#not nearly enough resources -sighs-

[rhaegxr]

𝐎𝐎𝐂; I found a bunch of pictures of the tentative Lyanna FC I was using for the Lyanna blog, and now I am extremely tempted to try to get both her and the Elia blog going.... if only very extra low activity.... 

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three

“Ow, not so hard man.” Eddie seems to be absolutely fascinated with Steve’s leg hair. Which, okay, Steve kind of understands, Eddie has neither legs nor leg hair, so he gets why it would be weird. He kind of wishes Eddie wouldn’t tug quite so hard though.

Eddie’s just demolished a big bowl of green things, and Steve’s sitting on the edge, legs dangling in the water where Eddie’s hovering, touching Steve’s skin with his slightly warmer than pool water temperature fingers. He’s scratching a little too, but it’s only a tiny bit, very gently, so Steve doesn’t mind. Eddie clearly doesn’t intend to harm him, and seems more fascinated with the thin white lines he’s leaving on Steve’s tanned skin.

Eddie gives a particularly vicious tug, Steve jerks, “Ow! Fuck. No, no more. Finished.” He sits up, pulling his legs clear of the water, waving Eddie away.

“Inied?”

“Yeah, finished. Ow. It hurts. You hurt me.”

Eddie tilts his head, swimming closer, “Steeee. Ow.”

Steve sighs, “Yes, ow. I’ll be back later.”

“I’m sure. Steve is the only one who feeds him, right?”

Steve and Robin both nod.

“Right, so, from his point of view, if he interpreted that as Robin trying to like, harm Steve, then his food supply would be jeopardized. He's just, resource guarding or whatever.”

“So...no play fighting within Eddie flopping distance?”

Dustin nods, “pretty much yeah, anything that could be interpreted as risk to Steve, I guess. Or, when Robin is here, she takes Eddie his food. Or anyone really, anytime anyone else is here. That way Eddie will start to see Steve isn’t his only resource.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s probably a good idea anyway,” Steve easily agrees, the now bare patches on his shins are still kind of stinging.

Robin returns with her bowl still full of veg, “he just won’t touch it. There’s still peas floating in the pool from last time.”

Steve sighs, “I really don’t know why he’s being like this.”

“Maybe he’s just pissed at me,” she shoves the bowl at Dustin, “you try.”

They all watch through the window as Dustin heads to the pool. They can tell from how he’s standing that Eddie’s at the end furthest away. Dustin kneels, tries offering things. It’s not long before he quits and comes back.

“How long did it take before he would eat? Maybe we just need to persevere?”

Robin disagrees, “once we figured what he would eat, it was pretty much straight away he was taking stuff from Steve.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s like, a trust thing, so if we stick this out long enough, eventually he will get hungry enough to give in, right?”

“We’re not doing that,” it just immediately strikes Steve as cruel, “he’s not put on enough weight yet for us to be fucking with his food supply.”

“Okay...okay yeah.”

Steve blinks awake. He’s not sure what woke him, but he’s almost certain he just heard something. He lies still straining to listen and yeah, he definitely heard something. Something or someone moving around downstairs. Steve quietly shifts, groping for the nail bat leaning against the wall as he slides out of bed, his heart feels like it's crawling up into his throat. He almost hopes it's a regular old burglary and not, like, monsters.

He creeps downstairs, luckily he was already sleeping in a tank top and shorts. He’s nearly to the bottom of the stairs when he hears it; a clunking noise and then, “Steee.”

He carefully puts the bat down immediately; figures Eddie got into the house somehow. Steve allows himself a moment to calm down, breathe deep and slow for a minute even as, in his head, he's calling Dustin a little shithead and blaming him for leaving the back door unlocked.

At the bottom of the stairs he can peer around the corner to see Eddie sitting in the hall. It’s light enough for Steve to make out that Eddie’s sitting quite tall, his tail curled into an ‘s’ shape underneath him. He has the phone from the hall side table held carefully next to his head, exactly like...well...like a regular person on the phone would, and while Steve is there, he says, “Steee,” uncertainly into the receiver.

For a moment, Steve is tempted to sneak up to the phone in his parents room and lift the receiver so he can answer Eddie, but quickly dismisses it; Eddie’s limited vocabulary makes it kind of pointless, anyway.

“Hey Eddie,” Steve steps off the bottom step.

“Stee!” Eddie turns to Steve, it's almost strange to see him without his sunglasses on now, and his eyes reflect what little light there is in a strange, silvery flash. He seems to remember then that he's holding something, forgotten for a second with the clear excitement of finding Steve, and he replaces the receiver on the cradle with surprising care; Steve wonders vaguely if he was just listening to the dial tone.

