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[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[leesromanova]

dust collected on my pinned up hair

pairing: natasha x reader

warnings: angst, hurt reader, happy/hurt/guilty nat, idk they're both hurting, marrige, cursing, self-criticism, lots of feelings. (i’m sorry)

synopsis: you go on your usual coffee run and bump into your ex, who if it wasn’t for the mutual break up, would have been the one.

a/n: i love angst lol. blame my over active imagination and taylor swift. thank you all for continuing to support and read my works <3

to put y’all in the mood i recommend listening to ↴

The line seemed endless. Bodies upon, bodies of caffeine addicts waiting to be serviced.

The energy of a busy New York coffee shop at 8am was truly a sight to see for any newbie to the city—thank god, you were accustomed to the rude grogginess of the baristas and the lines to wait for your wanted—no, needed, yet still overpriced coffee.

You hear the door open again as a small bell atop of the frame is triggered by the entering customer. The chill breeze of the city winter rips through the space, making you shiver and wrap your coat around yourself a bit tighter. Cool air creeping through the fibers of the winter coat you were sporting made you need that coffee a bit more urgently.

“Next in line!” the line moved as you pulled out your phone and took a step forward. You scroll through your notifications, looking for anything you had missed in your previous peak, before feeling a tap on your shoulder. Your first reaction is to look up with a rather hostile look in your eyes at whoever intruded your non-social, pre-caffeine headspace.

“Natasha?” your eyebrows crinkle at the sight of the woman in front of you. Her smile genuine as she looks down at you.

“Hi, stranger” she says, the raspy voice bringing back memories of a not-so-forgotten time in your past. She moves her arm around you to pull you into a side hug, you accept it—a bit stiffly and pull away, taking in her appearance.

She looked professional yet still casual and comfortable, a combination that always suited her quite well—at least the version you had gotten to know in your past. Her red locks in a neat braid that swept across her head and onto her shoulder, a few framing strands left out on the sides. Her eyes were more worn on the sides—the start of crows feet present besides her lashes.

Her eyes were the same, still the same shade of captivating green.

“How are you? How have you been?” she asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice coming out a bit rougher than how you remembered. Maybe it was caused by the cold air or, maybe it was just the other way the few years had affected her.

You look down and pocket your phone, “I’ve been okay, just y’know…holding up,” you watch as the person ahead of you steps forward, prompting the both of you to move up and fill the gap. You shift to the side, and make room for the redhead to stand beside you. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, stirring up memories of the past.

“How about you? What have you been up to, besides finding ways to cut-in-line at random coffee shops?” she lets out a huff of air as she turns to look at you “I was leaving when saw you…so I decided I should come and say hi," she looks at you with an amused expression.

you smile and hum in acceptance, letting her continue. She takes a breath before starting, "I've been okay—for the most part. Just trying to keep up with what life throws at me." She smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. You wonder if they were just as rough as how you remembered, or if they’d grown more calloused with time.

"Are you cold?" you ask, still looking at her now-concealed hands. She turns to look at you, you meet her eyes, and she lifts a brow "I've told you before how we Russians don't get cold," she says before continuing "that’s something you should've remembered." her voice carries as the last words enter your ears and without thinking you respond.

"I remember lots of things."

You feel the energy around you both change as the words leave your lips and you cringe as you watch her body visibly stiffen. Your brutally honest word choice must’ve reminded her of the reason why it had been so long since the two of you spoke.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Sometime in the past 2 years

“Natasha… I just can’t do this anymore.” The words choke in your throat as you pace in front of her in the living room of your shared apartment. Every step you take feels like it’s pulling you further from everything you once wanted, but you can't stop yourself. You can barely breathe, the emotion inside you holding your lungs down. Your eyes move to look at Natasha, and everything inside you screams to hold on.

“I’ve always been here for you,” you continue, voice cracking. “Always. I kept waiting, hoping you’d open up to me, just like I did for you, bare an-and vulnerable.” Your voice cracks making you take a steadying breath before continuing, pointing a shaking finger toward her. “I put my heart on the line, expecting the same... but I never got it. And when you finally did open up... I was there. I loved you through the dark days, the lonely nights. I stayed, Natasha. I stayed through everything, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” Your words spill out like a dam breaking, but the anger, the frustration, the heartbreak—none of it makes the pain go away.

You want to somehow make it work, to find the missing piece that would make her open up fully. You wanted this to work more than anything. But the hard truth is, you don’t know just how much more you can keep giving without receiving the same in return. You’ve poured so much of yourself into this relationship—your love, your patience, your vulnerability—but now it feels like you’re just…empty. Every night you lie awake, hoping that tomorrow will be the day she finally opens up to you the way you’ve been opening up to her, and every day feels like another unanswered question, an in-life purgatory you can’t escape.

Your fingernails find their way into the flesh of your palms, the sharpness grounding you, but it doesn’t help.

Her heart tears in two as she watches you like this, feeling like a failure. She feels it deep inside—your hurt, your exhaustion, the years of unspoken emotions—and she knows, with crushing certainty, that no matter how much she loves you, she can’t undo the damage. You’re the one person who has always been there, who’s loved her unconditionally, who’s been so patient, so willing to fight for the relationship. She’s failed you. It wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough. She loved you—God, she loved you so much—but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to give you the one thing you needed most: her whole heart. Every single time you reached out, she recoiled, afraid that if she gave you more of herself, she’d lose herself in the process. She knew loving you would mean taking the risk of loosing herself within the beauty that was to love just as hard as you did. 

She doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.

She lifts her head, eyes red, blurry with unshed tears, and glances at your hands, fingers still digging into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself together, as the nails cut through the layers of flesh on your palms. The pieces of yourself feeling like they're falling through your fingers like water. She hurts seeing you like this, she knew you did it to feel control in moments where you felt that control slip away—she’d had been trying to help you stop it, to show you that hurting yourself wouldn't heal anything, but now, she feels just as lost. She feels herself drowning in guilt. 

She’s the one who’s made you feel like this, hasn’t she? 

A warm, trembling hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out of the darkness of your thoughts along with herself–trying to claw her way out of her guilt. Her touch is gentle, almost too gentle, as if she’s afraid you’ll break if she holds on too tight. She guides your fingers away from your skin, but the ache in your chest only deepens. She’s trying to fix you–to help you, not acknowledging that she needed it as well. And neither of you knew how to do it.

What’s the hell is wrong with me? 

The question cuts deeper than anything she’s ever felt. 

Why can’t I just give her what she needs? 

I love her. 

I love her so much. 

Why isn’t that enough?

“I feel horrible,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. When you meet her eyes, they’re filled with more pain than you’ve ever seen in them. It tears through you. You wanted to help her, to make her feel loved and safe, but all you've done is hurt her. You've made her feel like she's failing, like she’s not enough, and the guilt is suffocating. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, wants to apologize, to make it better, but she knows deep down that no amount of apologies can fix the damage done. 

You swallow, but your throat is tight, your chest heavier than it’s ever been. "You’re right. You always did the right things. You said the right words. You showed me you loved me, but… I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel it the way I needed to, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I couldn't be enough for you, Natasha." Your voice breaks at the end, a sound that rips through you, as if you're breaking apart inside. Not enough for her to give you her all. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.” Making her feel like she hadn’t been giving you enough because she couldn’t give you want you wanted—craved. The sudden realization makes you heave as you reel about you both hurting each other unwillingly—how could something so good turn into something so hurtful?

The weight of your own apology hangs in the air, suffocating, because you don't know how to fix this anymore. You don’t know how to make her stop feeling like she’s a failure when all she’s ever done is try. 

Her heart shatters as you speak. She sees the pure hurt in your eyes, feels the way you’re pulling away from her. it crushes her to know she's the one that hurt you, the one that made you feel as if you weren't enough. Every word you say is a reminder that she’s failed. She’s tried so hard to be the person you need, to show you how much she loves you, but every time she’s gotten close to letting herself go the crippling fear of falling too deep holding her back. 

“I wish I could change,” she says, voice barely audible, but you hear the depth of her regret in every word. She places her hand over her heart, almost as if trying to stop the pulsating ache there. “I don’t want you to suffer with my shit anymore. I don’t want to drag you through this anymore… but I don’t know how to fix me.” She looks at you, her tears falling freely now. “I hate that I can't give you everything you need. I hate that I couldn't be the person you deserved."

You feel every ounce of her guilt like a physical blow, and it’s suffocating. You wish there was something you could say to make her feel better, but the truth is, you're not sure if you even deserve to make her feel better right now. You've failed her too, in so many ways.

Maybe I’m not enough for her. Maybe I never was. 

The thought stings, like a shock against your skin. You can’t help but feel that maybe you’ve failed, that you’re the real reason things fell apart, not Natasha. But as you look at the redhead, her guilt hanging heavy in the air, you realize there’s not just one person to blame, there’s not only one person responsible for this. You’ve both been afraid. Afraid of fully trusting, of letting the walls down completely, of letting each other in.

And now? Now, it feels like it’s too late.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says, her voice cracking. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who can love you with everything they have, without holding back... and I’m not her. I can't be that person." Her eyes search yours, desperate for some sign, some glimmer of hope, but all she finds is a reflection of her own pain.

Staring at her tear-streaked face, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: it’s not going to happen. It’s not because you haven’t tried, and it’s not because she doesn’t love you—she does, so much, and you can see it in her eyes. But love isn’t enough. 

I can’t keep waiting for something that’s never going to come. 

I can’t keep hurting like this. 

You’re shaking now, but it’s not from anger. It’s from the unbearable truth that lingers in the space between you. The love you had, the connection you both tried so hard  to hold onto, is slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

“I think…” you can barely get the words out, but they’re there, hanging in the air like the inevitable. "I think you’re right." Your voice cracks, your heart shattering with the weight of those words. You’ve known for so long, deep down, that this was coming. The back and forth, the exhaustion, the constant battle to make her open up, to make her let you in—it was destroying both of you, and it would never change. The months of fighting—wanting her to open up, to show you the real her, nothing was working as it should be. You had been fighting against something inevitable.

You run your thumb over her knuckles, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but it feels hollow now. “We’ve tried, Natalia,” you whisper, your heart breaking with every syllable. “We’ve tried to make this work, but I can’t keep pretending it’s going to be okay. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want you to hurt for me anymore.”

Her tears fall harder now, as if the weight of your decision has broken something inside of her. You both sit there, silently, broken and exhausted from a love that was never enough. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s been destroyed. As she looks at you, so broken, so utterly lost, she feels like she’s watching her own heart crack in two.

You both sit in silence as the sounds of the city bleed into the apartment and circle the two of you.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

“Next!” the barista’s tired voice carries through the space of the café, and makes you both turn to reach the counter. Your cheeks warm and tinged a shade of red at your earlier admission.

“Uh, can I get an iced blond vanilla late, with an extra pump of vanilla, and sweet foam with Carmel drizzle on top?” you order and look over at the redhead who was diligently staring at the side of your face.

She wondered how you hadn’t changed. Time seemed to have left you untouched. While she felt it’s weight etched into her face and mind—you were still the same. With the same coffee order, at the same coffee shop, the same you.

“W-would you like anything?” you ask, stuttering at the gaze she held.

“I’m okay,” she turns to the barista, “That’ll be all.” she completes your order out of habit as you pull out your card to pay.

the barista asks for your name and you both utter a thanks to the young woman, who doesn’t return the pleasantry as you both walk off to the side. The silence, between you both not unwanted, but definitely heightening your anxiety at the unexpected meeting.

You were not dressed to be seeing your ex at a coffee shop.

“Would you like to sit?” you clear your throat and ask, finding a table with two chairs. She smiles and looks at her watch. “Yeah—yeah, I got enough time” she says, sitting down beside you and looking out at the busy streets of the city that never sleeps.

She loved it here, her time in other continents and cities made her realize just how at home the city lights and sirens made her feel, just how at home the people in her life made her feel.

The light of the rising sun reflects off of the glass windows of tall buildings and illuminate her face. Her nose had stayed the same, the feature being something you loved about her even if she said she hated it from time to time. She turns and catches you staring. You to look away and clear your throat as she smiles warmly. She always liked that about you, so attentive to everyone around you.

Stop staring. You mentally kicked yourself for being caught.

“Y’know…you still order your coffee as if you hate the taste of it.” she teases, her hands motioning to the receipt that outlined the specific order you gave. A smile grows as you turn to look at her and laugh softly at her face of accusation. “I swear, you get the sugariest thing on the menu.” she continues, making you laugh a little louder.

Your laugh was the same–she noticed, your smile the same, but your eyes now held a few winkles at the sides as the joy spread over your face. She smiles at you then and leans back in the uncushioned, tall stool.

You roll your eyes and remove your gloves, “hey, before you tease just know you traumatized me with your coffee order,” she looks at you questioningly, making you lean in “Nat, you order a black coffee with like two sugars and call that a coffee order.” she laughs, her cheeks tinting a wonderful shade of red as she answers “It’s a legitimate coffee order y/n, that’s why they make me pay and why I made you try it.” her voice raspy as ever as it leaves her lips. “Oh yeah, trust me I know. I can still feel it on my taste buds and recoil every time I think about it.” she looks at your now very serious expression with a raised brow, and you both break into a shared cackle.

As the laughter settles, you both look at each other. Familiarity and warmth returning to your veins, you missed her. Sure, it had been more than enough time for you to get over her, but you never truly did. Everyone told you it was time to move on, but you never did, hoping, praying, manifesting that maybe one day you could fix things and reunite with the love of your life.

You went out with people, met other singles, dated—but no one made you feel what she did.

"So, how’s work?" you ask, your fingers nervously fiddling with the paper wrapping of a straw that was left on the table by some other customer. She glances down at your hands, noticing how your nails are no longer bitten or ragged, your palms free of the crescent-shaped marks that used to linger there. She smiles softly, noticing how you'd managed to break those anxious habits.

"It’s been good," she replies, her voice warm. "We got some new teammates in—I'm sure you saw it on the news." She looks into your eyes, smiling as she sees the familiar focus in your gaze. That hadn't changed either.

You nod and smile back, leaning in as she continues. "One of them is named Wanda. She's brilliant—you'd love her. Amazing sense of humor, and the best style. I know you’ve always been into fashion."

You chuckle softly, the memory of how you used to carefully pick out your outfits coming back. "That’s nice. So, you and her are close?" you ask, your voice lighter than you feel. It's easy to fall back into the rhythm with her. Conversations with her never felt draining, never like you were just filling silence. At least, it didn’t, not before everything went wrong.

"Yeah," she says, smiling shyly, but her eyes drop to her hands. And that's when you see it. The ring.

The world seems to blur for a moment as your eyes lock onto the silver band adorning her finger. Simple, yet undeniably there. Your mind races, struggling to catch up, focusing on the details—an engraving, some flowers, maybe lilies? You remember how she always loved those.

The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts. "Y/N?"

You snap back to reality, but it feels like your heart is still racing. You blink, meeting her gaze. The concern in her eyes is unmistakable, but it's not for you. She's moved on.

“Order for y/n!” the barista yells, and you turn, smiling tightly at Nat before getting up to retrieve your coffee.

God, how had you not seen it before? Was it always there? How long ago did she become so open? So willing to let someone in, that she’d actually gotten married?

The questions hit you like a wave, crashing over your mind with unbeatable force.

You make yourself look away, desperate to regain control of your thoughts. You tuck some hair behind your ear, trying to ground yourself, and take a long sip of your cold drink, the ice crunching between your teeth. It does nothing to ease the nausea building in your stomach.

“I—uh, I was looking at your wedding band,” you mutter, feeling the words slip out awkwardly. Your gaze drifts back to her fingers, the ring glinting in the sunlight. She follows your stare, quietly adjusting her hand, almost as if she’s waiting for this moment to land.

“Oh, um… yeah," she clears her throat, her voice sounding a little tighter than before. "Me and Wanda... we, uh... I proposed a few months ago,” she adds, looking down at the ring, tracing the engravings with her fingers. Finally, she meets your eyes, and for a brief second, it feels like everything you thought you knew about her is slipping away. This wasn’t the Natasha who used to laugh at your bad jokes, or the one who whispered your name in the quiet of your shared apartment, the one who whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you laid naked in bed after you’d had sex. No, this was a version of her you did not know.

“Oh.” The word barely leaves your mouth as you nod slowly, but it’s enough to echo in the silence between you two. It’s all you can manage, the word feeling too small, insignificant.

What else could you say?

You want to bury your face in your hands.

God, Y/N, think of something better. Say something better.

The words feel hollow, useless, as they form in your mind. The words don’t feel like your own. They feel forced, clumsy, like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers. You hate how it feels. You hate how she feels like a stranger to you now, someone you don’t know anymore, someone who has moved on without you.

"Congratulations," you finally say, the words coming out flat, lifeless. Your smile feels too tight, too forced. You can feel it pulling at the corners of your lips as your body instinctively turns inward, the discomfort sharp and heavy.

Congratulations? Are you fucking serious?

She notices, of course—how could she not? Her eyes flicker with concern, watching as your posture shifts, your guard rising. But it’s too late. You’re already pulling away.

What the hell did I just say?

The self-criticism is almost suffocating.

Congratulations?

You want to slap your forehead, but you settle for simply glancing up at her. Her gaze is locked onto you now, intense and unwavering. It’s like she’s trying to reach you through the growing distance between you two, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve lost her... that you never really had her.

The sound of the coffee shop fade as your own internal dialogue takes over, mocking you.

You’re pathetic, it whispers.

You haven’t moved on.

You never really let go.

You glance around the coffee shop. There’s a woman in the corner smiling at her boyfriend—no husband, the wedding ring sparkling as she holds his cheek, a group of tourists chatting loudly about going to watch some play on Broadway, someone in the backline swiping through their phone, you can see the TikTok home screen from your place in the corner of the café.

But you can’t hear them. All you hear is the hollow beat of your own heart, pounding painfully in your chest, as if it knows that this moment is the end of something—something you still thought was possible.

It feels like you’re drowning, surrounded by noise, by life moving forward, while you’re stuck here in this tiny moment, unable to breathe.

Her eyes flicker with concern, noticing how your posture shifts, how you stiffen at the words that should have felt normal, casual. But they don’t. They can’t.

There’s nothing casual about this.

Nothing normal.

Not when your heart is bleeding under the weight of a past you can’t shake, a future you never thought you’d face.

You try to steady yourself, but you can feel the walls you’ve built around your emotions crumbling.

She’s married, Y/N. She’s married. Get over it.

But you can’t.

You feel a pang of guilt. Natasha’s gaze is warm, but there’s an ache in her eyes too—something that makes your heart hurt in a different way. She’s trying. She’s not the woman you left behind. But then again, neither are you. Neither is she.

Her hand rests, trembling, on the table now. She wants to reach out to you, but she’s scared of pushing too hard. You can see it in her eyes—she’s uncertain. She’s terrified of what you might say. Terrified of making it worse. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the table, hesitant, before pulling away. She’s probably wondering if she’s done the right thing. Wondering if she was wrong to move on, to make this decision without you, without this—whatever you two were. She watches you, her gaze softening as if she wants to comfort you, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t even know where to begin. She could try to reach for you, but she knows it might make things worse.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, her voice trembling slightly. She’s staring at you now, as if trying to understand what’s happening inside your head, but you don’t have an answer for her. You don’t even have an answer for yourself.

