#stranger things begins to clean up the mess they made with wills character

[conanssummerchild]

stranger things characters as taylor swift albums

i saw someone make a post abt this and i decided to make my own lol. ngl it was really hard to decide and im not even sure i agree with myself, if u think smth else feel free to tell me!

Dustin Henderson as Debut

To me Debut is about youth and first loves and messing up and the lessons you learn, its about feeling like an outsider but also about being with the people you love, those who you dont feel whole without. I think that that matches well with Dustin's character, he's energetic and excited to learn and experience things, he cares for his friends deeply but can feel left out sometimes.

El Hopper as Fearless

I think Fearless is about new beginnings and second chances, about being young and in love, wishing for your fairytale ending and being dissapointed when real life isn't like a movie. It's about highschool and being brave, it's about family, found and otherwise. It's about being fifteen. El is such a pure character, she's brave and willing to stand up when she has to, but wanting to be more than that, trying to be a teenager, making the best of something bad.

Will Byers as Speak Now

Speak Now is an album about growing up but never wanting to, it's about trying to hold onto your childhood, about whimsical fantasies, about foolishness and the broken hearts that come with it, about loving and fighting and making up and hoping those special moments in your life are long lived. Speak Now is about innocence and the loss of it. Will isn't ready to move on and grow up the way his friends seem to be, he wishes that things could be how they used to because it was so much better back then, he loves bravely and says what's on his mind, but keeps some things quietly locked away, afraid.

Robin Buckley as Red

Red is kind of a lonely album, that of a people person who never has her own people in the end. It's a coming of age album about the realities of growing up and being forgotten, it's full of heartbreak and fear of rejection, it's a catchy melody with sad lyrics, but it is filled to the brim with burning red love and passion too. From the moment Robin was introduced she was clever and snarky, passionate and confident and lovable. Behind that she was a deep character, a brave one, she is undeniably, iconically her.

I KNOW this song isnt originally from red but i like it :(

Steve Harrington as 1989

If you asked me I'd say that 1989 is about partying and being young and having fun and being in love. It's about petty grudges and and love that feels all-encompassing, but is really just suffocating, it's about what people say about you and who you really are. It's about moving on and being clean and starting anew despite the strangers talking about what's not theirs to talk about. Steve is a character that has constantly bettered himself, constantly having to prove that he isn't the same person he was. He's fallen in love and had to fall out of it time and time again.

Nancy Wheeler as reputation

reputation is about revenge and also karma, it's about killing the old you but not forgetting her, it's about new loves and not letting yourself get pushed around, it's about how delicate life and love can be. It pushes the boundries of cold and seeming like you dont care. But you do. Nancy is an interesting character to say the least, she's brave and strong and she struggles with showing her emotions and care, sometimes hurting people because of it, but she tries.

Lucas Sinclair as Lover

Lover is warm and comforting like the sun coming out after a dark day. It's about doing your best to overcome hardships, it's about who you are because of them, not despite them. It's about letting go, letting yourself forget instead of holding on tight to the hurt, turning a fresh page instead of trying to change an already used up one. It's about love. Lucas is so kind and caring, he wants the best for everyone he loves and he loves so purely, he's a character who has been hurt repeatedly but has stayed strong. He's a lover, both romantically and platonically.

Mike Wheeler as folklore

folklore is a cold winter that seems to go on forever with no relief. It's sitting in a vast field of snow without a jacket by your own choice, it's about constantly trying and failing and everyone around you chastising you for not being better. It's about pulling up to the lookout and screaming into the emptiness to give you a reason for your pain. It's about failing in love and messing up with the one. Other people's pain seems to seep into you and you keep the burden of it. folklore is suffocating despair and the love you can only wish for but never have. Mike is the only one who I knew what album I was going to asign him from the start, he's a sad, lonely character who tries to help everyone but himself. His pain is invisible to those around him because he keeps it close and hidden, he lashes out and digs himself further into a hole he cannot get out of on his own.

Max Mayfield as evermore

evermore is the coldest autumn, the trees obscure your view but you've long since stopped trying to reach for the fading sun. The rain falls but you can only sometimes feel it, you try to pretend it's fine this way, yet you keep venturing deeper into the thick forest. The truth is you are stuck, and as much as you pretend you're not it won't stop the mud from sticking to your soles and trying to pull you in as you reject the branches reaching for you. evermore is what happens when love can't overcome all. Max is sarcastic and fun, but there's always that overlying fear and anger that she eventually falls into, she's hurt and she can't move on from the things that have happened to her.

Jonathan Byers as Midnights

Midnights is an album of staying awake at night, all alone in the haze you thought fit two. The things you've seen and done haunt you, they make you lose sleep, all you've lost and gained, all you never had to begin with and never will. It's simple really, you're on your own. Jonathan is a loner, he's lost so much and matured too much for his age. He never had relief from his responsibilities, always needing to be present. It's a tiring life to live.

#lol if u made it this far we can get married #stranger things #taylor swift #st x ts #taylor swift debut #fearless (taylor's version) #speak now (taylor’s version) #red (taylor’s version) #1989 (taylor's version) #reputation taylor swift #lover taylor swift #folklore taylor swift #evermore taylor swift #midnights taylor swift #dustin henderson #duzie #el hopper #will byers #byler #robin buckley #steve harrington #platonic stobin #nancy wheeler #jancy #lucas sinclair #lumax #mike wheeler #max mayfield #jonathan byers #alex says shit

[shoutogepi]

You Want Me to Call You Baby Girl?

Todoroki Shouto

word count : 10k oopsies

[ ✘ (nsfw!) ]

themes : DD/BG kink, minimal booty spanking & temp play, man-handling ahaha

bio : Shouto accidentally discovers his girlfriend is much kinkier than he suspected… and he intends to test out his new knowledge as soon as possible.

author’s note : o BOY THIS IS A SPICY FIRST FIC. whew i promise im not usually this nasty actually who am i kidding yes i am :))) also side note, all characters are aged up to year 3 in this (so everyone is 18+!!)

also available on AO3 here~

  ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅈our duffel bag buzzes loudly, taking your attention away from the sparring match you and Ochaco were currently engaging in.

“One sec, Ochacho-chan,” you request hastily, putting your hands up in apology and bowing.

“Sure thing Y/N,” she smiles, “I need to take a break anyway!”

You squat next to your bag, hands fishing blindly through the compartment for your vibrating phone.

Shouto ♥︎ flashes across your screen, a photo of the handsome boy slurping soba lighting up the background.

“Shouto,” you pick up, huffing after your challenging training session.

“Y/N,” he replies, his suave voice instantly bringing a minute flush to your cheeks. “Where are you right now?”

“Ahhh I’m at the training center with Ochacho-chan,” you answer, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “We were working on our hand to hand combat!”

“Hmm,” he purses his lips in frustration. “I left my Search and Rescue textbook in your room yesterday. Any chance I could come by and grab your key?”

Your foot absentmindedly plays with the strap of your duffel bag, wandering aimlessly as you clutch the cellphone to your ear. “My door should actually be unlocked,” you chime,” so no need to come all the way over here!”

Shouto frowns. “You leave your door unlocked?” he pauses, “Knowing we have some questionable… characters living in the same building?” His mind is immediately on Mineta and Kaminari, the two perverts of the class.

Your laugh smoothes over his distaste, instantly bringing a small smile to his lips.

“I know you forget your things in my room so you have an excuse to see me,” you say playfully, your bottom lip captured by your teeth as you bashfully rock on the balls of your feet.

A slight blush covers Shouto’s cheeks, which he is glad you’re not there to see. “Hmm, it seems I’ve been figured out. I guess I’ll stop doing that then,” he teases, prodding you for a reaction.

“N-No, that’s okay,” you rush out, adding a hesitant laugh. “I’ll… I would take any excuse to see you,” you murmur, voice growing quieter.

Shouto’s heart flutters, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Um, anyway, my door is unlocked so just go on in. I should probably get back to Ochaco now,” you trail off awkwardly.

“Can I buy you dinner tonight?” It slips out before Shouto can even think.

A beat passes, and Shouto licks his lips in anticipation.

“I would really like that, Shouto,” you chuckle into the phone. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Of course. See you tonight,” Shouto smiles, taking the phone away from his ear and pressing the red button on his screen. He stands in front of your door for a moment, gazing at your contact picture. God, you were so cute. How he had managed to score you, he had no clue.

He’d been in his room when he called you, but walked over to your floor and dorm room as the conversation ensued. Just as you had said, when his hand touches the door handle, it gives way and he steps into your room.

Closing the door behind him, he breathes in and closes his eyes, savoring the sweet and clean smell of you that lingered on your belongings. After a moment, he walks over to your desk, his textbook in sight, but buried underneath an open notebook with your messy notes scrawled across half the page. Your laptop rests to the left of the notebook, open and upright, but the screen is black and the charger light is green, indicating the battery is full.

Shouto’s fingers automatically reach for the cord, unplugging the charger as it was best to do so for your laptop’s battery in the long run.The screen automatically lights up, a black browser popping up and displaying a video.Shouto tries to avert his eyes before he could read the screen, but he had already read the video title the instant it popped up.His face instantly bursts into a cherry-red blush, and he chokes as his throat suddenly dries, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth in shock.

You Want Me to Call You Baby Girl? Beg for Daddy, Maybe I’ll Be Nice.

Shouto’s wide eyes scan the title again, and then a third, and a fourth time to make sure he had read it correctly. You had left your door unlocked, your laptop open, and a porn website out on display?

Had you… meant for him to see this?

He shakes his head in disbelief. There was no way that his innocent and sweet girlfriend had planned this out… which meant that you would probably be mortified if you knew he had found this.

Shouto stands frozen at your desk, unsure of what to do. The two of you were no strangers to sex. You had been dating for almost seven months now, and you had been intimate together a handful of times.

But never like this… Daddy? Baby girl? Begging?

Shouto’s mind suddenly wanders somewhere very indecent, and he gulps as he shakes his head. Sure, everybody has fantasies and turn-ons… this wasn’t that far-fetched.

But that’s why he is so torn. He could leave now and pretend he had never seen this… or he could sit down and watch this video, and do to you whatever this video entailed.

Unable to make up his mind, he hastily sits in your desk chair, swiveling the back around and scooting in to sit properly in front of the laptop. This was dangerous territory.

Well… watching the video couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?

Biting his lip, his long fingers reach toward the trackpad. His fingertips hover over the key hesitantly, before he shoots up abruptly from the chair and delves his fingers in his two-tone hair.

Pacing now, he lunges across the room and bolts the door. Walking in a circle, his arms cross on top of his broad chest. Why was he second guessing himself? He had been so sure just a second ago… That’s right, he had made up his mind!

Shouto rushes over to the chair again, eagerly hopping into it. Before he could question himself again, he grabs the headphones plugged into your computer and presses play, his heart thumping against his rib cage. His knee bouncing, palms clammy, the video begins to play.

The screen remains black, but shuffling is heard through the headphones. Suddenly, a sultry male voice speaks.

“Hmmm, you’re back for more so soon, kitten?”

A fresh blush immediately bloomed on his cheeks, his adam’s apple bobbing. Hands quivering, he remains still, questioning if he should be here or not. Before he can think further, the voice starts again.

“You know it’s very naughty of you to beg for me like this, baby.” A sweaty hand lands on Shouto’s knee, his lips wavering uneasily as his fingers grab on, knuckles turning white. The voice chuckles darkly, purring almost. “What’s that, you need me to touch you? Hmm, like this? Do you like when I touch your tits like this baby girl? You’re such a naughty little thing, not wearing a bra like this. Mmm, I can’t help but touch your aching body, princess.”

Shouto sits back roughly, cheeks still bright red as he processes the man’s words. Is this… what turned you on? Could this be… what you touched yourself to? Did you… did you close your eyes and think of him when you did? His cock jumps in response, a tent rising in his pants. Fuck, this was hot.

“Did you miss me baby girl? Did you touch yourself while Daddy was gone? You know that’s against the rules.” Shouto’s mouth feels as dry as a desert, a shaky breath tumbling out of his parted lips. Holy shit, the image of you touching yourself to this makes him sweat. Would you be willing to call him that? Daddy?

“Oh baby, look at you. What a mess you’re making on our sheets… You’re dripping wet, mmmm, look at your slick, tight, little pussy.” Shouto’s eyelids fall as he imagines your hot, sweet cunt, remembering the taste of you and the way you whimper as his tongue disappears into your heat. His hand trembles, hesitantly jerking toward the tent in his pants.

“Fucking shit,” he groans, hunching over the desk as his hand rests gently on his bulge, fingertips brushing back and forth gently.

Is this how you wanted him to talk to you? You wanted him to talk dirty to you and call you these sweet names?

The voice purrs lowly, a sigh escaping the man. “You want my fingers in you baby girl? You want me to fuck you with my fingers huh? Tell me what you want, baby. Be a good girl and beg for me.”

Shouto gasps as his body shudders. Jesus, this was some kinky stuff. But… he liked it. Very much, apparently, according to his prominent erection.

“That’s very rude of you, baby girl, to address me incorrectly.”

A smirk crosses his lips as he could definitely imagine you acting like a little brat underneath him, just to irk him. You loved to push his buttons all the time, even when you weren’t fucking.

“What was that kitten? I didn’t hear you. What’s my name again?”

His eyes closed, a quiet moan falling from his lips. He could just picture you in front of him, gazing up at him with those wide and innocent eyes… calling him Daddy. Imagining that word rolling off your sweet tongue jerks him out of the chair, pausing the video.

A harsh sigh heaves from his chest, hands splayed on the desk as he pants, hunched over your laptop. Watching this video, invading your privacy… it made him feel grimy, but the feeling in his pants was just as intense.

He stands still for a moment, processing all of this, before he rewinds the video back to the beginning and plugs your laptop charger back in. After making the computer go back to sleep, he pushes himself off the desk, making sure to grab the textbook he came for. With a last glance at your laptop, he exits your room, book strategically placed on his abdomen, hurriedly returning to his room to conduct further research and take care of his… issue at hand.

~~~

You blow away the stray hair tickling your nose, diligently holding the iron away from your face. The fresh curl falls as you release the clasp, and you smear away a mascara smudge under your eyebrow, leaning into the mirror. Blinking at your reflection, you let out a shaky breath.

You unplug the curling iron, your other hand running through the curls to smoothen the neat spirals. Fixing your top, you turn away from the vanity, standing up.

Swinging your small purse off the back of the chair, you grab your jacket and shrug it on.

A knock on your door grabs your attention, and an eager smile immediately blossoms on your lips. You quickly drag your perfume rollerball across your wrists and dab it along your neck, tucking the vial into your purse and opening the door.

Your boyfriend stands in the doorway, thumb tucked in the pocket of his jeans, the other hand fixing his hair. The sherpa-lined denim jacket laid perfectly against his broad shoulders, gray t-shirt snug against his muscular chest, finishing off with black jeans tucked into his dark brown chelsea boots. His hand falls from his hair to snake around your waist, gathering you to his chest. You gladly let him scoop you up, arms coming to wrap around his neck.

“Shouto,” you mumble into his neck, breathing in his strong and fresh cologne. “You look so handsome tonight.”

He pulls back his head so your eyes lock. Something unrecognized stirs within the depths of his heterochromatic gaze. His other hand floats underneath your face, thumb and forefinger catching your chin to lock you into his stare. You’re suddenly very aware of the hand that presses into your lower back, his long fingers trailing across your jacket slightly.

He responds, voice whisper-soft. “And you look absolutely delectable, baby girl.”

He allows one second to savor your stunned expression as you process the new pet name that he had addressed you by before he guides your lips to his, capturing your mouth tenderly.

Your whimper lodges from your throat as Shouto’s lips press against yours, your hand pressing the nape of his neck towards you to deepen the kiss.

His hand drops from your chin, face pulling away from yours. His half-lidded eyes admire your flushed cheeks, and the desperate look that lurks below the surface of your expression, a smirk landing on his lips. He gently pries your hands away from his neck, kissing your cheek swiftly as he laces his fingers with yours.

“Hungry?”

Oh, so he was just going to skate on by it, like it was no big deal. You clear your throat tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and nodding quickly. “S-starving.”

“Let’s go then, baby girl, the ramen place closes in an hour,” he says nonchalantly, eyes regarding you as he watches blush blossom across your cheeks. This could be fun.

You bite your bottom lip and nod, and he exhales softly through his nose at the action, concealing a groan. He tugs on your hand, steering you toward the elevators and toward your awaiting meal.

~~~

“Y/N?”

Flustered, you look up at your boyfriend, who is watching you with a quirked eyebrow.

“Sorry, what?” You ask, embarrassed to have been caught in your own thoughts.

A warm smile splits Shouto’s lips, a short laugh escaping. His eyes catch yours, genuine zeal clearly identifiable. “Do you want to watch a movie? I can look up what’s in theaters now. Or maybe we could get bingsu? My treat, baby girl. I know you love the mango one, from that place on the corner.”

“S-Shouto,” you murmur, eyes falling to rest on the cleared table in front of you. Your fingers pick at the corner of the discarded napkin nervously.

Shouto reaches out, his hand folding around yours, effectively making you look at him. “What is it baby girl? You wanna go home?”

Your legs clench together underneath the table, the building heat between your legs burning insatiably. He’d been calling you “baby girl” all night and you just couldn’t stand it anymore. You swallow, eyes averting from his to look at the hem of his t-shirt. “Y-Yes please, I don’t feel very well,” you answer honestly. You definitely wanted to get back to the dorms.

Shouto nods earnestly, getting up out of his seat and helping you out of your own. His left hand lands on your back, slipping underneath your jacket and making the warmth of his quirk known through your thin shirt. “No problem, Y/N, let's get you home.”

He calls an Uber back to the dorms even though you had originally walked, the restaurant being about a 25 minute stroll from the UA campus. He opens the car door for you and slides in after you, hands reaching out to click your seatbelt into place before securing his own. You blush again, murmuring a “thank you”, and grab his hand eagerly. Shouto smiles smally in return, his other palm smoothing over your joined hands.

As you step through the doors to the dorms, a burst of nerves blooms deep in your stomach. Shouto’s hot hand was again on your back, gently guiding you to your door.

Your head feeling light, your hand searches frantically for your keys in the depths of your purse. You had locked your room this time thanks to Shouto’s earlier admonishment.

Shouto’s lips press gently to your temple, making you jump in surprise. The corners of his mouth twitch upward at your reaction. ”Are you okay baby girl?” he breathes into your ear.

Your pussy quivers at his voice so close, his fingers spreading downward from your waist. His breath fans over your neck as your shaky fingers finally reach your keys. Your wrist trembles as you push the key into the door, and Shouto reaches over to turn the handle, pushing it open and slightly nudging you into the dark room.

The door shut behind you and the click of the lock is heard audibly in the silent room. A crack in your blinds casts a thick beam of moonlight onto the floor, illuminating your otherwise pitch black room.

A soft sigh escapes your lips as Shouto’s hands find your figure again, fingertips floating across your waist. His biceps caging you into his embrace, he presses a short kiss to your throat. “You don’t feel so good, baby girl?” His lips part and he places them against the column of your neck again, this time leaving behind a slick patch from his eager tongue.

You shake your head weakly, knowing your voice would come out broken and wavering. You feel his hands traveling around your waist, his hips brushing against your ass just barely.

“Anything I can do to help you, baby girl?” His voice is so low, and it drips with something almost ominous, swallowing up your senses. His teeth ghost over your throat, triggering a soft gasp from you. His mouth breaks into a sinister smile at your reaction.

“Y-Yes, I need your hands… on me,” you whimper, hand reaching up to anchor yourself on his bicep.

Shouto exhales against your skin, cock jerking in his jeans at your reply. His hands move slowly from your waist down your hips, fingers curling around your inner thighs, sliding up past the hem of your skirt. “Where do you want my hands, baby girl?”

Your legs tremble, and you curve your back into his chest, ass pushing against his crotch. A fresh blush litters your cheeks at the recognition of his clothed erection.

“You gotta tell me what you want, baby girl,” he murmurs huskily into your ear, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. They were so painfully close to your panties, a ragged breath escapes you.

Your mouth parts to reply but your words fail you, your body only being able to focus on breathing as steadily as possible. Oh god, you were so turned on right now.

His fingers brush against the edge of your panties, and your legs clamp together desperately. “Here? You want my hands on you right here? Use your words, kitten.”

A reticent moan leaves you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. “P-please, Shou…”

An ardent grin raises the corners of his mouth, and for the first time tonight his breath shakes as he replies. “That’s very rude of you, baby girl, to address me incorrectly.”

Your body freezes, anxiety enveloping you in an icy grip. You absolutely knew what he meant, without a shed of a doubt. Eyes wide, you rip out of his grasp, turning to look at him.

Your eyes meet and a hesitant look penetrates his intense gaze.

“You—,” you choke out, eyes darting to the open laptop on your desk. Shouto’s eyes follow yours, and a guilty expression instantly graces his handsome face. His hands out in front of him, blush reddening his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Shouto whispers, “Please let me explain. I didn’t mean to see it, but I accidentally woke up your laptop when I was grabbing my textbook and I tried not to see it but…”

You feel absolutely mortified, eyes wide and tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You cannot believe you were so stupid to have left your laptop open and on the Incognito browser! “Oh my god,” you sniffle, pure shame encompassing you.

Shouto closes the distance between you two, arms bringing your figure into his embrace. “Y/N, I'm so sorry. Please don’t be embarrassed, there’s nothing to be ashamed about.” One hand runs through your hair repeatedly, while the other presses you tightly into his chest.

You stay silent, words once again failing you. What if he was just doing this because you thought it was hot? What if he was making himself do this, even if he thought it was freaky? You bite your lip to stop it from trembling, hugging him back.

After a moment he draws your head back so your eyes lock, and that dubious emotion once again is visible deep in his two-toned stare. “I know I shouldn’t have pressed play,” he admits, tongue slipping out to run across his lips swiftly. His eyes flick to your own lips momentarily before looking deep into your eyes once again. “But the thought of you being into this,” he groans, eyelids dropping half way and fingers clutching your hair intensely,” The thought of you touching yourself to that… Just the possibility of you imagining it was me saying those nasty things to you… God, I couldn’t help myself, baby girl. You have got me so damn infatuated with you.”

His sultry eyes bore into your wide ones, melting away all your fear and hesitance. You want to say something, anything, but your lips are just paralyzed in shock. He was into this? Your cool and composed boyfriend wanted the same dirty things you did? Your pussy throbs between your legs, desire intensifying like he had poured gasoline onto the fire.

“You can say no, baby girl. Don’t be afraid to, there will be no consequences and no hard feelings on my part. I know this is a lot to ask of you,” he breathes, his magnetic gaze buttering you up. His hand stretches around your head, middle finger pushing against your jaw and thumb brushing your cheek. “But if you want to continue, I would happily oblige. All you have to do is—“

Your hands move before you can think, lacing around the back of his neck and gathering his lips to yours. The kiss is passionate but short, catching him by surprise. The fact that he is just as considerate as ever, even in this mortifying yet exhilarating situation… it turns you on even more. This man is all yours, you are all his, and you damn straight intend to show him.

You pull back, admiring the startled expression on his features. A soft, wanton moan escapes you, your eyes falling to his lips before sneaking back up to his eyes, catching his dazed stare through your thick eyelashes. “Please continue, Daddy.”

Shouto’s dick strains against his briefs, angrily awakened by your enthusiasm. A strangled noise releases from his throat, his fingers automatically gripping you harder. His eyes wide in astonishment, he blinks at you once, twice, before his entire demeanor reverts back to his predatory behavior from earlier.

“Fuck,” he groans, smashing your lips against his. The kiss is hot and wet, his tongue immediately pushing past your lips and thrusting into your mouth. Tongue rolling over yours, his hands roughly touch your aching body. His hands fumble to tear away your jacket, your purse making a loud noise as the metal chain on the strap hits the ground.

His right hand cups your breast, squeezing diligently as his thumb rolls over the center of your bra, right over your nipple. His other hand grabs your ass cheek, gathering you closer to his body as his tongue dances with yours.

Your hands feverishly run along his body. Fist full of his hair, your other hand desperately running along his muscular shoulder, thumb dipping down to press into his collarbone.

Your mouths pull away, a string of saliva connecting your restless tongues as you both gasp for air. Your gaze meets his as you both try to catch your breath, desire clear as day in his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles on ragged breath, the fingers from the hand on your ass straining toward your panties. They successfully push them aside, the tips of his middle and ring fingers connecting with your slick hole.

Your body shakes uncontrollably at his caress, a pitiful whimper leaving your lips as you throw your head back.

Shouto pushes your body backwards, scooping you up and throwing you onto the bed. Your back hits the comforter and he’s instantly on top of you, fingers sliding back and forth easily along your slit.

“You’re wet as fuck baby girl,” he accuses, fingertips prodding your hole just barely enough to get a reaction from you. “Have you been this wet all night? Pressing your legs together underneath the dinner table and in the Uber? Hmmm, you like when I call you baby girl, don’t you?”

Your leg curls around his, trembling in anticipation. “Yes, Daddy, I love it so much,” your voice is hoarse from being breathless, and Shouto’s cock swells at your tone.

“You’re such a good girl, Y/N,” he whispers into your neck, pausing to place more hot, open-mouthed kisses along your thumping pulse. “I think you deserve a reward for being so cooperative, baby girl.” His fingers push into your tender core, neatly trimmed fingernails rubbing along the pulsating, velvety walls.

You’re positively quaking underneath him, loud and unabashed moans meeting his quiet pants. His fingers feel so good inside of you, the way he curls them upward slightly to massage that special spot he always manages to find. “Oh, Daddy,” you whine, legs opening wider to give him more access.

“God, look at you,” he taunts, voracious eyes gauging your desperate body thrashing under his. “You’re such a nasty girl, you love when I touch you like this, don’t you?”

