#cast bronze spill

[fromthedust]

GOLDEN DREAM: ARBORED - detail view showing semi-transparent glass element over cast paper with glass bead & dichroic glass rod fitted into surface of leafed textured joint cement cradle

GOLDEN DREAM: ARBORED - detail view showing cast bronze 'spill' element fitted to Tennessee marble fitted jutting-out of surface of leafed and lacquered textured joint cement cradle

GOLDEN DREAM: ARBORED - detail view showing Verde di Prato serpentine element fitted into surface of leafed and lacquered textured joint cement cradle

GOLDEN DREAM: ARBORED - detail view showing segment of finished picture-frame molding element and two pink-colored glass marbles fitted into surface of leafed textured joint cement cradle

GOLDEN DREAM: ARBORED - frontal view

sculptural painting: schlag-metal leaf and lacquer on plywood cradle with joint cement, glass elements, dichroic glass, Verde di Prato serpentine, Tennessee marble, cast bronze, cast paper, finished wood molding element - 12½"x 12¾"x 3¾" - 2016 - never exhibited

[novaursa]

I have way to many idea so sorry for everything I’m going to send you 👉🏼👈🏼

Aemond x Niece (maybe a Nyra x daemon before her wedding!?)

He’s obsessed with her, she represents everything he want, she’s a perfect Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, huge dragon vermithor or cannibal?

But she’s engaged to Jace and he hate the fact that she is “given” to a bastard. So he tried by all things to make her his, he wish so hard to be found with her in a bad position that they obliged them to get married.

He make sure that Larys Steong see them, he even say to the maester to give her moon tee or medicinal herb for morning sickness ?! Otto find that about the maester and decided to marry them ( daemon and nyra are not ok they say It not real) and aemond took that personally and decided that they will have a child right now 🫣

The Dragon's Mark

- Summary: When Aemond found out about your betrothal to Jacaerys, he knew how all seven hells could not hold him back from taking what was rightfully his.

- Paring: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: Reader is the firstborn child of Rhaenyra. She had a reader with Daemon before she involved herself with Harwin Strong. Daemon legitimized the reader. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've changed the thing with a Maester to make it more believable. I hope you don't mind.

Aemond sat across from his mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, and his grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, in the great hall of the Red Keep. The torchlight cast shadows over their faces, making their expressions harder to read, not that Aemond was paying much attention. Their voices drifted to him as if through a thick fog, muffled and distant. He stared at the tapestry on the wall opposite, its intricate designs of dragons entwined in battle barely registering in his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the image of you.

You, to him, were the embodiment of Valyrian perfection, a true daughter of Old Valyria. Your silver hair fell in soft waves, catching the light like molten silver, and your violet eyes held the depth of the ancient Targaryen bloodline. You are more than a princess; you are power personified, a dragonrider of Vermithor, the mighty bronze beast who had bonded with you when you were but a girl. Aemond could still remember the first time he had seen you astride Vermithor, your small form commanding the great dragon with ease, your expression fierce and unyielding.

Now, you are a woman grown, and in Aemond's eyes, you are perfect. You are the one he deserves, a match that would not only strengthen the bloodline but would also solidify his place in their shared history. He could see it so clearly in his mind: you by his side, the two of you ruling as a power unmatched, with dragons and fire at your command. 

The thought of you set a slow burn within him, a mix of admiration and desire. He had always been captivated by your strength, your beauty, and the fire in your spirit that matched his own. You are everything he had ever wanted, everything he needed. A true Targaryen, unmarred by the weaknesses of others. Aemond clenched his jaw, pushing down the surge of emotions that threatened to spill over.

His attention snapped back to the present as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear. 

"...Rhaenyra has decided to marry her daughter to Jacaerys," Alicent said, her tone carefully neutral, but there was a hint of distaste in her eyes. 

Aemond's world tilted on its axis, the words crashing over him like a wave. His blood ran cold as the realization settled in. Rhaenyra intended to wed her daughter, you, the one Aemond desired above all others, to that bastard Jacaerys. His hands curled into fists on the table, the knuckles white as the force of his anger rose within him, threatening to consume him whole.

"A match to solidify her claim, no doubt," Otto added, his voice dry and calculated as always. "She seeks to ensure her line continues to hold power, binding her daughter to her eldest son."

Aemond could barely hear them now over the roaring in his ears. The thought of you, bound to Jacaerys, of the union of your bloodlines through a marriage that had nothing to do with honor or strength but everything to do with Rhaenyra's desperate attempt to secure her position—it was unbearable. 

His mind raced with images of Jacaerys, the boy who had always stood in his way, who had always been favored despite the question of his parentage, despite his weaknesses. And now, to think that he would have you, the woman Aemond had longed for, the woman who should have been his—!

"Aemond." Alicent's voice broke through his fury, pulling his gaze to her. She looked at him with concern, as if sensing the turmoil within him. "What are you thinking?"

Aemond blinked, his breath coming in sharp, controlled breaths as he forced himself to calm. He could not reveal the depth of his feelings here, not now. He met his mother's gaze, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.

"Nothing, mother," he said, his voice low and measured. "Only that Rhaenyra's choices will bring about her own downfall."

Alicent frowned slightly, but before she could press further, Otto interjected, his eyes narrowing as he studied his grandson. "This marriage will complicate things, Aemond. We must be cautious in how we respond. Rhaenyra seeks to bind the loyalty of her supporters through this match."

Aemond nodded stiffly, though his thoughts were still far from the politics of it all. He would not let this happen. He would not allow Jacaerys to take what should be his. 

"Perhaps," Aemond began slowly, "we should consider our own alliances more carefully. There are other ways to weaken Rhaenyra's position."

Otto raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in Aemond's tone. "What do you suggest?"

Aemond met his grandsire's gaze, a plan already forming in his mind, a way to ensure that you would not be lost to him, that Jacaerys would not win. His lips curled into a small, cold smile.

"There are always ways to turn the tide," he said softly. "We need only find the right pressure points."

Alicent looked between them, her unease growing, but Aemond paid her no mind. His thoughts were solely on you, on the woman who had unknowingly claimed his heart. He would have you, no matter the cost. You will be his, and nothing, not even Rhaenyra’s schemes, would stand in his way.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly as you sat at your vanity, the brush gliding through your long, silver hair. Each stroke was methodical, a ritual you found soothing as the day's events faded into the quiet of the evening. You took a deep breath, savoring the calm, but beneath the surface, your thoughts were a swirling current of unspoken feelings, thoughts that often turned to him—Aemond.

The quiet attraction you felt for him had always been there, lurking in the periphery of your mind, but never voiced, never acted upon. There was something in the way he carried himself, the intensity of his gaze, that made your heart quicken whenever he was near. Yet, the distance between you had always remained, unbridgeable, or so you had thought.

You placed the brush down, your hair now smooth and shining in the firelight, ready to retire for the night. But just as you were about to stand, a knock echoed through the chamber, pulling you from your reverie. You frowned, surprised by the interruption at this hour. Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and there he was, Aemond, standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice betraying a hint of the surprise you felt.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His presence filled the space, commanding yet silent, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His eye, that piercing violet eye, locked onto yours, and you felt your breath catch. There was something different about him tonight, an intensity that set your heart racing.

"I... wasn't expecting you," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "I needed to see you," he said quietly, his tone carrying a weight that made your pulse quicken. He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to his clothes.

You swallowed, your mind racing as he reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his eye, a hunger, a longing that mirrored the unspoken desires you had kept locked away for so long.

"I've thought about you," you admitted softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But I never—"

He silenced you with a look, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up, his gaze darkening. "No more words," he murmured, and then his lips were on yours, claiming them with a fervor that took your breath away.

The kiss was everything you had imagined and more, a rush of heat and need that left you dizzy. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt the world narrow down to just the two of you, the fire, and the beating of your hearts.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourself. But before you could speak, before you could mention the name that had been on your mind earlier, he shook his head.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't want to hear his name tonight."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken plea, and let the thought of Jacaerys fade away, replaced by the man before you, the man who had captured your heart without either of you realizing it.

Aemond's hands moved to the ties of your gown, his fingers deftly undoing the knots, and you felt your pulse quicken as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze as he took in the sight of you, bared before him. There was a reverence in his eyes, a deep appreciation that made your cheeks flush with heat.

He shed his own tunic, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body, the scars that marked him only adding to the allure. You reached out, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. It was all so surreal, so perfect, that you almost feared it was a dream.

Aemond's hands were gentle as he led you to the bed, laying you down with a care that made your heart ache. He moved over you, his gaze softening as he positioned himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that felt both new and familiar, as if you were made to fit together.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eye searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin just beneath his patch. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want this, Aemond. I want you."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss as he entered you slowly, the sensation both sharp and sweet, a mingling of pleasure and pain as he took your maidenhead. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, but the discomfort quickly faded, replaced by a sense of fullness, of completeness, as he buried himself deep within you.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his breathing ragged as he took in the sight of you beneath him, your hair spread out like a silver halo on the pillow, your eyes wide with trust and desire. The knowledge that you were his, that you had given yourself to him, filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond mere conquest. It was everything he had ever imagined, and more.

Tomorrow, he knew, the servants who served Larys Strong would change the sheets, and the evidence of your union would be seen by those who needed to know. But for now, all that mattered was the here and now, the way you felt beneath him, the way your body responded to his.

You urged him to move, your hips shifting beneath him, and he obliged, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had you both gasping for breath. The pleasure built between you, a slow burn that grew hotter with every thrust, every kiss, until it was all-consuming.

Aemond was lost in the sensation, the feel of you, the sound of your breathless moans, the way your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. He could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting as you both neared the edge.

As you reached the pinnacle, your release washing over you in a wave of pleasure, he buried his face in your neck, his voice rough with emotion as he urged you to call his name, to let the world know who you belonged to. "Say my name," he breathed, his words a plea and a command all at once.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your body trembling with the force of your release. "Aemond, please..."

And then he was there, the last threads of his control snapping as he spilled himself inside you, his own release ripping through him with a force that left him trembling. Your name was on his lips, a whispered prayer, a declaration of everything he felt, everything he could never put into words.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the lingering echoes of pleasure that pulsed through your veins. Aemond held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both came down from the heights of your passion.

In that moment, there were no words, no need for them. Everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever felt, was conveyed in the way you held each other, in the way your bodies fit together so perfectly, so naturally.

As you drifted into sleep, Aemond's arms wrapped around you, you knew that everything had changed, and there was no going back.

The morning arrived as Aemond moved with purposeful strides. His mind was sharp, focused, each step a calculated part of the plan he had set into motion. The events of the previous night played over in his mind, not with regret, but with satisfaction. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had intended.

He turned a corner and spotted Grand Maester Mellos in the distance, the elderly man’s stooped figure moving slowly down the hall. Aemond quickened his pace, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and within moments, he was at the Maester’s side.

“Grand Maester Mellos,” Aemond greeted, his voice measured and calm, though there was an undercurrent of urgency that could not be missed.

The Maester looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of the prince. “Prince Aemond,” he replied, bowing his head slightly in respect. “How may I assist you this morning?”

Aemond’s expression was inscrutable as he spoke, his voice low, as if to ensure their conversation remained private. “I require your expertise, Maester. There is a matter concerning Princess Y/N—my niece—that needs your immediate attention.”

Mellos frowned, his brow furrowing in concern. “Of course, Your Grace. What seems to be the issue? Is Princess Y/N unwell?”

Aemond shook his head, his gaze intense as he met the Maester’s eyes. “No, she is not unwell. However, I wish for her to be examined… to ensure that she has not been harmed.”

Mellos’ confusion deepened, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to understand. “Harmed, Your Grace? I do not follow. What examination, exactly, do you require?”

Aemond hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Last night, she and I... shared an intimate moment. I want to ensure that she was not hurt during our union, that she was not harmed in any way.”

The Maester’s face went pale, the full implication of Aemond’s words sinking in. His eyes widened slightly, and he took an involuntary step back, his hand trembling as he clutched the folds of his robes.

“Your Grace…” Mellos began, his voice shaky as he tried to comprehend the gravity of what had been revealed to him. “You… you wish for me to confirm that Princess Y/N was… that she…?”

Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on the Maester, his expression unwavering. “Yes,” he said simply, allowing the full weight of his words to settle between them. “I want you to ensure that she was not harmed. And if any trace of injury is found, I want you to inform me immediately.”

Mellos looked as though he might faint, the color draining from his face entirely. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what Aemond was asking, and the consequences that would follow. The bloodied sheets, the confirmation from the Grand Maester—these were not just symbols of a consummated union; they were a declaration of intent, a claim that could not be ignored by either Otto Hightower or Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“I… I understand, Your Grace,” Mellos stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But, Prince Aemond, surely you realize that such news… it will reach the ears of the Queen, and Prince Daemon…”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “That is precisely what I intend, Maester. The sheets will speak for themselves, and your examination will confirm what is already known. My niece is now mine, and any plans to wed her to Jacaerys must be reconsidered.”

Mellos swallowed hard, the implications of Aemond’s words weighing heavily on him. The Prince’s plan was clear now, as was the role he had unwittingly been drawn into. The Maester nodded slowly, realizing that there was no turning back from what had been set in motion.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mellos finally said, his voice hoarse. “I shall see to it immediately.”

Aemond inclined his head, satisfied that his instructions would be carried out. He could see the fear in the Maester’s eyes, the way his hands shook ever so slightly as he turned to leave. But that fear was necessary, a tool to ensure that the plan would proceed without a hitch.

“Thank you, Grand Maester,” Aemond said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I trust that you will handle this matter with the utmost discretion.”

Mellos nodded quickly, his face still ashen as he hurried away, his steps faltering as though the weight of what he now carried was too much to bear.

Aemond watched him go, a sense of triumph settling over him. The seeds had been sown, and soon enough, they would bear the fruit he desired. His grandsire would be forced to recognize the union, and Rhaenyra would have no choice but to break the engagement to Jacaerys. There would be no way to deny him now.

As he turned and walked back down the corridor, a sense of satisfaction filled him. Everything was falling into place, just as he had envisioned. And as for the flushed and worried Grand Maester, he was merely the first to feel the ripple effects of the plan Aemond had so carefully crafted. Soon, everyone would understand that you belonged to him, and no one—not Jacaerys, not Rhaenyra, not even Daemon—could take you away from him now.

Aemond entered the chamber, summoned by his grandsire. The usual sense of foreboding that accompanied meetings in the Tower of the Hand was magnified tenfold by the figures waiting inside. Otto Hightower stood near the center of the room, his expression grave, while beside him stood Rhaenyra, her face a mask of barely concealed fury. But it was Daemon, pacing like a caged beast, whose presence dominated the space, his anger felt in the air.

Aemond, however, was unperturbed. He walked with measured steps, his posture erect, his face a picture of calm satisfaction. His eye met Daemon’s, and he could see the rage simmering there, a wildfire barely restrained. Aemond’s lips curled into a slight smile, knowing full well that it would only infuriate Daemon further.

“You summoned me, grandsire?” Aemond’s voice was even, respectful, but with an edge of smugness that did not go unnoticed.

Otto cleared his throat, his gaze flicking between the furious Targaryens and his grandson. “Aemond, it has come to my attention—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It has come to my attention, through certain… whispers, that Grand Maester Orwyle was called upon this morning to examine Princess Y/N. An examination that has confirmed… certain truths.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides, her violet eyes blazing with a fury that matched the fire of the dragons themselves. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “How dare you lay a hand on her!”

Before Aemond could respond, Daemon stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister. His face was a mask of barely restrained violence, and for a moment, it seemed he might strike Aemond down where he stood.

“Daemon,” Otto warned, his voice firm, though there was a thread of unease beneath it. “Violence will solve nothing here.”

“Violence is all I see fit to deal with this insolent whelp!” Daemon barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He dares to defile my daughter, and you expect me to stand idly by?”

Aemond, unflinching, met Daemon’s gaze head-on, his own expression hardening. “I have done what was necessary, uncle,” he said coolly. “She is mine now, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and cold. “Her betrothal to Jacaerys has been agreed upon for years. You cannot simply cast that aside as if it means nothing.”

Otto interjected, his voice measured, though the urgency was clear. “In light of these recent events, the betrothal to Prince Jacaerys must be reconsidered. It is in the best interest of both houses that Princess Y/N and Prince Aemond are wed, to avoid any… further complications.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with a deadly light as he turned on Otto. “You would sell my daughter to this boy after what he has done? You forget yourself, Hightower. She will not be tangled into your schemes!”

Aemond stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “This is not a matter of scheming, uncle. It is done. She is mine now, and there is nothing that can undo it. You cannot deny what has been consummated.”

Daemon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. Aemond’s words, as blunt and provocative as they were, held the weight of truth, and that was what infuriated Daemon most of all.

“The marriage must happen,” Otto pressed, sensing the shift in the room. “And it should happen soon, before word spreads and this matter becomes a scandal that neither house can afford.”

Aemond did not miss the opportunity to twist the knife deeper. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth, dripping with a satisfaction that only inflamed Daemon’s ire further. “The ceremony should be conducted in the traditions of old Valyria, where fire and blood bind us as one. And it should be done with haste.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room before delivering the final blow. “For I hope that soon, another dragon will be born of our union.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and Rhaenyra’s face turned ashen, her fury giving way to something colder, more calculating. Daemon, however, looked ready to strike again, his entire body tensed with the desire to lash out, to wipe that smug look off Aemond’s face.

But Aemond stood tall, his gaze steady, unflinching in the face of Daemon’s rage. He knew he had won. The plan had worked flawlessly. The whispers from Larys Strong, the bloodied sheets, the Maester’s examination—all had been carefully orchestrated to force this very outcome.

A tense silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive, until finally, it was Rhaenyra who spoke, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “If this is to be done,” she said, “it will be done according to our customs, and with the respect due to our house. But know this, Aemond—should you ever bring harm to my daughter, not even your dragon will save you from my wrath.”

Aemond inclined his head slightly, accepting her warning with the same unyielding calm he had maintained throughout. “As you wish, sister. I will see to it that Y/N is treated with the honor she deserves.”

Daemon said nothing, but the look he leveled at Aemond spoke volumes. It was a promise, a vow that if Aemond ever crossed a line, there would be a reckoning, and it would be brutal.

But for now, Aemond had what he wanted. He had claimed you, and soon, the two of you will be bound in marriage. The thought of it sent a thrill of triumph through him, and though he kept his expression carefully neutral, inside, he reveled in his victory.

Otto, sensing that the matter was settled, nodded gravely. “Then it is decided. The preparations will begin at once.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and left the chamber, leaving behind a flushed, furious Daemon and a conflicted Rhaenyra. He knew that the days ahead would be tense, that there would be fallout from his actions, but none of it mattered now. You were his, and soon the world would see it, would understand that he was not to be trifled with.

And as he walked away, his thoughts were already on the future, on the life he would build with you, a future forged in fire and blood, just as the old ways dictated.

[idkyetxoxo]

Aegon Targaryen - A Night on Silk Street

Summary - It was well known that Aegon Targaryen had a preferred brothel worker and he made no secret of his appreciation for her. His gratitude was as generous as it was lavish, reflecting his clear favour. Truly, Aegon the Magnanimous, they say.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), mild language

Word count - 2114

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Silk Street in King's Landing truly came alive after dusk, transforming into a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds. 

The clink of tankards filled with ale echoed through the narrow streets, mingling with the boisterous laughter of patrons spilling from taverns. 

Lanterns flickered in the warm night air, casting a golden glow on the cobblestones as the whores, draped in silks and lace, paraded with practised grace, their smiles as much a part of the night as the moonlight itself.

Working in a brothel was an experience unlike any other. It wasn't something I ever dreamed of or took pride in, but it provided a dependable way to make an honest living. 

Each night, I traded fragments of my soul for coin, a small price to pay for survival in a city where women like me had little choice.

I reclined on my back, the bronze silk robe already draped over me as I toyed with the coin between my fingers. My latest patron, having finished his indulgence, was now dressing and preparing to leave.

The curtains of my alcove were thrown open with a sharp flick, and I let out a resigned sigh. 

"Not yet," I murmured, stretching my legs out languidly without bothering to lift my gaze.

"I'm sorry, my love," Sylvi's voice broke through the dim light. I turned my head to see her standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the flickering lanterns in the corridor.

"He was Northern," I began, propping myself up on one elbow and clutching the coin tightly in my hand. "And we both know what Northern men are like," I added, swinging my legs back and forth with a weary, yet knowing smirk.

"It's the king," Sylvi interjected, her tone sharp and urgent. I exhaled sharply, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

"You go," I instructed, but Sylvi's eyes narrowed in question.

"I'm with the prince," she replied, her voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

I sprang from my makeshift bed, grabbing a pillow that had fallen to the floor, and poured myself a drink. 

"Look at us," I said, gesturing between us with a wry smile. "Commanding them like royal hounds." 

Sylvi laughed, the sound a rare burst of genuine mirth in the otherwise subdued atmosphere.

It was no secret that the royal brothers had their favourites. Aemond clung to the first woman he'd been with, finding comfort in familiarity, while Aegon had made me his chosen plaything after sampling every other woman in the brothel.

"Loyal pups, aren't they?" Sylvi remarked, and I nodded, downing my drink in a swift motion.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and adjusted my robe, preparing for the night's demands.

With a playful curtsy, I left the dim confines of my alcove and made my way toward the more opulent quarters reserved for those patrons who could afford the highest pleasures. 

The clink of coins and the promise of indulgence awaited in the luxurious spaces where the city's nobles sought their desires fulfilled.

I entered the private alcove, pulling the curtain shut behind me with a practised motion. Aegon turned with a boyish grin, his clothes already strewn carelessly about, revealing his eager anticipation. He was already in the mood for the evening's pleasures.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked, moving to the small table where a jug of fine wine awaited.

The wine reserved for nobles was always better, sweeter, more fragrant, and rich with layers of flavour. I poured myself a generous cup, the liquid glistening in the dim light.

"Yes," he responded, his voice warm and inviting. 

He approached me with a confidence that came from knowing his own desires, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His fingers deftly unfastened the ties of my robe, letting the fabric slip away with practised ease.

As his hands traced a slow, deliberate path up my sides, he pressed soft kisses along the curve of my neck, gently pushing aside the strands of my hair to expose more of my skin. His touch was both tender and thrilling, a prelude to the night ahead.

I turned to face him, feeling the heat of his body against mine. Our chests brushed together, and I handed him his cup, my eyes meeting his with a knowing glance. 

With a gentle, guiding touch, I led him towards the bed, our steps synchronized in the intimate dance we knew so well. 

The anticipation crackled in the air, blending seamlessly with the allure of the fine wine and the promise of the pleasures yet to come.

"Has it been a long night?" he asked, his voice low and warm as I settled onto his lap, straddling him comfortably. His hands rested casually on my hips, a gesture of both possession and affection.

"Not really," I replied truthfully, my fingers idly playing with the soft strands of his silver hair. The familiar hum of his contentment vibrated against my fingertips.

"Just some Northern men," I added with a knowing smile. "We all know how they can be." 

The Northern men were known for their brutish charm and cold demeanour, a contrast to the warmth and ease of my current company.

"Well, aren't you lucky that I have you for the rest of the night then," he said with a grin. 

His arm slid down the gentle curve of my back, coming to rest possessively on my ass, where he gave a soft, appreciative squeeze.

"So lucky," I whispered, leaning in closer, our breaths mingling. His smirk widened, a reflection of his satisfaction and the shared intimacy of the moment.

He leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that quickly turned fervent. His tongue sought entry to my mouth, and I responded with equal hunger. Our kiss deepened, a tactile conversation of longing and desire.

His hands slid up my back, pulling me closer as he stood up, carefully twisting us around. With a graceful yet decisive motion, he laid me back on the bed. I propped myself up on my elbows, watching him with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity as he pulled away.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, he reached for the cup of wine beside us. 

"Lay back," he instructed softly. I complied, my heart racing as I settled into the plush covers.

He tipped the contents of the cup, the rich, red wine cascading slowly down my chest. The cool liquid trickled down the valley of my breasts, and a soft gasp escaped my lips at the unexpected sensation.

Aegon positioned himself over me, his tongue darting out to savour the wine from my skin. 

"You taste divine," he murmured, his voice a sultry purr that reverberated through the room.

He licked the liquid off my chest with deliberate strokes, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. He followed the trail of wine down to my navel, pausing just under my bellybutton.

