#anyway no edits we die like men

[msommers]

george is my new daughter but she's still in development mode so here's a bunch of unorganized, still to-be-confirmed rambles about her

georgina "george" "georgie" "gina" quinn; she/her; personality types tossed onto the graphic set here. obligatory pinterest.

part-time baker, tutor, and superhero. inherited aerokenisis (air manipulation abilities) from her parents, both well-established and famous heroes of freedom city.

has an older brother named zachary, he wields hydrokenisis openly while working as one of the city's firefighters and supers. also has a younger sister named charity, she doesn't appear to have inherited any powers and certainly doesn't have a dozen complexes about that fact.

parents: madeline & nathaniel quinn. undecided powers, though likely of elemental variety due to zach and george's ones lmao. potentially part of a group of supers, not determined yet. typical Good Guys type of heroes, decades worth of time spent cutting off crime and dispatching supervillains. heavily influenced the moral compasses and worldviews of their two oldest kids (honor and kindness above all, violence is the last resort, peacekeeping and protection are the goal), lessons they taught are remembered and acted upon even after their deaths reasonably lead to questioning if their ways worked. charity is somewhere around ten years younger than george so she had less time with the parents = conflict with her older siblings on their noble ways which got their parents killed. had quite a few awkward sibling meals end because of those "debates".

hero identity: zephyr. outfits are shades of sky blue and white, always with a hood and matching mask to obscure (some of, comic logic lets it work) her features. isn't spotted as often as other supers, but her vibes are known nonetheless: never fatally wounds, focuses on crowd control and flight, leaves criminals to the police instead of taking justice into her own hands. she'd only do it against chunky baddies who can tank damage but the image of her chucking various objects and items with the use of her powers is pretty fun. other power uses: speed bursts, electricity immunity, manipulating weather (incredibly exhausting on a bigger scale, not done often). has minimal hand-to-hand combat training that she learned from zach, taken up only if she's forced to ground herself during a fight and even then she tries her best to find ways to avoid it.

purely for fun, she's eternally a little chilly because i decided it'd be silly for her wind powers to affect her that way. her wardrobe reflects that and results in annual comments on how she's wearing ridiculous clothing during the warmer months.

the only quinn sibling to pursue education beyond high school, though it never saw much use due to hero life. i'm stupid do not ask me to specify her studies beyond physical science please and thank you <3

in her early teen years she started working at the family bakery (quinntessential confections) on-off, then eventually as an actual job during high school and college. had the privilege of flexible scheduling bc of the whole family-owned thing, which came in handy when she started to join in the supers activity alongside schoolwork.

was 23 when her parents were killed by doc holiday—a malefic entity from another dimension that takes human hosts to inflict its will, defeated in the 60s but recently returned possessing a college student to once again spread terror and violence. the quinns couldn't bring themselves to kill the being as he was controlling a poor kid that wasn't in control and actively hated everything the entity used him to do, which resulted in their deaths as holiday was motivated only to cause as much destruction and suffering as possible.

(might?? have a fun little thing of george having known the guy who holiday decided to turn into his puppet. add even more conflicting feelings to things.)

george ended up inheriting the bakery, while also needing to help cover the family home, which led to her doubling down on citizen work rather than super. she took up tutoring on the side, putting her studies to use there instead of searching for anything in those fields as she couldn't dream of letting the bakery go.

pastels are her beloveds and it's clear from the Everything about her. the bakery decorations, her bedroom, her wardrobe and accessories, etc etc. those things can also display her obsessive and perfectionist nature, everything must be neat and clean or it nags at her.

smth smth running battle with the umbral huntress who keeps trying to sway george towards altering her moral code because the city has so much corruption and her way of doing things is too "soft" to make a real impact. i'll bang out details later, important part is shoving my hero and my vigilante/villain together is fun and sexy. george never wavered until the deaths of her parents, unfortunately some of the huntress's points started to hit after that (probably won't last or truly change her mind?? but a fun journey to go on).

lowkey sims obsession and i don't think her gaming experience would go far beyond that franchise tbh. sometimes self-care is spending hours meticulously building a new school in sims 4 because you don't like the set-up of the default one included in the expansion pack, y'know.

listens to audiobooks as she works and her book collection is probably mostly of that variety, any printed ones are from childhood/teenage years or random ones bought to match an aesthetic she wanted for decorating a shelf or two.

[arieswritez]

puppy love

puppy love | yandere!mark grayson x afab!reader | MULTI-CHAP: 3

chapter 2

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!!! reader is neurodivergent, ableism, growing up is messy & adults suck, angst, niceguy™/slight incel mark, childhood friend/bully!mark, mark gets his powers sooner, teeny tiny implications of pseudo incest (blink and you'll miss it), violent rape, threats of violence, & canon typical violence, stalking, implied murder, gender & body dysphoria, mentions/implications of disordered eating, mark teases reader about their body once, overall asshole mark, implied grooming (mark handles it but he's a lil bitch about it later), so, victim blaming, misogyny, the inexplicable horrors of being afab, objectification, sexualization

about; you don't know how long i could stare into your picture and wish that it was me i guess it's different 'cause you love him but i've got an interactive sick and twisted imagination and that's gotta count for something - not allowed (tv girl)

3.

you'd found a boy that made your heart go thump thump, thump. and you knew very well how the rest of that story usually went.

your love was encompassing. asphyxiating and obsessive. and in the very first moment the two of you interacted, you knew, this could be it.

you didn't blame yourself.

you couldn't blame yourself.

blame the love stories.

the disney movies with the princes and the magic mirrors. breaking curses with true love's kiss. much like the fabricated sugary fantasies, your potential life with him unfolded before your eyes.

he could be the one.

true love's forever kiss.

you imagined it all.

movie theater dates, awkward parental meetings, proposals, a home, kids, pets. arguments. therapy, even. pushing through at the end. death. rebirth. trying it all over again in the next life.

all you had to do was get him to stick around.

you had to make him understand that you could be his true love kiss, too.

you had to be perfect.

. . there was just one miniscule problem.

the boy so happened be on the same baseball team as mark.

it's the way the two of you had met.

despite the fact that you were supposed to be there for mark: your eyes were . . elsewhere. your eyes - then your focus - had gravitated towards him even before the first pitch. and you found yourself blushing as you watched him stretch: holding his baseball bat over his head.

you'd made it your only goal to attempt to extract as much information about it from mark as discretely as you could. and frankly, you should've known mark would be able to read you like the back of his hand.

because he found out what you were trying to do embarrassingly quickly.

and he was just as quick to shut it down.

you hadn't noticed the boy before. not really. but since the baseball game, he seemed to be everywhere. and you were excited to find that he was the new addition to mark's friend group. you knew this because you saw him and mark sitting together during lunch.

which meant they were at least acquaintances.

so imagine your shock when you came to find out. . mark didn't like him.

everything about him seemed to rub mark the wrong way. mark would clam up the moment you mentioned your boy. he'd change the subject. or his mood would just straight up sour. he'd go quiet and avoidant. and when you kept pushing, he finally snapped.

your boy was stupid.

your boy was shallow.

"don't say i didn't warn you." mark would mumble.

but warning you wasn’t enough.

your boy barely looked at you.

and you weren't sure if it was in part because of the way you acted. . the way you looked. maybe he was so out of your league that he'd completely removed you from his radar.

you'd watch him from across hallways and excitement would swell in your chest when you found that you'd be walking in opposite directions.

you'd see him coming.

he'd see you.

time would slow as you walked past him.

your heart rate would pick up.

but his eyes would remain forward and time would pick back up again as soon as you were past each other.

all it'd leave you with was the bitter taste of rejection in your mouth and a deep ache of anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

the only thing that sobered you up were the dizzying possibilities.

he hadn't seen you. he hadn't noticed the effort you'd put in.

but eventually, he would.

you don't know what it was that grabbed his attention.

mark was vehemently against introducing you two.

you were at a loss until you realized that you'd just have to try harder.

whenever mark left for the bathroom, you'd made it a mission to swipe mark's phone during study sessions. you'd go through his socials and send yourself screenshots of both his follower count and who he was following.

it was a long tedious progress but eventually, you'd found your boy's account.

thankfully, it was public. which meant the the decoy accounts you'd made to snoop just in case he was private turned out to be a waste of time.

you looked through his followers and did your homework on anyone he showed a particular interest in. you'd even made a list of the usernames of the people who’s posts he interacted with the most.

and soon you became a master of disguise.

you studied them top to bottom.

those that went to the same school were far easier to emulate.

you copied their mannerisms, the way they styled their hair, you changed the cadence of your voice, the way you rolled your r’s. your clothing grew tighter and your slouch was now an exaggerated upbeat gallop as you chased after the object your new affection, hoping one day he'd notice.

. . and the exact moment he looked into your eyes and did a double take. . you did one, too.

it was completely out of surprise before you caught yourself and continued to saunter away from him with butterflies in your stomach: flapping their wings so violently it felt like you'd be swept away.

his attention was the most excitement you'd felt. . in a long time.

and you knew you'd do anything to retain it.

it was a sickly sweet feeling: syrupy, sticky. clogging your vascular system to the point your head swelled. the lack of oxygen only heightened your fantasies.

the attention was addictive and so, so good you found yourself chasing that high all the time. going to extreme lengths to get his attention. even if they’d end up embarrassing you after.

you never allowed yourself to wallow in the feeling of dread that settled in your stomach when you did everything in your power to get his attention, though.

specially whenever it made a smile stretch across his face.

whatever you did faded into the background.

it was all worth it in the end.

something was wrong with mark.

and he needed to get to the root of the problem fast.

he was looking at you. . differently.

he talked to his dad.

nolan had said something about the changing moods having to do with his powers. how being intense and passionate was just in his blood.

he talked to his mom about it. albeit in a more discrete way. he'd never be able to live it down if she'd found out you were making him behave a certain way.

she'd just chalked it up to it being puberty.

mark didn't know who to believe.

he just wanted to stop thinking about you.

his nerves were shot to shit whenever you were near.

senses heightened: you were a fog blanketing his brain until your voice carried with it a technicolor vision.

he could smell you coming like a damn blood hound.

he could hear your pulse while sitting next to you.

something was wrong with mark.

he knew it when his teeth ached when you'd stretched your neck: raised your arms over your head and let out a little sound of pain and discomfort.

something was wrong with mark.

when the day's turned warm and wet. . and your clothing became more revealing.

he could see more of you.

freckles and moles, blemishes and scars, he hadn't noticed before.

he'd follow sweat drops rolling down your skin.

smooth. soft.

he'd held you, once.

when was the last time?

something was wrong with mark.

he'd lay awake at night staring up at the ceiling.

thinking about how you'd looked while you concentrated on a book. while you looked down at your phone. while you listened to music: smiling when a song you liked came on.

your little humming. . but not singing.

never singing.

mark noticed you'd stopped singing in front of him when he started to make fun of you for it.

that, too, was how mark knew something was wrong with him.

the way your moods would shift like tides under a crescent moon whenever he'd said something excited him. he felt pleasure - a violent zap of electricity shooting up and down his spice - watching your eyes light up or darken when he'd say something to you.

about you.

i like your hair today.

light.

you talk so goddamn much.

dark.

i missed you.

light.

your stories take fucking forever.

dark.

something was wrong with him when he found his own mood depended on fantasizing on how he'd make you feel that day.

if he was in a bad mood, seeing you in one, too, was a sure-fire way to make his day a whole lot better.

something was wrong with mark.

when he'd have to smother the sounds he made while imagining you -

something was wrong with him. . when red, hot anger consumed him when one of his friends made a smart quip about your body.

when he couldn't just laugh it off anymore.

something was wrong with mark.

. . or so he thought.

because he'd later find out. .

. . no.

something was wrong with you.

all of a sudden: mark was the one double texting.

triple texting.

mark was the one asking if he could hang out. . and when the fuck did he ever need permission?

mark was the one seeking you out.

something was wrong with you.

and he needed to get to root of the problem.

he picked his brain apart in an attempt to figure out what it was. you couldn't be under any stress. you looked fine. better than fine.

you looked happy.

fucking elated.

to the point where mark couldn't affect your moods anymore.

mark wanted to know what the fuck you were so happy about.

why the fuck you were so happy when he was falling apart at the seams. when his world was crashing down.

and there you were, completely fucking oblivious.

mark had always been curious.

and so, he went to see you.

the two of you were in your room.

you'd excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

and mark started looking.

you were predictable.

he knew where you kept your journal. despite how many times he'd found it and read it aloud - holding it above his head whenever you tried to snatch it away - he'd always managed to figure out your next hiding place.

it was easier that way.

he pretended he didn't know where it was.

you pretended to have some privacy.

he pretended not to know every single, minute, insignificant detail of your life.

of your thoughts.

thank fuck you were still so naive.

thank fuck for dairies.

he'd found it in a box under your bed.

and after flipping to the page with the freshest set of ink. . he'd found out what your problem was.

you'd found a boy who'd made your heart go

thump.

thump.

thump.

[mumms-the-word]

in honor of that one post I can’t find for the life of me that’s like “not Gale with Tav but Gale with the Blackstaff librarian” please have this snippet of a thing I will never finish you’re welcome

Gale x fem!OC, no tags, just two academics being snarky with each other

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

When Gale approached the library, he found his way blocked by several—no, many whispering students and annoyed-looking professors all blocking the way. They were pressed as far as possible in tight packs around an open doorway, the library visible beyond, but not a single one would go inside.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, looking at one of the students he recognized.

“Oh! Professor Dekarios, it’s the new librarian. She just arrived today and she’s not letting anyone into the library.”

“No one? That seems a bit antithetical to the point of a library, don’t you think?”

“She says she’s reorganizing,” another student broke in, looking delighted by the chaos. “She’s already thrown out anyone who crosses the threshold and is threatening to seal the doors if anyone else enters to disturb her.”

“Is that so,” Gale said, raising his eyebrows. She sounded horrible. He couldn’t help but picture a matronly old woman, set in her ways, her hair in a strict and severe bun of gunmetal gray, jowls nearly to her shoulders. “Well, allow me to have a word with her.”

His announcement, though spoken at regular volume, sent a wave of tittering and excited whispers over his students. He ignored them as he waded between them to get nearer the door. One of the other professors saw him coming and quickly arranged the students around the door to get out of his way.

“You’ll not get through to her, you know,” his colleague warned. “She’s on a rampage in there and she seems to have focused all her magical study to the art of marching people directly out of her space.”

“Then I’ll try to be diplomatic and charming,” Gale said, a spark of his old hubris coloring his smile. He stepped over the threshold and into the library.

It was utter chaos, for lack of a better word. Nearly every shelf was empty of books, completely bare, while mage hands with dusters and cloths were busy dusting and cleaning the centuries-old wood. The books themselves were arranged in stacks of no real order or sense, some just three books high but many others towering as nearly as high as the first landing of the four-story room. Solitary books flew through the air at random intervals, coming to rest on top of one stack or another. The towering busts and statues of previous Blackstaffs and other wizards of note were also being thoroughly cleaned, though their bases also served to collect all the furniture in the room, apparently, save for the tables that were all but groaning under the weight of stacks of tomes. Gale had never seen the library in such a state of disarray.

No sign of the enigmatic librarian, though. He ventured further inside, glancing here and there to try and find her, again picturing the strict, no-nonsense older woman with a face like thunder.

At last he found a younger woman floating midway up a three-story set of shelves, her open robes billowing gently as her flying spell kept her aloft, her trousers tucked into her knee-length boots. She pulled a book from the shelf and turned it to examine the title on the spine, and then opened it to the first several pages.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for the new librarian?”

She sighed and snapped the book shut with one hand, turning to peer down at him with a frown. “Yes?”

“The new librarian. Is she about?”

She looked at him as though he were being willfully deaf. “She’s floating approximately three feet and seven inches above your head, saer. Can I help you or are you simply here to complain about my methods like everyone else that has made it past those doors today?”

Gale blinked. “You? But I thought—”

“Did you need something, Professor?” she asked, cutting him off. “I’m assuming you’re a professor and not a student, since you’re wearing the academic stole and all that. Is there a book you require?”

A quick flash of irritation passed through him at being interrupted, but he quelled it. He’d traveled with more abrasive people in the past, he reminded himself, who were also prone to interrupt.

“Not one in particular,” he said. “I’m here to discover…well whatever it is you’re doing in here.”

“Whatever it is I’m—Oghma guide me,” she muttered. She sent the book floating away with a flick of her wrist and lowered herself to stand in front of him. “I am cataloguing. What does it look like?”

Gale paused. Now that she was properly before him, he couldn’t help but notice that she was rather lovely. And young, for someone put in charge of the entire library of Blackstaff Academy. She was several inches shorter than him, but that didn’t stop her from frowning up at him behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, her dark hair swept up into a mass of tight curls at the back of her head. Little curls were escaping here and there to frame her face or trail down her neck, but she didn’t seem to notice. Behind her glasses, her eyes were a curious shade of green and gold, the color changing slightly as she shifted her weight and a soft shadow from one of the shelves fell over her. The rest of her was still bathed in the warm light of early afternoon, a shade that complimented her dark olive skin.

She looked particularly irritated now and Gale realized he had been staring, rather than answering her question.

“I, um…” He quickly tried to recall her answer, and as he did, it struck him how ludicrous it was. “Sorry. Cataloguing?”

“Yes.”

“This library was already catalogued. Thoroughly.”

“Correction,” she said, turning to pick up two books from a stack and glance at their titles. She sent them floating away in different directions. “This library was already poorly catalogued. I’m cataloguing it properly.”

She walked away, moving to another set of shelves that she hadn’t yet touched. Gale followed after her, speaking as he went.

“With all due respect, it looks as though you’re doing a great deal of unnecessary shifting around. The current system has served us well enough these past, oh I don’t know, three or four hundred years or more. There’s no reason to change a system that works.”

“So I’m to believe we should just let old systems lie rather than improve them with new ones?” she asked, tucking a few books into her arms. “Come now, saer, that goes against the very spirit of academic and magical progress. And you call yourself a professor?”

“I am a professor,” he said, irritable. “Professor Dekarios. And I have enough sense to know that Mordenkainen’s Magical Theory Across the Twin Worlds goes in the M section.” Here he grabbed a book from the shelf right before she could collect it, holding it up as if it were proof.

“In the old system, perhaps,” she said, snatching it from his hands. “But in this new system it will go under section 300, subsection 20, sub-subsection 4 point 17 for non-practical magical theory from authors located outside the realm of Toril—”

Gale’s jaw dropped. “Non-practical? How—”

“—and I’ll thank you to cease disturbing me so I can put it in its proper place,” she finished with a huff, blowing some of her curls from her forehead. She sent the book away, arcing it high over his head so he couldn’t make another grab at it.

“Now see here,” he said, struggling to remain diplomatic.

“No, Professor Dekarios, you see here,” she said, bowing up and shifting her books to one arm to poke a finger in his chest. “Blackstaff Varja has tasked me with the revitalization and re-categorization of this library, a job I take very seriously, and I won’t have pompous, big-headed wizards swanning about telling me how to do my job!”

Gale could barely get the words out. “Pompous? Big-headed? Madam, you—”

“If you require a specific tome to study, by all means, let me know so that I can locate it for you, but if your business is simply to bother and berate me then I’ll be forced to eject you from the premises.”

“Eject me? You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wouldn’t be the first, I assure you,” she said, her eyes flashing.

He shook his head, irritation warring with something like awe in the face of her ability to be unrelentingly annoying. “You are—infuriating. How will the students and faculty here get any study done if all the books—” he pulled another one from the shelf, using it to gesture, “—are in the wrong places?”

“They will learn,” she snapped, reaching for the book, but he held it high overhead, just out of her reach. She nearly crashed into him, nose-to-chest, reaching for it. She quickly stepped back with another huff. “Return The Many Multiple Uses of Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion to me at once.”

“Only if you put it back in the M section,” he said, keeping it aloft. “Where it belongs with the other Mordenkainen works.”

“But Mordenkainen didn’t write—oh for Oghma’s sake.” She slammed her armful of books down on a new stack and snapped her fingers, whispering a spell he didn’t catch. The book tugged away from his hand. Surprised, he let it go, and it flew directly into her waiting arms.

“I think that’s quite enough library time for you, Professor Dekarios,” she said sharply, hugging the book to her chest. “You are to be banned from this library for the remainder of the evening. Good day, saer.”

“You can’t—”

But apparently she could. All of a sudden he felt the back of his robes pull taught, as if an unseen hand were grabbing his robes like a tressym might grab the scruff of their kitten’s neck. The force pulled upward, nearly lifting him off his feet, and he was forced to take several awkward steps away, back toward the entrance of the library.

“I—you—unhand me!” He struggled against the hold as was about to cast something to dispel the magic when he felt something suspiciously like an invisible boot give him a kick on the arse. “Hey!”

“Good day, Professor Dekarios,” he heard her say behind him.

He was forcibly pushed out through the open doorway, nearly falling over into the waiting crowd of wide-eyed students. He adjusted his robes in a hurry, ready to march back in there and try again, but the library doors shut with a loud bang and soon the magical sigils to an arcane lock illuminated the surface.

No one would be getting inside now.

There was a hush behind him as he stared at the library doors, hot embarrassment turning his ears pink while his pride, unable to suffer total defeat, looked for ways to make light of the situation or diffuse it. After a moment, someone started to snicker and it caused the entire waiting audience to struggle to hold in their delighted snickers and giggles.

“Well,” one of his colleagues said, folding their arms, but Gale held up a hand with a sigh.

“Don’t,” he said. “The mortification speaks for itself.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’re the sixth faculty member she’s done that to today,” they said, unable to withhold a chuckle. “Though out of all of them, you’ve lasted the longest.”

“And we’re to endure her being our new librarian?” Gale asked, as other professors began to shepherd away the students, reminding them of their homework and studies. “Is it too early to consider a new teaching placement?”

His colleague just laughed and walked away. Gale was left standing in the hallway, watching the arcane lock sigils glow and glimmer against the wood of the door.

He wanted to be angry, even offended. The entire re-categorization of a library as old and complex as Blackstaff Academy’s would spell chaos and slow down every pursuit of study for months. But as he watched the sigils, as his minds eye placed him back among the stacks of books and empty shelves, his memory lingering on one dark curl resting against the curve of the librarian’s olive-toned neck, another bouncing at her temple, he realized he wasn’t exactly angry or offended.

He was intrigued.

[whump-in-the-closet]

yo you're sick you absolutely deserve those followers hell yeah -- for the prompt, something about a stoic whumpee and hurt/comfort, if you will?

thanks anon <2 literally too kind

now this is my type shit >:)

cw: savage beatdown, creepy whumper, hurt/comfort, stoic whumpee, gang beating up whumpee essentially

The moonlight cast watery, wobbling reflections on the shining concrete sidewalk until it looked like newly healed skin.

Caretaker tapped their steering wheel with an impatient tempo, scanning the road. The stolen car smelled of spilled alcohol and cleaning products and it did nothing to help their nausea.

In fact, they gagged.

They were in a near-abandoned part of town and the jagged edges of the buildings bit into the night sky, hemming them in. The telephone wires hung loosely, like dense vines, trapping anyone who dared to enter.

Caretaker cursed into the empty car. "Where are you?"

The light turned green.

Caretaker slowly drove forward, still scanning the road. Halfway across the intersection, they found him.

Rather, they saw a limp form and several shapes standing over it.

Caretaker pulled over to the side, slamming on the brakes. Bright eyes glanced up and reflected the shine of their headlights.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck-- Not fucking again."

***

Was red a feeling? 

Because it was all Whumpee could feel. Red. Throbbing in every single part of his body. Twisting and choking around his throat. Boiling up and purging until he vomited, on his hands and knees.

And still, they hit him. Someone kicked him in his stomach and he was back on the pavement-- face scorched. Here at least, the concrete was cool to the touch.

There had been too many to fight off.

He had tried at first. To fight back. To try and protect his face.

Their laughter was still ringing in his ears. They had ripped his hands away--

"Easy, killer,"

"Not so tough now, are you?"

Whumpee could barely register what they were saying to him.

Red. All red. 

Slithering and tightening and choking on the concrete sticky with his own blood, warm against his clothes and skin.

He wanted to slip into it, let go, fall into it, and never return. Never, ever come back. 

But even that was denied to him. They pulled him back to his feet, yanking his jacket off with rough hands. Hands that quickly turned into fists and steel-capped boots.

One grabbed him by his hair and shoved him against the wall. Leaning in close enough for Whumpee to feel their hot breath on his face, "Whumper sends his regards."

No.

God no.

"Says he misses you, pretty boy."

The silence built into a muffled scream tinged with a new horror. Whumpee didn't beg-- had never begged-- but he panicked then.

His antagonist slammed a hand against his mouth with casual irritation, "Oh, shut it."

In the distance, a car screeched.

The hand relented and Whumpee collapsed against the sidewalk, breathing raggedly, vocal cords ripped to shreds.

A new voice echoed like it was at the end of a long, long tunnel.

They scattered, abandoning Whumpee to the newcomer.

Whumpee didn't care.

Let the silence crush him. 

Please.

"Whumpee!" The voice was distorted and Whumpee couldn't quite place it.

Someone crouched down beside him.

A hand reached down– hovering over him– not again, please, not again. He forced himself up on his shaky hands and knees.

"Whumpee! What is this?" they persisted.

"Thank-- thank you, I'm... I'm well." He hacked up blood and it spotted the concrete, dripping and crimson.

"Oh, Whumpee."

Why did they sound so disappointed?

"Whumpee, it's me, Caretaker." Their voice was low and calm. One hand slipped around his shoulders, already helping him to his feet.

Whumpee stopped moving. This was the harshest blow of them all. That Caretaker, with their ocean-green eyes and light smile, was here to see this.

Whumpee shoved them off. He couldn't look them in the eyes. "Please," he said, "Please leave me alone." His voice cracked.

Underneath the streetlight, Caretaker only sighed. They took off their jacket and threw it over Whumpee's shoulders. Still talking in that gentle voice, they said they were going to get him home and that it was going to be alright.

Whumpee clutched the jacket with a white-knuckled grip-- like it was a lifeline-- like it was the only thing keeping him together.

But when Caretaker stroked the top of his head– gently– the kindness broke Whumpee. He hated it. He fell apart for the second time that day. He cried silently, the electric colors burning behind his eyes. 

He didn’t resist when Caretaker wrapped him in a hug. Caretaker smelled of soft grass and their eyes were blurry with tears of their own.

Whumpee didn't know how long Caretaker held him, but when they asked, "Should we go home now?", he said yes.

He opened the car door by himself and spilled into the backseat, still clutching Caretaker's jacket.

"You good?" asked Caretaker softly, glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.

"I got blood on your jacket."

"That's.. that's the least of my worries." Caretaker started the car. "Anything else?"

"I can do the stitches by myself," muttered Whumpee. "But it's not that bad."

"It's okay if it is bad. I can help," said Caretaker softly and with a gentleness that hurt.

Whumpee didn't answer-- couldn't answer-- and the car ride was long and silent. Blood dripped from the leather and onto the carpeted interior.

[roboticspacecase]

Illuminacho said: I'd love to see a billdip hero x villain fic, of any length, I've been seeing a lot of tik toks with that dynamic, and I'd love to see it in billdip form, if you're still taking prompts

I've been working a lot, so prompts have been slow, but I promise I'm still going to do most of them! :D If I don't do one, it's because I just didn't know where to go with it ;w; but here's this one for y'all!