The silence stretches between you two, heavy with unspoken words, as the noise of the coffee shop crashes around you both, a stark reminder that the world keeps moving. And in it, Natasha is moving forward, and you... you’re left behind.

She regrets it. She regrets this—this distance. This moment. She wants to take it all back. To fix this. To fix you. But she can’t.

The weight of the regret hits her, and she breathes out a slow, steadying breath, her hand trembling on the table. She can feel it too, the unbearable tension between you both, the space that feels like a chasm even though you’re only inches apart.

But you—you’re the one who’s drowning, trying to keep your head above the weight of the memory and the feeling that you were never enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quietly to hear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like this.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away for a second, almost as if she can’t stand seeing you like this, can’t bear the thought of how much she’s hurt you.

But the truth is, she’s already lost you.

And she’s the one who will never be able to move on.

Her words cut deeper than she knows, because you can’t help but wonder—does she really not know? Has she been so caught up in her own life that she hasn’t seen how much this is tearing you apart? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and this is all just… a part of the past to her?

The thought makes your chest tighten. Your breath feels shallow, and you find yourself squeezing your cold drink harder, trying to steady the storm inside. You swallow, but it feels like there’s a lump lodged in your throat, blocking any response. You want to scream, to tell her everything, to make her understand how much it hurts to see her here, happy, with someone else. But the words are gone—lost in the space between your need to cry and the reality of the life she’s chosen without you.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and desperate and hurt. You didn’t mean to ask it—didn’t want to ask it—but you can’t help it. You need to know.

Natasha’s heart aches at the sound of your voice, the fragility in it. For a moment, she feels as though the floor beneath her might give way. She had hoped—hoped—that you would be okay. That this wouldn’t hurt so much. But the pain is evident, like a raw wound, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Her face crumbles for a moment, and she looks away, as if she’s searching for the right words, for something that might make this hurt less. But there are no words that can make this better. No words that can undo the last few years.

she feels a lump in her throat, the wounds she'd covered, gashes shed mended, all coming undone in this moment.

“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers. “I really don’t know. I thought I could give you what you needed, but… I couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be.”

Her voice cracks as she says it, and she feels herself breaking inside. She knows you’re hurting, but she’s not sure what she can do to make this right. She had tried—tried so hard—to be what you needed, but she failed. And it kills her that she couldn’t give you the love and stability you deserved. The love she thought she could offer, the love that now feels so distant and ungraspable.

Your heart aches. It’s a contradiction, isn’t it? The way she sounds so guilty, and yet you know deep down that she’s not really sorry for her life—she’s sorry for the fact that she hurt you in the process of living it.

Her words feel hollow to her, and as they leave her lips, she wonders if she’s just prolonging the pain for both of you. She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her ring again. It’s such a small, insignificant gesture, but in this moment, it feels like the biggest thing in the world. It feels like a symbol of everything she’s lost. A symbol of a promise she made to someone else, a promise she can’t go back on.

She wants to reach for you again, but she knows better now. She knows that you’ve already made up your mind—that you’ve already closed the door on what could have been. The door that used to swing open so easily for her, but now only feels heavy and locked.

You look at her, your gaze raw, and for a second, you think you might say something else. You might beg her to take it all back. To come back. But you know you can’t. You know you have to let this go. You feel a deep ache in your chest as you realize that this is the end. The finality of it settles in, and you can’t hold on any longer.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and pull back from the table, your hands folding into your lap as you gather yourself. It’s almost like you’re physically trying to close yourself off, to shield the part of you that still hopes and longs for something that no longer exists.

“Maybe... maybe you were never what I needed either,” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than to her. The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you wish you could take them back as soon as they leave. But it’s true. Somewhere along the way, you lost her. And maybe, just maybe, you lost yourself in the process.

The words hit Natasha like a slap, but it’s the truth. She’s never been able to give you what you needed, and that realization settles like stone in her stomach. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something—something to fix it, to undo the damage—but the words die in her throat. They would only make things worse, only deepen the wound between you both.

She doesn’t speak. She can’t. She just watches you, helpless, as you turn away from her, the finality of your departure cutting into her chest like a knife.

You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. The tears you’ve been holding back for so long feel close now, threatening to spill over. You can’t let them. You won’t. Not here, not in front of her, not when everything feels like it’s already slipping through your fingers.

“I should go,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. It’s not a demand, it’s not even a decision—it’s just the only thing you can bring yourself to say. You push your chair back, standing up slowly, feeling like your legs might give out beneath you. You feel empty, but in a way, that emptiness is almost worse than the pain.

Her eyes follow you, and Natasha doesn’t try to stop you. She doesn’t ask you to stay. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she’s left with the sense that, somehow, she’s failed you, failed the both of you. She doesn’t think she could stand to watch you walk away again. The understanding in her eyes is quiet, gentle. She knows this is the end.

As you turn to walk away, you hear her raspy voice one last time. “Y/N… I still care about you.”

You stop for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You want to say something back—anything—but you know it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t fix anything.

You don’t respond. Instead, you walk. One foot in front of the other as you push open the door of the coffee shop, the cold New York air hitting your face like a slap. It’s sharp, biting, but somehow, it’s exactly what you need. You step into the busy street, the noise and the rush of people washing over you, but all you can hear is the silence of her absence. Is this it? You think. It has to be.

You keep walking, trying to put one foot in front of the other, but every step feels heavier than the last. You don’t know how you’re supposed to move forward—to move past her. You don’t know if you ever will.

After all, it’s never over.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

a/n: YAYY!! i was so excited to start writing this fic, it’s my drafts since October so i’m happy it’s finally out. i hope you all liked it! it was my first time writing angst and i’m very proud of it, if you guys have any constructive criticism pls give it politely:)

ps: i’m excited to see everyone’s reactions to it, please do share how you feel afterwards <3

[salem-witch-slut]

Of Bartenders and Bodyguards

Ellie Williams x Fem!Reader x Abby Anderson

SYNOPSIS: After a disaster goes down at the bar the night before Thanksgiving, Abby and Ellie come to your rescue and the two quickly become all you can think about.

WARNINGS: Offensive words used (such as dyke, rape), mentions of sexual assault, alcohol, Ellie typical violence, polyamory, reader described as femme

WORD COUNT: 4.8K

A/N: You guys have been waiting for this one to come back. So here's this, and I'm currently working on a part 2, so look out for that!

Dividers made by @cafekitsune

The night started out as any other night.

Prep for service, make ordered drinks, clean up after, check IDs to make sure the bouncer at the door didn’t overlook anything, and stay vigilant in order to not let anything bad happen in the club. After doing this for 3 years, you could say she was a bit of an expert on spotting bullshit and diffusing chaos. She’s seen it all and dealt with it all.

“Ready for tonight?” The auburn-haired bartender glanced up from the countertop, pausing her knife strokes in cutting up various fruits she knew that she would need for the many cocktails she would make that evening. Leaning on the freshly wiped down countertop, the tall and muscular blonde woman wearing that freshly ironed button-up black collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up just under her elbows and the matching black dress pants. Her hair was pulled back in that same braid she almost always had, and those black fingerless gloves that the bartender had a massive thing for all the time.

“Psssh,” The bartender smirked, handing the headset over from under the countertop and watching the blonde hook it up to her ear. “I’m a professional, always.”

“Try not to threaten anyone tonight, Ellie?”

“I’m good, Abby. 100 percent. The gun will stay under the counter, I promise.”

Abby smirked before she watched Ellie offer her a glass from under the countertop. Before Abby could accept it, she raised a brow and smelled the liquid in the glass. “Just seltzer, right?”

“Dude, I’m not trying to get fuckin’ fired tonight,” Ellie began placing several bottles underneath the bar and folded up some of the towels under the counter, lining the edge of her station. She looked at the clock and saw it was 8:47 PM. Only a little while longer until the doors opened up.

Abby quickly downed said seltzer and left the glass on the countertop, giving Ellie a small wink before she took her own place at the front of the club to watch everything that was going on. All of the workers were bustling around to get ready for tonight’s service. It was bound to be insane; it was something that the service industry called Black Wednesday. An influx of out-of-towners would be flooding inside the day before Thanksgiving and the max capacity would be reached in a matter of an hour.

When the clock struck 9, patrons began to flood in almost uncontrollably. Abby was her usual broody self, standing in the corner, prepared to throw someone out in a moment’s notice, watching over everything like some gargoyle on the rooftop of a chapel.

Her arms were crossed, accentuating those gorgeous muscles in that shirt as the hours carried on until almost midnight. She had thrown out several individuals so far, and Ellie had been true to her word; the pistol under the counter for emergencies had stayed strapped to the wood, the safety on, but preloaded and ready to use just in case. Hopefully it wouldn’t be like it was on Halloween when Ellie genuinely had to threaten someone before they jumped over the counter.

The night had been going smoothly so far… So far.

The next flood of customers came in, and Abby had seen many individuals enter the bar that night… she’s seen so many girls come in, wearing the shortest skirts and the tightest dresses known to mankind, and she didn’t ever bat an eye… Until she saw you.

When you entered the club, her heart skipped and she openly gaped. She had never seen anybody quite like you before… A wine-colored blouse with off-shoulder bell sleeves down to your wrists, and a white pleated skirt that was short enough to cover your rear but leave almost all of your thigh on display. And somehow, you found red heels the same shade as your shirt, which anyone knew was nearly impossible. There was a gilded hairclip in your locks in the shape of a rose, the edges golden and shiny, and there was a butterfly tattoo on the back of your neck.

Abby’s never faltered before… well, maybe when she met Ellie for the first time during her training? But beyond that, she’s never been speechless before. There was only one problem, though… That man with his arm wrapped around your waist, skimming dangerously close to your ass. Every few seconds, you would force his hand back up, but he would continue to push the envelope, pissing him off by the millisecond.

When you two sat down at the bar, the man snapped his fingers in Ellie’s direction as she spoke to another patron. At hearing the sound of fingers snapping over the booming music, followed up by a whistle, she openly rolled her eyes at the man who dare interrupt her.

“I’ll be right with you,” She snapped, accepting the $100 that the other patron gave her. She folded up the bill, stuffed it into her apron pocket before standing in front of the arrogant man, and then she looked at you. Her cheeks went pink, and she had to grab at her shirt for a second to calm herself down.

You were gorgeous… But you looked embarrassed. Was it because the man called Ellie over like she was a fucking dog?

“What can I get you two?” She spoke mostly to you, watching as your eyes lit up and you smiled warmly. It made her feel fuzzy inside for a second and she almost jumped out of her skin at hearing Abby’s voice inside of her headset.

“She’s adorable, isn’t she?” The blonde smirked, forcing Ellie to look up for a second. She resisted the urge to flip Abby off and waited patiently for the order.

“Two margaritas,” The man spoke quickly, and without even looking in your direction. You had this face of disdain and before you could speak out, he hushed you. “You’ll love it, I promise. Best thing this place has to offer.”

“Actually,” Ellie butted in. “All of our drinks are good, so she doesn’t need to get—”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” The man barked, his unkempt brows creasing with aggression. Ellie didn’t even flinch but looked disgusted as she turned to look at you, seeing the poor puppy-dog eyes from you and all of her anger began to melt away at how guilty you acted. Of course, the bastard man wasn’t done insulting her yet. “Just do your job, dyke.”

“Michael!” You shouted, your voice almost piercing the air as you bristled with this uncomfortable air around you. He barely even looked at you as Ellie leaned on the counter for a second, licking at her lips and giving a soft little click to the underside of her teeth before walking off and doing what he asked for.

“C’mon baby, she was askin’ for that,” The man, Michael, reached out and gently grabbed at your chin. Even from where she was standing, Abby could see you were uncomfortable. And when Ellie returned with the drinks, Michael reached down once again and this time, grabbed a handful of your ass. Abby’s fist curled into the fabric of her shirt, and she seethed with anger at how you reacted. It would be different if you liked what he did, but you looked disgusted.

Very carefully, you grabbed at the drink in front of you and gave a little sip before immediately putting it down. It was clear that you didn’t like it but couldn’t speak out because of the death grip this asshole had on you. His hand was now on your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt, and you looked absolutely frozen in fear, like a deer in headlights.

It wasn’t until everyone was distracted that Abby saw something that had her moving almost instantly in your direction. One of the servers dropped a glass on the ground and the sound had everyone, including you, looking in that direction. And in that split second moment, your so-called date slipped something into your drink.

The packet of white powder was dumped in the liquid and fizzed before dissolving almost immediately.  When you went back to the drink to try it again, a hand closed around the glass, making you look up in surprise. Abby took the glass from your hands, putting it on the counter and leaning down to speak so you didn’t need to strain to hear her.

“Don’t drink that, sweetheart.”

Abby felt you shiver as she gently released your wrist, looking at the man next to you who was glaring at her, fire burning in his eyes. Before he could say a single thing, Abby got Ellie’s attention as she was in the middle of handing off a scotch to another customer.

“Ellie, call the police,” Abby said without hesitation, making you immediately fear for the worst. The drink in front of you looked unsuspecting, and then Abby watched you slowly dip your pinky finger into the alcoholic beverage. Everybody watched as your blue nail polish turned purple and your entire face twisted in abstract rage.

“You tried to…” Michael stood out of his seat, almost like he was going to run away. Your voice faltered as you looked at Ellie, and then to Abby, your heart twisting uncomfortably in your chest. Almost like an instinct, your fists curled into the fabric of your dress. “Why?”

“Come on baby,” Michael smirked. “You been playin’ hard to get for weeks now. You come out, dressed like that, and think I ain’t fuckin’ tonight?”

His entire demeanor made Abby even more pissed off. She heard Ellie call the police almost immediately after he spoke and very cautiously approached the man. “Sir, you’re gonna want to stay away from her.”

“Don’t even try that shit,” Michael jeered, still grinning like a wolf. “Look at her; she’s askin’ for it.”

Very slowly, you sat back down on your stool and felt a single tear race down your cheek. Michael wasn’t the nicest person, but he never acted like this before… Was tonight just a ploy to get you in bed with him? You had been seeing him for a few weeks now, and every time you gave a small kiss on his cheek before you went back home.

And each time, he acted more and more agitated and short-fused. And now it was making sense why; Michael was pissed you didn’t put out on day one… That’s what you get for using Tinder, huh?

Ellie could see your hands shaking as you went to clutch at your chest, trying not to look at Michael and focus on anything else. Ellie hung up the phone and looked at Abby, simply holding up four fingers and then tapping the inside of her wrist. After working with each other for 3 years, they knew how to communicate basic things without needing words. The cops would be there in four minutes, and she told Abby to restrain him.

“You need to back off, now,” Abby said, calmly and collectively. Michael was on the opposite end of the spectrum and began screaming immediately.

“Don’t fucking talk to me, bitch! I’m not goin’ anywhere,” He got closer and closer to Abby and you began to get back off the stool, backing away and nearly stepping into another patron in the process. Michael noticed this, and he went to reach for your arm… and then, all hell broke loose.

Abby reacted first. Her veined hand wrapped around Michael’s wrist and she pulled his entire arm over his head, grabbing the back of his shirt and slamming his face down onto the counter. Ellie watched as the man struggled, kicking at Abby’s shins to try and get her to let go. The sound of a gun cocking had Michael finally going still and he looked up, staring down the barrel of a pistol in Ellie’s hand.

“Think again, motherfucker,” Ellie hissed, her tattooed arm flexing as she held the gun to his face. The safety was still on, but she wouldn’t hesitate to fire a clip directly into his skull if necessary. The look of terror on your face spoke volumes as you wrapped both arms around your body and began to slowly sink down onto the floor. Tears flowed freely and you curled in on yourself… It was truly a heartbreaking sight to see.

When the cops finally showed up, Abby all but tossed Michael in their direction, watching the man get shoved in the back of a police car. And unfortunately, because of this kind of incident, the bar had to be shut down. Police were swarming all over the place, and the owner decided the best course of action was to close the doors for the night. It would kill his revenue, but it was better than people being scared away by the police.

Abby was the first to give her statement to the cops, and then Ellie, and finally, you.

You had mostly been in shock the entire time, sitting on an outside seat as the officer questioned you. He asked you if this kind of thing had happened before, to which you responded no, but gave him the details about how Michael got more and more aggressive with each date you two went on.

As you sat there, with your face in your hands, you could hear the cops talking as they ran a screening on Michael… “Fake ID. Mitchell Loomis, arrested for aggravated and sexual assault… was released on parole last month.”

And then suddenly, you felt like the biggest idiot in the world. You willingly went out with a criminal. And not just any kind of criminal; no, you were dating a rapist! And had it not been for Abby and Ellie, you would have probably been next! You looked up at the two women who acted like your guardian angels that night, and you immediately started crying again.

Your sobs were so quiet that no one could hear you. Ellie was too busy beating herself up, looking down at her shoes and grumbling in anger. “Fuck, they were sitting right in front of me. How did I not see it?”

Abby frowned, putting a hand on her shoulder. “El, it’s the busiest damn night of the year. One person can’t see everything… that’s why I’m there to watch your back, yeah?”

“I know,” Ellie sighed, rubbing at her forehead and flinching at the cold air ruffling up her short auburn locks. The November air was especially brutal tonight, and Ellie suddenly got worried about you. Considering what you had been wearing, you must have been freezing. She looked over and saw you curled forward in the chair, your entire face buried into your thighs as your tears stained the fabric of your skirt. “Shit, poor thing…”

“Come on,” Abby tugged on Ellie’s sleeve before they both approached you. When Ellie reached down to gently place a hand on your shoulder, you shot back up, eyes wide and bloodshot with fear before you relaxed, seeing their faces.

“Easy, easy…” Abby knelt down in front of you, reaching her hand out and gently placing the warm skin against your cheek. You immediately grabbed at her wrist and pushed your face into her palm, tears staining her knuckles as your makeup smeared. Even with your runny mascara and lipstick stains on your face, you still looked beautiful even in this moment. “You’re okay… you’re fine, it’s alright.”

“I feel… so stupid…” You said through hiccups, tears tracking down your cheeks. You stared into Abby’s gunmetal blue irises, trying to find a reason to calm down. It felt like someone was squeezing her heart, you looked so shattered. “H-how could I… n-not see this coming?”

“It’s okay,” Ellie sat on the table next to you, reaching out and gently tucking a lock of hair behind your ear before she softly caressed your jaw. The action was comforting, even if her hands had rough callouses on them. “It could’ve happened to anybody, you know… I’m actually impressed you have that nail polish. That’s ingenious, actually.”

The color had gone back to blue in the time you had been sitting down and you looked at your semi-short nails. Ever since you began your Tinder escapade, you had purchased the special nail polish, just in case something bad happened. You wore it all the time, and it was a plus that it was a pretty color too, so no one expected a thing… And now, you just wanted to take it off. You had done it to every single drink before tonight, but not this time… why not this time?

Very slowly, Ellie was removing her jacket and draped it over your shoulders in order to try and keep you warm. The shivers began to slowly subside, and you pushed your face into the tough leather, inhaling the scent that rolled off of it. You could smell rustic like cologne, and something that reminded you of your dad in a weird way, and you instantly felt better.