It’s impossible to breathe, so you just nod pathetically, your nails cutting little crescent indents into the skin on the bicep he’s propping himself up with. The nod seems like just enough to satisfy him as he smirks, tongue forcing itself into your mouth again and dominating yours.

His fingers slide deeper inside of you with ease, and he curves his fingers rigidly, assaulting your pussy without mercy. “Christ, look at you. You’re making such a mess baby girl.”

Your hand grips the duvet, fingers frantically clenching the material. Your spine arches off the mattress, breasts pressing up against his chest. “Please, Daddy, I need more! Please!” you beg, your mind hazed with lust.

Shouto sighs ruggedly, his hair tickling the side of your face as his body rocks gently to the force of his fingers in your tight cunt. He leaves a short kiss on your cheek before his teeth pinch the tip of your ear, his hot breath hitting your cartilage. “I love when you beg for me, baby girl. How can I resist when you ask so kindly?”

His mouth leaves your ear, body slithering south so his face is in front of your sleek, hot pussy. His fingers leave your core, and the noise of discontent that leaves you is cut short immediately as his tongue thrusts into you. His tongue pushes in and out of you quickly, the fingers that were in you a moment ago rubbing your clit with fervor.

Your hand slaps over your mouth as you let out a stifled cry, eyes scrunching closed at the feeling Shouto was giving you. No matter how good he was making you feel, you would die of embarrassment if your classmates heard you in such a state.

“Baby girl,” Shouto pants as his mouth comes away from your cunt, his chin shining with your slick. His fingers plunge back into you, making it hard for you to look at him straight. “Do you like it when I eat you out? You like my tongue on your pussy, baby girl?” he asks, eyes glittering mischievously. His tongue wraps around your clit, pulling it into his mouth and ravishing the nerve in circles.

Your back flies off the bed once again, a hand clutching his hair for dear life. You take your hand off your mouth for a moment to reply, but your voice dies in your throat as his fingers ram into you harshly. A muffled squeal escapes you, and a dark chuckle replies from the man between your legs.

“I think I’m gonna cum,” you warn, your voice unsteady. The pressure building between your legs becoming undeniable, your thighs shake slightly around Shouto’s head.

Shouto’s tongue leaves your clit, lips kissing the bundle of nerves gently. “You wanna cum, baby girl? So soon? You must be desperate, huh?”

“Oh god, Daddy,” you whine, glancing down to catch his intense gaze. “You make me feel so good, I can’t help it. Please, please let me cum.”

He smirks against your hot cunt, fingers never tiring. “You’re such a good girl, I don’t even have to tell you to beg,” he sighs, eyes closing as he savors your taste. “God, you’re so sweet and wet. Now be a good girl and cum all over my face.”

His mouth sucks your clit back in, tongue smoothing over the nerve back and forth with renewed speed. His wrist finds a new angle, allowing his fingertips to assault your cunt even deeper than before.

Your body sweats feverishly against his hot embrace, and you cry out in surprise when his right hand slips under your shirt and then under your bra. The icy temperature awakens goosebumps on your skin and your nipple hardens quickly, rolling the pert bud between his thumb and forefinger. The novel sensation pushes your body over the edge, your cunt clamping down on his fingers harshly. Your hand claps over your mouth just in time as you let out a scream, your orgasm raking through your body. Your hips dig into the mattress, your pussy clenching and throbbing and leaking your cum all over Shouto’s fingers and his mouth.

Shouto’s fingers slow, but his tongue continues to lick eagerly at your clit, lapping up the fresh essence that leaks out of your slit. His fingertips brush over your sweet spot a few more times before he takes his fingers out of your hole, his tongue taking their place and tracing circles inside of you. He trails his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top, circling the tip around your clit one last time before he pulls away, kissing your thighs with his slick lips.

Your body shivers as the tide of ecstasy recedes, eyes opening to see Shouto looking down at you intensely, his fingers in his mouth as he sucks your cum off his digits. “You’re such a good girl, Y/N,” his lips touch yours tenderly, almost softly. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His tongue shyly licks your bottom lip, and your mouth gladly grants him entrance. Your taste lingers on his tongue, but it’s pleasant as his own tongue caresses yours gently. Your fingers curl under his jacket, pulling on the trim with pleading hands. Shouto’s hands leave you for a moment as he rips it off, flinging it onto the floor. He also yanks his t-shirt over his head, discarding it as he had the jacket. Your hands eagerly land on his broad, muscular chest, savoring his delicious build. Your lips meet his again and your tongue meekly pushes into his mouth, taking him by surprise. He moans into your lips, allowing your tongue to push his into moving in sync.

Shouto shuffles backwards so he sits between your legs, his hands gripping your waist and the back of your neck again, pulling you to sit upright with him as your lips continue to push against each other.

His hand grabs the hem of your shirt, lifting it up swiftly. Your lips break away from his for just a second as your shirt leaves you, but as soon your torso is exposed his hot lips are back on yours. This time, he takes the lead, easily dominating you as he shoves his tongue roughly between your lips. You gasp, only making his quest easier than before as you allow him further access. His hands clutch onto your waist, pulling your hips toward his. Your mouths part, shared shaky breath leaving the both of you. You watch as his eyes open slowly, gaze trained on your face before trailing down, regarding your uncovered chest and the lacy bralette.

“This,” he mumbles as his lips touch yours again, on hand settling on your hip while the other pinches at the clasp of the bralette,” has got to go.” The lacy material sags as the clasp opens, and his calloused fingers brush away the straps on your shoulders. He sweeps the discarded material off the edge of the bed, focus directing to your bare chest instead. His hand cups one of your breasts softly, lips gliding against yours as he groans. “Why are you so fucking irresistible?” He ducks his head so his mouth captures your nipple gracefully, licking and skimming his teeth along it teasingly.

You arch into his touch, throwing your arms around his shoulders. Your hands grab onto his skin as a destitute mewl floats out from your lips. “Shou,” you huff, wanting to catch his determined gaze once more.

His eyes cast upward toward yours impishly, a smile curling his lips as they hold onto your pert nipple. His tongue runs over the hard bud between his teeth, making you cry out softly.  “What did you call me, baby girl?” His hand claps swiftly against your ass cheek, your body jolting against his as you let out a shaky moan.

“I, I’m sorry Daddy,” you whisper, your body dismayed as he releases your breast, head returning to your eye level. His gaze analyzes yours, watching your expression perceptively. You had responded positively to the spank. “Can I…”

“What was that, baby girl? Spit it out,” he commands, his other hand clashing against your other cheek, which jiggles invitingly, advertising the fresh red mark he had just inflicted.

“Can I p-please suck your cock, Daddy?” you finally manage to choke out, an intense blush infiltrating your cheeks. Shouto’s eyebrows raise slightly in surprise at your request, but a smirk quickly rises to his lips.

“You wanna suck my dick, baby?” his lips brush underneath your jaw as he leans in, sucking the skin there harshly and lapping over it with his tongue afterwards. “God, you’re such a fucking slut for me.” His fingers graze your soft folds again, making you buck your hips against him clumsily. He gazes at his digits, watching the trail of arousal string out as he stretches his fingers apart. “You really are my good baby girl,” he remarks, eyes landing back on your pleading expression. “Alright, go ahead. Show me what your sweet little mouth can do.”

Your hips shuffle forward, placing yourself on his lap as your hands splay down his muscular back. He hums mirthfully as you trace your hands down his torso, your lips finding solace on his trapezius. You roll your hips against his slowly, savoring how his hips jut up against yours and the way his head falls back at the action.

Eagerly, you shuffle to the edge of the bed, Shouto’s body following you on his own accord. Your head tucks down, yout tongue tracing a trail down his pec and swooping around his nipple slightly. A forced cough erupts from the back of his throat at the action, his skin more sensitive than he likes to admit. His hand combs through your hair, grabbing onto it as you place more kisses down his abs, stopping at the top of his jeans. You get off of him, sliding off the bed gracefully as your knees hit the floor in one languid action.

Shouto stands, hands undoing the button on his jeans hurriedly and he pushes the denim down his thighs halfway. His hot gaze lingers on you as you tentatively move forward, lips meeting his clothed cock in an innocent kiss, eyes glancing up to capture his. A hot blush rushes across his cheeks, and he’s glad you look away, focusing your attention back to his dick. Your hand meets the prominent outline of his cock, rubbing your fingertips along the shaft as you place an open-mouthed kiss on the head, effectively wetting his briefs. He swallows thickly, watching as you shyly tug the elastic band over his hips.

His cock springs free, bouncing out to touch your cheek impatiently. You smile at the sight of his dick so ready for you. His member stands thick and long, totally upright with veins popping out and running the length of his dick, the head swollen and red with just a drop of precum sitting pearled and ready. Restlessly, you wrap your hand around his cock, lips parting and tongue dragging along the tip of him, savoring the salty, musty taste.

Shouto has a wicked grin on his lips as he watches you from above, enjoying the sensation of his cock finally being acknowledged. “Oh, baby girl, you know I don’t like to be teased. Why don—”

You cut him off, mouth opening and taking in half his dick, tongue swirling on the underside carefully. Shouto’s smirk effectively is wiped off his face as you moan, the vibration locking his legs up as he shakes slightly, shocked at your sudden actions. Quickly while you have the upper hand, you bob backwards and then toward his body again, even more of his hard cock disappearing into your hot, wet mouth. He gasps for breath, mouth open and eyes wide as he watches his dick penetrate your lips. Your sinful tongue snaking around his shaft, a quiet “fuck” slips out of him as the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. You moan at his sheer size, the action constricting your throat around him and his hips jolt into you. His cock slams even deeper into your throat and you repress the urge to throw up, gagging harshly and eyes watering as his gaze locks with yours. You lean back and gasp for air, coughing shakily.

Shouto bends down, hand moving your hair to the side as his expression shifts toward concern. “Are you okay baby girl? Sorry, that was a little rough for you,” he mumbles regretfully, hand rubbing your back.

You look back up at him and his breath stills as your gaze catches his. “Oh, Daddy, I love choking on your cock,” you admit, ignoring the tears stinging the corners of your vision. Your hand grabs his slick cock once again, taking him into your mouth and starting to bob on his length at a fast pace.

Shouto’s hand flies up to cover his mouth, his brow scrunched in a mix of pleasure and awe, watching your eager actions lustfully. Holy shit, you were so fucking hot to him.

You continue to nod along on his length, savoring the way his eyes flutter as his tip reaches the back of your throat each time. His hand clutches your hair tightly, moving along complacently as you set the pace. Your other hand floats up to fondle his balls, massaging them in your palm gently as your other hand digs your nails into his thigh.

Your mouth leaves his cock with a quiet pop, a thick string of saliva trailing between your parted lips and the head of his dick. You only mean to take a quick break to gasp for breath before you continue, but Shouto has other plans.

He pounces on you, rough hands cupping your ass and throwing you up into his arms so your center slaps against his abs. Your breath is ragged, chest shaking with sheer excitement. Shouto seems just as frantic, his wet, hard dick caressing your ass cheek as he places your back against the comforter, your head gently touching the pillow. He’s panting, warm breath rolling over your cheek as his two-toned eyes pierce your own. His body hovers over yours, long locks of red and white grazing your face. Your body jumps slightly at the feeling of his tip meeting your slick entrance, rubbing between your folds gently.

Your stomach momentarily stops roiling with anticipation as butterflies suddenly appear there instead, Shouto nudging his nose softly against yours. “You ready?” he whispers, cerulean and gray orbs peering deep into your eyes, searching, probing, for even the slightest wisp of doubt.

Your hand lifts and cups his jaw, pressing your lips to his sweetly for a moment. An unspoken thankfulness for his considerate gesture transferring from you to him. Your eyes open again, all tenderness gone. “I’ve been ready for you all night, Daddy.”

A wicked grin splits his lips, eyes glinting down at you as his hips rut forward, shoving his entire length into you in one powerful thrust. A mix between a wheeze and a shout of pleasure releases from you. The sensation of your pussy stretching to accommodate his thick cock, the feeling of him pushing your cervix aside to nestle deeply inside of you, caressing your most secret and hidden spot— it makes your eyes roll back and your lips fall open, even though no noise escapes.

Shouto is still as a statue above you, expression almost pained as he tries not to even breathe. You had never been this reactive to him before, your drenched pussy gripping his cock so tightly stars briefly danced underneath his eyelids. And yet, even with how tightly your core held him, it had been so gloriously easy to just slide his dick right into your awaiting trove, your essence leaking out from your hole to dampen the sheets.

“Fuck, Daddy,” you lament, your body shaking in bliss at his cock filling you so perfectly. Your whine seems to snap Shouto out of whatever cosmic trance he was in, his hips automatically pulling away only to snap back into you, a wet smack bouncing off the walls. “Shit,” he murmurs, repeating the action. His eyes jump from your pussy swallowing up his dick, to your face of pure bliss. Your jaw falling wide open, your eyelids clamped shut tightly, eyebrows drawn upwards in the middle of your forehead as you obediently take his cock. “You’re so fucking tight baby girl,” he groans, glancing down again to watch his dick sink into your scorching, slippery core.

It’s so hard for you to find your breath. Every time Shouto’s hips hit yours you forget everything else, including how to breathe it seems. You close your mouth, teeth pinching your bottom lip and eyes prying open to catch his sizzling gaze. He stares you down, your exchange intense as he dominates you, plunging his thick cock into you again. The feeling makes your eyes flutter, a fresh blush lacing your cheeks as you look at him.

Shouto’s lips are in a self-assured smirk, eyebrows scrunched as he leans down onto you, carelessly rubbing his tip into your g-spot. Your pussy throbs and you fight back a sob of pleasure, your eyes still wet from choking on his dick minutes before. “Daddy,” you wail as he positions himself closer to you, arm curling tenderly around your waist to arch your back, pushing your hard nipples up against his strong chest. His hips dig into yours, grinding the head of his dick against your spot. Both your body and your walls shiver at the action, fingers curling into the covers hysterically.

“What do you want, baby girl?” he whispers, voice low and more gravely than you had imagined possible.

You lick your lips urgently, throwing a short look to his dick retreating from your aching slit before catching his sinful gaze again. “Please Daddy, I want you to fuck me,” your hair fanned around your pretty face, your cheeks bright red, desperation filling your wide eyes. Your needy look makes Shouto groan, his heart slamming against his rib cage. God, it was so hard for him to not give in… but he really wanted to hear you beg.

His hips glide into yours slowly, pulling out and pushing back in at a measured, hesitant tempo. Even just these careful thrusts has you covering your mouth, head tossed back in ecstasy. His hips carefully rake against yours a few more times before he leans in close. His lips ghosting over the hammering pulse in your throat. “Like this, baby girl?” His body trembles as he restrains himself, strung out like a ticking bomb as he continues his calculated ministrations.

You grab the back of his neck, lacing your fingers in the short hair and pulling harshly. He lets out a small moan, hips stuttering as he almost strays from his plan.

You wiggle your hips flush against his, opening your legs wider and securing them around his waist. “Daddy, I love your dick so much,” you whisper onto his neck, feeling his hands tremor just a bit before you smile against his skin. “Please fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

Shouto sighs, pulling almost all the way out before shoving his whole cock back into you. Your eyes roll backwards in your skull and before you can even cry out, he does it again… and again, and again. His pace is so fast and hard you can’t keep up. His hips snapping harshly against yours, he fucks you like his life depends on it. His hand is turning the flesh on your waist white as he slams your hips onto his, strangled gasps falling out of his mouth. Your lips fall apart but you can’t muster any words, hell, you can’t even produce a single thought. “Fuck yes, Y/N,” he hisses, balls deep in your dripping core. “Your cunt is so wet for Daddy— you love being fucked like this, don't you, baby girl?”

All you can do is nod weakly, overwhelmed by the pressure building between your legs. You whimper, nails digging into Shouto’s prominent back muscles as your toes curl in bliss. He laughs crudely at your frazzled state, sounding more like a snarl as he continues the delicious onslaught on your g-spot.

“What was that, baby girl?” he teases short-windedly, your cunt trembling around his thick member. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

You try your best to clear your throat, but only a dissolute sob comes out. Shouto’s hand grabs your chin sharply, and your eyes fly open as his rapid pants fan your cheek. You summon some unknown force within you and push the words— any words you can think of— out of your mouth. “Your h-huge dick makes me — nnngh!— m-makes my slutty cunt feel so fucking good Daddy!” you cry, celebrating in the way your testimony summons a hot pink flush to your boyfriend’s cheeks. He continues to pound into you, his efforts revitalized. The reaction only eggs you on as your lips part on their own again. Your eyes wide as this unknown, brazen side of you surfaces,” I want you to fuck me so hard, please abuse my pussy Daddy, it’s all yours.”

Shouto’s eyes roll back at your plea, and he wonders for a split second why you’d never shown him this side of you before. He absolutely loves it. He pulls out of you for a moment and you wail at the loss of his hot, thick length. Just as fast as he left, he’s flipping you over, grabbing your hips, and raising them into the air. You barely even realize you’re on your knees before you register his cock crashing harshly into your tender core, a scream ripping through you and luckily being swallowed into your pillow. A loud clap! sounds and your ass stings, making you arch into his chilled palm. “Oh, baby girl. You’re such a fucking slut for me,” he chuckles darkly, watching your ass bounce against his pelvis and savoring the fresh pink mark. Goddamn, he never knew hitting you like this would turn him on. One of his hands reaches out and grabs your ankle, shifting the angle of your hips slightly and rocking your body back to meet his with every thrust. The other hand squishes your ass cheek, hot fingers digging into your supple skin.

“Fuck,” you huff, face retreating from the pillow to finally gasp a breath of fresh air in. “Holy fuck!” you exclaim as Shouto continues to drill his dick into you. The sheer force of him pushing so deeply into you makes a tear roll down your cheek. You’d never been fucked so good in your life. And you never imagined that Shouto would be the one to dominate you like this either-- the boy was usually so collected and calm. A sharp crack! yanks you out of your thoughts, a delectable tingling sensation spreading over your ass. Your head falls back to look at your boyfriend, who is ready to catch your gaze with a pointed, seductive look.

“You like when I treat you like this, baby girl?” he slams you onto his abs, making a startled shriek float out from you. He simpers at your reaction, hand leaving your ankle to wrap around your torso, encasing your breast while his icy thumb rubs your nipple gently.

You can’t help but curve into him, shoving your cunt harder onto his waiting cock. A short grunt slithers out of him, and his thumb and forefinger pinch the sensitive bud forcefully.  “Mmmph-- I love it so much,” you gasp, one hand shakily reaching toward your throbbing clit.

Shouto’s eyes follow the movement, and he gulps as you touch yourself, the new stimulation making your pussy instantly squeeze around him tightly. His gaze sharpens with vehemence as your cunt grasps him needily, fluttering distinctly around his dick. Your soft whimpers are muffled into the duvet as you rub your slick clit repeatedly, the tension burning between your legs building rapidly with such provocation. “Baby girl, are you close?” he whispers hoarsely, fingertips turning white as he brashly clutches you soft skin.

You nod wildly, not caring if your makeup smudges against the sheets. “I, oh god Shou, I’m so close,” you warn, pussy clamping onto him forcefully.

An anguished sob rips from your throat as Shouto pulls his cock out, leaving your cunt aching and empty. With tears springing into your eyes, you look back at him, dejection prominent in your gaze. But all he greets you with is a gentle smile, hands trailing off of you to feather his fingertips against the skin of your waist. “On your back, baby girl. I want you to look at me when you cum all over my cock,” he tantalizes, and you instantly roll over, legs stretched far apart. He snickers lightly, eyes scouring down your flushed body, lingering on your glistening, trembling core. He scoots forward, pushing your back against the headboard, tucking a pillow behind you thoughtfully. “Give Daddy a kiss, baby girl,” he murmurs, and your plush lips greet his own right away. He hums, savoring the feeling of your hot tongue rolling against his. The way you follow his orders with such enthusiasm sends fresh blood to his cock, which twitches irritably against your wet cunt.

You whine impatiently as his dick slides against your slit, his tongue driving yours into submission. Your heart hammers against your ribs in anticipation as his arms tuck underneath your knees, folding your legs against your stomach and then pushing them open so his body fits between them perfectly. His tips presses against your quivering entrance, and the hand around his cock guides himself in slow circles, collecting your arousal before he pushes into you.

He only enters you halfway but your body quakes at the feeling of your walls welcoming him inside once more. His hips shuffle, easing his cock further and further into your sopping cunt with each thrust. His breath is heavy but measured as he finds a rhythm, battling against your clenched heat as he shoves himself inside you. His hands gently grasp the top of your hips, holding you close to himself but doing so almost tenderly. “Did you think about me when you touched yourself to that nasty video baby girl?” he pants, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. His eyes burning with dominance, tongue running ferociously under his teeth.

You gasp for breath, locking eyes with him and nodding wantonly. “Yes, yes I always think of you when I touch myself Daddy,” you attest, head falling atop the pillow as his left hand gropes your breast in response. The renewed frost of his palm causing you to jerk against him, his hips persist the assault on your core. His hot right hand pushes your calf into the air, making you tighten around him as he accesses your deepest point again.

“Is that all, princess?” Your cunt tightens against his thick cock at his prompt. His hips roll divinely against yours, the new movement making his abdomen brush against your clit. Your lip trembles, recognizing the numb feeling sprouting within you that signals your orgasm is near. “Don’t you wanna convince me to let you cum?” he presses on, thumb swiping across your perky nipple and inciting a lustful moan from you. Shouto knows that you’re hurtling toward the edge, but it’s so much fun to see if you’ll be able to control yourself for him.

“I— oh god, Daddy,” you squirm slightly in his hold, your peak dangerously impending.

“Take your time, baby girl,” he smolders, lips hung tightly in a victorious smirk. Watching you melt in his hands, he notices that he’s nearing his own climax… but he pushes the thought of it away now so he can focus on you.

You feel a wave of heat wash through your body, toes curling almost painfully as you press your lips together into a firm line. You glance down to watch Shouto’s cock disappear into your center one more time before you look at his face, catching his eye. “I,” you gulp, sucking in a breath of air before he had the chance to steal it from you. “I can never make myself feel as good as you do, Shouto.” You relish the way his eyelids sink hazily, his teeth capturing his pretty bottom lip. “Y-You make me— nghhh— feel so full when you hit my g-spot, ah!” your hands fly to his shoulders as his own viciously grip your hips, pace and force increased. “Please!” you beg,” Please let me cum Daddy! I— I’ve been so good for you, please!”

He laughs menacingly against the moist skin of your neck, “I suppose you have been a good girl, Y/N.” He can feel your legs quivering as you dangle on the edge, a wave of pride washing over him as he looks at your wrecked state. “Whose— fuck, whose pussy is this?” He leans close to your face, pushing your leg against your body even tighter.

Your voice cracks in desperation, spine curving into a crescent shape as your fingernails scrape his shoulders. “Yours! Oh my god— Yours, Shouto— Daddy! Please!”  You were so close, the corners of your vision going blurry.

His hips continue to slap against yours ruthlessly. His curled lips press a chaste kiss to your cheek, nose pressing against your ear as he commands,” Cum for me, baby girl.”

Your legs stiffen around his hips, the rubber band of your orgasm snapping brutally as your pussy clenches onto your boyfriend for dear life. His lips cover yours as you let out a defeated and unfiltered moan, hips crashing against his in ecstasy. He wheezes as your cunt voraciously grips his length, hips stuttering as he lets you ride out your climax. His mouth leaves yours and swoops down, slurping a nipple into his mouth, suckling and twirling his tongue around the peak. Your lungs burn for air as you gasp, lightning tingling from your fingertips to your toes. You brush an overwhelmed tear from your cheek, your mind beginning to fan off the clouds of pleasure.

Shouto lets go of your nipple, returning to pound into you from above. His movements are rough and fast, and they abuse your already aching g-spot even more, making your eyes nearly cross. “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, perspiration dripping down the deep grooves of his muscular torso,” You’re such a good baby girl for Daddy, look at you taking my cock so well.” He throws his head back, harsh pants traveling towards the ceiling as he realizes he doesn’t have to hold back his own orgasm any longer. Fuck, was he this close to busting a nut in you the entire time?

You nudge your nose underneath his slacked jaw, making him hang his head again for you to capture his lips. His lips dance against yours clumsily, the tempo of his hips becoming jerky. You can feel his ragged breath on your skin, low moans tumbling out from his mouth as his eyes clench shut. “Daddy,” you whimper, wiggling your hips to push against his further.

Shouto curses under his breath, eyes peeling open into slits to regard your provocative expression. “Y-Yes, baby girl?” he groans, taking in the way your round breasts bounce to the glide of his thrusts.

“Please cum for me,” you plead, your hands running along his solid, sweaty frame. He moans at your request, hips bumping clumsily into yours at his heightened pace. “I want your cum to fill me up, please, Shouto,” you urge, “I need it so bad!” Your cheeks blush once again at your erotic invitation, and Shouto feels himself rip through the finish line as he takes in your bashful, demure expression.

“Fuck, Y/N!” he grumbles, his hips jutting against yours lazily as his cock spurts his hot, thick load into you. Your cunt quivering as you receive his cum, your body thrums, sharing in the ecstasy radiating off of Shouto’s rigid form. He whimpers as he pumps into you a few more times, the last of his cum shooting into your welcoming core before he stills.

Shouto’s slick torso gently sags onto your body, shaky breaths dragging into his lungs as he attempts to recover. His face falling into your neck, he groans as your pussy clenches on his still-hard dick. His palms meet the swell of your breasts, thumbs softly caressing the prominent buds that stand upright for him. His lips glide against the sleek skin of your neck, and you feel his eyelashes tickle your jaw as he places sweet and gentle kisses to your throat.

You barely recognize the fluid dribbling out of your pussy, collecting into a small puddle underneath your ass. It’s just Shouto and you in this moment, the two of you savoring each other’s presence. He stays hovering over you for a minute, body still connected with yours as he gains his sanity. Your eyes are closed, breathing finally evening out.

