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seungsuki · 9 days ago

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my dove - a dance between lovers on a thread (gn!reader) warning: spoliers if you didn't finish aot note: i havent been writing alot but i push myself to release this. enjoy :)

scars are beautiful, aren’t they? they tell a story of strength and survival. find the perfect person, and the scars turn into fallen stars on a once dark night, twinkling as a reminder. they don’t hurt, but they remain- preserved, better than any exhibit in a museum.

every scar deserves love. they act as a history book, each line portraying a different chapter of your life. that’s how you felt, gazing down at the sleeping figure on your lap, your fingers tracing the titan marks etched into his skin.

you took your time to feel each line, as if by memorising them, you could learn more about the man beneath the tree with you. they felt so fresh, perfectly carved into his face, a living sign of all he had endured. how could someone look so angelic? you often told him he was a sculpture, it’s unfair how his smile could stretch wide enough to draw you deeper into his world.

maybe you’re just lovesick for him, to the point of wishing to see that same smile for the rest of your days. he was so engraved in your soul, intertwined with your very heart, making it impossible to separate. he often joked about how he’d like to be buried in one coffin, a perfect solution to keeping you close to himself.

call it selfish, but you wanted him all for yourself. no one else was allowed to see him the way you did. no one else could touch him the way your fingers did, brushing over the scars he hated with all his heart. no one was allowed to talk to him the way you talk to him. you would rather be devoured by a titan than watch someone else steal moments from you- moments that felt would end if you blinked too quickly.

his voice played in your mind like a cherished record, the silliest of conversations clouding your thoughts, but always bringing a smile. was there ever a day you weren’t thinking of him?

you reached out for his hand, warm and familiar, as memories flooded back of him inviting you for tea with his mother. his voice would always calm the oceans that flood your mind. he was your guide, always bringing you back to shore no matter what. he once brought up about loving him for his looks, to which you always tell him about loving his heart more than his face

even his titan form had a special place in your crowded heart. the way he would gently unfold his enormous hand for you to stand on his palm. allowing you to look down on the world from heights you never imagined.

he’d lie on the grassy field and you would take the biggest brush to comb his tangled hair. sometimes, he’d drift off to sleep, letting you work your magic. in those moments, you’d sneak in a flower and he would pretend to never notice, anything to make you happy after all

his titan form would move boulders for you, quite literally. seeing a giant titan crouch down to hear you would be the funniest sight as he would be straining to hear your whispers. he would go to such great lengths for you. you remembered the day he brought you an entire apple tree just because you mentioned how much you loved the fruit, his titan eyes shinier than emerald

“will you release the dove? it’s fast asleep on your lap.”

you snap out of your thoughts, looking up to see armin standing in front of you. had you really fallen asleep under the tree? his words register as you glance down to find a dove resting peacefully on your lap, utterly unbothered by the world.

“a dove…?” you murmur, confusion creeping into your voice.

you don’t remember seeing a dove at all. your heart tightens, tears pooling your eyes. have you truly gone mad? you swear you felt him here with you, in this very field of grass. how is a dove here, but not him?

you gently raise your hand to wipe the remains of your tears, the salty reminders of your grief lingering on your cheeks. the warm winds push your hair strands to your eyes, as if trying to shield you from the truth resting on your lap.

brushing your hair aside, you catch sight of the tombstone beside you. your heart sinks further as you read his name, the date below it a haunting reminder of the reality you wish wasn’t true.

“again? [name]... he’s gone now”, armin sighs, settling down in front of you.

“no! he was just here! i-”

you stopped talking,voice trailing off as you looked down. the dove stirs at the commotion, gazing up at you. you swear you could see his face on the same dove. his innocent head tilt, a carbon copy of the man you loved

“you should seek help. how long will you keep sitting here? you come every day,” mikasa says softly, observing the two of you.

you look up to the girl before looking back at armin. they both shared the same look- pity. you shudder at the thought, already hating the sudden shift in the air around you.

“eren isn’t dead. i’m going to visit him so don’t wait for me” you insist

you flutter your eyelids shut, throat barely coughing out the words for them to hear it. why do your eyelids feel so heavy all of a sudden? your heartbeat slows, breaths lengthening, as if time itself is stretching.

“you’re back,” a familiar voice rings out.

you open your eyes and look down, and there he was. eren yeager, lounging comfortably on your lap. he looks up to you, waiting for a response. the same small smile dressed his usual look

“i’m back,” you whisper, reaching down to stroke his hair

“are you leaving again?” he asks, sadness lacing his words.

“no,” you reply firmly. “i’m staying here. for good.”

his smile widens, brighter than before, and you lean in closer, letting your fingers trace the scars you’ve always loved. he lifts his hand, resting it over yours. together, you both sat at the same tree, clouds replacing the leaves.

© seungsuki 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images are from pinterest

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design-is-fine · 9 months ago

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Emile Gallé, vase with metal mount, 1895-1900. Nancy, France. Via Grassi Museum Leipzig

#flowers #flower #art nouveau #jugendstil #glass #glas

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bingwriterxo · 1 year ago

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the shakespeare exhibit - part 1

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which tara finds herself in a weird place in the museum

warnings: none

word count: 1700+

author's note: this was a request (find here)! hope u guys enjoy :D the english major in me really popped the fuck out in this one 🤭

next part

Spending a rainy Sunday in the Museum of Modern Art was far from what Tara wanted to do, but she had been outvoted by the rest of her friends, all of whom thought that it would be fun (well, all but Chad, who wanted to stay in and have a movie marathon).

She found herself wandering aimlessly through the halls, glancing this way and that at different exhibits, though nothing really piqued her interest. Sam and Danny had escaped to the Egyptian gallery, Chad and Ethan were exploring the gift shop, Mindy and Anika had rushed off on their own almost as soon as the group walked through the front doors--if Tara had to put money on it, she would guess that they were making out in the bathroom--and Quinn was flirting with the ticket booth guy.

Tara pulled her phone from her back pocket.

Tara (3:46pm): can we go soon im bored

Sam (3:48pm): Danny and I are only halfway done!

Chad (3:49pm): anyone got some extra cash??? really want this weird t-shirt

Ethan (3:49pm): i got u buddy

Mindy (3:51pm): fh2p9hr2$!8tn

Sam (3:51pm): Mindy, what?

Mindy (3:52pm): sorry butt text

Mindy (3:52pm): me and nika r busy

She huffed when no one in the group chat seemed to be on the same wavelength as her and shoved her phone back in her pocket, continuing her shuffling. She wasn't even sure where in the museum she was, and she didn't really care.

Or, at least, she didn't care until she heard that voice.

"And here we have a painting depicting the celebration that occurs in the beginning of one of Shakespeare's earlier plays, Titus Andronicus."

Tara looked to her right, where the voice was coming from, and was met with a large sign that read Pop-Up Shakespeare Exhibit! She frowned. Shakespeare? she thought. Seriously?

"Now, this celebration is quite important to the rest of the play as..."

The voice was luring her in. Okay, maybe I can dig Shakespeare.

She wandered into the room, eyes flitting around as she searched for the person that the voice belonged to. Instead, she was met with numerous paintings of different scenes from Shakespeares' plays, or people that influenced him or were important during his time period.

And why the fuck is this man so iconic? she thought as she quickly scanned over each painting, finding nothing extraordinarily special about them. This shit is boring.

Still, she ventured farther in, determined to find the reason she had entered the exhibit in the first place. She wasn't, however, paying much attention to her feet or the paces in front of her, and the next thing she knew, she had bumped into someone else.

"Oh, sorry," she said.

"It's okay! That's my bad!" you replied, and Tara's eyes widened as she glanced in your direction. You were the voice that she was trying to find, and now that she had found you...well, she wasn't really sure what to do.

Honestly, she hadn't expected you to be so, in layman's terms, hot, and she could feel herself blushing up to her ears as she stared at you, awestruck and nervous and itching to talk to you all at once.

