#just some minor barking in the background

[reagomyeggo]

you’re tellin me there’s a haz in this bin? hotel??? hnnggg.. (fuckin dies)

anyways charlie morningstar everybody, my god is her demon form stunning

[whore-ibly-hot]

THROUGH OUR LORD AND SAVIOR @yanderereblogs THE FACULTY HAVE BEEN FOYND AND RETURNED TO US! PRAISE BE TO REBLOGGERS, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL ARCHIVISTS!

Yandere Boarding School Part 2, (Faculty)

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Multiple yanderes, non-con touching, dub-con, perverted thoughts, obsession, bullying, masturbation, aphrodisiacs, general perversion, dry-humping, voyeurism, controlling behaviors, typical yandere stuff, breeding, smoking, horny posting.

(AN: Part Two has been reuploaded after a takedown, godspeed @yanderereblogs for saving it! Mmmmmm, old men. Everyone pictured as a student is OF LEGAL AGE TUMBLR MODS HOP OFF MY DICK.

Background: Thinking about a Headmasters Son or Daughter!Reader at a private boarding school. For a Fem!Reader, perhaps you're just visiting daddy for the season while he's running the school, or maybe you've been bad, and need more supervision. For a Masc!Reader, it could be the same case, however, with Ridgemoore Academy being an all male school, this makes it easier to imagine a world where reader is allowed in the school. Now, let's focus on the faculty...

◇ Mr. Joel Murphy, who teaches the majority of the 'life skills' classes at the school. The school being all-boys is very traditional, and teaches things like game hunting and orienteering, which is why they hired a manly-man like Joel. If only they knew what a bitter grump he is. An ex-sheriff of the nearby town, he decided to leave the force after realizing there was no real crime in the small, privileged town, and decided to take up an easy job at the school. Unfortunately, he realized his love for camping and hunting is warped into what he considers 'frilly shit for rich little boys'. He's gruff, barking out orders and easily been exasperated at the sheer incompetence of the boys.

"Shoot one quail, and these boys act like they killed a bear..."

He thought about retiring from yet another job, as living on the ritzy campus just doesn't feel like home to him, and lord knows he's not fond of his job. However, things change when you arrive. Whether you're a delinquent or a little more sweet and obedient, he likes you. If you're a delinquent, he likes seeing a little hell-raiser kick up some shit at the fancy school. If you're sweet or shy, he gets protective. Nice youngins' like you shouldn't be thrown in amongst these spoiled weasels.

He's sure to help you if you need it, a gentle hand on your back as his burly chest presses against your shoulder blades, adjusting your position against the butt of a rifle. Standing by while you're on hands and knees trying to light a fire, making sure none of the boys are trying to get a look at your assessts. Not that he isn't going to, but he justifies it to himself as just making sure your school shorts/skirt is regulation. He's protecting your modesty. After class hours, come to him with any issues, or shit, even his room. He'll put on some coffee and ask you to help him create a curriculum that 'reaches the kids', as your father instructed him to. It's cozy, the fancy school adnorments thrown away for medals and plaques, national parks posters and a few old family photos. He'll keep you tucked in on his warm couch while he strays from curriculum talk to stories of his time in the scouts and on the force. Tells you about how much he loves just... laying out under the stars with somebody special, to sit around a campfire with friends, then slyly ask is you've ever had somebody to do that with. He knows you're younger than him, and he struggles with the idea that you won't want him cause of it, so for now, he'll bask in the feeling of seeing you curled up in his room, keeping the idea of picking you up and having you accept his cock to himself. If you can get pregnant, his fists his cock to the thought of that too. He's not some horned up boy, he wants you in the long term.

He looooooves the yearly orienteering final, in which the students in the class are made to go on an actual camping trip. It's possible a tent will 'accidentally' go missing, leaving you to bunk with him. Don't worry, nothing bads gonna happen while you've got this burly bear of a man practically spooning you, warm gut from his dad-bod pressed against you as he tries his best to make sure he doesn't scare you.

"Sorry those damn boys left your tent back at the school, kiddo. I... wouldn't be suprised of one of them did it on purpose, little bastards." He grumbles, hoping you'll take the hint to separate yourself from those immature preps and stick to being with a man who can treat you right. "Remember that lesson from a couple weeks ago, on body heat? I know it's awkward, but we've only got one sleeping bag. You feel like you can trust this old man to keep you warm?" Unfortunately for his ego and trying to keep down his urges, the trees aren't going to be the only wood in the morning.

◇ Mr. Paul Burton, head of the arts department. He's so over this, a once decent artist who dabbled in pop art and theatre only to stop getting gigs and be black-listed after offending several more famous artists, calling their work 'sell-out chic', he's now a burn-out who smokes and ignores his students all class. He's passionate about art, but frankly he doesn't want tow aste his time teaching when he knows these rats are taking his class for easy credit. He's only teaching here to utilize the facilities and studios so he's not living in a van in the Walmart parking lot. A mix of hippie culture, live and let live and cynical burnout, he's so. Fucking. Done. But... maybe you change that for him.

You're interesting, a headmasters child who doesn't fit in to your fathers perfect mold? Maybe a rebellious student who goes against the grain of this perfect school. Or a blooming ray of sunshine in this dark den of privilege and conformist curriculum for the future lawyers of the world. Either way, he's found a new muse. See him after class.

He'll be thrilled if you're into art, let him guide you. Tell him your favorite artists and he'll tell you when he threw up on there shoes by accident in his hey-day. Gossip about a student you don't like, he'll listen while he smokes and tell you about how that guys mom hit on him. He loves to gossip, but he loves to watch you create more. The way your hands shape a vase or brush across a canvas light a fire in him he hasn't felt in a while. He's more willing to forgo the age gap between you, while it's never something he considered before, he knows he's not gonna let go of the one thing that makes him feel like he lives again. Besides, he's always been unconventional.

He'll have you stay after class, maybe he'll have you pose nude for a painting, assuring you it's fins, it's platonic, it's just for the love of art. He chooses and extra large canvas, it lets him paint while he relieves himself as you explain you're getting cold. He'll put on some artsy, silent, black and white film from the 30s, and while you watch and slowly realize it's pornographic, He'll grin to himself while he watches you flush. He'll ask you all sorts of questions about your thoughts on the film, the actors, what they're doing. He really wants to figure out how experienced you are. "What do you think of the composition? It's really carnal, you know?" He puts out his cigarette. "I'm glad I can show this to you, you'll actually appreciate it. You're not giggling like an idiot when some guys penis is out on the screen." He groans, thinking of his other students.

He does actually like one student, though they make an odd pair. Joseph's easily spooked and shy personality clashes with the brash older man's, but he's glad to have someone he can think of as a protege. Someone who loves art as much as him, but get isolated for it. He was doing a portfolio look over when Joseph accidentally turned in the wrong folder. Joseph feels like he might die as Mr. Burton, a man he admires, flips through nude pictures of the object of his affection, and at a distance no less. A part of him wants to rip it away, but he needs this scholarship.

"Please, please, sir! I-I'll never do it again, it was just a phase, I didn't mean for you to see-"

"They're good." Mr. Burton flips through the folder. "Real good. You could really get somewhere with these, maybe not in the fine art scene, but... tell you what." He adjusts his glasses and leans forward on his desk. "We'll do a special session, you and me, yeah? I'll get your friend here, and I'll vouch for your integrity so you can take some less-" he purses his lips. "Stalker-ish pics- Jesus, kid, is that taken from a tree?"

☆ Anatoli Sidorov, probably the best paid staff given how they got him here. He's a Russian coach for a former Olympic Russian swim team, and he joined the prestigious American school to escape shame after he 'resigned' post a doping scandal which he swears he wasn't involved in. (Whether he was or not is your choice.) Still, he's led the boys swim team and track team to nationals several times, and he's a legend among the wealthy benefactors of the school. He's outwardly very serious, hard on his team but respectful of them. He doesn't put up with any unruly or unsportsmanlike behavior from his boys, at least not what he can see. He's very nice deep down, intellectual and funny, though he still struggles with American humor and English.

He adores you when he meets you, milking about with the other students before class. You seem genuinely social, and wanting to fit in. The idea someone could be so welcoming warms his heart. Deep down, he misses his home, and he misses the friends he once had. You're warm, and he likes that. Not to mention, you're a looker. He's embarrassed, especially if you're male, seeing as he never considered swinging the other way, and much less with someone younger. But he can't help but stare when your pretty tits bounce as you run, or the way those jogging shorts hardly conceal your bulge. He even pulled you to the side one to scold you for not wearing regulation gym clothes, before realizing they were and awkwardly sending you back into class. That was a moment of self-reflection for him.

He's not necessarily outwardly softer to you, you might even think he doesn't like you, given that he has you stay late to run or jump rope, or constantly pulls you into time out mid-game. It's all for your own good, trust him. He doesn't like the way some of the boys were looking at you, and he could tell Evan was a only a play away from trying to practically hump you while trying to 'get the ball'. He's made Harrison, who he loves as a player, run laps for talking to you for only a few minutes. He hates feeling like a jealous boy, but he can't help it. You make him feel young.

He establishes a private locker room area for you, since you're the headmasters kid and not an official student. Besides, you're clearly being harassed by the others! So, he's got a nice little closet for you, with a not suspicious air freshener that's not a hidden camera, and a private key only you have access to. (Technically that's true, he just has a bypass key for himself.) He'll snatch a pair of boxers or some panties, slipping them into his track coat for later. Eventually, he'll tell you he's worried you aren't able to catch up to the others, given that you arrived later and started the gym curriculum later than the others. He'll start having extra 'make-up' workouts with you, starting with stretching. One leg uo on the bar, you'll have to excuses his cold hand running along your thigh, or stroking over your chest as him just admiring how your strength and flexibility is evolving. He relishes the feeling of your body on his, groping you under the guise of training and resisting the urge to just slip aside your gym shorts and veg you to take him.

"Little star, part 'dem a little, there ve go." He keeps your legs parted as he works you into a position on your back, against the rubber mats the tumbling team had laid out. He lays just over you, pushing your legs back a little further with his arms, just far away enough to keep you from noticing his hard on, but enough to lightly press it against the plush swell of your ass. Good, let's just- fuck- hold. Let's hold."

☆ Kory Koffman, English teacher and part time librarian! The school outs so much effort into sports, both admin and students seem to forget about him. Hell, the library is used so little they fired the librarian, and he took it upon himself to try and care for the building himself. He's a sweet, shy man, who just wants to share his passion for literature with others. However, unlike Mr. Burton, he was never popular or famous, so he's content to keep to himself, but the loneliness does get to him.

When you wandered into his library one day, maybe looking for a book or seeking refuge from a hoarde ofadmirers, he was happy to welcome you into his little safe haven. He'll give you some warm tea from the little coffee machine he has set up, and sit you down. Let him help you find a book, or tell you about his creative writing class? He'd let you join, even late in the semester! It's not a very full class.

For the first time in his life, he finds himself craving the attention of another, of someone else's company, other than his books. He hasn't felt that need for connection since he was a boy, after his momma passed. He'll do anything to keep you there, and if reading isn't your thing, much to his chagrin, he'll add a DVD section to the library, but only good films and classic for you! No Adam Sandler, those movies are to overstimulating for poor Mr. Koffman.

As his feelings turn romantic, he's ashamed. You're a student, and he's a lonely old man, you deserve someone better, someone your age. However, the thought of you being with any of the many students who mock him in the halls or disrupt his class, the thought of hand you over to those-those imbeciles, hurts him. He wants you, and he's ashamed at the way his trousers go tight when you bend over to get a fallen book, or when you hand him his glasses after he misplaced them (again), the fact he just stares at your finger prints for awhile and refuses to clean the lens. He's not had sex in a long, long time, but he finds himself masturbating more than he ever did when he was younger. He'll watch library security footage openly, moaning and whimpering at his desk with no fear anybody will stop in, no one ever does but you. He wants you as his spouse, you already make his library, his home away from home seem brighter, imagine what you could do for his actual apartment.

"Oh, hello! It's good to see you, it's been a bit." He's a little bitter at that last statement, but adjusts his glasses and continues. "Just remember to stop by often, okay? I'd really, really hate to impose the late policy on you..."

☆ Atticus Critch, the schools latin instructor and head sponsor of student body, (not to mention the man in charge of detention), is a strict disciplinarian. He takes no nonsense from anyone, and despises the behavioral pardons given to boys like Evan or Harrison simply because they are athletes. Peter is obviously his favorite, and when he catches wind of the ways the boys around campus are speaking about you, he decides to take it upon himself to remove the distraction, by having Carter trail you and give you detention for minor inconveniences. Carter isn't particularly thrilled at always having to send you to detention instead of extorting you to get his rocks off, but he's hoping maybe he'll get to 'monitor' detention one of these days.

Initially, Mr. Critch has you doing small tasks, writing lines or organizing things, but soon he starts to see the appeal. If you're a good student for the most part, he's determined to keep you good, and away from all the vermin in this school. If you're bad, he's had plenty of experience in taming brats. He's open with his sexual desires, it his growing affection for you that makes him struggle.

If you've stayed out too late and broke curfew, you can spend detention on your knees, suckling his cock into the late hours. Maybe you've been running around with Tyler. He'll make you lay down on his desk and deny you your climax over and over again, asking 'if not making you cum' is what that boy does to you, never fully satisfying you. He'll make you beg to finish, and to promise you'll be good from now on.

"Come on, repeat it. Tell me you'll be good now, that you won't bother with BOYS-" He annuciates with a thrust, "When you have a man right here, whose willing to take time out of his day to discipline you!" One the amorous session is over though, he definitely softens, trying to prove he's more than a boy in many ways, including good aftercare. He'll dress your limp form back up in your uniform and walk you get you a cup of water from the fountain. "Only ten minutes till your detention is over, dear. Just sit there, take some time to reflect on how you got here." His tone is demeaning, but as he pets your scalp, his touch is so feather-light. Don't expect is to last into the next day though.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Physical Graffiti

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean Winchester/Castiel, Brief Dean Winchester/Ash, Brief Dean Winchester/Max Banes, John Winchester/Kate Milligan, Past John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Lee Webb, Past Dean Winchester/Cassie Robinson, Past Dean Winchester/Others, Past Castiel/Others, Implied Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Past Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Harper Sayles/Vance, Edward Carrigan/Madge Carrigan, Jenny Sorenson/OMC, Larry Pike/Joanie Pike, Background Max/Stacy.

Length: 75000

Warnings: Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Additional Content Warnings: Self Harm, Alcohol Use Disorder, Recreational Drug Use, Child Abuse, Past Non-Con, Past Underage, Past Drug Addiction, Minor Character Death, Mental Health Issues

Tags: Case Fic, Murder Mystery, Horror Elements, Slow Burn, Journalist Dean Winchester, Detective Cas, Eventual Hopeful Ending, Families of Choice

Posting Date: November 4, 2024

Summary: The only ghosts and demons are the ones inside his head.  Fresh from a prematurely-ended stint at an inpatient psychiatric facility, ‘former’ self-harmer and functional alcoholic Dean Winchester returns to Sioux Falls, where he works as a crime journalist. His editor, Bobby Singer, sends him back home to Lawrence to gather the story on the murder of a teen boy and the recent disappearance of another. Painful memories from growing up resurface as the missing boy turns up horrifically dead and another goes missing.  The investigation is further complicated by the town’s gossipy tight-knit nature, Dad’s judgment, and botched attempts at making inroads with his estranged half-family, Kate and Adam Milligan.  Dean crosses paths with Castiel Novak, a renegade detective from Kansas City with a troubled past of his own. As they work together, they slip past each other’s defenses, unearthing each other’s secrets and digging for the truth.  As it turns out, monsters just might be real—and they just might live at home.  A Sharp Objects-inspired AU.

Excerpt: A dumpy parking lot, leaning against Baby’s hood, looking to the stars—it reminds Dean of doing the same with the football jocks. The way he’d smuggle stolen beer cans in Dad’s jacket pocket, turning him from ‘homo’ to ‘hero’ in their eyes. Stupidly, it reminds him of Lee.  Dean sneaks a glance over at Cas’ profile, tracing the angle of his jaw as he tilts his head up. The same stupid butterflies flap in his stomach. He suffocates them with a few swigs. “So, our arrangement. I’ll answer a question for each one you answer,” Cas offers, his adam’s apple bobbing.  “Deal.”  “What was it like growing up in Lawrence?” Dean whistles. “Starting with hardballs, huh? You don’t pull any punches.”  “Would you rather I ask for your favorite color?” Cas teases.  He groans. “No, none of that grade school shit. Gimme the real scoop.” Cas raises a pointed brow. You first. “Alright, Lawrence.” He sighs, bracing himself. “Mom had… my brother when I was four.” His voice wavers slightly when he brings up Sammy.  “Adam is much younger, though, isn’t he?”  “Different brother, Kate’s my stepmom. Me and Sam, we’re our Mom’s. She died when Sam was six months old. House fire.” Cas’ eyes sadden, but he doesn’t say anything. “But, as far as growing up—normal, I guess. Went to the school district nearby, was in wrestling for a little bit. I wasn’t some prodigy but I did okay, grades-wise.” “I bet you were Mr. Popular.” Dean barks a laugh. “Uh, no. Sorta depends on who you ask.” Depends on what year. “After graduation, I left for college.” Dean skips over the rest of the highlight reel.  “And Sam?” “Hey, you gotta answer at least one question first,” Dean pokes him. “Why is a detective from Kansas City down in Lawrence?”  “My supervisor likes to send me out on solo cases for assists. I don’t exactly work well with others.”  “Well, you and I make a pretty good team—a little chaotic, maybe, but at least we ruled two suspects off your list.”  “That we did. It’s a shame you’re not a detective.” “Reporters are detectives of sorts. We both look for narrative, just in different ways.” Cas gives a thoughtful hum. “My turn again. What happened to Sam?” Dean’s throat convulses. “He died. We were in our teens.” “What happened?” “He was sick all the time. One day, he just… kept getting worse. His body couldn’t take it.” Sammy’s ghost observed them, sadly, flickering in an in-between state.  “I’m sorry, Dean.”  They sit in silence for a few moments. Panic builds in Dean’s chest, and he worries that he’s ruined whatever rapport they’d been building.  “I’ll tell you something if you swear to not tell another soul?”  Dean nods, relief settling over him. He eats secrets for breakfast.  “The real reason I work Homicide is because it’s better than what I used to do.”  “What’s so bad that working Homicide is better?” Cas looked down and didn’t answer.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[unreliablesnake]

Animals (Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader)

Summary: Ghost hates you. But he's also slightly obsessed with you. This duality leads to an encounter that satisfies his needs, but only releases the beast inside.

Note: Based on this poll and Maroon 5's song Animals. I hope you'll like this. Tell me what you think.

Part 2

Warnings: toxic!Ghost, afab!reader, p in v, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroat, unprotected sex, etc. MINORS DNI!!!

You ending up in the 141 was a punishment. Well, at least it felt like it. Every time you moved, you felt Ghost's darkened eyes following you suspiciously, making sure you didn't do anything stupid, anything that could compromise the task force.

You had worked together in the past, before this team was even assembled, and you went against his order on that mission. He was fucking pissed, refusing to talk to you because otherwise he would have yelled at you without stopping. He didn't tell you why exactly he was mad, after all the mission was a success despite your disobedience.

And now he held a grudge, making you uncomfortable with the heavy silence whenever you were left alone somewhere. You tried to avoid him, desperately clinging to the other members of the team to be saved, but somehow he always found a way to make you feel like shit.

"Behave out there," he once barked as he looked over at you gearing up before leaving the base.

That was all he said. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Price give him a disapproving look, but that didn't seem to bother him. He just returned his attention to his vest, checking if everything was in place. Soap asked him why he was so mad, but Ghost ignored him.

Under the quiet surface the lieutenant was fuming from anger, feeling desperate now that he had to babysit you on the field. He had tried to convince Price to let you work with him and Gaz, hoping this way he would have to spend as little time with you as it was absolutely necessary. But it didn't work and he was stuck with you.

You were annoying, and reckless, and disobedient, but god damn it, you were so hard to resist. A deeply hidden part of his brain was craving you, flashing images of you being naked in his bed, whimpering pathetically as he fucked you.

It was excruciating, having these opposite feelings for you. One half hated you and would have given everything to be able to cut you out of his life entirely, while his other half wanted to own every inch of you.

When the mission was over, things returned to normal. You went home, relieved to be able to spend some time away from his judging eyes. You went to a beauty salon to have your hair done, you did some grocery shopping, and once you got back to your apartment, you cooked yourself a delicious meal.

It was such a nice change, just sitting at the dining table with the plate in front of you, a glass of wine waiting for you to drink it, and your favorite playlist playing in the background. Nights like this you considered quitting, giving up your current lifestyle to have a relatively normal life. Maybe you could finally have a stable relationship, something more meaningful than a string of one-night stands.

Later you poured yourself another glass of wine and went to the living room, getting lost in the rhythm of the music your body swayed to without thinking. You were having fun on your own, for the first time in months feeling good in your skin. No evil glares, no rude comments. Only the safety of your home.

What you couldn't know was that you weren't completely alone. From down the street, Ghost was watching you, his phone's camera focusing on you before snapping some photos. Photos he would store on a safe drive at home, hidden in secret folders along with the hundreds if not thousands of pictures he had taken of you in secret.

He wondered if you knew everyone could see you in nothing but your lingerie, a piece of clothing that wrapped around your skin so perfectly that the sight made his mouth water under the mask.

Ghost was the predator and you were his prey, the innocent little animal having no idea that a beast like him was stalking her. If you knew, you would probably run and hide, but he would find you, after all he could smell your scent from miles.

When you turned off the lights and probably went to bed finally, he went home as well and spent the rest of the night lying awake in bed, thinking about you with his hand tightly wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly as he imagined finally having you the way he wanted.

The next day he was in front of your apartment again, knowing perfectly well you had only gone to a bakery across the street to get something for breakfast. While on a mission about a year ago, around the same time his twisted obsession with you had begun, he stole your phone and installed a software to keep track of your whereabouts.

He hated himself for feeling this way about you, he despised this primal need to have you pinned under his body. It was all so vulgar, so obscene that he tried not to think about it when he was on a mission. But when he was home? Then he would let his needs loose, which usually ended up with him following you around.

Today was shopping day. You went to buy some clothes apparently, and while he waited for you outside the stores, Ghost couldn't help but imagine the way you undressed in the fitting room. He wished he could see you strip for him, slowly getting rid of your clothes, taking them off one by one before throwing them into a corner.

You met a friend for lunch, the two of you chatting casually about their relationship issues, even gossiping about friends you both knew. Who dated who, who had a new job, plastic surgery, family issues, and so on. It was all so normal that you couldn't thank them enough for their time.

What you didn't talk about was work. Your job, specifically. The tiring months away from home, the constant sense of danger, the sleepless nights in uncomfortable cots and beds, and the disappointed looks you constantly got from your superior.

Because Ghost was always in the back of your mind, the look he gave you whenever his eyes landed on you engraved in your brain. It was suffocating you, giving you barely enough time to fully relax. Alcohol could help, but you didn't want to turn yourself into an alcoholic just to get through the day.

After you got home you began to binge-watch rom-coms from the early 2000s, completely forgetting about time along the way. You were only snapped out of this sweet haze when your doorbell rang, reminding you that people outside this apartment existed.

Your good mood evaporated the moment you opened the door and found yourself looking at Ghost's tall frame, his tattooed forearm resting on the doorframe as he looked down at you. You opened your mouth to say something, to find out what in the hell he was doing there, but no sound left your throat.

The lieutenant had enough of waiting and simply let himself in, pushing you out of the way to enter. As he had sat in the cafe across the street about an hour ago, keeping an eye on the main entrance of the building, Ghost thought about what to do with you.

"We need to sort things out," he announced when you closed the door and slowly dragged yourself closer to him.

You froze like a deer in the headlights, your big beautiful eyes slowly blinking at him as if you didn't understand a word he said. Then he noticed a glint in your eyes, as if you'd just woken up from a dream.

"Get the fuck out of my place. We'll sort this out when we're on a mission," you said angrily, your voice surprisingly stern as you spoke.

You were confident now, okay. He could handle that. He could sure as hell fuck this confidence out of you. Without hesitation he pushed off his mask then put a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you into a messy and hungry kiss. You tried to resist, to push him away, but he only used his free hand to stop you from squirming around.

In a matter of short minutes you stopped resisting him, giving up your common sense and giving in to the need he knew you also felt. It had to end this way, there was no other ending to your story. When he gently bit your lower lip, a deep moan escaped your throat, a sound that only made it harder to behave.

"I hate you," you breathed between kisses.

It was okay. He didn't need you to love him or even like him. What he felt wasn't love. It was lust with a hint of some dangerous obsession, something he simply couldn't control. "The feeling's mutual, love. But let's be honest, you're enjoying it just as much as I do."

And damn it, he was right. His kiss, his touch was intoxicating, making you feel so good in such a short amount of time. When he asked you where the bedroom was, you immediately told him, this time obeying him without thinking.

He undressed you, taking away each piece of clothing with care, his fingers exploring the skin they had been hiding all along. When you were standing in front of him completely naked, he ordered you to lie down on the bed with your head hanging down over the edge. Deep down you knew what he wanted to do, and it made you excited.

As you got into position, he quickly undressed himself, revealing his hard, throbbing cock that made your mouth water. You were a little worried, having no idea if his length would fit into your mouth, and already knowing your jaw would hurt after this. But you wanted to do it, you wanted him to use your mouth and throat like a fleshlight.

And Ghost was more than happy to give you what you were waiting for, he also needed this to ease the excitement that was slowly killing him. He took his cock in his hand, stroking it a few times to cover it with his pre-cum before reaching out with his free hand to pry your pretty mouth open. "Open up, baby," he told you.

You obediently did what he ordered, and he slowly pushed the head between your lips, at first just warming you up with small thrusts. But then he dived in deeper, going until the tip reached your throat, making you gag a little.

That didn't stop him, though, he kept fucking your mouth without hesitation. "Fuck, you're such a good little slut, taking my cock like this," he groaned, his hand stroking your cheek. Once he knew you relaxed enough to take him so well, he reached out to tease your cunt, brushing it with his palm, enjoying the wetness that covered his hand.

You could feel the tears form in your eyes as he kept going, wondering how long you would be able to have him in you without feeling your jaw being too sore for it. But when he touched you, all of your doubt disappeared, giving space to the need to have his long fingers inside you, fucking you on both sides.

When he finally began to pump his fingers inside you, you moaned against his cock, a sound that made him groan. "You like it? I can do this all day to you, sweetheart," he said, out of breath. He was close, you could feel it, but you weren't too far behind thanks to his experienced fingers.

It was embarrassing to even think about this happening to you. It wasn't the sex that bothered you, more that it was him from all people. Ghost hated you, you knew he had been honest when he told you that, and you weren't lying either. But this was different, this was so dirty and primal, something you definitely wouldn't tell anyone.

Something that shouldn't happen again.

