to you; the warm heat of his body so close.

“To do that, I think it would be better if we took this off.” His eyes on yours, you feel his knuckles brush against your sternum as he starts undoing the buttons. He undoes one, then another, then stops and you aren’t sure what is going on when he brings your hands up and presses them over the next button.

“I’ll tell you what”, he says, walking back over to the couch and sitting down, his hips shifting forward so he can recline. “Why don’t you continue and I’ll watch.”

The picture of ease in front of you, you wouldn’t even tell he was aroused save for the bulge in his tight pants, the length of it pressed against his thigh and you want the upper hand back, so you follow him to the couch and climb onto his lap; the shirt gaping away from your chest as you settle into your straddle across his thighs.

Only two buttons holding the fabric together, you follow his gaze and look down at your body, your whole chest on display and you smile, looking back up at him.

“Look, Javi”, you tease. “I’m you.”

“Is that so, sweetheart?” he murmurs, lips barely moving. His dark eyes are still trained on your bare skin, eagerly devouring the sight.

“Mmmhmm.” Your hand trails up his chest, splaying across his collarbone. Raising your hand to your mouth in a fist, you mimic clearing your throat, speaking in a deep voice. “Agent Javier Peña, DEA,” you say, tongue fumbling slightly as your lips curl in a smile around the unfamiliar words. “See?” You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear with your spare hand. “Just like you.”

Javi’s expression matches your own, adding in a slight eyebrow raise that heightens the pit of desire settling in your core. “Almost perfect,” he compliments.

“Almost?” you pout. Looking down at him, hitching your breath as he skims up the sides of your torso with his broad hands under the teal fabric, you think you catch a glimpse of devilry cross his face.

“Almost,” he confirms, sliding one hand over to cup your breast. “You see, baby,” Javi continues to explain, watching your features furrow in an effort to remain focused, “if you were me, you wouldn’t be wearing a shirt at all.” Sure he’s entrapped you in your own logic, he smirks as he squeezes your breast.

Taking a deep breath, you glide your hands down his arms, pushing on his muscled forearms to force his hands off of your body. It’s a sure thing, your hands steady despite the mounting chaos in your brain, the fuzziness that always threatens to overtake you when you’re with him — be it his eyes, or his hands, or the patch of skin on chest that’s always visible when he takes off his tie, tossing it on the table as soon as he walks in. (To be fair, you’ve only seen him do it once. But it was such quick thing that instinct told you it was a habitual act, like the way he irons his shirts in smooth, undisturbed strokes).

“Javi,” you reply stiffly, precisely, arching an eyebrow, “is that any way to speak to a government official?” Your tongue hits the roof of your mouth as you tsk, tearing your gaze away from his parted mouth.

It’s raining again, warm pellets of the stuff dappling against the window in muted thunks. A few drops dribble down the glass in perplexing hindrances, crossing over and around each other. Something about the pattern makes you ache, sparking a deep need for you to let this man know how safe you feel with him in his apartment on a Sunday afternoon, half naked on his couch, watching him iron as rain slants across the city.

“What is it, querida?” Javi sits up slightly, and you shift on lap as his long fingers trail down your arm in an attempt to soothe you. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Urgency laces his voice like poison does a drink, delicately slipping from one word into the next in mounting need. The shadow of his jawline catches your eye as he follows your gaze out the window. “Is there…” he squints. “Is there something out there?”

Higher up now that he’s moved, you card your fingers through the rest of his hair now, admiring its silken texture. It reminds you of some of the fabric in which you dress clients, the kind used by the highest fashion houses to create pieces of wearable art. Perhaps he is your own art, something you both view and create, adding dashes of interpretation to his twisting complexities. He is a technē and a fine art, both a craft and something higher all at once. Aristotle was right about mimesis: the artist in you mingles among the logician in him.

You’re on the cusp of saying so when your eyes gravitate to his chocolate pools, concern etched into every feature. “No, baby,” you whisper instead with a smile, eyes never leaving his, cradling his head in your hands. “Just very happy here with you, is all.”

Blessed deliverance washes across his features, the gesture matching that of rain just beyond the wall. In its place he inserts a wicked grin, one that makes his eyes crinkle and your toes curl. “Could you be better?”

Nimble fingers fly to the remaining buttons on his teal shirt. “Hm, I don’t know,” you muse as the shirt falls open, exposing the rest of your skin at last. “Show me what you’ve got, Javier Peña. How happy can you make me?”

Javi tags: @frannyzooey @catsnkooks @littlevodika @justrunamok @anakin-danvers @goldafterglow @goldenkenobi @teaofpeach @cri-me-a-river  @yespolkadotkitty @rentskenobi @a-seeker-of-imagination @leias-left-hair-bun @nelba // taglist // what i listened to  // facetime javi series masterlist

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

When the Weight Comes Down - 1

Warnings: non-consent sex (series); nothing for this chapter

This is dark! (biker) Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Your father’s a drunk, your mother a recluse, and you’re just another small town girl in Birch.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown

Note: This series features a very inexperienced and shy reader. Not so mouthy as my usual fare but I hope it’s still fun. I couldn’t resist a hot biker Steve spin-off. Most of this is already written and it’s looking like seven chapters total. Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter One: She Didn’t Know

There's a lot you can see when there's nothing to do

💀

You stared out the window as you stood at the sink, your hands pruned in the lukewarm water as you scrubbed the last of the dishes. You could hear your mother in the hallway, wiping the walls. Again. Five, six times a day, she’d wipe down every inch of the place; gather up your father’s empties, and vacuum the old cigarette-scented carpets.

You didn’t remember a day in your life when your mother wasn’t manically tidying every inch of the place. Even when her lip was swollen or her eye was blackened. It was a religion to her. Cleanliness was next to godliness, after all. One of her many lessons.

She rarely left the house anymore. She had never been eager to go beyond the peeling walls but as you got older, she grew more reclusive. She got her check from the government, your father too, though his was often spent on beer and smokes. Some of hers too. 

The old house was ramshackle but someone had to pay for it. You’d worked at the bakery since you were sixteen; more than a decade now, closer to two. An excuse to get out as much as a means to pay for the roof over your head. Babs was like a second mother to you and always let you bring home the stale muffins and cookies.

Your eight hours was a brief respite from the home which had been your childhood prison. The cell without a door. Birch itself was impenetrable. Those born there seemed destined to die there.

You’d dreamt of leaving for years; in that very spot, as you washed the dishes and stared out at the lush grass. You’d float away to a world where you had the strength to walk away; from your paranoid mother and your volatile father. 

You belonged there though. You couldn’t leave knowing your father would beat your mother without a buffer between him. You knew one day the beer would push him over the edge. To leave would be to condemn her.

You pulled the plug and dried the plates one at the time, then the cups and the old bowls that belonged on a thrift shop shelf. Well, that’s where they came from. Your mother never bought nice things; your father would only break them.

Finished, you closed the cupboard and found your mother in the living room, sweeping the crumbs from your father’s old recliner into her hand. You straightened the pillows on the sagging couch and stood on the other side.

“Should I leave the leftovers in the stove for Pa?” You asked.

“It’s late,” She checked the old clock. It was broken. She stood and cupped the crumbs in her hand. “What time is it anyway?”

“Almost nine.” You yawned. You would have to wake up at five to get to work to do the opening bake. “I should probably lay down soon.”

“Would you grab some more vinegar tomorrow?” She asked. “And… a new mop.”

“What happened to the old one?” You blinked.

She looked down guiltily. Another casualty to your father’s temper.

“Ma,” You sighed. “Why do you let him break everything.”

“Better than him breaking me,” She muttered. 

You hung your head and touched your forehead. You wanted to ask her why she stayed, but you had too. You were little better than her. You were both stuck.

“You didn’t give him any off your stipend, did you?”

She frowned. She had.

“The electricity is due,” You said. “Tell me you held onto at least something.”

“I’ll pawn another ring.” She mumbled.

“No,” You waved her away. “No. Don’t.”

“But--”

“I’ll figure it out,” You huffed. “Like I always do.”

You left her there and went to your room. You closed the door and turned on the small lamp beside your bed. You reached under your pillow and pulled out the cracked copy of Frankenstein. 

You remembered when you were fourteen and your mother had found it there. A girl at the grocery store had told you she was reading it for class. You always wondered what they did at the school. Your mother schooled you herself. Times had changed and kids were rotten. She didn’t need you corrupted by the wilting branches of Birch.

Your mother had never read it herself so she confiscated it as filth. A monster! Well, you had sneaked into her room and stolen it right back. You were smarter after that; you hid all your good books as you kept the bland ones on your shelf.

Even when you were of age, well beyond truly, you wondered what other people did. Normal people. Working at the bakery, you made up a story for each customer who came in. And when you walked by the bar with Cleopatra over its door, you dreamt of the Egyptian queen and her many lovers. The world was behind a glass; passing you by as you stood still.

You sighed and opened the book as you laid back. A monster betrayed by his creator. So despised and reviled that his heart turned sour. A monster who was more human than his maker. A being who only wanted love. A soul destroyed by neglect.

You didn’t recall falling asleep but when you woke, the crickets chirped loudly outside your window. You yawned and sat up. The light from the living room streamed down the hall and under your door. You marked your page and tucked the book between your bedframe and mattress.

Your mother was in the living room. She sat on the couch as she held a framed cross-stitch and wove roses into the faded white cloth. You checked the time on the kitchen stove. 1:47 am. 

“Why don’t you go to bed?” You asked.

“Your pa hasn’t come home.” She said. “You know I worry for him.”

“It’s not even last call,” You countered. “Go, get some sleep.”

“I’ll wait for him.”

You chewed your lip as you put your hands on your hips. You went to her and stilled her needle.

“He’ll be home in a couple hours.” You assured her. “Besides, you know how he is when he’s drunk.”

She looked down and pulled away from you. You shook your head and crossed the room. As you entered the hallway and headed for the front door, your mother rose from the couch and her soft footsteps followed you. 

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“To get him, so you can sleep.” You shoved your feet into your shoes.

“Oh no, don’t do that, sweet pea,” She said as she clutched the wooden frame. “You’ll only make him mad and, oh, I don’t want you in that bar.” She lowered her voice as she came closer. “It’s full of those bikers.”

“So, go to bed,” You turned to her.

She scrunched her lips and you knew she wouldn’t. 

“Fine,” She relented. “But don’t talk to anyone. There are dangerous men there.”

You stared at her for a moment before you turned and pulled open the door. Your heart beat furiously as the screen door clattered behind you and you tripped down the front steps. You’d only ever walked by The Asp but never went in. You’d seen the men who went in and out and mounted their big bikes, but you kept to the other side of the street.

The walk wasn’t very long, like any in Birch. The spotlights illuminated Cleopatra’s breast and the snake at her throat. You stood on the curb as you thought of crossing the street. Just do it. You’d just get your father and go. That was it.

You hesitated and nearly fell as you stepped down onto the road. As you came up on the other side, a shadow moved and you flinched. A man in leather stood beside the door with his thick arms crossed, a bandana over his thinning hair. You stared at him and then door as you stopped before it.

“Well,” He said. “You going in?”

“I, uh, yeah, I’m just… getting my father.” You explained.

“Right,” He scoffed. “I don’t give a fuck.”

You pursed your lips and pushed through the door. Inside it smelled of alcohol and sweat. There was a group of men at one of the round tables and a couple around the pool table. Your father sat along the bar, two other drunks not far from him. He sucked on a brown bottle as he grumbled to himself.

You swallowed and made yourself step away from the door. You neared the bar and a woman looked up. She didn’t look very happy as she asked you what you wanted. You shook your head. You’d seen her before. You were sure she worked at the diner but you must have been wrong.

“Pa,” You leaned on the stool next to your father. 

“Huh? What’r’you doin’ here?” He slurred.

“I’m here to take you home.” You said.

“Sure,” He laughed. “Got ‘nother bottle then I’ll go when I feel like.”

“Ma’s waiting,” You insisted. “Come on.”

You tugged on him and he knocked over his half-finished beer. You stepped back at the splash and he staggered to his feet.

“You little brat, I tol’ya leave m’alone,” He snarled. “Fuck’s sakes.”

“You’re drunk. You’ll be lucky if you make it home,” You argued. “I’m trying to help… you got beer at home.”

“And you,” He sneered. “I dun’ wan’ drink there.”

He wobbled on his feet and caught the edge of the bar.

“Beer,” He ordered the bartender who looked over his shoulder. She didn’t move. “S’matter, I got money.”

A man with dark hair shifted in his seat as if to stand and another nudged his shoulder and rose instead. He was tall, a thick beard to match his light brown hair, and blue eyes which sparked as he rounded his table. His jacket was marked with the badge of the club. You grabbed your father’s elbow and he shook you off.

“Looks like you’re done for the night,” The man said as he stopped in front of your father.

“I don’--”

“Excuse me,” The man interrupted his argument. “It’s not a request.”

Your breath was caught in your chest. You’d never heard anyone speak to your father like that. 

“I’ll… I’ll get him home,” You said meekly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” The man looked at you. “You don’t need to apologize for him.”

“Come on,” You whispered and grabbed your father again. 

He followed you. Barely. He stumbled halfway to the door and swore as he fell to his knees and nearly took you down with him. You bent and tried to pull him up and he batted you away as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were almost entirely closed as his hand fell to his stomach and he gave a loud snort.

Two boots came up on the other side of him. You looked up. It was that man again.

“I’m sorry. He fell. I’ll get him up.” You pulled on your father but he was too heavy. You could barely get his shoulders off the floor.

The man grabbed him and lifted him easily. He stretched his arm around your father and you stood.

“I’ll help ya, doll,” He smiled. You couldn’t.

“Really, it’s fine. He’ll wake up and--”

“Let me help you, doll,” He hushed you. “You’ll never get him home by yourself.”

“I can’t--I--” You gulped. Your mother had told you not to talk to anyone. You looked at your father. The man was right. You’d never get him home. “Okay. Thank you.”

He nodded you out the door and followed as you scurried ahead of him. Your father’s feet dragged heavily and you cringed. As you came out into the cool air, the man stepped up beside you, your father on the other side of him. You turned him in the direction of your house and he dragged your father along.

You were quiet. You didn’t know what to say. Perhaps it was better you said nothing. At the bakery, it was easy. You just had to ask people what they wanted. At home, neither of your parents said much; least of all, your father.

“So your Dorritt’s daughter?” He used your last name. “Old man ain’t very talkative.”

You nodded and kept your eyes on your feet.

“Your name?” He ventured. You cleared your throat before you found your voice to answer him. “I’m Steve.” He offered in return.

You were silent again.

“I don’t know you,” He said. “I know everyone in Birch.”

“Well, I… I don’t go out much, I guess.” You replied.

“Oh shit,” He scoffed. “You were the girl who was home schooled.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“We were always jealous of you,” He chuckled. “Hated going to school.”

“I still-- I still had class.” You said. “Just… my ma was my teacher.”

“Ha, wouldn’t expect him to be teaching grammar,” He gestured to your father. “You still live with them?”

You scratched your neck and nodded.

“Nothing wrong with that. Just curious.” He said. “Kinda… respectable. Helping them out and all.”