You offered her a wide grin and gestured toward the painting the two of you had ended up in front of. "Big fan of King Lear?" you asked.

Tara glanced at the painting. Two men stood in a vaguely grassy area, one old and the other younger. The older one had his arms thrown out, and despair was clearly controlling his emotions. The younger one was simply standing back and watching. What the fuck is this shit? she thought before realizing that you were awaiting her response.

"Yeah, definitely!" she lied. "It's probably my favorite Shakespeare play."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "Really? You strike me as more of a..." You trailed off as your eyes flitted down her body, taking her in. Tara gulped. "I would say Twelfth Night kind of girl."

Tara shrugged. "Well, I can be surprising." She pointed lamely at the painting. "Besides, I love history plays."

"Oh!" You raised your eyebrows as your eyes widened, and you chuckled. "King Lear isn't a history; it's a tragedy."

"Right! I--That's what I meant," she rushed out, trying to backtrack. "But, I mean, couldn't all of Shakespeare's plays technically be histories? They're all old."

You giggled, and Tara found that she liked that sound even more than she liked your voice. "That's not really how it works." You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and glanced at the watch on your wrist. "If you want, I could give you a tour through the exhibit and explain some of the plays to you. My next group isn't coming for another hour."

I would rather Ghostface pop out of one of these paintings and attack me than have these boring-ass plays explained to me. She wanted to say that--god, did she want to--but you were looking at her with a soft smile and even softer eyes, your hands buried in your back pockets as you shifted on the balls of your feet, and her reply was tumbling from her lips before she could stop it.

"That would be great!"

* * *

You were only halfway through the exhibit, talking about some lady named Portia who could only marry the man that chose the correct casket--how fucking stupid, Tara thought--when you turned to her, a pitiful smile pulling at your lips.

"You find this boring, don't you?" you asked, though there was no judgment in your voice. If anything, Tara could detect a hint of teasing.

She shook her head. "No, no. Portia and Bassanio and caskets are all very...interesting." When you tilted your head at her, your eyes sparkling with disbelief, she sighed in defeat, allowing her shoulders to slump slightly. "Yeah," she admitted, "it's kind of boring."

You shrugged half-heartedly, a crooked smile on your lips. "That's okay. Shakespeare's definitely not for everyone." You looked back at the painting you stood in front of. "I mean, even I hated half the plays when I first read them."

"Then why are you a tour guide for this exhibit?"

"Money," you confessed. "I'm a broke college student who has tuition to pay for. Plus, I've read all of these plays ten times over, so I know them pretty well."

Tara wrinkled her nose. "Why would you subject yourself to that?" she asked. "I couldn't even imagine reading these plays once, let alone"--she gestured in the air--"as many times as you've read them."

"I'm an English Lit. major, so it's kind of my thing." You sighed in a dreamy sort of way, and Tara couldn't help as her eyes flitted down to your lips, her tongue dragging across her bottom one. She quickly shifted back to your eyes when you looked at her. "But it's not everyone's thing. I get it."

She frowned. "Sorry if I, like, wasted your time."

You waved her off. "Don't worry about it. I like talking about the plays, and if anything I said in the last fifty minutes got through to you, then I did my job."

Tara nodded. "Oh, it definitely did. Yeah, I learned so much about Shakespeare today," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

You chuckled. "Sure you did."

She took a deep breath in and then rushed out, "If I could prove to you that I learned something, would you let me take you on a date?" She watched as your eyes widened in surprise before being narrowed by the smile that took over your face.

"Okay," you agreed. "I'll ask you a question, and if you can answer it, then I'll give you my number. How's that?"

"Yeah," she said, grinning. "That works."

You glanced around the parts of the exhibit that you had taken Tara through, and she watched as you thought for a moment, your eyebrows furrowing in concentration and your hand scratching at the side of your neck.

"Oh!" you said after a minute. "I've got it." You turned to her, a wicked smile on your face. "In Twelfth Night, what's the name of Viola's brother?"

Oh shit, Tara thought. I should've listened harder when she was talking about that play. But it's not my fault she looked so cute when she was talking about the different theories of human gender.

She blinked at you, trying to come up with the name, or, frankly, any name that you had mentioned during your little tour. You waited patiently, watching her as the gears turned in her head.

Orsino? No, no--that's the Duke. Was it Cesario? Toby? Malvolio? None of those. Oh! It was--

"Sebastian!" she practically yelled.

You giggled at her enthusiasm and pulled the pen from your front pocket. As you clicked it open, you said, "I guess you do listen." You took her arm, pushed up her sleeve so that you had enough skin to write, and jotted down your number on her forearm. She looked at it when you were done, blushing at the sight of a poorly-drawn heart at the end. "Text me, yeah?"

"Totally," she breathed out. "Yeah, I'll do that. For sure."

"Okay." You glanced at your watch. "My next tour's starting in, like, a minute, so I've gotta run." You quickly looked around the exhibit and, upon finding no one near, leaned close and pressed a short kiss to her cheek. "Bye!"

Tara was left in the center of the Shakespeare exhibit, watching as you walked back toward the entrance, with a burning cheek and butterflies stirring in her stomach. She looked at the portrait on her right.

"Shakespeare, you're not good for much, but apparently you're good for getting cute girls' numbers," she muttered.

bonus: "so, what exhibits did you go to, tara?" sam asked as the group sat in a little coffee shop down the street from the MoMA.

"uh, the shakespeare one," tara mumbled.

everyone's eyes widened. "what?" came the resounding reply from all of her friends.

"you hate shakespeare," mindy stated.

"yeah. when they tried to teach us about it in senior year, you literally left the classroom," chad said.

"why the hell would you spend all your time in a shakespeare exhibit?" sam asked, furrowing her eyebrows at tara.

anika reached over and pulled at tara's shirt sleeve, revealing the numbers hidden beneath. "i think that might be why."

tara groaned as everyone started talking over one another, asking questions (sam) and squealing (quinn and mindy) and grumbling (chad and ethan).

"god," mindy started when everyone was finally quiet, "you are so gay, t."

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #tara x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #scream 6 #scream 5 #museum tara

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

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Mrs Bridgerton

Mrs Bridgerton Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Modern AU. Your ex-husband craves you in a way you had no idea about until one fateful call...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, explicit language and thoughts, dirty talk, sexting, sex tape, masturbation, pregnancy kink, smidge of breeding kink. Mentions of marriage, divorce, pregnancy, custody, parenting, heartbreak, emotions. Bit angsty maybe? Not sure.

Word Count: 4.3k

Authors Note: This is an anon request fill from January here. (tldr summary: ex-husband Benedict can't stop thinking about you) Nonny, I changed up a couple of details of your ask; the porn he watches is your old sex tapes from when you were married. Also, he doesn't call once he was spent; he accidentally calls very much in the act ;) I hope that is okay. Guys, I have no idea what this is; sorry. Thanks to @colettebronte for checking I haven't completely lost it and @eleanor-bradstreet for the gif used above. <3

“Mrs Bridgerton!.... Mrs Bridgerton!” A teacher calls out across the playing field as she jogs towards you. It takes you a few seconds to realise she is indeed addressing you. It's been a couple of years since you went by that name—almost a ghost from the past at this point.

“Ah, actually, it’s Ms y/l/n now,” you correct as she draws closer. “I’m, well, I’m divorced from Emilia’s dad,” you explain somewhat apologetically.

“Oh, I am so very sorry! I'm new here. I just asked her if her parents were here, and she pointed you out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. It's an entirely fair assumption to make,” you placate, shielding your eyes from the sun to catch Emilia's gaze and give her the thumbs up at the end of the grassy running track.

“Well, I just need one of you to sign this permission form for the trip to the Science Museum next week,” the teacher states, thrusting a clipboard towards you.

“Oh certainly, no problem,” you assure, taking the proffered pen and signing on the dotted line she indicates. You know how excited Emilia is about that upcoming trip, even though she insists on going to the museum with you or her father at least once every few months.