But now you enjoyed it. You loved to feel his cum on your face when he came, while your juices were dripping out of you, covering his fingers that kept fucking you through your orgasm.

When he was done, he went to the bathroom to get a towel so he could clean your face, an act that was surprisingly tender. He kept telling you what a good girl you'd been, how much he enjoyed having you like this. "It's probably the tension between us. Hate sex suits us," he offered a possible explanation with the hint of a smile.

It didn't take him long to get hard again, and he picked you up like a ragdoll and tossed you into the position he wanted you to be in for him. Ass in the air, resting your weight on your forearms. That's what he wanted, admiring the view of your cunt that was still glistering from the remains of your high.

He couldn't hold himself back, he simply couldn't wait to let you get used to his girth, to slowly and carefully stretch you for himself. Instead he pushed all of length inside with one thrust, the tip reaching your cervix and drawing a pathetic cry out of you. He loved this sound, it only made him go on harder, soon picking up a steady pace.

His hands were gripping your hips so tightly that you just knew it would leave a bruise behind, but you didn't mind, not as long as he made you feel this good. He was pushing you close to your limit, testing how much you could take without breaking.

Your forehead hit the mattress, teeth sinking into your hand to bite back your moans, for some reason thinking you had to be quiet because of your neighbors. But Ghost wasn't fond of the muffled noises apparently, because he reached out to pull your head away from your hand. "I wanna hear you, love," he said quietly.

His breathing suddenly changed, a telltale sign that he was close to his own climax. He put one hand on your stomach, and another arm around your neck to pull you up against his chest, his pace never slowing, his thrusts just as deep as before.

You were lost in the sensation, your brain not functioning properly anymore as you let him use you as some filthy fucktoy. Ghost knew what he was doing, and he could certainly read your body language perfectly well to know what you did and didn't like. Whenever he got too rough, the chokehold he had you in becoming too tight for you liking, he eased up.

But when he came, filling you with his cum in the company of a series of deep growls and groans, he reached down to rub your clit, making sure you climaxed as well. You threw your head back against his shoulder, looking him in the eye as you came down from your high.

Your body went limp, and if he hadn't held you tightly, you would've fallen face first into the mattress. "Are you okay?" he asked you quietly, placing a kiss on your head.

You mumbled something under your breath, but it didn't make any sense. You couldn't speak, not yet. This was more intense than anything you'd ever experienced, your brain definitely needed time to catch up with your body.

"Hey, are you listening?" When you didn't answer, he began to laugh. "Damn, I really fucked you brainless, didn't I?"

Ghost couldn't hide his smile, satisfied to see you in this state, feeling proud that he could achieve his goal. You weren't cocky or confident anymore, you were just a brainless meat sack, with no coherent thoughts in your brain.

Not long after this you fell asleep, and Ghost used this time to take a look around your apartment. He checked your clothes, surprised to find so many beautiful dresses in your closet, along with some sexy lace bras that you definitely didn't wear on missions. Then he went to the living room where he found photos on the shelves, probably ones with your family on them.

Your phone was on the coffee table so he checked that as well, glad to know your password. He went through your emails and instant messages to see who you were talking to, and he became furious when he saw your Tinder dates messaging you, asking for another meeting.

That was more than enough for him, he simply gathered his things and left without waking you or leaving a note behind. He needed time to calm down, preferably far from you. While he still hated you, still wished he could get rid of you forever, that stupid obsessed part of him was still there in the back of his mind, making him feel jealous.

When he returned home, he connected his secret drive to his laptop to go through the photos and videos he stored on it. Fucking you wasn't enough apparently, his mind kept returning to you, the need to keep an eye on you coming back without a warning.

With a sigh he checked the app on his phone the next evening, noting that you were in some bar near your apartment. You probably went there with a friend, but something told him it could just as well be some guy that was sending messages to you. He had to go there and see it for himself. If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to sleep that night.

Weeks passed without you hearing from Ghost. You still thought about him, feeling disgusted that you actually liked the way he fucked you that day. But now that you were going on another mission, you began to wonder what things would be like between you now. Would he be nicer to you finally? Would he at least give you some credit?

In the end none of this happened. When you met again, you were greeted by his cold, dead eyes, his words sounding harsher than ever before. You overheard Soap telling about this to Gaz, and the two men began to wonder how long it would be before Price stepped in. They were right. The captain wasn't fond of this kind of behavior, especially not when it was a lieutenant treating his own sergeant like this.

"You stay put," Ghost told you when you began to get out of the car.

You looked over at Soap with a questioning look, but he only shrugged in response, having no idea what was happening. "Why?" you asked your superior.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly with closed eyes to calm himself. "Because I said so. Stay in the car and don't move."

"Lt., we need all the help we can get out there," Soap tried as he walked around the car and stopped next to the other man. "Just let her come with us."

But he didn't listen, only shut the door in your face and signaled the Scot to follow him. You didn't know why he had to be like this with you. Apart from that one time you had disobeyed him, you never gave him a reason to treat you like this.

Ghost's blood pressure had to be off the charts as he walked away from the car. Soap kept talking, trying to convince him to let you join them, but he didn't give in. He couldn't give in. His mixed feelings for you couldn't cloud his judgment. He was your higher up, he had every right to tell you what to do.

Even if that need probably came from the frustration he felt whenever he followed you around outside of missions. There he couldn't talk to you, couldn't tell you what to do, where to go, who to talk to. Nothing. He had absolutely no control over your life.

Fuck. So his decision really did come from those mixed feelings. Price had noticed something was wrong between the two of you a long time ago, and he warned him before leaving the base that day. "Treat her right. I don't want unnecessary tension in the team," he said.

Letting out a sigh, he turned to the sergeant. "Soap, go back for her. I hope she won't fuck this up for us this time," he said, hoping he would pass this message on.

"Aye, sir," the Scot said with a smile. "I'll be right back with her."

Ghost truly hoped he wouldn't regret this. You were distracting him, especially since he finally had to chance to sleep with you. He had withdrawal symptoms that were getting worse by each day, reminding him that you were like a fucking drug that he couldn't get out of his mind.

No. Focus. He had to focus. Shit. Why was this so hard all of a sudden?

"What changed your mind? Suddenly remembered that I'm part of the team?" you asked when you and Soap caught up with him.

Turning to you, the lieutenant gave you a sharp look. If he ever had the chance to fuck you again, you would definitely pay for this question. Just one chance. That's all he wanted to correct your behavior.

[peachesofteal]

Trick or Treat

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/female reader 1.8k words For @glitterypirateduck's GAZFEST Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. No smut but contains suggestive themes, slice of life, dad!Kyle, light angst, fluff/comfort. Brief character appearance from another series. I didn't use a prompt for this but it is a one shot.

Trick or treating is an odd custom. 

You feel this way, because like Kyle, you didn’t grow up in a place where knocking on doors for candy was a predominant tradition. Halloween was celebrated, surely, but dressing up as little ghouls and running around, screaming ‘smell my feet’ to your neighbors was just… not a thing when you were a child. 

Times have changed though, since you were young. Customs have floated across the oceans. They have melted into new traditions, new practices that took over schools and playground chatter. 

“I wan’ ta be a ghost!” Oliver’s little face beams up at you as he clutches your hand, skipping beside your body with boundless energy, crisp brown leaves crunching beneath his heels. 

“A ghost?!” you gasp, fake fear making him shriek with giggles. “That’s too scary!”

“Naw it’s not!” it’s a playful protest, and you when you turn the corner, he forgets all about the allure of trick or treating for something infinitely better. 

The sight of his dad standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. His dad, who he hasn’t seen in nearly three weeks, waiting for him. For you. 

He takes off into a sprint.

He’s only four, but fast, and you stay on his heels as he flings himself into the arms of his father. 

“DADDY!”

“Don’t you look the part.” Kyle murmurs, heat creeping up your neck into your cheeks when his hands graze your waist. He ducks under the brim of the black, pointed witch hat you managed to find last minute, and presses his lips against yours. You savor him, soaking in everything, the smell of his skin, the remnant flavor of sweetened peppermint on his tongue, the heat of his body pressed to yours. 

Everything you’ve been missing. 

Everything you’ve ever needed. 

“Do you like it?” you croon, and his hands lift the edge of your shirt, just enough so that his palm lays flat against you, kneading against your hip. 

“It’s… bewitching?” He tries the word before the crack of a smile forms, a breathy chuckle, amusement at himself blooming across his face. 

He stuns you. Still. Even after five years. Even after being married, having his child, being separated across continents for too many too long stretches of time. 

“I think-“ you’re about to tell him that you’re thinking about after trick or treating, when Oli will be asleep, when the house will be quiet and dark, all of the candy given away, the candles blown out. When his body will be flush with yours in bed, and you’ll push and pull one another into a daze of pleasure. 

He’s been home for a week, but the longing, the wanting never stops. It only builds, desperate to drink up as much of him as possible, eager to hang on to everything he gives you before he goes again. 

“I’m ready!” Oliver’s shout interrupts you, chiming over some camp Halloween music crackling in the background, finally ready for his grand entrance even though you got him ready over a half hour ago, and Kyle huffs a laugh into your neck before you both pivot to where your son stands on top of the stairs, clad in his very fancy, brand new Buzz Lightyear costume. 

“What's this?” A perfectly packaged Buzz Lightyear costume sits on the kitchen table, and Kyle rubs the back of his neck. 

“He ah- didn’t want to be a ghost anymore.” 

“What?” The dog barks from the backyard, pulling a glance from you to where Oliver plays with her, where they chase each other around in circles in the dusk lit grass.  

“And I couldn’t tell him no…” Your husband tries to explain sheepishly, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing. 

“Yeah, you’re not really good at that.” His hand envelopes yours, lips pressing to your knuckles. “That’s alright though.” You know he feels guilty. He feels the weight of his absence, feels the pain every time he comes, or goes. 

You try to hold it for him. The sadness. The remorse. The struggle. Try to put the flames out, when they grow too high, when it’s too much for him to bear. After all, Oliver was a decision the two of you made, together.

Sometimes you succeed in lessening this weight that he carries.

Sometimes you do not. 

“Okay, hold still!” you hurry backwards, lining them up in the frame on the front step, flanked by the poorly carved jack o lanterns, the jagged teeth and uneven eyes glinting at you from where the LED lights flicker inside their hollowed-out guts. 

Oliver grins, looking between you and his dad, who crouches beside him, holding him close in an embrace. They have their arms around one another, and they're so happy, so sweet, that you have you hurry up and blink your tears away before Kyle’s super senses catch on. 

You click a million frames of the same photo, just in case, selecting the second one to send off in a group message. 

>Buzz and his favorite Sergeant go trick or treating!  >Soap: I thought I was his favorite Sergeant?  >Price: Enjoy, make sure you get some of the good candy for yourselves!  >You: Of course, and we will! Soap, send pics of Bee in her costume and the fam!  

The response comes fast, a picture, a selfie in an elevator. Soap’s got a half full pillowcase in one hand, and the phone in his other, their partner standing behind him, her fingers folded over his waist, face beaming and bright as she smiles up at the camera. Ghost looms next to her with a little girl curled up against his chest in a homemade bumblebee costume. 

Kyle barks out a laugh, and types out a quick reply. 

>Kyle: Who made that costume? I know it wasn’t you, Soap. >Ghost: It definitely wasn’t. 

“Muuum!” It’s an impatient whine, and you slide your phone away, handing him his plastic pumpkin. 

“Alright, rules.” Kyle begins, the tone of his voice serious enough to jog Oli’s attention immediately. “Stay with us at times. No running too far ahead. Mum or I should be able to see you, yeah?” Oli nods agreeably. “No crossing the street without a grown up. And say thank you at the door.” 

“But wot if they give me apples?” 

“Say smell my feet.” Kyle deadpans and Oliver’s eyes go wide, while you smack your husband’s bicep lightly. 

“No! You still say thank you. Buzz Lightyear likes apples, you know.” Oli deflates a bit, and Kyle laughs, pulling him in for a hug. The little boy melts, still content to just be cuddled and held by his dad, even though he tells everyone he’s a ‘big boy now’. You try to memorize the sight, something to think back on in a few weeks when your bed is empty again, and there’s one less setting at the dinner table. 

“What are we waiting for?” Kyle pats Oliver on the back, and then the three of you take off down the street under the orange glow of All Hallows Eve. 

“He’s cleaning up well.” Kyle muses. Oliver runs down the sidewalk, pointing at his orange globe with pure excitement. 

“Mmmm.” You hum your agreement, pulling your jacket a little tighter. It’s gotten cooler since the sun went down, and the crisp fall air nips at your skin.  “Cold, love?” A warm arm goes around your shoulders and then tucks you in tight, close enough that your face can nestle into his clavicle. “I’ll warm you up later.” He murmurs and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re so cheeky sometimes, you know that?” 

“I do.” He’s solemn when he says it, but his eyes twinkle, mischievous streak simmering just beneath the surface of his enchanting gaze. 

“No question where he gets it from.” Kyle’s fingers touch your temple and then swipe down, glancing across your cheekbone before he’s cupping your face fully, tilting your mouth up to his for a dizzying kiss. 

“You’re not so well behaved yourself.” He chides between the slide of your lips, and you smirk into it, nipping at him when he deepens the kiss. Your heart glows in your chest, warm, happy, sated, and you melt into him, content to be swallowed in the bliss of his touch, his love- 

Oliver screams. 

Everything happens at once. 

Oliver screams, and you both recognize it immediately. You gasp, moving to turn away but you’re too slow, far too slow compared to Kyle. You feel the strength of his body, his muscles turned to action in your grip, and then nothing, save for his absence. 

He’s already gone. 

He’s already over the fence, and up the little yard of the house where you son stands with tears streaming down his cheeks. 

There’s a bowl of candy on chair next to him, and as you get closer, you notice that it has one of those animatron hands in it, the ones that snap forward and grab someone unsuspecting when they reach for a treat. 

Oh. Your body sags with relief. Your heart slows to a slightly elevated pace. 

“You’re alright, shhh. I’m here. Dad’s here.” Kyle has Oliver in a hug, and he rocks him side to side, rubbing his back and whispering soothingly. “Just had a scare, is all.” Your son’s crying relaxes, and he sniffles, keeping his face pressed into Kyle’s chest, hands clutching at him. When Kyle moves to stand, he lets out a frightened cry, and your husband is quick to comfort him, shushing in his ear as he holds him tight. “I’m right here.” He coos, rising with the boy in his arms, looking at you over his head. 

“I think that’s enough for tonight then.” You whisper, leaning forward to peer at Oliver’s sleepy and tearful face. It’s late, well past his bedtime, and he’s already hit every house on the block, filling his little jack o lantern to brim. “Let’s go home?” Kyle nods his agreement. 

Your fingers intertwine with his during the walk home. He holds you, and his son, the entire way, until the front door is swinging open and the two of you are lowering Oliver into bed, tucking him in carefully and kissing him goodnight. Kyle strokes a gentle touch across his cheek, and you volunteer to do the clean-up downstairs so he can linger there, sitting by his son’s bed, watching over his sleeping form. 

When you’re done, and the lights have been turned off, the jack o lanterns no longer flickering in the night, the street nearly quiet, Kyle pulls you into your bedroom.

“Want to leave the hat on?” He raises a brow, and you smother a giggle before pulling the pointy hat off your head with a flourish.

“Trick or treat?” He steals the question from your lips with his, pulling you downwards, burying you between his body and the sheets. 

“I love you.” He whispers against you in the dark, mouth tracing a map across your skin. “Happy Halloween, my love.” 

[draculasfavoritewife]

Hunted

Summary: Tatooine is a planet filled with old ghosts, and when one of yours rears its ugly head again, your Mandalorian takes matters into his own capable hands.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and minor OC death at the end. Allusions to hunter/prey roleplay and bondage, my voice kink makes a couple of cameo appearances. I the writer was particularly thirsty for Din Djarin the day I wrote this and thus take full responsibility for the results.

This is really one of the most blatantly self-indulgent things I've written, born of many long daydreaming sessions and my love for any episode where my man rubs elbows with the delightful and despicable denizens of the OG desert planet. I truly can't explain it, Tatooine Din™️ just hits me different, so please enjoy this very long fic about it.

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

You step into the crowded main street of the city, taking a moment to let all of your senses adjust to the stark difference. The last week or so has been spent on the ship in a cold vacuum, the gleaming blur of hyperspace and the steady thrum of engines a constant gentle halo in the background. It was nice, if a little quiet for your personal taste. Your partner certainly doesn’t talk much, and you tend to spend much of your time alone with him less conversationally inclined as a result.

He’s rubbed off on you that way. 

Now the twin suns of Tatooine scorch down on you from above, making eyes that have become accustomed to soft darkness sting. A throng of street vendors, lowlifes, and ne’er-do-wells streams through the ragtag market on all sides, moving bodies chattering nonstop in floods of Basic, Huttese, Aqualish, Droid, and snatches of more exotic tongues. 

A moment, and you feel yourself suddenly at ease again, as your brain resets back to your old lifestyle in the Core Worlds. It feels like putting on a well-loved shaak-leather coat that remembers all your contours just right. 

“You look happy,” the Mandalorian observes from beside you. 

You always wonder about him, how he's actually faring under that helmet, so shiny in this harsh light that you come away with spots in your vision after glancing at him too long. Din walks with the easy confidence of a man that’s walked these alleys many times before, but you know him more personally than most. He’s a quiet man under that shell, one who vastly prefers his solitude and finds the company of most beings in the galaxy a soul-stealing chore after two minutes. 

And unlike you, he never relaxes. 

“I am.” You side-eye him, briefly admiring his prowling stride as he diligently scans the moving figures surrounding the pair of you. “Sometimes I really like big crowds.” 

“You’re crazy,” he remarks. “This many people add too many variables.” 

“Your comment stands.” You draw closer to him in order to reach into the satchel slung across his body and ruffle the Kid’s long ears. “But to me, it’s almost easier. I can usually read people’s intentions pretty well. Bodies speak louder in crowds.” 

“I suppose.” He hasn’t stopped his surveillance yet. You can guess at how his eyes are darting here and there beneath the visor. He probably has at least two escape routes planned out already, if not more. 

You want nothing more than to tell him to relax and enjoy himself — you’re not even here on hunter business, simply to refuel and stock up on supplies before your next run — but you know that’s a useless endeavor. 

“I found that strangely hot, by the way,” you say instead, since it HAS been taking up space in your mind for some time. 

“What?” 

“Finding out you speak Tusken. That’s VERY attractive.” 

It was. When he had to negotiate with the scouts on your way into town, you couldn’t deny the fluttering in your stomach at hearing his low, smoky voice bark out the harsh sounds as he supplemented his meaning with crisp sign language. 

And besides the sound of it, you certainly find it very hot for a man of his stature to be so willing and ready to communicate and settle fraught situations peacefully. 

“I — what — I don’t — ?” 

It still makes you grin, how easily flustered he is when you catch him off-guard with flirting. 

“Don’t you think so, Grogu?” You poke the Kid’s tiny nose. “Isn’t it attractive when your buir talks like that?” 

The little one squeals enthusiastically in response, probably more to your teasing than the actual question. 

“Stop that, don’t encourage her.” Din casts a disapproving look first at the Kid and then at you; it strikes you as funny how well you can translate such a simple tilt of the helmet. “And don’t you ask him that, he’s just a kid.” 

“I think you’re blushing under that bucket,” you smirk, sidling away. 

“I’m not.” 

You subside with the teasing for the time being, and the Mandalorian releases a sigh of relief as you start wandering, letting handmade jewelry and stoneware snatch your attention away from him. He’s getting better at keeping up with your rapid changes of interest, but somehow your more romantic moods still manage to get the better of him when you’re out in public. 

He blames the environment. When it’s just the two of you alone, he can see what’s coming in the slant of your lips or the way you suddenly decide to plant yourself right in front of whatever he’s working on. And he’s almost as likely to initiate now, so long as the Kid’s not in the same room. But out here, as his field of vision constantly shifts in the sea of bodies, and his right hand drifts between Grogu in his satchel and the pistol at his hip, he just doesn’t possess the bandwidth to also process what the kriff could possibly turn you on so much about his language skills. 

He tucks that particular piece of information away in a metaphorical corner, to dissect and possibly use at a later time. 

You return to him after your little side trip, flirtation seemingly forgotten for now. “I saw a ring at that one booth —” you gesture over your shoulder “— that I’m almost positive is dolovite. So pretty. I’m not even sure the vendor knows what he’s got. It’s tempting.” 

“I bet.” He notes the tone of your voice, the way you glance back one more time as the pair of you move on. 

“But we are here for the essentials, first and foremost. Maybe if it’s still there by the end of the day.” 

He nods thoughtfully, and listens as you ramble through the list of what the three of you need, both in terms of provisions and to keep the ship flying. 

The sooner you’re all able to leave this crowd and noise behind, the better. 

He doesn’t care for the feeling that his little clan’s safety isn’t completely under his control. 

Hours later, stewardship of the satchel carrying the Kid has passed over to you. Din carries the day’s purchases, slung from either end of the pole balanced across his wide shoulders. He watches affectionately from behind his immobile visage of beskar at the sight of you spiritedly haggling with a Twi’lek vendor over the price of fruit. The arm not being used to illustrate your point cradles Grogu, half-asleep, close to your torso, and it touches something deep inside him, to see you care for his foundling so naturally. 

The image almost — almost — lulls him into something resembling a dangerous sense of peace.

Almost, but not quite. 

Which is why, when the blaster bolt narrowly misses your shoulder and instead blows a crate of produce into a violently sticky explosion, he’s only a half-second slower than he normally would be as he pivots sharply and yanks out his own weapon. His shot drops the sniper leaning out of a second-story window across the street, a Rodian crumpling to the ground in a tangle of ragged cloak. 

His armor-clad body is positioned in front of you in another second, keeping you and the Kid sandwiched between the booth and his beskar as he rapidly searches for any more guns to rear their ugly muzzles. 

The market has dissolved into chaos around you, but no more fire is heard. 

You slip your DL-44 out of your back holster with one hand and push the satchel carrying Grogu further out of the way with the other. The road had cleared in seconds, the trembling fruit vendor ducking down behind his wares. The atmosphere is suddenly quiet, too many people holding their breaths all at once. 

“See anything?” you whisper to Din. 

“Negative,” he mutters back. “He was acting alone, or else the others have retreated. Looking for heat signatures is useless, they’re everywhere here.” 

A grim suspicion starts to rise in your chest, but you keep your voice removed as you step from behind him and give him a sharp nod. “Cover me? I need to take a look at our shooter.” 

He stalks behind you as you cross, your trigger finger settling into its well-worn spot in readiness. Grogu is silent; only the tips of his giant ears poke up from the top of the bag. 

For a kid, he’s been in enough firefights to know the drill by now. 

Arriving beside the smoking form of the Rodian, you flip him over and push aside the cloak, your hand drawing back when you see exactly what you were afraid you would find. 

The sigil of a sand ape emblazoned on his jacket in red. 

“Talk to me,” Din urges, voice tight. “Do you know why he was targeting you?” 

You straighten up and bite your lip for a second, struggling over the best way to break the news to him. You’d thought it was long enough ago that old scores would be forgotten, but on Tatooine, grudges rarely die, instead simmering deep beneath the filth like a krayt dragon awaiting its next meal. 

And now you’ve unwittingly brought your riduur and his ad’ika into danger. 

“I lived in Mos Eisley for a bit at one point.” You sigh. “And I left under…difficult circumstances. I’m a bit of a loose end as far as a local gang is concerned, Din. They paid well for some mercenary jobs — it was a nice temporary setup. Last hit I was hired for turned out to have a Guild bounty on him though, and they paid more to have him delivered alive. I saw a business opportunity and didn’t look back. But I made some powerful people here pretty angry.” 

“Dank farrik.” He curses under his breath. You can nearly hear his exasperated thoughts — can’t I have ONE uneventful outing? Just ONE? — but he shakes it off swiftly and is soon all business again, his next query clipped and brusque. “Does he have a tracking fob?” 

You shake your head. “They don’t want Guild here anymore, if you recall. No, it’ll be a more intimate affair, I’d bet my blades on that. This is about revenge and closure; if there’s a reward payout it’s from the boss man himself, and probably only advertised by word of mouth.” 

The Mandalorian refocuses his thoughts from where they ever so briefly derailed at your casual misuse of the term “intimate affair” and grunts his acknowledgment. “I gather the boss man wants you alive, then?” 

You laugh, a dry, ironic sound. “Oh, he will. I have a feeling he wants to watch me suffer a bit before he kills me. Or who knows?” With a shrug, you shove the body into an alleyway and return to where you both left your purchases, only the dance of your tense fingers across the grip of your blaster giving away your readiness to protect yourself. “Maybe he’ll make me his own personal slave instead. I knew all that club dancing I did would come in handy someday.” 

Din makes a hissing sound of annoyance at your flippant tongue as he follows. There’s something about the way you can talk so carelessly about such degrading fates that truly distresses him. He knows you don’t need his protection on the same level the Kid does, but the thought of either of those options actually befalling you under his watch makes his hands clench into fists, leather gloves protesting as they stretch across his knuckles. But he knows too, that dark humor is often your way of dealing with stress, so he endeavors to let it slide and not see red. 

“Do you know where he is?” he demands suddenly. 

“The boss man? I used to. And there are people I could ask.” You take the satchel with the Kid off and hand it back to him, opting to take the parcels instead. He can fight with a baby strapped to him better than you can, and knowing you’re the primary target this time, you’d rather keep him safer. “Why?” 

“Later.” His voice has gone tense again, he must have seen something you don’t. “Right now we have to get out of here. You’re too exposed.” 

Your gaze falls on a nearby speeder bike with no obvious owner nearby. “They’ve gotten lax without me around,” you smirk, straddling the bike and revving its powerful engine. “Leaving their valuables all helpless and unattended. It’s a real shame.” 

The Mandalorian is staring at you, the drop of his shoulders suggesting surprise at your brazenness. 

“Get on,” you encourage him, laying the carrying pole across the seat behind you. “You’re getting twitchy, so there must be trouble. What’s got your cape in a twist?” 

He takes a seat behind you and settles his pulse rifle across his knees. “There’s a couple more in similar jackets closing in,” he reveals in an undertone. “And I just haven’t seen you…steal a vehicle before, is all.” 

A shot pings over his helmet before you can properly react to that. 

“Drive!” he orders, pivoting to return fire. 

You oblige, gunning the motor and tearing off down the main thoroughfare. “There’s still a few things you haven’t seen me do, Cyare,” you toss back as he dusts one of the gang members on your way past. “You and the Kid made me go soft.” 

He huffs doubtfully and nods to a narrow opening between buildings up ahead. “Can you get us out of sight?” 

“If you hang on tight enough.” You execute a tight turn at the last moment and shoot down the alley, glad the bike is compact enough to follow the cramped tunnel between the crumbling dwellings. “It’s gonna be rough ’til we’re in the open, though.” 

Din doesn’t answer in words, but his free arm wraps around your waist and you can feel the Kid’s small body tucked between the two of you. 

