#also conspiring against him. and she knew it would have been better to have her on side

[fideidefenswhore]

the downfall and execution of a tudor queen (2023) / the boleyns: a scandalous family (2021) / the king's pearl: henry viii and his daughter mary (2017), melita thomas / anne boleyn (tv miniseries 2021) / the mirror and the light (2024) / elizabeth (1998)

[madridfangirl]

Escape

Jude Bellingham comfort blurb.

Summary: Literally the title. Jude finds an escape from ongoing shit with the people he loves the most.

(Characters from Star Crossed Lovers.)

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

'Heyy you.'

'Heyy.'

Ananya was met with a glum face and a glum voice when she video-called her boyfriend. Last 2 days were nothing short of hell for him. She had been away for her cousin's wedding in India, but the Clasico had bummed her out as well. They had exchanged messages and had a brief call but the wedding celebrations didn't leave her much time to spend with Jude.

And when she saw the Balon d'or fiasco while scrolling through her insta at the airport, her first reaction was disbelief. She wanted to throw her phone at the nearest wall. The travesty and scandal of the whole thing was beyond comprehension.

But she got her reaction out of her system before reaching out to him, knowing he would be 10 times as upset. Just last night he had sent her images of the fully done up suit, along with the classy watch (which she had picked). He had been so excited for the podium finish, to actually attend as one of the best players in the world and not an 'upcoming' player anymore. The post-event party was going to be epic too. But alas - the universe conspired against them real hard.

'How are you?'

'How do you think?'

He responded curtly, then checked his tone immediately.

'Just blah.'

'I know. Me too.'

'When did you see?'

'Just now when I reached the airport.'

She was about to board the connecting flight to Madrid.

'You?'

'Been a few hours.'

'You didn't tell me?'

'Didn't know where you would be. Didn't wanna upset you also.'

Upset was a massive understatement for what she was feeling right now. She wanted to burn down the world. Not just as Jude's girlfriend, but as a Madridista more.

But, she told herself what's done is done. She had to be strong for him. Both of them couldn't have a meltdown at the same time.

'Honestly thought it would be a good distraction from Saturday. But nahh. Man I still can't believe this is true.'

'Me neither. Part of me feels I'd wake up from this nightmare any second.'

'Yeah.'

'When do you go back to training?'

'Day after. Got tomorrow off as well now.'

'Hmm. Denise must be pampering you loads?'

First hint of a smile from the boy, as he thought of his mother fondly.

'Hotdog, pasta, cake, hugs - everything.'

'Awww. Didn't sing you a lullaby?'

She teased fondly.

'Won't put it past her.'

A half-smile again.

Jobe & Mark couldn't make it for the Clasico. Jobe's schedule didn't permit that. The brothers loved nothing more than to be there to support each other for big matches but the realities of their calendars barely permitted that.

Ananya hoped they had been able to make it. Would have been a massive comfort to Jude right now.

But Denise was a superwoman when it came to making Jude feel better & taking care of him. One of the best mums in the world.

Ananya had seen their bond up close for an year now. So she knew he was in good hands.

'She's the best.'

Ananya smiled genuinely at the screen.

'Don't know what I'd do without her honestly.'

He paused for a moment.

'And, without you.'

'Oh you'd walk around the streets crazy if it wasn't for me.'

She shrugged, grinning.

Jude smiled. The kind of smile that recahed his eyes. The ability of this girl to uplift his spirits, just by existing, befuddled him so much.

'How long till I see you?'

'Three hours. Boarding in 5 and coming straight to you from the airport.'

'Come sooner.'

She shook her head fondly at the screen.

'Unless you suddenly turned into Tony Stark and discovered a portal through time & space, not possible to come faster than a plane.'

'Such a nerd.'

'Proud of it.'

'Seriously, come soon.'

'Close your eyes. Take a nap. I'd be there when you wake up.'

Colour drained from his face at her words. He had barely slept AT ALL last two days. Even Denise's cuddles hadn't helped.

'Yeah, will try.'

'Jude, look at me.'

He looked up immediately.

'It's done. It sucks but it's done. Nothing will change it. Don't let it burn you from the inside. Last 2 days were shitty but we can only go up from here, yeah?'

'Easier said than done.'

'With you. 100%. It'd feel shitty for a while but hey, next 1.5 days, lets shut out the world and focus on what's dear to us, what's important, yeah? There is more to life, we both know that.'

'Hmmm.'

'I'll be there by lunch time. Should I get some Toblerone?'

'Yeah.'

'Cool, see you soon baby.'

'Come soon.'

'I'm coming.'

When she landed in Madrid and checked her phone, there were 5 missed calls from Jude. and a message to call him back as soon as she saw it.

Alarmed, she rang him up immediately.

'Hey, where are you? Don't leave the airport.'

'What?'

'We are going to Corsica for a day.'

'WHAT?'

'Mum and I are at the private section of the airport. There is a car waiting for you on arrivals. Sending you the details. Take that & come here. We fly out in 15.'

'Back up. What the hell are you saying? This doesn't make any sense.'

'Makes all the sense. I don't have training tomorrow and you have an off tomorrow. We'll come back early on Wed morning. 2 nights in Corsica. Resort is booked and the flight time is 1.5 hours. I researched, dove. Planned to the T. Now stop wasting time & get here.'

Ananya couldn't register anything he was saying. Freaking out hard at the idea of taking a holiday together with his mum. Sure they had stayed together at his Madrid house many times and she had even visited the family in theri Birmingham home during the summer and she had a good relationship with Denise.

But a holiday with your boyfriend's mum was a big step.

Of all the reasons she had to freak out, she chose the silliest one to voice out loud.

'I don't have any clothes for Corsica.'

'You'd be with me. Why do you need clothes?'

'JUDE.'

'Relax, she's not with me right now. On the phone with dad. Complaining I've gone mad. Her exact words - come get your son he's driving me crazy.'

'I'm with her on this.'

'Did you find the car yet?'

'Yes but Jude..'

'Dove I need this. Can't be here right now. Can't even be in this city. Need an escape. Need you guys. Please?'

There was no way on Mother Earth she could have said no to that voice and those words.

'Ok.'

The plane took off exactly 10 mins later. Ananya insisted on wearing a mask while boarding - the relationship was not public and if there was any chance she was seen with him (Jude insisted it won't happen coz private terminal) then at least they won't get her face.

'Why Corsica?'

'Remote. Pretty. Haven't been there. And you said it's on your list right?'

She had seen the place in a movie and told him about it. Months ago.

'Yeah. But...'

'You shouldn't be the one having to plan all this right now. We should be taking care of you.'

'You are. By being with me right now.'

He leaned down & kissed her, something she was still getting used to in the presence of his family. It had taken Jude some time to understand that PDA worked differently where she came from, and both had gravitated to a midway here.

They landed soon, on a private airstrip of a luxury resort.

Ofcourse.

Ananya didn't even dare to think how much a place like this would have costed. Coz it was luxury personified. Grand sea-facing villas. Normally, she would have told Jude this was too much. But now was not the time. The boy had the right to do whatever he wanted right now.

Instead, she focused on the clear blue waters in sight. And wondered if the place would have a shop to buy at least something appropriate.

The staff walked them to their villa. While Ananya admired the white marbles and fancy chandeliers all around.

'This is us. And that's you, mum.'

Ananya walked in. And kept walking. The place was never ending. Two bed rooms. Three washrooms. Private pool. Sea-facing deck. And a bunch of other rooms she couldn't even understand the purpose of.

'You took 2 villas?'

'Yup.'

'Why? This place can fit a village.'

'Why do you think?'

He said without missing a beat.

'Seriously?'

'I meant what I said about the clothes.'

He said matter of factly, while adding the wifi password to his phone. Leaving his girlfriend gaping at him.

'You can take off that mask now.'

'Oh yeah.'

She had forgotten about that. So lost in this place, and in him.

When his brows furrowed while gaping through his phone, Ananya interved.

'Gimme that.'

'What?'

'No phones while we are here. Let's try that?'

That didn't seem like a bad idea. He did want to forget about the world outside, atleast briefly.

'What should we do then?'

'Lets watch a movie? Ask Denise if she'd be up for it.'

'Naah she's cranky. I literally dragged her out of bed mid-nap. Not knocking on her door now she'll be mad.'

'Cool then we can watch something. On the deck maybe? Sea breeze would be nice.'

'Or we could do some other things. On the deck also if you want.'

She just shook her head at him in exasperation, and he knew it meant a no. But he also knew a no was only for now. She won't keep him waiting for long, not when she wanted to make him feel better.

Honestly, he just did it to get a reaction from her, something he enjoyed a fair bit.

Not having the constant buzz of the phone next to him helped a ton. As did the soothing air. The serenity seeping into his pores.

They watched a random rom-com, with Jude's running commentary on how cheesy it was.

'Please, have you seen you? You are cheesier.'

'Take that back.'

'Nope.'

'Name one cheesy thing I do.'

'Kissing me through the phone?'

'That's not cheesy.'

'Yeah sure.'

The bickering went on, as the movie kept playing in the background.

Denise sent her a quick 'how's he doing?' and she responded with an 'ok.'

After the movie, they did do a few other things he wanted. Not on the deck though, no way she was going to allow that.

It was time for dinner. The resort had set up a table sea-side for them.

'I literally have nothing to wear Jude.'

'Wear my jersey. I have it somehwhere.'

'What a great idea to not draw attention.'

But wearing one of his oversized shirts was the only option. With her jeans.

How badly she hoped she had a dress with her right now. Especially in a fancy ass place like this.

But the shirt, which made her look like a homeless person, will have to suffice. She tucked it in, doing the best she could.

'Don't tell me you're gonna wear a mask here as well.'

'On the way, yes. On the table, it's already dark at the beach.'

He raised his hand in surrender, knowing she'll do what she wanted.

They reached the table and Denise was wearing a supremely elegant dress. And Ananya wanted to jump in the deep waters.

She glared at Jude sideways, and he avoided it pointedly, starting a random conversation with his mum.

Jobe face-timed shortly, and Jude took the phone to show the scenery to Jobe. Denise watched them from a distance, content.

'How was he last 2 days?'

'Oh bad. Very rarely have I seen him like this.'

Ananya hummed.

'But he looks better now. Your being here helped.'

Jude had learnt the matter-of-fact mode of speaking from his mother. He was a carbon copy in this department, and in many other departments.

The said boy returned to the table then, giggling at something Mark was yelling in the background. About Jobe not finishing his dinner.

'I'm 19 dad. 19.'

'19 year old boys don't need to eat anymore.'

'Jobe - why aren't you eating?'

Denise chimed in and Jobe looked distraught.

'You guys - seriously?'

'They're right. You shouldn't skip meals, not on a school night.'

Jude added with a straight face

'Shut up, loser.'

'You're a loser.'

'Ananya - if you love me, you'd make him sleep on the floor tonight.'

She was happily sipping on wine, which she choked on when she heard her name in the middle of the family conversation. And in the context with which Jobe said it.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, unable to string words together, but Jude stepped in to help.

'Who said she loves you?'

That did not help.

'Ananya - tell him you love me.'

'Ummm...'

'Alright stop it boys. Jobe - you have training tomorrow. Go to bed now.'

The ever disciplined Denise made her presence known.

'Gosh you guys. I'm 19. NINETEEN.'

'Still a teen.'

'I hate you, bro.'

'Right back at you, bro.'

They hung up shortly after, with another firm nudge from Denise.

When they were wrapping up, Denise took Ananya to the side.

'He hasn't slept in two days.'

'Yeah I figured.'

'Should we give him something?'

'No I think today maybe different. Let me try. Otherwise lets do that tomorrow.'

'Yeah ok. Just....can you check....'

'I'm on it, Denise.'

She smiled reassuringly at the worried mum. And the mum smiled back.

After the usual activities that night in bed, Ananya sighed softly as she was half-laid over Jude's chest. The shirt from earlier laid crumpled over the floor.

'Told you clothes are not a problem.'

'Oh shushhh.'

The sound of his giggle gave her such joy.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Ofcourse.'

'How are you? Truly?'

'Babe...'

'Please? It's important to talk, Jude.'

He was quiet for 2 minutes.

'Hasn't fully sunk in yet. Either thing.'

'I get it.'

'Makes me question a few things.'

'Like?'

'Like how good I am?'

Jude did not like such vulnerability. But the words just started flowing when he was with her.

'You don't need the validation of THOSE people to know how good you are.'

'What about my people?'

'Like?'

'Club. Coach. Squad.'

'Sweetheart - they know more than your family & friends. They are the ones who put you on this pedestal last year.'

'Am I still there though, on that pedestal?'

'What do you feel?'

'Things have changed.'

'For the better or for the worse?'

'A bit of both sometimes. Don't know how to explain.'

'No I get it.'

'Hmm.'

'And I think you should talk to him. He loves you, you know that.'

It didn't need to be said that they were talking about Carlo.

'It can get messy if I do that.'

'Do it nicely. It'd get messier if you don't. Jude, if your head is not in the right place, you think we have a real shot at winning everything?'

'Am I talking to my girlfriend or a Madridista?'

'Both. And both are telling you the same thing. So listen to both.'

'You know I'm not great at these conversations.'

'That's crazy. You're great at addressing things head on. Just do that.'

'Mum said the same thing.'

'See? I knew it.'

'You're so like her sometimes.'

'Like how?'

'Like how smart you are. How correct.'

'Yeah - well - I'm smart can't help it.'

She giggled and he pulled her up for a sloppy, messy kiss.

'Tell me it'll get better.'

'It's you. You will not rest till it gets better. You will turn the world upside down to make it better. And well, it's Real Madrid. No one can keep us down for long.'

'You really should work at the club you know. They'd love you.'

'My dream job. But my current one pays a lot more.'

'Hmmmm.'

As she laid wrapped in his arms, Jude felt a sense of contentment that had evaded him last 2 days. He thought his world was crumbling down, while his world was right there in his arms. And next door. And in Sunderland. And in Birmingham. The pieces of his heart were around him to make him whole again. Ultimately, that's what mattered. This was the most important thing. And he will turn the world upside down till he gets to the very top of it, again. Which was his rightful place anyway.

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Written in 2 hours. Not edited at all.

Just me talking to myself, anything to distract from this mess.

Hope you like it.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 3: Rude Awakening

18+ | 4.5k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

Now just how is Daemon going to pull this one off? Continuing the story from Daemon's POV.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The guards outside the King’s chamber regarded him with a suspicious glare, but Daemon just gave a smile and pushed his way inside despite their presence.

“Good morrow, Your Grace!” Daemon shouted loudly as he walked into the room, already fully dressed for the day and as chipper as any man could be so early in the morning.

Viserys startled awake and just as Daemon expected, he looked like he had been dragged through some maester’s leech pit. His face was pale with red-rimmed eyes, tired and blood-shot.

“What is the meaning of this, Brother!? Has someone perished?” Viserys sat up, pulling the sheets around his waist as he looked at his brother with disoriented concern.

“No, no. No one has died, Brother. There’s no need to worry,” Daemon was already opening the curtains to let streams of bright morning light into the room, knowing it would add to the king’s discomfort. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

He turned back to Viserys with a smirk plastered deviously across his face, looking like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “I do have a solution to all of your troubles, dear brother! Where our precious little Ryna is concerned.”

The king rubbed his head gingerly, letting out a low groan as he turned away from the sudden brightness. “By the Mother’s mercy! I hope whatever you have to say is quick. My head feels like it’s about to split in two.”

Ah yes, exactly as I had hoped.

“Oh, it most assuredly will be brief,” Daemon chuckled, but not without a small pang of sympathy. He’d been in Viserys’ shoes quite a few times, so he knew the feeling all too well.

He stood at the edge of his brother’s bed, resting his hand against the corner post as he continued, “But, first, I want to make sure we are on the same page. I know you wish to see Princess Ryna married, but to a suitable match, yes?”

“Yes, of course!” Viserys shouted clearly irritated by Daemon’s stating of the obvious. “But the girl will not give a man a second glance, let alone a chance to court her!”

Daemon tried to temper the smirk that pulled at his lips as he answered. “Quite simply, Brother… I’ve found a match for our darling girl that she will agree to. No, better than that, a match she will desire.”

The king looked up at Daemon, confusion wrinkling his brow. “And just who in the Seven Hells is the fellow then!?” he grumbled, cogs slowly turning in his groggy head as he tried to figure it out.

The look of bewilderment on his brother’s face was priceless. Oh, this is just too good. He let the anticipation build a little longer before giving the answer he had longed to say.

“Myself, of course,” Daemon finally replied with smug nonchalance.

“You and Ryna!?” Viserys was instantly wide awake and alert, the shock of his words jerking him to the edge of the bed as though he meant to stand. His eyes grew wide as saucers and his mouth fell open slackly. “You want to wed my girl?”

Oh, this is even better than I imagined.

“Yes, Ryna and I, but there is no need to look so startled, Brother,” he retorted, making an effort to keep his voice level so as not to give away his true amusement. “I’m sure once she hears of my proposal, she will gladly accept. Why, it was practically her idea.”

“And what makes you so sure she’ll agree? Have you been conspiring behind my back to ruin another of my daughters?” his voice was growing angry, making his distrust of Daemon’s ‘plan’ known.

Daemon rolled his eyes at Viserys’ question. He knew his brother had a tendency to always think the worse of him, but the accusation still stung.

“Conspiring behind your back? Hardly. I prefer to think of it as finding an effective solution to a problem we both agree needs to be addressed,” he said allowing a touch of frustration to color his words.

“And for your information, it was your lovely daughter who approached me at the banquet last night laden with worries,” he continued, keen to cement his intentions before the king. “She feared you might force her into a marriage that she does not wish.”

Daemon smiled again at the thought of his conversation with Ryna, feeling a surge of excitement at the memory of her in the dark. “I inquired why she’d had such difficulty in choosing a suitor and she admitted that she prizes her Valyrian heritage above all, but does not care for her brothers. And then after speaking to you, it seemed the answer just fell into place.”

Viserys stared at him for a long moment before letting out a groan, rubbing his temples again.

Come on, Brother, you ’re so close. You know it’s the only way.

Finally, the king spoke with a thoughtful, yet slightly melancholy tone. “My lady-wife held onto the hope that Ryna might embrace Aegon as a husband, either by choice or compulsion. The match was a strong one to preserve our bloodline, so I had no objection to it. Yet, I desired for my daughter to have agency in her own contentedness, for we both know that my first born son…. Well, he is not particularly suited for the role of husband to a gentle and spirited young maiden such as my second daughter.”

“That boy is an utter twat! He is even more scandalous than I,” Daemon hissed back with incredulity at the Hightower cunt’s aspirations. How dare she even plant the seed of marrying that rapacious little shit to his darling niece.

The king gave a small resigned sigh, accompanied by a defeated nod. “So, it would seem,” his brother replied, sounding less than happy that his solution would be coming from Daemon. “I should have you sent to the Wall for even suggesting such a thing, Brother. I must say I am not entirely fond of the situation, but I cannot argue with its potential merits. If Ryna consents to this union, then I will permit it.” Viserys paused for a moment and then his eyes sprung open as he added, “With condition.”

Inwardly, Daemon felt his heart leap wildly, but he did his best to remain composed and kept an expression of mild disinterest on his face.

Ah! I ’ve won. Victory is mine!

Daemon raised an eyebrow and held up his hands in a gesture of mock submission. “Name your terms, dear brother,” he urged, remaining mostly stoic. He didn’t want to appear nervous or overeager, in fear it would drive the king’s price higher. But the truth was, he would do anything, sacrifice anything, to possess that beautiful nymph that was his niece. It was a burning need that he must quench.

“The first condition is that you will not lay with her until the wedding night,” Viserys declared, his demeanor stern and unwavering. “There has already been enough talk of Rhaenyra’s exploits and I won’t have Ryna’s reputation tarnished as well. I assure you, should a single whisper from a servant reach my ears, I shall swiftly send you to the Wall to take your vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

The King knows me all too well! Daemon thought to himself, feeling his enthusiasm ebbing slightly at the thought of not having his sweetling before the wedding. Then again, he liked the idea of using creativity to circumvent the rule.

“Agreed,” Daemon conceded with a nod. “What else?” he inquired, silently hoping the next demand wouldn’t as torturous.

“Secondly, you will court her in a proper and honorable manner. You will perform all the duties expected of a suitor. You will spend time with her, in appropriate settings. You will stroll with her in the garden, dance with her at gatherings, and present her with gifts. You will demonstrate to me that you are truly serious about her, that she is not merely a temporary amusement or a means to further your own ambitions.”

Viserys spoke slowly and deliberately, each word imbued with a sense of authority, his directives explicit and firm.

Daemon had to suppress a scoff. I don’t need some courtship game to make her fall for me. She’s all but ripe for the taking…

He kept his expression neutral, determined not to betray any hint of irritation while simultaneously appeasing his brother, and nodded in affirmation once more. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall be the epitome of courtly refinement, a suitor unlike any that King’s Landing has ever witnessed,” he promised as convincingly as possible.

Viserys laughed boisterously, his expression gladdening substantially. “I should like to see that, Brother.”

Don ’t sound so unconvinced, you prick!

Daemon fought hard to repress his grin, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. “Be careful, Brother,” he cautioned. “I just might surprise you in this.”

He paused a moment and then tried to conclude the conversation. “I suppose I should begin my courtship then, barring any further objections or stipulations from you, Your Grace,” he said, stepping back from the bed, unable to keep a hint of eagerness from his voice.

