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lockes-woods · 26 days ago

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Kinktober '24 Day 14

Request: Zoro x Reader Jealousy Sex, Praise Kink, Choking. Reader seems to be getting too close to Sanji for his liking, as the reader helps prep meals as the crew got larger. The final straw is when she lets out an unintentional moan at Sanji’s food.

Request by: Author's Choice

WARNING: Choking, PIV, Jealousy Sex, Praise Kink

A/N: Sorry for the late update, I'm going to still try to post day 15 today.

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“Where are you going.” Zoro groaned, voice still husky from sleep. Actually, he may not even be fully awake yet. It was always hard to tell with the lights off and Zoro’s ability to fall asleep easily. His hand reached out and cuffed your wrist.

“I’m going to help with breakfast prep with Sanji,” You answered softly, you were very conscious of your voice volume as Nami and Robin were most likely fast asleep on the other side of the wall. Originally the women’s quarters were just one big room, but after the first time of Nami walking in on you and your boyfriend having sex a wall was quickly constructed. Your room made up 1/3 of the space while Nami and Robin still shared a room that took up 2/3. While your room was on the smaller side, you were just happy they didn’t fully kick you out of the women’s quarters all together.

“Why does Mr. Prince need help with? He’s the cook.” Zoro dismissed, his grip on your wrist remaining firm, but not enough to bruise.

“Baby, Sanji agreed to be the cook when there were only six of us, now there are eleven. It doesn’t matter how skilled he is that kind of volume is overwhelming.”

“Does he even let you cook?” he grunted.

“No, but I don’t really want to cook in front of a professional. I just help with prep and cleaning up.” You answer placing your warm palm over the hand Zoro was gripping your wrist with, “I’ll see you at breakfast. Okay? Why don’t you get some more sleep, we went to bed pretty late.”

“Exactly, it’s only been five hours since we went to bed,” Zoro argued, making no move to release your wrist.

“Oh? And whose fault is that Mr. Just-The-Tip.” You asked, quirking a brow.

“That’s funny because I remember a certain someone begging to cum a second time.” Zoro shot back; a smirk clear in his voice.

“Regardless I promised Sanji I’d help. Do you want to make me a liar?” You asked.

“Absolutely, if making you a liar means we get lay together for a few more hours” Zoro answered plainly. You roll your eyes despite knowing that he couldn’t see you,

“Baby,” you all but begged, “Please.” You asked softly.

Zoro sighed in response; he pulled your hand to his face kissing your palm softly before releasing his hold. You smiled down at him and pecked his lips before getting up.

“This better be an amazing breakfast,” Zoro gruffed, before rolling over to face the wall and go back to sleep. You slid out of bed, and quickly changed out of your pj’s (Zoro’s Shirt) into your normal clothing. You hummed to yourself as you lightly closed the door and headed over to the kitchen.

That’s how you spent the better parts of the last two weeks. Unbeknownst to you it had been wearing at Zoro’s patience. He grew a little more irked day by day until his feelings came to a head. It wasn’t just you helping him prep for the day’s meals ahead, but the soft smiles you��d share with the cook, the time you took out of your day to help him clean after each meal that used to be spent with him, and worst of all were the sweet noises you made while taste testing for the cook. You were always very vocal, not just in airing opinions, but also literally humming absent-mindedly, laughing with your gut, and of course during sex. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Sanji offered you the first taste of a new dessert. Zoro had just happened to be walking by when he heard a familiar sound; one only he wanted to ever be on the receiving end of. He barged in the kitchen at the sound of your second moan.

“Hey, love you have to try this new cake recipe Sanji i-” You couldn’t even finish your thought before Zoro grabbed you by the waist and threw you onto his shoulder. You squirmed and tried to protest until he began to descend to the lower decks. Recognizing you would never win this fight, you relaxed into his shoulder waiting for his next move. He barged into your room throwing you on the bed so hard you bounced.

“Zoro, what the fu-” You were once again cut off as his lips found yours in a fierce kiss, that he easily dominated. He was all over you, holding you down by your throat while also jamming his leg between yours grinding against your clit. You gasped in response giving him prime access to your mouth that he immediately took full advantage of. You couldn’t help but moan as he deepened the kiss and pushed his leg further between your legs. He smirked into the kiss as he felt you rolling your hips against his leg chasing the stimulation. You whined as you felt his firm grip on your throat. He wasn’t gripping strong enough to harm you. His hand worked as a collar of sorts. He just gripped you tight enough to keep you present in the moment.

You panted heavily as Zoro finally pulled back.

“Wha-Why?” you questioned, looking up at your boyfriend.

“You’re always such a good girl, helping at the drop of a hat, but sometimes you’re too nice,” Zoro said, resting his forehead against yours.

“How can you be too nice?” you questioned, pants finally dying out.

“You’re so keen on helping that shitty cook, that it’s taken up all your free time,” he replied. While he said it in his normal deep tone, his words themself were a bit whiney.

“Baby are you- are you jealous of Sanji?” you asked, mildly amused.

“No,” he bites out, “I just think I should be the only reason you’re moaning like that.”

“But baby, you’re the only one who makes me moan that deeply. Do you know how many times Robin and Nami have complained about the way you have me a moaning mess during sex?” You asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes, “You’re always so good when I need a firm hand, or other disciplinary actions to keep me in line”

Zoro grunted in response, looking away with a deep blush staining his cheeks.

“I’m not very good at hiding my emotions, trust me if I wanted to be with Sanji you would know.” You started with a smile, “Also...” you started before trailing off.

“What,” he asked, ever so slightly tightening his grip.

“I don’t think Sanji would be able to satisfy me like you do.” You confessed, “I’ve never cum harder than when I am with you.”

“Really?” he asked, smirking back and present on his face.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “are you feeling better now love?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I’m sorry I came so hard down on you earlier.”

“That’s okay,” you replied smiling up at him, “I’m always a fan of you cumming down hard on me,”

Zoro shook his head, a smirk stretched across his face. It was moments like these when it made him laugh when people assumed he was the most dominant and in-charge partner. Those who knew you both well enough could see that even in a submissive role you were in control. Zoro was very aware of the fact that he was only able to be the dominant partner because you allowed him to do so.

“Now,” you started, rolling your hips against his thigh, “Are you gonna finish what you started, or am I gonna have to go take care of myse-”

Before you could even finish your sentence, Zoro began to strip you down as fast as possible while sucking and nipping down your body. You could only moan in response as he marked you up. He flipped you onto your stomach once you were fully nude. You could hear him panting behind you, as he worked his pants off before he nudged your knees further apart to make room for him. You couldn’t help but moan as he rubbed his swollen tip up and down your slit.

“Fuck, Zoro please,” you whined as he took his time easing into you. All his feelings of being left out, replaced, and him being possessive melted away as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, good girl, taking me so fucking well,” he grunted as he pulled back and pounded back into you. You couldn’t do much but enjoy the ride as he gripped your hips keeping you steady as he thrusted into you like his own private toy. You lost yourself in the feeling of his cock bullying its way in and out of you, that even you are caught off guard by your orgasm slamming through you. You gasped as you squeezed against Zoro’s cock so hard that you trigger his orgasm. His hold on your throat tightens, only adding to your orgasm. He’s tactical with his last few thrusts, making sure that he’s fully flush with him before pulling out and slamming back in, cumming deep inside of you.

“Fuck,” you moaned as Zoro stayed sheathed inside of you. A deep whine escaped you as he slowly eased out, before flipping you so you were now on your back.

“Shit,” Zoro groaned, but not for the sight of his cum trickling out of you, or your fucked out expression; his eyes were locked on your throat.

“Fuck, baby why didn’t you tell me to let go?” he asked, stroking your throat.

“Because it felt good,” you whined as he continued to run his fingers over your bruised throat. He shook his head, an amused smile on his lips.

“Did it hurt at all?” he asked.

“Only a little, but it felt really nice when I was cumming.” You answered, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. You shared a smile, before pulling him in for a loving kiss.

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A/N: Thanks as always for taking the time to read ^-^. I think this is my least favorite of all the one-shots I've written this month. If it weren't for the challenge I'd for sure delete it. But what can you do. Stay tuned for some Dom! Mihawk x Sub! Reader later today.

#warning in description #one piece #one piece one shot #roronoa zoro x you #platonic sanji x reader #lockes kinktober #kinktober 24'#cross posted on ao3 #zoro x reader

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strawwritesfic · 7 months ago

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Kelvin!Spock x Female!Human!Reader: Mr. Right

Summary: When one door closes, another opens—perhaps the door you were meant to enter all along.

Warnings/Tags: Starship Enterprise; post-Star Trek Beyond; friends to lovers; breakup; almost kiss; counselor!reader; Star Trek: The Original Series references; Star Trek: The Next Generation references

Relationships: Spock/Reader; Spock & Nyota Uhura; past!Spock/Nyota Uhura; past!Kevin Riley/Reader

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Requester: @lovemesomeescapism

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: For once, this is not a repost for this challenge…technically. I did write a response to the prompt "Mr. Right" ages ago, but when I was reposting, I decided that the Now You See Me one shot I wrote really wasn't worth keeping. Someone on Tumblr asked me for a Spock one shot, so I slipped him in as a replacement.

It's been a really long time since I finished something new. I realize that I am rusty. This is actually several drafts into attempts to write this one shot. For the first time ever, I actually cannibalized previous drafts while trying to get the meandering dialogue and point back on track. It still doesn't feel quite "right" to me, but it's probably going to take some time before I get back in the swing of things, and I'm ready to let this one go.

Mr. Right

Throughout Terra's history, human beings had sought the comfort of white noise. Quiet droning sounds proved beneficial for many aspects of mental health in the species. As a counselor on board the U.S.S. Enterprise, you'd recommended listening to white noise to dozens of fellow crewmates and patients alike. The best way to do this in the deep space you'd all been exploring for nearly five years was to turn everything in one's quarters down until the low hum of the ship's warp drive became audible. Many of those crewmates and patients reported back to you with decreased stress levels, improved mood, and a distinct uptick in ability to concentrate. Almost all of them said they got better sleep.

Now you learned that every single one of them had lied to you.

You'd spent the better part of the evening-adjacent hours lying face-down on your sofa, trying and failing to take a nap. The scratchy, standard-issue pillow beneath your face was soaked with tears. Your chest ached. Worst of all, any attempt on your part to get your mind off what upset you just ended with you crying harder. All the while, that awful rumble went on and on and on and on relentlessly, allowing you no respite long enough to drift off and forget your current predicament.

A chime cut through your misery. You paused without so much as lifting your head. As of three hours prior, you were officially off duty for the day. Nothing required you to answer the door unless an order came down from a superior officer, and they would call first. Probably it was only Uhura coming by to check on you. Having been through her own breakup during this voyage, surely she would understand when you didn't let her inside.

The chime sounded again, and with it came a surge of possibilities flooding your mind. What if your visitor was dealing with a crisis? Cases of PTSD had been on the rise since the events on Altamid. You could hardly ignore that in favor of your own small, personal crisis. Off duty or not, your role as a ship's counselor would not allow you to wallow in self-pity when someone might need your help.

As your boots hit the floor, you pressed one sleeve of your rumpled blue uniform to the corner of each eye. The gesture wouldn't do much to disguise what you'd been doing over the course of your time off, but you felt a little steadier afterward. Breathing deeply in and out helped too—until you hiccuped. But you could prepare yourself no more. Squaring your shoulders, you stood, walked over to the door leading to the corridor, and opened it.

Just outside stood the familiar, lanky figure of the ship's science officer. The second you spotted him, you wiped your sleeve across your face with greater urgency.

"You're not one of my patients," you said, "or Uhura."

"A very astute observation, Lieutenant [L Name]," Spock replied.

A long moment elapsed during which the two of you stared at one another. Several fellow crewmates in various uniform colors threw curious looks at his back as they passed by on their ways to wherever they were headed. Your friend, meanwhile, allowed a single dark eyebrow to drift toward his hairline. He clearly had no intention of moving on.

"What are you doing here?" you sighed at last.

The wayward eyebrow rejoined its brother. "Lieutenant Commander Uhura informed me that you left your office this afternoon in distress. I note that her assessment was an accurate one. If anything, you appear to be in more distress now than she described to me then."

You couldn't lie to Spock, not when you looked the way you looked after a crying jag like the one you'd just had. So you didn't bother to try. "Fine. I'm in distress. But really, Spock, it's not the kind of distress you can help with. I'm sure Captain Kirk will need you on a landing party any minute now, so if you'll excuse me—"

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura also informed me of the cause of your distress."

"Of course she did." Sometimes you wished your two friends were a little lighter on the "amicable" part of "amicable exes." "Let me guess: You came by to tell me that you told me so."

"As a Vulcan, I have no reason to rub my correct prediction in your face, if you will forgive the Terra colloquial."

You let out a wet laugh despite yourself. "You're pardoned."

"What I have done is stopped by the mess hall. If I am not much mistaken, ice cream is a traditional consolation food in these types of situations."

He produced from behind his back a number of different colored tapes. So startled were you that you found yourself unable to say anything. Never in a million years would you have imagined Spock of all people standing in front of you and offering you junk food of all things. Your silence went on for so long that he had to prompt you to speak:

"Was I incorrect in my understanding of how to handle Terran breakups?"

"No," you said, then, "I just didn't want you to find out about the breakup until I could pull myself together."

"I surmised as much, given that Lieutenant Commander Uhura found out about your circumstances before I did, although you and I are closer friends. It would have been more logical for you to contact me for assistance than her."

Vulcans as a whole were difficult to read. Even factoring in your education and training, as well as your friendship with Spock that had gone on for several years now, you could only guess his feelings the majority of the time. Not so then. Something about his tone made him sound hurt. Maybe you could chalk that up to projecting your own feelings onto him, but you couldn't risk that assumption.

"It's just that you warned me against dating Kevin," you explained. "As ship's counselor, I should have seen the end coming a kiloparsec away."

"Perhaps. But one might also say that your extensive proximity to the crew's emotions might cause some loss in objectivity on your part."

"So you're not here to make me feel worse?"

"I came for consolation purposes. That is all."

"Well, all right, then."

You stepped away from the doorway. Spock followed you in. He paused only long enough to press the button to close the door before he came to join you in your sitting room. A crate sat on the floor along his path, and he looked at you questioningly as he walked by it.

"Those are Kevin's things," you said.

"Expedient," he observed.

Normally, you might have tried to go for a little more decorum around him, but that day you didn't have the energy to do more than flop back onto your couch. At least you were upright. Spock, on the other hand, claimed a dignified perch at the end of your chair. The two of you certainly made an odd pair.

"He had so many hair products!" you burst out when the awkward silence turned unbearable. "I should have known we wouldn't work out. Who brings that much hair spray into deep space?"

"Humanity can hardly be expected to iron out all its flaws when you all cling so hard to your baser emotions."

"Do you mean Kevin's desire to look nice, or my need to be in a relationship?"

Spock blinked, then smoothly said, "In this case, I refer to your former beau's preoccupation with personal grooming."

"Right. Either way, I'm about ready to get rid of all my own baser emotions. Not feeling them would be a blessing." You got back to your feet and thrust one hand in Spock's direction. "Ice cream tape, please."

He offered one to you.

"Spock," you said warningly.

"I do not believe that heartbreak is an excuse to overeat. I only brought so many because I was unsure which flavor you would select."

The glare you leveled at him seemed to make him think better of lecturing you on the dangers of gluttony—as well it should have. This was the same glare that you gave Dr. McCoy when you were tired of listening to him. Unlike with Dr. McCoy, you smiled once Spock dropped the rest of the tapes into your outstretched hand.

"Thank you." You headed for your in-quarters food producer, then turned your head to ask over your shoulder, "What flavor do you want?"

"I do not require ice cream."

"Come on, Spock. If you're going to spend the evening commiserating with me, you have to have some ice cream, too. That's a critical part of the Terran breakup process."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "I'll have pistachio, then."

You fed the yellow-green tape into the slot. A quiet beeping noise covered the hum of the warp drive as the computer worked. While you waited, you flipped through the remainder of the flavors until you found the one you wanted.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for you to give up emotions," Spock said.

"Huh?" Frowning at him, you replaced his tape with yours. "Aren't you the guy that's been talking about doing the Kolinahr when we get back to Earth?"

"That's different. I am a Vulcan."

"Half Vulcan."

"Vulcan enough."

A shriller beep put an end to this potentially sticky subject. The ice creams were ready. You dumped the rest of the tapes in a basket next to the food producer, picked up the bowls, and brought them back to the living room. Spock took his with a grateful nod, though he waited until you sat down again before taking a bite.