Abby noticed how you were pushing your whole face in Ellie’s jacket, and she elbowed the bartender when she smirked at the blonde. Suddenly, it felt like a competition to see who could comfort you more and you calmed down in seconds with how sweet and doting they were both acting. Ellie had gotten you a bottle of water and Abby was holding your hands the entire time to try and keep you focused on anything else but what happened to you that night.

When the minutes carried on, the night got later and later… Until you looked down and saw what time it was on Abby’s watch, you had been fine. And then, you jumped up from the chair, making Ellie nearly fall off the table she was perched on. You reached down and grabbed Abby’s wrist, her cheeks turning a soft pink at your grip. “Ohmygod, is that the time?!”

You pulled out your phone and began to aggressively type something into your phone. “Oh fuck, finding a damn Uber is gonna be like… $50 right now? Are you kidding me?” The emotions crossing your face were wild, making Ellie and Abby worry at the same time. Both of them stood up as you began pacing like mad, hair whipping in the wind and the cold having you shivering again.

Just as Abby glanced down, seeing your knees wobble, her face got even redder as a certain gust of wind lifted your skirt, but you were far too frantic to notice. Wow, even your panties were white, how cute!

“If you want,” Ellie stepped forward, holding her hands in front of her and gently tugging on her fingers with a certain sad look that made your heart ache. “I uhm… I could take you home?”

“El, after what happened tonight—”

“Just straight to your home,” Ellie defended herself against Abby’s words. Your face turned a deep red as you looked at the price of the Uber on your phone, and then back up to Ellie… The woman who had threatened your date with a weapon for you… Could she be trusted? “I promise you’ll get there safe.”

After many minutes of being worried, you decided that getting into the bartender’s car was somehow safer than getting into a complete stranger’s car. And yes, Ellie was a stranger, but… If you tried to rationalize any harder, you would get a headache. “Okay. Yeah, sure, I would really appreciate that, miss.”

Ellie pulled her keys out of her pocket and looked at Abby once again, watching her roll her eyes. She put a hand in her pocket and fiddled with the lighter inside of her pants, attempting to calm herself down when she watched Ellie wrap an arm around your shoulders and lead you towards her 1989 K5 Blazer. The deep blue color and shiny exterior made you slightly nervous.

The gorgeous bartender opened the door for you, giving a soft smile before she noticed that you looked uncomfortable. Ellie immediately frowned. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

“I…” You hesitated. It wasn’t that you were nervous about her being in the car with you. No, it was something else. “I feel like I’ll degrade the value of your car if I get in…”

Ellie chuckled slightly before she watched you slide into the passenger seat and slowly closed the door behind you. The car smelled so clean, like leather polish and an air freshener. Your stomach twisted a little in you as Ellie quickly joined on your left side, kicking the car into gear and heading down the road.

“You’ll have to guide me there, sweetheart,” Ellie smiled, turning the heat on to a comfortable level and keeping both hands on the steering wheel. “You can turn on the radio if you want, I don’t mind.”

“I’m okay,” You mumbled, leaning back into your seat and pushing your face into the side of Ellie’s jacket. It kept you so warm, and it smelled so nice… You wish you knew more about its owner. You had climbed inside of this car, and you didn’t even know this bartender’s name. Your face turned a soft shade of pink as you looked over at the woman driving, and you felt your heart skip like rocks on a river.

She was beautiful… Absolutely breathtaking. The soft curve of her nose, those intense green eyes, the freckles that dappled her cheeks and forehead, the various tiny scars littering her skin, and the intense scar over her eyebrow; the shade of her hair tied back in that half up, half down fashion, the sharpness of her jawline, the slight pout of her top lip…

If you had met her before tonight… someone would need to drag you out of the bar kicking and screaming to get you to leave her alone. And then, your thoughts wandered to the blonde bouncer that spotted what happened in the first place. What was her name?

That woman was… wow. You remembered how her brows creased when she first approached you. The warmth of her veined, massive hand that closed around your wrist. You could feel her strength without it even being shown, as she was so gentle and caring with you even though her job was to be the enforcer. The caress of said hand against your cheek in the cold weather outside, how she smiled when you two talked so casually, the way her bottom lip snagged under her teeth when she bit it to try and hold back a giggle… Fuck, they were both hot!

Before you knew it, Ellie was pulling up to your apartment building. You frowned for a second and glanced over at her before reaching into the top of your dress to pull out a collection of bills that you prepared for tonight. There was about $150 stashed away inside your bra and Ellie did not miss you removing it either. She blushed a deep crimson and bit down on her lip as you flipped through the bills and attempted to hand her a $20. “That should cover the gas to get me here, right?”

Ellie gave a breathy chuckle, smiling and closing her eyes for a brief second. The sound of her deep, grumbly laugh had you squirming in your seat. “Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. Knowing you are home, safe and sound is payment enough for me.”

And just like that, you were back to turning red. You bit down on your bottom lip and tucked the money back into your bra, inhaling deeply and going to step out of the car before Ellie was ripping off her seatbelt and nearly jumping over the jeep’s hood to get to your door in time. She opened it up and offered her hand for you, which you accepted without question this time around.

“Allow me, miss,” She smirked, winking at you as she walked you inside of the building and towards your door on the third floor. As soon as you reached the apartment door, you fumbled with your keys for a brief second before turning around and looking at Ellie who tucked both hands into her pocket.

Honestly, you expected for things to go south… after the night you had, it would make perfect sense for shit to go wrong right now, right? But Ellie was true to her word. She kept her hands to herself and stayed a person’s length away from you at all times, only admiring you with her eyes. Before you could fully step inside your apartment, you immediately jumped in place.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Very slowly, you pulled Ellie’s jacket off your shoulders and handed it back to her. She accepted the leather wordlessly and tucked it over her arm. “Thank you… I… I don’t even know your name, miss.”

“Ellie,” She bowed her head, that loose lock of auburn hair falling in front of her face for a second before she tucked it back behind her ear. She held her hand out for you to take, which you did without realizing and then, you were blushing once more!

The bartender bent down and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, like you were a princess. Her lips were soft and gentle as she kissed your skin and then immediately released your hand, looking up at you and bowing her head with respect. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I’m happy you’re safe and that we were able to help you.”

And as quick as she was in your life, she was getting on the elevator and leaving without another word. You leaned against the door and frowned, putting a hand over your chest to try and still your fast beating heart. “Goodbye… Ellie…”

Abby looked up from the phone, her hair still damp and dark after her shower. The front door opened up and she watched Ellie drop the keys on the table next to the entrance and slam her entire body against the wooden surface to shut it behind her. Ellie had this silly little smile on her face and Abby just rolled her eyes and leaned back. “You didn’t make her uncomfortable, did you?”

“I don’t think I did,” Ellie draped her jacket over the back of the reclining chair and flopped down next to Abby, leaning up and gently kissing her cheek. “Tonight, was definitely one of the more exciting ones, yeah?”

“Your tellin’ me,” Abby rolled her shoulders a bit as she looked at her phone, double checking to make sure she wasn’t on schedule tomorrow. She and Ellie had the day off together, which was a luxury few could afford due to the holiday. “Gotta go in tomorrow to pick up my paycheck though, that sucks.”

“Before open, babe,” Ellie said, standing back up and slowly unbuttoning her white shirt, untucking it from her dark denim jeans and tossing it onto the couch next to Abby who immediately locked her phone just to watch the show. Ellie smirked, stripping her clothes off piece by piece until she was standing in just her sports bra and boxers. “I’m gonna shower, okay?”

Before Ellie could walk off, Abby was gently grabbing her hand. “Wait, hold on. I… I had uh… something I had to ask.”

“Yes?” Ellie smiled warmly.

“You remember when we talked about… having a uhm… you know, a polyamorous thing? Bringing another girl in with us?” Abby stumbled on her words, her cheeks heating up as she thought about you and how sickeningly adorable you were. “You think that uh… maybe she could—”

“Abby,” Ellie reached down and ran her entire hand across Abby’s cheek, rubbing her jawline and making the blonde lean hard into her touch. If she had a tail, it would be wagging. “If we ever see her again? Maybe. But we don’t even know if she’s into girls, or if she likes both of us.”

“Were we lookin’ at the same girl?” Abby chuckled. “She may as well have a bisexual flag tattoo on her forehead, El.”

“Okay, point taken,” Ellie smiled. You did give off bi vibes, and that was the only reason she felt confident enough to give you that hand kiss without pissing herself. And when you didn’t shove her away, it was a very good sign. “But still, she has to like us both… But I mean, not to brag, but I’m pretty sure she likes me more.”

Abby was on her feet in seconds, racing after Ellie as they both went into the bedroom where the shorter woman stepped into the bathroom. “I beg to differ! She only likes you more now because you got to flirt with her! That’s an unfair advantage—”

“Excuses, excuses,” Ellie mocked, sticking her tongue out and hopping into the shower to clean off the smell of alcohol from her skin. “If we see her again, I bet I take her out on a date before you do!”

“Oh, it is so on, Williams.”

“What’s the prize for the winner?” Abby didn’t even need to see Ellie to know she was smirking.

Abby grinned like a wolf. “Loser gets strapped.”

“Ooooh, almost want to lose now, baby.”

[carlos-in-glasses]

Favorite Lone Star Fandom Memories

Thank you @thisbuildinghasfeelings for coming up with this lovely idea! And thank you for the tags @firstprince-history-huh @heartstringsduet @tellmegoodbye @nisbanisba

@carlossreaders @she-walked-away @reyesstrand @rmd-writes

@welcometololaland @nancys-braids @everlastingday @strandnreyes

I have had the best time being part of this fandom so far. Whatever I expected when I first rocked up in September 2022, it wasn't this. What a time we have had. We've been through so much. We've laughed, we've cried, we've swooned, we all became experts on baseball, TV ratings, various laws, and probably know a map of Austin better than we know a map of our own hometowns. I hope with everything I have that this place continues to thrive with love for Tarlos and 911 Lone Star. I hope that I've made some friends for life. I hope that this time during the show's run will be remembered fondly. We got unlucky with this cancellation, but oh my goodness, in other ways we have been so lucky.

First, please enjoy Elaine Paige singing Memory from Cats the Musical. A song for how I'm feeling right now. I promise it's not a Rickroll and I sincerely apologise if you got caught up with me accidentally Rickrolling Lem the other week.

Now! Some memories!:

The time @thisbuildinghasfeelings wanted to know what hospital Carlos would have been taken to after Bridges shot him. I was CRYING LAUGHING because she went to the Texas sub-reddit and was all “Hypothetically, if someone were to get shot in the desert…” and left this message, which quickly got deleted by the mods who probably thought she’d just shot someone:

The time I met @heartstringsduet irl in London last year and wore the below t-shirt, which I got at the 2023 Paris Convention with @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut by my side 😭. And just being able to talk to them in person about life and the show and hug them!!!! And speaking of the 2023 Paris Convention – I got to to look right into the ultimate cow-eyes and tell this guy that he played my favourite character of all time:

The time I got my ass handed to me by @lemonlyman-dotcom because I used the word vest instead of tank top in a WIP.

The fics I wrote that came out of conversations with others/prompts – they wouldn’t exist without some of you. It makes the writing life feel a lot less solitary and also a lot more about the world's most fun mystery box. Thank you so much

Leaving the most batshit comments on poor @rmd-writes and @welcometololaland fic (Un)Professional Services You two really were troopers in the face of that.

Reading fic so good I've spent the next day at work daydreaming about it and looking forward to the next chapters of chaptered fics – and then getting to tell people how much I enjoyed their work! It’s amazing. YOU ARE ALL SO TALENTED.

Posting Sensitivity, my first fic, and refreshing the page to see that I had 8 kudos. I was blown away. And the comments and responses to other fics that have made all the difference during many tough weeks. Thank you, thank you.

The reactions to when I introduced my poor boyfriend to my Tarlos blanket and then when I put it over my legs lmao:

@goodways post about Carlos’ slutty buttonless shirt look in 1x02 – I can’t find the post, but it was gold! And just so many other Shannon posts omg. The blank sign made for Carlos. Iconic.

When @strandnreyes posted this about TK’s absurd camera roll in 4x04.

Of course when Rafael Silva told me that Tarlos switch and @reasonandfaithinharmony made a gif set out of it!

The Tarlos wedding. I brought a mini bottle of Prosecco for the occasion.

The time I thought @ladytessa74 invented Frog and Toad for chapter 3 of The Lovely April. Also...chapter 3 of The Lovely April genuinely helped me cope with the show's cancellation. So that was a biggie.

The art that has been made for my fics by @heartstringsduet @whatsintheboxmh @thisbuildinghasfeelings and @bonheur-cafe. Absolutely extraordinary. I can’t believe it. Thank you forever. Once again, you’re so talented.

Finding the show. Finding you.

Open tag and tags below!:

@paperstorm @goodways @lightningboltreader @alrightbuckaroo

@cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @herefortarlos @bonheur-cafe

@lemonlyman-dotcom @ladytessa74 @liminalmemories21

@freneticfloetry @chicgeekgirl89 @sugdenlovesdingle

@reasonandfaithinharmony @carlos-tk @pimento-playing-hopscotch @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@fangirl-paba @actual-sleeping-beauty @kiwichaeng @literateowl

@emsprovisions @ironheartwriter @sapphic--kiwi @butchreyes

@captain-gillian @laelipoo @nancys-braids @goldenskykaysani

@hereghostslive @anactualcaseofthetruth @henrygrass

@theghostofashton @the-126-family @rangersoup

@annoyingcloudearthquake @butch-buckley - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

[minimomoe]

First I wanted to say your writing is AMAZING and SO GOOD!!!! Like everytime I think you've written the best thing I've ever read, you update again and top it!!

Second, just a thought I had but I think it would be so funny if one of y/n's clients lived in the apartment complex and heard them after the events of not just neighbors and the bonus. Like she shows up to her appointment and is like "oh wow did you have an interesting night 😏"

Also second side note: I just know that y/n is an amazing braided and doesn't pull that bs these new stylist try talking about come blowed dried already, $150 deposit fee, late fees, and all that 💀

(I'm gonna hit each point out of order lol) but firstlyyy thank you babe for the kind words <<33 Reader is definitely a hairstylist who cares about her craft. I'm talking licensed professional who works at a salon so none of that instagram stylist nonsense. I'll give you a little drabble of how this throuple works out with that idea you have because I love it: tags: fluff, poolverine throuple relationship stuff, mentions of sex, 1.2k words Not Just Neighbors part: One & Two

Honey! You Forgot Your Lunch!

You rushed into the salon with your face hot and apologizing profusely. Nobody gave you a hard time for coming in ten minutes later than usual but you felt horrible doing so. In fact, the other stylists were glad to see that you were okay since it was the first time that you were ever late. It immediately sparked a conversation among them as they watched you practically sprint to your work station. Luckily for you, you didn't have a client to service for another ten minutes, so you had plenty of time to prep your area.

"Are you sick? You should stay home if you are, we got enough people to cover," one of your coworkers said.

"Ain't gonna blame you if you overslept. Lord knows I've done it a million times," another chuckled.

"I'm good, thank you. It was just a little hard to get out of bed this morning," you muttered. There was no way you were going to tell the older women of the salon that you were late because both of boyfriends are handsy as an octopus and couldn't let you go despite time running out. Wade requested a kiss before you left and you granted it, only for him to beg for another and another until your lips felt swollen. Logan had intended to give you a short kiss but became greedy until you were breathless. Your knees turned to jello around those men, and you became their breakfast they had to devour before you could step foot out of the door.

"Are you sure baby? Your eyes are bloodshot! And your voice sounds rough!"

Memories of tears burning your eyes as Logan stroked your cheek while your face was stuffed full of his cock flashed in your mind. You had to shake it out of your head. "I didn't sleep much last night. Insomnia."

"Chamomile tea is good for sleeping at night and it soothes the throat. I got a brew you'd like," said the loctician from the corner of the store.

"I would love to try it," you smiled.

Just then your client and downstairs neighbor waltzed through the salon and plopped straight into her seat.

"You look like shit," she snorted.

"Good morning to you too," you rolled your eyes. "I feel like shit but I couldn't let you down now could I?"

"You really can't. I won't go to anybody else."

"You've always been loyal."

You only took off her bonnet before she whipped around to stare at you with a playful look. You stared right back with a confused air around you. "What KC?"

"Is the reason you like shit have anything to do with all that noise I heard last night, perchance?"

"You can't just say 'perchance', and I have no idea of what you're talking about."

"Sure," KC dragged out with waggling eyebrows. "I heard some funny noises come from above me."

"Wrong bitch," you scoffed.

"Right bitch. My ceiling was practically shaking like an earthquake and you the one who lives above me."

"I really don't know what your talking about." You tried to divert the conversation to asking her about the hairstyle KC wanted down but you were not off the hook. KC and the rest of the salon were now interested in your late night activities and you did not want to tell them about your sex life.

"Oh come on, spill the deets! Is it someone we know? That last boyfriend you had was a piece of shit so I hope this guy is better. He sounds better at least. You were getting dicked down."

"Jesus, stop talking," you groaned. "Pretend like you didn't hear anything. I'll be more mindful of the noise, I promise."

"Somebody was getting busy!" One of the older stylists yelled and it got whoops from across the salon. You buried your face in your hands.

The bell at the front door rang to signal another customer walking in. You peeked through the gaps of your fingers only to find that Wade Wilson and Logan Howlett both strolled inside of your salon in search of you completely suited up.

"Hello ladies," Wade whistled. "Do any of you know my sugar plum? She's about yeigh tall with the prettiest brown eyes you have ever seen but will take you out by the knees if given the chance? Yes? No?"

Logan sighed at the useless description he gave and said your name. "We just want to drop off her lunch and tell her bye before we head off on another mission."

A stylist in the front pointed in your direction and you crossed your arms over your chest. "What in the world are you two doing here?"

"We tried to call and you didn't pick up," Logan answered. He handed you your lunch bag and you softened up.

"You guys made me lunch?"

"Pffft no," Wade laughed. "I can't cook for shit and I'm sure anything he makes will taste like an MRE. We got you your favorites and stuffed them all in there."

"Oh... well thank you." The gesture still touched your heart. You put the bag down on a counter and sighed. "So I won't be seeing you for a while?"

"I know you'll miss me so that's why I left a life sized cardboard cut out of me with a strap attachment at your place. It's size accurate, veins included," Wade nudged.

Logan smacked the back of Wade's head for you. "You know we don't know how long we'll be away so we wanted to see you in person before we leave. Make sure you take care of yourself, bub."

"I always do," you sighed. Wade lifted the bottom half of his mask to kiss one side of your face while Logan kissed the other, sandwiching you in affection. "Come back to me, alright?"

"Aye, aye captain," Wade saluted. It got a chuckle out of you as he marched away from you before turning back around.

"I'm not crying," He sniffled. "Why do you ask?"

"She didn't ask," Logan deadpanned.

"But she's crying!"

"I'm not crying," you laughed. "But I will miss you. Now go, save the world!"

"Rain check on our anniversary date, yeah? We should go to a haunted house if it's still October when we come back. Or go in your haunted house if you know what I mean."

Logan grabbed Wade by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out of the salon. You were left with a audience of eyes trained on you as you laughed at your boys leaving.

