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kassandras-one-braincell · 3 years

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Eivor x Fem!Reader - Ink Me Up

Oh, what to do when the Norwegian woman tattooing your thigh is insanely attractive, clearly gay, with a criminally good bedside manner?

Warning: about tattooing and obviously needles.

Word count: 4363

Can be found on AO3 here.

Heavily inspired by this post here. The tattoo itself is purely self-indulgent. Eivor is stupidly attractive and it's not fair. (Y/N) replacer safe.

After months of saving and deliberation, the time had come. For the longest time you had dreamed of getting something big, bold and beautiful permanently inked into your skin. Something meaningful. And you wanted someone talented to tattoo it.

Thus, you found yourself scouring the web for reputable tattoo shops, hours upon hours poured into searching artists’ portfolios, hoping that someone was skilled enough at black-and-grey realism within a relatively close radius. If you were going to pay a hefty sum for a tattoo, you wanted it to be perfect. Your desktop was flooded with reference images of sword lilies – the subject of your desired ink – and about a dozen different parlours, tabs whittling down one by one during your search.

The final tab was the website for a slightly pricier shop, but one of the artist’s Instagrams utterly captivated you. Their artwork was extraordinary, the details in their pieces stunning and intricate; you decided investing a little extra cash would be worth it. Eivor Varinsdóttir, handle @wolfkissed_ink. Grinning, you emailed the artist, requesting a consultation.

You explained to the artist during that consultation that you wanted a composition of black-and-grey realistic gladioli on your left thigh. Sword lilies represented strength, after all, and you wanted to commemorate overcoming a difficult part of your life with something gorgeous and symbolic. That and, well, flowers were pretty. Within the week they had responded with a sketch that was beyond what you could have possibly thought up yourself: two stunning, bloomed sprigs of the flower with petals floating either side, lifelike as a monochrome photograph. Smiling ear-to-ear, you booked up your first appointment.

Unbridled excitement led to the time before your appointment soaring by, with you opening up the file of the sketch almost every day. Bringing us to the present: you stood anxiously outside the parlour door, 12:50pm, ten minutes before your scheduled appointment. Sucking in a shaky breath, nerves both good and bad, you stepped inside.

The tattoo shop was sleek, modern and decked wall-to-wall with flash sheets, the small designs varying in style, colour and detail. Everything was spotless, as one would expect, with shining awards dotted about. Just seeing the various trophies did well to quell some of your anxieties, knowing you were in good hands, that you’d end up with a lovely piece on your thigh. A stout man covered neck to foot in swirling Japanese designs manned the front desk, smiling warmly at you, obliterating any stigmas you had heard from older relatives about tattoo culture.

Biting your lip, you made your way to the desk, mustering a nervous smile. As thrilled as you were about getting the tattoo, the whole pain aspect was still rather daunting. “Hey, one o’clock appointment for (Y/N) (L/N)?” You fidgeted with the hem of your shorts while the gentleman checked his desktop.

“With Eivor, right?” he verified. You nodded.

“Sorry I’m a little early—”

“No, not at all! Rather you be early than late,” he chuckled, clearly sensing your worries. His eyes flickered across a clipboard. “She’s not with a client at the moment, so I’ll send you through now, if that’s alright.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you bade, pulse quickening. Come on, you’ve wanted this for so long, you can’t pussy out now.

The guy asked you to wait by the desk as he ventured down a long corridor, the black paint giving off an ominous vibe that did nothing for your nerves. A few seconds later, he returned, cocking his head for you to follow. Your knuckles were white from gripping the strap of your purse so tightly.

He led you to the room at the end of the hall, holding the glossy black door open for you. “Go easy on her, Eivor, it’s clearly her first,” he called out, flashing you a wink, before letting the door close behind you.

Holy shit.

She was hot.

Eivor was nothing short of a modern day viking. Tall, rippling with muscle, late twenties to early thirties, blond hair strewn into an unruly braid with a strip on the right shaved clean to the flesh, revealing a fucking skull tattoo of a bird…a raven? Her face was stupidly handsome, eyes blue and icy but warm with greeting, a long and gnarly scar cutting into the flesh of her left cheek with a smaller nick protruding from her upper lip. Hell, the nape of her neck was marred with an even more vicious looking scar. She wore a tight black t-shirt that strained around her deliciously grizzled arms, which were adorned with Norse-looking runes and text curving into circles, ink that carried on to her hands and neck. The smile she offered you made you weak in the knees.

“(Y/N), right? I’m Eivor, a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, voice deep and gravelly, decorated with a rasp that to you sounded like butter. Fuck me, she’s a tall, tall glass of water.

You shook her hand when she extended it to you, marvelling at the patterns and blacked-out bands on her long, thick fingers. Her nails were cut extremely short, confirming the strong lesbian vibe she gave off. “Likewise,” you squeaked, cursing yourself for acting like some bloody schoolgirl.

She sauntered over to her setup, weight carried in her shoulders, consolidating her already intimidatingly attractive butch energy, sanitised her hands and pulled on a clean pair of gloves. “Come on over,” she said, grabbing a disposable razor from a box. “I’ll just need to make sure the area is shaven, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” you replied, joining her by the leather chair, covered by a sheet of cellophane. It was a relief to see all the hygiene precautions taken in the shop. Eivor picked up a disinfectant wipe.

“Left thigh, if I remember correctly?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

She dropped to one knee – wasn’t that a fucking sight – and wiped down the expanse of your thigh before gliding the razor over the flesh.

Hesitantly, you asked her what the general procedure was, desperately trying to divert your thoughts from the sapphic spiral they were travelling down.

“Alright, after I’ve finished here I’ll apply the stencil. You’ll get to check if you like the placement, and if you don’t I’ll keep going until you’re happy with it. It’s a big piece, so we’ll have to split this up into two sessions, as we discussed alongside payment.” She brushed away the loose hairs and peach fuzz. “I’ll do the linework this session, and the shading next time.” With one final pass of the razor she pulled back, tossing it into a bin.

Eivor then picked up a sheet of thin paper with the sketch printed on it. She plucked a purple pen from her table. “Give me a few minutes to trace the stencil, then we’ll apply it and see how you like it.” You nodded, trying to focus on your breathing.

While she traced over each line of the sketch, she kindly attempted to soothe your fears with small talk. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of a ‘gladiolus’ before our consultation. Any reason why you chose it?”

You smiled. “They represent strength. I finally got through a rough spell and wanted something to celebrate with,” you explained, heart skipping a beat at the soft expression on the artist’s face.

“All the more reason to get this perfect then,” she said with a grin. The way the scar on her upper lip quirked was positively adorable. A couple minutes passed and she re-capped the pen. “Stand up straight for me, darling.” Oh.

Cheeks burning with bashfulness, you complied. Eivor took a second to angle the stencil before smoothing it over your thigh, leaving a purple outline once she removed the paper. “Just have a look in that mirror over there and tell me if you’re happy, okay?”

You walked over to the mirror and stared at your thigh. The tattoo was large – which you expected, with the amount of detail in it – and perfectly central, the loose petals appearing to float down the length of your thigh. “Perfect,” you breathed out, giving the woman a thumbs-up.

Eivor switched over her gloves and gestured for you to take a seat on the chair. “Get comfy, then. Do you have water?” Nodding, you took out your water bottle from your handbag. “Brilliant. Still want to do this?”

“Hell yeah.” Weirdly, the nerves about the pain (not about the sexy artist) had almost wholly subsided, leaving you brimming with anticipation.

She poured some jet black ink into small caps, no larger than the tip of your thumb. “Remember to breathe through it and hold still, yeah? You picked a smart place for your first tattoo, not too close to the bone.”

“I’ll try.” Eivor opened a sealed packet containing a new, sterilised needle, inserting it into her tattoo machine. She switched it on, the buzz of the machine’s piston filling the room with a gentle hum. Looking up at you, she cocked her brow – if only your gay thoughts could bugger off for two minutes – as if to ask, ready? Affirmatively, you beamed at her.

Dipping the needle into the ink, she pulled the skin of your thigh taut. Immediately, you noted the warmth of her hand on your leg, fighting off a shudder. Then came a mildly painful scratching sensation as she brought the machine to your thigh.

Honestly? It wasn’t bad. Irritating, like an itchy eye, but not drastically unpleasant. You followed Eivor’s advice, keeping your breathing steady, averting your attention to the artwork on the walls, some of which you had seen on her Instagram portfolio. Portraits, flowers, animals, realistic-looking jewellery…the woman had mastered black-and-grey. You knew you picked the right artist. The frown of concentration on her face spoke volumes about her dedication to the art, steeled and intently focused on the lines she was pulling.

When she wiped the area and reached for more ink, she glanced up at your face. “All good?” she asked.

“Yeah, no issues here.”

“Wonderful.” She set back to work, positioning her needle over the flower’s curved stem, dragging it downwards in a slow arc. “Your skin takes ink like butter, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you breathed out. Her hand suddenly felt a little warmer. Tell me this woman does audiobooks, you thought.

After a few more lines, you tried to pepper in some small talk without breaking her concentration. Fortunately, her bedside manner was immaculate, and she entertained your questions without any grudges.

“Your voice is really soothing. Where abouts are you from?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m from Norway, moved here a few years back.” She grinned at the compliment. “It’s funny, people usually say the opposite about my voice.” You wondered if they were deaf.

“It’s a nice rasp,” you chuckled. Buzzing stopped, more ink.

“I was bitten by a wolf when I was nine,” she explained. Buzzing recommenced, scratching returned. “My larynx never properly healed from it, so I’ve sounded like some chain-smoker since before I hit double-digits, despite never touching a cigarette in my life.”

“You don’t sound like a chain-smoker, though. I mean it.”

Her grin widened. “That actually means a lot.”

An hour passed by, most of it spent in comfortable silence, with Eivor checking in on you occasionally to see how you were coping. Certain patches of nerves stung a little more than others, but none of it was unbearable. That was until her machine passed over a particularly rough area. It fucking killed, the burn of the needle seemingly deeper than anywhere else, the sting infinitely more intense than before. You hissed, gritting your teeth together.

“Ow,” you winced, clutching onto your water bottle in an attempt to relieve the pain, to no avail.

Eivor continued pulling her line, her rasp coming out in a low mantra. “Just breathe through it, nice and slow…” You tried to follow, attempting in vain to relax your shoulders. “Keep holding still for me…” Your breaths came shallow but steadily so, the stinging slowly becoming more endurable. The machine reached the end of the line. “Good girl,” she muttered, blissfully of absent mind.

Good girl.

Oh fuck.

Just when your clearly gay tattoo artist couldn’t get any hotter, she comes out with some hot-girl bullshit like that. And fuck, you didn’t think you had a praise kink before, but now this certainly awakened something. Why, why did it have to sound so good in her husky voice? No, you were absolutely not going to fantasise about your artist, not when her hands were on your skin, on your thigh of all fucking places. God, this stupidly attractive Norwegian butch was making you uncomfortably hot.

When she finally pulled away, sweet bloody reprieve, you took a sip of your water. “That wasn’t fun,” you remarked.

“Took it like a champion, though,” she beamed proudly, clearly unaware of the affect her words had just had on you. “Need a break?”

“Just a minute or two, thank you,” you sighed with relief. Eivor wiped you down and analysed her work.

“We’re just over halfway there,” she commented. Only halfway? Fuck. You allowed your eyes to wander over the black lines, all perfectly smooth from practiced precision. Yeah, this woman was talented.

“I mean, that killed, and that was my thigh…” you trailed off, making her laugh. “What was the most painful tattoo you’ve gotten?”

Eivor answered without hesitation. “My head, without a doubt. Packing solid black into that thing was agony. My fingers killed, too, but all completely worth it.” You couldn’t help but agree with that last part. Her hands looked extremely good, both with and without those gloves.

“I’m guessing places with more nerve endings and by the bone are the worst, then?”

“Definitely. The palm of the hand is the most sensitive, and it’s tough to get right. Ink bleeds, skin bleeds…and if you don’t do it well it’ll just fade. All that pain for nought.”

You gulped down some more water. Ouch. “Duly noted.”

After ninety odd more minutes, Eivor switched off her machine for good, the linework finished and utterly flawless. “All done for this session,” she announced, changing gloves once more to clean and wrap the area. There was minimal irritation around each line, and the wipe felt wonderfully cool against the reddening flesh.

Once she finished placing various equipment in a tub labelled ‘autoclave’, she escorted you to the front desk. You paid half the decided fee of the tattoo and booked your second session for three weeks’ time. Eivor gave you an aftercare kit, explaining in detail how to keep the tattoo clean, how to prevent infection, and to avoid direct exposure to sunlight as much as you could. Eagerly, you listened, trying to drink in as much of her voice as possible before departing.

“I’ll see you in three weeks, then. Take care, (Y/N),” she grinned. From the moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew that grin would be engraved into your mind for the weeks to come.

The second appointment couldn’t have come quickly enough.

You spent an embarrassing quantity of time thinking about your dreamy tattoo artist, right up until the day you walked back into the shop, this time free of any concerns pertaining to the tattoo. The gentleman from before recognised you and asked how the tattoo was holding up, if you’d had any issues keeping it clean, to which you replied all was good. Only this time, Eivor came to greet you by the front desk.

“How’s it going?” she asked, welcoming as before.

“Really good. I just hope I’ve been doing everything right,” you chuckled, anxiously glancing down at your thigh. The redness had completely disappeared a few days after your first appointment, the black ink proudly meandering over your skin.

Eivor smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, you’d know if you haven’t. From here it looks like you’ve done a fantastic job of keeping it clean, anyway.” You followed her to her studio, mentally noting how she was wearing an even tighter black t-shirt than last time, the fabric clinging to the defined contours of her muscled back, biceps, abs… Needless to say, the gay thoughts had returned at full-force.

As before, she shaved and disinfected your thigh, but instead of a stencil she had the full greyscale reference images for the design printed and taped to a metal beam above her table. She took careful time in diluting various caps of black ink into a plethora of greys, experience shining through as she added precise amounts of diluter to each cap. There was something addictive about watching the woman work, with how methodical she was, how delicately she handled the bottles of ink.

When she unpacked a needle, you noted the shape was different to before. “Now, some parts are gonna be only a little rougher than before. Others will suck, I’ll warn you now,” she mentioned as you positioned yourself on the chair.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” you joked. Eivor laughed.

“You handled it like a trooper before. I have zero doubts you’ll do the same today.”

And so she began, making multiple passes with the machine unlike before, packing in the different shades of grey in front of her, scratching into the already broken skin. It wasn’t massively painful, but Eivor was right – last time was a breeze in comparison. You rested your eyes and bore the pain, focusing on the faint music playing from the shop’s reception.

As previously, she was ever considerate, checking up on you as she worked – albeit not as frequently, now that you were accustomed to the needles – and encouraging you through the nastier patches. You tried your hardest to not look at your thigh, wanting the final result to be a surprise, but over time it grew increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at her hands. Merely the thought of them flustered you (pathetic, you knew) and nothing would be more embarrassing than drifting off into a less than appropriate fantasy about the woman when she was simply being professional.

Time blurred together amongst your inner dilemma – to look or not to look – until Eivor’s signature rasp caught your attention. “Time for your least favourite part,” she said, giving you a knowing look, positioning her needle in one of the petals over the area that hurt like a bitch previously.

“Oh god, I forgot about that area.”

“Just own the pain and keep still, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Eivor smirked: a wicked thing that could have killed every sapphic in a mile radius. “Squirm and I’ll pin you down. I’ve had to do it before, and I’ll do it again.”

That, under different circumstances, would be an appealing notion.

Closing your eyes once more, you tried to decipher the song lyrics resonating through the shop’s hall, grimacing when the needle penetrated the skin. Just focus on Rihanna, focus on Rihanna…

“That’s…not so bad, actually,” you mutter, not entirely self-assured of the words leaving your lips, hoping some placebo affect would take place.

Eivor chuckled, dipping into another shade. “You sound convincing,” she drawled.

“I’m – ow – serious… Okay fuck, that’s way worse.”

“Shh, it’ll be over soon. Find something to focus on.”

So you did, on what happened to be the first thing in your immediate line of sight when you re-opened your eyes: Eivor’s bicep. God, her shirt strained around the muscle, black fabric against tanned skin and the deep green runes littering her arm. Perhaps the ink had something to do with her ancestry, given that the woman said she was Norwegian – that or she was just a mythology nerd. Your eyes trailed over the spirals of script, the perfectly concentric circles. Mind wandering, the idea that she may have tattoos on her back and front piqued your interest. Then came the delightful image of Eivor without a shirt. Pinning you down. Fuck.

Before long the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache where the needle had worked at your skin. “All done, darling,” Eivor murmured, wiping the patch. Darling. You knew it was simply her bedside manner, trying to keep you as relaxed as possible, but damn was it having the polar opposite effect. Cheeks feeling impossibly hot, you unscrewed the cap of your bottle and took a sizeable gulp of water. She gave you a moment to breathe, now that the most difficult part was out of the way. Still flustered, you drained half your bottle.

Concern plastered on her face, Eivor leaned closer, inspecting your face intently. “Are you feeling faint?” she asked, evidently worried. “It’s important you tell me if you are—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” You were stuttering, annoyed with yourself that you made her worry. “Just being weird. I promise.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows were still upturned, not entirely believing you.

You nodded frantically. “Yeah, really. Please don’t worry.”

Taking a slow breath, she restarted the machine, relief flashing across her features. She gestured for permission to continue tattooing, which you granted, and set back to work.

Cursing internally, you let your eyes flutter shut, thoughts full of nothing but ‘good girls’ and ‘darlings’ in a husky Norwegian accent. Numbing yourself to the needles, you drifted off into slumber.

“Hey, (Y/N)?”

A gentle pressure squeezed at your hand, slowly stirring you, bringing you back to the world of the living. Yawning, you opened your eyes, gaze brought to a gloved hand atop your own.

“Good evening,” Eivor said, retracting her hand and watching as you gasped and scanned the studio for a clock in a panic. Evening?

“Kidding,” she laughed. “I finished up ten minutes ago.” You shot her a half-hearted glare through sleepy eyelids.

“That was mean,” you pouted. She grinned.

“I do stab people for a living.”

Snorting, you swung your legs over the side of the chair, stretching them to regain a semblance of sensation. Chest pounding with excitement, you looked to the mirror at the side of the room, then at Eivor, silently asking permission to peak at the finished tattoo. She held out her hand in gesticulation.

Giddy with anticipation, you walked over and… Holy shit.

It was beautiful.

Each shade of grey blended into one another in a perfect harmony, so seamlessly that the black outline from before was barely visible. The shadows underneath each leaf, each petal looked real. Every speckle and wrinkle on the petals shone through, love and attention going into every marking. The falling petals were akin to a photograph, with the light grey background wash tying them to the main flowers, each little shadow appearing to give them different depths. It was beyond anything you imagined. All that pain, mental and physical, turned into a lifetime of beauty.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the salt of tears rolled into your awe-parted mouth.

“I’m, well… Wow.” Beaming, you turned to face your artist, who looked at her artwork with pride. “Thank you, Eivor. Thank you so much.”

She shook her head and offered you a box of tissues, from which you took one gladly. “I’m just honoured to have helped you lay that chapter of your life to rest. May the sword-lilies battle any shreds of it that remain.”

Stunned by her poetic inclination, you dried your eyes in silence, lips curved into a joyous smile. Meanwhile, she removed her gloves.

“You have tissues at the ready. I’m guessing people cry a lot here?” you asked, finally prying your eyes away from the masterpiece on your thigh.

“Mostly from the pain,” she remarked.

“You know, you could just lie to me so I don’t feel like such a fucking sap.”

The sound that left Eivor’s mouth in response was nothing if not angelic. She practically howled in hearty laughter, echoing through her studio, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You didn’t think it possible for your grin to widen further still, but her outburst was contagious in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. Truly,” she breathed out, chest stilling from her fit.

“It’s beautiful. Happy is an understatement.”

Eivor made her way over to the desk in the corner of the studio, where a graphics tablet lay alongside a stylus. “Now, before I dress it, I’m legally required to ask you if I have permission to photograph the tattoo for advertisement purposes. I appreciate it’s a personal subject matter and completely understand if—”

“Go for it,” you shrugged.

“Are you certain?” You nodded.

“Of course. It’s a work of art.” The smile she gave you was genuine.

“This’ll only take a minute. Thank you, really.”

She knelt down and snapped a picture with the tablet, checking the quality. “All done.” Eivor then proceeded to sanitise her hands and slip on one last pair of gloves, grabbing the wipes and plastic wrap from her station. “The photo will be uploaded to the shop’s website and my professional Instagram, if that’s alright with you. Completely anonymous, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Although, it’ll be weird seeing my leg on my feed.” She chuckled.

“Feel free to email or DM if you have any concerns with the healing.” Patting your leg, she stood up to her full height, placing her gloves in a biohazard ziplock. “Well, I’m honoured to have given you your first tattoo.”

“Honoured to be your…canvas?”

And just like that, your time with the artist was up. You watched wistfully as she put together an aftercare pack at the front desk, your previously overjoyed expression drifting into a sad one. After paying, you thanked her one final time.

“Take care, søta,” she said with a wink.

The very moment you arrived back home, you whipped out a Norwegian-to-English translator and immediately tried to replicate her pronunciation of the word she called you, blushing profusely when discovering it meant ‘cutie’. And upon opening your cleaning pack, you found an addition that wasn’t present in your previous bundle:

A small slip of paper. On one side, a mobile number. On the other, in beautifully neat cursive,

I’d love to take you to dinner. Text me if you’re interested?

Yours, Eivor

#eivor #eivor varinsdóttir #eivor x reader #f!eivor x reader #female eivor #tattoo parlor au #modern au #ac valhalla

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clanoffetts · 3 years

Note

congrats on 300 that’s so awesome!!!

can i get “i want it to hurt” with thrawn please and thank you?? 💛💛

thank you!!!

warnings: NSFW, 18+; rough sex; begging; praise kink?; thrawn bestie shut up challenge; swearing; non-canon cheunh that’s basically canon

this is the last of the 300 follower requests! (if you sent one in and i didn’t answer it, then tumblr ate it! sorry!)

Thrawn has you bent over his desk, looking directly at Alderaanian paintings, a Kalikori, and some other kind of statue he has displayed on a shelf near the door. He has a fistful of your hair in his hand, but he’s not fucking you. Yet.

“Beautiful, ch’eo vir,” he praises. The first Cheunh phrase you learned - my dear.

Thrawn’s large cock slid between your folds with ease, coated in your arousal and some of his own, as he teased you. The head of his cock bumped your clit and you gasp, drawing only a light laugh from the Chiss. “Very beautiful.”

“Grand Admiral,” you whine, “just fuck me already.”

He hums, ever in control as he continues rubbing his length against your cunt. “I don’t know if you’re ready, ch'eo vir,” he says. “It might, ah,” he stops, trying to remember the word, but caves and says it in Sy Bisti.

“Painful,” you translate. But you push your hips back into him. “I want it to hurt.”

He swears, either in Sy Bisti or Cheunh, you’re not sure. “Is that so?”

Before you can answer, he’s pushing his cock into you. He’s big, with more girth than the average human, especially with the ridges along the length of his cock.

“Fuck!” You gasp, your hands flying to the edge of the desk for some kind of leverage as he fully sheathes himself inside you. The stretch burns a bit, subsiding with every second that passes, but it’s bliss.

“A true work of art,” he groans, thrusting in and out of your sopping cunt, the sound of it filling the room. “I will have to sketch this, perhaps display it somewhere more, ah, private.”

“Don’t want every one- oh- to know their Grand Admiral fucks?” You taunt, trying to get him to speed up his pace.

He pulls you up from the desk by your hair, pulling you flush against his chest as he thrusts into you with force. “They know, ch'eo vir, they see it on your face every time you look at me.”

Thrawn watches your face contort in pleasure as well as confusion, and he elaborates. “Perhaps not everyone sees it, ch'eo vir, but with the way your breath quickens and your lips purse, and you swallow, sometimes, too. It’s quite obvious.”

“Obvious, yeah, of course,” you gasp as he keeps fucking into you with the vigor only Thrawn can possess.

He finally shuts up, focusing on his thrusts and moving his hands to your tits. His blue skin is stark against your own as he tugs at your nipples and kisses your neck. “Thank the Maker for our high collared shirts, no?” He murmurs before biting at the soft flesh of your neck.

A hand wanders from your chest down your stomach to your clit. The friction from his fingers against your cunt and his cock hitting so deep inside you sends you over the edge, falling into an intense orgasm that only the Chiss can wrench from you.

“I’m going to come,” he groans into your neck, finally losing his composure and letting his thrusts grow sloppy and kisses sloppier.

When Thrawn comes, he fills you completely. The sheer amount of his cum makes you feel bloated, and look it, too. Your cunt milks every last drop from him before he pulls out, his cum immediately dripping down your thighs.

Thrawn leads you stumbling through a doorway to his room, helping you lay on the bed. When he returns, towel and glass of water in hand, he is back to his composed, controlled self, even if he doesn’t look it. “There you are, ch'eo vir,” he praises. “I’m going to get my sketchbook, if it is ok?”