His lips greet yours playfully, gliding in sync as one of his hands travels to your neck, tipping your head back so he has better access to your mouth. Your lips part with a whine as he takes his cock out of you, feeling empty and sore without his warm fullness inside anymore. His tongue coasts deeper into your mouth, tangling with yours as his fingers slip into the hair at the nape of your neck. He lets your leg slide off his shoulder, placing it down next to his hip with care. He pulls his mouth away from yours, chuckling deeply as his mischievous eyes meet yours.

Your eyebrow quirks up, a small smile gracing your lips too. “What?” you pout, fingers hanging around the back of his neck.

The smile that splits his lips is blinding and so genuine, it stuns you for a moment before you process his words.

“You nasty, baby girl.”

  ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

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make sure to shoot me an ask or a reblog if you enjoyed, nasty bb girls ♥︎ thank you for reading!!

masterlist (no other fics at this point as of feb 6, 2020)

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

#wowowow i didnt mean for this to be 10k #but HERE YA GO ANYWAYS #pls help spread this post if you enjoyed!!! i would rly appreciate it :) #also if ur reading this i love u :'( come say hi pls #also i didnt edit the end so if theres mistakes MY BAD YO #todoroki shouto #bhna shouto #todoroki fic #todoroki smut #shouto todoroki smut #yes im tagging all of these lmao #bnha smut #bnha fic #shouto fic #bnha fan fic #my fics #weeee i hope this gets some notes 🥺 #todoroki x you #todoroki x reader #shouto x y/n #shouto x reader

[vercopaanir]

Keep Up

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 1

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Warnings: Nothing!

Word Count: 4.4k (Pt 1/2)

A/N: First official installment of this series. This takes place before Don’t Go Far. Thank you  so much who read and left me comments. I’m very touched. I wanted to really take some time with exploring a blind character who shares non-verbal similarities to the Mandalorian, and other ways of communication beyond eye contact. Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read it!

From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident, and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.

“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like you.”

When you laid awake at night, you hadn’t considered your fate would be determined by handfuls of imperial credits. That your life hung in the balance between payments exchanged underhandedly in the back corners of the crowded cantina over watered down drinks became more believable, though, the longer you lasted in servitude. It was easier if you thought yourself not human, not one of the patrons who’s gazes followed your movements.

You couldn’t see them, but you could feel them. 

It somehow made it a little worse to your pride just the same, and a lot harder to ignore.

You would never be called a slave out in the open, because you knew the ramifications of such an error in this place. Others working alongside you knew, too, so not only did they try not to talk about you, but they avoided you at all cost. The laws of slavery were a prickly topic for some people, and those around you didn’t want to chance unhappy customers by a small slip of the tongue. You weren’t quite far enough in the outer rim to escape even honor, it seemed.

So, at night, you would think of your old life that was gentle and kind, and you’d pretend that you were still in your old room, in your old bed.

It wasn’t the hardest existence, you’d give them that. They treated you like some otherworldly thing, a blind woman who could wait tables and fetch drinks. As if a disability was a personality trait. Men’s underestimation typically worked in your favor, and you had learned that lesson well. It was not unheard of for workers to be punished for missteps, and you found it easy to claim the fault as your own. The wilting flower was not so far from the truth, once, and when you ducked your head and clasped your hands in apology, no one was made an example of.

As far as organic lives went, you were expensive. Not more than a droid, you figured, but still worth enough not to deal damage to, and anything that damaged the worth of property wouldn’t be tolerated. That was a bit of armor you savored wearing.

You stood near the bar using a rag to clean glasses. You couldn’t quite make out a lot inside the cantina, as it tended to be darker, but your impaired vision did afford you shapes and shadows. With more light, you would be able to make out more, but since arriving on this dusty little rock of a planet months ago, you didn’t feel motivated to exactly acclimate. You simply listened to the dull thrum of life around you, conversations rising and swelling, the clatter of glass and the slosh of drink. When the door would open, fresh air and light would blow in with bits of sand in the wind, and you could taste the dry climate sticking in your mouth.

Stacking the next glass carefully on the back of the bar, you became aware of someone coming to stand across from you. They didn’t speak, simply stood at the bar, and you wondered where the other girl was that usually took drink orders. A prickle rose up on the back of your neck the longer the stranger stood across from you, and you carefully refolded the rag in your hands, inclining your head upwards to the shadow.

“I’m looking for someone,” said the newcomer, his voice low and pleasantly modulated. Your eyebrows rose, and you hid a grimace when he spoke the owner’s name.

Never a good sign.

You paused, thinking of the back, dingy rooms where the man in question usually haunted, and you took a deep breath. “I can find him,” you answered levelly. You paused, laying a hand on the edge of the bar before turning away. “May I get you anything while you wait?”

There was a beat before he said, “No...thank you.”

Manners, you admired with a small smile. You nodded once and turned, but at the same time the absent barkeep in question came stumbling out from the back, knocking into you and overturning nearly every glass you’d managed to clean. It was such an epic sweep, you’d think later, that you still weren’t sure how she managed to break so many things and retain a job. 

Both of you went down like rocks and sprawled across the floor, shattered glass dusting your robes and laying like invisible teeth on the ground. You sat up, cringing when you could feel sharp pricks through the fabric of your clothes. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, reaching out a hand to the girl. You can make out her shape, though she can’t seem to be still.

“He’s going to end me for this!” she hissed, her voice laced with anger and shame, and the two of you begin sweeping the glass up hurriedly with your hands.

“Blame it on me,” you mutter, wincing when a shard pricks your palm. You pull yourself up by the bar, sweeping more of it with the sole of your boot to make a pathway. 

“I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you will,” you answer primly, turning and grappling for a serving tray. You pile the glass on it and begin chucking it into the trash. “Go find him, leave the mess with me.”

“But-”

“He has someone waiting for him.” Your whisper must draw her eyes up, and you nod your head to the side where you know the newcomer still stands on the other side of the bar. You’re not quite sure what makes her scramble away so quickly, but you’re grateful she does. As well-meaning as the girl is, you doubt she’ll last much longer in an establishment where she’s constantly underfoot.

You dust away as much glass as you can so you can kneel without impaling your knees, then reach up onto the bar for the rag you’d had. There’s a moment where you feel nothing but smooth wood, until a gloved hand bumps into yours. You freeze, blinking, but then the rag is pressed under your fingers. 

For some reason, the silent help makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you murmur and duck back down to use the rag to sweep glass up onto the tray. You can hear when the girl and the owner return, for he’s painfully loud and obnoxious to boot. The barkeep seems to be trying to explain away the accident with the glasses quickly and distract him with the fact he has a visitor, and she’s lucky he’s simple because it works like a charm. 

You don’t quite catch what he says under his breath, but you flinch back when he kicks some glass behind the bar, almost hitting you in the face. You turn quickly, brushing it off and growing irate. This isn’t how you wanted your day to go, kneeling on the filthy floor and dumping the tray into the trash again.

“Mando, good to see you in these parts again. Come with me.”

You rise up once they’re gone, sighing deeply and feeling tense. All the chaos that typically clamored in a cantina wasn’t good for your nerves or patience, you decided, tossing the rag in a bin to be cleaned later. You fetch a broom, now that the barkeep has returned and begins taking orders, and you sweep the floor so no one will step on any wayward glass. The chore is nearly done when she returns, sliding a tray towards you.

“Take it to the boss and the Mandalorian.”

Frowning, you slowly set the broom aside and turn to the tray, feeling the drinks to make sure they’re balanced before you lift it up. A Mandalorian. That would explain the modulated helmet, you supposed. You try to think of what you’d heard of them in the past, what you had read. If you remembered it right, they didn’t remove their face coverings in public, so the drink seemed...inappropriate.

Possibly even rude.

Moving with care, you thread the needle of tables and patrons, their shapes and shadows blending before your pale eyes. You follow the sound of the owner’s voice, loud and barking, and you only hesitate once.

“...not for sale.”

From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.

“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like you.”

This was not the first time he’d implied such things, and it was not the first time you’d had to school your face from cringing over the alcohol you served. Ire simmered in your breast, and bile threatened to burn the inside of your mouth, just the same.

A terse, modulated voice crossed the table in a quiet mutter. “Let her go.”

You swallowed as the fingers tightened around your wrist before they vanished completely, and you did everything in your power not to snatch your hand back. You let your arms fall to your sides, controlling every tense muscle, and curled your fingers at your sides. The silence that follows is cold and unforgiving, but you feel hot with embarrassment. 

The quiet sing of steel signals the Mandalorian standing from the table. You expect something more explosive, for the owner’s rudeness, but perhaps it wasn’t worth it to someone like him. Starting fights in bars with small minded men at the edge of the rim probably wasn’t on his to-do list, you imagined. 

You listen for the retreating sound of boots against the floor, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there is a firm clunk that hits the table in front of you, and suddenly all the heat that was blooming in your face drains.

“You can’t be serious,” the owner laughs, but the visitor says nothing. “This is a third of what I am owed for keeping her, much less buying her.”

“And you won’t find anyone else with the credits to make a better offer,” the Mandalorian answers shortly, impatience now evident through the modulator of his helmet. He leans down near the table, and you think he must be intimidating a sight to shut the owner up so quickly. “Not from anyone with a taste for it.”

Sickness curls in your belly as the moment stretches into silence, time keeping you hostage as the two men stare each other down. It must be difficult trying to glare at someone’s face you can’t see, you think, when you’re not used to it. The thought is ludicrous, but it’s distracting enough to keep you from falling apart in the middle of the crowded cantina while you’re being traded like cargo.

The quiet clatter of the credits inside a pouch is retracted from the table, and a lump grows in your throat as you realize you’ve just been bought. Paid for. 

It never felt like something that would happen, not again. 

“Get out,” the owner snaps, and you flinch at the words so ruthlessly directed towards you when you’d been ignored up until then. It was enough to make you take a step back, against your better judgment, but the Mandalorian was behind you and seemed to be made entirely of steel and iron.

“You forgetting something?” 

You hear a growl from the man still seated at the table before he tosses something onto the table, letting it clatter. You feel the man behind you tense before he carefully tucks away whatever was just exchanged. Your mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the details.

Swallowing, you’re almost too nervous to move when boot steps begin walking away. The cantina’s noises swell around you, and it occurs to you that you’ll never have to step foot into the crowded, dirty establishment again.

You scramble to catch up with the man who just traded credits for your life, fighting past patrons and listening for the sound of armor. It’s a quiet slide of steel that would almost be drowned out by everything else if you weren’t paying attention. Stepping outside into the bright sunlight makes you wince, having been so used to the dingy shade of the bar, but you can see the Mandalorian’s own shadow fully for the first time.

Standing a few inches taller than yourself, his shape isn’t as bulky as you expected. It’s broad, in your sight, and even though there’s a hum and bustle of people coming and going all around you, he stands completely still. 

“Keep up.”

Then he’s walking off again, and you’re hurrying after him. The few inches he has on you has you huffing to keep up, and you’re so focused on not losing him in the crowd that you don’t have time to be overwhelmed by all the smells and sounds of the market. The sun is bright enough you can keep his shadow in your line of sight, and you’re grateful he doesn’t try to guide you by the hand. It feels like a small but precious dignity to stretch your legs and taste dust and dry air without feeling like you’re being led on a leash.

It’s when you pass from the market, then the city, that the noises of other organic life seem to fade, and all you can hear is the wind and the whipping of your robes and his cloak. 

Suddenly, he stops and turns towards you. Heart climbing into your throat, you curl your hands at your sides and ready for the worst, but what happens next is unexpected.

“I didn’t...did you leave...things behind?”

What?

Your face must betray your confusion, because he goes on. “Back there. Did you...you didn’t bring anything with you.”

You think of the spare dress you were allotted that felt rough and scratchy against your skin, of the broken comb and the lone, threadbare ribbon you used to fix your hair whenever you had work that needed a bit more elbow grease.

You shake your head quickly, and you both stand in silence. The arid surroundings make you feel hot beneath your clothes, and you wish you could gauge what he was thinking. Most people talk...well, most people tend to run their mouths around you. As if you needed everything narrated, simply because you couldn’t see.

In fact, the silence is a relief, like a balm you didn’t know you needed for a burn that you’d been ignoring for too long. 

You hear him grunt under his helmet, almost too quiet for the modulator to pick up, and he turns and begins to trek again. His boots hit sand, and you follow as gracefully as you can in soft soles that weren’t meant for anything more than being indoors. It’s easy to see him now, his general shape, and you can tell when he stops and when he starts walking again, giving you a chance not to fall behind.

There’s a long stretch of time, perhaps more than an hour, where you both walk in silence. You pull the hood of your robe up over the crown of your head, the sun beginning to sting and make your eyes sore and face burn. You’re watching his boots, following the path they make, but when you look up again, a large, terrifying dark shape looms in front of you.

You must make a sound, because he turns to see you hesitating, taking a step away.

The Mandalorian seems to consider something before approaching you, and when the breeze ruffles your clothes, you can smell leather and sweat off of him.

“Hold out your hand,” he says, then adds quietly, “Please.”

There’s a shift of fabric before you feel something small and cool press into your palm. “The trigger, connected to the transmitter chip they injected when you were...bought,” he explains to your baffled expression. 

The thing that could kill you instantly.

Your stomach drops and your ears begin to ring, holding the small round object in your hand. When you speak, your voice is hoarse with unshed tears. “W-Why…? What do you want me...to do with it?”

“Keep it,” he grunts, shifting his weight between his legs. “Until I can neutralize the chip.”

Your free hand drifts to your neck, blinking hard against the wind as it begins to pick up. Sand begins to dust your lashes and catch in your mouth, but his words have left your throat bone dry all on their own. “I don’t understand.” He didn’t respond, and you shake your head, dropping your sight level to where your hand holds the trigger. “Why-?”

“I don’t need a slave. I don’t want a slave.” You think you can hear a frown, somewhere behind the steel of his armor. “I need someone to help me on my ship, and I can pay you for the work.”

Confusion turns to shock, because it’s such a blow to what you thought would be a normal day that you can’t control the muscles in your body anymore. Your knees feel like they’ll buckle, and he’ll leave you there in the sand for the sad, small creature you feel like you’ve become. That this is all some kind of cruel joke.

When you don’t respond, that hesitation returns to his voice. “Unless...you wanted to stay...here.” 

“No. Never.” Your lip quivers, though you don’t think you’ll cry. You hope you won’t cry. You can’t quite understand what you’re feeling, but it’s visceral and causing you to tremble like a fever. 

There’s a quiet, metal tinged sigh, and you think it sounds as relieved as you feel. When he starts walking again, the muffled sound of his boots in sand change to striking against metal, and you’re careful as you step up, gingerly toeing up what seems to be a ramp. The large shadow looming ahead was a ship, you realized, only ever having boarded one once before.

When you reach the top, his voice is quiet. “There’s a step down.”

Heart thrumming in your breast, you reach out with a shaking hand to lean against the side of the door, your boots carefully settling on the metal flooring. Inside is just as dark and cold as a cave, but it’s a blessed feeling compared to the dry heat of the sun outside. 

“This is yours?” you ask, pushing the hood of your robe back and feeling sand fall from the cowl. You can hear a minuscule echo of your voice inside the metal walls. He makes a noncommittal grunt in your direction, moving about in the dim lighting. You hear the flip of a switch and the ramp behind you retracts, followed by the hatch closing you in true darkness.

Your orientation blurs, and your shoulders rise to your ears with tension. You wait for some instruction or command, but neither comes. As your nerves accumulate, all the questions you should be asking-What kind of work am I to do? How are you going to neutralize a chip that could kill me? Who exactly are you?-fall by the wayside.

You hear his boots walking away again, and you wonder if he’ll ever speak at all. Is he so used to people just answering to his silent expectations he doesn’t need to? The line of thought is enough to distract you from the shock threatening to overtake your system, and you trail unsteadily after him. It’s only a few paces, and you listen as there’s a snap of fabric and a short sigh.

“You’ll sleep here.” You feel him step aside, and you blink curiously, walking forward. It doesn’t seem to be a room as much as it is a nook, a curve in the metal framework of the ship’s hull holding a bed. You lay your hand down on the carefully tucked sheets, trailing your fingers up to a blanket that’s been folded at the foot of the cot. You turn towards him, trying to think where to begin with your questions, but he goes on. “I’m going to set coordinates for our next destination. It would...be best if you stayed here.”

“...alright.” You sit down, finding the mattress plusher than you expected and sinking back. The weight off your legs has you sighing, head falling forward in relief. You listen to a slight strain of leather-perhaps he’s flexing his hands?-before you hear his footsteps begin to retreat once more.

You suspect he’s unused to company. Of organic life being so close.

Before you lose the nerve, you call softly, “Thank you.”

There is a slight pause in his stride, but he doesn’t turn back or reply. He disappears, climbing a ladder into a level above you, and you’re left alone in the cool dark.

You realize, after sitting in the quiet and listening to the engines hum to life, that your hand still cradles the trigger connecting to the chip. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? You swallow, fingering the small object and thinking of the procedure you’d undergone when they implanted the device at the base of your neck. 

The Mandalorian said he’d neutralize it, and you wondered if there would be pain.

That didn’t scare you as much as the idea of something going wrong when he would take it out.

You don’t remember laying down on the cot, and you certainly don’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps it was the shock, but you fell unconscious into a deep, dreamless slumber, curled in the nook at an odd angle. A firm hand on your arm woke you up, and though it wasn’t a tight grasp, and he didn’t shake you, it was still unnerving. Just a solid touch, and your eyes flew open.

“We’ve landed,” he says, removing his hand and stepping back as you sit up. You blink, wishing half-heartedly there was more light to make out anything around you, but you don’t think any amount of light would have prevented the sudden dizziness you feel when you stand up. Your hand strikes outward, landing flat against the wall with a loud slap to steady yourself.

That same gloved hand cups your other elbow, and you swallow when he doesn’t let go. “The jump from hyperspace can be a lot if you’re not used to it,” he says. You don’t even remember the ship taking off, much less any kind of jump. You wait as your bearings come back to you, your weight swaying between the balance of your feet. When you don’t move, his fingers flex gently around the delicate bones of your arm.

“I...I might need...help,” you finally confess, your stomach unsettled and your head swimming lazily like fish in a pond. How long had you been asleep? 

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, but his hand leaves your arm to lightly brush your back. You focus on breathing and begin walking forward. He guides you silently through the ship, down the ramp once he opens the hatch, and onto firmer, rocky foundation. Not unlike an anchor for a boat being tossed at sea, you don’t question how you’re able to let him guide you. 

Such a thing was so...intimate. Even dangerous, being vulnerable this way. You don’t want to think about it, so you take a deep, steadying breath and begin asking questions. 

The conversation is nearly one-sided from how little information he gives you, but the answers are sufficient enough. You’re on a planet called Avarla-7, which means nothing to you. You’re visiting one of his associates. You slept nearly 9 hours.

“Oh.” You listen to the crunch of rocks beneath both sets of your boots, considering the chill in the air. “It must be very late, then.” An answering hum from under the helmet is the only confirmation you receive. Something tickles at the back of your mind, and you incline your head towards the Mandalorian that walks to your left. “I...expected to be put to work rather quickly.” He doesn’t answer your vague comment, and you frown gently. “What kind of work do you need from someone like me?”

His hand presses slightly into the middle of your back, a bit firmer as you crest a small slope, giving you stability where there is none for you to find at night. “We’ll talk about it later.”

A voice calls out, wizened and deep across the expanse of dusty rocks, “I expected you back sooner. You are getting slow in your age.”

Your eyebrows raise, and you hear your companion beside you sigh again-this time in mild annoyance. You slow your steps with him, and you become aware that you have arrived near a building. Perhaps a tent, you think, with the sounds of fabric flapping in the breeze, but the noises of wandering animals nearby makes you think it’s a farm. Your curiosity heightens as you hear approaching footsteps, short and direct until someone stops in front of you.

“You have come to fetch the child, then? He has grown restless in your absence.” 

A child?

The Mandalorian shifts beside you, and you think he must nod. “Yes. But I need to ask for your help again.” There’s a pause, and you can feel them staring at you. “She has a transmitter implant. Can you neutralize it?”

The associate steps closer to you, but you don’t feel threatened by the quiet approach. You fold your hands patiently, feeling steadier on your feet with the Mandalorian’s hand at your back. 

“I am called Kuiil. May I have your hand?”

It is not demeaning, nor implying you need the help, and in fact you feel safer suddenly than you have in...in years. It’s hard to describe, the forthrightness and honesty in this voice that makes you feel a burgeoning amount of trust.

You hold out your hand, and the receiving grip is gentle and polite. He turns, and you follow, feeling like a young girl trailing after your father again, when you still had capricious bravery and the kindness of everyone near. Then, he says, “I will not neutralize it. I will remove it entirely. You will stay here until you are rested. I have spoken.”

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #slow burn baby i'm burnin' #romantic as heck bc i'm back on my bs

[castielslostwings]

Winter Storm Warning

an under 4k deancas ficlet, just something i was thinking about when I saw Frank stealing coins from one of the Chicago fountains on “Shameless.” 