A loud bang filled the streets, rattling windows and setting off car alarms. People had long since found cover from the debris, so Dipper didn't look for anyone in need of help once the bright, yellow smoke cleared. Instead, his eyes landed on Cipher, the cause of all the trouble.

"You're such a stubborn little thing!" the villain sang as he stepped through the last plume of smoke. "It's so sad to see someone that calls himself a hero defending these banks that would sooner see the people starve than do an ounce of good."

Dipper grit his teeth, standing firmly in place. Cipher walked right up to him, stopping less than a foot away. "I don't support what they do, I support not hurting innocent people. You're trying to tear down buildings with people inside of them, and I don't think that's very nice. So yeah, I'm going to keep being stubborn."

Cipher chuckled, raising his gloved hands as if he were surrendering. "Oh, well, when you put it that way, I guess my entire world view is now changed, and you can take me to jail to serve time for all the crimes I've committed!"

"You're stalling, aren't you?" Dipper took a quick step back, eyes darting to the bank that was now missing a wall. "Is there a second bomb? Tell me now, Cipher! If you really have some ideal of protecting the masses, you'll at least let me try to find it."

A moment of silence fell between them as Cipher's hands slowly lowered, his lips stretching into a wide, sharp-toothed grin. Dipper always speculated that the villain didn't live a normal life outside of crime, seeing as someone would no doubt recognize such a smile and turn him in immediately.

"That's one thing I never got," Cipher hummed. "How you heroes never seem to realize that cracking a few eggs is the only way to make an omelet. Society will never help me turn on the powerful if all of them are making it out of these encounters alive! Besides, casualties cause drama, and I'm nothing if not a drama queen!"

Just as Cipher finishes speaking, another burst of yellow smoke exploded a few streets away from them. Dipper could hardly hear the villain laughing over the sounds of people screaming and running from the explosion. He tried to swing at Cipher, wanting to keep the villain there since he knew other heroes would be able to take care of the rest, only his hand was caught before he made contact.

Cipher yanked Dipper against him, still laughing as he pressed their masks together. "Pine Tree," he growled out, "you're always so eager to cut our time short. Don't you want to do the fun hero thing where you pretend to care about my feelings in hopes that it will sway me to your side and forever stop my evil schemes?"

The first few times Cipher had forced Dipper so close to him, Dipper could hardly breathe. His heart pounded away in his chest, and his mind raced to figure out some way out of his grasp. But now, even though he couldn't look Cipher in the eyes, Dipper stared right at him and took in even breaths.

"I've never pretended to care," he said softly. "You think I would even take the time to talk if I didn't care? Or that I'd be out here in the first place, putting out every fire you start, even if I limp home covered in burns?" Dipper placed his free hand on Cipher's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "I care about everyone's right to live a safe, happy life. Even yours, Cipher. But I can't allow people to hurt each other in the pursuit of that."

Cipher scoffed, though he stayed still and silent until sirens could be heard closing in on them. "Maybe one of these times I blow you up, I'll knock those rose-colored glasses off your face, and you'll finally see what I see." He let go of Dipper's hand, taking a step back. "I hope you will, eventually, Pine Tree. I enjoy our time together, and I think the two of us working together would lead to great things."

"I'll never work with you," Dipper huffed. "Not unless you see my side of things."

"Who knows," Cipher chuckled as a plume of smoke erupted at his feet, covering the villain, "maybe one day we'll both change our minds. Wouldn't that be dramatic?" His voice faded as the cloud did, leaving Dipper standing in the street to wait for the approaching police cars.

They all jumped out of their cars with their weapons drawn, expecting to see Cipher still standing there. But, of course, he always left just in time to never face the consequences of his actions.

Dipper made his escape as well, not wanting to have to answer their questions about why he let Cipher get away. That and he had somewhere to be. A date that he was running late to.

After a quick change at his apartment, Dipper hurried off to the café nearby, a place that thankfully never got hit by any sort of villain attacks. It always offered a tranquil environment, which is exactly why he and Bill always picked it for their lunches.

"There you are," his boyfriend said, gesturing to the seat across from him. "I was worried you'd be late again. Though, I'm one to talk, I'm no better at keeping time."

Dipper laughed as he sat down. "We're both bad at it, but at least we're here now. Today has been so busy with work. Lots of paperwork and writing to be done when there's always someone coming to me with news stories about villains and whatnot. We live in a wild world."

Bill gave him a soft smile, leaning forward so that he could grasp Dipper's hand. "Seems like no one is allowed to rest easy in today's world. But don't worry, I'll be your hero and always keep you safe."

A deep blush covered Dipper's face, and he grabbed Bill's hand as well. "Oh, stop, you're too much. Did you order our drinks already? If you did, you got me hot chocolate instead of coffee, right?"

"Don't worry, Dipper," Bill hummed, kissing the back of Dipper's hand. "I remember all of your favorite things. At this point, I know more about you than you probably know about yourself."

Dipper snorted. Even though he and Bill had been dating for nearly a year, he had only let the blond know surface level things about him. It was just safer that way. "Nonsense, I'm a big mystery yet to be unraveled. You just don't know even that yet."

Bill laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I'll figure out everything about you eventually. It is my job as your boyfriend, after all."

[velidewrites]

Obi-Wan’s heart darkens.

It has done so too many times since the War started—that grip on his chest. He knows it is the Dark Side clouding the Force—clouding his judgement, tempting him to do things a Jedi should never even think of. Violence, control, power—Obi-Wan always resits it, even when it takes all his strength. There is something peculiar about that strange tug, though—the very darkness itself. It is nothing like the light, blissful before the War and blinding throughout it. Lately, it seems that no matter where he looks, he cannot see the right way.

The darkness promises clarity.

OR

The Clone Wars (2008) S5 E16 reimagined.

Note: This fic is a birthday gift for the wonderful @melting-houses-of-gold!

Warnings: Spoilers for The Clone Wars (2008), Graphic depictions of violence and death, NSFW

Read on AO3

PART 2/2: The Beginning

Obi-Wan’s hot breath clouds the glass wall.

They are exposed here, much too exposed, but there’s an excitement to it—the risk of getting caught. It would be the first tine—they’ve been a lot more careful in the past.

Right now, there probably isn’t a worse place in the entire galaxy for this type of…meeting. Satine would’ve snorted at the ridiculous term had her mouth not been otherwise occupied.

After all, this is no more than a secret hookup.

One of many and very few at the same time—she and Obi-Wan have been sneaking those moments every now and then, but she finds that they always leave her craving more. No matter how many times she feels his lips on hers, his body pressed against her own, it is never enough. She can never get enough of him.

But Obi-Wan isn’t hers to take—and he never will be.

She doesn’t let those thoughts dwell, though—not now, now when his strong hand on her waist tightens. She can feel the calloused skin on the subtle slit in her gown—roughened, she guesses, from all those years carrying the lightsaber. He has scars, too, peppered all over the back of his palms, thin and white and almost invisible to the average onlooker. But not to Satine. Satine always notices.

She tries not to worry about the latest one she’d spotted—still healing, which means he must’ve got it while protecting her. It the same hand that now rests on her cheek, that angles her jaw slightly to give him better access to where his mouth traces slow, sensuous kisses over her neck.

A tinge of guilt still tugs on her heart, though, so she turns her head an inch to brush her lips over his open palm. The move seems to surprise him as his breath halts, if only for a moment. Satine kisses him again, more boldly this time, and Obi-Wan straightens, his blue gaze darker now as it meets her own.

“Satine,” he whispers.

She wraps her arms around his neck. “Kiss me again.”

Obi-Wan does not need to be told twice.

But then, just as she can practically feel the softness of his lips again, something beeps quietly in his pocket, and the moment shatters like glass.

Obi-Wan allows himself one, frustrated huff before he reaches into his robes for the commlink.

“Yes?” he asks somewhat grumpily, and Satine suppresses a chuckle.

There is a brief pause before Master Qui Gon responds, his voice slightly modulated through the device. “Did I wake you, my young Padawan?”

Obi-Wan glances at Satine. “Something like that, Master,” he says, and she finds that she agrees. All of this—him—has always seemed like a dream.

“Well, my apologies. Now that you’re awake, I need you up on the bridge.”

Satine’s brows furrow, and perhaps that’s why Obi-Wan asks, “Is there something wrong, Master?”

Another pause gives Satine worry. An intruder? On a royal ship? No, scratch that—a Mandalorian ship?

“A disturbance,” Master Qui Gon finally says, as if that explains everything. “In the Force.”

And perhaps it does, because Obi-Wan nods—to the commlink, as though it were his Master standing right in front of him. Satine can’t help but smile at that.

Obi-Wan casts her another glance, something like apology hiding behind his stare.

Go, she mouths to him.

He closes his eyes for only a moment before he speaks again. “I’ll be right there.”

***

Obi-Wan Kenobi did the one thing a Jedi should never do.

He dropped his lightsaber—allowed it to fall to the ground, discarded.

Without it, he’s…

He’s not sure what he is anymore.

And, despite his greatest enemy now standing before him, that scares him the most.

***

Obi-Wan drifts to a simpler time.

They are on Satine’s royal spacecraft again, her body caged between his arms, pressed against the glass wall. In that moment, nothing else exists but them—but the sweet taste of her skin, the soft touch of her lips on his palm.

Satine is all that exists.

She is time and space and life, glowing deep inside his chest, his soul. She is the only light he needs, Obi-Wan realises as she gazes at him from beneath long, blonde lashes. She’s the only light he’ll ever need.

The Jedi would call this attachment. Obi-Wan would call it a simple truth.

After all, there is no attachment—there is only this moment, one of so very few that he almost suspects it’s some cruel dream his imagination cultivated. But Obi-Wan has never been much of a daydreamer, which means that the soft lips on his skin must be real. Which means that she is real, as real as the perpetual tug of the Force on his heart.

Obi-Wan fears that one day, he’ll be forced to choose.

He fears, because deep down, his choice has already been made.

***

The throne room feels cold.

It’s the first thing he feels as he blinks back into consciousness—the piercing sting of hate, of years upon years driven by it. He couldn’t believe it at first, but, in a much more real sense, Obi-Wan has always known. Has always known that, one way or another, it would come to this—him and Maul, until the very end.

Satine kneels.

Her legs hit the stone, and Obi-Wan’s jaw clenches. He isn’t sure just how much Maul knows about her—about them—so he makes an effort not to look in her direction, forcing himself to look into those hateful, yellow eyes instead.

He should’ve known this was a plot—a sick, twisted plot to get to him. He doubted Maul cared about Mandalore at all, about the warriors under his rule—all tools to get what he was truly after. What he’s always been after.

He tries not to feel any guilt—that would only be handing another tool right into Maul’s hands. He tries not to think that, had it not been for him, Maul might have left Mandalore in peace—might have never even invaded the system in the first place. This is no time to dwell in such thoughts, no time to feel. 

For Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, there is never time.

Maul speaks to him from the throne—from Satine’s throne, and once again, Obi-Wan swallows the darkness that fills his chest at the sight. “Your noble flaw is a weakness shared by you,” Maul drawls, “and your Duchess.”

Your Duchess.

Satine gasps, and Obi-Wan’s eyes dart to her immediately.

She floats a few inches above the stone now, her hand clasped around her neck as she tries to breathe again. She tries to yank free from a hold that doesn’t exist, from another dark, gloved hand that crushes her throat despite not even touching it in the first place. Maul knows—knows what she means to him, if only to an extent.

He’s going to kill her, Obi-Wan realises. He’s going to kill her because of what she is to him. At last, he’ll have his revenge—at last, he will leave Obi-Wan Kenobi in true, infinite darkness.

The only thing Obi-Wan has ever felt for the Zabrak Sith is pity.

But now, as his iron grip tightens on Satine’s neck, Obi-Wan feels everything.

“You should have chosen the Dark Side,” Maul hums, seemingly noting the turmoil thundering in Obi-Wan’s chest, “Master Jedi.”

Perhaps he should have.

“Your emotions betray you,” he continues. “Your fear, and…yes…your anger.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

Maul growls, “Let your anger deepen your hatred.”

But, the way he always has been, Maul is mistaken—and Obi-Wan almost smiles.

For there is no fear—no anger, no hatred, simmering somewhere in his soul.

There is only clarity.

This is what Maul wants—for Obi-Wan to spiral the same way Maul had a long time ago, for them to stand against each other as equals, two broken souls, fighting a war they never should have been part of in the first place. He wants Obi-Wan twisted and wretched by the Dark Side the way he had been, alone and without the Jedi’s Light to hold on to.

But the only light Obi-Wan has ever needed is right here, offering the balance he’d been searching for ever since he first bowed before the young Princess of Mandalore and sworn to be her protector for as long as she needed him. She’ll be the light while he’ll be the darkness—one unable to exist without the other, the way it was always meant to be.

Obi-Wan no longer fears the Dark Side—he welcomes it like an answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask until now.

Maul wants to fight him—to kill him.

Obi-Wan wants to kill him, too.

When he opens his eyes again, he can see the victory glowing in Maul’s eyes—can feel the ecstasy lighting his veins. Obi-Wan almost feels pity for him again.

But then he notices the weapon strapped to his side—a trophy to commemorate an enemy he hasn’t even yet defeated— and Obi-Wan allows himself a smile.

He reaches into the Force and finds a new ally within it—not that bright, blinding light promising to show him the Way.

No, he finds himself.

The weapon cuts through the air before it lands in the hand of its Master—old and new at the same time. Changed.

Somewhere far away, he can hear his own name, pushed breathlessly past Satine’s lips. 

Obi-Wan ignites his lightsaber.

In his eyes, it already burns red.

***

For a man so deeply rooted in his upbringing, change comes quickly for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Satine watches it with her vision blurred, still adjusting to the cool, crisp air returning into her lungs. She’s kneeling again, propped up on her hands and with her mind spinning, but for this, Satine will fight through the overwhelming heaviness trying to swallow her whole.

So Satine watches.

The transformation is so minor she might have missed it had she not spent every night in the past, countless years picturing him in her mind. Even his posture seems different—he stands straighter now, more confident, as if the weight of the world has suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. His hold on his weapon has always been steady but relaxed, allowing him to swing and deflect with ease. Now, though, the lightsaber lays firm in Obi-Wan’s hand—the stance of an attacker, of an opponent hardly expecting any resistance.

Whatever reaction Maul had hoped to elicit from Obi-Wan was not this—not the calm, collected warrior, simply waiting for the first, reckless strike. But Maul doesn’t seem to notice this—doesn’t even look at Obi-Wan’s body, his attention entirely somewhere else.

No, Maul is focused on his eyes.

They used to shine a lovely cobalt—the kind that reminded her of the sky, bright and gentle at the surface but dark and troubled deep beyond, with only the stars left to navigate it.

Now, Obi-Wan’s eyes shine a gold that could rival the very sun itself.

They are nowhere near the same as Maul’s—the Sith Lord’s eyes are tarnished with hatred, with anger—soon, perhaps, with fear.

But Maul only sees what he wants to see—a reflection of himself that he could kill.

So Satine keeps on watching.

The guards raise their blasters and point them at Obi-Wan’s back—ready to strike as soon as the order is given.

They should know better than that. Even Satine, though her foggy vision and spinning mind, can see that this…this is personal.

“Leave us,” Maul snarls, and his own weapon springs to life—the Darksaber that never should have gotten into his hands. Satine has never much cared for it, but she knew her people have—and, no matter the outcome of this fight, this weapon will forever be tainted. Mangalore’s legacy, poisoned by Maul’s hateful touch.

The guards obey and begin backing out of the room, though their blasters stay aimed at Obi-Wan, who doesn’t even turn or flinch—he only stands, meeting Maul’s gaze directly, those golden eyes catching some of the light from the heavy chandeliers above.

Another guard enters then, his voice echoing through the large space. “Intruders at the landing platform, my lord—”

Satine almost cries with relief. Bo Katan—her message did get through despite the ship’s ruined transmitter.

“Go,” Maul orders, his voice dipping so dangerously low it is but a rasp carried through the air.

Slowly, he steps down the dais, the clank of his metal feet scraping the stone beneath. He’s forgotten all about Satine, now, a predator focused fully on his prey, ready to strike. The dark glint of his saber casts a long shadow trailing him like a pet.

She tries to pull herself up—to stop this, somehow, knowing it can only end one way. She’s never wanted this—this death, this bloodshed. Not on Mandalore—not anywhere in the galaxy. But her body is too weak, perhaps it, too realising, that, just as there cannot be light without darkness, there can be no peace without war.

And Obi-Wan has to win it.

He has to.

Obi-Wan raises his lightsaber over his head—a stance she’d seen him do many times—the blue hue doing nothing to hide the gold shimmering in his stare. Maul’s eyes narrow, the Darksaber twisting in his hand—one weapon answering another.

It’s a language Satine understands yet has spent her whole life refusing to speak. Wishing for it to die out, as all things do, and make way for another.

She understands now that sometimes, some wishes do not come true. So she wishes for another thing—for Obi-Wan’s warm touch, for his soft lips on her own. She wishes for him to survive—for him to win.

Everything happens too quickly.

She is still too dazed, perhaps, too weak and breathless to truly grasp the speed with which Maul moves as he lunges. At some point, Obi-Wan has managed to shift—to adjust his stance to something else entirely, lowering the lightsaber so swiftly she hadn’t even registered the move.

Neither had Maul.

With the Darksaber aimed for Obi-Wan’s head—where his weapon has just been, casting a bright glow over his face—Maul swings the Mandalorian blade, about to cast the finishing blow.

But Obi-Wan is faster. Smarter.

His lightsaber plunges into Maul’s chest, a small smile touching his lips.

Deadly.

Maul’s arms still hover over his head as Obi-Wan thumbs the hilt, and the weapon switches off, free from the burning hole in the red-black chest.

And then, the raging Sith Lord, the poison of Mandalore, drops to the ground with a loud thud.

“You,” she can hear his rasp, choked from a breathless throat. Some cruel part inside her thinks it ironic. “You have no idea what you’ve become.”

Obi-Wan only stares back.

Maul chuckles, the sound immediately cut off by a strained, hoarse cough. “You truly are alone now, Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan looks at her then. Golden eyes meet a pair of blue—sun and ice, balance, as it was always meant to be.

“No,” Obi-Wan hums. “I don’t think I am.”

***

Satine sits on the throne, looking out to the bustling city below. She can still hear the cheering in the streets—she has a feeling the celebrations will continue well into the night.

She’d spent the entire day in the medical wing, every cut, bruise and swelling looked over multiple times until, hours later, she decidedly announced she was fine and practically recovered. She was needed somewhere else.

Now, as the evening beings slowly melting into dusk, she finds that she truly is fine—Mandalore is free once again, and with new allies. For now, there will be peace.

For now is the only thing she has. She will worry about the future later.

Later, because one of her guards has just announced another petitioner. The word makes Satine’s lips curl into a smile. “Petitioner,” she chuckles. “Please send him in.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi strides through the grand door, the Mandalorian armour he’d stripped off of one of Maul’s warriors still adorning his strong frame.

It shouldn’t have that much of an effect on her, but it does. She’d only ever seen him in Jedi robes before—and, well, she’d seen him out of them, too—but this…to see him like this, in her home…A pleasant wave of heat rushes through her, no doubt already flushing her cheeks.

Red suits him.

Obi-Wan bows deeply when he reaches the dais, though his gaze remains on her own. “My lady,” he says in a greeting, and she knows there’s a smile hiding behind that formal voice.

“Leave us,” Satine commands, and the guards promptly hurry out of the hall.

Only when the door shuts behind them does Obi-Wan ask, “I trust your discussion with Bo Katan was…productive?”

He already knows the answer to that—has seen Satine’s sister seamlessly fall back into her old role, mobilising the army to capture Maul’s traitors and keep the skies over Sundari at peace. Still, Satine says, “It was.”

A single ah escapes him, and she uses that brief moment of silence to search those eyes with her own. She isn’t sure what she’d expected—but they are still golden, still blazing with that same clarity she saw while he was facing Maul. More importantly, she’d half expected him to be gone by now—to hurry off to Coruscant, the way he always did. They way he always had to.

And yet, Obi-Wan is still here. Still wearing those golden eyes and red armour. Still looking at her as though nothing else in the galaxy mattered.

“What happened?” she asks quietly. She doesn’t have to specify—they’ve always understood each other, one soul bridged with another, their thoughts and feelings flowing freely between them both.

“I made a choice,” Obi-Wan says.

“Do you regret it?” She doesn’t think she would’ve survived if he said yes.

Obi-Wan takes a step toward her, his handsome features softening into a smile. “Of course not.”

She bites into her bottom lip—an old habit she can’t seem to let go of. Obi-Wan’s eyes trail the movement, and she tries not to think about the way his eyes darken as they settle on her mouth.

Not yet, at least.

“So what happens now?” she asks him, already dreading the obvious answer. “You go back—to keep the peace.” It doesn’t even come out as a question anymore—he is about to leave her again. She might as well state it as a fact.

“You mean to the Jedi,” Obi-Wan says.

“Are they not the same thing?”

His chin dips. “I thought so, once. I’m…not sure anymore. I don’t know if I ever want to find out.”

Satine isn’t entirely sure she is breathing as she starts, “But you are—”

“Not a Jedi,” Obi-Wan interjects. “Not anymore.”

There is no sadness in his tone—and perhaps that is why Satine asks, “What are you, then?”

He looks up to meet her gaze again and holds it long enough that she is not sure he even plans to answer.

But then, Obi-Wan steps up the dais and kneels.

“Yours,” he says. “If you’ll have me.”

She reaches for him, then—for his handsome face, her thumb grazing over his beard. She relishes in it for a moment before she tells him, “I always have.” Her thumb brushes his lips now. “I always will.”

There is a second of silence—as though the world has paused around them—before Obi-Wan’s chest falls, and his hand captures the one on his face. Before he presses his mouth to the pads of her fingers, kissing each one slowly.

That familiar heat swirls through her again, settling somewhere deep inside her—pooling at her very core.

When his hand drops her own and moves to rest on her knee, Satine dares to tangle her fingers between his hair—to pull him closer.

She doesn’t wan’t him far away from her ever again.

“Then allow me,” Obi-Wan starts, his voice lower now, darker, “Allow me to live out my life in service of you, Duchess.”

“Obi-Wan,” she breathes.

“I’m yours,” he agrees, then slides a hand down her leg.

Satine would be lying if she said her choice of a gown tonight hadn’t been purposeful—Obi-Wan seems to have found the slit in the silky fabric quickly, now pulling it upwards and revealing her smooth skin. She can’t help but shiver at the feel of his hand on her bare skin—it has been so long since she felt that fire, his fire, setting her body alight.

When the hem of her dress finally reaches her thigh, Obi-Wan leans down and presses a kiss to her knee.

Satine looses a shuddering breath. It makes him look up—look up and smile as he notes the flushed expression on her face, the slightly parted lips. She knows what he wants, now—has never wanted it more badly herself.

She only gives him a nod before losing herself in him completely.

Obi-Wan’s mouth moves up her leg now, tracing her inner thigh, the kisses more open, more wet as he reaches closer and closer to where she aches the most. Satine can’t help but shift slightly, her body already desperate for friction—for him, filling her entirely, their bodies joining as one the way they were always meant to be.

Obi-Wan chuckles lowly as he notices her desperation—her impatience. He braces his other hand on her other thigh, now, curling his fingers around it, holding her gently yet firmly in place. It crosses her mind now that anyone could walk into the throne room, or fly past the large, wall-length windows, at any given moment—and find their Duchess spread open on her throne with a former Jedi’s face buried between her legs. They’re exposed here, too exposed, and—

Obi-Wan seemingly senses this—or perhaps she said those words out loud—and chuckles again, the rumble of the sound reverberating into her skin. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Satine laughs then—though the sound melts into a moan as Obi-Wan’s mouth hovers inches away, right over the apex of her thighs, and she can practically feel his smile as he understands her plot at last—as he realises that she is, indeed fully bare under the gown he’d so eagerly opened.

“Clever,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his breath tickling her hot skin.

Somehow, she still has half a mind to tease. “You know me.”

He hums. “Indeed I do. Though perhaps,” Obi-Wan says, pressing a kiss to her clit that makes her gasp echo through the walls, “Now is a good time to get, ah…reacquainted.”

Satine swallows. Hard. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The golden glow of his eyes is her only warning as Obi-Wan’s tongue drags clean up her centre.

Satine’s head rolls back, resting against the solid rock the throne is made of, and the city beyond seems to disappear entirely—there is only her and Obi-Wan now, Obi-Wan and his blasted tongue as it takes another taste.

He licks into her like the world is shattering around them—like there is nothing left that matters but the feel of her cunt fluttering around him. She peels herself off the stone headrest to look at him, to take him all in, and the sight makes everything tighten inside her—she needs him now, hard and fast, for all the years they’d lost that they could’ve had together.

Obi-Wan’s fingers move then, travelling down her to her entrance, a small groan escaping him at the slickness there. He licks her again, long and wet up her cunt, before two of his digits move inside her, thrusting in and out until she is breathless and all she can see are stars.

Satine cries out his name, then, overwhelmed with the pleasure he’s coaxing from her as his fingers curl up against the roof of her walls, hissing as she tightens around the touch. He, too, is panting now, his tongue swirling over her clit, swollen from the attention he’s been giving her, from the look of pure, unrestrained hunger upon his face. He licks her like a man starved, like he lives for the moans and the raspy breaths she’s offering him, mindless from the feel of his long fingers pumping in and out of her in a quickening pace.

She’s practically shaking, now, her blonde hair a sea of waves falling messily all over her face. Her grip on his own hair tightens—she is so close now, with her heart thumping loudly in her chest and lightning coursing through her veins. Obi-Wan doesn’t stop though, his tongue flicking at her clit, determined to see her come apart. To see her belong to him just as much as he does to her.

When his mouth closes on her clit and sucks, Satine comes with a strangled cry.

The only sound she’s able to make is the gasping chant of his name as he continues stroking her pulsing walls, riding her through her release. His mouth presses slow, gentle kisses to her clit now, ones that reduce her to nothing but a shuddering mess around him.

His eyes seem brighter than ever when he pulls back at last—like the brightest light in the darkness. She realises then that, perhaps, that is what the two of them are—have always been—to each other. No longer the Duchess and the Jedi, but Satine and Obi-Wan. He has always been hers, the same way she has always been his. For her, he will lay himself bare and become the man he thought he’d never get to be. For him, she will make sure he gets to remain that man forever.

They will fight for each other.

And that will always be enough.

[zillyeh]

Broken Boxpin

Ink fingers gripped the rim of the slate gray tub, the ones opposite them clutching at the matching shower wall plastic. Being submerged at all was not the troll in this bathtub’s ideal scenario, but she knew better than to go for sopor when she was like this. The water was certainly also subtly hallucinogenic- who knows what chemicals were in the Old North's supply- but its warm embrace was preferable to the mild hallucinogens of that slime. It made her worse. It made the hers and hims at the edge of her vision and hearing more tangible. Whatever calm it brought the average troll, if it did at all, it did exactly the opposite for her.

