bandolevill

[gonnahaveabigtalklater]

ok cool we're just sniffing Kim right in front of The Smoker huh

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Heaven or New Vegas

PART ONE: THE WHITE GLOVE SOCIETY

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Courier!Fem!Reader

Summary: Crossover fic (Fallout tv show and Fallout New Vegas), a rewrite based on the “Beyond the Beef” side quest in the game. — You and Cooper take it upon yourselves to uncover the secrets of the mysterious Ultra-Luxe Casino, home to the White Glove Society. There, you get roped into a missing person’s case, and fall into rabbit hole that just seems to get deeper and deeper.

WC: 4.1k

Warnings: canon typical violence (some graphic depictions), some canon divergence (with canon NPC dialogue/actions), mentions of cannibalism, mentions of death, small instances of discrimination against ghouls, pre-established relationship sort of (what they have is complicated okay), Cooper’s a companion (and a little shit), aaaand i think that’s it? But lmk if anything else.

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Whispers about the Ultra-Luxe casino seemed to follow you everywhere on the Strip, though all the rumors were pretty vague. Even Yes Man had no real information about what was going on inside. Still, it told you a little bit about the highly elitist White Glove Society and how terrible their reputation was—but the rest you would have to find out yourself by infiltrating the place. 

You didn’t much like the look of the tall white building across the street from Tops casino. It had an air of malevolent arrogance, but you could still see the ruin underneath that veneer, as if the place had been patched up with great haste.

It seemed even more ominous in the darkness of night, even with all its lighting and the large, pretentious fountain at the front. More like a glittering fortress rather than a hotel casino. 

Cooper sniffed and then spat on the ground with clear distaste, his glare fixed right on it. You let out a small sound of agreement, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Don’t worry, tin can, we’ll take it from here,” he said gruffly. “They won’t even know what hit ‘em.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to the Securitron with a polite smile. “Thanks for the information. We’ll be back at some point.”

“No problem! I’ll be here!” Yes Man replied enthusiastically, his smiling face unchanging. 

You frowned at Cooper as you set off, waiting until you were an appropriate distance away to speak up.

“Be nice to Yes Man, it’s been really helpful so far.”

“You know I don’t trust bots,” he said. “Especially not that kind, even if it does agree with everything we say.”

“It’s literally programmed to do that,” you argued, glancing over your shoulder. “We should try to be quick, though. I’m scared someone else will find it and get it to wreak some havoc.”

“See? Not trustworthy.” 

“It is as long as it’s on our side!” You hissed, exasperated.

He chuckled, enjoying pushing your buttons. “Alright, so what’s our story when we go in there? Still sayin’ we’re a married couple?”

“Oh, sure, I know how much you love to use that old tale,” you countered teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “Though let’s not give them too many details. We’re just tourists passing through, it’s our first time on the Strip and we want to see everything.”

He nodded. “I can work with that.”

As you went up the steps to the main entrance, a looming sense of foreboding grew as you got closer to the double doors. Once inside, a well-dressed man wearing an eerie, doll-like mask approached you immediately.

“Beg your pardon, but could I trouble you to turn over your weapons?” he said.

Next to you, Cooper immediately tensed, his hand instinctively inching towards his holster. You surreptitiously stepped on his foot to warn him against doing anything stupid, then proceeded to hand over your weapons.

“Sure, no problem at all,” you said, emphasizing your words a little to further drive the point across. 

Cooper cleared his throat, composing himself and even attempting to smile charmingly. 

“Of course, nothin’ to be afraid of here,” he said, practically shoving his guns into the masked man’s arms. “We trust you’ll take good care of ‘em.”

“Of course, sir. The last thing we want is to cultivate a violent atmosphere. But you have my assurance that everything will be returned upon your departure,” the man said. “Please enjoy your stay.”

Cooper bowed exaggeratedly, clearly mocking him. You smiled awkwardly and quickly pulled him along to stroll around the main floor. 

The place was just as well kept on the inside, entirely too clean, the recent renovations apparent. It smelled like intoxicatingly sweet incense… or perhaps a strong powdery perfume. You grimaced slightly and tried not to wrinkle your nose, wondering if it was meant to cover another smell. 

There were a couple of security guards posted around the vast room, all of them wearing different styles of creepy doll masks. You tried not to look at any of them for too long, their presence keeping you on edge. 

There was a large, ostentatious bar at the center where a couple of patrons mingled about. A grim-faced, rough looking man holding a rifle immediately caught your attention, and you shared a glance with Cooper.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” he murmured. “Lucky I kept one of my knives.”

You decided to let that slide for the time being, having much more pressing matters at hand.

“A hired gun…” you mused, noticing he was standing near an older man seated at the bar. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves? Politely.”

“Darlin’, just what the hell are you implyin’?” Cooper scoffed, pretending to be offended. “I’m the picture of politeness.”

You sighed but didn’t respond, instead making your way to the bar as casually as possible. The hired gun eyed the both of you closely, but he made no move. You sat near the older man, keeping an empty stool between you. 

His clothes and his cowboy hat looked relatively new, and there was not one spot of filth on him. Even his hands seemed in good condition, with barely any calluses or recent looking scars. Clearly, he wasn’t just anyone, if the fact that he had a bodyguard wasn’t indication enough. 

“Whiskey, neat,” you told the masked bartender, who nodded. “Thank you.”

Cooper waved him back as he turned away. “Actually, why don’t you make it two of ‘em? This gentleman here sure seems like he needs it.”

The older man looked up at this, frowning slightly in both confusion and suspicion. You smiled sheepishly at him while Cooper tipped his hat.

“This sure don’t seem like the kind of place one would look so glum in,” he continued. “Thought you could use another little pick me up.”

The hired gun took a step forward, lips curled back in a snarl, but the man waved him off, having decided the two of you weren’t a threat. You relaxed some, letting out the breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding. 

“Sorry about that, my, uh, husband always talks before he thinks things through…” you said with an awkward little chuckle.

The man raised his gray eyebrows. “You married a ghoul?” 

“Yes, I sure did,” you challenged. “There a problem with that?”

Behind you, you could feel more than see Cooper smiling smugly, chin raised high with pride. He was also daring the man to say something, anything, that would give him an excuse to get mean, but you wouldn’t let it get to that.

“To each their own I suppose,” the man said with a shrug, dispersing the tension. “I’m here looking for someone. You ain’t seen a young man with dark brown hair and a white hat on lately, have you?”

“No, we haven’t.”

He sighed heavily. “Ain’t nobody got one darned piece of information about my son? I’m here for an hour and he just up and disappears on me.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Mister…?”

“Heck,” he said, extending a hand for you to shake. “Heck Gunderson.” 

“What is it that you do, Mister Gunderson?” Cooper said, giving him a quick once over. “If I may ask, of course.”

“I’m a rancher, I’ve got a whole mess of Brahmin and Birhorners to my name,” he said. “I run one of the biggest ranching operations east of California. We supply meat to a whole bunch of places, including here.”

“That’s quite impressive,” you said, genuinely awed. “I’m sure that’s why your bodyguard is allowed to have a weapon. Gotta take good care of an important figure such as yourself.”

“Well, I made a special arrangement with the hotel. They want to do business with me, so they gotta play by my rules.”

The bartender came back and handed both you and Mr. Gunderson your drinks. The latter raised his glass in a silent, appreciative toast. You nodded and raised your glass as well. 

Cooper cut in once more. “And so, you said you lost your son?” 

He nodded gravely. “His name’s Ted. I told him to stay put for a minute while I talked some things over with the White Glove folks, but he never was one to stay tied down to one spot. Got that from his mother, that’s for sure. I got a whole lot of people looking for him as we speak, but I’m staying right here just in case he decides to show up.” 

You hummed in thought, giving him a sympathetic look. The gears in Cooper’s head were already in motion, his fingers drumming on the table. 

“We’d sure like to help if you’d let us,” he said, nodding towards you. “The missus here happens to be real good at tracking things down. People, too.”

“I’d be more than happy to have you,” Mr. Gunderson said. “Hell, I’ll hire anybody with a pair of legs and at least one good eye at this point. There’d be a lot of money in it for you if you can get him back to me safe… But if he ain’t, I’ll pay for the names of the sons of bitches responsible.”

“Lucky for you, we’re a package deal. Double the eyes and legs at your disposal,” you said, finishing your drink in one swig without wincing. “We’ll see what we can do, Mister Gunderson.”

He let out an amused huff. “I’ll be here.”

After a few more minutes of polite conversation, you and Cooper stood and excused yourselves. You figured the reception would be a good place to start asking some questions, so you had a masked attendant point you in the right direction. Cooper surveyed your surroundings as you made your way there, hoping to find some clues or see if anyone suspicious stood out. 

“He can’t be very far,” you said. “If he hasn’t been gone that long.”

“No, I reckon he’s somewhere deep in this maze of a hotel,” he agreed. “Real smooth with our story back there, by the way.”

You snorted derisively. “I’m sure he totally bought it.”

“Maybe one of these days we oughta just make it official. We’re in New Vegas, after all, and then it wouldn’t be a lie anymore.”

“You’re really asking me to elope right now? Dream on.”

He laughed. “I’m just puttin’ it out there, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, if that were to happen, we would definitely not be honeymooning in a place like this, I’ll tell you that.”

On your way to the lobby, the double doors of the Gourmand restaurant caught your eye. You had a weird hunch that you couldn’t ignore, so you steered Cooper in that direction. He started to protest but thought better of it when he saw the determined look on your face. 

Inside the restaurant, the lights were dimmer and piano music softly wafted out of some unseen speakers, surely meant to give the place a more private, luxurious atmosphere. A refined-looking woman stood at the hostess stand giving instructions to a masked waiter. When she saw you and Cooper walking up, she sent him away and put on her best smile. 

“Welcome to the Ultra-Luxe hotel and casino, we hope to exceed your every expectation,” she said. “My name is Marjorie. How may I assist you?”

“Would you mind if we asked you some questions? It’s our first time here, and there’s so much we’re just itching to know,” you said, trying to sound like an eager, fresh-faced tourist.

“Of course. Ask away, madam.”

“We’ve heard lots of talk about the White Glove Society. Can you tell us anything about who they are or what they do?”

“We are responsible for maintaining the beauty and class of the Ultra-Luxe,” she said. “And as its founder, I suppose it falls to me to decide how we go about it.”

Her words were vague enough that you had to wonder what sort of stuff they were potentially covering up. Cooper’s small hum told you he was thinking the same thing, but you knew you couldn’t press Marjorie too hard lest she completely clammed up. So he let you do the talking, since you’d have a more delicate approach to things.

“Interesting,” you said. “You’ve done a fine job with the place. Mister Gunderson mentioned it when he told us he was here to discuss some business with you.”

“Oh, you are acquainted with him?”

“Why yes, we are helping him look into something. What sort of business were you discussing, if I may ask?”

“His livestock, of course… Though it has put us in a rather delicate position,” she said fretfully. “Our executive chef, Philippe, has transformed Brahmin steak into a delicacy. He really is a genius, you know, everyone wants it. But if everyone can get it, it ceases to be a delicacy. And if the Gourmand only served staples, it would no longer draw the kind of people it deserves. It would just become like… a diner, or a family restaurant.”

“Oh, sure, sure, I understand,” you said, feeling the exact opposite. You internally rolled your eyes at her classist remarks, loathing the place even more. 

“So as much as we’d love for there to be enough steak for everyone, I’m afraid we have more important things to consider,” Marjorie said. “Not that we don’t appreciate his generosity or the trouble he went through to come here.”

“Right,” you said. “Well, you see, we happen to be looking for his son, Ted. Told us he went missing around here pretty recently.”

She seemed genuinely shocked, eyes widening. “Really? Oh my, that is just terrible…”

“Isn’t it just?”

A charged silence ensued in which you stared at each other, challenging, your expressions unchanging. You held your ground and she shifted her weight, hesitating for a moment glancing around to make sure no one was around to listen in. Upon seeing the coast was clear, she let out a resigned sigh. 

“Look, another investigator recently approached me to inquire about another missing person case…” 

“Someone else went missing here?” Cooper interrupted, unable to help himself.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder as Marjorie blinked, startled. You nodded and tried grinning encouragingly for her to proceed. She mirrored the grin as best as she could, though her discomfort still showed.

“Er, yes… A young bride, the night before her wedding,” she continued slowly. “I told the investigator it was likely she got cold feet and ran away. I could not possibly think of another explanation, but I’m sure the groom – who hired him – didn’t want to hear that.”

You tilted your head to one side, thoughtful. “And would he have reason to believe the White Glove Society might have been involved?”

“Indeed, we haven’t always had the best reputation, but all of that is in the past now. Some people just can’t seem to understand that.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the White Glove Society has never and will never consume human flesh for any reason. It’s written in the charter.”

You opened and closed your mouth, momentarily unable to form any words in your utter shock. Cooper shook his head slightly, pursing his lips in an attempt not to laugh. Well, it wasn’t necessarily what you’d expected, but it certainly fit the bill. 

“Wait, let me get this straight… The Society was rumored to eat human flesh?” You asked, brows furrowed in consternation. “Now that’s interesting. Very specific accusation to make, don’t you think?”

“I just told you we don’t engage in cannibalism under any circumstance, madam. We weren’t always the White Glove Society. There was a darker time where we went by another name, but I’ve seen to it that those days are behind us.” She glanced at Cooper and then back at you. “But you, on the other hand, might be more familiar with it.”

“Hey now,” Cooper said, his grin easy despite the slight edge in his voice. “We were all getting along just a moment ago. Let’s keep it that way, for all our sakes.”

Marjorie nodded, though her demeanor had changed. Her chin was raised haughtily, and she seemed to look down her nose at you both. You clenched your teeth but didn’t give her any more reason to get riled up. You were not gonna get anywhere else here for the time being, and you all knew that.

“My apologies,” she said, only half sincere. “I already answered all of the detective’s questions as best as I could, but I don’t believe I can be of help in this case. Maybe you could speak to him if he hasn’t checked out yet. I had our maitre d’, Mortimer, give him a complimentary room for as long as was necessary, but it has been a week since we spoke.”

You and Cooper shared a knowing look. If a week had already passed, then the possibilities of him being there were much slimmer, but it was worth a shot regardless. 

“We’ll speak to Mortimer. Thank you kindly for all the information,” you said, promptly heading back out of the Gourmand along with Cooper.

In the lobby, an unmasked older gentleman in a tuxedo – Mortimer – was manning the reception desk. He smiled at you genially as you approached, but it seemed more plastered on when he looked at your companion. 

“How do you do?” he said with that same pompous drawl that all wealthy people seemed to have. “How may I be of service today?”

“Marjorie told us you gave a room to a private investigator. Do you happen to know if he has checked out yet?” You asked.

“A private investigator…” he mused, trying to recall. “Ah yes, I remember the gentleman. Such an awful thing about the missing bride. I do hope he finds her whereabouts… If I might pry, have you found something about this investigation?”

“Er, actually, we just have to speak with him about something else,” you said with a small, nonchalant shrug. 

“I see, I see… Well, we don’t normally give out guest information, but given the circumstances, we can make an exception. Let’s see here.” He glanced over the guest book, seeming to find the name he was looking for. “Ah, it seems he hasn’t checked out yet. Room one hundred eighteen. Once you exit the lobby, you can take one of the stairs up to the first level and find him there.”

“Thank you, Mortimer,” you said.

“You are most welcome, madam. I hope we can finally put these matters to rest,” he said, but his eyes almost immediately drifted to Cooper with a certain curiosity. “Are you planning on staying with us, as well? I’m sure we can find you a lovely room.”

“No, I don’t reckon we will,” Cooper said with a slight shake of his head. “Don’t think we’ll be dinin’ with you, either.”

Mortimer’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Ah, so you have heard those nasty rumors. Jealous people say such horrid things… When you can’t get an inside look at our Society, it’s only natural to speculate the worst, I suppose. All we care about is refinement, whether it is through fine cuisine or dressing well.”

“You are perfectly correct,” you interjected before Cooper could say anything else. “Petty rumors and nothing else. My apologies, please excuse us, we’ll be on our way.”

You tugged Cooper towards the other side of the lobby, where the double doors leading to the hotel rooms were located. You felt Mortimer’s eyes on the pair of you the entire way, sending ice trickling down your spine.

“Do you have to stir shit up with everyone we talk to!?” You hissed, gripping his arm as you politely smiled at a masked attendant passing by.

“Gets ‘em talkin’ sometimes, don’t it?” He countered. “It’s like a good cop, bad cop type of deal. Gotta keep ‘em on their toes…”

“Let’s not shake up the investigator, please?” you pleaded. “He might be helpful, and I don’t wanna get off on the wrong foot if possible.”

“You are too nice, sweetheart,” he said with an amused grin, glancing over at you. “You’re lucky you got me to take care of you out here.”

You simply scoffed, pushing the door open and making your way up the stairs. It was all too quiet, not one soul in sight. You’d always found hotel hallways to be sort of eerie, not entirely in touch with reality. Cooper took the lead then, counting the numbers on the doors until he found 118. 

“So what’s our strategy then? We gonna help him find the runaway bride, too?” He asked.

“Maybe, but we have to focus on Ted first. It’s possible he saw something that might help, you never know.”

He stopped right beside the door and lowered his voice. “He will ask for somethin’ in return for the information, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll figure something out.” You raised your fist and delicately rapped on the door with your knuckles.

There was no sound from within. You waited for a moment and figured he might not have heard, so you knocked louder. This time, the door’s hinges creaked as it opened lightly. You frowned, looking over at Cooper as he unsheathed his knife. He put a finger to his lips and nodded for you to quietly push it further open.

You did so painstakingly slow, peering inside. There was still no movement, not even a voice from the bathroom calling out to ask who it was. You saw the mess first – a lamp thrown in one corner, an overturned chair, and slashed curtains. All the signs of a struggle. 

And then, you saw the private investigator… sprawled out on the floor, dead. 

“Holy shit,” you murmured, immediately recoiling from the smell. 

Cooper let out a low whistle. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Looks like he got his skull bashed in,” you said, noticing the chunks of bone, gore, and gray matter staining the carpet, your voice slightly muffled behind your hand. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He walked past you and knelt next to the body to examine it more closely. He tilted his head to one side curiously and hummed in thought. 

“Relatively recent, maybe a few days,” he said. “They didn’t like him askin’ questions, that much is clear.”

“No shit. Anything else of note?”

“Let’s see.”

He carefully searched him for any clues, moving him this way and that. In his left jacket pocket, there was a matchbook. He tossed it over to you and you deftly caught it, opening it up to find a tiny message scrawled within – Steam room. 4 PM.

You didn’t hear them slip in, but Cooper saw them over your shoulder. Two fleet footed masked men menacingly wielding dressing canes, already raised for the blow. Time exponentially slowed down, but there was no room for hesitancy.

“Watch out!” Cooper yelled, springing to his feet. 

You whirled around, just barely avoiding being striked, the cane whooshing past your ear. Cooper got to him first, driving his knife into the man’s abdomen full force. The man let out a gurgling groan, blood spilling from underneath his mask. Cooper pulled out the knife only to bury it once more into the man’s heart, killing him instantly.

Reflexively, you caught the other cane in one hand and held fast to it, struggling against your assailant. You were decently strong, but given his intent to kill, he started to overpower you. You grit your teeth and planted your feet, fighting back even harder, but then Cooper slammed into the man from the side. 

Swiftly, and with a sickening crunch, he disposed of him too. Both of you were panting with both exertion and adrenaline, still not fully processing what had happened. Your mind still spun, but you broke out of your fighting stance, shaking the energy out through your arms. 

“Well, I guess they don’t like us asking questions, either,” you said, looking at the chaos the room had become. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just peachy,” he said, getting to his feet with a grunt. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

He approached and quickly searched you for any visible injuries, sighing with relief when he couldn’t find anything. You patted his hand in a small, comforting gesture, offering him a little smile. 

“Really, I’m all good, Coop,” you said. “Though we’re gonna have to be a lot more careful from here on out.”

“I’ll bet you it was that asshole Mortimer that did this,” he spat.  “He kinda looked like a starving coyote, didn’t he?”

“Likely, yes, but we can’t be making any accusations. In fact, we should probably pretend it didn’t happen at all. That could buy us some time, if we get cleaned up first.”

“Smart idea,” he said, looking down at his blood soaked clothes. “What does the matchbook say?”

You pulled it out of your pocket, where you had hastily tucked it when the attack had started. “It says we have a meeting with someone at four, so we better start getting ready. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

------

Part 2 out now!

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c3. preview

simon riley x original character.

abstract: Simon here, I saw Jude again, she's still going on about her theories, whatever. it's not even funny anymore and she has some weird secret I want to find out… still, she's a fucking menace to society. idk what's wrong with her probably got dropped on her head on purpose as a kid. don't blame the parents.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: The Fruits, Paris Paloma.

In the end, she did hear back from Price. An email. 'Scherzi!' She shouted out loud in her apartment. She sat down on the couch and Jinx hopped on with her, sniffing her laptop. An email from the captain, an invitation to a briefing, to discuss the situation. Tomorrow after your last session at 5pm. 'No vabbe, me fa parià…' she mumbled and wrote back that she would be there.

'So, I wanted to update you on your patient. We spoke with him and three other soldiers about joining us to the next mission in Al-Jareena next week but he refused. Well…' he stopped, rubbing his beard in clear distress. 'He got up and came up to me saying his injury is not fully healed and he will not be able to get deployed. So I told him we needed him and he started to get nervous and left the room in a hurry.' She listened without intervening. 'I know you have an appointment with him one day before we leave. I was wondering if you could let me know if you find out something about this, he's required to leave with us, otherwise we'll have to report him. His doctors cleared him.' He showed her a piece of paper, sliding it across the table.

'Too risky.' It was Simon that spoke. He was British, his voice was deep. He had been debating on intervening in the meeting from the moment Price asked him to be present. He asked him cause he trusted him, and valued his opinion. Jude could have been informed and educated with her little theories and stories, but she didn't know how things worked in the army. This wasn't Cluedo. She had the same attitude when she walked in the room, maybe a bit less stiff. He took his time exploring her. Her pretty green eyes, her nose, her neck. She wore a blouse this time, with grey trousers. She still had those shiny high boots. She had her hair up, a blonde ponytail. He looked at her jaw. She had a mole on her cheek. He shook her hand, he could smell her deodorant. Her skin was warm, soft. He liked talking to her. Her voice still sounded weird, he couldn't pick up a particular accent. He understood she would't let it go.

'I think you're waisting an opportunity.'

'I think you're thinking too much about it.'

I think I want to brake your neck. She was mad now, he could see her, he could feel it. They weren't listening. She stood up and thanked the two for inviting her to the meeting, she assured them she would keep them updated. Her smile was fake, she still wanted to be polite even thought she thought they were both fucking stupid. Ghost didn't feel guilty for going so hard on her, he looked at her leave while she was trying to hide her anger. He said what he really thought, that was what he had been trained to do. 'What's her deal?' he asked the captain on his way out. 'Jude?' the man looked up, then shook his head.

notes: translation: 'Scherzi!', you're joking! 'No vabbe, me fa parià' Naples dialect for 'you're making me laugh'.

notes: Saturday or Sunday for full chapter, when do you want it?? replies and reblogs are highly appreciated!!!

love, mare.

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

[dlwritings]

Aftercare | Tom Holland

masterlist found here

pairing - Tom x reader word count - 6,568 (I have no idea how this happened) warnings - language, bad/uncomfortable first time, bleeding after sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, good sex! A/N - this wasn’t requested but the idea came to mind a while ago so here we are (I think I’m just sick of being a virgin and this came out of it)

summary - Not everyone cares about their first time. Some people just wanted to get it over with .You had always wanted it to be special. A special time with a special guy. But after ages of never finding that guy, you decide to just get it over with. Tom helps with the aftermath of the disaster.

You had always wanted your first time to be special. It wasn’t that you wanted to wait until marriage. You just wanted it to be with someone you loved, not a random stranger. But as the years went by, you felt like the chances of you finding someone you loved were slim. Hell, you were 22, and you hadn’t been in a serious relationship since you were 17. Your virgin status was starting to irk you. Not because of the label. No, you knew virginity was a social concept at best that society created to shame girls. The reason it irked you was because you wanted to have sex. You wanted to be in a relationship with someone so you could get absolutely railed by someone who loved you.

Was that too much to ask?

It didn’t help that you had a crush on your best friend. Girls all over the world swooned over Tom Holland, and you were one of them. The only difference was, you actually knew him. You had been friends for ages, and you had been in love with him for about just as long. Despite all the flirty comments the two of you shared and the endless platonic cuddling, that’s all it was. Platonic. Sometimes you swore he felt the same way, but after years of never making a move, you decided it was all in your head.

You weren’t sure at what point you just caved and downloaded Tinder. You couldn’t say what pushed you over the edge. Maybe it was the smutty Harry Styles fanfic you read that just went too hard (literally) and turned you on to the point of cracking. Regardless, you had done it, and you were actually doing pretty well on the app. You were getting a lot of swipes, and you were feeling pretty good about yourself. When one particularly handsome and charming guy -Theodore- asked you on a date, you agreed.

The restaurant you were going to was pretty fancy, so you wore a cute black skater dress and some killer red pumps. You did your makeup and hair to the best of your ability and finished applying your lipstick just as Theodore texted you that he was at your apartment. Okay, so he wasn’t going to pick you up at your door. That was fine. The gesture was a little outdated anyway, right?

“Hi,” you said, opening the car door and sliding in. “Theodore?”

“Theo,” he said with a smile. “(Y/N)?”

“That’s me,” you said. “It’s great to meet you.”

“You too,” he said. “Ready for dinner?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “‘M pretty hungry.”

“Me too,” he said with a chuckle. 

The date was fine. It was nothing exciting. Nothing to write home about. Theo was nice enough. He was polite and everything, and he made some jokes that genuinely made you laugh. Still, he spent a lot of time talking about himself and not a lot of time asking questions about you.

As the night wore on, you could tell where it was headed. And Theo really was nice enough. You didn’t love him, but you liked him, and at this point in your life, you would take that. You invited him back to your apartment, which he accepted. You got into your apartment, and Theo wasted no time pressing you up against your front door and kissing you. You kissed him back, all the while hoping he didn’t notice how scared you were and how long it had been since you had kissed someone.

You two eventually stumbled into your bedroom, and Theo all but threw you onto your bed. You scooted up to the top of the bed and watched him unbutton his shirt and toss it aside. You expected him to kiss you or pull your dress off, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved to unbuckle his trousers and tugged them down along with his boxers. He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it onto his already hard length. He smiled down at you and fumbled with your panties, pulling them off and throwing them to the floor. Part of you wondered if you should tell him it was your first time, but you also didn’t want to kill the vibe. Didn’t want him to run away. So, you let him thrust into you, biting your lip to stop the painful moan that wanted to escape your lips. You definitely weren’t wet enough, and he hadn’t stretched you out at all before sliding in. “Oh, fuck,” Theo moaned, hanging his head in pleasure. You focused on blinking back tears and tried to find any good feeling that might be there, but you couldn’t. It just hurt so much, and you wanted to tell him to stop. You should’ve told him to stop. You shouldn’t have to suffer through shitty sex just because you felt obligated to put out. But, you were the one who wanted to lose your virginity.

