#3 trouser roles so far. THREE

[monotonous-minutia]

Vivaldi has done it again

BAROQUE OPERA IS SO GAY. 

kudos to this production we get two diva smooches in one aria

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

A Little Indulgence (Spencer Reid x Reader Smut)

Summary: After returning home, Y/N discovers that Spencer has brought back something from prison.

AN: This was part of the smut fic swap in @imagining-in-the-margins's server! I wrote for the gorgeous pal that is @cardigayn <3 love you <3 Reader is AFAB and uses they/them pronouns!

For my SFW fic entry for the swap, check out Valentines Day For Nerds!

Word count: 3.4k words

Content warnings: Knife kink, thigh riding, daddy kink, mild choking, spanking, biting, smangst

Your name: submit What is this?

The sudsy water masked the cutlery from sight, so Y/N’s hands were only submerged for a split second before they retracted with a gasp as sharp as the blade that cut them.

Spencer had acted fast; he found the first aid kit, deftly picking out the bandages in preparation for determining the right size. It had been his fault really. He was the one constantly sharpening the blades. He was never really satisfied with them, even when they could slice an onion without causing tears or rip through a cut of meat like it was wet paper.

The setting sun fanned over the room as Spencer’s nimble fingers wrapped cotton gauze around Y/N’s hand. They checked the pressure on the cut was tight enough. But they were moving on muscle memory alone. His mind had strayed to Y/N reaching carefully into the sink with their intact hand and retrieving the offender from it. Bubbles dripped off the edge, teasing him with its enticing appearance.

The second Y/N was deemed “fine”, Spencer left them alone. He ran for the bathroom and slammed the door. With the lock turned in, he stripped off his stifling clothes until he was free of his tie, his jacket, his shirt. Cold water splashed onto his cheeks didn’t calm him. The mirror fogged up beneath his nose with his deep breaths, in, out, in, out, his forehead against his reflection’s. His eyes were dilated, as he flexed his fingers over the crotch in his pants. A sigh from deep in his chest relieved itself. Things really had changed since Scratch.

He left the tap on to disguise any cry that might wriggle free from him. In all honesty, Spencer half wanted to weep that he was thinking of such things while his partner had injured themselves. He should be helping them, maybe leaving a quick peck on the bandage because Y/N once told him that a kiss on a cut defied science and made everything better.

His mind cast itself towards self-destruction and a horrendous link between himself and a young man he once knew. Nathan Harris, trapped in his mind, so aware that what he was feeling and thinking was morally wrong, but the poor kid still felt it and he nearly succumbed to it.

Spencer wanted to know if he was still institutionalised. Perhaps if he was more like Gideon, Spencer would have kept track of the victims their cases had come across.

Gideon.

Victims.

He wasn’t a victim. He refused. It was just a small cut from a kitchen knife. It wasn’t as if he was harming anyone. Yet.

He wasn’t Gideon. He wasn’t going to run away with just a note in his absence.

“Spencer?”

Three raps at the door, Spencer heard from Y/N on the other side. He forced one more slow breath out before he unlocked the bathroom door and ripped it open.

“Are you ok?” Y/N’s gaze dropped to his pants then back to his eyes – just for a second but Spencer noticed.

His voice was low as he replied, “I’m alright.”

As if in slow motion, his hand reached out for theirs. They noticed but did not make a comment at his speed. They let him take it, and his thumb grazed over the plaster that covered their injury.

“Are you?” He asked just as quietly.

Y/N looked down again, saw the strain in his trousers. Spencer watched them with cautious arousal as they connected the dots at lightning speed.

“I’m alright,” They said, their voice surprisingly steady as they strained to keep looking at his eyes, “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

They were so genuine. They wanted the best for him. They would do anything for him.

“Maybe not help.”

Confusion crinkled their brow, “What then?”

He should stop here. He should keep what his limits were here a mystery. He shouldn’t.

“Indulge me.”

And he pressed his thumb hard on the cut.

From Y/N, Spencer drew an inhale that was sharper than the knife that cut them. It fuelled his intentions, his other hand brushing their hair over their shoulder before it settled on their throat. It stroked gently, not forceful – for now.

Their body instinctively moved closer, barely an inch but it was enough to tell Spencer two things. One: Y/N was willing to let this play out. Two: their right arm was too far behind their back to be considered comfortable.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Spencer kept watch of them as his hand slid along their arm, across their trembling skin until he found their fist holding the accused knife. His entire body slumped with a sigh against them. Carefully, he coaxed them to ease the grip and took the handle into his own power. He saw their throat wobble as they swallowed.

“You ought to be more careful with these.” Spencer held the blade up in the space between them, his reflection more assured now. Y/N was staring at it too, so lost in its splendour that their chest jumped in surprise when Spencer released their throat to fist at their flimsy shirt and pull them closer.

“You’re not particularly attached to this one, are you? Use your words.” He reminded them when they shook their head.

“No,” Y/N whispered and their stomach sucked in as Spencer pierced the shirt with the tip of the blade.

Their bottom lip shook and Spencer restrained his urge to bite it as he said, “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I do.” The knife began gliding up the shirt as though it were warm butter.

Spencer continued, “You know, unless I wanted to. Unless you wanted me to.”

Y/N nodded, barely though, “I do know.”

“Because you wouldn’t have brought me this if you didn’t know that. But you do. You know just what I need.”

The blade caught at the end of the shirt, stuck for just a second before it flicked up and broke the final links of fabric. The tip of the knife caught on Y/N’s chin and stayed there to sting it. They were shaking. One more shiver out of place and the skin would break but there was no tension in their shoulders or panicked panting. They were as collected as they could be with all their attention on the blade.

“You can’t take your eyes of it either,” Spencer sighed. He was almost jealous of it, but something about this knife was truly captivating. Right now, he was feeling like he was holding it for the first time again – because Y/N was feeling its effects for the first time.

His breath was agitated as he whispered to them, “Tell me you want this too. Please.”

“Daddy,” and Spencer felt his stomach twist with absolute joy as Y/N spoke, “I want this.”

His fist released them, and he watched the confusion cross their face. It was soon replaced with bashfulness as he shamelessly looked at their chest, drinking in how it was framed in the tatters of their shirt. A minor inner conflict ensued as he forced himself to take his time moving from the en suite to the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Once comfortable, the knife lolled in a controlled bounce between his fingers.

“Take that off. Come here.”

After a moment’s processing, Y/N quickly shed the shirt and took the initiative to remove the rest of their clothes. But not their underwear, they knew Spencer liked to be the one to take those off. They knelt over his lap, awaiting his next instruction. One that Spencer was all too happy to give.

“Get off on my thigh.”

Y/N took matters into their own hands when it came to wriggling off Spencer’s trousers and underwear, not even bothering to take them completely off before they straddled his thigh and began grinding against his bare skin. His cock rested against his belly, twitching at the occasional brushing up against the enthusiastic Y/N and leaking eagerly. As his own form of torture, Spencer refused to touch it or ask Y/N to do so. All he could touch was Y/Nand the knife’s handle. He pulled them closer with a hand on their hip. It guided them in their motions once they noticed the knife was at their throat, and their head leant back as they moaned, exposing more for Spencer to target.

Control after such chaos, it was just what he needed. As he dropped his head into Y/N’s chest and kissed the swell of their soft breasts, he lowered the knife. He controlled the danger Y/N was in, and they let him control it. They trusted him, even if he didn’t completely trust himself.

“Spencer? Daddy?”

Y/N touched their nose to Spencer’s, seeking out the answer to why his grip had slacked. He also noted that Y/N had stopped grinding onto his thigh.

Spencer gave into temptation and he bit down on that delicious bottom lip of theirs. It was sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted with the moan from their throat as a garnish. The knife rested at the slope of their neck.

He released their lip to murmured against it, “I could fuck you with the handle.”

Their nose bumping against his as they shook their head, Y/N whined, “No.”

“No?” Eyebrows raised at the audacity they had, to use him then deny his words.

But then Y/N opened their eyes, pleading with them as they said, “Next time.”

They were touching his hand now, the same spot where they had cut themselves and their bandage pressed into each other with their fingers linked.

“I want your cock in me now, and I want you to hold the knife against me. Please, Daddy.”

All sense of Spencer’s gorgeous hazel eyes was lost as two rings around his pupils. His jaw went slack as he processed their request, his laboured breath falling from his lips. Finally, he took in a deep breath, straightening up his back and resuming his role as the Dominant again.

“You’re getting really greedy, baby. You should watch your mouth.”

Y/N continued to plead with their puppy dog eyes, leaning close to him. Their bodies were pressed as close as they could be. Spencer’s trousers were still frustratingly in the way so he kicked them off.

Luckily for Y/N, Spencer was greedy too. The promise of “next time” is what let them off their backtalk this time.

He quickly unhooked Y/N’s bra, letting them be the impatient one to throw it aside. His sitting position adjusted itself against the headboard before he allowed them to sit in his lap again. Once comfortable, he dotted their chest with purple, the knife keeping their back arched into him.

Their panties were grazed by the knife before they were merely pushed aside and Spencer stroked through their lips with a tactile fingertip, sharing a groan from how wet they were. He could never tire of that, or of Y/N sinking down on him, how warm and welcoming they were, how they clung to him like a limpet.

Y/N began to move. Every motion was more longing and enrapturing than the last, Spencer finding it hard to keep up and hold back. His free hand continued rubbing on their thigh, spanking their skin and counting each one until the spot beneath his palm was red. Every time, Y/N gasped and jumped, the blade pressing harder into them.

“Touch yourself,” Spencer rasped against their skin. He leant back to make way for their clumsy fingers, rubbing at themselves covetously.

“Please, Daddy.” Y/N cut themselves off and their cheek found the flat side of the blade to press itself against, now warm from their flushed contact, “Can I cum please?”

“Yes, you can, cum for me.”

The need to meet them in completion overpowered him and Spencer abandoned the knife to grab them with both hands, fucking into them harder as they cried out for him. Their nails dragged across his shoulders and he welcomed the pain from each fingertip. It only spurred him to move faster.

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

Y/N nodded eagerly, their stamina waning before picking back up at the notion, meant in no time at all he was keeping his word. They beautifully reached their orgasm with Spencer’s fingers tight around their throat once more, bringing on his own orgasm soon after with their snug cunt milking his cock for all it was worth.

Using his grip on their neck, Spencer pulled Y/N down against his lips and slurred into their mouth, “Thank you.”

Then he lifted his hips up, enjoying the pleasure flaring up as he did so. His shuffling down the bed was lacklustre but it worked enough for when he fell onto his back. Bringing Y/N with him, he could feel his cock slide out of them and something warm and wet dribble onto the top of his leg. If only he had the energy to plug it back in there, push it back with his tongue. All he could do now was lift himself up a little, reach over Y/N and pull their underwear back into place. As Y/N said earlier, “next time”.

“Thank you.” Spencer brushed Y/N’s hair off their back, letting it tangle with his. “Thank you. You’re so good to me.”

“And so are you… D’you need anything?”

“I’m good, you?”

“Me too.”

As his arms spread out on the bed, Spencer’s right elbow found the knife again. Too late, it was sliding off the edge, a muted clatter against the carpet reaching their ears just moments later. A few seconds later, Y/N lifted off him, their sweaty skin clinging to each other as if to plead for them to stay, but it was Spencer who let out the noise of complaint this time. Y/N was quick though. They simply moved the knife into the bedside drawer and closed it before landing beside Spencer, wriggling to get that proximity once again.

Spencer found himself kissing the palm that cradled his face, breathing it in, plaster and skin and all. Soon he was curling into them, his face hidden in their neck as he wrapped his body around them. There were a few more grunts as sporadic pangs of pleasure rippled through them both, until they finally settled still. Y/N combed their fingers through Spencer’s thick hair, tugging just how he liked it.

He didn’t know really how to describe it. He just felt warm.

“Spencer?” Y/N’s voice was a little above a whisper, a crack chipping the last syllable.

“Yeah?”

“Would you…” They tilted their chin up to the ceiling. Spencer didn’t push; he gave them time, just as they had done, to answer.

“Would you let me shave you one day, please? With the straight razor?”

Spencer’s smile grew back on his face, “Of course.”

“And would you use the knife handle on me next time please?”

“Why were you more nervous about asking to shave me?” Spencer kissed where a faint ring of teeth marks met their neck, feeling it rumble with their giggling.

“I don’t know!” They covered their eyes with their hand.

To encourage them to come back out of their little shame cave, Spencer kissed where his lips fell and nodded, “Yes, next time, I’ll use the handle, Y/N.”

“We’ll have to make sure you don’t cut yourself.”

They cared for his wellbeing. He should too.

For now, at least, things weren’t so bad. Clarity from his orgasm told him that the guilt would set in by tomorrow. But he’d address it then and let the final dregs of their indulgence rock him to sleep.

  ---> ---> ---> ---> --->

 BONUS

Tonight was a transaction. Spencer was midway through his side of the bargain – keeping Y/N comfortable. They didn’t seem to mind the granite of the countertop pressing into their back as Spencer ate them out with gusto, his knees protected by a pillow against the tiled kitchen floor. His hair was tugged at the roots. Sometimes he felt Y/N’s heel tap against his back as they balanced on one foot to use the other to bring him closer. It was largely ineffective, but it pleased him that they weren’t completely in control of their needy actions.

His lips parted from theirs, and they whined at the cool gentle air he blew against them. They both knew that Y/N knew they weren’t allowed to cum without permission. They both knew that this wasn’t the end. But only Spencer knew where this was going next.

Leaning back on his heels, he pulled open the drawer beside Y/N. His hands were careful as they retrieved the knife he was after. He’d memorised its place in that drawer. Once again, Y/N was trapped in a stare. Their gaze followed the knife with confusion as Spencer began to wrap a hand towel around the blade.

When Spencer caught sight of this, he raised an eyebrow and waved the handle around in a circle. “You did say next time.”

A hint of guilt crawled around in his gut. Perhaps they would think he was pressuring them to keep a promise they made in a daze of hormones.

But Y/N simply whispered, “I did. I also said we’d have to make sure you don’t cut yourself.”

“I’ve thought about this already,” Spencer said as his fingers held the blade - safely encased by the towel.

“Me too.”

With his eyes as wild as his hair, Spencer moved the end of the handle across their sex, tentatively stroking it across where their cum and his spit met. Then he took a leisurely pace to push it inside them. His eyes fixated on the way they clenched around it, unconsciously wanting more while they restrained their other movements with stiff knuckles grasping at the countertop.

“How’s that feel?” Spencer said quietly, his hot breath hitting their skin as hard as the curves of the handle pressed against their walls.

Through their exhale, Y/N replied, “It’s good.”

“Yeah?” Spencer began pulling the knife out slowly once it reached halfway inside of them, “Not as good as me though.”

“No, never.”

Right answer.

He pushed it back in, until the edge of the blade was an inch from their soaked sex. Then he released it.

“Spenc-”

“Stop. Keep it there. I know you can.”

The hand towel dropped, untangled and fell off the blade.

Spencer leant back again and watched how the blade quivered with them now, reacting to their body just as they reacted to it. “Careful now. If you don’t hold it still, you could cut yourself.”

Y/N let out a groan of frustration but they listened to his demands. Soon the knife was near still. There was still a familiar tremble that shifted it from inside of them, but it was nothing to worry about yet. Licking his lips, a hint of their taste still on them, Spencer reached out to their clit and began rubbing it. He delighted in Y/N’s groans.

“That’s it, keep that cunt tight.” Eyes still on them, he pulled out from his underwear his cock and stroked his hands in time together. It thrilled him to no end, his pleasure only increased by theirs. “Does it feel good?”

“Daddy, please,” Y/N bit their lip, unable to look at what Spencer was doing to them.

“Look at you, trying to keep that still in you, all tense, when I’m teasing your pretty clit. What’s it like knowing you want more but you can’t have it?”

They were struggling, the blade slipping out millimetre by millimetre despite their best efforts. Their hips jerked as they would when riding him. But their thighs were forced apart lest the shining metal between them bite worse than their Daddy. They were simply too aroused to do a better job, poor baby.

“You know how I like looking at them.”

Spencer leant close, breathing in their earthy smell, and he pressed a kiss on their clit. His lips parted for him to lick at it twice, to feel their most sensitive parts twitch against his mouth again. He looked at their face as his finger found the blunt tip of the knife and pushed the handle back up into them. Y/N’s mouth fell open, a ragged gasp shaking at the back of their throat. Spencer looked back at the knife just in time to see a drop of their cum slip down the edge of it. His cock twitched. His teeth bared in a smile.

“But this view is my favourite.”

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 2: We Have a Problem

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content

SUMMARY: Nova swallows. “Din—”

“This,” he starts, resting one gloved hand against her cheek, “is what Mandalorians are made for. We’ve got this.” When Nova tries to interrupt, he gives her a swift shake of his head. “Go. Be a Jedi.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday!! i hope you love this chapter (and that you'll forgive that it's only about 9,000 words, i've had a hectic week)! this chapter was such a joy to write, and i hope you enjoy reading it just as much. more notes, as always, at the end!

*

When Nova wakes up, the bed is empty.

She rubs sleep from the edges of her eyes, digging her thumb lightly on the ridge between her eyebrows, trying to chase the groggy feeling away. Din’s not here, and his armor is gone, and Grogu’s crib is missing, too. Slowly, she makes her way into the fresher, pulling on the silver knob until water starts running down from the shower, filling the room with steam.

It’s so much more lavish than the one back on the Crest, and certainly years better than the old, stubborn one on Kicker, but the amount of space in here feels like almost too much. “Soap,” Nova mutters to herself, not even aware that she’s speaking until the word slips out of her mouth. At least the kind the two of them use, the bar that smells like crisp air and starlight, is sitting on the dish right to her left. She takes her time lathering up her hands, dragging suds in circles down her aching body, trying not to notice how roomy and empty it is in here without Din.

This whole placeis so empty without Din. The palace is huge, a Mandalorian fortress, and even though it’s outfitted with the absolute best technology and beskar that exists in the galaxy, there’s something eerie about it. Like most of it is standing empty, ornate and gilded for a reason no one can speak aloud. Nova knows the palace has more functionality than it seems, that the tunnels that run into the training stadium and the holding cells have purpose, but the fortress is over-fortified for a planet that barely has anyone left. She felt the same way when she went back to the base on Yavin, she reasons with herself as she wrestles the stubborn nozzle back into place, stepping into the fluffy towel hanging just outside, but at least the emptiness of the building made sense. The Alliance had accomplished almost everything they needed to, and a giant, communal space wasn’t practical after the fall of the Empire. It stood both as a testament to what the Rebels had accomplished and as a reassurance that anyone could come back and fight the good fight. Castles and temples and bases across the galaxy had all fallen into a state of disuse, Nova bargains, looking at her reflection in the foggy mirror. This wasn’t abnormal.

Except it was. Mandalore was a ghost town. Din was the ruler of a world that had long since fallen, and she was royalty in a place that barely had anyone left. And the way that this place operated was just as eerie and strange—she always had fresh towels, clothes were laid out in her closet, they both had feasts made to feed dozens more people than the two of them—but Nova had no idea where they all came from. She’s only seen Bo-Katan at intervals—usually in the late night, when her voice carries all the way up the stairs after she and Din have argued in the war room—and the two other Mandalorians that seemed to be attached at her hip are even scarcer than Bo-Katan is. There’s not many Mandalorians left, Nova knows this, but the way this entire place could fit thousands more people than just a handful makes everything seem heavier, somehow, or sadder.

Nova looks at herself in the mirror. Most of the reflection is still fogged up, and she drags a hand through it to reveal her face. She studies herself, focusing primarily on her pink, chewed-on bottom lip. There’s something wild in her eyes, something deeper than her everyday fears and worries. She knows that every day that slips by the closer the First Order—whoever the hell they are—gets to wounding Mandalore and the surviving Alliance. But with her heart in one place and her body in another, everything in Nova’s body feels like wire snapped taut, like if she moves the wrong way she’ll fracture off into pieces. Slowly, she blinks away the intensity of her gaze, brushing her long fingers over the spot where she knows her scar is reflected. The skin always looks raised after she showers, an angry rash of a still-festering wound. It’s easy to forget when Nova’s thinking about anything else, but any time her mind drifts away from whatever she’s focusing on, she feels the impact of it. It wasn’t just a flesh wound, after all, the lightsaber that Jacterr dragged through her stomach was meant to kill. And it’s still somewhat of a miracle that she survived it.

The very tips of her fingers ghost over the old wound, and Nova tries her best not to wince at the touch, the burning way it still sears when she touches it wrong or she’s wearing something that brushes uncomfortably against it. If Din were standing behind her in the mirror, he wouldn’t even have to touch it—or her—to take Nova’s pain away. But Din’s not here, he’s downstairs in the war room trying to lead a planet he never even wanted, and Nova scrunches her face up sourly in the mirror, attempting to chase away the inner, selfish longing for being back out alone together in the crush of space.

But even if it were just the three of them—Novalise, Din, and Grogu—there were always threats just a half-step behind them. Space was cold, foreboding, and no matter how warm the light and company was on the Razor Crest or on Kicker, the very real threat of being behind enemy lines they couldn’t ever seem to find was constant. It was eternal. But there’s something nostalgic about missing the consistent chase of it all, something that kicked Nova’s fight-or-flight response into high gear, something that neither of them feel here on Mandalore. No matter how rich and long the history is here, it’s also suspiciously empty, and Nova knows that everyone here, regardless of how skilled they are as warriors, is a conspicuous target.

The bedsheets are still all tangled as Nova exists the fresher, piling her wet hair on the top of her head as she wrestles the towel around herself, shivering a little in the vastness of their suite. In the wardrobe are hundreds of outfits—gorgeous dresses, ornate jewels, top-of-the-line everyday wear—but all of them have a distance to them. Nothing in these drawers feel like hers. Nova rustles through the shirts and trousers, all in varying neutrals or that strange shade of pale Mandalorian blue, looking for something functional, comfortable, and most importantly, inconspicuous. It was going to be a harrowing trek back to Ahch-To to return her baby and borrowed lightsaber to Luke Skywalker, and Nova didn’t want her reputation of Novalise Djarin, wife to the reigning Mand’alor, to be announced and heralded across the journey from the Outer Rim to the Unknown Regions. She just wanted to be Nova—human, mother, and Jedi.

Maybe. Maybea Jedi.

That part was still a lingering question mark, one that hung over her head more than it excited her. For years, growing up, Nova excused her Force sensitivity away as just something more that she was tapped into, something deeper, something divine. It was hers and hers alone, because the Jedi were mostly legends and myths, with only the current story of the famous Luke Skywalker told in whispers from people in the Alliance. Now, though, she knows it’s real, her ability to use the Force. She knows since she met Luke Skywalker, went head-to-head with the incredible Ahsoka Tano, and became a mother to Grogu. It’s beyond just what’s in her blood—beyond lineage and beyond chemistry—it’s something ancient and pulsing. Something that’s hers.

Nova sighs, picking the most functional clothes in her wardrobe—deep tan trousers with a pocket deep enough to hold the lightsaber, a long-sleeved black shirt that hugged her curves but didn’t irritate her scar, and a shawl in that shimmering Mandalorian blue. She pressed a thumb to her necklace, the one that Din offered to her alongside his heart, biting down on her lip. It was long past sunrise, because the hazy blue atmosphere was full of color, and as she opened up one of the gigantic windows, a gentle breeze wafted into the suite from the outside. Mandalore smelled like dust and loneliness, she decided, which wasn’t entirely fair, but it holds her at arm’s length. Nova looks back at the rumpled bedsheets, eyes glazing over the clothes hanging in her open wardrobe, trying to find a sign that she belongs here, that she’s more than just a figurehead, that this role that she married into has significance deeper than looking pretty on an unyielding throne.

It doesn’t come. She exhales, tears starting to well up at the edges of her eyes, and she sits on the edge of the bed. It smells like Din—cleanness, metal, woodsmoke, cinnamon—and even though it’s far more comfortable than any of the makeshift ones they crafted on the starships they used to call home, it feels empty in the same way that this room does, that this planet does.

