#also love the fabric i slaved over drawing him i just

[morphosmeliae]

1 & 1/2 Anniversary Of Me Doing Digital Art

So like um, I started doing digital art on my Huion H420 tablet and I just wanted to show my art updated (this is my first post cause i'm too lazy to upload stuff lol) Also it's of narcistoru he's my favourite precure twink my man is a sopping pathetic 30 year old loser who's only motivation for ruining the world is because he's a picky eater who can't eat hot foods. Anyways this was like, February 2023 - the first drawing

Slay past me you were doing your best with what you got And then, August 2024:

I mean I think I really gobbled here but he already looks naturally pretty so idk if I did anything to enhance that lol. Happy 1 and 1/2 years to me! Hope I'll be able to serve once more when we reach 3 years, or 4 and 1/3, or even beyond that. TL;DR narcistoru hot precure bring him back i wanna see his stupid ass again in official art

[replicantdeviancy]

rking200 asked: " hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? " (blood prompt; Hank to Connor)

@rking200 || BLOOD, BLOOD, GALLONS OF THE STUFF !  || Accepting

Somewhere at the edges of his overloaded senses, Connor could feel cold rain against his face, sprinkling faint yet sharp prickles of ice on his synthetic skin. It gathered in his hair, soaked slowly into the fabric of his clothing. Slowly, he began to recognize that chill extended beyond the superficial layer of his dark blazer. His posterior was wet with rainwater, his back. Through the numbed panic of his overwhelmed sensory system, he could feel arms around him, thick & strong. A larger frame hovering over his, warm breath on his face, body heat against his. A voice, frightened & deepened with that familiar timbre. Hank. Hank was holding him. He was trying to get his attention. Connor’s thoughts slowly came into focus as that handsome visage finally registered, facial recognition software activating without his direct permission. 

Analyzing…

LT. ANDERSON, HANK Born: 09/06/1985 // Police Lieutenant Criminal Record: None

“Hank…” His own voice sounded foreign to him, barely recognizable to his audio processing units. The dusky cadence of his manufactured voice was muddled with stress, shaky in a way he hadn’t heard before. It took precious seconds to recognize that he was on the ground, that not all of the wetness soaking into his clothing was from the summer storm. His quickened pseudo-breaths produced a soft, barely audible wheeze, faint but present in his chest. But it wasn’t the sound that alarmed him, rather the sensation it accompanied. Never had the android imagined he would experience what it felt like to be short of breath, as it was a mostly unnecessary feature. Just something built in for cosmetic purposes, a secondary cooling system to expel built up heat around his biocomponents. Yet that was exactly how it felt. Every time he inhaled, the hollows of his chest cavity did not fill to capacity. It scared him.

Only in those threadbare seconds did the android come to the realization that he had been shot. The wetness soaking his shirt & trickling down his back was his own thirium. That hideous wheezing was air escaping the hole in his chest.

His slender hands gripped at his partner’s shirt, his hands, warm & solid. They sought that stability as his mind raced & the pieces of his cognition slowly came together in the wake of what he understood to have been a burst of anxiety. Fear. He had been afraid. He was still afraid. That fear showed in the way he looked at Hank, hazelnut eyes wide & desperate for answers. He needed comfort, but he also wanted to apprehend their suspect. The sirens in the distance said that they weren’t the only two in pursuit, but it was that unyielding programming of his that told the android to keep going, to catch their target. Hunt. He was built to hunt.

He had told Hank as much, told him to leave him behind & go after their suspect. He was getting away! They couldn’t let him get away! Connor didn’t want to fail his mission.

But when Hank took his chin in his big hand, held him close as he did & all but demanded his attention, Connor couldn’t help him submit. He was just a machine, after all. A slave to the orders of a human. No, not a machine. Someone who was loved. Someone who was cared for, who was worried after. Hank was scared for him - he could see it in his eyes, in his expression. Tension drawing his strong brow taught, deepening the wrinkles of his forehead. Stress tightening his jaw. He was afraid for him. He needed his partner to be alright.

It was a grounding thing, that need. Slowly, Connor let that solid human warmth soothe him & he let out a small, shivering noise. Almost a whimper, not quite a moan. His arms wrapped around his lover’s shoulders & he commanded his diagnostic program to run a targeted scan.

The damage was marginal, the shot having gone through cleanly. Judging by the size of the entry wound in comparison to the exit, the round had been armor-piercing, a .38 special from a modified handgun. The types of rounds that had once been used against ballistics armor. Connor considered for a moment how grateful he should have been that it was he who had been shot. If Hank had— 

“I’m okay…” He didn’t sound too convincing. He tried again. “Fuck, I can’t breathe…” The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them, but the look in his eyes said that he was no worse for wear. He held onto his partner a little bit tighter, forcing himself to breathe, to calm down. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he was trembling. “It’s not bad. I promise,” he tried to reassure. He brought his knees up to curl a little into himself. He wanted to sit up, but he couldn’t make himself break the contact he had with Hank. “This will close on it’s own. The bleeding will stop eventually." Thirium didn’t clot like blood, but the bioplastic that made up Connor’s exoframe was self-mending to an extent. Within a few hours, everything would be fine. He just needed a moment.

[cinderswrites]

Frayed ::

eight

When Rhea arrived home after the long walk from the palace, she was feeling drained and exhausted. Portia met her at the door and helped her into the drawing room. They sat on the couch together as Rhea pulled off her ill-fitting shoes. They were only smaller by a few centimeters, but they began to pinch and tug the longer she’d walked. Portia began tending to her feet while Rhea recounted the day at the palace.

“Sounds like it went well,” Portia said as she cleaned the blisters on her heels and toes, “I’m excited for you to meet with Lysandra tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Rhea said softly. She thought of the king and what happened right before she departed. “Portia? We’re friends, right?”

Portia looked up at her with a smile, “Of course, Rhea.”

“I can count on you to keep something hush-hush, right?”

The maid smoothed a salve over the blisters as she nodded. “Yes, you can.”

“I’m afraid…” Rhea’s voice lowered to just above a whisper, “I’m afraid something’s wrong with the king.”

“What do you mean?”

“He acted so strangely at lunch, and later he accused me of being a trollop. He knows about yesterday, Portia. And probably about that first day when I was out on town. Someone is spying on me and reporting back to him and I’m not sure why.”

Portia sat up, her thin eyebrows furrowed together in concern. “What did he say to you exactly?”

Rhea repeated the words that had been ringing in her head the whole way home. “Cynfael just brushed it off, but there’s something really wrong with him. When he was right in front of me, he had this… aura to him. Dark and tangible and dangerous. And when the prince showed up, it completely disappeared. He visibly changed and looked like a senile old man when he walked off.”

The maid finished bandaging her feet and sat back on the couch, her face showing she was deep in thought. “You don’t suppose he might be enchanted?” she asked.

“Is that even a thing?”

Portia shrugged, “Your family was blessed by a sea witch, Rhea. Perhaps she’s the one to ask? She seems sort of… magical.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rhea sighed.

“Oh, speaking of. We received a message today,” Portia stood and went to a small table near the wall. “I think it’s about your family.”

Rhea took the letter from her and unfolded it. In Thelma’s careful handwriting, it said: We will be making the return trip home tomorrow and are expected to arrive two days later. I expect to find you both waiting at the door to help us settle in.

“So we have three days left?” Rhea folded the letter back up. “It feels like no time at all, now. If I’d known how exhausted I would be right now, I might have just stayed inside and stayed a slave.”

“Rhea!” Portia scolded. “How can you say that? You’ve met wonderful people and have wonderful opportunities ahead of you!”

Rhea waved her hand dismissively, “I know, Portia, don’t blow your top. I’m just lamenting my sore feet and legs.”

“Let’s just focus on tomorrow, and perhaps you’ll have a better idea of what to do after sleeping.”

She nodded in agreement and Portia left to start making their dinner meal. The rest of the evening was spent in the drawing room, relaxing and having tea, talking and joking about different things.

***

“Ah! Welcome, welcome. Come in, love.”

Lysandra was the stark opposite of Lady Shaw in every way. She was an incredibly tall woman with curves and wildly curly hair the color of honey that was cut above the shoulders, and thick glasses that made her hazel eyes look bigger than they were, almost comically so. She sported bright pink lipstick, a bold color choice in her opinion. Rhea noticed that her dress looked similar to hers in that it wasn’t quite fancy like Lady Shaw’s, but also not typically a commonfolk dress. Her voice was punchy and positive, bright and cheerful.

The shop was in complete disarray. Mannequins toppled over, fabrics thrown carefree, pins sticking out of even the shop’s curtains. Lysandra had an air about her that said she knew where everything was. “My dear cousin Elara said you’re in need a job, was it?”

Rhea followed her carefully through the crowded shop to a pair of sofas in the back near what looked to be a fitting room. Just down from that room was a door she assumed led to Lysandra’s office. “Yes, that’s correct,” Rhea said.

“Don’t worry about being so formal all the time, love!” Lysandra sat on one of the couches, gesturing to the other one. “I’m not as terrifying as she can be.”

Rhea smiled at the tease, “Thank you.”

“You made the dress you’re wearing, right?” It was a white floral patterned simple dress, professional looking and comfortable.

Rhea nodded, “Yes, I made it myself. I hand sew all my garments.”

“Heavens! How are your hands?” Lysandra let out a boisterous laugh, startling Rhea with the sheer volume of it. “Bet they’re made of leather, eh? Manipulating a needle back and forth requires some thick skin, if I do say so myself.”

“A-ah, yes, I suppose so,” Rhea chuckled awkwardly.

“Tell me about your process, love,” the older woman said, leaning to the side and casually pulling her legs up beside her to relax more comfortably.

Maybe it was the atmosphere or the fact that this was probably her last chance to secure an apprenticeship, but Rhea decided to be honest. “Apologies if this sounds frank, but everything I’ve made is recycled from the fabrics my family tosses out. I’ve not been able to purchase new clothing for myself, so I learned how to sew and worked on making myself new dresses from their trash. I color match and cut around the tattered edges and sew them together to fit myself.”

Lysandra whistled low, “Aww, hell, love. I know a thing or two about having a not-so-happy home life. I can see why my cousin didn’t hire you. She’s got quite the stick up her arse.”

Rhea stifled a startled giggle and shrugged one shoulder slightly, “I’ve never had training and I don’t know how to tailor to someone else.”

“That’s stupid,” the woman said outright. “Of course you don’t! You haven’t had the chance yet. I think, given so, you’d do a fine job fitting a garment on someone else.”

“R-really?”

“Yes, love!” Lysandra grinned, “You didn’t say anything about using measuring tools and the fact that you’ve created things quite as lovely as what you’re wearing now just by eyeballing it says a lot about your natural skills. I think that’s something to be proud of, and something to nurture.”

“So you’re saying…?” Rhea was hesitant to ask.

“If you want to work here, love, I’d be happy to have you.”

She couldn’t believe her so readily. “I don’t know how to use a machine.”

“Ach,” Lysandra scoffed, “you can learn.”

“I don’t know what’s flattering on a figure, or the latest trends.”

“Does it look like I do?” Lysandra threw her arms up to motion towards the shop and laughed. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, love. And your eye has a keen detail of seeking that out.”

Rhea was overcome with emotions at having someone finally giving her the chance to prove her potential. The feeling swelled in her chest and came out in the form of sudden tears. “Oh, heavens, I’m sorry,” she sobbed softly, “I’m not sure what came over me.”

Lysandra got up and walked over, handing her a handkerchief. She sat down next to her and put an arm over her shoulders and hugged her close. She reminded Rhea of her mother and made her feel like a little girl getting a hug again. How long had it been since she’d been hugged like that? It didn’t do anything to stop the tears and she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her sobs.

“Oh, love,” the older woman cooed. “Catching a break finally after going through something so terrible must be a relief like no other. I’m sorry you’ve had bad days. The job’s yours if you want it. I can’t pay terribly well, but I imagine with your designs, it won’t be long before the salary increases.”

“T-thank you,” Rhea said, her voice muffled.

“I’ll make us some tea. Are you feeling hungry?” Lysandra pulled away and got to her feet, heading for the door Rhea looked at earlier.

“A little,” she admitted.

“I’ll grab a couple of pastries, too, then. Just wait here, love.”

Lysandra opened the door and disappeared through it. Rhea took the handkerchief and dried her face, feeling calm and at ease for once. The older woman came back with a tray full of goodies, setting it down on a small table. They snacked and drank tea for a while. As Rhea was leaving, she said, “Thank you again, Lady Clarke.”

“Oi!” Lysandra snapped lightheartedly. “There’ll be none of that in my shop. Call me Lysandra, Sandy, or anything else other than lady.”

Rhea laughed, “Sure thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early, love!”

While the day was still young, Rhea wandered the town a little aimlessly. She had a lot on her mind, with the return of her family in a few days and the start of her new job. What would she tell her father? Thelma? She imagined the horrid woman would find things to tie up her time and prevent her from leaving. And what of the matter with the king? Was it her place to do anything about it? She cared for Cynfael deeply as her childhood friend, but she had no stronger feelings than that. As friends, she should be worried about his father, right?

She walked east towards the forest with no clear direction. She was so caught up in her own mind, she didn’t hear the captain’s voice calling to her from down the street. Alaric noticed the distracted way she walked, seeming deep in her own thoughts. He glanced around once before jogging up to her, placing his hand on her upper arm to get her attention. She turned around, surprised. “Oh, hello,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Lady Rhea,” he smiled at her, “are you… feeling well? I was calling your name a short moment ago.”

Rhea blushed in embarrassment and let out a nervous giggle, “Really? I’m sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind today.”

“Care to ease your load?” he offered.

She sighed, “I’m not sure how much I should say. I’ll inform you of the good news, first: I’ve got a job secured with the seamstress Lysandra. I start tomorrow.”

“That’s fantastic!” Alaric praised, grinning. “But, what happened with the palace seamstress?”

“Lady Shaw said I was too inexperienced, but she’s also the one that put a good word in with Lysandra for me, so it didn’t turn out too bleak.” Rhea explained.

Alaric could see that something still overshadowed her happiness, “That’s not all, is it?”

Rhea looked around, spotting a few people milling about and gestured with a nod of her head. “Come with me for a moment?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the direction she was going and continued until the street ended and the path went from stone to dirt. They walked for a ways inside the forest until she could barely hear any sounds from the town. Alaric chuckled awkwardly, “This is quite out of sight, don’t you think?”

Rhea gave him an odd look, “That’s sort of the point.”

The man’s face suddenly felt hot and his pulse quickened, “O-oh! I mean, my Lady, I didn’t think you were this forward—“

Rhea’s face flushed pink as a rose in full bloom at his implications. “Captain Alaric!” her flustered tone was sharp, “I have a serious concern to speak with you about, and there’s no time for whatever jokes you’re thinking of.”

“Ah, right,” he cleared his throat and shuffled his weight between his feet, feeling a tinge of shame. “Apologies, my Lady. What concerns you?”

She took a look around, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. It was a feeling that hadn’t eased up since she left the palace, and it was harder to ignore now. She stepped closer to the captain, lowering her voice. “I may come off as paranoid, but something happened at the palace the other day, and I’m afraid someone might be watching us, or me, at least.”

Alaric looked around as well, scanning the surroundings. They were in the middle of a forest trail, not too far from town, but mostly they were alone. He didn’t see or hear anything with his trained eyes and ears. “I wouldn’t say paranoid, perhaps.”

She sighed, “Please just listen to me, okay?”

Alaric nodded and she went into detail about the lunch and what King Gareth had said to her before she left. Uneasiness washed over him and he pursed his lips once she finished, taking a moment to think over it. “I hear your concerns, and I understand that something like that could be cause to question. However, I do want to point out that you’ve not interacted with the king before yesterday. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been shut-in for the entirety of his reign, and you’re not familiar—“

Rhea’s eyes were daggers as she stared at him. “I was not ‘shut-in’ so much as I was prohibited from leaving, Captain,” she said, her voice thick with hurt. “Or did you forget?”

The captain bowed his head sheepishly, “No, I did not.”

“On the contrary, and please excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn, I think my not being out in the public and familiar with King Gareth as a person allows me to see things from a view not so biased. I knew him, as a child, Captain. He was a kind and caring man, and he loved his family more than anything. The man I saw yesterday was a complete stranger. There’s something going on here, and I’m afraid for him.” Rhea spoke passionately, her voice wavering with intense emotions. The pain she felt from the captain’s doubt lingered in her chest.

“And you’re sure it’s not just him showing concern for the prince’s affiliates?”

She shook her head. “He’s never spoken to anyone that way before. Not before he was king. He and Cynfael had a close bond, so he was always around when we played together.”

“What do you suppose we should do, then?”

Rhea sighed, “I don’t know. Maybe keep a closer eye on him? I fear his judgment’s been affected. The prince seems to be at the palace more these days, so if you see anything, let me know?” She turned away, looking everywhere and nowhere at once. “Speaking of, why aren’t you with the prince today?”

“As you’ve said, he’s at the palace more often. My skills are better used elsewhere if I’m not accompanying him,” Alaric told her. “Something you’ve said is troubling me though.”

“What’s that?”

“The king told you it was inappropriate for us to be together, but you haven’t said anything about telling him otherwise,” he pointed out. His tone was a mix of fake seriousness and teasing.

Rhea blushed again, turning her face down to hide a smile. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Captain.”

“Of course you’re not,” he continued to tease, looking at her fondly. “I’m sorry, but I must be getting back now. I’ll let you know if I see anything else concerning.”

“Sure,” Rhea nodded. “Oh, if it isn’t too much trouble, my family is returning in two days. I may need some assistance to go to work. If you don’t see me in Lysandra’s shop, could you come to the manor?”

Captain Alaric reached up to deliberately caress her cheek, sending warmth spreading from her chest throughout her body. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“As long as it’s your best,” she smiled happily.

He returned the smile and began walking away.

The captain had just disappeared out of sight when she was alerted to another presence. Rhea turned around quickly, seeing the sea witch standing a few feet behind her, observing her. “I am curious to know what the port master’s daughter is doing in my forest,” Theodora said; the tone of her voice wasn’t hard, and it held a hint of mischief in its soft tones.

“Hello, Theodora,” Rhea replied politely.

“Would you mind joining me in my cottage?” the old woman asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

The sea witch laughed softly, “My child, you always have a choice. Life is filled with them. I simply wish to see how you are doing after this week.”

“Well… alright, then.” Rhea began following her.

[nightshade-minho]

Halloween Costumes (2) 

💀 Han

[ warnings: public, kind of fear kink but also not? fingering, light degradation ]

You barely noticed Jisung’s fingers sliding between your thighs, your heart still pounding in fear as the ride slowed down in the dark tunnel, the atmosphere eerily quiet.

That is, until you felt his fingers rubbing over your clit, clearly using the fact that you were wearing a skirt to his advantage. You looked up at Jisung’s face with a glare, covered in a ghostly sheen thanks to his make-up. Was it weird that you somehow found him hotter like this? 

“Jisung...this is not the t-time nor the place- fuck-”

He shook his head, leaning in to whisper into your ear. “I don’t agree, babe. You look so delectable dressed like that, how do you expect me to resist this?” He gave you a cheeky grin as he pulled away, his fingers deftly sliding your panties to the side. The rush of cold air made you bite your lip, your mind momentarily forgetting your fear.

However a jumpscare took place at the same time he slid his finger in, making you jolt and scream loudly, voice almost giving out.

Jisung grinned widely at your reaction, the ride starting to move at a fast pace once more. He decided to thrust his digits quicker, loving how your moans were mixed with screams, your heart beating fast. Your brain could barely make sense of all of the different sensations you were feeling.

Meanwhile the man sitting next to you laughed maniacally, grabbing your face to look at him as he pressed his lips to yours.

"Damn, you love this don't you, little slut?" He chuckled against your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth just as he inserted another finger.

He was right, you did. The adrenaline coursing through your veins was only serving to heighten the pleasure Jisung was giving you. He bit your bottom lip as he pulled away, crooking his fingers and fucking them into you roughly. His expression was a stark contrast to the sinful actions his fingers were carrying out down there, a wide smile decorating his face. 

Your orgasm was approaching quickly, and you bit your lip as you felt the beginnings of it spread outward over your entire body. 

The ride was coming to a halt, still speedily hurtling through the tunnel as it was about to reach its end. Soon, it began to slow down.

Jisung pulled his fingers out almost immediately, causing you to let out a pitiful whine, legs still quivering.

Your pussy was still throbbing, frustration filling you at the loss of your orgasm. You turned to Jisung with a frown, ready to berate him when he shut you up with a peck.

"Come on, baby." He held his hand out to you, helping you out of the ride as it stopped.

"If you're going to cum tonight, it will be on my cock."

💀 Felix

[ warnings: unprotected sex, fake gun play, marking kink, for some reason you thought it would be a good idea to wear a horse costume lmao ]

You were supposed to have been at a Halloween party by now. But no, here you were, getting absolutely wrecked by your boyfriend as he took you over the dining table. You knew you should have exhibited some self control...but as soon as you laid your eyes on him in his cowboy attire, gun strapped to his holster, his hair beautiful messed and sporting a jaunty hat - you knew the night would end with his cum in you.

"We're- fuck- going to be so late." You groaned, unable to breathe as Felix's solid length filled you up deliciously, your tight heat welcoming him in with every thrust.

"I don’t give a fuck, kitten. After all, this was how our night was going to end any way, right?"

"Our friends will be waiting for us." You managed to speak, your mouth dropping open as the sheer pleasure took over your weak body, your boyfriend’s aura piercing into you firmly.

"Let them fucking wait." He groaned, leaning down and molding his lips with yours. "I don't care if we're going to miss the party, baby. All I care about right now is your beautiful body, worn out and naked for me."

He slammed his hips into yours repeatedly, making sure his grip on your waist was tight enough to leave marks. Felix loved marking you up. The thought of everyone seeing you and immediately knowing you belonged to him turned him on beyond belief.

"You're mine." He hissed, his lips trailing down to nip just above your nipple, the action drawing out a surprised groan from you. "Mine mine mine mine."

He slowly drew out the fake gun from his holster, smirking as he pressed it above your clit. Your eyes widened impossibly large- your pussy tightening around him as a new wave of arousal gushed out of you.

Moving the top of the gun gently enough to stimulate you without having to hurt you, Felix leaned down to kiss your neck once more.

"You think a cowboy is sexy? Well, I guess I can agree. You know what isn't a good costume, though?"

He pointed to the shreds of fabric on the floor, your horse costume having had been ripped off by him. You followed his gaze, cheeks flushing. You honestly don’t know what you were thinking when you bought that.

"You wouldn't have looked good in that. Hell, no one can pull that shit off." He chuckled deeply, pressing his lips to yours again as you felt him brush against your sweet spot.

"I prefer you in your birthday suit, anyways.”

💀 Seungmin

[ warnings: slave kink, fingering ]

“Please.” You begged.

When you’d agreed to Seungmin’s idea, this wasn’t what you had expected. Sure, you’d thought. If he wanted to plan your activities for Halloween, why not?

And here you were now, completely tied up and naked as the day you were born. You rarely relinquished all your power to him in this manner, rarely let him do these things. He’d sat on the ornate armchair in the corner of your room, leg crossed over the other as he tapped his chin.

His attire was regal, too expensive and luxurious to even be considered a costume. The cherry on top was the opulent crown resting on his head. He really did look majestic, like a true king.

What did that make you?

“Please?” Seungmin scoffed, his lips spreading into a smirk as he glanced you up and down. “You could do a lot better than that, my baby. Can’t you?”

“I...I just-” You sobbed, your pussy throbbing with need. You wanted him inside you, now. Unfortunately, you’re in no place to order him around. No, that’s his job.

“Go on.” His eyes shone as he stood up, walking closer to the bed. “Tell me what you want.”

“I...” You swallowed, unable to hold yourself back. Shedding your dignity, you whimpered, looking up at him helplessly. “I need you so bad, Your Majesty. I want you to ruin me, fuck me until I can’t breathe, treat me like your slave. Cause th-that’s all I am.”

You scrunched your eyes shut, too nervous to see his expression. A few seconds of silence passed, before you felt his long fingers sliding up your folds. The touch you’d long craved made you jolt forward, a long whine leaving your lips. “P-please- more...”

