#i cannot find a place to give beard a break

[eccentricallygothic]

|| Wrong Turn ||

Pairing: Mountain Man Silver Fox Nomad!Steve Rogers | You. 

Trope: Neat and clean ‘civilized’ Princess-like young trophy wife X Filthy beast of a wild and scary man who only got her because he has the power. 

Description: In a desperate attempt to save your life from the wrath of the mountain people that your friends and you stumbled upon and accidentally killed on a hike gone wrong, you had to offer yourself up to their Leader to use as a ‘resource’. But little did your ‘husband’ know, you had been actively getting rid of his seed to avoid actually getting pregnant. Naturally, when he does find out, he is very unhappy… And also very determined to make sure you don't make it out of your punishment without a child, or two.

Warning(s): Dubcon, barbaric!Steve, breeding kink (gone wild), unprotected p-in-v, reverse cowgirl, doggy style, missionary, he has a wife bod kink (but it is inclusive), misogyny, smut with perhaps too much plot, fear kink, size kink, exhibitionism, possessiveness, jealousy, age gap, hair pulling, spanking, biting, allusions to painal and Steve being a teasing sicko about it but he doesn't actually penetrate, overstimulation, dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, boob play, squirting, Lloyd makes an appearance with his own young bride, dacryphilia (it's me), self degradation, Stevie is a perverted old meanie, infantilization, mind break.

Disclaimer: Very loosely based off of the movie that I do not own. You don't need to know it to read this piece but do note that it takes place in a fictional setting. Minors do not interact. 

Inspo-ish: This post.

Note: For someone who was on their period, I should not have been this horny. But I need this marriage, now. Ps, though this rotted in my drafts for a long time… in honor of Chris growing out his beard again, ig.

MASTERLIST

. . .

You have no idea how long it has been since that fateful twilight when everything changed in your life, leaving you to a lifestyle you could never have even imagined for yourself.  

“Eat up, woman” but as your barbarian of a husband commands you in his rough and animalistically deep voice, you cannot help but break out of your reverie and shudder at the sight of the barely cooked meat piled high on the platter in front of the two of you. “So you can bear me healthy children” although you're the one who was made to prepare his beastly dinner -that never fails to leave you aghast when it's gorged down- as you're his wife, you cannot help but gag under your breath and feel disgust for the loaves that sit before you in the company of a tall stone carved jug that brims full of the foul smelling mead that your husband is ardently fond of. 

You muster up your best coy smile. Keeping up the appearance of a happily mated pair is important. Or people stare. And then the old man becomes unpleasant. “I had quite a lot while I was cooking, dear” your lies sting your tongue out of the fear you feel of getting caught, but the mere hope of not doing so is better than eating this. “Y- You go ahead” you slowly turn in his muscle hardened lap, that you are always to sit on, to give him a small smile but your expression almost transforms into one of horror because of how wildly your heart jumps at the sight of his stern, predator-like face. You are quick to recover though, as it is a usual occurrence. 

“You need it. You work so hard—” there is just something about his rough looks that never fails to send a chill down your spine. You have never seen anything, let alone an actual human man like him before. 

A beard as thick as the very forest his people populate and as dark as the nights can get here in the absence of lanterns due to the heavy trees, age that streaks some of his gold locks with its silver has not marred the sternness of his jaw that remains firmly set under the heavy mane of his facial hair. His shoulders seem akin to the mountains that surround his village and his piercing dark eyes the mysterious waterfall that flows some way down south from the entrance of the settlement. The frightening mass of his shoulders is so toned that if the barely noticeable wrinkles that sometimes appear under the dark of his eyebrows and next to the crow-feather like lashes that frame his eyes, he can easily be mistaken for a man in his primeful late twenties and no older. His unrelenting strength and wolfish stamina would only further serve to bear testament to the misconception. 

Your strict husband bluntly catches your shaky hand that you extend in his direction to feed him some of the meat, the force that he uses coupled with the coarseness of his skin making you jump. You bite back a yelp and whimper when you look up at his dark blue eyes from where you were watching his bearded mouth to carefully place the food in.

“I don't care” Steve does not care much for being polite -unless it is you who disregards it in your behavior-, especially when it comes to you denying or diverting his ‘care’ for you. “You eat more” you bite back the scowl that threatens to break onto your face from how he turns your hand around in your direction instead. “Wives always need to eat more. They do so much at home for husband and children” he probably feels proud of these ‘values’ that have been transmitted to him by his elders. But all they make you want to do is to crack him across the jaw for being a misogynistic and backward shithead. Especially with you. 

Your ‘husband’ believes that everyone has a role to play; a contribution to make to their people and home. That is how this archaic village of theirs has survived in these mountains hidden away from the rest of the world for so long. 

The greasy piece of a disturbing excuse of a rare steak touches your lips and you've been here long enough to know better than to argue or worse yet, fight. So you smile and lean into his arm that cases your form against his through the embrace he holds you in from behind, his fingers playing with one of the many flowered braids your attending ladies had put in your hair a bit before his arrival at ‘home’. 

“O- Of course” you reluctantly open your open and grip your flowy dressing gown for a semblance of support for your sanity, taking the smallest bite you can -which is still a lot as the man pushes nearly the whole piece into your mouth the moment you open up- as you keep your eyes trained on his to avoid looking down. Your mind always becomes more aware of the taste when you look. “Thank you, dear” you focus on swallowing it without gagging and feel your smile split in places because of how uncomfortable you are.

He probably notices it because he slightly raises one eyebrow and snorts before hugging your smaller form -that is tiny compared to his- closer and puts the rest of the piece in his own mouth. If there is one thing you have learnt in your time with him, it's that you can never fool him. Not really. No matter how well you may think you have lied or pretended, he always sees through it. 

Sometimes you suspect he even enjoys it.

Steve finally begins to eat himself, silently offering you another piece that you politely reject by shaking your head and then quickly pressing an apologetic kiss to his scruffy cheek to lighten the blow. Apparently, a wife can never be polite enough to her husband. And though the change in his expression begins with an unhappy frown, your show of ‘affection’ seems to suffice him and he relaxes in satisfaction, now looking down the long table and at his clansmen and maidens that sit enjoying their dinner, their chatter and laughter a dull roar in the large eating hall of the Leader's dwelling. You pick up the heavy jug of mead with both your hands and obediently hold it to his lips to sip from. Steve looks away from what one of his main men are saying and gulps down a mouthful, rubbing your back as a gesture for thanks before moving his hand quickly down to squeeze your ass to heighten the effect of his expression of gratitude. 

His form shakes in mirth when you yelp and blush. He knows how embarrassing you find being openly ‘affectionate’ in front of people and that is one of the reasons why he enjoys it so much besides showing off that a thing of such beauty and youth like you is all his. You rest the jug between your boobs that he has fucked and squeezed into increasing in size and use your other hand to gently finger and stroke his golden locks that he keeps pushed away from his face outside the bedroom. Though he says nothing, you feel his usually vigilant and always firm stature slowly soften and you cannot help but smile, though what he says next quickly deflates it.

“Do you feel any change in you, wife?” You know what it means and now it's you who becomes tense. He only uses that name for you when he speaks to you as a husband inquiring about your marital matters. “Has my seed attached to your womb yet? Does it grow there?” You gulp and feign shyness, moving closer to his hair and nuzzling yourself in him. “Hm?” He closes his hugging arm around you and reaches for your stomach, fingers groping your covered skin as gently as he can -which isn't much- to feel it. “Answer me” he demands when you refuse to speak. 

“I… I don't know, husband” you always promise yourself that you'll demand more rights for yourself; ask him to treat you like the other husbands treat their wives, only to fail the minute he enters your vicinity. 

“What does that mean?” His tone turns blunt and you whimper at the tightness that snaps back in place between his shoulders. 

You get it.

That was the deal, after all. 

Healthy children in exchange for your life that was required by their judicial laws for bearing false witness to your friend accidentally killing one of their people in mistaken defense. Steve had promised you before accepting you as a citizen that if you failed to fulfill your task you'd walk the darkness in the dungeons. He had shown you how it would be before declaring you a member of their tribe and the sight you had seen was something that had given you nightmares for days. 

But that did not mean you actually wanted to have your old captor's children.

You doubted it would ever be something you'd look forward to.

“I- I mean” regret shoots up your spine in the form of fear and you lose your speech to it momentarily. But then two of your main attending ladies -by that you mean Steve's top agents when it comes to you- enter the horizon of your sight and you hurriedly blubber out the first thing that comes to your mind. “I've n- never been pregnant before, s-o I d- don't know how to…” Your husband turns to look at you, his handsome features twisting into a rogue scowl but before he can scold you, one of the two ladies, Kaira, speaks in their language to Steve. 

Not everyone here can speak English and those who do speak it do so a rather odd version of it. Naturally, you don't speak their language and so they give you the full experience of an outsider when they need to discuss the business they want to keep private from you. The thought makes you want to laugh, like you'd be able to do something with whatever informations they withhold.

But it doesn't really bother you, because you don't care.

You've also learnt that ignorance is bliss here. 

Especially for someone like you.

Better to be the doe eyed trophy wife of an angel who can't tell her head from her ass.

“Is that so?” Your heart jumps when Steve chooses to speak English. That means that this definitely concerns you. You place the mead down and wrap one arm around his broad shoulders before nervously combing his thick beard with your other hand. Since you have no interest in or desire to learn their language, the only word you manage to pick up on when you focus really hard is ‘baby’ and that is solely because of the annoying amount of times it comes up for you. 

“Is not this strange?” He speaks once the women step back after finally ending the nerve wracking conversation that seems to go on forever. “Do you hear what they say about you, little one?” Fuck, you're definitely in trouble. 

He is reminding you of your place. 

You put on your best charming smile but you're painfully aware that your nervousness gives it away. You can feel it. “W- What do they say, dear?” They were such bitches. They knew how to speak English, that's why they were your attendants, but yet they chose not to. And now they were glaring at you like you weren't above them— oh no, not these thoughts again. You will never become like them! No, no! 

Steve pushes his plate away now. Your head spins from the realization. It's only half finished. Your husband never wastes his food. It is a near sin for them to do so. “They tell me the most odd things” oh just fucking tell me! You mentally scream but outwardly tilt your head to the side in confusion, your chest vibrating with the rising beats of your heart. “And now that I think about it myself…” His fingers wrap around the mead before he raises it to his lips. “I see the—”

“What did they say, Steve?” Your mouth works faster than your better sense and he pauses mid sip, dark blue eyes flickering up from the stone jug to look at you. Your face flushes a noticeable hot and your ears get sweaty from the awareness. 

Fuck. 

“They say you've been getting rid of my seed” he feels played and thus angry at the both of you. Perhaps more so towards himself than you; his silly little child-wife. How could he let a thing as tender and small as you fool him so? “... Do you?” It is obvious you are guilty. Besides, he is confident that his people would never lie to him unlike one young and beautiful girl that he had found kneeling in front of him in his court while bawling her eyes out one fateful night, fear stricken as his people surrounded him like a doe trapped. 

And of course, your expressions and reactions don't help your case, as always. “W- What? No…” Your mind becomes erratic.

“No?” He himself knows not what kind of a chance he offers you with that. But typical to your nature, you make it easy for him by refusing it.

“N- No! Of course not! W- Why would I ever do such a thing to m- my husb- hubby and my b- babies?!” Steve has to clench down his scoff. 

“You wouldn't, would you?” Your naivete never fails to amuse him.

“No! I- I don't know why they accuse me so—” you mend your speech from the archaic form that tries to leech to it everyday. “I don't know why they would accuse me of that but they must be mistaken! This is a misunderstanding!” 

He hums. “I see…” His scarred fingers begin to toy with your braids again. “So you remain devoted to me and faithful to our family, don't you?”

“Of course!” You nuzzle closer to him, your heart thundering into his chest. “I don't know why they still treat me like an outsider” you purr as you nervously stroke his hair, playing a card of your own and making an absolute fool of yourself by doing so. “I try my best… like I promised.” 

“Yes, your promise” his distant eyes -they get like that when you disappoint him and you hate the sight because it never fares well for you- travel down to your empty stomach. His gaze makes it wrench. Your fear skyrockets at the same rate as your anger. If only there was a way for you to get back at those bitches without having to give birth!

“I- It takes time sometimes, dear…” You hug his shoulders with one arm. “But it will happen. I know it…” Your other hand reaches for his fingers that rest on your abdomen now. 

“Oh?” Steve raises one dark eyebrow at you. His hair is the most fascinating combination of blonde and dark brown. “Is that what your modern day sciences say?” His people were not always like this, he had told you. They did not originate from here. Rather, some families had abandoned ‘civilization’ when it was going to hell -in his words- by killing each other for meaningless constructs such as caste, creed and color differences and migrated up here to establish a system of their own; one free from such nonsense. 

Apparently.

You take a deep breath. “Stevie—” you only call him that when you find yourself dangerously close to the dungeons.

“If that is what you believe in, wife,” he never cuts you off. Usually, that is. His age that streaks his blonde strands with its silver ones has granted him enough patience. Normally, he waits for the other person -who is most often you- to mess up themselves. But whatever the ladies have told him seems to agitate him into rebelling against his own nature today. “I'll do it your way. After all, happy wife happy life, is that not what you tell me often?” Okay, you might have said that during a particularly cocky moment in bed once. 

But the intention behind that had not been nearly whatever he is moving towards now. 

“Y- You don't have to, l- love…” You nervously giggle. “You're perfect the way you are” you run your nails that he insists you keep trimmed for hygienic -as if- and practical purposes through his silver-blonde hair.

“Oh no…” Now he pushes his food farther away. “I will indulge you, little one” he moves your other leg over his laps so now you face the people down the table with both of your legs on either sides of his, ass to his… fuck. “Time conspires against us, and so we must make haste.”

Your eyes widen and your heart leaps up in your throat. “M- My love?!” 

Steve moves your flowy gown out of his way, keeping a firm hold on one of your thighs even though he doesn't really have to. Your fear of him would never let you attempt an escape. “Yes, my stars” the name is so full of sarcasm it nearly pierces you open. “Let us leave time to its devices, and us ours” your husband is usually a very possessive and private man when it comes to you, but his ire seems to get the better of him today. You hear the buckle of his own clothes come undone. The table goes silent and heads turn in your direction once they realize what's going on. Oh no… Your stomach drops. Not in front of everyone. Not when Steve makes you so vulnerable in that condition. Not in front of these lowlifes!

“Husb—” blood bubbles hot under your cheeks as you feel him align himself against you. 

Holy shit.

You feel one of his coarse hands wrap around your throat and he pulls you closer to his mouth so he can whisper in your ear. “You will contribute, my stubborn little wife,” you whimper from the menace his words hold, your well trained cunt obediently squelching open against his thick hard tip as he lowers you on his cock with the hold he has on your thigh. “Whether you like it, or not” sometimes, deep down, you fear that the dungeons are not an option anymore. 

He keeps you in the horizons of his sight too much for them to be. 

It appears as though the sentence has changed. 

It is now Steve, or Steve.

You cry out from the strain his log-like girth puts on the narrow band of your entrance. God. You will never get used to his size regardless of how many times and ways he tames your pussy in. Yes, it does not refuse him or rip around him now as it used to in the beginning -and it did that for a long time- but the size to which his cock makes it expand is like a mini-birth. Feels like it, looks like it. Only, it feels way too good. And that's why you don't mind it—

No. You don't know what that was or meant. But you don't take responsibility for that thought!

“Oh!” The balmy velvet of your cavern grazes down the bulging veins and hard skin of the brute's cock until your petals squish against his heavy and very eager balls. Your head spins when you feel his tip tickle your cervix. It never takes his dick long to find it.  

His hands are pushing you back up almost instantly so he can slide you back down. You look anywhere but at the tens of faces in front of you, instead choosing to look at the wall on the opposite side of the table. You never thought these people were capable of being this quiet until now when your pussy makes an embarrassingly loud squelching noise as Steve tugs you back to his leaking tip and then allows gravity to suck you back down. You desperately bite your lips and try to focus on ignoring the way your insides are beginning to thrum with the excitement and stimulation; to show these brutes that you're better than them and aren't some animal of nature. But to no avail. His slimy precum mixes too well with yours, the rough skin of his hands digs into your thighs too well and the manner in which your petals rub against his cock when he lifts you yet again -now forming a momentum- before letting you slide in again is too much for you mask with nonchalance. 

Indifference has never been among your strong suits.

“Tell me, my pretty” Steve begins again, his dark eyes now finding the young and hormonal pack of unsuspecting boys who clearly do not know better. “Have you ever had a cock like mine?” He says it in their own language so the foolish miscreants see, understand and learn the fact that you’re only his. You belong to him and he will go to war for you, not that a pack of rug rats will ever be a cause of worry for him. “Has anyone ever fucked you as good as I do?” He switches back to the language you understand, roughly fumbling for your jaw before he grabs it and bounces his hips into yours at the same time. 

Your traitorous legs have begun to do what they always do; fuck yourself against him -if he hasn’t bound you, which he hasn’t- in whatever position he has you. You only realize that your breathing has become heavier when you open your mouth to answer. “Only you, my husband! Only you!” Your brain is running too fast for reason or reflection to catch up so you leave wondering why you answer him with the only words he has been able to teach you in his language to later. Your words are muffled as his fingers that grip the lower half of your face nearly slip in your mouth from the disordered urgency of the both of your actions. 

“That's right” your mouth falls open and you begin to softly pant in that animalistic way that you detest when he makes you watch yourself in a mirror while fucking you sometimes. In your defense, it is always unintentional on your part; you barely even notice it while taking his fucking. And yet, it is inevitable due to the force he does it with. “Look at you; dutifully fucking yourself up and down your husband's cock like a bitch in heat” a twinge forms in your knuckles from how your fingers hold the edges of the table to aid the gliding of your fuck hole that now slams up and down his cock in a rhythm you're all too familiar with, the smacks of your bare ass slapping against his naked abdomen making appalling noises that you're too worked up to dread over right now. “And you're a bitch in heat for me, aren't you?” His fingers move down from your jaw to your throat. “Wanting to be bred over and over again until you're so full of my children that your little belly is round and heavy to the brim, hm?” In these moments, you tell him anything and everything that he wants to hear.

Steve knows it all too well.

And he loves it.

“Yes!” Your voice disappears midway from how he squeezes your windpipe. His hips meet yours midway now, the wetness of your cunt and the force of his thrusts causing for his balls to try and push past the tight boundary of your sexual cavern. “Yes! Yes! I am! Please!” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his free hand finds your petals to play with. “Ohhh!”