“You’re being selfish,” Nova chastises herself quietly, her whisper coming out much louder than intended, filling up the hollow air of their gigantic bedroom. This was what she wanted. This was what she wheedled both of them into, this small little slice of a life beyond killing and running. But so much of this planet felt empty, like everything holy here had long since left. There were only dozens of people that still inhabited Mandalore, and it was a ghost of itself in a cruel, unfair way.

Ironically, Nova muses, walking back over to the open window, letting the breeze tousle and dry the long, thick waves of her hair, Mandalore, the home to a legion of warriors, was the least confrontational place that she’d been in years. And the kicker is, after over a decade of running, all she’s itching to do is get back out there in the stars. She looks upward, wistfully, trying to catch any of them through the hazy, foggy, blue sky, but she can’t. So she turns back towards the mirror, grabbing fistfuls of thick hair, pinning just the top layer away from her face. She adjusts the shawl in the mirror, marveling at the shimmering strands that catch delicately in the light, and right before she’s ready to walk out the door, the lightsaber starts burning a hole in the door.

She gasps, wrenching it off its hook. The blade isn’t even ignited, and when she grabs it, it pulses in her hands, once, twice, and then the air is pierced with a vibrant green light. Nova stares at it, inspecting it from every angle. It was just a vision—a realistic one, at that—but now that she’s holding the weapon in her hand, the fear that raced through her just a second ago has evaporated. The fact that she’s holding a lightsaber is sacred enough, but the knowledge that it’s Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber feels like it’s beyond something holy. It holds her there until Nova lets the blade slide back into the sheath, dropping it into her pocket. It still feels like it burns, even though that’s not possible, and she ignores it as she makes her way out of the ornate door and down the marble steps to the war room to her husband and their baby.

It's still jarring to see Din without his helmet on in a public space. Like Nova’s walking into a trap of some kind, or that she’s breaking a divine rule. It was different when she was the only person allowed to see his face, to map across his features as a vow, but now that the rules have changed, she doesn’t quite know how to act when she looks at him. He’s alone in the war room when she pushes open the door, a heat rising in her cheeks when she catches light of the beskar throne, vivid memories at how indescribably soiled it was from their desecrating tryst the night before. The holotable is lit up, glittering out in that deep, vivid blue, maps of the galaxy intercut with Alliance bases and safe houses, Din staring up at it like he’s looking for a sign of the Maker. His gaze is intense, electric.

“Hi,” Nova chances, softly, and she hears the baby babbling from the corner as she strides across the luminous room, sidling up to Din as he continues staring, his armored body cold to the touch. Quickly, he kisses her temple, and Nova’s tummy flips over as he holds her there, even though he’s done this a thousand times, even though this is far from new.

“Hi,” Din echoes, leaning forward against the rim of the holotable, squinting intently at something that Nova can’t quite sort out. “How did you sleep?”

She bites her lip, trying to decide if it’s worth lying, but before she can come up with a suitable one, the kind that can cover up all of the crushing loneliness she feels in a bedroom that doesn’t seem to belong to them, Din’s gaze is on her face, thumb hooking her chin upwards so that Nova doesn’t have a choice but to meet his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and even though his voice is gentle, she knows the intent of his command.

“Not great,” Nova whispers, the sound getting caught on the way out of the hollow of her mouth. “I missed you. I—I hate waking up without you.”

Din cocks his head to the side, eyebrows knitted together, as if he’s trying to pick out the exact right thing to say. Nova watches the expression of frustration reflect across his face, and has to hide an endearing smile as she revels in getting to see Din’s mind working in real time. “Novalise,” he says, finally, and heart does a little flip. It sounds like he’s chastising her, but that’s not Din’s typical modus operandi, and she blinks up at him, waiting for the rest of what he has to say. “Why did we come here?” he asks, finally, and his voice is so quiet, so filled with a plea she hasn’t heard in weeks, that it makes her wince.

“What?” she manages, reaching out one hand to Din’s reflective hip, trying to anchor his armored body against her own. “What do you mean?”

Din sighs, long and heavy. He’s pondering. It isn’t a noise of annoyance, or a noise of frustration, just his typical exhale when he’s trying to puzzle something out in his head. “Why did you want me to rule Mandalore?”

Nova presses her lips together, trying to come up with an answer adequate enough to placate the both of them. “Because,” she whispers, finally, “you’re the type of leader that makes people want to follow you everywhere. Because we were tired of running, and we wanted to fight back. And also,” she tacks on, trying to get Din to echo her smile, “because Bo-Katan wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Din’s expression is complicated, worried. Nova watches as his gaze drifts back up to what’s being reflected on the holotable, and she can track the places where attacks from the Order have cropped up in the time that’s lapsed since they’ve lived here. The galaxy is still largely intact, most planets benefitting from the defeat of the Empire, but Nova can see the clusters of danger, the places where the First Order found a weak point and applied enough pressure to fracture them entirely. Coupled with the jailbreak in one of the Mid Rim sectors, out of Cara’s jurisdiction, there’s at least ten attacks in the last three weeks. Nova is a staunch believer that everything happens for a reason, that there’s no such thing as coincidences, but a handful of malicious acts could be classified as one. More than three signified something else. Over seven is a definite indication of a pattern.

“You want to be back out there,” Nova breathes, searching for a confirmation on Din’s face. “You want to fight. Hand-to-hand, not from behind a holotable in this room.”

Din looks over at her, his expression clouded, and when he catches sight of the reflected fire in Nova’s eyes, he grabs at the curve of her cheek again, locking his eyes on hers. “You want to be back out there.”

Nova presses her lips together in a thin line, trying her absolute hardest not to give it away.

“You’re a horrible liar, Novalise Djarin,” Din says, shaking his head. “Awful. Worse than I am. Worse than the kid is, and that’s saying a lot.”

Nova sighs, leaning into his touch. “I know. You’re right. It’s driving me up the wall to be here, trying to rule a planet that barely has anything left, when I know that war is coming.”

“Why do you think I’m always in here?” Din asks, pointing up at the virtual starry sky splayed across the room from the holotable. “I don’t sit in the throne. I don’t try to rule. I stand in front of this table for hours, plotting for the inevitable battle that’s going to come, fighting back every single urge to just get back in the stars, chase the enemy down, and start blasting.”

Nova smiles slyly up at him, and when Din’s gaze drifts back over to hers, he does a double take.

“What?”

“I’ve made a Rebel out of you, Din Djarin,” she grins, gently flapping her palm against his cheek. He rolls his eyes, huffing out of his nose, and she just smiles, knowing that his proverbial feathers aren’t really ruffled, but basking in the idea of it anyway.

“Nova,” he continues, voice low and urgent, “so why aren’t we out there?”

The smile fades off her face. There’s something desperate in his eyes, something deeper than the level way he asks the question. She stares, trying to come up with an answer that will keep both of them here, committed and driven, but as she searches Din’s expression, she knows that she’s going to fall short.

Before Nova can come up with anything, though, there’s a sharp rapping at the door, and both of them break apart, Din swiftly pulling his helmet back over his head. He’s already shown his face to Mandalore, and the Creed that he followed for nearly his entire life has fallen to pieces, but Nova knows the security it provides, and she smiles gently at him, watching his gorgeous features disappear underneath the beskar.

“We have a problem,” Bo-Katan announces, her voice cutting straight through the luminosity of the holotable.

“Don’t we always,” Nova murmurs, but the expression on Bo-Katan’s face wipes every inch of humor off of her own. “What’s wrong?”

Bo-Katan sighs, running a hand uncharacteristically through her short red hair. “We are under attack,” she deadpans, looking upward through the clear dome, pointing as ships come out of the fog.

Alarms starting blaring from somewhere, and Nova darts over to Grogu, clinging him tight against her chest. “Who—”

“Nova,” Din says, evenly, tossing her shawl through the open air, “you need to take the kid and get back to Luke.”

She stares at him in disbelief as Bo-Katan pulls her helmet back over her head. “No,” Nova starts, “we need to stay and fight, you might need our help—”

“We don’t,” Bo-Katan interrupts, but there’s no fire in her voice. She’s busted open the small armory in the corner, hurling weapons at Din without giving him a second glance. “It’s not the Order. Or Empire leftovers. There’s no TIE fighters. Whoever they are, they’re not after you or the kid.” She turns around, finally, striding over to Nova. “Besides,” she says, rather sourly, “I already called for backup.”

Nova lifts one eyebrow. Before she can say anything, though, she’s interrupted by the infamous shape of Slave I entering the atmosphere, and she winks at Bo-Katan, who’s still hidden behind her mask, but Nova would bet every credit she’d ever owned that Bo-Katan is emphatically rolling her eyes.

Din presses his forehead against the baby’s, and Nova only gets a flash of his expression before his helmet’s back on. He’s tense, trying his hardest to let Grogu disappear from his watchful eye for the second time. “Go out through the amphitheater,” he whispers to Nova, his voice gruff. Under the beskar, he’s electric, like he was praying for a conflict to let the lightning out. “Don’t take off until we get out there and preoccupy them so that no one follows you back to Ahch-To.”

Nova swallows. “Din—”

“This,” he starts, resting one gloved hand against her cheek, “is what Mandalorians are made for. We’ve got this.” When Nova tries to interrupt, he gives her a swift shake of his head. “Go. Be a Jedi.”

She links her hand in his, squeezing once, and then she’s holding the crib open for Grogu, knitting the shawl around her head, a makeshift hood obscuring her telltale dark hair. She nods, just once, and when Din’s hand leaves her grip, she runs with the baby, heart pounding in her chest, heading back into the stars.

Space is cold and quiet. It always is when Novalise is out here alone, but this time, it seems like the silence and the chill penetrates even the warm hull of Kicker. The baby is sleeping in the copilot’s chair, and Nova coasts through the stars, popping in and out of warp periodically to check that they’re not being followed.

Her hand goes to her necklace, fingertips tracing over the outline of the Rebel symbol and the perfect star notched in the back of the beskar. She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it until she pulls her thumb away and it’s embossed with the image of it. Kicker is being uncharacteristically obedient, coasting through the Outer Rim with determination, and Nova almost misses the distraction that the constant wailing and failing that Kicker used to give her, because with Grogu asleep and Din back on Mandalore, she’s bored out of her mind.

Nova sighs, stretching her legs out as far as they’ll go, the toes of her boots scraping quietly against the dashboard. They’re old and worn, with so many scuffs that she’s long forgotten what they were supposed to look like, and the sole of one is threatening to pop off any day now, but she’s had these boots since she was in the Alliance as a teenager. Before her parents died. Before she was subject to Jacterr’s awful hand. Before Din walked into her life and made her believe in something more, something deeper.

As quietly as she can, she eases out of the pilot’s seat, leaning over the navigational system to ensure that she’s following the right coordinates. Wedge had given her the location of the general area that Luke was located in the Unknown Regions, but Luke had given her explicit—albeit confusing—directions when he promised he’d see her again soon. Nova settles against the floor of Kicker, where the one window outside of the cockpit that’s directed towards the sky is located, and lays down in the nest of blankets and pillows she used to call her bed.

Being out here feels colder, somehow. More distant. Nova watches as the sky moves through warp, billions of tiny stars shooting and reaching across the galaxy as she and the baby make their way to Luke Skywalker. She pulls the lightsaber off her belt, squinting at it in the low light. She doesn’t try to ignite it, doesn’t call forth the green blade, she just studies it. Across the handle are grooves for grip, and the alloy of the metal is so different than the beskar she’s surrounded her life with. Nova tries to hold onto it like Luke does, effortlessly and easily, and even though it feels like she’s been made for this her whole life, there’s something in the way. A distance between the pulsing and beckoning, maybe.

Before she can ruminate any longer on the disconnect, though, her comm blinks, and Nova shoots upward, pressing her wrist to her mouth. “Hello?” she calls out, wincing as her voice echoes around Kicker, but the baby doesn’t even interrupt in his snoring.

“It’s me,” Din breathes, and all the coldness and distance between Nova and the stars evaporate. “We’re safe. The second Fett showed up, the ships retreated.”

Nova exhales slowly, fluttering her eyelashes closed. “Who was it?”

“Pirates,” Din says, immediately, and she furrows her eyebrows.

“Pirates,” Nova repeats skeptically. “On Mandalore?”

“We ran into some…unsavory groups of people back on Morak. Before the refinery explosion. Apparently, they tracked us down and wanted to ransack Mandalore for what it has left. They didn’t get very far,” Din continues, sighing. “Boba and Fennec fought them off, and Bo-Katan has been itching to fight someone since I won the Darksaber out from under her nose. We’re fine. Mandalore is fine.”

Nova looks up at the stars again, watching how they shoot by out the front of Kicker, trying to put her finger on the off feeling of Din’s face. “They weren’t part of the First Order?” she asks, her voice low. “Or working for them?”

Din exhales, long and slow. “No,” he answers, finally. “They’ve been quiet, Nova. Almost—”

“Too quiet,” she interrupts softly, eyes landing on the baby. Grogu is already the cutest thing in the galaxy, but when he’s asleep, and tiny little snores come out of his mouth, he makes anything else evaporate. Now, though, with the silent looming threat of the Order that was so eager to kill every Rebel and capture Nova and her power for their own, she’s just trying to memorize his features, one at a time, permanently etching them into the back of her mind. There’s a weight in her chest that Nova has been ignoring for a week, ever since Grogu was allowed to accompany them to Mandalore—her time with him is limited. Even if Luke allows visits—which she thinks he will—it will be far too dangerous to keep following the same path from the Outer Rim to the Unknown Regions, especially considering Nova’s telltale Alliance ship, regardless of the new paint job and the beskar additions, and with the attack today, Mandalore is far from safe.

“Where are you?”

Nova sighs, leaning over the nav system. It’s blinking with the bright assurance that Kicker has crossed, quite unceremoniously, over into the Unknown Regions. She relays that to Din, eyes roaming the seemingly empty sky.

“That was fast.”

“Yeah,” Nova agrees, chewing on her bottom lip. “The new thrusters Bo-Katan put into Kicker are no joke.”

Din offers up a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “What are you wearing?” he asks, finally, and his voice is back somewhere low and dangerous like it was the night before.

“You saw me leave,” Nova answers, giggling, sinking down the wall until she’s hugging her knees against her chest on the floor. “Are you meaning to tell me you didn’t take stock in what I was wearing when you were staring at me? I’m offended.”

“Watch it,” Din volleys back, but this time, she can hear the smile in his voice. “I was just wondering if the ship has gotten you out of any of those clothes.”

“Ah,” Nova allows, her own tone dipping conspiratorially, “I see. However, it is quite difficult to get out of my clothes without you itching to take them off.”

“You’re good at getting out of things.���

“True.”

“I’m good at getting into them,” Din whispers, and Nova laughs, leaning her bead back against the hull.

“I am certainly not arguing with that,” Nova allows. “You know—”

But then, in Kicker’s typical fashion, the ship starts screaming. Nova’s sigh is low and frustrated, a small echo of the ones that Din’s let forth in the past.

“Go,” Din says, amusedly. “Take care of the kid.”

“You know I will,” Nova promises, and the light on the comm blinks off. She sighs, hauling herself to her feet, her head already aching from the indomitable screeching sound that pours out of Kicker the second something goes haywire. It’s startled the baby, and she strokes a single finger over the top of his fuzzy, wrinkled head before she sits down in the pilot’s seat, flipping switches and moving toggles back and forth. “What is it, Kick?” she murmurs, long waves of hair falling in the way as she leans down, squinting at the motherboard hidden underneath the metal sheath.

It turns out, that Kicker was actually screaming for a veryb good reason, this time around—after a very shoddy, embarrassing crash landing on Ahch-To, Nova discovers a fuel leak on hidden underneath the ship.

“Dank ferrik,” she seethes, and Grogu babbles. She turns on him, pointing a finger. “Not a word to your daddy about all the swearing. You promise?”

Grogu just tilts his head to the side and smiles gleefully. Nova squints at him, matching his quirked expression, pointing a long brown finger through the air like a threat.

“You are,” she continues, softening as Grogu toddles across the green, mossy earth of Ahch-To towards her, “a little war criminal. I hope you know that. Just because you typically use your powers for good doesn’t mean that I don’t notice that you don’t fight fair.”

Grogu babbles. Nova laughs. When she hoists him off the ground and notches him safely against her hip, she turns again to inspect the fuel gauge underneath Kicker’s patchwork underbelly, she nearly crashes into Luke Skywalker.

“Maker above,” she gasps, hand immediately slapping over her mouth. “You scared me. I’m used to stealthy, but you didn’t even make a sound.”

Luke Skywalker smiles serenely at her, like it’s nothing. “Hello, Nova.”

“Hi,” she echoes, faintly, and Grogu reaches out for Luke. Belatedly, Nova hands her baby over to him, hands shooting to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “I have your lightsaber,” she adds, rather dazed, handing the thing out to him. He looks down at it, and there’s something complicated that flashes behind his expression.

“Have you used it?” he asks, and Nova slowly shakes her head. Luke starts moving, up the impossibly tall stone steps that look like they’re as ancient as this mountain is, like they were built into the bluffs of the sea. He’s much more agile than she is, and easily more used to this walk, but Nova tries to keep herself in pace without heaving air into her lungs. “I would have thought you might have used it on one of your missions from the Alliance.”

Nova stops for a half-step to catch her breath, and Luke stops without even looking back at her. “Well,” she starts, running her tongue over her teeth, “I haven’t really…had any missions.”

There’s a strange smile on Luke’s face when her gaze finds his eyes again. “Rebel activities and royalty still don’t exactly go hand in hand, I assume.”

She squints, nodding. “I don’t like being a diplomat,” she allows, even though she’s well aware that to Luke Skywalker, she probably sounds like a whiny brat, but he laughs. He opens his mouth and laughs out loud, in this gorgeous sea air, sounding as gleeful as Wedge always talked about him.

“You sound like my sister.”

Nova’s heart does a tiny backflip, and she sits up straighter. “Your sister?”

“General Leia Organa,” Luke grins, before turning back into the steps and moving nimbly up them. “She was a princess, too, for a while. She preferred action to negotiating. Still does. That’s why she’s holding rank up in the Alliance, even now. Well,” Luke stops, moving his sandy hair back and forth like he’s trying to measure something, “she’s taken to calling it the Rebellion.”

Nova smiles, trying her best to keep up with Luke’s pace. “The Rebellion. I like that—”

“Don’t,” Luke says, jabbing a long finger in her face so quickly that Nova nearly misses the next step and takes a tumble all the way back down the mountain. “Don’t let her title win, Wedge and I will never hear the end of it. Besides, I like the sound of ‘The Rebel Alliance’. It makes it feel like we’re all in this together.”

Nova laughs. He does, too. For a second, just a second, they’re giggling like the kids they never really got to be, like the galaxy isn’t facing impending danger, like they aren’t two of the known four surviving members of the Jedi left. It’s cold on Ahch-To, foggy and biting, but the landscape here is so lavish and so green, that she can pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back on Yavin. The Alliance hasn’t gone anywhere, there’s no First Order, and her parents are still alive, just around the corner. “I like being in it together,” she manages, finally, hoping that Luke won’t notice the tears under her voice. His expression is kind, gentle, and when he returns to the winding hike to the top of the hill, Nova follows him. Eventually, the ground levels out a bit more, and she stands on the top of the flattest rock, looking around at the entirety of the island. There’s something magical about this place, something that holds as much holiness as the throne room on Mandalore does.

“What made you come here?” she asks, and her voice is so quiet that the howling wind could have easily whisked it away. Luke seems to genuinely parse over Nova’s question, and he gently hands Grogu back to be swaddled up in her arms. The shawl that she draped over her head for the getaway off Mandalore is barely still knotted around her neck, and Nova wraps it closer to herself, pulling Grogu and his gentle warmth as close to her chest as she can. “Why leave the Outer Rim after the war was won?”

Luke has a strange expression on his face, and Nova’s gaze drops, suddenly worried she’d said something to offend him. “We did win the war,” he answers, finally, his voice far away. “But I also lost my father to it. I lost my old mentor. I lost my aunt and uncle. Leia—and Han, really—were the only family that I had left, but being around them was difficult because they had each other, and soon after, they had Ben. My nephew.”

Nova nods, chewing on her tongue. “It was hard to stay?” she asks, genuinely wondering. She knew that feeling. It’s what left her without the Alliance for the first time after her parents died, moorless and heartbroken.

“Exactly,” Luke offers, beckoning her closer to get out of the whipping wind. They’re half shrouded by the giant outcropping of boulders that rest atop the mountain, and she leans against the support of it for strength, trying to catch her breath. “It was hard to stay. Not because I didn’t love them, not because I didn’t love the Alliance, but because it felt like…everyone found peace except for me. It was a lot of loss, and it was incredibly…complicated. I knew someone who looks a lot like your son,” he continues, the ghost of a sad smile on his lips, “and he was the only other Jedi I ever knew up close. I had Ben—Obi-Wan—but until the last few days of his life, he wasn’t a Jedi. He was just a sad man who lived out in the desert, trying to make life better for me than his ever was.” Luke pauses, staring at the lightsaber in his hands. “I came here, to the Unknown Regions, to Ahch-To, to try to put the history of the Jedi together, and to recruit every new one that I’ve found.”

“That’s a great goal,” Nova answers, stroking her finger against Grogu’s fuzzy green head as he babbles in agreement.

“Would you like to see what I’ve gathered so far?” Luke asks.

Without even a second of hesitation, Nova nods. “Yes,” she echoes, and he points toward the biggest stone at the top of the mountain, where a tall, dark room has been hollowed out.

“Novalise,” Luke says conspiratorially, “welcome to my life’s work. Oh, yeah, and my humble abode.”

It’s not what she’s expecting. Any of it. There’s years’ worth of research here, old texts, folders, things that aren’t in languages she even recognizes. She’s speechless, turning around, eyes jumping, trying to take it all in.

“Wow,” Nova manages, finally, after she’s sure she’s turned all the way around a few times. “This is…”

“I know,” Luke adds, softly, and he looks down at the lightsaber in his hands. “There aren’t many Jedi left, Nova. You should come here and train. Your skills are…of the old world. You’re strong. You have a good heart. I would be honored to teach you.”

Nova looks back at Luke, holding on tighter to Grogu, who looks up at her and smiles. She knows, instantly, what he’s thinking—he wants his mom here, learning how to be Jedi side by side—and she has to keep her own feelings guarded because she doesn’t want to reveal to him how badly she wants the same thing. Again, she chews on her lower lip, thumbnail hovering beneath teeth and tongue. She promised herself she’d stop chewing on her nails what feels like a million miles ago, but right now, all she wants is to stay here, to learn. Din could be happy here, too, she thinks wistfully. He might be bored, but it’s only a small island on this whole planet. She and Grogu could train together, become Jedi together. It was perfect, she muses, blinking back the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

Except it wasn’t. Ahch-To is a safe haven, but Nova’s job is to keep it that way. She’s seen how ruthless and intense the First Order are, and there’s not a single doubt in her mind that they would follow her here and desecrate this place, leave such a holy site in ruins. She swallows again, trying to conjure up the strength to say no, but from the look on Luke Skywalker’s face, he already knows.

“I’ll be here,” he offers, quietly, and Grogu touches his tiny palm to the small crescent of Nova’s exposed skin underneath the warmth of her blue shawl. “If you decide the galaxy would be better protected if you had training.”

“I want to,” she interjects, her voice low and pleading, like she’s the one begging for it. “Maker, you have no idea how badly I want to. I could be happy here. I—I want you to teach me how to become a Jedi, but—”

Luke’s gaze shifts to the ring on her left hand. The stone sparkles in the low light, the tiny crystal sunk into the beskar. It’s so tiny, but it’s there, and there’s something both sad and fond behind his smile. “You have bigger things to handle first.”

