#MY INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS WON I ENDED UP CUTTING MY HAIR

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

My dearest bouncey! I have a prompt for you if you like: Witchers as a 90s/2000s boyband 😂🤷‍♀️💖💖💖

Ellie, darling, this started as 500 words and turned into like 3.2k words and also a piece of art so... thank you so much. also shout out to my amazing art pal @mawbwehownets for the little comic!!

this contains lots of 90′s/early 2000′s nostalgia so there is also that

tw: hornyish, smooching, perilous music video situations (corny)

---

“Do I have to?” Geralt groans, letting his forehead thud down against the linoleum surface of their tour bus’s shitty dining table.

“Yes,” Vesemir says. His tone leaves no room for argument or whining. “But what if I let you pick the winner personally?”

“There have to be like fifteen thousand letters to go through! How will I manage that in less than two days?”

“There were a few more than fifteen thousand applications, Geralt. There were probably closer to five hundred thousand.”

Lambert wolf whistles and Aiden claps.

Geralt grimaces and keeps his face hidden against the table, releasing a slightly muffled: “Fuck.”

“Language,” Vesemir frowns. He tugs gently at Geralt’s loose ponytail and the singer lifts his head up from the table again, looking at his manager with beseeching eyes. “Anyway, we’ve narrowed it down to about fifty. You can go through those and choose whichever person you’d like to play your love interest. But you have to give me an answer by Friday. The shoot is in three weeks and whoever wins this stupid competition will need time to make arrangements.”

“I thought we were footing the bill for their food and their hotel room,” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What would they need to arrange?”

“Not everyone can board their pets at the flick of a wrist, dude,” Lambert scoffs from his seat on the couch. Aiden lies draped across his lap, as usual, and the two of them are halfheartedly watching The Lion King. They can only watch movies when the bus is stationary, otherwise the VHS player might move too much while running and damage the film inside the cassette. Even taking advantage of such a rare opportunity, Lambert and Aiden still seem more interested in each other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s voice acting. 

“Lambert has a point,” Vesemir sighs. He scrubs his hand over his lightly whiskered face like a tired grandparent and sighs again, more heavily. “It’ll be good for you boys to have a normal person around for a few days. Maybe they’ll be able to put some things into perspective.”

Geralt can only roll his eyes a little bit and thank his manager regardless of his own feelings; he and the rest of TW5 owe the seasoned musical expert their entire careers. Without Vesemir’s help and mentorship they would never have made it past their first disastrous record deal. They certainly wouldn’t have reached the heights they’re at now, enjoying international fame and recognition. 

The begrudging frontman accepts a heavy plastic bin of file folders from Vesemir and sets them down next to his bunk. “Are these organized in any particular way?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

Geralt digs his hand into the pile and pulls out a piece of pale-pink stationary, eager to get started and, by extension, get finished. He can already tell that it’s going to be a long couple of days.

---

“I want this one, please, Ves.”

“Huh?” Vesemir looks up from his palm-pilot. Geralt is standing in front of him and trying to hand him something. 

“I want this guy to be in the music video with me.” Geralt holds out the letter again, fingers trapping the accompanying polaroid headshot with great care. A pair of bright blue eyes stares up from the photo, highlighting the subject’s bright smile and unruly mop of messy brown hair. Vesemir tries to hide his amusement; totally Geralt’s type, if the big oaf could admit to having one.

“Alright. I’ll get everything in order. We start shooting in two and a half weeks so get your asses to the gym, please.”

“Yes, Ves,” all five young men chorus. 

“Tomorrow,” Coen mutters a moment later than everyone else, not glancing up from his composition notebook. Vesemir nods in understanding. Coen is the best lyricist of the lot and it’s easier to let him work when inspiration strikes than beg him to focus when he can’t get a solitary idea to stick.

“So why’d you pick that one, Ger-bear?” Lambert drawls. Aiden nods and leans against Lambert’s side. Geralt can’t help the mild jealousy that overtakes him every time he sees his bandmates touch each other with such casual affection. He wants that intimacy, that softness behind the veneer of famous indifference. He wants someone to hold. 

“Yeah. What drew your attention to that poor unfortunate soul. Was it the floppy hair, the big blue eyes, or the dopey grin?” Aiden smirks.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel sighs, looking between the two troublemakers with the tired gaze of an eldest sibling, “Fuck you for even asking in the first place and expecting a straight answer.”

“Straight is the furthest thing from his answer,” Lambert chuckles. He is promptly smacked in the head with one of the couch’s hideous throw pillows. The youngest member of the band rubs the side of his face and chuckles, “Alright, I deserved that one.”

---

“Holy shit!” Jaskier practically screams. “Holy motherfucking shit!”

“What!?” Yennefer comes flying around the corner. “What’s wrong!?”

“Nothing is wrong, Yenna! Everything is awesome! Everything absolutely fucking rocks!”

“Did you get hit on the head by a falling branch between here and the mailbox or what? You were whining about your finals work not five min-”

“Look at this!” Jaskier shoves an open envelope into her hands and cuts her off. Yennefer reads the watermarked documents once. Twice. Her eyes almost pop out of her head when the words and their meanings finally sink in. 

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I am absolutely not!” her giddy roommate cheers, bouncing up and down in place. “I did it! I won!”

“Holy shit.”

“I know! I get to kiss Geralt deRiv!” he practically cackles. Then freezes. “Holy fuck I get to kiss Geralt deRiv.”

“You said that already,” Yen teases. She shoves the paperwork back into his hands and grabs a takeout menu from the junk drawer near her hip. “Since you won the makeout lottery, you get to buy lunch. Lucky bastard.”

---

“So this will be your dressing room,” someone’s underpaid PA says, ushering Jaskier into a small, bright room. “Priscilla will be here shortly to get you into hair and makeup.”

“Oh, uh- thanks!”

“Yup.”

And with that, the young man disappears back down the hallway toward the sound stage. Jaskier jogs his leg anxiously as he waits for Priscilla to arrive, nervous and otherwise totally alone in the huge grey building. As the minutes tick by and his heart rate rises, Jaskier’s intrusive thoughts make an unwanted appearance: What if they forget about me being here? What if there’s been a mistake and they accidentally hired two love interests and I just sit in here for hours all alone while-

“Hi!” a bright, peppy blonde woman flies through the door and startles him back to reality. “Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla! You can call me Priss; I’ll be doing your hair and makeup for the video this week!”

“Oh… hi. I’m Julian, but I prefer Jaskier.”

“Lovely! Well, Jaskier, is your hair naturally this color?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Perfect! I don’t want to mess with such a lovely shade of natural brown, but do you mind if I give it a bit of a trim? I have a few ideas for styles right here in my book- How do you feel about some feathering back here? I think-” she fluffs a few of the hairs around the nape of Jaskier’s neck “-I could really bring out the curls if I adjusted the length a bit and used some product.”

“Just, uhm, go for it, then! Feel free to make me as pretty as possible!” Jaskier declares. He’s committing to this experience wholeheartedly, determined to allow himself every opportunity for positive change. He wants to really let himself enjoy it, and he needs a haircut anyway. Priscilla spends an hour washing, cutting, drying, and styling his hair into a lovely fringed sweep across his forehead. It ends just above his brows, giving his face a slightly softer shape than usual. He grins over his shoulder, “I love it! I’m going to miss you when I’m back at Oxenfurt. Good stylists are so hard to find.”

Priss blushes and nudges against his shoulder, “Oh, you little charmer.”

“I mean it,” he says, examining himself in the mirror. “I look like I could really be worthy of a heroic rescue! This is going to be such a fantastic memory, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

Priss bites back a genuine tear and smiles, “Now that your natural prettiness has been mildly enhanced, let’s get you over to wardrobe, shall we?”

“Wardrobe? Do I have, like, a costume? What’s the music video even about?”

“They didn’t tell you any of this when you got here?”

“Not… not really.”

“Well, my darling, I think you’re really going to like it; they’ve got you in Versace for the first scene.”

“Versace!?” 

Then Jaskier is being ushered into a bright, colorful room full to bursting with grim-faced, middle-aged women and he loses track of his only braincell for the rest of the morning.

---

“You must be Julian!” Lambert declares, bounding up to him and grinning. It’s a feral, animalistic grin and Jaskier resists the sudden urge to take a step back.

“I prefer Jaskier, if you don’t mind too much,” Jaskier corrects him quietly. Lambert rolls his eyes in a long-suffering kind of way and throws a meaty arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, completely ignoring the wardrobe technician’s wincing as he wrinkles the expensive silk jacket. 

“No need to be quiet and polite around here, my dude. We’re just a bunch of rowdy idiots, aren’t we, guys?” 

“Hell yeah!” Aiden calls back. Eskel sighs like the put-upon nanny in a Victorian Redanian comedy. 

“Speak for yourself,” Coen barely lifts his frosted tips up from his book long enough to speak. Geralt is-

Holy motherfucking Britney Spears on toast.

Geralt is the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his short, unfulfilled-until-right-now life. Forget Ralph Macchio. Forget Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Winona Ryder. This man is… Geralt deRiv is… he’s the picture of perfection. And he’s right there, standing in front of an elaborate party set with his thick, beautiful arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trained on the floor, as if willing it to swallow him whole. Jaskier realizes that he probably didn’t have any choice in the matter; maybe this was just as awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt as it was for Jaskier. 

“Ger-bear!” Lambert whoops, yanking Jaskier closer to the brooding frontman. If only he were brave enough to struggle for escape; alas. “This is your boy-toy for the week. Goes by Jaskier, apparently.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt manages to grunt. “How did you like the script?”

“I haven’t uh- I haven’t actually seen it?”

“Shit. Fuck. One second,” Geralt huffs, disappearing into the crowd of technicians and machinery operators and PAs. Jaskier loves him already, for real. Sure, he was pretty in the music videos and promo material, but the way he said fuck like it was the noblest word he could think of… Geralt interrupts his train of thought by coming back with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He shuffle-shoves them into Jaskier’s arms immediately. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine and shy, more tenuous than his usual goofy grin. He flips through the pages, glancing between the script to his expensive suit, “So I’m guessing we’re at a party for this scene? Or something?”

“This is… where we meet. This is where… you and I uh…”

Jaskier’s eyes scan the page as Geralt’s ability to speak slowly leaves him. 

Lover ENTERS LEFT, dressed to the nines. Lover adjusts their tie/boa and takes a look around the room. S/He looks sad and a little hopeful. PULL BACK to Geralt, who approaches slowly. Their eyes meet. HOLD SHOT. PULL BACK as they move towards each other. Geralt pulls Lover into his arms and they begin to dance.

“Oh, wow.”

“I hope it’s okay! If you’re not comfortable with that kind of thing we can-”

“I’ll be alright, thank you. I came here to put my acting chops to the test. Well, that and meet my favorite band, of course. Thank you again, by the way. It’s been wonderful so far and I really appreciate you allowing me to be here.”

“Allowing? Psh. Geralt ha-” Lambert is cut off by Aiden, who elbows him sharply in the side. “Ow! What the fuck, babe?”

“I knew it!” Jaskier crows, distracted. “I knew you two were an item!”

“They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They never confirm anything either,” Jaskier retorts. Geralt shrugs his acknowledgement and moves back towards the set. Jaskier follows after the taller man like a lost puppy, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, hungry for detail even in his anxiety ridden state. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he doesn’t want to waste a solitary second of it. “This is incredible, really just...wow. You guys do this all the time? You get to make tiny little movies for already great songs that you get to perform for millions of adoring fans? And you get paid!?”

Geralt hadn’t ever really thought about it like that. He’d been raised in the industry. He’d signed to Kaer Morhen Records as an early teen because his mother was a member of the Board of Directors and he’d been making music ever since; an outsider’s perspective to things was… new. A little strange. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty much what we do.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not that exciting, I promise.”

“Have you ever written a fifteen page paper about the history of lute-string design and manufacturing?” 

“No.”

“Then kindly shut the fuck up about what I should consider exciting,” Jaskier grins. Geralt is immediately and irrevocably smitten. Fuck. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes! “So, which door am I entering from?”

“Left,” Geralt points. Jaskier skips over and begins to introduce himself to the sound and lights crew. His smile seems to be as infectious as his cheer and soon the entire set crew is smiling at one another. There’s been a literal shift in the atmosphere; if he didn’t know any better, the TW5 frontman thinks Jaskier might be some kind of magical creature, because he can’t just be human. Geralt is well and truly fucked, and everyone in the band already knows.

---

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, slipping anxiously from behind the changing screen. The Versace is gone and in its place are a pair of tight, high-waisted blue pleather pants and a billowing white shirt, which has been strategically ripped in several places to reveal slivers of the lightly tanned skin that lies beneath. He looks like he’s in desperate need of rescuing. He looks like every fantasy Geralt has ever had about the perfect guy. He looks like a fucking dream.

“Nice,” he says.

Lambert and Aiden wolf-whistle and cheer as they approach. Aiden claps twice, loudly, and shoots Jaskier a set of finger guns, “Hot damn, baby. You single? You lookin’ to mingle? Because I am bi and spoon like a Pringle.”

“First of all, babe, I love you but that was the most horrific combination of words yet known to man. Second of all, yeah, I’d dump Aiden for you for sure,” Lambert adds. Jaskier is at a total loss for words. His mouth hangs open and his breath comes in uneven little gasps for a moment.

“Uh… I- Thank you?”

“Oh god, Eskel! Eskel, he’s short circuiting, do something.”

“You absolute-” Eskel groans and makes his way over to the gathered group. He tugs Jaskier away and over to the other end of the set, where a comically huge rocket/bomb (Jaskier can’t tell) is standing at the center of a vaguely science-themed room. A laboratory, maybe? Or like, a really weird spacecraft? A hospital run by rocket scientists? It doesn’t matter, it’s the Evil Lair of the Villain and that’s where Jaskier is being held captive. “Here, Cameron and Elise will help you get set up for the next scene. I’m sorry about the boys they’re... gay?”

“I understand,” Jaskier nods sagely and Eskel relaxes. Then for comedy’s sake he adds an equally dramatic, “I too am... gay.”

The set dresser, an electrician, and a few specialists (likely a rope rigger among them) come over and tie Jaskier to the bomb/rocket/villainous mechanism, ending his conversation with Eskel, who is now in a much better mood than he was before. 

Jaskier is told to make sure his hands are crossed behind the small of his back and the director instructs him to wiggle back and forth “as convincingly as possible without actually getting loose or moving the ropes too much”. Which is manageable, he supposes. 

“Then, when the chorus comes up, we’ll get a few shots of the boys dancing in front of you,” the director continues to explain. That’s… kind weird, but okay. I’ve seen weirder. “Then we’ll do the action shots, with Geralt rescuing you. Are you okay to do the kiss, or would you rather not? We have dynamic shots with or without, so it’s totally up to you.”

“I’m fine with that,” Jaskier smiles shyly. “I consent to be smooched.”

“Adorable,” Lambert calls. Jaskier blushes and the director shoots Lambert a glare. 

“He’s already pink enough, don’t make me change my gels you little shithead!”

“Sorry, Pierre!”

“Fucking sorry my ass,” Pierre grumbles beneath his breath. Then he smiles at Jaskier. “Do something nasty to him for me, will you? Not too nasty but… just a little?”

“I’ve got your back,” Jaskier winks. 

“No plotting! Not fair!” Aiden whines.

“You have a team,” Pierre retorts. “Now I have a team.”

“Rules are rules,” Eskel sighs. “Now can we please shoot this damn video?”

“Right,” Pierre claps, getting everyone’s attention. “Places!”

---

Geralt races up the stairs, trying to keep the long sleeves of his black mesh shirt from catching on any of the set pieces. The solid black t-shirt he’s wearing underneath makes his arms and back look bulkier than normal; it’s a visual technique to make him look larger than Jaskier, whose billowing white shirt will hide how wide his shoulders actually are. Fuck, those are some nice shoulders. And the smattering of dark chest hair that peeks from the front of the college student’s shirt? Geralt wants to bury his face in it.

Okay, focus. 

He reaches the top of the set and rushes towards Jaskier, ripping the ropes from around his torso and pulling him close. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head with his upstage hand, framing the slightly smaller man for the camera and making him seem even shorter, another trick of angles and body posturing. Geralt plays Jaskier like an instrument, bending him back by placing his downstage arm around Jaskier’s waist, pressing their mouths together and holding them still for as long as it takes the director to yell, “Cut!” with a satisfied tone of voice. 

Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed when Pierre laughs and claps some more and cries, “Print it, lads! That was a one-take wonder!”

He tries to ignore the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump as if disappointed. “Good job,” he manages to say.

“You, too.” Geralt wishes he could keep a picture of Jaskier smiling in his back pocket forever. No other sight could light up the world so effortlessly. “Thanks for being gentle.”

“I’m trying to sweep you off your feet,” the singer shrugs. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows and follows Geralt down the narrow set stairs.

“Are you, really?”

“Is it working?” Geralt asks, turning to look up at Jaskier. The student pauses to look at him and his foot catches on an uneven board. He topples forward with a short cry of surprise and seems surprised when Geralt reaches out to catch him. “Jaskier!”

“Oh my god!” Lambert races over, Aiden hot on his heels. “Are you okay, dude?”

“I’m fine,”  Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Just a little shocked.”

“You should take him to get a snack or something,” Eskel says, nudging his shoulder against Geralt’s. “He’s been busy all day and hasn’t even been to craft services.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Geralt asks, honestly baffled. Jaskier shakes his head, face heating once again. He wishes he could stop blushing, but Geralt’s presence seems to make it impossible. He wraps one arm around the younger man’s temptingly slender waist and leads him towards the food carts. He shoves a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of punch into Jaskier’s hands, not giving him a chance to argue. “Here, I’ll have something, too.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles, understanding that he is, in turn, being understood. They sit comfortable folding chairs off to the side, food spread across their laps. Jaskier laughs and chats around his mouthfuls, pulling things from Geralt like his favorite color and his least favorite nicknames. Songs he liked and dances he disliked. 

“You made it fun again, today,” the singer smiles. “Thank you for that. I wish you could be here for every video shoot.”

“Looking for another member of the band?” Jaskier jokes, doing some half-hearted jazz hands. Geralt shakes his head and laughs. 

“I wish we were,” he sighs. “But I guess five is the magic number.”

“Makes the dances look cooler,” Jaskier nods. “I agree with whoever made that decision. I wouldn’t dare ruin the aesthetic.”

Geralt laughs again and Vesemir turns to look, honestly shocked at the volume of the sound. 

“Plus, you can’t be the frontman if there’s no front.”

“Shut up,” Geralt chuckles, still grinning broadly. 

Vesemir makes a phone call.

---

2 Weeks Later, Backstage in Kaedwen

---

“He’s been sulking like this ever since Jaskier went back to Oxenfurt,” Lambert whines. “C’mon Vesemir, do something.”

“What do you want me to do, make Geralt’s boyfriend appear out of thin air?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Geralt growls, stomping past his bandmates and manager. He can’t help but feel grumpy. Jaskier had been like the sun, bringing light and wonder to everything he touched, and without that joy around it doesn’t seem worth the extra effort to smile. So he’s been moping. 

“Fucking hell,” Vesemir sighs. “Thank goodness I thought ahead.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asks, joining the little group in the hallway outside the dressing room. “What did you think of?”

“Three,” Vesemir smiles, glancing at his watch. “Two… One…”

“Boooooys,” echoes a high tenor. “Where’s my welcome wagon, Vesemir?”

“Jaskier!” Aiden practically screams, leaping out of the dressing room and flying down the hall. Lambert follows at a sprint and Vesemir hears the resounding oof oh fuck of both giddy musicians hitting their mark. 

Geralt comes back down the hall at a jog, eyes searching frantically. “I thought I heard-”

“Geralt!”

Vesemir’s heart clenches in his chest at the way Geralt’s face lights up. At the end of the hallway, surrounded by spilled luggage and apologetic boyband members, is Jaskier. Geralt floats to him, it seems, like he’s dreaming the whole thing. Jaskier takes his hands and then releases them and wraps his arms low around Geralt’s hips instead. 

“I missed you the most,” he whispers, just for Geralt to hear. “Couldn’t sleep without listening to your CD. I know it’s silly but I really like you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers reverently into his shaggy brown hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to do my thesis on pop culture’s relation to music history,” he says. “And then the manager of TW5 called Oxenfurt and offered me the opportunity to do some… first hand research while I worked on finishing the paper.”

“R-Really? You’re going to be here… every day?”

“Do you… do you not want me he-”

Geralt kisses him before he can even finish the question. It’s a stupid question anyway, of course Geralt wants him here. Wants him right here, kissing him silly. The singer presses his lips desperately, crushingly against Jaskier’s; he never wants to part from this man again. He never wants to be without that glorious laughter and contagious liveliness. Who knew that life could be so full of delight and happiness if he only let it? 

He kisses Jaskier for all he’s worth and more, pouring his heart and soul into it. When they pull apart, both gasping for air, Geralt asks, “Stay with me, Jaskier? You don’t have to do anything I just-”

“I’d love to be the big spoon,” Jaskier winks, whispering again. “Thank you, Geralt, for the rescue.”

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar’s Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can’t have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear.

Part Three

AN: I highly recommend you read Impending, a once-upon-a-oneshot that snuggles right into Constellation here, between parts two and three. Enjoy!

May the Force be with you.

Standing in the airlock, Aitahea let the echo of Erithon’s voice roll over and through her, like she might flow through saber stances during practice. Six syllables, like the spiral of a breath, a last sigh of hope to cling to in her fierce exhaustion and anguished determination.

