#if you have yet to mute that tag you might want to get on that this month lol

[nevermoorsource]

Jessica Townsend recently shared an Instagram story with a sneak peek at the first chapter of Silverborn 👀

[kakusu-shipping]

Tried making a Guzma Selfship Moodboard at @scarvesandsunflowers suggestion. It ended less our relationship dynamic and more... Guzma stewing on his crush on me.

[jq37]

Aelwyn is sixteen and preparing for midterms at Hudol. Uniform pressed and starched, head full of incantations and spell components. She doesn't mean to bump into Adaine and get orange juice all over her shirt but today isn't the day she's going to start showing weakness.

"You know, you really should watch we're you're going," she says archly, playing off the clumsy mistake as a purposeful jab.

Playing it off a bit too well because, the next thing she knows, Adaine is flipping her off and a bolt of queasy looking, green energy is coming towards her. Ray of Sickness. And she can't spare the spell slot for Counterspell because she needs it for her exams.

"You little bitch!" Aelwyn says once she's emptied the contents of her stomach down the front of her shirt.

"Good luck with your exams," Adaine says sweetly.

Aelwyn is eighteen and the oldest, mangiest cat she's ever seen in her life has just vomited on her shoes.

"My," she says, casting a shield spell around her ankles to stop the cat from clawing at them. "You weren't kidding. He is a little bastard, isn't he?"

The shelter volunteer looks mortified. "Oh, gods! I am so sorry. I tried to warn you--I mean, not that I'm blaming you but--"

"No, it's alright. I did ask you to show me stragglers."

The shelter worker gestures to another pen on the other side of the room. "I can show you the kittens we just got in or there are some very well behaved older cats as well if you'd--"

But Aelwyn cuts her off, scooping up the old cat--though she holds him at arm's length for now, just to be safe. "No need. I haven't changed my mind. I'll take this one." She looks at the tag on his collar. "Hector."

Aelwyn is three and, as of a month ago, no longer the youngest Abernant.

She's had baby dolls in the past but never a baby sister and this is exciting new territory. She's full of questions. When is she going to be able to walk? When is she going to be able to talk? When will she be old enough to have lembas bread instead of formula?

Her parents seem less fascinated by the new addition to the family than she is but her mother is amused when she slaps away the hand of a colleague of her father's who tried to touch Adaine before sanitizing his hands, standing between the much larger man and her sister.

"So defensive. Perhaps she'll be an abjurer."

When Aelwyn asks what that is, her mother says that it's a kind of magical protector and she likes that a lot. That sounds like a good thing to be.

At night, Adaine cries. Except, she doesn't hear it because the mobile above her crib is etched with runes that cast the Silence spell.

"But what if she gets hurt?" Aelwyn asks.

Her father brushes her off. That's what the Unseen Servants are for. But she thinks that's what an abjurer might be for too and even though she isn't one yet, that doesn't mean she can't start practicing.

So, every night, Aelwyn waits until her parents have put Adaine down for bed and then tiptoes into her room. She checks to see if Adaine is silently wailing and if she is (and even sometimes if she isn't) she presses her face between the bars of the crib and sticks her little hand over Adaine's face.

"Don't cry," she says, even though the Silence spell mutes her words as completely as the tears. "Mum said I'm an abjurer. Nothing will get you. Don't cry, baby."

Adaine grabs her hand with impressive grip strength for something so small and, within a few minutes, she's trancing peacefully.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her sister is off to save the world again. This time from a Night Yorb--whatever that is.

It feels cruel that Adaine should have to go risk her life again so soon after she just almost died--not almost died, she did die before being raised by her cleric.

She wants to come with, to help in some way. Surely she could be helpful--last quest they brought Gilear for Helio's sake!

But Adaine doesn't ask her and she can't bring herself to say the words she needs to have the conversation she wants. So, instead, she lightly whaps Adaine on the shoulder with her spellbook as she's packing for the quest.

"I know you haven't done much studying lately what with your grades being based on how many hobgoblins you kill or whatever ridiculous system Aguefort has cooked up," Adaine rolls her eyes at that, "But if you don't mind a little cram session before you leave tomorrow, I can show you how to cast Teleport like I said. Might help you stay a touch less dead on your quest."

Her tone is light but her eyes betray her: Please, please, please don't die again.

Adaine's expression softens but then she scoffs, playing her half of their game. "I don't know what a Hudol dropout who's been in jail for the past year is gonna teach me but do your best."

Aelwyn is seven and her father is cross with her.

"Really Aelwyn," he says and even though they're talking via crystal she can feel the frost of his glare. "You thought it was appropriate to call me at work for no good reason? How many times have I told you and your sister to not bother me while I'm working."

She hates the word bother. She doesn't want to be a bother. She tries very hard not to be. Maybe she just didn't explain herself well enough.

"I know, father. But Addy got really scared and panicky on the playground. She was breathing really hard and--"

Her father makes a noise of disgust. "I don't have time for this. She is in primary school now. Stop coddling her. And her name is Adaine, not Addy. Please speak properly. I'm raising you better than that."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

Aelwyn is eighteen and most of the claw marks on her arms have healed, which is nice. On her lap asleep is Hector who has apparently decided he likes her enough to use her as a radiator but not enough to submit to medical treatment without using her arms as a scratching post.

"You little heat vampire," she says as she slides her thumb across the screen of her crystal, searching for a video that will help her out. Eventually she finds one that looks promising and she calls it up.

On the screen, a halfling is standing next to a cat who is actively shredding her sweater with its claws. "You're going to be tempted to use some kind of a shield spell when applying the ointment," says the halfling. "But cats can smell abjuration magic and they don't love it. You won't get close enough to do the job. Isn't that right my darling?"

In response, her cat hacks up a hairball.

"Darling indeed," she says under her breath.

But even laced with sarcasm, the word is sweeter against her tongue than she anticipated.

She sinks her hand into Hector's fur and scratches his back for a few moments before tentatively speaking aloud. "Sleeping well, my darling?"

Hector says nothing--he's asleep and a cat. But warmth blooms in Aelwyn's chest--more than enough to make up for what Hector is leeching from her.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her father has just given her the most horrible command she's ever received in her life--and she's counting being made to sink a ship full of people in that calculation.

She knows her father doesn't expect her to delicately extricate the knowledge he needs from Adaine's mind. He expects her to get it at all costs. To ransack and pillage the memories if necessary with no heed of the consequences on her psyche. He'd probably prefer it that way--the more broken Adaine is, the easier it will be to mold her into a version of herself that is more useful to him.

Aelwyn is usually a smooth talker and a convincing liar but now, she stumbles all over her words, babbling out a stream of deflections and pleas as her heart squeezes tighter and tighter in her chest until she can't hold back the truth that she's been suppressing for years anymore.

"Adaine's just…she's a baby."

Aelwyn is eighteen and her apartment is full of cats.

She's always thought that the phrase, "One thing led to another" was a bit of a cop out--clearly there were key steps between point A and point B being glossed over--but in this case, there is truly no better way for her to articulate how she went from zero cats to ten cats in such a short amount of time.

She's sure that if she was still living with Jawbone, he'd have something to say about it but that's exactly why she isn't currently living with Jawbone.

She portions out food for all of the cats, saving Hector for last because he likes to eat curled up next to her.

"My darling baby boy," she says, lifting him onto the couch with her because the jump up is a bit much for him and his old bones. She kisses him on the top of the head and then pulls out her crystal. She scrolls mindlessly for a bit before checking her messages despite the fact that there's conspicuously no notifications.

Not that she has many people to expect texts from but she hasn't heard from Adaine in a few weeks and it's unsettling. When they weren't getting along, they were still living under the same roof. She was able to keep tabs on her, more or less. Now, they're closer than they've been in ages but barely talking.

I'm the older sister, I suppose, Aelwyn thinks. I should take the initiative.

She pets Hector with one hand and drafts a message with another: Are you alive, bitch?

She's about to press send but then she frowns and deletes the draft. After a few moments of thought, she taps out a new message: Can't believe I'm gonna say this. Miss my little sister. Everything all right?

Aelwyn is seventeen--though she doesn't feel like it.

Her mind is telling her that she's sixteen and that she was just been broken out of a jail cell in Solace but Adaine is telling her that she's just been broken out of an entirely different prison after being tortured for months even though she doesn't remember any of that.

But her body feels frail and Adaine says she's been in her mind which means she must have used the hard reset.

She's suddenly feeling very vulnerable--not because of the disorientation or the of the levels of exhaustion she can feel weighing on her like leaden chains. No, it's because of the fact that Adaine using the reset means that she must have read the treacle-y note that she left there for her to find.

It was just an insurance policy, she tells herself. There was wisdom to buttering up your savior to make sure she'd do what you needed her to do.

She manages to mostly believe it. But the small, truthful part of herself that knows how deeply she meant the words is so uncomfortable that she antagonizes Adaine until she's annoyed enough to hit her with a spell, sending her into blissful unconsciousness.

Aelwyn is nineteen and she's going to kill her mother.

Well, not alone of course. Adaine deserves the kill at least as much as she does if not more. It'll be a group effort.

It's a strange mix--the cold fury at her mother mixed with the warmth she feels for her sister, sitting across the table from her. She summons a flame to her palm, a preview of what their mother has waiting for her. She watches Adaine's eyes harden with resolve and she sees the face of her baby sister, left to wail alone silently for hours, soothed by her presence. "Let's get her."

"Yes, my dear," she says, the endearment coming freely as if this has always been their dynamic. "We'll get her."

But there will be time for that later. Right now, it's time for ice cream and seeing Adaine so content in such a simple pleasure causes the warmth in her to surge so suddenly that it would be startling if it wasn't so pleasant. The urge to voice it is so powerful that she doesn't know that would have been able to stop it at any point in life, let alone now.

"I hope we get to eat ice cream and cast magic forever," she says, words that would have been impossible for her to say one short year ago and impossible not to say now.

And, to her delight, Adaine agrees.

[shizumi123yuki]

“Oblivious”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon remains oblivious, thinking the gestures are just friendly. When you suggested spending time together outside of work, Simon misunderstands, leaving you frustrated.

(This is just a short story, idk if i’ll make a part two but just comment your ideas and i’ll make one and tag you❤️)

———

The dim lights of the bar flickered as the sounds of muted chatter and clinking glasses filled the air. New York’s night buzzed outside, but inside, it was a quiet retreat. You sat at the bar, nursing your drink, eyes darting toward the entrance whenever the door opened. It had been a month since you'd seen him—Simon. Ghost. It didn’t matter what name he went by, the effect he had on you was always the same; magnetic, mysterious, completely and utterly out of reach.

You hadn’t expected to see him tonight. Simon was the type to keep to himself, often burying his head in his work or disappearing for days on end. But here he was, standing in the doorway, scanning the room as if he'd just come in to escape the chaos of the outside world. He locked eyes with you from across the room, and for a split second, your heart skipped a beat.

He walked over, silent as always, his heavy boots making soft thuds on the hardwood floor. He pulled up a chair beside you and ordered his usual; whiskey, neat.

“Mind if I join?” His voice was gruff, but there was a hint of warmth beneath the cool tone. You’d come to know it well over the past few months—after missions, during downtime, in those rare, fleeting moments when you could just be two people, not soldiers.

“Not at all,” you said, your voice a little too quick. You cleared your throat, shifting your gaze to your drink. "Rough day?"

“You could say that,” Simon muttered, taking the glass of whiskey the bartender slid toward him. He didn’t drink like most people—he didn’t savor it, didn’t talk about it. He just drank, like it was something to numb the world around him.

You fiddled with the rim of your glass, trying to ignore the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach. You had been trying to figure out when exactly it happened—when you’d started feeling this way about Simon. At first, it had been nothing more than a friendly camaraderie. But over the past month, you’d found yourself looking for any excuse to be near him, to talk to him, to make him notice you.

You felt ridiculous.

"How've you been?" you asked, trying to sound casual, hoping the question wouldn’t betray just how much you longed to be close to him. To hear him say something—anything—that might hint at the way you felt.

Simon leaned back in his chair, eyeing you with a raised brow. "Been good. Same old, same old. You?"

You bit your lip, feeling a slight blush creep onto your cheeks. You had so many things you wanted to say—so many things you wanted to ask. But you couldn't. Not yet. “Yeah, you know... same here.” you muttered, toying with your drink again. “Just trying to stay busy.”

Simon nodded, his eyes drifting over to the TV screen above the bar, which was tuned to some late-night news. He didn’t seem to notice the way you were watching him now, a little too intently. Or maybe he did, but he said nothing.

You decided to try something a little bolder this time.

“You're always so... serious,” you said, half-laughing to try and make it sound light. “I bet you don't know how to relax properly.”

He smirked slightly. “Im not here to relax. I'm here to unwind.”

“Right,” you said, leaning just a little closer. “But, you know, unwinding doesn't have to mean just drinking whiskey.”

There was a slight quirk of his eyebrow, but he didn’t seem to catch the hint. “Im not much of a ‘relax and chill’ kind of guy, you know that.”

“Maybe,” you muttered under your breath, almost wishing he’d just get it. “You could try,” you added quickly. “It’s not a bad thing. To unwind with someone else.” You tried to sound lighthearted, but the words came out a little heavier than you intended.

He chuckled, a dry sound that made your chest tighten. “Im fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You took a long sip of your drink, trying to hide the sting that echoed in your chest. Don’t worry about him? Bullshit. You always had, ever since that first mission you’d worked together. The way he always kept his distance, the way he barely spoke unless it was necessary, but when he did, it was always calculated, always sharp. The way he protected the team with his life but never let anyone get close enough to see the cracks in his armor.

You didn't even know why you cared. But you did. And that made it hurt more than it should have.

“So, I was thinking,” you said, trying to shift the focus, not letting the weight of the conversation crash down on you. “Maybe we should... you know, do something fun sometime. Like outside of all this.” You gestured vaguely at the bar, at the uniforms you both wore on missions, the responsibilities that always seemed to weigh you down. “Take a day off. No missions. No work. Just... normal stuff.”

Simon tilted his head, as if he were considering it. “Imnot really the ‘fun’ type,” he said, his tone so neutral it was hard to read. “But sure. If you’re up for it, we could grab a drink somewhere else sometime.”

Somewhere else? Your heart skipped again, but not in the way you wanted. It was as though you were still just teammates, still only worthy of a “let’s grab a drink.” No promise of anything more, no acknowledgment of the flirty hints you'd been dropping.

Is he... that oblivious?

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, fighting to keep your frustration under control. “Right. Of course.” you said quickly, but your voice faltered slightly. “You’re not the fun type. I get it.”

Simon gave you a quick glance, then turned back to his drink. He didn’t seem to notice how you had tensed up, the way your smile felt forced.

"Yeah. Just not much for hanging out like that." he said, a shrug of indifference in his shoulders.

And you? You sat there, every part of you aching with the weight of everything unsaid.

[mariasont]

not-so-secret alignment

as spencer unsuccessfully tries to enjoy his beach day, morgan's flirtatious teasing finally prompts a subtle confirmation that you belong together

pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: fem!reader, spencer being irrationally jealous, protective spencer, fluff af, idk what else to tag rawr prompt: here wc: 0.6k

Under ordinary circumstances, Spencer would have easily gotten lost in this detailed astrophysics article he specifically chose for today’s leisurely beach reading. Black hole thermodynamics could usually consume his entire afternoon, yet here he is, stuck on the first paragraph. 

Again, it’s all Morgan’s fault — okay, and yours too, if he’s being honest, because your laughter mingled with Morgan’s teasing remarks has effortlessly infiltrated every crevice of his brain.

Spencer sighs deeply, squinting at the pages as if that’ll magically improve his concentration.

“Sweetheart, reading on vacation? You sure you don’t wanna take a break and join me for a swim? Promise I won’t let the waves get you.”

You giggle, clearly entertained. “Aw, Derek, that’s sweet. But I’m perfectly happy right here.”

Spencer’s the one who suggested the book currently balanced on your lap — admittedly, a sappy beach read, chosen specifically because he’d seen you loitering in front of the pastel-colored covers at the bookstore.

He'd bought it for you and mentioned casually that he thought it might suit your tastes, not expecting you to text him at two in the morning, a picture of the book with a caption reading, “Okay, genius, you officially know my taste better than I do. Please pick all my books forever.” He stared dumbly at his phone for a full minute, overwhelmed by the sudden, irrational desire to respond with, “Only if that counts as a proposal.” 

He resisted, obviously, replying with something decidedly less committed, but the temptation had been incredibly real.

“Suit yourself,” he says teasingly, “but the offer stands — anytime you want a little excitement, you let me know.”

Spencer clenches his teeth slightly, debating whether Morgan’s tone warrants a glare or if he’s just being absurdly petty.

With Morgan finally disappearing into the water, Spencer sets his reading down with a resigned sigh, deciding the only gravitational pull he’s interested in right now is yours. 

He leans over you, enjoying the view of your upside-down smile, eyes squinting happily at the unexpected intrusion of sunlight.

“Hi,” he says softly, hoping he doesn't sound as lovesick as he feels.

You grin sweetly up at him, wrinkling your nose playfully. “Hi yourself,” you reply, stretching a bit to tap his ankle.

Jealousy, he thinks now, is a pointless emotion — because he’s certain no one else gets to see that particular smile.

“Missed you.”

Spencer lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

You pout, fingertips tracing small circles on his ankle. “Still too far.”

Spencer leans down even further, hair falling forward, nearly tickling your cheeks and forehead. Your smile widens immediately, eyes darting around the beach before settling warmly back on him.

“You’re getting pretty bold, Dr. Reid,” you whisper teasingly, biting back a smile.

He brushes past your remark, eyes scanning your face.

“Are you hungry yet?” Spencer asks. “ I think your sun-to-food ratio is tipping dangerously.”

“I packed snacks,” you reassure him. “I’ll grab something in a second.”

Spencer nods, satisfied enough with your answer, though his attention flickers briefly toward Morgan strolling out of the waves, eyes fixed on the two of you.

“Sit up for me?” You oblige easily, lifting yourself onto your elbows, and Spencer’s hands softly brush your shoulders, gathering your sun-warmed hair and tucking it neatly behind you as you lie back down. “Better?”

“Much.”

As Spencer settles back comfortably, he catches Morgan’s suddenly cautious glance, his previously unending wit suspiciously muted. Spencer suppresses a self-satisfied smile.

It’s remarkable, really, how subtle acts — a gentle touch, a careful adjustment of your hair — can communicate far more eloquently than words.

His gaze returns briefly to the article he’s been hopelessly ignoring all afternoon, thinking perhaps he’s discovered his own personal theory of relativity.

After all, relative to you, everything else seems entirely secondary

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 4 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[marblehazel]

A Lesson

raider!Joel Miller x f!reader

Joel just wants you to listen to him for your sake, keep yourself out of trouble while he’s away for the day. But of course you have to slip up, putting yourself in danger. Now he’s going to teach you a lesson.

Tags: Explicit MDNI, pre-boston qz, established relationship but questionable dynamics, d/s undertones, dubious consent (!!!), punishment, degradation, face slapping, pussy slapping, fingering, orgasm denial

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: This piece contains descriptions of murders and dead bodies (brief), and physical abuse, mainly slapping. Joel also says cruel things in this, not directly calling you names, but there are derogatory lines. Please take care of yourself :)

You’re fucked.