Nova swallows, nodding gently. “But—if I were to become a Jedi—”

Luke holds out his hands, one gloved, one bare. Grogu hops eagerly into his arms. “Like I said, I’ll be here. Grogu will be safe with me. My nephew will be joining us soon. And my sister,” he adds on, his voice suddenly a bit more electric, “my sister is Force sensitive, too. I have a feeling that you might run into her at some point, considering—”

“The Alliance,” Nova grins, nodding. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her we aren’t changing the name.”

Luke chuckles. The sound is so jarring, so much closer to the boy Wedge always talks about knowing, and Nova’s heart aches. He’s only a handful of years older than she is, and for a moment, she lets herself imagine what it would have been like growing up alongside Luke and Leia on the base at Yavin. If she’d be in Jedi training. If anything about her life would be there same. “If anyone could,” he agrees. “I have something for you. You can have him back for a second.”

Instead of picking Grogu back up, Nova sinks down onto the cold earth inside Luke’s makeshift home, trying to fold her body tiny enough so that she’s face-to-face with her kid. His eyes are huge, reflected and starry and sad, but she can see the hint of joy of being here, of training alongside someone who cares, someone who will protect him until Grogu is old enough to fully protect himself.

“Hi bug,” she whispers, sticking out her palm for his tiny fist to hold onto. “This isn’t goodbye, you know. I’ll be back for you. Your dad and I will come visit any chance we get. You go and be good for Master Luke, okay? No eating his frogs. No hide and seek. I’ll be checking.”

Grogu babbles, the mischievous light in his eyes sparking up just for a second, and then he moves closer, falling into Nova’s warm hug.

“I love you,” she whispers, and he presses his fuzzy forehead into hers. They stay like that for a second, swaying, an unspoken promise. She can hear his little voice in her head—no words, nothing concrete—but a reminder through the power of the Force that he loves her, too.

Luke steps back into the narrow slice of light Novalise and Grogu are standing in, holding something out in his bare hand. “This is for you.”

Nova stands, squinting at the thing Luke’s holding out. It takes a second for her to recognize it in the darkness, but when she does, she inhales a sucking gasp. “I can’t take this,” she protests halfheartedly as he presses it into her open palm. “I’m not a Jedi yet, I—”

“Ben Kenobi gave this to me before I was a Jedi,” Luke interrupts, his voice gentle but urgent. “You will be a powerful Jedi too one day, Novalise Djarin. I know it. He knows it.” Luke’s gaze shifts over to Grogu. “And you know it,” he continues, tapping a long finger against her heart. “Just take care of this, okay?”

“Luke—”

“Take it,” he enunciates. “Go home to your husband and the people that need you. I know Wedge loves having you around.”

Nova tilts her head at him, quietly hooking the gifted lightsaber onto her belt loop. “I know why you’re out here,” she says, carefully, “but there are people who need you, too. And people who love having you around.”

Luke doesn’t say anything, but there’s a ghost of something that looks an awful lot like hope behind his conflicted eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”

With that, Nova presses a quick kiss to the most prominent wrinkle in Grogu’s forehead, pressing her thumb into both her old Rebel necklace and the signet that matches Din’s. She reaches her hand out to shake Luke’s, but he grins at her and pulls her into a quick, strong embrace. He smells like the ocean, and still, somehow, of Tatooine. Luke and Grogu watch as Nova slowly descends the stone steps jutting out of the cliffside, so much easier to get down than heave up. When she’s back at Kicker, she checks the makeshift patch on the underbelly of the ship, which seems to be holding up okay enough to get back to Mandalore relatively unscathed.

“May the Force be with you,” she calls up to Luke and Grogu, waving her hand frantically.

“May the Force be with you,” Luke echoes. For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of the ocean hurling itself onto the gorgeous, green mainland, and as she climbs the gangplank, she hears Luke call out again. “Novalise.”

She sticks her head back out, shawl flapping in the wind. “Yes?”

Even from all the way down here, she can see the smile on Luke’s face. “That’s the Skywalker family lightsaber. Don’t lose it.”

She nods, feeling the weight of it on her hip as Kicker groans to life. She’s crying by the time she lifts off the surface of Ahch-To, her heart both heavy and light, sunken and buoyed. Space is dark, and she hops immediately into warp, heading back to Mandalore, back to the place she’s slowly learning to call home.

Mandalore, as usual, is quiet. It’s dusk, the foggy azure of the sky descending and swallowing up most of the planet, and when she lands in the designated parking bay, she checks the patch holding steadfast on Kicker’s underbelly, knowing that her beloved trash heap of a ship will need to go back into the more capable hands of the local mechanic. When she looks straight up, even through the dark, she can still see the faintest smattering of stars.

“Nova.”

She whirls around, hand on her belt. Din’s standing there, fully armored, just out of reach. “You scared me,” she chastises, closing the distance between the two of them. His beskar is cold, but his hands immediately encircle around her waist. “Has the threat passed?”

Din sighs, long and heavy. Her heart pounds as she listens to the timbre of it through the modulator, remembering all the time that she spent trying to dissect his breathing before he took the helmet for her and let Nova make him moan instead.

“There’s always another one,” he says, darkly, and she nods, tilting her head to the side. “I missed you, cyar’ika. Mandalore is cold and quiet without you.”

She wants to come up with a snappy retort, but the honesty and exhaustion in his voice pulls Nova down to his same level. She steps in closer, just letting Din hold her there, satisfied in the small comfort that she’s still his anchor. “Space is cold and quiet without you,” she offers, cheek pressed up against the beskar.

Din looks up. She can tell it even without looking at him, the way that his muscles shift underneath the beskar she’s still pressed up against. “I’d give anything to be back out there,” he whispers, finally, his voice low and complicated.

Nova’s heart flutters once, twice, and then she has an idea. “Din,”

“No,” he answers, immediate, helmet tipping down again to focus on her face. “We can’t, it’s too dangerous—”

“We can,” she enunciates, squinting her eyes at him, trying to put on the best Sabacc face she has, which isn’t much, because as Din is always reminding her, Nova is a terrible liar. “Twenty minutes. Nothing is happening. The palace is quiet. Boba Fett sent the pirates packing, remember? We won’t even leave Mandalore’s gravitational pull. We’ll only be just outside the atmosphere. We—”

“Stop it,” Din says, but there’s no fire in his voice.

“Come on,” Nova wheedles, well aware that she’s being reckless, a terrible influence. “Come on, come out with me into the stars. I’ll make it worth your while, you know,” she teases, raising one dark eyebrow playfully. When she hears Din sigh again under the mask, she knows she’s convinced him.

“Bo-Katan will not be happy that we left,” Din protests, but now he’s dragging Nova up the gangplank. She hides her smile in the shoulder of her shawl.

“Well,” Nova counters, spinning out and around while still holding Din’s gloved hand, spiraling down into the familiar comfort of the pilot’s seat, “it’s a good thing you’re Mand’alor, not her.”

Getting back into the stars with Din feels completely different than it did when Nova traversed the Outer Rim alone earlier. The silence isn’t crushing. It’s comfortable and easy, and when they’re finally safely out of Mandalore’s atmosphere, Nova pulls Kicker into a slow coast, heart still galloping in her chest. No matter how many times they’ve fucked, the little anticipatory period that comes before anything still feels like the first time. Quietly, Nova spins around in the pilot’s chair, expecting Din to still be seated behind her so she can climb over and straddle his lap.

But he’s not. Somehow, he’s the second person whose stealth has completely surprised her today, and Din’s no longer in the copilot’s chair. He’s standing over her, in full beskar regalis, visor of the helmet tilted downwards. All she can see reflected in the surface is the slow dance of the stars out of Kicker’s front window, and she swallows. Din steps forward, close enough to shift Nova’s legs apart, hands gently reaching forward to grab either side of her face. For a second, he doesn’t move. Nova’s breath hitches in her throat, desire sparking up a low flame in her pelvis. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since Din fucked her on the throne, promising that Mandalore was theirs to desecrate, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Everything in her body is on fire, electric.

“I missed the stars,” Din murmurs, his gloved finger ghosting over her plump bottom lip, lingering enough to reveal her teeth. Nova shivers.

“Me too,” she whispers, not daring to take her eyes off of the helmet. She can see the bulge growing in his pants peripherally, but she’s determined to stay here, frozen in this position, until Din begs for her mouth, her touch, her warmth.

“More than anything,” he continues, voice rumbling low and deep, his hand traveling down the marks he left on her neck—the pulse points, the light imprints of hickeys in between—and Nova swallows, the air going starry and unhabitable, “I missed making you scream my name out here with no one to hear you.”

“Oh,” Nova gasps as Din slowly kneels down, parting her legs like an ocean. Faintly, somewhere in the distance of her logical mind, something is telling her to make sure Din doesn’t tear these trousers off her body, because they’re light and comfortable and didn’t keep the dampness of Ahch-To trapped against her skin, but as he hooks his fingers around the waistband, any protest fly out the window into the starry darkness. “What—fuck, what happened to fucking me in front of an audience?”

“I don’t want that tonight,” Din whispers, immediately. He lifts the helmet just enough to reveal his mouth, and as his hands are pulling Nova’s pants down to her ankles, his tongue writes a symphony on the soft, smooth skin of her inner thighs. “I want to be the only one to worship you.”

Nova gasps again, heart fluttering in her throat, barely even registering that Din’s pulling down her panties until the heat from his hands travels up, notching perfectly between her thighs. She slumps in the chair, everything in her electric and alive. It feels like years since Din’s spent longer than a few seconds down here, the warmth and wetness of his mouth lapping up her every orgasm. She pulls the helmet clean off by accident, but she doesn’t burn in embarrassment when it makes a loud, clattering noise against the metal hull of Kicker’s floor. She just tangles her hands in Din’s hair, knotting her long fingers in his curls, pulling him in closer and closer, teetering on the edge from just his touch.

“Are you going to cum for me, Queen of Mandalore?” Din rumbles against her flesh, tongue immediately sliding back in between her folds after the last word comes out of his mouth.

“No,” Nova manages, yanking gently at Din’s hair. Immediately, his mouth comes off of her, even though she didn’t say a word. She stares into his brown eyes, gorgeous and full of lust and darkness. “I’m not the Queen of Mandalore out here.”

“Then what are you?” Din asks, pressing his wet lips against her inner thigh. He adjusts his grip on her thigh, and she exhales, a staccato beat, complicated with how badly she wants his touch.

“Your wife,” she manages, “so devour me like I belong to you, Din Djarin.”

There’s something deeper in his eyes, a flash of something guttural and animalistic. His mouth is back on her pussy so fast that it knocks the wind straight out of Nova’s mouth, and she gasps, her moans loud and unencumbered. When he adds the pumping of two fingers, entering her like it’s nothing, like he owns every single inch of his body, Nova’s on the edge again. And then, without warning, he’s pushing her over it, again and again and again. Everything in her is both electrified and exhausted. The stars outside the window are spinning, she’s panting like she’s in Tatooine’s heat, and blood is rushing so powerfully in her ears that she can’t hear anything else. Nothing in the galaxy exists except for her and Din.

It takes a moment for her to realize, dazed and satisfied, that Din’s mouth has left her. “Hey,” she manages, her voice sounding disconnected and warbled, nothing like it’s coming out of her whole mouth, “where’d you go, it’s your turn—”

“Nova,” Din interrupts, his hands coming out of nowhere and bracing against both of her cheeks, instantly anchoring her in the moment, “your comm is blinking.”

“My—comm,” she repeats, head still feeling underwater with the aftershocks of her orgasm, and she blinks the stars out of her eyes long enough to look at the thing on her wrist, her vision slowly returning back into focus. Her eyebrows furrow down the middle, and Din tilts her head, still standing on his knees like she’s about to knight him. She swallows, pressing the button. “Hello?”

“Your shields aren’t up,” an annoyed voice relays through the comm, slightly muffled. “You’re Order bait out there.”

Nova rolls her eyes. “Bo-Katan, we just went for—”

“Alone time,” Bo-Katan interrupts iciliy, but the current in her voice immediately makes Nova realize she’s not annoyed with them for sneaking away, she’s panicked for something else. “We have a problem.”

“You’re repeating yourself, Bo-Katan,” Din interjects, gathering the panties tangled at Nova’s waist and gesturing her to lift her hips up so he can slide them back over her thighs. “What pirates entered Mandalore now?”

“Not pirates,” she snaps. “Not Mandalore, either.”

Nova rolls her eyes at Din, exhausted. As she sits up, pulling her trousers back over her thick thighs, the mountains of her hipbones, she cracks her neck to the left. The wetness of Ahch-To’s atmosphere sunk into her bones, and now that the warmth of Din’s mouth has evaporated, she’s suddenly freezing again. She nimbly picks up her discarded azure shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders, her neck, dipping the pooled fabric up over her head. Her hair is wild, hanging in her face, running out of the shawl like water. “Bo-Katan,” Nova chances, trying her best to not sound sour because of the very unwelcome interruption, “can you please tell us what exactly is wrong?”

“Rebel girl,” a voice filters through, and Nova sits straight up, startled. The shock of Wedge’s voice is one thing, but hearing it through the same frequency—and, most likely, location—as Bo-Katan’s makes her heart start hammering for a very different reason. Din and Nova exchange glances—his skeptical, hers frightened—and Nova waits with bated breath for Wedge to continue speaking. His voice is low, full of foreboding, when it crackles across the comm again. “We have,” Wedge says, sighing heavily, punctuating the silence with his voice, full and intentional, “a problem.”

*

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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! we're about to dive headfirst back into where SM left off with the Order, ruling Mandalore, and the Rebels, and biiiiiiiig things are coming ;) hope this one tides you over until next week!

as always, i'll be here, on tumblr (amiedala), and on tiktok (padmeamydala) for even more Dinova/SD content, so come hang out! <3

CHAPTER 3 WILL BE UP SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18TH AT 7:30 PM EST!!!

xoxo, amelie

[stresseddepressed-student]

Chapter Nine:

Unfortunately, Potter was powerful and uncontrolled so his magic refused to keep itself contained. Stupid dumbass idiot who didn’t know how to control himself.

“Potter, your presence is messing with the delicate potion in the cauldron, please remove yourself.” Draco tried his best to keep his voice level, to be bigger than him, to not sink down to his level. He really didn’t want any conflict with Potter this year. It would be difficult enough without Potter Problems.

He finished mincing the wings of the Hercules beetle, wincing as he eyed the poor bastard who was still crawling around his tank. Now that he was wingless, his only purpose would be to breed one last time and then be tossed into a Fortis Invigorate potion. Draco felt a lot like the beetle, he had no life other than to be used and trapped in a glass tank. He then minced the Aconite, admiring the purple flakes created as he cut.

He cast a discreet tempus, 3:00, damn it, it's been 3 hours since he started the potion. If he was going to be successful in any way, he needed to put the wings and flakes in now. He gracefully turned, holding the cutting board in one hand and the knife in the other. He kept his gaze on the cauldron, refusing to spare Potter a glance, slowly he scraped the ingredients bit by bit. Wolfsbane was particularly difficult and if he wanted to get this right, he would need to be patient.

“What are you making?” Potter insisted, coming up closer.

Draco looked up into his eyes, barely biting his tongue at the disgust in the other boy's eyes. He glanced down, tracing the sweat and water that left trails on his brown torso and down into his pants. His trousers were hanging perversely on his hips, heavy with exertion and water. Draco could see the other boy's hip bones, the defined muscles eating away his stomach, rounded strong pecs. And his shoulders, Draco was sure that Potter could probably carry him easily and Draco was quite muscle-laden himself. His legs would definitely help him, they were thick, strong, the kind of thigh perfect for spreading his-

Draco turned away, thanking his father for the years of training in keeping his emotions out of his voice, “I don’t answer to you, Potter. Please, escort yourself to the showers as you are in fact messing with a highly volatile potion. Thank you.”

He went back to the book, listening to Potter's steps as he came closer. He inhaled sharply, the smell of rain and musk robbing him of his senses.

Draco didn’t dare turn as Potter whispered in his ear, his spine-tingling, “you’re up to something Malfoy and I’m going to find out. I’m going to figure you out and when I do, I’ll ruin you.”

You already have.

Potter stepped back and Draco could practically hear the sneer painting on his full lips. Draco finally looked up as Potter walked away, burying a groan at the sight of his muscled back and broad shoulders. He looked like a man. His trousers were barely being held up by the curve or his arse, Draco could see his pants peeking out, darkened by sweat and water. Draco knew he was absolutely fucked if this was his reaction to Potter after working out. Draco hadn’t missed how tight his pants looked around his front, Draco resisted the urge to lick his lips.

Merlin.

He felt like a pervert, he needed to get his mind out of the gutter and focused back on the potion before him. He wanted to figure out a way to make the potion better in every way-- taste, texture, effectiveness, cost of production-- anything to fix the things he broke.

Turning the flame off, he carefully poured the potion into the vials, closing them so they could ferment. They should be done by the next full moon so he had about a month or so before it had to be perfect. He wasn’t sure who would accept his potion but he wanted to perfect it before he showed it to Minerva. He rolled his back, stretching the aching muscles as he leaned over the book.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Draco whirled around, his mother's wand discreetly tucked by his side-- poised to strike. He relaxed once he recognized the dirty blonde hair and shy smile-- Astoria Greengrass.

He relaxed his mouth into a subdued smile, only the barest hint of teeth peeking through. “Astoria,” he acknowledged, nodding respectfully.

Her smile curved even more, a pretty red thing that for anyone else would have signaled something seductive, but Draco was so gay that the promise held in her lips did nothing to excite him. “Draco, how are you?”

Still, it's a lot easier to get information from a distracted person and there had to be a reason Astoria was here. He hoped she wasn't here for some nefarious purpose but soon remembered her family played a minimal role in the war, far less so than his friends' families.

He crossed his arms, flexing purposefully to see if her eyes followed the movement. They did. “I am well. Or as well as I can be considering my circumstances. And you? How is your sister?”

Her nostrils flared, once, then twice. The slightest expansion of the curve of her nose that promptly settled back into its natural state. “She is well, the climate agrees with her. Theodore, Tracy, and Millicent are there as well.”

“Yes I heard, Theodore wished to be here, but he found his family in Belgium much more amenable to him being in France than Scotland.”

“England,” she corrected, her smile smaller than before. “We’re in England.”

“Only for those who haven't learned otherwise.”

She turned her head away from him, her focus instead on the cauldron glowing purple with the remnants of his work. He decided to interrupt her before she asked any more questions.

“You didn’t answer my question,” He let one of the corners of his lips tug upward, his eyes fastened on her-- everything in his posture and countenance used to flirt with her.

She lifted her chin, tilting her head to one side to expose her neck. “What question?” she demurred.

He stepped closer, “how are you?”

“I am better now that I’m here.” She stepped back and he followed her until they were walking side by side out of the classroom.

“Here in Hogwarts or here right now?” He guided her away from the empty lab room, walking towards the Slytherin dormitories.

She peered up at him through her dark lashes, “that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

He chuckled, a gravelly sound he used when he wanted to sway his victim or seduce them, “well now I’m intrigued by the mystery you present.”

She murmured the common room password, and let him escort her through the dark passage. He tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow, teasing her lightly about spiders and snakes, all the things girls liked to be teased about. It felt a bit surreal if he was being honest, to be flirting and walking through the shadowy corridor like before. Usually Pansy would be the one to have her hand tucked into his elbow, or Blaise, or Theo; Greg and Vincent bumbling happily behind him, messing with his hair, or ticking him just to get a rise out of him. It felt so much like before that Draco's chest hurt a bit, a gentle persistent pressure growing exponentially with each step he took. Finally, they emerged into the softly lit common room although it was oddly packed to the brim.

Astoria guided him to the front where Blaise, Pansy, and Slughorn stood.

“I- I don’t understand? What’s going on?” Draco whispered urgently to Astoria, taking in his friend's smug looks.

Pansy glanced at him before settling her attention on Astoria, “so?”

Astoria pouted, “he did everything you said he would.”

Draco glanced around, bewildered. Blaise was softly giggling, patting Pansy on the back.

Astoria leaned on her tippy toes and kissed his cheek, patting him gently, “thanks for going along, love.”

Pansy grabbed his arm and dragged him to stand next to her, “shut up and I'll explain later,” she hissed, keeping her stiff smile pasted on her face. She was still mad it seemed.

Slughorn stepped forward, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Students, new and old, welcome to Slytherin, your new home. Today we must assign the student advisors, of course, I am always available to the public! I make a point to keep my door open and I'm actually writing a book on teaching principles everyone could apply to their everyday relationships, I’m sure it will be a bestseller so if you want to pre-order your copy be sure to Owl me. An open door rule isn’t the only policy I will write about in fact I-”

Blaise cleared his throat, flashing his eyes at a startled Slughorn.

“Er- right! Today we will elect from these three. Please, er, raise your hand if you would like Pansy Parkinson as an advisor.”

Several murmurs could be heard and Pansy rolled her shoulders nervously. No one was raising their hands and Draco could feel her disappointment.

Draco swallowed his pride, stepping forward, “Professor, If I may?” At Slughorn's nod, he began to address the room, “some of you do not know Pansy, I believe it would be beneficial to have a few testimonies in regards to her and Blaise so that the newcomers may have an accurate picture of them. I would like to go first.”

Slughorn clapped his back, “right you are m’boy. Excellent Idea, have you been reading my early drafts?”

Draco nodded tightly, barely concealing a snicker. He took a deep breath before speaking once more, “Pansy happens to be my best friend and I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of things about her from different people. But I would like to tell you she is the most generous person. She will offer you her time, her talent, her knowledge so that you can succeed. More than anything else, she cares about the success of Slytherin as a whole, and if you’re lucky to be her friend, she cares about your personal success. She’s third in our class right behind Hermione Granger and me. She is passionate about her work and a good teacher. Blaise is also my best friend, he’s understanding, he sees you even when you cannot see yourself. And If you find yourself in a snit, he’s the best person to help you get out of it.”

Mitch Creevy stepped forward, looking around nervously, “I'm the first Slytherin in my family, all my cousins are in Gryffindor and neither Draco nor Pansy nor Blaise made me feel any different. Pansy protected me when the Carrows were asking about my bloodline.”

Draco turned back towards his best friends, returning Pansy’s watery smile. Hopefully, this would make her forgive him and see that everything he did was for her good.

Several other people spoke up, each other saying kind things about Pansy and Blaise. Draco tried to ignore the prick in his conscious about the lack of kind words directed at him.

That was until Astoria stepped forward again, her posture relaxed and strong, “I understand many of you are avoiding the controversy of Draco Malfoy but we must not forget all that he’s done for us. He showed us how to fake curses and hexes or lower the intensity when we were forced to attack our fellow classmates. He fought in the war against the Dark Lord-”

“After he let them in!” retorted a student. A chorus of agreements and Draco looked down at his feet, it wasn’t like he could contest. He had done that and much more.

“But he fought even against his father.”

“Astoria!” Pansy hissed, her mouth settling into a harsh line.

it was becoming hard to breathe for Draco, buried his nails into his palm to ground himself. It was for naught, if Astoria didn't stop soon, he was going to have a full-blown panic attack.

“Who do you think put every single captured death eater in prison, who provided the evidence? He was ra-”

“Astoria!” Blaise warned, starting towards her, his eyes flashing gold. Draco felt sick, he didn’t want his secrets uncovered, everything he did, his shame, uncovered. He felt naked under the disgusted stares.

Astoria took a deep breath, “today, he went to his lab to work on a Wolfsbane because he knew that many students, Slytherin or other, could not afford good quality Wolfsbane. He is the only reason Goyle passed his classes, he tutored every single Slytherin falling behind. He is more than his name. I urge you to consider him.”

Mercifully, she didn’t mention Vincent. Draco didn’t think he could handle her mentioning his dead friend, someone rotting in the ground because of him.

Astoria turned towards him, her mouth pinched tightly, she didn’t say sorry, she didn’t like to lie. And even though Draco was close to tears, he admired her tenacity, her passion, her intelligence; he privately thought to himself that she would make a better teacher than Slughorn. She was almost at his level in potions but she had more of an inclination towards being an Auror than anything else. Pity. She had some inane belief she could reform it. She certainly was more ambitious than her sister.