"Maybe I'd be a better counselor if I didn't have emotions," you mused. "If I wasn't blinded by my own feelings, I could help the crew more with theirs. I shouldn't have the same problems as they do after all the studying I've done."

"While that may indeed make sense, it is hardly realistic. Besides, if you did not have your human emotions, you would no longer be the [Name] that I know, and I believe that I would miss her."

You couldn't help but smile around the spoon in your mouth. Popping that out, you said, "I bet you say that to all the Terrans you like."

"Hardly. In fact, that captain may benefit from an hour or two without his usual emotions."

"I appreciate you saying that, Spock."

"I am only speaking the truth. I have no intention of bolstering your ego artificially, even if doing so is a part of the Terran breakup process."

"I know." You slowly lowered your spoon back to the bowl, staring off into space. Something was dawning on you—something that might have dawned on you sooner had you not been so enthralled with your own feelings. "You know what else I appreciate? You coming here to help me today. Not every first officer would go out of their way for a ship's counselor like that."

Spock fixed you with an unblinking gaze as he said, "You mean a great deal more to me than most ship's counselors mean to their first officers."

"I don't care what Captain Kirk says. You sure know how to make a woman blush."

"I have had some practice with the activity."

"Remind me to thank Uhura later."

"Thank her for what?" Spock asked.

Maybe you were reading the signs wrong. Maybe you were just desperate. If he had to ask, you had to be wrong. But you took a deep breath anyway, and said, "Helping me realize that maybe the guy I've been looking for this whole time has been my best friend all along."

How could it have taken you this long to work it out? No one else spent as much time with you as Spock did, not outside of your office hours. It didn't matter if you were in the mess hall asking for a round of Fizzbin after dinner or you wanted a quiet night in your quarters. He always seemed to be there. You felt comfortable around him. Maybe you didn't always understand Spock; maybe Spock didn't always understand. But you didn't enjoy anyone's company the way you did his. And you had to wonder when your eyes met just then if he felt the same way, and if this coming-to-see-you-with-ice-cream thing was his way of showing you that.

"Well," he moistened his lips before going on, "I certainly feel that our relationship is founded more steadily upon mutual interests and desires than it is upon a passion for hair products."

You leaned forward. "You know, that sort of relationship sounds really appealing right about now."

"It does?" Spock shifted closer to you.

"I think it's about time that I dated someone whose first thought in the morning isn't beating me to the sonic shower, don't you?"

By that time, you both had come so close that it wouldn't have taken much more movement on either of your parts to touch lips. Your heart gave a painful leap inside your chest. Was this too much too fast? Even if you had just realized you'd had a thing for Spock for a while now, you had only just broken up with your last boyfriend that morning. Treating Spock as a rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. He didn't seem to mind, though. His mouth drew closer and closer to yours until you could feel his breath on your face.

The communicator in your room chirped. You jumped. Spock paused before sitting back up in his chair. Then you rose wordlessly, stepped over to the panel, cleared your throat, and pushed the button.

"[L Name]," you said.

"[Name]?" Uhura did not remark on how breathless you sounded, thankfully. "I need to talk to Spock."

"It's for you," you said unnecessarily. Spock had already reset his face into its typical blank mask and made his way to the communicator himself.

"Spock here. What is it, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Captain Kirk needs you on the bridge. We have a situation up here."

"What kind of a situation?"

"There's a former United States President floating outside the ship. He says he needs our help."

"I will be there right away."

A second chirp signaled that communications between your room and the bridge had ceased. Spock turned back to you.

"My presence is needed on the bridge," he said.

"So I heard."

"I apologize. I believe we were in the middle of something."

"It's all right."

He didn't move.

"Spock, go. Don't you want to know why a deceased historical figure has asked for the Enterprise's help?"

"I'd prefer to stay here," Spock said. "But you are correct. I must leave. Will you still be here later tonight?"

"Yeah." You surprised yourself with the eagerness of your answer. "Yeah, I will. I promise I won't run off with any other lieutenants while you're away. I'll save the rest of the ice cream. We can share it when you get back."

There it was: The slight curl to Spock's mouth that told you that you weren't making up the mutual attraction between you both after all. "To use another Terran phrase, it's a date."

He hesitated another moment longer before he quickly exited your quarter. You grinned as the door slid shut behind him and the white noise returned full force. As you sunk into your couch and pillow this time, you found you didn't mind the hum as much. In fact, the sound did exactly what it was supposed to do: Relax you. Kevin and his excuses from that morning felt farther away than your own home planet. Maybe you owed him a thank you, too, because if you were still with him, you wouldn't have slept as well as you did that night knowing that Spock would be back soon.

#fan fic #straw writes #reader insert #second person pov #star trek #star trek beyond #challenge response #request #spock #spock x reader #spock x you #spock x y/n #star trek x reader #star trek x y/n #star trek you #kelvin universe

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mymelodymia · 1 year ago

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Hey hun ty for writing my request with the bullying one I love it bby I got another one for you I promise this one's better and pure fluff 💗 so basically our Mikey man works to mf hard he has a younger sister(sorry I like the sister and big brother relationships there cute asf) like 7-8 surprises mike from work she makes him dinner, makes him a cute little bath, to the best ability an 7-8 your old can do lmaoo and idk maybe saves up some of her allowance and gets Mike something super nice and he's not sure how and is probably like "Baby where did you get this??" I don't fucking know but super fluffy and adorable. Ily hun ty! ✌🏽💜

aww, thank you sm for saying that and requesting again!

Best baby sister // Mike Schmidt x young!sister!reader

**not a ship**

Summary: just fluffy big brother Mike 🥰

Warnings: none :']

Age: 7-8

A/N: "mikey man" very funny 🤭

+•°+*°•++•°+*°•+

You sat up in your small bed, you hopped up to say good morning to Mike. He was the only person in the world that mattered to you.

You walked into the kitchen and was greeted with the smell of bacon, you wrapped your small arms around him. He looked down at you, having not noticed you were there before.

He patted you on the back and returned to cooking. "Hi mike" you giggled, "morning y/n/n. How'd you sleep?" He asked you.

"Good" you answered, "good." He responded

"Thats what I just said" he chuckled at your comment, you were very sassy, of course.

"But i gotta go to work soon, okay?" He said strictly, pointing the spatula at you.

"Uuoohh, but why?" You complained "because, we need money right?" You groaned in response, you ate your breakfast with max instead. (Rude)

+•°+*°•+

there was one hour until Mike got home, you were playing with your dolls when you got the idea.

he works too hard, so you thought to treat him with a little something, you made him a very nutritious meal (microwaved mac n' cheese) and drew him a warm bath, overflowing with bubbles.

You also made a small fort in the living room, facing the tv. When you heard Mike's car pull in the driveway you ran out to him. You opened his door for him, and led him inside by your side.

You ran into the kitchen, passing the living room, Mike saw your fort and pointed at it. "Whats that?" He asked, but was quickly pulled away by you.

"Youre not allowed to see that yet." You said as you dragged him into the kitchen and sat him down. He chuckled as you sat across from him, a fork and knife in both hands, smiling from ear to ear.

You both ate your meals and you led him to the bathroom. He looked down at you, and kneeled down to hug you.

You shut the door and waited in the living room. He eventually emerged from the hall in a comfy sweater and soft pants.

He climed into the fort after you signaled for him too come in. He lied down on his stomach beside you, you both continued to watch cartoons for a while.

You rested your head on his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around you tight.

He pecked you a few times before taking one of the many blankets in the fort and putting it over both of you.

You snuggled into his chest, his warmth comforting you as you listened to his heartbeat, you fell asleep soon after.

+•°+*°•+

The next morning after he left, you went out with max to surprise him, you had been saving up for months to buy him this. You handed the cashier tons of quarters to pay.

You folded it neatly and set it in a small gift bag. When he got home you gave it to him immediately, shoving it in his face.

He took it out carefully as max left to go home. He gasped as he read it. "Do you like it?" You asked as he kept staring at the hoodie that also had the words 'best big bro' on it.

"Do i like it? Of course i do! I like everything you give me!" He said picking you up. "But, how'd you get it baby?"

"Ive been saving up on my allowance! And searching the streets for some loose change" you said in a raspy voice, making a funny face as well.

He put it on and you both ordered a pizza, and you gave the delivery man the last quarter you had as a tip.

You ate three pieces before you complained about being to full. You fell asleep in Mikes lap while he was playing with your hair. He picked you up and tucked you into bed. Placing a kiss to your forehead.

He went to sleep smiling, still wearing the hoodie, of course he wouldn't tell you that he worked at the shop you bought it from and saw you get it for him but, he was still over the moon nonetheless.

+•°+*°•+

Tags

@white-wolf-buckaroo //

#mike schmidt #mike schmidt fnaf #mike schmidt x sister reader #mike schmidt fluff #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #little!reader #child!reader #x you fluff #fluff #fnaf movie #fnaf x you #fnaf #anonymous #answered

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scribble-dribble-writes · 8 months ago

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Pt 3 - And if I loved you any less, I’d be able to talk about it more

<<<prev next>>>

—

Crosshair x reader

—

And so he didn’t want to stop. He had everything under control and now he didn’t want to anymore. His calloused hands sunk to your hips and fit perfectly.

Your hands wrapped around his neck as you drew closer, to not give him a chance to pull away because he had to know the depths at which his disappearance had destroyed you.

To sit silently as the nights passed watching his old armour stuffed in a box. The vacancy he had left was huge, he was the only one who could look into your eyes and reassure you that everything would be alright and when he wasn’t here by your side, it was torturous.

He groaned against your lips and it rooted you to the present that by some lucky chance he had survived. He found his window to escape and he took it. How you had gotten to his private quarters neither could tell.

His long legs stumbled as he hit the corner of his bed and as he fell, he took you with him.

Pressed on top of each other, your hands splayed on his metal vest. You pulled away as you drew your breath and his eyes flashed a hint of colour.

It was this damn island, he had thought. The laid back air had gotten to him, he criticised himself as his finger tucked your hair behind your ear. His soft panting matching your breathlessness. He could not make sense of it when all at once his guarded heart had its gates wide open. Only for you. The others can wait.

Did you miss me?, he wanted to ask but thought better of it.

He had survived by thinking his brothers were dead but more than the pain from the medication, the thought of having lost you was worser. He could not come to terms with it so easily, if he could have made it out, to only be greeted with the news that the empire had gotten to you too. His only vain hope was you would survive and that kept him going as they contained him like a mad animal in a cage. The thought of you and the sound of his name on your lips were the only anchor that propped him up.

But any thought of that treacherous place was an instant tick, his hand began to shake and he watched as your eyes widened. He bit through, he didn’t want to retreat, he held your waist with conviction that if he pleaded for his past he would somehow be redeemed if you deemed it so.

“What did they do to you?”, you whispered as your eyebrows knit together and resolve settled in the grey swirls of his eyes.

“Everything possible to break me.”, he said slowly, his eye flitting to your lips again as though the only one who had the ability to do that was you.

You inhaled sharply.

You haunted my dreams, you wanted to say but instead cusped the side of his face.

He leaned into it, closing his eyes that as though these gestures were enough to answer these hidden questions.

“And did they?”, you asked, your eyes fixed on his but he relaxed, his finger tips soaking in the warmth of your skin.

“Not quite.”, he responded as the edge of his mouth tipped up.

You drew your finger down his jawline as you felt the scruff on his skin till you got to his chin, which you tilted for him to catch your eyes again.

“What?”, he drawled sarcastically.

“This feels like a dream.”, you said to which he hummed.

His hands pulling away your hair to the side to expose your neck.

“It does.”, he whispered as he planted kisses down the length of your neck.

A soft chuckle burst from within your chest and it felt like a reward to his ears. He brought your lips to meet his as he kissed you with renewed hunger.

Out of control. He didn’t want to be tamed anymore.

You straddled the sides of his waist. His moan that turned into a laugh made you see the stars.

“I know you just put your uniform on.”, you spoke in between his kisses that he didn’t let you finish your sentence.

“Take it off.”, he spoke into your skin, an urgent plea, an order.

But with his hand tangled in your hair, he stopped to draw his breath but he placed his forehead of yours. His warm breath cascading down your lips, his chest heaving as though he didn’t want the burden any more.

“Take it off.”, he said more softly like he didn’t want any artefact of this war between you and him.

You kissed his forehead as your hands worked away the clasps on his armour, you pulled away the pieces and he removed his undershirt. Till your finger felt the soft touch of skin.

He gasped and his eyes locked onto you.

All his scars and broken pieces lay scattered in front of you, but he didn’t seem to shy away now.

“Let me put you back together.”, you placed your hand over his racing heart.

He didn’t answer, even before the words had left your mouth, his had found yours. Like he had been waiting for this very moment. To find you so he can be whole again.

#crosshair tbb #crosshair the bad batch #crosshair bad batch #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair x you #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #crosshair x reader #crosshair x oc #crosshair

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elizais · 10 months ago

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puppy love

dazai finding out about / meeting your dog dazai x fem!reader (not in a relationship but there is something) sfw/fluff

osamu dazai was not blind. he noticed the way when you were out you would pet the cats on the street, the way animals came up to you for attention (when atsushi first met you, he assumed your ability was to do with animals). or maybe it was the fact that most people's mugs at work were quotes, plain colours or the initial of their first name but yours had prints of dogs on them. yet for some reason, it wasn't until you left early one day and he asked kunikida why and kunikida simply responded "her dog has an appointment at the vets. get back to work, dazai." and for an unknown reason, for someone so head over heels for you, he hadn't known of your furry companion.

"yeah, she said its a normal booster or something." atsushi chimed in next to dazai, keeping his eyes on the paperwork he was doing. and while dazai wasn't overly vocal about it. he disliked dogs. but since you had one, he could feel his opinion starting to sway. he never was keen on dogs, maybe it was the fact that they were loyal to anyone who shown them love and affection, naive and didn't care about your past. he was far from an animal lover, he wouldn't say he hates them, just that he couldn't be fond of them. maybe he just never had someone (albeit an animal) devote their life to being loyal to you despite what you've done, what you look like, how much money you have etc.

the next day came around and the day was normal for you. everyone came in, greeting one another, the usual. you sat at your desk by the window, kyouka walks up to you, asking "y/n, is (dog's name) alright?" quietly, but loud enough for people to be distracted from their mindless work. "of course he is, it was just an appointment i couldn't reschedule so i had to go earlier." you spoke in return. your kind smile making her smile. "kyouka, i thought you didn't like dogs?" atsushi pondered from next to dazai. "i don't, i like (dog's name) though. y/n took him on a walk with me when i was upset a few weeks ago." kyouka answered atsushi. dazai was uncharacteristically quiet, thinking about this dog he only found out about recently.

in a weeks time, the agency was going to eat out somewhere, the social fund had money in it for a nice dinner. you all agreed that meeting at someone's place to wait before the reservation was ideal. that place just so happened to be your apartment, large enough to accommodate everyone comfortably, and close to the restaurant. when the date came, everyone would arrive at yours, spend some time there and then arrive together as this restaurant doesn't like reserved guests arriving one at a time.

and then, the sunday everyone had off, you cleaned your apartment and waited. you expected yosano and ranpo to arrive first, in all honesty. them being the two you are with the most. but, at quarter to six, osamu dazai walks through the elevator that leads up to the apartment. using the code you sent to the work group chat. "y/n! i didn't know the agency gives out places like this to the detectives?" he asked teasingly, well aware you paid for this all yourself with your hard earned money. "maybe i'm just fukuzawa's favourite!" you retorted back with a wink, walking towards him as he hung up his coat on the stand. "make yourself at home, 'zai" you called him by the nickname strictly for him. the same one that came from you both being stuck at the office on a late night, the day after your entrance exam. it became the nickname only you can call him after you were drinking water, he made you laugh and as you were trying to say "dazai" you started coughing uncontrollably whilst laughing and could only say half of his last name. it just stuck!

the man in your living space reached for the remote, flicking on whatever as you said you just need to finish your hair. he would have said "you already look stunning", but he could only think it. osamu's suit was the nicest he had, navy blue with a white shirt. he leaned back on your couch as he put on whatever was playing on a channel, he would much rather talk to you instead. that was when a four-legged, furry body with a tail came over. the dog sniffed him down thoroughly like he was airport security. dazai looked down at him. "a rather large dog, doesn't look like one for protection though.. very shiny coat." he thought before his mind jogged enough for it to click that this was the pooch everyone else knew about. you walked back in, "(dog's name)! is that any way to greet a guest?" you spoke to the canine. dazai chuckled before mustering up his courage and rubbing the dog's head. "is this the famous guy i have been hearing about all week? he has been awfully popular at work as of late." dazai questioned.