And it’s almost an oddly pleasant feeling, outrunning any would-be pursuers with the two of them held so close. 

By the end of the hour, supplies have been loaded into the ship and Grogu has been left in the doting care of Peli, who as always is more than happy to entertain the little guy as long as you and Din keep trouble far away from her repair station. You and the Mandalorian are now camped out on a rooftop overlooking the marketplace, a tattered fabric canopy mercifully providing some scant relief from the sunlight if not the oppressive heat. As always, your riduur appears totally indifferent to such a thing as physical discomfort, leaning out from under the awning to scope the street below through the sight of his rifle. 

Does his armor have an internal cooling system? Or are Mandalorians really just that tough? 

“You know, we could just leave,” you finally suggest. “It’s not like this particular group ever goes off-world.” 

“We could.” 

You can tell there’s a reason why he won’t. 

“But I return to Tatooine semi-frequently. And I don’t want you to constantly be looking over your shoulder every time.” 

You sit back with a sigh, idly tuning up your blaster. His ways are still foreign to you sometimes. Before your partnership, you made a life depending on adaptability and quick thinking. Having only yourself to worry about, and knowing there was no one else out there worrying about you, made it easier to simply uproot and go elsewhere whenever the heat was on you. 

Din is nearly the opposite. If there’s a way he can make things more secure for those in his care, if there’s a good enough reason, he won’t ever back down from a struggle.

He already has his mind made up. 

It’s just a bit jarring to realize that you’re the good enough reason this time. 

“What are you thinking, then?” you prompt. 

He doesn’t break his focus on the area below as he answers. “I’m thinking I just killed a couple gang members and got some interesting information out of them. I’m ex-Guild and looking for work, and being a ruthless mercenary, I might just be willing to turn on a crew member if the price is right.” 

You can’t help your sudden intake of breath at his ingenious plan. “And once we get there?” 

He finally turns to face you, his next words cold and hard as tempered beskar. “Then we kill him.” 

And there’s something a little bit more menacing in there than simple pragmatism. He has taken on the role of cabur for you and the Kid; this isn’t just about keeping trouble off your backs in future. 

Someone has threatened you, and he will not rest until that threat has been put down.

That is his duty, and he will not shirk it. 

“I love you,” you murmur, barely above the hot breeze that rakes through your hair. 

He rises to his feet, shoulders his rifle. “And I you. Which is why we’re going to have to make this look convincing. You get a two-minute head start. Whenever you’re ready.” 

You swipe a dull sand-colored cloak from a stall as you pass, immediately diving into the heart of the throng, which seems to have recovered from the earlier incident. Mos Eisley is nothing if not desensitized to crime and violence, and for a moment, you almost lose yourself in awe at the apathy of the average citizen as you let the flow of movement carry you along. Nobody cares what happens around here, so long as it doesn’t happen to them. 

It’s…odd, to remember how it felt to think that way. 

Shaking yourself back into the moment, you weave between beings of all shapes and sizes, focusing on making yourself forgettable and not appearing in too much of a hurry. You know Din will find you no matter where you end up — he’s just too good at his job not to. So for the moment you let yourself enjoy this little game, a moment spent as the quarry of a very desirable predator. 

It would be a lie to say you haven’t fantasized about this before. 

A ripple passes through the crowd to your left and behind you, people shifting to make room, like river currents split by a large stone. Only one person you know could possibly cause such a stir.

Only idiots choose to stand in the way of a hunting Mandalorian. 

Which means he’s here. 

Your heart accelerates and you try to think of a way to stall him just a little longer. Reluctantly pulling a few credits from your belt pouch, you regretfully let them scatter in the dust, knowing the only thing that reliably beats fear is greed. The people nearest to you devolve into pushing and shoving in their eagerness to get their hands on them, a writhing wall springing up between you and your pursuer. 

With a grin, you slip backwards, drifting in the opposite direction of where you had been headed before, catching the barest glimpse of sun glaring off metal as you pass. 

That's a little longer. 

He’ll expect you to be thinking the way he thinks, not the way you do, so you stamp down the inclination to think that way and instead travel into a seedier part of town, seeking out more raucous company. Wandering through cantinas and gambling dens, you pick up a refreshing blue milk along the way and almost start to let the tension ebb from your muscles. But when you see him emerge from the street and gaze through the window of the same building you were just about to exit, your adrenaline shoots up again. A dash through a maze of alleys and one stolen ride on the back of a droid rickshaw later, and even you aren’t so sure what part of the city you’ve made it to. 

The twin suns are finally beginning to sink lower in the sky as you thoughtfully chew on a piece of bantha jerky and walk through a crowded residential section, no doubt where the lower classes live. It’s much quieter here, the low-income strata not having the credits to spend on frivolities at the market. 

It’s almost…too quiet. 

You hear him before you see him, an almost deceptively musical clink of the explosive charges on his belt against his vambrace as his arm brushes past. There’s nowhere to run anymore, so you pull back your hood with an admittedly dramatic flourish and discard your savory treat, hands sliding to the twin vibroblades sheathed at your thighs. 

“So, its finally come to this, Mando.” You pull your knives and take up a fighting stance. “No use in trying to sweet-talk you out of this, is there?” 

He doesn’t answer, just pulls his own blade and gestures with his chin as if saying “Try me”. 

So you do. 

The pair of you has sparred many times before, and this altercation is brief but outwardly brutal. Finesse is nice, but necessity calls for any potential advantage to be pressed and pressed hard. For the agility your much lighter choice of clothing grants you, you can’t dent him when fully armored, so finally you resort to simple but effective tactics and throw dust in his face. 

Even a visor with a heat sensor takes a second to recalibrate from that. 

You do, however, have a scripted ending for this outing, and as you sprint off, his grappling cable snakes around your hips and down your legs, dropping you in the sand. He strides up to you, tosses a pair of binders down next to you. 

“Cuff yourself,” he orders, breath coming in heavy pants after your scuffle. “I’m taking you in.” 

And since it’s him who just captured you, who would have captured you eventually no matter what because he’s just THAT good, you don’t mind. 

No, you reflect as he hefts you over his shoulder and walks away from the few scattered spectators your fight drew out, you really don’t mind this arrangement at all. 

Maybe you’ll have to tell him that, later. 

Your former employer’s headquarters are still where you remember them, and you almost smirk at the sense of uncomfortable familiarity when Din lowers you to the floor and unties your legs. Still cuffed — and a bit tired after spending the afternoon trying to outwit the best hunter in the parsec — it’s not difficult to look angry and beaten down, kneeling there in the dust. 

The boss man rises from his seat at the table, a hulking Devaronian with a chipped horn and a hungry grimace. He swaggers over, nods at the Mandalorian standing behind you. 

“I suppose I can turn a blind eye at the loss of a few good men for this. You have absolutely no idea how this one little troublesome scavenger has been occupying my thoughts.” 

Din remains silent, simply holding out a hand, a wordless demand for payment. 

Your old boss grins, nods to a couple of lackeys to bring over the credits, hauls you to your feet by the back of your shirt. 

The Mandalorian’s hand brushes past your leg as you move, and one of your knives is quietly returned to its sheath. 

“Since you turned tail and ran so quickly after disobeying me, I assume you have some idea of what I do to clever little turncoats, don’t you?” sneers the Devaronian, leaning altogether too close for your liking. 

Your cuffed hands lower in seeming fear as you shrink beneath his intimidating glare. 

“This is going to be fun,” he threatens, a hand drawing up your neck and along your jaw. “You need to learn some respect, and I’m going to —” 

The vibroblade sunk deep into his chest cuts his words off rather suddenly. 

There’s a lot you can still do, even in binders. 

The outraged lackeys are swiftly dropped by precise shots from Din, and the two of you are left gazing at each other in a now oddly quiet room. 

“I don’t know if I’d call that ‘fun’," you remark to your limp ex-boss, crouching to retrieve your knife. “A little anticlimactic, actually. Bit of a shame I had to do that. But also satisfying to see your plan turn out so well, don’t you think, Mando?” 

Din doesn’t answer right away, tucking away the bounty that he earned by catching you. “We should be on our way,” is what he finally grunts. “There’ll be more gang members swarming this place any minute now.” 

“I agree.” Rising to stand in front of him, you hold out your arms expectantly, casting a flirty smile up at his dark visor. “And, much as I enjoyed being your prisoner for a day, you can let me go now.” 

There’s a long pause. 

He stares down at your bound wrists, up at your face, down at your wrists again. He appears to be pondering something very intently, and your breath turns a little choppy for some reason. 

“I don’t think I will,” he says simply, after a little more consideration. 

“You won’t?” 

“Not yet.” His large hands tenderly find your hips, and he throws you over his shoulder again, walking out the exact same way you came in. “You’ve caused me quite a day here, you know. Keeping track of you like this might be the only way to make sure we don’t run into any more trouble.” 

“What would happen if I screamed ‘Help, I’m being kidnapped!’ as you carry me down the street?” 

He snorts. “No one’s going to help you here, Cyar’ika. Who’s going to challenge a Mandalorian over his prisoner?” 

You smirk. “No one in their right mind.” 

“Besides, you just said you enjoyed this.” There it is, a sly edge to his filtered voice, the indicator that he has more going on in his mind than simply staying out of more trouble. 

“Oh no, caught by an attractive bounty hunter! I’ll probably never see the light of day again.” You groan dramatically and drape yourself a bit more comfortably as he loosens up into an easier stride. “I’m completely at his mercy — who KNOWS what devious things he’ll do to me behind closed doors?” 

“This bounty hunter is hot and tired, and in need of a shower, if that gives you any consolation.” 

“Ah.” You poke him in the back. “Are you saying you’re all sweaty under this shiny shell, Cyare?” 

A hand slides up the back of your thigh, a subtle reminder that you ARE currently at his mercy, as you just said. 

Undeterred, you try again, knowing he must be getting more riled up than he lets on. “Have I ever told you how much I like it, when you take all these awful layers off for me and you’re all sweaty underneath…?” 

“I would rein in my suggestive tongue a little, if I were you.” He’s still looking straight ahead, but the edge beneath his words is a bit more strained now. “If you behave for me until we get back to the ship, maybe I’ll even take those binders off.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

He sighs. “My belt compartment back there. Take a look.” 

You manage to get it open, and can’t quite stifle a delighted sound as you pull out the dolovite ring from much earlier. “You sneaky son of a — ! How — ?” 

“I gave you a two-minute head start,” he shrugs, by way of explanation. 

“I adore you,” you inform him as you slip the ring onto your finger, admiring its burnished color. “I’ll be a good little prisoner for you, Mando, I promise. And who knows…,” you nudge him again. “Maybe I’ll let you keep these binders on me after all, since you’ve been so good to me today.” 

He can’t find anything to say to that, but by the fact that you can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck in that tantalizing gap between cowl and helmet, you know he’s definitely sweating now, if he weren’t before. 

“Is my big bad bounty hunter at a loss for words?” you tease softly. 

He clears his throat. “Just saving my voice, Mesh’la. If you’re REALLY well-behaved, I might — possibly — be persuaded to talk Tusken to you later. Possibly.” 

The idea takes a moment to fully crystallize in your brain; Din, and a shower, and binders, and if you just stop teasing him so naughtily in public he might actually bring that unreasonably provocative language into the bedroom? 

You finally let yourself relax into his hold, and after a bit you hear his breathy sigh of relief that you aren’t going to keep tormenting him anymore for the moment. 

After all, he has put forth an offer you can’t refuse. 

Ad'ika = Little One/Small child

Cabur = Protector

[starboundpix]

iii. (love is) a surprise

you really should have read that farm helper animatronic manual. how were you supposed to know that sun was no longer sun at night?

daycare attendant x reader ✧ 2.0k words farm au, gender neutral reader, reader is a farmer, reader has a pet dog, animatronic rights, minor blood and injury.

note: it took a while (due to graduation and vacation) but i'm happy to finally present the third chapter! ngl the more i was editing it the less sure i was about being any good so i really hope you'll enjoy it >u<

Having a new permanent resident to the farm—especially an animatronic—brings forth a whole slew of questions and problems you never had to think about before. Animatronic rights are currently under state jurisdiction and your state has just about no laws about them. Some laws have been proposed, but a good portion of the public and your state legislators are staunchly against giving animatronics any rights or freedom. Your nose scrunches up in distaste. The topic of animatronic rights hasn't been one of your priorities in the past, but after showing Sun around your farm all day, you know you can’t treat him like your farm machinery or animals—not even the way you treat Pluto.

These thoughts weigh on you in the evening as you make dinner alone. Sun had disappeared into his room after you gave him a tour of the farm and showed him how you complete some of your daily tasks. Despite the rocky start you had with him, he expressed interest in how your farm operates and picked everything up instantly. He seemed to like the animals in particular. They in turn were not affected by the fact that the new addition to the farm is a walking, talking, pile of metal. Henrietta in particular had no problem walking up to Sun and pecking him in the foot.

You need to figure out how exactly you want to treat him.

After eating dinner, you pull out your laptop and settle into the couch in the living room. Pluto needs no invitation to hop on beside you. With the TV on and playing a show for background noise, you start to do some research, pulling up news articles and legislation made in different states that address android rights. The amount of information out there is a bit overwhelming, but you plod through it, learning about what has been happening and forming your own ideas.

An hour or two passes and the urge to grab a snack to munch on grows until your stomach grumbles. So you shut your laptop, extract yourself from the cushions of the couch with a groan, and walk into the kitchen. Pluto watches you leave but quickly rests his head back on his front legs, dozing off on the couch.

Since the lights are on in the living room, the kitchen isn’t too dark, so you don’t bother with any additional lights as you put a snack together. You pull a sleeve of crackers out of a cabinet and dump a couple onto your plate. Opening your fridge makes you squint for a second from the automatic light, but you are quick to find a tub of cream cheese and a jar of jam—homemade with blueberries you grew last summer—and scoop some of each onto your plate.

Having assembled your snack, you put everything away and pick up your plate.

Something shifts in the hallway behind you.

You whirl around, looking into the darkness—and the dark stares back with two glowing red eyes, accompanied by a looming silhouette that blends into the shadows. 

A shriek leaves your lips. Your heart pounds in your chest. Hands sweaty, your plate slips from your grasp, smashing into pieces against the tile floor, sending jam, cream cheese, crackers, and ceramic shards flying across your kitchen.

Pluto barks, adding to the chaos. Moments later, he runs into view, nails clacking against the floor as he prepares to enter the kitchen and run to your side.

“Pluto, stop!” you yell, voice strained, holding one hand out toward him. “Stay,” you add. You don’t take your eyes off of the shadow down the hall, but in your peripheral vision, you see Pluto stand still.

Your shoulders relax a fraction now that you do not have to worry about your dog getting hurt on the shattered plate. But your heart still beats quickly and your thoughts are racing, knowing the stress is not gone yet. This intruder is a much bigger concern.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Somehow, you manage to keep your voice steady this time.

The figure snickers, but sounds more mean than amused. “Did the little human forget about us already? This is a new record.” With each word spoken, the glowing red eyes shift and grow larger as he takes one step after another toward you. “I live here now.”

You tense. “Stay- stay back!” He doesn’t stop, so you shuffle backward, keeping the kitchen island between you and the stranger. “Who are you?” you ask again. “What do you want?”

Just as the figure reaches the end of the hallway, you bump into the kitchen counter behind you, pain shooting through your entire body.

You blink hard, bracing against the countertop as the pain slowly fades. When you have steadied yourself, you refocus your gaze on the intruder, eyes widening as you take him in, now lit by the dim living room lighting that spills over into the kitchen.

“Sun?” you ask hesitantly, but you already know that’s not quite right. The figure—an animatronic—looks similar in stature to your new farm helper, though he lacks the triangular pieces of metal that frames Sun’s face. This one is painted in much darker colors. Light grey contrasts against the obsidian on his face plate, and his limbs are a mix of deep, rich blues and midnight black. On a closer look, silver points of light glimmer from his arms; they are stars and constellations that mimic the night sky, you realize. 

“Moon,” he says. You detect amusement in his voice, but it feels rather like the amusement you get from seeing Henrietta peck at anything other than a bug and her resulting cluck of confusion.

Hesitating, you finally manage to respond with, “Erm, it’s nice to meet you, Moon.” The sentiment is not quite genuine due to the scare, but now that you know he’s not actively a threat, you wish you meant it. At least this first meeting is not going any worse than your introduction to Sun—you haven’t insulted Moon yet.

You introduce yourself to the animatronic, just in case he isn’t aware of you doing so this morning, and ask, “Is there anything I can help you with? Did you need something?” He probably would not have wandered out of his room without a reason.

Red eyes blink, and Moon’s head tilts to the side. He’s silent for a moment, seeming to stare past you—similar to Sun’s behavior earlier in the day. Then he refocuses on you. “I need cleaning supplies.” His gaze travels downward, eyeing you and your kitchen. “You do, too.”

The implication that you need to clean your kitchen would normally make you bristle, but as you look down too, a grimace crosses your face at the disaster of broken crackers, splattered jam and cream cheese, and shards of the plate. Your eyes catch on your right foot. A bit of dark liquid that looks like blueberry jam slides down the outer side, but it’s as the dull throbbing becomes noticeable that you realize, “Oh. I’m bleeding.”

Your foot is really starting to hurt, but you refuse to show any visible signs of pain. The sooner you get Moon his cleaning supplies, the sooner you can tend to your wound and clean the mess in your kitchen without his piercing red eyes following your every move. His standoffish-ness makes you on edge around him, even more so than Sun and his snarky words. “The first door in the hallway is a closet. I think there are some cleaning rags, sprays, a broom- um, grab whatever you need.” As the animatronic steps back to open the closet door, you can’t help but ask, “What are the cleaning supplies for?”

“Our room,” Moon says. “It’s dirty. Sun hates messes.”

You wince, thinking of all the dust that has accumulated since the last time your aunt visited. She stopped by months ago during the fall to spend Thanksgiving with you, and the guest bedroom hasn’t seen another soul since. Cleaning a bedroom no one uses has been the last thing on your mind with all the other things keeping you busy on your farm.

“Sorry about that,” you say, shifting your weight to your good leg. “I normally clean the room whenever I know guests are coming over, but…” You trail off, then offer, “I can clean it tomorrow morning if you’d rather rest, or charge, or, uh, do whatever you need to do.”

He is quick to respond. “No need.” Moon pulls out squares of cleaning rags and a lavender scented multipurpose cleaning spray.

You look away from the animatronic, eyes falling on Pluto. A small smile rises to your face, your first since your scare this evening. He has been patiently waiting ever since you told him to stay, and now lies on the floor at the perimeter of the kitchen, nearly asleep, having dismissed Moon from being a threat. 

A sudden clack makes you flinch, but when you catch sight of the broom that now rests on top of the kitchen island, a noise of surprise escapes your lips. As Moon’s hand retreats, you move forward—mindful of stepping on any more plate shards—and pick up the broom and attached dustpan. “Thanks,” you say.

His only response is a slow shuttering of his eyes, red light disappearing for a brief moment. He closes the closet door, turns his back on you, and starts shuffling down the hall toward his room.

It’s only after the bedroom door closes behind him do you sigh and let out a small laugh. Moon looked a lot less scary walking away with a slouched back and cleaning supplies in his hands than he did as an ominous shadow with glowing crimson eyes standing in the dark hallway. The remaining tension seeps out of your body, and you sag against the kitchen island. If Sun and Moon make it a habit to scare you, your heart won’t last for very long.

With a sigh, you start sweeping up the shards of plate and crackers. You leave the cream cheese and jam alone for now—those stains need a good scrub with a sponge or cleaning cloth—and you still have to patch up your foot first. Once you gather everything on your dustpan, you find a plastic bag to dump the mess in before tying the bag up and tossing it in the trash.

Now you need some alcohol wipes and a bandage for your foot. Unfortunately, your first aid supplies are all upstairs in your bathroom cabinet. You resort to doing a weird crawl to get up the stairs, using your hands and knees to avoid getting blood all over the floor. 

Thank goodness Pluto is the only one who has to witness your actions. 

He follows you up the stairs and into the bathroom, where you sit on the floor and pull out what you need to clean your cut. The sting of the alcohol wipes makes you wince, but soon the wound is covered with a moon and star covered band-aid. 

You scowl. The entire box of bandages are celestial themed, having patterns of suns, clouds, moons, and stars printed in pretty colors. In fact, plenty of other space themed trinkets and decor fill your house. Now, thanks to your aunt, an animatronic that is the sun and moon personified lives on your farm. Your interactions with them have not been the most pleasant thus far, but you hope that will change.

These thoughts run through your head as you return downstairs and finish cleaning up the kitchen. You stop by the living room to grab your laptop and turn off the lights before climbing the stairs to settle in your bedroom for the night. 

Pluto is already fast asleep on the rug at the base of your bed when you exit the bathroom, having changed into your pajamas. You crawl into bed, slipping under the covers—spring nights do get pretty chilly, after all—and turn off the lamp on the nightstand.

As you start drifting off to sleep, exhausted from a long and high-emotion day, you add one task to the top of your mental checklist for tomorrow.

You really need to read that farm helper manual.

note: wahooo we've officially met moon! i sure hope they'll warm up to reader soon though, or else poor reader is in for a rough time.

by the way, my wonderful friend @/lunarmoves drew this amazing art of farm helper sun! (scary scarecrow version >u< ) it looks so cool, please check it out!

also, i doodled little sun and moon themed band-aids based off of this chapter! you can find them here.

series masterlist ✧ part two ✧ part four (wip)

[inkformyblood]

guess (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 14)

Canon Era, Soap x Ghost x Price x Gaz, (Poly141). Sex toys. Lime.

“Package for you, Cap. And one for you, Lieutenant.” Gaz’s arms are loaded high with the recent mail delivery; backlogged for three months with their recent spate of missions and Soap can barely remember half the items he’d ordered while he’d been on leave. Some fresh paints possibly, a new sketchbook given that he was starting to run out of space in his current one and layering fresh drawings over old. 

Gaz drops a handful of parcels onto the table in front of Soap, a few letters mixed in, and Soap grabs for them before Gaz’s words could register.

Between the five of them, Gaz receives the most mail — a combination of a larger family and a minor addiction to the late night shopping channels — then Soap — his own family fairly well-spread, if disorganised, and his artistic hobbies lending themselves to infrequent purchases — but Price almost never receives mail, same as Ghost.

“What did you get?” Soap leans forwards, his own mail abandoned and tips Ghost’s package towards himself, peering at the shipping label. He only gets a glimpse, simplistic text on a plain background, nothing more than a company name, before it’s pulled away, Ghost snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

Gaz nudges Soap back into his seat, dropping onto his lap with a sigh. He’s a solid weight, Soap’s arms falling to his hips then wrapping around Gaz’s belly and squeezing him tight as he presses his forehead to the back of Gaz’s neck. The other man smells like the cheap toiletries in the communal showers, a lingering hit of rich smoke from Price’s cigars, and Soap lifts his face to bite at Gaz’s shoulder, just for something else to do as his mind races. 

Gaz sinks further down, tips his head back to allow Soap better access to his skin. “Same parcel that Price has got,” he murmurs, his gaze darting between the other two men. There’s something brewing between them, the parcels opened just enough to slide the invoices free and they have swapped them, dragging their fingers over the small text. Price is holding his far enough away that it could be grabbed easily…

“Don’t even think about it, lad.”

Fair enough. 

Ghost glances over his invoice, his eyes dark, and a shiver rolls up Soap’s spine, his teeth tight in the fabric of Gaz’s shirt. “Might as well test them out now.” Ghost tears his parcel open without another thought and crooks his fingers at them both. “Doors locked so bend over the desk and you’ll see what we’ve got.”

There’s a strange thrill to being any degree of naked in the main areas of the base, Soap and Gaz folded over the meeting room table and their trousers drawn down to the ankles. 

“Opening scene to a porno ain’t we, Gaz.”

Gaz catches his eye, grins wide. “Have we been naughty boys, sirs?”

A broad hand smacks against Soap’s arse first, low enough to catch the meat of his thigh, and he yelps, jerking forward on the table. Gaz groans into the second impact, burying his face into his hands and raising his hips up. Something rests against Soap’s spine, cool but not metal, a slightly tacky sensation as he shivers and it moves. 

“Eyes front,” Price barks. “Got a surprise for you, lads. Couple of toys for you to test out, but.”

“But, sir?” Gaz asks, chewing over his lower lip, slightly shifting against Soap as he sways his arse, raised high in the air once more. 

“You’re going to guess the size of the toy we are fucking you with. At stake are bragging rights and you can pick the movie tonight.”

[ihni]

The blood in the water comes from bleeding hearts

For the @metalsandwichbingo, square A3, prompt: "claiming". 7,687 words, mature? (contains background deaths of minor characters, and implied abuse) Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson (pre-relationship), Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson.

Summary:

There was a merman on deck. There was a merman on deck, and the crew was getting rowdy.

(Read below, or on AO3)

There was a merman on deck.

There was a merman on deck, and the crew was getting rowdy – poking at the poor creature, pulling its fins and yanking its hair, laughing and jumping out of the way when it hissed and swiped at them with its clawed hands. It was lean and pale and had silvery scales down its tail, with dark bruises and cuts standing out starkly against the white of its skin. Its hair and eyes were dark, almost black in contrast. It looked out of place out of the water, half-lying on the dark wood of the deck surrounded by scattered gold pieces of the treasure chest that they had fished out of the captain’s cabin of their enemies’ ship. The same ship where they had found the merman, tangled in a net and kept in a small pool of salt water down in the stores.

With their enemies slain, the treasure was theirs. As was the creature; theirs to do with what they pleased.

It kept fighting them, though, ever since they dragged it up on deck and freed it from the net to get a good look at it in daylight; it was thrashing its tail and biting and swiping its claws at anyone who dared to get close enough. Many of the men were already scratched or bruised, and the mood was beginning to shift from jeering and amused to more hostile, which would not end well for the merman since most of the men onboard were armed.

“Okay guys, that’s enough!” Steve Harrington said, stepping out in front of one of the men who had been approaching the creature with a cudgel in his hand. “You’re just riling it up, someone’s bound to get hurt if you keep going.”

“And what’s it to you, Harrington?” someone said, and Steve turned in the man’s direction.

“Well, with Jones out of commission, I’m the one who’s going to have to patch you guys up after you inevitably get hurt. And I’d rather not do that just because you’re being stupid.”

A disgruntled  murmur went through the crowd at being called stupid, but only one man spoke up; the same one as before. “The booty, and the mermaid, belongs to all of us, Harrington. You have no more say in what we do with it than anyone else here.”

Steve chanced a glance behind him, at the creature who was cowering against the stairs leading up to the forecastle deck, but who had stopped hissing and was watching the proceedings with its big black eyes – like it knew someone was speaking up for it. Giving a little nod to himself, Steve raised his chin. “Well then,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear him. “I claim it as my part of the booty.”

The murmur rose in volume, and a couple of men protested out loud, but then a new voice spoke up.