Eddie moves through the house, walking on his hands and using a unexpectedly efficient twist of his tail to push him along; he’s much more comfortable on land than Steve would have given him credit for. He stops and looks back, clearly waiting for Steve to follow him. Steve does. Dutifully following Eddie through the house, and it’s not until Steve’s at the door that he realizes it's not Dustin's fault at all – the spare key is in the lock. He doesn’t keep one out front – that’s just asking for trouble – but he keeps one out back. One that is only for absolute emergencies only, and it’s very specifically under the third plant pot along. Eddie must have seen Robin or one of the kids let themselves in and then just...worked it out for himself.

Well, huh, Steve thinks as he follows Eddie out into the yard and across the grass, past the pool and along to the tree line.

Steve wonders vaguely if Eddie actually does this often, getting out of the pool and exploring at night; he doesn’t seem to struggle, and he clearly knows where he’s going, passing through the tree line at the bottom of the yard and then a little further in.

Eddie comes to a stop, and when Steve gets there he sees what Eddie is looking at. It’s a bird. A pigeon probably, like a wood pigeon or something, if Steve’s very limited knowledge of birds is to be believed. It’s lying on the grass, clearly dead.

Steve crouches and watches as Eddie, very gently strokes the fluffy breast feathers of the bird, “Ow. Inied.”

Steve sighs he guesses finished is one way to put it, “yeah, yeah buddy. Uhm. Dead,” Steve pulls Eddie’s hand away, “dead. Don’t touch it. It’s dead.”

“Dead,” Eddie cocks his head.

“Yeah,” Steve yawns, getting sleepy again now the adrenaline’s died down and there’s clearly no danger, “come on, back to bed. Or, you know, the pool.”

Eddie’s reluctant to move at first, but then does when Steve gestures, sliding soundlessly back into the water.

“See you tomorrow buddy.”

“Budidy. Edidie.”

“Yeah, near enough.”

“Do you think he killed the bird?”

“Nah, there wasn’t any obvious like, injury or anything. And you should have seen how gentle he was with it Robs...it was like he felt bad, you know.”

She hums in agreement, “he must have seen someone at the lab use a phone, do you think?”

Steve figured the same, once he’d finished his night’s sleep and actually pondered on it. “Pretty sure he doesn’t know how to actually use it, he was just copying. But the fact that he worked out they were using it to talk to other people, that’s pretty smart, right?”

“Maybe we can teach him to use it?” Robin eats more waffle with her fingers, smearing the broken up bits through the cream. They’re sitting out on the pool chairs for breakfast.

“Dunno, numbers and stuff. A walkie though? I think he might be able to-”

“Steee! Steeee!” Eddie calls him from the water, arms resting on the sides. He’s smiling, looking happy, shades firmly in place today.

“What buddy?”

Eddie points confidently at the sky, “dead!”

Steve looks up; birds. There’s birds flying over.

“Oh no- birds. Eddie those are birds.”

He looks so confused, but Steve suddenly has an idea, “where you going dingus?”

“Be right back a second,” Steve heads into the lounge and runs his fingers along the lowest shelf of books, easily finding the thick children's encyclopedia he got for his birthday one year when he was little. He’s never even opened it, thought it was a shit present, but it’ll do for this.

He opens it on his way back to the pool, finding a page with a big colorful picture of loads of birds on it, sitting by the side of the pool where Eddie can see, “bird.”

“Buurd,” Eddie drags the word out, definitely making it more than a ‘u’ than an ‘i’ sound, but it’s definitely near enough.

“Yeah that’s right,” Steve lays the book out on the edge of the pool, “don’t get it too wet.”

Eddie tilts his head, “et.”

Steve slaps the water, “wet. Uhm.” Tapping the book, Steve says, “finished.”

Eddie looks at his hands, frowning.

“Right, wait,” Steve goes and grabs a towel, left forgotten on a pool chair, and brings it to the edge, “here,” Eddie’s close enough for Steve to take his hands easily, “wet,” after a moment of ruffling Eddie’s hands with the towel, Steve tells him, “dry.” Then he taps the book, “dry. Wet finished.”

He waits to see what Eddie will do, but he holds his hands carefully out of the water before he lifts himself to touch the book.

Steve turns to a page at random, showing Eddie a page with all sorts of big cats on it, lions and tigers and stuff like that, “go on, you do it.”

Steve gestures at Eddie, and, cautiously as he lets his elbows take his weight, Eddie carefully turns the page.

Part five

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.

[stars-obsession-pit]

So a person requested (in messages) me to write a drabble thing based on this prompt. I’m not really into de-aged characters, but I thought of a way to focus it more on Jason’s reaction rather than the childcare part and felt cool with writing that.

So, uh, hope you like this I guess, @phantomrosereader…

Alright. Alright. Alright alright alrigh—

Nope. They’re still there. Fuck. Jason is not at all prepared to be a father. Nor does he want to show back up at the manor right now carrying two children and be forced to explain all this.