“(Y/N), Jesus fuck you’re so fucking tight,” he moaned. “You like my cock splitting you open like this?”

You weren’t sure how long guys were supposed to last, but you were sure it was longer than this.

Theo spilled into the condom and collapsed on top of you. He panted against your neck before placing a soft kiss to your skin. “You finished, right?” he asked.

“Hm?” you said. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

You winced as Theo pulled out of you and went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. When he came back, he pulled his boxers and trousers up his legs and buttoned his shirt back on. “This was great,” he said as he slid his shoes on his feet. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you watched him. He walked over to you, placed a kiss to your forehead, and saw himself out of your apartment.

It didn’t take long for tears to spill from your eyes. When you lifted your dress to look between your legs, you saw you were bleeding. The sight made a sob escape your lips as you covered your mouth with your hand. You knew you needed to clean yourself up, but you felt actual pain between your legs, and your mind felt numb. As you cried softly, mascara running down your cheeks, you blindly reached for your phone that you had set on the bedside table and opened your contacts. There, you clicked your third favorite contact: Tom.

The line rang a few times -you didn’t pay attention to how many- before Tom answered. “Hello, love,” he said, an audible smile in his voice.

“Tommy?” you croaked out.

Tom had been laying back in bed watching TV but sat up as soon as you spoke. Not only did it obviously sound like you were crying, but you only called him Tommy when you were sad. He knew you had a date that night, and his mind immediately went to the worst case scenario. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?

“Can you just come over?” you asked. “I’m sorry to do this.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll leave right now. Be over in ten.”

“Okay,” you whispered. “See you soon.”

You hung up before he could respond. You laid in bed curled up in a ball, clutching your arms over your stomach. You couldn’t stop crying, and wished you could go back in time and stop yourself from downloading Tinder in the first place.

“(Y/N)?”

You opened your eyes at the sound of Tom’s voice. You were grateful you had given him a key for emergencies. Seeing him only made you cry harder, so he rushed over to you and sat beside you on the bed, pulling you onto his lap. You hissed at the movements, the pain between your legs even more present. “What happened?” Tom asked, running his hands through your hair.

“It hurts,” you sobbed, not knowing how to sit to ease the pain. Squeezing your legs together made it worse, but keeping them open was painful too.

“What hurts?” he asked.

You sniffed, trying to compose yourself so you didn’t sound like a blubbering idiot. You knew Tom wouldn’t judge you no matter what you said or did. That was one reason you loved him. “He wasn’t gentle,” you whispered. “And, and he didn’t prep me at all, but I didn’t want to stop him because I thought it’d be rude.”

Tom was quiet for a few moments, trying to let the words sink in. His heart broke at what you were implying. He knew you were a virgin, but you had always expressed to him that you wanted your first time to be special. He wasn’t judging you for losing it to some Tinder date, but it made him sad that you didn’t get the memorable first time you had always wanted.

“Are you bleeding?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you said back. “Hurts too much to get up and, and clean it.” Tom nodded in understanding, petting your hair comfortingly again.

“How about I run you a bath,” he said. “And while you’re in the tub, I’ll go get you some ice cream, okay? And we can watch some films for the rest of the night. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah,” you choked out. “Thanks, Tommy." He nodded, kissed your forehead, and stood up from the bed to get a bath going in the bathroom. You stayed in the same position on the bed, doing your best to keep your tears in while you were alone.

“Alright, love,” Tom said when he came back in the room, crouching beside the bed so he was level with your face. He stroked your cheek with a soft smile. “Bath’s all ready. I put your favorite bath bomb in.” You managed to give him a smile back, but when you sat up, you frowned again at the ache between your legs. Tom licked his lips and gave you a tight, sad smile. “C’mere,” he said as he stood up straight and held his arms out to you. “I’ll carry you.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue with him, so you stuck your arms out and let him pick you up and carry you bridal style to the bathroom. He sat you on the toilet and knelt in front of you. “You want me to help you into the tub too?” he asked. You bit your lower lip and hung your head in shame.

“Do you mind?” you asked.

“Course not,” he said. “You take off your clothes, and I’ll lift you in.” You nodded and waited for him to turn his head so you could undress without his watchful eye. Not that it mattered, because he was literally about to lift your naked body into a bathtub. When your clothes were off, you muttered his name, so he turned to face you. He made sure to keep his eyes on yours rather than your body as much as he could as he hooked one arm under your knees and one around your back, lifting you up and setting you into the bathtub. He took your hair tie from your wrist and pulled your hair up into a ridiculously messy bun on the top of your head. You managed a soft smile as you sunk into the tub.

“Okay,” he said, petting the top of your head. “I’ll go pick you up some ice cream, yeah? You call me if you need anything, and I’ll come right back.”

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you.” He nodded, kissed your forehead, and left you alone in the bathroom.

When Tom got in his car, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to compose himself. God, when he found this son of a bitch, he wasn’t going to hold back. And he would find this son of a bitch. For now, he had to focus on helping you feel better. He drove to the store to pick up the ice cream he knew you liked, and on the way there, he found himself calling his mom.

“Hello, lovely,” she said when she picked up.

“Hey, Mum,” he said back. “Can-” He cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you about something kind of serious?”

“Of course,” she said. “What is it?” He hesitated, but knew his mom would be able to help. After all, mother knows best.

“(Y/N) called me and, and she had sex with someone, but it, it wasn’t good sex.” He was trying to keep out awkward, intimate details.

“She’s sore?” she asked.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Like, really bad. And she was bleeding a little too.”

“Oh dear,” she sighed.

“Yeah,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of the store. “I’m going to pick her up some ice cream, but I want to know what I should get to actually help her.”

“Well, there’s not much you can do, really,” she said with another sympathetic sigh. “As odd as it sounds, she might want to use an ice pack. And-” She paused. “-are you ready to be an adult about this, Thomas?”

“Mum, I called you about this,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Lay it on me.”

She chuckled. “If you want to buy her some Vagisil moisturizing gel or something, it couldn’t hurt. Maybe some Midol.”

“Okay,” Tom said, letting out a heavy breath. “I can do that.”

“Good boy,” she said. He could hear her smile. “You’re very sweet to do this for her, Tom.”

“Thanks, Mum,” he said, a blush forming on his cheeks. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

They exchanged I-love-yous and goodbyes, and Tom hung up the phone. He was in and out of the grocery store fairly quickly (the most time was spent searching for the Vagisil) and headed back to your apartment as soon as he could.

You were still in the tub when Tom got back, so he set everything on the vanity in your bedroom and helped you out of the tub, wrapping a dry towel around your body. You both headed into your room, and you got out some pajamas to put on. Over the shorts and tank top, you pulled on a hoodie you had once stolen from Tom. He didn’t know, but it was your comfort hoodie. You wore it whenever you were sad or stressed because it made you feel safe.

“Um,” Tom said, rubbing the back of his neck as you crawled into bed, “I got you some stuff.”

“Stuff?” you repeated, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he said, fumbling with the grocery bag. “I got ice cream, and, and, uh, well, you said you were hurting, so, um-” He cleared his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile at how nervous he was. He dumped out the contents of the bag and revealed that he bought an ice pack, some Midol, and a small tube of Vagisil. Suddenly, you wanted to cry all over again. You sucked in your lower lip and looked up at Tom who immediately frowned. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep?”

“No, no,” you said, shaking your head. “This is just-” You took a shaky breath. “This is really sweet, Tommy. Thank you.”

Tom’s smile returned as he nodded once. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go get spoons, you pick a film, okay?”

“Okay,” you said back. He took the ice pack to put in the freezer for a while, and you moved everything else to the bedside table. “Tom?” you called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me some water too?”

“Of course!”

You worked to open up the Midol which you did just as he came back with spoons and a water for you. You thanked him, downed two of the pills, and smiled as he plopped beside you on the bed. “Did you pick a film yet?” he asked, allowing you to sit between his legs and rest your back on his chest.

“No,” you said. “Something on Disney+ I think.”

“Whatever you want, love.”

You eventually settled on Monsters Inc. which Tom said was fine. Realistically, you knew he would’ve been okay with whatever you picked. Less than halfway through the film, you and Tom had already abandoned the ice cream, allowing it to melt slowly on the bedside table. One of you would put it away in the freezer before going to bed. As the minutes ticked on and the ache between your legs started to subside, you couldn’t help but think about Theo again. Tom must’ve noticed your shift in demeanor, because he rubbed your stomach with his thumbs and nudged your cheek with his nose. “Are you okay?” he asked. You hung your head and closed your eyes, not wanting to burst into tears all over again.

“Just wish I did it all different,” you whispered. He hesitated a moment.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked. You swallowed back the lump in your throat before speaking.

“We got back from dinner,” you told him, “and I invited him into my apartment.” You shook your head at the memories. “Everything happened so fast. We were kissing, and then, he was taking off his clothes and-” You couldn’t help it. Tears started to come again. You felt so sad and stupid and embarrassed and hurt and used. “-he didn’t even take off my dress. He didn’t touch me or anything. He just put on the condom and-” You cut yourself off with another shake of your head, figuring Tom got the picture. “It was over pretty quick, and he asked me if I came and I just said yes.”

“But you didn’t?” he asked.

“Of course I didn’t,” you mumbled, painfully aware of the shake in your voice. “He didn’t do anything to make me feel good at all. I feel so stupid.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said. “If anyone should feel stupid, it should be him. He’s clearly shitty at sex.” You giggled softly which made Tom smile and nudge his nose against your cheek again. You looked up at him. “I’m sorry your first time wasn’t more special,” he said. “I know you wanted it to be nice. And you deserved something nice.”

“It’s whatever,” you said dismissively. “Maybe I made a bigger deal out of it than I should’ve. I set my expectations too high.”

“No you didn’t,” Tom said. “You just wanted a good first time. That’s not asking too much. Hell, you didn’t even get to cum. You’re allowed to be upset about this.”

You scoffed. “Well, let’s just say I’m deleting Tinder, so I don’t see me getting anything better anytime soon. Not unless I meet some sex god at the office.” Tom sighed and kissed your temple.

“You’ll find someone better,” he mumbled against your skin. “I promise.”

-

After the whole Theo fiasco, you deleted Tinder, deciding whatever game you wanted to call that just wasn’t for you. Everyday went by with the same routine. Wake up, work, come home, watch TV, go to bed, repeat. Eating was sprinkled in here and there, and you tried to change up your meals whenever you could for a little bit of variety. Otherwise, it was all very monotonous.

So when you got home on Friday and found a note taped to your front door, you were rightfully confused. You pulled it from the wall, let yourself into your apartment, and closed the door behind you with your foot as you ripped the envelope open.

(Y/N)-

We haven’t gotten dinner in a while. Wear something nice, and I’ll pick you up at 6:00! It’s gonna be great x

Tom

You pressed your lips into a tight line and held the note to your chest as you leaned against the door. Sometimes you hated Tom for doing stuff like this. He was such boyfriend material, but he would never be that. Did he have any idea what he did to you? How he made you feel? Probably not. You loved Tom, but he sure was thick sometimes.

It was already about 5:00, so you had to get ready pretty quickly. You put on a white, lace, bodycon dress and started to do your hair and makeup. Tom arrived before you were quite finished, but he let himself in. “(Y/N)?” he called.

“Bedroom!” you called back. He came in, and you caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked handsome, as expected: blue slacks, a white button-up, and brown shoes that matched his brown belt. You turned to look at him, your lips slightly parted. Before you could say anything-

“Wow,” he whispered. “You-” He chuckled. “Wow.”

“Shut up,” you said with a laugh. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not!” he said, matching your laugh. “I’m just saying. Wow. You look great.”

“Well thank you,” you said, walking up to him. You straightened his collar that was folded oddly. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” You patted his chest and tried not to let your hands linger for too long. Tom stuck his arm out for you to take, which you did, and the two of you walked out to his car.

You and Tom had been going on friend dates for ages. Once he became famous, he loved treating you to fancy dinners whenever you both had time to spare. You on the other hand were a sucker for bowling nights and paintball tournaments. But nice restaurants were lovely too, and any time you could spend with Tom, you would take.

Dinner flowed as nicely as it always did when you were together. You chatted about your work, and he shared as many details of his newest project as he could. The whole time, you couldn’t help but feel like there was a weird tension in the air. Maybe tension wasn’t the right word. There was just something going on with Tom that you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t ask him about it until you left the restaurant. He invited you back to his place for drinks, and you obliged.

“Are you okay?” you asked him as he pulled out of the restaurant parking lot. “You seem a little off.”

“Off?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Forget it.” Tom just chuckled and continued the drive down the street. When you arrived at his apartment, you knew for a fact something was going on with him, and you didn’t like how he was hiding it. “What is up with you, Tom?” you asked him. “I know something’s going on. I know you.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair as he closed the door behind the both of you when you got inside.

“You know I love you and care about you,” he said.

“Of course,” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Why are you-”

“C’mere,” he said, taking your hand. Your eyebrows furrowed even deeper than they already were but allowed him to walk you over to his bedroom. When you walked in, your lips parted slightly in shock. He had a lamp light on and his essential oil diffuser (the one you bought him for Christmas) going, the soothing smell of lavender filling the room. On the bed -which was neatly made; a rare occurrence at Tom’s house- were rose petals. You turned to look at him, sure he could hear your heart pounding in your chest. “There’s no pressure,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it is that your first time was so horrible. It should’ve been with someone special like you wanted. Someone who cares about you. And, well-” He sighed as if realizing he was fumbling around the point. “I want to make it up to you. I want to show you what good sex is supposed to be like.”

“You, y- you, uh,” you stuttered. “You want to have sex with me?” He licked his lips and took a step closer to you.

“No pressure,” he said. “No strings. Just good sex and the guarantee of at least one orgasm.”

You swallowed thickly. “At, at least one?” Tom smiled and nodded, then closed the distance between the two of you by wrapping his arms around you.

“At least one,” he repeated. He could tell you were hesitant by the way you were nibbling on your lower lip, so he stroked your cheek gently in an attempt to calm you down. “If you say yes and you change your mind while we’re doing it, that’s okay too. I’ll take it nice and slow for you.” He paused, licking his lips as he glanced down at yours, then up at your eyes again. “But if this is too weird, that’s fine. I just wanted to give you the chance to have great sex with someone who cares about you.”

You giggled a bit. “Are you saying you’re great at sex?”

“Mm,” he hummed with a smug smile. “I don’t want to brag, but I’ve never heard any complaints.” You melted into Tom’s touch as he pulled you a little closer and buried his face in your neck. “What do you say, darling?” he whispered, kissing your skin lightly. “You want me to make you feel good?” You took a shaky breath and closed your eyes as Tom sucked the skin of your pulse point, surely leaving a bruise.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You felt Tom smile before he pulled back to look at you. He pressed his forehead to yours and kissed your nose.

“Okay,” he said. “C’mere.” The two of you walked over to the bed, and Tom helped you move to the head of the bed. He sat in front of you with his legs crossed, and you mirrored his position. You tried to give him a strong smile, but you knew it came out small and nervous. He chuckled softly and put his hand on your cheek. “S’okay to be nervous,” he said. You bit your lip and nodded just as he started to lean forward and brush his lips against yours. You released your hold on your bottom lip and accepted his kiss, opening your mouth as soon as Tom traced his tongue across your lip. Already, this was different than when you were with Theo. It was like Tom was pouring his care into the kiss.

You put your arms over his shoulders and played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. He started to lay you down on the bed, and you could feel your breathing pick up. Still, you kept your lips pressed to his. His tongue massaged against yours, and you held in your whimpers as best as you could. It got harder when he started trailing kisses down your jaw and neck. His mouth wasn’t muffling your noises, so you had to bite your lip to keep yourself quiet. “Darling,” he whispered against your collarbone, “you look like an angel in this dress.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Can you lay on your stomach for me?” he asked. “Wanna unzip you.” You nodded and rolled over, and you swore you heard him hum as he put his hands on the back of your thighs. He ran them up your body, pausing to squeeze your ass which made you jump. He chuckled and moved to unzip the dress, kissing the skin that was exposed as he removed the fabric. You turned to sit up so he could pull the dress off you, and he licked his lips when he saw you weren’t wearing a bra. Everything suddenly felt very real, and you moved to cover yourself. Tom frowned and shook his head. “You’re so beautiful, (Y/N),” he said. You hung your head, still feeling an odd sense of uncomfortableness, but Tom was having none of that. He lifted your head and kissed you again. He laid you down on the bed and started kissing down your neck. “How’re you doing?” he asked, feeling your erratic pulse against his lips.

“Just nervous,” you admitted. Because this was Tom. You could be honest with Tom.

“That’s okay,” he said, sucking your pulse point until a bruise formed and you whimpered. “‘S not gonna hurt, okay, love? ‘M just gonna use my mouth to start. Warm you up and make sure you’re ready for me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“And you let me know if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said. You nodded, and Tom kissed down your body, pausing to pay attention to each of your breasts. He sucked on each nipple until it was hard and extra sensitive to the touch. He smiled as he nipped at your bud until you whined and tugged your fingers through his hair. You could feel a pulsing between your legs, and you needed more. Tom could tell, because he smiled again and kissed down your stomach until he got to the waistband of your panties. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, and you licked your lips and stared up at the ceiling. When you broke eye contact, he tucked his fingers in your panties and pulled them down your legs. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t say anything. Tom would take care of you. You had no doubts about that. If he said it wouldn’t hurt, you believed him.

Tom pushed your legs apart and brought his mouth down to your thighs, kissing each of them before placing his mouth on your opening. You gasped and put your hands in his hair, and you felt him smile. His thumbs dug into your thighs as he licked up your slit, avoiding contact with your clit. And as badly as you wanted him to touch you there, this was already feeling better than everything Theo had done to you. “Tom,” you breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut. “Feels so go-” You cut yourself off with a moan as Tom started swirling his tongue around your clit. “Oh Christ,” you muttered. “Tom!” He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, causing you to whine again and arch your back.

“Can I add a finger?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you gasped. “Yes. Please, Tom.” He nodded and sucked his finger in his mouth, then slowly eased it into your opening. “Ahh!” you moaned.

“You okay, love?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you hummed. He slowly started moving his finger, still keeping his mouth on your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut as he slid another finger inside you. The sudden change in fullness startled you in a good way. So this was what foreplay was supposed to feel like. Tom added another finger, and you swore you were in heaven. He could tell you were feeling good by the way your jaw was dropped but no noise was coming out. He smiled and curled his fingers a bit so that they grazed your g-spot perfectly. “Tom,” you whispered. “I, I’m-”

“Cum for me, darling,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Your thighs squeezed around his hand as he flicked his tongue over your clit and moved his fingers faster in and out of you. In seconds, you were coming around his fingers with a soft cry as you dug your head into the pillow. Tom kissed your thighs and slowed his fingers down to help you ride out your high. When you caught your breath, you blinked your eyes open and looked down at him. He had a lazy smile on his face, and he kissed up your body until he got to your lips. “You want to keep going?” he asked. You nodded and lifted your head slightly to kiss him. He pulled back quickly and tugged his shirt over his head, then let his jeans and boxers follow.

His cock was more impressive than Theo’s. Longer. Thicker. If his foreplay wasn’t enough, you knew now that sex with Tom was about to be much better than it was with Theo. Tom reached into his bedside drawer and pulled out a condom, wasting no time rolling it onto his length with his lower lip tucked between his teeth. He pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, and you gripped his biceps in your hands, your nails leaving little half moon shapes across his skin. “S’okay,” he whispered to you, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. “S’not gonna hurt, okay? I promise.” He leaned down to pepper gentle kisses across your face. “Do you trust me, love?” You nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah. I trust you.”

Tom smiled and gripped his cock, lining himself up with your pussy. He guided himself in, inch by inch, kissing your neck and whispering words of encouragement into your ear as he did so. He was right. It didn’t hurt. In facte, it felt so fucking good, you wanted to cry. “Oh, Tom,” you muttered, your head tossing back. He kissed up the column of your neck, and you could feel a smile across his lips. Once he bottomed out, Tom paused, giving you time to adjust. You let out a shaky breath, and he moved his head so he could look in your eyes. He only hovered for a moment before pressing his lips to yours. You sighed into the kiss as his tongue slipped into your mouth, fighting for dominance against yours. He stayed still until you wrapped your legs around his waist, silently encouraging him to move. He pulled his hips back and thrust them forward in a slow, smooth stroke. You cried out in pleasure, and Tom moved to kiss your neck again.

“Oh fuck, (Y/N),” he moaned. “How’s it feel?”

“Tom,” you cried. “Feels so good.” He brought his fingers up to his lips and licked two of them before sliding his hand between your bodies. His fingers found your clit right away, and he started rubbing fast circles, hoping to bring you close to that edge. He wanted more than anything to move faster, to pound into your tight cunt like it was all his -like you were all his- but he held back. This time couldn’t hurt you at all. He wouldn’t be like that other guy. He wanted you to remember this. To happily remember this. Even more than that, he wanted this to mean something.

He just wasn’t sure he was ready to admit that much yet.

You squeezed around his member, and Tom muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath and moved his hips a little faster. “You’re close,” he said. It was a statement. Not a question. Like he already knew your body better than you did.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “‘M close.”

He let his hand move at the same pace as his hips -faster and faster, bringing you closer and closer to climaxing. “Tom,” you cried. “I’m, I’m gonna, oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and came, squeezing so tightly he came right after. He moaned your name in your ear, slowing the movement of his hips to help you ride out your high. You gripped his hair in your fists, and he started kissing your neck again. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Did you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are?” He pulled back so he could look in your eyes, then brushed his knuckles across your cheek again.

“Thanks, Tom,” you whispered. He smiled and pulled out of you, frowning as soon as you winced.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m okay.” He smiled softly and kissed your cheek, then pushed himself out of bed.

“Want you to go to the bathroom, okay?” he said. “Then we can go to bed.” You nodded, your head feeling a little hazy, then got out of bed. Tom watched with a soft smile as you trotted off to the bathroom. While you were gone, he changed the sheets, put on some clean boxers, and got you a pair of boxers and a t-shirt to wear to bed. You were back in a few moments, your hair now up in a bun and your makeup off your face. You gave him a sheepish smile, your arms folded awkwardly across your chest, and he smiled back. “I got you some clothes,” he told you. “You’re staying the night, yeah?”

“If that’s okay,” you said, hanging your head a bit.

“Course,” Tom said. You smiled, then took the clothes he offered you and changed. By the time you were dressed, Tom was under the covers. You got into bed beside him, and turned on your side to face him. “So,” he said, reaching out to stroke your cheek again, “how was that?”

You giggled. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

He chuckled. “It’s always good to hear the compliments out loud.” You rolled your eyes and gave his shoulder a shove. Your expression shifted a bit.

“How was I?” you asked. He gave you a soft smile.

“You were perfect, love,” he said. “Best I ever had.”

“Shut up,” you said. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying!” he said. “I’ve ever had sex with someone I-” He cut himself off, his smile dropping a bit. “It’s just different.”

“With someone you what?” you asked. Tom swallowed, and you could sense something that looked like nerves in his eyes. “What?” you pressed, a giggle passing your lips. “What’s on your mind?” He sighed and sat up, causing you to furrow your eyebrows and mimic his position.

“(Y/N),” he said, “I love you.”

Your response was immediate.

“What?”

“I love you,” he repeated. “And, and I care about you so much. When, when you said sex with that douchebag was so bad, I wanted it to be better for you. You deserve something better than that. I really mean that. But, but what I didn’t tell you was that it was also, it was a way for me to-” He sighed, clearly annoyed with himself. “I wanted to sleep with you because I love you. I, I saw this as a chance to, to be with you the way I want to be with you. And I know how wrong that is. I know how messed up that sounds, but-”

“You love me?” you said. You were still having a hard time processing the admission. He just sighed and nodded. Before he could say anything else -and he looked like he was going to say something else- you closed the small space between the two of you in a kiss. He jumped, but the shock wore off quickly, and he rested his hand on your cheek. He smiled beneath the kiss, and you smiled back. When you pulled away, you kept your foreheads pressed together. “I love you too,” you whispered. “And, honestly, I wish my first time had been with you, but, but I’m glad you made this one count.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small chuckle. “Me too. And don’t you worry-” He pressed a kiss to your nose. “-all the times after this are gonna be just as good.”

“Yeah?” you giggled. “Promise?”

“Oh yeah,” he said with a grin. “I promise.”

----- ----- ----- -----

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[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 21

The Darkling x Reader

The atmosphere in the Palace was welcoming and enjoyable yet you couldn't help but dampen the mood of those around you. Your smiles were visible fake, your laughs as forced as the diplomacy of the evening. It was hard to focus on anything but the Queen's request, you could still feel her cold touch on your hands, could still hear her voice as if she was standing next to you. Some would say being in the presence of the Royals was a blessing by the Saints, but to you it was a sudden blight; a curse.

The duties and obligations you had were out the window now as you looked for the particular head of red flame hair, completely ignoring the Kerch ambassador and his slurring words of trade agreements.

Did Genya tell her General that the charming Lantsov Prince was soon to be wed to the Deputy of the Second-army? Or did she keep that part to herself? You had a feeling it was the latter given Aleksander's behavior earlier but what if he knew- What if his obedient spy told him everything and he was looking at your predicament as an opportunity, even though it would hurt you to the core and shatter your moral values. There's nothing he wouldn't do for more power.

'Deputy Y/L/N, I presume?' A man in a military uniform adorned with colorful medals approached you from the side, silently shooeing the Kerch man away and taking his place despite your obvious air of hostility. You were in no mood for diplomacy.

'The one and only.'

'So I have heard.' You could make out the smallest tinge of an accent reminiscent of a Fjerdan rhythm through the spoken words. His blonde hair and long beard tell-tale signs of his druskelle service and enough for your anger to flare. 'Tell me, what kind of Grisha are you?' You didn't miss the disgust dripping from the word as he forced it through his teeth. No doubt he hated himself for being here.

'A powerful one.'

'More powerful than the Sun-Summoner?'

'Much.'

'I won't forget that.'

'I hope you don't. Tell your people too, it'll save me some time and perhaps some lives.'

'Is that a threat Deputy?'

'Yes' He snorted and looked around the lively room.

'Fjerda isn't here to fight tonight, we're here to party. I thought it would be the same for you, no?'

'I don't keep peace with people who wish my kind dead.'