“Do not look so pleased, Brother. I am not finished yet,” Viserys said with a glaring smirk. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy holding this over Daemon’s head. “Should I be satisfied and give you my daughter’s hand, I expect you to behave as a proper husband would.” The king was sitting up at the edge of the bed now, arms crossed and sheets still covering the lower half of his body.

His next words made Daemon’s heart beat faster. “You will not see other women, you will comport yourself with decency, and I will expect to hear news of a child on the way within a year of the wedding.”

By the Gods …

Everything the king was demanding was to be expected, but the thought of having to be a proper husband with all the obligations that came along with it was a struggle to bear. Surely his brother’s strong hand would grow lax after the wedding, for there was only so much a man like him could endure.

However, the final condition of Viserys’ terms made him stiffen with arousal. He could already imagine his beautiful girl full and round with his babe… Gods give me strength. The mere idea made him dizzy, but he knew he had to focus on the task at hand, so he pushed all thoughts of that glorious image as far back into his mind as possible.

Daemon finally spoke again with a hint of hesitation in his voice, knowing he needed to be on his best behavior so he wouldn’t lose this opportunity. “Of course, I will behave as an upstanding husband should. I have no heirs, save my twin daughters, and have wont of a male to carry on our name.”

“That pleases me to hear, Brother.” He gave Daemon a thin lipped smile, before letting out a conclusive sigh. “I have my doubts that you will be able to uphold your end of this bargain, but if you make good on your word… If the courtship goes well and it is what Ryna truly wishes, than I shall give my blessing and my second daughter’s hand in marriage.” The king took a moment to collect himself, and a more relaxed expression settled over his face, a hint of satisfaction in his features. “Perhaps it shall go a long way towards mending old wounds, Brother.”

Viserys opened his arms, welcoming his brother into an embrace. With a slight hesitation, Daemon accepted his brother’s gesture of goodwill and leaned in to encircle his arms around his back. It wasn’t often that the two shared such a moment of peace, and he found it refreshing that such a potentially hostile topic might end well. He clapped Viserys on the back before standing upright again, given neither man was taken to such displays of affection.

Daemon looked down at his brother with as much honesty as he could convey. “Old wounds and old grudges, Brother. Let us hope that I shall do us both proud.”

“Join the family for the morning meal and I will announce the courtship,” Viserys said with surprising fondness. “I do not look forward to the irate glances my lady-wife will surely give me from across the table, but The King has cause to make his own choices once in awhile.” He chuckled and laid back in bed, likely ready to slumber for another hour before rousing.

He chuckled, imagining the look on Alicent’s face when she found out. No doubt she will do her best to sabotage this courtship.

“I am quite eager to witness her reaction. I am almost certain steam will shoot from her nostrils.” Daemon replied with a hint of amusement in his tone, barely suppressing a grin. “But I will see you at breakfast, dear brother. Now, I must take leave. I have a princess to court.”

Viserys waved his hand in the air to shoo his brother away, his head already nestling into the plush pillows. With a satisfied nod, Daemon turned and left his brother’s chamber with a grin, already planning his next move.

He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, a burning passion igniting his every step as he moved closer to his prize. The thought of his sweet niece, soon to be his bride, fueled his desire and set him ablaze with a fierce intensity.

His hands curled into tight fights at his sides as visions of Ryna danced through his mind. Soon he would have her all to himself, and he would make her squirm and whine, begging and pleading for him. She many never fully grasp the extent of what he had endured, just to earn the chance to call her his own.

Daemon found himself walking down the hall towards his niece’s chamber, the desire to tell her of his victory, to hear her response and see her smile with delight, now almost irresistible. He knew that such thoughts were driven by his own impulsive nature, and that he must remain rational and patient for the time being, but he could not help himself.

He stood quietly at her door and listened, wondering if she was even awake yet. He heard the sound of shuffling inside the room and then the soft padding of bare feet across the floor.

He could only imagine what she would be wearing. A nightgown, so thin and flimsy it might as well be see-through, and her skin glowing in the morning light. He tried his best to push those lurid thoughts aside, but the mental picture of her was too enticing and it lingered persistently as he finally knocked on the door.

There was an abrupt silence from within the room, followed by hushed whispers as footsteps approached the door. A crack of light shined through and the outline of a young handmaid filled the doorway.

She spoke nervously with her head hung low, avoiding eye contact, “Greetings, My Prince. How may I serve you?”

He was annoyed for a moment that it wasn’t Ryna who had opened the door, but he kept his composure and nodded his head to the girl.

“I’ve come to speak with your mistress,” he replied in a tone of authority. “It’s a matter of great importance.”

“Pardon me. M’lady is not yet ready to receive you,” she said apologetically. “Would you be kind enough to wait a moment while I make her presentable?”

Daemon suppressed the growl that threatened to rise up, knowing he had little choice but to wait, especially if he was going to play by Viserys’ ‘proper’ game.

“Very well, but be quick about it,” he grumbled. “I haven’t got all day.” The last thing he wanted was to sit there while the maid brushed Ryna’s hair and tidied her gown. He wanted her now.

The handmaid nodded adamantly and replied with urgency, “I will make haste, My Prince.”

“See that you do,” he answered with finality as the maid disappeared behind the closed door.

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms restlessly. The wait was a slow and excruciating one. He found himself tapping his foot impatiently as the sound of whispers drifted from within the room. The young women no doubt discussing the impropriety of receiving a male in her chambers at such an early hour.

His thoughts began to run wild as time passed, envisioning the scene inside the princess’ chamber. Ryna half dressed with ivory skin spilling out in all the right places, standing before her maid, looking beautiful and sweet. She was likely surprised and a bit flustered to have him at her door, and he could almost envision the rosy blush on her cheeks. The urge to open the door and push his way past the servant became so strong it was practically unbearable.

How will I ever survive this courtship?

The door suddenly opened, causing Daemon to look over with anticipation, only to be greeted by the sight of the same maid that had come to the door moments ago. He tried not to let his displeasure show at not seeing Ryna herself standing there in wait, but it only served to make his irritation grow.

“Well?” he inquired. “Is the Princess ready to receive me?”

“She is, My Prince,” the young woman said shyly and backed up, opening the door and standing behind it to let him enter the room unobstructed.

He strode into her chambers with measured steps, his gaze fixed intently on her petite frame. She was so deliciously small, hardly reaching his chin in height, and he savoured the thought of how soft and supple she would feel against his own body. His eyes devoured her from head to toe as a sly smirk crossed his face.

She wore a simple dress of crimson, the bodice lined in yellow gold with a black insignia of the three-headed dragon embroidered in the center of the bust. Her hair hung loosely against her shoulders, golden silver curls brushed out, but not yet braided. She was a sight for sore eyes, his in particular.

“You look lovely this morning, sweetling,” he said with a low rumble as he closed the distance between them. He reached out for her hand and brushed a light kiss against her knuckle.

His delightful, little niece blushed just as he thought she would, a charming look of innocent embarrassment upon her face. Daemon held onto her hand as she began to speak.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she replied nervously. “What brings you here? I was not expecting you.”

My sweet girl.

She was truly adorable with her shy demeanor and her struggle to look him in the eye. He was surprised how easily he had been able to cast aside years of torment with just the simple notion of her returning his affections. The very purity that had once kept him at bay now only served to heighten his desire to corrupt her further, to make her whimper and plead for more of his touch.

“A matter of great importance, my dear girl,” he continued, keeping the caress of his fingers light as he stroked the back of her hand. “I’m here with a proposition, and I should very much like to have your answer. Now.” He winked at her, keeping up the pretense for the handmaid that was still present.

“Oh?” she asked with a curious gleam in her eyes. “What could be so urgent that it could not wait for the morning meal?”

Daemon tried his utmost to resist the urge to seize her and draw her into his arms. The way she looked at him was almost more than he could stand. If only that blasted handmaid were not lingering, watching them like a hawk, he would have her bent over the bed in less than a second.

He took a deep breath, trying to focus on his words, rather than his cock. His voice was softer now when he spoke, but just as insistent, “I spoke to your father this morning… He has given me permission to court you, Niece. I would hear your decision immediately, for he wishes to announce it at breakfast.”

“What?” she looked remarkably surprised. “How!?”

He had to admit, her shock was a refreshing sight to behold. Daemon half expected the girl to throw herself into his arms at the news.

“I have my ways, sweetling,” he answered cryptically with a smirk. “But, first I need your answer. Will you allow me to court you?” There was a soft gasp from the maid and Daemon realized her presence wasn’t quite as aggravating as he’d originally thought. Who better to spread rumors like wildfire than the servant caste. Soon, everyone in the Red Keep would know that he was courting the princess.

And they will all know that she is mine. Just as it should be.

“I cannot believe you managed to convince him. Even for your velvet tongue, that is quite a feat, Uncle,” she looked thoughtful for a moment, as though considering everything that might have been said or promised to make it so. “And it was Father’s wish that we court? A test of devotion, I take it?”

“A test of devotion, indeed,” he said, nodding as he continued to hold and dote on the soft skin of her hand. “Though, I’m sure your father is still not entirely convinced of my sincerity.”

Suddenly, his free hand snaked around her slender waist, drawing her closer until their bodies were nearly touching. A startled gasp escaped the maid at the sight, and Daemon relished the knowledge that their little performance was received so well. He allowed his face to shift closer to her ear, so he could whisper.

“But I have every intention of winning your favor, my sweet, little princess. What say you, hmm?”

Ryna placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back to a comfortable distance once more. Her eyes brimming with eagerness, “Yes, positively yes!” She took both of his hands in hers with a beaming smile that made his chest ache.

She said yes. He had expected the answer, of course, but to actually hear it confirmed was a feeling he could have never truly anticipated. Years of pent up desire and frustration were starting to release and it took all of his restraint to not just kiss her there in front of the damned handmaid.

Daemon pulled her hands up to his lips so he could place a kiss on her skin once more.

“Very good, my sweet girl,” he said with a smug look of satisfaction. “Very good indeed.” Daemon allowed his voice to drop once more so only she could hear. “And I promise to court you properly, so long as you do your part and be a good girl for me. I will not abide any misconduct from my wife to be.”

His voice was practically dripping with mockery for he knew how to play this game. This was all a part of the dance, to lure his niece into giving herself up entirely to him. To make her his, once and for all.

“You know I will not go easy on you just because you are my favorite niece?” His gaze darkened and he allowed a small smirk to play about his lips.

“I w-would never!” she stuttered out anxiously as though he were actually serious. The poor girl was so flustered by what he’d said in front of her maid, that she didn’t even realize he’d been jesting.

He chuckled, amused by the uncertainty in her flickering gaze, and he couldn’t help but smile. He knew he would thoroughly enjoy himself during the coming moon, playing with her and indulging in his desires. However, it was also becoming obvious that the challenge of their courtship would test him like no other had before, as his lustful temptations gew harder and harder to resist.

Daemon smiled wolfishly. “Your decision pleases me greatly, sweetling,” he said in a low voice as he continued to place kisses against her knuckles. “Now we must get you ready. Quickly. We wouldn’t want to keep the king waiting, hmm?”

He let go of her hands regretfully and stepped back to allow the maid to take over. Daemon watched as the handmaid scurried back to the foreground and immediately began busying herself with finishing up Ryna’s morning routine.

With her touch gone, he longed to reach out and grab her once more. His hands burned with the irresistible urge to feel her body beneath his touch. It would be exquisite torture, having her close at hand and yet unable to take her in the way that he wished.

He could feel something primal and possessive stirring inside him at the thought. She was his and she always had been. Since she first came into this world, he had treasured her more than any other. And, once she came of age, he had fought against his desires, finding them wrong and ruinous, yet all of these years later she had chosen him of her own accord. Now, nothing would keep him from her again.

“Uncle,” she interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up in a daze. “I shall need some privacy. I’ll look forward to seeing you at the morning meal shortly.” She smiled, a hint of knowing in her eyes.

“Of course, sweetling,” he managed to get out.

His mind and body were suddenly at odds with each other. One part of him wanting to linger in the room just a moment longer, to catch another glimpse of her sweet smile, while the other part was more than eager to be out of there so that he could have a quiet moment to himself and gather his fraying control.

“I’ll be waiting…” It came out as more a growl than words and he mentally berated himself. You sound like an impatient little boy, you fool.

“Until we meet again, Uncle,” she spoke softly, before turning her head so that the maid could continue working on braiding her hair.

Daemon nodded to her with a grin, his eyes fastened on her for just a moment longer than appropriate, before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber. The door closed behind him and he leaned back against the cold stone wall. His eyes closed as he lout out a long, shaky breath.

Gods give me strength… Read Chapter 4

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Commissioners favorite - Saw

Mark Hoffman x fem!reader

warning : +18, smut (p in v), sex work, kissing, nicknames, fingering, semi public sex, praises, age gap (reader is in her 30s and Mark in his 50s)

Summary : Everyone at the police station knew that when the black high heels walked down the corridors, it was best to stay out of her way. They knew that the woman who wore them was the commissioner's favorite. They also knew what happened when the lock and shutters were closed. The commissoner had his...special break.

Info : So I'm back again after a longer time with a story for our dear Hoffyman. So I thought "Hey older Costas = Older Hoffman = Sexy Guy" so yeah here we are. And it came out wax more smuty than I had planned but oh well. Have fun reading as always ;)

saw - masterlist

costas mandylor - masterlist

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How did it start? A question she had asked herself in the beginning. When she was out on the streets of the city, as she did every evening.

Her biggest fear wasn't a Jigsaw trap, she could have made money with that.

No, her biggest worry, like the others, was that she didn't have enough customers and not enough money for her pension.

Leaning against the brick wall, bag in hand and eyes on the street, she couldn't help but sigh, undermining the slight smile on her face.

It had been hours since she had stood in her usual spot. But not a single customer, and she couldn't blame the poor bastards.

Who wants to go out at night when you could wake up in a trap any second? she thought, reaching into her pocket for the pack of cigarettes. If she could wait any longer, she could at least go to her grave faster.

The cigarette between her lips, she held the fire underneath, but it seemed as if nature was conspiring against her. ,,Damn it" she hissed, trying to light the flame for the fifth time. But it seemed the lung cancer wasn't going to be her death.

Instead, she heard a car turn onto the street and stop in front of her. ,,Is swearing and smoking part of your price?" she heard a man's voice and looked up, but to her suspicion she saw that it was a police car.

She had a few customers here and there from the local police station, but even they were few and far between this time of year.

She hastily flicked the cigarette to the ground and slipped the lighter into her pocket, a smile forming on her lips. The red lipstick clung to her like the blood of its victims as she approached the car.

,,I can be good and gentle too, darling...or do you want to make me an offer? Do you want me to be good for you?" she asked, leaning against the open window frame. She had never seen him before, maybe a few years older than her early thirties.

But she liked his look, it wasn't lustful, more observant, watching and observing her, but not like a stalker, more like someone looking at her with devotion.

A nice picture in a museum. ,,A new one?" she thought, knowing that the new ones didn't really dare to come here.

They still followed the rules, some of them just gave her money. ,,I have to finance my studies as such a young woman," she said most of the time, and got more than enough.

But she had never seen the brown-haired, handsome one. ,,Well, good would be good, sweetie...but I need you for something else," he started and she thought it was going to be a threesome or filming a porno.

Not that she minded, she would get warm, but he just shook his head slightly. ,,I'm looking for informants with their eyes and ears open. I would pay you double," he asked her and she considered the offer for a moment.

She knew that the police were good for almost nothing, but now she would get money, protection and maybe a real date with him. ,,Well, I'm all ears, sweetie," she said and got into the car with him. That's how it went.

That's how they had met, he had invited her as an informant, had even taken her to a restaurant. She had done what he wanted, given him information, given her a better life.

Not only that, he gave her so much more devotion, love and human closeness. It was like a bad book, the whore who fell in love with her pimp who took her to a better life.

But he had never looked at her with disgust, he had cherished her. She had never asked herself why at first. Until now, almost two decades later, she knew.

He wasn't always the good cop, oh no, she knew he was so much more.

He may have been good and honest at first since the death of his sister, the death of his mentor John, the struggle to come to terms with it all. Not letting his own ego get the better of him.

He changed, she changed, it changed them both. She was, as always, his eyes and ears on the street.

She brought him the sacrifices he needed for his games. And she didn't mind since he was now the commissioner of the police station.

He always took care of her, had bought her a ring and even when she didn't have to be on the street anymore, she at least stayed there to gather more information.

Knowing full well that the bloodstains on his shirt were just a mistake.  Instead, it was his touch and words that made her forget everything.

When she asked him, he simply kissed her, when she was afraid of violence, he simply took her, touched her and made her forget everything.

It was always the same and at some point it seemed normal, it was normal for both of them.

That he gave her something and she gave in. But, as always, it was information that brought the now thirty-year-old to him.

When the two main doors of the police station opened, the heels clacked through the corridors. ,,Miss have you-" she heard the man behind the reception desk say, but when he saw her.

The shoes, the blood-red lipstick and the slight smile, an old habit, let everyone know who she was, what she was and to whom the gold ring belonged.

Continuing past the reception, she passed the other policemen. ,,Good evening, Miss...Hoffman," she heard the familiar voice of Strahm, who was only one step below her husband.

The man got up from his desk and approached her. She liked Strahm and had even spent the night with him a few times.

He was gentler than Hoffman, he wanted to motivate her to take action herself. ,,Good evening, Sir...I mean Agent Strahm," she replied, seeing something like discomfort pass through him for a moment. She had always called him sir when they were together, something she knew he liked.

That the rivalry between him and Hoffman only fueled it. But whenever she slept with Strahm, Hoffman came to her apartment all the more often.

The almost hasty unlocking of the door as the wood crashed against the wall and he rushed into her room with his gun drawn, always hoping to catch his colleague. Only to find his favorite wrapped the blanket around her naked body.

The hickeys visible and the money in her hand. ,,He's still doing it darling," she murmured with a grin and rolled her eyes in playful annoyance as he snatched the money from her hand. ,,Yes, I can see that!" Mark had snapped at her before she felt the gun against her thigh.

A game as usual. A giggle escaped her as she moved backwards onto the bed, slowly spreading her legs, the cool barrel of the gun giving her goose bumps.

,,Why don't you pay me better than him mhh darling? Fuck me better and next time I'll have it right here for you," she chirped and slowly let her hands wander between her thighs.

Only to feel his dominating kiss seconds later, the weapon roaming over her body and his voice, his befellings clouding her mind.

His hickeys, stained by Strahm, made them no longer visible, his bites deeper, kissing away her tears when Strahm would have stopped long ago.

If her body had given way, Strahm would have stopped. But Hoffman didn't, he wanted everything from her until the end.

His hands holding her up, the mattress holding her, her moans and murmurs in the room muffled by the pillow as he came inside her once more.

The click of his cell phone could be heard as he took a picture of his darling. In her most beautiful form sent to Peter knowing he would do nothing.

That he could do nothing but use his hand that closed around his hard cock like every time and wish he had acted in front of his colleague.

Because then he could have had this beautiful angel. ,,The difference Peter is," she began, moving closer to the older man and running her fingers over his cock before tightening her grip.

,,That he just fucked me better in the end," she whispered to him, waving him off before leaving him standing there on the way to her real destination. Mark Hoffman.

As she opened the door to his office, she saw him about to protest when his gaze softened and a cheerful smile spread across his face.

,,Darling, I was wondering where you were," he said and she smiled as he still called her darling. Still like then and slowly approached him.

She put her bag on the table and didn't pay much attention to the files as she sat down on the table.

,,You know, I don't keep my favorite customer waiting," she joked and saw his smirk, it seemed like they were both stuck in the past, but neither of them could blame him.

It was the day he went to see her that she came into contact with him for the first time. He leaned back in his chair and she still looked into his bright eyes, which had not changed.

Only he himself had grown older but, like her, they had both blossomed into beauty like flowers in this miserable city.

The beauty was all the more attractive when they were both built up by blood and control. ,,You're my favorite too," he replied, tapping his thigh lightly to let her know and she looked at the door.

Knew it was open, knew Strahm would come in at some point, knew it would be me again and yet she did what Hoffman wanted. She always did. ,,Good girl, you help me relax," he praised her, rubbing lightly against him, knowing that it was like a game for them both by now.

She was enjoying his break and she was getting a bit of a change. ,,Of course I always do," she said and grinned before letting a sigh of pleasure escape her as he began to kiss his way down her neck.

Gentle and yet always with a certain urgency, there were always two sides to Hoffman. Nevertheless, taking time off gave him more than enough time to spoil his darling and himself.

,,Always be good to me," she said and leaned in even closer, rubbing her back straight across his middle where he began to get half hard as he slowly slid his fingers over hers. His much rougher and bigger than her own.

She brought his hand to her lips, lightly kissing and licking her fingers, seeing his look of appreciation in the corner of her eye.

Too often she just came to him during the breaks for a blowjob or a quick fuck. But today was a little different, they both knew that somehow.

As he kissed his way down her neck again, he took his hand from hers and moved his hand between her thighs, pulling her panties aside as he felt the slight wetness.

,,Such a naughty girl, what would the others say?" he asked playfully as he moved two of his fingers slightly up and down between her lips to get her wet on his fingers.

,,So wet...just for you," she said, her breathing quickening slightly and becoming slightly more hurried as she relaxed on his lap. But with his smirk, she knew she would help him too.

Her hand, not holding onto him, traced small circles across his torso and down to his suit pants. Sliding under the warm, soft fabric and undoing the button, she grasped his half-hard cock and began to stroke it.

She heard him grunt and sigh as Hoffman leaned back in his chair, bringing her a little closer to him.

