#to obsess over for the rest of his life. he is shaped so wholly by the events that it’s all that’s left.

[starfilledsea]

“I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.” — The Secret History, Donna Tartt

[mariettebonneville]

─𝟎𝟒 【𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡】 𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐚 𝐱 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐢

It was during the events of the Mugen Train arc that the Love Hashira, Mitsuri Kanroji, joined forces with the Flame Hashira, Kyojuro Rengoku.

Oyakata-sama, the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, had been stirred from his rest by a prophetic dream—a vision that warned of mourning and despair should things proceed without divine intervention.

Trusting in his foresight, Oyakata-sama dispatched Mitsuri to ensure that the tragedy looming upon the horizon could be averted.

In the thick mist of a dread-filled night, the Mugen Train hissed and roared as it cut through the darkness—an iron serpent bearing a fateful encounter on its back.

She was to be a reinforcement, a bolstering wind to support the fiery Rengoku and those four under his protection. The Mugen Train carried more than innocent lives—it bore the weight of destiny.

Mitsuri arrived like a tempest of support, her vibrant locks fluttering amidst the chaos of battle.

With her sword flashing in heartbeats, her strikes were as tender as they were deadly, encapsulating both the ferocity and compassion of love itself.

She stood shoulder to shoulder with Kyojuro, embodying the very essence of the unity the Corps represented.

Unexpectedly, the death of lower one, enmu, summoned forth Akaza, the Upper Moon 3, whose prowess in combat was matched only by his disdain for the weak.

His gold gaze met Mitsuri's, a violent dance about to unfold. Akaza, with fists that shattered spirit and stone alike, was met with Mitsuri's whipping blade.

As the malevolent rhythms of his bloodthirsty combat style clashed against the graceful but stern forms of Mitsuri's Love Breathing, something within him stirred.

Akaza was akin to a tempest, relentless and untamed. Yet, as his fists whirled towards Mitsuri, he found himself hesitating for the first time in a century.

Each strike Mitsuri evaded or met with her own resonated with a cadence Akaza found unnervingly enchanting.

It was not love as humans know it—it was a fixation, dark and twisted, born from the abyss of his demonic nature.

He saw her not just as an opponent but as a being whose existence caused his own demonic heart to flutter in a way it had not for centuries.

The climax of their clash left fading echoes as Akaza, in a rare act, retreated as the sun was rising.

Rengoku's life was saved, and the prophecy had twisted into a new shape.

Akaza, the demon who coveted strength above all, vanished into the night with Mitsuri's figure seared into his memory. It became an obsession, not of destruction, but an uncertain longing for something more.

Months passed. Encounters between the demon and the demon slayer began to weave a pattern.

Time and again, Akaza would emerge from the shadows, not with malice, but with a twisted sense of longing.

The dance of their battles became a courtship; he showered her with compliments that no human dared utter.

To the world, she was an oddity, her engagements broken thrice over due to her peculiar hair and incomparable power. But to Akaza, she was unmatched, peerless. In his twisted expression of affection, he saw her as she wished to be seen.

Mitsuri’s heart, despite every effort, could not wholly deny the blossoming warmth that these words kindled within her. Her sense of duty warred with the ache of her own loneliness. It was a forbidden emotion, treacherous and unfathomable, yet undeniably real.

Seasons shifted subtly, and so too did the nature of their encounters. His restraint in their battles puzzled her. Her existence was a challenge to all he represented, yet she remained unharmed. In this deadly game, she had become the queen he dared not capture.

Then the implausible happened, extending the realm of forbidden into the beating life within her. With the realization that she carried Akaza’s child, Mitsuri was ensnared within a vortex of emotions.

Horror, confusion, and the faintest trace of a forbidden joy battled within her soul.

The father, a being of destruction, and the mother, a protector of life, had, through some unfathomable series of events, created a life together—an enigma wrapped in innocence.

The Love Hashira stood at the precipice, teetering on the edge of the unthinkable. The world she knew, the one she fought for, was at odds with the world that might be—the potential life of a being part human, part demon.

Akaza, for his part, had not remained untouched by their encounter. His interest in Mitsuri shifted something imperceptible within his demon soul, a shard of his humanity that he thought long lost.

He watched from the shadows, a protector unknown, grimly aware that his very nature was a threat to the woman who had inadvertently stolen the last embers of his humanity.

With the child’s presence lingering between them, so too lingered questions of what it meant to love and be loved, to protect life when one was so accustomed to taking it.

The Love Hashira grappled with the turmoil of emotions that beset her. The Corps was her family, her duty clear, yet the life within her was innocent of the sins of the father—a child of love and strife.

Mitsuri, with her inherently boundless love, made a vow to protect her child, no matter the origin, no matter the path that she must now walk alone.

And so, a precarious balance was struck. Mitsuri moved under the vigilant eyes of both friends and hidden foe.

Akaza, whose existence was now a question threaded with the potential for redemption or further ruin, lingered at the edges of her life like a specter waiting to be given form.

Mitsuri and Akaza, bound by their unborn child, stood on the precipice of a new era—an era where love could both damn and save, where the future held whispers of hope amidst the cacophonous echoes of war.

The story concludes not with definitive ends but with the understanding that lives intertwine in the most unexpected of ways.

And sometimes, even in a world shadowed by conflict, the chance for something beautiful and new can emerge from the darkness.

With velvet nights spent under watchful gold eyes, Mitsuri's pregnancy became a journey fraught with questions and fears.

And yet, Akaza, the supposed incarnation of violence, found a fragment of his lost humanity in the presence of Mitsuri. He could not explain the sense of duty that swelled within him.

When the day came, and her cries echoed between moonlight and shadows, it was Akaza who stood sentinel.

His once merciless hands, now trembling, prepared to welcome a life that was his impossible legacy.

For in that very moment, beneath the looming specter of both hope and despair, they understood silently that the tides of fate were neither theirs to command nor question.

Their child, born of an uncanny love and a destiny refused to be unwritten, entered a world brimming with strife.

And Mitsuri Kanroji, the Love Hashira, knew in her heart that what life they could offer their offspring would be one fraught with trials—yet she pledged to face it as she did any demon—with hope, with her sword, and now, with an unexpected yearn for a peace that she, Akaza, and her child might one day know.

[yeojaa]

come over, pt. i

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  this is pwp.  smut in the forms of:  kissing, oral (m/f), fingering, deepthroating, hickeys, protected sex.  use of the pet name shy girl.  wc. 6.2k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif and @snackhobi aka the loves of my tiny life.  author note.  this is an adaption of an rp with my beloved @velvetwicebang​.  while the writing is all my own, i owe so much to loma for inspiring me and being such a wonderful partner. 💛 if you enjoy this, feedback goes a long way.  tysm for reading!  (and yes, there will be a second part.)

You’ve been friends for thirteen months, classmates for another three before that.  You’ve worked on countless projects together, watched him fall off a roof, and have had to bail him out of campus security’s grubby little hands. Your friendship is easy, based on mutual suffering in Professor Kim’s class and long study dates spent in the library.  He smuggled you chocolates in his pockets and you brought iced coffee to the 8 a.m. lecture you shared.

You’re not sure why you’re riddled with uncertainty now then, every nerve ending shot, lit up bright like the still-up mini Christmas tree sitting in the corner of your dorm room.  (You know you should take it down but it’s so cute, slouched ever with a tiny gold star-shaped bell hanging from the end.).  

Spending time with Jungkook was normal - a part of your weekly routine - but then again, you hadn’t somehow developed a weird little crush on him until recently.  

(If you think hard, you could probably pinpoint it to a night a few weeks ago when he looked particularly good, fluffy powder puff of hair stripped of shadow and gleaming gold beneath the warm lecture lights.  You’d never had a thing for blonds but he made it look good - surprising you when he’d dropped into his seat beside you and winked in response to your surprise.) 

(It’s something you can't tear your thoughts from now, that infuriatingly charming smile burnt into your retinas.  It sits at the forefront of your mind, stealing your attention from the movie that's playing on the television hung across from your bed.  One of those blockbuster flicks, because who didn’t love gratuitous action and lens flares?)

A hand reaches for the chip bowl propped between you - homemade chex mix, because you’ve been obsessed with the recipe since discovering it a few weeks ago - and you flinch away when it brushes the hand that's already in there.

"Sorry!"  You squeak before coughing, a quick-witted (but not altogether believable) attempt at hiding the sudden heat that flares across your cheeks.  The same hand disappears between your knees, fingers curling into the soft throw laid over your legs.  You tell yourself to relax at least three times before speaking, peeking at your companion from beneath a fringe of sleep-tousled strands.  “Stop stealing all my chips.” 

The boy beside you only grins, tosses that lazy smile in your direction before turning his attention back to the explosion on the screen, entire expression lit up by the fireworks that explode in flashes of colour.

You think you’ve gotten away with it - that he hasn’t noticed - and then he’s speaking again, pointedly staring forward, seemingly unbothered.  (You know better though.  Jungkook’s infuriating like that, picking up on all the little things despite the fact that he’s a dumb boy, too good at reading between the lines when he barely studies.)

“You’re blushing.”

The callout is, well, uncalled for. 

You choose to ignore him at first, opting to shove two chocolates past your lips.  They’re unbearably sweet, minty and cold - your favourite - and the richness spills across your tongue, eliciting a soft hum as your teeth buzz from the sugar.  (Note to self:  thank Jungkook for the chocolate later.)

“You’re blushing,”  you retort once you’ve swallowed, cheeks puffed out and a dent gathering between your brows.  “I’m just—“  Hand waves wildly - nearly hits him in the face with how wobbly it is - and you pretend-glare at him, faux affront laid in spades.  “—hot.”

It comes snappier than you mean it to, spoken in something close to a pout.  You aren’t actually.  The campus is notorious for having garbage heating, floorboards more akin to packed snow in the dead of winter.  It’s just annoying.  You refuse to be another one of those girls.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with said girls.  It’s more an issue with Jungkook, stupidly handsome and charming and far too popular for his own good.  People already told you all about Jungkook’s escapades - even though you often heard them from him firsthand and in gruelling detail.  One of the downsides to being friends with someone who, for all intents and purposes, carried the title of campus heartthrob.) 

“Pay attention to the movie.”  The same hand reaches for the mix again, careful to avoid brushing his this time.  You think you’ve succeeded, snatching up a piece of pretzel, morsel halfway to your mouth when it drops to your lap.

The same lap that suddenly has a hand on it, palm warm over your knee.  

If you’d thought your nerve endings were shot, now you knew they were.  Every inch of skin was on fire - heat shooting up your spine and over your neck the moment his hand comes in contact with bare skin.  Damn your need for comfort, damn your choice to wear shorts, damn his freaking hot tattooed hands—

You almost yell at him.  The sound’s on the tip of your tongue when you bite down, stare trained wholly on the movie and the blood that splatters across the screen..

Really, you shouldn't be surprised.  You’ve known Jungkook for nearly two years - okay, not quite.  You’ve heard all the rumours about him, the whispered words that sound something like playboy and flirt and be careful.  You know and yet you’ve found yourself in this situation, desperately trying to figure out what the hell is going through his mind as you stare straight ahead, refusing to move a muscle.  

His profile is picture perfect from your periphery;  he's focused too, acting like he's done nothing wrong.  Sly as a fox, as always.

“Still blushing,”  he repeats conversationally, as if he’s commenting on the colour of the sky or how cold it is in your room.  Not as if he’s got a hand where it shouldn’t be, ink spilling over his skin in pretty patterns, burning the shape of it where he touches.

"I didn't blush.”  It’s a retort made for only argument’s sake and even then, without weight.  Feather soft and feeble in an attempt to keep your voice level.  It's hard when you’re burning up, a livewire settled where you feel him.  "I'm not blushing."

It's a lie - you can feel the flush, embarrassment flooding from your cheeks all the way down over your chest.  It’s an inferno beneath your skin, lava coursing through your veins.  

It spreads further and further, blooms somewhere new when his hand drifts lower, tracking across the soft inner of your thigh.  Doesn’t cease even when his hand does, palm firm over your leg, the ghost of a touch passing so close to your core you can’t help but jolt.  It’s as if he’s rearranged your pieces, mixed them all up.  A brush of his finger over your clothed entrance feels like it hits you right in the chest, snaps your heart to attention.  It roars to life, thundering madly, pulse erratic when he repeats the gesture, with that much more pressure.

You’re dripping, you realise to your horror, cotton of your thong sticking to your skin, grey of your shorts made darker by the arousal that spills over the one not-so-innocent digit. 

A part of you wants to run from the room.  Nearly do, heart hammering in your chest when Jungkook's face is suddenly too close, the warmth of his breath stifling against your neck.  It feels good, anticipation and desire fizzing in your stomach like fountain pop.  (The movie theatre kind, that’s somehow flat and too bubbly all at once.)

"Kook."  You mean to say it reproachfully, with a hand pushing his wrist away.  Instead it comes out like a whisper, a soft sigh of his name that sounds almost needy, laced with worry and anticipation that makes you want to tear your own hair out.  Fingers remain locked around bone, other hand digging into the blanket and the linen beneath it, searching desperately for some form of composure beneath the material.  

For the first time, you hazard a glance - know it’ll be bad for your own well-being - dropping your stare to where his hand rests.  (You have to admit - you like the sight of those tattoos, a stark contrast to the unblemished softness.)

Like it almost as much as his kisses, the first of which lands exactly where you want it most.  Delicate, polite, right on the junction of your jaw.  A sigh escapes before you can help it.  "Shy girl,”  he coos, teasing in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“I’m not shy,”  you huff - try to, anyway, around the kaleidoscope of butterflies that are threatening to choke you.  "We're watching a movie."  You’re trying to redirect his attention, even as you’re desperate for it, even as you think you’d give your whole heart for it. 

You’re this close to combusting, eyes widening the moment he extracts his hand and tucks it back into the bowl of chips.  A part of you wants to yell at him - for starting this in the first place but mainly for leaving you high and dry, turned on and soaking through your underwear. 

(It’s not fair, but then again, you’d never expected them to be.  You’ve seen the rules Jungkook plays by - namely those of his own creation.  Term paper due the next morning?  He’d somehow pull it out of his ass that night.  Break something at a house party?  He’d be let off with a smile and a wave, those doe eyes of his utterly lethal when paired with his pout.)

“Watch the movie then.”  He sounds almost bored, utterly unbothered as he seamlessly slips back into the proper role of friend, classmate, study partner.

"Let's."  Without tossing another glance in his direction, you stare straight ahead, own hand delving for snacks.  So what if you very purposely brush your fingers against the pieces he's just touched, popping the pieces into your mouth before slotting your thumb against your tongue, cheeks hollowing around to suck the last bits of salt and butter off.

Despite your nerves - you’re hoping he's watching - you readjust, bringing knees up, crossing legs until one is resting atop his own thick thigh.  The full of your bottom lip disappears between your teeth, worried to within an inch of its life as you shift beside him, seemingly manoeuvring your shorts into their rightful position.

(You’re not.  They’re hitched higher than they were, barely worthy of the title of shorts, more akin to a belt.  So revealing it’s almost uncomfortable, wet of your arousal sticking them to your skin.)

(Two could play this game.)

(Maybe him better than you, but still.)

You know what you’re doing and yet you’re somehow surprised when he’s suddenly disappeared from your side and situated himself in front of you, eating up too much of the space on your small double bed.  “What’re you—“  The question disappears in the same moment he does, unable to track his movements when Jungkook slips forward, pressing his mouth over yours.

You’ve kissed a lot of people.  (Okay, not a lot, but enough.)  You were a senior in college, where kissing was like talking and fucking happened more often than dating.

You’ve never kissed Jungkook before.  

Why hadn’t you?

His lips are terribly soft, pink and pouted, slanting across yours as if he’s trying to devour you.  There’s no semblance of delicacy, nothing gentle and sweet like those brushes against your neck.  They’re forceful, demanding payment in full when his tongue glides over the seam, seeking entrance despite the fact that you think he might’ve slipped in anyway.

There’s not a single wall he couldn’t break down, not a lock he couldn’t pick.  Not with how he moves, purposeful and reassured, tongue sliding over yours, sucking it into his mouth as if it’s something he does every day.  (Which it very well could be - just not with you.)

“Shy girl,”  he repeats with a mouth filled with affection, praise that pours over you honey sweet and sticky.  “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The thing is, you’re not pretending.  You’re half-afraid this entire moment is going to explode into a thousand pieces, a dream shattered by reality.  You hope it doesn’t.  Couldn’t bear it when he feels so nice, hand spanning your waist, tucked beneath the safety of your shirt and the fleece blanket between you.  

“I’m not.”  

“Oh?”  There’s something in his eyes, something that coils heat in the pit of your stomach.  You swear you can see the devil sitting on his shoulder, gleeful little smile rearranging his features.  “Do I make you nervous, ____?”

Did he?  Of course he did.  Had, even before you’d known him.

(You’d grown comfortable, though.  Found a way to separate the popular heartthrob from your friend.)

But you’ve lost your marbles, gone certifiably insane when you make a noise that sounds nothing like you.  Because you’re once again far too interested in the way Jungkook’s touching you, manhandling you as if you’re some sort of puppet.  It really shouldn’t turn you on so much, slick coating your bare thighs when he guides you onto your back, pushes you back against your too many pillows.

He’s your friend and he’s told you all about the way he fucks girls until they can’t walk.  

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want the same treatment, though. 

The moment Jungkook’s mouth finds your skin - sensitive and soft and so close to your soaked core - you keen, hands immediately flying into his silky head of hair.  It threads between your fingers like fine silk, filaments of gold overlaid in colour by the movie that still plays.  

“Oh my god,”  you gasp, entire body arching off the back of the bed in an effort to bring some form of  relief.  You can’t help the heat that burns your cheeks or how you sound, begging and pleading as you tug gently at his blond roots.  “Don’t tease me.”

You’re not asking very nicely but you figure Jungkook will give in.  It’s his fault, after all.  

His fault - which you don’t mind when he hooks fabric aside and drags his tongue across your slit, the flat of his tongue arching your back from the bed.  Can’t mind when he does it again, rounded nose bumping against your clit.  You’re trying to stay just a little bit decent, moans soft and caught between your teeth.  You’re practically biting a hole through your lip in an effort to stay quiet, hands curled into fists.  Gold spills between them and you imagine it hurts but he doesn’t stop, only works harder to drive you crazy.

Of course he’s good at this.  Too good, if you’re being honest.

You’re dripping, legs trembling in his firm, unyielding grip.  There's molten heat building in your stomach, creeping up your spine, and with each pass of his tongue over your sensitive core, it only expands.  You want more - need it - and almost beg when he catches your clit between his teeth.  A breathy baby spills out on accident when your eyes meet, gaze half-lidded.

It’s bad for your health, how good he looks right now, chin slick, lips rubied and pretty like jewels.  “Shy girl sounds so pretty.”

There's something about his praise that completely ruins you, the words dragging a delighted, sexpot moan off your tongue.  You want him to tell you how pretty you are now and later, over and over.  

You want to be his pretty girl. 

"I want you.  I need more,"  you whine, hips rutting desperately, slick messy across your thighs and shining across Jungkook's mouth.  He smiles then - brighter than the sun, utterly radiant, so devastatingly handsome you swear your brain short circuits - and then he’s doing exactly as you’ve asked. 

He eats you out like it’s an art form, flicking his tongue over your clit with practiced precision, sucking the pearl between his lips.  When he grazes his teeth over it - just the lightest pressure - you jolt, the feeling of a finger sliding into you stealing the breath from your lungs.

He’s always had nice hands, big broad palms and long fingers.  They reach places you could never hope to, stretching you deliciously when he sinks another in alongside the first, exploring you with ease.  The sting is slight, the fullness overriding any pain, further dulled by the suction of his mouth on your clit.  

He even hums when he finds the spot he’s been looking for, hooking his fingers against it and pressing.  (You swear you see stars;  you know you feel him smile, lips spread like butter over your skin when you sob.)

You can’t help yourself, writhing and moaning, trying to ride his face with a desperation that has your chest heaving.  It feels so good to have him between your legs.  You almost miss the appearance of his other hand - in view for but a moment before it disappears past the waistband of his sweats.  Dark as they are, pitch black like most of his clothing, it’s impossible to miss the way he touches himself.  It has you even needier, pussy clenching at the thought of him fisting his own hard cock.

“Do you want a hand?”  You ask as if you’re doing him a favour and not salivating at the prospect, eyes wide, blinking down at him from behind thick lashes.  

“Fuck.”  He’s sin incarnate, undeniable when he sheds his sweats, kicks them off with just one hand, other still slotted snug against your pussy.  He never ceases his movements, fucking you on his fingers even as he sits upright, leaned back on his calves.  “You want a taste?  Shy girl wants a big fat cock in her mouth?”  

There's something about hearing him so turned on, the expletive shooting a dizzying bolt of desire straight between yours legs.  You’ve seen Jungkook worked up - he was awfully competitive, after all, dominating most intramural sports, breaking PR records in the gym - but it's something else completely when he's making you drip cum all over his hand.

"Wow.”

Jungkook's cock is pretty, flushed and glossy from the pre-cum he spreads with his thumb, massaging over the tip like it owes him something.  

You want to taste it.

A contented hum rolls off your tongue at his question, though you don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.  His ego's big enough without it and you’re much more interested in stroking something else.  Still, you lean into his palm, nuzzling your cheek against the warmth of it when he threads his hand through your hair, gathering it in his fist.

Then without looking away, your mouth falls open, tongue peeking past your lips to lick a fat stripe up the length of his cock, from base to tip.  It's hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum better than candy.  You hum again, swirling your tongue around the head, and keep your gaze locked with Jungkook's, almost smirking when you drag your tongue over his fingers, gently grazing the edge of your teeth against the pad of his thumb. 

“Please.”  You’re usually far more reserved, not the kind to ask for more until you’re three months into dating and certain of where you stand.  You simply can’t help yourself now, the feeling of your own wetness painting your skin, making you clench around nothing.  "I need it."

The groan that comes sounds more like Christmas, a gift given by Santa Claus himself.  It filters into your ears and has you grinning up at him, not even bothering to hide the pride that flutters your lashes and has you pursing your lips around the head of his cock.  