'Neither does your General. But the West, I'm not too sure they're on the same page'

You bit back the urge to smack the tall man stone-cold. The West was a tricky situation that had been playing heavily on your mind for as long as you could remember. Although it was Ravka, Grisha were no longer safe there. Zlatan was coercing with the Fjerdans to capture Grisha in exchange for military backup and as much as it angered you to keep the First-Army General alive, it would create a whole other problem if he was found dead.

'West Ravka is Ravka. All Zlatan is is a mere General of the First-Army. He's no King.'

'You would be surprised. People would listen to a stableboy if he spoke of truth and justice.'

'And would Fjerda back him up too?'

He smirked and gave a nod of his head in amusement at your raging eyes. 'You drüsje get so worked up over words. It's actions that matter.'

'Not here in Ravka. Remember where and what you are. Then think of what half of this room can do to you' Without so much as a goodbye, you walked away from him with a huff and continued looking for Genya. You hadn't even seen Aleksander make an appearance yet but you didn't think you wanted to see him, not after your conversation with the Queen.

We wish for you to marry my son

Every time you thought you had shaken the haunting request, it came back with a shiver up your spine. It went against everything you ever believed in. You hated the crown, the Lantsov line, you hated the Ravka they created. But this didn't feel like something you could reject. It wasn't a proposal, it was an alliance.

You turned your head to the doors and watched as Zoya clambered up the stairs in her stunning blue silk kefta. Behind her, a Suli performer climbed up on her silks as if it were all she'd ever known. Her body swung gracefully and smoothly, not batting an eyelid at all her observers. It was memorizing and distracting, something for which you were thankful.

'Haven't you got some Dukes and Ministers to babysit?' Zoya appeared beside you, eyeing up the empty glass in your hand.

'Let them roam free for the night'

'As long as they're not groveling over me'

'Because your presence is so much more captivating than the Sun-Summoners' You rolled your eyes and made your way to get a new, full, glass.

'Thank you for finally admitting it'

'Where's Genya Saffin?'

She made a face and took a glass to, bringing it up to her lips and taking a small sip.

'With Alina. Why?'

'Oh nothing, just some details to hash out about Marie attending dinner' You covered up. 'I spoke with a Fjerdan dignitary. He had no problem hiding that West Ravka is coming to their aid.' Zoya was a good soldier and a great tactician, if you were to tell anyone such sensitive information, it would definitely be Zoya.

'I overheard a Zemeni ambassador say they were spotted at Zlatan's rallies. He's raising his ranks whilst our own coffers run out. We can't afford a war with each of our borders'

'Try telling the King that' The Lantsov King. Nikolai's father. Nikolai.

'Saints are you alright?' Zoya looked at you with wide eyes, then to the broken glass crumbling in your hand. You had been clutching it so hard you managed to smash it and slice the palm of your hand.

'Oh umm- I need a moment' You disposed of the glass on a nearby table and basically ran to the nearest washroom. Crimson red blood dripped slowly from your fingers as you tried to keep it from staining your kefta while you closed the door behind you.

This was the first moment since your talk with the Queen where you were alone. Truly alone, no ambassador looming over your shoulder or a Duke at your side. Alexander, Alina, and Genya were still nowhere to be seen and the demonstration would begin shortly but all you wanted to do was stay in this tiny and stuffy room, shut off from everything. You washed your hand down with water, hissing in pain as the water tinted red and carried away the signs of injury. The quarters were quiet and calm, a stark contrast to the liveliness in the hall not often seen in the Little Palace.

The Little Palace tended to be quiet, but the Grand Palace was different. The Grand Palace. The winter home of the Lantsovs. Nikolai. Marriage.

The gentle tears came like a surprise, rolling down your face with grace. 'Fuck me' was all you could say as your head rested on your uninjured hand. You still felt exhausted and overwhelmed now even more so but you liked to think you hid it well. What good was a Deputy in emotional turmoil at a party full of political vultures?

The door to the small space suddenly opened and none other than Genya Saffin walked in with ease only she possessed. She looked at you in shame then fixed her attention on her shoes, not meeting your broken gaze.

'I take it you spoke with Tatiana?'

'Why didn't you tell General Kirigan?' You sniffed and wrapped your hand in a handkerchief, not bothering to wipe away the tears that you continued to cry.

'I felt it wasn't my place'

'Why?' Your voice cracked, slightly distracting you but the meaning to your question was obvious. Why me?

'She wished to squelch his bastardry rumors with your standing reputation.'

'Does he know?'

'She wrote him, but he has yet to respond.'

'Why not Vasily? Is it to make sure a Grisha never sits on the throne?'

She stayed quiet, toying with her sleeve. 'She says you have the air of a false Queen but the mind of a demon'

'Nothing new there' You laughed and straightened up, using the handkerchief on your hand to pat your face dry, diminishing any last sign of your weak moment away. 'Is Alina ready?' She looked at you with pure pity on her face, the compassion bursting on her face busting at its seams.

'Yes. Last I saw she was with the General.'

'Thank you Ms.Saffin'

***

You didn't mean to miss the demonstrations, but you took your time walking back to the main hall anyway. It was only when you saw the darkened room and searing light did you stop dead in your tracks at the door. Alina stood there on the podium, the image of a Saint. Her black and gold kefta shimmered in her light beautifully, illuminating her face and smile. She was glowing. Her powers had brought her not only luxurious life but good health, something everyone prays for. The black looked well on her too. It set her apart from the sea of bright keftas and gowns. In a Palace full of Grisha and powerful members of society, only Alina and Aleksander wore the black keftas, not even you wore it tonight and it made you feel surprisingly insecure.

He stood to her side, enthralled by her show of strength and skill. He was fascinated with her, it showed in his eyes and on his face but it definitely wasn't a facade. Even watching them from afar you could see that he looked at her as if she was his Sun, the only thing capable of lighting up his night sky.

You didn't know how to look at her. Everyone around you was worshipping her, whispering silent prayers to Sankta Alina: the Sun Saint, but you stayed frozen and still. You were never faithful to the Saints, they never listened to you, so what good would pledging your allegiance to Alina be if you knew Aleksander planned to extort her?

The whole room was kneeling now, heads bent down in symbols of submission yet you stood. No doubt you stuck out like a sore thumb, but a leader does not bow to anybody, not even the Saints. He momentarily turned his head to look at you but his eyes were far from the softness he gave Alina. They spoke more than his smooth words ever could yet this time the silent exchange did nothing to soothe your muddled head.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to break your burning gaze away from the summoners and to a guard instead.

'Deputy, we have 2 First-Army soldiers who claim to have found Morozova's Stag' The Stag. Just my luck.

'Tell the General, I have no business with the stag' You waved him off and returned your stare back to the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk when her eyes caught yours. Queen Tatiana was looking through to your soul, demolishing any confidence you could muster at that moment.

Marry my son.

----------------

Part 22

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[bansept]

Ichihime Week | Day 1: Flowers

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ichigo scratched his head, his thoughts running wild in his head as he stared at the internet research. Once upon a time, he fell in love, started to date the woman who loved him back and all was well in the most beautiful of many worlds. Honestly, everything with Orihime, now that they were officially together, was marvelous. Waking up, while it was fastidious before, was oh so sweet now. Going to his work, taking a meal, hell, even walking in the streets was a source of unlimited happiness if his beautiful girlfriend was by his side.

Not everything was all shiny and butterflies though: with some occasional “fights” between them, and moments of silence that go with the dating experience, Ichigo was always left feeling guilty. Everyone assumed it was for no reason, since it was normal to chew a bone occasionally. But then, the same people had not been the greatest of help finding the perfect way to reveal his feelings for the auburn beauty, and the young man had to it alone, so, he’d rather not listen to unexperienced dead souls.

A few days ago, Ichigo had been a dick. An unpleasant one. After a long day of listening to nonsense sputtered by tiny kids, who did not want to obey the requests of “an orange top man” and stretch properly otherwise they would be in pain, having the same remarks from an older sensei about his lack of smile and being drenched to the bone because of sudden rain, Ichigo had been exhausted. So much he had grumbled at Orihime, and made her feel like she was bothering him by welcoming him with open arms when, quite exactly, it was the opposite. But, of course, with his greatest weapon – grumpiness – he had managed to push her away, shut this enlightening smile of hers. She had forgiven him later, shrugging it off as “it’s just a bad day, it happens from time to time”.

So now, ashamed of his behavior, feeling unworthy to even look at her without a proper apology, he was asking to google what to do. A few ideas popped in his mind, but one can never be too sure about them.

Flowers. They could mean someone carrying their courage and revealing the truth about their feelings. They could mean an apology, a vibrant “I’m sorry” as well as a desire to remain close. Very good.

.

.

.

It was stormy outside, once again. This time equipped with a large umbrella, Ichigo walked to the ABCookies bakery, frowning at how utterly impossible it was to hide the bouquet of bright white and soft orange flowers with the green herbs surrounding them. People glanced at him, mumbling about how he was either trying to be forgiven for something or trying to have a good night. He ignored them, stopping at the corner of the shop.

Deep breaths. He could do it. He had to. Orihime would forgive him for almost anything, because she loved him deeply, but he would man up and truly deserve forgiveness.

The door opened with the sound of a light bell, right above the door, and Orihime was not to be seen behind the counter. Ichigo frowned, the other worker stopping in his tracks to stare at a tall, orange-haired and clearly confused man.

“Can… I help you with anything?”

Ah. So that guy in the work clothes was obviously new. Great. Ichigo walked closer to the desk, the sound of his shoes in the silent room making it look like he was ready to fight someone.

“Could you tell me where Orihime Inoue is? I have to talk to her.” He requested, nicely and politely.

The man, shorter than him, obviously sporting fewer muscles, looked him up and down, then at the flowers, then at his face.

“Who’s asking her? I’m pretty sure those flowers won’t make you have a date with her.” He questioned, crossing his arms over his chest to look scary, Ichigo guessed.

That little… The Substitute Shinigami breathed in deeply, opening his eyes wider to not yell at the young man, who was probably just doing his job and protecting his co-worker from, maybe, yet another dude asking Orihime for something…

“I’m her boyfriend. Could you please tell her that Ichigo is here? It’s rather important.”

The man behind the counter squinted his eyes at Ichigo, not trusting him, but still going to the back to ask for Hisayo, the “boss” of the co-workers, eldest and responsible of the shop. Who knew Ichigo and shook her head when she saw him standing there like an idiot.

“Yeah, Hiro, he’s right. Orihime and he are dating. Let him through next time, otherwise he’ll scare the clients away.” She chuckled, but her face was unamused, remembering how complicated it had been to convince everyone that no, he wasn’t from a gang and yes, her clients were safe, a few months ago.

The orange-haired man nodded at her and walked at the back of the bakery, in the resting room. There, he saw Orihime enjoying a little snack she had made in the morning, licking her fingers to not waste a drop of wasabi and red bean paste.

“Hime…” He talked, surprising her and making her face him, face full of food. Ichigo tried not to laugh at the spectacle, walking up to her and lowering himself down, crouching to meet her incredulous eyes.

“Ichigo? What are you doing here? I’m supposed to get back to work in 5 minutes…” She wondered, raising her hand to touch his hair and caress it.

“I know, I’m sorry I’m perturbing your time off. But… Listen, I’m so sorry for snapping at you the other day. I was tired, drenched and pissed off, and while none of that excuses my behavior, it still is what happened. Because of my bad mood, I downgraded yours too. Made you feel bad… Which I swore never to.”

He placed the flowers in front of him, right under her nose for her to smell, and her eyes widened again, mouth gaping.

“Ichigo… Really, it’s fine! I told you I understood that you were in a pissy mood the other day. You didn’t need to buy those…” She tried to refuse them, but her eyes had left him to stare intently at the tiny blossoms of white anemones, dahlias and soft orange geraniums. Her boyfriend really was… so many things, from sweet, kind to caring and atrociously scared of hurting her feelings. She needed to reassure him, tell him all was fine.

The young man in front of her watched as she accepted the bouquet with a hand and taking his in her left hand, intertwining their fingers together.

“I know I might be overdoing it… But everyone and everywhere, people say that one tiny thing can ruin a relationship if it’s not tended to, so I want to apologize for every time I’m a dick to you. I… Don’t want to lose you because of my bad temper.” He admitted, blush on his cheeks as if he was mortified to admit this out loud.

Orihime smiled gently, sniffing the flowers for a bit before lowering the bouquet on the table, far from her leftovers, to take Ichigo’s face in her hands, kissing him on the cheek.

“You won’t lose me because you grumbled. Or because you don’t talk to me for an hour. Or something close to that. I’ve known you for years and years, and that behavior is part of who you are, and I love it as much as I love your eyes, your hair or your hands. It’s part of you, and I would be a terrible person to ask you to change that. So… Everything is fine.”

Her eyes were shining like two gems, tiny droplets shaking in them as he nodded his head, hugging her close.

As the two enjoyed their time together, the feeling of being understood and cared for, the other workers left them have their sweet moment together. Ichigo thought, with a smile, he had done a good job bringing flowers with him, if Orihime’s attempts to touch them over and over again was a sign to take into account.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, well, well. Here it is! Day one of IH week 2021!

I decided to pick “flowers” because I wanted to write something cute but realistic. I think a lot about the thoughts and little scary moments Ichigo can imagine in his big head about his girlfriend, and how insecure that might make him. He might be Soul Society’s savior, he’s still a human boy that never got any kind of indication on how to act around women his age, and certainly not around his own girlfriend.

Flowers can be something cute, romantic, erotic, sad, desperate and so many more things. I decided to go with the meaning of the three flowers I chose: anemones, dahlias and geraniums. Go look them up on internet lol

Thank you for reading this! See you tomorrow for Day 2 hehe

[marshmallow-phd]

Scarlet Moon

Genre: Scarlet Heart Ryeo!AU, Time Travel!AU, Alternate History, Royalty!AU

Pairing: OC x EXO OT9

Summary:  This isn’t Gwen’s time. She was from the modern era, with technology and electricity. But during a solar eclipse, she’s transported back into a previous life in a time and place she does not know. Now, as the foreign daughter of a merchant living in a prince’s household, she must tread carefully, watch her back, and guard her heart. But with the princes locked in a battle over the throne, the chances of her making it out alive might disappear.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3

                                        ********

The bright sun felt warm against Gwen’s skin. Chae Ryung half-heartedly chastised her about burning her face, but Gwen hardly gave a listen. It felt like it had been years since she’d simply stopped and took in the light. All she ever did was go to work, do her schoolwork, and watch dramas. She never really took much time for simply… being. After a minute or so, Chase Ryung convinced her to keep walking through the courtyard, but she still went slow, taking in everything.  

The other servants would stop in the middle of their work and glance at Gwen in a fashion they might have thought was sneaky, but was, in fact, fairly obvious. Some gave looks of concern, others, it felt like, of awe. Gwen ran her fingers through her hair, the red catching in the sunlight. She stuck out more here than she ever did back home and it made her stomach queasy. 

“So, Chae Ryung,” Gwen finally said, “what is it that I usually do during the day?”

“All day?” she echoed. She pursed her lips side to side as she thought. “Mostly you keep Lady Hae company. She’s a bit lonely as Prince Suho’s wife. You’re the closest to her station here.”

Suho. An interesting name for a prince. I remembered Papa inquiring after the pale but beautiful woman in ornate clothing. “And she’s sick?”

Chae Ryung nodded sorrowfully. After looking over her shoulder, she lowered her voice as she leaned in. “Some are worried that she doesn’t have much longer and the prince still doesn’t have an heir.”

“Is it that bad?” 

Chae Ryung nodded again. Gwen’s heart went out to the beautifully tragic woman. In the single moment she’d met the Lady of the household, Gwen could tell that she had a kind heart. The look of worry and concern was etched in her mind, not a single twitch giving away possible deception. Spending her days with Lady Hae didn’t seem like too terribly a time. Perhaps she could be another person to lean on, to help Gwen when she stumbled. Because she would certainly be stumbling every other step in this place. 

Gwen and Chae Ryung wandered around the grounds for hours, the latter filling Gwen in on what she couldn’t put together for herself. 

Apparently, this Gwen had had a tendency to be a bit rambunctious, taking liking to archery just as much as needlework. Often, she would be caught joining in the servant boys in whatever rough game they were playing that day. Not exactly a good look for the daughter of a wealthy merchant. It had to be a comical sight, the horrified looks this girl must have produced from the other women around the household as a child. But over the last few years, she’d calmed to be a bit more demure. Chae Ryung went into explaining the wide gray area Gwen was given as an outsider. Though this girl knew the rules of society, she was able to bend them ever so slightly. 

Excellent. 

Coming up on the path was a pond, round and expanding, the edges lined with tall grass and fresh flowers that gave off calming scents. A family of little ducks floated on top of the clear water. Fish in bright colors of oranges and yellows swam freely, their tails creating the slightest ripples on the surface. As they walked around the water, Chae Ryung described a beautiful gazebo that this Gwen apparently loved to hide away in when she wanted to be alone. Disappointingly, though, the gazebo was already occupied by the Prince and Lady Hae. 

Looking like a happy but conservative couple, they drank tea together and spoke softly. Prince Suho smiled at his wife as he brought the teacup to his lips, but as his eyes drifted over to the spot where Gwen stood, the smile changed. 

It deepened, almost. An uncomfortable feeling settled in Gwen’s stomach. She smiled back, though, and waved, to remain polite. She was probably reading into things or misunderstanding them. Prince Suho held back a laugh before turning back to his wife. She still didn’t fully understand the dynamics of this world and could easily misinterpret his actions. And her head still slightly throbbed, so that could be clouding her thoughts as well. 

“It’s inappropriate to stare at a married couple’s private moments,” a high voice snipped. 

Confused, Gwen turned to find an elegantly dressed girl close to her age. Or, rather, this body’s age since this Gwen was a few years younger than the body she’d left behind. 

This new girl’s face was pretty, but it was destroyed by the snobbish and self-satisfied look she wore. Chae Ryung bowed deeply, but Gwen stayed erect. Bowing was not something that came as second nature to her and she didn’t want to do it for just anyone. Not surprisingly, this defiance deepened the annoyance on the girl’s face even more. Sensing danger, Chae Ryung forced Gwen into a bow.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” Chae Ryung said with a shaky voice. She gave Gwen a pointed glance that was ignored. 

“Apparently, not only have you forgotten your memories, but the few manners you ever had as well,” her highness sniffed. “I would be happy to be your teacher. Maybe we can make you a more respectful person this time around.” 

“Perhaps we have two different definitions of respect.”

It was subtle, but the girl’s smile strained, stiffening and tightening in the corners. Gwen knew that irritated look all too well from high school. The girls of the popular crowd would often shift into this body language whenever Gwen ignored their insults or countered them with a response they weren’t expecting. It had made her extremely unpopular, but that was never important to her. All she ever cared about was getting out and graduating. It was sad that mean girls had existed back in this time as well.  

“How dare you speak to me that way,” the girl hissed. “You think because you’re a freak of nature you can do and say as you please?”

“Just because I look different from you doesn’t mean that I’m a freak of nature!” Gwen shouted. Her nails dug into her palms as she tried to reign in the urge to respond physically. That particular subject had always been a sore spot for her. She didn’t think she was ugly, per se, but she wasn’t a beauty. Society’s standards, as ever changing as they were, always felt too far out of her reach. “Pretty” was not something she ever saw in the mirror. And, unfortunately, this body held the same face. 

“What is going on here?”

Gwen stiffened at the Prince’s voice behind her. Slowly, she turned around and bowed deeply. Prince Suho had abandoned his wife at the gazebo to investigate. She hadn’t meant to ruin his date, especially since they probably didn’t get many moments like this. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Your Highness.”

Prince Suho looked past her to the girl and then back at Gwen. “Perhaps, it’s best for you to go back inside, Lady Gwen. I don’t want you to tire yourself out and I fear it might get colder. ”

Nodding, Gwen bowed again and walked away. There was no point in arguing. Besides, she didn’t want to hang around this self-important girl, who she didn’t dare give a passing glance to and give her the satisfaction of besting her. Once out of sight, however, Gwen’s bravado deflated. 

“Who was that girl?” She bit her bottom lip in a very unladylike manner as she slouched against the outer wall of a red-painted building. 

Chae Ryung tutted nervously. “That was Princess Yeon Hwa. You’re lucky that her brother stepped in.”

That girl was Prince Suho’s sister? Gwen shuddered, feeling sorry for Suho since he had to be related to her. “Mom always said I was too spiteful. But I wasn’t being disrespectful by looking for five seconds. They just looked like a scene out of a movie.”

“A movie?”

Oh, crap. There you go again. “A novel. I meant a novel. They looked like a scene from a book.”

“Oh!” Chae Ryung nodded, though she wore an expression of confusion. “Still it would have been better to apologize and walk away.”

Gwen shrugged. “Maybe next time.” 

Looking up at the blue sky, Gwen wanted to pout. It was such a nice day. Even with these layers of clothes, she wasn’t too hot and a nice breeze played with her hair. But Prince Suho had told her to go inside. He must have figured she would cause less trouble there. He also said it might get colder. Gwen hated being cold. 

“When I have to stay inside, where do I like to go?” she asked as she looked ot her friend. 

Chae Ryung grinned from ear to ear. She seemed excited as she took hold of Gwen’s wrist and pulled her along to a building near the middle of the compound. It wasn’t a large building, with spaces barely able to be called rooms. That hardly deterred the excitement bubbling up in Gwen’s chest. 

Inside were wooden shelves, thin and easily seen through. But unlike the thick, hardbound novels Gwen was used to, the books stacked here were thinner, flimsy and held together with twine. Another servant girl shuffled up before they stepped into the room. Chae Ryung was needed elsewhere. She urged Gwen to go on ahead and stay at the library for a few hours. 

Within the shelves, she lost herself. 

Reading was always a comfort to Gwen, but she tended to lean towards adventurous fiction filled with romance and challenge. She doubted she would find such stories in the Prince’s library. If she could even read these manuscripts. 

Gwen blinked, reflecting on her presence here. Somehow, she was able to communicate with the others despite the fact that they weren’t speaking English. The real Gwen’s knowledge - at least, with speaking and reading - somehow had remained behind. As her eyes drifted over the Chinese characters written on the spines, she understood what they said. A small laugh escaped her lips. She’d always wanted to know more than one language. All it took was being transported back in time to a different body. 

From what Gwen could make out of the titles of the volumes, they were mostly science based - medical treatments and catalogs of animals and plants - along with a few recorded histories. There were no fictional stories to be found, so Gwen went for the next best thing and grabbed a book that recounted the story of how King Taejo founded Goryeo. 

The wording was a bit dry and straight forward, the author giving only the occasional flourish here and there. Still, like any written word, it absorbed her attention. To receive a recount of history from a source so close to the time that it happened was not to be taken lightly. Gwen walked through the aisles as she read, unaware that another visitor had arrived. In the middle of a sentence about a deciding battle, her pacing was stopped by a soft wall. She looked up and sucked in her breath. 

Prince Suho.

She bowed, thinking that her back would start aching from all this bending over. “I’m sorry, again, for earlier,” she whispered. It was a sincere apology. Though it wasn’t her fault, she’d egged it on and caused the Prince trouble, which in turn could cause trouble for this Gwen’s father. Both men had been kind to her since she woke up and she didn’t want to repay that kindness by being a burden. 

Instead of acknowledging her apology, Prince Suho asked, “Do you really not remember anything?”

Gwen shook her head, unable to meet his eye. She could feel his gaze seering onto her face, however. Warmth tickled at her cheeks and she hoped that it wasn’t a visible heat. The Prince was handsome, with a strong chin and kind eyes. He spoke softly.

“Do you remember why you were at the bathhouse?”

Gwen snapped her head up, confused. Why would he be asking her about a bathhouse? “The bathhouse?” She knew nothing about a bathhouse or what this Gwen would be doing there. 

He sighed. “Truly?” Did he not believe her? Did he think she was faking it to avoid getting into trouble? 

“I-” she stopped. Would she be punished for something she didn’t even do? She tried to be as sincere and honest as possible. She didn’t know what could be done to her if he didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Prince Suho didn’t look receptive to her answer, but he backtracked anyway as he looked away. “Perhaps I was merely seeing things,” he murmured to himself. Regaining eye contact, he took a step to shorten the space between them. “When I invited you and your father to stay here, I took it upon myself to look after you, knowing your foreignness would make you a target. I’m afraid I’ve neglected on that duty. It has caused Lady Hae great worry.”

Gwen took a step back, her hands behind her back. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I think I’m causing you more trouble than I’m worth. I promise, I’ll watch my steps from now on. The last thing I want is to be in the way. If you need anything, I’ll do it. I want to be a help, not a burden.” He nodded, the expression on his face softening slightly. Feeling the conversation was over with that last declaration, she bowed and scurried out of the library after replacing the historical text. 

With that haven now compromised, Gwen concluded the best place for her to go was back to her room until dinner. 

                                                    ********

After a few days of managing to stay out of trouble, Gwen ran into Lady Hae on one of her leg-stretching walks. She didn’t seem to be upset about the incident at the gazebo, though she was disappointed that Gwen hadn’t come to see her. Gwen stumbled through an apology, not realizing that she would be so missed. In fact, she thought she was doing everyone a favor by staying out of the way. 

Accepting the apology, Lady Hae asked if Gwen would like to learn how to make lotus lanterns for the upcoming festival. Gwen raised her eyebrows in surprise. Thinking it would be fun and distracting, she agreed and followed Lady Hae to one of the buildings with open walls that allowed a gentle breeze to keep them cool. The temperature hadn’t dropped like Prince Suho had predicted. When Gwen saw who was already at work in the building, she instantly regretted her decision to join. A groan was barely suppressed as she sat down beside Lady Hae.

“Lady Hae, I see you brought a friend,” Yeon Hwa sneered cheerfully. 

It took willpower, but Gwen managed to ignore the princess’s snide remark, instead focusing on Lady Hae’s explanation of how to put the lanterns together. The glue had a potent smell that stung at Gwen’s nose. No wonder they were in a building that allowed the air to drift in and out. It took a few poor looking lanterns for her to get the hang of it, but finally they looked worthy of being hung up for other people to see. Glancing over at Yeon Hwa’s, Gwen huffed internally. Though they were the same design, the princess’ were begrudgingly far superior.

“Lady Gwen,” Yeon Hwa called out. A faux-sweet smile stretched across her lips. “Why don’t you go take the dry lanterns and put them in the Moon building for storage until the festival?” 

Gwen returned a smile just as fake. “Of course.” 

Chae Ryung, who had joined the group soon after Gwen’s arrival, stepped forward. “I can take them, my lady.”

 “Lady Gwen is perfectly capable of carrying them herself,” Yeon Hwa snapped. The evil look gleamed in her eyes, as if she were punishing Gwen with such menial labor. 