It was the first time they’d spoken since Alderaan; everything else had been missed calls and quickly dashed-off messages. She’d mentioned her return to Tython, but not her weariness, loneliness, or how since leaving Alderaan, the only dream she’d remembered on waking was of him, humming Star by Star and stroking her hair. As far-flung as they’d been, she had doubted he’d see her injuries in a grainy holo.

Instead, she’d simply listened.

Erithon’s mother and sister had given him no end to their questions about the “princess” - as his youngest niece had gleefully declared - having seen their gala appearance splashed across the holonet. He’d explained with proud reticence that he had been harassed into calling to say hello for them, but he hoped she was doing well, of course.

See-Too had whirred politely in the common room entryway, a subtle warning that the other crew had begun stirring in response to their arrival. Aitahea had gently interrupted Erithon a final time, thanking him for calling, but she was needed urgently. He’d nodded, evidently used to the same, and then… “May the Force be with you.” She hadn’t even had a chance to reply, to wish him the same, before the call had disconnected, and she’d been alone again in the dark.

Minutes later, the Luminous had docked to Vivicar’s stolen ship, though Sia had only done so under protest.

“I don’t fucking like this, Ai.”

“There’s no other way, Sia. I trust you to keep the Luminous safe.”

“Yeah, me too, but what about you?”

Aitahea had pressed her lips into a tight line and turned away from her friend, unable to offer anything more to assuage Sia’s concern or her own guilt. The Progress had made all reports on time, presumably under Lord Vivicar’s control, so no one in the wider Republic knew that anything was awry.

Qyzen had refused to let her board alone, though she’d helplessly argued for it. They both knew she was still healing, only maintaining the shielding by a hair’s breadth. Vivicar’s ruinous intrusion on the ritual had done more damage than Aitahea had been willing to acknowledge. Sia had muttered under her breath something about needing to get a kolto tank installed in the med bay.

The Progress was shrouded in flickering darkness, the black of deep space. The stars still glittered, but coldly, distantly. Aitahea wasn’t certain what they’d find on board; there were many lives, but they writhed beneath a shadow grown powerful. Qyzen waited beside her as the airlock cycled to admit them to the hijacked ship.

The first rush of soldiers took her off guard; she flinched at the sight of Republic insignias below fevered eyes and slack faces. A growled warning from Qyzen brought her back to the task of disabling them with as little harm as possible.

It all horrified her, this perversion of so many things she held dear. The horrible stain of the dark side flowed on the ship and everyone aboard. She could barely hold it in check, growing steadily more vulnerable as her shielding was meticulously assaulted.

Vivicar was blessedly silent until Aitahea reached the first computer console. When he finally spoke, it was like being plunged into dark water. The consular reeled, fighting to keep her fingers on the control panel and not digging into her own temples.

I wasn’t sure if you’d be foolish enough to come aboard, Aitahea. But I can sense your presence.

Aitahea swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. “And I sense a man tormented by the past.”

You are blinded by the light side. You can’t understand what you face.

Biting back a sharp retort, Aitahea shoved away from the console – she didn’t possess the necessary slicing skill to coax open the blast doors from there. She could cut her way through the thick durasteel with her lightsaber, but time felt too precious.

Nearby were a few barrels, each with a combustion risk label splashed across it. She could fling them into the door using the Force, but it would be violent and destructive.

Oddly, Aitahea found she didn’t mind that so much right now and lifted a hand. The explosion was terrific, throwing back her hood. The wave of heat quickly grew so intense Aitahea had to shield herself and Qyzen until it abated.

As they stepped through the hissing, superheated breach, Vivicar’s voice echoed in a hateful thrum. Come to me, Jedi. I’ll show you how light can be snuffed out.

Aitahea swayed briefly, closing her eyes. There was no part of her that wasn’t in anguish. If this wasn’t already snuffed out, what could possibly be worse? She felt alarmingly close to knowing exactly what.

May the Force be with you.

It was Erithon’s voice this time, no tainted whispers, just her own beautiful memory. A light in the dark. She could follow that through this horrific present; through anything, perhaps. Aitahea opened her eyes, signaled her companion, and forged ahead.

Most of the unwitting fighters in their path could be stopped with a Force wave, tumbling them unconscious but mostly unharmed to the floor; but the squad leaders would be hardier – she knew from experience.

The first squad leader, a hulking being of indeterminate origin, was waiting for them at the first intersection, alone. The soldier didn’t fall for Qyzen’s feint and instead hoisted his cannon toward Aitahea, spraying cryogenic fluid. She flicked it away, readying her lightsaber to deflect any shots from the holdout blaster she knew he’d be hiding.

Qyzen shifted into an effortless and decisive strike, taking advantage of a seam in the trooper’s armor. Aitahea shuddered, feeling the soldier’s perception flare out, leaving nothing but gleeful darkness seething in every shadow.

“Herald?”

“I’m fine,” she bit out. “Let’s proceed.”

After navigating a few more hallways, they located the secondary computer terminal. She’d barely set her fingers to the keypad when Vivicar splintered her thoughts.

Tell me, Aitahea, what was it like? Letting your life force drain away to shield a stranger from me - how did it feel?

Aitahea frowned at her suddenly balled-up fists, unclenching and resettling her fingers on the keys before replying. “Painful, but I endured it.”

Pain makes us stronger. And the pain I have endured is beyond your comprehension.

That is why I have won.

Her throat seized, but even after swallowing hard, no words came to her, all her skillful, diplomatic platitudes absent.

“Hunt is not over until beast is skinned, dark thing,” Qyzen rumbled. The console began blaring a klaxon warning, and droids began pouring into the room.

You will understand soon. If you live that long.

“Your power and tactics have brought you this far, but no further.”

Until now, Aitahea had imagined Parkanas Tark as a youth, bright with potential and the Force. But the being that turned to face her as she dragged herself toward the bridge was aged, wretched, and twisted by the dark side.

“This battle was decided before you stepped aboard.”

“I’m tired of your delusions,” Aitahea hissed, past exhaustion and numb with pain. “Explain yourself.”

Vivicar gave her a mocking bow. “As you wish. My plague isn’t just a disease; it siphons power from its victims. With the proper rituals, that power can be channeled. Soon, the combined strength of your Masters will make me the most powerful Force adept who has ever lived.”

The pressure against her shielding intensified, thousands of threads – lives, she realized – suddenly pulled taut. Trembling with the strain, Aitahea took a step forward. She hadn’t come here to bicker; she’d come here to help.

“Turn away from this path, Parkanas. The Order can help you.”

Vivicar laughed.

“Oh, Aitahea.” This time, she visibly flinched when he used her name. “Parkanas Tark died long ago. Even ‘Vivicar’ is merely a skin to be shed. Parkanas offered himself to me on Malachor Three, to crush the Order that destroyed us. He embodied my spirit.” He lifted his hands, a seething glow thick with the dark side writhing around him. “I am no lost Jedi, no ordinary Sith Lord. I am Terrak Morrhage.”

“You can turn away from this path, Parkanas,” she beseeched, fumbling for words while he stalked toward her. “The Order can help you. Just… just come home.”

“No one can oppose me, certainly no child, barely more than a Padawan.” He grinned, ghoulish and without remorse as he ignited his lightsaber. “I am beyond flesh… beyond death!”

Aitahea realized tears were slipping from her eyes, her vision blurring. She was so tired. “No one is beyond the will of the Force,” she whispered, uncertain who the platitude was meant for.

Morrhage laughed again, a sound like plasteel shredding. “I will crush you, Aitahea, and your shattered body will fuel my rebirth!”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of running. Simply turning about, dashing to the safety of the Luminous. She questioned the choice she’d made on Tython, to come here carrying so many injuries, so much guilt and fear. Should she have stayed to heal? She remembered what the Noetikon of Secrets had explained, that the Jedi Master who had created the shielding technique had given his life to end Morrhage’s first plague. Was Morrhage right? Had the light blinded her?

Aitahea took a breath.

The light didn’t blind. Light revealed, left no shadows to hide in. Light nourished; light gave everything yet lost nothing. Light was right now in this moment, not in the past, and would always be in reach in the future. If light called, light would answer.

Aitahea called out.

“Parkanas! I know you are there; I sense you!” Morrhage ignored her outcry, continuing to advance. Aitahea sucked in a breath, ignited her lightsaber, and took a defensive stance. “Help me stop this monster, Parkanas, please!”

Morrhage attacked with spectacular brutality, thousands of years of rage and hatred against Aitahea’s weakened shielding, against her physical self. The Jedi parried and dodged, evading strikes she couldn’t hope to block. Qyzen Fess did what he could to aid her, but Morrhage was fixated on Aitahea. Her body quailed under the assault, shredding her determination. There must be another way…

Morrhage’s next attack struck true, and Aitahea lost a few moments to fiery agony searing across her left side. Reckless with pain, she flung out a wild, violent Force wave that sent Morrhage to the floor and left several nearby panels crushed beyond recognition. A few precious seconds passed while she waited, panting, for her vision to clear.

The fallen Jedi, the false Sith lord, struggled to his knees, glaring death toward Aitahea as she approached.

“Impressive, Aitahea, but my victory is already complete. My plague has spread farther than you can imagine. Jedi Masters across the galaxy are succumbing to it as I speak. The plague binds these Masters to me. Hundreds of them… the heart and soul of your order.

“You feel it, do you not, Aitahea?”

No lies this time; Aitahea could indeed feel the mingled torment of hundreds more Jedi as Morrhage siphoned their lives for strength. Every crack in her shielding, down to the smallest hairline fracture, screamed in agony.

“Kill me, and you will kill every Master I have ever infected. Every one! Shielded or not, they are still bound to me.”

Aitahea dispassionately placed the blade of her lightsaber at his throat. It felt like someone else doing it. She spoke in clipped tones, her voice unrecognizable in her own ears. “Free those Jedi, Morrhage. Now.”

“And if I refuse? Will you cut us down? What choice do you have? You cannot let me live, and I am deathless.” Morrhage leered, his dark victory seemingly assured, and took one more jab: “Your shielding talent cannot harm me. You’ve lost!”

Everything went silent and impossibly still. Your shielding talent cannot harm me. Of course not. It was never meant to harm, only to heal, to offer a path toward the light that anyone could take at any time, without judgement, without conditions, just… a welcome home. The path that she’d longed for, that she’d tried to circumvent over and over, a path she could not offer until she, too, chose it.

Aitahea lowered her arm and deactivated her lightsaber. “I can save you, Parkanas.”

Morrhage reeled back as Aitahea drew the Force around her. The effort would not be without risk, but it was the path that lay before her. Another stillness enfolded her, this time of peace, willingness, and release. Fighting had never been her forte or focus; she was a healer, with words and hands and her lightsaber only when absolutely, undeniably necessary.

Now, she isn’t simply performing the shielding ritual; she is part of it, wholly within and throughout, a numinous space that feels like a Coruscant ocean, like the forests of Tython, like warm sun and a hand to hold on Brentaal, all at once.

Now, she realizes how to bring it full circle; she must allow the Force its will, stop trying to control it, and just let go. Light spills through the cracks in her shielding, and everything is suddenly and wonderfully illuminated.

May the Force be with you.

Parkanas – and it was with every certainty him; the sudden burst of hope where none had been the moment before was unmistakable – went flying backwards, away from Aitahea and leaving the vulnerable spirit of Morrhage isolated before her.

The spirit howled in fury. “No, this body is mine! Damn you, Jedi!”

Aitahea noted with detached amusement that she was levitating, Morrhage’s furious tirade a soft rumble in the background. She felt untethered, undefinably light. Closing her eyes, Aitahea exhaled a long breath and stepped softly down to the floor.

“When my strength returns, no matter the years – I will destroy you,” Morrhage snarled, but Aitahea was already walking toward Parkanas, feeling her own strength returning. She brushed past the raging specter, and in a few more moments, it had disappeared.

Qyzen had already lifted Parkanas Tark to his feet. He had a hand to his head, and Aitahea allowed a thread of sympathy to unwind, a guide to the path she hoped he would be able to take, too.

Parkanas Tark stared at her with open disbelief. “I’m… still alive. You spared me.”

She half-smiled. “Healed you.”

“My mind is…” Parkanas shook his head again. “Clearer now. But – it was your duty to kill me and destroy Morrhage.” His eyes – still smoldering amber, revealing a bitter internal strife – begged for an answer. Why?

“Too many Jedi have been lost already.” Aitahea lowered her gaze, the barest of brief moments to grieve for those lost. “Including Parkanas Tark.”

“Perhaps he deserves another chance, but…” Parkanas’ voice trailed off, adding in a pained whisper, “I cannot return to the Order.”

Swallowing hard against the lump in her own throat, Aitahea pressed. “Tython has its hidden places. Its forests.” That half-smile danced across her lips again, and for a flickering moment, she was light years away. “You could find peace there.”

“I could… go home.” Parkanas grew still, eyes distant and filled with evergreen leaves and rushing water. After a moment, he startled, reaching out to grasp her hands. “But first, Jedi, listen. Take this warning in exchange for my life: You can’t trust the Order. Or the Republic.” Aitahea drew breath to contradict, but he continued. “You may be their heroine now, but they will abandon you, too.”

Aitahea pulled away from Parkanas’ frantic grip, shaking her head while she scrabbled for a coherent thought. “Why…What do you-” Nothing coalesced, leaving her once again a diplomat with no words.

Parkanas held her gaze. “Remember that.”

“We felt it! A massive shift in the Force. The Masters you saved have reported a sudden improvement in their condition. The plague is over, thanks to you.

“And… I sense Parkanas Tark. For the first time in many years. How can that be?”

Aitahea nodded at Master Syo and glanced sidelong toward Parkanas, who was being assessed by Tharan and Holiday. “You can ask him yourself, Master. When he returns to Tython, he can answer all your questions.”

Her companions had dashed through the ship as soon as she’d signaled their safety. Bringing medical equipment to help with the injured and traumatized crew, Prelsiava Tern had even dragged along a protesting See-Two.

“I told you there’d be plenty for you to do; look at that console! It’s completely trashed! Go on, get on it,” Sia had ordered, and the affronted droid had conceded, tottering over to examine one of the smashed panels.

With the logistics managed, and a scant few moments to tuck away the memory of Parkanas’ unsettling words, Aitahea had commed the Council, Master Syo answering with his victorious statement: We felt it!

“Well done, Aitahea. The Jedi Order owes its survival to you.”

Relief swept over her like a wave. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“Hurry home. We’re waiting for you.”

Aitahea felt nearly presentable again by the time they arrived on Tython. She’d had her injuries treated. She’d eaten and bathed. She’d slept, mostly dreamless but for dappled sunlight and burbling water.

As they touched down on Tython, Aitahea marveled at the incandescent radiance of the Force within the hallowed walls of the Jedi Temple. Each Jedi shone like a bright star, a constellation she’d missed terribly beneath the weight of the shielding. Even Qyzen shimmered, kindling with satisfaction and pride. Beneath all, the grand symphony of Tython itself soared.

In the Council chamber, Master Yuon, Master Syo, Master Satele, and Master Jaric were waiting. Schooling her expression into practiced serenity, Aitahea dropped into a bow, only lifting her gaze when Yuon spoke.

“You have saved untold lives through your defeat of Lord Vivicar and destruction of the plague.” Aitahea felt Yuon’s pride in every syllable.

Even Master Jaric was smiling. “There’s a title reserved for the most prestigious among us, whose wisdom and skill safeguard the galaxy. It hasn’t been bestowed in thousands of years.”

Aitahea became keenly aware of her flushed cheeks, suspended between delight and disbelief, and nodded in vague acknowledgment.

“You have proved worthy,” Master Syo declared. “Now, the Council names you Barsen’thor, warden of the Order.”

Absurdly, Aitahea’s thoughts turned to how much she’d enjoy reading about the other Barsen’thor that had preceded her. Would the archive even contain that knowledge? How many thousands of years? Who were they, who had they set out to be, and what had they done to arrive where Aitahea herself now stood? The Force bloomed with assurance. “I will do all I can to live up to this honor.” Aitahea clasped her hands, sweeping into a low obeisance.

“I never imagined your potential would take you so far.” Yuon beamed, and Aitahea returned the expression as she lifted her head.

Yet concern laced Master Syo’s next words: “And not a moment too soon. We have need of you. The Council has received word that the Republic is facing a new threat.”

“We need time to prepare a war council,” Satele clarified, much to Aitahea’s unspoken relief. “The Supreme Chancellor himself will be attending.”

“I stand ready, Master,” Aitahea assured.

Accepting her pledge with a nod, Syo nodded towards the doors. “Take time to record your journey in the Jedi archives. History must know of your actions.”

Aitahea blinked, more surprised at her own surprise than anything – of course there should be a record of the current Barsen’thor as well; that’s the first place to start, obviously – and almost missed Master Syo’s final words. “We will contact you when the war council is ready. For now, the entire Order will know that there is a new Barsen’thor among us.”

After a round of congratulations from each of the Masters, Aitahea and Qyzen left the Council chamber, ostensibly to bring her story to the archives.

“Scorekeeper smiles, Herald. Is great honor your people give you.” He gestured broadly, sending a few initiates scurrying out of the way. “Points beyond measure!”

Her heart sang with gratitude. She’d trusted him as her ally, her second, her friend; and he’d returned that trust hundredfold. Questioned and advised her, criticized and coddled her, but never judged her. Steadfast and patient, always. If what they had done brought points-beyond-measure to her, he’d have the larger portion by far. “We hunt together, my friend. Whatever my score, you share it.”

Qyzen paused, abruptly turning to face her. Traffic streamed around them; Temple life carried on. “Is… a noble thing you say. My thanks, Herald.”

“My thanks to you as well, Qyzen. Thank you for…” For protecting me? For challenging me? For warning and guiding and validating me? For seeing me when even I could not? “…for everything.”

“Must share the story of this hunt with your Order. It is good to share knowledge.”

Aitahea thought of the Noetikons, the immense value of them for so much beyond the lore and history of the Jedi. Even after becoming one with the Force, they had set alight a path for so many Jedi after, herself included. Like she might, generations from now.

Blinking back tears and knowing full well she couldn’t have hidden them if she’d wanted to, Aitahea smiled. “Then I must make yet another request of you: that you tell the story with me.”

Qyzen regarded her for a long moment, long enough that she began to fret that she’d somehow stumbled into an insult. “You are Scorekeeper’s Herald,” he said solemnly, “and you are true Jedi.”

Aitahea nodded, feeling and breathing and illuminating the Force around them.

“I’m home.”

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Domination.

A commission for the very lovely @evaesis​. 

Word Count: 4k.

Pairing: Yandere!Dabi/OC (& Slight Yandere!Overhaul/OC).

TW: Non-Con, Dub-Con, A/B/O Dynamics, Oral Sex (M. Receiving), Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Slight Exhibitionism, Non-Consensual Touching, Mind Break, Physical Abuse, Slight Stockholm Syndrome, and Possessive Mindsets. 

There was someone in Kit’s apartment.

She knew there was. She knew there was, she’d known since the moment she found her deadbolt undone, a new scratch next to the lock, the interior of her flat just a little too quiet not to be suspicious. She should’ve been used to it, now, considering her quirk, how it heightened her senses, how often it seemed to attract fans a little more proactive than most, but she still found it difficult to fight that familiar paranoia, the feeling that something was wrong, even if evidence was sparse. She tried to ignore it as she pushed open her front door, but it was difficult to suppress. It was always difficult, for—

“Are you ignoring me, Bluu?”

Her anxiety spiked, but dropped just as quickly. Right.

She’d managed to forget about the phone in her hand, Aizawa still loitering on the other end.

She took a second to sigh before she moved it back to her ear, already hitting herself for letting such minor details get under her skin. “Trying to,” She countered, stepping through the threshold, dropping her bag on the nearest table before bothering to grope for a light switch. “You were talking about tomorrow’s stake-out? C’mon, I’m dying to hear how two Pro-Heroes will somehow, against all odds, spend eight hours staring at an empty storefront.”

There was a hum, a breath of a laugh, but Aizawa was just as stern as ever when he went on. “Don’t change the topic. If something’s wrong, I can—”

“You can go home and relax.” Her lights flickered on, and Kit’s nerves eased. Her furniture wasn’t toppled over, her windows weren’t broken, and nothing was out of place, even if her ears were still pressed to her scalp, her tails flicking anxiously behind her. “I’m a big girl, alright? If anything’s wrong, I can handle it.” Aizawa hummed skeptically, and Kit groaned, making her exasperation clear, as she went on. “Goodnight. Make sure you’re ready to be this helpful tomorrow, Mr. Alpha.”

“Make sure you’re still alive, tomorrow,” He retorted, trying and failing to hide the fondness in his voice. “Keep yourself safe. I don’t work with corpses.”

He hung up before she had the chance to respond, leaving Kit in frustrated, giddy silence. Tossing her phone on to the closest table, Kit tried to take her own advice. She’d just gotten off of patrol. She was on high-alert, she was exgausted, and she was projecting that onto the place she wanted to feel safe the most – her apartment. She wanted to feel safe, but she didn’t want to let herself. She just wanted one more fight, a few more minutes of adrenaline, and if she couldn’t find one, her irrational instincts were content to make one.

And then, she caught it. A hint of smoke, something similar to burnt sugar. Caramelized past the point of sweetness, but still pleasant enough to cover up the rot, just underneath it.

An arm wrapped around her waist, a chest slotted itself against her back, and Kit grit her teeth, fighting the urge to kick herself for not listening to her irrational instincts sooner.