“Wonderful, thank you.”

You just nod as another teacher brings them all to the starting line with a blast from their whistle, and your focus shifts entirely to cheering on your five-year-old daughter in her first school race.

-----

He knows you haven't seen him, and he doubts even Emilia has clocked him, wearing a baseball cap pulled low as he is. He deliberately keeps a low profile when you arrive. He is here to see Emilia on her first sports day. Only that. Or so he keeps telling himself.

But then he sees you, and something in his stomach knots hard. It’s been more than two years, and still, every time, it floors him. A few months after your split, he took to using Eloise as the go-between for your shared custody arrangements and has never stopped. Since then, he has not seen you in person, too cowardly to face you. His biggest mistake was letting you go.

You met in your late twenties at a party hosted by mutual friends, and that night, he knew his life would never be the same. Something about the connection was instant and electric. He had the best sex of his life, right there in a spare room of a party. Both drunk and foolish, you didn't use protection. So it was only a few weeks into your burgeoning relationship when you found yourselves staring dumbfounded at a blue and white stick that would alter your lives forever. You married quietly two months later at the town hall, with just a few family members and close friends attending, neither of you wanting a big fuss. It was a big gamble in many ways, but you were both willing to try, crazily in love and filled with a youthful optimism that can be so blinding.

All was well until parenting a newborn drove you both to exhaustion and beyond. A wedge grew between you, even as your beautiful daughter developed into the best miniature version of both of you, with his beauty and your brains. You tried to make it work. But bickering about petty things and distancing became the only constant in your dynamic. Part of him had hoped Emilia would be enough glue to hold you together, but it was too much to pin on a small child. Just after her third birthday, he watched his world crumble as you tearfully packed up your possessions and took the light from his life with you.

And now. Now it's a regret that haunts him every day. Replaying the mistakes he made over and over, the ones that meant you slipped through his fingers. Too preoccupied with his career frustrations and plagued by chronic lack of sleep to realise the damage before it was irreparable. He knows now, too late, that with a little more effort and compromise, perhaps you would still be together as a family. He certainly never stopped loving and desiring you.

So when the teacher calls out Mrs Bridgerton, his heart almost stops beating and, to his shame, there is a stirring in his jeans. God, he wishes that was still your name, so much so there is a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches you correct the teacher in an endearingly accommodating way. A large part of him wants to leap up and grab you, lift you into his arms, beg that you use the name again. His name. But he doesn't; he just lingers in melancholic reverie, recalling with perfect clarity how it felt to push the white gold band shakily onto your left hand as you recited your vows.

Then with a sharp nearby whistle blow signifying the race start, his focus is pulled back to why he is here. His little wonder, the centre of his universe. Emilia Bridgerton. The most beautiful person on the planet.

“Go, Emilia!!” he shouts, transfixed as his little girl moves out ahead of the pack, unthinking of anything but supporting his baby girl.

-----

Your head cuts to the side, and you freeze. You would recognise that voice anywhere. And how many Emilia’s can there be in the race?

He's not looking at you; his whole focus is on the field, but you can't seem to look away. Not even to watch your precious daughter. You haven't seen your ex-husband in more than two years. Using his sister as a go-between just seems like the best way to deal with your residual guilt about leaving him. But now? One look and your insides feel like you are falling down a chasm, lungs suddenly too small for the breaths you need to take.

Time seems to slow like molasses as you observe him. He’s wearing a baseball cap, almost akin to a disguise, but you can see underneath it that profile that still makes your heart flutter. Too much, really, considering you are exes. But his beauty was never the problem; it was part of the reason you always stayed. Those soulful eyes would draw you back every time. Those eyes that now haunt you daily, the Bridgerton genes far too strong not to override all of yours. Emilia is the prettiest little female version of your ex-husband you could ever imagine, and it's both your greatest joy and your greatest pain point, living with a growing reminder of the person who still owns your heart regardless of how much you might wish otherwise.

Looking back now, leaving him was an impetuous decision made from a place of utter exhaustion, not able to see a way out of the treadmill your lives had become at that time. But pride stopped you from admitting perhaps you made a mistake, serving divorce papers before you could think too hard about it. He didn't contest and agreed to all of your terms of custody without a fight. You didn't ask for spousal support; you earned more from employment anyway, most of his income coming from his trust. You never loved him for the Bridgerton name or fortune; in fact, sometimes, it felt like you loved him in spite of it.

And now, one look at him, and you are breathless and in a complete emotional and, yes, physical quagmire. Your body yearning for him, your traitorous brain supplying image after tumbling image of intimacy, the likes of which you have never known before or since—warm bodies wrapped around each other in ecstasy, that velvet voice pleading with you to come with him, for him, always so eager. It makes your chest heave so hard you have to look away to regain composure, doing so just in time for the universe to seemingly return to normal speed, as you watch Emilia cross the line, victorious in her first-ever race.

You cannot help it; you leap up and cheer too. And she looks over, beaming and jumping up and down. Running towards you and throwing herself into your arms as you kneel with a huge grin.

“Mummy mummy mummy!!” she peals excitedly, her breath gusting hard into your ear. “I did it! I won!”

“I know; well done!” you exclaim, rocking her happily in your arms. “You did wonderfully!!!”

“Did I see Daddy?” she asks, craning over your shoulder. You tense and swivel yourself to follow her eye line, but where he was standing just moments ago, there is now just an empty patch of grass.

“Oh, I don't think so, my love; it was probably someone else’s daddy who looks similar,” you suggest, the lie feeling odd on your tongue, It's obvious he doesn't want to be seen, and a part of you is grateful to avoid an awkward meeting. Emilia is still scanning the crowd, unconvinced by your assertion. “How about an ice cream from the van over there?” you offer cheerily, wanting to distract her from looking too hard for him.

“Okay!” she chimes happily, squirrelling a warm little hand into yours and pulling you towards the pedestrian gate.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spy a navy blue Jaguar pulling out of the other gate and know without a doubt it was him.

-----

He couldn't do it. He thought he could, but he feels the weight of your stare and has to leave. The minute Emilia crosses the line, he gives a little victory punch and takes off. Not able to face you. So much of him wants to, but the gutless part of him apparently resides in his leg muscles. Before he knows it, he is in his car and pulling out onto the West London streets, not daring to look back. It's not his day to pick up Emilia; that's still two days away. He would not want you angry for overstepping the agreement you have in place.

As he pulls up at a traffic light, his phone pings a match on the dating app Anthony bullied him into downloading last week. The temptation to fling his phone right out the window is strong. The idea of being with someone else, especially after the tumult of seeing you today, just feels wrong.

The only person he has slept with since your divorce was the second biggest mistake of his life. Someone he met at a bar celebrating Colin’s last birthday after too many whiskeys. A close enough facsimile to you that, through the haze of alcohol, he let himself be seduced. The lizard part of his brain somehow convinced it was you, even as she rode him in a way that chafed. Nothing like the way you moved, positively undulated, on his cock. Regret clung to his skin, the fug of hangover already kicking in as he watched her wordlessly re-dress and leave almost immediately, never exchanging numbers. He never saw her again. The fact he called your name as he came was probably the majority of the problem.

The only thing that stops him from flinging the phone is all the history it contains. Pictures of Emilia growing up from a tiny infant to now. But also his text exchanges with you, that increasingly he finds himself scrolling back through on self-indulgent nights, back to when things were good, and you would send each other little notes of love interspersed with sexting that; even now, he can barely read without getting hard. Unable to resist, as he waits for the light to go green, a dozen or more quick thumb flicks upwards on the thread for your previous number, and he finds some of his guilty pleasures.

8 March, 3:25 pm

Y/N: You had better plough me over the kitchen table when you get home xoxox

4 April, 5:02 pm

BB: Tough work day, need you, babe

Y/N: How’s this, daddy?