"So sweet," he murmured, his voice a low, sultry purr that reverberated through the room.

With a tender, deliberate movement, he pressed a soft kiss just below my navel, his lips lingering briefly before he continued his sensual journey upwards. His kisses traced a path to my breasts, his fingers trailing up my midline in sync with his lips.

He opened my mouth gently with his thumb, placing his fingers just in front of me. 

"Taste," he instructed softly, his voice a mix of command and allure.

I complied eagerly, my lips wrapping around his fingers as I began to suck the remaining wine from his skin. Each slow, deliberate motion was met with his intense gaze, a silent exchange of desire and connection. 

His eyes never left mine as I moved, savouring the taste and the shared experience.

He withdrew his fingers from my mouth, his eyes lingering on my parted lips, and then he kissed me again, his lips capturing mine with a fervour that spoke of the passion that had been building between us. 

He paused briefly to admire me, his eyes dark with lust. With a smooth, practised motion, he positioned himself above me, the weight of his body a reassuring presence.

The anticipation built to a crescendo as he aligned himself with me, his touch both commanding and tender. The moment he entered me was a heady mix of relief and ecstasy, our bodies moving in a rhythm that spoke of both need and satisfaction. 

His movements were deliberate and controlled, each thrust a blend of passion and dominance.

The room was filled with the sound of our breathing, the mingled scents of wine and sweat, and the soft rustle of the bedclothes. 

"You feel incredible," he panted, his gaze locked onto mine. 

Aegon's rhythm grew more insistent, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me with a fervour that matched the intensity of the night. His breaths came in deep, ragged gasps, and his gaze locked onto mine.

"Ride me," he commanded, his voice a low rumble filled with desire. 

He pulled out of me, his gaze locked onto mine with a compelling intensity as he guided me to switch positions. I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation, and shifted until I was straddling him.

As I lowered myself onto him, the sensation of him filling me again was both exhilarating and grounding. I began to move on top of him, starting with gentle, rhythmic rocks. Aegon's hands rested on my hips, and he reached for the cup of wine once more.

Without breaking our rhythm, he poured the remaining wine down my chest, the cool liquid mingling with the heat of our bodies. 

He leaned forward, his tongue tracing the path of the wine, licking it off my front as I rode him, the sensation driving us both wild.

His touch became more insistent, his hands trailing up to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that sent shivers through me. I increased the pace, our movements perfectly synchronized as we lost ourselves in the moment.

Soft, breathy moans escaped my lips as I leaned down, my hands resting on his chest for support as I bounced up and down. His mouth followed the trail of wine up my body until our lips met in a heated kiss, the taste of the wine and the shared pleasure making the moment all the more intoxicating.

"Is this what you wanted?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sounds of our shared pleasure.

"Yes," he panted, his eyes locked onto mine with a fierce intensity. "Just like that." 

The sensations built and swirled around us, each movement a perfect harmony of desire and fulfilment. As his breaths became more erratic, his grip on my hips tightened. "I'm about to—" he choked out, his voice breaking off into a deep, guttural groan.

With a final, powerful surge, he reached his climax. The warmth of his release spilt inside me, the sensation both intense and familiar. I could feel the depth of his pleasure as it enveloped me, marking the peak of our encounter.

As he reached his climax, I gradually slowed my movements, allowing the intensity to gently fade. We separated, the room now enveloped in a quiet, satisfied stillness. I slipped off him and fell onto the bed beside him, the cool sheets a comforting contrast to our shared heat.

His arm reached out to pull me closer, his fingers trailing softly down my body in a tender, lingering touch.

"Much better than those Northern brutes?" he asked, his voice laced with playful satisfaction.

I laughed, nodding in agreement. "Oh, absolutely," I replied, the sound of my laughter mingling with the quiet of the room.

He fumbled around for a moment before presenting me with a small pouch. I sat up, curiosity piqued, and opened it to reveal a substantial amount of coins. The sight of the glittering pile was impressive, more than I had expected.

"What's this?" I asked, spilling the contents onto the bed in front of me. "This is way too much."

"Nonsense," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his fingers drumming through the pile of coins as if to emphasize their abundance.

"It's more than you've ever given me," I pointed out, astonished by the sheer amount.

He shrugged casually, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Consider it a bonus for the night," he said nonchalantly. "You've earned it."

I looked at him, a mixture of surprise and appreciation in my eyes. It was almost endearing, seeing this powerful man so completely under my spell.

"Well, I certainly won't complain," I replied with a smile, my fingers deftly gathering the coins and tucking them away. The unexpected generosity was a pleasant surprise, a mark of the night's success.

Tonight, Silk Street thrummed with an unusually vibrant energy.

A/n -  Wine and sex... pure heaven for Aegon the Magnanimous 👀

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Five - A tourney is held to celebrate Lord Stark's appointment to the small council, and your sworn sword is taking part.

Ch 6

The journey home from Winterfell was long, the journey there had been long, but now you were able to return to your chambers. To lay in your bed, to shed your fur lined cloaks and return to the light, airy fabrics you much preferred.

The Keep is a flurry of movement, arrangements for new small council members and meetings, noblemen switching out their sons and daughter within the Keep, new servants and merchants arriving.

You attend your lessons with Sansa now, she is slightly behind you, being younger, but she is a quick study. Myrcella enjoys having her in lessons as well, and the three of you quickly become close. The three of you spend time in the godswood, picnicking and gossiping, filling Sansa in on all the rumors that swirl around the Red Keep.

It is one such occasion that you first hear it. “I have heard tale that my Uncle Renley prefers the company of men.” Myrcella whispers as she passes a lemon cake to Sansa.

Sansa’s shocked expression makes you giggle. “Come now, Sansa, you must know there are men like that.”

“I have heard of such things but…” She trails off, taking a bite of her cake.

“It seems to be much more prevalent in Dorne, all manner of things are allowed there.” You take a sip of your tea, spotting Jon lingering on the edge of the godswood with Ghost, Theon lounging in the grass beside them.

“I pity whoever is to be married to him, how will she ever have children?” Myrcella laments, her golden tresses falling forward as she reaches for a blueberry scone.

“Why would that prevent her from having children?” Sansa asks, her eyes cast to the blanket you all sat upon.

“Because he will not…you know…” You lean forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Be able to get it up.”

The confusion is clear on her face, and you send a prayer to the Mother for forgiveness over the innocence you are about to ruin.

“A man’s…member must be erect in order for marital acts to be completed, he will not be able to spill his seed otherwise.” You continue feeling your face heat up. Your father had instructed a septa to give you a very frank talk about intercourse when you first bled, it was informative but jarring. Then you sought out some of the older maids to fill in the gaps of knowledge in a gentler way.

“So, if he is not attracted to his future wife, or women at all, it will not get erect?” Sansa asks, putting the pieces together in her mind.

“Which means no children.” Myrcella finishes Sansa’s thought for her.

Sansa wrinkles her nose, a gesture you are certain she picked up from you. “I cannot imagine.”

“Perhaps the marriage will be a strategic one?” You say, tearing some grass out and letting it blow away in the wind.

Lady raises her head and watches them go, then sets it back down in Sansa’s lap.

Sansa runs her fingers through Lady’s fur, mulling over your words. “I do not think I could marry for strategy; I want to marry for love.”

Myrcella rakes her teeth across her bottom lip. “I do not think I will have a choice.”

You rub your cousin’s back soothingly. “You do not know that.”

Sansa perks up. “Let us play a game, we shall describe our perfect husband and then see if it matches to any lords in the court.”

You smile, her childish innocence perfectly distracts Myrcella.

“I shall go first, then?” Myrcella says, thinking for a moment before beginning. “I would like someone my age or a little older, but not by much. Tall with dark hair and dark eyes, the exact opposite of my brothers. Intelligent, a good swordsman, gentle, and a good dancer. And if he had sisters or female cousins for me to befriend, I would like that as well. Oh, and am I terrible if I say I would wish him to be tan? I do so love the look of bronzed skin; it looks so warm.”

You nod at Sansa, who begins. “Someone my age as well, with light hair and emerald eyes, a golden prince who enjoys festivities and is noble like a great knight.”

You and Mycella share a look.

“Sansa it is supposed to be your perfect husband, not your potential betrothed.” You remind her, thanking the gods that Sansa and Joffrey’s betrothal had been delayed thanks to all the excitement when you left Winterfell. It seemed Lord Stark could not think of betrothing his daughter while Bran lay in a coma, so the matter had not been brought up in many weeks.

“Come now, Sansa, we will not tell Joffrey, speak from the heart.” Myrcella encourages, poking Sansa’s arm playfully.

“Joffrey is my perfect husband, but if I must give a different answer…” She trails off, and you can see her eyes flickering to Theon unconsciously. “Perhaps a little older, tall, and strong, but not too broad like The Hound, with light eyes and hair that looks as if it has been tousled by the sea, someone who can make me laugh, and is loyal to those he cares for.”

“That sounds like a very good man.” You say, drawing Sansa’s attention away from Theon.

“Yes, well, Joffrey is many of those things. Now y/n, it is your turn.”

“I agree with you both, no old men, someone strong, a good swordsman, but I must side with Mycrella on looks, I would like a dark-haired man as well, with dark eyes and a gentle soul. Perhaps someone loyal and well-read? And I would like to be friends with my husband, as well as be his wife.”

“It would be nice to be friends with your husband, so many women are simply wives or mothers or broodmares.” Myrcella says, tearing her scone into tiny pieces. “I pity whoever Joffrey marries.”

“Prince Joffrey is a good man; I am sure he will be a wonderful companion to his wife.” Sansa sniffs.

You purse your lips. Your father said you are not to interfere, to let Sansa realize Joffrey’s true nature on her own, but it is difficult.

“House Beesbury has many men like you described, Sansa, perhaps we should look for them during the next feast.” Myrcella says, brushing her hands off on her skirts.

“House Beesbury is a good house, or House Royce, both I believe will be sending knights for the Tourney of the Hand.” You add.

Now it is your turn to clutch Sansa’s hand as Jon faces off against Thoros of Myr. You knew the Red Priest would not hurt him, it was Jon’s first tourney, but you still feared for him. Anything could happen, he could be blinded by the sun, the Red Priest could be seized with divine madness, or the others that Jon had already defeated to reach Thoros could try to interfere and sabotage him.

Jon’s stance is steady, his sword—which glints in the sunlight, a gift from you, for his nameday—at the ready. Strong and sturdy made of the finest steel outside of Valyrian, the pommel set with an emerald, a direwolf carved into the crossguard.

“May the Lord of Light have mercy on you, my son.” Thoros says as he and Jon circle each other.

Jon says nothing, only nods and watches the older man.

Thoros’ sword is aflame with wildfire, the flames dance as he swings it gracefully, waiting for Jon to strike.

“Will the fire burn him?” Sansa asks, watching the two men through her fingers.

“Never seen Jon get burned before.” Theon shrugs.

Sansa hisses a reply at him, her head whipping forward when you gasp.

Jon strikes, fast as a whip, their swords meeting, the sound of iron on iron echoing in the ring. He has been training with Lord Aron Santagar, your uncle’s master-at-arms, or your Uncle Jaime whenever he has free time. Which is often as you do not have much to do most days, besides lessons and subtly attempting to convince Sansa to realize her feelings for Theon.

Thoros lunges, nearly catching Jon by surprise, but Jon side steps, kicking up dust as he moves.

Your heart is in your throat, and you stand, your hand still in Sansa’s when the duelers meet face to face once more. It is a show of strength, and you send a quick prayer to the Warrior, your eyes never leaving Jon’s form. Thoros is gaining, pushing at Jon, his feet sliding in the dirt, his arms trembling.

“Knock him flat, Jon!” Sansa’s voice surprises even you, as she jumps to her feet, Theon’s laughter ringing behind you both.

You are not even sure if Jon can hear her, but he seems emboldened, and he shoves the older man forward with a grunt. Thoros stumbles back, an ecstatic grin on his face.

“There it is, boy, show me your fire.” Thoros cheers, clearly enjoying the match far more than anyone watching.

Jon moves quicker than you can blink, throwing his weight behind his sword and knocking the man flat, just as he had Joffrey all those moons ago. He holds Thoros at sword point, and the crowd erupts.

Robert calls out Jon’s victory cheerfully, and you see Lord Stark smiling as Robert claps him on the back.

Sansa sinks into her chair with a sigh of relief, but you cannot do the same, you rush forward, pressing yourself against the edge of the dais. Jon is your sworn sword, and your heart will not return to its place in your chest until you have seen he is whole.

“Lady Y/N.” Jon calls, his helmet in one hand, his curls wild, a grin born of victory on his handsome face as he approaches the dais, a crown of roses hanging from his sword.

“Ser Jon.” You smile, graciously accepting the crown from the tip of his sword. It is half a hand longer than a normal sword, something you found an odd request of his, but it serves him well.

Sansa helps you arrange the crown on your head, looking at it wistfully. “It is beautiful, and it suits you.”

“Perhaps for the next tourney I will forbid Jon from fighting and Theon can crown you.” You suggest smiling devilishly at the Greyjoy.

Theon makes a sound of protest, Sansa’s own interrupted by Jon’s appearance on the dais. He has not even cleaned himself off, and he sets his helmet down on the railing, barely having enough time to speak before your uncle calls him over.

“Ser Snow, come, let us toast to your victory.” He says, raising a full cup high, Thoros is with them, his own cup full, his smile bright and genuine as he waves Jon over.

Jon looks at you, and you shoo him towards the throne. He has grown taller and stronger, though he is less broad than some other knights, there is raw strength in his every move. He is quick too, evident by the very fact there is barely a scratch on him. He fought six men and all he has to show for it will be a small scar on his cheek and sore muscles in the morning.

Theon’s voice draws your attention away from Jon. “Sansa—”

“Lady Sansa.” She cuts him off.

He leans over and plucks the crown from your head, giving you a quick wink. “Lady Sansa. If you wished to be crowned my queen of love and beauty, you need only ask.” Theon says smoothly placing the crown on her head then giving her an elaborate bow.

Sansa freezes, her eyes darting to where Joffrey sits, his attention completely consumed by the archery competition. “Theon…”

“Though I dare say you are far more beautiful without that frilly crown.” He says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

“I happen to like that frilly crown.” You interject, trying to hold back your laughter.

Theon can be quite humorous, his bawdy jokes and shameless manner often sending color rushing to Sansa’s cheeks.

“You have to win me this crown, Theon, that is how it works.” Sansa says, ripping the crown from her head and shoving it at Theon.

“And where is your queen, she must come celebrate with us.” Your uncle’s voice booms, carrying over to you, as you take your crown back from Theon.

He helps you adjust it as Sansa did and gives you a secret smile. “Promise you will keep Jon from fighting next time?”

You smile back. “I promise.”

“Y/N, come over here, the people wish to see you congratulate your champion.”

You pick up your skirts and hurry over to your uncle, who is already deep in his cups. Your aunt is watching him with an air of disgust veiled by wifely concern. “My King, do not embarrass the poor girl.”

Robert waves her off. “It is only proper; it was the reward I would receive from you when I would crown you my queen of love and beauty.”

You glance at your father, who is still seated. He inclines his head towards you. It is your decision, whatever your uncle is asking of you.

Jon shifts his weight, his skin sweat soaked and dusted with dirt, a mug of ale in his hand.

“Embarrass me?” You search your mind for whatever your aunt could be referring to, there were not many times your uncle would compete in tourneys, especially as he aged, the only reward you can remember him receiving…

Thoros slings an arm over Jon’s shoulder. “A kiss, you must bestow your champion a kiss.”

Your eyes widen and you glance around. Everyone is watching, even the crowd seems intent to see what the King will encourage next. They are chanting, you did not realize they were chanting for Jon, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

“I—I am unwed, would it not be improper?” You ask, looking to your aunt for help.

“Robert, please she is only a child—”

“On the cheek then, there is no shame then, your father is here, I am here, there shall be no besmirching of your virtue.” Your uncle says, clapping his hands together with a tone of finality.

Series Masterlist here!

Jon Snow TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz

[analogwriting]

Fic Masterlist

It Comes in Waves - Law x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Deep Water Waves, Tsunami, Capillary, Surging, Plunging, Surging, Tidal, Breaking, Internal, Seiche, Spilling, Refracted, Progressive, Kelvin, Corduroy Swell, Neap Tide, Shoaling, Diffraction, Fetch, Grinding, Trough, Whitewater, Peak, Crumbly, Wind Chop, Leftover, Amplitude, Bathymetry, Closeout

Childhood Crush - Killer x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Mo Laochain, Tungsten, Steel, Carbon, Copper, Brass, Alloy, Wrought Iron, Cast Iron, Nickel, Tin, Zinc, Stainless, Cobalt, Magnesium, Bronze, Titanium, Silicon, Praseodymium, Vanadium, Adamantium, Lithium, Bismuth, Gold. Smutilogue (afab, amab)

Star-Crossed - Corazon x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Zemra, Cridhe, Serce, Calon, Bihotza, Cuore, Sydän, Cœur, Hart, Cor, Süda, Szív, Sartse, širdies, Coração, Sŭrtse, Harts, Sydän, Core, Sirds, Kardiá, Corazón, Smutilogue (afab, amab)

The Other Side of Paradise - Killer x gn!reader (Ongoing)

∞ Youth, Poplar St, Hot Sugar, Tangerine, Take A Slice, Helium, Season 2 Episode 3, It's All So Incredibly Loud

Smut Pieces

∞ Not So Childhood Crush (Killer) (afab, amab) ∞ Favorite View (Killer) - afab, amab ∞ Beer Pong (Killer) ∞ Recovery (Cora) - afab, amab ∞ The Walk-in (Killer) - afab, amab ∞ Heat Waves - afab, amab

[infamous-light]

A Dance with Danger Ch. 1

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

AO3: A Dance with Danger

Summary: Sheriff Agatha, a determined and relentless law enforcer, has been obsessed with pursuing the notorious outlaw Rio Vidal for years.

As their cat-and-mouse game intensifies, Agatha finds herself torn between her duty to uphold the law and the thrill of the chase.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: none but will contain smut in future chapters

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a deep amber glow over the dusty little town of Westview, painting the buildings and cracked sidewalks in hues of warm gold and burnt orange.

A lazy wind drifted through, stirring faint whirls of dust that danced playfully along the ground. Despite the gentle breeze, it did little to cut through the oppressive heat that settled over the town like an unwanted blanket, heavy and suffocating.

Inside the sheriff’s office, the air was thick, a dense mix of leather, gun oil, and stale ink that seemed to cling to every surface. Shelves along one wall were overloaded with case files, their edges frayed and yellowed, some tilted at precarious angles, held up more by sheer luck than organization. On the main desk, an old tin of fountain pens lay on its side, scattering a few loose pens and ink-splattered nibs across the visitor sign-in sheet.

Near the back of the room, Sheriff Agatha sat alone at her desk, shoulders hunched forward, the familiar creak of her wooden chair filling the silence as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed along the edges of a weathered, creased wanted poster that had been thumbed through countless times, almost reverent in its well-worn state. It was a face she knew all too well, one that lingered like a ghost around the edges of her mind.

The name stared back at her in bold, black letters: WANTED: RIO VIDAL

Beneath the name, the photograph of a woman’s face was captured in startling detail.

The sepia tones gave her skin a bronzed, sun-kissed hue, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the narrow line of her jaw. Strands of dark hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, framing her face with an almost careless elegance. It looked as though she had just run a hand through it, leaving a few rebellious curls to fall forward, drawing attention to her lips. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth – a teasing, almost arrogant curve that hinted at some private amusement, a secret she only knew.

But what stood out to Agatha the most were her eyes. Even through the grainy photograph, they gleamed with a challenge beneath her dark lashes, the kind of look that dared anyone who met her gaze to try their luck.

Agatha clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could burn holes right through the aging poster. Her fingers tightened on the edges, and a crease ran down the center, splitting Rio’s infamous face in two as her knuckles turned bone white.

Agatha’s gaze continued to shift downward, landing on the words etched across the page: DEAD OR ALIVE, stamped in thick, unforgiving block letters.

It sent a fresh wave of heat through Agatha. She’d be damned if she allowed Rio to die – no, she didn’t deserve the luxury of death. Not after everything she had done, the way she’d humiliated Agatha at every turn. She wanted to see Rio alive and locked behind bars, stripped of her freedom, and forced to face the consequences of her actions.

She wanted Rio to feel the bitter sting of helplessness.

The image of Rio, shackled and powerless, ignited a fire deep within Agatha – a desperate need to reclaim the honor that Rio had so effortlessly taken from her but also to seek justice for all the wrongs that Rio had done.

The thought brought forth a memory, one still raw and sour, as if etched into her bones.

It was the day Agatha had come so painfully close to capturing Rio – an ambush that still haunted her dreams. The stagecoach had been rolling along a winding, desolate backroad, carrying precious cargo. Agatha had been tracking it for days, certain that Rio would target it. It was a simple enough plan: wait for Rio to strike, leap into action and take down the notorious outlaw, and finally end the relentless chase that had consumed her life for far too long.

But Rio, as always, had been one step ahead.

Agatha could still see it – the moment when everything went wrong. She and her deputies had been crouched low behind a cluster of twisted, gnarled bushes; their breaths held in anticipation. Then, without warning, the sharp, heart-stopping crack of gunfire shattered the air. Agatha’s fingers dug into the dirt as her heart skipped a beat. The sound had barely settled before she sensed a shift behind them.

Slowly, as if out of a nightmare, Rio emerged from the tree line, astride her imposing black horse.

In a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

A piercing yell cut through the air, and in an instant, Rio's group swarmed them from all directions.

Agatha fought with everything she had. Bullets cut through the air, each one a breath away from striking; her heart thundered as she fired back, every shot aimed with precision. Her eyes darted through the frenzied blur of figures and smoke, searching with a fierce urgency. Then, she caught a flash of dark hair – Rio. A wicked gleam danced in her eyes, amusement mixed with something darker, something tantalizingly dangerous. The sight of that sly grin made Agatha's pulse stumble.

But before Agatha could steady her aim, Rio was gone, dipping over the crest of a hill atop her horse.

Instinct ignited within Agatha as she swung herself up onto her own steed, her muscles coiling with tension as she gripped the reins tightly. With a fierce resolve, she spurred her horse forward, galloping hard to close the distance between them. The ground thudded beneath her as she urged her horse faster, the wind whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks.

Before Agatha could grab her trusty rope, coiled neatly at her side, a stray bullet whizzed past, grazing one of her horse’s legs. It reared back in fear, its powerful legs kicking wildly. Agatha barely had time to react before she was thrown off her saddle, the world spinning erratically around her as she hit the ground hard. Pain lanced through her side, and she gritted her teeth, rolling quickly to the side as she braced herself against further injury, her muscles seizing from the impact.

Frustration surged through her veins, raw and boiling. The sting of failure bit deep as she lay there, watching Rio slip away with that familiar, insufferable smile tugging at her lips. It was the kind of smile that twisted like a knife in Agatha’s chest.

She would not – could not – let herself be humiliated like that again. The memory of that shame burned like an unhealed wound, refusing to fade away.

Agatha forced herself to refocus, her gaze shifting down the page, catching on to the reward sum printed boldly beneath Rio’s picture: $100,000

The number loomed like a challenge, larger than life, impossible to ignore. It hadn't always been this high. The bounty had doubled after Rio's latest stunt – robbing a U.S. governor’s train. It was an act so brazen, so recklessly daring, that it had turned the entire state of New Jersey on its head.

For a fleeting moment, Agatha’s hand trembled, though she clenched it to keep it still, forcing herself to remain calm even as the anger bubbled inside of her chest. It was infuriating to think that Rio would dare pull off such a move under her own nose – the very place where Agatha had worked tirelessly to maintain order.

It made her look bad, weak even.

Agatha gave a sharp shake of her head as she shifted in her chair, trying to focus on the current moment. Just as she decided to review another case file lying on her desk, the office door swung open with a hard creak, and Deputy Herb burst in, his face slick with sweat, chest heaving with each hurried breath.

“Sheriff!” He huffed; his hat clutched tightly in his hand. “Rio just hit the Westview Bank downtown!”

Agatha straightened, every muscle in her body tensing as her gaze sharpened. “What!?”

Deputy Herb leaned heavily against the doorframe, sweat dotting his forehead as he struggled to steady his breathing. “She robbed the bank not even fifteen minutes ago,” he panted, his voice ragged. “Cleaned it out – every coin, every bill. One witness claimed he saw her heading north.”