Your life flashes before your eyes. The sins you’ve committed, the chances you didn’t take, all pounding at the door of your consciousness. You can feel death closing in, its cold embrace beckoning. If you had one chance to go back in time, you would give anything to go back to exactly thirty six minutes ago. Not an hour ago, not before the outbreak, just thirty six minutes prior to this second. When you still had the choice to be a good person, or a surviving one.

Joel’s been gone since the crack of dawn. He’s meeting up with some raiders—a trade, a few miles north—and scouting out a safer route for the two of you to head north. You can’t afford to stay in one place for long, not with the way things are going down here. The farmlands used to offer more, but they’re nothing now. You have to keep moving.

Joel would’ve taken you with him, but it’s not about easing his own mind. It’s about keeping you out of harm’s way. He doesn’t trust the people he’s meeting—not enough to risk you. Not with the way things are. You never know who’s looking for a fight, or what kind of deal they’re pushing. There’s no room for mistakes, not in this world. Not when every day is a damn gamble.

Before leaving, Joel orders you to stay low, keep your presence unknown inside the farmhouse you have been staying at for a week, and kill anyone who dares to approach the doorstep. You say yes, of course.

But, as usual, you always have to blow everything up.

It isn’t long before you see her. A girl, maybe nine or ten, walking toward the farmhouse. She looks exhausted, her steps sluggish. She doesn’t look like she’s infected, at least not yet. Her clothes are torn, and there are smudges of dirt on her face. You hesitate, instinctually reaching for your knife and the gun Joel had left you.

But as the girl comes closer to the porch, you get a good look at her eyes. There is something fragile about her. Maybe it’s the way she winces at the sun or the way her shoulders slump, as if the weight of the world is crushing her. The girl reminds you of yourself. Lost, vulnerable, a survivor in a world that doesn’t give a damn. You can’t help but feel the urge to help. To give her a chance.

You let her in. And that is your first mistake.

She appears to be mute, silent in the face of your questions. As you check her over for bite marks or concealed weapons, she does nothing but stare at you with wide, exhausted eyes, as if she might faint at any moment. You grab one of your clean shirts, handing it to her with a silent offer of warmth, trying to figure out how to communicate. You aren’t sure if she’s deaf too, but you ask anyway, in every way you can think of. Gestures, simple words. But she remains silent. Only stares.

You give her a few crackers, still pushing for answers. Who is she? What is she doing here? The questions hang in the air, unanswered as the seconds tick by, and the next thing you know, the door slams open.

A man and woman are upon you in an instant, knives drawn. Their words are sharp and demanding: supply, weapons, food. You barely have a moment to react before the girl shifts, hiding behind the woman, and she runs her fingers through the kid’s tangled hair. It dawns on you. The girl is only a bait.

So, you’re fucked.

Your instincts kick in first. As the man lunges for you, you grab the gun, hammer already cocked, your heart pounding as you aim. The gunshot rings out, the sound deafening in the tight space. It hits his shoulder, blood spurting in a quick spray as his scream fills the air.

Before you can get another shot off on the woman, her fist collides with your temple, sending you reeling. The world tilts, your vision blurs, and for a moment, you thought the darkness might swallow you whole. You’re a goner.

But then there is a crack, a gunshot that isn’t yours.

The woman drops to the ground, her body slumping lifelessly as Joel emerges from the shadows, his presence cutting through the chaos like a knife. His gun is steady in his hands, his eyes cold as he surveys the scene. The man, still clutching his shoulder, barely has time to react before another shot rings out, and he crumples.

The girl tries to run—tired, slow, desperate—but Joel is quicker. Another shot, and she falls on the porch, lifeless before she even has a chance to flee.

Joel’s eyes locked onto yours as he steps forward, his movements sharp, calculated. No words were needed between you. He has seen enough. There was nothing left to say.

.

The next hour is spent lining the bodies inside, checking their pockets and if they still have some friends around the farm waiting to strike. You find a bag with not much in it in the back of the house, some jerky and a half-empty bottle of water. They were desperate. 

You ask Joel if you should dig a grave for them, even a shallow one, at least for the little girl’s body, but he doesn’t answer. The farmhouse feels suffocating, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood that hasn’t yet had a chance to fade. The bodies lie there, still and turning cold, while the bloodstains seep into the floorboards. The room, once perhaps a place of quiet refuge for you and Joel, even for a brief period, now reeks of death. Every corner holds the memory of what happened. What you allowed to happen.

“We’ll stay in the barn tonight,” Joel mutters, his voice low, as he gathers your things. His hands move methodically, purposefully. His eyes don’t meet yours. “And we head north first thing in the mornin’.”

You follow him wordlessly, the weight of the day pressing down on your chest. As the barn door creaks shut behind you, the cold air rushes in, but it doesn’t seem to touch the heaviness in your chest. You don’t let Joel see the tears pooling in your eyes, but you can’t help the tightness in your throat as you turn away from the farmhouse.

The barn is cold and messy, layers of dust covering everything inside, but it’s a roof over your head and walls closed around you, and that’s enough. Joel rustles through the hay, forming a thin, uncomfortable bed. You’re about to lay down when his voice cuts through the silence.

“Who allows you to lie down?”

You freeze, a sharp chill sweeping through your body as his gaze locks onto yours. He steps forward, the space between you vanishing until his towering frame looms over your trembling form, casting a shadow you can’t escape.

“What did I tell you about stayin’ low?” His voice is sharp and low, an edge of fury curling beneath each word. “What did I say?”

The shove comes without warning, light but firm enough to send you sprawling to the floor, your body colliding with the ground before your mind can catch up. Before you even have a chance to process it, he grabs you by the collar, hauling you up like a ragdoll, his grip like iron.

“You think this is a game? That I’m just here to clean up after your mess every damn time?”

Then his palm connects with your cheek, a slap so hard it rings in your ears, leaving a sting that lingers, deep and raw.

He’s never slapped you before. In fact, he’s never laid a hand on you with the intention to hurt—until now. The sting of his palm shocks through you, and you can feel your breath catch in your chest, panic creeping up your throat. You start to hyperventilate, the air too thin, too tight, but before you can steady yourself, his hand crashes against the other side of your face, the back of it leaves a burn deeper than the first.

“What’s next? You gonna invite a horde of infected to this goddamn barn?”

Your heart pounds in your ears. Before you know it, tears are rolling down your cheeks, but from the slaps or the words, you can’t be sure.

“I was tryin’ to get us outta this bleak, shithole of a place, and you can’t even follow a simple order?” His words are harsh, each one a jab that sinks deeper into your gut. But he isn’t done yet. He forces your cheeks together with one hand, the pressure so brutal it feels like your jaws might snap. Your lips tremble, slick with tears, unable to escape his grip.

“Maybe I should leave you to die out here. Teach you a goddamn lesson.” You flinch at the venom in his tone, but it’s the next thing he says that truly breaks you. 

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Joel still goes on, something about how he has to worry about you all the time, but you barely hear the words anymore. You don’t even feel the cracking twinge of your muscles when your body hits the floor again as Joel lets go of you. Seems like your legs stop working altogether.

He crouches next to your splayed body, and you instinctively defend yourself using your forearms in front of your face. “I’m sorry!” you choke on your own words. “Sorry, Joel, I’m sorry.”

“‘S a bit too late for that.” Joel scoffs, his hand pushing your forearms apart, revealing your teary eyes and quivering lips. “Quit this.”

Your trembling pupils find his eyes, and under the dim light of dusk filtering through the barn, for the first time since he arrived you see fresh little cuts on his face. Some bruises on his jaw and neck, hues of blue and purple. The trade didn’t go smoothly, it seems like, and when he came home he had to deal with your bullshit. Of course he’s mad.

He nudges your crotch where your pants are stained crimson of the woman’s blood. “Is this the only thing you’re good for? Pussy?”

The words stings. Far worse than the slaps, the shovings. You know it’s not true. You know Joel knows it’s not true. But he’s angry right now, so you swallow it.

“Take these off,” he tugs at the fabric. “Reeks of blood.”

You comply, quickly pulling your pants off, movement stuttering. Under them are your panties, and while they’re pretty much clean despite how much you want to wet yourself, Joel yanks them down your legs, too, the stitching rips from the force.

“This is the only thing valuable of you, huh?” he hurls the fabric to your face, the fiber absorbing your tears and sweat before you toss them to the ground, shaking.

“Is it?” he presses a palm to your chest, denying you of air. If you were a little bit more fragile he would’ve cracked your ribs. You shriek, nodding out of fear, just so he’d stop.

“Yeah? Fuckin’ say it then. Do I really have to do all the work around here?”

“Yes, Joel,” you cry, desperate.

“Yes what?”

“I’m— I,” the words are stuck in your throat. You don’t want to say it. You don’t know how to say it.

He lifts the hand from your chest and slaps you again, softer this time, like how you would wake a person. “You’re what?”

“I’m only good for my—“ you stutter, and even though you’re sure you’re already crying, you break down sobbing, and almost intangibly continue, “Pussy,”

“Sounds like right to me,” Joel nods, satisfied. “Cause surely there ain’t nothing up there.”

Another sound of hefty thwack fills up the room, but it doesn’t come from the skin of your cheek this time. Joel just struck your cunt with his open palm.

If it weren’t just you and Joel within a mile radius, the yelp you let out would’ve had raiders—or worse, infected—running. The sudden pain has you fight with all your might before you know it, hands swatting against Joel. But he’s so much stronger than you. Even when he isn’t pissed off.

“Keep squirmin’,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “See what happens.”

Another slap. His calloused fingers do nothing but worsen the pain. Your tear ducts flood your temple, the salty fluid collecting between the curves of your helixes.

“Do I always have to fuck your brain out to keep you outta trouble?” he taunts. “What do I look like, baby, do I look like I got a lot of time in my hands? Nothin’ else to do but babysittin’ ya all day?”

Another strike, each one seemingly more powerful than the last. He cups your cunt, the meat of your lips pulsing from the pain under his touch. You’re gasping, hands balled into fists next to your torso.

“Yeah, reckon it hurts, don’t it?” he points at your cunt with his chin. “Maybe you’ll get it this time, since you seem to do all your thinkin’ with your pussy and not your head.”

He strikes again, and this time you scream. It hurts. You can’t see yourself but you’re pretty damn sure the skin of your cunt should be blooming red by now. You reach for his arm, but he won’t budge. Instead, he pins both of arms, folded on top of your chest like you’re praying. Maybe you should be.

“What’s wrong? Can’t handle it, huh? That’s the problem, ain’t it? You’re used to gettin’ what you want, when you want it."

You shake your head. The last part is not even close to the truth. You’ve been fighting for every scrap of life for years now. You don’t get what you want, not by a long shot. You’ve killed. You’ve hurt and been hurt more times than you can count. You’ve clawed your way through an endless hell to get here. But refuting it, setting the record straight, is not your priority right now. You shake your head because you, in fact, can’t handle it.

“Joel,” you beg, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. Please stop, please, I can’t take it. I’m sorry.”

He scoffs.

“From the day I spared your life, you’ve been nothin' but trouble. Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’, lettin’ you stay with me all this time.” he pulls his hand from your cunt to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply before continuing, “Lettin’ myself get attached to you.”

He sounds hurt, almost betrayed for a second, but he quickly composes himself and prepares to blow once again. Your knees are close to each other in an attempt to suppress the pain, and he pushes one away, opening you up, just to find that your reddened cunt is slick with arousal. 

He runs his middle finger through your slit, collecting the slippery glaze, and you arch your back because it’s unexpected, but also almost painful.

“You’re wet?” he questions, as if he doesn’t have the proof right on his fingertip.

You raise your head and shake it, mumbling things about how you’re taking this seriously and you are not titillated in any sense in fear of Joel getting angrier. Which is the truth. You didn’t know. You are feeling millions of different feelings, mainly scared, and you are pretty sure aroused is not one of them.

“You learn new things every day,” Joel shakes his head in disbelief. “Here I got a woman who gets off being slapped and screamed at.”

Maybe you are. You don’t know. You don’t have enough headspace to think, not when Joel slaps your cunt again, the blow sends your hips up to the air. You intertwine your fingers together, pressing them so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Poor thing,” he heaves. “Don’t know what to do with herself. Probably needs to come so bad, huh? After a long day of messin’ shit up and almost gettin’ herself dead, now she needs to come before bed? Greedy, greedy little cunt.”

He smears your own arousal all over your cunt, like he’s applying shea butter on sunburned skin. His finger grazes your clit, and you twitch under him, whimpering.

“Sensitive?” he asks, somehow softly this time. You say yes, and he nods in mock sympathies before finding your clit again and pinching it between his thumb and index finger.

You scream. A full-blown scream. You kick your legs, knowing damn well it gets you nowhere. You yell for Joel to stop, to spare you, that you’re sorry, again and again until it sounds like a jumbled cassette tape.

“Let’s get it over with, yeah?” He pats your cunt as your chest expands and shrinks as much as it could under the pressure of his other hand. “Say it. Beg me for my fingers inside you.”

“Please,” you squeak. “Please, Joel,”

He stays still, waiting for you to utter the whole thing. His gaze is relentless upon your mess of a face. You realize this, and begin to gather your words.

“Ple—ease fuck me with your fingers,” you stammer. “I need to come, need you to— to play with my pussy.”

The words might have been forced out of you, but when Joel pushes two digits inside your drenched, sensitive cunt, a little part of you is grateful. Joel isn’t gentle with it, he isn’t tender and loving like he used to be as he pumps his fingers into your walls, but fuck if that doesn’t cloud your brain with bliss-laced pain. Good kind of pain.

This continues for a couple of minutes until he realizes that you are starting to curl up beneath him, the muscles of your calves and stomach tensing up. Just before the swelling pleasure start to leak, Joel withdraws his fingers, earning a whimper in protest from you.

“Joel,” you whine. “I wanna come. Please.”

“Not yet,” Joel pants. The sight of you desperate and struggling seems to arouse him as well, although he doesn’t pay much attention to himself. “Not done with you.”

It’s killing you. But you nod anyway, playing along, relaxing your jaws when you realize you’ve been grinding your teeth forcefully the whole time it made your head hurt. You wiggle your hands, wrists all sweaty and almost bruised in Joel’s grip. Joel notices this and instead of letting go tightens his clutch even more.

His thumb hovers over your cunt, brushing against your sensitive bundle of pleasure intermittently, making you squirm each time it does. Every time you begin to enjoy yourself, he’ll throw a slap, eventually turning the pain into pleasure.

He fingers you again, still with two fingers, and stops exactly when you’re about to finish. The way he accurately reads your body language and knows the precise moment to deny you your release is scaring you. It is as if you’re nothing but an instrument to him. He follows your rhythm and cadence, knowing where and when to strum, but ultimately how to delay the final movement to his liking, building anticipation.

You’re nothing but a puddle of mess and desperation by the time he denies you for the fourth time.

“Enjoyin’ this?” Joel asks as he shifts his position. His legs are killing him.

You nod. You hate this, you want this to end, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t also enjoy this. Being so small under Joel’s boots, kissing the earth for his mercy. Nothing in your brain but him, how you let him treat you as he pleases.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. Only this kind of thing can make you think, huh? The other things just pass by your brain or something.”

Your head inclines again. You both know it’s not entirely true. Sometimes you’re just too pure, too naive for your own good. Always optimistic, always seeing the good even in a pile of crap. Maybe that’s why Joel was drawn to you, too.

Joel is satisfied. He rubs your cunt and inserts two, before eventually working three fingers inside you. He simultaneously curls and pulls upwards, like he’s trying to dig his way up a mine with brute force. He doesn’t stop even after you come undone, writhing, your foot tapping the dirty floor like a rattlesnake.

You squeal, brain failing to conjure the words to ask Joel to stop, but even if you did, Joel wouldn’t have done it. He keeps moving, stirring your insides up, until he hears a familiar squelch building in your lower abdomen. He coerces it out of you, the release spraying onto his forearm, the rest leaking down his hand to the concrete flooring, trapping the layer of dust on it.

You don’t remember when he stops exactly, just when he wipes your tears with his sweaty hand that was used to hold you down.

“Sorry, baby,” he does look sorry, cupping your cheek as he bends to kiss you. “Gotta teach you a lesson every once in a while.”

[sashi-ya]

THAT BOY IS A MONSTER. hibino kafka x f! reader. sinze kink

⋆ requested by: anon. Congrats on 8k sashi!!! you deserve them all! I'm so happy you are writing for Kaiju n8!!! I hope I don't f up with my request, so here I go: kafka x f! reader, nsfw with any kink but can you add size kink? thank you sashi! 😁💓 ⋆ tw: mdni. explicit smut. oral. kinda public, no people around though. oral. size kink. sweet and hot best boy kafka. ⋆ wc: 2.5K // event masterlist // tagging: @i-literally-cant-with-this & @southside-otaku 💕

“Hibino Kafka!” you exclaim. Another night, another late study session from the hard working “old man”.

“YES?!” he stands up, jolting from his seat, scared he might be in trouble. However, he calms down as it’s you instead of Hoshina scolding him for staying up too late.

However, you are there to do exactly that… and maybe, perhaps, win his heart.

“Sleeping is part of your j-“ “Sleeping is part of the job, I know…”

He knows you are right, but there is something he needs to do; to be able to fight along Ashiro Taichou. And that makes your blood boil…

“Just- never mind” you mumble, noticing no matter what you say it will never make him change his mind. And is not that you don’t want him to pursue his dreams, but there is a part of you that is absolutely jealous. However, about that, he doesn’t know a single thing.

Turning around, you know this will be yet another night like any other. No approaches to the man once saved you during battle. No  changes, no kisses… or so you thought.

As you are about to leave, his -pretty big- hand wraps around your wrist. A dominant grip it both made you shiver and scared you, prevents you from leaving.

The only light around, coming from the little table lamp, is the only source of light on the base library. Silence reigns as most of the officers sleep, and yet the only noise you could hear is your heart pumping blood alarmingly accelerated.

“You worry a lot about me, (Name). I must thank you!” him, solemnly and sweet, expresses.

You scoff. A thank you isn’t enough to your heart. That laughter sounds louder, absolutely tinted in sarcasm. Kafka, why are you so slow?

“is everything ok?” he continues, still holding your arm but this time softening the grip little by little.

“I care because I like you, Kafka” you finally spit, rather painfully or even annoyed. You understand how love works, but your heart can’t stand him having eyes just for Mina.

Silence. He is silent like a night with no Kaiju alerts. Like death, profoundly mute.

You get to release yourself from his hand, internally desperate to run away. You know there is no point in staying… you don’t want to hear apologies for liking her and not you. But then again, you were wrong.

“I LIKE YOU TOO!” he shouts, the only way he knows how to.

In awe, you turn around to discover a sweet -and sleepy- dumbass blushed up until the tip of his ears. His eyes, opened wide. His back straight. The little belly you love, sucked it up.

“You do?”

He swallows, takes a big gasp of air and his face transforms. From a silly teenager in love, to a mature man with a mission; communicate how much he likes you.

Kafka walks towards you, seizing the space in between you two. You swallow too, he is taller than you; bigger than you; stronger than you.

