#but the velveteen blue with the OTHER skirt??

[anotherdescentintomadness]

SITA TaeMin

“Damn… this is crazy.. what am I gonna do now?”

“FALLLLLLLL”

Never over this MV. We’re up to 17M views now 🤯 So incredibly proud of him. Also… every look in this video is great, but I’m extremely fond of this particular one… and the red… and the blue

[majorshatterandhare]

I found this while looking at photos for color reference. It wasn't helpful but it made me smile and I think you all might enjoy it too.

[ID: A photo of Dr. Carmilla and the Mechanisms. From left to right, the photo includes Nastya (Actor), Frank Voss, Maki Yamazaki, Jonny Sims, Morgan Wilkinson, and Ben Below. Maki and Jonny are standing back to back in the center of the frame. They are set forward as compared to the others. On the left, Nastya is crouched and Frank is behind them. On the right both Morgan and Ben are standing facing towards the center. Everyone but Nastya seems to be looking toward the camera.

Nastya has light skin and straight, brown, shoulder length hair, which is lighter at the ends. They are wearing rectangular glasses and a black choker. They are wearing a long sleeve, dark blue shirt, dark blue jeans, and green-brown boots. They have their hands on their knees.

Frank has mid-dark skin and bleached curly hair. They are wearing a dark shirt and have their right hand on Nastya's right shoulder. Most of Frank is unseen. They seem to be wearing blue jeans and brown shoes.

Maki is standing side-to and smirking at the camera. She has light skin and short, dark hair. They are wearing red lipstick and eye make up. She has on a white button up shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, underneath a black vest, with a black bandana tied just above her left elbow. They wearing black pants with a black belt that has a white flower on it and brown boots. She is holding onto a silver patterned cane in front of her.

Jonny is also standing side-to the camera. He has light skin and short brown hair. He has short facial hair and is wearing black, vein-y eye make up. He is wearing a black velveteen coat over a dark collared shirt, black slacks with a long black braided belt, the end of which hangs to his back, and black boots. He has one hand on his belt and the other is held, relaxed, next to his coat's button placket; it has something drawn on the back in black.

Morgan has his hands on his hips. He has light skin and short, straight, bright red hair. He is wearing a red and black corset style bodice with an ankle-length black layered skirt and black boots.

Ben has light skin and short curly hair of indeterminate color due to lighting. He is wearing a white, long sleeve, button up shirt under a vest which is brown and striped with gold and filigree designs. He is wearing black jeans and brown sneakers. In his only visible hand, he is holding something small, black, and square; it appears to be a flask.

They are stand on and in front of a photography backdrop which is a marbled white color. Past the edges of the backdrop the wall behind them can be seen to have many framed pictures on it as well as some large glass tubes behind Ben's head. There is also something brown and square off the edge near to Ben and a stand of some kind just barely on the backdrop. There is neutral lighting coming from behind the camera and in front of the subjects, as well as harsh red lighting from off camera but to the right side of the photo. This causes significant reflection on the skin and hair of Ben, Morgan, and Frank, as well as a lesser red reflection on Jonny.

In the lower right hand corner there is a water mark reading "Lyon Photography" in a white, all lowercase, handwritten style font. End ID]

This photo was on the Mechanisms facebook page, posted June 10, 2011 and is from the Vaudeville Rave.

[chryzuree]

okay so. azure’s jst a little stuffed bunny, keeping chrysi company from since she was four to her teenage years. she loves him so much that his soul awakens. he’s brought alongside her everywhere, until he feels her friends are his too (jacks, primarily). azure loves chrysi. he knows jacks does too. when chrysi looped one of her rings on the ribbon around his neck, jacks throws a fit until chrysi gives him one of her rings too. he watches chrysi and jacks go from being little kids to awkward teens, and he watches them remain close. he’s jst glad that even though they’re older now, they bring him along everywhere (jacks once leaned over during a symphony to ask chrysi if she’d forgotten azure at home. she did not. she snuck him in via her skirts). azure is happy. his friends are happy. he’s still loved, even though chrysi tells her that a sixteen year old girl should stop carrying her stuffed bunny everywhere.

then she gets sick. it feels like it happens overnight. azure can tell because her body burns when she holds him close to her while she’s sleeping. he’s beyond worried, because she’s not waking up. he knows jacks is worried too, because he’s been visiting his sick friend every single day on his way home from his lessons.

she’s dreaming. deeply. and azure doesn’t know how he figures it out, but he winds up in her fever dreams. a bunny knight, her protector. he finally is able to speak with her, hold her with human arms, be with her. but it doesn’t last. it was all a dream from the start. and he doesn’t even get the chance to stay with her, because nessa takes all chrysi’s sheets and clothes and other things and prepares to burn them to get rid of the illness, once chrysi pulls through.

he should’ve burned that night. he didn’t.

somehow, he fell away from the gathered piles of chrysi’s things and he’s taken by one of the maids to her home.

(he meets alice here, but that’s a tale for another time.)

azure is sent off on a meandering journey. he meets new children and grows more threadbare. he’s long since lost the ring chrysi gave him. he still thinks of her. he misses her more than anything. sometimes, he even misses jacks.

years pass. azure winds up in an antique store, tucked away on a shelf behind the register. he’s definitely an antique doll, but he’s still a little lumpy, despite a restoration artist trying to fix him up. it doesn’t matter. he’s found anyway. by jacks.

jacks and chrysi decided to get married at random. it definitely doesn’t feel random to everyone else, but to jacks and chrysi, the idea was a novel lightning strike, a sudden realization they had never considered. jacks had just been through another failed engagement (4th so far, and society is beginning to question what it is that lurks behind jacks’s pretty face to warrant so many girls breaking things off with him. the truth is that it was always his love for chrysi, enduring ever always, ever since she’d given him one of her rings in a meadow.) chrysi has had no prospects.

it was jacks’s suggestion. his reasoning being that they were already close enough to be married (a repeat of what alessandra yelled at him, after she called off the engagement.) and that his only competition had always been her stuffed bunny.

chrysi agrees. more readily than she thought she would.

on that day, jacks was beginning to get desperate. chrysi was his best friend and his lover, soon to be his wife, and he could not find a perfect gift. not just a gift, but the gift. and he finds azure. ribbon frayed, ring lost, eyes cracked and velveteen thinning, but it’s chrysi’s bunny blue, or at least a creation that looks similar to it.

jacks ties the wedding ring onto azure’s ribbon. he gifts it to chrysi.

azure’s back where he needs to be. and chrysi still likes clutching him close whenever she sleeps.

and sometimes, just sometimes, azure slips into their dreams again. there, he is reunited with them. :)

[trickster-whim]

I went out to Goodwill the other day, and it was uhhh a bad time? It was pretty crowded by people with no concept of personal space, there was a kid following me around and shooting me with a fake gun and looking up my skirt, and there was a guy verbally and physically abusing his kid in there, which was scary and terrible. So that sucked. But um... I got some stuff... so yay.

I'm gonna do a read-more because I kept taking photos, but the rest of the post won't be such a downer lol.

First off, tempted by this very Forever Knight wood block thing.

The statuette game was on point this visit.

I liked this little kitty music box, but it was hands-down the heaviest thing in the known universe. I can't believe it didn't break the shelf it was on.

Um.

Again, gotta say, tempted. This guy was a look.

Ready to die???

I almost bought this little robot, but I'm trying to control my dark urges. The purple and lime green is a good look, though.

Fish! Some of the big fish from the main canal were in the little canal at the side, and I scared them, oops.

Anyway, stuff I got:

Blue Exorcist and In These Words (both in German) were actually an online purchase, but they got here around the same time, so they're in the picture. (Side note, it's really hard to find In These Words in English, and I haven't been able to find it to read online, so I got it in German to see if I wanted to try to find it in English. My German's not good enough to fully understand it without a dictionary nearby, but I can kinda follow, and this version was pretty affordable. The art's nice, too!)

I'm always looking for Furbys and Furby merch, that little velveteen Daiso pouch was cute and I can put pens in there, and I've heard of Children of the Sea and for $1, I'll check it out.

The last thing I got was a Pottery Barn kids Star Wars bedsheet. I haven't fully decided whether I'm going to just use it as a sheet (I have a comforter set from there from when I was a kid, and it's my favorite and most expensive blanket) or use the fabric to make a skirt. I really like blue and yellow, so I'm leaning toward skirt, but I haven't decided. I've been really lazy about sewing lately (。﹏。*)

And then finally...

I uh. I've heard of environmental storytelling, but I'm not sure I get this one.

[rawrmeansilyindinosawr]

day 2 “ ur crush “

his hair color changes frequently n i think thts just about the only thing he feels comfortable with changing as quick as it does. he has a red spiral tattoo on his head and a light blue c & m on the side of his face. a green spider on his shoulder. a dinosaur on his left calve. an angel serophim with eyes all over its face on his stomach. tribal patterns on his forearms. ive seen his body a hundred times but still don’t have it all memorized.

the first time we met he grabbed my duster jacket and stared at me for a while while saying hey. n while complimenting me for the skirt i wore he felt for my garters. then screamed his preferences for me and himself in the midst of a loud restaurant that got our order wrong twice n complained ab how there was too much ice in the overpriced glass of coke. i didn’t know until months later that he could scream in a public restaurant but he would also keep a lot of thoughts to himself . and say a lot like how things are fine when they’re not and play everything off like it’s all ok n he’s easygoing til it’s too much n he kinda breaks. he has an inner world he tries to relay bc it’s more than the words u choose to say. how do u make them feel when u say them.?

he never forces himself onto others. but he gives his heart away. he is a natural outlier. he wants to never be held down or be told what to do but at the same time loves to follow orders. loves to please. eager to help. begs to be kicked down to prove that he would exist like that just for u. he believes everyone deserves a second chance. and to be believed. but he still prefers animals to humans.

he is the smell of algae and moss on grey rock. sedimentary matter. the pink n purple n lite blu morning sky. soft black velveteen sheets. a kiss on the forehead goodnite.

he is insecure about his speech his grammar his work his art the opinions n first impression others conjure of him. his eyes see and his brain shuts off when its disinterested n unengaged n he forgets alot of things but i find it hard to see that as unbearable when i do double the amount of work to remind him of things in his day to day schedule or how we’re cutting close to timeframes cuz he never forgets anything i say.

[tteokdoroki]

assistance please! | e.kirishima.

♡ pairing: eijirou kirishima x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 6.6K

♡ rating: mature, 18+, mdni.

♡ genre: workplace!au, internship!au, fluff + smut.

♡ summary: eijirou kirishima loved being an intern, he had great co-workers, had a shot at his dream job, his boss had taken quite liking to him and of course, being the favourite intern had many, many perks.

♡ warning(s): please read ! heavy smut,  ( kirishima is in his twenties ), power dynamics, sub top!kirishima + power bottom!reader,   heavy!praise kink, heavy!miss + mommy kink, unprotected sex ( wrap it before you tap it, kids ), oral ( female receiving ), squirting, tummy bulges, cumplay, creampie.

♡ author’s note(s): hihi everyone!! today i present to you my contribution to the bnharem on the job collab! i had a lot of fun playing with different dyanimics in this fic, i hope you enjoy it nonetheless!! make sure you chek out the other works from the other amazing creators!! <3

♡ masterlist | requests | kofi

“oi! ‘shima! you’re needed in the boss’ office right away, she’s got important business for ya!, wants t’have a word. now.”

eijirou ducks his head politely in a sign of gratitude, thanking his co-worker and superior, keigo— for the heads up. keigo, or better known as hawks around the office ( for his fast speeds in completing work and luring lonely interns into his bed ), was a nice guy— second to the lady in charge and way too chatty. he was a bit of an air head, got the job done when it needed to be but that’s what kirishima was for, the replacement while keigo took his vacation time in the middle of the year like an idiot.

he wasn’t too sure why you kept the blonde around, he supposed it was because he was pretty but eijirou wouldn’t dare question you— he needed this internship if he was going to make it big in the sports news reporting scene. he’d been majoring in sports and healthcare at college, two years away from graduating when the opportunity to work for yn ln, one of the biggest sports journalists in japan had landed right in his lap. of course he was going to take it, of course he was going to do everything he could not to fuck it up.

in the cubicles beside him, the other interns try to muffle their giggles and titters of curious laughter as the red head gathers himself for the meeting.

“oooo, i wonder what you did this time,” kaminari teases from the right, leaning over his side of the cubicle to fiddle with the odd bits on kirishima’s desk. denki kaminari was another person kirishima wondered how the hell he got into the programme, but then again he was pretty to look at and brought a lighter air to boring office days.

“nothing! i’m innocent!” eijirou defends, hands releasing his files to fly up in defence.

the other interns, going by the names of mina ashido, kyouka jirou and hanta sero snicker amongst themselves at the interaction.

“don’t believe it, s’obviously more than nothin’ if you’re always getting called down’ta the boss lady’s office.” bakugou, another intern, grunts out with his nose deep buried in files for upcoming reports. he was a little too rough for the journalism lifestyle but got the job done. his attitude wasn’t for everyone. “they’re probably fuckin’.”

mina giggles and kirishima steps out into the paths between desks. “don’t be such a sourpuss ‘suki, just ‘cause you’re not her favourite.”

a lose ‘shut up’ is huffed, before katsuki turns to face his taller, buffer companion. “just don’t be late, bunch of us are goin’ for lunch later.” he adds and turns back to his paperwork.

“affirmative, catch ya later!”

the group waves the red head off as he heads to the elevator directing him to the main floor— this is where all the higher ups worked. the journey wasn’t unfamiliar to the intern, he wasn’t like the others and had the steps to your office memorised by heart. sometimes it was like walking home, to his comfort and sanctuary away from the stressors of work and the outside world— he knew that was bad, but you were so kind, such a sweet and understanding boss he couldn’t help but develop some level of comfort towards you.

to most, it seemed like eijirou kirishima was just unbelievably close to his boss, that you’d taken him under your wing.

he however, knew what you had, meant more.

a fluttering warmth spreads across the intern’s chest as he approaches the door to your main office and he knocks. behind it lay mountains of secrets upon secrets, things that kirishima knows about you that no one else does. the walls have hidden words, written across them in fonts of passion and admiration and it’s all that he can think about. you’re all that he can think about, and it’s still wrong. there’s a shuffling deep in the room and some flitters of paper here and there before your soft, velveteen voice breaks through the barrier between you. the one thing keeping you apart.

“come in,” you call smoothly and kirishima follows your orders swiftly, if not eagerly, entering the four walls of your office. ruby eyes dart across the room to locate your position and his heart skips a beat when he finds you, body leaning over your dark oak desk, papers scattered across it while you frantically sift through numbers and stocks and nonsense way above the level of a journalism intern. but even amongst the chaos, you’re beautiful— eyes sparkling with productivity, lined in little flecks across the colour of your orbs. the way you dress never fails to steal away eijirou’s breath— a tight fitting leather skirt that hugs your mature curves and a white blouse with the bottoms popped open— just enough for him to get a peek at your cleavage.

the poor intern has to hold himself back from blurring the lines of work and pleasure to shove himself deep into your chest, suck and lick at your plush breasts until he was high off the taste of your skin. but he wouldn’t do that, yet. not without your permission. “oh eiji baby, there you are!” you coo to the red head, bright smile stretching across blood diamond painted lips. you cross the room in three short strides, tall black heels clacking against the smooth white marble until you’re standing in front of and looking up at kirishima. “was starting to think keigo had ditzed like a pretty boy and had forgotten to send you my way, darling.”

eijirou’s cheeks flame at the smoothness in your syrupy voice, like sweet honey to his hears, the pet name striking a familiar heat deep within him. you always had a way with your words— enticing, almost like a siren calling out to him despite the taboo aura that surrounded what you had. whatever it was— he just knew it was more than your typical boss-intern relationship.

“even if he had, ‘m more than happy to be of service to you ma’am,” he responds almost a little too quickly, large hand rubbing the back of his neck and tugging at his baby hairs to ground himself.

you cock your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “always such a helpful, good boy eijirou,” you hum, lips pulling into a devilish red smile and the praise causing a new spark of lustful electricity to crackle through the air. “i could use a little assistance, please, i have this awful meeting with the board today, spent all night preparing and couldn’t go home, i could use some stress relief,”

kirishima’s gaze becomes hooded as he looks down at you, a familiar and bright desire burning in the pits of his stomach. “oh yeah? sucks that the paperwork kept you up all night ma’am…” he trails off, choosing to let his fingers dance up and down your sides— snaking an arm around your waist to pull you into him. you couldn’t or you wouldn’t go home. he’s not sure if he cares about the answer right now— not when you tremble in his grip, itching for something, anything from him. “how long do you reckon we have ms. ln?”

“ten to fifteen minutes sweetheart, give or take,”

you grin widens, taking an impossibly closer step to your intern— pressing the swell of your breasts against his hard chest. he can feel your nipples pebbling through your blouse, almost visible behind the white fabric and god the way you look up at him— he can no longer wait, he needs you. right here and right now.

“will you be needing my assistance throughout, ma’am?” kirishima asks, voice dropping a few octaves until it falls into a low growl.

“i expect it. you are my intern after all.”

the words laced with deep huskiness, the proximity of your bodies and the rising heat in the room is what leads you both to tumble into the next series of events. before he can’t register it, your mouths are slotted together in a fast paced and sloppy kiss, kirishima’s body manoeuvres you around the office, marking out a familiar pathway to your desk—his tongue remains sliding over yours in rapid movements as he commits your taste to memory, refreshing those from the last time he had you like this. yet every time you kiss and his tongue glides over yours, you taste sweeter than before; like peaches and morning coffee— you feel softer in his grip, every dip and curve to your body like it was built for him.

eijirou can't stop thinking of that last time, tucked away in your office after dark when your dainty hands pawed desperately at his hips to bring him closer or scratched at his back from sheer pleasure— kirishima wants to see you like that against, using his own hands to tear through your shirt and send buttons flying across the room. something in him just wants to do good for you, have you ache for him and earn himself some of your sweet praise. even as you step and stumble towards your work desk, the red-head lets his lips break away from yours, connected by a string of your own saliva before he drops to your neck, lapping tracks over your skin with the temptation to bite down and paint it shades of deep purple and blue.

but there are rules that you both have in place; ways to keep what you have a secret and hidden away from the public eye so that you don’t lose all that you’ve worked for and so kirishima can keep being your precious little intern.