Agatha stood, her fingers brushing over the cold steel handle of the revolver holstered at her hip.

“She’s taunting us.” She muttered, almost to herself.

She knew what Rio was playing at. This latest bank heist was another provocation, a deliberate slap in the face to the law – and to her. It left Agatha simmering with a mixture of anger and anticipation.

She turned to Herb, her face setting into a hard mask. “Gather any available deputies. We’re going after her.”

Herb gave a quick nod and vanished into the streets. Agatha wasted no time as she grabbed her leather gloves and headed toward the door. But before she stepped outside, she paused, her gaze drawn back to Rio’s wanted poster lying on her desk. The image of Rio’s smirk seemed to mock her from the faded paper, and Agatha's lips curled into a snarl.

“Not this time, Vidal,” she spat, each word sharp as a blade. “This time, you’re mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled her hat low over her eyes, the brim casting her face into a shadow, and stepped out into the fiery light of dusk.

***

Agatha sat tall in her saddle, the leather creaking softly beneath her.

Her eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, squinting as she scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by the pounding hooves of her horse and the horses of her deputies, who rode closely behind her.

“Sheriff!” Called out one of her deputies, a young man named Norm, his voice strained as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Do you think she’s still in these parts?”

Agatha's grip tightened on her reins.

“She is.” Agatha replied firmly, her voice steady as she kept her gaze fixed ahead.

The fresh horseshoe imprints they followed wound through the dry desert, dotted with scraggly bushes and rugged rock formations. Each measured step deeper into the wilderness felt like a step closer to finally bringing her to justice.

As they continued north, the terrain grew increasingly treacherous, the ground shifting beneath their horses' hooves. The deputies exchanged wary glances with each other, the unease settling over them like a thick fog. The heat of the day began to wane, casting long shadows across the landscape. It was the perfect time for an ambush and Agatha could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with warning.

“Hold up,” Agatha signaled, raising a hand as they approached a narrow pass flanked by steep cliffs. This is where the horseshoe prints ended. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Agatha's heart thudded in her chest as she listened intently, straining her ears for any hint of movement or sound. It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her gut tingle with unease.

Suddenly, a distant echo of laughter reached them, light and melodic. Agatha’s pulse quickened as she recognized it – a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was unmistakably Rio.

Agatha silently motioned for her deputies to dismount, each one slipping from their horses.

“Everyone, fan out,” she commanded, her voice low and firm. “We’re close.”

Agatha crept forward; her senses heightened. Each step felt heavy with expectation, the weight of their pursuit pressing down on her shoulders.

As they rounded a bend, Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

There, just a few yards ahead, stood a large wooden shack, abandoned and half-hidden by the jagged rocks.

“Stay sharp.” Agatha whispered to her deputies.

They nodded. Agatha could feel the tension radiating off them like heat rising from the desert floor. As they drew closer, the door suddenly swung open, and there she was.

Rio leaned casually against the doorframe, silhouetted by the warm glow inside. She was clad in an all-black ensemble that hugged her figure, the fitted leather jacket accentuating her curves. Beneath it, a dark, form-fitting shirt clung to her. The neckline dipped subtly, revealing a hint of delicate lace that peeked out from the collar. Her sleek black pants, tailored to perfection, hugged her legs with a high-waisted cut that added to her height. Perched atop her head was a black cowboy hat, from which her hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild waves.

A wicked smile graced her lips as she caught sight of Agatha.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff Agatha,” Rio drawled, her voice smooth and velvety. “I was wondering when you’d finally catch up.”

Agatha’s heart pounded in her chest as she withdrew her revolver out of her holster, the metal cold and familiar in her grip. She pointed it at the outlaw, her aim steady despite the tension crackling between them.

“It’s over, Rio! Hands up!”

Rio chuckled lightly. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

Agatha's grip tightened on the revolver. “You think this is a game?” She snapped. “You’ve crossed the line one too many times.”

“Crossed the line?” Rio arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a sly smile. “I prefer to think of it as… dancing on it.”

Rio took a deliberate step closer, hands raised in a mock gesture of innocence, fingers splayed as if inviting Agatha to join her in this twisted game. Agatha felt the heat rising on her cheeks, an unwelcome flush that betrayed her resolve, but she refused to let it get to her.

“Get back, Rio,” she commanded. “I won’t ask again.”

“Such a serious little sheriff.” Rio purred, her voice dripping with honeyed mockery.

Before Agatha could muster a retort, Rio flicked her wrist with a flourish, sending a knife spiraling toward her. Time slowed as Agatha's instincts surged to the forefront; she ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectile. It buried itself deep into the rough bark of the tree beside her with a solid thud, splintering the wood around the impact.

Regaining her footing, Agatha shot a seething glare at Rio who only gave her a devilish little smirk in return.

“Come on, Sheriff,” Rio said, her tone playful. “You don’t believe I’d let you take me in without a fight, do you?”

In a flash, Rio darted back inside the shack. Agatha immediately sprinted after her without hesitation, her deputies following closely behind.

“Agatha!” She heard Deputy Herb call out, but the words faded into the background as determination consumed her. She couldn't afford to lose Rio again.

“Rio!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing in the open space. “Show yourself!”

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and Agatha turned just in time to see Rio slip behind a stack of crates.

“Do you think you can hide from me?” Agatha growled.

In quick, short strides, she moved toward the crates, feeling the weight of her deputies’ gaze at her back.

Just as she reached the back of the shack, a sudden rumble jolted the ground beneath her feet. Dust and debris fell from the roof in a choking cloud, swirling around her as a landslide above shook the very structure to its core. Agatha stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat, the air thickening with the gritty particles that filled her lungs. Rocks and dirt continued to pour down around her like torrential rain, blocking any chance of escape. She couldn’t see anything.

When the chaos finally settled, Agatha found herself pressed against the wall, the wood splintering beneath her palm. Her heart raced, a wild animal fighting for freedom as she fought to regain her composure; though, panic clawed at her throat, hot and suffocating, as thoughts of her deputies flashed through her mind. Were they safe?

“Hey!” Agatha shouted, her voice cracking with urgency as it echoed through the dust-laden air. “Can anyone hear me?”

Each second stretched into an eternity, amplifying the silence until, finally, she heard Deputy Herb's voice break through, gravelly yet reassuring. “We’re fine! Just a bit shaken!”

Relief flooded through Agatha, momentarily lifting the weight of her worries. But that fleeting comfort was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of disbelief. She couldn't believe that Rio had rigged the entire place with dynamite!

Just when Agatha thought she had a handle on the situation, Rio had slipped away again.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐏𝐚𝐧𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 ‘𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘’ 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐒

↳ summary: a quiet day off work calls for something sweet. Jack treats you to some pancakes and naughty chaos ensues.

↳ pairing: jack 'whiskey' daniels x f!reader

↳ [2k words] content: 18+ MDNI, food, cooking, soft!dom x sub dynamics, spanking, oral (f receiving). This is a @beskarbabs remaster -- original post date 2021.

jack masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Given your tireless work schedules, it's uncommon for you and Jack to have mornings together. Spending those scarce daybreak hours in the kitchen was exceptional. For you to walk through the doorway in just your underwear and one of his oversized shirts to find Agent Whiskey taking breakfast into his own hands? Unheard of.

Jack had pursued you for quite some time. Flowers, chocolates, and gifts had all failed to win you over in his mission to make you his girlfriend. He'd tried everything from enlisting the help of Tequila to exaggerate all the reasons he'd be a good partner. He even begged Ginger Ale to put in a good word. Regardless, after months of attempts, he had resigned to accepting that you simply didn't see him that way. 

That was until he invited you to breakfast after a particularly arduous mission that had left you with minor injuries and a foul mood. On that morning, the golden glow of the sunbeams leaking in from the window above the counter lit up the kitchen as the smell of batter warmed you up from the inside. You could remember it so clearly, Jack's hat cast to the side on the table you sat at as he flipped the pancakes diligently in the pan without dropping or creasing one. 

The fluffiness, the sweetness that bordered on sickly yet still managed to be just perfect, was enough for you to reconsider your stance on your relationship with the mildly mulish man. The lemon juice and sugar sprinkled on top just for you gave you no option but to pay your compliments to the chef with a kiss. 

It was Jack's favourite story. He told literally anyone who would listen. 

It goes without saying, now that Jack had seduced you with his southern charm and humour consisting of mostly (if not all) dad jokes, that any morning the two of you managed to spend together, he would pull out the eggs, milk, flour and sugar. This morning appears to be no different. 

"Are you making pancakes?" You ask softly, cheekbone pressed between his shoulder blades as you hold him from behind. You hear him chuckle softly, turning his face over his shoulder. You know what he's asking for and oblige, pressing a chaste kiss to his bronzed skin. 

"Sure am, Sugar." He returns to his work, a smile hidden under that well-kept moustache. He takes up the batter bowl and expertly uses the spatula in hand to pour out the mixture into the frying pan without spilling even a dribble. He lays the spatula down into the bowl, handle propped up against the rim as he focuses on cooking the batter so it's perfectly golden and crispy. 

The warm, homey smell of frying batter swirling from the stove makes your mouth water and your stomach growl, begging for something substantial. Finally, you decide you don't want to wait for Jack to use the mixture up, so use your index finger to scoop up some of the dough and smear it across your tongue. 

Big mistake. 

You see Jack's broad shoulders stop moving as he pauses his work. He leisurely lays down the pan on the heat mat lying on the counter before turning to you with a fixed and piercing gaze. He arches a thick eyebrow accusatorially. 

"Did you just steal some?" His voice is deep, slipping further into his accent from the low volume. You look up into his eyes, your own wide with confusion at the abrupt change in atmosphere. 

"... Yes," you admit. It comes out in a whisper, aware by now that Whiskey was planning something if the smirk tugging at the edge of his lip was anything to go by. He takes up the handle of the spatula from the bowl, slowly raising it and allowing the loose mixture to fall back into the bowl. He keeps his eyes on you. 

"Clean it," he murmurs, lifting the head of the utensil to your mouth. It takes a second for his order to process in your brain. By then, he's already pressing the flat side to your lips. You stare up at him, bewildered, as you trail your tongue across the plastic. You can taste the sweetness that coats your tastebuds, but note the bitterness of raw flour. 

Jack's eyes follow your ministrations, seemingly unaffected by your actions. He's the most unreadable you'd ever seen, his emotions usually worn on the rim of his cowboy hat rather than his sleeve, dangling between your eyes so it was impossible to miss. Right now, however, his face is blank.

The batter gathers on your tongue until you've cleared one side, and Jack twists the handle and exposes the other side to you. You also get to work on that one, humming softly at the addictively sweet taste. 

Held at this angle, the mix begins to collect on the curve of the head. It drips onto your chin and dribbles down, catching your lover's attention. However, it isn't until it falls from your chin and onto the top of your breast that you notice his eye twitch, evidence that he was affected by the scene. 

Jack pulls the plastic tool from you, inspecting it for leftovers. When he finds it clean, he looks back to you. He's rock-hard in his jeans. You had learnt that Jack's tight denim did very little to hide his excitement over the many times he'd had to restrain himself during missions. It certainly wasn't hard to miss. 

"Hands on the table, hips out," he orders again. You blink up at him, a weak laugh escaping your throat. 

"What are you gonna do, Jack? Arrest me?" You manage to force out, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He's looking at you like he could eat you. 

"You gonna do as I say?" He questions, tone demanding. You do. You turn your back to him, bending at the waist and placing your palms on the dining table. You sense him come up behind you, kicking your feet apart as though he's about to search you while he sets the bowl of batter down beside your wrist. 

"Last time I checked, you were a Statesman, not a police offic-" You yelp out as the sharp sound slap that practically reverberates around the room, the sharp sting burning its way into the flesh of your exposed ass cheeks underneath the hem of the shirt you had borrowed for the morning. 

The blossoming sensation of prickling skin where the object had connected had you whipping your head around to glare at Jack, whose smirk informs you he had rather enjoyed your reaction. It's then that he wiggles the spatula in his hand, alerting you to the fact he had just spanked you with it. 

"Jack!" You hiss, hand moving to rub at the irritated area, "What was that for?" He swats your hand away, taking the hem of his shirt you were wearing and hiking it up over your hips so your ass is entirely exposed to him. 

"Punishment for stealing," he says simply, voice low and raspy. You roll your eyes, about to argue, when he lands the utensil on your thighs just underneath the crease of your ass. It sparks a harsh sting settling deep between your legs as you cry out in shock. 

There's a silence that follows in the room, but inside your ears, you can hear the pounding of your blood rushing through your body, your heart thrumming so hard it makes your chest hurt. Jack was adventurous, sure, but this was new. Deep down, you know he had started this as a joke, but if the tent you had seen in his tight jeans was anything to go by, he was enjoying this... But, of course, he isn't the only one... 

And it looks like Jack noticed. 

He barely skips a beat, almost like this is what he had planned all along. 

"You're gonna count them out for me, Sugar." He commands, palm settling on your lower back while he waits for your consent. His body language in your peripheral has changed, suddenly very serious and driven by arousal. You nod with a shaky breath, confirming. 

"I wanna hear you say it, Darlin'." Even now, he still takes so much care of you. 

"I'll count them out," you repeat you him, and you swear you hear him whisper 'good girl' behind you. The bite of the first two blows starts to ebb away, aided by the gentle stroke over the curve of your ass with the back of his fingers as he takes in the view of your pink cheeks. 

He gives you no further warning than removing his hand. You hear the THWACK of the pancake turner first, but the hot, prickling pain follows the sound quickly, blooming across your cheeks. You let out a soft whine, releasing the sound in an attempt to ease the tension in your muscles. 

"One," you squeak out, the power-play making you light-headed as your pussy flutters around nothing. Jack is totally silent, not allowing you to see his response to your reaction. 

Another quick snap of his wrist and the sharp smack of the handle hits once again just under your ass. It hurts so good, a loud moan escaping your lips as you brace yourself against the tenderness. So caught up in breathing through the pinch, you forget to count out quickly enough. 

"T-Two!" You try to correct yourself, but Jack has already noticed your 'defiance'. He tuts softly, shaking his head. 

"You'll have to do better than that, Sugar. I'll let this one slide-" he grips your sore asscheeks gently, enough for goosebumps to rise across your skin at the deep throbbing between your legs, "But we'll start from zero if it happens again." You nod quickly, confirming that you've heard him. 

He's gracious, soothing the pain he had inflicted for just a moment before striking you again, with the rubber head this time. 

"Ffu- Three," you moan, the pulses of pain thrumming straight to your core. You can feel that you're soaking your panties through, dripping from the mixture of anticipation and smarting skin. 

"Two more," Jack informs you, watching the way you rub your thighs together in search of some kind of friction for your stiff and aching clit. It's no use, you both know that, so you resign to whinging softly, acknowledging the last two blows. 

He spanks you again. 

"Fffour!" You struggle; the heat in your asscheeks and between your thighs is almost unbearable. You can practically feel the welts rising on your skin, the buzzing energy there creating perfect ghost-touches of the utensil. 

The last blow strikes you so hard that you hear it ringing in your ears. It cracks like lightning up your spine, settling deep in your cunt as you wail on the final number. 

"Fiiiveee~" Sobs escape you, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes at the relief and the intense need to be touched, to ride out an orgasm that had built up so much it felt like your legs were going to fall out from underneath you. You're shaking at the knees, relying heavily on the support of the table to keep you upright. 

"Such a good girl, Sugar. You did so good," he murmurs, smoothing your skin with a light touch as he moves to his knees behind you. He kisses behind your trembling knees, your left first, and then your right. He trails the tip of his nose up the back of your right thigh, noting the whines of desperation that escape you. 

"Mhmm. These," he whispers, pressing gentle and loving kisses to the swell of your stinging asscheeks, "These are my favourite cakes," he subtly teases you, and you laugh out weakly at his playful, cheeky side returning. Though, the laughter doesn't last long as he moves his mouth between your legs to trace his tongue over your still-clothed cunt. 

"But nothing beats the taste of this..." he groans out, the sweet tang of your arousal painting his tongue. He holds your hip in one hand, thumbs tracing gentle patterns on your hipbone while he uses the other to tug your panties to the side. 

"If you haven't learnt your lesson about stealing, I can think of another way to punish you," he rasps, nose nudging at your clit. 

Needless to say, you dipped your fingers into the batter bowl once more.

Maybe twice.

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[isaut]

𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓— f!reader x captain rex. 6.7k. ao3

coincidence number two: you're running errands. he's a civilian for the afternoon. previous. masterlist.

You make your reward purchases before your necessity purchases. They are of the same vein— the new lip gloss tube and new mascara will serve their purpose when your currents run out. The record you’d found at the vintage store was warm and vibrant, welcoming to the ear. They’ll stun and impress at the next cocktail hour you host. 

It would have been a crime to part without it. 

Just as it would have been a crime to not part with the extra gelato that hadn’t been on your grocery list, to have exited the grocery store without your arms over flowing with bags. Flowers spill from the top of one of them— pink and white and orange for your kitchen table. When you get home you’ll combine them all in one of those artisanal vases you’ve acquired from more flea markets than you can count. 

Marauding as a civilian, Rex spends his afternoon off wandering the streets of Theed. He knows upon any close inspection he’s anything but, but the day is young. The sun is nearly high in the afternoon air, casting the streets in a harsh glow. The fountains trickle consistently, the water gleaming under said beams. Mothers sit on the edge of the stone, careful to not get their skirts wet, while their children run around. 

The oncoming lunchtime is signaled by elderly folk dressed in expensive linens eating their lunch on the iron wrought chairs outside of their favorite bistros and cafes. Rex’s gaze lingers over their habits, over the way they seem so at ease with each other. 

He’s not looking where he’s going. 

With your gaze turned towards the sliver of sea visible through the buildings, you collide straight into an unfamiliar body. 

“Oh! Pardon me,” you say quickly, taking a step back. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Rex says, voice melted by the late spring sun. 

The sunlight illuminates Rex directly, making his hair seem blonder and his skin darker. His eyes are all amber encrusted, sparkling in the light. In turn, the sun has haloed you, showcasing your aura around your body, from the natural frizz of your hair to the bronzed shine on your shoulders. 

“Oh.” “Oh.” 

Rex’s brows pinch together in recognition, just as yours furrow. His lips form a perfect little ‘o’ as yours pull down on the corners. Surprise morphs to disappointment.

“You never called me,” is the first thing out of your mouth, once you recognize who you’re talking to. 

“I–” Rex can’t seem to find the words. Have you always had a mole on your cheekbone? A trifecta of them on your shoulder? Rex clears his throat, snapping himself out of his reverie. It had been dark when he was with you last, after all. “I would, but comms are monitored at work.” 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse,” you sigh. 

“No, no, I’m being honest,” Rex says, all too quickly. He ignores the little voice in his head that reminds him that if he had wanted to, he could have easily arranged for a secret call. That he knows all the right people for that to happen. “Really. And work’s been real busy.” 

You don’t look impressed. Your eyes rake over his body, both out of irritation and to remind yourself why you had been so keen on getting a call in the first place. “Has it been?” 

Yes. There had been rebel groups on the Outer Rim that needed the Republic’s help with fending off the Separatists. Not only had Rex been off station, he’d been off communications with everyone. “I’m no liar.” 

Your gut– which has an eighty twenty chance of being right– seems to confirm this information with you. 

“No?” 

Rex shakes his head. “If I’m bein’ honest, I’m not smart enough to be a liar.” 

That has you twisting your lips to squash down a smile. Your gut, the same eighty twenty one, tugs and tells you that he’s lying about that one, though. 

He’s cuter in the daylight, your brain supplies you with. Then: He didn’t call you. 

“Well, I should get going,” you say, shaking your hair out of your face. “Um, it was nice seeing you.” 

“Yeah, you too.” The words roll off Rex’s tongue before he can stop them. He calls your name after you, with a simple request: “Wait.” 

Oh, he remembers your name. You turn your attention back to him. He’s caught it again. Your grocery bag digs uncomfortably into your arm. 

“Let me get you lunch. As an apology for not calling.” His eyes seem softer in the harsh light, a please behind bronze irises. 

“I have to take my groceries home, I have sorbet.” 

Rex glances at your bags before coming back to your face. “Let me carry it for you, then.” 

There’s a part of you that wants to put up a fight. Say you’re a big girl, that you can do it by yourself. That he blew it when he didn’t call you back. Instead, you feel something tug at the back of your mind. Something that you can’t quite place. So you sigh, so you shrug the canvas bag off your shoulder and pass it over to him. What harm can come? He’s already been there. 

Rex accepts the bags as if they’re made of feathers. He adjusts them all to make sure he has a good grasp on everything. It’s all rather seamless. You linger to admire for a moment.

“After you,” Rex says. 

The comment snaps you back to the present moment. 

Your eyes linger on him one last time, before you adjust your purse and lead him down the cobblestone roads. 

“So, what work have you been doing?” You ask, making quiet conversation as you walk. 

“Classified information,” Rex replies. 

You hum. “Communication is monitored, classified information… You must be pretty high up on the chain.” You lift your hand to eye level to demonstrate. 

“I am,” Rex confirms. “‘S not much to talk about though.” 

“Well, it sounds like you can’t talk about a lot of it.” Your voice is light at the comment. “So what can you talk about?”

Shit. What can he talk about? Rex thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I guess not much.” 

“Shame. What are we going to talk about over lunch?” You unlock the gate to the courtyard, then climb the stairs to your apartment. 

“I’m reading a book on military strategy,” Rex supplies, watching as you unlock the door. “But I don’t think that’s something you’re interested in.” 

“Does your whole life revolve around work?” You ask, posing the question once you’re in the kitchen. 

Yes. As a matter of fact, it does. His whole reason for existing revolves around work. 

The sorbet slides into an empty spot in the freezer. The flowers replace old ones in a vase. Your kitchen table has an open magazine on it and a data pad. It feels like only yesterday he was in here, and maybe that’s because yesterday he woke from a dream that took place here. 

You’d made him coffee. Placed it in front of him with a kiss to his forehead. He woke to a battle alarm going off. 

Lunch is taken at a little cafe with a white awning. You know the worker behind the counter well, enough to be on a first name basis with her, as you order. You know the restaurant well enough that you immediately head to the outdoor area, taking a seat so you’re still able to people watch and enjoy your company. 

“You must go to lots of places all over the galaxy,” you note, watching as Rex pours water for you both. 

“Nowhere too fun,” Rex says, taking his seat. 

Unimpressed with the answer, you take a sip of water. “Where was the last place you went, then?” 

Rex debates if it’s classified information. It’s already happened, it’s not as if he’ll be returning anytime soon. And either way, you’re a pacifist. Not like you’ll go running to the Separatists with old news. 

“Ryloth,” Rex says. “What I was doing there, though—”

“Is classified,” you finish for him. “That’s fine. What’s it like?” 

“It’s hot. Wet, too. Even in the desert. The atmosphere holds water in it like a sponge, so as the jungles produce water, it seeps into the atmosphere. And that’s how it rains in the desert areas and why it feels wet all the time even if it’s dry.” 

“I didn’t take you for an environmentalist.” 

“‘S just interesting.” Rex tries his hardest to downplay his knowledge. 

“I think it’s interesting too. Two years ago we had a twi’lek from Ryloth showcase his work at the gallery. All of his art was drawn with the different clays found there.”

“There are a lot,” Rex says. Some of it is even flammable. He watches with rapt attention as you fumble around in your purse for your sunglasses. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, the sun is just really bright,” You say, holding them open and with the leg near your lips. 

“We can swap spots if you’d like,” Rex offers in a heartbeat. 

“No, no. I like the sun. It’s like I’m photosynthesizing.” 

Rex thinks it’s an apt description. If you were a flower, you’d be the prettiest one. He doesn’t know much about botany, but he thinks you’re comparable to an orchid. Maybe the cattleyas, with their delicate, ruffled petals that match the flow of your hair. Or the oncidiums, which look exactly like women dancing where the blooms join together. Or even the laelias, with star dripped petals that resemble legs spread— 

“I don’t get a whole lot of sun,” Rex says, stopping his train of thought. 

“That’s a shame. Why not?” 

“Normally on a fleet ship.” 

You lean forwards. “What’s space like?” 