“Can we go to the rooftop?” he asks, as his hand reaches your cheek. It’s soft, and manly… the touch you never thought you would experience.

You nod, out of words. And out of words as well is how you walk behind him as you both climb the ladder to reach the terrace.

A soft breeze plays with your hair and his white flowy shirt. Ahead, the city lights of Tokyo glitter on a dark sky and everything around seems to be asleep as you two should be.

He bends over the railing; Kafka seems worried.

“Why did you… wanted to come here?” you ask, coming closer and yet keeping a reasonable distance from him.

He turns around, opening his arms, smiling sweetly so all of a sudden. “Come here” Kafka calls you to his embrace.

You hesitate for some seconds, but your smile finally takes over your whole face. How to say no to that big dumbass you are also in love with?

As you let yourself be engulfed in his big arms, you inhale his perfume. Never have you ever been this close to him, but you quickly get used to the scent of this manly man.

A hug so warm, his hands hanging loosely over the small of your back. A little bit lower, and those would meet your ass.

You keep your nose buried on the very centre of his chest, and your hands shyly around his waist. Even if you wish to hug his whole frame, you wouldn’t be able to.

“Silly” you murmur, muzzled. “Don’t call me silly… although, I prefer it over “old man”” he huffs, hugging you closer. So close, you are unable to breathe.

“See, I prefer someone older…” you whisper -lustfully looking into his eyes- the moment he lets you breathe for a little bit.

Kafka swallows, but it looks as if he had his throat dry. He can feel his palms getting sweaty, and all the blood of his human body migrating to a single place.

Your hand, because there is nothing else both could do to stop this, grazes his belly up his chest. You go slow, painfully slow. Your fingertips landing on his sharp mandible, feeling the raspier sensation of his unshaved chin.

He grabs your hand, allowing you to rest your full palm on his cheek for some time. But soon enough, it’s him who is placing his thumb on your lower lip. He softly plays with it, slowly and delicately opening your mouth, bringing you closer to his lips as well.

On tippy toes, you do your best to receive his kiss, but it’s him the one to bend enough to do so. Like a protective creature that is also about to attack you.

And oh, how he “attacks” you… his lips crash onto yours, with a surprising passion. Of course, he knows how to treat a woman, he is not a youngster anymore.

Tongues that dance, and huge hands on your body. Still respectful, but hot enough, one landing on your waist while the other presses your nape. His fingers tangle on your hair, pulling ever so slightly.

Your nails carve into his back, sure that those marks will be cause of interrogation coming from the officers during the next community bath time.       

The more the kiss deepens, the more he is tempted to undress you right there. And you, of course, think exactly the same way.

Kafka lifts you up, sitting you on the railing. You are safe; no matter how high you both are on that rooftop; you know you are if he is the one protecting you.

His kisses travel from your mouth to your neck; Kafka inhales your skin perfume, getting hungrier from your flesh the more he does. And the first bite arrives, leaving a mark you will need to dissimulate the next following days.

“I want you…” you mutter, in between heated breathe taking kisses. “I- ngh… I want you, too” he words, nervous, hard, needy, desperate, feral and also blushed.

You unzip your uniform jacket, praying no camera were on up there. Breasts still covered by your compression shirt, begging for Kafka to reach them. Nipples hard, ready for his tongue to play with them.

“Can I?” he asks, as if he needed to. “Please ~” you purr. “Hold on tight, I don’t want you to fall” he adds, using both of his palms to finally land on your turgent chest.

He squeezes and plays; he is still a little bit of a dumb. But soon enough, he focuses on sliding your shirt up. His eyes transform once again when he gets to see your naked upper part, almost like a salivating beast, he pounces right on to it.

Kneeled on the ground, he is able to bury his face on your breasts, followed by a wet mouth avid to devour each of them in the most delicious way. Sucking, biting and licking, making your eyes turn white.

But he wants to taste every single one of the delicacies you have to offer, and because of that he urges you to stand right back on the floor while he continues to kneel like a praying devotee of your godly anatomy.

And your most both pure and impure anatomy is what he discovers, as Kafka slides down your uniform pants into the floor.

“please… you are so perfect” he whispers, placing a sweet kiss on your right thigh.

You feel your muscles spasming, but also trembling. What a man he is.

Another kiss follows, right on top of your mound of Venus, causing your knees to faulter a little and for him to scoff in a cute way.

“Don’t- don’t laugh…” you scold him, pulling softly from his short hair. “I’m just happy ~” he smiles, kissing a couple of centimetres down the last peck.

You bite your lip; this game of lust is making you -and your sex- grow impatient. Already. Eat. Me. Out. Hibino Kafka.

He looks up at you, with eyes you’ve only seen while fighting Kaiju and a smirk that’s closer to a devil than anything else. Index slides your panties down, allowing your wet core out and dripping down your legs.

Gloating, he takes a final look at what he is about to eat, and so… there he goes. A tongue that’s suspiciously great and kinda long, plays in between your folds.

You try to supress moans and whines, but it’s tough work when it comes to such precise and delicious pleasure. And it is that Kafka lifts your right leg to make it rest on top of his shoulder, to suck and devour you even deeper.

“Kafk-Kafka-kun… my- ugh….” You can barely mouth incoherent words, a sign of your brain getting totally taken over by climax.

“Not yet..” he giggles, enjoying the taste of your core into his tongue. Kafka is not only delighted; he is over the moon -and probably trying to hold back his kaiju form not to finally reveal in front of you-

A last kiss on your belly button takes him to stand up; you, panting, can’t believe he has just stood up before making you come… but he has better plans for that matter.

“Can I fuc-“ “yes, you can fuck me” “Yoshi!”

The sweetest dumbass grabs you by your waist, and this time he doesn’t sit you on the railing but over what you presume must be some kind of air duct construction on the rooftop. You don’t exactly know what that is, but the chivalry on your lover won’t let your precious booty sit on a probably dirty cement surface, and instead, he takes his shirt off to place it in between to protect you.

You take a moment to appreciate his body; strong and still so real. A little bump on his belly, proper for his age… so. fucking. hot. Several marks, battle scars that haven’t healed just yet, catches your attention… when did he ever got his body cut with blades?

However, something you weren’t expecting -or maybe you did, imagining during lonely nights- was the size of his sex as it is freed from his lose pants.

You swallow. Is this… gonna fit?

“Kafka-kun?” you whisper. “mh…?” he asks, pumping a rather large shaft ready.

You blink rapidly, opening your legs enough for his hips to reach closer. With one hand sustaining your body over the surface, and the other shily touching the warmth of his throbbing dick you barely mumble words;

“You- big” “I’ll be gentle, I promise (Name)-chan”

He sounds by far sincere. But truth is… perhaps you don’t want him to be gentle, at all.  There is something, so absolutely attractive of a man like him. Of a man so sweet and still so feral… as if he had a confidential secret, as if he deep inside hid an untamed monster.

Well now, he has two secrets. And one of them has just been revealed by you. The size of that man is not only equivalent to his courage, but also quite literally in terms of anatomy.

“Don’t be gentle…” you moan into his ear, as his tip gets closer to your entrance and his body covers the moonlight above you.

Kafka grunts; you shouldn’t have said it that way…

Deep. Deep enough to show on your belly as a protruding bulge. Deep enough to make you loudly mewl. Hopefully nobody has heard. Deep enough to trigger your body to stand on the verge of precipice, on the verge of climax.

Slaps sounds take over. His belly against yours, the kisses inhaling the little oxygen left; that, and the soft growls and huffs of that man decided to fuck you until paradise.

It feels like your walls are being ripped apart, and so incredibly good at the same time. So full of him, the scent of his skin getting stronger; his body sweating, the faster and harder his thrusts become.

“Co-coming…” you communicate, muzzled by his lips. “Very good -ngh…” he does the same, hitting the right spot inside of you as if he was made perfectly for you.

Hands squeezing your butt, teeth pulling your lip. Your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, unable to go away… to pull back. Your nails once again carved on his back, your walls squeezing, milking him up.

“Ahhh fuck…” “fuck, fuck, fuck…”

[myhornysaga]

𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Tags: smut, fluff, established relationship, mdni, graves x reader

Part 1, series masterlist

You and Phil have been married for over a decade now. You watched him and helped alongside in creating his brainchild, The Shadow Company, a private military company.

Fate is such a peculiar thing that you also happen to be a criminal lawyer who has quite a good track record of fair share of wins and losses.

But you had quit your career as a lawyer for a while. Yet, you offered Phil to be the head of his company's legal team which he solidly refused.

Even though you are good, he doesn't wants you involved in his dirty mercenary business in any shape, way or form.

But you know how to make him do what you want, wrap him around your little finger like your puppet.

A good blow job and licking his balls and he's a mess. Even better if you swallow his cum and lick your finger tips.

And then all you have to say is, "fuck me like a whore", with wide doe eyes...

Your words wake his primal cave man instincts and goes into an absolute rampage with only one mission on his mind which is to make you see stars in broad daytime.

Letting him rut his cock in you like a hungry dog in heat with your head shoved into the pillow. He drags you and throws you onto the carpeted floor and then starts thrusting his dick like horny rabbit while you grab pull his gorgeous blonde hair. He hisses at the pain but then leans down to suck on your nipple, making you moan, giving you pleasure only to then bite and make you yelp. Oh the pain and the pleasure...

After a certain tragic incident, he has mostly avoided cumming inside you. But oh Lord he'll be damned if doesn't comes inside you now! God, does he wants to fill you up. And he just does that. Sensing he's closer, he bites on your shoulder while you dig your freshly manicured red nails on his freckled back. And with that, he came in you.

You expected him to pull out honestly, like he usually does but god oh god does it feels good as Phil's cock twitched in you, you could feel his warm seed inside you. Oh god, thank god he came inside. You had almost forgotten what it felt like.

Graves had his head in the crook of your neck sucking on your neck, making sure he leaves his mark on you. You caressed his golden hair and pulled him to cup his cheeks.

Good Lord he is so beautiful. The muted sunrays made him look so... beautiful, ethereal almost.

You scanned his features like its the first time. His eyes, tired and blue, oh so blue. His lips, pouty and adorable, his nose and his cheek. Ah that damned scar on the apple of his cheek that stretched till his ear. Your fingers ran through his scar subconsciously and kissed it, with love and affection.

Graves knows he loves you but damn its like the first time again. Falling in love with you all over again because you accept him as he is, flawed, scarred, broken, tired.

You were so lost in the moment that you forgot your mission for which you now laid on the floor, legs wapped, naked with your husband on top and his cock in you as the cum dripped...

And.... done! He's yours now!

You have noticed for over a decade of warming his bed that Phil gets very vulnerable after sex. Its like, he will do whatever you ask of him, however crazy or insane it might be, he would gladly agree!

And that is how, you secured your position in your husband's private military company as the Head of Legal Team and department, Marketing and Finance Advisor and the Public face or public front for Shadow Company.

Its a lot of important roles but its not like you are incompetent. Your degrees, years of experience and having a family generationally involved in Finance and Law has helped you, a lot.

♧◇♧

M.list

[aventurineswife]

I just read my old request of Aven with lawyer Reader and I loved it so much, thank you thank you thank you!! If it’s alright, can I also request a follow-up where Reader is uncharacteristically quiet because of a particular case they’re working on?

The case they’re working on involves Oswaldo Schneider (yeah, the same guy Boothill is hunting down). Reader’s been digging into his connections, finding some “dirty laundry” and all that; and while they have already picked off the criminals doing illegal business for him, they’re mostly just small fry. This one is the first major connection who actually has intel and Reader has managed to get arrested, and the trial is going swimmingly.

Except the day before the final deliberation, a hired sniper tries to take out Reader. 😱 Reader manages to spot the sniper just in time to get down and the sniper gets pinned down by the guards before he can escape (but the peanut gallery’s, um, not so lucky).

After Reader’s been taken away to safety, they call Aventurine to let him know that they might be back at the office late because of the incident, not ready to tell him the full details yet.

Except the incident’s already making headlines because the reporters arrived, and that’s how Aventurine finds out when he turns on the news during break.

Fighting My Way Back to You

Summary: In the aftermath of an attempted assassination targeting you, the defense lawyer for a high-profile case involving Oswaldo Schneider, you try to keep your composure while working on the case. Despite your usual professional detachment, the incident shakes you, and when you call Aventurine to let him know you might be late to the office, his concern for your safety catches you off guard. As his words show a side of him you’ve never seen, you realize that you might not be as alone in this fight as you thought.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Aventurine, Lawyer!Reader, Sniper Attack, Emotional Vulnerability, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Mild violence (attempted assassination), Mentions of trauma and danger, Mild swearing, Injury (minor).

A/N: AHHH TYYY FOR ENJOYING IT!! I'M SO GLAD YOU LOVED IT!! 🤭💖 I decided to cut this fic shorter because I couldn't come up with anything for the beforehand part 😔💔

The commotion from the courtroom had long since faded, but the weight of the day lingered like an iron band around your chest. You sat in a guarded holding room, surrounded by the sterile hum of reinforced walls and armed personnel, clutching your comm as though it might shatter under your grip.

The sniper’s image haunted your thoughts—the glint of their scope catching the sunlight, the deafening crack of their rifle, the chaos that followed. You’d narrowly avoided death. Others hadn’t been so lucky. You wanted to call Aventurine, but… what could you even say?

Finally, you mustered the courage to dial his number, tapping your fingers against the edge of the desk as it rang. His familiar voice answered on the third ring, light and teasing as always.

“Ah, my favorite legal magician. To what do I owe the pleasure? Calling to admit you missed me?”

Your lips twitched, but the usual banter didn’t come. “Hey, Aventurine. I, uh… I might be back at the office late tonight. Something came up.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, subtle but telling. Aventurine’s tone softened, though he tried to keep it playful. “Now, now, don’t tell me the great [Name] is losing sleep over another case. You’re supposed to be the unshakable one, remember?”

You exhaled slowly, willing your voice to stay steady. “It’s not the case. It’s… complicated. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Another pause. Then: “Complicated how?” His tone shifted, sharper now, the mask of casual charm slipping away.

Before you could formulate an answer, a faint buzz interrupted the call. The television in his office, always muted in the background, caught his attention. The breaking news banner flashed across the screen.

"Attempted assassination in courtroom stuns legal world. Defense lawyer [Name] targeted in high-profile Oswaldo Schneider case. Multiple injured, suspect apprehended.”

Aventurine’s breath hitched, and the line went deathly quiet. You didn’t have to see him to know his expression—his smile wiped clean, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You’re not at the office, are you?” he asked, his voice low and controlled.

Your stomach twisted. “I’m fine, Aventurine. I got out in time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I—”

“You’re fine?” His voice rose, uncharacteristically sharp. “You’re calling me after someone just tried to kill you, and the best you can manage is ‘I’ll be late’? [Name], what the hell is going on?”

“It’s under control,” you insisted, though you knew it was a losing battle. “The guards took the sniper down. I’m safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

“No,” he snapped, the word cutting through the air like a blade. “What matters is that someone tried to take you out because of that damn case. And you weren’t going to tell me?”

You fell silent, gripping the comm tighter.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his tone laced with something dark and furious, “you didn’t want to ‘worry me.’ Or maybe you thought I’d be too busy playing cards with fate to care.”

“That’s not fair,” you said quietly.

“Neither is you almost dying without telling me!”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the line. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less intense. “Where are you right now?”

“In a holding room with security. They’re keeping me here until the area’s cleared.”

“Good. Stay there. I’m on my way.”

You blinked. “Aventurine, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t even try to stop me,” he interrupted. “You think I’m just going to sit here while you’re one wrong move away from another sniper? Not a chance.”

You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temple. “This isn’t your fight, Aven.”

“You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You’re my lawyer, my strategist, and, whether you like it or not, the only person in the galaxy who bothers to keep me in one piece. You’re my fight.”

His voice softened, just barely. “Stay put. I’ll be there before you know it.”

Before you could argue, the line went dead.

You stared at the comm, a strange mix of exhaustion and warmth settling over you. Aventurine’s dramatics were nothing new, but the raw emotion in his voice—that was different.

Leaning back in your chair, you allowed yourself a moment to breathe. The case wasn’t over. The dangers weren’t over. But, somehow, knowing Aventurine was coming made the weight on your chest a little lighter.

[blackbirdsblackberries]

Don't drink the Kool-Aid pt.1

I'll create a tag list if people want to be tagged. There's a meaning behind Savior Anwir's name! This chapter is a bit short considering it's technically a prologue.

Your day is a boring loop yet one you’ve grown to love.

You wake up, get ready for the day, wait in line for your tray of shitty food, sit with your “team”, finish eating. 

During the morning you spend your time exercising until you’re about to collapse. This will end around lunchtime in which you’ll get your lunch delivered to wherever you are in the place. Afterwards you are expected to show your devotion to your higher-ups, your family, your saviors. The rest of the day you either practice combat or defense.

Tiring as it might be, it was your life and you loved it. 

You don’t remember your life before joining Savior Anwir in her division of the Daughters of Eve. The division is based in Gotham City, a place even the devil himself had abandoned. Atleast, that’s what you’ve been told. 

You see, you’re not allowed out of the confines of the estate. It’s too dangerous, what if men take you away and use you? What if you get lost? What if you accidentally get killed? It’s terrifying to think of and keeps you away from the outside world.

Today however things have gone a bit differently, after showing devotion to your saviors you and everyone else is herded to the main hall - which was just the foyer area. This only happens when they take on new members. 

Will they be mean? Would they be overjoyous? There’s so many options and you don’t like any of them, you don’t like new people or change, you like how everything is now.

You take your place in the second row. 

The first row is for kids, the second for teens, the third for young adults, the fourth for adults, and the fifth for people over that age.

Savior Anwir stands atop the stairs in front of everyone, two people next to her. 

One is a girl with blonde hair, tanned skin and striking blue eyes, she’s in a purple hoodie and black leggings. The other is a girl with short black hair, brown eyes and beautiful clear skin, she herself is in a blackish gray graphic t-shirt and light gray sweatpants.

People start to murmur, a teammate of yours turns to you. 

“They seem off, right?” You don’t know why she’s asking you. Frankly, you don’t care, your team is full.

“I guess, but they seem nice enough.” Is all you say, no point in conspiring against people who haven’t even been in your presence for more than a minute.

The murmurs die down as soon as Savior Anwir raises her hands.

“Now, I understand everyone is excited for new sisters to be joining us,” Savior Anwir glances at the two beside her as if silently asking if she’s correct to call them sisters. Savior Anwir doesn’t actually care, she is simply doing it to make them seem more welcomed - you’ve been around long enough to know that.

She continues.

“But we must calm down and not cause strain on their mental capacities!” Savior Anwir puts a hand on either girl’s shoulders. “Please, introduce yourselves.”

The blonde one speaks up first “I’m Stephanie but everyone can call me Steph!” She seems energetic and like she doesn’t truly belong here.

The other one doesn’t speak up. Steph chuckles and speaks up again “This is Cassandra, you can just call her Cass! She’s mute.” Mutism is common here due to many people coping by not speaking at all. That’s probably why she’s mute, she was attacked and now chooses to be mute!

Right? Right.

Silence envelops the room then and you don't miss how Steph awkwardly looks around as if expecting applause - something you will not do until Savior Anwir says so.