You were too ashamed to tell him that if you didn’t, no one would. That if you didn’t, your mother likely wouldn’t be able to keep up much longer.

“You’re like your pa,” He mused. “Not much on talking.”

“Sorry,” You said softly.

“But you’re a lot more considerate,” He said. “Apologizing for nothing.”

“So--”

“There you go again,” He laughed. “Look, doll, it’s fine. You don’t gotta talk. Don’t gotta apologize.”

You continued on and your house came into sight. Your father’s old mower rusting in the moonlight as the broken Ford loomed in the driveway. You helped Steve get your father up the front steps and opened the door for him. Your mother appeared in the hallway and gasped as she saw your father and the man who held him up.

“Ma, he’s just helping me get Pa home,” You assured her. “You know how he drinks and--”

She nodded frantically and backed up into the front room. You waved Steve through and directed him to drop your father on the couch. Steve looked around and his lip twitched. His eyes returned to you, clung to you, and he smirked.

“Well, you have a good night, Mrs. Dorritt,” He nodded to your mother then you, “And Miss Dorritt.”

“You too.” You breathed as your mother squeezed your arm.

He turned slowly and you both were still as you watched him go. The front door shut and your mother rushed down the hall. She locked the door quickly as you peeked around the door frame. She turned back and pushed herself against the door.

“I told you not to talk to anyone,” She said.

“I didn’t mean to. Pa, he just, keeled over, and Steve--”

“Steve!” She stormed towards you. “That man was one of those bikers. You better leave him alone. Pray he leaves you alone.”

“I didn’t--”

“Bad enough your pa goes down there,” She slipped past you and looked down at your father. “He’s better off drinking on the porch. No one to knock him one.”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they did,” You hissed. “It wasn’t me, ma. It was him.”

“I told you not to go,” She snapped.

“Yeah, I know,” You sighed as you turned to head back to your room. “You told me.”

[chiwhorei]

a cigarette between friends

pairing: k. ukai x fem!reader

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst, implied smut, 18+ minors dni

warnings: implied smut, no actual sex scene; death of a parent; fwb; cursing; smoking; drinking; characters are 18 i do not, would not, and will not write minors

hymns: mover awayer by hobo johnson, it ends tonight by all-american rejects, and closing time by: semisonic

After the ceremony ends, even just a few hours removed, the reality of adulthood starts to settle uncomfortably in both of their chests. This would be the night that changes everything.  

“I have to say it.” They both think to themselves and brace for the impact this night is bound to bring.

Ukai Keishin and Sawamura y/n sit on the roof of y/n’s house and watch the sky melt  from pink to deep purple. They should be out with friends or family, rejoicing in the freedom that graduation has brought them, but neither have many friends anyway. Not ones worth more than this rooftop and the view above them. “Cheers, Kei. We’re celebrating.” She says grabbing a pack of cigarettes and lighter  from the windowsill behind her. She rolls her big, doey eyes and smacks the bottom of the box. She lights one and passes it to him after a few puffs. “Volleyball is over, one cigarette won’t fucking kill you.” She was wrong. That one cigarette would stop his fucking heart every time he watched her take a drag. The way she talks with it bobbing between her teeth was just as intoxicating as the six-pack of beer next to them.

Never has the tension between them been so thick. There are words hanging like nooses from her tongue, but for the first time in her life y/n couldn’t say what was on her mind. Ukai is always on the receiving end of the sharp comment shooting off of her lips, and he always dishes back what is served. The more they hurl verbal weapons, the closer they are pulled together. There was a magnet impeded in each respective skull and they always come crashing into one another. 

If anyone ever saw them together- or caught them together- during school or before Volleyball practice, they were fighting. The steam rising from both parties was palpable whenever they were within ten feet of each other. No one knew what it was like in these moments, though. No one knew what the pair was like behind a closed door or on top of a roof. They were truly inseparable. 

The only times y/n is quiet is when sucking on Ukai’s tongue. 

It goes one of a few ways with Ukai Keishin and Sawamura y/n. There are plenty of late-night booty calls or summoning each other out of pure boredom. Most often, however, their screaming matches end in hate fucking. That’s how this all started anyway.

“Maybe if you could take your head out of your ass, Ukai, we would be able to finish this project without ripping each other’s throats out.” She whispers at him in an even tone, glaring across the table they share at the library.

Being in the same classes was already grating on both of them. Whatever subject, they would be at odds. Constantly prolonging class discussions just to try to win the competition they created for themselves.

 Ukai didn’t actually care to debate the meaning of Cordelia's death in King Lear, but since Y/n had an opinion he surely wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to piss her off. This fighting came to a head when they were paired together for a literature project at the beginning of their third year. Everyone around them braced for impact when the pairs were assigned, realizing the cluster-fuck about to unfold.

“And maybe you could take the stick out of your ass.” He grumbles, but then a sadistic grin spreads across his face. He picks up his chair and drags it to the spot directly next to her. He leans right into her ear, “Unless that’s where you like it, Miss Perfect.” 

His comment was a gamble for sure, Ukai knows that the hot tempered girl next to him will probably hit him with her notebook, but if he shocks her, he wins.

“I usually don’t start with things up my ass. Plus, I’m into blondes.” A small shrug and bored look was all he got. Dammit. He should have known that he wouldn’t faze her that easily. Still… She doesn’t acquaint her hand with the back of his head, so he decides to push her a little further.

“How about we take a break and I can relieve some of your tension, y/n.” She stops writing in the sea of papers in front of them and looks at Ukai with unwavering eyes. Her stare is so intense he starts to prepare for the worst. At least in the position they’re currently sat in she can’t kick him in the balls. 

“Okay.” Y/n starts packing up her things and Ukai is reeling. Nothing shocked her, and even if he had propositioned her, Y/n always had control. 

Whichever way it starts, whether the tension threatens to boil over or just out of boredom, it ends in with him slamming her against the nearest surface while she pulls on the short brown hair at his nape. She has an amazing way of bringing out passion in people and Ukai is no exception. She challenges him at every turn. She elicits rage, anger, frustration- but he comes back for more like she’s holy communion. 

“What are we doing?” Ukai is agitated by the silence that has consumed the past few moments. Y/n scoffs at his quip and takes the cigarette from his hand, bringing it to her plush, disarming lips. “Come on, what’s some room temperature beer and a cigarette between friends?” Now it was his turn to scoff. 

“I’m not sure we would be considered friends, princess. We’re,” He pauses to contemplate, rubbing the bottle he’s holding between his palms “more like business associates.” The comment feels like poison in his mouth, even though it receives the intended chuckle from y/n. He takes a hearty sip from his beer to wash down the taste of his own words. 

He wasn’t lying, these two are not friends. Ukai, even if he was closer to a delinquent than a valedictorian, lives in a different world than y/n. He has athletic talent and a drive to compete, he has a group to belong to and a uniform to adorn. She mulls around with the crowd who directly opposes structured sports. Every time they’re shuffled into the gymnasium for a pep-rally, her friends jeer and taunt as various captains speak words of encouragement.

She hates her friends almost as much as she hates everyone else. She never thought liking vinyl and horrible black coffee were interesting traits, definitely not ones to develop a whole personality around. Y/n thinks it stupid to oppose society without a good reason. She has plenty of reasons, but the friends around her never made compelling points. Even so, she doesn’t have to like the people around her to understand the need for a place to belong. Until she found somewhere to truly be herself, they would have to work. Not that it matters now, even freshly out of graduation, she knows she isn’t going to see anyone from high school again.

“Business associates, huh? Is that what you call this-” She motions between them with the beer bottle in her hand, “thing that we do? Is Hate Fucking right under the NASDAQ when you check the stocks in the morning?” Her comment was sharp but her actions directly contrast. She moves to sit in between his legs and presses her back to his chest. Even if she’s not offended by his comment, she craves the intimacy of his arms wrapped around her. She craves to prove wrong a point she cannot argue. Every time she leans into him is a silent claim. She touches him in a way that no one else does. Y/n would never be seen at one his games donning his number or cheering him on, that was an action reserved for a girlfriend. She wasn’t there to jump into his arms after a win, but she was surely there to take his frustration out on after a loss. Her touch was not that of a romantic, but it served a purpose for both of them, and she revels in that control. 

It’s not like he minds, pushing his hands under the shirt that hangs so deliciously on her petite frame. His shirt. He rests his calloused palms on her stomach and she reaches up to run her hand over the back of his hair. 

Ukai is addicted to the feeling of her skin. Her soft, curvy body and the smell of strawberry lotion mixed with the faint trace of smoke clouds any rational thoughts. The feeling of her thighs wrapped around him could keep him up at night. At the beginning, sex was more than enough to quench his thirst. The fucked out look on her face in those moments was like methadone. However good that feeling was though, it quickly became insufficient. The real drug is this moment, with her in between his legs and his chin resting on the top of her head. If her sex was methadone, this is heroine. 

The comment she made was almost lost by the feeling of her flush against his hard chest. Where he was almost drunk on the feeling of her bare ass pressed into him, she wasn’t flustered in the slightest. 

Sawamura y/n was unmatched when she spoke. It seems like she employed a whole writers room to push out bitchy comments. How was she able to counter his dumb remark with a pointed jab and lay into his chest in a way that’s making him want to protect her? How are both possible at the same time? Fuck, he has to tell her before he chickens out again. He doesn’t know where to begin, but his words tumble out in a small voice. 

“We don’t always hate fuck, y/n.” He’s referring to the fact that they do spend time together with their clothes on, but his tone implies something different. The accusation is not lost on either of them. She doesn't show it, but his hushed confessional knocks the breath out of her lungs. He was right again.

She can’t deny the soft touches she places on his face after falling into bed together, studying his features as they let their breathing steady. She can’t deny the times she presses her small hands into the dips of his shoulder blades after a grueling practice. She can’t forget the night he came to her after being beaten to a pulp, and she will never forget the way he grabbed her thighs to ease the pain with each swipe of antiseptic on his beaten face.

“Ukai Keishin, why are you calling me at three in the morning. This better be important.” Y/n uses his full name as a sign of her frustration and it feels like a knife piercing his skull. 

“Your parents are gone this weekend, right?” He doesn't mean to sound like a prick, but the throbbing in his head is making him lose his senses. He coughs and blood spatters on his hand.

“Yes, but my brother’s asleep so if you’re coming over you have to be quiet. My window is open.” She whispers into the other end of the line and he hears her getting out of bed.

“I can’t come through the window. I’m at your front door.” The idea of climbing the tree in her backyard and jumping up to the roof seems impossible in his current state. He hopes that the tone of his voice is enough to stifle any argument from her. It seems to work as the door to her house is unlocked as quietly as possible. Upon opening it, she nearly screams at the sight in front of her. Ukai is leaning against the door frame with a beaten face and a small, apologetic smile. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” He stumbles and y/n helps him inside. She puts her hands around his waist and hauls him clumsily into the bathroom. She sits him on the edge of the bathtub and grabs the first aid kit from the closet with shaking hands. “Is she shaking because she’s concerned for me? Or is she just pissed?” His inner-monologue is drowned out by the feeling of his own heartbeat in his swelling eye.

Y/n runs a washcloth under warm water and turns to face him. He looks up and is able to see her clearly for the first time- as clearly as he can with one good eye. Her bed head is the first thing Ukai notices, h/c locks wildly spilling over her shoulders. She looks exhausted. The bags under her eyes are deep and it looks like she’s been crying. “That wouldn’t be from me right? Surely not, if I ever did something worth crying over, she would just yell at me.” He watches the form in front of him, clad in nothing but an over-sized shirt from a band he doesn't recognize and- he lifts up the shirt slightly- yeah, a pair of underwear. 

If she notices him staring at her, she doesn’t say anything and approaches him with the washcloth. She looks so different standing above him like this, she looks like- 

“An angel.” He says out loud, only realizing it when the sound of his voice hits his ears. “Hardly Kei. Stop being weird.” She chuckles at his dizzy comment and lifts his chin up, at least her nickname for him is back on her lips, where it belongs. “This is going to sting but you have to stay quiet. If you wake up my brother I will kill you.” Y/n stands in between his parted legs and starts to dab lightly at the blood under his nose. He winces and grabs her thighs to anchor himself, biting his tongue to stifle a painful grunt. Her honey-sweet thighs keep him distracted, at least a little, from the sting of the rag making contact with his face.

“What happened?” Y/n asks so softly it is almost a hum. 

“The guys and I were just hanging out- ah, ouch- and some prick from the basketball team started messing with one of our first years. They called him a queer, so my fist attached itself to the douchbag’s jaw.” He says simply and digs his nails into the spot right below her ass.

“And I can guess that said basketball douchebag had friends.” Y/n puts a band aid on the gash under his blackening eye, and Ukai lets out a low chuckle.

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who really got hurt.” She sighs and cleans the dirt from his shaved hairline with feather-light touches.

“Don’t expect me to tell you that you’re a hero, Kei. I think what you did was stupid. There are better ways to support gay rights than getting your ass handed to you.” His desire to stand up to injustice was commendable, even if it was rough around the edges, but she wasn’t about to stroke his ego by voicing that opinion. She steps away slightly to clean up the small pile of wrappers and gauze, and Ukai immediately misses having his hands on her bare legs.

“I wouldn't expect a gold star from you, y/n.” He clears his throat in an awkward series of coughs and takes the aspirin and glass of water from her outstretched hands. ‘Can I ask you a question?” He swallows the pills thickly and sets the cup next to him. He plays with the hem of her sleep shirt and looks up at her, awaiting her acknowledgement. The way his fingers tug at the fabric makes him feel like a child.

“I’m not blowing you just because you got hurt.” That damn tongue of hers, so sharp no matter the situation. She puts the first aid kit back and wrings the blood out of the washcloth in her hands, skin tinted pink under the water before running clear.

“You can ask me whatever you want, but I’m going upstairs to sit on the roof.” He follows y/n like a lost puppy, he’s only ever been in her room so walking through these halls feels like an intrusion. Ukai winces as he climbs out of her bedroom window into the cool night’s air. 

“Were you crying?” He asks as she lays her head in his lap and blows cigarette smoke in his face, an action he usually finds annoying. He grimaces but lets it slide without complaint. Maybe it’s the late night, or the news that she received a few hours ago, but his presence is calming her racing mind. So as to not look too out of character though, she gives his earnest question a harsh scowl. 

“Maybe. Why do you care?” Y/n tries to quell her fastened heartbeat at the thought that he cares about if she’s been crying. The night’s events really must be taking a toll if she’s started caring about that. She takes another deep, cancerous inhale and ashes the cigarette in her fingers with a practiced flick.

“You’re an ugly crier, it’s weird seeing your face all sad instead of bitchy.” Maybe an asshole comment isn’t the best idea, but Ukai knows exactly what reaction he would receive. Even if he doesn’t know what upset her, he knew that the insincere insult would make her laugh. She did, she laughed loudly and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She needed that, and he knew it.

As her giggle subsides, she looks up at his bruising face, She reads his eyes like a book, they tell of fondness and concern where she usually sees anger or agitation. Ukai hesitates, but cards his fingers through her hair that has cascaded around his lap. The tender action feels foreign to them both, but she makes no move to stop him as he scratches gently at her scalp. The silence around them is ringing in both of their ears.