When he speaks again, it’s dangerously quiet, low in his throat, laced with whatever same emotion that seems to shackle your limbs.  “Open up, ____,”  he instructs, though he offers little time to adjust, guiding his cock forward, stuffing your mouth full.  “Show me how bad.”

You don’t mind.  If you were to speak, it’d practically be a prayer, tongue tracing the veins that run the length.  A chorus of yes please more when he takes just as much as he gives.  You love the power that comes with Jungkook speaking so filthily, drunk on it when he continues, spewing filth in time with each rock of his hips.

Lips seal around the swollen head each time he withdraws, cheeks hollowing around the tip.  Tongue passes over his fingers again before your hand rises, fingers curling around his wrist to pull his own away.  (You probably shouldn't - it's too romantic - but thread your fingers through his in the same instant you sink down upon his cock, taking him halfway before pulling off with a pop!)

"Do you think you'll last long enough to fuck me?"  You’re pushing his buttons on purpose, just like he had yours during the movie. 

Something close to a snarl comes, a growl that reverberates out of that big cavernous chest of his, and he grips your hair tighter, tries to hold you still as he grins down at you.  The expression is so at odds with the warmth in his eyes, the boyish tilt of his head.

You repeat the motion again and again, taking him a little bit deeper until the head brushes the back of your throat, reflexively swallowing around the intrusion.  He's still so long and thick you haven’t even taken him all, drooling around his length, breathing through your nose and pushing past the desire to gag.  Then you relax your jaw just a little more, humming when your nose brushes the neatly groomed patch of hair at his base.

Your free hand slinks across his thigh, nails digging into the meat, delighted by the flex of muscle and sinew beneath your hand.  He's so hard, both on your tongue and beneath your touch.  It prompts you to shift forward just a bit more - you can feel the slick on your thighs, dripping down onto the sheets with each movement - and trace across his thigh to gently palm his balls.

If you could speak, you’d probably ask for more.  For Jungkook to use and abuse your throat as much as he wants.  As it stands, you can only moan around him, spit and his pre-cum smeared over your lips.

“Look at you.”  He’s talking to himself, lost in his own world as he fucks into your mouth, soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek.  You adore the way he sounds now, dazed and a little messed up.  “Look so pretty with my cock in your mouth, ____.”

You can’t do much more than look up at him, batting your lashes when he compliments you, dragging your tongue everywhere you can reach as the head of his cock batters the back of your throat.  It's not an easy feat, drool all the way down your chin, trailing down your neck and staining the silk of your camisole.

At some point, you’ll need to pull off - get a proper breath of air - but not now.  Instead, you swallow around him, savouring the feeling of him filling your mouth, and squeeze gently at his balls.  When you wink up at him, it's half-hearted and with moisture in your eyes, lining lashes in the form of little gemstones.

You do it again and again, moaning lewdly around his cock before it gets too much, pulling off of him with a gasping breath and tears down your cheeks.  “Is it my turn yet?”  You’re only half-joking, made needier by the soreness in your throat, the same you want to feel so desperately between your legs.  Pressing a sweet, chaste peck to his head, tongue dipping into his slit to gather the pre-cum that leaks out, you offer the sweetest smile you can, saccharine sweet and soft.  

“Your turn?”  The way Jungkook snorts is derisive, playful.  It pulls straight off his tongue - which finds yours, swapping spit as he guides you back to the bed.  Teeth collide, lips grown swollen by the intensity of your kiss, and you startle when he nips hard at the bottom petal.  “I thought you were shy.”

“I am,”  you retort, returning the gesture, biting into the curve of his jaw with surprising repose.  Colour blooms beneath the edge of enamel, a smattering of colour that makes you smile, eager to leave more.

Which you would do, if Jungkook weren’t stripping before you, peeling his shirt from his front, tugging it over his head in that weirdly hot way that somehow all boys did.  It reveals skin in a single fluid pull, clothing discarded to the side before he levels you with a smile of his own, one that stirs to life the dimple in his cheek, eyes squinting with the intensity of his delight.  He looks deceptively sweet this way, nothing like the demon who’d just stuffed his cock down your throat.

You’re not sure which version of him you like best.

Seeing him now, dressed in nothing but that absurd, devilishly handsome grin of his, you’re not prepared.  You’re unsure where to look, gaze bouncing between the tattoos that crawl up his arms and span over his left pec, down the neatly defined ridges of his abs, and all the way back to his swollen, shiny cock.

“You’re drooling.”  Of course it’s something he’d say - because he always knows what to say, plucking perfect words from thin air.  The casual banter calms the rattle in your chest and refocuses it on his face that’s too close, looming over yours as his hands make quick work of your clothes, shedding the fabric from your form with deft, measured movements.

You’re ready to say something teasing - anything to distract from the fact that you’re still ogling him - when he catches you in another kiss, softer this time, infinitely sweeter.  Suddenly, you’re shy - which really makes no sense, given what’s transpired.

"Don't make fun of me,"  you mumble, as bashful as you were during the movie, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.  Arms rise to cover what little of your chest you can, folding around his broad palms that encompass them whole, tweaking at the straining buds.

“I’m not,”  Jungkook reassures against your lips, face dropping into the crook of your neck.  He nuzzles against you, sucking affection into the column of your throat, shamelessly laying a wreath of lust into the delicate skin.  You wonder whether he can hear the stutter of your pulse, the reaction his next words elicit.  “You’re pretty when you do it.”

You can’t quite pull your eyes away from his face, shrouded in lemon tart, so good-looking it’s unfair; his broad back and the muscle that threads it, undulating with each movement;  or the way his thighs flex between your spread knees.  You’re dragged through heaven and hell by the brush of his lips, each glide overstimulating your senses to the point of no return.  You’re still burning up, all the foreplay leaving your legs like jelly, cunt dripping with need.  "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Probably not the best thing to say with the position you’re in but the reality of the situation is hitting you and you’re feeling a little vulnerable.  Want an answer that’ll soften the sharp edges of his teeth, the intoxicating glint in his stare.

“No, just you.”  Whether it’s true or not, you can’t say for certain.  You hope it is - wish upon a star for it, laying all your hopes and dreams into the constellations in his eyes.  They’re lovely, winking down at you from the darkest depths, guiding you home.  

You don’t mean to scoff - really, you don’t.  It comes of its own accord, spilling forth like a glass too full.

“You don’t believe me?”  He sounds almost offended, the picture of innocence when he reaches down, hand scrambling about for pooled black fabric.  Comes back up with a packet between his index and middle finger, held aloft like a prize.  

How can you when he’s ready to devour you whole, primed to feast as he rolls the condom over his length, stroking himself once, twice, gaze never wavering from where it rests between your legs.

“Always prepared.”  It’s scathing but somehow tender, too mesmerised by the way he fucks into his loose fist.  You’d say more - maybe make a flippant comment about his reputation - but can’t find the words when he’s teasing you, swollen head tapping teasingly over your core.  It feels like too much, leaves you breathless when he hikes your legs up and nearly folds you in half. 

When he presses into you, the sound you make is sinful, a moan you can’t help.  Jungkook’s so fucking big you’re sure you’re about to split in half, pussy clenching tight around the sudden intrusion.  “Oh my god,”  you whine, hands coiling into his hair, trying desperately to relax, the sting of the stretch battling the pressure that builds as he sinks further in.  “You’re so big.  I c-can’t—”  You’re starting to babble nonsense and he hasn’t even begun moving yet, lips hot over the sweat-slick column of his throat when he bows, burning his presence into the grace of your neck.  A hickey of your own creation blooms right where your mouth is, right over his shoulder.  The salt of his skin distracts you, makes it easier to accommodate the fullness.  “You feel so good, Kook.”  You rock experimentally beneath him, clenching tight as if to draw him deeper.  “Please, move,”  you beg, aiming to form another bruise beneath his skin.

The first thrust chases all the breath from your lungs, a gasp ricocheting off your tongue and into the minimal space between you.  He's absurdly big, stretching you out so well that every stroke feels like heaven.  When he pushes back in, snaps his hips in that easy, effortless motion of his, you’re making the most obscene noises, words lost to his hair as he lavishes your tits with attention.

B-big! is all you manage to squeak out.  It sounds like that, anyway.  With how he's filling you, it's hard to speak coherently;  you can practically feel him in your throat.  (Or maybe that's just from choking on him earlier.  You’re not really sure.)

Hands find their way around his neck, over his shoulders, periwinkle-painted nails leaving light etchings in their wake.  They bloom colour over his back - not too hard, careful still, motor skills barely functioning - before you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him recklessly close as the pressure builds and builds, flooding your abdomen in heat. 

There’s slick all across your thighs.  You can hear the wet sounds each time Jungkook slips almost all the way out and then rocks back in.  It's terribly messy and so hot but you’re greedy, drunk off the feeling of having this Adonis break you in half.  "Harder, p-please."  Eyes wide, you tug gently at the soft strands at the nape of his neck, meeting his with a flutter of your lashes.  "Please?"

He acquiesces without hesitation, fucks you harder, deeper, like an animal in a rut.  Grinds against you with each thrust, pushing you to your limits.  Even has the audacity to push further, until the strain in your hips conflicts with the pleasure skipping up your spine, melting you into a boneless mass.

You’ve never felt like this, stretched out and used.  You’re used to gentle lovers, sweet - if not boring - lovemaking.  The way Jungkook's pounding into you is unheard of and you’re loving it, his name whimpered on a feedback loop.  A steady Kook, Kook, Kook that twinkles in your ears, inarticulate and pleading as you rock shamelessly against him.

“You like that, ____?”  It’s a question for his own ego, something he knows but asks anyway.  (It’d be impossible not to know the answer when your cunt’s sucking him in, coating his cock in a pretty sheen.)

You’re nodding dumbly, breathless, eager to meet him each time he snaps forward.  (It’s not easy like this, practically prone beneath him, twisted into a pretzel.)  "Like it so m-much.  Feels so good.”  You can’t stop smoothing open mouthed kisses over his fluffy hair, basking in the sunshine that radiates off him. 

There's an ache starting between your legs, pussy swollen around his thick length.  You’re grateful for your natural flexibility, the hot yoga sessions you’d entertained on-and-off for years.  You’re sure you’d feel it in your legs too, knees pushed all the way up by your ears, if not for that.  

But still, you’re defenceless, made to experience each and every thing he has to offer:  every vein and ridge, the head of his cock reaching so deep it's almost too much.  With each stroke, Jungkook’s brushing against the sensitive spot that has pleasure skyrocketing, blossoming like a rose garden in spring.  "R-right there,"  you manage, rolling your hips purposefully, nearly crying each time he brushes against your g-spot.

“Right there?”  He parrots it back, infuriating and adorable, the teasing tenor dripping over you like raindrops.  They settle beneath your skin, sinking into your bones as he rears back just enough, enough to steal a kiss that’s far more tongue than it needs to be.  

It’s almost as if he’s trying to drown you, sink you beneath high tide.  

Spit descends down your chin, trails over your neck and it’s a little gross but you don’t care.  The attention he’s giving is shameless, passed over your cheeks, your throat, your breasts.  He gives and gives, both with his lips and the praise that comes unfettered.  “Perfect,”  he hums, sucking your nipple into his mouth, worrying the bud until it’s straining and puffy, too sensitive when he kisses you again and your own thigh brushes against it.  You whimper at the feeling, pulling softly at his hair, unsure whether you want less or need more.  “So sensitive.  Such a shy girl.  Such a pretty girl.”

Every word of praise has you beaming, nearly purring with delight despite the pain that comes when he puts you through the same once more, laving over the other bud with abandon.  He's sweat-slick, beads of it running down his neck, over the mosaic of bruises you’ve left behind.  It's almost embarrassing how dark his throat is coloured, a dozen reminders left all over his skin.

(You wonder how long they’ll last, how many days will pass as the colour shifts, changing like autumn leaves.  Whether they’ll still be there at your next lecture, if he’ll wear them with pride or cover up beneath one of his big baggy sweaters.)

(You hope it’s the latter.)

(Maybe he’ll let you give him more.)

(Maybe he—)

There’s a change of pace and you’re crying out, hiccupping with each thrust, the head of his cock finding your g-spot with unbearable, unrelenting precision.  Clawing at his arms, long nails digging into the firm muscle of his biceps, something between a sob and a plea rolls off your tongue, over and over.  "So big.  It's too m-much.”  And yet you don’t want him to stop, punch drunk from the way he reaches deep and pulls you tighter against him, hips risen off the bed. 

You’re begging again, eyes rolled so far back in your head you can hardly focus, the coil in your stomach pulled so tight you know it's about to snap.  When Jungkook laughs - a sweet giggle that proves his duality - you clench almost painfully, tears finally spilling over. 

One last brush against your most sensitive spot, one last thrust of that monster cock, and you’re peaking, coming so intensely you feel as if you’re soaring. Everything's suddenly so much more wet, release soaking into the linens beneath you, coating your thighs and his legs and dripping between you.

You’ve never come like this before, without some sort of direct stimulation on your clit.  It’s pleasurable in a different way, severing all your sensibilities, explosive in its magnitude.  It tingles beneath your skin, flooding all your senses. 

"Kook—please—come for me.”  You’re rocking up, forward - trying to, at least, folded as you are - singing his name, pleading for him to fuck his cum into you (momentarily ignorant to the fact that you’ve been responsible, a thin wall of latex separating you from your fucked out fantasy).  

Despite the sensitivity, you’re clenching around him, eager to bring him to his own high.  You want to feel him come apart above you, eroded into a mess like you are.

He’s just as pretty reaching his peak as he is at any other time, handsome face screwed up as if he’s reached nirvana, bliss slacking his features the longer he rides it out, bucking into you as he fills the condom and still doesn’t stop.  It’s almost unbearable, oversensitivity spilling into pleasure until he leisurely grinds to a halt, stops the inconsistent pressure against your bundle of nerves, the assault on your fluttering walls.

When he collapses against you, whole face squished between the valley of your breasts, you can’t help but laugh, the sound breathless and endeared.  “Are you okay?”  You don’t mind where he is, weight comforting, skin sticky on yours.  He’s unbelievably warm - a blanket fresh from the wash and yet so much better, lulling you into a sense of security.

“Better than okay,”  he murmurs against your chest, smothering open-mouthed kisses over skin, snickering when you jolt at the feel of his teeth over your nipple one last time.  “You’re welcome.”  It’s an indulgent, facetious expression of gratitude, one that you haven’t asked for.  You laugh all the same, ducking your head into the crown of spun gold atop his head.  

“You too.”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle​

[shatouto]

For the Snippet ask game

"The Mandalorian Alpha squeezes his hand. “Then, may I hold you in my heart as my love-bound, mine and mine only?”

As his riduur. Obi-Wan blinks. The entire display has had him flustered enough that he has to consciously bite back an acerbic Do I have a choice? that he doesn’t quite mean. He can be but grateful for this unbelievable last-moment blessing – and, to be honest, rather impressed.

“…Yours and yours only,” Obi-Wan says in a near-whisper, finally recalling the correct answer. He feels somewhat faint. “The honor is—wholly mine.”

Around him, the crowd of Mandalorians – whose show of hand has resulted in an almost unanimous decision to throw him out of the fortress – rustles, their collective susurrus bursting at the edges with a raised voice here and there, clearly dismayed. “Do you even know who courted you, Jedi?” somebody yells mockingly. Obi-Wan ignores them as he holds out his hand to his, ah, successful suitor. “May I know your name?”

The Mandalorian Alpha doesn’t take his hand, but merely rises to his feet on his own. The taciturn attitude is rather… disappointing, considering his acts of kindness small and large – the blankets and the courtship alike, – but not at all surprising. When he speaks, however, Obi-Wan cannot claim to be unsurprised any longer.

“I am Anakin Skywalker of Clan Kryze, first of his name,” his husband-to-be introduces himself stiffly. Obi-Wan’s stomach sinks. “Son of Lady Shmi Skywalker Kryze, and third in line for the throne of Kalevala.”"

My favorite scene

hiiiii and thank you for the submission-ask!!! i’ll admit i’m very happy to get an ask on TCAS (y’all know how obsessed with that fic i’ve been recently lmaooo i’m still writing). so!!! this scene!!! there is a lot going on here!!!!!! how do i do this without spoilers ldkfjdsn

ALRIGHT SO the idea behind this whole fic was that i wanted to write an a/b/o story about anakin’s self-hatred and agony over his designation, and a reluctant alpha who gets coaxed into opening up by an omega who is technically beholden to him in some way. i zoned in on the reluctance which is why i decided to go with the arranged marriage/marriage of convenience thing.

i’m just a big fan of, like, idk, multi-faceted power dynamics due to the intersection between different aspects of a character’s identity? idk how to put it in a simpler way gbfjkdj but what i mean is just, you know, offsetting the age gap and life-experience gap using the whole mandalorian/jedi thing in which obi-wan is completely disenfranchised, and an omega, whereas anakin is essentially a prince, and an alpha. i guess i just!! like to play around with dynamics and how that shapes a relationship that is still in full mutation

anyway this scene was so important to me not because of any deep reason but because as a child i read a SHITLOAD of shoujo manga and i’ve always loved the very tense “rescue” scenes. except, i was also a baby gay, and as a baby gay i eventually grew tired of The Straights, but sadly BL/GL (yaoi/yuri) back in the day was marketed as exclusively 16+ or even 18+ and talked about as if it was something dirty/naughty, so i never really had the chance to read the soft LGBTQ+ romances that i would’ve loved to read growing up, i just began to say that i hated romance instead. this courtship scene is honestly very typically shoujo-esque in terms of softness and romanticism for me, and it – like the rest of this story – is basically what young shatou would have loved to read. i’m really writing this for that kid.

okay, sob stories aside, i also read ASOIAF at the tender age of 14 and was completely enamored with the flourish in the formal dialogues and bits of courtly rituals that were depicted. so i think i’ve probably developed this lifelong fixation on, like, pseudo-medieval formalities and titles and turns of phrase sldkfjksd hence the dialogue in this snippet. anakin’s line is pretty simple but i spent A Lot Of Time on it (for my own enjoyment) lmaooo

anyway thanks for the ask (and sorry for the oversharing)! i hope you’ll enjoy the rest of the story :D

[angelharness]

DBD Killers as Yandere Archetypes 

WARNINGS: yandere content 

Not a request, but more so a graph I made while stuck in a bad mix of boredom and curiosity. Wanted to delve into the Killers as they’d fit in the ‘yandere’ trope, specifically what subsets they’d be (or archetypes, more accurately). 

Foreword that I doubt I’ll write something of this nature in the future (unless explicitly a commission) as I’m not entirely comfortable with the matter. It’s very important to recognize this characterization as unhealthy and to never enable such behavior in any real relationships. 

Will be sorting each killer into seven classes, including Isolating, Manipulative, Dependent, Possessive, Obsessive, Delusional, and Lucid

The definitions vary greatly depending on the Killer, while some may not fit an archetype listed, or could be a hybrid of any number of them. It’s also very possible for them to fit multiple subcategories. 

For reference, a general key would be

Isolating - (Usually gradually) cuts off s/o from their friends and family, secluding them and asserting themselves as their only social contact. Goal is perhaps to make s/o reliant on them.

Manipulative - Fairly straightforward, though the means of manipulation vary. Often emotionally controlling. Might resort to guilting the s/o or self-destructive tendencies to get them to stay. Goal is to assert control over s/o.

Dependent - Depends on s/o for stability or comfort. Might suffer from separation anxiety and as such is terribly clingy. Often ignores other social ties to focus on their s/o. No implicit goal, but usually wishes for reciprocation of feelings.

Possessive - Similar to Manipulative and often a package deal. Would under no circumstances share their s/o, likely frets over losing them (perhaps to romantic rivals or even misguidedly anyone they falsely deem a threat). Goal is to assert control over s/o. 

Obsessive - Not necessarily Possessive, though the two sometimes come together. An Obsessive might not outwardly act on their fixation, but silently pines intensely for their s/o. Fixates heavily on their s/o. Goal is to become closer to the person of interest, or wishes for reciprocation of feelings.

Delusional - Hard opposite of Lucid. They likely wrongly believe their feelings are reciprocated, believe them and their s/o are meant to be, or that their s/o is in denial of their feelings and it’s up to them to help them realize this. No implicit goal, but usually wishes for reciprocation of feelings.

Lucid - Hard opposite of Delusional. Well aware that their feelings are unhealthy and destructive, but usually represses these thoughts or simply doesn’t care. Might feel guilt, but it’s often overshadowed by longing. May have any of the formerly listed goals.

EVAN MACMILLAN / THE TRAPPER

Lucid, Possessive

Right off the bat can tell there’s something harmful about his feelings. They’re too heavy, intense; he’s wary of scaring you off, but once you establish a relationship you’re pretty much trapped, and he’s sure to make this known. He’ll sever any means of escape and isn’t terribly against offing any other persons he perceives as a threat. This might be as minor of an offense as another survivor expression concern for your situation. 

PHILIP OJOMO / THE WRAITH

Obsessive, Lucid

Will largely attempt to repress his feelings, sensing that it can’t quite be healthy. He considers himself too horrible of a person to ever be able to offer you a stable relationship, so he pines from afar. It aches endlessly, but he is unlikely to act on his emotions. This might come to be self-destructive, and you’ll find he lashes out at you in an attempt to distance the two of you. For your sake, he convinces himself.

SALLY SMITHSON / THE NURSE

Delusional

Her time in the fog is washed intensely in delusion. She believes, though her method cruel and unforgiving, her intentions are good-natured. The same will apply for any romantic feelings. It’s impossible to reason with her mindset, soiled with delirium, and she’ll shut down any arguments with the accusation that you’re the delusional one; she only wants to help. You’re callous, pushing her away, she convinces herself. 

MICHAEL MYERS / THE SHAPE

Possessive

He’s hard to figure out. He keeps his intentions unknowable, preferring that power over you. Feeds from your unease, and thrives off of displays of fear. He wants a reaction, that much is obvious, and no means are excessive to get that out of you. It is unavoidable that he will eventually tire of you; when you spend so long jabbing at your food with a fork, it gets cold. When that time comes, he’ll rid of you lethally. 