“You want to be bred, don't you?” He rubs your drenched pussy lips while his hard cock pistons in and out of your sopping cunt. “Want to contribute…?” He chokes you once more and this time his fingers pinch one of your pussy lips punishingly at the same time and you cry out. “Provide your husband with a house full of heirs?” The oxygen in your mind depletes and your eyes flutter as a result, cheeks turning red and nerves becoming prominent on your glistening temples. Your horny yet defensive pussy finally relaxes around him a bit so it doesn't hurt his dick and he savours the moment by holding you by the curve between your legs and fucking into your form that gets limp by the moment to push you towards your first orgasm. 

It always gets better after that. 

For him, at least. 

You don't choke him out so much then.

“Y- Yes!” When Steve finally lets go of your throat to let you breathe, you blubber out an an answer obediently once the light returns to your eyes. Your walls stiffen around him once more. But by then he has already worked himself closer to your womb. “Yes! Yes!” It is all your mind can muster.

“Good” he makes a point of taking both of your boobs in his hands and thoroughly massaging them to show off his ownership over you. “Now ask me to breed you” the fence of heat that has formed around your loins becomes tighter when his hands that previously fondled your clothed breasts slip under your gown -for Steve is too possessive to actually expose you to the eyes of others- and he softly rubs your tense sides a couple times before his fingers form pinches around your hard nubs. 

“Please breed me!” Your voice is so loud and strained that its quality is nearly blood curdling. “Please breed me and s- stuff me full your children!” Your hands fly to grip his from over the dress as you throw your head back and slip from the edge of your anticipation, parrotting all the words he has taught you over the course of your marriage. “Oh GOD! Please!” Your back arches from the coming undone of the hot belt of expectation and scorching gratification spills from it, seeping down your legs in the form of a nearly unbearable electric feeling that transforms into a subzero energy when it reaches your toes that curl, causing them to feel as though they are freezing. “I need your b- babies so bad, hubby!” 

Steve's own ears blush from the heat that courses through them in the form of adrenaline as he snorts, some of his blonde strands coming loose from the push and tug that he plays with your cunt. “Tell them” his balls ache from the strength it takes him not to fill you up right then. “Tell everyone that you want me to fill you up with my babies” since your sensitive body tries to curl and move away from the overstimulation, the older man wraps both of his hands around your thighs to keep you going. “Say it!” And he makes you say the words that he desires in the language of your spectators that look embarrassed for the first time since you got here. 

Save for your husband's best men who look equal parts aroused and proud. 

You want to cringe and be disgusted but your sensitive pussy is being pounded too hard for you to attempt a conjuring up of any dignity. 

“Need hubby babies bad!” You cry out again from memory when Steve's thick seed begins to fill you up at last. “Oh, my God!” The feeling of his hot cum filling you up and painting every inch of your sensitive walls penetrates your already hazy mind and the warmth that steams out of the pearly liquid steams its way up to your womb, making you shudder at the feeling. Your opening tightens around him in protest of the overstimulation and it instead causes for a barrage of bitter-sweet electric sparks to explode through your abdomen in the form of a half post-climax orgasm. Your body grows tired.

But your insatiable is far from done.

“Flattering, but no” Steve pushes you against the table before standing up when he is done fucking his orgasm as deep as he can reach into you. “The father of your children will suffice” your eyebrows furrow at his words but the older man does not give you a chance to ponder over them because now he is hooking his hands under your thighs that your rapid and messy fucking has covered in both of your juices. 

“W- What?!” Your vision is hazy and your mind dazed as you incoherently tap about. “What's— oh!” You wince from how much easier it is for him to move inside your worked open and much lubricated but torturously overstimulated walls now. “Oh! Oh…” Your hands blindly feel behind you to try and get him to stop. “Oh, no! No, please!” You cry out weakly, your upper body hanging low in the opposite direction from the exhaustion. 

“No?” The older man darkly chuckles, paying no mind to your flailing. “You think you can say that to me?” One of his hands desert their post on your thighs to roughly grab at your hair. He hasn't forgotten what started all this. “You think you have the same rights as everyone else around here, wife?”

But you're scowling from the burning pain in your walls, mind hazy and unwise. “Stop! Stop!” Your puffy folds ache from how his stiff skin rubs against them as he moves in and out of you at a normal pace… for now. “It hurts, stop!” 

“That is the part and parcel of having children” your body curves outwards as he pulls you further back and closer to himself by your hair. “And is that not why you're here?” His cocky tone along with the hungry and wondering eyes of the wildlings make you angry. “What you were spared for in the first place?” A twinkle in the eye of a man pisses you off and…

“It hurts, you old bastard!” Your young blood gets the better of you and your mouth runs before sense can catch up. “Stop, stop, stop it!” Since your hair holds you closer to him you manage to land a few smacks to his rock hard arms before you try to snake your fingers under his to pry off the hand that he coils around your thigh in a weak attempt to move away. 

Steve only chuckles, clearly unfazed by your fighting as he bounces your smaller form up in the air with each thrust. “Did your mother not teach you anything, wife?” He lets go of your hair only to restrain both your arms on the small of your back. “Good girls never tell their husbands no” your body flops forward again and you've no choice but to face the long table full of people. “They lay down pretty with their legs spread and let their husbands fill them with their children and then they express their gratitude for being granted a family.” Though your mind is confused and rather disoriented from the influx of sensation, you can make out new additions to the crowd of your humiliation from the corners of your vision. 

“Ugh!” You grunt from the rapid jabs he gives to your sore pussy, his firm hold nearly searing into your wrists. “I don't wanna have your stupid blonde babies!” Steve breathlessly lets out a real laugh at that. “Let go!” 

“There” he can swear he will never tired of you breaking the little character of the obedient wife that you so naively think you have mastered only to break it when he has you all riled up like this. “Right there, easy now” his other hand leaves your lap and he pushes your head down and against the table in the most condescending manner imaginable. Steve has got you to expose yourself for the brat you are, no need for play anymore. “Now I make a bunny out of you” his dark eyes now meet with those of the boys sitting at the other end of the table and his use of their language is a silent message. The Leader knows how his wife is desired. And he doesn't appreciate it in the least. The young males all panic and look away, gulping to themselves and praying for their lives. 

You try to struggle again, your lip curling in disdain and protest as you feel him fuck his cum right up your cervix. The bitter pleasure you get from it makes your head spin and your fingers and toes flex defensively. “Ooof!” Your cheek rubs against the table and you puff out your face to express how tense you feel down there. 

“Brat” Steve shakes in silent mirth as he reaches for your ass with the hand that he was holding your face down with. “Don't you move a muscle.” You're too busy rocking over the table and being held down to try. 

“Hubby, please!” You whine when one of his veins twitch deep up your walls and your knees shiver from the sensation. “Please!” Maybe if his cock wasn't so comically huge, it would have been easier to move past the rough friction of your raw, orgasm worn skins. But it is and so you are ready to abandon the dam that begins to form in your abdomen again if it means to avoid this pain. “Owwwiee!”

“Aw” Steve cooes as he now moves to a pace that falters your vision and causes for the great table to shake with each thrust that he gives you. “So small and sore, aren't we?” The spank he lands on your unsuspecting ass right after is the stark opposite of his tone. “Maybe we shouldn't act out so much when we are so weak and pathetic, huh, wife?”

“Oooof!” One of the shyer ladies get up before she carries her young son who stood next to the group of the young ones away and the realization of the fact that your spectators are all real people who see you everyday and will continue to do after this drips down your limbs like ice cold water. Your hips cannot help but clench from the embarrassment that you dully feel in some part of your mind way far at the back. “Hubby, please!” The spanks increase with each snap of his hips and though the turmoil between your legs takes up most of your sensory powers, your cheeks now begin to noticeably sting from the pain that builds from how the swings of his hand against your poor ass increase with each thrust. 

“Please?” Steve muses like he isn't balls deep into you and fucking the literal daylights out of you like a crazed heathen. “Oh, but I thought I was a mean old bastard” of course, your pleas always only mean that you want more, according to the brute you are married to. They cannot mean anything else, apparently. “And you didn't want my stupid blonde babies” you grunt from the frustration and land a helpless fist on the table. You are in an uncomfortable tug of war between the mutilation of your sensory glands and the tall barrage of tight hot anticipation that cannot help but form in the base of your stomach again because of how hard and rough he fucks you. 

Your husband's main man, Lloyd, laughs in a comically daft voice to tease you and be the insufferable asshole that he is. “You've got yourself a feisty little pup there, Steve” he is the only one who can refer to the blonde haired man by his name. Or maybe, he doesn't care to use the honorific and his usefulness backs him up. You wouldn't be surprised if the latter really is the case. “Don't you agree, my sweet?” He side hugs his own young bride who ironically is one of the sweetest and perhaps the only nice person in this entire village and Lloyd grins down at the girl whom you now notice is blushing furiously. 

Before you can let the humiliation swallow you whole, Steve spreads your burning cheeks and chuckles at the sight he finds glistening and blinking up at him, the madenned hammering of his cock unceasing. “Look at this adorable little button of yours, darling” you are not personally familiar with any of the faces that witness you trying to pathetically crawl away when your devil of a husband begins to tickle your pucker so you realize it was actually not quite hitting you as bad as it does now when you become hyperaware of Rainie's gaze. If it weren't for how your eyes roll because of Steve's hot seed shooting deep up your cavern again and nearly searing into your very flesh this time around from the brutality of it all, you reckon you would have tried to hide. But now all you do is let out choked blubbers as your wide eyes sting from tears due to the sensory overload. “I think it's time we deflowered it, what do you think?”  

Oh, no. 

His cock is not something that you can handle in your ass without splitting all over the place!

“No answer? No?” It feels as though you are the one who is cumming and not Steve because of how good he is at wearing the mask of nonchalance. “Hm,” he roughly pulls you backwards by your hair before hooking an arm around your waist to keep you from trying to get away from how he toys with your trembling pucker. “Maybe we should let sweet Rainie decide for you, hm—?”

“OH, GOD!” You cannot help but scream over him. 

He is too much.

Steve ignores your exclamation, thrusts delayed -more jab like- but so strong that his tip spears into your cervix with each thrust, thus causing for your head to spin from how he chooses to fuck out his orgasm. “She's your friend, isn't she?” Steve's beard gently stings the sweaty and teary skin of your jaw from how his mouth presses into your ear. “Aren't you, Rainie dear?” 

Yep, you are never looking her in the eye ever again. 

“Answer him, sunshine” Lloyd eggs his wife on and you notice through your cloudy vision that he is making her palm his own bulge. You nearly cringe back into Steve's chest from the obscenity of it all. 

The girl, a new bride herself, is shy and small next to her own flesh boulder of a husband as she meekly peeks up at you through her lashes. “Y- Yes, sir. We are friends” her voice is barely audible and both your husbands chuckle. 

If it weren't from how a dull orgasm rips itself apart somewhere deep between your loins, you would have felt angry.

It is like the assholes know that you're friends, and they're having their fun with it.

No wonder they are best mates.

“Good, good” you can feel Steve's cum splattering your thighs with each brutal jab, the sound and sprays of his shaft making a mess of your juices underneath your dress ample in its audibility. “So, do you think it's time your girlfriend's dirty little button was opened up, hm?” He keeps one hand on your pucker and reaches for your boob to grope with the other.

Rainie blushes again and furiously lowers her head the moment her eyes connect with yours. Though you don't know it, her own has been deflowered not too long ago and she isn't sure what response would be favourable by you, so that and the embarrassment of the Leader questioning her for something like that about his wife when she is on amiable terms with the girl makes her choose silence for as long as allowed. And her own husband cockily leaning into her and mansplaining into her ear how it would work for you by comparing it with what he did to her pretty ass only makes her curl further. 

“Shy little thing, isn't she, my precious?” So your husband turns his unwelcome attention back to you, bending the both of your bodies forwards so he can smack your asshole with the back of his hand easier, the impact making you rock violently forward. “Maybe you should learn some manners from her, huh?” The howls you let out from getting your pucker pinched and hit is something you would rather not narrate. All you choose to disclose of that ordeal is that sobs echo in the hall, another orgasm rips out of you and you are sure your body releases more liquid than normal for an average orgasm. “Look at how polite and nice she is, hm? While all you want to do is to curse your husband and be an ungrateful little sloth” it sounds as though a newfound annoyance causes him to grit his teeth towards the end and the tip of his fingers finds recourse in seeking for itself a passage past the tight barrier of your unwilling button as a result. 

And so your mouth begins to run in the desperate way he loves. “N- No, no, no hubby! No!” You vehemently shake your head as you feel your knees start to buckle from the exhaustion. “I- I didn't mean it!” The bearded corners of his mouth pull into a deep smirk. He knows its coming, and he loves it. 

“You didn't?” How can he not when he is the one who trained you to it and taught you the words to say during. 

“No! No!” Your voice comes out child-like from your mind's succumbing to its defeat. For the day, at least. “I d- didn't!” 

Steve is a jackhammer in how he fucks his children into you and works towards giving you more. “Oh, I see” now he speaks to you like an elder speaking to a young one, like you are no older than five winters. “Then, will you tell me why you said such naughty words to your husband who does so much for you?” He knows you're small now and so he chooses his words accordingly.

After all, it is Steve's meticulous tailoring of your mind and body which brings you to act out this specific sequence. 

Nothing less, nothing more.

Just this. 

A shrew tamed into a compliant wife equipped with the mind of a babe. 

He may never admit it outright simply because it goes against his very code of life but Steve knows in his heart of hearts that it is this very push and pull you put up in your own passive little way that keeps him alert and your marriage interesting. 

Addictive.

“Is ’cause— hnnng, cause—!” He pulls both of your bodies back up with the intention of turning you to face him but he chooses not to do it just yet. He wants you, those silly boys and everyone else who suspects that his judgement grows soft because of his fancy for your youthful beauty and adorable personality, to hear it. Steve can always pull you right back down if wants. Your reins will always be in a hand's reach to him. Just because he lets you sneak in your foolish ways sometimes doesn't mean you've conquered his nature-gifted better sense.

“Because, what?” Everything in life calls for balance and so each time your misbehavior that you think you hide so well from him begins to rise above a level he deems no longer amusing, he is there to hammer it down. 

Quite literally. 

“Because I am j- just an i- impudent,” Steve grunts and moans, feeling his cock twitch from how you always mispronounce imprudent when you are in this state. He taught you that word and true to your little baby self and mind, you can never get yourself to say it right. “Little wife and I am a d- dumby—”

“Fuck…” Steve feels a drop of cold sweat trickle down his back from your little vocabulary. He feels himself pant from how hard he fucks you, his windpipe alight from the friction caused by the air he heaves in with each desperate inhale.

You are a proper trouble; something he has never had before, and he loves it.

“— D- Dumby sloth who dunno any real worries besides e- eating and b- being spoilt b- by my lovu hubbsy—” your tongue is kinetic jelly between your teeth and Steve has begun to moan from how fucked stupid you sound. “So I get shtoopid and u- ungateful” Steve cannot contain it anymore. In a fevered and desperate confusion of how to express the thunderstorm you cause in his head, he slaps your hair away, causing for some of the flowers to go flying about, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, growling so deep into your skin that you feel the vibrations cause ripples in your blood. Perhaps that is what Steve yearns to taste. “B- But husby always fixes” your head goes limp against his as he sucks your skin like a crazed animal for you lose a track of how long. Your vision and hearing bolts away from your comprehensive faculties like a bullet train and your body gets sucked into the vacuum of your husband's beastly grip. You are just a lifeless doll rocking in whichever direction and manner he pleases.

Next time your brain catches on with your reality, your body has been placed under his with your back against the table. You faintly notice when your dress begins to get wet that splashes of mead cover it due to your brutish husband's depraved madness. 

“Look at me, hey” he pats your incoherent face until your wandering gaze settles on him, teary eyes distant. “This is the face that you will see in those of your children, and children you shall have until this residence cannot contain any more” his promise echoes in your buzzing ears like the bestowing of an ultimate truth upon you by some powerful deity. “This is the face you will look up at as you spread your legs,” his tip is so swollen, raw and hot against your worn skin that you can feel it even in this state. Your features scrunch from the discomfort. “This is the face you will kiss and cherish” his fingers find your throat again and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he puts pressure on your windpipe. “And this is the face that you will look at until you breathe your last” he holds you until you are on the verge of losing consciousness, though letting go only to stifle the gasp you let out to resume your breathing with a hot sealing kiss.

Your muscles twitch and your body spasms in the position he has you in. Laxness washes over your limbs and you begin to violently shake from the dull and yet stinging quakes of sensation that bloom through your whole form. 

For some dark, twisted and depraved reason, you cum from the helplessness of your situation and it is present in Steve's amused and proud smirk that the knowledge is not lost on him. Swiping an arm around you from behind with an air of satisfaction, he collects your limp body closer to his and walks off to your chambers with your drenched sexes still connected, leaving a crowd of embarrassed, curious, satisfied as well as tamed spectators in his wake. 

You surrender yourself to him and close your eyes as your body collapses on top of his. Your mind barely works but you know one thing— fact as clear as day; you are not making it out of this without at least one child on the way. 

And there isn't a single thing you can do about it.

. . .

[jmscornerlibrary]

Snape's Search History - Part One

So this has been requested by quite a few people, now. For those who hadn't seen my previous headcanon post: here it is. I will try and tag all those who have expressed interest in the comments.

In short: After stealing Snape's phone and looking through his saddening search history, the trio come up with a plan to make Snape happy. This is how it unfolds, for the Potions Master has little idea what to make of it.

Enjoy and do reblog to inform the others!!

Part One.

All was still in the empty Transfiguration classroom. The dust lay undisturbed and thick upon the solid desks, which in turn were standing silent and endeavouring in their fortitude of unuse. The chalkboard looked dejected, the forgotten endeavours of clearing it of writing still visible in ashy smudges across the charcoal surface. And it would have probably stayed like that for another decade or two if the door wasn’t flung open and three small figures stumbled from behind it, making enough noise for the dust to twitch into the air again. A ‘quick, quick!’ was spat out by one of the disturbers accompanied by a few hisses of urge, then a scrabble as the doorknob was found and the door was pushed.

The dust jumped up from the desk as the door slammed shut and settled back upon it once more as Harry, Ron and Hermoine stood, panting, in front of it. 

After a short moment, Ron pushed himself from the door. His face broke out in a wide grin.

“Blimmin’ heck, that was a mess!” He laughed and dusted his hands. “He’ll be looking for it, now, I bet.”

“But we’ve got it!” Harry grasped the trophy tight, as though he was afraid that it would slip from him, back to its owner. “Let’s do it quick, before someone else comes to find us and sees us.”