Y/N: [photo of your naked glowing, slightly rounded pregnant body]

BB: Fucking helllllll, I am one lucky man

Y/N: Come home, fuck me, daddy

BB: You need to stop calling me that…

Y/N: Why? I am literally pregnant with your child.

BB: Yeah, and that’s why it's so wrong…

Y/N: Just get here, pls. I am so fucking wet….

He is pinch-zooming on the photo, head tilted, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth… when a car horn makes him jump, the phone slipping from his grip and falling onto his emergent hard-on.

The traffic light has turned green.

With an apologetic nod in the rearview mirror, he drives off, shaking his head, knowing it’s probably very wrong to be looking at pictures of you, his ex-wife, and wanting to fuck you so bad that his foot leans heavily on the accelerator. His blood pumping hard, already knowing he will be taking himself in hand the minute he gets to his place.

-----

Emilia is happily smushing the cone of her 99 ice cream in her little fist as you walk the few streets to your sister's place, where you left your car earlier. She has kindly agreed to let Emilia stay tonight and have a sleepover with her cousins.

Later, you have your first date since your divorce, and you’ll probably need the rest of the late afternoon to psych yourself up enough to go. You've already cried off so many matchmaking attempts that you had to say yes eventually, just to stop the incessant badgering from all angles. Strangely, this one is Eloise’s doing, and you are still slightly weirded out that your ex-husband’s sister is engineering your first date in more than seven years.

Waving goodbye a few minutes later, you slip into your car and sit for a few deep calming inhales, trying not to think of how much Benedict stole your breath earlier. Some part of you thinks maybe you just imagined him there, a fevered mirage, your subconscious telling you to cancel this stupid date idea and stay home with your two best friends, Ben and Jerry. But then Ameila seemed to think he was there too, and honestly, it feels like you don't know what to do about anything anymore.

-----

He wastes no time, flinging aside the cap, tossing his car keys onto the hallway table and sprinting upstairs to his bedroom, only pausing to insert his noise-cancelling earbuds and discard his clothing.

He is already leaking a little when he throws himself onto the bed and fists his cock with a groan. His other hand is hovering over the play button on the video he definitely knows he shouldn't be watching, hidden in a nondescript folder.

Your soft giggle tickles his eardrums as the video jolts to life. It's one he shot of you on his phone on your honeymoon—it’s one of his favourites lately.

“Bennnnn,” your voice a teasing murmur as the screen fills with a glimpse of your breasts, his hand trying to take a sweeping shot of your body as you writhe underneath him, both of you buried in a soft glow under a tent of sheets wrapped around your bodies.

His own younger self chuckles loud in his ears, behind the camera as he is, both of your breaths loud as the movement becomes more pronounced.

This is him fucking you and filming it. The camera pans down, and there, almost too tough to see in the grainy low light, is his cock surging into you; the shot is never still enough to see in full detail.

Somehow the lack of clarity makes it more of a turn-on. Benedict whines low as his hand moves in a firm motion, jerking hard, losing himself in reminiscence of what it is like to be buried inside you, your scent, younger you panting hard, pleading quietly for him.

His hand speeds up, and he gasps as the video grows more urgent, the noises so loud right in his ear. He can hear the delicious sound of your wet cunt around his shaft, and it's like a sense memory, that viscous heated cling he can never forget.

“Ben, oh god Ben, you are so good, fuck me harder,” younger you moans loudly on the video, and both Benedicts, the old and new, couldn't resist that siren call.

“Y/n, oh god, give me your all, y/n,” Benedict growls, screwing his eyes shut, just relying on the auditory experience of the video now.

But not realising with his slurred speech; it's just given his phone a command…

-----

You are driving towards your place when your hands-free car display lights up with the last name you expect.

Benedict.

Your stomach plunges. Just like earlier when you found yourself staring at him and reimagining so many things you know you shouldn't. You reach over and click the little green button to connect the call, heart in your mouth.

“Ben?” you say his name softly, almost timid. Worried about what it might mean after that strange non-encounter less than an hour ago.

The noise that greets you makes every hair stand on end. It's a throaty groan. He seems to hiss your name, and all you do is frown as your car speakers vibrate with the sound.

“Ben, are you okay?” you check.

“Oh god, I am more than okay, baby,” he growls, and every inch of your body is rioting. “Just please, please don't stop, fuck you feel so good. So tight and hot. I want to live inside you,” the words panted, desperate.

Your foot slips hard on the pedal, and you almost crash into a damn tree.

-----

Your voice sounds different in his ear, and there is a background hum that wasn't there before, but he is so close to something so intoxicating he doesn't think to open his eyes and check the video.

“Talk to me,” he pleads low, knowing you on the video won't respond but somehow still wanting to talk to you regardless, “tell me how you feel.”

There is silence and then a slight shaky exhale.

“Ben.”

“Yes, yes, yes, say my name,” he pleads, leaking over his own knuckle as his hand becomes a frenzy on his cock.

-----

You pull over, quaking. There is only one reason he uses that tone. That's his bedroom voice, and fuck if it doesn't make you as weak now as it did back then. You can only assume his phone has accidentally dialled you while he is what? Masturbating? You flush so hotly at the very thought, and yet you can’t school what you say next. Your treacherous libido taking command of your lips.

“Are you touching yourself for me, Ben?” you breathe, and your clothing suddenly feels too tight, too hot.

Your speakers vibrate your seat as he groans loud and lewdly, and it's a beeline straight for your clit, now throbbing insistently against your car seat.

“Yes baby,” he moans and now, in the background, you can hear it, a slight slapping sound, his cock passing through his fist.

Your pussy clenches instinctually, and you feel a heavy pull, a depth charge of lust. Your lips tingle with the thought of kissing him, running your mouth over his body, wrapping around that cock you remember so well.

“I want you to come for me, Ben,” you plead, a hand straying down between your thighs, scarcely believing what is happening, what you are doing so brazen, parked up on the street mid-afternoon on a Wednesday.

“I will; oh god, I'm going to come so hard,” he snarls. “Do you want it inside you?”

Your fingers glance your clit over your yoga pants, and the heat is overwhelming. “Yes, Ben,” you pant, “inside me, give it to me, give me more of your beautiful babies.”

What you are saying is taboo. And so truthful you don't think to censor it. You would bear as many children as he wants to fuck into you. Still, even now.

“But you are already pregnant with my baby darling,” his voice taking on a softer edge, more wistful, “and you look so, so beautiful.”

You freeze.

“Benedict?” you say quietly.

“Yes, my love,” he purrs.

“Who do you think you are speaking to?” your ask is awkward, screwing your eyes shut, your hand moving away from the apex of your thighs. Suddenly mortified, perhaps it's not you that he thinks he is speaking to after all. Oh shit, did he get someone else pregnant? The panicked bile rises until he sighs the following words.

“Y/n, my wife, my life. God, I miss you so much. I know this must be a fever dream; I know we didn't talk like this in the video, but fuck if it doesn't sound so real,” he ends so wistfully.

“What video?” your question is slow, a weird weight on your chest that is your heart pounding out of control.

“Our honeymoon, darling,” he moans, and you can hear he is still masturbating, although slower-paced now. “When you let me video us fucking. I watch it so much these days that I'm surprised it's not worn out. And yet I can't not; every time I fuck my fist, it's to you.”

“You watch us? Every time you…?” your hand clutching your chest now.

“Yes, my love. I miss you so so much. I should never have let you go. You are my angel, the love of my life, the mother of my child and the only person I ever, ever want to fuck.”

The confession knocks your whole world off its axis. And you crave him. The feeling is so utterly all-consuming you struggle to take your next breath. You have to go to him. You have to see him. It's not even a choice not to. Every fibre of your being needs him.

“Ben,” you murmur, “don't come for me yet; I want to fuck you.”

“You do?” the hope in that gasp makes you lightheaded.

“Yes,” you breathe, “I miss your cock so much.”

You scramble to throw the car into gear and pull out into traffic. You are about a minute's drive away or less if he is home. Something in your movements so very urgent.