Savior Anwir nods. "Thank you girls, you are very lucky to be joining today, it just so happens we've found some of our trainees have been plotting against us. So we have openings for you!"

You raise a brow, who would be so stupid to plot against your own family? The very family that graciously took you in and nurtured you, protected you and showed you true love.

Savior Anwir holds her hands out. "The two traitors who have decided they do not love us are none other than Mary Hailstone and Annie Malcomb! Please, come up here and shake hands with your replacements!"

You freeze, Mary and Annie belonged to your team, you three were as close as people get in this cult. They wouldn't of betrayed you... Right?

You watch as the two slowly ascend the staircase, heads down and hands shaking.

When you betray DoE there is only one punishment.

Mary and Annie both shake hands with Steph and Cass before Savior Anwir hands the traitors a gun each.

They had a choice, shoot each other or shoot themselves. They chose themselves.

You watch as Steph's eyes widen in horror and Cass's eyebrows twitch slightly.

You suppose you should pick up on little things they do now considering they'll be your new team members...

[crowsofdarkness]

Vaz Prizrak: Chapter Twelve

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Agent! Reader.

Content Warnings: language, 18 + implied smut, angst, fluff, violence, mentions of losing a pregnancy, thoughts of taking one's life, an attempt to take one's life. I will give another warning when that chapter is posted.

Summary: Bucky and Reader have been in their own solace while in Wakanda for years. They were finally happy to create the life they wanted and deserved. That was until a new foe came along to dust it all away.

Authors Note: This takes place during Infinity War and Endgame! If you haven't yet, please read Soldat and Dorogaya beforehand.

There is a scene of someone taking their own life, it happens in the last section of the chapter so please read with caution!

Tags: @globetrotter28 @sakuracyberhex @chinggay85-blog @bookofriverr @misatxox @that-blonde-girl @cats-chaotic-mind @wintrsoldrluvr @sebastians-love @pumpkin-babydoll @ordelixx @starfly-nicole @j23r23 @baw1066 @capswife

Soldat Masterlist | Dorogaya Masterlist | Vaz Prizrak Masterlist

My knees fell hard to the ground, screams bouncing off the walls of the Avengers Compound causing the glass around us to fall like rain. Everyone around me watched in horror as the sobs shook my body to the core as I choked out my words. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

Steve was kneeling in front of me and placed his hands on both sides of my face. He saw the sadness behind my pupils and I knew his heart was breaking knowing that I was in so much pain. 

“Where’s Natasha?” 

I glanced over to Clint, who was confused as to why I returned alone. 

“Y/N, where is Nat?” He asked again, this time with more anger. 

The words couldn’t come out, becoming so foreign, and all I could do was allow Steve to help me to my feet. 

“God damnit, where is she?!” Clint yelled while pulling me from Steve’s grasp. 

His fingers dug deep into my arms under my suit but the pain was numb, not being able to feel an inch of his nails. 

“Back off, Clint,” Steve pushed his way between us. “Clearly she can’t speak.” 

“And I’m supposed to ignore that she left with Nat but came back alone?” Clint seethed. 

Steve and Clint exchanged some not so nice words before my soul snapped back to reality, fire sparking warmth to my fingertips. Blackness clouded my vision while I stepped in front of Steve, blocking the punch from Clint that was about to connect with Steve’s cheek. The flames expanded in front of us, creating a large shield. 

Clint hissed in pain when his knuckles burned from hitting the flames, pulling his hand into his chest. 

“She sacrificed herself for the fucking stone! Natasha killed herself for this piece of shit stone so I could have my happy ending that might not even happen!” My voice boomed with anger. 

I roughly pushed the soul stone into Clint’s chest as I walked away from everyone, ignoring their cries for Natasha. My body couldn't produce any more tears, drying up on the way back to them. I had become completely numb to everyone and everything. Nothing mattered to me anymore, not even getting Bucky back. 

The sounds of birds and grasshoppers were muted as I sat on the bench that faced the lake behind the compound. I stared straight into the waters, letting the feeling of failure etched into my bones the longer I sat there. 

“Dorogaya.” 

I shut my eyes at the familiar voice. It brought some warmth to my cold heart. 

“You need to be strong. We’ll see each other soon.” 

“No,” my lips trembled. “What’s it worth anymore? I’ve lost everyone that I’ve cared about.”

“What about Steve?”

My shoulders raised and slumped. “He’ll be fine without me.” 

“Doll, stop talking like that.” 

“Y/N?” 

Glancing over my shoulder, I tried to give Steve a smile but couldn’t muster the strength. He sat next to me on the bench, letting the calming sound of the water and birds encase us in our own bubble together. 

Steve wrapped an arm around my shoulders, bringing me a bit closer to him. He knew that I was taking the loss of Nat the hardest and even if I said I wanted to be alone, he knew it was a lie. Right now I needed someone more than ever. 

“She always tried to set me up with girls, even when I wasn’t looking for anything,” Steve’s voice was soft. “Nat didn’t know about my past with Peggy so she didn’t know that I wasn’t really looking for anyone.” 

Finally looking into his eyes, I let out a deep sigh. “How could you deal with leaving everyone you know behind after you woke up?” 

It was Steve’s turn to sigh. 

“Trust me, I wanted to give up but when I heard that Peggy was still alive it gave me that strength I needed. I loved her more than anyone,” he admitted while pulling out his old pocket watch that had Peggy’s picture. 

I gently took it from his hands, admiring the beauty that was Peggy back in the 1940’s. Jealousy pulled at my heart when I realized that no matter how Steve felt about me and how much he claimed to love me, I would never be close to what Peggy was to him. 

“I saw her,” Steve admitted. “When we went back for the stones.” 

“You did?” 

He nodded. “I wanted to forget our mission and walk into her arms but something stopped me.” 

“What?” I asked. 

“You. I thought of you immediately.” Steve said. 

I couldn’t help but scoff. “You left Peggy behind for me?” 

“Peggy was my first love but you, Y/N, you’re my current love. I know that you still consider yourself with Bucky and I accept that but with what happened with Natasha, I can’t continue on this mission of bringing everyone back without letting you know how I feel.” 

“Steve,” I started, my voice wavering. “I don’t know what to say.” 

A tear rolled down his cheek as he looked down before locking his gaze with me again. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/N. I needed to know that you know how I felt.” 

“I’m not the same girl you fell in love with all those years ago, Steve. I’m fucked up and a mess. Bucky doesn’t even deserve me if we get him back.” I admitted. 

“We would both love you the same, doll. No matter what you’ve been through or what you’ve done. Only if you’d let us,” Steve said. 

We sat in silence, staring at one another, and when I felt myself pulling towards the soft features of his face I blew out a shaky breath. 

“I need some time alone, I think,” I spoke softly. 

Steve nodded, reluctantly. “I’m on my way to pick up some food for us. Any requests?” 

Immediately I shook my head while walking away from him. “I’m not hungry.”

My mind was swirling with so many emotions. Sadness and grief for losing Natasha less than two hours ago. Shame for the thoughts of giving in so easily, letting everything and everyone go. Confusion with my feelings for Steve and finally, guilt for even thinking of Steve and I together.  

“Please don’t do anything stupid till I get back, okay?” Steve pleaded. 

Turning on my heels, I gave him the best fake smile with a nod. 

The glass shattering of the bottle rang loud throughout my room while I tossed the empty bottle against the wall. Anger radiated through me while I popped open another bottle, dowing the vodka in seconds. What made me angry was the fact that even though this was the fourth bottle I finished, I couldn’t feel an ounce of change in my body. 

“Damn serum,” I cursed to myself when it dawned on me that I couldn’t get drunk. 

I felt water drip down my bare back as I used the air around me to dry off from the shower I had stepped out of moments before. The breeze brought goosebumps to my skin while I stepped into a pair of shorts and a tank top. 

It had been a few hours since Steve and I talked and even though he sent a few texts, I still opted to ignore them. My mind continued to race with thoughts of what I was going to do. Everything felt numb and I needed to feel something, anything.

The clock on the end table told me that it was well late into the night, along with the moonlight that was casting through my room.  I gnawed roughly on my bottom lip, weighing the decision in my brain for a few moments. 

“Fuck it,” I mummbled while leaving my room. 

His room was a few doors down from mine so I reached it within seconds. 

Knuckles rapped on the wood, echoing down the hall, and I bounced on my heels in anticipation. 

“Y/?” His voice was laced with sleep as he rubbed his eyes. 

He stood in front of me in only a pair of grey sweats and his bare chest caused me to roll my tongue over my lips, wanting to taste his skin. 

“Can you promise me something?” I asked. 

Steve nodded. “Always.” 

“Promise that what’s about to happen in this room will stay between us? I need to feel something and if feeling our bodies together causes that then fuck it, let’s do it.” I rambled on. 

“I can smell the alcohol on your breath, doll.” Steve hesitated even though the prompt bulge in his pants said otherwise. 

“I can’t get drunk,” I shrugged. “So what do you say? One night, just us?” 

“What about Buc-?”

“Please don’t say his name or I’m going to second guess myself.” I said. 

We felt the heat between us, ecstasy pooling low in our bellies, and without a second thought our lips were on each other. Tasting each other with our tongues and our teeth smacked against each other. 

Steve wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his room with ease and kicked the door close behind us. 

“Are you sure?” He questioned while nibbling on my bottom lip. 

“Please fuck me, Steve. I need to feel something,” I begged while running my hand through his hair, pulling on the ends. 

A low growl erupted from his throat and he lifted me with ease, my body falling softly onto the bed. He kissed his way up my bare legs and hooked his finger in my shorts, pulling them down quickly. Lust clouded his eyes when he saw my bare mound for the first time. 

“Fuck,” He breathed over my swollen mound. 

I couldn’t help the way my hips rose from the bed, wanting to feel his lips on me. 

“I don’t want to rush this, Y/N. If this is the only time for us, I want to remember every inch of you,” Steve proclaimed before crashing our lips together once more. 

His fingers pulled the tank top over my head and I finally laid under him, completely bare for him to see. My hand ghosted over his dick in his sweats, pressing lightly over it. 

“Y/N,” Steve moaned. 

Before either of us could second guess our decision, we stamped it with one more kiss. We found ourselves not caring if anyone heard our moans through the compound. The only ones that mattered were us. 

Steve slept soundly on the bed behind me, his chest rising and falling with a calming peace. After a few rounds of rolling around in the sheets together, we had decided to call it, sleep slowly over taking him. 

I, however, couldn’t sleep. As I laid next to him, fingers tracing different shapes over his stomach, guilt ate away at me for what we had just done. In the moment, I never felt more alive but now that the ecstasy and lust faded, the guilt was too strong to bear. 

“What did you do, doll?”

My eyes looked away from Steve over to the large window I stood in front of, the lake calling me. 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” I sobbed quietly. 

His voice was gone. 

With a shaky breath, I quickly changed into my clothes from earlier and looked into the safe in Steve’s closet. I knew he kept it in here and knew the code. 

3-10-17. 

After I stuffed it into the back of my shorts, my feet tiptoed out of Steve's room, giving him a quick glance. 

The cold air pricked at my skin while I stood on the wooden pier. I couldn’t break my gaze away from the ripples of the water, forcing me in a trance of guilt, shame, and regret. 

“Stevie, I know you can hear me. Please understand that none of this is your fault. I thought it would help me feel better but it only made things worse. I can’t deal with the thought of losing Natasha. If we can’t get Bucky back, I don’t know how I’m going to cope. Please tell him I love him more than anything. I’m so sorry, Steve.” 

Turning on my heels, I looked up to the window that looked into Steve’s room and wasn’t surprised when I saw him standing there, staring down at me. 

“I love you, Steve.” 

I pulled his gun from the back of my shorts and without giving it a second thought, I put it to the side of my head pulling the trigger. 

[tellmegoodbye]

It's my first (official) Wip Wednesday of 2025!

I couldn't decide which WIP to share, so we're double dipping today.

Thank you @thisbuildinghasfeelings @carlos-in-glasses @paperstorm @strandnreyes @bonheur-cafe @whatsintheboxmh @nisbanisba @carlossreaders @heartstringsduet and @lemonlyman-dotcom for tagging me!

This first snippet is from my spicy d/s fic, and I know @heartstringsduet will appreciate me finally sharing more of this fic.

TK Strand is no stranger to submission. He fancies himself somewhat of an expert on the subject of his own likes and dislikes, and if he happens to enjoy a little bondage here or a little dirty talk there, he's not about to shy away from that. The concept of total submission is so much bigger than that though, and TK isn't sure if he's ever been able to fully wrap his head around it. To him, there's power in being held down, knowing he can give as good as he takes, knowing that he could easily have his partner a shivering mess beneath him, but choosing to give his body over to them instead. Being overpowered and fucked so hard that he could feel it in his marked up thighs all week – that is power. That is freedom. But he would never go as far as to call it subspace – not when every description of it he's ever come across is so much deeper and fulfilling than anything he has ever experienced. Part of him wanted to chalk it up to fantasy, something that might just exist in stories that are created specifically to be thrilling and sexy. And he was okay with that. He never had any desire to create such a feeling and simultaneously turn everything he's ever known about the power of sex on its head. He's never felt safe enough. Then Carlos Reyes came barreling into his life.

This next snippet is from my murder mystery AU!

Sharp gusts of wind nip at his wrists and neck, seeking out every small expanse of exposed skin currently unprotected by the material of his APD windbreaker, which he's come to realize is a size too big on him. It figures that his uniform isn't a perfect fit just yet, but he would have preferred to find out on a warmer day is all. This must be what he gets for transferring in the middle of January. The crime scene is particularly obscured by the medical examiner's van from where he's standing, and TK can't see where Carlos went, but he's not particularly concerned with his whereabouts at the moment. He takes a deep breath and takes an inventory of the scene around him, grounding his senses with each exhale. There's a flurry of flashing lights. From cell phones, from cameras belonging to the local news station. The sound of each snap of a picture mingles with the murmurs and footsteps from onlookers, drowning out the distant sounds of traffic on the other side of the alley, where the rest of the world moves forward in spite of the tragedy before them. There's a muted commotion accumulating along the flimsy police tape. It rattles against the forceful winds, a harsh, piercing noise dragging TK's attention away from the familiar dread that lies beyond the border. He's stepped over that line so many times and faced some of the worst horrors this world has to offer, and yet taking those first steps never seems to get any easier. “Strand,” Carlos’ voice snaps through the hazy chaos. “Get over here.”

Tagging: @ironheartwriter @emsprovisions @sapphic--kiwi @literateowl @eclectic-sassycoweyes @nancys-braids @captain-gillian @alrightbuckaroo @theghostofashton @morganaspendragonss @carlos-tk @henrygrass @futures-tense @goodways @decafdino @lightningboltreader @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @reyesstrand @butchreyes + open tag!

[sanderssidesthehouse]

Ace's All Time Best Fic Rec List March 2025: Sanders Sides

I'm just going to borrow the format I've been using for the other fandoms I rec fics in. These are just fics I really liked and want other people to read. I didn't start taking note of them when I started reading so I might have missed some. If a fic isn't on here it doesn't mean that I don't like it, and please feel free to rec me fics!

One thing to note is that the way I tend to read fics is to pic a tag or relationship or character etc. and filter by date posted, ascending on ao3 so I start at the beginning and work my way to more recent fics and then obviously any on Tumblr I simply read if they manage to find me. Tumblr search is not fantastic. That is to say, most of the fics currently on my list are going to be older. Also if the rating is M or higher, I have that listed in my little description of it so you'll know before clicking.

Also, also! I tried to only have one or two from the same author so there are likely other works by the people who wrote these that I liked but didn't list, I just didn't want this to be three miles long, yk?

And last little blurb, I try to do these once or twice a year with different fics on each list, but I always use the aatbfrl tag so you'll be able to search my blog for them.

Without further ado: The list!

Btw, there's no specific link I'm adding to this entry other than to the blog, but if you somehow haven't seen @illogicallyinclined's hockey AU I need you to get out from under the rock you've been calling shelter, and I mean this with all of the love in my heart.

Lie With Me- Both Janus and Patton need therapy. If you want to actively be dealt psychic damage, this is a good one.

Bad Idea- Roman and Janus are fwb and aren't supposed to catch feelings. Well guess what? Rated M for iMplied sexual content.

No Need To Knock- Roman reaches out a hand and Virgil takes it. Very sweet besties moment.

Florida Man Cannot Be Contained- "Contrary to popular belief, Remus is not the menace of the friend group. It's Patton." Author is correct.

Friendly Neighborhood Criminals- Patton gets adopted into a trio of criminals who took one look at his life and said 'You live like this? Well we can't in good conscience rob you now.' and decided to make him their pet project. (WIP)

once you're in the hive, the other bees assume you're supposed to be there- "Virgil accidentally gets absorbed by his best friend's brother's polycule." That's the official tag line and what more do you need, really? (WIP)

Love is a Beach- Moceit fake dating your ex that you're still in love with bc you didn't tell your friends you broke up yet and you're all going on a trip together. This could not possibly go wrong in any way. (WIP)

Clutters of Creativity- Roman clutters (the speech disorder) and this is how I learned that I too clutter which alone makes it worth sharing, but this is also cute as hell. Remus and Logan are v supportive.

Snap- Roman angst hurt/comfort Roceit&creativitwins we don't have to talk about how much I related to this one, but if you want to have a good cry, this one's for you.

The Only One that Knows- A lot of trigger warnings, but Logan is a scientist at a shady organization that burned down and the experiment he was managing starts acting up in his home. I think about this all the time, just the way it's written it's soooo good. Rewired my brain. Rated M for Mlots of gore/blood/body horror and Mental health problems and Major character death.

i picture it, soft, and i ache- Janus falls in love with Patton and has a time about it. And then he has a different time about it. V cute with just the right amount of angst.

Silence- Selectively mute Logan and extremely anxious Virgil work through some stuff and it's cute or whatevah. And maybe I relate a little too much but it's fine, don't worry about it.

Cracks in the Ceiling- Logan helps Virgil and they're just besties and I love them.

Mission Status: Sick!- Inspired by the hockey AU, I'm just going to copy paste the tagline bc I think you'll understand. "'It's a good thing that my homosexuality is stronger than my pride', Virgil thought as he opened a capri sun and violently squeezed it onto his sheets." Analogical.

glow like a fireflower- Deceit is a dork. Roman is... also a dork. They're dramatic and silly and working through some stuff and Remus has to hear about it but he gives great advice (lie).

Noi Abbiamo Un Problema- LAMP soulmates with a side of dukeceit. Virgil is the last to join the group but they seem to be expecting a fifth... who is also Virgil. They're a little dense and Virgil is anxious and Remus and Janus are real ones. I love Virgil's mom.

like copper and gold- Rated E for explicit sex and a lot of it. I fucking bawled dude. This fic tore my heart out and then put it back in ever so gently. More of Deceit making bad decisions. roloceit.

The Gold of Your Heart- Look, I read this whole thing a while ago and I still think about it so I feel like it's worth adding to the list. Deceit's name is Tony. A bunch of OC sides and headcanons in here but they're very fun and interesting. 200k+ Roceit slow burn.

Distant Stars Clearly Shining- Prinxiety sci-fi AU featuring smut it's a 10k one shot with significant plot and world building.