4k, rated G, homeless Cas/Sandover Dean, sweet Dean, meet-ugly (sort of). “Winter Storm Warning” The frigid air is biting, searing into the exposed skin of Dean’s face as he walks brusquely down the snow-dusted sidewalks of downtown Chicago. The unforgiving Illinois cold is rough, close to unbearable, but for Dean, it also spells freedom. Ten hours straight of mind-numbing meetings with a fake smile plastered across his face, crunching numbers and negotiating the supposed merger of a lifetime—that’s his job and don’t get him wrong, Dean is great at it, but enough is enough. Out here, the distinct lack of fluorescent lighting, pretentious leather seating, and endless glasses of cucumber water signifies that, at the very least, that mess is over and Dean is free.  Tomorrow morning, if the weather allows for it, Dean will be on a plane back to Kansas where the weather probably sucks just as much but at least the air can’t cut you like a damn knife. A blast of wind makes him flinch, trying to shove the hand not wrapped around his briefcase handle even further into his pocket. At least Sandover paid for all of his expenses this trip, important as it was, and soon, Dean will be sitting pretty in his seventy-five degree suite, some takeout and a sampler selection from the minibar laid out in front of him.  Several feet away in the slush-filled street a plow goes by, metal scraping against concrete, a heaping helping of snow tossed carelessly well over the top of the existing hip-high bank and onto Dean’s head. “Oh, come on,” he yells, waving his briefcase in frustration at the plow’s taillights, the snow slithering wetly down the back of his neck and underneath his starched collar. “Fuck,” Dean curses, trying and failing to scoop the slushy mess out of the back of his shirt and fling it down onto the street where it belongs. He shivers violently as a trail of ice goes creeping down into the hollow of his lower back, far past his reach, unless he wants to untuck three layers and flail around some more in the middle of the damn sidewalk.  What a day.  Thankfully, the Sheraton where he’s staying is only a few blocks away from the corporate offices he’s been holed up in all day, which is why Dean decided to walk to begin with. Well, that, and the fact that the mounting winter weather and the state of the streets wouldn’t have made UBERing any faster. With the melting snow now trickling into his butt crack but the air fresh and clean despite being painfully cold, he can’t actually decide whether he regrets the decision or not.  As Dean approaches the riverfront and where the street forks, he should take a right to walk down to his hotel. But the sun is out, despite the snow falling, and regardless of the unrelenting cold, it does feel good to be outside. So after a moment’s hesitation, Dean changes course and walks straight. He heads down towards the River Esplanade Park where he knows from looking out his hotel room window that there are gorgeous views of the river and Centennial Fountain still runs, even in the dead of winter. As he walks, his breath puffs white, delicate clouds drifting off into the air in front of him and Dean can almost see the moisture crystallizing, turning to ice right before his eyes.  It’s really fucking cold.  Centennial Fountain almost looks as if it was carved out of the stone walkway around it. Like God took his melon baller and just scooped it right on out. As Dean approaches, he walks down the steps framing the space above the wall of running water, intending to turn and follow the path along the river until he gets to his hotel. It’ll be a nice walk, scenic, with the sun glinting off of the grey-ish water that lazes by far below. Dean takes a moment to pause at the iron railing, looking out and sucking in a deep breath of impossibly cold air, relishing the way it stings his lungs before he blows it back out.  His peaceful reverie is interrupted by what sounds like a pained moan, and at first, Dean wonders if there’s a hurt animal nearby. He whirls around to face the fountain and looks over the steps leading down to it. The water is flowing the way it usually is, cascading down the far wall in gorgeous, icy waves before pooling in the shallow basin below and freezing solid at its edges.  All of that is relevant only because there is a man standing in the undoubtedly arctic-cold water. His dirty khakis are rolled up to his knees, shoes and socks lined up neatly on the last step leading down to the water on Dean’s side. Next to the articles of clothing is a small backpack, and beside that is a gallon-sized ziplock bag. From where Dean is standing, it looks as if the plastic bag is filled with change.  At first, Dean can’t make sense of it, thinks the guy must be some sort of head case, because who in their right mind would even consider wading into a fountain in Chicago in weather like this? But as Dean stares, taking in the ratty beanie pulled down over the man’s reddened ears, the too-thin coat with a sweatshirt stuffed uncomfortably tight underneath, his bright-red, ungloved hands and forearms, he suddenly understands, and he’s horrified. The man’s abused limbs shake violently as he bends down to plunge them into the water once again, moaning but persisting on when they make contact.  Even from afar, his own hands swathed in expensive, lined leather gloves that preserve his own body heat, Dean cringes, but he can’t look away. The man drags his hands back out and, dripping wet, they’re full of coins. He staggers unsteadily back to the edge of the water, and it’s obvious to Dean that it’s becoming painful for him to walk. It won’t be long before he loses feeling completely, if he hasn’t already. When he turns, Dean catches a glimpse of his face. He’s young. Dean’s age, maybe a couple of years older. That, or the streets have taken their toll. Not much of one, though, Dean has to admit. The man’s face and skin don’t look weathered or damaged by drugs or alcohol, the way so many folks on the street seem to look after even the shortest time enduring that existence. His facial scruff is decently kept, untinged with any sickly yellow. He’s handsome, Dean can already tell, and when the man glances up and makes eye contact, Dean’s destroyed.  “Wow,” he murmurs under his breath before shaking himself off and back to the reality of his current predicament. Or rather, the man’s current predicament. “Hey!” he calls out, but the man has already turned, is already trudging back towards the middle of the fountain. “Hey, man, get out of there!” The man ignores him, plunging his hands back into the water to scoop out another handful of coins. Dean skips down the steps, nearly wiping out on a patch of ice in his haste, and meets him at the edge of the water when he arrives back to secure his haul.  The man looks up at him warily, gorgeous blue eyes darting between Dean and his bag of coins with open distrust. His fingers are purplish-red now and Dean can tell just from looking that the guy can barely move them. He struggles to get the edges of the ziplock bag open without losing his coins, so Dean steps forward, trying to help.  The guy flinches, and Dean backs up immediately, hands in the air. “Whoa,” he says gently, “Hey, it’s okay, man. Just trying to help.”  “Please,” the man starts, but his voice breaks, from cold or fear or pain, really, it’s anyone’s guess as far as Dean is concerned. When Dean doesn’t move, he licks his blue-tinged lips and tries again. “P-please don’t t-take m-my coins,” he pleads softly, eyes downcast.  “Oh, shit,” Dean breathes, torn between backing up and stepping forward. “No way, man. Listen, I promise, I just wanna help. Here,” he encourages, carefully stepping forward and pulling the ziplock open with just the tips of his fingers, barely touching it. With any luck, the man will understand that Dean can’t pick up the bag that way, that he isn’t trying to make off with it. He seems to, if his wary glance at Dean’s face is any indication, sniffling as he sloshes forward, shins nudging against the ice where it’s collecting on the water’s surface. The man doesn’t even seem to notice what’s going on with his legs as his stiff hands fight to dump the latest handful of coins into the collection bag.  “Dude,” Dean says incredulously when the man shifts as if he intends to wade back into the deeper water. “You can’t go out there again. You gotta get out of that frozen death trap, get your shoes on, get somewhere warm and fast or you’re gonna lose those toes. Fingers too.”  The guy pauses, drags his tattered sleeve across his reddened nose and sniffles again, shaking his head in dismay. “Can’t,” he says roughly, and Dean wonders if his voice is naturally that low, or if that’s a function of the cold too. Jesus Christ, this poor sap. “Too cold to stop. I…” He trails off and reaches down to jiggle the ziplock as best he can with the clumsy fingers of one near-useless hand. “Almost have enough for a motel.”  Now, it’s important to note at this point that Dean Winchester is not the most careful guy. Casual sex with nearly anyone (and any gender) who will have him, drinking too much in unfamiliar bars, gambling with unsavory characters, all of those things are plenty familiar to him, par for the course, really. Life is a game of chance, a series of thrill rides, and Dean is more than willing to roll the dice on various risks to get to the rewards. But while he’s a risk-taker, a gambler, a man who, in general, is not afraid of much, he’s also not stupid. As such, why he does what he chooses to do next, is beyond even Dean’s own comprehension.  “I’ve got a room,” he says impulsively, rushed, just blurting it out like this is a normal thing to say to a complete stranger. “Right there.” He points at the Sheraton, its soaring frame towering over them from less than a quarter of a mile away. “It’s warm, there’s food… alcohol, warm shower. C’mon man, what do you say?”  The man narrows his eyes and backs up a step, out of Dean’s reach. “I am not a prostitute,” he says coldly, tone as frigid as the air. Horrified, Dean recoils immediately. “Oh—God, no. You thought…? No, Jesus, man. Listen, first of all, I got a strict rule to never pay for it and—okay, do you think you could at least get out of the water before we continue this conversation? I feel like I’m watching you freeze to death in front of me.”  The man looks down at his feet in surprise, as if he’s forgotten they were there, forgotten that he’s standing in water that’s only still liquid because it’s being agitated and moved through pipes that are probably heated just below the ground, warmed up just enough to keep the water from turning to ice. “Oh,” is all he says, casting a regretful look over his shoulder at the deepest part of the fountain. “Dude,” Dean continues, starting to become exasperated, but also not willing to become an accessory to suicide, which if the guy doesn’t get warm soon, is exactly what this is going to turn into. “Get out. I’ll give you money, seriously. It’s no trouble. If you don’t wanna hang out with me, that’s cool, I get it. Let me help you out, no one fucking deserves this. For fuck’s sake, you’re a person and this is dehumanizing, never mind that it looks painful as hell.”  Something in that word-vomit mess must include the magic words, because Fountain-guy sighs reluctantly and shuffles back toward the edge of the pool. “It is,” the man agrees, raising one naked leg to step up and out of the water, but slipping and nearly toppling into the fountain wholesale as he tries to bear the weight needed to pull himself up.  “Shit,” Dean curses, darting forward to catch him as he falls, wrapping arms around the guy’s waist and dragging him the rest of the way out of the water, onto equally freezing cold cement. “Alright,” he says. “You’re alright.” Without thinking too much about it, Dean settles the man on the steps before pulling off his own jacket, a heavy peacoat that his brother Sam gave him for Christmas a few years ago. He kneels down, cold from the stone soaking through the knees of his expensive suit almost immediately, though Dean ignores that in favor of focusing on wrapping the body-warmed jacket around the guy’s feet. “Get your hands inside your sleeves if you can,” Dean instructs gruffly. When the man’s feet are bundled together, Dean looks up to see the guy struggling—he can’t move his fingers at all anymore. With another muffled curse, Dean tugs the guy’s sleeves down and folds each of his stiff, freezing cold hands into the opposite sleeve. “Just…” Dean looks around, suddenly freezing himself, now that his coat is otherwise occupied, and he wasn’t exactly warm to begin with. He scratches the back of his head in frustration. “Man, I’m not gonna hurt you. Will you please come with me, let me help? You look like you could use a break, buddy. I’m trying to give you a break, nothing else.”  From his kneeling perch down on the frozen stone, Dean sits back on his heels to look up into the man’s curious blue eyes imploringly. To his surprise, the man nods. “Alright,” he agrees, still skeptical, still reluctant, but the tightness in Dean’s chest loosens with relief.  “Alright,” Dean echoes, retrieving the man’s socks and shoes before peeling back his jacket-blanket to shove them back on as quickly as possible. He can’t help but notice what poor quality they are—that kind of footwear probably wasn’t doing much to keep him warm prior to the dip in the fountain, and it’s not going to do much to warm him up now. But sitting out here in the cold isn’t going to help him or Dean, either, so Dean’s just going to have to work with what they have. He pauses before continuing, remembering the man’s reaction to him touching the money before. “I’m just going to put your coins in your backpack, okay? Is that alright?” Dean looks the man in the eye and waits for permission before proceeding. “Thank you,” the man says cautiously, watching like a hawk as Dean unzips the bigger pocket and stuffs the pilfered change bag in next to some more ratty clothing. When Dean slings the bag over his own shoulder, though, the man’s eyes narrow and Dean sighs. “You can’t carry it,” he explains patiently. “I think we’re gonna be lucky if your ass can walk.”  Thankfully, (or Dean would have had to call an ambulance) the man is able to shuffle down the stone walkway, slowly, still struggling to put one foot in front of the other, even with Dean’s help. By the time they reach the gold-plated revolving doors of the Sheraton, the guy is outright limping while leaning heavily on Dean and Dean’s own teeth are chattering from the merciless wind slicing through his tailored suit jacket and cotton button-down.  The two of them draw their fair share of strange looks as they hobble across the lobby, from patrons and staff alike, but Dean is quick to wave off the concerned concierge when she approaches. He insists they’re fine, only to call her back a second later and ask for various items from room service, only wondering in retrospect why he’s so invested in helping this guy. He could dump him in one of the cushy chairs decorating the lobby; have the front desk call an ambulance, let someone else worry about him.  But something about the guy draws Dean in, makes him curious how someone gets that desperate, to be risking life and limb for a few dollars. And, if he’s being honest, he feels involved now. If he dumps the guy off and he heads right back to the fountain because he’s got nowhere else to go, won’t that sort of be on Dean’s head too? People don’t fall this far without a lot of other people being willing to look the other way as they go down, Dean knows that much.  It’s not something Dean likes to dwell on these days, but he grew up poor—the kind of poor that makes a box of mac and cheese mixed with water look gourmet. The kind of poor where you don’t even know that hot water is something most kids have in their houses and don’t just access at the local YMCA or during a stay at a better-than-average (for you) motel. The kind of poor that, despite the zeroes in Dean’s bank account these days, has him stashing the leftovers from the paid-for corporate lunch in his briefcase, just in case. Hunger. Cold. Fear of what tomorrow may bring—as reluctant as he may be to remember, Dean gets it, sees all of it in the resigned sadness of Blue-Eyes’ expression, in the defeated curve of the frown marring his otherwise very attractive face.  Dean blinks, turning his attention back to the concierge, who’s still waiting to take his requests. A heating pad, a first aid kid (because who knows what else this dude has been through), whatever the chef would recommend through room service, “go crazy, just make sure there’s a variety to choose from.” Since Dean’s been here over a week, the concierge must recognize him, verifying his room number before flouncing off to oblige without further intrusive questions. Dean makes a mental note to tip them well when he checks out.  As they wait for the elevator, the man eases off from where he’s been leaning heavily on Dean’s shoulder, sparing him a small smile and a muttered, “thank you,” when Dean reaches out again to ensure that he’s steady. He doesn’t speak again until they’re both shuffled into the elevator, the man leaning against the mirrored wall, turning his head up to the duct blowing warm air with obvious relief. As the door dings closed and Dean pushes the button for the top floor, he speaks. “I’m Cas,” he says softly. “And there’s a winter storm warning for tonight.”  “Hmm?” Dean looks up from where he’s been pulling off his gloves, stuffing them into his pants pocket when he realizes his peacoat is still slung over his arm, wet and dirty from Cas’ feet. “Oh, uh, nice to officially meet you, Cas,” he replies, slightly awkward. He clears his throat and gestures around the elevator. “So you thought a day with a winter storm warning on the horizon was a good time to take a dip in an outdoor pool?” Even Dean has to wince at his own weak attempt at humor, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. He’s almost afraid to look at Cas’ reaction, but when he opens one eye, he finds the man staring back, amused. He is cute, Dean thinks reflexively, internally slapping himself for going there but unable to completely disregard the way the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s trying not to smile. As Dean watches, Cas brings his hands to his mouth and blows on them, rubbing one palm against the other with much-improved dexterity that makes Dean feel nothing but relief. The digits on his hands are still bright red and look very cold, but at least he’s able to move them. “No,” he says slowly, like Dean might be the idiot here, and hell, that’s possible. The corner of his lip quirks up. “Do you have any idea what it’s like on the streets of Chicago when there’s four feet of snow on the ground and four more to come? Risking hypothermia from the water would have been worth it to have a warm place to stay tonight and perhaps tomorrow. The shelters are overflowing, there is nowhere for a homeless man to go tonight. Trust that I would have been hypothermic and in danger no matter what I did.”  Dean can’t help it, he gapes a little. Those are the most words Cas has said since they met, though to be fair, a lot of their time together has been spent spent trying to get in out of the cold as quickly as possible. “Oh,” he replies lamely, feeling ashamed for thinking—even for a second—that Cas might have been stupid or that his situation wasn’t as dire as it clearly is.  The elevator dings their arrival and they make their way to Dean’s room, Cas still moving slow and stiff, his expression pinched whenever he has to put weight on his left foot. “Cas,” Dean ventures, not wanting to overstep but genuinely concerned about the guy. “Are you sure you don’t think a hospital might be—” “No,” Cas replies sharply, leaning against the hallway wall and shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t afford it nor do I care for the way the ER staff look at me when they find out I’m without a home.” The thick carpet and soft lighting mute what would otherwise have been quite a loud declaration, and Cas seems a little put out by that. He glares at Dean as if in challenge, but Dean just puts up his hands. “Your call.”  When they arrive at Dean’s door, both of them pause at the same time, catching each other’s eyes as if to say, well now what?  “Dean,” Cas starts, hesitating. “What exactly are we doing here? What—” he swallows. “What is it that you’re offering me?”  If it takes Dean a few extra moments to reply, a lingering several seconds of observing Cas’ face, so surprisingly open and hopeful, so sue him. “I don’t know yet,” he answers carefully and Cas almost looks concerned by that so he’s quick to add, “No expectations. I just… I thought maybe we could figure out what you need. A night in a warm room, some good food, some awesome company—if I do say so myself.” Dean winks and Cas cracks a smile, a real one that lights up his whole face. “Awesome,” Dean repeats, not entirely sure what he’s saying anymore and once again having to shake himself back to the present. “One thing at a time. Let’s make sure you aren’t gonna lose any fingers and toes, and we’ll go from there. Make it up as we go.”  When Dean slips his card into the reader, steps inside and holds the door open for Cas, the man is still smiling as he accepts Dean’s invitation and crosses the threshold. The door closes with a soft thud behind them.

***

I don’t have a taglist except for @ltleflrt, who maybe doesn’t even want to be tagged anymore 😂 , so if you’d liked to be tagged when if i post ficlets, please just comment and say so. :) this is not x-posted to AO3.

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#castielslostwings #tumblr fic #deancas #destiel #destiel ficlet #drabble #i don't know the difference between a drabble and a ficlet sorry #i'm dumb #winter storm warning #hurt castiel #homeless castiel #sandover dean #corporate dean #idk what im doing #help am i doing this right #tumblr prompts

[battlestory]

BATTLE ROYALE: MANGA

Newsarama’s article on Battle Royale manga and an interview with editor Mark Paniccia and adapter Keith Giffen. Originally published on Newsarama’s website in 2003.

The five stages of becoming a warrior on The Program.

In May (2003), Tokyopop will shrug off the image of a company that mainly publishes shojo manga with the debut of Battle Royale, the manga based on the highly controversial novel and movie. Newsarama spoke with editor Mark Paniccia and adapter Keith Giffen for more.

First things first, make no mistake. Tokyopop is publishing Battle Royale with its 'Mature Ages 18+' advisory on it. It is not for anyone under 18, and even some readers over that age will find it a tough read.

Combining themes from Lord of the Flies and The Running Man, creator Koushun Takami wrote the novel Battle Royale in 1999. The novel was then adapted into a movie by the late director Kinji Fukasaku and has spawned legions of fans. Takami went on to write the manga of the same name, collaborating with artist Masayuki Taguchi. The series is still being published in Japan.

                                           ▼ READ MORE ▼

The novel, movie, and now manga have polarized readers in Japan, due to the manga's content. In a nutshell, the "Battle Royale" itself is "The Program," a television show in a morally and sociologically bankrupt, Stalinistic future that picks random classes of 9th grade students and puts them on an abandoned island for a televised fight to the death.

The future depicted by Takami resonates with a 1984 (or current-day America, depending on your viewpoint) feel - the students who are enlisted into the game are doing their patriotic duty, and the state is very proud of them and their "willing" sacrifice.

Mr. Kamon - administrator of The Program

The island is divided into grids, and the students are all given kits, which include one weapon, as well as the basic necessities, such as first aid, a compass, a map, field rations, and water; and explosive collars which detonate if a student tries to escape or goes into a forbidden grid. The beaches of the island are guarded by soldiers, and from time to time, random grid squares are declared danger zones, and after a given time, the explosive collars of any students in the square will detonate. If the students band together, after a period of 24 hours with no kill, all the explosive collars will detonate. Forty-two students begin the game, last student alive at the end of three days wins.

Battle Royale's editor knows what you're thinking. "You're right, that's pretty depressing," Paniccia said. "But the themes that play throughout it - friendship, trust, loyalty, faith - keep you glued to the page because you can truly relate to some of the stuff the teens are experiencing.

"We can all remember having a crush on someone, or wanting to be like the cool guy, or having a friend who stood up for you. Now you're thrown into a situation where you have to kill the girl you like, or the guy who stuck up for you or the kid you admire and that's where you really get drawn into the series."

In the first installment, students who stand up against authority of The Program are killed, alliances are formed, and despite the hopelessness and virtual nilhism of the story, a sense of optimism sneaks in - maybe the story's two protagonists will beat the odds and will both come out the other end alive.

It's a unique story, and that was one of the things that made Tokyopop want to bring it to American audiences. "I can honestly say I've never seen anything like it before," Paniccia said. "It's a really strong story with strong messages and it's not afraid to use really, really strong images. Tokyopop wanted to publish something that would strike a nerve. My nerves are struck."

Choices, choices...

Tokyopop isn't pushing the project out for its salacious value alone - not by any means. While, as with all product they carry, retailers will be responsible for the location and clientele allowed to purchase Battle Royale, Tokyopop is sensitive to concerns over the content. "My jaw dropped when I flipped through the pages of the first volume," Paniccia said. "I'd have to say I was more than a bit concerned about the extremity of the content. But thanks to Keith's experience and his compulsively creative mind, the adaptation of this book is in good hands."

That's not saying it's cleaned up or sanitized for American audiences by any means, though. If anything, Giffen delighted in aiming the disturbing nature of the story directly between the eyes of an American audience. But more on that in a minute - according to Paniccia, Giffen was a needed ingredient in the Tokyopop version of Battle Royale from the beginning, something that will hopefully allow the publisher to make a strong presence in comic book shops.

"Who else could this? In the beginning, one of the things we thought we needed was a recognizable comic book writer on the series," Paniccia said. "I figured the content would turn off the book retailers and the comic shops would be our best outlet. When I found out from Keith's Dominion partner, Ross Richie, that he was a big fan of the Battle Royale movie, I called him and we talked about it for a while. Keith's reputation for controversy and his enthusiasm for the property were the perfect ingredients. And thus, soon, people will hold in their hands the most infamous manga in history."

For adapting the work, Giffen was given a tight Japanese-to-English translation of the story, but his assignment was by no means just to tweak a translation. "I told him to do what he felt he had to do," Paniccia said. "I told him to Giffenize it."

It was a charge Giffen was more than happy to accept. "It's a good story that Takami is telling," Giffen said. "What I do is go in and make bad scenes that much worse. I loved Battle Royale the movie, and also love the manga. I just wanted to do it right. I wanted to do justice to it, and I knew I couldn't get away with doing a straight translation, because it would be horrifyingly bad.

"A lot of times when you work on Japanese books, you realize that they have a different pacing from us, and they also have different visual and narrative shorthand," Giffen continued. "For example, somebody may be looking at someone else with gossamer eyes and thinking good thoughts about them, and the word balloons will just say the person's name - over and over, or spend two pages trying to get the name out. That wouldn't play with American readers.

Deceiving a Friend.

"Battle Royale had stuff like, "I have to kill you first, because you would have killed me otherwise." The translation is right on the nose. You can't give that to an American audience. Specifically, in the scene where the wicked girl almost slices her friend's head off with a sickle - in the translation, she said, 'I had to kill you before you killed me.' No way - I changed it to 'Fashion tip, red's not your color,' as the dead girl lies on the floor in a growing pool of blood.

"There was another line, during the orientation where the students want to know what Mr. Kamon did to the lady at the orphanage. The scene of what he did is pretty graphic, and the original translation had him saying, 'Oh, I sexually assaulted her.'

"I wanted to make it worse. I changed it to, 'With the right persuasion, she was more than willing to share it around.' Not quite as literal as the translation, but it clearly, clearly expresses just how sleazy and reprehensible Kamon is. That's the way it is with all the graphic content in the book - it's there, and some of it is even of a sexual nature, but it's not like you're going to enjoy it for its own sake. It's my job to make sure you don't."

It's a tightrope, Giffen explained, that he has to walk in adapting the work for American readers. Go too far, and you can end up writing your own story. Don't go far enough, and you end up with a jumbled mess that halts the story.

WARNING! VERY GRAPHIC IMAGE - the price of being deceived

"To do this right, you've got to keep the basic flavor of the original work - this is a guy who wrote the original novel who's doing this, so you can't go in and completely rework it and change it around, but you've got to filter it for American audiences," Giffen said. "You've got to massage it a little bit and see if you can move it just to a place where an American audience will appreciate it.

"Being able to go in there and while keeping the tone, tweaking it a little bit, I'm able to put my voice in. Rather than making it 'mine' though I'm doing a lovely two-part harmony with Takami. It's not my story, so I try to remain true to the spirit of the work. Sometimes that means dropping a colloquialism or adding blocks of copy that will allow the American audience to understand it the same way a Japanese audience would. The key rule that I always keep in mind though is: don't violate the story, don't violate the work."

But even for the creator of Lobo, Battle Royale can occasionally offer Giffen some material that is a challenge to take from simply bad to worse. "There are scenes coming up that poleaxed me," Giffen said. "This is intense shit. Brutally intense, and it does freeze me in my tracks sometimes. I'm no stranger to the gutter, but there are two scenes coming up where I had to call Mark and ask if he was sure we wanted to reprint them."

At the same time though, Giffen echoed Panaccia's sentiments on the work and how, while the violence can be frankly, distasteful at points, the emotional connection Takami creates between the readers and characters keeps you hooked.

"It's not just kids slaughtering one another," Giffen said. "It's fascinating because there's all this background there of who these kids are, and why they react the way they do to this horrific situation. For example, when Akamatsu climbs on the roof with the crossbow and becomes the game's first killer, Takami takes the time to show you why the gentlest, nicest kid in the class has become this cold-blooded killer.

"The most reprehensible acts are not by any means excused, and they're not always explained, but you see incidents in the person's past where, because of particular life experiences, characters act in certain ways when confronted with this horrific situation. It's really well thought out."

While he's able to admire the approach Takami took with the characters, Giffen also reiterates Paniccia's admonition about the series. "This is in no way, shape or form for kids," Giffen said. "This really, really is an adult comic, just due to the intensity of the content, from the ideas behind it, to the graphic depictions of the actions. There's more than just the violence, there's more than just the controversy. There's a lot of stuff going on here. It's not for kids. It's a multi-layered story. It sure as hell ain't your daddy's comics, I'll give you that much.

"But maybe it will open a few doors. My son and his friends are in the 18-19 year old group, and they're dying to see it. There's a real hunger for manga out there, and so far Tokyopop has managed to corner the female market, as well as the manga enthusiast market. Battle Royale can kick open that door even farther - it's much, much more accessible a book to the straight, standard comic book fan than a lot of other manga product out there. It's very linear, very straightforward. The art is obviously manga, but no so far out there that the American sensibility falls apart. It's going to be an interesting project. Even if it's not the most popular book they publish, it's certainly going to be the most infamous. That said though, kudos to Tokyopop for publishing the manga series of a property that the American film companies were terrified to release the movie of. It puts Warners and Sony and Fox to shame."

With the first volume due in May, Paniccia said that Tokyopop has the rights to reprint the first eight volumes of the manga, and he's planning in his adapter sticking around for the run.

"Keith seems to be having the time of his life so I hope he sticks with it for the grand finale," Paniccia said. "It wouldn't be the same without him."

And that sounds fine by Giffen. "It's a kick when you get to contribute in some way to something that you originally came upon as a fan, and just love, as I do with Battle Royale," Giffen said. "I was happy to contribute however little I could to Battle Royale, and wouldn't mind give some other manga series a try. I just wish I could get my hands on Love Hina…"

#battle royale #batoru rowaiaru #バトル・ロワイアル #manga #horror manga #gore manga #mangacap #keith giffen #takami koushun #Masayuki Taguchi #tokyopop #interview #text

[nelllraiser]

the girl who cried wolf | layla & nell

LOCATION: coffee plus. PARTIES: @nelllraiser and @laylacooke​ SUMMARY: nell finally nails down a bounty that’s plagued her for months, and learns as much as she can. layla is nothing but GOOD AND KIND.

To think that after all this time...Nell’s quarry was in White Crest of all places. She still remembered getting the request from the Cooke family. After all, it hadn’t been that long ago. Still, she’d been coming up on a year since the day they’d asked her to track down their tragically, now murderous daughter and— well— make sure she’d never commit another murder again. It’d been infuriating the way that Layla never seemed to stand still, and by the time Nell got to the cities and towns the young werewolf had been staying in she’d been gone. And then her own return to White Crest had slowed the search, what with all the things happening in her home town that seemed to turn it on its head. It had only been recently that she’d remembered Layla Cooke once more, and the contract she’d made with her parents. Imagine her surprised when the tracking spell had finally led her to her very own backyard. A new sort of fire filled Nell’s belly. Did this girl think she could come to her town and let loose her need for blood? No. That wasn’t something Nell would be accepting any time soon. So with her silver knives tucked away, she entered into Coffee Plus, the trail ending here. It was easy enough to spot Layla. After all, the pictures her parents had provided were helpful. She was young, and Nell supposed that should be sad within itself but— murder didn’t have to have an age. So she waited until the girl’s coffee was called out, and then made her move. Walking forward with purpose, she waited until the girl turned around, coffee now in hand, to collide, causing the drink to spill all over the two of them. Nell’s face instantly turned apologetic, eyes wide. “Shit! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Layla had, ironically, found safety in White Crest with a pack of wolves, who had come to accept her. If it hadn’t been for Ariana’s kindness, Layla had feared she would’ve been dead by now or a plaything for the creepy mimes that were taking over the town. She had still had a lot of adjusting to do, but she was finally finding stability, including being a part of the working class. One of the perks? Being able to purchase her favorite coffee drink. The one Frankie used to surprise her with all the time. Though, it tasted a little different, it was still a nice reminder of the good parts about her past. As she turned to leave, she immediately collided with someone in front of her. Luckily, iced coffee didn’t burn or there might have been a problem. However, her one highlight of the day seemed to be all over the pair and the floor, “Fine...are you okay? I totally didn’t see you! I’m sorry!” Frantically turning back around, Layla asked for some napkins to try and start cleaning up the mess, “Iced coffee is the last thing you want drying on any surface, including your clothes. With napkins in hand, she gave some to the woman in front of her, before kneeling down to try and wipe up the mess.