“Sure, Thrawn,” you sigh. You should’ve known he’d actually do it. And he’ll probably display it on his nightstand, too.

#thrawn x reader #thrawn smut #grand admiral thrawn x reader #grand admiral thrawn smut #300 follower celebration

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vicious-vixxxen · 3 years

Text

Ugh. I’ll I’ve been able to think about for days is Kirishima.

Pro Hero Red Riot is always on the move. Always busy. Saving people, doing interviews, kissing babies, the whole nine yards.

When you and Kiri started dating fresh out of UA you knew what you were signing up for. Being part of the hero support course yourself, never afforded you much grandeur or fame, but that was okay. You were trusted with one of, if not the most important part of a hero’s identity- their suit. You were more than happy to tinker away at revisions, or sketching new styles for up and comers, than being out on the field.

You were the only one in the support class, even above Power Loader himself, who Kirishima took his costume and ideas to. You’d made the very first alterations to his hero costume when he first arrived at UA, after the USJ attack. From then on it was sort of a wonderfully professional relationship. As professional as someone like Kiri could be- all large toothy grins, bad jokes, and hands on communications. /Very/ hands on. Kirishima never thought twice about leaning over your shoulder to watch you sketch up the inner workings of other suits, breath ghosting the shell of your ear, always warm and sweet, like all he consumed was candy.

Or sitting next to you, thighs and sides flush as you grew frustrated over his helmet design. He’d snicker and lay one large hand over your own- because by his third year he was already towering over half the staff, let alone the students- to drag your pencil in a different direction, voice soft and secret, just for you.

You never spoke outside of the support class really, especially as the years progressed. Kiri was class 1A after all, and as your own talents started to blossom, the busier you were kept as well. Being consulted to help pros with their designs in just your second year.

But you treasured the hours after school you got to spend with Kirishima. He’d never struck you as particularly male leaning, so while you’d entertain the idea sometimes, in the privacy of your dorm room, of being Kirishima’s boyfriend, you didn’t allow it to mess up the relationship you’d built with the other boy. You chalked it up to your first real crush, and, having always been an overtly rational individual, knew you’d work through it sooner or later. Unwilling to entertain the idea of not even being friends with Kiri. Cuz being his friend would always be better than nothing at all.

But imagine your surprise, the day after graduation, when he arrived at your doorstep. Flowers and chocolates in hand, and a thick envelope nearly bursting at the seams, filled with letters he’d been writing to you over the course of your high school careers.

Apparently, Kirishima hadn’t wanted to trouble you with his feelings when you two were so focused on school, and absorbing as much as you could, and for good reason. But now, he’d stated so clearly- the hesitance behind his wavering grin made your chest tight- you were both adults, out in the world, and if you’d have him, he’d love to take you out.

The rest was sort of history.

Three years later, still going strong.

Though Red Riots newest ranking- from his wavering 7-8, all the way up to 4, had meant an influx in work the last 3 weeks. Kirishima been all over Japan, helping out on various reconnaissance missions, interviews of the rising hero variety, and just generally being kept busy by his agency.

Kiri popped in ever few days, when he could. A quick dinner and cuddle till he had to leave again. A nice long Skype session as he was flown to a new mission, if you were lucky. But the two of you always made things work. You loved each other too much to even entertain the idea of your professional loved interfering to the point of no return, in your personal lives.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t hard, but it did mean it was a manageable. Especially when the two of you tried so hard.

And your combined hard work paid off. Kirishima had been praised internationally, after a mission he was brought in for in Europe went fantastically. The Japanese Hero Commission splashing Red Riot on the front page of anything that consisted of pages, honestly. And awarding him privately with paid time off.

Paid. Time. Off.

That had been yesterday, Friday evening. You’d both returned home late, and despite how tired you both were, it didn’t stop you from fully christening some new sheets you’d bought, before passing out together.

The christening of which you recalled as you sat, sprawled out on the sofa in the living room- one leg thrown back over the back of the sofa, the other extended out towards the opposite end. A book in hand in front of you, free arm cradled behind your head. Trying to focus on the pages, as the bright, early morning sun splashed across them.

Which was hard, when all you could focus on was the blossoming bruises on your inner thighs, and pleasant ache in your ass, and the sting of the bite on your neck whenever you turned your neck even a fraction.

The night previous had been rushed, all teeth, and gnawing, and clawing, and racing towards the end together. It was wonderful, and you’d always loved the aftermath Kirishima would leave on your body. Ever the closet possessor he was.

He’d never been much of an early riser, so it was another two or so hours of trying and failing to read for you, before the familiar sounds of large, lumbering footsteps could be heard slowly making their way downstairs. You smiled, cheeks flushing, despite the many years you’d known the man, as you caught a glimpse of his wild, shoulder length red hair first. Soft at the tips, wild at the root. Kirishima yawned, ducking below the entryway into the living room, and just barely catching you staring, before you lifted your book higher to block his view of your face.

You could practically hear the grin behind his chuckling, as he stalked towards you with more purpose now. His legs in view under your book, and his hair a plum of red above the top as he crouched at the edge of the sofa. Two large hands cupping each of your feet- teasing your toes briefly, snickering at how you giggled behind your book.

Kirishima’s eyes raked over you slowly- noting what seemed to him, as miles of gorgeous, unblemished skin, ready to be marked up. Clad in just a pair of briefs you’d thrown on before coming downstairs, almost every inch of you was bare to your husband. Kirishima drinking it in slowly, as he crawled above you on the sofa. Hardening just one fingertip, and tracing it from your ankle, all the way up to your inner thigh, as he towered over you on the sofa finally. The prick of sharpness on the soft flesh of your thigh causing a hitch in your breath. Which you held, until Kiri’s finger turned smooth once more, and he took a handful of the meatiest part of your thigh into his hand, and /squeezed/.

((NSFW warning ahead, I can’t help myself so continue reading at your own risk ;3))

“Ei-Chan,” you breathed out finally, setting your book down on the floor beside you. Bright red eyes meeting yours, as one of your hands found it’s way into Kirishima’s thick locks, the other wrapping around his broad back, palm settled just between the mans shoulder blades.

“Marked you up good last night, huh pebble?” Kirishima snickered, and you huffed. Faux annoyed as you smacked the mans back, tensing once more as Kiri’s fingers danced along the bruises and bite marks littering your thigh. Tapping each one gently, causing you to flinch with pleasure each time, before he moved to your other thigh. Doing the same, as he dipped his face down into the crook of your neck, and just breathed.

The shaky sigh he let out afterwards was victory enough for you, you reasoned, as even the mans strong shoulders shook as he breathed you in.

“Missed me that much, huh?” Kirishima nodded quickly, nosing along your neck, huffing like a puppy as he went.

“I missed you too,” you reminded him, biting into the mans shoulder gently, as the hand on his back drifted down to Kirishima’s ass, and you shook it jokingly. Feeling the weight of the mans cheek jiggle in your palm, laughing despite yourself as Kiri growled at you.

“Don’t tease me, dude,” Kiri mock cried, pulling back to give you a pout, as the hand on your inner thigh drifted center again, where, unprompted, Kirishima cupped your cock through your underwear. Smirk tugging at his bitten lips- bad habit he’d always had, you’d long since stopped trying to get him to fix it- as he ground his palm against you, almost too rough, and you groaned. Eyes fluttering shit, lip between your own teeth as he bucked up, shifting your hips just right to grind your quickly stiffening cock against Kirishima’s hand.

“So eager,” Kirishima mused, balking suddenly as you moved your hand cupping his ass, into his boxers- palming at his cheek briefly, before two fingers delved into the hot cleft of his bubble butt, brushing just briefly against the tight pucker of his hole, causing the larger man to twitch, and fall flat against you. Tense for all of two seconds, before he propped his ass back up, and wiggled against your fingers.

“You’re one to talk,” you laughed, head tilted back, long enough for Kirishima to latch onto your Adam’s apple, and suck hungrily as he continued to stroke you through your underwear. Lasting all of two seconds, before shredding through them with a finger, and taking your cock in his hand.

“Those were my best Calvins, jackass,” you huffed, brushing Kiri’s hair back out of his eyes as he leaned up- holding your gaze as he let a long string of spit fall from his Mouth- letting it drip down the side of your cock, before he slicked you up, and began stroking you in earnest. Hot, and wet, calloused palm perfectly rough, and you were putty.

Mewling and fucking into Kiri’s fist with quiet, breathy ‘Ei-Chan’s’ rolling off your tongue. Clinging to enough sense, barely, to bring two fingers up to your mouth to wet, before shoving them back down and into Kiri’s ass, teasing his hole briefly, before sinking your middle finger to the hilt in his hole- both of you moaning out, Kiri at the intrusion, and you at the spasming heat of his tight hole, like a vice on your finger as you fucked the man on it slowly.

You both shifted, Kirishima up on his knees, bringing you into his lap to stroke the two of you together, constantly spitting down on your lengths, hot and filthy, to keep you wet, as the larger man began to pant into your face. Morning breath be damned, you finally, /finally/, kissed him. Reaching between the two of you to cup Kirishima’s heavy ball sac as you did, kneading them gently, and tugging on them whenever Kirishima began to breath a little too heavily.

“Fuck, I love you. I love you so much, so so much, love- love- ah, fuck- love,” Kirishima whined, vulnerable in a way no one else would ever get to see him as you took over for him- needing both hands to stroke both he and yours impressive lengths, Kiri’s hands at your back holding you up in his lap- his arms shook with the force it took, especially as he neared his orgasm.

“Cum for me, Ei,” you whispered against a Kirishima’s lips, eating up his whimpered pleas as they ghosted your lips. “Come on, big guy, cum. Cum all over me, Ei, Mark me up. I wanna feel it, on my cock. Come on.” And that was all it took. With a loud shout, Kirishima’s grip on you tightened, and he hun he’d over your shoulder, quiet all of the sudden, before making a sound like he’d been punched in the gut as he began to cum. Cock thickening up, before pump after pump of thick, hot cum burst from the top of it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight long ropes of cum shooting out all over your chest, and combined cocks, before slowing to a dribble every time Kirishima’s cock throbbed.

You overworked him though, his softening cock, and your own hard length making the filthiest squelching noises as you continued to overstimulate your husband- his cries into your shoulder sending you over the edge, as you leaned against his shoulder, and came undone yourself. Adding to the sticky, hot mess in your laps, before the both of you went quiet. Just the deep, heavy sighs as you caught your breath together filling your the surrounding space.

“My dick feels like it’s gonna fall off,” Kiri muttered finally, leaning you both back into the sofa- making a mental note to get it deep cleaned, as he snuggled you deep into the cushions- his spit wet hands skimming your sides, before they slid beneath you , and he settled comfortably on top. Careful of his weight, always too conscious of crushing you- unless you asked for it, that was, he thiight idly. Fondly.

“We’ve got the next eight days all to ourselves, so I’d maybe see if he can hold out till at least then. Though I’d accept an early leave- no earlier than Thursday, I suppose, if he can’t keep up,” you drawled, wiping your cum covered hands on your stomach as best you could, before wrapping your arms around Kirishima’s waist, and closing your eyes.

“Eight days,” Kirishima echoed, kissing your closed eyes, closing his own as he did so, and shifting to lay more comfortably, face in your neck as he felt sleep threatening to take him once again.

“Eight days,” you parroted back again, snickering, and yawning. Ignoring the tacky cum that was going to dry all crusty and gross between the two of you, in favor of hooking a leg around Kiri’s, and allowing sleep to take you.

But not before whispering one last “I love you” between the two of you, Kirishima mumbling contentedly back at you before falling back asleep as well.

#bnha x male reader #bnha x reader #mha x male reader #mha x reader #eijiro kirishima x male reader #eijiro kirishima x reader #Kirishima x male reader #kirishima x reader #kirishima imagine #eijiro kirishima imagine #kirishima #eijiro kirishima #vicious-vixxxen

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youllallriseintheink · 3 years

Note

Sammy and Jack. “Can we stay like this forever?”

Crisis of Faith, chapter 2

Sammy didn’t dream of Jack again until his next crisis of faith, and Sammy’s faith was very difficult to break. It had begun while Sammy, now a lost one made of fluid ink, was hiding in a wall, watching as a severely ink-infected woman raved.

“Mother, why do you punish me!?” she shouted as, with all the power left in her body, she tried to force open the padlocked doors of the women’s washroom. Her veins, prominent due to age and leanness, were a pitch-black web on her skin, and her wiry muscles had wasted away to bone.

Sammy had, on Joey’s command, overseen dozens of ink infections by now, and knew that there was nothing unusual about Emma Lamont’s case of it. Every single victim he had overseen had held some kind of delusion. Some believed that they were being poisoned by the government or their enemies, or that they were developing a mental illness. A very common one, however, was that they were receiving some sort of punishment, test, or reward from an all-powerful being- either God, or from a seemingly random entity that they’d decided to treat as one.

What if... Sammy’s beliefs were no different from this madwoman, screaming at the ghost of her mother?

Sammy moved on to check on the other infection victims. Even if Bendy wasn’t to be worshipped, the thought of ascension was all that kept him going. He sacrificed people on Joey’s command because the ink had told him to. He wrote his scriptures because he believed they were meaningful. He led the lost ones to Bendy and away from the lies their voices had told them because he truly believed that his voice had been the truth, and it seemed to give them hope, too.

Sammy passed through the prison of ink creatures as he made his way to Joey’s sanctuary, where he now slept. A Charley was repeatedly banging its head against the bars of its cage. Lost ones wept. Ink stained every surface, making the brightly-lit room feel suffocatingly dark. Sammy was glad to phase through the wall into Joey’s sanctuary, where he could lie down on the couch and rest.

All this had to be leading to something. He couldn’t take it otherwise.

---

Sammy woke to the feeling of someone softly shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to see Jack, tears in his eyes and that disarming smile on his face.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” Jack asked gently.

Sammy, with a bit of difficulty, sat up and realized that he was in a hospital room, complete with an IV in his arm. He felt very weak, but also lighter- like a burden had been taken off of him. “Awful,” he admitted.

“Well, you want some good news? The ink is gone. All of it. You still have a lot of organ damage, but it’s nothing they can’t fix in a couple weeks. In other words, it’s over, Sammy. You’re gonna be okay.”

It took Sammy a half a minute to even process that. Once he did, though, he broke into tears of relief and hugged Jack as tightly as he could.

“Thank you. God, thank you for making me come here. You saved my life.”

Jack hugged him back. “Hey, I didn’t make you do anything. I know this took a lot of courage for you. And... I’m really glad you did it. I was so scared when I found you in your sanctuary. You were so sick... I thought I’d lose you. Sammy, I think I love you. But... we can talk about that later. Right now, you need to rest.”

“I love you, too.” Easiest words Sammy had ever said.

After a little more chatting, Jack left. Sammy wandered over to the bathroom to get a look at himself in the mirror. Admittedly, he didn’t look great. He looked like a person who’d narrowly survived a life-threatening illness, because that’s what he was. His skin was still pale and sunken, and he was still pretty gaunt, but the black veins, the bruise-like purple splotches on his skin, and even the staining in his mouth and his long, blond hair- it was gone. When Sammy woke, he would have given anything to see his human face again.

---Two years later---

As often happened whenever Sammy decided to play his banjo, a small crowd had gathered around him. Today, the crowd consisted of three lost ones, Jack (of course), a moderately ink-infected woman, and one of their last healthy men. The song Sammy was playing was "I’ll fly away.” He wasn’t singing it today, but he had sang it for his followers in the past, simply replacing the word, “God’s” with “his,” since “Bendy’s,” unfortunately, was two syllables.

“You know, it’s amazing how you can remember music like that,” said David, the only non-infected person in attendance. “I'm already forgetting the words to my favourite songs since it’s been so long since we’ve been able to just turn on a radio. How do you do it?”

Sammy would have smiled if he still had a mouth. “Well, a part of it is just natural ability,” Sammy admitted. “But. I have a secret to tell you. A part of it is faith. Faith can do great things. Collective faith in Bendy is the reason that we are the largest organization in this dimension. This village was built on faith. Faith keeps us united! Faith keeps us safe! And... faith allows me to to see into the old world every night when I close my eyes. I hope that all of you one day achieve that absolute belief that something in this world is good.”

“Heh. I’m trying. But all I have are nightmares of Bendy,” a lost one complained.

“Well, keep trying. Believe in his benevolence.” With that, Sammy got up and left for bed, patting Jack on the head on the way out. If only they knew that he used to be plagued by those same nightmares.

---

Sammy’s dream came in to form. He was on a bus, sitting next to Jack. Outside their window, snow was falling gently over a pretty, snow-covered forest. For a while Sammy just sat in peace, holding Jack’s hand and enjoying the scenery.

“Excited to see your parents again? I know I can’t wait to meet them.”

Sammy nodded. “I can’t wait.” Sammy had always wanted to introduce Jack to his parents. He remembered that there was a strong reason why he hadn’t done it while he was alive, but he couldn’t remember what it was. “My Dad is going to love you. You’re a lot like him, you know. Do you remember why we didn’t do this sooner?”

“Because I’m a man,” Jack answered, totally calm.

“Oh!” Sammy had forgotten a lot about the outside world since his transformation, but nothing so big as the existence of homophobia. It was kind of alarming that the ink was affecting his brain that much. “God. I’m so... forgetful. I’ll just have to introduce you as my musical partner or something. It’s unconventional, but they've seen me do weirder.”

“You know, Sammy, it’s like you got new lease on life after the ink incident. I love that. But yeah, you’re forgetting things left and right!” Jack teasingly jabbed him with his elbow.

“Yeah... Hey, can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” Jack said. Sammy worried what Jack would think, but looking into those calm brown eyes, he trusted him to not to react badly. And it would be nice to have one person he didn’t have to lie to.

“This is a dream. In the real world, I never got help for my ink infection, and now me and dozens of other people are trapped a dimension full of monsters. I’m holding a large band of people together by convincing them to collectively worship one of them. And you,” Sammy took a deep breath, “you’re there, too. But you haven’t had a coherent thought in years. I keep hoping that one day, we’ll make it out, and I’ll be able to confess to you and we’ll actually build a life like this. So... I’m forgetful because that ink is affecting my mind, and I’m happy because this world is my escape. And because you’re here, of course.” Sammy couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes. He’d probably just made himself sound like a lunatic.

Jack turned Sammy’s head to look at him. “Hey. I believe you. And... that sounds really rough. I wish I could help you.”

Sammy smiled. “Thanks. But you've been helping me all along.” Sammy laid his head on Jack’s shoulder. Maybe once the bus stopped, they’d get some hot chocolate and look at some shops before seeing his parents. It would be nice.

---

Sammy was violently shaken awake by a trio of searchers. More were behind them- as though half the village had crammed itself into his bedroom.

“Bendy is here!” one of them yelled. “What do we do?”

That was a good question. Sammy reached for his axe, but then he stopped. This was, according to the gospel he’d been feeding them, their saviour. “Go out to greet him,” Sammy instructed, trying not to sound as hesitant as he felt. “Bring him offerings of bacon soup. Bring everyone, even the Boris clones- they used to be human, too.”

The crowd of lost ones dispersed. Sammy watched with bated breath from the balcony of his lost-one village home as a massive crowd- lost ones, searchers, people both infected and healthy, and their three Boris clones- gathered along the ink river. Dozens of cans of bacon soup were placed along the river bank as an offering. Bendy stood on the other side of the river. Their drawbridge lowered, but Bendy decided instead to walk on the ink’s surface like the God they treated him as. The crowd gasped and made way. Bendy took an ink-infected man in one arm, stroked his cheek, and bit his face off.

Screams filled the air. People ran in all directions. Sammy was frozen for several seconds before he took action.

“Everyone! Run for cover! We have displeased him! I repeat, run for cover!” Sammy's booming, demonic voice covered the great distance it needed to. Upon seeing the people run and Bendy chase after them, Sammy himself slammed shut his doors and windows and listened in horror to the screams.

When it was over, all he could think to tell his people was that they needed to reconsider how they were paying tribute to the ink demon. If they changed their methods just a little, then the demon would be helpful instead of violent, and they would be freed.

To Sammy’s mixed relief, they actually believed it.

---

eleven years went by. Within the first three, every single flesh-and-blood person in the sketch dimension was infected, killed, or both, and became a lost one.

Their minds were rotting. Increasing numbers of lost ones struggled to remember anything about themselves or the outside world. Wandering aimlessly or resting in ink puddles, they were helpless as zombies.

But not Sammy. Sammy remained- comparatively, at least- as sharp as a whip, and told the lost ones tales so vivid about the outside world that they could almost taste its brilliance and freedom. Sammy only wished that Jack- the real Jack- could understand any of it.

There was nothing to do about that but what Sammy had been doing all along: keep the community together. Keep the lost ones moralized and sane. Figuratively and literally dream of a better world. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sammy didn’t want to forget a thing about the real world, but little pieces had fallen away, bit by bit. In his dreams, there were now places he couldn’t visit because he didn’t remember what they were like. His reflection in the mirror had become a human-shaped blur as he forgot his appearance. The same thing had happened to the faces of people he used to remember clear as day. One day, he would forget it all, too- just as everyone else had.

It was hard to keep hope.

One of Sammy’s dreams found him walking down a beach with Jack at his side. Sammy knew that the two of them had relocated at some point, but he didn’t know to where. His American geography was rather fuzzy at this point.

“Can I vent to you about the other world?” Sammy asked.

“Sure,” Jack said. Jack was one thing that Sammy’s memory hadn’t gone fuzzy on. Sammy still remembered every soft curve of his face, every freckle, every detail. His dark brown hair was starting to grey, but not because Sammy remembered him that way- it had been many years, and growing old together was part of the fantasy.

“Bendy came to the village again today. He killed a few lost ones and then left. People are losing faith in me and I don’t know how to get it back. And to make matters worse, a false prophet is going around saying we should worship the angel instead! She’d enslave us if we did that!" Sammy chucked a baseball-sized rock into the water, then composed himself a bit. “And you know, we’re all going to be mindless drones eventually. I’m thinking... maybe I won’t fight the false prophet. I could leave the village, hide in a vent, and spend as little time awake as possible. Ink creatures can sleep for days, you know. What do say? Can we stay like this forever? Enjoy this world until I lose my mind like all the rest?” Sammy took Jack’s hands and looked desperately into his eyes.

Jack hesitated, but by the look on his face, Sammy already knew what his answer would be. “I’m sorry. You know I have to say no. The lost ones need you.”

“But why am I the one who has to stay strong for them? I’m sick of it.”

“Because you’re the one who can. I know it isn’t fair, but you’re the reason they’ve been protecting each other. And it sounds like if you leave them now, they’ll throw themselves at Alice. Do it for them. And if you can’t bring yourself to care about them... do it for me. The real me. You still love him, right?”

“Of course...” Sammy probably would have done this sooner if he didn’t care about the well-being of his searcher friend.

Jack put a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “I don’t know how, but you’ll get out some day. And in the meantime, I’m here.”

Sammy tried to think of some objection, but he couldn’t. He muttered a “thanks” and kept walking along the beach. Jack followed. It was, if nothing else, a beautiful night, and he might as well enjoy it.

“Jack... tell me what I look like. I don’t care that it’ll just be something you made up. Tell me anyhow.”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Jack Fain #sammy lawrence #sammy x jack #my fanfiction #threadedsafetypin #thanks for the ask

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script-a-world · 4 years

Text

Enough is Enough: How to Know When It’s Time to Stop Worldbuilding and Start Writing

Compiled by Feral

A lot of the questions we get asked boil down to “how do I know if I have done enough worldbuilding before I start writing?” So, here are some collected thoughts on the causal relationship between a story and the world it inhabits.

For the Characters to Feel Real

Your readers’ investment in your story is only going to be as strong as their investment in the characters. You can have the most magnificent world ever created for fiction, but unless there is a strong face to represent that world, no one is going to care. So focus your worldbuilding on what will matter most to your main characters. People are products of their societies, so having fleshed out characters will give you a good starting point for building the worlds they inhabit. Just be careful not to accidentally create a Planet of Hats.

For the Plot to Make Sense

If you’re worldbuilding for a story, the story part is what matters. Now, this question is geared more towards the outliners in the audience. If you figure out what you want to have happen in your story first, you can focus in on what actually needs worldbuilding, which parts of the world will actually show in the story. But discovery writers can have shades of this as well.

Figure out the broad strokes of the plot, whether that’s through an outline or scene sketches or a complete rough draft, and then work on fleshing out the world.

Research & Worldbuilding While Drafting

There are different types of research you will have to do during the process of writing a story. Some of it will be very particular – what was the date of the full moon in October of 1994? – and some of it will be more general. Research can be an excellent launching point of inspiration or it can be foundational to your plot or it can be necessary to do for polishing but unnecessary before drafting. Worldbuilding is not research. Worldbuilding is applying research to a story; it’s taking what you’ve studied and creating something with it. Taking the time before you get started to organize your research topics this way can help get you to worldbuilding and then to writing sooner.

But a lot of times, you don’t know what you need until you reach a certain scene in your first draft. Start writing earlier in the process and make notes about what you need to research and worldbuild later. It will save you from spending a lot of time researching something that seems like it will be important for chapter five until you find out your characters veer off course in chapter three, bypassing the need for that information entirely. The bracket method can be very helpful here.