Hermoine said nothing, but she was far from calm herself - in fact, she was inches from jumping down on the spot and breaking out into a mad giggle. The latter she repressed with difficulty as they all stormed to the nearest table, swept off the perplexed dust from it with their sleeves, then laid out the shiny, sleek device upon its surface.

The device was a phone. It wasn’t any old phone, either, for if it was perhaps only a few of the more eccentric would deem it a subject of interest. This was a working phone, one which withstood any feuds between its power and the magic sparking and fizzing, though quiet and invisible, in the air; even better yet - this phone belonged to a certain man whom the three giggling and bending over its shiny, black surface, hated with a vengeance. This phone belonged to the Potion’s Master: Severus Snape.

“Go on, Hermione.” Ron slid the phone over to the small witch with bushy brown hair. “You said you knew the password.”

Hermione nodded, growing solemn at the task at hand, shoved her brown mane out of her eyes and bent over the screen, which grew illuminated at the touch of a button.

“Merlin’s beard, what my dad would give to be in our place,” Ron breathed, as Hermoine tapped out some letters and numbers with her forefingers. “A fellytone, and a working one too-”

“It’s called a telephone, Ron,” Harry corrected, though he could barely breathe as he watched Hermione’s fingers working. “Ha, I cannot believe we’ve actually managed to do this. Fred and George are nothing compared to us, now.”

“I’d love to see their faces,” Ron whispered, almost wriggling with glee. “And I’m the one who fished it out of his pocket! Now, all we need to do is-”

“Got it.” Hermione smiled as the screen changed, displaying buttons with different icons upon a plain, dark backdrop. “Now, if I remember correctly, it's called explorer…”

“Why aren’t we doing this in the common room, again?” Ron continued. “I know Percy’s a prefect, but even he wouldn’t-”

“Because, Ron,” Hermoine began as she chose the right button, “we have no idea what Snape actually keeps or searches for on this phone. If it’s all weird, we’d be too embarrassed to even attempt showing it to them. Plus,” she added, when Ron opened his mouth to interject, “it’s not like we’re going to cast it out of the window as soon as we’re done. It’s not magic - at least I don’t think it is - and it won’t just disappear or fly out to find Snape. We can show the rest of our classmates later.”

Ron opened his mouth again, but then understood the sense of this and closed it. 

“There it is,” Harry said, as Hermione searched for the right option. “History. Oh, boy, this is gonna be good. If he’s not cleared it.”

Ron rubbed his hands and rocked on the balls of his feet as he leaned on the table. “Yeah, as ‘Mione said, I bet it's all weird. Let's see what’s first.”

Dangling hair and breathing mingled and hovered inches from the square surface as all three leaned in to see. However, there was hardly any giggling, after they all read the first position on the records of what, precisely, the Potion’s Master searched for whenever he had a spare moment. In fact, there was none at all, and the glee was slowly replaced with something that none of them had been expecting.

Hermoine’s eyes dulled and eyebrows furrowed as she read the first position aloud.

“... ‘How to be more approachable’.”

There was a rather awkward pause. Hermione made a rather sad ‘oh’ sound. Ron shifted slightly.

“That’s kind-of sad, to be honest,” he finally managed, frowning.

“Scroll down, Hermione,” Harry waved aside the tension and leaned forward again. “That’s only the first position. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart.”

“And the most recent,” Hermione murmured, but she scrolled down obediently. 

“Yeah, I bet it’s all weird further down,” Ron muttered, but they were all disproved again. Their childish glee was completely reduced to something rather prickly and uncomfortable as Hermione ploughed through the searches:

“...Where can happiness be obtained…” 

“...How to tolerate children…” 

“...Patience, tips...”

“...Wholesome fiction with happy ending… stories with happy ending… which sad books to avoid… books to make one’s soul happy…”

And then:

“...Fast, effective…”

Here, Hermione paused and bit her lip, her eyes sparkling strangely, her brow now heavy. Harry glanced at her, then finished for her.

“Fast, effective headache relief.” He straightened and shifted from foot to foot, then looked at Ron for some sort of inspiration to dilute the thickness of the air. “Did you know Snape gets headaches, Ron?”

“Nope,” Ron offered, looking rather ashamed of himself and his gloating, the tips of his ears pink. “I didn’t think so. I mean, it makes sense though, doesn’t it…?”

“I feel terrible,” Hermione whispered, balling her fists.

“Yeah, we should probably put it back,” Ron said, though he didn’t look as enthusiastic about slipping the phone back into the Potion Master’s pocket than he did about proudly obtaining it. “Should we just leave it on his desk when he’s not in the classroom?”

“And how are we going to do that?” Harry asked, frowning. “We can’t go running around the dungeons. The Slytherin common rooms are there.”

Hermione sniffed, then rolled her eyes, pushing the phone away from her. “You have an invisibility cloak, Harry. This shouldn’t be too much of an issue.”

“Oh, yeah.”

They stood there for another few seconds, before Harry reached out and hesitantly pocketed the phone. “Let’s get back to the common rooms. We don’t need to mention this to anybody.”

“No, we don’t.” Ron said sadly, recalling his former words of potential victory over Fred and George and how they just went down the drain. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”

The dust was rather glad to be free of them, and so was the classroom. Only the desks, however, were rather miserable that they once again stood alone in their fortitude of unuse, unnoticed, only there to be berated and slandered by the students. Just like, as the trio would soon deduce, Severus Snape, the Potion’s Master, was.

*

A week passed. The phone was returned back to Snape’s desk without much ado. After that, it was unmentioned, and whenever it was glimpsed, three pairs of eyes were averted to the candles or windows, and most certainly not to each other, no words about it leaving their mouths, though they most certainly bounced around in their brains, though some were more cluttered than the others’.

It was through Harry’s mouth that the uncomfortable topic surfaced and it did so on a Saturday evening, in the library, when the day was slowly coming to an end and the sun was sinking slowly outside the mullioned windows. Ron was scowling at his Transfiguration homework, when Harry shot out a sigh through his nose and put down his quill.

“Listen, guys,” he started, nudging Hermione, who didn’t look as though she had heard him and just kept right on scribbling, her nose nearly touching the parchment. “I’ve been thinking… Hey, Hermione, are you listening?”

“Shush.” Hermoine glared at him, then shot a pointed glance at Madam Pince. “We’ll get kicked out.”

Ron’s scowl didn’t shift and was merely re-directed at its favourite subject of complaint with large front teeth and a vehement urge to stuff her head with new fragments of knowledge. 

“Not if we keep our voices down,” he said, potting his quill too. “Talk, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth mainly to play on Hermione’s nerves than to follow through on his plans, when his mind did a detour to the wisdom of him touching on such a sensitive topic in a public place.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he said with a nod. “Not because this is the library. We need to speak about… you know what.”

This was of enough weight for Hermione’s quill to stop moving. She shot him a glance, then met eyes with Ron and sighed.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We can’t speak about this here. To be honest, I’ve been meaning to speak about this to you both too.”

They latched up their bags, grabbed their stationary, then swiftly exited the library, tripping over Harry and Ron’s untied shoelaces. Hermoine grabbed them by their bags when they turned the corridor towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“The common room’s full,” she hissed. “We should go outside. We won’t be overheard there.”

“Hermoine’s right,” Harry said, nudging Ron. “Let’s go.”

They turned around, then began slowly walking down towards the main gates. They all kept silent, their eyes trained mainly to the floor, sometimes only looking up to meander around the other students milling around the corridor. It was probably why they didn’t notice the ominous figure walking towards them until they had all but face-planted themselves into its black robes.

Hermione was the first to look up and stick out her arms to halt the other two, her eyes sharpening after she was prodded out of her thoughts by this slightly unwelcome reality. Harry and Ron had similarly dumb expressions as they blinked up at her, then at what was in front of them.

Professor Snape’s voice was as restricted to nothing but cold disdain as usual, and the black of both his clothes and expression matched this regularity. 

“Where are we going?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione beat him to it.

“Outside for a moment, Professor Snape.”

Harry paused, then nodded along with Ron, trying to appear as though they weren’t hiding anything at all. The Potion’s Master observed them for a moment or two longer, before lowering eyebrows and, as it seemed, his guard.

“I suggest you look where you’re going,” was all he said, before drawing his cape about him and turning to pass them. But he didn’t manage to pass them, when Hermoine opened her mouth and after drawing a deep breath, emitted a string of words strung upon the same one:

“I hope you have a good night, Professor Snape.”

It was quite uncanny, really, how all three males looked at her with the same degree of incredulity and astonishment upon their faces, apparently forgetting things like enmity and dislike. It was enough to make poor Hermione flush a deep red and her words to run away from her before she could properly filter them through her teeth and tongue.

“Just being polite, is all,” she muttered, before she tugged on Harry and Ron’s sleeves sharply. “Come on, let’s go.”

She dragged them off with enough force for Snape’s surprise to cool off and his usual stone face return as he watched them stagger, though that was only visible to Harry and Ron for a few seconds before the vehement grip on their arms prevented them from turning back around, in case they both got whiplash. 

“Are you mental? What was that?” Ron hissed at her, when they rounded a corner, then he did a double take when he fixed his eyes on her features. “Blimey, Hermione, you’ve gone absolutely scarlet.”

“You’ve gone redder than his hair,” Harry commented, though with a hint of admiration in his tone as he stared.

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione muttered, then dragged them through the main door, into the cool of the evening. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about the subject at hand. And don’t tell me you’ve not been thinking about doing something similar to what I did.”

She glared at Ron and Harry, still flushed. They both pulled faces back, but they dropped their gaze after a few seconds as they trudged through the foliage.

“Alright, maybe,” Ron muttered under his breath, when they reached the black lake. “But it was nowhere near to what you just did.”

“What precisely did I just do?” Hermione snapped. “I was just being polite.”

“You were sucking up to him-”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.” Ron put on a high-pitched voice. “I hope you have a wonderful night, Professor Snape-”

“Oh, shut up!” She stamped her foot. “You act as though you’re entirely ignorant. You were there when we looked at his history. You saw it. And if complaining and arguing about this is the best you can do, then I pity you, Ronald Weasley!”

“Alright,” Harry cut in, weakly. “That’s not what we came here to do. Let’s just get it over and done with before curfew.”

Hermione glared at Ron once more before settling down. Both folded their arms and stared at the lake. Harry pursed his lips, for it was much harder to project his thoughts than he thought it would be, now that they were actually all together for that purpose alone.

“I think Hermione’s right,” he began, when Hermione was no longer red. “It would be wrong to keep at… you know.”

Ron snorted. “Being mad at Snape for picking on us for no reason?”

“He picks on everyone.” Hermione said, her eyes narrowed. “We’re no exception. Well, perhaps Harry is, but then you did get off to the wrong start at the beginning of the year.”

“No he didn’t,” said Ron.

“He was talking back to him,” she argued. “And it was the first interaction they had. No wonder Snape hates Harry.”

“And you,” Ron said pointedly. “You’re pretty much every teacher’s pet but his, and do you know why? Because he’s an-”

“Can you two not?” Harry snapped. “Can you two calm down? Please? This is serious.”

The arguing pair scowled at one another and resumed evaporating the lake with their glares.

“So,” Harry said, once enough silence had passed, “I think we ought to… you know, help him a bit. Be, erm, nicer.”

Ron turned and creased his forehead, but Hermione nodded, solemnly.

“We ought to,” she said, softly. “I told you, I was thinking about it. It’s all about perspective, really.”

“Perspective?”

“Yes,” she said. “Think about it from Snape’s perspective. Do you reckon he has a lot of friends?”

Ron scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. Who would want to be friends with him? ‘Course he hasn’t.”

“Precisely,” she said, though she looked at him reproachfully. “You’re teaching over five-hundred children Potions, all of whom, if I may add, are intent on either not listening, not doing homework, or just being downright rude. Yes, Ron, I know he’s like that too, and perhaps he does deserve it, and if we didn’t know better, we’d be justified in biting back. The point is, he’s clearly sad. He looks it. He looks downright miserable all the time.”

“You’re blowing this over.”

“Oh, am I?” Hermione said. “Tell me one time in which you saw him smile. And I don’t mean meanly. I mean happily. Have you ever heard him laugh? Because I haven’t.”

Ron sucked on his lips, looking torn. Harry listened, looking solemn.

“I haven’t either,” he said, quietly. “At first, I thought like Ron does, but… I’ve lived with the Dursleys my whole life. They’ve held grudges for no reason, for a long time, and it's tiring to be the person receiving them and keeping them up.”

Hermione looked at him with eyes lined with admiration. She nodded.

“Exactly, Harry. We could just be the reason for somebody’s… well, perhaps not happiness, but… tolerance.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Ron asked, still looking begrudging, but not unwilling. “By saying good morning and good night?”

“We could,” Harry said thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t be going over the top, or anything.”

Hermione must have thought about this more carefully than both of them put together, because she started counting out everything they could do upon her fingers as she spoke.

“Not just that,” she began. “We could do everything which is expected of us, for starters. Like doing homework on time, doing it correctly, not just so that it's done and boxed off without thought, the right parchment length, perhaps more… I know, we could get the older students to check it for us, so that we know we’ve done it right… then, we could actually listen in lessons and excel…”

Ron was frowning as she spoke. Even Harry was getting slightly doubtful they would ever manage such a feat. 

“...Do extra work. If you don’t want to, Ron, then we could do something outside of lessons. Not necessarily work.”

“Then what?” Harry asked. “Like what?”

“We could… you know.” Hermione’s face became slightly pink again. “We could find out when his birthday is.”

“That’s going too far,” said Ron, firmly, looking slightly agonised. “Imagine his face… oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Hermione agreed. “But then, I don’t know what else to do.”

“That sounds like a pretty good start to me,” Harry said. “Let’s start with lessons, Hermione, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll think of something else.”

Hermione’s face lit up, and for a moment both boys were afraid that she’d hug them.

“Great!” She grinned, then began walking towards the castle. “We have Potions on Monday, and homework due. Let’s get this done now! There’s still time. Alicia Spinnet’s good at potions - she’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

Harry and Ron turned from the lake and began to follow Hermione as she marched towards the castle with an enigmatical spring in her step.

“I don’t know about you,” said Ron, as she talked on, “but I’ve got a weird feeling this is going to end up in a mess.”

“We’ve been in loads already,” Harry said, though there was something uneasy in his chest too, “so it won’t really make a difference. But Hermione’s got a point,” he added, after they reached the steps to the castle gate, “it must be annoying, being Snape. And, as we all know, doing homework properly’s always a good start to everything.”

“That’s utter garbage.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning. “I’m quoting Hermione. She does it like she can’t live without it. And, from a teacher’s point of view, less marking seems like a good thing, at least to me.”

So the endeavours began, though they didn’t hold out to be as constant a flourish and blaze as Hermione made it out to be. Especially not after she insisted that they do twice the usual length as some form of surprise. 

“I’m not doing that,” Ron complained, throwing himself back in his chair and folding his arms. “I’ve got enough work as it is. And I’ve already done it to the best possible standard. Even you’ve said it's not bad, Hermione.”

“It looks decent,” she said, unrolling her homework, which made both Harry and Ron’s pale in comparison. “But if we’re going to show that we’re not hostile any more, we ought to try harder.”

So the homework was done somewhat begrudgingly and everything seemed to be going to plan, before Sunday evening. More precisely, the free afternoon of Harry and Ron was disturbed by Hermione suddenly coming in through the portrait hole, clutching something behind her back, then moving swiftly towards them and sitting at the table at which they were currently playing wizard’s chess.

“I’ve got something,” she said, slightly flushed. “You’re not going to believe what I made in the girls’ bathroom.”

The game was paused and the boys looked suspicious as they turned to look at her.

“The girls’ bathroom?” Ron repeated bluntly. “What have you been making in the girls bathroom, Hermione, that could make you go so bloody pink?”

They both looked blank as she withdrew a hand from behind her back and placed its contents upon the surface of the table with a rather proud flourish. It was a glass bottle, the sort which looked rather like a cuboid, stoppered with a round cork. It was filled with a light blue liquid, which seemed to glow faintly as it rested within its cool, glass confines. 

“That doesn’t look innocent,” Harry commented, knocking over Ron’s bishop. “What is it, Hermione?”

“It’s a headache draught,” she said proudly. “I found the recipe in one of the books in the library.”

Ron pushed his lips out as he stared at it, then picked it up.

“How d’you know he’ll know this is a headache draught, Hermione?”

“I reckon he’d know, since he’s the Potion’s Master.”

“But doesn’t that mean he’s fully capable of making these himself?” Harry asked. “It’s not like it would be a problem for him.”

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said slightly impatiently, taking back the bottle from Ron, “but the thing is that some people, men especially, simply don’t bother with taking care of themselves. That’s what my mum once said, and I’ve observed it since. I have a good reason to suspect that Snape isn’t the sort to ensure his health is top-notch.”

“I wouldn’t care if I was him,” Ron agreed. “What’s there to live for, for him? If I had to teach a bunch of snotty kids Potions everyday, I’d probably kill myself.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause - Harry had begun to nod, but lost the ability to move his head as he caught the disapproval in Hermione’s eyes.

“I mean,” Ron corrected himself, “you’re probably right, anyway. How long did it take you to make this?” “An hour,” she replied, “but that was because I messed up the first one. I added a bat-wing too many, so I had to pour that down the sink. Anyway.” She sat up straight again, folding her hands on the table neatly. “It said that half this bottle is to be drunk with fluid twice daily. So we need to make this once a day.”

“We’re going to run out of ingredients within a week,” Harry commented. 

“Not unless we take a little too many during Potions,” Hermione said coolly. “It’s a basic potion, using basic ingredients. Nothing Snape doesn’t have in his cupboard.”

“That would be stealing, though,” Ron said. 

“No it wouldn’t, though, since we are giving it back to him in the form of self-help,” Harry replied. “And you are going to be making it every day, Hermione?” 

In response, Hermoine thrust her hands into her pockets and produced another six vials, placing them with a clink, clink, clink upon the table, neatly. The boys looked at her with varying degrees of astonishment and admiration as she lined the bottles up.

“When these run out,” was the nonchalant reply, though the pink returned to Hermione’s cheeks as it was spoken, “I will do so. Unless you’d like to help me make them.”

“I think I’m good,” Ron said. “You can take all the credit if you want, Hermione - I’ll be happy with just doing extra work.”

“Great,” Hermione replied, ignoring the slight annoyance tinging the last two words spoken. “Then we will start from tomorrow.”

*

As all three of the enlightened Gryffindors lined up outside the dungeon’s classroom on a Monday morning, all three could feel their hearts beating somewhere in their stomach. Hermione, as usually was the case when feverish with excitement or trepidation, wouldn’t stop talking, even for the danger of any nerves exploding in her counterparts.