His fingers, now completely slippery from her arousal, penetrated her and her hips almost automatically snapped towards them as a gasp escaped her.

It wasn't enough and yet it was a first step for his cock. ,,Someone's impatient," he stated firmly, leaving a kiss on her warm ear with the remark before leaving a few more teasing bites and smooches on her neck and shoulders.

Each one deeper than the last but the sweet pain paired with the rhythm of his fingers and she suddenly let out a moan as he ran his fingers over her sensitive nerve bundle.

Her hand went lightly to her lips, the blood red lipstick smudging slightly as she tried not to be too loud. But they both knew that this was just part of the game.

Over the years they had both learned how good and exciting it was not only to take risks but also to get caught. This had happened more than once, especially at the police station.

,,Don't, darling, you know I want to hear you," he reminded her and an almost sad whimper escaped her as he let go of her with one hand to take her hand in his and stop her from holding back. In turn, she gripped his cock tighter and picked up the pace.

His own hips thrust against her and they both teased each other for a moment. It was exactly what they needed besides the moralizing.

The teasing like two teenagers in love. ,,And I-fuck want you," she countered, carefully rising from him as he released her.

Her jaw suddenly clenched, it was not uncommon for him to still surprise her with his quick movements. The hard touches she loved so much in the mix of pain and pleasure.

The kiss, intimate and yet possessive, her neck was only a reflection of his control and devotion to what he felt for her. For his darling.

She couldn't stop herself from giggling as he spread her legs slightly with an understanding movement and pulled the panty from her body in the skirt, which was too short without it, you would see it from a certain angle.

But nobody cared at that moment. ,,You know, some people might still call you an old pervert for that," she joked and saw him laugh for a moment as his chest heaved and he looked down at the underwear in his hand.

The slight stain of her lust visible before he stuffed them in his pants pocket.

The little souvenir until they would meet again in the evening. ,,And what am I to you? An old pervert, pimp, policeman, daddy?" he asked, teasing her chosen nickname for him.

This time it was her turn to laugh at those names she only ever used during sex.

But they both liked it and that was what mattered. The understanding and then the control in the pain and the power.

,,To me, you're my husband," she replied, watching him open his pants a little wider to make it easier before she slowly eased herself back onto his cock.

She couldn't stop the throaty groan despite the preparation and after all these years it always took her a moment to get used to his length and width.

But he just held it for a moment, kissed her, praised her and knew that there were moments in the past when he would have just taken her, taken his frustration out on her like that, and even though this rarely happened now, it was the age that was the biggest empty master.

They both had no problem making love, it was about enjoying it, the teasing and procrastination, the power they both had.

It was intoxicating and they wanted to keep it so why not savor it. He let her take the lead for a moment, letting her rhythm take over as she began to move.

,,That's it," he praised her, murmuring the words with a grin as he heard her moan and she leaned her head against the crook of his neck, closing her eyes as he placed his rough hands on her hips, taking over her rhythm for his. Faster and deeper she felt completely around his cock.

Her wetness almost seemed to suck him in. ,,Let everyone hear it fuck-so good...especially Strahm," he said, gasping as she used her muscles and tightened around him, making his cock twitch and the two of them moan out, knowing exactly what to say to make her feel the shame and arousal they'd shared enough times to find out.

His hand loosened from hers and she clung to his desk or leg with his aggressive rhythm. ,,Good-ah-yes so good," she murmured unintelligibly and almost arched as his fingers moved back to her clitoris.

The sensitive bundle of nerves was massaged and he almost seemed to have fucked her dumb. But she knew she wouldn't be at the end they still had some time.

But just as she had predicted, as it had happened almost a hundred times before. They heard the door open and she knew it couldn't be anyone else but him.

Hoffman would have snapped at anyone else or fired long ago. It was peter Strahm. Even though he was only a year younger than Hoffman, he seemed more than visibly tense.

The woman he had a thing for who was married but fucked in front of him by his boss was something he had hoped not to have to see.

,,What is it?" Mark asked, his hand that had been between her thighs before coming away with what sounded like a pitiful whimper from her lips before they went under her shirt.

And a loud moan suddenly went through the room, ,,Say hello, darling," Hoffman said, turning to her, kissing her neck again and enjoying rubbing it in his colleague's face that she was his. her eyes opened, veiled in lust, and an almost stupid smile crept onto her lips.

,,Hello-ah-fuck right there-yes-Pete Strahm," she almost moaned his name as Hoffman ran his fingers over her sensitive nipples and pinched them.

Knowing with a grin how sensitive she was, it fascinated him and he knew that in addition to the visible hard nipples pressing against the fabric of her shirt, a new wave of wetness was coming onto his cock.

He thrust into her again and as Strahm slowly approached the couple he saw the bulge in the pants of the man below. He grinned knowing that he wanted to ask Strahm for more.

Knowing he was coming home at night alone without the woman he loved, the image of the scene played in his head as he jerked off. It was the kind of take that gave Hoffman enough satisfaction.

The younger man put the files on the table and lingered for a moment. His gaze tried to take in every conceivable detail and yet not let anything show, which of course was impossible.

However, his gaze was more than obviously lost on her pushed-up shirt and her center. He could just about see the beginning of his cock, wet with her juices and his lust drops.

His hand under her shirt, the curve of her breasts that gave a hint of how hot and pleasurable it must be.

He seemed to bite his tongue to stifle any comment before Hoffman's ,,Is that all?" snapped him out of his thoughts and the younger man left the room, nodding. ,,You're-fuck mean," he heard the womans's protest, which was immediately silenced with a kiss as he moved his hips more.

He felt her slowly approaching her orgasm and his hand, which wasn't playing with her breasts, moved under her skirt.

She had done her job more than well and, as always, he would reward her. For every pinch, for every bite, for every blow, he rewarded her in the end.

She had greeted Peter, brought him information and had been a good girl. ,,Such a good thing," he praised her in a murmur, kissing her again and seeing her nod in agreement, which amused him a little.

,,Just let go...when you're ready sweetie" he pointed out as he did every time knowing she loved it as a reward when he used his fingers to pleasure her in addition to his cock.

The moans and pleas became indistinct mumbles as she clung to him only minutes later, her head in the crook of his neck, moaning his name.

But she barely noticed in her high as he began to move slightly, his hands back on her hips, using her as he wished.

She rode through her orgasm, his shaft covered in her juices as he became increasingly unconscious but all the harder.

And only moments later, he poured himself into her, praising her. She continued to kiss the last loudly, sinking into the play afterwards.

They both lingered like that for a moment before she slowly rose up and he steadied her as he always did. ,,My darling...I don't want you to get hurt," he joked and handed her a couple of handkerchiefs so that the two of them could clean themselves up.

Even though it was clear to everyone what they had done anyway.

The light film of sweat that had formed on her body was fortunately quickly removed by the air conditioning.

One of the pretile as a commisoner. But the ravaged hair, the smell of sex and the noises were enough.

After a moment's rest and another gentle kiss, she finally reached into her bag and pulled out the picture round notes for the victims. ,,All done, you can get on with your work," she said with a wink and took the bag back before heading for the door.

,,Thank you as always, my love...I'll see you tonight," he said almost casually as he put the unofficial evidence and report in his drawer.

He raised his hand slightly in farewell and gave her a final kiss and smile before she left his office.

Knowing that with the click of her heels, the police station had once again gotten a performance that was meant for the commsioner. But they would not stop for a long time yet.

Because in the end he was the set one, the highest ranking and she was his special one in the breaks and over all. She was Commisioner Mark Hoffman's favorite.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@callmeklarise , @megustadilf , @lola-max-sugar , @hoffwhorror , @faultlessheart , @librababe99 , @roman-hoffman , @costashoffman , @horrorxgorewhore , @xmissghoulx , @magmabayvi , @thewolveswithin , @oceansrose2002 , @c0stass , @slut4hoffman , @mysunfishpeedinmyroom

[darkdemeter]

I'm sorta new to this blog, but can I request Death with a male reader who knows how to fight? Like martial arts or fencing or something like that? I always wondered how Death would react to something like that. Thank you!

A SPARRING PARTNER

◤✘DARKSIDERS REQUESTS | CATALOGUE Death x Male Reader

NOTES ↳ New, sort of new or been around since post one, I welcome you to the blog anyhow! WARNINGS❕ ↳ just general fluffy content — a brief mention of a past relative (mother) — I think that's it

✎ 2.6k

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You often recall the lessons of your past with fondness. It had been your mother’s passion to indulge you in your hobbies, gifting you a membership for your twelfth birthday to pursue the art of fencing. A prestigious hall of astute students and though humble and nervous, you persevered; even surpassing through the ranks. 

But whoever said it was a sport dedicated to elegance never understood the sheer brutality of such calculations beneath the glamorous form each opponent took. 

But Death saw the intermingle of both aspects in the way you portrayed your skill. Yes, New Haven was a luscious and serene sanctuary but safety was not a complete guarantee. Not with all the forces that conspire against them and it was best to be prepared. In your opinion, being able to wield and have a sense of combat was better than none at all. 

And so, when you could find time, you continue to exercise the lengths of your skill in hopes to keep the memory of it alive and to ensure you would not grow sloppy.

And the reaper himself grew to become fascinated in watching your self-appointed training. A strapping young man armed with a regal rapier, your mother had often said. How you miss her dearly. Perhaps it was to also ensure her memory prevailed that you kept at it. You can almost hear the way she clapped and cheered you on during your exams and presentations, making sure every other parent knew you were her son. 

But of course, when the apocalypse happened you all but lost your relic of an epee rapier. A gift for your nineteenth birthday and from that day forward you treasured it. You wish you could somehow find it, reclaim it. But alas, it is a forgotten dream. A hopeless wish you and your poor mother’s memory would never see achieved. 

Taking form as if you stood before your opponent, you calmed yourself once again. The air is a welcomed breeze in comparison to the beating heat of the sun. It takes time to repeat and commit movesets, to focus the harness of its second nature deep into your bones. Something Death can relate to, almost yet guiltily recalling his younger terms when he began to wield his blade. Absalom had taught him all he needed to and more, somehow surpassing the rest of his firstborn ilk and placing only second to Absalom. 

He wonders if you had any predecessors that you were to succeed. Death often watched you at a distance, speaking with you only so little. What information he gained about you was passing conversation with the other humans, his brother Strife who’d been present in his disguise as Jones when you were present at Haven and that of the maker, Ulthane. 

It’s like you kept this distance between yourself and the reaper for some unknown reason. The rare times you both managed to come face to face and talk it had been only a brief conversation before one of you were off on your business. 

So when treated to this seemingly hidden, other side of you, Death in fact took a curious intrigue over it. Silently he’d watch you, your footwork and try to imagine what your foe would be doing, how you would evade the next imaginary attack. Maybe it was his old mind at play but he may have foreseen a few stumbles that could benefit from improvement. 

Indeed as everyone had said about you, you were an able young man with an uncanny prowess in the art of fencing. By no means a Horseman or Maker, but for a human it was impressive; no matter how abashed you became and humbly dismissed the praise of your fellow survivors. 

The glow of his amber eyes shrink and beam, widening. His mind calculates your moves. You lunge forward with a hearted strike, grunting with the motion. You pull back, weight balanced and loosely held. You swing your makeshift blade with another grunted cry, swiping across before taking several steps back, swerving and evading the imagined offense of your attacker. 

Suddenly your attack does something unexpected, it only just catches you unawares. You sharply pivot your body, twirling on your heel and arching your back while simultaneously catching your blade against your target’s, Death can practically hear the ring of metal grinding metal piercing through the veil of the rolling pastures. A song he knows all too well. An orchestra of the fight, a melody to warfare. 

Huffing to yourself you continue on. It was good to always throw an odd attack into the mix to keep your senses sharp. 

Dust prances back and forth on the paled, sunken curve of Death’s shoulder, pecking and fluffing a portion of his hair between his beak. A pushing warble vibrating in his gullet. With a rumbled tsk, Death beats a dismissive hand at Dust.

“Quit it.”

Alerted by a louder, monotone caw, Death shoos Dust from his place with a growl. Now aware that you have stopped and turned to face towards his direction, the pale rider freezes before his hand slowly lowers to his side. 

Now he feels like he’s the abashed one. Caught spying on you. 

He expects you to scowl at him and bluntly ask why he’s watching you, to confront his guilty… ‘hobby’. However, instead you flash him a toothy smile and a nervous laugh bubbles up from your throat. 

“Death,” you greet and let your body relax, “I didn’t notice you there.”

That’s what he was hoping for. To remain unnoticed. A creeping shadow, the revered and masked invisible presence unseen by you. 

Now that’s gone all out the window. You can’t identify the way his eyes dart back and forth in a nervous flutter, the cumbersome burn of amber hiding it well at this distance or the way his heart he thought dead and unbeating lively rapped hard against his chest. When did Death himself get startled like this?

It’s your turn to watch him as he walks down the slight slope of the hillside he took spying refuge upon, the swaying lake of grass hiding the small drag of his footfall on his way down. 

“Y/N. I wasn’t—”

“Spying on me?” You chuckle with a shake of your head, waving it off. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, I’m not bothered. Honestly, I‘m surprised you decided to stay around and watch.”

His eyes follow you as you move around him, notably to ruffle through your satchel. Procuring a waterskin, you take a few gulps from it with a relieved sigh, grateful for the cool water to run over your tongue and cool you down from the inside. A refreshing feeling. 

“Why’s that?” he asks above a huff. He crosses his arms over his chest, turning his body somewhat to face you but a part of him keeps himself at a distance and thus, it’s reflected in the defensive manner in which he stands before you. 

With a shrug, you answer, “Because you’re busy doing… well, whatever it is you and your siblings do for us. Things that wouldn’t occupy your attention for so long just to watch me flail around a uh… stick.”

As if to match your disappointed gaze, Death’s eyes lower to the long, sturdy stick you held in hand, allowing the shortened end that acted as your hilt beating dully against your wrist. 

“I see.” His voice is rough as it always is but you want to believe you hear an ounce of remorse in his curt reply. 

“So why exactly were you watching me?” You raise a brow, skeptical of the rider’s motivations but not in a hostile way. You’re rather flattered he stuck around. 

“Well, you’re an interesting character I wish to observe. You seem to know how to handle yourself.”

Dare the brooding reaper admit it, you’re impressive in what you do. It’s what kept his interest. How you would always twiddle the stick you use now in your grasp as you went about your business, twirling it in elaborate yet half-minded action, involuntarily demonstrating your skill. 

“You’re rather good, If I do say.”

The sun suddenly sinks a pit of heat deep into your skin and your eyes bow, shrinking away from his gaze. “Thanks. I think I’ve lost the proper motivation though, ever since I lost my epee rapier.”

Daring to meet Death’s eyes again, you breathe deeply through your nose. You see the question in his eyes before he can even allow his voice to speak. 

“My mom’s present to me some time ago. I lost it when the whole world ended and such. It’s gone now for sure, sadly. And with it, the only thing I had left of my mom.”

You always try to not let your mourning betray you and show on your face, but some days it feels harder to hide. And Death himself can peer into the depth of your soul’s grief, acquainted well with the hollowing feeling of loss. 

“You held the weapon in high regard?” His question doesn’t pose any real alert. In true reality, all you think is that he’s curious to know why you’re sad over a piece of your past. Even he’s not above of harbouring certain aspects, keeping to hold them instead of letting them go.

Eventually he did but it was a great sacrifice to prove War’s innocence. Yet for the longest time, he didn’t have it in himself to let go. 

You nod with a small hum as you roll your shoulders back. “Yeah. It was something very special to me. Made me feel close to my mom.”

Blinking, you now realise that this is the longest held conversation you’ve had with Death and with a shy grin, you pack away your stick and waterskin. “I should probably head back and help around the camp.”

With your bag in hand you offer a kind wave to the reaper and bow of your head. “See you around, yeah?”

“Hm.” He merely nods in return and then watches as you walk off. Dust lands atop his shoulder again, a curious and low caw in his throat as though to ask Death what he’s thinking with that curious tilt of his head. The one that drapes the blackened tendrils of his hair over his shoulder and collarbone. 

Of course it had to be on Earth. Where else would it be? Wait, where else would you have been if it wasn’t here?

Baffling questions. Irrelevant. If humans were useful for anything, it was gossip. Yes, he could have asked you for more details — hell, he could have just offered to recover your rapier — but you’ve proven to be the sort to either get things yourself or to leave it be. 

The powerful slug of a bullet penetrating a meaty carcass echoes through the remains of the city where Death currently scouted through, Strife taking a lesser Nephilim’s path in being careless of the enemies that still roam. 

So long as he got to kill something, he was happy. 

Still, Death would very much rather—

POW!

“Would you cease your aimless antics and help me for once!” He made it sound more of an order than a poseable question able to be answered at the gunslinger’s whim, to which the dated folds of his scarf rumple with a shrugged motion. 

Firing at another bat flying overhead, Death sighs aloud with a sunken fall of his chest. He continues to sift through the abandoned remains of humanity until finally, his search is over. 

He does well to hide the giddiness that his more private quest his complete, but it’s all in the eyes as Strife has come to learn. 

Whistling over the older brother’s shoulder, Strife chuckles to himself. “Is that for that human you were talking to the other day?”

Death doesn’t answer him. Simply he lets out a grumble and storms away from his brother, summoning Despair with a beckoning whistle and will to manifest the mount of decay. Strife too summons Mayhem to his side, easily pulling himself into the saddle to pursue after Death. 

Death feels his body tense under the laugh that chases him through the wind that whips through his hair. “It totally is!”

There you are again, practicing in the small dirt field some distance away from the camp. Despair slows down considerably until his reins are tugged back and his hoof counts at the ground, his body strained with a shifting tremble. 

It’s endearing to watch you despite what he now understands are the lacking foundations. With your precious rapier restored, he wonders to himself. Dismounting his steed, he then wanders down the small hill towards you, aware but not cautious of you hitting him. It was a stick after all, what damage could it possibly do to—

THWACK!

He seethes with a hiss, eyes thinned into a scornful glare at the dull sting against his masked cheek.

You gasp and let the stick drop to the ground with your eyes as wide as the bulbous, full moon he’s seen a plethora of times. “Death I— I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Death, I could have poked your eye out!” All pain that resided with the incident is forgotten when he chuckles deeply, his chest bouncing when you fret over him, remorseful and frightful that you assaulted him; even by accident. 

“As I said before: you’re good.”

Unsure whether the compliment is still suited after beating Death with your stick, you grimace still, cringing as the event played over and over in your head like a broken record.

“Still… I’m sorry.”

Death brings something between you, wrapped in a sheet of leather and bound in a securing thread of rope. In awe of its mystery, you wait with bated breath as he unravels it before your very eyes. 

“You…”

“I found it.”

“I… I thought it was lost all this time.” You move hesitantly to take the rapier from him, scared that he’ll seize you and steal your soul right there and then. Nestled in your grasp is the familiar tingle in your fingers, your eyes taking in the details you thought only were to remain as distant memories, but here it is, in your hands once again and with it the memories you held dearly to your heart. Delivered unto you by Death no less, funnily enough, giving life again to your passion. 

With a bright and genuine smile, you don’t let fear consume you as you look up at him. “Thank you, Death. This… means everything to me.”

There’s a silence between you for a moment. You see the minute flutter of his eyes flicker away, at least you believe so, before he nods with a hum. “You’re welcome.”

Deeply does breath pass through your nose, inhaling and exhaling. With the rapier balanced in your palms, you can hear the affectionate octave of your mother’s voice applauding you, telling you how proud she is of you and how far you’ve come. That she misses and loves you, watching over you from wherever she is now. 

With a cock of his head, Death begins to wander not away from you but instead takes his place on the opposite side of the dirt field. With the power of his will, he manifests Harvester to take the form of that of a rapier itself, its form not one he’s familiar with but it is a warrior’s trade to become accustomed to new instruments of combat. 

And perhaps learn a new, graceful technique that he can show off to his siblings. “You now have your weapon again. Now, how about a sparring partner?”

He enjoys the wide grin that spreads over your lips then and eagerly nod, taking your stance and aiming your rapier at him pointedly. “I’d like that.”

At closer distance, Death has a chance to admire how you fight. No longer will you or he have to imagine your opponent, but instead a friendly sparring partner. 

[cherryblossomshadow]

Lady and the Tramp

Summary:

“Tradition dictates that foreign assassins must be publicly executed." The council member turned to the Captain and ordered, “Set it up for tomorrow at noon and take that mongrel to the dungeon. Lock the lady in her room.” Temari twisted her head to watch as the guards dragged Shikamaru away, holding herself tense until he was out of sight. This better work, she thought.

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ShikaTemaWeek2024, day 1: The Lady and the Tramp fandom: Naruto | ship: Shikamaru x Temari | trigger warnings: canon-typical violence | content: Shikamaru faces execution for killing a Suna Council member, oh no! | word count: 1204

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Helpful link to AO3

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Written for Day 1 of ShikaTema Week 2024 -The Lady and the Tramp! Inspired by the climactic scene of Lady and Tramp saving the day, but immediately getting misunderstood. Lady was locked up, and Tramp was sent to the pound (sent to his death, essentially). That was my initial idea, but oh my god they would not stop trying to think themselves out of the situation 😂 Any characters you don’t recognize were inspired by Gaara Hiden: A Sandstorm Mirage, which I have not read (also I made Maizuru a real boy 🤥)

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Yura crumpled, sliding smoothly off of Shikamaru’s kunai onto the moonlit sand. Shikamaru reached out to stabilize himself against the wall, but his leg suddenly gave out on him. Temari caught him, as he knew she would, and she guided him to a seated position, propped against the armory wall. They took a moment to take each other in, trying to catalogue the other's injuries as the adrenaline drained away. Shikamaru was relieved to see that she was much less wounded than him and Yura. She had a few lacerations on her arms, a gash on her leg, and one puncture wound, all bleeding sluggishly. Injuries she only received when covering his position. 