He chuckled, finger poking at your entrance as he pet your head condescendingly. “Don’t worry, my little servant.”

His digits slid in all of a sudden, making you cry out, your eyes opening.

The sight in front of you almost made you wish you’d kept them closed. His lip was held between his teeth, as his eyes took in your entire form, his face closer to yours than you’d expected.

His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he spoke, in time with a cruel thrust.

“I’ll make sure you serve your lord well.”

💀 I.N

[ warnings: fingering, unprotected sex, degradation ]

You could barely concentrate on mixing the batter, your eyes fluttering as you kept a tight grip on the wooden spoon. How could anyone expect you to think straight when your boyfriend's fingers were running through your swollen folds, collecting your juices and sucking on his digits right after?

You let out an embarrassed moan as Jeongin kissed the back of your neck, his hands spreading your butt cheeks to expose your heat to him clearly.

"God, you're such a dirty girl for me, you know?" He smirked, pressing himself up against you. "I really do love the taste of you right now, princess. Don't even bother dressing up, you look great like this...naked as you bake for me."

You whined and twisted your neck to look at him, pouting. Your boyfriend had gotten dressed way before you, and his costume was impeccably high-end, having borrowed it from an actual film studio. The party wasn't for hours, but you imagined he wanted to live in this fantasy for as long as he could.

You tried your best to focus on the pumpkin cupcakes you were making, your hand shivering. However it was proving to be extremely different, especially when Jeongin slid a finger inside, groaning at the feeling of your tight walls clenching around it.

"Fuck baby, I could take you right here and now.."

You struggled to formulate sentences as he pumped the lone finger in and out of you. "No..." you whimpered. "I have to finish these cupcakes for the party or Felix will kill me-"

"You can continue baking." He mumbled, and you heard a zipper being undone. A second later, his swollen head was pressed against your entrance teasingly, causing you to let out a sound halfway between a groan and whine.

Unable to deny him when he was so tantalizingly close, you nodded, hearing him breathe a sigh of relief as he pushed in all of a sudden, jolting you against the counter.

"Fuck-" You cried out, your hands gripping the edge as you dropped the spoon. There wasn't a point in trying, you'd just mess it up anyway. As if you could focus on something so mundane when your boyfriend was filling you up so deliciously.

He grinned as he saw you give up, pulling you out and lifting you up onto the counter just to slide back in.

You looked down at him and inhaled, panting as he fucked into you. Reaching a hand up, you gripped his horns for support, causing him to raise his eyebrows.

"Cute little girl, getting fucked by a demon. Bet you love this, my little slut.'

"I...do..." You glanced at your abandoned cupcakes momentarily, a tiny flash of guilt in your stomach.

Noticing your gaze, he gripped your chin and made you face him again,

"Oh, fuck the cupcakes. I'm sure you taste better than them anyway..." He kissed you full on the lips, bucking his hips intermittently. "God I fucking love Halloween..."

note: yeah this is kinda late. enjoy, tho <3

[jediknightobiwan]

Boba smut, you say?

Could I get some dad bod Boba love post-Mandalorian season 2, if you've finished the new episode? Because our man definitely deserves some love after that shit. I personally headcannon him as being dominant AF, with lots of pet names, and a tendency to be a little rougher. Maybe some post-battle fucking to wind down in Slave I.

Thanks!

OFC We love Dad Bods here I will NOT tolerate Temura hate like at all. We don’t expect women to stay the same all their lives and we shouldn’t expect the same of men.

In talks with @emilykjh we decided that Boba decidedly, is a brat tamer so I’m definitely going along the dominant caregiver route with him.

Also tbh and probably shockingly I haven’t watched the new season all the way through AT ALL it was emotionally too much for me when it started so now I can binge it whenever 😅 I just learn things through gifs cause I don’t mind spoilers! So things may be very Vague when it comes to plot or I’ll just go with what I’ve gathered happens after the last episode. But let’s do some Older Boba stuff yes, everyone who understood the significance of Boba’s appearance better say thank you Mr. Temuera for your service.

Boba Fett x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Caregiver/Little BDSM relationship, Daddy Kink, Age Gap (cmon he’s in his 50’s), slight drool kink, slight degradation, slight choking

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

                                                  [[READ MORE]]

Your ears perk up at the sound of heavy bootsteps on their way and you quickly rush to clean up your little area. Ever since Boba had taken his throne and conquered most of the underworld you and him and Fennec who you adored had made a nice little home for yourselves. What Boba teasingly called your nest was a corner of his throne room that you (and Fennec) had padded and stuffed with pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, one very long and squishy pillow and a very very large cushion you called your tuffet. It was cute little safe space you sat, read and napped in when you wanted a little alone time.

It was usually a kind of organized chaos but lately you had let it get a bit wild and before Boba had left earlier he’d told you to have it cleaned up by the time he was back, and like a true Little who usually forgot orders once they were given and wasn’t reminded you had become distracted with other things. Which is why now you were slightly sweating under your soft robe as you scrambled to set everything in its proper place so he would never know you’d-

The steps had stopped echoing. You suddenly realized besides the slick of fabric between your fingers and your little pants that the room had actually been quiet for a minute or so. You swallowed a little hard but continued your work, spreading out soft blanket on your tuffet and then tucking it underneath. Finally, you smoothed your front and turned with a smile ready for your lover.

“Daddy! You’re home! See I uhm..I did my one chore today!” You were beaming, a little sweat on your brow and your voice was sweet and welcoming. In return Boba tilted his helmeted head at you in such a way that you knew what was he was saying without him needing to voice it.

Really? Did you? Is what that look said and you fidgeted slightly, lower lip jutting out every so softly.

Well-it still counts! Doesn’t it?? Your look said and after another moment of silence you hear a sigh come from him and he finally comes toward you with a gloved hand extended to cup your face.

“I suppose I’ll let it slide today,” he says, thumb gliding over your lower lip as his eyes bore into you from behind the visor. “I’m too tired to properly punish you for waiting until the last second anyway.”

The words were slightly worrying but if something was really wrong he would’ve told you, so you brushed it off and kissed his thumb gently.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you promise, reaching to cup his helmet in your hands and then bringing your foreheads together in a keldabe kiss. He hums deep in his throat, his way of saying that you’d better.

“What can I do tonight? A hot bath? A massage?” You gasped and jumped a little, grinning. “Both??”

Boba chuckles and removes his helmet, the smile still on his handsome scarred face. “How about just a massage pet? My old muscles could use it.”

“Ah you’re not old cyare.”

You giggle at his eyebrow raise and pat his cheeks then push gently on his chest plate to back him into the hallway and towards his bedroom. Once inside the large yet fairly bare room you begin the slow and intimate process of removing his armor for him. It was something you’d been doing for awhile now, ever since you’d settled into your roles. He did so much...it was one sweet thing you could do for him back.

The tension was practically melting out of your love’s shoulders as the beskar came off. Your arms had long since adjusted to the armor’s weight over the months of this sweet ritual and the warmth of Boba’s soft eyes as he watched you easily carry his prized possessions never failed to make you feel like the most important person in the galaxy. Your skin felt fully flushed by the time he was sitting on the bed and you’d removed his boots for him.

“My sweet little Dove...,” Boba murmurs, reaching out his now ungloved hands for your hips and bringing you closer, his face now level with your chest. You smile he nuzzles against your soft skin and hum happily, arms sliding into position around his broad shoulders without a second thought.

Dove. How you loved your pet name from him. You were his sweet thing, his Little, his pure (he insisted you were pure compared to him and you’d given up trying to convince him otherwise) darling treasure. Your soft lips pressed kisses to his head and you murmured, “My Daddy...,” to which you could feel his smile against your skin just stoking flames inside you.

You remained entertwined for awhile longer, both just caressing each other sweetly and basking in the loving bubble you created each time you were together. And then you remembered what you were supposed to be doing and gasped, pulling away to look down at Boba.

“Your massage!”

Boba blinks at you in confusion for a second and then laughs, keeping a tight grip on your hips even as you go to pull away and get the oil. He gently grips your chin -effectively stopping your struggling-and brings your lips to his. You sigh softly into the kiss and simply melt like wax beneath a flame into his arms-apt considering it immediately stoked the soft fire that had begun to burn in your belly the moment you saw him into a good sized blaze.

A whine escapes your lips even as Boba depeens the kiss and pulls you onto his lap fully with your crotches rubbing together sinfully.

“Don’t laugh at me Daddy,” you whine, kissing his broad nose and then going back to his mouth. Your arms slide down around his waist and you squeeze, taking petty pleasure in the way his breath escapes him when you do. “It’s mean!”

Your Caregiver seems to, funnily enough, care, very little about your plight since as you whine he just hums and runs his big hands down to your ass and squeezes none too gently. He grins devilishly as you jump and kisses you again, lingering longer this time and swiping his tongue over your lips before he pulls away.

“So what if it is? You like it when I’m mean Dove baby...you know you can’t lie to me.” Boba jerks you closer to him and ruts his hips upwards against you, causing you to whine loudly as want shoots through your core painfully.

“Yeah baby that’s what I thought....you like it when I’m mean. Big bad mean Daddy...ain’t that right?” The older man swats at your ass when you don’t answer, your brain becoming mushy already from the feel of his body beneath your hands and his impressive cock only growing harder and longer against the apex of your thighs. “I asked you a direct question little Dove. You know I don’t like it when you don’t answer.”

After shaking your head to clear it just a little and your hands balling up his undershirt to hang on for dear life you manage a nod with your mouth open just a tad, unnoticed by you but very noticed by your lover. His eyes drop to your lips and he growls slightly, strong hands kneading at the soft flesh of your ass before he delivers two hard, stinging pops to your backside.

“Speak, cyar’ika, speak when Daddy tells you to.”

Maker you are just gone for him. You swallow the water that had gathered in your mouth at the rough handling and say clearly, full of need that that’s right, Daddy is a big bad man...your big bad man...and you even elaborate on how you love him so for it. Wetting your lips you rock against him as he basks in your obedience and drinking in his soft moan like wine, your lips rubbing against his.

“Let me massage you Daddy...I said I would...cmon. Please? Let me help?” The groan Boba emits tells you that he’s thinking of something else now, something with him on top but before he can open his mouth to give an order your bratty, slightly manipulative side comes out and you use your saccharine please Daddy do this for me or I’ll be oh so sad voice to plead to him.

“Oh please Daddy? Let me make you feel better. You said yourself you’re tired! You need a rest, just a brief one and then...” You untie your robe and let it fall, your whole body bare to him now, causing the erection between you to pulse. Your fingertips graze his throat as you tilt his face up towards yours and bite his lower lip teasingly. “You can massage my insides with that big cock of yours~ How’s that sound?”

Judging by the growl in his throat and chest- Boba likes the idea very much, and you have to fight to keep the smirk off your face. Drawing on some confidence just to tease him more you get off his lap and order him to strip and lay on the soft king sized bed the two of you shared. You could see his brown eyes narrow, debating on whether or not to just grab you and throw you on the bed and mount you like a fucking animal, but when he stood something popped in his shoulder audibly...and he stripped without a word.

The control you had over your face slipped and your grin shined out in full force as your older boyfriend complied to your demands. Really he was just a big softy with as much love to give as he had muscles and cute love handles. While he disrobed you found the bottle of massage oil he’d brought you back from one of his excursions that had multiple uses when came to making things easier, and fluffed the pillow in the middle of the bed that he always used. Your bed was so nice and so soft with lots of room for the two of you and yet Boba always slept in the middle, arms right around you and you near the edge facing the bathroom.

But you didn’t mind, you thought as you watched him lay down on his stomach with his head cradled by the now fluffy pillow and his tan body stretched out of the dark sheets. However he wanted to sleep-even if he sometimes squeezed too hard during a dream-was fine with you, as long as you were together.

‘Not gonna stand around all afternoon lookin’ at my ass are you?” You blinked and focused on Boba who was now smirking at you.

“Pbbbbt,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “No of course not! But if I was, who could blame me? It is a wonderful sight.” You climbed onto the bed as he chuckled. Knowing it would be uncomfortable for him and his still hard cock if you sat on his hips, you opted to sit more on his juicy ass instead. He hummed at the weight of you and relaxed into the pillow.  

“Well if you think so it must be true,” he mumbles, “you are almost always right little Dove.”

“I am always right,” you corrected, dribbling the ever warm oil onto his broad back. He purred, and you knew it was because of the oil, but you liked to think it was because of you so you smirked. “That’s what I thought~”

You went to work then on his sore muscles, flexing your own to work the knots out with your skilled hands. Boba let his noises out freely as you worked; grunting, groaning, moaning and even at times whimpering with your palms smoothing over every inch of him you could reach.

The sun had sunk a bit by the time you were done and Boba rolled onto his back so you could finally straddle his hips. The evidence of your arousal from massaging him and his cute little noises was pressed against his balls. Your hands were on his chest and he was smoothing his own up your back slowly, sending shivers up your spine.

“My Dove...,” Boba starts on a soft sigh, his hands pulling down now to your hips to begin a gentle rocking. His cock was hardening again between the two of you and your own arousal was growing each second. “You love such a man like me? Old, a bit chubby, scarred?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the rocking, finally just a little bit of the release you had been craving since his return. You looked deeply, lovingly into Boba’s beautiful eyes. To you he was the most beautiful man in the galaxy, no matter how much he complained about his aching joints or how he was too old for you.

“Oh silly Daddy...” You sighed, taking the bottle of oil one more time and drizzling just a little on his perfect cock before taking it in your hand. His eyes darken as he watches you tilt your hips and line thick head of him up with your hole, his large hands gripping your hips tightly with anticipation. Taking the head of his cock you slap it against your hole before popping it inside and sinking down so slowly you knew his hands were going to leave bruises from gripping you so tight.

Once he was fully seated inside you you rotated your hips and opened your eyes just enough to give him a heady look. “As if I was destined for anyone else...”

You managed a wink before succumbing fully to your want for your lover, the fire he’d been stoking now turning into a raging storm with his thickness stretching you out perfectly. You both reached for each other at the same time and your mouths collided hotly as you bounced on him at an already quick pace. No time to adjust fully, fuck, Maker it just felt so good to be impaled on him again that you were frantic and starving for it. Teeth clashed, fingernails marks were definitely being left in sensitive areas and after just a minute or so you pulled away from the messy kissing to angle yourself better and slam onto Boba.

Your head was thrown back beautifully as you screamed your devotion to him, to his perfect fucking cock that was literally making you drool even while you were split open by it. Boba growled seeing the slick moisture on your lips and he sat up, yanking you close with a strong hand on the back of your neck. His hips met a bounce of yours and you cried out-only to have the noise muffled by a big thumb in your mouth. His other arm was right around you waist, keeping you on him but unmoving.

“That’s my sweet baby...suck on Daddy’s thumb...yeah just like that-fuck.” Even cockdrunk you knew how to work your lover up, sucking on his thumb dutifully and as enthusiastically as you did your favorite appendage of his. You even took his one hand in both your smaller ones to bring the digit further inside and you could swear Boba pulsed so hard inside you you thought he’d finished for a second.

He pushed down on your tongue hard and dragged your jaw with him, and much to your initial chagrin and then immediate arousal, let a long stream of drool pool out and fall where you were connected with him. You moaned at the filth of it and at the complete submissive state you were in. Literally, you were in the palm of Boba Fett’s hand.

Boba groaned and smirked at you, looking at the wet spot and then back at you. “Such a good pet aren’t you? I love it when you get me soaked little one~”

Maker you felt like exploding right then! But he wasn’t done with you, oh no. He pulled his thumb from your obscenely wet mouth, sucked your salvia from it and then rolled, pulling out of you with a wet echoing sound. He easily manhandled you with your hips popped up and grabbed your pillow to bury your face in. He slid back home with no resistance and you moaned freely, your eyes rolling back and your lower lip getting caught between your teeth.

“Mmmmm my sweet little pet...such a good slut for me aren’t you? Always so needy...so ready for Daddy to come home and take care of you...” As he spoke he’d started thrusting into you, gaining in speed. “Fuck...baby, I love you so fucking much, so, fucking, much!”

Now he was straight pummeling you. Your voice was going to be nonexistent when he was through with you if this kept up, your nails digging into your pillow so hard your knuckles were white and you could do nothing but spread your legs wider for him like the slut he’d called you. You were Boba Fett’s personal slut, his little Dove and his soulmate-nothing in the galaxy could be better than this.

As he neared his end he made sure to drag the fat head of his cock along those special spots inside you he knew so well while his mouth bit and sucked on the external spots until your toes curled so tightly he joked that they may never uncurl, the smug bastard. His lips found your neck again in a sweet spot as he bent over you, slamming so deep inside you could taste his precum on your tongue.

“Cum for me baby,” he murmurs, callused thumbs flicking over your nipples before one palm encloses over your throat and squeezes the sides deliciously. “Cum for Daddy little one.”

It was no question, no suggestion, it was a demand. And like the good Little you could be when you wanted, you obeyed. One last scream was ripped from your throat as you were pushed off that ledge into white hot pleasure so perfect it enveloped your whole body. Boba held you as you became tense and then limp, his own release coming not far after yours (not surprising given how hard your insides had been squeezing him) and as always overfilling you in a way you could only describe as obscenely delicious.

“Good job little Dove. I’m so proud.” Came a voice from above and behind you. You knew it was Boba, you knew yet somehow a little voice in your head thought it was the Maker talking to you. Your lips quirked in a little smile as exhausted gasps left your now limp body, only held up by Boba’s hands and his cock that was still pumping cum into you. You felt lips along your neck so lovingly and you sighed contentedly.

“I love you...” you whispered, beginning to fall asleep with him still cradled inside you.

He chuckled softly and kissed the tip of your ear, rubbing your back soothingly before very slowly sliding out of you.

“I love you too baby...go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

It would be hours before you woke, cleaned up and tightly nestled into Boba’s arms as always with the two of you so close it was like you had been born that way. And when you did you squeezed his middle tightly enough for him to softly grunt and then settled back with him, feeling for all the galaxy like you were the luckiest person alive because no one could love you like Boba Fett. And you couldn’t imagine loving anyone else.

@emilykjh @sailorsquadgoals @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @ohdeargodnotyouagain @ihaveashield @ezraslittlebirdie @labyrinth-runner @asaucecoveredsomething @thisainttheway @anakinswhore @sleepwithacommunist

[honey-dewey]

To Serve the King

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: 2,870

Warnings: No major ones, Reader gets called a slut once. 

Very few understood what went on behind the Mand’alor’s helmet, but that didn’t mean they didn’t support him. However, leaving someone wrapped in revealing silks and fine jewelry on the throne when he wasn’t around might’ve been one of the odder things they’ve seen. 

Din Djarin was many things, but a confident Mand’alor was not one of them. They called him Mand’alor the Reuniter, officially. That was the name they put in the books and would write for all of history. However, he was well known as the Mudhorn Mand’alor, or the Mand’alor who never removed his helmet. 

He’d been settled as the Mand’alor for a while now, slowly reuniting the people of Mandalore, hence the name he’d been given. It was slow going, and because he was often away on odd jobs, he needed someone he could trust to keep his throne safe while he went away. 

To most, however, an ex-slave wasn’t the first choice. Hell, it might even be the last. 

Yet, that’s who the great Mand’alor trusted with his beskar throne. 

He’d picked you up on Tatooine, after you’d thrown down with Fennec when she’d found you hiding in Jabba’s old palace. You’d been bruised and beaten up, but you’d held your own and seemed to be pretty loyal, so Din had taken you back to Mandalore and offered you a job. You weren’t a complete fool, so you accepted. 

Now, almost six months later, you were comfortable as the throne keeper. Maybe a bit too comfortable, but that was Din’s problem to deal with. Dressed in revealing silk and soft chiffon, you often sat upon the throne when he hunted. When he wasn’t out hunting, you were seated at his right or in his lap, depending on your mood. 

Some, most even, speculated that you were still a slave, considering the only beskar you wore was an ornate collar. But others considered your boldness and wondered if you were truly the pilot and Din was just your puppet. And others still were certain that you and Din were exchanging sexual favors behind the scenes, taking into account the fact that you both slept in the same room. 

None of them were right. 

You were no longer a slave. You wore the collar out of respect for Din, knowing that he had the power to remove it kept you respectful and by his side, but he would absolutely let you go if you asked. You were also not the mastermind. Despite being smart, you had no desire to rule a planet. And as for the sexual favors, well, you admired Din, and thought he was likely handsome under the helmet, but you could never see yourself seducing him, or vice versa. At least, not yet. 

What you were was his advisor and his unofficial right hand man. He’d offered you the job, and you had insisted on the uniform. It kept you unassuming and out of people’s minds. No one suspected a throne warmer to be anything but a bubble headed slut. Which you definitely were not. 

Din had, upon realizing people would likely be after your head, cleared out a bit of his room for you, which was where you were now. Tucked away in a small alcove was your bed, raised up high above your desk and bookshelf. You enjoyed sleeping this close to the ceiling. It gave you a sense of security. 

Also amongst your things was a wardrobe built into the wall. Inside hung most of your day clothes, as your leisure clothes were folded away in the wardrobe’s only drawer. 

The only thing separating you from Din was a thick black curtain that you controlled, often tugging it shut so you could have privacy. 

Now, you were settled at your desk, pouring over papers Din had given you to check. It was slow going, but worth the trouble. You scratched out a mistake and corrected it, adjusting the number of exports to accurately represent Mandalore’s involvement with the galaxy. 

“Hey,” Din said, knocking a bit on the side of the wall before pushing the curtain open. “You good in here?” 

“Yep,” you mumbled, putting the final piece of paper down and smiling. “Just finished looking over the import and export papers. Everything looks good.” 

Din sighed. “Perfect. I’m leaving for two days. I have a meeting with Fett and Skywalker on a planet not too far from here.” 

You nodded, standing and stretching. “I guess I better get ready, hm?” 

Din chuckled lightly. “What will you wear?” 

Opening your wardrobe, you examined your options, eventually deciding on one. “This.” 

The outfit in question was mostly sheer, with strategic patches of fine silk to cover you appropriately. The chiffon fabric was a beautiful royal blue, while the silks were a blue so dark they may as well have been black. You slid into the outfit, adjusting it and smiling. Din may have worn head to toe beskar to protect himself, but this was your armor. Slipping on your silver anklets and sapphire studded jewelry, you walked out onto the main bedroom, seeing Din waiting there for you. 

“My king,” you said formally, a sly grin curling across your lips. 

Din sighed. “Here.” He held out your beskar collar, securing it around your neck. He was the only one with a key to unlock the ornate clasp that kept it in place, but you didn’t mind. You would survive for a few days without removing the collar while you waited for your Mand’alor to return. 

You two headed out to the throne room, where you settled down on the throne, waving to Din as he left. He promised he’d be back by nightfall the next day, and you grinned, teasingly replying that you couldn’t wait for his return. Throwing your legs over one of the arms of the throne, you lounged back. Time to do your job. 

The first people that came in were merchants from a nearby planet. Rug makers who were down on their luck. They didn’t have much to trade, but you promised them that you would take a look at their exports and see what you could do. Some of the council members seemed hesitant to let them go so easily, but you waved your hand and they left without a word. 

Over the day, you had many encounters like that. Small ones you could easily talk over and come to a simple conclusion. In between meetings, you read a book on the throne, entirely engulfed in the story. The council filtered around you, often attempting to talk you down from your decisions. You always responded in the same way. By flicking a book page and sweetly telling them it’s what the Mand’alor would’ve done. 

By the time the sun had set, you were preparing for your final meeting. A scheduled one with the Nite Owls, who had come in with the leader of an assassination attempt for the Mand’alor. 

The assassin in question was dragged behind Bo-Katan and Koska, his hands cuffed and a length of chain linking his ankles. He looked exhausted, kneeling before you with sleepless and pitiful eyes, his shoulders hunched. You examined him further, occasionally asking Bo-Katan a question. His hair was choppy, clearly dirty and in desperate need of a proper trim, although he did have well maintained facial hair. His skin, naturally sun-kissed, was pale with lack of light, and his eyes, which kept drawing you in, were surrounded by sleepless bruises. 