"yes he is! i always thought you didn't like dogs 'zai?" you smiled at him "i'm not really an animal person, never had one so.. you know." he explained, not feeling like he needed to explain any further than that. (dog's name) laid down by osamu's feet. "he likes you, don't worry." you responded whilst looking at the tv.

atsushi and kyouka walked in together as soon as you finished your sentence. you waved hello as atsushi nodded with a smile and kyouka greeted you with a hug. the whole agency knew how much kyouka looked up to you, and how your dynamic was of an older sister and a younger sister. kyouka ran up to your dog as he got up to greet her, familiar with the girl. before atsushi and kyouka could say hi to dazai: kunikida, junichiro, kenji, ranpo, and fukuzawa walked in. every one of you greeted those who just arrived, before junichiro spoke "yosano, naomi and haruno are coming together. they will be here soon." you served them drinks and gave ranpo his specially reserved snacks, complimenting everyone on their attire.

everybody sat in your large living space, amongst your chairs and sofas. you and kyouka sat together as you spoke about the films you sent her to watch. your favourite being an old school romcom, dazai made a mental note to watch it later as he spoke to the guys but half listened to your conversation. yosano and naomi walked in and got a mixture of greetings from everyone as they looked up to the sound of the elevator door opening. yosano saw you and dazai up and walking towards your kitchen space, giving you a wink only you saw. she knew of your feelings that were kept incredibly secret.

"y/n? where did your dog go?" dazai asked as all conversations around the room merged into one and you were both up getting more water. "he probably went to another room, he isn't keen on loud noises so sudden big groups of new people aren't his favourite thing." you answered simply, before adding "why?" to your statement. dazai simply answered "you know what, y/n, i think dogs are growing on me."

as you finished your glass of water, kunikida spoke up "we should start heading over.. is everyone ready?" a mix of hums and agreements floated around the room as everyone stood up and grabbed their coats. "akiko? naomi? kyouka? do you want to come in my car?" you were saying as dazai subtly slipped away into the spare room (dog's name) was in. not noticing his disappearance as you focused on the car arrangements.

on his short walk over, he realised how much you really loved that dog. he kneeled down to where the dog was laying down and whispered as he stroked his head "i suppose i can settle for 2nd place to you, (dog's name)" before walking out to see kunikida waiting for him. "have you said anything to y/n yet, dazai?" kunikida asked, knowing of how dazai felt before seeing dazai shake his head. "can i drive though?" dazai asked with a grin "zero chance." kunikida quickly spoke, certain of the answer to that question being no. sighing, "for someone like you, you should be smart enough to see her glances right back to you." kunikida spoke, before gesturing to the elevator to try and communicate to the man in front of him who was clearly in shock.

but, in your car, as kyouka was finishing saying something quickly to the boys in the other car, waiting for kunikida and dazai, akiko asked with a wink "so, have you planned anything with dazai yet?". to which you pulled a face and said "not yet."

as if fate pulled some strings, at the restaurant a certain someone was sat next to you. as you went up to go to get the sauces, he slipped a note in your purse.

"i think (dog's name) would love a walk down to the pier tomorrow night. - 'zai"

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai #armed detective agency #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader

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storiesfromgaza · 1 year ago

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Greetings, everyone

Ever since the inception of this blog, a persistent question has been haunting me: Will any of this truly make a difference? I swiftly brushed it aside, reminding myself, 'Why should I concern my mind with this? I'll focus my abilities on doing everything within my power without fixating on the outcome.'

With this in mind, I embarked on the path of translation and article writing with unwavering dedication, telling myself that if I could reach just one individual and dispel the darkness that media relentlessly tries to cast over their eyes, veiling their spirit, that would be fulfilling enough for me.

And now, a mere five days after the creation of this blog, I felt compelled to write this message to you because I understand that this question plagues your thoughts as well. Does any of this hold significance? Does any of this create a meaningful impact?

This is a comment from a woman on the video of the elderly couple who were carrying a lifeless child (their son or grandchild) after they brought him out from under the debris.

This is just one example of a woman who heightened her awareness and began harnessing everything within her grasp, investing it in any opportunity to help, from offering support to educating herself and sharing her knowledge with those around her, including her family.

Today, and just five days after the creation of this blog, we have reached 10,871 people. which I'm asking you not to treat it as a mere number; because each one of them represents an individual, a person with an identity, a life, a story, a family, friends and an impact on society, no matter how small. Each one of them is a human being, just like her. Even if we assume that only a quarter of this number are people who have increased their awareness and shared the truth with those around them, we're talking about 2,717 people! A significant number in a short period, just five days.

The second noteworthy point is when Gaza was completely cut off from the world, with internet, communication networks, and even electricity severed, after the uprising in which everyone, including you, participated. The internet was restored to Gaza after only two days.

Furthermore, a literary magazine that focuses on multilingualism contacted us, asking to publish the stories and articles we've translated here in their upcoming issue, which will expand their reach to a larger audience.

All of this, thanks to God, happened in less than one week (five days) after creating the blog. Now, after all this, have you received an answer to your question?

#2- many of you are asking about is how you can help? In reality, there are several ways, with the Blaze feature offered by Tumblr being a prominent one. This feature allows the audience to promote any post they choose on the blog to a specific number of viewers, constrained by the amount of Blaze.

With only 5 dollars, the smallest amount of support, you can promote a post to 2,500 people! 2,500 Human!

25 dollars your chosen post will reach 7,000 people! 7000 Human!

65 dollars will result in the chosen post reaching 20,000 people, 20,000 Human!

and for the maximum support amount, which is 150 dollars, your selected post will be delivered to 50,000 people, 50,000 Human!"

Promoting posts with Blaze won't only increases the reach of the specific post but also directs more traffic to the blog itself, as those who see the promoted post are likely to visit the blog and explore other stories and articles. So, it's impact not limited to a single post.

Furthermore, you can choose the audience of the country you want to target using the Blaze feature, such as Australia, Brazil, Canada, Germany, Mexico, the United Kingdom, and the United States. You can do all of this by clicking the Blaze button below any post you want to promote.

If you are able to support with any amount, it will make a significant difference in reaching a larger audience and increasing awareness. If you find it difficult to select a specific post or story to use the Blaze feature on, I will provide some suggestions here that would be beneficial to promote and reach a wider audience:

The video of the elderly couple carrying a child's lifeless body, with the man's face adorned with a thousand years of sorrow, helplessness, and despair, while the woman continues to weep beside him. [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732477157492834304/two-elderly-people-the-mans-face-adorned-with?source=share]

The video of the woman carrying her child's body, weeping and asking her father to leave her child in her embrace, and then requesting them to bury her with him. [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732437085371432960/after-losing-her-child-to-the-shelling-a?source=share]

The story of the suffering of the girl Saba [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732282818040872960/saba-my-cousin-is-in-the-third-grade-in-2019?source=share]

The story of Emad's only son. [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732168563115409408/i-sat-with-emad-on-the-corner-of-the-street-he?source=share]

The story of Majd's little sister. [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732160503297769472/my-little-sister-in-the-midst-of-everything?source=share]

The child Yussuf. [https://www.tumblr.com/storiesfromgaza/732146206757830656/what-is-the-worst-nightmare-for-any-healthcare?source=share]

Your support will make a significant difference, and for those who cannot provide support, simply sharing the content here and on Instagram (@amrshater), following and engaging with it, and sharing it on your own accounts' stories will also make a significant impact by reaching a larger audience.

In the end, Alhamdulillah (praise be to God), and thank you all.

#gaza #palestine #gaza strip #free gaza #free palestine #storiesfromgaza #غزة #فلسطين #genocide #humanitarian crisis

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 months ago

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Clay Jones, Claytoonz: The new GOP mantra

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

July 25, 2024 (Thursday)

Momentum continues to build behind Vice President Kamala Harris to become the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, and the national narrative as a whole has shifted.

Democrats appear to be generating significant enthusiasm among younger Americans. Yesterday, for the first time in their history, the March for Our Lives organization endorsed a presidential candidate: Kamala Harris. Students from the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, organized March for Our Lives after the shooting there in 2018. Executive director Natalie Fall said that the organization “will work to mobilize young people across the country to support Vice President Harris and other down-ballot candidates, with a particular focus on the states and races where we can make up the margin of victory—in Arizona, New York, Michigan, and Florida.”

Andrea Hailey of Vote.org announced that in the 48 hours after President Biden said he would not accept the Democratic nomination, nearly 40,000 people registered to vote. That meant a daily increase in new registrations of almost 700%.

People are turning out for Harris in impressive numbers. In the hours after she launched her campaign, Win With Black Women rallied 44,000 Black women on Zoom and raised $1.6 million. On Monday, around 20,000 Black men rallied to raise $1.2 million. Tonight, challenged to “answer the call,” 164,000 white women joined an event that “broke Zoom” and raised more than $2 million and tens of thousands of new volunteers.

Another significant endorsement for Harris came yesterday from Geoff Duncan, the Republican former lieutenant governor of Georgia, who wrote on social media: “I’m committed to beating Donald Trump. The only vehicle left for me to do that with is the Democratic Party. If that requires me to vote for, speak for, or endorse [Kamala Harris] then count me in!” Duncan’s public announcement offers permission for other Georgia Republicans to make a similar shift. In 1964, South Carolina senator Strom Thurmond similarly paved the way for southern Democrats to vote for Republican presidential candidate Barry Goldwater.

Harris’s appearances are generating such enthusiasm from audiences that when she delivered the keynote address this morning at the convention of the American Federation of Teachers in Houston, Texas, the applause delayed her ability to begin. After a speech defending education and calling out the cuts to it in Project 2025, Harris ended by demonstrating that after decades of Democrats being accused of being anti-American, Trump’s denigration of the country has enabled the party to claim the position of being America’s defenders.

“When we vote, we make our voices heard,” Harris said. “So today, I ask you, AFT, are you ready to make your voices heard? Do we believe in freedom? Do we believe in opportunity? Do we believe in the promise of America? And are we ready to fight for it? And when we fight, we win! God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

Today the Commerce Department reported that economic growth in the second quarter was higher than expected, coming in at 2.8%, thanks to higher spending driven by higher wages. The country’s changing momentum is showing in media stories hyping the booming economy Biden’s team tried for years to get traction on. “Full Employment is Joe Biden’s True Legacy” was the title of a story by Zachary Carter that appeared yesterday in Slate; CNN responded to today’s good economic news with an article by Bryan Mena titled: “The US economy is pulling off something historic.”

With Harris appearing to have sewn up the nomination, the question has turned to her vice presidential pick. That question is fueling the sense of excitement as potential choices are in front of cameras and on social media advocating Democratic positions and defending the United States from Trump’s denigration. Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro listed the economic gains of the past years, and said: “Trump, you’ve got to stop sh*t talking America. We’ve got to start standing tall and being patriotic and showing how much we love this amazing nation.”

The vice presidential hopefuls appear to be having some fun with showcasing their personalities, as Minnesota governor Tim Walz did in his video from the Minnesota State Fair where he and his daughter went on an extreme ride. So are social media users who have dug up old videos of, for example, Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg explaining how he would pilot a small starfighter that had lost its auxiliary shields, or Arizona senator Mark Kelly’s identical twin brother Scott pranking a fellow astronaut on the Space Station with a gorilla suit Mark smuggled on board.

That sense of fun is an enormous relief after years of political weight, and it has spilled over into making fun of the Republican ticket, most notably with a false story that vice presidential candidate J.D. Vance wrote about—and I cannot believe I am typing this—having sex with a couch. The story is stupid, but worse are the denials of it, which have spread the story into populations that otherwise would likely not have seen it.

Just two weeks ago, Vance appeared to be the leader of the next generation of extremist MAGA Republicans, but now that calculation seems to have been hasty. Vance is a staunch opponent of abortion—the key issue in 2024—and he has been vocal in his disdain of women who have not given birth, saying in 2021, for example, that the U.S. was being run by “a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made and so they want to make the rest of the country miserable, too.” He went on to say that people who don’t have children “don’t really have a direct stake” in the country.

Republican commentator Meghan McCain noted that Vance’s “comments are activating women across all sides, including my most conservative Trump supporting friends. These comments have caused real pain and are just innately unchristian.” Actor Jennifer Aniston, who tends to stay out of politics, posted: “I truly can’t believe this is coming from a potential VP of The United States.” Vance had called out Harris by name in those 2021 comments, and Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff’s ex-wife Kerstin Emhoff took to social media to defend Harris from Vance’s attacks on her as “childless,” calling her “a co-parent with Doug and I. She is loving, nurturing, fiercely protective and always present. I love our blended family and am grateful to have her in it.” Harris’s stepdaughter chimed in: “I love my three parents.”

Vance also ties the Republican ticket firmly to Project 2025. The Trump camp has worked to distance itself from Project 2025—not convincingly, since the two are obviously closely tied, but it turns out that Vance wrote the introduction for a forthcoming book by Heritage Foundation president Kevin Roberts, who was the lead author of Project 2025. The book appears to popularize that plan, right down to its endorsement of a “Second American Revolution,” and according to the book deal report, proceeds from the book will go to the Heritage Foundation “and aligned nonprofits.”

Now Vance’s words praising Project 2025 will be in print, just in time for the election. Yesterday, Trump posted: “I have nothing to do with, and know nothing about, Project 25 [sic]. The fact that I do is merely disinformation put out by the Radical Left Democrat Thugs. Do not believe them!”

Trump is clearly aware of, and concerned about, the changing narrative. This morning, he called in to Fox & Friends, saying, “We don’t need the votes. I have so many votes. I’m in Florida now…and every house has a Trump-Vance sign on it. Every single house…. It’s amazing the spirit…. This election has more spirit than I’ve ever seen ever before.” Tonight the Trump campaign proved their worry by backing out of debates with Harris, saying debates can’t be scheduled until she is the official nominee, although Biden was not the official nominee when they met in June.

The larger narrative shift has affected the media approach to Trump, who is accustomed to shaping perceptions as he wishes. Now, 12 days after the mass shooting at his rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, there is increasing media attention to the fact that there has still been no medical report on Trump’s injuries, although he wore a large bandage on his ear at the Republican National Convention and said at a rally in Grand Rapids, Michigan, on Saturday that he “took a bullet for democracy.”

Yesterday, FBI director Christopher Wray told Congress that it is not clear whether Trump was “grazed” by a bullet or by shrapnel, words that former federal prosecutor Joyce Vance called “FBI speak for, ‘it’s unlikely it was a bullet.’”

CNN chief medical consultant Dr. Sanjay Gupta noted last week that the people need a real medical evaluation of Trump’s injuries, explaining that “gunshot blasts near the head can cause injuries that aren’t immediately noticeable, such as bleeding in or on the brain, damage to the inner ear or even psychological trauma.” But, as Josh Marshall at Talking Points Memo has noted, much of the press has kept mum about the story.

Media outlets have reported Wray’s testimony, though, and in a social media post today, Trump called on Wray, whom he appointed to head the FBI, to resign from his post for “LYING TO CONGRESS.” Tonight, he reiterated that “it was…a bullet that hit my ear, and hit it hard.”

Perhaps eager to get back to their districts, House Republicans canceled their expected votes on appropriations bills scheduled for next week and left town today for their August recess. The House will not reconvene until early September. The government’s fiscal year 2025 begins on October 1.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Clay Jones #GOP mantra #political cartoon #DEI hire #Heather Cox Richardson #Letters From An American #Rise #Kamala Harris #election 2024 #momentum

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codenamesazanka · 22 days ago

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HAPPY BDAYYY if spinner was in the fantasy au, what would he be?

I actually make a poll once asking just this question. Here is the result:

Personally, I had picked Bar Maiden. But the people have spoken. So I would combine the two together and say he was a sad, poor Bar Maiden who dreamed of adventure and so one day he just up and left to go become a Knight. Which is basically what happened in canon!

(Ohhh i actually have this Spinaraki Fantasy AU fanfic in my drafts. Have a snippet:

working title: ten moments with the tenth prince of the kingdom of darkness

The sword— its blade gleaming in the moonlight; the hilt smoothly curved, made of a dark wood inlaid with silver; top half of the grip strangely wrapped with a strip of red silk— the sword was beautiful.

Shuuichi focused on that beauty, tried putting all his attention on admiration, because then he could ignore the puddle of blood he was kneeling in. It was still warm, stewing with chunks of flesh not yet dissolved, belonging to someone who moments earlier tried to kill him.

His life was still in danger, and the sword might be the thing that would ultimately kill him, but at least it was the magnificent sword of a prince.

“There’s nothing I can offer you,” Shuuichi said. He wasn’t anything, he was a nobody. A drudge, a window cleaner barely allowed to step foot into the palace. A beastman that wasn’t ferocious or strong or deft, just a lizard with a nearly useless bloodline ability. “Nothing I can give or do.”