“Janina stared up in awe at the church. [WORLD: base culture on 17th century Lithuania RESEARCH: church architecture of region/time period. DESCRIPTION: add some important elements from research] She went inside.”

This allows you to stay on track as you write and provides signposts for your work between drafts. (You can later use the “find” feature in your word processing program to search for the brackets to get back to the details you left to fill in later, or just fill them in as you come across them on the next pass through.)

Law of Conservation of Detail

Consider the trope of the Law of Conservation of Detail. While TV Tropes focuses mainly on how this relates to television shows, which don't have nearly as much time to develop a world per episode as in a novel, the underlying principle is the same - the more "page time" something gets, the more important it must be to plot or character development. Sometimes, you might need to further develop a world to be able to brainstorm possible plot options or character motivations, but once you have enough to outline or write, shelve the worldbuilding until the edits and then go back only as needed.

All of this advice comes down to…

Don’t Procrastinate on Writing

Research and worldbuilding are necessary parts of the process for writing a good story, especially speculative fiction, which most of our readers are writing. However, there’s this insidious mindset that we writers can get into that we can’t start writing until X goal is met, which often leads us down the path of never actually writing. Remember that no one is going to read the first draft except for you, so you don’t need to impress anyone with the breadth of your worldbuilding, and you don’t need to try to hide the fact that you don’t know something yet. The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.

Some Relevant Asks We’ve Answered:

General Advice

Thoughts on the Worldbuilding Iceberg and Chekhov’s Gun

Worldbuilding Basics

#masterpost #worldbuilding advice

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elizabeethan · 3 years

Text

Find Strength in Pain, Find Strength in Me- 1/3 (I Think)

After defeating the wraith, Emma Swan is dragged through the portal they sent it through and suddenly finds herself in the land in which she should have grown up. Lost, overwhelmed, and desperate to get home to her son, she accepts help from the gruesome pirate Captain Hook— and his accomplice.

A Season 2 AU in which Emma ends up the the Enchanted Forest alone, and she and Hook (try to) work together to get to the Land Without Magic.

There are very brief descriptions of near-drowning at the very beginning of this, so if that’s troubling for you, skip the first couple of paragraphs

This fic is all @donteattheappleshook's fault. she also beta'd it, so it would be nothing without her. I think it will have 3 parts but you know... we'll see

Rated T (for now)

Also Available on Ao3

Read my other stuff

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook@therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay

Part 1

The frigid salt water burns her throat and nose, choking her as she struggles to differentiate up from down through the blackness surrounding her. The sudden change in scenery is jolting. Just a second ago she was in Town Hall, and now she finds herself drowning and struggling against the crashing waves.

The irrational part of her, the part that hasn’t recognized how close she could be to death, wonders where she is, where she’s ended up. But a larger, more frightened part of her panics, paddling her arms as forcefully as she can against the strong current that continues to pull her beneath the swell of the water.

She crests over the surface once more, struggling to take in a breath before being assaulted by another crashing wave, her lungs filling with abrasive water as she begins to feel herself slipping out of consciousness. It can’t end like this, she thinks desperately, trying to fight against the warmth she feels threatening her. It would be so easy to give up and let the warm feeling take her. Her body can only take so much more abuse.

She shakes these thoughts of giving up from her mind. Once more, she tries to find the surface so that she can take a breath, but before she can, she takes in more salt water.

Not like this.

She’s fading fast, blackness taking over her vision far too quickly, before she feels a heavy, rough weight thumping against her and circling her arms. As if by second nature, she grabs into the object, unsure of whether it’s a rope or a piece of seaweed, and clings for dear life. It’s her lifeline, or perhaps a security blanket to ease her fears as she succumbs to the death that seems all too impending.

Hugging the thick and heavy object close to her chest, she feels it tugging her against the strong current until she’s out of the waves, the cold air welcome against her hot and freezing flesh. A pair of rough hands grab her beneath her arms and hoists until she’s tossed to the ground.

“Good girl,” she hears from above as she coughs violently. The velvet voice is almost enough to distract her from the fire in her throat. “Get the sea out of your lungs.”

“Who are you?” she rasps, shaking suddenly against the freezing air.

“The name is Hook. Captain Hook. Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger, my dear.”

Panting, she collapses against the aged deck of the ship she’s found herself on, letting her cheek rest against the wood as she finally succumbs and fades into unconsciousness.

~~~~

“She can’t very well eat a meal while she’s asleep, can she, Mr. Smee?”

“N-no, Captain. Of course not, Sir. I merely thought that if the lass were to wake sometime soon, she’d likely be famished.”

“Aye, I’d imagine she would be. But I suppose we won’t know until she wakes, will we?”

“Certainly, Sir. It’s just that she’s been asleep for a day, and I thought she may want sustenance.”

“And have you become a mind-reader overnight, Mr. Smee? Are you able to predict when she’ll wake?”

“Of course not, Sir.”

“No need to waste food on a sleeping damsel, then. Save it for the crew until we know she needs it.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

She lets herself shift on the small, firm mattress, rolling to one side and groaning at the throbbing behind her eyes once the voices quiet and she hears a door latching shut. The moment she makes a sound, her lungs protest and she’s coughing again.

“Ah, she lives,” she hears, and she starts in surprise, grabbing for the thick quilt that covers her and pulling it up to her chin. “Worry not, love, for I am a man of honor. I shan’t look if you’d prefer I didn’t.”

“Who the hell are you?” she rasps, coughing some more. “Where am I?” She’s so disoriented from her experience and the resulting headache that she can hardly tell what sort of space she’s in.

“My dear,” he chuckles. “We’ve had this conversation already. Call me Hook; I’m captain of this fine vessel. You find yourself aboard the Jolly Roger.” He knocks a metal appendage against the wall of the cabin, smiling pridefully.

“The hell is that?” she asks in confusion, unable to stop the venom from lacing her voice. Then she realizes what she saw him do, looks at his arm, and notes that there’s an actual hook where a hand should be. “Wait… did you say… Hook?”

He smirks, raising a brow in such a dramatic way that Emma can hardly believe him to be real. In fact, she must be in some limbo between life and death, because there is no possible way that she’s in the presence of the Captain Hook. She doesn’t remember the damn Disney character looking like that.

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” he quips playfully.

In an attempt to make sense of the situation she’s in, she changes the subject, unable to give any more mental energy to something so far from possible. “Just—” She coughs once more. “Tell me where I am. I fell… I mean…” She’s certain her words aren’t making sense. She can’t very well tell this stranger the truth, that she was sent here by magic, despite the fact that he seems to think himself a fairytale character.

“You wish to know what land you’re in?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in Misthaven, love. Some call it the Enchanted Forest.”

She groans. The Enchanted Forest. That’s where her parents are from; where she was supposed to grow up. How the hell did she find her way here? (And seriously, did she have to land in the middle of the ocean?)

“Well I need to get home,” she insists firmly, sitting up and pulling the quilt tighter to herself. Her clothes have been removed, likely due to them being completely soaked, and she finds herself in only her underwear and a thin, black linen slip, trying not to think about who put her in it. “And I’d like my clothes back.”

He hums, pushing himself off of the table he was leaning against and walking towards the door. “I’m sure you would. Peculiar outfit you were donning, love. Where, pray tell, might one find such clothing?”

She gives him an indignant look, raising a brow and reaching a hand palms up towards him expectantly. He chuckles, then exits the room to leave her alone and confused.

She looks around the space curiously, noting the windows to her left overlooking the sea that almost claimed her. There’s a table with four leather-bound chairs, the surface decorated with a candelabra and a strange looking navigation tool. Shelving along the windows is covered in maps and books and strewn-about pages. There’s a chest in the corner, tucked away in a way that makes her curious. She’s about to stand and explore, but the door opens once more and the confident captain swaggers back in.

“There we are, lass,” he says, passing her neatly-folded clothes to her with a cocky smile. “It seems we both have an affinity towards leather, aye? I do enjoy the deep red, very… sensuous.” The smirk on his face is somewhat unnerving. The depth with which he stares her down makes her squirm, but she thinks that’s exactly his goal so she schools her features, dedicated to not giving him any satisfaction.

“Some privacy, please?” she asks, although it’s not as if she’ll be taking no for an answer.

“If the lady insists,” he concedes, continuing to smirk at her as he bows dramatically, his coat sweeping the ground as he sinks- but he still doesn’t leave.

“She does,” Emma says slowly, raising her brows and nodding towards the door.

“Tough lass,” he chuckles, stepping away from her. “Very well, love, I’ll give you a bit of privacy. But when I get back, you and I are going to have a little chat.”

“Can’t wait,” she mumbles.

Once he’s finally gone, she can do what she’s been wanting to and explore her surroundings, taking in all of the information about him she can before he returns. She hops into her jeans quickly, nearly dropping to the ground as she does, but determined to find something she can use on him in case he threatens her somehow. Tossing her shirt over her head and dropping the too-sheer fabric to the ground, she scours the room as quickly and silently as she can, opening books and shoving loose pages aside as she moves along the shelving. She finally gets to the chest and opens it up, finding a small, aged piece of parchment resting on top of its contents, as if it was placed there carefully and with loving respect.

She hums, removing it from the chest to observe the detailed sketch, noting the subject’s beauty— her thick curls and her kind eyes— and the doting way the parchment is placed in the chest, as if being hidden and placed on display all at once. She wonders what else this pirate has up his sleeves based on the care he’s used to store this work of art. She wonders where this woman could be; who she could be.

As she ponders the sketch, the ship rocks and the glimmer of sunlight against metal catches her attention. She glances down and sees exactly what she needs: a small, sharp dagger. Perfect.

She hears the footsteps approaching and jumps, rushing to pick up her jacket and hoist it over her shoulders, hiding the short blade in her sleeve as the door swings open immediately after a soft knock. “Decent, love?” he asks as he pushes through holding a small plate.

She answers affirmatively, although it doesn't seem to matter because he’s in the room before she could’ve stopped him. He hands her the plate with a smirk that she doesn’t think ever leaves his face and walks around her to take a seat in a chair. He gestures in front of him-- though she’s unsure if it’s towards the small mattress she slept on or a chair before him-- and commands, “sit.”

She pinches her brows together suspiciously but listens, choosing to step back and sink onto the surface of the mattress. “What the hell is this?” she asks once she looks down at the contents of the plate he handed her.

“Hardtack and salted meat, love. What’s wrong, would you have preferred gruel?”

Glancing back down and the bland, overly beige food, she makes a face of disgust and takes a bite of the dry-looking biscuit she desperately wishes was a strawberry Poptart. She feels the crumbs drying her mouth and throat and she begins to cough again.

He shakes his head and tsks, taking out a small flask and walking towards her to press it to her lips. She takes it from him with force and tosses it back, sputtering again at the burn as the liquid sides down her throat. “Are you trying to torture me?” she demands as she pushes him away. “Don’t you have water?”

With another smirk, he says, “torture, you say? Well, you are my prisoner. Perhaps that’s not a bad idea.”

“Water?”

“All we have is grog, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t like it much more than the rum.”

Picking up the strange, rigid meat by one end, her face sours at the thought of eating jerky offered to her by a pirate who probably hasn't seen land in months and likely doesn't know much of meat preservation. But she’s starving, having apparently been unconscious for a while, and she can’t resist. “Anything’s better than the lava you just forced down my throat,” she says around the salty food.

“Very well,” he concedes, then shouts, “Smee!”

She jumps just slightly, noting the barely-there ringing in her ears as her head throbs as a plump, stocky man enters the room. “Aye, Cap’n?”

“Fetch the young lady some grog, if you please.”

The man nods once, scurrying from the room. The Captain scans the cabin while he’s gone, taking note of the shirt she left on the floor and narrowing his eyes. “I keep a tight ship, lass,” he chastises.

She almost wonders if she should be worried as his gaze reaches hers, hot and angry at the sight of the small mess she left behind. But the man returns with a goblet, handing it to her with a shaky grip and stepping backwards. “Anything else, Sir?”

“That’ll be all, Mr. Smee. Ensure we aren’t bothered.” His tone is bordering on threatening and her pulse quickens in her veins.

He nods and slinks out of the room once more, latching the door behind him. She looks down at the large cup that was proffered to her and doesn’t think it’ll be much better than his rum, as he tried to warn her, but chances it and takes a sip.

It’s awful, completely disgusting, but it’s all she has and it doesn’t burn quite as much as the rum had. She makes a sound of disgust, sticking her tongue out and reaching for the jerky again in hopes of getting the taste out of her mouth.

“Quite dramatic,” he remarks, and she realizes he’s been studying her with a pensive look on his face, right eyebrow never dropping.

“It’s terrible.”

“Water that sits stagnant tends to collect green slime, which I can assure you tastes far worse than that.”

“So instead you add poison to it?”

He guffaws, tossing his head back and pressing his hand to his middle. “A bit of alcohol is hardly poison, love.”

The meat actually doesn't taste too bad, but it’s so salty and dry that she has to pinch her nose and take another swig of his poison water.

“Now,” he starts, still staring at her intently. “What’s your name, love?”

She rolls her eyes, mumbling around the jerked meat. “It isn’t love.”

His eyes narrow and he leans his arms against the table, cocking his head as he says, “understand this: you’d be dead in the water, quite literally, if not for my men fishing you out of the sea. I’ve fed you, dressed you… I’ve kept you alive all this time warding off fever. I owe you nothing. And you’d do well to remember that as an obligatory passenger on my ship.” She sits quietly as if she was scolded by a teacher, biting her lip and looking back down at her food for one more helping. “Your name,” he demands again.

“Emma,” she grumbles. “Emma Swan.”

“Well, Swan, pleased to meet you.”

She gives him a small smile, because she somewhat doubts that but doesn’t think it a good idea to anger him any more than she apparently already has, and nods in return. “Likewise. And… thank you.”

As he breathes out a chuckle, he says, “if I had to guess, I’d say that statement is rare to leave your lips, darling.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Well, you’re right. You and your crew saved my life.” He nods in acknowledgement of her thanks. “Hey, who changed me anyway?”

He laughs awkwardly. “Ah, do you not recall? You were quite fiery indeed, swatting my hand away. I assure you, I neither saw nor touched anything. But I couldn’t leave you in those cold, soaked… clothes,” he says, giving her a suspicious look as he takes in her outfit, apparently foreign to him and to this land. “You were close to catching your death from the cold, but you absolutely refused to let me take off… everything.” With a blush, she breathes out an irritated laugh, unsure of how to react to the fact that this man has apparently seen much more of her than she would have hoped. “I must admit, while the entire ensemble is quite unfamiliar to me, I was particularly perplexed by whatever tiny bit of fabric was covering up your—”

“Okay,” she cuts him off, putting the plate down on the mattress, noting his eyes trailing far too low. “We don’t need to talk about my… tiny fabric.”

With a chuckle, he sits back in his chair once more and nods in agreement. “Very well, lass. Now it’s your turn to answer another question for me.”

“Fine.”

“What the bloody hell were you doing in the middle of the ocean? We’re a good two or three day’s ride from shore.”

She inhales deeply, unsure of what she should tell this stranger. He’s right, of course. He could have left her to die in the water, could have let her succumb to the hypothermia she was likely suffering from. But he didn’t. Instead, he helped her. He himself removed her soaked clothing rather than pawning her off on his potentially touch-starved crew, affirming to her that he hadn’t violated her in any way despite her precarious position. He fed and watered her. He made sure she was warm and comfortable and safe. And, if she’s in the Enchanted Forest, or just outside of it, she can assume he knows something of the magic that brought her here.

“I fell through a… portal,” she finally admits timidly.

His eyes narrow in suspicion and he leans forward again, eyes making intense contact with her own. “A portal?” he clarifies.

“Yes.”

“How did you come across this portal?”

She shrugs. “A magic hat, I guess.” She wonders if he thinks she’s mad based on the manic look in his eyes. “And I need to get back.”

“Aye, I would imagine you do.” He sits back once more, still eyeing her with trepidation. “Tell me, then, from what land were you dragged through this portal?”

“No, I get to ask a question now,” she says boldly, almost childishly, despite the fact that he has only just scolded her for her attitude towards him.

Narrowing his eyes, he concedes and waves his hand before himself. “Very well.”

“What’s your name?”

His confidence seems to waiver as he considers her inquiry, cocking his head to the side and eyeing her up and down before he comes to a decision. “Killian,” he says hesitantly. Then “Killian Jones,” with more grandeur. It isn’t lost on her that he chooses not to include his title, his claim to power. “Now, your turn. From whence did you fall, Emma Swan?”

“Um,” she starts, unsure of how to answer since she was never given any sort of guidebook to the names of all the magical realms. Thinking back to what her parents had called it, she answers, “I guess you would know it as the Land Without Magic.”

He stands suddenly, forcefully moving his chair back and stepping towards her in haste so that she backs away from him on the bed. Once he’s close enough to lean over her, she gulps, letting the small blade slip down her sleeve so she can hold the handle tightly. “Did you say the Land Without Magic?” he asks forcefully, his face inches from her own.

“Yes,” she whispers back. “That’s where I live; I need to get back there.”

His eyes stare into hers with such intensity that it makes her skin crawl. After a moment, he schools his features and backs away slightly. “Well,” he says as he rights his blouse. “Then I offer my ship and my services.”

She drops her jaw, stunned, and utters, “what?”

He nods, making his way back to his desk and taking a seat once again. “I need to get there as well. It would likely be more efficient if we worked together.”

With her eyes narrowing, she stands, tucking the handle of the short dagger back up under her sleeve, and walks around the table so that she’s standing closer to him, looking out the window. He remains still, apparently not fazed by her movements. “Why would you need to get to the Land Without Magic?”

She can’t see his face, standing behind him now with their backs to each other, but she can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, “I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.”

She spins, facing him as a thought pops into her mind. This man is a pirate sailing through her parents’ kingdom. Though she knows little about this place, and about pirates in general, she does know that a pirate and a king do not get along. The curse swept up everyone in this realm, and his desire to get to the place where Misthaven’s royalty now reside can’t be a coincidence.

With these thoughts in mind, she lets the blade slip out of her sleeve and grabs him by the hair, holding the dagger up to his neck as he struggles in surprise. “I don’t believe you. What’s in it for you?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he stutters.

“Do you know who I am? Tell me why you really want to get to my home.”

He gasps against the sharp metal, trying to pull away, and answers, “to exact vengeance on the man who took my hand.”

She glances down and notes the hook once more, something she’s been trying to ignore because the idea that this man is Captain Hook is too hard to swallow. She lets him go, dropping the blade from his flesh and backing away. Letting out a breath, he relaxes back in his chair again. “Just who are you, Swan?” he asks playfully, practically waggling his brows as he rubs his neck. Apparently, he finds it more important to flirt with her than to worry about the fact that she just threatened his life.

Yeah, she shouldn’t have let that one slip. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Perhaps I would.”

She rolls her eyes. “Listen, I need to get home to my son,” she says honestly. “I don’t have any more time to waste; the longer I’m gone, the worse things could get for him.”

He smirks. “You have a son?” he asks, sweeping his gaze pointedly along her body. She shoves away from him and pulls her jacket tight to her torso. “No need to fret, love, we’ll get you home.”

“I’m not fretting,” she snaps, though she continues to hug her arms around herself.

Noting her evident discomfort, he continues on casually as if to assure her that what she seeks is possible. “I have arranged transport with someone, but her company is a bit… well, it makes me uneasy,” he says with an awkward smile. “She also doesn’t exactly know where this land is, what with the lack of magic and all, so having you as a guide may prove useful in her eyes. Plus, if you and I team up, we can overthrow her, should the need arise.”

With a scoff, she says, “great, I can’t wait to work with someone I should plan to overthrow.”

“Worry not, love. She’s naught but fervidly motivated. You see, she needs to get to her child as well, a daughter.”

“Really?” That peaks her interest and she moves around the table to sit in a chair facing him. “Who is she?”

“Her name’s Cora,” he answers casually. Pursing her lips, Emma tries to recall if she knows anyone in town with that name, but she thinks not. Although, she didn’t have long to learn everyone’s un-cursed personas, so it’s entirely possible that this woman’s daughter, Cora, is someone she already knows.

“And who is this man you’re trying to… exact revenge on?” she asks, repeating his dramatic words.

“He’s known well as the Dark One, but also as Rumplestiltskin.”

“The Dark One?”

“Aye, I take it you know of him?”

“I do, but how could you possibly kill him? Isn’t he supposed to have, like, the most powerful magic ever?”

He chuckles. “Very eloquent, darling. And yes, he is, which is why I must travel to the Land Without Magic. So I can best him fair and square.”

She should tell him, right? She should be honest about the fact that the Land Without Magic does, in fact, have magic now that the curse has broken. About the fact that, if he’s putting all of his eggs in this metaphorical basket, he’s doomed to lose.

She almost feels bad for this man. She knows he’s likely violent and dishonorable, but he’s right in that he’s been nothing but caring and helpful to her. A part of her almost trusts his kind, menacing eyes. And now, he’s offered her help getting home. He may be her only chance to get back to Henry; to keep him safe from Regina.

So she stays silent, nodding in agreement, assuring him that his plan to kill the Dark One using only his skills in swordsmanship is foolproof.

Guilt settles in instantly, churning her stomach in response to his obvious excitement at the prospect of having a chance to exact his revenge.

But she needs to get home.

~~~~

#find strength in pain #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #my writing #cs ff #cs au #once upon a time fanfic #ouat ff #season 2 #drowing tw #I guess

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heartofsnark · 3 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter Eleven): Angels of Doubt, Bearing Broken Halos

Notes; The chapter title is pretentious as fuck, but I don’t care. I’m very happy with the beginning of this chapter so I’m very excite to finally let y’all read it fully. Overall, this chapter definitely is more of the build up that this uhhhh nice little religious family mayyyyyhaps be a bit less nice than originally thought.

Word Count: 10451

Chapter Warnings: Cult Angels, Animal Death (in the context of dangerous wildlife needing to be put down), A Judge Wolf, Indoctrination, Assault, Me Awkwardly trying to write himbo Nick Rye for the first time

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

They don’t go to The Spread Eagle that night, staying too late making plans. But it’s all for the best in the end, Casey would be more busy in the evening and if she’s interrupting his work, he’ll be less likely to listen. It’ll be easier to talk to him tomorrow just as the bar opens, before anyone arrives and during down time. Regardless, when she comes back to the trailer park. She breaks next to the registration building, checking her mailbox in case Cassie or Joseph had wrote her back, but no such luck. Maybe it will take a while for them to even get it?

A breeze passes through as she leaves the building, that familiar flower smell itching at her nose. The trailer park has fields of those white flowers surrounding it, the delicate petals seem ghostly in the moonlight. Moonflowers, the trailer park has to be named after them, these flowers that haunt her in her dreams. A shift of movement, far back in the expanse of flowers catches her eye. Someone tending to the flowers with a hoe, but she doesn’t know anyone in the trailer park who takes care of the flowers. Surely, if they had a grounds keeper, they’d start with the trash within area; not the flowers surrounding it.

Dahlia decides to park her bike before investigating, not wanting to leave it in the open while she journeys through the flowers. She pulls out her phone once she’s parked, tucking one earbud in. If only to ease her nerves as she walks to confront the odd stranger.

“When you told me I should text your brother.

I was walking with a blunt in my hand.

Double Jameson was in the other.

I was drinking like a spiritual man.”

She stands at the edge of the field of flowers, little the scent tickle her nose, watching the…person in the distance. Their gender, or at least presentation of it, unidentifiable. She blinks her eyes, when did she start seeing spots? Her tension eases, body and mind relaxing.

“I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room.

I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room”

And she walks further through the flowers, brushing through them, fractals blurring her vision with every step. Her head swims and floats away, fuzzy as the smell surrounds her. She drags her fingers along the blossoms as she walks, grounding herself with their velvet touch, the contrast of her black painted fingernails against them.

“And I could barely stand

He said, "Get some water, man"

'Cause they don't understand

I'm not what they think I am”

As she nears them with every unsteady step, she sees them more clearly. And truly they’re a ghastly sight. Shaved head and dirty white clothes; the smell of the flowers strengthens as she nears them, turning acrid with an edge. That smell comes from them, like they’d bathed in chemicals infused with the flowers. The mask latched around their grime coated face, covering their mouth is marked with the Eden’s Gate symbol. They pay her no mind, focused on tending to the moonflowers, their eyes are glazed nearly white and milky. Like Dahlia’s eyes looked her first night in Hope County, when she dreamed of Faith despite having never met her.

“They can never ever understand me, no

What I came from, what I was before”

“Are you…okay?” She asks them, despite her own swimming vision and weak knees.

“HelpmeFaithhelpmeFaithshieldmefromsorrow.”

They grumble, not sing, the lyrics to one of Eden’s Gate’s songs. Their voice a rasp as if they can hardly breathe, each word running into the other, energy manic. The moonlight shining on gaunt cheeks and white eyes makes them look dead, a walking corpse before her. She reaches out, gingerly touching their shoulder, hoping touch can break through whatever state they’re in.