“So you wanna sacrifice your share of the gold, in exchange for the rights to that feral creature?”

William “Billy” Hargrove stepped out among the men. He carried himself with confidence, but despite him being the son of the captain there were some among the men who sneered at him when he walked up to Steve.

“Yes,” Steve said, planting his feet and refusing to back away even when Billy got closer than common curtesy allowed.

Billy peered over Steve’s shoulder at the creature, raising his eyebrows as it resumed its hissing at the eye contact. Grinning, he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He gave Steve one more look, and then shrugged, “Your loss, Harrington. If you want him, take him.”

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?“ the man who had spoken earlier said. “It could be a girl mermaid.”

Billy let out a bark of a laughter and motioned to the creature behind Steve. “Do you see any tits on that thing, Hagan? I don’t know how much experience you have in the field, but in case you didn’t know, women usually have breasts.”

As the men around them laughed, the man – Hagan – glowered and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by yet another voice ringing out over the deck.

“What’s going on here?”

This time, no one sneered at the newcomer – Neil Hargrove, captain of the Arrow – and suddenly no one seemed inclined to speak up. The man’s eyes snapped to Billy and he barked, “Billy”; a prompt and an order in one word.

No longer grinning, but standing straight and meeting his father’s eyes straight on, Billy answered. “The crew found a merman in the stores of the Sea Queen. Harrington wants to claim it as his share of the treasure.”

“Uh-huh,” Captain Hargrove said and walked up to his son in much the same way as Billy had just walked up to Steve, only with a more menacing air about him. Like Steve had, Billy straightened his spine and planted his feet. “And what did you say to that?”

Swallowing, Billy blinked. “I said that he could, since … Since that would mean more gold for the rest of us.” The captain’s eye twitched, and Billy hurried to add, “Sir.”

It was like the assembled men were holding their breath, waiting for their captain’s words. The man himself looked out over his assembled crew and eventually said, without even having to raise his voice to be heard by all, “Anyone else want to give up their gold for a share of the merman?”

No one spoke. The only sounds were the waves and the wind and the creaking of wood.

He clapped his hand onto his son’s shoulder even as he turned to Steve and said, “Well then. If you want the fish instead of treasure, have at it.” He turned to a couple of the men, including Hagan, and nodded to the merman. “You three, help Harrington get the creature below deck. You can keep it in the stores below the gun deck until we make port and you get a chance to sell it,” then he pointed to Steve and added, “but any food from our supplies that it eats is coming out of your rations.”

Nodding, Steve acknowledged the order. “Yes, captain.”

With the issue thus decided, the captain turned to his son yet again and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Billy, a word?”

As the Hargroves left, the crew dispersed as well. Some of them started to pick up the scattered coins and gold pieces on the deck, one of two trying to sneak an extra piece into his pockets, but most went back to their stations. Hagan and the other two ordered to help stayed behind with Steve, even though they didn’t look happy about it, and the four of them turned to the merman, staring at it as it stared back.

“What are you gonna do with a mermaid?” Hagan sneered. “You can’t even fuck it.”

“What would you know about that?” another man snickered. “You thought this one was a she.”

Red in the face, Hagan lifted his cudgel threateningly, but Steve stepped between them and held up his hands. “Enough. Let’s get this done.”

It took considerable effort to get the creature below deck, especially since as soon as it seemed to understand what they wanted to do, it started struggling again. In the end they had to use the net that they’d recently freed it from, to avoid its flailing limbs and fins and stop it from trying to strike them with its strong tail. They half-carried, half-dragged the now-helpless merman down below, and dumped it in the darkest part of the stores, between two rows of barrels. The men weren’t keen on sticking around, and left Steve alone with the creature, with only a lantern to light up the space.

Steve waited until he was sure they had all left before he reached for the knife in his belt and took a step towards the merman, who was lying prone on the uneven planks. It saw the knife and flinched away from him, hissing again – but stopping when Steve froze in his steps.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said in a low voice, holding his hands up in front of him. “I just wanna help you out of those.” He motioned to the coarse rope they’d managed to twist around the merman’s body and nudged it with his foot, frowning unhappily when the merman drew away from him. Instead of continuing on, he backed up and then crouched down on the floor, putting them at a more equal level. Then, after a beat of hesitation, he turned the knife around in his grip and held it out in offering, handle first. The merman stared at him incredulously, like he couldn’t believe Steve would be that dumb, before shooting forward as far as the net would let him and snatching the knife out of his hand. Steve backed up to a safe distance, still with his hands up to show he meant no harm, and then watched for a moment as the merman started to furiously saw through the ropes.

“I don’t know if you understand me,” he said, keeping his voice low, “but I’ll be right back. I just need to pick up a couple of things.” He pointed at the still sluggishly bleeding wounds on the merman’s sides. “To help you.”

The merman gave no indication that he heard what Steve said, or particularly cared, so Steve just nodded and left the space. He wasn’t gone for long, but once he got back with his arms full of supplies, he found that the merman had not only managed to get himself out of the ropes, but that he had also crawled to the other side of the hold and was currently busy hacking away at one of the barrels with the knife.

“Oh hey, no, stop!” Steve said and hurried forward. “Don’t do that!” He stopped abruptly when the merman swung the knife in his direction, although too far from him to be a real threat. “The captain will have my head if you destroy anything down here.”

The merman’s eyes narrowed, but he stopped hacking at the wood and cocked his head to the side, almost as if he was curious. Steve couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you.”

A sudden sound from behind him made him look over his shoulder, but he relaxed again when he saw who had stepped into the light of the lantern.

Billy, though, tensed up and reached for his sword when he took stock of the situation. Only Steve’s hand on his chest stopped him from attacking.

“No! Don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t’? He’s got a knife!”

“I know,” Steve said, making a face. “I … gave it to him?”

Billy let go of his sword and stood up straight, watching Steve intently. “You … armed the merman.”

“Yeah ...”

“The merman who has every reason to hate all of us. The merman who already has a lethal tail, sharp claws and razor-edged teeth. That merman now also has your knife.”

“M-hmm.”

Taking a deep breath, Billy gestured to the distinct lack of sword in Steve’s belt. “And what does that leave you with, if he decides to attack you?”

Steve turned to Billy with a brilliant smile. “Faith.”

Groaning, Billy looked heavenwards and murmured, “I’m in love with a madman.”

Steve only smiled. “That, you are.” Then he nodded to the merman, who’d been watching them silently, and asked Billy, “Wanna help me with him?”

Shaking his head, Billy declined. “Nah. I don’t think he’d let me get that close – he doesn’t look like he likes me very much. Besides, he’s your problem now. You claimed him, remember? Instead of your share of the gold.”

“What are you complaining about? What was it you just said? ‘More gold for the rest of us, remember?”

“Yeah, but,” Billy started, looking down at the planks under his feet and drawing his shoulders up. “We said we’d try to save up as much as we could, before we can … you know. Leave.” Glancing up, he only let his gaze briefly touch on Steve before looking down again.

Steve’s eyes softened. “I know. And we will, I promise. We’ll have enough soon, it won’t be long. We’ll …” He strained his eyes to look to the darkness beyond their little corner, and lowered his voice further. “We’ll get off this ship. Together. You and me, Billy.”

Billy looked up, eyes wide and shiny in the light of the lantern. At whatever he saw on Steve’s face, he braved a smile and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. And you might still get a pretty penny for the merman when we dock, it might actually not be a bad –“

“I’m not selling him.” Holding one hand up, Steve shook his head and repeated, at Billy’s incredulous look, “I’m not selling him.”

“Then what are you going to do with him? You can’t keep him here!”

“I’m letting him go!” Steve said, the ‘obviously’ unsaid. “I’m going to … free him.”

Billy rubbed at the bridge of his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Of course you are,” before taking a deep breath and saying, “You know that Neil expects a share of whatever you’ll get for selling that thing, right? You’re aware of what you’re risking, here?”

Wincing, Steve shrugged. “I know but … I have to.” He glanced at the merman, who was still watching the two of them and looking like he was listening intently. “They were going to hurt him.”

“It’s gonna be near-impossible to get him off the ship without anyone noticing.”

“I know.”

“If you get caught doing it, you’ll get in a lot of trouble.”

“… I know.”

Silence. Then, “Fine. I’ll help you. We’ll figure something out.” When Steve opened his mouth to speak, Billy just shook his head. “I’m not helping you patching him up though, that’s all on you. I’ll just,” He motioned to where he’d come from, “go and make sure no one comes down here, yeah? While you try not to get stabbed by a mermaid.” He turned his back and began walking, but stopped in his step when Steve called after him.

“Billy?” He waited until Billy glanced over his shoulder, and then he gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Your bleeding heart will get you killed, one of these days,” was the reply. “Don’t get stabbed now.” And with that, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

Steve turned back to the merman, who had not moved during the whole exchange. He shrugged and gave the creature a half-hearted smile too. “I don’t suppose you understood all that?” To his surprise, the merman slowly lowered the hand holding the knife. “Really? You understand that I don’t want to hurt you?”

Even more slowly, the merman put the knife away on the wooden planks he was lying on. It was still very much within grabbing distance if needed, but Steve saw the gesture for what it was. A truce, for now.

“Will you allow me to help you?” He pointed at the supplies he’d brought down here, and then to the wounds on the merman; the ones caused by the net he’d been wrapped up in, and injuries he must have sustained under the hands of the crew of the Sea Queen. “Just making sure you don’t die before we get you out of here.”

The merman watched him with his big dark eyes and while he didn’t look all that trusting, he at least wasn’t hissing or waving the knife around. Steve swallowed, deciding to take this as an affirmative. He approached tentatively, holding his hands up and out to show that he didn’t mean any harm, and when the merman’s only response was tensing up as he got closer, he reached for the bucket of clean water he’d fetched, and one of the rags.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he said while carefully reaching out and cleaning the blood from one of the marks that were bleeding on the merman’s torso. It looked like rope burn. He winced in sympathy when the merman hissed at the contact, and hurried to add, “I’m sorry. I just want to make sure it’s clean before we bandage it.” He paused for a second and then added, “Not that I know if you usually … you know, bandage things. I don’t suppose you’ve got a lot of bandages in the ocean. Maybe you use, like, kelp or something. But we don’t have that on hand. Sorry.” He kept up his chatter as he moved on to the next wound. “We’ll do the best we can with what we have, though. You don’t have to worry. I’m actually learning under the doc, so I usually help out when someone gets hurt. I’m not totally without experience, I usually help whenever Billy’s hurt too, I –“

He stopped talking when the merman’s hand shot out and gripped his wrist, and that’s when he realized that he’d been reaching for the slits on the merman’s sides – the gills. “Oh,” he said. “Not … no touching those, then?” The merman gave a warning squeeze of his wrist, and then let go. Steve gave a sharp nod and pulled his hand back. “Gotcha.”

He continued with his ministrations, making sure not to touch the gills again, and even wrapped a couple of bandages around the wounds that were still bleeding. Thankfully, none of them were too deep, and he got away with cleaning most of them. When he was done, he leaned back on his haunches to inspect work. Only when he nodded in satisfaction did he notice that the merman were watching him. There was no longer any fear in his eyes, but maybe something closer to … curiosity?

This was confirmed when he reached out and touched Steve’s hand. When Steve didn’t pull away, he turned Steve’s hand over and carefully traced his clawed fingers across Steve’s own blunt ones. He seemed especially fascinated by the space between his fingers, which Steve only now realized were webbed on the merman’s hands.

Steve held his breath as the merman put their hands together, palm to palm, and inspected the way their fingers matched up.

“Guess we’re more alike than we’re different, huh?”

The merman gave him what could only be described as a flat look, and reached out to tug at one of Steve’s boots while he flapped his own tailfin so it slapped against a barrel, somehow making a point out of how not alike they were in that regard. Steve let out a laugh and acquiesced with a tilt of his head. “Okay, okay, you make a good point.” The merman froze at his laughter and stared at him, wide-eyed, and then he hesitantly pulled his lips back, showing off his teeth, and … let out a series of short hisses that mostly resembled a cat.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, immediately concerned. The merman frowned, but then repeated his previous actions, and that’s when Steve got it. “You’re laughing! You’re … trying to laugh.” Something pleased flashed over the merman’s face, and he gave an inclination of his head that almost resembled a nod.

Reaching out to grab the merman’s hand in his, Steve looked into his dark eyes and vowed, “I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

~~~

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to do it alone, and Billy had promised to help. So when it was time for dinner, the two of them looked for a quiet corner where they could stuff their faces with food and then talk uninterrupted. And it turned out, Billy had been busy. While Steve had been tending to the merman, Billy had been swapping around who were to work the night shift, making it so that both Billy and Steve were scheduled to be on deck during the darkest part of night. Only one or two others would be awake, and Billy said he thought he could get at least one of them to abandon his post in favor of a complimentary bottle of rum, while the other was the oldest of the crew, and half-blind.

“We should be able to get your creature overboard without being seen,” he whispered. “But we only have until morning or midday at the earliest before someone notices that he is gone. Then what will you do?”

“Play dumb?” Steve suggested with a wince. “Something like, ’Oops, I didn’t lock the door because I didn’t think it would be able to crawl all the way to the deck, it must have gotten out somehow, I’m sorry. My bad’?”

Billy was silent for while, clenching his jaw. “He won’t buy it,” he eventually said. “He’ll know someone helped the merman escape, and you are the only one so far who has shown you care about him.”

Shrugging and trying to appear unbothered, Steve said, “Okay, but even if that happens, it is my right. He is my part of the booty, to do with what I want. And I want to set him free.”

“It’s not about what you want,” Billy said, swallowing. “Neil’s already counting on getting a cut out of whatever you sell him for, you know that, and more than that – it’s about respect. By setting the mer free without it being on his orders, you’ve undermined his authority, and he can’t have that. He’ll punish you for it, severely, and –“ He snapped his mouth shut, but Steve wouldn’t have it.

“And what?”

Seemingly unwilling to speak, Billy finally admitted, “And me too.”

Steve frowned and turned his head so he was watching Billy. “You? Why? He can’t prove that you helped me.”

“He doesn’t need proof. He’ll know.”

Steve’s frown turned into a face of worry. “I won’t let you do that, then. I can’t let you help us.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll never manage on your own. I’ve already told you I’ll help you, it’s just …”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Billy’s eyes were soft as they flicked up to Steve’s, and his voice was low as he said, “I don’t want you to get hurt either. And there’s less of a chance of that happening if I help you. Because it’s not like I’m going to be able to convince you to keep the merman aboard, is there?”

“No,” Steve admitted, “But …”

“Then it’s decided. We do it tonight.”

~~~

Even with their meticulous planning, it was easier said than done. First of all, the merman may have had a lean build but his tail was thick and heavy and unwieldy when carried, which Billy and Steve found out when they showed up in the store just after midnight. On top of that, the merman didn’t seem too fond of having Billy touch him, hissing and scowling when he tried to reach out.

“He’s just trying to help,” Steve said, half-whispering. “We need to get you out of here and I can’t carry you alone. Please.”

The second problem with their plan was that they were currently in the stores, with the rest of their supplies. To get up on deck, they’d have to get past not only the gun deck and the entrance to the crew’s quarters, but also pass by the captain’s quarters. And if they made it that far, they still had to get up on deck and get the merman over the railings before anyone spotted them.

With some coaxing from Steve, the merman seemed to begrudgingly allow Billy to help carry him. They got out of the stores without trouble and across the gun deck in no time since no one was around at this time of night. Passing the crew’s quarters also went surprisingly easy, all three of them almost holding their breath until they’d passed and creeping through the dark of the ship’s belly without as much as a lantern to light their way.

They were almost home free when Billy drew in a sharp breath. A second later he abruptly let go of the merman and shoved both him and Steve into the wall, hard. Steve had to readjust his grip and strain against the merman’s weight so they would stay upright, and his mouth opened to protest the treatment, but Billy spoke first as he continued walking forward in the narrow corridor.

“Dad! There you are. I need to … talk to you.”

Both Steve and the merman froze, holding their breaths as they listened to the sound of Billy’s boots on the wood, approaching the door to the captain’s quarters where, they could now hear, someone else’s boots were also scuffing the wood. It couldn’t be anyone but the captain. And they would have to pass him unseen to get out of there.  

“Oh you do, do you?” The captain’s voice was cold.

“Yeah. It’s about the night shift. I … I took the liberty of making some changes.“

“You changed the night shift without consulting me?” Now there was a tint of incredulousness to the captain’s words.

“Just for tonight, Hagan was –“

“Wait, let me get this straight,” the captain interrupted. “You think you can make decisions on my behalf, on my ship?”

“No, I know you’re – I didn’t want to inconvenience you with it, that’s all.”

Steve was frowning in the dark of the space where they were hidden away, and the merman watched him in incomprehension as he worked his jaw.

“Remind me; who’s the captain on this ship?”

“You are, dad, but –“

A sigh, sounding weary and disappointed all at once. “William. What will it take to make you show your captain the proper respect?”

“I –“

“Maybe my earlier lesson wasn’t enough? Why don’t you come into my office, and let’s talk about the changes in the night shift, since you obviously found it important enough to take matters into your own hands.”

“No, dad, I –“

A scuffle could be heard, then a thump and a grunt. “What was that?”

“Captain. I meant captain.”

“M-hmm. Come on, son. Let’s have a talk.”

Another scuffle, and then the door to the captain’s quarters slammed shut behind the two men. Steve screwed his eyes shut, but then took a deep breath and renewed his grip around the merman and stepped back out of the nook they’d been crammed into. With just one person carrying the merman, Steve had to adjust his position and pull the creature halfway up his back. Gritting his teeth against the added weight, he stumbled on, trying to keep his steps quiet. Just when they passed the closed door behind which Billy and the captain had disappeared, there was a sound from inside that made them stop momentarily; a meaty smack, followed by a thump, followed by a groan. The captain’s voice came again, too low for them to hear what was said, but Billy’s voice was clearly heard when he answered, “No, da- I mean no, sir.” It was followed by the sound of another hit, and Steve took the opportunity to make it past the door under the cover of the sounds coming from inside the quarters.

With some difficulty and with the merman helping by pulling himself up the stairs, they made it out of the body of the ship and out under open air. Out here, they were in danger of being seen, but if old man Walters was indeed the one steering the ship, then they shouldn’t have to worry much. Steve stumbled to the railing and leaned himself and the merman against the wood, nodding to the waters below.

“We made it,” he whispered. “You’re free. I’m sorry we … I’m sorry.”

The merman looked at him with his big dark eyes, which flicked back to the way they came. There was something confused in the way it looked back, or maybe concerned.

“Billy?” Steve interpreted the look, and grimaced when the merman gave a jerk of his head. “If the captain had seen us, he would have never let you off the ship. Billy … made sure he wouldn’t see us.”

The merman inclined his head and opened his mouth to let out a soft hiss, then shook his head in frustration. Instead of trying to make sounds, he gestured towards the door they’d come through questioningly.

“Oh,” Steve said. “He’ll be alright. He’s …” Another grimace. “Unfortunately, he’s used to it.”

Hissing again – in displeasure this time – the merman narrowed his eyes.

“I know,” Steve said. “But he’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.” Then, “I need to get back. You should go.” He motioned to the sea, and the merman gave a nod. He reached out with his clawed hand towards Steve’s face – and Steve only flinched a little – and put his hand on the side of his face briefly. Then he nodded again, and tipped over the side of the railing. He barely made a splash when he hit the water below. Seconds later, his head breached the surface and he looked at Steve with something like indecision – looked between Steve and the ship and the depths below – before disappearing below the surface again, for good this time.

Steve stayed for a moment longer, but all that he could see was the black sea of the night and when nothing else happened, he went back inside.

~~~

Dawn came, but was hardly noticeable behind the dark clouds and heavy rain that had pulled in during the night.

“It’s gonna be a bad one,” old man Walters said knowingly, looking from the sky to the water. “Mark my words.”

Steve, who was passing close enough to hear him even over the sounds of the rain and increasing winds, nodded but continued making his way to the forecastle deck, where Billy was watching the rolling waves in front of them. He didn’t react when Steve walked up to him and leaned against the railing, gently nudging their shoulders together.

“Did it go okay?” Billy asked without turning.

“Yeah. No one saw.”

“They’ll find out soon, though. And then …” He moved to turn to Steve but stopped himself and let out a low curse instead. “Fuck.”

Folding forward, he leaned his left forearm on the wood of the railing in a move that was probably supposed to look casual. But the movement made him wince and reach for his side with his right hand before he caught himself and aborted the movement. It was hard to miss though, and Steve immediately picked up on it.

“Billy?”

“Leave it.”

“You’re in pain, I can tell. How badly did he hurt you this time?”

Billy turned his head to the side, showing off a bruised eye and a cut in his eyebrow that hadn’t been there the night before. Steve made a dismayed noise and reached out, but Billy took a step to the side, out of his range.

“Billy …”

Letting out a mirthless laugh, Billy closed his eyes briefly. ”It wasn’t that bad actually. Just a couple of hits, as a reminder to be more respectful.” The rain was coming down hard now, and water had soaked through his clothes and was dripping from his hair, which was swaying with the movements of the ship. “But if this is what I get for being disrespectful, imagine what he’ll do when he finds out I went behind his back.”

“You went behind my back?”

Both Steve and Billy whirled around at the new voice, and found themselves facing down the captain himself. Captain Hargrove was soaked through but that didn’t make him look any less terrifying where he was standing, watching his son with an icy glare, the stormy skies behind him only making him look more intimidating.

“I – no, sir,” Billy spluttered, eyes wide, but then seemed to realize that lying was futile. “I’m sorry, I –“

“It was me,” Steve said, trying to draw his captain’s ire. “I let the merman free, and Billy … Billy didn’t think you’d like that. Sir.”

“Well, he was certainly right about that,” Hargrove said, glaring at his son. “You knew about this? Last night, in my quarters. You knew?”

It seemed that no verbal answer was necessary, because even Billy’s silence made the captain’s eyes narrow dangerously.  Too fast, his hand shot out and grabbed Billy by his hair. Reacting on instinct, Steve reached out to stop him, which failed spectacularly when the captain – without letting go of his son – shoved Steve away with a growl. Steve fell on his ass, crab walking backwards on instinct when Hargrove pointed a finger at him and growled, “Laying a hand on me? I’ll have you whipped for that!”

Billy growled at that and managed to rip out of his father’s grip, and before anyone could stop him he drew his fist back and punched the captain in his face.

Despite the rain, the waves rocking the ship and the storm picking up speed all around them, something oppressing and not-quite-like silence descended over the ship. Like the world was holding its breath. Then Hargrove righted himself and turned to face Billy, who had stepped in front of Steve. And if the captain’s eyes had been dark with anger before, they were black with fury now.

“You’re going to regret that,” was all he said, before his lips drew back in a sneer and he exploded into motion, reaching out with both hands to grab his son again.

His fingers brushed the edge of Billy’s shirt, but before he could grip it, the world suddenly shook, knocking all of them off-balance.

“What the –?”

The ship shuddered and groaned under and around them as dark shapes shot out of the water on all sides, spraying everyone on deck with more water than the rain had brought. Shouts of terror filled the air as what seemed to be gigantic tentacles raised towards the storm-darkened skies. As the men ran for cover – or jumped overboard to take their chances in the sea – the dark shapes fell across the deck, splintering the sturdy planks as if they were toothpicks, and squeezing; breaking wood and unlucky humans alike.

Steve struggled onto his knees and crawled towards where Billy had fallen, grabbing at him and motioning to the railings behind them.

“We have to jump!”

Something in the body of the ship snapped, and they were thrown aside like rags. Steve hit the railing first and Billy hit him with a force that drove the air from his lungs. Ears ringing and out of breath, Steve still managed to climb back to his feet, with the help of Billy. The monster – because it was a monster, a massive sea monster come to claim their vessel – tightened its grip on the ship and pulled. Men and equipment were thrown every which way, the bow of the ship rose from the waves, and in the bedlam of it all, Steve’s and Billy’s terrified eyes met. A split second later, they fumbled for each other until they could grip the other’s hand, climbed the railing of the now tilting ship –

– and jumped.

~~~

Steve lost time as soon as he hit the water, and came to with someone’s arms around his torso just as he breached the surface. He drew in a breath that felt like fire in his lungs, splashing helplessly in the water. His vision, blurry with saltwater and pain, sharpened enough for a second that he got a flash of the scene in front of him:

A storm raging, rain and clouds making the world look colorless and wild. The sea foaming and raging with the winds and the movements of the … of the …

Monster, his mind supplied as he watched the enormous tentacled creature cracking the Arrow in two, starting to pull the wreck underwater as the crew – small and insignificant from this distance, like ants – ran around on deck or dove into the waves. But … even when they got into the water, there was something not quite right. Pale and silvery creatures jumped out of the sea, attacking the fleeing sailors, pulling them back under the surface.

Steve caught Hagan’s eyes – wide with horror – just before a pale face with dark eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth appeared behind him and, and – bit down on Hagan’s neck, and then there was dark blood in the water and Hagan were gone.

Steve knew there must be noises; the howling of the wind and the ferocious waves and the screams of dying men and the crash of their ship going under, but he could hear nothing but a loud buzzing in his head.

Suddenly a wet head appeared in the waves before him, gasping for breath a couple of arms’ lengths away. Billy. Billy, reaching out desperately towards him with panic in his eyes –

A jolt went through Steve – if Billy was there, whose arms were around him …?