“Tell me what you are doing,” you whisper, trying your best to pitch the ask just the right level of seductive as you race down the road, turning into his street.

“I’m fucking my fist,” he moans, “but I wish it were you, my love.”

“I'm almost there,” you pant, pulling into his driveway with almost a squeal of tyres. You grab your phone and jump out of your car, crushing the handset to your ear as you run up to his front door and punch in a code, hoping it's still the one he uses. The crest of victory is palpable as the lock beeps and relents, the door popping open.

“Keep stroking yourself gently,” you order as you close the door and start to disrobe as you bound up the stairs.

“Y/n…” his voice is suddenly tremulant “this…. This isn't a dream, is it?”

“No, Ben, it's not,” you breathe, and you are down to your underwear as you skid into his bedroom, panting.

His eyes are wide with shock as you stride across the room, his cock still in hand and utterly naked; he looks just as delicious as the day you married him.

“Hello, Mr Bridgerton,” you purr.

“Y/n,” he stutters, and it's everything—surprise, desire, hope, relief, yearning and ardent.

“Call me Mrs Bridgerton,” you shoot back, and the responding noise he makes is so utterly feral you almost orgasm without so much as touching him.

-----

Eight months later

“Emilia, not there,” Benedict chuckles good-naturedly.

“Then where daddy?” her pout turns epic as she hands the offending item to him. “You do it!” she huffs.

“Okay, hold still,” he laughs and slides the small tiara into her hair. “See? Just perfect,” he opines, dropping a kiss onto her chestnut tresses.

“I look like a princess!” Emilia exclaims proudly, twisting to look into the mirror.

“Yes, you do,” Benedict concurs. “A pretty princess bridesmaid.”

“The prettiest,” you agree from the doorway, and both heads turn around and greet you with mouths that gape open.

“Oh, Mummy, you look like a real princess!” Emilia gasps, running towards you and giving you a quick hug before skipping out of the room gleefully as her grandmother Violet calls her name from downstairs.

“You look breathtaking,” his tone full of wonderment as he slowly gets to his feet, his eyes never leaving you. “But isn't it bad luck for me to see you like this?” he adds with a flash of concern.

You move towards him, and him towards you, drawn together. “I think we’ve had all the bad luck we are going to have,” you smirk, very much enjoying the sight of him in a sharp, custom-tailored suit. “At least I hope so, seeing as we have this thing to deal with,” you raise an eyebrow, pointing to your five-month bump.

“Thing? Darling, I thought we agreed; his name is Henry,” he sighs in mock indignation, his large hands skating around the swell of your belly, his lips warm on your temple.

“When did I agree to that name?” you frown amiably.

“Last night,” he responds silkily, right into your ear now.

“Oh no, you can’t possibly hold me to that,” you decry. “Anything said when inside me is null and void, Mr Bridgerton; you know I can barely remember my own name at that point.”

His rich chuckle vibrates against your whole body. “Well, let me remind you….”

“I’m listening,” you sigh, eyes closing as you sway into his hot neck kisses.

“It's Mrs Bridgerton,” he rumbles. “Or it will be again in about an hour.”

“I can't wait”, you whisper. “Say it again.”

“Mrs Bridgerton,” A dark, slow tease.

You are almost late for your own (second) wedding just downstairs.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton angst #bridgerton angst #1k notes

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vintagelasvegas · 6 months ago

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Las Vegas Police trailing a couple bikers. Fremont & 3rd, c. December 1972. Slide scan from Eddy Crellin.

Hell’s Angels decided to come to Las Vegas. They parked in front of the hotels. When the police department sent a couple of cops to talk to them, the bikers just blew them off.

Sheriff Ralph Lamb had a couple deputies go and talk to them. The deputies told the bikers, ‘Ya’ll need a place to sleep tonight. Over here on Mt. Charleston there’s a grassy field where you can park your bikes. You can go up there and sleep there.’

So they accepted and went up there. What they didn’t tell them was that the entire field would be surrounded by police. As soon as they went there they were all arrested. Their bikes were seized and taken to the California border. The police locked them up overnight, and shaved their heads because they didn’t want to get lice. They had their attorney come in from California, and he was locked up over night too.

When their attorney confronted Sheriff Ralph Lamb saying you can't do this, Ralph Lamb said, ‘You have so many clients here, I figured you needed some time to talk to them all.’

When I was attorney for the police department one of the thing I had to tell Ralph was, because the times are changing, we had to have reasons for arrest other than, ‘He’s a no good son of a bitch.’

Gov. Bob Miller. Sons of the Pioneers: Remembering Las Vegas Legends. The Mob Museum, 5/21/2024.

#1972 #Fremont & 3rd

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craft2eu · 5 months ago

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Sidekicks zum 150.Gründungsjubiläum: GRASSI Museum Leipzig 2024

Das Grassi Museum für Angewandte Kunst in Leipzig ist nicht nur das zweitälteste sondern auch eines der Schönsten seiner Art. Es feiert in diesem Jahr sein 150. Gründungsjubiläum. Einen ersten Höhepunkt der Festlichkeiten zu diesem Anlass bot das Wochenende vom 24. bis 26. Mai 2024, als zum Festakt, zu vielfältigen Aktionen, Ausstellungen und sogar zum Charleston-Tanzen in die prächtige…

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#150 Jahre 150 Objekte #150. gründungsjubiläum #A Chair and You #angewandte Kunst #Automata #become a curator #Grassi Museum für angewandte Kunst #Handwerkskunst #Inspiration #Jugendstil #Leipzig #Reniassancekacheln #Robert Wilson #Sammler #Sammlung #Spielobjekte #Stühle #Stecknadeldosen #Taschenuhrhalter

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nuveau-deco · 10 months ago

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Art Nouveau Table Clock. German origin, dated around 1905–1910, designer/manufacturer unknown. Medium is brass that has been cast, pressed, patinated and mounted. Dimensions: h. 26 cm x w. 34 cm x 10 cm. From the Grassi Museum of Applied Arts (Leipzig, Germany), inventory number: 2004.35 ad.

“The surface of the brass table clock is almost entirely decorated with a flat relief. Curved band ornaments form a kind of frame for the round dial and the natural depiction of a nocturnal landscape. The figure of a bat, mystified as the messenger of the night in Art Nouveau, hovers in a prominent position above the clockwork.”

(Source: sammlung.grassimak.de)

#table clock #timepieces #early 1900s #german design #art nouveau #jugendstil #animal motif #bats #metal #brass #yellow #brown

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typhlonectes · 4 months ago

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Wooded Grasslands Flourished in Africa 21 Million Years Ago – New Research Forces a Rethink of Ape Evolution

An ape that lived 21 million years ago was used to a habitat that was both grassy and wooded.

By Laura M. MacLatchy, University of Michigan, Dan Peppe, Baylor University, and Kieran McNulty, University of Minnesota

Apes have stable, upright backs. Once the back is vertical, an ape no longer has to walk on the top of small branches like a monkey. Instead, it can grab different branches with its arms and legs, distributing its body mass across multiple supports. Apes can even hang below branches, making them less likely to lose their balance. In this way, they are able to access fruits growing on the edges of tree crowns that otherwise might be available only to smaller species. But was this scenario true for the earliest apes? A 21 million-year-old site in Moroto, Uganda, became an ideal place to investigate this question. There our REACHE team discovered teeth and other remains belonging to Morotopithecus, the oldest ape for which scientists have found fossils from the cranium, teeth and other parts of the skeleton. Two bones in particular helped us understand how this species moved. A lower backbone found decades ago and curated by the Uganda National Museum had already been noted for its bony attachments for back muscles, indicating that Morotopithecus had a stiff lower back, good for climbing upright in the trees. A discovery of our own confirmed this climbing behavior in a major way. At Moroto we found a fossil ape thigh bone that is short but strong, with a very thick shaft. This kind of bone is characteristic of living apes and helps them climb up and down trees with a vertical torso...