“Oh for the love of Mand’alor, uncuff him,” you instructed. “He’s starved, exhausted, and in no condition to fight anyone. The least you can do is treat him like a human being and not a kriffing animal.” 

Bo-Katan did as asked, uncuffing the assassin. You leaned forward, happy today had gotten some form of excitement. “Do you have a name?” 

The assassin shook his head. You sighed, standing up and stepping down off the dais and standing before the assassin. “A pity. Can you talk?” 

“Yes.” 

You nodded. “Good. I’m sure Bo-Katan treated you well on your journey here. He wasn’t any trouble, was he, Ms. Kryze?” 

Bo-Katan shrugged. “He’s a survivor. Took us months to hunt him down.” 

You knelt down, taking the assassin’s face and slowly turning it from side to side. Noting a bruise that could only have come from a fight, you made up your mind, standing and holding a hand out. “Stand.” 

He did, taking your hand and using it to wobble to his feet. He was taller than you, but you didn’t mind. All you could see in your head was yourself, knelt before the Mand’alor, body aching from a life of fighting, desperate for any kind of out. He’d held your hand just as you did to the assassin, offering you a steady life. 

“Listen well,” you said, still holding the assassin’s hand. “On this planet, there is an honest life to be found. A life of comfort, a life that isn’t ruled by a need to hunt or fight. If you’ll accept, we can give you that life.” 

The assassin’s face went slack, his hand gripping yours tightly. “And why would I want to live like you?” He hissed finally. “A pretty little palace slut. That’s not what I want.” He stepped forward, but you knew better. Using his iron grip on your hand, you tossed him clean over your shoulder, whirling around to press a knee firmly to his sternum, your dominant forearm steady on his throat. 

“Then you give me no choice,” you said, voice as firm as your position. “I’ll be returning you to Bo-Katan, and she can have her way with you.” 

He was wrestled to his feet, Koska grinning as she recuffed him. 

“Ms. Kryze,” you said, moving back to the throne and sitting upon it once more. “Show our guest how we treat those who would attack us.” 

Bo-Katan nodded, hauling the assassin out. You sighed, collapsing into the throne. “You’re all dismissed,” you said loosely, waving away the council members, all of whom had been dead silent for your final meeting. 

They left, leaving you alone on the throne. How Din did this day in and day out was a mystery to you. You were exhausted simply from one final meeting. 

Standing and heading back to your shared room, you slid past Din’s portion and finally shrouded yourself in the familiarness of your room. 

You had a horribly restless sleep that night, and awoke early to the sound of someone entering the room. You feared for all of two seconds before you heard the telltale sounds of beskar armor. Din was home early. 

Sliding out of bed, you tossed on a knee length robe and opened the curtain, seeing Din standing next to his bed. 

“Oh Maker am I glad to see you!” You said, eagerly approaching him. “I had a very long day yesterday.” 

Din huffed, settling on the side of the bed. “Oh yeah? Tell me about it.” 

You sat with him, cross legged and playing absently with the hem of your robe. “Well. It was super simple until the end. Just a bunch of boring meetings and deals, most of which were transcribed for you and I can give you the highlight notes later. But then, Bo-Katan came in with the leader of that would-be assassination group she told us about last month. He was a complete dick! Called me a slut and almost hurt me.” 

“You fought back?” 

“Yeah.” You scooted closer to Din. “Sent him out with Bo-Katan. I’m sure she’s disposed of him by now.” 

Din sighed, leaning back on the bed. “Sounds like you did good.” 

You smiled, the praise warning your chest. “I think I did.” 

You almost fell asleep there with Din, the both of you laying with each other. He’d had a long trip, which he told you about. He’d not slept in his anticipation to return, Grogu coming home with him for a while. The little green child was curled in your lap. You’d met him a few times, and he liked you tremendously. His acceptance of you was part of the reason Din trusted you as much as he did. 

Before you could truly fall asleep, Din nudged you awake, mumbling he had a meeting to attend. You stretched, slowly crawling out of the bed and picking a less revealing and more comfortable pale green outfit. It was still fit for a throne warmer, but wasn’t as scandalous as your previous day’s attire. 

Walking out with Din, you grinned upon seeing Bo-Katan seated at the small, round meeting table. There was no one else in the room. 

Din, as per custom, sat across from Bo-Katan, with you sitting at his right. 

“So,” Din said, starting the meeting officially. “The assassin, you dealt with him?” 

Bo-Katan’s lips curved into a smile. “In a way, yes.” 

Din shifted. “What does that mean?” 

“We got rid of him,” Bo-Katan clarified, leaning back in her chair. “Although I think his encounter with your stand-in was enough to scare him into not messing with us ever again. But, as per the instructions, he was dealt with in an appropriate manner. I doubt we’ll be hearing from the other assassins in the group any time soon.”

“Good,” Din said, relaxing. “Shall we tell them?” 

“I suppose,” Bo-Katan hummed. “It was such fun yesterday to see them fight, but now is as good a time as any.” 

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, leaning forward and putting a hand on the table. “Are you talking about me?” 

Din nodded. “After seeing what you can do, and how you negotiated yesterday, I think it’s fitting that I ask you to be my interplanetary advisor. This would mean making trips with me, handling most if not all of the papers, which I think you do anyway, and basically doing what you do now on a larger scale.” 

You were stunned. It made sense, all except for one little bit. “But you didn’t see what I did yesterday. You were gone.” 

Din made a small noise that you assumed was a chuckle. “Just because you don’t recognize me doesn’t mean I’m not there,” he pointed out, and you almost asked him what he meant when he slowly took his helmet off, revealing the face of the assassin from yesterday. 

You were silent for much too long before finally taking a frustrated swing at Din. He dodged easily, a smile on his face. “Did I do something wrong?” 

You shook your head, your next move a very powerful hug for Din. “I cannot believe you let me take you down yesterday,” you said happily, still holding him. “Oh my kriffing maker, I can’t believe it!” 

Eventually, you pulled away, examining Din’s face. His cheekbone was still bruised, but he looked healthier, like he’d had a proper meal and bath. “Y’know,” you said, tugging at a small curl that was flopped over on Din’s forehead. “I knew you were handsome under that helmet. But this is unexpected.” 

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” 

“Oh definitely good unexpected,” you replied. “Was anyone else in on it?” 

Din shook his head. “As far as the council knows, the man from yesterday was legitimately an assassin and is now dead.” 

Over the next few weeks, you shifted in your job, traveling with Din and leaving the council to handle affairs on Mandalore. He was excellent fun on trips, looser and more at ease when it was just the two of you on a ship together. He introduced you as his official right hand man, a title that made you glow with pride. 

And yet, you still dressed the same way. 

Of course, your wardrobe had expanded to include some cold weather outfits, but it was still a mess of chiffons, silks, and expensive furs. You still wore the collar, but Din had insisted on one slight change. You and him visited his armorer, a reserved woman who never removed her helmet, no matter the circumstances, and Din had her make you a pendant for the collar. A beautiful mudhorn signet, just like his. It sat on the dip between your collarbones, the cold metal a constant reminder of your connections to Din. 

“Ready?” He asked, holding his hand out. You were about to step out onto Coruscant to make a deal with several other planet’s leaders. You had draped yourself in embroidered blue silks and chiffon, the collar on display and the hem of the skirt sweeping the floor. It was a fancy occasion that called for fancy clothes. And yet, Din was beside you in his armor, no decorations or anything. 

You nodded. Despite the importance of this meeting and the horrible terror of the various what ifs, you were calm. “Of course. Are you?” 

Din chuckled. He’d put his helmet on, but you could still gauge his facial expressions. “Sure.” 

Stepping off the ship together, you knew people would talk. They always did, exchanging hushed whispers behind their hands. Maybe, if you weren’t dressed as you were, the whispers wouldn’t be as prominent. But you enjoyed your outfits, and didn’t mind the quiet gossip one bit. 

In the end, it was only Din who you sought to please. He was your equal, and yet he was your superior. You desired his smile, his pleased moods, and you would do anything to make him happy. After all, you were there to serve your king.

[staranon95]

DinCobb Week Day 3: New Experiences (SFW)

for @dincobbweek a lil bit of ENBY!Cobb

AO3 Link

see me not as i am (but who i wish to be)

The first time they felt envy for another was when they were eighteen—still an owned individual, still a slave, still a man in a sense.

Their owner’s wife had returned from shopping in Mos Eisley, in the richer districts Cobb themself couldn’t go to.

They watched as the lady’s handmaids took her dresses out to hang them properly, and for a moment then, Cobb wondered what it would be like to feel that fabric against their skin, to see how the dress would drape over their body. How it would hide their broad shoulders. How it might make them seem smaller and more dainty. Just everything that wasn’t them at that point in time of their life.

They would never go anywhere near the lady or her dresses. That wasn’t their purpose in the household at that time. They wouldn’t have any time to explore that part of themself until years and years later. After they fought for their freedom and fought for the lives of others. Until the story of their life showed on their body in rigid muscles and myriad of scars and scar tissue.

They live the life of Mos Pelgo’s Marshal. A beloved and feared figure who means to protect and serve the citizens who call this dusty little place home. They seem to know, however, that their Marshal is more than just what they appear to be. It’s easy for them to see that outside of their role as Marshal, that Cobb Vanth is a soft spoke individual. Who smiles easily and dotes after the kids in town like they’re their own. Who holds themself not like the Marshal in their off hours, but someone approachable.

What the town comes to realize is that their Marshal is not a man. Cobb doesn’t think of themself as a man. They know themselves as Cobb first and foremost and then the Marshal. The Marshal has required them to be more than themselves. More imposing. Louder. Stronger. And they’ve enjoyed it. Being the Marshal has given them a sense of strength and power in a way. But when the Mandalorian arrives in town, things begin to change.

The deal is worth it. To trade the armour for killing the krayt and brokering a peace agreement between Mos Pelgo and the neighbouring Tuskens. But even then, it’s not the Mandalorian’s ability to delegate that draws Cobb to him. It’s his openness, his accepting nature.

“Town’s people think a lot of you,” he says in that soft timbre of his.

“Been their Marshal for a while now.”

“They think highly of you. I’ve also learned that they refer to you as they. Do you prefer that as well?”

Cobb looks to him, partially in shock because not many people ask. For the town’s people, it’s habit. For outsiders? Cobb hasn’t really cared to explain that part of themselves to outsiders. They don’t see the point in it, and most don’t care to know, but the Mandalorian, he’s different.

“I do,” is all Cobb says on the matter.

The Mandalorian nods once, then says, “I never introduced myself properly to you.”

“Wasn’t exactly a situation where introduction were required.”

“Still, I’d like you to know me. My name is Din.”

Cobb nods. “Nice to have it.”

They work well together, Cobb thinks. They move in sync. They’re able to anticipate what the other is thinking, and through it all, Cobb thinks about how they’ve never connected to someone else so well before.

But then it’s all over. They’re handing over the armour. Din is heading away with the Child, and Cobb will be left in Mos Pelgo to put everything back together.

Without the armour and now with the established peace between their people and the Tuskens, Cobb finds their workload to be significantly less than what it once was. They realize they’re spending more time helping out in homesteads, filling in for the school teacher, and less of the patrolling they used to do. They have more free time on their hands. They can relax and think of themselves for the first time in a long time.

They find themselves looking in their bathroom mirror running a hand over their beard in the mirror. It’s overgrown some. They haven’t considered touching it in days and now . . .

They grab their razor and begin to shave it off, leaving their face clean shaven for the first time in years. They’ve forgotten how sharp their cheekbones are and the point of their chin. It makes them look different without facial hair. Like a new person almost.

Jo notices when they meet up for coffee later that morning. “Shaving accident?”

They smile wryly. “Nah. Just needed a change.”

“Might want to double up on sunscreen then.”

They settle into their life more as Mayor of Mos Pelgo rather than Marshal these days. They start growing out their hair a bit. They start looking at new cuts of clothing whenever they happen upon a seller in Anchorhead or Mos Eisley.

And then one day, the Mandalorian Din shows up on his doorstep looking for a place to stay.

Cobb can’t deny him, and so ends up with Din sitting in their living room after being gone for months.

“I had nowhere else to go,” he says. “I figured . . .” He looks to Cobb with a certain naked vulnerability without his helmet on. His eyes are impossibly brown, deep and warm.

“You’d always be welcomed here.”

Din nods. “Thank you.”

The build up of their relationship is a slow and gentle affair. They’re both older people, Cobb pushing into their fifties and Din edging further into his forties. But they know each other and they know what they want, so it’s easier to fit together, to bring their lives together.

“I like your hair,” Din says one night when they’re in bed together. He raises a hand to tuck a lock behind Cobb’s ear. Then his fingers drift down Cobb’s jaw. “It looks good on you long.”

“I’ve always wanted to try it longer,” Cobb muses. “Never had the space to.”

“It’s nice.” Din presses a kiss to their forehead, and Cobb falls asleep with Din’s fingers in their hair.

It’s with Din’s constant and gentle support that Cobb garners up the courage to say one day, “Do you think I’d look good in a dress?”

Din looks up from where he’s repairing one of his vambraces at the table while Cobb finishes dinner. “Do you have one?”

They shake their head. “I’ve thought about it, but.”

“We should head into town tomorrow then. See what they have.”

Din is looking at them from the table, nothing but that open and accepting look he always has when it comes to Cobb.

“Okay.”

Mos Eisley hasn’t fallen into disrepair like Mos Espa has, and now as a free person, Cobb is free to visit those higher end clothing stalls and shops like the lady of the house once did decades ago. There’s a lot to look through and choose from. Different colours, different textures, different cuts. They choose something that’s practical for their day to day life. It’s long, down to their ankles, but of a flowy material that won’t trap any heat. The sleeves cut just above their elbows. There’s a vee cut in the front, and the colour is a soft cream. They buy that for themselves and notice that Din makes a purchase himself, but won’t tell them what it is.

“Later,” he says, so they trust him.

They first try on their dress at home when it’s just them and Din ad they’ve seen to their work for the day.

Din is back up on the bed, looking at Cobb in admiration as they strip down to their briefs and pull out their dress. It feels like relief as the fabric falls over their shoulders and down past their hips until it hangs around their ankles. They run their hands down over their chest and torso and down to their hips before looking in the mirror.

“Oh.”

The dress sort of shifts their shape a bit. From how it hangs on their hips it pulls away from their broad shoulders. It makes them look more feminine, makes them feel it as well.

Then they turn to Din, feeling how it swishes at their ankles.

Din is wide eyed and speechless at first, his eyes roving over Cobb’s body and the dress. “You’re, you look.” He runs a hand over his mouth and then sits up on the bed. “Can I . . . touch you?”

Cobb nods. “Please.”

Din stands and moves in to gently set his hands on Cobb’s waist. He’s always had big hands, but like this it makes Cobb feel even slighter, like he could pick them up easily.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

They hum and run their hands over his shoulders. “I feel good. Nothing different, but good.”

Din smiles. “I’m glad.” And he leans in for a kiss.

They don’t learn about Din’s purchase for a while yet, and they nearly forget about it until much later when they’re stepping into the bedroom after a long shower and seeing it on the bed.

They come up to Din as he cooks in the kitchen, hugging him from behind until he asks, “What’s brought this on?” And as he looks over his shoulder he sees it. Sees the red strap of it where the silky dress hangs off of Cobb’s body with its slit up the leg.

“Saw your little gift,” they say.

“I just, it’s not like.”

They kiss his cheek when they see his blush on their cheeks. “I love it.”

Din turns in their arms so he can fully see the dress on them, the thin straps, the thin material.

“You look good in red,” he says.

“Don’t I know it, darlin’.”

[little-diable]

Sunrise - Din Djarin (fluff)

Something I had wanted to try for a long time, hope you like it. Enjoy my loves. xxx

cyar'ika= darling  mesh'la = beautiful 

The light movement of the Razor Crest was lulling (y/n) to sleep, the child was placed in her arms, head nuzzled into the crook of her neck, cooing as she mindlessly ran a hand across its ears. (Y/n) felt the strong need to protect the child, no matter what, she’d give her life for the small, strange creature, just like she’d try to save the man by her side, in no time. 

She had been traveling with the Mandalorian for a few months by now, he had rescued her out of the claws of a slave trader, gave her life a new purpose, one of a mother, of a beloved one. “Din Djarin”, the name made her heart flutter, something (y/n) was experiencing for the first time in her life. 

Din wasn’t entirely sure, why he had rescued her that day, the image of her tied wrists, her trembling body, dressed in only a long, thin, linen shirt, a look of pure fear on her face, was burned into his mind. The strong need - or maybe he’d more describe it as a want - to rescue her that day, had overtaken his senses, he couldn't properly remember, how he had freed her, only recalling the relieved sigh, that had left her as soon as she sat down in the seat next to him, on the Razor Crest.  

“Cyar'ika.”, his gloved hand traced her jawline, her eyelids fluttered open, slowly rising from the bed, careful not to wake the child. “Come.”, he wasn't one of many words, but there was no need for him to talk much, it seemed as if (y/n) was perfectly able to understand his gestures, it seemed as if she could even pick up on his emotions, without ever seeing his face. 

He could still recall the day, where (y/n) had told him, how much she was fascinated by sunrises, watching the sun appear on the horizon, waking yet another day as most people were still fast asleep. From that day on, he would wake her as soon as the sun was rising, taking her hand in his, sitting down in front of the ship, side by side. If she’d feel exceptionally brave that day, (y/n) would even place her head on his shoulder, shivering as her skin came in contact with the cold metal of his armor. 

(Y/n) had picked up on some mando’an words over the past months, trying to get familiar with his mother tongue, after all she was hoping to spend a lot more time around him, preferably forever. “Mesh'la.”, (y/n) whispered as her eyes were focused on the horizon, mesmerized by the rising sun, the sky was drenched in a bright pink, almost red color, a sight she’d probably never get used to. 

The Mandalorian tried to rip his eyes away from her, but he didn’t have the strength to do so, her eyes reflected the sight of the sunrising, excitement clear on her features, it was indeed mesh’la. He had seen quite a few beautiful things over the past years, but nothing had been as beautiful as (y/n), Din would often try to put her beauty into words, miserably failing every single time as he tried to do so.

Din was a strong believer of his religion, he’d never break the laws, after all this is the way, but there were some particular moments, where he’d wish to be able to take off his helmet, to truly admire her features, to grasp her beauty with his own two eyes. “What?”, she giggled, eyes focused on his helmet, “why are you staring at me like that?”, Din didn’t miss out on the slight flush that was beginning to appear on her cheeks. 

He didn’t respond to her question, Din grasped her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers, finally forcing his eyes off her, towards the rising sun. The cooing of the child ripped both out of their thoughts, (y/n) picked it up, placed it between the both of them, adoring the way the child tightly grasped the fabric of her clothing, pulling itself closer to her. “Coffee?”, he felt the need to distance himself from her, not trusting his instincts any longer, the need to feel her skin underneath his became stronger. 

A sigh left her lips as she watched him leave, oh, how much she’d love to finally see his features, to admire him fully, though (y/n) would never ask him to remove his helmet for her, by now she was quite familiar with the rules he had to abide by. 

Din had watched her for a few minutes from afar, the child was safely tucked away in her arms, eyes closed as she enjoyed the warmth of the sun rays that were dancing across her face. The pull in his chest grew, he took a few hesitant steps into her direction, placing the mug down besides her, his heart was skipping a few beats as the light “thank you” left her lips.  

“Close you eyes for me.”, (y/n) wordlessly closed her eyes, he probably wanted to drink his coffee, while sitting outside, she didn’t even doubt his motives, sipping on her drink as if nothing unusual was going on. The soft “hiss” as Din removed his helmet, made her shiver, how easy it would be to just open her eyes and finally take in the sight of his features, but of course, she’d never do that. 

It had been the first time, that he had ever removed his helmet, while she was around, simply because Din knew, that he could trust her. He had to do it, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else, so without further ado, he grasped her face and slowly pushed his lips against hers. 

Was he really just kissing her? 

(Y/n) placed the mug down, eyes still closed, she ran a hand through his hair, she started to deepen the kiss, tongue moving past his lips, tasting him. Dins hands wandered down to her waist, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed, drinking in the sight of her features, finally being able to see her, without his helmet on, was doing things to him. She was just so beautiful. 

The child began to coo once again, almost laughing at its “parents”, breaking up their kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, still trying to process what just had happened, “can I touch you?”, she desperately wanted to feel his face, trying to picture a painting of him in her head. Din grabbed her hands and placed them on his face, enjoying the sensation of her light touch, adoring the way she was carefully tracing his features, fingertips moving across his nose, down to his slightly swollen lips, “mesh’la”, (y/n) whispered before drawing her hands away. 

Din pulled her in for another kiss, silently thanking her, not only for the compliment, but also for keeping her eyes closed, not breaking the promise.  

[glimmerglanger]

out of his system - jangobi fic

ALRIGHT SO, the prompt for subobi week today is one of my squicks. BUT, I still want to post something and also I have too many ideas. This particular idea is a bit of an au I’ve been plotting for a while (thanks @mocha-bear). I don’t actually have any of the rest of it written! This is set pretty early on in it, though….

Anyway, this is Jangobi (is my first written piece of Jangobi stuff that’s more than a snippet going to be pure spice? Yes, it is.) AU where things went significantly worse for Obi-Wan during/after Bandomeer and he never got back to the Jedi. Technically an AU where things went slightly BETTER for Jango and he ends up free to do what he wants earlier than in canon after Galidraan. So, he’s working as a bounty hunter and has been for a bit. He’s….around 29 in this. 