Temari straightened, glancing around warily. They hadn’t exactly been quiet during the fight to keep the Suna Council traitor from tipping off Sasori. "You can't walk," she stated.

Shikamaru shook his head. “You should go.” Whether to hide or to catch up to Kankuro, it would be better for her to leave him behind.

Temari pursed red lips. “They’ll execute you when they find you here,” she reminded him.

Just Shikamaru, not her. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to die, but he was glad that Temari's status as a Lady of Suna protected her from the same fate. If she were to stay, she would only be detained, not executed.

Shikamaru thought back to Suna’s favored methods of execution. He shifted slightly, fingers itching to move into their customary position. “Publicly?”

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Black Antling sprang from the ground, enclosing Shikamaru inside. Temari pounded fruitlessly on its metal body. "Shikamaru!"

"Enough of that, Lady Temari." Lord Tojuro swept into the room with a full complement of guards. “Don't get yourself into more trouble.”

“Don’t fight,” Shikamaru weakly implored her from inside the puppet. “I’ll be reunited with my brother soon.” Temari caught his meaning and fought to keep the air of a panicked Lady. Stupid self-sacrificing Konoha nincompoop, she internally fumed.

“Yes, don’t embarrass yourself further." The senior council member sneered. “Guards, restrain her.” Maizuru, Captain of the Guard in Kankuro’s absence, motioned at two of his men, and they grabbed her by the arms, pulling her away from Shikamaru’s current prison.

"Wait, Lord Tojuro, please!" Temari pleaded, every cloying word tasting like ash inside her mouth. "This isn't what it looks like!"

"Oh, so you didn't conspire with an envoy from Konoha to murder a Council member?" Lord Tojuro tutted. "My mistake, my lady."

"Yura was a traitor to Suna!" Temari argued, despite knowing it would fall on deaf ears. "Please don't execute him!"

"But he did assassinate Lord Yura?"

Temari forced herself to hang her head in a mockery of defeat. "Yes, he did," she admitted.

"Then as you yourself have pointed out,” Lord Tojuro pointed out, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Tradition dictates that foreign assassins must be publicly executed." The council member turned to Maizuru and ordered, “Set it up for tomorrow at noon and take that mongrel to the dungeon. Lock the lady in her room.”

Temari twisted her head to watch as the guards dragged Shikamaru away, holding herself tense until he was out of sight. This better work, she thought.

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The sun glared high overhead. Civilians and ninja alike gathered on the tiered walls outside the village. Temari fingered her handcuffs as she watched the guards drag Shikamaru out of the village gate. After a final push, they retreated, leaving him to limp further into the desert.

The wind slowly picked up, sand obscuring him from view as it gained in intensity. Temari clenched her fists in front of her, trying to maintain her outward appearance of calm. Please let him be okay, she chanted helplessly.

Lord Tojuro nodded to Maizuru, and the Captain rang the gong, though it was barely audible over the roar of the sandstorm. Temari raised her cuffed hands to shield her eyes from the abrasive particles. Maizuru rang the gong again.

Suddenly, the entire desert went still. The roar of the storm suddenly ceased, leaving only the echo of the second gong ringing across the desert. The dust cleared, revealing three figures in the far distance. Gaara began striding confidently towards the village gates. Kankuro followed behind, seemingly unharmed. Shikamaru limped slightly behind them. Temari nearly collapsed in relief. The gambit had paid off!

Temari had barely been able to sleep, worrying over a thousand what-ifs. What if Shikamaru’s injuries kill him before noon? What if Kankuro’s Suna-Konoha team doesn’t make it in time to rescue Gaara? What if they lose to Sasori, even with the element of surprise that they had killed Yura to keep?

Temari studied their movements closely, trying to pick out any injuries on the three of them. Gaara seemed entirely unharmed, Kankuro only tired, and Shikamaru with no more injuries than he had had the last time she saw him. The whispers around her grew louder in volume, the closer they approached. They finally dissolved into cheers when the villagers realized their Kazekage had returned to them.

Gaara stopped just a few feet away from the wall. He held up a hand to quiet the crowd.

Lord Tojuro took the opportunity to exclaim, “Gaara! Where have you been?”

“Yura betrayed Suna and handed me over to Sasori of the Red Sand, in league with the Akatsuki.” Gaara's steady voice projected across the calm desert. You could hear a reed crack. “We are henceforth cutting all ties with the Akatsuki.”

Gaara motioned, and Kankuro stepped forward to lay Sasori's corpse on the sand.

“Lord Tojuro, as Kazekage, I call you to account for your actions!" Gaara proclaimed. Temari smiled as she watched Lord Tojuro’s face turn redder than a heatstroke. "You have not been acting in Suna’s best interests. Striking deals with organizations like the Akatsuki and now picking fights with Konoha?"

“How dare you, boy!” Lord Tojuro yelled, spittle flying everywhere. “Everything I do is in Suna’s best interest! I was killing for Suna long before your father was even born! You are not fit to be Kazekage!”

“On the contrary, you, Lord Tojuro, are not fit to be an elder on the Suna Council,” Gaara calmly responded. “I hereby strip you of your title and responsibilities. Please remand yourself to custody immediately.”

Lord Tojuro was so mad he was shaking. Temari stepped up beside him, cheekily announcing, “Here, I have some handcuffs.”

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So excited to be contributing to ShikaTema week again <3 I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you thought! (pls be kind T.T)

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count: 8.2K 

chapter summary:  Din dreams, and Marathel surrenders. 

warnings:  crap tons of angst, mention of blood and injury, violence to women, rape, rape aftermath, non-con sexual situations, sexual situations, suicide ideation, allusion to drug use, description of medical procedures, English and Mando’a cursing 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***     

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<-You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Din and Grogu were still on their way to Nevarro to meet with Karga. Grogu was cuddled on Din’s lap on the captain’s chair in the cockpit, and they were currently watching a holovid of what Din considered to be one of the gentlest of rom-coms in his collection.  The story was simple enough: a Zabrak fellow, who was the awkward social pariah in his youth was found to be quite desirable by the hoity-toity former beauty-queen Twi’lek once they were adults.  The two connected because they’d had kids who became playmates, and the children naturally conspired to bring their parents into a relationship.  Eventually, the Zabrak discovered that the former beauty queen been overcompensating for a rough childhood, and the Twi’lek discovered that looks weren’t everything, but character and kindness mattered more. 

Din would have told anyone who asked that the reason for watching this holo was because the story was light-hearted and child-friendly, so it was appropriate for Grogu to watch.  Din had looked up some children’s holos on the sub-ether and had found them to be irritating in the extreme, and he’d rather Grogu watch people behaving decently rather than animated, dancing, shiny space whales singing about shab knew what. 

The real reason for watching the sappy rom-com, though, was an attempt by Din to clear his head and heart of whatever ugliness was within that was causing him to have those dreams he’d had lately.  The dream of him savaging Marathel as she lay in the stream was apparently only the first in a series.  That same sleep cycle, he’d dreamed that he was aggressively fucking her up against a wall. He was pulling her hair with one hand and gripping her jaw viciously with the other, all the while growling “Look at me!”, and she’d finally managed to break loose of his hold, swiping her nails across the bite wound as she screamed “LET ME GO!”  That time, after he’d awoken to another throbbing hard-on, he locked himself in the fresher again, where he harshly rubbed one out, without lubricant, in a vague attempt to punish himself.  After, he’d changed the dressing on the bite wound, and the infection was worse.  He also felt chilled and achy, making him wonder if he caught a cold while on Coruscant.  Running around in the rain, doing a bunch of high-energy high-stress shenanigans, losing my socks, shouldn’t wonder.  Haar’chak. 

The holo ended.  Grogu pointed at the screen, looked up at Din, and said, “Patu Mama!” 

“Patu Mama?  I’m not a Zabrak, you know that.  Mama is not a Twi’lek.  We’re both human.  You, ad’ika, on the other hand, we have no kriffing clue.” 

“Mama!  Mama, Mama!” cried Grogu, slapping his hands on Din’s armorless chest, and Din grunted as the boy inadvertently hit the bite-mark. 

Din took the boy’s little hand in his, gently rubbing the tiny knuckles with his gloved thumb.  “There’s nothing new to tell you. Fennec probably just got back to Mama, and the see-kit doctors are helping her.”  Grogu pouted, his ears drooping.  “I know, little guy.”  Din sighed.  “I wish I could make this whole process go faster.” Grogu grumbled his little chatter. “Seriously, do you think I’m doing the right thing?  Or is this plan of mine insane?”  Grogu shrugged.  “You’re a big help.  Okay, get off me, let’s get you something to eat.” 

After reconstituting some dried meat and a ration bar for Grogu, Din made himself a hot mug of bone broth, which made him feel a little better.  He sent off a holotext to Karga, outlining his intentions, hoping that Karga would start with his request, without a bunch of damn questions.  Karga was too nosy for his own good. 

Din wanted to reach out to Fennec, but he knew that was unwise.  He was still surprised that they’d run into each other on Coruscant as they’d had.  That meant that wherever Marathel was, she must have been close.  Oh, how he missed her.  He hoped she was responding to whatever treatment they were giving her, that she was not in pain, that they’d figure out how to make her stop bleeding, for Frith’s sake.  Din tried to not feel jealous of the time that Cobb was able to spend with her: he got to see her feeling well, in good spirits, having fun at the damn market.  Din also knew Cobb well enough that he knew Cobb probably got a little more than familiar with her — holding her hand, putting an arm around her, possibly more, that flirting son of a bitch.  Well, I’ll be putting an end to that soon.  Leaning back in his chair, he hoped that Marathel was getting better … and perhaps thinking of him. 

Marathel was thinking about Din at that moment, although she didn’t want to.  Certainly not while she was in this position.  Marathel was still in the chair, but she was not immobilized against the blinding flashing light.  Instead, she was now lying back with her knees up towards her armpits, exposed, open, as Cieroprac did … something to her, working to repair some of the damage done by the Dilimgau.  She couldn’t feel pain, but she felt the pressure of instruments and heard the quiet murmuring of Cieroprac talking to Eliadu, who was assisting her.   

Eliadu had continued to try to dissuade Marathel from only repairing the damage.  Marathel knew that she meant well, but Eliadu couldn’t possibly understand just how devastated she was.  The knowledge she now had, when put up against what she knew and experienced, made everything so clear to her.  There was no possibility, no chance of Din’s happiness with her.  She had nothing, was nothing, was so completely unworthy of someone like the armor-clad Mandalorian. 

She only hoped he would someday forgive her.  At the very least, he could forget her.  And Grogu was young: he could easily forget her as well.  Marathel would rather be forgotten than live with their contempt. 

Marathel suddenly sobbed.  Eliadu looked up at her, asking, “Are you in pain, Marathel?  We can put you to sleep, if you want.”  Marathel shook her head, fighting back her tears.  “We’re almost done here; then it’s just a few more tests.”  

“Where is Fennec?” 

“She is out … we put her in touch with someone to create an identity for you, so you can leave here.” 

“Identity?” 

“It’s something we all must have.  We call it an ID.” 

“Eye-Dee?  I don’t understand.” 

“It’s basically proof that you are who you say you are. It’s mostly so you can travel to certain places,” said Eliadu. 

“But I don’t want to go anywhere except back to Unmanarall.” 

Eliadu smiled indulgently.  “Well, it’s one of those facts of life we all have to live with for now.” 

Marathel sighed.  Then the pressure inside her became unbearable for a moment.  Cieroprac quietly apologized while her instruments continued to push around.  “You’re doing great, Marathel,” she said. 

“I just want this to be over,” whimpered Marathel.   

Eliadu put her hand on Marathel’s ankle, giving it a gentle squeeze.   “Won’t you reconsider reconstruction?” 

“No.” 

Cieroprac said, “I think I’m done here.  You will be sore for a while.  You will also still bleed for some time while you heal.  Hopefully it will only seem like an extra monthly period to you; I’ll get you a supply of absorbent pads to wear.   I also recommend a dilator with antibiotic suppositories; this would have been easier if you responded positively to bacta.” 

“What is this bacta everyone speaks of?” Marathel asked. 

“It’s a universal healing fluid; it can be used both internally and externally.  For some reason, you’re part of the tiny percentage that it doesn’t work on,” said Cieroprac as she moved herself and her instruments out from under Marathel. 

Eliadu began moving the large chair so that Marathel was in a regular sitting position.  “We don’t know if that’s an aberration particular to you, or if it’s genetic — your people may not respond to it either.” Marathel shrugged.  “What will you do, when you go back … home?”  Marathel did not respond.  “You live alone, away from your people, don’t you?  You don’t plan to go back to them?” 

Marathel shuddered.  “My people were the ones who did this to me.  I will … I will continue to live on my own.” 

“But why would you want to go back?  It would seem that you have new people who care deeply for you.  Why would you deny them the pleasure of having you with them?” 

“This is how it must be.”  This is the way.  Marathel knew they didn’t believe her.  What they thought didn’t matter.  The only opinion she really cared about was the Bounty Hunter’s … but there was nothing he’d be able to do or say to make her change her mind.  At least, that was what she kept telling herself. 

The chair was adjusted enough to allow Marathel to close her legs, her hip joints making loud popping noises.  Oh, she was sore.  She shifted a bit to lean forward, and she felt a deep ache, not unlike the cramping that came with her cycles when she had them, which was irregular and seldom.  Cieroprac was showing her the dilator device and explaining how to use it, making Marathel distinctly uncomfortable. She wanted to never think of that part of her again.  It had been a source of misery to her for most of her life, and the lives of every woman she knew.  Even though she’d recently had fleeting moments of ecstasy, of fulfillment, the pain and degradation far outweighed any pleasure she had ever received.   

Thinking of physical pleasure brought her mind back to Din —think of him as the Bounty Hunter again, Marathel, it will make leaving him easier, she thought to herself. 

And what of Grogu?  How can you ever forget him?  How can you even think of leaving him? 

It will kill me.  And even then, better so. 

Fennec, meanwhile, was ready to lose her shit.  

There were now so many things she’d rather be doing than dealing with government officials on behalf of a woman-child while running around an Imp ship crawling with who knew how many Imp sympathizers.  Preferable activities included pulling bantha-pups from a pregnant female in the Dune Sea, or possibly getting her cyber-implants replaced while still conscious and juggling vibro-blades. 

Fennec had managed to get some initial identification started for Marathel, naming her as a refugee from Jakuu.  That was far enough away in the opposite direction that no one would bother checking up on it.  There were enough nameless souls in the galaxy without ID that another would hardly matter.  The problem here was that Marathel would require a chip before she could leave this station.  Getting a chip would be more difficult, for that required an interview with the person in question, and Marathel could barely handle asking for a damned cup of tea, much less being questioned by Imps.  This was allegedly a Republic station, but in reality, it was still an Imp-friendly stronghold.  And Imps were big on ID chips.   

Fennec was heading back when she remembered that Marathel also had nothing to wear.  She sought out a clothing shop, but there wasn’t a lot of choice in Marathel’s size.  Din had made a point of nothing blue; unfortunately, Fennec could only get two shirts and two pairs of pants that would fit Marathel , and they were all different shades of dark blue.  Another reason to hate Imps, thought Fennec.  All a bunch of skinny bitches.  Fennec also purchased some undergarments as well as a soft pair of slippers that would do until they got back to Tatooine.  As she paid for these, Fennec impulsively added a light scarf of yellow that had dark orange threads shot through it, hoping it would cheer Marathel.  Cripes.  Now she’s got me doing it, Fennec thought with an exasperated smile.  She liked Marathel, she honestly did.  Marathel was delightful — when she wasn’t miserable — and Fennec only wished that they had met under different circumstances.  Perhaps we could have double dated.  Fennec chuckled.  And brought Cobb along as a fifth wheel.  Fennec laughed to herself at that one as she headed back to Marathel, now in a better frame of mind. 

Marathel stood in the fresher, hot water spraying on the top of her head.  If there was something that she would miss from this new part of her life — besides the people she had met, so different from those she’d always known — it was these hot showers.  Bathing water had never been hot enough for her.  Warm water was only for the men and the boys.  Clean water was only for the men and the boys.  They got to take their baths, and then the laundry was done, and then the women got to bathe. Once she began to live on her own, it took a long time before she felt comfortable enough to allow herself to bathe in warm clean water for herself.  But even then, there was no easy way to fill the laundry tub at the old herder’s hut, so it was only a dishpan or the dry sink for her.   

But this, this, the almost too-hot water cascading though her hair in sheets, was bliss.  No one had told her not to waste water here, so Marathel remained in the fresher until her skin turned pink and her muscles were warm.  The room remained steamy long after she’d turned off the water.  The towels she had access to were neither large nor thick, but they sufficed to dry her off until she could wrap her blanket around her.  Oh, I hope I can take this blanket with me.  I’ve never had a blanket this warm and soft.  It’s like a hug.  Marathel indulged herself in a memory of the Bounty Hunter’s arms around her, making her heart ache. 

Someone knocked on the door.  “Marathel?” It was Eliadu.  “Are you done? Fennec is back.”  Marathel hurriedly combed her hair and left the fresher.   

Fennec was standing just outside with a carry bag. “How are you feeling?” asked Fennec, as she looked at Marathel’s pink face. 

Marathel shrugged. “They think they’ve stopped my bleeding.  Cieroprac is making two more sets of injections that I’ll have to administer to myself.  After that, the hope is … I’ll be cured.” 

“Marathel …” Fennec began.  She thought for a few moments, then said, “What about the rest of the women in your Hold who suffer the same thing?” 

“What of them?” 

Fennec frowned.  “Don’t they deserve an opportunity to get this treatment too?” 

Marathel’s eyes closed as she sighed.  “There’s no point.” 

“Marathel … you can’t mean that.” 

“So long as they don’t … become like me, they’ll be all right.  Now, you went … to get me an ID?” 

“Yes.  And I got you some more clothes.  I’m sorry, but all I could find was blue.” 

“That is fine.  I am grateful, Fennec.  Thank you.”  Marathel took the bag and enclosed herself in her room, leaving Fennec on the other side of the door.   

Fennec went back to the treatment room.  Eliadu was cleaning the large chair apparatus, and Cieroprac was inventorying instruments.  “She loves the hot showers,” said Eliadu.  “Once Marathel found out that we had a fresher, it’s been difficult to keep her out of it.”  Fennec smiled wanly.  “She is such a charming and sweet woman, but hell-bent on inflicting her own misery.” 

Fennec sighed.  “I think misery is all she’s ever known.”  Except for maybe seven days.  And now she’s hell-bent on blowing that up. It made Fennec feel sorry for Din and Grogu.   

“We have done what we can for her at the moment.  The rest of her pain resides in her heart.”    

“If only you would tell me …” 

Eliadu shook her head.  “It is not for me to tell.  I betrayed her trust by using an Imp serum to get the information I needed, but once I learned the full truth about her, I knew I couldn’t just blithely pass on what I learned.  I needed to leave her with some dignity.” 

Fennec understood.  She had her own theories about Marathel’s past, and Cobb agreed with her, based on some things that Marathel had said to him.  If it were true, Marathel deserved some dignity. 

Fennec held out the credits, and Cieroprac shook her head.  “It would be too much. The price was for full reconstruction, not the little we did.”  She gave Fennec a new amount. Fennec nodded and adjusted the stack of credits. 

Just then, Marathel slowly came into the treatment room.  She was wearing the blue clothes and slippers and hugging the folded blanket. She had tied the scarf low over her forehead wound, braiding the long ends into her damp hair.  She looked subdued, exhausted, but also healthier, with good color in her cheeks.  Looking at Fennec, she said, “Thank you for the clothes and the scarf, Fennec.  They seem to fit well.”   

Fennec did her best to seem cheerful.  “You’re welcome.  Again, I’m sorry that I could only find blue clothes.” 

Marathel gave a small smile.  “I don’t mind.  I think it’s the Bounty Hunter who dislikes blue.  Blue was the color of my house at the Hold.” 

Fennec frowned.  “House?” 

“House of Bishop,” said Marathel with a shrug.  “Are we able to go now?” Marathel asked Eliadu, “Are we able to leave?  And … may I … keep this blanket?  I like it very much.” 

“Yes, Marathel, of course you may keep the blanket,” replied Eliadu.  “You are also able to leave.  But please, reconsider your plans.  Your heart is already broken, don’t shred it to pieces as well.”  

Marathel remained silent, and then Cieroprac said, “You have the medicines and injections?  And you remember how and when to use them?” 

Marathel nodded.  “I do.  And thank you for what you have done for me.” 

“Marathel,” entreated Eliadu.  “You can be free of your pain.  Do you understand?  You can be free … but you’re the one that has to let it go.” 

Marathel nodded, and said quietly, “I will be.”  She quickly stepped forward and hugged Eliadu.  “Thank you for your kindness.” 

Eliadu, surprised, hugged Marathel back.  “Marathel, thank you for trusting us.  Please remember that where you came from is not who you are.”  Eliadu kissed Maratgel’s cheek.  “You will need more than a blanket to keep you company in this life.” 

Cieroprac added, “Thank you, Marathel, for coming to us.  May you be well.” 

Marathel pulled back from Eliadu, looking at both women, her throat full of tears, second-guessing her decisions and her plans … but then she remembered that where she came from was exactly who she was.  Marathel and Fennec finished their goodbyes and left. 