“It’s my dad. My mom took him into the city for an appointment yesterday, he was admitted on the spot. He’s not going to make it more than a few days.” Y/n blows a smoke ring into the crisp air and continues, “He’s been sick for a long time. Like, a really long time. I mean he was so frail when I helped him into the car yesterday, but I didn’t expect that call. I don’t think you can ever expect that call.” She doesn’t realize she had started crying again until his rough hand meets her cheek to thumb away the escaping tears. 

This shouldn’t be happening. Even if the circumstances are tragic, and his intent is genuine- it’s selfish to love the feeling of his comforting gesture. Y/n let’s Ukai do so much to her, but this moment feels like she is stealing from him. She’s a thief, but she indulges herself, resolving to make sure this never happens again. In this moment, this horrible night, she leans in shamelessly and memorizes the feeling of his sweet, strangers touch.

“My brother and I are going to see him tomorrow. I haven’t told him yet. He deserves one last night of sleep. His childhood ends tomorrow.” Ukai holds the shaking frame in his arms, tightening like she would disappear. 

His heart breaks for her and the nine-year-old boy in the next room. The boy Ukai has never met. Why would he know y/n’s brother? He only ever comes to this house to get off and sneaks away before the sun wakes in the morning. There’s no love here, there shouldn’t be, but his heart breaks all the same. 

“Kei,” she exhales a cloud of smoke from her nose and sits up to face him. “I need to tell you something.” His hands start sweating frantically and he knows it is now or never. He has to say the thoughts that are burning a hole in his tongue. Y/n and Ukai spoke at the same time. Both said one sentence that would hang off of this fucking rooftop for the next eight years.

“Y/n, I think I’m in love with you.”

“Kei, I’m moving to California for college.”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[margueritehall]

CAN YOU SEE RIGHT THROUGH ME? - YMCULC

all the king's horses, all the king's men, couldn’t put me together again

( the archer ; taylor swift )

marguerite ( maggie ) brynn hall, the gentle bad-ass 

“ show me a hero and i’ll write you a tragedy. ” 

― f. scott fitzgerald

– BASIC INFORMATION – 

» full name: marguerite brynn hall

» nicknames: maggie, mags, margie

» age: twenty seven ( at time of snap ), thirty two ( at time of blip )

» birthday: january eighth, nineteen-ninety-one, ten fifty-five in the morning 

» birthplace: philadelphia, pennsylvania

» zodiac sign: capricorn sun, libra moon, aries ascendent 

» current residence: new york, new york

» gender: cis female

» occupation: social worker for the stark relief foundation displaced children division, later avenger trainee

– HEALTH – 

» physical health: overall, maggie is in excellent health. she works out most weekday mornings and tends to eat a balanced diet. she doesn’t drink too often or smoke at all. she knows that her health conscious habits stem from her need to control everything that she is able to but that doesn’t stop her from being set in her ways.

» scars: she has several small scars from various bumps and scrapes but there is a sizeable scar on the front of her left shoulder from a car accident while she was a freshman in college. a driver t-boned her small sedan in an intersection when she was on her way home from a final exam. when she woke up in the hospital, with both of her parents at her bedside, she had stitches stretching approximately three inches from her clavicle towards her upper arm. 

» broken (any) bones: surprisingly, despite being quite active, maggie hasn’t ever broken a bone. she’s quite graceful from taking dance classes since she could walk until she graduated high school.

– MENTAL HEALTH – 

» extrovert or introvert: since getting older, maggie has become comfortable with the knowledge that she is a relatively private person. when she was younger, she enjoyed being in crowds however, she now tends to retract into her shell when surrounded by too many people. 

» logical or creative: maggie is incredibly logical; she is very formulaic in her thought patterns. when it comes to problem solving, maggie has all but got it down to a science which can be effective but she’d be incorrect to say it was without fault. 

» optimist or pessimist: neither term seems to describe the woman very well; she feels as though she’d call herself a realist. the world has let her down more times than she can count so she makes an effort to always adjust her expectations towards the most-likely event.

» phobias / fears: 

» problems: maggie was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder and generalized anxiety disorder when she was sixteen. she goes through occasional bouts of depression but she doesn’t find it to be chronic. though undiagnosed, following the death of her parents, she experiences the effects of post-traumatic stress. 

– PERSONALITY – 

» goals / dreams: maggie has always wanted to improve the world around her. when she was a little girl, she told her parents that she wanted to be the first doctor to go to space. when she found out that she’d have to be in space for months at a time, she quickly changed her plans. the brain always fascinated her and so she dove headfirst into her newfound passion. following the deaths of her parents, maggie wanted to help others like she wished that she had been and so she, once more, switched gears and went into social work. 

» quirks / habits: maggie is a creature of habit. each morning, she wakes up and opens the curtains around the house before pouring herself a cup of cold brew coffee with cinnamon syrup and oat milk. she makes her bed and begins her day. when she gets home from work, she turns on her fairy lights and fans before removing her makeup and changing in to cozy clothes. as for quirks, maggie wouldn’t say she has any but her friends would be quick to point out her concentration face-- whenever she gets deep in to a hard task, her eyebrows screw up tightly and her lips purse. she doesn’t like to look in mirrors when the room is dark, she only gets out of bed on the left side, and she habitually sings in the shower even when she isn’t home alone.

» likes: precipitative weather like rain storms or snow ( especially thunderstorms ), vinyl records, lighting candles and allowing them to light the room, cooking or baking anything from scratch, old books with notes in the margin from an owner long forgotten, astronomy and any associated phenomena ( especially eclipses and meteor showers ), fleetwood mac and other classic rock icons, acts of service from loved ones, dogs with smushed faces, taylor swift, watching films (or rewatching films, whether new or old), freshly brewed tea, watching the sun set and staying awake to see it rise again, wisteria vines twisting around a fence, ‘casablanca’, f. scott fitzgerald novels, anything that is a dusty shade of sage green, tom hanks, vanilla bean ice cream (not french vanilla), using a polaroid camera to capture a moment, iced coffee with cinnamon, the beach during winter when the northern shores get a little bit icy, long drives at night with the windows down, sitting on the roof in a companionable silence with a loved one,  the color of deep maroon rust, cozy throw blankets and an unnecessary amount of pillows on the couch and bed

» dislikes: too much physical touch, indifference or apathy in the face of injustice, the deafening sound of crickets and cicadas at night, showing any signs of vulnerability, open-toed shoes, powdery or floral scents, olives, thin pillows, overhead lighting (lamps only, thank you very much), lack of a routine, being unable to read situations and prepare adequately, not feeling in control of any situation, harlequin novels, ladybugs and any other insects, disorganization (physically or emotionally.)

» flaws: she feels the need to always be the strong one that she often doesn’t allow herself the freedom to feel without pushing it down. she has a habit of not letting people in, especially people who are new to her, and even when she does, she is always terrified that she’ll lose them like she’s lost most other people that she loved. she is a control freak and can sometimes be a little boss.

– FAMILY – 

» parents:       ; phillip hugh hall ( father / pierce brosnan )      ; allison marie hall née clark ( mother / jamie lee curtis )    

» maternal grandparents:      ; richard ernest clark ( grandfather / tony curtis )      ; virginia ruth clark née franklin ( grandmother / janet leigh )

» paternal grandparents:      ; hugh alexander hall ( grandfather / kris kristofferson )      ; marguerite joan hall née green ( grandmother / ellen burstyn )

» sibling(s): n/a

» children: n/a

– APPEARANCE – 

» height: five feet, two inches

» weight: one hundred fifteen pounds

» eyes: maggie’s eyes are one of her most striking features. the espresso brown orbs are speckled with golden flecks; they’re a rounded, almost almond shape.

» hair: her hair is chestnut brown and it has a tendency to gleam copper and slightly golden when the light reflects off of it. for the majority of her life, she had a tendency of keeping the gentle waves cropped into a side-parted, blunt bob that rested just above her shoulders. she typically wore her hair straight or blown out. following the snap, she allowed it to grow out beyond its typical length. she keeps it trimmed to just below her shoulder blades with a set of wispy curtain bangs to compliment the natural waves that she now maintains.

» face and complexion: maggie has a light skin tone that tans in the sun. she has no freckles on her face but has quite a few down her chest and arms; none of them are very dark. she has a round face which can almost be cherubic but as she’s gotten older, she has developed a sharp jawline that makes her look more mature despite her stature. her rounded almond eyes are lined with thick, dark lashes. she has a small button nose that pinches minutely at its tip as it turns slightly upwards. her brows are full and straight with only a slight arch. she has full cheeks with small dimples that frame her smile. maggie’s lips are typically tinted a red berry shade; her bottom lip is slightly more voluminous than its top counterpart which is home to a sharp cupid’s bow. 

» build: maggie is petite, to say the least. she stands just slightly over five feet tall and weighs just over one hundred pounds. though slim, her figure is a narrow hourglass. despite her size, she’s quite agile and strong. years of channeling all of her emotions in to ballet as a child caused a habit that has yet to die. when she feels the need to get rid of excess emotion, she runs or attends a fitness class to channel that away.  

» defining marks: when she was eighteen, maggie and her best friend poppy got matching tattoos. on the inside of her left wrist, there is a small crescent moon to match a sun on poppy’s. following her parents death, she got a second tattoo and on the inside of her upper arm, close to the crook of her elbow, there is one of two ravens perched on a branch. several months after the blip, she got another tattoo. on her right side, on her ribs under her bra-line, there’s a small star housed within four concentric circles. 

» dress style: maggie’s fashion sense is on the border between classic and trendy. she doesn’t stray too far away from her comfort zone or wear too many patterns. she tends to stick to jewel tones and neutrals. for her work, her style tends to be business casual-- typically a blouse with a skirt or wide legged trousers and a heel. when she’s at home, an oversized sweater and leggings or pajama shorts are her go-to uniform. if she’s out running errands, she loves a flowy skirt or a pair of mom jeans with one of her dad’s old, classic band tees. her shoes are typically a revolving door of plain keds or converse, ankle boots, or a small heel.

» faceclaim: jenna louise coleman

– ROMANTIC & SEXUAL – 

» marital status: she is unmarried.

» sexual preference: although maggie is primarily heterosexual, she’s never been closed off to the idea of dating anyone of the same gender if she found that she was attracted to them.

» ever had sex: she had sex for the first time when she was a freshman in college; it was with her boyfriend at the time, nicholas gray. as she’s gotten older, she has had a variety of companions-- some were romantic partners, several one-night-stands, and two attempted friends-with-benefits arrangements. 

» opinion on sex: maggie isn’t ashamed to say that she enjoys sex and the freeing feeling that comes with it. 

» opinion on relationships: although she likes the idea of a relationship, maggie’s fear of not being in control makes it difficult to maintain one. before the snap, she had only been in one long-term relationship which she abruptly ended after the death of her parents. she found that it was easier to try and turn off her feelings than to deal with them as everything in her life changed. since graduating with her second degree, maggie has been trying to open herself back up to dating and the possibility of a relationship.

» turn ons: the feeling of someone brushing her hair off of her face, being praised, bravery, kindness, interlacing fingers when holding hands, a genuine smile, sincerity, strong hands, bright eyes, taller men, a strong jawline, delicate kisses that gradually deepen into something more, kisses down the neck, deep conversations and debates, cologne that isn’t overpowering

» turn offs: sleazy behavior, apathy towards important issues, party-scene demeanor, bragging, lying, being late, ill-fitting clothes, lacking ambition or drive for moving forward

» past relationships:       ; nicholas gray ( first love / ben barnes )

» current relationship:      ; n/a 

» future relationship:       ; steve rogers ( tbd / chris evans )      ; bucky barnes ( tbd / sebastian stan )

– FRIENDSHIP – 

» big group of friends or several close friends: maggie would rather have a smaller quantity of people in her life with better quality relationships than to have a large group of friends that she feels as though she doesn’t know. 

» best friend: maggie was a relatively lonely child; she spent a lot of her time reading and imagining her life in other worlds. she had some friends but none that ever ventured further than the occasional hangout. when she was a freshman in highschool, she sat next to poppy stewart on their first day of orientation and the two have been inseparable ever since.  

» ever lied to a friend: she’s told white lies when necessary but she’s never lied about something earth-shattering.

» the most horrible thing they did to a friend: when maggie broke up with nicholas, she left him a letter on his pillow before she left his apartment one morning. she avoided his calls afterwards and didn’t speak to him for several weeks until he came to her apartment to try and work things out. later in her life, maggie felt extremely guilty that she wasn’t able to confide in poppy about steve’s plan until after he had already left.

» list of friends -      ; poppy stewart ( best friend / annie murphy / @petalsofpoppys )      ; pepper potts ( boss, friend / gwenyth paltrow )      ; tony stark ( boss, family friend / robert downey jr )      ; natasha romanoff ( co-worker, close friend / scarlett johansson )      ; steve rogers ( co-worker, friend, boyfriend / chris evans )      ; bucky barnes ( friend, lover, boyfriend / sebastian stan )      ; sam wilson ( friend / anthony mackie )      ; wanda maximoff ( future friend / elizabeth olsen )      ; monica rambeau ( future friend / teyonah parris )

– MORALITY – 

» ever been drunk: the first time that maggie got drunk was her senior year of high school; she was at a house party with poppy and she since vowed to never touch any drink with ‘punch’ in the name, ever again.

» lied to a significant other: following the death of her parents, maggie never disclosed her tumultuous emotions to nicholas and so he was blindsided when she left him on one random morning. with an apologetic  note of a goodbye, maggie made sure no trace was left behind when she slipped from the apartment in to the warm summer breeze.

» cheated on significant other: maggie would never cheat on a partner. she would rather end things than break someone’s trust in her.

» gotten into a fight: she’s never gotten in to a physical altercation but following her move in to the avenger’s compound, natasha and steve helped to train her tactically. after she moved back to the city, bucky takes up the position of being her trainer. 

» deepest regret: not telling her parents how much she looked up to both of them before they died. 

» religion: maggie was not raised to be religious. her parents always emphasized the importance of trying to be morally good whenever you could. she identifies as an atheist.

– MISCELLANEOUS – 

» playlist: https://rb.gy/kxqfbu

» instagram:

» gifboard:

» character inspiration: leia organa (star wars trilogy), alex parrish (quantico), emma swan (once upon a time), amy pond (doctor who), buffy summers (buffy the vampire slayer), emily prentiss (criminal minds), lily evans (harry potter)

[thewildomega]

Star in the Sand (Sir Crocodile x reader) Soulmate AU

Summary: Everyone has a soulmate, one person that destiny saw fit to pair together, two halves to a whole. What happens though when a person goes almost half their life without finding that said person? What happens when a person has no one? Well they give up hope.

Finding his way to a small island he sighed and looked over the tiny town with a stoic expression, puffing on his cigar. "Go see about finding us a place to stay." he spoke to the man behind him without turning.

"Yes sir." Bonez said before walking past him towards the town. 