"The both of them... you get the both of them..." KC mumbled. "That's not fair. You can't have two boyfriends. Give me the red one."

"Nuh-uh, she can keep the red one. I want the hunk-ules in the yellow," the receptionist said.

"I love you guys, but no way. They're mine and they're stuck on me," you smirked.

"Oh you don't sound like you're playing," KC laughed. "Wait... that means that last night..."

"Shut up."

"The both of them were..."

"If you say another word you better find someone else to do your hair," you warned.

"You're a pro-freak! Two men at one time! You get down and dirty."

"I need to find a new salon to work at,” you grumbled.

“Oh no you don’t. What you need to do is tell us exactly how you met those men without missing a single thing.” The whole shop muttered in agreement with KC. You rolled your eyes.

“Fine, but can you sit normally so I can finally wash your hair?”

Not Just Neighbors part: One & Two

Hehehe thank you for reading loveliessss.

M.list || Ao3 || Twitter || Ko-fi

[lindsay00000008]

Pet Whump series - Carewhumper [Masterlist]

Flight Risk - Part 1

CW: systemic pet whump, dehumanization, brainwashed/drugged/conditioned whumpee, nonconsensual (non-sexual) touch, reference to patronizing dad, praise from whumpers, speech impariment (reference to noncon surgery), time loss, memory loss

Inspo: These posts by @sowhumpshaped & this post by @oliversrarebooks

[Next part - Flight Risk Pt. 2]

"Honey can't go in the cargo hold! She's too delicate. Look, I have a pet ticket, I bought an extra seat!" Luce holds up her phone, swiping to show the gate attendant the extra ticket code. She keeps one hand on the back of Honey's short hair, tugging at the strands to calm herself. Honey's knees begin to ache, a feeling she thinks she'll never get used to. At least she isn't made to crawl everywhere like some fancier pets she's seen. Luce always says those pets look ridiculous, and whoever their owners are must have too much time on their hands. Still, her back aches from the hunched, submissive gait she's been trained to employ.

"I see that ma'am," the man replies with careful professionalism, "but unfortunately the flight has been overbooked. We're happy to offer you a refund for the seat and a comfortable cage for your pet, and we may be able to offer upgrades to our service on the flight. But unless you agree to place it in the cargo hold, I'm sorry to report that we'll need to transfer you to another flight."

"It doesn't matter if the cage is comfortable," Luce hisses, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She can't miss this flight, and have her dad bug her about what an impulsive brat she'd been, adopting a barely trained pet so soon after getting her degree. Spending all her savings on some rescue mutt. She couldn't miss his retirement party, especially not over this. "It's cold down there. Honey has issues with her circulation. Why can't you ask someone else to move flights?"

Luce breathes out heavily and smoothes the hair she'd gripped too hard, scratching her nails over Honey's scalp in apology. A faint memory plays in Honey's usually quiet headspace: long, long wavy hair, and intricate braid patterns pulled up on a phone screen. Honey's own eyes in the mirror, younger then... Luce tugs again when the attendant sighs.

"We have asked for volunteers. Unfortunately no one has offered, and our policy is that pet seats be deferred first to make room for other patrons. And your pet's tag shows that it hasn't completed recommended trainings, beyond the basics. So we're asking you before we ask owners with more compliant pets."

Luce hears her dad's voice in those statements, and she can't argue with that. She looks to Honey, who is sat staring at Luce's sandals like they're the most interesting thing in the world.

"I- Look, I need to be on this flight. Is there anything you can do to make it... more comfortable? She's always been nervous about traveling. I just... I don't wanna traumatize her, you know?" Luce shifts the leash between her hands, trying not to think about the news she saw a few months ago - a pet dying in the cargo hold.

In reality, Luce is the one who's nervous about travel. She had imagined Honey would spend the flight beside her, warm and calm, being that comforting, familiar weight on Luce's shoulder. She wants to tell the man she needs Honey. But she isn't going to be like those annoying owners who claim their pet is for "emotional support", without any sort of training to back it up. Besides, he's looking at Honey's ID right now. She's barely trained enough to board the flight.

"We do offer a complimentary Cozy-Dose. It's a pet-safe anxiety suppressant, a little stronger than the drug store ones. Does it have anything in its system?"

"Just some pet-nip for the ride over." Said pet-nip is currently wearing off, Luce thinks, watching Honey lift her head to look directly in the attendant's eyes, her brows furrowed in that adorably vague but defiant expression. Luce presses her hand against Honey's head, pushing it down to lay still at the side of her knee.

"Should be fine," the attendant is saying. "Do you have anything you'd like to leave with her? A toy, or a blanket?"

Luce has tried to get Honey to play with toys. On Honey's best days she ignores them. On her worst, she touches them with her hands, and Luce has to discipline her accordingly. Luce knows pets don't understand the dangers of playing like humans. Often, they don't know their own strength, and can break things or hurt themselves. But it seems Honey doesn't yet know what to do with a toy otherwise, so she has yet to find one she likes.

Luce looks at Honey's thin sweater dress, the green fabric stopping just above her knee. Perfect for playing and walks in the new spring heat. Not so good for a cargo hold. She shrugs out of the pale orange flannel she wears over her tee, much to the surprise of the attendant, and drapes it over Honey's shoulders. Her pet presses her nose into the warm fabric, leaning more heavily against Luce's knee. Luce feels pride and affection well in her heart at the sight.

"Maybe she's ok without the Cozy-Dose," Luce murmurs, hesitant to drug Honey when she's being so sweet. The attendant shakes his head.

"I may have misspoken. The Cozy-Dose is complimentary, of course, but with the level of training..."

"Oh," Luce says. "Oh, okay then that's... fine. You'll probably just go to sleep, and we'll wake up at dad's house, yeah?" She coos at Honey, who doesn't bother to look up. Luce's hand finds Honey's hair again, wanting the hit of dopamine only her loving pet can provide. But before Honey can respond to the tug, the attendant is on the move.

"Alrighty. I've got it logged in our system. Again, we do apologize for this inconvenience, but we pride ourselves on our safety and pet specialists. Boarding's in about twenty minutes, so let's get Honey secure and comfy, yeah?"

Luce nods mutely, and hands over the leash.

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━

Honey doesn't like being away from Luce, in a strange back room near the boarding gate. She doesn't like the "pet specialist", Carson, and she especially doesn't like that Carson removes Luce's flannel and Honey’s pretty green collar. He makes her crawl as soon as they're behind the door.

Honey wishes she had spent more effort learning the gestures Luce tried to teach her. Things like "Food" and "Water", "Bathroom" and "Bed". She heard Luce on the phone with her father once. He seemed to be yelling about Honey's adoption - Untrained stray. Irresponsible. Hopeless. Luce gave up on the lessons for a while.

If Honey could tell Carson anything right now, it would be a toss-up between how ugly his shaggy hairstyle is, and how confused and afraid she is about the whole situation.

"Up," the man says when they reach the center of the room. A table with a leathery top and a long banner of thin paper sits there. Honey gets unsteadily to her feet and climbs atop it. The crinkle of the paper beneath her reminds her of something, and she absently tears at it. Smack. Carson's hand leaves a faint red mark on her own.

Honey releases the paper and brings her hand to her mouth, looking up at the man with an indignant gaze. She fights the snarl pulling at her lip. Thankfully Carson busies himself at a computer screen, and doesn't see. Honey watches the man click the mouse and raise his eyebrows. He turns back to Honey.

"Lie down," he says, putting his hands on his hips as if he expects Honey to disobey. Honey almost scoffs. She knows how to obey a simple command. She's very obedient, in fact, despite everyone telling Luce otherwise. She eyes the orange flannel, slung over the man's shoulder, as her world tilts and she dutifully lays on her side.

Carson comes around to the head of the table, and forces Honey's other shoulder down. Honey squirms as the man positions her flat on her back, a familiar sense of vulnerability spiking in her chest.

"Why do they always give me the troublesome ones," Carson mutters, taking something from the underside of the table. Honey flinches when she feels the buttery smooth grip of a cuff on her left wrist.

"At least they gave you Broca's. I suspect you'd be a whiny thing otherwise."

Broca's? The aphasia? We learned about that in-

The moment gets away from her. Cuffs on both wrists, both ankles now. Carson is looking at her like he's surprised by her compliance. Honey pulls at the cuffs then. They're not painful, but they hold her tight. Her knees and shoulders pull together instinctually.

"Ss... Ssst-mm" Is all that comes out of her lagging mouth, before she hums a whimper instead. Don't like this. I don't like this. I don't...

"Thought so. Expensive little pooch aren'tcha? Usually they just trim the hyoid a little, but they don't like how pets choke on their food after that," Carson mumbles. More to himself, of course.

"Nice your owner could afford it. Irresponsible not to train you though," he grunts, seemingly irritated at Luce. A clinking sound comes behind her when Carson circles the table. Honey focuses on his words. Her owner... irresponsible. He sounds like Luce's father. But why would anyone be mad at Luce? Luce is wonderful. Carson still has Luce's flannel. He doesn't deserve that.

Honey tilts her chin up to look behind her, wondering if she can take it from him with her mouth. The tap-tap-tap motion of a syringe against the palm of Carson's hand meets her eyes. Honey's body tenses, and a whining starts up in her throat.

"Frank, come help me with this one," he calls when Honey begins to toss. She's trying not to, she really is trying to be good and still, but it's hard to do that when she knows what's coming next.

"Aw, poor girl," comes another man's voice. He pauses beside the table before coming closer. "Honey is it? Shh, shush now. You're okay, Honey," he says in that voice that people use with good pets. A soft emotion fills Honey's chest at the sound despite her fear. He places a firm hand on one shoulder, the other in her hair, soothing her with his thumbs as he holds her still. He presses her head to the side gently, all the time cooing in that same voice: "You're a good girl, yeah? It's scary, I know. You'll feel nice and calm in just a minute."

"Stay," Carson's voice, a jarring, commanding tone, stills her body in the way she's been trained. The impulse lasts for just long enough that the bite of a needle somewhere below her ear comes and goes without objection. Frank is there to sooth the sore spot when it's over. The cuffs are removed, and she curls to the side, a tear falling as she noses Frank's abdomen. He continues to stroke her hair, rubbing her ear between his fingers, and her thoughts calm and fade away one by one until she doesn't feel the need to cry anymore. She hums at the pleasant sensation instead.

"Fuck dude, you never cease to amaze me. Sure you don't have food in your pockets?" She hears the other man chuckle.

"Pets don't understand what's going on, man. It just needed to feel safe. We took the same courses yeah?"

"Yeah man, but I'm the one who has to strap 'em to the table and stick 'em, you get to be mister nice guy."

Frank steps away and Honey's head raises to find him. But the room is getting a little fuzzy, and the lights are too bright. Arms find hers and prop her upright before pulling her to slide to the edge of the table.

"I get my cert in a few months, so we'll see if they still like me, yeah? I'll grab the cage."

[Next part - Flight Risk Pt. 2]

[crisiscutie]

Fluffy Female Sephiroth Musings

It's difficult for Sephiroth to get used to the domestic lifestyle after abandoning SOLDIER, but with her darling at her side, she can manage it just fine. (Updated musings)

༻❁༺ Her darling had to forgive her for her tendency to openly carry Masamune around, even into inns and stores during their getaway.

༻❁༺ She came out of it the more comfortable she became with her darling.

༻❁༺ Sephiroth had a harder time than her male counterpart in expressing emotions, though she was more easily able to relax.

༻❁༺ Expect her to have far more adorably awkward moments with her darling.

༻❁༺ She had always wanted to dress up in silly costumes, but felt too embarrassed to actually do it until Darling showed up at their cottage home dressed like a shoddy chocobo, encouraging Sephiroth to join in on the fun for Halloween. She eventually matched her darling, wearing a shoddy Moogle costume.

༻❁༺ Sephiroth tied the rest of her silver, rapunzel-length hair into a dutch braid, while keeping her iconic bangs, to signify her shift into the domestic lifestyle.

༻❁༺ Given her tall, muscular, and curvy physique, it was pretty challenging to find clothes that suited her. Darling definitely had to take her to the village tailor to get clothing fitted.

༻❁༺ She always longed to become a mother to hers and darling's future children, though it also terrified her. What if she were to perish during the birth? What if she turned out to be a poor mother? She constantly doubted her ability to be a good parent.

༻❁༺ She stayed far, far away from the kitchen. When she last tried cooking, she practically set a whole town on fire attempting to make boxed mac and cheese.

༻❁༺ Generally, she despised unfamiliarity and attempting things which she couldn't immediately be a perfectionist at. She dreaded disappointing herself, and most importantly, disappointing her precious darling.

༻❁༺ Regardless, darling was always there to support her in her pursuits. They want her to always feel loved and accepted, even if she can't cook or fit in. They can define normality together in their own ways.

༻❁༺ Sephiroth still kept her cool and professional persona when it came to business. Unlike the male counterpart, she often missed sarcasm and innuendos until her darling whispered their meanings to her, causing her to lean on them to cover her reddened face.

༻❁༺ One day, her deep love for her darling overcame her fear of cooking. With help from the local villagers, she successfully baked a special dumbapple-flavored pie and set up a quiet picnic in the peaceful meadows at dusk.

༻❁༺The picnic was going great until darling decided to try the dumbapple pie that Sephiroth had made for her. Her anxiety skyrocketed as she waited for her darling's reaction to it.

༻❁༺ ...The pie was slightly overcooked and had too much sugar. The crust was doughy in certain places and for whatever there was a strange salty aftertaste. Nevertheless, it was still (somewhat) edible. Sephiroth's darling was overjoyed to devour it, appreciating not only the act of service but the fact she is overcoming her fears. And darling is glad that their cottage wasn't destroyed.

Might do NSFW musings if people want it.

[warpfive]

TAKE NO TIME BRINGING MY HEART TO YOU

relationship headcanons ☆ chakotay x reader wc: 747 gif

slowburn is just his way. once chakotay starts to catch feelings, he’s not the type to jump right into them headfirst - he steps back and waits and lets things evolve naturally. he’ll want to get to know you, become your friend, learn you like the back of his hand before taking the next step and asking you to dinner one day. your comfort and security is his utmost concern, and if he feels like he might put you in an awkward position, he has the willpower to push down his feelings. 

prefers to keep the relationship private for the most part. dinner dates in his quarters instead of the mess hall. keeping a professional distance during work shifts. light touches and soft gazes at social gatherings. and it’s not that chakotay doesn’t want to show you off or anything vain like that - he’s just a very private person. more shy than he tends to let on as first officer. when he shows his love, he prefers that you’re the only one who truly sees it. of course, this doesn’t stop him from holding your hand if you’re in sickbay or a quick kiss during emergencies.

chakotay is so good at reading others. he’s very thoughtful and wise and knows how to gauge the mood of others - it’s what makes him a good diplomat. he’ll pick up that you’re feeling low immediately and try his best to fix the problem. but that’s something chakotay tends to struggle with - he wants to fix every problem all the time even if he can’t or it isn’t his place. he’s a caretaker at heart, so be prepared for him to shoulder your burdens. but even so, he’s usually able to predict what you need before you know you need it.

as private and introverted as he is, chakotay is an open book if you sit down to talk something out. he may not always have the right words, but he strongly believes in being honest with the person you love. and he isn’t quick to anger - disagreements or miscommunications rarely, if ever, lead to a genuine argument.

enjoys touching you more than kissing you. yes, chakotay loves holding your face and tilting it and making you sigh against his lips, but touches are what matter the most to him. let him brush or braid your hair. let him rub your shoulders after a long day. take his hand and start playing with it when you talk with him. lean against him in crowded areas. trace his tattoo when you’re lying in bed together. chakotay loves the soft intimacy of everyday touches.

his biggest love language is probably acts of service, though. give this man a task, tell him you love him, and that’s all the motivation he needs. chakotay really thrives when he’s able to serve an ideal he believes in or a person he cares about. if you’re overloaded with work, he drops everything to help you. if you’re exhausted after a long day, don’t worry, he’ll finish the report. once he’s yours, chakotay’s new mission in life is to simply make your burdens lighter.

he’s going to want to share so much of his history and culture with you. one of his biggest regrets is pushing against his culture as a young man, so he wants to make up for it. absolutely loves explaining things and telling stories. it would mean the world to him if you want to listen and engage with it.

it always surprises you just how gentle chakotay can be. he’s a big guy - kinda intimidating, holds an aura about him that proves he was a member of the maquis. he’s definitely shown he’s capable of violence if pushed to it. it’s difficult to remember that when he holds you so tenderly at night. speaks so softly when you’re upset. handles you so carefully if you’re hurt. he’s so patient, even when you start to test it. but chakotay’s never so much as raised his voice in an argument with you.

once he’s with you, he’s solely dedicated to being a good partner. chakotay will always have your back. will always trust you with his life. will always love you no matter what. of course, any good romantic partner would do the same - but with chakotay, it’s different. loyalty and commitment matter so much to him. he’s going to pour so much of his heart into your hands and trust you to hold it for him.

[koffeesfancy]

The Tutor Ch. 1 | Letitia x Reader

Summary: You are a broke graduate student hustling through college when you unexpectedly land a job tutoring an actress in your native language—a language you've nearly forgotten. Instead of teaching, you find yourself becoming the student in this unexpected journey. As you fall in love for the first time, you begin to uncover profound truths about yourself and the world around you that you never knew existed.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Romance, fluff, slow-burn, comedy

Word Count: 2731

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated! If anyone wants to be added to my taglist, the link is in the pinned post on my page Taglist: @lyfeofbilly @prettymrswright

To be fair, you would—and almost had—done just about anything for money. Seriously, your resume of odd jobs looked like a carnival sideshow gone wrong. Washing cars? Check. Bagging groceries? Double check. Babysitting? Let's just say those kids still have flashbacks. Braiding hair? Sure, if they wanted a lopsided mess. Writing reports for books you never read? CliffNotes are your best friend. Music lessons for instruments you didn’t play? “Fake it 'til you make it” was your anthem.

Most of these ventures ended in irate customers hurling strong words at you, and you narrowly dodging potential assault. But hey, $40 is $40. And right now, you needed a whole bunch of those $40s, like, yesterday.

You’d printed and shared so many fliers for so many different gigs that you were like a human Rubik's Cube, colorful but often hopelessly scrambled. By now, you had no idea what the person on the other side of the phone was even talking about.

"So, is there an office address for this service?" the woman on the other end of the line asked, her voice dripping with the enthusiasm of someone waiting at the DMV.

After a thoughtful pause that was less "thoughtful" and more "panicked rummaging through mental chaos," you carefully responded, "Yes, you can trust that I have preserved a location most appropriate for our..." you leaned forward as if to coax the words out of her.

"This is the foreign language tutor, correct?" she quipped. You bit your lip to contain your celebratory noises, fighting back the urge to scream, "Jackpot!"

"Oh yes, ma'am, that is me. Totally, so yep... I do lessons at the University library or I can travel—with reimbursement included, of course," you added, trying to sound as professional as a used car salesman handing off a lemon.

She hummed thoughtfully as you spoke. "That will be $40 an hour for the first four hours and $35 afterward when you buy multiple sessions at once."

"Oh really? That's great, the flier said $60. Are you free this Saturday?" You swallowed a profanity at the realization you’d lost out on some money and pushed through with the booking. Inside, you were both cursing your past self and doing a victory dance. A gig's a gig, after all.