Rex blinks. “Have you never been?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

The idea baffles Rex. Only staying on one planet for an extended period of time? For a lifetime? It was unfathomable to him. Your food arrives, as he ponders over how different your life is from his. Then again, perhaps in a different life, he’d like to stay in one place. Especially if it was a planet as nice as Naboo. 

“So, what’s it like?” You press. 

“It’s… Well. It’s big. Really quiet.” 

“What about the stars?” 

“There’s lots of ‘em. Really tiny. Looks kind of like static.”

“Wow,” you breathe. “I’ve always wanted to get off the planet. I’d love to travel… My friends and I had a trip planned to Coruscant but we could never agree on dates to go.” 

“Between you and me, it’s not all that exciting. I mean, it is exciting, but it’s… Loud. Visually and audibly.” 

“We just wanted to go clubbing,” you confide.

Rex chuckles. “I stand corrected, you would probably enjoy it.”

���But honestly, the travel scares me. Hyperdrive? Terrifying. I don’t even like to go on the boats here.” The admittance feels silly. Who doesn’t dream of intergalactic space travel? 

“Really?” 

You nod seriously. “Nowhere I really want to go that I can’t get to on foot.” 

Oh, that’s endearing. “And where do you usually take yourself?” 

“Not many places I haven’t seen you at.” 

Rex chuckles nervously. “Really?” 

“Yeah. I’m a creature of habit.” 

Your eyes descend down to his plate— He’s barely touched his chicken and rice. It’s good, you’ve had it before. Not your favorite thing on the menu, it’s no pesto before you, but it’s good. 

“Do you not like it?” You ask, gesturing towards it with your fork. 

Rex glances down. “No, I do. It’s just… it’s too good.” 

Normally too good implies that it’s deserving of scarfing down the first serving and savoring the second. You wait, expectantly, for elaboration. 

“Compared to rations it’s… I don’t like to tempt myself. Remind myself what’s out there.”

You blink at him. “Really?” 

“Makes it easier.” 

Rex doesn’t do temptation. He doesn’t indulge in local meals filled with seasonings— the cumin and the masala that Jesse lunges after when he’s on a planet. Fried foods, fresh and sizzling and on a skewer are something that he watches, mouth watering against his will, while Fives and Tup eat as much as they can afford. He doesn’t do top shelf liquor, he doesn’t do liquor at all. He only drinks the beer that’s brought to him. 

You think back to the conversation from last time. No pretty women. No art. Now, no food. No good food at least. You doubt military food is very good. 

“I would have thought that you would want to indulge. Do you want to try mine?” 

Rex also doesn’t do hook ups. Not typically. Not unless a mission’s gone really bad, not unless he wants to bury himself out of the pain only to lie in it uncomfortably. He doesn’t do coffees after, he doesn’t do run-in lunches. 

“Sure,” Rex says. You push your plate toward him, and he reaches over and takes a forkful. Normally the motion is done over a steel table under fluorescent lights, when the rations are especially bad and it’s important to have everyone join in on the misery. 

Once more: It’s too good— fresh basil and lemon. Rex shouldn’t have taken a bite. He wants another. He wants another. 

“You should let yourself indulge,” you say, pushing your plate further towards him. 

He takes another bite. “What are you doing after this?” 

“Laundry,” you answer truthfully. “And then I was going to paint.” 

“You paint?” 

Before you can stop yourself, the words are leaving your mouth: “Do you want to come by and look?” 

Rex needs to be back at base in two hours. He’s been entrusted by his General to escort Senator Amidala back to Coruscant. Then, he’s been entrusted by his General to get back on the battlefield, witness more death and destruction and lovelessness. 

“I can spare a few minutes.”

Rex tries your wine before he leaves. The crisp notes dance along his tongue, citrus and gooseberry fermented to perfection. He takes one last bite of his chicken, moist and juicy, and rice, soft and flavorful. 

The last time Rex had been in your apartment, it had been by the guidance of the moon. Then, scattered from the dutifulness of his mission with your groceries. Now, under the relaxed sunlight, he has a better view of the intricacies of your railing, the floral swirls soldered together. The fountain in the center of the apartment courtyard bubbles and flows. The mosaics of the tiles are clear in the light: blues, greens, oranges, stark against the light grout.

Your keys join the others in the little tray by the door. Your shoes come off, as do his, and the two of you head through your apartment. There are paintings Rex passes that he hadn’t recognized the last time he was here. Not that he was looking, by any means. His attention had instead been focused on you. 

But the paintings. They’re watercolor and oil, still life and landscapes encased behind class in treated dark oak frames. 

The doors to your balcony are open. Sea breeze filters up from the ocean through the doors, rubbing against the sheer curtains like a playful, large kitten. You get good sunlight in your apartment. It warms the room with both light and atmosphere, streaming in through the windows. 

“Are you not worried about bugs?” Rex asks. 

You turn around to face him. “Bugs?” 

“Yeah. With the…” He gestures at the open doors. 

“We don’t live near a swamp. And anyways, it costs too much to run the air conditioning.” You turn back towards the doors and head out through them, letting Rex trail behind you. 

Suddenly a spark of nervousness crawls through you. You play with your fingers, glancing out over the quartier of Theed you live in. Then, you gesture towards your painting where it’s leaned against an easel with a now dry watercolor palette beside it, suddenly feeling silly. Why would some random man– because Rex is still some random man– care about your art?

“Well. This is what I’m working on right now,” you say. 

Rex first notes the craftsmanship of the worn easel. The natural grains in it. The only metal being the small hinges. The painting, however, is another story entirely. 

“It’s pretty,” Rex says. The watercolors are delicate dabs of life. You’ve captured what must be the sunrise over your little neighborhood view. The blue-hued warmth spreads over the delicate buildings, creeping over inked lines. 

He doesn’t have much else to say. It’s pretty. The flowers are larger. 

“It’s really pretty,” Rex repeats. 

Your cheeks warm. “Thank you.” 

You glance over at the painting, then over at Rex, hesitantly. His gaze slowly leaves the painting to meet yours. 

“I wish I had better words to convey how pretty it is.”

You swallow under his gaze. 

“Pretty is just fine,” you say, “I remember: no art. No pretty woman, no dancing either.” 

Rex feels his face warm. The tips of his ears go pink. “There’s more to me than that.” 

“I’m saying it as a reason why you can only describe it as pretty.” It, because you don’t want to presume he was talking about the painting. Part of you hopes that he wasn’t only talking about the ink. Part of you hopes he was also talking about you before him. “Do you want something to drink? I can make you espresso.” 

Rex watches with rapt attention as you twirl a piece of your hair around your finger. He forgets, in his gazing, to reply. 

“I also have limeade. That is, if you can spare the time.” 

He can absolutely spare the time. “It’s whatever you want to make.” 

You check the analog watch on your wrist. Delicate, your chosen color of jewelry. 

“Let’s have espresso. I’ll make us double shots, it's just a little too late to take a nap.” 

The prospect, the idea, of napping is a new one to Rex. He’s never had one offered to him, never seen one ever partaken in. Meditation over naps. One could sleep when they were no longer part of this world. 

Sitting back at your kitchen table, Rex watches with great interest as you make the shots. You have specific mugs you let the brew pour into, and specific saucers you rest them on. From the pantry you receive two sweet looking cookies, setting them on the saucers. 

Saucers in hand, you look over at Rex. His fingers are lightly feeling a flower petal between them, thumb rubbing over the soft, colorful leaves. Cut at their base to decorate the water vase, the monochrome flowers are a quiet accent to the brightness of your kitchen and the appliances within. You almost don’t want to disturb him. 

“Let’s have them on the couch,” you suggest, voice as gentle as seafoam. Rex’s gaze immediately flits to you, his hand dropping just as quickly. You watch with fondness. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?” 

“Yeah,” Rex says. “We don’t have plant life on the station.” 

“I have more in the living room,” you say, tilting your head in the direction of the other room. Turning, you head there, letting Rex follow behind you. 

The saucers are set atop mosaic tiled coasters on the coffee table. You busy yourself in front of the stereo, picking through albums until you find one for the mood, sliding the record from its case and resting it upon the disc. Acoustic bossa nova fills the room. Crossing the space, you cross your legs on the couch, letting Rex take the cushion right beside you. 

Your knees barely touch. It causes your breath to hitch, just ever so faintly, in the back of your throat. 

“It’s called a monstera deliciosa,” you say, in reference to the subject of Rex’s gaze: the large, green beast of a plant in the corner of your living room. It’s almost too big for the space, despite the fact that– “It won’t stop growing. I keep having to cut off leaves and propagate them for my friends. Or I leave them in cheap little pots on the side of the road for people to take.” 

Rex looks at you from over the espresso cup. 

“It just won’t stop growing,” you say. 

Rex doesn’t know exactly what to say. You must love it a whole lot seems a little too personal. Seems a little too on the nose. It’s pretty seems overused, but it’s what comes out of his lips. 

The giggle that escapes you is one you can’t help. You cover your mouth with your hand, holding the sweet little cookie between your fingers. Your hand had originally been on a path to dip the treat into your coffee, but the detour was needed. 

“She is.” 

You take a bite of the cookie.

“You must love it a whole lot,” Rex says, letting the comment bubble up through him. 

Glancing over at the plant, you take her in for a moment. All green stems, fanning leaves with teardrop holes in them, as if gravity was pulling them open. 

“I’ve had her since I was in school,” you comment. 

Rex reminds himself that it’s a normal thing to go to school. That not everyone is plucked up from a young age to undergo various trainings and trials to make them soldiers– peacekeepers. 

“What did you go to school for?” Rex asks. 

“Art history,” you say, still looking at the plant. Then, you look back to him. “Then back again for Gunganese art history. And then again, one last time, for a focus on art during the Suffering Period.” 

Rex nods. 

“Someday there will be an art historian who will study all the art made now,” you note. 

“And what do you think she’ll notice?” 

Humming, you ponder over the answer. You take a final sip of your espresso. Lean back against your couch. Gaze up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” 

Rex studies your profile like this hypothetical historian will study the present. 

“I think she’ll think it’s interesting how war is portrayed,” you finally decide on, turning your head to face Rex. “But we don’t have to talk about that.” 

“We can, if you want,” Rex says. 

Your eyes flit down to glance at his hands, then back to his face. “Have you looked at art recently?” 

Rex has to take a moment to think. He finishes his espresso. “There are some pieces in the Senate building on Coruscant. I’ve never really…” Suddenly he feels embarrassed. “I’ve never really paid a lot of attention to them.” 

“Are they boring?” You ask. Then, coming to your own conclusion: “I bet they are. All the good art on Coruscant comes from the lower levels.” 

“I thought you’d never been?” 

“I haven’t, but I’ve acquired art from there. It’s all so… If it comes from the upper levels, it’s too perfect. The stuff from lower tells a story. There’s real emotion there.” 

“How come?” 

You shrug. “No idea.” 

Rex nods. “I have a brother who likes art. He draws on napkins and stuff.” 

“With a pen?” You ask, a little surprised. 

Rex nods again. “Yeah.” 

“I didn’t know they had those on ships,” you say, the words leaving your lips before you realize how ignorant you must sound. No reason not to dig the shovel in a little deeper. “I thought everything was done with holograms and screens.” 

“Yeah,” Rex chuckles a bit at that. “Most of it is. At least ninety-eight percent of it. The other two percent is Tup drawing.” 

“He must draw an awful lot to make up for two percent of all the activities up there.” 

We all have our hobbies would be a lie. “He doesn’t get a lot of sleep. Or, he doesn’t get as much as he should.” 

You rest your arm over the back of the couch, head against your knuckles and shift your entire body to face Rex. “That’s kind of the essence of art, though. Finding time for it no matter what. I bet she’ll be studying whatever she can find of his work.” 

Rex doesn’t mention that it would all look like he’s drawn the same person over and over again. Instead, he mirrors your position. 

“Really?” 

You nod. You glance at his chest, then back to his face. “Yeah. I’m almost certain of it.” 

Rex moves his hand to rest on his knee. 

“Do you like my living room or my patio better?” You ask. 

“Hm?” Rex’s eyes seem to go into focus again, as if you’ve called him back to the present. 

“Do you like my living room or my patio better?” You ask again, no hard feelings. 

“I think they both have their own pros,” Rex says. 

“Do they have cons?” 

“No,” Rex says, quick to shoot that question down. 

A smirk pulls up at the corner of your lips. Just barely noticeable. “No?” 

Rex shakes his head. They’re not on a cruiser light years in the sky. They happen to be yours. Safe from the spoils, or lack thereof, of war. And he’s been enjoying his time with you. All two times he’s met you. 

“C’mere,” you murmur, reaching your hand out for him. Your fingers are just out of reach of his collar. “Did you know that coffee is a slight aphrodisiac?” 

Rex takes in your lidded eyes, your widening pupils. “Only slight?” 

Your gaze dips to his lips, his collarbones, his eyes. 

“Only slight?” Rex prods, leaning forwards. Your fingers catch on his collar, pulling him closer. 

You nod. Rex doesn’t stop leaning in. 

Rex enjoys himself. 

He’s laid over you on your couch, leg slotted between yours. One of your hands is on the side of his face, able to feel his jaw work as his lips pass over yours. The wind brushes through your open balcony door, sprawling over his back. There’s slow, lazy music playing on your stereo, and your bodies move in time with it. 

The urgency that Rex should be moving with is nowhere to be seen. His hips roll against yours lethargically, and one of your legs is thrown over his hips. There’s coffee and sweet cookie on both your lips, slipping and sharing between taste buds. 

Each pass of his clothed and poorly concealed hardness causes gravity to pull your legs wider, the universe eager for your pleasure. It’s been years since you’ve indulged in the pleasures of the body while the sun was still out, and it’s better than you remember it being. 

Perhaps it's because Rex takes up space. He consumes you, soap and faint shaving cream infiltrating your senses. You wonder if it’s too heady to be taken in the middle of the day. If you’re too grown, if that’s something that only teenagers do when their parents aren’t home. 

“When do you have to leave?” You ask, pulling back just a millimeter from his lips. 

Rex glances over at the analog clock sitting on your mantle. “Forty minutes.” 

You place a hand on Rex’s chest, gently pushing him back. Rex slides back, sitting on his knees. Worry flashes in his eyes, brows furrowing. 

“Gonna go grab you a condom,” you say. 

Rex’s ears go pink. “Really?” 

“Unless you have objections.” 

Rex doesn’t have any objections. The only thing he can object to is the lack of time— only forty minutes. Less, truly, because he has to be walking out the door in forty minutes. Now, thirty-nine. 

You return, little foil between your fingers. 

Before you can sink to your knees between his legs, Rex’s hands are on your waist and maneuvering you to sit on the couch beside him. 

Before you can question his actions, Rex’s lips are back on yours. His hand slides over yours, taking the packet from you. With his hand on your back, he gently lowers you backwards against the couch. 

Bunching your skirt up, you expose yourself to him. Your panties are embarrassingly dark, damp at your core from just a little bit of kissing. 

Rex has that look on his face, the one where his brows are pinched and his mouth is slightly open as if he’s both shocked and deeply appreciative to be in this situation. His thumb drags over the growing wet patch, and his brow furrows. 

You’re shaven. Velvet soft. 

“What happened?” He asks. 

In turn your brow furrows.  “What do you mean?” 

“You’re… You shaved.” 

“I’m waxed.” 

Rex blinks at you. You sit up on your elbows. “I went on a girls trip to the beach. So I got a wax beforehand. I got back in yesterday.” 

It’s more information than Rex needs. He simply nods. 

“What?” Insecurity begins churning in your stomach, taking over the heat that had been building. Rex’s eyes flit up from your cunt. 

“Nothing,” he says, fingers dipping under the waistband on your panties. He slides them down, sighing upon seeing your exposed pussy. He’s missed this. He’s been thinking about it, been thinking about you. 

You giggle. “Have you been?” 

Rex’s eyes widen. “Did I say that out loud?” 

Grinning, you nod. “Yeah, you did.” 

A ruddiness fills Rex’s face as he flushes. “Didn’t mean to.” 

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” you admit, though you feel your body warm in embarrassment at the statement. There was a reason you were so insistent to feel him inside you again. 

Humming, Rex runs his hands on the insides of your thighs, pushing them further apart. “Really?” 

You nod. You wrote about it in your diary. 

Rex doesn’t share that he’s thought about you so loud it’s earned him more than one reminder about Jedi sensitivity from his General. The last being on an airship after a battle. General Skywalker had bumped him on the shoulder, mumbled that he could hear him. 

He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Rex’s lips glide over yours, his tongue dancing in the tang of your pussy. Your fingers rack over his hair, scratching at his head. His tongue swirls around your clit, lips closing in after it. 

Essence escapes from your cunt, trickling down your smooth skin. Soft moans escape from your lips, floating into the warm air. 

Your body hungrily accepts the finger that slides inside you. Sitting up on your elbows, you want to watch, watch this mysterious man who’d rather be on his knees at work. His brows are furrowed in concentration. You squeeze around his finger and he moans into you. You wonder if he’s also gotten ahead of himself, if his mind also races forwards, thinking about the next instead of the present. 

It’s loud, all the slick and saliva swimming together. Rex’s tongue is dutiful and steady, his fingers working in tandem. 

Rex’s eyes crack open to gaze up your body. He ends up meeting your heady stare, the rise and fall of your chest. He pulls away, his fingers still working in those easy motions. 

“Come here,” you beckon, pulling the hemline of your shirt up to expose your breasts. You haven’t forgotten the array of hickies you were left with, the days of forgoing low cut tops. 

Rex seemingly misunderstands, instead shooting straight for your mouth. He swallows a moan, one that bubbles out of you as his fingers continuously beckon your closer towards a climax. 

A third finger slips inside you when his lips finally wrap around an under stimulated nipple. You groan through a bitten lip, arching your back into him, hips rolling into his hand. It feels good. So much better than your own. Thicker. Longer. Better reach. 

Better than your friend’s slender fingers after a drunken dinner on the beach. Rex seems to remember you. Remember all the crevices inside your body, remember the basics of what you like. Like he’s been replaying that night in his head, like a poet and their haiku.

“Rex, please… Want you inside…” you insist through a sigh, squeezing around his fingers. 

Rex lifts his head. “But you haven’t cum yet.” 

Your jaw goes slack. Rex’s cock throbs at the plumpness of your lips, puffy from biting. 

“It’s polite,” Rex elaborates. 

“We don’t have very long,” you reply. “Next time you’ll call me and—” Your breath hitches as Rex’s fingers grind into you, curling upwards. “—and we’ll have more time.” 

“Next time?” Rex likes the sound of that. He slowly removes his fingers, and brings them to his lips. It’s utilitarian, the way he’s after the taste. But he has to commit it to memory— He isn’t sure there will be a next time, that there will be a phone call. But now, the sun is soft and you’re sweet on his tongue and on his eyes. 

You nod to answer his question. One of your legs slides off the couch as you sit up, grabbing the condom off the table. 

“I wanna do it,” you say, eager to feel the weight in your hand. 

Rex chuckles, enamored and a little self conscious, at your enthusiasm. His pants and briefs find their way onto the floor and he takes his shirt off for good measure too. 

Your eyes linger on his dog tags, glinting in the afternoon light. Instead of calling attention to it, you take his cock in your hand, all warm and heavy, and swipe your finger over the head, through the pearly bits of precum crying there. 

Rex gasps. His chest heaves, rising up and down as an arm stretches across the back of the couch. 

You want to kiss it. Kiss the fat tip, let your tongue lace through the seam. But you had tried to earlier, wanted him salty in your mouth so he’d be relaxed, and had been, quite kindly, redirected. 

So you pump him once. Twice. Three times for luck. The condom glides on, sucking against him. Almost too small. 

Rex takes you on your back, with one leg lifted above his shoulder and the other hanging off the couch. His movements are shallow and even, pressing you further and further towards the armrest. His dog tags swing in your face and you’re caught with the unexpected urge to bite them. 

Rex glances from you, out the open patio doors. A few birds flock along the horizon. The sun is setting. He sits back, hand resting on your thighs and watching intently as your breasts bounce with every thrust. 

He glances over at the clock on your mantle. Fifteen minutes. He swears to himself. This is why he doesn’t like quickies— He wants to be buried in your warmth for as long as possible. 

Taking his tags in his teeth, Rex leans back over you as his thrusts speed up and harden. You cry out in shock, though it quickly warbles into pleasure, as your core tightens in pressure and then suddenly, without warning, snaps. Your legs shake around him, pussy pulsing around his throbbing hardness. 

Rex’s mouth opens in surprise, tags dropping. His hips slow as his attention focuses on guiding you down from your high, but you’re quick to shake your head. 

“N-no, keep going,” you urge. “Want to feel you cum.” 

“But—”

“No buts,” you breathe, hiking your hips up slightly. “Please, it’ll feel so good.” 

Rex nods and pics up the thrusts again, returning them to his original speed, the one that had made you cream around him. Your hand travels between your bodies, fingers rubbing desperately at your clit as you feel a second, stronger orgasm approaching. 

“I’m going t’cum again,” you warn. 

“Fuck,” Rex swears, then quickly apologies. His hand finds purchase on the back of your thigh and presses you open, creating more of a stretch. 

You swear this time, brows knitted in pleasure. With each thrust you can feel Rex’s balls, wound tight, slapping against you. 

Without thinking, you clap a hand over your mouth as your second orgasm shakes through you. Rex ducks his head, chasing his own high in erratic throats before he moans directly into your breast. 

You feel light, like you’re floating. Too light. 

You’ve painted Rex’s groin and the v of his abs. 

“Sorry,” you breathe. 

Rex shakes his head, falling against you. His face rests in the crook of your neck. “Don’t worry about it.” 

His cock twitches inside of you. 

You let out a breathless laugh. With gravity, your head turns to the side and you look at the clock on your mantle. Your cunt throbs around him, and he exhales sharply. There’s a little twitch in response. 

Part of you, the dirty naughty part, wishes there was more mess to clean up. For Rex to dip his head down and lap through, for him to—

Your train of thought is cut off by a sudden yet slow loss. Rex eases himself out, hands on your knees. Immediately, your hole pulses at the sudden loss. 

“Sorry,” Rex says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Your heart, once more, flutters. 

“‘S fine,” you murmur, tossing an arm above your head. The sun soothes over your body, urging you to close your eyes. 

Instead, you watch as Rex disappears into your bedroom, then your bathroom, and returns with a warm washcloth. 

It all feels so natural. Just like last time. 

His hands are steady as he cleans you up and then himself. He tucks himself back into his pants, then his shirt, then moves to grab your underwear off the ground. 

“Leave it,” you say softly. “I’m going to take a shower.” 

“Oh.” 

You move your legs so Rex can sit back down on the couch, then you place them in his lap. 

Mournfully, Rex replies with a hand on your shin, “I have to get going.” 

“You sat back down,” you point out. 

You’re right. He did. 

Rex’s hand rests on the inside of your calf, rubbing softly. He bows his head, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of your knee. 

“Poor baby,” you murmur, reaching to scratch your nails against his hair. Rex raises his gaze to yours. “Have to go back to work on such a beautiful day.” 

The day is beautiful, Rex can agree. It’s gorgeous. Stunning. He presses another kiss into the daylight that streams across your skin. 

“Tell me about the rest of your day,” you coo. 

If you were a Separatist spy, you’re the best one they have. Rex melts into your words, crawls up your body to place more kisses against the soft skin. 

“Just some escorting work,” Rex says. “Easy stuff.” 

“No danger?” 

“Shouldn’t be any.” 

Rex hovers above you. Your lashes glide closed and then open as you gaze down Rex’s body before back up to him. You cup his face in one hand, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. 

“That’s good. Are you going to call me this time?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Do you promise?” Your voice is almost a purr, your thumb sliding down Rex’s bottom lip. 

Rex nods. There’s a hypnotic rhythm to his breath. “I’ll call you. The next time I’m in Naboo.” 

“You can send me a text, too.” 

“I want to call you.” 

You swallow. 

“I’ll call you,” Rex promises. He lowers himself slightly, unsure if he’s allowed to get a kiss or not. This is a hook up, right? 

Your lips meet his half ways for a long peck. 

“Good boy,” you say against his lips. 

Rex nods again. “I have to go.” 

“I know.” Your breath mingles with his. “You don’t want to go.” 

Rex shakes his head, agreeing with you. He doesn’t want to go. You press a brief kiss to his lips. 

“I’ll hear from you soon.” 

Rex nods. Slowly, he eases off your body, eyes leaving even slower. 

