#HE WAS DEAD HE WAS REALLY DEAD NO HE DID NOT COMMAND THE FIRST FLEET HE WASNT THE FIRST GOV OF AUSTRALIA

[ohmygodshesinsane]

another year another ‘when captain cook landed on 26 january 1788….’

[hoseoksluna]

CHERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: soon-to-be-boyfriend!hobi x oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk)

genre: heavy, heavy, obnoxious smut

word count: 12.7k

summary: you don't know how he does it, but hobi makes you forget about the life you led before him, using his tongue.

playlist: hobi's playlist ; hobi's the weeknd playlist 

pinterest board: cherries / taglist: join

warnings: oh my god—dd/lg but differently, businessman!hobi, dominant and emotional and fucking possessive hobi, oc is horny... a lot, praise kink, breeding kink sdflhldghfdklaxjkfghskfg, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, female and male masturbation, use of a sex toy, cum eating, ass eating, religious personification, mentions of anal sex, thigh and ass slapping fuck

note: my babies, i'm so happy to be posting PART TWO OF BERRIES for you, oh my god. i had the time of my LIFE writing this, had to take breaks every 20 mins, was horny beyond my fucking mind BECAUSE THE SMUT IN THIS? FUCK. THIS IS PURE FILTH. 12K WORDS OF FILTHY HOBI SMUT. IM DEAD. HAVE BEEN DEAD. i missed writing so much that i spewed this out in 3 days... literally how? but i'm so happy to be back. i hope you enjoy this part. make sure to let me know what you think! i'm in a severe (hehe) need of your feedback. I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

side note: this part has the entirety of my being in it. from the first word to the last. it means a lot to me. very special chapter! <3

By the time you come out of the art museum, it’s storming. A sound so cacophonous that it spreads dots of gooseflesh along the perimeter of your skin underneath your silk dress and the layer of your heavy trench coat. Loud and violent like your heart’s deep drum that stills once you see Hoseok leaning against his glossy car. Arms and legs crossed in the same fashion, clothed in the coupled shade of blackness, a mop of tousled hair swept back and rippling in the unforgiving wind that flushes his cheeks with its rosy coldness and then clouds pull in, darkening his stare fixed on you. 

A shower of sudden rain finishes its touch on his countenance. 

Eye contact broken, Hobi’s shoulders raise as he feels the iciness of the slender raindrops falling upon him, eyes flicked up to the shadowed heavens. A heartstring of yours snaps and you don’t really know who gave the command to your aching legs to run towards him with your coat suspended over your head—whether it was that weakened heart of yours or basic human decency. Emotion versus logic. 

You find soon enough the verdict of the winner. 

Because when you have to stand on your tippy toes to cover him from the rain, despite the fact you’re wearing your high-heeled boots, and Hobi takes the makeshift shield from your hands and shrouds you both from the wetness, an identical flush crawls from your left cheek, upon the column of your nose right next to your other cheek, warming you up from within. 

Emotion. The string that ruptured grows again to its full length during that fleeting moment and you’re aching to take him home. 

No rain in sight—just him in this close proximity, in this gray cocoon, smiling down at you lopsidedly, a dimmed light flickering in his inky pools, faintly, barely, only there for you to see. To catch and cling to like his patchouli scent does to you, a whiff of dainty wildflowers leaning in and enclosing around you, forcing away the thoughts that are erect in the corners of your mind, waiting for the adequate moment to strike. Thoughts of how you sense Jungkook’s life entwining around your world again; his companion perfuming the air with petrichor, the inner turmoil she must be facing the very strength that pulled those clouds in, causing a storm to stretch across the skies. You figure each beat of her confused heart must be the grumble of the thunder, but then Hobi’s outer film of softness amidst the darkness is a force way greater, because firmness broods right underneath it, and it is an energy that keeps those thoughts pressed against the walls of your mind.

He did turn you into a locked orchard—and the threat of another declared war isn’t even a wind that brushes past your fruit trees and berry bushes. 

In fact, the more you deepen your exchange of gazes and Hobi cages you in between his shirt-clothed elbows, the more you want to show him the stain of your juices upon your panties. 

You’re aroused—blooming, in need to be picked. It outweighs the past and you’re glad for it, deem your newly born sexuality more important than the doomed normalcy of your life. 

You sink your manicured nails into that newness, adamant on not letting it go, regretting that you agreed to see your ex-boyfriend later tonight, regretting that you grew soft at the hint of his own normalcy, even though you said to yourself that you wouldn’t. It’s one of the reasons why you dig your nails deeper, maximizing your closeness to Hobi—it’s done in an effort to erase your foolish moment of weakness, to better yourself like you encouraged yourself to do earlier when you had perceived that you misinterpreted him. You curl your lips under your teeth to stifle back a sigh, wishing you were as firm as him, as stable in your decisions and your way of living as him. Wishing your weakness wasn’t a putty you play with, leave your fingerprints of your bad decisions on that blemish until you hate yourself, until the paste hardens and there’s nothing left for you to do but to watch it. Watch the evidence of your failure, your brokenness and your imbecility like still life—the curse, the doom of your life, haunting you. 

It almost slinks in, threatening yet again to desiccate your orchard, the movement akin to a wave rolling in, but then Hobi speaks. And his voice sears those thoughts to nothing. Not even their shadows are left behind. 

“Did you say hi to your friend?” he murmurs, reaching behind him to open the door of the passenger side for you, the coat that’s propped on his forearm lowering until it rests back around your shoulders. 

You can merely nod, your empty mind focused on the absence of your selfishness—for once again, you want to be close to him for his sake, even more so when Hobi places his palm on the top edge of his car so you don’t hurt your head. 

A prince, an orchardist, and a gentleman. 

You’re feeding him and sucking his dick before he goes to work—you don’t care. Hope to God he fucks your brain out of your head and plants a new one; one that isn’t so stupid. 

Seated inside his car, you glimpse profoundly at the way the rain kisses the crown of his head as he rounds his vehicle, sitting right beside you and carrying inside his heavenly skin fragrance, now accentuated by the residue of petrichor that all of a sudden doesn’t have anything to do with what you just bore. No hints, no thoughts, no wars. How he does it is something you’ll never have the capability of understanding—a fracture of attention of the intimate kind and he binds you to him, erasing your still fresh past as if it never happened. 

You flex and relax your hand on your lap, a gesture that depicts that you cherish it to the point that you yearn to submit to it and remain submitted. And you will. You’ll figure out a way to stay stable, even if events appear to try and revolutionize you. A way to keep your fist clenched in his presence. 

Hobi lets the car warm up a little bit before he turns on the heating, angling his rear view mirror just right, from which two purple, plush dice swing back and forth, colliding once and never meeting again. 

How inspiring. 

And then you watch his hands. Watch them dominate the car, spur it to life as he drives through the drenched street, parting the rain like a curtain, stepping in, taking you home. 

As if he sensed your thoughts, he glances at you. “My place or yours?” 

A red light halts his control and Hobi uses it to tap on the screen of his dashboard, dousing the space in a sultry, wet ambiance as slow, calm music breaks the silence. While it was comfortable for you, now you feel even more at ease and you wiggle in your seat, sinking deeper into the leather. 

Quite useful material for the lecherous saturation of your mind; for the lustful layer of sweat lining your skin. You feel so hot. Feel the need to be ridded of your clothes right now. Feel a certain kind of vivacity that drives you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. 

You take his hand from the shift stick, cradling it with both of your own hands, a finger tracing the veins that paint a slender but a strong temple—a temple for his beauty and character, you suspect. 

“My place,” you say, yearning to make him feel at home in your space; cook for him, make him come, stuff like that.

Green light blinks and Hobi doesn’t withdraw from your hold. No, he tells you what to do, quickly. 

“Keep your hand on mine,” he instructs and you listen, sinking your fingers between his and gripping him like in an effort to grip onto stable submission. “Just like that.” 

Your stomach flips at his choice of praise and you lick your lips, tightening your hold hard enough that he peeks at you with a smirk while he shifts the gear stick with you and speeds down the road. The heat worsens and you don’t think you can take it anymore.

That alone is the most attractive thing you ever experienced with a man. 

And when he plays with your thumb, you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs together. Watch him intently sneak a glance as you do so, knowing your dress has ridden up a little, exposing your tanned thighs, swathed with the brown leather of your boots. Your position also provides him the intriguing reveal of a secret—you’re wearing knee socks underneath. They were invisible to his sight this whole time and now that he sees them, his eyes linger there for a few seconds longer before he drags his teeth along his bottom lip, flicking his gaze back to the road. 

“You’re wearing knee socks under those?” he asks, his voice low and tortured. Doesn’t look at you as he does. Only shifts the gear stick again, stiffly. You imagine something else is stiff, too, and you smile, a tendril of confidence clothing you in allure and sinful, dark joy. It beckons your vivacity to drive forward. 

You move his hand to let the pads of his fingers feel the smooth fabric. His body twitches, his lungs inhaling a short, soft air, mouth parted, eyes unblinking, gloomy just like the heavens above. A thunder sounds and you feel like roaring just the same. 

“It matches my underwear,” you murmur and the thunder prolongs, echoing feebly. You drag his hand down your thigh with the intention to also make him feel the nylon material of your panties, but he halts your movement halfway, hand gripping your flesh, trembling ever so slightly, stirring your confidence. You almost moan at his brusqueness. 

“Don’t,” he scolds, brows furrowing, chest heaving in that slow manner. His lips dry and he wets them. Doesn’t spare you a glance. Turns the wheel with that one hand as he takes a left turn, his posture slouched, thighs spread, a small tent evident in between. His arousal for you grows and it only propels you to finish the job, knowing his scolding was merely a warning, not a portrayal of his discomfort. And he proves you right with his next words. “If you do that, I’ll crash this fucking car.” 

You laugh through your nose, your confidence and your own arousal fluttering in you, begging to be let out. Your favorite artist starts playing and you’re not surprised by the way your body reacts. Your thighs naturally spread and you move your pelvis forward. Feel your slick dampening your panties even more, trickling down your needy seashell just as The Weeknd begins to sing about your desire. 

“I wanna fuck you slow with the lights on…” 

You lick your lips, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a soft moan. Hobi digs his fingernails into your skin, coaxing another one out of you and he calls you by your name in a sterner warning. You caress the edge of his hand with the thought in mind that you’ve always loved the crescent moon, so it would only be illogical for you to not want more of it imprinted on your skin. 

“You shouldn’t praise me then,” you croak out, doused in adrenaline-tinged lust, your sweat heavy upon you. You clutch your cherub necklace, needing to be touched, a habit of yours that you’ve had ever since you were a teenage girl. Your fingers graze your collarbones, lingering in the dip between them. “Besides, you’re such a good driver that I think you can handle it.” 

Hobi hums out an endearing laugh, that smirk of his reappearing on his mouth. He rubs the moons he impressed into your thigh from side to side and your hips buck, asking for that movement down low where you need him the most. 

“You have a praise kink?” he questions and you catch him bite his lip, catch him enjoying that information, sinking it into his flesh. You want to kiss it, bruise it, make it permanent for a little while. You revel in such a dirty, yet gentle conversation and you stop yourself from bucking your hips again. 

“A severe praise kink,” you correct him, emphasizing the adjective with a bit of a bratty tone to divulge to him what he does to you and how much he needs to pay for it. And before you can go on, he catches you off guard. 

“If you want me to keep praising you then rub your clit,” he negotiates with you, taking your hand and moving the gear stick, leaving it there. “And you’re wrong. I can’t handle you like this. I can’t touch you when I’m responsible for your life.” 

Daddy. The title would’ve slipped out of the tip of your tongue had a moan not been first, coating the ambience with a sultriness that makes you tug at his hand in order to do as he says, in order to be praised, to be gratified. But Hobi doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip around the shift stick, clicking his tongue. 

“No, baby. With your other hand,” he orders, his breath shaking and amidst the enveloping of his fatherliness around you, strengthening you and binding you with ropes of safety, girlishness and seductiveness, you scrunch up your brows, wanting his hand to be there when you make yourself feel good. 

And you tell him. 

“I want you to help me.” 

The rain thickens, creating a sensual background noise to the next slow song playing and Hobi sighs, disliking your attitude. Your arousal grows to highs you’ve never seen before, a sweet, pleasing darkness consuming you, sprinkling you with glitters of appetite and craze. 

All because your sexual chemistry is so good, so strong—so natural, despite the fact you just met and don’t know each other enough for it to be possible. It exceeds the laws of human connection and the feeling of it is heady, intoxicating you with wine of the ripest cherries. You even feel as though this is your first alcoholic drink. Feel as though you’re an unspoiled virgin on the cusp of her very first sin—the Virgin Mary with long hair, cherub necklace, tanned skin, knee socks and high-heeled boots. 

Hobi erases your past life. Paints a new one with watercolors; paints you anew. You know the dulcet taste of fatherliness and manliness from Jungkook and while it was what you needed at the time, sexually that is—as it wasn’t often that he used this kind of energy day-to-day, and if he did, it was to tease you—what Hobi does runs deeper. It surpasses your need; it’s not a filling that will decompose soon enough and ask for it again. It’s something else entirely. 

It’s something that falls upon you and stays. Clicks and connects with no way out. It’s another layer of skin, strands of hair growing out of your scalp, the drum of the vein upon your neck. 

It began in the museum and uncoils here. It’s not worth it to juxtapose it with what you had before—it’s laughable to do so. Hobi has established his fatherliness the moment he held your coat as a heathen in a church, not taking his gaze off of your intimate prayers for even a split second. Unkinked it with his honesty and by expressing his responsibility over you, listening to the murmur of the sea of your sexual need but not diving head-first into it, knowing better. And now it is ready to bloom with flowerets, with fruits, with leaves to accompany you. 

“It’s this or nothing,” Hobi decides, squeezing his fingers against yours to also emphasize the gravity of his words and you purse your lips in response, finding the ultimatum so attractive. “You live thirty minutes away, so you either rub your clit on your own or you wait. It’s up to you.” 

It’s mind blowing to you how he went from being timid to now ordering you to pleasure yourself. You’re sweltering beneath your clothes and Hobi notices, looking at your body through his rear view mirror. He turns the heating up and you laugh, blush deepening, eyes crinkling at the corners. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. 

“Why didn’t you put your seatbelt on?” he mutters, letting go of your hand and giving you a mean look that makes your walls clench and your throat let out a low, almost soundless moan. 

You never put a seatbelt on. As dangerous as it, you hate the way it chokes you due to your small stature and you tell him. “It chokes me, Hobi, I don’t really like it.” 

Hobi doesn’t respond. He reaches over and drags down the seatbelt adjuster without taking his eyes off of the road, driving steadily. His patchouli scent hits your nostrils and you nuzzle your nose into his bicep, fingers curling around his arm, smelling him in a simple, comfortable manner. Hobi gives you a quick smile and you hear the sound of him pulling on the seatbelt, but then a pedestrian runs across the previously empty crosswalk, forcing him to stomp on the brake abruptly and your heart nearly skips out of your chest. Almost flying forward, Hobi holds you in place with his strong arm, which you cradle against your quickening chest. 

Exchanging a look, you both pant in tandem and Hobi shakes his head at you. Panic lines his dark eyelashes and he immediately grabs the seatbelt and, tugging harshly, he sinks it into the buckle, placing the belt behind your back. He doesn’t acknowledge the pedestrian lifting his palm in apology and neither do you, too preoccupied with the fact he just saved your life. 

“You wear a seatbelt in my car. No buts. Understand?” 

Too shocked by the twist of events and too touched by the gesture and the sternness of his words, you nod. He pats your thigh, the one he marked, fondling the skin with his thumb, and it drives you to say something. “I’m sorry, Hobi. I’ll wear the seatbelt from now on.” 

You mean it. This has never happened to you before as you usually take the public transport, but you do understand now how dangerous it is to not wear one. Your heartbeat calms and the aftershocks of the adrenaline come to the surface, scattering along your figure. Numbness melts and your arousal returns at full speed. 

Hobi nods, smiling gently, pleased with your apology, and you feel so peculiarly gratified that you managed to do something like that to him. He sinks his fingers under your thigh and you marvel at the size of his hand because his thumb still remains there on the top of the flesh, even as he wraps his digits around you like that. Kneading just once before he lifts them and begins to tap on his screen again, shifting the energy with the voice of your favorite artist. He moves the gear, accelerating. 

“Why you rushing me, baby? It’s only us, alone,” The Weeknd sings and you sigh, your body loosening up. You hike the seatbelt around your hips higher, curling lower on the leather, thighs parting until your knee taps his hand. You miss his touch and you long for it again, finding its warm ghost on your skin not enough. 

“You like The Weeknd, don’t you?” Hobi says, his pinky finger brushing along your sock-clad knee, causing you to almost twitch. 

You smile, relishing in the love you have for the singer. “I’ve spent ten years of my life loving him.” 

Liking your answer, Hobi skims his fingers along the side of your inner thigh until he finds yours, intertwining them—this time his palm closed over the back of your hand, placing it to its former position on the stick. It’s warmed by him and you love it so much that you search for his thumb, playing with it. 

“I could tell,” he breathes, his tone deepened by a heartfelt emotion that moves through you. You raise your brows in curiosity and question, wondering how that has come to be. Glancing at you to see your reaction, Hobi laughs softly, his heart evident in the sound, coated with it entirely, and you catch his thumb, holding it, on the verge of bursting. “I saw what you did when I put him on.” 

You round the tip of your tongue along your top lip, recollecting well what you did when you heard him. “What did I do?” 

A beat of silence between you and him, he lets the singer sing his elegy. Then, his index finger traces your manicured nail on the same digit. “You spread your legs. Made such a pretty sound that I almost stopped this fucking car and fucked you until the whole city could heard it.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat and you’re too late to halt the moan from slipping out, a fire coursing down from the top of your head to your toes. You want a taste of his desire so bad that you’ll do anything for it. Even let the seatbelt choke you to death. 

Hobi gives you a look, one that chills your blood this time. But it feels absolutely exhilarating.

He calls your name. “Don’t do that to me. Not here.” 

Your breath trembles as you scurry to regain your composure, sliding up in your seat. Hobi, too, stops that movement by cradling your thigh, putting it back to the stick once you get the message. 

Why does this feel better than if he gave in? 

“What if I want to?” you challenge and Hobi rubs his eyes, slapping his hand back onto the steering wheel. Frustration, it looks so good on him. “What if I want you to fuck me here?” 

He shakes his head, just once, biting his lip, reddening the pillow. “No, I don’t share.” 

Fuck. 

This is a point of no return. You will never be the same after what he said and you feel your attachment melting into his chest, dissolving there into leaves from your fruit trees. Your imaginary wings flit, aroused from his possessiveness. 

“You know what to do,” he adds without looking at you, turning up the volume as if to subdue your incoming moans. 

A cherry on the top of the fucking cake. 

You don’t waste a precious second. Lifting the hem of your dress, you expose your drenched panties, a large wet spot in the center darkening the black fabric. Hobi doesn’t spare you a glance. No, he takes your intertwined hands and fixes his rear view mirror, tipping it down. Dangerous, but smart. Responsible. 

It’s those glimmering flecks of his character that drive your fingers to pull your panties to the side, but Hobi, once again, stops you. 

With words, this time. 