A nightmarish face appeared behind Billy in the water, clawed hands reached out for him and Steve opened his mouth to shout out a warning, but before he could, whoever held him up abruptly let go and he ended up under the surface again. Water flowed into his mouth and nose, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t find his way back to the surface, he was going to die down here –

~~~

When Steve woke up next, it was still raining. The skies were no longer stormy though, and the clouds overhead were a lighter shade of gray than before. He blinked a couple of times, before he drew in too much air at once and started coughing up water. He curled up on the solid surface he was lying on – rock? – and a second later there were hands on him and voices around him. Or. Voice, singular.

“That’s it, get that water out. Shit, pretty boy, you scared us.”  

He turned his face up slightly and was met with worried blue eyes.

“Billy?”

Alive. Billy was alive.

He was rewarded with a brilliant smile. Billy was soaking wet and dripping water down on him from where he was hovering over Steve, and he was lightly holding his shoulder – the shirt underneath his hand was saturated with blood but he didn’t look like he was in pain – but he was talking and moving so he had to be alright. Despite this, something felt off. Billy held himself with a certain stiffness and kept throwing uneasy glances in the other direction, to the other side of Steve, and –

“What is it?” Steve rasped, and turned his head to see what Billy was looking at.

He was met with the sight of another person, and at first Steve didn’t recognize him, but then it clicked.

The merman. The merman that they had freed last night. His hair was no longer frizzy and dry, but hanging from his head in wet tendrils and adorned with beads and pearls, and several necklace-like things made out of pearls and bones and colorful stones were hanging around his neck and wrists and across his torso. His dark eyes were the same, though.

“You,” Steve breathed, and searched for Billy again. “What …?”

“Your friend here,” Billy started, and his voice was raspy too, as if he’d been screaming himself hoarse, “saved us.” He licked his lips and shook his head a little to get rid of the excess water, which was kind of redundant in the ongoing rain. “What do you remember?”

Gruesome pictures flashed before Steve’s eyes, and he winced. “The Arrow … it went under–” He tried to sit up, but winced at a twinge in his ribcage and gratefully accepted Billy’s help to get himself upright.

“Yeah,” Billy said with a waver in his voice that could be anything from pain to sorrow. When Steve was sitting up, he found himself looking out over the gray ocean, with Billy on one side of him and the merman on the other. Twisting his head, though, he saw a rocky shore and beyond it, a lush forest that spread out for as long as he could see in the gray of the rain.

Land.

“What happened?” he said, directing his question to Billy but looking at the merman. “I don’t … What happened to everyone else?”

“Well,” Billy rasped and motioned to the merman. “Eddie here –“

“Wait, what?” Steve interrupted. “Eddie? That’s his name? He can’t talk.” Turning to the merman, he added, “… Can you?”

In response, the merman hissed, but then backed up and slid down the rock and back into the water, and once he got his mouth below the surface he made a sound that sounded like … muffled words. Steve couldn’t make them out over the sound of the rain, but it was definitely not hissing anymore.

“Yeah,” Billy said in explanation, even though he sounded semi-perplexed as well. “Apparently they … talk? But like, only under water. If you’re underwater with them, you can hear it more clearly.”

“And he told you his name was Eddie?” Steve said, incredulous.

“Not exactly,” Billy admitted with a wince. “I couldn’t pronounce it if I tried, but it sounded kind of like ‘Ed’, so …” He shrugged, and winced again as it seemed to aggravate his bad shoulder. “Eddie. He speaks English, actually. Haltingly, and with a strange accent, but … understandable.” He only seemed to be a little baffled at that fact.

The merman – Eddie, apparently – drew himself up on the rock and showed off his teeth in what was honestly a pretty intimidating grimace. Steve just blinked at him.

“I think that’s a smile,” Billy said from the side, helpfully. “Either that, or he only saved us so he wouldn’t have to share us with his brethren.”

Ignoring what had to be a poor attempt at a joke, Steve gasped when he remembered what he’d seen before he lost consciousness. The ship, destroyed. The men, being attacked and pulled down into the depths by – he now realized – creatures much like the merman in front of him.

“You … They killed –”

“According to Eddie here,” Billy interrupted, “his people had already planned on attacking the ship after Eddie went missing. From what I understand, they sunk what was left of the Sea Queen too, last night. When we let Eddie go, he went back home to … yeah, wherever that is … but his people were already on the warpath. I think he heard about it? And he went back, but was too late to stop it. They were already attacking the Arrow in retaliation.” He swallowed, and looked to Eddie as if making sure he got it right. Eddie inclined his head in a nod, and Billy continued. “We … jumped into the water. He found you, but you must have hit your head or something because you weren’t … you weren’t awake to swim. When I surfaced, I saw you. He was holding you up. I didn’t recognize him then, I thought he was going to eat you.”

Eddie hissed again, somehow managing to sound offended.

“Then I almost got eaten by one of them – one of his people, I mean – and Eddie came to save me, too,” Billy said, sounding a little disbelieving of the fact, “and he must have told them to lay off or something, because they allowed him to take us both and swim away. I couldn’t do much, with my ribs and shoulder, but I held you up, and Eddie held me up and swam, dragging us both along, and … yeah.” He gestured to the rocky beach they were on. “Hours later, here we are.”

Steve reached up to sweep his wet hair out of his face and tried to come to grips with the situation. It was a lot to take in. To stall, he said, “You guys seem to get along better than last time.”

“Yeah, well,” Billy said, sounding almost bashful. “He did save our lives.”

Eddie hissed, but not angrily, and Steve watched as he pressed one hand on Billy’s chest and then gestured to first Steve, and then himself.

It hit Steve then, “And you saved us,” he translated, and looked at Eddie for confirmation. “Right?” He was met with another nod. “Yeah, I … I suppose that would do it.”

The rain was abating, but even so, they were soaking wet after having been in the ocean for what had apparently been several hours. Steve found that he was shivering, and he wasn’t sure that it was because of the cold or because of what they had been through.

“Where are we?” he asked, grateful when Billy put his hand on his back in silent support.

“I’m not sure,” Billy answered. “Eddie says it’s an island, and he doesn’t think there are other humans on here because he hasn’t seen any boats. It was the closest land he could think to take us to that had fresh water.”

For the first time since waking, Steve turned to Eddie fully, and took in the way he looked now. The bandages that he’d put on the merman were gone, but the wounds and bruises were already healing and didn’t look that bad anymore. The jewelry suited him, as did the hair ornaments. He was watching Steve intently, and for the first time the gaze in those dark eyes was soft.

“I …” Steve started. “Thank you.” Words were inadequate for the kind of gratitude he was feeling, but it was all he had at his disposal. “Thank you, for saving our lives.”

Eddie did that same show of teeth as before – a smile – and put his hand on Steve’s chest like he had just done to Billy. Then he gestured to himself, and inclined his head. And even though he wasn’t speaking, Steve knew what he meant.

Thank you for saving mine, too.

They sat like that for a couple of heartbeats, soaking in the moment between them, until finally Billy spoke up. “I take it back, pretty boy.”

“What?” Steve said, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a smile.

“What I said about your bleeding heart,” Billy specified. “Looks like your bleeding heart saved us this time.”

[untilnextchapter]

Masterlist : Marvel

Marvel Cinematic Universe

* = Smut (Minors DNI) || 🦋 = Series || Beware of the TW please

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Do you love Bucky series? @justkending is the writer for you! Here are some of my favourites:

Finding Memories 🦋 (Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader, Waking up with little to no memory of her past, and being saved by a group of individuals who call themselves heroes, sends a long time captive for a whirlwind trying to find some form of grounding in this world she quickly learns runs on chaos. But she’s not the only one trying to figure out her forgotten backstory. Bucky Barnes, along with the other Avengers, can’t help but sense that there is a lot more to the whole situation than a diagnosis of amnesia. Her background slowly starts to come forward in pieces of her past and hidden information discovered. Who is she? And why was she in the room they were meant to destroy?)

The Number One Rule 🦋 (Bucky Barnes x Rogers!Reader, Y/N has always been seen as “Steve’s rambunctious sister.” However, she grew up, graduated, and moved to London to study abroad for 4 years and get her bachelor’s degree. The girl that returns looks nothing like the teenager that left. But don’t worry, the attitude is still there and stronger than ever. What’s to come of the two grown adults that used to push each other’s buttons, but now have a lot more in common than they’ve ever realized?)

The Slip Up 🦋 (Bucky Barnes x Single mom!Reader, After a last hurrah to graduating college with a future to be a family practitioner, a little slip up happens… Seven years down the road, just when things just now seem to be going smoothly, Y/N approaches that slip up from all those years ago. She’s not looking for anything right now. She is just where she wants to be in life. It seems the universe has a different idea though. One called James Barnes.)

So, my number one for smutty Bucky is the wonderful @sinner-as-saint. Here are a few of my favourites:

Capital Letters * 🦋 (Bucky AU x Fem!Reader, You were fortunate enough to work for who was considered to be one of the best, most admired and affluent authors of your time; Mr. James Buchanan Barnes. And soon, things weren’t so professional between you and the man…)

His Obsession * (Mob!Seb x Housekeeper!Reader, You work for the notorious mob boss. You’re at his house regularly; tidying up and cleaning and surprisingly you’re not scared of him like the rest of his staff are. Sure he is authoritative, and mean but he’s never disrespectful or inappropriate, nor does he bark orders at you like he does with the guys. And you were almost certain that he barely pays attention to you. Until one evening he confronts you about something. And what starts out heated, ends in a night neither of you will ever forget…)

Miscellaneous Authors:

Diner Girl || @ofstarsandvibranium (Fem!Reader, After coming across a small diner, he becomes enamoured with you, a waitress)

Set me free || @intrepidacious (Bucky x Nymph!Reader, Once upon a time, a soldier fell from a train. Thankfully, this time, he is found by gentle hands, and a beautiful voice keeps him safe from the cold)

Heal me, baby || @/intrepidacious (Bucky x Nurse!Reader, Your friendship starts with you cleaning up his wounds and Bucky paying to get the blood stains out of your couch. Something else starts, too)

Nightingale’s Song 🦋 || @thatfanficstuff (Barnes x OC, James Buchanan Barnes. Captain America’s best friend. Hydra’s secret weapon. A man lost in time who can’t remember his own name let alone those he held most dear. Florence Anna Charles. A nurse on the front in World War II. A mutant in a time they weren’t known. A woman who can heal with a touch that catches the attention of Hydra)

Lessons in Love || @violentdelightsandviolentends (Bucky x Fem!Reader, Bucky didn't believe in love at first sight. Then he met you.)

[Not Named] || @terry-perry (Dad!Buck x Fem!Reader, Can I request of Jack is clinging on Y/n like koala. Like when Bucky try to pry him off of her but he said “No! I’m staying with mommy and protect her!”)

Mood lighting || @frankieetaylorr (1930s!Bucky x Fem!wheelchair-user!Reader, You never understood why he always came to the dances your resident home threw but you were always so glad when he did)

TW: brief mention of abandonment

Secret Book Club || @starks-hero (40’s!Bucky x Reader, Bucky’s got a new book and he just can’t seem to put it down)

Instinct || @dilemmaontwolegs (FATWS!Bucky x Blind!Fem!Reader, After trying to stop a mugging before Bucky intervenes as reward is offered and so he tracks you down)

Fall into Winter * 🦋 [Ao3] || Miajah (Bucky x Reader, Mae was just doing her civic duty when she saved Iron Man, now she can't seem to get rid of him. Then there was the Winter Soldier and of course Captain America himself. A girl can't catch a break)

Running From the Past * 🦋 [Ao3] || @green-eyeddragonfanfiction (Buck x Mutant!Reader, Reader is a mutant who was experimented on by HYDRA. Due to her unique powers, she escapes without being seen when the Avengers attack the Hydra compound she’s been kept in for the last 5 years of her life. Her mutations and Hydra experiments allow her to blend in with her surroundings (like a chameleon/cuttlefish/octopus) and change her appearance in minor ways (such as hair, skin, and eye color), though the changes are only temporary. She’s now on the run, avoiding both Hydra and SHIELD)

Steve Rogers x Reader

You and Me Together 🦋 || @/ofstarsandvibranium (Single Parent Steve x Fem!Reader, After the death of his wife, Sharon, Steve Rogers is now the single parent of their daughter, Grace. Three years after his wife’s death, his friends convince him to go back into the dating game)

Not a Perfect Princess || @shmaptainwrites || (Steve x Princess!Reader, Reader meets one of the heros who saved her country and realizes around him she doesn’t have to be a perfect princess)

Making the Team || @heliads (Dad!Steve x Daughter!Reader, The reader is the daughter of natasha and steve, and she is nervous about for her first mission. Her mom and dad tell her that everything is gonna be great, and the mission is complete, but the reader is badly injured and her parents and Bruce takes care of her)

10 Years Time 🦋 || @/justkending (Steve x Stark!Daughter!Reader, As princess of Alberia, it is your duty to grow into a rightful young lady if you plan on ruling your family’s country. Of course, the only way your father can see this happening is sending you off to a boarding camp at the age of 14 for 10 years to learn what it means to grow into a Queen.That means leaving all your friends and family behind. One specific person, your best friend, you never want to say goodbye to. But 10 years later, you come back grown into a young lady, and find your best friend has grown into a knightly young man. How will you two adjust after 10 years apart? Will things be the same, or will all that’s happened in that span of time affect your relationship?)

Tony Stark x Reader

Dum-E || @mostly-marvel-musings (Tony x Fem!Reader, DUM-E has probably tried petting Tony's hair with his grabby claw when Tony falls asleep in the lab because he's seen you do it and noticed that Tony likes it)

Hot Chocolate and Hoodies || @deadlymistletoe (Tony x Fem!Reader, A dare involving a hoodie eventually leads to hidden feelings being revealed)

Maybe to annoy you || @specialagentlokitty (Tony Stark x Daughter!Reader, Tony's daughter and she has a crush on Steve, like everytime she sees him she blushes and Tony is a little annoyed)

Two Wicks, One Flame * 🦋 [Ao3] || AmberSnapeBlack (Tony x Soulmate!OC, Emma has had it rough her whole life. Her experiences have shaped her into who she is today, a twenty three year old bus girl with no self esteem or backbone. She hates the lime light...well she hates socializing at all. She has never paid her soul mark any mind. Most days, she forgets it even exists. That will change for her in a way she never anticipated. What comes with bearing the soul mark of the man who is the forefront of the Avengers? Who is almost always in lime light? Who is possibly, already taken? Does she want to know?)

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Little Love || @/ofstarsandvibranium (Loki x Short!Reader, where the reader is super short)

Shatter This Glass And Set Me Free * 🦋 [Ao3] || @shiningloki || (Loki x OC, Loki hasn't seen the light of day in years. He has been locked away in Stark Tower, waiting for Odin to free him of his punishment after his attack on New York. He's angry, he's spiteful, but most of all, he's lonely. It is not until one day when a new face comes along Stark Tower that everything begins to change. She's different from the rest. She's trusting, she's curious, and she's willing to give Loki a chance at companionship that no one has ever offered him)

The Eyes of the Beholder 🦋 || @/starks-hero (Gorgon!Loki x Blind!Reader, Loki has spent years in solitude, hidden away in the mountains south of Athens. Having been cursed by the gods for his trickery, anyone that sets eyes on him shall turn to stone. But what happens when an unfortunate mortal wanders into his domain?)

TW: Descriptions of blood, violence and injury, angst

Dances and Daggers 🦋 [Ao3] || Cozy_The_Overlord (Loki x OC, The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor's betrothed, Teki's only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn't find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn't the only prince in Asgard…)

Avengers x Reader

Not a burden || @/specialagentlokitty (Autistic!Child!Reader, Would you be comfortable writing something where Bucky and Steve (or maybe the whole Avengers team if you like that better) adopt the autistic reader after finding out her mother emotionally abused her?)

Some Things Never Sleep 🦋 [FF.Net] || MotomamiBizcochito (Avengers x OC, Emma Rogers, AKA The Viper Assassin, has been under Hydra's thumb for nine long years until the Avengers rescue her from a Hydra base after receiving anonymous intel from the Winter Soldier. She's thrown into a world of freedom which she's never known but with the help of her grandfather, Captain America, she slowly becomes accustomed to her new life until Tony Stark brings up the Sokovia Accords. Emma is caught in the middle of a war as she becomes intent on protecting the man she calls her father and siding with her grandfather. Not to mention she crosses paths with a certain webslinging nuisance that knows just how to push her buttons like no other...what Emma would give for the days she spent knife fighting with her father in Siberia)

I know it's a Spiderman x OC but it's because of this story I discovered MCU and Emma has a lot of relations with Avengers. A LOT of TW, check them all please

[genderfluidrainwing]

I wanted to try writing short stories about minor characters from Wings of Fire that incorporate the information we have about them. This one is about a genderless sandwing at Jade Mountain Academy named Arid, who appears once and is mentioned once.

Interestingly, they seem to be friends with Ostrich and Pronghorn, two other sandwings, and the three of them have different backgrounds, so the tale explores this dynamic.

Pronghorn wrinkled his nose thoughfully. "The last time I saw Ostrich was yesterday before lunch - she and Arid and I took some instruments to one of the upper caves to play with the sound of rain in the background. We invited Onyx, but she doesn't really like music.

The Sound of Falling Rain

Two young sandwing dragonets enthusiastically dashed into the music cave at Jade Mountain Academy. A third, who was trying very hard to look just as enthusiastic, followed closely behind. It was a few hours before lunch, and their friend Pronghorn invited them and another student, Ostrich, to play instruments. They had spent time together before, which gave them some degree of familiarity, but they each came from very different places. Ostrich came from the rough-and-tumble, free-spirited Scorpion Den, while Pronghorn came from Blaze’s fortress, which had access to some level of finery.

Arid, however, was born in an oasis town where everyone worked very hard gardening and raising animals. Usually, that wasn't a problem, but this time, the dragonet was nervous because their friends had music where they came from, and they didn’t. Back in their small oasis town, everyone was much too busy working to supply food for Burn's army, hoping they were good enough at it that they wouldn't be called to the battlefield.

“This is going to be so fun, Arid, I'm glad you came too,” Pronghorn said excitedly, “I have such a good idea, you'll love it. Onyx is missing out!”

“Onyx isn't coming?” Ostrich asked.

Arid hoped not, despite having agreed to invite her. She hung around them sometimes, but she didn’t seem to care for them at all. She found Ostrich a little more interesting, but none of them could describe it as Onyx actually liking her. As if Pronghorn could sense their friend's discomfort, he shot them a reassuring smile.

“No, she said she doesn’t really like music.”

Ostrich and Pronghorn shared an incredulous look, shaking their heads. Arid felt some sympathy for Onyx, since they weren’t sure what to make of music themselves. The first time they heard or tried making it was during class. There, they were instructed by their teacher a little about a few instruments, and everyone got to try one. They didn't practice much since then though, because the few times they did they seemed bad at it. They were going to wait until another music class to try again, but they also wanted to spend time with their friends.

“She also doesn't really like us.” Arid joked.

“Ha!” Pronghorn barked. Ostrich giggled a little too.

Each dragonet then took an instrument each. Pronghorn took a pair of bongos, Ostrich chose a harp, and Arid grabbed a wooden flute. He tried it once during his one music class, and he hoped he remembered enough to play it right.

“Now that we're ready, follow me!” Pronghorn motioned for his friends to leave the music room and head up a cave passage. He had mentioned before that they would have to take the instruments somewhere else.

“Where?” Arid asked.

“It's a surprise!”

They weaved through a few other students, but then as the path sloped upwards, there were no more dragons wandering the halls. Pronghorn must have found some kind of unused cave. Arid looked at Ostrich skeptically, but she was all smiles. That made sense, she liked music a lot and was probably just happy to be practicing with them - special cave or not. 

Pronghorn led them along until they reached the upper caves. Once up there, Arid could faintly hear rain on the mountainside, the sound drifting in from one of the caves in the system, right where the three were headed. The gentle, constant white noise resounded the loudest from the last upper cave because there was an opening at one end of it where they could watch the storm come down.

“I thought we could try practicing up here, where we hear the rain in the background,” Pronghorn beamed. “It’ll be so beautiful and calming!”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea!” Ostrich said, sitting in the middle of the empty cave and beckoning Arid to sit next to her.

“I'll start the beat, and you two try to come up with a melody together. It’ll be fun!” Pronghorn continued, setting down his bongos.

Arid sat with their flute in hand and waited for Pronghorn. Their mind raced. To make a sound I put my fingers on it like this… and then- Wait, I’m not sure if that’s right. They didn’t have much time to think before their friend jumped into a steady beat on the bongos. Oh no. What if I make a mistake? The dark sandwing thought anxiously. Ostrich was already thumping her tail to the rhythm and experimentally plucking the harp strings.

“First you have to feel it, Arid!” Pronghorn suggested. “Feel the rhythm of the rain and the drums!”

As Ostrich plucked a three-note, repetitive tune that melded beautifully with the pattering of rain and the steady drumbeat, Arid swayed their head and neck. Feel the rhythm… They told themselves, and they could! Their tail joined Ostrich's, thumping the ground. Their friends smiled in encouragement.

“Now play something!” Ostrich exclaimed, and suddenly Arid remembered the flute in his talons.

Their anxiety crept back in as they slowly brought the instrument to their mouth and blew, creating a sound that seemed too quiet. They tried blowing harder, but that caused a strange lilt that clearly made Ostrich and Pronghorn wince, though they tried to hide it. They tried changing how they were holding it and blowing into it again.

A strident, high-pitched noise that did not sound right erupted from the instrument.

Pronghorn covered his ears and as the beat stopped, so did Ostrich.

“Whoops?” she said, and looked from Pronghorn to Arid with an awkward smile. “It’s okay, let's try again.”

Embarrassment and frustration welled up in Arid's chest. If I try again, I'll just mess it up again! They thought, frustrated.

“I’m just not good at this,” they snapped, sounding more frustrated than they meant to. 

“Arid, that's not true. I’m sorry,” Pronghorn apologized. “I didn’t mean to react like that. Let’s just try again, like Ostrich said.”

“No!” Arid got louder. “You don’t understand. I just can't,” they huffed. 

“Sure you can!” Ostrich tried to be encouraging. “Maybe if-”

“No!” Arid interrupted her. “I thought I could play, but I can't. I've never even seen an instrument before coming here,” they explained, tears welling up in their eyes. “You two know about music because you lived with the outclaws or with Blaze. But I spent my whole life trying to prove I can work the hardest, and during a war, that means there's no time for anything like music. Everyone around me thought the same thing. So now I have no idea what to do!”

Arid let out a choked sob as they forced themselves to admit their worries. Ostrich and Pronghorn shared a look. Were they looking down on them? They're not going to want to spend time with me anymore, they thought bitterly. But instead of rejecting them, Ostrich and Pronghorn approached. Each tentatively offered a wing with sincere smiles. Arid froze for a moment, but his spirits lifted as they realized they were being offered comfort. They gratefully reached out to brush their wings against their friends’.

“I’m sorry,” Pronghorn said. “I wanted to have fun with you two. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Arid.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ostrich added. “I never wanted to pressure you either.”

“It's okay,” Arid exhaled slowly. “I should have said something earlier. I was just really worried you two would think less of me.”

Arid leaned into Pronghorn and Ostrich's embrace, and the three of them wrapped their arms around each other, warmth radiating through them. Arid relaxed as they realized that it was safe to open up to their friends.

“We still have a little time before lunch,” Arid smiled. “I'd love to just listen to you two play.”

“Surez we'll play for you then! If you want, you can dance too,” Ostrich suggested brightly, picking her harp back up again as Pronghorn nodded in agreement and gathered his bongos.

Arid remembered that just moving to the beat felt a lot more comfortable. They wiped a few stray tears from their face and nodded.

“I think I will.”

Pronghorn started again on the bongos, and as it melded with the raindrops, Arid closed their eyes and began to sway gently. Soon after, Ostrich plucked at the harp, hitting a wrong note at first with a soft ‘whoops’ and a laugh, before she went back into a soft, calming melody. Letting the music take them away, the dragonet moved along with it.

Finally, Arid felt something real. Here, they could finally feel like they were worth something.

[rom-e-o]

✨As Good As Gold✨ (Modern AU) (Ebenezer/Constance)

Here is part one ... because this alone was 23 pages. ^^;

I, um, get a little invested when writing these two. Just a smidge. Oops, haha.

Also, this store features Ebenezar Charles Scrooge ("Wolf") and Bess Scrooge (kudos to @quill-pen) and is a follow-up to her AMAZING fic, "All The Little Breaks" that she blessed me with after an ask. Since then, the inspiration has been churning! She also helped write and check the Wolf/Bess sections as well. (Seriously, they are such a delightful couple, every moment with these two is so enjoyable!)

Enjoy!

STORY IS 18+ for some explicit content. Minors DNI.

“You have everything you need, yes? I tried to make sure her bag was completely stocked.”

“Yes, yes, I do. And you most certainly did. I think this diaper bag weighs more than five babies altogether.”

“W-Well I wanted to make sure you had everything while we were away, just in case! I know you have a spare key to the apart—um, flat, but you’re already doing Ebenezer and I an amazing favor by watching her. I don’t want to cause any trouble or extra trips.”

“Connie, I think you packed well enough for Starla to stay with Wolf and I for months. Seriously, girl, you packed her a snowsuit … it’s July – almost August. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The tone of Bess’ jest was playful, but it sparked mild alarm in her friend.

“Of course not! I promise, we’ll be back—”

“I’m joking,” she said. “I know you two will be back, punctual as ever.”

A familiar bark thundered in the background, causing Bess to laugh. “Yes, yes, we haven’t forgotten. Starry’s gonna need a good bodyguard, Prudence. You’re up for it, right?”

The mastiff’s loud bark echoed proudly from the phone’s speaker. She swore the timbre of her call rattled the phone’s delicate inner workings.

As Elizabeth “Bess” Sullivan playfully ruffled Prudence’s ears and beamed at her friend from the other side of their video call, a red head of hair slowly peeked in from the bottom left corner of the frame. Mere moments later, a string of burbles accompanied the surprise guest, and their bright blue eyes slowly entered the camera’s view.

When those icy-blue eyes landed on the likeness of their mother on the other side of the screen, the baby let out a peal of laughter. Her tiny fingers sought the screen, seeking the familiar warmth and vetiver scent of her mother. “Ba … ba!”

Constance’s eyes welled up briefly as she saw her baby reaching for her on the other side of the video call. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she blew her beloved little girl a kiss. “Hello, Starry! Oh, there she is, my beautiful girl!”

Starla burbled a reply that was absent of tangible words, but the emotion was conveyed superbly through her gummy smile and chubby, flailing arms.

“Yeeees, that’s your mama,” Bess said, laughing at Starla’s enthusiasm as she dropped a loving kiss on top of her head. “She’s going on a trip with your papa. For their wedding anniversary – before you were ever born, cutie pie! But don’t worry. They’ll both be back in a week, okay?”

Starla paused to stare at the screen, then scrunched her legs up for a round of excited kickies. “Eeehee! Wa-ba!”

Ebenezer Scrooge glanced over from the driver’s seat of his McLaren, smiling softly at his beloved baby’s coos and clucks. Seeing his interest, Constance pivoted the phone in his direction, allowing him to see their child. The man smiled as he saw his beloved, redheaded daughter examining the phone screen as if she was peering through a portal to another world.

When she spotted her father, she squealed with laughter again. “A-ba!”

The man’s heart softened at the display, almost to the point where it ached. If he looked too long, he feared it may cave a hole in his chest until he ultimately resigned himself to turning the car around and driving en route back to London. He missed his sweet daughter already but was eternally thankful for his brother and sister-in-law’s generosity in watching her. He and Constance desperately needed a holiday away together, he knew. Not only to reconnect after Starla’s birth, but to reconnect as husband and wife again.

In the meantime, he knew his daughter would receive the utmost care under the watchful (and extremely detail-oriented) eyes of his twin brother and sister-in-law. It helped soothe the burn of being away and refocus his mind on reconnecting with his wife, which he more than wanted and needed. They’d both been operating at a deficit of affection for many a fortnight, and it had worn them to threads. In fact, he’d begun to crave her, and her, and her happiness, more than air in recent months.