And then they scream, swing the garden hoe and bashing it against the side of Dahlia’s head. She’s knocked to the ground, head hitting rock and dirt. The creature screams out and jumps on her, trying to maul her. Vacant eyes staring down at her, her body and head too fuzzy to even give it the reaction it deserves. She should be scared, she should be terrified, but she isn’t.

Gently, she puts her hands on each side of the person’s neck, applying pressure, not enough to strangle but to hold it at slight distance. It tries to dig dirty fingers into her flesh through her jacket, screaming mangled cries of pain or anger, she can’t tell as she looks over its face. The haunting glow of moonlight on their dirty face.

“How you get to heaven with a broke halo?

How you get to heaven with a broke halo?”

“Help me, Faith,” Dahlia sings the song it used to soothe itself, “help me Faith, shield me from sorrow… From fear of tomorrow…”

And a switch has been flipped, it stops screaming. Body going lax, fingers no longer trying to tear her apart as she sings the church song, own voice overlapping the contrasting melody of her music.

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sadness…From worry and madness…”

And it’s slipping out of her loosening hold and climbing off her, resuming it’s gardening work, as if she never existed at all. On trembling legs and with her vision still blurring, she leaves, not sure of what else to do. A part of her knows she should be more panicked, more concerned, more anything, but then she takes another inhale the floral scent around her and she can’t find the energy. It fades as she leaves the flowers and their scent behind, vision steadying as she enters her trailer, the full reality dawning on her just as she shuts the door behind her.

“What the actual fuck!?” She screams at her empty living room, because what the actual fuck did she just see? Her mouth is dry and her brain a mess as distress finally shines through the haze.

Dahlia digs her phone out, shutting off her music and doing a search. Her vision is still fuzzy with prisms of shifting colors, body still light and floaty. They were there the first time she saw Faith, they constantly itch her nose and make her eyes see things. The church compound was covered in bushels of them.

Moonflowers, she searches, and sure enough the images show the white trumpet shaped blossoms. Also called datura, angel trumpets and it’s down a rabbit hole. They’re toxic and hallucinogenic, can be harvested for either medication or poison. Scopolamine and atropine are in them; Dahlia does not even remotely know jack shit about chemistry. But a quick search shows scopolamine has been used in everything from nausea medicine to truth serum. So…she may have just hallucinated the person? From the flowers… but when she touches her forehead, where the person stuck her, blood stains her fingers. She really did get hurt…

Dahlia grabs her sketchbook, sitting down on the floor before her coffee table as she’s done so many times before, and she draws what she saw. Painstakingly she tries to recreate them, to draw the gaunt of their cheeks and the grime on their skin. To catch the white emptiness of their eyes. And she dates the drawing, scratching out the date in as neatly as she can. And on the next page she draws her first weird dream, sketching herself vomiting flowers and blood, those moonflowers. She adds the rough date she remembers it happening in the corner when she’s satisfied. Then she draws herself burnt and marred with flowers blooming from her mangled remains, hand moving of it’s own accord to match the details, shutting out the rest of the world as she works to carefully craft every line. She dates it as well and then draws the newest one, smears of ink on bare skin with flowers blooming from them.

Once each image is created with a date etched in its corner, she sits back and rakes a hand through her hair. She’s had nightmares before this, certainly, but never as frequent or vivid as these. Flowers are the recurring theme and she’s not sure why; maybe the datura are doing it? The scent of them always present, making her sleeping brain conjure odd images. She already has a list of things to do; the apple festival is the highest priority, but she still wants to know what each flower means and what on earth is working in those flower fields, what connection it has to Eden’s Gate.

She’s exhausted, graphite from her pencil smudged and sticking to her hand. But she feels more at ease having put her demons into art, having created something out of this. There’s still a lot of questions in her mind. This constant back in forth of trusting the church only to doubt them again is frustrating.

Dahlia barely manages not to fall asleep in the shower that night, exhaustion clinging heavy to her leaden muscles and pulling at her eyelids when she lays down on her couch.

The junior deputy is running on two hours of sleep, coffee, and an energy drink the next morning. But that doesn’t stop her from swinging into The Spread Eagle as soon as it opens, Pratt in tow since they’re technically on shift.

“Something wrong, deputies?” Mary May asks when they stride in, Dahlia can already see Casey through the kitchen window, prepping food for the later in the evening.

“No, we actually just wanted to talk to you and Casey about something.”

“What’s up?” Mary May raises an eyebrow and the chef’s head perks up.

Dahlia explains Debbie and Doug’s situation, that John is trying to buy them out, at the very mention of the Seed sibling’s name she can see Mary May tense. But the tension lessens, smiles on the bartender and cook’s face when the deputy mentions their plans for an apple festival.

“I know we could use more cooks selling food there and Debbie mentioned you work with the Testy Festy, Casey.”

“Plus, figured the band that plays here, might be willing to work a night or two if you talked to ‘em Mary May.”

“Look, you had me at pissing off John Seed,” Mary May says, grinning, “I’ll talk to the band and Casey, you damn well better help them out.”

“Come around here, sister,” Casey calls out, voice deep and booming as she walks around into the kitchen already warm as starts prepping food, he spares her a glance as he minces vegetables, “your destiny hangs off you like a coat, the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a hero.”

Dahlia blinks, taken aback by his unabashed and weirdly soulful compliments. She doesn’t really believe in destiny nor does she see herself as a warrior or hero, but she certainly appreciates the thought. Her heart, that of a hero apparently, warms and she smiles after another second.

“So…you’ll help?”

“It’s important for people to gather, to bond, and feel a sense of community. I’ll call Deb and Doug to offer any help I can.”

“Thank you so much!” Dahlia grins: Casey is definitely an odd duck, but he cares about the community and willing to help. So, a fantastic guy in her book.

“Happy to help, sister.”

First two people dragged into their plan, Pratt and Dahlia give some friendly goodbyes before being on their way. This is already coming together and Stray is nearly vibrating with excitement as they leave the bar.

The pair continue to do their patrol while swinging in to talk with folks about the festival. They swing by Lorna’s Truck Stop, Dahlia unable to resist snapping a picture of the giant cheesy cow statue outside of it before they walk in, door chiming. An older woman is talking to someone in a green hood, the woman with chubby cheeks and blue eyes pushing a little bag of mini pies into the hooded person’s bruised hands.

“Here you go, Jess, on the house as always.”

“Thanks,” the hooded girl responds, an awkward gruff to the words before she leaves. When Dahlia catches a sight of her, Jess has a face of mottled bruises and cuts.

“Anything I do for you, Deputies?”

“We were hoping you could help us out, Lorna,” Pratt starts.

And just like Casey and Mary May; Lorna’s all bright smiles and kind eyes, happy to help. Even pushing bags of the free small handmade pies into the deputy’s hands before they go. There is something undeniably heartwarming at everyone’s willingness to help. She crams one of the little pasties into her mouth, sugary berries on her tongue as they get back into the cruiser.

The shift passes by with ticketing traffic violations and stopping in to rope people into helping out. Hudson and Brennan sending texts letting Dahlia know that Grace has agreed to help and Adelaide will too if only so her boytoy Xander can have a smoothie stand during the festival. Riding through the valley, Dahlia sees a billboard advertising gun lubricant, Grace Armstrong’s face plastered on it, though her eyes on the board seem off. Dahlia too far away to put her finger on it, but it looks like that part of the advert has been damaged. An award-winning sniper and veteran; well loved in the community. Dahlia only saw a glimpse of her at the barbecue, talking with Hudson, but it seems clear just how important she is to the county.

Within an hour of their shift ending, Doug and Debbie have them called out to the orchard. Their smiles are bright, the middle-aged couple holding each when the deputies pull in. Pratt’s still trying to pretend to have a grumpy face but there’s still a slight smile pulling at his lips as they get out of the cruiser.

Arms are wrapping around Dahlia in a second, Debbie pulling her into a tight hug, the young deputy tenses hands hovering awkwardly at the woman’s sides.

“Thank you, so much,” Debbie says, pulling away but her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders, “we’ve been getting calls all day, everyone wants to help us do this, thank you so much.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem…just happy to help,” Dahlia flusters under the attention, proud of what she’s done, but squirming under the weight of gratitude.

“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Doug tells her with a smile, “but we called you out ‘cause we got some flyers made, figure’d it help advertise, though word of mouth already seems to be doing us a lot of good.”

“We could definitely hand them out, see if some places are willing to hang them up too.”

“And now we’re the flyer brigade,” Pratt grumbles under his breath and Dahlia jabs her elbow into his side.

“I’ve already been coming up with everything I wanna sell at the festival, but if you two have some free time Sunday, I could use some taste testers too,” Debbie offers, with a smile, “least I can do is feed you for all your help.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dahlia agrees readily.

“I…could probably swing by.” Pratt tries so hard to sound above it all, but free apple pie can apparently draw even him in.

“Can’t wait to see you both then!”

They wave goodbye to the couple, Dahlia packing the flyers with her into the cruiser car. The ending hours of their shift and the day is spent finding places to hang them up. Mary May posting them in The Spread Eagle, hanging in the window of the garage and general store, Whitehorse even letting it be posted up in the window of the department. Dahlia’s ride home that night takes longer as she stops at places to ask if they’d hang up the advertisement; after getting Lorna’s Truck Stop and Audrey’s Diner to put them up. Dahlia stops at the Hollyhock Saloon, bartender agreeing to hang it up in the small bar, the rookie deputy giving a quick hello to Brennan and some of the other officers gathered at his table. The 8-bit Pizza bar hangs them up without any question, happy to help, and Dahlia manages to convince Darcy to hang it up in the registration building of the trailer park before she heads in for the night. Dahlia crashes easily that night, sleep finding her as soon as she hits the couch.

The next day Stray is hit with déjà vu as they’re called out to deal with Eden’s Gate blocking another road. She’s still not sure why this is apparently a thing they do. And to her misfortune it’s not Waylon or members of the church she likes waiting behind the cement block when they pull up this time; but Theodore and Lonny. Because of course.

“Deputies,” Lonny forces a smile, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well, you’re breaking the law, so there’s that,” Pratt says with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, heard you two gave some of our members a hard time about blocking off a road,” Theodore comments, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll refer you back to the fact it’s against the law,” Dahlia grumbles, “why on earth are you blocking the road anyway?”

“Got some property nearby that needs some work.”

“The church own a lot a property?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, that was Waylon’s reasoning too.

“Soon to be even more when John secures the orchard for us,” Lonny has too wide of a grin as he looks Dahlia over, “though rumor has it some little cop is trying to get in the way.”

“Irrelevant, you’re breaking the law. Just scram and there won’t be any issues.”

“Look, h-“

“We’ll be going then, deputy,” Theodore puts a hand on Lonny’s back, reigning him in. Though the way Lonny sneers tells Dahlia that their conflict is only resolved for the moment.

Regardless, Pratt and her watch as the men yet again pack away the blocks and clear the road out. Dahlia still can’t quite figure out why on earth they’d need to or would want to block the roads. Between that and the strange person she saw in the flowers, bearing the churches symbol, things just seem to get weirder and weirder. She considers for a moment asking the church members there about the person with the shaved head, but she has a feeling asking more questions will just put her higher up on Lonny and Theodore’s shit-lists.

“Still don’t get why they keep blocking the roads,” Dahlia comments when they get back in the patrol car.

“They’re assholes, what more reason they need.” Pratt shrugs before starting the cruiser engine and Dahlia just doesn’t feel like it’s that simple.

“Well, if they do it again, we don’t really have a choice but to arrest ‘em do we?”

“Can’t let them get away with shit forever; three strikes seem fair.”

Questions still run through her mind; but there’s no way of getting answers at the moment, left to bury her curiosity as they leave back down the winding roads. Hours pass and bright blues shift to pastel pinks as the sun sets upon Hope County.

That evening at The Spread Eagle, she’s listening to Pratt and Hudson argue about something; she can’t even be sure what but she’s just amused to not be at the butt of the humor tonight. She’s cramming fries into her mouth when she feels eyes on her.

“That’d be her right there,” Mary May says, pointed out at Dahlia as she talks to a man the young officer has only seen in passing. Shaggy dark hair under a cap and beard on his face, though the last time she saw him he’d been wearing glasses. She thinks it’s Nick, only having seen a glance of him at his own barbecue.

“If I’m in some sort of trouble, I’d like fair warning, Mary May.” Dahlia comments, unsure why anyone would be trying to find her in a crowd. The blonde’s smile eases her nerves as she comes across the bar, the man walking Dahlia’s way.

“No trouble, Deputy, Nick here was just wanting to know which one of you started the apple festival. He’s going fly a banner ad around for Debbie and Doug.”

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

“I just wanted to find out who was helping them out, Nick Rye,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand out for her to shake.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve been crop dusting for Doug and Debbie for years, last thing anyone needs is for John to get his hands on that place.”

“That seems to be most people’s sentiment.”

“Told ya just about everyone is sick of his shit,” Mary May says with a shake of her head, “it’s about time he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“That son of a bitch has been hounding me and Kim for months now, trying to buy our place.” Nick’s jaw clenches, irritation coming off him in waves.

“I know Kim damn near broke his nose for it.”

“Wait what?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow; how often does John harass people?

“Listen to this,” Nick gesture emphatically, now sitting down next to Dahlia, “asshole shows up to the house while I’m gone, trying to bully Kim into selling the damn place, while she’s pregnant. What kind of sick fuck shows up at a man’s house while he’s gone and tries to strongarm his wife into signing the place over. Fuckers lucky I wasn’t home.”

“You not being home was kind of the point of when he showed up.,” Mary May reminds him, “besides, no offense, but even ready to pop I think I trust Kim’s right hook protected her more than yours ever could.”

“Now, that’s just mean,” Nick says with a slight pout to his face, reminding Dahlia of a tall puppy dog.

“It’s okay Nick, anything you lack in strength you make up for in…” Mary May seems to have to search for the next word, normally brains would be the natural contrast, “well, you just keep being you.”

“Never really thought about being anyone else; well except maybe an eagle, but I don’t think that counts.”

“No, it doesn’t really count, Nick,” Mary May says with a slight laugh.

Dahlia stifles her own laugh raising an eyebrow at the ridiculous turn of the conversation. Nick is sweet and willing to help out with the festival, so she won’t spend too much time questioning his desire to be an eagle. It’s not long before Pratt and Hudson fall into conversation with the pilot; allowing Dahlia to comfortably settle into the background as the night winds down.

It’s not even the noon the following day before things around Hope County manage to pick up pace. Sirens and lights flashing as Pratt rushes them up north towards the mountain; there’s a palpable tension. Crisis situations are rare; most days filled with handing out traffic tickets and dealing with roadblocks. Hell, the county is boring enough that the sheriff would allow them to actively work on a festival during shift hours. So, a call requesting EMS, all deputies and units, and the F.A.N.G Center; is definitely out of the normal.

They see the gathering of people as they pull up, Whitehorse is talking with workers in F.A.N.G Center shirts, Hudson and other officers gathered around and EMS workers carrying someone into the back of an ambulance.

“Pratt, Rookie; over here now!” The sheriff calls out for them and they rush over.

“What’s going on?” Pratt is the one to ask.

“Wolf, possibly rabid, but we don’t know. It attacked a pair of hikers. We tried to tranq it but nothing is bringing it down, we gotta find it and put it down before it hurts anyone else.” The F.A.N.G Center employee explains to them.

“No way to get around killing it?” Dahlia asks, she understands it can’t always be avoided, but she would prefer not to.

“We hit that damn thing with enough tranq to take down an elephant and it still tried to maul us before running off; tried to get it with a snare pole and it broke it. We can’t rehabilitate an animal we can’t get near and if we let it go; it’ll hurt someone else.”

“You heard the man, alright,” Whitehorse’s voice booms as he starts addressing everyone, commanding attention “we got a wolf to find, grown wolf, white fur and aggressive. I want everyone to stay in groups; we have tranquilizers, snare poles, and what’s used to put ‘em down. We want to try to do it as humanely as possible but protect yourselves and keep an ear to your radio. We need to make sure the trails are safe and can’t let anyone else get bit; move out!”

The deputies are given tranquilizer guns, the snare poles, and syringes filled with pentobarbital. Though, given what they’ve been told, she’s not completely sure how effective any of it will be. If the wolf has enough tranquilizers to take down an elephant in it already and is still moving; as well as having previously broken one of the snare poles, then how on earth is any of this suppose to work?

But she doesn’t voice these concerns as she follows after Pratt, Hudson, and another police officer tagging along so they can maintain a decent sized group per Whitehorse’s instructions.

The mountains are beautiful, she thought that when she’s gone hiking before, but even during this tense situation she finds herself amazed by how gorgeous it is. Bright green summer grass and towering trees as far as the eye can see. Mountains that reach up to kiss the bright blue sky.

Dahlia stays at the back of the group, letting Pratt and Hudson lead as she keeps her ears and eyes peeled for anything suspicious. The sneer pole is across her shoulders, her wrists on top and holding it there as she walks. She half listens to Pratt and Hudson talk; something about people making up werewolf rumors because the wolves have been acting wilder and wilder lately. She’s reminded of her meal at the Grill Steak, that man who warned a group of people about wolves. He claimed they were trained by Eden’s Gate; but those still just sound like conspiracy theories.

Tension crawls up Stray’s spine, skin forming goosebumps at the sensation of being watched, then the sound of snapping branches coming from forests that surround the trail she walks along. She moves without thinking, leaving the trail and her group behind, following where she heard the noise.

Branches and brush scratch at her arms as she ventures deeper into the wooded area; then she sees his back. Jacob Seed, why does there always seem to be a member of their family just around the corner when trouble happens?

“Something you need,” he says, not bothering to turn and face her, examining his red rifle.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I shouldn’t be,” he spares her a glance over his shoulder, blue eyes rife with condescension, “last time I checked it’s a free country, ain’t it?”

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a wolf running around; possibly rabid. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

And he laughs; dry and deep, the sound making her raise her eyebrows. Why is the idea of being mauled by a rabid wolf so funny to him?

“You worrying about me?” He asks, finally turning to face her in full, shifting the bright red gun to the holster on his back.

“I mean, yes? My job is keeping the public safe and you are a member of the public.”

“Pfff, you’re just a pup,” he says walking past her, “be better off watching out for yourself.”

His hand is large and rough as it ruffles her hair while he walks by; his palm and fingers nearly encompassing the entire top of her head. His hand is probably bigger than her face she realizes, heat flushing up her face though she’s not sure of why. He’s so condescending and patronizing and fucking giant; the last point isn’t entirely relevant but it’s still true.

“I’m a deputy, don’t patronize me.” She says, reaching up to grab his hand from her head, capturing it in her own. His rough scarred hand is nearly double the size of her own; warm calloused skin against her own.

“You having fun there?” He asks, when she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, instead pressing her small hand back against his palm, comparing the immense size difference. He really could probably wrap one hand around her entire head.

“Your hands are so big, wow.”

“’Preciate it pup.”

And he laughs again, still dry and brief in it’s sound, pulling his giant hand from her smaller one before he leaves. She glares at his back; corded muscle shifting beneath his black tee shirt. Despite her pout, she can understand why he’d see her unable to defend herself in comparison to him. She’s been confident in her physical abilities for a while; but she imagines a man like Jacob isn’t scared of anything.

“Rook, where the hell are you?” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio as Jacob walks off.

“There was a hunter out here, I was warning him about the wolf,” Dahlia explains herself, she wasn’t suppose to leave the group per Whitehorse’s orders, but no one could blame her for warning a civilian. There’s something odd about thinking of Jacob as just a hunter or civilian; though she’s not quite sure why.

“We’re in the woods near the Visitor’s Center, get over here, you pain in the ass.”

The radio crackles out and Dahlia gets on her way; she knows the Visitor’s Center is south of where she is. Though she has no sense of direction, so that has little bearing on her ability to find it. She hikes down, feeling that’s the closest approximation to south that she can get, sticking a little closer to the woods than the paths. She prefers the shade and atmosphere of being surrounded by the trees.

But the further she travels down, the sparser the trees grow, exposing Dahlia to the sun. Green grass and branches crushing underfoot as she stumbles down the terrain. She can just imagine Pratt and Hudson’s frustration, but warning someone about a rabid wolf is certainly understandable.

A drawn-out howl echoes through the woods, making the deputy freeze. Sunlight is warm on her face and stinging at her eyes as she turns towards the sound. A spire of craggy rocks coming off the mountain; the silhouette of a wolf howling with the sun behind it. She uses her hand to shield from the sunlight, straining to see more detail. Seven distinct darts stick from the wolves back; tranquilizers.

Dahlia quickly tugs her uniform shirt off from over her black tank top, wrapping the fabric around her forearm. Not quite the cushioned guard they use for training police dogs, but it will provide some barrier between it’s bite and her skin. Worse case scenario, she’ll be taking rabies shots once everything is done. She holds the syringe of pentobarbital in one hand, she has her firearm too if that’s unable to bring the wolf down, but she prefers to let it go peacefully if she can.

She stays crouched down as she approaches the peaked edge of the mountain, craggy rock building up to a spire, levels to climb up to reach the clearing where the wolf sits. Dahlia stays low as she climbs, moving as quietly as she can, using a blue grappling hook handle to help lift herself up to the final level. There’s a gap in the clearing; a log showing a passage between craggy rock to craggy rock; boulders surrounded by grass. She can see the wolf, but it’s yet to noticed her, another howl echoing out as it cries out to the sky.

It’s beautiful and she’s all at once ashamed that it has to be put down. Matted white fur with a black nose and lips; it’s eyes are luminously silver, like moonlight. Red is mottled across it’s face, red frothing around it’s mouth, as well as a brighter crimson stroked across it’s brow and down it’s nose. Across it’s furred shoulder blade and spine are seven different tranquilizer darts that were shot at it, how has it not passed out? It doesn’t see her not right away, then it’s nostrils twitch and it’s lips pull back to snarl, red tinged drool dripping down it’s maw. Then it’s gaze is on her, growling and baring it’s teeth.

And then it pounces.

She puts up her cloth wrapped forearm, the force of it’s body hitting hers knocks her onto her back. It’s teeth snap into the fabric, as it tries to chew through her arm, the edges of fangs just grazing the flesh beneath. One large paw presses against her wrist, attempting to pin her limb down so it can rip the meat off her bones.

Dahlia pulls back the plunger on the syringe before slamming the needle into the thick of the wolves neck, sinking through fur and flesh before she pushes the chemical through. The wolf snarls through it’s bite on it, then she watches that shine in it’s silver eyes die. It’s mouth goes slack and then it’s body falls limp on top of her.

The deputy pushes the wolves dead weight off of her, getting up onto her feet, she touches the torn shirt wrapped around her forearm. Drool and blood has stained the green, small damage done to her skin under. It stings but nothing she can’t deal with; the idea of getting rabies shots worries her more. She crouches over the wolf and looks at it’s face, the red around it’s mouth is darker, rusted and clearly blood. But the brighter more purposeful crimson looks like paint.

She remembers the warnings she overheard in the Grill Steak before; someone warning conservationists about wolves owned by Eden’s Gate. Though, he called them a cult. It’s not for sure or a real connection; conspiracy theories and paint. But, who could have gotten close enough to paint the wolf’s face? Who would want to?

“Rookie,” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio.

“Pratt…”

“Rook, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Hudson threatens in the background.

“Please, she’d probably like that.”

Dahlia’s face flushes at Pratt’s teasing, she can’t say he’s completely wrong, but that’s not the point. She hefts the wolf’s corpse up onto her shoulder, carrying it’s heavy weight, the head of the furry creature beside her head. It’s fur is soft and thick despite the matted nature. She’s not big on hunting culture, but the wolf would make a nice rug.

“I got the wolf,” she says into her radio, holding it in one hand while the other keeps the carcass steady on her shoulder as she carefully makes her way down the craggy rocks.

“What?”

“I got the wolf,” she repeats to Pratt’s flat question.

“What? Wh-where the fuck are you?.”

“I’m on a big ass like spirally mountain thing.”

“That tells us literally nothing,” Hudson informs her.

“Uhhhh,” Dahlia looks over the edge, of the elevated mountainside, “I think I see a helipad nearby?”

“Fuck, I know where you are, stay put. Okay, do not approach the wolf.”

“Uhhh, I think you misunderstood me.”

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks and she can just imagine his raised eyebrow.

“I mean, I got the wolf, I already put it down. We can call off the search, but, uh, I think we have bigger issues.”

“Did you get hurt again?”

“Hey,” she objects to his tone, “you make it sound like I’m always getting hurt.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not get…seriously hurt.”

“Oh lord,” Hudson grumbles in the background.

“Look, that’s not the issue, alright. Just get up here and let Whitehorse know what’s going on, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dahlia finds a steady rock in the clearing to pull herself up onto as she waits, since apparently Hudson and Pratt have figured out where she is. She tries to look for anything else on the wolf that could indicate it being owned; but nothing. Dahlia does find herself wondering why it’s fur is white? Aren’t white wolves usually those in snowy climates, for camouflage?

She doubts she’ll receive any answers, so she tries to quiet her mind. The sun warms her skin where she sits on the rock, white wolf still up on her shoulder, ripped uniform shirt still wrapped around her forearm. It all forms an odd picture, she’s certain.

It’s less than an hour or so before she hears the rustle of footsteps; Hudson and Pratt along with the other officer walking up the way to her. Pratt just stops a second and shakes his head, Hudson is rolling her eyes.