“Talking to an alpha behind my back, dollface?” The voice was rough, low and raspy, at the same time, and Kit recognized it instantly – Dabi, a member of the League of Villains, a familiar face from the other side of battle fields and walls of fire that always seemed to be just a little too far for Kit to fight, beat, and arrest, before he could cause any more carnage. Anger shot through her, bright and blinding, but the feeling dimmed into numb, logical terror as a scarred hand rose, wrapping around her neck, his palm just hot enough to remind her of his quirk, of the damage it could do in seconds, if she gave him a reason to use it. “Try anything, and the whole fucking building goes up.” His tone was still light, teetering on the line between careless and calculated, but Kit knew better than to test him. If Dabi made a threat, she knew he’d be good for it. She’d already given him plenty of chances to prove that, unfortunately. “I just need to help my friend with somethin’, sweetheart. Nobody has to get hurt.”

She could’ve fought back. She wanted to fight back. Dabi wasn’t good with close-ranger combat, but she was, and she could’ve fought and won, if she tried to.

But, as soon as she caught a stroke of red in her peripheral, as soon as she heard that sigh, she knew she couldn’t. Not if Keigo was here.

Not when she knew he’d sooner slit her throat than let her interfere with whatever plan the Hero Commission had arranged for him.

In his defense, he seemed hesitant. His expression was grim as he stepped into Kit’s line of sight, his wings folded against his back and his mouth set into a small frown. She only got a moment to glare, though, before Dabi drove his heel into the back of her knee, shoving Kit to the ground and grabbing her wrists, forcing them against the small of her back while she growled, baring her teeth to both of the men that surrounded her. She wouldn’t fight back. She wouldn’t blow his cover, but that didn’t mean she had to be nice about it. “Bastards,” She spat, Dabi’s hand already slipping under her shorts, his intentions becoming more unignorable with every passing second. “Don’t touch me. What the fuck do you think you’re—”

“Don’t take this personally.” At least Keigo fit the part, just as cold and just as villainous as his more sincere counterpart. “It was Dabi’s call. I would’ve gone with a civilian, if it was up to me.”

“Our initiation.” It was a purr, this time, punctuated by a chuckle as nimble fingers found her panties, tracing the shape of her slit through the thin fabric. Despite herself, her breath hitched as his thumb caught on her clit, pushing a slow, deep circle into the vulnerable bundle of nerves. “You should feel honored. Another villain would’ve been easier, and there’s gotta be a hundred different sidekicks easier to track down than you, but I figured if our golden boy wants to prove he can get his hands dirty…” There was a pause, another laugh, this one muffled by the dip of her shoulder. “Might as well let him have a taste of my favorite little Hero before I take her home, right?”

An initiation. That was what he claimed this was for – Keigo’s initiation, but Dabi didn’t seem in a rush to pull away. He took his time, pushing open-mouthed kisses into the side of her neck, nipping at all the tiny, sensitive spots that made her eyes clench shut, her body jerk under the oh-so-generous attention of an alpha. She didn’t want him to touch her. She didn’t want him anywhere near her, but her body did, and that was enough to spur Dabi forward, a deep chuckle falling from his lips as his gaze shifted, rising to Keigo, still kneeling stiffly in front of her. “Didn’t take you for the shy type, rookie. Get down here, before I start to think you’re havin’ second thoughts.”

Keigo rolled his eyes, but his hesitation was playful, at best, a show put on for Kit’s sake rather than his own. “I’m not trying to ruin your fun.” His tone was light, but the way he moved was stiff, clinical, his fingertips barely brushing against her waist as Dabi pulled back, giving her just enough distance to let Keigo take the lead. Keigo didn’t argue, only taking his place, his lips ghosting over the edge of her jaw. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, just quietly enough to let Dabi believe it was some idle threat. “I’ll make it quick, I promise.”

At least she didn’t have to lie. Her lines were the same, regardless of his role. “Go fuck yourself.”

If nothing else, Keigo tried to keep his word. It was a small mercy, how little he used his hands, how swiftly his feathers cut through her shorts and her panties, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful, not when she still felt so exposed under Dabi’s prying eyes, not when it just gave him more skin to touch, more to burn. She didn’t need to be prepped. There was already slick coating the inside of her thighs, heat pooling at her core, her omega instincts reacting to the alphas’ pheromones before she could will herself not to, but Dabi must’ve been feeling nice. Whether or not she needed it, Dabi still took the time force two fingers through her tight entrance, the sudden intrusion drawing out a pitiful whimper that only seemed to make Dabi’s grin widen further. It was too intense, for something so thoughtless. He didn’t set a pace, didn’t try to find a rhythm, just curling his digits, spreading them apart, aiming for whatever made Kit grit her teeth and bow her head and keen, loudly, needily, despite how hard she fought not to. It was embarrassing. It was humiliating. It was…

It felt good, and she hated him for it.

By time he pulled away, she was bent over, squirming in his hold and panting, trying desperately to ignore the hum Dabi let out as he popped his fingers into his mouth, all sick contentment, all satisfied pride. There was a squeeze to her wrists as he acknowledged Keigo, barely offering a nod before shoving her into his chest, finally letting him take the lead. “Get it over with, pretty boy.” It was an order, not a request. If Kit was in a more sympathetic mood, she might’ve felt bad for him. “Before I get tired of watching you sulk.”

Keigo didn’t force her to watch. With her hair strung around his fist, his nails dug into her scalp, he forced her face into the crook of his neck, keeping Kit on her knees as fabric rustled and the tip of his cock bumped against her pussy. “I’ll be gentle,” He muttered, and Kit had to wonder why she couldn’t bring herself to believe him.

Then, he thrusted into her, not bothering to pause until he bottomed out, and Kit had her answer.

~

Dabi hadn’t been kidding, when he said he’d bring her home.

She tried to pretend he had been, sometimes, to close her eyes and pretend she was anywhere except the damp, dank cellar of whatever warehouse she’d been sedated and trapped inside of, but it was difficult. The quirk-cancelling collar around her neck was too heavy to be ignored, pressing against the base of her throat with an uncomfortable chill, and she couldn’t seem to get used to the way the chain attached to it rattled every time she tried to move. The concrete made it difficult, too, scraping against her knees, threatening to draw blood whenever she tried to shift, whenever Dabi’s grip tightened around her tether and he saw fit to drag her in one direction or another. He was good, at that. He knew how to keep his eyes on her, even if her gaze could hardly be called adoring.

“C’mon, baby.” His voice did little to endear her any further, a smug simper already tugging at the corner of his lips as his free hand dropped to the base of her ears. He was sitting on her cot, the only piece of furniture in that god-forsaken basement beyond a few forgotten crates and boxes she couldn’t bring herself to open, leaving Kit to sit between his legs. He’d been kind enough to edge his jeans down, his shirt discarded completely, his cock half-hard and already on display. He wasn’t feeling patient enough to force Kit to do it herself today, obviously. “I’m on a schedule, ‘ere. I’d love to play around, but I’m afraid I’m gonna need my omega to do her job, today.”

He said it like she had a choice, like his fingers weren’t already tangled in her hair, jerking her towards him until the flushed tip of his cock was pressed against her cheek, pre leaking onto her cheek as his palm grew warmer, just hot enough to be searing. Kit got the message quickly. If there was any silver lining to being with Dabi, it had to be that. He didn’t bother pretending he was any less depraved than he’d already proved himself to be.

She tried to get it over with as quickly as she could. Relaxing her throat, Kit closed her eyes and let Dabi thrust into her mouth, playing with the idea of giving her time to adjust before dragging her forward, only stopping when her nose met his pelvis and Kit gagged, her chest heaving as she tried to blink away the tears welling in her eyes. If Dabi cared, he didn’t try to show it. With an airy groan, Dabi guided her into a rhythm that fell between unhurried and uncaring, between self-sacrificing and selfish, slow enough to be agonizing but consistent enough to keep Kit on-edge, unprepared despite how predictable he was starting to become. Still, she tried to get used to it. To let the tension in her shoulders dissolve, to ignore his bitter, musky taste, to—

“She can still bite, y’know.”

To let Keigo ruin it, just when she’d gotten good at disassociating.

Dabi didn’t pause, but he lifted his head, eyeing the man leaning against the far wall, watching carefully. She supposed she should’ve been thankful for Keigo’s lasting heroism, his persistence when it came to making sure Dabi didn’t leave damage beyond burns and bruises, and yet, it was hard not to hate him for it, too. Just the raspy chuckle Dabi let out was enough to irritate her, enough to spur her loathing for the cause, rather than the source. “I’ll take the risk,” Dabi replied, only making the idea more tempting. “Wouldn’t be that bad, if she tried. ‘d give me an excuse to—fuck, give me an excuse to teach my omega some manners.”

There was a pause, a second filled with Kit’s heavy breaths and Dabi’s quiet swears. “She’s not yours.”

Without warning, she was shoved back, forcefully separated from Dabi with an audible pop. Kit moved to speak, but she didn’t get the chance to, not before his hand was clamped around her chin, his forefinger and his thumb digging into her cheeks as he stared down at her, a smirk painting itself across his lips after a long, careful second. Blatant, unconcealed, unashamed. Like he’d already forgotten Keigo was just across the room.  Like he’d never cared at all, as long as Kit was still kneeling at his feet.

As long as she was still powerless, compared to him.

“Not yet.”

~

At least Keigo had the courtesy to leave, this time.

To be fair, he’d done his best to stick around. He’d perched himself on a storage crate as Dabi left his first bitemark on Kit’s neck, sat on the stairwell as he pried her legs apart and made Kit cum on his tongue, lingered in the doorway when Dabi brought in his first set of ‘toys’, but today, he’d chosen to make himself sparse. It felt like a betrayal, in a way, one greater and more hurtful than the faux sacrifice that’d gotten her into this. Like he’d left her. Like he’d pushed her into a lion’s den, promised to rescue her after a few bites, then pulled up the rope behind him. But, at the same time, she was relieved. Anyone would be. She had to be.

It would only make it more painful if Keigo had stayed to watch the beast tear her apart.

Her head was fuzzy. Her mouth tasted like dust and her tongue felt like cotton, and her whole body seemed to throb. It was probably the exhaustion, the poor sleep and the dehydration and the lack of sunlight, and the fact that she hadn’t so much as seen her suppressants in more than a month didn’t help. It was all she could do to keep her arms crossed under her head, her back arched in a way that wouldn’t break her spine as Dabi pounded into her, his hands on her hips and his cock abusing her poor, drooling cunt. This was the first time he’d fucked her, really fucked her, and it showed, his satisfaction oozing out in his pheromones, his wild grin, the way he couldn’t seem to think about doing anything but bucking into her faster, deeper, harder.

 She was used to it, or she should’ve been, at least. He usually focused on his own pleasure, Kit’s needs serving as something unnecessary enough to be completely forgotten, but it would’ve been impossible not to react as he rutted into her pussy, it would’ve been impossible not to squirm and whine and go tense, if only because she knew there was no way out of his iron-clad grip. She did make a half-hearted attempt, clawing at the sheets and struggling, but Dabi put a stop to her futile attempts to fight back with a single hand, pressing the heel of his palm into the base of her spine and letting his skin smolder. Instantly, she went still, but the heat remained, lingering as Dabi chuckled. “C’mon, baby, you’re still gonna try that?” There was a pause, a thrust sharper than the rest. It felt like he was trying to fuck her cervix rather than her pussy, honestly. “Haven’t I been a good alpha? Tell the truth, now.”

He wasn’t a good alpha. He wasn’t a good anything, but her tongue felt heavy, her brain too hot to think, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t bring herself to say that. Still, she tried. She didn’t know if she’d be able to forgive herself, if she didn’t. “I don’t have a… You aren’t my—”

Another flare, another warning. This time, Kit screamed, and she could feel Dabi’s cock twitch inside of her. “I’m your alpha.” It was a growl, deep and throaty and overwhelming. He wasn’t asking. It wasn’t a choice. “I’m your alpha. You belong to me. You’re my omega. Say it.”

She didn’t want to. She didn’t believe it. She knew what an alpha was supposed to be, what her alpha was supposed to be, and he wasn’t it, he couldn’t be, even if he made an effort. He wasn’t nurturing, he wasn’t caring, he wasn’t even nice, not to her, not when he didn’t have a reason to be. She didn’t want him as her alpha. She didn’t want to be his omega. She didn’t want him any where near her.

But, she didn’t want to be in pain, either. She wanted him to stop.

And for just a second, she was willing to do whatever she could to make him stop, even if it meant giving in.

It was a moment of weakness, little more than a gasping breath that could’ve been mistaken for something coherent. She didn’t even realize she was talking, not until her mouth was open, words stumbling out before she could choke them back. “I’m you’re omega!” It was a short, desperate cry, but Dabi didn’t seem to mind. Not if she took the nails digging into her hips as a sign of encouragement. “Please, I’m—You’re my alpha! Please stop, I can’t—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish, not before Dabi bottomed out, filling her cunt with something thick and hot as her entire body went rigid, a bolt of pure electricity that shot for her core to her brain, lulling her into a depleted, fatigued state, something more mindless and more tolerable than what she’d almost gotten used to. She didn’t even flinch back as Dabi leaned down, his lips barely brushing against the harsh, blackened bruises he’d left littered across her skin. She just didn’t have the energy to. She just couldn’t remember why she’d wanted to so badly.

Dabi wasn’t her alpha. She knew that. He wasn’t.

But, she was starting to think it’d be easier, if she pretended he was.

~

Or, it might’ve been easier, rather.

As it turns out, she wouldn’t be with him long enough to find out.

It’d been a trade. She thought it was, at least – it was hard to tell from the position she’d been in, her face buried in Dabi’s chest, her arms draped over his shoulders, clinging to him the way he liked to be clung to whenever he took her to one of the League’s meetings. She tried not to listen. She really, really tried not to, as the air filled with dust, as she heard someone scream, as even Dabi reacted, holding her just a little tighter while Shigaraki muttered and snarled and bargained, holding her until a man she’d never seen before lifted her out of Dabi’s lap entirely, snapping his fingers once before leaving with her in-tow, cradled in his arms like a damsel in distress. Like a doll, helpless and breakable, freshly bought off a less deserving owner.

He was wearing a mask, an elongated beak that contrasted harshly with his pale skin. A memory resurfaced, dull and distant, the idea of face and a case she hadn’t taken up – something small, non-violent, money laundering or drug trafficking or all of the many things Kit had never taken an interest in. She pushed it away without a second thought. Kit tried not to think about things like that, anymore. It really never ended well, when she did.

She must’ve been staring, but he didn’t see mad when he finally glanced in her direction. She couldn’t tell if he was smiling, but she thought he might’ve been, beneath the mask. It was enough to give her the confidence to speak, even if her voice still shook. “Are… are you my new alpha?”

“No,” He said, his tone calmer than Dabi’s had ever been. Not kinder, but less needlessly cruel. “But, I’m going to be. We just have to clean you up first, get you to a condition more…” His eyes dropped to the bruises circling her neck, to the dented metal collar at the base of her throat. To the letters burnt into her skin, just barely peaking out from underneath her oversized shirt. “A condition more fitting of my omega.”

Kit fell silent, at that. She didn’t bother arguing. She couldn’t seem to remember why she would.

It wasn’t like this alpha could possibly be worse than her last.

~

‘She’s alive. With Overhaul. If Dabi’s tantrum was anything to go by, he plans on keeping her.’

Aizawa got Keigo’s message a few minutes after midnight, in the dead center of that night’s patrol. He hadn’t been expecting it, honestly. Keigo’s updates were infrequent, rare, more of an obligation than a courtesy, a hint at security in exchange for Aizawa’s promise not to do anything… impulsive, despite his stand-offish reputation. He’d almost lost his temper once, the day after Kit was taken and Keigo privately confirmed that she was with the League, but it would’ve been a waste of energy, back then, it would’ve been a waste of time. He couldn’t do anything, not on his own, not when Keigo was so intent on earning the League’s trust before taking any action to oppose them. Not when Kit was already in so much danger before he had a chance to interfere, before he had the chance to do something half-baked and make the situation infinitely, irreversibly worse.

Not when he’d already thrown away his chance to prevent this entirely, all because he’d convinced himself she’d hate him for doing what had to be done, when she insisted on being so reckless.

But, that didn’t matter. He couldn’t keep beating himself up. He had a better way to spend his time, now. He had better things to do than just worry.

Kit wasn’t with the League anymore, after all. Keigo’s position wasn’t a factor, and Overhaul was much more predictable than Dabi.

It was time to take his omega back, whether or not she still wanted to come.

[maydaymadier]

Time

[Disclaimer: I’m currently slightly more than halfway through the c2 finale and I’m going to try and avoid spoilers since well, there’s still like 3hrs of content to get spoiled on.  Will likely crosspost to my ao3]

“Time, it takes time, not days or weeks or years.  Time.”

Caleb Widogast was right, though to be precise it takes 100 consecutive days of inscribing a teleportation circle in the same place to make it permanent.  Nicodranas was the first teleportation circle Essek Thelyss finished.  100 days of pounding sun and coastal heat felt fitting to start his time.  He had his trepidations about better acquainting himself with Yussa, less so with Ms. Lavorre.  The Nein asked why he needed to make a teleportation circle in Nicodranas, they already had access to Tidepeak Tower’s.  ‘Yes, however, we will not have to give anyone advance notice to use our own.’  

Jester made something of a habit of bringing him a new parasol or sunhat each time she visited, even brought him tinted glasses she found once.  If he knew she was coming he’d make sure to wear one of them.  

Each time he ran out of chalk he’d wrap himself in illusion and teleport himself to Zadash.  Meanwhile, the stores in his towers grew dust-laden, his absence from the Dynasty more suspicious, and he bought his chalk from Enchanter Sol.  The Mighty Nein were a family, regardless of any distance, and he had the means to make distance mean nothing.  So Essek Thelyss carried on.  And on the hundredth day, he stepped into a circle in Nicodranas and stepped out in the Blooming Grove.

He was invited in for tea, as expected, and accepted as was polite.  The next day he found the spot behind the temple where the grass had been flattened by the circle delivering him and started his next hundred days.  He ‘compensated’ for his intrusion with his floating meditative guard each night.  Caduceus seemed to pick up on what he was doing faster than Jester had, by a thin margin.  The remaining Clay children would poke their noses in once and a while, curious about their drow visitor they’d only met briefly before but they remembered him helping garden after Ikithon set the temple ablaze.  They would offer him a plate at meals, he insisted on using his own rations in a strange dance of hospitality and being a polite guest.  

At one point, after finishing the day’s circle he considered venturing through the Savalirwood to Glory Run Road, find Mollymauk’s grave.  But it felt disrespectful to Kingsley somehow in a way he couldn’t articulate.  If he were to be more dramatic it felt like an invasion of privacy to the rest of the Nein as a whole, intruding on a moment on a place where they were unknowing adversaries.  So he kept inscribing circles in the grass and sometimes he found fresh chalk in his component pouch.  On occasion, Caduceus found saplings and cuttings of Xorhasian plants on his windowsill.

On the hundredth day he stepped into the circle in the Blooming Grove and came out under Caduceus’s tree in the Xorhaus.  He was far more careful with this one.  The Xorhaus was sparsely used, bordering on abandoned at this point, more than ready for the Nein to inhabit it once again.  Beauregard, oft accompanied by Yasha, used it the most for when they visited Rosohna on Cobalt Soul business.  The Bright Queen had been more than amenable to working with the Soul once she knew they were dismantling the organization that had stolen the beacons.  

Though it took three days before Beau realized he was working on making a circle on the roof, pruning away his extra time by trying to tame the garden, clad in his rose-patterned gardening gloves, what with his lackluster previous experience.  She offered to go bring him chalk from his towers, anything else he might need that he’d left behind when he was posted in Eiselcross.  He accepted the offer, to eschew suspicion, asking for some simple components that filled any wizard’s pouch.  Sooner than later, soon enough Beau couldn’t knock the truth out of him (not that she needed to do that or would, he was growing increasingly susceptible to disappointed stares from his friends) he stepped into the circle in Rosohna and stepped out in Rexxentrum.

His skin crawled and felt like it would slough off with each passing day.  He wasn’t so bold at this point to attempt and make a circle on Soltryce’s grounds but he did take pleasure in chipping away the next hundred days in the courtyard of Trent Ikithon’s now abandoned tower.  It was a joy, absolutely cathartic tearing apart what little remained hidden away of the bastard’s stores.  The most valuable and precious artifacts and components were hidden in ways only an archmage would even know about or know how to unlock.  Malicious clumsiness might have gotten him to break an important, now inert, magical tool or two as he rummaged through the tower for chalk.  

Though one day, he noticed an owl perched in a tree, watch him for an hour, disappear for a few minutes, reappear, so on and so forth for the whole day.  He had a good idea who the owl was but she never watched him again after that.  If she wanted to know what he was doing here, fine.  It wasn’t like either could rat out the other without drawing unwanted attention to them both.  So on the hundredth day, what little remained of Trent Ikithon’s personal study even more thoroughly destroyed, he stepped into the circle in Rosohna and stepped out.

Essek chipped away at the for now final circle under the watchful light of Pelor.  Passively, the part of him that absorbed every ounce of knowledge, regardless if he cared or not, wondered what the connection may be between whatever the Luxon is and the Dawnfather.  Just a fun little thought experiment to occupy him while he worked through the next hundred days.

By the end of Brussendar, with Highsummer fast approaching, he’d decided that he ought to have brought at least one of Jester’s hats.  Though more importantly he’d decided that the thought was silly and any connection between the two deities must be entirely aesthetic.  Nothing he didn’t already know but what else can a wizard do but overthink?