Eustress and How to Manage It- Ok, so they're dorks. Prinxiety being adorable dorks. So fluffy. (There's a spicy sequel out there too.)

Help In Unlikely Ways- My boy Janus is just doing his best oml. He's bad at it.

I'm In Love With A Fairytale- Look, it's 117k. And it's fun. Well I mean it's really angsty, but that's fun for me. It takes place in the imagination. Look at it. Rated M for violence.

Hurt, And How We Grow Past It.- I remember reading this when it first came out. Just a little Janus angst as a treat.

[moncherriecoups]

Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

Love I said real love, it's like feeling no fear When you're standing in the face of danger 'Cause you just want it so much A touch From your real love It's like heaven taking the place of something evil And lettin' it burn off from the rush

──────────────────────────────

Seungcheol x f!oc | Minghao x f!oc (?)

Tags: tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst

Word count: 3.6k

──────────────────────────────

Chapter Ten

Seungcheol stared blankly out the car window, watching the city blur past as Minghao drove in stiff silence. The tension in the air was almost comical—two grown men forced into a situation neither of them had asked for, yet here they were.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the awkward silence in the car or the fact that Jun had stood outside the company building, grinning and waving like a proud mom sending her kids off to school.

"Just try not to kill each other," Jun had said, voice filled with the kind of fake optimism only an instigator could have.

Easier said than done.

Fifteen excruciating minutes passed before Seungcheol finally cracked.

"So, do you always drive like this, or are you just actively trying to kill me?"

Minghao didn’t even glance at him. "I drive normally."

"You nearly ran a red light—"

"It was yellow."

"IT WAS NOT—"

Minghao sighed. "Try shutting up and just breathing. You might live longer."

Seungcheol glares at him, "Maybe if you turned on some music, I wouldn’t be forced to listen to my own heartbeat—"

Without a word, Minghao reached over and hit a button.

—SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP, SHUT UP—

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Seungcheol gawked as Minghao smirked and let Black Eyed Peas drown him out.

By the time they arrived at the first gallery, Seungcheol was already questioning all of his life choices.

Jun had way too much faith in them.

—

The tension still clung to them before they stepped out of the car to the gallery.

Minghao hated going to galleries with other people. He preferred to experience art alone, in complete silence, or occasionally with his cousin. But this? A PR stunt? With Seungcheol of all people? In one of his sacred spaces? He wanted to scream.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, was trying to suppress his own irritation. He didn’t get art. Never had. Never would. Why would someone spend millions on paintings when they could buy actual, useful things? Investments? Watches? A damn house? Rich people were weird. Minghao was weird. Zen my ass, he thought as he watched Minghao stroll through the gallery with an unreadable expression.

They stole occasional glances at each other, neither speaking. The only sound was the low hum of classical music playing in the background.

Finally, Minghao broke the silence. "You’re good at acting for the camera. Use that. Convince them."

Seungcheol groaned. "That was my plan all along."

And just like that, the moment they stepped in front of other people, their smiles switched on. The tension melted into easy laughter. They looked like the best of friends, sharing inside jokes, admiring the art like true enthusiasts.

Superstars, indeed.

They wandered from piece to piece, until Minghao stopped in front of a massive canvas, layered with chaotic red and black strokes, accented by scribbled blue handwriting.

"This one—ah, I remember this piece. The artist painted it while mourning the loss of someone close," Minghao explained, his tone reverent.

Before he could finish, Seungcheol cut in.

"Loss? I thought his cat knocked over his paint cans, and he just rolled with it."

Minghao turned to him, deadpan. "Hyung."

Seungcheol shrugged. "What? Isn’t art about interpretation?"

Minghao inhaled sharply. "Whatever." He walked ahead, desperate for an ounce of peace.

They stopped at a porcelain installation—tall, delicate stacks of circular shapes forming a slim tower.

"The artist developed a unique red glaze for this piece. It required a special kiln, and each part was handcrafted," Minghao said, his voice filled with reverence.

Seungcheol squinted. "Why are the donuts stacked on a stick?"

Minghao’s brain short-circuited. "The what?"

Seungcheol nodded toward the sculpture. "The donuts. Why are they stacked like that?"

Minghao stared at him for a long time.

Before Seungcheol could respond, a group of people entered the gallery, whispering excitedly as they stole glances at them.

"They’re recognizing us," Seungcheol muttered.

Minghao gave him a dry look. "That was the plan."

Seungcheol resisted the urge to groan. "I feel like a zoo animal."

"You’re literally an idol, for Christ’s sake."

They moved on to the next piece—a metal sculpture, twisted and warped into chaotic loops.

Seungcheol leaned in, examining it with exaggerated curiosity. "Oh, okay, let me try this one."

Minghao sighed. "Go ahead."

"A fork… dropped into a garbage disposal?"

Minghao pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don’t even know why Sua wants you."

"HEY!" Seungcheol sputtered. "I’m smart! Just… not for this."

"...Twelve years," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "I have put up with you for twelve years."

Seungcheol grinned. "And yet, here we are."

Minghao took a slow, deep breath. "I should’ve let Jun come instead."

"You say that, but we both know you’d rather suffer with me than listen to Jun ramble about conspiracy theories."

Minghao pressed his lips together like he didn’t want to admit that was true.

—

By noon, their first gallery visit had already gone viral.

Sitting in Minghao’s car, they scrolled through the flood of online reactions.

"SEE??? I TOLD YOU MINGHAO INFLUENCED HIM!" "Whoever blamed the girls from yesterday’s gallery needs to be jailed." "They were just doing their jobs! Some of y’all are embarrassing."

And, of course, the skeptics:

"This is just a PR stunt. Y’all are dumb if you believe it." "Do you really think Seungcheol is into art? Be serious."

Seungcheol scoffed. "They’re talking like I’m incapable of appreciation."

Minghao side-eyed him. "You called a sculpture a fork in a garbage disposal."

"...Fair point."

Minghao scrolled further, studying the negative comments. "We need something stronger. More convincing." He glanced at Seungcheol. "Let’s go to Sua’s gallery."

Seungcheol’s heart skipped a beat. "...Why?"

"If we interact with her the same way we did with the other galleries, people will see her as just another gallerist doing her job," Minghao reasoned.

It made sense. It was also incredibly awkward.

But Seungcheol nodded. "Fine."

—

The drive to Sua’s gallery felt different.

Seungcheol was trying not to fidget, but his nerves were getting the best of him. He hadn’t been back since that incident. Fans still loitered outside, and the guilt still weighed on him.

And then there was her.

When they stepped inside, Sua turned to greet them, and Seungcheol nearly forgot how to breathe. She looked effortlessly composed—an emerald blouse tucked into a sleek black skirt, her hair pinned up neatly. Professional. Beautiful. Dangerous to his self-control.

She froze for half a second when she saw him, her expression unreadable. But then she smiled. "Minghao," she greeted warmly, hugging him.

Seungcheol expected a handshake. He got a hug instead. A longer hug.

Minghao fake-coughed.

"We need to talk in private," Minghao said.

Moments later, in Sua’s office, they explained the plan.

Silence.

Then Sua burst out laughing.

Seungcheol frowned. "What’s so funny?"

Minghao sighed, rubbing his temples. "See? Told you this was dumb."

"No, no, I love this," Sua wheezed. "Jun is a genius!"

Seungcheol groaned as Sua wiped tears from her eyes.

And Sua? She laughed even harder.

—

"This way, gentlemen," Sua announced, her voice silky and professional, as she stepped out of her office. Her posture was perfect, her expression composed, the very definition of a competent gallerist.

Of course, she was going to play her part flawlessly.

Minghao, ever the art enthusiast, adjusted his cardigan and followed her with the quiet confidence of someone who actually belonged in a gallery. Seungcheol, on the other hand, was taking careful, measured steps—like someone walking into a classroom unprepared for a pop quiz.

He had been here before, of course. But the last time, he had practically sneaked in like some guilty teenager trying to avoid being caught in his girlfriend’s house. Now? Now, he was walking beside her in public view, and that was an entirely different kind of nerve-wracking.

Still, he was an actor at heart. So, he exhaled, straightened his shoulders, and slipped into character: charming, effortlessly cool, and completely unbothered.

The perfect public persona.

The moment they emerged into the main gallery space, whispers started.

Guests, art collectors, and a handful of curious fans who had wandered in by chance—all of them were sneaking glances at the two men flanking Sua. The sight of one superstar in an art gallery was interesting enough, but two?

The internet was about to have a meltdown.

Sua didn’t acknowledge the whispers. She was too good at her job for that. Instead, she led them toward a featured collection, walking with a kind of elegance that made Seungcheol realize—oh, she really belongs here.

She guided them past a few sculptures and into one of the more intimate exhibition spaces. The lighting dimmed slightly, spotlighting each piece with careful precision. The air felt heavier here, as if people instinctively knew to lower their voices.

The first piece they stopped at was a sleek, modern sculpture—something abstract, all curves and angles, titled "Transcendence."

Sua gestured toward it like a game show host. “This piece represents the journey of self-discovery and—”

“Looks like a pretzel.”

Sua blinked. “Excuse me?”

Seungcheol squinted. “A very expensive pretzel.”

Minghao sighed so hard it could’ve shut down a typhoon.

Sua placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Seungcheol shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”

Minghao smacked his arm. “Shut up before someone hears you.”

Sua cleared her throat, struggling to keep a straight face. “Moving on.”

—

The second piece was a mixed-media installation—a canvas with chaotic splashes of paint and delicate, hand-sewn embroidery woven through it.

Sua turned to them. “So, what do we think?”

Seungcheol studied it for a moment. “It’s giving... stress.”

Sua covered her mouth, failing to hide her laughter.

Minghao nudged him. “It’s about the balance of chaos and precision, idiot.”

Seungcheol pointed at a particularly violent splatter of red. “That’s my stress.” Then he pointed at the careful embroidery. “That’s the patience I don’t have.”

Sua lost it.

—

The third piece was a large, oil-painted portrait—a haunting, eerie rendition of a man standing in front of a slightly open blue door. What Lies Beyond is written underneath it along with the name of the artist.

Sua lit up. "Ooooh, this is one of my favorites!"

Minghao hummed. "It’s a modern take on the Bluebeard legend."

Seungcheol frowned. "Didn’t that dude kill all his wives?"

Sua smirked. "That’s the one."

Seungcheol stared at her, unimpressed. "And this is your favorite?"

Sua shrugged. "What can I say? I love a good story."

Seungcheol turned back to the painting, narrowing his eyes. "Feels like a very passive-aggressive message."

Minghao snorted. "You’d be the idiot that opens the door."

Seungcheol scoffed, turning to him. "Excuse me?"

Minghao pointed at the painting. "The whole lesson is don’t open the damn door."

"And you think I’d be dumb enough to do it?"

Minghao didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

Sua burst into actual giggles. Actual giggles.

Seungcheol scowled. "I hate this tour."

Sua immediately turned away again, her entire body trembling with silent laughter.

Minghao, meanwhile, dragged his hands down his face.

—

By the time they reached the last exhibit, Seungcheol was practically glowing with amusement, while Minghao looked like he had aged five years.

The whispers in the gallery had grown louder.

People were fascinated by this trio—the elegant gallerist, the refined artist, and the absolute menace of an idol who had clearly never been to an art gallery for anything other than his girl.

But perhaps, that was the beauty of it.

Because, despite everything, they did look comfortable together.

And maybe, just maybe… this PR stunt was actually working.

—

The next day, Sua’s gallery wasn’t just busy—it was suffocating.

The space, usually a haven of quiet appreciation, had transformed into something else entirely. People swarmed in like a rising tide, their eyes flitting around the gallery, pretending to admire the art when, in reality, they were scanning. Searching.

They weren’t here for the exhibition.

The news of Seungcheol and Minghao’s visit had spread like wildfire, dragging Sua’s name into the spotlight. For most, it was easy to believe she was just another gallery employee—someone who had been polite, well-spoken, and lucky enough to guide two famous men through the exhibition.

But not everyone bought the act.

Sua had expected this. She had prepared for it. She knew the attention would come.

What she hadn’t prepared for—what no amount of mental rehearsal could have steeled her against—was them.

At first, it was just a feeling.

A subtle prickle at the back of her neck.

She brushed it off, refusing to let paranoia sink in. It wasn’t unusual for visitors to stare, especially now. Maybe they recognized her from the photos floating online. Maybe they were just curious.

But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

“Miss Jang,” a voice called.

Sua turned to see a young woman smiling sweetly at her—too sweetly. There was something artificial about it, something that made her stomach twist.

“Could you tell us more about this painting?” the woman asked, gesturing to a textured, shadowy canvas near the entrance.

Sua forced a polite smile and walked over, hands clasped neatly in front of her. “Of course. This is a piece by an emerging artist who specializes in mixed media. The composition reflects—”

“That’s interesting,” the woman interrupted, tilting her head. “It must be nice working here. You get to meet so many… important people.”

Sua’s heartbeat stuttered.

She kept her expression neutral, her voice unwavering. “Yes, it’s a privilege to be surrounded by art and artists every day.”

The woman hummed thoughtfully, but the way her gaze flickered over Sua—calculating, dissecting—sent a shiver crawling down her spine.

Sua shifted, pretending to inspect the placement of a nearby sculpture, her hands hovering just above the pedestal.

It’s fine. You’re imagining things.

She took a slow breath, convincing herself it was nothing. People stared all the time. It came with the job.

They’re just curious. It’s nothing.

Then she noticed it.

One girl was watching her.

Then another.

And another.

Her stomach tightened.

It wasn’t paranoia anymore.

She tried to ignore it, tried to focus on her work, but the weight of their stares followed her like shadows. Even when she wasn’t looking, she could feel them.

Then there were two women.

They weren’t part of the usual crowd. They didn’t linger in front of the exhibits, didn’t take pictures, didn’t whisper to each other about the pieces.

They stayed near the corners.

Always in sight.

Never approaching.

Just watching.

Sua told herself it was fine. She’d dealt with lingering visitors before.

But then, as she moved toward the back hall to check on an installation, she realized something.

They were following her.

At first, it was subtle.

A few seconds after she moved, they moved too.

It wasn’t immediate—never enough to be obvious—but she saw them, always appearing again in her peripheral vision.

Her pulse quickened.

Okay. Let’s test this.

Instead of heading toward the back office as she originally intended, she took a sharp left, leading herself into one of the lesser-known wings of the gallery. The number of visitors thinned out here, the buzz of the crowd muffled by the distance.

And yet—

They followed.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

Cold dread coiled in her stomach, but she didn’t let it show. She kept walking, slow and deliberate, making a loop back toward the more populated areas. If she could just get to Ari, or another staff member—

But as she turned the next corner, she stopped short.

One of them was already there.

Blocking her path.

Her breath hitched.

Before she could react, the second woman stepped up behind her.

Too close.

Trapping her.

Sua’s pulse pounded in her ears.

The woman in front of her smiled. Soft. Polite. Wrong.

“Miss Jang,” she said smoothly, voice honeyed. “I was hoping we could have a little chat.”

Sua’s fingers curled against her palm.

“It won’t take long.”

The second woman shifted closer behind her. Not touching, but near enough that Sua could feel her presence pressing in.

Every instinct in her body screamed at her to leave.

Keeping her expression neutral, she asked, “How can I help you?”

The first woman tilted her head. “You were with Seungcheol last Tuesday.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sua forced herself to stay still. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

The woman’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Sua’s breath came slower, measured.

“There was no public schedule,” the woman continued, voice deceptively casual. “But he was there, wasn’t he? With you.”

The second woman finally stepped around, positioning herself at Sua’s side. Her eyes gleamed with something sharp. Something dangerous.

“I saw him,” she murmured.

Sua’s stomach twisted.

They knew.

The air between them turned suffocating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sua said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to—”

A hand lifted—not touching, but hovering too close.

“You don’t have to lie,” the first woman cooed, her voice almost gentle. “We saw him.”

The second woman’s gaze flickered with something dark, something ugly.

“Leaving your apartment.”

Sua’s blood ran cold.

She kept her face blank, but inside, everything seized.

They knew.

They had been watching.

How?

Had they followed him? Had they been lurking outside? Had they seen them together before?

The first woman stepped closer, her smile never wavering. “It must be nice,” she murmured, voice light as air. “Spending time with someone like him.”

“I’m sorry,” Sua said, her voice softening, laced with careful politeness. Feigned innocence. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying, and since it’s unrelated to my work, I’m afraid I’m not obligated to answer.”

The girl with sharp eyes took a slow, deliberate step closer.

“Oh, you understand,” she murmured. “Don’t you, Miss Jang?”

The way she said her name sent an icy prickle down Sua’s spine, each syllable curling with something far more sinister than mere curiosity.

It was calculated.

It was a warning.

Before she could think of a response, another voice broke through—louder, sharper.

“Sua!”

Ari.

Sua nearly sagged in relief as Ari marched through the crowd, her expression carefully composed but her eyes burning with something dangerously close to fury.

“There you are,” Ari said, slipping an arm through Sua’s. “I need you for a moment. Now.”

The sharp-eyed girl’s lips twitched, like she was amused. But she stepped back, allowing Ari to pull Sua away.

The moment they passed through the back door and into the safety of the office, Ari locked it behind them.

Sua sucked in a breath, pressing a hand to her forehead.

“That was…” she trailed off, swallowing hard.

“Too much,” Ari finished, crossing her arms. “Jesus, Sua. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.”

Sua didn’t respond. She just let out a slow, shaky breath, pressing her palms against the edge of the desk to steady herself.

Ari watched her for a moment, then sighed.

“You’re not leaving through the front.”

Sua blinked. “Ari, I don’t think—”

“I know,” Ari interrupted, her voice firm. “You’re going out the back. I’ll cover for you.”

Sua hesitated.

Ari stepped closer, her voice softening. “Look, I don’t know everything. But I know enough. And I know this isn’t just going to go away.”

Sua clenched her jaw. She hated that Ari was right.

“…Okay,” she finally said.

Ari nodded, relieved. “Good. Now sit. Breathe. I’ll handle the rest.”

—

By the time Sua got home, exhaustion weighed heavy in her bones.

She barely had time to drop her bag before arms wrapped around her, pulling her against a warm, familiar chest.

“You’re late,” Seungcheol mumbled against her hair.

Sua melted into him, closing her eyes. “Long day.”

He hummed, lips pressing against her temple. “Want to talk about it?”

She hesitated.

The words sat heavy on her tongue.

She should tell him.

But she also knew how he’d react.

He’d get angry. Protective.

And with his tour starting tomorrow, the last thing he needed was another reason to worry.

So she just exhaled softly. “Not tonight.”

Seungcheol studied her for a moment, then nodded. He didn’t push. Instead, he pulled her onto the couch with him, arms still wrapped tightly around her.

They sat in silence for a while. Then, quietly—

“You’ll come to the opening show, right?”

Sua hesitated.

Her mind flashed back to the gallery, to those cold, knowing smiles, to the way they watched her.

She was scared.

But she was also his.

She wanted to be there, to support him.

Seungcheol must have noticed her hesitation because he tightened his grip around her. “Please?” he murmured.

Sua bit her lip. “I’ll go.”

His eyes lit up. “Really?”

“But only if I can bring Ari,” she added.

Seungcheol pouted. “I wanted you in the VIP room.”