So there you were, the jack-of-all-trades, master of none, and not above doing something strange for some change. Because in your world, $40 could buy a lot of things—like loud shoes to wear indoors for your neighbor that liked to poke at the ceiling with a broom when you coughed or enough of the fancy Belgian chocolate you liked to eat yourself into a small coma. A lot of things...

On Saturday, you ventured out to the more upscale part of town. It was the kind of place that looked like it had springed straight out of a magazine. Each building practically whispered, "My mortgage could feed a small country."

You'd been wired enough money for two classes a week for two months, plus bus fare, which was a small victory in your book. As you stepped off the bus and onto the manicured sidewalk, you couldn't help but feel a mix of bewilderment and bitterness at the sheer luxury around you.

Looking around, you saw freshly washed windows, pristine sidewalks, and not a single piece of trash in sight. A roofless sports car purred by, driven by a guy who looked like he'd never known a day of financial stress in his life.

"Must be tough being a professional trust fund manager," you muttered under your breath, eyeing the back of the vehicle.

An impeccably dressed woman with a tiny, overly groomed dog strolled past you. "Dog Instagram influencer, probably," you thought, rolling your eyes at the absurdity.

Further down the street, a couple emerged from a boutique, laughing as they juggled bags from what must’ve been high-end stores. "Ah yes, professional yoga mat testers," you mused sarcastically. "Or maybe artisanal kombucha consultants."

As you walked a few blocks deeper into the neighborhood, you approached the address sent to you for work. It was a huge historical brownstone that filled you with intimidation. You couldn't help but marvel at the ornate door and the brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. "Sure, why not? Lion-head knockers. Probably enough to pay off student loans for my entire graduating class," you snarked internally.

Ringing the doorbell, you waited, feeling like an imposter in your own shoes. The door opened to reveal a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle blog, all polished and perfect. She was of a medium height, but her long, toned legs made her seem modelesque. The woman was a dark brown color and had a chicly shaved head partially obscured by a multi print silk scarf. She wore an expensive looking linen short set and minimalistic gold jewelry.

“Welcome! You must be the tutor,” she greeted you warmly. “Come on in.” She waved her thin hands to gesture inside of her home, her dark pink lips widening to reveal a set of perfect white teeth. You feigned politeness while bitterly thinking to yourself about the iniquity of someone being both so rich and so attractive while people like you were left with flabby arms, hairy toe knuckles, and crippling debt. 

Stepping into the foyer, you tried not to gawk at the marble floors and grand staircase. "Just your average entryway," you thought wryly. "Nothing says ‘welcome’ like a ceramic bust."

You followed her to a spacious study, filled with leather-bound books and more mahogany than you thought existed in the world. Sitting down, you mentally prepared for your first lesson, hoping your makeshift knowledge of the language would hold up.

In the days leading up to this tutoring gig, you thought you were being proactive. After all, you couldn't just waltz into a foreign language lesson without a clue, could you? So, you did what any desperate person would do: WhatsApp video call your cringey cousin from back home.

Your cousin was the kind of guy who thinks he's fluent in English because he once binge-watched a season of "Friends" with subtitles on. His grasp of English and your grasp of your family’s native language was about as solid as a Jenga tower in a hurricane. But hey, beggars can't be choosers.

The conversation was a comedy of errors from the get-go. You tried to explain what you needed help with, but every sentence he uttered was a linguistic train wreck. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, but with words.

"I need help. For teach… uh… English… speak person. You speak... uh... En-guh-lish, yes?" you attempted, your own language suffering under the weight of your desperation.

"Ah, English! Yes, yes! I know Eng-guh-lish!" he exclaimed triumphantly, his confidence only slightly overshadowed by the fact that he couldn't pronounce the word correctly.

What followed was a painful exchange of broken sentences, awkward pauses, and a lot of hand gestures that made you question whether you were communicating in semaphore or a spoken language.

By the time you hung up, you felt like you knew even less than before. If anything, you'd regressed linguistically. Welp, time to wing it, you thought grimly, resigning yourself to the fact that this tutoring job was going to be a wild ride. Who needs language proficiency when you have sheer determination and a healthy dose of delusion, right?

The woman fluttered around the study murmuring to herself until she retrieved a loose stack of papers from a bag. 

“A-ha!” she chimed, turning to wave the papers at you with that same smile. She sauntered over and to your surprise, sat right next to you on the leather sofa instead of across the coffee table at one of the matching armchairs.

Up close, you noticed she had the slightest dimple in the lower left corner of her mouth and eyes that naturally set low in an effortlessly sultry gaze. There was something very classic and timeless about her looks. Like perhaps you had seen lots of women like her in commercials or in those huge luxury clothing brand displays at Macy’s.  

She placed the papers on the table before turning and facing directly towards you, extending a thin, manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Letitia,” she spoke. Her voice was soft, a bit smokey, and had a bit of an encapsulating feel.

You shook her hand and formally introduced yourself as well. “I suppose you spoke with my manager Lashana on the phone about my goals. I have a casting audition in about 2 months and think having some exposure to the language beforehand could get me a leg up, y’know? Uh… these are just some things she sent for you to sign…” she said, running off into a murmur as she handed the stack of papers to you with a fountain pen. As she moved around you caught a whiff of her dark, woody perfume. It smelled more like an expensive men’s cologne. 

For a moment you scoured your brain for any information you knew about this Letitia. You thought you might have heard Lashana mention the actress thing on the phone, but that was while you were on your other $40 gig moonlighting as an expert dog groomer. She interrupted when you were braiding the neighbor’s poodle- Fifi’s cornrows required utmost concentration so Lashana's words went in one ear and out of the other.  

You signed the papers with a flourish, then handed them back to Letitia, raising an eyebrow as you joked, “So, what exactly did I just sign away? My soul? Firstborn child?”

To your surprise, Letitia burst into laughter, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the room. It caught you off guard, and you couldn't help but notice how her whole face lit up when she laughed. Her dimple deepened, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, giving her an adorable, almost childlike quality. At that moment, she seemed less like a polished actress and more like a regular person who didn't care about looking perfect.

“You're hilarious!” she said, still chuckling as she tucked the papers back into her bag. “I think this is going to be a lot more fun than I expected.”

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks at the compliment. “Thanks,” you said, trying to play it cool. “I aim to please.”

Letitia leaned back on the sofa, her gaze curious and open. “So, tell me about yourself. How did you end up doing... well, this?”

You shrugged, deciding to be honest. “Oh, you know, just trying to make a living. I’ve done a bit of everything. Today, I’m a language tutor. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe I’ll be wrangling llamas at a petting zoo.”

She laughed again, a light, musical sound that made you smile. “I admire that,” she said. “It takes a lot of guts to do what you do.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly glamorous,” you replied, though you couldn’t help but feel a little humble amidst the fancy room. “But it keeps things interesting.”

Letitia nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I’ve had my share of odd jobs too. Before acting, I was a waitress, a dog walker- I even dressed up as Minnie Mouse at kids’ parties once.”

You tried to imagine her in a pink polka dot dress with gloves and big, round ears, and the mental image made you laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.”

She grinned, a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe if you teach me this language, I’ll show you some of my old mouse tricks.”

“Deal,” you said, feeling more relaxed than you had all day. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

As you began the lesson, you realized that maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all. Letitia’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her genuine interest in getting to know you made you feel like, for once, you weren’t just a means to an end. Maybe this gig would be a turning point—something more than just another $40 in your pocket. 

The lesson flew by in a blur of laughter, stumbles over pronunciation, and unexpected moments of connection. Before you knew it, the clock was signaling the end of your session. Letitia gathered her things, still giggling over a joke you'd made about mispronouncing a word in a way that turned it into something hilariously inappropriate.

As she walked you to the door, both of you were still caught up in the infectious energy of the lesson. “I can’t believe we spent half the time laughing,” Letitia said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Next time I’ll have to invoice you my rate for standup as well,” you replied, grinning. 

Both of you stopped, laughter trailing off as you locked eyes, the air thick with an unspoken connection. You extended your hand for a handshake just as Letitia leaned in for a hug, and your misplaced hand awkwardly jabbed her ribs. As she toppled forward, her pillowy lips connected with your forehead in a soft, accidental kiss that sent shivers down your spine.

Time seemed to stand still. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in that moment. Her eyes widened in surprise, the rich depths of her gaze reflecting your own astonishment. You could feel the warmth spreading across your cheeks, your face burning with a mix of embarrassment and something more profound, something that made your heart race wildly in your chest.

Her breath, soft and warm, lingered against your skin, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded away. The delicate scent of her woody perfume enveloped you, creating an intoxicating haze that made you dizzy with longing. Her nearness, the accidental intimacy, sent a thrill through you, a sensation both terrifying and exhilarating.

The spell was broken by the sudden roar of a fast car zooming by outside, yanking both of you back to the present. The world rushed back in, loud and intrusive, yet you remained rooted in that brief, unforgettable moment.

Letitia pulled back slightly, her own cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. She laughed nervously, a melodic sound that made your heart skip a beat. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she stammered, her voice a soft murmur of embarrassment and amusement.

“No, no, it’s fine!” you stuttered as she also spoke some unintelligible babble, the awkwardness dissipating into a shared chuckle. “That was... unexpected,” Letitia added, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Yeah, totally,” you agreed, trying to steady your racing heart. “Guess we need to work on our goodbye coordination as well.”

“Absolutely,” she smiled, a dazzling expression that made your knees weak. As she opened the door, the moment lingered in the air between you, a fragile, beautiful thing.

“Thanks again for today. I’m really looking forward to our next lesson,” she said softly, her voice like a caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your cracking voice barely above a whisper, your heart pounding. “See you next time!”

As you walked away, the memory of her accidental kiss lingered, a tender echo that made your pulse quicken and your thoughts spin. It was a moment you knew you would replay over and over, a small, perfect touch that left you breathless with anticipation for something- anything.

You mindlessly followed the sidewalk, feeling a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration. As you boarded the bus, you couldn’t stop thinking about that moment. Your heart was racing, and every time you closed your eyes, you could see Letitia’s face, the surprise and humor in her eyes.

You tried to distract yourself with phone games, but your fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. Before you knew it, you were googling Letitia’s name, falling down a rabbit hole of biographies, interviews, and reviews of her films. Each article and video only added to the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in your head.

Engrossed in reading about her, you completely missed your stop. When you finally looked up and realized how far you’d gone, you cursed under your breath, quickly pressing the button to signal the next stop.

As you walked the extra blocks home, you couldn’t shake the mixture of embarrassment and excitement from your mind. The day had taken a completely unexpected turn, and you knew it was going to be all you could think about until your next lesson with Letitia.

[mimzempire]

What to Expect When Booking Professional Braiding Services in New York

The most excellent way of getting a perfect and long-lasting hairstyle is by booking a professional braiding service in New York. If either of these is what you are looking for box braids, cornrows, or the trendiest of them all, twists, New York will give you so many choices in salons and stylists who specialize in professional hair braiding. Read more: https://mimzempire.blogspot.com/2024/12/what-to-expect-when-booking.html

[inkcurlsandknives]

At this point I'm convinced all cut and color hair salon services are a complete scam. There's not been 1 time in the last decade where I haven't thought I should've done this at home. Stylists don't listen, ignore what was agreed to, fry or hack off my hair and then try to charge hundreds. Most of the times I've had my hair professionally styled I leave in tears. I ended up doing my own hair for my wedding on account of how bad my last professional hair styling had gone.

At this point my partner handles my balayage and trims, I do my henna dye and his twists and braids (tho i do admit his old barber and braiders did good jobs except for the one time they gave him a receding hairline trying to square him up)

We save thousands quarterly.

[madameaug]

Hrs n Hrs || JJK x OC

Pairing: Jungkook x Jennette

WC: 1.1k >

Context: Jungkook showing up for Jennette in her times of need. Super-duper sweet Jungkook

A/N: I may add more in the morning, but I wanted to publish something (it's been a minute)

Jennette sighed, rubbing her forehead with the rubber gloves she used to wash dishes. Last night, Jennette and Jungkook hosted a birthday dinner party for her little sister Asia. She was officially an adult, stepping into her identity as a young woman. Jennette didn't realize how many dishes had stacked up after the five-person dinner party.

Jungkook didn't linger in bed long. He was naturally morning and enjoyed starting his day with a brief cardio session. Typically, that was with a half-mile jog to the park and back to the apartment. He laced up his tennis shoes, getting ready to head out but stopped in his tracks.

Jennette in her all of her morning glow, scrubbed the plate in her hand with the scrub daddy in her hand. Her braids slightly swayed above her butt crack, showing the force she was putting into her scrubbing. Placing his water bottle down, Jungkook stalked over to Jennette.

"Morning." He applied a quick peck to her cheek. His hands rested on her hips.

"Hey." Jennette pulled away, noticing Jungkook was in his running clothes. His hair was slightly up in a fluffy ponytail. "Going on a run?"

"Yeah, after this." Jungkook rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a drying rag, and wiped down the damp plates. Jennette smiled, grateful for the assistance.

"Alexa play 'How Many Drinks' by Miguel ft. Kendrick Lamar." Jungkook spoke out the robotic device. Jennette immediately perked up, dancing to the song. She and Jungkook harmonized with Miguel, clearing the entire sink of dirty dishes.

Soon enough, the cleaning expanded past the sink, kitchen, and living room. Brooms were brought out, warm water ran for the mops, and the swifter collected the dust mites. It was two hours before Jungkook and Jennette finished cleaning their entire place.

Jennette lifted Jungkook's arm, placing it over her shoulder. Sitting down on the couch. Heads connected, Jennette watched Jungkook's stomach inflate and deflate. Her hand rested on his abdomen, rubbing it softly. The pair dozed of in the warmth of each other.

<3 <3

Procrastination was a nasty habit Jennette developed in her undergraduate years. Waiting until the eleventh hour to turn in assignments created just enough stress to allow her fingers to type fast enough to turn in the assignment before the 11:59 deadline. Now that she was a professional in her career, such habits have lingered into her day-to-day life.

The Atlanta Child Protective Services (ACPS) was preparing for their annual audit in November. The audit was always near the Thanksgiving holiday, and it was a time in which Jennette was on her last leg. As much as she enjoyed the winter months, the fellowship and quality time with family. She just needed to get to the Wednesday and she would be done til December first.

Her head lay in the center of her crossed arms. The blank report glared right back at her. Five o'clock was approaching, and she wanted to log out of her computer. But the workload for tomorrow would just become too unbearable. She needed to do half of the tasks tonight.

Her head shot up when she heard Jungkook's keys twist, opening the door. Fuck! It was her night to make dinner, and she hadn't started anything. Dragging herself out of her office, she rattled off apologies, taking out random pots and frying pans.

"Jeanie, calm down." Jungkook sipped his Sonics slushie.

"I texted you earlier to let you know I was craving Sonics. I picked you up something, too." Jungkook pointed to the fast food bag sitting at her designated spot on the table.

"Thank you bug."

"What's got you all worked up?" Jennette explained the pickle she got herself into. Jungkook nodded attentively. He always found a way to resolve issues timely. He was an action-oriented person. If he needed to do something, he did it. Right then and there, he never allowed for thoughts in the back of his mind to convince him to put if off for 'later'.

"Well, you can't work on an empty stomach. Let's eat and then we can go back to the audit stuff."

Jungkook kept Jennette completely distracted from her looming task. As he recalled his training session tonight at the gym. He was preparing for a fight this weekend. He would be going against his dear friend Mingyu. The pair would be sparing to raise money for a charitable cause. The money would be going to fans battling a terminal illness. Jennette gushed hearing Jungkook talk about the charity in such a light. It made her heart warm, knowing that he genuinely cared about the wellbeing of the fans who watched him.

"Chop chop, Jeanie." Jungkook pointed at his naked wrist. "We got work to do." Jennette groaned.

"Let's have dessert, then I'll do work."

"I'll give you dessert after you finish your work." Jungkook wiggled his eyebrows. His tongue sticking out to lick his lips.

"I was thinking strawberries and whipped cream." Jungkook helped Jennette out of the chair, escorting her to her office. The computer screen was now black.

" I'm not feeling the strawberries, but I make you and the whipped cream work." A lightbulb went off in Jungkook's head.

"Sit here." He looked down at Jennette before exiting her office. Jennette cracked her knuckles before typing a few procedural sentences on her document. She pulled up a list of the cases of children she had over the past year. 231 kids. 231 reports she would need to review and place into the folder for the audit.

Jungkook came back into the room with a can of whipped cream. A devious smirk on his face.

"For every ten minutes, you work diligently, equates to one squirt of whipped cream and a kiss."

"What if I just want the whipped cream." Jennette teased just to flatten out the smirk on his lips. She rolled her eyes, hearing his reply.

"Too bad, they're a packaged deal."

"Fine." Jennette pulled up a timer before reviewing the first case she handled.

<3 <3 <3

A/N: Also, Hrs & Hrs by Muni Long has been on repeat so much for this like the song just makes me feel so good. Same for How Many Drinks.

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Back to Random Sorrow Thoughts and Shenanigans. I’ve been thinking about getting my hair dyed lately and I’ve never done it before. I know it’s a lot of maintenance and work to keep it up and if you don’t then eventually it fades out. You thought this was going to be a normal conversation about dyed hair? Yah no. This blog doesn’t do that 😌.

Hair changes your appearance a lot. Whether it’s dying it a new color, getting a hair cut, or some professional service. So imagine a Whumpee with anything like that. Like some flashy rainbow kind of dye or even just going from brunette to blonde. Maybe getting a perm, getting corn rows, braids in general. Just anything that disguises your original, natural hair color, shape, and texture.

Then, think about Whumper only ever seeing Whumpee in that appearance. So gradually throughout captivity Whumper starts to notice changes in their hair. The dye fading out, their hair growing longer, their perm relaxing, their braids starting to loosen or grow out. What do you think their reaction would be?

They could get a little obsessed with seeing whumpee’s original hair. Maybe going on about how it’s way better than what they did with their hair before. It might make them look more attractive and whumper might even want to start taking care of their hair just so that they can have another part of Whumpee to control.

Maybe they’re a little upset about not having Whumpee in the perfect image they saw them in the very first time they saw them. It’s the reason they chose them after all so they should look the way they want them to. So they could take them to the salon to get their hair re-dyed, cut, altered in whatever way it was before. This could even be the only time Whumpee is allowed in public where they’re treated like a normal person by a nice stylist.

Hair could also be a sore spot for Whumpee. Maybe they had some trauma with having long hair being tugged on, so they keep it short. Maybe they died it as a symbol of independence from controlling people in their lives. Maybe it’s a cultural/ identity thing. Whumper finds out, and out of good old whumper sadistic pleasure, they exploit it. Forcing them to grow their hair out, maybe shaving their hair off, putting too much bleach in their hair to purposefully burn it off so it doesn’t grow back the same for a long time.

I didn’t realize there was so much to talk about on this topic, but I really think hair is important to everyone. It holds memories and feelings. It’s fun to play with in story telling, and it’s a hell of a lot of fun for whumper to use against Whumpee.

- 🪻

Date: August 4, 2024

[separatist-apologist]

no gods. no religion.