It wasn’t the same level of festivities he’d heard about with Harvest’s Close but Highsummer seemed to be the close second in Blumenthal.  He sat, disguised in the shade of an oak probably as old as he was and simply watched from afar.  Somewhere in the crowd, he saw a flash of copper.  Tried not to think to much of it.  Red hair seemed slightly more common in this corner of the empire.  He caught the sweeping arc of a long, striped scarf being tossed over a shoulder.  A leather coat dusting at the ground (though he had looked so good in purple).

Caleb Widogast stepped out of the crowd and sat under the oak with him, “I suppose a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.” “I suppose I have,” Essek stared at his feet. Caleb offered him some sort of sweet roll wrapped in paper, “I was not talking about you.” He ignored the comment, “How long has it been?  Since we last spoke.” “Four hundred and eighty-six days.  About a year and a half to be informal,” he just set down the roll next to his hand when he didn’t move to take it. “I keep thinking one day it will have been enough time.” “Looking for the specific number will drive you mad.  Are you just going to keep making circles across Wildemount until you feel that you’ve atoned?” Essek took the roll but only held it,  “I know that I cannot make up for everything.  What are you doing here, anyways?” “I have been trying to convince myself to visit.  Maybe try to pay my respects if I can stomach it.  The others had already told me what you were doing, but Astrid told me where you were going.  Figured now was good a time as any,” his expression darkened, the reality beyond the afterglow of a hard-won victory whispering into both their ears. “I-,” Essek started. “Did you know I was from here before you picked it or did you just want to taunt Rexxentrum by hiding in their breadbasket for a while?” Caleb stared him down. “I knew.” “Alright then.” “I hope I have not intruded in some way by coming here.” “I suppose we were both curious about the echo.  It’s right up your alley, prodigious dunamancer and whatnot,” Caleb glanced back up at the revelers before turning his attention back to him “I would not discount your own skill, you’ve picked up dunamancy quite quickly and with a level of skill I have rarely seen.”  Maybe they can just talk about magic. “Danke.” There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation.

“When do you think-?” Essek tried asking. “I don’t.  I will not pretend to know when enough time will have passed for the past not to hurt us anymore, Essek.  And counting it in teleportation circles will not make it go any faster,” he said, though with the crushing sadness to his eyes of a man who wished he were wrong. “I am trying to make it easier for us to see each other,” he said with easy authority. “It is much easier to see each other when we don’t run off to the four corners,” Caleb added on with a tired chuckle. “What are you implying?”  Something caught between excitement and unease hit him. “I can stay.  Help you finish the circle here, we can leave, make another.  As many circles as we want.  We can have the continent at our fingertips.  Maybe even go back to what remains of Aeor in Eiselcross.  Devexian couldn’t have been the only mechanical inhabitant.  For all we know there is a city of automatons underneath the ice now,” Caleb got more excited and dreamy as he went on, the unbridled excitement of a mage faced with knowledge. “That sounds...nice...,” Essek trailed off, trying to sound as neutral as he could manage. “Do you want that, Essek?”

It felt like the word was tearing its way out of him, “Yes.”

[the-writer-ofthe-fandoms]

Recovery is not Linear (Lucifer Morningstar)

Paring: Lucifer Morningstar x reader (Mostly platonic). The other main characters are mentioned in this too Words: 1.3k+ Warning(s): Self harm, suicidal thoughts A/N: I had an extremely bad night, i almost relapsed. I needed to write this out to help keep me from doing so. Please, if stuff like this triggers you: do not read.Please Do not hesitate to reach out to others if you need to vent. Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255 Trans support hotline: 877-565-8860

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

Tired.

That's the feeling you felt these past few weeks. It wasn't just a physical feeling of exhaustion, it was like your brain was exhausted from the constant internal battles and intrusive thoughts.

Numb.

You almost felt like there was nothing: no happiness, no sadness, no anger. Nothing. It was like your emotions were under anesthesia and they couldn't wake up. Numbness...

It was overwhelming. It had gotten to the point were you isolated yourself from you dear friends and kept yourself locked away. It was too much to deal with all at once and the best plan you had was isolation. They didn't need to see you this way... So weak...

Relapse happened. The intrusive and destructive thoughts won your mind and you broke your two years clean.

"But hey, at least the pain from the blade felt like something." Your mind twisted this as a good thing, but you also knew it wasn't a healthy way to cope...

You laid in bed, curled up under the covers. This was the fifth day of staying here, only ever getting up to deal with the bare necessities and to inflict pain onto yourself. The warmth of your blankets and pillows provided a sense of comfort that you didn't want to give up just yet. You sighed and kept staring at the wall, trying to keep your mind blank from the dark thoughts.

You pondered for a moment on whether or not your friends noticed your sudden disappearance. You hadn't touched your cellphone since you self-isolated, so you didn't have a clue if they tried calling or texting.

"They are all busy anyways..." You mumbled and turned to lay on your other side, wincing at the sting of fresh cuts on your thighs and forearms. Lucifer and Chloe had cases to solve, Linda was busy with work and her son, Amenadiel was also busy with his son, Mazikeen was probably working a bounty, and Dan and Ella were probably wrapped up in whatever case was thrown to them.

Your mind started filling up with darker thoughts despite your attempts to focus on something else... The tiny voice in your mind telling you the only way to stop these feelings of numbness and tiredness was to end it all.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to get those intrusive thoughts away. Your mind was exhausted from fighting them these last few weeks so your brain decided to mentally check out. Your eyes slowly opened as you kept your focus on a random poster you had up. Your breathing was shallow and the grip on your blankets was tight, but you weren't feeling there in the moment.

A knock on the door almost pulled you back, but you figured it was just someone trying to sell you something. Your brain kept you away still.

It was the sound of your door being opened with a slam that jolted you back into reality. Next thing you knew Lucifer, Amenadiel, Chloe, Dan, Ella, and Linda flooded into your bedroom all looking worried. In a heartbeat, Lucifer was at your side, taking your hand into his much larger ones.

You knew immediately they would notice something wasn't alright. Your hair looked like it hadn't been touched in days and your eyes looked sunken in and raw from crying. Your body was shaking from the pure anxiety that began to build, and you knew Lucifer could feel that.

You opened your mouth to speak but couldn't find any words to explain yourself. You felt fear begin to rise in your core, the blood that pumped through your body felt frozen cold as you looked between all of them.

"Guys, let me handle this." Linda spoke, whicu everyone agreed to leave except Lucifer. He refused to leave your side. "(Y/N), what's going on?"

Your lip trembled as you looked to her and back to Lucifer. It only took seconds before you broke down into tears. You explained as clearly as you could through the sobs that racked your body.

You told them about the feelings of numbness, the feeling of being tired all the time, and how you relapsed. You told her how ashamed you felt, failing that two year long streak of being clean of self harm.

"Recovery isn't a linear thing, (Y/N)." Linda spoke softly. "It isn't straight forward either. Your relapse doesn't erase all the past achievements you've made towards recovery." She explained more to you about recovery, and she offered to sit you down for a more proper session in her office tomorrow so she could provide you with more resources.

"I'll be going to the other room. I can tell Lucifer wants to talk to you alone." She smiled sweetly.

"Darling, do you have a first aid kit?" He asked.

"Yea, under my bathroom sink." You mumbled. Gently, he helped you up from the bed and led you to your bathroom.

"Take a seat on the bathtub ledge. I just want to make sure your injuries are clean." You follow his instructions and slowly rolled up your sleeves and pulled down your sweats enough to show your thighs. You and Lucifer were close enough to the point you felt no embarrassment changing in front of him. Just embarrassment of your fresh wounds and old scars.

"You must think I am silly huh? A small, unimportant human upset over nothi-"

"Don't finish that sentence." Lucifer turned to face you, kneeling in front of you with the first aid kit ready. "You were the first human I ever made friends with, (Y/N). You are far from being just being unimportant. And before you try it, I am not lying. You know I never lie."

"But-"

"No but's..." He began looking over the scabbed cuts from last night, an ointment packet at the ready. "Well, actually butts are more than welcome to me." That made you crack a small smile. He lightly coated the cuts on each area of skin with the ointment. It stung a bit, making you visibly wince, and Lucifer apologized each time. Once he felt it was covered enough he placed some bandages over the wounds.

"Thank you for helping, Luci."

"No problem at all, my dear." He placed a soft kiss to your cheek and pulled you to your feet. "Want to see everyone else?"

You bit your bottom lip, "Yes, I probably should." You took hold of Lucifers hand as he led you out to the main room where everyone else was.

"I'm sorry, I worried you guys. It's-" You couldn't even finish your sentence when you felt Ella practically jump on you for a tight hug.

"You don't have to apologize at all, (Y/N)." She said, pulling away. "We get it. Just please know you can rely on us if you are ever feeling down or need a distraction."

"You are always welcome to join Trix, Lucifer and I for game night." Chloe offered. "Trixie loves when you hang out with us."

"And I've been looking into trying meditation if you ever want to join me." Dan jumped in. You could see Lucifer trying to refrain himself from making a snide remark.

"You are always welcome to visit Charlie, Linda, and I." Amenadiel smiled warmly.

"I'm always down to have a movie or tv show marathon." Ella giggled.

"And I am always looking for more friends to party with." Maze smirked.

Happiness.

For the first time in weeks, you felt something more than emotional numbness. You felt pure giddiness bubble in your chest as your friends kept saying different ideas to you.

You felt hot tears once again roll down your face, and you hastily wiped them away.

"These are happy tears guys. Thank you so much." You choked out with a big smile on your face. In an instant it seemed like everyone join in on a group hug.

An awkward, but loving group hug.

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from anon. I really missed writing Kylo. This is only the beginning. Will you guys join me on the dark side?

Words: 1825 Warnings: one baby spoiler for TROS

It would have been a lot easier to say that Kylo Ren had changed. It would have been easier to live with the fact your man was beyond saving, beyond redemption. But that would be a lie. It would make things less complicated, stop your moral compass from spinning wildly and make you nauseous.

You scoffed. Kylo Ren wasn’t your man anyway. He was your superior, the man you had promised your loyalty and devotion to years ago. Kylo knew you. Your motivations, your story, your thoughts. He could hear them—there was no need for you to block your mind from his intrusion in his presence. You kept no secrets, not from him. To Kylo Ren, your life was an open book.

And while Kylo Ren had not changed much since appointing himself as the new Supreme Leader of the First Order, his conviction and determination had. He was fiercer, plagued by his own unease and doubts. There was no need for you to know the ways of the Force to sense the battle he fought deep within himself.

It did not matter what he wanted, in the end as long as you could stay by his side. You thought about it often, these days. What would happen if the Resistance found a way to foil his plans and overthrow him? Would they kill him, Leia’s only son? And what would become of you if he won, if he succeeded? Would your life change at all?

At this time of the day, the canteen was deserted. Lunch time was long over. You sat there at one of the sterile-white tables, playing around with the starfruit you had meant to eat. The tension on the Finalizer had heated up consideringly ever since Snoke’s death and the escape of the young Jedi girl Kylo had been spending months to hunt down.

He knew you were jealous at the connection they shared, this Force bond he had called it. The Force had its ways, he had explained to you, ways which a mortal’s mind would not always be able to grasp and comprehend; that you should not waste your time and cudgel your brains about it—and yet it did not link the two Force users for no reason. And what did it matter to you? Kylo Ren was not your man anyway.

He had just imposed a meeting. Upon his arrival on the Finalizer, he rushed past you in frenzy, failing to even acknowledge your existence. Black cloak floating behind him like the pitch black waves of a stormy sea, gloved fists clenched tensely, eyes… his eyes would have been fixed on his destination, had they not been shielded by a terrifying replica of his mask. Red cracks broke the smoothness of the black material, giving his appearance an even more threatening component.

Here you were now, dressed up and with nowhere to go, wishing desperately you had the ability to look inside his mind for a change. Kylo Ren had never made the promise to tell you about the mayhem in his head, never bound himself to sharing his secrets with you—and yet you were the only person alive on the Finalizer to know it was him who killed Snoke, not the Jedi girl.

Rey. Kylo never spoke her name and you still could not bring yourself to call her anything but the Jedi girl. This young woman which had caused him so much pain and trouble and who he was as of right now, hunting like a needle in a haystack.

“You.” The two Stormtroopers approached you from behind. Well, there was nothing to fear. You glared at them from the corners of your eye. Hanging in the canteen outside of mealtimes was no crime.

“The Supreme Leader demands your presence, in the conference room.”

Right now? How much time had passed? Was the meeting over already? What could he want from you now? You rarely communicated outside of his or your quarters.

You followed them with a frown. They were very well aware you knew the way to the conference room yourself. In fact, you knew this ship better than any other place in this galaxy, and according to their body language, Kylo Ren was angry. Surely they were glad not to end up at the receiving end of the threatening crackling of his red lightsabre.

“Break a leg.” One of the Stormtroopers scorned. Literally. You rolled your eyes when the metal doors flew open, revealing an empty table. Kylo Ren had his back turned to you but it did not matter. He could sense your presence already, hear your thoughts and the dozens of questions tumbling through your mind helplessly.

“Supreme Leader, you sent for me?” The doors behind you closed, cutting off the only possible exit route.

“So formal?” The modulated, stern sound of his voice through his new mask sent ice cold shivers down your spine but even that could not hide the teasing undertone with only the slightest hint of mockery.

“What’s going on? The officers you sent for to fetch me clearly hold the view I won’t make it out of this room alive. Where were you?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Take off your mask.”

“In here? I don’t think so.” Finally, he turned around but he might as well could have kept facing the window. It made no difference. You still couldn’t see his face.

“I want to look you in the eye when I speak to you! Where does this mask even come from all of a sudden? I thought you destroyed it. Explain that to me, will you?”

“That’s an awful lot of demands you’re imposing, officer. I would be careful if I were you.” Were the Stormtroopers outside eavesdropping? Were they waiting for the moment Kylo would activate his lightsabre and slice you in half, decapitate you? They would be waiting in vain.

“I get it. You don’t want to talk about it but clearly, something’s not right. You’re tense. I don’t even need to see your face for that.”

Kylo tilted his head. You should have thought you were done for when he approached you with but a few determined steps, towering above you like a literal giant but you knew you had no reason to. He would never harm you. For just a split second, all you saw was black. Black robes, black boots, black gloves, black mask—along with the sound of rapid, human breathing giving away that underneath the grotesque metal veil there was a man with a beating heart.

“Your perception has always fascinated me. Are you sure you feel no connection to the Force? Intuition, at this level—“

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Kylo, take off that bloody mask!”

One second passed, then the next. Kylo said nothing more. He did not move an inch before reaching up to undo the clasps of his disguise and lifted it off of his head. He dropped it on the metal conference table with a loud clonk echoing through the room.

Thunderstorms rippled through your heart when your eyes met. His breathing had gotten even heavier, his full lips slightly parted. The warm air hit your forehead like a gentle summer breeze. You had not felt those in a long while.

But it was the terror and the desperation, his feelings torn between good and bad glistening in his brown eyes when they met yours that you fell silent.

His right hand twitched, a barely visible movement of his gloved fingers refraining from reaching out for you. And while you were only inches apart, you reacted before he could voice a request.

With a gentle sigh, you wrapped your arms around him, your face buried in his neck, enabling you to inhale the scent of his thick black hair. Kylo pressed you against him like he was holding on to a buoy in midst of a roaring sea, nearly knocking all air from your lungs. The warmth of his body filled you with a sense of security and easiness—it felt powerful to simply hold whom you knew as the most powerful man of the galaxy.

Your fingers dug into the black curtain of his hair, fondling him in an attempt to calm the inner storm he was struggling against. It was then the quietest of moans escaped his gorgeous lips upon your intimate touch, resulting in him hugging you so tightly he nearly lifted you off the metal floor to your feet. Eventually, he did.

He heaved you on the table effortlessly, your legs spread for him to stand between them, your limbs still entangled. Breath ghosting over each other’s lips, your proximity created a bond which the Force could never have compared to.

You could not always tell what was going on inside of this man’s head, or what he was going through. But you knew when his lips came crashing down on yours that Kylo Ren had made a decision. One you did not understand just yet, one you did not yet know about. You did not have to. What counted was that you were there for him.

-

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente

[bellafarallones2]

a stranger in a strange land

Hollis recognized Indrid Cold like a traveler might recognize another from their home country. Indrid was studying the display of new nonfiction in the Kepler Community Library, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing jeans and a white tank-top.

Hollis moved confidently, black combat boots on gray library carpet. Indrid looked up a moment before they reached his side, and nodded to acknowledge them.

Hollis looked into their own face, reflected in his red sunglasses. Those sunglasses were familiar. They’d met someone, a few years back, when coolness was something they aspired to rather than claimed as easily as the double-black-diamond ski jumps, who wore sunglasses with a third lens in the center of their forehead. Indrid’s were mundane by comparison.

“Hey, I’m Hollis. They/them.”

Indrid waited a beat after they’d finished to start speaking. “Indrid. He/him. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You, uh, new in town?”

“One might say.”

Hollis laughed. “C’mon, man, not exactly a riddle.”

“Yeah, I am new in town.”

“Well, if you wanna meet people. There’s a bar called the Little Dipper. Cool spot.”

Indrid nodded. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

They didn’t see each other again until after the end of the world.

Indrid was sitting on the curb outside of the all-night diner. Mosquitos buzzed around his bare shoulders but did not bite. He’d been walking home along the dark highway, and the blend of neon and fluorescent lights leaking out of the big windows had been irresistible.

He heard the roar of a motorcycle before the headlight appeared around the bend. Someone in a yellow leather jacket and torn-up black jeans. They pulled into the parking lot of the diner and came to a stop right in front of Indrid. He saw his own face - sallow cheeks, round sunglasses - reflected in the opaque visor of their helmet, and wondered idly whether this was how other people felt looking at him.

Hollis pulled off their helmet and ran a hand through their hair, arranging it into their preferred state of dishevelment.

“Hello, Hollis,” said Indrid. Two futures stretched in front of him. Hollis might want to talk, or they might not.

“Long time no see.”

Indrid waited a beat before replying. It was still a conscious effort not to finish people’s sentences for them. “Yeah.”

During the apocalypse, Hollis was always the point of a V of motorcycles, but tonight they were alone.

“Where’s your…” Indrid could say gang, and Hollis would look sharply at him. Indrid could also say friends, and Hollis would laugh and say we’re a gang, old man. “Where are the rest of the Hornets?”

“Keith’s grandparents are in town, so he’s at home.” Hollis shrugged. “I don’t need an escort. You coming in, or what?”

Indrid pushed himself to his feet and followed Hollis into the brightly lit diner. The waitress sat them at a table near the window. The darkness beyond the dim parking lot was complete. It was like Indrid was a passenger on an ocean liner looking out into the Pacific at night, or rather that a bioluminescent sea had nothing on the darkness of thick pines.

Indrid flipped straight to the drinks section of the laminated menu and ordered an iced tea. Hollis seemed to know the waitress, joked with her, and there were a few futures where she flirted back, but it didn’t happen. Hollis asked for bacon and eggs and French toast and Mountain Dew.

They each had a paper napkin wrapped around a fork and knife and secured with a paper band. Hollis unwrapped theirs and laid the fork on the left side of their place setting, the knife on their right. The knife was thick and blunt, barely serrated, the kind of thing that could cut through eggs and pancakes but not anything sturdier without a fight.

Indrid’s compound eyes twitched. There were many possible futures, most of them benign, but in one Hollis gripped that knife white-knuckle hard and lunged across the table.

“Are you upset with me because I’m from Silvaine?” said Indrid quietly.

“What? No..” Hollis edged their hand away from the blunt dinner knife. “Why do you think I’m upset with you?”

“You’re thinking about attacking me.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Indrid dumped four sugar packets into his iced tea and stirred, watching the sugar swirl like flakes of snow. The futures shuffled.

Now he saw Hollis slashing at their own wrists, now holding the knife straight-up on the table and bringing their head down, forcing the metal through their own eye. The kind of violence Indrid hadn’t seen since the abominations.

“You can read my mind!?” said Hollis, angry but still speaking quietly enough that the waitress wouldn’t hear.

“No. I can see the future, or rather, all the possible futures, which means I can see what courses of actions you’re considering.”

“Considering is a strong word. I don’t want to do anything to you. It just… occurred to me that I could.”

Indrid sucked on his straw. Sugar crunched between his teeth. Now, teeth, that was something it’d taken him a long time to get used to.

“My therapist calls them intrusive thoughts,” Hollis continued. “I hate it.”

Indrid nodded. “Good to know you don’t want to kill me. It’d take more than a dinner knife, anyway.”

Hollis pressed their hands palm-down on the table, fingers splayed. “Am I going to hurt someone?”

“Well, just because I can see the possibility doesn’t mean it’ll ever become reality. The choice is always yours.”

The waitress came back with Hollis’ food. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat?” she said to Indrid. “More iced tea?”

“More tea, please,” he said, and passed her his glass, which was now empty except for ice and undissolved sugar.

“So you’re telling me,” said Hollis, loading their fork with egg, “that you can see the future, and you’re still living in Kepler, West Virginia? You could be in a penthouse in Vegas, drinking iced tea out of a crystal wine glass. You could be absolutely drowning in pussy. Or dick. Whatever.”

“I won my Winnebago playing poker.”

“And you didn’t aim higher?”

“Nobody in Kepler will play me anymore.” Now Indrid was getting irritated. Who was Hollis to chastise him for lack of ambition? He'd moved all the way to another planet. He was the red light between the trees, the sound of wingbeats in the summer night, the silhouette on the trembling bridge. “Why are you still here?”