Nell was lucky the girl had chosen the iced coffee. Much less pain involved in the initial collision. Of course, she would have taken the hit of hot coffee if need be while going after a target, especially one that had evaded her for so frustratingly long. But none of that annoyance was shown in her demeanor now, her face looking carefully apologetic. “No, no it was my fault!” she said back to the other girl, a generally normal reaction to two supposed strangers running into each other over coffee. “I’m fine, really! Shit- sorry about your clothes.” The words were as heartfelt as the first ones she’d said, not willing to raise suspicion when it’d take her this long to find Layla in the first place. “Here, let me get you another coffee, yeah? And pay for like- dry cleaning or something. Whatever else people say when stuff like this happens.” A seemingly awkward chuckle ended her words as she accepted the napkins, also bending to help get rid of the mess she’d intentionally made.

Layla continued to try and clean up the mess on the floor, and when she was finished, she moved onto her own clothes trying to dry up some of the latte. Tossing the soiled napkins in a nearby trash can, she put her attention back on the woman in front of her, “You know, if you really are insistent on doing something the coffee’s fine. I don’t expect you to pay for drycleaning. That’s way too much. And even still I feel bad about the coffee. What if we just walk and talk. I was trying to find my way to the library around here, but I’m so lost.” Layla couldn’t smell anything different about this woman. She had encountered other wolves, hunters, and vampires, and those were distinct, but nothing about Nell seemed any different than the person sitting across the small cafe. She had to be safe to be around her right?

Letting a little sigh of relief relax her shoulders, Nell quickly rid herself of her own napkins, continuing to slip into the role she was playing with another chagrined little laugh. “To be honest I don’t even know if people dry clean anymore. I sort of just...panicked and said what every sitcom character ever has said.” Her smile was easy, welcoming even. “I can walk and talk.” A nod rocked her, as if she were gaining confidence. “If you add one more thing onto the walking and talking though, I can’t promise I’ll be able to keep up,” she joked. “The library? What were you looking for there? I can definitely help you find it, though! I know where most everything is here.” Asking the barista for another drink, the worker seemed happy to oblige. “Does that mean you’re new here?”

Layla was easily starting to like Nell, despite not knowing her true motives. The woman seemed nice enough. And with the safety she was beginning to feel in town and with her new family, she felt letting her guard down to make some friends was an okay thing. “I think offering to replace the drink is more than enough, but I would be the same way probably. I just don’t want to hurt anybody you know? Or make them sad, I mean unless they were out to talk crap about me or threaten me or something like that. But let’s face it, my bark is a lot worse than my bite.” Layla definitely talked a big game online, but in reality, she was just a pup who was still trying to find her way in the world, “Walking and talking is my forte. That’s how I mostly had to communicate with my friends in high school, because the bell would ring before we could even get across the school to our next classes. But I promise not to add anything else, like texting or skipping or something.” She laughed, “Nothing in particular, but it has been a while since I’ve read a good book.” Okay, that was a lie. Supernatural creatures. She needed to know more if she were going to survive in this town. “Is it that obvious? Do I have new girl stamped on my forehead?”

Nell nodded as if Layla were speaking to her very soul, though she wasn’t sure exactly how much of Layla’s words she believed. Her parents had certainly done a very good job of making her out to be a cold blooded killer, and it was hard to believe that she wouldn’t want to hurt anybody after being presented with all their evidence. “For sure! Of course! I mean- there’s already enough pain in this world, right?” Even if she hadn’t been acting, Nell didn’t believe the words. Sometimes the only, and best way to solve something ended in blood and violence. In the next moment she was laughing along with Layla, handing over the drink that the worker had finished making to replace the old one to the werewolf. “Why were passing periods so long, anyway? It’s almost like they didn’t want us to socialize. Can you imagine? The audacity,” she joked. Of course...Nell hadn’t done much socializing, not with her reputation in highschool, and general lack of friends. But this was just another piece of a part she could play for getting Layla to trust her, a way to find common ground. “How thoughtful of you, though,” she continued to tease, figuring they’d broken enough ice for her to slip one in. “There’s definitely plenty of books in the library, though. Even though it’s a small town, the college makes it up its game by default of being here. Wait- do you go there? Is that why you’re new here?” It’d be good to know Layla’s typical haunts. Another chuckle and Nell was speaking again, “Nah, it’s not that. I just figured from not knowing where the library is and all- you know? I’m sure you’ll have that White Crest stank on you soon enough.”

“That, is, unfortunately, so true.” Layla noticed the drink coming her way and reached out for it. Taking a sip was like a relief. Her taste-buds jumped at the Coconut Milk Cold Brew, “Whoever said coffee should be a thing, hit the nail on the head. Are you sure I can’t get you anything before we leave?” She glanced back to the barista before looking at the woman standing next to her. “And you know, I have no idea. I thought you were supposed to learn how to be your own person in high school, and part of that takes socializing. But I am just so glad to be done.” Layla moved out of the way so other people could come up to the counter to order, “As for college? No, I just needed a change, and I ended up here. I, mean, I would like to go to college, but I can’t afford it right now. So free library books it is.” She laughed softly at the comment about White Crest, “I guess that’s a good stank to have? What about you? Have you lived here long?”

Nell chuckled carefully along with Layla once again, being careful to keep her amicable nature looking alive and well. “Oh- I already have a muffin!” she quickly lied. “I wasn’t really needing any coffee today, but I was passing by and it just smelled so good. But thank you.” That part wasn’t entirely false. If Nell smelled something good, she was often hard-pressed to walk past whatever was being made without buying something. “Honestly, I don’t think highschool has any right to have denied us our right to explore our identities between classes,” she joked. Seeing as Layla had gotten her coffee, Nell began to lead the way towards the door. “A change is always nice. Sorry about uh- not being able to do college yet, though,” she added with a put on air of sheepishness. “Maybe you could get financial aid or something? But I’ve lived here all my life. Born and raised. The stank is...both good and bad,” she finished with a little laugh. Their coffee in hand, Nell continued to escort Layla to the library, intent on finding out as much as she could about the werewolf on the way there. After all, she’d need to know all she could before making her final move.

#chatzy #ch:layla #the girl who cried wolf

[youngjusticeslut]

Weakness

Fandom: She Ra and the Princesses of Power Links: FF.net // AO3 Characters:  Catra, mentions of Adora and Shadow Weaver Ships: Mentions of past Catradora Summary: Catra deals with her lingering feelings as she recovers from the portal. Rating: K+ Word Count: 1,632 Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters.

I can help you.

The hallways of the Fright Zone, once looming, bleak and immaculate, now lay covered in debris. The younger cadets cleaned up the mess, supervised by various Force Captains. Cleaning was beneath them, it seemed. Their pride came at a cost; little fingers could only lift and carry so much rubble. It would be ages before the Fright Zone was restored to its former glory.  

Catra supposed she had herself to blame.

At the moment, however, she was beyond guilt. The left side of her face ached and was beginning to swell. Her right arm tingled from the loss in the portal realm. A ringing noise permeated her ears, heightening her overall discomfort.  

Above all, the worst consequence was the memories. If Catra allowed herself to linger, she could still feel the softness of Adora’s hand in her own. The fleeting admiration in her blue eyes when things had been perfect. So perfect. The good memories didn’t last as long as she wanted them to. The kindness in Adora’s eyes would eventually change to confusion, then unfiltered rage, narrowing at her in a way that meant there would be no going back. Adora would never forgive her.

I can offer you a way out.

Her bedroom was only a short walk from Hordak’s sanctum, but between the destruction, the whispers and glances of the cadets cleaning up, and the burning pit in her stomach, it felt like ages before Catra finally reached it. She was careful to close the door as soft as she could, refusing to betray a hint of her bubbling emotions. Never again. In that regard, Catra was willing to accept all the blame.  

A sharp pain enveloped her arm, white-hot and sudden. She growled, her fingernails buried in her shoulder in an attempt to contain it, but the past few hours had taught her that there was nothing to do but wait. Slowly, the sensation dulled from a burning flame to a content ember, warm and not nearly comforting. When it had finally subsided, Catra let go of her arm, ignoring the sharp sting in her eyes from the refusal to cry.

No more.

Long ago, she’d been mocked for her tears. Catra didn’t remember much of where she’d come from, or her life before the Fright Zone. But she remembered the tears. Upon arriving, all she did was cry. Force Captains had punished her. Other cadets had teased her, dubbing her ‘crybaby’ until she’d grown bold enough to attack them. Shadow Weaver had taken a specific displeasure in her tears, often subduing Catra in agonizing waves until she had bigger problems to worry about, like breathing.

Still, it seemed that she had never quite learned her lesson. A dumb decision, really. It would have been in her best interest to learn. To stop succumbing to her pitiful emotions and toughen herself up once and for all. Yet despite the punishments, the names, the general disdain others had for everything about her, Catra had allowed herself to remain vulnerable. In this vulnerability, she had Adora.

Adora’s love had kept her going. When there were tears, Adora would be there with a comforting word and fingers running through her hair. With her, she could laugh and let herself be cared for. Within reason, of course. The harder she fought, the more Adora cared. Every fight was met with a scolding, every cut and bruise patched up with small, nimble fingers. The longer Catra thought about it, the more she wanted to collapse on her bed and let the grief overwhelm her.

She purposefully turned from her bed, yanking off her face-protector and tossing it to the side. Adora was gone; she’d left her. Adora left her behind to become a princess, to frolic around and save the day with her new friends. Like Catra had never even existed in the first place. Maybe she shouldn’t have; the world would certainly be better off without her. No one really needed her around. Shadow Weaver had Adora. Adora had her little friends and her new princess squad. Not even Hordak truly needed her around.

Her teeth clenched together, and she stopped herself just mere seconds before slamming her fist against the wall. Catra could make herself useful. Forget Adora. Forget Shadow Weaver. Hordak would see what she could do, especially now that she’d sent Entrapta away. Scorpia still listened to her, as did the rest of her Crimson Waste crew. There was still hope, still a way she could make her place in this world.

“They’ll see,” she muttered to herself, pushing herself off the wall and making her way towards the mirror. The reflection that met her seemed someone new, a stranger. She held herself straight, no longer slouching. Her eyes, once wide and clamoring for approval now seemed hardened, more cautious. It was as if she’d aged years in a matter of hours; she respected it. Yet, something was off.

Catra’s fingers found themselves in her gray tufts, tugging the short strands with a frown. The sensation reminded her of the last time she’d done this. Shadow Weaver had pulled her in, only to use her. It hadn’t been the first time, but this time it left a mark on her. This time, it had been a personal attack. A weakness, left and exploited for Shadow Weaver’s personal gain. For her to get back to Adora.

Don’t make me destroy you too.

Within moments she flung herself towards her dresser, rummaging in the first drawer for her knife from the Crimson Waste. How could she have missed this? She’d been so focused on the portal, on Adora, that she hadn’t even thought to consider Shadow Weaver’s claim on her. The moment the knife was in her hand, she returned to the mirror, anger shaking her to the core. She could still hear the soothing words. The delicate touch, oh so tender and sweet. Everything she’d ever wanted to hear and feel finally coming true.

Catra grasped a handful of the gray locks and brought the knife to it, hacking it forcefully and ignoring the pain. She refused to allow herself any weakness, not anymore. Not if she was to make something of herself.

As she cut, she heard Adora’s laughter. Flashes of their childhood surrendered themselves to her memory. Nights together, laying side by side as Adora smoothed out the tangled knots in her hair. Fighting each other, Catra growing stronger but Adora always having the upper hand. Shadow Weaver’s pets and praises and promises, all to her favorite ward and leaving Catra untouched, unloved.

Breathing hard, Catra hacked each gray lock to bits, everything in her mind screaming for the memories to go away. She didn’t want them anymore. She didn’t want to feel this way anymore, and not ever again. If there was anything left of her heart, it would no longer cry for Adora. It would never long for an unattainable love again, not from her, and especially not from Shadow Weaver. Not when it brought nothing with it but heartache.

When she was finished, Catra set the knife down. Her chest puffed up and down, needing air, but she ignored it in favor of staring at her handiwork. What remained of the gray tufts was nothing short of a disaster, abysmally uneven and comical to look at. Still, it made her smile. They were gone. Later, she’d steal Scorpia’s clippers and neaten it up. For now, she remained content. Her face-protector would hide the damage, for now. If anyone felt bold enough to say anything, she’d put them on the next transport to Beast Island.

Catra ran her hands over her hair, smoothing down the wild tangles and taming it into place. Not a bad look, really. It was long-past time she finally got herself together. Everything once important to her was gone, lost forever in a series of events she could never change. With nothing more to lose, she was ready to change. After sliding on her protector again, she smirked to herself; for once, Adora had been right.

She’d made her choices. Now it was time to live with them.

#spop #She-Ra #catra #she ra and the princesses of power #adora #shadow weaver #spop fics #this hurt #ngl #like ow #but she's such a badass queen in s4 #so I had to explore that transition a bit

[greennightspider]

Fairytale #2: CinderEric (Cinderella)

Author’s Note: There will be two or three parts to this Fairytale saga, and even though its written in second person the main character’s name is Elle. I will be doing a full masterlist for these Fairytales, as well as adding them to my main masterlist.

Summary: A hotheaded Dauntless initiate has some steam to blow off. What better way than to blow it on one of the biggest nights of the Dauntless year, with one of the fiercest bigshots around? 

Chapter 2

Eric x Elle

Fuck those little shits.

You continued scrubbing the floor with a vengeance, imagining your roomates’ faces in the reflection of soap and suds underneath your red hands.

I know Frigg rigged that shit.

*scrub scrub scrub*

The only sounds around you were your own frustrated grunts as you finished cleaning the last section of the Dauntless concrete floor.

You had unfortunately bit off more than you could chew when you challenged two older Dauntless initiates for bumping you in the mess hall, which resulted in a lost bet and you on your knees scrubbing away.

“You shouldn’t’ve picked a fight with us tonight of all nights sootface, you could’ve tried your luck at the Brawl.” The two Dauntless boys sneered as they jogged away, not wanting to miss the show.

Tonight was a special night. Every turn of the season (or whenever the higher ups felt like it) there was a tournament held named the Dauntless Brawl. It was the Dauntless version of a ball or a social, where opponents would fight one on one until the last man (or woman) was standing. And anyone who could take that title was named “king”.

Of course, the “King” was also granted one wish; access to the best gear, a better apartment, you name it you could ask for it.

The reward matched the risk, as it was open to all Dauntless, whether it be captain, commander or solider. The only ones who weren’t allowed were initiates, as they weren’t full blooded Dauntless yet and could even use their wish to better their rankings in the initiate stages.

However, you knew that most of the initiates were going to sneak in to watch anyway, which the guards didn’t mind as long as you weren’t annoying didn’t get in the way.

But here I am, cleaning up the stinking floor.

You threw your wet rag against the wall and watched it slide down into your bucket. Finally done.

But the scrubbing hadn’t put a dent in your seething anger. And as you sat their on your hands and knees, a wicked idea popped into your head.

Heh. Maybe I just need to blow off some steam.

After you went back to your own quarters and changed into your fighting gear, hastily shoved on your boots, tied your hair in a tight ponytail, you headed in the direction of the loudest brawl in all of Dauntless.

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The roars of the crowd rebounded off the stone walls of the arena. Dauntless men and women lined the borders of the large room. There were multiple balcony rings around the arena; one at ground level, one at the first floor, and then the top balconies which were only home to the initiates who had snuck in to get whatever view they could.

Down in the arena two guards dragged yet another unconscious body out of the ring and into the medical facility. However, this only fuelled the adrenaline pumping through everyone’s veins. That, and alcohol.

Eric wasn’t much of a smiler. The only time he would smile was when he was dripping with sarcasm, or when he was about to slam someone’s head into a wall. But he couldn’t help a smug grin that graced his usually tight lips. He circled around the arena as they dragged his last opponent out of the Brawl

Eric stalked the square ring like he owned it. And he did own it. It was a shock to everyone when the Dauntless leader decided to join in the fray this season, but not so much of a surprise that he barrelled his way to the top.  He roared at the crowd and the crowd roared back. Eric couldn’t say that being on top didn’t feel great.

As you neared the large double doors to the Brawl you saw two guards cart a person on a stretcher way to the medical wing. And surely, this should have been a warning. Given you pause.

But you did no such thing as you tied your bandanna tight around your mouth and nose, slammed the doors open and made your way into the crowd.

The announcer walked into the ring with a mic and circled the crowd. “Soldiers! All hail the undefeated champion of the Brawl!”

You pushed your way through the crowd so that you could get a better look at this ‘champion’, realizing it was the blue eyed prick who thought he was better than everyone else.

“Who would dare, challenge the pride of the Dauntless leaders? The merciless prince of the Brawl?”

“I would!”

The whole arena went silent. Everyone stopped and stepped back from the lone tiny hand that stuck up straight in the air in the crowd. And because of that you had a clear view of Eric. And vice versa.

The announcer looked at you and coughed awkwardly. “And who are you?”

“I’m the one who’s gonna kick his ass.” You quickly took in all the eyes staring at you as you walked to the ring, but quickly averted them down when you looked up and saw your fellow initiates starting from the top balconies with open mouths.

You pulled yourself up into the ring and Eric laughed at your size. “Nice try cinder-face, maybe go back to sweeping the chimney at home.

The crowd started laughing. You swiped your fingers on your cheek and realised you still had soot on your face from the cleaning. As you watched Eric walk away you didn’t think you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“Why? Afraid you’re gonna lose princess?”

You swore you could see Eric’s back muscles tighten like you had done it yourself with a wrench. But you were still fired up from losing your bet and too far gone to go back now.

The announcer looked between you and Eric for a second before shrugging. “All right, it’s your funeral cinder-face. SOLDIERS! WE HAVE A CONTENDERRRRRR.”

“WILL IT BE AN UNDERDOG UPSET? OR WILL IT BECOME ERIC’S THIRTEENTH WIN FOR THE NIGHT?” The announcer shouted to the crowd.

You were snapped out of your anger for a minute before processing the announcer’s words. “Hol up, did you say thirteen??”

But you didn’t have time to get your question answered as the bell sounded for the fight to begin.

Both of you took no time in circling the ring. You watched Eric’s footing. It was heavy, meaning that while he wasn’t fast, it would be hard to knock him down.

While you were by no means the strongest girl around, you were gifted when it came to grappling, a product of your jiu-jitsu training. You didn’t have to beat Eric to the ground, you just had to be in the right place at the right time.

As soon as your eyes shifted to his feet Eric immediately moved towards you with a mean right hook, which you dodged just in the nick of time.

Didn’t look like Eric was interested in playing nice just because you were a girl.

You used the close proximity to quickly wrap yourself around his body and lift yourself onto his back, leaning back so Eric had to stumble back.

Eric was quick to adapt though, grabbing your legs and landing full force on his back, slamming you between his body and the mat beneath him. He should have got off you quicker, but Eric had assumed that winding you would have stopped your movements.

He was wrong.

As soon as he lifted himself off of you, you spun your body all the way to the other side of the ring, landing so that you were on all fours facing him. Well, all threes.

Not being a stranger to getting slammed on your back in training you clutched one hand around your stomach, as you willed your body and mind to calm down. And as you got your breath back you realized that.

Eric chuckled from the other side of the ring as you made your way towards him, and he almost laughed when you looked like you were trying to punch him in the gut, to which he foolishly let you because he thought it would be hilarious to watch. However, as you drew closer you crouched your body even lower and made a grab for his arm. You then pulled his arm towards you with one foot jammed in his torso so he would topple over.

“Fuck!” Eric yelled as he realized you are just trying to get him off balance. As he fell you made sure that he landed on his back with your grip still on his right arm. You quickly snaked yourself around his full arm and started to twist and pull, leaving Eric to roar in pain.

The whole arena was in a wild frenzy at this point, mixed screams for Eric to get the fuck up and ones for you to take him down. Eric was respected, but that didn’t mean people didn’t secretly want to see him put in his place.

And if there’s nothing the Dauntless loved more than a champion it was an underdog.

You held on to his grip for dear life, careful that you didn’t snap the bone but trying not to give him any leeway. You were near the edge of the mat, your own frustrated grunts uttered through gritted teeth as your head went back. But as it went back, you saw a figure coming towards you through the crowd, a rather, familiar figure.

“Danny?”

Your ever loyal and best friend Danny managed to push through the crowd up to your face. He had skin a tad darker than yours, short curly hair and was scrawny to boot. Which made you two a good match since his brains made up for your brawns.

“Elle you idiot what the hell are you doing?!” He hissed.

“Letting off some steam what the fuck does it look like?!” You grunted back.

Danny got closer to your ear to where he thought Eric couldn’t hear him. “And what happens if you win and they figure out you’re an initiate?”

Your eyes widened as you realised maaaybe you hadn’t thought this all the way through. “Uhm…”

“And did you also forget the midnight curfew check??”

Shit.

“Throw the fight Elle, its your only shot.” Danny whispered as he disappeared back into the crowd before any of your supervisors could spot him. Turning back to the problem at hand inch my inch you let your grip slip, hoping to make it look as convincing as possible. C’mon c’mon take the bait.

And sure enough Eric did. He managed to break your grip and twist himself so now he was on top of you face to face. And staring face to face with a furious Eric was enough to scare you shitless.

“I surrender!”

The Dauntless crowd uttered mixed cheers and looks of confusion as the same hand that challenged Eric was now held in defeat. Eric’s own fist which was aimed at your face landed into the mat centimetres from your ear. 

For a dozen slow seconds Eric did not let up off you, staring into your eyes and you assumed was also your soul. But as soon as the announcer declared Eric the champion you wriggled out from under him, rolled off and out of the ring and scrambled your way through the crowd in a hurry.

Looking at your watch it was 11.45, so you had no time to waste even though you didn’t notice that your left boot was missing. You didn’t care you just took the other one off and ran with it under your arm.

While looking like a coward was the last thing you wanted to do, it played to your advantage as you tugged the bandanna down and ran through the hallway to your dorm.

One, that no one else but Danny would ever believe that it was you running with your tail between your legs. And two? You’d rather be talked about as a coward than be factionless.

But as Eric was declared champion of the Brawl he looked down at the boot on the ground with a vengeance.

Knowing one way or another he would find you. And get even.

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Taglist: @therealcalicali @themusingofagothicsoul @tomarisela @mbaku-babygirl @laketaj24 @myboyfriendgiriboy @every-jai (lemme know if you wanna be added)

#eric coulter fanfiction #eric fanfiction #eric divergent #eric divergent fanfiction #divergent fanfiction #divergent fanfic #eric coulter fanfic #eric coulter x oc #eric coulter x woc #greennightspider

[renegade-skywalker]

Out of the Abyss, Chapter 18

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2  / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18: Hedging Bets

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen (now going by Vale) continues to clean up after Revan and Malak’s mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan’s mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond)

Chapter Summary: Now in transit, Mission and Erebus head towards the next leg of their journeys while Brianna comes to the final chapter on hers... for now.

Also found on AO3 | fanfiction.net

3951 BBY, Hyperspace Mission

“I need you to get to Coruscant as quickly as possible, or anywhere Mid-Rim if you can,” Carth was near manic now, his nerves apparent even on the hologram, “Did you get a good look at the ship?”

“It’s a Star Forge Centurion-class battlecruiser, that’s for sure,” Orex replied, arms crossed and voice gruff as usual, “Though it looked pretty beat up. Not sure how that thing was still in orbit.”

“What’s on Coruscant, Carth?” Mission asked, already impatient, “I don’t even have anything to deliver to Bastila, the Exile still has the… erm, the package, or whatever it is.”

“I realize that, but I need you to get as far away from the Outer Rim as possible, do you hear me?” Carth said, almost reprimanding, concern coloring his face. Mission wanted to make fun of him for it but instead bit her lip and let the amusement wash over her, a pleasant change from the panic that had otherwise taken over.

“Not to butt in here, but we had orders to rendezvous on Dantooine,” Zayne cut in, “I don’t know exactly how this little operation worked before Draay had me take over, but the rest of my crew’s at the old temple, and if these Sith are looking for something specific-”

“They’re looking for something specific alright,” Carth said, “The Exile.”

The room fell silent as Mission, Orex and Zayne all exchanged glances, waiting for Carth to continue but finding that he wasn’t about to award their patience just yet.

“But-” Mission began, looking at both Zayne and Orex before turning to Carth again, “Isn’t she headed for you?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Carth replied, sighing, shoulders slumping slightly at the admission. The man needed sleep, Mission knew that much, but wasn’t sure if he’d get any. None of them had. “We lost contact with the Harbinger a couple of hours ago. We’ve heard nothing since.”

There was only silence and dread. Mission didn’t want to look at the others, her gaze fixed on Carth as he watched on anxiously, and she knew it killed him to appear too vulnerable. But what with Revan gone and everything going south...

“This is no coincidence,” Zayne assured them suddenly, taking on an air of authority that wasn’t wholly out-of-character but still jarring, as if things weren't dire enough, “But I still say we head to Dantooine. It’s enough out of the way for us to disappear while things blow over. If anything, our heading compared to the Harbinger may confuse them, if they’re still chasing her.”

“The Exile was last seen with us, I’m sure of it,” Mission said, “I’m pretty sure we were followed for at least part of the way in the market, and if anyone thought to keep tabs on us after-”

Carth nodded though not quite in agreement, more like he was thinking things over, considering all possibilities.

“That might work,” he eventually said, a hand stroking his bearded chin, the streaks of grey even visible in his holo-double. “It might be our only option, given how much time has passed.”

They had jumped to hyperspace as soon as they were in range, but even then they had only just jettisoned to the nearest feuling depot. Zayne’s shuttle was already sputtering by the time they’d cleared the Nespis moon, and even now it was rumbling unnervingly beneath them as they talked things over.