Spurred by sentimentality, his hand lofted from the gear shift for a moment to take Constance’s free hand and kiss it, his lips pressing firmly against her knuckles. The metal of her wedding band was cold against his lips.

The woman bloomed under his affection, and she turned to grace him with an affectionate smile that he hadn’t seen grace her features in months.

Gods above, how he’d missed seeing her happy and hearing her laughter, he thought. Had it not been for the fact that the country roads were as windy and uneven as they were, he would have retained his grip on her hands a few precious seconds longer. Simply feeling the familiar way her hand molded to his – their palms flattened together and fingers entwined – made his breath stall in his lungs. Alas, as they neared another turn, he reluctantly relinquished her hand to shift down a gear to more appropriately take the next turn on the unpaved road.

“We’ll be back soon, my little love,” he told Starla, his voice a touch cloudy. “Bess, if anything happens—”

“I’ll call Magda first. If it’s a real emergency, then we’ll call both of you.”

“But—”

“But we’ll still take tons of pictures to share with you both once you return.”

Both parents begrudgingly acquiesced to that. While they trusted Bess and Wolf with their daughter’s life, they couldn’t help but worry a bit. It was in their nature as a pair of perfectly matched worrywarts.

Their little girl had come off a nasty bit of colic and a fever, so naturally, they wanted to make sure she stayed in sterling condition. Their fears were further assuaged by the fact that Bess was a seasoned labor and delivery nurse, but small flecks of worry persisted for the sole reason that she was their baby, and it would be impossible for them to not worry at all.

“Have fun!” Bess said, bouncing the giddy baby on her knee. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you two! And Con, flat shoes. Do not break an ankle out there.”

The call ended after one more round of thank-yous and goodbyes to their daughter and Bess. Once the screen went dark, Constance leaned back in her seat with a deep breath and put her phone to her heart. “Oh, I miss Starry already.”

“It’s our first time away since her being born,” he agreed softly. The epiphany occurred to him as the words left his lips.

“It feels so strange for her to not be in the backseat, giggling away.”

On cue, he glanced in the rearview mirror, only to see that Starry and her car seat were both absent.

“I know …” Ebenezer said, his hands turning the steering wheel so the car made a slight right into another road, “But she’s in amazing hands, my dearest. Bess and my brother would do anything for her. That includes spoiling her.”

Constance laughed. “I don’t mind that.”

She sighed in resignation, slipping her phone back into the side pocket of her Telfar shoulder bag. “Speaking of Wolf and Bess, I have a calendar reminder set to send a very large bouquet, dark chocolates, and some Gurkha cigars to their flat for their trouble once we return.”

Ebenezer gave her a sideways smirk. “One step ahead, as always.”

“Well, don’t say that just yet,” she muttered, “That’s the last, and only reminder, I set. Everything else can wait until we are back. I am agenda-less from here on out.”

One of his bushy brows quirked upward. “Truly?”

“Well, our official calendars are clear,” she reminded him slyly, “As you well know, sir. I manage your calendar.”

“A task you are all too talented at,” he quipped. Sometimes, he swore his wife had the ability to bend space and time with how she could arrange meetings, deadlines and video calls in such a way that they slotted together like natural puzzle pieces. She could cram thirteen hours of work in an eight-hour day; a feat which wasn’t always a virtue.

“We are appointment-free and out of office for the entire week,” she continued. “I made sure to set up the automatic email replies and changed our phones’ answering machines on our last day clocking out.”

“Very good,” he said. “Though it’ll be a struggle, I’m sure, to not check your laptop. I know how you feel about emails and seeing that number in your inbox tick up.” He hated it too, so he had no room to talk.

“I left it behind.”

He paused before turning to her, eyes blown slightly wide in stupefaction. “You … I beg your pardon?”

“I left my laptop back at the flat,” she repeated, slowly glancing over to check his reaction. His reaction seemed to spur some hesitancy. “I figured … that would be best. I want to focus on us, not work of any kind.”

It was a confession that, without context, might have seemed mundane or a futile attempt to fish for shallow admiration. Yet, in that moment, Ebenezer felt a surge of admiration shoot through him.

Last month, the two had gotten into a heated disagreement – the climax of many weeks of Constance overworking herself to exhaustion and leaving Ebenezer single-handedly to care for Starla – and he’d yelled at her and tried to throw the damn laptop away. For weeks after the stressful birth of their daughter, the device had served as her excuse to hunker down in her dark office and prattle away on her keyboard into the wee hours of the night, often missing meals and quality time with family. The tedium had lured her into a sinkhole with no bottom, pulling her deeper down by the day. She’d avoided coming home on time many nights and often left before sunrise the following day. It had seemed as if she couldn’t stand to be near him … as if she was ashamed to be with him.

After a while, he’d started to mirror her actions.

Bess had later determined the root cause of the behavior to be a severe case of “baby blues” and intrusive thoughts combined with Constance’s borderline compulsive desire to be perfect and independent.

Looking back, it had seemed so obvious she needed therapy and help.

Yet, in the moment, he’d been frustrated, terrified, and felt … neglected. Like she was falling out of love with him and giving up on their daughter. There was also the fact that Starla’s birth had almost killed Constance as well, and the dread he’d felt that day watching her face go white in his arms had gnawed at his nerves to the point of fraying. Sometimes, when he slept, the ghoulish vision haunted the corners of his nightmares.

He’d felt so powerless to help her, and he’d detested the feeling. The thoughts had spurred him to mania. One fateful day, he’d tried to throw the device in the trash, and they’d scuffled. In a cloud of panic, she’d shoved him hard into the bookshelf, burying him in a small pile of books and knickknacks as a result (thankfully, the quartz paperweight had missed his head).

When he’d opened his eyes, she was gone – have sprinted out into the rainy streets without her keys or cell phone.

Never before had he felt such fear. For a horrifying moment, he entertained the notion that her shrieked sentiment of “leave me alone!” would be the last words he’d ever hear from her.

The incident ended with them reuniting at his brother’s flat. He’d been worried so sick for her safety and had apologized over and over for scaring her. She’d done the same, begging his forgiveness and apologizing for starting the miscommunication. She’d said she had wronged him and their daughter too many times over. She’d sworn, with a firm hand over his heart, that she would do better.

And, weeks after that fateful day, she had kept her promise.

In addition to seeing a marriage counselor together, she had begun therapy (a long overdue need for after her marriage to her abusive ex-spouse, Orin) and was taking longer breaks from work. She maintained a strict cut-off point for all after-hours emails and inquiries, and maintained a strict 9-to-5 schedule, plus multiple breaks.

After a nearly four-week period of watching his beloved wife spiral into the same workaholic tendencies that had almost completely ruined his life beyond salvation, Constance was coming back into herself.

She’d started smiling again. Laughing again. Making lunches for their friend group again. She was always home in time for dinner, and had also started cooking dinner again some nights, making it a responsibility the couple loved to share. The woman was even taking days off in the middle of the week to be with her daughter, even if it met dealing with an irritated client days later.

Now, they were taking an extended holiday together to a remote cabin, and she had left the laptop back at the flat.

She’d left work, literally and figuratively, behind.

“That is … wonderful,” he said. It took him a bumbling second to find the words, though they did little to convey the extent of the joy he felt. Mirth sprang forth in the form of a disbelieving chuckle. “I-I … am proud of you, my dear. That’s a triumph.”

Feeling the genuine love behind his words, Constance allowed herself the indulgence of savoring his praise. In a perfect world, they would have never squabbled so horribly, she supposed. Yet, for all the ugliness that it had brought to the surface, it had also brought them closer in some ways.

Those other ways, there was still much work to do. But … in every adult relationship, wasn’t there always, to some extent?

“Thank you,” she admitted softly, almost serenely.

“You are most welcome. The pleasure is all mine.”

His voice held warmth that she had missed. Even sitting comfortably, it made her weak to her core to hear him sound so pleased, so strong, and yet so fragile all in one breath.

She was tempted to lean over and kiss him, but with how rugged the roads were, it was best not to risk any distraction. Besides, the sun was already high in the sky, and they were due to arrive at their rented cabin in half an hour. With the way they’d planned their route, they would arrive just in time to get settled before enjoying supper. Constance had plans for that.

Once the car was parked and they were settled, then they could officially begin their vacation. She was over forty years old, she reasoned. She could be patient a little longer, despite her urges to get a little rambunctious to make up for lost time.

After all, the last thing they needed was more unsteady ground.

Of all the destinations the couple had stayed in during their first year of marriage, this one had to be the most stupendous, Constance thought.

The pictures she had viewed of the listing online did not do the quaint cottage justice. The cottage was crafted from logs of fragrant cedar in rustic red tones that matched the other conifers that sprouted proudly from the soil in the forest nearby. The cabin stood one and a half stories tall, and bore its weight triumphantly on a flat expanse of land at the crossroads of a dirt paths. On one side of the abode was a field of billowing, golden wheat that seemed to stretch to the tree line miles away. On the other side of the house was the showstopper – a fenced, sprawling field of blooming sunflowers, all turned toward the blazing summer sun in worship.

There was a place to park the car next to what appeared to be the mostly bygone remains of a horse’s hitching post. Once Ebenezer shimmied the vehicle in the alcove and turned off the engine, he stepped out and rounded to the other side to open the passenger door for his wife. He offered her a hand, and she gratefully accepted it.

As she stepped out and up, she beamed at the sight. “Heavens, this is even more lovely than I thought.”

She inhaled deeply, struck by how honey-sweet the air was in her lungs.

“It’s quite beautiful out here,” Ebenezer said, equally fascinated as he took a moment to appreciate the surroundings, before then looking back to admire his wife. Somehow, in the countryside air and sunshine, she seemed to glow even more than she did in the city.

“Look – the sunflower field is enormous,” she said, drifting closer to the edge of the fence for a better look. “It’s like a cornfield with how dense it is! I didn’t know sunflowers could bloom like this in England.”

“I must confess, I’m shocked as well. One or two sunflowers is one thing, but this is … quite extraordinary.”

“Well, the countryside gets the point of incredible views this time around! Not that I don’t love the city – it’s my home, but I think the sunflowers will be kinder to wake up to than London traffic.”

“Ha! Some die-hard Londoners would still fight you on that.”

One word of her sentiment snared his attention: countryside. Not another person, or building, for miles. If he squinted down the road, he could see the start of a tiny, historic town on the horizon, the little brick buildings looking like flecks of pepper against the hills. Well, at least there was some civilization within eyesight. For two city folks like them, that was reassuring. The two were looking to get away from the world for a moment, not go completely off the grid. Neither of them were equipped for that, or had the desire to be survivalists.

Just to be safe, he checked his phone. Perfect reception and Wi-Fi. That was good.

As he set about unloading the luggage, Constance approached the front door to get them inside.

“Let’s see, the check-in instructions from the owner said to look for a ‘key in a snail,’” she recited out oud. “No code or box. Hmm.”

She swayed her head across the expanse of the spacious front porch, looking for anything that fit the description. Sure enough, perched in the corner of one of the front window’s large outer sills was a golden, ornamental snail sculpture that was about the size of a baseball. Gingerly, she reached out and curiously pulled up on the shell. It lifted with minimal force, and inside, a house key glittered against a felt inlay.

Not the best security system, she thought as she took the key and slipped it in the lock.

“There we go.”

There was only one key, it seemed. For safekeeping, she immediately pulled out her own personal keyring and looped it onto the bundle. It seemed the two would need to stay together for most of their holiday. She was quite alright with that.

Just as she finished the task, she noticed a familiar shadow and heard recognizable footsteps behind her. She turned to see her husband – her beloved Adonis, hoisting their bags onto the porch.

She lingered back a few paces to give him room to drop the bags and open the door for her, as he always was keen to do. As he did so, she bid him a ‘thank you’ before motioning to step inside.

“Hold one moment, darling.”

Just as she paused, she felt his strong arms loop across her shoulders and under her knees. He all but swept her off her feet, grinning all the way up as she let out a gasp of delighted surprise.

He carried her over the threshold of the cabin with two, long-legged strides. All the while, she clung to him and beamed a smile that could ravel the rays of the sun itself. Her feet kicked slightly, one of her nude heels practically falling away.

Once they were safely on the other side of the front door, effectively christening the temporary abode for their stay, he deposited her carefully back on Earth. The man didn’t relinquish his grip until her feet were firmly planted on the floor, and even then, their lips remained locked for an extra half-minute as she praised his strength with a deep kiss.

When they finally broke apart, their attention turned to the entryway table, which was adorned with a handwritten card from the cabin’s owner, a box of frilly cakes, and the largest bouquet of pure white lilies Constance had ever seen.

“Ah, good,” Ebenezer remarked, “The flowers arrived. And they look perfect.”

“Did you plan this?”

“I cannot take credit for the card and cakes, I’m afraid. The flowers, however, are my doing. I know you love lilies, but we can’t have them in the flat.”

Lillies were one of Constance’s favorite blooms, and their beauty to her was only heightened by the fact that they were incredibly poisonous, from petal to pollen, for cats. Two feline companions called their flat home. Sunshine, a beloved feline that Constance, Bess, and their companions Gal and Addie ‘shared custody’ of; and Patience, their most recently adopted feline companion (and Prudence’s most beloved little sister).

A lifelong lover of cats, Constance would have been beside herself with grief to put the precious creatures in any sort of peril, let alone for a selfish reason.

With no felines in the cabin, they were free to enjoy the lilies for the entire week. He’d taken advantage of the scenario and ordered a triple-digit bundle that was hearty enough to survive their entire stay. When she was preoccupied with a phone call one morning, he’d even called ahead and specifically asked the owner of the cabin to pick them up and place them inside. Lo and behold, she’d gone far above and beyond his request and added her own gifts to the assortment.

“Oh, Ebenezer! You shouldn’t have!”

“Nonsense. You deserve the best, let alone fresh flowers you adore.”

Constance swayed forward to admire the bouquet, inhaling the sweet smell of the flower that often leant it glorious aroma to all her favorite perfumes, before reaching for the card.

Ebenezer and Constance,

A first wedding anniversary is a wonderful time – enjoy it smartly, along with the frilly cakes! The flavors are lemon curd, maple, and vanilla bean. The lemon is my favorite. The bakery in town is incredible, just make sure to get there early.

Have fun!

-Olivia S.

“She is wonderful,” Constance said, passing the note to Ebenezer for him to read as well. The couple would be sure to send her many referrals down the line.

Peering past the entryway, the cabin opened into a warmly lit foyer. The logs making up the indoor walls were cut to perfection and appeared freshly oiled. The sheen only made the red color, as sanguine as freshly turned autumn leaves, pop even more against the herringbone floors. The furniture itself was rustic in design, with an emphasis on large silhouettes and ample cushioning. The pillows and tufted blankets blazed with a myriad of rich patterns and jewel tones, all featuring unique smocking patterns that gave each piece its own equivalent of a human face. It kitchen, located right across from the front door, featured modern appliances spliced in with old-world accents made from polished sheet rock.

The coziness continued into the bedroom, which featured large windows, lace and velvet drapes, and a very large oak-framed bed with linen sheets. They’d most certainly make use of that.

In the meantime, they dropped their suitcases there and continued on for the moment.

One piece that attracted their attention immediately was a lacquered cabinet in the corner, located just on the other side of the living room’s main media console. The crown jewel of the cabinet was an antique Victrola phonograph that sat proudly at the top, its parts made of shining brass without so much as a speck of oxidized green. The morning glory horn at the top was painted a shade of deep, wine-drunk purple that shifted slightly into a petal pink toward the tips. The top and sides boasted a distinct, tiger maple veneer that was distinctly antique the carried the aroma of linseed oil.

While Constance busied herself putting away the sparse number of groceries she had brought in a cooler bag from home, Ebenezer curiously sauntered over to the device to inspect it. A simple flick of the fingers was all it took to open the cabinet and reveal a modest collection of records inside. He discreetly thumbed through the collection and was relieved to find that Olivia appeared to fancy classical music as much as they did, for it made up a solid majority of the collection. Perfect. Swiftly, he made his musical selection and slipped the record from its sleeve and onto the original, pine-green velvet pad.

Just as Constance finished sorting the produce and poultry in the fridge, the opening strings of “String Quartet in F Major, Op. 3 No. 5: II. Andante cantabile” by Hoffstetter met her ears. The notes danced through the air like aloft dandelion seeds, the melody spritely and energetic before taking a slower, romantic swing. Recognizing the melody, Constance was lured from her task and into the living room, her eyes brimming with both glee and curiosity.

There, Ebenezer poised himself proudly before dropping into a gentlemanly bow. He extended a hand in a silent request for a dance. In his loose linen shirt and crisp trousers, silver hair slightly tousled and lips drawn into a hopeful semi-smirk, he looked the part of a dashing man laying his heart bare for his lover.

Constance was quick to oblige, drifting into his arms like a swan taking its first strikes onto a crisp lake.

One larger hand fit perfectly into the hourglass-shaped notch in her waist, and they began a delicate waltz.

Even in an unfamiliar space, neither of them missed a single step, all while their eyes never strayed from the other’s.

Their trance lasted until the mechanical parts ground to a halt as the record ended.

 “You brought groceries?”

“Just a few! I didn’t know what would be available in town and how readily, so I brought just a few items. Besides, I have a special plan for dinner.”

“Really? Well, color me fascinated.”

That special plan was making her husband a dish that she’d had the recipe memorized since she was a teenager. The recipe essentially mirrored what many others called chicken with browned butter and fresh sage, but Constance had been introduced to the dish by her mother Theresea, who had shown her how to prepare the dish one day in their New York apartment.

Her mother had told her over a hot stovetop, “Darling, this is the meal I made for your father on the date right before he proposed to me. Make this dish for the man you want to be your future husband, and he’ll be putty in your hands! I’ve shared it with three associates, and they all experienced the same thing. Use your power wisely, dear. The path to any man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Is it really that tasty, mama?”

“The taste is quite important, dear, but that’s not all. It’s a dish that proves that you have skills in the kitchen. That you’re an adult who can cook, not simply assemble ingredients. You can make something both hearty and savory, and without a ton of fancy ingredients. It’s a dish that shows you aren’t just a maiden looking to impress a beau … it shows you’re a woman worth pursuing as a wife.”

Constance had never had the opportunity to make the dish for her first (and ex-) husband, Orin. She’d graduated from university in Maryland, come home, and he’d proposed to her after a celebratory round of drinks. Any romance of their union had been officially ruined after their honeymoon, and from then on out, he always requested a specific menu for dinner. She was never permitted to choose. After a while, the desire to cook at all had extinguished itself, and food was replaced with warm whiskey and other substances to kill the pain.

With Ebenezer, however, she’d taken a chance and prepared the dish for him one night after they’d been living together for a few months. It wasn’t the first time she’d made dinner, but it was the first time she had prepared that dish specifically. She paired the dish with bakery sourdough, a kale and sunflower seed salad, and a 2011 Cabernet.

She had been paranoid at the time that her cooking skills were rusty, but that night, the very slender gentleman had cleaned his plate, crust of bread and all.

“I think that may be the best meal I’ve eaten in my entire life,” he’d told her. “Absolutely sensational, Dear. You outdid yourself.”

“Really?”

“Truly. I would eat more if I could, but I’m positively stuffed.”

Sure enough, just a few weeks later, that ring was on her finger, and they were planning their wedding together.

Was the recipe a family secret turned into a real love spell? Likely not, but she certainly couldn’t argue with the results.

“Would you like some help?” he asked, rolling up the cuffs of his linen shirt.

Constance made sure to get an eyeful of his sculpted forearms before moving her eyes north to his visage. “Well, I was going to say that you should get comfortable and enjoy some brandy after the long drive, but … if you really don’t mind, I’d love that.”

“Really?”

“I always enjoy cooking with you.”

That decided it, as far as he was concerned. He all but skipped into the kitchen, eager for nothing more than to spend time with her.

They worked side-by-side in the kitchen for the next half hour, preparing the poultry and browning the butter in tandem. All the while, Ebenezer asked questions about the recipe, inquiring about amounts and the specific brands of some ingredients (like the butter).

As they worked, they sipped a freshly uncorked Malbec, a shared favorite of theirs.

“So, your mother taught you this recipe, did she?” Ebenezer asked while chopping the fresh garlic. Julienne first, then brunoise.

“Yes. When I was just a teenager. I learned it quickly, as it’s pretty simple. Sometimes the best recipes are.”

“You should still write it down,” he suggested with a smile, giving her a longing gaze. “Pass it down to the next generation. Starla might make it one day as one of her favorite recipes.”

“Mmhmm. Perhaps one day, if she’d like.” Thankfully, they still had quite a bit of time before then.

The cryptic response earned a slight brow waggle of amusement but was quickly forgotten as she directed him to add the garlic to the butter pan.

He scanned the other ingredients scattered on the counter and noted a bottle of cheap, brown-bottle sherry. They used it often in recipes back home, so she’d brought an extra for their trip. “Shall we add a splash?”

“Mm … there’s no other alcohol in the dish, so it shouldn’t conflict with anything. Let’s try it.”

Another ten minutes later, and the meals were plated. They moved from the kitchen to the cabin’s quaint dining room table to eat. It was a small, circular table, which forced them closer than usual. Neither complained in the slightest.

“Heavens, I should have brought tapered candles,” he teased, “That’s all we’re missing for a classic romantic table setting.”

Constance gave him a good-natured chuckle as she refilled his glass of wine. “Let’s not get too crazy on our first night of vacation.”

They shared a laugh, clinked their glasses, and began to eat.

Immediately after the first bite, her eyes lit up. “Wow. Ebenezer, that splash of sherry was a wonderful idea!”

He gave her leg a playfully jostle with his foot. “Told you so.”

 As the tranquil night’s sapphire shadow stretched across London and the speckling of cities surrounding it, Bess found herself stirring.

As she rose from her bed, she furrowed her brow in confusion. Normally, she was awoken by noise, a dream or – something. At least her phone alarm. In this case, the woman had to take a beat to let reality coalesce around her before she realized what had awakened her.

She moved her hand to the other side of the bed, seeking the familiar warmth of her fiancé, who always rested right beside her, and usually had at least one arm around her. As she suspected, his spot was vacant. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, it only took one survey of their bedroom before her eyes landed upon the familiar outline of her soon-to-be husband.

Ebenezar “Wolf” Scrooge was crouched over the bassinet in their room, grinning from ear to ear as he chattered nonsense at Starla. Even from the bed, she could hear her little giggles and coos in response to his playful chatter.

Bess sat up fully, bringing her knees up slowly before crossing her arms. “I didn't hear her cry.”

“She didn't,” Wolf whispered, “I got up to use the loo and just peeked in at her when I came back and she was awake, cooing and smiling up at me. I think the toilet flush might have roused her; we might want to consider using the guest bathroom through the nights she's here.”

“Good idea.”

For the next few moments, Bess was a captive audience as she observed Wolf gently poke at Starry's tummy. The act earned even more of those adorable giggles.

Then, just when she thought she couldn’t smile wider, one of the babe’s chubby hands lofted to grab his nose and squeeze it. Bess laughed, then quickly smothered the sound with the back of her hand.

Letting out a light squeak in surprise, he then chuckled. “My! S-Strong grip already, haha.”

Starry roared with laughter at his reaction, bicycling her onesie-covered feet in the air.

“Oh, now she's very much awake. My, oh, my … well, what should we do about that? We can’t have you awake for too long – you’ll be cranky later. Here, up you go.”

He gingerly reached into the bassinet and picked her up. Scrunching her legs, she immediately calmed down as Ebenezar allowed her to rest upon the warm expanse of his chest. By the time her coos quieted, his arms had already wound around her protectively.

“Well, how about we take a few laps around the flat?” he asked her in an amusingly conversationalist tone. “That always calms my mind. Does that sound alright, little one?"

“…Weh. A-ba!”

“Hah. Very good. Clever girl.”

As he cradled her, he hummed a soft melody, the tones reverberating from deep in his chest. The act almost immediately made the little redhead’s eyes heavy, but she stayed awake, occasionally squirming against her comfy confinement.

Moving slowly, he walked her down to the flat’s main living area. “Now, my dear, for an exclusive tour of the chateau. To your left, you will see the electric fireplace – we’d love to use it with you, but you need to be in a playpen for that. You’re just a little too curious with those hands of yours.”

Exemplifying his point, Starla reached up and tried to grab his nose again. Veering his head away in the nick of time, he smirked and wagged a finger at her. “Now, now. Fool me once, and only once, little one.”

She giggled again, as if she understood she’d been caught red-handed and reveled in the mischief of it.

The next stop was the veranda for some fresh night air and to show her all her auntie's outdoor plants and garden boxes.

“Look at these pretty-pretties, Little Star,” he said, pointing at the vibrant clusters of petals amidst a sea of evergreen. “These are called ‘marigolds’. These ones are very special, because they bloomed the very day you were born. And Auntie Bess has kept them healthy and strong since then. Aren’t they lovely?”

“…Beh?”

“Haha, yes.”

He patted her back and brought her back inside before the chill proved to be too much for her. She squirmed slightly, burrowing herself against his chest, seeking warmth. The sensation nearly stole the breath from his lungs, and he fought the urge to grip her form even more protectively.

Bess traipsed behind them softly, deciding to grab a midnight snack while everyone was already awake. After all, with a baby in the flat, their already normal schedules would surely become vastly out of whack in the coming days. It would be prudent to adapt, and steal moments of sleep and substance whenever possible.

As she walked to the fridge and reached inside for a carton of blueberries, she watched them the whole while. With each observed interaction, her heart just turned to utter goo. She always knew her Wolf would make the most adorable father.

If only she could give him one of his own, she thought with a familiar ache of melancholy. She wished with her whole heart for it to be possible, but some things simply weren’t meant to be. That didn’t mean it didn’t well up tears in her eyes on those particularly hard days.

But she knew he'd be an amazing dad to any child that came into their life, however they decided to go about it.

In the meantime, they would have plenty of company and precious moments to fill their cups with in the interim.

As Wolf drifted into the kitchen, the couple shared a soft forehead bump.

“Did my garden meet her standards?” Bess asked, keeping her voice low.

“Nothing short of stellar.”

When they parted, they glanced down in tandem to see that Starla had finally fallen asleep. With the grace of the lupine creature he was nicknamed after, Ebenezar made his way up the stairs to deposit her back in the safety of their quiet bedroom. After closing the door (leaving it open a crack), he made his way back downstairs with a yawn.

Bess awaited him, having already prepared him a serving of blueberries. She also pulled some strawberries from the fridge, which he was never one to say no to.

“It’ll be dawn soon,” Bess said as she slid him a plate with a soft smile.

“I woke you up. I apologize.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said softly, reaching over to lay a hand on his arm, “Besides, seeing you like that with her … that was worth waking up for.”

Tenderness touched the corners of his eyes, relaxing the muscles of his face ever-so-slightly. His larger hand moved to cover hers, giving it a slight squeeze.

“It … does make me think, I confess,” he admitted.

“It makes me think, too,” she admitted softly.