Water, warm and familiar, wasn’t that good of a replacement. Her aching joints rejoiced for it, and so did the electricity lurking dangerous just under her skin. If she wasn’t careful in this soothing little bath, she could level half a city block. Maybe more than that. Her last leveling had been when she was starved and sickly. She wasn’t un-sickly now, under her skin disguising tattoos, but she’d put pounds of muscle on underneath them. Stronger places for those sparks to latch onto.

He blew bubbles in the water. It was still slimy, at Bessba’s insistence. With some fizzy, citrusy little ball she’d thrown at her head before she left. It was orange and pink like everything else Bess had brought to their now shared apartment. The swirling foam’s pleasant smell made a good anchor. A dock in the waters of her growing wet panic attack.

She gripped the side of the tub harder, eyes darting around the room. Seeing too much and too little all at the same time. The chitinous plastic of the tub rim would have broken if not for the fact that the projections of her brain made her weak. All that strength of his wiry muscle seemed to leave his body the further back she went. 

The cool drone concrete of the underground compound underneath her bare legs. The stark but sparse fluorescent lights. Her. Him. Tendrils of His hair at the edges of her vision, the heave of her breathing in her ears. Never the her she wished would haunt her. If she wanted that at all. 

Her old warden's fingers curled on the side of her bed. The tub. Her black painted fingernails and wrist rivets were solid. Touchable. Tangible. The troll in the tub- the medical bed?'s eyes fixated on her knuckles. Rough with use, but soft enough for the scalpel. He knew that all too well. The rest of her could hardly fit in the room. Funny how they'd found this place, but couldn't accommodate the hulking monster that called herself a surgeon.

She smelled like citrus. No. Someone he loved smelled like citrus. The one that was alive- not the one that was buried in the crater she'd made with the bomb in the bed. With Cerayn. With…

His eye swirled above her abdomen, bright red and orange with wisps of hot yellow and near white. His blackened claws grabbed her legs. Black hair dancing around his swirling eye- no, pink, pink pink. The swirl was pink and the dark of the water was her own tattooed skin. Skin that was not sick and cast with the vile color in her veins, if it ever had been anyway. 

With a gasp she pulled her head above the water. Her long black hair clung to her shoulders like a second- or in her case third- skin. The warden's hands still clung to the tub, still tangible, but almost silly looking without anything higher than her forearm to connect to. His eye disappeared with a swat of the water, but his arms remained. Multiplied. Crawled in and out of the water like spiders, then as spiders hissing at the edge of the tub. All of them had his terrible eyes, but all of them were also trying far too hard. Like a dream that isn’t quite right when you try to close your eyes and get back to it.

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, grabbing the hosed shower head above her and turning on the water. Spraying the bare wall made them disappear. Disappear enough, anyway.

“Babe, you okay in there?” called En- called Bess. Gods he couldn’t start drawing that line. Then she really would blow the Old North to nothing.

“Fine,” Zippie croaked hoarsely. Citrus. She’d always found the scent unpalatable. Those were hard fruits to come by in the swamp. Now it was the only thing that drew her out of her head- or at least helped. She glared at the warden’s hands. She flipped them off. They did so in return. Their tangibility faded as Bessba spoke more through the door.

“I made that tea that doesn’t bother your stomach if you’re up for it…” The warm of the bath had faded, sending a shiver through him. How long had he been in there for? Too long if Bess was knocking.

“Okay, I’ll be out in a minute.”

He sat up with a cough. Then hacked a more significant amount until he felt new wetness on his pruned fingers. The purple glob in his hand gave him one last spike in adrenaline, making him splash the water as he scrambled out of the tub. Seeing her shadow with such clarity should have snapped her out of it immediately. The logic of her glasses on the edge of the sink didn’t make her heart slow, however.

Tall. Overstretched. Some shape of her dual braids curling behind her like snakes. Her eyes were that same color, glowing like that false smear of blood on the tub. She was entirely shadow otherwise, but Zippie didn’t need her mind to reconstruct her. She could never forget every agonized angle that the warden and that demon took from her.

One of the shadow’s hands extended, warped into claws to punish her once she got close enough. Her voice rattled- falsely high and far too scratchy to belong to the young woman in question as she attempted to speak.

“Zvejia…”

All of that electricity seemed so alive now. Just under the surface. So close to the pool of water under her.

“Zippie!” Knuckles rapped on the door three times in quick succession. “I need you to not be in there like, right now.” 

It was easier said than done, but she pulled herself shakily to her feet, not taking her eyes off the shadow. Was this the first time? In how many sweeps? She almost didn’t want her to fade. She knew she deserved her ire, but more than anything she wanted to be able to manipulate this one. To have the half-real thing say she forgives her and that she did was for the better. Or have her slap her as hard as her own hands could.  

It’s eyes only narrowed. Disappearing as quick as it came. She coughed again- no blood this time- and grabbed a towel. One of the fluffier robes Bess brought with her as well for good measure. He’d almost forgotten he was in his apartment when he opened the door to Bess.

“I feel bad,” she managed to say through chattering teeth. Bess pulled her close.

“I know,” she said, planting a kiss on her temple. “Amy’s gonna be here in a little bit… Are you gonna be okay?”

Zippie gave her an exhausted, wry smile.

“Have I been since you met me, sugar?”

[gay-for-the-snz]

Interview (M, allergy)

After one billion years (actually a bit over a year, it seems!) I am finally finished with a lil something that also introduces a recurring character who's already in another couple WIPs that were being picked at concurrently! Meet Joseph's TA, Monty!

⁂

The door to the office is shut firmly, the sign-up sheet for office hours conspicuously turned backward to face the wall. No visitors, is the clear message it sends, but he glances at his phone again to double check the time. 2:27.

His email said their appointment is at 2:30, but already he's been sitting here staring stupidly at the door for over fifteen minutes. Just go knock! But it doesn't feel that simple. Dr. Valentine is a man who is precise in everything he does. Showing up before the appointed time feels just as dangerous as showing up late--he was given a time, he needs to abide by it. 2:28.

Monty fiddles with his resume, contained safely within a plastic sleeve and safe from the crinkling every other paper in his possession has fallen victim to--a nervous habit, really, one he ought to try and overcome--but for now it's just him and this resume waiting in an otherwise empty hallway across from the office of one of the most universally disliked professors the college has to offer. And it's not that he thinks he's a bad professor, or, he thinks, even a bad person, really--why would he apply for a job with someone who was just plain unkind?--but he's...blunt. Direct. Someone his ma would say had 'the same social grace God gave a leech'. 2:29.

He finally works up the nerve to approach the door, and the millisecond before his fist collides with it, it swings open in front of him to reveal the grim man, backlit by the afternoon sun in a manner that reminds him of the chiaroscuro of horror movies. Monty recoils, awkwardly holds his hand with his other one to occupy it. The clock on the wall displays the time. 2:30.

"Dr. Valentine!"

"Mr. Cavanaugh."

"You uhm--you startled me, sorry." He didn't expect him to be...right there.

The doctor stands directly in the doorway, looking at him for an overly long few seconds before stepping aside and granting him entry to the office. "Come in. Your interview will begin momentarily."

Despite the fact that he has several inches on the doctor, Monty finds himself feeling like that's far from the case, but he follows him in nonetheless.

He's only been in the office once before this, and after taking his seat he allows his eyes to wander a little while Dr. Valentine pulls up paperwork on his computer. The room is plainly unremarkable, save for the scarce personal elements.

A row of Polaroids and printed digital photos are carefully tacked up across the bottom of one of the cabinets, several depicting a young man and woman, occasionally alone but often together. He makes a note to look more closely later when it won't seem rude. The only thing truly of note in the room is that his desk chair--an ancient thing, judging by the way it creaks--is topped with an antimacassar, which he doesn't think he's ever seen outside the houses of women in their 90s, all trimmed in lace and carefully set just so. And God knows the man needs it--he doesn't know how much pomade the doctor uses, but his hair is slick and shiny and the way it's combed back is neat and tidy to an almost uncanny degree.

"Alright, let's begin." Dr. Valentine takes the protected papers from their sleeve and thumbs through them. "Theodore Montgomery Cavanaugh." He enunciates each name clearly and separately, glancing over the paper at him before looking back down. "You took one of my classes two quarters ago. Passed with a 3.8--quite respectable--and a relatively good GPA overall at a 3.78. Below average for an Ivy school, but you've got time to bring it up if that's your goal." The papers are set aside, and in their place he grabs a clipboard. "Why do you want this job? What is your goal?"

There is no sense in lying, so he doesn't. "I think it would be an incredible opportunity for me to advance my skills by working with someone who's accomplished and well respected in the community, and it looks good on a resume to have done so. When I've completed my courses here, I want the best chance I can get to be accepted when I try and transfer somewhere else."

Dr. Valentine doesn't comment, he just writes a note on his clipboard with an appraising "hm" and continues. "Next question: what is your biggest weakness in the workplace?"

"I'm extremely detail oriented, and it occasionally leads me to--"

The man clicks his tongue in disapproval, underlining something he had written before setting down his notes and leaning forward in his chair to steeple his hands on the desktop. "You were so honest on the last question, Mr. Cavanaugh, why not on this one? You'll force me to have to list 'liar' beneath weaknesses." He clicks his pen a few times thoughtfully, leaning back somewhat in his chair and giving him a bit of space to answer without being so close. "I am not the unpaid intern in Human Resources who will throw out any application that doesn't have the standard buzzwords. We're having a conversation, you will answer me like it's one. Try again."

He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses out of nervous habit before trusting himself to speak again. "I'm a horrible public speaker, I can't stand the thought of having to present to others with all of the attention on me, and I've often deferred to other classmates to bear that part of it. I'm much more comfortable to be in the background than to be on the centerstage."

"See? Honesty isn't so difficult now, is it?" Dr. Valentine's expression wears a thin smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and there is little else about him that indicates he is pleased with this answer. He picks his clipboard back up, scribbling something onto it before ending with a sharp jab of a period. "Now, why shouldn't that stop me from hiring you? After all, a TA would be required to do presentations on occasion, and many professors expect you to be leading lectures on your own." The unspoken part is 'not me, of course, but others'.

"Because you're not a professor who is one to shunt his work onto others. I've watched you with other TAs, and you never once had one of them behind the lectern. I do excellent otherwise, and my weakness is in an area where you wouldn't want to be utilizing me anyway."

The professor smirks somewhat as he writes. "You pay attention. An important trait for any assistant." His expression wavers somewhat, and he gives an irritated sniff before plucking a tissue from the box on the corner of his desk and giving his nose a vigorous rub. "You are unlikely to be thrust directly into the spotlight, you will be eased into it, but I would be doing you, as well as myself, a disservice in not properly equipping you to handle all potential aspects of your job, including leading a class. I would never leave you without thorough and extensive notes, and would ensure I was in the room with you to answer questions or assist you in another manner, so you can be assured you wouldn't be left with no resources or backup. Would these accommodations be acceptable?"

It's the first time he feels like he's actually breathed this whole interview. Monty lets his posture relax somewhat, adjusting his glasses briefly to occupy his hands. "I could make that work, yes."

"This is no promise of a job, you understand. We still need to run through the rest of our interview."

"Of course, I understand."

"Good. Next question: do you own a dog?"

The question strikes him so by surprise he's sure it comes across on his face. "Do I own a dog?"

"I need a teacher's assistant, not a parrot. Yes, that is what I asked. If you want to continue this interview, I suggest you answer the question."

"I do, yeah. A German Shepherd named Dolly."

He sniffs sharply as he makes a mark on the paper. "Noted. The pay for this position was listed when you applied. I'm aware it isn't the most illustrious, but there is an opportunity for negotiation on this after your first month, if you've proven yourself to be deserving of it. Will that be an issue?"

"No. It's actually more than I make at my other job, so this would let me drop the hours on that somewhat and let me focus more on this." He bites back the urge to ask what the question about his dog was about, if not to simply throw him off his game, which he's heard is something the doctor frequently does. "That shouldn't interfere with my time here, though, I'm available during your office hours and my schedule is mostly clear during your class days this coming quarter, so I can work that around whatever my course load and hours here end up."

"That takes care of my question for later, then. Now, you've taken my class before, and you've--hold on." He cuts himself off, holds up an index finger as he turns away with a wavering breath. His shoulder rise sharply as he gasps, then ducks into his elbow. "hH'RRRASHue! 'RRISH'ue!" He sneezes violently, holding his position for a second longer than strictly necessary before he lowers his arm with a sniff and plucks a pair of tissues from the box to blow his nose into. "Excuse me." He sniffs sharply again and squirts some sanitizer into his palm.

"Bless you, Doctor!"

He ignores the blessing, picking up where he left instead. "As I was saying, you've taken my classes before. You know my teaching style, and by extension, me. Are you willing to compliment this, rather than attempt to change it?"

"I am. You're very straightforward and efficient, and I think with my assistance the technological aspects would be smoother. The fiddly background bits are where I really shine."

"Are you adaptable enough to shine with whatever technology and systems it may be that the University has deemed itself willing to shill?"

"If not, I'm more than willing to spend the time watching videos or listening to hold music for the customer support." His eyes are locked on the doctor as he swipes at his nose with the tissues again with an irritated scowl. "Are you--"

Dr. Valentine cuts him off with a gasp that goes nowhere, leaving him blinking away moisture that isn't quite far enough to consider tears just yet, but whatever it is that's bothering him seems to be worming its way deeper, spreading from simply a pair of sneezes into watery eyes and nostrils that are just barely damp and pink as he sniffs again. "Customer Support is an oxymoron. If I can consign someone else to its flames, I will be all the happier for it."

"I've spent my fair share of time sitting with nothing but the Muzak and my thoughts."

"Then you're inoculated against the worst part of learning these new programs." He glances at his wristwatch, and Monty glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. 3:13.

"I'd say I am."

"So," he plucks another pair of tissues and swipes again at nostrils rapidly beginning to darken from a shade of pink to a shade of red, the sniffling taking on a decidedly wet sound as it progresses, "there is one other important point of your job that we need to discuss. You will, from time to time, be required to discipline your fellow students. I don't expect you to come at them with a rod, but I do expect that, when it is your time to present a lesson, you keep order in my classroom."

"What would that look like for me as a TA? Would you grant me the same authority to deduct points from exams, or to have them leave the lecture for disruption?"

"I'm not deputizing you to be Machiavelli, but I will take your input under advisement, and support your decisions regarding discipline. You may consider me your instrument of authority in the moments in which it has been ceded to you." He sniffs sharply, and once again extends an index finger with a wavering breath, before he curls into his elbow with an absolutely wrenching, "hAH-! 'RRRSH! RRASH'ue!" and another overly liquidy sniffle that sees him turning his chair away completely to blow his nose forcefully against the mounting congestion. He turns back after he seems somewhat satisfied, though it's growing more evident that the satisfaction won't last long. He looks, to put it mildly, fucking miserable

The idea of disciplining other students still doesn't sound appetizing, but he wants the job, and there's not really any way around it. "I don't like the idea, but I do feel more confident knowing I would have your backing."

The doctor scribbles something on the paperwork, flipping to another page of it. "That concludes my questions for you. Do you have any questions for me?" Red-rimmed eyes, nearly the same color as the nose that threatens to betray him again, look up from his clipboard, shiny with unspent tears held in check by whatever is in his system.

"Are you, uh...allergic to dogs?"

The look he gives him is one that starts off giving little away, before his brows pinch together and he mutters something hurriedly beneath his breath, turns his chair away--again--and sneezes--again. "hH'RRRSHuh!" He looks unsure of himself for a second, the tissues still pressed over his nose, before he finally sighs and progresses from the threat of another sneeze to a harsh sniff, a steadily less efficient attempt at blowing his nose, and a second harsh sniff before he turns back. "I am. Which brings us to my next point. Congratulations, you've got the position."

"Oh! That's gre--"

"On one condition." He stands from his chair and leans forward across the desk to bring them closer to one another. "You will keep a change of clothes here, or in your car, or on Pluto if that's what it takes, or you will shower every single day before you come here, but you will not wear anything into this office again that is covered in dander. I don't intend to medicate for allergies year-round, and this is my office more than it will be yours. Are you amenable to this? It will be added to your paperwork as stipulation."

"I, uh--yes. I can make that work. Yes."

"Excellent. Then sign here, and get ye gone."

⁂

He emerges several minutes later from the office, the sound of yet another sneeze following him out before the door closes behind him. He instinctively skitters further down the hall, away from the office, before pulling his phone out and dialing his sister's number.

"Hello?"

"Annie." He breathes a sigh of relief at her voice, and leans his head against the window pane. Students are scurrying like ants down below on the paved brick. "I just wanted to check in with you."

"Well, you know how it is on Tuesdays." She doesn't elaborate on what that actually means, and even through the crackle of the phone line and the conversations in the background, he can practically hear the frown in her voice. "Today was your interview, right? Did it...?"

"It went well. Really well, actually, I got the position."

"That's fantastic! You were applying to TA, right?"

"I was! Or I--I guess I am, now. There's just--uh, well there's one thing about it, I guess. It's for--do you remember that professor I told you about a couple quarters ago?"

"Oh, T..."

He winces at her tone. "Yeah. It's --... yeah. Uh, it's him. The interview went well and all--I mean, I got the position after all--but it's going to mean...you know...spending a lot of time around someone I can't really get a read on, and who I don't think really wants to have time spent around him."

"Well, I'll give you two pieces of sisterly advice. Number one: if he didn't want someone around, he wouldn't have opened the position. Clearly he thinks you're good enough to hack it, so don't get all weird and in your head about it. Number two: if he tries anything, I'll fly back over there and kick his ass for you. Number three--"

"I thought you said there were only two pieces of advice?"

"The second one was a freebie, it doesn't count. Number three: be prepared to say no. I know you like to be helpful and all, but you also need to set your boundaries. Don't let him walk all over you like a word I can't say while having a phone call near kids on the city bus."

"I think honestly the biggest issue is that he's allergic to dogs."

"Given that Dolly sheds an entire dog every day, I'd call that a reasonable assumption."

"It's not the hair that triggers it, really. It's the saliva and dander, and her coat can trap dust or pollen and--"

"And you still walk in with a fur coat every day. How bad was it?"

"I stopped counting after like a six or seven sneezes within our hour interview and paperwork signing. I may have hearing loss."

She laughs, and he smiles at the sound. He wishes again that she didn't live out of state. "Well, start hittin' him with the 'mines, then."

"The antihista- variety?"

"The very ones. Hey, I've gotta go, it's almost my stop and I'll have to run to make it to my shift on time, but I'm proud of you! And I'm serious about the boundaries thing--be an agreeable assistant, but firm."

"Have a good day at work, Annie."

"Promise me."

"Annie--"

"I'm not hanging up until my sweet little baby brother promises he's not gonna let his jerkoff boss treat him like a doormat."

"Aren't you on the bus still?"

"Monty!"

"Okay, okay! I promise! Go to work!"

The little disconnect chime sounds, and he drops his phone to his lap in relief. This year is going to be an exceptionally long one.

[atrwriting]

future problems — coriolanus snow x fem!wife!reader

hi everyone :) jumping on the bandwagon

this man is so fine i couldn’t help myself. i hope everyone had an amazing holiday if they celebrate — i celebrate christmas, so here is my almost 10k word christmas gift to all of you xoxo love u all v much thank you for reading !!

as always, warnings: corio-lame-o is a fucking warning holy fuck, smuuuuut, arranged marriage (i think this counts?), coriolanus is a distrustful evil fuck (but he’s super hot), fem!reader, reader is married to this dickhead (i say as if i wouldn’t want to be lmao), angst, sexism and misogyny is def in here, p in v penetration, m receiving oral, choking, dom!corio, asshole!corio, sub!reader, subspace kinda

informal warnings: bro what the fuck was i on this is literally 10.2k words and i refuse to edit because im super lazy anyway we die like men you've been warned

anyways… here is future problems:

he never wanted to get married.

he saw it as a potential problem, one that would most definitely lead to loose ends — and he hated loose ends.

despised them.

however, his innate need to maintain an image was far more important to him. he weighed the costs and benefits in his head like an algorithm — check, check, check. coriolanus’ mind left no stone unturned, especially when future problems were to be squashed before they could ever be wiped from memory. in the end… he decided he would marry.

and it would be you.

he never allowed himself to be naive — so he would never allow himself to marry someone he already loved. lucy gray? a child’s want for something they can’t have, and something they wouldn’t realize until later that it was a walking regret. no — he could never marry someone that would harm him. absolutely not. out of the question. therefore, it had to be you.

it had to be you because what harm would you cause him? you were shy, quiet, of satisfactory social standing, and uncontroversial. everything a patriarch of the snow family would want. deserved. be entitled to.

he needed someone that wouldn’t be a problem — a loose end in the future. he had conquered so much — he refused to let anything else, especially as irrelevant as a significant other, stand in his way.

however… it did not aid him in his stone-cold lack of a love affair conquest that you were absolutely breathtaking.

at first, it was just an ego boost. he simply couldn’t stop his thoughts from voicing, of course she’s perfect. the snow legacy can only have perfect.

but then… oh, then…

then he saw your smile.

oh, your smile.

your fucking smile.

the first time he caught himself enjoying it — he scolded himself. he refused to see you for a week. a punishment of sorts. more so for him than for you. after, he refused to let his eyes wander on the pretty features of your face for him to witness a reaction to something someone had said or done. he didn’t want to be reminded of what it was like to experience joy or peace because someone else was experiencing it — that was what almost costed him everything he had built.

no one would ever tear that down. not again, not ever.

no one.

when the day of your marriage came, it was business as usual. he refused to meet eye contact, and did not partake in more conversations with you than he had to. he could tell you felt uncomfortable — but he forced himself not to care. he drove it down, down, down like a miner drilling for more coal — hoping, one day, it would be worth it.

and it was… until he was sick.

it was a minor ailment — nothing major, but he was on bedrest for about a week or two. he had employed enough adequate members to his staff to feel that things would at least be taken care of until then. he also found comfort in the fact that two weeks was not long enough for something irreversible to occur. if a problem had taken placed, he would be able to rectify it once he was well and able and… set aside the responsible party.

however, he did not expect one problem.

and that would be you.

he knew you were asking to see him. he knew, he knew, he knew, but he refused to let you in. you were not disrespectful — you had only asked once a day, which happened to be every day in the afternoon. he had picked you specifically because you were too quiet to be annoying. however, his own perfect, pristine, and proper plan had stabbed him in the back. he had never considered that the perfect, pristine, and proper wife would be this dutiful to him, checking in once a day on his condition and to speak with him. despite his illness, he laughed at himself — leave it to him to not expect the expected: the hand-selected dutiful wife would, in fact, be dutiful.

he had to put an end to it. he couldn’t keep saying no for another week. how was he expected to get better if you kept bothering him?

so he let you in. this once. just this once. he reasoned that if he let you in this once, you would be less persistent. just this once — and another problem would cease to plague his mind.

just this once, he chanted in his head. just this once.

he sat up straighter, and attempted to shape his hair so it wasn’t terribly unkept. he reasoned that if you saw him appearing to be healthy, you wouldn’t feel the need to come back. he thought —

but he couldn’t finish the thought.

because you walked in.

smelling like fucking lilacs.

lilacs, of all things. lilacs! not roses, not anything else — lilacs. he did not hate lilacs, but he despised the actual flower. only beautiful for so long before it died and the stench was intolerable. an inconvenience. a nuisance. a guaranteed future problem.

however, when you gifted him with a small smile — you realized why small shows of beauty were so valuable in this world. no one else saw your smile — except for those closest to you. people he hand selected to be around you to prevent future problems. he realized then — he had more control and ownership over your smile than either of you thought.

he was so stunned by your smile he didn’t even notice the tray of tea and cakes in your hand. you took a few steps towards him and he shifted in place.

“i brought your favorites,” you spoke softly. “i know you should rest — i just wanted to ask if there was anything i could do to make your recovery easier.”

“no, thank you,” he replied, voice raspy. “i should be well in a few days.”

you nodded and offered an uneasy smile. his eyes flickered over to how once you had set down the tray on his beside, you slowly wiped the palm of your hands down the front of your dress. your eyes were cast absentmindedly in front of you, on the wall — and he could tell something was plaguing your thoughts.

he then also realized there was a book on the tray, much to his dismay.

“someone had mentioned that this was your favorite author. this was published a few days ago,” you began. “i understand that you have been experiencing headaches, and may find it difficult to read… so i wanted to offer to read aloud for you, in case you found these walls dull.”

you smiled — it was an attempt at a joke. he smiled back, but only to be polite. “today i find myself wanting to sleep. i appreciate your offer.”

you smoothed your hands over your dress once more before nodding and forcing a smile. “i’ll leave you to it, then.”

you did not bid him farewell — and he found himself wondering if he was annoyed or grateful. you simply exited the room, and let the door shut softly behind you.

he scrunched his eyes at the door, swallowing hard.

however, he didn’t understand why.

he had wanted this. the perfect wife — knowing when to take a hint and frankly, fuck off. you had done that, perfectly well — so why was he pissed?

he then found himself glaring angrily at his favorite tea cakes. the swap of sugar for honey, another one of his favorites. his favorite author, a book he was excited to read when he was better. he knew that you hadn’t asked about him — he employed people with the requirement to let him know when you were asking questions. he knew your every outward thought and concern, and sometimes even the ones that weren’t shared aloud because they were so evident on your face.

and then he realized: you noticed things like he noticed things.

however, he knew why he went out of his way to notice things, but why did you?

his jaw clenched as he glared angrily at the wall in front of him. he picked up a tea cake and chewed it aggressively, swallowing it half-intact. he coughed at the barely there food, anger rising further to his flushed cheeks.

he needed to understand how, and he most certainly needed to understand why.

he never went out of his way to get to know you, because he thought he already did. he thought he had you boiled down to one thing, and one thing only: passive. incapable of proving to be any sort of roadblock that was capable of getting in his way. now that he knew you shared something with him, what else was shared? was there something he had to look out for? was there something he missed? was he wrong about you?!

he had to know. he had to.

to do that… he called you back that evening. it was two hours before midnight, and he knew you were awake. despite having separate chambers, he knew your daily schedule. you would be reading at this moment, and he would ask you to read for him.

as if on cue, he heard a soft rapping on the wood of the door. he beckoned you in, and you entered the room. you were clad in a night dress with a matching robe over it, all pink silk. this time, he returned your smile.

"i apologize for the late hour," he spoke. "i hope you had not retired for the night."

you shook your head, your tendrils of perfect hair shaking slightly. "i was reading. i am glad you sent for me — can i get you anything?"

"i was hoping the offer to read for me was still on the table," he rasped. "i find myself unable to sleep."

you blinked once, staring at him. in an instant, a small smile was threatening to overtake your face into a large one. you cast your eyes down to a blushing manner, but his eyes narrowed slightly on your face. what would you get out of reading for him? what we he not seeing? what did he miss?