Glancing around he let out a sigh and decided to go walk around and see what this place had to offer. He planned on keeping a low profile, not wanting the marines to be on him again so soon. He would have to start looking for a new crew, Bonez alone wouldn't be enough. Finding a small bar he headed inside and groaned at the occupants. Taking a seat in the far corner he ordered a glass of whiskey and then settled himself back, smoking and watching the people for anyone who might fit the bill. He sat there for a few hours, until all the light left the sky and night settled in. Finishing off his glass of his drink he dropped a few bills on the table and stood. There were a few men that had caught his attention but he would have to think on the matter. Walking down the street he glanced around to the different establishments, looking for the inn that Bonez had came to tell him about earlier. 

"here..."

Furrowing his brows at the whispering voice he stopped and turned his head to glance towards the little raggedy hut. There looked to be only a small amount of light coming in through the stained glass windows. The wood that made the building was old and it looked as if it would fall down any second, the slate roof sagging at an odd angle. Turning his attention to the barely readable wooden sign in the tall grass he saw the words 'Physic readings.' Huffing out a puff of smoke he turned and started walking again.

"Crocodile..."

Snapping his eyes back to the hut he narrowed his eyes. "Who is there?" he asked. When the door opened with a creak he lifted his chin and stared with distrust. 

"Come and the things you need the most will be revealed."

Growling in the back of his throat he took a deep breath, he was going to turn away, he wanted to turn away but he couldn't, his legs seemed to be moving for him. Dipping his head to fit under the door he stood tall and heard as the door slammed shut behind him. He was on high alert, this was by no doubt a trap. Looking around the inside he saw it fairly bare other than the small table placed in the center of the room with two chairs on opposite sides of it and a black candle burning in the center. Before he could say a word the chair closest to him pulled out. 

"Sit." 

Taking a deep breath he walked forward, the old boards creaking under his feet. Pushing out his coat he took a seat in the chair, not sure if the thing would hold up to his weight. "Alright I am sitting, now what?" he asked, his voice full of annoyance. When no one answered he growled, "I don't have time for this." he grumbled and went to stand but the candle flickered out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Stilling he listened, waiting for an attack. 

"Don't be so impatient young man." 

Suddenly the candle relight and when he looked in front of him he saw an old woman sitting int he chair in front of him. She was dressed in a hole ridden cloak, her grey hair a mess around her. There was a grey cloth tied around her eyes with blood staining it where her eyes would be. Her old skin was ridden with wrinkles and glancing to her hands he saw long and broken nails hanging from each finger. She was a ghastly sight, that as sure. 

"It is rude to stare boy." the woman said in a hissing voice. 

Slowly raising his eyes back to her face he saw her cracked lips in a firm line. "What is it you want from me?"

"It is not what I want but what you need." she told him. 

Huffing he rose one of his brows, "I doubt you can give me anything I need." he told her. 

"No I can not give it to you, it is something you must find on your own." she told him. Placing her hand on the table she opened her palm, "Give me your hand." 

He didn't move, he wasn't stupid but the longer she looked at him the colder he became, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Gritting his teeth he slowly lifted his hand and placed it in hers. She was quick to flip it over, turning his palm upward. Next thing he knew her other hand was moving a knife of sorts towards it and he panicked. Going to pull his hand away he found he couldn't' move, couldn't turn to sand, and his eyes went wide as she brought the knife down, not again. To his surprise she didn't cut it off and deep slice to his palm was all that occurred, his lip twitching a little at the pain. Watching his blood fill his palm her grip on his hand stayed strong while she placed down the blade and grabbed a bowl with different things already inside. The smell was disgusting and he watched as she lifted his hand to dump the blood in his palm into the bowl before releasing it. Pulling his hand back towards him he looked at the deep cut and grunted. Lifting his eyes back to her he saw her now mumbling something incoherent. When then contents started smoking he frowned and knot his brows. The red smoke drifted from the bowl and started to circle him. "What is this?" he asked. 

"You have two weeks." the old woman spoke.

"For what?" he asked. the smoke now seeming to engulf him. "Two weeks for what?!" he yelled. He couldn't see a thing, a strong wind blew his hair out of place and muffled any noise. 

"Find your star." 

Suddenly the chair and floor under him opened up and he was falling. Blackness surrounded him. Trying to turn to sand nothing happened and he started to panic. Falling downward he saw a flash of light and then landed on something on his back, a sharp pain in his head before everything went black. 

..............................

Chopping the onion you listened to the music playing from your phone and sang along to it in your head. Lifting ht cutting board you dumped the onions into the skillet, scrapping the remaining pieces that had stuck to the board inside. Adding salt and pepper you moved to grab the garlic when a loud crashing came form the living room. Snapping your eyes to the room you let out a scream when you saw what it was. What the hell?! Taking a few steps over to the man that had smashed your coffee table you saw his eyes were closed, the back of his head resting against the bent iron frame of the shattered glass table. Covering your mouth with your hand your eyes snapped to the ceiling, expecting a hole to be there but there was no such thing. Looking back down at him you noticed he was massive, huge, he had to be at least seven feet if not taller. swallowing thickly you carefully moved over to him, side stepping the glass that covered the floor. Seeing a large gold hook in place of his left hand you furrowed your brows. Standing over him you scanned his body, grey pants with black boots and a black button up shirt, a green scarf like thing tucked into it. Moving your eyes up to his face you saw shoulder length black hair adorned his head with a few strands in his face. There was a long, thin scar that went the hole way across his face and suddenly you stiffened. This guy looked just like Crocodile from One Piece. Was he some kind of cos-player? If so he did a hell'a job with his outfit and prosthetic. Still though what was he doing in your house? How did he get in here? Seeing blood on his palm and a few drops under his head you furrowed your brows. Bending over you gently shook his shoulder, "Hello?" Nothing. "Hello." you said again. Moving your fingers to his neck you felt a pulse and let out a sigh of relief, at least he wasn't dead. You needed to call the police... but what would you say? They would never believe you if you told them this guy, that you didn't know, fell from the ceiling and crashed into your table. They already didn't like you, no doubt they would think you pushed him. Sitting your lip you stood and moved over to the stove to turn off the burner before looking back at him.

Grabbing the broom you quickly swept up as much of the glass as you could for now. Moving behind him you pushed your arms under his and lifted him up some. Trying to somehow get him off the mangled frame of the table you tried lifting him but lost your balance and dropped him, a small grunt leaving him as he fell limply to the floor. "Whoops." you muttered. Deciding it would be easier to just move the frame you untangled his limbs from it and lifted it up, carrying it to the other side of the room for now. Going back to him you rolled him from side to side while you swept up the glass around and under him. Grabbing the fur lined coat you balled it up and carried it outside so you could shake off the glass before laying it on your armchair to be taken care of later. Knowing there was no way you could lift him onto the couch you grabbed a spare blanket and laid it under him before rolling him back onto it. Glancing to the gold hook you knit your brows, should your remove it? No, it wasn't a problem right now. Moving to your bathroom you grabbed the first aid supplies you needed and went back to clean and bandage his hand, seeing him flinch a little when you patted the deep gash with alcohol. There was only a small cut on the back of his head and a large bump but you couldn't do much about that. Once you were done you brushed back his hair and checked his breathing. It was steady so that was good. Covering him with the throw from your couch you nodded. Standing you moved back to the stove and turned your burner back on. Hopefully he would wake up in a little while and then he would just go without giving you any trouble. 

............................

Turns out he must have hit his head harder than you had first thought because he was still exactly where you left him when you woke up the next morning. Gnawing the corner of your lip you looked at his, what you assumed was, still sleeping form. Okay you would give it a few more hours and if he wasn't up by then you would call the police. Making your coffee and boiling a couple of eggs you grabbed the laundry basket and moved outside to hang them out. You had taken the liberty of washing his coat, seeing as it had glass all over it. It was extremely heavy when wet but you managed to toss it over the line with the rest of your clothes to dry. Okay laundry is drying, what's next.... trash.

Snapping his eyes open he shot up and looked around to try and figure out what was going on. Looking around the strange home he saw he was laying on the floor, well on a blanket that was on the floor but still. Another blanket was over his legs and pooled around his waist where it had fallen when he sat up. Feeling something on his hand he lifted it up and saw it had been bandaged. But by who? Where was he? Standing he felt his head throb and groaned, rubbing the back of his head to feel a large bump there. Brushing back his hair he looked around the home again and noticed things that he had never seen before. There was a large black thing on top of a a shelf with books lining the shelves. He could smell coffee in the air and something citrus. Listening for the owner of the home all that met him was silence. Taking quiet steps around something caught his eye out the window and he looked out to see someone doing laundry outside in the yard. Narrowing his eyes he moved towards them. 

Unpinning the sheets on the line you froze when a large, dark shadow showed behind the swaying fabric. Unpinning the next pin you lowered it and revealed the mystery man. He was so freaking big, massive. Yep he definitely had to be taller than seven feet with his shoulders at least three across. He was staring down at you with a hard, uncaring look. Wow this guy was good. "You are awake." you said. 

It was a woman, a small woman. Her hair was long and a reddish color. She had soft features and two sea blue eyes looked up at him, not a hint of fear or ill temperament there. "Where am I?"

Raising your brows you tossed the sheet into the basket with the other items and looked back up at him. "At my home." you told him. 

"And how is it I got here?" he asked her. 

Sighing you moved down the line to grab the next item, "You tell me, I was cooking diner last night when you quite literally fell into my living room." 

"What do you mean I fell into your living room?" he asked and saw her point towards a pile of bent metal. 

"I mean you appeared out of no where, smashing my coffee table. I guess you hit your head on it pretty good or something because you were out all night." you told him. "So now I'll ask you, how is it you managed to do that?" you asked calmly. 

Frowning he looked at his hand and then at the woman and narrowed his eyes, "This is all just some trick. You are her, that witch, that old hag!" he growled and saw her brows furrow together, annoyance now filling her eyes. 

"Might want to think about laying off the alcohol or drugs or whatever you are on." you huffed. Grabbing the last item of clothing you tossed it into the basket and lifted it up onto your hip. "Your coat is over there, take it and leave." you told him, going up the stairs. "Oh and your welcome for taking care of you and not having you arrested." you called back as you left him outside. Moving to your couch to drop the basket on it you went to the fridge to take out something for dinner. "Psychopath." you mumbled under your breath. 

Growling when he heard the door slam he raised his hand to grabbed his coat but nothing happened. Frowning he tried again but still nothing happened. What the hell was going on? Marching over he snatched his coat off the line, tossing it over his shoulder and noticing the clean scent that came form it, she had washed it? Glancing back to the small home he felt a strange pulling but let out a huff and shook his head before heading down the path. Getting to the end of it he looked down and saw what looked to be black rock on the ground. Moving his foot to it he tapped the surface and found it solid. He had never seen anything like this before. Stepping out onto it he looked left then right, seeing nothing but trees in both directions. With a heavy sigh he moved into the middle of it where a yellow line was painted and started walking. He had been going for what had to be close to a hour now when he heard a noise. Looking behind him he saw something coming towards him with two lights in the front. Knitting his brows he stood there but then it let out this loud sound and swerved around him at a fast speed. Confused he heard it again and just did turn in time to see another one like before, only bigger coming towards him, this one not looking like it was going to go around him. Just managing to hurry off the black surface he watched as the thing went by, 

"Get out of the road you fucking idiot!"  a man yelled. 

Gritting his teeth he tried to yet again use his powers but nothing would happen, not even a speck of sand leaving the ground. Panting he looked around, not knowing where he was. Feeling the start of rain he looked up and then around him at the trees. Turning his head back towards the direction he came he took in a deep breath before walking back the way he came. By the time he got back to the home the sky was almost completely dark and he was soaked. Glancing back towards the bent pile of metal he tried to think back on what had happened. He remembered the old woman, then he was falling. Sighing he moved up the steps and looked through the glass pane to see the small woman at the stove, cooking he would presume. Brushing back his wet hair he raised his hook and knocked three times on the door. Seeing her turn towards him, he noticed her shocked look before she finally moved over to open the door. She said nothing and he dipped his chin the tiniest amount, knowing he had no right to ask anything of her. "I would like to apologize for earlier, it was very rude of me." he said, the words tasting strange on his tongue. Seeing her eyes soft he raised his brows, "I don't understand any of this." he said, motioning his hand out around him. "I..I don't know where I am or how I got here." he admitted. 

Looking over the dripping stranger you felt something pull at you and furrowed your brows. He looked tired, his wet coat hanging heavily on his back and the front of his shirt and pants clinging to him slightly. It was bad to say but he kind of reminded you of a wet puppy. Sighing you opened the door and stepped back to allow him inside. "Can you take your shoes off, I don't want mud all over the house." you said in a soft voice. 

Doing as she asked he removed his shoes and left them by the door. Turning back towards her he saw her gone and furrowed his brows. 

"Come on, let's get you out of those wet clothes." 

Following her voice he went through a room with more books and a small desk with a strange thing sitting on top of it, pictures moving across the screen. This place was getting weirder and weirder. 

"Here you go." 

Looking to the woman he saw her holding out a pile of clothes and raised his brows. 

"They aren't going to fit you properly but they'll have to do while yours are drying. There is a bathroom with a shower through there." you told him, pointing to the room to his right. 

"These are your clothes?" he asked, looking over her tiny frame and knowing there was no way in hell he would be able to fit into the clothes. 

"No, they are my ex boyfriends, he left them here and I haven't thrown them out yet." you shrugged. 

Nodding he took the clothes from her and moved towards the bathroom. Looking for a candle or light of sorts he saw the woman come beside him, touching something on the wall before a bright light filled the room. Looking up to the ceiling he rose a brow and saw her walk away. Shutting the door behind him he set the clothes on the vanity and looked around the small room. There was a tub and shower, toilet and the vanity. It wasn't high class but it was functional. Removing his hook he placed it by the clothes and started to remove his wet ones. Figuring out the shower he stepped inside and huffed when he noticed the shower head only came up to his mid chest. This was going to be an annoyance. 

..........................

Hearing the bathroom door open you finished platting the food and saw him walk around the corner. "Here you must be hungry." you said, placing the plate on the table along with silverware and a napkin. Moving to grab a glass you filled it with water and added it to the table as he walked over. The clothes as you imagined were too small, the lounge pants coming up to his mid calf and the t-shirt clinging to his frame that you could now tell was muscled. The large golden hook was still on his left hand and you furrowed your brows but didn't say anything. 

Looking between the food and her he felt his stomach clench, he hadn't eaten a good meal in  few days but still. 

Raising your brows you crossed your arms over your chest, "It's not poisoned." you told him and saw him look to you with slightly narrowed eyes. "If I wanted to kill you I could have easily done it last night when you were laying unconscious on my living room floor." you told him simply. 

Breathing out he pulled out the chair and sat down before lifting the spoon into his right hand, leaving his hook resting on his leg under the table. "Why are you helping me?" he asked in a deep voice, looking to her as she moved about the kitchen.

Washing your bowl and spoon you took a deep breath, "I don't know." you answered honestly.

He watched her for a moment longer before beginning to eat the hot soup, feeling it warm him up more. As he filled his belly he heard her moving around the house. There was a thump and then the sound of a rumbling before she walked back out. 

"You clothes are drying, it won't take long." you told him. Noticing his bowl almost empty you looked to his eyes, silver, almost white eyes. "Do you want more?" you asked. 

Nodding his had stiffly he saw her bring over the pot and fill his bowl again with the beef soup. "What is your name?" he asked as she moved away.