A beat passed before Ebenezar seemed to sense the remorse in her voice and moved around the kitchen island to pull her into an embrace. His hands rubbed up and down her spine as her head found its favorite spot right over his thumping heart. As her hand laid over the plane of his robed chest, she could still feel the heat there from where Starla’s weight had rested mere minutes earlier.

“We’ll have a family someday,” he promised his fiancée. “I know it.”

She nodded, believing him, and believing it in herself too. He always inspired the best of her good faith, not just in others, but in herself.

“Yes,” she replied shakily. “Yes. We will.”

Somehow, some way.

With sunrise mere blinks away, Ebenezar offered to fill the kettle to start some tea. Since they were snacking, they might as well start their day, he reasoned. They both had the day off, which made the decision even easier.

As he prepared the tea, she moved their morsels to the living room area. Bess then drifted to the window shades to raise them in anticipation of the sunrise.

“You think those lovebirds are up yet?” Wolf asked as he set the kettle to boil. “Their internal clocks are sharp as tacks, and if Starry rouses as easily at home as she does here, I’m tempted to take bets on if they’ll sleep in at all.”

“I hope so,” Bess said, yawning into an open palm. “Connie especially. Those weeks when she was going into work early … she was setting alarms as early as three in the morning.”

“Gods above – whatever for?”

“Compulsion, guilt … many reasons. Anyway, they seem to be doing better since the incident, and according to Adonis, she’s started sleeping again.”

And cuddling, she thought secretly, remembering when Connie had called her in excited tears after her and Adonis had woken up entangled in each other’s arms for the first time in months.

“Thank goodness,” he said. “Especially as a new mother, she needs sleep. Connie is just as bad as you at putting other matters at hand before herself, after all.”

“I’ll let that comment slide since it’s still early, sir, and we both need caffeine.”

He chuckled from afar.

“Well, if anyone can get her into bed, I venture it’s safe to say that your brother can.”

Wolf made a noise of vague disgust as the electric kettle beeped, and he went about measuring the tea leaves for two mugs.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she teased, sitting up to look at him from the other side of a tufted armchair. “And even if I did, am I wrong?”

“Ugh.”

“Darling, they have a baby,” she laughed, “Certainly you know.”

“Know WHAT, exactly?” he challenged, his accent flaring up with the question. “That adorable little gummy-mouthed angel was delivered first-class by the stork. Or she sprouted up in a cabbage-patch. Or perhaps Constance has perfected the art of mitosis. Whatever way that little sun drop came into being, she certainly didn't come from MY brother. My brother is as endowed and capable of relations as a Ken doll. Clinging to that fact is the only way I can sleep at night, I’ll have you know.”

“That's a little dramatic, don't you think?”

“Be sent an accidental sext by one of YOUR family members and see what insanity YOU come up with to cope with the trauma, Elizabeth.”

Bess let out a musical laugh, and the sound was beautiful enough that any unpleasant imagery lingering in his mind was immediately sanctified by the heavenly ring of her voice. Unfortunately, she was quick to clap a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of mirth. He stiffened as well, realizing why she’d suddenly gone stone silent.

Glancing up the flat’s stairs, she paused as her midnight eyes rested on the overlook window that showed their bedroom, a nightlight for the little girl casting ghostly silhouettes against the glass.

His eyes followed hers, his body not moving an inch. He was frozen mid-step, a steaming mug in each hand, eyes wide and lips rolled between his teeth.

When no giggles or cries wafted from the open door, they both relaxed in tandem. Heaving matching sighs, he crossed the threshold of the room to deliver a mug of tea into her hands.

“Thank you,” she mouthed out.

“You’re very welcome.”

Bess scooted over in the spacious armchair, patting the space beside her. Rolling his eyes (the loveseat would be more practical) he was powerless to resist her. He slowly settled down beside her. The tight confines meant that she had to scoot into his lap for them to both be seated together.

Predictably so, neither disagreed.  

Perhaps it wasn’t the best place in the flat to sit side-by-side, but it was a damn fine place for a pair of engaged lovers to snuggle up.

It also happened to be the best place in the flat to watch the impending sunrise.

While one couple was slowly waking up from their restful slumber, another couple had avoided sleeping altogether.

As it turned out, the lovebirds had not gotten a wink of sleep that night.

With a straw-soft gasp, Constance ground her hips down, stuttering frantically on her descent. She moved briskly, chasing a final, blinding surge of pleasure as her and her husband’s hips swayed with piston-like precision toward their goal. She sat atop him, straddling his hips, hair thrown back over her shoulders while her hands sought the wide expanse of his chest for balance.

They’d gone to bed rather late after dinner, after spending many more hours dancing in the living room and sharing glasses of wine. By the time they finished their last dance, their lips had come together in a series of increasingly frantic kisses. He all but walked her backwards into the bedroom, unzipping her dress and kicking off his slippers with ease.

He’d then lifted her up, thrown her on the massive oak-frame bed, and made passionate love to her there for hours. The foreplay alone stretched into the night, with them worshipping each other’s bodies with grasping hands and cradling thighs. Lips explored, tasted and savored velvety areas that the other would never dream of letting another human being see, let alone touch.

When their bodies did finally come together, hips bucking in tandem and throats raw from screaming each other’s names, the beginning rays of dawn had begun to peek over the horizon.

With one last sob of pleasure, Constance sank down hard and threw her head back, her body spasming around the contour of him. Drawn and sweat-slicked, she rode the waves of release with frantic gasps, all while her husband’s massive hands clamped onto her hips and helped amplify the force of her sways.

“That’s right, give it all to me,” he coaxed, his voice hoarse but firm. “All of it. All of it, darling.”

With one last exclamation of his name in the otherwise soundless bedroom, she let out a whimper of relief.

Slowly, her arms began to bow from strain. Ebenezer released her hips and went to hold her elbows, his strong hands fitting around the joints easily. Taking all the strain off her exhausted body, he supported her on a slow descent.

“There you go. Slowly. I have you…”

He rolled to his side and guided her onto the mattress, where he took the initiative of shimmying his hips away from hers. With a nod of permission, he pulled out as gingerly as possible, as they were both quite over-sensitive.

While Constance laid on the bed and caught her breath, he discreetly removed the condom, tied it off, and tucked it into the wastebasket that they’d pulled near the bed hours before. It wasn’t the first condom they’d used that night-turned-morning.

When he turned back to her, the visual of her nude body reclined against the bed – her ample bosom heaving and red hair draped over the pillow in tousled ringlets – captivated him to stillness. One of her hands had lofted to her chest, laying over her heart, as if she was trying to caress it into calmness.

He gazed upon her like she was a painting to be admired. The spell was only broken when her cornflower blue eyes opened to meet his. Still breathless, she smiled and reached out to him. To touch him. To hold him.

He was quick to twine their fingers, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss there.

Gods, when was the last time they’d made such passionate love, he wondered. It had to have been before Starla was born. And for hours – literally until dawn? That, he knew, they’d never done before.

He was sure his muscles would be screaming at him in the coming days (and rallying himself would take a moment – he wasn’t a teenager anymore), but sod it all, it was beyond worth it.

He kissed up the length of her arm, relishing in the laughter he earned as his other arm swept her close, gathering her just so her back was pressed to his furred chest. She was putty in his embrace and moaned in soft delight as his arms crossed around her with possessive adoration. Even after being joined for hours, he still wanted to cradle her close, sweat and musk be damned.

When his lips finally reached the destination of her cheek, he spent an extra moment lingering there.

He laughed, and with his lips still pressed to her skin, the feeling sending a tingle through her. The effect lured a smile to her lips, and she languidly stretched her arms out in front of her as he continued to dot kisses along the back of her sun-kissed shoulder blades.

“Gods above, you are fantastic,” he whispered with the reverence of a man reciting a mantra by heart.

With one last squeeze, he released her so they could lay side by side more comfortably. Most importantly, they could also gaze in each other’s eyes, which was a post-coital ritual he insisted upon. In his mind, to drift into the haze of slumber without glimpsing the eyes of the woman who had brought him to ruin was borderline heretical.

However, once he opened his arms, he was alarmed to see her rise from the blankets. For a panicked moment, he was thrown back into the memories of the days when she would shun his touch and rise from bed immediately to leave him, turning his back on him to succumb to the tedium of work.

Without realizing it, his hand had nearly shot out to snatch her back.

Yet, this time, she did not leave the bed.

In her naked glory, she instead rose and turned to the massive window that backed the impressive bed. She drew the curtains, and he squinted against the light.

She then undid the latches, snapping them open with ease, and hoisted the pane high over them. Fresh air swelled into the bedroom like a crescendo of music. After all, their activities had made the bedroom quite stuffy, and while the lingering perfume of sex was intoxicating, it was far from refreshing.

The second the glass lifted, a wave of sunflower-scented air rolled in. The crispness immediately brightened his senses.

“There we go,” she said before slowly drifting back down to him.

That was when she noticed his hand, still partially extended to her.

Noting his reach, sadness touched her eyes for a moment before she took his larger hand between hers. Breath fluttered in his lungs as she closed her fingers around hers, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The declaration was punctuated with a resolute stare, her perfectly plucked brows slanting inward as she studied his face … studying to see if he believed her.

He answered her inquiry by luring her back onto her back, where he covered her smaller frame with his wider one.

Before he could stop himself, he spoke the words, “Kiss me again, please.”

He felt foolish for a moment, asking for a kiss of all things after their prolonged coupling. Yet, Constance answered without a smidge of hesitation. Her hand snaked upward, fingertips skimming the shape of his jaw and feathering through his sideburns. Cupping the back of his head, she tangled her fingers in his silver locks and nudged him down. He descended upon her as she rose to meet up, their mouths meeting again. Chastely. Sweetly.

Lovingly.

 After a shared shower, Ebenezer donned a new linen shirt and pair of trousers in the thinnest material he had. It was to be a slightly warmer day than before, and unlike the day prior, he had a small itinerary for the morning.

“My dear, I’m going into town to fetch breakfast from that little bakery Olivia mentioned,” he said from his station in from of their bedroom’s large vanity. “It should be about a thirty-minute walk. I could drive, but it’s not that far.”

While he spoke, he snapped his antique, silver Piaget on his wrist. He slid the watch face into a proper position, he checked his freshly dried hair in the mirror before angling his eyes toward the reflection of the open ensuite bathroom door behind him.

Moments later, Constance padded out, donned in a terrycloth robe and her hair freshly curled and make-up applied to perfection. Her eyes and lips were more naturally adorned than usual, allowing him to appreciate the natural shape and color of her features.

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she enthused.

“You’re more than welcome to join me.”

“I might … um, how are your legs?”

He laughed. “Sore, but not terrible. A stretch and some exercise will do them good. How about you? You were the one doing the more, erm, physical work last night.”

It was true. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and she was definitely tender in other areas, but not to the point of no return.

“Would you mind waiting for me?” she inquired. “I promise I’ll dress quickly – Olivia said to arrive early, after all.”

“Well, of course! I’d love your company. We can drive if—”

“No, no, a walk sounds lovely!” she said.

“…You’re sure?” he asked.

There was layered reasoning to his question that extended far beyond their intimacy the night prior. Thanks to her ex-husband, Constance had a previously snapped femur in each leg that each had required many years of potent (and highly addictive) pain medicine to manage, on top of other substances she’d already been using at the time. It wasn’t until recently that her legs had healed to the point where she no longer required daily pills or physical therapy.

Nonetheless, her legs were weaker, tired easily … and she was also an incredible klutz. It was as adorable as it was concerning, and as much as he enjoyed catching her, he still worried for her.

He was a man in love, and as such, he worried and toiled over her, especially considering their recent incident.

“Darling, the figures can wait.”

“No, they can’t. The client turned them earlier today. It’s the last of the month – if they don’t go in this report before the end of business hours today, they’ll be added to next month’s expenditures. It’ll throw everything off!”

He’d always worry about her. Her determination to survive was also a compulsion to action. When the jaws of a bear trap snapped shut, Constance would tear herself free, no matter the pain and blood. That was the problem.

“We can afford to eat more than a fair share of checks. Please. We can figure it out and re-balance tomorrow.”

“I’m so close, Ebenezer. I can do it.”

“I know you can, Constance. That’s not the issue. It’s just—”

“I promise I’ll be only a moment,” she said. “Wait for me?”

“I just need to input a few more lines, Ebenezer. Please, go on without me. I’ll be just along in just a minute.”

No sooner had the man agreed and sat down in the living room armchair that she reappeared again, fully dressed in a silky maroon midi-dress, synched at the waist. A pair of espresso-colored wedge sandals (not stilettos, bless her) completed the ensemble. She wore her hair in a simple chignon, her second favorite way to wear her hair.

He checked the time with his watch, brows arcing into twin horseshoes. “That was fast.”

She had certainly kept her promise, he noted with great pleasure.

After a quick detour to the kitchen island to grab her shoulder bag, the two set off.

(Part 2 coming soon - thank you for reading!)

"No fog, no mist. Clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold—cold, piping for the blood to dance to—golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells—oh glorious, glorious!" ~ A Christmas Carol

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Golden Dawn Part 2) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]

Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over… 2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss. Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Scheming brothers. Brief miscommunications. Mutual pining? 👀 Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet.

Word-count: 6,743

It did not take little Mir long to find several samples of art and poetry to share with the cluster of curious on-lookers that have grown around her sister while she prepares bundles of incense and dried flowers. Petals and dried leaves are taken in clusters of twenty-seven before being tied tightly with twine, and carefully passed over the fire to the individual by name. Among the first bundles she gives, one is offered to Plo Koon, who has joined you since Mir had to ask for Solladara’s help in finding a particular piece of poetry and it interrupted their discussion. 

“This is for you, Plo Koon.” 

“That is kind of you. Thank you, young Gi.” the Jedi professes his thanks once he’s able to extract one of his occupied hands, more of the Chossi children than before sitting around him or in his lap, now. He has nowhere to put it, for the time being, so while you’re busy reading some of the poetry Mir found, Commander Wolffe takes his general’s bundle of incense and finds a place for it in one of the many compartments in his utility belt. 

The Basic that’s carved into thin sheets of bark may be slightly broken and disjointed, but the verbal painting performed here is no less incredible. So… is it really the doing of the Dinocaeruleus anthos that everyone’s been so… inspired? The mere pollen in the air, where that pleasant and faintly familiar smell has followed you all day long, is responsible for all this?

All the sketches, the thoughtful conversations you’ve had today, even the thoughts you’ve been having about the commander, that could all be the influence of the pollen? You’re not sure how you feel about that. Stars above, you live in such a strange galaxy…

“It will only be effective for those who reach maturity.” Mir’s older sister explains to her curious onlookers and those fielding questions, like Tack, preparing a new incense bundle that will be given to you to take back to the Jedi cruiser. “To those who have not reached maturity, like Mir, the pollen and petal incense will only smell sweet.”

Beside you, you hear Tack now quietly mourning that it will only ever smell nice for poor Orchid under his breath. Orchid snarls back at him to shut up, saying that that was a cheap shot. He can be plenty mature! He is so fuckin' mature, thank you! 

“If you're talking about your language and your choice of reading material, sure… Now pipe down, both of you. Don't be rude to Gi!” Suds mutters, wagging his head disapprovingly of both brothers’ behaviors. “Sorry about them…” 

Gi offers only an impish smile, finding humor in the brothers’ bickering. “It won't work for Mir. But, it would work for you, Arcadia, and Wolffe.” she adds with a nod, offering him his own bundle of anthos incense. “I will make some for your brothers, too. If they are interested.”

“That’s very kind of you, Gi.” Wolffe answers as he pockets his own bundle beside General Plo’s, nodding to show his gratitude for the generosity of your hosts here. The members of their community that were once cold and standoffish before to the battalion have since thawed out some more, making further offers to show elements of their culture, their homeland here with you as off-worlders. 

We’re all just the universe trying to make sense of itself. Shouldn’t that be enough to unify us? Wouldn’t it be nice if that was all it took? 

No. Unfortunately the galaxy was just far too vast for that optimism, that sweet naivete. It would never be enough to settle the differences in Republic or Separatist opinion. 

It would never be enough to bring back Wolffe’s lost brothers, either.

Brothers he forever carries in his heart no matter if he knew them in maroon or gray. Five hundred seventy-four brothers were lost in the Battle of Abregado. As was the original Triumphant: the new flagship is unofficially filed as the Triumphant II, for the time being. If only you had the appropriate leverage to do it (or maybe you talked to enough of his brothers to rally them around the idea) you would propose Resiliency for the Star Destroyer’s new name to honor Commander Wolffe’s inspiring refusal to be deterred from his service, his duty, his creed of brotherhood and loyalty. 

It’s a lovely thought anyway.

One for another time. There’s still so much to do tonight. Gi’s still making bundles of incense for members of the Wolfpack, but there’s been offerings from the Chossi to show more of their homeland, and what they accomplish under the light of the moon as a nocturnal culture. Children Mir’s age are willing to share star stories, naming various constellations you can see when you look in the gaps of the leafy canopy of their community homes. (They’re calling it star-sowing, which sounds adorable.) Children Gi’s age have simple chores to do, and several of Wolffe’s men offer their hands in aid. 

Already, a few have assembled themselves in groups, rather like the squads they’re familiar with, and are ready to “report” to the youth of the Chossi. One rookie admits he doesn’t know what ground-squash looks like, but he’s willing to help with harvesting the ripe ones. They’ve spent all day relaxing. And though they spend more days than not getting their hands dirty, it’s from things like droid oil, and soot, oftentimes blood. Getting a bit of dirt on their hands while digging through a communal vegetable patch? Yes, that’s technically work on a day their General took them here to relax, but it’s relaxing compared to what they normally do.

“Might be the only time we get to dig holes we don’t have to fill back up.” another soldier says with a shrug, deciding he’ll join in after taking anthos incense from Gi. “Wait up, guys!”

“What did he mean by that?” you ask, half turning to Wolffe after noticing his eyes becoming half-lidded in thought. 

“Graves, most likely.” A stiff shrug is offered, showing he’s not sure himself. “Don’t trouble yourself with it.”

Tack, having eaten his hash-sah fruit while you’d been distracted, butts into the conversation between you and the commander before it grows any more grim. “You really got to try the fruit, Commander; it’s delicious. Arcadia’s should be big enough to share.” He can show you how to eat it, too, since it’s best to hold it by the soft rind, otherwise you’ll end up a bit of a mess like Orchid. 

“Ah shit, got my gloves and damn vambraces all fuckin’ sticky.”

Soapsuds hisses for him to be better. “Cool it, fresher-mouth!” he’s displeased that his brother’s not minding his tongue with so many little ones around. The little girl from earlier he’s given his chocolate to still hasn’t let go, for the most part; he’d rather not have one of his brothers prove a bad influence in her galactic vocabulary. 

You agree to get the large hash-sah fruit from amongst the things in your bag, gingerly extracting it when the flint-gray commander takes note of the time and suggests you need something to eat. If you’d returned to the Jedi cruiser with the rest of the crew, you’d probably have gotten dinner long before now. “Can’t have you going hungry, Arcadia.” Wolffe says, another instance of it being more than a suggestion. 

It’s a veiled request.

Afterwards, perhaps together, you can find something more to do. This time it is a suggestion. 

You figure anything will work, so long as it means he’s not about to start patrolling the perimeter of this community like he had in the clearing. You’ll count it as relaxing if you could get him to at least sit while he frets about his brothers. Especially if the brother within his sight is a shiny, thinking back to how he had asked if you could tell who among them were freshest out of the tube while working on his own sketch. 

Teeth and claws.

You really have to apply a firm grip on the soft rind of the hash-sah fruit in order to keep it from slipping out of your fingers once Tack’s gotten it divided equally between you and the commander, nails biting into the outer shell and leaving deep ruts as the juice runs between your fingers. 

“Stars above, scarcely started and I’m already wet…” you say as it drips into the lap of your uniform, catching the lewd innuendo far too late. “Orchid, don’t even.” 

He gives you a smile, but nothing more. 

“I mean it.” you warn him.

Laughing, Orchid now holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Can I at least ask if you think the fruit’s good?”

The commander's opinion of the local produce comes quietly before you answer his brother. ”It’s not rations.” Neither negative or positive, merely neutral. If he finds it bitter, or sweet, or savory, he doesn’t share. It’s simply not rations. 

“‘Anything’s better than rations’, I know. But is it good, Commander?”

Wolffe gives it a moment of thought. “It’s… like eating sweetened rainwater.” 

It doesn’t make much sense, but no one can figure out a way to argue against his description either. The matter gets chalked up to sitting near the fire for too long where Gi had been hard at work wrapping clusters of twenty-seven petals and leaves of a plant responsible for encouraging a person’s creativity and inspiration. 

It’s the pollen talking, you all reason amongst yourselves.

You and Commander Wolffe part ways for a short time, Plo Koon begging for your forgiveness as he explained (a little vaguely) that Wolffe was needed for something Dara had remembered, something they had forgotten to do around the ceremonial welcoming fire. After you had finished your portion of the hash-sah and cleaned your hands best you’d been able of the juices, someone had been by with more trinkets for the battalion to take with them if they wished. Leather bracelets of sorts with three beads of hammered copper, meant to be worn on the dominant arm. 

That’s when Dara remembered there was something special that was meant to be offered. It’s nothing Wolffe or the Jedi have to take, but as a culture that values their generosity, she and the rest of the elders feel it’s important to at least show it. Best guess anyone has is it’s likely some kind of clothing unique to the planet. Maybe art. 

“It would be impolite to refuse without seeing it first, General.” Wolffe agrees with the Kel Dor after briefly conferring with Kwill for the best course of action. He promises to come find you later. If it’s permitted by the elders, he’ll have Kwill take images of the offering in the event it’s something they feel they can’t (or won’t) take, so you can see it. 

“Don’t worry about me.” you promise, feeling safe between his DeeCee in your belt, and the familiarity in the company of his brothers. Though you are a lamb among so many wolves as a civilian, you couldn’t be safer. “I’ll find something to pass the time, General.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Arcadia.” Plo Koon replies kindly, dipping his head into a respectful bow of thanks. 

You’re not sure if it’s a Jedi thing, or a him thing, but you find yourself mirroring the motion this time. Respect earned, respect returned. 

He and Commander Wolffe shouldn’t be gone terribly long with the elders, so you decide to stay relatively close to where he’d departed from you just for now. Your head feels a little clearer than before, distanced from the incense where those stirring feelings had distracted you before. 

Twilight troubles, named for the harm they can do, could be simultaneously helpful. Funny how there’s so many things like that in this galaxy: good things, even good people, with intimidating names.

You’ve met a few troopers with hard, edgy names, their hearts softer than tooka fur. There’d been no bristle or frigid shoulders from men named Bane or Dukes or even a Bonesaw like your co-workers had warned you to steer clear of, what feels very long ago now, when you were very new to the job. They’d been the ones to help you navigate the durasteel halls while you learned where to go, what your duties were, your first few days. There’d been a Scuffle, too, who helped you, even at great inconvenience to himself. (Curiously, his armor bore some paint in sap green. Had he been transferred from a different unit?) Each had called you a rookie, but it was more of a casual, almost affectionate sort of thing, when they offered you their help. 

Here, sir, helped your lost rookie find their way. Got a little turned around in the halls. (Hey. Don’t worry, Arcadia, you’ll learn your way around in no time.)

Clones look so similar at first glance, a sea of sameness and uniformity. But you know better. These brave men are not wholly made of justs and sameness - a Clone who’s been invited to try his hand at throwing at a foot-pedal pottery wheel may have the same fingerprints as a million other brothers, just another Clone made in the after-image of a dead warrior, but his mark in this galaxy is unique because he is the one who put it there as the iron-rich clay squishes between his fingers in his first attempt. He laughs it off as the Chossi woman showing him how to throw encourages him to try again. 

“Well that’s certainly one way to get a feel for the clay!”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” she chuckles while she helps him start again. 

Trying again, he makes a concentrated effort not to immediately squish and squelch the red earth-matter, experimentally scooping into the mound she’s made to try pulling it outwards, like she showed him. Clones are remarkably fast learners, no matter if the result is a bit messy. Specks of clay plip against his stark white armor after he adds a bit too much water, distracted by Sergeant Boost joining the crowd of on-lookers. 

“Waiting here for the Commander, Arcadia?”

Answering somewhat to the affirmative, you tell him you’re mostly just looking around. “Just watching Lasher at the wheel for now, really.” Lasher’s having a good time, and watching the veteran ceramics at work is kinda mesmerizing. 

While you’re distracted, Sinker sweeps up Orchid, Tack and Soapsuds behind you, urging them to be silent. You’re none the wiser.

“Thinking you might add pottery to your list of talents?” Boost asks, teasing lightly. 

You roll your eyes, a sarcastic lilt in your voice. “Yeah sure, if I can find somewhere to squeeze it in between all the poetry and painting and woodworking and a thousand other things I’ve ever wanted to try my hands at with my precious free time since I’m just swimming in credits.”

“Hah,” Boost laughs, bobbing his head both knowingly and sympathetically, “Probably a good thing Clones don’t exactly come by much in the way of credits. There’d be too many half-used hobby kits lying around the cruiser.” 

While you’re asking him where Clones do get the credits for things like the popular Clone bar on Coruscant, Sinker is trying to persuade one of his brothers to do something for him to little success. “Please? It can’t be me or Boost.” It needs to be one of the younger brothers of the battalion who does this. He’ll sweeten the pot if need be, if it convinces them. “A dirty holomag. Round of drinks at 79’s. We won’t make you clean the gunships. Something.” 

“You had me at dirty holomag.” Orchid answers, grinning as he gleefully rubs his hands together. “What do you need me to do?”

Sithspit he didn’t actually have one on hand back at the cruiser, but he knows how to get one. That's a problem for later. “Listen carefully, when the Commander gets back-” Sinker begins, casting a careful look over his shoulder to make sure Boost still had you properly distracted. The two of you are making idle chatter, still. Sounds like Boost has you talking about potentially going back to the gathering fire with him later, where the inviting blaze would keep you warm in spite of the night’s chill. Just in case Commander Wolffe ends up being a while. 

You’re hemming and hawing about it, admitting you’re not sure just yet, but it’s kind of him to offer in the spirit of the oft-shared sentiment from the inhabitants of Little Archossi the Jedi, Clones and you are the humble guests of tonight. 

More friends the merrier. All are welcome under our shared skies. 

“Sure, no problem Arcadia,” Sergeant Boost says agreeably, “Night looks promising to have a lot of excitement still, so I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to - oh, I dunno - step back for a bit and find somewhere quiet. It is pretty late.”

Or, early, rather. It had been well past 1:00 when last you looked at a chronometer, putting you an hour into a new day. It’s probably 2 or even 3:00 am by now. It could be another three hours before dawn, give or take. You’re definitely not getting any sleep tonight, but you may at least need to rest. (You may need a lot of caf to get through the day when you get back to the cruiser.)