"of course," you responded. "i have not had a chance to read anything by this author. i am glad i have the chance now."

why. why. why.

he did not show his discontent. he simply rested back against the pillows as you reached for the book on his bedside table. you sat down on a chair on his side, and you crossed your legs. he eyed the small portion of the exposed, soft skin of your legs and wondered if your new ploy would be to try and seduce him. however, you quickly covered your skin with the extra material over your robe and placed the book in your lap. once opened, you read for him.

he was not listening to what you were saying, but he was listening to how you said it. the tone, the enunciation, the pauses, and the speed. he wanted to find some clue as to why you had made it a point to be at his beck and call, and he wanted to see how long the act would last until it dropped.

the act would drop. it always did.

the hour would approach midnight before he found that he could not discern anything from how you were reading aloud. his plan did not yield the results intended, as you had not broken from fulfilling his task for two hours. two hours. you had not stopped out of boredom or exhaustion, nor to talk to him. you were poised, soft, and he hated to admit it... but sweet. he found your voice sweet, and he hated it.

and he fucking hated himself for it.

he needed this to end so he could plan further. out of necessity, he yawned. if you were to apt at picking up clues, then hopefully you would believe that he was finally tired. you had succeeded in his given task, and you were free to go.

but you had kept reading for him.

he grew angry.

when you had paused to breathe, he spoke up. "I think i am able to sleep now. thank you, sweetheart, for indulging me."

your eyeline raised with your eyebrows, almost out of surprise. you either were not expecting him to ask you to stop, or you did not want to stop. he wondered which, and if that would answer his ultimate question.

"my apologies, i should've inquired sooner," you replied. "he is a very talented writer... i found myself enjoying his perspective."

you grabbed a piece or scrap paper from his bedside table, and tucked it in between the pages where you left off.

"most people would fold the corner," he remarked, eyes drifting closed — a show.

you smiled. "i didn't want to ruin the integrity of your book. goodnight, coriolanus."

she left with another smile — and all he was left with was confusion, and rage.

the next morning, he found himself wanting to call you back in for a further rouse interview. he would have if he had a plan in place.

that was the second thing about you that annoyed him: you annoyed him to the point where he wanted to act without a plan in place. a loss of control —which he was highly against.

that would have to be righted immediately.

he spent the morning reading the pages that you had already read to brief himself as if he was listening last night. he reasoned with himself that the best course of action would be to ask you to read to him again to see if you had grown comfortable enough to let a few of your true colors slip.

they always slip.

the sudden task that was presented to him gave him a new bout of energy that he needed to inch closer to recovery. it gave him the push he needed to be closer to walking out of this room and continue to run panem, and he was lost grateful to you for giving it to him — almost. at the moment, you were a problem — and that needed to be corrected. immediately.

he found comfort in control, so he was very content with routines. he had grown accustomed to bracing himself for your check-in in the afternoon. however, it did not come until the approaching hours of the evening had almost descended upon the capitol. he waited, and waited, and waited — so long that he considered asking you to come for himself. the hour would approach dinnertime when you had finally asked about his well-being, and he sent for you.

how dare you ask so late in the day, as if you didn't care? he allowed you access to his life that he had denied you for so long, and you return his kindness with carelessness? this would not do. this most certainly would not do.

you had knocked on his door, and he had to stop himself from sounding to eager. he permitted you entry, and you entered with the same soft smile.

"good evening," you greeted.

"hello," he replied, voice still raspy from his sickness.

"I wanted to ask if you need anything," you announced.

he offered a small smile. "i enjoyed our time last night. perhaps you would read for me, again?"

your eyes fell to the floor in a blush. "of course. I was hoping to read more of the book eventually. i found it intriguing."

you sat down in the chair and pulled the book in your lap. as you were opening it, he spoke, "i thought when you had not checked-in in the early afternoon you found the book dull — afraid i would ask for you to read it for me again."

you shook your head as you smiled. "i like his writing very much — i was concerned as to whether i had prevented you from sleeping the night prior, and didn't want to disturb you further."

he swallowed. "why would you have disturbed me?"

your eyes glanced upwards from the pages to rest on his face. coriolanus stared back as slight concern washed over your features, making your lips part and your eyes widen. your tongue darted out from between your lips, and smoothed over the skin of your bottom lip. you responded, "before you fell ill, we hadn't spent much time together and i understand that is because of your position — but, to be frank, i wanted to respect your space.”

your answer perplexed coriolanus. he wanted to find out what type of person you were — and your answers were not yielding the expected results. there was no obvious form of manipulation in your words, which then worried him. were you smarter than he believed you to be? were you as cunning as him? more so?

so he went with what was natural: manipulation.

“i apologize my station has not granted us the freedom to get to know each other further,” he replied, holding your gaze. “it is a regret of mine.”

you smiled in an affirmative manner, like you didn’t believe him but accepted his answer anyway. this expression arose the same feelings he now detested your presence for: he acted without calculating his actions and the outcome they would produce.

“what troubles you?” he asked.

your lips parted and slightly quivered. you were not expecting him to ask.

“i-i was worried that i may not… please you,” you admitted. “that… you may regret our union.”

“you have been a kind and dutiful wife,” coriolanus spoke, eyes holding yours. “there is no regret.”

there was that affirmative smile again. he found himself hating it — wishing it would be replaced by the warm, soft one.

“i guess i was hoping that, when i was married, the marriage would be more than… a union.”

your candor shocked coriolanus. he would never have expected you to say something… so out of turn.

“please, forgive me,” you spoke, slightly laughing and waving your hand in the air. “the hour is almost late and i was hoping to read more. do you still wish me to?”

“please,” he answered and nodded.

you gave him a quick, thankful smile, and began reading.

this would be the second night coriolanus had not listened to a word you had said.

he had gotten his answer, and it was possibly as bad as the one he was actually afraid for.

you were good. pure, innocent, and your outlook on the world untainted. you were not striving to find a loose screw and let the empire fall. you wanted… to support the man who built and kept the empire together. it was worse than anything he could’ve ever imagined — you actually cared for him.

you cared for him, and now coriolanus snow was fucking terrified.

and yet... he had asked you to return to his chambers every night after that.

for research purposes, of course. only research purposes,

to read to him, but his goal was to learn more about you rather than the text.

you would sit there and read until he asked you to stop. when he did, you would close the book, smile at him, place it back on his nightstand, and bid him goodnight.

after, he would wrestle with the blankets and pillows in order to find out how to deal with this.

how had he not expected this?

his only fault was that he neglected to realize how far your shyness would go. you had grown comfortable with him — and you admitted that you wanted something more, something he always felt he could not give. you weren’t shy — you just weren’t open with people you weren’t comfortable with.

he should’ve known. he should’ve. fucking. known.

he didn’t know how to deal with this, if he was being honest with himself.

he told himself that he asked for you every evening to get to know you better, for his own sanity and safety; but then he began to realize he had found out everything he needed to know.

good and honest. how fucking unfortunate.

he saw a part of you, but now he needed to know more.

so what did he do? he sent you flowers. flowers. an arrangement of red roses and lilacs.

he hated himself for the lilacs.

he got somewhere with you when he had made the first move before — maybe this would yield more promising results.

however, it didn’t.

all he received in return was an extra tray of food that had arrived in the afternoon. his favorite tea cakes, and a handwritten thank-you note detailed in your appreciation for the beautiful flowers. you signed your name, and that was it.

she doesn’t make first moves, he thought. she responds to them.

he knew what he had to do.

he found himself feeling better that day — well enough to end his sick leave and return to his matters. dinner was approaching, and he sent for you to join him for a private dinner this evening.

he was washed, dressed, and coiffed within the hour.

he found you in the dining parlor waiting for him, inspecting his large bookcase. you were trying to reach a book a bit above where your height would allow, extending yourself onto your toes. coriolanus walked up behind you, towering over you, and retrieved the book for you.

you glanced up at him with wide eyes. “thank you, coriolanus.”

“what intrigued you?” he asked, grinning softly.

“first one i couldn’t reach. i was working my way up.” you smiled at him, and then the book. “please — you must be hungry. let us eat.”

you sat down at the table across from him. dinner manners were rather stiff and uncomfortable, but your upbringing that was similar to coriolanus’ prevented you from straying from them. you ate in silence for a few moments before you spoke.

“how do you like his new book?” you asked.

coriolanus cleared his throat. “i find it riveting. i wouldn’t have been able to read it for some time if it hadn’t been for you.”

you smiled at your plate, blushing. “his points are very interesting. i was never very interested in politics — so the insight of someone so heavily involved with them is very informative. do you find that your opinions align with his? or does he not share your perspective?”

he appreciated your willingness to engage with him about topics you weren’t very fond of. an underrated trait, not found very often — he had to admit.

“a bit of both,” he responded. “the one thing he does not discuss is how important it is to have a certain type of person or persons in your regime that allows the flow of success to continue.”

you nodded. “you have built a strong administration — i’m sure he would admire what you have to say.”

“what do you believe?” he asked. “about partnerships?”

you swallowed, contemplating your answer. “i think… a successful partnership is where everyone is complimented by another. for instance, someone is better at briefing documents rather than the presentation of them, and another is the opposite.”

“which one are you?” coriolanus inquired.

you paused once more, folding your lip under. he realized that was a sign you were uncomfortable — unaware of how to proceed. after a moment, you answered, “i feel the most confident under a strong leader. i prefer to be behind the scenes. minute details are easier to be taken care of that way. while you and i are different, i respect you for being the strong leader panem needed. i am sure the majority would agree with me.”

now was the time.

“it is easy to be strong when one’s wife makes sure they are well,” he replied, eyes resting on your face. “i hope you know i appreciate your willingness to accept change and make sure needs are met.”

you smiled at him once more, then turned back to your food.

damn, he thought. didnt bite.

“and for being the companion i… didn’t think i would come to enjoy the company of,” he added.

you glanced up at him then, astonishment written in your eyes as plain as the words on the paper you read for him every night. “may i ask you… a question?”

he nodded.

“did you believe you wouldn’t enjoy my company before, or after you had first met me?”

“i don’t understand.”

you swallowed, clearing your throat. “were you… wary of the idea of marriage, or wary of me?”

your gaze did not break from his. you were braver than he thought.

“marriage,” he answered honestly, hoping to witness your reaction.

there was the affirmative smile — the one he hated. “thank you for — for being honest.”

your eyes didn’t wait for a response. you turned back to your food, and left him dumbstruck.

“i hope i have not displeased you,” he stated.

“no, coriolanus,” you spoke. “if i am being honest… i was wary i would not be suitable for you. if i have not displeased you, then i am well.”

“but you stated you wanted more,” he countered, tone even.

“i hoped we would… spend time together,” you answered. “and we have.”

it was coriolanus’ turn to be at a loss for words. what would this admission relay? it only solidified what he was afraid of — you wanted a marriage filled of love, and he was not prepared for that. ever.

“the flowers were beautiful,” you spoke, interrupting his thoughts. “thank you for sending them.”

“your lilac perfume is a wonderful addition to the capitol,” he spoke, unsure where this had come from. “i wanted you to know that.”

you weren't supposed to say that you weren't supposed to tell the truth you weren't supposed

you smiled at him appreciatively, that accompanied a slight twinkle in your eye. you were quick to return to eating, but coriolanus couldn’t stop staring at your face. he realized then that was his new favorite smile.

there was a moment, a small moment, where he wondered whether it would be such a crime if he did allow himself to enjoy your company more than he had. in that moment, he couldn’t think of how it would go wrong. for that moment, you were a simple, low-maintenance, beautiful woman on the other side of the table with him that just liked spending time with him — and he enjoyed that you weren’t a problem. would it so bad if he entertained the idea?

he immediately cut himself off. of course it was a bad idea.

once dinner has finished, he had requested to walk you back your chambers. if time spent together was what kept you at bay, he could manage that. he most certainly could.

when the pair of you had approached the door, you stopped for a moment and paused reaching for the handle. you spoke, “would you… like to come in?”

“not tonight,” he rasped. he gave you a polite smile. “another time.”

he watched as you blinked your eyes a few times and your lips quivered. you didn’t meet his gaze, for it fell — in what appeared to be embarrassment.

oh.

you invited him in to… to…

that he had not expected.

before you had the chance to leave, he swooped down and grabbed your chin in his thumb and forefinger. he pressed his lips to yours ever so softly, holding it there. the moment your breath caught in your throat, there was a strange feeling inside his chest that made him feel like he’d like to quell your worries by catching you off guard another time. and another. and another. and another. he couldn’t have you feeling rejected, no — not when he didn’t want to reject you. he needed heirs, sure — but they could wait. he would contemplate how long later.

once he pulled back, you smiled. inside you were bursting, and you wanted to hurry behind a closed door so he could not see your reaction. he continued to hold your chin and gaze at your face. feeling brave, you looked him in the eye as you bid him goodnight and went into your room.

you left him standing outside your door, facing its wood paneling.

what was he to do?

he wanted to keep you as emotionally far away as possible to avoid anything like this occurring. he was prepared for people who had an ulterior motive… not a young woman who only wanted to be good to her husband.

the worst part was… not every part of him wanted him to keep you away.

would it be so bad, if he had actually courted you?

you were not anyone from his past, no. you were not irresponsible and impulsive, and you could be trusted to remain within a designated role and space. you were rarely outspoken — you never strayed from your cue cards, nor did you get smart in private. you never spoke out of turn, which coriolanus always knew — this was just the first time he was more turned on than he was just grateful.

he reasoned a reward was in order.

he found his knuckles wrapping on the door before he could stop himself.

the small movements inside your apartments stalled for a moment, pulled taut like a string in an instrument. he could picture you — standing still and silent, waiting for an explanation.

then he heard footsteps approaching the door before the door handle turned. when you opened the door, the first thing he saw was your eyes.

those big, beautiful eyes that looked at him with surprise — and the slightest bit of hope. coriolanus would most likely try to convince himself that he stayed completely still to exercise a form of control over you — but deep down, he would never be able to believe that completely.

however… when you reached out with your soft, delicate hand, and pulled at his own — it didn’t matter why he did it, because he won.

he shut the door behind him, keeping your gaze.

“i would be coy and ask if we could spend time together in a... different way than usual…” you began, sighing. “but up until this moment i was convinced we would never…”

coriolanus was in no mood to quell insecurities and anxieties. he understood that words could not compare to actions, and so he would do just that.

coriolanus stepped forward, and pressed his large hands against the sides of your face. for a split moment — you almost looked terrified. he usually relished in that look from others, but with you it only made him concerned — angry, even.

“i don’t know what it is about you.” his voice was shaky. it was the first moment in your entire marriage that coriolanus had shown even a shred of weakness. “you smile, you obey, you take my transgressions like they’re fucking sweets. why?! tell me!”

your big, round eyes were blown wide as your brow was knitted together. your lips were parted in an innocent manner, and it only fueled his anger. one of your hands came up to gently lay across the back of his. “coriolanus — have you ever considered that i just wanted to get to know you?”

his eyes searched yours like they were an important document and he couldn’t believe what bullshit he was reading. his lips pursed in a manner that suggested a sour taste, and you felt your joy slipping, slipping, and slipping.

“coriolanus — if you want to go, then go.” your voice was breaking. you knew he was a cool, hard man — but this? this? it was almost too much. “you don’t have to stay if you don’t —“

he couldn’t take your nonsense anymore. he shut you up with a kiss.

he smashed your lips together like it was the first thing he should’ve done when he walked back into the room. a squeal died in your throat at the contact, but coriolanus held you there and upright. both of your hands found the firmness of his chest for balance. when he pulled away — he barely did. he kept his lips an inch away from yours as little tuffs of air pushed past. he leaned his forehead against yours, almost bonding the two of you.

“my greatest displeasure will be making you regret this,” he rasped, eyes screwed shut.

your breathing began to hasten as you contemplated your next words. you began to stroke coriolanus’ hands with your thumbs, hoping to coax him. “you say that like it’s inevitable.”

“it is not far from,” he choked through anger and sadness.

you couldn’t help but stare back at him as he almost glared at you — but then you realized that wasn’t the case. he wasn’t glaring at you — he was glaring through you. whatever traumatized him, whatever made him so distrustful of the world around him and the people in it… you realized then that you represented all of that to him. you had to be different. you had to show him that you were different than all of that.

“i’ve trusted you,” you whispered, almost pleading. “i would like for you to try and trust me. please, coriolanus… i’ve never asked you for anything — just this once —“

coriolanus shook his head, dismissing you. “it’s corio.”

he slammed his lips to yours. his kiss was that of a fight; burning with every cut of anger, frustration, desperation, and sadness in his soul. you weren’t sure if he accounted for your inexperience, but you let him lead as you swallowed all of his suffering. you knew you may never be everything you wanted to be for him — but for this moment, or for whatever he would allow — you could be his escape, and he could be yours.

just this once, you both thought. just this once.

his hands were on both sides of your face, caging you in as you were at the mercy of his bittersweet affection. you tried to keep up with him, almost afraid that you wouldn’t be enough for him — but corio didn’t care. he couldn’t have cared less as he backed you into the foot of the bed. he didn’t stop kissing you as the back of your legs hit your soft mattress, and you were forced to sit down.

with his tongue tangling with yours, you managed to lift your hands to the top buttons of his shirt. he batted your hands away and went to work on his own buttons. you reached behind for your zipper to your dress and attempted to undue it.

corio then pushed your hands away with that too — ripping the zipper down its track and pushing the sleeves down your shoulders.

“corio —“ you gasped through the kiss, struggling to keep up with him.

he pulled away for a short moment, staring into your eyes. “i have denied myself being with you for so long — nothing is stopping me now.”

he held the glare, and you could only stare back at him in fright. however, that was when you realized that he had felt the same way, or at least similar — you both wanted each other, and had been scared to approach the other. your heart filled with warmth, threatening to explode, but all you could do was nod.

he seemed to calm down then, glancing down towards your lips where he prodded your bottom lip with the tip of his numb. “i have wondered for so long what it would be like to kiss my perfect wife — and now that i know, i don’t think i’ll ever give it up.”

you smiled at that. “can i tell you what i have been wondering?”

his eyes met yours once more, almost a warning. you didn’t falter, though. he replied, “yes?”

“i’ve wondered what it would be like to please you,” you spoke softly, a pink hue rising to your cheeks.

his flat look broke then, softening. a smirk greeted his features and you could see his confidence in himself rise. “my lovely wife wants to please me?”

“yes,” you spoke, holding your breath. “if you’ll let me.”

bright and striking, flames of mischief came to light in his irises. emotions of excitement and fear rose within you, and you weren’t sure which was stronger. all you could do was watch as your strong, powerful, larger than life husband stood over you, chin raised, looking down his nose at you, as he unbuckled his belt. his pants and briefs, once around his ankles, were discarded — but you didn’t see that. you couldn’t look away from his eyes — holding you, and your gaze, in place.

it was like you were an enemy he was testing. you didn’t know what he expected, let alone what would make him happy — but you hoped his expectations were slightly lower in light of your inexperience. you swallowed the hard rock of nervousness in your throat, stood up, and gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the bed. he raised an eyebrow at you, but complied. you sat down on your knees in between his, and waited patiently for direction.

“can you…” you began. “can you teach me?”

he smirked once more. “take me in your hand.”

you bent your head lower, and grabbed him by the base. he was hard and warm in your hand as you saw him trying to fight the twitching feeling in his limbs. his muscles were tight, afraid to show weakness. you grew uncomfortable — you didn’t want him weak, but you did want him to feel comfortable enough with you to enjoy a fucking blowjob.

holding his muscle upright, you stuck your tongue out and licked around the tip of his cock. he was salty, but smelled so masculine after a long day. his scent infiltrated all of your senses and had captured your attention. it made you hungry, greedy — so much so that you closed your lips around his cock and began to suck.

he jumped then. “teeth,” he spat.

you paled in embarrassment and fright — but didn’t allow your fear to show for long. you adjusted your tongue and lips — so that your top lip was folded under your top set, and your outstretched tongue covered your bottom set. hollowing out your cheeks, you took him into your mouth once more.

a low hum filled his chest.

you couldn’t see him, and could barely hear him — corio was being a selfish lover and not letting you know whether or not he was enjoying himself. he told you once before you were doing something wrong, so you tried to trust that he would tell you.

that was easier said than done, frankly. with your free hand, you reached up and began to massage his sack in the soft skin of your palm. the hum in his chest turned deeper and louder, and you felt his hips twitch once.

maybe it shouldn't have mattered that he wasn't vocal — but it wasn't like he was shy. you would not fault him for not doing something he didn't want to do, but it was like he was denying you that. if you were making him feel good, and he was fighting the volume of his moans — how fucking dare he deny you of that! there you were, constantly at his beck and call, and he couldn't even freely moan with you? you were obedient, quiet, grateful, everything he wanted — but this? this? too much. absolutely too much of an ask.

you had to do something.

"mr. president," you cooed, twisting your soft tongue around the tip of his cock. "you're awfully quiet above me."

he let out a laugh as he struggled to keep his composure. one of hands found the back of your head as his fingers struggled to tangle themselves in between your strands. they were tugging and pulling, but there was no strength in his grip. his grip — wouldn't catch. couldn't catch. corio, you husband — struggled day in and day out to keep the control in the capital and inside his castle. there was a part of you that believed he just needed to let go, let someone else be in control — but you were his pretty little wife after all. you had until death to try everything. losing control could wait, because tonight... tonight was about making corio the grateful one for once.

you let your loose grip run circles up and down the length of his cock. his shaft was wet and thick, begging the attention of the light from above so the skin was able to glisten. the tip of his cock, red and angry, almost neglected — never had you seen something so delicious, nor deserving of affection. your lips, swollen, wrapped themselves around the tip of his cock as you sucked. notes of salt and sweat mixed together on your tongue, and you hummed at the taste.

"taste sweet, mrs. snow?" you heard from above you. your eyes glanced up to find corio's eyes glazed over with pleasure. his eyelids were drooping over, and all you could think about how badly you wanted to make him close his eyes in bliss. your eyes watched his eyes, but his eyes watched the way your mouth sucked him in. "being so good for me. let your husband see what else you can do."

your ears perked in interest. you didn't know what he meant, but you were intrigued to see if he would teach you.

"please... show me what you like," you spoke, extending your neck as he lowered his face to yours.

"so eager to please..." he spoke, staring down at you in awe. his hand slid down for your scalp to cup your cheek. he looked into your eyes like he was studying you — searching for something surface level. a flaw, or something good... you weren't sure. "i suppose some would say i'm lucky."

you didn't like the sound of that... but you didn't let it show. you gave him a hint of a smile. "i don't think it matters what anyone else thinks. i think what matters is you telling me what you like... so you can decide if you're lucky or not."

he chuckled at that, but his laugh was reserved. always holding back, your husband. "you really want to be a good little wife for me... don't you?"

you fell into the strength behind the hand on your face and keened into his touch. his hand was warm against your skin. "please, corio... please let me."

he stood then, and your gaze raised with his body. you gazed up at him as he stared down at you. there his eyes went again — searching yours. he stood closer to you then, bending down slightly. "it would please me if, at any point, you told me to stop because of the pain. i don't want to hurt you." his voice was low and soft then, immediately striking you. "can i trust you to do that? hmm?"

"i'll tell you," you replied, nodding your head. "i promise."

"never break a promise you make to me," he warned.

you nodded your head once more, unsure how to proceed. he led you over to the side of the bed where he gestured for your to lie down. with the passing of time, you became more and more aware of how bare you both were in front of each other. you were ready to let down every fence of insecurity for the man before you... but there were still walls of his that threatened to come down. he was hot and cold every other moment, it seemed... and you weren’t even sure where to begin.

“husband,” you spoke, unsteadily, as he found his place between his legs. “you seem so… distrustful of me. what can i do? please, corio, i just want this moment to be special for us — for you.”

there his eyes went — searching yours again. it was like he was rereading a page in a book over and over, hoping to find the hidden message in the black and white scripture. his eyes, going back and forth, appeared to be looking over unclear smudges and scribbles as his lips began to purse. you almost said something — stopped him from withdrawing into himself, but he moved before you could.

he sat back against the pillows, which faced a mirror across your bed. you rose curiously, hoping that he would finally give you some direction. he simply took your hand in his, and gestured for you to come closer. “come,” he spoke.

in his lap, maybe? you thought curiously. you went to throw your leg over his, before he stopped you. with a furrowed brow, you watched as he adjusted you so your back laid against his chest.

“do as i say,” he whispered against your ear, sending shivers up and down your spine.

your eyes were cast to the side, his outline in your peripheral vision. you nodded, letting your lips fall apart. you felt one of his hands on the soft skin of your thigh, grazing upwards towards your hips. you almost let your eyes fall closed, hoping to lose yourself in the sensations, before corio stopped you.

with that same hand, he reached upwards and grasped your chin between his fingers. your eyes shot open as he moved your head to now face the mirror, and the pair of you in it.

shallow breaths were pushing past your lips as you stared into the mirror. your cheeks were flushed, your hair in a slight disarray, and your lips were swollen. with a flutter of your eyelashes, your gaze flickered towards corio’s reflection. your husband was always perfect — so even the slight persuasion from tidiness was a remarkable sight to you. his eyes were focused — unable to remain cool, calm, and collected as usual.

his eyes, you thought. his eyes will always tell me.

“you will watch,” corio spoke suddenly, voice hard. “you will keep your eyes on my hands. you stray, and i leave. understand?”

you nodded, looking into his eyes through the mirror.

he cocked an eyebrow.

“yes,” you spoke, almost breathless. “i understand.”

corio’s hand then found its way to your center. the tips of his finger tips, soft and hot, lightly drew a line up and down your slit. your eyes wouldn’t leave the mirror — focused on his fingertips. it was like your skin knew every correct button to tap, tap, tap. every part of you was so sensitive, so keen to his touch that you were embarrassed. you felt so pathetic against his chest, bent to his will — but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. the voice in your head was whining and hoping you would give in, just give in, let down your guard, give in, forget manners. you wanted to keep your composure as long as possible, but when corio’s middle finger found your clit…

oh… you were done for.

one of your hands immediately snapped up to find corio’s bicep and clutch onto whatever foundation he could give. you didn’t dare let your eyes meet his, even in the mirror — what if he stopped? what, huh? what then? when you were the closest you had been ever? you couldn’t allow yourself to be greedy, not when he was being oh, so selfless.

the circles he was drawing taunted your ability remain calm. he rolled your tiny clit underneath the weight of the tip of his finger and pressed down with every circle. it pushed, and pulled, and fucking pried at every fiber of your being. you could only force yourself up and back against corio, whining like a pathetic mess.

“running away from me, my sweet?” he whispered in your ear. “when i’m being so kind?”

his words bit at your ear, reminding you of your position in his world. your eyes were threatening to drift closed, hoping, praying, that corio would let you slip this once from your responsibilities. naive, you were, to believe that.

“remember our deal, wife,” he darkly cooed in your ear. “one request was all i had. i refuse to be denied it.”

“i know, i know…” you whined, rolling your hips with his hand. “it just feels so good, corio… i’ve never… no one’s ever…”

“i can tell you never knew how bad your body would crave it,” he spoke, nipping at your earlobe. “even your pussy obeys me, drenching my fingers. too sweet for this world, aren’t you?”