Hollis waved their hand dismissively. “I’ve been to New York, and I think I’m more suited to the big fish in a small pond lifestyle. I’m not interested in not being the best-looking, coolest person in town.”

“I have to exert conscious effort every second of every day not to be unacceptably strange. I can’t take my sunglasses off in public, ever, and my bedroom walls have dents from times they’ve fallen off when I’m asleep. I cannot afford to attract human attention.”

“Have you ever been to a big casino?”

“No.”

“What if you had a spotter? I could go with you, or Keith and I, or whoever you’re comfortable with. You wouldn’t have to do all the talking, and we could split the profits.”

Indrid saw plush carpet and hotel Jacuzzis big enough for his other body, bartenders serving Shirley Temples twenty-four hours a day. “Get me a Hornets jacket and I’m in.”

[stefciastark]

"Please! I-" ~Webpril Day 20

A/N: Today's is short and sweet, but I enjoyed writing out a bit of an argument scene :) Dialogue scares me to write, weirdly enough, but I think it's because I'm so afraid of writing the characters out-of-character, so this was a fun but slightly anxiety inducing exercise. Peter really is going to be the death of Tony. Hope you enjoy xx Only 10 days left!

~Read it on AO3

~Read it on FFN

“Please! I-”

“Zip it, I don’t want to hear it.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Tony dragged his hand down his face, taking deep and measured breaths to hold on to whatever semblance of reason and sanity he had left. “You could have died. Did that even cross your mind for a second?”

“But I didn’t.” Peter’s voice was small, shrinking back against the cold fury that pulsed off of Tony in waves. It felt worse than the post-Ferry altercation between them months prior, and Peter had promised himself he wouldn’t screw up like that again. Well, the promise didn’t last long, and Peter - as Tony put it - screwed the pooch, hard. Again.

“You don’t even know how to fly a plane, Peter, you’re not Captain Sully. This isn’t ‘Miracle on the Hudson’, you could have killed people!”

“People would have died if I didn’t do something, Mr Stark!”

What had started as frustration turned to anger, and what was anger was now turning into resentment.

“I expected more from you, kid.”

Tony’s disappointment felt like a slap to the face, and the anger and indignation Peter had been holding in for months finally exploded.

“I’m so sick of you underestimating me! You tell me how much you want me to be better, about how now that I’m an Avenger I need to step up from just protecting the ‘little guy’, but you never give me the chance! At every opportunity or sign of real danger you bench me, so when I saw my chance to prove myself, I took it.”

Tony’s tone dropped to a frightening level of calm, and Peter clenched his fists against the faint trembling that had started.

“Everything I’ve done has been to protect you. Do you understand that? I don’t need you chasing the life of a martyr.”

Despite himself, Peter felt his head nodding, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to retaliate. Tony reminded Peter a lot of Aunt May sometimes. They both had an innate ability to scare the living hell out of him. Their anger was like a hurricane and reminded Peter of an Eye of the Storm. It began with chaos, lulling to a stillness and silence that gave Peter one last chance to backpedal, followed by more chaos. Backpedaling seemed like the most viable choice this time around; Peter was more afraid of losing the suit again.

“I just wish you’d give me a chance…”

Tony sighed, an exhausted sound that drifted past his lips into the tense air between them. “I know. Do you remember that little talk we had after the ferry incident?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t lose you, kid. Every time you swing from a building, I’m afraid the cord will snap. Every time you go up against bad guys with guns, I’m afraid the bullet won’t miss. Bottom line is, I can’t have you giving me a heart attack every mission. Now this? This was almost a cardiac arrest.”

The aggravation Peter had been experiencing slowly transformed into a sickening feeling of guilt. For the first time, he really saw the circles under Tony’s eyes, the very faint and almost imperceptible trembling in his hands - although that may have been from anger, Peter couldn’t tell - and the deepened frown lines on his mentor’s face.

Peter’s heart was still pumping with adrenaline from the incident, the rough jolts as the aircraft hit the water still vibrating through his body. He had managed to land it in the Upper Bay area between Manhattan and Staten Island. Why the hell did it always have to be in the Upper Bay? First the ferry a few months ago and now a plane. Peter mentally vowed to steer clear of the whole area; in all likelihood, the next crisis in line would be a bus incident where it would somehow end up in the water, and he would somehow be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Third time’s the charm.

“I’m sorry, Mr Stark.” Peter closed his eyes, not wanting to see the expression - Peter almost wanted to call it ‘regret’ but he quickly shook that thought away - on Tony’s face again. He felt like ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t quite cut it. In all actuality, he wasn’t sorry in the slightest for doing what he did. Peter was more sorry that he was the one causing the slightly premature grey hairs on Tony’s head.

Peter felt the movement of the space in front of him as Tony moved closer. The anger from the atmosphere had dissipated, leaving behind only an air of bone-deep weariness.

“I’m not going to take your suit, so don’t give me that whole ‘deer in the headlights’ thing.”

Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat. The weight of the snowballing pile of emotion lifted off of his chest and ironically made him emotional once again. This time, relief won out. “Thank you Mr Stark. I just really want you to give me a chance, y’know?” He really hoped his voice wasn’t wavering.

“It’s not that I don’t believe in you, Pete.” Tony placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder and worried his bottom lip for a second before continuing. “You did great today.”

The conversation came to its end as the warmth lifted off of Peter’s shoulder, and he turned to watch as Tony walked towards his portion of the Avengers facility.

Tony smiled inwardly as he approached the hallway that led to his segment of the facility, the smile a reaction to Peter’s heroic performance that he’d never let the kid see. He didn’t want to send the wrong message that impulsivity and recklessness should be the default. Then again, who was he to talk? He felt a deep-seated sense of pride, and he had to shake away the accompanying intrusive thought that asked him whether or not Howard had ever felt that way towards Tony’s triumphs.

As he caught sight of himself in one of the passing reflective surfaces, the image of salt and pepper hair and bags - that sure as hell weren’t designer - under his eyes greeted him. Peter really was going to be the death of him.

[crash-cinematic-universe]

Home

pairing: Peter Maximoff/reader

summary: Peter Maximoff wants to feel at home.

Song: Home by Cavetown

Warnings: insecurity issues, abandonment issues

other notes: holy fuck, i’m really proud of this one. Peter Maximoff deserves the world and I’m determined to give it to him. 

(gif is not mine, credit to @shhh-no-ones-home​)

________________________________________________________________

Often I am upset that I cannot fall in love but I guess

This avoids the stress of falling out of it

        Peter remembers the days he spent in his mother’s basement, lying on his bed absentmindedly staring at the ceiling. He remembers the crippling feeling of loneliness, the fear he felt during those late nights, the anger that festered in him every day he was alone. He didn’t believe in love-- at least, he didn’t think he could ever love or be loved. Of course, he loved his mother and his sisters, that was a given, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was dragging them down. He couldn’t shake the idea that he was a leech, a loser that was so emotionally drained all the time that he still lived in his mother’s basement at the age of 27. He didn’t think he really deserved love. Sometimes he made excuses for his feelings; every rom-com involves heartbreak, after all, and if he never fell in love he’d never have to feel that. But Peter couldn’t help but yearn for someone to love him, even if it did involve a bit of heartbreak. All Peter wanted was to feel at home.

Are you tired of me yet?

I'm a little sick right now but I swear

When I'm ready I will fly us out of here

        Peter remembers the day he met you. He remembers the way you smiled at him when he introduced himself, and the way butterflies erupted in his stomach and the way his heart skipped a beat any time you looked his way. He suddenly felt the need to be close to you, the urge to have you pay attention to him and only him. He got scared, scared that he was being too clingy, too needy, scared that you’d get sick of him and run away like everyone else. He may be the fastest man on Earth, but he could never keep up with those who ran away from him. He waited for the day that you’d snap, the day that you’d confess that he’s been nothing but a bother and a burden and that you wanted nothing to do with him. That day never came. Peter soon saw his fears grow into something much bigger. He was absolutely terrified of the fact that he was falling in love with you. The scariest part? He started to believe that you were falling in love with him, too. 

(Mmm) I'll cut my hair

(Mmm) To make you stare

(Mmm) I'll hide my chest

And I'll figure out a way to get us out of here

Ooh, Ooh, Ooh, Ooh

        Peter remembers his schemes, his elaborate plans and stunts done only to get your attention. He remembers the day he walked into your classroom with bright red hair, he recalls the flabbergasted look on your face that preceded your faux cries of pain. He quickly dyed his hair back to it’s original silver hue the moment he realized you didn’t like it. He always finds himself smiling whenever he thinks of the way you stroked his hair the day it went from red to silver, the soft stroke of your gentle hands as you whispered into his ear. He leaned into your touch, and for a second, he wasn’t afraid of being in love. That was only for a second though, and the dreadful thoughts and beliefs that he was on borrowed time returned. He figured the only way to stay sane was to stay away from you. He soon discovered that being away from you was much, much worse than being afraid. 

Turn off your porcelain face

I can't really think right now and this place

Has too many colors, enough to drive all of us insane

        Peter remembers the strong feeling of being completely overwhelmed. He remembers how many things he felt whenever he got too close to you. He always seemed confused, yet content. The mansion, however, was a different story. It never stopped being overwhelming, it sometimes got so bad that he had to find a corner and hide away for a while; he needed to shut off his brain. There were days where it got really bad, and Peter would refuse to leave his room, collapsing under the pressure of being an X-Man, of being a mutant, of just being Peter Maximoff. He thought he was going insane-- he really believed that he wouldn’t make it. But then you’d be there to comfort him, to keep him grounded in reality for a while, and he’d be all right. 

Are you dead?

Sometimes I think I'm dead

Cause I can feel ghosts and ghouls wrapping my head

But I don't wanna fall asleep just yet

        Peter remembers the times he spent with you in your room. He remembers the way he’d lay his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat as you’d gently stroke his hair and listen to the rain. He’d always been so hesitant when it came to physical affection; Peter was unimaginably touch starved yet so convinced that he didn’t deserve affection that he avoided it overall. Once he did allow physical affection, he couldn’t get enough of it. He was always craving it, always desperate to feel your skin on his. He relished every touch like it was the last, he lived in the warmth that you radiated for as long as he could each night because he was so very afraid that he’d be cold again. It was heaven. Every morning that he woke up in your arms felt like a dream, and he often wondered if he actually was dead. He wondered if a mission had gone south and he’d been sent to heaven where he could be with you forever. Every night he was afraid to fall asleep, he was so very afraid that you’d be gone when he woke up. He always fell asleep with a tight grip on you, pulling you as close as possible. Almost as if you were going to disappear.

(Ooh) My eyes went dark

(Ooh) I don't know where

(Ooh) My pupils are

But I'll figure out a way to get us out of here

        Peter remembers the feeling of utter emptiness the first time you fought. He remembers the shame he felt when you walk away from him, but he felt a dreadful, crippling fear overtake him more so than shame. He’d been reckless on a mission, he’d gotten too cocky during a fight and it almost cost him his life. He remembers seeing you walk into the hospital wing of the mansion and he remembers how horrible he felt when you started crying. He remembers how disappointed in him you were, how worried you seemed. Neither of you shouted, no voices were raised, but your words hurt worse than yelling ever could. You weren’t mean, no, you were concerned. You expressed how much you cared for him, how badly you wanted him to be happy and safe. He pushed you away, and the moment you left the room he broke down. Hank thought he was in pain due to his injuries, and Peter was too embarrassed to admit what he was crying about. He went to sleep cold that night. 

Get a load of this monster

He doesn't know how to communicate

His mind is in a different place

Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?

         Peter remembers the first time he discovered his mutation. He remembered running down the street with his friends and before he knew it he was 30 miles away from his house. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he hears their screams. They all called him a mistake, an abomination, a monster. After a while, he started to believe it. His friends all ran away, and Peter resided in the basement from then on. He did everything he could to be liked, to be accepted; he hid his mutation, broke 8 world records, hell, he even went to the Olympics and won. They had taken away his medals once they found out he was a mutant, recounted his records, and exposed him to the world. He shut himself off from the world, believing that all he’d ever be was a failure. An unlovable, mutant, monster. 

Get a load of this train wreck

His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet

But little do we know, the stars

Welcome him with open...

        Peter remembers the days where the shame consumed him. He remembers the tears he shed alone in his basement. His intrusive thoughts and insecurities couldn’t be drowned out by any of his Pink Floyd songs. His past failures and disappointments couldn’t be diminished by his high scores he got on his stolen Ms. Pacman machine. There were days where he wished he could be anyone else. He projected himself onto the characters on his T.V. and in his video games. He adopted the personalities of all his favorite characters until he was a shadow of his former self, a mangled bunch of nothing that couldn’t cover up what Peter was. He got so confused, losing touch with who he was until he couldn’t tell the difference. He lost sight of where the fiction ended and Peter began. It was all so ironic, he was so desperate to be anyone other than Peter Maximoff and when he got his wish, he wanted nothing more than to be himself again. The shame only grew from there.

Get a load of this monster

He doesn't know how to communicate

His mind is in a different place

Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?

        Peter remembers the first time he saw you use your mutation. He remembers the way you moved through the air and sent little bursts of energy across the room. In that moment, Peter didn’t see you as a monster. He didn’t think you were unlovable or evil or a mistake. He thought you were amazing. He thought you were extravagant. He felt a swell of pride as you bested Warren in a fight, he loved you with all of his heart. It didn’t matter to him that you were a mutant-- he loved you regardless. That’s when he realized real love can’t be lessened or dampened by something as futile as a mutation. Peter realized everyone who called him a monster didn’t really care about him. He stopped thinking about them and started thinking about how much he loved you, how he’d lay down his life for you. Suddenly, Peter wasn’t so afraid.

Get a load of this train wreck

His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet

But little do we know, the stars

Welcome him with open arms.

Peter remembers the day that he realized he didn’t have to hide anymore. He remembers the way you’d told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. You had looked him in the eyes and told him you fell in love with Peter Maximoff, the clumsy, caring, gentle, kindhearted man that he was. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and all of his hurt and insecurities and fears and shame. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and his great taste in music and his unique sense of humor and his amazing ability to best anyone at Pacman. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff, the silver mutant who had previously believed he didn’t deserve love and that no one could ever really love him. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and for the first time in his life, Peter wasn’t ashamed to be Peter Maximoff anymore. 

Time is

Slowly

Tracing his face

But strangely he feels at home in this place

        Peter is a bit older now, and so are you. Peter loves to look back on his life every now and then just to see how far he’s come. Peter isn’t ashamed, nor is he afraid. He’s content. He’s happy. He’s unashamedly himself. He’s married. He’s married to the first person he’s ever loved. He’s married to the only person who made him unafraid of love. He’s married to the only person who could keep him grounded when everything got too overwhelming. He’s married to the person who always kept him warm when he slept. He’s married to the person who only ever wanted him to be safe and happy. He’s married to the first person who made him unafraid. He’s married to the only person who showed him that being Peter Maximoff wasn’t a bad thing. He’s married to the only person who ever made him feel at home.

[alessabriel]

Yu knowing S/o very soft and understanding.

The boxer is a sincerely entertaining manhwa (something mhe but fun), when trying to search for content I found nothing and absolute and good, here I embark again on something that has no direction; mhe, byebye.

➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖  ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖ ➖

Yu knowing S/o very soft and understanding.

The slight panic flooded Yu's entire chest by the apparent disappearance of his little black cat, his hands felt cold and soft at the same time, he had closed the door before leaving and made sure of it in addition to the doors and windows.

Before the tall young man could leave his house to start looking for him, the doorbell startled, he never received visitors otherwise he was from the staff of Leon's gym and by inertia opened suddenly getting the sight of a young woman something short in stature, smooth, long black hair with some lighter flashes and eyes so striking and bright that they cut off her breath.

"I'm very sorry for the intrusion but I found this kitten on the street and I think I saw it coming with one when it moved, if I'm not mistaken" your voice came out a little sorry and slightly low, yet you managed to make yourself listen and Yu really thought it was a nice sound.

"If it's mine" was Yu's short answer by taking from behind your arms the little minino that purred rubbing in your yellow sweatshirt, vaguely remembering that he should thank for what he did "Thank you"

What I take by complete surprise to Yu was the smile you showed him, without plugging or second intentions, there was only kindness there and a glow that he did not know how to classify in your eyes.

"There's nothing to thank for me too, I'd like my bunny to come home if I get lost. At last you look tired so I don't entertain you anymore, good night -- "

Yu detected a clear doubt in your voice so by looking up the cat I look at you a few minutes before I said anything, it was normal with the neighbors or so it meant.

"Yu, my name is Yu"

If I had thought your smiles were bright, that was reaffirmed every second more, you had a nice smile almost like a commercial or some Idol that I came to see at some point. Yu was pulled from his dreaming suddenly by her voice.

"Nice place to stay if you need anything, don't hesitate to visit me, I live in front and rest"

The normal running tour was to go around the block, they were some laps and I was coming home. Yu did not fully enjoy his days of rest and that day was the last, having won the last fight did not generate as much taste as he believed and boredom began to reach him and apparently had not enjoyed his break 100 percent, meh.

"Hi Yu!"

Listening to your clear tone of voice at a short distance, I slow down his career to his feet and you get to his side. Yu admired for a few seconds how you had black sportswear on and wireless yellow headphones, you were listening to music if their slight noise told him anything.

"Do you run at the same time every day?"

A conversation could not be entirely one-sided, that is, not always if the advice of her coach and the secretary were true, she was someone kind to go for a run and would not like to put you aside so suddenly, or at least that's what she thought after weeks of casual greeting herself in the mornings where he barely went for a run and you were already coming home. I couldn't catch any schedule of yours that was fixed to run and see you a little longer, even if I couldn't fully understand why I wanted it.

"Yes... don't you?

There was a grimace of doubt in your face that Yu c attracted before you shrugged down, downplaying it, every action was interesting to see in his eyes.

"Not always, I mean I should but sometimes my coach makes me go and work out in Coach Leon's gym, it intimidates me a little bit if I'm honest, it's like"you seemed to hesitate before you continued when you snapped your fingers as if your head were lit up with an idea, that seemed strangely to some anime or animated series that I vaguely remembered Yu "It's like facing a very high wall and I never knew how to skip those"

Anyone would have already been annoyed by the silence but apparently she didn't do it by continuing to jog beside her, said some comment here or finds but without overwhelming him, did not expect an answer and they kept running. Yu with some effort could compare that experience to Jay's, they had only spoken for a few days but he seemed comfortable with his vague answers and his face of boredom, they looked a bit like it but something very inside him told him it wasn't.

"I finally have to go home and get ready and go to the fucking gym... I said fucked up for having to go and feel intimidated not by the gym in... you understand me"

Yu just sharpened and watched her come home, stopped on the sidewalk longer until I watch her say goodbye to him with one hand and then into his own house watching his cat receive him, stroke him for a few moments before he could go to eat something and get ready to take a shower. It wasn't long before it took and once ready it came out when he made sure to leave enough food to his cat and have closed all the doors. I didn't want to lose him again.

The tour was short and boring so he was dedicated to seeing around him to waste time, and when he did that I get a yellow sweatshirt across the street that clearly belonged to her, it's big and eye-catching but I couldn't see her well because she was wearing the hood. It didn't take long for them to get to the gym where Coach Leon and a woman who received her were outside.

Before the young boxer could go on, the coach managed to attack him and stop him from placing him in front of the two women.

"This is Yu the guy I'm telling you about, maybe some classes will help to make him a little more flexible and try other moves"

Yu refrained from saying something, there wasn't much he could say so he would do to see her before he got a smile that I consider pretty.

"It's more than welcome you already know, and I also thank you again for receiving it but make sure your boys don't bother him this time, the last time he broke his nose, even though he was harassing him"

Someone as small as her going to break a boxer's nose? Yu didn't know how much strength or courage he had to have to do it, considering he had said 'I'm intimidated'.

"That boy has already been expelled for his misconduct that was not tolerated in my gym, you leave her in good hands"

The performances passed quickly and when they least expected it they both found the the same inside the gym getting glances from all around, they were like a spectacle before the third. Yu noticed how you pressed your fists and the strap of your sports bag before your eyes, it was more by an unexpected instinct than by something else, that I took him to stand next to you blocking the eyes of others and did not know very well why he did it but I manage to notice how you relaxed. Before she could go his way, the coach stopped him and she was the same.

"The area where Yu trains is not so crowded and no one else will go for their own taste"

A dubious expression adorned the S/o factions until he found the right words to answer.

"I wouldn't want to deconcentrate it because I speak even by the elbows"

Long before the coach could say something Yu interrupted staring at him, as he recalled that was like an affirmation.

"Nice stay"

If Coach Leon and Secretary Carmen were astonished no one said anything because S/o dedicated himself to smiling brilliantly at Yu who only looked the other way, he was otherwise unexpected and new.

When both were left alone to start training each joined their own world, and silently S/o claimed one side of the area where you started stretching to warm up. Yu only saw in anger how you could make a Split without any problem or how you managed to take your ankle to raise it as much as possible behind your back, it was something that could look painful but not all the sports I knew needed you to do that so as not to rust.

"I know it looks a little painful but when you've been doing it for quite some time, it's extremely easy," you explained without even turning to Yu.

"What sport do you practice professionally?"

"Oh true I hadn't told you, what a fool of me" you ended up laughing at yourself and once you left the stretches to take the rope out of your purse it was when you talked again "Figure skating is harder than it looks, if one day you want to see you can tell me you know"

Yu didn't know why I accepted the invitation so resolutely but he did it by earning a smile from you, I could say that of all the ones I'd seen yours was something different and I still couldn't say why.