"Y/n." you answered, setting the pot back down and moving to fix yourself a cup of tea. "And you?" you asked as you turned back towards him, leaning back against the counter. 

"Crocodile." he said once he had swallowed his food. 

Raising a brow you looked at him with a bored look, "Yes I know who you are cosplaying as but what is your real name?"

Narrowing his eyes he looked at her, "I told you my real name, My name is Crocodile." 

"This isn't funny, I am being serious." 

Growling he slammed his hand on the table, "And I am being serious girl, I am Crocodile." he said in a deep voice. Watching her set down her cup and walk away he straightened his back, ready for her to attack him. When she walked back in with a book he furrowed his brows. 

Standing at the opposite side of the table you flipped through the manga until you found what you were looking for. "You are trying to tell me that this is you, that you are this Crocodile." you said, moving the book in front of him so he could see it. 

Looking down at the book he saw the pages were filled with black and white drawings. When his eyes focused on one that looked very similar to him he furrowed his brows. "What is this?" he asked. 

"This is a One Piece manga." you told him, letting him take the book and flip through the pages. 

"This is Alabasta." he said. 

"Yeah that's when Luffy and Croc... you fought for the last time." you said. 

Quickly flipping through the book he saw the whole fight and everything play out before his eyes. It was all here, every word said and everything. "This can't be real." he said in a low voice. 

"Exactly, you can't be him because he is a made up character, he's not real." 

"How many times must I tell you that I am the real Crocodile." he growled, glaring at her. 

"You are crazy. Don't get me wrong you pull off the look well with the clothes and scar and fake hook but this is ridiculous." you said, growing tired of this game. "When you clothes dry I will drop you off..." You didn't get to finish your sentence as you were slammed up against the fridge. Looking to the huge man you saw him glaring down at you. 

"I will say this one last time woman, my name is Crocodile. I was formally a Shichibukai, one of seven warlords of the sea, a pirate." he growled down at her. Raising his hook in front of her face he saw her eyes drop to it. "And I can assure you that my hook is not a fake." 

Looking over the hook as he placed it to your throat you frowned and then moved your eyes up to his you furrowed your brows. "I don't understand." you said in a softer voice.

It would be so much easier to just kill her, God she had annoyed him enough but he couldn't. It was like his brain and limbs weren't working together. Looking into her blue eyes he felt the rage inside of him calming down. "Nor do I." was all he said as he stepped back. 

[zeldasayer]

Loving Dyn V - Christmas Eve

Pairing: Mandalorian/Dyn Jarren x Reader

Summary: Domestic Daddy Dyn, Artist Mom & the green bean attend your parents infamous Christmas Eve party. We get to know your parents and your backstory. (Continuation from Loving Dyn II & IV)

Warnings: Flashbacks including drinking, smoking, brief depictions of depression, loneliness/abandonment, mention of coming out.

Dyn squeezes your hand as you walk up the steps to your mother’s residence. Your other hand holding up your caramel coloured silk dress, your heels clicking against the marble.

Baby looks up at the 15-foot doorway in astonishment from his father’s arm.

“Okay,” you say turning to your two boys, you feel the lapels of Dyn’s blue velvet suit between your fingers to stay grounded. It’s fitted and he looks dashing. You’ve dressed Baby in a matching blue velvet robe you made yourself out of fabric you found at the market. “There’s my mother, Wilhemina. My father, Stark. My mother’s husband, Ezra. My father’s husband, Madden.”

Dyn nods, “Wilhemina. Stark. Ezra. Madden. I got it.”

“Right, and then there’s everyone else. My aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Family friends.” You look towards the door as you start to panic. “Oh god, Dyn what have I done?”

You start to fidget. “Everyone is in there. This is too much. It’s Christmas Eve. You must think I’m insane. Let’s just leave. We can just go. Let’s just go.’’

You turn and Dyn grabs your arm, “Hey, hey. It’s fine. I’m excited. I love Christmas.”

“You didn’t even know what it was three weeks ago.” You whimper.

“Yeah, well....” Dyn shrugs, tilting his head to the side.

You look down at your hands and Dyn crouches to try and find your eye line. “Hey, I am ready for this. It’s you, me and Baby against the galaxy, babe. Always. It’s going to be just fine.”

You nod and Dyn takes your hand and you push open the door.

You’re hit by a wave of warmth, sound, and colour. As the foyer is filled with people dressed in jewel toned evening wear, everyone dripping in silk and fur and velvet and gold. There is laughter and clinking of champagne glasses. More than a few heads turn toward you and you look down in embarrassment.

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) by Darlene Love fills the air glowing rich with candlelight, as a droid skids past, offering drinks.

“HMm.” Dyn grunts in displeasure. You let go of his hand and link your arm through his.

“Come on, tough guy. Let’s find my parents”

Baby coos, distracted by the lights and colours and different voices, the vibrating music. Even Dyn has his neck craned up to the cathedral ceilings strung with twinkling lights.

“Remember,” you say looking back at them, Baby’s eyes bouncing around like a ping-pong ball, Dyn staring straight up at the oversized black and white portrait of you as a child, a goofy smile plastered across his face. “If this gets to be too much, you tell me and we’re out of here.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dyn says, looking back down. “Is that you?”

You look up at the portrait you mother had blown up after you moved out. It was taken at the beach, your hair wind-blown and salty at the end of the day. Your chin raised, and your eyes cast down to the side. You were 7.

“Uh, yep.” You say, maneuvering through the crowd. Stopping as more guests began to recognize you. You exchange quick kisses on the cheek and insist you’ll return once you find your parents.

“Kind of crazy, isn’t it?” Dyn asks.

“How so?” You say over your shoulder.

“That’s what our daughter could look like.”

You stop and Dyn walks into you, Baby’s arms go up in surprise. You look up at your love with wide eyes, “Okay, we’ll unpack that when it’s not Christmas.”

Dyn laughs and shrugs and you imitate his movements as a joke.

You turn back as you walk through the arches of the grand living room and you hear an excited scream.

A woman in a long red fur coat turns, she wears a matching red gown, her exquisitely shiny silver hair piled up with pins on the top her head. She has an opera length cigarette holder between her dark purple lips.

“Someone take this!” She calls, pulling the holder out of her mouth and stepping forward with her arms up. “There will be no smoking around my grandson! Or my daughter! Or her beautiful partner!”

“Hi, mom” you smile, opening your arms for her. She embraces you and gives you a kiss on the cheek.

“And this must be Dyn and Baby,” Wilhemina sings, wrapping her arms around the two of them.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Dyn gasps through her grip.

Wilhemina pets the top of Baby’s head lovingly, then clasps her hands together. “I am so glad you’re all here. I am so happy.”

The droid skids by again, a replenished tray of champagne balancing on top.

“Please!” Your mother exclaims, “Have a drink.”

“I’d love one,” you say and Dyn just stares.

“It’s fine, just take it.” You say through your teeth.

Dyn grunts.

“Take it.” You pretend to cough.

Wilhemina raises an eyebrow but her focus is broken as she looks passed the two of you. “Oh, Stark! Look who’s here!”

You turn to greet your father, but Dyn catches his hand first. Giving him a strong handshake and Baby cackles from the bumpy movement.

“Nice to meet you, Dyn.” Your father smiles, before crouching down to meet Baby. Everyone is always stunned when they meet Stark, Baby included. He coos with his mouth agape, reaching for his club master reading glasses. Your father wears and all white suit with a black tie, salt and pepper hair slicked back, his beard impeccably kept. He stuffs his hands in his pockets as his velvet fog voice spills out of his mouth, “Well hello there, Baby,”

Baby smiles sweetly with wide eyes and Stark squeezes his little cheek.

“Y/N!” Madden calls, stepping around his husband. “The most beautiful girl in the galaxy. When are you going to let me put you in a movie?”

“Never!” You laugh, as you kiss each other on both cheeks.

Madden rolls his eyes, “I know, but I’ll never stop trying.”

“She’s far too talented to be an actor, Madden darling.” Stark declares to his husband, crossing in front of him to embrace you and you quickly inhale his cologne.

“Hi dad,” you smile up at him.

“I’m so happy you came.”

“I think I’ve almost missed it here.”

Dyn laughs at something Madden & Wilhemina are telling him, probably something at your expense, but you smile at the sweet sound of his voice any way.

“You look happy, my star.” Stark says, searching your face.

You look over to Dyn, now bouncing Baby on his side as your mother introduces them to her husband and others you recognize as your aunt Adohara and her family. Dyn’s face is Iike sunshine, even in the darkness of winter as he smiles and nods, wishing everyone around him a “Merry Christmas”.

Your aunt comments on his exquisite face as Children pull on his arm for a better look at Baby and Wilhemina passes him champagne. He and Baby are a commodity.

You look back to you father, “I really am, dad.”

Your father nods, “I am so glad, my star.”

Stark smiles, and behind his frames you can’t help but see relief, joy and sadness swirl around in his eyes, all at once.

Wilhemina Starling and Stark Juniper were pioneers of the hologram film age, and the biggest stars on Venus-9. They were disgustingly beautiful, effortlessly funny, breathtakingly talented, and, as a duo, criminally profitable. Their marriage was iconic and your birth was broadcasted on every comm on the planet, finally an heir to a film dynasty. The next true star, so they thought. You rebelled at an early age against any matching of your parents stardom. You would rarely sit still for photographs and journalists, loudly expressed your contempt for fame, specifically declaring you had never even seen a Starling & Juniper vehicle. You didn’t mean to come off harsh, it just spilled out of you.

You were cursed at such a young age with the ability to see through it all. You didn’t see the beauty, the constant filtering of important people through your home - from filmmakers, to poets, to musicians and diplomats. You didn’t see the opulence, or even the joy your parents brought to others through their films. You only saw the loneliness looking back at you in the mirror. The confusing desire to both rebel and have your parents full attention, to be as great as them in anything. You could only see a life you didn’t ask for. You wanted to be delicate, exist in the shadows. Stunning and strong.

Instead you were full of rage and sadness. Your own beauty repulsed you and you were so desperately impulsive. You screamed out to the sky every night “Why did you send me to this planet?!” for you knew it must have been a mistake. You weren’t who you longed to be. You had an obsessive desire to set the planet on fire, but knew it wouldn’t burn fast enough. Nothing ever did. You were lost in a never ending cycle of everything being too much, or not enough.

It wasn’t until you were an adult and moved off of Venus-9 that you saw your parents for what they were, as complicated and lonely as you.

There was your mother’s exhausting career in always being “on”. Trapped in a contract she signed at 21, she had been making 6 films a year since. She was who everyone either wanted to be, or be with. A pressure she kept hidden in the dark with cigarettes and brandy. The biting of her cuticles and the ever-present guilt of so desperately wanting to be famous, just to secretly be unable to handle it. Wilhemina threw herself into every party, every role, every glass of brandy with her purple lipstick print, as to not be afraid.

Though, Stark could have been the loneliest of all. From the ages of 12-15 you could count on one hand how many times you had seen your fathers glorious face. It was a time you called, The Days of Recluse. You all slept under the same roof but at this point your parents had separate bedrooms. Your father only emerging from his for work. Otherwise, he laid in the dark all day, you were certain, catching a glimpse inside his room one afternoon when your mother shuffled out with a tray of uneaten breakfast. One of the few times you actually came face to face with Stark during this time, his appearance startled you. Gone were his golden movie star looks. His lustrous perfectly coiffed black hair had gone dull and shaggy. His skin over grown with a beard that made him unrecognizable. The dreamy look in his eye had gone hard and vacant like stone. He looked frail, his body swallowed by light blue pyjamas. Ultimately, he looked defeated. If you didn’t know your father, you wouldn’t know who was standing before you in the hallway at the top of the stairs in your own home. You stood there, eyes wide and he began to cry.

“I love you,” you blurted out, and pushed past him. You didn’t know what to do. How could you? This was just your normal.

Wilhemina became increasingly irritable during this time. Favouring chain smoking in the grand living room, with her large sunglasses on with her sister, Adohara. They spoke in whispers, but you heard them, of not knowing what to do. Wanting to help your father but not knowing where to start. “He needs his truth.” Your mother would say. “He needs his truth.”

When your father came out to you, you wept. You wept for him, you wept for yourself, you wept for the light that now crept into the home. You wept tears of happiness because you felt like perhaps this had been what was missing all along, your father’s truth.

You had a vivid memory of just days later, sitting on the floor of your parents formerly shared en-suite bathroom as your mother cut your father’s unkept hair, and trimmed his beard that he decided to keep.

Your father leaned into every touch, and your mother smiled through misty eyes. It felt so intimate, like you shouldn’t be there. It was like witnessing two people coming out on the other side, battered and bruised, but alive. Victims of a vicious studio system that overworked them and stole the best years of their lives just to display for the joy of others. A system that didn’t care what happened to them, as long as they were making money.

You once had elaborate fantasies of telling your parents you were magnificent in spite of them, not because of them, but all that came out of your mouth the night before Stark moved out of the residence was, “Growing up was so hard.”

Your parents looked down in shame. Your father’s bottom lip protruding as he let out a heavy exhale.

Wilhemina grabbed his hand and opened her mouth to speak, but you cut her off.

“And I don’t need you to be sorry, I don’t need you to want to take it back, I just need you to know how hard it was to always be alone. I was always alone.” You felt your chest burn from your voice cracking. “I know it wasn’t easy for you either, but I was the child and I needed you.”

Wilhemina and Stark nodded. They knew. And you knew that they did. There had been a shift after your father’s coming out. You actually saw each other, Wilhemina in the process of retiring from the scene all together and Stark transitioning to work behind the camera. You had begun showing them your own work, your art picking up recognition under the pseudonym F/N Zelda as to not attract any concerns of nepotism. Your mother began hanging pieces around the residence until they sold, even holding on to the ones you insisted on scrapping.

They were trying, but change wasn’t immediate. You weren’t suddenly delicate overnight. You felt for your father who was now faced with dreaming up his entire life all over again, and your mother who was losing you both to new lives at once. The three of you had a lifetime to mend and heal from, but it finally felt like the beginning of the end.

“Dyn, Y/N,” your mother sings as Baby reaches for her, much to your surprise. “I hope it’s alright, I got a few Christmas gifts for Baby.”

Wilhemina adjusts Baby in her arms as he rubs his face softly against her fur coat.

“Of course,’ Dyn says.

“We got him a few things, too.” Stark says, putting a hand on Madden’s shoulder and Madden beams a radiant smile.

Your mother turns and you all follow her as a parade through the sea of people to the back of the home. Past the 18-person dining table and through the kitchen with servant droids assembling platters of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne. You link your arm through Dyn’s again, pressing yourself against him as delicately as you can. You look up at him with doey eyes and he smirks.

Through the kitchen you’re met with the more modest living space, the one you frequented most growing up. You gasp.

The room is lit up by a Christmas tree surrounded by package after package wrapped in different coloured foils, all tied meticulously with bows. Different shapes and sizes, there is at least two dozen of them.

“Oh mom.. Dad...” You sigh.

Wilhemina sets Baby on the ground and he waddles toward the shiny colours.

Stark and Madden walk passed you excitedly as you and Dyn have stopped in your tracks, eyes wide.