“Do you want me to die?” he rasps, tortured—horribly tortured and you cup your femininity, coaxing a groan out of him. “Do it over your panties, baby. Please.” 

He begged. You don’t think you ever heard that word come out of a man’s mouth in your life and you break, whimpering, pulling your panties back in their place over your pussy, dragging the tip of your middle finger up and down your dripping slit, sighing. Adding your index, you put pressure to the sides of your clit as you slide your digits in the same direction, over and over, teasing yourself, breathing out little moans that make him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. 

Hobi glances once at what you’re doing and swears. “Fuck, rub your clit. Don’t tease yourself, baby. Make yourself feel good.” 

With a mewl, you stick your fingers together and begin a series of circles, doing as he says. Your eyes roll back, head knocking back into the leather, satisfaction seizing your body and sweetening it. The material of your panties is so flimsy that it feels as though your fingers are stroking your bare flesh and when you tug the fabric to your hole to wet it and rub your clit harder, your moans gain volume, mingling with The Weeknd’s poetry seamlessly and magnificently, dethroning the rain. 

And then Hobi shifts the gear stick with your hand and drives so fast that your pleasure deepens, thrill rushing in your veins. You match your circles to that speed, your sounds becoming obnoxious, whiny squeaks when you look at him to see his jaw clenched, chest heaving and the tent in his pants larger than you last checked it. 

Hobi skims his fingers along your forearm, back and forth, cradling it. Senses your stare and reciprocates it, catching you at your best when you find your spot and buck your hips, furrowing your brows. He moans, clutching your thigh. 

“So good. Such a good girl, rubbing her clit for me to get praised. Fuck, baby. You’re doing so good.” 

You lift your fingers in order not to come, the aftershocks of your ripped away orgasm quivering throughout your whole body and you squeeze his hand, letting go—wrapping it around his tent, instead. You figure he deserves it for praising you like that. 

He finds your lidded, mischievous eyes in the rear view mirror and he flattens his lips, a brutal expression on his face that should make you scared, but it doesn’t. It only spurs you on. You graze your palm on him, causing his breath to quicken, and you whimper when you search and search for the tip of his cock. He’s slender, but big and your mouth dries. 

“You almost made me come with what you said,” you say, truthfully, retracing your path down his length, his breath, now hardened, wafting over you. You love the way he focuses on the road with every fiber of his being as you’re toying with him. Love watching him grit his teeth, narrow his eyes; love watching sweat adorn his flushed chest and neck. You ache to bite him there. 

And you would—had he not buckled you in place. 

You don’t notice you’ve arrived at your apartment until he stops the car and turns to face you, leaning his elbow on the center console. Nobody could gaslight you into believing that ride took thirty minutes. Nobody. 

Hobi made that fifteen. Ferally. For you. 

You can see it in his shining face—his need for you, his desire, the fact he sped down the road because you’re so horny. And you ache to kiss him. 

“You really do have a praise kink,” he says, mutedly. Must be thinking the same because his gaze flicks to your lips. You lick them for him, encouraging him to do it. “Almost coming from me praising you. Such a good girl.” 

You hiss, the drum in your clit returning, stealing your attention. Hoseok grins, pleased to be proven right, pleased that you make it so easy for him. You squeeze his length and he makes the same sound, gritting his teeth briefly before he pouts. 

“What’s this?” he asks, speaking of your hand placement. “When did I allow you to do this?” 

You breathe heavily, descending your fingers to his full balls, feeling them perfectly due to the silky fabric of his dress pants. You knead them and he moans, the sound traveling right to your yet again needy bundle of nerves. Your hand automatically flies to it, rubbing it, and Hobi curses, eyes narrowing, fixed on the movement of your fingers. 

“It’s asking for me, isn’t it?” you murmur, sliding your hand back to his manhood and his pools almost go cross, head tilting back. Your pleasure from your motions expands, your nerve endings burning. 

“I’m so hard for you,” he agrees, his hand clasping over yours, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows with great difficulty, the column of his throat such a thing of beauty for you that it forces you to unclip your seatbelt. You’re about to crawl onto his lap, but one darkened look from him makes you decide against it. “Show me that pussy, baby.” 

Your moan has a certain elation to it, giddy at the fact you get to expose such an intimate part of you to him, giddy that he’s taking this to another level. 

You slide your drenched panties to the side and at the sight of your glistening pussy Hobi groans deeply.

“Lean against the door,” he commands, wiping at his mouth and you tremble all over, more than delighted that he’s reacting to you this way. 

You swivel, propping your back against the leather of his door and Hobi lifts your legs, spreading them. You hook one of them around the back of his headrest while the other dangles in his hold. His gaze zeroes in on your pussy and as he bites his lip, he acknowledges himself with her by tracing the flesh with his thumb. Your clit, your lips before he circles your gushing hole, groaning, bettering the song you barely can hear. Your confidence and your allure skyrockets and you follow his digit, riding it, begging for more of his touch. He plays chase with you until both of you and him can’t take it anymore and when his thumb is completely soaked, he lifts it to your mouth—only to fuck with you, though, because he plunges it inside his, leaving your own parted for nothing. 

You’re embarrassed, but he likes it. Whimpers around his finger. Pushes your knee to your shoulders and dives right in. 

You yelp, grabbing a hold of his hair as he licks over your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking until your eyes roll back, until all your still parted mouth knows is his name and your thick heel digs into his shoulder. 

But you moan the wrong variation and he’s quick to correct you with a dripping chin, his hands on either side of you, face merely inches away from yours. “That’s Hoseok for you, not Hobi.” 

Red all over, you can only moan in response, gripping his hair until he hisses in pain. He strums your clit without breaking eye contact, so slippery and swollen from his attack. The orchard in you grows, brims with fruit that is on the cusp of bursting, the berries in you big and full. His eyes narrow furthermore, pupils dilated, causing his gaze to darken in ways you’ve never thought could be possible. 

“Moan my name, baby. Show me how good I’m making you feel.” 

The wrong variation slips again, all due to the mind numbing pleasure he’s giving you. He adds more pressure to his fingers for a second before he withdraws and slaps your thigh. And slaps it again. 

“I can’t praise you if you don’t learn well, can I?” he mutters and you whine so loudly that his eyes round, body growing boneless. “Fuck, baby, if you keep making sounds like that I’m gonna come in my pants.” 

You scramble your words, find it the most difficult thing in the world. And he doesn’t help you. Not when he sinks a long finger inside your heat, fucking you slowly until you can take him. You lose your mind altogether. 

“You’re making me feel too-too good,” you breathe out, hiccuping as he adds a second finger in, silencing you when he gives you long strokes. You follow his gaze down and perceive that he’s watching you soak his digits. He twists them, moaning, a litany of mad, mad curses falling out of his mouth in a hushed tone. 

“So wet just from me praising you, oh my God,” Hobi comments and you squeeze your eyes shut, taking it as he begins to pound you to the hilt, his arm bulging, his whole body moving. “Eyes on me. What do you call me when I make you feel this good, hm? I already told you. Just remember.” 

You know which variation he means and wants to hear, but your tongue curls, aching to utter a different name that he deserves to be called by. 

And you say it, opening your eyes and boring them into his. “Daddy.” 

And you don’t stop saying it. Not when he closes his eyes for a split second, agonized by such saccharinity. Not when he undoes the button of his pants and pulls himself out while thumbing your clit. You gasp, legs quivering, what you touched brought to reality and your orgasm nears, especially when he fist-fucks his length. 

Hoseok draws back down to your clit, licking it over, nuzzling his face in it as he drinks your nectar right from the source, his wet fingers from you making squeaky sounds around his girth, causing you to scream, the intensity of the moment running so deep and you’re too weak to take it, overwhelmed by his arousal. 

He lifts his head for a moment. “I want you to call me Daddy when you come on my tongue,” he rasps amidst his growls, never stopping the movement around his cock, and you nod your head, vehemently, willing to do anything for him.

“I’m so close.” 

Hoseok pouts. “That’s so good, baby. You know what to do?” 

You swallow. “I’m gonna call you Daddy when I come.” 

He grins at you and the expression breaks when he fucks his tip, his brows casting a shadow on his face. You break along with it, shuddering—pleasured from watching him pleasure himself. And you break again when he praises you for your good answer. “Such a good girl. You’re gonna come hard for me?” 

You don’t get to say your yes because when he sucks your clit into his mouth and groans against it as he flicks it with his tongue, he’s a witness to it himself. The fruits in your orchard explode and he drinks their juices, running the muscle all over your pussy, his mouth smacking, enjoying every drop. You squeal the title, forcing pleased growls out of him that deepen when you swear, repeating the name over and over again until your orgasm smooths down the perimeters of your body, slowly dwindling away.  

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t see. White dots flood your vision and the only thing that grounds you is Hobi taking your hand in his. The dots swim away, revealing him on the verge of his own orgasm as he tugs on his length, rapidly now. 

“That was so good, baby. You came so well for me. Called me Daddy like I wanted. Good girl,” he praises and your moans are an endless stream, enveloping around his cock, which he guides your hand towards. The weight of it, his warmth, the protruding veins, you could come again just from the feel of him. “Jerk off your Daddy. He’s close, too, from the way you came for him.” 

The third person, fuck. You bite your lip, focusing on his tip as you grip him, twisting your wrist. His skin is sticky from your nectar and you spit onto your hand, earning a praise from him that makes your mind spin, even though you heard those two words plenty of times throughout your sinful date. 

It will never get old—it will only make your femininity wetter for him. 

And his growls, the same could be applied to them. They propel you to fuck him faster while your fingers sneak over to your sensitive clit that he provokes, rubbing circles that cloud your vision with a mist, painting him to be an angel—like the one you saw in the museum. 

And when he comes, he grows a pair of glorious wings. Black, with hints of rose gold and pinks. His body doubles over, hands propped on the dashboard and the passenger seat as he spills for you, ropes of cum painting your stomach in that eternal ivory color that serves as skin for those sculptures. In a way you become them once he praises you for making him come, his breaths a legato rivulet that gives you life, his hips snapping, fucking your hand. 

He smears his cum on your tanned stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your panties to discover a lighter shade of skin, marveling at the difference. Light passes through his eyes before he covers your pussy with the fabric, opening the glove department to fetch some tissues, cleaning you up, dragging down your dress and helping you sit up.

It’s at this moment, as he’s kneeling—towering over you and you’re sitting on your bum with your hands folded on your lap like the good girl he made you into, that he clutches the back of your neck and smashes his mouth into yours, moving it against you with such strength and vigor that you struggle to devour him in the same manner. It causes you to claw at his sides, to long to see his body in its full, bare beauty. His imaginary wings wrap around you, sealing the resplendence of your orgasm profoundly inside your skin and when he tastes you, his growls traveling down your throat are the raindrops that the orchard inside you needs in order to grow. You help him by moaning back, the aftertaste of you the sunlight. 

Piercing his gaze into yours, he caresses your hair, messes up your diligently fixed updo. Catches your ribbon as it falls, wrapping it around his hand, the wisps dangling from his fingers like your leg was just a few moments ago. 

You’re so satisfied that you could cry. 

You don’t even understand what just happened and how it came to be. Don’t remember what occurred before you sat down in his car—Hobi has completely and wholly erased it. 

And it’s him who notices that your hand still carries the remnants of him. You don’t care to look—you can’t rip your gaze away from the shine on his face, from the gratification smoothing out his features, from the pink flush decorating the perfect redness of his swollen lips. But Hobi forces you to, in the tenderest of ways. Looks lovingly at your palm, cooing, shooting that look into your eyes, where it unfolds, creates something new that you never experienced before. And when he grins, your stomach flips, winged creatures intoxicated with madness inside. 

“You see what you did?” he whispers, the love in his eyes expanding, growing warmer, burning you faintly. “I want you to lick it up. You deserve every drop.” The breath you let out causes him to tremble and you cradle the fabric of his shirt in your fist. Hobi kisses your fingers, looking at you through them, his smile quivering. “Stick out your tongue for me, baby.” 

You do and he slides your palm over it, his salty nectar the sea that swam against your body a week ago in your healing time and you moan, devouring his taste like he devoured your mouth, licking it up, collecting it until there’s nothing left. You show him your tongue, then, and Hobi plays with it, using his thumb, your ribbon wrapped around his hand tickling your chin. He rubs it on the muscle, playing chase with you again until he tells you to suck it. And the sound that descends from his lips once you do makes you squeeze your thighs together, your own wetness dripping out of you. 

To end it, Hobi kisses your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds longer. Caresses your mouth, tracing each line, tracing your cupid’s bow, making you glisten with your own saliva. A shining, lively angel—just like him. You whimper. 

“Swallow it, baby.” 

You do, showing him the evidence that you obeyed after. 

“Good girl.” 

You take the underside of him, semi hard, into your hand, giggling, heart thumping. “You just made me horny all over again.”

Hobi hums, brushing his ribbon-clad fingers through your hair from the crown of your head. You want him to do that once you suck him off. “And you’re gonna make me hard all over again if you touch me like that.” 

You mimic the noise he made, squeezing him. Hobi curses, delighting you. “Let’s go inside. I owe you that breakfast, don’t I?” 

He kisses you, softly, with a hint of harshness that causes your nipples to harden painfully against your bra. You almost rub your clit again, so fucking out of it, crazed. 

“You do, baby.” 

You got everything you wanted in such a small amount of time that your vision twirls. Hobi is holding your hand as you’re leading him to your apartment, your ribbon still hanging from yours and his intertwinement, and your heart hasn’t stopped beating feverishly in your chest. Not even once. 

You’re facing the inevitable as you watch Hobi unlace his dress shoes on his knee, his cock stiff and uncomfortable in his pants. You’re brazenly falling for him. You know your hormones swirling your system from the lustfulness you indulged in aren’t to blame—if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s Hobi himself. You consider him to be such a beautiful person that you would be absolutely stupid, blind and deaf not to fall for him. And what’s more, you sense your decline to be safe. Stable. A leverage that won’t ever break. A ribbon that won’t fray. 

It’s as strange as it is inviting and your submission comes naturally to you. And this time, you don’t fear it won’t last. Don’t fear you’ll let up. There’s a sense vibrating in you that assures you that Hobi will take care of it. Put it back where it belongs if it ever strays. You don’t have to monitor it. You don’t have to do shit. 

You were wrong about one more thing. Hobi isn’t Daddy. 

He’s Father. 

It’s this thought that drives you to take off your dress and leave it in the middle of the floor that leads to your kitchen. You’re barren down to your soaked underwear, bra and knee socks, your feet basking in the way they don’t have to ache in your boots anymore. Pulling a plate of eggs out of the refrigerator, you set it on the counter, preparing a pan by oiling it on the stove. You hear Hobi’s feet pad on the floor as you pop some bread in the toaster and you turn your head, seeing only his dark silhouette standing behind you, your dress and your ribbon in his hands. 

Your heart quickens, abnormally. 

“How do you like your eggs?” you ask, resuming your cooking as you break the shell of an egg on the lip of the pan, spilling the delight into the bubbling oil. 

Hobi crosses the distance and you can only feel the softness of your ribbon when he places his hands on your hips, letting them travel until they stumble across the pooch of your lower belly. He groans, holding you there, pressing his hard, silk-clad cock against your nearly bare bum. 

Self-consciousness creeps in as he kneads one of your insecurities and you quiver, clasping your hand over his, your confidence wavering. 

“However you like them is how I like them,” Hobi flirts and you laugh through your nose, shaking your head, waiting for the egg white to fade into that milky color he painted your stomach with. 

Sunny side up it is. 

“Hobi, your game is out of this world,” you flirt back, sliding your spatula under the egg to check if it’s done before you can flip it. 

Hobi lowers himself onto his knees and you gasp, soundlessly. He begins to scatter violent kisses along the dots upon the flesh of your bum, sucking it into his mouth as if it were an orange he was sinking his teeth into. You have to grip the counter in order not to fall over, willing strength into your weakened legs. 

He bites the supple roundness of your ass cheek, smoothing out the pain with a flick of his tongue and kisses, gentle ones this time around. Hums. “Is it?” 

He glides his nose along the inner of your thigh, rooting right in the center of your pussy, burying his face there. You turn around halfway, arching your back, latching onto his hair that you’ve ruined, egg long forgotten. 

“Your thighs are wet again, fuck,” he whispers, mouthing your clit before he descends once again to them, licking them over, drinking your nectar that he’s created. Trails his tongue back up and, sliding your panties to the side, he takes you into his mouth, growling as he sucks onto your lips, playing with them using his tongue, hands spreading your ass cheeks, so he can have more space to make you absolutely lose yourself in him. 

And it’s working. Even more so when he begins to swirl his tongue around that other, tiny hole, causing your eyes to go cross before they roll back. Your head dips into a dreamy daze, where time doesn’t exist as he switches between flicking your clit and eating your ass and it isn’t until a certain burning smell suffuses your nostrils that you snap out of it. 

You’ve burned his egg, its edges black like the feathers of his imaginary wings, and you yelp, turning off the stove, pushing the pan away. 

“Hobi, I burned your egg,” you exclaim and he bends you over the counter while still remaining on his knees for you, sucking your clit with all the strength he possesses. Your climax pinches you in warning, lovingly, promising to melt over you like rain soon, so very soon. 

Hobi doesn’t give a fuck about his egg, it seems. 

“Just a little more, please,” he begs, moving his flat tongue from side to side on your bud, hands descending down your wet thighs until he reaches your knee socks, stopping there. Whimpers. 

That would’ve thrown you over the edge had he not pulled away, fingers wrapping around your knees. 

You turn around and the sight of him on his knees with his glazed nose, mouth and chin, with his cock pitifully erect in his pants, creating a print that makes you salivate, absolutely and irrevocably breaks you. You can still hear his plea ring in your mind, begging you to give him a few more seconds of your pussy, and your brain malfunctions. Numbness tightens around your fingers when you cradle his face and it feels so real when you do so—the fact that you’re wanted, desired; the fact that Hobi is the one in submission to you, dominant yet attentive to you to the point that he would never want do anything you wouldn’t. He listens to you, carves his life around you… and he hasn’t even known you for a month. 

You messed up his hair—and when you run your fingers through his strands, you feel your powerful ruination sifting through them, feel your seduction and your confidence, alive and breathing in that thick, dark brown mop of his. And now you crave to mess up his skin. Bruise it. Stain it with the pinks you can see in his imaginary wings. Watch them turn yellow like the rose gold in their flecks over the following days. 

You’re not letting go of him. 

Not when he looks at you like you’re Virgin Mary and he’s a sinner. 

You pull him up by the collars of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, adding to the ruination, and it’s electrifying. He’s the cleanest sinner you’ve ever had the grace to see and you want to stain him. Beyond the stickiness of your juices. And when he towers over you and cages you in between his buff body and the counter, hands on either side of you upon the marble, his patchouli scent making you bloodthirsty, you don’t kiss him. No, you go straight for his neck. 

He didn’t expect it, groaning when you lick a stripe over his vein, sucking the skin inside your mouth. Over and over again until the sucking noises make him twitch and fist the ends of your hair, pressing his cock against your stomach. You’re feral, you’re inhuman, scattering kisses along that column like you’ve never had a man in your hands before. And it’s true. You never have. It was always you who had been in men’s hands. Never the other way around. 