Shortly after, Fennec was walking at a brisk pace ahead of Marathel.  “Pick it up, Marathel.  We have a way to go to get to the transport, and you also have to get chipped.” 

Marathel, already breathless, said, “Pick what up?  And what is a chip?”  Marathel stopped.  “Please, Fennec, I can’t walk as fast as you.” 

Fennec turned back around to see Marathel, breathing hard, holding on to a direction sign.  “I’m sorry, Marathel, I just want off this station.  I won’t feel safe until we’re both out of here. The ID I tried to get for you is not enough.  You must get an ID chip imbedded, and you must speak to an Imp to get it.” 

Marathel nodded, nervous. “I will do my best.” 

Fennec slowed her pace, and stayed close to Marathel as they made their way to the ID registrar.  Fennec told Marathel what she had initially told the registrar and reminded her of the original story they had planned to tell the Reconstructionists.  “Where is this Jakuu?” asked Marathel. 

“Basically nowhere.” 

“So is Unmanarall.” 

“Yes, but no one has heard of your planet.  Jakuu is at least known in the galaxy.  It’s also essentially populated by nobodies.  It’s a good place to disappear,” said Fennec with a shrug. 

“Why not say I’m from Tatooine?” 

“Because I happen to live there.  I don’t want people potentially following up where I live.”  An office worker called out Marathel’s name.  “Answer their questions, but don’t offer any information,” whispered Fennec. 

Marathel nodded, and she slowly got up to follow the worker through a door and into a small cubicle within a sea of cubicles.  People of all kinds were moving all about Marathel as she sat on the small chair next to the worker’s desk. The worker, a human with shocking purple hair, kept a disinterested look on his face as he tapped on a keypad connected to a large holo screen. After sitting in silence for quite a long time, the worker snapped, “Name?” 

Marathel jumped, startled.  “I’m sorry?” 

“Name?” 

“Marathel,” she replied.   

“How’d you spell that?” asked the worker.  Marathel didn’t respond, and the worker sighed.  “Another one who can’t read.  Fine.  Look at me and pronounce your name slowly.” 

“Mare-ah-thel,” pronounced Marathel. 

“Surname?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

The worker sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “Surname.  Family name.  Name of the people you come from.” 

Marathel assumed that the correct answer would be ap Bishop, that was the name of the people she came from, but she had lived the last two-thirds of her life without the name hanging over her, and she refused to have it tied to her now.  “Can I not just … have the name Marathel?  Is that not enough?” 

The worker sighed yet again.  “Lady, I already missed my smoke break.  I gotta fill in the forms like they tell me, because they don’t pay me enough to put up with the grief I’d get if I don’t.   Just give me a kriffing name.  Make up something, I don’t care.” 

Marathel thought briefly of naming herself Belwhyn; it was at least an appropriate descriptor.   But it hurt her heart too much to do that … and she believed that Fennec, and probably the Bounty Hunter, would dislike it.  Marathel also briefly considered ap Olba, as she had been the only true family she had ever known, her mam that wasn’t her mam.  The worker was glaring at her, so she blurted out, “… ap Unmapeth.  That’s my … surname.” 

“Finally.”  The worker tapped for a while on the keypad.  “From Jakuu?” 

“Yes.”  Again, tap-tap-tap.  Marathel clutched her hands together in her lap as she waited for the next question, the interrogation she expected. The machine before her made a beep noise, and a tiny metal grain-shaped object dropped into a tiny plate.   

The worker grabbed the metal grain and dropped it into what looked like a tiny boomer.  “Arm,” the worker said, and Marathel reached out with her right arm, perplexed.  The worker grabbed her arm and placed the tiny boomer against her inner arm, pulling the trigger. 

Marathel felt a deep, painful pinch.  “Ow!  What in Frith ...” 

“Take this to the front desk as you leave, you’re done,” said the worker, waving a small sheet of paper at her.   

“But what was that …” 

“Lady, you’re done.  Go that way.  Dank ferrik, I’m going for a smoke.”  The worker stood and pulled up Marathel by her arm, pushing her towards a desk with a squatty green creature behind it.   

Marathel approached the desk, and the creature, not looking at her, held out a puffy hand.  “Form?”  Marathel placed the piece of paper in the green hand.  The creature tapped on their keypad for a while, and the creature muttered, “Another one from Jakuu with an unpronounceable name. Damn dustfoots, coming here, taking all the jobs …” The creature sighed wetly, drool cascading over the multiple chins. 

“My name is pronounced Marathel ap Unmapeth.” 

“Sure it is.  Arm,” it said, holding out its puffy hand again. 

“Why?” asked Marathel, wary, assuming some other painful thing was about to happen.   

“Arm,” it said again.  Marathel gingerly held out her arm again, noticing the new red area on her injection-marked skin. The creature, after giving Marathel’s arm a withering look, grabbed her arm and placed a black metal cylinder near it, and a holo projection of letters and a flattened image of her face hovered above the black cylinder.  Marathel gasped.  “That you?” asked the creature. 

“I … I guess so.” 

The creature sighed again, rolling three of its five eyes.  Marathel heard the creature mutter, “A kriffing spicehead, too.”  It slapped another paper slip on the desk in front of Marathel.  “Sign here.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Put your mark, whatever, you’re holding up the line.”  Marathel looked down at the paper, bewildered.  The creature finally shoved a pen in her hand, grabbed her arm roughly, and made Marathel scribble something on the slip.  The creature stamped it with a red blotchy image and said, “You’re done.  Next!” 

Marathel stumbled away from the desk and went out the door she had come in. Fennec was sitting in a chair, scowling at a Rodian child who was staring dumbly at her while sucking on a large lolly.    Fennec noticed Marathel and stood.  “Well, that was quicker than I expected.” 

Marathel looked at her arm again.  “I don’t understand what just happened.” 

“You’ve been chipped.  Welcome to modern bureaucracy.  Let’s get out of here; government offices make me itch.” 

As they left the offices, Marathel said, “They only asked my name and where I was from.  Then … I think they put something in my arm.” 

Fennec nodded.  “That’s the chip.  You’ll need it to get on the transport.” 

“But why?” 

“It’s … just the way it is, Marathel. You have to prove you are who you say you are.” 

“My word is not enough?” 

“Not for the Imps,” said Fennec. Seeing Marathel’s face turn to distress, she continued, “Please, Marathel, try to not upset yourself.” 

“They made me create a family name for myself.  They didn’t care what, just that I had one.” 

“Figures.  What did you choose?”  Fennec was assuming that Marathel would take the surname Bishop, based on her suspicions. 

“I thought about Belwhyn, but … I went with ap Unmapeth.”  Marathel sighed.  “I suppose it doesn’t matter, really.  I only need to have this chip to get back to Tatooine, yes?”  Marathel kept stroking her arm, trying to feel where the chip had been injected.  

“What does ap Unmapeth mean?” 

Marathel shrugged.  “Nothing.  Where do we have to go now?” 

“Ship 2.  While I was waiting for you, I hired a cart to take us there.  I wasn’t thinking that you wouldn’t be up to the long walk, Marathel; I’m sorry.” 

Marathel looked downcast.  “I’m sorry I can’t keep up.” 

“Don’t worry; you just need some rest.”  An open driverless droid cart arrived.  Marathel got on with some trepidation, and Fennec tapped in their destination on the little screen in front of them.  The little cart zipped off into a track with many other carts like it.  

Marathel was initially startled by the speed of the cart, but then she said, “Well, this is fun,” surprising Fennec. 

“How are you feeling, Marathel?” 

“This is much better than walking.” 

Fennec frowned; Marathel was deflecting again.  The trip back to Tatooine was not terribly long, and Fennec had gotten them their own private carriage so Marathel could relax in peace, without the stares of strangers.  Fennec hoped that Marathel would be able to talk at length to Din upon their return, now that she seemed better.  She hoped that Din could talk her out of going back to her home planet.  Marathel was rubbing her arm where they injected the chip.  “Leave your arm alone, Marathel.” 

“They called me a dustfoot.  And a spicehead.” 

“Who did?” 

“The people at the ID office.  They were … quite mean.  I don’t know what they called me, but it obviously wasn’t good.” 

Fennec sighed.  “Dustfoot … that’s someone from a desert planet.  It can also mean someone who is … simple, uneducated, usually poor.  It’s just another term to call someone who you think is beneath you.  But then, Cobb calls himself a dustfoot.” 

“So, it has double meanings, like tymffod.  It literally means funnel, but to call a person one, it would mean … asshole.”  This last word, Marathel whispered. 

Fennec laughed.  “Did you ever call Din that?” 

Marathel turned pink.  “Once, but indirectly.  When he puked up my clam stew.” 

“And I bet you make very good clam stew.” 

“I do!  It was delicious. I even made it spicy like he asked for.” 

Oh honey, he was trying as hard to please you as you were him, to the point it made him sick, poor guy.  “Well, that was a tymffoddy thing for him to do.”  Marathel smiled briefly, and then her face returned to sadness. Fennec then said, “A spicehead is someone addicted to spice.  Spice is an illegal drug that is traded and run all over the galaxy.  It has made many people very rich to the detriment of millions of others.  I’m sure the person there saw the injection marks on your arms and made an assumption.  But you’re not a spice addict, so that person’s just stupid.” 

“But they …” 

“Someday you’ll learn, Marathel, that what other people think of you doesn’t matter if you know they’re wrong.  And especially if that person doesn’t care about you, unlike Din, or me, or anyone at the palace.” 

Marathel fell silent.  She knew, deep down, that the green creature didn’t matter.  But she also knew that she was a disgusting monster and would be found repugnant by everyone at the palace who allegedly cared about her, once they finally learned the truth about her … but I have to tell the Bounty Hunter first.  I only hope he will allow me to kiss Grogu goodbye; then he can be repulsed by me forever. 

They got to the transport bay, and Marathel continued to not speak as they went through security.  Marathel held out her arm as requested, her chip was scanned, and they made it onboard with no trouble.  Fennec made a few attempts to engage Marathel in conversation, but she did not respond, and continued to look at the floor, her brow furrowed as if she were deep in thought.  Fennec finally dropped to her knees within Marathel’s line of sight, and gently put her hands on Marathel’s knees.  Marathel started, but still said nothing.  Fennec said, “Marathel, listen to me.  You don’t have to talk but by this Frith you and Din keep mentioning, you will listen to me. 

“Whatever happened to you, whatever happened in your Hold … None of it is your fault.  You are the victim, Marathel.  Don’t judge yourself on what was done to you in that horrible place.  Don’t push Din away because you feel like you’re unworthy.  None of it was your doing! 

“You took yourself into that Hold but doesn’t mean you deserved what those men did to you. Those women got you out because they love you.  Din got you to us because he loves you.  You are some woman, Marathel, you are sweet and kind and smart, and dammit, I like you.  I pretty much hate everyone, but I like you. 

“Whatever you’re thinking by wanting to go back to Unmanarall … stop thinking that.  You’re going to break Din’s heart, and Grogu’s too, and that little boy just started calling you Mama!  And you’re breaking your own heart too. 

“You need help, you need so much help.  You need therapy and care and healing and support.  You can’t get that if you run away.  We will get you that help if you stay with us.  Please, Marathel, don’t go back.  Don’t do this; we care about you so damn much.” 

Marathel didn’t respond.  Fennec’s eyes were misted over, but her own were dry.  The thought of leaving should have broken her heart as well, but her heart had already disintegrated into ash.  Marathel sighed and gently pushed Fennec’s hands off her lap.  Marathel softly said, “You shouldn’t,” and she drew her knees up and curled herself into a ball. 

The next night cycle, Din put Grogu to bed, and he locked himself in the cockpit, deciding to fantasize about Marathel in a romantic and tender manner before he fell asleep, attempting to manipulate his subconscious.  He thought of her wearing her pretty gown of sunset yellow, made with her own hands, bright against her magnificent warm skin.  He thought of her hair, a waving river of liquid beskar, flowing over her shoulders, tangling around his fingers, capturing his hands with its heavy coarseness, with its scent of flowers and herbs and the heat from her head.  He thought of her face and its features, soft and pale, her eyelashes barely visible against her cheeks as she held her eyes closed. He thought about kissing her softly, first on her cheek, and then moving across her pale nose with little light nips to the other cheek before moving to her lips, and he always kissed with much more skill in his fantasies than he was sure he did in real life.  He thought about gently sliding his hand up her ribcage to cup her full breast, heavy in his hand, molding it in his palm as he gently laid her back on a soft bed, putting a knee between her thighs. He thought of releasing her breast, moving both his hands up to cup her sweet, beautiful face, murmuring my love and my mesh’la before kissing her softly again …  

… and then his hand slid down her throat to her shoulder to her breast, pinching her nipple until she gasped, then moving his hand to her thigh, where he gathered up the hem of her gown and slid his hand underneath it, moving his hand up her thigh and over her hip, roughly squeezing the ample globe of her ass cheek.  Ending his kiss, he lifted his knee to press against her mound, and she moaned, her eyes closed as he hiked up her gown to her waist.  He lowered his full weight on her, sliding his erection through her folds with a rolling pelvis, marking her with his fluids, as he continued to softly call her my mesh’la, my lovely, my sweet, my girl, my sweet girl, my little girl, my good girl as he got to his knees to push her legs wide open.  He spit on his hand and stroked himself before he pushed his cock into her pussy — she was not wet enough but he didn’t want to wait any longer — watching her groan at the feel of him inside her, her eyes closed, and then he began to fuck her proper, holding one of her heavy legs up against her. Oh, my good girl, he said, such a good girl, sweet girl, my baby girl, can you look at me, sweet girl? 

Thrusting faster. 

Good girl, look at me, open your eyes, baby girl.   

Faster.  Grabbing at the neckline of her gown, pulling at it.  

Look at me, baby girl, open your eyes, look at me now, my good girl.  

Harder.  Twisting her gown in his fist, ripping it. 

Baby girl, open your eyes, look at me, you look at me! 

He struck her across the face. 

You look at me, you bitch!  You whore cunt!  Open your eyes, you slut, LOOK AT ME! 

She kept her eyes tightly shut, tears rolling down her temples, and she cried there’s no point as she pushed against him, and she found the bite-mark with her hand, pressing as hard as she could, sobbing, let me go. 

Time suddenly stretched out, slowing to almost stopping.  Entire cycles of the sun passed overhead, and he was no longer ruthlessly forcing himself on her, he was merely gently holding her as he lay beside her, and eventually time fell back into its normal pace, and it was now the deepest night, and he could barely see her in the pale moonlight.  He did not know where he had been before, but now he recognized the brown bed tick he slept on Unmanarall.  He could feel the light breeze as it luffed the woven brown panels that hung around them.  He was with his Marathel, back to where they’d been so close, where he’d fallen in love with his mesh’la, his ma’mwsh ha’laa.  

My Marathel, I removed my helmet like you asked.  My Marathel, I see you with my own eyes. Ner kar’ta. Look at me, he said.  Mesh’la.  Look at me. 

She turned her head away, weeping.  There’s no point. 

He cupped her cheek, feeling her tears on his hand.  Please.  Please, mesh’la, look at me. 

Marathel shook her head.  There’s no point. 

He pulled a blanket over her, covering her, protecting her.  Ner kar’ta, I’m sorry. Ni cuy’ osi’yaim.  Ni cuy’ hut’uun.  I am a despicable person, I am a coward, please, look at me, please forgive me.  He tried to hold her, comfort her, even though he had been the source of her pain.  Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please look at me! 

Her tears continued to fall as she pulled away from him and stood, her eyes still tightly shut, walking away, pulling the blanket behind her like a train on an elaborate gown as she walked down the front steps of her hut and into the tall grass. The words let me go came back to him in a whisper as she disappeared in the distance. 

Don’t make me, he whispered to the woman no longer there.  Please, don’t make me let you go.  Stay with me. 

But she was gone, the whispers were gone, he was alone in the dark, and he remained there for a very long time. 

When Din began to wake up — realizing he was reclining in his captain's chair — he was unsure of how long he slept.  He felt woozy, not unlike a hangover or a concussion. Since he’d experienced both recently, he took a moment to make sure he was conscious and not still in a dream state.  He also felt … damp? 

Din opened his eyes, and his visor was filled with Grogu’s face, peering in. Din jerked back slightly with a start, and Grogu cooed and slid down Din’s chest.  “What’s going on?”  Grogu patted Din’s chest, and he realized the child was patting the bite area.  He pulled down his thermal shirt and saw that the wound was no longer infected.  It still was red, but it was a healthy red color, not the angry red of the previous infection.  Din also noticed that his thermal shirt was soaked in sweat.  He must have been running a fever, and Grogu had Force-opened the cockpit door to heal him.  

Did the infection cause the dreams?   

Am I still connected to her through this bite-mark?   

Osi’k, that makes no damned sense, do I still have a fever?   

“Was I sick, kid?  Did you have to heal me?” Grogu’s hands reached up to his helmet.  “I’ve been messed up the past couple of days.  I’m sorry, little guy, I’m so sorry.”   

“Mama?” 

What the shab? “Mama?  What about her?” 

Grogu climbed up further and grabbed Din’s helmet.  “Mama,” he said, emphatically. 

The kid knows.  He knows I’ve been dreaming about her.  But … does he know what I’ve dreamt?  Din felt ashamed.  “Yes, Grogu … I’ve been dreaming of her.  Bad dreams.  Dreams where I … hurt her.  But you know, you know I’d never hurt her, right?” Grogu kept staring into the visor, his huge eyes gazing deep into Din’s soul.  “I … I’m …” Din swallowed, collecting his thoughts.  “I’m scared, kid.”   Grogu tilted his head, waiting for Din to continue.  “Patu really likes the idea of Patu Mama, but Patu is just … scared.  Patu is afraid that Mama won’t like the idea of Patu Mama.  Mama is still very sad.  Sad and hurt.  Mama may always be sad and hurt.”  Grogu whined, his face pinching with sadness.  Din squeezed Grogu’s hand, saying, “No, don’t you worry.  Mama will always love Grogu.  She loves you,” insisted Din. “But Mama … she may never love Patu.  And that’s why Patu is so scared.” 

“Sad Patu?” 

Din nodded.  “Very sad Patu.”  Grogu snuggled up under Din’s chin, hugging him.   Din put his large hand on the child’s tiny back.  Sad.  Scared.  Terrified that she may leave me still.  That was the only way the dreams made sense to him; he was overpowering her — in the worst way possible — to keep her from leaving.  Forcing her to remain.  Preying on her fear and her belief that she deserved such treatment.  Calling her by the names that she hated, the ones that the Bishop called her.  And hurting her in such a deplorable way.  

Then Din recalled a recurring theme — she would not look at me.  Was my helmet off or on?  He made a point of telling her his helmet was off in this last dream, although it did not make any difference.  Is she pulling away from me?  Am I making an enormous assumption that she loves me, regardless of what she said on Unmanarall?  Are my feelings for her … misplaced now? 

And what about the bite mark?  The wound that burns every time I wake up from one of these nightmares? 

Oh, he did not want to try to piece that together.   

His father — not his buir, his actual father — was some kind of engineer, he never knew what kind exactly.  What he did remember was his father’s favorite pastime: root cause analysis.  His father spent a lot of time talking to him in his calming manner, asking the questions that mattered.   

What happened to your toy, son? 

Elor broke it. 

Why did the neighbor boy Elor break your toy, son?    

The answer because Elor is a bully didn’t appease his father; Father wanted young Din to fully analyze the situation. Question after question he would ask, each one leading further and further back to where young Din stepped on the path that led to his toy — not that Din remembered what the toy even was, at this point — being broken.  What Din remembered was that his father had walked him right back to the root cause: Din was the reason the toy was broken. 

Elor, a boy close to Din’s age but older, lived two houses down.  Elor lived with only his mother then; his father had just been conscripted due to his felon status.  Din’s father was safe from such a fate; he had an education and a high-ranking job, and he was not a convict.  Elor was not taking this well, and it just so happened that Din had decided to be a right little shit that day.  With his fabulous new toy, Din went down to Elor’s house to show it off and rub his nose in it.  Elor responded to this in the only way imaginable by children, and not only did Din have a broken toy, but also a bloody nose.  The end result — after Din finally got to the root cause — was Din being marched back down to Elor’s house with an apology and an invitation for Elor and his mother to come for dinner.  Elor was over for dinner a lot after that, and lunches too.  The two boys never became friends, but Din never forgot about root cause analysis. 

If Din had to analyze his dreams for the root cause, he’d be hard pressed to come up with answers that weren’t completely fantastical, or at least bizarre.  The bad dreams started when the bite mark became infected, so he could blame the dreams on that … but he also wondered if the bite mark went deeper than that, so to speak.   

Din remembered the night back on Unmanarall, the second night of the Dahls mating.  The bite burned then.  He had felt overheated, almost feverish, not only with lust for Marathel, but also a true physical fever.  That night, he tried to overpower her, force himself on her, but … he finally surrendered to her strength, her physical desire to mate, her pure need.   

But these new dreams, she’d been the one to surrender.  Not even surrender; she didn’t fight to begin with, not until she could no longer bear it, and then, she’d attack the bite, causing him pain in both the sleeping and waking worlds. 

The bite had burned another time, but he had scarcely remembered it until now — the bite had burned as he stood motionless, watching the Bishop hit her, knock out her teeth, savage her before his eyes and the eyes of all the other women and the children. She had told him to be still.  Be still and it will be over quicker for me, she had said … when? 