“Remember what I mentioned yesterday,” she whispered with obstinance, leaning in so that she wouldn’t be overheard. “If anything happens, try not to shout, don’t argue, just try to be as polite as you can. Yes, even if it isn’t your fault, Ron,” she added, cutting off Ron’s indignant reply. “Just try to be as good-willed as possible.”

A drawling voice cut off this heartfelt advice.

“What are you three whispering about?” Draco Malfoy called from the front of the line. “You must be conspiring, since you’re standing so close to each other. Or are you just trying to kiss Potter, Granger?”

Hermione straightened, Ron scowled, Harry opened his mouth to retort, but they never got to, since the former turned around and raised her eyebrows.

“I hope you’re not jealous,” she replied, coolly, “because that would be gross.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Jealous? Of kissing you? Bleh.” He made a show of shuddering, then nudged Crabbe and Goyle, standing beside him. “Imagine kissing someone with teeth like that. They're absolutely massive. It would be like trying to kiss a beaver.”

Hermione’s lips turned down; Ron flushed a fiery red and took a step forward, but Hermione grabbed his shoulders before his clenched fist could go into swing.

“Snape will invite us in any second,” she hissed. “Don’t be provoked, Ron.”

“Yeah, don’t listen to him,” Harry said, shooting a look of hatred towards the blonde, pinched-featured boy guffawing. “He’s just being an idiot. It’s his natural state, he can’t help it.”

At that moment, the doors to the classroom creaked open, and they all began to file into their places. Harry and Ron began to meander towards the back of the classroom to their usual spot, but Hermione knocked on their arms and pointed towards the front row instead.

“Oh no,” Ron moaned, looking fearful, “no, not the front desks, Hermione…”

“Shut up, Ron,” was all she said before she dragged them towards the ominous front desks, just (oh, horror!) in front of the black board. They ignored the strange looks they received from the others around them and instead focused on unpacking all of their things needed for the lesson.

It seemed that they were all off for a good start, when Harry opened his bag, rummaged around in it for a moment, then looked stricken.

“What is it?” Hermione hissed, noticing, as she laid out her stationary geometrically on the desk. “Did you forget your homework?”

“No, I’ve forgotten to bring my Potions book,” he replied, turning his bag upside down. “Oh, great…”

“Silence,” Snape called from behind his desk, watching them with a distasteful look on his pale face. “Sit down.”

They all sat and slid their bags off the desk. Harry hoped nothing amiss would be noticed and instead of wriggling around nervously, he tried to listen carefully as the lesson began. Of course, Hermione had made the effort of ensuring that she was sitting between him and Ron, so that they wouldn’t give into temptations and burst into conversation with one another during inappropriate times.

Snape’s eyes darted towards them in a rather suspicious nature as the lesson began, as though he was expecting something dishonest at the least from this sudden change of seating and eagerness. However, the three looked back with innocent eyes, which, in turn, made the Potions Master’s eyes narrower, before he turned to write upon the chalkboard.

“You will be working in pairs,” he said, once all the instructions had been written and the sleeping draught introduced, “I expect this to be done and detailed on parchment by the end of the lesson.”

The vehemence with which Hermione threw herself into the task was quite unsettling, at least for the other two. However, since there were three of them, either Harry or Ron was going to have to go and work with another, and since neither of them wanted to be parted from Hermione (who, as usual, looked as though she knew exactly what she was doing) there was a little bit of dithering done. 

“Ron, why don’t you go and work with Neville?” Hermione suggested, as Harry slid over to her and almost grasped her arm as though to claim her for the lesson.

Ron looked stricken. 

“Are you mad?” he hissed, as discreetly as he could. “We’ll blow up the classroom!”

Hermione sighed. “No, you won’t-”

“Yes we will! It’s already happened twice before!”

However, Snape intervened before anything could be decided. They flinched, feeling the cold of his shadow and turned to see him standing behind them with his arms folded and his eyes still narrowed.

“Well?” He looked at the dithering three, from bushy brown hair to green eyes to freckles on nose. “This doesn’t look like a pair, to me.”

Harry shot a look at Ron; Ron glowered and made no move to move away. Hermione looked desperate.

“I’ll work with Neville,” she said, making them both shoot her panicked looks instead. “You two work together.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Snape said coolly, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Potter, move your things to Longbottom’s desk. Weasley, you will work with Granger.”

Harry was about to open his mouth to protest, when Hermione stood on his foot and he ended up shutting it and nodding instead.

“Yes, sir,” he said, though sounding  slightly dispirited, then obediently gathered up his things and went to sit with Neville, whose round eyes didn’t leave Snape for the entirety of the time. He laid out all of his things, trying not to look at Ron, who looked rather smug at the change of circumstances, then looked up to find Snape’s eyes narrowed more still as they swept over the things he laid out on the desk.

“Where is your textbook, Potter?” Snape asked softly, his arms folded about him, looking much displeased. “Did you perhaps think that the presence of the scar on your forehead makes you unobliged to bring it? Or perhaps you think you know what to do already, without the book’s aid?”

Malfoy, who was working with Goyle to their left, snorted and nudged his crony. Harry remembered Hermione’s words and swallowed down his words, which were far too red and sharp for the plan they were trying so hard to execute.

“I apologise, sir,” he said, managing to sound relatively polite and stop himself from glowering at the same time, then took a deep breath. “I must have left it in the library yesterday. It’s my fault entirely.”

Neville stared at him. So did Snape. Harry turned to the former.

“Can I share your potions book today, Neville?”

“Sure,” Neville stammered out, then slid it over to him. “Here… here you go.”

“Thank you.” He turned to look back at Snape, who was looking incredulous at the least, almost nervous at the fact that he wasn’t firing a projectile of arrogance back at him. “Sorry to be an inconvenience, sir.”

At this, Snape actually took a small step back, twitching his cape around himself as though putting up a shield of defence, his eyebrows unbending themselves and creeping slowly upwards. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione shoot him a huge grin and give him a very big thumbs-up. Ron looked torn between cringing and clapping, but ended up nodding in approval.

Snape must have been so thrown off-balance by this alarming bout of humility on Harry’s part, that didn’t even give him a reply. He just slid away from their desk with a last thorough look at him, probably deciding he was under the influence of some spell and not being worthy of both his time or his nerves.

“Nice job, Harry,” Hermione said to him over her bubbling cauldron. “See, you can keep your cool if you want to.”

“I nearly didn’t,” Harry replied with a grin, feeling some odd sense of pride from this accomplishment. “But tell me, Hermione, how are you going to put that vial on his desk?”

“Oh, I’ve got that all figured out,” she said rather breezily, dropping powdered porcupine spine into her mixture. “I’ll leave my book here, then come and get it during break, while he’s gone to the staffroom. Or perhaps I’ll just do it when his back is turned. I’ll manage somehow.”

With that Harry couldn’t argue, so he turned back to his potion and met with Neville’s intrigued face.

“What are you up to?” he asked quietly, as they cut and measured. Harry thought there wasn’t any point in elaborating, so he just said:

“We’re trying to be nice to Snape.”

“Nice to Snape?” Neville repeated, pausing with his cutting knife hovering above his cutting board. “Why’s that?”

Harry shrugged, stirring his potion the way it said on the chalkboard. “Nothing much. Thought we’d have some fun and do some good, you know, Neville?”

Neville didn’t look as though he understood, but then he shrugged and nodded.

“That’s… nice,” he murmured thoughtfully, then nothing more was said on the matter, though he didn’t look quite as uneasy as he did before. In fact, he looked slightly impressed.

Everything would have ended nicely and according to plan if Harry and Neville weren’t stationed at that particular desk. Their sleeping draught was slowly turning a bright-purple colour, as was Hermione and Ron’s (when Harry glanced over), when suddenly there was a sound of splashing and Harry was slapped in the face with several globs of his concoction; someone had thrown something into their cauldron.

Goyle was grinning. Malfoy sniggered, then moved a few steps back to his desk.

“Looked like it needed more bat-wing, Potter.” He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Harry stepped forward and was about to tell him exactly what he thought of him with his fists, when Neville poked him frantically and said, “Look!”

He turned back just as the huge, purple bubble swelling out of the rim of his cauldron popped; there was a sound like a giant slug being squelched and Neville and Harry were drenched from head to toe in sticky goo. 

There was a gasp, silence, then a few pounding footsteps, rustling of fabric and Snape stood before them with his eyes black and his mouth sneering.

“You idiots,” he began, whipping out his wand as their cauldron gave another sickening squelch and more gunk splattered out. “Did you not read the instructions? Can you two even read?”

“It wasn’t our fault, Professor,” Neville stammered, wiping gunk off his face, looking worriedly at his ruined robes. “Malfoy threw a bat wing into our cauldron. It was coming along so well, too…”

Snape’s eyes flickered to Malfoy, who pulled a face which was obviously meant to look innocent, then back to Harry, who had taken off his glasses and was frowning as he tried to remove the sludge from their surface so he could actually see.

“That’s right, Professor,” he managed, frowning. “We’d followed your instructions, this time.”

From the corner of his eye Harry saw the shape of Hermione draw something out from her pocket, nip backwards a few steps and discreetly place it on Snape’s desk.

Snape didn’t notice anything, still looking furious. He looked at the purple gunk disdainfully, waved his wand, vanishing it off them and the table.

“Five points from Slytherin,” he snapped at Malfoy, then turned to Neville and Harry. “And five from Gryffindor, for the disturbance.”

This was horribly unfair and normally, Harry would have exclaimed and let him know that it was just so, but Harry had a certain mindset now along with Hermione making frantic motions at him from behind Snape’s back, and so he didn’t say a word as he put his glasses back on and stared at him.

“I apologise for the inconvenience, sir.” He pursed his mouth and shot a look at Malfoy, who’s grin wasn’t as prominent, now that he had been put in his place. “Thank you for cleaning the mess up for us.”

This time, Snape certainly looked baffled. He even looked displeased, his lip curling downwards, though Harry had a feeling it was because he had no idea what was going on, rather than him being disgusted at the good upbringing he was no doubt convinced Harry didn’t have. Ron stifled a snigger with his hands. Hermione smiled.

“Yes,” Neville piped up, surprising all of them, as he examined his clean robes. “Thanks for the help, sir.”

Snape stared at him, then shot a glance at Harry, then made a sound similar to an incredulous scoff and waved his hand for the rest to get on with working. The babble of chatter slowly resumed, as did the clinking of vials and hushed muttering of the flames beneath the cauldrons.

Harry watched Snape walk back to his desk with his eyes still narrowed, sit down, apparently lost in thought, then actually look at his desk and pause.

Hermione’s eyes shot a discreet look at the Potions Master and the corner of her mouth couldn’t restrain itself from twitching upwards as Snape picked up the headache draught in two fingers (it was very clearly labelled in block writing, so that it was unable to tell who had written it) and read the label. The trio watched his eyes grow wide as his eyes scanned over it - he was astonished! - then flash upwards with suspicion.

Hermione had already averted her eyes with Ron, pretending to be reading a passage in the book together, and Harry managed to do the same very shortly after, so Snape simply scoured the room and found no potential gifters in any of the gathered. He looked back down to the little blue bottle. He uncorked it, brought it up to his nose hesitantly (probably expecting a lungful of poisonous fumes, Harry thought), then with the same expression lowered it, corked it and carefully placed it back down on his desk.

Like Hermione, Harry couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he watched the Potions Master’s reaction. Snape looked blankly at the vial for a second longer, then a strange expression of bewilderment came over him: he dragged a hand down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and began to massage his eyes. He looked impressively beaten. More befuddled than Harry had ever seen him, which was strange, for this was nothing but an apparent act of thoughtfulness - it was as though he had no idea how to react to it!

As the class began to unroll their parchments to copy down the writing on the blackboard and add notes, Snape’s eyes kept shooting reluctant glances towards the strange present on his desk. Once or twice he even picked it up with a strange look of calm and intrigue on his face to study it.

Harry couldn’t sit still, and from the looks of it, neither could Hermione and Ron. Ron kept snickering to himself; Hermione was pink with pleasure and often joined him in his quiet outbursts of laughter. Before the lesson was out, all three were in such high spirits that Neville looked unsettled, because whenever he caught their eye they beamed at him richly, then went back to their work smiling.

“Homework,” Snape called at the end of their lesson, back to his dark mood and expression. “I want you to place it on the front table as you walk out. Now, go.”

Harry withdrew his homework from his bag - this, he hadn’t forgotten since Hermione had checked both their bags thrice - along with Hermione and Ron. They packed up, put on their bags, then approached the desk together. All three parchments were unmistakably longer than anybody else’s and almost rolled off the table as they placed them on the pile. 

When they turned to Snape, his face was made of marble.

“See you later, sir,” Ron began. “Good lesson.”

“Have a good rest of your day, Professor Snape,” Hermione added.

“Thanks again for your help, Professor,” Harry finished with a polite nod, then turned and walked out.

As soon as they were out in the corridor and the door was shut, they all burst out, clutched at one another in excitement, hissing out observations and whispering:

“Blimey, did you see his face?” Ron chortled, punching Harry in the arm. “He was absolutely gob-smacked.”

“I bet he feels bad about taking points off you, now,” Hermione added, her teeth gleaming as she grinned. “But listen. In a sense, this is completely worth it.”

“Yeah, we couldn’t get him so out of it any other way if we tried,” Ron added with vehemence. “We’re closer to getting him to quit his job by being decent to him than by being awful. Did you see his face when he picked up Hermione’s vial?”

He pulled a face of bewilderment, doing such a good impression that they all burst out laughing as they rounded the corner, running straight into Professor McGonagall who raised an eyebrow at this buzzing of laughter and jovial mood which they were exhibiting.

“Good morning,” she said to them, clearly looking for an explanation which, unfortunately for her, she wasn’t going to get, for her recipients were having far too much fun in their enigmatical benevolence to provide it to her.

“Good morning, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione sang as they walked past. “You look really nice today!”

“Yeah, enjoy the nice weather, Professor,” Harry added, “while it lasts!”

“Have a good morning,” Ron added as they got out of earshot, then waved and turned back around.

Minerva McGonagall stared after them with her lips pursed, wondering whether to follow them to check whether any charms had been cast on them to put them in such a cheerful spell or to pen this strange enthusiasm as the aftereffect of something ridiculous. The former seemed most likely to be the case, since they had just come out of Potions, and as far as everybody was aware - unless something catastrophic had happened which had temporarily rendered the Potions Master a fool in their eyes - it wasn’t exactly their favourite lesson for obvious reasons.

She made up her mind a moment later, and after twitching the quill she was holding in two fingers, she directed her footsteps towards the dungeons and the Potion’s classroom to find out more about the state of affairs.

[witchthefuck]

Azris + Mor Theory

What if, just what if, Eris being very observant (like most people from abusive households) just noticed a faint thread of a mating bond between him and Azriel before it snapped into place.

What if, just what if, Eris being very cautious (like most Beron's sons) decided to ignore it and not ever speak of it or act on it, knowing that Beron would probably kill them both.

What if, being observant and cautious, he decided to go through marriage with Morrigan so they can be an ultimate beard couple.

What if, being foxy like autumn Fae, he's on the market for arranged marriage for it's benefits. But not a forced one, so he breaks the engagement the way she showed him how.

What if he spent his days between broken engagement and finding Mor on the border listening to his father. Beron most definitely explained in great detail what he would do to Mor is she was his daughter, how he hopes Keir punished her and what he would do to her for disrespecting Vanserra family if given a chance.

What if as much as touching Mor on that border would give Beron that chance.

And just what if Eris, being the cunning snake that he is, knew that only way to help Mor was to get here someone outside of the autumn court to help her. So he pulled on this faint golden thread between him and Azriel so hard that Az could feel it and knew exactly where to go. Eris had to leave before he shows up because he cannot risk the bond snapping on either of them.

So Azriel show up, pulled to the border by a mating bond and he found Mor there. He learned that Eris was there and left her. And he's furious that this monster left his mate. And he is heartbroken that after 500+ years of him trying to get close to his mate, mating bond didn't snap? Even though on that day it pulled him to her?

And Eris knows what happened. And he wishes he could tell Shadowsinger that it was him pulling the bond, that he didn't truly leave Mor to die but he can't. Not without exposing that bond, risking both of their lives. So he hopes that one day, after Beron dies, he will be able to explain to Azriel what really happened. And what it cost him.

For now, he just has no choice but to let his mate hate him. For 500 hundred years. And I wonder if Eris could feel that hatred through the bond. If he sees images of himself beheaded, gutted and massacred each times Azriel struggles NOT to kill him.

I will make a longer post with quotes in the future, but holy smokes, he needs a hug

[palioom]

day eight - breeding kink

pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader

word count: 657

warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; breeding kink, dirty talk, mirror sex, unprotected p in v, creampie

• kinktober 2023 masterlist •

His hands felt like fire on her skin, his soft lips on her skin like a burning trail, his beard like sharp little blades. So overwhelmed, his hand holding her chin tightly and making her look.

“You will look so gorgeous with my little viperlings inside of you.” He rasped against her ear, biting her earlobe softly. Her legs were spread wide as she knelt in front of him, giving a perfect view of his cock buried deep inside of her in the mirror Oberyn had asked to be placed at the foot of the bed. His cum was already trickling out of her, his stamina and devotion endless as he fucked up into her again and again, only taking breaks when absolutely necessary.

But never pulling out of her, his chest molded against her back.

“You’ll love that, won’t you, my dove?” He cooed, thrusting up into her again, the wet squelch borderline obscene and making her whimper. “Round and full of me? Our viperlings?”

She nodded, biting her lip. Eyes fixed only on where they were joined, where the sticky, white mess dripped onto the sheets.

“Yes, Oberyn.” Her voice was barely a whisper, exhausted but so determined to make this work. Sweat covering her skin, her hair sticking to her forehead. “Fuck me full of you, breed me, give me a child.”

Desperate for one, she had done everything possible to prepare her womb for a child. Oberyn was adamant to fulfill her wish, wanting a little baby as well, and he wouldn’t stop until they had it.

“I will, my sweet.” His free hand cupped her breast, tan and veiny, with thick and strong fingers, his other keeping her head in place as she moved to rest it against his shoulder. He needed her to watch, his own eyes flicking back and forth between the wanton expression on her face and her swollen, wet pussy stuffed full of him and him only. “Make you so round, I cannot wait to see your breasts grow heavy.”

She nodded, just about ready to collapse, the intense feeling of another orgasm welling up, still sensitive and aching from the previous ones.

“I want them so much, I want your seed.” Tears welled up in her eyes, her hands holding onto his, onto his body. So desperate and whiny. “You will keep me pregnant? Give me more and more?”