HERMAN CARTER / THE DOCTOR

Lucid, Manipulative

Well aware his feelings could quickly become dangerous, though doesn’t find himself caring an awful lot. He has way too much fun messing with you, making you doubt yourself, him, others. Might also be categorized as the type to isolate you, purposefully confining you, starving you of interaction beyond him. His end goal is to make you entirely and completely reliant on him, though finds the process more exciting than the desired objective. 

ANNA / THE HUNTRESS

Possessive, Isolating

To a certain degree she is definitely delusional, but I wouldn’t consider it severe enough to categorize her as such. She recognizes your fear, though believes it’s something that can be overcome with a lot of pushing. In that regard, she's impatient, and is swift to become frustrated at an immediate lack of progress. Oblivious to why you would ever need anyone else beyond her; she supplies all you’d require.

BUBBA SAWYER / THE CANNIBAL

Dependent, Possesive

Partly delusional, but knows you’re unwilling. Still, relies on you for a feeling of normalcy, that distant echo of a real, functional relationship. Couldn’t bear the thought of you with anyone else, so much he might resort to threats of violence to coerce you into staying. Whether these are empty or significant falls on you to figure out. Liable to tantrums when you’re away, though the severity of these outbursts is determined by his current stability. 

AMANDA YOUNG / THE PIG

Lucid, Manipulative 

Fairly coherent regarding her emotions, though this regulation never translates into her actions, which are twisted by impulse and anxieties. Unintentionally incredibly manipulative, will very quickly turn to self-destructive exploits to gain your sympathy and convince you to stay. Eventually, she stops caring if you’re only sticking around out of a feeling of necessity. If you ever show intent to leave, though, she’d panic. Can’t conceive a life without you now that she’s met you. 

RIN YAMAOKA / THE SPIRIT

Dependent, Manipulative

Another case of unintentional manipulation. On the verge of lucidity, but blinded by the hunger for comfort and stability you offer her. If she feels you’re losing interest, may also fall back on harmful habits, though herself isn’t certain if it’s a cry for recognition or a method of escapism. Horrified of losing you, and it’s very clear that’s the case, however she tries to subdue such feelings. Becomes incredibly reliant on you very quickly. Fixates on any acts of kindness. 

THE LEGION

FRANK

Possessive

Possessive through and through. I can’t really see him fall into any of the other categories much, but may also employ a bit of manipulation, usually in the field of threats against loved ones. It’s never clear if he’d follow through on these remarks, but given his impulsivity and history of spontaneous violence, you’d prefer not to risk it. Intensely against you socializing outside of the Legion, where he trusts them immensely and sometimes relies on them to keep you in check.

JULIE

Possessive, Isolating

Can be likened to Frank, but will never entirely trust you around the rest of the Legion; she loves them so, but is dazed in her worries of losing you. Often lashes out at them, all in her desperation to confine you to her. Never above physical threats if it means you staying. Her capacity for guilt will gradually thin, though there are moments, glimpses of lucidity where she reflects inconsolably over her actions. It all falls into a cycle, though, and she traps herself in a descending spiral. 

JOEY

Lucid, Possessive

His descent is a gradual, aching one. He watches passively as he careens into devastating obsession, worsening but with no will to stop it. Like Julie, he adores the family he’s established in the Legion, but can’t stand the possibility of losing you to one of them. It would be more personally crushing, so he figures he’d rather be safe than sorry. Calmer than Frank, but not entirely beyond threats of violence if he felt the situation called for it. 

SUSIE

Obsessive, Dependent

Lucid to a degree; she’s never been in a relationship herself, and the possibility of a stable one now is unfeasible in these circumstances, but she’s witnessed enough to understand there’s something profusely wrong with her feelings. Eventually, her mood will come to depend heavily on yours, and how you treat her. Praise and displays of affection make her day, though alternatively, something as simple as a drop in tone can ruin her entirely.  

ADIRIS / THE PLAGUE

Possessive, Delusional

Adiris is not delusional in the sense of wrongly believing you return her feelings, but instead, ignores the possibility entirely. She’s banished the notion from her mind, naively trusting that you love her wholly and unquestioningly. It will take time for her to view you as equal and acknowledge you have needs separate from her; she prefers the bliss of complete control over you. She finds comfort in her ignorance, and would never want to trade that for the much more bitter reality. 

DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOST FACE 

Lucid, Possessive

Absolutely aware of the unhealthy nature of his emotions, though thrives off the high of it. As time goes on, he needs more and more to reach that pleasure again, until he’s wrung you dry, left you empty and disjointed, and no longer sees a use in you. Views you as a beloved item, and treats you as he pleases, which is dictated by his mood (which itself fluctuates sharply). Threats are abundant but sporadic; you could be having a nice dinner and he’d flip out a knife and direct it at your neck. 

CALEB QUINN / THE DEATHSLINGER

Possessive

Does not exactly view you as an object or possession as much as he views you as just his. Wants you to be reliant, and never expects you to stray far from his side. He’ll show you off to the other killers, boasting, going on about how obedient you are, no matter if you express discomfort; he laughs it off coldly. Quickly gets frustrated at any acts he might consider instances of disobedience or defiance. Relies heavily on threats, and he can get intense. 

PYRAMID HEAD / THE EXECUTIONER 

Possessive

He is an intriguing case. The only real category I could see him falling into is possessive, where in his head you belong to him and in return, he is to protect you. If he failed that task, the only reasonable response would be punishment. Similarly, if you exhibit a lack of faith, he’ll supply discipline as he sees fit. There’s no way out once you take that plunge; a beast that can’t perish and a realm that won’t let you die sets up an eternal commitment. 

[pollylynn]

Title: Faster, Faster WC: 1100

“All that was just an act?” — Richard Castle, Under the Gun (3 x 03) 

She never wanted a pony, not for one instant. Her past is devoid of childish crayon drawings of fat bodies on uncertain legs, mane and tail streaming out behind to suggest speed and rushing wind to chase. 

And she never wanted to be a princess, though she learned to fake that one at some point. She’d learned the hard way that the lack of fascination with veiled hats shaped like a traffic cone, a dearth of fantasies of being rescued, and no hard-line preference for pink its infinite shades were all liabilities, so after a lonely second grade year, she’d learned to play at it. 

She’d sketched her share of turrets with lonely windows. She’d been good at actual horses, less so with the knights meant to ride them. She’d played the game until the boy–girl lines that diverged early wended their way back toward one another. 

She was never quite a tom boy, She was definitely never a girly girl, even when she was faking it. And as awkward as the pre-teen years were, for her as much as anyone, they were a relief, too. I like him—that one, she could point and say when what she really liked was his moves on a skateboard, his way with a banged-up bike, his obsession with NASA and all his cool toys. I like that one. 

She was never a popular girl, either. Somehow, she wasn’t, even though she was . . . sought after. All the right guys thought she was cute, thought she was cool, thought she might be fun to hang out with. 

And she was fun to hang out with. Whether she was in her harsh eyeliner and blunt bangs phase, or pairing Doc Martens with a babydoll slip dress—whatever persona she was trying on or discarding, she had an ease about her. She had the gift of flitting in and out of the groups and subgroups, the trios and quartets and whatevers that constantly split off only to merge again. 

She had an ease about her, and from that rose up the urge for a bike. It wasn’t about a boy. It wasn’t even about rebellion, though making the vein in her dad’s left temple do a little dance was definitely a bonus some days. It wasn’t about the pony she had never wanted, whatever fiction she’d invented on the spot to make the vein in Castle’s left temple do a little dance. The bike—the desire for it—was simply a thing unto itself. 

That’s a fiction, too. She knows that as she opens up the throttle right now. The bike was a new identity—a new persona, just as invented as any other. In its infancy, it spoke to the constant itch to stand on her absolute tiptoes and stretch beyond the admittedly pleasant confines of her too-little world. Friends fell by the wayside with it—girls, guys who saw it as too absurd a posture, and she was not sad to lose them. 

Later, it was continuity. It was evidence that she had once been someone—not a tom boy, not a girly girl, but someone who needed to see the black of asphalt speeding by beneath her. Later it was survival. It was the promise of a mind absolutely blank but for the concentration it took to  wind her way along rutted dirt paths with her shoulders hunched against the wind. 

It’s something like that tonight. The promise of a mind absolutely blank, and when she’s too tired for it to be safe anymore—when her thighs burn with the unrelenting effort of keeping the bike balanced beneath her at speed—she looks for the next promise.  

It looks like an actual roadhouse. It isn’t of course. The gravitational pull of Brooklyn and all its artifice is too strong. But there are bikes of all kinds leaning out front. There’s no rhyme or reason to them that would suggest any particular artisanal identity she might run afoul of, so she rolls her bike up to a spot a little apart from the rest. She slips the chinstrap of her helmet over the handlebar and wobbles a bit on her weary road legs. 

She pushes through the doors and starts working on the calculus of a woman entering a bar alone. There’s a vacant stool on the short side of the L, and at first, a buffer of two to her left and one more just around the bend. She is one whisky into her promise of a blank mind. She is staring at her hands and trying to to eradicate the image, the haptic feedback, the sound of Mike Royce’s own cuffs closing around his wrists. 

“Is this seat taken?” 

She has the impression of height, dark coloring. By force of habit she catalogs likely vital statistics and enough description for a BOLO. 

“No.” She gestures with her mostly empty whisky glass. “And neither is that one or that one.” 

He shrugs and takes the stool around the bend. There’s silence and the promise of a blank mind. She shouldn’t drink any more. She won’t, but she can sit here for a good long while, thinking of nothing. Not thinking of Royce or late night treasure hunts—not thinking of the embarrassing ninety seconds of sobbing she did against Castle’s chest as they stood, both of them, knee deep in someone’s grave with jewels at their feet, glinting hard in the moonlight. 

“It’s the softail, right?” Her tall, dark caucasian male tries again. “I like to match people to their bikes. Yours is on the end, isn’t it?” 

“Why is this your line?” she asks flatly. 

“Not a line.” He makes an apologetic gesture. “Sorry to bother you.” 

“You’re not a cop, are you?” she asks after something like a decade of silence. She’s thinking of the fat, spindle-legged ponies she never drew. She’s thinking of manes and tails streaming in the wind. She is thinking of something wholly different than the misery before her. A new person, a new cast of characters. “Your name’s not Alexander?” 

“Surgeon,” he says, drawing back a little in surprise. It’s satisfying to make him draw back—to make him unsure of himself. It’s satisfying to feel in control, even though she can still feel the roar of the road beneath her feet where they’re braced on the rung of the stool. “Josh.” 

“Josh.” She repeats She likes how ordinary the name is. How plain and predictable. She likes all that implies at this moment in her life. “Kate.” 

A/N: UGH. This is a Brain!Poneh Mary Sue. IT IS NOT A THING. 

images via homeofthenutty

[thecosmicsen]

*   :   happy valentines day @shesin​  !!

it is that time of the year where the pastel heart-shaped candies flood delicate crystal glass vases.  tacky red and golden helium balloons fill up the recently dusted corners of every single local florist.  suddenly,  no other colour theme besides the roaring lust of reds and dainty pink blush dominate the product spaces of every commercial establishment.  not so long ago,  the rosy extravaganza of this commodified holiday used tickled the boy’s heart with giddy delight to be caught up in the whirlwind romance of valentines day.  the thoughts of handwritten letters sealed with lavishing kiss marks and the abundant sweet lingering fragrance of flowers in the air were a traditional trademark for this month.  even before he had met the love of his life,  the concept of celebrating love in its full bursting eternal glory has always enraptured Jaewoo.  after all,  what is more wholesome than planning a day dedicated to rejoicing the existence of the person who owns your heart  ?

those are the memories that swirl in his mind in a hazy peachy glow filter as he awaits in the opulent hotel reception.  limbs nonchalant but his jaw taut with tension,  he reclines back in the plush armchair as he attempts to keep his impatience at bay.  he knows Inés is going to arrive at this hotel with her new boytoy since he followed her car with hawk-eyed scrutiny,  moreso since this is valentines and he knows she must have selected the disgusting deluxe valentines day hotel room offer.  his nose crinkles with heaving disapproval,  unable to fathom the images of another man between her parted legs upon petal-scattered sheets.  that should be him. 

the second the vehicle disappeared behind the barriers of the five-star destination,  he wasted no time with immediately ditching his own car elsewhere so he can make his way to his very visible spot in the reception.  sure enough,  Inés emerges from the elevators,  her latest thing in tow.  as expected,  she has gone all out for the special occasion with her pout painted ruby red and a v-neck dress that dips down just shy of her navel.  jealousy flares in the pit of his stomach and it takes all of his strained willpower to not stab the man right there and then who has his filthy hands resting on her waist.  no,  he cannot afford to yield at this moment.  he has a special gift for the woman who ruthlessly dominates every square inch space of his heart.  for every single year they have spent so adoringly wrapped up and intertwined with each other,  he has never once missed out on worshipping her existence on this day.  so why should this year be any different  ?  she still wants to claim full ownership of himself.  what Inés wants,  Inés gets. 

now she makes her way from checking in at the front desk,  the gold hotel room keycard gleaming cheekily underneath the decadent lighting as she heads giggling to the elevators,  presumably getting to the room.  on her way,  he makes sure to lock eye contact with her although she pretends to make no notice of his existence as she irritatingly continues to engage with the existence of her new toy.  that’s fine.  it’s a part of today’s exclusive heart-themed plan anyway.  even when she keeps excessively caressing swift palm touches to her new partner’s lower body and arms.  at least she knows he has followed her and made his fixed presence open for her to acknowledge,  as much as she wants to fake ignoring him.  

they head upstairs in the elevators.  to the seventh floor.  is this another fucking jibe  — 

this has become their new routine.  a waltz of lure,  nip and trap.  Inés dangles the bait of her going out with whoever she decided to piss him off with and lure him with the bait of faux albeit temporary ownership over her toy.  look how well I fuck them too,  she seems to be challenging him in his mind,  the devious glint in her darkened eyes forever penetrating the back of his mind.  yet he rises to the challenge every time.  he devours the bait and rolls it around in his mouth in relish.  this is more added time to be with her despite a third party being the cause of interference.  which is fine in the end.  he kills them all anyway.  she moves onto the next one,  he follows after her with his bloody trail.  

depending on his mood and the various circumstances that she smugly twirls him through,  he may follow them to the hotel room and make his grand entrance in there.  but today,  on this wondrous commercial holiday with origins that date back to gruesome blood-splattered epic romance antics,  a different course of action is more suited.  

heading down to the car park instead,  he swiftly searches for her maserati which he finds in no time.  making a full show of checking her car out,  inspecting the tyres,  swiping his fingers across the engine hood,  he finally makes eye contact with where he believes the black box may be hidden.  he knows she has something recording so she can get off from his spectacles of following her gallivanting about town.  now she has video material of him purposefully lurking about her vehicle as she is upstairs doing god knows what to her latest addition.  he’ll leave it up for her suspense on what is to come next.  he isn’t entirely sure on whether her recordings are linked and live-streamed to her phone but it is highly plausible.  perhaps she is even squinting at the stream mid-fucking.  the thought makes him want to smash a dent in the gleaming hood,  his knuckles whitening from the sheer force of violent anger that wrecks his body.  

leave it for later.

heading back upstairs to the reception,  he passes time by obsessively checking instagram and her other online platforms for any potential updates which he inevitably regrets seeing.  moments away from allowing the simmering nausea to just take over and allow himself to throw up on the intricate carpet details,  a more rumpled looking Inés eventually shows up again to check out.  again,  he is thrusted into a furious pooling wave of revolted resentment to witness her fucked out transformation.  but he has a task at hand.  he cannot afford to waste any more seconds of wistfully reminiscing about how he was the one leaning in,  pressing harsh kisses square to her lips,  catching her pout between his teeth till he feels it growing tender with oozing beads of blood.  

snapping out of his reverie,  he waits a few more cautious moments before leaving Inés behind in the reception to skilfully make his way back down to her car.  effortlessly opening up her car,  he quells the security with a simple flare of annoyance to jumble up the system.  he folds himself up to fit in the gap behind the driver’s seat,  his all black outfit camouflaging him for the most part.  he knows Inés will be able to detect him straight away but that doesn’t matter when he places his bets on her not immediately calling him out. 

in due time,  Inés and the guy who doesn’t deserve to have a name head back to her car in which he hears her beginning her tittering again.  rolling his eyes,  he has to stuff his sleeve in his mouth to retain audible retching as he can hear them discuss a spot for a  ‘  change of scenery  ’.  

ah yes,  this is usually the time she flaunts her exhibitionism by deliberately parking in a spot where she knows he will have a full clear view of whatever she decides to do to her partner at hand.  most of the time,  he can barely contain himself for more than a minute before barging in to interrupt the obscene display in full raging fury.  it’s slightly different this time. 

they enter the majestic vehicle,  Inés presumably acting on his bet that she will not immediately call him out for being hidden in the backseat of her car.  if anything,  he knows she purposefully slides a hand over the other male’s thigh to forcefully squeeze and grope at it hard when he slightly peeps over to see what is happening.  fuck you,  Inés.  

it’s only when they’re a good thirty minutes cruising down one of the main big roads when Jaewoo decides he will finally make his move.  stealthily shifting to the seat behind the male passenger in shotgun,  he springs up with his knife in hand and his other hand immediately finding its way to harshly yank at the hair of the male’s head,  preening his neck all the way backwards as he presses the tip of his knife against the crook of his neck.  

“  don’t scream or I’ll slit your throat open,  ”  he smoothly addresses the male.  “  mm-mm,  no funny business either.  ”  grabbing hold of the man’s sneaking hand to his pocket to retrieve his phone,  Jaewoo beats him to it and mercilessly snaps his fancy latest iPhone model within a split second in the murderous crushing grip of his palm.  now turning to Inés who is completely unperturbed by the so-called surprise,  he flattens the entire breadth of his knife’s edge across the male’s neck,  toying along the defining lines of his jaw as he maintains eye contact between her as her gaze flits directly to him and between the road,  addressing her fully now.  “  why another rich bastard with rocks for brains  ?  doesn’t your demon scum already fit that criteria perfectly  ?  pathetic.  how long did he last,  huh  ?  big boy looks like he’s about to piss himself right now.  ”  with that,  he digs in his blade with a tad bit more of pressure till a trickle of blood stains the trembling male’s neck which he smears all over the canvas of his neck,  still carefully assessing Inés’ reaction. 

“  how the fuck is it any of your business,  Jaewoo  ?  ”  she hisses at him,  his name being emphasised with callous glee that address him formally as she turns her gaze back to him with full scorn.  “  shouldn’t you be at home with your bitch  ?  why the fuck are you in my car throwing a fit about who gets to taste my cunt  ?  unlike you,  he knows when to be a good boy so that he can eat my pussy.  ”

that is when his jealousy hits its limit and his body moves wholly out of his control.  jumping forwards to the front seat where the shrieking male attempts to grab hold of him and push away,  Jaewoo is unfazed as he unstraps the cowering figure and shoves him down to the floor so that he can fully slit his throat open with the projectile of fresh blood splaying all over his body.  wrinkling his nose in disgust,  he doesn’t bother wiping off the crimson that stains his face as he shoves the dead weight of the body fully onto the floor which he uses as a footrest for himself now as he belts himself up in full bloody gore.  

the roses that he has tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket remain intact despite the chaotic jostling in the spur of the moment.  but he uses the petals to wipe off any small splatters of blood that manage to escape to the maserati’s crystal clear passenger window.  also wiping off his dripping wet knife onto the roses,  he sets the bloody bouquet in the flower holder,  their wedding ring band fully glimmering underneath the passing city lights,  showing off how its made its way back onto his ring finger.  there’s a silent plea in the silent electric tension that has utterly blanketed the air of the car as he lowers his eyes,  fully focusing on the soaked stained petals.  I killed him for you.  please accept me.  take me back.  I want to listen to you again.  I’ll be your only baby boy.  I’ll do anything to have you back again.  

here he is with a testament to his love for her that still burns like an inferno.  he hasn’t broken their tradition cycle for this day of love.  he hasn’t forgotten and never will.  Inés takes a turn and he realises that she is driving them back to her apartment.  what once used to be their home.  at least this means,  he has successfully done his work for today.  he will get slightly rewarded even if it may be a minuscule moment of her giving to him but he’s desperate.  he’ll lick up anything she has to offer him.

“ happy valentines day,  Inés. ”  he ends up murmuring,  a steely edge to his tone that’s rough with emotion.  

[theophagism]

this is gonna sound so weird but drop some book recs

please, i love giving book recs! here are a few of my favs in no particular order w/ their Goodreads summary 

Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

A stunning work that is both a novel and a poem, both an unconventional re-creation of an ancient Greek myth and a wholly original coming-of-age story set in the present.

Geryon, a young boy who is also a winged red monster, reveals the volcanic terrain of his fragile, tormented soul in an autobiography he begins at the age of five. As he grows older, Geryon escapes his abusive brother and affectionate but ineffectual mother, finding solace behind the lens of his camera and in the arms of a young man named Herakles, a cavalier drifter who leaves him at the peak of infatuation. When Herakles reappears years later, Geryon confronts again the pain of his desire and embarks on a journey that will unleash his creative imagination to its fullest extent. By turns whimsical and haunting, erudite and accessible, richly layered and deceptively simple, Autobiography of Red is a profoundly moving portrait of an artist coming to terms with the fantastic accident of who he is.

honestly my favorite book. i can’t recommend it enough. it inspired my username and my blog title both here and on my other tumblr accounts. i’m planning on getting a few tattoos based on it as well. 

tw: sexual abuse, disassociation

Night Sky With Exit Wounds By Ocean Vuong

Collection of Vuong’s poetry

tw: internalized/externalized homophobia, poetic violence, the aftermaths of war/immigration  

The River King by Alice Hoffman

People tend to stay in their place in the town of Haddan. The students at the prestigious prep school don't mix with locals. Even within the school, hierarchy rules as freshman and faculty members find out where they fit in and what is expected of them. But when a body is found in the river behind the school, a local policeman will walk into this enclosed world and upset it entirely. A story of surface appearances and the truths submerged below.

so so so so beautiful and heart wrenching. i read it in sixth grade and have kept my copy ever since and haven’t stopped thinking about it. similar to The Secret History and If We Were Villians.

tw: self-harm, suicidal ideation, brutal murder

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality they slip gradually from obsession to corruption and betrayal, and at last - inexorably - into evil. 

in my top five favorite book and one of my most reread. my copy is covered in notes and ramblings.

tw: murder, alcohol and drug abuse

If We Were Villians by M.L. Rio

Oliver Marks has just served ten years in jail - for a murder he may or may not have committed. On the day he's released, he's greeted by the man who put him in prison. Detective Colborne is retiring, but before he does, he wants to know what really happened a decade ago. As one of seven young actors studying Shakespeare at an elite arts college, Oliver and his friends play the same roles onstage and off: hero, villain, tyrant, temptress, ingenue, extra. But when the casting changes, and the secondary characters usurp the stars, the plays spill dangerously over into life, and one of them is found dead. The rest face their greatest acting challenge yet: convincing the police, and themselves, that they are blameless.

it took me a bit to fall into but it’s really good. similar to The Secret History

tw: murder

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

Around the world, black hand prints are appearing on doorways, scorched there by winged strangers who have crept through a slit in the sky. In a dark and dusty shop, a devil’s supply of human teeth grows dangerously low. And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherworldly war. Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real, she’s prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands", she speaks many languages - not all of them human - and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she’s about to find out. When beautiful, haunted Akiva fixes fiery eyes on her in an alley in Marrakesh, the result is blood and starlight, secrets unveiled, and a star-crossed love whose roots drink deep of a violent past. But will Karou live to regret learning the truth about herself?