It was when Marathel looked at him, after her veil had been torn off, her mouth and head bleeding.  She told the Captain to give him the coins, and she looked straight at him, and he’d heard her, clear as day, her voice inside his head, saying be still, be still, be still!  Then, she’d walked straight into the Round Building, giving herself up to her fate, and he did not hear her again, and the burning sensation on his chest stopped.  At the time, he was more concerned with the fact he found himself unwillingly immobile to worry about a burning wound. 

Was Marathel giving up … again?   

She’d sacrificed herself to the Elders, but he’d dragged her out of there against her will.  When she regained consciousness, she had no desire to live.  But somehow, she found a reason to at least try. Was it finding an ally in another woman, like Fennec or Silnima?  Was it finding that there were other men who wouldn’t hurt her, but would protect her, like Boba?  Make her feel like a worthy person, like Cobb? And if that were the case, what would have changed?  What changed so much that her pain would affect him so, at such a great distance, through a … bite wound? 

So, back to root cause analysis: I am tied to Marathel on a metaphysical level by a bite wound she gave me.  She is telling me that she has given up, and that I need to give up on her as well. 

No, I don’t believe that.   I don’t believe that even if I do.  This is real life, not a damned … paranormal rom-com holovid.  I got an infection, I got a fever, I had fever dreams, Marathel is fine, she’s getting better, soon I’ll be back with her, and then we can …  

Din’s holopad pinged, shaking him out of his thoughts.  Grogu was still on his chest, holding him, patting the wound site.  Din reached out and tapped the holopad, and a holo of Fennec popped up.  “Fennec?  What’s happening?  Where are you?” 

“We’re on a transport, heading back to Tatooine.” 

“Already?  Marathel is all better?” 

“She is not better; she is possibly the furthest thing from all right.” 

“What? Why?” 

“The doctors … they found something, said something to her, and she refused all reconstruction.  They got the bleeding disorder fixed, they patched her up, but now, she’s not communicating.  She’s shut down.” Fennec pointed her holopad through a window to what must have been a private carriage on the transport.  Din could see Marathel sitting on a padded bench, her knees up to her chest with her head down to her knees, curled up tightly.  Grogu turned to see the holo, and he reached out with his little hand, whining quietly.  “And it gets worse.” 

“Worse?  Worse how?” 

“She wants to go back to Unmanarall.” 

Din couldn’t speak for a moment. He felt physically ill.   He swallowed and finally grunted, “We’re on our way.”  Fennec clicked off.   

Grogu turned back to Din, pressing his forehead against Din’s helmet.  “Sad Mama.” 

Din nodded.  “Mama needs us.”  Grogu sat back down on Din’s lap, and Din changed course back to Tatooine.  The ship lurched and headed towards the new coordinates.  “Mama needs us,” repeated Din, quietly. 

But … does she want us? 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

✧ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: anahardt, and their own dance. reminiscing on the years before.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

✧ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: you can also find this on ao3. this was a request, enjoy (:

⟡ ⠀ | ANA WAS STILL AS BEAUTIFUL AS HE REMEMBERED. And if course she was, it was Ana, she would always have an unforgettable air of grace to her.

So when he sees her like this, with her face towards the window gazing at the water droplets that race to the end of window. He smiles. It was a habit of hers that hasn’t changed, and he liked that.

He could watch Ana’s back all day. Well, he could watch her all day. The world seems to get a little quiet when his eyes were set on her. So quiet in fact, he couldn’t even hear Pharah sneaking up on him.

❛ Seeing you two yearn for each other like this kills me inside ❜ She whispers softly, a warm palm squeezes the elders shoulder. It’s comforting in a way, maybe he did need that.

❛ Take her to Hawaii. She’s been talking about it for the longest, you guys can finally go dancing. ❜ A short scoff of disbelief escapes Reinhardt’s scarred lips. As if to say, what Hawaii? Pshh…

The familiar sound of Reinhardt causes Ana to snap out of her trance, weary hues would set their gaze on her daughter and beloved companion. A sweet smile creeps onto her lips.

❛ Gossiping about me I see? ❜ Pharah takes this as a queue to take her leave, she throws an expectant gaze towards Reinhardt and gives her goodbyes to each of them. ❛ Ah, no… She mentioned something about… Hawaii. ❜

Ana could only chuckle lowly. Pharah was a smart girl, she knew. That was her daughter after all… and she was a persistent one. Stubborn even. And she could practically sense the matter of the conversation that conspired between the two. So she nods on, expecting more from him, a better explanation even.

But he doesn’t, instead… he grabs a hold of her palms. A stark contrast to his, mind you, Ana’s complexion was olive, scattered with some freckles from this summer. Smooth, so smooth. Her hands practically dwarfed his.

While his hands engulfed hers, pale (although a bit tanner from the summer.) Weather—beaten and calloused from the elements, as well as his vigorous workout routine. And much more rough.

Despite these differences, they fit like a puzzle piece. Reinhardt takes the lead, a palm cradles the small of her back. Swaying in unison, ❛ It’s not Hawaii— but it is a dance… I— ❜ She shushes him before he can even continue. ❛ This is just perfect. We’ll make do, we always have. Always will. ❜

And she’s right, she knows it and he knows it.

So they dance that whole day, their music is the rain. The rain that patters against smooth glass. Nature paints a picture of them, against the water colored aquamarines, the muted greys and the blotted turquoises.

Dark storm clouds begin to roll in, filling their music with the low howl of wind with the reverberation of thunder. The sound of Reinhardt’s heart keeps her at bay, their breath mingles together… it’s beginning to feel like the night in Gibraltar, in the command center.

Maybe he was right, maybe they were still foolish. Because the way Ana’s chest beats in her chest feels foolish, the way they spare each other longing glances felt foolish. Yet, they still dance.

Farah watches from afar, she snaps a quick picture. Something to show her mother later on of course, she would love it.

[e-wills-afterhours]

Pretentious Coffee, Chapter 4

A/N: I saw a quote on Tumblr that I believe is attributable to F. Scott Fitzgerald. He said something to the effect of life is a struggle between the overwhelming desire to write and the series of circumstances that seem to conspire to keep him from writing. Y'all. That's it. That's the whole deal. I am trying. However, a surprise December tornado devastated my town (it made national news so I'm giving my location away there). My children fell ill. My husband had to go to a funeral in Arizona for a buddy who died from colorectal cancer. Then, in my caring for said ill children, I also caught the ill.

On the bright side, I'm usually left alone while sick. I aim to get some new writing done instead of just uploading parts of old fics, like this one. Please bear with me and my half-delusional, high on decongestant writings.

-------

Astrid’s feet were cold, and her boots were soaked through with snow. Wool socks made little difference. Her body was numb beneath thick layers, but that was for an entirely different reason than the weather. She had gone against her better judgment by deciding to tag along with Ruffnut to her brother’s party, but she took a chance that she might actually enjoy herself.

The severity of her mistake became clear within the first ten minutes.

She had only just gotten a beer for herself, joining Ruffnut, Tuffnut, and the other party-goers gathered around the fire pit blazing in the tiny backyard. No one else arrived at first and she had begun to feel foolishly optimistic that it would remain a smaller, more relaxed affair—much more her speed.

Then a SUV pulled up, and a half-dozen people spilled out of it, followed by two more sedans. She recognized one but dismissed it as a common make and model to soothe the anxious twist in her stomach.

But, the door opened, and a tall, muscular figure she knew all too well emerged with an infuriating swagger. From the passenger side, he was joined by a pretty girl with long, black hair pulled into a loose plait—much like Astrid wore hers, insultingly enough.

The very person she left her dorm to forget was strolling up to the fire with his new lover on his arm: the girl who had ended everything. The one he cheated on Astrid with, only to finally leave her for.

“I didn’t know he would be here,” Ruffnut whispered urgently. “Shit. We can go.”

Astrid shook her head, eyes narrowing as the crunching of snow beneath the crowd of boots grew louder. Tuffnut and his friends called out to the newcomers, and they hollered back. It was then Astrid’s eyes met her ex’s, and she took small satisfaction in the hesitancy of his next few steps.

So, he was still feeling guilty? Good.

More bottlecaps popped and the huddle around the crackling fire grew tighter. Astrid was closer to the source of her frustration than she had been in over a month. She could feel his eyes on her, wanting her attention—he had  always wanted her attention, never content to let her pursue her own interests outside of himself and school. He was not controlling, but…persistent?

That had been fine in high school when prepping for college was all that mattered, and he had been a pleasant way to unwind from sports and homework. They were always together when their schedules had allowed it, pouring their energy into being the power couple—alphas in the adolescent pecking order.

University was a different world, though. New opportunities and a fresh start called to Astrid, and she had started to drift from him, only a little, as she branched out toward new interests. She thought it was a good thing—a way to grow and have more to share to enrich her relationship.

She quickly learned, however, that things became a competition. Who was having more fun? Who was faring better in their courses? Whose accomplishments were more brag-worthy, and who was better taking advantage of their new independence?

Astrid quickly grew weary of it. She had no interest in competing against her boyfriend, simply because he felt he had no one else to compete with. She understood his drive and his confidence. She shared those same traits to an extent, and that was what first attracted her to Eret. There was no thinking involved. It had been easy. They were one and the same.

But when she deliberately put more distance between them, coming up with excuses and activities to fill her schedule, he responded in kind—a sort of “two can play at this game”, she figured. They saw each other the weekends, and still went out on dates. Things weren’t great, but they were okay in her mind. They were holding it together and still having fun, though the emotional adhesive in their relationship had grown more brittle than she had realized.

Eret had likely already been seeing his new girl on the side, but Astrid had been clueless for a time. Maybe they had not yet started sleeping together then. Astrid knew him to have more integrity than that.

She eventually decided they were something worth saving and had shown up at his apartment unannounced. She had only wanted to talk, to regain some of the spark they had lost…and that was how she had found out about the other woman. Halfhearted excuses chased her all the way to her car as Eret stumbled after her, trying to wipe the lipstick off his face.

No official declaration ended their relationship. Such a thing was unneccessary and redundant. The tears that had blurred her vision then were more from the sting of wounded pride than true heartache.

Even as Astrid stood beside Ruffnut in the snow, determinedly avoiding eye contact with Eret, it was her wounded pride that was still hardest to tolerate. Thoughts of him plagued her, not because she wanted him back, but because he had made a fool of her. There was no closure, because she would not speak to him or give him the satisfaction of apologizing. He wouldn’t get to have the last word. She kept him on a hook because he deserved to sweat.

He deserved to be made uncomfortable by the mere sight of her, and so things went unresolved. Her pride, still raw.

“I’m going inside,” she told Ruffnut. “It’s too cold out here, suddenly.”

She didn’t wait for a response, marching toward the backdoor with purpose. The chatter faded as soon as the door shut behind her, replaced by the latest hit music and quieter, more intimate conversations between the few, less social individuals hiding from the elements.

There were cheesy Christmas lights strung up in the kitchen, extending through the open floor plan. The most pathetic fake tree was tucked in the corner, decorated with cleavage ornaments and small, plastic pin-up girls. Instead of a star, it was topped with a glittering marijuana leaf.

Astrid rolled her eyes.

She set her beer down on the kitchen counter and shrugged off her coat. There was a pile of hats, scarves, and winter jackets draped over the sofa closest to the front door, and she added to it.

No one cared that she was there, wrapped up in their own conversations. It was nice and what she had originally expected. She did, however, stand out like a sore thumb, hovering by the door alone. To be a wallflower was entirely new.

She made her way back to the kitchen and her beer, noting the hints of Tuffnut and Snotlout in every immature, novelty Christmas decoration, and the swimsuit model calendar tacked to the side of the refrigerator. She envied the other people sitting around and chatting away about anything and everything, sharing their half-baked revolutionary ideas that would surely change the world.

Astrid never had much practice with philosophical conversation outside the classroom. She fancied herself much more pragmatic.

“Are you stalking me now?”

The simple question cut through her reverie.

She jumped and nearly dropped her beer on the faded linoleum. From the corner of her eye, a tall, slim figure sauntered out from the hall to her left. She was gobsmacked, blatantly gaping. Her shame was in pieces on the floor, like her bottle had nearly been, as her mouth hung open.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

Hiccup, the coffee barista, shuffled around her to get to the refrigerator. He was nonchalant in his T-shirt and sweatpants, like there wasn’t a party going on around him, and they often did the very same awkward dance in cramped spaces.

“I, uh…live here?” he replied, pulling out his own beer. “I didn’t realize that was such an offense.” Astrid continued to stare at him and he leaned back against the adjacent counter, drumming the fingers of his freehand on it. “I’m beginning to think everything I do offends you, actually.”

“What? I—no. No, it doesn’t,” Astrid answered hotly. “I would just like to enjoy myself without any aggravations, for once.”

He popped off his bottle cap. “I’ve been called many things. ‘Aggravation’ is new.”

Astrid scrunched her eyes closed and took a deep breath. When she gazed at him again, she hoped it would be with less obvious annoyance.

Admittedly, she had been thinking about him too much, pondering his sarcastic wit and why it lingered in her consciousness.

“I didn’t mean you’re an aggravation, specifically,” she amended. “I’m just not in the mood to listen to—.”

“Nice backpedaling. Why say it, then? Exercising that baccalaureate vocabulary?”

Her face fell. “Because you seem to lack a basic conversational filter. Or charm. I haven’t figured out which.”

He shrugged. “Well, if pedestrian talk of First World problems is more your thing—“

“Then I would’ve taken a sociology course,” she scoffed.

They made eye contact over the lip of their respective bottles and he grinned.

Astrid felt a strange prickling beneath her skin—butterflies made of fire that she hadn’t felt in quite a while.

His sass should’ve turned her off. If he was anyone else, she’d have walked away and never looked back. But, their banter held the dim embers of excitement. Each exchange was giving oxygen to the burgeoning heat that she had once felt for Eret—and yet whatever drew her to Hiccup felt entirely novel. She wasn’t even sure it had a name.

“Attraction” seemed too juvenile, but “lust” also missed the mark. It had nothing to do with the physical essence of him. Too many years, she had been with the male reflection of herself. Hiccup was something different—a challenge to her concept of what was normal and desirable. He was intriguing—a hypnotic fascination that drew her closer to some kind of rabbit hole. If she fell, she didn’t know where she would end up, but it would certainly be somewhere much further than where she had already been.

After all, wasn’t college about branching out and trying new things?

She took a large swig of beer, her rational brain screeching for attention.

What was wrong with her?

She wasn’t the kind of person who looked for a rebound lay—but then again, she had never been on the rebound.

Still, she was a stranger unto herself, sizing up this young man she hardly knew, and frighteningly, he was hitting all the marks on some mysterious list tucked behind the most desirable traits she had first dreamed up when she was twelve.

“I see you’re hard at work on ‘not being hungover’,” Hiccup teased, nodding to the drink in her hand.

Astrid smirked. “Indeed. This is my one and only tonight.”

He quirked an eyebrow and chuckled. “Color me impressed. A true achievement.”

They shared a genuine smile and Astrid felt her numb body warming down to her toes—until the backdoor opened. Several party-goers filed in to escape the cold, including Tuffnut, Snotlout, some of their friends, and Eret, with his girlfriend.

Astrid felt as though she had been thrown back out into the snow.

She nearly dropped her drink a second time when Hiccup said, “Hello, Eret.”

Eret nodded and his girlfriend shifted her weight uncomfortably beside him, glancing back toward the door.

“You know each other?” Astrid hissed, eyes darting back and forth between her past headache and her future gamble.

“Sure,” Hiccup replied flatly, not bothering to lower his voice. “I know he’s in the business of stealing people’s girlfriends.” He raised his bottle and Eret’s jaw clenched. “And business is good, isn’t it, Heather?”

The girl on Eret’s arm looked away with a scowl, and Astrid felt like she had been catapulted into an afternoon soap opera.

[baileys-3]

CHAPTER 22 NOW ONLINE on AO3

Sneak Peak:

Tim knows that this wasn't the smartest move of his life. He knows he should have controlled himself. Had to control himself. He knows that she had the situation under control. He knows that Nyla could have intervened too. But he also knows that he can't just stand there when someone talks to Lucy like that. Not under any circumstances. Because that would go against every fiber of his being. And he's only human.

He's still got a grip on this big moron, holding him tighter than he should. He forces himself to open his fingers a bit. But just a bit. It might hurt a little. Just not too much. Not so much that he leaves marks that could cause issues if this idiot decides to push for an investigation. He doesn't think so, even though he wasn't gentle, but he didn't necessarily cross a line. But there's no need to provoke it unnecessarily now.

The rather fresh morning air brings him down a little. He hands the suspect over to Aaron, who is standing right outside the entrance to the furniture store and is being briefed by the someone from nightshift. He went inside because he knew Lucy was there and he just wanted to catch a glimpse of her. Hoping to share a few private words with her before they went their separate ways again.

He did see her. He wasn’t able to talk to her though.

"To the station and into custody." He lets go of the arm and must tighten and relax his fingers for a moment. Then he looks for Sergeant Willowy, who is the supervisor in charge of the nightshift and from whom he is supposed to take over the assignment. So that the nightshift can go home. The dayshift will manage the rest.

He finds her shortly afterwards on this curved ramp or staircase or whatever you call it on the second floor. The furniture store really does look like it's been hit by a hurricane. How just eight people can produce such a chaos is a mystery to him. On the way here, he learned from Aaron that "The Horny Ones" - who call themselves that, by the way? - are a popular group among young people. And have hundreds of thousands of followers. They have already carried out many stupid campaigns and have made negative headlines several times. But they have never been prosecuted. As Tim surveys the situation, that's all about to change. He now has to oversee the operation and coordinate everything else.

He deliberately keeps his distance from Lucy because there will certainly be enough gossip after his performance. There's no sense in adding fuel to the fire or providing the gossipmongers and rumor mill with even more ammunition. Regardless, he keeps an eye on her most of the time from the corner of his eye. Their eyes frequently meet, but Lucy also understands that it's wiser to maintain some distance now. Yet, another chance to talk to her has slipped away, as if someone is conspiring against them.

Shortly afterwards, he sees Lucy leaving the scene. Their eyes connect once more, exchanging a brief nod as she vanishes through the doors of the store. And that's all there is to it. After that, he concentrates on his job. The day drags on, it’s one of those days that’s filled with witness statements, reports, and paperwork. He despises paperwork. Although he can hand in most of it, he still has to review and sign everything again.

He doesn't even make it in time for his lunch break, which means that he can’t even enjoy his usual exchange of messages with Lucy. By the time he finally has a few free minutes, she is already sleeping and has switched off her phone. He's aware that his mood isn't the best at the moment, making him even more reserved than usual. Fortunately, it seems like Aaron has picked up on this and surprisingly gives him space most of the time.

He sends a text to Lucy saying that he thinks it would be better if they were careful and keep away from each other in the station during shift change. Because, word has already spread about his actions, but not in a way that implies anything inappropriate. Most of his colleagues are aware of their friendship, but they don't really know the details of Tim's connection with Lucy. It's just common knowledge that Tim Bradford tends to be overly protective when it comes to Lucy Chen.

[librosamarillos]

passed down like folk songs

chapter 36: rumour has it

Maegor Targaryen x OC

Also on Ao3

chapter index

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, angst, mature themes, targaryen incest, violence, Maegor is a red flag himself, characters are ooc probably, MINORS DNI

Rowan stood at the door of the sept, nervously picking at her fingers. So much had happened in such little time, and she was finding it difficult to manage one thing at a time, when she had to force herself to get out of bed at all. She had been a wreck, trying so hard to get Maegor out of her mind, but it proved impossible. However, since she would be joining Visenya in Dragonstone in the morning, she could not delay speaking with the septon. He was busy at the moment, and while she was normally the most patient person in the world, she could not bear being alone with her thoughts for this long.

She remembered when they were young, so very young, and he would tell her that he wanted to be King instead of Aenys. He never brought it up when they were older, perhaps because he knew if anyone heard, they’d accuse him of high treason and conspiring against the King, and Rowan had foolishly thought it was just a fleeting childhood wish. It was now so very clear that it was so much more than that, it was something that they were planning to make reality soon.

It all made sense to her now, all of Visenya’s so carefully worded letters, all the secret meetings, her disdain for Aenys; she had been preparing for this, paving the way for Maegor to take the throne, exile or not. And Maegor, with his obsession with getting an heir… of course… He wanted to secure his own line, not Aenys’, perhaps planning to disinherit his brother entirely, especially when word eventually reaches him about his title being passed to the young Prince Aegon.

She kept picking at her fingernails, when she thought about the timing of everything. Visenya was probably planning for his return soon, seeing as things were about to fall apart at any point, what better time for him to return with a huge show of power, with Balerion and Blackfyre at hand? She worried so much about what was going to happen within the family. The two brothers had left things off in such a horrible way, who’s to say how Aenys would react when he’d be asked, or commanded, to step down from the throne?

And what would happen when Maegor took the crown? Would everyone accept Alys as his wife and Queen consort, when there had been such a huge uproar about them marrying in the first place? Ceryse was his only lawful wife, the only one recognised by the realm and the faith, with Oldtown supporting her, and eventually her position as the one rightful Queen. Rowan felt incredibly comforted by that. She would make a proper Queen, and she trusted her entirely. 

But then, what about that heir he had been trying for for all this time? What if both Alys and Ceryse gave him a son each, what then? Would the line continue through the oldest, or would his first wife’s son take priority, the same way he wanted to have been within his own family? Would any son of Alys even get any support in comparison to a son of Ceryse? And this new woman, this Tyanna? She could only see disaster in the future, and that’s even without adding dragons into the mixture. 