Little did she know the request didn’t bother Gwen in the slightest. She was giving the perfect excuse to leave her presence. While making the lanterns, Gwen’s mind had wandered towards the village beyond the walls and - with everyone occupied here – sneaking out on her own should be easy enough. She wanted to see more of this world that she now resided in. 

Filling up her arms with as much as they could carry, Gwen shuffled up the hill, following the directions Chae Ryung had given to the Moon building. 

“Gwen, you’re out of your room.”

Papa walked up, a smile on his face causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. He seemed out of place in the Goryeo fashion he donned, yet comfortable as the shiny fabric swayed around his legs. He wore the hanbok with dignity and ease. Back home, Gwen prefered less complicated clothing and was still adjusting to the multilayered dresses that needed an extra pair of hands to put on.

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I was helping Lady Hae make lanterns for the festival.” She held them up proudly for him to see.

“Those are very beautiful,” he complimented. Gwen’s smile stretched farther across her lips at the praise. “I’m happy to see that you’re getting back to your old self.”

The joy in his eyes was almost too overwhelming. Gwen thought back to her own father, with whom she was close. They seemed so much alike. Tears threatened to brim her eyes. Within the last few days, she’d grown an affection for this man. He was patient with her and caring. And, as an outsider himself, a small connection that she clung to. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Papa.”

“I have some business to oversee at the house. Please, stay out of trouble.” He gave her a kiss on the head and resumed in the direction he was headed before.

Continuing on her own way, Gwen barely reached the steps of the Moon building before a man in brown clothes ran, bowed, and took the lanterns to store them. He must have been a servant in the Prince’s household. She hadn’t seen him before but she gladly handed the lanterns over. Thankful that her task was now over, she waited and watched as the servant hung the lanterns up on a long string inside the open doors. Now it was time to explore. Taking a different path, she headed for the gate.  

This place was certainly different. Monarchies weren't as widespread in her own time, most nations having moved on to people-elected governments instead of blood-appointed kings. Though it was different, Gwen appreciated the underlining respect that drove this culture. The differences in formal and informal speech and the hierarchy of that respect ran deep within the people. The mutual heritage they all shared made her a bit jealous. She was from a place that didn’t have that. 

The sound of drums broke through her thoughts. They were deep, rhythmic, calling out to anyone who wanted to listen. Answering the call, Gwen followed them. 

In a giant dirt courtyard near the palace stood about six figures, some dressed in red, others in black. They were spaced equally apart in a square structure. Gwen hid among the archways, too fascinated to walk away like she should have. The figures danced in unison and with power – except one of the men in red, who was lacking enthusiasm and proper rhythm. The others noticed and stopped their dance, the drums fading out as well. They all stared at the one who had finished incorrectly as he flopped down to the ground. Gwen covered her mouth to soften the giggled. He was throwing a fit. A grown man by the looks of him, he was acting like a spoiled child. Among the figures was Prince Suho, who seemed exasperated at the situation.

So, those must be the other princes. 

This festival must be important, if royalty was performing. Gwen made a mental note to have Chae Ryung explain it in more detail when she went back to the compound.

A few of the princes ganged up on the one on the ground, criticizing him for still getting the moves wrong after such a long practice. Huffing, the one on the ground jumped up. He pointed a long finger and accused another brother of making a mistake as well. Gwen laughed loudly at their altercation, the noise pushing through her fingers. Prince Suho glanced up in her direction. She took off, scared to be caught. 

Once among the common people, Gwen’s mind eased. She wandered around the city, trying to ignore the whispers and stares that followed. The market was abundant with people. Men gossiped with their friends while the women picked over the vegetables and meats, inspecting for any impurities. Children played loudly and ran through the streets, uncaring if their feet were covered in mud. Different stalls caught Gwen’s attention, some selling soaps and bath grains, others selling intricate hairpins that sparkled under the sun. She made a mental note to ask Papa to come with her next time to buy a few wares. Maybe Chae Ryung could teach her how to place the pins in her hair. 

Leaving behind the market, Gwen came to a small bridge over a shallow river. The water flowed steadily, uninterrupted. She stared down at her blurry reflection, wondering how she could still look so much like herself. There was no railing to obstruct the view, so she bent down for a closer look. 

The face looking back was still round and pale, the soft jaw line giving a youthful appeal. Red hair fell natural, gentle waves that never liked to obey. Not even the multiple hairpins keeping it out of her face could tame it completely. Sea green eyes sat in hooded sockets on either side of a thin nose and average lips. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and apples of her large cheeks from years of sun exposure. Forced to come back to a time that wasn’t hers, the least magic could have done was improve her looks. 

The cries of the villagers reached her ears too late. Searching for the source of the hysterics, Gwen stood and turned as the villagers ducked out of sight. A mad man on a black horse galloped through the market. The rider didn’t care about others around him. He didn’t look back behind him or stop to check on those who dived out of his path. A villager with a traveling pack hanging from his shoulders scurried across the bridge to run away from the rider. In his haste, he knocked into Gwen. She lost her balance, flailing her arms worthlessly, and began to fall into the river that had served as my mirror just moments ago. She closed her eyes and braced for impact with the surly cold water. But it didn’t come.

A steadfast grip snatched her by her waist. When she opened her eyes to see who had saved her from the water, she was face to face with the rider.

[amive2567]

See you again

Pairing: Shoto x fem! reader 

Summary: Soulmates are the people that truly belong to us, but sometimes life is not grateful to us and we have to wait for a life where we can meet them again. 

AUs: RoyalityAU! SoulmateAU! ReincarnationAU!

Warnings: Fluff to angst 

Disclaimer: My Hero Academia and the characters belong to Kohei Horikoshi.

Words: 1.499

Next part: Second life: 1916

Series masterlist 

Grand masterlist

First life: 1498

Your long burgundy dress grazed over the clean ground of the pretentious palace. The family of yours had a good influence in the noble society, but not as much as the Todorokis. That didn't stop you from meeting the youngest son of the Todorokis. He was now one of your best friends, but little by little friendship grew into something more. The two of you sneaked away from your parents to meet in the secluded parts of the kingdom. Of course everything undercover. A loud bang of a drum got you out of your memories and made you realize that you should make your way into the ballroom. The swaying tones of the orchestra could already be heard in the entrance area. "My Lady" greeted you a porter and took your coat in his care. 

With sparkling eyes, you are amazed by the ballroom. "Canapés?" offered you a servent, but you declined politely "No thank you." The servant nodded and went his way. 

The dancing people in the middle of the golden room amplified the festive mood. "Have you already found a gentleman for yourself?" asked your mother, who stepped behind you through the open door. "Not yet" You mumbled and looked around for a specific person. "It can't go on like this. You have to ally with someone at least this season. There is no time anymore. You have to have children soon, or do you want our bloodline to die out?" she reminded you. You nod half-heartedly, but in the meanwhile, you were still looking for the remarkable red and white hair.  "What do you think about Duke Midoriya, he has a strong army or what about Lord Bakugou, he has the most delicate food, a lot of extravagant cloth and an impressive amount of land." suggested your mother. A sigh left your lips, as you couldn't find the person that owns your heart. "Alright, I will try it." "Don't try kid. Take what you are entitled to." she encouraged you strictly. She pushed you  in the direction of the green-haired Duke. 

"Sir."  You spoke to him. He turned to you with a friendly grin. "How can I help you?" he asked politely, you buckled. "I wanted to ask you for a dance" you told him, in the same time the bright smile of the Duke faded and he bowed his head. "I apologize, my dear lady, but I recently had a riding accident. My legs don't want to work as they should. But I would keep your company. If you would want that, of course?" he stuttered in embarrassment. "You don't need to do that. Besides, I think the lady in the pink and black dress seems to like you." you pointed at the lady behind him. His cheeks turned beet red, he nodded. "She is stunning." he stuttered and walked to the beautiful woman. 

You buckled and wanted to get back to your mother, to tell her about your failed attempt, but to your misfortune, you ran into a tall blond man. You immediately buckled deep in front of him. "My most heartfelt apologies." you excused yourself embarrassed. "Tch, stand up." the nobleman sneered. That was Lord Bakugou, the most aggressive Lord in hole Musutafu, you recognized. You stood up again, your eyes crossed a pair of gleaming red. Without looking in a mirror, you knew your cheeks were as red as his eyes. Intimidated you took a step back, he scoffed. "You like to scoff, don't you Bakugou?" you asked challenging. The intimidating Lord in front of you raised an eyebrow in surprise. No one ever dared to talk to him like that. He rolled his red eyes. "Do you want anything else? Or are you only trying to tease me?" he asked roughly with crossed arms. "I had something else in my mind. I wanted to dance with you." you told, but the blond nobleman scoffed again. "I don't dance. Have a nice evening." He left you speechless. Such a rude man, you thought. Disappointed you lowered your head and took your way back to your mother. 

She talked with Queen Rei. "There she is. Did one of the gentlemen had the mercy to dance with you?" your mother asked and checked your dancing card. "No, both of them were busy." you lied, your mother sighed. "Anyways, did you heard that the youngest son of the Todorokis got engaged with Princess Yaoyorozu?" she told you excitedly. A knot tied in your chest, as the news left her lips, you could tell that your heart was slowly breaking.  "How wonderful. Congratulation." you wished the beautiful white-haired women and buckled deep. She began to smile slightly, but she couldn't answer. "Your highness, it's time to announce the news." told a servant, who bent in front of his Queen. The soft smile of her lips disappeared briefly. "I'll be right there" she answered calmly. She said goodbye with a timid smile. 

 "Then we should search for a good view." your mother thought as she pushed you towards the middle of the room. Loud chatters filled the ballroom, but they quiet down when a gong sounded. King Enji stepped with his head held high in the centre. "My dearest people, this evening invites to celebrate, especially that my son Shoto Todoroki will finally take his rightful place in the line of succession and this at the side of his wonderful wife, Princess Momo Yaoyorozu." He announced and the ballroom erupted in loud applause.

Your gaze wandered slowly from the loud crowd to your beloved. His face was a stoic mask, but you could see that he is furious and heartbroken. His new wife next to him was beaming from ear to ear. She could hardly believe her luck. You would love to be happy for them both, but it was an arranged marriage, why should you be cheery about it. You fell warm tears forming in your eyes. You left the room with a mumbled apology.

Your feet took you outside on the balcony. The fresh air cleared your racing thoughts. The beautiful future that you two had come up with will probably never happen. Quietly you started sniffing, the tears you hold found their way down your cheeks. "So much for soulmates are forever." you sniffed and wiped away the salty tears. Now you could forget to hang out with him ever again. All the years, the two of you spend together were nothing but wasted time. If you had never met him, he and you could have been happy without each other. Today you hadn't only lost your best friend, but also your lover.

 "If you're out here too long, you'll get sick." spoke a voice you knew too well. "Price Todoroki." you shrieked and turned around to the source. "Tears don't suit you, dear." He noticed and came closer to you. "You know we can't meet anymore. You're married. The noble society won't approve it when you met someone different." you reminded him. A crooked, rare smile formed on his face. "I know, but I wanted to ask you for one last dance?" he demanded gently. You nodded, another tear slid down your cheek. Todoroki neared and gently stroked your cheeks to brush away the tears. "Love, please don't cry. Everything will be fine." he tried to calm you down, but his words didn't let the pain in your chest disappear. "It's unfair." you sniffed. The young prince pulled you into a closer hug and stroked your h/c hair. "I know, but we will meet in another life. That's how it is with soulmates or not?" he asked while rocking you back and forth. "Yes, in another life we meet." you repeated his words softly. The sounds of the orchestra pushed through the thin windowpanes, the two of you began to sway to the melody. His left-hand went to your hip. He offered you his right. You took his right hand into yours and your left hand laid on his shoulder. Both of you started to dance around the balcony. Again and again, Todoroki swirled you around. The music shifted, you swayed to the calm melody. But even this song went by faster than you ever wished. You two looked at each other with pain in your eyes. "I promise you we will meet in another life." He promised softly, you nodded in response. "I hope so." Your lips meet, the tears from both of you make the soulful kiss taste salty. After the two of you can no longer breathe, you separated from each other, you wiped away the salty liquid that wetted his face. "See you in a new life." you said goodbye quietly and turned around. "See you in a new life." he repeated your words, even that the both of you wanted to run back into each other's arm and never let go you still followed your given way. This hug is meant for another life. 

[neednottoneed]

schatten der nacht//shadows of the night - chapter two

Rebecca || Mrs. Danvers/Ich || Ongoing || M

“Darling,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “if Maxim de Winter marries you, you’ll be the one paying me.”

Chapter Two

“A wife?”

I stared at Mrs. van Hopper, willing her not to be serious. She had mentioned the possibility of my getting married at lunch, it was true, but I didn’t think that meant I was supposed to be actively looking for a husband here.

“Why not?” she said, and took the magazine back from me. “And Maxim de Winter certainly is in need of one.”

“But I…”

She tsked and looked at me. “Honestly dear, you could do much worse than him. He’s a wealthy man. His parties are some of the most talked about in all of England. A man like that would certainly afford you some protection, with our… condition.”

“He’s twenty years older than me!”

“And what does that matter when you’re going to outlive him by centuries?” Mrs. van Hopper said. “I can’t understand you, child.”

“You mean I can’t turn him?”

She looked at me sharply. “Surely you’re not that daft, dear. We can’t turn men. Believe me, I’ve tried. They simply haven’t the constitution for it. Why do you think all the others of our kind you’ve met have been women? Why our suitors are men? It’s because there’s no danger in turning them, is there?”

I blinked. “So there’s no… you never love them, it’s all just a matter of… of convenience?”

“I’d hardly say it’s just convenient,” she said. “With his status, you’d be secured for lifetimes. And there are worse places to spend eternity than Manderley.” She appraised me. “You’re nothing like his first wife, but that can’t be helped, I suppose. It may even work in your favor.”

“So you knew her then?”

“I knew of her,” Mrs. van Hopper said. “All of polite society did. Rebecca de Winter. Rumors for years that she was one of us, what with that kind of beauty and grace, but I never could tell. When she died everyone was devastated, and none more so than Maxim.” She scrutinized the picture. “Though I’d say he’s gotten over that devastation if he’s all the way here in Monte.”

My fingers flew to my hair. Beautiful. Graceful. Words that had never been used to describe me.

“So you want me to… talk to him? Could you introduce us?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Though if you secure a husband from any of my help I expect an invitation to the wedding at minimum.” She smiled. “Or at least an introduction to one of Maxim’s friends.”

“I see.” My stomach dropped. “And when do I… when do I tell him? What I am, I mean.”

“Oh, not for a while if you can help it, dear,” she said. “Men sometimes don’t take kindly to the news, and you want to be certain he’s absolutely devoted to you before you do anything to jeopardize that. But I’m sure a man with that kind of money would hardly worry about anything. He’d be able to buy away any sort of scandal attached to you—not that I think you’llbe causing any scandals.” She sniffed, and I felt distinctly put down. Mrs. van Hopper had a way of both making me feel like she simultaneously cared for me and also found me to be a bug underneath her shoe. “Regardless, I’ll introduce you at breakfast in the morning. Try not to stay up too late.”

I nodded, and pushed away from her bed. I knew when I had been dismissed.

It wasn’t like either of us needed much sleep now, nocturnal as we were. I found myself much less tired than I had been previously, only really needing to sleep at least once a month or more. Still, I went to bed out of habit more than anything, often closing my eyes and letting whatever daydreams I had play out until the morning.

But daydreams did nothing to satisfy me that night, and my fingers were itching to sketch. After about an hour, I pushed myself off the couch and grabbed my sketchbook and charcoals out of my bag, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to disturb Mrs. van Hopper, even though I knew she wasn’t asleep.

One of the few benefits of being turned was my night vision had significantly improved; I was able to make out colors and details even in dim light, aiding my drawing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to sketch until I began to, my fingers clutching the charcoal and frantically moving it over the page until I was done. Speed, it seemed, had improved with my condition as well.

It was only when I put the paper down that I understood what I had drawn—Mr. de Winter, or at least, as I remembered him from that morning, that intense look on his face, the sharp lines of his suit. His face half in shadow.

Why had I drawn him? People weren’t my speciality, never had been. But something in my subconscious had caused his image to be the one I selected to put on paper.

It could be a gift, I decided. To get him to warm up to me. If marriage was truly what Mrs. van Hopper had in mind, then a gift couldn’t hurt, something to endear me to him.

Especially if I was nothing like his first wife. Beautiful. Charming.

I wondered if being myself would even be enough.

We went down to the promenade for breakfast early; Mrs. van Hopper liked to grab the seats near the edge of the terrace; still in the shade, but with the best view of the other guests. There was no one else on the terrace when we arrived, so Mrs. van Hopper took the opportunity to grab another newspaper and gossip magazine that had been left behind.

“They’ll provide the up-to-date ones for you at the front desk if you ask,” I said, but she merely scoffed. I fiddled with the edge of my skirt. It was the one nice piece of clothing I owned, a light blue that complimented the cool undertones of my skin. I had never dared to ask Mrs. van Hopper to take me shopping, though she had bought me a few new blouses at the start of my employ with her, saying that I needed to at least look presentable if she was going to be paying me. But for the first time I wondered if there was some worth to be had in putting effort into my appearance, a sort of social currency on its own.

I stared out at the sea while Mrs. van Hopper ordered a coffee, wishing I had brought my sketchbook down with me. The sky was a crystal blue I so rarely saw back in England, the Mediterranean stretching out before us like a jewel.

There was one thing to be said for being Mrs. van Hopper’s companion—I would never have gotten to see places like this back when I was alive.

I was startled out of my view by Mrs. van Hopper’s elbow poking me in the side.

“He’s here,” she hissed, and I wanted to laugh at how obvious she was being. I followed her gaze to see the same man from the day before, now in a white suit with a wide-brimmed hat, taking the table nearest us. He only glanced back at us once, and I swore I saw a faint smile cross his lips as he did so.

“Mr. de Winter?” Mrs. van Hopper cried, and to my surprise she stood out of her chair and went over to his seat, loudly exclaiming and making a show. I’d known she was going to introduce me that morning, but I’d hardly imagine it was to be right in front of Mr. de Winter. I could scarcely keep from hearing her loud introductions, her butchering yet again of my name. But then she turned and shot me a get over here this instant look.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you since that party at Billy’s years ago!” I heard her exclaim as I made my way to the table. Her voice was loud, and she’d dialed up her American accent. But I understood what she was doing. It was something I had seen her do to my potential suitors—make herself look as aggravating as possible, so that in contrast my shyness came off as a welcome demureness. It had worked on men before, and from the looks of it, it was working on Maxim de Winter now.

“Of course, how could I forget you?” he said, shaking her hand. He turned to me. “And you are?”

“This is the companion I mentioned, Mr. de Winter, though she’s not much for conversation,” Mrs. van Hopper said, shoving me forward. I managed not to lose my balance and let Mr. de Winter clasp my hand in his own larger one.

“How do you do?” I said. His hands were warm, and I hoped he wouldn’t be put off at the chill in my own. “Mrs van Hopper was just telling me this is your first time in Monte?”

‘Yes,” I said. “I… didn’t travel much before I met her.” I glanced back at her, hoping she’d interject and do something to carry the conversation. But instead she gave me a wink and just went back to our table. Maxim’s eyes never left mine, even as she loudly exclaimed that she was leaving.

“Sorry about her,” I said once she was gone, because what was I supposed to say? Mrs. van Hopper was clearly abrasive; brash, in a way I’d found most Englishmen didn’t like. Maxim raised an eyebrow and I sat down.

For a second I worried, wondering if I’d misinterpreted, that he didn’t actually want me to dine with him. But he only smiled at me and signaled to the waiter.

“I bet you’re glad to have a moment’s peace,” he said once the waiter had left. “She can’t be paying you enough.”

“Ninety pounds a year,” I said, and he grimaced. “But it’s… complicated. I owe her my life. She took me in when my parents passed.”

Maxim nodded, and I winced internally, once again worrying I was making a fool of myself. Vampirism had not made my conversational skills any better.

“So you understand then,” he said. “About loss.”

I nodded. He looked me over and smiled slightly.

“Forgive me, that’s perhaps poor breakfast conversation when we’ve known each other all of five minutes.” He gave me a wan smile, which I returned.

“I’ve had worse,” I said, jerking my head toward Mrs. van Hopper. This caused him to laugh, and I found myself pleased at the prospect, that I could make someone laugh.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

Maxim and I finished our breakfast pleasantly enough, and if he noticed that I didn’t eat much, he didn’t comment on it. Besides, it wasn’t like that was out of place for a girl in Monte; it was too easy as a woman to decline meals, to say I was watching my figure.

We parted with an invitation from him to go up for a drive to the cliffs the following afternoon, and I felt strangely pleased with myself, that I had managed to secure the attentions of a man so much older and sophisticated than I. Most of the suitors I’d had, even when I’d been alive, had been very much like Connor--sweet, fumbling boys who either talked over me or didn’t say much at all. Maxim de Winter was, at least, different in that regard--I found myself talking more with him than I had before with any other man; the conversation between us flowing easily enough despite our awkward first steps. It was a comfort to me knowing that he could at least relate to my loneliness, not only having lost his wife, but his parents at a young age as well. While he had a sister, he said, they didn’t get on very well.

“Fundamental differences,” he said, and I left it at that. I’d noticed too he’d barely mentioned his first wife, which wasn’t all that surprising; Mrs. van Hopper had said her death had been tragic and sudden, and thus it made sense that he was keen to avoid the subject.

Still, as I made my way back up to our room, I found myself wondering about her. Rebecca. A woman so beautiful, people had thought she’d been a vampire while she lived. Bewitching. Charming. I could never be like that, even in the state of supposed “perfect undeath” as I was.

“How did it go?” Mrs. van Hopper asked the second I stepped foot in the room.

“I don’t know why you’re asking, you could hear our entire conversation perfectly clearly from where you were sitting,” I said. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror while I spoke, studying. My hair hung limply by my face, and not for the first time I wished that my transformation had done something to it, given it some sort of curl, volume, something rather than the straight thin strands I had.

“Yes, but overhearing isn’t the same as knowing, dear,” she said. “What did you think of him?”

“We had a nice enough conversation,” I said, and I could hear her huff from the next room.

“Foolish child,” she said. “Well, at any rate I hope you enjoy his company, as you’ll be seeing a lot more of him in the coming days.”

“How do you know? You aren’t a fortune-teller,” I said. “Unless you’ve been hiding that from me. One trip up to the cliffs doesn’t mean he fancies me.”

“No,” Mrs. van Hopper said, “it doesn’t. But I’m going to suddenly fall ill, so you’ll have no choice but to spend time with him.”

“You foul creature,” I said, but there was no malice in it. “And what mysterious illness is going to befall you?”

“The flu,” she said, and I felt a quick twinge in my gut just then, as that was what had killed my parents. But she wasn’t saying it to be callous, or cruel, I knew her too well for that. She had made barbs at my expense before, but never about such a subject. However, it was unlikely she’d apologize for it, either.

“And why ever would you be coming down with such a thing in this weather?” I asked.

“Because I would like to go find a man myself for a day or two and that way the staff won’t come up to check on you,” she said. She coughed once, not convincingly, and I raised an eyebrow at her. “Come now, is it so difficult to believe I’d want a bit of fun while we’re here?”

“You really are wicked,” I said, and she laughed. “You ought to pay me more to put up with you.”

“Darling,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “if Maxim de Winter marries you, you’ll be the one paying me.”

[ladymercysletters]

You’ll Do Nicely

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Prequal 1 of the If You’ll Have Me Series

Word Count : 1952

Warnings: some trigger warnings including: Alcohol abuse, Gambling addiction, child abuse, spousal abuse. It’s not overly heavy but if you’re triggered by any of these, proceed with caution

A/N: This is the first prequal chapter of the If You’ll Have Me series. It doesn’t actually have any Y/N x Benedict content because it takes place before they meet. This is the chapter on how Y/N became a Duchess.

The summer season of 1809 was, it seemed, to be yet another uneventful one, with no suitors… yet again. At your coming out last year you had received the attentions of a fair few of the younger gentlemen of the ton, in fact your dance card had been almost full until they realised who your father was. Since they had realised that you were one of those Buxton’s your dance card had remained almost empty in its stead.

It had always been a burden to you and your family; your father was a gambler and a cad, he owed almost everyone money, and the ones he didn’t owe still knew about it. You were sure he had not paid one bill at his club, but you could have placed a fair bet yourself that he had drunk more than his share of whatever they stocked.

For as long as you and your siblings could remember he had come home drunk and empty of pocket most nights; taking his anger out on any one of you he could lay his hands one. When you were very small your mother used to get in between you and your father, covering you all and taking his rage for you. As you grew older your mother lost her will, instead slumping against the wall in defeat as he took your brother over his knee and lashed him. His excuse was always that it will teach him not to do as his father does, and after the first few times you all relented; your brother would stand in front of his two little sisters, and you would quietly usher your little sister away and out of his reach as your brother took the punishment.

The sober fact of your family’s reputation was enough to pull you back into the present. Dinner with your family was never a joyous occasion; though you all ate together talking was never allowed between you and your siblings and your parents never much mingled beyond greetings and farewells. Your mother sat at one end of the table, taking the tiniest of mouthfuls of soup with an unreadable expression; whilst your father sat at the other end, slurping each full spoonful with his napkin tucked into his collar. With a cough to clear his throat, all eyes flitted up too look at him.

“The Duke of Pembrokeshire was at the Devillier’s ball the other evening.” He said into another spoonful. “He asked after Y/N.” at the mention of your name, eyes turned to you.

“The Duke of Pembrokeshire?” your mothers asked “Portland? Isn’t he…”?

“WHAT?” your father snapped, dropping his spoon into the soup with a clank. “He is a Duke. He has shown an interest in our otherwise plain daughter. Am I to refuse him?” he spat. The silence of the evening returned and your mother receded back into herself. You were sure you remembered the name Portland from somewhere, but for the life of you, you just couldn’t place it.

Later that evening it dawned on you, you sat bolt upright in bed at the memory of you and your brother: looking through a crack in the door at your father and his friends, all sat around a moss green table playing cards. The stench of alcohol in the air and the sound of snuff sniffing constant. That’s when it hit you; Portland was your fathers friend, a large rotund and red man that you and your brother had nicknamed Porty because his face always seemed to be the colour of port. He couldn’t be who your father expected you to marry, he must have died and left his title to a son or a nephew. With that lingering thought you dropped back onto your bed and tried your best to get some sleep.

The next evening you and your family arrived in Hampstead, somewhere. Yet another ball that you had only just managed to find a dress for. Your brother always managed to escape these events, being twenty-two and fresh from university, he often made his excuses and escaped off into the night. Preparing yourself for another evening as a social pariah you steeled yourself as you entered the grand ballroom. No sooner had you exchanged pleasantries with your host and a few surrounding families than the dragging of feet drew your attention.