“just wanna be sweet for you, corio,” you whined as your vision began to blur.

the approaching orgasm was anything but a warm and fuzzy feeling around you. it was hot and jagged — making your muscles jerk, yet force your hips to roll into every movement of corio’s. the cloud over your brain felt like a warm haze of the finest whisky or tobacco the capital could offer. you were numb, drunk, and unable to process the world around you unless it was corio. his touch, his taste, his scent, his look, his orders… everything was setting you off and keeping you in place all at once. your body was hot to the touch, feverish as it tried to fight your sophistication and just fucking —

“that’s it, sweetheart. so focused on the mirror you can’t even find the strength to let go for me,” he spat, pressing a kiss to your cheek and breathing in your scent. “ride my hand like the good girl you are. you wanted to show me, remember?”

tears were brimming your eyes and blurring your vision. your teeth were gritted and bared for him. one of his hands came up to loosely grasp your throat as your hips began to spasm. it was so much, too much, so much —

“corio, please —“ you cried. “please let me look away. i can’t — i have to cry, i can’t —“

there was no softness in his movements against your aching clit. corio had now employed two fingers to dip into your core, collect your slick, and rub it along your sensitive bud in harsh circles. it sent your mind through a suffocating tube and gasping for air. you were begging, pleading — unsure what would happen if you were denied the ability to finish in peace. you began to cry in frustration and fear, so sensitive to the touch and his approval.

“corio…” you whimpered. “please, please let me…”

“do it,” he spat, holding your throat and kissing your face. “show your husband how fucking messy you can be for him.”

you grasped onto him and threw yourself back.

it was like a rollercoaster. twists and turns, yanking your body every which way. corio’s body rocked with yours as the sensations climbed and fit into every single one of your limbs. your lungs, burning, were screaming for air as you tried to fight for consciousness. the world was white, milky, foggy — unable to navigate, let alone exist in. all you could feel was corio’s body moving with yours and coaxing you through the most insane moment of your entire life.

tears fell down your face, and you struggled to conceal it. corio refused to let you hide from him. he bent his face low to yours and pressed the side of his face against the side of yours.

his breaths were heavy, similar to yours.

“corio…” you whimpered, almost whining.

“i know, sweetheart,” he cooed. “so good for me, weren’t you? asking so obediently and politely.”

you nodded, pressing your forehead against his. “i’m sorry that i was —“

“what’re you sorry for?” he demanded.

you clenched your jaw. “i was — i am — i’m worried i was too much — i was so — out of control —“

he shut you up with a kiss. coriolanus snow refused to allow you to continue, or else he knew he would be offended if he had let you finished.

“i wanted that,” he stated. “every bit of that. what, you don’t find it agonizing to be prim and fucking proper every day?”

you laughed uneasily, a bit spooked by his outburst of aggression. “i thought you — i thought that was what you wanted from me.”

he shook his head. “out there — it’s necessary. in here, when it’s only the two of us? don’t ever hide yourself from me. you must promise.”

you swallowed as your haze began to disappear. “only if you promise the same."

you saw his jaw pulse from the corner of your eye. “i promise.”

“i promise,” you returned.

you quickly reconnected your lips. you couldn't let the moment slip away. you needed to seize him while he was there — trusting you for the first time in your entire relationship. you found both of your hands on the side of his face and held him to you. corio fought for control, but you gave in immediately. the need for him to need you was stronger and more satisfying that anything else you could've experienced in that moment. you turned around, straddling his lap and pushing him down to the bed.

everything you were doing was improper: grabbing your husband, forcibly kissing him, sitting in his lap, pushing him down... you almost stopped. you almost gave into the insecurity and made friends with with meekness and shyness once more. however, you made a promise — and you intended to keep it.

"i want you inside me, corio," you whispered against his lips. "please, i want to feel you —"

"again, sweetheart?" he ripped himself from your lips to grunt out his teasing. "one taste, and you're addicted?"

you hummed approval against his lips, tangling your tongue with his. with one hand on the back of your head, holding your face to his, corio's other hand fished between the pair of you and grasped his leaking cock in his hand. the tip was red and swollen, aching for some stimulation or attention. he spread his precum over his tip and with a firm hand, corio slid his cock inside of you.

you arched your back away from corio. the feeling of him being fully sheathed inside of you bent your attention in every which was. both of your hands cradled the back of his head into your chest, where he found himself nestled between your breasts. his breaths were hot and heavy, moist against your skin. his swollen lips found one of your perky nipples and sucked it into his mouth, caving to his primal urges. coriolanus snow wanted every part of you for himself, and needed to place that claim on every part of your body. he wanted your thighs to shake and ache from being locked around him, your fingers to tremble from your hard grip, and he wanted your lips to be bruised from how hard he made you bite them. and, most of all, he wanted every loud moan to rip itself from your aching throat and fill the perfectly painted walls of this damned room.

he cursed you when you threw a hand over your mouth, and he immediately ripped it away. "don't you fucking dare," he spat.

you ignored him. he was your husband, and he was the scariest man you would ever meet, and yet you ignored him. most of all, your hips ignored him. they began to roll against his own the best they could for their inexperience. up, down, and grinding down was the best they could manage before corio grabbed you by the flesh of your hips and moved you to his liking. and when your mouth parted and a loud cry made your throat shake when he twisted your hips forward, he knew he found the spot.

"do not ever deny me what i am owed," he spat, fucking into that spot that wrapped a tight band around your abdomen. "i want to hear how good i am making you feel, and i will. i get to hear. those are mine. i am owed those."

again, you ignored him. what did he expect when your eyes began to roll back into your head and you began to match his pace? you were close, you were so, so close...

that was when corio grabbed you by the chin, refusing to let up his pace. his eyes were full of darkness, yet focus. like he had found his prey. you tried to focus, tried to give him the respect the deserved... but you couldn't. your mind was swimming, and your arching cunt was dripping down his length and onto the skin of his pelvis. you were lost. so fucking lost.

"yours, corio!" you whined. "all yours. only yours."

his voice was gruff against your lips as his thrust became rougher. "say it again."

your eyes began to drift closed as you leaned your head into the crook of his neck, rolling your hips against his. his cock had found its way to the most sensitive and purest part of you and ripped down every wall you had. you sobbed, "yours, corio. only yours."

corio threw you off of him and your back hit the bed. he was on top of you in an instant. he threw your legs up and pressed them against your chest. with your ankles on his shoulders, he pushed himself inside of you and began to relentlessly punish your perfect fucking pussy.

"mine, you got that?" he spat against your ear. "i have watched you, day after day, put on this fucking act! perfect and proper — but i made a proper whore out of the most desirable woman in the capital, didn't i? and now she's mine — forever warming my bed."

"forever, corio," you whined. your sobs were music to his ears, going straight to his cock. your cunt was raw from the friction and slick, unsure if corio should stop or keep going — but you didn't let him guess. "inside me, corio, please... want it to bad. been so good for you..."

his hand was around your throat and demanding your attention. "as if i'd waste a drop when every man in the capital would be able to see you round with my child. you want that wife? my seed, my child? you want to be fully claimed by me?"

"yes," you cried, tears falling down your cheeks. "give it to me, husband, please —"

corio reached down in between your hips and rubbed your clit with whatever energy he had left. his thrust were growing sloppy, but his movements against your swollen bud were worse. he was hissing in your ear as he continued the assault against you. your moans were loud as they escaped your lips and filled the room, setting corio's skin on fire. sweat dripped down from his brow and down his neck to mingle with yours as your second orgasm of the evening began to approach. it snapped the rubber band in your lower belly and you immediately sobbed into corio's neck. his hips continued to rut in you, forcing you down onto the bed as he swallowed all of your sobs for himself. your nails dug into his back and down his spine, hoping to rip parts from him that he had taken from you.

when corio came, you were in a stupor. cock drunk with your mouth hanging open, dazed. when corio came, one of his hands grabbed your messy pile of hair, wrenching at the roots. he pulled you to the side to suck on the sensitive skin of your neck as he pumped your cunt full of his cum. your walls were hot and sticky, full of him, but it only caused the most sickeningly warm feeling to spread throughout you. every primal need of yours was satisfied, and corio could see every bit of it on your face. the pride that welled within your husband... shameful. no man should be in possession of such an ego boost like making the prettiest, more desired woman in all of panem break from all bounds of social etiquette. you were warm, and wet, and craving every bit of his touch, so he couldn't deny you... not anymore. not when he felt the same. with each sob that left your mouth, he felt a kick in the pit of his stomach as his balls throbbed. never in his life had a woman ripped from him what he had taken from her, cheeks hot and muscles worn out.

he would regret it in the morning, maybe, but not now. no — not now.

"husband, forgive me, but..." you spoke. "my mind is a mess. i don't think i can read to you this evening."

corio rolled his eyes and laughed. "that good?"

you pressed a kiss to his lips as you hummed in approval. "never wait that long to bed your wife again."

he chuckled darkly. "watch it, sweetheart."

---

love u guys sm sorry it was so long ty for reading love u love u love u

-L xooxoxooxox

[houseofhyde]

thinking abt aemond falling in love w blind!reader.

pairing. aemond x fem!reader warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to friends to lovers, ableism, so much fluff, a little bit of smut, angst (who said that). no mention of the reader's physical description. wrote in one sitting, no edit, we die like real men. wordcount. 3.1k (this was meant to be a short silly drabble) hyde's input. couldn't get this out my mind so, naturally, i'm making it your problem too now. enjoy, muah x disclaimer ! i'm not visually impaired but i do have several family members who are, to different degrees, and i've tried to stay true to what i remember them describing it like to me. the reader in this is completely blind, however, and that is something i do not have any experience in. please, if you feel anything about my portrayal is wrong or offensive, kindly let me know and i will happily fix it <3

the first time you meet is a few days after the events on driftmark.

with his new disability, the septa encourages alicent to change his usual lessons alongside his siblings for ones held with a couple of other impaired children of highborn status living in the keep.

aemond, of course, protests.

nearly kicking and screaming.

yells at his mother that he doesn't want to be thrown in a box with all the other "broken toys".

he ends up going anyway, dragged there by a handful of guards.

sulks throughout the whole first week, sitting alone in a corner.

and he would've continued to do that forever, if you didn't invade his space.

aka sit down next to him and offer him a book.

"go away," he says, the pout on his lips pointing lower to the ground.

"i don't want to," you refute.

"i won't tell you again, go. away."

"who are you to tell me anything?"

it leaves him speechless, because,

who is he? seriously?!

he thinks you have to be some sort of idiot to not recognise your prince

the following days go the same as the first

you sit near him and hold out a book

he tells you to go away

sometimes you listen

(not without first making it clear that you're moving because you want to, not because he told you to)

other days you don't

you just sit there next to him

staring blankly ahead

not even attempting to open the book that sits in your lap

one day, when he's feeling particularly short on patience

(he had his first sparring lesson with ser criston since losing his eye and it went awfully, each hit and stumble he took to the ground made worse by the echo of aegon's laughter ringing out throughout the whole courtyard)

he asks why you never read that book

"are you an idiot, or something? can't you read? is that why you're here?"

despite how smart he is for his age, he seems to not see the irony in him judging you for being part of an impaired group, as if he isn't also right there with you

such introspection would require acceptance of his loss first, and aemond just isn't ready for that.

"i can't read," you confirm

"because you're slow"

"no."

"then why?"

"i can't see the pages," it's the first time he notices that you're not looking at him. you're trying, face turned and eyes pointed in his direction, but you're staring past his shoulder, "i can't see anything."

he feels guilty,

wretched,

and the sickest twist of comfort.

because he understands

or at least he tells himself he does

because he can't see anything either - out of his missing socket, that is.

the other eye can see perfectly clearly how you don't even flinch as you speak about your disability

and that's when the jealousy takes over.

"then what good is it carrying around that stupid book?"

he says it because he wants to be mean.

so mean that you run away and leave him alone to sulk forever more.

but you just sit there, shrug your shoulders and shift the book around in your palm,

"i like to feel the weight of it in my hand. plus, you never know when you're going to need throw it at someone"

he bites his tongue before he can ask how you can hope to hit a target you can't even see.

the hostility remains

for months, years.

but you sit near him,

he stops telling you to go away,

you still offer the book out to him.

he learns your name.

not because he wants to

but because the septa calls it out one day in the classroom

and you're the one that answers to it.

the first time he sees you outside the study room, you're all alone, none of your father's guards around you,

and that's what really makes him stop in his tracks.

"what kind of lord leaves his daughter to wander blindly around the keep?" he almost says with his usual disgust,

until he notices that you don't have your book

and you're crying.

despite his own discomfort, aemond tells himself he has to comfort you.

because he's thirteen, almost a man.

and what kind of respectable man leaves a girl to cry all by herself?

he wipes your tears with the sleeves of his doublet, waits patiently until your breathing slows, then he speaks,

"what happened?"

"it's you," you say it softly, almost like you can't believe he's the one comforting you.

"it's me. now tell me what happened?"

"nothing," you tell him at first,

until he demands the full truth in the name of his father, king viserys targaryen.

"i overheard my mother speaking to my father about me. i didn't mean to! i just wanted to show them how i memorised the path from my chambers to theirs, without an escort. i wanted to prove that i can be useful, and good, and not a burden. i heard them through the crack in their door. she wants him to send me away to join the silent sisters. she says i can't see, so i may as well not speak either. but my father won't listen. he says i'm his daughter, and that he will not send me away. he loves me too much, i worry he'll hate me for it one day."

that familiar guilty feeling creeps in,

the one he's felt lingering on his skin since the day you told him of your visual impairment.

he's suddenly so aware of the fact he can see you,

and your tear-stained face,

and the shades of blue in your dress.

"where is your book?" he asks.

"i dropped it, whilst running through the halls. i just wanted to stop hearing them, i didn't want... i didn't mean to cause any mess, i'm sorry."

in an act that surprises even him, aemond takes your hand in his

and pulls you both to your feet.

he slowly leads you along familiar hallways, turning corners he's turned a million times.

"where are we going?"

"trust me."

you know he's taken you to the library the minute he opens the doors, a whiff of old books hitting your senses.

he guides you to a book shelf, puts your hand up to touch the exposed spines

and tells you to move forward.

"stop when you feel it's right."

you stop after four steps.

your fingers grazing over a book titled Matters Of The Heart: a Compilation of Fictitious Stories on Love and Beauty.

he pulls it out the shelf,

guides you both over to a bench,

open the dust covered book,

and reads to you.

the following day, when your father's guards guides you down next to aemond in the study room

and you hold your book out to him

he takes it,

shuffles a little closer to you,

and softly recites the words off their pages.

from that day forward, you become an infamous pair in the keep.

the one-eyed prince and the sightless girl,

never one without the other.

aemond becomes your shadow, always two steps ahead or behind you.

you pick out books in the library

and he reads them to you both.

he brings you down to the courtyard

and watches how you flinch each time the clack of wooden swords rings out.

it drives him to be better,

learn to see more in his opponents than even two eyes would allow,

just so he can watch how the smile stretches across your face each time he tells you he won.

you grow so close that one day, the king invites your family to join the royals for supper.

aemond tries not to care that you end up sitting so far away from him at the table.

at least he can look down it and spot you seated at your father's side, he tells himself.

when dinner ends and music starts to play,

aemond ceases the chance to sneak away from his seat and steal the empty one by your side, both your parents having stood to speak with the king.

he brushes two fingers along the back of your hand,

a private, tactile language only you two can speak,

one that tells you it's him, without him even having to say a word.

"prince aemond," you say, and he instantly hates hearing you address him so formally. "you look handsome this evening"

"and how would you know that?" there's no hint of the malice, the mockery he once used to speak to you with, back when he was angry little boy and you were a stubborn girl.

now he's a man of fifteen years and anger is far from something he feels next to you.

he watches you shrug and the smile that he likes best - cheeky, playful - slips onto your lips

"my mother won't stop bringing it up. dashing, she said."

"is that so?"

"mhmm. but she also says my father should offer me to your father and have us both wed, what with our cripple-like qualities making us unsuited for any other lord or lady, so, really, what does she know? for all i know, you're the most hideous thing to walk the keep and i should feel blessed that i can't see you."

"imagine how i feel. i still have to see you."

"oh, the horrors! well then, my all-mighty seeing knight-in-eye-patch, would you lend me your sight one moment and tell me."

"tell you what?"

"do i have anything in my teeth?" you bite back your laughter as you open your mouth and put your pearly-whites out on display for him.

he doesn't even care if the sight is unlady-like

or if anyone else at the table has noticed.

he's too busy laughing along with you and telling lies of how a massive piece of veg is stuck between your upper front teeth.

aegon is as aegon has alaways been,

a thorn in aemond's side,

and he makes no exceptions when it comes to you.

he can't help but laugh at you both

mouth stained with wine as he saunters up and leans his face down between you both.

"isn't it amazing how, between you both, there's only one eye that actually works?"

aemond bites his tongue, like he always does when it comes to his brother.

you, however, aren't quieted so easily.

"oh, so amazing! do you know what's even more amazing? how the stench of you always announces your arrival."

it's the first time aemond feels it.

that flutter in his chest.

and once it starts, it doesn't seem to want to stop,

he seeks you out most hours of the day

and thinks of you when he's not with you.

when he notices the bruises that litter your arms

from bumping into corners and walking into walls

he has a cane made for you, to help you more safely make your way through the keep.

it's the greatest gift he can give you: the freedom to walk your own path.

one day, as he's telling you about the recent flight he took upon vhagar, you ask him what the sky looks like.

"well, it's blue"

you blink at him, wait for the ball to drop.

"but you wouldn't know what that means"

he tries to think of something else, a different way to describe the vastness of the sky

"have you ever ridden upon a horse?"

you nod your head

"have you ever ridden fast upon a horse?"

you nod again.

"that feeling, when you're gripping at the reigns, and the horse's hooves beat against the ground like a drum, and the wind takes no mercy on your hair, and, for a moment, there's this... warmth of possibility, anticipation, right here" he guides your hand to rest atop your chest, on the side that your heart rests. "that you can leap and beat any obstacle in your way, and for a moment the world is open, and vast, and limitless. that is what the sky looks like, the perfect place to race upon horseback."

"except you're on a dragon."

"well, yes, but find me a horse that has wings and i promise to take you riding up in the sky one day."

you ask him to describe more things, more often.

the forest.

the iron throne.

the sea.

vhagar.

each book he reads you.

till one day you ask, "what do you look like?"

he tries his best.

he tells you about his signature targaryen hair,

and helps guide your hand up to touch it.

he tells you about his pointed nose,

and guides your pointer finer up to drag itself down the length of it.

he tells you about his jawline,

and lets you feel that part of him too.

"and your eye?" you ask.

he doesn't say anything

but he does peal off his eyepatch

and guide your hand up to run down the length of his scar.

"what does it look like?"

"gross."

"that's funny, because it just feels like skin. is all skin gross?"

"no but this skin... it's damaged."

"i feel something. it's hard," you murmur, as your nail traces over the curve of the gemstone that fills his socket.

"it's a sapphire."

"a sapphire?"

"yes. it's like a precious, shiny, smooth, blue rock."

"what about the other eye, the one that's still there?"

"what about it?"

"what does it look like? what colour is it? eyes have colours, don't they?"

"they do," he says, gazing into the hypnotising shade of your own, "it's blue."

"the sky, the sea, your eyes. i think blue might be my favourite colour."

he falls asleep that night with a smile on his face

his heart relieved that you never asked him to put into words what you look like,

because there simply aren't enough words known to man,

be it in the common tongue

or high valyrian,

to describe how beautiful you are.

he tells you as much, when you do eventually ask.

in the fallout of storm's end, soaked to the bone and regretful,

it's you who his legs carry him to

your chambers, to be exact

it doesn't even cross his mind to care that his knocking at your door awakens you

he doesn't care, loses all ability to do so when he collapses into your arms

"i made a mistake," he tells you, when you ask what's wrong

"that's okay, mistakes help us learn better."

not this one, he thinks

you're so gentle with him

and your skin is so warm against his cold

that he can't help himself

his lips find yours.

his hands find your hips.

his breath gets lost somewhere between you both.

but that's okay,

you're all the air he's ever needed.

he feels selfish, when he guides you over to your bed.

and he knows he should tell you what's happened,

what's changed.

he knows he shouldn't be touching you with hands that are stained by blood.

but he's desperate,

and he's breathless,

and he's so frighteningly in love with you.

"please, aemond," it's you who begs for more.

it's you who tugs on the leather of his jerkin.

it's you who pulls at the cotton of his shirt.

it's you who he gets undressed for.

you both wind up naked upon your sheets,

limb tangled with limb.

"i wish i could see you," you tell him. "but i don't need to see you to know you're beautiful, aemond. i feel it, in everything you do for me."

so he lets his own eye shut.

decides he doesn't need to see you either,

not like this, his skin tainted with the smell of the rain, and his dragon, and the velaryon boy's scream.

and the truth is, he wants to take you like this.

he wants to be cruel, and damn you to a life by his side.

but he looks at you,

naked beneath him,

lips swollen with his kisses,

the shine of your own arousal peaking out from that space between your thighs,

and all he sees is the girl he read stories to.

the girl who swooned and awed over every cheesy line about a knight,

and all his knightly honour,

loving his lady in the way that's deemed right by the gods and the lords.

and aemond just can't bring himself to defile your honour,

not like this.

so even as you whine,

and moan,

and offer up your maidenhead on a platter of your unapologetic beauty,

the prince just continues to edge at both your own pleasures,

hips grinding back and forth,

lips tangling with your own,

voice whispering nos, and we can't do thats, and not yets.

"tomorrow," he promises, the spill of his pre-seed smearing along your pelvis with each stuttered thrust of his hardened cock against your soft skin, "i'm going to ask your father for your hand."

"but, how?" you sound so pretty, he can't help himself and lets his eye reopen, searing the haunting image of you naked and pliant beneath him into his mind's eye.. "your mother... she said you flew to offer your hand to one of the baratheon girls."

"what i promised lord baratheon was a targaryen prince, and i intend to keep that promise," he speaks with so much conviction, skipping over the events of his nephew, and his dagger, and his joyride in the sky. "daeron is a boy of sixteen, he can have her. but i, i will belong to you."

the will to leave you, maidenhead still intact, somehow finds its way into his heart

he doesn't fail to leave you sated, however,

his finger dancing along the pretty pearl that has you whining his name and losing your mind upon the mattress.

he keeps his word,

wakes not with the urgent need to discuss last night's war-inciting events with his mother

but with the burning desire to find your father and win his approval

he doesn't find him in his quarter of the keep.

or in the training yard.

or in his seat at the small council.

what he does find is his fear stricken mother,

his stoic grandfather,

his giggling brother.

"aemond, what have you done?"

he doesn't answer

they already know what he done,

the whole realm likely knows, his half-sister too.

so he asks what he really cares about,

asks where your father is.

"he's gone," his mother answers.

"after he heard about your business with lucerys," aegon continues. "the traitor's taken his family to dragonstone and bent the knee to our bastard-bearing cunt of a sister."

so yeah that's what i'm thinking about.

anyway, goodnight <33

[mumms-the-word]

A Little Boat Voyage

Pairing: Gale x Tav (Dani) Summary: Immediately after defeating Cazador and stopping Astarion from ascending, Gale and Dani need to discuss Gale's own ambitions. She agrees to a little voyage on the Outer Planes to hear what he has to say, preparing to fight him about his plans. ao3 link Tags: Angst, fluff, teeny tiny bit of implied smut, mostly angst A/N: This is a rewrite of the Act 3 romance scene that reworks a lot of the potential dialogue for that scene to fit what I actually think would have happened for Dani and Gale. I combed through the datamined file for all the dialogue that Gale and Tav could say, depending on all the possible situations for this scene, and stitched together a lot of game dialogue with Dani's own convictions about Gale's plans. So in my head, this is canon for them lol

Astarion’s words echoed in Dani’s head as she left his side in the group’s Elfsong Tavern suite. He was sitting by the window, looking out onto the moonlit streets below, contemplating the aftermath of his decision to slay Cazador rather than ascend, trying to process and make sense of it. She had gone over to speak quietly with him, knowing he needed her more than Gale did in this moment, and in the midst of the conversation, he had looked up at her with a kind of uncertain awe mixed with tired gratitude.

“You believed in me,” he’d said. “Believed I was enough just the way I am.”

There was more that was said between them, mentions of newfound freedom, new futures, more words of gratitude. But for some reason, those words stuck with her. Enough, he’d said. As if it were a novel concept to him.

She could relate. There were days when she never felt like she was enough, for some person or some challenge or another.

She paused to lean against one of the columns in the room, her eyes unconsciously searching for Gale. She found him sitting in an armchair by the fire at the center of the suite, staring into the flames. He’d been wanting to speak to her all day, but between all the drama of that morning and the difficulty of getting to Cazador and battling him, she’d almost forgotten about it. Now, she was almost too worn down to approach him. It would be all too easy to just go to bed and tell him that whatever he had to say could wait until morning.

But even she wasn’t that heartless. She sighed to herself and moved around to the lowered center area of the suite, approaching him from behind. He looked up as she  stopped next to his chair.

“Gale,” she said coolly, one hand on her hip.

“Ah.” He gave a kind of grimace, as though he were wincing yet trying to twist it into a sheepish smile at the same time. “You’re still talking to me then?”

Dani pursed her lips and crossed her arms, waiting for him. She had no idea where this conversation was supposed to go, and part of her didn’t want to make this easy for him. He rubbed the back of neck, self-conscious. 

“I suppose you have questions…related to a certain book we read together,” he said. She arched an eyebrow and he winced. “Well. That I read,” he amended. “And I do mean to discuss it but…” 

He trailed off, his eyes wandering over to where Astarion still sat near the window, staring pensively out through the glass. “You’ve given me quite a lot to think about today.”

She sighed softly through her nose. She wanted to be angry. But honestly, she was just tired. 

They’d started the morning off with a visit to Sorcerous Sundries, thinking it would be a relatively innocent visit. But her anger had been tested at the sight of poor Rolan, beaten and bruised by Lorroakan, and her fears kindled by the hunger in Gale’s eyes once they had found the Annals of Karsus. Then Gale had sparked her anger again, boasting to Lorroakan about his plans for the Crown—none of which he had disclosed to Dani at all—so Dani had retaliated by petulantly revealing his plans to Elminster when the old wizard had popped up unexpectedly outside the shop. Then there was her and Gale’s argument in the street, all before it was even noontime. 

That would have been enough for the day, except that they had spent the afternoon and evening infiltrating Cazador’s mansion to stop his ritual. That experience had been draining for everyone and the resulting conclusion of the events was bittersweet at best. Dani had stopped one of her best friends from giving in to his dark ambitions, but she still had her work cut out for her when it came to her own lover’s ambitions. 

She just wished everyone around her would stop being so damned power hungry. Was it so wrong to wish for nothing more than a warm home and for one’s friends and family to be safe and comfortable? She knew she could be greedy too, but her greed didn’t test the limits of reality or threaten thousands of lives all at once. It just emptied a few pockets. Maybe a few bank vaults.

At her silence, Gale shifted uncomfortably in his seat before at last giving a soft sigh of his own. “In truth, I wouldn’t blame you for giving me a wide berth. I thought the orb’s ever-present censure had tamed my wilder ambition, but that wasn’t the case. Obviously, as evidenced by all that I said and did today.” He shook his head. “There isn’t anything I can say that would excuse my reprehensible behavior. I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips together this time, wavering between wanting to stay irritated and wanting to say that there was nothing to forgive and move on. But there were concerns she still had, questions he had yet to answer. She didn’t know where to start and so, after a moment, she simply pulled another chair over to the fire, near him, and sat down, watching the flames in silence. It took her another moment to finally put to words what she wanted to say.