Read more: https://www.discovermagazine.com/the-sciences/wooded-grasslands-flourished-in-africa-21-million-years-ago-new-research

#prehistoric #evolution #fossils #primate #mammal #animals #nature #africa #science #paleontology

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enigmaticexplorer · 2 months ago

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I Yearn, and so I Fear - Epilogue

Masterlist | Previous Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.2K

Three Years Later

28 Melona

“Another year, Wolf’ika.” Cody paused on the grassy path and appraised the orchard. “You should be proud of this.”

Wolffe flashed his vod a smile. “I am.”

In the six months since Cody last visited, the citrus-star trees had matured past their two-year adolescence into adulthood. Their trunks had thickened into sturdy structures larger than Neyti’s body; the lowest branches skimmed Wolffe’s head.

Wolffe and Kazi had planted the twenty seeds together but the orchard was his responsibility. Hours researching Ceaia’s nutrient-rich soil, speaking with local farmers, tilling the soil, and caring for the seeds paid off. The orchard produced bunches of citrus-stars monthly. Enough for his family. And enough to sell at the local farmer’s market.

“I’ve added a new beehive,” Wolffe said. He gestured to the end of the row where an amber hive hung from a branch, well hidden among the dense cluster of leaves. It was his fifth hive. And his most productive. “It’s done well.”

“To know that you did become a farmer…” Cody chuckled his incredulity. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

Wolffe inclined his chin in agreement.

While Kazi worked at Outlook Harbor’s Museum of History and Neyti attended school, Wolffe spent his days out here alone: tending the orchard; nurturing the garden’s assortment of fruits, vegetables, and herbs (for both meals and Nova’s research); monitoring the bees. ‘Til Fox interrupted. Then his quiet and solitude were ruined.

But the early morning hours, after his run, he had to himself. Just him and the lazing leaves and the humming bees.

“Kazi and Neyti?” Cody asked. They hadn’t been at the house when he landed half an hour ago.

“Weekly lessons at the museum,” Wolffe said.

The lessons began two years ago when, intrigued by Kazi’s translation work, Neyti asked to learn the ancient Ceaian language. Kazi agreed with a casual smile. But Wolffe had seen her hidden delight. Her excitement. He was well-studied in her subtle tells, after all.

“I’m meeting them later,” Wolffe added. Cody arched a brow, and he shrugged with a chuckle. “I don’t know where we’re going. They want it to be a surprise.”

The gray of dawn cast the orchard in foggy darkness, dulling the pale orange of the trees’ fronds. Wolffe reached for a leaf larger than his hand and rubbed it between his fingers; the fuzzy trichomes tickled his palm. It brought a half-smile to his face.

They continued forward, turning at a fork in the path where, frowning, Cody nudged a pink bush with his boot.

“Neyti and Steiner like to play here,” Wolffe explained. He smiled. “I couldn’t say no. And they’re good for the bees.”

His vod shook his head fondly. “And Fox?”

Wolffe ducked beneath a branch. “You could ask him.”

“I could.” But he wouldn’t.

Cody returned to Coruscant the week they completed renovation on the lighthouse. The decision had gutted Neyti as much as it angered Fox. Fox had expected them to remain together. To settle down and remove themselves from the threat of the Empire. To live out the rest of their lives in relative peace. But Cody disagreed with Fox’s sentiments. They argued; they parted on bad terms.

Every few months, Cody visited. He spent most of his time painting with Neyti, helping Wolffe with the garden, hiking with Nova. During those brief visits, Fox disappeared to the lighthouse. He avoided meals. Avoided any interaction with Cody. For Fox, Cody’s decision to leave Ceaia—to leave his vode—was a betrayal.

A year and a half dredged by before Fox begrudgingly apologized. Cody accepted the apology with characteristic understanding. Wolffe knew the fight had weighed on Cody; just like he knew Fox would never understand Cody’s decision.

But Wolffe understood Cody’s decision. Cody threw himself into work to deal with his guilt, and working with Rex and the clone network provided an escape.

Wolffe also knew that Cody couldn’t remain on Ceaia. Not after Daria’s death. He hardly blamed his vod. The nightmares still haunted him on occasion. Nightmares where Daria and Neyti deboarded the transport at the Naboo spaceport without Kazi. Each time he awoke sweaty and panting, reaching for Kazi.

Touching her, feeling her heartbeat in her wrist, sliding his finger along the tattoo of his initials—W.E.—on the inner skin of her fourth finger—it freed him from the nightmare’s lingering grasp.

He didn’t blame Cody. Not one fucking bit.

“Fox helps with the garden and orchard. But he doesn’t like the bees,” Wolffe said. Cody smirked in amusement. “He’s been spending a lot of time carving the fence.”

Nearby, a detailed dragon prowled the top of the dark-wooded fence protecting the orchard. Cody admired the carving. “And the annals?”

Last year, the annals evolved from Fox’s personal project to a museum-financed publication. It was Nova’s idea: an admitted desire to publicly preserve the stories of the vode he’d lost.

“They deserve to be remembered,” Nova had told Wolffe and Fox late one night while he paced the carpeted basement. “And not just by me. But by the people they protected, too.”

Kazi had recently started her job at the museum (as a translator of the dying Ceaian language, she was scribing some of the oldest scrolls on loan from the Library of Xand), and reached out to the museum’s director.

A few private meetings led to an agreement: Fox would organize his interviews into a chronological timeline, and the museum would publish the stories into three annals. They would be the first historical record of the War. The only record from the soldiers who fought in it.

“They’re coming along,” Wolffe said. New interviews continued to appear every few months thanks to Cody’s efforts to connect various men with Fox. “The first two years are almost complete.”

Cody gave a pleased nod.

The path veered to the right, toward the house. Low-hanging leaves tickled their hair and brushed their shoulders. They passed through the gate, wandering deeper into the forest, the tree cover thickening. The smell of burning wood drifted on the breeze; they followed its scent.

“I have another interview,” Cody said. At his smug tone, Wolffe snorted. “From Rex.”

Wolffe blinked his surprise. “He agreed?”

Cody smirked. “I convinced him.”

“You’re next,” he said. Cody rolled his eyes, and he shoved his vod in the shoulder. “Stop being a prick.”

“You haven’t done it,” Cody retorted.

“Did it last week.” He winked at his vod’s appalled look but soon sobered, shrugging. “It was time.”

“Fuck.” Cody scrubbed a hand across his jaw. Weariness lined his eyes and forehead, and he let out a deep sigh. “I’ll…think about it.”

Nearing the front of the house, the low voices of Fox and Nova discernible over the crackle of the fire, Cody motioned for Wolffe to halt. He angled his head toward Nova. “How’s he doing?”

“Nova’s a grown man, Cod’ika,” Wolffe said gently. “He’s making his own life. And he’s doing a damn good job at it.”

“I know,” Cody murmured. “I thought that…” He cleared his throat and straightened. “I’m glad he’s doing well.”

Wolffe was surprised when Nova decided to stick around after Cody left. Throughout the War, and after, he’d remained loyal to Cody. The type of loyalty only the best commanding officers earned from their subordinates. Wolffe had once earned a similar loyalty from his men. Before Order 66. Before he bailed on the Empire. Before he fled his own men trying to gun him down for betraying orders.

But Wolffe quickly realized the reason behind Nova’s decision: Nova was ready to move on from the past. And that meant parting ways with Cody.

Within a few weeks of Cody’s departure, Nova applied for a researcher’s job at the local med center. There, he began researching a medicinal alternative to bacta. A solution to the Empire’s control and restriction over the healing aid. (Kazi gave him Daria’s old research books for inspiration or potential leads.)

The work kept Nova busy most days but he seemed to enjoy it. Neyti had even shown an interest in his work. Some afternoons, after school, he took her to the med center and let her help with his experiments.