Oberyn’s tongue danced over the shell of her ear, pulling her closer against him. Hips stuttering at her begging for him to keep her pregnant, to fill her with his seed again and again. The thought of it would drive him insane, to keep breeding her, just like she said.

“Nothing would excite me more than fuck my seed into you until it takes.” He groaned, his hand on her breast moving in between her legs, finding her swollen and overly sensitive clit. She whined and tried to shy away from him, everything too much. Wanting nothing more than to carry his children. “Oh, my sweet, to hear you begging for me to give you a child - you do not know what you just unleashed.”

She convulsed around him again, her body weak in his arms, eyes still on the cum that ran down his cock and onto his heavy balls, dripping onto the sheets. Barely noticing as he added more with a deep groan, his fingers only slowing down when his hips had stilled inside of her.

Oberyn guided her down onto the sheets, knowing she had been thoroughly worn out, never slipping from her.

“I will give you all the viperlings you wish for, my dove.” He whispered into her ear, brushing the hair from her face. “I will give you my seed as often as you wish for it.”

She hummed, feeling so full and warm and spent. Slipping into dreams of his strong hand on her swollen belly.

Again and again and again.

[samstree]

A Careless Omission

Jaskier reveals he has a type. Geralt behaves strangely. (Or, the "Jaskier likes a dilf" fic, 2.9k, on ao3)

Jaskier doesn’t try to hide his interest.

His face has been slowly heating up with a blush, his lips worried and bitten with nervousness. It nearly makes him feel like a blushing maiden at the sight of her first crush, stomach fluttering and all. Who can blame him? His eyes have been caught by the barkeep since he sat down at the table.

Distantly, he knows Geralt is able to tell, sitting in front of him across the table. A witcher’s senses are too sharp for Jaskier to hide his intentions for anyone they meet on the road, but there’s no room for self-consciousness. His attention is away, following the other man as he works.

The barkeep is tall and burly, with wide shoulders and long legs, hair slightly wet with sweat from working in the kitchens. A few strands of grey hair pepper his brown curls beautifully, as well as his well-groomed beard. The simple clothing cannot hide the taut muscles underneath. Every time he rolls up the sleeves to show the strong lines of his forearm, Jaskier lets out an audible gasp.

Meeting Jaskier’s eyes, he comes to their table and serves two cups of ale with a bright, warm smile.

A bright, warm smile, and a little girl trailing behind him.

“Aww,” Jaskier whispers to Geralt as the man walks away. “Look at him with his daughter.”

The barkeep has brought his daughter to work. The girl looks no older than six, demanding bedtime stories and tugging at his apron constantly. He has to gently coax her to let him finish work first, all the while leaning down to kiss her on the head.

Jaskier’s breath catches, the hammering of his heart so loud he can practically hear it in his ears.

“Hmm.”

Geralt only gives a noncommittal hum while sipping his ale.

“Here we go.” The barkeep returns to their table with two bowls of soup, his smile still bright despite the late hour and his daughter’s chirping. “How do you find our establishment, kind sirs? Hope you liked the ale?”

Before Jaskier can chat up the guy, Geralt cuts in quickly.

“A bit sour,” he says, seemingly grouchier than usual. “And the place is loud.”

It’s entirely too rude, but before Jaskier can apologize for his friend, the barkeep scratches his head shyly and does it first, which makes him all the lovelier.

“Apologies,” he says sincerely. “My Lucja can be a menace when she’s tired. It’s a shame her bedtime happens to be our rush hour. She’s not bothering you too much, is she?”

“No, no!” Jaskier answers, rather too eagerly. “She’s adorable! I hope she’s not making your job difficult, is all.”

Jaskier’s face becomes even hotter when he takes his bowl, their fingers brushing, lingering. Finally, the barkeep is looking at Jaskier properly. His smile grows, stretching almost to his ears.

They hold each other’s gaze, until Geralt sets down his cup suddenly, much louder than necessary, breaking the moment.

“It can get hard at times, but I don’t mind,” the barkeep answers, eyeing Geralt for a moment before turning his attention back to Jaskier. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, you see. I’d choose raising her on my own every time.”

“Oh? Where is her mother?” Jaskier frowns.

“I do not know where she is, sir, nor Lucja’s real father, for she was left at my doorstep as a babe. I meant to send her to the orphanage, but in the end, I just couldn’t see a little girl without a home. She is as much my daughter as she can be. We are a family, as destiny intended.”

What a sweet, sweet man.

Jaskier holds his chest as the fluttering inside intensifies. He’s nearly melting on the spot “Aww…” he sighs softly. “Such sadness, and such a happy ending. You truly are a kind man, sir…?”

“Andrej.”

“I’m Jaskier.” They shake hands, lingering some more.

“Still, it must get lonely for you, being on your own. Would you ever seek other forms of companionship, Andrej, when the long nights are difficult to pass?”

The hopeful hint hides so well under the concern in Jaskier’s voice. He’d like to think he’s rather smooth in his probing, after all these years.

“Well.” Andrej looks as flushed as Jaskier feels. His eyes lower, before lifting up again, looking at Jaskier from under his lashes. “I try to find company when I can, but none as fine as yourself, Jaskier.”

He drags out Jaskier’s name, patiently, sensually, making his bones hum.

The man leaves Jaskier with a suggestive look, and finds Lucja again. He lifts the girl easily, muttering about how he can finally tuck her in bed now. They disappear upstairs, with the girl draped over Andrej’s shoulder, her cheeks round with happiness.

Jaskier stares at them as they leave, eyes following the man until he cannot see them any longer, and then turns back with a dreamy sigh. He stirs his soup absently, occasionally letting out a goofy smile and a quiet giggle, ears still burning. Thoughts of Andrej fill the whole world, his eyes, his smile, his loving heart.

Jaskier knows he’s quickly, entirely, and head over heels, falling in love.

He lets out another giggle at the thought.

Their interaction replays over and over in Jaskier’s head, making him completely oblivious to his surroundings.

Out of nowhere, Geralt clears his throat.

“Oh, dear!” Jaskier startles, blinking. “Geralt, um… You are… still here.”

Huh, he seems to have completely forgotten about Geralt.

“My, my,” Geralt snorts. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Jaskier has no intention of being mortified. He is no longer capable of that emotion when the stars align and hit him with a spell of love. Still, he gives some attention to his friend.

“Sorry, I was a little… beside myself,” he says, his spirit too high to be ruined by Geralt’s inexplicably bad mood. “You know,” Jaskier whispers, revealing the great secret. “It’s my weakness.”

“Weakness?” Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Yes, a man like Andrej.” Jaskier’s eyes brighten in fondness. “I happen to have no resistance around a good father like him.”

A pause of silence, and Geralt squints harder.

“A good… father,” he states, very, very slowly.

“Of course! Did you not notice? He was so good with his daughter earlier, so gentle and loving. I bet he tells the best bedtime stories, and little Lucja will want for nothing in her life. Oh, I cannot help myself, and I—” Jaskier sighs, once again. The amount of sighing today is a bit excessive, even for a poet. He’s well aware. “I think I’m falling in love.”

Geralt looks like he’s trying to suppress a growl, but ends up with an unpleasant grimace.

And Jaskier takes issue with that. He makes an unhappy noise.

“Oh, stop with that face. I know you want to mock me,” Jaskier admonishes, mouth forming a pout. “But I am not ashamed, I’ll have you know. I see being a good father as one of the most attractive qualities in a man, if not the most attractive! Though I admit, I have a soft spot, especially for him. Did you hear the story? To think Andrej took in an orphan girl under such tragic circumstances, just to give her a home… How can my heart not go out to him?”

Jaskier looks into the distance, lapsing into silence. The soup is no longer hot, and he digs into it slowly, mood still chirpy and stomach still full of warm fuzziness.

For some reason, Geralt keeps staring at Jaskier.

He seems offended, even.

“Hmm,” Geralt deadpans, stressing every word. “You are in love, because he is a good father?”

“Mm-hmm,” Jaskier hums absently.

Geralt stares for another moment, and another, his food and drink forgotten. It’s disconcerting. He simply slurps his soup loudly, filling the silence.

Tentatively, Geralt opens his mouth, and closes it, and then, he does it again a few times more.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. Geralt does the same.

“What?” The bard is running out of patience.

“Nothing,” Geralt answers at the end, rather pointedly, looking directly at Jaskier. “So… Ciri.”

Jaskier blinks at the non sequitur. “Hmm?”

“You do remember her,” Geralt adds, “Ciri?”

Frowning, Jaskier is slightly concerned for Geralt’s sanity. Or his.

“Yes? I’ve not suffered a blow to the head, Geralt. I remember Ciri.”

“Just checking.”

The tiniest pout forms around Geralt’s mouth, a hint of dissatisfaction tugging at his lips like an overgrown child. His eyes are still boring into Jaskier’s face. He pauses for a beat, as if waiting for Jaskier to catch up on something.

Jaskier is even more confused about the weird mood of his witcher. He waits with bated breath for a moment longer, but Geralt is still looking at him expectantly.

Losing patience, Jaskier gestures for him to go on. “Well, what about Ciri?”

Geralt sighs, somehow sounding defeated.

“She wrote to me,” he says, finally dropping the grouchy tone when talking about Ciri. “I got the letter today.”

“Oh.” The mention of Ciri’s letter brings joy to Jaskier’s heart. The girl tends to write to them sporadically during her travels, and Geralt always discusses everything about her with Jaskier. It’s nice to hear from their little witcher-princess, who is actually not so little anymore. “That’s good, Geralt. What did she say?”

Taking a very deep breath, Geralt continues.

“She’s traveling, mostly. Took contracts here and there. Also—” Geralt says carefully, “said she missed me.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier smiles, proudly.

“Yeah, you know. She does… um, miss me, because I—um, you know, I’m her…” Geralt doesn’t finish the sentence, but leaves room for it to be finished. With what, Jaskier isn’t sure.

But Jaskier’s heart twists in sympathy. He misses Ciri dearly too, and it could explain Geralt’s strange behavior today, so he tries something else. “You know, we could visit her,” he suggests. “Write back, see if we can meet up and travel together for a while.”

Geralt’s eyebrows lift, ever so slightly, at those words.

“We can,” he agrees, voice lighter. “And… you remember how she has nightmares. If we travel together, I can stay with her at night until she falls asleep.” He thinks for a second. “Tell her a story or two, chase away the bad dreams, perhaps. It is my duty for her, as she is my… um, Ciri.”

The phrasing is perplexing. She is… all of their Ciri, of course. There’s no telling why Geralt said it like that.

“That’s a shame.” Still, Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of their little girl having nightmares, but then— “Wait, does she still let you tuck her in? She’s turning… twenty this summer, I believe? And now an independently working witcher. Isn’t she too old?”

It seems to dawn on Geralt too.

“Oh.” He blinks. “So she is,” Geralt splutters. “Never mind, then.”

Jaskier can’t blame him. Sometimes, they both forget how fast their little girl grows. She is now a proper grown woman, slaying monsters with better witchering skills and magical powers than anyone could have imagined.

He understands Geralt’s tendency for nostalgia, though. When you find a scared little girl and help her become this confident version of herself over the course of a decade, you’d want to linger in those memories, even though she can easily stand on her own feet now.

“Still, I believe it if you say so,” Jaskier muses. “She’s been through so much before, and past hurt fades slowly. Seeing you could be good for her too.”

Geralt looks down, suddenly stabbing the gooey soup with his spoon as if it’s a particularly difficult fiend. After a moment, he sighs. The excessive sighing seems to be catching on today.

For all of Geralt’s emotional constipation Jaskier has witnessed over the years, today’s grumpy episode is truly a bad one. And then, he thinks more about Geralt’s behavior all day, mentioning Ciri out of nowhere, insisting that she still needs care even though she’s grown. It’s nearly like Geralt is trying to make up for something, or drive a point home.

It’s just that Jaskier has been missing the point all along.

It clicks, all of a sudden.

Oh.

Of course.

How could he be so blind?

“Oh, I see.” He places a hand on Geralt’s arm, exhaling in relief. “Forgive me, Geralt dear, but I see it now.”

“You do?” Hope shines in Geralt’s eyes.

“I do!” Jaskier confirms. “It’s terrible I have not realized earlier. I have been incredibly neglectful of you.”

Eyes wide with hope, Geralt seems to have stopped breathing in anticipation. “Go on,” he prompts.

“It all makes sense. You have been acting weird since we sat down, and with me fussing over Andrej and his daughter…” Jaskier states gently, eyes bright. “Your guilt is acting up again! Am I correct?”

Geralt is frozen like a statue, incredulous.

He must want to deny it, but everything about him says he’s been caught off guard, which means Jaskier must be right on point. He pats himself on the back mentally, proud for having figured out his witcher’s internal struggles. After a few decades, he has become an expert in reading Geralt’s every mood.

Jaskier pulls the chair to the side of the table so they sit closer together, their knees touching. He wraps an arm around Geralt, hands running small circles on his back, a familiar soothing motion for when his witcher’s mind is being unkind to him.

“Um, Jask…”

“You don’t need to deny it, you know.” It’s silly that Geralt still has trouble accepting Jaskier’s help sometimes, so he remains patient. “It’s perfectly reasonable, with Ciri traveling alone, being away from your protection. You still feel responsible for her, as you should. The bond between the two of you is stronger than destiny itself.”

Geralt pinches between his eyes, looking torn. “You don’t need to tell me these things, Jask. That’s… really not what I’m thinking.”

This ridiculous, stubborn man. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Nonsense. You don’t need to hide it from me, Geralt. It’s only me.” Jaskier smiles encouragingly. “I’m always here when you have these doubts. Always. Ciri has to leave you—leave all of us—precisely because you’ve taught her well. You have prepared her in every way you can, and now the world will see what she can do.” He hugs Geralt tighter, knowing his touch is comforting for Geralt in these bouts of self-deprecation. “It’s okay to feel at a loss, but it’s not like she’ll never need you again. You are her father, and nothing will ever change that.”

The words settle quietly, genuinely, and Jaskier feels the tenseness in Geralt’s body fade. He takes pride in himself again, a grin stretching across his face, feeling incredibly achieved.

“Yes,” Geralt whispers, looking directly into Jaskier’s eyes. Their faces are only a hand’s breadth away, his tone intimate and sincere. “I am her father.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier agrees happily. “You are the best father she could ever ask for.”

“Yeah?”

Geralt breathes in, his gaze lowering. They are leaning into each other’s space, with barely any distance in between. Jaskier’s hand is still wrapped around Geralt’s shoulder, and now Geralt has placed a hand on Jaskier’s knee.

For some reason, the fluttering in Jaskier’s stomach returns. The sensation is such a surprise that he nearly falls out of the chair.

“Geralt…”

“Jaskier, look,” Geralt breathes, lips parting, “I—”

Before he could finish a sentence, they are interrupted by someone coming down the stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly in the tavern. Jaskier snaps his attention away in an instant.

Oh, Andrej is back!

Jaskier lets out a delighted squeal, all thoughts replaced by the barkeep’s warm smile.

“Hold that thought, dear,” Jaskier says absently, patting Geralt on the back. “I should be… going.”

“But I—”

Geralt’s eyes are wide, darting between Andrej and Jaskier.

Jaskier stands up, checking on Geralt again. “Hmm? What is it? Do you still need me here?”

He would stay with Geralt, comforting him for the rest of the night if those old insecurities still plague his friend. A good night with a handsome and kind man will always come second when it comes to Geralt, but…

But, but, but…

Jaskier’s heart is already soaring away.

Luckily, the moment of panic in Geralt’s eyes fades into calm acceptance.

“Nothing,” Geralt says, resigned with a quiet smile. “I don’t need you here, Jaskier. You should go.”

His posture goes slack. It must be the relief after all of Jaskier’s words, all the doubt eased, judging from the way Geralt’s face morphs into an emotionless neutrality. Once again, Jaskier mentally pats himself on the back for having cracked the problem.

He beams at the thought, bending down to press a good night kiss on Geralt’s cheek, who lets out a little gasp, leaning into the chaste kiss.

“Don’t wait up!”

Jaskier winks before turning away, not looking back again. When he takes Andrej’s hand, there’s even a spring in his steps.

Oh, Jaskier should be allowed to feel a little smug, just a little bit. He has had the most wonderful night. On top of seeing right through Geralt’s emotional turmoil, he’s also landed himself a fine companion until morning.

The wonderful night can still get a lot better, he thinks.

[bharv]

Abrasion

700 words, Ketheric Thorm/The Dark Urge, M for references to violence sex and gross body horror

His skin is cold to the touch, a strange solidity just below the surface. When she pinches her own flesh to pull herself back into her body it flushes the skin red with blood, it pulls from her in soft peaks and rolls around between finger and thumb, the pain growing as the tension hits its pique; when her thumb pushes across his windpipe, across the edge of his beard and along the line of the dark vein in his neck, she feels no such sign of life.

Death gives her his mouth.

When Enver kisses her his mouth is an invasive heat, an act of defiance even in its tenderest iterations. She has never known another, so when he tells her death is no end at all and lets her place her lips against his, she is for a moment at a loss as to what to do. Ketheric laughs at her, and it makes her flush with anger, her blood ringing in her ears as she wonders what it would be like to taste him.

She tastes his blood from his mouth. It is wrong, it smells wrong, it tastes unlike any blood she has ever ingested before, but she goes back, her teeth dragging against the flesh of his lips and splitting them as a knife edge on ripe fruit. It is a scent like an aged meat, she thinks. The edge of something new from something old and dead. It is like the promise of the beauty of decay. She pushes her tongue deeper into him, inhales the scent of him, strange and acrid and full, runs her fingers along the collar of his armour and feels the shock of the teeth of it piercing her skin. Blood starts to seep from the wound and her wrist, and it pulls from her a rivulet of desire.

“Take this off,” she asks, her voice quivering in the cold empty echo of the room. “I want…”

“You cannot defeat me like this, Bhaalspawn,” comes his reply, a heavy weariness rippling through him. “A blade will not kill me.”

“Then let me look on death, Ketheric. We can look upon each other.”

She imagines what he is like beneath that great ornate cuirass. He was strong in life, all the records tell her so; his hammer on the battlefield striking men’s heads from their torsos, his voice echoing across the battlefield. He must be strong still to even stand in such a weight, each piece a cage that holds him in his bearing. Perhaps underneath, that is what she will find. His great flesh, those muscles that tore through his enemies, bound to the metal in an inescapable bond.

The thought of rending the metal from the skin makes her cunt ache.

He looks at her with a weary, weighty gaze, his face immovable stone. An offering must be made, she realises. A sacrifice on the altar of this other God. She has nothing that he could want, nothing that could bring him pleasure outside of the only thing she has never been able to give before.