Your fingers gain feeling when you undo the buttons of his shirt, ripping some of them, secretly preventing him from going to work after you’re finished with him. Unless you plaster your correcting concealers on him, he really can’t step a foot outside. The bruise you left on his column is huge, purply red, and the only thing it’s missing is bite marks. A joy rotates in you, rooting from the fact that you’re changing his plans, that you have an effect on him, and you unfold that emotion when you tug that shirt down his broad shoulders and press a kiss in the middle of his chest. 

But then Hobi grips your hair on the crown on your head, making you look at him. 

And you can’t explain it to yourself, why you like being manhandled like that, despite the freedom you just experienced. Like a child, whose father let her run free before he scolded her and told her to stop, for she ran for too long and it’s getting cold. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, lowly, and the tone etches itself onto your own throat because your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue, unabashed, dirty, throbbing.

“I need you to fuck me.” 

Hobi blinks, his brows rising, a light like a comet shooting past his irises before an unbounded, starless night shrouds them. 

You’ve done it. You’ve stained him. Now he needs to come all over you. Make a mess. Paint you again. 

He slackens his hold on your hair. Runs his hand down the length. “If I fuck you, I’ll breed you.” Curls his hand around your throat, where those words form a new necklace, plated with that rose gold. Your mouth parts, a moan falling past, your nectar in tandem, mind dizzy from the idea of being stuffed full of his cum. He flattens his palm over your sternum, hooks his fingers over the band of your bra in the middle of your breasts. You hope he chisels the lines of his hand into your skin. You want to wear him. “Are you on birth control?” 

You stopped taking it the moment you were broken up with. Didn’t think you’d need it so soon. Didn’t think you’d have a man in your life again, let alone sleep with him. 

Your body desires to please Hoseok so resolutely that a wisp of your regret swathes around his wrist—regret that you threw away those pills that are the driving force in his sexuality. He might have been okay with not taking this any further, but you’re not. You’re far, far from okay. 

You want to be bred. You want to be bred so much that you could cry. 

Your mouth pouts, but your sadness doesn’t touch your seduction. It merely heightens it. 

“You have a breeding kink?” you ask, mimicking his former words, causing him to drag his tongue over his lips slowly, divulging his arousal. It’s another tree that begins to grow in your orchard, planted by your bare hands. A cherry tree, its pink flowerets the flush that spreads across his prominent pecs. You want to make them shiny with your tongue. 

And you do. 

You place wet kisses over the underside of his left pec, nibbling on the skin, your small stature making it easy for you. Hobi inhales a sharp breath, sneaking his fingers under the cup of your bra, grasping your breast, squeezing until you whimper. 

“A severe breeding kink,” Hoseok corrects you, just like you did in his car. He pulls down your bra straps, his hand quick to undo the clasp on your back, disposing you of the undergarment, dropping it onto the ground. Gooseflesh spreads across your skin and you let him feel it, let him feel the effect he has on you by pressing yourself against him, twisting your arms around his torso. 

A tender hug, in the middle of a bonding moment. You’d be so happy, you’d laugh, you’d skip, if you had never thrown away those pills.

You wonder if he feels the drum of your heart, if he feels how it’s creating a brand new music that no human, no celestial being has ever heard before. 

“I stopped taking birth control several weeks ago, Hobi,” you say, your regret and your sadness lowering your tone. Hobi coos and it makes you want to sob. “Did you bring a condom?” 

He caresses your bare back, your hair a stream of a waterfall that he parts with his hand. “No, I didn’t expect this to happen.” 

You do the same for him, burying your face deeper into his chest, perceiving that you’re embracing a pure angel. You engrave patterns into his skin, feathers of wings that are dripping with the fire of stars. Even though you’re dying to get fucked, this tenderness is, little by little, appeasing your darkness in a way you don’t really understand. 

“We don’t have to do anything. I can make you come with my mouth again,” Hobi says, drifting his nails along the perimeter of your shoulder blade while his other hand grips your waist. The memory of the moons to the sky you paint on his back.

You lift your head. Meet the gray clouds in his eyes. “You want to breed me that bad?” 

A smile curls one end of his mouth. “It’s what you deserve.” 

The same smile finds a way to your mouth, then blossoms into a grin, your heart a heavy music, and you press it into the middle of his chest. Bite him there, his growls another instrument in the song. He clutches the hair at the nape of your neck, coaxing out a similar sound, your darkness a wave that ebbs to and fro. 

“Put it in my ass, then.” 

Hobi calls you by your name, sternly. 

“What?” 

He sighs. “You want to get fucked in your ass on the first date?” 

You don’t know what part of his sentence makes you hiccup. Whether it’s his purity, the fact that such an angel voiced out that lewd desire of yours and didn’t jump head-first into its sea—or whether he acknowledged, once again, that this is a date. Hobi laughs, endearingly, and you blush. He kisses your cheek, lifting your chin, placing a chaste kiss onto your lips and you could die right now and know you’ll be entering the pearly gates. He’s saved a spot for you there, negotiated with God that you’ll spend your eternity there like the businessman he is. 

It’s what propels you to get on your knees. 

“Baby.” 

And it’s him stopping you each time you want more that makes you fall for him harder. 

“You’re so good to me, Hoseok, I can’t help it. I want to give back to you as much as I can.” 

He utters a low, deep curse, tipping up his chin as he cradles your face in both hands. Helps you stand to your feet, kisses you with something that doesn’t resemble the chastity of before and you moan into his mouth, digging moons into his back. You press your pelvis against his thighs, frustrated that you can’t reach his manhood and Hobi hears you, lifts you up and you wrap your legs around him, grinding your femininity against his manliness, squeaking the same curses down his throat. 

“Fuck, baby, grind that pussy on me like that. Just like that, yes. You learn well, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, you just need to get fucked, don’t you, baby?” 

You agree with every word, your expression of pleasure saying the words for you, and Hobi moans, pushing your hips down on him while he meets you each time. 

“Where’s your bedroom, baby?” 

“Down the hall. First door to the right.” 

You suck on his neck as he takes you there, plopping you down onto the edge of your bed. You watch your hands undo the button of his pants, but then he accidentally kicks into something and you know exactly what it is. 

An orange Nike box filled with the two toys you own. 

And Hobi wouldn’t have crouched to get it had you not started giggling. 

How thrilling it is—to see him holding something so private, something no one has ever seen before. 

He palms his cock once he discovers what’s inside, rolling his eyes back. He throws the box next to you on the mattress, pushing you back and ripping your panties out of your body in a split second. Your giggles die, replaced by whimpers, replaced by the beat of your clit and his vulgarities as he pins your knees down, gazing, lovingly, at the way your nectar trickles down to your other hole. He bends to lick it up and you die, too. 

“Naughty fucking girl. How can you be so naughty and so good at the same time? You’re making me lose my mind,” Hobi snarls, putting his entire weight into the back of your knees and you gush for him, gasping, not able to take his praise, your hips instinctually raising for more of his tongue, which he slaps your thigh for. Once, twice, three times, four times until you whimper so loudly that there’s nothing else left for him to do but let up, grab your pink hitachi and lay down on his back, guide you to sit on his face. 

It’s now that he takes the time to ogle your body. His night-tinged eyes glide along your tan lines, his fingers tracing them, making you shudder and rotate your hips above his mouth that he wets and keeps wetting as if it’s not enough to quench his thirst. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, brushing the pads of his fingers along your stiffened nipples. Fireworks shoot out above your orchard, casting a rainbow of colors upon the trees and bushes. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you to have you like this. You belong to that museum, baby, but I’d die if someone were to look at you in my place.” 

His possessiveness coated with so much affection and admiration for you elongate your imaginary wings. And you can’t halt the rounding of your mouth, the pool of tears that line your eyes, the cracking of your heart as you take in his precious words. You feel like flying; you feel like soaring free with the knowledge that with the two beats of his own wings he’ll catch up to you, fly with you like two doves. 

You want to kiss him. Pay your gratitude that way and when you begin to crawl down his body, he stops you by grabbing your waist, immobilizing you above his face. 

“Stay where you are. You’re not sitting on my cock until you come on my tongue. Is that what you want? Ride Daddy’s cock until he covers you with his cum?” 

You can’t take it anymore. You simply can’t. 

Hobi turns the vibrator to life and its buzzing sound makes you quiver. You lower yourself onto his mouth that he quickly opens for you, darting out his tongue. He lets you ride the muscle, guiding your hips to twirl in circles, and you hold onto your breasts for emotional support as you sense yourself slowly disappearing in him, in the pleasure he gives you, in his warm, dark aura. 

Your mouth has no lock, no force to stop it from speaking. 

“I was wrong, Hoseok,” you start, changing the direction—swinging your hips back and forth as you grab onto his hair with one hand while the other stimulates your nipple, making you pant, whine and so terribly out of it. “It’s not your game that’s out of this world. It’s your fucking dirty talk.” 

Hobi hums, flicking your hand away and pinching your nipple, causing you to tip your head back and pour more vigor into your movement, his mouth too busy to respond. 

“If you ever talk to anyone like this that’s not me, I’ll kill her, you hear me? She won’t live to see the next day.” 

It’s Hobi now that can’t seem to take it anymore. 

Holding you steady by the waist, he sits up, sucking on your clit with so much strength that you scream, your body shuttering so violently that you completely lose yourself. He throws you onto your pillows, raises your hips until they’re at level with his mouth and finishes his fucking job. Alternates between sucking and licking, stars flooding your vision, the ones you traced on his beautiful, broad back. 

You come and you don’t stop. 

Hobi spits on your clit and presses down the hitachi on it, moving it from side to side, your orgasm prolonging, reaching highs beyond the heavenly kind and all you can see is him, doused in colors that glimmer and his name, the right variation of it this time, falls from your lips like a prayer. Right variation, right prayer. 

Virgin Mary that is looking at her God. 

Setting the toy and your bum on the bed, he takes both of your hands into his fist as you’re still convulsing, in the middle of your undying orgasm. He lines his cock at your entrance, changes his mind last minute, and glides it along your sensitive pussy, holding himself at the base. Back and forth, the ebb and the flow of the sea. The sight does anything but calm you down. It supports the continuation of your orgasm. 

“Listen to me very carefully,” he whispers, lowering your hands to his manhood until they wrap around him. “This cock has been yours the moment you came out of this fucking building to meet me outside. Every ridge, every fucking vein is yours.” He squeezes your hold against him, moving it up and down in an agonizing way that makes him shudder just the same. God at a very breaking point. “And these—” He groans as he uses your hands to cup his balls. “These fucking kids are all yours. Yours to swallow. Yours to decorate this beautiful body with. Yours to stuff your little hole with.” Your chest doesn’t rise with any inhalation of breath. You’re motionless, bloodless, paralyzed through and through. Scorching to the touch. Horny beyond your senses. Hobi pins your hands above your head, lining himself up, at last, at your entrance. Sinks inside you in one swift, but vigorous motion until he’s buried in deep to the hilt and he consumes your scream, kissing you so hard that he sucks every last drop of life you had in you. Then, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing its tip as well. “So don’t think for a second that these eyes are for anyone else but you.” A brutal thrust. A yelp. A loss of time and surroundings. “I’m yours, pup. I’m fucking yours.” A mad, mad laughter. “I’ve known you for a week. Ate your pussy first before I kissed you. And you touched yourself in my fucking car because you got horny from the way I praised you in that museum. How could I not be yours?”

The pet name, the magnificence of his sonnet, the stillness of his cock as you clench around him—the very cozy feeling of him being at home, being at the mountain of Athos that you blessed. You feel so small beneath him, so taken care of—and you’re at loss for words, though only one remains in your otherwise erased vocabulary, and from the top of your lungs, you utter it.

“Daddy.” 

His imaginary wings flutter, the pink swelling over the black, and he growls, letting go of your hands and folding you in half, leaning his weight on the back of your thighs. Props an overlapped pillow beneath your bum, so you’re at the perfect level for him to start fucking you properly.

And he does, coaxing out your screams, causing your legs to shake on either side of his shoulders. 

“That’s right, pup. I’m your Daddy. You’re doing so good, screaming for me the way I like it.” 

Hobi pounds into you, giving you a half of his length that’s more than enough. Bends at the waist to scatter wet kisses along the back of your thigh, filling you to the hilt as he does so, your juices squelching around him, making such a serene, glorious sound that forces him to bite down hard onto your flesh. No alleviation after, just long and ruthless strokes while he stares down at you, eating you with his eyes. The ghost of the pain lingers, adding to the experience, adding volume to your whiny noises. 

“You’re taking it so well. You’re a good pup, aren’t you?” 

You sob, the pressure gyrating deep in your lower tummy, the pet name the thing that will throw you over the edge if he calls you by it again. “Yes, Daddy. I love it when you call me that.” 

A hum. “Oh, yeah?” 

There he fucking goes again. 

A dam rushes to break and you’re defenseless.

“Yeah, I love it so much that it’s gonna make me come.” 

Hobi sucks in a breath. “Tell me you’re my good little pup and I’ll let you come.” The same breath he inhaled lodges in your throat and you watch him with a blurry vision reach over for your hitachi and turn up the intensity until the vibrations are so loud that you hear them echoing within your headspace.

He fucks you faster, ridding you of any chance to speak. Teases you with the toy by placing it, barely, on your stiffened nipple, leaning over to moisten it with his tongue before doing it again. And you can’t stop it and neither can he, the way your orgasm overtakes your whole being. It’s at this moment, when he thrusts become sloppy, that you manage to croak out the words he wanted you to say. 

“I’m your good little pup, Hoseok, oh fuck, yes, yes,” you whisper, your sentence blending into an efflux of legato moans—and this, this is his very undoing. 

And Hobi does something you didn’t expect him to do. 

As colors burst in your perspective and your orgasm drags you under, he stimulates your clit with the toy, pulling out of you and pressing his tip against its vibrating side, growling so deeply that it forces your juices out of you, sprinkling him with its iridescent drops as he tugs at his length. He paints your stomach, paints the hitachi, his nectar so enormous that it lands upon your breasts, even as far as on your neck. His body glistens in sweat and now your essence—and looking at him with your hazy vision, another orgasm rolls in. 

You thrash your body so hard he has to pin you down, ripping the pillow out from behind you, laying down his weight on you. He kisses you and the lip lock lasts, seemingly, for a century. He moves his mouth against yours, basking in the feel of your puffy mouth as he alters between kissing you harshly and kissing you gently, getting to know you this way. 

And when he lets up to breathe, he brushes your hair away, flings the vibrator out until it falls off the bed. 

“Say it again,” Hobi says, affection flashing in his now rounded eyes, its warmth thumping. “Louder, for me.” 

Your throat is dry, but you manage to do it with a sleepy smile. Think you would do anything to please him. “I’m your good little pup.” 

Cupping your face, he kisses you with such tenderness that you begin to cry. Your tears soak his cheeks and he whimpers into your mouth, moved just the same by the depth, the vibrancy of the energy thickening between you. 

And when he looks at you, his own tears rush in his waterline. 

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, pausing for a second. “What have you done to me?”

When afternoon rolls in, Hobi is still tangled up in your sheets. You brought him breakfast to bed, one you didn’t burn this time, while he rested, naked and gratified, still flushed in pink, but clean from your shower. His patchouli scent intermingled with your body wash, cinnamon and lemon, concocting something intoxicating in you that made you see him with a halo above his head. He became a saint by giving in to his desires, by coming so hard that you still feel his hot ropes of cum singeing all those sensitive, intimate parts of your body. Hobi took his time tracing and smearing each and every drop, rubbing it deep in you as if he was digging a grave for your past. And you watched him do it, with tear-stained cheeks, acknowledging yourself, just as intimately, with the information that this is something Hobi likes to do.

You plan to put that into practice the next time you get to touch him. 

He’s grazing his fingers along your arm as you’re laying halfway on your side, halfway on him, your leg in between his. Seems to be lost in thought, seems to be searching for his words when he widens his travel across your body, going as far as to the peaks of your shoulder blades before returning back. You feel an inkling to help him, feel like it’s the least you can do. 

“What are you thinking about?” you try, dragging a finger across his collarbone. Hobi sighs, so terribly reactive to your touch, your head lifting in such a calming manner as he breathes in and out. 

“Did I scare you with what I said?”

His heart under your ear begins to hammer and right away you understand the gravity of his question. He’s lost himself in a flashback of today’s sinful events, but stumbled across a high, overpowering mountain of his bared emotions—the blessed mountain of Athos. And it seems as though he’s forgotten the way back, the trees around him growing dense, the trees of panic that whisper to him that, maybe, he made a mistake. 

You hope, with every fiber of your being, that he doesn’t regret those words of beauty that have come to live under your skin like planets in the universe that you and he have created. 

That would ruin you. That would break you—and not in the pleasant kind that you like. That universe would drop upon you and you don’t think you’re strong enough to pick up your own half of your creation, shake it off and learn to live again. 

You straddle him and he covers you with your duvet. Not your naked breasts, but your torso, inviting you into that island. You thought he did to prevent distraction from weakening his focus, but he doesn’t regard your body like that—doesn’t regard it as an instrument of lust. Something about that moves you, enough for you to take his hands, your thumbs in the middle of his palms, and spatter your soft kisses on them. On his fingers, his knuckles. And when you reach the back of his hand, you halt, boring your gaze into his, catching that comet flying past his eyes again and staying this time, staying in the glint that appears as his brown pools wet. 

“Your words mean a lot to me. I carry them in my heart. You know that poem?” 

Hobi shakes his head, flattening his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment. 

You don’t mind. You’re delighted to enlighten him. 

“I carry your heart with me,” you recite, keeping the heel of his palm against your lips. “I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling,” you finish the first stanza of the poem that has not left your bloodstream ever since you were a teenage girl. Sharing that with him brings out a sea of feelings you remember your past self invariably longed to swim in. Tenderness, closeness, passion. Having it now feels as though you’ve passed a milestone. Hobi’s halo flashes with a rosy pink hue and your softened heart constricts. “The things you said were my doing, Hobi.” 

He caresses your side, starting from your armpit, going down the side of your breast, your waist until he arrives at the fleshy part of your hip, which he grasps. His chin quivers as he opens his mouth to speak and a lump forms in your throat. 

“You’re a poem, pup,” he whispers, circling his thumb over your tummy. “You don’t mind that I said those things?” 

You kiss his hands again, upon the same places to make your affection last longer on his skin. Your clit awakens at the pet name and naturally, you scooch over until you’re sat on his soft manhood over the duvet and you begin to move your hips back and forth. Hobi hisses, but doesn’t stop you this time. Lets you do what you want in the safety you conjured around him. 

“Say them again.” 

You speed up your movement. 

Hobi moans. Pauses. Swallows. Thinks. “I’m yours.” 

You grind harder in reward, moaning with him, feeling him stiffen under your clit, feeling him comprehend that you love those declarations. 

“My cock is yours,” he breathes out, his other hand joining the other and gripping your hip, digging in his nails. Another half moons, another beauty, intensifying the pleasure. You lick your fingertips and pinch your nipples. Hobi shudders, visibly, underneath you. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna have to cancel my work meeting.” 

You laugh, meekly but seductively, prolonging your thrusts, slowing them down, coaxing pained groans out of him. A delight. “Who said I wanted you to go?” 

Hobi curses, switching places with you on a whim that surprises you, bends you over, arches your back by lifting your bum in the air. The duvet falls, sadly, off of the mattress—and your soul, for him, falls equivalently. 