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

A wild, passionate story of the intense and almost demonic love between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, a foundling adopted by Catherine's father. After Mr Earnshaw's death, Heathcliff is bullied and humiliated by Catherine's brother Hindley and wrongly believing that his love for Catherine is not reciprocated, leaves Wuthering Heights, only to return years later as a wealthy and polished man. He proceeds to exact a terrible revenge for his former miseries.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelly

The story of a young scientist who creates a sapient creature in an unorthodox scientific experiment.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Through the story of Charles Ryder's entanglement with the Flytes, a great Catholic family, Evelyn Waugh charts the passing of the privileged world he knew in his own youth and vividly recalls the sensuous pleasures denied him by wartime austerities. At once romantic, sensuous, comic, and somber, Brideshead Revisited transcends Waugh's early satiric explorations and reveals him to be an elegiac, lyrical novelist of the utmost feeling and lucidity.

tw: sad ending, alcoholism

Crush by Richard Siken

Collection of Siken’s poetry

tw: internalized/externalized homophobia, poetic violence

The Likeness by Tana French

Cassie Maddox has transferred out of the Dublin Murder Squad with no plans to go back—until an urgent telephone call summons her to a grisly crime scene. The victim looks exactly like Cassie and carries ID identifying herself as Alexandra Madison, an alias Cassie once used as an undercover cop. Cassie must discover not only who killed this girl, but, more important, who was this girl?

it is part of a sort of series but it isn’t necessary to read the other books, though they’re great. I also recommend Broken Harbour from that series. similar to The Secret History.

tw: murder, one brief scene of homophobia by a main character’s family

Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures by Merlin Sheldrake

When we think of fungi, we likely think of mushrooms. But mushrooms are only fruiting bodies, analogous to apples on a tree. Most fungi live out of sight, yet make up a massively diverse kingdom of organisms that supports and sustains nearly all living systems. Fungi provide a key to understanding the planet on which we live, and the ways we think, feel, and behave. In Entangled Life, the biologist Merlin Sheldrake shows us the world from a fungal point of view. Sheldrake's exploration takes us from yeast to psychedelics, to the fungi that range for miles underground and are the largest organisms on the planet, to those that link plants together in complex networks known as the "Wood Wide Web," to those that infiltrate and manipulate insect bodies with devastating precision.

tw: will make you stare at the mushrooms at the grocery store for an ungodly amount of time

[eldonash]

State of Love | Orobas&Carrington

Time frame: Middle of July. Part of Collisions and Obsessions Plot Who: Orobas and Carrington @carringtonblackwood​ Triggers: Some horror elements, mental/emotional breakdown Summary: Orobas delivers Carrington’s rescued sword, but reveals the poor state he is in because of the promise binding with Lydia, and her asking of him to find true love. Carrington gets Orobas to believe he has felt love. Orobas has a mental breakdown. 

Orobas’ face was mostly healed, though having taken extra feedings to do so, and rested inside his coffin. It was scarred in places where the holy water had eaten away at his jawline and caused holes through his cheeks near his gum line. It wasn’t overly obvious, scarring a vampire wasn’t the easiest, but it was there, in the faintest ridges, and the skin sealing closed imperfect. He didn’t care about the scars. Orobas had a low undercurrent of pain throbbing in him every second of the day ever since he decided not to follow through with Lydia’s promise. Equally believing just as she did, that this was impossible and therefore couldn’t require him effort. Orobas couldn’t feel love. He had the sword wrapped in cloth, cleaned properly being someone who sharpened and kept his own collection of blades very well cared for. He stood for two hours just outside the door. Unable to knock, his mind racing, and a bad feeling surfacing to his throat that made him thirsty and angry.

Carrington was perhaps a bit too worried about the other vampire. He wasn’t used to others being quite so blunt about their state of being. Most wanted to say they were fine, or that there was no need to worry. Or a thousand other excuses that did nothing but obfuscate the truth. Orobas hadn’t done that. He wasn’t alright. And Carrington wanted to know why. Because something had happened. It was the only explanation. The severity of that ‘happening’ was yet to be determined. So when Orobas arrived at his home, Carrington gave him time to knock. Time to announce himself. But the other vampire just stood there, on Carrington’s doorstep. As if he were waiting for something. Or avoiding it. Finally, Carrington wondered if Orobas was waiting on him perhaps. So he moved from where he had been reading on the couch in the sitting room and through the foyer to the front door. He opened it slowly, stepping back and inviting Orobas to come in at his leisure. Though his eyes traveled curiously over the bundle of cloth in the other’s hand before returning to his face. 

That was when his curiosity turned to a deep frown of concern as he saw the scars dotting Orobas’ previously smooth skin. Without thinking, Carrington reached out to touch his fingertips to the other man’s chin, tipping his face ever so slightly towards the light. He knew what holy water scars looked like. Better than most.  

“Who did this to you?” 

Orobas stepped into the home, honestly not realizing he had been lost in thought for so long at the door. Even after having moved, he was still distracted. So when Carrington stepped closer, Orobas allowed the observing touch to manipulate his face, mostly out of a hazy place he was finding himself. Though he trusted the other, Carrington's touch was exceptionally soft, and not surprising in expressing his concern. Always such a gentleman. “Hmm, not the best moment,” he said dryly, and expressionless, “I didn’t have much of a choice. Holding it in my mouth for thirty seconds was a lifetime in that moment.” He reached up and removed the hand on his face, and placed it on the wrapped sword, manipulating Carrington’s fingers so it wouldn’t fall, not that there was doubt, but in a selfishness to touch him. Having been so sure he had lost the other weeks prior, such emotions still not fully processed or understood. He stepped back, hands moving behind his back, looking ever stoic. 

“I have a Fae wanting to play games as payback. This isn’t the first time I have had adversaries coming for me. I should be okay. Though, this last bit she is requesting is challenging.”

Carrington closed and locked the door once Orobas was inside. His gentle examination was done without forethought of why, or of the possible consequences of touching the other without his permission. But Carrington rarely thought about consequences at times like these. Because although they hadn’t known each other long, Carrington found that the other vampire was… important to him. In ways he wasn’t quite sure he understood just yet. 

What he did understand was the feeling of cold fury that swallowed everything else as Orobas explained what had happened. He didn’t miss the numb haze that seemed to have cocooned the other man, like shellshock or worse. Carrington grew very, very still. The only thing that changed was the edges of his expression. It hardened, as did the icy-blue gaze that never left the other vampire’s face. Until Orobas placed the cloth bundle in his hand. The shape inside was achingly familiar, and for a moment Carrington’s attention was pulled towards it. He uncovered it with shaking fingers, and when he saw the sword he’d thought he’d lost forever, for a moment his fury was doused in wondrous disbelief. His expression faltered, and his carefully placed fingers tightened around what was a most wonderful and humbling gift. Carrington had so many questions. How? Why? When? Where?? 

But all he could manage was a slow, reverent nod as he raised his eyes back to Orobas’s scarred face, and the story of what had happened to the other vampire continued. Fae. Because of course it would be fae. “Payback for what?” Carrington asked, his grip on the newly returned sword tightening. “A mouthful of holy water is hardly a game. It’s torture. And you’re not okay. You said it yourself.” He took a step forward, closing the gap between them slightly. His eyes burned brightly as his cold fury returned. “Tell me what they’ve done. And we’ll either beat them. Or make them regret ever putting their pieces in play.”

“Payback for using her as bait, a promised sealed for almost taking her life is a deep debt. She will pay for it. I swear it.” Orobas should have smiled then, a creepy knowing grin that his enemies knew well, but he didn’t, the barest twitch to his lip in a faint snarl broke the frozen features. His life were fast snapshots. Runs of laughter and slaughter, war drums and frenzy, and Orobas was a man who was feared across the globe. His enemies ran deeply across the East, and in the American, and European cities where people crossed their paths and they wiped out clans. And yet those who survived, they dare not show their face, to walk up to Haxian and Orobas was suicide. However now, such a woman wanted to test him, with confidence, with surety. Anger coiled hotly in his center and he staggered from it, grabbing his head lightly with a press of fingers to his forehead. The sounds in the space changed, the subtle flutter of bat wings, his body almost falling apart into a swarm without his consent. Pain flashed across his features. 

His eyes were blood red, they hadn’t changed back to normal since his injury. His hunger swirled like a rotting core, unable to be fulfilled. He looked forward, fangs in his mouth exposed and suddenly smiled something corrupted.

“You know the stories of who I am Carrington. What I have done, and that I don’t regret a second of it.” He faintly laughed then, but the emotions on his face were deeply complicated and a little crazed. “I know, you have walked such a path in the past, and yet you can stand before me understanding things I can not. I want to cut you up and demand you explain yourself, and I equally want to fall at your feet and beg you to tell me what I don’t know.” 

He licked his lips, head tilted, cracks along his skin like he was so close to shattering. “Carrington, can I love someone?”

Bait. Alright. Carrington could understand how that might irk someone. Especially if that someone was an already temperamental fae. He could also understand the need for revenge someone might feel if they’d almost died. Carrington certainly felt it for the slayer who’d nearly taken his. But patience was a virtue, as they say. And knowing when the time was right was everything. To hear that Orobas had already decided to make this person pay for what they’d done to him settled Carrington’s fury, but only just. 

Seeing the scars of the fae’s cruelty on Orobas’ face, and knowing that particular pain all too well, was enough to keep Carrington’s anger burning brightly. And when something in the other vampire shifted, and he staggered, Carrington put out a hand to touch his arm light as a feather. The air was… heavy, or it seemed, around Orobas. Heavy and trembling… like something unseen shuddered in fright. Or in anticipation. When he looked up at Carrington, eyes and fangs on terrifying display, and smiled, for just a moment, Carrington got a glimpse of the man Orobas had been before they’d met. The human side of Carrington, long buried and nearly forgotten, shuddered ever so slightly. But the vampire wasn’t afraid. Uncertain, perhaps, but not afraid. 

He watched the eerie play of emotions across Orobas’ face, never settling in one place too long before twisting into something else. The confession that followed was something that Carrington was wholly unprepared for. Both in the hearing of it… and in the way he felt himself respond. Again, not with fear, but with something else. Something he didn’t understand. Something that… coiled hot and tight and almost painful in his gut - like a festering wound that needed to be opened up and drained. Something that needed to be cut out… by choice. And by the hand of someone that knew how. It was such a sudden reaction that Carrington was unable to help himself. “Part of me wants to let you…” he murmured, his eyes a deep, furious blue as he watched the subtle changes move over his companion. But the question that followed was as unexpected as the confession that came before. 

Carrington blinked. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Yes, of course you can love someone.” His tone eased just a bit, softening around the edges but not losing any of its heat or concern. “Why would you think otherwise?” Being who he was didn’t mean Orobas was incapable of love. It might not be the same sort of love as Carrington might feel for another, but love was relative, wasn’t it? 

Part of me wants to let you… He shivered and ached. Fangs exposed further with a yawned trigger that had him moving forward quickly to grip the collar of his shirt and crowd his space. Orobas’ hands tightened with a creak of joints, and the shock of pleasure in permission lit up the darkest parts of the monster. But there was pause. If Carrington was referring to his soul over painful emotions, Orobas wanted no part of such beautiful destruction. He’d fight him with all he had to preserve it. Shaking hands lifted from the grip in cotton and threaded to the side of his neck, and held his gaze with crazed desperation. Carrington, without hesitation, affirmed the impossible. Yes. 

“How?!” Orobas shrieked, the cells in his body separated and reformed. Making him appear further from humans as his features sunk in. Pain like swallowing glass racked through him as he denied it more. The promise bound wanted him to believe it, and Orobas couldn’t see it as a possible truth. He staggered into his friend, fighting this magic was impossible, and it was only getting worse. Carrington was sure in his words, and Orobas was furious. Why. The one word vibrated down Orobas’ spine. His other hand pressed into Carrington’s chest where a heartbeat would have long ago resided. His legs were surprisingly weak as he exposed the deep despondency rotting within. The stoic mask shattered.

“I have never thought about it. I don’t know what it is, what to define it as. I am not made for this. Haxian has told me I can not be loved! I don’t see how it is possible--” Orobas would choose to torture anyone over admitting he’s felt such a thing as love. Right? “Why do you think I can? How would I know?” 

If Carrington had breath to release, it would’ve rushed out of him as Orobas closed in quick as a viper. Not with fear, but with something unnameable. Something that shifted in the darkest parts of Carrington’s psyche. The part that was still locked in a coffin. Still chained to a wall, half-starved and incoherent. Still strapped to a table, having pieces cut out of him, regardless of intent. The parts that still haunted him, and needed exorcising. Parts that required catharsis in the form of choosing pain, instead of having pain chosen for him. It was rare that anyone understood such a thing. Though something told him Orobas would. In his own way. The same thing that told him Orobas would likely enjoy it. But it wasn’t something Carrington would ask for. It wasn’t fair. And right now there was a different subject on the table. Love. Which was just as frightening and dangerous a thing as the two men discussing it. 

Carrington frowned slightly at Orobas’ exclamation, but that was his only reaction. Other than to steady him as he staggered. Was this part of the fae magic that Orobas found himself tangled in? Was the pain he felt because he was still fighting it? Damn the fae and their trickery. Whatever it was - be it magic or simply emotions the other vampire didn’t know how to deal with - it was clear Orobas was suffering. But didn’t they all? 

“Love is never a choice,” Carrington told him firmly. “Not in my experience. Even when we fight and rail against it, it’s unstoppable. Like the sunrise or the tides.” He held Orobas firmly in his grasp so the other man didn’t fall as he spoke. To hear that Haxian of all people had put the notion of being unable to feel love in Orobas’ head… Carrington felt a sudden flare of anger at the elder vampire. 

“It’s complicated. And different for everyone.” Carrington squeezed his friend’s arm. “Trying to define it… can be an impossible thing.” It had been a long time since Carrington had felt such an emotion, yet he remembered it vividly. “But… why do you think it’s not possible for you? Because your sire has told you as much?” He was aware that Haxian would likely know everything that was said here today, but Carrington wasn’t out to insult the elder. He only wanted to understand what his friend was going through. And to help, if he could. 

Such questions Orobas asked. Carrington wasn’t sure how to answer, only that there wasn’t just one answer to be had. They were infinite and ever-changing. But one thing stuck out above all the rest. At least at this moment. Carrington gripped Orobas’ arms, a small furrow in his brow. 

“If you truly couldn’t feel love, you wouldn’t be questioning it.”

Carrington was telling him that he’s loved all along and such a thing was so incredibly unbelievable that it threatened the foundation of his entire life. That it couldn’t be defined made this even more confusing. If this had been the case, then all those friends he’s had, the ones that he buried himself, or watched die in his arms from a large scale battle, likely hurt so badly because he had cared about them. Orobas always swallowed it down, blamed them easily for their stupid mistakes to find themselves gone from his side, but never sat with the actual grief of it. Pain was so simply turned into anger, which turned him into a weapon-- which always forced them to leave as he would take things too far. Bring too much attention. Haxian always had to drag him away and he never, not once, processed it. In four hundred years. 

“Haxian didn’t mean it that way--” he defended his master easily, “we always left because I took things too far. I killed hundreds of people at a time! I always brought too much attention.” Realization on those spiralling moments gave him stillness and it was troubling, his gaze far away, processing things he’s never thought on. He almost wished to fall into a coma for a few decades. The starvation and torture be damned.  

Grief was a powerful motivator indeed. But didn’t grief come from love? Wasn’t grief the result of all the love you still had to give, yet had no place for once someone was gone? Carrington often thought so. Because those that didn’t love something couldn’t mourn it. At least in Carrington’s opinion. But defining love… that was an impossible task. Because it was different for everyone. Orobas’ rage and the violence that followed were but one form of what was an extremely complicated, and quite often contradictory, emotion. 

“Perhaps he pulled you away because he feared what else would come if you stayed. Perhaps-” Here Carrington paused, uncertain. He didn’t dare question the bond between Orobas and his sire, or the intentions of Haxian himself - it wasn’t Carrington’s place - but perhaps in the throes of such terrible, all-encompassing rage, Orobas had… misinterpreted. “Perhaps, as you say, he didn’t mean that you couldn’t love. Perhaps- perhaps he felt that you shouldn’t. For your own well-being.” It was merely a theory, and a hesitant one at that. But Carrington wouldn’t lie to his friend. 

Orobas winced, holding his chest as more pain throbbed. “That bitch--” he whispered under his breath, as a war drum thrummed loudly in his mind. “Bitch--” he repeated, getting angrier and angrier as he tried to figure out what to do about this last request. To find true love? How?! 

“Bitch!” He hit Carrington, but he wasn’t aiming to hurt his friend. He slid down until he was on the ground as something inside of him clearly broke-- and he screamed as it all bubbled over and spilled out. His features transformed, a frightening echo of the future Elder visage within him, if he contained wings of a bat, they would have stretched and collided into the walls. 

Anguish and frustrations pealed out in a shriek that made his body shake badly. When it tapered off, something profound met Carrington’s face. The tracks of tears, voice hoarse. This admittance was cold as ice, cruelness saturated, hatred seeping around them thicker than tar in the space. “Seems fitting-- all my enemies in the world and this is what runs the risk of taking me out.”

So he watched Orobas’ face as he processed everything Carrington had said. Along with everything that had happened before this moment, standing in Carrington’s home. When Orobas beat his fists against Carrington’s chest, he didn’t flinch, other than the tiniest furrowing of his brow. It didn’t hurt, not really. And if it gave Orobas an outlet that would help him work through what he was feeling, Carrington would willingly stand there and take it. All night if he had to. He did frown deeply as Orobas sank to the floor. Carrington followed, going to one knee and gripping the other man’s shoulder as the Elder inside him pressed against his skin. As if it threatened to break loose and explode violently into the world, tearing asunder anything that had brought pain or injustice to Orobas over the course of his long life. 

Carrington stayed there, knelt in the floor with Orobas, as an age seemed to pass. There was no pity in the act. No grief or sorrow. No patronizing the other’s reaction. There was, above all else, a low-boiling anger towards the woman - the fae - that had done such a thing to his friend. To make him suffer merely for the sake of suffering. It was cruel, and while Carrington had taken a lion’s share of lives over the centuries, and was hardly innocent, one thing he had never been was cruel. He had never stood for it. And he wasn’t going to start now. This fae woman would pay. 

The shriek that echoed through Carrington’s home was terrible indeed. If Carrington’s heart had still held life, if he’d been human… there was no doubt it would’ve shuddered with a sudden sense of primal fear. The ancient knowledge held by mankind that there were things in the dark with sharp teeth and a thirst for blood. Things that would hunt and catch and devour you whole if you strayed too far from the safety of your cave or your fire. But Carrington wasn’t human. He was the creature that crept through the shadows. That moved just outside the firelight, waiting… watching. 

So when Orobas looked up, Carrington didn’t flinch or look away. He could feel the hatred as it saturated the air around them, oozing into the cracks and crevices, and surrounding them on all sides like a dark, unyielding carapace. He slowly took Orobas’ face between his palms, blue eyes meeting Orobas’ dark ones. “You’re not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. But… you must believe that you can do this. Otherwise…” Carrington merely frowned, leaving the rest unsaid. Because unless Orobas himself truly believed that he could experience love, then it wouldn’t matter how much anyone else believed he could. It wouldn’t matter one damn bit. 

Believe it. All of him ached, and anger was easy, this twisted need to cut it out was a prevalent instinct. Orobas wanted to slip under the surface of hatred and let it consume him, he wanted to feel the burning hot flare of letting everything boil over until his name marked another catastrophe. To hear someone scream at him, terrorized and fearful. The scent of blood, the destruction-- echos of it all thrummed in his mind. But this one conversation changed everything. Even now, there was pause to fall into what he knows. 

For the first time-- he questioned the motivations of Haxian. 

When Carrington gripped his scarred face, it twitched into an eerie smile. Corruption bled easy, manifesting as shadows under his skin, making any hope to appear human dissipate in an instant. The tracks of tears were rare for the monster, and the vulnerability not often allowed. But he didn’t feel disgusted with himself over it. The moment was calm, but colder than ice. His hands gripped Carrington’s, their stare down intense, and spoke more than any words they were sharing. He slowly pulled away and leaned back so he was seated with a creak of limbs. Exhaustion had his motions continuing until he was laying down on his back right where he was, dealing with the pain of this promise had been wearing him out already, but with Carrington’s advice to believe he could, he did feel almost faintly better. Belief, was obtained now. 

Orobas could believe he felt such a thing, even if it was challenging his foundations and he wasn’t sure how he missed it. He closed his eyes, and tossed his arm over them. 

“Hmm,” a familiar throaty sound came from his chest. “This changes so much--” His voice was hoarse and tired. “How I see everything-- but I hear you dear friend. Perhaps, I haven’t seen things clearly. That is my error. If the truth is I have felt it, then I will find it. There isn’t another option.”