“jump for me, please ma’am,” he whispers heavily into the junction between your neck and your shoulders, breath laboured and warm against your skin that begins to shine with light perspiration. mindlessly, you follow his orders, jumping up while your fingers curl into the mass of red on kirishima’s head and ankles lock around his waist—his hands meet the backs of your doughy thighs, squeezing the flesh between calloused digits while you toe off your heels.

“eiji, you’re so good,” you manage between feather light breaths as they clatter to the floor as the pair of you somehow make your way to the desk chair, pushing and tearing the clothes from one another’s bodies— including your crisp shirt. now seated and left in nothing but your bra, you tug harshly at your intern’s locks and bring his mouth down to yours, allowing them to move together in a dirty, messy kiss. there’s barely any time for you both to mess around, for him to tease you until your limit and you’re crying out for any type of touch from him, so eijirou quickly

flips down your bra, exposing your chest to cool, air conditioned air—not even bothering to unclip the material as his fingers descend on your nipple, pulling and twisting them until your back arches from the stimulation. “hurry, please eijirou,”

obedient as ever, your favourite boy drops to his knees in front of the chair you stay slumped in and with his height, he still manages to tower over you, practically at eye level with hunger framing the ruby of his own. large hands knead at your plush thighs, hiking your skirt up and up to give you room to spread your thighs, cunt growing sticky from anticipation— all from a few measly touches in familiar places. but this is kirishima, and he knows how your body works from countless hours spent after the office closes up— using one another to blow off extra steam. he knows just what makes you tick and moan his name.

logically, eijirou knows that your meeting could start at any minute and even though you’re both in a stickler for time, he still wants to get a taste at your skin before devouring your most intimate parts. he’ll make time to explore every part of you, to assist you in your stress relief. “‘m sorry miss, yn,” he whines needily, watching your chest rise and fall with want, feeling your body heat up and twitch from the ghost of his fingertips across your blemished skin. “gotta have a taste of you before the real deal, hope’ya don’t mind…”

latching onto the left mound of flesh at your exposed chest, kirishima sinks the point of his teeth into the area around your nipple— just enough to graze your skin and pull a sweet mewl from your mouth. you’re both lucky for the soundproof walls, your head thrown back in a lewd moan he lets his pink tongue roll over your bud in vicious circles. heavy, fat globs of saliva pool over the pink muscle, pouring down kirishima’s chin and painting your skin with a slick shine. “h-how...how could i mind angel, not when you treat me s’good,” you heave, vision fading in and out due to the overwhelming amount of pleasure flashing through your body in waves of hotness. “always doin’ so well for me eiji, aren’t you such a good boy?”

“yes ma’am,” the intern confirms with a erogenous slur, pacified and content on his knees for you— sucking, licking and biting at your chest to his heart’s content. “‘m your good boy,” he corrects you, however. eijirou feels most happy when grazing his tongue over the swell of your breasts, watching your face carefully for any twitches of delirium, it lets him know how hot aroused he makes you feel— that knowledge shoots straight to his cock, rock hard in his slacks while the redhead watches his boss writhe in her seat all for his eyes only.

such a dazzling view, and it’s all for fucking him.

your perfectly manicured nails run through red hair, scratching deliciously at his scalp until you’re forcing his head back and pulling kirishima off of your breast with a pop. “as much as i love seeing a pretty boy suck on my tits like a baby, we’re pressed for time angel, gonna need you to speed it up a little,” despite the softness to your face and the sudden evenness to the tone of your voice, the words that you speak to eijirou are vulgar, nasty, and turn him on to his wits end. “want you to eat me out eiji, can you do that for me?”

shaking his head, yes, beautiful claret eyes shining with acquiescence, kirishima wipes the spit from his chin with the back of his hand— like the tainted, dirty intern he is. you sigh down at him salaciously, ready to tear his innocence apart all over again. eijirou was always so willing to please, both in his work and behind closed doors— you would be a fool to not take advantage of that. with brute force, your intern forces your legs apart, eyes rolling back in his skull from the scent of your sex, dripping with your juices right through your underwear and stockings. overexcited, he rips through the flimsy material at your cunt, exposing your panties for him to see.

“you’re so...so wet ms.ln,” kirishima comments observantly, not even bothering to pull your stockings the rest of the way down your legs, instead opting to pull on the whole until it’s wide enough for his mouth to fit. “smell s’good, bet you taste even better,” there’s a patch on the crotch of your panties, darker than the rest of the material from where you leak and without a second thought, the red head instantly surges forward to lick a stripe over it, letting out a choked gripe as the taste of your cream from over the fabric invades his tongue.

you let out a shrill cry, hips jumping up at the first brush of his tongue against your untouched, clothed pussy. you wriggle even as kirishima holds you down, needing the heat of his mouth against you before your meeting starts. but he’s so good, so well trained, reaching up to your hips to yank your panties down in one fluid motion. leaning forward, kirishima savagely buries his face between your doughy thighs, hiking them over his shoulders from beneath the desk. his nose bumps against your clit, swollen from the lack of touch as he greedily inhales your scent once more— without warning, the intern kicks a stripe up the length of your pussy, sucking your juices into his mouth and smiling against your heat.

“d-don’t tease baby, be good for me,” you remind kirishima, your body trembles with anticipation, craving an orgasm to expel the stress of your work days out. the boy between your legs only hums, the sound running straight though cunt and vibrating against it, causing you to gush and spill your arousal out onto the leather seat beneath your cheeks. eijirou feasts on the slick that seeps from your fluttering hole, gliding his tongue up and down your sex, allowing the occasional pressure from his nose to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

the pads of his thighs burn marks into your legs, using them as leverage to pull your heated core further into his mouth, “can’t help it ma’am, y’got such a pretty pussy...s’only right that i worship you…” eijirou breaths right against your puffy folds, eyes trained on the way your hole clenches around nothing. a primal urge flares in his chest, a desire— no, a need— to see you filled with something, any part of him that can make you see stars and fuck you dumb. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry you jus look s’fucking pretty miss…”

attaching his lips to your clit, the redhead pushes the spit gathered on his tongue right over your sloppy sit, hazy ruby stare watching as his saliva mixes with your juices and slides over your empty hole. he follows the oozing trail with his tongue, lapping it up and spewing it back into your sex until the pink muscle slips past your entrance— slipping inside of you with no prior warnings. your knuckles that grasp the arms of the chair as you’re spoiled between your legs by your top intern, his hands snaking their way around the tops of your thighs to spread your sticky pussy lips apart in order to bring more of you to the cool air of the office.

“you like this don’cha? dirty little boy,” you tease the poor boy, watching as his cheeks flame with embarrassment. “being a naughty little intern between your boss’ thighs all to keep on pleasing  her, keep your position at her company, huh? fuck eiji, you just love miss riding your naughty tongue—ohmygod—“

the way you sound, voice smooth like chocolate over the obscene slurping that fills the thats air heavy with the scent of sex and, makes eijirou’s cock jump up, precum oozing from his tip as he begins to rut against the hard floor beneath your desk. he makes an attempt to respond, but your thighs lock his head in place and his words come out muffled against your core. “mph, luh it, you’re s’sexy, please ma’am—“ he mumbles sordidly against you, practically humping the ground at your feet as you pick on him.

for a brief moment, kirishima pulls away to watch you roll your hips into nothing, hot tears beginning to brew into our hooded eyes from the satisfaction he brings you with every flick and flit of his tongue against where you need him most. written in your eyes is the command to keep going, your hands twistingly sharply in red roots to bring the intern back to your sluice, spasming cunt. so he does as he’s told, shoving his tongue deep inside your ribbed, iron hot walls and dragging tip along them to collect and taste strings of your viscous juices.

biting your lip, you do your best to hold back a voracious howl, bucking your hips feverishly into your intern’s face and staining his cheeks with everything that you have— he thrusts his tongue into you to the pace of your own hips, moaning against your slippery slit until your eyes are rolling. “gonna cum from this eiji, from you eatin’ me out like this...jus need a little more— need your fingers pretty boy,” you can feel the twist of the knot in your lower tummy starting to unravel, signifying your oncoming high, and the room starts to spin while kirishima eats you out with new vigour.

“yeah? miss? you’re gonna cum for me?” the intern practically whines and pulls his tongue from your hear, almost crying as his hips thump against the floor desperate for friction. “wanna see you come undone s’bad, please cum for me, please, please—“ eijirou chants, replacing his tongue with two of his thick digits, watching as your slick cunt stretches around them accommodatingly. he jackhammers them inside of you, grunting lowly underneath the slaps of his palm against the meat of your ass, as he returns to your clit to suckle on it hungrily. his fingers curl instantly in search for the spongy spot inside of you— bearing down hard against it once it’s located.

“oh—hah, right there baby— right fuckin’ there—!” you squeal, only egging him on as white starts to cloud your vision, everything sounds so nasty and wet, while eijirou stimulates both of your pleasure spots. it becomes hard to breath, legs wobbling around his broad shoulders, but your intern doesn’t let up, determined to bring you to cloud nine.

“that’s it ma’am, right there—you’re almost there, can feel you clenching around my fingers...please cum, fuck i want your cum, wanna taste you so bad, cum. cum. cum!” and that’s all it takes, eijirou’s pleading voice between your thick thighs to make the coil inside you snap and for your orgasm to wash over you. you convulse in your chair, nectar gushing freely from your raw and overstimulated cunt, spewing all over the redheads face as he continued to lap at your clit to ride out your high.

but he doesn’t stop there, scissoring his fingers deep within your velvet walls as you continue to cum, making you shake your head and wail from the high levels of ecstasy.

“please eiji—n’more, can’t, no—“

“you can miss, i know you can—fuck you look so pretty when you’re about to squirt for me, please…”

as quickly as your first high ended, another one comes crashing over you in harsh waves— rocking your world as clear liquid floods from your pussy— the sheer force of you squirting, pushing kirishima’s fingers out from your tight, sappy hole. your release hits the floor with a crude slap, both of you moaning loudly almost for the whole world to hear. he doesn’t stop sucking, clearing up your pretty cunt even as you fade in and out of consciousness from pleasure— he stays lapping at you with burning, languid strokes of his tongue between your folds even as you weakly attempt to answer the phone now ringing from your desk.

clearing your throat, you muster up the strength to sound professional over the line before picking up the phone and bringing it towards your ear. “good afternoon, this is yn ln of shinku sports reports, bringing you the latest sporting news, how may i help you?”

‘this is the board, we need to discuss this month's stocks and reports.’

from the corner of your eye, you can see kirishima rise from his place underneath your desk— standing tall over you once more while you converse with the directors on the other end of the phone. as quietly as he can, the redhead tears through the buttons on his shirt in a similar way to you, prior to you fucking and unbuckles his slacks. he pulls down his boxers and pants in one go, revealing his thick, hard girth that stands tall and slaps against his stomach— tip an angry shade of red as precum smears across his lower belly.

you nod into the phone, forgetting that the board can’t see you as kirishima lifts you from the chair and lays you on your back across the desk littered with unread papers. “ah yes, i’ve been expecting a call from you…” you whisper so quietly instead, not caring if they’ve missed what you said. you’re hardly paying attention, choosing to wrap a fist around eijirou’s cock, slickly pumping him to prepare him to take you— he parts your thighs, eyes closing and body shuddering above you while you continue to converse with the board.

spreading the droplets of precum across his slit and iron hot tip, kirishima takes his cock from your grasp— heavily slapping it against your sensitive and swollen clit to see you jolt up the desk. “gonna fuck you so good miss, jus’ be good ‘n stay quiet for me okay?” he says, a whimper catching in the tail end of his words. you nod to him, rushed and way too eager, laying your head back on the hard wood your swimming gaze settles on kirishima as he taps the head of his cock against your hole, teasingly pushing it just past your entrance before withdrawing again.

‘ms. ln, are you still there? we really are pressed for time so we would love to start by discussing interviews for the next issue—‘

you forget that you’re still connected on the line, settling for wriggling impatiently underneath your intern, who’s caramel tinted skin glistens with sweat and his cheeks begin to flush with unadulterated desire— all from watching the way your puffy folds lube up his shaft with every push through them. you can see him losing his resolve, just as sensitive as you since he’s been holding back an orgasm and without the hint of a warning, eijirou’s hips jump forward and drive his cock into the deepest parts of your sex— brushing against your cervix. you gasp out in surprise, finally losing focus and barely manage a more comprehensive response to the board you have waiting on the line. “y-yes!— yes, yes, i’m still here… you may proceed with the meeting.”

he’s big, bigger than anyone you’ve ever had— and you’d seen a lot being a woman of your caliber this high up in the industry...but no one could compare to the way your sweet, doe eyed gentlemanly little intern filled you up, fat cock stretching your walls even with the shallow thrusts into your cunt he gives you to adjust. the weight of his girth sits heavily inside you, twitching as kirishima slides into you easily due to the stickiness lining your gummy walls, breath shaky and uneven as he holds out for you during this time. you can tell the poor boy isn’t going to last long, fingers sinking into your thighs with a harsh grip while he tries to hold himself back.

such a good boy, always waiting for your every command.

‘so we’d like to talk about the main feature for next month’s issue, do you have anyone in mind?’

the monotone voice of the board member is drowned about by kirishima’s shaky breaths above you, his pleading puppy dog eyes while he stills himself inside your spasming, puckered hole— he waits for permission, following orders like a trained pet even though he can hardly stand it, overwhelmed by the flutter of your sex around him and heat from your body despite thrown over the desk. “y-you’re s’warm...god ma’am...need to—need to move,” the redhead huffs weakly in order to keep himself quiet, a line of sweat dotting his brow. “please,”

you sit up on the desk, legs locking around his slender waist to draw him closer, sheathing more of the poor boy inside of you until he’s completely bottomed out and balls deep inside your pretty cunt. he drops his neck to your shoulder, tongue lolling over your salt licked skin before biting down to pacify himself, sharp teeth almost drawing blood while you adjust the cord of the phone. “i was thinking…thinking that we got the hockey player— the oylmpic champion…” your eyes drift to kirishima’s complacent face, giving him a nod to start moving while he sucks another bruise further down his onto your collarbone. “t-touya...touya todoroki—!”

you hiccup but play it off with a cough when kirishima pulls back his hips, so far that his girth completely leaves you, before he drives himself forward with one powerful thrust and fills you right up again. looking down, you see him bulge in your tummy, the line of his girth prominent against your body— slightly dwarfed in kirishima’s arms. you rock your hips, coaxing your intern into your warmth to help him build up a momentum of thrusts.

‘sounds like a good choice, do we have anyone who could interview him? i believe we can have PR set up an interview this week.’

the desk creaks below you, hard wood groaning along with the red head who hides himself in your neck, squeaking pathetically as he moves inside of you— precum smearing along your gummy walls that welcome his hardened shaft. your pussy opens up for eijirou like it’s welcoming him home, still growing used to the pleasure-filled burn and stretch of him pushing in and out of you. the nerves on his head catch amongst your inner ridges, making his toned body shake in ecstasy.

“m-ma’am, feel s’fucking good, so fucking good...” your intern hums against your salty skin mawkishly, large palms dropping to the flesh of your ass— kneading it to bring you closer to his body— cock barely leaving you due to your proximity. with slow strokes, eijirou fills you up, painting you with what leaks from his tip— prodding at your cervix and brushing up against your sweet spot in ways that make sweet nectar dribble from your hole.

your digits curl in his hair once more, the phone slipping from between your neck and creating rustling on your end. “eijirou,” you sigh breathily, humping back his cock while you squeeze around him selfishly, keeping your intern inside of you. “i-i mean eijirou kirishima, he’s an intern— such a… a good one at that…”

a immodest whimper brews in the base of eijirou’s throat, bubbling against his bruised lips  while you shower him with praise, indirect to him, hand snaking up to the back of your neck— tangling in your baby hairs as he pulls you up to a sloppy kiss, slotting your mouths together and running his tongue over yours. “f-fuck mommy, ‘m i your good boy? please tell me yes, fuck, yn— ma’am,”

kirishima’s voice rises in octave as it does devoir and pathos, vulnerability stays written across his handsome features as he succumbs to the mind break the heat of your damp, creamy core as he fucks into you. you throb at his use of mommy, shakily pulling the phone away from your ear to reach up to his own, nipping the earlobe and tugging on it gently. “you’re my good boy baby, keep being good eiji, be quiet...you gotta stay quiet if you want to keep fucking mommy okay? you wanna cum inside me right?” you say, words aberrant and low toned  on your tongue, your intern hisses and whines in response— nodding his head again and letting out a barely coherent ‘yes’. “then shh, baby, let mommy talk yeah?”

“hm’kay,” he babbles, dropping his ruby framed gaze to where your bodies meet, hiking your skirt further up your thighs to get a better view of your cunt staining his heavy balls with a layer of your slick.

‘ms. ln, are you sure that you want an intern to cover this case—’ the board begins to ask you, muffled from the distance away from you both.

picking up the phone again, you pull the line towards you again— mindful of capturing eijirou’s weak little mewls over the device as he languidly pumps himself in and out of you. “i know what i—fuck, what i want. eijirou, will be—oh— on the case. that's final.” you huff, watching your intern fall into a pussyhaze, his precious mind fogging with thoughts of only painting you white inside and out as a reward for helping relieve you of stress. the slow roll of his hips into yours are accompanied by the soft slaps of his skin against your own, wet and sticky— determination to make you feel good crackling across his mind.

‘there’s no need to curse, ma’am, do you need a moment to recollect yourself before we proceed with discussing the other features.’