He slaps the side of your thigh. One, twice, thrice. “Who’s pussy is this?” 

You long to see him, your soul begs for it. Whispers to you to grab your phone and you do, swiping your finger on the screen and angling it so your camera has a blissful view of him. Of him fixed, darkly, on your ass and your femininity in the middle. 

Curious to know what’s taking you so long to answer, his brows rise as he discovers what you’re doing and he bites his lip, pulls on your legs to straighten them and you plop down on the mattress with a loosened breath. He gets in the same position. Licks over the swell of your ass cheek. 

“Film it. Film yourself telling me who’s pussy this is,” Hoseok commands and in a millisecond, without a thought spared, you click on the red button, excitement tingling your nerves. 

“My pussy is yours, Hoseok.” 

His eyes flick to the camera, meeting your stare, and your breath hitches, the view so attractive as he mouths that skin, marking it. He sneaks a hand to your clit, lifting his body a little, and spanks the spot he bruised. You gasp, elated, humming in a high-pitched tone, causing him to smirk. 

“Ride my hand. Whose pussy is this, baby, hm?” 

You snap your hips, furrowing your brows at the faint pleasure, at the desperation that courses through your veins. 

“Yours, Hoseok, ah, fuck. I want you inside me, please.” 

And he takes you, right there on camera, from behind—immortalizing your inside joke as you and him mention it and laugh about it together, immortalizing the way he paints your wings that ivory color and the way he rubs it in, sinking it deep within its membrane. 

And when you’re so spent that you can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi is drifting his mouth over your breasts, he tells you to send it to him. And with one cracked open, you do. 

It’s later in the evening that you find out that it wasn’t Hobi you sent that video to and your blood freezes. 

Your phone rings and Jungkook’s picture fills the screen. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah, @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 4: Reap the Whirlwind

The physical body does not exist within the afterlife, instead the land is inhabited by the souls of the dead or departed. Resurrection repairs the mortal coil, but godly wounds ceaselessly weep. Thus, a god cannot survive death without the healing properties of a conduit crown. Despite this many have tried, though normally its not someone else's power keeping them clinging to the margins of life. A power now bonded through the sheer force of will to share a lonely throne. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~ ~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

Rage. Betrayal. Vengeance.

Their fight filled the afterlife with destruction and violence. Two gods wrestling for the key to their power. Blade and blood met flame and fury.

Narinder was an old god, powerful beyond measure even in his imprisonment. He had commanded life and death, and weilded curses effortlessly. Una would not be the first god he'd killed.

Yet fate had other plans.

She crackled with divine energy, dancing around his attacks effortlessly.

Lucky.

It felt like ages, and yet before he knew it, it was over. Her blade, made of his crown, plunged into his chest, and his eldritch form crumbled. A god defeated, reduced to nothing.

And then...

Pain. Nothing but searing hot, agonizing pain. Narinder felt lost in a sea of torment, his body suddenly awash with screaming flesh. Through burning nerves he distantly noticed the world around him felt different, the brittle bone meal landscape of the gateway gone. Instead, he felt stone, grass, and chill air against his skin. His eyes felt like hot coals shoved in their sockets, and even trying to open them felt like a dagger to the skull. The sensations were nothing but a candle to the raging inferno of suffering. In another time, he wondered if this was what the mortals he damned in the afterlife felt like. Perhaps that was his fate now. Eternal pain. Fitting. Yet as he laid there, squirming weakly in the depths of agony, something approached. "Nrdnr?! Hly Shtt!" Muffled words reached his ears, soft hands scrambling over his skin. Some demonic tormentor, come to perpetuate or relish in his state? "Hld Stlll! Fgk Fgk!" It was impossible to think over the agony, and they pushed away his hands as he feebly tried to fend them off. The cold ground under him suddenly felt warm and sticky, the silken robes he wore suddenly wet with something. "Hre! Ths iz phor thg baain." His attacker grabbed his head, shoving some vial of something against his lips. The biter oily fluid hit the back of his throat, a spasm of coughs making his body jerk and flail, each one feeling like barbed wire was being flossed through his bones. This really was hell. Hands yanked his tattered robes off, exposing his skin to the cold air. Some kind of cloth wrapped around his arms, pulled tight against the angry nerves. More on his chest, pushed against the spaces in his ribs where an echo of betrayal now bled. Two betrayals. Twice now he'd trusted and lost for it. At least the last time he hadn't been alive to feel what dying was like. "Hold still! Where did all this blood come from?!" A sudden calmness entered his mind, and the fire of agony faded into a foggy, numb abyss. Narinder opened his eyes. Stars met him, the half moon's pale light shining down. He tilted his head up, the movement feeling like lifting a boulder. Some figure hunched over him, their hands covered in inky black liquid as they quickly unrolled another bandage and began wrapping it around his chest. Almost instantly the white fabric turned black. The fog around his head grew thicker, eyes fluttering heavily as consciousness became fleeting and fickle. The figure glanced at him, red meeting red. Despite his injuries, Narinder still possessed enough strength to recognize them.

"Narinder," Una's voice poured with grief. "I'm so sorry, please just hold on. Its going to be okay."

Another empty deceitful lie. "Una..." he muttered, voice a mere whisper through his scratchy and weak throat. "Narinder?" Her eyes wept a river of tears, the guilt in her words echoed across her face. The traitorous eye of his former crown gazed down from atop her head, watching with unending apathy. Rage bloomed in his oozing chest, a small surge of fury granting him some measure of energy. He summoned all of his remaining power, defiance filling his fading mind. "Fuck you." Darkness.

[daryl-dixons-wife2211]

SURVIVING TOGETHER

Daryl Dixon X f!reader

Chapter 1:Invisible strings

When I moved to Georgia, I didn't expect to be living in Hell. I moved under the impression that I could reinvent myself amongst the peach trees and the southern hospitality. Instead I'm cowering in my van with my dogs, listening to the sound of the end of the world- the sound of the walking dead.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

I shouldn't have made so much noise. I thought we were safe out in the woods, but each day that goes by is a harsh reminder that nowhere is safe- nowhere. I'm out of breath from running, but my two dogs and I managed to make it to the van without being eaten alive. The only thing is, now the van is surrounded by the dead. The dogs, a five year old husky and his German shepherd little brother, are perfectly still and I try to mimic their silence. The windows are shrouded by curtains that I'm glad I hung yesterday. Maybe if we're quiet, they'll go away? I'm at least hoping that's the case. I'm still trying to learn the rules for these freaks.

Hours pass as I lie low, but the dead persist, their relentless scratching becoming almost rhythmic. Amidst the chorus of frogs and rustling leaves, their dreadful moans are all I can focus on. After a while, the scratching seems to lessen, but there's still at least 5 of them surrounding the van. I'm too tired to care anymore- I'm not going anywhere soon and neither are they, so I finally close my eyes to attempt at least a nap. The peace is fleeting, lasting all of 3 minutes before I can't take it anymore. I fling my eyes open. I guess we'll be here all night.

I sit for what feels like several more hours, thinking about what to do if these freaks aren't gone by morning. I'm about to start forming Plan F, when I feel the dogs start to perk up. I wouldn't pay much attention, if it weren't for their ears frantically swiveling like little satellites. They hear something, and it's not anything dead.

I sit up as much as I can, and try to peek through the corner of the window. About 30 feet away I see two figures hiding behind a couple trees. I watch as they stealthily bob and weave closer- one with a gun, the other with a crossbow. This could either be really bad, or my saving grace. The dogs get restless as the gun shots start to sound. They're being so good, so quiet, but I can feel the anxiety rising up in them.

More gunshots and a few arrows later, the dead are all...well...dead. I quietly grab a rifle I keep under the passenger seat, anticipating the worst. I can hear them now that the freaks aren't making noise. Those figures turn out to be two men- great. I prop the gun against my shoulder and listen as they start to argue.

"Who the hell cares? Let's move on." the shorter one with the crossbow says. "That damn van has somethin' in it. Why else would they be around it like that?" the second man bites back. I freeze. I did not like his tone- this is not going to be good. "The sons a'bitches are stupid. There's nothin' in there." the first man hurls back. I can't make out what the taller one replies, but whatever it was, it irritates his friend. The shorter one stomps over to the truck and I tense with fear and anticipation. Mumbling curses the whole way, he reaches the van and the dogs get into position, waiting for my command. The man puts his hand on the door handle and I place my finger firmly on the trigger. I take a deep breath in and the man rips the door open.

We both freeze, crossbow and rifle pointed at each other. He looks a little surprised, so I'm not sure he really expected to see anything, or anyone, in here- much less two big dogs. The dogs don't growl, which is unusual for them, but their bodies are still stiff with anticipation in case I give the signal to attack.

The man and I just look at each other. I can't read his expression, but he's not making any other move towards me, so I don't make any towards him. An unexpected stillness settles between us. The longer this goes on, the more I'm able to take him in and, quite frankly, he's gorgeous. Not like, Hemsworth brother gorgeous, but like, random stranger you cross paths with at a gas station gorgeous. Hot enough that it momentarily erases the danger I felt before. His eyes, a piercing blue, betray no malice. Men usually trigger some sort of fight or flight response from me, but not this one. I have no idea what makes me feel this way, but he seems...safe? He keeps staring deep into my eyes and I'm ensnared. Silently, he puts one finger to his lips, signaling for me to stay quiet. His steely blue eyes look me and the dogs up and down and he slowly lowers his crossbow. The way he's looking at me is so soft, so gentle. I can't tell what he's thinking, but against my better judgment, I lower my rifle. He looks so deep into my eyes I forget where I am, until, that is, I hear his friend yell "You find anything? What's in there?". I wait for the man to sell me out, but he doesn't. "Nah. Nothin' in here. Just a few empty beer cans" he calls out in the raspiest voice I've ever heard. I swear I even see him smirk a little as he closes the door and joins his friend. I watch out the window in disbelief as he fades into the night. After they're gone, it takes me until almost daybreak to settle back down. My mind races, and I can't stop thinking about it.

I get the feeling that man saved my life.

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

A few days had passed and, thankfully, I hadn't crossed paths with the men again. That is, until the screaming started. I had been sprawled across the front seats of my van reading a book, my favorite in fact, when the shrill sound echoed amongst the trees. I drop my battered copy of Pride and Prejudice on the floorboard and jolt to a seated position. I was born with a crippling need for peace and justice, so deciding to investigate and potentially solve a problem for someone was a no-brainer. I hop out of the driver's seat and slide the van door open. Gesturing inside, I call for the dogs. Maverick and Kai both leap out of the woods, following my command. They leap in the back of the van and I slide the door shut, then climb back behind the wheel.

With all the echoing, I can't pinpoint the sound of the screams, so I just drive in the general direction. I find a dirt road that seems to be following the path nicely, so I hop onto that. I seem to be getting closer to the cries for help and soon come upon a circular clearing about an acre around. The screams all make sense now, as I gaze upon not just one person, but a whole group of people- the most I've seen since the world was engulfed into madness. Men, women, and even children are huddled back to back in a circle, surrounded by the dead freaks. They're fighting as hard as they can, but they're never going to make it. There's too many of them and they don't have very much to defend themselves with. Desperation is written all over their faces, but for me, this will be cake. I might even have time to read some more before it gets dark.

I drive further into the clearing and stop about 50 yards away. No one even notices me until I get out of the van, which, coincidentally for me right now, is actually a police van that I stole out of the Atlanta P.D. parking garage when everything went down. I've never gotten to use any of the toys inside it, so this will be fun. I slide the back door open and look my sweet boys in the eyes. "If you boys do a good job and help these people I'll give you both some peanut butter." I say, cradling their snouts in my hands. I let them jump down onto the grass and giggle as they wait, tails wagging furiously, for my command. "Alright boys- CAST".

The dogs speed off towards the group in peril as I work on turning the red and blue lights atop the van on. I grab the old iPod I scavenged and plug it up to the van's speaker system. At this point the dogs are running in circles between the scared people and the walkers that surround them. I watch as the people look stunned, but no less scared. I almost giggle to myself, as I think about how shocking the sight must be, but then I notice something. Amongst the group of people is the man with the crossbow. You've got to be kidding me- I haven't run into people in a week, how have I run into this man twice in 4 days?

I guess at this point I owe him one, so I'm filled with an even greater sense of need to help these people. I grab my iPod again and navigate to the first song I see, "American Idiot" by Green Day. I grab the hand held microphone connected to the van's megaphone and call out, "HEY FREAKS! OVER HERE!" I hit play on the song and turn the volume up to the max. It roars across the clearing, causing most of the undead to slowly turn and begin their crawl towards me. "Mav, look back. Kai, come by" I command the dogs, instructing Maverick to catch the stragglers and Kai to keep herding the main group as they limp towards me. I wait until the herd gets about halfway to the van before I turn it around and creep slowly away. The freaks have completely abandoned the frightened group and have eyes only for the flashing lights and music pouring out of the van speakers. Mission accomplished.

"Alright boys. Come here." I use the megaphone to call again. Maverick and Kai race back to the van and leap in through the side door I left open. "Good boys." I praise them. We drive off with the freaks following us, never letting them get too close. I shoot one last look at the group we just successfully saved. Their puzzled expressions amuse me, but I can't help but picture what would have happened if I wasn't there with just the right equipment at just the right time. I used to think the world was scary. Now, it's a living nightmare.

After 30ish minutes of driving the herd away, I decide to lose them and speed up, turning the lights off and the music down. I can't stop thinking about the man with the crossbow. I guess we're even now, but I don't want even. I want to figure him out- I want to be near him. Why do I feel this way? I should just be grateful I've survived another encounter with him and move on, but I have a gut feeling this won't be our last meeting. As I drive I think about his captivating eyes raking my body up and down and how I wish they'd do it again.

Looks like I was right. I do have enough time for another chapter before dark.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

I didn’t sleep well last night. Yesterday’s events have been replaying in my head relentlessly. I moved to Georgia to be alone. I wanted that. After everything I had gone through, I just needed space, but now I can’t help thinking about my family back home. Can’t help but wonder if they’re even alive, or if they faced a scene similar to what nearly happened to that group yesterday. Did they have someone looking out for them, too?

I should’ve been there for them. I shouldn’t have left. I’m trying not to beat myself up about it- after all, how was I supposed to know the world was going to end? The isolation is getting to me though- I just want my family back. I dry the tears that have been slowly running down my face for the past hour and look out amongst the woods from the tree I climbed and settled in earlier. I don’t know where the dogs have wandered off to, but I hope they’ve found themselves a rabbit or something. They wouldn’t eat yesterday, no matter how many times I tried to feed them the cans of spam and vienna sausages I had. It's almost like they know I don’t have much food left. I’m not really sure what my gameplan is out here, but I do know I don’t plan on outliving these dogs for very long. With my family being on the other side of the country, these sweet dogs are all I’ve got keeping me going right now.

My pity party is interrupted when I start hearing footsteps. My eyes scan the woods below until I see a man crouched behind a rock and rub my eyes again. I have to be seeing things, because there’s no way I have run into the crossbow man for a third time. I follow his line of sight and see the object of his fascination. It’s a deer, and a beautiful one at that. I watch as he lifts the scope to his eye and takes aim. He’s never going to make that- there’s too many trees, he doesn’t have a good vantage point, and there’s a slight breeze. He settles in, waits a few seconds, and pulls the trigger. His arrow goes soaring towards the animal, but hits a tree about 3 feet from it. “Dammit.” I hear him mutter to himself.

With little to no thought, I decide to do something crazy and aim my rifle at the deer. He’s going to need this deer for his group and I’ve got a perfect view. I line the shot up, take a breath, and pull the trigger. The deer goes down from an absolutely flawless shot, if I do say so myself. I quietly celebrate my success and look down to find the crossbow’d man is not only very surprised, but he’s not alone. I should’ve thought this through a little more.

I count about four men total. “Guess you guys weren’t holding me up after all. Which one of you just shot that?” my mystery man asks. The other three just stare at him. “We were together the whole time and none of us shot anything.” one man wearing a baseball jersey says, very nervously. “Where’s my brother? Must’ve been him then.” he surmises. The man with his shirt tucked in replied in a thick drawl, “He went to piss. Left his gun with us.” They all look at each other perplexed. Wordlessly, they all take up their respective weapons and start scanning around them. Three of them keep their eyesight level, but Crossbow Man starts scanning in the trees above. He must be a hunter. I quietly sigh- I didn’t really consider what might happen after I shot the deer. I guess I’m going to have to do a big reveal before Crossbow Man sees a dark figure in the tree and shoots me down. If I’m going to get shot I’d at least like credit for the deer first.

I grab my backpack I had lodged in between branches, toss my gun on my back, and make the descent. I’m almost completely down before they even hear my movements. They all whirl around and watch me plop on the ground. Only two of them have guns, but they’re both pointed at me, so I put my hands up in surrender. Crossbow Man, however, is looking at me with a mix of wonder and amusement, crossbow dangling at his side.

“Who the hell are you?” the one with the drawl demands. “Hey! It’s Green Day!” baseball jersey laughs. “What the hell are you talking about Glenn?” the same man questions. “She’s the one who saved us yesterday! The girl with the dogs!” Glenn says, getting more excited with every word.

“Why the random acts of kindness? What do you want? Where are the dogs?” the first man rapid fires questions, gun still drawn and taking a step towards me. All valid questions, but I don’t enjoy his vibe. Something about him seems off, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.

“Nothing- I swear. Look, I just saw your friend miss the shot and I had a clear view so I thought I’d help. I know you guys have kids. It’s not a big deal, really. I’ll leave now. The deer is all yo-” I get cut off by two long, low, disembodied growls. Dang it. The boys are back.

The men all jump and look like they’re about to pee themselves. One man even drops his gun. “Eeeeeasy boys. These guys are our friends.” I say to the dogs, still hidden somewhere waiting for their cue to “handle” the situation. “You guys might want to lower your guns, they make the dogs nervous.” I warn.

“Shane, she was up in that tree and we didn’t even know. She could’ve gunned us all down and she didn’t. She saved us yesterday and she didn’t have to. She doesn’t want anything.” Glenn argues. “Just put your gun down before we get mauled.”

“I’m sorry, they’re just protective. They won’t actually hurt you without me giving the order. Boys, heel.” I call, slapping the outside of my thigh gently. Maverick and Kai reveal themselves and heel to my sides, heckles still slightly raised. “I’m leaving now. Shoot me if you must, I guess.” I say, turning around slowly. I take all of three steps before Glenn yells for me to wait. I turn back around to see him whispering something to Shane. He signals for the other two men to join and I wait while they furiously discuss something, Shane still pointing that stupid gun at my torso. It looks like whatever it is, Glenn is winning. I suddenly remember the Crossbow Man, and glance over at him. He’s watching me very closely. My cheeks heat up, and I tear my gaze back towards Shane and Glenn. Shane finally looks at me again, and slowly lowers his gun.

“Glenn over here seems to think you’d be a good addition to our group.” Shane says, clearly irritated. “How’s about you stick around?”

“For what? To be an extra three mouths to feed? If you haven’t noticed, the dogs are a little attached to me. It’d be a package deal.” I counter. Now they’re the ones making me suspicious.

The last man, the one that dropped his gun, finally pipes up, “With a shot like that, you seem like you’d pull your own weight. I’m Jim by the way. What’s your name?”