“BUXTON MY OLD MAN” cried the almost fully spherical man; the bulging buttons of his overstuffed waistcoat straining with effort. This must be Portland. Your father seemed almost afraid of him and you rather suspected he was. Once he had finished greeting your parents his attentions turned to you. His lecherous eyes crawled over your skin, and an even worse laugh - somehow wet and dry at the same time as he coughed into his fist made your little supper appear in your throat whilst he inspected you like some prized heifer.

“Yes. You’ll do nicely” he leered, circling you and clearly leaning over your cleavage. You felt sick to the stomach at even being looked at by him. You smiled politely, trying to pull your lips so tight no-one could see them trembling, and made your excuses to find sanctuary on the other side of the room. You swiped a glass of punch from a footman’s tray and stole behind a large bouquet in one corner of the room, content to become part of the foliage for as long as possible.

“You’re doing an awful job of hiding you know.” A deep voice rang from the other side of the arrangement. “For starters you’re not even the same shade as the wall.” You peaked out from behind a rogue frond to see Henry Granville, one of your only friends in the room: he was, as usual, immaculately dressed in a darkly patterned waistcoat and burgundy jacket that matched his new wife’s elegant chiffon trimmed gown. They truly were a balm to your horrible evening.

“I was trying to blend in with the foliage if you must know, though in a blue gown I do suppose that is difficult.” You muttered, stepping out from behind the column. “In truth I am hiding from one of my father’s friends.” You gestured to your parents across the room, your father hunched over with the old duke as your mother stood abortively aside.

“I’m sure whatever they’re discussing has nothing to do with you.” Henry said, trying to cheer you up.

“He was inspecting me like cattle. There is no doubt in my mind that my father is selling me off.” You sighed, taking a strong swig of your decidedly non-alcoholic punch.

“You are only twenty years old, surely your mother will want you to at least stay for another few years yet?” Lucy asked comfortingly. You sighed dejectedly as you looked back over at your mother, taking absolutely no interest in anything and looking rather far off.

“I doubt my mother would care whether I stay in society or not, just as long as she doesn’t have to deal with my father any more. Please Henry.” You turned to face him and his new wife. “Tell me about your latest commission or something, before I slip into further despair.” Granville continued to relay you with the latest he had heard whilst behind his easel. The wonderful thing about being an artist by royal appointment, was that one was always within earshot of some rather salacious gossip.

By the time you returned home from the ball you were exhausted. You went straight to bed, furious with your father and not able to look anyone in the eye as you sat on what could be your future.

An hour later and you still weren’t able to settle, even going over your conversation with Henry and Lucy, trying to fool your mind into thinking all was well, before deciding on some warm milk to quell your thoughts… and possibly a snack. Sneaking down the staircase and down the hall, you spotted the light in your father’s study still on and you could hear your mother’s voice. You moved closer to peak through the crack in the door.

“He is Two and Forty years her senior! What on earth were you thinking?”

“Do not question me you bitch, he is a Duke, I thought you would be happy for our daughter.” He said, taking a swig of his drink. “Or would you rather me make him wait until Barbara is out in Society, perhaps he would like her better?”

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped. “He is older than you, how do you expect her to … AAhh. Gabriel, stop! No! Please!” you stepped away from the door at the sound of cracking skin; tears in your eyes as you ran to the scullery before your father realised you had heard.

***

A tradition that you and your brother had started a few years ago, and eventually brought your younger sister Barbara into, was the midnight drinking of claret in the little used small parlour. You would sit around the small room, only the candles you brought down from your bedrooms to light it, as you poured yourselves a glass and talked.

“You cannot sister, I will not allow father to marry you off like this.” Your brother stated, after you recalled the argument between your parents several days earlier.

“Sebastian is right sister. Portland is ancient and this is only your second season!” Barbara said hopefully, her innocently hopeful voice breaking your heart further.

“If he does not marry me off, he will wait for Barbara! And I will not allow that!” you said, cutting her off before she could say anymore. Your siblings shouted their surprise and horror as you tried to shush them. “I heard him and mother arguing the other night, father threatened to marry you off to him as soon as you are out.” You concluded. The silence in the room was deafening as you all mulled over your fate. Hardening yourself to what was about to happen you continued. “I will marry Portland: however old and drunken he may be. I will not allow you to come to any harm because of father’s gambling.” You said, stroking Barbara’s cheek. “There is no chance of me marrying anyone else, fathers’ debts have seen to that, and perhaps now that I am to be a duchess your fortunes may be brighter than my own.” Your brother shook his head in disbelief; your tone remained calm, through out your decision, as though you had already closed yourself off from any other emotions.

“Well.” He sighed. “Let us hope the scabby old goat cocks his toes soon after.” He raised his glass in cheers to his little speech, smiling when both of his younger sisters berated him for his candour before joining the toast anyway.

***

Not six months later, in late January you found yourself walking down the aisle of the small chapel on the Pembrokeshire estate. Like everything else on the estate, the décor was ostentatious and overly gilded. You felt much like any other object the duke owned in that moment; your dress was overly laced and flounced, and the train was far too heavy for you to pull with your head down the aisle. Speaking of your hair; it was piled high on top of your head, thick forced curls in layers making you look like a profiterole tower, as your father’s arm tightened around your shaking hand dragging you up the aisle quicker than your feet managed to move. A half an hour later you were no longer Miss Y/N Buxton, daughter of the 3rd Earl of Upshire – but her grace, Lady Y/N Portland, Duchess of Pembrokeshire.

[cassandraclare]

The Anniversary Party

Someone asked me about the flash fiction this month, and I realized I’d sent it out in my newsletter, but forgotten to post it! So here’s the whole Jan/Feb story, in which we get a bit of background on Cordelia and her family. Art by Cassandra Jean, of course! This is the last of the flash fiction stories, and it’s been a pleasure to share them with you!

THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY

FRANCE, 1899....

Cordelia did not like Menton very much. She should have, in theory. Menton was a pretty seaside town, a jumble of pink and yellow buildings along a small harbor, mostly slips for sailboats and some fishing boats. The air was warm and Mediterranean, the fish was exceptionally fresh, she could see Italy from her bedroom window across the far side of the harbor. What was there not to like?

They had come for her father’s health—why else did they go anywhere, after all—and Cordelia could understand why Menton had a reputation as a healing destination for the sick and the elderly. Indeed, her father’s health had rebounded since their arrival a few weeks earlier and he was in a period of good spirits, willing to dance with her in the parlor and even managing to drag a smile out of Alastair on occasion. Alastair had entered a turbulent adolescence, as Cordelia overheard her mother say to her father. Cordelia hoped that when she was Alastair’s age she would maintain her composure a little better than he was managing.

But Menton’s charms quickly faded for her. Its popularity with the sick and the elderly meant that the town’s population had a large proportion of both, and while Cordelia wished them all well, they did not offer her much in the way of companions or even adults interested in conversation with a girl for whom French was her third language, and not very strong. The beach turned out to be made not of sand but of large round pebbles—Cordelia had never heard of such a thing, a beach made of rocks, very uncomfortable on bare feet, not pleasant to lie on, and offering no opportunity for building castles or digging trenches.

Worst of all, her parents continued to be as antisocial as ever, making no efforts to reach out to the local Shadowhunter community (the closest Institute being in Marseilles). And so Cordelia was alone. Sometimes she was alone with Alastair, but he mostly ignored her, and even so they were both duly sick of each other’s sole company after a week.

The only source of relief was the knowledge that this, too, would pass—the Carstairs family moved constantly, obsessively, for the sake of her father’s health. Cordelia could never understand the logic of it, except that she agreed that it was worth doing anything if it meant her father’s wellbeing. In this case, it was a bit of a relief. She knew they would not stay in Menton more than a few months.

This was, she felt, why she was so alone. Her family never stayed anywhere long enough for her to meet anyone her age, much less make friends. Her only real friends in the world were Lucie and James Herondale, and only because, Cordelia knew, Will and Tessa Herondale had always worked very hard to make sure that their children saw the younger Carstairs. It was still a rare treat to see them, as the Herondales ran the London Institute, and thus were usually in London, and occasionally in Idris, while Cordelia and her family were all over the map.

And here again, the Herondales came to her rescue, this time in the form of a letter her father read aloud at the breakfast table.

“’Good morning, Elias and Sona,’ – I say, how would he know what time of day we’d read it, the man is mad as a hatter—”

“We are reading it in the morning, though,” Cordelia said. Her father gave her an indulgent smile and went on.

“’It is a capital day here in London, and I hope it will be a capital day in Paris six weeks hence, when Tessa and I will celebrate our nineteenth wedding anniversary. As it is not the custom of any known culture to make a to-do out of the nineteenth wedding anniversary, we have decided to throw an enormous party.’”

“A ball!” cried Cordelia, but a worry poked at her. Would her parents attend such a thing? Her father was frowning at the letter, but possibly he was simply trying to make the words out better without his glasses.

“It’s not a ball,” said Alastair, who had stopped halfway down the stairway to listen.

“’A ball, if you will,’” her father read on. “Well done, Cordelia.”

Cordelia stuck out her tongue at Alastair.

“’We would love if you and your darling children would join us…if you would do us the pleasure of responding…,’ et cetera, et cetera…” Her father scanned the letter. “And then it has the date and the address and all that.”

“It started out strong, but it ended in something of an anticlimax,” Alastair said.

“Can we go?” Cordelia said eagerly. “Can we please? I would so like to see Lucie and James. And maybe  I’d meet some of the people Lucie talks about in her letters!”

“I would like to see anyone at all other than you lot,” said Alastair mildly. “No offense intended.”

“Alastair!” Sona scolded, but Cordelia was not about to let Alastair distract from the main point. She redoubled her efforts in the direction of her father.

“Papa, can we go, please? You’ve recovered so well, surely a trip of only a few days would be possible. Don’t you want Shadowhunter society to see how well you are?”

“Hm,” her father said. He looked at her mother, who looked back. They exchanged a series of incomprehensible looks with one another.

“If you think it would be a good idea,” Sona said to Elias. Cordelia’s father gave Cordelia a long look. Cordelia tried to catch Alastair’s eye, but he’d turned away and was looking with disgust into the middle distance, a typical expression for him these days.

“I think we could manage a train trip and a few days in Paris,” her father allowed. “I do adore Paris.”

Cordelia threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

#

Cordelia spent the next weeks in a state of constant dread. She didn’t dare remind her parents of the upcoming trip, lest they remember that they had intended to cancel and not attend after all. It had happened before, but never before for an event in which Cordelia had a strong investment.

But when the event was a few days away, her father brought up the timetable of the Calais-Méditerrannée Express train at breakfast. Tickets were bought, bags packed, and still Cordelia could barely believe it when she found herself the evening before the party, pulling into the Gare du Nord in an elegant blue train car, clutching her hands in her lap in anticipation: Paris, at last she was in Paris! She would see her future parabatai, and her brother, and the cream of Shadowhunter society, and she would do so in Paris.

The next day found her gazing into the full-length mirror in their rooms at the Hôtel Continental on the Rue de Rivoli and wondering that she was even the same girl who had been miserably pining away a few days before. Her mother had helped her select her dress, a frothy lemon confection of lace and silk. She wasn’t entirely sure it suited her, but it was very elegant.

Even Alastair regarded her with something in the neighborhood of admiration when he came in to fetch his gloves. “You look surprisingly mature,” he told her. Cordelia thought that was probably equivalent to a full swoon, for Alastair. For his part, he was clearly aiming at “mature” as well, having put on a brown sack coat with only one of its buttons buttoned, and having dared to apply a dab of pomade to his black hair, which, Cordelia had to admit, did make it shine compellingly.

“You look like you’ll be trying to impress someone at the party,” Cordelia teased him. “Anyone in particular?”

“Everyone,” Alastair sniffed. “Everyone that is anyone.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

Her father was in high spirits as they entered the carriage a short time later, joking and laughing. Her mother was quiet, watching her husband with a smile and a considering expression, and that is how they were for the entire ride to the Paris Institute.

#

She had been practicing her French, and when the imposing figure of Madame Bellefleur greeted them at the Institute door with a paragraph of rapid-fire enthusiasm and questions, she understood them: welcome, how was their journey, isn’t it frightfully chilly tonight. She began to think of a reply, and found that her entire speaking ability in the French language had departed her brain in exactly that moment.

Her father’s French was fluid and expert, and Cordelia felt a little rush of pride as he said, “Madame Bellefleur, dear! You are looking as lovely as ever, Odile. But what has become of you, that you’ve fallen so far to be working the door?”

Madame Bellefleur laughed, a hearty chuckle that made Cordelia like her immediately. “I sent the maid off to enjoy herself. I like answering the door, Elias — it may be the Herondales’ party, but it’s my Institute.”

Inside, Cordelia slipped away from her parents as soon as it was feasible and went to look for her friends. It took her all of five minutes to become hopelessly lost. Unlike any Institute she had been in before, this one was laid out as a labyrinthine series of interconnected salons. Each looked much like the last, and was crowded with adults, none of whom Cordelia knew, and most of whom were speaking in rapid French. She had not spotted a single Herondale, and the clatter and chatter of the party guests was beginning to make her feel less like a young sophisticate at the ball and more like a little girl who had lost her mother at the market.

Out of nowhere came a whirlwind of petticoats, which turned out happily to be Lucie Herondale, throwing herself into Cordelia’s arms with great force and a squeal of delight. “Cordelia, Cordelia, you must come, Christopher is going to teach us how to eat fire!”

“I’m sorry?” Cordelia said politely, but Lucie was already pulling her toward the door to the next salon. “Who is Christopher?”

“Christopher Lightwood, of course. My cousin. He saw a man eating fire in Covent Garden and he said he’d worked out how to do it. He’s very scientific, Christopher.” Lucie’s progress was stopped short, and Cordelia looked up to see a tall, slender older girl, with dark hair braided atop her head and a striking look. She was wearing a lacy blue dress without much enthusiasm. She raised her eyebrows and stared Lucie down. “And this is his sister Anna,” Lucie said, as though she’d planned the encounter.

“Christopher will not be eating any fire,” said Anna, “or indeed anything other than the canapes tonight.”

Lucie said, “Anna, this is Cordelia Carstairs; she’s going to be my parabatai.” Cordelia felt a rush of affection for her friend—she felt so alone so much of the time, but she wasn’t, not really. She was going to have a parabatai; neither she nor Lucie would ever fully be alone again. Or that’s how she had come to understand it would feel.

Anna, however, merely arched an eyebrow. “Not if Christopher burns the Institute down, she won’t.” She turned her piercing gaze onto Cordelia. “Carstairs?” she said curiously. “What Carstairs?”

Cordelia knew what that was about. She gave Anna a smile. “Jem Carstairs is my second cousin. I only know him a very little bit, unfortunately.” Jem, who had been Lucie’s father’s parabatai, had a long and tragic story that ended with his having become a Silent Brother. He was Brother Zachariah now.

Would he be here? It was strange to imagine among the sparkling, laughing conversation, the clinking of glasses, a parchment-robed silent figure drifting about. But why wouldn’t he be? Lucie spoke of him all the time. Cordelia felt a little frisson of nerve at the thought of meeting him again—eagerness but also worry.

“Any Carstairs is welcome,” Anna smiled back airily. “And obviously any parabatai of Lucie’s is essentially a member of the family. Speaking of which.” She turned back to Lucie. “Don’t encourage Christopher, Lucie. You know how he is.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Lucie protested. “It’s Matthew who set him on it. You know how he is.”

“I don’t,” said Cordelia mildly.

Lucie gave her a look of wide-eyed horror. “Oh, dear, what kind of host am I? Here is my best friend in the world, and I haven’t even introduced you to everyone! Anna, we must go.” She reached for Cordelia’s hand again.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Cordelia said to Anna.

Anna tipped her glass in Cordelia’s direction with a small smile. “Likewise.”

“All right,” Lucie narrated as she pulled Cordelia into yet another salon. “Matthew is Matthew Fairchild, he’s the consul’s son but don’t worry, he’s all right and not a bit stuck-up about it, and anyway Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry ran the London Institute when my Papa was young—he lived there, you know—and they’re over there, actually, hullo Aunt Charlotte!” Lucie waved a hand madly.

Cordelia looked over and quickly spotted Charlotte Fairchild—even someone as socially deprived as she was recognized the Consul—who was in the middle of saying something very serious to a group of equally serious-looking people, and didn’t notice Lucie’s wave. It was funny; Charlotte was tiny, bird-like, and towered over by the men around her, but she had a presence that dominated the room regardless. It was an admirable way to be, Cordelia thought.

Next to Charlotte was a red-headed man in a Bath chair, who did see Lucie wave, and waved back madly himself with a grin. Henry Fairchild. He was too far away for them to speak, but Lucie pointed at Cordelia and raised her eyebrows. Henry raised his hands and exclaimed in pleasure, and Cordelia waved too, a little less madly than the others.

“Is that Matthew with them?” Cordelia said. “The tallish one with his father’s hair?”

Lucie snorted. “Oh no! Matthew would be so offended. That’s his older brother Charles. He’s, well….”

“What?” said Cordelia.

“He’s a little dull.” Lucie had the good manners to look ashamed at her admission. “He’s very interested in politics and Shadowhunter business and all that, and he treats us all like children.”

“We are children.”

“Yes, so is he!” Lucie said impatiently. “But you wouldn’t know it from the way he acts.” She sighed. “He’s an all right sort, though. Next salon!”

With rapid speed Lucie took her through the remainder of the people Lucie considered it important for Cordelia to know. Her Aunt Cecily and her Uncle Gabriel—Gabriel also turned out to be among the group surrounding Charlotte—who were Anna and Christopher’s parents. Her Aunt Sophie, who had worked at the Institute as a mundane and then Ascended and married Gabriel’s brother Gideon.

Gideon, Lucie explained, was not here, because Thomas—oh, it was a shame that Cordelia was not going to meet Thomas, and also Thomas would never have allowed Christopher to get within a mile of fire to eat it, if he had anything to say about it, but anyway Thomas had broken his leg and Gideon had stayed home with him.

“Also there are the older girls,” Lucie said darkly. “Barbara and Eugenia. But they’re not much like us. They’re not even here; they had something else tonight. Can you believe it?”

Cordelia wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to believe it or not believe it, having never met either girl, so she only shook her head understandingly.

“Lucie!” A woman with heaps of curly scarlet hair was advancing on them at speed. “I need someone to help me put out the silver. Congratulations, girl, you’re hired.”

“Bridget,” Lucie protested. “Bridget was my nursemaid, when I was young enough to have a nursemaid,” she explained to Cordelia.

“And now your repayment of my kindness to you continues,” Bridget said sharply, “with the putting out of the silver. Come along.”

“I can help,” offered Cordelia.

Bridget looked offended. “I’ll not have a guest doing work at a party. This one here is hosting the thing.” She dragged off Lucie, who gave Cordelia a beseeching look of apology as she vanished into the crowd.

This left Cordelia back to meandering a bit aimlessly. Perhaps, she thought, she would go back and speak more with Anna, who had been so kind. Perhaps she would seek out her own family and see how they were making out.

Where were her family, though? After a few minutes’ wandering she spotted her mother, who seemed to be unusually in her element, animatedly telling some story to a captivated audience. But she couldn’t find her father, or Alastair, anywhere. It was a large party, surely, but she would have expected her father to be with her mother, or if not, captivating his own audience. Cordelia had been able to tell that he was the second-most excited to go to the party after herself. So where was he?

Perhaps, she thought, he had slipped away to the library. She wanted to get a look at the Institute’s library herself, anyway. She managed enough French to ask directions from one of the waitstaff.  It was down an iron spiral staircase, and Cordelia allowed herself to feel like a princess descending a tower.

The library had a tremendously high ceiling, which gave it an airy feel, but on the ground it was crowded with ancient, heavy oaken bookshelves, all of which were piled so densely with books that they were bent over by the weight, and it was astonishing that they had not already collapsed. Cordelia loved the place immediately. It was crumbling, in the most beautiful way possible. The light was warm and orange, and dust motes floated in it. It smelled pleasantly of must and old paper, and here and there were chairs of cracked, heavily aged and stained red leather.

Down at the other end of the room there was indeed a figure seated on the windowsill, curled up with a book, but it was obviously not her father. As she got closer, the dark-haired figure raised its head to peer at her, and she realized: it was James Herondale.

Part 2

“Hello,” said James Herondale. He peered up at Cordelia owlishly, as though he’d just come out of a reverie and wasn’t quite returned to the fully waking world.

“By the Angel, I’m awfully sorry.” Cordelia couldn’t help feeling she had interrupted something. She had met James before, of course—Will Herondale had been nothing if not diligent about making sure that his children and the Carstairs children knew one another—but she would not have described him as a friend, necessarily. He was a bit unknowable, in his odd way.

“No need to apologize,” James said mildly, “it’s me who’s skiving off this party to read.” He sat up rather suddenly, as if he’d only just realized he had been splayed casually across the windowsill and he should seek some kind of propriety.

“Most people don’t skive off parties,” Cordelia said, amused. “It’s usually lessons and chores, that sort of thing. Do you not like parties?”

“I like parties just fine,” James said, a bit defensively.

Cordelia crossed her arms and said sternly, “Well, I am in the library because I wanted to see the Paris Institute library, but also because almost the whole party are strangers to me. But they’re your friends, aren’t they? Wouldn’t you want to be with your friends? Matthew, and Thomas and the rest?”

James gave Cordelia a long look. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “They are my friends, I suppose, but really they’re more like relatives. I’ve always felt out of place among them.”

The thought of James being out of place anywhere struck Cordelia as funny. Compared to herself, he was self-assured, charismatic, effortlessly interesting. Compared to her awkward discomfort inside her own body, he was graceful and strikingly handsome—

Good Lord, Cordelia thought, where had that come from?

It was true, though. Among the pillars and medieval arches of the library he looked as at home as a marble statue, an oil painting of a classical youth at study. How could someone who matched his environment so perfectly be uncomfortable?

“I always feel out of place too,” she offered. “But I thought it was just because my family is always traveling so much. I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to make friends.” She looked down at the ground. “Maybe it’s more complicated than that.”

James said, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Cordelia gave a little laugh. “Well, yes. We are. But how often do we see each other? Once a year, maybe twice, if we’re lucky?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see most of the people at this party more than that, anyway. We’re always in London and they’re usually in Idris. Although we’re meant to go to Idris this summer, so perhaps I’ll see them a bit more. And of course, we’ll all be at the Academy this fall.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ll start to think of them as real friends at some point. I just feel so different than them. Like…like everyone else is looking out at the world, at other people, but I am always looking inward, instead.”

Since to Cordelia James appeared to glow from within slightly, this struck her as an odd facet of his personality, but she supposed that the shy and retiring came in all shapes and sizes. “‘All man’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone,’” she quoted. “My father always says that.”

“Your father sounds very wise,” said James.

“Actually,” said Cordelia, “I think Blaise Pascal said that, and my father was only quoting him. You’d get along with my father,” she went on, surprised to find herself saying it out loud. But it was true; both her father and James had the same sense of the world being a bit too much for them, of preferring solitude, of seeking refuge in books. “I should go find him,” she said. “Again, I’m so sorry for interrupting your reading.”

James put the book down on the side table next to the window. “Again, please don’t apologize, I’m always happy for the opportunity to talk with you.” Cordelia found herself blushing, a bit, but James didn’t appear to notice. He stood up and said, smiling, “I shall escort you in your endeavor.”

On the way out of the library they fell silent, and Cordelia began to feel a bit awkward. It was usually so easy to speak with James, and yet she was unaccountably tongue-tied. Finally, desperate for a conversational gambit, she blurted, “Did you know that the original Paris Institute library burned down in 1574 when someone opened a Pyxis containing a Dragonidae demon?”

James raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that, Miss Carstairs,” he said, and Cordelia burst into giggles.

The smile was wiped quickly off her face, however, by the arrival of Alastair, who looked grim. “There you are,” he said, but he sounded more relieved than angry. He had a tired look in his eyes. “Father’s not well,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”

“Oh!” said Cordelia. She felt a brief, uncharitable flash of annoyance — her father’s sickness had spoiled so many parties, even Cordelia’s first rune-day. She turned to James. “I should go to him.”

“Of course,” said James. “I’m so sorry to hear he’s not well.”

“There’s an old monk’s chamber down that hall,” Alastair said, gesturing. “Father said he wanted to be someplace cool and dark.” He shook his head, agitated. “Sorry, Cordelia.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure what he meant—perhaps that it was usually her that Elias asked for when he wasn’t well, and not Alastair? She hoped it didn’t hurt Alastair’s feelings. She assumed it was because Elias believed girls made better nurses than boys, though she wasn’t sure that was true.

She left James and her brother there, looking askance at one another, and went down the hall until she found a short little heavy wooden door set in the wall. It swung open at her tentative push, and inside she found only a bit of dim light and a sparsely furnished room, with a small platform bed in the corner on which her father sat, his arm over his eyes.

“Papa,” she said, “I’m here.”

He groaned. “Cordelia, my love. It came on so suddenly.”

Cordelia felt a wash of guilt at having resented her father. “I know. I’m here, Papa.”

She went over to the bed and sat down next to him. The room was suffused with the strong smell, herbaceous and strongly bitter, that she associated with his episodes—the medicine that the Silent Brothers gave him to keep his health under control, she assumed.

“I’m sorry to ruin your party, Cordelia,” her father said after a moment. His voice was throaty, his words slow, as though it pained him to speak.

“No,” said Cordelia gently. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I know you had looked forward to the party as well.”

He looked up from his arm and gazed at her fondly. “I already feel better now that you’re here.” He reached out and took her small hand in his larger one. “You’ve always been my best charm for getting well.”

Cordelia rubbed his hand anxiously. “What can I do, Papa? Is there anything you need?” She glanced around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. Her eye fell on one of the room’s few decorations, a small shelf with a selection of cloth and leather-bound books arranged haphazardly across it. “I could read to you,” she said. That was what she would want if she were feeling ill, after all. To be read to would be the greatest act of love she could receive, so it only made sense to offer it here.

“Yes, that would be very nice.” Her father closed his eyes and smiled, as if in anticipation.

Cordelia went to examine the shelf. Doubtfully she said, “Well, in English we have either the 1817 classic How to Avoid Werewolves—”

“You mean, socially?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cordelia. “Your other option is the classic travelogue of the Shadowhunter Hezekiah Featherstone, Demons With Whom I Have Had Relationships.”

“Should you really be reading that second one?” her father rumbled.

“Papa!” said Cordelia, scandalized. “I don’t think they are romantic relationships.”

“Well then,” said Elias, settling back on the bed, and Cordelia thought he did already sound like he was feeling a bit better, “surprise me.”

#

James thought, it wasn’t Cordelia’s fault that he had been left alone with her older brother. It was only an unfortunate side-effect of the situation.