Wait, how did the kids even get there? Who was the mother? Why did they never contact him before?

…Did they contact him before? Can he really be certain he’s not missing any more memories?

He forcefully shook his head. No. No focusing on that right now. He’s fine. No spiraling allowed. He has to deal with this first.

Seriously, fuck. How is he a dad?

He… he should look into the mother. At least then he’d have more to go off of when he talks to Alfred. The note did give a name, but it wasn’t nearly enough to go off of on its own. Danny is hardly an uncommon name. Although, it does seem like a guy’s name—maybe Danny is trans? That would narrow the search down, but would that be enough? Even if he could get it down to just a handful of options, he had no way to determine which Danny was his. The kids seemed to have mostly inherited his own appearance…

Wait, that’s it! Genetic tests!

Despite his strained relationship with the other Bats, he still has access to their resources. A test wouldn’t take too long to give results. And also, it might reveal some other info like allergies he’d need to know.

***

Jason frowned at his laptop as his eyes flitted across the details of the error message. Apparently, some parts of the kids’ genes had been completely unreadable to the scanner and thus it couldn’t form a full profile.

Sighing, he clicked the popup closed. He could at least look at what results had come through. Maybe they’d be enough.

That hope dwindled as he scanned the full data, the corruption looking more dire than he expected. Even if the legible parts did succeed at painting a picture of the kids being related, the swaths of gibberish made meaningfully searching for the mother likely hopeless. However, there did seem to be a pattern to the broke areas. Something tickled at the back of his mind. He felt like he’d seen this before. Could that mean the mother was a meta or alien? Those were on a separate database, so that might resolve the issue. But that would require him to go to the manor, and he was still very hesitant to do that.

So instead, he pulled up his own test results to compare. Maybe they’d let him figure something ou—

He froze.

That’s why he recognized the corruption. Ever since his revival, his own genetic results exhibited almost the exact same pattern of issues.

Oh Hell, did the kids inherit the side effects of the Pit from him?

He looked over at the kids, sleeping peacefully in their seats, and prayed that they hadn’t. He didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if they had to suffer through the Pit Rage their whole lives just because of him.

He… he had to go to the manor. There was no pushing this off any longer. This situation was far too big for him to deal with on his own. He couldn’t risk leaving his kids to suffer alone.

Hopefully Alfred with his parenting skills and Damian with his knowledge of the Lazarus Pits (and similar experience of being descended from a user of them) would be able to help. Or if that failed, maybe he could guilt trip Bruce into getting the Justice League Dark to help.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

mmm heroo whump i loooove heero whump mmmm baby i missed you mm

“Oh, no.” The supervillain shook their head and sighed dramatically. “A speedster with a broken leg? Gosh, that’s too bad.”

The villain didn’t want to look at the hero crawling over the floor. Their sobs and pleas were bad enough already but the blood? The bone digging through their flesh? That was indescribable.

“Is this necessary?” the villain asked. They kept their voice apathetic, even though they knew their hand would be shaking if they lifted it. The hero’s broken voice filled the lifeless interrogation room, just like the blood covering the floor. “All this mess for an interrogation? You’re wasting precious resources.”

In response the supervillain laughed. In one hand, they still held the pipe and spun it around as their gaze wandered between it and the hero. It was a trophy to them. They cared little for subtleness. The bloodier, the better but they didn’t seem to realise how much time they were wasting.

“You know, with your legs all broken you’re just another human. Nothing really special,” they said to the hero as they leaned over. The supervillain tilted their head. Right when the hero wanted to push their upper body up, the supervillain rammed their boot into their back.

They slammed into the concrete. Face first. They left a bloody handprint on the supervillain’s pants.

And the villain clenched their teeth.

By now the hero was quieter. It wasn’t that they had given up — they’d probably still attack anyone if there was a bullet in their chest — but their energy was fading and their muscles were failing. The villain had never seen them like this.

“It’s a dead end. They won’t give you any information,” the villain said and they hated the hero for that. Truly, deeply loathed that the hero endured torture for hours and even when their bones broke, they didn’t say a word to save themselves.

What kind of sick loyalty was that? What kind of unquestioned obedience? The villain was nearly jealous of that.

“You’re so pessimistic today…we just have to get a little creative, don’t you think?” the supervillain asked. “What if we make them run with their broken leg and if they stop, we kill them?”

“You think that’s creative?” The villain focused on the supervillain instead of the hero who tried to push themselves up again with their trembling arms. Their grunts and moans sounded more like those of an animal. And that wound…the villain could see their tibia.

Yet, the villain pinched the bridge of their nose and squeezed their eyes shut, surprised by their partner’s idiocy.

“Well, it could be entertaining.”