“You know,” Wolffe said, clapping a hand to Cody’s back, “there’s a place for you here. Whenever you want it.”

“The Rebellion needs me—”

“You need the Rebellion.” Wolffe levelled a hard look at Cody. “But it won’t clear your conscience.”

Cody squared his shoulders. “Yeah. I know.”

Wolffe offered him a grim smile and then made his way toward the sputtering fire. The embers glowed in the darkness of the evergreen and sequoia forest; the flames kept the early morning shadows at bay.

For the next two hours, Wolffe and his vode downed glasses of whiskey, swapped stories they all knew, and played rounds of sabaac. Nova won; Wolffe was convinced he’d cheated.

As the forest lightened, the whiskey warming his blood, Wolffe tugged a sweater over his head, nodded to the others, and then started the trek to the docks. He was unsurprised when Fox followed.

The grassy cliff path spat them out at the shore. The low tide revealed bubbling sand pockets, a burrowing crab, and the booted footprints of a woman and child who’d passed through earlier.

“Three years,” Fox said, surveying the faint sunrise with a pensive expression. “A lot has changed.”

“It’s what you wanted,” Wolffe remarked.

“Yeah.” Slowly, his vod rolled the sleeves of his maroon sweater. “Never thought I’d end up on an ocean planet again.”

He chuckled. “It’s better than Kamino.”

“Anywhere is better than there,” Fox said. The vitriol underscoring his comment wasn’t lost on Wolffe; he knew Fox’s feelings well enough. Adjusting the cuff of his right sleeve, Fox cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

Wolffe gave a wordless grunt of confusion.

“For getting me off Coruscant.” Fox motioned to their surroundings. “This is a good place to retire.”

He snorted. “Only took you four years.”

“Fuck off.” Fox halted, running a hand through his hair, observing Wolffe with hesitant solemnity. He sighed. “I’m…grateful to be here.”

Wolffe nodded slowly. “Me too.”

He took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, to watch the sun cresting the oceanic horizon, to grasp Fox’s shoulder and give him a firm shake. Fox threw him a grin. One of those knowing grins he used when they were boys and was about to challenge Wolffe to a particularly ambitious dare. Wolffe hadn’t seen Fox grin like that in a long time. He’d missed it.

“Give my love to the women,” Fox said, shoving his hands into his trousers’ pockets. He backed away a step. “And don’t drown. I’d grow bored without you.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes and turned away.

A jog along the shore brought him to the docks. Scents of freshly baked bread, citrus fruits, and spiced soups wafted from the colorful buildings. Younglings sprinted the walkways. Sailors shouted orders as they prepared their ships.

Regardless of the earliness of the day, Outlook Harbor bustled with life. Wolffe nodded to the woman at the bakery (she sold jars of his honey), shook his head at a small boy begging for a cup of shaved ice (he could relate to the father’s fond exasperation), and lifted a hand of acknowledgement to the elderly florist (she liked Kazi and Neyti). With a sharp turn, he strode down a familiar dock—

“Daddy!”

He broke into a wide grin.

Legs dangling over the side of the sailboat, Neyti waved, her smile toothy. Beside her, Fluffy thumped his tail in greeting. The moment Wolffe boarded the boat the anooba knocked his head against his legs. He gave the canine a scratch behind his ears.

Over the years, Fluffy had matured into a calm yet protective force. A good soldier. Wolffe would know; he’d served with plenty of them.

“Hey, kid.” Wolffe kissed the top of Neyti’s head. Her hair was tied back in her classic double braids, the style he’d perfected with hours of practice on Kazi. “You ready?”

“Yup. Mum let me raise the sails.” Neyti nodded at the main mast. “We were waiting on you.”

While Neyti finished a glass of lemon juice, Wolffe inspected their work. Unnecessary thanks to Kazi’s expertise but he didn’t want to feel excluded from the prep. “Where is your mom—”

“It’s about time.” Kazi strolled from the cabin space beneath the deck, a bouquet in her hands, her hazel eyes beaming with mirth. “Happy life day.”

Wolffe grinned. He couldn’t help himself. The morning sun seemed as eager about Kazi as he felt. It cast her in a pinkish hue that made her skin glow. She kissed his cheek; his skin burned beneath the touch.

With an easy smile, Wolffe accepted the bouquet. Gray and long-petaled, the flowers complimented the wolf on his sweater and the socks he could see peeking above Kazi’s boots. The socks he’d given her long ago—the gray a claim to his pack.

Under the pretense of smelling the flowers, Wolffe scrutinized Kazi. He liked her like this: a carefree, dimpled smile; hands casually tucked in the back pockets of her trousers; an adventurous twinkle in her eyes. Seeing her like this…fuck,it inspired different wants within him.

He wanted to hold her close and smell her lavender soap. He wanted his head in her lap while her fingers played with his hair. He wanted to sit on their porch and listen to her talk about her translation work. He wanted to taste her, pleasure her until she was sated and pliant. He wanted her naked beneath this soft sunlight so he could admire every toned muscle and delicate plane of her body—

“Are you going to stare at Mum all day or can we go?” Neyti jumped to the deck, piercing him with an exasperated frown. Wolffe rubbed the back of his neck. “Your surprise won’t be waiting all day.”

“Demanding, much?” Kazi flicked their daughter’s forehead. Neyti responded with a sheepish grin. Chuckling, Kazi shared a private, knowing smile with him—that damned smile he’d beg on his knees for a glimpse of—and then started for the docking line. “Come on. Neyti’s right—we want to get there in time.”

Navigated by her skilled captain, the sailboat chugged through the harbor’s dark blue waves, passing through the breakwater where two dragons sat on guard: the twins, Bellu and Xap. Most harbors, Kazi once told him, were protected by the twins.

For the lateness of the summer, the ocean was well-tempered, sincere in its embrace of salty wind and bobbing waves. While Wolffe stood at the helm with Kazi wondering where they were going, Neyti and Fluffy leaned against the bow’s railing, searching for sea creatures.

Soon, their billowing sails brought them to their destination: the clear waters of the islet.

Wolffe chuckled his appreciation. Both his wife and daughter knew the islet was one of his favorite places to visit: a lush forest with foxlike creatures that often attempted to nick his broken wristchrono; a clearing with a bubbling stream that could ease the worst tension from him; and the turtles—docile creatures he liked to swim with.

Anchor dropped and wetsuits assorted, the islet’s shallows welcomed them. They swam among iridescent corals. Seaweed swayed at a lethargic pace, pearlescent seashells blinking like stars among a sandy sky.

After a lunch of cubed melons, peppered cucumbers, vegetable cheese sandwiches, and a dessert of Wolffe’s favorite cherry pie, they returned to the waters.

Awakened by the sun’s rays, the turtles emerged from their caves. The youngest was Neyti’s size; the largest neared Wolffe’s height. Dark brown geometric shapes decorated the turtles’ domed shells and long flippers. Their delicate heads poked curiously at the humans.

Wolffe took photos of Kazi and Neyti swimming among the bale. He had a large collection of photos at home: some decorated the wall in his and Kazi’s bedroom; others adorned the main level’s mantelpiece and bookshelves.

The photos were proof. Proof that he’d survived. Proof that he’d got to live out his dreams.

The holorecorder swapped hands. Kazi snapped photos of him and Neyti; Neyti, with artistic flair, captured a few of him and Kazi. Both broke into giggles when Kazi snapped a photo of a turtle biting his foot. He grinned along with them, even if his toes ached.

Eventually, the white, billowy clouds of afternoon gave way to golden-dappled clouds of evening. Pale white hummingbirds whizzed among the islet’s shores and the sailboat. Curled near the hull, Fluffy watched the tiny birds with intrigue.

While Kazi sat alone on the shore, studying Daria’s old necklace and the photo within its locket, Wolffe joined Neyti on the sailboat’s railing. Beneath their hanging feet, the turtles lazed. Neyti peeled a citrus-star. An even split and she offered half to Wolffe. He accepted with a small smile.