“If you do go to Dantooine, make it quick,” Carth conceded after another moment of consideration, “If these Sith are looking for any remaining Jedi, they just might head there first.”

Zayne nodded, understanding, his expression grim. Carth nodded again and without another word signed off, the space where his holo-shadow had been now strangely empty, the room oddly quiet.

“So I guess we’re going to pick up our original shipment after all?” Mission asked, turning to Zayne now, who was running a hand through his hair.

“Looks like it,” Zayne let out an uneasy breath, and turned to Orex, “And if we’re lucky, maybe a little extra. Y’all along for the ride?”

“To the end,” Orex affirmed, hand on his blaster as if the man were swearing an oath. His good eye turned on Mission, and she couldn’t help but nod in return.

“To the end,” she said, wishing she had a drink to toast the sentiment with. A strong one.

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

3951 BBY, Hyperspace Erebus

“May I ask why you’re so keen on Dantooine, Master?” Erebus sneered, uncomfortable with the amount of strangers on his ship and the circumstances under which they were all here. Mical was still looking meek, though more-so by choice than by nature, strategically shrinking himself into the background by remaining quiet and compliant. On the other hand, Master Vash wouldn’t stop examining every corner of Erebus’s ship, but not with any innate curiosity, something more like an insatiable impatience.

“The visions said as much,” she responded, absently examining every surface still, unsatisfied with what she’d found.

“Right, obviously,” he murmured, sighing as he collapsed into his desk chair. “When you’re ready to give me some real answers, just let me know.”

Master Vash shot him a glare.

“Judging by the… items in your possession, I would say you’re not one to judge.”

“Yet here you are doing just that, judging. I don’t answer to you anymore, Lonna, nor do I follow the will of the Council as you may very well guess,” Erebus mocked, waving a hand about at his cargo hold, “And let’s be fair, no matter whose side I’m on, this is still my. ship.”

It all felt surreal. Sleep deprivation and pure exhaustion would have otherwise wrecked him, but now he was running purely on the now-potent fumes of fear and anger, almost egging himself on as Lonna Vash explored his stores without express permission. He could live off his fear for long enough, but it was the anger ran through him like adrenaline. His eyes would glow a molten yellow if he was forced to keep it up, as he knew from experience, fading only when the aggravation faded… or when he let it. Lonna flashed him another glare, and limped toward him.

“This is as much a shock to me as it is to you,” she admitted, setting herself down slowly on one of Erebus’ unopened cargo crates across the room from him, her eyes intent on holding his gaze as she spoke, “I am only here because the Force wills it.”

Erebus rolled his eyes before he began nursing his right temple with a thumb and forefinger, “Why am I not surprised?”

What else did the Force have in store for him? He could scoff at the idea, despite the mounting evidence.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Lonna laughed a hollow laugh, her expression dark, “Trust me.”

Erebus’ hand dropped from his head and into his lap, both hands now forming clenched his fists - attempting to control his anger, temper it, lest Master Vash get another snippet of his thoughts unwillingly - before releasing all tension by spreading his fingers wide again, like a blooming flower. No electricity prickled at his fingertips with the movement. He breathed, relieved, but continued to watch on as Master Vash made herself comfortable with a wary gaze. Lonna closed her eyes, inhaling slowly as she let the weight off of her bad leg. Erebus glanced down but saw nothing other than the cloth of her pants and the edge of her boot, seemingly intact, only extending to just above the ankle. Whatever injury plagued her it was an old one, her appearance otherwise unruffled.

“Let’s start at the beginning shall we?” Erebus smiled sourly, sending a wayward glance at his desk and the onyx pyramid that stood there, its dark energy radiating. He wondered if Lonna Vash could feel it too.

“As you know, I was one of the Jedi that judged your sister some nine years ago,” she began, pulling no punches.

Erebus nodded, remembering the news clear as crystal. He had been both enthralled and horrified when Atris told him. Elated to hear that his sister had been dealt due judgement for her actions, for rebelling, but devastated to hear what had become of her, to hear of the shell of herself that she had become. He could feel the hollowness of her cheeks, could see the dark circles wreathing her eyes, sense the sallowness of her skin, the ache in her heart and in her chest and her bones. And to hear Atris deliver the news with such righteous surety, with a fire in her eyes he was certain could not be sated, it broke him. Even as a nemesis, Eden was more worthy of her attention than Aiden, Atris’ own student. It was no wonder he fell not long after that, letting a bloody brawl in an alley of a backwater metropolis lead him down the path he was still currently headed on… granted Nihilus didn’t kill him for it.

“I had my doubts then, as I’m sure Atris might have told you.” Master Vash said this was absolution, and Erebus nodded again. He remembered Atris’ rant, her angered words as she paced the Jedi Archives in retelling the trial in its entirety before him as he tried to catalogue their latest shipment of ancient scrolls.

“Yet you still voted in favor of her exile,” Erebus mused, “Curious.”

Vash sighed, “This is true. Though I will admit, it was in part due to my trust in Master Kavar. He seemed quick to judge her, his own student.”

Wrong, Erebus thought. Kavar had nearly become Eden’s Master, before he chose a seat on the Council over her. In that regard, Erebus had always been happy that his sister had some inkling of what it felt like for your mentor to favor another protege over you, even though Kavar chose the Jedi as a whole over Eden instead of a single student, as Atris had with her, before realizing Eden would rebel against everything she believed in.

“I doubt it means anything to you, but that single decision haunted me for years,” Vash said, closing her eyes for a moment before saying anything further, “Zez-Kai Ell as well. He believed we should have explored her abilities, allowed her a full trial. I think he was right, and I know I wasn’t the only one, eventually. But none of us did anything about it. We lived with our choices and then moved on. Until Revan came… again.”

“Again?”

“You’ve undoubtedly heard the story, or some version of it,” Lonna continued, a wry smile spiriting over her lips “Revan is betrayed by Malak and suddenly becomes an agent of the Light again? A tool of the Jedi?”

Erebus shook his head. He’d heard of Revan’s change of heart, but among the Sith the nature of her new allegiance was glossed over, likely due to Malak’s attempt at keeping the remaining Sith under his power in line, a haphazard effort of turning those who followed solely for Revan into loyal followers of whoever held the Sith mantle.

“An interesting story at that, and none that would paint the Jedi too kindly.”

Mical appeared in the doorway now, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame, locking eyes with Erebus before he said, “We’re on course for Dantooine, alright. We should arrive within the day.”

“Excellent,” Lonna said, “You should be happy.”

Mical balked, looking at Erebus again before continuing.

“Erm… me?”

Lonna laughed knowingly, but didn’t elaborate.

“You arrived just in time for a history lesson,” Erebus greeted, extending a hand towards another unoccupied cargo container, “I heard you were a fan. Take a seat.”

Heard. More like pried into his mind and extracted, Erebus thought. Though best to assert dominance where he could, especially now with another Force user on board. Mical scowled but did as Erebus said, his wary gaze shifting between Erebus and Lonna, looking the opposite of relaxed once he sat down.

“As you were saying,” Erebus said, directed at Master Vash now, “Revan, the Jedi tool.”

Mical sighed and mouthed a silent ah, as if he knew the story, watching Master Vash with some mild intent despite sensing Erebus’ latent bitterness.

“I won’t go into detail, though perhaps I will later, if you have a mind,” she said, as if silently making fun of Erebus, a Sith, for not knowing the true nature of Revan’s sudden change of allegiance. “But it didn’t sit well with me, nor did it sit well with Zez-Kai Ell. Though I wouldn’t have long to discuss it at length with him. Or anything else for that matter.”

Erebus waited, watching Master Vash, noting the dark coloring of her robe, the streaks of grey in hair, yet the sharpness that never seemed to leave her eyes despite the pain she was in, even while sitting.

“And not long after Revan’s change of heart, Jedi continued to go missing. What I mean to say is that Jedi had been disappearing since the beginning of the civil war, undoubtedly in part to Revan’s influence. But even while Revan was being watched by the Jedi it continued, much as it had before, but this time under Malak. And then once Malak was defeated, things were quiet for a while. Until it started happening again, six months ago. Though, I have a feeling you may know what’s behind that.” Erebus remained silent for a moment, mulling it all over. He had been one of those first missing Jedi, gone rogue once the civil war broke out.  Recruited by Revan, though not personally, just a remnant of a program she had put in place. But he hadn’t turned out of love for Revan. In fact, he still felt the opposite, even all these years later.

“I’m curious as to how you can say that with such surety,” Erebus drawled, narrowing his eyes.

“As much as it may seem the contrary, I am not here to accuse you,” Lonna continued, “Your Master is the key to the missing Jedi, yes, but there is oh, so much more to it than that.”

“This is where the visions come in, I take it?” Erebus asked, almost accusing. He wasn’t sure where Master Vash was going with this, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“As a matter of fact yes,” she said, standing again now, “As well as your visions.”

Mical looked between the two of them, unsure of what was unfolding and unsure of whether he wanted any part in it. Erebus’ gaze remained fixed on Lonna, who now stood over him with her arm outstretched.

“Let me see the artifact,” she said quietly, and Erebus knew exactly what artifact she meant. “He might need to see it, too.”

She glanced at Mical, surprised again to be acknowledged.

“Then you might want to show us what you uncovered back at that temple.”

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

3951 BBY, Citadel Station Atton

Atton eyed the Pazaak table, still unsure.

Nursing his second drink, he tried his best not to watch the gambling but failed, keeping a keen eye on each player’s hands, looking for even the slightest movement in the eyes, a blink or a twitch, a tap of the knuckles, a twinge in a lekku strung over a shoulder. Instead he feigned to appear nonchalant, bored almost, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t tempted to go at it himself.

You’re a natural, his father would say. A shame you can’t teach me how you do it.

He’d tried, once or twice, but his father’d been slow to read others, too preoccupied with showing off and making a show than anything else. Atton had tried getting him to look at the smaller details, teaching him how to read the other players and how to keep track of the numbers in his head. But Atton was shit at explaining things, and his father was shit at listening. Plus, if Atton couldn’t help his father cheat at cards, there was no reason for him to stick around, no reason for his dad to pity him and let him pocket some of his winnings before being shooed back home to his hovel where his mom would be waiting, with credits if he was lucky.

He hadn’t yet decided if Atton was the type to gamble, the sort of man to place his bets. It was gambling that got him into this mess in the first place, the reason why he decided to saddle up with the Peragus mining outfit to settle his debts. Jaq had been an amazing gambler, gambling often and recklessly with his life and his money. But the aliases that came after had varying luck, and his last one dealt the worst hand of the bunch.

His fingers itched, his brain already busy counting, singling out the victors before the game was even half over. Even if he didn’t play, he could still turn a credit on backing a winner alone. But that was still betting, wasn’t it?

Atton downed his drink, at least certain that this Atton Rand was a drinker. He could play Pazaak games in his head if he wished, but conjuring the effects of juma was something else entirely. Maybe if he could somehow figure out how to more effectively numb himself - his thoughts, his feelings, his regrets, and daresay his fears - then maybe he could manage foregoing it. For now, the alcohol was necessary. Very necessary.

As if reading his mind, or at least craving the credits, the bartender slipped his empty drink out of one hand and slid a full one into his other. Too thankful to be dumbfounded, Atton only nodded and began sipping again, trying not to eye the Pazaak table now, as if were a challenge.

How long can you go before you slip? He thought bitterly, How long does it take for the memories to creep back? For the guilt to set in?

Sneering at no one, Atton turned to the other side of the bar, now in full view of the performing band and the throng of the dancing crowd beyond. Despite a lack of skill, he could lose himself in there. If he downed another drink or three, he could disappear, dissolve until he was nothing but sweat and heavy breathing, the beat thrumming in time with his pulse as if it was all he was born and bred for. It was either that or waste away in his designated apartment, surfing the spice channels until something worse came his way…

But what he really wanted was… sky. Space and sky. And stars.

He’d applied for a delivery rotation with Peragus, not knowing they weren’t the type of outfit to take position requests. They were full up on delivery pilots, booked with ship outfitters and repairmen, no need for a single worker having anything to do with their incoming, outgoing or out-of-commission vehicles or even a position with even a sliver of a view of the wrecked asteroid field and the stretch of space it hung precariously in. But they were in constant need of miners, considering the hazard pay and all - not that the money made up for the mortality rate. Which Atton took as a challenge after considering it. But as much as he might deserve death, he was a survivor, above all else. And he'd yet to change his mind.

The view was shit here on Citadel Station, the window outside the cantina offering little else other than countless finger smudges on the duraglass that separated the station from the inhospitable atmosphere outside, but it sure as hell beat the view from Atton’s room. Maybe he’d meander the station for a while, clear his head, and try to forget about Pazaak, about his debts, about his father, his past…

He downed the rest of his drink and began rummaging through his jacket pocket for credits, only for the bartender to stop him. The bartender held up a hand as the droid beside him tendered credits from a woman across the bar, her pink skin aglow as she winked at him and nodded, biting her lip as she shooed him off, assuring Atton silently that she’d cover his tab.

Atton paused, unsure if he’d ever seen the Zeltronian woman before and if he’d ever made a pass at her, or worse, owed her money, her gesture more of a threat than one of good will in hopes of a future rendezvous. Or perhaps she was just an interested patron, hoping to catch a man drunk enough to dance.

He doubted it, but Atton nodded in return all the same, brows furrowing as he turned to leave, his limbs suddenly leaden with the movement. Atton shot the woman one last glance, her eyes still on him as he retreated from the bar, a strand of crimson hair falling into one of her eyes as she watched him leave, gaze unwavering. Atton froze. Normally, he wouldn’t walk away from an invitation, but this one seemed… strange. He hadn’t been looking to shack up with anyone, but more than that, he felt as if this gesture came with strings attached, though still unseen. So he thought it best to cut ties while he still can, acting as if he’d always meant to leave, regardless if this woman wanted him to stay or not.

He turned back again, eyes fixed on the cantina’s exit, knowing the entire time that he was being watched. Atton scanned the space with his peripheral vision, careful not to linger on any one person for too long, uneasy as he made his way back to his sad excuse for a room. He glanced at the duraglass, hungry for some slice of sky, but the air outside was instead full of a thick, grey smoke, billowing in stacks just beyond the window.

“Ain’t that a metaphor if there ever was one,” Atton murmured, shoving his hands in his pockets, already hungry for the empty black of sleep.

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

3951 BBY, Hyperspace The Last Handmaiden

Fire. All she could see was fire. A blue-hot flame at the core of the galaxy, burning, burning… burning bright in the center of a black hole, time warping around it in a way she could not explain only… feel. It echoed within her, the very core of her, somehow, commuting its existence without words, before disappearing entirely. And then… she was in a room, but asleep, suspended in something but not swimming, unaware of what was around her other than the lukewarm liquid that made her skin tingle as if she were drenched in menthol, cool and warm at once. She could feel lights shudder out, one by one by one, before the darkness settled in, like a ship overhead, eclipsing the sun, much as it had back on Nespis VIII, back when-

Brianna woke with a start, fever in full swing. When she opened her eyes, the world was black static, the ship around her slowly coming into focus as the sounds around her grew to a low murmur, then a gentle hum, like an engine running. Only… there was an engine running beneath her. The ship… Her hands grasped at the sheets she was wrapped in, her palms pressed against the thin mattress as if to confirm that she could feel the engine running somewhere beneath her, that she was on a ship, that she was no longer in the Jedi Temple on Nespis VIII…

The last she remembered she was running through a room full of bodies, either dead or about to fall, and a man… a most familiar man…

“You’re finally awake,” Arianna’s voice floated into the room from nearby. Brianna swung to meet the sound but found herself dizzy, her vision swimming. “Sit, sister. Sleep.”

She could hear her sister cross the room and set herself down beside her, the weight of her body shifting the mattress slightly.

“I’m surprised we got you out of there,” Arianna continued bitterly, “If there were any time to lose consciousness, that was not it.”

Brianna was too weak to reply, though her mind knew she was in the right, that she had acted accordingly, though… how did she know? Her memory was fuzzy, though part of her knew something wasn’t right, something hadn’t added up back at the temple. But she was in no state or test her theories, and no state to trust her own judgment or recollections…

Brianna tried to will herself awake, though her vision was fading again. With Arianna at her side, the blue-hot flame from her dreams formed again in her central vision, though her sister’s hand on hers anchored her to the here and now, an image transfixed like a ghost in the room that only Brianna could see.

“Your fever should break, before we arrive,” Arianna said, resting her other hand on Brianna’s burning forehead for a moment before pulling away. “And Mistress says you’ve done well, for now,” Arianna continued, almost cooing, as if Brianna were still a child needing coaxing before bedtime. Brianna wanted to glare at her, but another part of her shrunk away, ashamed as always, wondering what she could have done to do better, to be better, allowing the dream-image of the flame and the pressing dark of sleep close in around her.

Mistress had trusted Brianna with her initial mission after all - her first foray into the galaxy alone, without her sisters, without supervision. It was nice, for a change, but temporary. Only temporary.

And with that, Brianna drifted back into a fitful half-sleep, filled to the brim with dreams and visions, and the unending black at the edges of space.

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

3951 BBY, Citadel Station Atton

Atton had never ridden a swoop bike, but now he was betting on one. He’d approached the table with an intention of hitching a ride, of at least bartering with the bookie to let him take one for a spin. But it was a no-go. It was all bets or nothing, and unfortunately, Atton had the credits to spare.

He started small - five credits. Then ten… then fifteen… but he stopped at twenty. Managed to stop at twenty, giving himself hell for it after forking over the last of his pocket money. He’d intended the cash to pay for juma and juma alone, and it was the lack of drink in him that convinced him to stop betting. And it was on his last bet that he actually won.

No. Not again. Not now.

As soon as the cash prize was doled out, Atton strode to the bar, making sure to turn his back to the swoop den tucked in the corner, lest he find himself itching to place another wager.

“Come here often?” a voice cooed in his ear as he finally edged into a seat as its previous owner edged out of it.

Atton glanced sidelong at the voice’s owner - the Zeltronian. Again.

“I take it you know the answer to that,” he replied darkly, taking a sip of his drink, the heat of it slithering down his throat, “And I take it you must come here often enough to notice.”

“I only take notice of those worthy of my attention,” she smiled, the pointed edges of her incisors peering out over the edge of her red-painted bottom lip. Atton doubted that, about to abandon his newfound seat to find a table somewhere, one without unoccupied chairs - but the woman stopped him, a manicured hand caressing his chest until he sat back down again.

“Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested,” Atton said without breaking his gaze, downing his glass and placing it on the bar with purpose.

“Who said I’m selling anything?”

Atton narrowed his eyes and glanced at the swoop bike den, at the pazaak tables in the corner, thinking only of the debt he owed. Shaking his head, he stood back up despite the Zeltronian’s hand still placed gingerly on his chest, though he knew an old version of himself would gladly take her up on her offer - whatever it was.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” was all Atton said before walking off.

He craved another drink, or maybe three, but he didn’t like the feel of this. In another life, Atton would have taken any offer handed to him, and in another, he would only do it if he deemed it worthy of his time, depending on his mood. He might have flirted a bit more back at the bar but still… he knew a swindler when he saw one, and even an afternoon with a plaything wasn’t worth it. Not that Atton had the interest for such a thing anymore, anyway.

Without thinking, he’d walked himself to the shuttle depot, watching as countless ships docked and undocked, and undoubtedly argued with the port authority on landing codes from the comfort of their own cockpits. Maybe soon he’d transfer to a shipping unit, managing cargo to and from the mining facility. Maybe his transfer request would be granted once he returned from his annual leave. One year down, four more to go. He sighed, knowing his luck didn’t run that thick.

With nowhere else but the bar to haunt, Atton considered grabbing a bite before ultimately settling on the idea of sleeping. Like a ghost he wandered the station, wondering how in the ‘verse he landed with this sorry lot this time. Well, at least I’m not dead, he thought, keying in the code for his sorry excuse for a company apartment, eager to toe off his boots and dive head first into the lumpy bed assigned to him for the week being. But when the doors to the module slid open, a woman was waiting for him at the small sitting area, a blaster in her hand.

“I really just wanted to talk, Atton,” she said at the sight of him, running a nail along the white leather of the chair she sat in, and tsked casually before continuing, “Now look what you’ve made me do.”

#star wars #kotor #kotor 2 #my writing #the jedi exile #my ocs #aiden valen/darth erebus #mical the disciple #brianna the handmaiden #mission vao #ugh why do I keep posting this #this fic will be the death of me

[dreadnought-dear-captain]

You Asked, I Told + Chapter 33 Update

Hello everyone! First off, I am so, so, SO sorry for taking so long to update. I am about to put the finishing touches on Chapter 33, and if all goes according to plan, I should have it for you between March 7th-9th - just in time for Captain Marvel! Meow. This chapter is clocking in at OVER 30,000 WORDS, so although it has taken me an abysmally long time to complete it, I hope the length will make it somewhat worthwhile. 

And now for your Asks! These contain a spoiler for chapter 15 and some milder spoilers for some of the later chapters (30-32-ish). 

I understand this completely. I have problems with a lot of military fics because of their verisimilitude (or lack thereof). I will say in general that I have had a good deal of affiliation with military-related environments and individuals in my life and that I have done my research to the best of my abilities. Part of why I take so long to update is the immense amount of research I do. That said, as I mentioned at the beginning of the fic, sometimes I may stretch or alter the details (a platoon/fire team/company is not as small as I portray it, same with convoy sizes etc.) in order to make it easier for me to write. And I will just plain screw stuff up because I’m a person. But over all, the most important thing for me is to capture the themes of deployment, war, recovery, readjustment (or not), trauma, etc. and convey these things with realism. But I do try to get a lot of the details right, too. 

I hope a lot of this stuff rings true to you in the fic. I invite you and other uniformed personnel and veterans to DM me and let me know how I can make the details ring truer. I have shaped the work in other ways based on feedback and am willing to do it further, provided I don’t have a good reason for making things the way they are now. 

Yeah, I’m sorry I had to turn off anons because of the trolls. I’m glad you enjoyed the emotional catharsis for Steve here. He really needed to actually feel his emotions rather than turning everything into pain and puke. (BTW, meta note, I write a lot of vomit for some reason. I know it’s a large part of being a heavy drinker, because you just can’t drink that much and not puke a lot, and I wanted Steve to be a puker because I wanted to showcase a huge somatic reaction, but yeesh, what is UP with the all the puke? I hate vomit IRL, so much.)

And I am the worst queer in the world, as I was just told by a virtual stranger yesterday, because I have NOT seen A Star is Born yet. But I am going to watch it this week! I’m glad that it rang true with this depiction of addiction. Relapse is messy, and it happens on anniversaries - Oh, the anniversary relapse is a BIG thing in recovery. I’m excited to see the parallels now. Thank you for the rec!

I am actually TERRIBLE at recommending fic in the sense that I barely read any at all :(    I’m ruined for most fics these days because if it’s not profoundly, painfully realistic, I have trouble buying into it. I hate that I’m so picky now. I wish I had a bunch of great recs I’m holding out on, but if you’ve seen my bookmarks, you’ve seen many of the ones that stick out most for me. A lot of them are because I love the writing itself, which helps me get my creative wheels turning when I need to craft good prose. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.

But seriously, @praximeter​‘s The Night War: 60th Anniversary Edition FTW. It’s my all time favorite fic and one of the most excellent character studies - and one of the best studies in trauma - I’ve ever read. Talk about an unreliable narrator. And it raises some excellent questions about who we let fight and under what circumstances - how much do we use people in war, even if they’re clearly so compromised from trauma that they can barely function? You’ve got to REALLY read it, though. It’s not a lazy read. Highly recommended, though. Be prepared to have your guts torn out of your body and thrown on the floor and danced upon by Prax. It makes her Mask Fic look like a giggling prance through the daisies.

Yeah - I think the last chapter was exhausting and distressing and disheartening for many. And it was maybe a bit confusing, in regards to Bucky’s relapse. On one hand, he’s a hawt LITERAL mess. But on the other hand... this is not unexpected. This is part of recovery, especially for a lifelong alcoholic. He planned it. He took some steps to mitigate risk. He was not trying to off himself. He had a limit set. He just didn’t want to cope in healthy ways anymore and he made an informed adult choice to drink a fuckton of vodka for a week. Was it healthy? Good GOD, no. But he was doing it with an oddly sound mind, right? He tried other means of coping first. He gave it his best, and he decided to do this instead. And he cleaned up his mess after and put his clothes on and did the big boy thing and called his therapist. So even though it was awful and gross and sad, you could also look at it as a stark contrast from his Carle Place days. And he LOOKED AT HIS DICK...!!!!! HOLY SHIT. That is a feat 19 months in the making. And he did it sober. That in itself is impressive. 

But I can definitely see pain for a lot of people, and the exhaustion of this chapter, the OH GOD just STOP IT, here we go AGAIN. And that is how friends and families and loved ones of addicts can feel, and the addicts themselves! Tired. Just tired of the same old thing, over and over. But he also made a lot of objective progress in important ways. Even if it doesn’t feel like it because the progress is covered in old pizza crust and vomit and dildos (yes, even the BIG ONE). 

This is referring to Chapter 15, when Bucky was in the hospital after his surgeries, yes? I don’t think he needed a trach tube, actually. He had his weapon up to his face to aim at the enemy, so his neck/airway didn’t sustain any major injuries because his arms and rifle took the brunt of the shrapnel. His internal organs were spared from major injuries because of his body armor. He needed to have his collapsed lung decompressed in the field, but that was it. That might have been followed up with more drainage later at a field hospital. I figured his alveoli were ruptured from the IED blast wave, leading to the collapsed lung, which is usually treated with 100% oxygen, so no trach needed there. And when I researched other reasons why one would need a trach, I didn’t see anything that would really apply to him. So no trach for Bucky! You can spare him that little bit of misery in your imagination, if you WANT.