“You don’t do this often,” you note. 

“No, I don’t.” 

You readjust your clothes so you’re decent again. Pantyless, but decent. You sit up on your knees, dancing your fingertips along his ears. 

“I’ll walk you out,” you murmur. There’s a feeling in your stomach that he won’t leave on his own. 

Rex stands, and your hand dribbles off him, landing in his own. He helps you stand, letting go as soon as you’re upright. It’s a careful walk to the front door, where Rex puts on his shoes and you don’t. 

“Bye, Rex,” you say. 

Rex returns the departing words, your name rolling off his lips. He turns, steps through the threshold, and heads down the stairs. He’s in the courtyard before you close the door. 

[quads4days]

"Tidal Transformations: The Poolside Mystery"

Prologue: The Spill

The first hint of dawn painted the sky in pastel shades of orange and pink. The tranquillity of the early morning was broken only by the rhythmic thud of Thomas's running shoes on the paved trail. As the rising sun began to illuminate the world, it cast a golden hue on Thomas's imposing form. Each stride showcased the sinewy contours of his calves and the powerful flex of his thighs. His sweat-slicked torso glistened, drawing attention to the ripple of muscles on his abdomen and the broad expanse of his chest, each inhalation highlighting his chiselled pecs. A lifetime of dedication to physical fitness had carved his body into a masterpiece, admired and envied by many in the town.

The bridge up ahead cast its long shadow on the churning river below. Thomas, with his bronzed Adonis-like form, relished these early morning jogs before the demands of his lifeguarding job consumed his day. As he neared the bridge, the discordant blare of sirens invaded the serene ambience. Blue and red lights danced across the mist that had settled over the river. A huge tanker lay sprawled awkwardly in the water, half-submerged. Authorities swarmed the area, working feverishly to secure the scene and retrieve the vehicle.

"What on earth…" Thomas muttered to himself, slowing his pace to observe the commotion. He noticed the logo on the side of the tanker — BB Enterprises, a company he knew to be involved in advanced medical research.

One of the emergency personnel, a woman with steel grey hair and a demeanour that suggested she was in charge, barked orders at her crew. "Ensure every bit of that waste is accounted for!" she shouted.

Thomas watched as large containers, presumably filled with medical waste, were hauled from the river, their contents a mystery to the onlookers. He felt an uneasy churn in his gut, but he couldn't pinpoint why.

A uniformed officer, noticing Thomas's lingering presence, approached him. "Move along, sir. This area is off-limits."

Thomas nodded, tearing his gaze away from the chaotic scene. He resumed his run, but the image of the capsized tanker remained etched in his mind. As he neared the local pool where he worked, a thought struck him — the pool's water was sourced directly from the river.

Chapter One: Shifting Tides

The morning sun beamed down on the local pool, casting shimmering reflections on the water’s surface. Thomas, in his official lifeguard uniform - or rather, the lack thereof, stood as a central figure. Shirtless, with his skin bronzed from endless days in the sun; his physique was an embodiment of strength and allure. His well-defined pecs and the deep valleys between his abdominals drew many an admiring (and envious) glance from patrons.

A subtle nod here and a wink there, Thomas worked the crowd masterfully. His role wasn’t just about ensuring safety; he also played the part of the charming, friendly lifeguard everyone loved to interact with. Children would excitedly wave at him, hoping for some recognition, while adults often initiated casual chats, mostly as an excuse to be near his magnetic presence.

But, for all the attention he commanded, there was one person at the pool that day who equally caught Thomas's discerning eye. It was Ben, a pool regular known for his stamina and the long laps he swam daily. Ben's toned body, with muscles rippling in just the right manner, made him a mirror counterpart to Thomas. As Ben finished his set and hoisted himself out of the pool, the water cascading down his chiselled abs, Thomas approached, raising his hand for their customary high-five.

"Great set today, Ben!" Thomas complimented as their palms met with a satisfying smack.

Ben chuckled, "Thanks! Felt good." The water droplets on his skin accentuated every contour, and Thomas couldn’t help but admire the view. It was an open secret around town about Thomas's fluid preferences, and many suspected that his camaraderie with Ben was more than just friendly.

Their shared glances had an underlying spark, a magnetic pull that had, over time, become a cherished secret between the two men. As Ben made his way to the changing rooms, Thomas followed suit, ensuring he wasn't seen. They both knew the routine, having enacted it countless times before.

The communal showers were deserted at this hour, with only the echoing sound of water dripping from a faulty tap. Steam enveloped the room, making the atmosphere sultry and charged. Without a word, Thomas turned on a shower, the water cascading down, and they stepped into the spray together.

As they closed the distance, Thomas reached for a bottle of soap, letting its silky contents spill onto his palm. He started by lathering Ben's broad shoulders, working his way down the muscular expanse of his back, appreciating every inch. The intimacy of the act, combined with the warm water surrounding them, heightened their senses.

But as Thomas’s hands moved around to Ben's abdomen, a sudden change jolted them both. Beneath his fingers, where once there had been tight, firm muscles, there was now a sudden softness. Thomas pulled back in surprise and watched, horrified, as Ben's fit body began to expand. A spare tyre of fat, uncharacteristic and unexpected, ballooned out around his midsection. Ben’s face twisted in confusion and distress.

"What's happening?" he gasped, his voice edged with panic.

"I don't know," Thomas replied, equally alarmed. The shower was hastily turned off as Ben continued to grow. As Thomas watched, the metamorphosis unfolded in agonising detail. The first thing he noticed was Ben's abdomen distending outward, like a balloon being gradually inflated. The once sharp lines of his six-pack faded, overtaken by the burgeoning flesh. His chest, previously firm and muscled, started to sag under the weight of the sudden adipose. The water cascading down their bodies made the expansion even more surreal, with every droplet magnifying the sight. The once lean and sinewy arms that Thomas had admired filled out, losing their chiselled definition, resembling dough that was proving and expanding.

Ben's face rounded, the sharp jawline becoming softer, plumper. Even his legs, the source of his swimming power, thickened, thighs rubbing together, the chiselled calves bloating outward. The transformation was total, shocking, and yet mesmerising in a grotesque manner.

As fear gripped Ben's widened eyes, Thomas instinctively pulled out his phone with one hand, dialling for an ambulance. But his other hand, driven by a mixture of concern and morbid curiosity, couldn't resist exploring this changed form. His fingers dug into the new, soft layers, tracing the unfamiliar contours. The act was intimate, perhaps even more so than their earlier touch, filled with a combination of wonder, worry, and an undeniable hint of longing. Ben moaned loudly before demanding loudly, “Feed me, Thomas! Make the hunger stop!”

Chapter Two: Transformation in Tandem

Thomas had a strange knack for compartmentalising traumatic events, and the scene of ambulance officers working with an effortful strain to help the newly engorged Ben into their vehicle was already locked away. The hospital would determine the cause - a severe allergic reaction, they surmised. However, the hedonistic memory of their tryst, a fusion of passion and panic, the sensation of touch transforming from solid muscle to softening flesh, still lingered fresh in his mind.

Later that day, the sun cast long, rippling reflections on the pool's surface, and as always, Thomas stood sentinel over his domain. His bronze, chiselled torso gleamed with droplets of water, each muscle defined and taut. It wasn’t just his duty to guard the pool; he was also its prime spectacle.

When Cameron and Arthur approached the pool's entrance, their athletic bodies testament to hours of dedication at the neighbouring CrossFit, Thomas couldn’t help but give them an appreciative glance. Cameron's sinewy frame was a stark contrast to Arthur’s bulkier, sculpted build, yet both radiated sheer power. Their pecs were defined, every ripple in their abs visible, thighs strong, and calves like sculpted stone.

Seeing them, Thomas’ roguish smile appeared, and he motioned for them to enter on the house. It was an unspoken transaction - a simple exchange of favours between bodies that understood and admired one another. They grinned back, their tight trunks hinting at their gym-honed glutes.

After an hour or so of swimming, the duo emerged, water glistening off their tanned bodies, making their muscles look even more pronounced. With a sly glance in Thomas’s direction, they moved towards the staff showers. And although they didn't beckon him verbally, Thomas knew the ritual.

Slipping in behind them, the steamy atmosphere of the showers almost acted as a veil, obscuring the outside world. Cameron and Arthur, already towel-dried, turned to face Thomas, their expressions a mix of mischief and anticipation. Drawing him in, three sets of hands explored familiar terrains.

However, amidst the passionate embrace, Thomas felt something amiss. His hands, as they roamed over Cameron and Arthur, detected subtle differences. The once hard obliques seemed softer, the chiselled midriffs slightly padded. It felt as though each man had suddenly added about 10kg to their waists. Deja vu hit Thomas like a tidal wave. Memories of Ben flashed before his eyes, and a frisson of anxiety rushed through him even as the steam and passion surrounded them. The misty veil of steam around them only accentuated the charged atmosphere as Thomas, Cameron, and Arthur entwined. Each movement was a symphony of muscle against muscle, their bronzed bodies glistening with beads of water and perspiration. Their Adonis-like forms were nothing short of mesmerising; every ripple of a muscle, every flex of a bicep, and the way their physiques intertwined felt like a work of art in motion.

Yet, as their fervour grew, Thomas noticed an undeniable shift. Cameron's lean frame, known for its sinewy muscles, started to soften. His defined abdomen started to round; each previously defined muscle seemed to blur and soften under Thomas's touch. Arthur, who possessed a bulkier but equally defined build, began to plump up more prominently. The thick, sculpted pectorals started to sag slightly, no longer firm but turning softer, more malleable.

As the moments passed and their passion intensified, the transformation became more evident. Arthur's muscular legs, once rock-hard and sculpted, now jiggled slightly, thickening and expanding. Cameron's once chiselled jawline started to round, a double chin subtly emerging. Their weight seemed to increase dramatically, the very force of it pushing against Thomas, almost pinning him between their ever-expanding forms.

Thomas felt both awe and a rising panic as the two men continued to swell in size. Their combined weight, growing from a lithe 80kg each to a staggering 120kg, was both a marvel and a mystery. The weight wasn't just in fat; their muscles also grew but were rapidly being enveloped by the expanding flesh. The sculpted physiques he had admired were transforming into softer, larger versions.

Their passionate endeavours slowed down as Cameron and Arthur felt the changes themselves, their movements becoming heavier, more laboured. There was a brief moment of shared alarm in their eyes, yet their physical connection didn't wane. Encased between the two, Thomas was trapped, not just by their weight but by the sheer inexplicability of the situation.

The room, charged with a mix of passion and panic, became a tableau of transformation. Thomas’ adonis figure was encased between the two men, once at the pinnacle of physical fitness, now ex-jocks whose CrossFit days were now long in the rearview mirror.

Chapter Three: The Inevitable Waves of Change

The sun glinted off Thomas's bronzed skin, accentuating each sinewy curve of his muscular frame as he sat atop his lifeguard tower. The strength evident in his thickly set arms and broad chest was not just for show. However, even his years of rigorous training had not prepared him for the surreal events of the past day. Distracted by the afterglow of yesterday’s encounter, a frantic cry from the water jolted Thomas back into his role. Two young women, who had been happily splashing around earlier, now appeared to be struggling, their once slender bodies rapidly changing. As Thomas squinted against the glare, he realised with shock that they weren't drowning but were instead inflating, their limbs becoming rounder and their torsos swelling like balloons.

With a speed that belied his size, Thomas was in the water, the taut muscles of his back and legs propelling him forward. As he approached the duo, their faces showed a mix of confusion and panic. Each girl's waistline had thickened, and their once-fitted swimwear now stretched to its limits. The buoyancy of their new, plush forms made it easier for Thomas to guide them towards the shallower end, but as they reached the pool's edge, their rapid weight gain made it near impossible for them to lift themselves out.

Relying on his immense strength, Thomas, with veins pulsing in his thick forearms, reached under the arms of one girl, heaving her upwards. Her once firm body now felt soft and malleable under his hands. Managing to get her seated at the pool's edge, he turned back to the other, using his broad shoulders and back to push her out of the water.

Out of the pool, they looked like entirely different individuals, their skin glistening not just with pool water but stretched over newly formed rolls of fat. Their swimsuits, designed for svelte figures, were now digging into their flesh, creating lines where the fabric strained.

As Thomas tried to calm the panicked girls, assuring them that medical help was on the way, two men – presumably their boyfriends – emerged from the pool. Their chiselled jaws dropped in horror at the sight of their transformed girlfriends. But before they could even process the situation, they themselves became the centre of attention. Beginning with tightness in their swim trunks, their glutes began expanding outward at a rapid pace. Their athletic chests puffed out, but not with the solid feel of muscle. Within minutes, their formerly sculpted abs were buried beneath layers of soft, yielding fat.

The pool area was now in chaos, with onlookers pointing and whispering. Thomas, though stunned, knew he needed to act. But deep inside, he couldn't deny a sense of exhilaration at witnessing these incredible transformations up close. The pool had become an epicentre of mysterious, rapid weight gain, and the root cause still eluded him. He just hoped he could keep his own desires in check long enough to unravel this enigma, realising he himself had just taken a plunge into the same waters that had changed these patrons.

Chapter Four: Tempting Fate

Thomas' gaze darted back and forth between the pool water and his reflection. The events of the past days had left a cloud of paranoia over him. He expected to see a softened face, a rounded belly, or fleshy arms. Instead, the figure that stared back was the familiar masterpiece he had worked hard to chisel: defined cheekbones, a broad chest with each pec defined, and abdominal muscles carved to perfection.

The serenity of the day was abruptly shattered by the sound of a scuffle near the deep end. A young woman with golden locks was visibly uncomfortable, her blue eyes flashing with anger as she tried to ward off the advances and unsolicited fondling of a brawny jock. He was undeniably imposing with steroid-enhanced muscles that threatened to burst from his tight-fitting shirt.

Without hesitation, Thomas stepped forward, interposing himself between the two. "Why don't you take a swim and cool off?" he suggested, subtly emphasizing the jock's flushed face.

The jock squared up, his artificially inflated biceps bulging with what seemed like suppressed rage. The menacing stare, the tightly clenched jaw—Thomas met it all with a calm and assertive gaze. Deciding to bait him, Thomas playfully taunted, "I bet you can't swim a kilometer without stopping."

The jock's hand shot forward, shoving Thomas with a force that would have unbalanced any lesser man. However, Thomas' well-toned legs held firm. With a grumble, the jock accepted the challenge, quickly discarding his shirt and revealing a torso that was more akin to a Greek statue than a real human. Without another word, he plunged into the water, his strokes strong and powerful.

The girl approached Thomas, gratitude evident in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice quivering slightly. However, Thomas' attention was fixed on the pool. His heart raced, not from fear or adrenaline, but from anticipation.

As the laps continued, the jock's form began to falter. By the 38th lap, his once smooth, rhythmic strokes began to appear sluggish. Thomas leaned forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. And then it began.

At first, it was a subtle ripple in the water, an unexplained disturbance. But soon, the jock's broad shoulders, which had been slicing through the water with precision, now looked...softer. The once tight skin that had showcased every sinewy muscle now seemed to wobble with each stroke. His well-defined back started to round, flesh pushing outward. His tight swimming trunks, which had previously only accentuated his lean physique, began to dig into expanding flesh.

What was once a trim waist ballooned outward, pushing against the fabric of his swimwear. His steroid-enhanced pecs, previously firm and proud, sagged under the weight of accumulating fat. And his thighs, those powerful pistons that had propelled him so effortlessly, now chafed with each kick.

By the 40th lap, the jock could swim no more. He clung to the edge of the pool, panting heavily. His previously Adonis-like figure had transformed into something softer, rounder, and undeniably heavier. The once cocky swagger was replaced by a look of pure disbelief, his eyes wide as they took in his newly acquired bulk. The jock, gasping and struggling in the water, turned his terrified eyes to Thomas. The arrogance and confidence that had once been a mainstay of his countenance had vanished, replaced with raw fear. His flailing arms reached out, trying to gain some purchase on the pool's edge, but his newfound bulk made even the simplest actions cumbersome.

Thomas stood tall and imposing, his taut muscles and athletic form casting a shadow over the expanding man. The pool's once still water now undulated, disturbed by the jock's desperate thrashing and the rapid inflation of his body. The very sight of this once proud figure begging, his voice desperate and strained, was a contrast that wasn’t lost on Thomas.

The jock's growth was not a slow transformation this time. It was as if nature itself sought to expedite his retribution. His abdomen distended first, pushing outward at a pace that was almost audible, the taut skin stretching to accommodate the rapid accumulation of fat. His pecs, once firm and prominent, drooped heavily, merging with the fatty bulge of his midsection.

Thomas, leaning down, whispered, "You reap what you sow." His voice was cold and unforgiving, and the jock's eyes widened in terror, his pleading intensifying.

The jock's limbs started to thicken next. Muscles that once rippled with power now disappeared beneath expanding flesh. His once muscular arms looked like they were being pumped full of air, his forearms disappearing into meaty hands. And his legs, his strong, tree-trunk legs, now resembled massive pillars, growing at such a rate that they started to push against each other, constrained by the water.

Thomas, with a sudden jolt of compassion and realisation, began trying to rescue the jock from his swelling fate. He reached forward, his muscular arms straining against the sheer mass of the man. A crowd gathered, and several bystanders, fuelled by a mix of curiosity and altruism, joined Thomas in his efforts.

With every pull, with every heave, the jock's body continued its relentless expansion. As they passed the 450kg mark, it felt as if they were trying to rescue a giant balloon being rapidly inflated. The weight was staggering, and the sheer girth of the jock was making it difficult to get a proper grip. But Thomas, driven by determination, rallied the crowd, and with a concerted effort, they managed to drag the jock to the edge of the pool.

However, by the time they succeeded in partially hauling him out, the jock was almost unrecognisable. The man, who had once been the epitome of athletic prowess, was now a mound of flesh, his features almost entirely obscured by his bloated form. The once-tight swimwear had given way, lost beneath the folds of his immense bulk. His breathing was laboured, each inhalation causing his massive body to quiver. By now, it was evident that he was pushing 500kg.

Thomas, panting and drenched in sweat, looked at the behemoth in front of him. The transformation was both mesmerising and horrifying, a stark reminder of the pool's mysterious and terrifying power.

Chapter Five: Whispers of Change

The events of the previous day had turned the once-quiet pool into a site of intrigue. The sun hung high and unrelenting, its rays bouncing off the glistening water, drawing even larger crowds to the infamous pool. The whispers about the 500kg transformation reached far and wide, but instead of deterring patrons, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

Thomas perched in his high chair, his eyes scanning the bustling pool area. The sight of Cameron and Arthur, sprawled out by the poolside took him by surprise. Their newly acquired bellies — prominent, round, and proudly displayed — caught the sun’s rays, making their skin shine. Their hands caressed each other's newfound bulk, fingers sinking slightly into the soft flesh. The two seemed content, undisturbed by their recent changes, their love for each other apparently deepened by their shared experience.

While the previous transformations had been dramatic, the effects today were subtler, perhaps because of the crowd. But they were still noticeable if one knew where to look. And Thomas, with his keen observation, definitely noticed.

A father, probably in his late 40s, emerged from the pool. While earlier he'd had the tell-tale signs of a mild dad bod — soft around the edges but not particularly pronounced — now there was a definite change. The waistband of his shorts dug into a newly formed layer of fat, creating a slight overhang. His shirt, once loosely draped over his frame, now clung to a more rounded midsection. He seemed oblivious to the extra weight, chatting animatedly with his family as they settled down for a picnic.

Further down, a group of young women, probably in their early twenties, stepped out of the pool. They had spent no more than fifteen minutes in the water, but the effects were undeniable. The high-cut bikini bottoms, which had once accentuated their toned physiques, now had a slightly different story to tell. Soft, pillowy flesh now crept over the edges, not enough to be immediately alarming, but enough for an observant eye to notice.

Thomas continued his vigil, noting each transformation. A teenage boy, athletic and spry when he entered, now had a faint roundness to his cheeks and a slight pudginess to his belly. An older woman, once svelte and elegant in her one-piece, had her thighs now touched in a way they hadn’t before.

The transformations were myriad — some subtle, some a bit more pronounced, but none as drastic as the jock's. The pool's power, it seemed, was proportional to the exposure, and the patrons seemed oblivious to the fact that their day of leisure had more costs than their planned for.

Chapter Six: Ripples of Transformation

It was late afternoon when the rumbling sounds of camaraderie echoed through the pool area. A team of rugby players, their jerseys marked with the evidence of a fiercely fought game, entered in high spirits. Each player was the epitome of fitness, their physiques chiselled from hours of rigorous training and matches.

Thomas recognised the team. They were the local heroes, having won the regional championships earlier that day. They had come to celebrate, to wash off the sweat and grime, and to enjoy a moment of reprieve.

The players, laughing and joking, quickly stripped down to their swimwear. Their muscles rippled, each movement showcasing years of dedication to their sport. The sunlight gleamed off their broad backs, their torsos tapering down to lean waists and powerful legs. Initially, they lounged by the pool, chatting and relishing their victory. But soon, the temptation of the cool water proved too much. With playful shoves and mock protests, they all ended up in the pool. Their boisterous energy transformed the ambience, their laughter infectious.

Thomas observed them from his perch, aware of what might ensue, but equally curious to see the outcome. As minutes turned to hours, he began to notice the initial signs.

The team captain, a tall man with a prominent jawline and a frame that bespoke power, was the first to show visible change. His abs, previously like a washboard, started to soften, each pack melding into the next. His pecs, once tight and firm, began to droop ever so slightly.

Next, the swift winger, known for his agility, found his thighs thickening, the toned muscles now covered in a layer of plumpness. His face, sharp and angular, took on a rounder, softer appearance.

One by one, each player underwent their transformation. Some added bulk around their waists, the beginnings of a belly forming. Others found their biceps and triceps becoming less distinct, blending into the increasing fullness of their arms. Butts expanded, pushing against the fabric of their swimwear. Faces filled out, necks disappeared, and backs broadened further.

Yet, amidst this change, the spirit of the team remained undeterred. They acknowledged their expanding forms with humour as if only realising their team mates physiques for the first time, slapping each other’s muscle bellies. Their bond, it seemed, only strengthened.

Their mirth was infectious, spreading quickly to the pool’s other patrons. But their loudest cheers were reserved for one person—Thomas.

“Hey! It’s the legendary Thomas!” the team's burly prop forward shouted, causing heads to turn and hushed whispers to circulate. Many of the players shared knowing glances and cheeky winks. Tales of Thomas's passionate escapades with some of the team members were the stuff of legend. His reputation, it seemed, was as well-known off the lifeguard chair as it was on it.

In their post-match euphoria, a playful plot began to form. With a gleam in their eyes, several players approached Thomas. “Fancy a dip, lifeguard?” the captain teased, the undercurrent of mischief evident in his voice.

Thomas laughed it off at first, but the men were insistent, their intentions clear as they closed in. He began to resist, using all his might to fend off their advances. But even the renowned strength of Thomas, impressive as it was, stood little chance against a group of determined and slightly inebriated rugby players.

The world seemed to blur and slow as he felt himself lifted and then, with a dramatic arc, hurled into the pool. The coldness of the water shocked his senses, but instinct kicked in, and he swam to the surface as swiftly as he could, eager to escape the potentially transformative properties of the water.

Emerging, his hair slicked back and his body glistening, he was met with the raucous applause and cheers of the rugby team. They congratulated him on his swift escape, patting him on the back, their expanding hands now noticeably softer. As they struggled to fit into their jerseys, now straining at the seams and riding up over their enlarging bellies, the mood remained lighthearted.

The evening eventually wound down, and as the last echoes of laughter faded into the night, a profound sensation overcame Thomas. A hunger, deep and insatiable, gnawed at him, his stomach growling loudly. Thomas sighed in relief when his hand felt solid abs as it rubbed his torso, but the hunger remained. He glanced at the still waters of the pool, its mysteries continuing to deepen as his mind raced through what he would eat on his way home from work.

[vir-tanadahl]

The Temple of Fen'harel

Summary: Shortly after Corypheus' defeat, Inquisitor Lavellan begins to hear the voices from the Well of Sorrows calling to her. Following their guidance, she is led to a long-forgotten temple, where she uncovers the truth about Solas. (Set before the events of Trespasser.)