Just bad, bad decisions

Summary: Galactic Senator Elain Archeron knows her ex-fiance is financing a crime syndicate. All she needs to oust him is a little proof.

And, of course, a pilot.

The prompt: SENATOR ELAIN AND FLYBOY LUCIEN

Part 1/2 | read on ao3 (OR GIVE ME A KISS)

12k words, but this is STILL A DRABBLE

Elain Archeron required a pilot. 

Well—not technically a pilot, but a soldier, really. But someone who could fly better than most, who knew how to be discreet, and perhaps most importantly, could fire in a straight line. She didn’t know many in the naval academy, but she did know her sister. General Archeron, the woman who had turned down ruling a planet in favor of military service, was the exact kind of woman Elain had been hoping for when she’d gone to her sister.

“I need to know the true scope of the Nolan’s involvement,” Elain had whispered. Nesta could have sneered, could have narrowed her eyes and asked if this was just a personal vendetta. After all, she and Count Nolan’s son had been engaged. And it was known well enough she was angry about how things had ended.

She’d won her election and he’d left her, despite supporting her campaign publicly for months. And Elain had learned it had been, in her fiance’s eyes, nothing more than an amusement for him. He hadn’t expected her to actually win. He’d thought she’d lose dismally, marry him, and finally settle down on his country estate, raising babies while he did the true politicking.

Now they shared the same air in the Senate and things were tense. Sure, she’d been upset for the first couple months, but with the help of several friendly staffers, Elain had begun to think Graysen had done her a massive favor.

She hadn’t known just how filthy his hands were, or how well connected to criminal syndicates his fortune was. Nor did she want to believe he’d help terrorists ship deadly weapons, pumping the republic full of modified blasters capable of cutting through all but a lightsaber. Meanwhile, Graysen waxed poetic about ridding the galaxy of criminals who obeyed nothing but their own greed.

All the while funding the Hybern Syndicate. 

Elain just needed to know for herself. It was risky—not only was her life forfeit if one of Hybern’s mercenaries caught sight of her, but if Graysen learned what she was up to before she could compile an expose and rid democracy of grifters like the Nolans, she’d lose her seat, too. 

“What do you know about…” Elain looked down at the data pad in her hand. Nesta had sent over her recommendation that morning with a note to meet just outside the hangars. “Lucien Vanserra.”

Her elder sister's lips quirked in not quite a smile. Nesta was as severe as ever, hair braided in a crown against her scalp. She wore the Naval white and orange, vest snug to her chest. 

Holding up a hand, Nesta ticked off Vanserra’s qualities. “Discreet, quick on his feet, damn good pilot. That was what you wanted, right? He’s the best and he owes me a favor. Plus, he’s afraid of me, which means he won’t take unnecessary risks when it comes to your life. Do what he says, alright El? No matter how…arrogantly…he barks those orders?”

That didn’t sound promising. 

“Does he know the mission?”

Nesta’s eyes swept over the massive, open hangar with distaste. To Elain, everything was running smoothly—pilots, mechanics, and other professionals bustled about, readying a wide array of ships to both fly in and out of port. A large viewport betrayed air command, setting courses and waving ships in and out. Elain could still recall growing up on Naboo and the advisors who used to joke there was no pleasing little Nesta Archeron. She’d been bred to be a Queen, so why wouldn’t she act any different? To Elain, Nesta’s straight spine and her unwillingness to accept anything but perfection always made sense.

What hadn’t was a moment of weakness—a man, sent from the Republic to meet the middle Archeron, diplomat to diplomat. Cassian Alonso was more rebel than anything. A man already when Nesta had only been nineteen. They’d taken one look at the other and that had been it. Elain still didn’t understand it a decade later. Nesta hadn’t wavered, though. She’d married Cassian and joined the Republic.

And now, instead of Queen, she was General Archeron. Elain wondered if her sister didn’t see them the same way. 

“He knows enough,” Nesta finally said, cutting through Elain’s musings. 

There was no opportunity to interrogate her sister further. They halted before a rather run down ship that seemed as if it must be fast, and able to take a beating. Sleek and pointed, with a little orange fox painted just over the ship's hull, Elain thought it was better than nothing. Far shabbier than her usual vehicles, and yet she knew she was in no position to complain. Not when her plan was going off without a hitch and someone was willing to help her.

A pair of legs hopped to the platform, landing with a grunting oof. The man who rose was much younger than Elain had been imagining in her head. He couldn’t have been two or three years older than her. Maybe as old as Nesta, but likely not by much.

“General,” he said respectfully, offering up a dimpled grin. He was a beautiful man despite the trio of scars running over his left eye, which had been replaced with a rather lovely golden cybernetic. The other was a nice shade of russet brown, flecked with just enough gold to catch the light.

Auburn red hair was half braided off his handsome face, allowing the rest to spill over broad shoulders wearing the same red and white vest her sister wore. She hoped he didn’t plan to keep his uniform, given how immediately noticeable it was. He seemed like the sort who could blend in under the right conditions, although maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

“Vanserra,” her sister replied, ignoring how Lucien’s eyes immediately fell on her. Some of his easiness faded as he, too, drank her in. Obviously she wasn’t going to wear her heavy skirts, nor was she going to sport the elaborate updo she currently wore. It wasn’t like they were leaving today. Still, Elain couldn’t help but fidget under his disapproving gaze, her fingers crushing the velvet of her blush colored dress. 

“My sister Elain.”

His smile returned, bright and hot like the sun. “Senator, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied stiffly. 

He knew. From the way his expression sharpened, Elain knew he knew. Maybe not all of it, but he knew, just like Nesta had when Elain had first dumped all this in her lap, that Elain was still chasing after Graysen. She wanted to scream, to get on the holonet and tell the whole damn galaxy that she was over it. Graysen humiliated her on a grand stage and now the whole galaxy would forever believe she was nursing a broken heart.

Elain wouldn’t have taken him back even if he’d begged. He had no integrity, no heart, and if she was right about his underworld dealings, no soul, either. And what did that say about her, that she’d slept beside him for so many nights unaware the man she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with was a rotting cesspit of greed?

This wasn’t the place to ruminate on that. 

“Nine am sharp, then?” he said, unaware of how much relief his words provided. Who cared if he thought her merely a scorned woman so long as he did what she wanted. Elain didn’t expect this man to understand. 

“You got it,” she agreed, offering up her most practiced smile. His own faltered for a moment, his eyes taking on a strange, glassy quality. 

“Vanserra!” her sister snapped. His head bowed, cheeks warming as pink crawled up his neck. Elain understood she had been dismissed and with a sunny smile and a wave to her sister, vanished out of the hangar without tripping on the hem of her dress. 

Tomorrow. Elain would finally repay Graysen for what he’d done. Maybe she’d always be scorned, but at least she wouldn’t be the one sitting in a Republic prison. 

And for someone who loved compromise, that was the best Elain could ask for.

LUCIEN:

“That’s your sister?”

Lucien looked up at his General, hoping his expression conveyed his reproach. He’d been imagining someone more like Nesta or Feyre…not…not….kriff. Elain Archeron was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. And when she smiled? Gods, but Lucien didn’t think this mission was a good idea anymore. All the things he loved when accepting an off the book mission—risky, unsanctioned, likely to end in death—seemed unreasonable in the light of Elain’s beautiful face.

“Keep it in your pants,” General Archeron snapped, though Lucien swore Nesta’s silvery blue eyes were filled with amusement. “She has that effect on everyone.”

Yeah, he bet. Lucien might have told Nesta to find another pilot had he not been sure that man would have fallen in love with her, too—and that was unacceptable to Lucien. Especially when he knew Nesta was likely to send her stealthies pilot and Azriel wouldn’t waste an opportunity like Elain Archeron.

“She seems…” like my future wife, though Lucien didn’t dare say that out loud. “Green.”

“She’s a junior Senator. Just…do this for her, okay?” Nesta said with an air of resignation. “I don’t expect much to come from it, but this is the liveliest she’s been in months.”

“Right,” he agreed, his mind racing. He hadn’t paid much attention to the dust up when Nolan and Archeron had split. Amiable, that was what he remembered. Clearly not if Elain was trying to link her former betrothed to a crime syndicate. Ballsy, too. Lucien liked that. If Elain was right, he hoped to be the pilot who helped take a corrupt Senator down. That sort of thing all but guaranteed him a promotion.

And a beautiful wife, if you’re smart about it. 

Lucien was a strategic man. Lucien was a smart and patient man. And he wanted very few things out of his life, but he knew the minute Elain Archeron smiled at him, that he wanted her. Even if it made an enemy of Nesta and even if it meant a lifetime of rubbing elbows with politicians.

Lucien was willing to sacrifice for her.

It was an exhilarating feeling. 

“Nothing is to happen to my sister. No matter how persuasive she is or what promises she makes you Commander. Remember that my sister has been trained from birth to be a politician. She could convince anyone to do anything she asks with a few smiles.”

Yeah, Lucien believed that. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Lucien said, hoping he sounded convincing and not desperate. “I spent a month with Feyre, remember?”

Nesta was polite enough not to remind Lucien how he and Feyre had managed to set an ancient estate ablaze under his watchful eye. Still, she let him go with only minimal threats, which Lucien thought spoke to his skill. There were likely very few people Nesta Archeron entrusted her sisters to, and he’d been tasked with both. That filled Lucien with warm pride, buoying him long enough to make traversing the Coruscant markets for all the creature comforts a Senator was likely accustomed to.

Lucien’s last assignment had been a month with a Jedi. That, he thought, had been far easier given the man wanted very little. Lucien suspected Elain wouldn’t be content to live off supply bars and sleep on the cold, durasteel floors. 

Lucien spent more money than he might have, and when he was finished, submitted his receipts through his datapad to Nesta for reimbursement. If the amount irritated his General, she didn’t say—all Lucien’s credits had been returned before he made it back to The Fighting Fox. 

Lucien set his things away, clearing space in the small Captain’s quarters for Elain. He’d make do in one of the swinging hammocks just outside the cockpit. The room he offered her was small—the bed took up most of the available walking space, and the closet was really three drawers stacked atop each other. She had a viewport, though, and a short walk to the shared ‘fresher. Lucien even swapped out the soap dispensers for something nicer, something a shopkeeper assured him women loved. 

With nothing left to do, Lucien kicked his boots up over the dash, pulled his data pad from his pocket, and decided to do some recon. All good missions started that way…and if it meant he got to study his soon-to-be wife, well, all the better for him. 

Lucien learned several things about Elain Archeron. She was a spit-fire. Feisty and passionate all under the demure, beautiful face that had stunned him into silence for perhaps the first time in his life. He got caught up watching speech after impassioned speech, occasionally rewinding to listen to a particular turn of phrase a second time. 

And Graysen, the Senator supposedly financing the Hybern Syndicate, was every bit as clever as the woman he’d let go. Lucien studied him, too, though he was far more critical than he was of Elain. Lucien, by virtue of growing up with an elder brother who was, perhaps, one of the wiliest politician’s the galaxy had ever seen, knew what a liar looked like. Graysen was adept at saying so much without saying anything at all, and yet it felt good. 

And, though it felt a little like betrayal, he watched Graysen’s holovid where he announced the end of his relationship with Elain. 

Amicable. Lucien remembered that from memory, and yet by his count, Graysen stressed it no less than four times in the span of fifteen minutes. Smiling like too-white teeth, he hardly looked sorry at all. I wish her nothing but the best.

Elain had opted to say nothing at all, which had allowed the media to run roughshod over her. Perhaps she’d figured there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t make her seem bitter and had chosen to give the media nothing to work with. No words to pick apart, no lines to read between. Just Elain, several days later going to work with clear eyes and a bright, practiced smile. 

If she suffered, she didn’t show it. Lucien wondered what had fractured them. Maybe he’d find out. By Lucien’s estimate, they’d be together, conservatively, for a month. With the time it would take to get out to the outer reaches from the inner core and then the recon, the data collecting, and whatever else Elain hoped to achieve, a month assumed perfect circumstances.

It assumed nothing would go wrong. Lucien had never worked a mission like that. They’d have plenty of time to get to know one another, to impart painful truths and perhaps, if he was exceptionally lucky, plan a wedding.

Though, he wasn’t counting on that last one. 

Still, the thought put him to sleep in his hammock, tucked away in the obnoxiously loud hangar. He slept like a babe, used to the clanking and the shouting of military life, and woke an hour before Elain was supposed to arrive.

It had occurred to Lucien that the one thing he knew Elain and Graysen had in common was their impeccable sense of fashion. He could dress well, too, though too often what was the point? He was covered in oil half the time, and the other half splattered with blood or goo or some other substance he preferred not to think about. 

There was no point putting on his nicest pair of robes—the pair such a deep, forestry green that it made his skin seem to glow—but there was wisdom in digging out a pair of well-fitted brown pants and an equally tight blue shirt with the quarter sleeves.

Just so she could see the black inked tattoo on his forearm. The one that denoted his rank in solid black bars. No one called him Commander, but they sure as hell knew he was Commander Vanserra when they saw those six black bars. He wanted her to know that he was ambitious, same as her. 

He rebraided his hair after carefully pulling out the tangles, and shaved just enough to leave the stubble behind. It was rugged, he decided, and women generally liked that. At least, the ones he was in frequent contact with did. Why shouldn’t Elain, too? 

Lucien was buckling his belt low over his hips, weapons laying out before him, when he heard the punctual, polite, rapping knock on the door. He was grinning like a fool and he knew it, and still he couldn’t help himself. Lucien pulled his boots on and met her just outside the hangar.

She was a vision with a bag at her feet and her hair pulled in a neat chignon just at the nape of her neck. He suspected this was Elain Archeron’s attempt at looking nondescript, as if the hundreds of credits she’d spent on that deep blue cloak pulled over her beautiful face was anything but a massive neon sign that screamed wealth. 

She was in a white jumpsuit that hugged every inch of her—not that he was looking. 

“Ready?” he asked, leaning against the open door as the ramp slowly descended. Elain didn’t seem convinced of him, but that was fine. 

“As I’ll ever be,” she admitted, teeth sinking against her full, bottom lip. Lucien stepped aside, one hand outstretched to take her bag. 

“You’ll be in here,” he said, closing up behind her before gesturing for her to follow. Elain hesitated when she saw that little room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“We’ll be sharing?” she asked, her cheeks the prettiest shade of pink. It was Lucien’s turn to hesitate. If he said yes, he could force them into close quarters.

“No,” he replied, thinking it was better to give her some space. “I’ll be just outside. It’s not much, but it's better than nothing, don’t you think?”

Relief stole over her expression. “Yes,” she admitted as Lucien shoved her little bag inside. “I’m surprised there is enough space for a private room at all on this thing.”

“It was my only requirement when picking it out,” he admitted with a sly grin. In his mind, he was already upgrading to a nicer—albeit more expensive—model. One with a room big enough for them both to move around in. He assumed a Senator was used to yachts, but maybe she could get used to something smaller in exchange for speed. 

One thing at a time. 

He expected her to make a small fuss. To hole up in that room while he got them ready, but Elain merely followed after him, up the ladder and into the cockpit where she took the co-captain’s chair. He liked the sight of her there, hood down and wide eyed with excitement. 

That’s my girl, he thought, practically giddy.

“How does it all work?” she asked, watching him carefully flip switches. 

“Maybe I’ll show you some day,” he said, not wanting to make himself obsolete to her just yet. “But not today. Buckle up, princess.”

If he’d said that to either of her sisters, he’d have been shot in the face for it. But Elain merely rolled her eyes and did as she was told. 

Unaware she was a princess—his princess. 

And he’d do anything she asked.

ELAIN: 

“How long before we get to our outpost?” Elain asked, already bored. They’d been zooming through space for the better part of a day. Realistically, she knew it was going to take five days of non-stop, lightspeed travel. And yet part of her hoped Lucien knew some magical shortcut that would get them there by the end of the night.

Long legs stretched up over the dash, his datapad held in one of his broad, strong hands, Lucien Vanserra didn’t look her way.

“Five days,” he replied, thumb sliding over his screen. Elain sighed and Lucien finally looked over at her. It was an effort not to rake her eyes down his muscular body again. She didn’t think he’d appreciate being ogled when he was merely trying to fulfill his duty to her sister. Had Nesta chosen him specifically for how appealing he was? Or was Lucien really the best? 

“Yes, princess?” he drawled in that deep, warm voice of his. Elain suppressed a shiver. It had been so long since any man had made her feel anything but revulsion that she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. 

“I’m bored.”

That was enough to bring back his dimpled smile and to convince him to turn off his data pad. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me what this little journey of ours is about then. The whole version,” he added pointedly.

So he wanted to know about her break-up, then. Elain swallowed some of her bitterness.

“Well. I guess if we started at the beginning then I’d say that I met Graysen Nolan back on Naboo during Feyre’s first campaign. I was helping her run it as her official diplomat to the Republic, and Graysen had been sent to get a feel for her. She was young, and everyone expected Nesta to run, but she’d recently run off with Cassian…it was a mess.”

He chuckled, but said nothing. It was invitation enough to continue.

“Father was…unwell,” she said, thinking that was the most charitable way to describe their fathers rapid spiral into misery. “And mother was dead. Nesta was gone and Feyre busy…I was just…”

Stars, but Elain hated admitting this to herself, let alone the beautiful man with the teasing eyes.

“Lonely?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “And Graysen was nice. It was a whirlwind, truthfully. I never had a moment to catch my breath. Feyre was elected and Naboo needed a new Senator and Graysen convinced me I ought to run and Feyre was begging me to…so I did.”

Elain swallowed hard. “When he asked me to marry him, I think he expected I’d drop out. And then, when I won, well…What he wanted was someone more domestic.”

“Okay,” Lucien said, still smiling though his eyes were tight. “I wasn’t asking about your breakup, for the record, but I guess it’s good to know Nolan is as much of an asshole as I always suspected. I assume this is why you want to go on this mission? Revenge?”

Well kriff. “No,” she said, a shade too defensive. “It’s been eight months. I’m not still…I don’t miss him. There was a bill up for vote in the Senate last month and Graysen waged war to kill it in a committee. I couldn’t figure it out—of course he comes from money, but who doesn’t know that at this point? His rivals point it out every change they get. Why wouldn’t he want to share who donates to his campaigns? It seemed like such a nothing bill, easily passed. And it made me start digging. I still have all his old passcodes,” she admitted sheepishly, thinking Lucien would think her low for snooping.

His real smile returned. “Clever.”

“He must have figured it out because he changed them, but I was in long enough to see a lot of his money leaving accounts for offshore banks in planets in the Outer Rim. And money came in, too—in huge sums, all unaccounted for. I did a little digging, and it turns out the First Raider Bank is used exclusively by the Hybern Corporation. And Hybern—”

“Deals in black market weapons,” Lucien supplied for her, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. Elain’s satisfaction returned.

“Exactly. I know I don’t have a lot to work with, but if I had some proof I could remove him from his seat and the Republic could have the transparency it so badly needs.”

Lucien, to his credit, didn’t add what anyone else would have—and your revenge. Elain wasn’t denying that was part of it. She’d loved Graysen. Believed the best in him, even when her sisters thought her stupid and naive. And he’d not only abused that trust, but he’d been lying to her the whole time. Sometimes, when Elain truly wanted to punish herself, she imagined what would have happened when she learned. How humiliated she would have been.