Though only a couple of years apart in age, James had always thought of Alastair as impossibly older than him, and Alastair, for his part, had treated James as impossibly younger. James supposed this was a natural result of being an older sibling. Certainly he could not imagine taking anyone fully seriously who was only his little sister’s age. In this circumstance, however, it left him unsure what to say to Alastair, or whether to wait for Alastair to speak, or whether to simply bolt from the room at top speed and assume Alastair was too slow to catch him.

Alastair ended the mystery by saying, in an odd tone, “My apologies for all this. My father is often unwell.”

“It’s all right,” James said, feeling strange to be reassuring an older boy. Tentatively he said, “Your father is a hero, after all.”

“What?” said Alastair, thrown off guard.

“Your father,” James said. “He killed the demon Yanluo.”

“Not by himself,” said Alastair.

“No,” said James, “but still. My father says an experience like that can leave scars. It’s a kind of sacrifice that heroes make, taking those scars so others don’t have to.”

He had meant it kindly, but was dismayed by the way Alastair’s face shut down. He became a blank, and when he looked at James, it was clear that he had ceased to regard James as being present in the room, or indeed, existing at all. “Quite,” he said. Without further comment he headed down the hallway toward the library..

“I’ll see you at the Academy,” James offered, one final try. “This fall. I’ll be starting.”

Alastair turned back, and in the same oddly neutral tone, he said, “That’s right. I suppose you will.”

After Alastair departed, James stayed where he was for a while, alone in the narrow, whitewashed corridor of the Institute. There was a party shaking the very rafters of the building, and yet here there was only silence. James thought of Cordelia, comforting her ill father, of Alastair stomping off for the sake of stomping off, obviously with no destination in mind.

His father had always made such an effort to get the two families together, the Herondales and the Carstairs. He had told so many stories about them, and was always encouraging their spending time together. And James had always been fond of the Carstairs, especially Cordelia. But now he thought, it’s odd, really, how little I know them as people.

He thought of the cousins, the parents’ friends, the Enclave members celebrating above. Other than his own family, he knew so little about any of them as people. And while he felt safe here, in the quiet, in the dark, he could tell that the world would not let him remain there for much longer. He would be out in the world, and he would need friends, and family, to help get him through.

Perhaps at the Academy, this fall.

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

So not to be dramatic, but if you could get a degree in discourse-ology, the topic of my master’s thesis would definitely be “Which political candidates did the characters of the CW’s Gossip Girl (2007-2012) support?” I’m doing this in order from most to least obvious, and considering both the 2016 and 2020 presidential elections.

[ little ivy interjection here: i haven’t changed ANYTHING, except adding a screencap of the title + the submission, because that made me laugh & more people deserve to see it, and putting this under a read more because that’s how i generally try & organise stuff on this blog. so this submission is exactly as it was when i received it! also while we’re at it, anon, this MADE my day.]

Blair Waldorf: “Hillary Clinton is one of my role models. I do not break treaties, you ass!” (04x13) There’s no question that Blair would go hard for Hillary in 2016, she praised her on multiple occasions throughout the series. Blair’s a classic American neoliberal, third wave Democrat-type: she’s decently progressive when it comes to social policies, and would be decidedly supportive of causes like gay marriage, racial equity, and women’s reproductive rights, but she’s still very much in favor of maintaining the status quo when it comes to capitalism and the hegemonic structure of power that, lets face it, heavily favors her own class interests. To use the American healthcare system as an example: Blair would have been all for the Affordable Care Act, and is largely supportive of the idea of creating a public option - but single payer, nationalized health care? It just wouldn't work in a country like the United States for “X” reason (although the real reason, deep down, is that she doesn’t want to see her tax rate go up in any meaningful way). So she’s thoroughly for Clinton in both the 2016 primaries and the general election, she maybe even comes out with a line of high-end “I’m With Her” merchandise if she’s still CEO of Waldorf Designs, and is personally heartbroken when Clinton loses.

Flash forward to the 2020 primaries. Blairhates Donald Trump, like emotionally, viscerally hates him - his misogyny, his incompetence, and his blatant tackiness are a direct repudiation of her beliefs, and the fact that he’s representing Manhattan society and the Upper East Side to the world in such a godawful way is frankly embarrassing. So in a certain sense, her strategy, like frankly many Americans at the time going into the 2020 Democratic primaries is, “Which one of these candidates has the greatest chance at beating Donald Trump?” I see Blair being rather conflicted at first, but ultimately going for either Amy Klobuchar or Kamala Harris. She has a certain admiration for Elizabeth Warren given her professional background, but her policies are a bit too progressive for someone like Blair. Buttigeg is fine, but not especially thrilling. Biden, quite frankly, doesn’t seem like he has any real chance at winning, although I think he’d be Blair’s third choice after Harris and Klobuchar. I can see her leaning more towards Harris ultimately - although, after the “Amy Klobuchar throws staplers at her interns!!” rumors start spreading, Blair cannot help but, at a personal level, kind of respect her for that. When Biden unexpectedly takes South Carolina and then the Democratic nomination, Blair is a bit disappointed, but not overly so, and quickly marshals her financial resources into supporting and fundraising for him for the remainder of the election. At least it’s not Sanders - or Bloomberg. As a New Yorker, of course Blair’s opinion is “Fuck Michael Bloomberg”.

Chuck Bass: Now here’s where it gets interesting. Chuck, as you said, isn’t stupid - there’s no way he falls for the “build the wall” crap or any of Trump’s rhetoric, he knows it’s a bullshit farce and sees right through it. But you know what he definitely is? Deeply greedy and deeply selfish. I’m hardly the first person to point this out, but Chuck Bass is, in many ways, the fictional equivalent of the Donald Trumps and Michael Bloombergs and Brett Kavanaughs of the world - new money billionaire who inherited his wealth from his father working in the real estate industry, who despite his lack of business acumen and deeply problematic history with women, has managed to coast through life failing upwards with absolutely no social or legal accountability? I mean, back in 2010, Forbes Magazine actually did a real interview with the fictional Chuck Bass in which they outright compare him to Donald Trump. I couldn’t tell you if the Gossip Girl writers meant to write Chuck as their Trump analogue - I mean, they did invite Jared and Ivanka onto the show, after all - but the parallels are just too strong to ignore. All of which is to say, not only did Chuck Bass vote for Donald Trump, he held exclusive political fundraisers for him and was probably a substantial donor to his campaign. Now, did Chuck distance himself publicly over time as the political climate became increasingly caustic and public sentiment towards Trump plummeted even further? Perhaps, perhaps not. It really depends on if the board of Bass Industries felt like being connected to Trump was a liability or an asset - but privately, I imagine Chuck once again voted for him in 2020, because the one policy Donald Trump did effectively execute during his tenure in office was massive tax cuts for billionaires, and for someone like Chuck Bass, that’s the only political policy that really matters. He wouldn’t wear a red hat and wouldn’t be caught dead within sniffing distance of a MAGA rally and the hoi polloi, but dude is basically the image of what the kind of rich conservatives backing the Trump administration for personal gain look like. On the off chance that the distastefulness of it all got to be a little much for even Chuck post-2016, perhaps he might switch his vote to Bloomberg. But I highly doubt Chuck would be politically invested in anything other than his own wallet to such an extent that he wouldn’t vote for Trump, no matter how much it would no doubt completely infuriate Blair.

Dan Humphrey: As the unofficial king of the hipsters, Dan has been a Sanders supporter since before it was cool. Seriously, Bernie Sanders appeals to Dan intrinsically on every level - his policies, his rhetoric, even his aesthetic - the rumpled old man with wild hair wearing mittens and railing against the upper class is the sort of thing that’s basically political catnip for someone like Dan Humphrey. Not only would Dan vote for Sanders in both the 2016 and 2020 primaries, he’d go out and be one of the celebrities campaigning for him. This would definitely lead to him butting heads with Blair, and she would no doubt call him out on supporting someone like Sanders when Dan himself is now a millionaire, who made his money from writing stories about the upper class. The fact that in 2017 he apparently gets married to Serena, a billionaire heiress, and may or may not have been engaged to her back in 2016 when the Democratic primaries were happening might cause him a bit of cognitive dissonance, but really, just because he’s climbed up the socio-economic ladder now doesn’t mean his values have really changed, have they? (Debatable.) In any case, in both the 2016 and 2020 general elections, Dan would definitely vote for Clinton and Biden respectively - although he’d be significantly more disgruntled about it than Blair would be switching from Harris to Biden. I don’t think Dan would be a “Bernie bro” in the way that term is used, but he’d definitely chafe against Clinton’s past policy decisions, and would probably make some snippy Tweets about her during the election. Nevertheless, once it became clear that Trump was going to be the Republican nominee and was a serious threat, I think Dan would change his tone and start encouraging his fans and followers to vote for Clinton. Likewise, in 2020, Dan would probably become one of the Sanders supporters doing outreach for Biden, having become more politically pragmatic following the experience of living under the Trump administration.

Vanessa Abrams: Much like Dan, Vanessa is a progressive, although unlike Dan, Vanessa’s activism is more focused around specific issues and less around specific politicians. I can see Dan and Vanessa being in roughly the same place in 2016, and given that the only real choices were between Sanders and Clinton in the primaries (RIP to Martin O'Malley), Vanessa would no doubt go for Sanders. Whereas Dan might campaign for Sanders directly however, Vanessa would instead focus her time and resources around advocacy for specific causes that are important to her, like climate change and racial justice, and would probably use her platform as a filmmaker and documentarian to advance those causes. I could very much see her getting involved with movements like Black Lives Matter and organizations like the Sunrise Movement, and taking part in protests, marches, and sit-ins. When the 2020 Democratic primaries come around, I could see her possibly switching from Sanders to Warren for a while (and Dan would definitely argue with her about it if she did), but I can also see her switching back to Sanders after Warren amended her support for single-payer, “Medicare for All”. She’d definitely vote for Clinton and Biden in the generals, but not enthusiastically.

Nate Archibald: For someone whose family business is politics and who, in 2017, is apparently a candidate in the New York City mayoral election, Nate seems to be rather removed from politics. As Vanessa puts it in 02x19, “The only thing Nate’s ever voted for is American Idol.” Still, as Editor-in-Chief of The Spectator, Nate kind of has to have an opinion, and in that respect, I see him gravitating towards the type of center-left “establishment” candidates that he and his family would no doubt have close ties with. In the Gossip Girl universe, the Vanderbilts are portrayed as being a lot like the Kennedys, and I think Nate’s policies as a mayoral candidate would really reflect that. In 2016, he would vote for Hillary Clinton in both the primaries and the generals without much of a second thought - after all, she’s the obvious choice, and there’s no way a candidate like Donald Trump could actually beat her, right? Actually, optimistically, maybe that’s why Nate decides to jump into the mayoral race in 2017 - previously, he had been for all intents and purposes politically apathetic, but seeing someone as genuinely vile as Donald Trump ascend to the office of the presidency stirs him out of that apathy, and he wants to make a positive difference in the only way an incredibly privileged white man from a politically prominent family knows how. So he runs as a Kennedy-esque center left candidate, further left of someone like Hillary Clinton, but more moderate than someone like Elizabeth Warren - sort of like Kamala Harris, now that I think about it. I have no idea if he would actually be able to beat Bill de Blasio given the major incumbency advantage de Blasio would have, but who knows. Come the 2020 Democratic primaries, I think Nate would probably just vote for whoever he believed was most likely to beat Donald Trump. I don’t see him having any sort of clear preference - maybe he would gravitate towards Biden on the basis of him being the most established candidate, or maybe he would gravitate towards Harris on the basis of her campaigning as the “moderate progressive” candidate. I could also seeing him liking Andrew Yang, come to think of it. In any case, he would most definitely support Joe Biden in the generals. How involved he’d be in supporting him really depends on whether or not Nate actually gets elected to mayor - if he was the mayor, he’d definitely endorse him and probably donate to him, but I think he’d be too wrapped up in his own political responsibilities to really do much more than that. If, however, he lost the election and was still the Editor-in-Chief of The Spectator, I can see Nate getting more involved alongside the rest of his family, officially endorsing him in The Spectator, hosting political fundraisers for him, and maybe even campaigning for him. The Vanderbilts in the Gossip Girl universe (I have no idea what the family’s actual political beliefs are in real life) definitely seem to me like they’d be Biden supporters, and I imagine they’d use their political clout to try and get Biden in, and more importantly, Trump out.

Serena van der Woodsen: Oh Serena. Look, she knows it’s important, okay? It’s just, she’s been really busy lately, and she doesn’t really like to think about politics, and hey, remember that fundraiser she did with her mom for last month’s philanthropic cause du jour? Serena’s a Democrat, vaguely, but if you tried to really pin her down on her political beliefs she’d probably just change the topic. So who does she vote for in 2016? The truth is, she doesn’t. Not in the primaries, not in the general, not at all. She meant to, okay, Blair’s definitely been pestering her to send in her mail-in-ballot for weeks, but she just got distracted and forgot. Serena really strikes me as the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy thinking or talking about politics, save for perhaps a few specific issues, and she has a sense that everything will work itself out eventually and she doesn’t really need to participate. And then the 2016 election happens, and holy shit, she didn’t vote. Blair and Dan might have spent early 2016 bickering with each other over Clinton versus Sanders, but the one thing they can definitely agree on is “What the fuck, Serena?!?!” They both reminded her like, a million times, how could she possibly forget?! Serena feels really bad about it - she didn’t think it was such a big deal, she didn’t think Donald Trump could actually win! - and so she starts overcompensating whenever the topic of politics comes up, maybe even joins Vanessa at a few protests and marches, even though she’s still sort of clueless about the actual issues at hand. She does vote in the 2018 midterms, although only in the general election - straight blue ticket, all the way down. She takes a picture of herself at the voting booth wearing an “I Voted!” sticker and posts it on Instagram, tagging both Dan and Blair in the post (who already voted weeks ago using mail-in ballots, but it’s the thought that counts). Flash forward to 2020, and she really needs to make a decision about who to vote for in the primaries… but there’s just so many choices. Everything seems so scary and stressful and real in a way now that it didn’t back in 2016, and she can’t just ignore it and assume things will work out for the best like she did back then. So who does she vote for? Well, Serena always wins, so she votes for Biden. Conspiratorially, both Dan and Blair privately wonder if her voting for Biden isn’t on some cosmic level the reason for his unexpected victory, even if they know there’s no logical way that’s possible, right? But it would be such a Serena thing to do… In any case, Serena’s just happy her candidate won, and would probably host political fundraisers for him with her mom’s circle of philanthropic friends. Assuming she and Dan are still married at this point, she offers to help him do political outreach to Sanders supporters to get them to vote for Biden, which he sweetly dissuades her from given that most Sanders supporters would probably dislike her on principle.

So that’s how, in my opinion, the main cast would vote, ordered roughly in how confident I am about that analysis. You could make the argument that perhaps some characters would vote or act differently based on whether or not they’re dating or married at the time - like, would Chuck openly fundraise for Trump when Blair is a dyed-in-the-wool Clinton supporter if they’re married? (He totally would.) But I tried to consider them purely on the merits of their personalities and values, and not on the particularities of their situations at the time (with the exception of Nate, just because him being in office or not would obviously make a huge difference in regards to how politically involved he’s going to be).

I wish I put as much effort into my actual university essays as I did on Gossip Girl political analysis.

[ms-demeanor]

While i agree with your main points on your athiesm discourse, the op of that post was being a deliberate asshole. You can say "gods are fictional" but you should not be a smug prick about it like that guy

Bless your little heart, you are perfectly entitled to your opinion, maybe someday you’ll see the light.

You know what’s really interesting to me? That South Park episode about how George Clooney’s SMUG speech about environmentalism was all fart-sniffing self-satisfaction.

That’s what’s so annoying about SJWs and the hollywood liberal elite, after all, it’s not that people on the right disagree with them, it’s that they’re too damn SMUUUUG about it it turns people off and makes lefty positions look bad.

It reminds me of people who complain about how vegans are all holier than thou assholes in spite of the fact that they have rarely interacted with vegans - that reflexive, self-defensive, “OH YEAH, how do you feel about my BACONATOR, plantboy?“ thing that seems to care more about the way imagined vegans in their heads act than the way actual vegans act.

“You’re right but you shouldn’t act like you’re, you know, happy about that or secure in your position; have some HUMILITY while asserting your position” is actually a pretty condescending approach to this topic.

I mean, I’ve absolutely been called a New Athiest/2000s atheist/Edgy Atheist over all of this and that is 100% shorthand for “where’s your fedora, you smug neckbeard motherfucker” and I’ve been working really hard to not be as glib or dismissive about this as seems reasonable to me.

So what’s not smug enough for you?

Argumate started with “this is your reminder that god is fictional and I’ll keep saying that until it’s no longer considered ‘edgy’ to do so”.

Clearly that’s too smug.

Is penitently posting “god isn’t real” at 2am and tagging it #do not reblog the correct level of not smug? Is quietly asserting nonbelief by liking atheist posts but never reblogging them because you don’t want to add to the discourse or potentially offend your religious followers the correct level of not-smug? Is quietly holding your nonbelief and just never talking about it and examining your culturally christian privilege in a hair shirt as a white atheist in a christian nation and goddamnit you’ll be happy about it the right amount of not smug?

Or how about this: It is absolutely my right to be as much of a gigantic prick as I want to about my beliefs so long as I’m not hurting anybody and, given exactly how much I talk about politics, religion, and society mostly WITHOUT discussing my personal nonbelief, maybe I’m kind of tired of NOT being a giant prick about this.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 77: Three

The ending is in no way significant of anything at all. Definitely.

First  Previous  Next

Lance comes back in from the gardens with a frosty-furred, very happy wolf cub. Their quarters are still dark, lit only by the crackling fire. “Okay, go find Keith! Come on.”

The cub yawns, walks slow and tired over to the nightstand sniffing Keith’s ignored breakfast curiously. After a varga of play in the frost, Lance is surprised the cub’s got that much left in him.

“Beloved?” Lance gazes at Keith’s curled up form, burrowed into the blankets of their bed. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” It’s not convincing. “I’m just nauseous.”

Keith’s nausea has gotten a lot worse in the last two movements. He’s been skipping breakfast on the regular, and now sometimes lunch. It’s worrying them both that he’s not getting enough nutrients.

Lance frowns, runs fingers through Keith’s hair. “You can tell me if something’s wrong. I can help.”

Keith shakes his head. “I’m just not myself today.”

“Is there really nothing I can do?”

“Just go to breakfast, okay? I’ll be fine... But maybe come visit me later?”

“Of course. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”  That at least earns Lance a small smile. He’ll take it. “What are your plans for this afternoon? Lay here and be sick?”

“Mhm. Maybe play with Wolfy and Bleeps a little bit. Try not to freeze to death.”

“Use your cloak. And mine if you want it.” Lance bends down to kiss his temple. “I love you. So much.”

“I love you so much too- Ugh.” Keith curls tighter around his unhappy insides. “I love you as much as I hate nausea.”

“Trash can’s right here if you need to barf; I’ll send food for you if you want it; I’ll come check on you as soon as I can.” With a kiss to Keith’s cheek, Lance leaves their quarters, hoping he’s not too late to breakfast.

In the dining hall, Lance takes his place, picking food off of platters as servants bring them over to him. As he digs into some flowers with honey, he can’t help but notice his father’s keen eye.

“It’s nice of one of you to join us,” Alfor murmurs. Next to him, Coran rolls his eyes, but says nothing. “Where is Keith?”

“Not feeling well. He’ll eat when he’s hungry.”

Alfor’s ice-blue eyes narrow. “I see. Did he contract something on Daibazaal?”

Lance slows his chewing rate, appearing thoughtful. “Possibly. He wasn’t examined very thoroughly when we returned, and Tavo only gave him two injections. I assume it’s because he’s Galra, so there are fewer concerns.”

“Really?” Coran finds an actual reason to cut in. “Perhaps you should talk to him about a more thorough exam?”

“If Keith has any concerns, he will consult Tavo or his own physician back on Daibazaal. I don’t need to do that for him.” Lance shoves a frost lily into his mouth, licking the sweet floral nectar from his lips. “I have a lot to do today. There’s legislature regarding our colonies that needs to be updated, and I need to have new machinery sent to Arus, which requires a completely unnecessary amount of paperwork.”

“If that’s your way of asking to be excused, you may go,” Alfor murmurs, gaze searing into his son. Lance has gotten pretty good at lying lately. But not good enough.

“Thank you.” Lance wipes his mouth, sips his water, flies from his seat.

“And do tell Keith I hope he starts feeling better soon.”

Lance’s hesitating footsteps tell Alfor everything he needs to know. He tucks into his own breakfast, not looking at his husband.

“Dear… Don’t you do it.”

“Do what?” Alfor whines. “I haven’t even done anything!”

“Ah, but you were thinking about it!” Coran’s dark eyes glint with amusement. “Remember what we were talking about? About minding your own business?”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing.”

“...But I want him to know that we will be here for him if he needs us?” Alfor asks, hopeful. Trying.

Coran nods slowly, considering that. “Yes, alright.”

“What, really?” Alfor almost never wins when versus his husband.

“Yes. I think he’d appreciate knowing you want to be there for him. And me of course, but I have to speak with Admiral Sonne on Arus to see what the quiznak is going on. If Lance is this stressed about it, I might have to hop over and knock a few heads together.”

“I hate it when you travel,” Alfor sighs, rising from the table, grunting at the pain in his knees as he straightens his legs. Coran follows suit.

“I know, but it would only be for a few quintants. Maybe a movement or two.”

“That’s so long,” Alfor bemoans.

Coran kisses him, sweet and familiar. “You’ll live, my darling. You always do.”

“Well... If you have to go, I guess you have to go.” Alfor tips forward to rest his head on Coran’s shoulder. Their arms wind into an embrace. “We have some fantastic kids, don’t we?”

“I’m astounded every day.” Coran draws back. “I’d best go contact Arus. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Alfor kisses Coran’s cheek, lets him go. His lips fall into a frown, deepening with every tap of his footsteps as he winds his way through the castle.

Lance jiggles his foot, heaves a sigh as he tries yet again to finish his draft. He’s preoccupied, worried about Keith. Aside from persistent morning sickness, he hasn’t been himself the last few quintants. Subdued, quiet- He’s begun isolating himself again, like he did last time he arrived from Daibazaal-

“Lancel.”

Lance looks up, rising from his chair. “Father. Can I do something for you?”

Alfor waves his hand, dismissing formality, and takes a seat by his son. “I want to talk to you about Keith. And what you’ve decided not to tell me.”

Lance’s hand freezes, releases the stylus. He turns to his father. “I beg your pardon?”

“Keith. And his pregnancy.” In hindsight, Alfor would realize that he could have used a bit more tact.

“What about it?”

“You hid this from me. Without any regard of what it might mean or how it might shift our priorities.”

“You haven’t exactly proven yourself to be trusted with the lives of children,” Lance bites, not missing a beat for even a second.

“What’s that supposed to mean-”

“That my husband is afraid of you, and what you’ll do to our children!”

Alfor licks his lips, a trait he’s passed to his son. “I regret what I have done to Keith. His fear is understandable. I would apologize, but I don’t think it would mean anything.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Still, I am happy for you. I understand the joy of becoming a father-”

“Father, you didn’t even want children!”

“How can you say that?-”

“Because you waited!” Lance snaps. “You waited until you and Mom absolutely had to have us! I’m not stupid!”

"Watch your mouth!" Alfor barks. "Don't you dare disrespect your mother like that. Or me."

Lance closes his mouth with a snap, shaken by his father's sudden anger.

“Lance, we-” Alfor runs a withering hand through his shaggy hair. “We waited to have you kids because I’m fucking gay! Not because we didn’t want you. I loved your mother, dearly, but it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to father children with her. And, for the record, it wasn’t easy for her, either.”

Lance averts his gaze, sheepish. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I put my hands on your mother, not loving her or wanting her. And she knew it. And she didn’t want it either. But that is the way it is done. So no one can question it, no one can doubt your blood. We did that, to each other, for you . And your sister. So don’t you so much as insinuate that we did not want you. Understand?”

Lance gulps, nods. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

Sometimes, Lance still feels like a boy. It’s rare that Alfor’s ire is so well-deserved, and it’s been a long time since Lance has been on the receiving end. He waits to see if his father is finished.

“Now, I wanted to talk to you because we now find ourselves in a potentially difficult situation. Keith’s health is far from perfect. Add to that the burdens of a fetus and the current political climate, what we have uncovered- we need to think very carefully about how to protect you and your family.”

Lance nods, sits back in his chair. “What about you and dad?”

“Not important. You, Keith, and this child are our future. The lynchpin that holds this society together. Were something to happen to you, it’s unlikely our people could recover. But you know that.”

Lance gulps, forces himself to meet his father’s gaze. “Am I- Am I a bad person? All this stuff is happening and-”

“No. Oh, Lance-” Alfor takes his hand, squeezes it tight. “Lance, you are not a bad anything. The truth is, there’s never a good time to start a family, or have a child. The Galra are not the only people who hold a grudge against us, and tragedies and freak accidents happen every day. Why, as we speak, our ships are shifting an asteroid away from our planet so we aren’t destroyed in a collision.

“Let me ask you something. Did you want this child?”

“Yes.”

“Did Keith want this child?”

“Yes.”

“Then this baby will be far luckier than some, just for that. And from what I’ve seen of you, and seen of Keith, and seen of you both together… This child will be blessed indeed. Far better off than you were.”

“You think so?” Lance asks, eyes stinging.

“I know so.” Alfor smiles, squeezing the hand still in his grip before releasing it. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandfather twice.”

“Hopefully, you’ll be a grandfather at least four times,” Lance laughs, sniffling a little, but willing to be happy with his father now that the tension is over.

“Mnh. I know you must do your duty to Daibazaal. So perhaps I’ll be a grandfather more times than that. Your sister doesn’t want more than two children. It may give you and Keith an opportunity to indulge in a larger family, should you so desire.”

“We do currently. I’m curious to see how Keith will feel after baby number one.”

“Very true. Child-bearing is some freaky shit.”

“Seriously. I don’t envy him. I need to get back to him.” Lance sighs. “But right now I need to finish this draft. I never know how to finish off these missives.”

“Oh, that’s the easy part. Summarize what you need done, how you want it done, why it’s important. Three sentences. Then say something encouraging. And then say, ‘Many thanks, Crown Prince Lancel.’ Simple as that. Wash, rinse, repeat until your paperwork is done.”

“That’s… actually pretty useful. Thanks.” Lance finishes typing, sending it along to Adam to look over before it’s passed along to their Admiral on Arus. “I still have all this…” Lance scrolls demonstratively through his list of tasks. “To complete before thaw, but I need to get back to Keith. He’s not himself today. In a different way than normal.”

“What actually needs to be done with it?”

“It’s all crusty, outdated, discriminatory, no longer applicable, or otherwise in need of a rewrite.”