She shrugs her robes from her shoulders, pushing them down to her waist and trying not to shiver as the cold of the room bites at her. He has seen her naked before, hands gloved in the blood of her victims, his servants, and she saw how the light of the candle flickered in his eyes, saw the dew of a memory of manhood in the corner of his gaze. He sighs, reaching to pull her robes back, and she catches his gloved hand and places it between her breasts, close to the beating of her heart.

“Do you not want to feel more, Ketheric?”

“I cannot feel more.”

“You can hear my heart. I know it. You can hear how I live.”

“You barely live at all, child. What kind of life is this?”

The stone of his gaze cracks, and she feels her breath halt at what she sees beneath. There in the depths of this relic, this remnant, this revenant, she sees it.

She will break him open to find it. To hold it. She will tear his armour from his flesh, crack open his ribs, and she will find that beauty hidden within.

[thoughtsandbones]

"Imagine they're just about freezing right now..."

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc

Song inspo: C*cks*cker - Tyler Bates and All These Things That've Done - The Killers

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline...

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

(FYI: bold sentences... are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] ..

MASTERLIST

Part 2

When the door clicked shut and knew that he had walked away and free from his prying eyes you could relax.

You could relax.

But you don't... You cannot. The fact this masked man knew your name. Not the name you tell people, not the name you've used since were a teenager. He knew your birth name...

Enough mind games. You observe the infirmary. It was bleak. Bare to the bones. Just one old, very old bed. Empty cabinets. An old desk with an even older chair.

"Great" You mutter. You sit yourself on the floor crossed legged. Taking the weight off the aching feet. Closing your eyes and breathing in and out for four each time.

Tilting your head back and placing your hands behind you. Embracing the calm before the storm. Taking out your phone scroll through and removes your AirPods from their pocket, you plug in try to lose yourself

Edge Hill - Groove Armada plays

<CUE FLASHBACK> Siberia, Russia, October 12 2010 Day 3- Never again will I complain about the cold when back home. You think. As you breathe out, the misty cloud escaping your mouth becomes lost in the Russian atmosphere. You and your Captain are crouched on the edge of a mountain, deep in Russian territory, you taking a swig of water from your flask whilst the Captain smokes his fifth cigarette of the day. "Break's over Blue." said the Captain, hoarsely in his thick Glaswegian accent. "Copy Cap" You reply You get up slowly, assess your surroundings. The new blue and white camo sniper rifle dangling near you on your left. To your right is your Captain, frost and ice covered his beard, mouth taking one last drag of a cigarette before tossing it into the space below. The both of you slowly shimmy your way off the edge and start climbing the side of the mountain with your ice axes and snow grip shoes. One wrong move or if the ice breaks - you're dead. Looking above and see the Captain has nearly disappeared, the snow and wind has mostly covered him, but you can hear the noise of his axe and grips as they slice into the ice beneath him. You follow through, carefully and slowly. "Still with me Blue?" Captain asks over the radio "Yes sir, just on your six" You reply back

You've nearly made it to the top until a Russian jet soars way above making you slip when the ice gives on your left foot, the ice and rock crumble from the jets low swing by. The ice axe breaks off from where you firmly picked it in, causing you to slip further. "BLUE!" Captain yells over the radio Looking above you see the shadow of a man peering down at you. Your body slides against the ice, you struggle to gain grip with your shoes whilst trying to pick back in the ice with your axe. Finally, the axe sticks and your find your footing and resume the journey back to the top. the seconds count

"Blue, do you copy!?" "Yes sir, I copy" You panted "Think the Russians are onto us eh Cap? You add squeezing out a laugh A slight chuckle mixed with relief is heard on the radio "No, think they're out testing their new toys" He says gazing at the skies, on the lookout for more jets "Keeps them distracted from us then" You say smirkingly You hear the Captain give out a sign of agreement "Those bastards won't even know what'll hit 'em" the Captain rejoices

The door of the infirmary opened wide and abruptly.

Captain Price walked in and saw you laying on the ground eyes closed shut. Headphones in.

Not aware of your surroundings.

He goes over to you, standing about an inch away from your head casting a shadow over.

You could sense the shadow, even with your eyes closed, eyes wide open, you swiftly swing round and get up. Taking your AirPods out and tucking your phone away in your back pocket.

"My apologies sir" You blurt out

"Corporal" He sighs, head shaking as he looks down and then around the infirmary "Listen.." he starts staring at you with eyes mixed with pity and sadness

Here we go. You brace yourself

"You've had shit month, and I mean shit show of a a couple of months" he continues, his hands placed onto his hips as he walks to the left of you, gazing at the sky through the murky window, one that had turned orange and pink. A beautiful sunset indeed.

"I haven't told anyone about your time here over decade ago. Christ, it's weird seeing you kids grow older" He says looking over at you. You give a weak forced smile.

"Your history is yours to tell." Prices continues "But Ghost knows your name, but he's assured me that he won't tell anyone" Prices says now staring back out into the window.

"How did he know in the first place" you interject

"That's classified" Price quirks back

You run your tongue against your teeth making a sucking sound as you inhale as well.

Classified. Of course.

"Listen, I just received word that your licence has not been revoked and you are still a doctor" Price chuffs "Leavin' the good news till the end of course" he said giving another chuckle

Those words envelope you like the warmth of a sun beam. You are still a doctor. The past several years have not gone to waste. You are still able to practise medicine (do a surgery maybe...) and not have to bow down some old male military doctor who butcherly puts the soldiers together. With glue... flesh and infected... gross

"I've go' your room key" that familiar coarse voice sounded from the left of you

The Ghost. There he was again. Standing in the doorway, staring at you again

"Ah Ghost" Price exclaimed, "Perfect timing" he added whilst moving away from the window and into the

You couldn't help notice a glance Ghost gave at Price and then a smug look back at you (even though you could only see his eyes, you could tell how they show more expression than any other part of the face...)

He walks towards, his tall stature making the room feel smaller. You instinctively straighten up. Planted your feet on the ground. Anchoring.

Showing him, and of course Price, that you mean business. It's time to reignite the person you were all those years ago.

They didn't call you Blue for nothing... ;)

He holds out his left hand, a brass key attached to navy tag with the embossed gold cross partially worn off. You hold out your right hand to receive the key.

"Doctor's quarters" he says leaning in towards you, placing the keys against your palm, his gloved hand lingering for far too long on yours - ungloved.

Of course he would've been eavesdropping when Price was talking to you.

You return a mischievous stare at him, pursing your lips as you take in this unknown person. Who are you behind that skull. Both the mask and the bone.

You take the keys and grab your pack and duffle.

"Thank you all, I shall be turning in. It's been a long day" You say, hoping they will be your final words for the day. You move past Ghost, who shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

You say your final goodbyes and make your way to ~your quarters~.

When you open the door you notice the room is a lot nicer and more orderly. The boots are swiftly taken off, and placed on the floor on the end of the bed.

You notice fresh warm towels on the edge of the bed. You quickly glance to another door in the room and rush towards it.

The ensuite bathroom is a glorious sight to see even though it was minimal, it beat the communal shower blocks a millions times over.

No communal showers ever

Reaching for the pin that held together your hair, you tug at it and the bun unravels into a slick braid held at the end by a tiny clear elastic band. Taking the braid a part, running your nails into the scalp for slight massage and to stimulate the follicles. The pin and the elastic placed on the bedside table.

After a quick unpack and a lovely shower, you change into your oversized t-shirt, walking back to the room, you see through the window the sky now dark, and as your eyes focus, you can see a star or two up in the night sky.

You pull the blinds close and sink yourself down in the bed. It wasn't much. Your feet sore and throbbing after a few weeks of getting back into shape and breaking in new boots is always a right of passage...

Back with the 141 eh. Well, their doctor. But you knew the challenges they face daily and they'll need the help.

Price was right, last few months were a shit show. Your career and livelihood hanging on a thread. But that is all over now. You can focus on this new path.

This was all that you needed. You are always grateful that your feet aren't freezing like they were back in the mountains of Siberia.

[dazzasarchives]

Fantastic Four Volume 1 Issue 4.

So this issue features the return of a Marvel Golden Age character, that being Namor the Sub-Mariner. He's a mutant, a human, an Atlantean, and the first hero to ever fly. Though he starts off his Silver Age debut as a villain. I was always curious as to why Marvel chose to do this, especially because later on he does become a hero. Though recently he's more of a neutral type of character. I've also come to notice a lot of water based heroes to this route. Coincidence maybe? Anyway on to our thrilling tale, and the return of the Sub-Mariner.

Alright so this issue is pretty fun. It takes place right after the events of the last issue with Johnny Storm leaving the Fantastic Four. Though I don't like that they blame the Thing for it I believe both are at fault here. Anyway they decide to start searching the entire city for the Human Torch with the Fantasticar. Though all of them fail except the Thing who finds him in his garage.

Johnny ends up fleeing from the Thing, due to him turning back into Ben Grimm. Honestly I feel bad for the guy, this tends to happen often to him, even later having Mister Fantastic make serums to help him turn back. Only for it to last a few measly minutes.

Well Johnny ends up staying at a very run down Men's Hotel. Where he finds a comic from the 1940s, which features, you guessed it, the Sub-Mariner. Then by sheer dumb luck guess who Johnny ends up running into at this shabby run down hotel. That's right, the Sub-Mariner. Johnny uses his flaming fingers to give him a hair cut, removing his long hair and beard. Then boom, classic Golden Age Sub-Mariner.

Anyway our other three heroes continue the search for Johnny, while he basically slips past them, well he slips past his sister. Then he takes Namor, and drops him into the Ocean. Which gives Namor back his memories and he then remembers that he is Namor the Sub-Mariner the legendary prince of the sea.

Namor then swims to what was once his undersea kingdom. Only to find it destroyed by humans radioactive weapons. I wonder if Godzilla was close by. Namor then swears his revenge and vows to destroy the surface world. Just a recap real quick that means, The Mole Man and his underground group wishes to destroy the surface, the Skulls from Space wish to conquer the Earth, and Miracle Man just wanted to have us fear him. Now Sub-Mariner and any ocean buddies also want to destroy the surface world. 616 earth cannot catch a break.

Anyway the Fantastic Four catch up with Johnny, and he tells them what all has happened. Sub-Mariner then summons a massive sea creature from the Depths known as Giganto to attack the surface world. The Fantastic Four attack only to learn that nothing can harm it from the outside, but what about inside. That's when they send in my man the Thing. They strap a nuke to his back and have him walk into Gigantos stomach to plant it and blow him up. What a Chad. Thing also battles some monsters while in Gigantos stomach so again he is without a doubt the best member of the team.

Well after Giganto dies, Namor resurfaces with his horn to summon another terrible monster in which Sue steals it from him. Though he instantly catches her, and she turns visible and Namor falls in love with her, and then she also finds him very attractive like he asks her to marry him and she genuinely thinks it over, and they first met seconds ago. You guys thought Disney was bad with it's quick love stories.

Well Namor then tries to steal Sue away beneath the Ocean, and none of the Fantastic Four can think of how to prevent this. Until Johnny uses his flying speed to create a whirlwind and transport Namor back into the Ocean without his horn. Like the horn just gets lost in the depths, and Namor "loses". Though the Fantastic Four swear if he returns he will have them to deal with.

Alright so this comic is alright, I feel like I say that a lot. Namor is a really good addition to the Silver Age of comics. Just he's really depowered so that the Fantastic Four can win. Also I don't like the Sue, Namor, and Reed love triangle. It to me is probably the weaker love triangle within comics. Also this comic and the last one really make me not like Johnny Storm.

Anyway onto our character analysis for this comic.

Alright my views on Mister Fantastic stay the same from the last issue. Though I don't know how he wouldn't have found Johnny with his superior intellect, but I'm also glad he didn't. He also doesn't do a whole lot this issue, again I'm not upset with this, I'm glad some other characters got to make the power play in this issue. So Reed buddy keep doing you.

Sue, why, why are you like this? Like I don't dislike her, some of her scenes are funny, and would be something id definitely do if I had invisibility. Like she take a sip of a drink at a diner and everyone thinks the place is haunted these are the shenanigans I live for. Just why did you fall for Namor so quickly I don't understand.

Johnny, I'm still not a big fan of you buddy. You kind of caused the problem this issue and didn't really solve it, although you did. Just I know you'll get better but honestly my opinion of Johnny has stayed in the lower regions like in the last issue.

Thing, my man, the Goat. The more I get of you, the more you become my favorite member of this team. You strapped a Nuke to your back and walked into Gigantos belly. A true hero, and I'm sorry you keep changing from Ben to the Thing for basically a few seconds. I know your future is bright, keep being brilliant.

Namor the Sub-Mariner, I actually really like this character. I think his introduction is very forced, but hey it's comics. Also I just like the design, the swimming speedo, the wings on his ankles, the pointy ears. All very nice, I just don't see what Sue sees in him. Take out the love triangle and he's a really good antagonist. Also you where robbed of tpk, but hey that's comics for ya.

Alright so next issue we will be introduced to one of the Fantastic Fours most notorious villains, and possibly the most notorious in all of Marvel Comics. Until next time.

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[pleasure-little-treasure]

A Strange Day - Chapter 1

pairing: Joel Miller (The Last Of Us) x Reader

chapter rating: GA

word count: 2k

notes: it’s 2013 and the apocalypse has never happened, Sarah never died and Joel has a small coffee shop with her. the reader is in her middle 30s, Joel’s 46. Thank you @wednesdayday for the proofreading <333

summary: You decided that you needed a break from work and went on a holiday. You contemplated your decision once you got lost on the first day, but luckily a visit of the local coffee shop saved your day and more.

Chapter 1: Gates to Heaven / AO3

You’ve wandered around the city, feeling pretty lost. No, you actually were lost. This holiday was supposed to make you feel relaxed, take your mind off all the problems at home. Right now, you could trade any useless task your boss usually gives you for a direction to your hotel. When you passed the same coffee shop with pink walls for the second time during this hour, you quietly murmured fuck it to yourself and decided that it was a sign from above; a cup of coffee would surely make you more aware of your surrounding and you would find your way back.

You carefully opened the black door and the sweet smell of coffee welcomed you in. You took a look around and couldn’t help but smile a little; whoever was the owner of this place knew what they were doing; the walls were a soft shade of blue and there were paintings of coffee all around the place. Children's paintings of coffee in all its forms; a tiny cup of espresso with a small blue cookie next to it, neon pink frappuccino, a huge painting of tiny coffee beans randomly put on the paper… What made it even better were the plants hanging from the ceiling, creating a cozy natural look. This place was adorable.

You must have been frozen at the same spot for a while, before you heard someone in front of you clear their throat quietly. You shot your eyes up and found the barista staring at you behind the gray counter. You suddenly felt embarrassed; you must have looked crazy just staring around but you were sure that many people do when they first step in. You were mainly embarrassed because the barista was gorgeous.

He was wearing a green shirt, the first buttons opened, revealing his broad chest. His hair was dark and kinda messy, as if he was running his hand through it constantly. He had a beard going on, with his mustache being slightly more visible then the rest of it. What caught your attention the most were his eyes; they were so deep. You realized they were staring back at you and you could feel your cheeks getting warmer. Way to make myself look even weirder, you thought to yourself before you took a deep breath and forced your body to move. You slowly shuffled your feet to the counter, your eyes never left his.

“Hi,” you tried with a smile, now that you were closer you caught a glimpse of his name tag, “Joel”.

He, Joel, looked a little bit taken back by the fact that you were straight up using his name, but quickly recovered and returned your smile.

“Hello, what can I get you?” he asked and you had to remember why you went inside in the first place. Your eyes scanned the board behind him; the menu was hand written and you quickly decided to choose the first thing to save yourself any more embarrassment.

“I’ll have the cappuccino, please” you said and Joel nodded.

“Okay, can I get you anythin’ else?”

You went through your options in your head. Either you would be sitting here, with the knowledge that eventually you have to go back out and be lost again for hours, or you could ask the man for help. Given the fact that he probably already found you strange, you decided to go for the first option.

“No, but I would appreciate your help, though. You see, I came here, to this city, yesterday and today I wanted to go for a walk and somehow I got lost and now I cannot find my way back to the hotel and it’s getting late and I don’t know what to do and I don’t think–”

He chuckled at your rumbling and put his hand up gently to stop you. “You need directions to the hotel?”

You nodded slowly. What the hell was wrong with you today?

“Okay, so I’ll tell you what. I’m closin’ this place in about thirty minutes, I can take you to the hotel afterwards. You can wait here, drink your cappuccino and then we’ll get goin’. Sounds good?”

You stared at his proposal, not expecting him to be this kind. Joel stared at you with his dark eyes, waiting for your answer. For some reason, your brain wasn’t finished being weird that day just yet.

“Your place?”

He blinked at you, not expecting this to be the answer. “Yeah.. It’s mine, why?”

“Nothing, it’s cute,” just like you, you thought to yourself before stopping yourself and actually forcing to answer his question now.

“Thank you, Joel, that would be awesome, you’re so kind,” you smiled and offered your hand out. “Nice to meet you,” you said and introduced yourself, Joel catching your offered hand in his and smiling gently at you.

“Nice to meet you, too. Go get yourself comfortable, your coffee will be ready in a few,” Joel nodded in the direction of the small tables and went to work. You watched him for a second more than necessary, his back turned to you now as he was grabbing your mug.

Right, as comfortable as I can get making myself stupid in front of the most handsome men I’ve met here so far.  

Soon, you saw Joel coming to your table with your cappuccino and a small cupcake. It had a similar color like the walls of the coffee shop and a dark pink raspberry at the top. He put it on the table with a smile.

“Here’s your coffee and little somethin’ to go with it - I’m happy to feed a lost traveler,” he winked at you, his brown eyes twinkling for a second and before you could reply, he was on his way back to the counter.

You looked back on the table and chuckled to yourself. You were hungry, but somewhere between being lost for four to five hours you forgot about it completely. The coffee was too hot for you to drink straight away, so you grabbed the cupcake and took a bite; it was delicious. It tasted like white chocolate and had a raspberry filling inside, you closed your eyes and enjoyed it. When you opened them, you could see Joel watching you before he quickly looked away, pretending to clean the table across the room.

The time had passed as you watched the people on the street in front of the shop; your favorite thing to do. Not in a creepy way, but you always liked to imagine their lives; old people walking slowly together, fathers with their children, women in business suits crossing the streets fast, kids walking their dogs… You looked back at your table; your coffee cup was empty and the cupcake long gone. Before you could contemplate if there was a time for one more, Joel walked to your table.

“Everythin’ okay?”  he asked, looking pleased at the sight of your finished meal.