“...Y/N”, I confess, looking at the three of them. Glenn certainly seems safe. Jim seems alright. I definitely don’t like Shane, but I’m not sure if he’s necessarily dangerous. I look back at the crossbow’d man, still watching me closely, and ask him, “what do you think?”. I can tell the question throws everyone off a bit. He takes a second, looks at the other men, twitches his jaw, then says, “these are good people.”

Good enough for me. I’m about to say as much, when a fifth man emerges from behind the group and says “Well hello Miss. Officer. Fancy seeing you way out here without any of your asshole bodyguards. You still got those handcuffs? Me and you might need those later this fine evening.”

“...MERLE DIXON? You’ve GOT to be kidding me.” I blurt out loud.

“Wait- you know each other?” Glenn asks?

“Unfortunately,” I reply, my voice dripping with disdain, “I hope that doesn’t change your mind.”

Merle waltzes over to me with a shit eating grin, but before he can get anywhere close, both dogs start barking their heads off. He gets the message and backs away, hands up in surrender.

Glenn just smiles, happy as can be, “Nope! You can still come!”

“Cool- I’ll come,” I say as nonchalantly as possible- don’t want to get too excited and make Shane even more suspicious. “My van isn’t far. If you guys work together we can throw the deer in the back and drive it to wherever you guys are staying.”

“You’re not going to help?” Jim says, looking at me.

Hmm. Maybe Jim needs to be on my watch list too. “I shot it? Do I have to do everything?” I throw back at him.

Crossbow Man laughs. I almost forgot he was there, but looking at him again suddenly has me putting the puzzle pieces together. I look at Merle in shock. “Daryl?” I say pointing at the man with the crossbow. “Yes Ma’am. Told you I was the good lookin’ one.” He says. I cannot believe society has collapsed and animated corpses are roaming around feeding on living flesh, yet I have still managed to run into Merle Dixon in the middle of the woods- and to top it all off, the mystery man I’ve been daydreaming about comes from the same gene pool.

Fantastic.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

[xfilesinamajor]

Second in Command

There are days—more and more, lately—when he forgets that home even exists. The fig trees, the goats, the view from the palace at the top of the hill, stone floors and a soft bed, the background noise of the slaves gossiping, the sound of Ctimene’s laughter. It feels as if all of that was not a different lifetime, but an ancient fever dream, something that never really existed at all.

What does cheese taste like? All he can think of is the underripe fruit they find on the shores of tiny inlets, and the fish they catch and share. There’s never enough of either. Not enough for 42, let alone the 600 who left Troy two years ago.

At least he thinks it was two years. Elpinor was the one counting, keeping track, diligently marking every time the sun rose. Maybe it’s just as well he died on Circe’s island. There were no dawns in the Underworld, no storms or meals to judge how much time was passing. Were they there one day, or twelve? The constant hunger, fitful sleep, and strange visions made it hard to tell.

He had looked for Elpinor, down there. Because his death had been so fresh, and so stupid. To survive the war, the cyclops, the storm, the sea god, the witch, only to fall from a roof? Where was the justice in that?

He should know better than to expect justice by now, in any form. Most of the time, he does. Justice is a useful tool in ruling an island or fighting a war, but when it comes to survival…

Anyway, he didn’t see Elpinor in the Underworld. He saw the face of the first man he killed in battle, staring unblinkingly up at him from the murky waters, as if judging him silently. Just as he’d done when he fell to the ground outside the walls of Troy, the light of life fading from his eyes as one hand weakly crept toward the spear in his throat.

He could have screamed into the waters, as some men had. Demanded to know what the dead wanted of him. It was a war. He hadn’t asked to go, but he had vowed not to bring shame to himself and his family once he got there. He had a beautiful bride waiting for him, and parents to make proud, and whatever these Trojans had done to incur the wrath of Menelaus, he was going to do his best to destroy them. He has no business feeling guilt over the death of one pathetic enemy soldier. By now he is responsible for the deaths of hundreds. None of the others followed their ship through the Underworld, judging him with dead eyes.

What did the others see? No one spoke of it. Nireus had cried silently but constantly until he fell at last into sleep, Theasides had screamed and thrashed around as though he were being attacked, and Odysseus himself had stood there with his lips moving silently in conversations no one else heard. But no one spoke of what they saw. Not then, and not in the weeks that have stretched into months since they returned to the realm of the living.

Are they living? These days hardly seem to count as life. Perhaps they are all dead already. But the men are still hungry, the blazing sun still burns their skin, they still wake and sleep. When there were more of them, a whole fleet trailing behind, there were jokes. He doesn’t often remember his life on Same, but he does remember the early days of the trip from Troy. High on victory and spoils, full of hope and excitement at the prospect of returning home. The shouting and laughter had been loud enough to travel over the waters, spreading from one ship to another, infecting the entire fleet with happiness.

Sometimes he thinks of Polites and wonders how much would have changed if he had lived. Probably the captain would have listened to his foolish trust and naivete one time too many, and they would be in the Underworld already. He’d like to believe that. Because if it’s not true, then Polites…no, he wasn’t right! He had loved Polites, too, but that man had never seen the world as it truly was. He’d never seen the danger and darkness all around them. He’d been great with a bow, but he’d had no common sense.

And yet…Odysseus had trusted Polites. Had he lived, the captain might have relied upon Polites to guard the wind bag. Perhaps Polites could have persuaded him to trust Eurylochus, too. They could have taken it in turns, ensuring that bag stayed closed, and the captain wouldn’t have nearly killed himself from lack of sleep.

Sharing that duty would have been the smart thing to do. Hadn’t he said as much to Odysseus? Hadn’t he offered to share the burden? But no, the captain had been stubborn, as he always was, trusting the wind bag to no one but himself, going without sleep until first his temper began to crack, then his focus began to wane, and finally until the waking hallucinations began.

Eurylochus is the second in command. He couldn’t just sit back and watch his captain, his friend, his brother destroy himself in such a way! And yes, maybe…yes, he had been hurt that Odysseus would not share the responsibility. Weren’t they brothers? Wasn’t he next in the line of command? Why wouldn’t Odysseus trust him to watch the bag while he slept? No man on board would have dared try to take it from him by force.

The captain didn’t trust him. That was what it came down to. Odysseus hadn’t trusted him. He had chosen to destroy himself rather than accept help from Eurylochus. That truth had burned a deep, angry hole inside him and at last he had lost his temper, tearing open the bag to prove to himself that there wasn’t really a storm inside. The captain’s stubbornness had convinced him that the gods were playing games, giving them an empty bag and laughing as they watched to see how long Odysseus would deprive himself of sleep to protect this bag of nothing. He’d wanted to prove that he was smarter than Odysseus, that failing to trust him had been a mistake.

Instead he’d proved the opposite, and the guilt of that has been a constant companion to him ever since. The deaths of those 552 men at the hands of the sea god—he carries just as much of the blame for that as the captain. Odysseus was the one who told the cyclops his true name and left him alive. But Eurylochus is the one who opened the bag that brought Poseidon to them.

What would Ctimene think of him, if she were to see him now? He can imagine how he looks: burnt, scarred, emaciated, filthy, shoulders rounded by years of guilt and weariness. If that didn’t stop her embracing him, the knowledge of all that he’s done surely would. He left home to bring her honor, and nothing he’s done since the war is worthy of honor. All he can do is continue to look out for the remaining men as best he can.

Not that it matters. He’s never going to see Ctimene again, if she ever truly existed at all. He will never taste another bite of soft goat cheese or watch the wind rippling through the leaves of the trees on his island. It is not that he’s resigned to his own death, though there are moments when he thinks he would find it a welcome relief. No, he will not go down without a fight, not as long as his men need him, not while he still has a job to do. There’s a chance, just a small one, that they will find a place that has food, shelter, relative safety. With full stomachs, a week of good sleep, and no one trying to kill them, it’s possible that the morale of the crew might improve. It could be that life will become worth living again.

But making it home? The only one who still believes that is Odysseus, and how he continues to do so is anyone’s guess. It’s impossible. Poseidon won’t allow it. Defying the gods seldom ends well for those foolish and bold enough to try. The captain’s luck has brought him this far, but it can’t last forever.

The only big question remaining is what will come next. Gods? Monsters? Death? Peace? Or simply day after day of slow starvation, watching what little hope remains in the faces of his friends fade into desperation and madness? He doesn’t like to think about that, so he focuses on smaller questions. Which way the wind is blowing. How much safe drinking water remains. Whether they will catch any fish, or if they seaweed they chew on will make them sick. How long he’ll be able to persuade his friends to exercise, practice combat, stay active.

Whether the growing rift between himself and Odysseus, which gets progressively harder to ignore, is from the guilt of the secret he carries, or perhaps the guilt that Odysseus himself carries. Has he done something to upset the cold, harsh man who he used to consider a friend? Or is his captain simply angry at him because he still lives, when Polites does not?

How much longer can this go on?

[t0ast-ghost]

S3 episode 2 (The Enterprise Incident) yeah. I bet they have a lot of those.

Starting off:

- with McCoy narrating

- “I can find no reason for the captain’s behaviour.” Kirk is on his period, that’s why.

- *enters neutral zone* *immediate Romulan ship*

- Spock outright disagreeing with Kirk! Spock and McCoy on the same side! Oh, Kirk dismissed McCoy. He knew he couldn’t take both of them.

- violated your territory? Girl what were you doing in the neutral zone?

- I can’t tell if Kirk is being controlled in this episode or just being a dick

- Spock is trying to save your ass Kirk! Spock cares about his boyfriend and he’s worried cause he’s been more irrational than usual

- “I’ll kill you!” Damn poor Spock

- The Romulans are being kind of reasonable

- “If you stop looking upon star fleet as the whole universe.” Right it’s star fleet. Not Kirk and McCoy or anything. Noo..

- “I don’t make house calls.” “Doctor, it’s Captain Kirk.” WHO DID YOU THINK IT WAS? Like who would request McCoy’s services on the Romulan ship other than Spock and Kirk.

- She wants Spock so bad.

- This guys got the bluest of pants

- “This man is not fully competent.” “No, not now.” McCoy really wanted to laugh

- McCoy getting angry at Spock and the commander stepping in like, ‘back off from my man’

- That face clutch

- “I instinctively used the Vulcan death grip.” McCoy looks at him like, ‘the fucking what?!’

- “The captain is dead.” Big moment and whatnot but Kirk’s dead face is…

- “My neck feels like it’s been twisted off.” Kirk’s neck, his back- etc.

- “Bones I want you to prepare to surgery.” Kirk touches McCoy’s shoulder so tenderly. Like that’s just not normal.

- WHAT THE FUCK

- I love how happy Scotty is, “You look like the devil himself, as long as you’re alive.”

- “What the devil is Spock doing?” McCoy says ‘what the devil’ when he is worried about someone or confused quite a bit

- I still do not know why they went into the neutral zone tbh

- So Spock will drink with HER but not with McCoy. Wow.

- “A place?” “With me.” Commander back up he is taken

- It’s interesting to see how everyone really wants Spock to ‘embrace his humanity’ because they can relate to it better. Vulcans can seem like the most distant and the least able to connect with anyone because of their claim to logical and unemotional ways, but they still desire peace and helped to create the federation. I think that Spock rejects a lot of his human side because that’s what those around him in his childhood defined him as. And so he finds pride in being a Vulcan when working in star fleet, and anytime someone tries to force upon him the idea of being human he continues to reject it. With McCoy and Kirk it’s almost come to a playful rejection because he cares about them a lot and knows they appreciate his Vulcan side, but it’s got to still hurt that anytime he connects with them they think it’s his more human side. Obviously he’s not just split down the middle, he doesn’t just act wildly like one or the other because it’s a mix, but to him it really seems to be like a one or the other kind of situation (which is fair because that’s what he’s been taught) so he mostly chooses to connect with his ‘Vulcan half’ because that’s the one that’s so often pushed away by others. All that to say, he hasn’t been able to find a balance within himself and it’s not his fault because that’s difficult to do especially with a lot of outside forces pushing him to be one way or the other. And I think about this a lot.

- OMG THEY’RE MAKING OUT. WHY DID THE CAMERA ZOOM IN ON THAT

- Kirk is not a good spy. He is good at beating the shit out of people though

- HE TOOK THE WHOLE FUCKING PART?!?

- “What are you that could do this?” “First officer of the Enterprise [that bitch (positive)].” She slaps him and then he says, “What is your present form of execution.” HE IS THAT BITCH (🎵i-t-g-i-r-l you know I am that girl🎶)

- “You will not die alone.” Spock would find this mortifying. He does not wish for Kirk to join him in death. He would do anything to prevent it. But I could imagine that in their last moments, they would share a look to try and help each other and know it would be futile but share it anyway. (Edit: Think I was supposed to edit this but I’m too tired)

- Spock’s eyes are enchanting

- “Captain… please go. Somehow they [pointed ears] do not look aesthetically agreeable on humans.” I love each of the crews reaction to this comment but especially Sulu, Chekov, and Uhura’s reactions

Spock is so tired, let him rest.

Masterpost

Episode written by D. C. Fontana

[ken-dom]

Make You Worse

Henry Letham x afab!reader

2.1k words

∘₊✧──────────────────✧₊∘

Summary: Henry doesn't want someone to fix him.

Author’s notes: I've been promising Henry smut for a while, so to everyone who asked for it, here it is and I hope it suits! This was hugely inspired by a conversation with @silverlynx87, supported by @heresthestorymorningglory and @webbo0 who read my first draft, and then beta read by my husband. Thank you to everyone on Goosecord who has been excited for this, I hope it is worth the wait!

Warnings/content: NSFW, blood, biting, bruisng, intentional cigarette burn, cum play, oral (Henry giving), kind of rough sex

‘You don’t wanna do that.’

Henry didn’t look at you when he gave you his warning, glancing around as though he didn’t want anyone else to notice you’d tried to touch him with tenderness.

‘Yes, I do.’ You kept your hand over his, your knee pressed to his thigh, and your voice even as you turned to him. 

His jaw twitched at the warmth of your gaze on him, and he dared to steal a quick glance.

‘No,’ he repeated firmly, ‘you don’t.’

He shifted away so abruptly then, your hand dropped into the space that suddenly appeared between you.

‘Why not?’ you pressed, sliding a few inches along the bench to give him space.

Henry took his time before answering you, nodding his head as though he were thinking through a long list of possible responses. In the end, he looked you dead in the eye and settled on a counter question. ‘You’re not afraid of me?’

‘No. Why would I be?’ You furrowed your brow with a bewildered smile, excitement bubbling beneath it. ‘Is there something I should be afraid of?’

Long strands of greasy hair fell over Henry’s eyes as he hung his head and huffed out a heavy breath. ‘Maybe. You don’t know me like I know me.’

‘I’d like to.’

‘Well, then you really would be afraid.’ Bouncing his leg nervously, Henry looked up, glancing around skittishly.

‘No one else needs to know, if that’s what bothers you. I won’t judge you, Henry.’

‘You won’t judge me?’ he spat.

‘No. I won’t judge you.’

Another incredulous huff. ‘You can’t fix me, you know.’

You smiled. ‘I don’t have any intention of fixing you.’

Henry smirked. This was new, and he couldn’t deny it was getting kind of interesting. Exciting, even.

‘Then what exactly do you want to do?’

‘I want to make you worse,’ you shrugged casually.

The air shifted between you immediately then, and Henry groaned, ‘Kiss me.’

Your eyes widened as though you might have imagined the neediness lacing his weak command, and while you hesitated, he impatiently repeated it; ‘Fuckin’ kiss me!’

You pushed forward, lips crashing onto his, and his long fingers immediately pushed into your hair, possessive and intense. He tasted like cigarettes and not much else; you wondered when he’d eaten a proper meal last, but the thought was fleeting, melting away when his tongue pushed entirely between your lips and forced itself against yours. As you were getting into his rhythm, he shifted his head and bit down hard on your lip, drawing blood, then lapping at it so softly the change of pace was jarring.

He pulled away then, leaving your head spinning and his own chest heaving.

His leg began to bounce again, and you bit your lip, sucking at the blood he’d drawn, patiently waiting to hear whatever he was thinking. You did that more than he knew, hung on his every word, fascinated with the way his mind worked.

‘You wanna… come back to mine?’ 

He didn’t look at you as he asked, and his voice cracked the way it might if he were about to cry, but no tears fell.

‘Yeah,’ you agreed simply, and he shook his head again in disbelief, wiping your blood from his lips and examining it on the back of his hand.

‘You want the real me?’

‘Yeah.’

****

The moment his door clicked shut he was on you, hands grabbing at your clothes and teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, almost sharp enough to draw blood there, too. 

The cigarette between his fingers smouldered, threatening to set your sweater alight, but somewhere between sucking at your throat and hastily lifting your clothes over your head, he remembered it and offered it to you. 

‘I don’t smoke,’ you panted, pulling him back to you.

It wasn’t what he was offering though. He knew you didn’t smoke. He’d paid enough attention to you to know that small fact, but he shouldn’t have assumed you knew what he actually wanted you to do with the remainder of his cigarette. Why would you? He’d have to try it another way.

‘Touch me,’ he breathed, and you slipped a hand between your bodies, palm sliding eagerly over the bulge in his trousers.

Jaw dropping, he buried his face against your shoulder, humming against your clothes at the delicious friction of you rubbing him through the fabric. He lifted an arm, pulling up the sleeve with his free hand and passing himself what remained of the cigarette.

The hiss he let out as he pressed the burning end into his pale forearm was pure relief, and it made your core clench. Henry bucked his hips into your touch as the searing pain reached its peak, feeling his cock leak and twitch against your palm.

He wondered what it would take for him to cum now he’d already used up one of his favourite tricks. Perhaps just the knowledge that you’d witnessed it and stayed would be enough.

You were still massaging his cock, and although weak at the knees, he stopped grinding against your touch and lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy and half closed as he slurred, ‘Y-you still want me?’ His breath was hot against your throat and his voice hazy with the thrill he’d just chased. ‘Now you know I’m a freak?’

‘More than ever.’

Henry’s blood boiled.

He spun you around, throwing you down onto the bed behind him and crawling over you as though he were possessed, tearing your clothes away and sliding down your shivering body to dip his head between your thighs and get a taste of you, lapping at your clit and thrusting a long finger inside so eagerly it made you jolt.

He moaned when he registers just how wet you were for him. Soaked, even when you knew he wanted to be hurt, that he might want to hurt you. Knowing that you didn’t need him to hold back on his darkest thoughts to get you aroused. Quite the opposite, and in turn that made his cock ache with desire.

His moans vibrated through your core, and your hands flew down to fist desperately in his hair. He seemed to like that, too, groaning against you with every tug of those soft strands. So you tugged harder, and he moaned louder, and the heat pooling at your core grew hotter. It was building so quickly, the heat in your gut and the sparks between your thighs, that you thought you wouldn’t last another minute like this.

But you felt cold in the sudden absence of his mouth when he moved up to face you, his handsome chin shiny with your slick. You let out a whine of protest, but his finger was still pumping fast inside you, curling against the spot you needed it most over and over until it was almost unbearable.

‘Wanna fuck you now,’ he mumbled in your ear, delighted with the way you were writhing under his touch and the lewd, wet sound his finger was making inside you.