“I’m not mad anymore about anything that happened today,” she said quietly. “I’m just…scared.”

“Scared?”

“Of losing you. To the orb. To Mystra. To your own ambition…” She shook her head, unable to look at him. She didn’t want to explain all of her fears right now. Some of them felt utterly stupid.

She couldn’t deny that she loved Gale, ambitions and all. What else could it be but love that kept her at his side? She’d abandoned relationships for far less in the past. No, she was certain with her entire being that she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone. But this path of godhood that he kept hinting at…if he was determined to follow it, it was a path she couldn’t take with him. She just wasn’t interested in abandoning this chaotic, colorful world just yet. Not for the Fugue Plane, not for an illithid life, not for godhood, not for anything.

But if she wouldn’t follow him…what then? The thought of leaving him or of him leaving her threatened to break her heart. She felt as though she’d never recover.

But she couldn’t say all that to him now. It felt petty and selfish to admit that the only reason she didn’t want him to become more powerful was because she was scared he’d leave her behind. She was petty and selfish, but Gale inspired goodness in her. It was ironic, truly. The very qualities that had inspired her to become a better person were the same qualities that he would give up if he continued to pursue the path of godhood for the “betterment of all,” as he’d boasted to Lorroakan that morning.

But what did she know, she thought bitterly to herself. She had never intimately known a god nor harbored ambition enough to actively plot to dethrone one.

Still…if she could at all sway him…

“Listen,” she said, eyes still on the fire. “I believe you’re capable of so many great things, Gale. I believe in you. Always have, always will. But when it comes to this plan with the crown…”

“All I am asking is that you consider it,” he said.

She made a helpless gesture with one hand. “I don’t even know how I could. How can I respond to something so…immense? It’s beyond comprehension. I want to understand, but I don’t.”

He was quiet for a moment before chuckling softly and shaking his head. “I don’t think I deserve you at times.”

“Gale,” Dani said softly, his name almost a resigned sigh as she said it. She didn’t want to hear this again. But Gale held up a hand.

“Please. Let me finish.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts, before taking a deep breath. “I watched how you handled the events with Cazador and Astarion today. You showed nothing but compassion and courage. Your heart bled for the victims in their cages. You sought a way to save as many people as you could, despite impossible odds. And you didn’t allow Astarion’s desperation or impassioned speeches to sway you or change your mind.”

“I didn’t want to lose one of my best friends,” she said. “If Astarion had ascended…he wouldn’t be Astarion anymore.”

“I know. Yet it could have been so easy to give in. To let him have his way, simply because you are his friend. But you didn’t. You appealed to a nobler part of him, risking your friendship to keep him from changing. From transforming into something more. Something sinister.” Gale paused again, glancing back at Astarion across the room. His expression softened into a thoughtful, yet sorrowful look. “I can’t help but wonder. Do you see the same kind of choice when you look at me?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence was answer enough. She looked back at the flames, watching them crackle and spark, letting them fill the silence. 

“I hope that isn’t your final judgment of me,” he said. “I hope that you can give me another chance to earn your faith. I want you to continue to believe in me. I want to show you the wizard I am capable of being, rather than the poor excuse for a man who’s kept you company thus far.”

“Gale, stop,” she said, finally turning to face him fully, twisting in her chair. “Stop calling yourself a poor excuse for a man. That isn’t what I think of you. I know I get frustrated with you, but it’s because I see so much good in you.” She reached for his hand and enveloped it in both of her own. “I don’t want to lose you to the Crown any more than I wanted to lose Astarion to Cazador’s power. You mean everything to me, Gale. Worth more even than music and magic.”

“You won’t lose me,” Gale said, tightening his hold on her hand. “If anything, you’ll gain so much more for being with me. Please. Let me show you.”

“Gale—”

“Even if a permanent place in the heavens isn’t for us, at least allow me a chance to show you what it would be like. Indulge me. Close your eyes. Allow me to take you on a little boat voyage.”

She frowned, wanting to resist. But she could tell this was important to him. She breathed a small sigh and closed her eyes, keeping one hand in his. 

She heard him murmur a spell and felt the aura of magic shift around her, the warmth of the Elfsong Tavern room giving way to much cooler air. Her skin tingled all over with the touch of magic, while Gale’s hand remained solid and warm in her own.

“Few mortals ever glimpse what you’re about to see. But don’t be alarmed—I’m here with you.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Now…open your eyes.”

When she opened her eyes, she found herself seated in a glowing blue boat with Gale sitting across from her. All around them, the sky, the space below, all of it was filled with scattered stars and clouds of purple, pink, and blue stardust. The galaxies and starfields stretched on infinitely around them, swirling peacefully in silence. Their boat drifted easily along a current of shimmering magic and when she lifted her free hand over the edge of the boat, her fingers caused tiny motes of starlight to drift and float through the air.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Gale said, looking around them. “The Outer Planes are a place of profound, sometimes overwhelming possibility.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She gazed out over the infinite expanse, waiting to feel that reeling, terrifying sensation of being suspended over a void, but it didn’t come. She was safe in Gale’s little boat, his hold on her hand grounding her and keeping her steady. 

“The home of the gods,” he continued. “Where they observe us from afar. Where they make play-things of us. Such power…infinite possibilities…how could I not crave this?”

She fell silent, focusing instead on the specks of starlight that fanned out behind her fingers, watching them dance briefly in the atmosphere and fade. He said it so simply, as though it were natural to crave such wondrous power. And maybe it was. Maybe she was the fool for limiting her desires to the Material Plane.

Not for the first time, she burned with jealousy toward Mystra and hated all that she had gifted Gale. All that she had made Gale capable of. How could a mere bard compare to a goddess who allowed him to tap into the mysteries of magic itself? And even now, with Gale hardly interested in reconciling with the goddess, who was she compared to all the power of the crown? Who was she compared to all this?

Gale could have this again. This and more. And she, with her small dreams and her fragile love, a love that would only last a mortal lifetime…she would fade into obscurity. Even if she managed to secure a legacy for her name, her body would rot in its grave and her soul would wander the Fugue Plane for an eternity until some god took pity on her and accepted her into their domain.

Perhaps if Gale became a god, he would be the one to take pity. She’d dwell forever in his domain of stars as one among a million other souls. One more copper in a vast bank, utterly forgotten by him, yet unable to escape him. The thought churned her gut and threatened to make her sick.

She swallowed, half-preparing herself for the worst outcomes for the rest of this conversation. “Is this really, truly what you want? To ascend? To claim godhood?”

“No, not like that,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I don’t want to join them, I want to better them—with you at my side, willing and wholehearted. Together we could become better than gods. We could have all of a god’s power with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart. I can think of no better candidate for redefining godhood than you.”

“I don’t want godhood,” she said. “I know you think it sounds insane that I don’t, and maybe it is, but…” She shook her head. “I’ve read too many stories, too many tragic ballads about what happens to mortals who ascend to godhood. They change, Gale. And they leave the ones they love behind.”

Gale sat back, a little surprised. “Is that what you think I intend to do to you?”

“Not immediately. But who knows how you would change once all that power was coursing through you. You saw how Cazador was—you saw how hungry Astarion was to claim that power. You know it would have changed him. Think how much more godhood would change you.”

“But it wouldn’t be true godhood,” he said, tightening his hold on her hand. “The power of gods would be at our fingertips, yes, but we could be—we could find a way to—”

“Stop with the bullshit,” Dani snapped, snatching her hand from his. “You can’t even articulate it because there’s nothing else to call it. You want to use the power of the crown to become a god. That kind of power corrupts, Gale. And if that’s what you want then—then—“

Her throat tightened suddenly with the threat of tears and she looked away, struggling to compose herself. She hated crying, especially here, where there was nowhere to hide, but there was no stopping the emotions building up inside her. She hid her face briefly behind her hand, but it was no use. The wide expansive of pink and purple starlight winked back at her and illuminated the flood of tears that welled up in her eyes.

Gale reached for her hands again. “Dani, I—”

She shook off his touch. “Don’t. I can’t—I can’t let you do this,” she said, the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Please. I know what you’d become and it would be nothing like the man you are now. And no matter how you would try to justify things or convince me to join you, I could never bring myself to abandon my family like that. Never. So in the end you would leave me behind, because nothing about me is enough to convince you to stay. So you’d leave, I know you would, because that’s how power works. It corrupts, it—“ She was rambling now, not making sense, her words a tangle on her tongue.

“Dani, please,” he begged, getting on his knees on the floor of the boat, taking both of her hands in his. “None of that is going to happen.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked. “Look me in the eye and swear to me that the moment your humanity is stripped away in your ascension that you won’t forget tiny, insignificant, mortal me, the lover you’re leaving behind, the moment I refused to ascend with you.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to confirm her fears. She snatched her hands from his again and used the heels of her palms to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Gods, I hate you,” she mumbled, but it was a complete lie. The fact was she loved him too much. Desired him too selfishly to let him reach for godly power. She swallowed and amended her statement. “Not you. This. I hate this. Sorry.”

It was his turn to be silent in the face of her confessions and her tears. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and breathed softly through her nose until at last she felt calm enough to speak. Then she took a shaky breath and reached out to cradle his face in her hands. 

“Please, Gale,” she said quietly. “Don’t do this. I don’t need the stars. I don’t need eternity. I just want you. For all that you are right now. I love you for the man that you are, not the god you’d pretend to be.”

He stared up at her, stricken but amazed, his hands resting on her knees. There was a faint glimmer in his eyes that could either be tears or the reflection of the stars around them, but when he blinked the glimmer was gone.

“You…you would really prefer me as I am?” he asked softly. 

“Yes,” she said. There was no room for doubt in her heart, nor any in her words. “You’re already everything I need you to be and more. Just…please. Let me be enough for you. Let me find a way.”

“Oh Dani,” he breathed. He rose to one knee and slipped one hand behind her head, guiding her down into a deep kiss that stole her breath and made her a little dizzy. She clutched the fabric of his shirt, trying to bring him closer and steady herself at the same time, trying to convey all the desperate longing and fear she couldn’t put into words silently through their kiss.

He pulled away, breathless, cradling her cheek in his palm. “I used to believe Mystra’s forgiveness was worth dying for. Or that the only way forward was to challenge her. But I was wrong. You showed me just how much I have to live for, here, on mortal soil. With you, I forget my goddess. With you, I want to live. With you…I even forget my greater ambitions. You put the very stars to shame, Dani.”

She felt her breath hitch as her eyes widened slightly. Of all the things she was expecting to hear him say, those words were not it. She searched his face for signs that he’d changed his mind, and found him staring back at her earnestly, dark eyes full of love and longing. For the first time that day, she dared herself to hope, just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “And I could never leave you behind. Godly power, I can live without, but you? You’re everything.”

She stared, half-disbelieving, but his gaze was sincere and warm and so full of love she couldn’t help but be convinced. She curled her fingers around his wrist, not sure what to say next, but he merely smiled, grateful and tender, and brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him again.

He guided her off the seat of the boat down onto the floorboards, dismissing the benches with an idle wave of his hand to make room for them to lay down at the bottom of the boat. There he kissed her, breathing her in as naturally as if she were air, and she lost herself in his warm touch. The galaxies above swirled dream-like and slow overhead as their fingers found each others’ buttons and laces, their clothes slipping off with practiced ease, until both lay bare beneath the infinite sky, her pale blue skin tinged a faint shade of lavender by the light of the pink-purple stardust.

She combed her fingers through his hair as he kissed all over her, sighing and arching her back as he worshipped her body more than he’d ever done before, as if he were making up for a litany of mistakes. She could scarcely think straight yet she tried to encourage him with her words, breathing out her love and pleasure in half-lucid lyric fragments and shaky swears alike. He lavished love on her with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, his hands, until at last he joined their bodies together and she unraveled. Every tangled thought and emotion unwound itself as pleasure coursed through her veins until they were both left spent, lying on the floor of the softly glowing boat, and she was left with nothing but her love for him and a dazed sense of amazement that here, amid the infinite expanse of stars and magic, he had chosen her.

Some time later, as they lay gazing up at the stars, with Gale fingers threading idly through her long, loose hair, he turned and brushed a kiss against her head. “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he said quietly. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about…well.”

She wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “I love you, Gale. I don’t want to lose you to anything. Not even this. As pretty as it is. You’ll have to forgive me for being so selfish with you.”

He chuckled, kissing her hair again. “There’s nothing at all to forgive, my love. Be selfish with me.”

They contemplated the stars and auroras that surrounded their little boat, words lost between them for a moment, until at last Gale, trailing gentle fingers down her arm, began to speak again softly.

“I conjured this illusion often during my confinement in Waterdeep,” he said. “An escape for the mind, where there was none for the body. It was easier to stare at the celestial abyss than recognize the emptiness within myself. Easier to pretend my destiny lay among such stars, than work to salvage a life on solid ground.” 

He turned his head and she lifted her chin so she could meet his gaze again, her heart aching for him. She could all too easily imagine him locked in his tower, conjuring images of these galaxies and planes, desperate to be outside the walls that enclosed him for a year. Longing to be back among infinite beauty, rather than confined and seemingly trapped in a small set of rooms on the mundane Material Plane. She had thought the illusion he had conjured of his home in Waterdeep was charming and wonderful…but she could see how it must have felt like a prison to him.

“You changed all that,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “You see me as I am, and do not find me wanting.”

He seemed a little awed by that, but not disbelieving. She smiled and sat up, straddling his hips and taking his hands, lifting them up to her lips for a kiss to each one. Her long hair trailed down around her, the ends brushing against her thighs, against his bare chest and stomach. She held his hands, weaving their fingers together, and pushed his arms up so that they stretched over his head, leaning in to kiss him sweetly, her lips lingering on his.

“I will never find you wanting,” she murmured against his lips.

“Nor I, you,” he said. He freed one hand from her grip to move her hair from her face, gathering it all over one shoulder so the light of the galaxies and stars beyond could shine on her face again. “With these stars as my witness, I swear—you will always be enough for me.”

She stilled at those words, letting them wash over her and settle into her skin, into her chest, processing them. His words, the emotion behind them, the loving determination in his eyes, all of his was genuine, heartfelt, and deeply, deeply meant. It threatened to reduce Dani to tears again, but this time she swallowed them back and kissed him again, letting him know with every ounce of her being what that promise meant to her.

She thought she could never love him more than she already did. But hearing that promise from him—that she would always be enough for him—made her heart practically ache with love for him. She smothered his face with kisses until she was breathless, and he in turn tried to catch or return every one until he gave up and allowed himself to be smothered with a chuckle.

“I love you, Gale Dekarios,” she said at last, still hovering over him, her hair a curtain on one side of them both. 

He smiled up at her and reached up to brush her cheek. “And I love you, Meridan Zavrai. I always will.”

[whump-in-the-closet]

Hi! I know you’ve written stuff like this before and I absolutely adore it so I have to request some more sidekick whump? Either hero’s or villain’s sidekick, doesn’t matter!

Have a nice day!!

Sure! Went with hero’s sidekick here because of ✨vibes✨

Villain stood over the blindfolded Sidekick, tied to the chair with hands twisted behind them. Their chest rose and fell unevenly, breath freezing in the air.

They were terrified.

Good.

Villain crouched down to eye level with Hero’s Sidekick. “Rise and shine.”

Sidekick jerked back in the chair, straining against the restraints. “Fuck you—” their voice was raw, spent from screaming for help that would not come.

“Ah ah ah, language,” said Villain. “I would have thought Hero taught you better.”

An unintelligible snarl.

Villain leaned close, yanking off the blindfold. They smiled without showing any teeth. “Now for the first order of business.” With a quick, rough gesture, they pulled off Sidekick’s mask.

“Hey!” Sidekick blinked frantically, trying to adjust their eyes to the cold light. Their breathing was shallow. Panicked. “Hero—” they started to say, then broke off abruptly.

Underneath the mask was a cloud of dark hair and tired eyes. No trademark scar. No dye or piercings. Unsettlingly average. Ordinary.

Villain rocked back on their heels. “Hero what? You think he’ll come and save you still? Or were you going to say, Hero’s gonna kill me?” They laughed. “I’m far ahead of him in that.”

Sidekick looked down. Away. Anywhere that wasn’t Villain.

Villain stood and started inspecting the tools laid out on the table. “You do understand this is business, right?” They lifted up a long, curving knife. “It’s nothing personal.”

Wiping the knife off on the hem of their shirt, they spun back on Sidekick. “For purely business matters, you’ll have to give me your name.”

Sidekick’s lips tightened. No. But their eyes were on the flashing steel.

They shrank back into the chair as Villain circled behind them. “Fine. Be difficult,” they whispered, uncomfortably close to Sidekick’s face.

Villain slammed Sidekick’s head into the table.

Stars. Brilliant-white-pain stars.

Villain’s grip relented long enough for Sidekick to register the pain. And then slammed their head into the wood a second time.

Crack.

“Your name?” said Villain.

“You…you should know. Your mom gave it to me—” Sidekick’s biting response twisted into a cry when Villain yanked their head back until their neck threatened to snap.

When Villain drove Sidekick’s head into the wood this time, Sidekick’s vision went black.

Blood stained the tabletop.

Villain shoved the tip of their blade towards Sidekick’s face.

Hovering there.

Sidekick saw double. Everything was ringing.

“Alright then, smartass, what’s Hero’s name? Tell me, and you’ll go home without any scars,” whispered Villain. “Well, minimal scars.”

Sidekick drew back, shuddering. Their eyes burned with unshed tears. “I—” Their voice cracked. “I can’t.”

Villain shrugged and traced the tip of Sidekick’s ear with the blade. At the touch of the cold steel, Sidekick bit back a sob. They did not beg, but they wanted too. Desperately.

“Your loss, really,” said Villain. “I can do this all day.”

The steel cut down, and something sticky and wet dripped down Sidekick’s ear and the side of their throat.

“Can you?”

[wolvertooth]

ok so….how long we thinkin vic grieved for old man logan after he died?

like, the comics just kinda immediately skip to him totally seeming fine-

(Weapon X 2017, issue #22)

(off topic but ‘wolverine times ten’ is kinda cute to me lol)

whats the timeline here? couple days after death? weeks? months?

and, as we all know, he reallyyyy wasnt coping well the first time it happened….

(Death of Wolverine: The Logan Legacy, issue #3)

did it make him feel even more fucked up knowing he was basically responsible for it?

(Weapon X 2017, issues #17 + #19 + #21)

honestly i choose to believe he died like. pretty soon after this. despite what the old man logan comics claim(which says they just dumped him on a snowy mountain somewhere????? no the fuck did they did NOT???????? at least 3 of the people on that team wouldve never let that shit happen)

was there a funeral? did anyone else attend it? did vic make a speech? did he cry? did he have a breakdown? did anybody give him a good hug?

xmen forever 2009 had him just sit inside n listen to logans funeral while duel wielding if that means anything(the versions are pretty different from eachother tho)

(X-Men Forever 2009, issue #10)

anyway do yall think that influenced how easily vic let himself sacrifice his own life later..surely logan actually managed to tell him the stuff he was telling warpath here before he died. and that definitely influenced vic wanting to die a hero himself. to have the last thing people remember about him be something good and true to himself for once.

(final note -> fuuuuucckkkkk sabretooth war🖕)

edit: god dammit IT WAS IN THE FUCKING INTRO BIT THAT NO ONE READS

[shartletswritings]

You've Dug Your Own Grave

CHAPTER 4: Kirranari

TW: Minor violence (honestly nothing compared to arcane) This chapter was so much fun to write omfgggg I hope that you guys enjoy!!! It was NOT beta read, so warning for that. We die like men or somethin like that (i was too impatient and wanted to get this out for you all and I will probably be editing any typos I missed over the next few days) I also had NO intention of making it over 8000 words, but here we are 0.0

You try to not let it get to you. You really, honestly try to not let that brooding, stupid, big eared man get to you. You try to forget that he let you pin him down. That he stared into your eyes for longer than a regular person would. Who cares if he smells like flowers. You certainly don’t, that’s for sure.

            If nothing else, it gives you a necessary distraction from the letter left in your apartment. That is a… problem. But what the hell can you do about it? Tell Ekko? From what you’ve seen, the man will probably take you on as his own personal mission; desperate to find a way to free you from your demons. You don’t want that, not even a little bit. What you want is to leave every part of your life behind and start fresh with the Firelights.

            Chross found your apartment, he didn’t find you. He’ll have no reason to think you’ve started working with the Firelights, so your safe. Er… mostly safe. As safe as you can be from a man who has a whole goddamn army of soldiers hired for the sole purpose of gathering intel on people. And you’re clearly a bigger target than you thought you were. Maybe it was foolish to think he’d let you leave; Chross isn’t one to let his ‘possessions’ slip from between his shriveled, boney fingers.

            You pick yourself up from the floor of the training room. Everything is fine, you tell yourself, desperately clinging to the mantra like a learned monk. Besides, there isn’t anything you can do right now. Except get my mask. Right! Jordyn said they’d be finished today. That’s a perfect distraction from both the Hush Company and your current chirean-shaped problem—you aren’t sure which is more pressing, honestly.

            After a quick shower, you dress yourself in your own clothes, finally. You had forgotten how nice it was to wear something that was both clean and your own. Your sweater may be ratty and stained but it’s your sweater dammit and you slip it over your head with a sense of pride. What have I become? Someone who’s proud to wear their own clothes? Jannah help you. You run a comb through your hair and walk back to the courtyard towards Jordyn’s tent.

            They smile as they see you approaching, hopping off their workbench with a thump. “I was wondering when you’d be gracing my presence this morning. How did it go at your apartment this morning?” You can tell they’re toeing around the more obvious question: Malia told me you pretty much shut down out of nowhere and said nothing the whole way home.

            “It was fine, a bit weird being back for the last time, ya know?” You can not open this can of worms right now.

            They eye you from the side as they reach to grab something from the table but don’t question you. “Right. Anyways, I’ve got your mask all ready for you. Let’s see it on.”

            They take that widened stance again to get down to your level, gently slipping the mask over your face. You do your best to not dwell on the way their hand grabs your jaw to tilt your head up a few inches.

            The mask fits snuggly over your face and you’re pleasantly surprised that you still have a full field of vision. “It feels good, does it look okay?” Your voice comes out distorted and echoed—must be the voice box Jordyn was talking about yesterday.

            “Ya look great,” they smirk down at you, standing back up, “here, take a look.” They hold up a small mirror in front of you. The face of a white rat with large, dark eyes gazes back at you, and you… fucking love it. It feels right; all the nights you’ve spent sneaking in and out of small spaces, you find yourself surprised you’ve never thought to identify with the animal before Scar brough it up as an insult.

            “Jordyn, this is amazing.” You slip the mask off.

            “I didn’t wanna say anything, but in the moment a rat felt like a… er… bad choice. But it suits you, pip squeak.”

            You bristle slightly, furrowing your brow at the nickname, “Pip squeak?” You aren’t that much shorter than them.

            Jordyn laughs, “Yeah, my sister had a pet rat named Pip Squeak when she was a kid, fits you pretty good if you ask me.”

            You cross your arms, letting the mask dangle in your hand, “I guess.” You mumble.

They put a hand on your shoulder, attempting to suppress a chuckle. “It’s affection, newbie, I’m not bein mean, promise.” Their face lights up as though they just remembered something. They mutter over their shoulder at you as they turn back to their workbench and fumble around, “I almost forgot. Lemme get you the clip.”

“Clip?”

            “Yeah, for your mask. Gods damn it all, I just saw it.” They fumble for a few more moments before turning back, holding a small silver clip triumphantly in their hands. “Here, I’ll put it on.” You look down at them in abject horror as they kneel in front of you to fit the clip onto the waistband of your cargo pants. “It’s magnetic,” they continue, “If you slide your mask down on it, it’ll stay on till you slide it off. Designed it myself.” They wrap their large hands around your waist to pull themselves back up to standing, only letting go once they take a step back. “There, try it out for me?”

            Unable to piece together a properly witty remark, you follow their instructions in silence. Despite your discomfort at their brazen proximity, it is pretty cool; the mask hangs securely off of your pants. You nod approvingly and muster up a smile. “It’s great.” You pause, completely unsure how to end this interaction. You eventually settle for, “Well, I gotta get to dinner.”

            While you don’t actively slap your forehead with your hands as you walk away, you come pretty damn close. As if everything that happened today wasn’t enough, now you have Jordyn to deal with. Don’t flatter yourself, you scold, that’s just probably the way they are, right? You add it to the growing list of things you force yourself to not think about and walk into the mess hall.

            Apparently, you’re late to dinner; nearly every table is full of Firelights. It is easy to forget just how many people live in this community, and how few of them are soldiers like yourself. A table of children catches your eye and its another good distraction. Ekko’s righteous speeches are beginning to worm their way into your brain, despite your best efforts to prevent it. Everything you will do for the Firelights is ultimately for these children, so they can grow up in a world that isn’t eating itself alive. Two days in and I’m already going soft, you think as you fill a plate up and sit down at a table of fellow soldiers.

            You are so lost in your own thoughts when you sit down that you don’t even notice the argument until Scar’s drink is knocked onto the ground. He snarls at a soldier across from you and stands up.

            “Scar. Sit back down.” It’s Ekko, the strength in his voice surprises you. It’s easy to forget how much of a leader he is.

            To your complete surprise, Scar’s response is even harsher, “Don’t fucking start.” He storms out of the mess hall, leaving your whole table in stunned silence. You’ve seen him upset, sure, but never directed towards Ekko. Whatever happened must have been bad. Was it you? No it couldn’t be…

            “What the hell is his problem?” You ask Ekko once the emotional temperature begins to cool.

            “I wish I knew. He’s been in a shit mood evening.” He responds, his voice back to its normal cadence.

            You chance a look at the man Scar was arguing with. You can’t blame him, you currently wanna yell at the big bat-eared man yourself. He has that way about him; that awful, innate ability to get under your skin without trying. Still, to see him this visibly upset? In your experience he is more of a quiet loathing type of angry as opposed to whatever it was he just did.  

            Conversation eventually returns to normal: discussions of raids, population growth, shimmer levels. You tune most of it out and continue eating your meal when your name draws you out of your reverie. It’s Ekko again.

            “That sound okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours.

            “Hmm? Sorry.”

            “The briefing. Tonight, in my workshop.”

            You fumble to put his words to meanings in your brain. Right, tomorrow’s raid. You can distantly recall being told you’d be going on your first job on the way back from your apartment this morning, but you weren’t exactly in the headspace to take in any information.

            “Yes, I’ll be there,” you finally respond.

            Ekko smiles, “Glad to hear it.”

            It is a small group gathered in his workshop, waiting for Ekko’s game plan in the quickly setting sun. Everything is coated in a soft pink hue, and you find yourself watching a small bug walk directly into a fly-eating plant, the jaws closing so slowly that the fly doesn’t even realize it’s being devoured. A shiver crawls down your spine as it finally closes shut.

            You can put a name to every face you see in the room, which isn’t really that impressive considering there’s six of you waiting for Ekko’s arrival, but you give yourself the small victory. Scar is, as usual, leaning against a wall and looking like he’d rather be doing anything else. Malia and Eve are chatting in front of you and the other two soldiers are standing in silence. Everyone turns when Ekko walks in, giving him their full attention.