Haha, yes, the “enjoyed... I think?” parallels the “I’m glad... I think?” that I feel/write when people say they’re wrecked by the fic. I’m so glad this has encouraged you to do some research! I’d love to know what on. There are so many threads to chase. Just glance at the TAGS, my God. Choose your own adventure. Thank you for letting me know you’re enjoying and that it’s sparking your curiosity!

Ugh, I would love to say that I have a great schedule for updating planned, but as you can probably surmise, I am slow and unpredictable. My life has gotten much, much busier since I started writing this fic and my work far more draining, so both time and energy aren’t on my side these days. I don’t dare to promise an update on any kind of schedule because I just can’t say. I’m sorry. And you’re absolutely right - it’s because I want to deliver the best quality I can. And I’m also trying to give you huge meaty chapters, too. But I HOPE it won’t be another five months before the next update. I really do. The next chapter will probably be shorter, so that’ll help. I will really do my best. 

This is a GREAT question. I think it’s important to note that dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) - although originally designed for borderline personality disorder (BPD) - is trans-diagnostic treatment as a skills group. This means that it can be for anyone who needs help with regulating emotions and managing their relationships better. We don’t really know what Bucky’s diagnosis is. BUCKY doesn’t know what it is. All he knows is that Scott identified his functional life problems and thought the group would be a good fit. Bucky sure does have some BPD traits, but it’s also important to note that some of these traits can also be present in someone with a fuckton of trauma - especially from childhood. 

I set out to write someone with just a lot of trauma, really. Someone who had difficulties with regulating emotions as a core problem. Someone who used sex and booze and avoidance to manage everything. And also someone with a lot of attachment and intimacy and trust problems, which can really all look like BPD! And they can all look like developmental trauma! I wanted it to not be entirely clear what was going on, because that’s often how people appear in real life. We’re not quite sure what Scott makes of him, except that he sees he needs healthy skills DESPERATELY and wanted to get him in this group ASAP. (Good call, Scott!) 

Okay, everyone! Thank you so much for all the love and great questions!! I’ll be in touch in a couple weeks with more BW for you. Thank you for all of your support and patience <3

#YOU ASKED I TOLD #asks

[avengerofyourheart]

Flour Girl {2} (Bucky x reader AU)

Characters: reader, Bucky (Jimmy), Clint, Wanda.

Summary: Discovering the cute guy you just flirted with is the heir of a rival bakery, you suddenly find yourself running into him all over the city. Can your small boutique bakery compete? And how do you deal with the guy who seems determined to make your life a living hell? Luckily you’re distracted by a secret admirer…But who is he? (Inspired by “You’ve Got Mail”, Enemies to Lovers)

Warnings: none! Mild swearing?

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Aahh!!! I’m so grateful and elated that you all loved part one!! This baking fic is kind of my heart and soul and I’m so glad you’re loving it and love the idea of it. There’s so much more to come and a lot of snarky banter mixed with sweetness! I love you all. Please let me know your thoughts! I love to hear from you!! :) 

<<Part One   Part Two   Part Three>> 

Flour Girl Series Masterlist

_________________________________________________________

The drive back to your bakery was a blur after your interactions with Clint and Jimmy. How could a regular morning take such a sharp turn for the worst? Parking in your designated spot in front of your building, you walked through the store front and offered a smile to a few customers being helped by Wanda. Setting down your coat and bag on the chair in your tiny back office where you did paperwork, you then rolled your shoulders and neck to release tension that had gathered there.

Somehow you had finished your morning baking, done your deliveries, discovered that the competition was moving into the neighborhood, and flirted badly with a cute guy who happened to work for the rival bakery. It wasn’t even 9am.

A deep breath and a few more stretches later, you decided to shake off this morning and get your hands in some some dough. That’s when you were most comfortable and in control, when you were baking. Tying an apron around your waist and washing your hands, you punched down the growing yeast dough one more time before dumping it out onto the floured wooden surface.

It all became muscle memory then, rolling out the dough and spreading your special cinnamon filling over the whole surface. Sprinkling a few chopped pecans on top, you then rolled the dough into one long log and began to cut the dough evenly before placing each roll on a cookie sheet. Your cinnamon rolls were one of our top sellers, so you made them fresh almost every day. You also received special orders where customers would asked for a dozen at a time.

You were just cleaning off your table when Wanda hollered back that she needed a few different types of cookies. Reaching into the two-door freezer, you placed the cookie dough balls on sheet pans and slid them into the oven. It was more efficient to make a large amount of dough at a time and freeze it to be baked fresh when needed.

Later you brought the cookies up front and Wanda restocked the case filled with baked goods. You checked that the self-serve coffee pots were filled and creamers were still cold. Restocking a few of the sweeteners, you then took one last look around, satisfied that everything was in its place.

“Wanda, I’ll be in the office if you need me,” you told the long-haired brunette.

“You got it, boss,” Wanda smiled.

Wanda had been with you from the very beginning. It had only been a year since you had turned in your business proposal and were approved for a loan, allowing you to open the bakery. Renting retail space in New York City was ridiculously expensive, but you did have one saving grace. Your landlord was willing to lower the rent slightly because it was also the building you lived in, up one floor. You had agreed to serve as superintendent, since he lived outside the city. It was a lot to take on with your business and also getting random calls in the middle of the night about broken thermostats and clogged toilets, but somehow you made it work.

You had just taken a seat in your office with coffee and a muffin when your phone chirped. Fishing it out of your apron, you saw a text message and swiped to open it.

Hey dillweed, you messed up our order again. That’s the third time this month, dude. Get back here and fix it.

B.

Staring down at your phone, you blinked a few times and read the words once more. Well, clearly that message wasn’t meant for you. Normally, you’d just ignore it, but it seemed important, so drafted a message and hit send.

Excuse me? I think you have the wrong number. I am not a dude. And what kind of insult is dillweed anyway?

FG

Three dots appeared as the other person was typing and seconds later another message arrived.

Oh, I’m sorry. I must have typed the number in wrong. My mistake. Sorry to bother you. Also dillweed is a perfectly acceptable insult, thank you very much.

B.

The response made you laugh. You were about to delete the messages and forget all about the exchange when you changed your mind and started typing. After this morning, you could use a little harmless entertainment.

FG: You typed in the number? What’re you, 90? If you know someone well enough to insult them, wouldn’t they be saved in your contacts?

A few more seconds later, you saw their response.

B: Well, Ms. Judge-y Stranger, if you must know, I have a bad track record with cell phones and rarely have them for long so I memorize most numbers or keep them in a notebook. Happy?

Another snort before you responded.

FG: Ecstatic. You’re right, I don’t know you at all and have no right to judge. It’s impressive that you can memorize numbers. My generation has completely lost the ability.

B: How do you know we’re not the same generation?

Grinning, you shot back a quick reply.

FG: You never refuted my claims that you were 90.

B: Oh. Well, I’m not. I’m 24, for your information. And you?

You hesitated then, unsure about telling a stranger anything about yourself. This was just harmless fun. After thinking a moment, you sent out a vague reply.

FG: I’m somewhere around there.

B: What’s your name?

That was a hard stop right there. Nope.

FG: I think that’s enough chatting with a random stranger for today. I’ll keep my personal info to myself, thank you.

B: Well, I might know more about you than you might think. I know you are not a dude and from the area code, I know you’re a New Yorker.

Huh. Well, he wasn’t wrong. Before you could reply another message appeared.

B: I’ve already offered more info than you have, but I’m a giver. I am, in fact, a dude and also a New Yorker. See? Not that difficult.

Another laugh escaped your lips. You then noticed the clock and felt foolish to spend so much precious time on this silly conversation, entertaining as it was.

FG: Well, dude. I have to get back to work. Nice chatting with you.

B: Oh? What do you do? Is FG your initials? Fiona Gale? Franny George?

You couldn’t help yourself and sent a laughing emoji with tears.

FG: Nice try. Later, dude.

Back at work, you couldn’t help but think about that absurd text conversation. It was probably just a one-time thing, but it definitely turned your whole day around. Pulling out the ingredients to make tart dough, you couldn’t help but hum to yourself. Thank you, dude.  

___________________

Part 3>> 

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Oooooh, intrigue!!! Who’s this mysterious texter??  Also, cinnamon rolls. *drools* I’d apologize about making you all hungry, but I’m kind of not sorry. :D Mondays and Thursdays might just be days we all give up on our diets. ha!! Would you have texted back? Do you think she’s smart to keep her information to herself? Never can be too careful!! I hope you’re excited for part 3 on Monday!! I’d love to hear what you think of this chapter!! I adore you all. Thank you for reading. 

Permanent Tag list and FG tag list are CLOSED. 

Permanent tags: 

@pietrotheavenger @thisismysecrethappyplace @part-time-patronus @feelmyroarrrr @ria132love  @interestedbystanderwrites @abovethesmokestacks @hymnofthevalkyrie @spideypnw @badassbaker @janeyboo @palaiasaurus64 @dustycelt @mylittlefandomfanfictions @officialcaptain-marvel @maryehudson @sebbytrash @bionic-buckyb @sebastianbarnesandchrisrogers @jaybird6232 @bemystucky @averyrogers83 @beccaanne814 @eyesofgoldenambers @missmotherhen @bunnieandcrow @mizzzpink @buckysberrie @imaginingbucky @deathbyarabbit @avengersandchill @timeladylaurel @indominusregina @queen-merc @vaisabu @1800-peggys-orange-lipstick @piensa-bonito @msshadowboxer @withahintofpestoaioli @cant-decide-at-this-moment @jaderbugz @blue1928 @jbarnes87 @whothehellisbella @captainrogerss @sebseyesandbuckysthighs @themcuhasruinedme @ilovebeingjoyful @maririn @hello-sweetie-get-the-salt @girlwith100names @writingruna @lokiandbuckyaremine @hufflepuff-ish @pixierox101 @supernatural-girl97 @stay-wokke @airixaram @buckyssxxhair @buckys-newarm @lostinspace33 @poealsobucky @buckyofthemyscira @joannie95 @4theluvofall @im-a-light-child 

FG tags: 

@yallneedtrek @lexie-mo  @flowercrownsandmetallicarms  @kingcarterprince @snuggleducky @acunningstargazer @zadyalyss @satans-knitting-club   @honey-bee-holly  @1800-peggys-orange-lipstick @just-add-butter @captainradicalpassion @chook007 @peekingsunshine @odinhso-n @chrisevans1fan @fangirlwithasweettooth @angryteapot @srhls @jurassicbarnes @livingoffsavvyillusions @ahufflepuffbitch @sebbystanlover-vk @thisismyfriend-tree @susmita121 @fandom-addict-aesthetics @lowkeybuckyb @jitterbuck @lunacajun @aligatorinavest @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @lilyblack78910

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky au #bakery au #reader x bucky #bucky fluff #enemies to lovers #reader x james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes imagine #flour girl fic #marvel fan fiction #avengers fan fiction #baking #cinnamon rolls

[aardvark-123]

Gensokyo Festival day 9: Monster

~Author’s Note~

There are monsters and then there are monsters. Sometimes the monsters look just like you and me. Sometimes the monsters are Touhou fans who don’t have any respect for the world or the characters. And sometimes, very rarely, the people of Gensokyo fight back.

~This One Might be a Bit Creepy, so Read With Caution~

My name is Gary de Sade. Reducing women to blubbering wrecks is my hobby, and my goal is to accomplish this feat seven times in one week. For posterity's sake, I have decided to write a chronicle of my travels in Gensokyo, the diversions I sought therein and the women whose days I ruined.

If you have some kind of moral objection to my pastimes, all I can suggest is that you learn to cope. I care little for the comfort of other people, women least of all. Do not expect me to give up my pleasure for some pitiful notion of "kindness" or "decency".

Monday

I decided to start small with my first endeavour. I snuck into the house of Marisa Kirisame and earned her trust by polishing her shoes, whereupon she allowed me to borrow her alchemical supplies. With those not-altogether-unimpressive resources behind me I was able to brew a bucket's worth of powerful adhesive, more than enough to immobilise one of the locals.

I was not willing to ruin the rapport I had with Marisa just then, so I took the glue out into the forest and poured it out onto the path. Sooner or later, a traveller was bound to walk into my trap.

"I don't believe this." Yuuka prodded the pool of glue with her umbrella. A long, sticky strand clung to the metal tip as she raised it. "Who would be stupid enough to spill sticky stuff in the middle of the road and not tell anybody?"

"I don't know," said Wriggle, with a shrug. "Someone's probably messing around."

Yuuka looked up and down the compacted forest track, but she could see nothing suspicious. "Well, somebody needs to clean it up. And in the absence of anybody else, it looks like 'somebody' is the two of us. Can you run home and fetch me a bar of soap?"

"Okay!" Wriggle turned on her heel and sprinted down the path. About halfway to the Garden of the Sun, she remembered that she could travel much faster in the air.

Yuuka sat down beside the path and winced as a sharp stone pricked her. Something was rustling in the undergrowth behind her, but she paid it no heed. It was probably just a fox or something.

Tuesday

I must admit that I have underestimated the inhabitants of this realm. Apparently a simple glue trap is not enough for my purposes. To add insult to injury, the green-haired woman did not notice the thumb-tack I placed beneath her bottom. If such pain tolerance is the norm in here, it does not bode well for my plans.

Today's little escapade will involve a trip to the Human Village. I intend to slip into the book-rental shop and set light to the contents, driving the shop girl to despair. I can hardly wait to watch her bawl her eyes out.

A bell dinged as the door to Suzunaan swung open. Kosuzu looked up from the monthly manga serial she'd propped against the ledgers and smiled. "Hello, there! Welcome to Suzunaan!"

"Do you have any books on farming?" The newcomer spoke with single-minded urgency. He was tall and unhealthily pale, but Kosuzu wasn't about to let that get to her.

"Of, course, sir! We have plenty!" declared Kosuzu. "What crops are you thinking of growing? I can sell you some paper as well, in case you want to take notes-"

"Rice," said the newcomer firmly. "I'm going to farm a bunch of rices. So run along to the basement and fetch me the book, would you?"

"...It's right here." Kosuzu bent down and pulled out a thick volume from the bookshelf on her right. She laid it down on the counter with a heavy thump. "This is the complete guide to every known variety of rice! All the farmers swear by it!"

"Shit," the newcomer muttered.

Kosuzu's jaw dropped. "What?!" "I said 'this is it'! The perfect book for me! Thank you!" the stranger ground out. "I suppose I'd better settle up. Let me just get me card-wallet... Oh, whoops, a lit match came out of my pocket!"

The match fizzled out with a puff of smoke as it hit the floor.

The stranger began to sweat. "Um..."

"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!" screamed Kosuzu. She vaulted over the counter, grabbed the stranger by she shoulders and wrestled him out onto the street. "You idiot! Don't you know this is a bookshop?! Don't ever darken my doorstep again!"

Wednesday

I am not pleased with myself. One match is such an unreliable vector to commit arson it is no wonder I failed, and the only one crying was me. Those dirt roads are harder than they look. On the plus side, Marisa made a vegetable stir-fry for breakfast today, and it was delicious. Not as delicious as a helpless woman's tears, but still.

Today I am going to attempt a different tactic. I have heard of a pink sparrow living somewhere in Gensokyo, knowing only fear of a stronger youkai having her for dinner. I wish not to see her devoured, but playing on those fears surely could not hurt...

Mystia had a thumping headache. Rocking out until well past midnight could have that effect, she knew, but it still hurt. Her throat was parched, too. There was nothing else for it; she was going to have to open her eyes and start doing things.

The warm afternoon sun burned Mystia's retinas, but as she grew accustomed to the light she realised she was standing up. She had never been able to sleep on her feet before.

Mystia yawned and stretched out her arms. She felt a pull on her wrists, then something snapped behind her. She whipped around in alarm and found herself face-to-face with a tall wooden pole.

"Well, I never..." Mystia noticed the torn pieces of rope trailing from her wrists. "Is someone having a laugh?! Who tied me up?!" She noticed a shaggy-haired silhouette skulking behind a tree and ran over to it. "Did you tie me to that big stick?!"

The stranger's jaw dropped. He gasped the righteous gasp of an innocent man defending himself from the most craven, outrageous lie. "My dear lady, in the sun goddess's name, you must believe me! I am an innocent, harmless traveler who would never tie anyone up! I did nothing to you!"

"Really?" Mystia tilted her head to one side. "If you say you're innocent, prove it, wolf-boy! Take me on!"

"You want me to take you on?" The stranger gulped. "With those spell-card thingies you people keep talking about? Ah, well, you see..."

"Take... on... me! Take on me! Take... me... on! Take on me! I'll... be... gone! I don't know the rest OF the words!!!" Mystia squeaked, following the tune with partial accuracy.

The stranger took the opportunity to make a wise decision. He scarpered.

Thursday

Up until yesterday afternoon, I had been under the impression that only upper-echelon youkai possessed such superhuman strength. If all youkai are that strong, my choice of victims will be severely limited. I wonder whether the glue trap I attempted on Monday would have worked even if a youkai stepped in it. Would she simply have strode across it without difficulty?

There are humans in this land as well, however, and surely not all of them can be as fierce as that book-lender. My target today is to be a weak, prissy, helpless little maid who has spent all her life working in great houses. The intel Marisa gave me as I plied her with sake last night could be the key to my success...

"Hey, you!"

Sakuya's body language did not show any surprise. She turned on her heel and looked the stranger in the eye. "Can I help you?"

The pale man smiled wickedly. "You wear pads!"

"I... What?!"

"You heard!" the stranger smiled smugly.

"I don't understand! What is...? Why...?" Sakuya cleared her throat. "What do you mean by 'pads'?"

"Padding," the stranger clarified, "in your bra. Because you're embarrassed by your diminutive mammaries!"

"...Listen. I wear a chemise, not a bra. And you have no right to approach me, a complete stranger, and try to strike up a conversation about my body!"

The stranger folded his arms. "Chemise or not, you still wear pads. You see, Sakuya, I know what lies deep inside your heart. When you look into your mirror, you can't bear what you see. A woman as flat as a panca-"

Cold steel pressed against the stranger's neck. He clammed up in an instant.

"Sir, you've gone too far," hissed Sakuya. Her face was right by the stranger's ear. He could feel her unexpectedly warm breath. "The mistress doesn't like intruders or weirdoes, and neither do I. Incidentally, I can't remember a single day when I haven't been satisfied with my body. Give me one reason not to kill you."

"Um, y-you might get sent to prison? For murder?" the stranger whimpered.

Sakuya pondered that for a few moments. Nobody in the Human Village would be in any hurry to arrest her, she knew, but did she want even more blood on her hands after giving Flandre a bath?

"Would you like me to escort you from the building?" offered Sakuya.

The stranger sagged with relief. "Oh, could you?! I-I'd love that! Please do! Escort away!"

"As you wish." Sakuya loosened her grip a little and began frogmarching him down the hall.

Friday

I am beginning to lose hope. Why do none of these women know how to lose gracefully? By rights, more than a dozen should have shed tears of despair by this point, but instead they fight me and humiliate me at every turn. I deserve better than to be a chew toy.

There is one plan I have yet to try. Marisa has taken good care of me this past week, even believing my cover story when Meiling pushed me through the letter box yesterday afternoon, but she is still a woman, and her tears are mine. Tonight, while she slumbers, I shall clap her in irons and-

"Hey!"

Gary shut his diary with a snap. "Who?! What?! I-I wasn't plotting anything, I swear!"

"Sakuya told me everything, Gary," said Marisa severely. Her hat fell off as she stepped through the narrow door to the spare room.

"Then she came and told me," said Reimu, catching Marisa's hat. "What were you thinking, breaking into the mansion while not being a witch?!"

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation!" cried Gary. "Which is as follows! You see, I have a psychological disorder known as Mansion Invader Syndrome-"

"Hey, what's this?" Marisa grabbed the diary and started flicking through it.

"No! D-don't!" yelped Gary. "You don't want to see what's in there! Please!"

Marisa ignored him. Her expression grew more and more horrified with every page she read.

"What's he written in there?" Reimu took a glance over Marisa's shoulder. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my gods... You vile, twisted monster!"

Gary exploded. "Come on, give me a break! I didn't ask to be like this! I just love it when women cry! All I've ever done is treat you and all your friends as my playthings! What's wrong with that?!"

Reimu chucked a yin-yang orb at him. His body was never found, although Rumia was reported to have spent the afternoon sleeping off a huge meal.

#Touhou #gensokyofestival #fantasy #satire #Reimu Hakurei #Marisa Kirisame #Wriggle Nightbug #Yuuka Kazami #Sakuya Izayoi #Kosuzu Motoori #Mystia Lorelei #my writing

[atruththatyoudeny]

MONTHLY READS | April

Just in time for today’s fanworks appreciation day.. As always, thank you so much to all the amazing authors for sharing your stories with us! I’m in awe of you!!

» Top 5 stories + 8 more under the cut «

Piece By Piece

by lovelarry10 & wander723 | strangers to lovers | single parent Louis | kidfic | disability | past mpreg | fluff | 168k

Now that his best friend Liam is getting married Louis Tomlinson needs help, and he’s finally admitted it. He can’t work and be the best dad to his disabled son Mason without it. That’s where Harry Styles comes in.

And so begins the love story of a lifetime.

Don't Let the Tide Come and Take Me

by kiwikero for One Direction Big Bang Round 1 | fantasy | merpeople | pining | road trip | 28k

The aquarium in the lobby has been there as long as Louis can remember, and so has the merman inside. That is, until the day Louis loses his job and decides to set the creature free.

They set off on a road trip to the sea, learning to communicate more and more each day. Their destination is LA, but the closer they get and the more Louis gets to know the merman, the more he dreads having to say goodbye.

Or, the one where Louis decides to set a merman free and ends up finding his own freedom along the way.

I Didn't Fall For You (You Fucking Tripped Me)

by allwaswell16 for 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names Challenge | a/b/o | hate to love | enemies to friends to lovers | humour | 15k

These days Louis tends to steer clear of dating alphas. He’s dated too many knotheads in his time, and he’s ready to just focus on school and his friends and his pet monitor lizard, of course.

Too bad the alpha next door won’t take a hint and stop using the worst pick up lines of all time on him. He’s really got to stop laughing with him--and talking to him and walking to class with him and letting him bring him coffee and tea and gifts for his lizard and watching Netflix together and...

No Easy Love (Could Make Me Feel This Way)

by allwaswell16 for H+L Mood Board Prompt Challenge | a/b/o | exes to lovers | angst | mutual pining | 17k

There’s never been anyone for Harry but Louis. He had always thought their love would last forever, despite society’s pressures on an alpha/alpha relationship. When Louis breaks up with him and moves to Chicago, he’s suddenly left behind to pick up the pieces of the life they once shared. Instead of moving on, he finds reasons to keep Louis in his life and in the process begins to piece together what went wrong.

Or an Alpha Louis/Alpha Harry au where they get a second chance to make things right with the love of their life.

Introduction to Dynamics

by juliusschmidt for HL A/B/O Fic Exchange | a/b/o | college | 29k

Louis Tomlinson is the outspoken omega in the 'Introduction to Dynamics' course Harry wishes he didn't have to take. He's nearly certain to present as a beta, after all. Things will be simple for him.

Saw It In Your Eyes

by taggiecb | roommates | coming out | sexuality crisis | light angst |15k

Harry Styles counts himself extremely lucky that he has landed such a great roommate. It doesn’t bother him at all that his new roommate is gay. In fact, they get along so well that they have formed an extremely close friendship that takes up pretty much all his free time. When Louis starts bringing a new guy home with him, Harry is surprised by how much it bothers him. Is he not as okay as he thought he was with Louis’ sexuality?

Or the one where Harry is an oblivious walnut.

Wild at Heart Ain't Hard to Find

by QuickedWeen for H+L Mood Board Prompt Challenge | girl direction | pwp | strangers to lovers | 11k

Louis and her best friends Niall and Liam always take an annual vacation together. This year Niall has picked Redwater Canyon, a small tourist town where everyone lives like it's the Old West. There are saloons, stagecoaches, and limited access to WiFi.

The town boasts tours, excursions, activities, and the hottest woman Louis has ever seen in the form of the local blacksmith.

Keep this love in a photograph

by suspendrs for One Direction Big Bang Round 1 | historical | minor character death | friends to lovers | slow burn | 48k

“I could never forget a damn thing about you, Harry Styles, not even if I wanted to,” Louis says. His hair falls into his face when he glances over at Harry, the moonlight reflecting off of it and making it glow golden, like maybe Louis himself is the sun.

Harry thinks of how dark and cold his life got once Louis went away, how Harry got a taste of the sweetest sunshine imaginable and then was plunged into the longest winter of his life. He feels like he’s been buried under mounds of snow for months, years, and he’s finally made it to spring, finally getting another taste of how wonderful life can be.

Or, it’s 1919, and Harry’s been falling in love with his best friend for his entire life.

Signs and wonders

by scrunchyharry for One Direction Big Bang Round 1 | second chances | coming out | future fic | 29k

On the surface, it looks like Louis Tomlinson has the perfect life; after all, he has the whole package: a white picket fence house (well, his doesn’t technically have a white picket fence, but work with him), a wife, a daughter and a dog. He has it all and he’s not even 30, yet.

On the surface, he could be the happiest man in the world.

The thing is, he never wanted this life. There was this boy, see, this Harry Styles, whose arrival made Louis question everything he thought he knew about himself. Before Louis could pursue it, though, before he could be brave and ask the boy out, one moment of bad luck on prom night, one single lapse of judgment, shaped his life in a way he never would have chosen. Between doing the right thing or turning into his own absent father, he knew what he had to do, even if it meant burying his dreams under the weight of a premature adulthood.

That is, until he receives an invitation for his school’s ten year reunion and sees that Harry will attend.

Could it be his second chance at happiness? At what cost?