Slughorn looked around nervously, his fingers twitching as the muttering increased. “Have we come to a decision?” he tried.

Leon Moon, the first year from earlier, stepped forward; his shaggy auburn hair reminiscent of Remus Lupin. “Is it true that you’re making wolfsbane for everybody?” he demanded, his tiny figure puffed up.

Draco buried his shock at seeing a miniature version of his old teacher. He nodded, clearing his throat before giving the fierce boy a resounding yes.

Moon glanced around, looking at his fellow first-years to see if they had any objections, “We would like Draco to be our advisor, and Pansy too.”

Everyone agreed with the little boy, save for a few people who grumbled that Blaise should be one of the advisors. Draco snorted, every single one had been one of Blaise's conquests.

Pansy stepped forward, “there can be three advisors. It was more of a matter of choosing who you didn’t want.”

Blaise rubbed his neck, “that’s alright Pansy. I don’t really want the responsibility, but I’m happy to help you guys out along with the 7th years.”

Steeled by everyone's vote of confidence and the trust in her eyes, Draco stepped forward again. “Then it’s settled,” Draco said, his voice clear and determined. “Pansy Parkinson and I will be your advisors. Professor Slughorn, are you prepared for a swearing ceremony?” Draco didn't even know why he asked, the man definitely didn't understand the sort of commitment Slytherin had towards each other.

Draco rolled his eyes as Slughorn babbled, snapping his fingers to request Mipsy.

Mipsy arrived with a pop and several first years gave a surprised yelp. She punched her fist onto her hips, looking up at him expectantly, “Yes Master Draco?”

“You can’t have a personal elf apparate in and out of Hogwarts wards!” Slughorn fretted, his chest puffing as he tried to assert his dominance. What he didn’t realize was that Draco took responsibility seriously, took vows seriously, and this was both. Slughorn didn’t even want to be the head of house for Slytherin.

Mipsy answered him before Draco could, “I work in kitchens, missus Minnie allow me to work by Master Draco.”

Draco smiled, “Thank you, darling. We’re going to do a blood oath, do you mind notarizing?”

“Elves cannot notarize!” Slughorn complained. Oddly enough, he had no qualms about performing a blood oath, something considered dark magic but he had a problem with Elves becoming Notaries. Typical.

“Certainly Master. Raise you's hand.”

Both he and Pansy raised their right hands, Draco remembered that he was mostly naked save for his shirt and he tucked his left arm tightly into his side. Though it was useless, a lot of people probably saw his mark.

“Speak vows now.”

Pansy went first, “I Pansy Minato Parkinson, vow to protect, encourage, defend, teach, and care for the students under my care.” She tapped her wand against her palm and a sliver of blood fell onto the stone floor. The stone glowed green before absorbing the blood and returning to its natural gray.

Draco stepped forward, his wand poised, “I Draco Lucius Siran Malfoy-Black, vow to protect, encourage, defend, teach, and care for the students under my care.” He pressed the wand against his palm, shivering under the surge of magic slicing his skin. The blood dripped down his wand, spiraling around the natural grain of the dark brown wood, the single drop falling into the stone, glowing a blinding silver that lasted a lot longer than Pansy’s had.

He could feel his peers' eyes on him and titled his chin up, not meeting anyone's eyes. He stood back with Pansy and Blaise as the group dispersed, his mouth tight. “Mate I-”

He shook his head, dispelling the apology he knew was to come, his arms clasped behind his back to hide his mark.

Leon came forward, his dark blue eyes glancing wildly around. He coughed and sidled up next to Draco, “Mr. Malfoy sir,-”

“Draco is quite alright.”

The boy flushed and nodded, “I was wondering, I have been, that is, I was wondering if you had finished the potion, I, well I-”

Draco placed a hand on the small boy's shoulder, crouching down slightly, “Leon, you are a smart brave boy, and I'm not going to hurt you no matter how scary I look. It’s okay to ask for things.”

Leon, flushed, scowling, “I'm not a baby, don’t patronize me, I know I can ask for things. This is a secret thing and I've never told anybody else. I was wondering if you could help me during my-” he lowered his voice and leaned closer, “transformations.”

Draco’s smile faltered, the spunky kid was so young, too young to have to be afflicted with this. He nodded, “the night before your transformation, meet me at the entrance of the Forbidden Forest.”

The kid flashed him a smile, the ones that come easy when you're smaller no matter what’s happening around you. Draco's eyes burned, visions flashing of the small boy before him losing that smile because of the life ahead of him, of the boy becoming like Lavender. Draco stepped away, casting a sonorous so that everybody in the dorms could hear him, “If you require assistance for your transformation, werewolf or other, please meet me the night before the full moon in the entrance of the Forbidden Forest.”

Pansy’s hand moved towards him but he walked too quickly out of the common room for her to catch him. He ran down the corridor, down the hallway, back to his lab, breathless. He stumbled over the cauldron and retched, bile and vomit spewing from his mouth into the cast-iron cauldron. His yellow vomit smelled so horrible mixed with the wolfsbane, and he vomited even more. A hand found its way onto his back, rubbing soothingly up and down his spine. Smaller hands combed back his hair, holding the fringe away from his sweaty face.

“He’s so young!” he cried to Pansy and Blaise. “He hasn’t lived yet and his life is ruined.”

“It's not ruined,” Pansy answered sharply, “it's not. And even if it was, it’s not your fault.”

He sobbed into the cauldron, everything from him mixing in there, his potion, his bile, his tears, his sweat-- all of it combining to present a reflection of him.

Blaise pulled his shirt off, using it to wipe his mouth and neck, banishing it with a shudder “Come on love, let's go to bed.”

Draco shook his head, dazed, “no, I’ve got to clean up first or Minnie won’t let me back here.”

“Minnie?” mouthed Pansy to Blaise who only shrugged.

Draco summoned a low dose pepper-up charm from his stock already organized in the storage room adjoined to the lab. He gagged as he swallowed the spicy concoction. Shaking his head to clear away the haze of guilt, sickness, and shame.

He conjured a scrub and some soap in a bucket. Pansy summoned another bucket and he hefted the cauldron up to pour the remaining mixture into the spare bucket. Blaise banished the bubbling bucket once it was full and Draco set the cauldron down again. Pansy whistled at his flexed muscles and he threw some soap at her playfully.

He snapped his finger and music played, lately Pansy had gotten them into Spice Girls and oddly enough, an androgynous band named Eurythmics. Wannabe’s poppy beat echoed around the room and Blaise danced comically around the room, swaying his hips and thrusting in the air every so often. He moved his hips as he scrubbed the Cauldron, humming the lyrics under his breath. None of them noticed when the door opened and Neville barreled out of the greenhouse into the lab.

“Uh-” Neville stammered, eyes wide.

Draco paused mid-gyration to stare at the blubbering boy.

“I’m gonna go-” Neville mumbled, running out of the room, leaving a trail of dirt behind him.

“Do you think he-”

“Did you see his face?!”

Blaise and Pansy both hollered at the same time, cutting Draco off. Draco grunted, drawing the attention of his two friends who promptly rolled their eyes at his pinched mouth. He cast a scourgify on the mud tracks, charming a mop to follow Neville’s path.

“Oh, will you wipe off that pinched ferret expression you’ve got!” Blaise called, slapping his bum as he passed by.

Pansy cackled, bent over in exaggerated laughter. “You do look a bit like a ferret, love,” she sighed, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

Draco grunted, wiping his sweaty brow. “Do you think he saw me, so…”

“Human?”

Draco glared at Blaise, who raised his hands in mock surrender. “Disheveled, unprofessional, inelegant, un-Malfoy," he corrected.

Pansy ignored him as she shucked her shirt, though there wasn’t a single drop of sweat on her back or neck. She rolled her bony shoulder as she conjured a scrub and a mop. Casting an Augementi, she started working on the walls, throwing the mop to a pouting Blaise. Draco was at once, filled with relief that his friends, his posh wanker friends, were helping him with the menial task of cleaning.

Pansy didn’t turn away from the wall as she spoke, casting several charms at other conjured scrubs to reach the places she could, “Isn’t that the point, Draco? To be un-Malfoy. To be yourself? Look at what I'm doing! I’m bloody scrubbing the wall, I would have never done that years ago!”

Blaise passed the mop between his hands, “I know you think nobody will believe the person you’ve become, that you’re good, but you don’t help when you shut people out and continue to put up wards around yourself.”

Draco wiped the cauldron down, carefully oiling it to preserve its integrity. “What would you have me do? Scream at anything and everything that I’ve changed, that I’m not a blood purist?! What would you have me say?! “Hey guys, I know you lost a brother, son, daughter, father, mother, friend-- people! But! Guess what?! I’m not a bad guy anymore, see I’m good, I can even shake your hand and I won’t break out in hives!” Yeah, that’s a great idea guys, ” Draco scoffed.

Pansy marched over, grabbing his chin gently with her soft soapy hands, “that’s exactly what you need to do because that is exactly who you are.”

He turned away, his voice weak and resigned, “and if I’m not. What do I do if I'm the same exact person as before?”

Blaise strode to him, cradling the side of his face in his hand, pressing his forehead against Dracos’, “You are. You are good. You deserve good things. You are good.”

Draco leaned forward, pressing his lips against the boy, wanting to have the maker of his affirmation breathing those words into him. There was something venerating about this kiss, about the tenderness of their lips against each other. But too soon did Blaise pull away, looking at him regretfully, “this isn’t what you want.” Draco whimpered and Blaise thumbed his temple, “ it’s okay, I won't take the words away, they’re yours, they're who you are.”

Pansy pulled him off, “go to bed with Blaise, I’ll meet you later after I finish here.”

“No, no I've got this,” Draco objected, pulling his wand out. He conjured more scrubs, mops, and dusters, easily manipulating them to clean the entire room. It was exhaustive on his magical core, especially after the day he just had, but he needed this lab to be spotless for the plan formulating in his mind. With a just wiggle of his fingers, he took over the scrubs Pansy had been manning and the mop in Blaise's hand. Pansy and Blaise gawped at him and a rush of pride swept through him. He walked over the cauldron, hoisting it up to flip it over, he wasn’t able to carry it with just his own human muscles. Sighing, he focused his remaining magic on lifting all of the spare cauldrons and organizing them on the newly cleaned floor. He was just about to set them down when his chest began to ache, a sharp digging sensation that made him stumble back. Pansy and Blaise rushed forward, grasping his sides as keeled over. Thankfully, the very expensive cauldrons were too close to the ground to have any resounding impact.

Blaise whipped out his wand, shouting “Finite Incantatem!” with no success. Dracos magic was too strong for him to make the dizzying cleaning supplies stop dancing around the room.

Pansy tapped Dracos cheek hard, “Draco, stop the spell. It’s hurting you, stop the spell!”

He groaned, his head rolling to one side. With all the strength he could muster, he whispered the spell, his wand falling limply from his hand.

[wesimpforxiao]

Inception: Chapter 3

You were busy humming away and cleaning the dishes when Childe eyed your bed again.  He couldn't shake the feeling that this was where you'd hide evidence if there was any to begin with.  He glanced in your direction and shifted off of the couch, careful not to make the couch squeak from his movements.

No sooner did he crouch at your bedside that he could see the glint of something with a distinct shade of red.  He pulled what looked to be a large laundry bag out from under the bed, his hand rummaging around to find one of the domestic Fatui masks that only covered the eyes.  

From the looks of it, these are all the stolen masks, he scanned beneath the bed once more, but found nothing but dust bunnies.  So Zhongli was right about you.  What have you been up to, girlie?  The sound of the facet turning off warned Childe that it would be seconds before you turn around and see what he was doing.  

"You've been awfully quiet over there, Aj-" You spun on your heel and noticed him kneeling at your bed with widening eyes.  "-Hey, what're you doing?!"

Childe doesn't do deception--well, besides lying to you and Teucer, that is.  Then there was the time with Aether...Okay, maybe he does a bit of deception, but...He kept his ground and didn't answer.

Panicked, you ran over to him.  "Whatever you're doing, put it back! You don't go snooping around for ladies' panties when they invite you over, do you?!"  You came to a halt when you saw him holding one of your prizes, expecting him to do something, anything than what he did next.

Childe peered over with a sly grin and lifted the mask high in the air for you to see.  "What's this, Reed? Don't tell me this is for some sort of roleplay...?"

"Eh?!"  He watched you turn beet red in a heartbeat with amusement--and suspicion.  "N-No! Not at all!"

The ball was in his court now, and he spiked it back.  "What's wrong ojou-chan?  I was only asking if you do it for performances like the opera.  Don't tell me you were thinking something dirty-"

"Shut it! Shut up!" You reached for the mask, but the man got to his feet and towered over you so you couldn't grab it.  "Give it back and stop going through my stuff! That's not the definition of 'make yourself at home,' you know!"

"So, what do you use these for?" A slight tilt of the head gestured to the bag of masks on the floor.  "They're Fatui masks.  Are you the one responsible for their disappearances after all?"

"Give me that-" You grabbed his forearm and heated the skin enough to make him lose his grip from surprise, but not enough to burn him.  Satisfied with regaining your prize, you shoved it back into the bag with a huff and kicked the whole thing back under the bed, ignoring the pain in your toe from hitting it too hard.  "Mind your own business."

"As much as I'd like to," Childe followed you back into the kitchen area while your mind was set on drying the dishes, "you've peaked my curiosity.  What're they for?"

"If you weren't snooping, I would've eventually told you," you grabbed one of the plates and a towel that sat to your left.  "But since you decided to peek I think its within my right not to tell you anything."

"Oh-ho?" Hot breath brushed past the top of your ear and his chest pressed against your back so you were practically cornered against the counter.  "Then I guess it's within my right to believe whatever I want about you then? No matter how obscene or dirty?"

"Quit playing games with me, Ajax!"  He could see how red your ears were, and your flustered state was more than apparent since heat was practically radiating off your back.  It seems he's learned something new about you; your pyro vision amplifies your flustered reactions...this information should be useful in determining any lies you might come up with.  "And back up, will you?  I c-can't move--"

"Tell me then," he teased.

"Ugh, I don't remember you being this annoying."  He heard you let out an agitated sigh before you slammed your towel down on the counter and replaced the dishes back to their normal spots in a cupboard.  "Can you keep a secret?"

Delighted to hear your cooperation, Childe nodded and allowed you to move freely again.  "I know a thing or two in keeping secrets."

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to tell you...but what I tell you stays between you and me.  And you can't tell the Millelith--"

"I swear it."

"Okay, good.  You already know how much I hate the Fatui," you took the liberty to throw yourself onto the couch and roll over so there was enough space for him to sit next to you.  "I may or may not be getting some much-needed revenge on them for all the crap they've done."

"Oh?  How so?"

"Let's just say I play some pranks on them."  Childe scrunched his nose up as he discerned what exactly you meant by that.  "Oh, don't bring up that missing Fatui stuff with me.  I've only heard about it from you; my involvement with the Fatui usually ends in them getting bruises or occasionally a broke bone."

"You've said you don't like to fight, but you sound like quite the troublemaker."

"I only fight if absolutely necessary.  Sooner or later the harbinger that tried to drown us all will turn up again, and when he does, he won't be excluded from my list."

"You have a list?"  The awkward laugh that left him sounded more nervous than intended.

"Er...not really.  Anyone that's Fatui is my target.  There's not a single good person in that organization."

"Is that so?"  Childe turned to your fireplace and thought to himself.  For a brief moment the friendly façade he put on faltered to reveal lifeless eyes.  But just as quickly as the mask cracked, it melded back together to form a smile.  "You may be right about that, ojou-chan!"

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

It appears she truly has no involvement with the missing persons reports, Childe reviewed all the information he gathered on you as he left your apartment and entered the bustling nightlife of Liyue's streets.  He had no intention of reprimanding you for your attacks against his men; you posed as little of a threat as a fly.  Of course, that determination of your abilities didn't stop him from wanting to spar with you; you may have a chance to surprise him, especially if you were fated to discover his real identity...Was it bad that the idea of you finding out excited him?  To face you head-on while you're in a fit of rage--that would be oh-so thrilling.

Oh!  For a split second he glanced back at your distant apartment window.  'Fire isn't something I want to play with.'  And she even neglected to summon a flame...The attacked don't even have a burn on them.  It was true that those wielding the same element would have a certain resistance to injuries made by that element, but to not have a single blister on them?  Either you were incredibly weak, or you've never used it on the agents.

To rely on your own physical strength in a world of elemental beings...you're a brave one aren't you, Reed?  Perhaps after all these years apart there was some part of you like him--one that was fearless against foes, one that charges into battle rather than run from it.  You were cautious--a trait he did not possess--and smart, too.  Whatever role you play now is sure to be an interesting one regardless of the outcome.

As for that small part of you that's like him...well, he'll have to drag it out.

"Master Childe!"  The harbinger visibly tensed and whipped his head in the direction of your apartment to ensure he was far away enough not to be seen by you.  "Sir!"

"Shh!"  A harsh glare shut the agent up, but realizing his actions, Childe played it off with a laugh.  "Aha...apologies!  Why don't we walk--"  He guided the agent away from your window's view.

"Master Childe," the man spoke in a hushed tone that made it obvious the shushing had intimidated him, "we seem to be having trouble contacting another one of our agents..."

Childe's face fell.  "It's late.  Are you sure it's not possible they're attending a dinner party, or perhaps an opera?"

"No, no.  We've been trying to get in touch with him all day, but he never answered his door.  He never asked for leave, either--"

"--Give me the address."

The housing setup for the Fatui in the Liyue Division was quite similar to that of Mond's--that is, agents were located in a single hotel during their deployment.  These living quarters overlooked most of the city and were located on the opposite side of town from your apartment.  It was quite the walk, so you often ended up hiding in the funeral parlor while furious agents scoured the streets in search of the vigilante during the early morning hours.  Perhaps an even greater advantage is that the hotel and the Northland Bank were about ten minutes apart from one another, giving you just enough time to escape the chaos before the agents could call for reinforcements.

Childe entered the missing agent's room alone.  He had sent the messenger back to wherever he came from; working alone would be much less distracting.  The room was dark and the only light source came from the open window to the right.  He didn't miss a beat to light the nearest candle and explore the room more.  

The place was neat--too neat for a bachelor agent in his twenties.  Everything was in its rightful spot, from the books strewn about to the weapons displayed along the walls.  Even the clothes were neatly folded in their drawers and the uniforms neatly hung in the closet.  On a second look, this was an abnormality.

You see, agents are given three of each uniform component to ensure consistency in case something were to happen to the clothing in battle.  To put it simply there were three coats, three pairs of gloves, three pairs of shirts and trousers alike, three pairs of boots, and three masks.  Each one was resting in the closet.

So he abandons his post without informing his lead officer, leaves his uniforms...Childe returned to the dresser and yanked the drawers out once more.  Everything that should be there, was.  And the clothes hamper next to the dresser was empty.  "He left with the clothes on his back?"  No, it's too soon to draw conclusions.  Still...this is how every missing agent would disappear.  No dirty dishes, untouched clothes, and their uniforms neatly put away.  It wouldn't raise any red flags if this hadn't happened before.

Childe scanned the room for the last time before he pinched the candle nub.  Every agent that disappears does so without a trace or clue of where they could've went.  Perhaps they're taken at night, after their shifts end or when they're enjoying Liyue's nightlife?  Reed couldn't have done this.  It's too elaborate even for her antics.  This is the work of something big...but what?

As he walked back to his apartment, he was unable to come up with the answers.

.........

"What festival is this again?"  Childe was glued to your side as the two of you strolled through the main street of the city.  It was lit up with lanterns that cast a warm glow upon his red hair.  Despite both of your busy schedules, your childhood friend still had the audacity to ask you to show him around the festivities since he had only recently moved his work to Liyue.  You were a bit reluctant at first, but this would be a great opportunity to get closer to him since your previous meetings were short.  And with the streets crowded with tourists and locals, it made Childe all the more difficult to be spotted by his subordinates.

"It's called the Lantern Rite," you answer with your gaze preoccupied by the fires lit beneath the stoves of the local restaurants.  "It's meant to celebrate the lives and sacrifices of the adepti."

"I see.  This is certainly different than Snezhnaya, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

Childe's eyes flicked down to you.  Why were you so disinterested?  Was he boring you? Or perhaps you weren't into festivities anymore?  His nose crinkled as he thought, then his nostrils picked up on a delicious aroma.  Seafood!  "How about I buy us something to eat?"

"Hm?  Like what?"  Your question was answered once you followed his stare, and your heart dropped.  The stall he was eyeing just happened to be next to some sort of stunt show.  That's new, you grumbled inwardly as you watched visionless people spin fire without a smidge of hesitation in their movements.  Since when were their performers during the Lantern Rite?

"How about something reminiscent of our homeland? I've been feeling a bit homesick these past few weeks."  He stepped forward, but your feet were planted firmly on the ground.  "Reed?"  

"...I'll wait here.  Go ahead."

The harbinger's shoulders slouched in disappointment.  Maybe you weren't in the mood to hang out with him after all.  Still, he wasn't the kind of guy to be dissuaded so easily; he picked himself back up and walked over to the vendor.  While he waited to be served, Childe admired the street performers that danced in the middle of the walkway.  They didn't have visions, yet they exuded themselves with such poise that most vision wielders lacked.  Their elegance inspired him, and he had a difficult time refraining from joining in.

The look of pure awe didn't go unnoticed by you, where you now stood in the shadows as far from the performers as possible.  He was definitely enjoying the show--a little more than you'd like.  Your gaze returned to the poi and staffs that were lit ablaze and twirling through the air.  And just like Childe's look of awe was noticed, your cynic stare was noticed by him as well when he was back with food.  

You hadn't even realized he returned.

"Your crab roe tofu, ojou-chan," he held the tray out for you to take.

"...thanks..."

A second glance to the fire wielders, and Childe confirmed his suspicions.  "Well this is certainly a surprise."  His chuckle yanked you back to the present.  "Ironic, too."  You snatched the tray away without saying anything and stuffed tofu into your mouth.  "What's a girl with pyrophobia doing with a pyro vision?  That seems a bit cruel even for the God of War and Flame."

"I-I'm not afraid of it."  Your skin flushed a faint pink at the words while you glared at him.

"You're not?  Then please explain why your stove and furnace have never been touched.  If you ask me, it's pretty obvious."  Your silence caught him off guard.  You always bantered back, but this time you couldn't even look in his direction.  

It was difficult to blink the tears away as the memory of a burning house flashed through your mind--the thick smoke that coated your lungs, the sticky heat that threatened to burn you alive, the screams of your mother...And when Ajax disappeared the next day too, only for you to think the Fatui had got him too--Or the memory of his return, and when you tell him the news of your father he didn't even care.

Does he even remember his response?

You weren't hungry anymore.  "I have a better way to spend the night.  How about we spar?"

[emerald-amidst-gold]

OC Questionnaire

Thank you @1000generations and @rosella-writes for the tags! I love things such as this that allow me to flesh out Fane more! :D

I’ll tag: @oxygenforthewicked @the-dreadful-canine @varric-tethras-editor @noire-pandora @blueheaded and anyone else that’d like to give it a go! :3

----

THE BASICS:

Character’s name: Fane Lavellan/Aterian (The second name is one he’s rarely called until later on. Mainly post-Trespasser by those in his contingent of agents.)

Role in story: The Inquisitor (highly derogatory)

Physical description: Short, messy snow white hair and eyes that hold two colors instead of one (emerald and gold). Bears the vallaslin of Sylaise (full-face). Relatively angular face and holds features that are more indicative to ancient elves than the ones of today. Overall height is 6′1 and is far more muscular in build than other elves, but still slender enough that he isn’t mistaken for a Qunari. Entire body is littered with patch-work scars and has a singular, long scar upon his left cheek (inflicted by Solas) 

Age: Appears 24 (approximately 5,000 years old in actuality)

MBTI/Enneagram Personality Type: INTP-T (Logician). Fane is very much like me in the fact that he’s extremely analytical. He’s always questioning and trying to piece together ‘why’ or ‘how’. Sadly, social skills are lacking for him, and he comes across as proud or insensitive due to how he words things or his lack of understanding when it regards to why someone might be put off by his views.