She was driving herself mad with all these questions, but Visenya had promised her answers, and the ship to Dragonstone was leaving in the morning. She just had to breathe until then, but that was easier said than done. It was so difficult to see this all objectively, to just remove all her love for him from the situation. Every thought of him was filled with pain and heartbreak.

He wanted to prove himself, to show everyone that he was the one that should’ve been the heir, the one who should’ve accompanied their father to all his progresses, the one that should’ve been the apple of his eye. Maegor always had that scar, that pain, she knew it best of all. It all ran so much deeper than mere jealousy. It all led back to his father, to Visenya, to their family. 

Then something made her heart stop. She had spent so long thinking of how this would affect the family, the realm, her friends, that she had perhaps tried to ignore what should’ve been the most obvious thought of all. It dawned on her why both Maegor and Visenya had told her that it should’ve been her, the full weight of those words. He didn’t just mean it out of love, and a want to marry her and to have a family and future with her. He wanted to make her his Queen.

“Are you alright, Lady Rowan?” the soft, worried voice of septon Bram snapped her back to reality and it made her jump. For a moment, she must’ve looked like a frightened animal, judging by his face full of concern. She quickly gathered herself and attempted to give him a convincing smile. 

“Yes, yes! Forgive me, septon Bram, I’m afraid I haven’t gotten much sleep.” she said, a tad too quickly. He was not at all convinced, however. His eyes darted down to her hands, and she followed his gaze. Much to her horror, she had somehow managed to draw blood with all her nervous picking, nearly all of them red and puffy and bloody. She froze.

When she met his gaze again, she could only shake her head, silently pleading with him to not push the subject any further. He was good friends with her father, thus knowing her since her youth. He probably knew of this habit of hers, but never to this extent. Much to her relief, he gave her an understanding look, not asking anything of her.

“I, well, I came to speak with you about… I’m leaving for Dragonstone. I don’t know for how long…” she said, with much less confidence than normal. She was beyond apologetic, as this project they were working on was something she felt so strongly about, and did not want to abandon, but she could not stay. At least not for now. “I wish I could stay and continue to help directly, but I must join the Dowager Queen.” she explained further.

“I see… So, she’s left. Then is it true, what is said in the city?” he asked. He wasn’t angry with her, but perhaps disappointed by her departure. She could imagine it was difficult to find another direct contact with her house, seeing as her father was back home taking care of things, but septon Bram seemed to understand.

“What is said in the city?” she asked, worried about any rumours, especially with all she knew now. If anything nasty were to come up, it could easily grow to ruin people. She was fighting the urge to pick at her fingers again, but if she came across as any more stressed, it would make it far too obvious that something was horribly wrong within the Red Keep.

“That she left angry, because the King gave away her son’s title to his own son.” he said, and Rowan nearly sighed in relief. If that was all, then it was good. It was safe, it was alright. “I would hate to intrude, I understand the position you are in is a difficult one, but… are you alright, my lady?” he asked her softly, looking around to see if anyone was too close to hear.

“I’m fine.” she said, a bit too quickly. “Just, a bit on edge, with everything happening… you know. Such is life.” she added, trying to sound convincing, trying to prove to everyone around her that she was not just a few steps away from breaking down. 

“I mean… with your father gone, now she’s taking you to Dragonstone… Would you not feel safer at home? With your family?” he asked her carefully. She fought hard not to tear up at the mention of her family. She missed them all so much, Starfall, her home, her cousins, her aunt and uncle, and most of all, her father. “I cannot imagine how you feel, having to live around… them, with the way they try to make their practices part of our faith…” he added in a hushed, concerned whisper. Rowan shook her head lightly.

“The King has a good heart. I do not doubt that.” she managed to find her voice again. She could never picture anyone speaking badly about the Conqueror, not in such a public setting, but tensions were so high, and the wedding had only turned the people against Aenys, just as Rowan had tried to warn him. “He is a kind man, I know this, he wishes to do what’s best for everyone. It was not his plan to upset anyone.” she said, looking at the septon in front of her. He did not deny her words, he knew them to be true, but it still didn’t mean the King didn’t just start a great schism between the crown and faith.

“You see the best in people, you always have, since your father first brought you here. But the world is not a kind place, you know this, my Lady. What the King has done… I do not think it can be reversed.” septon Bram said, his eyes worried. “The city will not be safe. It would be safer for you to return home.” he sighed, handing her a clean piece of cloth, his eyes looking at her hands.

“I… thank you.” she replied, accepting the offer, gently holding onto the cloth, watching tiny bloodstains form. “I am fully aware of all the tensions rising, I understand what may come, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t. My father has entrusted the Dowager Queen with my safety. He trusts her, and so do I.” she explained softly. “Dragonstone is safe. I do not know the length of my stay there, but I still wish to help, in whatever way I can. If there’s anything you need, write to me, do not hesitate, no matter how small you think the matter is.” 

“I appreciate your offer, my Lady. Know that your help is not at all unnoticed. Many in the city will miss your presence.” the septon said, with a small grateful smile on his lips. The man was one of the kindest people she had known, it warmed her heart that he cared about her wellbeing, and she wished that she wasn’t worrying him with all her nervousness.

“You are far too kind, septon Bram…” she mumbled, sad to leave. She hated going into uncertainty. She constantly yearned to go back to the simplicity of her youth, of their youth.

The ship to Dragonstone only needed three days to reach its destination, and it was ample time for Rowan to hide in her room and stay in bed for as long as humanly possible. She couldn’t bring herself to pretend to be fine, to not fall apart. Instead she chose to spend her time thinking of a reply to the two letters that were on her nightstand.

One was from Erin, and it was a sweet letter, full of her cousin’s wit. She had even let little Archie write her a few paragraphs, telling her all about the new toy his father had carved for him, and that she needed to come home and see for herself, because they wanted to carve a new Cyvasse set together. Rowan was moved to tears when she saw his sweet handwriting, noting all the small ways it had improved since she had last helped him with his lessons. 

She missed her family so much, she missed her home and all of them together. She missed the quiet forest and the misty mornings and the changing leaves and everything that made it home. She wanted to be there with them all, to pretend like everything was just fine and nothing was wrong, but she could not. Her place was at Visenya’s side. 

The second letter was from Finn, her eldest cousin. They were very close and they wrote to each other often, but this time, his tone was much more worried. He wrote to her about the match between him and Lady Florence Meadows, about how fond of her he had grown and his happiness with the match, as well as his dismay at the fact that the wedding date has not been set yet, all because of the instability of things. 

It made her happy to hear that he was fond of his lady, and she truly wished she was there when she had come to visit, to meet her and welcome her into the family properly. She was saddened to hear that they could not marry soon, all because of the chaos. That was when Finn’s tone shifted. 

“I worry about you, you know? I know you keep assuring us all that you’ll be safe, but I have a bad feeling that the upcoming events will make things even more difficult. I hate the idea that you’re so far from us, at a time when I know you need your family. I cannot imagine the difficult position you are in, I just wish she could grant you leave to come home, at least until things settle. Uncle Duncan is starting his journey back home as well. I imagine he would have already left Oldtown, by the time you’re reading this. I wish you well, Rowan, please be safe.”

His letter was written and sent before the royal wedding, and yet somehow Finn had managed to be so prophetic. She felt ashamed to be curled in bed, heartbroken, when her family worried about her and missed her so much. While she had only confided in Erin about Maegor, she had a feeling that she had told Finn something. He did not outright say it, but just by his tone, she knew he had to know something. Perhaps she was just so painfully obvious about her feelings this whole time. She had never doubted herself this much before.

And her father, her sweet father, whom she missed more than anything. She wished his journey home would be safe and easy. Travelling was not something safe, it seemed. People were already marking who were the ones too loyal to the Targaryens, she could only imagine what her father would be marked as. She wanted to write to him, to somehow curl up in his arms and hold him. She’d write to them all, but when she had a clear mind. She needed to breathe air.

As the ship reached its destination, and the servants came to carry all of the former Queen’s belongings inside, Rowan took a deep breath.

Maegor gripped the letter in his shaking hands, feeling that familiar distress. His mother was furious with him and she had let it be known, without of course revealing too many details, for their privacy, in case anyone were to read them. Somehow, word had reached her in Westeros, and while he was not exactly hiding it from anyone, he hadn’t told her about Tyanna or her skills, wanting to wait a little bit, perhaps out of shame. 

What devastated him the most, was the few lines indicating how Rowan read the letter, how it crushed her all over again, and how she knew. It took everything in him not to fly to Dragonstone and explain himself, begging for her forgiveness. He couldn't bear it, the thought that he had once again made her cry. But what was he expecting? He knew that he’d return to Westeros soon, and he knew he’d see his sweet girl again, and he knew he’d tell her everything, was he not expecting her to be upset, to be hurt?

And now she knows. His Rowan now knew about their plans, and he wasn’t there to be the one to tell her. She was probably so hurt and confused, rethinking everything about the past. He’d write to her, he just had to. He couldn’t let her think that he was not constantly thinking of her, he couldn’t let her believe that he was just mindlessly fucking any woman that wandered his way. He had to tell both her and his mother. But first he had to have a word

When Tyanna walked into his room, she could feel his anger and it made her visibly uneasy. She wasn’t moving with that same confidence and did not appear so sure of herself, not like she normally did. She sensed danger. He did not acknowledge her, nor looked her way when she came closer. He still held that letter in his hands, his grip on it not loosening. 

“Word has reached back home. About you.” he stated sternly, slowly, before turning around to face her. She seemed to be confused by his anger. “Word about a bastard witch, trying to climb up in the world by finding herself in my bed.” he said, his grip on the folded letter tightening.

“I imagine your mother is not pleased.” she finally replied after a moment of silence. She spoke carefully, like she knew at any moment she could find herself in the jaws of a dragon. “I imagine it’s hard for her to accept that you could find help for your goals elsewhere. It is only natural for a mother to feel so.” she said with a small smile. 

He fought his anger and the urge to scowl even more than he already was, as she implied that he was angry because his mother was too smothering. As if he hadn’t watched his life fall apart while he could’ve stopped it. And now he was just making it worse, hurting the one person he loved above all. If Tyanna thought she could somehow drive a wedge between him and his mother, she was gravely mistaken.

“Spiders have many eyes.” she continued, after realising he had no intention of filling the silence to make her comfortable. “And they are everywhere, my Prince. They whisper to me.” she said slowly, walking toward him, swaying her hips suggestively, perhaps offering to ‘soothe’ him with her body. But it only drove him further into a rage.

“Do you think I have the patience for your little games? Do you think I find them entertaining? Hurry up and speak plainly, before I lose any patience I have left.” he snapped, his tone louder, angrier, more commanding. It made her flinch, ever so slightly. This was clearly not the outcome she had been hoping for.

“You break the rules often, do you not?” she asked, straightening her back. “You took Alys as your second wife, as is your Valyrian right, not caring who it angered. Now you took a mistress, something neither your father nor brother have done, why should you care if people know? It is my honour to join you in your bed, I am not ashamed.” she said, her voice now much more serious and less seductive.

“Why would you be? I’m the one who plucked you from that tavern and placed you into luxury.” he nearly spat out. It was what everyone thought of him, wasn’t it? That he didn’t care at all? But the truth was one he’d never share, all the sleepless nights, the constant guilt, the pain, all of it… He eyed her carefully.

“Of which I am ever so grateful for. Why would I ever be ashamed of that?” she replied, her tone now a bit defensive, as if the implication that she’d have any shame for her actions was somehow much worse than being called a bastard, a witch and a whore. To her, it seemed that it was. “I can help you with much more, you know?” she asked with raised brows.

“And yet, Alys is still not with child.” she said dryly, brows furrowed. She was great at making all these grand promises, and Alys seemed to be the one that fell for every single one of them, like the careless fool she was, but Maegor was running out of patience quickly. He knew this was hurting his Rowan to know, if it was all for nothing, for some ruse, he’d have this woman’s head on a spike. Tyanna did not hesitate to give another of her pleasing smiles.

“This matter needs time, my Prince. I must fully prepare her for you, to prepare her womb for your seed. Soon you’ll have your son, and as many spares as your heart desires.” she gave him a knowing look and his frown deepened.

“Promises you better deliver on. For your sake.” he said, finally releasing his grip on his mother’s letter. Rowan knew him better than anyone. She’d see his reasoning, his thinking behind all this mess, would she not? Even if she never found it in her heart to forgive him for the pain he’d caused her, she had to understand. He needed an heir, a safe, solid, line of succession to follow him and him alone. He had to see her, to fall to his knees and tell her how sorry he was for everything.

“Of course, my Prince. Or rather, should I call you my King already?” she asked carefully, her black eyes studying him carefully. Maegor stared her down, silently daring her to keep talking and see if she made it out of the room with her head still attached to her body. “Come on, your grace, it is only so obvious. With all the allies you have loyal to you, not the crown, your rush to get an heir, when you have no such pressures as a mere second son. It’s clear your plans are bigger than that.” she explained carefully, trying to sound relaxed in the face of danger.

“What do you want?” he asked dryly. Money was a given. She had been dancing for money in a tavern, and now she all but lived in the most luxurious bed money could buy in Pentos. He recognised something in her eyes, a hunger for more, for power. She’d never outright say it, no, she was too careful not to lose all she had gained these past months, but it was clear to him. She smiled.

“I only wish to serve the future King of Westeros, with whatever he may need help with.” she said innocently. He wanted to scoff, to ask her if she genuinely believed he’d fall for that, but his frown deepened. This so called witch spoke too greatly of all her skills. She had a reputation amongst Pentos, and he could very well use her skills to his advantage once he took the crown. 

“If you deliver on your promises, you shall be rewarded generously. If not, you shall wish you never crossed paths with me, do you understand?” he asked, slowly getting up, his towering form making her look up. She nearly stumbled, not expecting him to move, when he had been sitting nearly still as a statue for this whole conversation. But she nodded.

“Of course, your grace.” she excused herself, knowing when it was time for her to leave. She had better be going to work on her potions of fertility, as his time was running out. Sooner or later, his brother would fall apart, and he’d be forced to surrender the crown to him. Thus, he needed Alys to get pregnant as soon as possible.

He sat back down, staring at his mother’s angry words once more. He was too ashamed to write back, but he could not keep silent. Not when Rowan knew everything. He ran his hands through his hair. It was getting longer. He picked up the quill, forcing his own hand to write on the parchment. His mother urged him to reply as soon as possible.

“There is truth in what you’ve heard. This woman has skills to offer us, and she’s currently helping Alys perform her duties and has only joined us for her, not me. Soon, you’ll hear good news, I feel it.”

He gripped the quill even harder. He felt too ashamed to write anything to Rowan. How could he tell her that she was all he thought about during the act, that he spent every moment gripping onto tiny pieces of her to preserve his sanity, what consultation would that bring her? How could he even begin to explain things to her, when he couldn’t even address a letter to his darling, when he couldn’t even write the truth? 

He could see her pretty eyes full of tears, and it crushed him.

taglist:@heartstalked@stupidocupido@discowizard88@slytherisstuff

[housano]

Housano Live-A-Half Assed Summaries Presents: Welcome to the Black Masquerade Part 7- Judas' fursona was a lion

I did find my cord after the previous summary 😅 Anywho, buckle up kiddos because this is going to be a bumpy motherfucking ride.

For parts 5+6, click here

CW: Live a Hero Spoilers, Heartbreaking betrayal, Unsated feelings of bloodlust screaming for vengeance

Maculata is doing well and holding the Pauderna in pristine shape. The Chassard interrogator stays that this is proof we were conspiring to steal, but being the boss bitch that she is, she immediately shuts him up and explains what happened to her.

While everyone was distracted by the fight, she immediately heard the sound of the wall opening. She quickly took Pauderna and hid it under a tablecloth that fell down during the fight and hid herself behind a fallen table before the lights went out. Her race allows her to have decent night vision and make out figures who were panicking that the Pauderna was gone but they needed to move out before the lights went on and told to start apprehending the target, aka us. Maculata slipped in with the Pauderna and waited.

Additionally Maculata has kept in communication with us the entire time, guiding us through that because they don't have the Pauderna, they are desperate and panicking to get a confession out of us. She guides us to play it cool and have faith in Yohack and Nessen and that we have the upper hand in this situation. She reveals the only people who could have known about that passage were the Chassard as they declared earlier the only entries into the room were the doors and windows. Astosis commends us for proving our innocence and asks us to hand him the Pauderna, but MC refuses.

Nessen points out how Astosis knew about the conversation with the shopkeepers and how we knew certain things already which he should not have been privy to. Additionally the map with the layout of the castle in his office. The only way he would know this information is if he has been working with the Chassard Maculata then brings up the final nail in the coffine: the piece of Pauderna found on our person. This goes back to her reaction to seeing Pauderna but hid that something was off with Pauderna when she saw it as a piece was missing. Yohack confirms the only way that would be possible would be after it was on display at the venue, as the craftsmen thoroughly It was then we realized that Astosis slipped the gem into our outfit when he thanked us for coming during the dance

*My live reaction*

At this point, the mask is completely off in which Astosis commends us for figuring out the entire scheme. With new technologies and cultures, this would erase the cultures and traditions of Cloges. He worked with Chassard with the intent of destroying the Pauderna, blaming it on us, and then using the rage of the people to banish all aliens. That way Cloges will remain a permanently closed system. The bastard also implies that he was responsible for the fraudulent evidence that got Yohack's parents sentenced and banished. He tries to force us to hand over the Pauderna with the back up from the Chassard but our new bestie, Giasal picks them off one by one. Yohack is determined to get through to Astosis and we begin our fight.

During the battle the restrictions levels are offline and we are broadcasting and putting this bitch on blast. He goes on that the people do not need their own individual path. That they should only follow the path set before them by Chassard. That is the tradition of Cloges. He pulls out his Scales of Injustice at the halfway point, but all that does it attract the attention of Giasal who nullifies that. Astosis can't fight back against the brute strength. I felt it appropriate to end someone who set us up on accusations of thievery with an actual thief and who better to do that than our camp queen, Vulpecula?

Welcome to the Black Masquerade Part 7- I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU! WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU! HOW DARE YOU?!- END

For Part H8, click here

[journey-to-the-attic]

Hey! I just read the hybrid AU hc's you wrote and I came up whit something...

What if IK does end up being taken by the angels to the Celestial realm? I honestly think at first she'd try to fit in but ultimately get sad that she's away from the devildom and the brothers. I keep thinking that she'd do anything to get kicked out and fall from the Celestial Realm just so she can be whit the brothers.

Could you maybe write some hcs of the brothers not only seeing her fall down from the sky through a window but also reacting to he being half demon now? (Only if you want!!)

I honestly think the brothers would get Vietnam flashbacks

actually, i reckon ik would skip the fitting in steps and immediately go for angelic delinquency - there's no way the celestial realm got her into custody without a fight, and in the first place she does NOT want to be here - she wants to be at home with her demon family

presumably the celestial realm got what they wanted by putting simeon and/or luke on the spot, either by threatening one of the others' safety or just by making a bunch of empty promises and assuring them that this is all ultimately better for ik's wellbeing... though luke'd more likely be convinced by the latter than simeon

the brothers are probably furious about all this, but diavolo can't let them charge up there to bring ik home themselves because 1. the celestial realm technically does have a genuine claim to ik's care, and 2. they can't risk starting another war. lucifer, while deeply unhappy about the situation, has to agree for the sake of peace and everyone else's safety

solomon spends a lot of time trying to negotiate, since ik's still half human and has been raised human her whole life. but the celestial realm's gotten suspiciously cagey about ik's whereabouts - so he insists on seeing her every time he visits, and every time she's gotten quieter

luke doesn't quite understand it at first - the celestial realm's so beautiful, and there's so many fun things to do! eventually though, he, like simeon, becomes fully (and painfully) aware that ik's miserable up here. also, is it just him, or is the high council being really shady about 'settling her in'?

an angel-human hybrid's existence is dangerous, especially one as friendly with demons as ik, so it'd be easier for the celestial realm (both in terms of politics, and the ongoing loyalty of the angels) if she was obedient. ik's having none of it though

it starts with talking back to the seraphs, then sneaking out and causing a ruckus when they're not looking. this escalates into mild vandalism, then straight up destruction of property (throwing things through windows, etc)

at first the seraphs just take it into stride, because it'd make it harder to make ik cooperate if they punished her, but it starts getting out of hand - a lot of valuable and very old things end up destroyed, and the other angels are starting to object to having her here in the first place

exile would be a last resort, because it's the last thing the council wants in this situation. potentially, ik goes to simeon and raphael conspire to make it happen - neither are particularly willing, but it's just about the only plan they have for letting ik go home

(the seraphs did say that ik would be allowed to come down to the devildom, but won't allow it until ik behaves and promises to stay that way - which she has no intention of doing)

the demons aren't informed about this because they'd almost certainly object - though diavolo has his suspicions, and he warns simeon against it, having seen first-hand what the fall did to the brothers. unfortunately, simeon chooses to listen to ik instead

maybe simeon sets fire to the grand palace, or raphael attacks an angel - in either situation, ik admits to the crime, and somehow they make it happen! down she goes!

barbatos sees something falling down and his heart drops like a fucking ROCK. he knew diavolo was suspicious, but he never thought ik would actually go through with it... but he supposes that kid's always been too reckless for her own good

he does attempt to somehow issue a warning to prevent the brothers from seeing this, but unfortunately they're all at the castle already (to discuss ik's situation, actually, which is ironic) and realise what's going on soon afterwards. asmo just starts screaming and he can't stop for a while

the fall is almost definitely too aggressive for this - it's like a meteor falling - but the winged demons still fly up to try and soften the impact, even though they all get pretty singed in the process. ik's not too badly wounded, though the same can't be said of her mental state

the brothers aren't sure whether to be happy she's at least back or to be SO pissed this even happened in the first place. out of all of them, lucifer probably has the worst reaction to it; he's feeling a molotov cocktail of grief and fury, and he's only just barely keeping it under control

belphie is so fucking angry that he thinks he finally knows what it must be like to be avatar of wrath, but then he sees satan's face and realises that even now, he has no idea how deep that rage runs. they both agree that their energy is much better expended on helping ik recover, though, so there's not much they can do about it

i guess in some ways, the brothers are happier with ik being half-demon than half-angel, and they're definitely glad that she's home, but... man. why do all the worst things keep happening to this poor kid?