In the brief quiet that followed, Shuuichi realized too late that he forgot to use honorifics. The Prince, however, didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Answer the question,” the Prince said. “I wasn’t asking if you had anything to offer. I’m asking if you want to serve me.” He tapped the tip of the sword on the ground, the sharp sound sending a shiver throughout Shuuichi’s being. “As a vassal.” Another tap. “A retainer.” Another tap. “My retainer.”

It was more than presumptuous for Shuuichi to even think about who he’d choose to serve under, but in all honesty, to any other royal heir, he would’ve sworn his loyalty immediately. The Sixth Prince was the Necromancer General, working closely with the Grand Chancellor, in charge of the Demon Lord’s First Legion, the battalions of the undead. The Ninth Prince, who could control the skies, was currently conquering the southern islands. If Shuuichi could’ve, he would chosen to serve the legendary Fourth Prince, unmatched with his blade, dying standing up when taking on an Eastern army but not before he decimated half of it.

All the Princes and Princesses—they were said to have the extraordinary potential to become the next Demon Lord. Each was already slowly shaping the world, twisting reality at will, ready to wrestle fate into their liking.

The Tenth Prince, however… People say that Tenth Prince Tomura was the favored one out of all of the Demon Lord’s heirs, the only one to be granted the royal name, to receive the services of the Great Steward and Keeper of Gates. Rumor was, Prince Tomura was actually the Demon Lord’s blood and flesh son… and that was the only reason he was one of the Princes of the realm. The title was for show; his name and status given to prevent him from throwing a tantrum. Prince Tomura had the touch of death and destruction, which was powerful indeed, but he lacked anything else that makes one princely. Childish and lazy and undignified, he might not be completely sane. Shuuichi could confirm. He has seen the Tenth Prince scratch his neck bloody; seen that the Prince kept and talked to severed hands; seen the Prince’s quarters, which was not much cleaner than a landfill.

Did Shuuichi want to pledge his life away to this man? Follow Prince Tomura as he goes aimlessly towards an inevitable dead-end? He wanted Shuuichi, and that seemed reason enough to not accept.

But you have absolutely nothing to lose, his heart whispered. Why not do something, anything with your waste of a life?

Shuuichi said yes.

The Prince grinned. He held out the sword. “Kiss the blade, then, and swear it.” A tradition of fealty, deference to power, acknowledgement of the Prince’s hold on his life, love for his new master, unafraid of the dangers up ahead and willing to die for the Prince. Shuuichi knew the words, having heard stories, seen people try to copy it. Now, somehow, it was his turn.

Shuuichi kissed the blade, and could feel the silver of metal edge against his scales, a soft scraping feeling that made him shiver, and made his oath.

"My life, my powers, my heart and body - all that I am is yours."

“My prince!” Jin exclaimed, his salute to the Prince turning into a flourish of the arm, nearly hitting Shuuichi in the face. “Doesn’t Shuuichi look good? It doesn’t suit him at all!”

The Prince lounges on a sofa, in his hand a glass of wine, the very picture of decadence. “What’s with the vest?” He pointed. “The blue dots?”

“Mix-up at the tailors!” Jin said. “Was gonna go get the right one, but Shuuichi said no.”

“I like the color blue.” Shuuichi said. He didn’t see anything wrong with the vest; it was already fancier than anything he had ever worn. Everything else was exactly what he had been given to wear - the uniform of black and silver, the light armor, the heavy boots, the red cape embroidered with the royal crest and the Prince’s own sigil.

“It’s not standard livery.” Lord Kurogiri said.

“It’s fine,” the Prince said. “Jin already has his helmet.”

“I must keep covered,” Jin told Shuuichi, for all the sense it made. The metal helmet obscured his entire face and caused everything he said to carry a slight echo.

The Prince’s first retainer was the reason Shuuichi even became noticeable enough to catch someone’s attention in the first place. One day Jin greeted him, then yelled at him for missing a spot that wasn’t there on the window Shuuichi was wiping. After that, Jin just kept talking at Shuuichi, chattering about his (un)favorite types of alcohol and tobacco; the (dis)comfort of having his underwear bunch up in his new livery; the birds he had (not) seen that day.

For a while, Shuuichi never responded with more than a few respectful words. He wasn’t interested in whatever game Jin wanted to play, and he wasn’t dumb enough to think the man wanted to be friends without some expectation Shuuichi could not afford to meet. But despite the way he talked, Jin seemed so genuine. The moment he did start to reply, of course, was when someone assumed he could be kidnapped for information.

Jin had been a soldier in the Second Legion. He had an accident with his doubling magic and it drove him insane. Almost tossed out of the army, Jin was saved when Prince Tomura took him into his service.

The other royal heirs had dozens of retainers. The Eighth Prince commanded his own small army. Prince Tomura now had just two to serve him.

#nalslastworkingbraincell #spinaraki #fanfic #AU #AU idea #nalwrites

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sadiegirl2021 · 5 months ago

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DAY FIVE - POWERS

GWYN'S HERITAGE

“My grandmother was a river-nymph who seduced a High Fae male from the Autumn Court. So I’m a quarter nymph, but it’s enough for this.”

Gwyn gestured to her large eyes—blue so clear it could have been the shallow sea—and her lithe body.

“My bones are slightly more pliant than ordinary High Fae’s, but who cares about that?”

_______

“My mother was unwanted by either of their people. She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the forest house of Autumn.

So she was given in her childhood to the temple at Sangravah, where she was raised.

We were the result of that sacred union with a male stranger. She never found out who he was, for the magic chose him that night, and no one ever showed up to ask about twin girls.

WHAT WE KNOW

Gwyn is 1/4 Nymph from the Spring Court, 1/4 Autumn Court and 1/2 Mystery. She's got an invoking stone that provides the power of healing and protection. And she glows when she happy.

WHAT COULD HER POWERS INCLUDE?

Fire: SJM made a lot of hints towards Eris being her grandfather (Rabbit Hole Post), and we do know for a fact she has Autumn Court ancestry. Quotes from the books that hint at fire power -

Nesta meeting Gwyn, her power recognising her (unknown) flames: A crackling sort of energy buzzed around her, and Nesta’s power grumbled in answer.

How Feyre described her rising Autumn court flames: My blood heated, and I took a breath to cool it, to cool the magic crackling at the insult.

Eris talking about the Made dagger: Eris sucked in a breath. Feyre said, “You can sense its power.”

“There’s flame in it,” Eris said...

Her nymph heritage: I think she'll have an affinity for water, but no powers (maybe the ability to hold her breath for long periods of time).

Glowing when she sings: One thing to note when she glows is that she's incredibly happy when it happens. Singing brings her true joy, and that's reflected in the positive language Nesta uses to describe Gwyn singing. Her song is like sunshine and a ray of light. This reminded me of what Rhys said to Feyre in ACOMAF.

"Well, at least now I can gloat that I can literally make my mate glow with happiness."

Right now, singing is the one thing that makes Gwyn happy. She goes off on a rant to Nesta about how amazing it is, and you can feel her excitement in the writing. Maybe SJM is only using light as symbolism for Gwyn's joy, or it could be hinting at other powers…maybe she is linked to the Day Court or another solar court.

Her invoking stone:

“It’s an Invoking Stone.” Gwyn unfurled her fingers, revealing the gem within her hand. “Similar to the Siphons of the Illyrians, except that the power of the Mother flows through it. We cannot use it for harm, only healing and protection. It was shielding us.”

We know it works, but will we see Gwyn use it again the way it's intended? Will she wear it on her head again like the other priestesses? I'm going to guess 100% YES! And it will be used to heal/protect someone important in the next book (I'm guessing Azriel or maybe Emerie/Nesta).

The Lightsinger Theory: We just don't know enough about them to put Gwyn in this box. But it can be fun to write about it from a non-evil perspective (because why would SJM take the evil route!?).

If you look up "Lightsinger," there's no fantasy lore about them, so SJM has made them up. If Gwyn is a Lightsinger, then I highly doubt what Cassian said is 100% accurate. Lore can change as stories are passed down. Cassian mostly describes a Kelpie in ACOSF, which means he knows the name Lightsinger, but perhaps not what they actually are or what they do.

"A kelpie is designed to lure and kill, just as a wolf is designed to hunt its prey."

“There are lightsingers: lovely, ethereal beings who will lure you, appearing as friendly faces when you are lost. Only when you’re in their arms will you see their true faces, and they aren’t fair at all. The horror of it is the last thing you see before they drown you in the bog. But they kill for sport, not food.”

My headcanon is that a Lightsinger is linked to the moon or holy light. When researching Lightsingers, the closest thing I found to them were Moonsinger priestesses from Game of Thrones.

If it's moonlight, and Gwyn is in fact a Lightsinger, then that could explain why Azriel's shadows like Gwyn's light but hate sunlight.

To quote the Moonmaiden Shadowheart from BG3: "You can't cast a shadow without some light."

It's hard to guess which way SJM will go for Gwyn's powers, but there's certainly a lot of potential. SJM spent time fleshing out Gwyn in Nesta's book, so we can expect to get answers in the next one. She's certainly been set up to be very powerful!

Original Image - Ozan Çulha on Pexels

@gwynweekofficial

#gwyneth berdara #gwynweekofficial #gwynweek #gwynweek2024 #pro gwyn #pro gwyneth berdara #prompt: powers

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not-so-allegiant-general · 1 year ago

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Force sensitive Hux au

Kylo discovered that Snoke was suppressing Hux's abilities just to keep them apart. It is General Hux who was his dyad in force. Not Rey. But now without Snoke there is no one between them. And there is no one between Hux and force. And it is painful but Hux doesn't want to learn from Kylo. He doesn't trust him nor the force. He can't sleep, he hears voices, everything vibrates. And he feels emotions that aren't his. Its getting worse and worse. And he hates that the only thing that helps is being close to Kylo. But he can't deny It any more, or he will go mad. So one day Kylo found him curled up on his bed. Hux got up.

"Mh... Sorry. I was waiting for you"

"In my bed?"

"Yeah. Everything else vibrates and It made me want to vomit"

Kylo sat down close to him.

"You can go back to sleep. We will talk later. I can stay. " He answered Hux thoughts. Hux rubbed his face and laid down again. He was too tired to protest and having Kylo so close felt wonderful, so he just went back to sleep. After "okey Ren you can teach me but I will not call you master" talk they started immediately next day.

And Hux was indeed a fast learner. And after few weeks its kinda started to bother Kylo. A lot. Force was listening to Hux as it has never listened to Kylo before. Hux built his own saber. And it was flawless. Elegant. Pure white blade. How the fuck did he turned kyber white? Kylo didn't know. He knew that Hux was an kyber expert because of Strakiller, but he was never really interested in his research. Hux could meditate for hours. Kylo couldn't last even two. And it was tearing him apart because Hux was everything that he wasn't. Everything that he wanted to be.

Navigation consoles began to suffer again from his rage.

"Ren! Ren stop it immediately! Ren! Supreme Leader it is you own ship for the fuck sake!"

Kylo breathed out and deactivated the blade.

"What's going on? Ren?"

" am sorry"

" I Hope so. But i don't care about you being sorry i care for an explanation" and Kylo explained. And Hux was looking at him with disbelief.

" Oh come on. Enough of this whining Ren" he stopped him " Can you even hear yourself?"

"Hux..."

" You alone told me that force is a path aren't you ? "

"Yes but..."

" So there is infinite number of paths. You can't blame me that i chose a different one. Actually if we are what you called It a dyad? Its perfectly logical that we are opposites. Let's say it clear there is nothing in control, in order about you. Just chaos. I could never live like this. "

" Yes but..."

"But but ... I told you stop whining like a child. Look at yourself. You are pure, raw force. You could go against Rancor with this red thing and ego of yours. And you're siting here and whine because i have a prettier lightsaber?"

"I... "

" And what? That my abilities are better? Are you joking? I didn't beat you in a duel even once. And how the fuck did you cracked kyber Ren? Because if i could do that Starkiller would be ready at least few years faster!"

"How the fuck did i cracked kyber? How the fuck did YOU make it WHITE!?"

"Wouldn't you like to know huh?" Hux smiled "Why don't you just ask?"

"What?"

" I'am not Snoke. i'am not going to hide things from you. Do stop breaking consoles and start verbally communicating what's going on because i am tired of this hide-and-seek" Kylo was blinking at him. Hux sighed. "Come. I will show you kyber."

They did not arrive to laboratories because Kylo pressed him to the wall and kissed. Hux just moaned tilting his head back.

"Is it verbal enough Hux?"

" Its suggestive enough. First my quarters. Then kyber. " He said when he regained breath. " But enough of destroying my ship"

" Oh. Now it's yours ? "

" You just said i am better than you at basically everything? Shouldn't i be Supreme Leader then? " He mocked. He had never learnt that you have to be careful what you wish for. Kylo smiled amused and kissed back of his hand.

"You know what Hux? You are right" Hux blinked.

"What?"

"I can see It now. Crystal clear. My destiny is to conquer, bring down empires. And lay them at your feet. Yours is to rule. "

And Hux for the first time in his life was absolutely speechless.

#armitage hux #star wars #general hux #headcanon #hux #kylux #kylo ren #force sensitive hux #force sensitive #i was never big fan of force sensitive hux au #but i have grown to like it #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction

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the-24-7-lawlu-library · 8 months ago

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Poll Vote Fluff

Sorry everyone for being late. Was fighting a mean headache. I hope you all had a great weekend and wish you a wonderful week <3

A Legend about True Love by Katia_Anyway (G)

The Prince of the Kingdom, Luffy, has spent his whole life locked up in the Castle, his Grandfather the King insisting that the world outside was too dangerous. But the Prince is curious and adventurous, he wants to go explore, even if that means having to sneak out alone. But once outside, he gets lost, and needs the help of a very beautiful Witch named Trafalgar Law.

No Stranger to Crazy by Purplehairedwonder (G)

The Straw Hats arrive on an island to discover not only that the Hearts are already there, but there is also a winter festival happening. Law doesn’t have the best memories with winter islands or festivals, so Luffy is determined to make some good ones with him.

You can calm me down by Sakuya_Serenity_Kira (G)

After Luffy has beaten Kaido devastatingly, his fighting spirit is unbroken. He wants, he needs more. In this intoxication, he loses control of his new abilities. Can someone stop him? But who? And how? After all, Luffy is now. . . a god.

A Sinner's Pledge by bimarian (T)

This one little incident this morning just reminded him of the promise that he wanted to make and of the letter that he said he would have to eventually write. The Surgeon takes a moment to glance between his sleeping fiancé and the papers on his lap before he finally writes a greeting on the scented paper. ‘Hey, Ace-ya.’ In which Luffy wakes up from a nightmare—and Law finally writes a letter to make one little promise to Ace.

Midnight by Chenziee (T)

Luffy really wanted to celebrate the end of the year with his friends and family but with his arm injured, strict orders of no partying, and his roommate on his heels, it got really damn hard to sneak out.

Are You Bananas by Plume8now (G)

Usopp gives Luffy an idea, and now, Luffy can't get it off his mind. Of course, he won't wait until tomorrow to do it. And nothing can stop Monkey D. Luffy.

The Mysterious Case of the Hiccups. by ClementineJuicebox, SailorHeichou (G)

-hic- The first hiccup that started it all.

Show me what love is all about by aloas (T)

If Law didn’t know how useless Luffy is when it comes to making plans, he would be complimenting Luffy’s mastermind for always knowing just the right way or the right time to catch Law unguarded. But Law knows that is not the case. So, he curses at the universe. Or fate. Or whatever deity out there that is constantly plotting for Luffy to find Law. (Or the one where Law learns a thing or two about love.)

Answer the Question by Heart_Core (T)

Law’s birthday celebration hadn’t gone the way Luffy expected too, but he was grateful nonetheless.

Our Hearts, Made Whole in Each Other by Purplehairedwonder (G)

Luffy cupped Law’s cheek with his hand, softly grazing his thumb over a yellowing bruise. “Torao is so pretty,” he said quietly, a note of awe in his voice. Law flushed. “Torao’s heart is beating so fast.” “Yeah,” Law agreed, swallowing. “It is.” Luffy’s, despite a few flutters, was beating steadily in Law’s chest. Law, on the other hand, felt pinned to the spot, one hand holding Kikoku and the other in Luffy’s grip. “You should stay.” Law blinked. “What?” “You should stay,” Luffy repeated. “On the Sunny. With me." Written for 10 Days of LawLu 2023 Day 10: Confessions.