“i’m fucking fine,” you growl, in anger or need you don’t know. but kirishima frowns, you can feel it as he start nosing up your cheek— swiping his tongue over areas of skin he hasn’t touched just yet— he grunts possessively , unhappy with the use of your title coming from anyone other than him. to prove his point, he pushes your thighs wider apart, letting you drip all over the documents sitting below your ass and ruining the ink— important or not he starts a brutal pace into your cunt and presses down on your tummy so you can feel exactly where eijirou is inside you and know that only he can make you feel this way.

‘ms.ln—‘

“i’m fine. keep going.” you grit your teeth, biting your lip to hold down your panting— again you don’t know who you’re speaking to. your intern who slows the movement of his hips, postponing in and out of your tightened hole, clamping down on him eagerly or the stupid board member giving you grief on the phone.

they proceed to talk, barking out suggestions to your sports magazine, that you hate— even considering bringing in good for nothing athletes who’d treated you like shit in the past, and you’d sworn to never work for them again.

but it’s almost silly, how kirishima lets out small moans of mommy and ma’am, trying to keep your attention on him like you would give up grinding down on your intern’s dick for some prissy member of the board over the phone— but you love the slight possession eijirou has over you, moulding your iron hot walls into the shape of his fat dick that presses up against your pleasure spots, makes you convulse and drawl and become addicted to everything that is him. eijirou kirishima.

“takin’ me so good, so well ma’am...don’t think i can hold on anymore…please,” eijirou warns you, losing control of his body as he takes you for his own like he’s done many times before after hours— your gazes lock, you can see his desperation to ruin you, moan for you despite the people on the phone and the people outside your office.

if he grows too loud, he could give you away— they could be listening in to your poor needy little intern humping you like a feral dog and whining your name. and as much as that thought makes your hole spasm around his fat cock, make his thrusts stutter and eyes screw shut while you moan in sweet, almost silent harmony, you love your job and so weakly, you take two of your fingers, shoving them deep into eijirou’s mouth as it hangs open in heavy pants of warm air. you press down on his wet tongue, fucking into his mouth in tune with the pace of his hips plunging deep within your walls, churning up your syrupy and sticky insides.

“keep quiet, baby,”  you hiss to the redhead, who’s eyes start to brim with fresh hot tears from the overwhelming pleasure. “let mommy take care of this, yeah? finish up so you can let it all out on me.”

he sucks on your fingers to calm himself down, shallow breathing while he paws at the flesh on your sides and circles his hips into yours— letting his leaky tip bare down on your sweet spot and forcing the air out of your body. white hot pleasure flashes through your bloodstream, replacing any air of professionalism flooding through them. you can’t, you physically cannot hold back either of your orgasms— you can’t concentrate as your mind starts to fall away with the world and your gaze hones in on the way kirishima takes your fingers in his hot mouth so deep in an attempt to hush himself.

the coil in your tummy begins to unwind and the room swims once more. ‘ms.ln is everything okay over there— we need to progress with his meeting if we’re—‘ the annoying board member sounds underneath kirishima’s sloppy groans, saliva dribbling down the sides of his mouth. your dirty, good boy.

“i’m going to need to take a rain—hah— a rain check on this meeting. you’ll hear from me when my interns and i are ready—“ you huff, cutting the staff off and quickly throwing the phone onto the hook, you’ll have keigo deal with the consequences later but for now you focus on kirishima who picks you up by the ass, lifting you up and down on his cock in frantic movements as he finally loses all connections to his control. “ohmygod—eiji baby, slow—fuck, down—“

he shakes his head, latching onto your collar bone as he revels in the way you leak down his shaft and drip between his balls, lewd squelching sounds fluttering through the air hot, sex scented air at full volume. “‘m sorry ma’am— i can’t… i’m really close, i really need’ta cum...please ma’am...mommy, i’ve been good—please let me cum...“ eijirou groans heartily, from deep in his chest as if he’s finally releasing what he’s been holding back— arms flexing and the sweat from his body slicking up your own.

limbs shaking you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your foreheads against one another, while you nod. he worked so hard to make you feel good, all day long to do the best job that he can— pressing small kisses to his lips encouragingly. “you can do it baby, one last thing for me— fill me up eiji, cum for me.” you whisper between bites and sucks on his lower lip, lined with a vibrant shade of red.

“cummin’, cummin’...miss yn, mommy—!” and then his hips come to a halt, his dick pulsing as waves of his cream line your insides with an opaque white, thick and seeping down your thighs. his fingers drop to your sensitive cunt, slipping quick circles over your swollen clit to bring you to your high. his cock never stops pumping in and out of you, pushing his seed further into your sex while you writhe and fall over the edge into your orgasm— gushing so hard you force him out of plugged and full hole.

losing his strength, kirishima collapses on top of you, pressing out both to the hard wood seat which you’re surprised  is still standing, his lips pressing fleeting kisses across your face and neck while you both come back down to earth.

and then he looks up at you with a weak smile, “did i do good?” he asks you lazily and almost sleepily— refusing to budge from laying atop you and almost crushing you with his weight.

pushing back his hair to soothe him. “always eiji, you’re not my favourite intern for nothing,” you coo at him, pulling him up to press your lips to him in a soft kiss.

“i sure hope you don’t have any other favourites, i want to be the only one who assists you like this,” kirishima says, remaining tangled with you for a moment more in your office, content with snuggling into your exposed and bruised side.

you share a sleepy giggle, intending to clean up later— eijirou completely forgetting about the lunch he’d promised the other interns after your meeting.

oh well, assisting you was a much better treat than spending time with any one else.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 3

Fandom: Star Wars / Rise of the Empire Era / Post Bad Batch / Post Order 66

Explicit: Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Gratuitous Smut, Porn with Plot, Canon-Typical Violence, Mildly Dubious Consent, Angst, Tatooine Slave Culture

AO3

《 Previous Chapter || Next Chapter 》

Velveteen, orchid fingers ran along meticulously crafted gold, heterochrome eyes searching her own reflection within the mirror of her small abode. Zulara sighed; Kayson had placed it on her years ago, and she never took it off. She was unable to as it was a permanent fixture around her neck. At least it couldn’t administer a shock, unlike the collars the Hutt’s slaves were known to wear. She had seen them at the market under heavy guard; they never strayed too far.  Hers was more so ornamental, or a way to dictate her ownership. Even if she was allowed her freedom, so to speak, she would always be labeled his.

Her friends had agreed to meet her at Chalmun’s Cantina. It was a bed of criminals and thieves, but also interesting people. She had many a good conversation there some nights, and it was where she had met her newfound companions, a rather flirty Twi’lek - she felt comfortable around her; she was the same species as her mother, her skin a pretty shade of turquoise or maybe teal - and a quietly seductive subspecies of the Cathar, less feline in appearance, but prettier.

Even so, Zulara herself turned heads, dropped jaws. Her mottle was a mixture of the lightest shades of pink and purple, her eyes two different hued jewels, topaz and lapis lazuli, and her hair was raven, blacker than the darkest night; it was a hereditary trait received from her father, a Lothalite. Her feminine frame was voluptuous, large breasts and even wider hips. Her lips were stained with ruby red, though she didn’t wear makeup otherwise. She was an hourglass, a perfect specimen, desired by men and women across the galaxy, but she was shy; demure, though that didn’t stop her love of dance.

She could hypnotize, entrance, enthrall others with her nubile moves, something she had learned from her mother back on Lothal. She had been a slave, forced to employ her feminine wiles for entertainment. She was good at it, and her talent came naturally. She was just as proficient as any pure-blooded Twi’lek, though the one thing she was missing were the “tails.” She didn’t have any. It was a blessing, or possibly a curse, whichever way you looked at it.

It was an exercise in autonomy, a release at the end of a hard day’s work. She didn’t care who watched her, though the motions were made more for herself than others, and her friends joined in. Three sexy females who could command a room or a whole cantina, by and large.

Zulara sauntered through the sandy streets, thronged sandals adorning her dainty feet. She wore a scandalously high-cut skirt, her naked thighs hardly leaving much to the imagination. Her top was low, revealing cleavage, her stomach bare and enough to attract any man’s wandering eyes. The color was nearly midnight blue, contrasting with her distinctive pigment. It was shimmery, like stars that twinkled in the nighttime sky.

Mos Eisley was full of brutes and evildoers; she had a vibroknife strapped around her upper leg beneath her garments, though easily apparent, holstered for ease of access just in case. She was somewhat proficient in hand-to-hand, as her line of work wasn’t only repairing blasters. Kayson used her to save himself the trouble in other realms, ones she didn’t quite approve of, but she didn’t have a choice.

She could be sneaky; she was adept at quick getaways, though she lacked the training to be anything other than her secretive persona - a gunrunner in the shady alleys of Tatooine - her goal to remain unseen - unnoticed by anyone except his customers. He’d even sent her off-world a time or two.

For now, she was just a woman. Innocent enough, beautiful, and ready to drink her fill of Tusken Wind. It used to be worth 12,000 credits for a single measure, but a cartel on Coruscant had figured out how to distill the desert wine and now it was easy to come by, commercial, and a favorite of hers. Affordable and sweet.

“Stars above!My dear … Please, allow me tu take a moment of your time.”

A Weequay paused before her, blocking her forward stride. His appearance was unusual, suspect, like those clothes weren’t made for him. He wore a Desevrar style infantry helmet with protective, wide-framed goggles, the coat of a Wroonian nobleman with red, green, and gold embellishments, and Corellian-made trousers tucked inside his boots. His hair was braided, long down his back. His skin was like leather, and he had frills that mimicked a man’s beard. If she didn’t know any better, she might say he was a smuggler, or a pirate, though she had never encountered one the likes of him.

Zulara admired him from afar, thinking he had a pomp and brass that was quite impressive. He was confident, held his head high, and came off as charismatic, though she figured not to trust him as his lot were space happy, off their rockers, and most likely dangerous.

“I couldn’t help but notice dat you are appreciating my fashionable coat with your bewitching eyes! Du you like et?” He made a smoothing motion with his hand, flicking a note of dust off before approaching closer, inch by inch, so as not to scare her off. He was stalking prey; it was a game.

“Let me tell you de story of how I obtained et! Have you ever heard of a man named Fume Pachoola?” He was upon her before she had the thought to stop him, one arm having swung itself around her neck. He was strolling forward with her in the direction of Chalmun’s Cantina, albeit slowly, diving right into the tale he was prepared to tell.

“He es a wealthy Wroorian. He lives a life of luxury! So many pretty, rare, and valuable things he has tu his name … Oh, but not as pretty as you, my sweet.”

The unnamed Weequay tapped her on the nose; she wrinkled it and made to withdraw from him, but he held on tight though his grip was loose, and somewhat gentle; he wasn’t out to hurt her by any means.

“I’m sorry, I failed tu introduce myself … Hondo Ohnaka.” His name had rolled off his silver-tongue, the Weequay bowing to present himself to her like a well-to-do aristocrat of some far-off planet, having released Zulara to graciously sweep his hand beneath his chest. “At your service, and please … du allow me tu … service you. You will find my skills and talents tu be de most divine.”

Zulara mildly gasped, brushing her fingers along her ample chest, clutching the collar that was a constant reminder of her servitude. He was blunt, straight to the point, but she was young - unseasoned - Zulara had never lain with a man. Brought into slavery as a fifteen-year-old girl, she was twenty-four by human standards, and inexperienced in that regard. The idea of it shocked her. She was surprised he was so brazen, but not entirely. There were worse men than him wandering around the galaxy.

“I’m meeting friends …” her voice shook as she skirted to one side of him. He followed her motions, mirroring her movements, mischievous, knavish eyes nearly devouring her with their hungry glint.

“I … I have to go…” she whispered, but that didn’t stop his pursuit. He followed right along, though still bent over, both hands rising, crossing atop his chest; they were brandished; imploring her with a hint of a fine-tuned guilt-trip.

“Dat es so unfortunate! Don’t you want tu hear de rest of my story? I kidnapped him, you see!” Zulara kept up her retreat, her eyes trained on the man named Hondo as she had nearly made it to her destination, though it would be unwise to let her guard down, or so she thought.

“But he was such a son of a slorth no one even cared tu pay his ransom! I took his coat for all de trouble!”

She was curious then, posing to him a question. “Did you kill him for it?”

Hondo regrouped, folding his arms across his waist, a dastardly smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course not, my fragrant flower of a girl. I am a pirate, not a murderer … Usually! I’m only after de booty!” He laughed to himself, nearly cackling, unable to help it. He thought that he was clever; it was an innuendo well-suited to the moment.

Zulara was judicious enough to scamper off, brushing past a service droid that was waiting patiently nearby, and a handful of Imperial soldiers that made her skin crawl as their gazes fell upon her. She was happy that the cantina entrance opened as if by magic, ignoring the whistling that issued forth from behind one man’s helmet, keeping her feelings to herself.

She left the Weequay to pine after her, knowing Bane was in there, lifting a hand to guard his face, not wanting to be recognized by the Empire’s recruitments as Hondo was a wanted man twice over. He would be hard-pressed to make it out alive.

Though, you could call him and Cad Bane “friends,” or at least acquaintances, enough that they had shared a drink or two, a story passed back and forth, and a joke on Ohnaka’s part. But if you asked Cad himself, you might hear a different version of their excursions together - one not so full of favorable memories.

This girl was nearly worth the trouble, his gaze traveling up and down her buxom rump before the door shut. He wondered what her species was – unique – beyond compare, a diamond in the rough in a sea of seedy, no-good crooks.

---

Cad Bane had binocular vision like that of any human, though his pupils were virtually invisible. He was a tetrachromat, seeing beyond the rainbow, colors that weren’t present to other species. He also saw well into the night along with heat signatures, though his eyes could be labeled sensitive. They took up a combination of infrared, ultraviolet, and natural light when present on any given planet, and his sights were currently set on the woman poised before him - the Imperial Governess and the way she fidgeted - uncomfortable to say the least, and very out of place.

These attributes made Bane an avid hunter. His visual acuity was simply second nature. The Duros’ long fingers curled around his whiskey tumbler. He had decided to partake in lieu of rudeness, the tips of his lithe digits drumming along the crystal. He was attentive, though her nervousness irritated him. He perceived she was starting to break a sweat, however unnoticeable by the naked human eye, perhaps.

Bane leaned back, plucking the ever-present toothpick from his mouth. He took a sip of the burning liquid and set it down before replacing the object of his odd oral fixation, nibbling along the end as he listened to the woman’s proposal - her piecemeal spiel - though not caring about her side of things; the “war effort;” he only wanted the credits to his name.

“We are aware of Separatist holdouts on several planets: Agamar, for one, Kooriva, Murkhana, Raxus Secundus … and as far out as the Western Reaches - sentient beings as well as droids - they seem to be … forming some type of coalition, though some work alone.” Aryan’s eyes couldn’t meet his, no matter how hard she might try. They were piercing, their depths fathomless, and it unnerved her to no end.

Bane thought it amusing; maybe Dooku shouldn’t have double-crossed him. Though he had heard tell he was dead, he had no scruples in switching “sides”; it was all the same to him. People killing people. What did it matter? The galaxy was karked from the very start, so long as he got his just reward.

“It’s not to say we can’t handle it, by any means. However, I intend to not allow such shenanigans disrupt my political office here on Tatooine. Bestine is under lock and key, but as we live and breathe, Mos Eisley, Mos Espa, these places are another story.”

“So, ye've gotta lil' problem on yer hands, dhen?” Bane feigned interest to keep his potential employer entertained, his voice tinged with a certain air of sinister directness, words laced with an accent that was commonplace among his kind; his vocal cords vibrated in a unique way, even though he spoke in Basic. Duros' epilaryngeal tubes were naturally more narrow; it took practice to not slip up as this language was not his first. 

“Well, besides the prevalence of spice, our little agreement with Jabba the Hutt, and the numerous other criminal syndicates traveling throughout the region … you could say that, yes.” Tour Aryan’s sable fingers toyed with the flute of her wine glass, shifting it back and forth across the surface of the table. She raised the stem and took a sip, Bane studying her dithery movements as her lips curled around her choice of beverage; it was a poor substitute for what she was used to.

“As I was saying earlier, our forces are currently preoccupied. We are on the hunt for a wandering Jedi who was last seen here on Tatooine, otherwise we might take care of this weapon’s smuggler ourselves, whoever they might be.”

“Jedi?” She had his full-blown attention then. “Don’cha think yer hirin’ me fer de wrong job? Huntin’ de Jedi’s m’specialty. Which “traitor” managed to esscape?”

“Lord Vader has made a promise to take care of this little issue himself,” she informed him dourly, not keen on seeing the emperor’s guard dog any time soon. “We believe it is what they refer to as a ‘padawan;’ just some kid. He has been described as roughly twenty years of age.”

“‘Interestin’.”  Bane’s grip tightened around his tumbler, thinking he would take another swig, but his brain activated flashbacks, certain instances in which he had come into contact with the Jedi, including one particular deception undertaken by Obi-Wan Kenobi: Rako Hardeen, what a crock of shit. Maker damn him… and the reason he had wound up back in Republic prison. At least Bossk and Boba had hatched a plan, no matter that the little shit had later turned on him, no thanks to Cradossk or that Kyuzo, Embo; as far as he was concerned, they all might as well be dead. The duel had ended with Bane being rescued by the only one who cared: his droid.

However, there were times Bane thought he might like to thank that ginger-bearded slimeball personally for his defeat of General Grievous - right before his downfall at the end of his blaster barrel. Duro was a toxic pit of radioactive waste at his orders, and he heard tell it was old Kenobi who had administered the final blow - the accursed Kaleesh’s death rattle -  what a beautiful sound it must have been.

It was not to say Bane gave a shit about his people or his planet, only enough to not see them martyred or the victims of a genocide. He had his memories, ones he might soon forget. Otherwise, it was no skin off his back.

Back to the subject at hand, Bane decided to walk thin ice, wondering if Aryan might incriminate herself if he informed her of the obvious. “De Empire’s been killin’ all de Jedi… Most a dhose Clones ye call Stormtroopers… Ah’m quite familiar. People talk. Werd spreads.”