"Nice stay"

"You must relax the Yu muscles, otherwise you will twist and you will have to leave training for a few days", your coach explained to the young boxer trying, for the first time a position that according to his coach would make him gain more mobility and knew that at first it was difficult not because it was complex but because relaxation of the muscles and the body in himself was required.

Taking pity on Yu you got up from the ground where you were previously lying you approached where coach Mila and Madam Suo stood quietly asking for space to accommodate you at ease and mode, once made with your hands you slipped them down their tense shoulders pressing in especially tense places to free them and heard a gentle, almost painful gasp.

In silence they were left alone in the room.

Yu almost instinctively relaxed when S/o's soft, warm hands glided down his shoulders, his touch was as soft and delicate, as if he were crystal and in a way that pleased him.

"I understand that this can be difficult at the beginning Yu but in time it will be easier, you will see" Yu could hear S/o's low voice or saying that almost to his ear when I push his hands forward "Honestly you are so dedicated to box that it makes me shudder, although you never seem happy and that is also fine, there are people who like and do well for it stays, others make me feel victorious and others nothing. All right, I don't know if it's your case but I'm just rambling."

Your words were soft and sweet on his ears, Yu slowly, for the first time in his life assimimilo that someone was being kind, gentle and sympathetic to him, did not judge him by character of reactions, tastes, hobbies and some hobby, only the same and his characteristic self. It was so new that carefully it was recorded in his mind, he felt strangely well and did not know why, he did not want to know until he was drowned in your warmth and kindness.

S/o was so kind and gentle with him, it felt good to be his friend...

[frozenartscapes]

Ghost - FE3H OneShot

“We need to talk.”

Dimitri’s eyes snapped open, hand immediately reaching for the dagger he kept near the bed.

“Don’t. It’s just me.”

“That’s the concerning part.”

He let out a long, tired sigh, hand massaging his head as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He sat up in his bed, normally shared with his beloved wife. But she was off on a diplomatic mission for a few days. It was when he was alone that certain people tried to talk with him.

“How did you even get in here?” he groaned with exhaustion. He honestly thought he was done with this. He honestly thought he had made peace with his past.

But she existed to prove him wrong.

“Should I even dignify that with an answer?” she countered dryly. She stood tall and proud, decked out in all her Imperial Regalia. Certainly not an outfit built for stealth, but then... It didn’t need to be.

His eyes drifted away from her face, to the gaping hole in her stomach. Blood seemed to seep unendingly from it. But she went unfazed.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Edelgard scoffed. “Well, someone is a tad short tonight,” she observed with a roll of her eyes.

He could make a joke about her height. But he didn’t bother. He didn’t need her annoyed with him. She’ll go away sooner if she’s in a good mood. Instead, he sighed. “You haven’t visited in a while,” he said, “I assume this is for a good reason? Or are you bored?”

“I can’t say being trapped in this purgatory exciting,” she stated, a grimace forming on her face at the thought, “However I do have a good reason for bothering you tonight.”

“You sound so apologetic,” Dimitri commentated, before rolling over and burying his head with his pillow, “Could this not have waited until the morning?”

“Dimitri.” He peeked at her again. That tone was serious, and more so than usual. This wasn’t a night she had chosen to merely bother him. Satisfied that she had his attention, she continued solemnly: “They’re still out there.”

He let out a long, tired breath. “El,” he began sternly. They had had this conversation before. So many times, in fact. “We took care of them. We have not seen hide nor tail of them since the war ended. Even if they are still out there, they are no longer a threat.”

He flopped back down on the bed, intent on ending this conversation. But the rattle of chains in the dark room forced him to stay invested. “Don’t,” he muttered, “Don’t do this now.”

He could see the Dead. Only those he had known in life, it seemed. Family and friends, rivals and enemies - one thing bound them in similarity and that was that they always appeared as they did when they died. Glen with a hole in his chest. His father with a thick, bloody line across his throat. Patricia almost a skeleton, beaten and broken.

Edelgard was different. When challenged about it one day, the best response she could give was that she had died four times in her life.

He sat up again, looking down on a small, pitiful girl who looked not unlike her mother. Broken chains dangled from shackles that dug too deep. Black, infected blood oozed through the tattled rags of clothing that did little to hide the horrific scars and bruises. She was stick thin, filthy, her ghastly white hair falling in messy tangles in front of her face.

She looked like the girl he once knew in childhood and not all the same.

“Dimitri,” she insisted desperately. He winced, even her voice had changed. Far too young and delicate, but raspy and exhausted from all that time spent being tortured. “They did this when no one thought they were a threat.”

He swallowed roughly, feeling a lump of guilt settling uncomfortably in his throat. Discovering this part of her past still burned his soul like a red-hot blade. He would never forgive himself for not realizing, for not pressing. He knew something was up but he never questioned her. His damn chivalry and politeness left him in the dark, and ultimately led to her dying alone on the floor of Enbarr’s throne room.

This ghost form was his least favourite that he’d seen.

“You know I have informed my allies of their nefarious practices, and I have established a National Guard specializing in searching out such atrocities. So far, they have found nothing,” he stated as confidently as he could.

For such a small child in such a sorry state, she sure had a scathing glare. “They murdered ten Imperial children right under the noses of the entire continent,” she growled, “They did so in part because those who knew kept quiet.”

“My allies are not like the nobles of the Empire,” Dimitri countered, “I trust them to tell me if something is wrong.”

“My father trusted his allies, too,” she said darkly.

“So what will you have me do?” he demanded, “Our resources are stretched thin as it is, and the peace on the continent is fragile. If I start out on a mad search of an enemy hidden in the shadows all because a ghost told me to, it could ruin everything we’ve worked for!”

He blinked, and her form changed again. This time she looked no different than she did as a student. There were no outward signs of trauma, or any injuries to speak of. When she was in this form, it often became difficult to remember she was dead.

“You cannot continue to surge forward in the light alone,” she reminded him, “One of these days you will have to set foot in darkness, and if you are not prepared for it the monsters lurking there will devour you.”

“I’ve spent plenty of time in the darkness,” he grumbled, “I’ve worked hard to drag myself out of it.”

“Commendable, I will admit,” she relented with a sigh, “But delving into the darkness to flush out its monsters is different than being tossed in to suffer with them. You cannot ignore this, Dimitri.”

“I’m not ignoring it!” he snapped, “In case you haven’t noticed, El, but I’ve had my work cut out for me ever since the war ended. Byleth has had her hands full, too. It’s almost like starting an all-out war has done more damage than it fixed.”

She said nothing at first, merely glaring at him. Her form shuddered, only for a second. A blink and he would have missed it - missed the burned skin, the deadly teeth, the glowing red eyes.

“You chose to fight me,” she reminded him in a low, dangerous voice, “You won the war. But not all victories lead to showering peasants with gifts and children clambering into your lap. It’s your responsibility to protect your people.”

“And you would have done things differently?”

“The reason I started the war was for things to have been done differently!”

She was the Emperor again, her own blood once more pooling at her feet as her school uniform shifted into crimson armour. Her horned crown seemed to sprout out of her skull.

“I never would have risked so many lives and thrown this continent into such a precarious state if it wasn’t warranted, Dimitri,” she told him firmly, “You know why I did what I did. You’ve found my old journals and letters of correspondence to Hubert. After ransacking the Palace, you know everything.”

“I didn’t ransack-”

“Regardless, you know.” She held his gaze, the fire of the Crest forced onto her burning in her lilac eyes. “Those Who Slither in the Dark are still out there.”

“I killed their leader.”

“You lobbed off one head of a hydra: more have already grown back.”

“How are you so sure?”

“How are you so sure they haven’t?”

He let out a long, frustrated breath. “You aren’t going to leave me alone tonight, are you?” he groaned as he pressed his hands to his temples.

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “That depends,” she challenged wryly, “Are you going to let your mind rest? Or will you continue to let this guilt eat away at you.”

He sighed again, keeping his face buried in his hands. “How did you cope with this feeling, El? Surely you had guilt of your own?”

Her answer was frustratingly simple and complicated all the same: “I’m sure I did, or else I really would have been a monster. But don’t know. I never wrote it down.”

Dimitri slowly lowered his hands from his face, meeting her considerably softer gaze. “I really don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked slowly.

“Of course you do,” she replied, “But it’s rarely an easy choice.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” he began hesitantly.

“I left you some clues,” she reminded him. She levelled him a knowing look, her stance every bit as regal as it was when she was Emperor. “You’ll never find peace if you allow these thoughts to fester,” she told him sagely, “Just as you seem to think I will never rest until my enemies are defeated. You’ve always had a strong sense of justice, bending to the will of the ghosts in your head because you somehow think granting them justice through revenge will grant them peace.”

Her form flickered, and she was a schoolgirl once again. “Sothis knows I understand that pressure,” she sighed, “To be the only one left capable of doing anything to avenge the lost, and for it to never be enough. You shouldn’t let their demands control your life, or else you will lose it before you can ever call it yours.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a small grin. “So why should I even be listening to you?” he challenged, his voice feeling more vulnerable than had been in quite some time.

Her form shifted one final time, back to the girl who never left the dungeons under the Imperial Palace. “Because I’m not urging you for myself,” she said quietly.

Dimitri blinked, and she was gone. And he was alone in his darkened room.

---

AN: I had this idea concept in my head for a while now. Dimitri’s ghosts are representative of his trauma, his guilt, and his intrusive thoughts. I wanted to put a bit of a spin on it for Post-AM, in which there is a new ghost who visits him.

I personally headcanon that Dimitri and Byleth find things Edelgard left behind. I also headcanon that, even in AM, she intentionally leaves things behind. Clues, mostly. By the time the Kingdom Army is at Enbarr’s gates, she knew she was going to lose. Granted, Dimitri did unknowingly take care of a few things - killing Thales and Cornelia bring big ones. But I highly doubt an ancient civilization that survived thousands of years by hiding in the shadows and working its way into every corner of the continent would topple by killing a couple high-ranking members. The Agarthans strike me as a group with a whole host of people all scrambling to be the one on top. They might need time to recover, but I doubt they’re gone. And I think Edelgard is painfully aware of this when she dies.

So in her study, she keeps a journal. It’s hastily written, like it’s more of a memoir than a day by day log. Just the key points, what she is able to remember, what will get her motivations across. She writes letters she never intended to send to Hubert and her other supporters, all filled with hints and clues about her backstory, her plans, and where to push forward. And then she leaves it all out on the open on her desk, moments before walking into the throne room to become the monster of her nightmares.

Dimitri discovers these things, learns about what truly happened to her, pieces together missing information from what he knew or guessed. But it’s too late for her by the time he gets any of this and the guilt just eats away at him. It’s not long after the revelation that she starts appearing to him.

Only it’s not really her. It will never truly be her. He will never be able to ask her a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. He will never be able to tell her how he truly feels and know that she understands. He will never know if she is actually at peace.

But he does come to realize that he needs to finish what she started.

(Also I do have a reasoning behind her different forms, but I’m interested in what you guys picked up on before I explain myself.)

[george-mackay-macfine]

Yes, Professor.

Requested

Synopsis: Y/N gets a new Professor, and she really wants to fuck him. 

Word Count: 3, 043

“Have you seen the new English Professor?” I looked up from my course book as Julian my best friend flounced up to my desk in the library. “I just saw him getting a tour of the school from the Dean, and boy,” He fanned his hand against his face dramatically. “The man could bend me over a table any day,”  

“Julian,” I gawked, “You can’t just say things like that, he’s a Professor, and last time I checked, sleeping with your Professor was still frowned upon,” 

“You didn’t see this man, Y/N.” He waved his hands about dramatically. “I would give up my degree and still pay the student loans for the chance to see that man naked, even once.” 

“You’re being ridiculous,” I scoffed, “He can’t be that hot,”

“You know how all the Romans of old had the hots for the chick who came out of the clamshell? Ya know, the one with the long hair?” 

“Yes, Julian,”

“He’s the male version of her,” I began to collect my things, as he continued to ramble. “He looked too good to be straight, but then again a lot of straight men these days have begun to dress better…”

“I’m going to go to class now… enjoy your fantasies.” 

“I’ll come,” 

“You don’t even take the class,”

“No better time to learn about English and books.”

“We’re studying Shakespeare, reading texts, today’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh fuck me,” Julian bit his bottom lip, following me away from the table and towards the door. “Do you think he’ll be reading Romeo because, I swear to everything in Heaven, I swear on my mothers grave -.”

“Your mother isn’t dead,”

“I would die to hear that man utter sweet, sweet poetic moronic dribbling into my ears as he pounds into me,”

“You really have an issue, have you considered you know going on a date, maybe seeing if there’s someone out there who can cure the issues?” 

“They’re not issues,”

“No? Wanting your professor to lay you over his desk, pound into you while muttering Shakespeare into your ear isn’t an issue.” I chuckled as we reached the entrance to the lecture hall. 

“Ahem,” Julian and I froze, turning slowly to face the source of the intrusion. “Quiet… bold imagery there.” The man in front of me would have only been thirty tops, his hair was a dark brown, and his eyes the brightest blue I’d ever seen. He was dressed smartly, but not like the stuffy old Professors we were used too, he wore a white button-down, probably leaving one too many buttons undone to be deemed as more professional than a casual dress. He extended his hand towards me, “I’m Professor MacKay,” 

“I’m so sorry,” I began to mutter shuffling items to shake his hand, “That conversation, what you heard it was out of context, and I can promise you that you will never hear anything of the sort slip from my mouth again,” 

“Shame,” He muttered dropping his hand to his side, “I quite liked the bold imagery.” He looked down to his wristwatch, flashing Julian and I a toothy grin. “Best hurry, class starts in a minute,” Julian and I watched in two different emotions as Professor MacKay waltzed into the lecture hall. Julian was in a state of awe, his mind probably running over all the ways he could have Professor MacKay in his dirties dreams, whereas I was in a state of utter humiliation. Professor MacKay looked over at us once more sending me another smile as he dropped his satchel on the desk.

“You heard the man,” Julian pushed in front of me, “Best get a seat before they fill up.” I followed Julian into the lecture hall, my hair hanging in front of my eyes as I felt those of my new Professor on my body, wishing death upon Julian when he picked the seat right in front of Professor MacKay’s desk. 

“Really this one?” I hissed sliding in beside him, careful to keep my voice low in case a prying Professor was listening. 

“Wanted to be close to the front,” Julian’s eyes dragged over Professor MacKay’s frame, “Didn’t want to miss any learning,” 

“Oh, Fuck me,” I groaned head dropping back. 

“Really miss…” My head snapped up, eyes popping open as Professor MacKay knelt before me, his hands clasped together, a cheeky smile on his lips. 

“Her name is Y/F/N Y/L/N,” Julian pounced, “And I’m Julian,” He smirked lips pursing at the end. 

“Nice to meet you both,” He turned back to me, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, you seem to be having an issue with your filthy language today,” 

“I promise, I'm not always like this…” I sat up straighter, “Normally I don’t even cuss, let alone speak how I did earlier,” 

“Relax, I’m teasing.” He stood up stopping when he was in front of my eyes, “But I want you to be careful, someone might take you up on the offer,” He bit his lip as he looked over me before walking back to his desk,

“Oh he wants the pussy,” Julian whispered in my ear, “Really bad,” 

“Shut up Julian,” I hissed, cheeks on fire. 

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” Professor MacKay burst out, “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” He picked up a book sitting on the desk, “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief,” I watched as he immersed himself in the poetry of the scene, “That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green,” He looked at me as he continued, his eyes never straying from mine. “And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.” 

“Fuck yes,” Julian cried beginning to lead the class into loud applause for the new Professor, who had so quickly won over his audiences. 

“Thank you,” Professor MacKay raised his hand to hush the crowd, “My name is George MacKay, but the board doesn't take lightly to students calling their Professors by their ‘human’ names, so let’s stick with Professor,” He shuffled himself on the desk, “Now, who can tell me what Shakespeare meant when he wrote that passage?” 

“He wanted Romeo to fuck Juliet,” Someone called from the back of the room which caused half the rooms occupants, including George, Professor MacKay to snort out a couple seconds of laughter. 

“You’re not wrong,” George Professor MacKay confessed. “In this passage, Romeo uses an intricate conceit to express a simple desire, does anyone know what that desire is?” 

“To take Juliet’s virginity,” I voiced, 

“And how do you conclude that?” 

“Romeo begins by saying that the envious moon, Diana the Goddess of the moon, and patron of virgins, is jealous of her servant, Juliet’s radiance. He then goes on to beg Juliet to be Diana’s maid no longer, for the virginal uniform, vestal livery, she wears as a follower of Diana is sickly green in colour, and not to remove it.” 

“In lamens terms,” Julian questioned. 

“Romeo basically says to Juliet it would be foolish to remain a virgin,” I huffed, “Romeo, the frat boy of ye olden times,” I muttered much to the amusement of my Professor. 

“Correct, everything Ms Y/L/N said, was correct,” George. Professor MacKay clapped his hands together standing from the desk he began to bounce on his heels. “The phrase sick and green was hotly debated among early scholars, because of a discrepancy among the printed versions of the play.” He paused, “Can anyone tell me why?” He looked around the class, waiting for someone when no one answered he begun again. “In the first quarto of Romeo and Juliet in 1597, the line reads pale and green, which invites a new explanation of the lines,” He cleared his throat,  “Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it.” He picked up two of his books holding one in the air. “Some editors charge the compositors of the subsequent quartos and the First Folio where it appears as sick and green with carelessness, convinced that Shakespeare intended pale and green not to mean the green sickness of anaemia as is described three lines above, but to mean the colours of the uniform worn by Henry VIII's court jester – white and green. Thus, her vestal livery is the garb of a fool.” He held the second book up. “Others, not so much,” 

______________________________________________________________________

“I might need to consider taking this class,” Julian smirked as he waited for me to pack up my books. “Professor MacKay is not only delicious to look at, but he’s also extremely entertaining to watch,” 

“Julian,” I groaned, but I couldn’t deny it, George MacKay was delicious to look at, and I enjoyed the way his eyes looked at me, my face, body, lingering on my chest through the lecture. 

“I think you should try and seduce him,” 

“Julian…” 

“I dare you,” 

Those three little words were how it started, a game between Professor MacKay and I, except I, couldn’t be sure he knew he was participating. 

As the ‘game’ continued I upped the ante each lecture, it started off easy, low cut shirts, with lacy bra’s sticking out. 

Then it became low cut shirts with no bra, and with the lecture hall always being cold enough to harden my nipples I was sure Professor MacKay had gotten a good look at the pierced flesh, 

My next step was dressed, short ones that really shouldn’t be worn on campus, but I had a dare to win. 

I next resorted to wearing short skirts, tartan preferably but really anything that would allow me to teasingly spread my legs and give George a glimpse at my barley there underwear before I crossed my legs back over each other, pretending to be none the wiser to my Professor catching a glimpse of my hairless pussy, 

“Ms Y/L/N, can you stay a moment,” George called as the class began to pack up, it was Friday afternoon, and I was horny a week of teasing and I was in need of a good come down. 

“Can I help you, sir?” I asked once the last of my classmates had left the hall crossing my legs once again. George sat back on his desk, not even trying to hide that he was eyeing up my bare legs,  

“I thought you weren’t a fan of brave imagery,”  A smirk came to my lips, I couldn’t help it. “You think it’s funny?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” 

“Fucking christ,” He groaned. “Sounds like Heaven when you say that,” I uncrossed my legs slowly, spreading them as I leant forward against the small wooden desk, breasts nearly spilling out of my shirt. 

“Sir?” 

“You’re enjoying the game aren’t you?”  George pushed away from his desk, striding over to me, he lent down so he was looking in my eyes. “Teasing me,” His squatted down, his hand starting at my ankle, running up my leg, unconsciously they opened wider, welcoming his hand against me. “Cunt’s dripping isn’t it?” I nodded, tongue dipping out to wet my lips. George’s hand hit home, his thumb against my clit teasing it. 

“F-F-fuck, George,” 

“Ah, ah…” He chided his finger leaving my clit, playing with the string of my underwear, “That’s not my name, is it?” 

“What do you want me to call you?” I whispered leaning forward, “Are you more of a sir, or should I call you Daddy?” 

“Fuck, you are a dirty girl,” George groaned, his hand leaving my clit, pushing my skirt up as he ran it up my body to my neck, “Call me sir,” He gave my neck a light squeeze, “You can call me Daddy next time,” 

“Yes, sir,” 

“Stand up,” He demanded standing himself upright, “You’ve been a brat lately haven’t you?” I nodded my head, standing upright myself, “And good girls are the ones who get fucked, what do the brats get?” 

“Punished,” 

“Punished, what?” 

“Sir,” I corrected, feeling a pool of wetness drip down my legs, “Sorry, sir.” 

“Good girl, now we’re learning.” He moved back to his desk, “Lose the shirt, and your skirt,” I quickly pulled the shirt over my head, throwing it to the ground. I took a little more time with the skirt twisting and twirling my hips as it dropped to the ground. “Turn around, over your desk,” I turned, bending over the desk I’d spent so much time teasing George from. “Going to take you here, so every time you have to sit here, you remember,” His hand came down on my ass, “How I spanked you,” Another “And how I fucked you,” Another spank “Okay,”

“Yes sir,” His hand went from my ass to my slit, fingers pushing inside of me, pumping once, twice, a third time before he withdrew them. 