Note: I originally published this on 02/07/2015, seven months before Trespasser was released. Since I am re-writing all of my fanfics to help cope with my excitement for Dragon Age: Veilguard, I decided to rewrite this to make it more… lore-accurate—at least as accurate as possible. (Find on Ao3)

Rain trickled down Lavellan's face, cool droplets slipping along her skin as she gazed at the shadowy expanse of the forest. Her body trembled, soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin, but the sharp chill seemed distant, almost muted. In her mind, the voices of the vir’abelasan pulsed—urgent, insistent—urging her forward. The moonlight bathed her bronzed skin, casting a soft glow as it mingled with the wet sheen that glistened on her arms and shoulders. Without a word, she stepped into the dense, silent woodlands.

Each footfall sank into the mud with a soft squelch, the earth gripping her boots as if reluctant to release her. But still, she pressed on, her steps not entirely her own—guided, almost forced, by the ceaseless voices echoing in her thoughts. A week had passed since she left Skyhold. The only trace of her departure was a note, carelessly pinned to her desk, its message as brief and cryptic as her resolve: I will return soon.

Lavellan stepped into the clearing, where the remnants of a forgotten temple lay entwined with nature’s reclaiming touch. Wildflowers had woven themselves into the cracks of what was once a golden path, their vibrant colors softening the stone beneath. Towering trees loomed overhead, their roots surging through the ancient foundation, spilling into the temple’s entryway like fingers stretching across a forgotten canvas. Untouched by human hands, the ruins stood quietly, much like the sacred halls of Mythal—preserved by time and neglect.

As she crossed the crumbling bridge, a ripple of magic sparked against her skin, familiar and ancient. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of memories not her own, and soon her vision blurred—flickers of a time long before the fall of the elves flashing before her eyes. Without realizing, her steps quickened, her body moving as if carried by invisible threads. She was no longer walking of her own accord—the voices of the Well surged, pulling her forward, guiding her deeper into the ruins. The echoes of the past overwhelmed her, flooding her senses, leaving her unaware of her own movements.

Lavellan blinked, and suddenly she was no longer in the clearing. Elves moved before her, their heads bowed in reverence as they followed intricate rituals, one by one gaining entrance to the inner sanctum. Those deemed worthy knelt at the towering doors, leaving small tokens—a feather, a carved stone, a vial of shimmering liquid—before slipping inside. The sound of hushed prayers whispered through the air, their voices lost in the grandeur of the temple.

Beyond the heavy doors, a grand hallway stretched into the distance, leading to an open atrium. The scent of fresh water and elfroot filled the air, mingling with the damp earth. At the center stood the temple, its pale walls gleaming under the soft light. Lavellan’s senses were engulfed by the vividness of it all, until—

She gasped, yanked back into the present, her breath catching as the memory faded. Confusion settled like a weight in her chest as she found herself once again standing before the ruined temple. Vines snaked around the statues that lined the overgrown pathway, their once-pristine stone now concealed beneath thick, twisting foliage. She moved forward instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed the leaves aside, revealing fragments of elven script etched into the stone.

The old language poured into her mind like a rushing river, unbidden and unstoppable. She traced the words, her voice barely a whisper as she read: “…give thanks to he who is named Fen’Harel as he aids us…”

Lavellan staggered back, heart pounding, pure shock and terror coursing through her. A temple to the Dread Wolf. Her breath hitched at the realization. This place was dedicated to Fen’harel, the betrayer, the one who brought Arlathan to ruin and plunged her people into endless exile. The voices in her mind swelled, chaotic and unrelenting, flooding her vision with fragmented images—elves clashing in bitter conflict, blood staining the earth, a deep, seething strife between forces she could not name.

Her stomach twisted violently as she fought to reclaim control, nausea bubbling up as the overwhelming flood of memories receded. She pressed her palm to her temple, feeling the dull throb of a headache building behind her eyes. Were the Dalish wrong... again? The question lingered, unanswered, as silence settled over her mind. The voices that had once urged her forward now offered no clarity, only a persistent push deeper into the temple.

Without fully understanding why, Lavellan found herself moving toward the entrance. The door stood ajar, its hinges creaking as she slipped inside. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and her footfalls echoed faintly in the silence. Her gaze locked onto the center of the room—a grand, golden mosaic throne. It loomed before her, untouched by time or decay, radiating an air of quiet power. She crept closer, her breath shallow, as if the weight of the temple's history pressed down on her.

Lavellan spun on her heel, panic rising as she tried to flee, but the voices locked her in place. Her body refused to obey, no matter how fiercely her instincts screamed for her to run. Even from across the chamber, she recognized him—the man who had captured her heart. Solas, draped across the golden throne, his body relaxed, his head resting in a peaceful slumber. Terror gripped her as her intuition shrieked in warning. She had made a grave mistake. The truth, buried deep inside her, clawed its way to the surface: the creature she had feared her entire life was the one she had fallen in love with.

The Dread Wolf.

Her mind raced, the realization crashing down with brutal clarity. She had slept with the betrayer, the destroyer. The image of him, laughing with cruel satisfaction, as he crushed her heart in his hand, flashed before her. He had deceived her, lured her in with tenderness, and now—now, he would tear her apart.

But her body defied her fear. Against her will, she moved toward him, step by step, the voices driving her closer to the slumbering god. His chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmic breaths, his consciousness far away in the Fade. Her hand lifted, trembling, and though every part of her screamed to stop, her fingers gently brushed his cheek. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through her, and for a moment, his nose and lips twitched at the soft contact, though his eyes remained closed.

The voices surged again, pressing against her mind, straining toward him. They reached out, seeking the ancient power that pulsed beneath his skin. And then, like the snap of a bowstring, Solas jolted awake, his eyes wide and sharp. A ripple of ancient magic, raw and immense, pulsed through the air, and Lavellan felt the weight of his gaze pierce through her.

Solas’ hands gripped the arms of the throne, his knuckles white as his gaze locked on the golden eyes of his lover. His chest tightened, and his nose wrinkled with anger. “You should not be here,” he growled, the words thick with frustration. His sharp eyes scanned her, narrowing in suspicion. “The voices… did you ask them to lead you to me?” He rose from the throne, his movements sudden and forceful, the weight of his question hanging in the air.

Lavellan staggered back, her heart racing as panic swelled inside her, choking her voice. She couldn’t answer, her throat closing off any sound. The raw intensity of his presence pressed down on her, and she recoiled, unsure if it was the power that radiated from him or the terror that gripped her heart.

Solas paused, his anger flickering. He knew her well enough to understand—stubborn, determined, unwilling to let him vanish without a fight. His expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he watched her. He could never stay angry with her for seeking him out, for challenging the boundaries he had tried to impose. She was too passionate, too relentless, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

But something else caught his attention—the sheer terror in her eyes. Not fear of disturbing his slumber, but something deeper, something primal. His breath hitched as realization struck like a dagger. She knew. She had uncovered his secret.

“Vhenan…” he muttered, the word escaping him before he could stop it. His hand moved toward her, aching to offer comfort, though he hesitated, his throat tight with words unsaid. The distance between them seemed too vast now, a chasm carved by truths she wasn’t ready to face.

A broken croak escaped her throat as Lavellan stumbled back, her feet forgetting the steps behind her. Her body lurched into open air, falling—but before the cold stone could meet her, Solas’ hand shot out, gripping hers. He yanked her toward him with a desperate strength, and they both crashed against the throne, her body pressed tightly against his. “Please, ma vhenan,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he clutched her struggling form.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision, as the words forced themselves out between gasping sobs. “You are... Fen’harel.” Each word cut through the air like a blade, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Solas’ face twisted with guilt, his chest swelling with sorrow as he tightened his hold, keeping her close. He pressed his forehead to her temple, his breath warm and ragged against her skin. “I am,” he murmured, reluctant, the weight of the admission heavy between them. Her sobs racked against him, shaking her small frame as she buried her face in her hands. His heart clenched. “Ir abelas, ma vhenan, I am so sorry,” he whispered into her ear, his voice soft, pained.

Lavellan shook her head violently, hands still covering her face, unable to look at him. The voices in her head surged, their clamor filling her consciousness, making the ache in her stomach worse with each pulse. Solas’ cold fingers brushed her forehead, gently pushing her damp hair away from her face as he murmured apology after apology. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by her uneven breaths as they sat tangled together, her sobs gradually fading into exhaustion.

Time passed in that stillness. She fell into a deep, fitful slumber in his arms, while he remained perfectly still despite the aching pain that spread through his back and shoulders. Her anguish was far greater than anything he could feel.

When Lavellan finally stirred, her eyelids heavy and swollen, her mind foggy with the weight of the night’s revelations, memory came crashing back like a tidal wave. She jolted, eyes snapping open, her heart pounding. She tried to stand, to flee, but found herself unable to move. Solas’ familiar arms were still wrapped tightly around her, holding her as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“Lavellan,” Solas whispered, his voice rough and hoarse from the weight of sleepless hours. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, ignoring him, her expression unreadable. He leaned closer, desperation seeping into his voice. “Vhenan, please,” he murmured, gently reaching for her, his fingers brushing her chin as he tried to turn her face toward him. She didn’t resist, but when her eyes finally met his, they were cold, her emotions masked behind a wall of restraint.

Her gaze hardened, and a bitter edge crept into her voice. “You’re supposed to be a monster. To look like a monster. But you’re the master of tricks, aren’t you?” Her glare intensified, venomous. The moment hung between them, heavy with accusation, before her hand lashed out, striking his face with a sharp crack. And then her glare faulters, softening. Her own experience with him clashing with everything her culture told her about him.

Solas sighs, the sting of the slap echoing in the silence, but he didn’t defend himself. His eyes softened with the pain of her betrayal as she glared at him, her chest heaving. “You lied to me,” she said, her voice thick with anguish.

“In a way, I did, yes.” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me go.” Lavellan shoved at his chest, her words harsh, final. Reluctantly, Solas loosened his hold, and she pulled away, pacing back and forth as if caged by her own thoughts, her emotions warring beneath the surface.

Solas watched her, the ache in his heart growing as he stood from the throne. His voice, quiet yet steady, filled the room. “I have lied about who I am, but never about my feelings for you.”

Lavellan stopped mid-stride, her fists clenching and unclenching. Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and grief as she turned to him. “You might as well have!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. She took a step closer, her fury palpable. “How could anything be real when everything I knew about you was a lie?”

“I didn’t exactly lie—at least, not entirely.” Solas’ voice trembled with urgency, his eyes searching her face for any sign of understanding. Lavellan’s steps faltered, uncertainty rippling through her as her fingers tangled in her hair. She struggled, torn between the truths she thought she knew and the reality unraveling before her.

Solas hesitated, watching her wrestle with her thoughts. “The Dread Wolf from the stories... from the legends… that’s only part of the truth,” he continued softly, stepping closer. His words hung in the air between them like fragile threads. “I was Solas first. Fen'Harel came later.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his confession raw.

Lavellan stared at him, her mind spinning as she tried to reconcile the man she loved with the figure of betrayal and legend. Her breath caught, and she fought to process everything, her heart hammering in her chest.

Solas’ expression softened, regret filling his eyes. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “But you should not be here.” He reached out, carefully taking her hands into his, his fingers warm against hers. He watched her, but her gaze drifted, her eyes glazing over, distant and unfocused. He knew the voices were speaking to her again, likely confirming that he is the Dread Wolf.

She began shaking her head, confusion clouding her features as the voices slipped into an unsettling silence. "I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes searching the floor. Fragments of their time together flickered through her mind—the quiet conversations, the guarded looks, the moments after Corypheus fell. Threads of memory wove together, forming a pattern she hadn't seen before.

Suddenly, her gaze snapped back to his, eyes sharp and filled with a dawning intensity. "The orb..." she breathed, the words barely audible. "It was yours, wasn't it?"

Her voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding, the hope that she might be wrong fading with each passing second. The realization settled heavily between them, an unspoken truth finally brought to light.

A sad smile flickered across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It was,” he confessed softly. He paused, as if weighing the gravity of what came next. “I didn’t foresee him surviving the blast...” His voice trailed off, unfinished, heavy with regret.

Lavellan hesitated, searching his face for answers, her heart sinking. “But why?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Why did you give him the orb, Solas?”

His expression darkened, his frown deepening as he lowered his head, lost in the shadows of his memories. “I was too weak,” he muttered, the words slipping from him like a bitter truth. “Too weak after my long slumber to unlock its power.”

His voice was careful, measured, but she could hear the anguish threaded between his words, could see the pain reflected in his eyes—burdens he had carried for far too long.

Her heart shattered as she watched the dance of pain and anguish play across his face, each unspoken regret heavy in the air between them. Without thinking, she reached up, her hand trembling as she gently pulled his face toward hers. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of his sorrow and the ache in her chest.

She pressed her lips softly against his, tender and hesitant, as if her kiss alone could soothe the burden he had carried for so long. It was a silent plea, a desperate hope that in this moment, she could ease even a fraction of his suffering. For just a breath, she wished to take away the hurt, to hold him in a world where neither of them had to carry the weight of their choices.

She pulled back, her breath still lingering between them. “But why?” she asked, her voice quiet but filled with concern. Her eyes searched his, aching to understand.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen like this," Solas murmured, his voice low and weighted with regret. He wanted to tell her more, to lay his burden bare, but centuries of guarding his heart held him back. His eyes flickered with emotions he couldn't quite express.

Lavellan furrowed her brow, her mind racing as she sifted through memories—of time spend and conversations had with Solas, of Dalish legends half-remembered, fragmented and tangled like knotted yarn. The truth was there, albeit elusive, but something tugged at the edges of her understanding, and her heart clenched with a terrible realization.

“You didn’t mean for the Veil to hurt the People, did you?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent, a plea for clarity in the face of so much confusion.

Solas’ expression tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face before he looked away. He didn’t answer immediately, but the silence between them was enough. The answer lingered in the air, unspoken but painfully clear.

“But why leave? Why come here when your plan failed?” Lavellan’s voice cracked, frustration, pain, and confusion swirling in her chest. “Did you really plan to live out the rest of your life in isolation, away from—” Her breath caught in her throat, words faltering as the weight of what she was about to say threatened to choke her. ’Away from me? The thought hung in her mind, unspoken, but its presence was undeniable, heavy and raw.

Solas’ gaze softened, as if sensing the unspoken question. His lips parted, but he hesitated, the guarded expression on his face slipping ever so slightly. The silence that stretched between them was filled with everything they weren’t saying, everything they were afraid to confront. And in that moment, her heart ached with the fear that perhaps, in his isolation, he had already made his choice—one that didn’t include her.

But, Solas remained silent, his gaze steady but unreadable, as if her question pierced through the walls he had so carefully built. Her eyes searched his face for something—anything—that might reveal his reasons, but all she found was the lingering sadness he tried so hard to hide. The tension between them thickened, the truth just out of reach, suspended in the heavy silence.

Her breath trembled, her heart pounding with the unspoken realization that perhaps his isolation was not just a punishment for himself, but a way to protect her—from his failure, from the consequences of loving him.

Solas shook his head slowly, the stoic mask settling back into place, hardening his features. But his eyes—those eyes still whispered the sorrow he could not bring himself to speak aloud. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until finally, his voice broke through, a whisper of regret and weariness. “I need time…”

It was a fragile admission, but it left her heart aching, knowing that time alone couldn’t mend the chasm that had opened between them.

“And then you’ll come back?” Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile and filled with hope. The question hung in the air between them, trembling on the edge of uncertainty. She looked at him, her eyes searching for reassurance, for a promise that everything would somehow be as it once was.

Solas’ breath caught in his throat. He could hear the hope laced in her words, the quiet plea that, perhaps, he would return to her—not to his mission, not to the world he was determined to change, but to her.

Whether she was willfully blind to the truth or simply unaware of the path he had chosen, he couldn’t say. Her gaze, filled with that quiet hope, made it clear she didn’t fully grasp the depths of his intentions—the consequences of what he had set in motion.

Solas wasn’t sure if she truly understood that the orb had been only the beginning. It was his first plan, yes, and in many ways, his best hope for a swift restoration of what had once been. But it was not his only plan. The thought of the steps yet to come—the things he would have to do, the sacrifices he would demand of himself and the world—tightened his chest with guilt. The path he walks is the dinan’shiral. There is only death on this journey.

He feared she hadn’t yet realized how far he was willing to go to achieve his goal, how unyielding his resolve had become. The love that still exists between them, the tenderness that still sparked in her eyes—it was fragile. He could see it now, hanging by a thread that would inevitably be severed when the full truth came to light. But not yet.

For now, she didn’t see the deeper plan, the path that stretched far beyond their love, leading him to a future he couldn’t allow her to follow because he could not allow her to see what he will become.

“Yes,” he replies, the word slipping out—half-truth, but not quite a lie. It’s inevitable that their paths will cross again. She, leading the Inquisition, guiding the world through the chaos left in Corypheus’ wake. And he… he will be working tirelessly in the shadows, forging a new plan to tear down the Veil he once erected to protect the People.

The weight of the truth he couldn’t share sat heavy on his chest. Their reunion wouldn’t be as she imagined—there would be no quiet return to what they had before. He had no intention of leaving her life entirely, but not in the way she hoped. He would still be out there, always moving, always plotting, preparing for the moment when he would have to make the impossible choice.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, knowing she couldn’t see the full shape of what was coming. She couldn’t know that while he said yes, it wasn’t in the way she longed for. Their next meeting wouldn’t be born out of love, but of necessity. Of fate. Of a mission he could not abandon, no matter the cost to them both.

But for now, she believed in that small word, in the promise she heard. And he let her, knowing it would break her heart in time.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold You Till Forever

For @sjmromanceweek day 5 💕. Cassian made Nesta a promise on the battlefield. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Nesta goes searching for him to make him a promise of her own, having realised a few things in their brush with death. (Title taken from, and partly inspired by, the song Die Together by Amanda Tenfjord) (ao3)

...

I will find you. In the next world—

We’ll have that time—

I promise—

***

Nesta didn’t know what she had expected the aftermath of a battle to be like.

In all of the stories, all of the legends… there was silence in the moments after the fighting faded. Something sombre and weighty, heavy and sorrowful. A stunned kind of quiet as the world slowly knitted itself back together.

This was not that kind of healing. Not that kind of peace.

The world had, instead, descended into chaos. Had been sinking further and further into desolation as the sun made a slow path across the sky, golden light glancing off of broken shields, discarded swords. Even with the battle over, bloodshed reigned still as healers called for water, called for linen, called for bandages, and with the sun gilding the bloodiest parts of the battlefield, limning the pain…

Nesta searched.

Searched for the tent she needed— the warrior she needed.

She had walked away from the spot where she had driven a knife through the neck of a king. Where she had twisted and twisted, pushing until she could push no more, until she felt bone and sinew both yield beneath the edge of the blade. She had walked away from the place her father had died, the grass beneath her feet stained with so much blood it was difficult to tell if she stepped over the lifeblood, spilled, of friend or of foe— of the king she had murdered or the father who had given his life.

She felt an aching kind of sorrow. A heavy, breathless kind of grief as she walked slowly through the camp, through the debris— the scattered pieces of lives given, lost, saved. Past overturned water buckets, cast off shields. Nesta picked her way past the tents that housed the desperate, the dying, searching for just one in particular.

One close to the centre of the camp, one made of rope and black canvas. 

One that the men passed with whispers of the general, that’s the general’s tent.

Nesta made her way there, her every step so agonisingly slow, as if she couldn’t force her limbs to move anymore, as if even breathing were becoming an exertion. Her hands were thick with blood, her soul heavy with loss, and yet…

She thought of his chest, of his breaths that had been ragged, rasping. She thought of his wings, thrown wide to protect her— then snapped, broken. She thought of how he had barely been able to stand, his leg broken too, how he had barely been able to walk as the healers took him away from that clearing where his blood still lingered, still seeped into the earth.

Nesta needed him. 

Needed to find him.

Needed to make a promise of her own. 

***

Even the healers had departed by the time Nesta slipped into that tent, the sun falling beneath the horizon as the day of battle came to an end. As dusky twilight descended, Nesta took a breath and let the tent flaps close behind her, all but sealing her in.

A small brazier burned in one corner, a single candle still lit. The air tasted of salt and soap, of healing ointment and starched bandages, and yet, beneath it all… there was him too, the comforting scent of him beneath it all.

Cassian.

She had realised something, on that battlefield today. Realised that even as fae, life remained fragile and there were so many things she hadn’t said, hadn’t told him… 

The healers had left him sleeping, and he didn’t wake, not as Nesta took another step forwards into his tent. His eyes were closed, his golden skin like burnished bronze in the dim light, eyelashes fluttering as his sleep grew uneasy. He lay on a camp bed, on his back with his wings pinned beneath him, wrapped and mending, his hands resting gently on his stomach. 

But the rest of him—

The rest of him was a mass of bandages, his chest wrapped so tightly from the bottom of his ribs to his sternum. The king had snapped his wings, had broken his leg, had inflicted so, so many wounds that they had cut through even the toughest parts of his armour. He had been broken and bloody, dying, and Nesta had thrown herself over him, guarded his life with her own, and she remembered the feel of his hand on her back, the briefness of his kiss as he used what little energy he had left to tell her - to show her - how much, in the few months they had known one another, his life had somehow become defined, encompassed, by her.

A sob threatened to break from her lips as she looked upon him now, as she remembered his voice, broken, telling her to go, to leave, to let him die.

I can’t, she’d said. The closest she had gotten to telling him that she regretted it too, hated that their time had suddenly ran short. 

Someone had cleaned the blood, had washed it from his skin, and as Nesta spied a clean pail of water in the corner, she moved to do the same. She sloughed the blood from her hands, the water cold and piercing, removing all trace, all evidence, of battle. And when she was done, Nesta dried her hands on a towel before coming to kneel at his bedside, finding no stool to sit upon.

It didn’t matter.

She had knelt with him in the mud and the dirt only hours ago, had cradled his head in her lap as his life slipped between her fingers, and even then… Even then she hadn’t told him. Hadn’t said all the things she needed to, all of the promises that had lingered on her tongue.

I’ll find you, he'd said. I promise.

She hadn’t realised until that moment how much she had needed to hear those words fall from his lips. How much she had longed for it, for the kiss he had so briefly given her. She watched the rising of his chest now, focused on it, counting his every breath. Alive— he was alive, and she could tell him now, could voice all of those things she hadn’t been able to as he lay dying—

“Why are you on the floor.”

His voice was thick with sleep, heavy with pain. Nesta looked up, finding his face lined with worry as his eyes opened, as consciousness returned. Stupid bat, she thought. I’m not the one who lost all that blood. I’m not the one lying wrapped in a mile of bandages.

“Nes.”

Cassian frowned, a crease forming between his brows as he glanced down at her by his bedside. He pushed up onto his elbows, hissing as the movement stretched the wounds over his chest, and even though, briefly, his eyes shuttered against the pain… He tilted his head and offered her a small smile.

“Why are you on the floor?” he asked again, softer this time, a question that had a gentle kind of bemusement rounding out its edges.

“There’s no chair,” Nesta pointed out flatly, waving a hand at the tent around them, gesturing at the decided lack of any real furniture. Just a camp bed, a wash basin, and a chest with the lid propped open, flying leathers and weapons inside. 

Cassian patted the space beside him on the bed. “So?”

“So there was no room on the bed, what with your great hulking wings—”

His grin stopped her short, blooming even in the wake of agony. A hand went to his ribs, eyes darkening as pain flared, but then he was grinning again, a rakish curve to his lips.

“Tell me more about how big you think my wings are,” he said, his voice dropping, kicking low and sultry as he raised an eyebrow.

Nesta scowled. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Mhm,” he said dryly. “And you’re still on the floor.”

Nesta rose to her feet, brushed herself off. Slowly, as if second-guessing, she settled herself on the edge of his mattress.

He’d almost died for her.

Almost died, all but told her he loved her as she held on to him, as she all but begged him to stay, to live. In that clearing, when his life was a moment from winking out, when hers wasn’t far behind, Nesta had found herself suddenly so certain of… everything. Clarity had settled over her as she heard his breathing grow shallow and his heartbeat start to slow.

She didn’t want to lose him.

She didn’t want to live without him. Even if she was only a handful of moments behind him, even if she took her last breath only a minute after his heart stopped… It would be a minute too long, she realised in that clearing. A minute of agony she didn’t want to endure. 

And she needed to say it, needed to tell him, but she couldn’t quite find the words, didn’t know how to start.

I have no regrets but this, he’d said. That we did not have time.