“I hear the nat-born soldiers are less efficient; these old clones are our best bet against those turncoats. Well, besides the Inquisitors, of course.” She shifted in her seat; Bane eyed her suspiciously. For their own men to turn on them didn’t sit right, but if he knew Jango… His hatred for the Jedi had been palpable; he wondered about the truth; the Mando had his secrets, things he had never shared. Bane supposed it was just as well.

Tour tried her best to get the conversation back on track. “Anyway, our sources are not entirely reliable, but Jawa’s tend to see things we don’t see, and then sell their information to the highest bidder – this may very well turn out to be a wild Bantha chase for all we know. It was said this person is carrying a ligthsaber.”

Bane was beginning to lose interest, allowing his mind to rest. “Get to de part where Ah earn my creds.”

“Right. Yes.” Tour Aryan cleared her throat mostly out of anxiousness, and her garrison – those men she trusted – were just outside the cantina doors. She was somewhat unprotected, despite her own weapon being strapped in a holster along her hip. Bane was fast. She would be no match for him if something happened, such as her request being met with resistance or objection on his part; she could not tell exactly where he stood.

“Someone is running contraband - weapons - here on Tatooine. Both off-world, and to those brave enough to cross into Imperial territory for what they need. They’ve been careful enough to cover their tracks up until this point, but we managed to persuade a known Separatist insurgent to give us a clue. Apparently, the source of said prohibited goods are originating right here in Mos Eisley.”

Cad Bane’s attention faltered. He was listening but was riveted by something beyond her - a girl who was dancing - unapologetic of her attractiveness, or her alluring nature. The Duros was overcome with something akin to lust, thinking she was the fairest creature he had ever laid his eyes upon, and he had encountered many a woman in his day.

His jaw clenched as his toothpick was gnawed thoughtlessly between supersharp incisors, the end twitching in a peculiar manner as his lips locked tight. Aryan second-guessed herself, “Mr. Bane? Are you still following me?”

“Continue,” was all he said, removing the chewed up piece of wood from its resting place, flicking it off onto the floor to be cleaned up later by the dayshift, no doubt. Wuher hated droids; it was common knowledge by this point.

“Whoever this is has established routes, they know their way around the Core worlds as well as the Outer Rim, and of course Tatooine itself. Perhaps they’ve been doing this kind of thing for years and their patrons are very loyal. We were lucky to learn anything at all. They know weapons, and they know their customer base. They seem to be able to repeatedly satisfy and fulfill orders. We find it interesting... and somewhat of an aggravation, as said weapons are then used to thwart the Empire’s … shall we say, progress, as they are finding their way into the hands of the Separatists, or … what’s left of them; these would-be rebels.”

Bane was preoccupied; he was distracted, lost in the distance. He leaned back in the booth on the other side of the round table, stretching out his lanky limbs. His ankles crossed as well as gangly arms. The brim of his hat dipped down just so in order to block out his full expression, Tour Aryan wondering why the Duros was retreating into himself. He seemed to be short with her; curt; terse, and the abrupt disposal of his little chew toy had her wondering if something was amiss, something she was unaware of, but she thought to regain her traction by giving him what he wanted: the sum total of credits received for a job well done.

“The Empire is offering five-hundred thousand credits for the capture of this person or persons dead. If alive, we are willing to offer an additional five-hundred thousand credits at the completion of this task.  We tend to believe we may be able acquire information from them about the location of Separatist camps. We are compelled to give you an advance of one-hundred thousand credits at this time to buy supplies, or whatever materials that might be needed - to sweeten the deal on your end, of course.”

The girl’s hips were seductive, nearly a sedative, undulating like the waves of Kamino, an extragalactic planet, and the birthplace of his baleful little ex-mentee and all those blasted clones. Bane often had headaches the size of a supermassive blackhole because of him, and he employed a headplate to show for it. He thought the boy might be surprised just how much like his father he was turning out to be; that did not mean it was necessarily a good thing.

This mystery woman was persuading Bane into a languid drowsiness as he watched her work. He only perked up at the mention of the money he was after, nodding once in his agreement, a non-verbal contract, but that wasn’t good enough for Aryan.

“Can we plan for your cooperation on this matter?”

“Sure, sure…” He didn’t like her choice of words but let it slide; his voice lowered and became a sluggish drawl. He mumbled, though still understandable. “Ah’ll be 'n touch.”

Bane waved a rude farewell, his fingers twirling, rolling in midair as a dismissal. Aryan felt disrespected, but played it off. “Very well, then. I look forward to hearing from you. Please keep me updated with your progress.”

That had been a bold-faced lie. It was required, though she would find no joy from staying in contact with this heinous man. She rose to exit the cantina.

“Leave de advance wit de droid.” Bane’s attention waned, affixed someplace else; Aryan was almost thankful for it.

“As you wish.” She felt she couldn’t move quite fast enough.

[the-lady-writes-what]

26. Mirio Togata

          Theme: Incubus

          Kinks: Wet dreams, somnophilia, non-con, rough sex, breeding

Yeah. I don’t know how male orgasms work, so this will probably be inaccurate. I’m not that big into actually having sex and I’m not in a comfortable level with my male friends how orgasms feel for them. I don’t know what else to tell you.

Very OC Mirio. And you know what else? He’s canonically 18.

Masterlist

Spread your legs for me.

This was a dream and a damned good one at that. Laying on top of you was a young man, ripped like a Greek god. He ordered you around with a honeyed voice. It worked like magic. You opened your legs and allowed him to slip between them. His large, protruding member grazed against your slit before parting your wet folds as powerful-looking hands stood on either side of your head. You stared up from your pillow and into the ocean-blue eyes leering at your body. He snagged your lower lip between his teeth and sucked. 

Your eyes snapped back to the blue ones staring at you. You licked your lips. Your mouth was parched; you couldn't speak. 

You dared to look down at the body shifting between your legs. You gaped at the small bulge in your lower belly, where the cock was fully seated inside of you. Hips snapped into you, making you arch your back of your mattress.

You feel good, don't you, sunshine?

Don't you worry. Let me take care of everything.

Your legs trembled the next morning. It was worse between your legs, and the muscles of your inner thighs ached with every step. Your lower back screamed at you. When you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, you hardly recognized your own reflection. You were pale with dark circles under your eyes. You struggled to remember what time you went to bed. Your mind was running on two brain cells as you tried to work out what happened the night before. You remembered going to bed, but after that, you couldn't remember anything at all. Dreams weren't supposed to be remembered, yet it felt like you had one. In the back of your mind, you saw a man, a handsome man, sharing your bed. He was…inside you. His cock was pounding your insides like nothing else mattered to him except make you come hard. But you couldn't remember if he succeeded. 

You scrubbed yourself clean in the shower and ventured back to your bed. Carefully, you peeled back the covers. Sure enough, there was a wet stain. You quickly tore the sheets off your mattress and dumped them in the hamper. No one was going to see, but you felt better with a clean set. 

At work, people were already noticing the difference. 

"Hey, Y/N, are you okay?" Momo asked. 

"Hm?" Was all that you could manage. 

"You look like you pulled an all-nighter. Late-night project?" 

You shook your head. "No, just had a bizarre dream."

You flitted away before Momo could see the faint blush coming over your cheeks. You fueled yourself with coffee all day in an attempt to stay awake. A knock at your office had you snapping upright in your chair and spinning around to face the door. Mr. Toshinori stood in your doorway.

"L/N, do you have a second?"

You tried not to rub sleep from your eyes. 

"Sure, what do you need?"

"I'd like to introduce a new colleague to you. He just transferred from a different branch, so I'm showing him around. Togata, this is L/N-san."

You couldn't tell if blood drained from your face or sped towards your face. The other man in your office doorway looked uncomfortably familiar. He was broad as he was tall with a mop of blonde hair. His ocean-blue eyes beamed when he saw you.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, L/N," said Togata. "I'm Mirio. Mirio Togata."

You slowly rose from your chair. You wondered if your skirt was long enough to hide your knocking knees. You reached out to shake his hand and instantly regret that decision. His palm was warm—no, hot. It was hot to the touch, and it took everything you had not to wrench your hand away. Mirio's fingers were giant compared to yours. He gripped your hand almost possessively, but with Mr. Toshinori in the same room, that much Mirio could do. The moment your hands touched, a shiver ran up your spine. You lurched forward and almost fell into Mirio's arms. You clamped your hand over your mouth to prevent your new co-worker and boss from hearing you moan. 

"L/N, what's wrong? You look sick," said Mr. Toshinori. 

"I think…I think I should go home. I'm not feeling so hot." You managed to stammer out. 

"By all means, L/N. If you're not feeling well, you should get some rest. I'll fill out the paperwork, and you can sign it off when you get back."

"Thank you, sir," you mumbled. 

Mr. Toshinori and Mirio left the room. You gathered up your stuff, signed out of your computer, and headed out. As you rounded the corner, you felt someone follow behind you. You turned to see Mirio a few steps at your back. 

"If you don't mind, I'd like to help you to your car. Mr. Toshinori was kind of enough to let me help you since you don't look so good," said Mirio.

"T-Thanks." 

Mirio stayed a few steps behind you rather than walk right at your back. Which you were grateful if anyone asked. The personal space was needed before you passed out. That all changed when you realized that you would have to take the elevator to get to the parking garage below, which meant you had to share it with Mirio standing within arm's reach of you. 

The elevator doors closed with a solemn grumble. Your heart pounded inside your chest. You glanced at Mirio from time to time, waiting for him to make a move. Although what should you be expecting? Were you that suspicious of a man you just met just because he looked similar to the one in your wet dream? Coincidence, you thought. It was all just a coincidence. You were silly, really. A niggling doubt in the back of your mind said otherwise. Mirio didn't just look similar to the man in your dream, he was too tentative, and the way his eyes followed you around should have shot up several red flags. You ignored it in favor of acting like a sensible, rational human being. 

Mirio caught you looking at him once or twice on the way down that seemed to take a century. He merely smiled and kept his hands to himself. If he indeed was the man from your dream, then he would hesitate to put his hands all over you the moment the elevator's doors closed shut. Someone like that wouldn't give a damn about the security cameras either. His smile made you melt; you were practically a puddle when you exited the elevator. Mirio followed behind as you sprinted for your car. You bit your lip. Was this such a good idea to let a strange know what kind of car you drive and what your license plate read? No, no, that couldn't be the same kind of man Mirio was. He was too polite for that creepiness. 

You made it to your car without further incident. Your heart still raced a mile a minute. Mirio stood in the periphery of your vision, never far from your sight. He remained a respectful distance away. 

"Thank you so much for your help. I hope we get to work on future projects together," you said as you fished your car keys out of your purse.

"Let me get the door for you."

Mirio moved so quickly that you didn't have time to protest. He plucked the keys from your hand, pressed the button that would unlock the car, and opened the driver-side door for you. Puzzled, you didn't think twice about the matter. You settled your stuff in the passenger seat next to you and buckled in. You bated your eyelashes without thinking anything wrong. A little flirting never hurt right. 

"Thank you," you said. 

"Not a problem." Mirio beamed. His smile could melt icecaps.

Shutting the door, Mirio leaned through the window you don't remember rolling down. 

"I'll see you tonight." His voice was velveteen. 

Your brows furrowed at his meaning. You were a deer caught in a pair of headlights when you turned to look at him. Those same ocean-blue eyes held a darker intent than merely working with you. It was the vastness of the open sea, cold and ruthless. His eyes were a void meant to suck you in and drown you in their maddening depths. Mirio's smile dimmed to a smirk, and he walked away. You watched him from your car how he turned away, walked back to the elevator, and climb inside. Before the doors closed him in, you swore that Mirio winked at you before disappearing. 

The rest of your day was a blur. You dressed in your favorite pajamas and hoped that some food and mindless channel surfing would solve all your problems. Not only were you not getting paid, but your excuse was also rather lame. As you sat on your couch and stared into your television screen, you wondered when was the last time you got a full night of sleep. You blanked. There had to be a time when you did, but you couldn't remember. Your brain was a jumbled mess, all thanks to those cursed dreams you'd been having. You couldn't even remember the last time you had an ordinary, non-sexy dream with a stranger you hadn't met until today. 

You almost loathed it when it grew dark. Night meant bedtime, and bedtime meant dreams. The longer your brain festered on those dreams, the more you grew to dread them. You looked at your reflection in the bathroom mirror as you brushed your teeth. You took a more extended look at the dark circles beneath your eyes and the sullenness taking over your face. Were your cheeks always that shallow? You spat, rinsed, and turned off the light. 

Mirio slipped through every wall and door to get inside your apartment. He would climb through every fence in the world just to get to you. Your scent was absolutely divine; it drove him insane with want. He licked his lips as he broke past the last barrier keeping you from him. The path to the bedroom was easy and one that he knew like the back of his hand. Mirio mapped out your entire apartment during his nightly trips. 

You paused at your bedside before peeling back the covers. Slowly, you got beneath your blankets and pulled them up to your neck. For the longest time, you lay there stiff as a board under your blanket and sheets. Your eyes darted around the room just to see if your new co-worker was lurking there. You set your phone face down on the nightstand after fifteen minutes of you lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. You flipped your bedside lamp off with a sigh.

You closed your eyes, still expecting Mirio to slink in. The room was silent. The only noise you could make out were the soft footsteps from the people in the apartment above you and the gust of wind against your windowpane. A prayer fell from your lips that whatever was coming for you in the night would leave you be.

He stood at the foot of the bed to watch you sleep. You snuggled up to your blankets like a child seeking protection. A few pieces of cloth weren't enough to protect you from him. Mirio crept a bit closer. When he was stood beside you, he peeled away the blankets and sheets. Lavender wafted up to his nose. 

"Changed your sheets after last night, eh? You humans are so peculiar about your habitats. It is a shame, though. I might have wanted you to sleep a little longer in your come. Get you used to it. Oh, well."

His hands worked the buttons of your sleep shirt, and the silken fabric fell away with no more than a gentle tug. Your long bottoms made him scowl. How dare you hide your lovely from him. That alone deserved punishment. You murmured in your sleep as Mirio tugged your pants and underwear down in one go. Tonight, he had no intention of putting you back together again. You would sleep naked after he was done with you. The only thing he wished he could do was to see your face when you woke up and found yourself naked. No matter. Good things come to those who wait. 

Mirio wasted no time dishevelling his clothes. Being a demon, he could have easily dissolved them or faded through them. He wanted this to be special and want to remember every detail. The act of stripping down made him feel a bit more compatible with you, a human. It was pretend, a show. Eventually, you would see his proper form and tremble. For now, Mirio settled for having you like this, vulnerable to his power and entirely at his mercy. 

He climbed into bed with you and reclined on his side. His tongue ran across his lips just by looking at your body. You shivered in the cold. You should have stirred and awoken to your body bare of even a sheet to protect you from his gaze. Mirio's magic made it impossible for you to open your eyes unless he desired it so. You were going to belong to him shortly enough, but why spoil it now? Mirio thought himself cruel for dragging it out like this but admitted to liking this game.

Mirio ran a finger down the column of your throat and let it trail down to your belly button and back again. He hummed with delight as he touched your smooth skin. He palmed your breast and tweaked your nipple to a stiff peak. Mirio shifted on the bed until his lips found your neck and suckled. He kissed your shoulders and licked your skin. Mirio's large hands groped your chest. 

"You fill my hands up nicely, Y/N. Your body feels like it already belongs to me," he murmured against your skin. 

Mirio placed his knee against your cunt, rubbing your clit occasionally against the hard muscle. He drew your knees upwards and settled himself firmly between your legs. Kissing your lips, his hands never left your chest. While he kissed your mouth, his hands never ceased to pinch and massage your chest. His cock grew stiff, just thinking about what it would look like sandwiched in the middle of your perfect breasts. 

"More time for that later. Let's get down to business, shall we, sunshine?" 

Mirio lined his cock against your pussy, now soppy wet from his ministrations. He smiled to himself at how easy it was to manipulate your body towards his needs. If you had been awake, he imagined that your eyes would roll into the back of your head at the stretch. His cock slipped in with only a little resistance. Your walls clenched around his intrusion before easing up. His first thrust helped him bottom out. Mirio closed his eyes at the feel of your body wet, warm, and tight for him. For him alone. 

"That's my sunshine. That's my girl. Oh, yes," Mirio grunted.

His hands bruised your hips as he dragged you up and down his cock, forced it to meet him thrust for thrust. While you slept, your walls clamped down around Mirio's cock. He snapped his hips back and forth as he felt your strength leave your body and enter him. Call it 'tit for tat.' Mirio was giving your body all the pleasure it could ever need and the seed it so desperately wanted. The only price was just a little bit of your energy. Soon, very soon, Mirio wouldn't need to take any more from you. He would be able to have you all to himself, and no force on earth could stop him. 

Mirio adored the sweet squelching sounds your pussy made as he pounded into it. You were flooding him with your juices, and you didn't even know it. He couldn't wait to see what your eyes looked like when he pleasured your consciousness. Though your mind was too far gone to realize that it wasn't merely a dream, you couldn't wake up until Mirio wanted you to. This was the way of his kind, only most were one and done. Mirio needed more and more of you to himself. He couldn't stop after one feeding. The only way for him to keep you without draining away your life was a simple spell. All he had to do was get you pregnant. 

You were close; he could feel it. Pleasured seared down his spine and threatened to burst, but he wanted to hold out a little while longer. Mirio moved faster, faster. He saw the bruises forming on your hips, the tighter he held on. He would rather crush your hips than stop when you were both so close. Your cunt squeezed around him. 

"That's it, good girl. Squeeze me. I'm going to give you everything. Better not spill a drop."