“Hello,” Dahlia says with a soft wave.

“What the actual fuck, Rook?”

And she cracks up; unable to help but laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation and Hudson’s flat response. She may have already hit the highlight of her career here.

“Stop laughing; it’s not funny, you could have gotten seriously hurt!” Pratt tries to scold her but he’s laughing through his words, the oddity of it all must be hitting him as well. Dahlia presses a hand to mouth to try and stifle her laughter as Hudson gets her radio out.

The senior deputy radios Whitehorse, letting him know they’ve gotten the wolf. He tells them where to meet him with the body, so the veterinarian and F.A.N.G Center workers can examine it. Dahlia will be reliant on actually listening and following obediently behind the older deputies.

“C’mon, Rookie, let go.”

“Alright.” Dahlia hops down from her rock and starts to follow after them down the mountain.

“You need help packing that?” Pratt offers, probably because the wolf is nearly the length of her entire body.

“Nah.”

“You just feel cool packing the wolf on your back, don’t you?” Hudson is the one to call her out, raising her eyebrow with a soft smirk on her lips, looking entirely too pretty.

“Uhhh….”

“God, you’re a dork.”

“I can’t really argue with that,” Dahlia admits with a red face and shrug of her shoulders, happy to see Pratt and Hudson smiling at her dorkiness.

“What happened with the hunter you were warning?” Pratt asks after a beat of silence as they keep walking, helping her over a craggy step with a hand on her hip to keep her steady as the weight of the wolf limits her movements.

“Uh, asshole just patronized me and left. I don’t know why I still talk to him, he’s always a dick,” she says, rolling her eyes when she thinks about Jacob calling her a pup. He likes to comment on her being a puppy a lot.

“Someone you knew?” Hudson asks, offering a hand to help Dahlia get over a large branch in the way of the path. The ease at which the two older deputies silently help her, makes a soft smile pull at Dahlia’s lips. Silently grateful for them as she answers their questions.

“Jacob Seed.”

“Seriously?’

“What?”

“You don’t find it a little fuckin’ weird how the Seeds are always around you?”

“I mean, they’re not around me anymore than anyone else.”

“They really fucking are; you went to the barbecue, John jumped at the chance to rope you into that.”

“Churches like new blood, it’s n-“

“You’ve apparently talked to Jacob more than once; I didn’t even know he could talk,” Hudson says rolling her eyes, “all he ever does at anyone outside the church is glare.”

“She’s talked to Faith a lot too, apparently.”

“I still don’t even know where she fucking came from.”

“I’m still not fully convinced she isn’t a ghost,” Pratt tells Hudson.

“She’s not a ghost,” Dahlia says with a roll of her eyes.

“And you would know, because they cling to you like leeches, right?”

“Shut up.”

“You know what I think it is,” Hudson says after a moment, “you put up with Joseph’s creepy ass speeches and they realized you’d put up with anything.”

“He’s not….that…creepy…” Dahlia says with zero conviction, because, well. He’s definitely off, but despite all the weird little red flags, he did help her and Cassie. So, he can’t be all bad. Even if his brother is taking people’s shit…and well…she still doesn’t know what the hell was up with the shaved head person.

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“Look, we’ve had run ins with him before, he’s the weirdest creepiest person in this whole damn county and that is saying something,” Hudson shudders, “I’d take Zip lecturing me on being a government shill for nine hours over Joseph even looking at me for even a second.”

“His stare is weirdly intense…”

“All of them are weird; John’s skeevy, Jacob looks like he skins people alive in his spare time…Faith’s kinda cute, but at what cost,” Pratt tells her and eh, Faith’s not really her type. The Church Mouse is pretty, but a bit too delicate for the young deputy to really get those weird stomach feelings she gets around women like Hudson or Mary May.

“Really, I didn’t think you liked women who are taller than you?” Hudson asks.

“Faith is like barely taller than me,” Dahlia says with a snort, watching the pure look of offense on Pratt’s face, how could she be taller than Pratt?

“How short do you think I am, Joey?’

“What?” Hudson raises an eyebrow, confused by their confusion, “ heard she was like six foot something with black hair.”

“She’s like this tall,” Pratt puts his hand maybe two inches above Dahlia’s head, “and blonde.”

“Kinda blonde,” Dahlia corrects, thinking of the youngest Seed siblings dirty blonde hair that fades to a slightly light color at the ends. It toes the line between brown and blonde fairly well.

“Whatever.”

“Someone told me she was taller than John, I know they did, am I losing my mind?” Hudson tries to think for a moment; gears visibly turning behind her green eyes.

“Did you ever really have it?” Pratt taunts her.

“Keep it up, asshole, see what fuckin’ happens.”

The trio makes it down to where the sheriff asked, a parking place within the northern area of the county with little gas pumps but not much else. The F.A.N.G Center employees and the veterinarian with a stethoscope around his neck waiting for them as they make their way over. A worker with the center helps get the stiffening wolf off of Dahlia’s back, putting it into the back of a van so they can take it to be examined.

“Good work, Deputies,” Whitehorse congratulates them and Dahlia grins at the praise.

“To be completely fair,” Hudson interjects, “it was Rook who was able to get him.”

“Hey, we helped…move the body…” Pratt jokes, in their own ways they’re both ensuring Dahlia gets her due credit and she can’t help but smile.

“Well, outstanding work, Rookie.”

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind worried about something.”

“What’s that?’ The sheriff asks, the attention of him, the veterinarian, and center workers all falling on Dahlia.

“The wolf has paint on it’s face, like a cross or something…which kinda makes me think someone owned it or…something?’

“Yeah, that’s definitely not all blood.” A worker looking over the wolf’s face in the van confirms.

“There’s nothing else on it, but we definitely will have to keep that in mind.”

“But, uh, what happens from here?” Dahlia asks.

“I’ll test to see if it’s rabid or if anything else might be the cause for the aggression,” the veterinarian, his name tag she finally catches says Dr. Charles Lindsay, “I’ll let the hospital know and if needed, the hiker will get treated for rabies.”

“Ah, uhh, is there any possible way you could let us know at the same time…well let me know…?”

“Why…?”

“I may have been slightly bit.”

“Slightly?” Pratt is the one to yell out, incredulous at Dahlia’s description of her injury.

“Just a little bit,” She brings two fingers close together in front of her for added effect.

“Jesus fuck, can you just not get hurt for like a week?”

“No, clearly not.”

“Pratt, take her out to the clinic,” Whitehorse says with a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. Even if the bite ain’t too bad, you never know if it’s infected. Not only could the wolf be carrying something, but it had someone else’s blood in it’s mouth. This isn’t optional, Rookie, you’re going to the clinic and that’s an order.”

Dahlia can’t and won’t argue with the sheriff on that. Instead shrinking slightly at the realization that her own disregard for her own safety has gotten her scolded despite her accomplishment. She doesn’t think about risks to herself; she needed the wolf put down to save others and if the worst case scenario is her own well-being being sacrificed, that’s worth it to help others, isn’t it?

“C’mon, Wolf-Bait lets get going,” Pratt says, giving her a light smack on the shoulder to follow him.

“I’m coming, asshole.”

She follows behind Pratt, back to the cruiser where they parked at the beginning of this day. The sun has long since set, the moon now bright and high in the sky as she climbs into the passenger side seat. Unable to stop herself from pouting slightly that she’s being forced to go to the clinic again. Even if she understands why.

“Hey,” Pratt gets her attention as he starts up the cruiser engine, “if it makes you feel any better. I’ll be happy to put you out of your misery if it turns out to be a werewolf.”

“Fuck you!” She yells out through a laugh; his dumb joke bringing a smile back to her face as they go off to the clinic.

She’s at the clinic late that night, her injury doesn’t need stitches just some bandaging, some bloodwork and tests done to account for anything that could be wrong. Then she’s sent home with antibiotics; the entire time Pratt making jokes about werewolves and silver bullets like a nerd. All that’s left is crashing for the night and eventually hearing if she has rabies.

Dahlia sleeps easily that night; thanks to her adrenaline crashing down. She sleeps in the night morning, Saturday never being such a blissful treat for her as she manages to not wake up until around noon.

The young deputy takes her time when she gets up, eating cereal and grabbing a shower. Faith mentioned her being able to see Cassie at the convent this weekend spending a day together, so that’s her plan on top of doing the rounds on roping folks into the Apple Festival.

The Convent isn’t far from the trailer park, two buildings seated before the edge of a cliff with craggy staggered mountain range covered in trees beside it. So many mountains and cliffs within the county. The larger of the buildings has dark roofing, a smaller white church with white latticing canopies between them. Like the material used to construct a gazebo and fields upon fields of the white moonflowers.

Before Dahlia can step too far onto the property, a woman with long baby blonde hair with flower tattoos spiraling up her arms and the sin of GREED across her chest runs up to stop her.

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, I was here to see Cassie.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but our sister Cassandra is busy today.”

“Sister?” Dahlia asks, blood running cold for a moment. She can’t seriously mean…Cassie wasn’t interested in joining, she just needed shelter.

“Well yes, she’s opened her heart to the Father, a child of Eden’s Gate now.”

“Interesting…” Dahlia clenches her jaw, “Faith said that I could come see her today.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible, she’s been busy with finding salvation. She’s with herald John, giving her confession, she can’t possibly be bothered right now.”

“I-”

“Deputy~!” Faith’s sing song voice rings out and Dahlia can’t help but still feel angry, they were supposed to help Cassie, not convert her. The youngest Seed sibling rushes over, nearly floating with the ethereal energy only she can manage. Her white floral dress of the day has a halter neckline and flowers are woven into her braided hair.

“Faith…”

“I’m so sorry; I heard, I know you were excited to spend time with me and Cassie today, but I’m afraid things just became too busy with her deciding to join us here.”

“Yeah…what the fuck?”

“Excuse me?” Faith says, her pretty little smile fading for a moment.

“Cassie needed shelter, not Jesus, so I reiterate…what the fuck?” Dahlia gestures wildly, anger tinging her words. Her blood pressure rising and heat crawling up under her skin like pins and needles.

“Cassie is an adult, she made a choice to join us. Surely, you can’t deny her that freedom, deputy?” Faith’s face pulls into a pout, making Dahlia feel unreasonable all at once, but Cassie was never interested in the religion aspect.

“Yes, she’s an adult, but she was vulnerable, and I don’t think leaping into a religion when you’re in a shitty place is the best move. I-I wanna talk to her myself.”

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t happen, not today. But, maybe next weekend or you could write a letter of course.”

“She still hasn’t responded to my last letter…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith puts a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, meant to be comforting but the deputy flinches away, “as I said, it’s been impossibly busy, she’s been studying our beliefs and methods of joining. It’s a long process at times, very time consuming, but I assure you…Cassie opening her heart to the Father doesn’t mean it’s been closed to you.”

“Yeah, sure, just too busy.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy too, haven’t you?” She tilts her head delicately to the side, still smiling.

“I have?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow.

“Mmm hmm, John’s already learned of you helping put together an apple festival.”

“Oh, yeah, Debbie and Doug wanna save that place so why not, I figure.”

“Yes, we’ve been hearing all about it, John’s not exactly thrilled.”

“Nothing personal to it…”

“I figured, I’m not upset, I promise,” Faith offers a soft smile, “the orchard will end up in the rightful hands no matter what. John just worries a lot about getting land for our church, after all we’re growing by the day and need space for our people.”

“And Debbie and Doug worry a lot about keeping their livelihood, ya know?”

“Like, I said, I have no ill will over it, I’m just interested to see you’re so full of surprises.”

“I am?”

“Mmm hmm,” she giggles, but offers no more information, like she knows a secret that Dahlia doesn’t. But before Dahlia can ask another question, a sight among the convent makes her breath catch in her throat.

Shaved head men and women; tending to fields of those flowers, masks across their face. So, they’re definitely with Eden’s Gate as if she really had to question. They work silently, tending to the fields of moonflowers in their white sweaters.

“Who are they?” Dahlia asks, giving Faith a pointed look. The girl’s eyes move back and forth from the deputy to the workers.

“Oh, those are our angels,” she answers, grinning, “they’re high ranking members of our church, so devoted to The Father they’ve taken vows of silence and dedicate their lives to helping The Project. Amazing, aren’t they?”

“Vows of silence, huh?” Dahlia says, more to herself than Faith. Then why did they mumble lyrics and scream out…why would they attack Dahlia? Is Faith lying to her, she’s got to be, right?

“You know, deputy, if you’re so interested in The Project, The Father would still happily let you join our family.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure, didn’t realize there was a huge process to it though…” Dahlia comments, hoping Faith will elaborate, what the hell kind of hoops did Cassie jump through? Confession, is all she really knows.

“Well, “ Faith grabs both of Dahlia’s hands in her own, smiling, “we ask for our new family members to prove they see the truth of our faith, to prove their dedication, rid themselves of their sins and make sacrifices in order to truly cut their ties with sin.”

“That’s-“

“Faith, there’s a call from the conservatory!” Someone calls out and Dahlia’s words die on her lips; the notion that Faith’s description is vague and generally unhelpful.

“I’ll be right there, see you later deputy, hopefully we can meet with Cassie next weekend.” Faith waves her goodbye and then leaves.

Stray straightens her jacket before leaving the convent, a flood of unanswered questions and doubts in her mind. Everyday something new worries her about Eden’s Gate. If Faith’s lying…that’s fucking bullshit. She doesn’t want to imagine that Faith would lie to her face like that. But, why would their oh so special angels, even the name makes her roll her eyes, be screaming and murmuring despite vows of silences? Why would they attack her?

The rest of her Saturday is spent speaking to people about the Apple Festival, roping Chad from the Grill Steak into it. At least, she believes she did, she’s not completely sure of anything he says. His dialect unintelligible, so she just upped her cajun dialect until she barely knew what she was saying either. Its good busy work, getting places to hang up advertisements, though her heart and mind are somewhere else the entire time. She’s thankful that most people are just genuinely invested in helping; because she certainly isn’t getting by on her charisma.

Her night is spent with trying to distract herself, but thoughts always coming back to the weirdness of Eden’s Gate, to her doubts. Wondering what exactly led to Cassie’s conversion… She’s being silly, she tells herself time and time again, but something just doesn’t feel right lately. Maybe she’s overeating; seeing connections and red flags where none exists. But, the case remains that no tv, manga, music, or drawing can distract her that night.

There’s still a slight cloud looming over Dahlia when she arrives at the orchard Sunday, ready to taste Debbie’s baked apple goods. The sun is high in sky and the smell of apples lifts her mood slightly; but she finds herself still distracted as she parks her bike.

“Deputy!” Debbie greets her and Dahlia gives the warmest smile she can muster. The older woman’s smile helping lift some of that cloud.

“Hey.”

“Staci’s already here, c’mon, we’ll sit in the market stall,” Debbie gushes bring Dahlia over to the picnic tables that are under the covering; where they first talked about the festival.

Pratt is already there; the smell of baked sugar and apples hits Dahlia’s nose before she even sees the array of food Debbie’s put out. Apple pie, apple dumplings, apple scones, and she’s sure that’s just the beginning.

“Hey dumbass,” Pratt greets her around a mouthful of apple pie as she sits down next to him.

“You couldn’t wait like five minutes?”

“Nope.”

“Ass.”

The deputy’s feedback is predominantly noises of happiness; neither really food critics but happy to be shoving it in their mouths. The gloomy cloud is starting to lift by the time they’ve finished off a pie; cinnamon, sugar, and apples warm on her tongue. Apple dumplings settle warm in her stomach and she forgets why she was ever upset. The scones are munched down next; cream sticking to her fingers and lips as she eats.

“God you’re a mess,” Pratt taunts and she sputters a laugh when she turns to face him.

“You have food in your beard, asshole.”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts wiping at his face.

The stuff their faces for a long while longer; strudel, apple cake, apple cobbler, candy apples, and fritters. Pratt leans back from the table, pressing a hand to his face after a while.

“You alright?” Dahlia asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Debbie is gonna have to roll me out of here at this rate; are you not fuckin’ full yet?”

“…No…” She pauses, before shoving more cobbler and whip cream in her mouth. Debbie and Dough are off rushing to get more goodies.

“Jesus fuck, Rook.”

“You’re just a baby.”

“Shut up,” he leans back away from the table and runs a hand back into his hair, “hey, Rook?”

“Hmm?”

“You ever gonna shoot your shot with Joey?”

“What?!” She chokes on her food, just barely stopping it from flying out of her mouth, where the actual fuck did that come from?

“Your little crush on her, you ever gonna do something about it?”

“Like what?”

“Ask her out, you know, like people do.”

“Yeah…why the fuck would I do that?” She cannot grasp his logic here.

“I don’t know how to explain to you that when people have crushes; they ask the person out.”

“I don’t know how to explain to you that that would be really fucking stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know the answer, there’s no way she’d say yes, and frankly if she did I’d be concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“Yeah, who in their right fuckin’ mind would say yes to me?!”

“So, you wanna act weird around her forever and never deal with it?”

“That was the plan.”

“I’m just saying the sooner you rip the band-aid off, the quicker you can act like a normal person around her.”

Dahlia sighs, she doesn’t want to act like a freak around Hudson for the rest of her life or for her little crush or whatever to get the way of life. Pratt knows more about this crap than her, because everyone does. So, if he’s saying this would help, maybe it would? But, her brain still is struggling.

“But I already know she’s gonna say no, you know she’s gonna say no, literally anyone with a functioning braincell knows she’d say no. So, why would hearing her say no make a difference?”

“Its like closure and shit; I think it’d help.”

“Ugh, just sounds like an excuse to make an idiot out of myself.”

“Compared to the genius you usually are?”

“Fuck off.”

She swallows down a mouthful of strudel before the conversation can continue, but Pratt’s words stick with her. It’s not as if she needed any more on her mind, but she got it anyway. The two continue taste testing for Debbie, though the subject of Hudson never comes up. She’s not sure why Pratt is suddenly so keen on helping her work through her little crush, a friendly gesture, she figures. Maybe her life would be a little easier if she could stop turning into a red-faced mess around the oldest deputy.

It’s late when they finally finish tasting everything; Dahlia giving friendly goodbyes to Pratt and the couple before she goes back home. Her weekend coming to a close with her falling asleep with a stomach full of baked apples.

She’s woken up to her phone ringing; instead of her alarm. Dahlia already knows well that despite shift hours, the nature of their work and the higher level of being deputy means that being called out at odd hours is expected. But her blood runs cold when she sees sheriff Whitehorse is the one calling, something is wrong.

“Sheriff?” She answers, sitting up on the couch.

“Rook; I already called Pratt and Hudson, I want you all at the clinic now! It’s an emergency!”

And that’s all she gets before the call ends. She throws on a uniform and runs out the door, jumping on her motorcycle. Mind racing with each passing second. The hurried and frantic tone in Whitehorse’s voice flaring anxiety inside of her. A million possibilities shooting through her mind as she rides towards the clinic; is it about the wolf? Has there been a murder? Is someone she knows hurt? Could it be an officer?

She’s practically tripping over herself as she climbs off her bike, running into the clinic. The staff is a mess, nurses rushing frantically to attend to someone. Words of transferring, stabilizing, blood transfusion. Something is wrong. Each word swims around her head, but she doesn’t know who they’re talking about. Then she sees Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt at the front desk. The three living closer than her.

“What’s wrong?” Dahlia asks running over; all three’s expressions are tense. Pratt shaking his leg, Hudson digging her nails into her arms until her knuckles turn white, and Whitehorse looking a moment away from collapsing.

“It’s Pastor Jerome,” Whitehorse tells her, “someone attacked him.”

“Left for fucking dead,” Hudson interjects, a crack in her voice that Dahlia’s never heard before.

“They’re trying to stabilize him long enough to transfer him to a hospital in Missoula. We need to make sure it stays secure, no telling if whoever did this won’t try to do something again, and we need to be there to ask questions once he’s out of the woods. I don’t want this slipping through the cracks, Jerome’s a good man and he damn well deserves our best effort.”

“Got it,” Dahlia nods in agreement to the sheriffs words.

Images of the man in the priest collar coming to mind. She’s seen him in passing, never a conversation between the two. But she saw him speak with Whitehorse; Pratt implied that both him and Hudson went to Jerome’s church as kids. He means something to them all and that’s clear in just how serious it’s being taken; obvious in how shaken up they all seem to be.

She stands next to Pratt, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort, wishing she could offer more. He tries to give her a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, too worried about the pastor.

Why would anyone attack him? His church is modest, nearly dying out from everything she’s been told, it wouldn’t make sense to rob him. Hope County has some less than accepting residents; but the idea of a potential hate crime is a hard pill to swallow…

All Dahlia can do is wait with her coworkers, listening to the frantic yells of nurses struggling to save a man’s life. Heart in her throat, anxiety telling her that any second this will become a murder investigation as she watches the hands on a clock ticking away…

#far cry 5 #fc5 #jacob seed #staci pratt #faith seed #uhhh they're the most prevalent this chapter

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archivingspn · 3 years

Text

Variety “‘Supernatural’ at 200: The Road So Far, An Oral History”

(...) Eric Kripke (Creator): For me, the core notion behind “Supernatural” was to make a series about urban legends. I think they’re this incredibly rich mythology about the United States, and no one had really tapped into that, so when I started as a writer, one of the first ideas I ever pitched was an urban legend show.

A couple years later I tried to pitch, basically, a “Scooby Doo” rip off of a bunch of kids travelling in a van dealing with these urban legends. It was an idea that I never let go of and kept throwing there every couple years. Finally I had a deal with Warner Bros. and that incarnation was a reporter. Frankly, it was a rip off of “Nightstalker,” but I really fleshed it out and it had mythology.

I took it to Susan Rovner and Len Goldstein at the studio and they said, “We love the idea of doing a horror show,” which no one was really doing on TV at that time, “but we’re not into the reporter, that feels really tired. So no thanks and let’s get another angle.”

So in this moment, when they were basically passing on my idea, as you often do in these kinds of rooms, you start tap dancing. And I said, “forget the reporter, we should do this show as ‘Route 66,’ two cool guys in a classic car cruising the country, chasing down these urban legends,” and literally right on the spot I said “and they’re brothers,” because it popped in my head. “And they’re dealing with their family stuff and they’re fighting evil.” You just start making it up as you go. They were like, “Brothers, wow, that’s a relationship we haven’t seen on TV before.” And from there, “Supernatural” was born… out of a piece of improvisation.

Peter Roth (President, Warner Bros. Television): Eric [had] been with us since about 2002. Sometime in 2004, he came to us with this idea… this extraordinary road show about these two brothers, in which they would be living all of the great urban and rural myths that [we’re all] exposed to as kids. It was a very commercial idea, emotionally driven, which was what I was most concerned about: who are the characters? Why do I relate to them? Why are they worth my while to watch? And once we cast Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, along with Eric’s great idea, along with the script, along with David Nutter, our director on the pilot, the combination of those factors is what made me so excited and I frankly knew, from the moment I saw this pilot, that it was a winner. There wasn’t a person who I work with who didn’t feel the same way. It was a real strong story of young adult siblings that resonated perfectly with The WB audience.

Kripke: When we were casting, you see a lot of people. We hadn’t found our Sam and Dean. David Nutter suggested Jensen because we knew him from “Smallville.” We met with him to play Sam, and we fell in love with [him]. And then Jared came in, and he was a really great Sam too. Looking back, we were such idiots to not see it… We had two great Sams and no Dean and you think it would be obvious to put one into the other role, but it was not obvious. So we [went] to Peter Roth and we said, “We’re not sure what to do,” and Peter was like, “why don’t you make Jensen Dean?” We all looked at each other like, “we’re idiots, of course.” It’s so difficult to find one actor who is charismatic enough to be a breakout character and to support a show. So to find two of them, where there’s only two leads… I didn’t realize what a miracle it was at the time. It’s a miracle. (...) Jensen Ackles (Dean Winchester): It was just immediate chemistry. There was an ease to it. There was a familiarity to it. Once we got into it with each other, it just fell in place and it came… not easy, but definitely a little easier than my experiences in the past. I think the importance of that bond and that relationship was verbalized by Kripke when he sat us down and said, “this begins and ends with you,” and not only how we relate to each other on screen, but also off screen. There was an importance stamped into [that bond] very early on. (...) Padalecki: (...) It was definitely a huge learning process, not only for myself, learning the character of Sam Winchester, but I think we didn’t have a grasp on what we were doing. The original tag line was monster of the week, like “X-files” meets “The Twilight Zone.” And we had these very famous urban legends about Bloody Mary or the Hookman, but ultimately you’re going to run out of those.

Singer: Eric talked about the five-season plan… I don’t know if he secretly had that in mind and was just not sharing it, but initially Eric wanted campfire stories. And the mythology really started to evolve in the first year. We didn’t exactly know where we wanted to go, and I don’t even think Eric knew exactly where he wanted to go

Kripke: If I’ve said in the past that I had this five year plan from the beginning, I was lying. I always knew what that particular season was going to be; “by midseason I want to be here, by the end of the season I want to be there.” And then I always had a rough sketch what the season after that would be. I will say I knew that the show was going to come down to evil Sam versus good Dean and the fate of the world was going to hang in the balance — that was baked into the pilot. I wanted to build it to something that felt conclusive because I didn’t want these mysteries and mythologies to stretch on forever.