Dyn leans into your ear and whispers, “Baby isn’t going to know what to do with any of this.”

“Yeah, no. Not a clue.” You whisper back.

Baby looks back at you, as his finger traces along a gift.

“Go ahead, Baby.” Dyn nods. “It’s all for you.”

Sometimes you can’t believe this is your life. A civil relationship with your parents. An angel you would run to the end of the galaxy for, and his sweet green bean that you came to care for as your own. A delicate existence that satisfies you creatively, emotionally and otherwise. Filled with soft moments and a love so deep, if you think about it for too long, it makes you cry. A life you didn’t know was possible, for you once believed you’d be screaming up into the sky for eternity. But here you are. Sitting cross legged on the floor with Baby in your lap as he tears through Christmas presents, more interested in the wrappings and bows than the toys themselves. Dyn scarfing down hors d'oeuvres with your step dads and father just above you, stopping to feed you one, as your hands are tied with your sweet boy. Your mother watching everything with excited eyes, sipping on Coca Cola from a glass with her purple lipstick print.

You made it. You’re okay.

Tags: @otherthingsinhead @aeryntheofficial @maryan028 @readsalot73 @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon @capsironunderoos @antclottz @intense-sneezing

A/N: I feel like I should apologize as this has turned into more of myself practicing/finding my writing style than an actual Star Wars tale. I promise in the next chapter or 2, everything changes....👀 Stark and Wilhemina are based off of Rock Hudson and Dorothy Malone. I hope you enjoyed. Happy holidays! Love, Zelda

[lithugraph]

Ok I know y'all are thirsty for it, so I'm posting the first part of chapter 5 from The Book Smuggler here. There are still two more parts left to write. I've got the second part about halfway done. And I do feel bad it's taken me so long, I was on such a roll with this fic but this chapter was like hitting a brick wall because

Tilsit, East Prussia, 1863

The inn stood just off the market square, on a narrow street meandering carelessly down to the river. The plaster and timber frame sunk inward, as if the walls were in dire need of repair.  They probably were, thought Eduard, as he eyed the building apprehensively, the way it slouched against the ones surrounding it, as if they were the only thing holding it up.

He pushed his glasses up his nose.  This hardly seemed like a place his cousin would have chosen.  Himself, on the other hand...well, he’d stayed in worse.

Eduard dug the telegram out of his pocket and checked the address again.  It was right — this was the place.  He flipped the card over as if it could offer up something else — some other clue as to why his cousin was staying — in Tilsit, of all places — at an inn that looked ready to collapse in on itself.  But the back of the telegram was maddeningly blank.

Eduard sighed, adjusted the suitcase in his hand, and entered.

A surly-looking barman led him up a winding set of stairs to the top floor.  Eduard had to duck his head to keep from knocking it against the sloping roof. 

Tauras’ room was the third door on the right.

Eduard thanked the barman, then ensuring he was alone in the hallway, took a moment to compose himself — smoothing jacket lapels and flattening hair and cleaning glasses — and drew a deep, steadying breath.  Though they corresponded regularly, it had been a few years since he’d last seen Tauras. And though Eduard had no qualms regarding sharing his exploits in letters, he certainly did not want to look the part of a con artist thief.  He wanted to look every bit as respectable — as noble — as Tauras had.

Chin up, eyes down, mouth set. Eduard lifted a hand.  And knocked.

The face that greeted him, though, was not the one he remembered.

When they were boys, Tauras had been a field of grass on a summer day, warm and vibrant.  That spirit had since left him, and he just seemed...hollowed out.  Tauras was thin, his shoulders rounded.  A shadow hung behind his eyes — eyes that would not look at Eduard, but around him, through him. 

Eduard’s lofty guise melted at the sight of his cousin.  He set his suitcase down just inside the door and scooped Tauras into a tight embrace.

Air hissed through Tauras’ teeth, his shoulders tensed.

Eduard let go and stepped back, alarmed.  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  I’m fine,” Tauras said — and Eduard could not help notice the quaver in his voice, nor the pained look creasing his brow.

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, Ed.”

Eduard studied him — the shadow lurking in his eyes, the subtle way his shoulders shifted up and down. He noted the shirt, the coarse cotton weave unlike the finer cloth he had last seen his cousin wearing. 

Eduard frowned.  “What happened to you?” he asked softly.

Tauras raked a hand through his disheveled hair, shaking his head.  “I need a drink,” he muttered as he shouldered past his cousin, descending to the bar below.

Eduard followed him down the stairs, eyes catching on the faint, rust-colored lines hatching across the back of Tauras’ shirt.

They sat at a small table near a window, the glass fogged from tobacco smoke and factory soot.  The city beyond looked just as dulled under a hazy summer sky.  The surly barman that had shown Eduard upstairs brought over two clay mugs of beer, all but throwing them onto the table.

“Welcome to Prussia,” Eduard said under his breath as the barman stalked off.  He picked up his mug, drinking a long draught.

Moments later, a young woman brought over two bowls of stew and a loaf of rye bread.  Eduard flashed her a smile out of habit.  She returned it, cheeks reddening as he gave her a swift, appraising look over, but she had nothing on her worth pick-pocketing.  He turned back to Tauras, who was idly stirring his stew.

“So,” Eduard said, “Tilsit. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?  Why the hell you’re here” — he glanced around — “in this hovel of an inn?  The last thing I heard from you, you were at the seminary.  And don’t you dare tell me you’ve come here to minister to these people.  I know priests take a vow of poverty and everything, but the last time I checked, they don’t dress like workmen.  You can’t lie to a conman, cousin.  Lies are what I do for a living, and yours are terrible.”

“I’m not a priest,” Tauras said quietly.

Eduard’s mouth settled into a thin line, his eyes blazing behind his glasses.  Corresponding for years in letters had made him forget just how obstinate his cousin could be.  Because letters could be edited.  That part of yourself you did not wish to show could be hidden, buried with words — or else removed completely.

“You asked me to come here,” he pressed.  “The least you could do is tell me why.”

“Is it wrong of me to want to see a familiar face?”

Eduard folded his arms. “Stop avoiding the question.” 

Tauras’ eyes drifted up to lock on his cousin’s.  Eduard felt himself shrink away at the look they held.  Tauras flicked his gaze around the bar, but they were its only occupants.  The barmaid had gone back to the kitchen, and the man was nowhere to be seen.

“I left the seminary, and I can’t go back home.  That’s all you need to know.”

Eduard scowled, drinking his beer.  It was just like when they were boys.  Tauras, the leader; Eduard, following his every word.  Tauras, the nobleman’s son; Eduard, the bastard-child-turned-serving-boy, following his master’s orders.  They would never be equals, no matter how much Tauras had promised it when they were younger.  Whether he knew it or not, Tauras still behaved much like the entitled boy he was raised to be, believing his word was final.

“You plan to stay here, then?” Eduard asked, a cutting edge to his voice.

“Yes.  I don’t have much of a choice.”

Eduard arched a brow, finishing his beer.  “Don’t you? You could have gone anywhere — Berlin, Munich— but you chose Tilsit and can’t even deign to tell me why.”  He pulled his bowl of stew closer, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf and dipped it in, watching his cousin.  “What does your family think, of you living here?”

“They don’t know.  For all I know, they still think I’m at the seminary, or — ”  Tauras broke off, shaking his head.  The shadow was back, behind his eyes.  He drank deeply from his beer mug.

“There are other Lithuanians here,” Tauras continued, as if to himself.  “I just need to make contact.  They’ll have ways of knowing what’s happening back home.”

Eduard’s eyes narrowed as he slowly chewed his bread.  Pieces of the puzzle were gradually falling into place.  “You’re talking as if...this is something permanent.”

Tauras looked at him a moment, as if disbelieving his cousin could really be that obtuse.  “I already told you: I can’t go back home.”

“No, I know that, but it’s just...I’m trying to understand — and help you understand — whatever’s happened, you’re on your own now.  Do you know what that means, truly?”

“Yes — “

“Then what’s your plan?” Eduard asked, tipping his chin back.  A challenge.  For once, he had the upper hand.  For once, his cousin would have to listen to him.

“I have money.  It’s not much, but it’ll support me until I can find work.”

Eduard shook his head. “Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as you make it sound.  Be honest with yourself — you haven’t worked a day in your life.  What skills do you have?  What experience?  You can paint and draw, play piano, speak four languages — that’s fine for impressing the ladies and gentlemen of society, but you’re not in that world anymore.”

Tauras bristled.  “I haven’t been in that world for the past three years, or have you forgotten?”

“I’d hardly count the seminary as useful,” Eduard retorted, “unless you plan to join a monastery.”

“You know nothing of where I’ve been or what I’ve done — “  Tauras’ teeth clacked together as he cut himself off mid-sentence.  He shoved himself up from the table.  “This was a mistake.”  He turned and stormed out of the inn.

“Shit,” Eduard sighed.  He adjusted his glasses and stood, tossing a few coins onto the table for their meal, then left to find his cousin.

Tauras was seated on the banks of the Memel, elbows resting on his knees, staring across the river.  He turned, hearing the crunch of sandy gravel behind him. 

“You always did like the water,” Eduard remarked, hands resting in his pockets.  “I remember following you through the woods to the stream when we were younger.  And Nanny finding us and scolding us every single time.”

Tauras bowed his head, a faint smile softening the hard edges of his face.  “She should have known not to sit on the terrace when she took us outside. The sun always made her fall asleep, and we’d always sneak away then.”

Eduard chuckled at the memory. He sat down beside his cousin. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you back there.  We’ve always been honest with each other.  But something’s changed that.”

Tauras swallowed, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.  “It’s not your fault.  I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to see a familiar face.  I did — I do.  But seeing you — here — all of a sudden...it made everything seem too real. Everything that’s happened the past few days...it feels like it belongs to someone else’s life, not mine.”

“What has happened?” Eduard asked gently.

Tauras looked at his cousin, his face stricken.  “I was caught, Ed.”

Eduard’s brow furrowed. “You mean like — like last time, when your brother — “

Tauras shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips.  “No. Nothing like that.  Though I’m sure I’ve only further disgraced myself, as far as my father is concerned.”  He picked up a rock, thumb brushing over its smooth, worn surface. “I’m a traitor to the empire.  I was arrested and punished as such.  And that’s what I mean when I say I can’t go home. If I do, I’ll just be arrested again — only this time I’m sure my sentence won’t be as lenient as a whipping and a train ride to Siberia.”

Eduard’s face paled under the waning afternoon sun.  His eyes flicked to his cousin’s back, to the faint marks on his shirt. 

Tauras’ shoulders shifted. “And that’s not even the worst of it,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at his cousin.  “I left the seminary and joined the uprising.  We thought we could overthrow the empire and get our country back.  It sounds so foolish to say now, but....”  His voice trailed away, eyes growing distant.  “It was such a simple plan.  We ambushed them, these Russians soldiers — my squadron did — and one of them was right there in my sights but I...I c-couldn’t — I couldn’t shoot him.”

“I ran, Ed,” he rasped. “I turned and I ran, and now they’re dead because of me.  I failed my country just as I failed my men.”

They sat in silence, listening to the steady trickle of the river as it gently flowed by the bank.   

“I tried to cross the border,” Tauras continued, voice thick, “but a Russian soldier recognized me — one of the ones from the ambush.  I was brought to the customs house in Tauragė and sentenced to Kara.  Needless to say, I escaped.  I hid in the back of a wagon and crossed into Prussia four days ago. Though...there’s a part of me that thinks I should have stayed — stayed and...finished my sentence instead of running again.  I owe my men that much, at least.”

Tauras let the rock fall from his hand.  Eduard placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Words of assurance, of comfort, clung to the tip of his tongue, but he knew it would do his cousin no good to hear them just now.  They would sound empty and trite compared to the immeasurable guilt Tauras sought to atone for.  Sometimes, the only thing you could do was sit with someone and watch the water.

.

.

.

Eduard went for a walk around Tilsit later that evening.  If Tauras did indeed plan to make this city his new home, they would need better lodgings. Eduard included himself in that measure because, as he told his cousin, he may have worn out his welcome in Chemnitz. Actually most of Saxony, really. So he set out, scouting the rest of the city to see where they might feasibly purchase accommodations.  Tauras told him of the money he’d managed to get from the estate.  Paired with Eduard’s share from his last con, they would be able to live decently for a few months.  But there was still the problem of work.  Tauras would need a job and Eduard would need to make contacts as soon as possible. Though he would need to use discretion — Tilsit was nowhere near as big as the cities in Saxony — and his cousin would not appreciate being run out of town after only having just arrived.

Most of the Lithuanian population clustered around the riverfront or around the Lithuanian church further inland. Eduard took this information back to his cousin, along with noting a few help wanted signs hanging in windows near their vicinity.

When he got back to their room, he found Tauras standing in front of the dresser mirror.  A basin of water rested on a table nearby.  Tauras had removed his shirt and was gingerly cleaning the cuts criss-crossing his back, shoulders tensing as he caught sight of his cousin, reflected in the mirror.

Eduard lowered his head, averting his gaze.  “Sorry. I...guess I should have knocked first.”

Tauras simply stared back — that same hollow stare from earlier.  All sound seemed to be sucked from the room, save for the steady drip of water from the rag in his hand as he squeezed it over the basin.

“I, um, might have something for that,” Eduard said, eyes flicking up to his cousin’s, then back down.

The tension eased from Tauras. He lowered the rag, giving a near imperceptible nod of his head.

Eduard went to his suitcase, his movements stiff, limbs feeling like they belonged to someone else and not him. He knelt and flicked open the latches, taking a moment to collect himself as he lifted the lid, uncomfortably aware of his cousin watching him the whole time.  There, resting on top, was a black leather case.  Eduard took it out and set it on the bed, making a quick rummage through it.

“You travel with a medical kit?” Tauras asked.

“I travel with everything all the time,” Eduard said, trying to keep his voice light.  “You never know when you’ll have to pretend to be a surgeon.” He spun around, holding up a roll of dressing and a container of salve.

The curiously amused expression Tauras wore as he watched his cousin shifted and became closed once again. Like a cloud passing over the sun, Eduard thought.

Tauras wordlessly approached and sat on the bed.  Eduard patted his back dry with a clean cloth and began applying the salve.  It had a woody smell, and he’d used it before to treat everything from scrapes and boils to eczema — much to his former patients’ satisfaction.  He often thought if he had been able to keep with his schooling, he would have liked to become a doctor.  A real doctor.  It was probably why he spent so many years watching and imitating them, pretending to be them — and stealing whatever medical instrument he could get his hands on.

Eduard applied the dressing once he was finished with the salve, his eyes catching on the small golden cross around his cousin’s neck.  He remembered the letter Tauras had sent him, almost a year after he had left boarding school.  They were both sixteen and Tauras was absolutely besotted with his best friend from childhood.  Eduard had already known this.  Had known long before his cousin knew it himself, from the way Tauras would talk of Feliks in his letters to Eduard.

“Do you still think of him?” Eduard asked, nodding at the cross.

“Sometimes.”  A sad smile passed over Tauras’ lips.  “I suppose I was lucky my father sent me to Kaunas instead of forcing me into the imperial army, like Feliks’ father did to him.” He reached up, closing his hand around the cross.  “Mostly though, I just hope he’s safe.”