“No way,” she said immediately. “That’s just asking for trouble.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “Fine. But I’m giving you the best seats in the barricade section.”

Sua smiled. “Deal.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his thumb tracing gentle circles against her arm.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“…I’m okay,” she lied.

Seungcheol didn’t look convinced. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he just held her tighter, tucking her against his chest.

And for now—just for tonight—Sua let herself feel safe.

──────────────────────────────

damn, this was pretty suffocating to write tbh. hope u enjoy this!! see u on ch 11 <3

[skeletonh0e]

Hiya!

I’m not sure if you’re in need of more requests, but if you are, I was wondering what your take on a mute!Reader might be.

I don’t have specific characters in mind except for Fresh, Blue, and Fell. However, if this prompt gives you ideas for other characters, feel free to add more!

(P.S. I saw your account a few days ago, and I was SO happy to find someone who writes under these tags. They can feel like a ghost town to scroll through!)

As always, am happy to provide some content for any of my boys. I kept this request for simply these three for now

Blue, Red and Fresh x Mute! Reader

Underswap Sans:

Mweh he heh! He actually already knows sign language!

A part of it is his whole "must be perpared for everything and anything" mentality but also I think he was just already genuinely interested in the topic to begin with, so you officially have an ASL buddy

Admittedly he's not 100% perfect at it, there are some words he messes up

But make no mistake! He's always willing to learn more!

You two have the most epic of secret conversations as half the friend group just watches you two non-verbally ramble at each other with Blue being the one to relay any information

Speaking of, he's already a yapper in any relationship he's in but especially more so now

He'll happily translate or help with any accommodations you need on the day to day, especially whenever you need to communicate verbally

Literally just that one "they asked for no pickles!" meme lmao

Of course this man is loud and loves to talk a lot, that is never going to change but I think spending some time around you does make him appreciate the quiet moments more for sure

Underfell Sans:

He knows of monsters similar to this and aside from tactless "what? cat got your tongue?" jokes it's not a big change to your relationship

He'll....attempt to learn ASL, he's clearly trying and does pick up on sayings over time. Not gonna be a quick process though by any means

Very "confused but he's got the spirit" type of energy lmao

The first thing he asks to learn though is curse words and insults though

This is Red we all knew it was coming

It definitely makes him a bit more....protective in a sense, he doesn't see you as weaker necessarily but he comes from a world where everyone is a straight up asshole and inherently believes that if others can take advantage they will

And he's not letting that happen with you, as long as he's alive that is never happening to you

This man is very afraid to get into a verbal lashing on your behalf

"You mad at that guy? Want me to yell at him for you? Want me to punch his face for you?"

Fresh Sans:

Honestly your first meeting was....an interesting one because well, it took awhile for him to understand that you couldn't really speak and that's a thing for some people

He's pretty ignorant about most stuff, he's very worldly yet also somehow does not know jack about shit

It doesn't take him too long to understand the concept though thankfully

While I can sorta see him being down to learn ASL (hope you're patient as fuck though) I think he would get you an erase board with various colored markers for communication

Or better yet one of those portable sound boards with 1000+ sound effects options

Fresh: "what chu' think boo?" :D

Y/N: *making direct eye contact as they press the button for the loud booing sound effect*

Honestly largely due to you being mute he does learn to better read subtle facial expressions and other non verbal cues probably better than anyone else can

Also you're very much welcome to borrow his air horn if needed, you have dated the loudest mofo in the universe LET YOURSELF BE HEARD SOMEHOW

[kallie-den]

Rescue Hound Chapter Six

Kione finds herself growing closer to the rebels around her, even as her new handler-hound relationship with Sartha places her at a greater distance than ever before

This is a Warhound story! The preceding stories can be found at this tag

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

“Let me ask you something,” Kione asks languidly. “How come the food keeps getting worse around here?”

Muted laughter around the rec room. Vola, Nese, Amynta—Radio Girl—and a few others Kione doesn’t really know yet. All bored shitless. Sorties have been few and far between. Nothing to do but keep their heads down while the imperial net closes.

“Terribly sorry, my lady.” Amynta feigns a little bow from her slouched pose on the bench. “Any requests for dinner? Fresh fish, perhaps? A nice salad?”

More laughter. Their banter isn’t exactly high drama, but anything to lighten the mood.

“If you could bring me that,” Kione sniffs, “I’d pay you your mech’s weight in imperial coins.”

“Gods,” Vola grunts. “Don’t you ever get tired of being such a rich bitch about everything?”

“No.”

“Then, don’t you ever feel like putting that ridiculous hoard of yours to good use? A contribution to the cause? That’s what a good rebel would do.”

“No.”

“Can’t you at least share it around a bit? Among friends?

“Got that fresh fish for me?”

Everyone groans at her. Kione drinks it in, of course. She’s never happier than when she gets to play the villain. Plus, all the rebels seem to appreciate having someone to groan at too.

“No fish.” That’s Nese. She’s been quiet today. Sounds dour. “Imperials secured the east bank of the Lethys River a few days ago. We’re cut off.”

That brings down the mood at once. This front of the war hasn’t been doing well—not that any of them have. The imperial war machine crawls across the land like a locust swarm. Let them take what they want, and they’ll never stop. Fight them, and the buzz of resistance drives them into a frenzy. Oh, the rebels fight well, to be sure. They know the land they fight on, and they love what they know. But you need resources to win a war, and on that front more than any other, the empire is unmatched. They have machines that turn mountains into legions. That rip great wounds into the ruined earth, drinking the dredges of its long-spent wealth the way a mosquito might a still-warm corpse. Against a foe like that, victories are only temporary. The accountant’s toll of gains and losses is forever.

The rebel base—Leukon Base, it’s called—is getting surrounded, inexorably but slowly. It’s up in the Orestis Highlands. Difficult territory to claim. And so far, the rebels have managed to remain in the dark. Probably, the imperials don’t know if it’s a fully-fledged outpost or just a few stragglers, and they also probably don’t know which hole or peak they might be hiding in. So, there’s time. But only time. Resupply will keep getting harder. Kione’s glad she got Theaboros all patched up already.

Learning all these proper nouns for places is kind of a pain in the ass, honestly. Kione never bothered with it before. You take a map, you get a job, get some coordinates. You show up, you shoot some people, you get paid, you fuck off before anyone can try to engage you in a scintillating conversation about the weather this time of year. Now, Kione hears the place names coming out of people’s mouths, and they actually mean something to her.

‘Not part of the job’, is what she’d normally say. But she supposes this one stopped being ‘just a job’ a while ago.

“Doubt we were getting much fresh fish out of the river anyway,” Kione grumbles. “That’s fairy tale stuff.”

“Not true,” Nese tells her. “Most of the year, it snows clean on the mountains to the north of here. Keeps the waters pure. There’s a few springs, too. Plenty of fish spawn in the hills around there, and some of them even make it this far downstream without choking on runoff.”

Finally, Kione twigs it. “You’re from around here, aren’t you?”

Nese nods.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Kione feels oddly nervous about offering condolences. She’s not used to it. “Your people?”

“Don’t know.”

“Damn,” Kione replies. Then she says, “I’m sorry,” again because she’s not really sure what else she’s supposed to say.

“Thanks.” Nese looks up from her game of solitaire and offers Kione a bit of a nurturing smile; ‘A’ for effort, apparently.

“Relax, merc,” Amynta reaches over and claps Kione’s shoulder. “It’s not such a rare story around here. No offense, Nese.”

“Yeah,” Vola pipes up. “I grew up in the Memphin Desert, across the Panropa Basin. They occupied it years ago. Turns out there’s still oil under there, if you dig deep enough.” She takes a breath. Exhales her cigarette. “Hope they drown in it. They probably won’t. Either way, I’ll probably never see the sands again.”

Kione nods slowly as she absorbs that. “You?” she finds herself asking Amynta, because she realizes she actually wants to know.

“Me?” Amynta is surprised by her curiosity. A little delighted, too. “I’m from nowhere, babe.” She flashes a peace sign, just to make Kione giggle. “Born on a refugee trail. Grew up moving here and there. Joined up to fight the first chance I got. Now, your turn. Where you from, Ki?”

“Uh.” She asks casually, but the question lands on Kione like a lobbed boulder. She’s not good at talking about herself. But she’s really in it now; this has already turned into a sharing circle. And worse, she asked first. “I’m… from Kinbashi.”

She sees recognition in Amynta’s eyes. A touch of pity, too. Kinbashi is—was—a large city-state, one of several in the resource belt far to the south of even Vola’s home. One of the sad little comfortable dreams of those who wanted to keep living sad little comfortable lives, as they had done in the days the world was whole.

“Surprised you didn’t join our cause a long time ago,” Nese snorts. “Pay the imperial cunts back for it.”

Kione shakes her head. “It’s imperial now,” she corrects. “But Kinbashi fell a long time ago. Madness and greed. People fighting and dying over all sorts of stupid shit. I grew up running from shelter to shelter with my parents whenever the sirens sounded.” She forces a smile. “Then one day, the sirens were a little too late, and I was on my own. Kinbashi in rubble. Nothing to stay for.”

All around the rec room, sympathetic glances. Kione really wishes they wouldn’t. There’s a reason she doesn’t usually go on about herself.

“’Madness and greed’,” Amynta quotes. “If that’s how you see it, why be a merc?”

Now Kione grins. “Yeah, and it was madness because none of those greedy fucks ever actually got what they were fighting for. Now I make damn sure I’m getting paid before I get out in front of a bullet.”

The smiles return. Everybody loves the rich bitch. Doesn’t quite banish the sympathetic looks, though. They’re all getting a bit too used to it. They don’t see Kione as some merc anymore.

They see her as one of them.

Not all of the rebels do, that’s for sure. Skulking in one of the rec room’s corners is Pela, that Sartha fangirl Kione once dressed down in the canteen. There are plenty of others like her. Rebels Kione has pissed off so mightily it’ll take more than just time to heal the wounds. But on the whole, they’re softening. Kione is too, and she knows their names, and she knows the names of the places they’re fighting for.

It’s… a new feeling. One Kione isn’t quite sure how to get to grips with. Even more uncomfortable is the novel idea that all these rebels might, sooner or later, actually know her.

“I’ve never heard you tell that story to anyone besides me, Ki.”

But for now, there’s plenty they don’t know, of course.

They don’t know about Sartha Thrace. They think they do; Kione can see that plainly from the little looks of adoration and comfort on all their faces as the hero walks in. She’s been in the hangar-cave, helping to calibrate Ancyor’s new upgrades. With her arrival, she warms the room. The world is brighter and better with her in it. The rebels look at her, and see a hope beyond hope. They see salvation.

Not Kione.

The truth of Sartha Thrace stares her in the face. First of all, she sees that Sartha is wearing her jacket buttoned up tight, all the way to the top of her neck. To most, nothing noteworthy; just a concession to the cold. Kione knows that beneath her collar are a bouquet of bruises that match her own fingers. Evidence of the previous night’s excesses, now blossoming into grotesque, ugly purple. Just thinking of it makes Kione shudder.

She went too far, of course. Kione knows that. But she’s already forgiven herself. Her task is to plumb the depths of another woman’s soul. Certain mistakes are inevitable. What counts is that the damage is not permanent. And in the process, Kione grasped something crucial.

Sartha Thrace is not human.

Presumably she was, once, but she gave it up. Traded her humanity for the comfort of existing on the end of a metaphysical leash. She does not think as people do. She does not feel as people do. When she was taken and brainwashed, Sartha was not broken on the surface; coerced into a set of simple, mechanical acts as the core of her personhood buried itself deep within her mind for protection. Oh no. She was broken all the way through. Broken the way glass breaks when an entire pane shatters from a single strike—because she wanted it. Now, her very internality has been crushed into something abhorrently one-dimensional. There is no deeper meaning to be found in her than one would find in a dog scraping the bottom of its bowl for food.

Can you really speak of abusing such an animal? Of violating it? Of course not. Kione’s guilt would be senseless, and that very senseless guilt is what almost drove her over the edge when she had her hands clamped around Sartha’s throat. So now, she has discarded it. She has forgiven herself—and for whatever it’s worth, she knows that Sartha has forgiven her too.

Why? Because they’re in love, of course.

“Hey, Captain Thr- I mean, Sartha,” Amynta turns to greet her. Sartha has been insisting on names over titles, but it doesn’t come easy to most of the rebels.

“Hey,” Kione says too.

Sartha has eyes only for her. She hurries across to Kione’s side, adoring, no hint of fear or resentment over the way Kione tortured and strangled her. That no longer strikes Kione as strange. When Sartha looks into the eyes of those around her, she sees hero-worship reflected back at her. Kione once suffered that delusion—but now, when Sartha meets her gaze, the fallen hero sees nothing reflected other than her own nothingness. Kione sees her clearly. The nothingness is validating. For that, Sartha would gladly trade all the abuse in the world.

She is sick with love for Kione.

But nobody else sees it. Not even as they move aside to allow Sartha to sit next to Kione and rest her head on the merc’s shoulder. To everyone else, it’s cute. They’re a little jealous, probably, but mostly they’re glad Sartha has someone at her side. They can only imagine what the two of them do behind closed doors. They don’t know what Sartha is.

That thought pricks at Kione.

Why don’t they? Can’t they see it? Isn’t it obvious? It is to Kione. She isn’t sure how she ever missed it. She sees an abyss in the dark pupils of Sartha’s eyes, the surrounding color a mere echo of the spirit that had once driven her. She sees nothingness on Sartha’s lips, wet and parted when she looks up at Kione, eager for commands or praise or abuse or the three words that deliver her from the thin pretense of personhood. She sees oblivion in everything Sartha does, even in the way she acts like a hero, so desperate and forced and pathetic.

Why doesn’t everyone else?

That’s why Kione isn’t one of them. She sees. And they are blind.

“How’s the new beast looking?” Amynta asks.

“Good.” Sartha grins as she leans into Kione. “A couple more weeks, and it’ll be ready to tear them a new one. She’ll be the finest machine on the planet.”

A couple of appreciative whistles. “Watch it,” Vola jibes, energized. “Kione’ll be complaining we keep getting parts shipped in instead of haute cuisine.”

“No way.” Amynta answers on Kione’s behalf. “Even she’s not that much of a hypocrite. You were plenty grateful for our supply lines when you were getting your babygirl fixed up, right Ki?”

“Yeah, I’m so ‘grateful’ that they cost me more than I’ve ever made working alongside you lot,” Kione complains. It’s true. Her coffers have never been so empty—not that they’re likely to run dry any time soon.

As she plays up her discontent, Kione reaches across and drapes an arm over Sartha’s shoulder. Accidentally, her forearm ends up pressing against Sartha’s collar and the bruises beneath. Sartha flinches subtly, but then settles in to press even closer to Kione, a look of giddy, drunken contentment settling across her face.

Fucking freak. But nobody else takes any notice.

“From what I heard, you paid so much because you needed some seriously weird shit,” Nese puts to her. “How does that machine of yours work, anyway? The flying, I mean.”

“Antimatter?” Kione shrugs. She has a pretty good idea of Theaboros’s basic engineering—enough to direct repairs, anyway—but the finer points of its machinery escape her, as do the deeper physics underpinning them. “You want much more than that, you’d have to ask the person I got to design it for me.”

“What’s their name?” Nese asks. “I had no idea any rebel groups had the labs and resources to develop this kind of tech.”

“They don’t,” Kione replies. “She’s imperial.”

That gets a few looks. Rebels are no strangers to appropriating imperial technology, but they usually have to steal or salvage it, not commission it.

“How’d that work, exactly?” Vola asks, a touch guardedly.

“First of all, I’m a merc,” Kione reminds her. “If I take a bit of care, I can go wherever I want. Second… have you ever met a mech engineer? Those adorable little freaks are all exactly the same. They’re all gagging for a chance to get their pet prototypes built.”

“So? How’d you get her to give it to you, instead of the empire?”

Kione looks from side to side, then leans in, like she’s about to let everybody in on a big secret. Then she brings her free hand to her lips—and makes a little gesture of sticking her tongue out between the V of her fingers.

All the rebels howl with laughter. Not Sartha—but it’s not jealousy or envy that stop her. She looks up at Kione, awestruck, like Kione’s some kind of goddess for it. Gods, can the rest of them really not see her for what she is?

“OK, seriously,” Kione adds. “You gotta remember, the imperials don’t build like you do. It’s all production lines and interchangeable parts over there. No way you can get their bean-counters to approve some flashy one-of-a-kind machine that’s only as good as whatever fresh-faced academy dipshit ends up in the cockpit.”

Vola nods slowly. It’s a hard thing for some rebels to get their heads around, especially if they’re still a little green. If they’ve only ever fought in skirmishes and insurgency actions, not in the kinds of full-scale battles that showcase the empire’s horrific aptitude for total warfare. Their factories can churn out Dorus on a scale that a girl like Vola could scarcely believe possible. It just doesn’t make sense for an industrial war machine like that to derail its manufacturing, maintenance and support logistics just to build exactly one of something that might turn out to be a terrible idea anyway.

For the rebels, it’s just the opposite. Every rebel mech is a mongrel. They’re all one-of-a-kind, so if you have the parts to build something special and a pilot that can make it work, why not? It’ll be no more of a pain in the ass to keep in service than any of the hundreds of thrice-reconstructed imperial mechs the rebels usually fight with. Besides, rebel tactics are necessarily local, flexible, and improvisational. Give them a weird machine, you can bet your ass they’ll figure out an equally weird way to put it to good use. Kione respects the resourcefulness. What she doesn’t respect is that, beyond everything else, the rebels need icons. Symbols. Heroes, like Sartha and her Ancyor. Instantly recognizable on a poster. It’s a way to rally people. All the more reason to favor wacko prototypes.

“So…” Amynta ventures, “you didn’t really eat out an imperial engineer to get Theaboros?”

“I paid her handsomely, and I gave her a chance to see her baby fly,” Kione answers primly. “And then I ate her out. Just for fun. I mentioned she was an adorable little freak, didn’t I?”

Amynta gives her a playful punch whilst everyone else groans.

“Whatever,” Vola snorts. “If you ask me, you’re the freak for trusting it. I’d never want to count on imperial tech to keep me three hundred feet in the air. I’ll bet on my Phassus any day of the week. She’s not flashy. But she gets it done.”

Amynta and Sartha both flash her a warning look, but it’s too late. She said the magic word, and Kione is already wearing her finest shark grin.

“You’d bet, huh?” Kione purrs. “Easy enough to settle that—unless you’re all talk, of course.”

At once, Sartha switches gears. Suddenly, she’s a guard dog. A cheerleader. She partakes in Kione’s smugness, and glares challenging daggers at Vola. The other rebel bristles at Kione’s taunt, but Radio Girl is quick to shut down the suggestion.

“Absolutely fucking not,” she insists. “Command is not in the mood, and neither am I. Try for some dick-swinging duel, and I’ll have both of your machines drained of fuel so the entire base can laugh at you when you try and launch only to fall on your asses. Do not test me.”

She’s really growing into herself. Kione’s a little bit impressed, but mostly just annoyed she won’t get her dick-swinging duel.

“Fine,” she yawns. “No fun allowed.”

A crooked smile forms on Nese’s face. Apparently, Kione isn’t the only one who wanted a show.