            “Good to see you all here,” he looks around at everyone, eyes finally landing on you. You shift. He pulls out a floor plan and spreads it on the table in front of him, waiting for you all to gather around him. “We recently got a tip of a shimmer factory in the wharf district. It isn’t a huge operation so taking it down won’t be difficult.” He points to a door on the side of the building. “They stop production around midnight, and this is the only active entrance after they close down for the night. From what we can gather, it’s pretty understaffed, so getting in and out shouldn’t be a problem.”

            One of the soldiers behind you speaks up, “How much are they producing. Like, how large of an operation is this place?” He points a finger to the map. “This building is massive.”

            “Actually, not that much.” he looks at Ekko curiously. He continues, “but we do know it is a central hub for transfers out of Zaun and into foreign markets. Not only that, but we have reason to believe it is also used as a storehouse for other factories, meaning it’s connected.” He looks up at you, “If we can get any information out of this factory before we burn it down, we could get the location of several other factories around the undercity.”

            “You want me to get into the overseer’s office?” You interrupt and the rest of the group turns to look at you. “Er… that is why you want me on this job, right?”

            Ekko smiles that mischievous smile you find yourself growing to love, “That is exactly what I want you to be doing.” He turns back to the others. “The rest of you should focus on clearing the building out and getting rid of all the shimmer you can, let her handle the office. That okay with you?” You nod. Of course it’s okay with you, this is what you do best.

            “And if the overseer happens to be in and decides to send out an alarm as soon as they see her?” Scar says. You glare up at him. He doesn’t even spare a glance towards you.

            “Then I’ll handle it.” You bite back. Ekko glances between the two of you but says nothing.

            “Right, well… You’ll head out tomorrow around 11:30. Does anyone have any questions?” Everyone shakes their head. “Great,” he claps his hands, “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

            You turn to leave with the others, but Ekko calls your name. You bite back a groan, not in the mood for a lecture about Scar. “Are you comfortable with this? I’m sorry I put you on the spot back there. I know you’re used to stealing shimmer, so I assumed you would be okay getting documents instead. If you don’t think you can handle it, it’s okay.”

            You stare at him for a second before answering, “What? Oh no. This is what I’m best at.”

            He arches an eyebrow at you, “It is?”

            “Yes… Er… how hard can it be right? Just some papers.” You purse your lips.

            “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” He asks. It isn’t accusatory like you were expecting. He phrases it as any other question.

            “Yes.”

            “And you aren’t gonna talk about it, are you?”

            “No.” You really, really don’t want to, “Unless I need to.” Fighting the urge to scratch at the branding, you cross your arms.

            “I won’t force you, it just… might be nice to get some things off your chest is all.” If only he knew the half of it.

            “Well, when I need a therapy session, I’ll be sure to come to you.” It is harsher than he deserves but you can’t really help it. His smile falters and he looks almost hurt. With nothing left to say, you turn and walk out the door, heading straight to your room. It’s been a long fucking day.

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            You’re in a much better mood the next morning. The sunshine in the courtyard that hits your face as soon as you walk outside helps exponentially. As does your warm cup of tea and bowl of rice porridge. You can make this a good day. You’ll stick to your mental list, kick ass tonight, and go to bed a better person than yesterday, right?

            You walk back into the courtyard after finishing your small breakfast to see a gaggle of kids sitting in a circle in the dirt. You had no intention of going up to them—you meant to go back to the training room. It isn’t that you don’t like kids, they’re… fine. You just don’t really know what the hell you’re supposed to say to them, always worried you’ll say something too violent without meaning it. Especially with these kids. Growing up with the Firelights is a hell of a lot different from growing up in the undercity.

So it comes as a surprise when a young girl who can’t be older than 4 runs up to you and tugs at the sleeve of your shirt. “You’re the new lady, right? My ma told me about you.” She smiles up at you, golden brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Damned kids, they’re like vultures. Little, adorable vultures.

            “That’s right,” you answer. Your voice isn’t exactly harsh… just uninterested.

            “Come meet everyone!” She tugs at your sleeve to lead you back, and you let her despite yourself.

            You crouch down to get eye level with the group that soon surrounds you. A small redhead looks at you with what must be the largest eyes you’ve ever seen. “I heard your name is Pip.” A girl next to him snickers.

            “And who told you that?” You already know who it is. Damned Jordyn.

            The kid slaps his hand to his mouth to try and muffle his laugh, “I’onno,” he says, feigning innocence.

            You furrow your brows at the kid and he shrinks back a little. It twinges your heart to see so you stick a tongue out at him and his smile returns slowly. “Alright! You got me! My name is Pip Squeak. But you can’t tell the adults alright? I’m trying to work on my tough guy persona” You puff out your chest and flex dramatically. He laughs and the sound is like music to your ears. You reach out and grab his sides to tickle him. The kids around you erupt into hysterics.

            “Get her!” one cries.

Suddenly, you find yourself completely swarmed by young children. You let them wrestle you to the ground. A girl with curly, blonde hair jumps onto your stomach and does her very best to tickle you back with her chubby, ungraceful fingers.

You gently push the kids off of you and stand up at full height, letting out the best monster noise you can manage. The kids scream playfully.

You sit back on the ground and they surround you with wide, curious eyes. “Well? You all know my name. It doesn’t seem fair that I don’t know your names.” The kids consider your request very seriously, murmuring and glancing between one another. Finally, the redhead speaks up. They go around the circle and rattle of their names in varying degrees of clarity. As you listen to them, that increasingly familiar pang of envy begins to gnaw at your gut. These kids don’t know how lucky they are, and you pray to the Gods that they never figure it out.

            A young woman comes out of the door to a small wooden hut built into the wall. She walks over to your group holding a small bundle of fabric. “Alright kiddos, it’s nap time,” she says, her voice soft and melodic.

            A collective groan erupts from the children surrounding you. One small voice speaks in protest, “Nooooo but we wanna hang out with Pip!”

            The woman looks at you suspiciously, “Oh. Pip you say?” Her voice is playful. You can’t recall the woman’s name, but you’re certain you met.

You shrug your shoulders at her and ruffle the hair of the girl clinging to your leg. “How about I come with to get ready for your nap. Whaddya say?” This answer seems to satisfy the kids, and your group makes its way back to the hut. Inside you see what seems to be a nursery; toys and books fill the shelves lining the walls and a row of small cots are placed off to the far side of the room.

The woman turns to you as the kids begin to settle into their individual cots. “My name is Jess, by the way. I know they can be a handful; I appreciate you giving them your time.”

            You shake your head earnestly, “Not at all!” You look down at the bundle in her arms and realize it’s the baby you saw Scar holding on your first morning here. “Is that Scar’s kid?”

            She nods, “Yeah, this is Aster.” She looks down at the sleeping child and smiles. “Hey, I don’t mean to throw even more at you, but do you think you could hold her while I get the kids down for their nap?”

            Before you can even answer she is placing the baby in your arms and walking back to the toddlers in their beds. You freeze, staring down at the creature in your hands completely unsure what to do. You don’t think you’ve ever held a baby before. Aster shifts at the sudden change but settles quickly in your arms. You go through what you think a baby needs while it’s being held: head is supported, she’s not upside down, you’re pretty sure she isn’t going to drop out of your arms. You can do this. You’ve killed people dammit, sold shimmer, run from enforcers. You can hold a baby for a few minutes while that poor, overworked woman deals with the kids she needs to look after—you aren’t really sure she’s overworked but you know you would be if you had five toddlers to take care of and a baby.

            Aster begins to fuss in your arms, her tiny, chubby face contorting and she begins to whimper. You can handle this. You try to think what people do with babies. You remember Scar rocking her, so you do your best to rock back and forth, throwing in a “shhh” for good measure. By some miracle it works, and Aster begins to settle, her face relaxing and her quiet, pitiful whimpers subsiding. You smile down at her. She is really fucking cute. Like… sure, every baby is ‘cute’ but this kid… Wow. You realize, the longer you hold her in your arms, that she smells familiar. It takes you a second to place it and then it clicks. She smells like flowers. She is the reason Scar smells like flowers. You don’t really know how to process this information, but it makes your heart do funny things that you don’t like one bit.

            You don’t even notice that Jess has tucked the kids in. “She’s a little angel, isn’t she?” Her voice is soft and quiet as she looks down fondly at the sleeping infant in your arms.

            “Yeah.” You look back up at her, “I don’t know where she gets it, probably her mom. Can’t be from her dad.” You don’t even think about what you’re saying before the words leave your mouth. Oops. You bite your lip.

            She laughs, “No, Scar is really great with her. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he gets a little misty-eyed every time he drops her off in the morning.” You look at her incredulously, of all the things you could picture Scar doing, crying is just above apologizing.

            “Who is her mom, anyways?” You finally risk asking the question that’s been on your mind from the moment you saw Scar with the baby. Purely out of curiosity, you remind yourself, not for any other, more personal reason. You force yourself to remember the list. Not that it matters anyways, if anything you should feel sorry for whoever gets stuck with Scar.

            “She… isn’t around anymore.” Jess’s once relaxed and open demeanor seems to shrink back a bit. You make a mental note to not push that anymore, with anyone.

            You sigh gently, looking back to Aster. You need to leave and get ready for the day, but you find yourself wounded at the thought of leaving her. What the fuck is happening to you? Jess seems to notice your hesitation, “You can come visit whenever you want. I won’t tell Scar, Pip.” She uses the name affectionally and another part of you melts. Maybe I do like kids… who’da thunk it.

            After prying Aster out of your arms and back into the much more experienced care of Jess, you return to your original goal of the training room. It is empty when you walk in, which you tentatively take as another good sign for today.

            The punching bag seems to be mocking you as it sways lightly from its chains, so you resolve to show it no mercy. It is your kicks this time, not your punches, that takes the focus of your workout. It isn’t like you’re planning on fighting Scar again… but it would probably be good to be able to throw a few kicks without getting your ass handed to you.

            By the time you finally leave you are dripping with sweat and exhausted, but you feel good, damnit. And no one came to interrupt, which is even better. You take a cold shower and spend the rest of your afternoon mentally preparing for tonight’s raid.

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            Malia and Eve are already waiting near the hideout entrance when you make your way down. Malia smiles at you and Eve puts the butt cigarette she was smoking out on her shoe. “Didn’t know you smoked,” you say.

            She shrugs and says nothing, silently offering you one. You shake your head, and she shrugs again, pulling a fresh one from her pocket.

            You adjust the straps of the bag slung across your back. This actually feels pretty natural for you: waiting to break into a guarded facility. If you weren’t with the Firelights, this would feel exactly like any other night. You’re wearing your usual uniform of black, skintight clothes and wearing a bag big enough to put whatever you find away safely. The knife attached to your hip is a welcome, familiar weight. Really, it’s ironic how full circle you’ve come: stealing information to stealing shimmer and right back to stealing information. You laugh out loud, and Malia looks at you, you say nothing.

            Ekko walks up with the rest of the soldiers to see the six of you off. He looks you up and down and a flash of concern ghosts over his usually bright eyes; you should apologize for how you acted yesterday. Not in front of everyone else, of course, but you make a mental note to talk to him later.

            “Everyone feel ready?” His tone is normal which makes you feel a bit better—not that you thought he was one to skulk. You all nod in agreement. He goes over the plan one last time before opening the door and watching as the six of you walk away.

            The sounds of footsteps echo down the stone tunnel as you walk. Your torchlight illuminates Scar as he leads the group down the tunnel, his large back blocking most of your vision. It feels wrong to break the quiet, but you can’t stand to walk in silence and resolve to making small talk with Malia who walks besides you.

            The wharf is close enough that you don’t take hoverboards—which you would have much preferred even just to show off your improvement—and it only takes a few minutes by foot before you are standing outside of a massive building. The smog of the city always mixes eerily with the mist rolling off of the water and the red lights glowing outside of the factory adds to the unsettling atmosphere.

            “Can’t believe this was under out noses the whole time,” Eve’s voice is distorted slightly from her mask, and it reminds you to slip your own over your head.

            “We can’t go around checking every building in Zaun,” says the soldier wearing a cat shaped mask behind you.

            “Still. I’ve probably walked past this godsdammed place a thousand times and they’ve been shipping out shimmer the whole time. Pisses me off.”

            “Will all of you shut up?” It’s Scar’s voice. You had forgotten how fucking sinister he looks in his own mask—not that he isn’t terrifying without it. “Malia, you take out the guards at the door. The rest of us will follow in once they’re down. You,” he looks at you now, “don’t fuck it up, got it?”

            “I can handle myself,” you hiss. This fucking asshole.

Malia is already walking towards the guards, her demeanor completely different from her prim, postured norm.

            She stalks over towards the two guards sitting outside of the door, keeping low to the ground. They don’t notice her until she lets out a long, low whistle. One of them picks his head up and calls out into the night. Malia says nothing and continues her slow advance, this time standing up straight.

            The other man notices her finally and flicks his cigarette onto the ground. “You better turn around and go back to where you came from,” he calls menacingly.

            Malia snaps her head to a harsh angle, staring the man down, almost like a crow. Right, duh. Makes sense, that’s her mask.

            Suddenly, faster than the men can react, she rushes them and plunges a knife into each neck. They don’t even have a chance to yell before they topple to the ground, choaking on their own blood.

            Your group begins to advance slowly. Sure, you could follow them into the main room, wait for them to clear out any goons, before finally being allowed to go into the overseer’s office once they’ve made sure its safe for you, like Scar would probably prefer. Or you could do it your way. You like the second option much better

            Breaking off from the group as they enter the now unguarded door, you scramble up a low wall and onto a small window ledge. Gently, you pry the window open and drop into the warehouse, silent as a cat. You find yourself on a high balcony overlooking the factory floor. Barrels of shimmer sit in rows below you. You take a moment to situate yourself from what you can remember of the floorplans you looked at last night. If you’re here… then… Right. The door at the end of the balcony must be the entrance to the hallway that leads to the office. This is child’s play, you think.

            You walk down the balcony, keeping yourself low to the wall. Footsteps around the corner catch your attention. You duck behind a pile of boxes, and you silently pull your knife out of your belt, just in case. You don’t exactly like killing people, but you’re not against it if the situation demands a bit of violence. Luckily, the man rounds the corner and keeps walking, completely oblivious to your presence. You wait a moment for him to be out of earshot before slipping from your hiding spot and continuing down the balcony.

            Carefully you open the door to the hallway and slink inside. The door at the end of the hallway must be the office and a rush of confidence surges through your veins.

            Getting inside is painfully easy, the damned door isn’t even locked. The room is nice, you suppose, but you’ve seen better; this factory is pretty clearly a low-level supplier. Finding the information isn’t too difficult either. Once you make it inside of the pathetically locked filing cabinet, you are rewarded with several folders full of papers and a quick glance at them confirms that they are, in fact, records of dealings with other factories and warehouses. Ekko’s information was sound.

            You turn to leave, feeling very smug, when a small, locked case above your head catches your eye. It is slightly out of reach, so you hop onto the filing cabinet to pick the lock. It is harder to crack which makes you even more intrigued; whatever is in here must be worth safeguarding. Just as you click the final pin in place, Scar’s sharp voice catches your attention.

            “Kirranari!” You whip around, nearly falling off the cabinet. “You were supposed to stay with the fucking group,” he bites from behind his mask.

            The door to the case opens before you get a chance to ask him what the hell he called you. You turn back to see what it is you gained access to. It’s a case full of… alcohol? That’s what this overseer was so intent on keeping safe and not the pages and pages of confidential dealings?

            You are about to tell him off when the same man you saw on the balcony rounds the corner. He startles when he sees the two of you and whips out a pistol from a holster along his chest.

            You know you should jump out of the way, or duck, or something, but you find yourself frozen. His face… You didn’t see it before, but there is no mistaking it. The harsh angle of his once broken nose or the scar running down the side of his face; this is absolutely one of Chross’s enforcers. You can recall so clearly the smarmy grin on his face whenever you were brough into his office for one of your many fuck ups. Your stomach churns uncomfortably. What the fuck is he doing here? I thought this was one of Silco’s factories.

            A bullet fires from the pistol, and you don’t even react until it wizzes past your ear, imbedding itself into the wall just a few inches from your head. The man is dead on the ground before you can think to move, Scar standing over him, bloodied spear in hand.

            He whips around and walks over to you. Heavy hands coming down on your shoulders brings you back to reality, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” You don’t have an answer.

            Once again, bile threatens to spill up from your gut. You force it back down. “S-sorry, I just… wasn’t thinking.” Your voice is much weaker than you want it to be.

            “You could have fucking died and all you have to say is that you weren’t thinking?” He shakes you, claws digging into the sides of your arms.

            He’s right, you think, bitterly. The letter has you jumpy. For all you know, the guy stopped working for Chross after you left. And even if he still did, it’s not like he could recognize you under the mask. Pull yourself together.

            You let out a long, low sigh, still looking up into Scar’s mask. “I found booze!” You say, bringing an arm up as far as you can with his hands still holding you in place—as though that negates what just happened.

            He snarls and lets you go with a shove. “Don’t fuck around like that again,” he says before walking out of the office and back towards the balcony, stepping over the body in the hallway.

            You will yourself to snap out of it as you place the bottles into your bag alongside the folders. You don’t know exactly what the alcohol is, but it looks strong and expensive, which is exactly what you need.

            You are met by the other soldiers on the floor of the factory. “Any luck?” Malia calls when she sees you approaching. Scar must not have told her.

            A nod, “Yeah, tons of information. I’ve got it all in here.” You throw a thumb back towards your bag and she gives you an approving thumbs up.

            They make quick work of sloshing cans of gas around the factory and once everyone is our, Eve lights a match from her pocket and tosses it into the building. Fire catches immediately and it isn’t long before flames begin to lick at the sides of the shimmer barrels. No one remains long enough to watch it blow especially knowing the crowd such a large fire will attract, and you are all several meters away when an explosion sounds.

            You gnaw on your lip beneath your mask the whole trip back, reducing it to a bloody lump. I need to figure my shit out, now. This stupid anxiety is beginning to become a serious problem. Private panic attacks you can handle, but nearly dying in front of Scar? Really, being in any state of venerability in front of him is a problem, regardless of whether or not it’s life threatening.

            You adjust your bag without thinking and clinking of bottles in your bag drags you from your thoughts and Eve shoots a look back towards you. “Doesn’t sound like papers in there.”

            “She found alcohol in the office,” Scar says, not turning back as he leads your group through the mazes of tunnels.

            Malia perks up, “Oh shit really? Is it any good?”

            “I couldn’t really say, but it was locked up like it was.” You say, reaching into your bag and pull a bottle out, handing it to her.

            She adjusts her light onto the label, “Holy fuck. This stuff is really expensive. Good find, Pip.”

            You groan, “Not you too.” Fucking Jordyn. She shoots a masked look back at you and giggles, jogging off to show the man in the cat mask, who hums appreciatively.

            Most of the hideout has gone to bed by the time you return, but you’re greeted with a small welcome party. You slide your mask back onto your belt and smile at them, desperately trying to put the last few hours behind yourself. Sure you almost died, but you got what you needed from the factory, that’s something, right?

You pull the folders out of your bag and hand them to Ekko who flips through them quickly. “Holy shit. This is huge, I can’t thank you enough,” he says and hands them to a woman next to him, asking her to take them back to his workshop to look at later. Malia calls you back to the group and you oblige.

You see Scar pull Ekko aside. The conversation looks heated, but you don’t have the energy or the drive to try and listen in. If Scar has a problem with you, he can say it to your face.

            Once greetings are finished and Scar and Ekko have rejoined the group, you pull a couple bottles out of your bag and hold them up for everyone to see. “Anyone up for a bit more?” Not a single person denies your offer and a few minutes later everyone is crowded around a table in the empty mess hall.

            Jordyn emerges from the kitchen with a tray of assorted, unmatching cups and you begin to pour out healthy servings of the alcohol into each. You give Jordyn a questioning look with an arched eyebrow, pausing at the cup in front of them. They smirk and nod wordlessly. So much for not touching anything.

            Ekko holds his own cup up and everyone looks at him expectantly, “To a job fucking well done.”

            Cheers erupt around the table, and everyone takes a drink. You down your drink in one gulp and—to your surprise—so does Scar. Malia wasn’t lying when she said this stuff was strong and you wince as it burns a path down your throat and into your belly.

            You don’t intend to drink as much as you do, but as soon as Jordyn pulls out a deck of cards and proposes a drinking game, you know you’re done for. The rules don’t make sense even after they are explained several times to you and you find yourself losing more than anyone in the group, which doesn’t help in your confusion.

            After about three shots too many you realize it may not be the worst idea to get some food in your stomach—anything to soak up the alcohol. As soon as you stand, it’s as if all the alcohol you have consumed throughout the night finally decided to kick in and… woah. You can’t remember being this drunk. Come to think of it… you can’t remember much of anything.

            You stumble towards the general vicinity of the kitchen and begin rooting around for something to eat. Once the door is closed, the laughter and conversation from the table is muffled and you take a moment to drunkenly enjoy the silence. Only one light is on over the sink and it’s just so peaceful in here… what did you come here for again?

            Food! Right.

            Coordination, you find, is extremely difficult and it takes you three tries to get your hand on the cabinet door. You yank it open triumphantly and—not realizing how close your face was—proceed to smack yourself directly in the nose. “Owwwww,” you groan out, a hand going to clutch your aching nose.

            A barking laugh startles you and you jump around, a yelp stifled under your hand. Scar is leaning against the counter looking annoyingly sober. “What the fuck do y’want?” Your words are slurred, and you struggle to keep him in focus, making your glare look more like a confused stare. Fuck, I’m wasted.

            “Wanted to watch the show.” He folds his arms across his insanely broad and muscular chest. Damn. Has he always been this hot? You blink. Where the hell did that thought come from?

            “Ya know… I should pro’bly thank you… for uh… savin my life.” You look up at his stupid, handsome face.

            He angles his chin up and looks down at you. “You should.”

            “But I won’t,” your giggle is light and hysterical and if you were sober in this moment you’d be kicking yourself for acting like a teenager. Get a grip, but your drunk mind refuses to heed any warning. You think you can remember having a list or something… what was it again? The memory is a blur, and you give up.

            He rolls his eyes but doesn’t snarl at you like you were expecting. You turn back around and pluck a loaf of bread from the cabinet, shoving your hands into the bag and pulling a couple of slices out.

            You turn around and hop up onto the counter to face Scar who is still standing there. Why is he here, anyways. He stares intently as you take a mouthful of the plain bread, chewing intently as you look back at him. Your brows furrow, with a mouth still full of bread you ask, “Why d’you hate me so much?” The question isn’t harsh, you genuinely want to know. “I mean, I know we got off on a bad foot or whatever,” your legs swing from under you, bouncing your heels against the base of the counter.

            “I don’t hate you.” He sounds uninterested but not bored.

            “You act like you do. You always have tha’stupid snarl on your face,” you take another mouthful of bread. Scar says nothing. “I just think you could stand to be a l’il nicer, s’all.”

            The door of the kitchen opens and Jordyn pops their head inside, smiling when they see you. “Pip, I was missin you. Come on back.” They sound about as drunk as you are. You hop down from the counter and, after taking a moment to get your balance back, walk back into the mess hall.

            The group is slightly smaller than when you started. Ekko has already left with Eve and a couple others, leaving only you, Jordyn, Scar, and the two other soldiers that came on your raid today. You plop down on the chair next to Jordyn and feel their arm fall over your shoulder. Maybe you should care, but it’s nice to have someone close to you. Especially as muscular as Jordyn. You’re pathetic. Scar would feel better. Bet he’s warmer. He was practically on fire yesterday in the gym.

            The memory of the gym twists something strange and deep in your gut. You push your hair out of your eyes. Your clothes feel too tight, and the air around you feels too hot. You need to leave, to get some fresh air. Jordyn, mercifully, doesn’t react when you jump out of their grasp and stumble for the door. “M’ goin to bed,” you mumble before pushing out into the cool of the night.

            You practically moan at the feeling of the night air on your skin; this is exactly what you needed. To be out of the noise and the heat and the people. It isn’t enough, you realize, you need more. Practically tripping over your feet, you make your way to the hoverboard that has been left out near the entrance to the mess hall.

            “Don’t.” A familiar voice behind you calls, “you’re gonna snap your neck.”

            “Am not,” you bite back to Scar, not realizing how fucking childish you sound. You place the board down and step into it.

            Right before you can start it up, a hand wraps around your wrist. “I said don’t. I saved your life once today, don’t make me do it again.” A shiver rolls down your spine. What is this man doing to me?

            “I-” words fail you as you look up into those green eyes. “M-maybe yeah…”

            His brows furrow at something, but before you can ask, he is lifting your arm up and pushing your sleeve up. Your heart tuns to ice and your stomach clenches painfully as he gazes at the branding in your flesh. This is it, you think in a drunken, terrified blur, they’re gonna think I’m a spy, or untrustworthy, or even worse: pathetic. Gods, you don’t want that. You can’t bear the thought of pity.

            Scar, seeming to notice the fear in your eyes, says nothing as he pushes the sleeve back down. “You need to get to bed.” His voice is soft and lacking its usual sharpness. You suck a breath in as all the tension leaves your body. Fuck. Your knees go out and you feel yourself tumbling towards the floor. He grabs you again, wrapping two large hands under your arms and hoisting you back up. “You’re wasted.” He sounds unamused.

            “Nuh-uh.” Even you know it’s a lie. He just… looks at you. You push yourself out of his arms and start to walk back through the courtyard and to your room. You get about two steps before you stumble again and this time there is no large chirean to catch you.

            He walks over and peers down at you. “You gonna let me help you? Or did you plan on crawling back to your room?”

            You scowl at him. “I don’ need your help, pretty boy.” Gods damn it all, did you say that out loud? From the way his lips twist, you did. You slap a hand to your head, dragging it down your face. “Fine…” you mumble, cheeks burning.

            Tentatively, you reach your hands up, expecting him to pull you back to your feet. So it comes as a complete surprise when he bends down and wraps one arm under your back and another under your knees to lift you completely, as if you weigh nothing. He must know what he’s doing, right?

            You struggle in his arms for a moment—whether it is out of a genuine desire to be put down or simply to save face you don’t really know—and he only tightens his grip. “You couldn’t walk two steps; I don’t have the patience to watch you stumble all the way back. Now quit squirming.” His tone is surprisingly gentle, you stop resisting, leaning your head against his shoulder and take in his smell for the second time. It is still just as irresistible.

            You’re quiet for a while and you realize that it is almost… nice? It’s nice to be carried by him; despite how absolutely insulting it is to your agency. You feel safe—which is not an experience you take lightly. “I met Aster this morning,” you finally say, voice quiet in the night air. He looks down at you for a moment but doesn’t stop walking. “I don’t really like kids but… she’s pretty sweet. An’ she’s lucky to have you as her dad… I guess.”

            He lets out a woosh of air that could almost be considered a laugh. “Glad you think so.” You close your eyes and stay silent for the rest of the walk back to your bedroom.

            He lays you down in your bed with a surprising amount of gentleness and you flutter your eyes gently open to see him staring down at you. There is a look of… something in his eyes. He turns to leave and you feel a pang of sadness. “Scar,” you call almost inaudibly. His ears twitch and he turns back towards you, “please don’t tell Ekko…”

            You see in his gaze that he understands what you mean. The branding. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Kirranari.”