Sera Gamble (writer, executive producer): We were realizing the thing that we most enjoyed when we were watching cuts of the show was the chemistry between the brothers, and that the mythology we were constructing for the season was really a family story about two young men and their father, and this family legacy that they’re trying to deal with. That was the heart of the show, and if we paid attention to how each monster story resonated with the relationship between the brothers, then the show was always really interesting.

Padalecki: It was right around the episode “Faith” where the writers realized this show isn’t just about what kind of monsters we can kill but what the brothers can go through together. And I think luckily we stuck with that theme on through the end [of season one], where we reintroduced our father into the storyline. And we get some sense of what the father is willing to do for the sons and what the sons are willing to do for each other. And so it became this story about sacrifice and loyalty and family and friendship [within] this medium of the supernatural and ghosts and ghouls.

Gamble: It’s not like we sat down to write “Faith” and we said, “we’re going to write the game changer.” We just wanted to find a really human, emotional way into a story about faith healing. We had these different elements of the reapers that we wanted to bring into the show and the phenomena of faith healers in the history of America, and it ended up being a story that was really personal and kind of philosophical… From that point forward, everyone was hungry to do more stories that had an aspect of the personal and the metaphysical. (...) Singer: Eric’s phrase was “smoke them if you got them,” where we would just try to tell the best stories we could and be as provocative as we could. We felt that this had a long-term mythology, so ending with kind of a very dramatic cliffhanger just seemed the right thing for us and that all seemed to work out for us. (...) Padalecki: Season two is the season where we realize dying doesn’t mean you’re dead, beginning with Dean who died — so to speak — in the first episode, and culminating with Sam who died in the last episode. Unlike season one where we were figuring out what this show was about, who these characters were, season two we hit the ground running.

Ackles: The interesting thing that Kripke did with the first several seasons is he flipped character motivations from season to season. With the first season you had Dean as the motivating factor: he was really pushed by his father, dragging Sam along against his will. Then as Dad dies, the whole thing is flipped upside down. Now Dean is like, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” Dad was his motivating factor in life and [after] he lost him, it was a devastating blow and Dean just wanted to hang it up. And Sam was the one who was like, “no, we’re going to go find answers to this. I have to figure out how I play into this,” and Dean went along with him because he couldn’t let his little brother go it alone. (...) Gamble: It was really fun to kill Sam. You don’t very often get to kill the lead character. One of the really fun things about “Supernatural” is that you get to kill whoever you want, and it’s part of the evil genius of Eric Kripke. From pretty early on, he understood the power of doing the unexpected thing to the character the audience thinks is safe. He fought hard, and he was always someone who, in the room, would push us to not get precious with a character, to not try to save someone because we think they’re amazing. If we love them, we’ll bring them back in some other form. Because we had a plan to bring Sam back, we got to write the super-emotional scene with his brother that we knew that Jensen would knock out of the park, and both of them knocked it out of the park. (...) Singer: I think Bela didn’t quite turn out as good of a story driver as we might have wanted, although we loved Lauren — we thought she was terrific in the part. But we started pinning ourselves a little bit in the corner [with her as] Dean’s nemesis, like, “how often can she best Dean without assassinating our lead character?” If she would’ve been on three times a year, I think that character could’ve really served a purpose going forward. Ruby served a better purpose and that pushed the mythology into a different area. But we were a little flummoxed because you say, “what do we do? We can’t have two women just sitting in the back of the car with these guys.”

Gamble: I think Ruby in the long term was a more successful character than Bela, but we all really enjoyed creating Bela in the room, especially Ben Edlund, who wrote some really cool stuff for her. Not every peg will fit in every hole in the show. You don’t get Castiel one hundred percent of the time. If you follow any show for long enough, you’ll notice some places where they corrected the course, and we learned a lot from writing those two characters. I really like a lot of the stuff that we did with Ruby. It’s really cool to have a character that’s played by more than one actor, and it’s such an interesting characterization of a demon. (...) Kripke: I think the truncated season actually ended up helping the mythology. We were a little aimless as we had just lost the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the great big bad, and we hadn’t introduced a new big bad yet. Because we had less episodes, we had to focus quickly on what was really important: Dean’s deal with the demons and the fact that he had a ticking clock and that he was going to get dragged down to hell. (...) Kripke: If you had asked me in season one, were there going to be angels in Supernatural, I would have said “absolutely not, you’re fired.” Up to that point I always felt like I didn’t want any supernatural good guys in the show. If there was any force of good, it was going to be Sam and Dean, and they were going to be overwhelmed and outgunned. And as we were kicking towards the end of season three and we were doing lots of demon stories, I was worried that we were overplaying the demon stuff. But the idea that angels could be dicks and that they didn’t have to be this warm fuzzy helpful force, they could actually be a really interesting antagonist, once I kind of realized that, I said, “I’ve never seen that depiction of angels on television before.” It wasn’t just these two boys versus all these demons; it became Sam and Dean trapped in the middle of this massive war where you had two sides battling, and humanity, represented by the boys, were caught in the middle, so how do they play both sides against the other? It balanced the mythology in a way that I think made it much more satisfying. (...) Kripke: I’m the first to acknowledge that the idea really came from graphic novels. It came from “Preacher”; it came from “Hellblazer,” which has now become “Constantine,” which is why Castiel wears a trench coat. There’s a reason why Castiel looks exactly like Constantine — it’s because I ripped off Constantine. But I had no idea it was going to be a show at the time! It was funny, as I went into the writers’ room at the start of season four, having thought about it I said, “okay guys, this season we’re doing angels.” And they were like, “What? You asshole!” Because there were so many angel stories that were pitched earlier and I would literally shame them out of the room whenever anyone pitched an angel story, and now I’m presenting it as an entire mythology. But it worked out.

Padalecki: I think season four was really the turning point for the show, and really set the new parameters for what the show is still about to this day, most notably with the introduction of Castiel.

Ackles: This was when “Lost” was on the air, “Heroes” was on the air, these giant mega hits. I remember Eric taking issue with “Lost” because they kept asking questions and never really giving answers. He was against that method of storytelling and said, “no, I’m going to ask the question and I’m going to answer it. And maybe the audience doesn’t like the answer, but I’m most certainly not going to string them along just until I come up with some sort of a solution.” That’s one of the reasons why, from season to season, the bar just kept getting raised and the supernatural world kept getting bigger, almost to the point where it was incomprehensible to the Winchesters. I think we really saw that when the introduction of angels came into play, and then it became something far greater than things that go bump in the night… It was a leap of faith. I wouldn’t have had the confidence to do something like that, but I think it panned out. And now we have one of the most loved characters of the series still with us today.

Collins: I was supposed to be on for three episodes, and they said, “Oh, you might do five episodes,” so they added a couple more, and then they added three more after that… Then they signed me up as a series regular and they kept me on for two years, and then they said they were going to kill me and that we would never see me again in season 7. And then they changed their minds again… I was joining the show the beginning of Season 4. I kind of assumed that that was the tail end of the show. I think everybody really thought that the show was going to be over at the end of Season 5 at that point, which was Kripke’s original vision, so it’s very strange to still be here. We are obviously counting ourselves lucky that the show has run so long. (...) Kripke: The movie “Stranger than Fiction” had just come out. And so it started with a really innocent single episode pitch: what happens if Sam and Dean realize that they’re characters in a book; that they find a book that is detailing their entire lives? And then it would give us an opportunity to really poke fun at what we’re doing in “Supernatural,” and that was really fun for me. [Then] somebody said, “well what if he’s a prophet of the lord?” We jumped all over that idea and it really tied into this mythology. It was our first serious meta episode.

And once we introduced him, I thought it was so funny and smart, and you just want to start doing more of it. That’s how I think a lot of the insanity in “Supernatural” emerged. Because we couldn’t repeat ourselves with Chuck: if you’re going to see him again, it better be at a fan convention. Every single time, Bob would say to me, “this is the one where we’ve gone too far.” And then after one of them I responded, “don’t you see? We can never go too far, there is no too far.” (...) Kripke: The thing I remember most about that season was how exhausted I was going through it… I knew I wanted some sort of apocalyptic ending where evil Sam had to fight a good Dean. One of the things that was really hard about that season is, it’s one thing in season four when you’re promising the apocalypse: Is it going to happen, can the boys stop it? It’s a whole different matter when you’re saying in season five, “okay, the apocalypse is happening,” because you still are on a budget. There’s an incredible amount of off-camera, “oh no, there’s been an earthquake!” stuff on the news. It’s really difficult to mount something of that scope. (...) Ackles: To look at the five seasons, to step back and look at that all as one story… it was a massively grand finale and it was like Game Seven of the World Series, and I just don’t know how you can go on from that. I think Eric thought the same thing. He was like, “I’m throwing out my last pitch and I’m taking off into the sunset,” and that’s what he did, but it had become such a hit that the studio and the network were like, “no, guys, you have to keep going.” (...) Gamble: We thought season five would be the last season. But pretty early into [it], Eric came to me and said “signs are pointing toward a season six,” and he was ready to move on and asked me to step in. And he came to me really early because there was a tremendous amount of learning and training and coming behind the curtain to see what he and Bob were doing that had to happen.

There was part of me that was just, lovingly, super pissed at Eric. I was like, “do we have to do this after the apocalypse? We literally burned the story all the way to the apocalypse. We have to start over and find a whole new classification of villains, so what the hell are we going to do?” But we had several months to ponder that. We had a great writers’ room, and everybody put their heads together, and Eric, to his great credit, stayed with the show, and was very active in constructing season six, and was incredibly helpful to me, personally. He was instrumental in figuring out what we were going to do next. It was like a reboot.

Kripke: I read every script. And then once Sera was comfortable in the gig and the studio and network were comfortable, I backed off. And from then I would define my role as a parent who sends their kid off to college. I’m extremely proud. I’m there if they need me… And it was never me running the show alone. It was always me and Bob Singer, and Bob has always been there. So there’s been true continuity. People say “Supernatural” has had different showrunners and it hasn’t. It’s actually always had the same showrunner, he has just had different partners over the last decade. (...) Gamble: The good thing about “Supernatural” is some things always remain the same. It’s always a story of two brothers, always a story about that family. It is always a story about the people who fight the things that go bump in the night, and there is always a structure that has an overarching mythology that gets solved piece by piece over the course of a season. That engine is pretty solid. I think one of the first conversations was just, “so we did heaven and we did hell, and oh, there’s a purgatory.” It started from that simple examination: “What is the mythology that we’ve been mining, and what else is in there that we haven’t talked about yet?”

You’re on a show for years and years, and you watch the actors grow up. Sam did not look like little Sammy was just out of college anymore. He was a grown-ass man; Jensen was a grown-ass man. They were adults, and they were men who had been through a lot, so the stories have to evolve, become more mature. They have to be about the problems that people would have in their adult lives, and that’s really how we were approaching these things. We were looking for problems that were not repeats of the problems they were having when they were 17 or 22. (...) Kripke: Once we were able to pull off “The French Mistake,” and Sam and Dean were actually able to go and become Jared and Jensen making an episode of “Supernatural,” I think Bob saw that there’s no such thing as too far. If you can pull that off and not destroy your show, you can truly do anything.

The season also saw Castiel drifting further away from the Winchesters, as he was unwittingly manipulated by Crowley in his quest to try and prevent a war among the leaderless angels. By the end of the year, after absorbing thousands of monster souls from purgatory, Castiel became corrupted by his newfound power.

Collins: I loved it. If for no other reason than Cas became God at the end of season six, which has always been a fantasy of mine, personally. There’s a very elite cadre of actors that ever get to [do that]. I think it was a great way to make the character a big bad. I was sorry to see myself killed off shortly thereafter in the beginning of season seven, but glad to see myself resurrected a couple episodes later. (...) Singer: We came up with this Leviathan idea: How do a group of monsters who want to take over society go about doing that? And the logical answer for us was, they insert themselves into the fabric of society in powerful ways — that’s what happens with the pharmaceutical companies, it’s what happens with government. It just seemed like an easy place to go and really be able to say something on a week-to-week basis. [We were] changing up what we were to try to make it interesting, and we feel if it’s interesting to us, we hope that it’s interesting for other people… Doing a season that was kind of political with these different monsters that we hadn’t seen before, I thought was pretty bold, and by and large a good season.

Gamble: The price of success is that you have to really be hard on yourself to keep the stakes high in a show like that. How do you keep the stakes high after you’ve faced the demon that kills your mother, angels, the apocalypse? The way that we found our way into that is by keeping it really personal. If it’s about Bobby, it will mean something to the audience, because Bobby means so much to the boys. (...) Ackles:(...) That was a huge blow to both the Winchesters because this was a surrogate father figure who had become their anchor, had become their home, and now they once again lost that pivotal character in their story. And so, once again the rug gets whipped out from underneath them and all they’re left with is each other and they’ve got to keep on going. I think that was a really important season because of not just losing Bobby, but look what it did to the story and the direction that it then sent the boys off in.

Padalecki: I thought season 7 was going to be the last season of “Supernatural,” while we were filming it. We’d gone so big with the Leviathans and it was yet another departure from our normal canon. There were times I thought we strayed a little bit; our big bad of the season was Dick Roman [James Patrick Stewart] and there were times I thought there were one too many dick jokes, every now and then I felt like we were straying off-course, but the fans stuck with us and I think that season we introduced Kevin Tran [Osric Chau] who stayed with us for a while, so we said goodbye to a few characters, we met a few new characters. (...) Jeremy Carver (writer, executive producer): When I came in, it was a pretty open canvas. A lot of things had wrapped up. The biggest issue was that Dean had been popped down to Purgatory, and what do you do with that? But because there wasn’t an ongoing mythology we had to worry about, we could really let our minds roam and I came up with that main idea of [Dean] becoming best friends with a vampire and then saying, “What if Sam, for once in his life did something that ran contrary to what the world at large — and when I say the world at large, I mean the fans at large as well — thought he should do?” For me, that was a really thrilling tack to take, just because it felt like fresh snow. From a story standpoint, it felt like Sera left lots of opportunity.

And then [there] was this idea of, these guys have been together for so long, at a certain point… they need to – I hate to say “mature” because that sounds like they weren’t mature in the past, but… mature in the sense of really exploring what it is to be their own person. And that’s what was really behind Sam not looking for Dean at the beginning of season eight. It wasn’t so much me taking over as it was like, “let’s put these characters in situations that make sense but feel risky for them as characters.” One thing I really wanted to do was to put a different kind of spotlight on these guys. (...) Ackles: One of my most favorite storylines was Dean in Purgatory. If there was one storyline that I wish would’ve dragged out much longer, it would’ve been that one. I would’ve liked to have seen more of what Dean was up against in Purgatory and how he lived and how he existed in that realm and among those things down there and how he was able to survive. And he befriended Benny [Ty Olsson], who I thought was a great character… I was sad to see [him] go when he did.

We’ve lost so many good characters on the show, but that’s one of the reasons why the show is compelling to people, because we do take risks…if there’s a fan favorite character that now could easily be an integral part of the story, we bring them in and then we kill them and it’s shocking. If we can continue not just to entertain people, but to shock them and to make them feel the spectrum of emotion, from joy to loss, then I think we’re doing our job as storytellers. And I think season eight was a good representation of that.

Padalecki: Ultimately, “Supernatural” is really a show about two brothers and their relationship and their struggles and their loyalties and their sacrifices, and so I knew in my heart of hearts that even though season eight started out with Sam having gone off to try and live another normal life with the character of Amelia (Liane Balaban), I figured it was a way to remind both the audience and the cast and crew what the show was about. I thought season seven might’ve gone a little off the reservation, but in a strange way, by steering even further off the reservation and having the brothers not even be involved with each other [at the start of season eight], it really reaffirmed for everybody what the bread and butter of the show is, which, in my opinion is the relationship between the two brothers, so it was a nice rekindling and repartnership of Sam and Dean. (...) Padalecki: My favorite part of season eight was the introduction of the Men of Letters. I was so excited to play this smart character, and I really got a chance to delve into that in season eight. I remember with the introduction of the Men of Letters – like I said, in season seven I thought we were maybe coming to an end, and then I read the episode with the Men of Letters and Henry Winchester played by the wonderful Gil McKinney, and I thought, “holy crap, we can go for another eight years.” And it was nice to have a home again. We had burned Bobby Singer’s home down a season prior, and that was our only standing set on “Supernatural,” and so to have the Men of Letters bunker to refuel and research and gather our bearings as characters and actors was a really welcome addition to the show, and I feel like the Men of Letters storyline has really worked wonders for and breathed new life into the show these past couple seasons. (...) Carver: The notion of Sam being possessed by an angel was originally Bob Singer’s idea. He threw it out there between seasons and said, “what if to save Sam’s life you had to put an angel in him?” It came from the same cloth of, “what if Dean had to rely on a vampire to escape from Purgatory and they became bonded over that?” You have to make do with the friends that are in front of you. Then we started to just flush out the character of Gadreel, who was originally Ezekiel, and that was one of my favorite characters we’ve done over the last couple of years, just because he felt very fleshed out and very empathetic. And Tahmoh was just wonderful because he has this bearing that is manly and unfamiliar all at once. He really dug into that role. If I remember correctly, Jared actually performed as Tahmoh before Tahmoh had even said a word of dialogue. So there was a leap of faith there on the part of Jared, who did a really spectacular job of portraying two characters, and he really embraced it. I was very happy with the way the whole Ezekiel/Gadreel story worked out, and how it all reflected back on the boys and their relationships. (...) Castiel finally became human in season nine — a trajectory that seemed to be a long time coming, after the angel’s powers began to dwindle in season eight.

Collins: That was something that I, as an actor, was looking forward to from the beginning — I kept on hoping that they were going to let Castiel become human for a while, and they finally did, and it was great. I think he had three or four episodes as a human; I wish we’d had a little longer in that realm, because I feel like there was a lot of good material to mine there, but the experience that he had being human made him much more empathetic towards humans, and I think that experience definitely left a lasting impression on him. He, I think, understands some of the subtleties of human interaction a little bit better. He is a little bit more savvy and definitely a lot more empathetic. But being more empathetic also makes him question himself more, have more doubts. He definitely is less cocksure as he moves through life, and he sees the gray areas and both sides of the story a little bit more than he used to.

Dean, meanwhile, became the unwitting recipient of the Mark of Cain, a brand that enables the wearer to wield the First Blade, a powerful weapon – but also saps away their humanity. Dean struggled to control his darker impulses as a result of the Mark, and after dying at the end of the season, found himself resurrected by the power of the Mark and reanimated as a demon, neatly paralleling Sam’s own descent into darkness in earlier seasons.

Carver: In this case, it was [writer and co-executive producer] Robbie Thompson coming up with the idea of Cain [Timothy Omundson]. And I remember him pitching this idea of the Mark of Cain. At the time he pitched it, I remember thinking, “I don’t know exactly where this is going to fit into the overall mythology, but it’s a wonderful thing to plant,” which we do all the time. One of the dirty little secrets of the show is that after we come up with something and it works out really well, we say, “hey, it’s almost like we planned it that way.” Sometimes things are just happy accidents. You try and draw out that roadmap, and then the writers are coming up with all these incredible, creative things. Cain just felt like such a no brainer, to the point where you’re wondering, “why haven’t we had this character in our world before?” We had referenced him before but hadn’t seen him.

But when [Robbie] talked about the Mark of Cain and putting it on Dean, it was something to plant like, “we’re definitely doing this and we’re going to figure out how to make this work as the season goes on,” which is exactly what happened. I’d like to say from the very beginning that we knew [Dean] was going to be a demon, but we didn’t. We had all these ideas of where Dean would go, but sometimes it’s peanut butter and chocolate and it takes a few episodes actually to realize the tools you have right in front of you.

Ackles: If you look back at the majority of series, it really hinges on Sam’s character. That’s the way it was originally intended, that’s the way it serves the story best, but every now and again the spotlight got flipped and turned on Dean, and I think we’re seeing this again with Mark of Cain. That was part of the setup for just very dark and troubled Dean.

Season nine was one of the more difficult seasons that I personally had to deal with, and it was because of not just the weight of the storyline, but because it was so Dean-centric. I was on set pretty much the whole time while everybody else was enjoying their vacation. It was just a lot of weight and a lot of darkness in my world last year, but we got through it and I think it made for some good story and I think it made for a good setup of where we’re going this year… I really enjoyed the twist at the end of last season when we think we lost Dean yet again and lo and behold, an unlikely character comes in and brings him back to life. So I have to give it to Carver on that one, when I read it I was shaking my head with very happy approval, because I knew that was now another massive situation that Sam and Dean are going to have to deal with. And how they [were] going to get out of it, I was anxious to see.

After Dean returned from death as a demon at the end of season nine, Crowley took his newly minted BFF to “howl at the moon,” but their bromance was shortlived – Sam saved his brother and restored Dean’s humanity in the third episode of season ten. So where do the brothers go from here?

Padalecki: Sam, with the help of Castiel, has saved Dean from being a demon and has made good on his promise at the end of season nine where he said he wasn’t gonna let him go, he wasn’t gonna let him die. But Dean is still cursed or possibly forever changed by this Mark of Cain. Sam and Dean don’t really know the repercussions of that just yet; they can’t find Cain; Castiel can’t find any answers; and Crowley’s not helping. We know that the Mark is changing him somehow, Dean doesn’t want it and Sam doesn’t want him to have it, so now they have to go as far as only the Winchesters will go to figure out how to get this Mark of Cain off of Dean before he turns into something that could cause more damage than Sam or Dean have ever seen.

Carver: Dean’s not a demon, but he still has this problem; he’s still got the Mark of Cain. And in the broadest strokes possible, it’s a very, very personal year where our overarching mythology for the season is building in a very methodical, very personal manner. I think a lot of relationships…I’ll even go as far to say a lot of bromances that have sprung up on the show, are going to be tested in ways that I think are going to be very uncomfortable. Each of our characters is going to have to stare into the abyss at some point and say, “who am I?” It’s going to be pretty personal, pretty intense, and pretty surprising as we move down the road.

Thankfully, the 200th episode (airing Nov. 11), is a light-hearted departure: it’s a musical, featuring a score composed by Christopher Lennertz and Jay Gruska, with lyrics by Robbie Thompson, who wrote the episode.

Carver: It’s our love letter to the fans. Many aspects of the fandom are going to see themselves represented in many different ways and in the most loving way possible. It’s an episode that takes a long, loving look at the show, warts and all. And we’re the first to admit our mistakes or our inconsistencies, and I think long-time fans will have a lot of fun seeing where we acknowledge this one big, happy, messy family that we’re all part of.

[source]

#2014-Nov #2014:November11Variety #*SMT #*destiel #*romance #*codependency #c/m saved the show #*CCTOF #Jeremy Carver #Eric Kripke #Sera Gamble #Robert Singer #Peter Roth #Jensen Ackles #Jared Padalecki #Misha Collins #author: Laura Prudom #Variety

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lady-moonbroch · 4 years

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Hello! Love your headcanons! Was wondering if you would be cool with doing a nsfw Ikémen vampire HC of the suitors with a shorter, fuller figured MC, with a little more detail on Theo? If it’s too much to ask, feel free to skip. Thanks!

Hello dear Anon and thank you for the BEAUTIFUL request! I’m deeply sorry I kept you waiting for so long, still I hope you enjoy this! I began to write more details about Theo but ended up getting carried away with all the suitors instead (leading to it becoming quiet long and me becoming tired along the way) but I hope it satisfies everybody! Also I promise I’ll get into more fluffy and maybe angsty stuff before I get my hands on smut again, honestly I need a break 🤣unless…This HC is NSFW so it goes under the cut! Thank you for reading!

Napoleon: he teased her relentlessly, taking pleasure in the pouts she’d sent his way with her soft cheeks dusted pink. He would smile fondly at her just then and walk over to kiss her and remind her how gorgeous she is, hands snaking down beneath her skirt to grasp a hint of her warmth and feel how delightfully she’d shiver under the pad of his fingertips. When she moaned against his lips, calling for him, he’d whisk her away and hide in the pantry, making quick work of her clothes to rain kisses on her breasts and work his way down to her core. Her pleasure always came first for him. He’d keep her standing with his arms locked on her thighs as his tongue would pleasure her core, chuckling at her desperate attempts to muffle her whimpers. And then his name would tumble like a droplet from her puffy lips and dripping straight inside his core, tearing his self-control to shreds. He’d ravish her and leave her breathless, leaving promises on her skin in form of small red marks on her bosom, destined to fulfil them at night.

Mozart: despite the look of disapproval and his aloof demeanour he was quickly taken by her. He’d be frustrated by the depths his lust and yearning to discover every nook and cranny of her voluptuous body and make her sing for him alone teared his attention from his music. And one day she found enough courage to ask him to play even for a fraction of a minute something for her. He huffed with disdain, yet still obliged her. His fingers glided skilfully on the keys of the piano, inspiration flowing like a river from his body due to her smiling countenance observing him closely. He looked up to find her eyes sparkling like twinkling stars, her lips partially open with awe and in that moment any ounce of self-control he held just snapped. He abandoned the piano and stormed off to her, her surprised eyes locked with his violet ones that burned with desire and ardor. Her surprised yelp was swallowed by his hungry lips as he kissed her both hard and gently his hands made quick work of her clothes. He broke the kiss to marvel at soft figure before devoting himself to pleasure his angel of music, his urge to have her all to himself growing at her every plea and moan.