You whined in your sleep as you arched your back. Mirio watched your face as it scrunched up. In pain or ecstasy, it was hard to tell the difference. Your body convulsed around him. Your floodgates opened to him and coated Mirio's cock with your come. It was more than enough to allow Mirio to do the same. The searing tingle shot down his spine and burst like an explosion. He stopped gripping your hips to seize hold of the headboard and hold it tight. Mirio shoved his cock in as far as it would go to ensure that none of his come leaked out. He could feel himself releasing so quickly that it made his head spin. When the final drop hit, he slowly, reluctantly, pulled away from your welcoming cunt. Your insides and your inner thighs were covered in him, just the way he liked. 

Mirio dressed then looked over his shoulder at your sleeping and battered form. There were bound to be questions when you woke up, but it was a shame he couldn't see it. He satisfied himself for now by kissing your forehead and whispering, "Pleasant dreams."

[professorpski]

Tiny Waist and Big Hips: Simplicity 8731

One of the elements of fashion that puzzles today’s college students is a silhouette that exaggerates the size of a woman’s hips, since often the fashionable look today is smaller hips although there are exceptions. The bottom-heavy hourglass became the look for the most popular version of Christian Dior’s New Look in 1947. True, there were skinny skirts too offered by Dior, and big hips would have had a hard time in them, but the full, flared or gathered skirt was what the New Look was known for. It embodied the extravagant, generous use of lots and lots of fabric, itself a pleasure after the shortages of the war years.

You see in this party dress reissued in modern sizes such a tiny waist with the hips made bigger by the use of a series of pleats that start at the side fronts of the dress and go all the way around the back. The bodice is close to the body, fitted just under the bustline which is called empire, the fit accomplished by a shaped seam and a dart. Then you have a high front neckline, and lower v-neckline in the back. Tiny bows point to this being more of a younger woman’s look as they add a kind of sweetness. You can see them both just under the bustline on the dress, down the center back of the bodice of the dress, and then at the back of the coat.  Th coat sleeves are cut in one with the front of the coat, but pieced in the back, darts at coat shoulder and elbow fit what is otherwise a generous silhouette.

This dress could go from somewhat formal to very formal (notice the models in the illustrations both wear gloves), depending on the fabric which could be mere cotton or linen, or brocade or shantung or some other crisp silk. The coat varies too from wool to velveteen in their recommendations. You can see how the pink dress harmonizes (red + white = pink, the tint of red) with the red coat. You can imagine all the charming color harmonies, like shades of blue, of green, of oranges, of greys, etc.

You can find it at your local fabric store or online here: https://www.simplicity.com/simplicity-storefront-catalog/patterns/women/dresses/simplicity-sewing-pattern-8731-misses-vintage-dress-and-lined-coat/

[ladystillheart]

The Great Tree.

The war is over, my Lady. Stromgarde is free. You can rest now.

The words of her most faithful knight rang within Juliette's mind as she made her way down the cobblestone streets of Greenguard toward her own keep. The war was indeed over on both fronts, the Horde and the ever creeping presence of the Dark Beyond. And yet, if this was so, why could she not calm herself? Why was there such a weight upon her shoulders? She inquired silently, letting her thoughts roll with the beat of her sandal-clad feet. 

The tips of her pointed ears would shift slightly at the various sounds of a bustling market caught them, well, as bustling as her humble community could be. She stopped at a few of the small shops and craftsman to check on their supplies and relative needs, only to be met with weary smiles. The war had taken a great toll on her people, even if they were so fortunate to have been protected from the ferocity of the Horde War Machine. Supplies would take a while to accumulate, hearts would take time to heal, but they would persevere. They always have. They always will.

The fair noble adjusted the thin cloth rested atop her shoulders as she continued down her path to the only place she truly could be alone with her thoughts.

On the grounds of her abode was a great tree, tall and mighty, age causing the bark to become pure white towards the base and streak upwards into its branches. They say it was planted atop the burial site of the first of her ancestors to settle here and claim the land as under his protection - for a Stillheart never claimed the lands as their own. These lands belonged only to itself, it was simply letting them share the space and in exchange, they kept watch over it and aided where they could.

This tree stood in the very middle of a hedge maze, a marvel of flora planted amidst the curving, winding, and intricate design. The hedges grew tall, too tall for any human no matter how Stromic to peer over with ease. It was a safe haven for the Stillhearts to meditate, to be left alone and away from others. Juliette had many precious memories here, for it was cared for by her own hands, and her father's and her father's father, and so many generations before her. When she was here, she felt warm. She felt comfort.

Eyes of a gentle blue peered at the entrance and another soft breeze gently rustled through her blonde hair. Walk with me, my child… We have much to discuss. Her father's words echoed in her ears as she stepped forward and lost herself in this maze of inner peace.

You must always remember that we are not owed anything from the Glades. The Glades does not need us nor is it obligated to grow our vegetables and bless our hunts. Respect the ground beneath you, the beings around you, and the sky above you. She paused at the second turn to allow a delicate touch to a beautiful rose of pastel pink, letting its floral aroma calm her senses as the soft, velveteen petal graced her fingertips.

Remember that the people of our banner are not our servants. It is we who are servants to them. A noble who drinks fine wine and adorns precious jewels while the bellies of his people grumble will feel the error of his ways upon death, when their souls devour him whole for eternity… But he who ensures full bellies and warm hearts will forever be honored, respected, and loved into the next life. His words were always so wise, his eyes filled with wisdom far beyond his years of living despite the silver in his beard.

Lady Stillheart turned to the left and continued on her path, her robes trailing in the grass behind her. Should one who is your enemy come to your doorstep in an hour of genuine need, do not turn your back on them. Extend a warm welcome, for this is our way, but do not trust blindly. Even the great and peaceful stag of our forefathers will stand tall when challenged by the wolf.

"Oh Papa, how I miss your council." Juliette cooed to none but those long since passed. A few more turns, a moment's pause, and she found her worries melting away within the maze. Her hand remained outstretched towards the flowers, letting their petals caress her palm as she walked.

A turn and a twist, a dip in the path, a fork in the road, she knew how to navigate throughout the maze of roses until she came face to face with the great tree. Standing before it felt as though she were standing before an old friend. Within a few steps she was close enough to place a hand atop the trunk and a pang of bittersweet sorrow shot through her heart. How many of her ancestors had done the same, stood before this very tree and mourned, rejoiced, rested, wept…?

Gracefully, she slid to her knees with the skirts of her dress flowing all about her. Her free hand rested atop her breast, over her heart, where she felt the steady rhythmic beat. The other hand remained pressed against the wood and her head bowed. While her mother discouraged such beliefs and practices, her elven blood far too proud to accept it, Juliette always felt more connected to this side of her bloodline. There was a nostalgia, a warmth, and a comfort that she never felt in the books of her elven heritage.

My heart is heavy, my blood hears my worries. Please. Your youngest daughter seeks comfort. Juliette thought, eyes opening and gaze drifting from the roots of the tree upwards to the trunk, her head tilting back so she may peer even further upwards into the branches. The green leaves danced lightly, playfully, within the fresh breezy air of springtime. Her father's words echoed within her mind, this time as if a chorus of others spoke with him.

Juliette, our youngest daughter. You honor your enemies, respect your allies, remain true to your people, and bring revival to the land. These burdens you place upon your shoulders, they are self-inflicted. You, she with a gentle heart, must learn to also be gentle not just with your allies, with your people, but with… Yourself. Be gentle with yourself, sweet fawn. Be gentle and rest.

The whispers came to her as sweet as honey and light as the butterfly's gossamer wing, fluttering across her freckled cheeks like soft kisses. The pale woman turned to lean back against the strong trunk of her ancestors' tree, head tilting towards the sky and thick eyelashes fluttering before closing entirely. A sigh of relief tumbled from her lips and she heeded the words given to her. She pondered on the achievements of her people, how they stood strong against the overwhelming storm, and how they would withstand the future ones as well… And she rested. 

[fairyshuuu]

wild valley pt4 | chanyeol

.summary. Park Chanyeol; sweat rolling down a naked back mixed with motor oil, you; white sugar sticking to your gums at sunset– ice cream flavored. Drugs, booze, money. He’s everything you’re not, the question is – for how long? .word count. 6.5k .mechanic!au | gang!au | car shop!au. .pairing. chanyeol x reader .genre. angst, romance

.warnings. mature language, suggestions of sex, blood, violence, fighting  ♫ let me set the mood ♫

teaser.  part 1.  part 2.  part 3.  part 4.  part 5.  part 6.  part 7. (m)  part 8. (m)

With a loud thud, the door is shoved open. You whimper when his lips connect to yours again, hands running up and down your sides and over the exposed skin of your thighs. The kiss is much like a fight in it’s intensity, pushing and pulling with the waves of heat that wash over you. You reach up to tangle your fingers in his hair, and open his mouth with yours. Wet behind the hardness of teeth. Tongues meet roughly, as he walks you further into the room, gripping your hips tight. The door is kicked shut behind the two of you, before he moves his soft lips to your jaw. You moan, and cock your head back to give him access.

Deep breaths brush over your skin, cooling you from the burning sensation of the party downstairs. His hands slide around to grab your ass and lift you to his body, not letting his lips leave your skin. Trembling, in anticipation and the knowledge what is to come next, unforgiving. You wrap your legs around his waist as he walks you to the bed, heart hammering against your rib cage. The alcohol traveling through your veins only makes everything more intense, his tongue and teeth on your sensitive neck heavenly. “Please,” you beg, peeking your tongue out to wet your lips.

Getting to the bed, he eagerly lays you down on the bed and crawls on top of you, strong thighs both sides of yours. The weight of his body pins you onto the bed. You think you could resemble one of those butterflies on a board, ready to be cherished in his gaze. It’s strange, because you’ve never much wanted to be cherished by anyone but yourself. In the darkness of the room, in the shrouding of the moonlight against the blue curtain his gaze holds a velveteen. 

When you let go of your tight grip on his hair and shoulders, he looks up at you with a slight smile. “Please what,” Baron mumbles, before connecting his lips back to your slim neck to litter it with purple spots. As he bites down, you hiss, and arch your body to brush his. You ache to bring him closer, yet don’t dare to pull too hard at the same time. His one hand is next to your body to keep himself from crushing you, the other gently sliding your top upwards.

“Please, have me already,” you whimper, staring him down as he straightens up on top of you. Baron’s eyes are glazed over with darkness, lips bright red and cheeks flushed. His hair is messy from where your hands tangled into it, and you have to stop and stare for a second, much like he is. He takes a deep breath and slides you a bit further into the bed, his hands squeezing your thighs eagerly, sending you up into an fire of eager sparks.

He smiles though, and licks his lips. “I really want to take you out,” he admits, fingers traveling the expanse of your skin, “I think this might be sending the wrong image. I mean, I really like you and-” Before you can let all this terrify you, you grab him by his collar and pull him back to you, his body back to yours where it seems to belong. With his face only an inch away from yours, you reach up to hold his face in your hands and kiss him.

“I don’t-” you kiss him again when he so earnestly looks at you, fingers digging into your skin and creating red marks, “I can’t date you.” Baron pauses, his chest meeting yours every time he breathes. When he opens his mouth to answer, your lips brush his. “I’m not a dating kind of girl,” you just say, “I’m not good at it.” The frown that falls over his face isn’t one of offence, merely confusion— well placed. Your hands skim up his sides to grab a steady hold on his shoulders, nails digging in there to steady yourself. “Just- please, please have me.”

The man on top of you hesitates to look into your eyes, while your body heats up under his, strong shapes against your softer ones. When he comes back to kiss you, it’s him who grunts now, aching with the mirage of your touches. “Are you sure?” he asks, closing his eyes as his hands slide up under your shirt. When you reach up, you move his hands higher to feel you through your bra. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat this close. Your legs twitch when they wrap around him and pull him into you. “Y/N, are you sure?” he repeats when you don’t answer.

Something about his tone is more than questioning, not like a scold but just as impactful. You wonder for a second why you feel this way, why you feel the need to keep him in limbo far between being yours and not at all. But realistically— you know where a fear stems and it has blossomed into a tree stronger than your determination itself. So when you nod, you mean it, far more than you wish you did. It’s terrifying, lying here with someone who so openly admits his care for you and while you can’t mirror it, you still feel the warmth of his words. So you nod.

“Yes.” You run your hand up to tangle it in the hair at the back of his head. His other hand creeps up the inside of your thigh to slide your skirt up, and you whimper. “I can’t be your girlfriend,” you confirm, truthful more than you like to be, “but I’ll be yours in any other way that you want to have me. Love isn’t for me, baby.” He chuckles softly against your skin as he presses kisses to your collarbone, before shaking his head.

“You’re really not making this easy on me, shortie.” He presses another kiss to your lips, before sighing.

You melt at the gesture, practically seeing the fight on his features and you can see him losing— no matter how good he is, temptation is always hard to shake. “What’s fun about having it easy, though?” you say, smiling wide.

“Guess you’re right,” he laughs at your grin, before pulling your top over your head as you lift your back for him. His one hand slips under your body to open your bra, as he bites down on his bottom lip. “But let me treat you though. That’s the least you can do after turning me down so harshly.” Your bra is tossed to the floor, lights glistening in his eyes as he looks at you in what you hope is a look of awe.

You chuckle, and pull him even closer with your legs, flush against your body. “You’re literally in between my legs right now, Baron.”

“I know, but I wanted to date you properly.”

“No can do.” You press a kiss to the corner of his lips when he smiles, and start pulling his shirt up over his broad back. “But I promise that I’ll treat you double next time though.”

It’s cold, and he’s drunk. No— shitfaced, this early morning, if he’s being honest he’s completely gone. It’s not easy to get this far, his body more than used to the alcohol and yet he sways uncontrollably as he walks. Chanyeol in his shitfaced state, thought it a good idea to go find his car further down the road. His friends in their shitfaced state thought it a good idea to let him. It’s not that far a walk from the garage, where everyone of Exo Customs decided to meet after a high school reunion earlier in the day, so normally he’d be fine.

But today has been hard, and so now that he’s emptied his bottle as he walks he starts to feel too much. Though his body is burning, his fingertips are cold, just like his mood. Reunions are never much fun, but having to explain that he’s not dating anyone anymore over and over drilled his attitude through the floor. Chanyeol stares at the dark brown bottle in his hand as he walks, before throwing it against the wall across the street with a loud ‘Fuck!’ As much as he’s over the pain, he’s not yet over the memories, and today was littered with them.

The glass shatters fall onto the floor, but Chanyeol keeps walking, suddenly more than ready to get home and shut the door behind him. Every single person seemed to ask about his girlfriend, even people who he hasn’t seen in almost eight years and who barely knew him in high school. He doesn’t really care how they found out about it, rumors have always traveled faster than anyone can try and stop them. But if they’re curious enough to find out that he was dating, Park Chanyeol— one of the womanizers in school, can’t they figure out themselves that they broke up long ago.

Well- broke up sounds a lot better than how it really happened. He wishes they just would have broken up, then maybe he wouldn’t run from his problems like they are infectious diseases. Maybe he’d still be happy. As he walks, the streets sway under his feet. He makes it to the street behind the garage without much problems, but stops to stare as two figures move across the street. They are next to his car, his baby, and so a deep frown makes it’s way onto his face. One of the men notices him as he walks closer, eyes widening slightly.

“What the fuck are you doing to my car?” the tallest mumbles, words messy. Chanyeol stands close, looking down on the two men but just barely. Both are very tall as well. The brunet who turned to him first holds up his hands as a defense, and shrugs.

“We just saw it is all. It’s a nice model.” He grabs his friends’ shoulder to pull him away from the big, black vehicle as if to prove their innocence, but Chanyeol scowls at them both.

“You just happened to be standing next to my car at 4 in the morning for fun.” Right as he wants to tell them both to fuck off before things get out of hand, he catches eye with the second figure. The brown haired guy isn’t a familiar face, of that much he is sure even in his hazy state. But the blond behind him definitely is. As he racks his brain for the solution, the other seems to notice his intense stare. His eyes widen in response.

Chanyeol takes a step closer and grabs hold of his arm before he can speak, something a sober mind would realize isn’t a good idea but he’s too mad at the invasion of his space to care. The same surprised look that came over his face when he was discovered the first time. “You’re the guy messing with our fucking garage the other day,” he spits, shoving the blond away from his car harshly. Yoonoh. “You know, I was gonna let it be, let you be—” he points at the younger, before grabbing at his arm, “but no one messes with my fucking car.”

“Get your hands off me,” the other rasps, glaring at him like he has nothing to be sorry for. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The brunet seems to give his friend a questioning glance, but doesn’t cut into conversation and so Chanyeol grabs the blond by the collar. “You don’t wanna fight me. Bet you’re always staring fights but not finishing them.” Yoonoh’s hands are on his shoulders, triumphant smile on his face and though Chanyeol’s outnumbered, he knows he can take them both.

“You bet wrong,” Chanyeol mumbles, before swinging his arm towards the guy’s face. It connects just as soon as he’s being pulled away from the younger. A fist slams into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. The brown haired man comes to stand in front of his friend, but he doesn’t seem ready to give up the fight. “Two against one?” Chanyeol licks his lip as he takes a wobbly step back, blinking twice.

Yoonoh shrugs. “You started it.” He charges towards him. Chanyeol catches his fist mid-swing and lays another punch onto the other’s face, full force. The other’s free hand clashes with his jaw, sending a dizziness through him that he can’t shake. Instead he just blindly punches again, connecting once in his face and once on his neck, sending him back. The brunet grabs hold of Chanyeol’s shoulder to punch him in the stomach again and in the face, before he can push him off. Both men stumble for a second, before the brunet shakes his head and pulls his friend up.

“Yoonoh, it’s not worth it. Come on.” The other, though the flames don’t leave his eyes, spits on the floor before he is pulled away by his friend down the street. As soon as they’re gone, Chanyeol sighs deeply and blinks his eyes to get rid of the black dots in his vision. He leans onto the hood of his car in an attempt to shake the wavy nature of the world around him, but it doesn’t let up. Maybe getting socked in the face after drinking your body mass in alcohol isn’t the best thing to do. He spits out some of the irony taste onto the sidewalk, and shakes his head.