“Good day?” Wolffe asked.

Neyti grinned. “The best.”

“Any new painting ideas?”

“Lots. Steiner and I are going to the lighthouse to paint tomorrow.” She plucked a citrus-star piece into her mouth and then scrutinized him. “You have a request.”

“Clever girl,” Wolffe said. Her smug smile earned a low chuckle from him.

Reaching into a pocket of his tossed-aside trousers, Wolffe retrieved his wallet and a small photo tucked within. A photo of him, Kazi, and Neyti in front of the lighthouse last month.

He remembered the moment clearly. The night’s constellations were winking into existence. Gentle waves were lapping at the shore, the temperature cool. He was staring at Kazi, holding Neyti’s hand, when he was struck with the reminder that this was his life. That he was married and had a daughter. That his vode were alive. That he was alive. It was hard to believe, sometimes.

“I’d like a painting of this,” Wolffe said thickly, showing Neyti the photo. “Think you can do that?”

Neyti narrowed her eyes as she appraised the image. “Is it for Mum’s life day?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it,” she promised.

He nodded his thanks and carefully tucked the photo back into his wallet.

After a minute of silence, interrupted only by the rocking waves and the whizzing hummingbirds, Neyti peered at him. “Did you like your life day?”

Wolffe considered his daughter for a long moment.

Over the years, she’d grown taller. Most of her adult teeth had come in, though one gap remained. (He hoped it took a long time to fill.) While her quiet nature continued to shape her curious yet shrewd outlook, her sharp wit and stubborn attitude persisted, especially during sparring lessons with Fox.

She still enjoyed her princess stories. She still enjoyed learning new dragon lore. He and Kazi still read to her in bed.

But Neyti was maturing. And he was keen to appreciate each moment of her childhood he had left.

Slipping a piece of citrus-star into his mouth, Wolffe knocked his elbow against Neyti’s. “I couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

As night swarmed and sharks began their hunt, they returned to Outlook Harbor.

A blanket sprawled, bellies warm with vegetable curry, buttered flatbread, and chocolate-covered honeycomb, they settled among the sailboat’s deck. Wolffe accepted a pair of earplugs from Kazi. Neyti nestled herself between them.

An effervescent display of fireworks lit the sky. Streams of silver and gold complimented the swooping figures of dragons. Regal purples and bottomless blues emphasized the dragons’ idiosyncratic prowess.

The world silent, Wolffe split his time between watching the show and observing Kazi and Neyti’s reactions.

Neyti watched the fireworks with a dimpled grin of awe. Kazi spent an equal amount of time watching the displays and studying him. At one of her subtle glances, he tapped the side of his head and winked. He felt an innate satisfaction at her small smile and relaxing posture.

Later that night, locked in their bedroom, entangled on their bed, Wolffe held Kazi closer to his chest. They were both shaking, their breaths ragged. He could still feel her cunt fluttering around his oversensitive cock. He stifled a moan against her shoulder.

Heat thrummed beneath his skin. His mind worked slowly, dazed by his orgasm. Instinctively, he brushed a hand down the smooth skin of Kazi’s spine. Her soft exhale tickled the hair curling around his ear, her thighs flexing around his waist.

“Good?” he asked.

She gave a tired yet content nod and ran a finger along the silver bar piercing his nipple. He shivered at the sensation. His cock twitched inside of her. The corners of her lips quirked in amusement. He offered her a lazy grin. She repeated the touch once more, kissed his cheek, and then maneuvered herself from his lap to the mattress.

Wolffe quickly followed, kneeling between her legs, staring down at her. She was…fuck, she was more beautiful than those rare, sunny days on Kamino.

The moonlight caressed her body in warm shades of amber: the flush to her cheeks, the blackness to her eyelashes, the curves of her breasts, the muscles of her arms. Her unbound hair crowned her head like faded autumnal leaves. Her eyes were dark, bliss-filled.

He surveyed her, his mind blank of coherent thought. All he knew was that he wanted to stay like this for a long time.

“You’re staring,” Kazi murmured.

“Mm-hmm.” Settling himself atop her, he twirled a strand of hair around his finger and then placed a kiss on the underside of her jaw. “Say it.”

She skimmed a palm along his biceps; he trembled at the touch. “I love you,” she whispered.

A kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear followed. At her breathy sigh, a warm feeling fluttered behind his ribcage. He murmured, “Again.”

“I love you.”

He swallowed and then lowered his face to hers. His mouth brushed the white scar near the corner of her eye. “Again.”

A finger tipped his face back; her eyes danced with affection. “I love you.”

Wolffe smiled at the promise in her words. Their lips grazed. He curled his fingers into her loose hair; he breathed against her skin, “I love you.”

As he deepened the kiss, Kazi brought him closer, her hands trailing across his back. He shuddered beneath her wandering fingers. His cock throbbed. A quiet moan broke their kiss. He pursued her neck. Warm skin welcomed his mouth.

He took his time, tracing the lines of her collarbone with his tongue, sucking long and slow on the underswell of her breasts, skimming his fingers across her ribcage, her throat, her face.

One hand played with his hair; the other massaged his shoulders, the back of his neck. Deep kneading eased the stiffness from his body. A teasing caress of his earlobe made him groan.

Their kisses slowed to lingering; their touches turned drowsy.

Wolffe pressed his forehead against Kazi’s, squeezed her hip, and then lowered himself onto his back. Extending an arm behind her head, he glanced at the nightstand. Atop his trusted notebook sat his present: a silver, sleek wristchrono.

He’d been eyeing it for months. Hell, he should’ve known that Kazi would notice his subtle glances at the shop window each time they visited the harbor.

Wolffe trailed a finger across the tiny, cursive inscription on the ‘chrono’s band: So you can always find your way home. He blinked away the burning sensation behind his eyes.

“Thirty, Wolffe,” Kazi murmured, tracing the initials inked into his fourth finger: K.E. “How does it feel?”

“It doesn’t feel real,” Wolffe admitted. He skimmed his thumb along her shoulder. “I…never thought I could have this. And now…”

Years training with his vode, years believing he’d die on the battlefield, years fighting alongside his men, yet he outlived them all…

He’d never understand why he’d survived. He’d never understand why he’d been allowed to experience this—finding Kazi, raising Neyti, starting his own farm. But he’d learned long ago that he couldn’t control fate. And those men who’d died—they’d want him to live the life they didn’t get to. He owed them. And he’d make the most of what he was given.

“I’m glad this is real,” he said quietly. “Real fucking glad.”

A thoughtful hum sounded from Kazi, and she peered at him: hesitant yet curious. “Do you feel alive?”

Wolffe thought back to years ago, to stars reflected among a stilled lake’s surface, to lightning bugs flickering among an overgrown jungle, to hazel eyes rounded with vulnerability and soft lips he wanted to touch, to a quiet conversation he’d never forgotten.

“Yeah. I do.” He let out a chuckle, surprised by the swiftness of his answer. Surprised by the truth behind it. He searched Kazi’s gaze. “Do you?”

A slow smile lit her face, wide and dimpled and so full of life. “I do.”

For a long time, Wolffe basked in her smile and the heat of her body curled against his, and when she kissed the side of his throat, he turned his gaze to the skylights. The Dancing Dragons twinkled, their central star bright in the night sky. Kazi nuzzled her nose against his jaw; he mapped the tattoo on her spine.

“Tell me the story, Kazi,” he murmured. “Start from the beginning.”

He felt her smile against his neck. As she started to speak, he closed his eyes, sinking into the mattress, relaxing into the lavender scent of her hair and the sleepy lilt of her voice:

“Every night a female dragon soared amongst the stars.”

Masterlist | Chapter 31

A/N: For a deeper look into this story and its characters, check out the Behind the Scenes.

Artwork of Kazi, Wolffe, and Neyti by the phenomenal @pinkiemme!

#I Yearn and so I Fear #commander wolffe x oc: kazi ennari

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