INTERNAL LIFE:

What is their greatest fear? 

To be forgotten/Himself

Inner motivation: 

Rebirth. Fane wants to see the world restored to what he remembers (i.e. before the Veil was erected), and he wishes for his kin to thrive once more, to belong to no master but themselves. The birth of Yune (the last of Fane’s specific kin) awakens the ideal of ‘hope’ in his heart and allows him to believe that what he strives for is possible.

Kryptonite: 

Pride and Wrath. Fane has a volatile temper that tends to get him into trouble, on and off the battlefield. He is prone to bouts of proud behavior due to the fact that he’s lived for so long and believes he knows what the ‘absolute’ in the world is. 

What is their misbelief about the world? 

That everything terrible that has happened to him or that he has done thus far since awakening/being awakened is his fault, his choice. At the beginning of my story and in regards to the world as a whole, Fane believes he knows exactly how each person is (personality, motivations, ideals, etc.), even though he has no idea who he is.

Lesson they need to learn: 

That his existence is not a sin. That whoever or whatever he is doesn’t matter. He’s alive and he is loved, he is important. Labels do not need to define him.

What is the best thing in their life? 

Family (Solas, Mhairi, Cyfrin, Yune, etc.)

What is the worst thing in their life? 

That he had to betray family to support family. Fane will do whatever it takes to ensure Solas is never alone again and that his kin can be remembered for what they truly are, but in order to do that he has to make decisions, choices and those decisions carry a lot of pain and heart break. He’ll endure, however. He’ll always endure.

What do they most often look down on people for? 

Ignorance and faith. The faith aspect is mainly people wholly relying on that which they can’t see rather than the strength and independent thought that they possess. Fane despises those who use faith as a tool to manipulate or those who are willfully blind to the cries of the world and the suffering.

What makes his/her/their heart feel alive?

Primarily, Solas awakens the hidden or muted sides of Fane. Solas represents ‘the sky’ to him, and just a glimpses into the other’s eyes can make Fane feel as if he’s able to fly again. Having someone understand and know him for more than his rage and bluntness also makes Fane feel more alive when he’s used to feeling grey. 

What makes them feel loved, and who was the last person to make them feel that way? 

Intimacy of presence. Fane feels most loved when those he cares for is content to merely be around him, words or no words. Solas is the one that does this the most often, the two of them having had to use this level of communication in the past due to Fane being a dragon unable to talk or link up mentally with anyone other than spirits. However, Cole, Mhairi and Cyfrin also utilize this means of communication. Solas is merely the one that offers it the most. 

Top three things they value most in life? 

Devotion, Independent thought, and Support.

EXTERNAL LIFE:

Is there an object they can’t bear to part with and why? 

A crimson sash adorned with golden embroidery of halla and leafless trees. It was a gift from Mhairi, and it was given to Fane shortly after their father disappeared and the experiments upon his body ceased. Fane wears it either around his waist or as a scarf. He’s usually not one to accept gifts, family or not, but he kept this one because it offered a lot of comfort where it had been lacking for several years. Fane also adores his sister with all his heart, and to see that she chanced potential capture to gather the materials...how could he spit in the face of such love? He couldn’t, and that’s why he keeps it even Post-Trespasser. He rarely wears it as he used to during that time, but he keeps it safe and pulls it out when he’s alone to remember simpler days.

Describe a typical outfit for them from top to bottom.

Fane gravitates towards clothing that’s loose and practical. He refuses to wear any of the clothing that Josephine or Vivienne might choose for him. To start, Fane wraps his entire upper body in Elvhen wraps to cover the myriad of scars that litter his body. The wraps are usually dark brown, dark green, or black. Next, he opts for cotton tunics, short sleeved or long sleeves, but he’ll have tendency to roll them up to his elbow, and once again, they are either dark or neutral colors (black, grey, etc.). Plain trousers, somewhat form fitting, and most importantly; boots. Fane does not go barefoot unless he’s getting ready for bed or bathing. He also wears a small dagger that he keeps strapped to an upper thigh. Just in case. *winks*

What names or nicknames has they been called throughout their life?

Fae (generally by Cyfrin or Mhairi), ma’isenatha (’my dragon’ and is typically used by Solas), Blackened One (this is the translation of Fane’s ‘second’ name and is used both respectfully/derogatory), He Who Flew Above (used by the Elvhen agents in both Fane and Solas’ respective contingents), White One (Abelas generally refers to Fane as this once he drops the Inquisitor title, Wisdom also calls Fane this), vhenan or ma vhenan.

And last, but definitely not least, ‘Papae’ *whistles innocently* :3 

What is their method of manipulation?

Fane has draconic abilities that can warp emotions. In a way, he implements a form of psychological warfare, but he only uses it as a last resort whether the enemy is a piece of absolute trash or not. Fane has had his mind broken multiple times, died from it once even, and unless given no other choice, he will not break another like that.

Describe their daily routine. 

Fane wakes up at the crack of dawn. He doesn’t like to, but he usually has no control over it due to years upon years of waking up from nightmares and retching. If he manages to awaken without many issues, Fane strides right into his routine of training, with or without eating. Training helps quell his mind of lingering terrors, and establishes discipline to emotions that are volatile. Afterwards, Fane may eat on his own, but generally, Mhairi, Cyfrin or Solas have to acquire something for him and press him to eat. He always relents, even if he glowers and growls. Cole takes a more subtle approach and just leaves it where Fane can easily smell it, awakening the want. 

Mid-day Fane is usually doing his rounds, checking on companions, maybe entertaining a conversation or request, or begrudgingly diving into Inquisition business. (paperwork, letters, etc.) If he’s having a rough day, headaches, mental exhaustion, or physical pain, then Fane is less likely to get much done and that’s because Solas will demand that he take it easy. In those cases, Fane will fight and protest and declare that he’s fine, but a single look that says, ‘Enough’, and he crumbles, taking the offering of a pillowed lap and potentially sleeping for at least half the afternoon. When he wakes up, Fane lingers in the rotunda and with attempt some form of work until evening.

That’s when Fane indulges in more personal pursuits. He whittles wood, reads and writes poetry, tinkers with one of his gauntlets or plating, and lets himself want. He’ll sometimes go to the tavern to see Varric or the Chargers, even if being around Bull makes him a tad uneasy. Or he’ll seek out his sister and see if she wishes to do something with him. Fane doesn’t ask, of course, but that’s because Mhairi bombards him the moment he appears and he accepts and agrees without fuss. Sometimes Fane will visit Leliana in the rookery and go over what she’s heard or what he’s hear, or he’ll spend time with Cole until Solas comes to see where he’s gone off to.

Their go-to cure for a bad day? 

Usually, training or just outright destroying something. Fane has issues controlling some of his emotions, rage most of all, and the only way to get that specific emotion out is to physically take it out. Solas and Mhairi have attempted to help Fane diffuse in different ways, but the only one that seems to work the best is for a dragon to rampage. Thankfully, Fane retreats from Skyhold if that he feels his mind blackening. Solas or Cole will follow and keep an eye on him from a distance, but Solas will intervene if he feels Fane is close to spiraling beyond anger. Then, the go-to is words, soft, but firm.

GOALS:

How are they dissatisfied with their life? 

Fane’s life Pre-Inquisition and within Inquisition is...rough. Life with the clan was torture for him, literally being called a mistake and monster due to how he acted and how he looked. No one understood why and neither did Fane beyond knowing his father’s abuse had...awoken something in him. That lack of understanding infuriated Fane, to the point where he chose to just...ignore it, turn his back. Add that to the burden placed upon his shoulders unwillingly, and once again being labeled as every manner of being except what would make him feel complete...yeah, Fane was highly dissatisfied with his life. It isn’t until he and Solas reconcile and vow to never be apart again that Fane starts to find purpose and the will to try in his life. That satisfaction only grows Pre-Trespasser once Fane uncovers a lot of answers concerning himself and his kin after going on a little field trip to a place that shall not be name while Solas attends to the Qunari.

What would bring them true happiness or contentment?

Simply put? Fane wants Solas to be able to rest. That would bring Fane so much joy, to see his sky finally throw down the mantle and rest. All he wants is for them both to be able to be together and not have the world demanding their lives on a silver platter every second of every hour.

What definitive step could they take to turn their dream into a reality? 

Support. That is one of Fane’s guiding principles when it comes to Solas and what the mage has deemed he has to do. Fane helps to keep Solas on the path, but he knows when to step in if the fog rolls in. Fane doesn’t see right or wrong; he sees paths, choices. He supports what Solas wishes to do because he understands why the man feels the way that he does. Fane is Devotion and Tenacity, and he will die again and again and again before leaving Solas to walk this dark path alone, without support. Because that, all on its own, can change a person’s mind.

How has their fear kept them from taking this action already? 

Fane is only fearful that his support could be causing Solas grief, making him upset due to the fact that the mage feels as if Fane should condemn him. However, Fane presses on and doesn’t let fear shackle him in this. Fear is potent in Fane, that’s the truth, but it all washes away when Solas requires him. Devotion is stronger than Fear, Tenacity grinds Terror into dust, and a dragon will always guard the sky it calls home. 

How do they feel they can accomplish their goal while still steering clear of the thing they are afraid of? 

So, Fane’s main fears are being forgotten and himself. The supporting aspect is to combat the being forgotten aspect, partially, but when in regards to himself... That’s a whole other story. Fane grapples with madness coutnless times in my story and the allure of power, something dragons cannot yearn for lest they cause irreversible harm to the world, and he is fearful that eventually...the clock will strike, the hourglass will run out and that he didn’t do enough. For Solas, for his kin, and for the world. Furthermore, Fane is terrified that that madness will eventually harm those he cares for, those he’s vowed to protect and support. So, Fane does whatever he can to keep his spirit from warping, to keep himself from breaking beyond what can be repaired, and having Yune and Solas, and seeing the progress of their endeavors helps keep Fane on the cliff he teeters on.

[ladyfloriographist]

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

[boxoftheskyking]

Something Good, Part Twelve

I decided to end the chapter here for the moment because it got kind of long

Also there are only like 3 sets in this piece because we are on a BUDGET so everything happens in the laundry yard. Sorry take it up with the finance department

In which there is a Party (Also self-worth doesn’t come from rich people)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven

Engagement celebrations are not traditional in Gusu, but they are in Qishan, and the husband’s family are responsible.

“So, basically, His Excellency is demanding the Lan Sect throw him a party,” Wei Wuxian says. “That sounds like Wen Ruohan.”

“Oh, yes, Wei Ying,” Wang Xiaolu teases, flicking water at him from where she’s kneeling on the paving stones. “You know everything about the noble houses! You are so worldly!”

“Aiyah, Lulu!” Wei Wuxian starts chasing after her with his broom.

“Children!” Madam Xiao shouts, wagging a gnarled finger at them.  “You will have plenty of time for nonsense once the celebration has come and gone. I may not know everything about the noble houses, but I will not be the housekeeper that lets dust collect on His Excellency’s hem.”

All of the disciples are practicing a demonstration for the honored guests, so their lessons stretch late into the evening. The little ones seem delighted to be in classes with their older cousins and siblings, taking their roles very seriously even though they’re mainly tasked with holding supplies and staying out of the way.

Wei Wuxian tries to steal time here and there to watch them practice, giving them giant smiles and exuberant applause for every skill performed. Lan Wangji stands next to him, and Wei Wuxian could swear he sees the corner of his mouth twitch. Every time it happens he cheers louder.

But the result of all the cleaning, cooking, and other preparations is that Wei Wuxian barely has any time with the children. He makes sure they’re fed, washed, and in bed by nine, but there’s very little play time. 

He’s hemming some new robes for the Sect Leader—he’s still quite proud of his new sewing skills, so he’d begged Lan Biming for the job—when Lan Wangji stops by the laundry yard.

“Wei Wuxian.”

“Hey, Master Lan! Check out these stitches. Have you seen anything straighter?”

Lan Wangji actually comes over to crouch next to Wei Wuxian where he’s spread out on the ground, carefully lifting the fabric and looking intently at the fresh hem.

“It is very fine work.”

“Thank you!”

Lan Wangji stays crouched next to him for a moment, saying nothing. Wei Wuxian carefully ties off his thread and folds up the robes before turning to him.

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Are you just visiting the laundry yard to get away from the preparations? I imagine Lan Qiren is as demanding as ever.”

“Uncle is— This is the first major event held at the Cloud Recesses since the ambush. The first under Lan Xichen’s leadership. Everyone is taking it very seriously.”

Wei Wuxian salutes him, the effect somewhat ruined by the way his trousers are riding up on his legs, his knobby knees sticking out.

“I wonder, if you have time, if you could take the junior disciples to the back hill for a while this afternoon.”

“To see the bunnies? Of course! Are they finished with rehearsal?”

“Uncle would like to continue working with everyone, but I think it would be best if the younger ones departed for a short while.”

“They need a break, huh?”

Lan Wangji nods.

“I’d be delighted! Just let me get these robes to Master Lin and I’ll be over.”

Lan Wangji is, as usual, correct. As soon as they leave the main compound, half of the kids go absolutely wild, running and screaming and rolling down the hill.

“Hey, watch it! You’re not wearing your play clothes today, and the Grandmaster will have all the hair off my head if you get grass stains on your nice robes!”

Lan Ting flops down into the grass. “Wei-qianbei, will you please cover me with rabbits? I am so tired and my brain is so confused, I just need to be covered with rabbits.”

Wei Wuxian laughs and straightens the boy’s robes over his legs. “Feifei, Yixian, come help me catch some rabbits to bury your cousin.”

He sits down in the midst of them all and lets himself enjoy the shift in energy. He likes the other servants quite a bit, and they like him more than they used to, but it’s nothing like being in this crowd of wild, chubby-cheeked troublemakers.

Lan Jingyi comes up behind him and leans against his shoulder. “I miss you, Wei-qianbei,” he says and he tucks his arms around Wei Wuxian’s neck.

“Ah, Jingyi, I still see you every day.”

“But not all of the day.”

“No, because I have work to do. Don’t you want to be proud of the Cloud Recesses when all the other clans come to visit? It must be sparkling clean! It should be as shining in the sun as if a fresh layer of snow has fallen over the whole mountain!”

“But you’re my Wei-qianbei, and I need you to play with me.” 

Wei Wuxian hauls him over into his lap. “How about a nice cuddle now instead?”

“Okay. Can you cuddle me and I cuddle a rabbit?”

“Yes, of course.”

All in all, it’s the nicest day he’s had all week.

The day before the other sects are to arrive, Lan Wangji comes back to find him in the laundry yard where he’s wolfing down dinner, grateful for ten minutes of quiet. It’s going to rain, which makes him rather resent the time he’d spent mopping down the entry stairs. Half of his hair is falling out of his topknot and whipping around his face, getting into his bowl, striping chilli oil across his cheek.

It seems unreal that the day is almost upon them. He has been carefully not thinking about what will happen when the sects begin arriving, trying to keep his thoughts blank and focus on cleaning this stone, chopping this turnip, carrying this child. Nothing beyond.

“Wei Wuxian.”

“There’s no one else here,” he says, with his mouth full.

“Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan.”

Surprisingly, Lan Wangji comes over and sits next to him on the bench. He’s warm, noticeably so in the chill. On a normal day, he thinks that would hold his attention; he’d be hyper aware of the solidness of Lan Wangji’s shoulder, how he warms Wei Wuxian’s arm down to the elbow. But today his mind is empty, wind whistling through.

“Wei Ying. Tomorrow the sects arrive. It will not be the largest gathering, but all of the leaders will attend. That means Wen Ruohan. And also Jiang Wanyin.”

Wei Wuxian shoves in another mouthful, nodding.

“Are you—” Lan Wangji sighs, frustrated. Wei Wuxian chews and lets him think.

“Is there an assignment,” Lan Wangji says, slowly, “that would make the next few days easier for you?”

Wei Wuxian swallows, wipes his mouth. “How do you mean?”

Lan Wangji glares, slightly. “It will be best for everyone if you are out of the way of Wen Ruohan, to avoid any unnecessary disruption. But if you’d like to see Jiang Wanyin, you could—I don’t know—tidy the guest rooms where he is staying.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“If I want to see him. If I can see him.” Wei Wuxian puts down his bowl. “Is— Do you know if my sister . . .”

“I don’t. I haven’t heard who is attending.”

Wei Wuxian nods, looks up at the sky. It starts to rain, spitting down on him.

“I will instruct Lin Biming to assign you wherever is easiest,” Lan Wangji says.

“Probably best if I keep out of the way, don’t you think?” Wei Wuxian closes his eyes against the rain. When he opens them, Lan Wangji is gone.

---

He ends up on dish duty, which is fine. He’s only crossed paths with visiting servants so far, and most of them don’t give him a second glance. 

He’s clearing the tea service from a private meeting room when he sees Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian is inside, and his brother walks by the open door. He’s in his customary purple, but with a golden sash which seems to pay homage to Lanling Jin. Wei Wuxian sets his tray down silently and moves to the door, watching him as he turns into another pavilion.

He seems thinner than Wei Wuxian remembers, his jaw possibly sharper. My, Jiang Cheng, is Shijie not feeding you?

When he’s out of sight, Wei Wuxian sinks down onto his heels, leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. I thought I’d feel it, he thinks to himself, trying to drown out the buzzing in his ears. Shouldn’t I be able to feel it when he’s near? Shouldn’t he feel me?

But he doesn’t rise, chase after him, call his name. He breathes until his hands quit shaking, then he gathers up the tea tray and goes back to the kitchens.

He manages to stay safely out of the way for the first two days, but on the third he decides to risk discovery to watch the children perform their demonstration. He sneaks in the back of the crowd, head tucked down and hands occupied with the small kettle of tea that is his excuse for being there in the first place. He can’t quite relax without being in danger of burning himself, but it’s helpful to remain alert.

Wen Qing is seated near Wen Ruohan, shimmering gold headpiece and even more intricately embroidered robes than usual. Jiang Cheng is at the side of the room farthest away from the door, seated with Jin Zixuan and Jin Guangshan. Jin Guangshan leans over and says something to him, and a polite smile flashes across his face. It looks unnatural. Wei Wuxian shifts so that he’s blocked by another servant. Yanli is not there.

Wen Qing looks around as the disciples enter and catches his eye. She’s made up in a way he’s never seen before, looking more like a delicate flower than the solid oak he knows her to be. She gives him a little smile before turning back to watch the children.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t honestly pay a lot of attention to the demonstration. It’s not that it hurts, he tells himself, to watch young people reveling in their spiritual power, tossing it around like it’s nothing, like it’s never-ending. It’s just that he’d rather watch his children, see who stands properly still, who’s fidgeting, who misses their cue and has to scramble across the stage. Normally he’d cheer and whoop and shout out each name, but he just claps politely and grins at the ones who spot him.

After the demonstration, it’s time to serve more tea. He tries to be clever and serve some low ranking member of a minor sect who may not recognize him, but he gets turned around in the shuffle and ends up standing beside Wen Chao. After the first pour he doesn’t look up, but Wei Wuxian feels himself begin to sweat, like an animal stuck inside a trap in the moment before the net pulls tight. They’ll need to pour at least three more cups to cover all of the toasts.

The first toast, proposed by Wen Ruohan, is dedicated to the hosts in Gusu Lan. The second—Wei Wuxian’s hands only shake a bit as he pours—goes to the happy couple, Lan Wangji and Wen Qing. Lan Wangji has taken his place with the other members of his sect following the demonstration, so all eyes scan across the room between him and Wen Qing. Wei Wuxian braces himself, but their gazes just slide over him.

For the next toast, Jin Guangshan speaks up.

“Honored sects, it is Lanling Jin’s great happiness to announce the engagement of my son and heir, Jin Zixuan, and the sister of our loyal ally, Jiang Wanyin. The wedding will take place in one year, and will bind Lanling Jin and Yunmeng Jiang together in the bonds of family.”

He nods to Jiang Cheng, who straightens. “Yunmeng Jiang is honored to join with Lanling Jin, and my sister is blessed with a fine husband-to-be.” He looks around, awkwardly, then finishes with “We are very happy.” He even smiles.

The handle of the kettle creaks in Wei Wuxian’s grip. How dare he, he thinks. They won’t even say her name, like she’s just an object, or an animal changing ownership. Like she’s a treaty to be signed.

He pours the last cup, and his hands shake, sloshing tea over the side.

“Aiyah, you fool!” Wen Chao yells. He yanks back his sleeve and glares up at him. So does everyone else.

Wei Wuxian freezes and stares down at the ground, hoping they just see the grey uniform and topknot, no one worth noticing.

“Wei Wuxian,” Wen Chao says at top volume, anger transforming into delight in an instant. “Of course it would be you. Look, this demon tried to burn me.”

The room explodes into noise, murmurs and scoffs and whispers and even a few bursts of laughter. Wei Wuxian can’t help himself, he looks up directly at Jiang Cheng. His brother’s eyes are fiery, jaw clenched and hand on the hilt of his sword. For a moment the rest of the room fades away and Wei Wuxian almost speaks, almost says his name. Jiang Cheng looks away.

Wei Wuxian feels an insistent hand on his elbow and lets himself be tugged backward.

“Come on, Wei Ying,” Lin Biming says in his ear. “Give the kettle to Xiaolu and go.”

The kettle is gone—he doesn’t notice it happening, just the sudden absence of weight, and then suddenly he is outside under grey sky with his hands pressed hard against his middle. He doesn’t realize he’s not alone until he feels hands on his shoulders.

“That’s it, breathe. You’re all right, boy, just breathe.” Lin Biming tugs him gently down the walkway until the uproar from inside fades into nothing more than rising and falling tones.

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian forces out, all air.

“No, don’t worry. It’s all right.”

“I just wanted to see . . . I wanted to . . .”

“I know, it’s all right. I should have protected you.”

Wei Wuxian looks up, startled. Lin Biming’s red face is all concern, and though his features aren’t the same, he looks so much like Uncle Jiang it’s difficult not to lean in and rest his cheek against the man’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to—”

“That’s my job, to protect you all.”

Wei Wuxian gives in and hugs him, earning a small grunt of surprise. It’s like hugging a tree trunk, but eventually he feels a gentle pat in the center of his back. Despite everything, it does actually make him feel better.

Lin Biming leaves, flustered, and Wei Wuxian wanders somewhat aimlessly back to the kitchen. He feels naked, like he’s been stripped in the middle of Caiyi Town, left standing on his own with nothing between him and the wind.

Time passes, somehow. People move around him, shifting him gently into a corner so they can clean the dishes, start preparing dinner. A few folks pat his cheek, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, squeeze his shoulder. Part of him—most of him—feels it like embers inside him, like something that will become a warm and comforting fire when he can pull the lid off and expose it to air. 

Dinner is served without him. He stays in the laundry yard, grateful to find a torn bedsheet on the line that’s been left for later. He stitches as the sun goes down, slow, deliberate, each stitch exact in length and straightness. It’s almost becoming hard to see when Wen Qing finds him.

“Jiang Wanyin asked me if I knew where you were,” she says, evenly.

Wei Wuxian tucks the needle into the fabric and joins her where she’s leaning against the stone wall.

“To make sure I stay out of sight, I suppose. Out of trouble.”

“He wants to see you.”

“What are you doing, talking to strange men at your own engagement party? Have some shame, Lady Wen.”

“Wei Ying.”

He turns and rests his forehead on her shoulder. “I can’t. I can’t see him. I can’t.”

“How long has it been?”

“He was at the trial. I can’t face him after that. You don’t know what it’s like, watching him just sit there—”

“Watching the people who are supposed to be my family sit in silence while Wen Ruohan decides my future for me, separates me from my brother and everyone I know to fill a role I never wanted and don’t belong in? Clearly I have no idea what that is like.”