There’s a tree not far from here that seems a little more isolated at the edge of the settlement, Boost pointing it out to you when you say you think it might be a good idea, so it may be a good place to rest and work on another of your sketches if you want. 

“Thanks Boost. I think I might.”

From here, the activity and chatter of the settlement has fallen away into a comfortable lull of background noise, punctuated with hearty laughter and dramatic sound effects used by the troopers to spice up their storytelling. In the cold glow of the moon, you could once more study the artwork Wolffe had made of you while you twirled one of the coloring pencils in your hand absentmindedly. 

Color it however you like. 

Trouble is, you keep changing your mind, or run into complications. First you thought about choosing your favorite color, but the end of the pencil was too dull and you couldn’t find a sharpener among your things to remedy that. (How did you not have a sharpener?) Then you thought about coloring yourself in maroon too, the end still plenty sharp, but putting yourself in such a significant color to the history of the battalion felt… strange. Like maybe you felt you weren’t worthy of it. You’ve gone through a few more colors in your bag, putting away one and pulling out another, but you can never seem to bring yourself to put the pencil to paper. 

A rhythmic sound coming from the community, like the beating of a heart, pauses your skylane of thought for a moment. Growing louder, closer, you realize its two sets of boots tromping down the path, one heavy and deliberate to combat the other’s backpedaling. 

“Orchid, what is the meaning of this?!” Commander Wolffe demands at last, realizing his brother isn’t going to stop for anything, not even the threat of refresher and gunship duty. His brother only marches him further and further through the dark pathway where the crowns of the trees keep all the light for themselves. A datapad clipped to his hip rapidly knocks against the plastoid at the pace they’re going. “Let me go, or tell me what’s going on!” 

“Respectfully, Commander,” Orchid begins in a voice that leaves no room for interruption, “it’s time for you to stop circling the gunships and get to the hangar already!” He gives Commander Wolffe a firm shove from behind, sending the man a half-step forward into your small circle of light with a mischievous cackle. “Don’t worry about the rest of the battalion for the night, we’ve got it covered with the General!”

It’s now coming together for Wolffe, piece by piece. “... Boost and Sinker put you up to this, didn’t they?”

“Not quite, Commander. But they know I’ve got just enough younger brother privileges to still get away with this.” Orchid replies with a shit-eating grin, pleased with himself. 

“I’m putting all three of you-”

“Yeah, we’ve got it covered Commander! Have fun!” Orchid calls back over his shoulder as he retreats into the boundaries of the Chossi community. “Elder Row says don’t go any farther than the fifth cairn stack!”

Have fun? Fifth cairn stack?

Gulping back some nervousness, you apologize to the commander. “I’m so sorry that they’re… Well, I don’t even know what. I’m just as much in the dark as you, actually.” You’re not sure what Sinker or Boost had planned, or how exactly Orchid got involved in it, but you’re positive it’s giving Wolffe a headache. “I… might have a theory though.”

“... what?” Wolffe dares to ask, hesitant. 

“Sergeant Sinker told me earlier that I… s-seem to be having better luck than them when it comes to encouraging you to relax, so it’s… part of the reason I keep offering to keep you company.”

He stares at you in silence, contemplating perhaps, but it’s more likely that he’s working up something to say. 

Instead he sighs. “Hmm.” 

Putting your things to the side, you climb to your feet and dust off the seat of your pants, unsure if you should approach him when he’s currently clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. It doesn’t seem to be a completely conscious action as he finally drops his gaze and sighs once more. 

“Damn him.” comes the bitter grumble, a regretful expression cracking the commander’s stoic shell. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have started to lose my temper with-” Swallowing back the rest of the sentence with some difficulty, Wolffe looks at his feet instead, registering just how far he is from the settlement now, too. Sometimes, he finds himself forgetting just how strong the youngest troopers are. 

He’s been in this war for so long now, it feels, that trying to remember his own days fresh off Kamino proves a struggle. He used to be one of the four marshal commanders of the Grand Army, but the man you’ve gotten to know today is just a commander now. 

Wolffe notices something below his left boot just as you find your voice. 

“Wolffe? Are you okay?”

Your concern is touching. “I’m fine now, Arcadia.” he promises, pulling back his foot as he stoops to see what it is. Ah. Must have stepped on one of the Dinocaeruleus anthos after Orchid pushed him. (Anger and annoyance has been replaced with pride for that little pain in the ass.) He plucks the terrible blue flower with smashed petals from its home in the soil, looking regretful. Sorry little thing. He hadn't meant to trod over it. 

“What did Gi say these were called again?” he asks you, thinking to tuck the ruined blossom in his utility belt until he can find Tack. (Maybe even a ruined specimen can serve the researcher, in some way, he hopes.)

“Twilight troubles.” you answer, your voice softer than the gentle breeze. 

His head dips with a thoughtful nod as he plucks the neighboring, uncrushed flower too, “... come here.” Commander Wolffe requests in that golden tone that sends shivers down your spine. Close enough for his liking, Wolffe finds some buttonhole in your uniform to thread the stem through, adorning you with further tokens. “A little more color to catch the moonlight.” 

The stitched, gray wolf head with thread in your favorite color for the eyes was the only addition that graced your uniform just this morning. Now, there was the long leather cord of three copper beads wrapped around your wrist, and the Dinocaeruleus anthos - a delicate and beautiful galaxy when kissed by the rays of the moon - in the buttonhole to your breast pocket. 

“There,” Wolffe says decidedly, “think suits you rather well, Arcadia.” There’s a glimmer of moonlight reflected in the surface of his cybernetic eye, the cold and delicate beauty of it serves for a lure. You’re staring, and he can tell. 

He turns his face from you, eyes growing half-lidded. “Looks strange in the moonlight, doesn’t it?” The murmur is bashful, or perhaps more accurately, more self-conscious. Funny, you’ve never believed Commander Wolffe to be in any way conscious of his appearance like this in all the time you’ve been aboard the Triumphant. Never for a moment would you have pegged him to harbor insecurities, until today and all the many opportunities he has left himself vulnerable under your sight. 

Been permitted to know him better.

He’s allowed himself to be pulled apart, scrutinized and examined all so you can continually paint him with your praises, making your promises that you see him for the whole of the man he is. Beyond the flint. Beyond the designation number. Beyond his status as a commander, or simply just yet another rain-soaked son of Kamino. To you he is not Kaminoan or even Republic property, a mere product ten years in the making, a culmination of what a good, dutiful soldier was imagined to be and nothing further. No. You’ve witnessed too much today to pretend otherwise. 

He’s so much more.

“No. Strange isn’t the word I’d use.” you reply with a somber edge in your voice, “It’s… brighter in the moonlight. Like… like it becomes a beacon of light. Or a moon of its own.”

Instance after instance, you continue to impress Wolffe. Stump him repeatedly. Just when he thinks you can’t possibly offer yet more worshiping words, you conjure more. You’ve never seen him painted in the aching pains of rage that come in the heat of battle, but your tongue lifts only in reverence when you speak of his once-maroon paint and the phase one helmet. You’ve witnessed the hands that comforted and guided his brothers today, the very same hands that show a readiness in drawing his weapon today or any other day; never once did you shy away from such displays. You looked on in awe, instead. Or fear, not for yourself, but for him. 

He hums low in his throat. “Sounds like pollen-talk.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s not. But would you believe me no less if it was, Wolffe?”

“‘Sounds like’ is not the same thing as ‘that is’, Arcadia.” the commander informs you, clarifying his meaning with a soft voice like hissing cinders. “But I never meant to imply I did not believe you…” Of course he believes you. You’ve proven your respect for him today, instance after repeated instance. 

It’s time he showed you more of the same respect in kind. You’ve been… so selfless, and kind, in giving him your time today. You could have told him to fuck off when he got in the way of the tree you’d been drawing, and you didn’t. You didn’t have to keep him company when Plo Koon had gone scouting, but you had. And you chose to remain behind when the rest of the crew left. How better can he repay all of that than to be honest with you?

Hoping he comes across in earnest, he meets your eye. “I would still believe you, even if it was from the flowers, because it’s you talking.” Wolffe promises. 

Now alone, fully isolated from his brothers rather than surrounded on all sides like so much of today, both you and the commander grow bolder, speaking freer than when you find yourself in the midst of the wolves. “Earlier: what was it that Waves said?” you ask, setting your things down now that you’re out of visual range of the battalion. 

Steeling himself with a long draught of his canteen first, Wolffe does not immediately meet your eye. He had taken you a little further away from the edge of the settlement, fearing his brothers would repeatedly come to gawk at the pair of you. What he says next, paired with the location, should be cautious. He’s aware of what it looks like. 

“Orchid seemed - seems…? - to think you'll have my privates standing at attention before morning, as a way to get me to relax, the next time we were alone.” 

It's exactly as you suspected, a sexual innuendo.

Both you and the commander break eye contact with the other at the same time. Yeah. You know exactly what the 104th will think when they learn that you two snuck off alone, staying within the boundaries of the third and fourth cairns - rock formations a whole head taller than Wolffe - in order to get a little alone time. 

“Permission to turn him into flower food, sir?” you request half-sarcastically with a deep groan, face in your hands. Did Orchid get that idea from his choice of reading material? Was the clever if crude play on words involving military rank and one's genitalia something he found on the Holonet? You and the commander… you barely know each other, let alone-! “Fucking hell… I think I’m gonna kill him.”

“He’ll wish you had after a week of fresher duty,” Wolffe says with a mild laugh, now offering you the canteen. “But I’m afraid the general and I need that little pain in the ass in one piece.” 

You chuckle. “Spoil-sport…” With not much in the canteen, you take a small drink with the intention of conserving some for later. The rest of the water was for you, he had said. You thank him after setting the canteen beside your bag, where you once more pull out your sketchbook as well as the second datapad you had offered to carry. When Orchid had shoved the flint-gray commander, the force combined with the weight of the datapad had compromised the clip holding it to Wolffe’s belt. At least that was going to be an easy part to replace. 

“So before I forget… what did Solladara want to show you and General Plo?”

Finding the pictures, Wolffe shows you the items, “Artwork of the clearing, where they found us. And… this.” It looks like it’s supposed to be some kind of shirt, but the material is surprisingly transparent. “You can understand why we accepted only the artwork, I’m sure.” Wolffe adds, shaking his head with a soft laugh as your eyes roam the image, trying to picture him in it while he mentions he’s going to try to get a small fire going to stave off the chill of the night. There’s a shallow pit, kindling and firewood that you can use here already, to your good fortune.

“I’m almost tempted to draw you again, wearing that Chossi attire that was offered to you this time.” you admit with a splitting smile, twirling the 2-besh pencil in your hand teasingly as you continue to study the image.  

You’re not really going to draw him in it, knowing that it’d leave very little to the imagination with a body type like the commander’s. He’s not slender in the same way the peoples of Little Archossi are, certainly much broader, and with well-defined muscle… Well. 

There was no way such a thing would be appropriate to wear anywhere other than the privacy of his own quarters. You’ll end up making the man look like a pin-up model in a state of semi-undress.

Wolffe clears his throat meaningfully. “You really should rest your wrist. I think you’ve drawn enough for the night, Arcadia.” Stretching out his hand, he silently beckons for the sketchbook to be turned over to him once he’s gotten the fire going. 

“Seriously?” You’re less than impressed with him for the moment, and it shows. You want to be touched that he’s concerned about your comfort, but him acting like a parent or other figure of guardianship in your life taking something away because you’ll misbehave with it in your possession is not the way to go about it. “I think I’m capable of showing some restraint on my own, thanks.”

Wolffe gives an unpleasant twitch when he realizes how this looks. How he believes he’s offended you. “I didn’t mean to imply that- Yes of course you are, Arcadia, you’ve proven that. I only wanted to ask to see it for a moment. I’m sorry.”

Oh. 

Oh Maker. Talk about a total overreaction when you don’t have all the facts. 

You hand him the spiral bound, eyes turned away. “I’m sorry. For assuming, and overreacting like that. I shouldn’t have.” The apology comes out in a strained voice, far more choked than you’d like. There are a million half-formed thoughts racing over your tongue right now that will never make it past your lips. You do not trust any single one will be coherent when it’s clarity you feel he deserves. “I think… I think after being around all this creativity-boosting pollen today it kind of just left me… wondering where all the thoughts begin and end.”

“Do you think you need a minute?”

“Yes…” you admit slowly. Wolffe starts to climb to his feet and panic begins to bubble up in your chest. “B-but I’d like you to stay! I’m not asking you to leave.” You don’t want him to leave, because you don’t know when he’ll come back, or if you feel this is worth potentially troubling a medic over. 

He listens, and he stays. The distance between you however, has changed. Wolffe’s put himself much closer to you now. Previously at arm’s length, he’s now close enough to lean against. He has the sketchbook in his hands, flipped open to that page of you in uncolored armor, but it’s you that he studies. In his quiet observance, Wolffe’s expression changes several times in the fluttering firelight, each change gradual and small. Softening brow. Pursing lips. Eyes full and fixed. 

“You’re a hard man to read sometimes, Commander Wolffe.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it, or how he’ll take it after what just happened, but maybe he’ll appreciate knowing what’s on your mind. “I think it makes me nervous. Sometimes.”

You know he doesn’t mean to. But you can’t help the way you feel either.

“I don’t doubt that, Arcadia.” 

He’s sorry that he makes you nervous, as well, Wolffe adds. Of course it isn’t his intention. Of course he understands that feeling this way can’t be helped sometimes either. He’s familiar with that feeling and its cousins. Nervousness and dread. You’ve seen enough proof of it today. The pacing. Safety drills. Lecturing Suds. Arguing with his sergeants. Throwing himself over you to keep you safe. 

Without hesitation. Like you were one of his own brothers… 

“Hey, um-” you start, glancing over at your sketchbook, “H-how’d you draw me so quickly? Can’t just have been ‘inspiration’.” It’s not the question you want to ask first when you disturb the curtain of silence, but it’ll serve as a good starting block.

Commander Wolffe gives you a small, guarded smile. “The idea is to be quick when you’re drawing outdoors, is it not? That’s what you said to me this morning.”

Oh the utter cheek in that reply - whether it was intended or coincidental - could drive someone wild were there not so many questions on your mind. And there’s just so much. 

“Force, I… I almost forgot I’d said that, in all honesty.” you admit a bit numbly, staring ahead into the dark sea of foliage. “You- Well no, you remembering that would make sense. I guess I should be more surprised by how much detail you captured in so short a time.” 

Muttering something to himself in thought, he repeats the word detail several times before coming to an important decision. 

Commander Wolffe's hand darts into the low fire pit, snatching out a charred hunk of wood. As you're wondering what the hell's gotten into him, if he's burned his hand through the gloves, he takes the art book in his opposite hand and flips it to his sketch of you. Sort of tickling the page with one end of the charred wood, Wolffe is carefully smearing the appropriate areas of the armor with ashes, blowing away the excess once he's done. 

“That takes care of gray missing from all of the coloring pencils.” He nods once, stiffly, satisfied with his ingenuity. “Now you truly look the part.” 

Look the part? But you're just drawn in Clone armor and colored in gray, just like the 104th battalion. What's so special about-?

Oh, Force. Oh galaxy and all her stars…

Commander Wolffe means you look like the rest of the one-oh-fourth, that you fit in. 

“Are you saying that…?” 

Osk-nern-esk

The eyebrow above his cybernetic eye lifts just so, nearly missed in the flickering firelight. “Use your words, Arcadia.” he teases. 

Osk-forn

“A-are you saying that I’m… b-but I'm just part of the crew!” you insist, certain that he's not serious about this. He can't truly mean what he's been writing, word by word beneath the first mantra. 

Trill-hesh-esk

“But you are, Arcadia. You're one of us.” Wolffe promises, voice low and reverent. “The 104th would not be the same without you. Not after what I've seen… felt today.” 

Wesk-osk-leth-vev-esk-senth

ONE OF THE WOLVES.

Whether they were still the magnificent maroons of the past, or the grizzled grays of today, you have been added among the names - the number perhaps thousands or more - of his brothers that he will forever carry in his beating heart, forevermore his wolves. This is a silent oath that when he fights for the glory of the Republic and the downfall of the Separatists, he’s doing so for his general, for his brothers, and for you.

For good measure, Wolffe scribbles down his rank and name, bringing the end to the work on his magnum opus with a signature. It's only fitting. Here, at this private fireside, he lays his heart and intentions bare to you. “I’m probably about as poetic as a gargled mouthful of Aurebesh soup, but Arcadia… while I know you well enough to consider you one of the Wolfpack, I'd… I'd like to ask if you'd be opposed to getting to know you better. As new friends do, first, perhaps, or…”

You blink once, maybe five times before finding your voice. Friends. In his own way, he confirmed you were friends. “I wouldn't be opposed at all… I-I’d be happy to, even.” 

You're nearly breathless, heart racing a thousand kilometers an hour, just short of warp speed. 

Does the slight stress to “or” mean he's grappling with other feelings about you on his mind, like you do for him? The love versus limerence? 

“As friends is a… good place to start.” you offer additionally, matching that tender, relieved smile he shows you. 

“Have to start somewhere, Arcadia,” the Commander replies plainly, trying to appeal to his and your own sense of logic perhaps. “Just to make certain of any… feelings.” 

Taking you under his arm, against his side, Wolffe is content with waiting out the remainder of the night under the curtain of stars for the sky to lighten and give way to another glorious, golden dawn. The 104th will depart for the Triumphant at daybreak, and the war efforts will resume as normal. You just hope Plo Koon cooks up a satisfactory excuse in the event someone asks him what happened today. (Or, technically yesterday. (What time is it?)) For all you know, nobody will ever ask or care to know, or it'll be decided what happened on Little Archossi is by-and-large an unspoken secret. 

Which would kind of be a shame. 

It'd be terrible to keep the day you became friends with the flint-gray Commander under wraps, never get to explain the truth behind him coated in maroon while you're in gray in the pages of your sketchbook. Never be able to explain the full context of meeting the Chossi, or what they've taught everyone. 

Or how, murmured under his breath into the shell of your ear after the stars begin melting into the backdrop at long last, Commander Wolffe admits that perhaps for once, he's never been more relaxed since the start of the war.

That's a wrap! Thank you so much to everyone who read this series; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this.🩷If you would like to be join my taglist for future fics, the form can be found here.

Tag list: @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636 @dukeoftheblackstar

[Masterlist]

[Early Morning] [Midday] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Deep Night]

[Golden Dawn part 1] [Finished!]

[cmbdragon98]

unpopular opinion but i think shin's obsession with sabine has to do more about herself, than about who sabine is as a person.

look how she reacted to knowing that there is another person 'like her'.

what attracted her to sabine may attract her to ezra, don't you think?

L o l, unpopular indeed...

Look, I'll say straight up. You're barking up the wrong tree, plain and simple. I think of Shin Hati as a lesbian. I kinda project myself a bit onto her. Even if I didn't, your argument at the end rests on "Well, if it was somebody else ending up in the same exact situations-"

I mean.... sure! Maybe. But.... It's Not Ezra that Shin is having all these close, personal confrontations with, or sneering at, or staring massive burning holes into. It's Sabine. (who's EXTREMELY hot by the way, not debatable) also Sabine is meant to be this badass Mandalorian, apprentice to Ahsoka, war hero, artist, creative and intelligent?? Snarky? She has a ton of... likeable qualities, even someone cold and distant could obviously grow on.

Also.... They Are alike anon! They have swathes of their background being complete foils to eachother! Obvs some aspects are Opposite, that adds to the intrigue and conflict. But uhh.

Sorry, I'm the wrong one to talk to about the Shipping stuff. You can do whatever you like with shipping as long as it's not blatantly abhorrent, like shipping adults with minors or smth. I won't go outta my way to bother you, I just probably don't agree. Might even block someone if a ship someone likes personally icks me out a lot, like Ba//ylan/Sh//in tbth. Or if you go weirdly out of ur way to bad mouth a ship I Do like. That's all.

Stay safe out there bud.

[saigethearies]

Help me babe. I’m having a rare Kiba moment. Ur the innocent nerd girl who has to tutor badboy!Kiba…. imagine how he’d act one day when you have to tutor someone new and he gets so jealous… so before his big game he… he-

“i’m having a rare kiba moment” 😭 pls

ANYWAYS CHERRY AHSHAHA

badboy!kiba…getting jealous??

bye I’m gonna pass out, anyways thots below the cut

minors dni | mentions of daddy kink and violence

he’s not used to sharing you, like at all.

many people on campus gloss over you, not because you’re unattractive, goodness no! more because you’re on the quieter side, not saying much, preferring to blend into the background and just focus on your studies.

but kiba didn’t.

he was intrigued by the quiet, studious girl in his biology lecture that sat a few rows in front of him. so pretty and polite, ever the kind one to him despite his reputation as a total delinquent.

it wasn’t long before he convinced you to help tutor him. while your influence did actually improve his grades some, there was more than just homework getting done at these study sessions.

light jokes turned into fleeting glances, which turned into wandering hands, which turned into you panting and whining and whispering, “more, kiba, more please.”

it wasn’t even that he was chasing your cherry, either. kiba had genuinely took a liking to the cute little nerd from his class. all the girls he used to hit up for hookups were swiftly unadded from his snapchat, the only pussy he wanted pet now being yours.

and when you finally stared up at him with your bright doe eyes and heated cheeks, asking- no, begging- for him to finally take your innocence, he had to pinch himself.

it’s yours, kiba, all yours. please take it, i need you.

in the brunette’s eyes, you were undoubtedly his.

unfortunately, not everyone had gotten the memo.

“who the actual fuck is oikawa,” kiba barked as he looked at the notification displayed on your phone screen.

you lifted your head off his bare chest, holding the sheets to yours as you also checked your cell. “oh, that’s a guy from my english class.”

“why is he texting you asking when you want to meet up?”

“because he needs my help with a paper or else he fails our class.”

the green monster began to swirl in kiba’s gut immediately. you were going to tutor someone else?

considering the person you usually tutor (him) now fucks you into their mattress on a regular basis, kiba did not like the idea of you assisting someone else. at all. this dumb oikawa guy could eat shit for all he cares, he didn’t want this guy to be anywhere near you.

he knew he couldn’t talk you out of it (kiba loved how sweet of a girl you were but hated it at the same time) so he opted to sulk for the rest of the week instead, taking his frustration out on the lacrosse field and in a few fights here at there.

it was the day of a big game when you met him outside of the men’s locker room, a frown on your face. “why am i hearing that you’ve beat up three different people this week?”

“damn, rumor mill running wild.”

“one of them lives down the hall from me, kiba, and i can see his black eye.”

the inuzka scoffed. “thought you would be too busy with your other little boytoy to notice what the hell i’m doing.”

“would you stop with the petty jealousy!”

you had closed the distance between the two of you amidst your little outburst, and the close proximity combined with the angry energy between the two of you had kiba’s cock twitching in his shorts.

five minutes later, you found yourself pressed against a locker in the empty room, kiba biting along your throat as he ground his pelvis against yours.

the friction felt so good, especially when the tip of his hard cock would bump your clit through the layers of clothing.

you mewled out, tangling your fingers into his wild brown hair as he continued to dry hump you, sucking hickies into your skin.

“kiba-“

“wrong name.”

you gulped, still a little shy about the most recent fantasy you unveiled to him.

“daddy, i need you.”

“oh, do you, now? has shittykawa not been fucking you well enough?”

“i’ve never let him touch me, i’m yours only, daddy, i promise!”

kiba reached under your skirt, pushing your panties to the side and thrusting two fingers into your pussy. “yeah? say it again.”

“i’m yours, only yours!”

“good girl,” the brunette praised, drinking in your little moans as he continued to fuck you with his fingers.

as he rid himself of his shorts, it occurred to kiba that you saying “i’ve never let him touch me”’ meant that the idiot oikawa has definitely tried something on you.

he’d beat the volleyball playing dickwad later, though, for as he pushed inside of you and got to hear your sigh of “thank you, daddy, feels so good”, kiba figured he had much more important matters to tend to at the moment <3

[luckystarchild]

We all know One Piece is absolutely PHENOMENAL, but nothing is perfect, so as a writer, what would you say is your biggest pet peeve or least favorite part of One Piece as a story?

My biggest issues with One Piece are largely the same issues I have with my own work. And that makes it hard to discuss because I am hyper-aware that these critiques either make me a hypocrite OR make it seem like I'm comparing myself to Oda, which is egotistical AF and equally as obnoxious. Either way, I'm screwed.

That being said...

Narrative bloat vs. subtle foreshadowing. The story is long. That length can put people off of the story and make it feel super bloated. It's a huge barrier to entry. Some stuff that takes place over just a few days in-universe takes hundreds of chapters to convey to the reader. And I'm sorry to say that some of it doesn't feel necessary to the story (here's lookin' at you, Thriller Bark) and can be a bit of a drag.

Some people defend the length and say everything matters and that even small details become relevant later, but IMO, those details/foreshadowing pieces are often delivered in such minor ways that you can't remember the foreshadowing when the plot actually, finally drops. The length of the story and the subtlety of the story are at odds, and that's sometimes a shame.

(Also, Oda did NOT plan everything in advance. He just didn't. Some things are missing foreshadowing that would've been there if he'd planned ahead. He absolutely capitalized on early plot points and expanded them later in the story, but that's not the same as foreshadowing or planning ahead. Oda is a great storyteller, but he isn't a god, and I wish people would recognize he's fallible and stop with this whole deification shit.)

(Also as a person who has an unfinished work over a million words long, and who takes many chapters to show a single day/hour, and who puts in TINY foreshadowing no one can remember after so many words, this is what makes me a hypocrite. Either that or I'm very self-aware. Either way... sorry lmao.)

The other issue I have is the handling of the story's characters, and this once again relates to the length of the story and the problems that length causes.

Much as I love the Straw Hats and think their backstories are all pretty epic, it feels like the characters get their Shining Moment in the Sun when those backstories are introduced before being pushed to the backseat for hundreds of chapters/entire arcs at a time. Then they get pulled forward again for a little while (Sanji in Whole Cake, for instance) before getting shoved into the background yet again to make one-off remarks here and there. It sometimes feels like they get more development in their backstories than they do in the actual narrative, which is... not great, in my opinion.

Example: It feels like Zoro hasn't had anything meaningful to do except fight since he was introduced. He gets some moments here and there (like in the chapter where "nothing happened"), but it's not substantial, and I truly feel like I don't know Zoro all that well even after all this time with him. And that's sad.

Also, the forays into the side characters in other crews are INTERESTING, sure, but sometimes they're just distracting and pointless. Example: Ace's big flashback with Oars Jr. stands out to me as tear-jerker-porn that didn't add much to the story overall. "But that's how he learned to make straw hats!!" I hear people screaming but--I don't actually give a shit how he learned to make them. I'm sorry. I just don't. Take out that whole thing. It's not needed. I simply do not care about the Oars Jr. and Ace friendship that is only relevant for 5 minutes before both of them die. Similarly, Ace also feels like a giant symbol and not a person. I was sad FOR LUFFY when he died, but I shed zero tears over his death itself.

Long story short: There's just not enough narrative to go around to develop EVERYONE properly, and I have New Character Fatigue, and I wish we'd stop meeting new people at this point. (Where TF is Smoker, I ask you? Please, I need him back, it's been like three arcs without him...)

Overall, I just wish the narrative would tighten up for the sake of the plot and the characters. The live action version actually does a good job of this, which I appreciate a TON.

And again, I recognize these same issues could be said of my own work, so go easy on those tomatoes you're getting ready to throw, please!