[starry-writes]

CHARACTERS of Ever Eden

Sage Matilda; the catalyst; the cat; she/her

Cherry chapstick and blonde waterfalls. Long lashes and puffy lips, flushed cheeks and innocent eyes. Sage has spent her life relying on the kindness of those around her to thrive. She leeches off of opportunity and is fiercely dependant on the strength of others. In the fierce and brutally honest luxury of Aspen Heights, she is unfamiliar and alien. Sunny days are rarely seen in the dark castle, and there is nothing to brighten her otherwise dull complexion. This makes her a stranger, a siren in the strange world of shape-shifters; her classmates take an interest in her bubbly charm and frail anxieties.

Naydia Gaunt; the rebel; the dark wolf; she/her

Smoke and dark edges. Pine forests and wild adventures. Naydia has been honed into an elite weapon by her heritage. She hunts rogue ‘Ere and kills them, bound by the mark of family, but creates an obsession with escape. Piece by piece, she weakens the resolve of her powerful family and, by extension, their grip on the school. The arrival of Sage Matilda -- and her brother’s interest in her -- brings forward the treachery of the dark school that she has known for her whole life. She dedicates herself wholly to diverging from her set path, thus allying her with the rebel group known as the Hark. 

Terrance Theodore; the diplomat; the hawk; he/him

Twisted words and rustling wings. Elegant earrings and long hair. Terrance has aligned himself with manipulation and lies. A pretty face holds even words. He comforts and nestles his way into hearts and then abandons them. He is easy to trust, easier to love, and difficult to abandon. He finds it effortless to talk his way out of trouble for the Hark. He is fully aware of being an outlier, one that they can’t afford to lose, but have no genuine care for. His loathing for Naydia Gaunt earns him disdain from the rest of the group, but he can’t bring himself to abandon the Hark. Old memories of a past lover haunt him, driving him back to the safety of the group again and again. He is sick of being hurt. He hates the colour blue.

Auburn Justice; the leader; the white wolf; she/her

A cool Autumn breeze. Effortless grace and dark eyes. Auburn was named for the ginger cut of hair that swept past her chin; as a child she was wild and barren, but now represents the cold with a burning passion. With hair now black, she is elegant with ease. Her sharp tongue and wit are overlooked by her strong heart and sheer power to motivate those around her, to call them to rally alongside her. She looks down upon the illusion of beauty and appreciates the real charm of personality. Her confidence is unrivalled and she will refuse to apologise for her arrogance. She wears her uniform in pristine condition, not a hair out of place. Her place in the Hark is threatened by the presence of the dark wolf, and she will fight for it. Misses the ease of childhood. Craves her freedom. 

Delly Ravensleigh; the scribe; the doe; they/them

Faded parchment and ink stains. Vibrant colours and wild curls. Delly is flexible and vivid. They dedicate their identity to transformation and change, and take pride in their art. Delly is a creator by nature. They create worlds on paper and can document any experience flawlessly, capturing every scent and sight of the moment. Just as their writing and paintings sprout when around the Hark, so does their personality, becoming a sleek and bright force to compete with. They are bubbling and gushing like a river in the correct company, but timid and unsure with others. Their warmth is an easy contrast to Auburn’s cold passion. It is easy -- perhaps too easy -- to find a friend in Delly.

Lark Smith; the spy; the fox; he/him

Carefully sealed letters. Secret crushes and lipstick on necks. Lark is a gatherer of secrets. He was neglected as a child, abandoned to beasts that treated him as inferior, and this left a mark on his speech. He doesn’t talk, even when pushed to his limits. But he is a collector and a hoarder, of both hushed words and trinkets. He collects useless little bobbles, love letters exchanged by young dreamers, confessions whispered in the hallway. He is calm and dark, gloomy, but with the Hark he seems to open himself to love. He dances in the rain. He watches Bastion with nothing short of adoration. He puts on makeup and steps out of his dark crevice to give sharp giggles and silently watches over his friends

Bastion Bayley; the warrior; the bear; he/him

Sharp teeth and red capes. The cool edge of a blade. Bastion wants to be the hero in every story. A handsome sidekick, a plot device, but in the story that is life, he will never be anything more than that. He has big dreams and a lot at stake - to be more than his absent father. To protect the Hark, he must become the guardian that he missed as a child. He fights mercilessly and kills without a second thought, disconnected from reality when those he loves are in danger. It’s too easy for his connections to slip through his fingers when he least expects them to. He is possessive, aggressive, obsessive. He has seen detention more times than he can count, and doesn’t care.

KEEP READING for the Taglist! 

TAGLIST: @inkwellprincess

Feel free to ask to be added!

Feel free to send an ask requesting more details on any character, I’d be happy to give it!

[thethespacecoyote]

“work it out”

On the counter sits a stack of mail Ben had presumably brought in before leaving for work, and to Hux’s dismay he sees one of those detestable maternity magazines sitting right at the top. He’d told Ben to cancel their subscription but he must not have gotten around to it yet. At first, Hux had wanted to read all he could about pregnancy, absorb any tips and tricks from other expecting couples, but as his own wore on he’d soured on these publications. Pure drivel— nothing but pages and pages of omegas showing off fake smiles and fashionable sweaters and blouses and cute, petite baby bumps. Doing yoga and eating salad with their airbrushed skin and snug Lululemon leggings. Idiots. They have no idea what a special kind of suffering it is to lug around a pair of Ben Solo-sized offspring.

Hux hates them.

Combined my enjoyment of personal trainer Kylo with my enjoyment of pregnant Hux. Modern AU, fluff, self esteem issues, probably a touch OOC and indulgent. Enjoy. 

Check it out on ao3 too!

Hux wakes up in the tail end of the morning, as he’s fallen into the habit of doing. It’s easy to sleep late, especially when he’s up periodically in the night to pee or indulge his cravings or merely lie in bed, miserably, while the unborn children in his belly decide to throw a party.

Hux sighs heavily when the world comes back to him, first in fuzzy shapes, then a bit clearer. In his sleep, he feels lighter, blissfully removed from reality. But now that he’s awake, the familiar heaviness settles into his body, and he remembers just how large and uncomfortable it’s become.

He blearily looks downwards, placing a palm on the swollen lump visible beneath his bed covers. Grumbling, he peels them away, sticking out his lower lip as he takes in the state of his belly.

Hopelessly round and weighty, just like he’d left it last night. Probably grown imperceptibly bigger in the hours he’s been tossing and turning, if he’s being honest. The pregnancy likes to sneak up on him as he sleeps, taking him unawares and inflating his stomach to grotesque new proportions.

Hux stays on his side, not yet willing to try to sit up or turn around, and looks over his shoulder. Though he knows he probably won’t find what he wants, part of him hopes to see Ben lying there asleep, messy black hair spread all over the pillow, awaiting a couple kisses to wake him up. But no—of course the bed is empty, covers clumsily straightened back into place, with only the faint scent of Ben clinging to the fabric. Hux’s face falls, and he thumps his head back against the pillow. He noses into the hood of the jacket he’s wearing, searching for a stronger source of Ben’s scent. He rarely borrowed his boyfriend’s clothes before, but ever since falling pregnant he’s almost become obsessed with them, especially his outerwear. The one Hux has on right now is one of his favorites—well-worn and soft, emblazoned with Ben’s alma mater and utterly soaked in his smell. The cords of the hoodie tip in little metal aglets, which Hux likes to fidget whenever he’s anxious.

Unfortunately, it’s still no substitute for his boyfriend’s presence.

Bless his heart, Ben tries to take more time off of work. He already has a bit of an irregular schedule, so it’s easier than if he had a nine-to-five job, but still there’s been many times where Hux has needed him and he’s had to leave for one of his sessions. After all, even with Hux on paid leave, Ben has to keep working to save up money for when the twins finally arrive.

Rationally, Hux knows they’ll be fine in terms of finances, with at the very least Ben’s parents helping to foot the bills, but some days it’s just another worry threatening to tip the tottering pile of emotional distress right over.

It doesn’t help that, in moments of extreme weakness, Hux has begun to wonder what Ben sees in him anymore.

He’s become ugly. Utterly undesirable. Hux never considered himself some high standard of omega attractiveness in the first place, what with his underwhelming frame and average looks. Yet somehow, a verifiable heartthrob like Ben, who’d  made an entire career out of sculpting muscles and tightening abs, had found something salvageable there—consequently inspiring Hux to frequent the gym more. Ben had even gifted him a discounted pass, and though it was difficult with his job’s schedule, he’d started to seriously work on his arms and upper body as well as increase his cardiovascular fitness. It’d been a meager improvement, but improvement nonetheless, and Hux had felt he was finally on his way to becoming more worthy of his boyfriend.

Then he’d fallen pregnant.

At the first, joyous outset, the inevitable changes to physical form hadn’t even crossed Hux’s mind. He and Ben had been far too busy scurrying about, planning for the imminent arrival of their children. Hux remembers feeling a little afraid, in that giddy, tickling sort of way, but mostly elated at the thought of finally building a family with the man he’d loved for years. And though he escaped the worst of morning sickness and other typical early pregnancy woes, he’d soon started to change in ways he didn’t feel particularly fond of.

The fact that they were having twins hadn’t helped. He’d rightly blimped up in the middle of his second trimester, and things had only grown worse from there. Now, in the beginning of the third, Hux considers himself a bloated shell of his former self. Like an overfilled water balloon, heavy and ponderous and ready to burst, yet he still has a few months left before their children are born.

Hux hates looking at himself in the mirror anymore, pointedly glancing aside when he has to wash his hands or strip to take a shower. Thanks to his slender frame, he’s never quite had the “typical” body of an omega, but now there’s a new, disconcerting roundness to his thighs and hips, and it doesn’t stop there. The weight gain is obvious all over, even in his face, where his cheeks and chin have grown a little chubbier. And of course his belly is the worst offender—a big pale blob, striated with red marks like he’s been stricken with some kind of infection. He detests washing himself now, but having Ben do it is almost worse—Hux can’t help but imagine he too dislikes every distended inch.

Overall he feels wholly unattractive and overweight, but what’s worse is that he knows it’s normal, that his slim build and short torso probably caused him to carry larger, that he probably needed to gain some weight to remain healthy, but it’s still screwing with his emotions and making him feel like a weak-minded and feeble child.

Even getting out of bed is a chore now. Hux puffs his cheeks out with exertion as he props himself up on one arm and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His other hand cups the curve of his belly as it settles right atop his upper thighs, obscuring everything below. Hux takes a moment to steel himself, before pushing up hard, using the edge of the nightstand to help steady himself as he swayed to his feet.

Immediately, his ankles smart at the weight. Fantastic.

He ambles from his bedroom to the kitchen as best as he can, forcing himself to go slow though he’s eager to snag a warm drink to help calm his unruly insides. Beneath his sweatshirt, his belly moves, which he almost feels in his kidneys. He’s not totally used to the sensation of something solid shifting inside of him. It’s a nice sensation, considering he knows where it’s coming from, but also a bit unsettling.

“Easy,” Hux whispers hastily to his belly, giving it a small pat as he continues shambling towards the kitchen, his bare feet padding against the tile floor. One of the twins rolls back against his palm but seems to settle after that, leaving Hux a brief respite to grab something for his stomach.

He used to drink those berry protein shakes Ben favored, but thanks to some quirk of pregnancy he can’t even stomach the smell of them now, much less the taste. Ben has to prepare them when Hux is out of the room, or else he’ll gag, something he feels very ashamed and guilty of. Ben has had to shift around so much in his life to accommodate Hux—far too much, in his opinion.

He wishes he hadn’t become such an unsightly burden on his boyfriend.

Hux glumly searches for a mug, finding most of his usual ones in the wash, and finally decides to choose a dark, space-patterned cup that belongs to Ben. It’s part of a collection, actually—nine in total, each emblazoned with a design of one planet in the solar system that only properly appears when it’s filled with hot water. The one Hux finds is Jupiter, like this is some sort of cosmic joke at his expense. That big and ugly red mark certainly sticks out in a similar way as his belly button, and his children do love to kick up a storm inside him. Perhaps it’s more fitting than he wants to admit.

Hux sets the mug on the counter before filling the hot water kettle and flipping it on. He waddles over to the cupboard, scrounging for the brand of decaf tea Ben bought him recently. It’s a blend that’s supposed to help his stomach, yet Hux isn’t all too fond of it. It has a strange taste, reminiscent of anise, but he’s sipped worse. At this point, he’s grateful for anything that helps him relax.

He drapes two tea bags into the mug, resting his hip against the edge of the counter as he waits for the water to boil. When he glances over to the clock on the oven, he finds it’s a lot later than he thought—past noon, in fact. Lord, he’s really let himself go, hasn’t he? Before, when he still had the energy and ability to go into the office, he would wake up every day at six o’clock and run through his meticulous morning routine with ease. Now, he can hardly drag himself out of bed for a cup of tea before it officially becomes the afternoon.

On the counter sits a stack of mail Ben had presumably brought in before leaving for work, and to Hux’s dismay he sees one of those detestable maternity magazines sitting right at the top. He’d told Ben to cancel their subscription but he must not have gotten around to it yet. At first, Hux had wanted to read all he could about pregnancy, absorb any tips and tricks from other expecting couples, but as the pregnancy wore on he’d soured on these publications. Pure drivel— nothing but pages and pages of omegas showing off fake smiles and fashionable sweaters and blouses and cute, petite baby bumps. Doing yoga and eating salad with their airbrushed skin and snug Lululemon leggings. Idiots. They have no idea what a special kind of suffering it is to lug around a pair of Ben Solo-sized offspring.

Hux hates them.

The kettle pings behind him, a little jet of steam streaming from the spout. Hux nudges himself off the counter, grabbing the mug and carefully pouring the water into it. He lets out a small yawn, the passable scent of the tea filling his nose as he sets the kettle aside and carefully lifts the mug.

He’s ready to settle into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and fritter the rest of the day away, at least until Ben returns, when one of the twins suddenly shifts and kicks him hard in the diaphragm.

“Ah!” Hux shouts, one hand clamping to the side of his belly, the surprise and pain causing him to lose his grip on the mug and sending it crashing to the floor. Hux flinches at the sound of shattering ceramic, unable to even see where it’s fallen or how badly the cup has broken with the bloat of his belly in the way. He hunches over, trembling hand braced against the edge of the counter as he takes several deep breaths, suddenly feeling his lungs tighten even as the smarting pain of his pup’s movement ebbs away. Hux grits his teeth in frustration, feeling warmth rise up in his cheeks. He can’t even make a cup of tea without messing up, can he? He doesn’t even get to have that, does he?

Screw it. Hux throws up his hands, leaving the mess on the floor and stomping to the living room. With tears building in his eyes, he flops himself down sideways on the couch and curls his legs up as best as he can manage. Even lying down, his belly still sticks obtrusively in front of him, like a taunt. He tosses an arm over his eyes, not wanting to look at it any longer.

Hux stays that way for a long while, sniffling, trying to phase into the couch cushions so maybe he won’t have to occupy the physical body he hates for a moment longer, until the door to their apartment clicks. The tell-tale heavy, measured footsteps that could only belong to Ben follow. Hux curls up tighter, hugging his other arm around his waist, anticipating—

“Armie? You in here?’ There it is.

Hux puffs pathetic breath through his lips, wishing he could pretend to be asleep and avoid a conversation he does not want to have right now. Yet Ben always has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to his boyfriend’s distress levels, and in a moment he’s poking his head around the corner from the kitchen, eyes immediately falling on Hux.

“You okay?” Ben asks, the rest of his body promptly following. Hux grimaces once he sees those broad pecs and sculpted shoulders, just barely concealed beneath a compression shirt spotted with perspiration. Ben’s whipped his damp hair back in a messy bun, and his cheeks are a little flushed. He must’ve just come out of a training session—most likely with one of his more athletic clients, if he’d broken a sweat. Training post-op patients or middle-aged ladies isn’t exactly so strenuous.

“What’s up? Is something wrong?” Ben asks again, placing his tennis shoes atop the little metal rack near the floor before padding on over. Hux averts his eyes and nibbles his lower lip, not wanting to talk about it. If he does, he feels like he might start to cry again, and he doesn’t want to act so disgracefully in front of his boyfriend.

But Ben is notoriously bad at leaving him alone. He crosses the living room and kneels at Hux’s side, the smell of sweat and deodorant following him.

“Can you tell me what happened? Is it the twins?”

Hux shakes his head quickly. Irrationally upset as he is, he doesn’t want his boyfriend over-worrying about the twins. Ben looks relieved.

“That’s good. Are you just sore again or something? I can run you a bath or rub you down if you want.”

Hux shakes his head again, now frustrated with Ben’s niceness, his willingness to give him all that he doesn’t deserve. Ultimately the longer this drags on, the more silly he feels, so he ends up just blurting it out.

“I broke one of your mug,” he states, fiddling with one of the hoodie’s cords. “I’m sorry.”

“I saw,” Ben replies slowly, resting his hand on Hux’s shoulder and stroking it with his thumb, “it’s okay. It broke into big pieces, so I think I can fix it.”

That should be a relief to Hux, should help to ease his guilt over breaking one of Ben’s favorite mugs, but it doesn’t.

“You shouldn’t have to fix it.” He can hear his voice wavering, but tries to keep pushing the words out. “I shouldn’t have broken it in the first place, but this one—” he points accusingly at the side of his belly, “—jabbed me and it really hurt!”

Hux’s voice breaks on the last word as he rapidly blinks his eyelids, trying to prematurely stave off tears. It had hurt, he’d been so shocked at the sudden punch of pain in his side. He’s doing his best to carry his children, and it feels like they already didn’t like him, already want to harm him. Like he isn’t doing enough and this is his preemptive punishment for being a rotten father.

“It’s just a cup,” Ben tries to soothe, but Hux can feel himself already working up to hysteria. He can’t stop himself, and even as his boyfriend tries to quiet him his breath starts to hitch in distress.

“This is miserable. I’m already such a failure of a parent...and a partner...I can’t even be left alone without ruining things. Everything feels r-ruined.”

Ben presses his lips together, eyebrows following suit. He lets the silence settle between them, broken only by Hux’s messy whimpering, before speaking up.

“It’s not about the cup, is it?”

It wouldn’t surprise Hux if he did cry over something as silly as a cup. But no, it’s not just about that, of course. And when Ben asks him so earnestly, in that soft voice of his, as if Hux could admit to murder and he would still understand, he can’t help but let it out. Unwilling tears spill over his cheeks as he lets out a damp sniffle.

“Look at me. Look how large I’ve gotten. I’m disgusting,” Hux hisses miserably, scrubbing at his eyes. “And foolish. Crying like this. I should just accept how horrible I look, and not winge on about it.”

“Strawberry, everything you just said was totally wrong.” Ben flinches as Hux whacks his arm, glaring. “I—wait, let me rephrase that—”

“What?” Hux growls, annoyed despite the use of his favored pet name.

“It’s just…” Ben sighs, moving his hand up and down his boyfriend’s upper arm. “You’re not disgusting. You don’t look horrible, and it’s alright if sometimes you need to cry. Okay?”

“You don’t need to lie. It’s grotesque. Obviously no one could ever find...this attractive.” Hux gestures at his horribly swollen belly. He must look even more pathetic, his eyes inflamed with tears and his cheeks puffy and stained. “Especially not someone like you.”

Ben frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hux huffs through wet, wibbling lips. Did Ben not understand? To him, it was obvious.

“Because you’re...I dont know…you’re so….you,” Hux finishes lamely, but seems to get his point across when he gestures at Ben’s bared shoulders. “Strong. Fit.”

“It’s my job to be...me,” Ben starts cautiously, rubbing Hux’s arm. “But it’s your job to keep the twins safe until they’re ready, and I think you’re doing pretty great at that.”

“Yes, yes. I just wish I didn’t look so….plump and slovenly in the interim,” Hux grimaces as Ben wipes at his tears with his other hand, though he doesn’t swat him away. “Whenever we go out together...it feels like people are thinking you’re too good for me.” Even when they’re buying things for the baby, or even mere grocery shopping, this kind of doubt lingers in Hux’s mind. Surely there’s plenty of fit, slender, protein-guzzling omegas his boyfriend would rather breed with?

“You don’t have to be like me,” Ben soothes, “I don’t want you to be exactly like me, if you don’t want to.”

“So you’re saying you find this attractive?” Hux rubs his hand against the side of his belly, disbelieving. Ben’s eyes darken, and an uneven smirk picks at his lips.

“Very. Did all the sex we were having not convince you?”

“I figured you were just giving me what I wanted because I wouldn’t stop bothering you…” Hux groans, though he feels a bit less disconsolate than he had before. As his alpha, Ben has a calming effect on him, his words easily assuaging all his most dreadful fears. But apparently, he’s not content with just verbally comforting him.

Ben starts unzipping his hoodie, and though Hux’s fingers twitch to stop him, to hide his body from his boyfriend’s eyes, he stops himself and instead fists them into the fabric. He watches Ben pull the zipper down over his chest, then over his middle, until the garment hangs completely open over his pale skin. Hux shivers softly, cheeks glowing as Ben carefully pushes it apart, exposing the immense swell of his belly.

Hux instinctively grimaces at the sight, but Ben doesn’t wait for his complaints, instead leaning in and pressing a kiss to the side of his stomach, working a little trail down. He shivers at his boyfriend’s softness, the way he flatters every inch of his skin he can reach with his mouth and the careful cradle of his palm. Ben even kisses those awful red stretch marks that won’t fade no matter how much lotion he uses. When he gets near his protruding belly button, Hux feels one of the twins shift, pushing out the skin just below his boyfriend’s lips.

“Hmph.” Ben snorts softly against his stomach. “Afternoon to you guys too.”

“They like you a lot,” Hux whispers, heart jittering each time Ben presses a kiss to his skin. “They’re always excited to feel you.”

“I’m excited to feel them too,” Ben sighs happily, brushing his cheek against the side of Hux’s belly as he lightly rests his head. His soulful brown eyes drift up to Hux’s face, imploring.

“You believe me a little more now?” He steals one last, sideways kiss against Hux’s skin. “Or do I need to do some more convincing?”