“Yes, more than okay - thank you so much for this, where can I pay?”

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hands, making it even messier than before - “You can’t - I mean - It’s fine. You had enough trouble for today, I’m glad it made your day better,” you didn’t have a chance to protest before he added “How about I put this in the dishwasher and we get goin’?”

“Seriously, I would be more than happy to pay but let’s have it your way, then. Thank you, sure!”

He nodded and turned to put the dishes in the dishwasher. He quickly grabbed his brown jacket from the hanger and opened the door for you, signaling that it’s time to go. You brushed past him and waited for him to lock the door.

“So, where are you stayin’?”

Oh, of course. You haven’t mentioned the name of the hotel yet, the fact that he decided to help you without even knowing how far he would have to walk you was even more surprising then.

“It’s called Prince's Fields and it has a park nearby, that’s all I remember unfortunately, I arrived yesterday evening.”

He laughed this time, throwing his head back and something inside of you felt warm.

“Sweetheart, there are parks everywhere,” you tried not to show how him calling you that made you feel and he continued “but lucky for you, my brother works at Prince’s Fields, so I know exactly where that is. Unlucky for you, it’s about a 30 minute walk, so you really were lost,” he finished and smiled brightly at you again.

“Oh, I can’t be bothering you for so long, just tell me the general direction and I’ll try my best,” you tried but he immediately shook his head.

“No way, it’s gettin’ dark and I don’t want you to be lost until the mornin’ - I live nearby anyway, so it’s not a huge deal, I swear,” Joel patted your shoulder and started walking.

You realized there’s no chance of him changing his mind and you quickly caught up with him, joining his pace. He asked you about where you were from and why you were traveling and you quickly gave him the whole story; you were overworked and looking for some rest, so you decided to book a last minute flight and get away from everything for two weeks. So far you haven’t found the rest, but you still had your whole holiday ahead of yourself and were trying to stay optimistic. After you were finished telling your story, you decided you might as well have the right to get to know something about Joel.

“So, how long have you had the coffee shop, was it like your dream?” you asked and looked at him and tried not to blush as your hand brushing his while walking - what were you, twelve?!

“No, not at all actually. I used to be a contractor and I guess there’s only a certain time you can do that for - well not for everyone, but my back went to shit,” Joel rolled his eyes and even though you felt sorry for him, you had to laugh a little and luckily he joined you. “Anyway, my friend used to own the place the coffee shop is at now and she offered me it; she could sell it but she was afraid that someone would turn it into an ugly thing and was too invested in it not to care. So, I took it from her and I’m paying her somethin’ each month - originally, I had no idea what to do it, but at the time, my daughter was finishin’ her baking course and was really into it, so I wanted her to make it into a bakery - then my back basically decided not to corporate with me anymore and she came up with the idea of our own coffee shop - and here we are,” he finished and threw his hands up in the air little bit to announce the end of the story.

“Wow, that’s amazing, Joel! I mean, I’m sorry for your back but it was good for something, wasn’t it?” He nodded and you continued. “The cupcake was made by your daughter?”

Joel smiled proudly “Yeah, Sarah, she works at the shop part time, she’s actually about to finish her university soon! I’m really excited for her.”

“That’s awesome,” you returned his smile and tried not to worry about what him having daughter could mean - but you didn't see any ring on his finger and what would it matter anyway, you soon would be parting ways and it was silly to think like that.

As if you could have predicted it at the moment, Joel waved his hand in front of him and stopped, “Here’s your hotel, we made it pretty fast, right?”

Yeah, you suppose so. Or the journey was just really fast because you enjoyed the conversation a little too much.

“We did, thank you, really,” you said and he patted your shoulder in a friendly way, copying his gesture from the beginning of the way to the hotel. You were thinking about the best way to say goodbye, not really wanting to. You both just stood there quietly for a while, before he cleared his throat.

“Look, you can absolutely say no, but would you mind giving me your number? I enjoyed our conversation and if you were interested, could I show you some of my favorite spots in the city? But seriously, feel free to say no-”

“Yeah, sure!” you said a little too excitedly and were already opening your phone, before passing it to Joel. For some reason, he looked as if he was shy at your phone and took it from your hand, your fingers brushing once again. After he typed his number in, he called  it and you could hear his phone ringing in his pocket.

He returned your phone and grinned at you. “So I guess I could call you tomorrow, I have someone comin’ to the shop so I’m free all day, is that alright?”

You thought about how lucky you were that you chose to wander into his shop today and not tomorrow and nodded “Yeah, I’d like that… Tomorrow then, Joel” you smiled and he returned your words to you with a smile, his dimple showing on his cheek, before going the same way you came from.

Tomorrow, you thought again, feeling like this holiday might be better than you thought.

next chapter

[dragonmecrazy]

Let's talk about start-up reptile kits! 🚫👎

Before: I am only speaking on behalf of what is necessary for proper and aafe husbandry of Bearded Dragons; I cannot speak for other reptiles.

Many chain pet stores like Petco, PetSmart, and even Walmart online, offer these kits. They look like the perfect start, and you get so much in one purchase! Unfortunately however.... much of this kit is no good. Well... The only real benefit from the one pictured below is actually the food/water dish.

So let's break it down!

☆ Enclosure: Most of these kits come in 40gal or smaller enclosures. You *could* use these for a juvenile Bearded Dragon for a very short time, but you will save yourself money and hassle by starting off with a 4x2x2 120gal. The 120gal is the recommended minimum for a Bearded Dragon to thrive. Again, it is the minimum. Another reason to start with the larger enclosure is to better provide a temperature gradient, more room for enrichment, and because Bearded Dragons grow quite quickly. They (the kits) also tend to have clear sides (glass or plastic) which can cause stress to your Bearded Dragon by seeing it's reflection.

☆ Lighting: Yikes! Let's start with that UVB coil, shall we? The short of it — it's trash and won't provide your Dragon with enough UVB. It's been tested with a solar meter and isn't recommended. For proper UVB, you will need a linear T5HO, either the Arcadia 12% OR the ZooMed Reptisun 5.00 or 10.00. Distance from basking and mounting is another topic altogether. I'm in two sister groups for Bearded Dragons and a reptile lighting group — never are these (the coil) bulbs recommended. You're also *losing* heat with the dual domes. It's better to have two separate deep domes for your basking light(s) if you need two. Additionally, it is recommended to have an LED bar for supplemental lighting. I personally use two Arcadia Jungle Dawn bars and it does the trick!

**Note: Amazon is PRICEY with the Arcadia products, there are better places to order from!**

☆ Thermometer/Hygrometer: The analog readers are typically wrong and useless. I personally have two AcuRite digital readers on each side of Astarion's enclosure. These readers tell me the highs, lows, and current temperature and humidity percentages. I got mine from my local hardware store for about $24 each, give or take. You can find them on Amazon, too! Additionally, to measure your basking surface you will need a thermal gun. I got mine for a reasonable price off of Amazon. Easy peasy!

☆ Food/Water Dish: This is okay! BUT, you can find better, and you will find better. I'm a huge fan of Etsy, myself.

☆ ReptiSand: Absolutely do NOT use this! First and foremost: your husbandry should be 100% accurate before using loose substrate. The best substrate you can offer is a 50/50 of children's play sand and organic topsoil (make sure there are NO additives or conditioning agents in it).

☆ The book & Dragon food sample: I can't speak for the book, as I don't own it but it seems like it probably has some helpful stuff in it (hopefully)! The food sample is iffy. Honestly, dried food isn't best for your Dragon. You want to provide a varied diet of fresh greens and feeders (insects). Dried/dead insects don't offer the same nutritional value. Also, NEVER give your Bearded Dragon insects caught from your yard. They could have been exposed to pesticides, other harmful chemicals, and can expose your Dragon to harmful parasites.

Questions or concerns regarding anything here? Feel free to reach out!

[jmscornerlibrary]

Snape's Retirement Headcanon:

In an alternate reality, in which Snape survives Nagini and is pardoned by the higher powers or whatnot, both Minerva McGonagall and he come to a decision: as soon as the aftermath of the war is over, they are going to retire.

And they do retire. Minerva manages to find two matching bungalows somewhere in a village and after a lot of snapping and arguing Snape agrees to move into the one meant for him. They visit one another every day, read to one another, go on walks dressed exactly as they normally would be in Hogwarts and become somewhat of a mysterious attraction for the locals.

The village children don't like Snape at first - he's always grumpy/scowling, hardly laughs, and he looks pretty ominous in his black clothes which he wears even during the summer. Minerva is slightly more welcoming: she invites the children for biscuits and tea and they after a week or two they all call her Granny Minnie and are fascinated by all the things she has in her house and how amazing the sweets she has are.

After Snape catches a cold or something irritable like that, and the children arrive at Minerva's for their usual visit and after they get scolded for having muddy knees and hands (which they wash), Minerva gets up using her walking cane, gestures with it and says:

"Come on, children, we're all going to pay Mr Snape a visit to see how he is!"

And Snape gets absolutely swamped by these loud and hyper village children (including little girls of six with frilly bows in their hair which fetch their plush toys and dolls and place them all on his bed and rowdy boys trying their best to be helpful whilst fetching things and knocking furniture over) who all offer him tea and show him their treasures and babble nonsense while he vaguely resembles the 'A Bug's Life' ladybird. He's obviously really irritated but cannot for the life of him bring himself to chase them away since they obviously mean well. During all of this, Minerva basks in the image and almost gets a stitch from laughing and... well. After some time, they end up adopting all these village kids, deemed a mad uncle and auntie, get invited by their parents for tea and get interested in the small village community state of affairs (though Snape obviously pretends he couldn't care less, which is a big fat lie).

Minerva often says things like:

"Wow, Franny has grown so tall and quite a proper young lady! We'll have to use a warding charm so that she doesn't get into trouble when the admirers start pouring."

"Don't worry, Dylan, you'll look as good in braces as you did without them, like I have told you before... What? Your teeth magically straightened overnight? Merlin's beard, what a surprise! [hides wand] I cannot imagine how that possibly could have happened."

And Snape:

"You say Antoinetta has a boyfriend, now? Tsh. I remember when she was six and could hardly tie her laces... a tidy, neat creature, that has to be admited. Though she had a gift for breaking all of my porcelain... What? He left her for another girl? She was in floods of tears? [drawing wand] Oh, no, no, don't be silly Minerva, I'm just going to repair the sink. It broke recently... [under his breath] And it won't be the only thing that's broken when I'm through with that wretch."

and:

"No, for the final time, Minerva, I don't give a damn whether Brandon wants a cat or an even an ostritch for his birthday. Honestly. [scoffs and adds 'cat for Brandon' to shopping list] Who do you take me for, a fairy godmother?"

And for them, life is good, and they do live happily ever after.

[malereader-inserts]

Summer Flu

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Remus Lupin & Son!Reader Summary: It’s a summer flu, though you hate to admit it Word Count: 676 Request:  hello! i absolutely love your dad remus and son reader stories, they're my comfort fics. can i request a sick son reader who absolutely refuses to stay in bed and dad remus just trying to care for him? i'm currently sick from the covid vaccine and hate having to stay in bed the whole day. thank you so much! ❤

“Why the fuck are you up and about.”

“Language,” You croaked out as you let out a tired huff. 

It’s funny, no one really sees Remus as a heavy swearer, but by Merlin’s beard - you’re the one having to remind him about it. Though, you don’t mind, because at times he finds it incredibly funny, as well as you too. 

“(Y/n), kid, I love you to bits, but you’re sick and you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“It’s just a cold.”

“It’s just a cold,” Remus imitates you, but he made your voice slightly higher and it was almost mocking as you turn to glare at your dad, you weakly lift up your arm and give him the middle finger as he laughs loudly.

“You’re a prick, dad,” You mumbled as you turn your attention back to your mug, continuing to stir your tea.

“It’s not a cold, is it? It’s the flu.”

“No it isn’t.”

Remus rolls his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the door frame, his eyes burning into your back, you try to shake off his stare but you cannot help but chuckle to yourself at his soft worried self. 

“You’re just saying that because it’s summer and you’re embarrassed to admit that you caught the flu in the summer.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Stubborn as always.”

“I get it from you.”

You lightly tapped your spoon against the mug before throwing the spoon into the sink as you turned around, mug in hand as you hold it close to your lips, your back leaning against the kitchen counter. The two of you have a staring competition, waiting for the other person to break.

“Go to bed,” Remus says tiredly.

No one ever told him that raising a teenager would be so difficult, though he can hear the distant laughter of Lily and the image of her rolling her eyes - because as much he doesn’t want to admit it, he was probably just as much as smart ass like you, after all, he cannot help but smile that you’re a little bit too much like him.

“No.”

Remus sighs heavily, causing you to smirk smugly into your mug as you take another sip of your tea. He runs his hand through his hair, knowing he cannot win the argument against his own son - he stares into your eyes, you raised an eyebrow inquisitively. 

“Alright, go sit in the living room and we can watch some reruns of your favourite shows.”

You smile in victory, though hacking out a cough before shuffling out of the kitchen to the living room. You make yourself comfortable as your dad starts to do some work, he may be a wizard but he likes doing things the mundane way, which often makes him think about his mother.

He starts the hob as he grabs the pot to start cooking you homemade soup. He waves his wand to get all the needed ingredients to the counter as he starts cutting up veg and such. As he lets the soup simmer, he walks past the living room to see you so engrossed in the television, as he continues to walk past he tries not to cringe as much to hear your sniffle and coughing very violently, letting out a defeated groan. He makes his way to a cabinet, full of blankets and extra pillows.

“Here,” he says softly, handing it to you. 

You quickly placed the mug down as you gratefully take the comfort to the sofa as you get comfortable, knowing that you won’t move from that spot for a few hours. You turn away for a second and next thing your dad is giving you tissues and throat soothers. 

“Thanks, dad.”

“No problem, demon child.”

You stuck your tongue out as Remus chuckles, affectionately messing up your bed hair. There was silence, you looked at your dad in confusion as Remus tilts his head, questioning why you were looking like that. 

“Dad?”

“Hm?”

“What’s that whistling noise?”

“Ah, fuck, it’s the soup.”

[wonderlandleighleigh]

Do Rory and Jess ever get to take their road trip after senior year?

1

Quite the argument breaks out over Rory spending an entire weekend alone with her boyfriend in a "strange city," with her mother reluctantly taking her side while her grandparents try to forbid her from going.

"Rory is an adult now," Lorelai says. "If she wants to go away for a weekend with her boyfriend, she...can."

"I cannot believe you're allowing this," Emily marvels.

"I'm...allowing Rory to make her own choices. It's her life, and I trust her to be responsible."

"Of course Rory will be responsible," Richard adds. "It's that boyfriend who is untrustworthy."

"Jess doesn't make me do anything I don't want to do," Rory argues. "He's had a really hard year. A really hard year. He barely scraped by in school, Luke's been on him about his grades for months, there was the Dean incident, and then his dad showed up out of nowhere and then disappeared again. He needs a break, and frankly, after getting punched by my ex-boyfriend, so do I. So we're going, and I'll be back in time for one more Friday night dinner before Mom and I leave for Europe. And that's it."

The rest of dinner is awkward, to say the least.

*****

Lenny had probably been a little to generous with the graduation money, but that works for Rory. It means that they can split the cost of a nice hotel room for the night, and take the bus down to save money.

The hotel room itself is airy and there's one bed, and Rory has no illusions about what's going to happen this weekend. She sets her bag down on a chair and unzips it, digging in and finding what she's looking for.

"So - I brought -" She holds out a box of condoms awkwardly. "I didn't know what kind to get, but these seemed - fine."

Jess blinks rapidly before shaking out his head. "Rory-"

"I just wanted to be prepared."

"You bought an entire box. how many times do you think you're gonna get lucky this weekend?" he asks teasingly. "Are we gonna leave the room at all?"

"Jess."

He steps closer to her, kissing her softly. "I brought a few. But I appreciate that we seem to be on the same page about what might happen this weekend."

"Might?"

Jess shrugs. "It's not a requirement, Rory."

"I know. I just- want to. I want to."

He kisses her again. "Okay. Well, for now, let's go get a hot dog."

She smiles gratefully, before stowing the box back in her bag and following him out.

*****

They spend the day wandering the Village. They go back to the record shop from her first time visiting him in New York. They do get hot dogs, and hang out in the park, before the sun starts to go down, and they duck into the Gaslight to watch a the acts.

They stay late, and wind up at a late-night Chinese place, eating mushu pork and cold sesame noodles, and when they get back to the hotel, they can't stop laughing.

"Do you think the gargling Genghis Kan noticed that someone threw a coffee stirrer in his beard?" Rory asks.

"I think he did, actually," Jess tells her. "Did you catch the way the vein in his forehead was pulsing?"

"No! Uh, I'm sad I missed that!"

"Oh yeah. He knew."

Rory laughs, but it dies down as she looks around the dim hotel room and looks at the bed.

Jess takes a breath. "We just ate a bunch of garlicky Chinese food," he points out. "I don't know about you but...I'm ready to just get some sleep."

She nods quickly. "Yeah. That sounds- that sounds good. I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

He nods and starts getting ready for bed, and Rory watches for a moment, letting herself take in his bare back as he turns away from her to grab something to sleep in from his bag.

She bites her lip and grabs her pajamas and toothbrush before heading into the bathroom.

*****

She wakes up early the next morning, finding herself curled in against Jess with her head pillowed against the soft t-shirt he's wearing.

When she pulls him closer, he stirs and blinks down at her sleepily, giving her his crooked grin. "Hi."

She responds by kissing him.

Things get slow and hazy after that, and it feels...

Right.

To be here with him like this. Alone in their quiet little hotel room with the drapes pulled shut against the rising sun. It feels right.

After, she finds herself in his arms, breathing hard, clinging to him tightly, lightheaded from her orgasm, her eyes closed. His lips brush over hers softly and slowly, and she holds him tighter as she kisses him back.

*****

They shower after that, and she's never shared a shower with someone outside of gym class, but here she is, messing around with Jess's hair under the spray, giving him a stupid mohawk that makes them both laugh.

They get dressed and pack of their things, knowing they'll have to head for the bus station late in the day.

"So?" Jess asks quietly as they head out for more exploration. "Do you feel okay?"

Rory nods. "I do. I mean - I thought I would feel - I don't know. Different. More different than I do. But I just feel kind of sore."

Jess tries not to smirk and it gets him nudged.

"Shut up," she tells him.

"Yep. Okay. You wanna take a cab into Harlem? Be fancy?"

"Why, yes, I would love to be fancy."

*****

The bus ride home is uneventful. Rory naps against Jess's shoulder as he reads, and once they get to Hartford, they take his car back to Stars Hollow, and they sing badly to an old cassette tape they found in Harlem.