“Why don’t I get started on it and you and Adam can look over it when it’s done?”

Lance hesitates a moment, tapping his stylus on the table. He’s reluctant to entrust policy to anyone else, even Keith, but he has more than one responsibility now. Alfor can do this paperwork. He can't be a husband to Keith. He nods. “Send them to Adam and myself directly. I’ll let him know to expect it.” Lance stacks his tablets carefully on the table for someone to put away for him later. “Thank you.”

“You’re a good man, Lance.” Alfor rises with his son, smile deeply fond.

“Keith says the same thing.”

“He’s a remarkably smart young man. Now, go take care of your house.” Alfor kisses the top of his son’s head. “I’ll send dinner to your quarters if you don’t show up.”

“Thanks. I love you, Father.”

“I love you, too.”

And he actually believes it.

Keith’s not in their quarters. Yet, strangely,  Wolfy and BleepBloop are, Wolfy by the garden doors, BleepBloop glaring at the cub from the loft ladder. Has Keith actually gone outside?

Lance goes to pull his cloak from the closet, and notices that Keith’s is still hanging there. Cursing, he hurries to fasten the heavy fabric under his chin. He should give it a minute to warm up to his body temperature, but with Keith potentially out in the cold, he doesn’t want to wait. He’ll just have to hope it’s good enough.

On his way out, he snatches up Keith’s cloak.

The good thing about the frost is that he can see a set of footprints. The bad news is that those footprints are fading quickly as the frost creeps back up into the frozen moss. Speeding along, Lance squeezes through the gap in the garden wall, following the tracks into the forest. They’re getting a bit more clear, the dulled colors of the mossy forest floor showing through more clearly.

It dawns on Lance quite suddenly where he’s going, and he breaks into a run.

Panting, breath pluming, he skids to a halt outside the grotto where he learned to swim. His foot slips on an icy patch of frost, and he scrambles for a second before his hip hits the frozen ground.

Ouch.

Whatever.

Inside, Keith’s curled up on the icy pond, bundled in an enormous swathe of black fabric. The only thing Lance can see is a mess of long, black hair tumbling over the ice.

“Beloved?” The bundle twitches, curls tighter. “Beloved are you alright? Are you sick? Are you hurt?” A head shake.

Lance creeps over the frosty ground, sitting down next to his husband, throwing the red cloak over his form. Lance gently reaches out to Keith, brushing up against him, feeling what he feels-

A well of homesickness, deep, hollow, aching. Whimpering, Lance curls around his husband, hurting with him but refusing to let him go despite hot tears dripping down the side of his face.

“You know, I-” Lance gulps. “I know how you feel. A little. Remember that night at Thace and Ulaz’ place? I feel like- like I met myself that night. Like for those few vargas, I knew who I was, and I liked that person. But now… There’s no place for that person here. Here, I’m Crown Prince Lancel, and there I was Lance, and there’s no room for Lance here.

“It’s like I lost a piece of me. And lost a piece of us.”

A deep sigh, and Keith rolls over, cuddling closer in Lance’s arms. “I see him every now and then.” The man dredges up a sad smile, lays a hand to Lance’s cheek, brushes his thumb over red-tinted scales. “He’s never really gone.” A long silence, tender companionship. “I’m sorry.”

“You scared me a little bit.”

“Everything is dead here. And it’s all so quiet. Lying there by myself… All I could do was wish you were there with me. Like when we went home, and you were there all day, every day. I guess I got used to it.

“And I miss the red earth, and the afternoon heat, and the moons. I miss them so much. I-” Keith breaks off on a chirp.

“Hey, hey.” Lance pulls Keith closer, strokes his hair. “You’ll see it again, beloved. We’ll go together.”

It’s a few minutes before either speaks again, preferring instead the comfort of touch.

“Sorry, I think I’m just having a mood swing.”

“Your feelings aren’t invalid just because you’re having a mood swing.” Lance kisses his husband’s forehead. "Ready to get out of here?"

"Yes, I'm very cold."

Lance rises first, helps Keith to his feet. "I'm going to come up with a better plan for keeping you company. You're being neglected, and you haven't had anything to do lately."

"You know I can advocate for myself, right?"

"You can, but you don't."

"Right." Keith doesn't argue. He even sounds a little guilty. Lance counts it as a win.

“Where did you get that ridiculously huge cloak?”

“It was Shiro’s,” Keith murmurs. “He gave it to me as a gift when he found me. I didn’t have any clothes, so he gave it to me to cover myself with and help me stay warm. It was the first thing anyone gave me in all that time. The first kindness I’d seen.”

“And you left it behind,” Lance concludes. He knows by now that everything Keith brought with him -himself, his blade, and the clothes on his back- were taken from him upon his arrival. They never found his original clothes.

“Yeah. But now I have it again!” Keith grins. “ I was thinking, since it’s so big, we could use some of it to make a blanket for the little one?”

“Aww, Ke-eith! That’s so sweet!”

Keith hums, pleased by his mate’s enthusiasm. “The Galra used to have this philosophy that kindness doesn’t go back around, but forward. If someone does something kind for you, you’re meant to pay kindness to someone else.”

“I like that,” Lance whispers, swinging their hands back and forth between them. “You know, my father has discovered us. He’s… happy for us. I mean actually for us . Out of all the scenarios I imagined, that wasn’t one of them.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along better.” It’s a white lie, one Lance appreciates.

“He seems… excited. Like he’s really looking forward to being a grandfather. I’m really looking forward to getting to know my father, and watching him grow.”

Keith smiles. “You’ve been waiting a long time to have a relationship with Alfor, huh?”

“So long,” Lance breathes. “Obviously, I’d never allow him to do anything to endanger our child, but I really, really hope I never have to face that.”

Keith leans over to bump their shoulders together. “I hope so too.” He smiles. “You’re going to be an awesome father. I hope he gets to see that.”

“Thanks, beloved.”

The winter's silence falls around them, but it's not quite so crushing, so lonely anymore. There's two sets of footsteps, the warmth of a second body.

“Lance?”

“Yes?”

“I actually do miss Daibazaal. And how we were when we were there.”

“Me too. We’ll go again. As soon as we can.” Lance throws his arm around Keith’s shoulders after the squeeze back through the garden wall. “After all, little one’s gonna have to see where their daddy came from, right?”

“Definitely. I want them to be proud of what they are, Lance.”

“Absolutely. Hybrid children are the future. And we get to create that. It’s gonna be beautiful. I can’t wait to see it.”

“I can’t wait to share it with you,” Keith whispers, gazing at his smiling mate.

It’s time for the turning of the age.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Tied

Summary: You’re strong independent woman who keeps to yourself. That however doesn’t stop a certain outlaw from burrowing into your heart. He visits often enough, but a few months pass before he comes back. With him at your will, you have a little bit of fun.

Warnings: Smut, D/S undertones, ropeplay

AN: This was straight up inspired by @mrskrazy ‘s most recent Arthur drawing, because she is an absolute gem and I love horny cowboahs.

Two months.

Two long months had passed since you last peered into those bright blue eyes. Since you’ve heard his gruff voice. Since you’ve felt his warmth encompass you. His large rough hands holding yours. His breath ghosting across your face when his lips made contact with yours.

Two long months since you’ve last seen the man known as Arthur Morgan.

He never went more than two weeks without seeing you. The longest he’d pushed it was a month. It was no secret he was an outlaw, living life on his toes and law almost breathing down his neck. He told you when your feelings toward one another became apparent. You knew quite well that at any given moment he could be shot dead or captured.

As each day passed, your heart grew heavier with that very real possibility. You said you wouldn’t fall too heavily for him, but damn you and your own wants. Falling in love with Arthur was as easy as breathing.

Regardless of his lifestyle, he treated you much better than any man ever did. It’s why you never chose to marry, much to the displeasure of society. You lived on a small homestead tucked away from civilization, only coming into towns when you needed what the land couldn’t provide. You grew and hunted your own food, fought every intruder tooth and nail for what you had. Your initial meeting with Arthur was no different. You were out hunting one day when you noticed an unfamiliar horse on the edge of your property, and the door to your house wide open.

You were no fool. You grabbed your rifle and quietly stepped in, following the creaking and rustling until you found him rummaging through your wardrobe. You held the barrel up to his head. To your surprise he didn’t try to fight. He instead surrendered and turned around, his eyes wide and on you.

He towered over you and could easily outmuscle you, but he kept himself submissive. With your weapon still up, you ushered him out and watched him ride away on his horse. It was certainly the first time you didn’t have to shed blood to defend your home, and a small blessing.

But then you ran into him a week later, finding him hunting in the same area you were about to. Your first instinct was that he would try to rob you, but he surprised you. He thanked you for not killing him that day, which somehow eased your apprehension. You inquired as to why he didn’t try to fight back, and he answered with he knew when he was outmatched. His comment instilled a sense of pride in you, and your curiosity grew. Any other person would have ether attempted defense or worse. Why was he different?

Soon you began to see his face more. A rare occasion when you brought yourself to town to indulge in some alcohol. He was already there and tipsy, which allowed his lips to become pliable. You learned his name, enjoyed his sense of humor and his ability to hold a good conversation even more. When you left that evening, he seemed to stay in your mind more than you’d care to admit.

It only went downhill from there. Arthur Morgan had captured your heart, and he was no longer the polite man who tried to burgle you.

He always visited you in a timely manner, staying a few days before leaving and promising he’d return soon.

You could still remember the way he held you on the last day, his strong arms pulling you to his chest as he placed a kiss on the crown of your head. His smell surrounded you, a pleasant medley of forest pine and earth, with a slight hint of tobacco and gunpowder. It lingered in your bed for days after he left only to fade with time, and you would give anything just to smell it again.

You sighed heavily, pausing in gathering some vegetables from your garden to lean against the fence post. A swell of emotion overtook you as you turned your eyes to the blue sky ahead. He’s been gone too far long. You had to assume the worst by now, yet somehow it didn’t feel right. You couldn’t just accept the fact he was almost positively dead. Denial however was dangerous to your heart.

You shook your head and gathered what you had already to head toward your well for washing. It was no use to dwell on something that was doomed from the start. You were always meant to be alone in the world, without a person to tie you down. Having relations was a useless feat, lest you endured heartbreak.

You reached the well and began to pump, though the water wasn’t the only liquid flowing. Tears stung your eyes and you drew in a shuddering breath, trying to keep yourself under control.

“Stop it.” You hissed to yourself. “Stop crying over useless men.”

“Useless?”

You froze on the spot. That voice. So quick that you might’ve even imagined it. It however called to you clear as day. Your mind had to be playing tricks. But you turned around anyway, your grief transforming to utter shock when you laid eyes on the being standing just a few feet away.

His lips stretched into a smile when his eyes met yours. “Hey, darlin’.” He greeted.

You couldn’t say anything, you hadn’t even conjured up any words. The vegetables lay abandoned on the ground as you bounded forward, closing the gap between you in a short second, leaping into his arms.

You buried your face into his shoulder, letting him overwhelm your senses. He hugged you so tightly, his warmth soothing against the cool air. He whispered your name, his voice low and rough and comforting. More tears formed in your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest with happiness and relief.

A long moment passed before you lifted your head up, leaning back to look at him just as his grip loosened slightly. His hands reached up to catch the tears falling, wiping them away while the smile remained.

“These for me?” he asked quietly.

You sniffed, shaking your head and chuckling. “No, ‘course not. It’s for the other outlaw in my life.”

He chuckled as well, moving his hands to rest on your waist. “Guess I’ll have to kill ‘em for makin’ my lady cry.”

“Not before I tell him off for being late.” You joked, gazing at his face fully. Beneath the brim of his hat betrayed a look of exhaustion, though attempting to hide it behind his smiles. It struck a chord in you, wondering what exactly he’d been through. However, your eyes landed on those beautiful lips of his. You reached up and pulled the hat off, your other hand snaking around his neck to pull him in for a deep kiss.

---

Arthur’s exhaustion grew more apparent as the day continued. You learned that his gang had experienced a particularly rough patch that led him to take on much more work than necessary. Death, failed plans, and constant running had worn him to the bone. He apologized profusely for not coming sooner, but you just shook your head and responded that you couldn’t blame him for any of it.

You provided him with a meal that he scarfed down. He then passed out on your bed soon after, and it was just early evening. Arthur was always much stronger than he gave himself credit for, and this was the first time you’d seen him so fatigued. He looked so peaceful and almost dead the way he sprawled out on the mattress.

He hadn’t moved when you turned in a few hours later. You were careful to ease into the bed next to him, hoping not to arouse him when you lay down. He remained still as a statue, until you were nodding off. His body shifted to wrap his arm around your waist and pulled you in tightly.

You woke early the next morning nearly forgetting he was there until you’d realized he still had you against him. You carefully peeled yourself from his grasp, only disturbing him slightly while he expressed a small groan and rolled over. You wanted to lay with him for hours, but there was always work to be done on your little plot of land.

A little while had passed of you doing chores. Chickens and goats were fed, fresh water refilled the troughs and taken into the house. You were just moving a bale of hay from the barn when Arthur exited the cabin, his gaze sweeping around until landing on you. He trotted over and fell in step with you as you carried it over to the small pasture where your horse and his waited peacefully, their ears pricked and their excited nickers sounding when they spotted you.

“Coulda woken me up, woulda helped ya Y/N.” he spoke.

“Nah, I can handle it myself,” you responded while dropping the bale and pulling your knife out to cut away its confinements. “Besides, you looked like you needed at least a week’s worth of rest.”

Despite your initial refusal, he bent down to grab a few hay flakes, tossing them over the fence with ease. You peered over at him, noting the shadows beneath his eyes had almost completely vanished. He turned to look at you. “Overnight did me good, as you can see.” He pointed out with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes. “You know I never needed a man’s help, right?” you reminded him.

“’Course I do,” he answered, reaching forward to gently hold your hips. He pulled you closer, your torso flush with his as his eyes stared softly. “It’s jus’ an excuse to spend more time with ya. I have a lotta catchin’ up to do.”

You smiled at his charm, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes you do, cowboy,” You giggled, granting him a quick peck on his lips before reaching to gently flick the tip of his nose. “That’s for making me worry.”

Arthur winced from the contact and laughed, stepping back to quickly rub his nose. “Love you too, sweetheart."

You only shot him another smile as you headed back toward the barn, and he followed like a puppy. With the animals fed, the only thing left to do was to straighten up the inside of the barn. You’d neglected cleaning it for the past few weeks. A powerful storm swept through the area and stirred up quite a mess. The floor was littered with old hay and feed sacks, as well as some materials strewn about.

You sighed heavily. You were reluctant to even complete it, but it had to be done regardless. “Gotta get this cleaned, then we’ll settle and have some breakfast, okay?” you said to him.

He nodded in response. “Sounds good.”

And so you began to work. A normally slow process shortened with Arthur’s help. He took over the heavier duties while you resigned yourself to sweeping the hay out and replacing smaller items. A half-hour passed before it was clean, or at least clean for a barn. You straightened up and clapped the dust off your hands before wiping them on your jeans, sighing in relief. Arthur finished placing some wooden planks against the wall before coming back to your side.

“Think we did pretty good.” He commented, his hand reaching to rest on your lower back.

You leaned to his embrace, resting your shoulder against his chest. “Yeah we did,” You sighed, peering up at him. “Thank you.”

He offered a soft smile. “Now what was that ‘bout me bein’ useless?” he recalled, noting your moment from yesterday.

You turned to face him completely. “Think you were hearing things, Morgan.” You said, though mirroring his smile.

“Ah I don’t think so,” he replied, pulling you closer to him. “Think I’ve earned an apology.”

“Do you now?” you challenged while raising an eyebrow. “After making me wait for you for two months?”

“’M here now, ain’t I?” his voice vibrated with a chuckle, moving a hand to rest on your cheek. “Better later than never.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as he moved to tangle his fingers within your hair. With gentle pressure he pulled your head closer, lips connecting to elicit a tender kiss. He held you to him with his free arm, his grip tightening. Your arms wrapped around his neck automatically, your own fingers toying with his sandy locks.

He pulled back slightly to look at you, lips parted as he took a deep breath. “God damn did I miss you, Y/N.” he sighed out.

“Me too,” you murmured to him. “I… honestly thought you were dead.”

“Ain’t dead yet,” he replied. “Ain’t gonna leave ya that long ever again neither.”

“That better be a promise, Morgan. Or else you’ll catch some hell,” You lightly threatened. “You’re already on thin ice.”

“Then what can I do to make it up?” he asked you, catching the small amused smirk that played at his lips.

You hummed to him in response, sliding one hand from the back of his neck to the front, trailing your fingertip along his exposed skin. Your other hand guided him back to you for a new, much deeper kiss. You traced his collarbone before dipping further, nimbly unbuttoning each button, easing each apart to reveal his union suit underneath. All the while his tongue was exploring your mouth.

Once completely undone you tugged the loosened fabric from his pants and pushed it to the side, him helping you by shrugging it off along with his suspenders. You worked on those buttons next, though much slower than before. One by one the buttons fell open, exposing his wonderful torso to you.

Just as you pulled the top half off, he immediately reached to do the same with your clothes – only to step back out of his grip. He stared at you in confusion, his mouth forming in the beginnings of a question.

But you had an idea. “Now now, Arthur. Do you think I’d let you undress me just like that?” you softly interrupted with a teasing tone. Your eyes slowly raked across his figure. Bare from the waist up and standing in the morning sun, it almost made him appear like a deity. One for you to ravage at your will.

Your body called to him, yearned for him. Having gone so long without his touch, without his warmth, without him being inside of you. Of course you couldn’t truly blame him for having to focus on his gang, it was his life after all. But the thought of teasing and punishing him set a new fire in you that could only be quenched in one way.

“Why can’t I?” he spoke quietly.

“You know why.” You swiftly answer, stepping to the side and grabbing a coil of rope from atop a crate. A smirk formed on your face as his only further twisted in bewilderment and slight apprehension.

“You ain’t gonna hogtie me, are ya?” he asked.

“No, but I have a different idea.” You explained as you moved further into the barn, glancing up to peer at the support beams. You tossed one end of the rope up and over, tugging the ends until they were even – and happy to find they were the perfect length. You turn back toward him. “Come here.”

He peered at you with faint unease – he was nervous about what you planned to do, but he trusted you regardless. He slowly made his way over to you.

“Sit here.” You pointed.

He appeared as if he wanted to ask why, but kept silent. You crouched down and took his wrists, raising his hands to your lips to kiss them with small reassurance. He seemed to visibly ease a little, and you raised his arms to the rope ends. You wrapped them around his wrists with a snug fit. Once he was secure you stepped back to admire your handiwork, the large and powerful outlaw now appearing almost like a prisoner to you.

He met your gaze with bright and curious eyes.

“Are you comfortable, Arthur?” you ask him.

He wriggled in place, tugging at his restraints. “It ain’t uncomfortable, am I a hostage now?”

“No, you’re always free to come and go as you please,” you say. “But it’s mighty bold of you to think you could touch me so easily.”

He blinked at you. “What do you mean?”

“You know how many lonely nights I spent wishing I had your company?” you continue, reaching to place your hand upon your chest. Your fingers began to ease the buttons of your shirt apart, slowly revealing the chemise underneath. You soon shrugged it off and made quick work of the restraints on your pants. Though you didn’t tug them down, you instead slid your hand beneath the denim to appease your growing heat.

He was watching you intently, his eyes widening as you touched yourself. You were already beginning to dampen the sheer fabric of your bloomers, and you pressed against the bundle of nerves. You bit your lip and smirked at him. “Can’t say I ain’t used to my own hand and wayward thoughts nowadays.”

His chest heaved with a sharp intake of air. His eyes flitted to between your legs for a split second before coming back to your face. “I…I felt that way too, darlin’. Missed feelin’ your softness.”

“I know,” you mumbled, closing your eyes as you further teased yourself through the thin cotton barrier. “I’ll admit I sometimes thought of you thinking of me…you all hard and riled up with no release…all because of me.”

You opened your eyes again. There was a look of faint strain on his face, his fingers flexing slightly.

“Too many nights like that…” he mumbled.

“I agree, too many.” You said, your voice sharp. You pulled your hand from your jeans and allowed them to fall from your hips. The cool air breezed through your underclothing like nothing, but you paid no mind to it as you kicked your pants away. Stepping closer to him, you planted your hands on your hips. “So much frustration knowing I couldn’t have what I wanted all along.”

“Then why prolong it, sweetheart?” he questioned, keeping his voice even.

“Didn’t say I was.” You smirked, bending down to keep level with his gaze. Your hand caressed his cheek, sliding down his neck and chest. You followed his midline down, tracing your fingers along the ridges of his abdomen. You halted at the waistband of his pants, loosening them easily and inching them down. With each inch his lower half was revealed, your eyes caught the somewhat prominent bulge underneath his union suit. You of course took care to avoid even grazing it as you tugged his jeans right off. He lifted his hips to help you, awkwardly bending his body without use of his arms.

The eagerness on his face was plain. He however wasn’t aware of the thoughts flowing through your mind. You straightened up and stepped backward, tugging at the drawstring of your bloomers. The sheer fabric loosened instantly and fell to your feet. Your top was next, peeling it off slowly and sensually in front of him. Your clothing lay forgotten at your feet as you presented yourself completely uncovered. A cool breeze blew through the barn, stirring locks of your hair and bringing a chill to your exposed skin.

His expression changed. A subtle transition to one of desire, the carnal glint reflecting in his eyes. He audibly swallowed and his legs spread slightly, prompting you to look downward again. The bulge was significantly bigger, the thick fabric of his union suit constricting him. You smiled smugly and ran your hands along your body, circling your hardened nipples and smoothing against your lower curls.

“You wanna know how I did it, Arthur?” you asked in a purposely breathy voice. “How I was able to get myself off from imagining you?” you continued as your hands roved over your body. “I thought of your voice…saying my name, calling me beautiful…”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, allowing your pleasure to build while you touched yourself. Your legs opened to expose yourself even more, making him watch as your fingertips teased the little hood of flesh nestled below. A soft sigh passed your lips. “Your hands all over me, your lips teasing me. My body feeling so ready for you.”

“Darlin’.” You heard Arthur groan. You opened your eyes to see he was at full mast beneath his suit. His eyes were bright with a growing desperation.

“You take your time with me, I’m writhing in your hands…” you continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But all the while I have you in my hand, and I can hear you groaning my name…” you slid a finger in and bit your lip, teasing your entrance. “God, your body is amazing…”

You now lock your sights directly onto him, enjoying how tortured he appeared. His body shuddered, hips twitching. “Y/N…” he sighed. “Please, I wanna –”

“And then you push into me, all nice and slow like you do.” You cut him off, pumping your finger in and out before adding a second. “I’m underneath you, enjoying the sight above me. Your skin to mine, your eyes to mine. Listening to your voice break as you moan…”

Arthur’s breath hitched, and he mumbled out a swear. The support beam above him creaked as he pulled at his bindings. “Sw – sweetheart,” He stammered. “C’mon, don’t do this to me.”

“But you know how it ends,” you respond. “Because you always make sure I finish first…” you quicken your hand, breathing heavily as you begin to barrel toward your peak. “Because you love to see how my face looks.”

“I-I do,” he groaned. “You look s-so damn beautiful.”

“Like this?” you asked, whining as you increased your pace further. With another moment passed your peak hit. Your body trembled and your jaw fell open. You tilted your head back once again, a low moan sliding from your throat. “Fuck, Arthur…” you added, sighing as you pulled your fingers out, now coated with your fresh juices. “See what I can do alone?”

Arthur took a stuttering breath. “But you ain’t alone right now.” He softly argued.

“Right now, but I was left to my own devices for a while,” you replied, standing in between his legs to drop to your knees. You held your fingers up to him, glistening in the beam of sun from behind you. “See how wet I can get just by my thoughts? Seems like I could do better without your actual touch.”

There was a flash in his eyes. A dangerous, heated flash that nearly sent a shiver down his spine. “You know that ain’t true.” He growled, his voice deep.

“Do I?” you simply responded, trailing your damp fingers down his naked chest again. Your eyes followed your trail to your target. The tent of his suit had a small darkened spot at the very top, evidence of how far his own arousal had grown. You peeled away his confinements, allowing his length to spring free. “I’ve always been independent regardless, as you know.” You added, wrapping your hand gently around him.

He twitched underneath you, almost thrusting his hips forward in vain for more friction. “’Course I know,” he huffed, his voice cracking slightly to your touch. “Never said you wasn’t.”

“Then why should I indulge you, Morgan?” you ask, moving your hand up and down, memorizing every inch.

His head tilted back as he sucked in air. “Because – shit, Y/N….” he sighed. “Spent ‘nough time apart from one another…”

“What else?” you prodded him, quickening your hand.

“Ah –” he moaned. “I love ya, n’ I missed ya.”

“Hm…” you hummed, rubbing your thumb along the head, dragging his precum along the sensitive skin. You watched his eyes flutter. “Anything else?”

He focused his gaze on you, an incredulous stare crossing his face. “That ain’t enough?”

“Not quite,” You teased, your other hand reaching to gently run your nails across his chest and abdomen. “Even if I was able to pleasure myself, there were still many…many…lonely nights.”

His body shuddered from your touch, stimulated by each sensation pleasantly. “I woulda visited sooner if I had the chance,” he said. “Y-you know that.”

“Of course, that don’t account for my bed being empty though…” you sighed, rubbing your thumb in a circular motion against the swollen flesh. His breath turned shallow. “Maybe this is good enough, hm? Since I imagine this is all you did too.”

“N-no,” he whined. “Y/N…I wanna be inside you.”

You smile at him, releasing him so you could scoot up, moving your legs to straddle him. You leaned against his torso, his skin hot against yours. His cock sat between you two, nestled against your stomachs. You leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “How bad do you want it, honey?”

As you leaned back, you caught the utter raw desire and helplessness etched on his face. You’d never seen him in such a state, but damn did you enjoy every second of it. His mouth parted in a breathless plea. “I want you. More’n anything else.”

You smirked at him, reaching between the two of you to grip him again, pumping your hand in a lazy manner. “Think you’ve been good enough for it?”

“Yes, god – yes,” He sighed, his face slightly twisting as you granted him more pleasure. “Y/N, please!”

His pleading was like music to your ears. It was just enough for you to finally cave in. You leaned back and brought yourself up on your knees, keeping hold of his length as you guided it toward your center. The smooth and rock-solid flesh split through your folds easily, and you sunk down on him.

Arthur was impatient. He thrust up, meeting you halfway to bury himself to the hilt. He let out a sigh of relief, though his arms strained against the rope. He wanted to hold you and fuck you, but you were in control.

And so you met his gaze once again, placing your hands on his cheeks as you rolled your hips. The absolute pleasure that radiated from being filled by him was unlike any other. Your hands and thoughts could only do so much in place of the actual thing.