Hux hates to admit how easily Ben gets him to melt and forget his woes. It’s almost sad, how they flee so quickly whenever he’s around with his soft words and gentle touches, only to creep back whenever Hux is alone. Ben really needs to negotiate some more spare time around his training sessions, especially as they get closer to the due date.

“I suppose if you thought I was ugly, you wouldn’t be lavishing kisses all over me,” Hux admits with a fond sigh, ruffling his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. “Though you do give affection away as readily as an oversized puppy…”

Ben lets out a soft, playful chuff and shakes his hair in response. That gets Hux properly chuckling, before he quiets, consumed with the unwashed sleekness of his boyfriend’s hair. Eventually, Ben lifts his head off of Hux’s belly, though he keeps close so he can continue petting him.

“I think you’d be more comfortable on the bed, or in the bath.” Ben leans in to steal a quick kiss from Hux’s lips, even as they sour into a frown.

“Ideally, but it took quite a bit of effort to get all the way over here. I don’t particularly want to wobble back to the bedroom at the moment.” Hux had just dispelled the worries over his appearance. He doesn’t want them rekindled too quickly.

“Alright, I’ll carry you. No big deal.” Ben rethreads his ponytail, before rising up into a crouch. Hux’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm.

“Ben, wait, I don’t think—” He yelps as his boyfriend slides his hands underneath his body, cradling his knees and upper back as he hefts him up in his arms. Hux scrabbles, expecting Ben to falter and drop his cumbersome body to the floor, but he holds firm. Muscles in Ben’s chest and arms bulge out as he supports his boyfriend with little effort, lips parting in a breathless smirk.

“See? Doesn’t matter how big you are, strawberry, as long as I’m strong enough to lift you.” Hux rolls his eyes, swatting Ben’s chest in rebuke for his sentimentality, but relaxing into his steady embrace ever the same.

“It won’t be so easy when they’re born and growing. I expect you to be able to carry all three of us then, you beast,” Hux replies as he leans his head on Ben’s shoulder, letting his boyfriend tow him back to the bedroom. He feels a chuckle rumbles throughout Ben’s chest, muscles flexing in confidence.

“Think I’ll be up for the challenge.”

[diloph]

Pardon me, but it seemed from some of your posts on KOTM that you didn't like Mark Russell that much. I know he was a cliche everyman type, but what exactly made him any worse than others in these movies?

I apologise if this isn’t my most coherent answer. I’m a little bit stressed at the moment, trying to finish the next chapter of IIID and create relevant, if poorly assembled memes before the Invader Zim movie is released.

To be honest, some of it is a bit tongue-in cheek. Making fun of the most visible character in the film, considering that he hates Godzilla with a burning passion, is just a little bit of fun. It’s like how I refer to Rick Stanton with disdain sheerly because he’s somewhat based on Rick Sanchez, who I don’t dislike either.

The film isn’t about Mark: King of the Fathers anyway, so if I completely despised him, I could just zone out during his scenes, or skip them when the DVD comes out.

But… some of it wasn’t so jokey. He’s still an okayish protagonist, I’ve got nothing against the actor himself and his acting is fine. Still, Mark was loud, abrasive and hated Godzilla; you know, things that grate on my nerves when it comes to a 2+ hour Godzilla movie and that made the character… trying.

We’ve had them before, but Godzilla was generally more villainous and obviously, we feel sympathy and camaraderie with him as the title character and we are here to see him do cool things. Having a human protagonist who hates our cool monster protagonist makes sense in universe, but ultimately, it’s not what we’re here for. We can tune that out.

As for what makes me dislike Mark… for starters, he’s kind of a prick. I once saw somebody describe him as the type of guy who thinks that if he speaks loudly enough, shouts enough, he’ll get his way. I can’t say I blame them, in that first meeting with MONARCH, he’s downright hostile.

He’s also, for whatever reason, the guy that everybody turns to in the crisis. He might have a background in bioacoustics like his ex-wife and animal behaviour besides, but apparently nobody else at MONARCH is capable of doing things without the express instructions or approval of everyman Indiana Jones. Military procedures, common sense, the desperate plan to revive Godzilla; everybody seems to defer to him really quickly.

It took me out of the movie. I understand that he’s meant to be our relatable protagonist, but it’s a little bit jarring and it happens multiple times. Mark is either issuing instructions or is along where he shouldn’t be, given control of a situation where by all rights he shouldn’t have any other than spur of the moment hero stuff.

It’s like he believes that nobody has any common sense and frustratingly, a couple of times the narrative agrees with him or at least proves his actions right. For example, when Colonel Foster tries to brief MONARCH on the actions of Jonah and the terrorists, he shoots down her theory and proceeds to go on a rant as to why we should Destroy All Monsters.

He’s right, as Jonah wants to free King Ghidorah, but he has this frustrating “protagonist only” habit of noticing threads that other characters really should (nobody seems to notice that the Titans are attacking capital cities or at least very densely populated areas until he points it out), then speaks about it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Which when MONARCH is meant to be staffed with scientists of multiple disciplines veers back into the incredulous. I can suspend disbelief when it comes to giant monsters, I don’t excuse people not seeing what’s in front of them.

And as for the moments where he really shouldn’t be issuing instructions, take a look at when Rodan is freed by Emma Russell. Serizawa instantly defers to him (I think that Mark might have been his senior before he left MONARCH and BOY do I want to talk about that plan later on) to cook up a plan instead of… himself (Director of MONARCH, or at least I assume so) or again, Foster, who controls the planes and men he wants to send at the giant pterodactyl that just shrugged off a molten lava flow.

Given his characterisation as an angry, driven father who is desperately looking out for his family after being bereaved by monsters and is butting heads with the scientists at MONARCH, I think it was an attempt by Legendary to recreate Joe Brody. Bryan Cranston’s character in the previous film was killed off too early and was featured in a lot of the trailers, giving a wonderful performance. When he died to be replaced by his son, Ford, it caused a backlash as a result.

Mark being that angry, snarky character definitely shares some similarities. But while Joe was a crusader for the truth and more than a little bit obsessive, he was trying to pierce the veil as to why his wife died, without realising that it drove his son away from him. He was trying to reveal this great coverup to the world and spent the rest of his life doing so with such conviction that he appeared crazy.

Mark… doesn’t have this driving force. He lives in a post-San Francisco universe. Monsters Exist and everybody knows it.

Now, that’s not to say he doesn’t have reasons for acting as he did. He lost his son and has driven a wedge in between his family via his drinking problem (but let’s face it, compared to unleashing the Titans by starting off with Space Dragon Satan, he’s taken it comparatively well) but he acts as if he’s the only person who has ever lost something to Godzilla and the rest of the monsters.

Even when that happens to characters in the film, Mark still acts like that and it doesn’t make him look like the grim, determined hero, it just makes him look like an obnoxious dick. It isn’t his way of coping with the trauma of loss, he just… does it.

Part of me does get why he’s annoyed and angry with MONARCH’s attitude towards the Titans. He’s correct that they’ve been keeping secrets, dangerous ones at that, but equally the kaiju are living things. They’re dangerous and unpredictable, yes, but MONARCH have been taking precautions; killswitches are present in even the supposedly benevolent Titan’s chambers like Mothra and as far as they know, all of the Titans bar Godzilla are dormant and those that aren’t are kept in check by him. Had the Ghidorah Crisis never arose, we may never have seen any other Titans for the rest of human history.

But he treats everybody around him like an idiot with little to no prompting. Mark is brought on as a consultant and he then proceeds to dominate the scene, either through his decisions in universe or the part written for him out of it. He gets the last word, the last say on a plan or a witty remark or whatever.

And some of that costs lives. Actually, no, a LOT of it costs lives.

So, to start off, when the operation in Antarctica goes tits up, Mark grabs a handgun and goes into Outpost 32 by himself (though what he and the central nervous system of MONARCH were doing on the ground and not supervising from the Argo remains to be seen, but I digress). He stops Jonah and the terrorists on the walkway… screwing up Foster’s attempt to take down Jonah, forcing her to snipe his henchman in order to save Mark’s life.

This leads to King Ghidorah waking up. Not going to extend him a great deal of blame for this one, as with a sniper present, Emma or Madison would have been forced (or “forced” in the former’s case) to retrieve the detonator and the Six-Eyed, Six-Horned, Flying-Golden-People-Eater would have gotten loose regardless. Hell, I spotted clues that he was gearing up to wake up without Emma Russell’s help.

In a narrative sense, its his character that also sets up Vivienne Graham’s death. If he hadn’t been stuck in the tangle of wires and metal aboard the Osprey, she would never have needed to stay behind to help and subsequently got singled out by King Ghidorah.

I’d definitely agree that this is more of a personal thing on my part, as I’d wanted to see more of Vivienne’s character thanks to her actress’, Sally Hawkins’ work in The Shape Of Water and that in the previous film. But in a way, he is still sort of responsible for her being written out and replaced with the vastly less interesting replacement characters of Rick and Mor- erm, Sam.

That said, I know that Ghidorah is 100% to blame in universe. He killed her because he was a bastard and I wanted to him to be a bastard, so the monkey’s paw curled a finger there, so that’s egg on my face. It certainly did wonders for establishing him as a monstrous villain who we love to hate.

I’m not wholly unsympathetic to Mark. Like I said before, the pain of loss over the 2014 attacks hurt him badly and the film doesn’t shy away from this. Mark’s descent into alcoholism is noted by both himself and his family as a rough time for all involved, part of the reason he left MONARCH in the first place. Having his daughter and ex-wife seemingly kidnapped by dangerous ecoterrorists who plan to unleash giant monsters to mass-cull humanity also wears his patience thin, as you might expect it.

But he keeps this… horrible attitude throughout the movie. The world is literally going to shit, another monster is about to be unleashed and he asks if MONARCH have had enough common sense to evacuate the town of Isla Del Mara and if Rodan has had a cutesy name all picked out from mythology for him ahead of time.

Fuck me, if I was Serizawa, having just lost my protégé and quite a few well-meaning soldiers who were trying to rescue somebody who turned out to be a massive ecoterrorist nutjob, I would have floored him. There is a time and a place for snarky comments and it is not after at least twenty people you worked with are dead and BILLIONS MORE MAY FOLLOW.

But now, one of the points that really got me disliking Mark Russell follows here. The scenes that start at Isla Del Mara and the luring of Rodan to King Ghidorah, all the way up until the detonation of the Oxygen Destroyer.

Rodan emerges from the volcano and asides from spreading his wings and roaring, doesn’t do much. He spots the incoming Argo and its entourage and narrows his eyes. Uh oh! Surely, at this point, the dastardly destruction god would leap from his perch in an attempt to chase this challenger from his territory?

Um… no. No, actually, he stays put.

Now, I get that Rodan might not have stayed that way for very long. From the ensuing chase scene, I can gather that the Monsterverse’s version of Rodan is a bit of a dick, but he still didn’t start the fight.

Instead, what happens is that Serizawa asks Mark what they should do and Mark comes up with the plan to get Rodan to fight King Ghidorah in the hopes that one will kill the other and that would at least solve one of their problems.

Sound in theory, yes, but it is not sound in execution. At all.

So, that little town that Mark kicked up quite a fuss about? As you might have noticed, it’s lying between Rodan and the Argo and is part of the reason that the big ol’ bird should be lured away, to complete the evacuation.

Mark’s brilliant plan has the jets surrounding the Argo to blast Rodan and 180 the superplane in order to get him to chase… without factoring in THE TOWN BETWEEN THEM AT ALL.

I get King Ghidorah was closing in. I get that Rodan is a wild, unpredictable animal who could go off the chain at any moment. But there was absolutely no time to get the ARGO to move a little ways around the island before beginning the attack? At worst, Rodan would make a dive for them anyway, but that’s what the jets are sent in to distract him are for. To grab his attention and then lure him to the Argo, which would then take him to Tricephalopathic Terror Town anyway.

As a result, Rodan utterly OBLITERATES Isla Del Mara simply by passing over it and so many of the people they were trying to evacuate die a horribly pointless death. It never once passes his mind (or let’s not beat him down solely) or that of anybody aboard the Argo that a creature with wings that size that can fly would generate an unbelievable amount of force simply by flapping once to create lift? He’s also dripping lava, so even if the hurricane level winds that follow him weren’t an issue, having something with that amount of residual molten rock passing overhead doesn’t seem like a healthy thing to expose Isla Del Mara to.

Further dislike ensues when one of the miraculously surviving Ospreys issues a mayday during the Rodan/Ghidorah fight and the cargo doors are jammed. Mark the Hero leaps up with gritted teeth and desire to get things done, asking the way to the hangar. After all, he’s had miraculous problem solving abilities so far, why not?

“Which way to the hangar?” he asks.

Sam, a character who I’m even less fond of, stands up and offers to show him the way. Fairly brave, considering that the Argo is rattling like a leaf in a thunderstorm as two daikaiju battle nearby. I found the character annoying and sort of… pointless, but I admire that bit of bravery.

“Anybody else?” Mark asks, making a face.

Dude. The man just offered to help you and people need that help. Get off your high horse, swallow your pride and just go without comment. God knows how many people your stupid plan just got killed.

The two run to the hangar and a crewman explains the door is jammed. Mark decides to drop a hanging Osprey onto the doors to get them off… without suggesting it to the crewman. He just fucking goes for the buttons, expecting his usual “my plan will work” attitude to succeed.

At last, one of Mark’s harebrained schemes is met with reasonable resistance for the first time and the crewman attempts to wrestle him off, before Mark Is Proven Right Again. But even suggesting it, getting a refusal and then doing it is more heroic than just going for the damn buttons like a lunatic.

He would have looked damn stupid if the weight of the Osprey wasn’t enough to open the doors and it instead just blocked them. The falling aircraft also almost hits the airborne one with its civilian payload as it also wasn’t warned, so again, he took an unnecessary risk that came off lucky because he couldn’t find the time to say “I have an idea”.

To round out the trifecta of what makes me dislike Mark in these scenes is what happens when the rest of the scene plays out:

Gravity Beams spew from Ghidorah’s mouth and blast Rodan into the ocean, defeated. Not satisfied with just this victory, the Golden Demise locks his terrible gaze on the Argo and with a sickening, gleeful cackle, closes in on the plane and its freshly arrived civilians.

All are stunned into a horrified silence. Even Mark, who has been having Unreasonable Protagonist Luck up until this point, bricks it.

“Oh, God.” he pleads.

God answers and he erupts from the ocean.

With a deafening roar, the mighty form of Godzilla slams into King Ghidorah with the force of a collapsing mountain. His dynamic, mid-air leap is enough to drag the foul hydra into the depths of the ocean and Godzilla proceeds to hold him there.

Ghidorah attempts to resurface and fly away, or at least lash out at the Argo in spite, but there Godzilla is again, yanking the head back underwater, biting and rolling like some mountainous crocodile, pinning the alien dragon under his weight.

Unbeknownst to our hero (Godzilla, obviously), the military has deployed the terrible Oxygen Destroyer in an attempt to Destroy All Monsters, giving only a cursory warning to the Argo to get out of there and fast. Mark makes his way onto the bridge and is informed of the decision.

“But he… he just saved us!” says Mark.

No, wait, he didn’t say that. Hold on…

“They… they didn’t even let us get clear?” says Mark.

Uh, no, sorry, trying again.

“Well, it’s not the worst idea.” he says.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK. YOU.

I get that you’re mad with Godzilla. I get that as the title character with a long history, we root for the kaiju more than anybody else. I get that he took your son from you, but twice… TWICE NOW, he has saved you and the people around you with PERFECTLY TIMED ENTRANCES. Even if it was just a coincidence, I’d be at least slightly more forgiving of the lion that killed my brother by accident if it jumped in front of a tiger that was slaughtering people left and right before it leapt at me.

Twice.

There’s not even a hesitant “oh, but he did help us”. Not even a shocked disbelief that the military has a weapon that they think will kill not just one, but two (because I’m willing to bet he thought Rodan was dead) Titans, much less them firing it without warning right on top of their position. Just a “well, fuck ‘em” shrug.

Godzilla nearly dies, Ghidorah seizes control of the Titans and sets about starting the apocalypse. Finally, Serizawa says what I’ve been thinking for quite a while and says “Well, it looks like you got your wish, Mark.” with a mixture of anger, sadness and disgust.

I could go on; the Titans are rampaging and Mark goes to leave Castle Bravo to strike out on his own and rescue Madison, despite the fact that he knows that Emma will probably try to keep her safe in whatever secure hidey hole she and the Kaiju Cultists have holed up in. In the novel, he’s outright going to steal one (also his first instinct when confronted by an alpha wolf in the novel, is to blow it away with a sidearm, before realising that’s absolutely callous and horrible and tries submissive behaviour tactics instead. So hey, Movie Mark is a slightly better person than Book Mark).

Mark suggests the nuke plan and goes down with Serizawa, Chen and Rick Sanch- Stanton. Everything goes sideways and he doesn’t even fucking blink when Serizawa decides that somebody’s gotta do it manually.

Back aboard the Argo? How does he break the news to Sam, the only member of the MONARCH team that wasn’t there? Shoving Serizawa’s notebook into his chest, saying that they better not screw this up and not even fucking pausing to tell him what happened.

Mark’s self-centred attitude keeps coming back and it gets people killed. My second time viewing this film, during the two confrontation scenes with Godzilla, I wasn’t getting the “There is a massive threat in my territory!” vibe from the King of the Monsters, I was getting a “Who the hell is this asshole and why does he hate me so much?” feeling from Our Glorious Boy.

It’s a recurring theme too. Mark experiences loss, but he feels as if his loss is the only one that matters. Both he and Emma do this to Madison and it makes me mad that in trying to cope with their own loss, they shunned the one remaining child they had left. By the time they realise that, the world is literally about to end and they’re still bickering at one another.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m very vocally critical of Mark and Emma’s treatment of Madison. Both she and Mark decide to put their own ways of coping with their son’s death (constructing a device to allow for the orchestration of mass human death and convincing oneself that it’s the correct course of action/drinking booze) above Madison’s own well being.

When the chips are down, of course, they care for her and ultimately risk their lives to save her, but… congratulations for the bare minimum parenting, guys? Physically, they want her out of harm, but mentally she should either fall into line with Emma’s thinking or be there for Mark.

Godzilla and Mothra feel more like her bloody parents in this film (Godzilla saving her life when she was facing down the literal fucking devil and Mothra’s gentle interaction at the temple and reviving her from death when she appeared to have died in the novel) than the other Russells do. Both fill the archetypes of “Father” (tough, stern, but ultimately your protector) and “Mother” (gentle, nurturing and wonderful) better than the people do.

…yeah, alright, that one is a stretch, but I had that idea a while ago and I wanted to put it to paper.

In short, I’m mad at Sad Mad Dad because his character shoves the waaaaaaaay more interesting, compelling and sympathetic characters of Serizawa, Graham and his own daughter (and the actual goddamned non-monster hero of the movie), Madison out of the way of main character-ness, just so we can have somebody who is about as pleasant to interact with as a cactus.

King of the Monsters is a film that has a lot of sacrifice in it, good and bad. Emma wants to sacrifice most of humanity to save the planet. Serizawa sacrifices himself to save Godzilla and thus, the planet. Mothra sacrifices her own life to save Godzilla from King Ghidorah and so does Emma, to save her family and as redemption for her sins.

Even Madison was also ready to at least risk her own life to distract the Titans and King Ghidorah if it would even slightly disrupt his efforts to conquer the planet. She goes against terrorists, her own mother and a demonic, nigh-omnipotent being of malicious intent and faces him down with a defiant roar of her own when it looks like the end.

But Mark doesn’t sacrifice. He wants his daughter back, but he never takes a hit. Other people die for him, as a result of him and he doesn’t even recognise it. The world is at stake and he keeps his focus on his own desires, ignorant to the people around him because only his loss matters.

He might not be the genocidal monster in the film that Emma was, that Jonah and of course, Ghidorah certainly were. But he has a very narrow and dispassionate world-view and outside of certain cartoons with comedic circumstances, I don’t care much for that at all.

TL;DR: Madison should have been the central protagonist, because I like her more.

[gold-gguk]

《 Five O’Clock Shadows 》

summary ↠ When you begin to suspect an unknown someone is stalking your neighborhood, you find yourself running to the only person you can think to trust: Namjoon. Little do the both of you know what you’re about to endure for the sake of sanity and friendship...and maybe more.

genre ↠ angst, friendstolovers!au, stalker!au member ↠ kim namjoon warnings ↠ stalker/obsessive tendencies word count ↠ 4.7k

moodboard by @woojungkook || requested by anon. We stan the king.

~

The deep and unsettled ball of unease stationed in the pit of your stomach continues to roll around relentlessly as you press the flat of your palm to your abdomen, checking that the lining of your body is still containing the steadily increasing queasy feeling, even if only barely. You spur on the pace of your steps, feet quickening against the rough surface of the sidewalk as the sound of your short breaths cut in front of you, puffs of chilled air streaming from between your parted lips. 

The risk of a glance behind you is necessary, or at least you convince yourself it is, just to be sure, as a subtle noise akin to footsteps echoes from over your shoulder. Your eyes frantically scan the dark street, narrowing keenly against the various alley entrances and shadowed storefronts, places hidden from the revealing glow of the overhanging streetlights. In the end, you resolve that your paranoia is getting to you again, making you hear things that just aren’t there. Still, you can’t help a last flick of your wandering irises behind you, flitting your gaze across the vacant road, the absence of visible bodies almost making the possibility of concealed ones more unnerving. 

Your pace speeds along, legs widening their stride as you yank your bag further over your aching shoulder. It’s your own fault, really, for staying at the library so late, but at the time, remaining until after the incessant whispers of every other student had vacated the building seemed like a wise idea: history finals wouldn’t cram for themselves. Now, however, hours later than any sane person should be roaming the streets, you’re starting to regret your decision, wondering if a good grade is well worth your life. You know you might be over-exaggerating things a bit, but after the strange happenings of the previous week and the news story that had caught the city’s attention last month, walking alone late at night is the last place you’d like to be depicted. 