And how trapped. 

Instead, Lucien tilted his head toward her, body still facing the neon blue viewport and the blurred stars that illuminated the entire cockpit in blinding, burning white. “I’m in this until the end, princess.”

She wondered if he called her that because, technically, she was a princess. When she returned home, everyone addressed her as such—though no one called Nesta princess. They called her General. Elain didn’t mind it because Lucien didn’t make it seem mocking. 

“Well,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “I should…I’m going to head to bed, if that’s alright with you.”

Lucien’s gaze returned to his data pad. One had waved for her to go, revealing six black lines inked against the skin of his forearm. Commander. 

He seemed awfully young for a rank so prestigious, and hardly showy about it like she might have expected. Nesta hadn’t said anything about it, either. Lucien, unaware of where her attention now lay, was fully immersed back in his holovid. 

Everyone she knew had managed to achieve such great, important things. Feyre was Queen of Naboo, her sister a General. Even this pilot, Commander Vanserra. And what was she, besides a joke? 

Elain climbed the ladder back into the hull, listening to the pleasant hum of the ship as she made her way back to the closet Lucien called a bedroom. Elain was used to shuttles and yachts with private ‘freshers and enough space to stretch out her legs and pace. Lucien’s private quarters housed a bed that might have fit them both if they laid chest to back.

An appealing idea, given the general shape of him. 

And likely totally inappropriate given he worked for her sister and this was just a job. Elain wasn’t sure she was even in the right space to indulge him. Something about the way he moved his body and the casual arrogance that radiated from him made Elain think Lucien wouldn’t say no if she invited him back into bed.

And he wouldn’t look at her twice when they were back on Coruscant. He’d get to say he’d been with the naive senator and she’d…she’d be humiliated twice. That was enough to convince Elain to carefully fold up the clothes she’d brought, dig out a towel and her night dress, and pad down to the equally tiny ‘fresher.

She knew she’d have to be quick on a ship this small. The water tank likely couldn’t support a full forty five minute break down beneath scalding hot water and Elain refused to rinse soap from her hair in the cold.

She felt a moment of wicked delight when she pushed the shampoo dispenser and found her favorite honey scented soap plunk into her hand. Had Nesta told Lucien, or did they just so happen to prefer the same? She’d ask him later—once she wasn’t in the shower, at any rate. 

Elain stepped out in a short, ivory night dress and her hair dripping down her bare arms as she tried to towel dry her wild hair. She’d wondered if Lucien would be sleeping in his pilot's chair and found a hanging hammock just between the ladder up to the cockpit and her own bedroom.

And Lucien, shirtless and staring at the water she was dripping all over his floor. This wasn’t a yacht, she reminded herself. This was his ship that had likely cost him a year's salary and she was careless.

“Sorry,” she said as Lucien stepped forward, one hand outstretched when she tried to toss the towel to the floor. 

“No,” he replied, his eyes unfocused. “No, you’re fine. Just…watch your step, princess.”

He never looked back up at her, which gave Elain the briefest opportunity to look at him without being caught. Lucien was…wow. Shirt gripped in one hand, the other still hovering in midair, while the rest of his body was lovingly carved by whatever god blessed pilots. Elain had the strangest urge to cross the gap between them and trace the muscled grooves of his golden brown skin with her fingertips.

Or her tongue, depending on his preference. 

But he wasn’t looking at her, his cheeks inflamed, and Elain suspected he was uncomfortable. So she offered him a smile he couldn’t see, murmured a good night, and vanished behind the closed door of the bedroom, cursing herself for making things weird between them on the first day.

It certainly did bode well for the rest of their mission.

LUCIEN:

He couldn’t sleep. Not with the image of that very shreddable nightdress clinging to Elain’s body, made sheer by the sheet of dripping curls tumbling over her shoulder was burned just behind his eyes. And he’d been shirtless, not that she’d noticed or cared. She’d assumed he was upset about the water, unaware Lucien was screaming at his stupid, useless cock to remain as it was instead of thickening with interest.

Like it was now, pulsating against his thigh and urging him to go and check on her, the utter bastard. Lucien warred between his rationality and his cock driven need to open the door and see how she was doing. In his mind, her hair would be a wild halo of curls around her beautiful face and those big, brown eyes would be half lidded from sleep. Maybe the tiny nightdress would have ridden up her hips and she’d pull at the blanket so he could slip in.

And Lucien would part her legs and—

“Stop it,” he hissed, refusing to even touch himself. He didn’t want to give in, like his cock was a living thing that could be rewarded and not a manifestation of his own aching need. He could go in the ‘fresher and handle his erection and it made him feel like a pervert. So Lucien remained in that swaying hammock, eyes closed as he ran through drills and listened to the gentle hum of the engine. Eventually his cock grew bored and deflated and Lucien fell asleep, too. 

He woke to the smell of food winding around him, filling his lungs and reminding him he was not alone. Lucien shifted, checking that he was still flaccid before opening his eyes. Elain had set up shop in the tiny little kitchen, if it could even be called that, frying eggs and panna cakes with a cheerful smile. 

“Another day,” she said when he all but fell from the hammock. Lucien flung a shirt over his chest quickly before making his way toward her. Elain eyed him hopefully, but the answer was unchanged.

“Four days,” he said in a sleep heavy voice. Elain’s smile threatened to drive him to his knees though he was appropriate enough. Maybe his smile bordered on sultry, but she didn’t seem to mind.

They went on like this for three days—sharing little bits of information or playing games where Lucien learned Elain had the most infectious laugh he’d ever heard in his life. He slept better than he ever had, despite the knotted rope digging in his skin. Maybe that was her, too, because Lucien had never had to fight his cock for the right to use his own blood the way he had been recently.

The day before landing, Lucien pulled up a holomap. “Florrum,” he said, letting Elain drink in the arid, desert planet now hovering before them. He couldn’t picture the pristine woman sitting beside him trekking through the desert, and yet the determined slant of her mouth told Lucien she would be. 

“We’ll land in the outpost tomorrow afternoon,” he said, bringing up the image of the oasis Doshar outpost was situated against. It was deceptively lush, though Lucien knew from his own research harsh sandstorms often wrecked the pretty greenery and made the sparkling water undrinkable without a filter. “Spend a day getting our bearings and plotting our course. I’ll need a little time to track down a speeder and we don’t want to go charging in. It might be worth your time to chat up the locals…see what they’ve heard.” Elain bit the inside of her cheek, nodding. “So maybe two days at the outpost.” She glanced over at Lucien before reaching into the pocket of the nice dress she wore. His heart stumbled at the sight of the plain, silver band now resting in her open palm.

“We’ll need a backstory,” she said, swallowing as he plucked that ring from her. Lucien slid it over his finger, admiring the way it looked. He’d have to wear it around his neck when he was back on Coruscant, but maybe another tattoo, inked where the ring would go? Beside him, Elain slid her own simple band over a slim finger before curling them into a fist. 

“Married,” he said with dizzying delight. “Good idea.”

“You could say you’re looking for work,” she suggested, sliding a hand over her flat stomach. Lucien’s heart pounded as she continued, “And I’ll say I’m looking for a place to settle for the time.”

Children. Because they were going to have a family and— “Good thinking,” he managed, unable to look her in the eye. “Smart.”

“You probably shouldn’t go around telling them you’re Commander Vanserra—”

Lucien’s whole body went achy and tight at the sound of his title coming from her lips. 

“So I thought we could be Rose and Fox.”

“Rose…and Fox…” he repeated, still fixated on Commander Vanserra. Commander Vanserra and Senator Archeron, married with three—no five—children, settled on Naboo after—

“Lucien? Would you prefer something different?” she asked, her voice timid and soft. Right. Pretend to marry her for now, really marry her when they arrived back home. 

“Fox is great,” he said, flashing her an easy smile. “Anything else I should know?”

A flush crawled up Elain’s neck. “No, I…that’s all I have. I didn’t want you to think…”

Lucien reclined back in his chair, the image of Florrum forgotten. “Think what? That you’re trying to trap a gorgeous guy like me into marriage?”

“No!” she exclaimed, immediately defensive. Lucien needed to get out of her breathing space for a minute or he was about to admit he wanted her to trap him. Despite being strangers, and despite the attraction simmering just beneath his skin, Lucien wouldn’t have told her no if Elain had said they needed to get married truthfully, nor would he have freed her from it once they were finished.

“Sure,” he replied with a wink. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

And though it was a flippant comment, he’d accidentally touched an old wound. Jes, who’d wanted to get married right until she didn’t, which had been, conveniently, the day before their planned wedding. Lucien considered, as he stood with a grin he knew didn’t meet his eyes, that he rushed into things.

He was always all in. Hadn’t he sworn he wouldn’t be hurt again? That he’d be more cautious next time, that he’d spent months—years, even—making sure the next woman loved him more than she loved anything else. That she, at the very least, loved him the way he loved her. Elain was none of those things and yet here he was, planning a whole future with her all the same.

His boots hit the bottom of the hold when he heard her say his name.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed, unaware he’d hurt his own feelings. Still, Lucien remained still, listening to the sounds of her carefully climbing down the ladder behind him. “If I upset you—”

“You didn’t,” he said, adopting an easy smile she thought she saw right through. “Trust me, there are a million worse things than being married to you.”

She didn’t smile back. “You’re the only one who thinks so,” she said, and Lucien wondered if they didn’t have matching wounds. He’d foolishly forgotten about Graysen. 

Lucien couldn’t help himself, turning to reach for that pretty, heart-shaped face. “Lucky me,” he murmured, letting her see some of his desire. Not all of it, but enough to settle her—to let her know he meant it. 

She sucked in a soft breath through her teeth. “Lucien—”

“Save it,” he replied, not wanting to hear her protests. Exhaling, Lucien dropped his hold. “Get to know Florrum before we land. I’m gonna…”

He was gonna what? They were practically on top of each other. He couldn’t escape her, not when she occupied his bed and all the private space on their little ship. Still, Elain waited, her chin tilted just enough that he could have reached for her again and kissed her. She might have liked it, too, if Graysen Nolan was the last pair of lips that had touched her.

“...use the ‘fresher,” he finally said lamely. 

Was it his imagination, or did some of the air deflate from her body? Elain murmured something polite and the pair vanished, getting about as far from the other as they could without flinging themselves into hyperspace. Lucien sat in the ‘fresher longer than was polite, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. 

Get it together, Vanserra, he ordered himself. He knew he wouldn’t, just like he knew when he climbed back up into the cockpit and Elain turned in her chair, smiling up at him, that he was in so much trouble. A face like that…surely there had to be some other reason for the demise of her engagement? Did Graysen imagine he could do better? 

Lucien was certain no one could do better than Elain Archeron. 

ELAIN:

They landed at dusk, kicking up sand all over the viewport. Elain didn’t care, though Lucien frowned at the sight, eyes narrowed. She was practically giddy with anticipation, ready to put her boots on the ground and finally—finally—prove she was more than just some pretty nobody from Naboo. Overshadowed by her far more powerful, more interesting sisters. This was her shot, and the only one she’d get. 

Lucien had convinced her to ditch the cape, saying it was far too conspicuous in a place that seemed drenched in poverty. He was right, she reflected, and she might have told him so had they both not stepped onto the hangar so Lucien could immediately begin arguing with someone about cleaning up his ship.

Fussy. 

She wandered toward the edge, fingers curling over the railing that overlooked the outpost below. The image Lucien had shown her made it seem picturesque, but reality was far less kind. The grass was more brown than green, clinging to the sandy as an unforgiving wind battered it about. Everything had a fine layer of red sand dusting it—even the giant yellow sun dipping in the sky cast a hazy, bloody glow. 

Lucien’s presence at her side told Elain he’d managed to haggle out a price for fuel and repairs that he could live with. Was Nesta financing this trip for him, or had it come out of his own pocket? Lucien hadn’t asked her for credits which seemed unusual. Even Graysen had often opened his palm in the name of fairness.

“C’mon,” Lucien said, handing Elain a heavy brown jacket that smelled of smoke and oil. “Try not to breathe in too much of the air. I’ll get us some scarves in the morning.”

And that was that. He kept a hand on her back and his body angled as if something lurking in the sand was going to come running at them. Elain very much doubted anything would, though she had read that gundarks made their home on Florrum, though typically higher up on the cliffsides she could just make out in the distance. 

No sand monsters. Just sand, which was its own monster given how it was filling her boots despite the elevated walkway that wound toward town. Lucien seemed unphased and even the cruel wind somehow avoided his beautiful face, as if the world recognized he was special somehow. 

Or perhaps too beautiful to mar, which Elain agreed with. The galaxy had so few lovely things to start, it would be a shame to harm him further. Elain still wondered what had happened to his eye—who had wounded him? And why did it make her so angry? Elain had been trying to work up the nerve to ask him without making him feel self-conscious about it. The scars added something to his beauty, told a story of someone brave and clever—a survivor. 

Unaware of her own admiration, Lucien stepped in front of the cantina. Everything about him shifted so quickly she might have blinked and missed it. Gone was the serious pilot, the smiling man she’d come to know. All his worst traits seemed exaggerated when he stepped into the dim, artificially illuminated space.

No one batted an eye or even turned to look at them. It allowed Lucien to saunter up to the edge of the bar, wedging himself between two open stools so he could lean against his elbow. “Got any work?”

That…wasn’t what she’d expected him to ask. The barkeep glanced up at the pair of them, eyes narrowed for just a moment. Lucien certainly looked like the sort who came into places like this all the time. Elain might have appreciated his worn clothes and how he strategically hid his arm so the bars denoting his rank were no longer visible. He could have been any low-life looking for a job.

But she couldn’t. And when those pair of green eyes landed on her, Elain knew she couldn’t fake her easy, privileged upbringing. Lucien hadn’t mentioned that at all, and now she wished she’d thought of it.

“You’re looking for work?” the woman asked, turning her attention back to Lucien.

Lucien’s grin widened. “Got a pretty new wife to support. Her family didn’t like when I ran off with her.”

And just like that, Lucien had smoothed over every question on that lined, weathered face. The barkeepers shoulders relaxed and she went back to rubbing that filthy rag all over the equally filthy bartop. 

“Aye! Marcellus! Got you a taker!”

Lucien turned his head, angling his body in front of Elain so she was half hidden behind his bulk. From the shadows, a tall, lanky, dark haired, dark eyed man stepped forward. His gaze swept over Lucien first before turning to Elain. She didn’t think she quite liked the way his expression sharpened into something akin to hunger. 

“You want a job?” Marcellus asked Lucien, though he was still looking at Elain. 

“Pretty, right?” Lucien asked casually, hand drifting toward the blaster holstered against his muscular thigh. “If you keep looking at her like that, we’re gonna have trouble.”

“Ain’t never seen a woman half so pretty,” Marcellus replied, tipping his head in Elain’s direction. “Where’d you find her?”

“Corellia,” Lucien replied with a grin. 

Marcellus turned his attention back to Lucien. “Maybe it’s time to pay the core a visit.”

They laughed at Elain’s expense, but she didn’t care. So long as they believed she and Lucien were together, Elain didn’t mind a little male laughter in the form of bonding. From the corner of her eye, she watched him rest his hand on his blaster, a subtle warning that for all their joviality, Lucien would make good on his promise if he felt like he needed to. 

“What’s the job?” Lucien asked once Marcellus’s smile faded a bit. 

“Gundarks,” Marcellus said with a grimace. “You a steady shot?”

Elain reached for Lucien’s arm, squeezing slightly. The gesture wasn’t lost on their new friend, who glanced at her again. 

“Maybe we should go,” she said, letting her own anxiety creep in. “I’ll talk to my father, I’ll—”

“No,” Lucien interrupted smoothly, playing along perfectly. “I can take care of my new wife. Gundarks aren’t the worst thing I’ve faced, besides. Your sister, for one,” he said, earning another laugh from Marcellus. 

“I’ll bring him home mostly intact,” Marcellus informed her. Elain shrank back like the good, sheltered Corellian woman she knew he expected to see. In truth, Elain had never been to Corellia and had no idea what women were like there. She trusted Lucien knew what he was doing.

“Speaking of, you know any places with some availability. I think we’ll be sticking around for a bit,” Lucien told Marcellus. The barkeeper, still listening over the hum of conversation, leaned forward again.

“I got a place. It ain’t much, but it’s cheap.”

“I love cheap,” Lucien told her with an easy, beautiful grin. They worked out a price for the month and Lucien handed over credits without looking at her at all. Elain had been prepared to pay, even if only to continue with the charade. There was a tightness to Lucien’s shoulders as he paid and she wondered if this wasn’t a matter of honor that she didn’t understand.

He was given a key card and directions to their new home for the month with another murmured, remember it ain’t much, as if they hadn’t just spent a week on top of each other on his ship. Anything was better than the tiny room they’d been given. 

“I’ll meet you in the morning. You got a name?” Marcellus asked.

“Fox,” Lucien said with that same charming smile. “And this is Rose.”

“Well, Fox. I’d get your pretty woman a blaster if I were you.”

But it was the barkeep, with her narrowed eyes, that leaned toward Elain. “If you want a job, I got something for you. It’s not glamorous, but it pays.”

“Okay,” Elain said breathlessly, nodding her head with an earnestness that felt real.

“Come by when he leaves and I’ll get you set up.”

And that was that. Elain stumbled out an appreciative thank you while Lucien snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his lips pressed into her hair, swore he inhaled softly. She was tempted to fling her arms around his middle and didn’t, if only because that wasn’t the sort of thing high born ladies did. She’d never seen Nesta act that way with Cassian when they were surrounded by people, though she knew her sister loved him enough to risk everything for him. 

Lucien led Elain back out into the rapidly cooling desert, his arm migrating from her waist to her shoulder so he could pull her closer. It was practical, given the wind whistled around them, throwing sand right into her mouth. Lucien was, once again, immune to the weather and the world, leading her through closed shops and little, round houses shut tight for the night. Their own was right in the middle of a rather nice neighborhood, rundown and shabby and yet she saw a child’s hovercar parked in front of a door a few houses down. People had a life, were happy here. 

The sight strengthened Elain’s commitment to bring Graysen down. The galaxy was filled with people like this, who just wanted safety and security. They deserved better than the rich getting richer off shady deals while funding terrorists to ensure that wealth.

Lucien opened the door with a, “Home, sweet home.”

The barkeep hadn’t lied. It wasn’t much at all. Three connected rooms that hadn’t been updated since the High Republic if that peeling, gold paint was any indicator. The kitchen seemed functional enough, and the bedroom had a closet at least—and a bed hardly any bigger than the one Lucien kept on his ship. Maybe he wouldn’t be directly on top of her, but he’d certainly be touching her. 

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, peeking his head over her own when Elain turned on the light.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. She’d seen the sofa and its lumpy cushions. If he was going to clear out gundark nests, he’d need better sleep or he was likely to get eaten. “We’re married, right? We’ll sleep in the same bed.”

Lucien took a healthy step away from her, back in the hall that held the decently sized ‘fresher. “We’re not actually married,” he reminded her, shaking sand from his pulled back hair. “This is just a job.”

Elain swallowed the little hurt. Just a job. “I don’t want to explain to my sister why Gundarks ate her favorite pilot,” Elain snapped, her words just a shade too frosty. “I didn’t realize sleeping beside me was such a terrible prospect, but if you want to risk it, be my guest.”