Wei Wuxian groans. “I know. I know. I just can’t. The way he sat there and talked about Shijie, like she’s nothing. I expect it from Wen Ruohan, not from Jiang Cheng. Before— When we were together he hated Jin Zixuan as much as I did. Now, he announces their engagement and he smiles? Truly, anyone can be bought.” 

“He does what he has to do.”

“So do you, but you don’t smile about it.”

Wen Qing shoves him off her shoulder. “I’m clearly not performing as well as I thought. Wei Ying, you have to understand. Wanyin and Yanli had nothing when the Jins took them in. Jiang Wanyin approves of Jin Zixuan because he protects her.”

“He doesn’t protect her. Jin Guangshan and his money protect her.”

“He protects her from Jin Guangshan.”

It takes a moment to hit him, then he hits the wall. He doesn’t notice he’s done it until the skin on his knuckle splits.

“Fuck!” he punches again, smearing a line of blood across the stone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” As he strikes again and again, a thin stream of black smoke emerges from between his fingers.

Wen Qing grabs his arms. “Stop it!”

“Fuck!” he shouts again, fighting her. But he’s not strong enough; he couldn’t overpower her if he wanted to. Not without Chenqing, not without summoning more than he can handle. “Fucking useless,” he breathes, dropping his forehead against the wall, hard.

“It’s all right. She’s under Jin Zixuan’s protection, no one will touch her.”

He whirls on her. “What about those that aren’t? Would I be protected in Lanling? Someone like me?”

“You’re not really Jin Guangshan’s taste.”

“Wen Qing.”

“There’s nothing to be done. Someday Jin Zixuan will take over and things will be better.”

“That’s not good enough. I hate this. I hate this. I didn’t know it would be like this. I never thought the power mattered, but to just sit and watch— ”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“Wei Ying, what’s my fucking name? Of course I know what it’s like to be powerless, to sit and watch. But we don’t sacrifice ourselves if there’s no chance of success. We don’t waste our lives on battles we can’t win.”

“Fuck.”

“Calm down, all right? Sit down, come on.”

Wei Wuxian leans against her side and breathes, eyes closed. Lifts one hand on an inhale, breathes out, pushing away. I am glad for . . . I am grateful for . . . I have . . . I . . .

It takes a few minutes, but his heart rate slows, the red recedes from the corners of his vision. His hands are clear, no black smoke.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“She shouldn’t have to marry him just for that. That shouldn’t be enough.”

“Everyone pays for protection, Wei Ying. Even you.”

“You mean serving the Lans? That’s not payment.”

“Not people. Are you saying there wasn’t a cost? For feeling powerful again, feeling whole?”

Wei Wuxian nods. “It never felt whole. It just wasn’t empty.”

Wen Qing pulls a jar of salve and roll of bandages out of her bag and starts treating his hand.

“Even in your engagement robes, you’re always ready.”

“Wen Ruohan can make me what he wants on the outside, he has no power over anything else.”

Wei Wuxian grins at her, then hisses at the sting. “Ah, Wen Qing, it may not be your first choice, but I am so glad you are here. And that if you have to marry someone you don’t want to, it’s someone in Cloud Recesses.”

Wen Qing ties off the bandage but keeps a hold of his hand. “It could be worse.”

Wei Wuxian gasps in mock indignation. “You’re marrying Lan Wangji, and that’s the best you’ve got? It could be worse?”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes, but stays with him and watches the shadows lengthen. 

“I need to go back,” she says finally, rising and brushing off her robes. “Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen will be playing music tonight. You’ll be able to hear from outside. It may do you some good.”

“I do miss music,” he says, walking her to the entryway. “I really could play. Remember? Those weeks we were together, you’d work and I would play?”

“You’ll play again.” She gives him half a smile and leaves. 

He goes back to his torn sheet, folding it neatly until he begins to hear a guqin—faint, but pure, calling him out of the yard, pulling him along like a tide.

Part Thirteen

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

pretty sure I've asked you this before, but since you've seen more operas/opera productions since, what's an opera you've seen more than one production of, and what are your thoughts on those productions? What do you like about some over others? How do you feel about the various casts? Do certain production concepts work better than others, and why?

Okay, so I’m gonna go ahead and do what I did when I hijacked your trouser role quiz post (sorry about that) to talk about a bunch of different Faust productions except I’m gonna talk about them MORE. so INCOMING:

Vienna 1985: first full production I ever watched, so it has that sentimental value. the biggest no for me is that the director decided to make Marguerite a nun??? (she gets kicked out after Act III) the production is set somewhere in the French countryside during the Napoleonic Wars and it actually works pretty well overall! not a fan of the extraneous ballet dancers, though. but there’s some really great stageplay and special effects (the golden calf is a sight to behold, and the church scene is incredibly creepy and I like it even though once again, LOSE THE EXTRANEOUS DANCERS PLEASE). the cast is really fantastic. Raimondi is still one of my favorite Méphistophélès(es?). even in the nun costume, Benackova is an amazing Marguerite. all in all: good show. lose the dancers. also the apotheosis is creeeeeeeeeeepy.

Paris 1975: the video quality was...kinda bad, not helped by the fact that the production is somewhat dingy. I like the vibe it was trying to go for but it just didn’t really work. the ROH did it way better. cast is excellent: Gedda is Gedda, Freni is Freni, Soyer is Soyer (and pulls off a baby blue suit at one point which is itself no mean feat). I like it! not my favorite though.

Geneva 1995: not great video quality either but pretty pretty PRETTY. the garden is particularly wonderful. also tries to go for the same vibe as Paris/later ROH and falls short of the latter. Samuel Ramey IS Méphistophélès. rest of the cast is wonderful too. not sure if there are any other Ramey Faust productions, but even if there are, must watch just for him.

And now for the ongoing ROH production saga:

Three broadcasts, all of the same wonderful McVicar Belle Époque Paris production. (This was the setting that both Paris and Geneva tried to get right but simply didn’t measure up). It’s a lot of fun, start to finish. Great visuals, great choreography (we get the ballet! and well done at that), great costumes (the Walpurgisnacht costume for Méphistophélès is iconic). No wonder it’s a company hit. Also this is just me personally but I fall hook, line, and sinker for any over-the-top Belle Époque aesthetic.

ROH 2004: Alagna, Gheorghiu, Terfel, Keenlyside, Koch. What more could you ask for? They’re all great (even if, sorry, that blonde wig is ugly as sin. just let Gheorghiu use her normal hair or at least a wig like it and stop trying to associate blondeness with pure heroines. end mini-rant). this is the first of 3 Alagna Fausts I’ve seen and he’s great in all of them. Gheorghiu is her amazing self, so is Terfel, Keenlyside is pure luxury casting in a pretty small role, and in Koch you see the beginning of a very nice career. the OG. it’s great.

ROH 2011: Gheorghiu is back! I liked her more in the 2004 outing tbh but she still does very well. Grigolo is Grigolo—I actually do like his voice but a) not as good as Alagna IMO and b) he’s a total creep/milker (ironically, it was a different run of this exact production that caused everyone to realize that and in turn was a pretty big scandal last year but I digress). Pape is glorious—this is one of 3 Fausts I’ve seen him do and he’s also great in all of them. Dima is even more of a luxury casting and Losièr is her utterly adorable self as Siébel.

ROH 2019: probably my least favorite overall cast of the three but still very, very good. they have tough competition. Fabiano and Schrott are my favorites in the cast (and not to be shallow but Schrott by far does the best job of pulling off the iconic Walpurgisnacht outfit IMO). Lungu is also very good (although we seriously need to lose the wig because it flatters no one). Dégoût and Fontanals-Simmons make good work of their roles.

I’m still mad that no one filmed the 2014 Calleja/Yoncheva (no wig!)/Terfel/Keenlyside/Pokupić revival.

Orange 2008: Once again a Belle Époque look, once again well-done overall. I have conflicting feelings about using such a huge space and huge forces: it feels right for some scenes but feels completely wrong for others. the effects and sets the space allows for, however, are very impressive. Siébel is sung by a tenor which is unforgivable (also the amount of abuse the poor child goes through...give him a hug). Alagna and Pape are both back and glorious. Inva Mula isn’t my favorite Marguerite but she does perfectly well. Jean-François Lapointe is a very good Valentin. not sure how I feel about this one overall.

Met 2011: the concept is kinda wonky to me (is it a flashback? is it him actually becoming young again? who knows?) and the visuals can often be off-putting, but it sufficiently works as a concept overall and makes for great theater. Pape once again proves how devilishly awesome he can be, Kaufmann is wonderful as always and I stg he MUST have actually sold his soul to the devil for That One Diminuendo (you know the one), and Poplavskaya is nothing short of wrenching. Losièr is yet again a completely precious Siébel and Russell Braun may not exactly be luxury casting but he still holds his own in a great cast.

Paris 2011: what??? the??? everloving??? hell??? is??? going??? on??? here??? seriously, this production (especially the first act and the final scene) is nothing short of bonkers. where are we??? when are we??? it’s impossible to tell. which is a crying shame because the aesthetic itself is good (a very impressive unit set) and the cast is excellent. Alagna and Mula team up again with great results, Paul Gay is a surprisingly good Méphistophélès (I had only seen him in one other production before and wasn’t a huge fan), Tassis Christoyannis is great (although I pity the nonsense stage business he has to do), Angelique Noldus is cute as cute can be, and even the smaller roles are well-cast (Marie-Ange Todorovitch and Alexandre Duhamel!). the production is just...what even, though. 

I hope that answers it!

[monotonous-minutia]

gonna go ahead and ask some of the same questions you asked me:

some of your favorite new-to-you operas from this year;

some of your favorite new-to-you productions of new-to-you operas this year;

some of your favorite new-to-you productions of not-new-to-you operas this year;

and any other cool new operatic things from this year!

thanks for the ask and happy new year!!!

I feel like this year was actually three years so I hope I'm not forgetting anything from this year and placing it in a different year instead...

some of my favorite new-to-me operas from this year:

Dorilla in Tempe!!!! immediately became one of my favorite operas ever. Stumbled upon it pretty much by accident and fell irreversibly in love. I listen to it all the time now, so many tracks made my Spotify top 100, 4 made my top 10 and 3 made my top 5 XD

Giulio Cesare for sure, it might have actually been the first new opera I watched this year. it's a little long-winded but worth it for all the iconic bops. and my poor sweet Sesto <3

that one part of The Stonewall Operas that I saw; still haven't seen them all but I really loved the part I did. (going to finish it some day hopefully!)

L'incoronazione di Poppea, it took me way too long to get to this one and I'm so happy that I did bc that last duet is one of my favorite things ever like truly music of the gods holy heck.

Lucio Silla was a fun discovery because of the Gayness but also because I can't stop thinking of it as Clemenza's evil twin and that's so funny to me.

Theodora!! idk if it counts bc of the format but it was so good I'm putting it on here.

Artemesia was gorgeous and chilling and I loved it.

L'Étoile!! it’s not every day the trouser role is the protagonist and main love interest (although you may notice a pattern in the operas I tend to watch...) plus it’s just such a fun time and the characters are so unique.

La colombe, still have yet to watch a filmed production but I listened to it and it’s such a cute fun little piece.

La fanciulla del West!! I did not expect to love it as much as I did, idk why; Puccini’s not high on my list of favorite composers so I tend to neglect him, but I’m so glad I saw this one. surprise happy ending, wonderful characters, and iconic poor naming choices.

Stiffelio <3

some of my favorite new-to-me productions of new-to-me operas this year:

the Wexford/Fenice Dorilla is phenomenal, sooo pretty and fun and GAY. and literally every other production out there (not that there are many) is invalid bc all the mezzo bois are replaced with tenors. not even countertenors, just tenors. blasphemy. genderfluid baroque bois should not be tenors.

as far as Giulio Cesare goes there's really only one production I could actually sit through the whole thing, and that was the Glyndebourne/Met McVicar one (I have thoughts about a lot of this guy's work but I did like the portrayal of the characters in this one, except Cornelia, fuck her tbh)

speaking of Glyndebourne their Poppea is pretty good too, a bit creepy at parts but the vibe is just. aesthetic. matches the music impeccably imo. also those ladies *heart eyes*

some of my favorite new-to-me productions of not-new-to-me operas this year:

The new Zürich and Hamburg Hoffmanns!! I love them both so much, the edits were really interesting and the productions were both funky and cool and sooo gay. And the cast for the Hamburg one was TOP NOTCH.

also the Théâtre Antique d'Orange 2000 one, Kirchschlager is so cute as Nicklausse and it was a blessing after the Salzburg travesty.

the Canada 1979 Cendrillon was magical and adorable. and gay. I wish the image quality was better and it didn’t end halfway through the last act, but I love it nonetheless.

the Salzburg 1991 Nozze. do NOT confuse this one with any of the other Salzburg ones I saw, some of which just didn’t vibe with me and some that are Objectively Bad. this one is pretty straightforward and nice and it has SUSANNE MENTZER as Cherubino so automatic 100/10 for her.

the Met’s 2017 Rusalka. I loved it almost as much as the 2014 one. both have great casts. this one was a little spookier which was cool to see.

the Madrid 2016 Norma. very pretty and quite gay.

other cool operatic things from this year!

I found a lot more Susanne Mentzer on Spotify, which was so great and she was one of my top artists this year.

I was in the top 0.2% of Ann Murray’s listeners for the second year in a row, probably because I am obsessed with her Nicklausse and her baroque album.

I did not reach my goal of hitting 50 Hoffmann productions, but I’m pretty close.

I’m very happy with how the Operablr Women’s History Month and Pride Month projects went :) 

overall I don’t think I discovered as many operas this year as last year, more so got hooked on a couple and explored them incessantly. not saying one thing is better than another. I wanted to get more operas checked off my to-watch list though. hopefully next year will be a bit less hectic as I won’t spend two months moving and will hopefully not have as many laptop issues. and it will be my first full year without school in 20 years!!

anyway, opera-wise it was a pretty good year. once again opera and operablr helped me keep my sanity during these trying times <3

[gorillazgal86]

Five Fave Fics

@improfem very kindly tagged me! Thank you darling! 

Rules:  it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 favourite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world. tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

I’m tagging:  @improfem (now you’re tagged XD), @hiphopanonymousao3 , @focusfixated, @coloursflyaway , @marveliciousfanace

[Podfic] Sorrow and Sighs and Mickle Care (Explicit -- CHECK THE TAGS!!!)

Based on Vitreous_Humor’s fic, I am crazy proud of this podfic and it was such a different characterisation for Crowley/Aziraphale and I LOVED voicing the original demon character, Medoc (with whom I harbour a probably unhealthy obsession).  

Summary:  It wasn't fair, he thought. It wasn't fair that Aziraphale could give him everything he wanted, everything he had hoped and dreamed of and longed for for six thousand years and that Crowley couldn't do the same. No, not couldn't.Was refused.And Satan, did Crowley hate being refused.---Aziraphale's a sadist, Crowley's not a masochist, and Crowley comes up with possibly the worst solution for this issue.

Bird of Paradise (Explicit, co-written with @improfem)

While I have so thoroughly enjoyed writing all the Plenteous Crop series and the exploration of the complex emotions behind love and sex that the series has hinged on, this one really stuck with me.  I am fascinated by the push and pull and simmering jealously and frustration Crowley and Aziraphale feel and that coming together isn’t always a smooth or straight line and not even an angel or demon are above their baser instincts and raw emotion. I can’t speak more highly enough of my wonderful co-author and I’m continuously amazed at what we’ve been able to create together, it’s a real blessing to have someone I click with creatively.

Summary:  "Crowley has no right to barge into his space like this, looking exactly as he does, the perfectly form fitting band of the trousers, slung far too low to be considered decent only drawing attention to those perfectly slim hips. So Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the sight, focusing instead on the shelf of books behind Crowley.  //Vile tempter,// Aziraphale thinks, certain that Crowley is finding this role very amenable indeed, there were certainly more difficult ways to earn a soul, than traipsing about as a sultan's favourite, spoiled and pampered, adored beyond what was reasonable."

[Podfic] Pray for Us, Icarus (Teen+)

This is based on @brightwanderer‘s absolutely exquisite (and in my opinion, required reading for Good Omens fandom) series was the first big podfic project I took on and I learned so much over the course of the 7 stories about what I could do as a performer and narrator.  It was a complete change in tone from what I’d typically record and my only regret is I hadn’t fully smoothed out my audio set up and it deserved better from a technical standpoint.  I may go back and “remix” it at some point.

Summary:  For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Birds (General Audiences) 

Oh this little sleeper of a fic.  There are great elements of this that were quite personal, the first 3 years of my own relationship were long distance (US to UK kinda distance) and those days are blessedly far behind me, this was playing around with what that was like through Aziraphale’s eyes and the little habits and routines one can get into to distract from the missing part of yourself.  

Summary: It was easiest when time and circumstance had put considerable distance between himself and Crowley. The angel would develop a routine and as years turned to decades and decades to centuries, the serpent-shaped hole in his life would grow smaller and easier to plaster over. It was when the demon stormed into his existence unexpectedly, ripping open the wound that hadn’t quite stitched together, that the illusion of satisfaction at Crowley’s absence slipped rapidly away.

[Podfic] let the rivers fill (Explict)

This is my first podfic, based on @focusfixated‘s gorgeous fic.  I hadn’t recorded anything before this, ever, picked up a cheap microphone and got to work in working out how to edit audio.  It’s the only time thus far I’ve included music, which added significantly to the learning curve.  @focusfixated was so supportive and encouraging and really drove home how important author support is when recording podfic (by no means required, but it made the experience so much more for it). This is another one I’d love to remix now that I’m considerably more clever with editing.  This one will have a special place always.

Summary:  “Darling,” Aziraphale answered. “I’m here.” His hand stroked through Crowley’s hair, teasing out the snarls of red that tangled around his fingers, matted with sweat and knotted where Crowley had thrashed his head against the pillows. “Can you turn over for me, love?”Weakly, Crowley’s eyes flickered down, and he saw the angel blushing, as if now, suddenly, of all things, he had succumbed to reticence. He was sat back on his knees, and the soft accordion folds of him were dewy with sweat and moonlight. His heart constricting somewhere in his useless chest, Crowley turned over, and spread his legs.

[beccaland]

Which is your favorite Time Lord costume and why? Which do you not like? Thoughts about Gallifreyan fashion, any era?

Oh my goodness! What a question. Even if we rule out all the renegades on the principle that they’re idiosyncratic and not representative, that still leaves us with so many choices. 

The very first time we see non-renegade Time Lords, it’s these three chaps from the CIA:

8/10 for practicality 

 It’s a simple design: practical and comfortable for doing a desk job, which is all any right-thinking Time Lord ever wants, right?

Later on, in the Third Doctor era, things start looking a bit fancier:

6/10 looks impractical and not all that snazzy. 

 I’m going to be honest, I can’t remember if these fellows are supposed to be with the CIA or not. I remember they’re on some sort of monitoring outpost, so CIA seems likely. But if they are CIA, things have taken a turn toward the less practical, more ostentatious garb favored by the capitol hoi-polloi. These people have important work to do, but I doubt any of them can get dressed without an assistant.

By the Fourth and Fifth Doctor eras, we finally discover that Gallifrey is the definitive Planet of the Silly Headgear:

8/10 These people look exactly like I would expect of a planet run by self-important academics.

Though a somewhat more practical smock still seems to be favored by Time Lords who actually work for a living. 

5/10 Castellan Kelner’s robes and swirly hat are far fancier than is practical for him to fulfill his Very Important Duties of feeding the Lord President Doctor his jelly babies and keeping the Capitol safe from alien invaders.

(gif by @rassilonwatchathon​)

10/10 Rodan’s stylishly tailored smock stands out among the Time Lords’ lower bureaucratic class. She’s clearly going places.

the Fourth Doctor story The Invasion of Time is also the first time we see the Chancellery Guard uniforms:

5/10 These uniforms are silly, and the capes and shoulder pads are not at all practical. They’re wearing helmets, but only Andred is wearing any body armor, and it’s only ceremonial.

When we get to the Sixth Doctor and Trial of a Time Lord, things get a bit more interesting. We see several new types of Time Lord robes, representing various offices among the Capitol bureaucracy.

The Valeyard:

6/10 Badly tailored, but at least he’s wearing a thematically appropriate colour.

Left to right: Inquisitor Darkel and the Keeper of the Matrix

7/10 Both of these outfits offer stylish echoes of the standard Time Lord regalia while offering something distinctive as befits their unique stations.

That brings us to the end of Classic Who for Time Lord costumes, and into the New Series. 

The first time we see the Time Lords, their costumes are not that different from late Classic Who, though there’s some additional flourishes and the color-coding of Chapters seems to have disappeared during the Time War; nobody on Gallifrey seems to wear any color but red anymore (to hide all the blood, maybe).

3/10 The silly collar looks great, but Rassilon’s tunic is both hideous and badly tailored, and it looks like he’s wearing a fancy bathrobe over it.

8/10 the High Council may have lost their ability to see any color other than red and gold, but they’ve still got a sense of pompous style and access to the best tailors. Check out all those gorgeous little details on their robes.

We do get some new flourishes in The Day of the Doctor, however: a new ridiculous collar for the War Council, and updated armor for Time Lord soldiers that echoes the defunct Chancellery Guard uniforms.

9/10 Now THAT looks like proper armor. The general’s cape is excusable as it’s not really a combat role.

9/10 Rassilon’s updated look in Hell Bent loses the stupid tunic and gains a much prettier robe. Love the Circular Gallifreyan border on his cloak!

The War Council robes are so gorgeous, I just have to add this extra photo from @theheroheart‘s post on Gallifreyan costumes so you can see all the incredible details:

10/10 I adore the new collar, both aesthetically and practically. The amount of detail on those robes is just stunning. I still want to see it in Chapter colours, though.

Though they’re not technically Time Lords until they graduate from the Academy, I just have to include these bonus Gallifreyan children’s outfits: 

10/10 for the adorable Gallifreyan children. Please keep them away from the Untempered Schism.

To sum up, here’s what we know about Time Lord clothing:

No Gallifreyan would be caught dead wearing trousers unless they’re a soldier or a renegade.

They love layers–is Gallifrey colder than Earth median temperatures?

Red is the new black (unless you’re a member of the CIA, or evil).

Hats must be silly–again, unless you’re a soldier not named Maxil.

Collars are a must: the bigger, the better!

The Seal of Rassilon is a perfect accessory that goes with any outfit.

Swirly things are high class.

Chevrons indicate Practical Skills of some kind.

Pleats are practically a must.

Only take your gloves off when absolutely necessary.

Unanswered questions: 

Do Time Lords wear pants under their robes, or do they all go commando?

What happened to all the different colors of the Chapter Houses?

[ticklikeabomb]

One-shot : Bad Guy

Pairing : Steve Rogers (NOMAD) x Fem Plus Size Reader 

Warnings : Language ; DOM Steve ; SMUT -> 18+ !!!

Word Count : 2.2k

A/N : One-shot inspired by the song “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish and cause I’m a slut for bearded Steve <3

Steve has been on the run for a while now. It felt bittersweet to abandon The Avengers behind, his way of lifestyle but he knew deep down he made the right choice.  Sam and then Natasha followed his footsteps, having his back meaning he wasn't completely alone in the world. Even though, something was missing ; not only Bucky or Peggy but something more meaningful, a sense of danger he always thought was for the good cause. Now he wanted to face danger for thrive, not because it was the a certain way to accomplish good. Just feeling like he could do something bad, something out of his comfort zone. Refusing to sign the Sokovia Accords was the first drop of blood. Once he tasted "blood" he wanted more. The second step was to let his hair and beard grow ; an act of rebellion from the sweetheart looking face and the perfect persona people put on him since, well ever. He was feeling good, probably more than ever and was about to show it. 