And she should have said, I love you.

She should have said, I’ll wait for you. In whatever world we find ourselves in, whatever lies beyond… I’ll wait for you.

She should have told him all of it, as he lay dying in her arms, but the weight of her grief, her sorrow, her pain, had been too much to bear, too much to breathe around much less speak, and he had been dying as her father’s blood stained the ground and—

“You’re hurting,” he whispered, bringing her back to the present, where he was breathing and the war was over. Lifting a hand, Cassian let his fingers graze her cheek, the back of his knuckles soft against her skin.

“So are you,” Nesta answered, glancing pointedly at the bandages that covered him, that masked the wounds he’d gained throwing his life before hers.

“Different kind of hurt,” he pressed, his voice as soft as the candlelight that bathed them.

Once, Nesta would have pulled away.

A matter of days ago - hours ago, even - Nesta would have turned away from that softness, ran from the look in his eyes. She would have scorned the touch at her cheek, would have spit some insult and left that tent with her heart racing. 

She didn’t want to run, now. She hadn’t ran as he’d lay dying, as the king had advanced and prepared to send them both into the darkness. Hadn’t turned from him as he kissed her with blood on his lips. She hadn’t ran, not even when Cassian had begged her to leave. So— she wouldn’t now, either. 

“Take it away then,” she said, her lips barely moving as the words slipped out— so quiet, so soft. Her eyelids fluttered closed for the barest of seconds as his thumb grazed her cheekbone. “The pain. Take it away for me, Cassian.”

His eyes closed at the sound of his name on her tongue, a shaking breath leaving him as his chest continued to rise, his heart continued to beat. His hand moved, fingers straying into her hair, gripping and twisting in her tangled braids. He pressed their foreheads together and Nesta kept her eyes closed, shut tight, guarding against the horror still saturating the world beyond this tent. 

“I would,” he answered, hoarse. “You know that I would.”

His eyes opened, his gaze lined with the same kind of grief and anguish that was tearing apart her own chest. Nesta only swallowed, letting her fingers rest against one powerful shoulder. 

Her eyes dropped once more to the bandages, white and fresh, but her breath caught as her mind conjured all the images of him on the battlefield— as she heard the snap as the king’s booted foot came down hard on Cassian’s wing. She almost trembled, almost mourned, as she remembered how he had cradled her face as he almost died beneath her hands. 

“I can’t lose you too,” she said, her voice cracking. “I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he answered quickly, his voice firm but not harsh, still soft at the edges. “Never, sweetheart.”

“I need you,” she admitted— the truth she’d been hiding from all along. She’d realised it as he’d kissed her, as she’d felt his blood run over her fingers. She hadn’t said it, hadn’t been able to speak in that clearing as he vowed to find her in the afterlife, in whatever world was next. And oh, how she would have regretted it. If he’d died before she had to chance to tell him— if he’d died without knowing. If she had died, before finding the courage to voice it aloud.

Her fingertips were tight on his shoulder now, grasping at his bare skin as if searching for something to hold on to. One of his hands found hers, caught her fingers and wound them together, giving her the hold she needed. He was silent, but as Nesta closed her eyes again, she felt soft lips against her cheek, across the bridge of her nose, on her forehead. Soft, fluttering kisses, little more than a brush of bruised lips against her skin, but her heartbeat began to calm, the waves of anguish in her chest receding. 

Cassian cradled the back of her head, fingers brushing the nape of her neck, and when Nesta twisted her head, his lips fell to her jaw. His other hand came to her waist, a soft gasp leaving him as the movement shifted his wings, a hiss of pain as the broken membrane, shattered bones, stretched. He didn’t stop— his nose grazed her jaw, his hands pulling her closer as Nesta felt herself plummeting towards him, falling down, heading right to the safe haven he offered.

“I love you,” she breathed. “Don’t die without knowing that.”

“I’m not going to die, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low against her skin. He pressed another kiss to her neck before his lips climbed higher, skating over her jaw before reaching the corner of her mouth. He paused, waiting for her eyes to open as he held her face between his palms. “But I love you, too.”

“I thought you were gone, I thought—”

“I know,” he whispered. His face turned sorrowful, a bittersweet smile pulling at his lips as his brow rested, once more, against hers. “I told you. There is only one thing in my life that I regret. That I didn’t tell you sooner, that I wasted so much time.”

“We’ll have that time,” Nesta breathed, an echo from earlier. Her own promise, one that was infinitely less grief-stricken, filled with hope and light and love, not death and grief and regret. “Now. We’ll have that time now.”

He hummed, the sound low and warm and echoing in his chest. His hand brushed her spine, came to rest at the small of her back, pulling him closer to her, as though his chest weren’t covered with wounds and bandages. As though his pain was suddenly rendered meaningless, suddenly healed, when he held her in his arms. 

“Now,” Cassian agreed— vowed.

He claimed her lips at last, his kiss sweet and lingering and filled with promise. Slowly, at first. Slowly, he kissed her, as though taking the time to learn every inch of her, to savour it while he had the chance. His palm cupped her cheek, holding her there, and then his fingers were wandering to the nape of her neck, the kiss growing fervent and fevered and desperate— as though making up for lost time. Nesta leaned into it, weightless, as she let his kiss engulf her. There would be no more waiting, no more hiding or running or pretending. She had almost lost him, and now every touch, every kiss, was one she might have lost, might have missed. 

And oh, what a crime that would have been.

To have left this world without knowing the taste of him, the feel of him, the warmth of him.

His hands mapped out the skin of her collarbone, over her shoulders, falling to her waist. Her own hands were slow, barely moving for fear of brushing his wounds, for disturbing the bandages that wrapped his middle. She kept her fingers buried in his hair, holding him against her, deepening the kiss until she was drowning in it. 

I love you, she whispered in the silence, in the candlelight. Breathed it against his lips, murmured it whenever his kiss moved to another part of her— her throat, her ear, the curve of her jaw. 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Spoken at last— and with every kiss he pressed against her, every pass of his hands, he whispered it, too.

I love you.

[kabie-whump]

✧･ﾟRipe, About to Fall - Part 3 ✧･ﾟ

This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance

Title from 'Liquid Smooth' by Mitski

✧ Series Summary and Warnings ✧ Masterlist, Previous, First ✧ Chapter summary: Onthyes learns how Athos keeps Ventis so docile, and witnesses Ventis in a moment of vulnerability. ✧ Chapter warnings: Needles, forced drug use, addiction, overheard sexual violence, discussion and aftermath of physical abuse, crying, manipulation

Onthyes does not belong to me. He was created by my wonderful gf @sapphicccici and I have kidnapped him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Early morning light cut through the manor’s windows, casting onto the intricate tapestries that hung on the wall next to the door to Athos’s bedroom. Onthyes stretched, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall and getting up on his toes as he reached towards the ceiling. His night shift was nearing its end. It hadn’t been nearly as exciting as the night shifts he had done with the city guard, but he had gotten better at managing the boredom. Still, his joints ached from standing in his armor for so long.

A new maid, a green skinned girl named Deidren, appeared at the end of the hall, hurrying towards Onthyes with a bronze pitcher of water in one hand and a loaded tray in the other. He could see the panic on her face in an instant, and she wobbled dangerously as the tray’s carefully stacked occupants threatened to fall to the floor.

Onthyes stepped in front of her before she could make any attempts to open the bedroom door with her hip. Athos hated seeing his staff struggle. It ruined the picture he had in his mind of being served by perfect atomotons. 

“Let me,” Onthyes whispered, taking the pitcher from her so she could hold the tray with both hands. “You’ll get better at this with practice, but for now let’s not risk you accidentally spilling on master Landleigh on your first day.” 

“Thank you,” she said, a flush spreading all the way to the tips of her pointed ears to match her rose pink hair.

Poor thing. Barking up the wrong tree.

Onthyes opened the bedroom door for Deidren, allowing her to enter first before he followed her with the water. 

He’d let maids into the bedroom every morning so far but he had never followed them inside before, so he wasn’t sure what to expect. He definitely didn’t expect to see Athos sitting up in bed, cradling a sick looking Ventis in his arms. 

Onthyes put down the pitcher while Deidren greeted Athos and prepared his tea, but he was distracted by the state Ventis was in. The genasi had never been anything but composed, but now he was visibly shaking, his face twisted with discomfort while Athos held him close. The master of the house didn’t seem worried in the slightest, even when Ventis tucked his face into the man’s neck and held the silky fabric of his shirt tightly, his breath hitching audibly.

Onthyes waited while Deidren did her job, then handed her the pitcher so she could pour two glasses of water before she slipped out with a brief curtsey. Onthyes moved to follow her out.

“Please stay a moment, Onthyes. I’d like to speak with you.”

Onthyes stopped on his way out the door, steeling himself before he turned back to face Athos. The man gave him a sardonic smile, uncaring of the trembling genasi in his lap. Ventis’s lips moved against Athos’s ear, whispering something that Onthyes couldn’t hear. 

“How have you found your time here?” Athos asked casually. “Have you settled in alright?”

“Yes sir,” Onthyes said. “I have become accustomed to the way of things here, and I am well prepared to defend your property if the need arises.”

As Onthyes spoke, Athos reached for the box on his nightstand and unlocked it with a key he’d retrieved from a chain around his neck. He produced two items from the box: a vial of shimmering blue liquid and a syringe. Ventis’s bloodshot eyes locked onto them with an intensity Onthyes had never seen from him before. He could’ve sworn he recognized the liquid, but he couldn’t quite place where he knew it from.

“There is no need to be so formal with me, Onthyes. I’d like for you to think of me as a friend.” 

Athos drew the contents of the vial into the syringe slowly. Ventis clutched the man’s nightshirt in tight, shaky fists, and Onthyes heard a soft ‘please’ escape his lips.”Patience, treasure,” Athos hummed.

“I’ve been trying to remain professional, sir.” Onthyes’s voice caught as Athos took Ventis’s arm, holding it out so he could insert the needle directly into his vein with practiced precision. Ventis flinched a little, but he quickly relaxed and let out a contented sigh as the substance was emptied into him, whispering a soft thanks against Athos’s neck. Onthyes watched, fascinated, as a blue glow traveled under his skin, following the lines of his veins and getting dimmer and dimmer until it dissipated completely. He couldn’t hold back his confusion any longer. “What is that? Is he sick?”

Athos chuckled, putting the needle down on the nightstand and pulling Ventis close to his chest, stroking his hair while his eyelids fluttered closed and his breathing evened out into a steady rhythm. His shaking had subsided, and the tension in his face was replaced with a small smile.

“Sick? No, not in the way you’re imagining. We all have our vices.”

It was then that he realized what must have been in that vial. Nightspill - an illegal and extremely addictive sedative. He had encountered it a few times in his time working on the city guard, although it was rare to see it on the streets considering how expensive it was to import it from the feywild. 

“That’s nightspill?”

“You aren’t going to report this to your father, are you?”

Onthyes considered it for a moment. He knew how this sort of thing always went. The rich, powerful merchant would get off with a slap on the wrist, and his victims would pay the price instead. Would Ventis be better off in a prison than he was here? Probably not. 

“No sir.”

“Good. I knew I liked you.”

“This… Is this how you control him?”

“Don’t say it so distastefully, friend. I secure your loyalty with a wage, a dog’s loyalty with food, and my companion’s loyalty with liquid serenity. Air genasi have such delicate constitutions when it comes to staying in one place for too long. Ventis loves me dearly, but he would be so terribly unhappy here without the nightspill to keep him calm. Besides, he was already using it when I took him off the streets. This is just one of the many ways I provide for him.”

This explained so much. Onthyes had been in awe of how unaffected Ventis always seemed, even in the face of mistreatment or inappropriate advances from others. But now he understood. The nightspill kept Ventis so numb to the world that he might not have even known what was happening to him half the time, and he would never consider fighting back against the person who was providing him with it. 

“I see. Excuse my curiosity.”

Athos hummed, tracing the scales on Ventis’s shoulder with a gentle fingertip. He was fully asleep now, blissfully unaware. Onthyes couldn’t help but notice how adorable he looked in his sleep. 

“Ventis likes you, you know.”

“He- really?”

Athos nodded. “It’s hard to tell unless you know him as well as I do. He expresses himself in such a subtle way. But you’re his favorite guard by far.”

“Oh. I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

A strange look passed across Athos’s face. “Yes, I’m sure you are. You are dismissed.”

Onthyes turned, making for the door without hesitation. Athos hadn’t said anything explicitly threatening to him, but he still had chills and his heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t get away from that bedroom fast enough.

⋄✧⋄

A few nights later, Onthyes stood guard outside of Athos’s bedroom. He had become practiced at blocking out the noises from inside, but tonight was different. Athos had been in a foul mood all day - not for any particular reason - and Ventis was taking the brunt of it as usual. 

The sounds from inside the bedroom had been quiet for a few minutes when Onthyes allowed himself to relax a little. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d learned; about the nightspill. Ventis being addicted to it was going to make it so much harder to save him. Even if Onthyes did manage to get him out one day, he’d have to worry about him surviving the withdrawals, which were famous for their brutality. 

Thoughts about nightspill and helping Ventis escape this place had been distracting him for days, which was why he nearly jumped out of his armor when the silence was interrupted by a pained cry from the bedroom. 

“Please! Master- ah!”

He knew it was Ventis. It was always Ventis. But he’d never heard him so distressed before. 

Onthyes rapped his knuckles on the door and Ventis went quiet. “Is everything alright?” he called through the door.

“Yes, Onthyes,” Athos replied, annoyance clear in his tone. “Nothing is amiss.”

Backing away, Onthyes did his best to force himself to calm down despite the cries and occasional sobs that reached his ears through the door. It was driving him crazy. He wished he didn’t care. He wished he could be as apathetic to Ventis’s situation as the other staff seemed to be. But he couldn’t. And it hurt.

They went quiet again eventually, but Onthyes couldn’t relax. Hours passed. He was sure they were both asleep by now.

The bedroom door creaked open slowly and Ventis slipped out in nothing but a thin robe. Bruises and bite marks scattered across his pale blue skin, and dried blood made a red path down his chin from a split lip. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all in these passing hours. 

Ventis only made it a few stumbling steps out the door before he collapsed onto bruised knees, curling into himself until his forehead touched the carpet. He covered his mouth with both hands and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Onthyes froze, staring at him with no idea what to do. He’d hardly ever seen Ventis express any emotions at all other than quiet contentment, and now the genasi was trembling and gasping at his feet.

Onthyes removed his helmet, placing it on the floor as he knelt next to Ventis. What would he even say to him? “What’s wrong” and “are you alright” felt empty and useless, considering the answers to both were obvious. 

He settled for placing a gloved hand on Ventis’s back, noticing how his spine stuck out under his skin in sharp ridges when he bent like this. 

Ventis tensed at his touch, but he didn’t flinch away. Onthyes couldn’t tell if he truly accepted the touch, or if he’d just been trained not to resist. But he was afraid to risk waking Athos by making any noise, so touch would have to do.

Settling on the floor next to Ventis, Onthyes rubbed his back slowly. He couldn’t tell how long they stayed like that, with Ventis struggling to stay silent as he soaked the carpet with tears and Onthyes doing his best to provide comfort with his presence. Eventually Ventis’s sobs tapered off. He took one last shaky breath, then straightened slowly. Onthyes removed his hand from his back and scooted away slightly. 

Ventis’s eyes were red and puffy when he looked at Onthyes and the blood on his chin had been smeared around by drool. For once he didn’t look so much like a living porcelain doll.

“I’m sorry,” Ventis whispered. “Please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t, I promise. You’re safe with me. And there’s no need to be sorry. Cry as much as you want.”

Ventis gave him a shaky smile that fell away quickly before he moved to sit with his back against the wall and his knees at his chest.

“I’m not supposed to. At least, not like that. He likes it when I cry pretty.”

“Is that why he hurt you?” Onthyes cursed himself as soon as the question left his mouth. 

A sour look crossed Ventis’s face and he shrugged. His robe slipped off his shoulder with the movement, revealing some more bruises trailing down his chest.

“You don’t deserve the way he treats you. I hope you know that.”

Ventis stared at the bedroom door. He started to pick at his manicured fingernails before he quickly stopped himself and closed his fists tight. 

“He isn’t usually like this. He cares about me; cares about keeping me clean and beautiful. He’s usually gentle. Sometimes he has dark days like these. They’re the price I pay for living in luxury.” 

“My offer still stands, you know. Say the word and I’ll get you out, but I won’t force you.”

“Thank you. I… I appreciate the sentiment. The truth is, I don’t think I even know how to survive on my own anymore. I can’t fend for myself. Can’t make my own choices. After all these years, I fear he really has turned me into a pet..” His voice was cold and bitter, so different from the pleasant, ditzy demeanor he usually wore.

“I wouldn’t just abandon you to fend for yourself. I would be happy to stay with you if you’d like. Help you get back on your feet; get clean.”

Ventis winced at that last part, clenching his fists again. He shook his head. “Why do you care? You don’t know anything about me, yet you’re prepared to risk everything to help me. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Onthyes said honestly. “I just… can’t ignore it when someone needs help.”

Ventis chuckled. “So that’s what you see me as. A damsel to compliment your heroic streak.”

“No. I mean…” Onthyes thought about it. Did he actually want to help Ventis? Or did he just get off on playing the hero? “I don’t think-“

“It’s alright. People use people. People use me. It’s natural. I don’t mind.”

“I would never use you.”

“Mm hmm. Sure.”

Like a switch had been flipped, Ventis’s entire demeanor changed. He crawled to Onthyes on bruised knees, his lilac eyes heavy and hypnotic. He prowled in close, a hand on his chest, lips on his ear. “My hero,” he purred, cool air on Onthyes’s hot skin. “Thank you for saving me. How could I ever repay you?”

Onthyes exhaled heavily. He was helpless to Ventis in that moment, utterly starstruck as those words dug under his skin and ignited a warmth he had never felt before. His hand held Ventis’s slender waist on its own accord. Ventis’s head tilted invitingly and Onthyes moved in to kiss his neck without even thinking about it.

But Ventis’s breath smelled of blood and alcohol and there were finger-shaped bruises around his throat. 

Onthyes scooted back quickly, wide eyed. “No. That’s not what I want,” he whispered. 

Ventis sat back on his heels, his expression unreadable. “You’re… I don’t understand you.”

“I won’t use you. That’s not the kind of person I am.” 

Onthyes stood, straightening his armor. Ventis followed him, still refusing to fix the shoulder of his robe. Onthyes did it for him, pulling up the fine silk to cover his skin. Ventis scoffed. 

“You don’t want to be saved. You like it here. I can accept that. But please, don’t assume I’m anything like Athos.”

Ventis stared up at him. Onthyes had never noticed before how severe the height difference between them was. Ventis would fit so easily into his hands- gods. One short interaction and his imagination was already running away with it.

“I’m sorry,” Ventis whispered. “It’s all I know how to do.”

With that Ventis slipped past Onthyes and eased the bedroom door open, disappearing back into the darkness.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

A drawing!

Part 4

Ventisposting taglist (aka a list of people who i want to bake cookies for):

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet @rainydaywhump

Let me know if you want to be added or removed or tagged only on a specific series! <3

[swiftsaltsweet]

Two Knives-Chapter 1: Kyoshi: A Poem and a Promise

Characters: Rangi and Kyoshi (RoK characters tbh)

Pairing: Rangshi

Summary:

Things have been stressful for Kyoshi. First, she sang a poem and now the whole kitchen staff thinks it’s about Rangi, and is sure that there will be gossip. Then, Yun asks her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. Now Rangi’s acting strange. It’s becoming a bit much for Kyoshi’s small corner of the world.

(Canon Divergent AU- Kelsang wasn’t the one who heard the poem?….aka What if it took longer for them to realize Kyoshi was the Avatar?)

Other Sites: AO3 

A/N: <_< >_>*looks everyone in the eye* *drops another AU* *shuffles away*

*runs back and takes the mic* I don’t really wanna recap alllllll the scenes in the novel, so we’re just going to jump to the ones that def changed because of this little butterfly effect. So yeah, I'm assuming you've at least read RoK, and the scenes not shown here are fairly similar that happen in the novel. Ok? Ok. *shuffles away again*

(Tw: SLIGHT earth kingdom homophobia, mostly just alluded too, it's not my main focus, but I'll give another warning if it happens)

_____

“Can’t someone give us a decent verse?” Auntie Mui complained. She’d roped the kitchen into a forced weekly-or was it daily?- poetry time. Lee had just delivered the worst haiku in history, and it left a bitter taste in the older woman’s mouth.

Kyoshi, who was only supposed to drop off a delivery, had gotten roped into kitchen work by Auntie Mui, who asked her to help with the bread before she left. Kyoshi accepted, but was trying to rush it so she could get back to her duties upstairs.

“Well saaaaaw-rry !” Lee complained. “I’m not the best at poetry!”

“Yeah he’s better with dirty songs!” one kitchen worker jeered.

“Aren’t we all?” another hooted.

“There will be no dirty songs!” Auntie Mui cried out.

“Hey, let’s do the Unrequited Shanty!” one of the scullery maids clapped. “That one’s always fun to play!” 

Kyoshi recognized the game they wanted to play. It was a well-known shanty popular with sailors and field hands, where you improvised raunchy words from the perspective of your object of unrequited affection. It was a game for others to guess who you were singing about, and the simple rhythm made manual labor more pleasant.

“Of course, ‘cause ya love ta gossip!” a cook jeered.

“There will be no-” Autie Mui started, trying to get the kitchen under control, but was cut off by Lee.

“I’ve got a nose like a dove-tailed deer / I run like a leaf on the wind,” Lee sang, evidently better at this than his failed haiku. The staff started banging tables and pots to his rhythm. “My arms are slight and my waist is tight / and I don’t have a thought for my kin.”

“Mirai!” a dishwasher yelled out. “He’s got it bad for the greengrocer’s daughter!” The staff whooped over Lee’s protests, thinking it a good match. Sometimes it didn’t matter to the audience if they guessed right or not.

“Kyoshi next!” someone said. “She’s never here, so let’s make the most of it!”

Kyoshi was caught off guard. Normally she wasn’t included in household antics. But here she was, with the whole kitchen staff banging their tables and pots in a rhythm louder, encouraging. 

Before Kyoshi could consider feeling embarrassed or decline, the rhythm of the atmosphere dug its claws into her, pulling her in, and the words spilled from her mouth without a care.

“I’ve got two knives that are cast in bronze / they pierce all the way to the soul / they draw you in with the promise of sin / like the moth to the flame to the coal.”

The kitchen howled. Auntie Mui clucked in disapproval. “Keep going, you naughty girl!” Lee shouted, glad that the attention was off of him. 

Kyoshi did just that, tossing out the lyrics that popped into her head. She started drumming her own dough to the beat.

“I’ve got hair like the starless night / it sticks to my lips when I smile / I’ll wind it with yours and we’ll drift off course / in a ship touching hearts all the while.”

Somehow the improvisation was easy, though she’d never considered herself a poet. Or a bawdy mind, for that matter. It was as if another person, someone much more at ease with their own desires, was feeding her the right lines to express herself. And to her surprise, she liked how the inelegant lines made her feel. Truthful and silly and raw.

“For the way I walk is a lantern lit / that leads you into the night / I’ll hold you close and love you the most / until our end is in sight.”

Kyoshi was about to ponder what the darker turn towards the end of the verse was, when she realized the makeshift music had stopped. Looking up, she saw everyone was silently looking at her with a gaped expression. Some even dropped the appliances they were using.

“W-what?” she flinched. She thought the lyrics were pretty good, sure she wasn’t a lyricist, but there was no need for such a cold reception!

“It’s Rangi!” one of the maids shouted, clapping her hands once. 

Kyoshi whipped her head around to the stairs, looking for the firebending girl. Her heart started to quicken, though she didn’t know what for. 

“It is Rangi!” a cook cooed, making a kissy face for some strange reason. 

“W-where?” Kyoshi kept looking around.

“Not in here , idiot!” Lee slapped her back. “In your song ! Just admit it, you just sang about Rangi.”

Kyoshi felt her eyes bulge out of her head. She hadn’t really been thinking of the lyrics, but when she played them back in her head the picture became very clear. It very much did sound like Rangi.

She looked around the kitchen, some were goading her playfully, not caring that Kyoshi may have just sung a love poem about her female friend. 