Always See the Daylight by Purplehairedwonder (G)

“Why did you want to see my room?” Law asked, both curious and a bit apprehensive at what the response might be. “Because it’s yours!” Luffy said immediately, sitting up quickly. Luffy looked as though the answer had been obvious. For Law, however, that explained exactly nothing. “What—” Luffy looked around, his expression softening in a way that made Law fidgety. “It’s very Torao,” he decided. Written for LawLu Week 2022. Day 5 Prompt: Captain's quarters

Coming Home (To Breathe Again, To Start Again) by Purplehairedwonder (G)

Law had a… complicated relationship with the concept of home. But here on the beach of Wano with Luffy looking at him with such fondness that Law wanted to squirm, he thought that maybe home could be another person.

-Mod Raiya

#lawlu #lulaw #monkey d luffy #trafalgar law #law x luffy #fluff #royalty au #marriage proposal #Fantasy au #winter festival #post wano #first kiss #canon divergence #nightmares #getting together #new year's eve #Modern au

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darkness-and-books · 8 months ago

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Purr-fectly Tipsy

Jim Kirk x gn Vulcan!reader

⚠️: drinking, tipsy reader, extra clingy drunk

word count: 500

Sure, neither of you really drank much, but it was a night after a long shift and everyone was gathered in the recreation room eight. So now you were a little buzzed and looking for your boyfriend because, "I miss his pretty face," is what you had said when Bones asked. You had been pointed to one of the pool tables by Chekov. When you looked over your already flushed face lit up and you made a beeline for him. "I missed you!" You let out when you reached him, clinging to his despite the fact that it hindered his ability to play. "Hi sweetie," Jim cooed and booped your nose. You preened at the affection and leaned even further into him. His pool cue now planted firmly on the ground as he turned his attention to you fully. "Love meeee," You demanded as you shifted your weight and were now practically hanging off of the man. "I do love you sweetie. How much have you had to drink?" He didn't mean it as an insult, he was just concerned that maybe it was time to take you back to your quarters. "Not that much," you bubbled, Jim briefly glanced at Bones who was still at the bar and pointed at you with a questioning look. When Bones gave him a silent thumbs up in response Jim turned back to you in acceptance. "Okay," he answered, putting down his pool cue and leading you to a chair. He sat you down in a chair and then moved to his own, only to have you ditch your seat to climb into his lap. He wasn't complaining by any means, but it was unusually clingy of you (at least for there being so many people around). "Hello there," Jim joked as you put your face in the crook of his neck and nudged him with your nose. You sighed and tugged at his sleeves, getting the hint Jim wrapped an arm around you and began to rub your back. If it were even possible, you melted even further into his touch and purred, a soft vibrating that came from deep within your chest and radiated through your whole body. "Woah!" Jim exclaimed, Spock smiled slightly at his reaction. "They do that sometimes, it's a vestigial trait of Vulcans," Spock explained from across the table. "Would've been nice to know before you nearly gave me a heart attack," Jim whispered to you and you giggled. "I've never done it while sober, so I never really thought bout it," you mumbled truthfully. Jim hummed in response and continued to rub your back, beginning to feel comforted by the purring that was emanating from you. "Mmm, maybe it's time to head up to bed," Jim thought out loud to you, "mmph," you grumbled, not opposed to sleep, but opposed to moving. "What?" He asked, "don' wanna get up," you mumbled. "Fine," Jim conceded and swept you up bridal style, "How's that?" He asked you triumphantly.

#star trek #fluffy stuff #star trek tos #kirk x reader #captain kirk #Vulcan purrs

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split-spectrum · 1 year ago

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Water and Rock

Chapter 9

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: smut, slow burn, dubcon

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

An hour of meditation, two turbolifts, and several long hallways later, you're curled into a regulation-sized bunk inside your temporarily assigned crew quarters. Standard-issue sheets scrunch under the weight of your body shifting from one side of the bed to the other as you pull apart every detail of your earlier conversation in your head.

"Wh-" you'd started and stopped, then tried again, feeling like you were dragging yourself out of quicksand. "Why did you show that to me?"

"Because you needed to see."

He'd given his reply with his eyes still closed, affording you the ability to let your frustration show on your face. He always seemed to speak in this enigmatic, closed off way in the moments you needed him most.

"You hesitate to give yourself to the will of the force, because of your shortcomings. But my own thoughts would be impossible to tolerate without its help. You must realize that."

Impossible to tolerate echoes in your mind.

You're still drenched in the remnants of his aura, lying on your side, letting the images play behind your eyes over and over. Had it been a thought or a memory he'd shown you?

And which did you prefer?

You interrupt your pointless contemplation, finally, and drag yourself back to the present moment, admonishing yourself. You couldn't be making worse use of the limited time you have. What you're doing is not only torturous, but reckless for many reasons. Your mind needs to be in the best condition possible or you risk the success of the mission, not to mention all of your lives. You need to be resting.

You shift onto your back, rolling a deep breath into your body and slowly back out. Your training allows you to drop into sleep almost immediately, all of your muscles relaxing at your insistence. You close your eyes, and within minutes your breath becomes soft and steady. You release your grip on reality and let sleep take you.

Moments later, your eyelids flutter, then separate at the crack of light splitting the room. As it begins to widen, you realize someone is coming through the door. You wince at the intrusive brightness, mouth flattening into a grimace. Then your sleep-adled mind catches up, allowing you to feel the presence at the edge of your room. All at once, every nerve in your body is crackling. You sit up.

"General?"

Obi Wan is filling the space in the doorway, light spilling around him as if he were a beacon. He's turned slightly to the side, as if he's not quite sure whether to enter. His eyes are downcast; you can tell from the way the shadows catch his eyelashes. Then his face disappears into darkness as he closes the door behind himself. You wait in stunned silence as he crosses the room.

When he approaches the bed, you finally find your voice. "What are you doing?"

"I came to finish our discussion," he says quietly. "I wanted to be sure that I made myself understood."

You clear your throat, sitting up a bit. His voice, though soft, is heavier than usual. There almost seems to be something accusatory in it. You give your reply slowly, questioningly. "I understood."

"Did you?" he retorts evenly.

You blink. "Yes, sir."

"I disagree," he responds, taking another step toward you. "I would have expected that if you took my meaning, you would have come to my quarters."

He turns and sits on the edge of the bed next to you, his warmth pressing up against your shin.

"You... didn't ask me to report to your quarters," you answer hesitantly, words falling out of your mouth as you try to process your confusion. The way he's sitting, the way he failed to knock before entering... something is off.

He looks at you with something flickering in his eyes that you can't quite place. "I'd hoped you would have chosen to come."

He places a hand over yours and suddenly it's all familiar. So familiar. And it's as wrong as it's ever been.

"This is a dream," you whisper, pulling your hand back.

The only light in the room comes from blinking buttons on a wall panel, but it's enough to see the corners of his eyes crinkle into a soft smile.

"Or a vision."

You sigh. Whatever it may be, it's not conducive to a good night's rest. This has happened before, shortly after your arrival on Ilum. You thought you had moved past this.

"You are troubled," he says, keeping his gaze steadily on your eyes despite your obvious irritation.

Dream or not, it's hard to keep silent when he stares at you that way.

"You shouldn't be here."

"But you know why I am."

There's no point in arguing with your own psyche. "Yes. Because... because I'm not in control of my thoughts."

He looks at you pityingly for a moment, then leans forward and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is so gentle, so real.

"I am here to ease your pain."

You take in a breath, feeling a slight tremble in your chest. "Then go away. Let me sleep in peace."

"Is that truly what you want?"

His hand drops to your jaw and he hooks his thumb back to graze your ear. You close your eyes and sink into the feeling of him sliding his fingers around the back of your neck. He tilts your head upward.

"Or is it this?"

He asks the question while sinking his other hand into the bedding, the mattress dipping where he presses into it to lean closer. When his lips meet yours, all the sound in the room evaporates - the humming of the ship, the distant noises of officers going about their duties, even the sound of the sheets moving beneath you, all sucked into an oppressive and heady silence. It's as if your brain is shutting out every sensation that isn't the feel of him; the taste of him.

Your mouth is too eager to meet his, dragging fervently over his welcoming lips. He kisses you more deeply, licking into your mouth and sliding his head from side to side in a slow-motion shake, as if he can't believe how good it feels to drag his tongue along yours.

You bask in the pleasure of sucking on his tongue before releasing him, panting. "We shouldn't... I shouldn't be..."

Nudging between your lips again, he whispers hotly into your mouth, "I don't hear an objection, yet."

Your silence answers him.

He pulls back and swallows desperately, and then he brings his knees onto the bed to surround you, covering your mouth hungrily again. Your kiss isn't broken even when he tears off his robe and drops it to the ground. You almost wonder when he found the time to change out of his armor and back into his tunic when you remember that none of this is real.

He's spread his body over yours and he's holding himself up by the elbows when you pull away, slightly separating your lips to murmur weakly, "This isn't... right."

But you don't stop him when he kisses you again. You might have the strength to hold yourself back, but the extent of your willpower ends there. When he presses his lips onto yours, you'd rather stop breathing than push him away.

"Why do you believe this is wrong?" he asks, opening his mouth a little more to let your tongue in.

You pull back, bringing your chin upward to take a shuddering breath. There are too many reasons to name. "My master taught me to resist these feelings. To- to overcome them, and instead I have visions of him... of you... doing this."

He leans his weight onto one shoulder, digging his elbow into the bed and sliding his other arm around your waist. "Your master... is only a few rooms away. Are you so certain this is your vision?"

A stutter of air leaves you when he grinds his hips into yours, punctuating the question. Your mind is a wreck, and you're unable to formulate a response.

"Don't deceive yourself," he tells you, making you gasp like you're drowning when he rolls his hips again. "I showed you my thoughts. I think of you often. I know you think of me, too."

It feels like you're coming apart. The idea that these could be his desires...

"You need only ask, my dear," he rumbles just below your ear. "I'll show you what I want."

As quickly as he'd brought you to delirious intoxication with his presence, his words bring you back to reality in an instant.

Something has been off since the beginning, but you hadn't been able to place it until now. This vision isn't Obi Wan, and it isn't you.

As inconsequential as it would seem to anyone outside of the two of you, there are certain words your master simply doesn’t use when speaking to you. My padawan is for affection and comfort. Commander is for neutrality and respect. Young one is for warnings and gentle corrections. He reserves your name for intimacy, using it to reinforce moments of gravity when you were young, and using it to speak candidly as you've grown.

Among this list of names and titles, my dear is nowhere to be found. He uses that saccharine placeholder when speaking to politicians and civilians. He uses it as a buffer, keeping pleasant distance between himself and whichever acquaintance (or enemy) serves as the recipient. He would never use it when talking to you. It's too simple, too condescending, and too cold. He wouldn't say it, and you wouldn't imagine him saying it.

You break the kiss, holding him back at last. "What are you?"

He looks down at you almost playfully, as if he's allowing you to press your hand into his chest as an amusement. "I am what you have asked for. I am what the force has brought you."

You press your own lips together in a firm line, starting to pull out from under him. "I haven't asked for anything."

He raises a brow, and the familiar expression on his gorgeous features makes you struggle to separate the man - the being - in front of you from the master you know and trust.

"But you have. You called out for guidance from the force. You called out for relief."

You ignore his second comment, the implication making your stomach tense. "Okay, then. What guidance can you offer me?"

He gives you a soft look, reaching his fingertips to your temple, presumably to run through your hair again, but you back further out of reach. He smiles.

"So frightened, of only a touch."

"It's not only a touch," you tell him, shaking your head slightly. "You know that. We both know that." You're still talking to him as if he's Obi Wan.

He releases a small puff of air to show that you're testing his patience, and props himself up to get a better angle at your face, now that you've dragged half of your body away from him.

"What is it that you fear, truly?"

You roll your eyes, almost laughing in disbelief of the question.

"If it's guidance you seek, we must start at the beginning," he insists. "What do you fear?"

You blink your eyes closed for a long moment, then open them. "Attachment. I've felt it longer than I knew what to call it, and it's getting worse."

He pulls his body from yours, rolling to the side of the bed and sitting up again. Then he leans toward you a bit. "And why do you fear attachment?"

Your eyes snap up immediately to search his. "Attachment leads to possessiveness... and darker things. A Jedi must remain neutral, think clearly and magnanimously. It's impossible for me to protect all life if I value one over another."

A wry look passes over his features. "So you believe all lives are of equal value?"

"Of course."

"If this is true, how can a Jedi fight a war? If you would trade one life for another with no consideration for the merits of either side, why fight? What do you accomplish?"

His words send a chill through you. Questioning the Jedi Order, the very tenets of your beliefs, is beyond inappropriate. It's dangerous.

"All lives are of equal value, but some cause more harm to others than can be ignored. It is the duty of a Jedi to protect peace, justice, and balance. Sometimes this can't be accomplished without taking lives."

He feigns mild surprise. "So you would take innocent lives for the greater good?"

Your brows pinch together in offense. "Not innocent lives, no."

"Then you admit, you pass judgment. You decide which lives are worth protecting and which are worth destroying."

"What are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, my padawan. I am simply trying to illustrate a point."

"Which is?"

"To live a passionless life of total neutrality is, in itself, an evil. We must form attachments to some degree in order to determine what is good and sacred."

Your gaze is cast downward, your eyes darting rapidly over the bed. "You're wrong. It's possible to cherish a life and still remain passive when that life is lost."

He snorts, a noise you don't recall ever hearing him make. "Spoken as someone who has never lost a life they truly cherished."

At that, you bristle. "I've lost many companions throughout this war."

"But none you truly cared for."

"That's enough," you grit, trying not to raise your voice. "I cared very much for them."

"Then perhaps you do understand my point. Did you rejoice when they joined the living force?"

"Yes," you say, eyes widening emphatically. "Yes, I did."

"And did you also grieve?"

You hesitate. But you see no point in lying.

"Yes."

"Would you call your grief an evil?"

You don't know what to say.

After a long time, you open your mouth again. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"To open your eyes, young one," he says slowly, gently. "To help you understand that what you feel is good and right. You can use it to grow stronger in the force than you ever have been. You should not fear it."

The pit in your stomach grows deeper. He's saying everything you desperately want to believe. You would almost think that perhaps this vision is yours after all, if it weren't for the unsteady way it makes you feel when he looks at you.

"I don't believe you," you whisper.

"If you do not trust in the guidance of the force, all will be lost."

"I do trust in its guidance. But you are wrong."

It's true - you trust in the force. But what you aren't saying out loud is that you trust your master above all else. He's the only thing you've ever been able to put complete faith in, and he's taught you attachment is forbidden.

"And if I told you what you would lose if you do not listen to me, it would not change your mind?"

"I've already said, a Jedi doesn't fear to lose anything."

"Not even my life?"

That catches you by the the throat. "What do you mean? Obi Wan's life?"

His eyes suddenly seem colder. "Without a true connection to the force, you will be unable to see it coming; to stop it. And his death is coming sooner than you think."

You pull your knees out from under his body and spring out of the bed to face him standing up. "What are you saying?"

He regards you in a way that makes the back of your neck tingle. "Things are currently in motion that will result in the death of your master, and you will be helpless to stop it, unless you open yourself to more possibilities than your Jedi teachings allow."

Your breath picks up even faster. Your eyes dart briefly to the end table near the bed where your lightsaber sits. Obi Wan- no, rather, this... stranger... catches your glance.

"Don't be a fool. Listen to me."

"I'm not a fool," you tell him, pulling your saber through the air and to your hand in a split second. "And I'm no Sith."

He chuckles. "Nor should you be. Nor am I."

"Yet you ask me to reject the teachings of the Jedi? Sounds pretty Sith to me." Your saber illuminates, bathing the room in green light. "Get out."

"You wouldn't threaten an unarmed man?" he says, spreading his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

You drop your gaze to his hip where the lightsaber hangs from its clip. "No, I wouldn't."

He gives a humorless laugh and sighs, posture relaxed and open until he suddenly shifts and brandishes his saber, his spine rigid, his eyes steeled. "Your lack of faith will be your undoing."

He swings forward, crossing his blade with yours, and though your mind is frozen in shock, your muscles reflexively parry his blow. You trade one, two, then three strikes, and with the forth you press in on him, sliding down his blade with crackling ferocity. He shoves you back and you whirl, using the momentum to catch the side of his blade. He juts it upward, out of the way.

A sickening hiss fills the air as your lightsaber pierces his chest, sinking deep. His mouth falls open and he drops to his knees on the floor. Your master's face looks up at you. It's not him.

It's not him. But it's so undeniably... him.

"Remember this feeling, young one," he pants. "It is not far off. You will soon see."

You retract your blade, shaking, and remind yourself this isn't real. It's little comfort when you're staring into eyes that so clearly belong to him.

You're hardly able to speak, and your voice is trembling when you try. "Tell me. Tell me when it happens."

He smiles, something almost triumphant in the way his eyes glint in the darkness. Then he vanishes, leaving you staring at an empty room.