A new undercover mission was on the menu for the three former Avengers : infiltrate a famous and private nightclub, gather intel related to a growing terrorist agency and identify the hierarchy of the organization. The potential default? It wasn't just any club. Let's just say that it was the sort of club where latex, whips and orgies were the main course. The Chaud Club. Before, it would have been an obstacle to the famous Captain's moral but today, he was begging for it. The thrive at its essence. The sort of thrive that gets any teenager excited after a short eggplant & peach text.

[Verse 1] White shirt now red, my bloody nose Sleepin', you're on your tippy toes Creepin' around like no one knows Think you're so criminal Bruises on both my knees for you Don't say thank you or please I do what I want when I'm wanting to My soul? So cynical

[Chorus] So you're a tough guy Like it really rough guy Just can't get enough guy Chest always so puffed guy I'm that bad type Make your mama sad type Make your girlfriend mad tight Might seduce your dad type I'm the bad guy Duh

I'm the bad guy

Black pants, dark boots and a leather jacket were the only clothes Steve supported before making his way among the club's regulars. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Natasha in a vivid red leather dress at the bar, while Sam sat at the VIP section feeling like Poseidon surrounded by an ocean of mermaids who fought for his attention. The Moses arriving, the crowd dissipated slightly at every firm step of Steve's; admirative of his chiseled chest and the pure alpha vibe emanating from him or of pure fear, thrill?  No one knew, maybe it was a little of both. Either way he was loving the feeling he provoked. A drink in hand, he scrutinized the crowd. His eyes locking with a potential member of the agency. He was about to close the distance when Natasha cut him through the comms exclaiming the man in question wasn't part of the terrorist organization.

Steve stood now in the middle of the room. Trying to blend in, he grabbed the first arm closest to him and let the woman in front of him wander her fingers on his chest, while grinding on his tight. He played the game. Lifting his head up, his gaze fixed on a gorgeous plus size woman, standing at the corner of the room. It occurred to him that she was out of place, not the same expression painted on her face as the others in the room. He noticed her eyes carefully travel the room, catching every single detail around her. Steve whispered to the comms to his partners, "We may have a third player in the game", before indicating them your position. At the end of his phrase he saw the woman already looking at him with a piercing gaze, a smirk at the corner of her lips.

You looked over the crowd attentively until your eyes landed on your target. His face was currently being eaten out by someone, their tongues intervened, battling for dominance. Who would have thought that one of the most Humanitarian organization member, militating for world peace would consecrate his free time to wild nights at the Chaud Club. Never judge a book by its cover, right. And there he was, a total sub in front of the latex wearing dominatrix, ready to make him comply. Not far from him, the VIP section. Who said Sam Wilson, said Steve Rogers and probably Natasha Romanoff. You quickly found her next to the bar, her disguise working for everyone else except you. You would recognize her anywhere and anyhow. Another swift on your right and there he was, Steve Grant Rogers, a finger pressed on the side of his ear. Before he had the chance to lift his head, you saw Wilson and Romanoff looking your way and knew they had an eye on your persona. "This should be fun", you thought.

Even with the club's neons, you still could distinguish the blue of his eyes once he looked at you. A staring contest took place between you. Neither one of you flinching, even though, the woman grinding on his leg was trying (in vain) to get his attention. A deep and dark chuckle escaped from you, the whole thing entertaining. You marched towards him and jerked the woman from him before capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. Shocked she didn't respond right away. You didn't care, the kiss wasn't for her anyway but for him. To get a reaction of him. You disengaged from her and looked at him ; his eyes dark screaming 'envy' and his teeth clenching on his inferior lip. Closing the gap, you grabbed the back of his neck in a strong grip and caught his inferior lip between your teeth, making him groan. Releasing his lip and neck, you took a step back and winked at him before taking the direction of the bathroom, knowing you had him under your fingers.

I like it when you take control Even if you know that you don't Own me, I'll let you play the role I'll be your animal My mommy likes to sing along with me But she won't sing this song If she reads all the lyrics She'll pity the men I know

It didn't took long before he joined you in the bathroom ; locking the door behind his entry. You both stood there, contemplating each other. Your eyes wandering from the edge of his new hairstyle to the belt of his pants, while his eyes followed the curves of your thick and plum figure. "Are you gonna stand there the rest of the night?", you spoke up. His jaw clenched, the inner battle evident : Fight his instincts and be careful or let go. You chose for him, "You have 3 seconds to make a move." He stepped your way, his body an inch from you and whispered in a raspy voice, "I don't think you have a saying here." You chuckled but it was shut by his plump lips fiercely pressed on yours, his teeth biting yours in a carnal way. Even if you didn't want it, a moan escaped from you making him smile but vanished as fast as it came when you pushed him against the door. He hold you tightly against him, his grip shaping the form of the future bruise on your waist. His lips attacked your neck while you fumbled on his belt but he stopped you. "Nah-han. Strip", he breathed out. Raising an eyebrow you wondered if he really wanted to go that road. "I said STRIP", he exclaimed with a predatory voice. "There we go", you smiled brightly. "Finally you've come to your senses." His hand went to your throat and his teeth on your earlobe, biting it. "If I'll have to repeat again, you will regret it", he mumbled. "I guess I'll do", you replied more than happy to push his buttons.

He groaned and ripped your blouse in pieces before his hand went to your skirt. "No", you stopped him. "You don't want me to go home naked do you?", you smirked. Stepping back, your hands went to your skirt's zipping and turned around, providing him with the perfect view on your round ass. Sensually discarding your skirt, you faced him again and saw the tent in his trousers. You motioned him to come to you and he was in front of you in a second. His beard tickling your neck and collarbone heavenly while his teeth marked you. "You have no idea what you're doing to me", he told you through greeted teeth. You slid down on your knees and waited his command. "Show me", you said sensually. He discarded his pants and boxers down, his thick and veiny shaft in front of your lips. You couldn't help yourself and kissed the base slowly making him moan. Before he could come back to his senses, you wrapped your lips around the present that was his dick and sucked him. "Fuck", he groaned. His hand took hold of your head, stopping your movements to jerk his hips forward, sinfully fucking your face. You were at his mercy and you both loved it.

You pushed him further alternating between licks, kisses and sucking before he pulled you up strongly on your feet and planting his lips on yours in a heated kiss, tasting his pre-cum on your tongue. He lifted you up and dropped you on the counter, his mouth travelling down your body. "Let's see how sweet you really are." He latched on your soaking pussy and dove right in, sucking your clit in his mouth and filing you with two fingers. His moan vibrating down your private part was making you wetter and desperate for more. Your hands reached his hair and managed to pull him deeper but he stopped before you were reaching your climax. Grabbing your hands in his he said, "You don't get to touch me. Is it clear? And you only get to cum when you deserve" With your big mouth you counterattacked, "What are you gonna d-, Ahhhh", your voice cracked once he filled you up without warning. He started slowly but quickened his pace like an enraged animal. Moaning out loud, he pounded in you roughly like it was the last thing to do for survival. "Fuck me harder, please", you moaned. You felt him twitch inside you but knew he wouldn't come before you did. Reaching down, he flicked your bundle of nerves rapidly making you see stars, your orgasm exploding like TNT. He was still thrusting in you at a fast pace and your hands reached his cheeks. "Let go Steve, you can let go", you encouraged him. His eyes widened at the mention of his name before letting go and cumming at full force, renovating your walls with his white juice. Heavily panting, you dropped a chaste kiss on his lips, the evident contraste of that sweet gesture compared to the roughness of the sex you just had.  

[Chorus] So you're a tough guy Like it really rough guy Just can't get enough guy Chest always so puffed guy I'm that bad type Make your mama sad type Make your girlfriend mad tight Might seduce your dad type I'm the bad guy Duh

You quickly put your clothes back on, feeling his presence doing the same behind you. "How do you know me?", he asked. You chuckled and walked at him, stopping inches from his lips. "You really think a beard and longer hair are gonna fool people? Either way I like it", you said before unlocking the door. "Will I see you again?", he asked almost desperately. You smirked and got out of the bathroom, joining the main room. He followed you and stopped in his tracks when you neared the exit. A scream was heard among the crowd and he his gaze landed on the fuss behind him. A corpse on the ground, the man militating for world peace. "What happened?", asked Steve through the comms. "The third player? The woman? She killed him", exclaimed Sam. "That's impossible she was with m-", Steve couldn't finish his sentence because he saw the same looking woman merge with you. 'Enhanced', he thought. He saw you smirk and wink at him before vanishing the place.

He didn't know how to feel. The undercover mission was a total failure and a man got killed but on the other hand, Steve never felt more alive. He didn't know what the future hold for him but there was one thing he knew :  his path would cross yours again.

[Bridge] I like when you get mad I guess I'm pretty glad that you're alone You said she's scared of me? I mean, I don't see what she sees But maybe it's 'cause I'm wearing your cologne

[Outro] I'm a bad guy I'm a bad guy Bad guy, bad guy I'm a bad

* gifs not mine, credit to owners*

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[jessahmewren]

“The sun always sets behind you,” Queen/Bohemian Rhapsody Fan Fiction/ Poly!Queen Week: Day 3

Summary: The boys help Brian relax after working to meet a deadline, then ask Miami to stay too. 

Rating: E for everyone be aware here be smut

Pairing: The boys plus Jim “Miami” Beach (OT5)

Words: 2527

Also on Ao3

-0-0-0-

“You see here where you describe your methodology Brian?  If you’re not clear on your informed consent, it could cause legal problems down the road.”

Miami traced the Sampling Frame section of Brian’s research assignment with an elegant finger, enunciating every word smoothly and assuredly with an almost calm sort of distinction.

Brian blinked, trying to comprehend what he was saying, and ran a hand through his curls in frustration.

He ended up huffing out a breath followed by a small sound of defeat.

“I just don’t understand why I have to do this, Miami…my study is quantitative, not qualitative.”  He knew he was whining.  He didn’t really care.

Miami put a sympathetic hand on his arm.  “But this assignment is qualitative, Brian,” Miami said softly.  “And you’ve got to get through this if you want to do the study you want to do.”

Soft eyes sought out Brian’s, waiting for a reply.  Brian pursed his lips.  “Yeah, you’re right.”  Brian worried his bottom lip.  “Thank you for helping me.  I’m truly terrible at qualitative research and this is due tomorrow.”

Miami just smiled, his eyes lighting a bit.  “It’s no problem Brian.  Lucky for you I suffered through my own qualitative hell, and I’m happy to help.”

“How’s our two scholars doing,” Freddie said as he came up behind them with two mugs of tea.  He put them down, and Miami smiled up at Freddie gratefully while Brian grabbed Freddie’s hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it.  Miami looked away awkwardly at the sweet display of affection.

Freddie let his fingers trail along Brian’s face.  “The boys are preparing a surprise for you love.  “You’ve been working too hard.”

Brian sighed into his touch, thinking a break would be good, but felt compelled to look to Miami for some sort of approval.

The man only smiled softly.  “Go on Brian.  I think you’ve earned it.  We’ve been at it for a while now.”

Brian kissed Freddie gently, letting his hand trail from his face down his side.  The excitement of finally being done with his studies for the evening was starting to lift his mood.

John and Roger emerged from the bathroom, red-faced and hands steeped in bubbles.  “All done my love,” John said eagerly.  “Just waiting for you to get naked,” Roger said with a wink, his cherubic face conforming instantly into that of a naughty nymph as he linked hands with John, their conjoined hands dripping onto the carpet.

“And for you, Miami."  

The man was about to make his apologies; it was getting late and this was the perfect time to slip out, of course, as his role here was done, and then John had said that.

His face must’ve betrayed his surprise, because he had no more spoken than Freddie had lightly touched his hand.

“Yes, darling you must stay!  You’ve worked just as hard as Bri, and we have an enormous tub!  It’s why we chose the flat, he said with a cheeky grin.  Have a soak and a glass of wine with us.  We won’t bite.”

Miami’s heart was slamming in his chest, and the careful composure he usually wore like one of his three piece suits began raveling at the edges.  He took a shuddery breath.  “Perhaps I could just put my feet in,” he found himself saying.

The boys laughed, even Brian, and his face bled crimson.  Freddie, John, and Roger led him and Brian to the bathroom, making a show of easing the door open.

There were candles everywhere, and soft music played from an unknown source.  The tub was filled to overflowing with bubbles, and a trail of rose petals led to the edge of it, culminating in a few petals sprinkled on top.  Assorted oils and soaps were lined up on the side of the tub, and the smell of lavender wafted up from the hot bubbles, settling in the thick air.

“Ooh,” Brian said, his eyes sparkling in the candlelit bathroom.  He turned to face the three boys.  “This is so beautiful guys.  I can’t believe you did all of this for me.”

Freddie smiled.  “Well we did, so get over it.  Freddie turned his attention to Miami.  “And we want you to enjoy it to, mister.  So slip off those shoes, yeah?”

The boys scurried out, laughing and giggling and giving each other knowing smiles.  Their high mood was almost infectious, and Miami smiled after them as he watched them go.

But then he was left alone with Brian.

Brian began undressing, and Miami immediately shuffled back until he was pressed against the vanity.  He busied himself with the laces on his loafers, taking his time so he wouldn’t concentrate on the pieces of clothing that steadily dropped on the bathroom floor, fluttering the trail of rose petals as they fell.

He slipped off his shoes, then his socks, and then he rolled up his trousers to the knee, hearing Brian finally slip into the water, hissing and sighing at the heat.  For the first time, he let himself look up.

Brian was beautiful.  The end of his curls were soaked in bubbles, and he had a soft blush to his dewy skin.  He was submerged to the chest in the water, and while Miami couldn’t see his nudity, just knowing he was compromised in such an intimate way made something pull and tug in his gut.  He swallowed heavily.

Brian smiled at him, his eyes hooded as he reclined in the tub.  “Come on in,” he said.  “Feels amazing.”

Miami laughed shyly, stepping into the water with one foot and then the other and then easing down to sit on the edge of the tub.  He let his fingers skim the surface of the water, playing with the bubbles, and sighed.

“You’re right; it’s lovely.”

“Even better down here,” Brian said, his voice low.  “Come on Miami.  You’ve got to be getting warm in that suit.”

Indeed, he had started to sweat in the steamy bathroom, beads of perspiration gathering along his pristine white collar.  He reached up to loosen his tie.

Miami cleared his throat, trying to change the subject.

“Are you still nervous about your assignment?”

Brian hummed.  “No.  You’ve helped me.”  He locked eyes with Miami for a moment, his hazel eyes soft.  “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Miami blushed, and not just from the heat of the bathroom.  “Don’t mention it Brian.  I’m happy to help.”

Brian quirked his mouth, reaching a slender leg out of the tub and flicking water and bubbles in Miami’s direction with his foot.  Some landed on his trousers.  “You can call me Bri, you know.”

Miami put his hand to the newly damp spots.  “Bri,” he said, trying it out.  He looked at the appealing young man lounging in the tub of bubbles.  “Ok.”

Brian flashed his eyes up at him.  “Won’t you come in?”

He wanted to.  God, he wanted to.  But—

Why don’t you?

Miami wet his lips, considering only for a moment before he stood, getting out of the tub.  He stepped behind the screen that separated the toilet from the bath and disrobed, his hands shaking against his sides.

“Um, Bri?

“Yes Miami?”

“Don’t look.”

Brian chewed the inside of his jaw.  “You’re joking.”

Miami pursed his lips.  “No, I’m not.  Just…don’t look, ok?”

Brian did as he asked, closing his eyes dutifully until he felt the water slosh and heard the man sink below the bubbles.  He looked up to find Miami flushed and settled in the tub, tan skin with a light smattering of chest hair just meeting the water line.

Brian smiled, stretching out his legs alongside Miami’s, seeking some sort of contact with the man.  He startled, but soon relaxed into his touch.  His skin was smooth and warm from the water.

“See?” Brian said, a broad smile on his face.  “Isn’t this nice?”

Miami couldn’t help but return it, even though he was blushing hard.  “It is very nice.”

“The boys are so good to me,” Brian said, sighing back against the tub.

Miami hummed.  “You’re lucky to have them.  And I’m lucky to represent you all.”

Brian laughed.  “Even through all the headaches we must cause you?”

Miami just smiled, unconsciously seeking Brian’s hand in the water.  He gave it a little squeeze.  “The benefits far outweigh the risks.”

Brian nodded.  “Is this the first time you’ve ever taken a bath with a client?” he said with a cheeky grin.

Miami looked him seriously.  “It’s the first time I’ve ever taken a bath with a friend.”

Brian leaned forward, his legs intertwining with Miami’s.  Miami didn’t seem to mind the touch; in fact, he relaxed into it.

“You need more baths or more friends,” Brian said gently.

Miami chuckled softly, their faces growing nearer.  Brian smoothed his hand over the firm flesh of his arm, arriving at his neck to cup and hold him there.  Miami just looked at him a little starry-eyed.

“More baths would be nice,” he said a little breathlessly, and Brian pressed his lips to his in a soft, sweet kiss, awkward at first as they figured out where to put their mouths, just testing the waters, and then gentle and exploring as they hesitantly tasted each other.

Just then, the door opened, and while Miami broke away, Brian still had his arms casually draped over his shoulders.

“Oh boys, just look at them!  Our two little professors!  Aren’t they cute?!” Freddie exclaimed.  Roger and John shared a quick kiss, John’s arm slung around Roger’s waist.

“You two look hot as fuck,” Roger said, his eyes twinkling.  “Can we join the party?  Or do we wanna take it somewhere else?”

Brian wiggled his fingers.  “I’m all pruney,” he said with a laugh.  “What about you Miami?  Want to get out, maybe have a glass of wine?”

Miami swallowed, Brian’s kiss still tingling on his lips.

“Yeah,” he said.  “That would be good.”

---

Miami clutched is wine glass in a sweaty palm, nervously fingering the stem.  His eyes were large as he watched the four men in front of him in varying states of undress enjoying each other on the bed.

When their conversation had moved into the bedroom, they had still insisted he stay. Brian was spread out wide, head in Freddie’s lap, while Roger’s mouth took care of him and John opened him up.  There was a look of pure bliss on Brian’s face that only tightened his trousers.    

Miami’s fingers trembled slightly on the wine glass as he took another burning sip.  It was a heavy red that settled in his stomach like lead.

Roger pulled off Brian’s cock long enough to smile at Miami, his cheeks red and lips shiny with spit.  “What’s your professional opinion, Miami?  How many fingers can he take before he comes like this?”

Miami swallowed hard, his hands trembling.  “Three,” he stammered out, and Brian moaned, Freddie soothing his hair.

John was up to two already, and he glanced over his shoulder at Miami.  “Our lawyer either has too much faith in me or not enough in you Brimi,” he said in jest.  “Let’s prove him wrong eh.  “Let’s shoot for four.”

Brian whined, and Roger just went down on him even further, messily slurping at his cock and twirling his tongue around the head.  The game became technique versus stamina and to see if they could prove Miami wrong.

Miami loosened a few buttons on his shirt, delicately pressing his thighs together to try and get some relief.

“You can touch yourself, darling,” Freddie said sweetly.  “We won’t mind.  He really is a lovely thing; I’m not sure how you couldn’t.”

Miami gnawed at his lip, his hand straying to his fly, then stopped, clenching his fingers into a fist.  Sweat broke out on his forehead at his restraint.

“That’s three,” John announced, smiling over his shoulder at the seated man.  “He should be coming undone anytime now Miami…but he won’t.  He’s taking that fourth.”

Brian whimpered, his legs writhing against the sheets.  “Please John,” he begged. “Need your cock.”

John tsked.  “Not yet my love.  “Not until you’re good and stretched.  And no arguing.  We’ve got a bet going with Miami.”

Brian blinked through the haze.  “Miami?  He’s here?  Thought he left.”

John chuckled, Roger picking up the pace, his jaw beginning to ache.  Brian’s breath hitched at the onslaught.  “Want him.  Want Miami.”

John’s eyebrows raised.  “Do you now?  How do you want him love?”

Brian closed his eyes.  “Want him to touch me.”

Miami could scarcely believe what he was hearing, but he could believe it even less when he walked to the edge of the bed when John called him over to where he was and he was looking down at Brian, creamy thighs open and beautiful…slick hole stuffed full of John’s fingers.

“Give me your hand,” John said in a tone that bade no argument.  He poured some lube into it and told him to warm it up.  Then he told him to place a finger alongside his.

He was almost afraid to hurt him, but when Brian pushed against him, he easily slipped into his wet heat, something like wonder filling his eyes.

It felt so impossibly good…hot and tight, and the way Brian fluttered around them made his breath hitch.

John looked at him fondly.  “Guess I won the bet,” he said.  “What did we even wager again?”

Miami laughed, feeling Brian tighten around him.  He was moaning, and his whole body was arching into Roger.  He grabbed a handful of blond hair.  “Rog,” he gasped out before he came in the blond’s mouth, contracting powerfully around their fingers.

Freddie passed them a towel and Miami stepped away from the bed.  His face was burning, but his eyes were also alight with fondness.  Freddie and Roger were kissing Brian.  “You ready to come again, my love?  Ready for the main event?”

Miami decided it was time to make his leave, so without saying a word he slipped out of the bedroom.  Besides, if he stayed any longer, he would have to take care of himself, and that really wasn’t something he was ready to do in front of them.  Not yet, anyway.

---

The next business meeting went on without any awkwardness.  Miami couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed, but the boys seemed to have forgotten the entire evening had even happened.  Maybe it was for the best.

They were all leaving, when Brian turned to him and smiled.  “I made an A on my research paper.”

Miami couldn’t suppress a grin.  “That’s lovely.  Well you did most of the work yourself.”

Brian grimaced.  “That’s bullocks.  Couldn’t have done it without you.”  He paused.  “Are you…coming over for tutoring later?  I have another assignment and could really use the help.”

Miami looked surprised.  “Oh, sure Brian.  I would be glad to help.”

“It’s Bri, remember?”

Miami studied his shoes briefly.  “Yes I do.  Bri.”

Brian was halfway out the door.  “Oh and Miami?  This time, don't leave.”

-0-0-0-

[florablume]

Character Development Questions

Part 1: The Basics

What is your full name? Flora Elizabeth Blume

Where and when were you born? San Francisco, California on April 4th 1978

Who are/were your parents? (Know their names, occupations, personalities, etc.) My mother is Joanne Blume, a retired teacher who isn’t ever afraid to say exactly what she thinks. She has little to no filter, which has made for many an awkward conversation in the past. My father is Richard Blume, a retired accountant. He’s proud, probably too proud sometimes, and occasionally outspoken. Apparently I’m the most like him out of his three daughters.

Do you have any siblings? What are/were they like? I have two younger sisters - Pippa and Sam. I get on with Pippa the most, probably because our personalities don’t clash so much. We’ve always been able to open up to each other about a lot of things. Sam and I butt heads a lot and we always have done. I’ve always just assumed it’s because I’m the oldest and she’s the youngest, but who knows.

Where do you live now, and with whom? Describe the place and the person/people. I live on Manhattan’s Upper East Side in New York City, with Henry and our son Finley. Henry and I have been through a lot together - we’re not married but we act like we are. The apartment is Henry’s and we’ve lived there as a family for about a year almost. 

What is your occupation? I’m a Nurse Practitioner

Write a full physical description of yourself. You might want to consider factors such as: height, weight, race, hair and eye colour, style of dress, and any tattoos, scars, or distinguishing marks. I’m about five foot one, so not exactly blessed with height. I don’t make a habit of weighing myself, but I’d say I’m about average for a woman of my height. I’m caucasian with brown hair and brown eyes, and a few freckles all over my skin. I enjoy a floral print, and I’m probably more comfortable in dresses and skirts than trousers, although at work I don’t have much of a choice. No tattoos, but I do have a couple of piercings - ears and my naval (don’t ask). I have a small scar in my right eyebrow, and a couple of marks on my back from past scrapes.

To which social class do you belong? If you’d asked me this a year ago, I would’ve said working to middle class, but I’m not too sure any more. 