Some gave her disdainful looks. A wave of guilt and disgust in herself rose up in Kyoshi’s stomach, realizing that they may also veer those same looks at Rangi later. All because of Kyoshi’s loose lips.

“I-I, uh, I,” Kyoshi said eloquently. She had no comeback, she couldn’t deny the resemblance. She didn’t think she was thinking about Rangi at that moment, but she couldn’t lie to herself. She had thought of Rangi, often, at other times. The fiery girl would easily sneak into her mind when she wasn’t fully aware of it. Could this have been one of those times? 

But she’d tell herself it was just admiration. She admired her friend. The way she embodied strength, skill, and determination wrapped up in an unshakable heart. Just, honorable, and kind….. And so painfully beautiful .

Kyoshi shook her head. No, she mustn’t think those thoughts about her friend. No matter how often they snuck into her mind. How often she thought about what it’d feel like to hold her close. To touch the soft flesh of her neck. What it would feel like to press her lips against Rangi’s…..

No! Kyoshi balled a fist outside of view, the nails digging into her skin to break her out of her dangerous train of thought. She’d already let her imagination run off and cause a lapse in judgment already, she couldn’t afford to do it again.

Stop… you can’t have those thoughts. It’s not fair to her. She chastised herself, trying to bury the emotions like she’d done with her crush on Yun. Having these feelings towards them, her friends, it wasn’t right. It was betraying their trust. 

But unlike with Yun, these feelings kept resurfacing, stronger than ever at times. And that was dangerous. Because each time Kyoshi buried them, it became harder to do so. Which meant there was a breaking point. Which meant……there would come a time Kyoshi may make the biggest mistake of her life, and ruin her friendship beyond repair. 

Kyoshi took a wobbly step back. “I, uh, I have to go get ready for my gifting duties,” she said hurriedly. Barreling her way to the staircase, trying to ignore the looks and shouts in her direction. It was easy to drown out the noise, her heart was thumping in rhythm with the footsteps around her. She briefly wondered if someone was following her, but when she turned no one was, when she got to the staircase it was empty as well. 

As quickly and quietly as she could, she ascended the stairs and made her way through the mansion to her room. As she ran, Kyoshi had her hand covering her mouth, trying to choke down the air of hyperventilation. She realized she’d described Rangi’s eyes as sinful, when really Kyoshi was the one with the sinful thoughts. A new wave of guilt and disgust in herself radiated through her. 

She was thankful she didn’t run into Rangi on the way to her room.

______

“Thank you,” Yun said as he nuzzled his cheek into Kyoshi’s hand. 

Kyoshi had made it to her gifting duties, not only in a timely manner, but also very early. At some point, the Avatar had joined her to “help” with organizing the gifts. Really he just wanted to bug her.

But at some point the conversation had turned to him asking her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. She saw the sincerity in his plea and said yes. And now here they were in a slightly uncompromising position. It’d be a little dicey if someone barged through the door while they were like this.

Other than that slight distress hanging over her head, she let the contact wash over her. Letting it act as a balm to the fire bomb that went off on her hours before. 

Right, just push the feelings down. She told herself. 

Yun reluctantly put her hand down. "Three..." he said, cocking his ear at the ceramic-tiled floor with a smile. "Two... One..."

Rangi slid the door open with a sharp click, and Kyoshi felt herself jump slightly. She was happy Yun had let go of her hand.

"Avatar." She bowed deeply and solemnly to Yun. Then she turned to Kyoshi, her face appeared to be more stern than Kyoshi was used to. “And you! You’ve barely made any prog-”

She cut herself off and tore her eyes away from Kyoshi, looking around the room. Her eyes widened a bit. “Oh….it’s…. actually almost done.” 

Yes, most of the items had been sorted. Kyoshi just needed to finish them up, and then move the respected piles to where they needed to go.

“I got here early….” Kyoshi muttered. She kept her eyes on a pai sho table in the corner. She knew if she looked at Rangi’s face right now, then she’d light up brighter than a firefly. 

This wasn’t good, if she couldn’t face Rangi then….. How was she going to be able to hide her feelings properly? Rangi was going to think she was upset with the firebender. She needed to get herself together.

“Yeah Rangi,” Yun laughed. “This is Kyoshi we’re talking about, how dare you question her skill of working fast and efficiently?”

Rangi turned on her heel to face Yun, giving him an indignant look. “D-don’t put words in my mouth! I simply thought due to the volume that came in, and the fact you are skipping training to be a distraction, she may not have gotten as far as she did.”

“Well, I left the kitchen as soon as possible and got to work, just like you wanted ,” Kyoshi mumbled. 

There was a moment of silence that caused Kyoshi to chance looking in Rangi’s direction. The two stared at her with worried expressions. Uh oh, Kyoshi hadn’t made the right expression, or maybe her tone was off? She needed to rectify the situation.

Kyoshi scratched at her nose, bashfully. “Did I say something wrong?”

Rangi stared at her for a moment, and it took all of Kyoshi’s effort to keep her blush down. Rangi finally broke eye contact by looking at the ground. “No… it’s just….”

“I think Kyoshi’s just a little nervous,” Yun announced.

Kyoshi felt her heart lurch in her chest. Oh she was nervous alright, but how could he possibly know?

“I just asked her to join the Fifth Nation signing and she agreed to go,” he continued calmly.

Oh he meant that . Kyoshi sighed, grateful for the coverup.

Rangi’s eyes boggled out of her head. “Wh-what?! What do you mean she’s going ?!”

Apparently he hadn’t told Rangi, until now.

“I was going to tell you,” Yun smiled, putting his hands up in surrender. 

Rangi spluttered and looked between Yun and Kyoshi. “Have you lost your mind ? The both of you? She’s not going!”

“Are you going against your Avatar’s wishes?” Yun grinned at her, but it made Rangi visibly flinch. Like he'd struck her, despite his joking tone. “Calm down, it’ll be good to have her there.”

“Good for who ?” Rangi groused. She pressed a fist to her forehead and sighed. Then she glared at Yun and grabbed his sleeve. “We’re talking about this later. Right now, I’m taking you back to your training!”

She started to pull her charge towards the door.

“Gah! Rangi! Wait!” Yun bemoaned. 

Rangi practically threw the Avatar through the doorway in front of her, and then stopped with her hand on the doorframe. She looked back at Kyoshi with an expression Kyoshi couldn’t place.

“And you-!” Rangi looked at Kyoshi and then the rest of the room, trying to find something to yell at her about. “Clean-no. Just. Gah. Do whatever you were doing!”

Rangi slammed the door. 

_____

Kyoshi quickly climbed the hill to the Avatar’s estate, a package in her arms. It had been a few days since Kyoshi had sung the poem about Rangi in the kitchen, as well as a few days since Yun had requested to join her on his adventure to sign the treaty. 

Since then, things have been pretty hectic. She and other staff were running around trying to make sure supplies were in order for the big event in a few weeks. 

Kyoshi was making frequent trips to the village to pick up various specially delivered packages. Though, she had a feeling that this one was more of a luxury item than one of necessity. She didn’t complain though, at least it was light. 

Kyoshi finally made it up the hill, and was just entering the gates when a familiar black and red cladded presence came out from behind the door as she passed through. Kyoshi screamed in surprise, just barely holding onto the package.

She looked down to see her ever timely friend, Rangi, waiting for her. 

As punctual as always. 

She gave Kyoshi an unreadable but stern look, the same one from when she first entered the gifting room. Come to think of it, that same look had been resting on her face for the past handful of days……

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, apologizing for yelling in her friend’s face. “You surprised me!”

Rangi’s expression didn’t change, instead she turned and started walking away. Just slow enough to indicate to Kyoshi that she would escort her to her next destination.

Kyoshi frowned a bit, she hadn’t liked Rangi’s new change in demeanor. On top of that, she barely talked when they were together. She felt like there was a wall, one that was much denser than when they first met. She was used to Rangi being a raging mother hen, not stoic and brooding.

She gathered herself and caught up to Rangi, and proceeded to walk side by side to Kyoshi’s next destination. Kyoshi took in the mansion’s beauty as they walked in silence. Since they would be leaving the mansion soon, most of the usual guests had left, so the staff was free to walk around parts of the mansion that were usually off limits. Like the garden. Which was the fastest shortcut to their next destination.

Kyoshi admired the layout, how the flowers were practically bursting over each other. The sand art that lined parts of the path. The way the rocks of the path felt like they came together in chaotic beauty. It was all very wabi-sabi. 

Her favorite part of the garden was definitely the small pond. The way the koi would come up to greet them for food. The little bridge they built over it. The clearness of the water. The pretty hue of green of the algae and other plants grew on top of it. The way the reflection of the water shimmered and framed Rangi’s jaw and eyes as they passed-

Kyoshi’s head snapped away, her heart beating a million miles a second. She’d let her mind wander and didn’t realize she was staring at her friend like-.... Oh…. she needed to shove these feelings down, and fast . 

Oh she could only thank the spirits and Yangchen that she at least hadn’t been caught staring.

“Kyoshi,” Rangi said, breaking the silence and startling Kyoshi even more.

“Y-yes?” 

“You aren’t going,” Rangi said. On top of her other new quirks, she’d also acquired a new phrase she liked.

Kyoshi sighed. “I don’t think I have a choice , Rangi. It’s a special request from the Avatar .”

Rangi stopped walking and glared at Kyoshi. “Of course you have a choice! You just have to tell him you don’t want to! Just tell him ‘no,’ Kyoshi!”

Kyoshi raised an eyebrow and gave her a joking smile. “And disobey the Avatar?”

Rangi stiffened. “It’s not ‘disobeying’ if he gave you an option in the first place, right?”

“I don’t mind though.” Ok, Kyoshi minded, just a bit . She was nervous. But it was a special request from Yun. She couldn’t say no to her best friend. 

Kyoshi dropped her voice into a low whisper, not wanting others to hear her, “Plus he practically begged me. How could I say no?”

Kyoshi thought that was the end of it, and started walking again, but stopped and almost fell back when a strong grip on her arm pulled her back.

“Then what about me , huh?” Rangi glared up at Kyoshi, practically in her face, and hand sturdy on Kyoshi’s arm. “What if I begged ? What if I begged you not to come along? What would you do then?”

Kyoshi’s heart pounded so hard, it radiated in her ears. What would she do? She technically should hold Rangi’s request in the same regard as Yun’s, she’d do anything for her best friends. But these requests were contradictory, she was going to make someone unhappy.

Rangi shook Kyoshi’s arm once, and Kyoshi looked at Rangi’s face again. It wasn’t the stoic mask she’d grown accustomed to over the past few days, it was vulnerable. Pleading. Her eyes shone, not with the promise of sin, but with a promise of….of…. something . Kyoshi wasn’t sure, but she felt herself being pulled closer the longer she looked into them.

Rangi shook her arm again. “ Please . Kyoshi, please don’t come with us,” she begged, her hot breath fanning over Kyoshi’s face. Rangi was begging. Strong, prideful Rangi was begging meak Kyoshi for something. It wasn’t right. Kyoshi wanted to drop what she was holding, and take Rangi into her arms. Reassure her that she would do whatever Rangi said. 

Kyoshi bit her lip and gripped the package tightly, it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She fought the ever waging war in her heart, and self-control won out again. But just barely. 

She was about to comply, when a horrifying thought ran through her head. What if Rangi didn’t come back? Kyoshi couldn’t bear it, if she wasn’t going to see Rangi again then it’d be up until the final moment. Even if it meant her own doom.

Kyoshi shook her head. She tried to say “I’m sorry” but found her throat and mouth were too dry.

Rangi grimaced and released her. “Forget it,” she said, as she walked away. With her, she took a heat Kyoshi didn’t realize had formed around them.

_____

A/N: At this point, I’m just dropping fic chapters down because I can’t focus my brain on one scenario. TT0TT Also, Gee, I wonder who heard the poem? Big mystery. Much suspense. 8U

[sam-glade]

Writeblr Intro

Hi! My name is Sam (they/them), and I write SFF.

About me:

I'm queer, in my late 20s, and I live in Europe.

Pets? Two cats + 1 orange braincell

Favourite food? Please don't make me choose.

What I write? Hard fantasy with excessive worldbuilding

Favourite books? The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien. The Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson. The Traitor by Seth Dickinson. Red Rising by Pierce Brown. Uprooted by Naomi Novik.

Fiction I probably won't enjoy? Romance. Middle grade. Most High School YA. It's just not my cup of tea.

Outside of writing? I'm a mathematician-turned-programmer who wishes they've gone into a more creative career

Silmarillion blog: @ward-of-irmo

Personal blog: @careening-mind

Read all the snippets I've posted under this tag.

DMs/Asks/Tag games? Yes, please

This blog is a mix of things related to my writing, from snippets, through info dumps, to historical trivia and inspirations for the setting. Also, cats.

I'm happy to do beta swaps.

About my writing:

Expect themes of found family, battling inner demons, finding one's identity and strength. But also, superpowered sword fights and epic locations. Don't expect romance front and centre, and don't expect characters who are minors. Most of my characters are openly queer; I enjoy seeing people I can identify with partake in fantasy adventures, without their identities being a burden.

I write multi-POV stories, 3rd person only. I'm not that keen on seemingly unrelated POVs coming together, but I love seeing group interactions through the eyes of a different person each time.

I like turning 'what if' questions into stories - what if the Chosen One was chosen by the villain? What if a Bronze Age civilisation experienced a first contact with an alien race? What would crime-scene investigation look like in a setting where people turn to dust upon death? I also love learning, and I learn by researching random areas that are tangentially related to my writing projects.

Are my fantasy settings too realistic? Maybe. Am I having fun writing it? Definitely.

About my WIPS:

The Sunblessed Realm

Hard fantasy, queernorm setting inspired by Slavic folklore and the history of Central-Eastern Europe. The age of heroes has passed. The heroes remain alive.

A list of all stories and longer snippets in this setting that I've posted.

Days of Dusk trilogy [Tag]

Swords used to be the protectors of the world, channelling the power of the Elements to fight against the Primeval Darkness. Now that the threat is contained, they are perceived as a danger themselves. Their powers are feared, while any advantages they can give are made up for with developments in science.

Info dump posts: Map || Magic system || Fashion || Architecture || Cast || Rites of passage

⚔️Gifts of Fate ⚔️

Intro post || [Tag]

The Witcher x Fullmetal Alchemist

Genre: NA hard fantasy

Pitch: The hero was chosen by the villain to become might incarnate. With all due respect, he'd like to decline.

Expect gratuitous superpowered HEMA fight scenes mixed with fridge horror.

Progress: First Draft done at 107k, beta readers' feedback received

⚔️The Prince's Shadow⚔️

Intro post || [Tag]

NA military fantasy.

The hero of the first instalment was deemed to dangerous to live or be killed. The Army's spymaster and the Chief Strategist set him up to die a hero's death.

Note: This was the first story I've written in this setting, with the pitch being 'the hero has just saved the world and needs to figure out what to do with his life'. It has evolved a fair bit since then.

Progress: Needs rewriting, now that the prequel is written.

⚔️Prodigal Children⚔️

[Tag]

Political fantasy.

The last - the only - war fought by Swords took place two millennia ago, and the memory of its horrors kept the princes motivated to stop it from happening ever again. When an uprising in one of the princedoms spills over the borders, it again becomes a real threat.

Now with more intrigue and sapphic romance.

Progress: First Draft done at 128k

To do: I've got feedback to incorporate

The Truth Teller [Tag]

Intro post

Urban fantasy version of the Eastern Bloc.

Three thousand years later, the heroes of the previous stories have passed into legends. There are no more Swords to protect, Crystals to heal, or Elemental Dancers to mend and build. There are only Knacked, shunned by the society.

Progress: Outline done, writing started.

Other

The Fulcrum

First Contact Sci-Fi from the point of view of the alien species. While their civilisation is comparable to early Iron Age ones on Earth, don't worry, they have nukes.

Progress: First Draft - 24k/100k

To do: more research

[churchobones]

DWC August 2024: Melee

It was well past noon when Hesterlynn finally stirred.

Her head throbbed with each sluggish beat of her heart.  She clutched the icy weight in her chest.

Where am I?

A bed, but not her own.  The room was spartan, almost clinical, devoid of any decoration save an ornate vanity by the window, with curtains drawn shut against the red dusted sunlight of the Eastern Plaguelands.  A silver tray held a cold tea service and a vase bursting with colorful wildflowers: violet dreamfoil, white peacebloom, crimson roses–

Zelion’s instructions had been simple: “You are to offer your assistance to Lord Bloodrose in whatever manner he sees fit.”

Hester willed the Light to the awful ache in her skull, and caught sight of her chipped manicure. Beneath her nails was dirt and shredded skin.

She lifted the dull linen sheets. The fabric of her dress was rife with wood splintered runs and ruined by dirt.  A gorey spill of dried blood ran the length of her ruched bodice.

It was not her own.

She should have never gone to that party.

Lord Bloodrose had dressed outlandishly in ruffles, cogwheels and his workshop goggles.  He requested she wear “something poofy”.  She obliged in the form of a tea-length, robin’s egg frock.  The billowing skirt was made of layer upon layer of airy chiffon.  A demure neckline shrouded her secrets but exposed her pronounced collar bones and milk white shoulders.

The confessor stumbled from the bed, tripping over her ivory shoes.  The right one was missing its low heel; the left had a rusty smudge over the toes.

She lurched to the vanity, gripping the edge of the woodwork as the world swam.   

Her reflection was haggard but whole.  Bruises circled both biceps and wrists like bracelets.  Impossibly long blonde hair, free from its styled ties, fell in haggish curls peppered with wilted white flowers and matted with blood.  Dark circles framed the candlelight glow of her eyes, dimmed and glassy.

She looked monstrous.

The cleric swallowed hard and tore off the damaged dress.

The diamond cut crystal embedded in her chest still slept in its nest of black veins.

Hester was quick to shroud the Mournstone in a cozy sweater; one long and shapeless on her willowy body that fell just above the knees.  As she slid into a borrowed pair of house slippers, she inspected the punctures and tears in her ill-fated dress until her hand fell on a disc of cool metal.

"... As a bit of a thank-you for attending this lousy party with me."

A brooch forged in bronze and plated by gold.  The detailed cast depicted a bouquet of flowers, unpainted, but remarkably detailed-- Plaguebloom, Arthas' Tears and dreamfoil, all with a backdrop of Sungrass stalks. On close inspection, each squared blossom spun as a cogwheel, parting the bouquet like a curtain to reveal a greater detail beneath.

"It's just what I thought of when I thought of you… I hope you like it."

To think that Hesterlynn Mournvalor was naught but a bouquet of pretty flowers was sure to be a mistake, or so Lord Bloodrose must have thought, for behind the bouquet was an intricate knife with a pearl handle and a blade of sharpened steel.

She pinned it to her sweater before bustling out of the bedroom and down the hall on legs still wobbly as a newborn fawn’s.

A saw hummed behind the double doors of his workshop.  Hester sucked a sharp and desperate breath before wrapping her scraped knuckles on the woodwork.

Crash! Metal rang in the air. Lord Bloodrose swore loudly, then swung wide the door.

What a mess! Him, and the workshop too!

Tool chests lay opened, gaping like baby birds. Wires hung from the ceiling, thick black and coiled like snakes hanging from a tree. A mechanosuit stood vigil in the rear, headless and tethered like an ancient effigy reclaimed by vines.

And then Lord Corwin Bloodrose--no, Cory. An ugly bruise painted the bridge of his nose shades of red and violet. A bandage bound the worst of it, acting as a stint and giving padding to the scratched glasses resting gingerly atop.

"Hester!" he greeted, boyishly bright. "Come see this!"

To be continued.

@daily-writing-challenge

[eldritcmor]

Independent Sources

Minors DNI 18+ possible smut ahead.

Summary: Storm makes a deal for information not easily accessible.

All characters are 18+

Again, Minors DNI

The church was a tall imposing building. Dark stone carved to reflect the Victorian Gothic style. High arches, wide spaces, patterns whispering of old gods. Gargoyles standing or crouching, proud wings and binding chains on display. The heavy ash wood door, gleaming with fresh polish despite the many hands that push those doors each night. The call of pleasure spilled out the door to greet You like an old friend. Cloth draped from the beams of the church in various shades of purple and blue. The materials are mostly silk or sheer cloth. The room is always near hazy with perfumed smoke. A scent of carnal pleasure and burning woods. Braziers of dancing flames are set up at various points. Casting extreme shadows along the stone walls. Piles of pillows, low sitting couches, and rugs can be seen all over. Their fabrics are worn but all still beautiful. Doors line up along one of the walls. A peek shows various dungeons from the mundane to the extreme. Most are occupied but others are bare and cold. Music can be heard thumping throughout the building, like a heartbeat to a titan of pleasure. Above it all at the back of the church sits a dais leading up to a throne made of ash wood and silver. The throne while pretty is not what draws Your eye. No, it’s the giant spider web of red rope framed in the churches cathedral window. And in the middle of this web is a person. They are clad head to toe in black, form fitting latex. They seem to be squirming in pleasure but not a single sound is heard from them.

Chos sits on the throne tonight. Lounged back like a bored lion. You know he is anything but.

"Hello dear." Chos's voice floats just under the music but you can hear like a clear bell. "Been a long time since You decided to darken out doorstep, darling. You look exquisite as always." You had dressed like you were going to a event. Navy corset vest paired with a silver tie. Black slacks and a white shirt sleeve button up. Simple bracelets and a single silver ring decorated your arms. Nothing too eye catching. Nothing that can be pulled or interfere with a fight. You knew the rules of the court and you were not here to be a threat.

"I need a favor."

Chos tilted his head to the side. "Oh. And here I thought we would have to drag you back into the fold. But you always did have your priorities straight. Shall we take this to the lower levels then?"

You nodded. Chos hummed as he stood up. A member of security approached as Chos stepped away from the throne. The throne was never unguarded. Many had learned that the hard way. Chos beckoned you deeper into the cathedral. The cathedral wasnt bound to the rules of reality as some places were and it was always amazing to walk through the paths outside of your reality. Stone became wood. Wood became soft grass. Soft grass became a lightly traveled path through olive orchards. A small dirt path became the base of a temple.

The Temple stood above you, solid and unyeilding in its alabaster glory. But something was off. The braziers were dark with long burnt charcol. The carvings were covered in moss and vines, obscuring the stories and warnings. The wood and bronze of the doors was bleached and tarnished. It took you a minute to recongize it, but you were oddly sad to see it in such a state. You glance at Chos.

”She really kept it up?”

Chos chuckled. “She had hope, as strange as it is. And look, here you are.”

You licked your lip nervously. “I need Information. A Group has been giving my current employer some trouble to put it lightly.”

Chos hummed. “You work covert ops, darling. You’re bound to run into issues eventually. So why the need for information?”

You hummed as you sat on the temple steps. “This group has displayed abilities and tactics associated with well, our side of the world.” You pull out your phone and quickly pulled up a video.

The video was taken from security footage. You watched Chos’s reaction as the personnel rushed the scene of what appeared to be a shooting only to slump lifelessly to the floor as smoke choked them out. The smoke condensed and pressed itself into a vague human shape before forming a solid person. Another being entered the frame and snapped their fingers. A corpse at their feet sharply jerked before pushing itself up to its feet. Chos’s face twitched into a minute frown. The three exit the frame not long after that.

You take a deep breath. “That was two months ago. Since then, there have been other robberies and multiple ambushes. We tracked them back to a group known as Váli. A pharmaceuticals company specializing in biotech. On our side, Cryptozoology and Less than savory experiments on humans. Unfortunately, the trail ends there. Orochi is as tight lipped as ever. Man, I never understood how she managed to get them to bend an ear."

Chos hummed. "She is rather good at getting what she wants but then again best to feed her so she doesn't eviscerate you on sight. Orochi deals heavily in her favorite food. I can get you names and possible last known locations. But you know the rules, I will need something in return."

Storm leaned back against the steps. "One night. I return for one full night."

Chos smiled, a cruel thing. “Deal.”

--

Kate jerked as a loud thump landed right next to her head. She stared at the tall stack of files on her desk. Her eyes traced the hand resting on top to Storm’s face before blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looked down at the files again. It clicked.

“Storm?” A light hum came in response. “How did you get these?”

Storm chuckled. “I made a deal with a sibling.”

kate narrowed her eyes. “What kind of sibling, Storm?”

Storm hummed as they tapped their fingers on top of the stack. “The kind that sheltered me when no one else would.”