‘Please-’ you begged, and before you’d even finished that one simple word, his lithe hips were between your legs, freeing his cock burying inside you.

He didn’t bother undressing properly, kicking his legs free of his trousers and underwear, with one sock still on and the other dropping from his foot.

Your back arched as he stretched you on his cock, hips snapping hard and relentless, hip bones driving sharp into your thighs. 

‘That was so hot,’ you managed, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer.

It had been obvious you’d liked it, you wouldn’t be soaked like this if you hadn’t, wouldn’t be digging your heels into his back to spur him on, but Henry still let out a guttural little moan to hear you confirm it.

Perhaps next time you’d let him burn you while he has his hand down your trousers, maybe he could bring you to orgasm at the exact moment you scream out from the pain. He wondered if you’d like that. The way he liked it.

‘Take it off?’ you begged, pulling at his jacket and bringing him back to the present. ‘Wanna see you-’

He nodded hurriedly, too overcome with the idea of hurting you to form words, hips stuttering as he shrugged off his jacket and pulled his sweater over his head, ruffling his hair a little more.

The moment your hands were against his skin, you clawed your nails in, harsh and sharp, leaving crescents around his shoulder blades and scraping all the way down to his waist, relishing in the contours of every rib you dragged over along the way.

As you stung a deep trail of fresh red lines into his pale flesh, Henry gasped as though what you were actually giving him was a soothing massage.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and you knew he was close, that he was trying to figure out what would tip him over the edge.

‘What do you need?’ you asked in a whisper, and instead of answering, he slid himself out, kneeling back on his heels between your trembling thighs. 

You whimpered weakly, your core throbbing and hot and so painfully close to release, only to be left cold and empty and untouched as Henry’s eyes raked over you as though he were admiring a work of art — his own, one he was proud of. 

He leant down to drag his fingers roughly through your folds, dipping inside far too briefly to collect your slick, chuckling as you shuddered, and then wrapped his coated fingers around his leaking cock, pumping frantically as he watched you, breathless and flushed and desperate beneath him.

Your gaze wandered to the marks on his body; there were plenty of other cigarette burns that you couldn’t help wondering about. Were they from previous encounters? Had he scared them off the way he thought he would scare you off?

You landed on the fresh wound he’d inflicted in the centre of his left forearm, the small, slightly swollen circle still glowing red, that would eventually fade into a scar like all the others. But first, you could make the memory last.

You pulled his arm closer, and he collapsed over you, watching carefully to see what you would do to help bring him off. You pressed your lips gently to it first, and Henry hissed, feeling a swell of arousal.

A drawn out, strangled moan ripped from his throat when your eyes met his and your tongue slipped out between your lips to circle slowly around the burn, sparks of pleasure-pain sending heat rushing to his core, spilling his release over your chest and stomach in thick spurts.

‘Fuck… fuck-’ he panted, sliding down to lick up his mess in sloppy, needy laps.

He was moaning into it, tongue painting patterns against your skin with his seed, and then his head was between your thighs again, mixing your slick with his own, focussing entirely on your pleasure.

‘Fuck!’ you cried, squirming under his intense ministrations, his hands pressed to your hips in a bruising grip to hold you down. You hoped it would bruise; another work of art that would linger on your body, something you hoped he’d come back to admire, and to recreate.

Henry was good with his tongue. He’d been a needy kisser, which, as it turned out, made for exceptional skills between your thighs. Only a few precise flicks of his tongue he had your back arching off the bed, fingers tugging at his hair again as wave after wave of pleasure flooded your body and his name slipped from your lips like a prayer.

Henry dragged another orgasm out of you before he resurfaced, satisfied and slightly dazed. He laid beside you, smirking to himself as he found and lit a cigarette.

‘You know,’ he mumbled, as he exhaled a long stream of smoke, ‘someone once said to me it’s worth sticking around because there’s just too much goddamn beauty. And I think I understand what that means now.’

You knew he didn’t mean you specifically. You could sense he was attracted to you, but what you’d just shared hadn’t simply been about attraction. It had been about him using your bodies as a canvas, painting you with your blood, his seed, his bites and bruises, marking him with your nails and the cigarette he’d burned into his arm while you pleasured him. 

The beauty was in the act, and the way he was able to share it with you. It was in the way he had felt able to open up and it hadn’t scared you away.

You were still here, after all.

[epic-kotlc-crossover]

Dangerous

presenting: my favorite vengeance saga song!!!

@thesfromhms @myfairkatiecat @bookwormgirl123 @sombrathedragon @justalunaticfangirl

@ham-cheese-toastie

Fitz stared out into the sea belatedly. Escaping Linh’s island should’ve been exhilarating, freeing, but all he felt was emptiness. Seven more years had been wasted. 

Marella would be twenty. Sophie would’ve moved on, especially after ten years without him reaching out telepathically.

And his brothers—his family for thirteen years—were all dead. “Six hundred deaths under my command.” Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, tears prickling. Because I had one goal in mind.

No fleet. No friends.The raft beneath him swayed slightly in the sea, little flecks or salt flying into his face.

“How will I reach Ithaca?” He’d left Linh because of a god. He’d probably only survived the war because of a god. And the only god near him right now hated his guts and would probably kill Fitz the first chance he got.

Fitz looked up suddenly, scrutinizing the surrounding sea. Poseidon hadn’t shown up at all, which was really… weird. He’d expected the god to be on him the minute he left the shore.

Laughter echoed around him, and Fitz blanched. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no, not him. Anyone but him.

“All you have to do is not open the bag this time, Fitzy.” Hermes flew in a circle around him, dark eyes scrutinizing. 

“Hermes?” Fitz whispered. Though the god annoyed him, it was refreshing to see a familiar face. 

This sent Hermes into a fit of giggles, his sunglasses slipping precariously down his nose. “Hello, old friend!” Did he—?

Did Hermes save him? Fitz hadn’t realized the god counted him as a friend, but he wasn’t complaining. “Were you the person Linh talked to?” Thank you, thank you, thank you. “Thank you,” Fitz told him, a waver in his voice that he tried desperately to hide. Hermes had probably saved him from spending the rest of his life with a woman who liked him way too much. 

To his surprise, Hermes shook his head,a flash of guilt crossing his face. “No, but someone’s given you one last chance to make it back home!” The god waved his right hand, and a very familiar bag appeared.

Keefe’s face flashed before Fitz’s eyes, and he could feel himself paling. No… “If you make it back home, you’ll be able to wash the blood off your hands, and I know you will.” The god looked solemn for the first time since Fitz had known him.

“If your plan’s so great, then why’d you wait to say it?” Fitz asked. That seemed to shake Hermes out of whatever was going on, and he started laughing. Again.

“It’s a little dangerous, my friend!” Hermes clapped Fitz on the back, making him stumble forward, almost into the water. He looked back up at the god, brushing hair out of his eyes. Really? We’re on a tiny raft.

“You can’t play safe in this situation.” Hermes told him, a grin playing at his lips. “You’ll need a whole…” He gestured toward Fitz. “Mindset change to be able to go through with it.”

I can do it, Fitz thought. 

“You’ll need to put everything on the line, Fitzy.” Sometime when he was talking, Hermes stopped floating and stood in front of him, swaying along with the waves.

Fitz nodded. I’m ready for this. “Alright. I’m in, what do I need to do?” Hermes grinned, and spread his arms out. 

“Follow the north star until you think you’ve gone enough, then keep going. You’ll need to go through uncharted waters, where danger greets you with a smile. And—” Hermes giggled, the wings on his shoes flapping and taking him airborne once again. “It’s going to be dangerous, my friend!” The god wiggled around in the air, spinning in circles around Fitz. 

He blinked. “Are you–? Are you actually dancing?” Hermes laughed, and brought out the wind bag again. The glowing blue designs looked… eerie, and not just because of the memories of–the memories associated with it. 

“We went through so much to get this…” We? Fitz mused. Probably the same person who helped free me. “Remember, you need to keep the bag closed if you want to get home! Letting out the storm inside would ruin your last chance to return to your wife.”

This was a cruel joke. Fitz swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. Mustering up all his courage, he flashed a cocky grin. “Don’t you know danger is my friend? I’ve trained for this,” he gestured to the wind bag, “for my whole life. I have to get home, I’ll be ruthless and put an end to this foolishness.” 

I have to see Sophie. “Don’t you know that I’m dangerous?” Fitz took the bag from Hermes. The storm inside seemed to fight with him with every movement, trying to get out. “And, Hermes?” The god paused, halfway in the air. “Thank you.” He’d saved his life twice now. 

Hermes laughed. “Don’t thank me, friend. I’m not the one who fought for you.” He gave Fitz a two fingered salute and one last smile before turning around and shooting up into the sky.

Fitz stood there, staring at the sea and wondering if he’d be able to survive this one last obstacle. 

Shaking his head and sighing, Fitz secured the bag to the raft and started rowing.

[100jewels-between-teeth]

Ch. I

Word Count: 3637

Masterlist ¤ AO3 ¤ Ko-Fi

~ CW: Graphic depictions of violence

AN: I'm ferally excited to begin sharing this with everyone. The idea has been in my head for a long while and now I get to put it out there! Big big thank you to @enterthedreams for proofing and just being generally amazing.

If you wish to be updated for future chapters, let me know, and I'll add you to the tags! Now, enjoy!!

“Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.” -”The City in the Sea” Edgar Allen Poe

Tendrils of smoke pooled from his mouth and nose, dancing around him. The next was a breath mixed with the midnight sea breeze, carried away towards the distant ships of the harbor. With the sounds of the old ships groaning at the docks, the occasional shout and laugh of the late night stragglers, it was almost as if the smoke had some kind of harmony to dance to. A fleeting one, as the next breeze whisked it away into the far unknown of the city. 

The Gate always seemed so different at night. 

If one were to excuse the robberies, murders, and other unsavory activities that seemed to thrive at this time, it was almost beautiful. But maybe, to him at least, that was part of the splendor of it all. The unclean, the unsavory, it all had its appeal, he supposed. He was like that once, and he was nothing if not charismatic.

The sound of metal on stone broke him out of his thoughts, heavy steps making their way towards him from one of the alleys. It was the scent that really tipped Enver off first: a suffocating mixture of rot and dust. With another pull from his pipe, he emptied the contents into the inky black void of ocean beneath him, watching the ash dissipate and sink. 

For a moment, he could see the bodies he had placed in that very same spot. Vacant eyes staring up at him as they sank below. Hundreds of unspoken curses, each one paving the path closer to his ambitions. 

“Honestly, you’d think one of your station would at least have the common decency to bathe” The lord turned up his nose as he finally faced Ketheric, his cane leisurely staying at his side. “At the very least, it wouldn’t kill you.” 

He only received a huff from the cloaked figure. The Man strode up beside him, taking a moment to take in the ocean air before he removed his hood. The silver of his hair and beard seemed to illuminate from the moonlight above. Out here, he almost seemed alive. 

Almost. 

“The last person I would think about taking any kind of advice from is you, upstart.” The timbre of his voice reverberated inside Enver’s chest. Even in monotone, that voice still commanded power. Authority. It made even Enver shiver. They stood together for another long pause of silence, the tension growing quite palpable. “This could have been much more efficient if we had this meeting at Moonrise, or even in your...fine abode, Gortash.” 

There was something about the way Ketheric spoke his name that just irritated Enver. Like he was talking down to some child, in lieu of the fastest growing political powers in this city. 

“Unfortunately, we are still in a position where we need to be concerned about the walls listening to us. Besides, anyone that passes by here will either be too drunk to understand what we are discussing, or will be dead before sunrise.” Gortash waved his hand dismissively to the general, twirling his cane just so he had something to do with his hands. 

Under normal circumstances, Enver usually was far more in control and composed with these kinds of situations. Yet the general just unsettled him to no end. Was it the aura of undead? The separation of age? Or did he just see the Lord of Bones in those dead, lifeless eyes?

Ketheric simply raised a brow, looking the other up and down.

“So tell me, old friend, how does this new lease on life that your gracious lord gifted you feel?” Enver straightened his back a little. If the General was going to inspect him, might as well give the old man a show. 

The general scoffed at the assumption of friendship, wanting nothing more than to take that irritating smirk off of the lord's face. 

“He sees I still have a vital part to play. My devotion to him will not sway. I am his  justice -” The speech was quickly cut off by the lord’s snickering beside him as he balanced himself on the cane. 

“Gods, and I thought I was the one with the potential for grandstanding.” The scowl on the old man's face elicited another snicker. “Truly, Ketheric. If this whole general business doesn't work out for you, I'm sure you'd have a wonderful time in the world of politics.” Gortash motioned to Thorm with a flourish. “The Baldurian's, at least, would love you.” 

“Unlike you, Gortash, I did not have to scheme my way into power.” 

“No, only betray your greatest values. A few times, if I’m not mistaken.” The way Ketheric tensed tipped Enver off that he was indeed on thin ice. 

“Do not worry though, I'm sure most of us have surely had our own moments of weakness. Besides, with recent potential investments, I'm sure most would look over your past mistakes.” 

“How reassuring.” Sarcasm dripped like rotted ichor from his mouth. “You have quite the amount of confidence for one that is relying on a lot of… potentials.” Ketheric looked out to the ocean again before his eyes went back to Gortash, much more serious. “I'm not here to play silly political games with you, Gortash, and I'm sure our predecessors would agree. Now why have you asked me here.” 

“We haven’t  been chosen on a whim, dear General.” It was Enver’s turn to change his tone. “To save you the speech, it is time for a centuries old pact be reignited. With recent events taking place, we now have the greatest chance we could be gifted for absolute domination… and it starts with what is below your home.” The look of befuddlement on Ketheric's face was enough to quell any remaining nervousness Gorthash had felt. 

“I've devised a plan-” 

The sound of gurgling took the words from his mouth, both staring back into the alley. The golden eye, illuminated by brilliant crimson steel, froze Gortash in his place. Even Ketheric stood straighter. Slowly, they saw the crimson blade make their way from the stranger’s throat to his groin, body spasming in its death throes. 

All the while, Gortash stared into those brilliant liquid gold eyes, the stare almost searing into his brain. The grotesque sound of the man's entrails slipping onto the wet stone below, followed by the body, could only make the General shake his head. 

Slow, wet steps came towards them as the moonlight illuminated her face. Gortash had only met her a handful of times, yet the sight still made his throat tighten.

Ketheric was the first to regain composure, clearing his throat. Those eyes went to the General before she removed her hood. Her hair was damp, black strands clinging to olive skin. 

“A pleasure… to finally meet Myrkul’s chosen.” The Bhaalspawn inspected Ketheric, the look in her eyes flickering between predatory and admiration. 

When those same eyes landed on Gortash, they quickly changed to annoyance. 

“Lovely to see you again, my dear.” It took everything within Enver to hide his indignation. 

Just seeing how she smirked at his feeble attempt to gain some kind of control filled him with a silent rage. Judging by how her smirk grew, he was not surprised if she could smell it on him. 

“Never expected one of your kind to be so…” Ketheric was almost at a loss for words, the woman seizing the bit.

“Eloquent? Civilized? Lucid?” The Bhaalspawn circled around the man like a vulture, the image almost making Gortash laugh. “Oh, don’t fret, you're exactly how I expected one chosen by Myrkul to be. Dead, covered in the dust of his former life.”

Now that made Enver laugh. The two looked at him as he did his best to cover it with a cough. 

The tension was palpable for a few moments, all three waiting for the other to make a move. The Bhaalspawn cleaned her blade on her cloak, staring back at the body wistfully before sheathing the blade. The look on Gortash’s face tipped her off that he was less than impressed with the spectacle. 

“What?” She grabbed the body from the alley, dragging it so it could slip off the pier into the water below. “I was doing you a favor.” The three just silently watched the horrified face sink below before Gortash cleared his throat. 

“Well, “Gortash said, clapping his hands, “since we are all introduced now, I feel it is time to speak of why we’re truly -” The woman was quick to step in front of Gortash, smirking as he stumbled on the words. 

“Yes, the plan that I came up with that you so graciously tried to take the credit for.” She sneered at the lord, gold eyes brimming with irritation. “But you might as well finish what you started.”

“I would if the interruptions would cease,” Enver hissed. 

Ketheric rolled his eyes at the immature display. With a shrug from the Bhaalspawn, Gortash continued. 

“As you’re both well aware, we have all been chosen for a purpose, and it seems that our lord's have decided it best that we all work towards the same goal. Just as in the past, we continue the Pact of the Dead Three.” There was little reaction from Gortash’s compatriots, steeling himself before continuing.

“After some... collaboration,” His eyes flicker to the woman, “It seems a perfect plan has been laid out before us. All that stops us is our willingness to work together and take it..” Enver raises his hand, clenching it into a fist. The others could not help but roll their eyes, waiting for him to get on with the rest. 

“General, it seems that you hold one of the key figures to this plan, right beneath the very stone of your home.” 

The gleam of joy in Enver’s eyes was undeniable as he watched the General go through the stages of confusion to disbelief. 

“To even entertain the thought of any of us somehow using, let alone convincing, an Elder Brain, not to mention the colony surrounding it to work with the Dead Three? I see that Bane has chosen a man on a suicide wish.” Ketheric shook his head, scoffing at the mere notion that the three of them stood a chance against such a creature. 

“Hear him out.” She nodded for Gortash to continue. The spawn stepping in to support Gortash was enough to make Ketheric pause in shock for a moment. “Trust me, it is worth the risk.” 

“Thank you.” Even Enver was a little surprised at her sudden change in behavior. Shrugging it off, he kept going. “I agree, Ketheric, it would be a foolish endeavor for us to even try convincing the creature. But, what if we had means to control it?” 

The lord’s trademark smirk grew wider, which in turn made the General’s frown deepen. “Unless you have suddenly become the greatest archwizard of all time, I highly doubt it. This is becoming a waste of time -”

“The Crown of Karsus.” The Bhaalspawn looked directly at Ketheric now, gold eyes alight. “We may not be able to convince it, but we can bring it to heel and make it obey us.” 

Restless, the spawn began pacing back and forth, her eyes still trained on the General at all times. 

“Tell me, child of Bhaal,”  Ketheric arched a brow, his stare condescending as the girl laughed,  “How is it you know of such an artifact? Is that common knowledge around your circles?”

“Honestly, do you think of me as an untrained rabid dog?” Venom dripped from her tone, Gortash noticing her fingers twitch for just a moment. “I do know my fair amount of history, thank you. My father made sure I was born with a proper brain.” 

He almost considered stopping her if she were to lunge at the other’s throat. 

Almost. 

“Anyways, the plan is relatively simple.” Enver took the lead in conversation again. “We get the crown, place it on the Elder Brain, and use it to create an army worth the names of our lords.” Ketheric was quick to wave his hand dismissively. 

“If it does actually exist, how do we expect to find it?” The smile on the spawn’s lips grew, rocking on her feet a little. 

“We already know where it is located. It seems that after the fall of Netheril, Mephistopheles himself claimed possession. Now it remains sealed in his vault in Cania.”

“And how did that information fall in your hands?” The General stood much straighter now, that dismissive look now shifted to one of trepid curiosity. 

“My father showed it to me.” The toe of her boot scuffed itself on the cobblestone as she looked down. “In a dream.” 