Technically, if this had a prompt to fill, it would probably be sex work? So, warnings for Obi-Wan being in a brothel (not capable of giving full consent to anything). Not safe for wizards. BJs. Spicy. This is the F+J of subobi week, in that it is eventually going to be a 60k fic, whoops.

~~~~~~~~

Jango knew well enough he had no reason to go back to Trolk VI. As far as shitty planets on the Outer Rim went, it wasn’t particularly impressive. Most of the economy seemed generated by the fighting pits or the pleasure houses surrounding them.

Jango had little interest in either of those pursuits. 

Most of the time.

He’d visited pleasure houses before, though mostly because the places seemed to draw his bounties in the same way that a wailing, dying thing drew the attentions of a starving predator. He’d bagged more than one bounty while they were in the middle of….their business. 

His visit to a pleasure house on Trolk VI had not been such a success story. He’d ducked into the building in a rush to avoid the group that had already shot him twice - someday, he’d learn to stop walking into ambushes - and he’d barged into one of the rooms for the same reason.

His plan had been to hide somewhere, or go out the window again. But his pursuers had been close and there’d been someone on the bed already, stirring around in a loose, gossamer gown, and he’d thought, ragged-edged, that the people after him had no idea what he looked like, out of his armor.

His pursuers had apologized, moments later, when they opened the door to find him on the bed, stretched - miming the act of a good, hard fuck - over it’s first occupant, one of his hands over the kid’s mouth, just in case he got any bright ideas about screaming, even as dark spots had swam all across Jango’s vision.

He’d managed to avoid passing out until after the door shut again. 

It had been a shock when he woke up again. Even more of a shock to realize that the whore had bandaged his wounds, neatly, and even applied bacta. He’d been a pretty thing, Jango had registered, but most whores were, and Jango hadn’t had the time to consider it. He’d left, dropping some extra credits on the bed, and never planned to think about Trolk VI again.

And he didn’t, really.

But he did find himself thinking about the whore, his copper-red hair and wide, surprised eyes, and the unusually thick and battered collar around his neck. His thoughts kept spiralling around to the boy - over and over - and distraction wasn’t something he could afford. Not in his line of work. Not in his life.

Obviously, he’d needed to get his fixation out of his system. And so he ended up back on Trolk VI, in the pleasure district. He walked into the house through the front door, sneering at the proprietor behind his mask, half-sure that the woman wouldn’t know who he was talking about - he hadn’t gotten the whore’s name, after all.

But they must not have had many other male humanoids with reddish hair to choose from. She tittered happily enough, told him he’d made a good choice by selecting Ben - evidently the boy’s name - and waved a hand to have him led up the stairs.

The house was well-off. HIgh-end. It didn’t stink of sweat or sex; instead some care seeemd to have been taken to ensure it was all pleasant scents, soft music, dim lights. Jango ignored the droid’s request for a tip when he was delivered to a door he remembered.

He stepped into the room quietly. Nothing had really changed, he noted. A bed predominated the room, covered in soft fabrics. There was a bench along one wall, a chair. Hooks, here and there, on the walls and ceiling. He could imagine a use for each.

And each use was connected to the only other figure in the room - the boy, Ben - sitting on the side of the bed, a container of bacta open by his hip, a gossamer robe slid off of one shoulder, revealing an array of fading marks, skin shiny from the bacta application. 

He blinked over at Jango right away, eyes stunningly blue, his hair a tangle around his jaw - like someone had been playing with it - and his mouth reddened. His drooping robe did almost nothing to hide his shoulders and chest - there were marks there, too - or the traces of a flush over his throat.

Jango looked at him and felt a kick in his gut, almost shocking.

He couldn’t recall, really, the last time he’d felt directed desire.

He’d begun to think he just wouldn’t, ever again.

Ben recovered first, which was a lurching shock, and tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing just a little. He asked, his voice all wrong for a brothel in the Outer Rim - Jango heard that accent on his clients from the Core, and nowhere else, “Should I expect armed men to burst in after you, again?”

There was something satisfying to being recognized so quickly, but, then, he was sure he’d made an impression, last time. Jango shook himself, snorting, and said, “Not this time. Disappointed?”

Ben’s mouth quirked, just a little. He wasn’t….acting in quite the way Jango expected from a whore. Certainly there was no fawning about as he dipped his fingers once more into the bacta, spread a line of it across his shoulder, and asked, “Only a little. And you recovered?”

Jango remembered, clearly, blinking his way to consciousness with his head in Ben’s lap, the boy trailing gentle fingers over his brow, murmuring some strange lullaby that had seemed familiar from somewhere and--

He shook the thoughts away, taking a step forward as the boy closed the bacta jar and stood, carrying it across the room. “I’m well enough,” he said, looking at the fading marks across the boy’s back.

There were reddened marks, fading, long and straight. He recognized lashes, when he saw them. There were other imprints, on his shoulders and arms, fingerprints, perhaps, and the shape of a mouth, here and there.

And below those marks there was scar tissue, old and ragged. Uglier than he’d have expected on a pleasure slave. Especially one so lovely as this boy, who had to be worth more undamaged. Taken with the heavy, ugly collar around his neck - something Jango hadn’t seen on any of the brothel’s other….employees - it was leaving him with multiple questions.

He crossed the room while Ben arranged the bacta, apparently unconcerned, even when Jango touched one of the marks, with just one finger. “Better than you,” he added, and the boy looked over his shoulder, robe sliding a little further down his back.

“Apologies,” he said, “sometimes the bacta takes a while to work.”

Jango frowned, shaking himself again. He hadn’t come here to chit-chat with a whore. He’d come here to - to burn away his fascination with this boy, before it distracted him any further. Considering the sight of his glove on Ben’s skin wasn’t helping with that. It didn’t matter that, for whatever reason, he didn’t like the marks.

It had been a long time since he fucked anyone at all. That was all. Years, he thought.

His body had, obviously, had enough of waiting, and his head had fixated on Ben, because he’d been warm and pliant, when Jango stretched over him, because he had a red mouth and clear eyes, and legs a parsec long. He’d fuck the boy, get it out of his system, and move on.

Decided, he took a step back, and snapped, lifting his helmet off, “Do you waste so much time with all your clients?”

“No,” Ben said, agreeably, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’m very adaptable.”

Jango wondered, sudden and dark, just how adaptable he was. He said, voice getting thicker, “Help me with this.”

“Of course.” Ben had long, clever fingers, Jango noted, removing his armor quickly and steadily, setting each piece aside carefully. He was tall, too, all stunningly long legs and with a hint of coltishness still about him, not fully grown into his shoulders. 

It felt...strange, to be out of his armor in front of someone else. But Ben had seen it all, already. He’d seen Jango bleeding out, and had decided, for whatever reason, to patch him up instead of leaving him to die and stealing the armor and the rest of Jango’s credits.

The beskar alone would have been enough to buy out whatever price the boy’s owners wanted for him, unless the boy was something really special. 

It made no kriffing sense that Ben had kept him alive. People didn’t do that, didn’t just - help, for no reason at all. Especially not when it would serve them better to do otherwise. Jango caught Ben’s wrists, when he reached for the closures at Jango’s belt, and said, roughly, “You could have killed me, before.”

Ben looked over at him, down, just a bit. He didn’t slouch, made no effort to make himself look smaller, which--Jango realized he quite liked. “Kill you?” Ben asked, tilting his head to the side. “Why would I kill you? I don’t even know your name.”

“Is that a prerequisite?” Jango asked, and realized, with another hot lurch in his gut, that he wanted to hear the boy say his name. Maybe scream it, a few times.

Ben shrugged. He said, dry, “It seems a bare minimum to know, before killing someone. Don’t you think?” 

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Jango said, and heard the appreciation in his own voice, unplanned, just...blossoming there. Alarming. He was supposed to be here to fuck this boy, to get rid of the thoughts that had plagued him. It was past time he made some progress in that direction. He released Ben’s wrists, handled his belt on his own, and said, “Maybe you should make better use of it.”

“As you wish,” Ben said. He raised an eyebrow at Jango and kept eye contact as he sank down to his knees, lovely and with that wisp of a robe still around him, half-obscuring his body before he hesitated and….shrugged it off, letting it pool around his legs.

He was lovely as Jango remembered; lovelier, perhaps, without Jango’s blood smeared across his skin. Jango bit his tongue, reached out, and fisted a hand in the boy’s hair, Ben still looking up at him, and said, “I expect to be impressed.”

Ben’s mouth curved, sharp, just for a moment as Jango jerked his slacks open with his free hand, just enough to pull his cock out and he didn’t know exactly when he’d gotten so hard. Maybe as soon as he’d stepped into the room.

“I aim to please,” Ben said, and before Jango could make a reply, the boy pulled forward just a bit against the hold in his hair, and licked across the head of Jango’s cock, and--

And it had been a long time since anything touched him but his own hand. He hadn’t even wanted to fuck his fist, for an age. He’d been….not content, really, but willing to just ignore erections until they went away.

He swore, tightening his grip and rocking his hips, sliding his cock into the hot, wet perfection of Ben’s mouth. The boy kept his eyes upturned, staring while Jango watched his cock slide past reddened lips, draw back again all wet and slick. And it was -- perfect.

Jango’s jaw clenched shut, hard, and he slid his other hand into Ben’s hair, too, the waves of it catching at his gloves - he hadn’t gotten as far as removing them - as he held the boy’s head just so, fucking into his mouth.

He could feel Ben’s tongue, rolling against the bottom of his cock, and the boy sucked, noisily, in time with each shallow thrust, loud, his mouth and cheeks getting wet, even before Jango swore and anchored him in place, pushing further.

Ben’s eyes fluttered, when Jango properly fucked into his mouth, into his throat. He felt the boy restrain a choke, watched his eyes get shiny and wet, cheeks getting blotchy with red, the color spreading each time Jango shoved forward, his breath hitching and wet, and still, he kept his eyes open, staring up and--

Jango blinked and jerked his head to the side, swearing viciously when he came, knowing, with a strange, twisting feeling, that he was never going to forget those blue eyes just watching him, the entire time. 

He ground his hips forward and then pulled on Ben’s hair, dragging him back and off.

The boy gasped for breath, audibly gulping at the air, and Jango dared a look back at him, kneeling there on the floor, mouth and jaw wet with spit, mouth brilliant red, breathing so hard his whole body shook with it, one of his hands braced on the ground, apparently for balance, even as he glanced up and asked, his voice wrecked and hoarse, “Impressed?”

“I’m getting there,” Jango rasped back, taking his fingers out of the boy’s hair. He had - at least - another hour of time. He found he very much wanted to use it. Perhaps even extend the arrangement. He’d had a few very good jobs. He could afford an entire night, easily. He exhaled, want curling down his spine, and ordered, “Go on, onto the bed. I want between your legs again. Properly, this time.”

[sugardaddytonystark]

Release Life’s Rapture (part 3)

You stay at your godfather’s ludus for the summer, where you meet Jacobus, his champion gladiator.

author: sugardaddytonystark pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader word count: 2038

masterlist

x picture by @264jana x

That night, you dream of making love to Sol, god of the sun. His hair is as brown as the earth, eyes deep and blue as the dawning sky. His skin is bronzed from the sun to which he so lovingly attends, and in return for his diligence, his entire body is encircled in a halo of everlasting golden light.

You and your god are lain upon a large tanned hide, abed a field of green grass, deepened to a dim blue-green in the dark night. Sol looms above you, a single point of light against an otherwise black sky. He is bare as you, and where the god touches you, your flesh burns, his hands too hot for a mere mortal to withstand, his mouth too scalding. But there’s always a price for pleasure, and a night with a being as divine as he is worth the pain in exchange. 

So you wrap your thighs tight around the god’s hips as he thrusts into you, unrelentless, his cock thick and heavy inside of your aching cunt. He’s filling you up, stretching you full, making you feel a burning so different from the fevered warmth of his skin against your own. Your back arches as you seek out more contact, your heated, human flesh so fragile against the sun god’s searing skin. 

Your lover has your wrists above your head, one of his wide, rough palms holding them in place. The other is gripping your jaw, turning your face away from his so that he may nose at your throat and cheek and ear. His hot breath sends shivers down your spine and when Sol speaks, words like whispers so deep and low, you can’t make out their meaning, but delight in the sounds all the same. 

Your cries reach out into the deep, empty, endless night. The noise echo back into your ears and you feel blissfully alone - detached from the world and your existence, everything narrowed down to you and your god and this familiar but indescribable thing coiling in your stomach. 

Your breath catches as you feel Sol’s pace quicken, his hands tightening around your wrists and jaw. He bites down against the curve of your neck and hot tears spill down your cheeks as you feel him find his release inside of you. 

You sob and shake, you ache and burn. Sol whispers your name back into your mouth, guiding you closer and closer and closer with his hands and his cock and his words. You feel him around you, inside you, urging you on, but when you finally reach your peak, it’s not the god’s name that you call out in prayer.

 Blessed night has settled into another day, your god forced to return to the sky once more to fulfill his duty, leaving you with mere memories of his blazing touch. But, as a remembrance, he sends sunlight streaming through your open window, stroking your body and keeping you warm and satiated until the time may come for the god to descend upon you once again.

You long to stay abed, to wait for that moment when night falls so that you may once again greet your lover with open arms and open legs. You want to once again lose yourself to dreams - a much more appealing prospect than this waking nightmare. Even half asleep, you feel the sudden sting of freshly remembered heartbreak. 

You’re grateful for your god - the divine Sol who saw you hurting and granted you solace from your pain. Hair like the earth, you remember, like the soil from whence life springs. Rich brown and lush and soft beneath your fingers. His body built like it was made for toil, strong and deliberately fashioned. And his eyes – blue like the sky. Like the sea.

Unfortunately, your companion, Octavia, does not allow you to dwell in fantasy. She’s no longer beside you in bed, always early to rise and greet the day before the sun has had a chance to ascend. 

“You’re awake,” she says, more a command than a question.

“Yes. And I had the most wonderful dream,” you tell her, giving up all thoughts of returning to slumber as you stretch out along the bed, arms up and back arched. “I fucked a god. He set my body aflame and then I turned to ash in his hands.”

“And this was a good dream?” Octavia asks, incredulous.

You sigh. “It was magnificent.”

You sit up in bed as you recall your dream, rubbing your wrists, sore from where your lover pinned you down in his blistering grasp. Octavia reaches out and grabs your wrists in her own hand, looking it over, and when you look down at it as well, you see bruises instead of burns. The marks of someone other than your god upon you.

“Better to suffer a lover forged from dreams,” Octavia says, releasing your wrist, “than one based in cruel reality.”

“One and the same,” you reply softly. Because you’re no fool. You know the being who visits your dream is both god and man, one image of the other. “Why do you think Jacobus so cruel?” you continue, louder this time. “Do you think he’s always been that way?” 

“I think that you should remove him from your thoughts,” Octavia tells you as she returns, holding a cream length of fine fabric for your stola. “Would it please you to wear this today?”

“He is well removed,” you tell her in reply, and Octavia scoffs. 

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, considering. The color is too bland to convey how you feel this morning. You need something deeper, and more rich. “I have something blue, do I not? Like… like the sky right at the height of the sun’s ascent. Something like that?”

Octavia raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

 After you groom and dress, you find yourself on the villa balcony, where Alexander and Ophelia are eating their morning meal. On the table before them is a modest spread of cheese and bread and fruit. In their hands are ever-present cups of wine. Behind the pair, a slave cools them off with a large fan made of feathers as they lounge upon their cushioned chaises. 

The heat is almost overwhelming, even in the mid-morning when the sun has yet to reach its peak. Already, a thin sheen of sweat has gathered on your skin. Already, you can feel the fevered weight of existence heavy on your shoulders. 

The heat and the drought has been a source of discontentment for all in Capua, the shortage of water drying out even the most well-attended bath and turning once-fertile soil into dust. Below the balcony, the gladiators are kicking up the dust and the sand with every movement, the sun baking the grains into a hard-packed floor for the men to move around upon. It crumbles underfoot and sends clouds of earth into the air, covering the men and all things else lowly enough to get in its way.

But this is all commonplace to you now. The crash of wooden sword against wooden shield, of dull-tipped spear and trident, of pain and triumph, have all come to be familiar sounds to you and this morning fares no differently. The men have no doubt been at it for hours already, waking early to begin their training, breaking for their morning meal, then back at it once more before you were even out of bed. 

You chance a look down at the men, and your eyes are immediately drawn toward Jacobus, brandishing two swords against another gladiator with sword and shield. His usual demeanor is darkened, his ferocity obvious by tenfold today, and you can’t help but believe that you are the cause. 

You wonder if the gladiator sought companionship last night after you were so viciously turned away. You never sent anyone in your stead, as he requested, not able to bear the thought of another giving him the pleasure that you so desperately wish you could give. Did Jacobus blame you for soiling the night of such a celebrated victory? Will he ever forgive you your desire and your deceit? 

The champion looks up toward the balcony, blue eyes ablaze, and you avert your gaze by busying yourself with choosing just the right bunch of grapes from a serving tray held up to you by one of Alexander’s slaves. 

“The men are of a poor form today,” you muse, attempting to steady your heart as you pluck a grape off of its stem. You place the fruit in your mouth and find the courage to look back down onto the training ground. With both relief and disappointment, you find that Jacobus has once again resumed his training. 

“Wine and whores do have a way of dulling the senses,” Alexander replies. “Which reminds me, how did the champion enjoy his gift?”

You give your godfather a false smile, already weary of the reminder of the night passed. “She was well received,” you answer, not missing the way Octavia looks at you out of the corner of your eye. “Who would not enjoy such a remarkable tribute?”

Before Alexander can respond, the snap of a whip resonates through the training ground and up onto the balcony, drawing the attention of those upon it. You take a step closer and both Alexander and Ophelia stand to get a better look at what is transpiring down below. 

“Attend!” Doctore bellows, voice carrying through the air. The men halt their training and turn their attention to Fury, the Doctore – trainer – of Alexander’s ludus. “Forget everything you learned outside these walls. For that is the world of men. We are more! We are gladiators!”

The men cheer, a great roar rising up to where you stand that nearly forces you back in its enthusiasm. Your hands grip the banister to keep you steady, listening intently  as if Doctore was speaking to you and not the gladiators in his charge. 

“Study. Train. Bleed!” Doctore continues. “And one day your name will be legend, spoken in hushed whispers of fear and awe. As the city speaks of Jacobus, the Champion of Capua!”

More cheers as the gladiator stands distinguished among his brothers. In your chest, you feel a swell of pride. But also, irritation. You’ll have no solace from your pain here and you will not waste your day grieving over what should have been. You feign disinterest while taking a bite of cheese.

“But his legend was not birthed in the arena,” Doctore says. “It was given life here, in this ludus. Under the sting of my whip! Attack!”

The men go at it again with a renewed vigor, grunting and howling, wooden swords clashing with dull but resonating thuds. How easily these men are worked into a fervor! And how easily your passion swells likewise. This business of gladiators is a sordid thing, but you would be false to say that there is no art in it. Surely, anyone who watches someone such as Jacobus move could see the skill and cleverness in every gesture.

“Doctore, attend,” Alexander calls to Doctore, then turns to kiss Ophelia’s temple. “We are off to market.”

His words pique your interest. You feel as though you will go mad if you stay stuck in the villa all day with nothing to entertain you save the sounds of the gladiators training. Besides, you think you should buy something new for the reception for the Vulcanalia. This will be the first time in ages that you will be able to socialize with people other than your godfather and his wife, and you plan to make the most of it.

"Godfather, allow me to accompany you,” you say. “Weeks in Capua and I have yet to go to market!"

Alexander considers you for a moment and then nods his head, giving you the approval that you need. Your smile must be infectious because the otherwise somber man’s lips upturn slightly as he notes your excitement. 

“Let us away, then,” Alexander says to you, then turns and heads inside the villa, you following close behind. 

[thecagedsong]

Forgotten Light: Chatper 8: Boundaries

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11

Chapter 8: Boundaries

Ronodin hadn’t returned, and said that he wouldn’t until tonight. Kendra had another day to whittle away. She read more in her book on the Fair Folk over breakfast, then sat in front of her crafting materials again.

Kendra had no idea if her medallion even worked, but at least it dried nicely. The wooden texture came through the paint, but that made it look functional. Like, hey, this is a wooden medallion meant to weaken my enemies, not be a high school shop class project.

Did she take woodshop class? Did she ever go to high school? From Ronodin’s story, Kendra probably had tutors. Why did she feel like she knew more about the American public school system than she did about monster hunting? Or even tutoring schedules?

Trying to figure out her past by evaluating what bodies of knowledge she possessed and what she didn’t left her with a headache.

Kendra refocused on the fabrics in front of her. She did okay with the medallion, maybe her body had remembered something her brain didn’t. Hopefully that subconscious knowledge would help her do what she wanted to make next: create a jacket.

Ronodin assured her that the clothes in her wardrobe were all hers, taken and given to Ronodin from her own closet for exactly this time. Pieces her family didn’t approve of and wouldn’t know to find missing. But old Kendra’s clothes…left a bit more exposed than she liked. Aside from also being mostly black and red, and she was really growing tired of those colors, the dresses were low cut at the top, and high cut around the thighs.

She looked sexy in them, but with Ronodin continuing to ‘forget’ that she had only met him two days ago, sexy wasn’t the look she wanted to wear. She’d start with a simple cardigan, covering up her shoulders and back, then see what she could do about altering hemlines.

Looking over the fabrics, she wished she had pink. She thought she liked the color. Pink wasn’t among the fabric options. There was more red and black, and white, silver, dark blue, green, orange, and dark purple.

Because it would clash horribly with the red and the black, she selected the pumpkin orange fabric. If she was enough of an eyesore, maybe she could convince Ronodin that they needed to pop into a shopping mall for a real wardrobe. Something she was comfortable with now. The orange fabric was a wool/giant hair blend, dyed with pigment from the Fala plant, that produced its own distractor spell to convince people that it was dead until they forgot what they were looking for.

Sewing was a lot harder than she thought, especially without a sewing machine. Did she do this by hand the first time? The needle felt so awkward, her stitches were uneven, she was approximating the designs in the book, but some of them had her folding fabric before cutting? What did it mean by grain? She tried to incorporate ‘make me look hideous!’ magic intentions as she sewed, imaging Ronodin cringing away from her, refusing to look at her in it, but it was a little hard when most of her focus went to not pricking herself.

Still, she wasn’t a quitter. Kendra had to undo a seam, because apparently clothes were assembled inside out, but by referencing the book every few minutes, and working through hand cramps, she managed to at least make the pieces stick together.

It was early afternoon when Kendra finished her uneven hems. Some of the tools in the basket might have helped her, but her books didn’t reference any of them, so she left them alone.

Holding up the final product, Kendra giggled. She’d done everything on larger estimates, figuring that her goal was to be covered and folds in fabric were easier to have than one side not fitting, and cutting down was easier than adding. The result could generously be described as an orange tent. Kendra had to see herself in the monstrosity. She rushed to the bathroom, passing Mendigo in the hall, and positioned herself in front of the mirror.

She slung on the cardigan over the black lace dress, and cracked up.

“Hi Ronodin!” Kendra waved to the mirror with both hands, one sleeve reaching halfway up her palm the other so wide it fell back against her elbow at the motion. The ruby necklace looked like it was suffering, trying to hide from her attempts at sewing.

“Oh, er Kendra, I see you tried sewing,” Kendra mocked in the mirror with a low voice.

Kendra twirled, then did an impression of herself with a higher pitch than normal, “I did, do you like it? I love it! I put soo much effort into it! I love the pumpkin look, don’t you?”

She imagined Ronodin’s face, the horror, the strain not to insult his girlfriend, and burst out laughing. Kendra couldn’t wait to see his face for real. She would insist on wearing this until he took her to the mall.

Kendra stopped laughing and frowned at her reflection. That really didn’t seem right. Even if she had arranged all of this herself, why would she arrange a hideout she couldn’t ever leave? If old Kendra had wanted to live a free life with Ronodin, why didn’t she pick a hide away that let her go outside? Her family couldn’t be powerful enough to search the whole world. If she had been able to pick anywhere, a remote island seemed like a much better hiding place than where she was.