When he pulls up to her house, Rory leans over and kisses him, one arm wrapped around him and one cupping his jaw. "Goodnight, Jess."

He brushes his nose against hers. "Night, Rory. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You had better."

She grabs her things - her overnight bag and the bag of vinyl albums she bought - including the re-found copy of that signed Go-Go's album for her mother - and slips out of the car, heading into the house.

[crazysnor1ax]

DST mod idea I had where eating monster meat would turn your character into a monster version of themselves! Each one has unique abilities to fit their character.

Might do more in the future, but notes on the abilities of the ones I have drawn here under the cut (except Wurt):

None of these are set in stone. These are rough ideas I’ve got, obv none are polished enough to actually make them balanced like they would be in-game.

Also, not doing Wurt bc she wouldn’t actually be affected by monster meat, since she can’t eat it (I’m 90% sure, I haven’t actually played Wurt).

All character transformations last a day in-game, and each character transforms back with 25% health, 25% hunger, and 0 sanity.

Wilson

A pretty basic transformation to match what is supposed to be the most basic character. Essentially Wilson’s version of the werebeaver.

He’s able to chop down trees and break rocks MUCH more quickly.

He still has access to his inventory and can craft and cook at the same speed as Winona at full hunger and Walter and Willow (in each of their respective perks).

His big thing, his beard grows MUCH faster and can be shaved frequently in his monster form. It takes 45 seconds to a minute to grow fully and yields as much beard hair as shaving Wilson’s fully grown beard would.

Wanted to make him have essentially no downsides just like he does normally.

Willow

The pyromaniac has become her favorite thing! What could be better?

She can cook anything instantly in her inventory. No lighter needed.

She’s a source of light and heat. She’s immune to Charlie because of this, but her light radius isn’t much more than a campfire or full lantern.

She can’t overheat or freeze.

Keep moving, and watch what you have in your hands. She’s a walking fire and WILL ignite things if you stay in one place for too long or hold something for long enough.

She will also deal fire damage to other survivors if they’re too close.

Walter

Bit of a weird-looking werewolf, don’t you think? /j

Having his new doggy senses and using his pioneer skills, he’s able to track down items if presented to him. Need to find something? Give it to Walter and he’ll sniff it down for you!

He can move as fast as he would while riding Woby, who still follows him.

He loses access to his inventory, but Woby will pick things up for him if her inventory has room. He can also hold one thing in his mouth, including a stack of items.

He CAN still access Woby’s pack and will transform back with his full inventory.

He cannot attack anything, but his sanity perks and quirks all still stay the same.

Wendy

Omg is that Danny Phantom?

Wendy now acts as a sisturn. If she already has one in the world but it isn’t active, no need to worry.

Wendy will receive double the amount of mourning glories from Pipspooks in this state.

Ghosts are twice as likely to spawn across the world while Wendy is in this state. Good for her, but bad for allies.

Wendy can ally ghosts with mourning glories in this state. When these ghosts fight with Abigail, they are affected by Abigail’s “extra damage marker” just like Wendy is. In other words, they’ll do more damage when fighting alongside Abigail just like Wendy does.

Ghosts can’t be given Wendy’s potions.

If Abigail is killed while Wendy is in this state, Wendy will immediately transform back to her normal form. All ghosts will return to normal.

[zaffrenotes]

To Ruined Friendships

Fandom: Westworld Pairing: Logan Delos x Reader Rating/Warnings: PG-13; spicy language, alcohol consumption, heavy smoochin Author's Note: This entire thing was inspired by a dream I had about one black hat cowboy who cannot for the life of him consume a drink without looking like he's going to inhale it. I tried to work on my other WIPs for an entirely different fandom, but my brain refused to focus on anyone other than Logan Delos. I don't have the energy to create a sideblog for this, so any Logan fans who happen to find this from the tags, please don't judge me for the other fandom(s) I'm in. I already know, lol. Word Count/Reading Time: +/- 2600 words (10 minutes reading)

hell if I know who to tag for this...if I ever write more and you want to get an update, leave a comment, I guess?: @the-blind-assassin-12 @ao719 @the-soot-sprite possibly @ofpixelsandscribbles @burnsoslow

Another night rubbing shoulders with the elite in a penthouse, and all you want to do is retreat into one of the half dozen empty rooms to rest your feet. Beauty always has a price, and tonight your feet were being sacrificed to the stiletto gods in the name of fashion. As a waiter weaves between guests, you deftly trade the empty crystal flute in your hand for a fresh one off their tray, the slim glass chilling your fingertips.

A tiny, imperceptible sigh slips past your lips as you look out at the wall of windows, city skyline twinkling in the distance. Glancing through the crowd, you try to find a familiar face of one of your girlfriends, when you feel someone’s fingers on your back, ghosting over the ink at the base of your spine. Over your shoulder, a warm, though somewhat world-weary voice makes your body tingle. “Hey gorgeous, I was wondering if I’d see you here tonight.”

You know he’s grinning before you even turn your head; a sly smile spreads across your painted lips when you see you were right, and you lean in to press your cheek to Logan’s in greeting. His beard tickles your face, and the movement is small, but you feel him pull you closer to him, pressing his fingertips into your smooth skin. “You know me,” you reply, gently squeezing his bicep for balance, noses nearly touching as you both move to kiss the other cheek. “Any excuse to squander part of my father’s fortune on a party dress.”

His cheek twitches up as he grins wider, and once more, the grit in his voice makes you want to find a dark corner and do unspeakable things with him. “Only you could make a napkin’s worth of fabric look like couture,” he teases, stepping back to admire your outfit. “I own pocket squares larger than what you’ve got on!” His gaze lowers appreciatively, taking you in, before settling at your feet. You shift your weight from one hip to the other; tilting your head back to take a sip of champagne, you’re surprised to see his dark eyes on you as you swallow and lower the glass. There’s a hint of something there, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Been here long? Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to catch up? You can let your hair down, along with… anything else, to get comfortable.” Were it not for the playful expression in his eyes, his proposition would warrant throwing the remainder of your drink directly into his exquisite face.

But you know Logan. You’ve known him too long for the invitation to be anything but amicable, much to your dismay. You’re well aware of the caliber of women he’s taken to the bedroom, and while you consider yourself attractive enough for the circles you keep, there’s no way he would ever see you as more than just a family friend. Knowing that doesn’t keep you from stroking his ego and taunting him at every opportunity, though. “My hair’s already down,” you tease, grinning as you roll your eyes at him.

“You know what I mean,” he replies, brushing your tresses over one shoulder. His thumb lingers on the strip of silk there, slipping between the material to rest on your skin, before pulling away. “We’ve known each other for years now, you’d think there would’ve been one night of indecency.” Before you’re able to respond, he glances up, noticing one of the other guests. “To be continued,” he says, raising his brows to you. He’s already begun to walk away.

“As always,” you reply, raising your glass to him.

-

You catch his eye more than a few times as you both make the rounds, catching up with friends and being introduced to new acquaintances vying for a way into social circles and business ventures. He winks at you before throwing back a drink, appearing as if he’d take a bite out of the glass to get every last drop of liquid from it. You nod as you pass by him while he converses with another guest, your arm linked with a friend’s as you walk off to powder your noses. You even catch him looking at you from across the room like he wants to ask you something, but the moment disappears when he pulls his phone from his pocket to take a call.

The evening goes on much longer than you anticipated. Even with windows of interesting conversation to pass the time, you begin to grow weary of the company, drowning out a discussion around you while you stake a claim on one of the pristine white couches. Your legs are crossed in front of you, one foot dangling in the air, while the one closer to the floor looks like it’s about to snap away from the rest of your leg. You’re balancing the weight on a sliver of one side of the heels, and you gaze out at the outdoor pool, wishing you could sit by the edge and dip your feet in the cool, chlorinated water.

Scanning through the guests once more, you notice Logan at the bar. He’s in the middle of a conversation with two gentlemen, but he catches your eye, glancing over long enough to notice your legs again. He flicks his eyes upwards to the rooms, tilting his head at an angle in silent question. You scoff and shake your head, blinking slowly to dismiss his invitation, and give up your position on the couch to go to look for the bathroom. He simply smiles as you cross the room, before returning to the conversation at the bar.

-

You’re outside on one of the balconies, forearms resting on the brushed steel railing as you lean against metal and glass, absentmindedly staring out at the city. The cool night air feels refreshing against your skin, now warm and flushed from too much champagne and not enough food; there’s never enough food at these things, and you would sell your soul for a plate of loaded nachos or even a tiny slider. Behind you, there’s a click and a hiss from the plate glass door opening. Jovial music and conversation from inside filters through the temporary break, and you sigh to yourself in preparation of putting on your party face to make idle conversation.

“That is one hell of a view.” An all too familiar voice fills the air after the door hisses shut. Logan.

You respond without turning around to acknowledge him. “Your family sure knows how to pick a party venue, I’ll give you that.”

“We do, but that’s not the view I was talking about.”

Body warming at his suggestive tone, you turn around to see Logan’s eyes fixed on your backside, unashamed of his blatant ogling. There’s a glass tumbler in his hand, with barely a sip’s worth of what looks like whiskey in it. “There you go again, getting a girl’s hopes up,” you tease, fidgeting with your hair.

“You know you’re fucking gorgeous, especially in that dress tonight.” His voice travels as he walks over to a darker part of the balcony, swirling the remnants of his drink.

Emboldened by the alcohol still coursing through your system, you play along, walking slowly towards him. “Let me guess, next you’re going to tell me it would look even better in a pile next to your bed.” You roll your eyes at him, but your heart begins to race at the idea.

He grins warmly at you, a tendril of hair knocking loose when he tilts his head and shrugs. You want to reach forward and smooth it back in place, and run your fingers against the side of his scalp. His hair’s longer than it was before; he’s been away at the park for a longer visit this time around. His unnervingly dark eyes are practically black in the shadows, eyeing you like prey. Extending a hand towards you, he reaches for the strap on your shoulder again as if to adjust it, but instead he lifts it and lets it fall off the slope of your skin, staring at the unblemished swath of flesh before him. You feel the material fall until it rests in the crook of your elbow, thankful to be holding up a glass to keep the silk from falling away any further off your body. “A dress like this? I’d have the decency to hang it up first.” He tugs at the fabric again, pulling it up over your shoulder to return your modesty.

“Keep saying shit like that, and one of these days I might believe you.”

“Should I keep talking then?” He chuckles.

You exhale, shaking your head with disbelief. He takes another step away from where you can be seen, and you follow him. “I’m not drunk enough to take you seriously,” you scoff, looking just beyond his gaze.

Logan reaches forward again, fingers landing on the base of your glass, and he pushes it up towards your mouth. “Then by all means, take another sip,” he grins.

“Bullshit,” you utter through a nervous smile, though you don’t stop yourself from tipping the edge of the flute to your lips and tilting your head up, downing half the contents in one gulp.

“Fuck it,” he whispers.

You swallow, and effervescent bubbles tickle the length of your throat so much that it takes you a second to register feeling Logan’s lips at the juncture of your jawline and earlobe. The way his beard brushes against you as you pull the glass away from your lips makes you lose your grip, and the flute falls to the ground, shattering near your feet. You gasp with surprise, unsure if it’s from the shock of dropping the glass or from the fact that Logan fucking Delos just kissed you.

In one swift movement, Logan wraps his unencumbered hand around your waist to pivot you away from the broken glass. His drink-laden hand blindly stretches out to set the glass on the thin metal railing, and he kisses you properly this time, impossibly soft lips on your open mouth and both of his hands are on your waist. He tastes sweet, smokey and woody from the whiskey, setting your lips on fire as he kisses you. Your hands fly up to his shoulders, gripping at his suit jacket as he leads you both towards an exterior wall. The shock of the cool wall against your exposed back makes you gasp again, and you push Logan away. “What’re you doing?” Your head is swimming, blood pulsing from the alcohol and the rush of emotions as you search Logan’s eyes for an answer.

“Might be ending our friendship,” he laughs wryly. His eyes land on your lips, before looking up to meet your gaze. “Want me to stop?”

The look in his eyes is intense; two black pools stare into you, daring you to continue. You tug the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close as your pelvis tilts forward to meet his. “Finish what you start,” you whisper, Cheshire-grin giving away your desire. He kisses you again, grabbing hold of the back of your thighs as he lifts you. You spread your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he presses you up against the wall, the pair of you kissing each other like it’s your last night on earth. There’s an urgency in your actions; if there’s a moment of hesitation from either of you, the spell will break, so you ignore the burning in your lungs to kiss him again. When you feel how hard he is pressed up against you, you tilt your head back and let your eyes flutter closed. He takes it as an opportunity to swirl his tongue against your neck, and you think about feeling his tongue elsewhere on your body.

Your back presses against the wall even more, causing you to wrap your legs around his waist tighter, pinning you in place. As you utter curses of pleasure into the night air, your feet feel relief for the first time all night, weightless as you destroy any propriety that existed with Logan Delos.

-

You can feel the sun against your eyelids, and the soft sounds of someone typing away at a keyboard. Between the dull ache at the base of your skull and your throbbing temples, you smack your lips together a few times, grimacing at the dryness in your mouth. You turn your face into what you think is a pillow, but determine to be a fleece blanket due to its soft yet formless design. There’s a faint aroma of coffee in the air, and you hope your roommate left some in the carafe. “Dear god, don’t let me drink that much ever again,” you groan, voice strained and scratchy from dehydration. “I made a complete ass of myself in front of Logan.” A minute passes without your roommate’s usual prodding; all you hear is typing now and then. “How’d we get home?”

You’re met with more silence, but your level of irritation is nothing compared to the hangover headache growing with each passing minute of consciousness. You’re about to ask for Tylenol, when you hear the click and hiss of a glass door opening, followed by the sound of someone splashing in a pool. The apartment you share with your roommate has no access to a pool, let alone a back door made of glass. Opening your eyes feels like peeling apart pieces of tape, but with effort you blink slowly and allow your eyes to focus, trying to ignore the glare from the midday sun. You realize the fleece blanket you were resting on was your arm, nestled in the sleeve of a plush bathrobe. It was the kind of robe often seen hanging in the bathroom of high-end hotels.

“That was a side of you I haven’t seen before. Good morning, sunshine.” The voice is distinctively, impossibly Logan’s, with a new note of lightness to it that wasn’t present during last night’s party. “Care to see something interesting?”

You push yourself off the sofa slowly, adjusting the robe on you - apparently you fell asleep wearing it, and you have no idea where your dress or shoes are - and sit up. Logan’s dressed casually in black, seated at a desk a few feet away, with multiple monitors in front of him. One looks to be running code or tracking stock market activity, but he disconnects the laptop in the middle of the desk and carries it over to the couch, taking a seat next to you. There’s a video clip paused on the screen, and he waits to make sure you’re alert enough to watch, before letting it play.

The video shows a clip from the hotel’s CCTV cameras, pointed at the infinity pool. The only lights are coming from the pool walls, and the timestamp reflects it was the middle of the night, long after the party would’ve ended. There’s a naked male figure treading water matching Logan’s build, and then an undressed woman appears from the bottom edge of the frame, preparing to jump into the pool with him. You gasp, covering your mouth with one hand, making out a tattoo on her lower back - your tattoo - before cannonballing into the pool and making out with Logan just before dipping under the water’s surface.

Logan pauses the video, beaming an annoyingly adorable smug expression across his face as he resists the urge to tease you right away. Instead, he leans over, pecks your cheek, and eyes the glimpse of cleavage availed to him between the folds of your robe. “Lady’s choice - I could fuck your hangover away, or there’s coffee in the kitchen. What’ll it be?”

[hermitmoss]

I'm someone. Tell me your thoughts on trans han

Why thank you Nym, I am so glad you asked!

There are different backstories for Han. Canon, Legends, the different stories he tells, lies rolling easy off his tongue; what people whisper about him behind his back, or speculate on to his face. There's no one story about where he came from, how he grew up, that everybody can be satisfied with. His stories all have holes in them.

His hair is messy around his face; untrimmed, that awkward length that's too short to tie back but also too long not to. There are long journeys through space, just him and Chewie on the Falcon, and human hair is very much not the neatness or hygiene priority. He never grows a beard, though.

He introduces himself "I'm Han Solo, captain of the Millenium Falcon". In one story, the Sequels, he's greeted with his own name and says "I used to be". In another story, the one named after a name that is and is not his, he stands in front of a recruiter, enlisting only to survive a bit longer, and the recruiter asks his name, and he panics. He has no name to give.

In the story called 'Solo,' the Imperial recruiter tells him what his name is, and stamps the form, and Han is stuck with a legal name that torments him, that hangs around him like a chain, this name that cannot truly be his, this name that says "I am alone".

There are lots of things Han steals. He steals identities, and backstories, and tickets off of planets he just needs to leave behind and never, ever come back to. Is it so much to believe that with all he steals and he smuggles, he got hold of some hormones, too?

There are different versions, canon, Legends, about how he met Chewbacca. Was he thrown in a pit to be eaten after somebody shouted "No, he's the imposter"? Did he just see somebody being oppressed and take the chance to help him, break ranks, and flee together? He understands Shryiiiwook; he can speak a little of it. They are harsh sounds, for him; they scrape his throat raw, like a name that somebody said was his.

People call Chewbacca a monster. They don't even treat him as a person. "He's dangerous," they say, or call him "it," a pronoun that’s not his. He's Han's best friend, and they understand each other.

Han doesn't want to come back; some places are only made for leaving. He grows up calling someone "mother" and knowing that she only hurts him, despite her claims that she fed him and sheltered him. He has a girl, but it doesn't work out. He has a few boys, too, of course, and luckily they don't make problems - well, not problems he can't outrun. One of them, Luke, is like him in a way he didn't expect, though maybe he should have, with that slim frame and dark lashes and defiance that he's not a kid, he knows who he is and what's real.

And then he has another girl, and he's nervous about what her reaction will be when she finds out, but Leia listens to his half-stammered, half-blustering confession and laughs. "My parents always knew I was girl," she said, "but that doesn't mean whoever my biological parents were did." (The Force works in mysterious ways; a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Obi-wan had quietly switched two infants, correcting the medical droid's incorrect assessment about which child was which gender.)

His name is Han, and it's not that other thing, the name he had before, whichever one it might be. Alderaan is matrilineal; he's happy to take the name "Organa," because it's his own choice.

He isn't who he used to be, and he isn't who he used to think he was. If you ask him what those things were, he won't tell you the truth - or, maybe, according to a certain point of view, it's all true. All of it.

Whatever.  People change.  He’s Han, and he’s the best damn pilot you ever met, and that’s enough.