Do you have any allergies, diseases, or other physical weaknesses? No allergies as far as I’m aware. No diseases or physical weaknesses - I’m in (near) perfect shape.

Are you right- or left-handed? Right-handed

What does your voice sound like? Like my voice? I don’t really know how to describe it. (Cue Henry shouting “whiny” in the distance)

What words and/or phrases do you use very frequently? Too many terms of endearment probably. I use them a lot at work and that’s bled into my home life. I probably roll my eyes way too much as well.

What do you have in your pockets? Nothing because I don’t have any. You can thank the manufacturers of women’s clothing for that.

Do you have any quirks, strange mannerisms, annoying habits, or other defining characteristics? As far as I’m aware, no. You’re probably better asking Henry or Fin this question, although I dread what that answer would be. 

Part 2: Growing Up

How would you describe your childhood in general? Wonderful. I had a really happy childhood and I know how lucky I was to have two very loving parents. They couldn’t have done any more for us than they did. 

What is your earliest memory? The day Sam was born. I remember us going to visit my mom in the hospital, and my dad left me in charge of Pip while he went to get my mom some flowers. I remember feeling so grown up being an older sister a second time.

How much schooling have you had? All of it - all the way to undergrad at college at least anyway. 

Did you enjoy school? Yeah, I liked it. I enjoyed learning a lot when I was a kid, and I still do. 

Where did you learn most of your skills and other abilities? Through working. Studying nursing is one thing, but it’s a whole different ball game once you start on the job. You learn things that can’t be taught in a classroom.

While growing up, did you have any role models? If so, describe them. Probably my dad. He was always so hardworking and I knew I wanted to be like that when I grew up. Sometimes I thought he put a little too much into his work, and he could’ve spent more time with us, but I suppose all he wanted to do was provide for his family and I respect that.

While growing up, how did you get along with the other members of your family? I got on pretty well with most of my family. Sam was the only one I really butted heads with. We’re just like polar opposites in some ways, but then we’re both really stubborn too. She thinks I boss her around too much, and I think she needs to take more responsibility for herself. We’re still like this with each other now.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? I honestly can’t remember. Probably a teacher because my mom was one, and it was the only job I’d ever really come into contact with. 

As a child, what were your favourite activities? I played with dolls a lot, and me and my sisters would always make up games together. Embarrassingly, we’d sometimes make up dance routines to show my parents. Thank god there’s no video evidence of that.

As a child, what kinds of personality traits did you display? Bossiness was the main one, which I dispute to this day, but everyone tells me I’m wrong. I was also pretty protective of my sisters too, always helping them whenever they fell over or got into any kind of scrape. I didn’t like seeing them hurt.

As a child, were you popular? Who were your friends, and what were they like? Not really, no. I had a few close friends when I was a kid, but I think Pip was definitely the popular one out of the three of us. The friends I had lasted all the way through to high school though - Lillian, Maggie and Kathryn. I still see them every now and again. 

When and with whom was your first kiss? I think I was about thirteen or something. It was with some guy at school that I thought I liked. It was awful, just like a first kiss is meant to be because neither of you has a clue what you’re doing. 

Are you a virgin? If not, when and with whom did you lose your virginity? No. I don’t remember a lot about my first time if I’m completely honest. I was at college and I just wanted to get it out of the way so I was pretty drunk when it actually happened. I don’t even remember the guy’s name...

Part 3: Past Influences

What do you consider the most important event of your life so far? Giving birth to Finley.

Who has had the most influence on you? Probably Henry and Fin, both for very different reasons. I changed a lot after I first met Henry, and becoming a mom has probably changed me the most throughout my whole life.

What do you consider your greatest achievement? Raising Finley in a safe and stable home, and being able to watch him grow up.

What is your greatest regret? Not telling Henry how much I loved him before he left all those years ago. If I could change one thing in my life, that would be it.

What is the most evil thing you have ever done? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything evil. Does elbowing Henry in the balls to get out of watching a horror film count? If so, then that.

Do you have a criminal record of any kind? A small one, from stupid behaviour in my twenties. 

When was the time you were the most frightened? When they first took me into the House. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my whole life.

What is the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to you? I can think of a million embarrassing things that have happened to me - most involving Henry.

If you could change one thing from your past, what would it be, and why? Borrowing money from a loan shark while I was in college was a very stupid thing to do. But then, if I hadn’t done that stupid thing I might never have met Henry, so I probably wouldn’t change that. I’d change the moment when I decided not to tell him that I loved him. 

What is your best memory? I have two - the first time I ever held Fin, and the year that Henry decided to spend Christmas in Florida instead of with his family. 

What is your worst memory? There are way too many to recall from living in the House. We’d be here all day.

Part 4: Beliefs And Opinions

Are you basically optimistic or pessimistic? Optimist.

What is your greatest fear? Losing Henry or Fin.

What are your religious views? I’m Christian, but non-practicing.

What are your political views? Liberal.

What are your views on sex? It’s great?

Are you able to kill? Under what circumstances do you find killing to be acceptable or unacceptable? My gut response is no, but if someone put anyone I care about in danger then that answer would quickly change to yes. I wouldn’t ever say it’s acceptable, but I’d do anything to protect the people I love.

In your opinion, what is the most evil thing any human being could do? I mean, murder is the obvious answer.

Do you believe in the existence of soul mates and/or true love? Sort of, I think. I believe in love and I think that’s enough to believe in. 

What do you believe makes a successful life? Honesty, loyalty and having a strong and loving family around you, whether you come from one or you have to build your own from scratch.

How honest are you about your thoughts and feelings (i.e. do you hide your true self from others, and in what way)? I’ve been told that I’m a bad liar, so I’d say I’m pretty honest about most things.

Do you have any biases or prejudices? Not any more, I don’t think so. Well. Maybe a little. Some rich people are still snooty and up their own asses, the Dunnes excluded.

Is there anything you absolutely refuse to do under any circumstances? Why do you refuse to do it? I can think of one thing that I keep refusing to do, but I might be slowly coming around to it. I don’t know. I can’t decide. GAH.

Who or what, if anything, would you die for (or otherwise go to extremes for)? Henry and Fin, without question.

Part 5: Relationships With Others

In general, how do you treat others (politely, rudely, by keeping them at a distance, etc.)? Does your treatment of them change depending on how well you know them, and if so, how? I’d like to think I treat everyone politely. I wouldn’t ever want to make anyone feel uncomfortable (unless your name is Jen Breslin).

Who is the most important person in your life, and why? Finley, because he’s my son. Henry and I have to put him first all the time.

Who is the person you respect the most, and why? My mom. She’s put up with my dad for over forty years and she probably deserves a medal for that. She’s also so easy-going about everything and I don’t know how she does it. 

Who are your friends? Do you have a best friend? Describe these people. I still keep in touch with my old school friends. We don’t see each other as often as we’d like because we all live in different states now, but we try. I have a few friends at work who I’ll sometimes socialise with, but I wouldn’t say I have a ‘best’ friend.

Do you have a spouse or significant other? If so, describe this person. I do, Henry - very attractive and mostly very annoying but I love him a lot. We spend most of our lives bickering over stupid things but that’s kind of our thing now. I wouldn’t change what we have for anything else.

Have you ever been in love? If so, describe what happened. Already in love and it’s going pretty well. 

What do you look for in a potential lover? I have no idea how to answer this question without me just describing Henry. 

How close are you to your family? Pretty close. I don’t see them nearly as much as I’d like to because we live at opposite ends of the country, but we see each other as much as we can.

Have you started your own family? If so, describe them. If not, do you want to? Why or why not? Yeah, it’s just me, Henry and Fin at the moment. Not that we’re planning to expand any more.

Who would you turn to if you were in desperate need of help? I’m the idiot who chooses not to turn to anyone because she’s stubborn and thinks she can handle it. I would probably turn to Henry though.

Do you trust anyone to protect you? Who, and why? Henry. He’s done it in the past and I’ve never had a reason not to trust him. 

If you died or went missing, who would miss you? My whole family, I hope.

Who is the person you despise the most, and why? I don’t despise anyone. Jen Breslin.

Do you tend to argue with people, or avoid conflict? I’ll be honest, I tend to argue. I’m not always very good at avoiding conflict because I like to make my opinion known. Because, let’s be honest, I’m usually right.

Do you tend to take on leadership roles in social situations? That depends. I won’t dub myself leader if I have no idea what I’m doing. Surprisingly I’m good at taking orders sometimes.

Do you like interacting with large groups of people? Why or why not? Depends on the people. I’ll do it if I have to, and I’ll always be polite, but I don’t like having to stand and listen to someone drone on about something I’m not interested in (which is what most of Henry’s mom’s dinner parties have involved...) If it’s family then I’m happy to be in a big group of them.

Do you care what others think of you? Unfortunately, yeah, I do. I know I shouldn’t care.

Part 6: Likes And Dislikes

What is/are your favourite hobbies and pastimes? I like gardening, although I don’t have anywhere to do that in New York. I also like reading, going for walks, watching movies, dancing badly to whatever’s on the radio.

What is your most treasured possession? A necklace my mom gave me when I was sixteen that had belonged to my grandma. I don’t really wear it much because I’m so scared of losing it or breaking it.

What is your favourite colour? Pink

What is your favourite food? Lemon cheesecake

What, if anything, do you like to read? I like thriller novels, and I love a good romance one too.

Do you smoke, drink, or use drugs? If so, why? Do you want to quit? Don’t smoke, occasionally drink, and I’ve never taken drugs. I’ve never been interested in smoking or drugs, and I can definitely say that I never will be.

How do you spend a typical Saturday night? Sprawled out on top of Henry, forcing him to watch Dirty Dancing for the hundredth time. If Finley is out then we’d probably spend all night having sex, I’m not gonna lie.

What makes you laugh? Stupid things like people falling over - as long as they don’t actually get hurt. Successfully winding Henry up makes me laugh to.

What would you do if you had insomnia and had to find something to do to amuse yourself? I’d probably be boring and just read a book or do a puzzle or something. 

How do you deal with stress? I’d like to think I deal with it pretty well. My job is quite stress-filled, but I try to stay as calm as possible. Freaking out isn’t going to do anyone any good.

Are you spontaneous, or do you always need to have a plan? A bit of both. I like to be organised in life, but I don’t want to plan every second of every day out. I need some spontaneity for life to be exciting.

What are your pet peeves? Anything unhygienic is a no-no for me. Like people who don’t wash their hands? Gross.

Part 7: Self Images And Etc.

What is your greatest strength as a person? I like to think I’m quite resilient and adaptable.

What is your greatest weakness? Always putting everyone else before myself.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? To be a little less argumentative and stubborn.

Are you generally introverted or extroverted? I actually think I’m a healthy mix of both. Maybe a tad more extroverted.

Are you generally organised or messy? Always organised.

Do you like yourself? Mostly, yeah.

What goal do you most want to accomplish in your lifetime? I’ve sort of already achieved my main goal in life. I always wanted to have a family of my own and I have that. If it got a little bigger then I wouldn’t mind that, but I’m not sure if that will happen.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Dealing with a terrible teenager.

If you could choose, how would you want to die? Peacefully, in my sleep, when I’m very very old.

What is the one thing for which you would most like to be remembered after your death? Being a good mom. Helping people as much as I could. Drinking way too much coffee.

What three words best describe your personality? Affectionate, protective, intelligent.

What three words would others probably use to describe you? Stubborn, dramatic, smothering.

[wildcard47]

I just binged all your Terror fics and I lovelovelove the aweome mirroring of Sophia catching Francis going down on James in one and James catching him going down on Sophia in another and I'm just imaining some point later where francis gets to be the one to watch to complete the trilogy.

Okay, I forgot this was an ask and not a kinkmeme prompt, so I just spent like fifteen minutes in dreamwidth, all, “but where IS it???” 😂Anyway, hope you enjoy this threeway in three ways! I got experimental.

larking (R, 2648 words)james

If Francis went to town for more than a day or two at a time, James and Sophia often found themselves rather at loose ends. For so long, the majority of their energies had been diverted towards drawing Francis into some game or another. Thus, when it was time for diversions to end and the practicalities of the house to begin, neither she nor he enjoyed settling down to such responsibilities. James disliked it because he – by his own admission – lacked the patience and sense to do it half as well as Francis, whilst Sophia had been tasked with the administration of a house for many years while living with her aunt, and had merely tired of the role.

And so it was that one summer day, as they were reviewing the household budget for the next few months, Sophia put her pencil aside and turned to James, her mouth a moue of excitement and her eyes flashing bright. “James, I would not object to a round or two of larking, if you are so inclined.”

He glanced over, intrigued. “Rather oblique for such a common request, my dear.”

“Oh! So you are amenable. Then I should like to sit on your face.”

Although James could not have been accused of heedlessness in his past dalliances with ladies, he found that today, and with this particular lady, refusing such a striking picture was quite beyond him.

“Ah. Well, yes. Let’s––” distractedly, he extended his hand to her, as gallant as if they were preparing to sweep out onto the dance floor. “Lead the way.”

“On the sofa.” She took his hand, and rose from her seat. Although her additional bulk made walking rather slow, she was as graceful as a ballerina as she swept her housecoat from her shoulders and discarded it into the floor. “Lie on your back. I shall kneel over you.”

James made quick work of her laces and stays, so she was bared nearly entirely to his eyes, save for her breeches. “Wherever my lady commands.”

“Your lady is rather ungainly as of late.” With a smirk, Sophia gestured to the taut slope of her stomach, now as round as a ripe melon. “And she is currently being kicked in the ribs by an unfeeling tenant, so she has ample need for relaxation.”

James began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “That can be arranged.”

Sophia merely laughed. “You would not believe how distempered I have been without.”

He sat down onto the sofa and promptly lay backwards; slowly, she kicked a leg over his chest, leaving the other foot planted on the floor.

James raised an eyebrow at her assertion as she walked, in a rather bow-legged fashion, up to the level of his neck. “I do live here, you know.”

“You do.”

“And I understand how much Francis worries,” he added, as she guided herself into position above his head, now a bit unsteady, given that her belly hid his face from view. “About all of it.”

Sophia let out a snort. “Well, we cannot help that. The man would worry e’en on the golden streets of Heaven.”

James’s eyes had fixed on a loose thread on one of the cushions, but the conjured image made him laugh again, and turn his attention back to the task at hand. As Sophia reached down to loosen her bloomers, James stayed her hand. His thumb swept up and across the slight divot in her wrist, where her heart hammered in time with his.

“Allow me to lead now,” he murmured, which coaxed a soft laugh out of her, and caused her to relax. “I assure you, I am every inch the gentleman.”

“Country gentleman, perhaps,” she countered, but he was already palming her beautiful backside in both hands, fingers sliding beneath pale ruffles and worn cotton to tease her most secret places. When his thumb brushed fully along her little button, she squeaked, and her hand dug into his shoulder as she whispered, “Oh, god.”

He hummed in pleasure and increased his ministrations, chasing after her with his mouth and tongue, one hand blindly teasing at her belly and the other occupied between her legs.

Normally, James could draw her out at their leisure, and build such excitement to a calculated frenzy at the most opportune moments. But on this afternoon, when the air was humid with desire and her shaking thighs were pressed insistently against his face and her free hand kept tightening around his forearm, he knew she would not last. Her happy moans and sighs soon became loud and full-throated.

“Jesus Christ, James, ‘m going to – I’ll – oh!”

The last exclamation pitched as high as a gleeful scream. His fingers got slicker and his cock jumped noticeably in his trousers, but James was heedless now; he was going to make her swear the way Francis did when he was too far gone, hear all those sinful words drip from her lips and hoard them in the night like molten jewels.

“Fuck,” whispered Sophia, as James’s fingers curled forward, hitting the spot that could bring her incredible pleasure. “Fuck, James, God almighty, I – I – oh, don’t stop.”

He sucked that little button into his mouth, now, timing the delicate movement with each gentle thrust of his fingers till her hips bucked above him, and a deep gasp tore from her throat.

“Harder.”

James could hardly think through the haze in his head, but he obeyed her command. His cock pulsed in desperation against the seam of his trousers, though he could not touch it, and Sophia was panting and rutting against his mouth and –

“Watch him,” she was groaning now, voice strung out and pitchy, “ah! Watch – goddamn, oh, Francis, look how much we need it, don’t stop watching, don’t – hm – James!”

Groaning, he worked her through the second one, till she pulled away and stumbled backwards. His own need now became too much to bear, and he choked out a desperate noise as she perched across his waist. “Oh, god, Sophia. Please.”

“I would have Francis see you this way,” she whispered, caressing his slick jaw and mouth with the pad of her thumb as she ground down against him. James moaned at the thought of it, nearly going over the edge as she kept talking. “You look so beautiful, so – can you not tell how much he enjoyed it?”

Whipping his head right, James met Francis’s blown-wide gaze. The shiver tripped up his spine and lodged somewhere in his throat as he came.

##

sophia

It was always so dreadful when Francis was gone for more than a day or two at a time, Sophia thought as she put down her pen. Not because she and James were not well matched in their own right – they got on quite well, really – but because Francis’s absence left the poor man so forlorn. Given everything, it was difficult for him to go more than a few days without seeing Francis. He was not used to the waiting.

Between the quickening of the creature in her belly, who seemed to believe he was in some sort of regimental march upon her innards, and the plaintively despondent expression on James’s face, something had to be done.

So she caught James’s eye with a smile, hoping to entice him by catching him off guard. “I should like to sit on your face.”

He went very still, face twitching slightly, and then got to his feet. His mouth had fallen open. “Ah. Well, yes. Let’s––lead the way.”

As they got into position, she could not help musing aloud. It had been several weeks since the three of them had enjoyed any intimacies together, not least because she had been sicking up at the slightest provocation. Francis worried about her condition, too; she suspected that was why he had not initiated any of their usual games, and perhaps why he had jumped at the chance to go to London.

“I understand how much Francis worries,” James said now, as she slowly guided herself down.

Which explained why James had held back, also. Sophia just snorted. She was not fragile as all that. “The man would worry e’en on the golden streets of Heaven.”

Despite the ache in her lower back and breasts, it took no time at all for her to be swept away by e’en the slightest touch. James seemed equally affected by her ardor, and was soon caressing her the way she had so craved.

“Jesus Christ, James,” she hissed, marveling at how she had even begun to sound like Francis at times even as James’s sure mouth and fingers sent a shock through her entire body. “Oh!”

She had screamed, she was reasonably sure, but nothing else mattered save chasing the building pleasure between her legs––except for the moment she raised her head, still clutching the arm of the sofa in both hands, and saw Francis in the open doorway.

The wave that pulsed through her body threatened to topple her, and so she tightened her grip on the sofa, rasping, “Harder.”

Francis mouthed the word with her, perhaps without even knowing it; his face flushed red and his hand drifted to his trousers and Sophia wanted him to see every bit of this, go over the edge with them after so many weeks without. She was not sure if Francis had ever seen James in this particular position by day; the sight clearly affected him, though he might not admit it aloud.

Thus, she would say it. “Watch him.”

Watch us. How much we have missed you.

Francis wasted no time. His eyes went soft and unfocused as he touched himself through his trousers, sharp eyes roving over every inch of her body, her skin singing as he lingered on each feature. Below her, James was groaning and panting and using his tongue to full effect––oh!

“Goddamn,” she hissed, knowing how much the boys loved hearing her swear; Francis particularly. “Look how much we need it, Francis, don’t stop watching––don’t––James!”

Every muscle in her body contracted at once, she arched her back as the crescendo of delight swept her away. When it was over, and she had some semblance of control again, she quickly moved down James’s body. Poor man was shaking, now.

“Oh, god,” he whispered, as Sophia traced over his mouth and chin with the pad of her thumb. “Sophia.”

“I would have Francis see you like this,” she said, grinding down against him. James made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “He would delight in that––you look so beautiful––can you not tell how much he enjoys it?”

She tipped her head left, indicating James should follow her gaze; when he saw Francis leaning against his favorite chair with one hand on his cock, eager and ready, James shuddered apart beneath her, with Francis following close behind.

##

francis

Exiting the carriage in the heat of the spring afternoon, Francis sighed and stretched. He was always glad to leave London, but never more so than after spending several days away.

“D’you need a hand up to the door?” asked the porter, who seemed ready to jump down at a second’s notice.

Instead of taking him up on this rather practical offer, Francis bristled, and got down to one knee to pick up his overnight case, which had already been unloaded. “Not necessary, thank you.”

“Oh, all right, then,” huffed the porter, and the carriage drove off, Francis glaring after it till it was barely a speck of dust on the main road.

Glaring at his overnight case, which he had still not picked up thanks to the now-obvious ache in his lower back, Francis took a deep breath, stood to his full height very carefully, and walked the remaining quarter-mile or so up the drive, intending to fling open the door, walk into the sitting room, and demand someone younger and prettier (James) should fetch this article for him. The perfect jape. Sophia would giggle, James would grin, they would kiss him hello, and he would be able to rest and be at his leisure as soon as possible.

This plan went awry by the time he reached the front door, when a little scream echoed through the air, and all went silent.

Forgetting his intended jape, Francis tore off his coat and rushed through the house, and he did not stop until he burst into the sitting room, where – where –

“Harder,” gasped Sophia, as her febrile eyes locked to his. She was half-naked and dewy with pleasure, canting against James’s jaw in the most perfect rhythm as he sucked and licked and thrust his fingers into her – James, who was groaning and sweating and hard as iron in his expensive trousers, twitching visibly against the fabric as Sophia babbled.

“Watch,” she huffed, holding Francis’s shocked gaze with heavy-lidded eyes, her half-bare body a riot of color, blooming pink and red and peach. “Ah, goddamn! Oh, Francis, look how much we need it, need you, don’stop watching him – don’t – hm –” he could see the visible shudder pass through her body just as she pitched forward and stiffened, shrieking, “James!”

Fucking hell.

Francis forgot about the soreness in his lower back, and the earlier shock at hearing Sophia scream; he reached between his legs as if in a fever dream and stroked himself through his linens, pulling and rubbing and tugging until he felt the familiar jerk behind his navel. Almost there.

Poor James had yet to reach his end, and so Sophia carefully dismounted and made her way back down his body, till the bottom of her swollen belly brushed the tip of his straining cock.

“Oh, god, Sophia.” James squirmed and thrust up, his face contorted in ecstatic agony. “Please.”

“I would have Francis watch you next,” she whispered, cupping James’s face in one hand. “You look so beautiful – so – can you not see how much he enjoys it?”

Gasping, James’s eyes flew to Francis’s; the second he saw him, he bucked up hard, hands digging into Sophia’s bloomers as she gently rocked back and forth atop him.

Francis’s climax overtook him like a freight train. By the time he came back to himself, he was laughing, soft and raw and helpless, now slumped in a sitting position on the ground.

Meanwhile, Sophia got up, stretched, and promptly sat down again on the arm of the sofa, grinning at the two of them as if she were the proudest woman in the world.

Francis just shook his head, still laughing. “Almost let the porter bring my case up to the door.”

“Oh. Well.” James let out a breathy giggle, swiped at his face with the top of his sleeve. “He’d’ve had questions, then.”

“Yes, he bloody well would have done.” Francis fixed his trousers, got up from the floor, and winced as his back twinged anew. But he held out his arms to Sophia all the same as he crossed over, so she could kiss him. “As do I. Hello.”

Releasing Sophia, who patted his chest with a hand, then tottered off to the head with a satisfied noise, Francis went to James’s side, and raised the back of James’s hand to his mouth for a kiss. “And hello to you, too.”

“‘Lo. ‘M sleepy,” sighed James.

“You can nap better in bed,” Francis told his Second sternly. “As can you.” He turned a pretend glare on Sophia, who just smirked as she peeked back through the doorway. “Seems we all need our rest, hm?”

“Mmm hm.” Fitzjames was dozing already.

Francis prodded him with the toe of one boot. “Come on. Up you get. I didn’t spend six days in London to be left alone by a layabout.”

“Come to bed, James,” Sophia added.

Dazed and content, they retired to the bedroom.