Wonder How I Ever Made It Through

by lovelarry10 for 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names Challenge | abusive relationship | serious injuries | healing | non-graphic violence | recovery | 9k

Louis loved his home and his neighbourhood. It made jogging more enjoyable. But when a boy with curly hair moves into a home down the street, neither of these men realise what changes are coming their way.

Or Harry and Louis realise that all they need to be strong is love.

Love will tear us apart

by notasawrap for 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names Challenge | a/b/o | past relationship | angst | kidfic | 20k

"Look, alpha," the green-eyed man starts contemptuously. "I know you're upset and that this sucks, I fucking know.” Harry breathes deeply. "I'm trying to do my best because she hasn’t stopped asking about you since yesterday, but I cannot do much if with everything I say, you're gonna react like a psychopath or whatever. I don't know what you want, Louis!" He alleges frustrated. "And if you just stop acting impulsively -contain your instincts or whatever, we could solve this in a way that benefits all of us, but if you're not willing to do that, the best thing is going to be to forget you even know about this." Harry ends up, turning to leave, but is again stopped by the alpha, his grip much softer this time.

"I want to meet her." Louis recognizes, more calmly. His scent slightly softer than before. It momentarily catches Harry in a spiral, but he drives away the sensation and concentrates on looking at the alpha.

"I know." He says sincere. He had expected it. "So does she."

or Louis and Harry have a past and now it's time to face it.

I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

by thedeathchamber for One Direction Big Bang: Round Five | angst | hurt/comfort | drama | miscommunication | 55k

Harry thinks he has good reasons for avoiding relationships. Meeting Louis puts those reasons to the test.

Not the Desperate Type

by lululawrence for 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names | strangers to lovers | neighbours | meet-cute | humour | 6k

“First of all, I’d like to tell you how disturbing it is that you’re this familiar with your neighbor’s sex life,” Liam said, amusement lacing his tone.

“Fuck off,” Louis said, laughing.

“Second, that is really very sad. How bad is the stomping? Are you sure your neighbor doesn’t like it fast like that?”

“With the amount of cleaning the guy does, I think he’s taking out his sexual frustration on the cleanliness of his apartment. I can’t imagine the guy makes enough mess to require daily vacuuming.”

It sounded like the guy was actually moving furniture above him as he was sweeping now. Damn. Did Louis miss the seven minutes in heaven or was the guy angry because he didn’t even get that much pleasure today?

“I’m kinda afraid with the amount of noise he produces while cleaning that one day I’m gonna look up through my ceiling and be able to see him.”

“Tell him we wish him a better sex life and that we’re rooting for him if you do.”

Or the one where Louis' neighbor has a series of unfortunately short sexual experiences and Louis can hear every. Single. One.

#28th appreciation #1d fanworks appreciation day #piece by piece #don't let the tide come and take me #i didn't fall for you you fucking tripped me #no easy love could make me feel this way #introduction to dynamics #fic rec #my reads #monthly reads #completed fics #one direction big bang #hl moodboard prompt challenge #1000 feelings for which there are no names prompt challenge #1d big bang #hl abo fic exchange

[peachbruhlee]

Cookie Burns

word count: 1.5k

pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

warnings: one curse word? that’s pretty much it

a/n : Hi everyone! This is the first time I’ve ever written anything for Stranger Things, more specifically Steve. He is such a mom in the second season and i just have so many feels for him. It may be a bit out of character since it’s my first time writing for him! Let me know if you have any questions or requests!! I hope you like it :)

I hummed softly as I emptied my books into my locker from my backpack.Soon enough I felt arms loop around my waist as a kiss was pressed to my cheek.

“Steve!” I giggled as I squirmed away from his embrace, only managing to make his grip tighter.

“Hey, beautiful,” he chuckled as he pressed another kiss to my cheek. “I missed you.”

“You saw me in class five minutes ago Steve, we literally sat together,” I shook my head, a small smile on my face.

“I still missed you,” Steve hummed as he turned me around and pressed a kiss to my lips.

I smiled and kissed him back before pushing him away, “You’re lucky you’re cute, Harrington.”

“And you’re hot,” Steve wiggled his eyebrows with a cheeky smile on his lips.

I blushed and rolled my eyes, still not used to the compliments he showered me with, despite having been dating for months now.

“Y’know what I was thinking? What if we bake tonight?” I asked as I changed the subject.

“Bake? Like cookies and brownies?” I could practically hear Steve drooling at the thought of all the things we could bake.

“Yeah, wouldn’t it be fun? If we make too many we can give some to your kids,” I teased referring to the bunch of middle schoolers that he had befriended recently.

“They’re- They’re not my kids, okay?” Steve stammered.

“Keep telling yourself that sweetie,” I smiled cheekily at him.

“I only babysit them sometimes okay? Ms. Henderson trusts me since Dustin looks up to me and Ms. Byers knows that I would take care of the kids after what happened last year and earlier this year.” Steve tried to deny it.

“It’s not babysitting if they’re your kids,” I kept teasing. “Well I guess if they’re your kids, they must be mine too. Does that mean I’m the dad?”

“Why would you be the dad? Wouldn’t I be the dad?”

“No, you act like a mother hen, and don’t say that you don’t, I’ve seen you. So that makes me the cool dad,” I smiled at him cheekily.

“...Fine. BUT we’re not giving them all of the stuff we make. I want some too,” Steve pulled away and interlaced our fingers.

I closed my locker and we both walked down the hallways of Hawkins High.

I would have never thought of what would happen once we got home and actually started baking.

I hummed as I mixed the batter of brownies with the hand mixer, while Steve was supposed to be making the dough for the chocolate chip cookies.

“We’re not going to have enough chocolate chips for the cookies if you keep eating them,” I rolled my eyes once I caught Steve popping the chocolate chips into his mouth instead of putting them in the bowl.

“I’m not eating all of them, I only ate a few,” Steve mumbled, all the chocolate in his mouth made it difficult for him to say anything without spilling some of it.

“Steve stop eating them,” I whined as I pushed him away from me before he spilled chocolate on me.

He smirked and dipped his finger inside the brownie batter and smeared it on my cheek.

“Steve!” I gasped as I felt the batter slide down to my jaw. “You asked for it!”

It began a war of us throwing things at each other until we were covered with flour, chocolate, eggs and different batters and doughs from head to toe. We both laid down on the floor out of breath and laughing.

“We look ridiculous,” I giggled as I picked out some eggshell from my shirt.

“I think I have flour in places flour shouldn’t be,” Steve grimaced as he stood up and pulled me up with him.

“We should clean up before everything dries up and gets sticky.” I hummed as I grabbed a towel and began cleaning the countertops.

Steve sighed and joined in. We both cleaned up our mess that littered the kitchen, while putting one of the batches of brownies inside the oven. Once we were done, I showered first then went to the kitchen to check on the brownies while Steve went up to shower.

I hummed as I pulled out the tray of brownies from the oven and placed one of chocolate chip cookies inside to bake. The delicious sweet smell of the brownies began to waft throughout the house and tempted me to grab one, but I stopped myself before I burned my fingers.

“I smell brownies,” Steve said as he walked into the kitchen. He was wearing some pajama pants and a white t-shirt that he had left from the last time he was over.

“You’re right, but you can’t have them yet, they’re still hot,” I hummed as he placed his hands on my hips.

“Not as hot as you,” Steve smirked, his damp hair falling in front of his eyes.

“Well they’re not as sweet as you,” I retaliated with a blush on my cheeks.

Steve chuckled softly and leaned down to pressed his lips against mine in a chaste kiss. I looped my arms around his neck and had my hands in his hair. It was silky and extremely soft between my fingertips, I could run my fingers through it all day if he'd let me.

I pulled away soon for air and smiled at him. Before I could say anything the timer for the cookies went off.

“The cookies are ready,” I hummed as I pulled away from Steve’s hold.

I grabbed the oven mitts and pulled the oven door down, feeling the heat escape along with the mouth-watering scent of the freshly baked cookies. Pulling the hot tray out, I closed the door with my foot and carried the tray to the counter top.

“Steve they’re-”

“Shit!” He burned himself.

“Dammit Steve,” I quickly placed the tray down and removed the mitts, before grabbing Steve’s hand and bringing him to the sink to run the burn under water. “You literally saw me just take them out of the oven.”

“But they looked really good,” Steve mumbled as the water cooled down his burn.

“And look where you ended up,” I sighed with a small smile on the edge of my lips. Sometimes Steve was mature, and right now was one of those times he wasn’t.

“I love you,” Steve smiled sheepishly at me, but I knew he meant it by the serious tone in his voice.

“I love you too Steve,” I hummed and pressed a kiss on his cheek.

“I have an idea on how to cool down the cookies,” Steve beamed as he slipped away before bringing the small fan I had in my bedroom into the kitchen. “It’s basically the same thing as letting them cool right?”

“Just let them cool on their own, babe,” I shook my head at him. “We can eat some of the brownies since they were baked first.”

I grabbed two and passed him one, “Let’s hope they came out good.”

“You’re like the best baker ever, of course they would.” Steve said in an ‘obviously’ voice.

We both bit into our brownies at the same time.

“Nope, we can’t share these, these are too good to share,” Steve shook his head as he ate the rest of the brownie and reached for another one.

“Steve, you can’t eat all the brownies by yourself,” I went to pull the tray away from him, but he picked it up and began to run away.

“Watch me!” He called out to me as I ran after him.

I chased Steve around the house as he kept eating the brownies and I was always just out of reach to grab him.

We finally got winded from running so much we collapsed on the couch, out of breath and tired.

“I guess we can give some to those dipshits,” Steve sighed as he placed the tray of brownies on the coffee table, then laid down with his head on my lap.

“We’re gonna have to make more since you ate them all. Unless you’re willing to give up some of your cookies-”

“No,” Steve interjected quickly.

I chuckled softly, and began to play with his hair, twirling it with my fingertips and running my hands through it. When it wasn’t styled with an entire can of hairspray on it, it was wavy and really soft. I could see Steve’s eyes begin to flutter as he got sleepy.

“C’mon babe, let’s go to bed,” I ushered him up, both of us walking up to my room.

We both laid down facing each other, our legs tangling together. I threaded my fingers through Steve’s hair slowly as we both began to get more sleepy. Steve’s arms had wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer to him and i brought my arms down and rested my head against his chest.

“I love you, Steve,” I mumbled before I fell asleep.

“I love you too, ______,” I heard Steve mumble back.

Soon enough we both fell asleep, our arms wrapped around each other and smiles on our faces.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagines #stranger things #writing

[theeighthtitan]

Shot through the heart

TW: Angst, violence, blood, hints at death, gore-ish, hurt/comfort

Baby’s first fic, so take it with a grain of salt I suppose. I just had it in my brain and then got real stuck on working on it and now here we are.

This was inspired by the weird game mechanic where your character has arrows sticking out of them and my deep desire to make sure no one died in Redcliffe. Essentially, Roslyn Cousland, Alistair, Wynne, and Sten go to Redcliffe to get to the Arl but have to deal with the undead instead. During the final fight near the Chantry, Roslyn gets shot (tho not in the knee, she can still adventure), Alistair worries, but everything works out in the end.

Also the title is because I am ridiculous. No actual heart shooting.

The sounds of battle fill the air. Shouting orders, clanging swords, blades rending flesh, and the cries that follow. Black smoke billows from the hills above. Its thick ash settles in the air, making Alistair's lungs burn and his vision blur. His muscles scream in protest from the strain of the fight. It has gone on for what feels like hours now.

But everyone is alive.

Well that’s certainly something, he thinks as he smashes his shield into a corpse and it's closest friend, sending them sprawling. One more rushes to fill their place and the arc of his sword cuts through its torso. His reward is the sound and smell of putrid guts spilling on the ground in front of him. “Eugh. Rude. Can't they learn to take turns? Form a queue perhaps?”

“Unlikely!” Roslyn calls from across the battlefield. “Undead aren’t known for their patience!” She crosses her blades at the base of the skull of the corpse trying to dismember Tomas and cleaves its head from its shoulders. It rolls away and she cackles at the sight of it.

She’s shaking the rotting blood from her daggers, steeling herself for the next wave, when Tomas sees them.

“Warden! Look out!” He screams, too late.

She turns just in time for the arrow to sink into her stomach.

And her thigh.

And her shoulder.

Before the last corpse falls, he drops his weapons and races towards her, catching the latches on his gauntlets and throwing them aside. When he slides to a stop and crouches beside her the dirt makes a sickly wet squish beneath his greaves.

The scene twists his stomach. Her skin is grey with ash. Blood, both dried and new trails down her nose and mouth. Tears have left clean streaks down her face. Her eyes are shut and she lies motionless.

He reaches out with trembling hands, careful not to disturb her wounds, and cups the sides of her face. She feels cold. “Roslyn. It's time to wake up now. The fighting is over.”

“Alistair.” She sputters awake, eyes tracking to him. “Hi.”

“Oh thank the Maker,” he says, touching his forehead to hers. He manages a shaky laugh at her indifference towards the situation. She is breathing. Shallow, hitching breaths, but he will take what he can get. And she is conscious. A little strange, perhaps, but what else is new?

“Mmm… d’they live?” she coughs, fresh blood dribbling down the corner of her mouth.

He lets out a bitter laugh. Stubborn woman. Selfless and wonderful and dedicated beyond measure. She will be the death of me. “Yes, they did. Everyone is alive. We won.”

She hums a pleased sound. “Mmm goo—aahh—” Suddenly Sten’s hands are around the arrow in her stomach and her blood is seeping through his fingers.

“Hey, hey, hey! You're hurting her!”

“We must stop the bleeding. Now.” Sten says.

"Le’s get… on with it” she says, breaths growing more labored by the second. She looks pitiful and brave all at once. Her thick braids are free from their pins and a copper halo of baby hairs have come loose. He smoothes them down as best he can. But her jaw is set, determination plain on her face.

Sten grips the front of the arrow to break off the head. “This will be painful, kadan.” She nods, steadying herself on the lip of Alistair's armor. One of his hands clasps the back of her neck, thumb rubbing circles on her skin.

“Say… things,” she pleads.

“Did I tell you about what Moose brought me the other day?” The dog has all but adopted him. She shakes her head. “A soggy cake. With drool and everything.” She chuckles at the thought of it. “Now who in the name of the Maker made him think that people wanted soggy, dog droo—”

The snap of the arrow and the sob that rips through her come almost simultaneously.  

Surging forward, he presses his forehead to hers and wipes away the litany of new tears as they fall. “I know, I know.”

“Alistair...'f I don’... wake up…” she says, body growing slack.

“Don't talk like that, you'll wake up, you'll—” Cold fingers on his lips quiet him.

“I love you.”

Her eyes are kind for a moment before Sten pulls out the arrow and she slumps forward into Alistair’s arms.

His body moves to lay her on the cot for Wynne’s healing magic to repair the wound the arrow leaves behind. But his thoughts slow, a jumble of words and feelings without form or name until in one glaring moment the storm coalesces into... I didn’t say it back.

Alistair stands next to the barricades where the dirt is black with her blood. The moon shines overhead, bright and clear, a spotlight he doesn’t want. His eyes bore into the ground, willing the place where her life almost left her to disappear. But it won’t comply.

I didn’t tell her.

Heaving out a sigh, he runs his hands roughly through his hair. “Rude,” he says under his breath.

He hears the Chantry door open and Wynne appears next to him, eyes following his to the mud. “She… well she's lost a lot of blood as you are aware,” she says, resting her hand on his shoulder. “But she's a strong girl.”

He understands the connotation. She's a strong girl but we'll have to wait and see. The uncertainty of it makes the corners of his eyes burn.

What if I never get the chance?

He looks up at the moon to still the tears that threaten to fall.

“I have to help the other wounded now. Go to her,” Wynne says. He cannot find the voice to answer. Instead, he nods. Wynne hesitates at the door. “And Alistair? For what it is worth, I think she knows.”

He finds her asleep, with Sten at the foot of her cot conditioning her gloves and warding away curious onlookers with a fearsome glare.

The room feels surreal.

In spite of their attempts to mop it up, blood still sticks to the crevices of the old stone floors and its rusty tang is bitter in the back of his throat. The scent of elfroot and the oils Sten is using to clean her leather armor hang heavy in the air.

She looks the same and like another woman all together, if that is possible. She wears a fresh tunic like a plea, a prayer to the Maker that he might make her whole again. But her skin is crusted thick with blood and dirt, the specter of a battle she might still lose. “She's a mess...” Alistair says.

Maker, I hope she knows.

He goes to her then, hands around hers. “I'll never forgive you, you know that? If you die and leave this all on me.” He brings her hand to his cheek and wills her to wake up. “I'm not nearly as pretty, or smart, or strong and no one will listen to me and this blight will never end.”

“Here,” Sten interrupts him with two buckets of hot water, a rag, and some soap.

“I… thank you,” Alistair says. Sten only grunts in response, returning to the foot of her cot to finish her gloves and start work on her boots.

As he moves the rag across her skin, the blood and ash and dirt give way to the girl he knows, the one before the battle. The one who raises a single eyebrow at any foe who thinks to best her. The one who has a lopsided grin when he tells a particularly bad joke. And the one who would die protecting a village of strangers in a land she didn’t know for a payoff she wasn’t even sure she would see.

I just want the chance to tell her.

The morning sun shines through stained glass windows, filtering in purple and orange. Alistair is sleeping sitting up beside her, resting his head in his arms, soft snores rising and falling rhythmically. The light falls on her face, warm and familiar. When it reaches her eyes, she stirs. “Mmm...Alistair?” She says, voice thick from sleep.

“You're awake!” He says, waking with a start, hands around hers instantly.

“Mmm,” she hums, smile forming at the sight of his soft brown hair pointing in all directions. “You too.”

“I…” I have to tell her. “Well. I had a bad dream. Thought it was time to wake up.” The words won't form on his tongue, only more jokes.

“I mean, you flirted with my uncle for Andraste’s sake.” He says, voice trying for carefree, but instead darkened with the guilt that has lodged itself between his ribs. “He is really old. Probably thirty or forty.”

The crinkle at the edge of her eyes when she looks at him says she knows, and somehow that hurts the most. But still she cocks a single eyebrow at him. A challenge. “In my defense, he’s quite attractive. He’s got an amazing jawline and a very pert—”

“A what? It wasn’t a nightmare then?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up in response. “Afraid not.”

“Should I let him know you're interested? I can go find him,” He goes to stand, but she doesn’t let go of his hand and he lets it pull him back down into his seat.

“Ah, well, there's no need. I've another suitor.” A rosy blush settles underneath her freckled cheeks. “You would like him. He’s got a kind heart. Always ready with a joke. Plus, he’s got great hair,” she says, reaching out to finger comb his back into place.

“Oh,” he says, picking at the edge of his fraying tunic. Just do it, you oaf.

He brings his hand up to her face in stumbling movements. When his hand begins to brush against the soft skin of her cheeks and she leans into his touch it emboldens him. “I bet he loves you very much.” 

“Mmm, I think so too,” she says, biting her lip to stifle a wide grin, but the glee in her eyes remains. “I will say though, he's kind of a royal bastard.”

ba dum tissssss

#ugh I am unsure if this is good #but it needs to be done #and in the world #and with me no more #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #warden cousland #roslyn cousland #alistair #alistair theirin #warden x alistair #cousland x alistair #dragon age origins #tw blood #tw violence #tw hints at death #hurt comfort #alistair x roslyn #roslyn x alistair #mine

[kvrizv]

April 23, 2017 | 10:09 p.m.

Oh, where to begin…

This really isn’t my typical social media platform of choice, but everything else from my preferred list has a limit to the the amount of characters you can use (yes, even Instagram) and Facebook is for the fake front you put on for family and casual friends you’ll pretend to remember at high school reunions. So Tumblr it is…

Life is messy. I don’t know how else to put it in simple terms that will encompass everything, but life is messy. So is “my room” right now and that’s what makes it the perfect setting.

Let’s be clear, this isn’t really “my room,” but temporary lodging while my “old room” is more than likely going to have the walls torn out and made a mess of the space I tried so hard to make cozy. It has mold. Enough mold to where the apartment complex has made me and my three other roommates all relocate across this accursed place. We were told this Thursday after one roommate put in a work order to try and fix the mold that had run rampant in her room. At first they said we wouldn’t have to move everything out and it would only take seven to ten days max for them to “fix the problem.” That was Thursday.

Friday is when they told us that it would take potentially up to two weeks for them to fix everything and make it possible for us to move back in. Big difference from the seven to ten days they mentioned prior. So now I’m packing up everything I can before we had to be out by Monday and would no longer be able to access our old apartment or our old rooms. It’s one thing to pack when it’s planned, but it’s a whole other thing when you’re being told to move with only a few days to process what’s going on and get prepared. It’s a whole other thing when you have to question everything you brought into your room and whether it has mold growth or mildew on it and if it can even be repaired, saved or will have to be thrown away like meaningless garbage.

Friday is also when I had a live music show to throw and execute after hyping it up damn near since the last one a month ago. The line up was perfect. I had booked four out of the five performers myself and was hoping this would be the one thing that wouldn’t go wrong this week. It’s amazing how quickly your hopes can get squished. The DJ was late. Not just for sound check, but the beginning of the event. Now, this wouldn’t be an issue, but at the last show in March one of the performers had canceled on me the day of the performance, maybe two hours prior to sound check. The people running the venue weren’t impressed because they thought we were starting late intentionally and had wasted their sound technician’s time. So this is the second time we’re starting late and we couldn’t even run sound check on time because the DJ had some of the equipment we used to help balance out the sound quality of the show. Trust me, it was necessary he be there for sound check if this event was even going to come close to running smoothly. I know the head barista at the venue was not impressed in the slightest and rightfully angry. But it wasn’t aimed at the DJ, but me, the one who essentially serves as the representation of the people putting this together. It’s a great feeling when you know people are upset at you for other people’s actions you couldn’t help or control. But that’s been a constant feeling at the work place, but that’s a whole other thing entirely separate from this paragraph. People seemed to have a good time though, but I still felt like I let other people down.

All the while I’m having to move out of my apartment and run this show, my car begins to have more problems. The worst part is that it’s not like this is anything new. This is the third incident in less than six months where something’s wrong with the car. First it was a $500+ fix during winter break, then it was nearly $200 to get the starter replaced during spring break, and now the battery was acting up. Thankfully, my mom had gotten a warranty on the battery when we bought it last time, so it didn’t cost anything when we had to get it replaced. But tell me why 24 hours after getting the battery in my car replaced that the brand new battery dies right in the middle turn lane in front of the Walmart in town? I was just trying to get a loofah and some shower rings for the new apartment I had to move into because my old one has mold infesting it, but instead of a hot shower I get a dead car in the middle of a busy 5-lane street. Thankfully a kind stranger pushed my car while I steered my dead car into the gas station that was right there.

But how come all this had to happen all at once? How come this all had to happen over the time span of only 72 hours roughly?

I should be working on end of semester projects, studying for finals, trying to wrap up my first semester in a new position at my work place. But instead I’m sitting at the desk in a new room that’s littered with boxes of stuff that I need to unpack and organize all the while my car is sitting overnight in a gas station halfway across this little town. I already had to bail on my weekly radio show tonight and was even going to have guests come in to talk about all kinds of awesome things and just have a good time. But my phone died probably 20 minutes after my car did and I had no way of reaching out to anybody after that.

Thankfully, I was able to call my mom and she made her way back to town to help. Thankfully, I was able to text a friend and he headed right over to help without me even having to ask him to. Thankfully, I had two incredible friends who were able to give me a ride to the show on Friday and take me home afterwards. Thankfully I got a few friends who have reached out to offer support and well wishes and make sure I was okay.

I’m not okay and my ex suggests I talk to someone, but she only popped back up after I subtweeted her during a vent session on Twitter. [EDIT - Sentence omitted after further discusdion, but still uneasy *Yeezy shrug*]. I’m just tired. I’m tired of opening up to people that are only temporary and only care casually when they need you to do something for them. Yes, I have trust issues, but with my experiences and interactions I feel like it’s warranted. I‘m tired of pretending to be okay when I’m not, because people don’t know how to deal with me when I’m anything but cheerful. But people don’t realized how depressed I feel every single day, because I’ve had years of practice of hiding that and put on a pleasant front so people will feel better. So they won’t feel how I feel so often. And I don’t know who to talk to about this. I talked to a counselor when my parents first divorced, and he was a biased prick with an agenda, so I don’t trust counselors. I’m still learning to trust my mom again after calling her out on the secrecy of her actions that had been going on for a year or so, but she felt like I didn’t need to know. Even a person I use to actively call my best friend couldn’t help me when another friend of mine died in a car accident. I just needed someone to tell me everything was going to be okay, but it seemed more like he wanted to change the subject and wasn’t willing to just try and listen at a point when I wish it was me that was in that car and not my friend.

People have told me lately I say “thank you” too much, but considering the standard of people I’m use to dealing with, even the little things mean the world to me. And that’s why I keep going. I keep going for the people who have helped lift me up out of the darkest depths of my mental state and make me want to make them proud. I do it for the people who see something in me that I don’t see in myself and want to see me succeed and help me do that. I do it for 13-year-old me that just wanted to die damn near everyday because he didn’t see a reason to keep going, but didn’t have the courage to go through and actually harm himself in some way.

Honestly, I thought this was going to be some long winded rant that ended with me cursing everything that’s happened over the last three or four days, but I feel like putting it all out there has really helped me feel better right now. And who knows, maybe this will help someone else going through a similar situation. I mean, that’s what I do it for. I just want to be the person 13-year-old me needed during that time.

It’s nearly an hour later and I think it’s time I do a little more cleaning and organizing, take a shower and try to get some sleep before it’s back to work, classes, projects, people and everything else that comes with my life. Yeah, I hate it a lot of the times, but then there’s moments like these that allow me to reflect on the little things and appreciate them a little more.

So thank you to the people who reached out to make sure I was okay. I really do mean it when I say that you have no idea how much I appreciate it. But who knows, maybe if you read this you’ll have a better understanding.