Leonardo: born and raised in the Renaissance, Leonardo finds her absolutely stunning. He would secretly draw her as she would do her chores, mapping the details of her countenance and her figure eagerly. One day she mustered up the courage to ask him about it and in turn he decided to tease her by suggesting to pose for him for a nude portrait. To his surprise she took up the challenge with fierce determination. His eyes lit up with a dangerous light as she let her silky robe pool at her ankles. He began to draw her but the sketch was to remain rough and unpolished. He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, his skilful hands desperate to feel the plush flesh of her thighs and bosom, her gracious beauty hidden discourteously beneath the silky fabric now laying bare for him to admire and savour. She surrendered to his tender touch that soon left her whimpering and shaking like a leaf, his sonorous, mellow voice whispering dirty words right in her ear made her core clench in desperation. He gave in to her pleas and pushed two digits inside her core, pleasuring her as he noted her expressions as her climax washed over her body like rain, her voice strained as she called his name over and over as he prolonged her high.

Vincent: he was taken by how sweet and gentle she was from the moment he saw her. His mind became more and more occupied by her as the days passed by and he found himself painting her as she did her everyday chores. Alas, the urge to discover more didn’t cease from growing, leaving Vincent dumbfounded by what this desire inside his chest meant. And then it happened: he met her by accident in the thermae one night, apologising profoundly for disrupting her bath and her personal space as well for his own nudity. He lost control of his eyes as they returned to her curvaceous figure, sparkling droplets running down her velvet skin, her plush bosom heaving heavily and her eyes looking back at him with a hint of excitement and eagerness. He obeyed to his desire and approached her naked figure slowly, eyes misted over with lust as he captured her lips in a feverish kiss, their hands travelling up and down each other’s bodies, tracing every curve and line, relishing at the feeling of naked flesh coming to contact with another. Moans and mewls soon filled the air around them as he plunged two digits inside her core, the image of her face twisting with pleasure etching itself in his mind.

Theo: he couldn’t take her off his mind the moment he laid eyes on her. Her soft, gentle features, the way her bosom heaved steadily up and down, the way she pouted so sweetly when he would tease her for being so short she needs help to reach things. Theo’s trained eyes mapped every little detail as if he stared into the most beautiful painting he’s ever seen, hungry to capture in his mind’s eye every little moment of her. And when he first slipped her out of her nightgown he left a trembling breath escape him. His fingers glided over her soft skin, eyes magnetised as they drank at the sight of her flushing pink and goosebumps that he coaxed as he lavished her with kisses and caresses all over. He easily lifted her in his arms, a low chuckle playing at his throat at the sound of her yelp when he squeezed her perfect, round rear. He loves giving attention to her breasts, kneading and nibbling sometimes roughly, sometimes softly, leaving small marks on her sensitive skin to remind her he belongs to her. After making love to her he would softly whisper in her ear how he cherished her, how beautiful she was when she smiled and when she cried out his name, how much he means to her as his hands would glide over her curves achingly slow, their warmth mingling and merging into one.

Arthur: he wasn’t shy to complement her feminine figure from the moment he saw her and the blush he elicited from her made her a sight for sore all the more. He showers her in compliments each time she drops by his room to bring him coffee and fudge as he writes, enjoying even the smallest reaction he can draw from her and especially when she’d grace him with one of her soft smiles. One day, though, she came to serve him his coffee and her usual demeanour was different, she looked gloomy and disheartened and didn’t reply to his compliments with a smile but by simply brushing it off for “surely the women who keep him company deserve his compliment more than she does”. Before she could leave his room, he slithered his hand around her waist and turned her around to face him.

He cupped her cheek and kisses her soft and gently, until her knees became weak and soft moans tumbled from the edge of her lips. He hoisted her in his arms and lead her to his bed, kissing his way down her body without bothering to mask his delighted humming as he indulged himself touching and kissing every part of her, praising her beauty with the most beautiful words. But nothing compares to her and he promised her to make her understand how ravishing and lovely she really is, his ravenous blue eyes and curious hands eager to explore her luscious physique.

Dazai: from the beginning curiosity about this beautiful stranger overwhelmed him. She was so deferent from the woman of his homeland, the combination of a fuller figure and a short poise made her both adorable and undeniably desirable in his eyes.

His coin-coloured eyes would often sneak glances at her as she went about her day, his breathe catching at his throat when she fixed her hair up in a ponytail or when she bent ever so slightly to reach something from the lower shelves. His steps lead him behind her, his breath playing at his throat as he leaned next to her ear to warn her about the men that surround her, yet the man that feared the most was himself. She always admired his kimono and asked him if he could be so kind as to teach her a thing or two, about the cultural of his homeland. He invited her in his room and gave her one of his kimonos to try, teaching her how to tie the obi so she could do it herself.

When she called him to turn around and see if she did well he stuttered: the luscious fabric encased her curvy figure so beautifully, leading him to fantasise what was veiled beneath. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she undid the loose obi, revealing what his mind was hungry to behold, his own gaze misted over with lust and need as he reached for her naked form. He kissed her breathless and caresses every inch of her before she paid her in kind for her teasing, winding red threads around her plush body and keeping her captured in his room at the mercy of his prurience.

Isaac: he would always get flustered and clumsy with both his actions and his words around her and his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit he was attracted to her so much. And to make matters worse she found him absolutely adorable when he acted so strangely in her presence. Have she figured him out or…or maybe his feelings were not reciprocated. He dreaded the thought, but seeing her interact just as sweetly with the rest of the residents grounded any hope that dared him to fly.

One night he stayed up until late in the garden, observing the stars and taking notes when he heard hesitant footsteps approach him. He looked up from his notebook to find her smiling sweetly at him, wearing only her night gown and a concerned look on her face. She hesitated again, but managed to ask him to teach her a thing or two about astrology. His mind stopped working for a moment, his bloodlust and desire boiling inside his veins, still he accepted. She listened to him carefully, obey to his every instruction like a good student and praised him for his deep and thorough knowledge.

As she turned to face him their lips brushed softly and the sensation of her pillowy lips teared at the last shred of discipline that held him back. He lifted her by her hips placing her on the table that kept his notebook and began to kiss feverishly, unable to hold back his desire to have her. Their moans mingle as he glided his palms over her warm, smooth skin, tracing the curve of her rear and waist, coming up to massage both her breasts gently and ever so lightly tease her hardened peaks. He lost himself in the trace she induced him in, their barely muffed cries of pleasure echoing lightly in the quiet garden.

Jean: her open and unguarded innocence took him by surprise from the very first time they met and it slowly led her to his heart. Her kindness fell like a gentle cascade upon him and every smile she bestowed him felt like a blessing. He’d often catch her sneaking glances as he and Napoleon trained at the fencing court, her eyes glistening with admiration and enthusiasm that elicited Napoleon’s relentless teasing.

After being caught red handed more than twice Jean finally approached her, suggesting he teaches her how to wield a blade and she was more than eager to accept his kind offer. He stood right behind her, her perfectly round rear pushing against his pelvis deliciously, distracting him before the lesson even began. He cleared his throat and reached for her small hands, encasing them between his larger ones to guide her movements. After mishearing one of his instruction, she turned to look at him above her shoulder, resulting in their noses brushing lightly against each other and their fast-accelerating breaths melting into one.

Jean didn’t will himself to move, too entranced in the way her eyes reflected his own passionate gaze back at him, until she broke the stillness with a kiss. Her fingers took their time to unbutton his shirt and cloak, pushing it with ease off his shoulders to reveal his sturdy. She took his hands and guided them over the curve of her hips, over the dip of her waist and up to cup her breasts. Her eyes glazed over with desire held him under her spell as she lavished his alabaster skin with small pecks down the length of his abdomen, turning her focus to his prominent erection.

Comte: he was draw to her before she even set foot in the mansion and maybe it was fate that brought her to him, thus he didn’t hesitate to seize the chance to make her his. Her company is always a delight, of course, but all the years of loneliness he bears on his shoulders lead his mind to inappropriate thoughts.

Since he is the reason that she found herself in the 19th century the Count is making sure she has everything she needs and more. He will buy her clothes that fit her like a glove and showcases her feminine figure and the same rule applies to her undergarments. Intricate corsets, laced, with ribbons and black garters encasing the soft skin of her thigh and jewels that hang just above her bosom.

A glimpse will have the Count down on his knees, willing to do anything and everything to please his chérie. He will begin to slowly kiss his way up from her toes towards her inner thigh, leaving featherlight teasing kisses on her sensitive core, nibbling on the smooth skin of her tummy and smiling fondly at the giggles he elicits from her. He will give extra attention to her luscious bosom, enjoying the vibration of her steadfast heart beating underneath. He leaves small traces of love-bites on her neck all while whispering how gorgeous and beautiful she is and how much she means to him.

Sebastian: he honestly both relieved and delighted to have an assistant to aid him in the daily chores the mansion. But like Dazai, he was used to women more petite and smaller figured and his curious eyes would often steal glances her way during the day. His mind was kept busy by her smiling countenance and an urge to pay closer attention to each movement became as important as collecting information for his diary.

He’d carefully observe the way her curvaceous hips swayed enticingly left and right as she walk past him in the hallway, how absolutely adorable she was when she pouted and cursed her short poise when she’d have a hard reaching the higher selves and how a discreet hint of blush would rise to grace her cheeks when he helped her. His fascination with his co-worker grew at every mere touch they’d share as they’d work, his gloved fingers brushed over her cheek to tuck an unruly strand of her silken hair behind her ear, how his lap brushed against her rear as he stood behind her as he picked the book she wanted from the library. There was a flame blazing in her bright irises, much alike to the blazing urge that scorching him from within but alas, he was too afraid to cross that line.

One day, she offered to help him with the dishes and the butler’s stoic expression shuttered momentarily as the bare flesh of his hand came into contact with hers. A lingering, warm touch and a coquettish smile: that’s all he needed to feel the coil inside him snap. He grasped her wrist and pulled her towards him, crashing his lips against hers with ardour and need as his other opened a few of her blouse’s buttons. He lifted her up with ease and placed her on the sink, without giving a damn about their clothes getting wet and without considering the repercussions if someone caught the in act. He delved into her luscious décolletage with the urgency of a starving man, relishing in the sound of her muffled whimpers and the call of his name as his tongue rolled aching slow around her hardened peaks.

Shakespear: words flowed freely from his lips, praising the fair maid before him. His mismatched eyes beheld her beautiful figure with delight as his lips curving into a satisfied grin as a shade of red dusted her cheeks. His mind disobeyed when he tried to concentrate on his work, his mind’s eye would burn the image of her tantalising curves every time he closed his eyes. His invitation for a tea party just the two of them was me with an enthusiastic affirmation.

She wore a beautiful, simple dress and her hair fell over her shoulders in loose curls, tempting him to feel their softness on the pads of his fingers. He was making tea for them as she stood up from the couch and skipped playfully towards his desk, turning around to smile coyly at him as she asked for his permission to read his work. He nodded with delight and watched from the corner of his eyes as her gaze lit up with interest as she engaged her attention in reading his latest work.

Entranced, he walked almost soundlessly behind her and encased her smaller hands inside his own, inhaling deeply to fill his lungs with her scent. She let out a surprised yelp, that melted into a breathy mewl as his lips pressed softly upon her bare nape. He chuckled quietly as he brought his lips right next to her ear: “Flesh stays no further in reason, but rising at thy name”*.

The voice that vibrated through his chest was like the growl of a wild animal, ready to devour the innocent sweet faun that fell into his trap. Her breath left her lips in a quiver of pleasure as she gave in to his touch, melting inside his embrace as he kissed her with blazing desire.Suddenly something cold and heavy circled her wrists and the soft sound of shackles locking close rang in her ear like wind-chimes disturbed by the wind. She looked up at him expectedly, the bard answering with a mystic smile of his own as he slowly undid the laces of her dress._____________

Banners by Angelichellraiser*from Sonnet 151 (yes, he’s implying his erection, Shakes is naughty y’all)

#anonymous #request #my writing #ikemen vampire #ikevamp headcanons #smut #ikevam isaac #ikevam dazai #ikevam napoleon #ikevam mozart #ikevam shakespeare #ikevam vincent #ikevam comte #ikevam theo #ikevam arthur #ikevam jean #ikevam leonardo #ikevam sebastian

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tiptapricot · 5 years

Text

Age switch AU where Jason was Bruce’s first partner and is older than Dick

Read on AO3

Jason has been working with Bruce for years by the time Dick comes into the picture. The kid is small, athletic, and bright eyed, clashing horribly with the muted browns and reds of the manor.

And he takes an immediate liking to Jason.

Dick follows him everywhere, talking non stop and pestering Jason to play with him. It’s annoying. It’s annoying as shit. Jason really doesn’t have time for this, but Bruce insists that he spend time with Dick.

So he does.

And Jason doesn’t like Dick, he doesn’t, but he makes sure the kid stays out of trouble, knows his way around the manor, that sort of thing.

He doesn’t hang out with him because he wants to. He doesn’t help him with homework because he wants to. He does it because it’s what’s expected of him, because he’s told to. He and Bruce had been just fine before, Batman and Sparrow: The Dynamic Duo, but Bruce had decided to pick up another kid, and now Jason is stuck babysitting.

So what if Dick makes him laugh? So what if the kid has a fiery temper and a heart to match? So what if he makes the manor feel just a little bit brighter? It doesn’t mean Jason has to like him.

But he does.

Shit.

***

Jason calls Dick everything under the sun: Kid, Squirt, Bud, even ‘My little brother’ when talking to an interviewer one time (to Dick's utter delight).

And, surprisingly… it’s not that bad.

It’s great.

If he has spare time between school and patrol, Jason sits with Dick in the library and reads him his favorite stories. They fall asleep on the couch more often than not, but Jason doesn’t mind. Trips to the park become normal, Tuesday movie nights unskippable (“Sorry Old Man, no patrol tonight, I’m showing squirt Hercules.”), manor hijinks a worse pain in Alfred’s neck.

Dick becomes family, and as much as Jason doesn’t want to admit it, he fits perfectly.

***

When Dick finds out about Jason and Bruce’s nightlife, he’s ecstatic. He starts staying up every night to talk to Jason about patrol, eyes wide and shoulders shaking in excitement as Jason describes epic fights on the city’s building tops and long hours spent hiding in the shadows (he only embellishes the stories a little bit).

One morning, Dick triumphantly announces that he wants to grow up and be a crime fighter.

“I could be Robin, like my momma used to call me!”

And while the rest of the family is resolutely opposed to letting Dick anywhere near the hero life, they still let him wear Jason’s (much too big) costume from time to time.

“Guess this means you’re the ‘Baby Bird’ now, huh Squirt?” Jason says affectionately, ruffling Dick’s hair.

And Dick responds with the fiercest smile Jason has ever seen.

***

One night, Jason wakes up in the cave, head pounding, Dick sleeping softly by his bedside. He remembers going out with Bruce to bust a drug trafficking ring, but nothing much after that. If the bandages are anything to go by, he must’ve been knocked out cold.

He rouses Dick with a soft nudge, the boy blinking blearily at him for a few seconds before he sits bolt upright.

“You’re awake!”

Jason chuckles softly and props himself up on his elbows, the motion making his vision swim for a moment. “‘Course I am. Couldn’t leave you alone with the old man, could I?”

Dick lets out a watery laugh and pulls him into a hug.

“I thought… When Bruce brought you back, all bloody n’ stuff... I thought you were dead, Jay. I thought” Dick chokes on the last word and starts to cry, pressing his face into Jason’s shoulder.

“Oh Baby Bird, no no no, It’s okay, I’m alright, I’m here.” Jason whispers, rubbing comforting circles against the small of Dick’s back. “I’m so sorry I worried you Dick. Listen, look at me for a sec,” he pulls Dick off and looks him straight in the eyes, “nothing can hurt your big bro, alright kiddo?”

Dick sniffles and scrubs at his cheeks.

“You sure?”

Jason smiles and nods.

“Promise.”

***

The first time Dick gets kidnapped, Jason notices first.

They’re getting ready to leave a gala, late enough to have each made the required appearances, but still early enough to spark a few rumors. Jason is planning to drive Dick home on his motorcycle, because the kid just loves riding on the cycle, but he can’t seem to find him in the crowd.

Dick had said he was feeling a bit off earlier, but Jason had chalked it up to nerves. He’d gotten him another glass of apple juice from the bar and settled him in a seating area away from the main crowd. Jason had left Dick to continue socializing, expecting him to be back on his feet within a few minutes like he usually was, and hadn’t thought much of it. But now…

Now that little bit of paranoia, that piece he carries with him as both Jason Todd-Wayne and as Sparrow, nags at the back of his mind.

He finds Dick’s juice glass, still half full, sitting on the table, but nothing else out of the ordinary.

When he asks around, Jason can’t find anyone who saw where Dick went, and it’s then that his brain kicks into overdrive.

Jason grabs Dick’s juice glass, a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and steps to the side of the room. Smoothly, and as inconspicuously as he can manage with shaking hands, Jason pulls a small tablet out of his jacket pocket. It’s a modified version of the ones manufactured by Wayne Tech to detect date rape drugs, used for more potent poisons and sedatives. Bruce had given them to Jason once he’d started coming to parties, but they hadn’t given them to Dick yet.

The tablet fizzes red when it comes in contact with the drink and Jason curses under his breath, rushing back into the crowd.

He tugs Bruce away from a gaggle of reporters and pulls him quickly towards the exit.

“Jason what’s-?”

“It’s Dick. Someone’s got Dick.” And Jason tries to keep his voice level, but he knows Bruce can hear the slight rush of his words, the hint of panic.

“We’ll get him back.”

“I know.”

***

It’s hours before they figure out where Dick’s being held. Jason grows more anxious with each passing minute it takes to suit up, chest tight and breaths coming rough and stilted.

Bruce grabs hold of his arm just before they climb into the Batmobile.

“What are you doing?” Jason snaps. “We need to go!”

The grip tightens.

“You’re on edge, Jason, angry. I need you to calm down and focus."

Jason stills for a moment.

“For Dick’s sake.”

Jason knows, he knows, but when he sees Dick’s wide eyes, his wrists chafed from the ropes and cheeks wet with tears, he descends in the thugs in a flurry of rage.

Their jaws crunch under his fist, each bruising kick a little more satisfying than the last, a little harder. He keeps landing blows until Bruce grabs his wrist in a death grip, the expression of surprise clear even behind the mask.

Jason steps back and looks down at his bloodied gloves, red dripping over the black, and up to his little brother’s terrified stare and his stomach drops.

The ride home is silent.

***

“I don’t think I want to be a crime fighter anymore…”

It’s the first thing Dick has said since they got back to the manor, his voice soft and fragile under the comforter. Jason smiles weakly and pulls him into a hug.

“I’m sorry bud.”

“I know.”

***

Over the next few years, the arguments with Bruce get worse.

Jason is standing at the edge of his bed, shaky hands putting the last few things in his suitcase, cheeks still hot with rage, when a voice rings out from behind him.

“You’re leaving?”

Jason turns sharply to see Dick standing in the doorway, a pack of colored pencils and a sketch pad tucked under one arm.

“Bud, I-”

“You’re leaving?!”

Jason bites his lip. He can’t seem to find the right words, guilt gnawing at his gut. He has to explain, he has to make him understand.

“Dick… Bruce is... he and I, we... I don’t-” he swallows the words I don’t think I can live here anymore and lets out a long sigh.

“Baby Bird, I’m so sorry.”

But when he looks up Dick is gone, and a door slams from somewhere down the hall.

***

Cold concrete pressing against his cheek.

Blood dribbling over cracked, swollen lips.

His chest hurts.

His head hurts.

His body hurts.

How did he ever think he could do well on his own?

Another blow slams into his ribs and he screams, the sound dampening into a whimper.

How did he ever think he could amount to anything without Bruce?

Laughter echoes through the warehouse.

A door clicks shut.

Not even a year solo and he’d gotten captured.

Each breath is a labor.

His eyes sting.

His skin burns.

He pushes himself to his hands and knees and inches towards the exit, knees dragging against the floor.

The first try, his fingers slip uselessly off the door handle, leaving a smear of blood in their wake. The second try, he gets a good grip, ignoring the searing pain that erupts through his fingers.

Locked.

He hears the tick of a clock.

His breath hitches.

Pathetic.

Heat kisses his flesh and slides sharp fingers through his hair, enveloping him in a wave of fire that rips through his body.

And Bruce is too late.

And Jason is dead.

***

Bruce arrives back at the manor, to the darkness of the cave, at almost two in the morning. His gloves are still covered with flecks of concrete and wood, the dried blood thankfully too dark to see against the Kevlar.

The corpse is in the trunk of the car, sealed inside a body bag.

He has to figure out a cover story.

He has to plan a funeral.

He has to live with letting his son die.

Because Jason was so close, just a few miles outside of Gotham. If only he'd caught on quicker, driven faster, maybe... maybe. But he'll never know now, will he? Bruce takes a deep breath and tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

He shouldn't be thinking about this right now.

Dick and Alfred are waiting for him by the computer, both turning slowly when they hear him approach.

“Dad…” Dick's eyes widen, “where’s Jay?”

Bruce freezes.

He can’t. He can’t tell Dick right now. Not this soon, not when it’s so fresh he can still taste the smoke.

“Dad…? Bruce?” Dick stands up and takes a step forward. “You said you were going to save Jay, what happened? Where is he?!”

Bruce stays silent, letting Alfred usher an increasingly panicked Dick upstairs.

When he’s alone in the darkness of the cave, Bruce collapses in a chair and weeps.

***

Dick is quieter in the following months.

Most nights, Bruce is interrupted by screams from down the hall. He always gets to Dick as fast as possible, holds him close, and rocks him until he manages to fall back asleep.

After all, Bruce isn’t really sleeping anymore.

The dreams are too vivid.

He’s better off without them.

***

Dick doesn’t go down to the cave anymore, but Bruce has seen the costume, the one he stole. The one he stuffs in the bottom of his backpack when he goes to school, the one he carries around the manor, the one he fiddles with when he’s sitting in bed or doing homework.

Bruce sees the familiar brown and black and red, the colors that make his chest ache, but he doesn’t have the heart to have Dick put it back.

And so a little piece of Jason follows him wherever he goes.

***

Dick is furious.

Because Bruce can't be serious when he says this guy is going to be his new partner.

Tim Drake is tall and lanky, with dark hair and blue eyes so very much like Jason’s. He’s maybe four or five years older than Dick at most, with an obsession for photography and the gall to think he can become a hero.

Because what about Jason? Bruce can’t just replace him, not after everything that happened.

How could he?

Dick yells and screams, but it doesn't get him anywhere.

So instead he tries avoiding Tim as much as possible.

It’s not easy. Tim spends most of his time at the manor (even though he has parents, Dick notes), moving between the cave and the kitchen.

He always talks to Dick if they run into each other, carrying a pleasant conversation even if Dick makes a point not to respond.

“Hey Dick, how was school? I joined photography club today. I’m excited to show them my composition skills.”

“Oh hi! Do you want some cereal? I got some out for myself but I can pour you a bowl if you want.”

It's slow, but Dick starts to notice that Tim is actually… alarmingly comforting to have around. He doesn’t force his way into Dick’s life, he doesn’t make him reply when he talks to him, he’s careful about what he says, about how he talks about… the job.

And Dick’s thankful for that, even though he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fully relax around Tim, he’s thankful. And it gets better… over time.

A year passes and Tim’s parents are killed. He moves into the manor and takes the room a few doors down from Dick’s, not Jason’s room, but close.

Dick knows Tim is struggling, not just with his parents’ deaths, but with the damage they left him with. He hears talking late at night, Bruce using the same, smooth, low voice he uses to calm Dick down when he’s scared. He can’t really make out words, but once or twice Dick is sure he hears Tim call Bruce Dad.

One morning, he and Tim lock eyes over the dining room table. It’s just them that morning, Bruce and Alfred having left much earlier for a company meeting in Metropolis.

Tim looks tired, the bags under his eyes darker than usual, his hair mussed and tangled.

They look at each other.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“‘M sorry about your folks.” Dick mumbles. “And ‘m sorry for being kind of a jerk.” He adds.

The corners of Tim’s eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“Thanks kiddo.”

And even though those words make Dick’s heart stop, make his hands tighten around the table cloth, he manages to hide it until he gets to his room.

There, he has privacy.

There, he doesn’t have to block out the images of dark hair and a wide smile and a loud laugh.

There, Dick still has Jason’s costume hidden under his bed.

He takes it out when he needs to talk.

“You wouldn’t believe what Tim did today. He gave away their position on patrol and got sent back because a thug broke his arm. That never would’ve happened to you, huh Jay? Nothing could ever hurt you.”

“The manor’s still so quiet. Remember that time we played tag and you broke one of Alfred’s tea pots? He was so mad. You grabbed my hand and we hid in the garden for hours. Remember that Jay?”