Gortash couldn't stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose. The bark of laughter that escaped Ketheric made the two of them jump. It was not a sound they ever expected to hear from him, making it much more unsettling. 

“So, that’s what we’re basing this entire plan? Dreams?” He motioned between the two of them, eager for some kind of answer. 

“Oh? I would think you would be the last to turn your nose up at a divine gift from your lord.” She got closer to Ketheric, staring up at him with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Or are you really that unappreciative? Does Myrkul know? I'm sure he would be quick to resurrect another’s decayed carcass to do his work.” 

The General swallowed the lump in his throat, eliciting a larger smile from the spawn. 

“Either way,” she went on, turning her back to Ketheric and pacing back closer to Gortash. “Bhaal has shown us exactly where to go. Now, all that is left is to get there and get the crown.” 

Shaking his head, Ketheric let out another chuckle, this entire plan reaching levels of absurdity. “So what you’re saying is that the three of us make our way to the eighth layer of the hells, and perform one of, if not the most, ridiculous heist of all time.” 

“Exactly.” Both Gortash and the spawn agreed at the same time, giving each other a put off look before making the space between them slightly larger. 

“There has to be more to this than what you're saying. This can’t be it. Say we actually manage to steal the crown, how do we even control the Elder Brain?” Ketheric’s voice was tense, eyes kept flashing between disbelievement and genuine curiosity, his head tilting to the side. 

“There seem to be three foci that resonate with the crown itself. Using these three stones, we can control whoever, or whatever wears the crown. Convenient, for us.” Gortash said, shrugging his shoulders. “With that control, we can use the illithids to infect others with the parasite. With enough infected, who is there to stop our masters?” 

Gortash felt the muscles tense in his throat at the word. The spawn could see him tense, quickly flitting her eyes away before she was noticed. 

“Besides,” she spoke, motioning towards Ketheric. “You will be staying here. There is a different plan for you in all this.” 

Ketheric was taken aback, confused at the possible implications. “Are you saying I am not capable of such a heist?”

“Well we certainly wouldn't want one of your age and accomplishment to be over exerting themselves now, would we?” The glares Gortash received not just from the General, but from the Spawn made him put his hands up in feigned surrender. “Easy now, merely a joke. But in all honesty, we find that there is much more important work for you to do up here.”

“Such as?” Ketheric raised his brow.

“Even with my followers, we do not have the proper numbers to stage an invasion on the illithid colony.” The girl tried her best to keep her tone strong. Ketheric noticed the uneasiness in her voice. “If we are to have a chance at getting the crown on that brain, we need a big enough army to pose a distraction. Keep its attention away from us. Which is where you come in.” She motioned to the general, taking a deep breath before she continued. 

“We need you to raise a number of undead. Canon fodder, to throw at those squids until we can secure the crown on its head. So, while the upstart and I are gone –” She could not help but smirk as he hissed a breath through his nose. “--you will be building this army. I will have my sister, Orin, bring some cultists to you at Moonrise to… procure necessary ingredients, let's say.” The unsure look in Ketheric’s eyes fed into her anxiety, but she had to have some faith. “Don't worry, I'll make sure she is kept on a proper leash for you.” 

“Not the only one who needs it…” Gortash mumbled under his breath. 

She did not look back to him, but he could see the Bhaalspawn tighten her hand into a white knuckled fist, blood slowly blooming from her nails. 

“And what is your way to actually get into Cania? Not exactly a short distance to travel for the two of you.” Ketheric questioned, his eyes darting between the two. 

Gortash was the one to speak before the spawn.

“That, General, is what I am just completing. An old contact of mine has the means to make a temporary portal between here, and Cania. With that supplies, once we reach the vault, we can easily teleport the crown straight to your door. No sense in lugging such a heavy thing back.”  

The spawn jumped in after. “We will travel to the eighth layer by the barge on the Styx. Both the upstart and I have been able to procure a fair amount of Soul Coins. I'm sure Charon wouldn't mind giving us the lift.” 

There was another long pause between the three Chosen. Each looked between each other for some kind of affirmation. It wasn't until they started hearing faint birdsong that they were snapped out of their contemplation, all three looking into the horizon, now starting to show signs of morning bleeding in. 

“I will not go against the plan set in motion by our masters.” Ketheric’s voice was tense, yet firm. “If this is what we must do to see their grand design come to fruition, who are we to object?” 

Adjusting his cloak, he covered his head with the hood, readying his departure. 

“Wonderful!” Gortash clapped his hands together, his face positively radiating with cheer. “My business with this colleague shouldn't take too long, so I would expect us to see each other again within the week, at your humble abode.” Enver motioned to Ketheric  “We will bring those cultists in tow, best to get an early start on that army.”

Giving Gortash the slightest nod of the head, Ketheric turned his attention to the Bhaalspawn, her face calm. 

“Praise be the Dead Three,” she said quietly, bowing her head as Kethric turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows. 

“Well, as enjoyable as your company is, I am a busy man with many things -” Enver was cut off by a crimson blade, the tip poking into his throat. 

“I am surprised, upstart, that you would take credit for this plan so quickly.” Her golden eyes burned with curiosity as she looked him up and down. The spawn stepped closer, forcing Gortash to put his back to the wall. “Interesting that you would omit how it was me who brought this to you.”

Her eyes narrowed as a small smile grew on her lips. Enver tried to mirror the expression, yet his own wavered in nervousness. 

“As the one who perfected the plot, I felt it was only right.” He knew he was treading on thin ice, the woman easily able to end him here and now. 

But both knew, there would be no other replacement capable of fulfilling this heist. Taking another step closer, the spawns face was mere inches from Enver’s, their breaths mixing. He was surprised how hers faintly smelt of mint. 

“Well, it is a good thing I am understanding. The credit is yours.” Her voice was menacingly quiet. “Now, if the plan fails spectacularly… our Three Lords know exactly who to direct their disappointment and rage at.” With a slight flick, the blade tip was removed from his throat, not without making the slightest incision on his adams apple. The woman’s eyes flickered to the blood beginning to bloom. “By the way…” 

Her hand reached out towards their right, her hand twisting and emanating a red glow. From the shadows, another figure slowly walked out, their eyes glowing the same hue that resonated around the spawn’s hand. Gortash quickly made out the emblem of the Guild on his chest, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

“Your throat, cut it to the bone.” The spawn hissed to the spy. 

The spy slowly took out their dagger, and after a brief pause, began cutting into their throat. Like a saw, the man cut left and right, blood pouring to the stone as their jugular was brutally torn apart. The smile never left the girl's face as, after another few seconds, the body collapsed before them, knife stuck in the guild member’s throat. 

“That is yet another favour. Be careful, lordling. Would hate Arden to not be around for your death.” Turning away, the woman stepped on the body, eliciting another hiss of blood to spurt towards Enver as he watched her walk into the shadows, quickly disappearing. 

It was when she was out of sight that Gortash realized two things: First, his heart was pounding in his chest, ears filled with each throbbing pulse. 

 The second: His lungs shrieked for air that had been denied them since the moment she nicked him.

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

Tags: @theannoyingurge @enterthedreams @rivthewriter

[icepixie]

Some Strange New Worlds spitballing. One tiny spoiler for 2x07.

I'm becoming ever more convinced that Pike is going to regain some physical functioning after his radiation poisoning, and Illyrian genetic engineering is going to play some part in it. That would make the whole genetic engineering/Una/trial arc feel less...not exactly pointless, because it's been nice for her character, but we know the same damn thing happens to Julian Bashir a century later, so despite things working out for Una, in general it's not exactly a victory. But if the Illyrian thing is also a proverbial gun set to go off after Pike's accident, well, that would be nice. It would also be cool to see Una go home--for the first time in 30 years?--or to Illyria on a mission for her friend, much as Chris did for her.

And maybe after, Starfleet says, "Well, now you're Contaminated by Genetic Engineering and will proceed to take over the galaxy if we let you have command of anything," and boots him out. I imagine they were probably able to hush up Una's Illyrian-ness to the wider Federation public, or if not, then they leaned hard into the asylum thing. Christopher Pike isn't going to fly under the radar so easily. And if they let him in, they'd have to let other genetically engineered folks in, which we know they (officially) don't.

So maybe instead of Pike being disabled (and let me tell you I have some ISSUES with how the show conflates "disabled" and "dead," but I'm avoiding them for this post) and cut off from his friends, he's instead kicked out of the 'Fleet and cut off from his friends, and that's what Boimler was referencing in the crossover episode. That would be a cool little subversion too.

...Except I strongly suspect that Una would get herself a captaincy on a ship that allows civilian family members and take Chris onboard as her partner, even marry him if that's what it takes, so perhaps he'd not be entirely cut off. And then they could do a fake-married-to-lovers plotline and I would be thrilled beyond measure, you have no idea. Or else she'd resign in solidarity and they'd start up some kind of starship-based business together. Freight haulage or something. Either way, I think it could work.

On a related note, I don't think they're doing this, but it would be very cool if Boimler's appreciation for Una in particular derives from her genetics, because he's an augment too. Only, like, it went wrong, and the only outcome is the purple hair. 'Cause I can't really see Boimler dying his hair that unnatural color. But maybe not. Or maybe there was transporter fuckery at some point in his life and the lingering symptom is just the hair. That's probably more likely.

[mysticwolfshadows]

Taken - Zutara - Part 26

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

It took a while to get Zuko out of prison.

A tribunal was assigned, made of Sokka, Aang, Yue, Hahn, and Pakku. Chief Arnook had selected them for various reasons. Aang, of course, was chosen as his status as the Avatar. Hahn, as Yue's betrothed and thus Arnook's future son-in-law, was given the spot without thought or care. Pakku, as a waterbending master, was already a close advisor, his opinion already trusted. Sokka, as the son of the Southern chief, was allowed a spot that Katara coudln't have as a girl. Yue was only given a pass because Hahn wasn't yet married to her, so she was the only heir of the Northern Water Tribe.

They discussed Zhao first, the man chained to a platform bellow the tribunal, gagged since he hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut. As the enemy commander, they couldn't let him go. They couldn't ransom him, as Iroh had followed through and retreated with the fleet. Hahn, ever eager to spill Fire Nation blood, called for execution. Pakku agreed. Aang argued, said that he could not condone any loss of life, that to agree to such a thing would be to disregard everything the monks had taught him. Sokka had shot Aang down. Zhao was a fool, one that could not be trusted, even with his own life.

The discussion had to be closed, when Aang left the chamber room in a fit. Yue had been the one to go and speak with him. Katara wasn't sure what they discussed, but Aang returned for the discussion of the soldiers.

They were tried as a pair, chained to the platform, but as they were able to not spout obscenities, they were able to plead their cases. They had simply been following orders, as many soldiers did. With their commander gone, and no reason to fight, they would not return should they be let go. Hahn, going two for two (three for three?) said that they should both be executed. Aang was vehemently opposed, advocating for their release. Pakku suggested making them into laborers, perhaps as target practice for his students. Sokka spoke about the two Fire Nation soldiers who had worked for the Southern Water Tribe for nearly two years. Yue, creating a majority vote, agreed to making them laborers.

When the soldiers were taken away, they begged. They screamed and tried to bend. They feared what the tribe would do. She couldn't really blame them, as the Fire Nation had old propaganda that the Water Tribes were savages that ate the dead in dark rituals. Katara went to speak with them. She talk about herself, how she had ended up in the Fire Nation as a little girl. Even these two had heard of Fire Lady Ilah's healer. Katara also told them about Rinzo and Taka. She assured them that she would make sure they were treated well. She would be back to free them when the war was over.

For now, they were calm. She'd have to argue with Arnook for a while on what they would be doing, but it hopefully wouldn't take long.

Zuko's trial was last. The Fire Prince was calm, even bowing his head to everyone of importance (Chief Arnook, Yue, Sokka, Aang, and Katara), before sitting in a kneeling position on the platform. He would accept whatever would come.

Hahn, seeming to have a theme to his suggestions, immediately suggested the death penalty. Execution for the prince of an opposing nation. It would send a message to the 'fire tossers', was his reasoning. Katara was pretty sure Hahn had never had a reasonable thought in his head.

Master Pakku agrued that a prince would be better used as ransom. After all, the Fire Lord would surely pay dearly for his heirs safe return. Or perhaps his general uncle. Plenty of gold could be gained. And, failing that, what irony would it be to have the prince of the Fire Nation working as a laborer in the North Pole.

Aang was, of course, one of the first to object to either, though Pakku and Hahn tried to wave his thoughts off as that of an immature child. They'd already seen his foul behavior that day.

Sokka, thankfully, was quick to jump in. He hated the Fire Nation as much as any other Water Tribe warrior, but he had to agree with Aang. The Southern Water Tribe had a long standing alliance with specifically Zuko. To allow his death would be to betray years of agreement.

Yue was the last. She spoke plainly, speaking only facts. The Fire Nation was their enemy, but Zuko was an ally of their sister tribe. Zuko had broken into Agna Qel'a, but he had done so to protect the balance of the tribe. With each con, there was a pro. And with each pro, there was a con. It would not be wise to simply release him, but there was no case for taking him as a permanent captive.

"Then send him with us," Katara couldn't help but blurt. Hahn turned to snap at her, but she spoke over him. "Aang, Sokka, and I all need to move on. We need to find Aang an earthbending master and eventually a firebending master."

"The avatar is not near skilled enough to leave," Pakku scolded. "His waterbending is as utterly useless."

"Then I will teach him," Katara countered.

Pakku scoffed. "No."

She took a breath, and calmly set her hands within her sleeves. "Then a challenge, Master Pakku. Defeat me, and we remain another month."

The old man studied her, wisely cautious for once. "And should the unthinkable happen, and you win?"

"Then we leave at dawn, with Prince Zuko." She pauses. "And, the two soldiers are sent to the South."

"Ridiculous!" Hahn laughed. "There's nothing worth while in it for us!"

"Then I'll put myself forward as a prize, should I loose," Katara said. "I am a battle hardened healer, familiar with Fire Nation tactics, and a princess of the Southern Water Tribe. I will marry anyone the chief chooses, and remain here when the avatar and my brother move on."

Aang and Sokka cried out, but it was Zuko's voice that her ears were attuned to.

"No!" He tugged at his chains, and she ignored him. "Katara!"

"Do we have a deal, Master Pakku? Cheif Arnook?

The fruit dangling before them was to tempting. Even if they didn't want to acknowledge it, she was a good bender. She was knowledgeable of the Fire Nation, even having a rapport with their soldiers. And her status as an heir to the South, no matter how dwindled, meant a greater Northern imput in the South. Even Hahn couldn't be stupid enough to give such a thing up.

"Very well," Pakku said, standing. "We better take this outside."

Katara nodded, and followed the master out. She knew the risks. Her bending, despite rapid growth, was still self taught. Pakku was a master. Confidence would only take her so far. Still...

The match was intense. Faster paced than any fight Katara had been part of. Pakku was a master for a reason. But, as the match went on, something quickly became clear. Pakku was set in his ways. He was a master of what would be considered Traditional Northern Style. Katara, on the other hand, was self taught using firebending as a base. Her style was foreign, and to Pakku, unpredictable. She striked fast, disrupting his water to counter attack with her own, rather than waste time on taking control of it.

In the end, Katara had gotten the advantage. When Pakku had tried to crush her with a wave, she had stood atop it and looked down at him. Her mind had remembered Kiyoshi, what she had done to the ship to slow Zuko down. At the peak of her ascent, she reached out, and jerked the snow into form. Ice hardened, fast and deadly, cutting through layers of fur cothes. Inside his cage of ice, Pakku was holding very still, blood dripping down his cheek.

"I think this is over," she said. When the old master didn't respond, she turned to Arnook. "I expect you and your people to keep your end of the deal."

Arnook have a slight bow of his head. "Of course Master Katara."

Katara nodded. "Good. The soldiers should be taken to the South immediately. Speak to Kanna. Zuko will return to our room with us."

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

[sasster]

Message Received

Now lets all pretend that I didn’t JUST post Reassignment eight hours ago. Really, don’t even worry about it. Time is an illusion. [Doc] —

It was Retcon’s first assignment since his last blow out, but more importantly, it was the first one he’d work with his shiny new babysitter. As they were escorted onto the base that the prison was located in, Mantle only looked up from his magazine to take in the scenery a handful of times, and never once when he was addressed. In the perigees worth of time he’d known the man, Retcon has learned that this is not unusual — The violet blooded commander simply never delegated too much of his attention to a single troll or conversation.

If anyone bothered to ask Retcon about it, he’d tell them that he found the whole act incredibly pretentious. Who did he think he was?

“‘Ey, Mantle,” he called, talking around a handful of cashews casually tossed into his mouth.

“Mhm?” As expected, the commander did not tear his gaze from the magazine. In fact, he even turned a page after his response.

Asshole.

“How many guys did they say this one was?”

“Fifteen today, your max tomorrow or the following, depending on how you feel. Forty, total. We’ll be back to address whatever they have left over once you’ve had time to recover.”

“How I feel?” Retcon spit back, his words contorted into a chortle that nearly made him choke on his snack. “They don’t care how I’m feeling.”

“No, that’s my job.”

“Aw, you care about how I’m feeling?”

Mantle didn’t answer, he only turned a page in his magazine.

—

When they arrived, Retcon was separated from his babysitter and put in some sort of psychic holding cell while they talked shop. He was no stranger to this treatment, so many fleet officials lack trust in psions, willing participants or otherwise. The guy who runs this place must be superstitious about psions and their nature.

Understandable.

No skin off Retcon’s nose, he much preferred not to hear or talk about the numbers involved with the job.

It was always a drag. He didn’t feel the need to be in the room when the number of wipes needed jumped up or the times table was changed. His new commanding officer would have to learn how reality works the hard way.

He rested his head on the table he sat at  and soon sleep found him.

--

Retcon did not wake up until he was pulled to his feet by the collar of his shirt and walked out of the room by a purple blood that had entirely too much protein in her diet, way stronger and heavy handed than she needed to be.

“Hey,” he offered, yawning as obnoxiously as he could. “You know I’m not one of your prisoners or whatever, right?” In case she didn’t see it, he emphasized his point by indicating the fleet emblem on the uniform he so loathed to wear.

“Precaution.”

“Right, manhandling potentially volatile psions usually makes them more cooperative. I forgot.”

She only shoved him harshly in response.

“Cool, thanks. Where’s my plus one?” He asks, moving his hand to about waist level in an exaggeration of his supervisor’s height. “About yay high.”

“He’s indisposed right now.”

“Big word. Got it, your boss ordered a distraction on my boss so you can tell me the real number you want done.”

She seemed surprised that he caught on so quickly, but let up as soon as the words left his mouth just as they were coming up at the end of a corridor. Everyone really seemed to think that this was his first rodeo.

Retcon rolled his eyes. “And that number is…”

“Seventy? Eighty? Numbers aren’t my job.”

The purple blood couldn’t help but laugh in response.

That is a ridiculous number! It’s almost like they wanted him dead!

She shoved him into the room and he came face to face with the blue blooded warden who’d thrown it all together.

“Hello there, welcome!”

“Too jovial for a prison warden.” He groaned, twisting a pinky finger in his ear to drive home his disapproval of their loudness.

They shrugged it off with a laugh and gestured over to another door opposite the one that he came in, Retcon took a chance at peeking in through the window at the very top of the door and found way more than fifteen trolls, packed into a room that was way beyond capacity.