“How about you get it out of your system a different way?” Nese suggests.

“What did you have in mind?” Vola asks. She’s game.

Nese licks her lips. “Nobody’s gonna complain about a little arm-wrestling. Right?”

And nobody does. It only takes a few moments to set it up; Kione and Vola on chairs, a table between them, staring menacingly at each other, while the other rebels pretend to be an appropriately riled-up crowd. They’re all in Vola’s corner, of course. She’s the hometown girl. Kione stands apart. She’s the heel. She’s not one of them. Only Sartha stands behind Kione, resting a hand on her back with a doting affection.

She’s so damn obvious about it. They’re going to see you, Sartha. They’ll see the nothingness in you. They’ll see that you’ll always betray them in the end.

Kione hopes they see. She hopes Sartha sees that none of them could love her the way she does.

“Three,” Amynta counts, as Kione and Vola plant their elbows on the table and grip each other’s hands. “Two. One. Start!”

Kione tenses the muscles in her core as well as her arms as she begins to push against Vola. She feels the other woman’s palm shifting in her grip as both of them jockey for angle and position. Vola is young and strong. She gives it her all from the first signal, and Kione has to give it hers just to stay in the fight. She can tell at once, though, that she’s being underestimated. Kione likes to keep herself looking pretty, and she knows she looks a little slight in her jumpsuit—but she’s a merc, and sometimes that means having to carry a lot of heavy shit all by yourself.

So Kione relaxes into the hold, letting her wider shoulders give her a better angle, and lets Vola huff and puff until she’s all out of juice. It’s not so easy that she doesn’t sweat from the strain, though, and Kione’s not such a poor showman that she won’t let Vola force her all the way back like she’s on the verge of defeat.

But just as her rebel comrades are already beginning to whoop and cheer for their hometown girl, Kione flashes them a grin and starts pushing back. Every grunt from Vola’s lips and every grimace on her face is a little gift to Kione, and the gifts only end when Kione plants the back of the other woman’s hand flat on the table.

Victory.

Lots of groaning. Kione takes that as applause. Sartha rubs her back and coos for her. That makes her feel kind of nauseous. Vola grimaces again, then amicably shakes Kione’s hand. She gets up—and Amynta sits down.

“Come on, then.” Radio Girl winks at her. “Can’t have everybody think a merc is better than a rebel.”

Kione’s arm is already tired. She really shouldn’t—but she just rolls her eyes and meets her grin for grin. She just can’t say no to a good flirt.

“Fine,” Kione replies. “You’re on. Just one moment.”

She makes a little performance of the way she reaches up and unzips her jumpsuit from the neck, before peeling it away to her waist in order to expose her shoulders and her belly. Only a thin, fabric sports bra covers her torso, and Kione’s dark skin is covered in a sheen of sweat from her bout with Vola. Everyone is ogling her. Especially Amynta.

Kione smiles. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

“OK.” Kione makes a show of stretching, too; bending left, then right, folding her arms across her shoulders, making sure Amynta gets a fine look at her back muscles flexing. “Let’s do this.”

“Yeah,” Amynta pants. “Let’s.”

The atmosphere in the room has changed. Amynta is openly leering at Kione. She can’t help it. The poor girl has been sweet on her ever since that first mission together. Sartha is the only thing that’s kept them from sharing a bed. Now she’s feeling a little more than just rebel pride. And she’s not the only one. The rest of the rebels are watching with a voyeuristic interest. They want to see who might come out on top.

In many senses of the word.

“Three.” Nese counts this time, as the two women grip each other’s palms. “Two. One. Go!”

Kione tenses up again as she and Amynta begin to grapple. Amynta can’t hide her interest; her eyes keep flickering to Kione’s stomach and shoulders as Kione flexes her trim figure. She’s distracted. Kione has a wild grin on her face. This is going to be fun. But not right away; no, she lets Amynta get a little warm and a little riled. Lets her marinate in her own stupid animal brain chemicals for a moment.

Then Kione flashes her the filthiest look Amynta’s ever seen, licks her lips, and does something truly sinful with her extended tongue.

Amynta blushes and squirms and, just for a moment, lets her concentration slip completely. Slamming her hand down onto the table is the easiest thing Kione’s ever done.

“No fair!” Amynta protests, while Kione throws back her head and howls with victorious laughter.

“Love and war, babygirl,” Kione tells her. That forces another blush into Amynta’s cheeks. “Merc two, rebels zero. Kind of embarrassing for all of you, honestly. Surely you can do better than that.”

“We can,” Nese retorts.

And looks at Sartha.

A heartbeat later, and everyone’s looking at her. Their eyes are full of expectation. They already know: Sartha will save them. Sartha can’t lose. She’s a hero. Sartha, to her credit, doesn’t flinch from it, although Kione feels her tense invisibly at her side.

“What do you say, Ki?” Sartha asks, with cocksure lightness. “Think you can go another round.”

Asking for permission, of course. She can’t do anything here without Kione’s permission. But she threads the needle, and finds a way to ask while still acting like the confident ace everybody wants her to be. Cute.

How does that work, exactly? Kione makes a mental note to pry into that, the next time she’s playing with Sartha’s head. Is it a conscious deception? An anxious lie? If so, is it motivated by simple self-preservation? Or by a twisted, not-quite-obliterated sense of pride? Alternatively, is it simply second nature to the dog Sartha Thrace has become? Has the fundamental lie of her identity been seared so deep into her soul, she no longer realizes she is deceiving everybody who has ever trusted her?

Kione’s nostrils flare. She has so much to learn, if she’s to become the equal of Sartha’s handler.

“Sure,” Kione answers eventually. “One more.”

Sartha sits opposite her. Nese, Vola, Amynta are all cheering. Others too. The atmosphere is bordering on riotous. Several more have heard what’s happening, and come to watch. Who wouldn’t want to see Sartha Thrace arm wrestling another dyke? On the surface, Sartha is a perfect match for their expectations. She sits easily in her chair, a slight, smug smirk on her face; it’s easy to imagine her sitting in Ancyor with the same ease as she readies herself to deliver a hammer blow against the empire.

Kione, though, can only imagine her one way: on her knees, wearing a muzzle.

What would all the rest of them think if they saw her like that? Even once?

“Ready, Ki?” Sartha challenges. As loyal as she is, she means to win. Kione can see that in her eyes.

“Ready.” Kione is no less competitive. She plants her elbow on the table. The two of them lock hands.

“Three,” Amynta counts. “Two. One. Start.”

Sartha starts slow the way an avalanche starts slow. She eases into the grappling—but gods, she’s strong. Stronger than Kione, that’s for sure. Even if she’d been fresh, Kione couldn’t have beaten her. She strains every sinew, of course, but Sartha is already pressing her down, down, down. Her fellow rebels drink in her impending victory. They urge her on, yelling and cheering. The looks on their faces are jubilant. To them, it’s fate. It’s justice. In the end, their rebel hero wins the day.

Something about that just pisses Kione off.

Don’t you get it? She betrayed you. And she’d do it again.

Maybe Kione should show them. Just a little bit. Just in a small, harmless way.

She looks straight into Sartha’s dead eyes and tells her: “Sartha. Let me win.”

Most of the people who hear it laugh. They think Kione’s begging. Sartha doesn’t laugh. Her eyes flash wide in shock for a moment. Kione can tell it’s not surprise. She’s not surprised Kione is doing this to her. It’s just the bow shock of a cold, clear command spearing through the persona she had been wearing. A moment later, color hits her cheeks. Gratitude. Arousal. Every chance to obey is a chance to submerge into obedience. Sartha is always glad of those. Kione’s lips curl.

They’re all watching you, Sartha. Show them.

“Yes, Kione,” Sartha replies, very quietly.

And lets her win.

Sartha’s arm goes limp. Kione feels the fight drain from her. No more smug hero act. She is a doll in Kione’s grip. Something she can pose with ease. The small crowd turns hushed as they see it happen. As they see Sartha give up. Kione looks over each of them, delighting in their half-amused, half-disturbed shock, before slowly forcing Sartha’s hand to the table.

Clean sweep.

The audience churns uncomfortably. A few of them are tittering with approval. They think they know what they saw: a kink dynamic, spilling out from the bedroom. Even some of those, though, seem faintly disappointed. Most of the watching rebels are plainly discomforted. They suspect nothing, but this isn’t what they wanted to see. Sartha Thrace doesn’t just lose. Not like that. The natural order has been subverted. And Radio Girl is looking between Sartha and Kione like she’s suddenly not sure she knows either of them at all.

That’s right, Kione thinks. We can play nice and swap stories all we like, but the truth is: I’m not one of you.

And neither is Sartha.

***

“Here,” Kione commands. “Strip. Take everything off.”

It’s late at night. The whole of Leukon Base is asleep; that’s the only reason nobody has seen Kione leading Sartha through the base’s narrow corridors, muzzle bound tight over her face.

“Yes, Kione.”

Kione had wondered, idly, if this would prompt any questioning from Sartha. Any hesitance. Of course not. A fervent eagerness shines across the surface of Sartha’s deep, dead eyes as she reaches up and begins to pull her jacket away from her body. The more clothes she removes, the more bruises she reveals; a discolored necklace around her collar, then a few irregular rows down her sides and a couple of huge, yellowing marks on her belly. All of them are two days faded now, but all the prettier for it. As excessive as the violence might have been, Kione is proud of the proof of her handiwork. She made Sartha look like exactly what she is.

A kicked dog.

The most wretched creature on the face of the world. And Kione’s beloved.

As she sees her now, naked, beginning to shiver against the nighttime chill, Kione almost bursts with love for her. Her love for Sartha threatens to drool out of the aching grin fixed on her face. She’s so lucky. Nobody has ever been more lucky. She and Sartha are joined, utterly. They have stared into one another’s darkness, and they have not blinked. They accept each other totally. Partners in atrocity. What bond could be greater? Purer?

And what’s more, they’ll do anything for each other.

“Chin up,” Kione instructs.

As the tip of Sartha’s muzzle tilts upward, Kione reaches into her pocket and fishes out a dog collar—a real one, sized for a large breed. She was able to pick it up at Leukon Base’s commissary. The rebels have a relaxed policy around pets. In multiple senses, actually. Kione could have bought something nice and leather, hand-crafted, padded on the inside, with a nice big D-ring on the front for ease of use.

But no. Kione thinks this ugly, red nylon thing that fastens with a cheap clip instead of a proper buckle is a much better fit. Sartha’s opinion on the matter doesn’t count, but Kione is pleased that she seems eager enough; her eyes widen with palpable excitement as Kione twirls the collar around her upraised index finger for a moment.

“Long overdue, right?” Kione grins. “Here.”

She fastens the collar tight around Sartha’s neck. Sartha relaxes eagerly into its embrace, grateful for the chance to be a pet instead of a person. And now Kione has Sartha Thrace collared. Owned. It’s the stuff of dreams. Kione lifts her hand, and strokes her fingertips lovingly across the high part of Sartha’s cheek, the part that peeks over the muzzle’s cage.

Then she snaps out of it. Then she remembers. Sartha doesn’t want gentle. Sartha doesn’t want loving. And she’s a filthy fucking traitor who let them break her.

“Get down,” Kione barks, scowling. Before Sartha can possibly react, Kione grabs the end of her muzzle and uses it to shove her downward. “On your hands and knees, dog.”

Sartha stumbles a bit in surprise, but obeys instantly. Kione’s rictus grin flickers back to her face. Sartha might be a subhuman bitch, but that doesn’t mean Kione can’t enjoy this. Mastering her own emotions is still new to her, and still a struggle. But she’s determined to keep her adoration well-aimed. She will not love the false idol that is Sartha Thrace, hero. She will love the dog.

“There we go.” Kione bends down and starts petting Sartha’s head—oh, and it’s so hard not to love her when she starts looking stupid and brainless like this. “That’s where you belong. How do you feel, Sartha? Not too cold?”

“No, I’m- ah!”

Kione cuts her off by knotting her hand into a fist in Sartha’s hair and yanking so hard Sartha’s hands lift off the floor. Her face is pained, but Kione sees the ecstasy beneath.

“Wrong!” Kione laughs. “Do you know why it’s wrong, Sartha?”

“No, K- f-fuck!”

The same treatment again, only harder. “You really are a dumb bitch,” Kione scorns. “It’s wrong because dogs don’t talk. What do dogs say, babe?”

Sartha gets it at once, and as Kione releases her grip and lets her pet slump back to the ground, a look of voracious, submissive glee settles across her face.

“Woof!”

Kione laughs a little at that, but she isn’t completely satisfied. Sartha says it a little too much like a person-word, rather than a sound.

“Try again,” she encourages. “Bark, bitch.”

To her credit, Sartha senses exactly what Kione wants from her. “Arf!” is what comes out of her next. A simple, brute, guttural ejaculation. Now Kione truly throws back her head and cackles.

Gods, doesn’t she know how fucking embarrassing that sounds?

“Good girl,” Kione mocks. “Now. Louder.”

“Arf!”

“Louder!”

Now Kione senses a touch of hesitancy—although only a touch, before Sartha lets out another wretched, bleating: “Arf!”

Kione knows exactly why Sartha hesitated. Yes, it’s late at night, but a military base never quite sleeps. There are sentries. There could be people awake and wandering around for all kinds of reasons. Hell, the walls around here aren’t so thick that someone awake in their bunk might not overhear a loud bark and decide to come and check it out.

A little shiver of danger races down Kione’s spine as she thinks on it. Yes, this is going to be delicious.

“You really do make a good dog,” Kione announces. “And honestly? I’ve been a neglectful pet owner. I’ve waited this long to take you out for walkies.”

Deep in subspace though she is, Sartha’s cheeks redden from sheer embarrassment. She’s not completely beyond it—not until Kione gives her the words. For now, all she can do is twist and turn in her own nauseous delight. In the shame of being, and the bliss of being less than human.

“Arf!” is her only reply. That, and the sound of a drop of Sartha’s wetness hitting the floor.

“Good,” Kione repeats. “Now, here.”

Kione pulls out a leash. Her next commissary indulgence. It takes no more than a moment to clip it to Sartha’s collar—and then Kione turns on her heel, and she’s away.

She picks her pace carefully. Not rushing, but not slow either. Leisurely—but not leisurely enough for Sartha. Shuffling on her hands and knees, she struggles to keep up. Unfortunately for her, Kione was careful to pick a short leash. After just a short distance, Sartha’s pace slackens as she pauses to breathe. Kione steps forward again, heedless—and pulls Sartha up short. As soon as Kione feels the barest hint of resistance, she yanks. Hard.

“Keep up,” Kione orders merrily. “Or do I need to find a bone to throw for you?”

Being pulled along by her collar only makes Sartha’s task harder. She’s forced up onto her feet, not her knees, and into a desperate, headlong scramble just to relieve the pressure on her neck. When she catches up, it’s no better. Kione is still walking just a little bit faster than she can comfortably crawl or shuffle, so Sartha ends up settling into an awkward, exhausting, half-raised gait just so she can keep herself at Kione’s side.

Kione’s face hurts from grinning. But she can’t stop. You’re perfect, Sartha. Perfect like this. Maybe this is simply the way you were always meant to be.

“Good girl,” Kione tells her again. Sartha deserves to keep hearing it. And then, for her own benefit: “I promise. I’ll keep you safe. With me. Just like this. Forever.”

You don’t need that handler, Sartha. I’ll be her. I’ll be better than her. Just you watch.

As they walk through Leukon Base’s corridors, the two of them pass door after door. Most of them, closed; a few of them, open, leading into empty rooms or other passageways. Each of those that they pass makes Kione feel like she’s going to throw up and blow her load at the same time. Each time, she glances into the dark doorway and thinks the shadow she sees has a pair of eyes. The threat of discovery is ever-present, and it activates all the small danger-instincts Kione has honed in her time as a pilot.

Would happen if someone saw? Kione keeps running through it in her head. What would they think of her? What if they saw her use Sartha’s trigger? What then? Would they hate her? Would they punish her? Would they envy her?

It’s too much. The adrenaline is kicking her something fierce. Kione can’t stop giggling as they walk.

And what if they saw Sartha? What then? Would they hate her? Would they think she’s let them down? They’d be right to, of course. But would they look upon her as a traitor? Or merely as a broken wretch?

Kione is desperate to find out. It’s the only thing that could snap the merciless tension gnawing at her.

Gods, maybe some of them would envy Sartha too. She’s not the first rebel girl to enjoy being collared. Plenty of them would look good that way, too. A sudden vision hits Kione, as the flames of arousal lick at her: Amynta Tet, Radio Girl, muzzled and kneeling.

Kione laughs long and loud. She’s not sure if Radio Girl swings that way. But it sure would be fun to find out.

“How you doing, Sartha?” Kione abruptly comes to a halt. “Getting some of that energy out of your system?”

That’s an understatement. Sartha looks wrecked. Fit as she is, scrambling on all fours after Kione has left her bedraggled with sweat and shivering from both cold and exertion. Kione’s heart swells with the knowledge that Sartha would keep going forever if Kione told her to. Until she collapsed into sleep from exhaustion.

“A-arf!” Sartha answers. Her voice trembles, but she’s no less eager for being so tired. “Ruff!”

Love and contempt fight for primacy in Kione’s bosom. It’s strange how accustomed she’s becoming to those two emotions coexisting. She wants Sartha to be so much more than this, even as she adores her being lesser. In the end, a perverse sense of pride sweeps through Kione’s mood.

She remembered! She remembered not to speak. Who could ask for a better pet?

“Good girl,” Kione purrs gleefully. “You’re doing so well. Almost perfect, in fact. You’re just missing one last piece.”

There’s one other thing Kione got at the commissary. Something that really got her some looks from the quartermaster sitting behind the counter. Kione plucks it out of her pocket now, already giggling at the thought.

A butt plug. With a long, canine tail attached to the other end.

“Turn around,” Kione orders. “Ass up.”

Shaking with need, Sartha obliges. While she turns, Kione uses her spit to get the plug nice and slick. Then she bends down and pushes it all the way into Sartha’s ass. Sartha yields to her without question, but then her legs almost give way from the sensation, and she lets out a wild, throaty moan that fills the dim corridor. Kione can’t help but notice that Sartha seems used to being taken this way. Jealousy rises in her. She would rather not picture all the ways imperial pilots have been using her.

“Quiet, slut,” Kione snarls coldly. “Unless you’re really that eager to be overheard.”

The pathetic little whine Sartha lets out fixes her mood at once. She really is being loud, though. If she carries on like this, it’s almost inevitable that someone will overhear them. Suddenly Kione wonders about that.

“Maybe you actually are,” Kione muses. “Is that what you want, dog? You want people to see you? Hear you?”

“Aarrfff,” is the only reply Sartha can give. Kione can’t tell if it’s meant to indicate yes or no—but it’s certainly eager. Sartha is incapable of anything but eagerness. Her eyes are as wide and shiny as any puppy. Her shivering is now more pleasure than anything else, and Kione can see rivulets of drool trickling down her chin behind her muzzle.

Sartha is lost to this. She’s exactly where she wants to be. Maybe she really does want to be discovered. Maybe that would be a release for her, or an ending. Kione finds herself craving that same ending more powerfully than she had expected. She fights to keep a tight rein on the self-destructive impulse. Not now. Not when they’ve both come so far. She’ll give Sartha a climax, oh yes. But of another kind.