“Hey… I miss you.”

***

It’s a rainy night and the manor is quiet. Bruce and Tim are out on patrol, investigating a new string of chemical robberies, and Alfred has long since gone to sleep.

Dick is sitting on his bed with Jason’s costume spread out over his lap, crying quietly and rumpling the fabric between his fists.

It was the same nightmare he’s been having for the past two weeks. Jason is drowning in a pool of inky black liquid, sinking slowly below the surface. Dick tries to hold on, to pull Jason out, he always tries, but Jason slips into the darkness, just like he always does.

But this time… this time Jason had been screaming.

Dick can still hear it, the cries ringing in his head. Ear splitting, blood curdling, bouncing against his skull like a pinball.

He takes another shuddering breath, shoulders shaking.

He hasn’t had a nightmare like that in years.

Dick almost doesn’t hear it over the patter of rain.

Almost.

A light knock, coming from his window.

Dick stands up and hides the costume back under his bed, wiping uselessly at his cheeks as he makes his way to the window.

He pauses for a moment before opening the curtains, letting a faint sliver of moonlight spill into his bedroom.

Nothing’s there.

The world outside is dim and dark and filled with the distant sound of thunder.

Dick is about to turn away when something large crashes through his window, tumbling into the bookshelf next to his dresser. It takes a few seconds for him to recover, to make out the shape of a human in the dim light and see the glint of metal hidden under their jacket.

Dick retreats towards the door and watches as the stranger gets to their feet. The jacket is leather, thick and sturdy, covering a dark Kevlar body suit and several loaded holsters. Dick tries to make out a face, but the head is smooth and featureless, gleaming red in the low light from the window.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The stranger takes a step forward, reaching out.

Dick takes a step back.

The stranger hesitates, hand recoiling, and settles awkwardly against Dick’s dresser.

After a moment of silence the stranger sighs.

“This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

They shift and press a finger to the back of their helmet, releasing it with a soft hiss.

With the helmet removed, Dick can make out a mop of black hair and ginger roots, the outline of a mask, the curve of a jawline.

The stranger steps closer, face coming further into the light, and Dick feels fresh tears spill down his cheeks.

“Jay?”

“Hey Baby Bird. Sorry I took so long.”

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meganshinsou-tm · 5 years

Text

Crimson|Ink. (m)

↳ chapter eleven: seoul

❧ genre: tattoo-shop/hitmen au | tattoo artist/hitman kirishima

❧ fic warning: major character(s) death; happy ending

❧ chapter warnings: piercing session, needles

❧ chapter song: Seoul by RM

♬crimson|ink playlist | ♧ character profiles | artist credit

[multi-chap masterlist] [previous chapter - next chapter]

Kirishima groaned as he stood from his stool, he had just finished an excruciatingly long piece on one of his clients and finally they were done for the day. After cleaning the guy up and bandaging him Kiri gave him aftercare instructions then sent him on his way to the front.

He spent the next few minutes cleaning his tray, taking apart his machine and sanitizing the chair and tray, disposing of his used needles and ink cups. Cracking his neck and knuckles, Kiri set off for the kitchen to get a drink. When he rounded the corner his red eyes fell upon you at the counter, humming and bopping along while you were occupied with something.

Grinning, he walked to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, after taking a sip of it he made his way behind you, hooking his head over your shoulder and cringing immediately.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You smiled and turned your head, looking him in the face. “Uh eating?”

“You know the entire point of pizza rolls is what's inside of them, so why are you squeezing all the shit out? Not to mention it looks disgusting!”

You elbowed him lightly causing him to grunt before placing himself beside you. There was a plate on the counter, full of cooked pizza rolls, the innards of them piled on one side and just the breaded shell of them piling up on the other.

“I’m not squeezing all of it out, just a little. These things are way overstuffed and that shit burns the sides of your mouth when they just explode. It’s called taking precautions!”

“It’s called wasting you weirdo.”

Your (e/c) eyes cut sideways at Kiri, making him smirk. He was soon gifted a middle finger and a friendly “fuck you Eijirou,” to which he just shrugged chuckled.

“Well only if you’re offering.”

A chuckle passed your lips before your teeth playfully tore into a pizza roll and you started to chew it lazily while crossing your eyes and moaning, body slumping over onto Kirishima and becoming like dead weight on him.

“Still wanna take that offer,” you muffled the question.

Kiri knew you were trying to look as idiotic as you could but it was also adorable. You started to eat the small items one by one, dramatically groaning and moaning, falling over the man and causing him to struggle and push you off until he just decided to wrap his arms around you. Kiri chuckled, teeth nipping and trying to steal one of the pizza rolls from your fingers. It got to the point where he was literally fighting you for one out from between your own teeth. Eventually the cheese spewed from the side of it and Kiri won the prize but he decided to rub the food across your cheek and smear its contents.

“Eww Kiri, stop,” you whined and tried to push him away.

Since your day out together, you and Kirishima had pretty much completely started over and were growing closer. He was becoming like one of the other guys to you, more touchy and comfortable, playful and friendly, just more fun to be around.

Of course he had his days sometimes but the good days finally started to outweigh the bad ones. You didn’t dread seeing him every day anymore, wondering what petty insults he’d spew out. Instead of insults the two of you would banter and joke, all in good fun. You were finally growing closer.

After Kiri had made enough of a mess on your face he let go and ate the remainder of the pizza roll still hanging from his teeth.You lightly punched his shoulder and grabbed a napkin to clean up with, feeling the oily substance clogging your skin.

“And you say I’m wasting.”

Kirishima chuckled and drank the rest of his water and tossed the bottle into the trash can. He grabbed a napkin himself and wet it with warm water then stood before you, his hands cupping your face.

“Here, let me help you,” he smiled.

You stood there and let him wipe your face clean, reaching a few pieces that were close to being in your hair and eyes, which were examining his face closely. The sharp edges of his jaw and chin, the plumpness of his lips. How deep the red color of his eyes really were and also that scar on his right one. Your hand came up, fingers lightly tracing it.

“I still find the story about this scar to be extremely funny and adorable.”

An amused look crossed Kiri’s face as he tossed the napkin in the trash can then took your hand that stroked the scarred flesh and lowered it down. He walked to lean back against the counter and you took a spot next to him, both of you crossing your arms and you laughing at the obvious size difference when the muscles in his arms flexed under the sleeves of his raglan shirt and his chest somewhat bulged. You tried your best to size up to him, earning a genuine laugh from Kiri himself. After you relaxed and shrunk back down, Kiri ran a hand through his spiky hair.

“You find me almost blinding myself as a toddler funny and adorable?”

“Okay when you put it like that of course not,” you replied, rolling your eyes with a smile.

Kiri smiled back, always amused to fuck with you, “Having a glass eye would’ve been badass though.”

“I guess it would be pretty hot, but I like your red eyes, so if it means anything, I’m glad you only got away with a scar.”

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Kiri cooed and looked at you with a grin.

Rolling your eyes again you lightly flicked his forehead and passed him to go to the fridge and got a bottle of water. After unscrewing the lid and taking a sip you wiped your mouth and stood before the red-head, a finger poking his chest.

“Eijirou, I’m always sweet, what are you talking about.”

“You’re like a damn sour patch kid little one,” he grinned and grabbed your hand, encasing it in his massive one and pulling you forward, “One minute you’re sweet yeah, but then you can turn sour, it may be hours later but it happens.”

Your head shook and your lips pouted, “Why I’d never,” you replied.

“Bullshit, I can see your horns showing right about -”

Not a second after the word left his mouth your hand holding the water bottle was coming up to be pressed to his neck, Kiri was fast though and grabbed your wrist before the ice cold bottle could touch his skin. His tongue clicked as he shook his head at you and you giggled.

“My point exactly you little fucking demon.”

“Pft, you act like I’m the only one with horns here, ” you chuckled and brought your free hand up to tousle one of Kiri’s spiked up horns, soon his other hand was gripping that wrist as well.

You gasped at the ferocity of his hold and the intense gaze he held. Your own eyes couldn’t leave his sharp crimson red ones. Suddenly you were now the one leaning back against the counter, the massive tattooed red-head standing before you, small wrists still tightly gripped in his giant hands. You swallowed nervously feeling how his aura changed drastically from playful to now predatory. Kirishima could tell how you were shrinking beneath him, not so playful anymore.

“Oh I’m completely aware of my own little one, and of how much bigger they are than yours,” he chuckled, the sound bringing a light to your eyes and coaxing out the girl inside of you that always loved to meet a challenge no matter what.

You hummed in reply, (e/c) eyes sharpening at Kiri and the tip of your tongue rolling between your canines as you smiled sinfully at him. Going to jerk your wrists from him once more, Kiri only tightened his grip but you pulled with so much force it brought him face to face with you, the tips of your noses brushing as you breathed upon each others mouths. He was right where you wanted him though. One of you were going to crack and it was going to be him.

“Scared Potter?” You questioned in a terrible British accent.

“Shut it Malfoy,” Kiri replied with a flawless British accent and smug look.

The two of you stared silently for a second before falling out into hysterics, laughing, snorting and cackling together. Tears were pricking your eyes and Kiri’s face fell to the crook of your neck as he tried to hide his own. He had let go of one of your wrists and casually your hand slid down his palm until his fingers clasped around it, holding it gently in his own.

It was the polar opposite of how he held your wrists. Instead of rough and fierce it was soft and tender, like there was a distinctly different way he needed to touch the two different areas. You smiled and his head pulled away from your neck. Kirishima looked down on you, freeing your other wrist so he could wipe the joyful tears from the corner of your eye. With a hum you melted into his hand.

The man wanted to verbally awe at how sweet and cute you were, your long lashes fluttering shut and your cheek nuzzling his palm that easily cupped the entire side of your face.

“You know you got that sour patch thing wrong Ei. Don’t you know your slogans, ‘first they’re sour then they’re sweet’,” you chuckled and the lids of your eyes opened slowly.

“I guess I did,” Kirishima replied almost mindlessly, letting his hand caress from your face and into your hair.

This wasn’t the first time Kiri had been caught up in you. Ever since making up, more and more he found himself slipping, letting you lure him in with those damned eyes, that sweet voice and spitfire attitude. He couldn’t say it out loud, not yet at least, but you were so perfect - perfect for him.

Through the weeks when he’d feel anxious or fed up with a client or sketch that wasn’t coming along, it was like you could sense his energy and just appear in his room to take his mind off things. Sometimes you’d waltz in wanting him to teach you drawing techniques or just to whine to him about how Sero and Bakugou were teasing you.

You calmed him. Especially on days after he’d come back from being an executioner. Even before you came along, on those days Kiri would always be in a mood, sometimes still high on the smell of blood and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It felt like he was an animal, trying to shake it off while the inner beast craved for more. On those days he wouldn’t take customers, just shack up in his studio and draw. Now, on those days you’d find him, and just the sound of your voice calling out his name or your hand touching him would immediately put that beast to sleep like you were some kind of tamer - his tamer.

Without another thought Kirishima was bringing his face closer to yours, you looked unafraid, in fact it's like you were waiting for him. Your free hand came up, cupping his own that held your face and you breathed out his name in that soft and airy way that always made him melt.

“Shit, am I interrupting something?”

Kiri’s sharp red eyes glanced sideways to see Bakugou standing at the end of the counter he had you pressed against, your body went limp, a quiet whimper leaving your lips and tugging at his heart. Maybe the intrusion was for the best though. Slowly Kiri lowered your hand and his, but he wasn’t going to leave you hanging without some sort of kiss. With a soft smile he pressed a tender peck on your forehead, you hummed with content and smiled as he pulled back away.

“Alright princess, my turn,” Bakugou sneered playfully before grabbing your wrist himself and pulling you towards him roughly.

Kirishima rolled his eyes at the blonde who started to slather your cheek with playful nips and pecs, making you giggle and push away.

“Down boy, down!”

Chuckling, Bakugou calmed and released you so he could get himself a drink. Kirishima plopped down in one of the chairs by the table and asked what he was up to, to which he shrugged and sighed.

“Well I was going to see if y’all wanted to go ahead and close up. I’m about to blow my brains out with how fucking dead it’s been all day.”

You started to clean up your plate of pizza rolls and checked the time on the microwaves clock.

“Katsu, it’s only like six, we don’t close until ten on weekends.”

“We can close whenever we want to princess. Plus, there’s no point in just sitting on our asses.”

Kirishima huffed and crossed his arms behind his head, leaning back in his seat and letting his giant legs stretch out. “May be dead for you, I just got done with a four hour piece. Did you ever think that maybe people just don’t want to come see you Bakugou?”

“Fuck you shitty hair,” Bakugou snarled, crossing his arms and glancing over at you minding your own business. He grinned and clicked his teeth, tilting his head in your direction. “I know someone who does though.”

Your brow rose and you looked over to the blonde before pointing to yourself.

“Me?”

Bakugou chuckled and slid closer, “Yes you princess. Didn’t you want a piercing a few weeks ago? On that pretty little face.”

“I did! What were the ones you suggested again?”

He smirked and brought a hand up to cup your chin, his thumb ran over the plump flesh of your bottom lip then across the your cupid’s bow. Kiri’s red eyes narrowed while he watched Bakugou touching your lips, the same lips he should’ve been ravaging right now had he let himself go wild.

“I suggested a little monroe, right here,” Bakugou replied and poked right above your top lip, “And a nose piercing but like I said, your face is too fucking pretty do much more than that.”

“Oh yeah, well I think the monroe is really cute. I just don’t think I want a nose piercing though, and I don’t want a cliche belly button piercing either.”

You thought for a bit longer and Kiri watched closely, Bakugou shrugged and took a drink of his water. Your fingers snapped and you beamed.

“My nipples!”

Bakugou spit out his water, at the same time him and Kirishima both let out a shocked, “What?”

“You heard me! I want my nipples pierced! I think they look pretty good on some girls and with my quirk I won’t have to suffer for months, waiting on them to heal.”

Kiri shook his head and stood from his seat, “What’s with you and always wanting something that requires you to be practically topless huh?”

“I’m confident in my skin Kiri, there’s no shame in that.”

“Yeah Red, stop body shaming our girl here, if she wants to pierce her tits then let her pierce her tits!”

Kirishima glared at Bakugou.

“Shut the fuck up, I know what you’re doing!” The red head looked at you, his eyes pleading, “Look if that’s what you want then go for it, but maybe I can take you to another place?”

“Ei, why would I go anywhere else when we have one of the best of the best right here. Plus, I trust Katsuki.”

The blonde gave Kiri a shit eating grin from behind you, soon his arms were around your waist and his head was hooked over your shoulder and he pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“Yeah Ei, she trusts me. You shouldn’t want anyone else doing this for her anyway. I’d fucking murder someone before I let her go to another place.”

“See, he’s got my back Eijirou, I’ll be fine.”

Kiri groaned and went to try and plead more but you were quickly dragging Bakugou by the hand out of the kitchen and to his studio. The blonde flipping Kirishima off and sticking out his tongue. With a growl Kiri took off after you, following into the studio.

“This will be fun and I’ll have some new work to show off to the guys!”

“You’re not going to be flashing your shit around here,” Kirishima sternly stated.

You chuckled and took a seat on the piercing chair. Kiri followed like a puppy, right by your side and not looking to leave. Your hand grabbed his own and you smiled.

“I was talking about my lip piercing. Don’t worry Ei, the others will be just between me and certain special people.”

“Me, I’m special people!” Bakugou grinned as he pulled out all the tools needed.

Needles, jewelry, napkins, gloves, a marker, alcohol pads, etc. Bakugou mentioned he’d do the lip piercing first since it wouldn’t take long and was the easiest.

You sat and let him disinfect your upper lip. His face extremely close to your own as he used a marker and carefully marked the perfect spot to place the piercing. You turned to look at Kiri, asking his opinion. Shortly he smiled and nodded, saying that it looked perfect. Your small hand squeezed his and you turned to look at Bakugou again.

“These will be cold,” he mentioned and held up some small clamps.

Using them, he took your lip between them, causing you to gasp. The marked spot was easily visible through the hole of the clamps and they securely held your lip still. His other hand reached over to his tray and grabbed the piercing needle, placing the tip of it right on the inside of your lip. Your eyes crossed as you tried to look down at the clamps. Bakugou had to stifle down a chuckle from how dumb you looked.

“Okay, you’re gonna feel a pinch but it won’t last long. Take a deep breathe in and - “

Right on cue with your exhale Bakugou pushed the needle through the flesh, your eyes blinked and hand squeezed Kiri’s again at the pinch the blonde mentioned and you hissed but the discomfort was extremely short lived.

You watched Bakugou smile proudly and praise you with a, “good girl.”

He threaded the end of the jewelry on the end of the needle then pushed it all the way through, placing the used tool on his tray and grabbing the studded top of the jewelry and twisting it on top of the piece he was holding in your lip. The process was over as fast as it had begun. Bakugou grabbed a napkin and dabbed the small amount of blood clean before he stood back and grabbed a small mirror.

“Take a look princess.”

You grabbed the mirror and smiled upon seeing the shimmering stud placed perfectly above your top lip, resembling a much more extravagant beauty mark.

“Aww, it’s so cute Katsu!”

After handing the mirror back you quickly healed the piercing and wiggled your lips around and giggled at the weird sensation of metal in your mouth. Looking sideways your eyes were seeking approval from the Kirishima.

Kiri smirked and poked at the piercing, “It suits you little one ... alright that’s it. Let’s close the shop now!”

“Eijirou,” you giggled and whined as he tried to tug you out of the chair.

Kirishima sighed defeatedly, “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes I’m sure. What, do you think they won’t look good on me or something?”

Red eyes rolled and Kirishima tried his hardest not to even vividly picture what you’d look like with those sinful piercings or the things he’d crave to do.

“That’s not it at all, they’ll look great. It’s just ... they’re a lot more painful than what you just got.”

“Hey shit for brains, stop trying to scare her. I know what I’m doing, I’ve pierced plenty of tits in my career. Look princess, do you want this?”

You looked at Bakugou and nodded eagerly without even thinking.

“Alright, then get your sweet ass up and go strip for me.”

Kirishima glared at Bakugou and if looks could kill the blonde would be way past dead.

Your body hopped down from the piercing chair and you pat Kiri’s chest as you walked by him, Bakugou playfully smacked your ass moving you along towards the divider that was located in the corner of the room without another word.

The two men stared at each other, Bakugou with the smuggest of smug looks and Kiri seething with envy.

“You’re fucking enjoying this aren’t you,” Kiri growled.

“Oh you have no idea, now if you’d kindly leave, you know shop policy Red. These types of piercings are private.”

Kirishima looked over to the divider you were standing behind, his jaw clenching at the thought of what was about to happen. He didn’t not want you to get the piercings, he just didn’t want you to get them from Bakugou.

His friend was very cunning and the two of you already flirted way more than you and he did. In fact the two of you were way more touchy and sexual in your interactions. This situation would only rile Bakugou up even more, Kiri knew it but then again he had no control over you, no claim to you.

You were free to act on your own accord. It was times like these where Kirishima would second guess his actions and be more inclined to finally just put aside his stupid ways and confess his feelings, if it meant having you to himself and only him. But if he did that right now it would partly be for the wrong reasons.

Finally Kirishima decided he’d confess to you, but in due time.

To do it out of spite or sheer jealousy would be ignorant. You were both in a good place with each other now, sometimes taking things slowly was for the best. Kirishima wanted you, more than he fucking wanted life itself, but he had already fucked up too much and he was trying not to do it all over again, plus you still needed to know about the beast he kept caged until a certain phone call would release it.

With a sigh he shoved Bakugou out of his way and slowly stormed out of the room without a word, closing the door shut behind him.

Your head poked out from behind the divider at the sound, eyes looking at the door then to Bakugou who was gathering all the utensils and tools needed for your next piercing. Your lips jutted out in a pout briefly at Kiri’s disappearance before you sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, walking out from behind the divider and back to the piercing seat.

Bakugou turned his head to glance at you from his peripheral and smiled. He glanced back at his utensils and went about explaining the process to you. How all his tools were extremely and thoroughly sterilized. His hands held up two separately packed needles, one for each breast, a packaged set of clamps, and two barbells for the jewelry. There was also a type of jelly the needles would be dipped in the ease the process and a shorter set of barbell jewelry.

“These are longer than usual ones but its to allow room for swelling, but after you’ve healed yourself I can replace them with normal length ones. Of course, it being a piercing, it’s going to be uncomfortable but trust me it’s not unbearable. Do you have any other questions before we get started?”

You nervously chuckled, arms still crossed over your chest and a hand reaching to scratch the side of your neck. “Uh - do they have to be ... h-hard?”

Bakugou smirked, watching your face blush red from the question.

Usually you were a raging ball of witty sexual remarks, confident and not in the least bit bashful. This look though was appealing to the blonde. He shrugged his shoulders and clicked his tongue as he picked up the package with the clamps in it.

“Nah princess, that's what these are for. They hold the nipple in place, they aren’t the most comfortable thing and they’re probably the most painful part of the process but they help as a guide for the needle.”

You seemed to deflate with a sigh and nodded.

“But if you really wanted me to, I could tease them for you, free of charge.”

You chuckled and went to playfully kick at the cocky man, but he caught your ankle and tugged harshly, pulling your body down the chair and making your back come into contact with it. You gasped when he was suddenly before you and between your legs, all at once you were reclined back at an angle and almost shell shocked from your mind trying to catch up. Red eyes glared intently at you, full of fire and pride.

“Or do you want to do that for me yourself?”

“You fucking wish Katsuki,” you grinned underneath him.

Bakugou’s face lowered and his nose brushed along your cheek as his warm breath fanned your ear before his teeth nipped at it. A low chuckle left his lips and it caused a shudder to ripple through you.

“You fucking bet I do. I still haven’t had my fun with you yet princess, you said to name a time and place right?”

“Katsu,” you breathed out through gritted teeth, his own dragging down your cheek to take hold of it. Your eyes glazed over and stared into his own.

“Hmm,” he grunted and released your flesh then let his tongue lightly lap at the teeth marks, his hand squeezing your thigh. “What if I said right now, right here? Make a filthy little mess of you on my chair.”

You started to breathe heavily, Bakugou’s hand on your thigh traveling up. Slowly your arms started to uncross and fall to your sides, hands gripping at the leather of the chair. Bakugou looked down at your bare chest now littered with black ink, a wicked smile crossing his handsome face. A breathy ‘fuck’ left his lips and his head lowered slowly and you screwed your eyes shut.

There was a fire building low in your gut, skin hypersensitive and thoughts nothing but mush. Out of nowhere something extremely cold was wiped across one of your nipples, causing you to flinch and all arousal immediately disappear.

“What the fucking hell Bakugou!”

“Oh I’m sorry princess, were you expecting something else,” he chuckled as you looked down to see him wiping a now warm alcohol pad across your sensitive bud.

“Fuck you,” you rolled your eyes, head falling back against the chair.

“All good things come to those who wait, don’t worry, I’ll fuck you sooner than later. But for now, let me do my job and make these pretty things even better!”

Kiri sat impatiently in the kitchen, a hardened finger carving a small line into the table from constantly moving it back and forth while waiting for your piercing session to be over.

A few more minutes and he was jumping up from his chair when he heard the door down the hall opening, your precious giggle echoing down and into the kitchen. Soon you stood before him, a smile on your face that now gleamed even more from the jewelry that adorned your top lip. Kirishima smiled back and you walked closer to stand before him.

His hand cupped your cheek, relief washing over him to see you were free from any telling marks and free from the studio room period.

“You heal yourself?”

You nodded with a grin and grabbed at your breasts to squeeze lightly, “I’m all good Ei, feels perfectly normal and pain free. Well - I mean it doesn’t feel normal anymore, it’s a different feeling but you get what I’m saying.”

The red head chuckled, his thumb nudging at the piercing on your face. “I really do like this one, it’s cute.”

“Thanks Eijirou, I’m really glad you like it. Play your cards right and maybe one day you can see the others.”

Kirishima went to reply but soon Bakugou was beating him to the punch and yelling out your name from down the hall. You both looked to see his spiky blonde head peeking out from the doorway of his room.

“Remember I told you we’d go out when we got back from that deal?”

There was a light in your eye, body turning to face away from Kiri and to Bakugou.

“Yeah, why?”

“What do you say we go to the club tonight?”

Kiri silently groaned behind you, nostrils flaring. It was like he couldn’t get a fucking break today. Bakugou grinned smugly at his friend, knowing he had been cock blocking him at almost every corner. You nodded at Bakugou then turned back around to Kiri and took his hand.

“You’ll come to right? We can all go out together!”

It felt as if the heavens had opened up and an angel was finally giving Kirishima an opening, a break! That angel being you with that perfect smile and those pleading eyes, pleading for him.

Kirishima smirked and looked up at Bakugou who was just shaking his head, smile still on his face and not even phased that you were including everyone else.

Fingers came up to cup your chin, looking up, red eyes looked back down and a sweet peck was pressed to your cheek before a sharp toothed grin sparkled.

“Of course little one, whatever you want.”

#crimson ink #tattoo shop au #hitmen au #eijirou x reader #eijirou kirishima x reader #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #enemies to lovers #slow burn #bnha writing blog #mha writing blog

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