“Just happy to finally have the help I needed for this one. Your old handler was remarkably inadequate at getting back to people about their requests.”

Retcon cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed up into the glass to get a better look at the sea of prisoners in the glorified closet. Poor assholes.

Poor him, he would surely sustain a bit more permanent damage as a result of a job like this.

“This is going to suck.” He mused, facing the warden again.

“I hear you have a great medical team on call.”

Somewhere down the hall someone shouted, “Commander, wait!” And the warden turned to the sound of the door clicking shut behind them, only to be on the receiving end of the mother of all right hooks in the same instant. The contact of the punch sounded with a sickening crunch.

The warden, for all the strength the indigo cast is said to have, crumpled to the floor groaning.

“Fifteen,” the violet blood, newly returned from his hiatus, enunciated as he took off the brass knuckle he must’ve equipped on his way in and shook his hand free of a few specks of blood. “Pick fifteen.”

Oh, this wasn’t his first rodeo either.

[adelaide-of-versailles]

How badly did Louis xv treat his wife???

Tbh he was more just... Neglectful and ignored her throughout their marriage.

At first, it was very idyllic and they loved each other, but after giving birth the first time to Louise Elisabeth and Anne Henriette, Cardinal Fleury (who absolutely hated her) decided that until she gave birth to a boy, she wouldn't be allowed to leave Versailles. Louis XV did nothing, and it took 3 years for Maria to have a son. Also, what the hell is up with that? She had twin daughters and suddenly she *needs* to have a boy?? Have some patience, she's working on it!

She was very shy, I mean who wouldn't be when faced with the King of France. She wasn't really raised as a Princess- she was raised in a small house with very few servants with her parents, grandmother, and I'm not sure if her sister Anna was dead yet.

Louis XV cheated on her quite a lot, which I know is normal for monarchy but it is worth mentioning. After the birth of Princess Louise (her last child) she almost died, and she was advised to not have anymore children, and after that she refused access to her bedchamber for the King.

One book says,

At certain times, vigils, feasts and days consecrated to the memory of illustrious saints, she demanded- well, let us call it a "respite" from the King's attentions. But gradually new saints of minor importance were invoked, and Louis XV became impatient. He did not chafe at the great elect, but he drew the line at all these petty saintlings. At first he was content with such a device as breathing on a mirror and writing on the fleeting mist, "Your Majesty is a proud minx"; but one night, pleading that it was a saint's day, the Queen refused to admit him to her bedchamber. "Madame," he shouted at her, you shall pay for this," and immediately commanded Lebel to go and fetch a woman, no matter whom. Lebel sped away, and soon returned with an amiable and tantalizing maid of the Princesse de Rohan, who undertook these supplementary duties with the most charming alacrity.

Also after Princess Louise's birth, Cardinal Fleury decided that the budget of Versailles was just too small to handle the extra daughters they had laying around, so obviously something had to be done to them, and not yknow, the king using so much of the budget for frivolous stuff. Adelaide, aged 6, Victoire, 5, Sophie, 4, Felicite, 2, and Louise, under a year old were chosen to leave.

Maria, who had a particular attachment to Adelaide, guided her into running to her father after mass and begging him to let her stay. It worked, but none of her other children were allowed to stay. Despite this, she often sent them gifts, and once they were old enough to yknow, read and write, sent them letters.

One letter from Sophie, which I believe was after Sophie properly met her later on in life, says:

My Dear Mamma, we have been this morning to the Carmelites : they have prayed to God for you, that nothing may happen to you on the road. I am very im- patient to arrive at Versailles ; for I assure you that it concerns me very much not to see you, since I love you, my dear Mamma, with all my heart. Be convinced of this I beg of you.

She loved her children, and they adored her too. Henriette, Louis, Adelaide, and Louis's first wife, Raphaelle particularly defended her against the growing faction of Madame de Pompadour, although their distaste didn't do anything in the eyes of Louis XV. Louis Ferdinand, the Dauphin of France, particularly wasn't very close with his father, seemingly mostly due to Louis XV's treatment of Maria and personality differences.

Louis Ferdinand was a mostly kind-hearted soul who enjoyed gardening, and didn't like hunting or cheating on his wife, which were two things that Louis XV enjoyed very much.

Louis XV comments:

My son is of an indolent disposition, and his temper, like that of most people with Polish blood in their veins, is quick and variable; he has no taste; he cares nothing for hunting, women, or good living. Perhaps he thinks that if he were in my position he would be happy. At first he would change everything, appear to make a fresh start in every particular, and would soon be tired of the position of King as he is now of his own. He is made to live like a philosophe with men of intellect; he likes to do good, he is really virtuous and intelligent.

Unlike what Louis XV thought his son thinks, Louis Ferdinand truly had no desire to reign. Apparently, on a lot of writings to his children, he begins, "If I ever have the misfortune to reign–"

I know this is an abrupt end but I have to leave my house rn- if I have more to add I will reblog!

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

50: 30 minutes before the Emperor's murder

Second skull - whole.

We're back to Gideon's perspective, about to meet the Emperor, and ... about to witness the Emperor meet his end - possibly about to BE the Emperor's end. Let's see how this unfolds.

In the room was Cytherea. Cytherea’s body, her back to us. She had been neatly tied to a chair with a band of angry-looking tendon.

Cytherea! ....... ON The steel chair!!

Hah, sorry, I couldn't resist.

Did Mercy get to her? If the angry tendons are an indication, then probably yes.

“Commander Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead,” he said. “All of it.” “I can’t believe you feel like you’re in position to demand things of me.” “All of it, Gaius!” There was the preparatory sound of indrawn breath. “Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity,” he recited, all in one breath. “Correct?”

Lmao that's one hell of a name. I would love to have "Oops there goes gravity" as part of my name.

Maybe I can I've changed my name before its not like its hard

Anyway - Cytherea - Cytherea' body is being possessed, haunted, whatever you wanna call it. She's ... probably ... still dead.

The commander? The same commander as the one who died drifting down to the Ninth with baby Gideon? The same commander who's been haunting Harrow as The Sleeper? That commander??????

He said, “Blood of Eden died with you, Wake. Any further action is just agonal breathing.” “We both know that’s not true.” “You never would have fired nukes into my fleet.”

Okay, but Blood of Eden are still very much kicking, and they very much did fire nukes into his fleet. Didn't they do that at the start of the book? Eighteen thousand dead or something like that??

“You’ve been a revenant for nearly twenty years, Wake. It’s extraordinary … You really are everything they said you were.” Silence. “You’re not a necromancer—” “Necromancy is a disease you released,” she said. “Necromancy needs to be strategically and deliberately cleansed.”

She IS that same commander - Gideon Nav's mother - and her, and the Blood of Eden, are on some kind of ideological quest against necromancy itself.

You tell me the thanergy link you rode to get here, because you certainly weren’t in Cytherea’s body back at Canaan House,

The sword that killed Cytherea, the one Harrow has been holding on to this entire time.

It's a tenuous link, but probably enough. The commander's daughter's sword, in the hands of the commander's daughter's kismesis necromancer adept sorry for using a homestuck word it just fits okay.

Alternatively, if it's not the sword, it's Harrow's body, holding the soul of Gideon Nav, the commander's daughter herself.

Could it be that Gideon Nav didn't die as a child because she was being used as a thalergetic/thanergetic link? Can living bodies do that? Her mother seems to have been powerful in life, and is still powerful in death as a revenant, so I can't rule it out.

“Mercymorn the First, Augustine the First, meet Commander Wake Me Up Inside, sincerest apologies if I got that wrong,” said the Emperor. “Wake —Mercy—Augustine.” “Oh, we’ve met,” said the corpse, with immense satisfaction.

Cahoots! Cahoots I say.

Commander wake me up inside 🤣 (save me!!!!)

They're confronting God, for something - that's taken ten thousand years to uncover, apparently.

The plot thickens.

“They were working for me,” said the dead Commander. Mercymorn demanded, “Are you flattering yourself, or being wrong on purpose?” The other Lyctor interrupted, “Joy—” but she was saying, wildly: “Oh, let it happen! If this is happening, let it happen … We had a deal, Wake! Where the hell have you been hiding for nineteen years?” “Where—you—fucking—left—me,” she ground out. “In my bones. Then a blade. In—that—fucking—hole.”

The sword, then. "That fucking hole" presumably being the Ninth house.

The corpse was grim. “I came armed.” “It doesn’t matter what you came armed with, Commander—” “I had the baby,” said Wake. “The baby I’d had to incubate myself for nine long fucking months, when the foetal dummies these two gave me died.” “Oh, God, it was yours,” said Augustine, in horror. “I thought you’d used in vitro on one of Mercy’s—” “I said they all died,” said Wake.

Oh my god!!!!

The eggs you gave me all died and you lied to me!!!!!!!!!!

She's behind all of the messages that Harrow thought she hallucinated!!!!!! THIS is what they meant!! They weren't for or about Harrow - they were for Augustine and Mercymorn!!!!

“Okay. Let’s get this straight,” God was saying. “You brought a baby—a baby you’d made inside yourself, well done, that’s the classic—so you could, what, kill it and create a huge thanergy cascade at the door? I wish Harrowhark were here; it would do her good to know there are more people in the world with an imagination like her parents’

So that was the plan - to kill baby Gideon and breach the locked tomb - but it didn't work - because Commander Wake (me up inside) died before she could reach the Ninth?

The woman I was pretty sure was actually my mother—wearing the body of a woman I’d had a crush on, who in turn had been wearing the identity of a woman she’d murdered, until I fell on a spike so that my boss could kill her—craned her head around in her bonds.

An absolutely WILD situation to be in, admittedly. Imagine being completely mystified with your origins all your life, and then finding out, after your death, like THIS.

“I think you’re skipping ahead in the story,” said God. “I think you’re glossing over a part … because you think it doesn’t matter? Are you embarrassed? Gideon, were you aware that, when you let Commander Wake get as far as she did—to the House of the Ninth, to one of our own Houses, our own people—that she was pregnant?” A pause. “I was aware,” said Gideon Classic. “Why the hell did you not tell me?” “Because I thought it was—mine.”

Ohhhhhhhhh. The plot thickens FURTHER. Gideon Nav's father possibly confirmed to be Gideon the First???????

(I'm not ignoring the "I thought" and all of the everything Commander Wake just said, meaning it could very much be not true, but still -)

“You never kept it secret from us. I always thought it was a little over the top, Teacher … you were always so fussy about never bleeding … but Cassiopeia told me a very interesting thing about blood wards, once. She always said that they should really be called cell wards, because they work off thalergetic enzymes … which can be spoofed with a substantial thanergy burst and the blood of a close relative. A parent. A child.” The Emperor said, as though speaking to a kid: “And how would you ever—” and stopped. [...] “But it was only—” “The once? Yes, one evening planned down to the ground for five hundred years,” said the Saint of Patience.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit!!!!!!!!

Gideon Nav's father almost definitely confirmed to be THE EMPEROR??????

THIS was the purpose of the sexy parties???? LMAO?????????

“I’m—” I said. The world revolved. “I’m not fucking dead,” I said, which wasn’t even true, [...] “Hi, Not Fucking Dead,” he said. “I’m Dad.”

CUT!!!!!!!! FIREWORKS PLEASE OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!

That was the single best way to end that chapter ghholy fuck.

I learned WAY more than I bargaiend for in this chapter holy fucdk¬!!!!!!!!!!!

HOLY FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[sullustangin]

Fluffy February Day 23: Dance

A/N: I am officially now caught up, with Reward being posted earlier today and Sacrifice and Partners being posted yesterday.

Time: 25 ATC, 6 months post Eva and Theron getting married.

~~

This is part of that yet-to be-fully-written fic about the galactic celebration for the end of the Eternal Empire/Fleet that Lana planned, because she didn't get the coronation for Eva that she wanted. The first part was prompted by @commanderlurker back in 2021. Then I commissioned @caffeinatedrogue to illustrate the outfits for the gala...

And now I'm about another 2000 words into this venture, but y'all are getting the most relevant 924 for Fluffy February 2024.

~~

“Oh, no.”

At some course in between the main and dessert (Eva forgot how much cheese and more wine had pass through her hands and/or paid an extended visit), Theron said something that sounded more sad than snarky, for once.

“What?” she purred over the rim of her wine glass.

“Jace.”

“Are you still –”

“No.  Not that.” 

Eva finally looked over at Theron and then followed his gaze to –

Jace.

And Satele.  She’d shown up.  She’d actually shown up, and in her old Jedi robes – not the recent ones.  The ones with the gold trim, her hair neatly braided.  She actually looked like she was here to politely celebrate and mingle, as if she hadn’t disappeared.

…

Eva realized she hadn’t said anything to Theron, again. 

But based on his expression, Theron wasn’t think of that right now.  “…I worked security at one of these things, years ago.  Before I knew who he was.”  Theron shifted in his seat and took a big swallow of his glass of wine before continuing.  “It was really, really sad then.  When I found out everything… it hit me like a sack of rocks later.”

Eva shifted closer in her seat toward him, so he could keep his voice low.

“He asked her to dance.  One more time, for old time’s sake.”

Almost in pantomime, Eva saw the same thing playing out again.

“She refused him.  He told her he understood, that he wasn’t going to try to start something or win an argument.  He just wanted to celebrate with someone ….”

Theron’s hesitance won Eva’s attention again.  There was some dull and dead outrage there, some sort of frustration.  But mostly, Theron just looked sad.  “Someone who survived the war like he did.  Someone, who saw it all, like he did.  He wanted to dance with his friend.”

Theron carefully, deliberately met her gaze, as if concerned his emotions would spill all over the table and interrupt dinner.  His hand found hers. 

And there was Jace, reaching one more time, and having nothing in his hands.  Not even his old friend.

Satele had already turned and found a convenient floor-to-ceiling window, disappearing behind the curtain.  Eva knew she was a good enough slicer to escape out the window.   So did Theron.  They didn’t move to stop her.

Time to dance, Eva decided, with one last glug of wine.

~~

“Colonel Malcom.”

His heart in some strange place between his boots and his throat, he turned, already correcting the speaker, “That’s Supreme Commander –”

Jace stopped himself.  Eva.  Theron’s wife.  The Commander of the Alliance.

He felt himself come off the high wire that Satele always put him on.  If she wasn’t a Jedi, he’d wonder if it was on purpose.  He knew it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop him from feeling that way, all the ways, he did about her.    “I haven’t been Colonel since Alderaan.”

“And you’d have to be what, twenty-seven years younger now in order to take me out to dinner?” came the quick-as-a-whip answer.

And suddenly, he was back in that room with Brom and that absolutely audacious smuggler –

Jace’s brain stalled as he realized --

“I knew I’d met you before,” Jace managed say, staring at her.  “It…it just wasn’t at Keylander.”

Eva smiled, mischievous and high-spirited, looking more like she did at 23(ish?) than she did now at 30 (Jace had sent a Jawagram, like he did for Theron). 

And then, a moment of absolute, abject panic.  “Does Theron know that you --?”

“We’ve been joking about that dinner offer for ten years.  On and off,” she replied, waggling her hand in reference to the years lost in carbonite.  As if it was joke, and it didn’t mean so much to them –

Eva rolled on, as ever, ebullient and the absolute life of the party.  “So, obviously, I’m going home with Theron tonight, and I’ve already had dinner.  What say we have a dance?” 

Jace felt his mouth drop open, slightly, but only for a second.  “I – it’s not necessary.”

…as smart as he knew he could be, it was only now that Jace realized she had seen Satele and felt bad for him and –

Probably, so had Theron.  Jace cast a look over at the table where Eva and Theron had been sitting. 

…there wasn’t an empty seat beside Eva’s.  Theron was still there, talking to the woman who had sat at Eva’s left, Lana Beniko.

…he hadn’t chased after her.  He hadn’t left Eva behind.

….good for him.  Good for them.

“Oh, come on, Colonel.  One dance between old friends.”  Then Eva let a pause come between them, just long enough to make him look at her and that really pretty dress.  “Your feet will thank you for my friendship with Lenn of House Teraan.”

That name clicked, in a bad way, for Jace.  “He… you know he didn’t survive the Eternal Fleet barrage on Alderaan.”

Undeterred, Eva straightened up, and suddenly, she was every bit … not the Voidhound, not a queen or empress, but someone who certainly demanded that sort of reverence: the Captain.   “We’ll toast to absent friends later.  The living can dance.”

As if by magic (or on cue, knowing her), the band struck up some ubiquitous waltz that everyone had danced to before, and Jace picked up the first step, and off they spun.

Jace supposed, twelve years after he’d turned her down for dinner and six months after she’d married his son, he and Eva were old friends.

And after a few wars, that was hard to find. 

~~

@fluffyfebruary

[regina-bithyniae]

book ask 17!

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they are?

I was expecting The Rules of the Game to be good, but it was better than that. Going into it, I had watched Drachinifel's Jutland series and read Castles of Steel, and both took a pretty similar line, 0.9 pro-Jellicoe and 0.1 pro-Beatty. Drach really hates Beatty.

TRotG's stance is effectively, "The long calm of naval dominance after Trafalgar allowed the Royal Navy to ossify into an organization of men obsessed with discipline and following orders, such as one John Jellicoe. Whatever you think of Beatty, he used a loose and aggressive command style more suitable for actual combat in visibility and signalling-limited environments."

His long social history of the Navy in the 1800s explains several odd patterns. Hugh Evan-Thomas not turning to follow the Battlecruisers right off the bat, or the bizarrely passive behavior of RN captains in the night action, where the entire High Seas Fleet barges its way through their line without anyone managing to get a signal off about it, seem like odd blips at first glance. After TRotG you get that they think "do exactly what you're told, nothing more, nothing less," reinforced by the fallout of the Victoria-Camperdown collision. He states directly that for Jellicoe to be faultless, then the only thing that could have gone wrong at Jutland were technical issues (of which there were many) and individual mistakes. And that can't be.

(Technical Issues: HMS Indefatigable exploding at Jutland)

HOWEVER, Beatty has both an extremely sloppy record, and his "loose, initiative-focused" style credentials are severely overstated. Gordon never brought up Beatty trying to micromanage the Battle of Dogger Bank after HMS Lion was crippled and fell behind the rest of the BCS, causing them to all tear off after poor SMS Blucher rather than pursue Hipper. His fuckups are many:

leaving the Queen Elizabeth's, the slowest capital ships under his command, at the rear of his formation

not meeting with Hugh Evan-Thomas to tell him how the BCS does things after the Fifth Battleship Squadron gets assigned to it

his substantial part in the signalling issues that left them behind

his substantial part in the signalling issues that told them to go straight into the High Seas Fleet

aformentioned micromanagement at Dogger Bank

keeping Seymour around in general

his part in the BCS' abysmal ammunition-handling practices (lower-confidence on this, they were in the Grand Fleet too IIRC)

Most of these are mentioned in the book. Evan-Thomas was no genius and Grand Fleet signalling practices were unsuitable, but Beatty's failure in point 2 to tell him what the "rules of the game" actually are in the Battlecruiser Fleet makes him assuming Grand Fleet rules are in place reasonable, and nudges more blame weight onto Beatty.

All in all, my take on Beatty is that he was essentially a moron with the right idea, while Jellicoe was a very technically capable practitioner of a dead-end doctrine.