And that’s it for now!  It hasn’t been fully proofed yet, but I hope you enjoyed it so far and I’m sorry for the long wait!  The rest of the chapter is in the works and who knows, maybe it’ll be up by the end of February??

[domesticatedantelope]

pursuit

Part One: Preludes

Pairing: Colt x MC // fallout AU

Rating: M (language, canon-typical violence)

Word Count: 2.6k

For RoDAW Day 2. Inspired by this spectacular edit from our lovely host @choicesarehard.

*     *     *     *     *

It should have been an easy job.

Find the library, find the supplies, make it back alive.

Another day in fucking paradise.

i.

Colt can’t remember the last time he slept.

When he blinks, the sunlight etches blinding trails behind his eyelids. There’s no wind in the city of angels, just a choking heat that makes the road ahead shiver in his vision, oil slick puddles the sickening color of rust. Black asphalt cracks beneath his feet, the shattered streets he’s walked since he was old enough to hold the rifle in his hands — since his father left him stranded in the corpse of old Los Angeles and told him to fight his own way home. 

He swallows down the memory and skirts the skeletal remains of an old station wagon, the doors and windows hollowed to a metal husk. The city center always smells like rot and melted rubber. With a sneer, he yanks the bandana out from underneath his collar and tugs it hastily over his nose. 

Three days of walking, darting through side alleys, dodging ferals and mutants and rival raider gangs. Would have travelled safer with another gun at his back, but he moves faster on his own — and more importantly, he draws far less attention. 

Gunshots crack the silence, and in two swift steps, he pivots and slides into cover behind the nearest building. His back to crumbled brick, he steadies his breathing and listens for the rattle of return fire. From the carry of the echo, the fight’s still a few streets back, and absently he runs a palm over the ammunition in his pocket, feeling the weight of the grenades hooked into his belt. 

Beyond the shells of empty homes, he spots the sprawl of the observatory, high up in the hills above the city. The library will be another half a mile through the open streets, and with a twist of irritation, he can hear the distant gunfire growing steadily closer. An inhuman roar tears through the deafening pop-pop’s of rifle shots, resounding off the nearby buildings and kicking the rapid rhythm of adrenaline into his pulse.

Of course it’s fucking mutants. 

And from the sound of it, an unholy amount of them.

The sun is just starting to set behind the bones of old Los Angeles, dipping low over the ocean, and Colt steals a swift path through the slowly growing shadows. He’s charted most of these byways himself, cutting through a back alley and vaulting himself up over a dumpster, the rusted chain links of the fence clattering noisily when he leaps over and lands with a cloud of dust on the other side. He spills out into the middle of the street, and a guttural cry shrieks in alert to his right. Three hulking figures break into a sprint in his direction, yellowed muscles bulging as they charge him with ear-splitting snarls.

“Fuck!” Colt has no time to catch his breath, lungs aching as he leaps back into motion. He grits his teeth past the protest in his weary legs, fumbling under his coat for the rough surface of a frag mine, fingers catching as he sets the charge and flings it carefully behind him. 

The super mutants scream a chorus of bestial rage, and he hears their footsteps pounding hard against the pavement as they tear a swift pursuit.

Then, blissfully, the rapid beep beep beep of warning before one of the unlucky bastards finds the gift he left them, and a localized explosion lights the dark of setting dusk. Pained growls die to whimpers in his wake, buying him a moment to break ahead. His ears ring from the blast, but a frantic laugh lifts from his lungs, manic with relief when he slips through the sharp-edged brambles of a desiccated bush and emerges in an empty parking lot alone. 

He rips the bandana from around his mouth, leaning on his knees as he drinks in deep lungfuls of air. Across the buckled asphalt of the lot, a shambled building overgrown with ivy seems to barely stand against the darkening night, and he rises to survey the property with narrowed eyes.

The library awaits.

ii.

Nobody appreciates good literature anymore.

Mercy thumbs gingerly through the worn pages of another ruined book, and feels her heart break just a little at the state of it. The notes inked in have long since faded, half the paper scorched to ash, another volume — and all precious knowledge housed therein — now permanently lost. 

She plucks out the few pages left intact and tosses the rest in a heap with all the others. Against her will, the sting of tears builds at her lashes, and she swipes angrily under her eyes, refusing to let them fall. She’s made it this far, found the only place that might hold any whisper of salvation, but the deeper she works through haphazard stacks, the more destruction she discovers. 

The clank and whir of metal joints hiss as one of the protectrons ambles down the hall outside, and she watches the bot forge through its patrol with some small amount of comfort. The office drones were little more than scrap when she uncovered them, and now their tinny voices keep her company on the longer nights alone.

She forces a slow, steadying breath into her lungs, and sets her shoulders.

Somewhere in this godforsaken mess, she knows there is a prize worth finding. Worth leaving her life and everything she loves behind. 

There has to be.

iii.

The adrenaline is fading.

It takes Colt longer than it should to scale the building, his fingers shaking as he hauls himself up onto the edge of the roof. A winded sigh heaves from his lungs, bruises and freshly bleeding scrapes throbbing a vast array of pain across his body. He feels the onset of fatigue weighing his limbs, but pushes stubbornly past it, trekking toward a busted skylight at the far end of the building.

He drops through and rolls to break the fall, landing in a crouch among a maze of slanted bookshelves. Dust motes spiral up at the disturbance, his boots crushing moth-eaten carpet as he straightens and inspects the room around him. 

Chairs and upturned tables litter the ground, filing cabinets stacked into a slapdash barricade against the door. He takes a step and nearly stumbles over brittle, long-dry bones, the edges jutting out from rotten clothes. 

A flare of annoyance chatters at the back of his mind. 

All this fucking trouble for a bunch of burned-out books. 

There better be something good here. 

The first filing cabinet gives way with a squeal of creaking metal, and he’s got another wedged between his shoulder and the palm of his hand when the sound of weighted footsteps clomp steadily louder toward the door. 

He lets the cabinet fall back into place with a groan of irritation, reaching for his rifle. 

“Initiating search for hostile target,” the grating voice of a protectron rings out in warning.

Rolling his eyes, Colt braces his boot against the last remnants of the barricade and shoves with the full force of his strength, growling at the resistance before the furniture all comes crashing down into a heap, freeing the doors and his way out.

He grabs for the handle just as the protectron barrels through, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. He kicks himself into a roll, narrowly avoiding a laser beam that singes through the carpet and leaves a smoking scorch mark where his head would have been.

Colt scrambles to his feet, ducking into cover behind a mangled reading desk. He waits for a break in the jets of red light that soar overhead, and peeks over his cover just enough to land a few shots into the protectron, bullets pinging off its metal frame. The fourth one cracks through the translucent dome at the top of its head, and he’s lining up the shot to bring it down when the bot fires off another streak of searing energy that shreds open the leather of his armor, burning into his skin with a scalding rip of pain. Gritting his teeth, he struggles to hold steady and releases a wild spray of gunfire until the robot crumples and collapses into the dust. 

There’s a beat of quiet, just the hissing gasps of his own breath as he climbs shakily to his feet. Lifting a hand to his shoulder, he grimaces at the heat that radiates from the laser burn, throbbing like a knife wound in his skin. “Shit. Shit, shit.” A quick search through his pockets finds the last remaining stimpak in his hand, and with a grim sigh he uncaps it, sinking the needle into the muscle of his shoulder. 

The medicine works quickly, easing the worst of the pain to a more tolerable ache, the burn still pulsing with a vengeance in his skin. He’ll need to clean and dress it before long, but only once he’s certain there’s no longer any threats within the building. Any supplies he finds won’t be worth a damn if he’s too dead to drag them back to the garage.

Colt slings his rifle over his good shoulder, pulling the silenced pistol from the holster at his hip instead. With one last glance back at the shattered wreckage of the protectron, he palms his weapon and slips out through the door.

The hall is dark, the overhead fluorescents long since gone to ruin. He creeps forward with careful steps, placing his feet where the carpet will muffle his movement, pausing to listen at each barricaded door. A feeling of unease settles between his shoulders when he catches only silence — no alarms, no tripwires, no army of protectrons swarming to defend the empty halls. 

At last he reaches the towering double doors that lead to the main atrium, and that sense of growing dread has sweat gathering hot at the back of his neck. Cautiously, he extends a boot and pushes one door open, just wide enough for him to fit through. 

Colt steps into the atrium, his eyes sweeping immediately over every surface of the room before coming to rest on a slender figure taking cover at the far wall, two arms wrapped around the barrel of a sniper rifle trained firmly in his direction. He freezes where he stands, his pistol clenched between his fingers, and just as he’s rushing to calculate if he can land the shot before she kills him, the girl behind the rifle hisses out, “Don’t move.”

His jaw tightens in response, but he remains still. 

“Drop your gun.”

“If you’re gonna shoot me, you might as well just fucking do it.”

“Don’t tempt me. Drop it. Now.”

With a withering glare, Colt slowly lowers his pistol to the ground, raising his hands to show his palms above his shoulders. 

Only then does she lift her eye from the scope of her rifle, and he’s stunned briefly speechless to see the face that scowls back at him, round-cheeked and soft with youth, a scatter of dark freckles strewn across the tan of her skin. “Who are you?” she demands across the open space between them, the question sharp-edged with suspicion. The rifle remains fixed in his direction. “And what do you want?”

Colt feels the hot pressure of sudden anger pounding at his temples, seething up his spine to squeeze around the nape of his neck. If he made it this far just to die to some kid with a sniper rifle…

He works to keep his tone even. “Same thing everybody wants, sweetheart.” A twinge of satisfaction flickers through him when her eyes narrow into a glare in response. “Weapons. Caps. Supplies.” His gaze darts past her, where a pile of white medical crates sit stacked against the far wall, before flicking back to meet the dark brown of her eyes. “I guess you just found ‘em first.”

With a look of disdain, she inspects his armor, pausing at the spiked plate that hangs over his left shoulder. “You’re a raider,” she accuses thinly. 

“I’m a person,” he snaps back. “Just trying to get by. Same as you.”

“You shot my robot.”

“It shot me!” 

Her eyes pass over the fresh laser burn still glowing angry red against his shoulder, and the accusation slowly starts to lapse from her expression. “I’m sorry about that,” she mutters then, and he’s shocked to hear a thread of genuine remorse in her tone. “I had them on high alert. There’s been —”

“Super mutants, yeah. I met ‘em on the way in.”

“Did they follow you here?”

“Not that I could tell.”

The girl lets out a tired-sounding sigh and finally climbs to her feet, letting the rifle rest against her shoulder, and it’s almost comical how small the weapon makes her look. She’s tamed the dark waves of her hair into a tight braid down the center of her back, a faded coat draped loosely around her shoulders, and just past the broken teeth where a zipper used to hang, he spies the unmistakable blue of a jumpsuit. 

He could almost spit. Vault dweller. Of course. 

“Not gonna kill me then?” he sneers, and his temper roils when she rolls her eyes at him.

“Not unless I need to.” And her grip tightens around the stock of her rifle. “Don’t make me need to.”

Cautiously, Colt lets his hands drop back down to his sides, a small measure of tension falling from his shoulders when she makes no move to shoot him. “So now what?”

She considers, drumming her nails at the surface of the reading desk where she stands, a calculating look in her eyes as she studies him. “I’ll trade you for them.”

“You’ll trade them.”

Her shoulder rises in a shrug. “If you want them so badly. A trade seems easier than killing each other, doesn’t it?”

He eyes her carefully. “And what exactly do you want in return?”

Something heavy passes over her expression, a weariness that sits strangely on such a delicate face, there and gone again in an instant. “I’m looking for something. I’ve been looking for something, something hidden here in the library, and I can’t figure out where.” Frustration — almost desperation — cuts into her voice. “You help me find it, and the supplies are yours.”

Colt levels her with a deliberately slow look. “And what’s to stop me from just shooting you right now and taking everything for myself?”

At that, she manages to almost smile. “The fact that you won’t make it out of here alive.”

She’s bluffing. He’s almost sure of it. But she waits patiently for him to make the call, that same small, infuriatingly gentle smile on her lips, and somewhere past the angry cage around his heart, he thinks he might almost respect her for it.

“Fine,” he groans, and makes a show of stowing his rifle into his bag. “We have a deal.”

Her smile brightens, fully formed, the dark of her eyes warm with something like relief when she steps around the desk and crosses the room to stand before him. She’s even smaller this close, peering curiously up at him as if they hadn’t just nearly killed each other. “What should I call you?”

He meets her gaze with a scowl. “Colt.”

“Colt,” she repeats, as if trying out the sound of it. Then she nods in vague approval. “My name is Mercedes, but you can call me Mercy.” And she reaches out to shake his hand, daring to laugh when surprise knocks the glare from his face. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

[honeys-fiction]

Caught By Flames

So this is something that’s been sitting in my drafts for a bit, and having a similar conversation about it on discord made me wanna finish it. It’s kinda like an alternate au of Dreadnought, since Dabi is something completely different in that fic. Any who, enjoy~

-Honey

ps: check out @angeliclyaslut for her head-cannons of pirate Dabs as well! 

Yandere! Dabi x Reader

Flames.

Flames as far as the eye could see. The town square was ablaze in a shower of orange and red. Smoke blotted out the sun, leaving your once peaceful settlement draped in the choking darkness. The screams of your neighbors filled the air, mixing with the clash of iron and rumble of burning homes and businesses. 

Your town was seated on a small, temperate island. The ports were always bustling with new travelers and explorers. The shops were always open, windows filled with homemade goods. Carriages frequented the cobble streets, there were always people roaming shop to shop. The women would wander about in their fancy hats and dresses, gossiping. Men would be out completing errands, farmers would stop to sell their produce…

Now they’re all dying.

Cannon fire echoed from the port. A lone ship had sailed in from Gods know where, guns blazing and cannonades ready.

The infamous ship of the damned; The Black Hand. An obsidian ship with sails as black as night; an ebony skeleton with its head thrown back, guzzling whatever was in the bottle it held over its head, took the bow as their figure head.The ship had made a notorious name for itself in the decades it’s sailed. No matter what captain took leadership, the sea always ran with blood in their wake. It’s current captain was no exception.

He had earned himself the title Hand of Searis by those few who survived his plunders. True to the name of the God of Fire, he set a firestorm upon any town or village he saw fit, burning all he crossed to ash.

That same ship had sent cannonballs into your town, had set your home ablaze while you were in it.

Coughing violently as smoke and ash flooded your lungs, you desperately flew to the second floor as fire consumed your home. Debris had cut off all your exits from the bottom floor, leaving you no other choice but to take the stairs.

Your home groaned and creaked around you, screaming for release. Tearing a piece from your apron, you held it to your face to block out the burning smoke. The only room that hadn’t been walled off by flames led to the balcony. Your only option was the roof of your neighbors, which fortunately wasn’t far from the railings.

Hoisting up your tattered commoners dress, you prepared yourself to jump. Two stories lie between you and the ground, a good couple of feet between you and your neighbor’s roof. If you fell, you may not be able to get back up…

The crash of a beam behind you solidified your resolve. It was either jump and possibly die or burn to ashes with your home. With your feet planted firmly on the railing, you steadied yourself. Mustering the rest of your courage and strength, you lept from the balcony of your former home.