Maybe she and Ronodin had had a disagreement over how long she should stay underground. He might be capitalizing on her memory loss to keep her extra safe; it’s possible Kendra had never intended for herself to remain sealed away. That seemed like something Ronodin would do. Slip in a little lie amongst the truths to save himself battles.

Well, wherever they were, Kendra wanted out. Now that she wasn’t dressed for a cocktail party, she would find her way to a window at least. She went back to her room, and decided to arm herself with the bow she had brought with her through the barrel, even though she didn’t have any arrows. She hadn’t had anything else on her, so she slipped on her shoes and went to the door that Ronodin usually walked out of.

She turned the heavy knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Jiggled it some more, but didn’t move. She searched everywhere for a key, but couldn’t find on. What kind of front door could be locked from the outside?

“Mendigo?” Kendra called, and her puppet came forward. “Open this door.”

Kendra stepped to the side as Mendigo started straining his wooden hands at the door. He turned back to her and shrugged, showing his wooden fingers. Duh, no way could he get the grip he needed that way.

Should she order him to break down the door? These rooms were rented to them by their mysterious ‘host’, who apparently had Ronodin working like a slave. He probably wouldn’t appreciate her busting his door down. She decided against it until things looked more dire.

The last hasty, destructive action she had ordered had almost killed her fiancé. She would demand a key from Ronodin when he got back before resorting to property damage.

“Thank you Mendigo,” Kendra said, “Let’s see what else there is in this place.” Putting her hand on the wall to the left of the door, Kendra started walking, never lifting it. She discovered three different storage closets: one for cleaning supplies, one empty, one for linens. Kitchen, Ronodin’s bedroom (extremely frugal, disappointingly empty) (he had a couple of robes Kendra considered using to augment her own wardrobe, but decided that would send the wrong message), Library, bathroom, craft room, Kendra’s room, Kendra’s bathroom, Kendra’s closet, sitting room/front room, and back to the main door.

That was it. The entirety of her existence, done up in blacks, reds, and gray stone and drenched in blue firelight. Some of the carpets had cream accents, but that was it.

Kendra knew what kind of front door locked from the outside.

She wandered back to her craft room and picked up a canvas to draw. This was about passing time. Next time she wouldn’t let Ronodin leave without her. Kendra just needed to stay sane until he got back. Even if practicing her magic with nicer emotions would create a less effective item, she wanted something nice to look at. Something peaceful. An outdoor scene, and she’d try to work peace into it. It was for herself anyway, and she’d do it in blue and green and white, and it would look beautiful.

Unfortunately, Kendra couldn’t visualize what ‘outside’ looked like. She knew the sky was blue, it had a sun, and grass was green and flowers came in all colors, but the pieces wouldn’t put themselves together. Kendra had never seen ‘outside’, she had nothing but rote facts. She put her pencil to canvas anyway, figuring that if she drew the pieces, it would all come together eventually.

Her hand refused to move. It had no direction on what to draw. Were horizons bumpy or straight? What color blue was the sky? What did sun look like on plant leaves?

Glaring, Kendra started sketching her craft table, in front of her, with the wall behind it turning into prison bars. She’d seen those in her mad-dash self-kidnapping.

Sketching came easier than sewing or carving. Maybe because more art principals were known by the public, the curse wasn’t able to remove them as personal memories. It was nice to have something come together, even if it was only a picture of her cell.

When she got to painting, she ignored the descriptions of materials and focused on colors. Easier than before, she took threads of magic, threads of the flame from the candle inside her, into her hand and turned them to her own emotions, mixing with the paint materials. She wanted people to look at the painting and know that she was trapped. She wanted them to know the suffocation, and the feeling of crafting little trinkets while sun and stars roved the heavens unseen. Not being able to draw the sun or the sky. Not knowing what those looked like. Not knowing what anything looked like outside of six people, a puppet, and her prison. It was a nice prison, possibly one of the nicest in the world.

Kendra painted black beyond the bars. Even gilded cages birthed insanity.

[absynthe--minded]

Fëanor’s Appearances in HoME, Part 1: The Books of Lost Tales

This is a project I’m embarking on at the request of my Discord server, cataloguing every appearance Fëanor makes in the drafts of the Histories with a quote and a location in the text. I’m including mentions of his works if his name comes up, as well as his relationships with other people. This is probably going to be edited a lot, as I’m not perfect and I’m just one researcher, so if I miss something, let me know and I’ll add it in!

This is not intended to support or debunk any particular textual reading.

I was informed that a list of these quotes (particularly focusing on his ties to his family) would be helpful, and I’ve had some interest in posting it here. I am presenting exactly what the text says, drawing from searchable digitized ePub files. I’ll probably make a masterpost, but for now the tag to watch for is “#fëanorspotting”.

Below the cut for Length.

The Book of Lost Tales vol. 1:

V. The Coming of the Elves and the Making of Kôr:

“Then arose Fëanor of the Noldoli and fared to the Solosimpi and begged a great pearl, and he got moreover an urn full of the most luminous phosphor-light gathered of foam in dark places, and with these he came home, and he took all the other gems and did gather their glint by the light of white lamps and silver candles, and he took the sheen of pearls and the faint half-colours of opals, and he [?bathed] them in phosphorescence and the radiant dew of Silpion, and but a single tiny drop of the light of Laurelin did he let fall therein, and giving all those magic lights a body to dwell in of such perfect glass as he alone could make nor even Aulë compass, so great was the slender dexterity of the fingers of Fëanor, he made a jewel - and it shone of its own……… radiance in the uttermost dark; and he set it therein and sat a very long while and gazed at its beauty. Then he made two more, and had no more stuffs: and he fetched the others to behold his handiwork, and they were utterly amazed, and those jewels he called Silmarilli, or as we say the name in the speech of the Noldoli today Silubrilthin. Wherefore though the Solosimpi held ever that none of the gems of the Noldoli, not even that majestic shimmer of diamonds, overpassed their tender pearls, yet have all held who ever saw them that the Silmarils of Fëanor were the most beautiful jewels that ever shone or [?glowed].”

Commentary on V.:

“Features that remained are the generosity of the Noldor in the giving of their gems and the scattering of them on the shores (cf. The Silmarillion p. 61: ‘Many jewels the Noldor gave them [the Teleri], opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools’); the pearls that the Teleri got from the sea (ibid.); the sapphires that the Noldor gave to Manwë (‘His sceptre was of sapphire, which the Noldor wrought for him’, ibid. p. 40); and, of course, Fëanor as the maker of the Silmarils—although, as will be seen in the next tale, Fëanor was not yet the son of Finwë (Nólemë).”

VI. The Theft of Melko and the Darkening of Valinor:

“The other Elves heeded these things not over much, and were at times sad and fearful at the lessened gladness of their kinsmen. Great mirth had Melko at this and wrought in patience biding his time, yet no nearer did he get to his end, for despite all his labours the glory of the Trees and the beauty of the gems and the memory of the dark ways from Palisor held back the Noldoli—and ever Nólemë spake against Melko, calming their restlessness and discontents. At length so great became [Nólemë’s] care that he took counsel with Fëanor, and even with Inwë and Ellu Melemno (who then led the Solosimpi), and took their rede that Manwë himself be told of the dark ways of Melko.”

“Now Melko knew that it was indeed war for ever between himself and all those other folk of Valinor, for he had slain the Noldoli—guests of the Valar—before the doors of their own homes. With his own hand indeed he slew Bruithwir father of Fëanor, and bursting into that rocky house that he defended laid hands upon those most glorious gems, even the Silmarils, shut in a casket of ivory. Now all that great treasury of gems he despoiled, and lading himself and all his companions to the utmost he seeks how he may escape.”

“At length that daytide of festival is over and the Gods are turned back towards Valmar, treading the white road from Kôr. The lights twinkle in the city of the Elves and peace dwells there, but the Noldoli fare over the plain to Sirnúmen sadly. Silpion is gleaming in that hour, and ere it wanes the first lament for the dead that was heard in Valinor rises from that rocky vale, for Fëanor laments the death of Bruithwir; and many of the Gnomes beside find that the spirits of their dead have winged their way to Vê. Then messengers ride hastily to Valmar bearing tidings of the deeds, and there they find Manwë, for he has not yet left that town for his abode upon Taniquetil. “Alas, O Manwë Súlimo,” they cry, “evil has pierced the Mountains of Valinor and fallen upon Sirnúmen of the Plain. There lies Bruithwir sire of Fëanor dead and many of the Noldoli beside, and all our treasury of gems and fair things and the loving travail of our hands and hearts through many years is stolen away. Whither O Manwë whose eyes see all things? Who has done this evil, for the Noldoli cry for vengeance, O most [?just] one!” 

“Therefore does Manwë bid them now, an they will, go back to Kôr, and, if they so desire, busy themselves in fashioning gems and fabrics anew, and all things of beauty and cost that they may need in their labour shall be given to them even more lavishly than before. But when Fëanor heard this saying, he said: “Yea, but who shall give us back the joyous heart without which works of loveliness and magic cannot be?—and Bruithwir is dead, and my heart also.” Many nonetheless went then back to Kôr, and some semblance of old joy is then restored, though for the lessened happiness of their hearts their labours do not bring forth gems of the old lustre and glory. But Fëanor dwelt in sorrow with a few folk in Sirnúmen, and though he sought day and night to do so he could in no wise make other jewels like to the Silmarils of old, that Melko snatched away; nor indeed has any craftsman ever done so since. At length does he abandon the attempt, sitting rather beside the tomb of Bruithwir, that is called the Mound of the First Sorrow, and is well named for all the woe that came from the death of him who was laid there. There brooded Fëanor bitter thoughts, till his brain grew dazed by the black vapours of his heart, and he arose and went to Kôr. There did he speak to the Gnomes, dwelling on their wrongs and sorrows and their minished wealth and glory—bidding them leave this prison-house and get them into the world. “As cowards have the Valar become; but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we will see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth we will do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Ainu Melko. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Vê be little worse than this bright prison….” And he prevailed thus upon some to go before Manwë with himself and demand that the Noldoli be suffered to leave Valinor in peace and set safely by the Gods upon the shores of the world whence they had of old been ferried.”

“To this [Manwë] added many words concerning Men and their nature and the things that would befall them, and the Noldoli were amazed, for they had not heard the Valar speak of Men, save very seldom; and had not then heeded overmuch, deeming these creatures weak and blind and clumsy and beset with death, nor in any ways likely to match the glory of the Eldalië. Now therefore, although Manwë had unburdened his heart in this way hoping that the Noldoli, seeing that he did not labour without a purpose or a reason, would grow calmer and more trustful of his love, rather were they astonished to discover that the Ainur made the thought of Men so great a matter, and Manwë’s words achieved the opposite of his wish; for Fëanor in his misery twisted them into an evil semblance, when standing again before the throng of Kôr he spake these words: “Lo, now do we know the reason of our transportation hither as it were cargoes of fair slaves! Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these foresooth—a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labour at the soil with their rude tools, to these whom still he says are of Ilúvatar would Manwë Súlimo lordling of the Ainur give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances—give it to these, that is our inheritance. Or what is this talk of the dangers of the world? A trick to deceive us; a mask of words! O all ye children of the Noldoli, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Gods however softly held, arise I bid ye and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits.” In sooth it is a matter for great wonder, the subtle cunning of Melko—for in those wild words who shall say that there lurked not a sting of the minutest truth, nor fail to marvel seeing the very words of Melko pouring from Fëanor his foe, who knew not nor remembered whence was the fountain of these thoughts; yet perchance the [?outmost] origin of these sad things was before Melko himself, and such things must be—and the mystery of the jealousy of Elves and Men is an unsolved riddle, one of the sorrows at the world’s dim roots. Howso these deep things be, the fierce words of Fëanor got him instantly a mighty following, for a veil there seemed before the hearts of the Gnomes—and mayhap even this was not without the knowledge of Ilúvatar. Yet would Melko have been rejoiced to hear it, seeing his evil giving fruit beyond his hopes.”

VII. The Flight of the Noldoli:

“But Fëanor standing in the square about Inwë’s house in topmost Kôr will not be silenced, and cries out that all the Noldoli shall gather about him and hearken, and many thousands of them come to hear his words bearing slender torches, so that that place is filled with a lurid light such as has never before shone on those white walls. Now when they are gathered there and Fëanor sees that far the most of the company is of the kin of the Noldor1 he exhorts them to seize now this darkness and confusion and the weariness of the Gods to cast off the yoke—for thus demented he called the days of bliss in Valinor—and get them hence carrying with them what they might or listed. “If all your hearts be too faint to follow, behold I Fëanor go now alone into the wide and magic world to seek the gems that are my own, and perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a servant of the Gods.” Then is there a great rush of those who will follow him at once, and though wise Nólemë speaks against this rashness they will not hear him, and ever the tumult groweth wilder. Again Nólemë pleads that at least they send an embassy to Manwë to take due farewell and maybe get his goodwill and counsel for their journeying, but Fëanor persuades them to cast away even such moderate wisdom, saying that to do so were but to court refusal, and that Manwë would forbid them and prevent them: “What is Valinor to us,” say they, “now that its light is come to little—as lief and liever would we have the untrammeled world.” Now then they arm themselves as best they may—for nor Elves nor Gods in those days bethought themselves overmuch of weapons—and store of jewels they took and stuffs of raiment; but all their books of their lore they left behind, and indeed there was not much therein that the wise men among them could not match from memory. But Nólemë seeing that his counsel prevailed not would not be separated from his folk, and went with them and aided them in all their preparations. Then did they get them down the hill of Kôr lit by the flame of torches, and so faring in haste along the creek and the shores of that arm of the Shadowy Sea that encroached here upon the hills they found the seaward dwellings of the Solosimpi.”

“Behold, the counsel of Fëanor is that by no means can that host hope to win swiftly along the coast save by the aid of ships; “and these,” said he, “an the shore-elves will not give them, we must take”. Wherefore going down to the harbour they essayed to go upon those ships that there lay, but the Solosimpi said them nay, yet for the great host of the Gnome-folk they did not as yet resist; but a new wrath awoke there between Eldar and Eldar.”

Commentary on VII.:

“Of the treachery of the Fëanorians, sailing away in the ships and leaving the host of Fingolfin on the shores of Araman, there is of course in the old story no trace; but the blaming of Fëanor was already present (‘the Tents of Murmuring’, p. 168). It is a remarkable aspect of the earliest version of the mythology that while so much of the narrative structure was firm and was to endure, the later ‘genealogical’ structure had scarcely emerged. Turgon existed as the son of (Finwë) Nólemë, but there is no suggestion that Fëanor was close akin to the lord of the Noldoli, and the other princes, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Felagund, do not appear at all, in any form, or by any name.”

VIII. The Tale of the Sun and Moon:

“Now these revealed to [Aulë] much store of crystals and delicate glasses that Fëanor and his sons had laid up in secret places in Sirnúmen”

X. Gilfanon’s Tale: The Travail of the Noldoli and the Coming of Mankind

“Now appears for the first time Maidros son of Fëanor (previously, in the tale of The Theft of Melko, the name was given to Fëanor’s grandfather, p. 146, 158). Maidros, guided by Ilkorins, led a host into the hills, either ‘to seek for the jewels’ (A), or ‘to search the dwellings of Melko’ (B—this should perhaps read ‘search for the dwellings of Melko’, the reading of C), but they were driven back with slaughter from the doors of Angamandi; and Maidros himself was taken alive, tortured—because he would not reveal the secret arts of the Noldoli in the making of jewels—and sent back to the Gnomes maimed. (In A, which still had Nólemë rather than Fëanor die in the Waters of Asgon, it was Fëanor himself who led the host against Melko, and it was Fëanor who was captured, tortured, and maimed.) Then the Seven Sons of Fëanor swore an oath of enmity for ever against any that should hold the Silmarils. (This is the first appearance of the Seven Sons, and of the Oath, though that Fëanor had sons is mentioned in the Tale of the Sun and Moon, p. 192.)”

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

A short-story preview.

Set in a story where years down the line, Fen'harel has yet to destroy the Veil, but his plights are making all of Thedas weary of the modern elves.

Four Dalish elves band together to avenge a massacre. Will they inflict Justice or Vengeance on those responsible? And what secrets will they uncover along the way?

Warning: Violent acts & Character Death.

----

On the outskirts of Ansburg, a Dalish settlement had been destroyed. 

They had been camping beside the coast, where a river drained off from the ocean. 

They’d thought that the lack of freshwater would make the paths less favorable towards merchants or humans in general.  Their aravels had been pitched and their halla let loose to graze. 

They lasted three days. 

On the fourth day, when two cloaked riders closed in on where the Dalish were meant to be, the stench of death still remained, carrion birds harvested bodies, and a started fire had laid waste to everything.  

Blood ran the river red by the time the two riders reached the desolate camp.

Their movements became slow and they approached with caution; anticipating an ambush, but all they were met with was the silence that the massacre left behind. 

“Maker,” one of the riders mumbled, bringing his arm up to cover his nose.  “Who could have done this? Do you think it could’ve been Fen’harel?” 

“No,” the other rider says, his voice somber and distant. “No, these elves were not his enemies and they did not deserve his wrath.”  As he spoke, he would have abandoned his mount, an older Dracolisk, beside the river. Carrying on by foot, he would assess the carnage.  Bodies lay to waste around him, many of which were missing their pointed ears. It was sickening, deplorable, and a byproduct of fear.  “Even so, this act is unforgivable.” His voice would crack, overwhelmed by anger  and grief. “There are so few of our people left, and the only thing they have done is chosen not to take a side in this foolish war.” 

“The war that we are fighting.” 

“Yes, because even though it is foolish, it can not be ignored.  Not when innocent people are being slaughtered like this.” The second rider would crouch down, to close the eyes of an elf who was staring up at the sky. “Falon’Din enasal enaste.” 

“What are we going to do now, carry on to Tevinter?” 

“We are going to bury them, and find those responsible.” 

The first rider lets out an exasperated sigh. “Lavellan, we don’t have the time-” 

“- Then we make time.” 

The first rider says nothing more, hanging his head in silent compliance. 

They spend their evening in this way, gathering bodies and offering them final prayers. They didn’t have the means to do a proper ceremony, but they would do their best with heavy hearts.  

Nightfall had soon come and gone, and as a new dawn broke across the sky, the two men sat across from each other, swallowing down their rations despite lacking a proper appetite.  

“So you didn’t find your dalish contact amongst the dead?” The first rider would ask, his bright green eyes were growing red, as he fought the  need to sleep.  Only in his mid-twenties, and a recently freed slave of the Tevinter Imperium, he was not used to the constant traveling and combat he had to endure while shadowing the former Inquisitor.  He rubs at his face, hands running across his mutilated vallaslin.  The branches that spread over his cheeks had been cut into and burned by his former master, when he was only eighteen and freshly kidnapped from his own clan. “Perhaps he went after those responsible?” 

“No,” Lavellan would shake his head. “Ryland would have waited for us, had he still been alive and of his own free will.” The older elf  would be fiddling with a string around his neck. He clutched at the sending crystal as if it was his life line with one hand, while the other, a prosthetic, would be clutching a potion. “This group was made up of smaller dalish clans, ones that were left abandoned by their clanmates when they joined Solas. Ryland was traveling with them, to bring them to another encampment on the other side of Nevarra.” 

“That was very noble of him.” 

“Yes, and I’m the one who asked him to do it.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened, and drink your potion.” 

Lavellan would stop fiddling with his necklace, taking to unscrewing the cork of the bottle in his hand. “If we had gotten here a day sooner Ma’hallian, we may have prevented this from happening entirely.”  He would down the bottle in one go, guzzling it’s dark purple liquid, looking as if he’d just bit into a lemon afterwards. “This thing could be a poison.” 

“A poison that keeps you from keeling over in pain.” Ma’hallian would remind him gently, before reaching out to take the empty bottle from the other man’s hands. “And we didn’t get here a day sooner, so we have to keep moving forward.” 

“We will, as soon as the person responsible is brought to justice.” 

The white-haired elf would lean forward, fixing the former Inquisitor with a narrowed gaze. 

The older elf was on the cusp of fifty, with silver streaks in his long chestnut hair and wrinkles overtaking his darkened skin.  These days, his hands shook whenever he lifted his sword, and his amber eyes always smoldered with conviction. “Is it justice you are after, or is it vengeance?”

“The two are not so different, when faced with a situation like this.” 

“We both know that they are.” 

Lavellan hated being shown up by his assistant, someone who could be so callous and shy towards the rest of the world. The boy had spent the majority of his life either in solitude or servitude and yet, he still managed to come out of it with a remarkable sense of responsibility and level headedness. 

“I-” He does not get a proper sentence out, as a distant sound causes his ears to twitch. Ma’hallian hears it too and they rise to their feet.  

Ma’hallian draws a dagger from his belt and Lavellan pulls free his sword from its sheath.  They approach the source of the noise with silent steps, until they are looming over the site of a destroyed aravel. It’s red fabric and splintered wood had made a heavy pile, and something dared to move beneath it. 

“Careful,” Lavellan murmurs, “it may be an abomination that’s risen.” 

Leering forward with one foot, the elf  would kick the debris away, his sword poised to strike down, but he would stop just short of skewering another elf. 

An elf also nearing his fifties, with deep red hair that was coated in soot and streaked with soft greys. His face, while well defined, was covered in laugh lines and scars alike. They danced along his vallaslin for Ghilan’nain, etched in blue to match his eyes.   This new elf stares up at them, as a cough rattles throughout his chest and past his lips.  “Well, hello your highness. I survived then? Unless you managed to finally kick the bucket too.” 

“No, Ry, you’re just that lucky.” Lavellan would put his sword away before holding out a hand, hauling his former partner from the aravel. Eyeing him wearily, in search of any wounds that could prove fatal. 

“Ah well, what can I say? The universe loves me.” Ryland dusts himself off, wincing as he does so, but seemingly unharmed save for a few aches, bruises, and perhaps a concussion after being crushed beneath one of their landships. “How bad is it?” 

“You’re the only survivor.”

 The red-head takes in a sharp breath. “That can’t be right. Where are the bodies?” 

They take him to the people who they had wrapped or covered, ready to be buried, as time permitted them.  He looks them over, with blue eyes watering, before he shakes his head.  “There were younger elves here, children, and a mage. None of them are with the dead.” 

“Perhaps they perished in the fire that ravaged the camp?” Ma’hallain offers, supervising Ryland as Lavellan wanders off to their mounts. “Or animals picked off their remains?” 

“You are  a grim young man, Ma’hallain, but no. The only scavengers in this area are the birds, and they wouldn’t be able to devour  a body within a day, let alone a dozen or so. The person responsible for the siege must have taken them.” 

“And who was responsible?” Lavellan had rejoined them, bringing a fresh pair of clothes to Ryland from his carry on.

“There’s a human settlement nearby, Ansburg? They’ve recently come into new leadership and the man appears to be terrified of us knife-ears.” Ryland would strip there, pulling his otherwise tattered shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground.  Lavellan would hand him the clean one and Ma’hallian would have the decency to look away as he took off his pants as well. “When the local militia arrived, I told them that we had no ties with Fen’Harel or the Qun. They said that they were under orders and at the end of the day, all elves were the same.” 

“Yet they would never claim that all humans are murderers, would they?” 

“Fear is bred by ignorance, highness. They’ll get what’s coming for them.” 

Lavellan would grumble, “Did you at least scout Ansburg when you first made camp?” 

“Course I did, seemed like a normal shemlen village. Smelt of rotten fish and wet dog. There weren’t any elves, but I didn’t find that odd. There aren’t many flat ears left in the smaller settlements.”  

“Did you find where this new leader lived?” 

“It was the first thing on my list, but something seemed off about it. The whole village was sort of dreary, but his estate was shimmery, almost. Like the stones were reflecting the light.” 

Ma’hallian snaps back to attention, his ears drooping just so. “That sounds like warding, and a very obvious one.  I bet he is using it to scare others away, people do that in the Magisterium. Either to scare the already fearful, or to make a spectacle out of something valuable.” 

“So we’ll need a mage?” Lavellans asks. 

“Unless warriors suddenly know how to dispel things? Rogues most certainly do not.” 

“Oh,” Ryland would croon, “Do you know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like a call to Dorian. Tell him I said hello, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that I survived.” 