Your shoulders crumble, your hand still gripping the hilt of your saber, and before you can begin to recover, a knock comes at the door.

"Commander?"

When you don't answer right away, you hear someone entering the door's code, and it slides open. Obi Wan is standing there, and the concerned look on his face is almost enough to send you over the edge. He's in his bedclothes, but he's carrying his lightsaber.

"Are you alright?"

Your immediate reflex is to tell him everything, but you catch yourself, and stare silently instead. If Obi Wan knew what you had seen, he would remove you from duty. And if what you've been told is true, you can't allow that to happen.

The right thing to do - you said it yourself - would be to submit to the will of the force. If you care for someone and they are meant to die, you should remain passive.

Just not him.

You clear your throat, softening your stance and returning your lightsaber hilt to your side, holding it more casually. "I'm fine, sir."

He looks around the room. "I felt a presence... I... could have sworn you were calling out for help."

You force a smile. "No help needed. I was just doing some training exercises."

A long silence passes as you try to calm your labored breathing. Then he inclines his head toward you in a slight nod. "I am sorry to have disturbed you."

After you say your goodnights for the second time and he leaves, you collapse back into your bed, eyes frozen open, and run a hand from your forehead back over your hair. You've crossed a line with this decision. But then, what's one more line when you've already crossed as many as you have?

After hours passed in fitful sleep, you're finally heading back to the bridge, stepping quickly to keep up with Obi Wan, who's dressed in the uniform of a Separatist Commander. It had taken a lot of arguing, but you're now dressed as a Separatist soldier as well - a lieutenant. Obi Wan had raised the same objections as before, but you had assured everyone that the mission would have a much higher chance of success with you inside the station, and you essentially guaranteed failure if you were left on the outside. His disapproval had been quite clear, but with so many lives hanging in the balance he ultimately had no choice.

The details of the mission had been decided, and you're now heading to meet Storne on his arrival. The displeasure in Obi Wan's expression tells you that a polite conversation on your walk down to the hanger is not going to happen. You keep stealing glances to the side anyway, trying not to be obvious. While the uniform's hat is stifling his hair, unfortunately for you, he still looks great in it. His beard is cut short and trimmed precisely, and the grey collar that feels tight around your throat is hugging his throat perfectly.

As you enter the hangar and approach the ship that's in the process of landing, you force your eyes straight ahead again. The bay doors open, and Storne makes his way across the landing dock.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Storne," Obi Wan greets.

"It was an easy call, with an offer that size." He catches sight of you and smiles. "But hey, let's just call it a personal favor anyway."

You give him a reserved smile in return. "It's good to see you again."

Before Storne can reply, Obi Wan turns his body to the side and gestures to follow him. "We don't have much time. Our ships are waiting, and we need to brief you on the updated plan."

You turn to follow, and less than an hour later, you've landed on the surface of the moon, several miles away from your final destination.

You've spent the majority of the flight in meditation, and by the time you emerge from your ship, you've managed to shake the adrenaline from that morning's confrontation and center yourself enough for the task ahead. Obi Wan's fighter is already on the ground and he's standing beside it, staring in the direction of the listening post, although it can't be seen from this far away. He's obviously deep in thought, arms crossed and toying with his beard. It looks a bit strange, and you suppress a smile at seeing a Separatist soldier in your master's familiar pose.

A moment later, a small freighter touches down between your two ships, and Captain Shrike steps out ahead of Storne. He nods his helmet toward you in greeting and you nod back. The dark forest green of his helmet markings are stark in comparison to the dull surface of the moon. The majority of your surroundings are dusky grey, but in some areas there are patches of tall, brown grass. The landscape isn't much to look at, so you turn your focus back on your commanding officer.

"Let's go over the plan once more," Obi Wan says, approaching the three of you. "Captain Shrike will set up a base of communications nearby to monitor our progress and send updates to the main fleet. When we retrieve the necessary data, we will need to advise the captain via commlink immediately, essentially yes or no - whether the Separatists have the intel or not."

He turns to Storne. "You and I will be approaching the station using my interceptor, as it's the only ship small and fast enough to avoid detection. At least, for a short while. But long enough for me to drop you into the water to make your entrance. Since you won't be able to use electronics without being detected, Captain Shrike will track your location with heat mapping and report back. Once you've reached the location to disable the ray shields and droids, we will wait exactly fifteen minutes before the Commander and I approach the main entrance. She and I will use the interceptor to get close as well, but we'll need to walk the last mile in order to avoid any chance of the ship being spotted. I presume you had enough time to review the rest of the details enroute?"

Storne shakes his head. "I did, but I still don't understand why she can't be the one to make the drop." He gestures at you. "Don't get me wrong, Kenobi, but if I have to sit in someone's lap I'd rather it be hers than yours."

You can almost see the rapidly whirling gears in Obi Wan's head grind to a halt. Of all the things to comment on at this moment, you can imagine that was the last thing he'd expected to be a concern.

He blinks, then answers. "As I've said, there is only one ship small and fast enough. And I will be making the drop, as it is my ship." There's a long pause. "Are there any other questions?"

Storne raises his eyebrows in annoyance, shrugging. "None from me."

He looks at you and Shrike, then back at Storne. "Very well. Let's get moving."

He climbs back into the cockpit of his ship and slides to the side. As far as he's pushed himself, there's still hardly any room left, and Storne does indeed wind up completely in his lap. The discomfort is visible on both of their faces as the cockpit door closes and they lift off, leaving you and Shrike to yourselves.

You can't help but imagine Shrike is mirroring your smirk below his helmet.

"I wonder what they'll talk about."

The clone captain doesn't answer, but you could swear you hear a snort.

Several minutes later, Obi Wan's ship tears across the landscape and slows to a stop in front of you. You stand up from where you've been helping Shrike set up his listening equipment and cross the dusty ground to where he's parked. The cockpit opens and you give him an expectant look, to which he nods in answer.

"The drop was successful, as far as I can tell."

"Good," you respond, setting a foot on the wing of the ship and springing upward with a little help from the force. He stands, offering a hand although you know that he knows you don't need it. You place one foot into the cockpit, on the floor, and he helps you the rest of the way, turning your body in front of him. You're concentrating very carefully on keeping your breathing slow and even, and keeping your mind occupied with the details of the listening post, trying not to give any amount of thought to the way his hand gently rests on your side, positioning you between his legs as the two of you sit down.

There's absolutely no extra room when the cockpit door closes again, and your back is pressed hard into his chest. His hand leaves your side when he wraps both his arms around your shoulders to grip the controls. You swallow hard, closing your eyes at the feeling of him surrounding you, and release another measured breath. Unfortunately, with every slow inhale you're just filling your nose with his scent, and while you'd expected him to be freshly showered, you didn't expect the cologne. He doesn't often wear it, but then, you imagine he'd wanted to take every step possible to blend into the other officers. It almost makes you smile to think of him stepping out of the shower and deciding which scent reminded him more of a Separatist commander.

You quickly redirect your thoughts from imagining him stepping out of the shower.

Your knees are already in pain from pressing into the the panel in front of you, and you move a little, trying to find a more comfortable position that probably doesn't exist. When you shift, you feel Obi Wan's chest fill with a sharp intake of air. You stop moving.

"Sorry. Are you alright?"

His voice is right in your ear. "Yes, fine. Just, try not to move, if you can."

The ship lifts off again, and you pull your shoulders further inward to try and give him more room to operate. It makes no difference, though. As small as you try to make yourself, his arms are still spread over you, his black gloves resting on the sides of your knees as he works the ship's controls. He leans forward to get a better view of the flight panel and his beard tickles your neck. You can feel the goosebumps breaking out over your skin, making you grateful for the long sleeves of your uniform.

"Did the captain finish setting up his equipment before you left?"

You feel the vibrations of his voice traveling from his chest into your body, and despite your efforts against it, heat is starting to pool at your center. "I think so, yes."

The question is irrelevant, and it's clear he's forcing conversation. You find yourself hoping he'll force a little more conversation, as every time he talks he's running his beard over the nape of your neck.

"General, heat tracking indicates Storne is almost at the halfway point."

Shrike's voice over Obi Wan's commlink pulls you abruptly out of your thoughts.

"Thank you, captain."

You look out the window and see the listening post in the distance, repeating the details of your plan of attack in your head, turning through imaginary blueprints from your reports. But it doesn't matter how much effort you put into reviewing briefing notes when Obi Wan's hand reaches between your legs.

He brushes your inner thigh, sending a jolt of surprise and a wave of heat through you all at once. He retracts his hand as if he's been burnt.

"Ah, sorry," he murmurs in a cracked voice. He clears his throat, the noise rumbling through the muscles of your back. "I needed- could you...?"

His hand gestures to the switch he'd been trying to pull, resting below your knees. You flick it upward, lighting up a new part of the panel before you.

"Thank you," he says, adding, "I know this is quite uncomfortable, but at least the flight will be short. We're nearly there."

You take in another deep breath, hoping he isn't feeling you shudder. Uncomfortable isn't the word you would use.

More like agonizing.

But at least the flight will be short.

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kallie-den · 10 months ago

Text

Hunting Hound Part Two

As Leinth's captivity continues, Handler's techniques erode her identity and push her to breaking point - and another visit from Sartha threatens to push her over the edge

A direct sequel to Hunting Hound

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Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

The question burns a hole in Leinth’s brain. She hears it, every single day, from Handler’s lips. It’s been like that ever since the escape. The doomed escape. Sartha Thrace - or Hound, Sartha’s other half - dragged her here, to a new cell, where she’s been kept ever since. Here, she is subject to Handler’s personal attentions. And each session begins and ends with the question.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

It’s an answer. The only one Leinth has to give. It’s not exactly wrong, but it’s not exactly right either. And it’s not the one Handler is looking for. Leinth can tell that much from Her expression. She’s tried giving other answers. She could pretend it’s to amuse herself, but really it’s because she’s hoping she’ll hit upon whatever answer Handler wants to hear. Once, Leinth even answered ‘hound’.

Handler didn’t like that. She made the measure of Her disapproval plain. She wants the truth. Only the truth. So Leinth gives it to Her. She’s not sure why. Handler’s approval shouldn’t matter to her. But it does.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

Leinth’s new cell is nicer, she supposes. Brighter. A touch more comfortable. She thinks it’s close to Handler’s quarters, but that’s just idle speculation. She’s given up on trying to make a mental map of this place. No point. She’s never getting out. She knows that now.

There’s also a mirror. They couldn’t have picked a worse torture device. What can Leinth do but spend hours staring at herself, letting her self-loathing ferment in her belly? The mirror asks the same question Handler does. Who is she? She doesn’t look much like a pilot anymore. Too skinny. Pilots always get the good rations and they always stay in good shape. Leinth just eats whatever they give her, and she doesn’t have the strength to exercise. She looks more like a corpse than a pilot.

Her eyes don’t help with that.

It’s tempting to break the mirror. That’s what Leinth knows she should do, if she still had the will. What stops her is knowing that Handler wants it here. Leinth can’t seem to bring herself to deny Her. Not anymore. It’s impossible even to imagine it. Like trying to imagine the sun moving backward across the sky.

Leinth has been down here too long. She knows that. Knowing doesn’t help.

Handler is more skilled than Her creepy, dog-hooded menials. Her personal attention is overwhelming. That’s like if the sun froze in the sky, and it was shining just for you. She touches the threads of Leinth’s mind as skillfully as a musician playing the strings of a harp, but She always leaves them fraying, twisted, undone. She takes - time, memories, moods. Whatever She wishes.

It doesn’t always hurt. But it is always torture, whether it’s drugs, electricity, lights, strange devices, or even just talking. When it does hurt, it’s not so bad. Leinth can give herself to the pain. It’s better than the gnawing guilt she feels when it doesn’t.

It’s never an interrogation, though. Leinth refuses to give up any secrets that would endanger her fellow rebels. That’s a barrier within herself she’s determined not to relinquish. Maybe the very last one. But Handler doesn’t ask, not about that. She asks about other things. Personal things.

When did Leinth first know she’s a woman? Who was her first crush? What was the first time her parents were ever disappointed in her? And it’s always so easy to tell Her. It always seems like a good idea in the moment. Like it’ll feel good. Like it’ll be a release.

It never is. It feels awful. Each time, Leinth is left feeling like she’s lost something. Like the memory she’s told belongs to Her now. Leinth is hollower for it. Less herself. Handler, by contrast, seems magnified by each secret shared. It’s like She’s feasting on them, as ridiculous as Leinth knows that is. But the impression persists. She can’t remember how much of herself she’s given away. What doesn’t Handler know about her, now? Is there anything? She must understand Leinth better than any other living soul could. The way only a god could.

But She keeps asking. Every time.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

At this point, what does it even mean for Leinth to call herself a pilot? That it’s her true self, somehow? Leinth wonders about that. If she could again sit in Genetor’s cockpit, if she could ride it to battle, would it fix her? Would she feel whole again?

Or would she throw up over the controls? That feels more likely. More true. Leinth may never be able to pilot Genetor again, but even if she could, it would be wrong. Sacrilegious. Genetor is a good thing. It does good. Leinth doesn’t. Not anymore. She’s unworthy of it. She always has been.

Because of Sartha. Because of Sartha Thrace.

If there’s one genuine kindness to being under Handler’s personal care, it’s that Sartha Thrace no longer comes to visit Leinth. Seeing her now would be unbearable. Thinking of her is unbearable; all Leinth can do is try to keep thoughts of her pressed against the far walls of her mind, there to scratch and itch as she lies down on the bunk to sleep.

Sartha Thrace is a hero. And Leinth ruined her.

Not just Leinth. But yes, her. She ruined Sartha with her praise and her wishes and her expectant, hopeful eyes. She knows this to be true. She feels it in her soul. Leinth has tried blaming Handler, a little. It doesn’t stick. Doesn’t have the same ring of dreadful truth to it. No; it was Leinth.

If only she’d just stopped and thought about how all that hero worship must have felt to Sartha. About what a burden it must have been to bear. Then, at least, Leinth would be innocent. But she never had. She’d always assumed Sartha could carry all that weight.

And why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she just carry it? Isn’t that what heroes are for?

Leinth can’t blame Sartha, though. It’s her fault. She did this.

Those thoughts chase each other’s tails in Leinth’s head, round and round, over and over. Guilt and anger. They never settle. She can’t make peace with how she feels. There are, as they say, two wolves inside her.

That phrase seems so much more sinister now.

Leinth is grateful when the drugs they put in her food give her simple oblivion. But just as often they do the opposite. Especially lately. They’ve added something particularly obscene. Some kind of aphrodisiac. It’s potent. It leaves Leinth at odds with her own body, pent up, pacing her cell, filled with base urges that leave her disgusted with herself.

She can’t even blow off steam the way every soldier does when they have the barracks to themself. When she tries, there’s only one face that comes into her head. And Leinth would never forgive herself if she soiled her hero even more than she already has.

How long has that drug been in her food now? How long has she been down here? And how long until she knows the answer?

Who are you?

Leinth Aritimis? Pilot? It feels worse and more absurd every time she says it. It drools from Leinth’s lips, weary from overuse, becoming just a set of sounds she barely remembers how to say.

Lay-inth. Lee-inth. Ah-ree-ti-mis. How is it that Handler says it? She always speaks like She’s wielding a scalpel on Her tongue. Dividing up the syllables. Clipped. Precise. That’s Handler’s way. She knows. She always knows best.

Is that one of Leinth’s thoughts, or one She gave her? Does it still matter? It won’t for much longer.

Leinth is too smart not to know that she’s about to break into pieces.

A sound drags Leinth from the spiral of her own mind. Scraping. Metal on metal. The door opening.

Leinth looks up, and sees Sartha Thrace.

And she gags. It feels ten times worse than she’d guessed it would. Nausea. Blind panic. Fuck. The guilt swells like a tide. But the look on Sartha’s face isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s apologetic.

At least now there are no pretenses between them. Not with that sick fucking muzzle on her face.

“Hey,” Sartha says.

What is Leinth supposed to say to that? What the fuck is she supposed to say to that? Absolutely no words could match what had passed between them the last time they saw each other, and so Leinth just sits there on her bunk, mouth open, staring stupidly, until finally she musters up enough of herself to say:

“Hey.”

Even her voice doesn’t sound like her own at this point.

Sartha seems to take that one little word for permission. She enters the cell. Doesn’t close the door behind herself. Doesn’t need to - she knows Leinth won’t run. She moves cautiously. Timidly, even. It doesn’t suit her. Sartha Thrace shouldn’t tiptoe around Leinth like a mouse in a lion’s den.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to see you sooner,” the former hero says. “I wanted to. But She said… well, She thought it would be best.”