“How does my little girl taste?” He pushed the fingers into my mouth, grabbing my hair with his free hand. Desperate to impress him I deep-throated them, imagining they were his cock, George pulled his hand out, pulling me to a stand, spinning me so my sensitive ass sat on the desk, He leaned down his lips meeting mine in a filthy kiss, his tongue shoving it’s way into my mouth, meeting mine dancing and twirling against one and other. He pulled away teeth gripping my bottom lip dragging it out before letting it go. “Taste good, Angel.” He kissed me again. “I could eat that little cunt out all day until your cried and begged me to stop…” I nodded, ready to beg him to. “But, you’re still in trouble for all your teasing, and I’m not sure if trouble makers deserve to have their cunts eaten out…” He pursed his lips “What do you think?”

“No, sir.” 

“See, you can be a good girl.” His fingers went back to my pussy pushing inside, my back arched towards him, his lips latching onto my nipples. 

“Fuck,” I moaned as he bit down, teeth teasing the bar pushed through the flesh. “I can be good,” I whined needing more of him. “Promise, I can be good.” His fingers continued to move inside me, unwavering. 

“Minute I saw those tits through your shirt, I knew I wanted to suck on them.” My thighs began to tremble from the pleasure he was giving me, “I’m going to fuck you, until you cry,” He murmured looking down at me with devilish eyes, “Maybe once you cry I’ll think about stopping.” His free hand went between us undoing his belt and zip before pulling my legs to his hips. “Keep them here,” 

“Yes sir,” I wrapped my legs around his waist, holding tightly as he reached between us again, grabbing at his cock. I felt it against me as he withdrew his fingers, pushing inside of me. He pressed in slowly at first, then all at once. I gasped out in shock, clenching down around him like a vice, fuck he was big. He looked down, at where he spread me open, tutting. 

“You haven’t even taken me in all the way, love.” 

“Big, sir.” 

“Too big?” I shook my head, 

“No sir,”  His hips pulled back and snapped forward, burying his length inside of me completely.

He was huge, wait until I told Julian about this, how good our Professor can fuck. 

“No one will hear you,” George growled into my ear as I let out a soft moan, “Louder,” 

“Fuck, Sir,” I groaned as he thrust harder. “You want everyone to find our your currently bottomed out in your student?” My question was accompanied by a moan. 

“Like I give a fuck,” He said lowly before he slowly pushed himself in, making me grip his shoulders tightly. He watched me through half-lidded eyes as I bit my lip, heavy breathing until he was fully settled deep inside of me once more. “And you're not just my student,” He groaned as I opened my eyes to look at him.

“No?” I asked sighing as he slowly began to move faster again.

“No.” He groaned, “You’re my little whore,” 

“Charming,”

“I try,” He groaned picking me up off the table, he laid me on the cold tile floor, his body quickly coming down onto of me. He took both of my arms and pinned them above me with his one hand.

“Fuck…” I moaned as I felt him fucking into me harder, chest to chest, his chest hair brushing over my hardened nipples. George let go of my wrists instead grabbing onto thighs sitting back on his as he thrust even deeper. 

“This is what you wanted all along wasn’t it?” He growled, his hand leaving my thigh coming down to circle on my clit. 

“Yes... Just like that...” I moaned, eyes rolling back as his fingers rubbed constantly over my clit. I could already feel the familiar warmth in my belly spreading. “You going to cum sir?”

“Waiting for you...” He smirked. He pushed harder, making me cry out as my orgasm washed over my body, sending tingles throughout. “Come again,” George groaned his grip lighting on my thigh, fingers continuing to work my clit, as he kept fucking me through my first orgasm straight into my second. My body exploded in pleasure as I felt George still deep inside of me, the warmth of his own orgasm making mine even more epic. 

“Holy fuck,” I groaned as George collapsed on top of me. I ran my hand through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. 

“You know how you’ll remember me spanking you on your desk?” I groaned in response, too fucked out to make any other words. “Well, I’m going to look at this spot and get hard every time because this is the place I made you squirt.” 

“Maybe next time I can do it on your face,” 

“How does later tonight sound?” 

[nautiscarader]

Kinkmas day 3 - unwrapping presents

I saw what you're planning for december- this is my proposition Unwrapping presents - striptease - with Tristepin and Eva, but it also could be funny with them

(Ao3)

Also, if you enjoyed my work, here's Ko-fi link if you'd be so kind ❤️ .

=============

With a hearty sip of warm dried fruit compote, Eva relaxed on the comfy sofa in the spacious living room in their house, taking good look at the festive decorations. She let out a comforting sigh, stroking her belly, full not only of the delicious Kwismas Dinner, but also her twins. It was their first Kwismas in their tree house Tristepin spent building over the summer, and she couldn't have been happier.

Well, perhaps if her boyfriend was next to her.

- Pinpin?

Eva leaned lazily from the couch to attract her boyfriend.

- In a moment, Eva!

She replied a short grunt and nestled in the mountain of pillows, basking in the warmth of the fireplace and watching the flames dancing in the multicoloured glass balls of the Kwismas Tree.

- Eva, it's time for your present! - Tristepin's excited voice reached her. - Oh, Pinpin, you didn't have to... - she murmured, turning around

And it was a good thing Eva put her cup away, because she might have dropped it when she laid her eyes on Tristepin. If she didn't know any better, she'd think that a sentient yarn ball might have rolled into their house.

- P-Pinpin?!

Eva gasped, taking longer and longer look at what Tristepin was dressed in, though "dressed" was a bit of wrong word, but it did explain his longer absence. Instead of his blue sweater, he had different patches of wrapping paper stitched together with a tape that formed a basic shirt-like shape. Same rule applied for his trousers, though Eva could see they were clearly first version of the shirt with additional patch of paper applied where neck hole would have been. And as a final addition to his costume, he was covered in red streamers that only had the vaguest possible ribbon-like knots.His flaming red hair was partially hidden underneath father kwismas hat, with ostensively loud bell jingling with every move.

But most importantly, he was wearing a beaming smile and with his wide open arms, he was clearly proud of his work, and was awaiting Eva's approval.

- You're out of your words, aren't you? - he smiled after a solid half a minute of silence from his beloved. - Uhm, yes, you might say that. - Eva gathered her thoughts - But why- - Well, you've said I am your biggest present yesterday, so I thought I'd dress myself as one.

Eva chuckled and lowered her ears, giving him a wide, charming smile.

- Oh, come here you big doofus.

With some difficulties, Tristepin moved in his rustling costume to plop next to her.

- You don't seem very comfortable in it. - Eva smiled, dragging her finger across his chest - Mind if I help you? - I think that's the who;le point of presents, isn't it?

Eva sneaked a kiss to his chin, while her fingers delicately undid his rather hastily don work with the tape. After all, the paper was still good, so they might reuse it. One by one, she undid the layers, revealing his naked, muscular body. She leaned forward and placed a few delicate kisses to his abs, resulting in several low murmurs from him, while she continued undoing his costume.

And as more paper was thrown to the ground, Eva found that there was one piece of his festive attire he was wearing, one that forced another hearty chuckle from her. Suddenly  she understood why the ribbons and streamers on him looked like leftovers, as majority of it went to cover every inch of his cock and balls.

- Mhm, I do wonder what's that...

She reached her hand and wrapped her fingers around him, listening to the low growls coming from his throat. her second hand wandered to his testicles, also tightened with the same festive, red ribbon.

- Should I shake it? - she cupped his balls and gave them a gentle squeeze, as she spoke her would-be-threat, feeling the tension on his skin. - M-Maybe you can just open it... - Good point. Do you have scissors?

Her sly expression remained unchanged, while Tristepin's face lost just a bit of colour at her proclamation. But then he regained it when she changed her position and lowered her head against his stiff cock and used her sharp fang to cut the first ribbon. She gently dragged her teeth against his skin, knowing full well she wasn't causing him any harm. New texture and feeling was a welcomed change from her usual tenderness, and as more streamers were cut in half, more and more of his manhood was revealed, much to his delight.

- Hm, just what I wanted... - Eva spoke, ending her unwrapping at his delicate tip she adorned with a kiss, feeling every twitch of his skin underneath her touches. - You know, I've had so much dragoturkey, but I'd love a bit more of your meat...

She felt the salty precum on her tongue, as she swirled her tongue around him, listening to his quivering voice as she suckled on his tip. She laid her head on his abs and let her tongue do most of the work, knowing well she won;t need too much to bring him to his climax. And indeed, her presence and eagerness was enough to drive him to his edge in record-short time after the long minutes she spent unwrapping him. She was rewarded with a thick stream of cum that exploded in her mouth and slowly began trickling down his cock as she couldn't contain all of it, despite her best efforts.

Somewhere above her head, Tristepin groaned her name, as his hips buckled and twitched, while his mind and body spiralled into his powerful, though short-lived orgasm.

- Your turn...  

With his head thrown to back, Tristepin took a moment to look at his girlfriend, who in the meantime managed to settle back in her nest of pillows, wearing just one tiny glob of his cum on her lips, which she quickly cleaned up. She spread her legs, eager to feel her boyfriend's lips on her body.

Tristepin was on her in a spilt of a second, kissing her chest, as he undid her oversized dress, revealing her enlarged, sensitive breasts. With one hand over her pregnant belly, he leaned to kiss her nipples with the same meticulousness as she did to his cock, and taking a similar gift with him in the form of few drops of sweetness.

- Pi-Pinpin... - Eva moaned, spreading her legs further, allowing him to nest between them as she caressed her mounds.

He moved into the valley between her breasts, and continued sliding down her dress, trailing his kisses down and over her swollen belly. He listened to her soft moans as he gently brushed her delicate skin, before he disappeared between her legs.

Eva threw her head back, as last piece of her attire, her oversized, loose panties were slowly slid down, and Tristepin's lips closed around her folds. He was still learning subtlety, and her pregnancy gave him aple time to practice his finesse, so different from the usual ruthlessness of Iops.

He kissed, he suckled, and he licked, while Eva mewled his name, keeping her fingers in his bush of flaming hair, just in case he'd decide to move away. With his hands underneath her bum, he effortlessly lifted her up just a few inches to make his meal easier, and continued licking the juices slowly trickling down from her pussy.

Her legs closed behind his neck, and with the next intrusion of his tongue inside her, Eva's body shuddered, repaying Pinpin for his tender loving with her cries and moans that continued as her orgasm slowly rolled through her body.

Tristepin gently lifted her quivering body onto the sofa and slid next to her, feeling the goosebumps on her skin as she cuddled against him, with her mouth seeking his for solace. His hand slid onto her belly, as it usually did during their nights.

- Just a few more weeks. - she murmured - I can't wait, Eva. - he kissed her behind her ear. - You make best presents. - You had a hand in making them too... - Well, not a hand... - Tristepin!

[kpopblurbs]

12:36pm

Pairing: Minho/Jisung Word Counter: 2.2k Tags: Hybrid au, sub squirrel!Jisung, dom kitty!Minho, rough treatment, slight pain kink, face fucking, anal fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex, oh yeah puppy!Hyunjin makes a guest appearance Smutmas Masterlist AO3 Link

Jisung pouted as he sat on the couch, his ears twitching angrily and his tail wrapped tightly around himself. He ran his fingers through the soft fur, trying to distract himself as he watched his boyfriend wrestle Hyunjin on the floor in front of him. Minho’s tail twitching wildly, a smile on his face as he pinned the other boy to the ground for a second before he was flipped onto his back. It was Hyunjin’s turn to smile before Minho kicked him back, Minho hopped onto his hands and knees facing the other boy as they both waited for the other to make the next move.

Jisung shifted around impatiently, waiting for Minho to tire himself out so he could finally get some attention. Finally, after another rough clash, the boys collapsed on their backs next to each other, they bickered about who won for a second before Jisung let out a deep sigh. Minho’s ears twitched towards the sound but he continued the argument with Hyunjin. Jisung sighed again, this time louder and trailing off into a slight whine, the noise making Minho sit up, insisting he won the fight and bringing the argument to an end as he got up and moved to the couch next to Jisung. “What’s wrong my little squirrel?” Minho asked, wrapping an arm gently around the smaller boy.

“You like the puppies better than me.” Jisung said with a pout, picking the end of his tail up and holding it tightly to his chest.

Minho turned to face Jisung, giving him his full attention before replying, “Now what would give you that idea?” he asked, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through Jisung’s hair.

“You always ignore me to play rough with them.”

“I do not.” Minho retorted.

“You do too! You never play rough with me.” Jisung shot back.

“That’s cause you don’t fight back, baby.” Minho said softly, moving his hand down to cup Jisung’s cheek.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just such a good little squirrel, every time I touch you you’re like putty in my hands.”

“No m’not, I can fight back.”

“You’re just not a fighter, baby, that’s okay, I love how obedient you are.”

“But you always treat me like I’m made of glass, I want you to play rough with me.”

“Oh?” Minho paused for a second, absorbing Jisung’s words before continuing, “Does my little squirrel want to be manhandled?” Jisung nodded quickly and Minho scanned the room, eyes landing on Hyunjin who was still sitting awkwardly on the floor, “You should probably clear out, pup, this room is gonna be occupied.” he warned. Hyunjin groaned and got up mumbling something about them not being able to just fuck in their bedroom like normal people. Minho smirked before turning back to Jisung, “You’re faster than I am, be a good little squirrel and go grab the lube.” he instructed. Jisung nodded quickly, hopping up and scrambling out of the room, returning after just a few seconds with the lube in his hand. He handed the bottle to Minho before standing awkwardly in front of the other boy unsure of where he was supposed to settle. “On the couch, baby.” Minho instructed, pausing to look up at the younger boy when he didn’t immediately do what he was told. Jisung mumbled something under his breath so quietly that even Minho couldn’t make it out, “What was that?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in shock at Jisung’s disobedience.

Jisung took a deep breath before repeating himself, “M-make me.” he said, barely able to make eye contact with the older boy.

Minho let out a low growl, sending a shiver down Jisung’s spine, “Are you sure that’s the route you wanna take, baby boy?” he asked.

Jisung thought for a second before nodding, a burst of confidence making him add, “Do your worst.”

Minho let out another growl before reaching up and tangling his fingers in Jisung’s hair, giving the strands a rough yank and making the smaller boy yelp and drop to his knees on the carpet, “You have no idea what you just signed up for.” He dragged his foot up Jisung’s thigh before placing it gently over his crotch, he applied slight pressure, making Jisung whine and buck his hips up. He tugged Jisung’s hair until he was practically looking straight up at the ceiling, applying more pressure with his foot until Jisung’s face screwed up in discomfort. He shifted around on his knees, trying to escape from some of the pressure as he let out a whine, Minho smirked, feeling Jisung’s cock throb beneath his foot. “Do you like this, baby? You like getting treated rough?” he asked frowning when Jisung only whined in response, “Good squirrels use their words.” Minho reminded him with another tug on his hair.

Jisung gulped, “Yes, I do, I love it.” he responded after a few seconds, his voice already strained from how worked up he was.

“Good boy.” Minho said, letting up some of the pressure on Jisung’s crotch and opting instead to move his foot in small circles, massaging Jisung’s dick through his pants.

“P-Please, Sir, can I-” Jisung said, his words cut off with a whine as Minho went back to applying pressure, this time a little more, the smaller boys discomfort edging on pain.

“What makes you think you can act out and then ask for things?” Minho asked, yanking the boys head back down to look at him.

“I don’t know, Sir, I’m sorry.” Jisung said sheepishly, trying to ignore his need to buck his hips against Minho’s foot.

“Good boy, now, you’ll take what I give you and you’ll like it.” Minho instructed, Jisung whined and mumbled an agreement, letting out a hiss as Minho gave a quick, sharp push against his crotch before pulling his foot away entirely. Jisung brought his hands to his thighs and gripped tightly, resisting the urge to latch on to Minho’s leg and rut against it for some actual stimulation. Before he could think about doing anything else, Minho reached down with one hand, the other still gripping Jisung’s hair tightly. He undid the smaller boy’s belt, pulling it out from around his waist before leaning him forward, pressing Jisung’s face into the couch as he pulled his hand out of Jisung’s hair and pulled the boy’s arms behind his back. Minho wrapped Jisung’s belt around his wrists, securing Jisung’s arms behind his back before letting him sit up. “You’re gonna be my good little fuckslut, I don’t want you to get distracted trying to touch things.” Minho said as he unbuttoned his pants, he lifted his hips up to shimmy them down around his thighs before reaching into his underwear and pulling out his cock.

Jisung whined, leaning forward slightly and tugging on his restraints, “P-please.” was all he could say, his mouth hanging open in an invitation.

Minho brought his hand back into Jisung’s hair and tugged the boy close enough to use his other hand to slap his cock against Jisung’s cheek, “Beg for it.” he instructed.

Jisung whined, “Please, Sir, please let me suck you off, let me make you feel good, it’s all I know how to do.” he begged, desperation evident in his voice.

Minho smirked, “Too much of a dumb slut to know anything else, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir, m’not good at anything except being a fuck toy.” Jisung responded, his eyes already glazed over as he slipped into his obedient role.

“That’s right, baby.” Minho said as he lined himself up with Jisung’s mouth, he pulled the smaller boy forward making him take Minho fully in one go. Minho moaned as Jisung gagged and swallowed around his length trying to adjust to the intrusion in his throat. “So good for me.” Minho muttered as he pulled Jisung back halfway, bringing his other hand up to hold Jisung’s head in place before planting his feet, getting good leverage to thrust up into Jisung’s mouth. Tears spilled down Jisung’s cheeks as he struggled around Minho’s length, he focused on breathing through his nose as Minho pistoned his hips up not giving him a break at all. Jisung did his best to take it as Minho chased his own high and it wasn’t long before he was forced back down on Minho’s length. Minho held him there as he shot his load down the boy’s throat, holding him still until he was sure he had swallowed it all before pulling him back. Jisung coughed and sputtered as he tried to catch his breath.

“You did so good, baby, you ready to take some more?” Minho asked when Jisung’s breathing returned to normal, Jisung nodded quickly. Minho stood up, keeping Jisung on the floor as he moved around behind the him. He placed a hand between Jisung’s shoulder blades and pushed until the smaller boys cheek as pressed into the couch cushion, leaving him bent in half. “Too many clothes.” he muttered before reaching around Jisung’s waist and unbuttoning his pants, tugging down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. Jisung hissed as the cold air his his cock, his hard on bouncing up and brushing against the rough fabric of his shirt and making him jolt. Minho picked up the bottle of lube and cracked it open, “Move your tail out of the way.” he instructed as he slicked up his fingers with lube. Jisung whined, twitching his tail just enough to get it into his hands still secured behind his back, he fiddled around with it until he got it up onto his back before tensing it into the stereotypical S shape that Minho loved.

“Good boy.” Minho said with a smile before bringing one of his lubed fingers up to Jisung’s entrance. Jisung let out a whine as Minho pressed inside, Minho stretched him quickly and expertly, getting him comfortable with one finger before slipping in a second and scissoring him open. He purposefully avoided Jisung’s prostate making the boy whine and wiggle around. Minho smirked and decided he was prepped enough, pulling his fingers out and slicking himself up with the rest of the lube. He lined himself up with Jisung’s entrance and pushed in slowly, Jisung’s tail falling flat as he lost himself in the feeling of getting filled up. Once Minho was in all the way he stopped, not moving at all until Jisung whined impatiently.

Minho pulled out almost entirely before pushing himself back in quickly, setting a rough pace that made Jisung cry out. He pounded into Jisung, the rough treatment getting the smaller boy to the edge almost embarrassingly fast. Minho could tell Jisung was getting close from the way he was frantically clenching around him, “You can cum whenever you want but just know I won’t stop fucking you until I cum.” he warned. Jisung whined out, trying his best to hold back his orgasm, Minho watched as Jisung scrunched his face up, trying so hard to focus on not cumming he didn’t even feel it when the older boy shifted around to get a better angle. With Minho’s next thrust, he hit Jisung’s prostate dead on, the sudden stimulation enough to send Jisung tumbling over the edge with a shout. As promised, Minho continued pistoning into him, continually hitting Jisung’s prostate and making him squirm from the overstimulation. He let out soft whimpers and tears ran down his cheeks as he felt Minho’s hips stutter before the warm feeling of Minho cumming inside him hit. Minho stayed still for a second before pulling out, watching the way his cum seeped out of Jisung’s hole. He was focused on the lewd image in front of him when Jisung whined and tugged at the belt still wrapped around his wrists. Immediately Minho jumped into action, removing the belt from Jisung’s wrists and tossing it to the side, “Shower or nap?” he asked quickly.

“Shower then nap.” Jisung responded, his voice hoarse, “Jus’ don’t leave me.” he added.

“Never in a million years, baby.” Minho said, he pulled Jisung up and helped him to his feet before pulling his and then Jisung’s pants back up. He lifted the smaller boy into his arms and carried him into the bathroom, setting him down on the toilet so he could start the water. He helped Jisung get undressed before following suit, helping the boy under the warm water and helping him get cleaned up, “You okay, baby?” he asked, noticing how silent Jisung had been.

“Yeah, m jus’ sleepy.” Jisung responded.

“Okay, we’ll finish this up quick then.” Minho said, finishing the shower as quick as he could before turning off the water. He grabbed the biggest towel they had and wrapped it around Jisung, helping the smaller boy get dry before drying himself off. He wrapped the towel around his own waist before making sure Jisung was nicely wrapped in his towel and scooping him back into his arms. He carried Jisung to their room, helping him into pajamas before getting him into bed.

Jisung clung to him tightly, “Min,” he started, his voice still scratchy but now thick with sleep, “Did I do good?” he asked.