[ladylilithprime]

Customer Disservice

Series: Fluffy Faerie Tales

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Sastimmy/Jamstiel (Jimmy Novak/Sam Winchester/Castiel)

Rating: General to Teen and Up

Tags/Warnings: Half-Fae Sam Winchester, Half-Fae Dean Winchester, Jimmy and Castiel Are Twins, Selkie Jack Kline, Sam Winchester Is Jack Kline's Adopted Father, Karenlike Customer Behaving Badly And Getting Punished For It

Summary: Working in a faerie-owned and operated cafe definitely had some benefits, moreso than any other job Cas had previously had.

For: @fluffyfebruary challenge!

Prompt: Day 3: Entertain

Read on AO3

THE DAY WAS progressing with relative calm, although John Castiel Novak knew better than to give voice to that observation. Despite the illogical nature of it, something about commenting on a slow or quiet day always seemed to act like a dare to the Universe to immediately provide some sort of commotion. It was a phenomenon that Cas had taken note of in passing before, but that awareness was now much more clear and prescient since he and his twin had decided to come to work as baker and barista respectively at Lighthouse CommodiTeas. Cas's twin, James Constantine Novak, had assured him that it was a universal phenomenon, backed up with multiple anecdotal reports around the world, and not at all influenced by the cafe being owned and operated by a very powerful half-fae prince of the Seelie Courts.

Sam, as the half-fae went by, assured them both that, no matter how hectic things might get, so long as they always did their best, they would never be blamed for whatever "deluge of terrarium enrichment" might befall them. Indeed, working in a fae-run cafe where the cardinal rule for customers was "be polite or else" was a great deal less stressful than any other job Cas had ever had. Part of that was Sam having hired both him and Jimmy so Cas almost always had his primary touchstone of support nearby, but it also helped that Sam could and did stand up for his employees against rude or abusive customers. Sam was unfailingly polite up until someone under his protection was threatened, and he was masterful in dealing with the more rudely entitled or self-righteous customers who thought a non-human small town coffee shop barista was an acceptable target for their poor behavior.

Today had been mostly quiet, for which Cas was thankful as it allowed him to focus solely on the baking rather than needing to take a turn mixing drinks or talking to people. He would do it if the Universe conspired to swamp the cafe in customers because he didn't want to leave it all on Sam, Jimmy, and/or Charlie if one or more of them were absent and the need arose, but all three of them had assured him that he didn't need to. That allowed him to give his attention to the equally exacting but less emotionally demanding task of replenishing the dwindling stock of various cookies and scones from the refrigerated dough from this morning and taking inventory of the ingredients which were getting low enough to warrant reordering.

It also meant that, once he got the last tray out of the oven and onto the racks to cool, he was able to take a break of his own with a mug of blueberry tea and honey tucked up into his preferred chair in the corner near the kitchen and watch Sam and Jimmy in their element. Frequently he used the time to test his own study of nuance and human interaction and body language by predicting which customers would be easygoing and which would be trouble. He was getting better at it, though he seemed to have made a mistake guessing the woman with the designer jacket and expensive shoes who ordered a decaf cafe latte with soy milk and cinnamon would cause an issue. She was, in fact, waiting quietly if not exactly patiently for her drink to be made while tapping at her phone screen. Perhaps the shadow Cas perceived around her was from some personal trouble with whomever was on the other end of her message...?

His contemplation was interrupted as a loud growling motor outside the cafe abruptly cut off and a car door slammed. Cas braced himself, hand unconsciously drifting towards the bracelet Charlie had made for him as he glanced towards the counter. Jimmy was busy making a line of drinks and Sam was... looking amused?

The door burst open with a jangle of the chimes and a deep voice called out heartily, "Hey, Sammy, it's your favorite brother!"

"Adam?" Sam asked, his voice taking on notes of affected surprise. "What are you doing on this side of the Rift during the school year? Does Dean know you're using his human glamor as a practice form?"

"Bitch," the human man in flannel, jeans, and a leather jacket huffed with a scowl. His appearance shimmered and changed, close-cropped blonde hair growing considerably longer and forming into intricate braids that did nothing to hide the newly revealed pointed ears decorated with silver piercings. "Don't even try to pretend you didn't know it was really me and not Bite-size."

"Don't go assigning yourself favorite status over him, then, jerk," Sam laughed, stepping out from behind the counter. "And when are you gonna stop calling him that? He's almost your height now!"

"Big brother's prerogative," the fae man who Cas thought must be Dean said loftily, opening his arms. The two met in a back-slapping hug, Dean squawking playfully when Sam actually lifted him up off his feet, and separated with an exchange of kisses full of familiarity and affection despite the seeming insults exchanged.

It was also apparently too much for the woman waiting for her latte.

"Excuse me," she huffed, snapping her fingers repeatedly in Sam's direction. "How dare you? You are at work, your behavior is completely unacceptable, there are children present!"

"Excuse you, lady, I'm a grown adult, I'm just fun size!" another customer snapped. Cas recognized him as one of the regulars who always came in for a Trickster Special that seemed to be nothing but sugar with a splash of coffee.

"I didn't mean you!" the woman huffed, which was thoroughly confusing until Cas followed her pointing finger to see Jack sitting at one of the tables by the window with his notebook and math textbook open on front of him. "I'm sure that boy's parents don't want you exposing their son to such degenerate behavior!"

"Since that's my son, no, I really don't have a problem with it," Sam said in a mild tone that Cas recognized from many, many similar occasions. From the way the rest of the customers were watching, he guessed that they also recognized it and knew what was coming.

"Why would I have a problem with my dad hugging Uncle Dean?" Jack asked in a bored tone, not even bothering to look up from his homework as he took his cue from Sam like a perfect co-conspirator. Then he paused and looked up with a frown. "Is this a homophobic thing? Because people usually only use the word 'degenerate' when they're being mean like that."

"Nice one, kiddo," Dean smirked. "Speaking of, you gonna hug me at some point?"

"You gonna help me finish my math homework before closing?" Jack asked with a matching smirk.

"It's still unprofessional!" the woman spluttered. "Personal relationships should be left to personal time, not while you are on the clock! What would your manager say if he saw you acting like this?!"

"Considering he's the owner, I'm pretty sure management is well aware of the situation," Jimmy piped up as he approached the counter and held out the travel cup. "And they're both much older than even this country, nevermind the current human fad of toxic masculinity so you trying to shame them for a hug and a kiss on the cheek is probably not gonna go over the way you want. Here's your decaf soy cafe latte with cinnamon, ma'am, and I don't suggest staying to drink it here."

"How dare you speak to me that wa--!"

"Silence," Sam intoned sharply, straightening up to his full height. The woman's voice abruptly cut off, though she kept moving her mouth for a few seconds before realizing that nothing was coming out. The look of astonishment on her face was almost cartoonishly comical. "Since you seem to enjoy passing judgment on people for things that are none of your business, you will now also be judged. Every unkind, judgemental word to come to your tongue about others will similarly be silenced, by voice or writing or text, for the next three years or until you learn to mind your own business and keep your poisonous comments away from the business of others."

The woman tried to yell something that Cas suspected was "you can't do that" or something similar, but those words were likewise silenced.

"You are in my domain, and you have broken the rules of my realm," Sam told her, looking down his nose with the air of the haughty faerie prince he was. "I assure you that I can. Your voice will return to you once you leave, and for your own sake I suggest you take your drink and do so now, and don't bother coming back."

The woman finally seemed to grow a modicum of sense, as she snatched her latte from Jimmy and scurried out of the cafe. The moment the door closed, several of the regulars burst into applause. Jimmy took the opportunity to slip out from behind the counter and bring Cas a refill on his tea as a covert excuse to check in, and Cas found that he was less agitated than usual. Either the bracelet was helping or he was getting used to this.

"Is this really what you do for entertainment around here?" Dean asked, turning away from the closed door and the vanishing bastion of rudeness to look at Sam.

"Are you not entertained?" Sam asked, still in his princely posture while raising one eyebrow. Then he relaxed and smirked. "C'mon, go say hi to your nephew, and then I've got a surprise for you."

"Another pie-themed drink you want me to try?" Dean guessed.

"Better," Sam promised, casting a quick but fond look in Cas's direction.

And Cas, remembering that the last cookies he had taken out of the oven were the caramel pecan nests that almost could have been small pies, found himself blushing.

He hoped Sam's brother liked the surprise.

[ladytanithia]

Snippet Someday

Tagged by @dirty-bosmer - thanks for the tag! I tag @sunny-d-anomaly, @skyrim-forever (not sure if you've already been tagged by someone else), and @gwilin-stay-winnin. Of course, you are under no obligation to participate, but I hope you do!

Rules: Revisit an old fic (or earlier chapters of your current WIP) and share a snip from:

Your first chapter Your favorite chapter Your most challenging chapter

Alternatively, if you don't write longfic, feel free to share your one-shots. Provide as much or as little commentary as you want.

Mine are from my longest story to date, which has become a series. It started out with Dalliances with Dunmer, and it is kind of an old fic in a sense, and also still a WIP. (My written soap opera, haha.)

From Dalliances with Dunmer:

First Chapter: Planting the Seed

When I started this story, I didn't have any real plan for it. I just had this idea that my "slutty" LDB had gone from disliking Neloth to realizing how intelligent he was and that his self-important bluster was a facade. She got Talvas (already her FWB) to conspire with her to seduce him.

"Master Neloth, are you not the least bit attracted to me?" She moved so that her barely covered breasts were in his line of sight, watching his face as she did so. She knew he could smell the essential oil she had daubed on her pulse points and between her breasts – a subtle mix of flowers and spice. Yes, there it was: a brief flicker in his ruby eyes as they skated quickly over her chest and quickly refocused on his notebook, a brief flaring of his nostrils as he inhaled her scent.

Acting purely on impulse, she reached out and placed her palm on his far cheek, gently but firmly turning his face toward her. He still refused to meet her eyes, but amazingly, he didn't protest her touching him.

"Listen, Neloth," she said gently. "I don't know how women treated you in the past, but I assure you, I don't play games. This is not a prank, and I am not messing with your head. I do find you to be handsome as well as intelligent, and I sincerely do want to take you to bed. I'm sure you think that love and sex are unnecessary and for the weak, but I believe you really need to get in touch with that poor, repressed sexual side you keep so tightly under wraps. I would love to assist you in researching THAT." She winked at him with a kind, understanding smile, knowing that he saw her even though he wasn’t looking directly at her.

Neloth covered his bewilderment admirably. "If you are quite done, Miss Miranja, I have pressing matters I must attend to. I will let you know the next time I have need for an assistant… or a test subject."

"As you wish, Master Neloth," Miranja said, releasing his face and stepping away. She smiled inwardly at his first use of her actual name. "Please think about what I've proposed, and don't keep me waiting too long. I want you so much it physically hurts." She darted in quickly and planted a moist kiss on his soft gray cheek. He made a small choking sound but otherwise remained impassive.

Outside the front door, she lounged against the wall and waited. After a few discreet moments, Talvas came out, smiling.

"He's muttering to himself," Talvas reported. "More than usual, that is. He’s obviously agitated."

Miranja smiled back impishly. "I hope, for all your sakes – you, Drovas, Ulves, and Elynea – that I can break him down and relieve his, um, frustration. I have a feeling he might be in a better mood once that's taken care of. Thank you for your… assistance."

Talvas gave a showy bow. "You are most welcome, my Lady Dragonborn. It is a pleasure to assist you. Saving Tamriel from dragons and sexual frustration, one dragon and one man at a time. I’m happy to be one of those men."

Favorite chapter: Dreaming of Revyn

This was a flashback where Miranja was remembering her first time with Revyn, who has become one of her dearest friends and favorite lovers, in spite of his jealousy.

He released her hand and began buttering some bread for them both. She tasted her stew, and suddenly realized how very hungry she’d been. The stew was amazing, and the buttered bread made it even better. She told him the story about Odahviing, Skuldafn, Sovngarde, Alduin, and the Tongues as they ate. Ambarys listened in when he was between serving drinks and food. They praised Malthyr for his culinary skills, and Revyn tipped Ambarys well when they were finished. Miranja slipped a couple more septims into the pile by pretending to bump the coins when she reached for her cup of flin.

“Walk with me back to the shop?” Revyn asked, offering his elbow once again.

Miranja gave him a doting smile. “Of course, sweetheart.”

As they walked, Revyn placed his free hand over Miranja’s and leaned his head in toward hers.

“This has been the most pleasant evening I’ve had in probably years,” he told her. “I can’t remember the last time I had a lady accompany me to the New Gnisis. Did you feel all the eyes upon us?”

“I did,” Miranja smiled. “It was indeed very enjoyable.”

It was a short walk, and they had arrived at Revyn’s door. He suddenly seemed nervous.

“Miss Miranja, would you… want to come back into the shop with me?”

Miranja smiled coyly at him. “For another drink? More conversation?” Her smile grew wider as Revyn’s skin grew darker. “To make love, perhaps?”

Revyn looked so embarrassed she thought the ground might swallow him up.

To ease his discomfort, she offered: “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve dreamed of you asking me this?”

His expression changed to stunned yet pleasant surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, silly!” she teased gently. “I couldn’t help but notice from the beginning what a kind, intelligent, and upstanding man you are. I love those qualities in a person. And your skill in speechcraft is very attractive, too. I’ve had a crush on you for a while now.”

Revyn fumbled with the lock on the door and finally got it open, ushering her in ahead of him before locking the door again from the inside. He stood awkwardly facing her, actually trembling slightly. Miranja saw this and realized that she was strangely nervous, too. This wasn’t her usual reaction to mutual attraction, but it was pleasant in a novel sort of way.

“May I kiss you, Revyn?”

“Of course,” he breathed, glad to let her make the first move.

Most challenging chapter: Mystery solved

This one was challenging because … emotional reasons. More than this snippet would be a spoiler. Context: Miranja has been kidnapped by the Morag Tong and taken to Highpoint Tower, where she is bound naked to a rack and gagged.

Now Miranja understood why Neloth had worked so diligently to repress his emotions, isolate himself, and not form attachments. She understood why he had tried to cut her off. But it had been too late for that. His own worst enemy had been right under his roof, seeing and knowing everything. Talvas may be an apprentice, but he had already outdone his master in the art of deception. She could see through Neloth, but Talvas – Talvas! – had utterly blindsided her. She refocused her attention on what Talvas was saying now.

"I was thinking perhaps once I replace Neloth, you might want to be my wife. Think you'd like being the wife of a powerful mage-lord? Maybe you could even help me bring him down by using those considerable charms of yours to get close and either convince him or kill him for me."

Miranja's heart was utterly broken that Talvas could betray both her and Neloth this way, especially her! After how good she'd been to him, and all they'd been through together. Betraying Neloth she could understand, since he'd been pretty harsh on Talvas, and Telvanni wizards – as Talvas aspired to be – were notoriously ambitious. But how could he do this to her?

Now that she thought about it, she did remember him occasionally mumbling to himself that one day Neloth's power would all be his. But she'd never thought he could actually be this conniving. She was nearly choking on both the gag and her own anguish.

"What's wrong, Miranja? You love me, too, don't you? You said you wanted to see me succeed." He couldn't stand her not being able to verbally respond, so he took the risk of her shouting and removed the gag.

"I can't go along with this, Talvas. Have you lost your mind? Why are you in such a hurry? Master Neloth is already old; can't you just wait for him to die a natural death?"

"I didn't want him dead, originally, but when the Sarothril family responded to my message and offered me a bounty I couldn't refuse, I figured what the hell. The sooner Master Neloth is dead, the sooner I can take his place, AND I get rich in the process."

"This is not the Talvas I know," Miranja lamented.

"I'm sorry, Miranja, but you're right - Master Neloth IS old. What's a few decades sooner? Even a century? His days of abusing and experimenting on apprentices are over. And if this isn't the Talvas you know, then maybe you didn't know me as well as you thought you did. In fact, you helped me make my decision."

"How?"

"Our trip to Skyrim showed me that I'm more powerful than Master Neloth wants to admit. And of course, all the gold we split from our bandit raids and such helped me pay the Morag Tong. Neloth's been purposely holding me back and putting me down because he doesn't want me to overtake him. But I'm onto him now. And I've had enough. It's my turn."

[cattatonically]

Want You Bad - Day 1

This is part of a series for #sterekvalentineweek - I would suggest reading them in order. 

What you can generally expect - hilarity, chaos, mishaps, slow burn, strong language, and vague descriptions of some minor criminal activity. 

I hope you have as much fun on this adventure as I did! 

When Stiles and Kira had first discussed their post-college plans, returning to Beacon Hills had not been at the top of Stiles' list. Coming from the east coast, Kira had never been, and Stiles rather intended to keep it that way.

But she’d convinced him otherwise - he'd grown up there, his father was still there. Hadn't he missed him all these years? And well, if Kira knew how to do one thing, it was tug at Stiles' heartstrings. Besides, her parents were happily travelling through their retirement, and Kira didn’t want to go back to an empty house.

And so off to Beacon Hills they went.

While Stiles had studied criminology, he'd figured out early on that a career in law enforcement wasn't quite his speed. So, he worked part-time as an administrative assistant (his dad's personal assistant, really, let's be honest), as he studied for his private investigator's licence, while Kira went right into office administration at the most prestigious law firm in town - Hale & Whittemore.

Which was how they'd met (well, Stiles had been re-introduced to) Peter Hale. The sparks between Peter and Kira were undeniable. But nothing happened - not for the longest time. Not until Stiles had passed his licensing exam, and established his own office, taking Kira with him. With ethics out of the way, Stiles knew the inevitable was coming.

Stiles loved Kira dearly, and he always would. But she and Peter fit way better - complimented each other way better. There were no hard feelings when Stiles and Kira broke off their romantic relationship. Especially not when she was a master of business administration, and Stiles was, well, not.

The wedding of Peter Hale and Kira Yukimura was the event to end all events. And Stiles couldn't have been happier for his best friends. What he'd lost in a romantic partner, he'd gained in a true friendship, and a new friendship with Peter, which was both a blessing and a curse, as Stiles had never met anyone who could keep up with him like Peter could.

Moving back to Beacon Hills had also brought up a whole new set of complications for Stiles in the form of one Deputy Derek Hale.

Stiles, of course, had known Derek through Cora at school. But he hadn't anticipated Derek growing up to be so... Well. So hot. And the small crush that Stiles had harboured all those years ago? It wasn’t so small anymore.  

Five years since coming back to Beacon Hills, four since establishing his office, and three since Peter and Kira's wedding, and things had not gotten a whole lot better for Stiles. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd think that the universe was dead set on conspiring against him. And Peter laughing his ass off at him from the other side of the booth at their favourite hole in the wall bar was not helping matters.

“You’re a dick, you know that right?” Stiles asked, finishing his drink.

“If anyone’s the dick here, isn’t it you?”

“Ha ha, private dick jokes, real classy Peter.” Stiles rolled his eyes at Peter, and then indicated that he was about to go to the bar for another round.

As Stiles stood and turned, he crashed right into a chest. A very firm chest. A firm, uniformed chest. As Stiles realized these things in quick succession, he also realized something else - he was wet. And so was the uniformed chest.

Stiles took a step back, only to look up at the unamused raised eyebrow of Deputy Derek Hale. Who was now holding a very empty wine glass. When Stiles looked down, he realized that both he and Derek had matching, red stains across the front of their shirts. Stiles looked up, and said the first thing that came to mind: “Uh…”

“Smooth, Stiles,” Peter teased from behind him. Stiles looked over his shoulder long enough to throw him a glare. Then he turned back to Derek, who still looked unfairly hot despite the annoyance in his eyes.

“Uh. Let me get you another?” Stiles smiled sheepishly, and reached for the glass in Derek’s hand. Stiles stilled when Derek took a step back.

“I’m just going to go home. And shower. I smell like office supplies and a vineyard. See you, Stiles. Uncle Peter.” With a nod, Derek turned and walked out of the bar. Stiles watched him go, sinking back into the booth.

“Well, as far as attempts at buying my dear nephew a drink go, I’ve seen worse.”

“You have?” Stiles turned to look at Peter, not really registering the smirk on his face until it was too late.

“Not by much. But yes.” Stiles growled, turning fully back into the booth to face his asshole best friend.

"Peter, when you told me I could come talk to you about anything, I really did not sign up for mocking and humiliation."

"It really should have been implied, sweetheart."

"What happened to a little care and empathy!"

"If you wanted that, you should have asked my wife out for a beer, not me."

"You're so mean to me."

"You wouldn't have me any other way." Stiles draped his arms over the table, and then laid his head down on them, groaning into them.

At this rate, he’d never even get Derek to smile at him, let alone agree to a date. As if reading Stiles’ thought process, Peter patted Stiles on head. He really, really hated his asshole best friend right now, but he was right. He wouldn’t have it any other way.