Rolling his eyes, Lavellan would turn away from the other men. Knowing that Ma’hallian was glib due to his many years living in darkness and Ryland was only using humor to cope with the carnage around them. 

[kazoo5480]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Killian’s back was slick with sweat in the midday sun, drops of it running down his skin glistening. Emma swallowed thickly, watching the sun beat down on her husband as she sipped her lemonade and watched him. His muscular chest was bare, his wrist brace strapped to his blunt wrist, the special attachment Marco had created for him attached at the end so he could wield an axe effortlessly. He raised his arms again, his legs widening their stance, all the muscles in his back rippling as he swung the blade down hard, splintering the log into pieces. His grunts making Emma’s clit slick, and needy with each moan he emitted.

He was so fucking hot, Emma thought watching as he knelt to grab the fallen pieces, stacking them back on the base to swing at them again. She felt her core clench with each purposeful swing, her thighs rubbing together to suppress her urge to get his attention, as she watched him diligently complete his task. He knelt again, that glorious ass bent in front of her, he reached for the discarded pieces, lining them up in a neat row along the others to dry. Killian took a look at Emma, and sheathed the blade before leaning it against their fence and turned to face her fully.

Emma was lost in her thoughts, who knew Captain Hook doing manual labor would rile any woman up this much? Her 300 year old pirate, was like sex on legs, his muscular frame, the tantalizing hair on his chest and stomach teasing her constantly, that perfect V of his hipbones. She bit down on her bottom lip, her hormones flooding through her veins like fire, and tried to distract herself with her book.

Killian had noticed when Emma came out with her book a short while ago, sitting on the double sun lounger with her book and the baby monitor, while Hope slept upstairs. He took in the short yellow dress that she wore. Her long creamy legs on full display, her golden curls shining in the sun. She looked happy and content. He also felt her eyes gazing over him as he worked, and tried to maintain concentration on his task. It was not an easy feat, as his wife’s eyes practically left scorch marks along his skin as she watched him.

He glanced over at her, she was chewing her bottom lip trying to maintain the façade of reading her book. He smirked, he would bet that between those pretty thighs she was bloody soaked for him. He strode towards her, sweat dripping down his chest from the labor, and Emma’s normally green eyes turned as dark as emeralds glinting in the sunlight as she watched him practically stalk towards her like a predator.

He knelt between her legs hovering over her. “Enjoying the view, my love? You like seeing me swing my big, sharp axe?” he said teasingly as he nipped the skin below her ear.

Emma gasped, and nodded, he felt her fingers trace over the planes of his chest, his muscles trembled at her touch, and her small hand around his neck dragged his lips against hers. Her lips were so soft, he licked into her mouth tasting the lemonade on her tongue. Sweet and tart, he tangled his hand in her hair, and Emma sighed into his mouth allowing his tongue to dip in deeper.

He leaned back slightly looking down at her, “Here?” He asked coyly, as he traced his fingers up her thighs, and under her dress. Emma swallowed and her eyes snapped shut as his fingers slid against her, knowing he felt the dampness of the fabric, and he curled them just beneath it grazing her soft folds. Killian moaned at the contact, feeling how wet she was for him, soaked just by watching him. “Yes” she whispered, her breath shaky.

“You like watching me perform manual labor, carrying all that heavy wood Swan?” He purred with a mischievous smirk, and Emma only nodded, unable to speak as he continued stroking her outer folds. “Tell me Swan, did you enjoy watching your husband slave away in the hot sun?” He smiled as he dipped his head to trail kisses along her throat, continuing to rub her heated core.

“Killian” she said with a shaky moan as he tucked two fingers inside of her heated channel. He kissed her, devouring her lips, sucking and licking. Emma’s fingers tangled into his hair pulling him closer. He felt her small hands deftly unbutton his pants, and moaned at the contact of her soft hand around his cock.

“Emma” he growled as he lightly sucked at the junction of her neck and shoulder, and he reared back slightly tearing the panties right off of her. Emma looked up at him, the sun bathing her in light, her skin warm and flushed. She looked like a goddess, and by all miracles she was his. His chest swelled with pride as he gazed down at his wanton wife as she clenched around his fingers, sweat shining on her brow.

Emma pushed his pants down quickly, as far as she could reach. Killian was breathing heavy, his minty breath was shallow, his tongue dipped out to wet his lips and she pulled the lever on the side lowering the lounger to its flat lying position. Killian hiked her dress up to her hips, and fisted his cock lining it up to her entrance. He rubbed the tip against her wet folds, biting his lip at the feel of her bare heated core against him.

Emma watched as he shifted his weight pushing her thighs wider, and she let them drop open shamelessly. Killian surged forward, entering her in one fluid thrust, and Emma’s head tipped back crying out. “Swan, neighbors love. You need to be quiet” he murmured, annunciating each word as he pushed and pulled his cock in and out of her leisurely.

He placed his mouth over hers, inhaling her sighs and moans, her hands scraping at his back seeking purchase, but the sweat of his skin making it difficult for her. Emma’s fingers curled into his hair holding his lips against hers, as he pushed her higher and higher towards her release. Killian groaned as he felt her cramp down squeezing him perfectly, they were kissing so deeply that she didn’t know who was breathing for who.

Emma cried out, it was too much. Killian felt the blood rush to his cock, her cunt wrapped like a vice around his cock as her walls began pulsing and fluttering against him, he slowed his pace drawing out her release. Emmas fingers gripped on to him tightly as he endured the sweetest form of torture, leading to his own, erupting within her, coating her womb with sprays of his hot seed, he panted as white lights crashed along the backs of his eyelids moaning her name.

He laid his head on her chest, gulping for air. Emma was panting, coming down from her own climax, and he gently slid out of her heat. Emma laid there unsure of how much time had passed until their breaths evened out, and he gazed up at her. “If that’s the reward of manual labor, sign me up anytime Swan.”

Emma giggled, and smiled up at her husband who was gazing at her with total adoration. “I can’t help it! You’re all muscular and sweaty, it riles me up.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, placing his hand over her still flat belly.

“I think those thoughts are exactly how we got you into your current state, love” he smiled and rubbed the tiny swell of her abdomen.

Emma nodded, “that’s true. Knocking up your wife less than a year apart from our first kid is entirely to blame on your ability to seduce me with your sweaty body doing yard work” and smiled gloriously, and laughed.

“Anytime my wife wishes to have me, she may. I assume that’s a perk of being married to someone who is completely devoted to fulfilling his wife’s every wish.”

She kissed him, as the baby monitor flickered to life and Hope let out a wail. “I’ll get her,” she said, leaning up to kiss him chastely. Killian nodded letting her up, and tucked himself back into his pants. “Back to work, break times over Jones” she said saucily as she strode into the house, leaving her ruined panties on the edge of the lounge chair. He stood up, pocketing her discarded panties as he heard the garden gate open and her father strode into view.

He swallowed thickly. “Dave” he nodded, and continued walking towards the wood pile, and Emma’s mother and brother strolled in behind him. Emma came out holding Hope on her hip and waved hello to her parents, looking surprised and grateful that they had not arrived ten minutes earlier.

“Emma, are you alright?” Her mother asked, running her hands over her daughter’s cheeks. “You look flushed” and Emma nodded, wiggling her hands at her brother in his stroller.

“I’m perfect, was lying in the sun reading before she woke up, must have dozed off” she said casually, and her mom nodded with a knowing smirk.

“I brought some cookies” Snow said as she reached beneath the stroller pulling out a tub of them. Emma smiled and took them, heading to the kitchen with them, and came out offering one to Killian.

“No thank you love, I will finish my dessert later” and Snow coughed as she sipped her lemonade hearing his words. Emma smacked his arm, and smiled at him shaking her head.

“Just don’t work too hard Jones” and he nodded, Emma’s father coming towards them to assist him. They worked until the sun began to set, and the ladies called them for dinner.

Killian shook his head, feeling deliriously happy and he loved his wife even more as he gazed at her holding their child on her lap, her hand caressing her belly slyly, as she talked about Henry and Hope. Three hundred and some odd years and the fearsome Captain Hook was reduced to a puddle of goo watching the most beautiful woman in all the realms excitedly tell her parents the news of their newest addition. He gazed at her like she was the entire universe, and how he wanted to tear that small dress off of her and finish what they started earlier.

Dave smiled and congratulated them. Killian raised a brow at his father in law’s tone, and Daved coughed uncomfortably. “She’s still my daughter Jones, so keep that look off your face” and Killian laughed, Emma laughed, and Snow flushed scarlet.

“What is it mom?” Emma asked, and her mom smiled.

“Looks like manual labor being too much to resist seems to be a trait you inherited from me” she whispered in Emma’s ear, who laughed and feigned disgust, her father and husband looked curiously at them unable to hear the words exchanged.

“Looks like you two aren’t the only ones expecting” Dave said and both Emma and Killian’s brows rose.

“You’re with child?” He said to his mother in law, who nodded smiling, and Emma clapped and grinned congratulating her parents.

“Who knew?” Emma said to her mom, and Snow laughed and shrugged.

“Just our genes I guess” and Emma’s cheeks reddened with a blush, and Killian found out later why after he put Hope to bed.

Leaning against their dresser in his towel, he laughed as Emma told him. Shaking his head, “You princesses, all hot and bothered by strapping men doing hard labor. Who knew that was the way into a princess’s undergarments” he said, smirking and laughing. “I could have saved myself some effort had I known that sooner” and Emma scoffed.

“You chase a lot of princesses Jones?” She said saucily, pulling her dress over her head and he gulped taking in her bare skin as she inched closer to him untucking his towel and letting it drop to the floor.

“Just the one love, and that’s more than enough for me" Killian grinned at her, nudging her nose with his.

‘Good” she murmured and pulled him in for a searing kiss.

@hookedmom​​​ @xsajx​​​ @kymbersmith-90​​​ @kmomof4​​​ @katie-dub​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​ @lassluna​​​ @pirateherokillian​​​ @teamhook​​ @stahlop​​​ @elizabeethan​​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​ @therooksshiningknight​​​ @jennjenn615​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @killianswannn​​​ @stories-enchanted​​​ @eleveneitherway​​​ @girl-in-a-tiny-box​​​ @withheartfulloflove​​​ @kday426​​​ @lyssapup27​​​ @swanlovato​​​ @kaoslikesstuff @djlbg​​​ @kristi555​​​ @laschatzi​​​ @xarandomdreamx​​​ @lkles08​​​ @wyntereyez​​​ @bubblegum1425​​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @yasbio2015​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @winterbaby89​​​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​​ @hollyethecurious​​ @let-it-raines​​​ @jonesfandomfanatic​​ @searchingwardrobes​​ @dreamingdreamsalways​​ @oncechicagolove​​ @andiirivera​​ @vvbooklady1256​​ @gingerchangeling​​ @everything-person​​ @klynn-stormz​​ @qualitycoffeethings​​ @vampcoffeegyrl23​​ @enchanted-swans​​ @cassy1511 @ohmakemeahercules​​ @donteattheappleshook​​ @bluewildcatfanatic​​ @the-darkdragonfly​​ @demisexualemmaswan​​ @lavenderbudd​​ @grimmswan​​ @spartanguard​​ @flslp87​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​ @sarahpaq08 @thisonesatellite​​ @captainswan21​​ @zaharadessert​​ @mariakov81​​ @snowbellewells​​ @xouatxcs​​ @kiwistreetswan​​ @batana54​​ @nadine200179​​ @probalicious17​​ @courtorderedcake​​ @julesep3026​​ @jackieorioncat​​ @whatthehell102082​​ @xemmaloveskillianx​​ @jarienn972​​ @sthonour​​ @linda8084​​ @carpedzem​​ @pirateprincesslena​​ @daxx04​​ @winterbythesea​​ @artistic-writer​​ @scientificapricot​​ @cocohook38​​ @wisfan3000​​ @chrisilybrooke @pcrcabcth @captainswan4life85​​ @molly958​​ @kingofmyheart14​​ @badwolfreturns​​ @itsfridaysomewhere​​ @mcakers @chamomileandmint @fallingforthecaptain​​ @lovethelifeyoulive1106 @onceratheart18​​ @strangestarlighttree​​ @omgmarvelous​​ @justanother-unluckysoul @anothersworld

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Patience

Summary: Hohenheim and Trisha sleep together for the first time. It’s somewhat awkward considering that the souls are attempting to be helpful for once, but Trisha is nothing if not understanding, and what could have been a disaster turns into something sweet.

Rated: Explicit

Note: From what I can tell, opinion seems split as to Hohenheim’s sexual activities prior to settling with Trisha, but I’m in the camp that thinks Trisha was his first and only. I’m not going to go into my deeper reasoning here, but I headcanon him on the ace branch of the sexuality tree. Even after he settled with Trisha, I don’t think they had all that much sex.

Patience

It isn’t until they’re inside the front door and it has closed with a soft but very final click that Hohenheim begins to fully appreciate where this is going, and he feels a slight current of panic start to thread itself through his nerves.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to have sex with Trisha. It’s just that she’s the first person he’s ever had those kinds of feelings towards, and he knows that his lack of experience will show. How on earth can he explain to her that he’s still a virgin?

Prolonged life aside, she’s twenty and he’s physically thirty-six (he thinks – he never celebrated his birthday back when he’d been a slave). He really ought to have some knowledge. As it is, he’s got four centuries on her and he’s completely clueless. Four centuries and he’s never had sex. What has he been doing with his life? Not that, obviously. He’s travelled far and wide and he’s met many people, but Trisha is the first one he’s let get close enough for that kind of desire to develop.

Then there’s the ever-present hum of the souls. Trisha knows about them; there’s no way he would have let things get this far without warning her about the half a million unavoidable, if unwilling, observers sharing his headspace. She’s all right with the notion, but right now, Hohenheim himself is having some trouble with them. He’s learned to live with them, but he really wishes that they would all just shut up for five minutes. He knows they’re only trying to help in their own way, but the first time is daunting under any circumstances and absolutely not made easier by a few hundred thousand souls, all arguing with each other over the best way to go about this.

He’s even more confused once they all start yelling conflicting advice at him, and he’s about to give it all up as a bad job and take Trisha back to her own home when her arms slip around his middle and her mouth slants over his, soft but undeniably eager, and Hohenheim surrenders. Maybe, just this once, he’ll let himself have what he wants for a night.

She smiles at him as she breaks the kiss, and he feels one hand come down to his ass, pulling him in closer against her.

“Everything ok? You’ve got your thinking face on.”

“My thinking face?”

“Yeah. You look worried. I don’t bite, I promise.”

She’d said that the first time that she’d kissed him, and he’d been unable to articulate anything other than ‘arp’ for about five minutes afterwards.

“Trisha?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve never done this before.” The words almost fall over themselves in his haste to get them out.

“Really?”

Hohenheim nods, searching her face for scorn, disgust, mockery, expecting at any moment for her either to laugh or recoil, or just leave him standing completely dejected in his own hallway. Not even the few souls attempting and miserably failing to be encouraging in the back of his mind can stop the familiar nervousness of being truly terrible at interacting with normal human beings.

Trisha just smiles. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m sure we can figure out what we’re doing between us.”

“I have every faith in you. It’s me I’m worried about.”

She laughs, but there’s nothing malicious in it.

“You’ll be fine.”

Hohenheim kisses her again, because at least he knows what he’s doing with that. And it’s not as if he doesn’t know the basic fundamentals of what’s about to happen. He could just do without the ‘helpful’ tips generating slanging matches inside his veins. At least they’re shouting at each other and not him.

“Please be quiet,” he hisses under his breath. Trisha touches a fingertip to the bridge of his nose, trying to smooth out the frown line there.

“Hey. Just ignore them for a while. I’m here.” She squeezes his ass and gives him a saucy little look that should be wrong on someone as sweet as Trisha but that does something to his insides and makes that ember of attraction burn a little brighter. “Maybe we ought to go upstairs?”

Hohenheim nods, letting her lead him up the stairs to his bedroom. At least the bed is made and it’s vaguely tidy, which isn’t always the case.

Trisha looks around at the books and paperwork that have spilled over from the study. “Are all the rooms in your house filled with alchemy?”

“Yes.” Considering he’s been known to draw arrays in toothpaste on the tiles before now, he can’t even claim that the bathroom is untouched.

Trisha rolls her eyes and begins to undo his tie.

“Oh, you’re wonderful.” She pulls him in and kisses him before he can respond, but there again, Hohenheim doesn’t think that a response is needed. Just more kissing, and Trisha’s hands finding his and bringing them to the buttons on the front of her dress.

“I think the next step is taking all our clothes off.”

Hohenheim would be lying if he said he has not thought about what Trisha looks like naked. He would be telling the truth if he said he hadn’t thought about it up until two hours ago, when the hints she’s been dropping for a while that she would very much like him to see her naked, and vice versa, ceased to be subtle and even he couldn’t misconstrue her desires.

Since then, it feels like he’s been thinking about it at least every five minutes.

Objectively, he knows what women look like naked. He’s seen enough of them – he’s been studying and practising medical alkahestry for hundreds of years. But there’s something very different about that context and this context, and his fingers fumble over her buttons, his mouth going suddenly dry as he pushes the dress off her shoulders, leaving her in a plain cotton camisole and knickers.

There’s colour rising in Trisha’s cheeks now, and for all she’s taken the lead so far, he’s reminded that this is the first time for her, too. He should probably do something that isn’t just standing here staring at her like a lemon.

“The bed?” he suggests.

“Good idea.”

He’s not quite sure how they manage to make it to the bed, or how Trisha manages to get his shirt off, but then she’s lying back against the pillows with her legs open in welcome, and she’s pulling him down on top of her, and he feels like he’s drowning in a very good way.

You can touch her, you know, some talkative soul points out, but there’s something in the back of Hohenheim’s mind saying that he can’t, that he shouldn’t, that he’s a monster and Trisha is, well, Trisha, and he doesn’t deserve her.

There’s also the fact that she’s petite and slender and he’s tall and solidly built, and he doesn’t want to crush her.

“I won’t break,” she whispers, as if she can tell what he’s thinking. “I’m not indestructible, but I’m not made of porcelain either.”

She reaches up and takes his glasses off, and he blinks a few times to readjust. He doesn’t actually need them; any optician would be able to tell at a glance that the glass is plain. But knowing that he has a doppelgänger out there, he wanted something to distinguish them, and he knows that the Thing in the Flask (no longer in a flask, more’s the pity) would never want to be seen as anything less than a perfect specimen of humanity. So glasses it was.

There’s another, more pragmatic reason. People are less likely to notice his unusual eye colour if they have to look through glasses to see it.

Hohenheim trusts Trisha. He’s never trusted anyone this much, not even Pinako, whose obstinate and enduring friendship is the reason he’s stuck around in Resembool long enough to meet Trisha and form a relationship with her in the first place. If Trisha says she’s ok, then he’s not going to pretend that he knows better than her.

So, he takes his chances, shifting his weight and bringing a hand to her breast, rubbing his fingertips over her nipple where it stands hard and pert against the soft fabric of her camisole.

Trisha wriggles under him, lips quirking up in an expression of pleasure.

“Mm. That’s good.” She pushes him back so that she can sit up, pulling her camisole off and tossing it onto the floor. The flush of self-consciousness is still there in her cheeks, spreading down over her neck and bare decolletage, but her eyes are bright with want as she brings his hand back to her breast. “Please. I want you to touch me.”

In that moment, Hohenheim doesn’t think that he’ll be able to deny Trisha anything for as long as he lives, because in that one simple sentence she’s given him a gift she’ll probably never truly comprehend the scope of. She knows his story, she knows about the souls, she knows about Xerxes, and yet she still loves him in spite of it. She still wants his hands on her, unafraid of him marring her in some way. She still wants him to be the first one she’s ever intimate with.

He leans in, capturing her mouth again and trying to pour all of the gratitude and need into the kiss, trailing down over her cheek and jaw and making her gasp. He pulls back.

“Are you all right?”

“I’d be better if you keep kissing me.”

Hohenheim is happy to oblige, continuing to circle her pebbled nipple with his thumb, and Trisha arches up into his touch, wanting more. He switches to her other breast, repeating the treatment and feeling a little pride at the soft noises she makes. He’s so focussed on her that he startles when he feels her fingertips trail down his arm.

“My turn. I want to touch you, too.”

Trisha’s touch is featherlight as she maps his chest with her hands, drawing out an involuntary shiver as her fingernails scrape over his own nipples, and she smiles that sexy little smile again at his reaction before moving downwards towards his belt and the now completely undeniable bulge below. A part of him can’t help being ferociously embarrassed by his body’s rapid reaction to what’s going on and moreover to the fact Trisha is in his bed wearing nothing but her knickers and she’s touching him and…

“May I?”

Her hand is hovering over his crotch, and there’s that drowning feeling again, and Hohenheim nods. She touches him so lightly, and yet he can almost feel her warmth through the fabric. Suddenly he’s very aware of human anatomy and the fact he’s a lot taller than Trisha and his cock is in proportion with his height, and she’s slim-hipped and unstretched, and this has the potential to be a complete disaster. He closes his eyes, attempting to focus on the here and now and trying desperately to ignore the bluster that’s started up in the back of his mind again.

It’s fine, it always hurts the first time. No, if it hurts then you’re doing it wrong. Virgins bleed the first time, why do you think we had to slaughter so many chickens on wedding nights? Shut up and let him breathe for goodness sake, he’ll be a nervous wreck any minute if you keep this up. If she bleeds then you’re being too rough. Why did we bother with the chickens then? The patriarchy, Mara, that’s why. Can we not get into arguments about the patriarchy right now? My first time hurt like hell. It’s called ‘making LOVE’, it’s not supposed to HURT.

“Hohenheim?”

He opens his eyes to find Trisha’s green ones full of concern.  She pushes him back up onto his knees and scooches up into a sitting position, her legs cradling his as she holds his face with gentle hands.

“Are you all right?”

“I…” Hohenheim sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Trisha smiles. She’s so accepting and so patient.

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t. If it’s uncomfortable, then I’ll tell you to stop, and you’ll stop. You won’t hurt me.”

She kisses him, softly but still with that ever-present fire, carding her hands in his hair to get him closer and giggling against his mouth when she gets tangled up. Hohenheim decides to cut his losses and pulls his ponytail loose. It’s probably the first time Trisha’s ever seen him with his hair down, and he watches her taking in the sight for a moment.

“You remind me of a lion, with your beard and your hair like that. It’s like a lion’s mane.”

In spite of the remnants of panic swirling through his veins, Hohenheim has to laugh at that, and Trisha laughs too, and she buries her face in against his neck.

“It’s ok,” she says. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Tonight we can just… be close.”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

They break apart by necessity, Hohenheim standing up to take his trousers off whilst Trisha gets comfortable between the sheets. She cuddles in close against him when he joins her, fingers dancing over his shoulder and down his arm, interlacing their hands and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Feeling better?”

Hohenheim nods. “Trisha, I think you’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you.” She giggles. “You’re definitely the most remarkable person I’ve ever met, but then I’ve never left Resembool, so I don’t have a very wide field of comparison.”

She trails her fingers back up his arm, down his side, round over his hip and up his spine, and Hohenheim feels his skin break out into gooseflesh under her touch. Trisha must definitely have noticed, but she doesn’t say anything, content to keep drawing patterns over him with featherlight fingertips. Emboldened by her ease, Hohenheim mimics her, lazily working his way over her soft skin until she nestles in his arms, closing her eyes with a smile and drifting off to sleep in his embrace.

For a long while, Hohenheim just watches her, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath disturbs the tendrils of her hair that fall over her face. No matter what else happens, he feels like he could get used to this, that spending every night for the rest of forever with Trisha here beside him, in his arms, would be better than anything else in the world.

The souls are still arguing in the back of his mind even as he begins to feel a sense of calm that he’s not felt for a very long time, if ever, and he’s content to ignore all their bickering as he feels slumber take him too.

X

For the briefest of moments when he wakes up alone in a bed that he definitely had company in before, Hohenheim is rather alarmed, but Trisha’s dress and shoes are still on the floor so she can’t have gone far. He rolls over, pillowing his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. Everything seems different in the warm morning light. There’s less urgency, less energy, although still the same amount of desire. There’s time and space to think. Actually, that might not be a good thing. Overthinking everything was what led to all the trouble last night.

The souls are still at it, but they’re much more subdued now. Maybe they’ve realised that they’re not helping and are trying to give him as much space as they can. Maybe they got it all out of their systems whilst he was dead to the world.

The bedroom door opens and Trisha tiptoes around it, smiling when she sees him awake.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I was surprised, actually.” She slips back into bed with him. “I thought that having another person there would make it difficult, but apparently sleeping with you is as natural as anything. Actually sleeping, I mean. Not the other kind of sleeping. Although maybe that will come naturally too. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.” She pulls the sheets up over her head in embarrassment.

“That’s ok. I don’t know what I’m saying either.”