She’ll make sure that, for a little while, there’s no Sartha at all.

“Sartha,” Kione says. Her tone is enough to make Sartha yip with glee. “Off The Leash.” Kione giggles. “Not that you’ll be coming off this leash any time soon.”

She’s growing used to Sartha’s dissolution, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a fresh miracle each time. The way Kione appreciates the transformations keeps changing, though. More and more, she finds beauty in it. When she wields those three wonderful words against Sartha Thrace, she is a sculptor with a chisel, cleaving away at all the rough edges and imperfections of her. Removing what is not needed. Removing what is impure. Her hero’s facade, made a lie of so many times. Her confident stance, her smug grin, her warm smile, her hopeful eyes—all of them made meaningless by the ravages of the handler’s brainwashing. The gossamer-thin facade of personhood, which she is so much better without.

It breaks away. It falls apart. In its wake, there is nothing.

In its wake, there is the hound.

There is no confusion in Hound when she wakes. She understands her place perfectly. Kneeling, muzzled, collared. Beyond the obvious eagerness and adoration, there’s a kind of comfort in her dull, brainwashed eyes as she looks up at Kione. This is exactly where she belongs. All is right with the world. To her, the dehumanization is a balm. She doesn’t want to walk on two legs, because that’s what people do. She doesn’t want to speak in words, because that’s what people do. Better to be this. A thing. A weapon. A pet.

Kione’s heart aches in love for her. Sartha’s better half. Sartha’s truest self.

“Come along,” Kione says sweetly, adoringly. “You deserve to stretch your legs too, puppy.”

Kione turns her back again and begins to walk. The same awkward pace as before—only now, for Hound, it’s infinitely harder. The way she has to move her hips with each scrambling step works her new tail around inside her, prompting high, vicious moans from her lips and drooling droplets of wetness from her cunt. After just a short distance, she’s shivering violently, plainly struggling to keep herself from collapsing onto her belly.

It’s so wonderful. Kione keeps grinning and laughing unsteadily. She’s so hot, and so pathetic, and so needy, and so easy, and she’s all hers. Kione must be merciless with her.

“Keep up,” she warns, and yanks on the leash.

Hound does, although it’s almost more than she can take. Her panted moans turn ever more whined and strained, and her whole face is drenched with sweat and drool. Taken with her bruises, she’s never looked less like a person. The tail is the final touch, of course; as Hound moves, it sways from side to side to match her gait, just about stiff enough to stick a little way into the air when she fully extends her hips. It’s ridiculous and frivolous and hot and absolutely fucking humiliating all at the same time. Kione keeps giggling over and over again.

“R-rarf!” Hound bleats, as her legs give way. From the arch of her spine and the helpless tremble of her thighs, Kione can tell right away what happened: she came.

A crooked smirk comes to Kione’s face. Just from that? Adorable.

“I said,” she hisses, “keep up!”

Kione barely misses a beat before she yanks the leash again—hard. Hard enough to drag Hound’s limp body across the cold, rough ground for a pace. It’s not a choking collar, but even so, nobody likes being dragged around by the neck. By the time Hound has recovered enough to claw her way back up onto her knees, her face is a deep, pained red and there are scrapes down her shins.

But she makes it. She catches up.

“Good girl!” Only now does Kione pause. She reaches down, she ruffles Hound’s hair, she pets her for all she’s worth. “Oh, aren’t you a good girl? Who’s a good dog? You. Yes, you are. Yes, you are!”

The look of stupid, lovestruck, praise-drunk glee on Hound’s face makes it all so very worth it. And it might just be from the pleasure or the cold, but Kione still adores the way that Hound looks for all the world like she’s wagging that dumb little tail of hers.

“Let’s head back to my room,” Kione decides. She’s gotten exactly what she wanted out of this little excursion—and besides, Hound looks exhausted. “This way. Should take us a full circuit.”

She leads the way. Slower, this time, to let Hound crawl more comfortably at her side. Kione still holds the leash tight, though, so it tugs on her a little with each step. She knows Hound will appreciate it. Walking just like that, they make it almost all the way back to Kione’s quarters, before Kione notices something dangerous.

An open door. A light. And voices.

It’s the rec room. It’s unusual for anyone to be in there so late, but not unheard of. Sometimes soldiers find themselves sleepless, and in need of company. As they come to the doorway, Kione comes to a halt. Two people inside, from the sound of it. She thinks she recognizes the voice of Pela, Sartha’s fangirl. Less sure about the other person. It seems like they’re sitting a fair way distant from the door. Probably facing away from it, too. It should be easy enough to pass quickly and quietly, without anybody taking any notice.

But…

A wicked mood takes Kione. Was their little walk really enough for Sartha? She’s used to much worse; of that, Kione’s certain. Used to being watched, too. Kione can’t quite suppress a hint of disappointment over the fact that nobody happened across them during their walk. It would have been a disaster, of course. But she wanted to see what might have happened.

“Hound,” Kione instructs quietly. “In the doorway. Now.”

She doesn’t even need the gentle leash-tug Kione provides for guidance. Unquestioning, unhesitant, Hound crawls into the doorway. The yellow light within spills out onto her face, leaving a long, canine shadow behind. Hound shivers. Even now, it seems, she retains a certain pilot’s instinct, flooding her with adrenaline.

She’s exposed.

And what a sight she’d be, down a mech suit’s targeting scope. The slower pace Kione struck was easier on her, but there’s only so easy moving can get with something so large and intrusive inside her. Hound is stuck on a permanent hair trigger, and her body is already covered with proof of her deprivations. Bruises, scrapes, sweat, drool, her own slickness. She’s a mess—and then, of course, there’s the muzzle itself.

What would any of the rebels say if they saw that?

The rictus grin is carved so deep into Kione’s face that it hurts. Maybe she’ll finally get to find out.

“Up,” she hisses, not loud enough to risk anyone overhearing. “Sit.”

A pair of heartbeats pass as Hound works her fucked-up brain to try to figure out what kind of pose Kione wants from her. But she gets there in the end. Hound straightens her back and then lifts herself up, balanced precariously on the balls of her feet, her torso bared into the rec room.

Still, Kione can hear voices coming from inside.

“Go on,” she urges gleefully. “Paws up, too”.

It doesn’t matter how dumb and humiliating Kione’s orders get, there’s no question that Hound will obey. Trembling, fighting for balance, Hound lifts her arms up to around her shoulders, wrists hung limply to make her hands into feeble, ludicrous impressions of paws.

Kione is about to bust a gut laughing. At this point, if anyone hears anything, it’s going to be her dying of laughter. Not that she isn’t also insanely turned on. That’s always a given, with Hound.

“Legs apart,” Kione orders next. She’s grinning so wide she’s showing teeth. Her voice sounds wet. “Let’s give your friends a good show.”

A drooling whimper comes from Hound’s lips as she spreads her thighs apart, adopting a truly pornographic, bow-legged pose that sends shocks of pleasure up her spine as her butt plug digs all the way in. A moment more, and she can’t take it. Can’t keep the pleasure in.

She moans.

Kione’s heart stops. Did someone hear? She isn’t sure. The voices from inside the rec room have stopped—which could be a red flag. The last warning Kione is going to get that they need to get the hell out of there. True, Kione might be able to talk her way out of it. Excuse what she’s doing with Sartha as some kinky sex that got out of hand. But there are those who would immediately see in Sartha’s muzzle something far, far more sinister. Anyone who saw Sartha as they brought her in from the rescue, or who participated in her rehabilitation. Kione should put a stop to this, right now.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to.

The ludicrous risk of what she’s doing crashes over Kione. When her heart beats again, it’s in her throat? What is the point of this? Gratification? Hers, or Sartha’s? She’s risking everything. All her progress. All her efforts to reclaim Sartha from the handler’s jaws, just so she can… get her off?

It doesn’t make sense. She can’t make it make sense. But she can’t stop, either.

The voices from within the rec room resume. A reprieve. Clearly, it’s time to end this madness.

But then Kione looks at Hound.

Fuck. She’s a mess. She’s such a mess. And she looks so fucking turned on by it, too. By the abjection and dehumanization. By being turned into a stupid, exhibitionist bitch for Kione’s amusement. Beneath her, a small but distinct puddle of her wetness has formed on the floor, and she’s got a look on her muzzled face like she’s riding the edge again. Like she craves discovery every bit as much as Kione does.

Before the merc can think better of it, the order slips out.

“Speak.”

“Rrrrarf!”

The eager yip erupts instantly out of Hound’s throat. Ever the good dog. Ever obedient. At once, she tenses up and, for the second time, cums her bitch brains out all over the floor. It makes Kione moan her laughter—even as the voices from inside the rec room cut off for the second time.

“Hey?” someone calls out. “Who’s there?”

A chair shifts.

Immediately, Kione’s instincts take over. “Quick,” she hisses, and for good measure she yanks hard on Hound’s leash while she’s still in the throes of orgasm. Beleaguered, Hound does her best to walk, to crawl, to keep up with Kione as she hurries away from the rec room. Luckily, the next corner is only a few paces away. Not far beyond it is Kione’s quarters, and safety.

Kione’s heart is still pounding something fierce. She’s terrified—but she’s grinning too. She’s never felt more alive. She’s never felt more in tune with Sartha Thrace, with Hound, with her dog, with her love.

“I love you,” she says quietly, swept away in the moment.

She hopes to hear it back. But of course, dogs don’t talk. All she gets in return is an eager, doting “Arf!” from Hound.

It’s just as good. It’s perfect. The night has been perfect. Kione knows, more than ever, that she is Sartha’s, and Sartha is hers.

Her only regret is that she couldn’t be there to catch the looks on those rebels’ faces when they stumble upon the mess Sartha left for them.

***

“I win.”

Kione actually feels the truth of her boast as she stares up at the viewscreen that’s displaying an image of the imperial handler. She’s in Theaboros this time, not Ancyor. Copied over the comm codes. Continuing to slip into Sartha’s mech seemed unwise. Arguably, letting this bloodless ghoul into Theaboros is even more unwise, but Kione’s pretty sure her systems are secure and untraceable. Besides, if talking to the handler is a red line, it’s one Kione has already crossed.

And how is that?

Above her, the handler is a monolith. She looks exactly the same as when Kione last saw her. Not a single hair is out of place. Not a single hair seems to move as she opens her mouth to speak. She is one with her black leather uniform; the coat, the cap, the way they frame her icy face. She is perfection itself.

Kione wants very, very badly to see that composure of hers shatter like glass. She wants to do it somewhere Sartha can see. She wants to ruin her in Sartha Thrace’s eyes.

“I asked her,” Kione brags. “Just like you said. I got Sartha’s secret. I know what she is—and I’m still here.”

What is her secret?

A shiver races across Kione. She is being weighed and measured. She puffs herself up.

“She wants this,” Kione answers. “Deep in Sartha’s soul, she wants what’s happening to her. You brought that desire to the fore, yes, but it was always there. She needs Hound, because otherwise the sheer hypocrisy of her being would tear her apart. But it’s a mask she wears willingly. She’s… happy, like this. In a way.”

The handler nods. Her smile sharpens. She’s impressed. Kione grows warm.

Correct. Sartha Thrace’s spirit grew thin under the weight of her own weariness. She conceived a broken longing for freedom—from strength, from expectations, from the burdens of heroism. From humanity itself. That is exactly what I gave to her. On some level, she wanted it. That was enough.

Another shiver. Kione’s heart is beating the way it usually only does in combat. When she flies Theaboros high above the battlefield, looking down on all the rest of humanity, she is gifted with a delicious sense of superiority. This is no different.

“It’s… it’s why there’s no fixing her.” It’s the first time Kione’s said that out loud. That truth should weigh heavy on her, but she feels as light as a feather. Talking to the handler like this feels like sparring. It’s energizing. “She doesn’t want to be fixed. She knows she can’t carry all that weight again.”

Just so.

“But.” Kione glares daggers at the viewscreen. “I can still save her from you.”

The handler laughs, just once. A quiet sound. Snow trampled into ice underfoot.

She does not want to be saved, either.

“No,” Kione admits. “But she deserves it. For… for who she used to be. At least I actually give a shit about her. At least I won’t make her betray her own people.”

I assure you, I care for her deeply. Regardless, what makes you so confident that you can—as you put it—save her?

“Because she loves me,” Kione answers firmly. She was ready for this. She rehearsed her answers in the shower. “And I love her. I’m… still learning how to do that, exactly. But I can give her what she wants. Last night, I stripped her naked and walked her around the rebel base. Muzzle, leash, tail. And she fucking loved it, and I took care of her afterwards. I can give her everything she wants. She doesn’t need you anymore.”

Fascinating. The handler’s smile is like a needle. I have a question for you. After your walk with Sartha, did you fuck her again?

“What?” Kione splutters. That takes her entirely off-guard. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you need all the lurid details to jerk off to or something?”

The handler smiles politely. It’s simply a question. We’ve already discussed your proclivities—and hers.

Kione finds herself red in the face. Gods, it’s like talking about sex with a teacher. Or a priest.

“I’m not answering that,” she growls. “I don’t have to give you shit.”

I see.

And she really does. That’s the truly awful part. She sees all of Kione. Her blue eyes flash with something, and Kione has never felt more seen. The color of the stars, perhaps.

You aren’t embarrassed because you fucked her. You’re embarrassed because you didn’t.

“The fu-“ Kione has to fight to calm herself, but it’s hard when she suddenly feels cold all over. “H-how do you know that?”

Tell me why. Why not use her?

Her words are a fishhook down Kione’s throat. Before she can think better of it, she finds herself answering.

“It seemed…” she spends a moment grasping for the word, “perfunctory.”

The handler nods thoughtfully. Say more.

“And…” Kione’s brow tightens. She had not thought to put a name to the feelings that moved her to release her urges on her own time, rather than with Sartha. But she must find the words now. She must master herself. She has so much to prove. “For me… demeaning?”

She didn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but it did. The handler lets it hang in the air for a moment. Kione has time to ask herself why she’s so stupidly fucking nervous, and the answer only unsettles her further.

She’s nervous because she’s waiting for approval.

You’re doing very well with her indeed. It’s true that Sartha has been conditioned to crave sexual gratification and objectification, but it needn’t be from you, in quite such a… direct fashion. You will find that she prefers a certain separation. Authority is as essential to her as degradation. Beasts fuck other beasts. Their master provides something altogether different.

Kione nods slowly as she absorbs that. It doesn’t occur to her to doubt it. She would never dream of trusting the handler, but she hasn’t misled her yet. Besides, Kione feels as though she’s already seen much of that in Sartha. It all stands to reason. The harder part is maintaining her grip on her own emotions as she digests. She doesn’t want the handler’s praise to feel good.

But it does.

“Well, thanks for the notes,” Kione says sarcastically. Brashness is her refuge. “Really helpful. But I think I’m good, actually. No need for any more of these delightful little chats. I just wanted to give you a friendly heads-up. Sartha’s mine. I win.”

How amusing. What makes you so sure that she won’t come running back to me the very first time she hears my voice?

Kione’s blood freezes.

“I… she won’t,” she replies lamely.

Why not?

“Because… because she loves me!”

I can make her love me instead.

Cold, then hot. Kione’s fighting not to throw up. She’s embarrassed that’s all it took to plunge her into a panic attack, and the shame only deepens her struggle. She can feel sweat on her brow. No. No, no, no. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not love. She loves me.

Me.

I’m the one who saved her, Kione. I’m the one who broke her in the precise way she most needed to be broken. You forget yourself. You believe that because you hold on the other end of the leash, you are my equal. You are not. You are a pale imitation. I know it. You know it. Sartha knows it.

A nightmare unfolds before Kione. She sees it happening. Sartha, running away from her. Towards the loathsome, beautiful creature on the viewscreen before her. Slipping Kione’s leash. She’d be eager. It’d be a homecoming. And all the words in the world couldn’t stop her.

It’s a knife in Kione’s heart. She starts fumbling for the hatch release to her cockpit. It doesn’t even occur to her to end the transmission. This place feels more like it’s the handler’s domain than her own. She can’t breathe. She can’t believe she was so stupidly fucking cocky. She needs to get out of here.

Calm yourself, Kione. I meant what I said: you’re doing well. But you’re still finding your footing. You must go much, much deeper if you wish to make Sartha Thrace truly yours. Don’t worry. Did you forget? I promised you that I’d help you. I always keep my promises.

Kione can just about hear her words over the sound of her own pounding heart. “How?” she asks thickly, before realizing that’s the wrong question. “No… why? Why pretend you’re fucking helping me?”

Because you and I are not entirely dissimilar. And I would hate to see someone else with such rare qualities remain so aimless.

“We’re nothing alike,” Kione growls. She can’t hear this. Not when she’s already so fucking angry. Being made anxious always gets her angry.

You should hope to be wrong about that. If you’re right, you stand no chance.

“Fuck you.” A furious spray of Kione’s spit hits the viewscreen. “Fuck you! I don’t care what you have to say. I’m gonna beat you. Understand me? I am going to reach into Sartha’s head and rip you out of it. I don’t care how deep I have to go. I don’t care what I have to do. I will tear your face and your voice out of her memories. I will make her hate you. I. Will. Win. Bet your fucking ass on that.”

All the anger in the world wouldn’t have made the handler flinch. Kione should have known that; now, as the corners of her lips turn upward, Kione merely feels petty in her rage. Still, petty is better than panicking.

I am no gambler, but you can call it a wager if that makes you more comfortable. I admit, there’s a certain charm to the idea. Sartha Thrace is the game, and the prize. If you can take her from me, I invite you to do so. I’ll even show you how. Your next lesson is already on its way.

Before Kione can question the sinister implications of that, the handler makes her another, even darker promise.

But one day—and it will not be so very far off—I will come for her. Mark me well, Kione. I will come for her. I will come at your worst moment, to call Sartha back to my side. And if you are not prepared for me, you will lose everything.

Strangely, Kione’s heart has begun to slow. A game. A wager. A challenge. She can handle that. Kione’s life has been nothing but challenges. That’s life, as a mercenary. Nobody’s ever had her back, and it’s never kept her from winning. Kione meant what she said. Whatever it takes. She’ll learn every lesson. She thinks back to that night she had her hands wrapped tight around Sartha’s throat. Kione knows that moment was the cusp of something. A metamorphosis. She gazed into the darkest black, and held its stare. There is nothing she is not capable of.

For love. For Sartha.

Kione nods. It’s on. But as she girds herself to cross the threshold and enter the handler’s world, another question comes to her. Another why. An embarrassing one, really. One any sane person would have asked right at the start. Kione feels almost childish as she asks it—but she really does need to know.

“Why do this?” Kione says quietly. “Like… any of this, I mean. Turning people into… like that. I can’t even imagine… I get it, it’s useful. It works. But, fuck, how did you ever even begin to think of something like that?”

The handler raises an eyebrow. She’s not truly taken aback, but the question seems to have surprised her a little. Perhaps it’s just the incredulous simplicity of it. The tall, black-clad corpse of a woman takes her time to properly consider before answering; before speaking the words that take root inside Kione and grow there like a tumor.

Kione, the handler says slowly, and with great weight. Haven’t you ever moved through your life and felt like you were surrounded by nothing but dogs?

---

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