She went to stomp toward the kitchen and see what they had in the way of cookware when Lucien’s fingers curled around her arm.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, looking down at her. Russet and gold were matched in their intensity. “The idea of sleeping beside you is a little too appealing. Surely you know that.”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied, wrenching her arm from his grip. There was no ire to her voice, though. In fact, Elain thought she sounded just a shade too suggestive given the way he was looking at her.

Still, it soothed her a little, knowing the attraction wasn’t one sided. 

“Would you like to?” he called after her retreating form. Elain shivered, though she didn’t turn. Yes, her mind screamed. Instead, Elain went to the kitchen just as she’d planned.

Silent and wondering how long they’d last before they gave in.

LUCIEN:

Elain was back in that silky ivory nightdress—the one with the pearls on the straps, a detail he’d missed before. She’d unbound her hair, letting it fall around her delicate, freckled shoulders. Lucien wanted to map them like a constellation, wanted to memorize them like star charts. Instead, he slid into bed beside her, nervous like this was his first time. Elain glanced over, her cheeks burning red and Lucien was glad he hadn’t put on a shirt. 

“Are you really going to clear out gundarks?” she asked once they were alone in the dark. Lucien resisted the urge to pull her against him, if only because he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands or his mouth to himself.

“I meant it when I said I’ve done worse jobs. It’ll give me a chance to get a read on the planet—and you a chance to hear the local gossip. If the Hybern Syndicate is working here, that’s more money and I’m a good shot.”

“You’re going to work for them?” she gaped, twisting so she was facing him. Lucien remained on his back, sliding his hands behind his head to keep them to himself.

“No, but an introduction never hurt anyone. Especially not you,” he added, though in truth it very well could hurt her. This was just recon, and not a takedown, and as long as no one recognized either of them, they couldn’t get hurt. 

Not badly, anyway. 

“I have a blaster for you,” he added, thinking of the weapon he’d left in the kitchen for her. “Shoot first, ask questions later. Nesta will kill me if I bring you home covered in bruises.”

“Nesta isn’t my mother,” Elain replied, shifting back to her original position. She kept rolling, until her back was to him and once again, Lucien had to fight the urge to pull her closer. He remained where he was long after sleep took Elain, his mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. Nesta would want a report tomorrow, and Lucien didn’t know what to tell her. This was a monumentally bad idea, made all the worse by how fervently Elain wanted to see results. Lucien wasn’t convinced she would back down if they managed to find proof of Graysen’s connection—and that was what made Elain dangerous. She was untested, unpracticed, and too used to using her words as weapons.

The Hybern Syndicate would use weapons as weapons, and would hardly mourn the loss of one dead Senator. Lucien would, though, which made him risky, too. He lacked his usual distance and the ability to shrug things off. His mind was still in the cantina, on Marcellus and his lightning hot rage as the man looked Elain up and down with open appreciation.

Mine, she’s mine—it wasn’t rational, and yet he had been too close to putting a blaster bolt in the man's head if he hadn’t backed down. Lucien didn’t think he could handle a whole day listening to another man talk about how beautiful his pretend wife was.

In the end, Lucien gave in to impulse and pulled Elain’s pliant, sleeping body against his own. For as long as they were on Florrum, she was his wife and surely that meant he was allowed to hold her. 

He woke to a painful erection—the result of being relaxed and asleep and the scent of her shampoo burning in his nose—and the sound of knocking on the door.

Elain groaned. “I just fell asleep,” she mumbled as Lucien angled his hips away from her. Best not to assault her with his penis first thing in the morning. He didn’t release her though, burying his face in her hair to drink that floral, sweet smell. 

The sun filtered through a filthy window, betraying to Elain that she hadn’t, in fact, just fallen asleep. Elain pressed herself back against him, narrowly avoiding sliding her ass against his still interested, still very awake cock, unaware of how Lucien’s heart stumbled at the thought. He dind’t want to freak her out.

He wanted her to touch him.

“Fox! You still coming or what?!”

It was Lucien’s turn to groan, resting the urge to kiss her arched neck. “Another day, princess,” he said, though truthfully he was talking to himself.

“Give me a minute!” Lucien yelled, flinging the blankets off his body. By the time he’d managed to get himself into his pants, he was back to normal which was a relief. He didn’t want to face the gundarks still worked up over his pretend wife. 

“Here,” Lucien said, fishing in his pockets for some credits. “Get a couple scarves and whatever else you need to blend in. Nothing fancy,” he added, as if she’d be likely to find it. Elain sat up, her tangled hair tumbling down her back. 

“I have credits—”

“C’mon,” he chided, pulling his hair back in a rather sloppy bun at the nape of his neck. “What kind of husband would I be if I made you spend your own credits? And besides. Nesta will reimburse me for all the money I spend, so no harm done.”

“She wouldn’t do that for me,” Elain mumbled, taking the little gold and silver pieces.

“Exactly,” he said with a flourish, offering up a grin while he tripped into his boots. “Don’t forget your blaster, sweetheart. I love you!” he added loudly, pushing open the door a second later. 

Marcellus looked exactly the same as before, though his sleeve was rolled up. Lucien wasn’t stupid—he saw the half-hidden, black inked tattoo in the shape of what seemed to be a cauldron just beneath leather vambraces.

Marcellus wasn’t a simple good samaritan, then. Good. If Lucien impressed him, he’d be able to loosen his tongue with liquor, and maybe get that invite faster than he’d anticipated. 

“Ready?” Marcellus asked, running a hand through his closely cropped hair.

Lucien felt a pair of hands run up his back. Turning, he found Elain still in her nightdress. 

“You’ll take good care of him?” she asked, blinking wide, doe-eyes up at him. Kriffing hell, but Lucien was seconds from closing the door, damning the mission and convincing her all the reasons she should be his actual wife. 

“Very good care,” Marcellus replied, his expression just a little too friendly. 

“Yeah, okay, eyes up here pal,” Lucien grumbled, brushing his knuckles over Elain’s cheek. Their first kiss wasn’t happening like this. Not that Elain seemed to have gotten that memo, as she reached for his hand and pressed a sweet, soft kiss against his palm. 

“Be safe,” she said earnestly. None of it felt fake to Lucien, whose knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of her words.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replied. 

And then they were gone, walking into the sand and the early morning heat. Marcellus whistled softly, leading Lucien to the blue and silver hovercar idling just off the path. “How’d you meet a girl like that?”

“Luck,” he said honestly. Better to pepper them into his lies to make them easier to remember. “The same way you meet any beautiful woman.”

“Need me that kind of luck,” Marcellus said with a smile. “But I don’t think I’d bring that kind of woman out to these parts.”

Lucien grunted, taking a seat beside Marcellus. “You would if you met her father. He had plans for her.”

“I’ll bet,” Marcellus replied. “You hidin’ out, then?”

“For now. Trying to find something long term, but I gotta start somewhere.”

“I might have a job for you after this, if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

“I’ve never minded that,” Lucien said with a grin. That much was true—he was pretty sure he still had a little engine oil caked beneath his nails. The whipping wind silenced their conversation, and Marcellus was kind enough to offer Lucien a smoky smelling scarf for his face, if only to keep his lungs from filling with sand. Lucien hated Florrum, and was desperate to return to the artifice of Coruscant. There was no true weather at all—just a carefully controlled climate made by machines in order to keep the planet from total collapse. 

Marcellus drove Lucien out into the dune filled landscape, drowning him in a sea of red. Cliffs scaled a few feet in the distance with carved out holes likely made by the gundarks in question. 

“Got a nest of ‘em right up ahead,” Marcellus told Lucien grimly. “They’ve been harassing workers on their way to the mines.”

“Mines?” Lucien replied with genuine surprise. What could they possibly be mining on Florrum? Sand? 

“Some upstart from Coruscant’s little pet project,” Marcellus said flippantly, unaware this was exactly what Lucien wanted to know. “Not many from Doshar Outpost work there—conditions are rough and credits are low. But a lot more a few towns over do, and the gundarks are picking them off one by one. I’ll go half with you if you don’t die.”

“Encouraging words,” Lucien grumbled, swinging himself out of the speeder. So it was Graysen’s money funding this job. Lucien didn’t hate that, though he also didn’t like being so close to the man he was trying to take down. Still, he trusted Marcellus not to do too much blabbing—that would be bad for business, after all. 

What followed was, perhaps, the worst day of Lucien’s life. After scaling the cliffside, both he and Marcellus quickly found that gundarks in any number were a formidable foe. At least as tall as Lucien, with four arms, red fur, and the will to kill him, there were several back handed blows that convinced Lucien this would be his last day alive.

They stumbled back to the speeder closer to dusk, bloodied and bruised and exhausted. “Fuck you,” Lucien said, adopting the crudest language he could think of. “That was…that was a suicide mission.”

“It’s done,” Marcellus replied, swiping at a cut over the bridge of his nose. The unspoken words between them was, of course, that neither had truly believed they’d survive it. There must have been eight of them in that nest—no wonder so many people were being hunted. Lucien had questions about the mines, about Graysen, about all of it. 

And none of it mattered. Not as he fought to catch his breath and adjust to the ache of his body. Lucien indulged himself in a fantasy where Elain patched up all his little hurts like a good wife, though in truth he figured she’d admonish him loudly for being so reckless.

She’d just have to get used to that.

“I’ve got another job for you, if you want,” Marcellus told him, pulling outside the cantina.

“Pay me for this one, first,” Lucien grumbled, stumbling out of the car. “And then we’ll talk another.”

Marcellus chuckled. “You got it.”

Lucien pushed open the door, intending to wash himself up in the ‘fresher before going home to Elain. He didn’t need to bother. There she was, with a pretty yellow scarf tied around her head, hiding her hair and leaving just that beautiful face of hers visible. She’d taken his advice and gotten some new clothes, and the brown pants clinging to her hips, along with the pretty blue of her shirt tucked inside neatly, made Lucien forget all about gundarks.

Wife. That's my wife. 

Elain had an empty tray in one hand and an apron tied around her waist. “What happened to you?” she gaped, rushing between tables for him.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the ebbing fear. Lucien didn’t know what made him reach for her face, nor could he account for drawing her closer until his mouth slanted over her own. All Lucien knew was he couldn’t die without kissing her, at least once. 

He’d expected something polite back. Just enough to sell the kiss before pushing him away with get it together eyes.

That wasn’t what happened. Elain reached for him, too, arms tangling around his neck as she surged upwards for what, to Lucien, felt like a frantic, desperate kiss. Good. He forgot they were in a cantina, forgot he was covered in gundark blood. He even forgot his aching body and this mission that was going just a shade too well for his personal comfort. 

All he knew was the taste of her mouth—spicy and sweet, like she’d had a spice brew sometime that afternoon—and the way her tongue slid into his mouth so she could taste him, too.

A jarring touch on his shoulder pulled Lucien back. “Got your credits,” Marcellus said, offering up a tired smile. “Why don’t you sleep on it, get back to me sometime tomorrow about this new job. You were a damn good shot in there. Glad to have you at my back, Fox.”

“You too,” Lucien admitted, slipping his datapad from his pocket for a quick transfer. “I’m taking her home, if no one objects.”

The barkeep merely waved them on, uninterested in the small, personal drama playing out in the middle of her floor. Elain tripped forward, handing back her tray with a sweet, grateful smile. 

“Thank you for the job,” she said, her words endearing. She played the part of sheltered, naive princess so well. Even the barkeep's flinty eyes softened.

“You got it. Glad to have some help in this dump.”

“I’d carry you out, but I think my ribs are bruised,” Lucien told Elain ruefully, leading her back into the chill. It had been blazing hot all afternoon and now that night was approaching, they’d be treated to freezing weather again.

“What happened?” she demanded, reaching for his scratched up hand.

“Gundarks,” he replied grimly. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re back inside.”

“Here,” she told him, unwinding a scarf from her apron for him. Orange, just like the little fox painted on his ship. Lucien wondered if she’d guessed, or that had been the only thing available to her. Another day he might have asked, but Lucien was merely grateful to be back inside their shared, temporary home. Tripping out of his boots, Lucien made his way for the ‘fresher.

“I’ll make dinner,” Elain called, reminding him he had no idea when he’d eaten last.

It was on the tip of his tongue—I love you—and he was grateful he didn’t say so. That kiss would surely be ruined by his stupid heart and his inability to look before he leaped. That had been his problem with the gundarks, with this mission, with everything he’d ever done. 

It would have been a lie to say he didn’t have a few regrets. Maybe someone else would have been better suited for this mission.

But Lucien knew one thing with absolute certainty: Nesta Archeron had sent him on this mission for a reason. And if Nesta thought Elain had nothing, and this was merely to placate her, she could have sent someone better suited. Someone more level, someone less likely to jump into things. That wasn’t Lucien.

That had never been Lucien.

ELAIN: 

Real or not real? 

All through dinner, that was Elain’s only, burning question. Had the kiss been real or had it been fake? It felt real, and there was no reason for it—everyone believed she and Lucien were married after the day of gushing she’d done. Not to mention, Elain’s worry as the hour grew later and later certainly sold the nervous, sheltered wife act. She was nervous…and maybe a little sheltered, too. 

And then Lucien had come in, looking every inch the hero Nesta had suggested he was. Cut up, bruised, and covered in blood that, for a second, she’d been terrified had been his. But no, gundark blood was so dark it was almost black, mingled against his own blood of which there seemed to be very little of.

The wanting slammed into her mere seconds before he did. He looked good. Better than good—incredible, like the sort of man she’d been waiting on her entire life. And then he’d kissed her and Elain had forgotten about their mission or even that they weren’t really married. Because of course this was her husband—her filthy, stupid husband—and he was safe.

And now he was clean. A little battered and bruised but alive and spooning a third bowl of her mediocre stew into his mouth. In between bites, Lucien recounted his day and the fight with the gundarks, unaware of how her heart stumbled every time he laughed off a near miss with death. As though it were all funny to him.

And all the while, all Elain truly wanted to know was if the kiss had been real. Did he mean to kiss her like that? Like the only thing keeping him on his feet was her? Or had it been part of his ruse for Marcellus? Tapping her fingers, Elain waited until he finished another bowl, groaning as he stood.

She cleaned while Lucien eyed her warily. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, walking toward the other side of the counter so he could lean his muscular body against the cool metal. His clean shirt clung to his chest, a vibrant blue that made his skin seem more sunkissed than usual.

“I’m fine,” she lied, because she wasn’t. 

“Are you upset with me?” he asked. And she wasn’t mad at him, either. Not when he’d managed to score a job with Marcellus, who might be connected to Hybern, and when he’d learned Graysen was operating a mine, for reasons Elain couldn’t untease. 

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it?” he asked. Damp tendrils of auburn hair spilled over his shoulders, framing a face that was too perceptive for his own good. Elain blinked.

Nothing. That was what she intended to say. “Why did you kiss me like that?”

Lucien’s lips parted. “Because…” he swallowed hard, the knot in his throat bobbing ever so slightly. “Kriff, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…I crossed a line, and…I’m sorry.”

“So…it was for show?” Stars, but that hurt more than anything he could have said.

His expression sharpened. “Who said that? I said I was sorry for crossing a line…not that I was putting on a show.”

Finger beneath her chin, Lucien tilted her face so she had to look at him. “All I want to do is kiss you. All the time,” he added, just in case she didn’t understand. 

“All the time?” she repeated. “Like…right now?”

“Especially right now,” he agreed, drawing them closer. 

“Lucien—”

He silenced her plea to get on with it, a smile on his face. She could taste it, warm and bright and tinged with the dinner she’d made him. There was a soft exhale of air and then his fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her closer still, until she was flush against his body.

Lucien groaned from either want or pain—she couldn’t say for sure. Whatever it was, it didn’t keep him from banding her closer, to pulling her up so her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was holding her in the air despite his many injuries. 

And the whole while, all Elain focused on was kissing him. The taste of his mouth, the softness of his tongue gliding against her own—all of it was too much. She wanted far more, wanted to peel his clothes from his body and have him whatever way he’d let her. 

Lucien grunted when she tried to pull the shift up over his head. “I want to,” he panted, pressing his forehead against her own. “You have no idea how badly I want to, but…”

But she was sliding back to the floor and the splattered bruises against his ribcage told Elain he was in far worse shape than she’d originally thought.

“Take it off,” she whispered, wanting to take stock of him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Lucien tossed his shirt behind him, shrugging his cut up shoulders. He didn’t react while she ran her fingers over his toned chest, mapping the scars and bruises beneath her fingers. 

“Will you let me take care of you, at least?” she asked him.

His eyes flashed with heat. “Careful, Elain, or I’ll start thinking you’re my actual wife.”

Something in his tone made her think he might like it if she was. 

“What woman wants such a reckless husband?” she replied lightly, grateful he couldn’t hear the way her heart raced. “I’d be a widow before the year was out.”

His eyes tracked her, even when she reached for his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. “I don’t know about that,” he all but purred. “I’m deceptively resourceful.”

“I’m learning,” she replied dryly, shoving him gently to the bed she’d made after he left. “Stay here. I’ll dig out some bacta.”

Lucien laid flat, stripping to just his under things so she could slather his cuts in the thick, cold goo before gently laying a bandage over top.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say the princess was a healer,” he said, his voice strained and breathless. It didn’t take much to understand what had him so worked up. Elain had seen the bulge outlining those tight shorts the moment she’d settled between his splayed legs to clean up a rather nasty cut against his inner thigh. And maybe she’d lingered there, rubbing her fingers over his skin like she was checking for something internal, when in truth she merely liked feeling his muscles flex just beneath his skin. 

“Why do you call me that?” she asked him, settling back once she was certain he was as patched up as she could get him. “Princess? No one calls me that outside of Naboo.”

“You look like one,” he told her earnestly, rising up on his elbows to look at her still kneeling between his legs. “What else would you like me to call you?”

So long as he wasn’t mocking her, Elain didn’t mind if he called her princess. In fact, she didn’t think it was such an awful thing to be considered his princess. “Princess is fine.”

He grinned, gesturing for her to come toward him. Elain collapsed against the solid strength of his chest, burying a smile into his skin when his arms wrapped around her. His face was back in her hair, inhaling deeply before he kissed her gently. 

“My pretty princess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheek. 

“Marcellus can wait a day,” Elain told him, laying flat on her stomach so she could look at him. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Lucien offered her that dimpled smile. “Oh? Hoping to keep me in bed, are you?”

“I have a job, don’t I?” she shot back without malice. “I’m working a little charm, too. But it would be nice knowing you’re here, tucked away and safe.”

“It’s tempting, but if you’re leaving, I am too,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. 

“Because this is a job?” she asked anxiously. 

“Because I’d be a shitty husband if I laid in bed all day while my wife worked. I’ll take care of myself,” he added hastily, offering another warm kiss. 

“Promise?”

Lucien placed a battered hand against his bruised chest. “I swear it on the vows we made the day we got married.”

Elain offered him a loud, exaggerated sigh of exasperation, but Lucien was still grinning. “He knows I need the money. He’ll expect to see me tomorrow. And I want to know what’s going on with that mine and how it all connects. Trust me,” he added. 

Elain settled beside him. 

“I do.”