A line of thought presents itself for Leinth’s consideration. She could try to reason out why, exactly, Handler would want to keep them separated for a time. Figuring that out could help Leinth understand what Handler is doing to her. Understanding could help her resist. Mind games don’t work as well when you know the rules. At least, she hopes not. Leinth doesn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, of course. But she could at least try to figure it out.

Leinth decides not to bother. She’s just too tired.

“She did, huh?” she says instead, voice heavy. “And why does She think it would be best to come talk to me now?”

“I asked to,” Sartha replies. “I’ve asked a few times. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Does she really believe it was her own idea? Pointless to ask. That delusion strikes Leinth as absurd, but less absurd than it might have at the start of her captivity. It’s impossible not to believe that, sometimes. Maybe Sartha’s even telling the truth - but as soon as that occurs to Leinth, another voice in her head tells her different.

She’s lying to you. Betraying you. That’s what she does, Leinth.

“That’s a little hard to believe,” Leinth says through gritted teeth. She adds, belatedly: “Traitor.”

Instantly she regrets the insult and her anger ebbs. She’s not even sure where it came from. It’s beneath her. No, she’s beneath it. And it’s her fault, isn’t it? She helped ruin Sartha Thrace. Leinth has no right to any righteous fury. The wounded look on Sartha’s face only adds to her guilt.

“I did,” Sartha promises, rising above the taunt. "I’ve been worried about you. I… know how it is, right now. I’ve been exactly where you are.”

“I doubt that,” Leinth mutters. It’s not the same. Handler’s made that clear. There is a terrifying specificity to the way She dismantles people.

Sartha isn’t to be dissuaded. “I want to help you, Leinth. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to vent to. Someone to… to take out your frustration on - anything.”

Leinth has trusted those words before. Sartha isn’t here to help. She’s part of something, and Leinth can’t let herself be drawn in. But that doesn’t make them any less enticing. How long has it been since she’s had company? Outside of Handler, anyway.

Not that She counts. The gulf between them is just too great.

Company sounds like salvation, but Sartha’s company? That would be like a mosquito biting her skin over and over. It’s too loaded. Leinth can feel it, even now. The cocktail of emotions she’s barely been able to keep repressed. Admiration, loathing, attraction, admiration, hurt, guilt. She’s never felt more on edge - not once, not even in the heart of combat. What’s Sartha doing to her?

“Can… I at least sit down?” Sartha ventures.

Leinth really doesn’t want her to. Having her here just feels wrong. Like she’s doing to get kicked again. But something keeps her from refusing. She doesn’t want to be alone either. And more importantly, perhaps, she knows Sartha’s presence is Handler’s will.

So, Leinth just gives her a stiff nod.

“Thanks.” Sartha’s still cautious and slow as she approaches. Moving that way is so wrong for her. As she perches on the other end of Leinth’s bunk, it’s almost like she’s afraid. “First of all, I wanted to say this, straight-up: it’s all going to be OK. This will all make sense soon.”

Leinth looks at her uneasily. “You said something like that the first time we met down here.”

“Yeah.” Sartha nods. “That was the worst part, for me. Not knowing. Not having any… any faith.” She smiles at Leinth. Tries to smile, anyway. “I thought you might need to hear that again, right about now.”

“Faith.” Leinth feels nauseous. Faith - Sartha is all but overflowing with it. There’s a light buried in her eyes, a light she can always see. It’s wrong. “Faith in Her.”

“Yes,” Sartha says hopefully. “In Her.”

Sartha’s voice trembles with awe as she says that. Leinth tries to pretend hers doesn’t too.

“She wants what’s best for us,” Sartha adds. “Maybe you can see that better now.”

Leinth just snorts. How can this be best for Sartha? It seems absurd. But she knows now, of course. What Sartha was going through before. When she was a hero. Leinth knows what all that did to her. So it doesn’t seem as crazy as it should.

But, this? How could this ever be better? Wanting to run is one thing. Wanting to betray everything you held dear and break your own psyche into two halves is another. Leinth will never, ever understand that.

At least, she hopes not.

“Just trust me, OK?” Sartha promises. “It’ll get easier. She says you’re doing very well.”

Leinth twitches. That’s not good.

“Fuck Her and fuck you,” she manages, although her heart isn’t in it. “She can waste her time with me forever. She’ll never get what she wants.”

The boast rings hollow to them both. Sartha doesn’t even look offended, just pitying. Leinth knows why.

This is passive resistance. Not active. She’s not fighting anymore. Not really. Just betting that whatever Handler’s rooting around in her head for isn’t actually there. She’s not denying that Handler can take her apart, brick by brick.

“It’s normal to be angry,” Sartha tells her. “You can be angry at Her, for now. She won’t mind. She’ll forgive you.”

Leinth just hates that a part of her brain lights up with relief at that. She tries to suppress that pleasure, to shove it back down in the dark where it belongs. She can’t. It’s hard. Too hard.

Why can’t she think? Why’s it so hard to just fucking think?

Sartha’s to blame, Leinth.

It’s Sartha’s fault. It’s like she’s doing something to Leinth just by being here. Being on edge doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s deeper than that. Atavistic. Like being prey in the presence of a predator. Or… the opposite? Leinth’s not sure, she just knows it’s itching at her all over. She can feel Sartha in the air. On her skin. It’s consuming. Leinth has never been more aware of another human being before.

And there’s something else. Something weirder and worse.

Leinth is unbearably fucking horny.

It’s more distracting than it has any right to be. The arousal has been present for at least a dozen sleeps, since they started adding that aphrodisiac to Leinth’s food. It’s been a constant buzz that keeps her from finding any center or inner calm. But now it’s turned up to eleven. It’s thunder in Leinth’s veins.

And it’s all directed at Sartha.

Every stupid, embarrassing, idol-struck wet dream she’s ever had is now throbbing at the forefront of her brain. Leinth just has to avert her eyes and pray it isn’t showing. But it must be - she can feel herself sweating and drooling and tenting the coarse pants they gave her. Gods, it’s like being a teenage boy all over again. More intense though, and there’s something else. She can hear a heartbeat, pounding in her ears. It must be hers. But it feels like Sartha’s.

“Are you alright?” Sartha says. Out of the corner of her eye, Leinth can see concern on her face. It hurts.

She doesn’t deserve concern. She’s the one who ruined Sartha. She’s still doing it even now, in her mind’s eye. Leinth is the worst. The lowest it gets. She can feel control slipping out of her grasp. Like an animal in heat - but that would be a hundred times easier to deal with. You don’t blame an animal for being in heat.

“I’m fine,” Leinth grunts.

She’s not. She shifts a couple of inches down her bunk, hoping distance will help. It doesn’t. It just makes the yearning that much more intense. Sartha Thrace is right here, still within arm’s reach. Her warmth. Her skin. Her body. Fuck. It’s so damn hard not to think about it when Handler’s demonstration keeps flashing through her mind.

Her lips, yielding and kissing. Her mouth, open, wet, willing. The way she licked Handler’s boot like it was a lover. And, above all, the promise Handler made.

Why not enjoy her, if it pleases you? Many have.

Leinth reaches up and clutches at her head. Fuck. She’s so disgusting.

Suddenly, a memory forms. Not of Sartha. Of Handler. Leinth remembers being in the sweet embrace of Her tools and instruments, in some secret room of these sinister kennels. She remembers herself being opened and Handler pouring words into her, sweet as honey, bitter as cocoa. It’s the same voice she can hear even now, at the back of her own brain.

All of its words are about Sartha Thrace.

Before Leinth can fathom the meaning of that. Sartha catches her attention.

“There’s something else,” the hero says, with palpable reluctance. “I… wanted to apologize.”

Leinth might have laughed. “Apologize?” she chokes out.

What does Sartha have to apologize for? Much, of course. But not to Leinth. Those scales are tipped firmly and irrevocably the other way.

“Yeah,” Sartha says earnestly. “For what you saw that day. I’m sure it’s been weighing on you.”

Leinth’s hands have started shaking. It’s really bad. “Did She tell you to say that?”

“No,” Sartha replies, although there’s no knowing if that’s really true. Not even for her. “I swear. This is all me, Leinth. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“For what?” Leinth’s voice cracks.

“For laying all that on you.”

“You didn’t,” Leinth croaks. “She did.”

“That’s different,” Sartha shoots back quickly. She’s defensive of her mistress, of course. “She was just telling you the truth. That’s all. It was kind of Her, Leinth. You just don’t see that yet.”

Kind. Leinth’s hands shake worse. Listening to Sartha talk about this is so twisted. Her head is nothing but a seething mass of insane contradictions, and Leinth is fast losing the ability to sort them out as she hears them.

“I meant… in my head,” Sartha explains. “I put it on you by letting it get to me. My status. The way people looked at me. Shit like that. You shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.”

Leinth buries her face in her palms. No, no, no. This is so wrong. Sartha shouldn’t be apologizing. She’s a hero. She was a hero. Whatever.

“Everyone needs people to look up to.” Sartha’s still talking. Why won’t she just shut up and go away? “I sure as hell did in my day. Even if I never thought I’d become… well, it just comes with the territory, I guess. If you survive long enough. I should have known. I should have been ready.”

Leinth wants to stop her, but her blood is boiling and her tongue would loll stupidly out of her mouth if she tried to speak. Her passions are up and they leave no room for words. She just wants this torture to end. Compared to this, Handler truly is kind. Leinth just wants to be free of this feeling. This guilt. But even by listening, she’s making it worse. Why can’t she stop violating Sartha this way?

“I wish…” Sartha pauses, considers, corrects. “Part of me wishes I’d just been stronger. That it hadn’t come to this. Then I wouldn’t be such a disappointment to you. But it’s for the best. I met Her, and she saved me. Fixed me. Made me a hero again.”

That self-pity. It’s disgusting. As disgusting as Leinth is. A hero shouldn’t feel that. Speak that.

“You deserved better.” Sartha seems to settle on that thought. “You deserve a hero you could really look up to.”

And then it roars out of Leinth, furious as the report of Genetor’s guns.

Shut her up, Leinth.

“Just shut up already!” she screams, in a voice that barely remembers how to speak. It comes out raw and ragged. “Don’t you have any fucking pride?”

She’s on her feet, even though she doesn’t remember standing. She can look down at Sartha now. That feels good. It feels right.

“I ruined you!” Leinth screams. That confession is a balm for her soul. Letting it out, an unspeakable release. “I’m part of what broke you! But you can’t even be mad at me? Even now it’s out in the open? What’s wrong with you?”

Sartha doesn’t reply. She looks surprised, but not hurt. Not afraid. She’s serene. That pisses Leinth off even more.

Why isn’t she angry? If she was anything more than a broken mutt, she’d be angry.

“Why aren’t you angry?” she rages. It’s not right, Sartha’s strange tranquility. Sartha Thrace isn’t like that. Her Ancyor is a furious machine. Sartha Thrace always fought with an avenging anger in her heart, for anyone who ever hurt her comrades. “You’re a hero! Stand up for yourself. Stand up for something. Aren’t you tired of taking it all lying down? Me, Handler… fuck, if you’re a traitor, at least be a traitor. Not… not this!”

Still, no reply. Why not? Why won’t she talk? What’s she hiding? Leinth needs to see. She needs to see closer. She grosses the gap between them in a stride and grabs Sartha’s collar up in her fists. Hauling the broken woman to her feet is easy; maybe the anger is making Leinth strong. She puts her face close to Sartha’s, as close as that ridiculous muzzle permits. What’s with that anyway? Why won’t she just take it off?

“Look at me!” Leinth roars. She needs to see into those eyes. Sartha obeys, and for a long moment Leinth just stares and stares, searching for an answer. Searching for a feeling, for any feeling. For something real.

In Sartha’s eyes, she reads validation. Sartha is validated by Leinth’s anger.

That feels like an even greater betrayal. Leinth’s rage flares hotter still - but there’s something else, too. Being this close to Sartha is a mistake. Her scent is overpowering. Leinth can feel her heat under her hands. It’s too much. She was horny before, from the drugs; there’s no words for what she is now. It’s too much. It becomes all of her, flooding her senses and her limbs, flooding even her anger, becoming one with it. It’s all one feeling now, violent and restless.

“Did you…” Leinth growls. Words come hard and slow. She’s beyond them. “Did you ever really mean it? Did you ever really believe in something?”

Even Sartha looks a little shocked at the accusation behind her words. “Yes!” she cries. It’s a prayer. A hope. “I did - I do - I… I’m a hero. I’m a hero.”

She’s trying to make sense of herself. It’s useless, of course. She is only what Handler allows her to be. Handler’s the one to be angry at. But Leinth can’t imagine that anymore, and in any case, Handler isn’t here.

But Sartha is.

She’s lying to you, Leinth.

“Stop lying!” Leinth yells in her face. There’s no stopping the strange alchemy happening inside her as her feelings fold and merge. Something deep within her is being forged and dredged up. It defies reason and reality, but that doesn’t matter. It’s primal. Atavistic. “Stop… stop pretending! You lied to us! To all of us! How could you do that?”

“I didn’t-“

Make her pay.

Leinth just hits her.

Right in the gut. A hammer blow. Sartha is taken by surprise mid-breath and doubles over, gagging and choking. Only Leinth’s other hand, firm on her collar, keeps her on her feet. She looks like she’s in agony.

And it feels good.

Better than anything Leinth’s felt since she first came down here, that’s for sure. It’s a revelation. She’s never before thought about what a simple joy inflicting pain can be. It’s power, and power is so precious. It’s a tiny little release valve for what’s boiling inside her.

Leinth is no sadist, of course. Just the opposite. She’d never want to hurt anyone who deserves it. But Sartha does. She absolutely does. That feels too right to be wrong. Which means there’s nothing to stop Leinth from making Sartha as bruised outside as she feels inside.

She deserves it.

“You can-“ Sartha begins to choke out as she recovers.

“Stop talking!” Leinth snarls. She pulls close, overwhelmed with a craving for greater savagery. She means to bite; she can imagine her jaws clamping down, and skin breaking, and blood in her mouth.

Instead, she finds herself clawing the muzzle away from Sartha’s face and kissing her.

The kiss is no gentler than a bite. It’s ugly and messy. Leinth bites Sartha’s lip, hard, and invades her mouth with her tongue, claiming her, soiling her face with blood and drool. The kiss makes Leinth euphoric. It’s vindication. She can do this. She can cross this line with Sartha. And that means she wasn’t really such a hero after all.

Plus, Sartha Thrace is kissing her back.

Leinth lets her, for a moment, but then pulls back and shoves her to one side so hard she goes sprawling across the floor. She can’t let Sartha think this is a coupling of equals. It’s not. Sartha is nothing. A pretender. A traitor. A dog.

Sartha, perversely, looks up at Leinth with stars in her eyes. “You can hit me,” she pants, “if you want. She said that you could.”

Permission. What does that mean? It implies anticipation. Did Handler plan this? That should trouble Leinth, but she’s far, far too fixated on Sartha to devote any thought to it.

Sartha wants this. Whatever guilt Leinth made her feel has transformed into sheer masochism. That disgusts Leinth. The Sartha Thrace she once believed in would never have looked at anyone like that. She’s not disgusted by herself anymore, though.

She’s not like Sartha. She’s one of the good guys. That’s why she can do whatever she wants with a piece-of-shit liar like this.

Sartha looks Leinth up and down. Her eyes settle on the tell-tale mark of Leinth’s arousal. Those stars in her eyes don’t get any dimmer. “You can fuck me, too. I-if you want.”

Her eagerness is pathetic. Leinth wonders how she ever saw anything good or heroic in the brainwashed woman slumped on the ground before her.

But she’s willing. And Leinth is horny. That’s simple enough.

“That’s what you do for all of them,” Leinth growls as she advances on Sartha. “Isn’t it?”

“I… that’s…” Sartha struggles. She’s trying to make that agree with her sense of self. “W-when She wants me to… when they need…”

Leinth snorts. “Why am I even talking to you?” she spits. “You barely even know where you are. What side you’re fighting on. You’re nothing. Why did I ever think you were a hero? You’re just a warm body.”

“I ju-“

“Shut up!” Leinth snaps. “Get up.”

Sartha does what she’s told - or tries at least. That’s both intoxicating and aggravating. A hero shouldn’t - but Sartha isn’t a hero, Leinth knows that now, and it’s fucking hot that she does. It makes Leinth feel like she can do anything she wants. And she wants so much. It’s burning in her veins. Leinth feels powerful as Sartha fights to her feet, and she feels powerful as she decides she’s moving too slow. Leinth reaches down to haul her to her feet and toss her roughly onto her bunk.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Leinth orders next. Even Sartha’s clothes piss her off, she’s realizing. It’s still her old rebel garb. “You don’t deserve to wear that.”