You’re awfully busy this afternoon, compared to the days before where you had to hope that one person would stop by. You don’t blame people though, it’s boiling out and though you’d love to spend the day at the beach with your friends, responsibility calls. You seem to have racked up some steady customers by now, people who return every day to try out all the new flavors. Today’s masterpiece is raspberry-cheesecake, and it’s probably the best ice-cream flavor you’ve ever made. You’re almost out. You glance over at the new batch your making once more, making sure it doesn’t freeze entirely.

“Hey, sugar!” a voice calls from behind. You smile before you turn, recognizing the lithe voice from a mile away. As you turn, sure enough, Byun stands with a shit-eating grin in front of the display, already waving his ten dollar bills around like a fan against the heat. He’s become one of your returning customers, for whatever reason you most definitely don’t want to know. He’s annoyingly charming, and funny on top of that, always ready to make you laugh even if it’s at his own expense.

“I need five cups with two scoops of that,” he points at the newest flavour, “the cheesecake. Gonna treat the poor suckers in the garage for once, they all look like they’re five seconds away from melting.” He sends you a smile to match your own, as you nod.

“It’s good, right? I’ve had to make a whole new batch because people like it so much. Yuna almost lost her shit when I called her earlier.” You scoop the last of the metal tin into a cup and then pull it out of the display to put it with the other dishes, heading for the full tin.

“Wait, you know how to swear?” the man asks, raising his both eyebrows high as he grins, only laughing at the glare you send him from across the room. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about the dark haired man in front of you, is that he’s thrives when teasing others. He’s been by the shop so many times now that you’ve gotten used to it, and just continue your task of scooping the ice cream into cups. When you don’t respond, Baekhyun looks over your shoulder into the small store. “Where is your boyfriend, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble with a smile, not looking up from your work, “where is yours?” When you flash him a glance from under your lashes, you can see that he’s holding in his laugh, and shakes his head. You finish his order off by putting plastic lids on every cup, and putting them into a bag along with the small spoons. “There, that’s $14,96 please.” Byun is the only name he’s introduced himself as, and though you doubt that is his real name, you don’t have much of a choice. He pays and leaves quickly after that, leaving you to your thoughts.

Though you’ve had many familiar faces come by, there’s one person that hasn’t showed himself since last week, and though you hate to admit it you’ve grown slightly worried. It was all fun and games, but what if Chanyeol really didn’t want his name to be known? Maybe you were too invasive, trying to figure it out on your own, and now you won’t get to see him again. You sigh, and rest your chin in your hand on top of the glass display.

Almost comical with the timing, his familiar shape comes walking from around the corner. His overalls are once again tied around his waist, top half only covered by a black shirt with the sleeves cut off. Chanyeol’s tattoos are in a perfect contrast with the warmth of his skin, and the brightness of his icy hair. When he looks up to meet your eyes, he scowls, something you’ve gotten so used to by now that it only makes you smile. But as you stare at him moving closer, you hesitate.

On his cheekbone and along his eye socket bloom flowers of bright, bruised colors. They are purple, red and yellow and look really painful. Chanyeol looks away before you can say anything, and pulls open the door next to your own. “Chanyeol, wait!” you shout, startling him and yourself at the urgency with which the words fly out.

You drop your spoon into the bucket and rush over to the door, yanking it open into the tiny hall and over to the front door. When you open it, the heat of the afternoon hits your face, making it feel flushed. Chanyeol is still standing with his arm holding open the door, luckily not making you chase him. For the first time since you got here, you can really look up at him from a close.

The first thing you notice is that he definitely smells like metal, and gasoline. Second, the small freckles on his nose bridge from the sun. You swallow as he stares down at you, as if unbelieving that you’re really standing next to him. Maybe you’re imagining it, but his frown seems to lighten, if just slightly. You’re very similarly affected, looking at him from this close up. When it stays quiet though, you remember that you were the one who called out to him in the first place.

“Are you-” you brush your hands on your cherry skirt, and then bring them up without thinking, “are you okay?” Your fingertips find his cheek, one hand holding onto his jaw as the other brushes over the bright colors that blossom underneath his eye. Your hands must be really cold, because his skin feels like fire against yours. When you press onto the bruise slightly, Chanyeol hisses. “Does it hurt a lot?” you question again, not minding his silence much. He’s never been much of a talker around you, you don’t expect it to change.

You’ll still express your worry though. “What the hell happened? Did you get jumped too?” He blinks for a second, before wrapping his hand around your wrist and bringing yours down from his skin. You flush slightly when he takes a deep breath, looking away when he lets go of you. You take a step back and bite your bottom lip, suddenly aware that must have made him feel uncomfortable. Your heart seems to bang in your throat when you look up at him again.

“Too?” Chanyeol mumbles, eyebrows pulling together in question.

You nod, and cross your arms over your chest, looking at the street instead of at him. “Well, yeah. One of my friends got jumped by someone a couple of days ago. I guess they were trying to rob him or something, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.” You then look at him again, meeting his dark eyes without flinching. Chanyeol’s hand, where it was hanging next to his thigh before, is stuffed into the large pocket of his overalls as he listens. “Did that person try to rob you too?”

When you don’t continue, Chanyeol seems to freeze as you look at him. Hardening up like wax, despite the sun on his shoulders. You can see it in his eyes, the closing up that happens so fast that you can barely believe that he wasn’t always like this. He gives the tiniest shake of his head, though you’re not sure in response to your question on to you being here in general. Instead, you take the cold towel from your shoulder and bring it up to his face again. “Here, put this against the bruising. Keeping it cold will help with-”

Before you can finish, Chanyeol pushes your hand down with more strength, and takes a step away. The door he had been holding open all this time finally falls closed with a loud rattling noise, making you jump slightly. “Will you stop doing that?” Chanyeol grunts, glaring down at you. “Why the fuck do you keep butting in on my problems?” Your chest closes up at his sudden hostility, making you blink up at him with a tremble of your lips. You bite your bottom one harder to keep from embarrassing yourself.

“I was just trying to help,” you breathe. Chanyeol runs his free hand through his white hair, and scoffs.

“I didn’t ask for your fucking help, okay.” He pulls up his nose and shakes his head, before stepping closer to the door. You take two steps back in surprise. “I’m done being polite. Just leave me the fuck alone and piss off.” Before you can apologize, or say anything else, he yanks open the door to the diner and disappears into it again— much like before. You might have followed him, if it wasn’t for the fact that he slams the door so hard that it rings in your ears.

With another step back, you blink away the wetness that suddenly starts collecting in your eyes, and take a deep breath. You bunch up the towel in your hand and walk back over to your door, suddenly feeling the soft color of the wood too bright for the occasion. You push it open with a slight tremble in your hands, and walk inside. Message received loud and clear.

“Here you go, you big troublemaker,” a voice sighs, laughter woven into it at the situation. Two cold hands cup his face, pressing an ice pack to his temple. She comes to sit on the edge of the bed, thigh pressing up against his own as she brushes some of his dark hair out of the way and out of his eyes. When he looks at her, she shakes her head, her own dark hair falling down from where she tried to tuck it away with a pin. “Did you at least beat the shit out of him?” Her voice is slightly raspy.

“You bet I did,” Chanyeol mumbles, grinning through his busted lip with pride. It’s true, the other’s face was a lot more messed up than his is right now. “No one talks shit about my girl without paying the price for it.” Price being a broken nose, in this case. He’s still slightly dizzy, but more so tired. He’s glad that she’s here to help, that isn’t always the case and taking care of yourself when you’ve been hit in the head isn’t always the easiest.

“I wish I could have been there,” she nods, “seen it. You always look so fucking hot when you get mad.” Her hands tangle in his hair while she talks, leaning down to press her dark lips against his. Chanyeol hisses at the feeling, suddenly aware of the split in his lip again. Dara laughs, and presses a little peck before straightening up. “I’ll have to leave before tonight, I have to catch the last train.”

“Do you have to go?” he asks, pouting slightly, unable to help it. “I’ll take you for a joyride around town, we can go watch the sunset at the beach.”

She huffs, and presses the ice pack back to his forehead with a grin. “You mean we can fuck at sunset at the beach.” Chanyeol smiles wide as he regards her, and lifts his hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb there with care. “I can’t, Yeol, I need this job to work out. We need this. One of us has to make money for the future.”

“I do make money. The garage is cleaned up now, and we already have some solid customers who come by for checkups.” Chanyeol blinks up at her frown, hating the way it looks on her. He wishes he could take it away, all the worries he know she has about this, all of it.

“Yeah, but I mean— secure types of money. We can’t buy a house off of Baekhyun’s drug money.” She sighs, and looks across the room for something, whatever it may be. “I’ll be back before you know it, handsome. In the meantime, you can get better and not get into fights?” Chanyeol smiles, watching as she crawls over his body to settle her thighs either side of his.

Baekhyun hates it when they get into things on the couch. “I thought you liked me getting into fights?” he grins, pulling her closer by her waist.

Though she looks away, he can see the agreement in her smirk. “I like watching you fight.” Her hands press up on his chest, grounding him in the moment. Being with Dara is always like this. It’s hard, real and painful, in all the ways that life is and sometimes Chanyeol thinks they’ll make it together. He hopes they do. “There’s no use getting into fights when I’m not there to enjoy it,” she continues, giving him a look which makes her dark eyes look dangerous. “Besides, you only enjoy getting into them when I’m cheering for you.”

“That’s true,” he nods, pulling her even closer and nuzzling his face in her neck, as she giggles. “I’ll miss you,” he breathes. He hates the times where she leaves, feeling it push on his lungs like gravity has flipped upside down, though he knows she needs this. Needs the space, the room to breathe. Dara is a fire, and you can’t smother her or she’ll die down.

She pushes up from him and gives him a frown, though amusement plays at her lips. “Don’t get all clingy on me, Park Chanyeol.” She removes her body from his and fixes her hair back into the clip, before tutting her lips. She’s so beautiful, is all he can think, her thundery shape moving through his house like a whirlwind. “Do you have a smoke?”

He nods. “In my jacket.”

“Good.” When she catches him staring, she smiles, and walks over to press the ice pack back to his bruises. She pops one of his cigarettes in her mouth and lights it, before taking a few steps back, and pointing at the cold thing pushed to his head. “Hold that. Keeping it cold will help with your stupidity.”

Chanyeol snorts, watching her back towards the door with a swing in her hips. “Romantic.”

Today is not a good day. It hasn’t been a good day since he woke up, and though many hours have passed, the heavy unsettling in his stomach is yet to leave. The warm smoke in his lungs are in harsh contrast with the freezing bite of the night air, swirling between the noise. Loud growls of cars zooming past, and people cheering along the side of the road. It’s always slightly surprising how many people turn up for races of theirs, both as a crowd and as a racer, knowing the amounts of money it takes to get a car in top condition.

Of course, there’s a lot of money to be won, so he guesses it makes up. Chanyeol leans against the hood of his car, and takes a calming breath of the familiar nicotine to hopefully settle the unexplained nerves. There’s something in the air, a tangible warning siren that crawls over his skin, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore it— it stays very much present. He’s always been good at pretending though, pretending that he’s fine even when he isn’t and so the people around him don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about, Chanyeol confirms to himself.

He breathes out deeply, and watches as the cloud slips past his lips to dissolve into the obsidian of the night. The cheers get deafening when Kai’s signature, black Chevy Impala rounds the corner with a good amount of lead on the next. With a loud roar of his engine, he passes the mark first and skits to a halt, throwing open the door to yell victoriously along with the crowd. The sound is one of pure extacy, morphing Kai into the King of the streets. He looks alive, is all Chanyeol can think, as he watches his friend throw up his fists.

With a shrug, the tallest tosses his butt to the floor and walks between the mess of people to get to his friend. The crowd opens up slightly as he passes through, eyes following his shape as he moves. It’s nothing special anymore, he thinks, though it’ll never totally feel comfortable. Despite his loud hair color and tall statue, Chanyeol isn’t one easily seen, and he likes it that way. The shadows will always be his home. When he finally makes it over to the rest of the gang who are congratulating Jongin, he halts next to Suho. The dark haired man has a slight smile on his lips as he turns to him.

As Baekhyun laughs loudly at something Jongdae says, Suho crosses his arms over is chest with a slight nod. He glances up at the taller, and hums. “Did you watch the race?” His voice is steady when he talks, less excitable than Chanyeol remembers it was when meeting him, and though it could have been because of the aging— something tells him that it was more than that. His entire demeanor is tougher, more resistant than it used to be, another sign of the things they’ve been through together.

“Not that I really had to, he wins even when I’m not watching,” Chanyeol sighs, rolling his ring back and forth on his finger. All his friends are amazing chauffeurs, when it comes to speed that is. He is too, though he’s not a racer. With a deep sigh, he looks up from his feet to meet the older’s eyes. “But yes, I was watching. Why?” His voice drops at the end of his sentence. Suho isn’t straightforward in his wording at the best of times, definitely not with him and so the question is a necessary check-up.

“No reason,” Junmyeon just says, a slight smirk crawling onto his lips as he takes a step closer to the rest, hands sliding in his pockets. When he continues, the strange feeling peeks it’s nasty head up to squeeze his stomach together. “Someone else was watching too, you know, though they’ve never showed their faces here before. She could probably use a tour.” Chanyeol glares down at the brunet as he talks, though Junmyeon doesn’t take his eyes off of the celebrating Kai. The words that play in his mind don’t need to be spoken. Junmyeon laughs. “Ice cream girl is here, Yeol. I heard about her from Baekhyun.”

Of course. Chanyeol rolls his eyes and shoots some lightning at the oblivious man a few feet further down, before lifting his nose. “What makes you think I give a shit?” He almost spits the words, unable to help the irritation that fights it’s way to crawl up into his throat. More and more, people seem to piss him off, and it seems to have started when you came to town in your stupid bright dress and your even brighter smile. You’re like a rash that he’s unable to get rid off at this point, wishing he never noticed you in the first place. Now you show up everywhere, even at his races. His world, his life. Places where you don’t belong.

“Well,” Junmyeon nods, “you say you don’t but we’ve known you for a while now. You look bothered, at the very least. Why?” So much for pretending. Chanyeol clenches his jaw as he thinks, not willing to give in but unable to help the self-reflection. Because of course, Junmyeon is right. He is bothered, while very little has so much as shaken him in the last five years, and here you are— delivering him an earthquake. Chanyeol crosses his arms over his wide chest, and scoffs.

“Because you all won’t leave me alone about her, for one.” First Jongdae and Baekhyun, then Kyungsoo and Kai and now even their leader is putting his nose where it doesn’t belong. Even if it’s true, it feels invasive, the place one Chanyeol isn’t ready to open up about. Not now, and maybe even not in the future. Isn’t it for him to decide? He sighs, thinking about you for what feels a moment too long. “I don’t know what her fucking deal is, okay? All I know is that she annoys the life out of me.”

“Seems like you like her,” Junmyeon says, straightforward as much as they come for once.

“Don’t be fucking dumb,” the light-haired growls, just about done with the talk. In fact, Jongin’s on the liquor already, which means it’s about time to go. Sehun and Jongdae drive first, with the King to close the streets and so the end is here. “Well, game’s over,” he mumbles, already taking a step away. “I’m going.” Junmyeon stares him down for a long while without saying anything, before shaking his head as Chanyeol turns around without anything more. As he turns, he scans the crowd for the best exit, and as he does he sees a familiar face show up like a mirage.

Your hair is wilder than he’s ever seen it, your clothes dark just like your eyes are, traveling the length of the crowd. Chanyeol’s heart drops as he looks at you, wanting to run and stare at the same time, but instead he’s rooted to the spot. You look like her. Maybe it’s the light, or the confidence on your lips as you grab the arm of the man next to you— but you look just like her. A reflection of his life four years ago, back to break the part of him that she missed and for once, you might have cracked him right open.

In that one second, you might have broken down every wall he’s ever built, without knowing it. In a flash it disappears, as you look away and your lips curl back up into sunshine that lights up the entire parking lot. And suddenly you’re so far from her, that it gives him whiplash and makes his heart swell to constrict his lungs. Chanyeol looks away from you and back over the crowd, dizzy from the lack of breaths he’s been taking. Right as he steps forward, someone bumps into his shoulder harshly.

“Whoa, watch where you’re going!” the guy says, and as he turns he comes to be face to face with Shownu. He was in high school with the guy, though they never much talked, let alone were they friends. In high school, Chanyeol was too busy ruining his life to make friends with guys like him. Shownu glares him down, pushing the other back a bit to get some space. Only, in a single second Chanyeol’s large hand is around his wrist, holding him back. Though he might have not had many friends before, he does now, and he also knows that Shownu isn’t on good terms with some of them.

“Let go of me, jerk,” Shownu says, trying to pull from his grasp, “I need to talk to Kai.” His rude attitude only makes Chanyeol that much more annoyed. Today isn’t the day to piss him off like this, though it’s never the best idea.

“You’re not welcome here,” Chanyeol bites, squeezing his wrist harder to drive the point home. “I suggest you take your pathetic self home before you hurt yourself, jerk.” Shownu pushes him back harshly, shoving against his shoulders with all his strength and Chanyeol stumbles back, bumping into some people along the way. When he looks up, he’s sure his eyes spew fire, because some people takes step back. Shownu dusts off his hands on his pants and steps past him to walk away. Not the right day.

Without thinking, he jumps forward to grab the other, sending him clattering to the floor. He sits up on top of the scrambling Shownu and throws a punch to his jaw, heat shaking in his veins. Shownu manages to turn himself around and tries to grab his throat, but another fist connects to his face before he can. Chanyeol’s fists come down over and over again. Busting open his lip, his eyebrow, the only sound a sharp ringing between his ears. Blood dripping. When he takes a moment to push himself from the floor, Shownu smiles through the liquid from his face. Red flashes in front of Chanyeol’s eyes. He slams down his fist again, a painful crunching sounding out, from his hand or the other’s face is unclear.