Trisha emerges from her cocoon and leans over him, bending in closer and closer until she presses a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“It’s still pretty early,” she says. “And we don’t have to be anywhere.”

Hohenheim knows what she’s suggesting. Maybe they can restart what they cut short last night.

“We don’t.

There’s a pause then, a moment of stillness and silence, and Hohenheim realises that Trisha is waiting for him to take the lead. She’s far readier for this than he is, that was made clear to him last night even if neither of them actually said anything out loud, but being the perfect person that she is, she’ll go at his pace. As if he needed any more reasons to be head over heels in love with her.

He wants this. He never thought, in the past, that it was something he ever wanted. He always wanted to have a family, but after so long alone he’d accepted it would never be possible. Trisha has reignited the hope, and at the same time ignited something dormant that was perhaps never ignited before, the want to be as close to her and as intimate with her as possible not for the sake of itself but because she’s Trisha and she’s wonderful and he adores her.

Hohenheim pulls her down into a kiss that he hopes conveys all that. Her reaction is certainly encouraging, covering his body with hers and tangling her fingers into his hair.

“All right?” she asks breathlessly, cheeks tinged pink.

“Yes. You?”

“Oh, yes.”

She sits up and pulls her camisole off again, and now Hohenheim can fully appreciate the sight of her in the light. His hands follow a familiar course from last night, cupping her breasts and rubbing her nipples to pebbled points, enjoying the way her eyes close and her head tilts back.

“Maybe you could go lower?” Trisha takes his hands and draws them down her sides to the waistband of her knickers. The blush is spreading from her cheeks down over her chest again, and Hohenheim just sits up and stares as she slips off him and pulls her underwear off, leaving her gloriously naked and bathed in a sliver of golden sunrise.

Every language he knows, including the mother tongue he hasn’t spoken in so long, deserts him in that moment, and since he knows in the back of his mind he should probably do something that isn’t simply gawp at her like she’s a fairground attraction, he kisses her again. Trisha curls her arms and legs around him, keeping him close, and they stay like that for a long time until Hohenheim begins to feel his cock responding to her nearness again. He goes to pull away by instinct more than anything, but Trisha holds him tighter, one foot tracing up and down his calf.

“Don’t run away,” she murmurs. “I want to feel you. I want to see you.”

She releases her tight hold on him a little, and although there’s a part of Hohenheim that still thinks they’re about to get on a runaway train to disaster, he takes off his underwear.

He knows he’s never been this vulnerable with someone before, but it’s not uncomfortable with Trisha. She drinks in the sight of him like he did her, and then she’s pulling him back down into her arms, peppering him with kisses over his lips, cheeks, neck.

“Please touch me,” she whispers in his ear. “I trust you.”

That vote of confidence shores him up more than any of the misplaced encouragement the souls can give, and Hohenheim shifts his weight off Trisha, tracing his hand carefully down over her chest and tummy to the patch of soft dark curls on her mound. Her thighs fall open wider for him and he can feel the first traces of her wet and glistening arousal on her folds. His own pulse quickens at the thought of it.

“Is this all right?” He strokes along her slit tentatively, watching the way her hips jerk and wriggle against the sheets, pressing into his touch.

“Mm.” Trisha nods, her eyes fluttering closed, and then her hand comes down to guide his fingers to her entrance, hot and slippery and ever so slightly overwhelming in a very good way.

Hohenheim yelps as Trisha’s fingertips brush over the sensitive tip of his cock and she looks at him, startled.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes. That was just… Would you do it again?”

Trisha smiles that devilish little smile again, her tongue darting out over her lips as she curls her fingers round his length and strokes gently. Hohenheim’s masturbated before, he’s no stranger to this kind of touch but from a hand other than his own is something entirely different and indescribable.

“Are you ready?”

Is he? He’s pretty sure his brain’s only half there, but…

“Yes.”

It takes a lot of awkward fumbling for them to get into the right position and lined up properly, but Hohenheim knows that Trisha’s giggling fit is not directed at his ineptitude but at the entire situation, and he’d far rather that she was giggling and happy than not giggling and not happy. But then her arm is around his back, and her face is buried in against his neck, and he’s pushing into her and everything falls into place.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

Trisha nods against his neck and Hohenheim begins to move slowly, going a little further with each thrust until Trisha’s hand stops him.

“No deeper, please. Not this first time, at least.”

The implication of there being a subsequent time after this one must mean that he hasn’t completely disgraced himself, and Hohenheim keeps going, as carefully as he can, Trisha’s thighs tightening around his back. He can feel the tension beginning to coil in the pit of his stomach, and Trisha is so warm and velvety around him. For a minute or so, his entire world is reduced to him, Trisha, and the bed frame under them; he can even drown out the souls.

He retains enough presence of mind to pull out before he comes, but not enough to be able to warn Trisha and stop her from getting her thighs covered in his sticky seed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, not inside you…”

Trisha just kisses him again, and for a long time, nothing more is said. Hohenheim rolls off her onto his side and Trisha follows him over, snuggling in close again as their legs get completely tangled up in the sheets.

She smiles softly, pushing his hair back out of his face.

“All right?”

Hohenheim nods. “More than all right. And you?”

“I don’t think we did too badly for a first attempt. And you know what they say. Practice makes perfect.”

“I think I’ll need a minute before any more practising.”

Trisha laughs. “You’re wonderful, and I love you.”

“I love you too, Trisha.”

The souls are blessedly quiet as he continues to lie there in the rising sun with Trisha in his arms, never wanting to let go of her.

There’s a part of him that knows it can’t last. She’s human, he’s immortal, the entire thing is doomed before they even start, but Trisha is different to anyone else he’s ever met over the course of his long life, because Trisha gives him hope. She gives him the drive to not just accept his fate and resign himself to never making this kind of connection with another person. She makes him want to fight against the inevitability of what will eventually come. She makes him want to be mortal again, to regain a normal life and live it out with her. She makes him believe that somehow, somewhere, the means to do it are out there and he can achieve it. She trusts him despite everything he’s told her about himself, and although he’s barely trusted anyone since he made the mistake of trusting the Thing in the Flask, Hohenheim trusts Trisha with every soul in his veins.

She makes him believe that, just maybe, he’s worthy of love and happiness after all, and for Hohenheim, that’s a gift far more intimate than what they’ve just done.

[haro-whumps]

Group Whumpees 11: Fight

So I stayed up until 2 in the morning writing last Friday, so you DO get an update before I go completely MIA for a couple weeks. And I do know y’all love Evan. Mind the CWs

CW: Attempted sexual assault (unsuccessful), violence, knives, stabbing, hospitals, needles, drugged character, multiple whumpees, referenced noncon, aftermath of trauma

Tag List: @bleeding-demon-teeth @theycomeinthrees @redwingedwhump @whimperwoods @inpainandsuffering @whole-and-apart-and-between @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumpingupastorm @newandfiguringitout @lonesome--hunter @looptheloup @icannotweave  @deluxewhump @whumping-every-day @yeet-me-out-a-window @what-a-whumpy-world @burtlederp @constellationwhump @swordkallya @finder-of-rings @fairybean101 @adventuresofacreesty @arlennil @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @lumpofwhump @thatsthewhump @pinkdiamondprince @shameless-whumper  @whump-only

Masterlist

Nyla gestured Evan closer, Greyson already present and staring absently at the washing machine. He seemed to snap back to the present when Nyla entered his field of vision, though, with Greyson it was hard to tell if he'd even been spacing off in the first place. 

“Alright so I’d like your help moving the washer and dryer away from the wall,” Nyla instructed, “we’ll be able to reach behind them to clean, then.”

Evan chuckled, raising an arm over his shoulder and stretching it back. “Oh damn, we're really out of shit to do.”

“We have plenty to do,” Nyla said with a frown his direction. He was still behaving around Master Galo, thank goodness, but while he'd been cowed following his punishment he’d gotten more or less back to his usual self, around the family. It was relieving, because seeing Evan be… subdued, was worrying. But it was also the tiniest bit aggravating, because Evan was aggravating by nature. She couldn't wait for him to resume aggravating her when he talked about their Master, too (just as long as he wasn't aggravating while talking to their Master). She never thought she’d want to be mildly annoyed. “We finally have the chance to do lengthier projects, that’s all.”

“Like cleaning behind the washer and dryer.”

Nyla set her hands on her hips and frowned up at him. “Yes like cleaning behind the washer and dryer. Why wouldn't we?”

“Because the only reason anyone would clean there is if they were moving and wanted the house to look spotless for buyers. Seriously, who’s gonna look back there?”

“Just because we can't see it doesn't mean it isn't collecting dust and grime.”

“And just because it's been collecting dust since the units were installed doesn't mean it has to be cleaned.”

Nyla let out an exasperated huff of air, feeling the ridiculous urge to stomp her foot. “Why are you being contrary?”

“I'm not, I'm not,” Evan said, raising his hands and rocking back on his heels. “I'm just saying: we’re out of shit to do, and it shows. And you refusing to admit that doesn't make it less true.”

“We aren’t out of things to do though!” Nyla insisted. “There are plenty of hard-to-reach places that haven't been cleaned the entire time I've been here, probably before even Greyson was here,” she said with a gesture to him, who blinked but otherwise remained where he was, quietly waiting, “and the tortoiseshell guest room needs a new coat of paint, and we should really retile the bathroom with the lighthouse figurines, and--”

“And what you’re saying is we are super out of things to do.”

Nyla made a frustrated noise, Evan chuckling her, and she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You are super obnoxious.”

“It's a hard job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” Evan said theatrically, placing his palm upon his breast. 

“Greyson, back me up here,” Nyla demanded, turning to him, and he blinked again, a little slowly. 

“Greyson’s not gonna think we need to mop behind the fridge any more than I do.”

“Oh I hadn't even thought about moving the fridge,” Nyla remarked, pulling out her notepad. Evan laughed at her. 

“Good thing we’re super bored, or I might be tempted to complain.”

“As if that is a thing you have ever once refrained from.” There was a knock on the service door. “Groceries. Can you two start--” Evan waved her off, ambling forward.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it, go do your thing.” 

Nyla ghosted up the steps, silent and swift, and answered the door with a bright smile and a small curtesy. The delivery man was someone Nyla had met with frequently, someone who came around often enough for her to recognize his face. He was a chatty sort, liked to ask a lot of questions, and didn't have a very strong concept of personal space, but he was friendly enough and Nyla didn't find it to be any particular strain to be polite to him. 

“Noticed the new guy’s car isn't in the driveway today,” the man said, and Nyla hummed with a little nod. Master Galo had parked his car in the garage or in the drive with seemingly no criteria and changing all the time. It was in the garage, at present. Nyla theorized that the times Master left it in the drive while it was raining had been to rinse off the dust. 

The man helped carry the groceries into the kitchen, which wasn't part of his job at all, but Nyla was appreciative enough for the help. She was a hard worker, but some of the heavier bags she was more than content to let someone else carry for her. 

“Your owner out of the house often?”

“Yes sir,” she answered. Master Galo’s daily visits to the gym alone had him out and about with far, far more frequency than Mistress, plus with the training for his new volunteer effort he’d been out even more. And, like now, he would go out into the gardens to run or simply walk the grounds, whereas Mistress would only go into her yard for garden parties or to walk alongside visitors. 

“So it's just you and the kitchen girl when he's out?” the delivery man asked, walking alongside Nyla as they returned to his vehicle for the final bag.

Nyla did not frown or furrow her brow, but she did feel a twist of confusion. What exactly was the man trying to ask? “We slaves serve only Master; he has no family that lives with him,” she said, wondering if maybe he was curious about that?

His hand came down to rest heavily on Nyla’s shoulder, almost causing her to stumble, lilting in close to him to keep from getting knocked off balance. “I--sir?” she asked, hairs on her neck and arms raising in alarm. 

“Take it easy,” he said, which was the opposite of what Nyla was doing. He led her sharply to the right, away from the hall to the service door and into the living room. 

“Sir, this isn't--”

Nyla winced as her head hit the wall when he pinned her to it, not hard enough to hurt but far from pleasant. Her smile finally dropped at the sight of the knife. 

“Shhhh,” the man hissed, Nyla’s head tilting back, breath spiking, as his knife pressed against the soft underside of her chin. Her fingers trembled where they clawed against the wall, at her sides, terrified and confused. She did not whimper as his hand came up to cover her mouth, dry skin against her lips. “Shush, angel, I don’t wanna hear a peep out of you.”

Nyla had no option but to stare, silent, with tearing eyes at the man who grinned at her. “God, you’re so pretty,” he murmured as he slid his hand down, pressed to her throat, moving the knife away but replacing it with another threat. “I’ve been fantasizing about this, you know. What it would be like to see that smile of yours give way to fear. It’s even better than I thought it would be.”

Nyla’s breathing was shallow, frantic, she wanted to scream, but she knew she’d get a knife for her efforts. Mistress had used knives on her plenty, but never once had they gone near her throat, Mistress too careful for that. This man wouldn’t be half so cautious.

“God, I wish I could drag this out,” he whispered, bending close, his breath foul and ghosting over her lips, “but I can’t get caught, so.” He gripped her arm harshly, yanking her further into the living room, and her eyes jerked about frantically. None of the furniture in here was big enough--it was all decorative, where--

She gasped, air knocked out of her as he bent her over the arm of the couch. His hand returned to her neck, the back of it, keeping her head down, and the knife came up in front of her again, glistening, sharp. She trembled, feeling like she must have been hit harder than she thought, because she couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t think at all. She felt a wall of sheer, unadulterated fright, and nothing past that, she couldn’t move, couldn’t make a noise even if she hadn’t been ordered not to, couldn’t even blink as she stared down at the detailed patterning on the fabric of the couch stretched out in front of her, knife pressed to her chest and a man, larger than her, grinding his crotch down onto her ass and she could feel his dick.

“Please--” she gasped, because she’d never done this before, because she didn’t want it to be like this, because she didn’t want this at all, because she was scared!

“Quiet!” he hissed, yanking the knife down, proving just how sharp it was and how strong he was by tearing through her dress, through her apron, leaving a thin line of red where the tip of the knife clipped her sternum. She swallowed a high noise of panic, quiet, quiet, she was quiet, she didn’t want to be cut or stabbed, too. Humiliated tears slipped down her face as he groped her, and she bit down another horrified noise when he said, “Unless you wanna draw your kitchen friend’s attention. Betcha she’d be real good at this, tits and an ass like hers, we could have her come join in.”

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet, trembling hands on scratchy cloth, look at the pattern of the fabric, focus on that, focus on anything other than the heat and weight behind her, the hand on her breast, the knife pressed to her chest.

He gripped her hair and yanked her head back. “Crying already?” he asked softly, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Good.”

--

Evan rubbed at the back of his neck as he rose, washer and dryer now officially pulled away from the wall and all the dust bunnies and little clusters of lint and hair available for the dusting.

“Has Nyla been up there a while?” Evan asked, Greyson making his way to the broom.

Greyson’s brow furrowed minutely, only there if you knew what to look for, and he nodded. “You go. I won’t need you until we move them back.”

“I am okay with that,” Evan said, a joke, because he never actually would slack off if a task needed done. But he really had meant it; Nyla was contriving things for them to do because she was bored and he really didn’t see the point in this task specifically. The entrance to the basement wasn’t far from the service door, and Evan squinted, body going tense. Why would the grocery van still be here?

Not bothering with being quiet (Master was outside, anyways), Evan turned and set into a fast walk, ears perked, and a voice that wasn’t Master’s but was low and masculine anyway said something in the living room. Evan felt every instinctive alarm in his body going off, not knowing what was wrong but knowing something absolutely, definitely was. He wasn’t smart, but he had good instincts, and when he rounded the corner he saw red.

The knife caught him in the wrist but he didn’t feel it, didn’t feel anything other than the bastard whose hand had been on Nyla’s bare ass getting his nose broken under Evan’s fist. A sob tore out of Nyla, and Evan couldn’t hear anything after that from the blood in his ears. He’d hurt her. This fucking nobody had hurt Nyla. And he wasn’t Evan’s Master.

So Evan was gonna make him pay.

A shout, a wild swing of the knife, it caught Evan’s shoulder but it was shallow, meaningless, when Evan screamed it was with rage. It was with a wild, nameless fury, and it was with the bestial satisfaction of release.

He’d never raised a hand against Mistress. Hadn’t even thought of it with Master. But here was a target, open and asking for it, asking to be put in the goddamn ground for touching Nyla, hurting Nyla his family his friend Evan slammed his fists into any piece of him he saw, blood on Evan’s knuckles, flecked against Evan’s cheeks, and--

The knife in his thigh registered through the adrenaline, prompting another scream, this time of pain, Evan arching his back but he tried not to stop, not to deviate from his goal. Even as the knife came out and the pain shot blinding whiteness through him Evan was resolved to turn his face into pulp. He was going to punch and keep punching and he wasn’t going to stop punching until this fucker stopped moving for good, and if he bled out in the process that wasn’t currently a concern.

But a heave of movement left Evan struggling, and then the man was on top of Evan and things looked worse from this angle. Evan didn’t stop, though, couldn’t, grabbing the man’s stabbing wrist and holding onto it with a desperate, wild force, trying to get another swing in when the man’s other hand closed around Evan’s throat. He struggled, kicking, clawing red lines up and down the other’s skin, his cheek, aiming for his eye but missing, but air was quickly becoming a thing Evan would need more of fucking soon and that wasn’t happening. His grip on the knife-hand was growing shaky, the blade lowering and lowering as Evan’s vision blurred. He tried to scream again, in violent fury, but no air came out from his open mouth.

Master.

The knife fell on the carpet and Evan hauled in sweet air, choking and coughing as his abused throat struggled back online. He rolled onto his side, struggling up onto his elbows, and blood-rushed ears made out a brief exchange between Master and Nyla, confirming that the motherfucker had been the one to hurt her.

Even through the thick wood of the front door, Evan and Nyla both heard the resounding crack of someone losing the unbroken status of his skull. Fucking good. 

“Ev?” Nyla breathed, kneeling in front of him. Her dress was sliced down the front, held up by an arm across her breasts, something had happened to the sleeves, too, and Evan reached a still-shaky, still-bloody hand up to cup her cheek.

“Nyla,” he said quietly, and she leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. He hated it when Nyla cried. Nyla crying was basically the universe confirming that absolutely everything was terrible and anything that could go wrong, if it wasn’t already currently going wrong, would go wrong very soon. “Did he--did--?”

“Just my clothes,” Nyla murmured, shuddering, and Evan squeezed his eyes shut tight and pressed their foreheads a little closer. Greyson caught them both off guard, entering their little huddle with a hand to Nyla’s shoulder, another to Evan’s. He took off his jacket and folded it, then pressed it to Evan’s leg, prompting a hiss, then he looked between them, Greyson’s equivalent expression for confusion on his face, and Evan looked to Nyla.

She’d explain to Master and Greyson could overhear, it seemed, because Master came back through the front door, the resounding boom of it (it wasn’t so loud as all that, Evan was just scared) reminding Evan of the other, far more terrifying threat in the house.

--

“No, he is currently unconscious, on the account of him attempting to rape and kill two of my slaves. Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna need an ambulance, I uh, I might have broken his skull.” There was no might. Galo had absolutely broken his skull. And you know, Galo wasn’t a violent person, he believed in pacifism and talking things out (he still had semi-neutral/semi-positive relationships with his family, after all). But Galo knew where lines were drawn and this, this, (who even was this guy!?) this nobody--

Regardless, he deserved it.

“Yes, thank you.” Galo had just changed the fucking locks on the goddamn doors, how had he made it into his house? “No ma’am.” Thank god Greyson had heard the yelling and gone straight to Galo, instead of getting mixed up in whatever was happening. No offense to Greyson but he was thin and gaunt and scrawny as all hell and probably would not have done a lot in a fight. “I… would prefer to hang up, if that’s alright. The people he assaulted are inside and I want to make sure they’re okay.” And check in with Greyson, Lilah and Sasha, after, provided the police hadn’t arrived by then. “Thank you ma’am, yes.”

Galo went inside, finding Evan where he’d left him and Nyla and Greyson there with. Nyla was still clinging to the remains of her dress and Galo found it A Little Stupid that Greyson and Evan, both in possession of additional top layers, hadn’t offered her something to cover up with, but adrenaline and shock made for one hell of a cocktail. He tugged off his tank top and handed it to her as he entered the crouched-down-semi-circle.

“Are there pressing injuries that need immediate attention,” Galo asked, needing to prioritize.

“My thigh,” Evan said weakly, and Galo found that once his attention was drawn to it, hey yeah actually! Greyson was staunching it, good for him, but that was an alarming quantity of blood. 

“Do you need help applying pressure?” Greyson shook his head. “Okay, ambulance is on its way, we’ll get you to the hospital.” Galo glanced at Nyla, and upon finding her dressed (she looked faintly ridiculous, the tank top beyond oversized and the lettering entirely unsuited to the mood) he looked at her fully. “Nyla, do you need to be seen in the hospital as well?”

Fuck, wrong way to phrase that, she was shaking her head and Galo didn’t know if that meant Evan had intervened before he’d actually done anything more than fuck up her clothes, or if she was trying to tough it out.

“Can I get a summary of what happened?” Ideally brief, because Evan was bleeding from more places than one (those cuts seemed shallow, at least).

“The man frequently delivers groceries, he attempted to,” Nyla took an unsteady breath, and Galo wished he could hug her, comfort her in some meaningful capacity that wouldn’t just terrorize her more, “assault me, but was stopped from doing more than removing my clothing when Evan arrived. They fought, Evan was stabbed in the thigh, and you arrived, Master.”

“Very succinct, thank you Nyla.”

The sound of sirens; they’d made it there quick. Small blessings, Galo supposed. “Okay, I’m gonna go with Evan to the hospital, and also talk to the police I guess. Greyson, if Lilah isn’t inside already please go get her and lock the doors. The four of you stay inside until I’m back,” fuck what else. Oh, god, he felt horrible for even having to say it but if there was even a chance that they would… “Don’t worry about any of the other things you were gonna do today, okay? Just don’t worry about it. Do something pleasant, if you can.”

The sirens were in Galo’s driveway, and he stood, needing to direct their attention to the men in various states of injury.

“Thank you Master,” Nyla said, and Galo gave her a nod, not even bothering with trying to smile.

Things moved very quickly, after that, beckoning the ambulance staff inside, getting the grocery guy onto his own gurney, talking to cops (which Galo hated. Haaaaated.) Getting in his car and going to the hospital, talking to people there, time only slowed down as he sat in the waiting room chair. Waiting. He pulled up discord on his phone and started messaging John, a fellow tank, hoping to get the guy prattling in an attempt at a distraction. The thought of calling Jeremiah, just to get him to talk endlessly, passed Galo’s mind, but if his brother was in a weird mood or a bad one it would tip Galo off of some precipice he was standing on and that was not worth it.

He wished he had family he was close to.

He wished he had friends that he was close to, somewhere within a thousand miles of him.

Evan was fine, thankfully. The knife hadn’t been serrated, which meant the flesh had avoided extra damage upon removal, but the wound had been deep, and Evan had bled a lot. He had received a blood transfusion, and he had an IV in his arm when Galo entered the room, plus stitches, his shallower cuts had been treated, and also painkillers were involved.

“Hey,” Galo said as he settled himself into the hospital chair, perfectly comfortable and positioned at a thoughtful angle to the side, opposite the door so physicians could easily enter, feeling a sense of deja vu.

--

Evan was scared.

Evan was scared, and he was scared, and he was scared, and he was scared in an ambulance and scared in a hospital and scared surrounded by strangers and the adrenaline crashing meant he was also in pain and there were needles and Evan actually really hated needles and he was scared.

And it was a fucking joke of the universe that when his Master entered the room, Evan actually felt relief.

“Hey,” his Master, who had single-handedly cracked open the skull of the man who had put Evan in this hospital, said.

“Sir,” Evan whispered. He had intended for it to be a ‘hello sir’ but he was shaky and his throat hurt and hey, his brain wasn’t totally online. 

“How’re you feeling?” Master Galo asked from the hospital chair, simultaneously altogether too close (he could reach out and touch Evan, if the mood struck him) and too far away (Evan was scared).

“Bad,” he answered honestly, “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Master Galo said, and it was a weakness Evan had sworn off the millionth time Mistress had played the kind sweet soothing game but Evan let himself take some small comfort in the tone, “hey, no, you have nothing to be sorry for. You did great, Evan, you protected Nyla and did not die in the process. You did better than anyone could’ve expected of you.” True. Evan had brought his fists to a knife fight. There was a burning little coal of pride, at that, and Evan felt his shoulders roll back a little, preening just a little, a little little, a little preening seemed to be allowed.