Once more, Sartha is too slow. When she fumbles a little with her jacket, Leinth intervenes and starts ripping it from her body, popping buttons and tearing fastenings. It’s as easy as tearing paper. Leinth has never felt so strong. And she doesn’t stop there; she makes her hands into claws, hooks them into Sartha’s vest, and pulls apart until the whole thing comes to pieces in her hands.

The sight of Sartha’s tits spilling out is a hot rush of pleasure and satisfaction. This is exactly the defiling that false idols deserve.

Leinth keeps going - not until Sartha is naked, just until she’s naked enough. Until Leinth has access to everything she wants.

But she takes a moment to reach down and fix the muzzle back into place. It suits Sartha. Leinth sees that now.

“On the bunk?” Sartha pants, with a filthy eagerness. “Or I could su-“

“Shut up.”

Leinth hits her again, this time a hooked punch to her side that collapses Sartha onto the bunk like a stack of bricks falling over. She doesn’t want Sartha to talk. It’s wrong when she talks. Hound doesn’t talk, not unless She tells her to, and maybe that’s the real Sartha after all. Maybe Leinth can bring Hound out to play. That’s what Sartha wants. She wants the blissful surrender of sweat and heaving bodies.

Fine. She can have that. As long as Leinth gets to prove she’s not a hero. Just a body.

She deserves this too, Leinth. Fuck her. You want to. And so does she.

Leinth kneels on the bed behind Sartha as she scrambles to her knees. Leinth’s need is bursting out of her at the seams. She wants this. And so does Sartha. Leinth starts undressing herself, furiously and frantically, shucking her pants to her knees so she can free her cock and press it against Sartha’s cunt.

Sartha is clearly wet, and Leinth can see the bruise on her side already beginning to form, blossoming blue and purple where she planted the tip of her fist. Leinth grins.

And starts fucking her former hero.

Their sounds are animal. Sartha’s whining moans, the way Leinth growls her every breath, and the feral slap of flesh on flesh. There’s absolutely no art to it. Leinth is no stranger to good sex. She considers herself more restrained than most, but she gets just as much pussy as every other ace pilot and she likes to make sure the girls she brings back to her quarters go out and spread the right kind of rumors afterward.

But Sartha isn’t like them. This is barely sex. More like jerking off, only the long-held fantasy of Sartha Thrace isn’t just in Leinth’s head anymore. Admittedly, she didn’t want Sartha this way. But now that she has her, it’s almost as good.

Leinth feels free, in a way. There’s nobody to look up to. Nobody to disappoint. She can simply be this.

And this is what you are, Leinth.

Her pace is furious. Desperate. The lust-drugs have been in her food for weeks, and Sartha’s face in her mind’s eye has been an aching curse, keeping her from release. Now the curse is broken. Now it’s a red rag to a bull, and Leinth just wants to see that face soiled and bruised and made hers. She has her hands on Sartha’s hips and pulls back on them hard with each thrust. Whenever Sartha doesn’t match her enthusiastically enough, she digs in her nails, grown uneven and sharp from her captivity. Every stupid, pathetic puppy-whine from the woman on her knees in front of her just drives Leinth onwards. To make her louder, she rakes her claws hard enough to draw blood.

This is ascension. Better than piloting, better than victory. This is the best she’s ever felt.

Leinth doesn’t care if it lasts long. She just wants that one moment; the release, the moment she truly makes Sartha hers. She’s frenzied for it. Leinth reaches forward and puts her hand on the back of Sartha’s head, and pushes. Hard. Hard enough that Sartha’s elbows buckle and she crashes forward, face planting awkwardly into the hard mattress. Leinth pushes forward and down, mounting her and keeping her there. The position lets her thrust longer and harder - and more importantly, it’s even more degrading. Leinth likes that she can make Sartha take her whole weight, crushing her, making her bend her neck and brace on her shoulder. She’s practically contorting herself.

Because Leinth is making her.

This is all she is.

“This is all you are,” Leinth growls. She’s so glad she gets to be the one to show her. “Not a hero. Just this. Understand?”

It’s all personal now. She’s the one Sartha betrayed. Not the rebels. Leinth’s comrades are all but forgotten now. In reply, Sartha just gurgles. Probably, she can barely breathe. Leinth doesn’t care. Let her choke.

A stupid, broken dog.

“Stupid. Broken. Dog,” Leinth huffs, voice cracking as her pleasure peaks. “I… I… fuck!”

Good dog.

She cums, hard as hell. As she does she slumps against Sartha, drugged-up limbs finally permitted to release the last of their strength. Her mind goes blank from the pleasure. It’s everything that’s been building up in her for weeks. Maybe months. She lets it all go, driven by raw instinct.

Her marks on Sartha. Her cum in Sartha. Her furious words, thundering through her ears. Her satisfaction - her domination - feels complete. This moment is the culmination of Leinth’s entire existence. The satisfaction is infinite.

Until it isn’t.

When her orgasm dies, it’s not just Leinth’s need that fades. It’s her anger. It’s the wound of betrayal and resentment, pressing on her brain like a cancer sore. It all goes, all at once, everything that’s been animating her. Leinth collapses back onto the back, legs splayed, her face aghast with dawning confusion.

Then, slowly, horribly, as Sartha draws weak, shuddery breaths, Leinth becomes aware that they are not alone in the cell.

“My,” remarks Hander, from where She’s been watching. Leinth didn’t hear or notice Her enter, but she must have seen the entire filthy thing. “Leinth Aritimis. What have you done?”

Leinth hadn’t realized just how fucking cold it was in the cell. Shivering, she meets Handler’s gaze for a moment, and that’s a mistake. In Handler’s eyes, she doesn’t see smug glee or victorious scorn. Her eyes are just impossibly cold, like the winter sky. They are a mirror, and they are perfectly truthful.

Under those eyes, Leinth can’t keep it together. Not even for a moment.

“I d-… I didn’t…” Leinth’s voice sounds absurdly small compared to those growls from just moments ago. She’s grasping for something. That voice in her head. Was it Handler’s? Or was it her own? How can she possibly hope to tell? “Y-you… made me…”

Handler just tilts Her head. “Is that what you think?”

She doesn’t, not really. Leinth doesn’t feel like anyone made her do anything. It was all her. Every ugly feeling and every blackened thought. Her decision to… what? Fuck Sartha? It feels worse than that, although Leinth can’t tell if it really is or not. This is all too twisted, and all she knows is that her chest is ripping itself in two with guilt. Even if it was Handler’s voice, she must have chosen to listen to it. Surely she had a choice.

But there’s something. There has to be something.

“You put d-drugs,” Leinth babbles, “in my food.”

“Of course,” Handler replies.

She doesn’t need to deny it. She knows it’s not enough. Leinth can already rehearse argument and counterargument in her own head. How does she know the drugs aren’t showing who she really is? Why would drugs absolve her responsibility?

And it’s not like she can pretend she didn’t want it. She’s always wanted Sartha Thrace that way.

No. Leinth knows what she chose. She felt herself chose it.

But acceptance is still a bridge she can’t cross. “But…” Leinth splutters. She glances at Sartha in half-panic. “No, but…”

“Why are you so worked up about this?” Hander asks her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

At that, Leinth goes very, very still. Her eyes fix on Handler again. She can’t believe she just heard that. She never even considered that. The thought is foreign. She hasn’t… but of course she has!

“No,” Leinth shakes her head. “How can you say that? I… she…”

“She wanted this.” Handler is the kind of calm that makes her easy to believe. “Every part of her. I’d know.”

Leinth knows poison when she hears it, but she can’t stop herself listening. “That’s n-not true. Sartha wouldn’t.”

“She would,” Handler tells her. “I’ve been telling you, Leinth. Sartha isn’t what you hoped she’d be. She’s not a hero. She is my hound.”

The dreadful memory of what happened smothers any retort Leinth might have. She wants to insist that Sartha didn’t want it, but she knows in her body the way Sartha hungered for her kiss and welcomed Leinth inside her. Fuck, the eagerness in her voice. She was practically begging for it.

Would a hero ever do that?

What Handler offers isn’t right. Leinth knows that. But it’s so tempting, and she’s struggling to remember why it’s wrong.

“Don’t worry,” Handler says softly. She sounds so kind now, or maybe that’s just in Leinth’s head. “I sent her in here, you know. If you need to blame someone, you can blame me. I won’t hold it against you.”

Now that’s irresistible - especially when Hander extends her hand and touches her fingertips to Leinth’s cheek. She means to pull away; she almost does, but Handler’s touch is perfectly cool. It feels like the only thing that can soothe the pounding heat inside Leinth. So, she lets herself be weak for a moment. It’s just a touch, she tells herself.

“Right,” Leinth breathes. “It’s your fault.”

Handler nods. With that permission, Leinth bundles up her guilt and gifts it to the woman standing over her. In her mind she recites all the reasons she should blame Handler, not herself. It works. It helps. She feels lighter for it. Handler, conversely, is unchanged. Untainted. She’s not like Leinth. She can swallow all that guilt and culpability effortlessly. There’s too much of Her. It can’t leave a trace.

Leinth is just grateful, in a sad, pathetic way, that Handler isn’t throwing it back in her face. That would be the perfect way to twist the knife. There’s no way Leinth could handle it. She’d break. She’d shatter. Leinth doesn’t know the meaning of this kindness, but she’s still grateful for it.

She feels, unfathomably, at peace.

And she feels like she could stay that way forever, but for one thing: Sartha. Sartha is still there, still next to her, drawing weak, shuddery breaths that remind Leinth of her presence. Sartha seems contented, in a way. Leinth figures she got the oblivion she was craving. But now Leinth can’t even stand to turn her face in her direction. It makes everything too raw and it makes her remember; remember that ugly, false reality, the one she’s trying to push away.

The one where she’s guilty.

“Can you…” Leinth begins quietly. She’s hoping Handler’s mysterious kindness will stretch just a little further. “Can you get her out of here?”

“Oh?” Handler’s still stroking her cheek. “Are you done with her?”

Leinth whimpers. She wishes She wouldn’t put it like that, but she can hardly hold it against Her. And she desperately needs Sartha gone so she can begin to regroup. “Y-yes. I just… I can’t…”

Handler interrupts her with a disapproving, tongue-clicking noise. To Leinth, it’s as loud as thunder.

“No, that’s no good,” Handler says, in a ghoulishly affectionate way. “That’s guilt talking, isn’t it? Don’t listen to that feeling, Leinth.”

“O-OK,” Leinth says sheepishly. She feels stupid now that Handler’s lecturing her. What else can she say but ‘OK’? Her head is still splitting in two. She can’t think. Still can’t think.

“Look at her,” Handler instructs firmly.

Leinth whimpers again. “No, no, I-“

Her head jolts and everything flashes white, and she realizes Handler has slapped her. Tears well up in her eyes. Stupid. It wasn’t even hard. Certainly not as hard as she hit Sartha. Just a shock, to get her attention and stop her rambling. But for Handler to lay a hand on her like that…

“Look at her,” Handler repeats. She touches Leinth again, guiding her. Leinth doesn’t resist. She’s puppy-weak. She looks at Sartha

Really looks. She has to, because that’s what Handler is telling her. It’s not easy. Sartha is a fucking mess. If she was a hero twenty minutes ago, she isn’t now. Her clothes are ruined. She’s bleeding from at least three places. She’s drenched in both her own sweat and Leinth’s, and the expression on her face is something truly inhuman, a fucked-stupid look of gratified, delirious masochism. It hurts to think that Leinth put it there, and it hurts just as much seeing how Leinth’s cum is spilling out from between her legs to stain the bunk.

This is the ruin of a hero.

“Look,” Handler urges. “Isn’t she pathetic?”

Her words pull at the string of Leinth’s heart. They make her twitch. Yes, Sartha is pathetic. There’s no use in denying it now. But the guilt is roaring back and forces a choked whimper from Leinth’s throat.

“It’s OK,” Handler soothes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Leinth.”

The head-splitting pain is worse than ever. Unfathomably bad. Leinth has felt her own mech being split open while she’s inside and that’s the only thing she can think of that comes close. “B-but… I… to her…”

“She wanted it,” Handler reminds her. “She asked for it.”

Leinth shakes her head violently as the ache grows. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

“Yes.” Handler sounds so firm. So sure. How is it so easy for Her? “She’s a traitor, Leinth. Remember that. She betrayed you.”

Her words aren’t helping, however kindly they’re meant. If anything, they’re making it worse. It’s like Leinth is seeing double. There are two versions of Sartha in her head. One a saint, a hero, faultless, suffering for her struggle until Leinth ravaged her and left her like this. The other a traitor, a deceiver, someone who pretended she could bear the weight of the world until she gave up and decided to indulge in whatever sick fetish Handler satisfies.

It doesn’t make sense. Sartha can’t be both. And Leinth can’t hold onto both versions at once. It’s too much.

“She tricked you,” Handler says. “All of you. She pretended to be more than just a woman. She let you believe in her, and hated you for it. And now she’s making you feel guilty, too. All for giving her what she wants.”

“Please stop,” Leinth gasps. She’s about to pass out from the pain. “Make it stop. Please.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Handler reiterates. “Say it for me.”

“I d-didn’t do anything wrong,” Leinth repeats. She’d do or say anything now, if it helped.

“That’s right.”

It did help, a little. Or maybe Handler’s approval does. But only a little.

“B-but.” Leinth can’t stop herself saying it. She wants desperately to fall into Handler’s abyss. The pain is that bad. But guilt is still her ankle. “I d-didn’t have to… that’s not me, I… even she doesn’t deserve…”

“Yes, I see,” Handler says. She seems to understand perfectly. “Leinth, listen to me: whatever you did wrong, I forgive you.”

“You…”

Leinth looks back to Her. Handler’s eyes are still the sky. Cold. Pure. Free of both compassion and accusation. As always, they make Handler’s words ring true. Leinth hadn’t even thought about forgiveness. She hadn’t imagined anyone could award her forgiveness. But when Handler promises it, she believes.

She believes so much she doesn’t stop to ask why Handler’s forgiveness would matter, or what she’s being forgiven for if she did nothing wrong.

And Leinth feels it. Absolution.

She implodes from it. Leinth crumples over and inward, wracked by dry, silent sobs of sheer relief. The pain is gone. It’s like it was never there. She’s free. Before she can stop herself she finds she’s clasping Handler’s hand. It was on her cheek but she brings it to her lips, kissing, praying. This is more unburdened than she’d ever dared hope to feel.

How can Handler do this? How does She have this power? It’s like She’s the first real person Leinth has ever met - and for once, she’s simply grateful to have met Her.

“Good,” Handler pronounces. She sees the change in Leinth. And She’s pleased, which is another wonderful gift. Handler glances at Sartha. “Wake up,” She says. “Come along, Sartha.”

Sartha is trapped in some kind of daze, but she obeys without hesitation and rises to her feet as if oblivious to her bruised, cum-drenched state. She looks wretched - Leinth can say that to herself now, she learns, without guilt - but when she starts following Handler out of the cell, Leinth is almost jealous.

It would be a blessing to get to follow Her around. To spend a little longer in Her presence. Especially since Leinth is so very afraid that as soon as She leaves, all that fearful doubt is going to come right back. Handler might be the enemy, but Leinth’s inner voices hurt worse.

Hander, as always, knows what’s in her soul. “Don’t worry, Leinth,” She says over Her shoulder as She departs. “You’re doing very well. I will be with you again soon.”

Leinth just nods. She can hold that praise tight to her chest. It’ll keep her warm.

Once Handler leaves, the cell door closes and locks. Leinth is alone again. The loneliness is more uncomfortable than ever. Her head is clouded over, but she’s starting to realize that’s not so bad. It’ll keep her from dwelling on the things that don’t fit right.

There’s something she can’t help dwelling on, though. Something unsaid between her and Handler. The question Handler doesn’t need to ask, because She always asks.

Who are you?

Leinth still doesn’t have an answer for Her. But she’s closer, perhaps. Leinth stands up and walks to the mirror. As she peers into it, searching for clarity, it happens again. That strange double vision. Like the whole world is fracturing. But not around Sartha, this time. Around Leinth.

First, Leinth sees herself. Or what she’s always taken to be herself. A woman who still looks a little like a pilot. A rebel. The person she’s always been, and who can she live with being.

But then she sees something else too. Something deeper. Truer. Something who is barely a person at all. Something feral. It’s whatever came out of her when she was on top of Sartha, hitting and fucking and growling. It must have always been there, in the corner of her eye. Leinth just couldn’t see it before because she was too afraid. The thing she sees is abominable. Unforgivable - except for Handler. She can forgive it. Only Her.

It’s a hound. A hound of Leinth’s very own.

---

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#story #Warhound

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