He groaned deeply, a thankful look crossing his face. Though he kept his eyes to you, his eyelids were fluttering the more you moved on him. Easing him into a sweet kiss, you hastened your hips, riding him a little harder. He kept in sync with your movements, thrusting when he could. Every muscle in his body steeled with tension. You knew if he slipped out of those ropes, there would be nothing holding him back from unleashing his pent up frustration onto you.

That didn’t stop him from abusing you when he could, nipping at your lip and growling like a starved dog. He uttered multiple swears under his breath, tangled in with your name. You raked your fingers through his hair, moaning against his mouth and uttering sinful whispers to him. His mouth latched onto the crook of your neck, marking every inch of flesh he could reach.

“Shit, Y/N.” he grunted against your skin. “Fuck…you feel so damn good.”

Your arms wrapped around his torso, welting the thick skin on his back and drawing out another groan from him. His muscles flexed from the inability to do much else, wanting to be free.

“I wanna…pin you down so bad…” he continued, biting into your shoulder.

You nearly flinched from his teeth, though you giggled. “I’m in charge, Morgan.” You reminded him, grinding your hips in an undulating manner. Your second release was beginning its ascent. One hand slid down, toying with yourself to heighten the waves rolling through you. What started as a slow climb instantly started to barrel upwards. You sang out a moan, calling out his name while the tendrils of a fresh orgasm curled through your body. Every inch of your being shuddered while it washed through your body.

You brought your attention back to him. His eyes and face reflected amazement while he watched your pleasure take hold of you. “God damn,” he breathed. “Always so beautiful like that.”

Smiling at him, you drew him in for another kiss. He responded eagerly, eliciting his gruff moans into your mouth. You pulled back slightly to murmur, “Now give me your release.”

Before he could respond, you adjusted yourself slightly for a better angle. Bringing yourself up on your knees once again, you began to bounce on him. Your inner walls engulfed his entire length over and over.

He swore out loud, wriggling underneath you in failed attempts to match your movement. You watched as the muscles and veins strained hard in his arms, outlined by his pale sweaty skin. The rope creaked loudly as he tried to pull himself free. His breath escaped in short puffs, heated and wet against your face. “Y/N –” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut when he couldn’t finish his sentence.

You egged him on, leaning in to whisper sweetly in his ear. You encouraged him to let go, complimenting on how handsome he looked underneath you.

And he broke completely with your doing.

His breath caught, your name sliding off his tongue with a guttural groan. His hips stilled beneath you with the arrival of his release. He bucked once with a shallow, fleeting movement in effort to milk himself into you. His chest and stomach heaved against your torso. Setting yourself upright to gaze at his face, noting the look of fatigued satisfaction written all over it. His blue eyes met yours and he beamed at you.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That was different.”

You offered him a loving smile, reaching to push back locks of his hair dampened with sweat. “I’m happy you enjoyed it as much as I did.” You giggled.

“You’re full o’ surprises, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling himself closer to kiss you. “Now lemme outta these things, I wanna hold ya.”

While it was oh so tempting to keep him there, you knew better. You brought yourself to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you as you did. With quick movements his wrists fell free of his restraints. His arms fell to his sides and almost immediately you felt his finger slide through your slit.

“Arthur!” you gasped, your body twitching in response.

“Jus’ lookin’ at the aftermath,” he responded innocently, chuckling as he did. “You’re drippin’, I made a mess.”

You hummed, bringing yourself back down to him. His arms wrapped around you instantly. “Not that I’m complaining.” You sighed, nuzzling yourself underneath his chin.

He chuckled again, pressing his lips to your head. “Now was that the breakfast you promised?” he jokingly asked, tracing his fingertips along your back.

As if your body was in tune, your stomach growled rather loudly. However your muscles were sore, and you needed a little bit of time to recover before you even thought of getting back up. “Just might be.” you answered.

“Then what ‘bout lunch n’ dinner?” he continued.

You peered up at him, mirroring his smirk with one of your own. “Whatever I say, Morgan.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 34 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 33 here. Part 35 here.

Summary: A graveyard is a good place to bury all kinds of things.

Words: 5200

Warnings: inappropriate cemetery conduct

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: me, publishing last chapter: haha wait until they fuck on the graves, people will be--

everyone in the comments: ARE THEY GONNA FUCK IN THE CEMETERY

(DO I HAVE A FUCKING BRAND? I hate myself LMFAO)

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter--it was like pulling teeth to write, and I had to re-do it like three times. Thanks very much to @thetorturerwrites for assistance! I'm still very much loving this story, loving y'all's feedback, loving your thoughts. Hopefully you don't hate me too much for the ending of this chapter. Oopsie!! Love y'all so much. BE SAFE. <3

Beds of clovers blanketed the abandoned parking lot, pavement cracking and parting to the encroaching wilderness beyond, green valleys drowned in the sheets of rain. The Audi whirred in frustration, then stopped, wheels sloshing the muddied ground. Kylo Ren exited and stepped into the downpour without an umbrella--or really anything else that might protect him from getting absolutely soaked--while you readjusted your bonnet and flipped up the hood on the coat he’d given you.

By the time you’d managed to clamber out of the car, he’d already started down a grass-eaten pathway, long strides cutting a straight line off the winding concrete walk. You scampered to catch up with him, water pelting your face and splashing your boots--you called after him, but he either failed to hear you, or simply didn’t care. 

As he crossed into the cemetery proper, you passed entire yards decorated with forgotten graves--in the ground, you imagined the skeletons, filthy with dirt, nameless and faceless and truly dead, their identities known only to memories razed by the ravages of time. Tall oaks and maples stretched into the sky, their trunks smothered with overgrowth, some of them swallowed to the branches. Within them, you spied evidence of life--stick nests, a family of ravens sheltered from the storm under ceilings of vines. And then, further into the cemetery, a bird strangled in a mass of these same vines, wings quartered and neck snapped. 

You followed him into a clearing, plumes of wildflowers burgeoning through a white brick path that meandered to a marble slab only slightly shorter than Kylo himself. At each side of the slab, a raised black granite tomb, plantlife weaving to obscure the ledgers. Beyond that, a grass ocean billowed into a valley, rolling to the edge of a forest, all of it waving in the storm winds. Lightning bleached the sky, and you squealed, folding your arms over your chest.

Kylo stopped before the feet of the tombs, staring. Rivers raced ridges into his hair and over his cheeks, dripped down his long nose, his eyes pooled with vacancy, clear and empty and absent of anything you had the ability to name.

“You wanted to know what made me,” he said. “Ask the right questions. I’ll tell you.” Thunder groaned, miles away. 

“Okay,” you said, squinting at him. “Where are we?” 

He exhaled through his nose. “My parents’ graves.”

A curtain of rain swept the air, and you glanced between him and the graves before crossing to the slab, tearing through the slippery leaves. The stems were coiled tight around one another, but a sharp tug, and they ripped to the side, revealing the engraved dedication in large, block letters. 

Organa. 

Frowning, you glanced at him for a moment; he stood, still blank, failing to offer even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence. You sighed. The name Organa was familiar, but you’d only ever known it in connection with a late senator. To your surprise, as you tugged more, you saw her name: Leia Organa. One of the tombs belonged to her--and listed underneath her, the owner of the other tomb: Han Solo.

Breath evaporated, the pieces colliding like atoms, sparking light. You blinked, tracing the names with your fingertips as water creeked through the indentation. All he had said was what made me. But to know him--this mystery, in some moments more monster than man, and in others more hallowed than human--saddled you with more confusion than ever. This was a non-answer, a presentation in lieu of conversation. 

You turned, brow raised. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t.”

“Why did you take me here?”

His jaw tensed. “They are,” he said, voice stark in the storm, “what made me.”

More lightning, and you jumped, cursing yourself internally. You couldn’t reconcile the restrained, adjusted grandeur displayed at this gravesite with the person at its border. You knew enough about politics before Gilead to understand that a senator’s son was someone ostensibly raised in a home of democracy. Yet this man was one forged in war.

This man, the one who had helped craft and arrange the society that controlled your life, the one who had taken and destroyed any hint of hope in your life barring him--this was a man raised with values of freedom, of self-reliance? In this moment, his flickers of tenderness didn’t matter; they were snuffed in the shadows of your dependence. Kylo Ren, regardless of his rebellion, afforded you only what he determined was necessary. It was only by his grace you were out of your red dress, only by his allowance you’d known any level of escape. 

Your enslavement was as it had always been--it’d only changed, you realized, in its terms.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” you grumbled.

“Then you haven’t asked the right question, little bird.” His tone was chiding, but his face was blank.

“Wasn’t your mother a senator? Or something?” It was difficult to remember--it had been years ago. “Didn’t she campaign for civil rights?”

“She did.”

“Wasn’t she well-liked? Popular with her constituents?”

“She was.”

This game was wearing on you--but he was right. You hadn’t asked any right questions. “But… you helped create Gilead.” You swallowed. “You talk about destiny and roles and…” You shook your head. “You’re still a Commander.” 

Kylo Ren blinked, unfazed by the rain. 

“What happened?” you asked. “Did she do something wrong?”

“She feared what she didn’t know.” His voice was dry. “She abandoned what she didn’t understand.” 

“I…” That had disarmed you. But it wasn’t an explanation. “What didn’t she know?” you asked. “What didn’t she understand?”

Darkness flashed across his face. “Everything.”

The crack in his facade spurred you. “But she was your mother.” You were testing him, watching his reaction. “Didn’t she try?”

“Trying would imply she had direction.” His stare sank into you, fangs at your flesh. “She was lost.”

You raised a brow. “Lost.” There was a dropping dread that he was leading you toward a conclusion that would result in you forever seeking his permission for your humanity. You wouldn’t let him off so easily. “She hurt you.”

It was, technically, a question, in guise of a statement. But Kylo was silent. His eye twitched. It stoked hunger inside of you, a craving for his vulnerability.

“But that doesn’t make you right.” You gestured toward the graves. “Just because you were hurt doesn’t mean that someone like her raises...” You cleared your throat, swallowed. “Raises someone like you.” 

A bolt snapped, blanched him in light. “Someone like me.” 

You met his gaze; those pools were churning, now, deep below their shared surface--an ancient beast submerged in forced indifference, daring you to speak it into existence, goading you to give it a name.

“Yes.” You shivered. “A murderer. An owner of another human being.”

The sky quaked. Over his shoulders, a bird flock fled the trees. Kylo advanced, irises burning with something like anger, distant and buried, his teeth grit. Your fingers found purchase in the vines--you anchored yourself to them.

“Do you have questions,” he asked, “or observations?”

Your jaw tightened. “I have a question.”

“Then ask.”

“Okay.” You squared your shoulders. “How did they make you?”

Kylo stared--more lightning--illuminating the terrible void in his eyes. His shoulders fell, face sharpening in self-assured stoicism. “In the same way that a neglected grave grows weeds.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “You’re the grave.”

“No.” His gaze simmered as it met yours. “I’m the weed.”

“What?” you asked. “How are you the weed?”

“It’s as I’ve explained.” Kylo sniffed, returned his attention to the tomb. “I had no choice.”

“But how did you have no choice?”

“There were no other options.” His lids fluttered, thunder cracked. He stared at the ledger, following the twisted clot of leaves that shrouded the inscription on the granite. His tone was frozen steel. “They gave me no choice.”

Your fingers curled around wet stems, and you swallowed. The conversation you’d had in his den floated through your mind--it feels like I’m dying, like I don’t even have a choice. In his mind, they’d been killing him. Anxiety clenched your chest.

“Kylo, you’re not making any sense.” 

“Very few things made sense,” he said. “The world required order. I found truth. Truth they disagreed with.” For a moment, his expression etched in despair and exhaustion--the sky blinked, and it was gone. “Ask me how they died.”

“How did they…”  

You paused, looked at him. It had been big news--they were shot in their home. You gulped. A terrible, black-ink reality crept into your gut. The gunman was never found.

Hands trembling, you spun, yanking the vines to the side, exposing the dates. Both of them, deceased on November 18th, 1979. The date was too familiar--the day of the recording. The day Ben Solo signed his commitment to the foundation of Gilead. Your heart seized, throat closed, and you turned, dragging your gaze along the ground, traveling up his figure, resting on his face.

Kylo Ren’s eyes were obsidian, brittle-edged and fragile to fracture. You struggled to breathe, wanting to ask how, ask why--knowing that, in his way, he’d already given you the answer.

To any garden, a weed was an invader, gnarling through the dirt and choking eager life, sapping it of space--without intervention, an untamed weed consumed its home, ate its brethren, dominated to meet its needs. They were not like so many flowers, tended to with gentle hands, encouraged to flourish and blossom in their beds. No, weeds existed in the realm of burden, forever unwanted, accepted only to be controlled or destroyed. A weed could only be afforded the privilege to exist if it left the perimeter of the garden, renounced its birthplace, and decided, with defiance, to live. 

You pulled the coat tight around you, folded your arms. “Did they deserve it?”

The obsidian sharpened under your stare. And he swallowed. “No.”

Nervous heat rushed your skin. “You know that this isn’t truth. This isn’t right.”

Kylo reached beyond you, plucked a leaf from the vine. “I brought you here so you would understand,” he said. “There is value in knowing and realizing your purpose. In knowing your role. Inherent and unalterable.” He crumpled the leaf in his fist. “Without Gilead, purpose and meaning are lost. My parents failed to realize their purpose, and the world suffered. You’ll realize yours.” Tossing the debris to the side, he fixated on you again, his hair sticking like black thread to his face. “I’ll realize mine.”

Lightning split the sky. This hadn’t been a pilgrimage, it had been a proselytization. In his desire to grasp at meaning, he’d attempted to convince you of it, too. Yet by now, you could see, see his doubts plaguing him, deep currents in his mind--could see that in convincing you, he’d wanted, too, to convince himself, that he was born demonic, abandoned to Hell in the depths of destiny. But you knew better. You knew him.

Scanning you, he turned down the brick path. “Come.”

“What is my purpose, Kylo?”

He froze mid-step, a statue in the rain. Water whispered, then howled, a susurrus in crescendo, punctuated by a sharp, static crack in the sky. You squeaked; Kylo peered at you from over his shoulder, and even through the storm, you saw it. He was your reflection again, an augmented refraction--if you were afraid, then he was terrified.

“What’s my purpose?” you repeated, stepping toward him. “Don’t you know?” 

He didn’t speak, and didn’t move. You took another step, and another, passing like a ghost under the veil of rain. Kylo watched you, obsidian strained to splinter.

“You can't answer because you know you're wrong.” You wanted to stare into him, stare through him. “You know there's something more to this life, that we have options, we have choices--”

He shifted, and took the tiniest, most egregious step back. “We don’t.”

“We do,” you said. “But you can’t admit it because you can’t admit that you chose all of this!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!” You were an arm’s length from him. He didn’t move. “You chose your name, you chose your path, you chose this life--and you chose mine, too.” Another step, close enough to count the constellations on his face. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You can be whoever you want to be.” As if possessed by its own destiny, your hand rose, grazed his fingers, your grip slippery and warm--he trembled when you held him. “You can… you can be Ben--”

Sneering, he jerked back. “No.”

You shook your head, reaching for him again. “But I want to know him.”

“Why?” His pupils were shadowed in waterfalls.

“Because,” you said, “that’s who you are--”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you said, grabbing his hand, “I want to know him, I want to know Ben Solo--”

Kylo snarled, wrung you away. “Why do you insist on raising the dead?” He loomed--you retreated, and he chased you back, spitting through his teeth. “There is no Ben Solo!”

“But that’s your name--”

“My name is mine to give! Not yours to know!” His face was aflame with fury. “You want Ben Solo to free you--Ben Solo was the coward. Ben Solo killed his parents.” He drew closer, pressing you back with every step. “I saved you. I carried you.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smirk. “I fucked you.” Kylo had your back flat to the slab now, obsidian shattered in the throes of his wrath. “You don’t know Ben Solo. You know me.” He caged you underneath him, a black sun burning heat and gravity between your bodies. “You know what made me, little bird,” he muttered, a delicious threat. “Are you afraid?”

In the summer storm air, he sweltered you, so hot that when your wet gown glued to your back, you had no way to know if it was sweat or rain. His focus flicked between your mouth, your eyes, your mouth, and he leaned closer, framing you between his forearms, his breath scant. You stared at him--your devil, your echo, your enigma--and knew, despite all of his impossible complexities, you would never, ever be afraid.

Jaw steeled, you pushed off your hood, snatched your bonnet, tossed it to the ground. Lightning streaked and pealed with thunder. You didn’t even flinch.

“No, Kylo,” you breathed. “I’m not.”

You licked your lips, exhaled. And his mouth was on you.

Kylo Ren’s kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he gasped along your lips before capturing them again, snatching your wrists and pinning them with one large hand above your head. Arousal sparkled in your belly--you wriggled in his grip, offering a needy roll of your hips before swirling your tongue around his. His hold on your wrists tightened, and he pinned you to the stone, grinding his growing desire into the apex of your thighs.

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder. Kylo nipped your lower lip and slid to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

“Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he murmured into your ear. “Do you think you can handle me?”

Lust seared you like fire. You smirked. “Try me.”

Kylo growled, wresting you from the stone by your arms and guiding you back until you toppled onto one of the vine-encrusted tombs. He was greed incarnate, tearing your coat from your shoulders before he grappled the neckline of your nightgown and shredded the buttons apart. Your cunt clenched, lungs stalled--he kissed you again, big hands groping at your tits while he pushed you flat along the grave, crawling over until he straddled you, a beast bent over his meal.

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, shoving your hands under his shirt, reveling in the hard planes of his body--he tensed,  moving back to your neck, sucking at your throat. You memorized the muscle under your fingertips, Kylo’s skin damp and hot under your hands, and he was voracious, without restraint, pulling painful hickeys from your pulse. 

Need burned between your thighs, and he shifted lower, marking you in abandon, drawing tissue between his teeth, welts popping to life under the pressure of his lips. Anxiety flitted through your mind--he was leaving visible evidence--but the soft groan from his chest wiped it clean, your back arching to offer more of your untamed flesh. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands hiked up your skirt, tugging at your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric. You squealed, squirming, and he yanked the garment free, leaving your sex aching from exposure.

Kylo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. “So wet already,” he said and clucked his tongue. “And in a cemetery. You’d take my cock whenever I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to rub against his hand. “As if you aren’t ready to fuck me on your mother’s grave.”

He snickered. “You’re wrong.” He leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. “It’s my father’s.”

Kylo pushed into you, and you tightened around him, hips twitching, head lolling along the leaves. His mouth ravished you again, leaving purple pebbles in its wake while he claimed you from chin to clavicle, spit and storm and sweat blending on his tongue. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

“If I fuck you now,” he muttered at your jawline, “you’ll have to take all of me. Everything I give you.” He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. “I won’t be able to control myself.”

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. “Thought I’d long proved my capability.”

Kylo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. “I haven’t been able to fuck you properly in over two weeks.” Last night hardly counted, you agreed. “I need to wreck your little cunt.” His thumb swiped fast over your swollen nub. “I’ll fuck you like Ben Solo never could.”

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. “Do your worst.”

Snarling, he leaned onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, starting to suckle them clean. You were tart and tangy, your tongue slipping the length of his digits to swallow it all--Kylo’s free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

“You know how this works.” He gazed at you, lightning an electric halo around him.  “Beg for it.”

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. “Please, fuck me.” 

Before you could blink, he slapped you, sending spit from your teeth. “No, slut,” he hissed. “I said beg.”

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. “You’re not being very respectful of the dead.”

Kylo scowled and smacked you again, branding your cheek. He seized your scalp and jerked you toward him, his other hand stroking his dick. 

“Don’t make me wait any longer for your pussy,” he said. “Or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll wish you were among them.”

Your head spun, dizzy with shame and longing--perhaps the same culprits responsible for your temporary insanity. “Then I might keep you waiting.”

Seething, he reeled back and cracked you with the back of his hand, pain blinding you, screaming in your ears. He jostled your head in his grip, waiting for your eyes to refocus--his face was red with impatient desire. 

“If you won’t beg for my cock,” he said, “then you’ll beg for mercy.”

A starving behemoth, he spun you around and slammed your face to the tomb--you heaved, buried in the vegetal scent of wet leaves, and behind you, Kylo was panting. He tossed your sopping excuse for a skirt up your back before wrestling with your hips until they were in the air, rain pelting your exposed ass and cunt. One hand fisted your hair, the other gathering your wrists behind your back, and without warning, he broke your core, cleaving it open with a sharp, unbelievable bliss, head hitting your cervix. You cried out, recoiling in pain, and he shook you in reprimand.

“Oh, no.” He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. “Don’t run from it.”

Kylo rammed into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, finding oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, your clit buzzing for attention, clamoring for the long-awaited sensation of cumming around him.

“Such--such a needy little cunt,” he growled.  “It missed this cock, didn’t it?” When you didn’t respond, he struck your skull on the stone. “Didn’t it?”

You keened in pain, face smashed on the tomb. “Yes!”

“I know.” He released your wrists, letting them drop limp, and reached under your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm. “I know what you like--fuck, you’re so tight when you’re about to cum…” He groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. “Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock.”

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Behind you, Kylo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core’s pulsing slowed, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back, and you writhed underneath him.

He smacked your face, and you whined. “Don’t squirm.” Kylo shifted until he was standing and dragged you by your ankles to the edge of the grave. “I’m not done with that pussy yet.”

Propping your calves on his shoulders, he lunged forward, palm clamping down on your neck, his eyes wild, crazed with desire. His free hand pinched your cheeks, and he plunged in, jaw dropping in disbelief when he sheathed himself again in your wet heat. With a hiss, he stuffed you full before sliding back out and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. 

The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again. The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Kylo grunted, tugging you closer. 

“Open.” 

Wincing, you did--and he spat into your mouth. 

“Swallow, bitch. Show me.”

Against his massive hand, it was difficult, but you managed with a grimace, popping your jaw apart to prove it, and Kylo smirked, rewarding you with painful, blissful strokes of his hips. He wracked your body to its limit, your breath lost ages ago, your heart flying through your veins, your ass sore from the dig of vines.  

“Poor thing,” he cooed. “I think you need to cum again.”

The hand at your cheeks snaked between your legs, flicking your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust. Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, ebony void of lust.

“Whose cock is inside you?”

The words croaked out. “Y-yours, Kylo.”

His choke tightened, and your vision whirled. “Who’s fucking you right now?”

 “You--you are, Kylo--”

“That’s right,” he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. “Cum.”

Your orgasm charged you, whiting your sight, and you screamed, throttled from his hand as every muscle below your waist contracted with an agonizing ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended, and shoved you back along his father’s grave. His dick dripped with your slick, and he was heaving, cheeks flush with exertion. He drank in the sight of you--cunt spread and abused, raindrops scattered like crystals on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession--before he pounced, a raving animal.

“You’re going to take all of me,” he muttered. “Every single fucking inch.”

Kylo pinned you to the stone, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your stomach. He panted, wedging his hips between yours, his cock throbbing as he positioned it at your pleading core--baring his teeth, he slipped in, your pussy so wet and ready that it swallowed him with ease. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the root. Locks of hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze. 

“You want me.” He popped your head back as a prompt. “You want all of me.”

You nodded, despite it. “Yes--oh--I do.”

He swallowed, leaning into you, pressing his forehead to yours. “After all of it,” he said, barely a whisper, “after everything.” 

Your chin trembled, his admission about his parents piercing your heart, swelling it in anguish. In the setting of his hopeless rejection, his savagery, his apathy, his hollow rage--none of it mattered, not to you. And you knew, just as he would never know a woman more willing to hold his soul without still wanting, you would never find another man like Kylo Ren. And there would never be anyone you would want more desperately, or reluctantly, than him.

“Yes.” You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. “No matter what.”

“Fuck.” He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. “Fucking whore… I’m--fuck--I’m going to make you break again.” His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. “And then I’m going to fill you up with my cum.”

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He was right. You wanted mercy. “Kylo--fuck--please!”

“No. Take it,” he snarled into your ear. “Take it.”

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him, shaking from his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear. It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. You spasmed, biting your lip, hauled through sensitivity and into a new plane of pleasure, rapture singeing your skin, and you gasped, choked, begged in babbling nonsense for release, for him to send you soaring and screaming and cumming. 

“Perfect,” Kylo moaned, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. “Make yourself mine. Cum for me. Cum for me, angel.”

Your mind split--euphoria and disbelief--and you imploded, twitching, your climax shining lucent through your skin, shattering your sanity, igniting Kylo, too. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. 

Had not known how you’d gotten there, you might have thought you’d joined the residents of the cemetery, your spirit buoyant above you for long, witless moments, until it returned to you, floating back in a daze. When you arrived to Earth, you realized Kylo was arriving too, kissing your cheek, holding you close, the both of you fighting to regulate your breath. When you’d both relaxed, he slipped out, leaned back on his heels, revealing you to the trickling rain.

You stared at him, head heavy, attempting to comprehend what he’d called you--angel--attempting to catalogue every minute of this encounter into whatever part of your memory would carve it in permanency. Sighing, you smiled at him, joy bubbling in your chest, but he only gazed at you, affection twinkling--then guttering in his eyes. He absently thumbed your chin before he tucked himself away, and you followed suit, trying to piece together what little was left intact of your clothing. Not that it mattered, as it was all completely drenched with rain. You felt like a paper bag that had been left in a swamp.

Having finished, you looked to your Commander, who was standing at the head of the gravesite. Waiting.

Blushing, you trotted to meet him--when he turned to lead, you reached out.

“Wait.”

Kylo stopped, glanced back. Between you, you felt it again--fate, kismet, serendipity, destiny--whatever it was called, it was something that you could see, the frame of your future like an open door for you to peer inside. Beyond the threshold, the vision was luminous and distinct, a sunray lancing Gilead’s storm: You and Kylo Ren. Together, and safe, and free. 

You didn’t know how you’d get there. You only knew that for the first time, you’d understood exactly what he’d meant. 

“What if we…” You shrugged, as if what you were about to say was no big deal. “No one knows we’re here. No one has to know where we went.” Watching him, you stepped closer. “What if we leave? We can figure it out, we can get help from the Resistance,” you said. “What if we just... go?”

The sky screeched above you--the storm was close, almost right overhead, and a torrent of rain gushed from the clouds. Kylo stared, inscrutable, studying you piece by piece, an inspection of your sincerity, brow furrowing. Then his lips pinched together, his eye twitched. He stepped toward you--

Pop.

At first, you’d thought it was thunder--and when the pain hit, you’d thought it’d been lightning, instead. But then you glanced at your arm, scrutinizing the source, and found only frayed fabric, burnt thread, and a gash of bright, red blood. You blinked, adrenaline crashing into you like a freight plane.

“Oh,” you mumbled, fuzzing gaze drifting to Kylo. “I think I’ve been shot.”