He hadn’t ever smiled around Mistress Bethany except when she made him, never genuine, so it was a surprise that he was smiling (just a little) around Master Galo. But Evan had done well.

“Thank you, sir,” and for once in his life, he was actually feeling grateful while he gave his owner thanks.

“Yeah, man. How’s the leg?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re giving me really good painkillers,” Evan said, which only confirmed his point because even he wouldn’t normally be ballsy enough to talk to his Master like that unless he intended to provoke him. But Master Galo just chuckled.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to lay off it for the next couple weeks and they’ve given me the names of a couple physical therapists to talk to.”

“...Physical therapists?” Evan asked, brow drawn.

“The knife went in deep, man, your muscles are all fucked up,” Master Galo said, and his tone almost sounded pitying, but not really. Pity-adjacent.

Evan felt the urge to apologize again, but he wasn’t sorry and Master Galo had already told him not to so he blurted out his next thought, which was, “This is the hospital Mistress died in?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to die. They’re gonna keep you here for a few hours to make sure you don’t go into shock, and we’ll be home just after supper.”

“Oh.”

“You’re also gonna be kinda fucked up on painkillers for a while.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I’m scared.” Evan made a displeased noise at his own honesty, pulling his lips back and sinking his chin into the folds of his neck. “Oh I am fucked up on painkillers.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a pretty accurate assessment.” Master Galo sounded amused. Bastard. (Maybe not as much of a bastard as Evan normally thought he was). 

“I don’t feel fucked up.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing. Why do you feel scared, bud?”

Evan gave his Master a very pointed look, then hunched his shoulders, looking down, because where the hell did he get off thinking he could give his Master any kind of look at all, much less a pointed one? Again, though, Master just chuckled.

“Okay, fair, entirely fair, that’s on me. What would help make you feel less scared?”

“I hate needles.”

“Okay, good news, you are done with the needle portion of the day. No more needles for Evan.” Master Galo pointed at the IV in Evan’s arm. “Except for that one. That one needs to stay exactly where it is until a licensed medical professional takes it out.”

“Can I take it out?”

“You are not licensed, medical, or professional, so no. Plus, it’d just injure you further cause you wouldn’t do it right and then you’d have more problems and I’d be a liar.”

Evan took a moment to puzzle together why Master Galo would be a liar if Evan took the needle out, but eventually realized that if he started bleeding he’d need another transfusion, and that meant more needles and okay, okay.

“Can I..?” Evan started, moving his hand across the hospital sheets.

“Hm?” Master intoned, looking down at Evan’s hand. He took one of those thoughtful pauses of his, Evan staring up at him. He was still shirtless, little T’s of scar tissue over his nipples. Evan did not expect Master Galo’s chest hair to be blue because that would be stupid, but maybe some fucked-up-on-painkillers part of his brain had expected that because he stared at Master’s chest hair a lot too. And his chin hair, which was sorta vaguely-fuzzy in the way it went when Master hadn’t shaved in a few days. Evan wondered if he could grow a beard. Evan couldn’t. Greyson extra couldn’t.

Evan felt stupid, childish, dumbass relief when Master Galo reached out and held his hand. Moron. This wasn’t real. This was something that he was going to be hurt for or pay for later, he knew it, he just knew it, nothing came without a price, but he was scared and his brain was acting all weird on him and if Master touched him Any Other Place on his body he was going to Lose His Whole Ass Mind, but for the time he clung to his Master’s hand like it was a lifeline. Idiot. He should know better. He should, he should, but he didn’t, and Master’s hand, heavy and warm, reassured him.

This hand had kept Nyla from getting kidnapped and Evan from getting murdered on the living room floor. It also had fine little hairs on the back of it, just barely there, and they didn’t really move when Evan brushed his fingers over them and he couldn’t feel them but he could see them, pale and thin and short.

Fuck what were in these painkillers?

“Was she in a room like this?” Evan asked, staring at the hairs on Master’s wrist and lower forearm.

“Yeah, pretty near identical, except the art. She was up a few floors, though.”

There were so many tiny, itty-bitty wrinkles that existed on a person’s hand. Like the knuckles, yeah, sure, but also the skin between the thumb and forefinger, and the palm, which Evan couldn’t see because he was holding his Master’s hand. “You got us here, right? She gave you..?”

“Yeah. Dragged her poor lawyer all the way over here just to fuss with her will and name me the sole heir.”

“Are you glad?”

“Yeah, bud.”

“Are you glad she’s dead?” Evan clarified, because he could see how someone might miss that with the way he’d originally worded it.

Another thoughtful pause, a little shorter. “Will you think less of me if I say yes?”

“I am,” Evan said, realizing far too belatedly that his Master had asked him a question he hadn’t answered. “I’m glad she’s dead. I hated her, and you’re confusing but you’re not mean the same way she was.”

“I don’t mean to be confusing,” Master said, Evan trailing his fingers over his skin. “I just don’t know what everyone’s expectations and routines are, and how you lived before I got here. I’m trying to figure out how to be a good owner to you all, but I’m making some pretty big mistakes along the way.”

Evan stared at the hand inside his own. He couldn't understand this man. Now that the fear wasn’t keeping him awake and alert, he was starting to feel exhausted. “Am I allowed to sleep here, sir?”

“I’ll go ask a nurse. Stay awake until I get an answer, okay?”

“Yessir.”

A little curl of fear let him do just that, when his Master took his hand away. Evan stared at his empty palm, fingers curling experimentally, and he felt the emptiness of the room echoing around him. These rooms were too big. Weren’t hospital rooms supposed to be small?

His Master came back and filled the space. It seemed like a reasonable size for a room, with this mammoth of a man inside it. “Yeah, bud, you can go ahead and take a nap. A nurse is gonna wake you up when they need to check your vitals, but go ahead and sleep until then.”

Evan’s fingers twitched. He reminded himself, firmly, that his Master liked to be asked for things. “Will you hold my hand again, Master Galo?” he asked as nicely as he could, because he was a weak little bitchbaby and a pansy and a moron. But he was a weak little bitchbaby who was getting his hand held, so take that!

God he hoped they lowered the dosage moving forward.

--

With Evan asleep, Galo now satisfied that he was fine and he was safe, Galo tried to make his brain do the thinking thing. His brain did not want to do the thinking thing, but too bad, because he was gonna make it do the thinking thing.

That was twice within the span of a single week, now, that someone had entered Galo’s home without his permission and attempted to harm Nyla. This could not continue to happen.

Hmm. Galo wasn’t guaranteed to be inside the house every time someone came knocking, so he couldn't ask the slaves to always let him be the one to open the door. But, also, well, Evan had very evidently proved himself as capable and willing of fighting back, if the person at the door was doing something they shouldn't. Obviously it'd have to wait until Evan was back on his feet (and even then, it depended on how well he recovered), but Galo could totally make Evan the doorman. Greyson, theoretically, could play doorman when Galo wasn't there, until Evan was an option, and really, how often even did people show up? Groceries, but other than that, Galo hadn't ordered a ton of deliveries and didn't have friends in town. 

Oh but speaking of which, Galo pulled up the internet on his phone and started looking for crutches. Evan was gonna need one for a bit, and then after that he would get a lighter mobility aide. Guess what the aide would be. Guess. Guess what the doctor had recommended. 

A fucking cane. 

Galo’s life was a joke and his suffering was the punchline. But hey, silver lining was that there were plenty of those available, since the dumpster was scheduled to arrive in two days, so. Evan could have free choice of which instrument of torture he would like to use as a mobility aide. Fucking hell.

“Y’know,” Galo said very quietly, so as not to wake Evan up, “it used to be that the most interesting thing in my search history was the walkthrough for The Grey Rainbow.” Which was an excellent, free PC game and if there were any mind readers out there eavesdropping on Galo’s thoughts, they should absolutely open a new tab and play it. Even if some of the puzzles were a little tricky. 

Galo left a note on his order that whoever delivered the crutches (he could only buy them in a set) please just set the box on the front porch and leave. Don't ring the doorbell or knock, please, just put it down and turn around. The slaves he'd left at the house didn't need the added anxiety of another knock on the door, not while Galo and Evan were gone and Nyla had just been attacked that morning. 

“It also used to be that the most stressful thing that happened to me on any given day was annoying customers demanding to talk to my manager. Not unearthing horrible family secrets or fun new traumas,” Galo murmured, Evan sleeping right on through it. They'd given him the good shit, whatever it was, and Galo remembered getting his wisdom teeth out. How he’d wanted to do nothing other than sleep, eat applesauce, and sleep some more. Fortunately, Evan’s mouth was fine, so the urge for applesauce should probably not resurface with him. 

Galo, very lightly, stroked his thumb over the side of Evan’s hand, just little motions. He crafted emails, one-handed, to a couple different physical therapists until a nurse came in to check on Evan and also deliver a late lunch. Galo thanked her and helped her sit Evan up, Evan looking mightily displeased at being touched, though Galo couldn't tell if he liked the nurse or Galo less. He was aware that, as far as Evan was concerned, Galo was very likely the lesser of two evils in this situation, the enemy you know is better than the one you don't and blah blah. He tried to keep it brief. 

“And sir,” the nurse said, turning to Galo when she was done with Evan, “could I get you a shirt?”

Galo glanced down at himself, faintly embarrassed. “Oh, yeah, that’d be great thanks.”

Evan stared at Galo, namely Galo’s bare chest, after the nurse left, ignoring the food on the little tray next to him. He’d been staring at Galo pretty intensely earlier, too, so Galo just let him, thinking on what he should do for his own lunch, and if Evan would be good if he left him alone for a bit. 

Google said there was an Arby’s nearby and fuck if Galo couldn't go for some loaded curly fries right then, actually. He could get a shirt on and walk down there, get some fresh air. 

“Oh my god your nipples!” Evan suddenly exclaimed, Galo jumping in his seat, nearly dropping his phone. To his credit, Evan probably was not aware of how loud he’d just been. But also, Ah.

“Don’t rip your stitches there, bud,” Galo said, saying the first thing that popped into his head. Evan had uh. Moved. There.

“There are Ts on your nipples!” 

“There are,” Galo confirmed, blinking twice. “More specifically, the scars are on the tissue around the nipples, but yes.”

“We couldn't figure it out,” Evan said, having one hell of an epiphany there. Galo quirked a confused smile and bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Evan would definitely hate him once he was sober, if Galo actually laughed at him while he was like this. “We kept guessing what ‘going on T’ meant but there are Ts on your titties!” Evan said with a broad gesture towards Galo’s pecs, and Galo shook with silent laughter. 

“Mhm. So. That’s not quite it bud,” Galo got out, and had to pause and bite his lip again to suppress his laughter. “Going on T is in reference to the hormone testosterone, which I take supplements for.” Galo gestured to his scars. “These are the result of me getting top surgery, which is pretty much exactly like it sounds.”

Evan was squinting, nodding, and asked, “Am I going to remember this when I stop being…” he waved at his own forehead vaguely, “drugged?”

“Yes, probably, but it's okay if you don't. You saying this makes me think I should probably actually give a trans ed 101 to all of you. Which, you know, makes sense if you think about it because my aunt was definitely not the right kind of person to give any sort of information on queer life or history.” Galo and Evan both looked to the door when the nurse returned with a stiff, thin shirt that only barely fit Galo. He thanked her and slipped it on, moving his arms slowly so he didn't rip open the armpits. 

“Which one is testosterone, sir?” Evan asked, squinting again.

“It’s the hormone that gives me body hair and lowers my voice and makes me sweat a lot and put me through puberty a second time,” Galo said, loose and playful with his explanation because Evan still seemed pretty far out of it, even if his words were all clearly articulated and coherent. He’d give more scientific answers during an actual, informative talk. “It's the hormone associated with masculinity; so I’m ‘on T’ because my body doesn't produce enough of it naturally.”

“Like a vitamin supplement?”

“Almost, yeah, but instead of taking a pill I give myself a shot every Saturday.”

Evan visibly paled at that, and Galo felt his hackles raise. Ugh, stupid, just because Evan seemed to be more relaxed didn't mean Galo could waltz around making careless mistakes. What had he said to set him off? Nothing had implied Galo was going to hurt Evan, had it? But that must be it, that was always it; what..?

“Easy, Evan, easy, I’m not going to hu--”

“You give yourself shots!?”

“I--yes?”

“Every week?”

“Yyyyyes?”

“Why!?”

Oh, right, Evan had said earlier that he hated needles. “Because needles don't bother me and if I don't my body’s hormone levels go bad real fast.” Galo shrugged. “It was uncomfortable at first but now it's just part of my routine. Like shaving or yoga Mondays.” He honestly didn't even think about it anymore, but he remembered when he was a kid, he’d had a diabetic friend and he had been horrified the first couple of times he’d seen him poke himself. So like, he got where Evan was coming from, more or less, he was just really desensitized to it now. 

“You need--sir, yes Master, sorry Master,” Evan said, looking down on the ‘sir’ and very clearly just remembering who it was he was talking to. 

“No biggie,” Galo said, going for casual, hoping this would roll off like the other times Evan shrunk in on himself earlier. The mood seemed to stick, though, and Galo very purposefully did not sigh. “I was thinking of heading out and grabbing lunch for myself. You gonna be alright if I leave you here alone for,” Galo wiggled his hand side to side, “an hour?”

“Yes Master.”

Galo winced a little at that. So long chill-drugged Evan, nice chatting with you. “Cool, back in a bit, hit the button if you need anything from the nurses.”

“Yes Master.”

Galo grimaced. Ugh, fuck, he’s done this with Greyson, too, that first night, taking it too easy and freaking ‘em out. 

Fuck. But it’d been nice while it lasted, Evan sorta-calm with lowered inhibitions, actually talking to Galo like a person. He flexed his hand, the one that had been held.

--

Fuuuuuuck Evan hoped they eased up on the dose moving forward. His brain was lagging so far behind his big mouth and he felt stupid as shit. Also calm, which wasn't theoretically a bad thing but when his Master was in the room calm was a bad thing!

It didn't feel like a bad thing, but his dumb drugged brain knew it was a bad thing whenever his dumb drugged brain decided to get it's dumb drugged ass in gear. Bluh. At least Master didn't seem mad that Evan had been acting up. Evan stabbed the cantaloupe with a pout. The moment he could go off painkillers he would. He could handle pain, but his dignity wasn't gonna make a comeback from this.

Of course, the overwhelming majority of him didn't give a shit about dignity at the moment. The overwhelming majority of his shitty little person was mad because he was alone in a hospital and every shadow that passed his door set him on edge and he wanted his Master back in the room. Pansy ass bitch. 

He finished his food and laid back with a sigh. He hoped Nyla was okay. 

When he woke up again he had no memory of falling asleep. Fucking shit he hated this. But he also still felt oddly good, super even. His Master was back in the chair, staring at his phone, and didn’t seem to notice Evan had woken up. So he just. Stared at him. He was so big. He wasn’t touching Evan anywhere, which was a relief, but he also wasn’t touching Evan anywhere, which was something he wanted to change again. He liked holding his hand. He should absolutely not beg to hold his Master’s hand a third time, like some annoying, clingy, crying child who was scared of the dark.

Why would anyone willingly give themself a shot? Multiple shots. Frequently. Evan couldn’t fathom it. “You’re really strong,” he said, because his Master was able to enact things with careless ease that took all of Evan’s strength and force of will to even endure.

Master Galo looked up from his phone, and smiled. “Yeah, I sure am, man. Work out every day.”

“You give yourself shots,” Evan clarified, realizing his mistake again.

Master Galo bit his lip and ducked his head, breath going all funny for a second. Evan didn’t smile, but he felt almost like he did. “Yeah, I do. We’re still on that?”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, nothing to be sorry for. Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, easy Evan.”

“Oh I am so easy right now,” Evan said enthusiastically, then made a sour face. “What am I on?”

“I don’t know but I think stabbed-Evan should’ve definitely gotten the chance to meet no-wisdom-teeth-Galo,” Master Galo joked, and Evan laughed, because he got the joke! Master must have felt super great and weird then, too.

“Oh we’re feeling good,” Master Galo remarked, sounding pleased, and Evan hummed in agreement. “I called the house while I was out,” he mentioned, and Evan sat up a little, leaning on one elbow. “Nyla’s fine,” Evan felt himself relax, “she’s still feeling shaken up but she and the others have been curled up together and they’re glad you’re safe and on the mend. I told them to go ahead and eat dinner without us; we’ll just get something through a window on the drive home, and we’re,” Master Galo checked his phone, “pretty close to the time they balled for us to leave. How’re you feeling?”

“Fantastic. Also bad. And still tired.”

“What’s got you feeling bad, bud?”

“I can’t…” Evan waved his hands in front of his face, trying to express through gestures what he couldn’t find the words for, but decided against it when he lightly smacked himself in the face, nearly poking his own eye. He heard Master Galo snort and he glared at him. Bastard. Except no wait don’t glare at his Master.

“Alright, alright, I think I got the idea,” Master Galo said, and Evan huffed, frustrated. “It’s only temporary. The nurse’ll come take the drip out here shortly, and we can fiddle with how many pills you take at home so you’re not as loopy, sound good?”

“Being stabbed is stupid.” Mistress slicing him open was never like this. But those were all shallow and controlled, and this was deep. Fucking…… fuck bitch.

“It sure is, bud.”

To his Master’s credit, the nurse did arrive in pretty short order, announce Evan good enough to be discharged, and didn’t look at him with mockery or pity when he closed his eyes and looked away as she took the needle out. His clothes were technically good enough to wear out of the hospital, nothing sensitive had been torn open (like Nyla), and Evan didn’t want to wander around wearing a hospital gown, so yeah, he needed to change. But.

“Would you like me to help out, or should I step into the hallway?” Master asked, and that was the fucking dillemma wasn’t it? Evan would need help getting his pants on, and would be in only his underwear between taking the gown off and putting his clothes on, and Evan didn’t want his Master to see him mostly-naked but he also did not want to be left alone and mostly-naked in a room with a stranger.

“...Or maybe I’ll go stand in a corner with my back turned?” Master offered, and Evan wasn’t even proud or wary enough to decline. He dressed, and sat down on the bed, waiting while the nurse went and got the wheelchair over. 

“Need help getting in?” she asked patiently, didn’t even sound condescending.

“Please don’t touch me any more,” Evan said pathetically, not answering because yeah, he needed help and he knew he did and if he tried to do it on his own his uncoordinated fucked-up ass was gonna faceplant spectacularly, but no, fucking god please no, he didn’t want any more strangers touching him. He just wanted to curl up around Lilah or Nyla or maybe under Greyson and sleep for five thousand years.

“Okay. Can you make it into the wheelchair on your own?”

No. Evan turned to Master Galo, feeling disgustingly pathetic and reminding himself that his Master liked grovelling, and asked, “Master, please...”

“Yeah, I got you.” Master Galo easily lifted Evan from the bed and set him in the wheelchair, and the nurse made an impressed noise.

“He’s really strong,” Evan remarked to her, and she arched an eyebrow before rounding behind the chair to push him.

“I see. Is that something that comes up a lot?” she asked mildly.

“It’s hot.”

Master Galo made a strangled noise and he was definitely laughing at Evan, Evan who was mortified.

“Not that I think you are,” Evan quickly followed, gesturing at his Master who was keeping an easy stride alongside the chair. “Just that, like, objectively, you’re objectively hot.”

“Thanks,” Master Galo squeaked, shit at hiding the fact that he was still laughing and Evan needed, he needed to--

“Like, to women.”

“Okay.” 

“Any woman would be lucky to date you. You’re huge, like, to women.”

“Actually most people find me huge, but thank you. I’m flattered.”

“I’m not flattering, just, like, like art, like how art is hot, like a chiseled statue.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“I’m not gay,” Evan finally said flat out, because it was very important that his Master know that.

“Okay, well it would be alright if you were. I just wouldn’t reciprocate.”

“Look I know I was staring at your nipples a lot earlier but I’m not gay.”

“I believe you, Evan.”

“Would you like to go get your car, sir?” the nurse, who had heard absolutely all of that exchange, asked. Evan officially could never, ever get injured badly ever again in his life, he could never come back here again.

“Yeah, back in a jiffy, bud.” Master Galo jogged off and Evan sat, elbows on the armrests and face in his hands, wondering if maybe he should have just bled out while he had the chance. 

Master Galo had to help Evan into the car and Evan hadn't felt this pathetic since his broken rib (and the painkillers Mistress had had him on weren't like this at all, plus they'd only lasted while Evan was in the hospital (the pain was a valuable lesson, after all)). Evan buckled himself while Master thanked the nurse and bid her good day. When Master Galo entered the car, Evan tensed minutely, but all he did was ask Evan where he wanted to eat. 

“I don't know,” Evan answered honestly. Mistress was vehemently against fast food, believing chain restaurants were invented by the devil to tempt folk into sin or whatever blah blah reason. Evan honestly couldn't remember. But he did know she was “ethically against them” so his last exposure had been when he was, what, 5 or 6? 

Master ended up choosing, and they sat in the car and ate, Evan feeling very uncomfortable at eating with his Master but not having any choice in the matter. Every sensible part of his brain told him he didn't get to eat until Master had finished his meal, and that he shouldn't be eating in the same space as him at all. But also huuuuuur duuuuur beef and ketchup, Evan’s brain was stupid enough to take the edge off his anxiety and just shove the food in his mouth. 

Words could not express how relieved he was to finally get home. He wanted to see Nyla and then just sleep. 

“Looks like your crutches arrived already,” Master Galo said. “Would you prefer I carry you up to the porch, you lean on me as a crutch, or I could go get them for you and you can walk yourself?”

Evan’s head made him skeptical on his ability to walk himself, but also. Hhh. Touch. “Can I lean on you, Master Galo?” he asked politely. 

“Yeah man.” Fuuuuuuck. He couldn't put any weight on his leg at all, which was also stupid. He had to lean all his weight on his Master, reliant, weak, dependent on him for balance and even the simple ability to fucking walk. 

He hoped Master Galo had killed that fucker that stabbed him. 

The foyer was empty when Master and Evan entered it, Evan on one shoulder and the crutches propped deftly on the other. Master called out, that it was them, that they were home, and hardly a moment later Nyla, in her other dress and smile firmly back in place, swaned into the room. “Master Galo, welcome home,” she greeted, but hesitated. 

“No hand-kissing for Nyla, his hands are full,” Evan said, which was supposed to be a thought inside his brain but whoooo there they are. Out in the open where everyone can hear them. Nyla, even through her smile, looked appalled. 

“He's on really strong pain meds,” Master Galo said, and Evan pointed up at him with a click of his tongue. 

“That.”

“I--see, sir, we can take care of him from here out, Master,” Nyla said, and the other three, who Evan knew had been listening close by, hovering just out of sight so as to avoid crowding Master, hedged into the area. They were worried about Evan, awwww, and he grinned when he laid eyes on Lilah, affection blooming in him. 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Master said, setting the box down but not Evan. “I kinda wanna get him down the steps first, but then he's all yours.” Which, admittedly, was a smart idea, because Evan theoretically could make it down while leaning on the railing, but the threat of stumbling was a real one and if he fell on like, Greyson or Sasha, they’d all just go tumbling down the stairs. If Evan stumbled into Master, he doubted he’d even sway. 

But he didn't trip! He was just unbearably slow, wasting everyone’s time going down one step by one singular, shuffling step. Lilah propped him up once he was at the bottom, and then, mercifully, Master Galo left.

They waited one, two, three baited breaths, and then the family was on Evan in a rush, their hands on him and their quiet words blurring over each other's until they mutually decided to let Lilah speak first.

“Tell is everything,” she demanded, and Evan raised a thumbs up. 

“Will do. But fair warning, I am on so many drugs right now.”

“How many is that?” Lilah asked, her nose all scrunched up.

“Enough to talk to Master about his hot nipples.” Fuck, definitely could've phrased that better.

“You did what?” Nyla asked, Lilah and Sasha seeming struck and Greyson even harder to read when Evan was fucked up like this.

“Okay, lemme rephrase--” Evan blinked hard. “Actually could I maybe do this lying down?”

They got Evan into bed, his body in the middle like it rarely ever was (he preferred to sleep with his back to the wall, facing the doorway). He told them everything he could about the hospital visit, Sasha very frightened when he talked about how often he fucked up, Lilah looking up at him thoughtfully from where she was bundled in his arms. He couldn't read Nyla or Greyson, with his back turned to them, but from how Nyla’s fingers would occasionally curl in his sweater he could guess that she was thinking he was an idiot. 

Which was fair. He absolutely was. And the drugs made him extra stupid. 

They had spent their day in the room, with Nyla in the center of the bed, only leaving when Greyson answered Master Galo’s phone call and Master had apparently ordered them to watch a movie or something. They had watched Singing in the Rain, which Evan was actually pretty bummed to have missed. It was one of his favorites, and Movie Nights were rare treats. 

“Maybe Master’ll let you watch a movie, while you're laid up,” Lilah mentioned, and Evan hummed into her hairline. 

“Who knows? He's weird.”

“Yeah, but he's nice,” Lilah said, and Evan would be anxious about that when he was sober, he knew, Lilah buying into their Master’s lies, but at the moment he felt good and warm and very sleepy so he just hummed again, snuggling in a little closer. 

In the morning, he realized why they’d had him on so many painkillers. 

“Fucking ow.”

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