You hit the side of the roof with a grunt, your midsection colliding harshly with the gutters. Your fingers scrambled for purchase on the slated shingles, the rough texture scraping your palms and face. After a few panicked moments, the pads of your fingers caught on a decent edge, allowing you to hoist yourself up. You took a moment to catch your breath, hunched over on all fours. But you knew you couldn’t stay long. The stray sparks and embers were already flying too close to your refuge for comfort. 

Standing on shaky legs, you hurried carefully across the roof. On the opposite side of the building was an inn, where another balcony was located. With your height advantage, you could land safely and make your way down from there. 

You landed roughly onto the inn’s balcony. The force of the fall caused you to wheeze for a moment. It took a great effort to urge yourself back up, even more so to stumble past the threshold of the guest room. The door flung open into an empty hallway, any guests had long since been evacuated. You ran to the stairs at the end of the corridor, bolting down to the main floor. It was too late to retreat once your feet hit the last steps. From behind the bar, three ragged, bloodied men swiveled away from their stolen drinks to face you.

They all had beards of varying lengths. Each of them had a bottle of something in each hand. More empty bottles littered the bar top. Their pistols still lie in their holsters…

The four of you stared each other down from across the main floor. You feared they would gun you down the moment you lifted a finger…

One of them tipped, falling over on his back in a moment of drunken panic. You took his distraction to bolt for the door, the other two too drunk to properly pull their pistols and swords. A bullet lodged itself in the door frame as you exited, causing you to yelp as you took off down the burning street.

Women and children were fleeing, screaming and crying as their husbands, brothers and fathers were cut down in the road. Other unlucky souls were pulled into empty shops or alleyways by marauders hoping to get a quick fix. And yet you found yourself running in the opposite direction of the forest where your fellow townspeople were taking refuge. Instead you sprinted towards the port, where your family’s flower shop lies on the first street visible from the docks. Your parents had left you at home for the day, deciding you needed a rest after working so hard for them in the shop. They would be the closest to where the cannon fire first struck…

It seemed as though your heart fell to pieces the moment you spotted your beloved shop in ruins. It had managed to escape the flames, but fell victim to the obsidian cannons on the deck of the cursed ship anchored in the middle of the harbor. The roof had all but collapsed on top of your once vibrant nursery. What flowers you could see from the shattered and splintered window frames had all wilted and died from the abuse. 

“Mother!” You cried hysterically. “Father!”

All that greeted you was the clash of steel and echo of gunshots, screams and the roar of flames. Nothing from your families shop. 

You flung yourself onto the debris blocking the doorway. Wood chips scraped at your already abused and bleeding palms, but the only thing you cared about at that moment was the whereabouts of your parents. Once the door was mostly freed, you pressed yourself against it’s battered surface. The hinges protested against further abuse, screeching horribly against one another. With a final push, the door opened enough to let your small frame through.

The center of the store had been decimated by fallen beams and wooden framing, flower petals littered the floor. In the middle of it all were your mother and father, crushed under the roof of your poor little flower shop. Your father held the lifeless body of your mother against his still chest, as if he had tried to shield her from harm. Half of their bodies lay hidden under the rubble, blood pooled beneath the two in the form of a sickening blanket. 

Staggering towards their lifeless embrace, you fell to your knees amidst the petals and carnage. You could no longer find it in you to scream, nor wail. All you could manage were the tears that fell from your shell-shocked irises. 

Your parents were dead. Your friends lay dead on the streets, your home burned, your shop destroyed. Your poor flowers…

Yet the world still refused to allow you rest.

“There’s the little escape artist, I had wondered where you’d run off too.”

Your trembling halted at the sound of an unfamiliar, raspy voice. Slowly, your aching body turned towards the source, eyes finding the man who may be fire incarnate. 

Vibrant, piercing electric blue orbs stared you down. His hair was jet black and, much like the stories; his skin was in patchwork burns, covered head to toe in piercings, staples and stitches. Atop his head was a Prussian blue strip of fabric, the only source of color in his attire, that kept most of his hair from falling into his eyes. A worn black trench coat sat over his low cut shirt, which exposed the burns that littered his chest.

The Captain of the Damned himself stood before you, eyeing you like a predator his prey. Those cold ocean eyes observing every little inch of your tattered form. 

“I saw you jumpin’ from the rooftops like a mad woman. I admit, I’m impressed,” He chuckled, taking a step in your direction. 

“Stay back!” You were on your feet in an instant, backing towards the debris that lay atop your parents. He merely paused.

“What's the matter, little dove? Never seen a pirate before?” His deep voice taunted you as he continued his course. Slow, deliberate footsteps sauntered toward you. “I wouldn't be surprised. If I were any other Capn’, I’d left this place to the damn militia guardin’ it. Course, it’s rather lucky they’re absent today, wouldn’t you agree?”

The one week the Navy was called away was the day the most notorious ship just happened to be near. In some cruel twist of fate, your once peaceful and vibrant town was reduced to embers and corpses. Though, even if they were here, your certain it wouldn’t have stopped The Black Hand’s course. 

His encroaching form spurred you back to life. You cast a glance behind you, desperately trying to find an escape route. Forward wasn’t an option, not with the literal embodiment of flames blocking the entrance. Thankfully, the back door was mostly free of rubble, yet that meant he could fit too…

“I wouldn’t try it, doll. It’d be much easier for us both if you gave me what I came for,” he growled. Your attention returned to his form, a pleased smirk reappearing on his scarred face. “Good girl, just keep those pretty eyes on me and we won’t have any trouble…”

Immediately you spun around on your heel and darted towards the back door. You heard a gruff curse behind you before heavy thuds followed you. The back door, thankfully unlocked and unblocked, swung open easily. In your haste, you slid into the wall of the building next to your mangled shop. You ran towards the alley’s exit, the opening just within your reach-

A wall of blue hellfire sprung forth from the ground, casting the alleyway in an eerie blue glow. The heat licked at your face as you screeched, stumbling to a halt. Your following screams were muffled by a large, calloused hand as you were slammed against the stone wall. Blue eyes bore cinders into your own as he pressed himself against your shuttering form. His other hand pressed against the cool surface of the wall besides your head, effectively blocking you in. 

“C’mon doll, did ya really think that’d work?” He huffed, displeasure seeping from his posture. “While I love your spark, that was an awfully stupid thing to do.”

The hand that muffled your protests fell to your neck, squeezing it’s fragile shape easily. His displeasure soon turned feral, lips pulled back in a grin. His eyes wandered your features, seemingly admiring what he’d caught.

“It’s about damn time. I’d been watin’ to get my hands on you ever since I saw you in that lil’ shop. It might’ve only been a day, but I've never been a patient man.”

Your eyes widened. A day? You’d never seen this man before you in your life! However, one event from the day prior suddenly seemed clearer. You had been working with your parents in the flower shop as usual, finishing up orders and greeting regulars as they browsed the new seasonal flora. You were in the middle of rearranging the main window display when a figure on the street caught your eye. They were covered in a black cloak, hood pulled up over their head and a scarf wrapped over their face. Yet you could still see striking blue eyes, the same eyes that now leered down at you. Your parents directed you away from the window fairly quickly, keeping you hard at work in the back room the rest of the day. Had they seen him staring? Is that why they wanted you to stay at home?

His smile widened as recognition sparked across your gaze. His thumb moved to pet your jaw, the hand against the wall now twirling your hair in between his fingers. 

“Aw, you do remember lil’ ol’ me. I’m touched,” his breath fanned your face as he chuckled darkly. “I was goin’ to leave this town of yours alone, till I saw the sweet little hummingbird it’d been hidin’. I couldn’t leave without the greatest treasure this rock has to offer.” 

His free hand began to wander, trailing down your side, griping and pawing as he pleased. His grip on your neck tightened when you began to whimper and squirm, the unfamiliar feeling giving rise to panic. 

“C’mon lass, never had a man touch you like this?” He purred, lips brushing your ear. “Good, I'd've killed em’ anyway.” 

His tongue darted out to run across your ear, shivers went down your spine. 

“F-fuck you…” You wheezed. He pulled back, shocked smile and wide eyes.

“Easy princess, where’d a city lass like you learn such language?” You were practically gasping for air now, his hold on your neck becoming brutal. He’d no doubt leave marks, if you’d be alive to see them. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to sort out your behavior.”

Then everything went black.

When you awoke, you laid in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. The space occasionally rocked and shifted slightly, leading you to realize you were on a ship. When you moved to stand, the clinking of metal brought your attention to the cuffs chaining you to the bed. Your tattered commoners dress had been removed, only your undergarments remained. 

You winced as you shifted, your collar bone aching in a strange unfamiliar way. Running your fingers over the area proved to be too painful.

“Bout’ damn time, princess. I was beginin’ to worry I’d killed ya.”

Your head shot up, the door to the room opened while you were inspecting your wound. The Captain of the Damned stood in the door frame, his trench coat nowhere to bee seen. Over his shoulder you could see what looked to be some kind of an office. It seemed he was keeping you in his quarters. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” You hissed, anger blazing even as stalked closer.

“Relax, I just gave you a lil’ somethin’ so people know you’re taken. Am I not allowed to mark what's mine?” As he spoke, he held up a small mirror for you to see what he was referring to. On your collarbone was his name, scorched into your skin.

Dabi.

Taglist:

@luesi @mothwithteeth @forallthstarsinthesky @angeliclyaslut

[madness-curin-sadness]

A Killing Eve theory.

"It was Eve who killed Kenny"

It makes sense, everyone knows that Eve was the only one who was around Kenny when he died. Eve saw his body drop from the roof. She found his dead body on the pavement. - Eve could have already been at the office with Kenny sitting on the roof top.

Eve gets a birthday cake. Upset and fearful Eve brings the birthday cake up to the roof. Eve realizes because it is a bus themed birthday cake it is from Villanelle. Eve gets mad and impulsively throws the cake off of the roof, she instantly reaches for the cake at the same time, but it is too late, the cake splats on the ground. - At first we see Eve staring at the cake that is set on top of a office chair. One of the office chairs is fumbled over upside down next to a puddle of water. Eve and Kenny could of been sitting in those two chairs. Perhaps there was a altercation with Eve and Kenny resulting in Eve pushing Kenny off of the roof. That is why we see Eve reach after the cake immediately after she throws the cake off the roof. She regrets throwing the cake away or she regrets pushing Kenny off the roof. Hmm idk?

Eve arives at the office. She can not find Kenny so she calls him. Eve sees that Kenny left his phone on his desk and Kenny falls off the roof in the background.- Why would Kenny leave his phone on his desk? Most importantly why would the assassin or killer leave Kenny's phone on his desk? By the way, the desk where Eve finds Kenny's phone when she calls him was not left on Kenny's desk. Well maybe they just wanted to get the window background shot, so that's why Kenny's phone was left there.

Eve starts drinking heavily to cope with Kenny's death. - A drinking mechanism it is not okay but it is pretty reasonable, especially after seeing a close friend die. We see Eve standing outside drunk and smoking in the rain by herself at Kenny's memorial service. - We originally think Eve is just sad about Kenny's death. Then we see Eve acting like a hot mess at the memorial service, pushing the idea that Kenny did not commit suicide. We then believe Eve thinks Kenny's death was The Twelve's doing. We know Kenny, he wouldn't commit suicide, that is why we believe Eve.

We see Eve later at a bar drinking with Kenny's phone. I first thought, "omg she has Kenny's phone.. Yes she can find out who killed him". The only time we question why Eve has Kenny's phone is when Eve is with Jamie and Bear at the office. Jamie is questioning Eve's motives about not giving up Kenny's phone to them. Jamie purposely moves the conversation towards Eve personally. Eve says, "... see this isn't about me." And then Jamie says, "see that is where I think you're wrong, if this all wasn't about you, you wouldn't be keeping the phone." It is there where we assume, "yes Kenny's death and his information on his phone is linked to Eve and The Twelve.", so yes this all is about Eve. But what if Eve simply kept Kenny's phone because she was the one who accidentally killed him and there is too much information on his phone that connects Eve to Kenny?

Eve killed Kenny and she doesn't remember doing it. - What if Eve actually killed Kenny? Eve has been showcased in the show many times zoning out, losing track of time, doing odd things agressivly without thinking, and talking to herself. Something to think about; Eve was depressed over Villanelle shooting her, she was sad about Kenny's death, Eve kissed Villanelle and headbutted her, Eve was heartbroken seeing Niko nearly get killed, but then Niko lived and now she is energized to find out who did it. At first it did not make sense to why Eve's character kept switching up emotionally, but this might be why. Bair with me.

Eve tracks down Dasha and tries to kill her. - While bowling Dasha mocks Eve's relationship with Villanelle. Dasha threatens Eve, Eve does not back down nor does she get scared. Instead Eve believes it was Dasha who tried to kill Niko and that Dasha tried to frame it on Villanelle. That possibility upsets Eve, Eve gets fired up, and she wants to find Villanelle. In the process of finding Villanelle she stumbles upon Dasha who is almost dead on the ground via the hands of Villanelle. Eve checks on Dasha worriedly at first thinking Dasha is dead. Dasha is not dead, Eve ask, "where is she?" refering to Villanelle. Then Dasha speaks up and she mocks Niko's "Stalin" like mustache. Thus confirming that it was Dasha who tried to kill Niko. That switches something in Eve, Dark Eve, and Eve tries to kill Dasha by stepping on Dasha's sternum slowly. Eve had that crazy look in her eye, the same one Villanelle gets when she kills. But Eve snaps out of it, Eve stops what she is doing and takes off when she hears police sirens. The way Eve moods and actions keeps switching up so fast make me feeling like Eve is suffering from some sort of personality disorder.

Carolyn finds out who killed Kenny in ep. 8. - In one of the promo trailers to KE S3x08 we see Caroyln sat at a computer. She says, "oh my." It seems Carolyn has finally seen the information on Kenny's death that Mo found and was going to show her. Carolyn does not seem mad but kind of shocked and worried. This is where I can see Eve being the one who killed Kenny. Carolyn does not usually have a huge reaction to news but at this point I'd imagine she would. The only way Carolyn would react like that would be if Kenny did kill himself or if it was Eve.

Villanelle and Eve are the same. If all of this ended up being true it would mean that Villanelle and Eve are both at points in their lives where they regret killing someone close to them. Villanelle does not want to kill anymore because killing her mom has scarred her. Eve accidentally killed Kenny, Eve nearly killed off Dasha, Eve is spiralling out and she knows it. So Eve turns to Villanelle because she wants to see Villanelle but also because Eve needs help. This is all while Villanelle and Eve have very strong feelings for each other. This outcome would be crazy. But I mean we already love an unstable couple so it wouldn't matter lol.

"Idk how much I believe this theory. I mean I would not be suprised if it ended happening. However, it does not look like this will be the ending outcome, so I do not bet on it. Because Eve loved Kenny, why would she accidentally kill Kenny and how would she do it without realizing? I just don't see it. It was obviously The Twelve who killed Kenny. It was probably that other assassin woman Rhina who hangs around Héléne. Like why else would that woman kill Mo? Anyways, yeah it's just fun to theorize about the this amazing show."