That sickly sensation begins creeping over the back of your neck like hot ice again, raising prickly and uncomfortable gooseflesh that brings a taught pull to the muscles in your shoulders. You force your eyes to stay trained forward this time, unwilling to risk anymore glimpses into the void behind you, too nervous of what might be lurking there. Your brain is jittery, fumbling for thought as your body steps on pins and needles, every nerve on high alert against the slightest twinge of noise or flicker of movement. A flash of jet black suddenly cuts through your peripherals, a shrill shout building in your tight chest before your wide eyes land on the fat cat that has just scurried past you and onto the rise of a nearby bench. 

“You’re not so scary,” you breathe relievedly, stepping from your stunned position as you huff with laughter, amused at the silliness of your own fright. You reach down gently and run your fingers over the soft fur of the feline as she purrs gratefully against you, pushing her head further into your hand before something abruptly draws her attention, her sedated eyes widening down the street behind you before she’s gone, darting away and into the darkness once more before you can register her disappearance. Your fingers stall above where she previously sat, frozen with confusion and fear as you slowly crane your neck to scan the dimly lit avenue. Your nerves should calm when you see nothing, just the usual street lamp and random bench here and there, but the absence of subject does the exact opposite, an unfurling fear lighting through the network of your veins, aching all the way into your fingertips until your entirety is humming with alarm, spurring you to motion. 

You swallow hard, your feet stumbling back before your body catches up, suddenly running from nothing, shoes smacking the pavement as you speed onward, breath burning in your lungs. The shivers racing to meet the ends of your appendages continue their relentless assault as you move, the quickening pace of your panicked limbs seemingly useless at removing you from whatever the source of your perturbation is. You’re not quite sure where you’re running until you suddenly find yourself on a familiar street, feet carrying you steadfast towards the the front door of someone you hadn’t realized you were headed to see, prompted to him by subconscious trepidation. 

Your knuckles rap against the hard wood of his door so hard your joints begin to ache, but you insist, the pain in your hand nothing compared the persistently creeping tingle rising up your spine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand stock straight as your eyes whip sideways to survey the length of the road, widening in an attempt to detail every nook and cranny, desperate to make out some sort of culprit while equally terrified. You’re so caught up in your frantic scrutinization that you fail to notice the wood disappearing from under your knuckles, your hand continuing to knock on empty air for a few seconds before the feeling of long and nimble fingers snake around your waving wrist, halting your motion.

You jolt at the touch, eyes shooting back to the door to find it open, a tall and sleep-worn Namjoon standing in the frame. His muted brunette hair, almost silver in the dark light, is mussed, obviously styled by the pillows he was surely buried in not minutes ago. His long torso is bare, the only clothing he’d thought to put on before answering the door being the loosely hung sweatpants that poorly cover the band of the black boxer briefs peeking over the top, hugging against the jut of his narrow hipbones. 

You glance back up to his face to find his smooth features scrunched against the glare of the streetlight, eyes scrunched as his free hand rubs sleepy circles into them with his pointed knuckles. It takes him a moment to focus on your presence despite the way his hand is gently gripping your wrist. “Y/N?” he mumbles, squinting down at you until your face becomes a clearer picture. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering him with words, you find yourself flung forward, arms coming to rest around the shape of his bare waist as he jolts in surprise, stumbling back a few steps with you attached to him. He grunts at the impact and you take full advantage, pushing yourself against the familiar warmth of his skin as you pass through the doorway of his home, fingers digging into his back as you move.

“Close the door, Joon. Close the door, close the door,” you urge, your voice strained against him as he looks down at you, arms held up with stunned confusion as to what you’re doing at his house this late and this frazzled. Still, the tone of your voice has him obliging, reaching a long arm over you to swing the front door closed. The moment you hear the sound of the latch click shut, your body heaves with relief, the crawling discomfort that had your skin prickling beginning to seep from you by the second as you breathe lowly. 

Namjoon, now somewhat awake and aware of your slightly trembling frame encircling him, sighs, his own lithe arms bending to accommodate your figure, coiling slowly around your shape in an effort to coax out the last of your shivers. He holds you here like this for a silent moment, taking the liberty to lean his head down enough to gently brush the pillow of his lips over the silk of your hair, back and forth ever so lightly, the sensation of him against you only soothing you further. 

“So are you going to tell me why you’ve shown up at my house in the middle of the night in a blind panic?” Namjoon eventually whispers into the lulling silence, that familiar lightheartedness evident in his voice. “Or do you want to play a rousing game of 20 questions?”

You can’t help but snort, face still hidden in his chest. Maybe this is why your feet carried you here instead of your own home: they knew only Namjoon would know what to say to make you laugh your way from the lock of your shaken state. 

“Hey,” Namjoon coaxes as your soft laughter dissipates, serious now as he gently leans you away from him. He intently searches your gaze, his hand detaching to raise to your face, soft fingers pushing a few stray hairs behind your ear as he scrunches his brow. “Are you okay?” 

You take a deep breath, tearing your eyes from him for a only a moment before resetting your irises upon his deep, studying, hazel orbs. “Yeah, I’m fine.” As you speak, your nerves beginning to settle, you realize just how intrusive your presence is, rousing Namjoon from sleep unannounced, shoving your way inside uninvited, and all merely on the whim of danger. A slight pang of guilt pinches your chest, and it would probably be more-so if Namjoon hadn’t done the same to you for far less reason in your years of friendship. You’ll count this as simply returning the favor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he questions tenderly, reading your undercurrent almost like he’s done it before.

You manage a weak smile, eyes drifting over his face as you softly shake your head. “In a minute.” You need time to gather yourself more wholly before you go spilling a load of imaginary fears into Namjoon’s lap.  

He’s is about to nod when you suddenly reach forward again, pressing your cheek to the plane of his chest as you squeeze his waist, closing your eyes against the comfort. “Can you just...maybe stay like this for a little bit?” you request softly, remaining still save for the subtle way your fingers are lilting over the dip of Namjoon’s spine. He really is so warm...

A swell of consoling tingles whispers along your skin when Namjoon folds his arms around you once more, his lips resting atop the crown of your head. “I’ll stay,” he murmurs into your hair, absentmindedly swaying your bodies in a silent cadence that slowly lulls you further into his assuage. Somewhere amidst the serene embrace, you begin to lean more limply into Namjoon, your body falling victim to the entrancing oscillation, suddenly incredibly weary as the late hour and taxing events catch up with you. 

You faintly feel yourself being prompted forward as your hands grip at Namjoon for support, your feet fumbling over themselves in an attempt to stay upright. Your eyes fight to open, curious to see where you’re being moved to until you’re suddenly flopping towards Namjoon, tired limbs softly tugged down to straddle his lap as he situates himself on the couch in his living room. Logic inclines you to remove yourself, to sit next to him rather than on him like this, leaning your head in the crook of his broad shoulder, but the room is so dark and quiet, and Namjoon is so warm and solid, cradling you to his chest with expansive palms that are delicately trailing the line of your spine as you slump into him, that you find yourself unwilling to move. 

You hum sleepily against Namjoon’s skin, your fingers dusting over the slim curve of his waist as you draw your hands up, curling them around the firm warmth of his neck as he adjusts slightly for you, slipping his head forward to make room. The feeling of his broad chest breathing in tandem with yours, his big heart thudding solidly underneath the spread of his coffee skin, is something unlike you’ve ever experienced anywhere else. Namjoon’s presence has always been this sense of comfort for you, and it’s with this placid thought that you’re finally pulled under, completely oblivious to the sweet murmurings of a boy too shy to utter them against your ear fully awake. 

~

You’re not sure for how long you drift off, for how long the sweet unconsciousness of sleep commands your body, but when your eyes finally flutter open, the fuzzy image that slowly pans back into focus around you is still dim, cloaked in a soft, purple hue that hints at how early in the morning it must be. You blink blearily against the remnants of your deep slumber, still half asleep as you shift your weight slightly, flinching in surprise when the solid surface under you shifts back. Leaning your head to the side, you crane your tired gaze to find Namjoon, head lolling against the cushions on the back of the couch. His eyes are gently shut, soft lashes splayed like little brush strokes over the tops of his cheeks, and his plush lips are slightly parted, almost inaudible snores sneaking from between them every few seconds. 

You’re suddenly very aware of the way Namjoon is holding you against him, the shift of your position just a moment ago prompting his sleeping figure to tighten the grip he has around your waist, tugging your straddling frame further into his chest as your own hands lay flat along the contour of his shoulders, which you now remember are bare. You’re not sure if it’s the half-awake fuzz still dusting your head or the way the subtle hills and grooves of the muscles lying hidden just under Namjoon’s skin can be felt whenever you delicately skim your fingertip along it, but you make no effort to move off of him. Instead, you find yourself raising a hand from his chest to his face, hesitant but curious fingers wandering to the tousled mess of curls littering his forehead. 

You gently thread a single finger amidst the soft texture of his hair, watching as the lock slowly raises atop your digit and then flops silently back down into place. It’s almost odd how many times you amuse yourself by repeating this action, varying the locks of hair, eyes mesmerized by the silky lilt of it as it moves. Eventually, however, you find yourself threading more than one finger between the strands, pads of your hands running tenderly along Namjoon’s scalp as the tendrils coast like butter through your digits. A small, content smile curls at your lips as you continue, leaning your head to the side as your hand runs again through Namjoon’s rich mop. 

You’re jolted from your methodical petting when a low hum elicits from Namjoon’s throat, his chest rumbling against you as his eyelids begin to flutter. You retract your hand with a flinch, a flush racing to your cheeks for having woken your best friend in such an unconventional way. It’s not like you and Namjoon have never slept over before, and it’s not like you’ve never done it in the same bed, but playing with his hair in the early hours of the morning wasn’t something you could say was on the friendship checklist. 

You sit back slightly in Namjoon’s lap as his eyes lethargically blink themselves awake, the lazy pull of the lids an obvious indicator of how he isn’t quite ready to take on the day. “Good morning,” you smile quietly down at him when his gaze meets yours, deciding that speaking into the silence is better than letting it settle. 

“Morning,” he replies in a raspy tone, one of his hands raising to rub the sleep from his eyes as he yawns. The motion reminds you of the same one he had enacted last night when answering the door for you after being awoken from his first attempt at sleep. Suddenly, your reason for being here in the first place comes flooding back to you, the leftovers from the crawling prickle beginning to prod at the base of your neck in reminder as your smile falls from your face.

Namjoon quickly picks up on your shift in mood, his knuckles ceasing their movement against his eyelid as he sits up a little straighter under you. He stays gazing at you for a moment as your irises cast off along the floor, slightly dazed in the memory of last night as he studies your expression, reading your face instantly. 

“Y/N,” he gently calls, tilting his head in an attempt to get into your line of view. “Are you ready to talk about why you’re here?” 

You take a heavy breath, ready to explain what drove you to Namjoon, but unsure of how to explain your fear without any real, hard, fact to back it up. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you drag your eyes back to Namjoon’s awaiting face, sighing before deciding to go with the most to-the-point answer you can conjure. “I think someone’s been following me.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen almost instantly, his lips parting in a silent gasp as he flits his gaze across your face. “What?”

“I think someone’s be-”

“I heard that part,” Namjoon urges on, his lips exerting a little extra effort to keep up with forming around his rushed words. “What do you mean someone’s been following you? When? Where? Who?”

A bubble of air stutters in your chest, multiple answers to his multiple questions trying to spill out all at once before you close your eyes, breathing deeply as you reach out to place your hands back on the flat of Namjoon’s heavily rising chest. “Joon, please slow down,” you request, your eyes still closed as you feel him begin to relax under your palms, leaning back into the cushions once more. “I don’t know who. Just someone.”

“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asks, his voice miles softer and slower by the time you open your eyes to find his face studying yours with worried brows.

You shrug, gaze tearing away to the floor as your lip curls down. “I don’t remember exactly when,” you admit. “Two weeks ago maybe?”

Namjoon jolts forward at your words, shock mixed with a twinge of worried anger contorting his face before he quickly wrenches his eyes closed, composing himself with pursed lips. You see his tensely wound shoulders sigh with release before his eyes meet yours once again, Namjoon’s face restored to a folded, brow, eyes glossed with curious disquiet. 

“Why wouldn’t you have told me?” he prods quietly, his gaze searching yours. “Something could’ve happened to you. Someone could’ve--” He cuts himself off as if he doesn’t want to finish the rest, and you don’t think you want him to either.

“It’s probably nothing, Nams,” you assure meekly, your words barely leaving an impressionable mark on yourself. 

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve...I’ve never actually seen anybody,” you admit shyly, glancing down to your lap. “It’s just been this feeling I’ve had.” You remain with your gaze fixated on the material of your pants, hoping your words don’t sound too stupid out loud despite the weight they hold in your memory. 

You hear Namjoon sigh above you as you ready yourself to be brushed aside before his long fingers find their way under your tilted chin, softly tugging your face back into his view. He’s intently studying you when you meet his eyes, his expression so intense that you find yourself shrinking back in his firm grip. “You should’ve told me,” he suddenly says much to your surprise. You were sure Namjoon was going to laugh this whole thing off the minute you admitted your fear was rooted entirely on a premonition.

“What?” 

“Y/N, you and the whole city know what happened last month with that girl from Inchang High School. She disappeared, and the police are still looking for her.” At Namjoon’s words, you find your chest constricting oddly, the tragedy of the young girl’s vanishing still fresh in almost every corner of the city. “Her family’s in shambles, her friends are mourning, and the community is a wreck trying to help look for her.”

“Namjoon...”

“And do you remember who the police warned us all about after she went missing? Do you remember who they said was probably at fault for her disappearance?”

You do, but as you listen to Namjoon’s recount, you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“A stalker. Her stalker. Someone who had watched her for weeks, learned her routine, and then taken advantage of the perfect, vulnerable moment. One moment was all it took, and look at what happened.”

By the time Namjoon’s finished speaking, your chin is practically trembling between his fingers, the unwarranted heat of tears beginning to prickle behind your heavily blinking lids. You’ve never, once, in the past two weeks, said the words out loud. Hearing Namjoon utter the possible reality of your situation has a whole new layer of deep-set and suffocating panic settling on top of you, the air in your lungs constricting painfully as you struggle to maintain your breath. 

“No...it’s not--” is all you can manage to choke out amidst the stuttering inhales, the shake of your head conveying to Namjoon all he needs to know to respond with a sincerely saddened look as he takes you in. 

“I’m not saying that,” he reassures gently, his hand moving from your chin to your cheek to softly thumb over your shivering skin. “I’m saying you need to be careful. I’m saying, just a feeling or not, you should’ve told me because I want to keep you safe, Y/N.”

The removing of the firm hold of his fingers from your chin has left your jaw free to shake violently, the look on Namjoon’s face mixed with the honesty of his words only increasing the tremble until its almost uncontrollable. Even though you know Namjoon wasn’t trying to insinuate anything on you, and the deeply rooted realization of what you had pegged down to a feeling was already somewhere long-known inside of you, the vocalization of such things never becomes any easier, the crushing weight of what you now have to deal with setting its full self by the tons directly on the cavity of your fragile chest.

“I’m so scared,” you suddenly cry, your words spilling out between contorted lips as the heat behind your eyes bubbles over. Namjoon’s brow furrows with heartache as he wraps his long and warm arms around the shape of your shivering shoulders, drawing you back against him as your face falls into his neck, crying with a subdued voracity into his skin. One of his hands raises to brush away the strands of hair littering the line of your neck, his fingers replacing their previous station with soft and soothing strokes along your stuttering flesh, contracting with releasing sobs under the layer of soft skin. 

“Shhh, don’t be scared, I’m right here,” Namjoon hushes consolingly, the cadence of his voice against your ear sending comforting waves down your spine. “I’ll always be right here.” You find yourself with the sudden energy to grip him back, shaking hands curling around his waist as they find warmth between his body and the couch, fingertips running along the dips in the bottom of his spine. 

Namjoon allows you to cry against him until you have no more tears to spare, keeping silent save for the few sweet reassurances he ushers into your ear here and there, mostly expressing his consolation with the firm and steady squeeze of his arms around your frame, remaining there until the majority of your trembling has ceased to a light hum. As your tears subside, your quiet whimpers still echoing around the room every moment or so, Namjoon relaxes his hold on you, his hand raising to tangle in the dangling tendrils of your hair along the curve of your back. 

“Namjoon,” you sniffle, your cheek laid flat against his chest as your body curls limply in his lap. 

“Hmm,” he hums in response, gentle in the aftermath of your emotion. 

“What if it’s true?” you venture, trying with all your might to keep your body from stiffening too severely. “What if I’m next?” Despite your efforts, your voice breaks towards the end of your questioning, Namjoon’s arms squeezing around you in response. 

“It’s not going to happen,” he’s quick to promise, his voice so steady that you actually begin to believe him. “I’ll walk you everywhere personally if I have to. Home, school, work, the store, anywhere you want me, I’ll go.” He pauses, his lips lowering to press against the top of your head in a chaste kiss. “I’m not going to see your face on the news, Y/N. I won’t.” 

Despite the still-small ache throbbing lowly in your chest from your leftover tears, the conviction of Namjoon’s words and the way his arms are holding you fast have you closing your eyes against the safety of his embrace, wishing suddenly to never part from it. “Namjoon,” you whisper out once more, waiting until you feel him hum against your hair before you continue. “Will you please come home with me?” 

You relish the feeling of smiling as Namjoon chuckles underneath you, shifting slightly as he prepares to rise, his hands assisting your hips in sliding off of him as he does so. “I’d love nothing more.” 

~

After the waterfall events of the early morning, Namjoon and you are more awake than you expected, not having to wait very long at all for your friend to head upstairs and put on actual clothes suitable for the chilly weather. He’s back down in record time, a pleasant grin on his face as he gathers your bag for you over his shoulder and allows you out the door. His street seems much less menacing in the golden glow of the early sunrise, the sound of birds chirping in the far distance a lovely soundtrack to walk to as you both begin the trek back to your apartment. 

Outside of the walls of Namjoon’s house, your energy is slightly different, the close proximity of sleep and the way you felt so comfortable to touch him without restraint now somewhat returned to how it was before. It leaves a slight pang of longing that you can’t seem to shake as you continue to eye the swing of Namjoon’s open palm between you while you walk, the hand that only an hour ago was wrapped so tightly around you now seeming so off-limits. You briefly wonder if he’s thinking the same about you before your eyes flit away towards the pavement, trying your damndest to focus on the excited ramblings spilling from his lips over his latest musical endeavor. 

Your banter flows easily, like it always does, making time pass quickly as the pleasantness of your early morning walk draws to a close, the vision of your apartment building approaching at the end of the street. 

“Once I put my stuff away, do you want to go grab some breakfast at that coffee shop on the corner?” you question, turning your body towards Namjoon as you take the final few steps up to the front glass doors of your building, smiling when he nods enthusiastically in return. Your grin vanishes, however, the moment you turn back and your foot makes contact with a thin, manilla envelope jutting out from between the double doors, carefully placed there by gentle hands. 

You slowly bend down to pick it, aware of Namjoon standing behind you as your fingers delicately unfold the top. A lump forms in your throat as it pops up, something deep in your stomach telling you that this package was intended to find your hands. Shaking fingers slowly slide into the parcel until they fit around a thin piece of parchment, almost unwilling to draw it out of hiding but doing so anyway despite the shouts of protest echoing around the walls of your head. 

Your stomach does a nauseating twist as your eyes finally land on the contents: a single picture with a sticky note attached. The photo is of you last night, pressing yourself into Namjoon’s chest as you shoved your way inside of his house: a still shot of the moment you escaped the crawling discomfort of the open night. But as your eyes cast down, your legs turning to a trembling mess beneath you, your throat scratching with a white heat, and your insides somersaulting with a sickening throw, you read over the small note stuck neatly to the bottom of the photo, 6 little words that send your head spinning.

I’m done hiding in the shadows.  

~

(*cue the law and order DUN DON* issa two parter y’all)   

[mega-ringsandthings-world]

What are some of your headcanons for your tolkien muses?

Here are some of the general headcanons I have for my muses. They’re my  go-to HCs for personalities and appearances. 

Dear Anon, I hope you enjoy this obscenely long list. Maedhros: - Loosely curled auburn hair, emerald green eyes, and freckles everywhere. - He has a temper like Feanor’s, but it’s diluted by his mother’s blood, so even when he’s very angry, he can still keep his head. - He has a very high pain tolerance. - He’s an excellent orator, but in a more subtle way than Feanor. - After his rescue, he ruthlessly squashed down all his feelings of shame, and hopelessness and self-loathing, because he knew he would never recover if he let them take over. They come to light years and years later, and they are partly why he jumps off that cliff.

Fingon:- He has a dark side, that he never shows to anyone. He’s cheerful, and kind, and brave on the outside, so the thoughts and desires that will go through his head at times scares him.- He never wanted himself or his family to be rulers, and he absolutely hated when Maedhros relinquished the crown.- He’s a daddy’s boy, he always tries to be the best for Fingolfin, to please him, and make him proud.Manwe: - He loves Melkor, and always will.- Due to the fact that he cannot understand evil, Melkor’s actions confuse him rather than horrify him. - He is childlike in nature, as he is genteel and naive at times, then tempestuous and hard of heart at others, and looks upon Eru with what can be described as hero worship, seeking to please him and do his will.  . Fingolfin: - He’s rather naive,and too forgiving, as shown when he forgave Feanor and agreed to follow his lead. - He’s slow to get angry, but has a an extremely explosive temper that can cloud his judgement and reason.- He is a rather lax father. He’s not neglectful or such, just simply not involved as he should have been.

 (I have too many HCs for these two, so here are just some favorite ones)Melkor: - He was drawn to Varda for her ability as the star-fashioner, as he sought to create himself, and he saw how she created the light of the stars, and believed her to have some amount of the Flame Imperishable that enabled her to bring them into being.- Melkor’s disposition to chaos and destruction wasn’t due simply to a want for chaos and destruction, it actually had a scientific reasoning behind it.  Melkor believed if he destroyed enough, be it base matter or life forces, he would be able to unshackle the energy that created it all, and harness it for his own purposes in lieu of the Flame he could never find.                 Mairon:- He joined Melkor/was seduced to Melkor’s side by the sheer amount of raw, unbridled potential Melkor possessed. The Valar kept theirs, and Mairon’s potential under restraint; Mairon longed to express his own to someone who would benefit, and value it, and wanted to see in what way Melkor’s potential would manifest itself. Mairon had spent many years under Aule in taming and shaping the potential of metal and ore in the forges, he saw himself as an instrument to aid in the forging of Melkor’s great vision.