            “Wait,” he stops and turns back to you, looking only slightly exasperated, “wha’s that? Kirranari? Ya said it back in the factory… I think.” The word stumbles from your lips in a butchered pronunciation compared to the way he says it, which is almost… reverent.

            You can’t read his expression, “’One who sneaks’. It’s chireanai,” he rolls his eyes at your lack of comprehension. Hey, I’m drunk, not like it’s my fault. “It means ‘rat’.” He closes the door without waiting for your answer.

            You fall asleep with a stupid, drunken smile on your face.

I knowwww chirean’s don’t technically speak with words but indulge me. I love sweet, soft Scar so bad guys. He’s my favorite DILF. Ok, gonna go write chapter 5. I love you all so much, thank you for sticking with me for this silly little story that I have put way too much of myself into. Oh well!!

Tag List: @kiannaf @awenthealchemist @calciferthelivingfire

[cythaeria]

People who don't view Jotaro as misogynistic are so annoying. I wanted to give these people the benefit of the doubt because "Oh what if they're just not educated enough on misogyny and how versatile it is." But no! We should be able to recognize misogyny in this day and age!!

You people can't recognize misogyny if it isn't in your face "Women should die" kind of bullshit and it's tiring!!

It's tiring to see people coddle Jotaro and treat people who think of him as misogynistic as unreasonable and media illiterate as if it doesn't 100% make sense why they'd think that.

Before I continue this sporadic ramble I need to say that I love Jotaro so damn much, he's my second favorite character in the entirety of Jojo! But I can accept that he has his faults and that's completely okay in my eyes, sometimes characters have unlikeable traits and are assholes and we just have to accept that. Your favorite character is fucked, accept it, and keep on going with your day.

This is none of that "gen z is trying to cancel eminem?" Shit. Accept him for who he is!!! Let him live his misogynistic truth!!!!

Jotaro stans truly do not wanna believe he's ever done anything wrong and I love him the most when he's doing wrongs! I loved you when you left your family and became a deadbeat just to protect them, I saw you and I loved you. Separate thing but. Whatever. Anyways.

"How can people call Jotaro a misogynist if the people he's done the most for are his mother, wife, and daughter?"

Does the misogyny suddenly disappear from men simply because they care for their family members who are women?? The men in my family would do anything to keep me safe but in the same breath, they'll apply stereotypes to me and make it known that I am not on the level of men just because I'm a woman. I'm sure this is the case for most people. Being a misogynist and loving the women in your life are things that coexist! It's their views on and behavior towards women overall that are fucked.

"People forget that he was just 17 when introduced and going through an edgy phase."

So suddenly that absolves him of the misogyny?? Just because he's a 17 year old boy?? And this is stated as if part 3 is the ONLY time he's misogynistic when in part 4 he's assuming Kira is unmarried because if he had a wife he wouldn't need to go to a tailor shop?? What the fuck does that mean Jotaro.

Like it's so clear to me that in his head the right way for women to exist is if they're the traditional housewife type that is submissive, modest, quiet, gentle, etc etc. And this is stated in his character bio! "Favorite type of women: traditional Japanese (hates women who don't shut up)" We can make so many educated guesses off of that And the way he treats women! But maybe I'm just looking at it from a limited point of view, maybe traditional means something different in Japan. Idk

"He's autistic and hates loud people."

He's autistic and his special interest is calling women bitches! And I'd argue that even when no noisy commotion is happening, he's still just...an asshole? Like when they were in that Café(?) After they got him out of jail and Holly is clinging to him, expressing her relief, he just calls her an annoying bitch?? And it seems like he isn't uncomfortable, he could've shoved her off if he was(as he does) so.....?

"He's gay."

Jojo fans will bring out 200 headcanons before just admitting that their favorite character is a misogynist. Little edit: :0!!! Someone in tags mentioned that gay men can be misogynistic and yes, that part! Just because you hc him as only liking men that means it's...suddenly ok for him to be an asshole towards women? I didn't go too much into detail originally bc I felt like I was repeating myself too much but yessss!

"He's mean to everyone."

So true but especially to women in particular. And like I said, misogyny comes in so many different forms and not just being "mean to girls". He thinks women are inherently weak and because of that, they should be protected.

"She's no mere woman." Jotaro stumbles upon a woman stronger than him and he just can't fucking. Comprehend it.

IT'S OKAY. It's okay to like a character who is misogynistic, I just think it's weird to act like "My Jotaro would never!! He's just a baby boy!!🥺🥺"

Personally, I like it? I really like the idea of building off of that. Jotaro later on in life becoming comfortable with femininity and possibly exploring his gender identity more and transfeming all over the place. A little Dave Strider moment.

There are some opinions that I disagree with though. I saw someone bring up the fact that he abandoned his wife and Jolyne as a counterpoint to him not being misogynistic and I just feel like that's clearly...something completely separate from him being a misogynist.

Also I'd add when he discovered Anne was a girl in here if I wasn't so on the fence about it buuuuuut thinking thoughts.

I dunno, it just upsets me little bit. Learn about the many ways the world oppresses women, be in the known, and all that before you go to war for Thee Jotaro Kujo.

Don't know if this is any good, it's very all over the place and badly written but I just needed to get it out and stuff. Maybe I'm in the wrong and I don't know Jojo like That. Anyways, if you have any thoughts and such, mayhaps reply, I'd like to read them!

[chiriwritesstuff]

The Girl in IT - 7. The All Hands Meeting

A Boss! Joel Miller x IT Specialist F! Reader AU

The LIST │ Series Masterlist

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: A look into a typical day at Miller Construction Group. Chaos ensues (naturally).

Chapter Warnings and Tags: No outbreak AU, Boss x Employee Relationship, Sugar Daddy Lite, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, Age Gap, Older Man/Younger woman, So much dirty talk, Office sex, Desk sex, Inappropriate usage of PowerPoint, Tommy fucks around and finds out, No Beta we die like men!

Word Count: 4.4K

A/N: And the hijinks are back! I wanted to try something new this week, and it was the perfect opportunity to showcase all of our fun supporting characters in 'The Girl in IT'! I thought what better way to introduce everyone was to include their commentary, like an episode of 'The Office'! This one is a doozy, and I hope you all enjoy!

#MCG ADMIN 50 members Sarah (HR) Good morning, Team! I hope you're all doing well. I'd like to announce a mandatory All-Hands HR Meeting today at 11 am in Conference Room A, co-facilitated by Tess and me. We'll have a brief presentation, and for those working remotely, please log into Zoom to join the meeting. Following the session, thanks to Bill, we'll have lunch and refreshments provided. Feel free to reach out if you have any questions. Looking forward to seeing all of you soon! Tommy  Sarah, are you gonna bust your Papi's balls in front of everyone for posting that naughty photo? 💀☠️🪦 Frank (Interior Design) Will there be an opportunity for discussion following the presentation? I'm eager to delve into the minds of SlackGate and understand the motivations behind their actions the other day. Connie (Reception) It's clearly because they're fucking, Frank. 🍆🍑🦪 Frank (Interior Design) Who is? Our fearless leader and our shy girl in IT? Until one of them makes it official, it's just hearsay! Is this meeting a hard launch for a new power couple? 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 Sarah (HR) Yes, there will be an open-forum discussion after my presentation but NO, we will not be talking about the events of the other day in detail. Connie, this is a professional space and we will conduct ourselves as such. Connie (Reception) Why am I always being singled out?? Frank started it! Frank (Interior Design) Did I not professionally conduct myself? Geez Connie, I'm not the one sending nudes to our Boss when clearly, he has a girlfriend. Wait. Oops? (Sorry Connie 🤡) Bill (Civil) Frank! What do I have to do to get you to behave for once? Frank (Interior Design) Oh, I could think of a few ways... Why don't you come and find out once you're done handling your bratwurst out there? Sarah (HR) I don't get paid enough for this shit.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming together at such short notice. While I'm aware this all-hands meeting was abrupt, recent events in the past few days have made it essential. Tess and I genuinely appreciate your presence as we address these important matters," Sarah says with a bright smile, handing out materials. "Here's an updated Employee Handbook with a few edits. I thought it would be beneficial for us to go through it together. Are there any questions before we begin?"

"Yeah!" Tommy exclaims from the back of the room, his feet casually resting against the edge of the table. "How long until we get to the part of this meeting where we discuss just how much of a bad boy your Daddy was the other day?"

Tommy Look, I love my brother, I do. He's always so serious, so noble, providing for everyone and all that, making sure we have a roof over our heads. Shit, he's gotten me out of a lot of binds in my life- [He looks a bit uncomfortable and clears his throat, nodding.] ... anyway, it's a rare thing to see my brother slip up like that, you know? Didn't think he had it in him, honestly. It's been a few decades since I've seen his twig and berries, but shit, I know he's packing! He's a Miller, for fucks sake!  [he puffs his chest out a little at that, chuckling to himself] But Sugar? She's been a fucking godsend! Never in my life have I seen my big ol brother act a fool, especially over a woman! What can I say? It's great to not be the fuck-up brother for once! I'm gonna milk out SlackGate til the end of time!

"Tommy," Joel warns through his teeth, glaring at his brother. "Cut it out."

Sarah rolls her eyes in response as she fiddles with her laptop, the projector behind her illuminating with her PowerPoint presentation. "Like I was saying, this presentation is just going to go over the changes we have implemented in the last few days, including proper Slack etiquette and conduct. You would think that as grown adults, we would know better than sending inappropriate images and messages through company property and time," she clears her throat, glancing over at Joel, then to Tommy, who winks in her direction knowingly. "...including those who decide to engage and participate in unsanctioned secret channels-"

Frank's hand suddenly shoots up, his face awash in mock outrage. "I'll have you know, the watercooler channel serves a purpose, folks! When I caught wind of this 'secret channel' gossip circulating among the Nosy Nancies in the breakroom, I was appalled! Who would dare to stoop so low—"

"Frank, you invited me to the chat just this morning," Jesse remarks, casually holding up his phone as evidence. "It's titled 'Frank's-secret-slack-chat.' I thought it was some kind of exclusive club or something."

Frank Hi, [waves to you] is this on? Yeah? Hi. I'm Frank.   Listen, Sarah was getting a little too vigilant about monitoring Slack ever since Tommy sent us a little treat last year [he laughs] so I had to do something about it, you know? [It pans out to Frank leaning against his desk chair, typing away on his secret Slack Chat.] The chat started as an open forum for discussion on the everyday going-ons of Miller Construction Group. Do we just so happen to discuss the private lives of our peers? Maybe. Do we mean any harm by it?  [He gives you a wicked smile] Maybe.

"You guys, you know, the longer I keep getting interrupted, the longer we're all going to stay here in this conference room, and the longer we have to wait to eat Bill's food. You know how he is," She looks outside of the window, the smoke from Bill's grill swirls like a plume as he flips over a juicy steak. "He hates it when he has to serve his food cold. As I was saying, it should be obvious that we shouldn't be sending inappropriate images or photos to one another through Slack or e-mail."

"Hey! It was just one time, and it was an accident!" Tommy retorts, "Besides, it was hardly inappropriate, I was just only trying to show Maria this weird rash I got-"

"What does that mean, anyway?" Connie cuts in, casting a glance your way. "Inappropriate photos? And is there a difference between accidentally sending them or doing it on purpose?"

"Yeah," you shoot her a pointed look. "Sending nude photos to someone who doesn't want them is actually considered sexual harassment," you say, raising your voice a bit and turning in your seat. "I mean, you could get arrested for that, Connie," you add with a sing-song tone, a smirk playing on your lips as you glance at her. "You have nothing to worry about though, right?" you challenge, rolling your chair towards Joel, and taking his hand in his. "Not unless you did send naked photos to my boyfriend?"

Connie Look, I didn't know that Mr. Miller and Sugar were boning. I know how this looks- like I don't believe in girl code or something. I am a girls girl! If Sugar was just forthcoming about who gave her those damn hickeys before SlackGate happened, I wouldn't have sent her boyfriend nude photos of myself! A girl's gotta try, you know? I was only trying to shoot my shot! [She looks a bit uncomfortable, picking at a hangnail.] ... but you have to admit, Mr. Miller is H-O-T hot. God. I love me a graying man in flannel. I always thought to myself, there must be a story here. How does a millionaire who looks like that be single all this time? does he have anyone? is it a sugar baby? does he have a secret love child? I mean-  [she looks over her shoulder where Joel is, arms around his chest as he winks at Sugar. There's a hint of jealousy in Connie's eyes.] Is it true, though? Is it really sexual harassment if I send unsolicited photos of myself? Do you think he's gonna press charges? 

"It's true. Sending unsolicited photos of yourself to unsuspecting parties is sexual harassment, Connie. Not to mention creepy," Sarah winces, shooting you an apologetic smile. "So please don't be sending any photos of that nature to anyone that you work with, especially not in the admin group Slack."

"Yeah, Joel!" Tommy chides. "Keep that shlong in your pants, brother!"

Sarah You would think that working for my family is a cakewalk? Please. I've been diagnosed with IBS and GAD since I started working here five years ago. I sometimes take half an edible just to make it to lunchtime.   [Her head rests on her desk, and as the events of SlackGate unfold, an endless barrage of messages from the admin Slack channel floods her monitor. She can't help but groan in response.] Listen. I love my Dad. I've never really had to worry about his behavior at work before, not like how I have to with Uncle Tommy... but what the hell was he thinking? I can't unsee that! What if Ellie was on that chat? Could you imagine the trauma? My trauma?

"Okay, let's turn to page 12, where we'll go over all the recent updates," Sarah announces, clicking through her PowerPoint. A collective gasp echoes in the room as the slide projects onto the screen, revealing an image – the image of Joel. However, where his exposed package would be, an eggplant emoji tastefully takes its place. It resembles one of those generic memes easily made with a phone app, complete with the semi-imposed words 'Keep Calm and Shlong On!' in big bold letters.

"Shit!" she exclaims, hurriedly pressing the ESC button as she tries to close out her PowerPoint. She slams her laptop shut, the tell-tell sound of a crack echoing throughout the conference room. You hear Tess silently scoff in the distance, and Sarah closes her eyes in embarrassment as the room falls silent.

... and then, all hell breaks loose.  

Tommy is beside himself, his face red, and his eyes filled with tears as he doubles over in laughter, clutching at his middle. "Shit, Henry! When I asked you to do this, I honestly didn't think you had the balls to go through with it, but I so owe you, my man!" he exclaims, enthusiastically high-fiving his nephew-in-law. "This is the best fucking day of my life!"

"Henry?!" Sarah exclaims, her face flushed with rage. "This is what you needed to do in the office at 6 am this morning?!"

Henry's expression crumbles as he witnesses his wife's ire, suddenly realizing that he's just dug himself into a deep hole. "Sarah," he stammers, attempting to regain composure. "This isn't what it looks like—"

Henry Yeah, Tommy asked me to put that meme into Sarah's PowerPoint last night. I would have done it at home, but Sarah doesn't like to bring her laptop home, you know, work-life balance? So I had to make an excuse to come to the office this morning. Was it a dumb ass idea? Yeah, probably. Did I kind of want to get back at Sarah's dad for making my life a living hell? [He looks at you awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.] Honestly, when you're like five beers in, drinking with Tommy- everything seems like a good idea. He dared me, you know? Said that I'm such a simp, trying to always please Joel. Called me a fucking pussy and everything! What else was I supposed to do? Sarah's going to kill me, huh? Do you think that she's gonna ask for a divorce?

"It's a meme. A meme of my Dad's dick pic with AN EGGPLANT EMOJI?!?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??! WHAT DID YOU MEAN FOR IT TO LOOK LIKE?!" she screams, pulling at her hair. "AND YOU, TOMMY MILLER!" she points at her uncle furiously, "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??!"

"Baby," Henry replies, his hands raised in an attempt to calm her down. "It's just a harmless prank, look—"

"No, you look, Henry! Does it seem like it's just a harmless prank?" she gestures to the room, her eyes wide. "Don't even think about coming to bed tonight. I can't even look at you! How dare you collaborate with Tommy, do you really want to go this way? Because I see you fucking around, and you're about to find out-"

"Oh come on, Sarah! you know these all-hands meetings are dull as fuck, I don't even know why you even bother, no one ever listens anyway!" Tommy exclaims, looking around the room. "Isn't this fun you guys? Come on, lighten up! It's not like y'all haven't seen my dick before! Your Papi's gonna live another day, I think we should all feel as comfortable as we want, fuck the rules!"

"...but Joel's is much bigger than yours!" someone yells amid the chaos, laughter, and banter echoing through the room. Sarah looks around helplessly in a panic, trying to grasp the situation unfolding.

"Hey! I'll have you know that I ain't small!" Tommy yells in retaliation.

"Do you think that this is helping, Uncle Tommy? I'm beginning to believe that the only reason why people don't take me seriously is because of all of the shit that you pull!" Sarah groans, looking like she's at the end of her rope. "I could mention that Tess is helping me facilitate this meeting to scare everyone but she's just off to the side, pretending to not be drinking under the table!"  

Tess [She is sitting off to the side, smiling to herself as the chaos ensues, shaking her head.] I am drinking, because who else thinks it's appropriate to call an all-hands meeting first thing in the morning? I don't even want to be here. It's so fucking pointless, trying to get these shitheads to conform to a set of rules.   [She witnesses Joel storming up to Tommy, his face full of rage and irritation, finger pointed right at him.] This is the consequence of hiring friends and family, isn't it? I tried to tell them it was a bad idea, but who's listening to me? I get it, everyone thinks I'm a bit of a bitch, and well... yeah, I am. Alright, time to rein this in— [She suddenly stands from her seat and walks over to Sarah, who appears to be disassociating into madness.]

"HEY!" Tess bellows, clapping her hands together. The room abruptly falls silent, Joel's hands frozen mid-grab on Tommy's flannel. Forty-eight pairs of eyes pivot towards Tess, a blend of shock and embarrassment spreading across their faces, reminiscent of children caught sneaking cookies from the jar by their mother. "Okay, that's enough!"

Her eyes are narrowed, hands on her hips. "This is what's going to happen. You're going to stop sending each other dick and tit pics through Slack, because as much as it is amusing," she smirks, winking at you, "I would really rather not have to deal with the fallout that comes with it," she shoots a pointed look at Connie, whose eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.  

"The next time someone tries to fuck around and find out? I'm going to take that dirty photo, print a thousand fucking copies of it and stick that shit all over the office. Every fucking inch, every fucking nook and cranny is just gonna be dick and tit central," she paces around the room, placing a warning hand on Frank's shoulder. "As for this secret Slack chat, I'm going to give you all one chance to come clean. If you don't, and Sugar's report doesn't match who outs themselves right now," She scans the room, a smirk on the corner of her mouth appearing in satisfaction. "Yeah, you didn't think that we were monitoring that shit, huh? Well, I'll throw you all a bone: raise your hands if you are in this secret group chat, and I'll consider not docking your pay for insubordination. Your choice."

Frank [Looking at Tess as she slightly stumbles from where she's standing.] Yeah, she's toast.

The majority of the room begins to raise their hands, except you, Tess, Joel, and surprisingly, Frank.

Tess scoffs. "Really Frank? Really?"

"I have no clue what you're trying to imply, and seriously Tess? Are you really going to play that card? Are you going to dock your pay too?" Frank retorts. "I mean, just last night, you were drunkenly telling me that you heard Joel and Sugar-"

"If you utter another word, I'll fire you on the spot, Frank!" Joel shouts from across the room. "I mean it this time!"

Joel and Sugar [Joel wraps his arm around your waist, leaning in to kiss your forehead while gently pushing a strand of hair behind your ears.] There, that's better. Don't hide your face, Mami; you're too beautiful to be hiding all of that, okay? Right, [he clears his throat.] You would think that people would be a little more professional around here, show me a bit of respect— [His gaze shifts to Tommy, who's engaged in laughter and banter with the team, his chest puffed out in triumph. Joel glares at him, shaking his head.] I'd like to think I try really hard to be a good boss. I pay fairly, I allow remote work, and damn it, I take pride in offering the best employee benefits in all of Austin. We even take a company trip to Hawaii every year, for fucks sake! [You squeeze his hand, pressing a kiss to his temple as he takes a frustrated breath.] Papi, if it means anything, I think you're the best boss any of these folks could ever ask for. They don't deserve you. [Joel nods.] Look, I don't know what to tell you. I got the ride of my life that morning, my sweet Mami riding my cock just right, you know? I would have been okay, going into my meeting with blue balls, just as long as Sugar got hers. Your pleasure is my pleasure... but I was just so fucking horny! I started to work out, yeah? Wanted to keep shit tight for my baby, and fuck, I was... what do they young kids say?   Feeling yourself? [Joel nods again, smiling at you.] Yeah, 'feeling myself' or whatever. Anyway, I was in the meeting, and you messaged me, right? saying that you weren't going to be in for lunch? and I don't know if was the disappointment, or if I was just too horny, but fuck. I quickly excused myself and took a quick dick pic in my bathroom. I thought I was in the right Slack channel... so I sent it, and then the guys at The H Group asked me a whole bunch of questions, and then an hour later- Chaos. The messages kept flooding in! Frank was asking about how long I was, and Connie was sending me nude photos of herself- in my fucking office! Wait, what? [Your gaze meets Connie's, nervously seated as Frank goes on and on beside her. Her hands twitch like a possum that just got run over by an 18-wheeler. Yeah. Squirm for me, you think to yourself.] Yeah! And I just sat there, in shock, you know? Like this is the kind of shit that Tommy pulls, and I couldn't believe that I was so fucking stupid! Can you imagine the kind of therapy Sarah's gonna need? What if Ellie saw this?

"Who's up for some snacks?" Tommy calls out to the team, holding a basket filled with rather sizable cucumbers, bananas, and eggplants. "Help yourselves, compliments of Joel!"

Ellie  [at the job site across town, hard hat fixed crookedly on top of her head.] Yeah, I saw it. There is not enough bleach in this world that could ever erase that image from my existence.   [she glares at Sam, who just shrugs.] Thanks a lot, asshole!

"Alright, you degenerates!" Bill booms, bursting through the conference doors wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron, tongs in one hand, and a tray piled high with thickly cut steaks in the other. "This steak isn't going to eat itself!" 

The team swarms Bill like seagulls spotting a tasty piece of bread on the boardwalk. Tommy grabs a t-bone with his bare hands, biting into it with the enthusiasm of a caveman.

"Hey," Joel whispers to you, his shoulder gently bumping yours. "Want to help me with something?" You nod eagerly as Joel swiftly guides you out of the conference room, heading towards the executive offices. You giggle as Joel ushers you into the room, pulling you into a kiss, his foot playfully kicking the door shut.

He moves the both of you over to where Tommy's desk is, pushing aside its contents off the tabletop in one fell swoop, the items clattering onto the floor. "Papi, what are you doing?" you ask cheekily as he bends you over the desk, lifting your skirt.  

Joel growls and shoves you down onto the desk, his hands harshly grabbing onto your hips. Your arms scramble to find purchase as you knock over a framed photo of Tommy and Maria, watching helplessly as the image of their smiling faces falls onto the floor. His palm travels across your back, pinning you in place as he fiddles with his zipper with his other hand. "Line item 6," Joel murmurs as his hands begin to travel across the globes of your ass, squeezing and spreading and slapping them until you're so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs.  

Joel hums in appreciation. "Thats right Mami, get nice and wet for me, okay?" You can feel him pump his cock against you, notching his head at your entrance. "You gonna make a nice mess for me, baby?" he asks through gritted teeth as he strokes through your folds with his dick.

"Yesss," you moan, pushing your ass back toward him.  

Joel pushes into you to the hilt in one brutal thrust as you cry out, grabbing onto the edge of the desk as he begins to pound into you in earnest, his thrusts so hard and punishing that the desk begins to rattle. You squeeze your eyes shut as Joel gathers your hair in his hand, pulling you back towards him. "Fuck baby, I'm gonna come so fucking hard, fill this pussy up and watch as it drips out of you, maybe fuck you again if we still have time-"

You gasp, taking a deep breath as his thrusts become so erratic it pushes you up the desk, lifting one leg onto the surface as Joel angles himself higher, hitting a spot so deep within you that you bite your lip from crying out, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. You squeeze around his cock as you chase your high, hoping that Joel can maintain his composure long enough so you both can finish together. "No Mami, stay with me, come with me-"

He leans over you, pressing you onto the desk as he grabs onto your shoulders, pounding into you, his breath hot against your neck as he buries his face into it, huffing from exertion. "I'm so close Mami, I'm gonna... Fuck!" He bites your shoulder as he cums in one last brutal stroke, his hands harshly grasping your thighs as you feel his hot spend flow deep into your belly. You rock your hips onto him as his hand goes to your clit, rubbing until you are weak in the knees, your body trembling beneath his. "Fuck Joel," you say a little breathless as you slump onto the table as Joel pulls out of you, his finger probing into you as he pushes his leaking cum back where it belongs. "Come on, lets clean this up and head back before they notice-"

Joel just snorts as he zips up his jeans. "No," he replies nonchalantly as he catches his breath. 

"No?" you ask as you straighten yourself up, frowning at him.  

"Line item six says I bend you over his desk and leave a little souvenir," he motions to the mess on the floor, pens and papers scattered about.  

"He's going to fucking murder you, Joel," you chuckle, pulling him into a kiss.  

"Yeah? Well, he shouldn't have fucked around, because he's about to find out." He simply replies, taking your hand in his. "Come on, little Mami, quickly now, before he realizes we're gone..."

You share a laugh as he guides you back into the conference room. Bill raises an eyebrow at both of you, handing over a plate with steaming steak, as if he just finished cooking it. "I thought I'd save your lunches for last, figured you guys needed some extra time," he says, clearing his throat and nodding towards Tommy, who seems entirely oblivious to your brief disappearance. "You know Tommy, can't resist a good piece of steak," Bill continues, gesturing at Joel. "It's like everything around him disappears for a moment; you could rob him blind, and he wouldn't even notice," he adds with a small smile, placing a hand on Joel's shoulder and giving him a knowing look. "Enjoy your lunch, you two."

Bill Look, I wouldn't call myself a nosy person, but I am perceptive.   [He glances at Frank whispering and giggling to Connie off to the side, rolling his eyes.] Look at them. They think that they're the eyes and ears of this operation, but what they don't know, is that I. Know. Everything. I am a survivalist. I gather intel on all of my surroundings, even if I am surrounded by absolute morons.   [Bill takes another sip of coffee, subtly glancing around him before making eye contact with you, the reader, once more] So if you want to know the real scoop, the real ins-and-outs of this company, and not have to deal with the lunatics in Frank's not-so-secret shit talk club, come to me, I'll set you on the right path. At least I have snacks.   [He looks off to you and Joel, giving a curt nod as he starts to cut into his own steak.] As much as I respect Tommy, he's not the one signing my checks at the end of the day. If there's anything that I value more than anything, it's loyalty. I don't like to play around, hate it when people bite the hands that feed them. People like that need to be taught a lesson. Joel's a good man, and sometimes, we fuck up... but it's how we handle ourselves after the fact that matters. If that means I help out an old friend, well- [he smiles as Tommy walks towards the conference room doors, heading back to his office. Bill smiles out into the distance.]

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