Suddenly multiple hands jerk him back, pulling him off the body and holding him as he thrashes in their hold. He doesn’t know who it is, doesn’t need to know. They hold him tightly, and as they drag him further away, his body suddenly feels tired. His hands feel heavy, but he doesn’t let his gaze move from the slumped body for a second, glaring down at the other with disgust. “Yeol,” Kyungsoo sounds, and though he’s right next to him the sound echoes, “calm down.”

Someone in the crowd helps Shownu up, and now he can really see the damage he caused. His eyebrow is split open, dark blood covering his one eye. Chanyeol’s rings still drip from the blood. Shownu’s chin is covered in blood, and his head slumps uncomfortably into himself. When the hands finally let go of him, Yeol needs to take several deep breaths to get rid of the dizzy sensation. His hands still shake from the adrenaline, surging through him like a fire. Your face suddenly shows up from the crowd, wide and terrified as you break through the wall of people in worry. You don’t see him as he walks away. Welcome to the underworld. Chanyeol doesn’t look back as people make a path to let him through. Welcome to his world.

Thank you so, so much for reading!! I hope you are all still enjoying it as much as I am because I genuinely love both characters with all my heart. I live for grumpy chanyeol but... that man writes himself. This wasn’t even supposed to happen but he decided to be a jerk this chapter so...... sorry not sorry?

So happy to know that all you lovelies want to be tagged in this series. Just warning you already, this isn’t the only down on this roller coaster. I love all the messages and the thoughts you guys have been sending me, it means the world.

@ninibears-erigom @suhoerections @kimjongdaely @kyungseokie @kpop---scenarios @yeoldontknow @baekwell--tart @skjdln @strongpowerhope @i-dont-wanna-kokostop @brie02 @baby-hands-x-x-blr @baek-byunies  @shxrl4747 @lucymheng @byunfirstlady @chanyeolol @snowflakesandkisses @you-know-bts @puppykangie @kkpoptrashhh @im-a-special-bebe @joolsreads

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 5/10

Shifty Powers x Reader

“Mother, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come? Margaret said I had to convince—” you call, taking the stairs two at a time, if only to hear the green chiffon of your skirt fluttering at your ankles. Yet, when your Mary-Janes plunk onto the thin carpet at the bottom, girlish delight is forgotten in favor of your eyes bulging, air stoppering in your throat, and stuttering out: “M-Mother, is that—? Is that the—?”

She perches on her armchair in the sitting room—the tapestry upholstery faded; it’s been in the cottage since Mother’s gran lived here as a little girl—her beaming smile shifting from the tea kettle in her hands to you. It’s the tea kettle; the robin-blue heavy ceramic one that’s been shown in the cookware shop’s place of pride since July. “Look, dear, I decided to spring for it,” she says, her voice floating with lightness, as if reveling in an indulgence long overdue. “Isn’t it the loveliest thing? And, you did mention you wanted something practical for your birthday in a few weeks, so I thought this could be for Christmas and your birthday.”

Yet, the justification doesn’t reach your ears; you’re deaf to the chattering praise of the kettle as Mother holds it to the weak electric light of the overhead chandelier, inviting you to admire it from all angles. Your imagination conjures the scene of Mother creeping to the stronghold box secreted in the workshop, illustrating how she took out your carefully stacked pound notes—freshly and hard-earned from the nurses’ orders—halving it and scurrying off to the cookware shop. Is this your fault for not confiding in her how desperately the money’s needed? She surely knows some it, but you’re so careful to hide the letters from the bank, the reminders on the loans and interest, and she had been so thinly pale and grayly sick in the years since London; you couldn’t risk a relapse. Where would you be, who would you have, if something happened to her?

The thought sobers you, allows you to plaster a smile on, and you offer: “It’s really quite lovely, Mother. It’s just the right dash of color our little house needs.” Admittedly, the old cottage with its threadbare carpets and worn upholstery would take much more ‘dashing’ than a blue tea kettle could offer, but your seeming-approval cheers Mother noticeably. “Are you coming to the Christmas Eve party? Margaret asked me that I positively badger you about it.”

Her smile shrinks marginally. “Oh, I don’t know, darling. Why don’t you go ahead, and I may catch you up in an hour or so?” Carefully, you keep a frown from pulling at your lips at Mother’s blatant lie. She hurries on: “Don’t forget your Christmas packages; I put the tin of cakes on top.” She gestures to a modest pile of boxes on the ottoman, an old tin stuffed with almond-butter cakes, dusted with real powdered sugar, crowning it. That white sugar, an absolute necessity in your family’s sacred holiday almond cake recipe, had cost you dearly. Smilingly, you allow her to load your arms up with packages, sacks, and tins, and shoo you out the door and into the early chill of nightfall. She sends you trudging through the flurries of snow and toward the bright bauble of Margaret’s house.

You try not to brood as you walk, your surly thoughts keeping the nip of the air at bay, but your thoughts revolve continuously back to the neat stack of bank letters folded into your jewelry box and how you’d politely word a begging request to extend the payment deadline—again.

…

Margaret shepherds you into the party with wide-flung arms, a bright grin that stretches her immaculately painted cherry-red lips, and any of her stress or harried anxiety from two days prior—during decorating—has entirely evaporated. She coos over your Christmas dress (the same one as last year, and the year before that, though she’s kind enough not to notice) as she carves a path through the seemingly uninterrupted mass of humanity cluttering her home. American sergeants laugh at the vicar’s jokes—he’s putting in a brief appearance before scampering off to other party invitations—Mrs. Pinchent, your dowdy widow-neighbor, giggles and flirts with a taciturn American colonel; Evie Lowell holds captive a slew of local and soldier boys alike; Mr. Jamison, the busybody bartender at one of Aldbourne’s two feuding pubs, hoots uproariously with a cluster of American captains. Couples attempt to dance in a narrow patch of carpet provided, youngsters dart between legs, and the elderly have claimed chairs to keep an amused eye on it all.

Whatever darkness heavying your mood, you leave behind, outside in the cold of the garden.

“We’re not doing any kind of formal gift-exchange,” Margaret informs. “The idea is you put your packages under the tree, and then you’re supposed to check every once and a while if someone has left something for you. It stretches out the fun and anticipation of the gift-giving!”

“Oh,” you mutter, glancing down at your packages, eyes catching on the card attached to the one at the very top: in your neatest cursive, you wrote, ‘To my dear friend, Shifty.’ Disappointment trickles into your chest; you’d never admit it, but you wanted to watch him open it. You’re not sure why it’s important to you all of a sudden.

After Margaret helps deposit your packages under the tree, merrily ripping into hers and exclaiming over the cape you knitted for her—a lovely, pure white lamb’s wool that you matched to her white muff—she whisks the almond-butter cakes away to put on the serving table. You watch her dissolve into the crowd, fidgeting with your velveteen sleeves as your eyes flick over the profiles and backs of the party-attendants nearest you. You don’t particularly want to mingle with Mrs. Pinchent or Mr. Jamison, but they seem to be your only options at the—

“Look!” exclaims George Luz—you instantly recognize that brash American accent of his, constantly pitched as if auditioning to announce for the Royal Ascot—and you find a delicately carved wooden squirrel under your nose. “He did carve me a squirrel!”

“Huh,” is all you can remark, gently plucking the figurine from George’s hands, inspecting its deep, chestnut color, honeyed and rich. The little squirrel even clutches a nut, its head cocked in inquiry at the viewer and fluffed tail held in trepidation. You manage: “It’s lovely, George.”

Accepting the squirrel back, George glances over it, too, trying mightily not to seem too pleased. “It’s alright; Shift’s talented, that’s for sure. The kid’s got, I don’t know, depth or something.”

As innocuously as possible, you ask, “Did Shifty give it to you just now?”

“Nah,” George replies, pocketing the squirrel. “He gave out all his gifts back at the barracks; said he didn’t want to deal with carrying anything here.” The drop of disappointment through your chest from before builds into a free-fall. “I swear, he’s got some imagination, too; he gave Skip an otter but the funny things, I kind of see why Skip’s an otter, you know?”

Before you can think of a response, before you can sort the slowly dawning horror creeping over you that you gave Shifty a gift, and he most assuredly didn’t give you one, Skip appears at your elbow. He shouts to be heard over the party’s rabble: “You’re here! Good, I’ve had to use every stalling tactic I can think of to get the guys to hold off on charades! Come on, you’re on our team; our secret weapon.”

Your eyebrows jump. He remembered; he was being genuine about the team, you think, befuddled.

Skip’s hand wraps around your elbow and he’s towing you—George Luz trails, snorting over the paper crown balanced precariously on Skip’s head, most likely from the Christmas poppers Margaret adores so. You’re helpless to being dragged away from the tree, and any hope you have of swiping up your gift to Shifty before he can see it; before he can open it and face the unmistakable truth that you’re horribly enamored with him. Before your friendship turns brittle and crumbles because of your own self-sabotaging.

First the kiss, now this. It’s like you don’t want to be happy.

(This, in tandem with the damnable kettle, you decide, might be warrant enough to label this the Worst Christmas Yet.)

…

You had your doubts, given that Skip seems someone inclined to comedic dramatics, but he hadn’t been hyperbolic when he proclaimed he, Penkala, and Malarkey were truly pitiable at charades. “What on Earth are you doing?” Malarkey bursts, exasperated, as Penkala skips around the cleared charades floor, flapping his arms and occasionally squawking. All the charades were—allegedly—Christmas themed, though you pulled a Clark Gable card your last round, and you’re fairly sure Clark Gable has nothing to do with the reason for the season.

“Chicken?” Skip guesses, Penkala shaking his head and squawking again, as if this time, it’d trigger the correct answer.

“A deranged goose?” you offer, Malarkey and Skip snorting, but Penkala waves his hands emphatically, pointing at you. “Oh, a goose?” you guess, when Penkala twiddles his fingers, meaning its part of the phrase. “Um, Christmas goose? Roasted goose? Goose and—”

“Time!” Margaret trumpets, popping to her feet and nearly upsetting the holly and garland crown she wears. Allen Vest had made a whole show of crowning her after the first round of charades ended in her team winning, declaring ‘peace unto the queen of Christmas.’ “How many points did they get, George?”

George had made scorekeeper when it became obvious he couldn’t keep his great trap shut, guessing for teams other than his own and giving out freebie points. “Uh, seven! Wow, Penkala, way to go! You didn’t embarrass yourself!”

Penkala takes a bow as all teams—four teams of four, all composed of Easy Company men, the company all your American friends (because you do suppose they’re your friends) belong to—clap and cheer, Malarkey and Skip whooping. As Penkala flops onto the couch next to you, Skip leans over to whisper in your ear: “Looks like you’re not the star player anymore.” He winks, curling grin mirroring yours, and you shake your head back. Without you, the team would have negative points, if any: you earned eleven points when it was your turn, and had guessed nearly all of the words when the boys were acting.

“Good,” you shoot back. “I was getting tired of carrying this team.”

Skip’s eyebrows quirk and he tilts his chin back to roar his laughter to the ceiling.

Basking in the glow of your joke, you swing your eyes away and around the room, your smile growing stale and then shriveling. In the crowd amassed as spectators to the game, you pick him out easily—looking older, more tired somehow, in his dress browns, despite the cheerful blue and white scarf wrapped, once, twice, four times around his neck, the scarf you knitted him—the sensible gray cap, your other gift, peeking from his trouser pocket. Yet, after the initial yank in your stomach, a yank that makes you feel you’ve been thrown into open space, you forget the gifts for his expression. An expression you don’t comprehend, can’t ascribe any logical reason to, because he’s envious? There’s melancholy written in his frown, confusion in the pinch of his brows as if baffled by his own reaction, but yet, despite himself, he looks envious.

His eyes find yours, across the lounge of jostling elbows and knocking knees, and your chest aches, your lips part, words building in your throat until you’re rendered completely mute. What is it about Shifty, about how he’s looking at you now, that fills you until you’re sure you’ll burst? that drains you until you’ll pop out of existence? that makes you burn and chilled, made significant and trivial—feeling every new contradiction on each inhale and exhale?

“C’mon, girlie, get on up there,” Skip says, close to your ear, nudging your shoulder, urging you from the coach—Shifty had made you forget where you were, what you were doing, and you blink at Skip to chase away the haze in your head—and to the cleared performance patch of the lounge’s carpet. “We’re five points away from winning! You’ve got to go bag this one for us!”

Malarkey, having taken Margaret’s invitation to ‘help yourself!’ to an extreme when it came to the ale keg, leans around Penkaka to plant a good-luck kiss on your cheek. “We’re counting on you, sweetheart; you can do it!”

When you collect yourself, when you dare to steal another glance into the crowd, Shifty has moved, is moving through the archway and out of the lounge, You crane to keep him in your sights. But, there are too many bodies, too many voices clogging the air and rooting you on. He melts into the party as Margaret calls: “Two minutes starts now—go!”

…

Bing Crosby’s new Christmas record, and the drunken rhapsodizing accompanying it, floats out of the kitchen when you slip into the back garden. Easing the door shut behind you and clutching your wool coat tightly to your body, your eyes sweep across the snow, winking and reflecting the lights on in the house. Your breath clouds and you plop down on the stoop next to Shifty—it took you nearly twenty minutes to locate him after the charades game devolved into George and Malarkey leading everyone in carols, another five minutes to track down your coat.

He blinks at you, the redness in his nose and cheeks—luminescent in the light reflected off the snow, a wash of the lamp’s yellow and the winking green and red of the fairy lights—softening him, easing that earlier maturity and tiredness you noticed in the lounge. “Oh, hey,” he offers, adjusting his scarf self-consciously and angling to square his shoulders toward you. “I like your, huh, crown.”

“Oh, thank you,” gusts from your lips as you touch your fingertips the holly and garland crown you wear, bestowed upon you by Margaret after your team won the final round of charades. “I was proclaimed the queen of peace, or something like that.”

Shifty nods, eyes skating over your cheekbones, along your nose, to your lips, and back to the crown. The intensity, the thoughts darkening his expression, remind you of looking into a fishing hole, falsely shallow, secreting hidden pockets inside its murky depth; it makes you fidget with contradictions again, makes your chest expand until it aches and your shoulders hunch, as if collapsing on yourself. You reach to pull the crown off, but he leans forward, hands on yours, stopping you. “No, please; keep it on. It…it suits you.”

Biting your lip and lowering your eyes as your fingers drop to twist in your lap—it suddenly seems far too much to look at him—you manage: “Oh, well, okay.” Pause, and you fuss at the bare fur still on your threadbare coat’s cuffs, trying to marshal your senses and recall why you wanted to come out here, what you had formulated saying. “Um, I was going to, um, make sure you’re all right. I noticed you slipped out and I wanted to make sure …”

You allow your words to trail off.

Shifty hums after a moment, leaning closer to you. You’re not sure if its conscious or not. “That’s kind of you to be worried; you’re a good friend,” he offers, his accent coaxing the words from him. “I…” he pauses and you can feel him choosing his next words: “It’s great seeing everyone so happy and enjoying themselves, but I keep thinking about my family playing charades and other games at home right now. It’s made me sad, I suppose. But…but, it’s more than that…I can’t help but think …”

You’re not sure when you thread his fingers with yours, but you offer a gentle squeeze when he stutters to a stop. You tilt your face so you can monitor his expression through your eyelashes and still hide just how desperately you want him to know you’re there for him; how much you desperately wish you could articulate how you care.

He tries again: “I can’t help thinking about what’s to come. The…the war. Who will get hurt, or, or not come back … who’s celebrating their last Christmas right now.” At your backs, a wave of laughter floats from inside, muffled by the brick walls and door, but you feel its weight slamming into your ears, pressing on your shoulders. You know Shifty does, too: you track how he winces. “I know I ought to enjoy the happiness while I can, but what if…what if it’s my—?”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Darrell Powers,” falls from your mouth before you’re aware you spoke, gripping his hands urgently and entirely forgetting your carefully designed cover. You hold his eyes, hoping he sees the ferocity of your firm resolve, hoping he understands how greatly you feel and believe every syllable you say. “Don’t you dare talk or think like that. You’re going to come back, you have to—” because I’d be lost without your eyes in my life; your eyes looking at me like that, you think, but bite back. You can’t say it; you won’t. You can’t watch his face pale and widen in horror. Not again.

Yet his worry remains unchanged and you frown, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, trying again: “Shifty, I know you’re staring down the unknown and you’re scared, but it’s okay to be scared. I’d be worried if you weren’t scared honestly.” That earns you a faintly-cracked grin. “But this is one Christmas of many, many more to come, and whenever you want me to tell you that, let me know. I’ll keep saying it until I’m blue in the face, okay?”

His grin turns wobbly, his eyes glassy as you speak, and his nod is uncertain.

Huffing, you tease, “I’m going to need something more than a nod, Shift.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he manages thickly. He sniffles, takes a choppy breath, and tries to smile. And, God, you want to kiss him; you want to fold yourself into him and be safe from the war, fate, and all that’s to come; you want to cry and laugh and feel multitudes with him. You want, you want, you want—but when has it ever mattered what I wanted?

Instead, you content yourself to wrapping your arm tightly around him, letting him tuck you under his chin, letting his scent of bonfires, boot polish, and summer rain wash over you, letting his arms brace firmly across your back. This is the most you can have from him, you know; this is the most you’d ever ask from him, because what does it matter what you want if you can at least be there for him. Hold him and whisper a thousand assurances, allowing yourself to pretend for a fleeting instant that he really is yours.

tag list: @gottapenny, @wexhappyxfew, @maiden-of-gondor, @mayhem24-7forever, @medievalfangirl

[notasapleasure]

Whumptober 12

“Don’t move”

Their playing was beautiful. Based around classical Flamenco riffs, the music filled the room like a gentle breeze, floating above his aching head and fluttering towards the bright light of - he presumed - a window. His fingers twitched jealously as he listened, and he let his eyes stay closed so as to appreciate the precision of the technique, the deceptively easy sound of the toque pasqueño.