- His affinity for wolves comes from the secret time he spent with Orome’s hounds in Valinor.

Maglor: - He has the most ingenious gallows humor to ever exist. It gets dark to the point where it frightens people. - His time spent as Maedhros’s regent was among the worst in his life.- He’s obsessive over his music, he can and will go days, weeks even, without much food or sleep to work on a composition.- He’s soft spoken, due to his mother’s blood, but there is something genuinely creepy about his anger - it’s cold and detached, which is altogether unlike Nerdanel and Feanor’s. It’s whispered that his late grandmother, Miriel, had a temper like that.

Curufin:- He’s a political mastermind. He schemes, he plots, he threatens, he removes, efficiently and calmly. He earned his name the Crafty, and it wasn’t wholly do to his skill in the forge.- He has an intrinsic knowledge of poisons, and how to brew them. - He has masterminded murders, and was plotting Eol’s.- If it’s not to manipulate, he is rather bad at expressing emotions.  - He truly loves Celebrimbor, and never once resented or thought badly of his son despite everything.

Feanor: - He was a good father. He was sometimes clueless about the severity of his actions, and very overbearing at times, but there is no denying he loved his children, and taught them much.  -He treats Finarfin as a nonentity, his main rivalry is between him and Fingolfin, and he rarely has discourse with his youngest brother. - Curufin is not his favorite in the sense that he favors Curufin above all the rest of his children. Curufin is the most like him, so Feanor confides things to Curufin that are on a deeper personal level, and knows that Curufin will understand better than most.  Gimli:- He handcrafted a mithril circlet for Legolas when Legolas took up a lordship in Ithilien.- He was a sweetheart as a baby. Everyone loved him. - He writes poetry.- He once kept a pet bird. Not a messenger raven, but mine canary. Erestor:- He’s a Noldor, a First Age Noldor. He conceals this fact for many reasons, some personal, some related to the well-being of Lord Elrond. - He routinely falls asleep in the libraries.  - He has the personalty of a stereotypical librarian, austere, organized, ready to shush you at a sound.      - He invented the fountain pen after Glorfindel upset a pot of ink over his favorite oak table. Elrond: - Due to his human bloodline, he has hidden human quirks that manifested due to a fluke in genetics. He needs sleep more often than most elves, takes a slightly longer time to heal from injures, his reflexes are one notch behind the average elf’s. But, he has more capacity to handle change, of all the three ring-bearers, he was the less wearied of them, as he did not fade to the extend they did, or at least faded slower, due to his slightly prominent human half.  

[wordsablaze]

Serendipity

When the cat is away, the mice will play. When the Avengers are away, Peter will introduce Loki to Bowser, plan a magical prank, and figure out how to unite the team with the world of Mario. Enjoy!

A/N: I'm sorry, I just really love these two and basically could not function until I wrote this. Plus, I saw the new Infinity War posters and my brain went 'yup, we're going to obsess over marvel again' so that's that...

Peter has prepared himself for many things in life. For example, he's always prepared for a science pop quiz or a new lego challenge or even changing into his Spiderman suit within half a minute. What he's not prepared for, however, is to be assaulted by an unprecedented display of magic that seems to be a dangerous combination of magnificence and malice.

His head jerks up as the hairs on his arms stiffen in warning so he dives behind the counter just in time for debris to fly over his head in what's possibly the worst mockery of rain in the world. The falling glass and plaster more or less remind him of destructive snow, actually. Waiting until the sound of crumbling infrastructure fades, he peeks over the top of the counter and watches as the levitating stranger transforms the windows and doors into solid metal before turning the ceiling into something that looks like it's been plucked out of a Tim Burton film, then picking up the nearest object and turning it into ash without even blinking.

Instead of being worried or anything else remotely sensible along those lines, Peter's eyes widen in awe. "That's so cool!"

Instead of continuing to take advantage of an otherwise empty Avengers' tower, the stranger stills as he hears the compliment, his sceptre resting on the ground as the blue light fades.

"I mean, it's really impressive and it looks so easy! But I bet it's actually pretty difficult, right? Oh, uh, I'm sorry if you were expecting someone else, by the way... I love your crown helmet!"

"Crown helmet?"

"Yeah. I'm sure it has, like, a more sophisticated name but I can't think of one. Crown helmet works pretty well to be honest because it looks royal and ready for battle..." he pauses. "Wait, is why you're here? There's not really anybody here to fight you. Except me, I guess. But I don't think fighting someone with such cool magic is a good idea, even for me... Wait, you can't be here for a battle, can you? FRIDAY wouldn't have let you in if you were so you have to be a friend, right?"

"Who exactly are you?" the owner of the crown helmet asks eventually.

Peter grins and springs to his feet, ignoring his spidey sense entirely and hoping that the other man is indeed a friend. "Peter Parker."

It's only when Peter sees the man smirk with that iconic glint in his eyes that it dawns on him who he's talking to so he curses himself for getting carried away and not noticing before. "Oh my algorithms... You're Loki, aren't you? I've heard so much about you and all the stuff you've done! Actually, maybe I shouldn't have told you my name... Please don't hurt my friends or family!"

Loki doesn't even know how to react and that's a first for him. "I'm not always out to hurt people, you know?"

"Nor is Bowser but people peg him as the bad guy all the time..." Peter nods understandingly, even though he's internally thinking about how he doesn't really understand. Then he realises he does understand because he's in the same position. "And people think Spiderman's a bad guy but he's just, like, trying to help in his own way, you know? It's not his fault if stupid journalists label him as a vigilante and everyone else just goes with it."

"Who?"

"You don't know who Bowser or Spiderman are?" Peter looks so crestfallen that even a God out for vengeance has to take pity on him.

"I haven't exactly spent much time on Midgard?" he offers as an explanation.

Peter's eyes light up in understanding. "Oh, of course, right, okay... I can show you who they are if you like? We have to fight our way to Bowser though... We can even fight Bowser together! Wait, have you heard of video games? You must have, right? They're pretty much universal, aren't they?"

Loki has never so lost in the face of a Midgardian before. "No?"

"In that case, it's practically my duty to explain! Come on, uh- Lord Loki, you don't even know what you've been missing out on!" Not that anyone can ever know exactly what they're missing out on since, if they did, they wouldn't really be missing out, but that's not the point.

Despite having originally arrived to create chaos, Loki finds himself following the excited teenager, trying to convince himself he'd not been persuaded solely by the title he's been given.

He's led into the next room where a rather large television is mounted onto the wall and a small collection of boxes lies beneath it. Peter, only briefly glancing behind him to make sure nothing is on fire, selects one of the boxes and pries it open, removing a circular disc that he then feeds to a bigger black box. He watches as Peter uses one of the oddly-shaped black objects to navigate his way through a menu and selects one of the options that then triggers an opening scene with an odd man who seems to be Italian and Mexican at the same time.

"How does this show me who Bowser is?"

Peter shrugs. "Bowser is the final boss. We have to play our way to him."

"Play?" Loki scoffs, "I do not 'play' anymore."

"Well, I suppose you can watch me play instead if you prefer?"

"Watch...? You expect me to sit here and do nothing while you fight?"

Peter has nothing to say so he shrugs again.

"I will observe as you battle your way to my enlightenment," Loki finally settles on.

"Sounds like a plan," Peter agrees and starts on the first level on single player mode because a certain someone had accidentally deleted his progress in an attempt to reboot the device with lightning but he was only trying to help so he couldn't really be blamed. He flies through the first set of levels but gets stuck when he's all out of spare lives and can't figure out how to kill three mushrooms without sacrificing his progress.

"Jump over the secret bridge thing."

Startled, Peter jumps so high he drops the remote and accidentally releases his hold on a button, turning left in the game and subsequently causing Mario to fall off the cliff.

"No!" he cries, whacking the controller on his head. "Now I have to start over..."

"Next time, use the bridge."

"What bridge?" Peters asks as he restarts the level, then biting his upper lip to concentrate.

"The one that was above your head- wait, stop," Loki says, throwing an arm out as if he can communicate with Mario.

Peter, not wholly surprised this time, stops in a safe place and looks to Loki, a questioning look on his face.

"You see that wall?"

"Yeah?"

"Do the spinning leaf tail move on it."

Peter stifles his laugh and nods, doing as instructed. Immediately, he discovers a secret passage he hadn't seen before. Leaning back, he whistles. "How did you know that was there?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

"Not really, no..." Peter mumbles.

Loki's smug expression softens just a little. "Perhaps we should take it in turns?"

Peter nods thoughtfully. "We can't both play because we're too far into the single-player mode... but I don't mind watching. Here!" he passes the controller to Loki, who takes it with his free hand.

After a moment of thought, he asks, "Would you like to hold my sceptre?"

Eyes widening, Peter gasps. "Can I?"

Loki smiles and holds it out, almost laughing as Peter tentatively reaches out, freezing as his hands touch it and slowly pulling it closer, practically stroking the chilled gold body.

"It won't break if that's what you're worried about."

Peter grins, euphoria in his eyes, "Thank you, Lord Loki."

"Now, how do I make this little man crawl through the wall?"

"Press the back butto- no, no, not that one, the other back button! Stop!" Peter warns just as Mario bursts into flames.

"That was beautifully violent."

"Maybe, but it means we have to redo the level now so..."

"Again?" Loki groans, handing the controller back to Peter with a dramatic twirl of his wrist.

Peter, to his credit, doesn't complain at all, simply keeping his eyes glued to the screen and getting Mario to squeeze through the wall before handing the controller back to Loki.

"It's this button, by the way..." Peter lets Loki test it out before he resumes the game and so Mario doesn't randomly burst into flames this time.

And thus, the level is completed.

And the next one.

And the next.

And so on.

Until the two of them, after Loki accidentally makes Peter fly in his annoyance of dying - to which Peter had responded by doing a cartwheel and making a note of the experience so he can retell it to Ned later- and various curses of several degrees, finally encounter Bowser.

"We did all that for a spiked turtle?" Loki huffs immediately.

"He's the king of the Koopas! And it's not like I forced you!" Peter argues.

"Oh, shhhhhhhhhhhhh-" Loki groans, "He just killed us."

"Are you serious?" Peter props the sceptre on the sofa, takes the controller from him and deftly retries the level, then progressing a couple more in his excitement. He doesn't fall even once but obviously, Loki has other ideas or he'd just gotten bored because he pokes Peter and causes the teenager's attention to waver, resulting in an exposed, defenceless Mario and an instant, completely boring death.

"Looooooooh-hokiiiiiiiiiiiii!" Peter whines, letting himself flop onto the sofa backwards, his feet draped over the back and his head hanging upside down, just a few centimetres off the ground.

"I'm sorry, little spider."

Peter doesn't think anything of the nickname until he does, at which point he rolls backwards and lands on his knees, breathless and slightly red. "What did you just say?"

Loki grins. "I might not have known who Bowser is but, since the whole invasion ordeal, I've spent enough time with Thor to learn some things from his frequent rambling about the Avengers."

"And?" Peter raises an eyebrow, his heart hoping that he'd been included in those tales but his head telling him Loki had probably seen his mask lying around or something.

"You fall under that title in his books, young spider."

Peter beams, his eyes positivity radiating joy and gratitude. "Thanks, Lord Loki!" he says and, without even thinking about it, he springs to his feet and wraps his arms around Loki, his face pressed to the not-so-surprisingly silky, green material.

"Oh, we're hugging now?" Loki asks, but not unkindly, awkwardly pacing his arms around the excited teen and trying not to let his smile through; it'd been a while since he'd been hugged and, if he was honest - which he rarely is - he'd missed the feeling.

Peter pulls away with a red face and wide eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think- I hope you don't mind hugs? Uh..."

"Untangle your anxious webs, young spider, I have nothing against embraces."

Loki smiles and Peter can feel his face heat up in a mixture of bashfulness, relief, and some kind of honour he can't quite decipher.

"You know, I definitely prefer Spiderman over Bowser."

"Really?" Peter's voice is at least two notches too high.

"Webs are so much better than stolen fireballs... His fireballs are not even nearly as impressive as mine anyway."

"Thank you!" Peter grins. "I prefer yours too..."

"May I inform you that the Avengers will be back in no more than three minutes?" FRIDAY alerts them, sounding way more amused than and an AI should ever be able to sound.

Peter hums in acknowledgement then grins and turns to Loki. "I have an idea."

"And I have a sceptre," Loki says, basically already having agreed to whatever Peter can ask.

Which is why, two minutes and forty seconds later, Tony walks in and abruptly stops, causing Steve and Bruce to crash into him and Thor to barrel into them, resulting in four stumbling men and a very exasperated Natasha and Clint.

"What on Earth?" Clint asks as they see Peter standing on the table with Loki's sceptre glowing in his hands.

"That's where you're mistaken, Mister Barton, the world in question is Asgard, not Earth." Peter has to fight with himself to avoid letting his amusement leak into his words. He ends up scowling at the Avengers, internally apologising but outwardly positioning himself to appear as angry as he possibly can.

"Is that Loki's?" Thor asks, frowning.

"It was," Peter corrects, smirking.

Tony narrows his eyes but it's not hard to tell he's just super worried rather than actually irked. "Pete, where did you get that?"

"And why are you on the table?" Steve asks. "Get down, you're going to hurt yourself."

Fleetingly glancing at Loki, who gives him a surreptitious thumbs up, Peter shrugs. "I got bored of waiting and decided to explore my options."

"Explore your options?" Natasha repeats blankly. "Out of everything you could have done, you chose to attack the Avengers with trickster's sceptre?"

Schooling his features into an expression of condescending scorn, Peter nods. "I am, after all, more than worthy of such a weapon."

That happens to be Loki's cue to clear his throat, effectively diverting their attention to where he's sat in the corner, wrapped up in webs. As they turn to him, he grimaces. "I wasn't aware you'd adopted someone worse than myself."

"Loki?" Thor's voice rises an octave as he glances at the same man who'd unleashed the tesseract supposedly defeated by a teenager with a radioactive spider bite and perhaps too much time on his hands.

"Well, obviously, moron. Aren't you going to, I don't know, kill him or something?" Loki asks, gesturing to Peter with his head.

Sharing a quick, confused but decisive look with Clint, Natasha steps forward. "Kid, I think we need to talk."

Peter shakes his head. "I think we need to stop talking and start giving me all the… Actually, we didn't plan this far so I guess we can just stop and leave it at that."

There's a moment where everybody opens their mouths to argue but finds themselves too shocked to say anything before Loki stands and walks towards Peter, brushing the webs away as he does, and Peter jumps off the table, standing in front of Loki so nobody shoots him in their confusion.

"What in the name of shawarma?" Tony exclaims finally, never having walking into something so strange.

"No, you iron idiot, it's called magic and theatrics." Loki smiles and, to everyone's utter bewilderment, ruffles Peter's hair.

"Did you guys finish an entire game of Mario?" Clint asks incredulously, obviously the first to notice the image of Bowser's bones on their television.

"No-"

"Yes-"

Peter and Loki glance at each other, trading glares that hold no malice whatsoever.

"You know what, this isn't even the craziest thing I've seen Peter do." Steve shakes his head and anyone who didn't know better would have cooed at the fondness in his voice.

Loki, sensing the tension in the air, coughs. "I'm no longer here to tear you all apart if that's what you're worried about."

Thor beams at him, moving forward to embrace him and totally forgetting about Peter, who gets trapped in the middle of them. Everyone watches as he protests quietly and manages to stick an arm out of the brothers' affectionate barrier, his head soon following as he dramatically crawls out to the side. Loki's remorseful and slightly irritated apology is muffled by Thor's unwanted but nonetheless comforting, congratulatory hug, which gives the rest of them a reason to laugh, except Tony who's quick to pull Peter away from the two Gods lest he gets squashed or injured in any way.

None of the Avengers can relax completely, which is only to be expected considering their history with Loki, but the anxiety in the room fades to negligible after a little while, the gang either retreating to their respective rooms to freshen up before they return or grabbing a snack and slowly accumulating in the living room, eventually being roped in to a game of Mario Kart by Peter, who's figured out exactly how to tick them all off enough to ensure their exasperation leads to them joining in to prove a point or using their annoyance as an excuse to succumb to their intrinsic desires of playing and winning a competative video time. Ultimately, when they're all squashed onto the sofa or the beanbags, personal space long dismissed, either actively controlling the characters with hilarious expressions of concentration or cheering each other on, their way of playing is a whole new experience and Peter has never felt so at home with them.

All in all, even though Peter wasn't prepared for such an eventful day - not that anyone can ever be prepared to fake a hostage situation with a God - he's more than glad to have been thrown into it. More often than not, he decides, strange parts of life are better encountered with an open mind instead of a meticulous itinerary that leaves no room for spontaneous craziness. He might technically be a superhero but, at the end of the day, he is also a teenager...

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[muse-meandering]

Dramatic Irony

Title: Dramatic Irony

Author: Morganna3

Rating: PG-13/T

Summary:Who's deceiving who? Nar/Kag/Jewel? One-shot.

Warning: Character death

Disclaimer: Inuyasha is copyrighted to Rumiko Takahashi, Shounen Sunday, Viz and Sunrise Communications et al. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This fic had a mind of its own. It is very different from what I'd originally planned.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4072854/1/Dramatic-Irony

Dramatic Irony

They failed spectacularly.

Confusion reigned as dark miasma filled the air. The bodies of friend and foe alike were strewn across the battlefield. Not that Kagome could tell the difference. She could've sworn she saw Sango flying on Kirara and wasn't that splotch of white in the distance Inuyasha? Shouldn't he have been fighting Naraku? Speaking of, where the hell was Naraku?

Behind her, a muffled blast drew her attention. She pivoted rapidly, arrow drawn and lit with holy energy. Something large hurtled through the gloom and pushed her to her knees. Her bow dropped as she caught herself with her hands. What the… Slowly, she turned her head to the side. Her gaze drifted to a claw-tipped finger, along a muscular arm, past the fur covered armor and rested on Koga's sightless blue eyes. Oh no. Trembling, she twisted further to get a clear view of his torso. Oh God no. The other half of his body must've been somewhere else… No, no, no, no. No! And then she screamed.

She was jerked upward abruptly as the remaining jewel shards were thrust into her hand. Terrified, she stared at Inuyasha. He clutched her closer and whispered in her ear, "Kagome, take the jewel and run."

Run run run!

And so she did. She ran like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Maybe they were. The well loomed in front of her. She caught its edge and tumbled into magic, hollow laughter echoing behind.

Somewhere between here and there, the jewel made a decision. Hadn't it known this girl since birth? She had housed its too-easily shattered body before. Now she would house its soul. Aged and weary, the jewel merged with her once more. No, not as a separate entity lying just under her skin but fused into the very blood and bones and sinew, the miko and jewel completely inseparable.

She never could get through the well again.

Her fists beat against the earthen floor as she wailed her misery to the world. Utterly alone in her despair, she knew there wasn't a being alive who could truly understand. Forever banned from the past and her friends-cum-family. Were they hurt? Had any of them survived? Should she have stayed despite Inuyasha's command? The not knowing was killing her.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and then a year slipped by. The memories of ages past often danced behind her eyes. She made others uncomfortable and her modern friends drifted out of her life. She simply did not belong. Sometimes the melancholy smothered her and sometimes she gave in to giddiness. At last, she succumbed to the numbness that had threatened to overwhelm her for so long.

Another year passed by in its relative sameness. The woman who was also a jewel gradually wasted away.

Subconsciously, they sent out a call. This state of affairs could not continue. The Guardian-Jewel needed a Keeper and a Keeper they would get.

Enter darkness.

Kagome met him one blustery afternoon under Goshinboku. Cautiously, she approached the tall black-haired man. The air of familiarity drew her like nothing else. Each warily regarded the other, red eyes boring into grey. He sighed and sank to the ground, his back resting against the great tree.

"It's a different era, a wholly different world from what we've known," he brushed a long tangle of hair over his shoulder and glanced up at her.

She too sighed and sat next to him. "Yes, yes it is."

Silence stretched between them until he again spoke softly, "I've waited a long time."

Kagome tilted her head to the side and studied his profile. She said nothing.

Rising to his feet, he began to walk away. "Perhaps we'll meet again," he called over his shoulder.

"Maybe," she replied as his dark form turned the corner.

Naraku smiled.

He'd learned patience over the years it seemed.

Three weeks later, they met for lunch at WacDonald's and over a container of large fries she finally had her questions answered. Sort of.

The salt tipped over when they slid into the booth. Seemingly fascinated, Kagome sketched geometric shapes in the mound of tiny white granules with the tip of her finger. "What happened to them?" she asked as she grabbed a sugar packet and used the edge to straighten the top of her square.

"I never touched them after your departure if that's what you're asking. After that, I don't know."

She looked up from her salt drawing, searching for some validity in his statement. Surprisingly, he spoke the truth.

The corners of his mouth angled upwards as he noted her astonishment. They were already bloody and broken. He didn't have to touch them. Possibly the carrion crows had pecked out their eyes or the villagers may have given them a proper burial. He hadn't thought about it and he didn't really care.

He'd also learned subtlety.

She stared at him for a long moment. "What do you want, Naraku?"

He popped a fry in his mouth and chewed pensively. "I want what I've always wanted." Pausing, he boldly met her gaze. "Maybe I want acceptance or maybe I want to make amends or just maybe I thought you'd give a damn." Closing his eyes, he leaned back and chuckled in exasperation. "Does it really matter what I want?"

Shrugging, she slumped farther into her seat. There wasn't much to say.

Through half-lidded eyes, he watched a contemplative expression flicker across her features.

He was always a master of manipulation.

Yet another year eased past and they became friends. Sort of.

And lovers…

Propped up on an elbow, Naraku reflected on the woman whose head rested on the pillow beside him. Finally, that which he'd obsessed over for centuries was his. All his. He'd hold on to the miko and the jewel. For eternity.

The Guardian needed a Keeper and this one would never let them go. They were content.

Kagome buried her face in the pillow and smiled.

End