“So good, my little squirrel.” Minho said soothingly, running his fingers through Jisung’s hair and lulling the boy off to sleep.

[attack-on-yuri]

Rain

Rain. 

Yang was never much of a fan of it. She recalled how when she was growing up the earliest sign of murky skies, shaking trees and the absence of the warm sun always meant a day locked in the house. So you can imagine how to an energetic child such as herself that was the equivalent of torture, simply because she could no longer run around outside. But now that she was much older the rain brought upon the young blonde a similar dread, but for much different reasons. 

Pain. 

It was the pain she felt where her right arm used to be what brought her down on rainy days. The cold weather accompanied by the lack of sunlight meant that when she was wearing her prosthetic, it would act out, and get stiff due to the compressing of the metal, or that the muscle fibers which had been violently torn apart in the process of her amputation would ache. Atlas technology was well on its way to making the lives of those who were handicapped much easier, but even the most refined technology could not compete with the laws of nature. 

Yang shut her eyes trying to drown out the pain. She began to count her breaths, a technique she had picked up due to being bedridden after the fall of Beacon. Whenever she found herself frustrated, stressed or in pain, she would count each breaths and organize her thoughts. 

The room was dark. The only audible sounds were the rain drops which intrusively crashed against the glass of the window, and her teammates muted snores. 

“You alright?” 

A voice broke the silence and Yang opened her eyes. She could faintly make out a silhouette at the end of her bed. 

“Blake?” Yang whispered, afraid to disturb her other team members. She sat up. “What wrong, are you okay?” She couldn’t make out the details of her partner, but she could tell it was Blake. 

“Whats wrong with me?” Blake replied. Yang instinctively pulled her knees into her chest, giving Blake room to climb up from her bottom bunk and adjust herself at the foot Yang’s bed. “I’m fine, I’m more worried about you. You were breathing all funny and tossing around a lot.”

Yang’s eyes widened in embarrassment and she moved her gaze towards the wall. She had not been breathing heavily or making a lot of noise, she didn’t want to disrupt anyones sleep, but she failed to take into account her partners very sharp and developed hearing.  Between worrying that she might have unintentionally awoken Blake and feeling embarrassed at the fact that she was caught in a weird moment, Yang wondered how many other nights have passed where Blake has had to stay awake and quietly endure the noises that only a Faunus could hear. 

“You know you can talk to me. It’s not the first night where you’ve barely gotten any sleep.” Blake quietly accused, easily maneuvering herself in the dark, she reached forward and squeezed Yang’s hand. “I’m here, okay? I’ll always be here.” Yang gritted her teeth and continued to direct her eyes at the wall, but Blake could see something written in the blonde’s face. An expression Yang felt confident that the rooms darkness shrouded. 

Pain. 

Discomfort.  

Frustration. 

These were the emotions clearly displayed on Yang’s countenance. Emotions which Yang tried very hard to keep to herself, and control. Not because she did not wish to burden others, but simply because she was so accustomed to being the strong one. To not showing a moments weakness in the face of adversity. To never letting her guard down. Blake couldn’t help but feel her chest tighten at the scene before her. Yang was so big. In both strength and size, yet right now she felt so small, so vulnerable.  

“What hurts?” Blake carefully whispered, her eyes now damp with tears which threatened to fall. 

Unsure of her words, and afraid of making things worse. She could not stand seeing Yang like this. She had never seen Yang like this. She wanted to hold her, stroke her hair and tell her that everything was going to be alright. That whatever she was going through, whatever she was thinking, they could face it together. The past few days had served as a bridge. Blake and Yang had slowly grown closer and closer. Opting to going on missions together, and just enjoying each others company whenever they had the chance. Both of them constantly expressing deeper unspoken feelings.

Lightning broke through the darkness, which was soon followed by the full echo of thunder. 

An unconscious movement caught Blakes attention. Yang pulled her left hand from Blakes gentle grasp and she cupped the spot in her right arm where injured skin met the metal from her prosthetic. 

“I don’t like the rain.” Yang finally murmured, squinting her eyes as a sharp pain raced through her right arm. It ached. It ached so much she could scream.  She tried to soothe the pain away by rubbing the spot in small slow circles. 

“Is it your arm?” Blake asked, moving a bit closer. This question finally won Blake Yang’s full attention, her violet eyes finally meeting Blake’s gentle stare. 

“I-” Yang tried. 

She could not bring herself to talk about this. Not with anyone and especially not with Blake. Adam had been a sore subject for the both of them for a really long time. It was something they were still working through together. All the pain he had caused them, both physical and emotional. He was gone, but somehow he was still there. Every time her arm hurt, he was there. Blake had already gone through so much because of him. The last thing Yang wanted was for her partner to feel guilty or responsible for the pain Adam kept causing from across his grave. Yang drew a breath and closed her eyes. 

“I’m really fine, Blake.” She said, in a dismissive tone.

“You’re not.”  Blake challenged, standing her ground. Her chest sunk at the idea of Yang lying to her. Why would she at this point? After everything that’s happened. 

“You worry too much.” 

“Yang-“ “We should go to bed, we have a long day of training tomorrow.” “Don’t push me away!” Blake finally snapped, a little too loudly, alarm screaming in every feature of her face. 

Thunder made its presence known and it began to rain harder. The sound so strong it resembled an airship taking off. They both sat there, quietly, and listened, never taking their eyes off each other. They worried that their conversation might have disturbed their teammates but the sound of both Ruby and Weiss’s light snores confirmed that they were still sound asleep. “Blake I-” “You can’t keep protecting me. I’m not weak, I’m not fragile. Whatever it is you want to tell me, but you feel like you can’t, I can take it.” 

Yangs eyes began to finally adjust to the darkness of the room and with this she noticed Blakes eyes, watery and pleading, and with this discovery Yang felt a sense of guilt begin to overwhelm her. She never wanted to hurt Blake. The reason she kept things to herself was for that very reason. She never would have thought that in keeping something to herself, in order to shield Blake away from sadness, she would be causing her sorrow. Yang closed her eyes and leaned in, touching her head to Blakes shoulder. The unexpected movement caused Blake to stiffen, and without missing a beat Yang put a solid arm around her partner and held on. 

“…It hurts.”  Yang finally breathed out. Her breath caressing Blake’s neck, sending shivers down her spine. “It really hurts.” She continued to explain. “Not all the time. Just when it rains.” And at this explanation Blake recalled the way Yang had stroked her own right arm earlier, as if she were trying to soothe a distressed child. “And I can’t help but feel…”  “Like he’s still here.” Blake supplied. “Yeah.” Yang chuckled. “Not always though. Just…sometimes.” Blake wrapped her arms around Yang, and closed her eyes, finally the tears which had threatened to fall earlier made their way down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.” 

Yang further nuzzled herself in the crook of Blake’s neck. Never had they physically invaded each others personal space before. Not like this. They had hugged before, and Blake had even fallen asleep on her partners lap during a mission briefing once. But never had they been so intimate. “Don’t be!” Yang almost shouted, breaking away from Blake’s hold. “Blake it’s not your fault. It never was and it never will be. I’ve made my peace with everything that’s happened. I’ve moved passed it, I promise. It’s just that there’s a physical pain sometimes.” At the mention Yang once again rubbed her right arm. She dropped her gaze and lowered her voice. “That’s it, that’s all it is.” 

“I wish I could make it all go away.” Blake replied, cradling herself, aware of how much she missed the warmth of Yangs closeness which had been present a few seconds ago. 

She knew Yang was being honest with her. She had been aware of the degree of the physical trauma Adam’s actions had left. Even though the cut was quick and clean, Yangs body would never be the same. 

Two sure hands gripped Blake’s shoulders, causing her to snap out of her quick daze, and look up. Once again she found herself staring deeply into Yang’s eyes. Yang looked at Blake and regarded her with warmth and affection. 

“You being here is enough, I promise.” 

They let a comfortable silence fall between them. What had been a deafening rain had calmed into a light drizzle. The sound of Ruby stirring in her sleep made Blake aware of the time. 

“Stay.” Yang pleaded, as if she were reading Blake’s thoughts. She began to lean back and gently tugged on Blake’s hand. “Please?” 

Blake smiled and without further invitation or convincing she maneuvered herself between Yang and the wall and got under the covers. They faced each other, and Blake could make out the very faint sound of Yang’s quickening heartbeat. A shy hand made its way to Blake’s waist and nudged her closer. Blake complied and fully gave into Yang’s embrace. It was warm, it was comfertable, it was home. 

Yang cleared her throat. 

“Is… Is this okay?” She asked, fully welcoming Blake into her embrace.

Blake closed her eyes and hummed in response, now wrapping her arms around Yang, returning the hug, and removing any seed of doubt her partner might have had. They had a lot of things they had to work out regarding the past and what has happened. But they would work on it together. They would also have to eventually talk about their growing feelings for one another. But that was a conversation for another time.

Not tonight.

“Goodnight, Blake.” “Goodnight, Yang.”

[daughter-of-winterfell]

Jump For My Love

- Jon x Sansa - Words: 2612 - AO3: Here

“All Jon wanted, as he stepped from the car and plastered a smile on his face, waving for the press and the public, was a cup of tea. And a chocolate biscuit.”

-

Jon Snow is the Prime Minister. Sansa Stark is his new assistant.

Love, actually, is all around.

*** This is for @jonsaagenda <3 

   All Jon wanted, as he stepped from the car and plastered a smile on his face, waving for the press and the public, was a cup of tea. And a chocolate biscuit.  

Since the election result had been announced, he'd been swept up in excitement and relief, happy to grin and say the right words to the camera.  

But now, now he was tired.  

"This way, sir," Sam said, pointing past the security guards to no. 10 Downing Street, and finally, after years of effort, he stepped across the threshold.  

I might die if I have to keep smiling, he thought, cheeks aching, but when Sam said, "Would you like to meet your household staff?" he tried to smile properly.  

"This is Trevor, and Jean, your housekeeper, " Sam said, beginning to walk down the line of staff waiting in the next room and dutifully Jon followed, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries.  

"And this is Sansa Stark," Sam said, when they reached the end of the row, "An assistant here."

Wow, Jon thought dumbly, blinking and slowly raising his hand, she’s pretty...  

Shaking himself, Jon forced his hand to grasp hers and her grip was surprisingly firm as she said, "Pleased to meet you, Jon. I mean, Mr Snow. Prime Minister."

A blush stained her cheeks and Sansa bit her lip.  

Jon blinked again and let go of her hand, saying, "Yes, I'm pleased to meet you too, Miss Stark. Sansa."

His exhaustion must have been getting to him, because when Sansa smiled at him, Jon felt a bit lightheaded, and his thoughts stuttered as he took a step away from her.

“Which do you prefer?” Jon said abruptly, reeling round to face her again, slightly unsteady on the polished floor, “Miss Stark or Sansa?”  

“Sansa, sir.”

“Right. Well,” Jon said, feeling his face heat as he nodded too many times. “Good to know.”

Get a grip, Jon berated himself when he was alone, safe in his new office. You’re the Prime Minister, for god’s sake.  

Jon sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.  

He really needed that cup of tea now.

***

When he’d won, Jon had said, “Now let’s get to work,” and though he knew it would be hard, he hadn’t realised just how much work was involved in being Prime Minister. From the constant phone calls and paperwork, to the squabbling ministers and intrusive press, he was overwhelmed.

And it was only his third day.

He was sitting practically buried beneath reports and letters that needed signing, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Jon called, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, sir.”

Straightening up, Jon rubbed the back of his neck as Sansa came in, balancing a tray on one hand as she closed the door.

She looked perfect, not a hair out of place, completely collected.

Did she really have to be so pretty?  

She must think he looks like shit, and although it was beyond ridiculous, utterly foolish, Jon’s fingers itched to check his collar and smooth down his hair.

“More reports for you, sir, and some refreshments,” she said with a smile, and Jon was transfixed, hardly noticing when she delicately placed the files on his desk and unloaded the rest of the tray.

When she stepped back and stood primly in front of him, Jon coughed and, unable to look directly at her - again, he was an idiot - muttered, “Thank god for chocolate biscuits.”

Hearing her chuckle softly, Jon met her eyes as she smothered a grin and said, “I wanted to say, sir, that I’m glad you won. I’d much rather give you chocolate biscuits than the other guy.”

Tapping his fingers on his desk, Jon stammered, “I’m glad too - not that I won, well yes… but for the chocolate biscuits. My favourite.”

Sansa nodded and began to back away, and Jon couldn’t help but lean forward, randomly saying in a rush, “Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t, sir. Don’t worry.”

And then she was gone.  

***

“Ah, Sansa,” Jon said as he showed Mr Luwin out of his office, seeing her stood outside, poised to knock.

“Good evening, sir,” she replied, stepping past him to deliver whatever it was she carried to his desk.

With a nod, she’d almost left the room, when, without meaning to, Jon said her name.

When she turned, Jon took a deep breath, scrambling for something to say, his tongue heavy in his mouth. It never normally was like that.

“It feels wrong that we work in such close proximity every day, and I know so little about you.”

That was fine, wasn’t it? Merely professional interest in a colleague's life.  

“There isn’t much to know. Sir.”

“There must be,” he said, feeling like he was pressing too much and yet unable to stop himself.

“Well, I live with my family and our five huskies,” she said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear and moving closer.

Five huskies… she’d like Ghost then. Which didn’t matter to him in any way, of course.

“And… no boyfriend or fiancé?”  

Jon wanted to bite his own fist at that. You’re Prime Minister of Great Britain, what are you doing Snow?  

But Sansa just raised an eyebrow and said carefully, “No, I - just broke up with my boyfriend actually. He wasn’t so nice… in the end.”  

Her smile - which he’d noted was usually so bright - faded as her voice did.

“Ah… I could always have him murdered, you know.” Jon tapped the phone to his right, trying to make light of such an idiotic but still very seriously meant comment. “Trained killers just a phone call away.”

But if he’d treated her badly… if he’d hurt her… Jon wouldn’t mind doing it himself.

As he would for anyone.

“Thank you, sir.” Her smile was back, and Jon’s heart thumped oddly against his ribcage when it morphed into a grin, one that was effortlessly charming. “I’ll consider it.”

With that, she ducked out of his office, and Jon leaned back, spinning slowly round in his chair.

Biting his nails, a habit he’d never quite shaken, Jon frowned.

Oh, fuck.    

***

Jon never thought himself a particularly jealous man until that day.

He’d spent much of the day dealing with stressed MPs and incompetent ministers, all whilst avoiding the tabloids which were already set on shredding him, now his two month honeymoon period seemed to be coming to a close.

Apart from Larry the cat, he’d been thankfully alone on the third floor lounge, but soon he wanted a cup of tea, hoping it would help settle him and alleviate the day’s stress, and there was no one there to ask for one.

He’d fended for himself enough times that he could certainly manage to make his own mug of tea, but it’d been a long day and his patience was fraying.

Striding down the staircase, tugging at his hair, Jon had come to a standstill at the bottom and said loudly, “What does a man need to do for a cup of tea round here?”

There was silence for a moment, then Jean, poking her head round the doorframe to look at him across the foyer, said, “Miss Stark is just in Arthur’s office, if you want her.”

I do, Jon thought absently, then went and pushed open the door to his main assistant’s office.

And found Sansa standing stiffly by the desk with one of Arthur’s interns beside her, too close, his hand touching the ends of her hair.

Jealousy shot through Jon’s veins and he saw red for a moment, hating the boy immediately. Jon wanted him gone.

It was slightly staggering, what came over him and Jon was only able to shove the blinding feeling down when Sansa gasped and shot away from the boy.  

It was then that Jon’s jaw tightened rather than his stomach, as his jealousy was overcome by anger and he clenched his fists.  

“Sansa,” Jon said, wrenching his eyes off the intern, feeling himself soften as he looked over at her. “Would you mind fetching me a cup of tea?”  

The way she studied the carpet before she nodded and then skirted past him made Jon’s heart fracture, and so he spat at the intern, “Name?”

The boy was quaking but Jon felt no pity for him. Not when he’d made Sansa uncomfortable.

“Peter Andrews, sir.”

“Don’t speak to Miss Stark again. Or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Peter blinked at him owlishly and stuttered out a, “Yes, sir,” but Jon was already leaving.

Stalking back to the lounge, Jon huffed at himself. He’d acted like a teenager, days which were far behind him. Sansa was just an employee, he had no right to feel… that.  

He’d just been enforcing appropriate workplace standards. Yes, he’d say that if anyone asked.

He was still scowling when Sansa nudged the door open and he sprang up to help her, ushering her in under his arm, which was yet another idiotic move as she was substantially taller than him.  

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, pausing to take a steadying breath before asking her what had happened, but she cut in before he could speak.

“Nothing happened, sir,” she said forcefully, seeming to throw off her earlier nerves, “I had never implied anything to him, or. Or led him on.”

“I understand, Sansa, it’s alright.”

Sansa scrunched up her nose adorably, and said, now twisting her hands, “I didn’t want you to have the wrong idea or anything.”

“I could never think badly of you.” Jon swallowed as the words hung between them, almost unbearably honest in Jon’s opinion as he refused to admit to what was there, in his heart, even if his earlier jealousy had brought it uncomfortably to his attention.

“I could never…” Sansa trailed off, leaving yet more silence between them, and Jon felt rather as though he was swaying on a knife-edge, teetering from side to side. “I’ll leave you to your work, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, and when she was gone, Jon pressed a hand to his chest and tried to slow his breathing and clear away his confused thoughts and guilt.

***

It had become a ritual for them, he supposed, formed after their many months working together.

By the time it was time for Sansa to head home, Jon had usually just sat down to begin sifting through the piles of paper on his desk.  

So, Sansa had silently taken it upon herself to fetch him a final cup of tea and something sweet too, before he would dismiss her, always making sure she left on time  - he felt a need to make sure she wasn’t being overworked, wasn’t unhappy.

This happened every day and afterwards, when it was long since dark and he was alone beneath the covers, Jon could admit to himself that it was the best few minutes of his day. Especially when she stayed to chat, brightening the slog of his working week.

On weekends, he ached for those few minutes with her.

It was wrong, he knew it. Often after she smiled softly and kindly at him, or when she made a comment which gave him a glimpse into the sharp workings of her mind, Jon would first be overcome with a warmth, which spread through his chest. But then, the guilt would settle in.

And so he did nothing but torment himself and return her smiles.

Sighing, Jon scrubbed his beard, reminding himself to get it cut. A Prime Minister shouldn’t look scruffy. Shouldn’t look like him at all really.

Glancing down, Jon noted that the paper mountain in front of him hadn’t even taken a dint. Fuck.  

Two knocks, and the door was pushed open, revealing Sansa with her customary tray, thankfully with no more reports to saddle him with.

“Any news for me?” Jon said, standing to take the tray from her. It was a vague question and could mean news about work, or news of a more personal variety.

Jon knew which he’d prefer to hear.

“I have no terrible news for you, sir. All is well,” Sansa replied, leaning against the edge of the sofa. She never sat down, by some mutual agreement of theirs. Jon didn’t even know if she wished to and he couldn’t ask. So, Sansa stood and he was endlessly caught off guard and struck with how gorgeous she was.

“For now,” Jon said, biting his nail slightly, then remembering his earlier thoughts, said to her, “Oh, would you mind making a note for Arthur, for him to make me an appointment to get my beard trimmed.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, pulling out a pen to write it down, “Do you not do it yourself?”

“I wouldn’t want to mess it up. It’s scruffy enough as it is.”

“It’s nice,” Sansa said and Jon blinked, taken aback as a blush bloomed on her cheeks. She didn’t take it back though, so Jon was left to consider whether or not he should make an appointment after all.

Coughing lightly, Sansa gestured to the tray. “It’s lemon cakes today, sir.”

They weren’t something Jon usually ate, but Sansa had brought them to him so he’d eat a few.

“I made them actually,” she added, and Jon’s hand shot out to grab one. He would definitely eat some of them now, perhaps all of them.

I am the most pathetic PM in history. Get it together, Snow.  

“They’re great.” Jon spluttered slightly as he spoke, hardly swallowing before he praised them as she deserved to know immediately.

“Thank you,” Sansa replied, shifting on her feet, her eyes flickering to the tray.

As she started to back away, heading for the door, Jon hastened to say, “Merry Christmas,” already mourning the loss of their tea-time chats during the lonely Christmas holiday.

A quiet ‘Merry Christmas’ was all he could give her.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” Sansa said, her eyes sparkling as she smiled. She paused and bit her lip, then left the room, shutting the door behind her and slipping through his fingers.

It took some time for Jon to work his way through the lemon cakes Sansa had made. He savoured each one, licking his lips.

It soon got so late that Jon could feel his eyelids and was unable to stop yawning, but he had to keep going. Needing the space, Jon moved the tray off the table and with one lemon cake left, picked up the plate to balance it in his lap.

And resting underneath the plate, he saw there was an envelope.

Written delicately on the front was his name, and Jon held it gently in his hands. All at once, he rushed to open it, sliding the card out and tossing the envelope aside.

Butterflies filled him, and he shook a little as he opened the card, a simple nativity scene adorning the front of it.

It said:

Dear Jon,    

Merry Christmas.  

I didn’t know how to tell you this, what with everything being a little complicated, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.  

So I just want you to know, that all I want for Christmas is you.    

Love,  

Sansa.  

Jon knew he must look like a fool, but he couldn’t stop himself smiling and laughing and re-reading that small card over and over again.

Love Sansa, it said. She’d given him her love.  

Feeling as though his heart was going to fly out of his chest, Jon jumped to his feet, punching the air.

He later thanked god there were no cameras in the lounge, as he then started to dance.