He had no idea where he was, or who the musician could be. In addition, bruises from some recent injury throbbed deep in his hip and ribs, but their cause was another thing he could not, at present, remember. This out to have been more worrying than it was, only the sensations of the moment remained overwhelmingly pleasant.

He had been placed on an extravagantly soft mattress and the room smelled of clean linen overlaid by a woman's heather-spiced perfume. Indeed, the guitarist at last could not resist the duet with her instrument and began to hum alongside the tune she played. There was something familiar and reassuring in the rich tones of her voice.

Carefully, he tried to move his legs, and when his body met with resistance he felt panic threaten to submerge him: was he paralysed?

Something grunted and the music stopped, the silence reaching out in expectation.

"Don't move," a light-humoured voice advised him. "You'll upset Sym."

He forced his eyes open and squinted in bright dawn light. He was in a small, clean hotel room furnished with two narrow beds. At his feet, the source of the resistance to his movement, lay a large brown labrador with sad, accusatory eyes. The other bed in the room was unoccupied and rumpled messily; the table beside it was littered with cosmetics and tissues. Between it and his bed sat a woman in a worn chintz chair, her guitar held across her knees. She had long red hair, naturally straight and draped over her shoulders; her flowing skirt and crocheted top displayed a fond remembrance of the previous decade.

"Hullo Sym," he offered the dog a crooked smile and a scratch of apology behind the velveteen ear.

The woman laid her instrument aside and stood - it was only then that he noticed the decisive precision of her gestures. She took firm steps with her face turned towards the window and her hands held poised away from her body, fingers tense until they brushed the side of the bed. She patted her hand along its edge until her touch met Sym's tail.

"Off, dog!" she laughed, her accent a melodic Central Belt lilt. Sym raised himself with a long-suffering groan and a flutter of his tail against his hocks. He jumped down and leant his body against her protectively.

Her blue eyes were the colour of a summer sky given depth by a haze of high cloud: he looked into her soft-cheeked face and realised with a pleasurable shock that he knew her. He recalled that her blindness left her with little picture of the world beyond a sense of where the light was, and he recalled her wicked schoolgirl laughter and her endless teasing of the fearful teachers tasked with taking care of her. The memory threw other pertinent questions into relief: what on earth was Christian Stewart doing in London, and what was he, Francis Crawford, doing in bed in her hotel room?

It would be some time before he remembered the stage invasion that had followed his disruption of Richard's little gig; the night air crackling in his lungs as he pelted out of the venue's back door and round the corner; the shock of a slow moving taxi ambushing him from the side. That Jenny Fleming - Morningside's own Phaedra, the merriest of widows - had gallantly helped rescue him and convey him to the hotel room she shared with her niece was an embarrassing detail he'd be quite happy to remain ignorant of.

[nahrsuada]

The Lady in Waiting

--

The stone roads of Boralus had won endearment from the bard who seldom was romanced by architecture and forceful squalls driving her strides onward. But this port city was familiar enough without the droll of Stormwind’s unfettered pomp and circumstance. Even the upper echelon of society, the opulent rings linked amongst one another seemed far less incestuous. Her mixed breeding seemed less out of place, finding kinship among the porcelain flesh, filigreed lotus collars, proletarian accouterment. It was a home where reticent elegance nuanced within the modest seams of woman’s attire were no longer rebuked or menaced by implied insecurity.

Within the cityscape’s labyrinth, desultory intent landed her strides into an unfamiliar part of town whilst mapping her way home once more. There was no urgency to her pace, nor her destination. Leathern spats enfolded upon petite ankles, kept sturdy atop the piked, low heel deriving quiet clicks upon the stone. As she ventured toward the walked intersection, carriages running perpendicular slowed when passing the overflow of patrons staggered outside a single building. Having returned from the city’s blue-blooded heights, the hardened case consuming her violin was cradled now by the taut vice of gloved digits. A brass moniker scripted the name: Ladies in Waiting in shadowed relief.

Innuendo was hardly lost upon she, duress contracting her breaths, lungs staggered upon an impact which bludgeoned the often indomitable air about her resolve. Memory’s ghost abruptly waxed her fine, freckled complexion as she plummeted her stare downward, unable to even register the cause. Pressing chine upon corrugated brick the bard stoned. The way a skirt flew, exposing familiar tawny flesh, the carefree titter of feminine guffaws and feigned modesty. Breaths hitched, remembering a scarlet ribbon which dwelled now, torn within the velvet coffin of her gifted instrument. The walls of her mind easily plunged into the horror of familiarity.

-

The young girl, hardly within her teens with a form as dimensional as the planks lining a dingy venue for the carnal employment and lavish flaunting of feminine whiles, slowly began to uncoil from her seated station moments prior. For one so premature in adult sensibilities, the den of inequity was a curious locale. The sumptuous forms and bawdy attire allowed her performance to simply live within the air, amplifying the joviality and ample patronage of those whose lecherous trade flourished. She was but a decoration upon hearth’s mantle.

Twilight’s cutting gusts had forced the doors to a close, a single nobleman nursing his cigar watched the elven adolescent in her premature departure, having shrugged a furred poncho over narrowed shoulders. The woman who had toyed with his curled tresses for hours, tormenting the stirred excitement upon sheathed mast could seldom break his stare from scarlet curls. Each time he arrived, not a single coin outside his wine spent until the production of harmonious ballad came to a close. He abandoned his charge, levying a gloved palm to lay heavy upon Nahrsuada’s shoulder. “Madame,” asserted his pastoral resonance. Pivoting upon her booted heel, a swan-like crane revolved her nape, allowing his hand to veer upon its base. Glass ribboned upon her spine, impaling from the inside of her flesh where his palm dwelled. But it was him who excited the omen within, but the mortiferous rivets sunken in the woman’s irises that stalled her breaths. Her glare no longer lingered upon he, but its new destitute host. Paralyzed from toe-to-tongue, an ironed smile fixed upon tense aperture, sealing her lips closed whilst never denying acknowledgement. “I wish you to join the cast of Ladies in Waiting for my wife. Her brilliant sensibility is woefully lacking in artistic endowment.” With the heel of his palm riding each vertebrae, blazing digits of lupine affliction boiled as they ensconced the stubborn line of her jaw. The innuendo in his possession spoke beyond a simple offering; a youthful concubine groomed beneath his thumb. His index brazed her pout whilst steering her entire silhouette to square before he by one, tethering tug beneath her chin.

“I would be honored,” came her benumbed reply. Lashes dimmed, knees dipped in honorific curtsy. All while such mechanized affectations flourished beneath his scrutiny, amassing a fiendish simper from him; the courtesan watched with inflamed ire.

“Excellent. Your patron knows of my residence. See that you are sent there a candlemark before noon,” proclaimed his distinctive baritone before a velveteen cloak brandished from its dormancy as he yanked the heavy door open. She need not allow it to close, the danger of snuffed hospitality ever encroaching. Where he traipsed left, she trotted right. Lighter, chaotic footsteps vaulted in her wake, swallowing the ground beneath with effortless anguish enveloping the other.

Soon, manicured nails buried within the girlish, blush ribbon tying her bun with a heavy bow. Nahrsuada’s next stride ricocheted from the stone, landing her within the bowels of a desolate alleyway. “You cunt,” spat rasped vitriol laced in feminine venom. With fibrous vice barely hovering her scarlet crown an inch from the ground, her leather violin case flung toward the ground, split open to expose a fractured, mahogany neck. Gilded aurums snapped open, lips hung ajar in silent plea for whatever travesty can be spared. Knuckles met temple, vision faltered, bleary and liquefied. No face, just the harried breaths of spent outrage, years of isolation, torment, rejection now raining from its victim to the unsuspecting girl, a sympathy unspent.

Screams swallowed as serrated steel first sliced the ribbon of its pristine tie, leaving it to wade within the silence wind and lay upon the ground. Locks of crimson and curls spilled in its wake. The other, the obscurity born of woe weaved in a bustle and bodice soon framed her webbed victim’s jaw ‘tween index and thumb. Force her throat into a crane, the sadistic smile painted deep violet flashed muddied tiers framed with neglected plaque. “You’re pretty in the bar, you’re pretty when you’re scared,” she started, the ellipsis tailing looming threat when steel lay upon the bard’s gullet. “You’re pretty when you sing..” continued the backbitten silk of her whisper. Just as a scream courageously mustered from the girl, blade plunged. With a single swipe of her forearm, torrential life blasted from the incision. Ear to ear, the woman allowed Nahrsuada’s desperate, pleading moments to be spent with her own hands tightening upon the gaping fissure rendering her helplessness mute. She sank upon the corroded wall, knees jamming upon brick, obsidian pits rolling back for the lunar whites to soon disappear beneath tear-stricken lashes.

“You’re even pretty when you’re dying,” observed the echoed, hollow tone as the woman procured the sliced ribbon from the ground, neatly tying it upon her malleable, bloodied canvas. With a bow wrapped upon gruesome fatality, footprints disappeared.

She felt the minutes fade, blur as one, she now slumped with the coagulated blood slowed from its initial tidal pour. Droplets within her sleeve, not an ounce of effort left for her breaths. A grim gift lay waiting the passing surgeon whose routine stalled him at these very walls, awaiting the girl. The grisly wound masked until his silvered hues found the lurid source. The haste, the chill, the macabre bred to avenge willed her eyes to open days later.

-

A leather glove, all of her own design gently cradled the modest, pearlescent pendant upon a burgundy ribbon, breaths seeping once more from her lips with the gothic gables once more coming into focus. She could feel it still, the raised flesh marring sublime porcelain. Another way, instructed the coo within her mind. Rather than face the laugh once more, she but retreated down the road from whence she came.

@holtandthornetradingco

[makerguideme]

for @applesxarrows, who alone has my express permission to reblog

he can’t breathe.  two fingers dig themselves into the collar of the uniform he’s being forced to don for the evening, trying to loosen its grip around his throat.  his adam’s apple bobs nervously as he tries to swallow.  the fit veers just to the left of too tight, tailored perfectly to every inch of his body.  

he doesn’t like it.  it lacks the comforting, protective weight of his armor and makes him feel vulnerable.  too vulnerable, and he scowls at his reflection in the looking glass in his bedchamber.  he’s the commander of the inquisition’s forces.  he should be armed and armored, not trussed up in velveteen and silk.  he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, mussing the oh-so-meticulously coiffed curls that he took pride in putting in their place.  the effect is almost startling, lending his face a more boyish appearance and erasing some of the severity of his profile.  he doesn't like that either, but before he can go about putting it to rights, there’s a soft knock on the bedchamber door.  

“enter,” he calls out, perhaps a bit too gruffly, and he hears the rustle of what can only be maker-knows how many layers of fabric before the door clicks shut again. assuming it’s a page or a servant of gaspard’s, he turns, comb in hand to tell them he’ll be but just one more moment.

and then he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason than the damnable collar nearly cutting off his circulation.

“i thought i’d come and fetch you myself,” elena tells him, a broad grin on those plush lips of hers.  

he can only gape at her, words forgotten as he takes in the sight of the inquisitor in her regalia for halamshiral.  unlike the rest of them, she’s been permitted a ball gown, marking her as the leader of the inquisition.  it’s the same rich red as his own jacket.  the top is all lace overlaid over the corset she is wearing that puts her magnificent figure on full display, coming up to rest in a high collar on her throat with sheer lace sleeves that slip around her finger and rest at a point on the back of her hands.  the bottom is a full skirt in the orlesian style, a rich, red satin that flares out from her waist down to the floor, accentuated by a deep blue sash tied at her waist.  her hair has been swept back by deft fingers, a few loose waves left to frame her face.

he’s used to seeing her in armor, or simple riding clothes that she wears around skyhold.  she’s always been beautiful, even after weeks on the road or covered in flour from her latest kitchen experiments.  but he’s never seen her like this, and, maker help him, he can’t stop staring.  his mouth is dry and he realizes he’s holding the comb in a death grip and that he hasn’t spoken in a solid five minutes at least, but his mind has completely stopped working.  

at least she’s staring at him in much the same way as he’s staring at her.  maker preserve me, he thinks, as a hot hunger begins to pool in his belly at the way those kohl-rimmed eyes are drinking him in.

“you look handsome,” she tells him, but he only half hears it.  “your hair is —” but what his hair is, he doesn’t know, because he’s across the room and at her in three strides as the comb falls from his fingers, knotting his hand in her thick hair and taking her lips with his own.  she lets out a bit of a squeal against his lips, her arms coming to twine around his neck.  the lace rubs against the skin unprotected by his jacket, and he sighs into her mouth as she rises onto her toes to better reach him.  

after a moment, loathe as he is to part from her, he breaks the kiss.  she elicits a pained whine as he pulls away, his brow furrowed and his breathing labored.  there’s no time for it now, not before they’re expected to leave.  he nuzzles her nose before resting his forehead against hers, moving his arms to wrap around her waist.

“maker’s breath, but you are the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he breathes.  her fingers toy with some of the loose curls at the base of his neck and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to go to the palace with its intrigues and prying eyes.  he only wants this moment, here, with her, in gaspard’s obscenely lavish mansion, with her smeared lipstick and those eyes of hers boring into his.  

“we’ve…we’ve got to go,” she reminds him, but she sounds about enthused about the fact as he is.

it’s only after they’re in the carriages with the other members of the inquisition and sera is wearing a shit-eating grin that he realizes that he’s got her lipstick all over his face, and he never fixed his hair.

the air outside on the balcony is cool and crisp, and he welcomes it.  it still smells wrong, all the stenches of the city mingling in his nostrils and making him want to gag, but it’s still cold enough that it reminds him of skyhold.  of home.  she’s leaning against the balcony, hands gripping her elbows.  even after the whirlwind of an evening she’s had, that dress is still in impeccable condition.  but she looks tired.  maker knows he is, after hours spent at the mercy of the court, forced into a corner that felt all too much like what he’d been through kinloch.  whispered promises, unwanted hands.  no room to breathe.  he forces himself back into the present with a grimace, stepping up beside her and standing at rest at her side.  

“are you alright?” his voice is soft, concerned.  she turns to look at him with exhausted eyes, uncertainty pulling her mouth into a frown.

“i just want to go home,” she tells him, her voice a half-whisper in an attempt to keep any prying ears from hearing.  he nods his assent.

“as do i.  i am afraid the intrigues of orlesian court are…not to my tastes whatsoever.”  

she smiles slightly.  “i saw the courtiers surrounding you.  are you alright?” her small hand reaches over to take one of his and he lets her, his thumb brushing briefly over the back of her hand.

“i have…survived worse.” he doesn’t say anything else.  his stomach is still in an uncomfortable knot, his throat still somewhat tight and his mouth dry, but from fear this time, not lust.  she simply nods, then moves so that she is holding his hand in both of hers, arms wrapped around his left arm, leaning her body against his.  it does more to ground him than anything else in the world ever could.  it’s then that it hits him — touch-adverse as he is, he never wants to be without hers.  

they stay that way for a moment, watching the night sky begin to pinken with dawn’s first rays.  it’s been a long night, for all of them.  but it isn’t over yet.

“may i have this dance?” he asks, extricating himself from her embrace to bow slightly and offer her his hand. he’s never been one for dancing — had told her as much before they’d left gaspard’s — but he feels that she needs this.  that he needs this.  her expression lifts at his words, her lips quirking upward in a small, pleased smile as she takes his hand.  there’s not really any music drifting out to them from the open windows but he makes do, humming a lullaby that he remembers his mother singing when he and mia were children.  her head rests against his chest, and he feels a sense of peace wash over him for the first time in…maker, he doesn’t even know.  they aren’t dancing so much as they are simply swaying together on the spot to the tenor of his voice, but it’s enough.  

[womencasualdresses]

Women Casual Dresses

Business attire doesn’t lend itself too well to individuality—whether or not it’s the equal blue and grey fits for guys or drab dresses for women, there’s treasured little breathing room for an eclectic wardrobe. A informal-wear office creates an opportunity for workers to  Off the Shoulder Dresses  wear clothes that replicate their character a piece more, which is constantly good for vanity. Of direction, this coverage has its limitations. There desires to be a fundamental code of get dressed, even for informal wear, so personnel who dream of carrying turn-flops all day every day is probably a touch disappointed. Casual garments suit the converting existence and speedy paced girls of this century.

Casual clothes make the ladies very relaxed to satisfy the demands of their traumatic life schedule other than making them sense and appearance good. Since the formal clothes are very restrictive to a extra volume, manufacturers of garments are starting to provide a considerable line of casual put on of various styles and rate levels to suit all forms of ladies. Let it's a informal enterprise gown or informal summer season get dressed, there may be one or the opposite factor for every person. Many apparel shops online have sensed the want for smart casuals and at the moment are providing the proper fashion and flair in informal wears for todays multifaceted and versatile women.

A casual put on series of clothes are made up of leather-based or denim jackets, elegant sweaters, skirts made from chiffon, silk, velveteen, cargo, cropped or utility pants, capris and shirts produced from denim, silk and chambray, one of a kind washes of denim and so on. Such casual put on can be made to look extra elegant if scarves, hats, mittens, handcrafted belts and so forth are added to them as accessories. Smart casuals are those which comprise of informal shirts, cotton or silk blouses and long sleeve tees. These smart casuals offer herbal relaxation and a sense of laid at the again consolation to the wearer. The substances can be something from cotton, silk, flannel etc.

With the precise fundamentals and accessories spicing up, normal informal garments could make a fashion statement when they're worn according to the frame body and top of the woman. By paying a bit bit of attention to smaller details, simple clothes can do wonders. It is very essential that the casual wear garments should in shape properly, particularly on the subject of a pair of good jeans, it ought to healthy snugly over the body making it flatter the female wearing it. Bad becoming clothes provide a scruffy and untidy appearance. When dressed intelligently and smartly, it improves the fashion and confidence of the person apart from making them looks exact.

Made of natural cotton, wool, satin, chiffon, polyester, silk and other current substances they are able to represent the persona of a female and fit her lifestyle the excellent. Designers do their quality to expose the nice of women’s frame type and disguise all feasible shortcomings with a get dressed match.