“They can’t even stand up. What makes you think they could run for your entertainment?” the villain asked.

“I dunno. I like experimenting.” The villain sighed.

If they wanted to save the hero, they needed to do it in private. Convincing the hero to give up their secrets wasn’t going to be easy but the villain had information the supervillain could never know about.

“Great. It was your turn and it didn’t work out. Now it’s mine. Give me 20 minutes with them and you’ll have your oh so desired information,” the villain said.

The supervillain studied them.

“You know what? You’re right. They’re your nemesis. Why should I get involved anyway? God forbid I do a friend a favour.”

“Look, I—” the villain looked at the hero’s tears “—appreciate your efforts. But I fear they’re quite stubborn. They won’t give you what they want, even if you take them apart bit by bit.”

For ten very, very long seconds, the supervillain stared at them.

“Is this a possessive thing?” they asked. They had the audacity not to whisper.

But the villain was willing to push them.

“It is a I-know-your-spouse-shouldn’t-know-you’re-a-criminal-thing,” they said. All the villain needed to see was some time with the hero, even if that meant they’d threaten the supervillain.

They didn’t care what their partner thought about this. Or what kind of rumours they wanted to spread. The villain had enough dirt on enough people to bring a quick end to such accidents.

“Oh, stooping to a new low?”

“Forgive me,” the villain said. They stood up. “I’m sure you understand. They’re my nemesis and you’re robbing me of all the fun. I have to draw some lines here.”

“Fine.” The supervillain didn’t look necessarily happy when the villain cornered them until the last escape was through the door.

“Search for something else to play with, will you?” the villain asked. They opened the door of the interrogation room and offered their partner the way out.

Without a second glance, the supervillain mumbled incoherent curses on their way out until the villain shut the door behind them.

However, as soon as they left, the villain walked over to their nemesis and kneeled.

“Hey, come here.” They grabbed them and pulled them onto their lap. The hero kept looking at their leg and whimpered. Fingers drenched in blood found the villain’s jawline and cheekbones and left fingerprints there.

The villain’s heart was beating fast. Usually, they were able to control themselves in stressful situations but the hero desperately clinging onto them startled them.

“I’m sorry,” the villain whispered. “They won’t let go of you. They’ll kill you if you don’t give them anything.”

The hero shook their head and hid their face in the villain’s clothes. They seemed to know how this was turning out.

“Please,” the hero begged. “Please, it hurts so much, it hurts…”

The villain wiped some loose strands of hair out of the hero’s face.

“They want information on your latest mission. You have to give them something. After that, I can protect you,” the villain promised. They could feel how the hero held onto them.

“I can’t, please, please—”

“Sweetheart, don’t make me do this.”

“No, please.” Their tears rolled down their cheeks and the villain’s heart splintered.

Blackmail was the villain’s preferred way of fighting. Everyone had their secrets and the villain liked to obtain information like no other.

In a world where information spread in seconds, a well kept secret could be the key to peace and conflict.

But their hands were shaking. Tears burnt in their eyes.

“You know I know your siblings. If…” The villain felt disgusting. They felt filthy, wretched even. Despising themselves was new and this feeling was alien to them. It hurt, it burnt. But even if the hero never forgave them for it, this would save them. “…if you don’t tell them, I will kill one of them.”

“No, I trusted you, they love you.”

“I’m sorry,” the villain said. They kissed the hero’s temple. “This is the only way, I fear.”

After that, they developed a distaste for blackmail.

[five-rivers]

wandering heart

For @phantomphangphucker for phic phight!

.

.

.

The needle was bronze.  

The copper alloy stood out better against ectoplasmic flesh than it would have against red blood.  It dipped in and out of Danny's skin with machine-like precision, drawing a slender purple string in its wake.  Appropriate.  Clockwork was at least partly mechanical.

“You're getting close to my liver,” said Danny.  “Careful.”

“You are aware that these facsimile organs are not at all essential to the function of your body.”

“Sure they are,” said Danny.  He leaned his head back on the cushion Clockwork had provided him.  “That's why you're sewing me up.”

Clockwork's tower wasn't Danny's usual post-battle stop, but the fight had been nasty and it had been close. His other choices had been flying an hour to reach the Far Frozen and leaving an ectoplasm trail through the mad science lab dedicated to dissecting ghosts.  The decision had been easy.  

Clockwork had complained, of course.  Ninety percent of the time spent stitching had doubled as time spent snarking.  It was fun.  

“You have more than fake human organs in here, and losing that much ectoplasm is unhealthy for a ghost regardless.  You are friends with the doctors of the Far Frozen.  Perhaps you should avail yourself of their knowledge more frequently.”

“I already have one health class I'm failing.  Don't need another.”

“You are not failing your health class.”

Danny peeled back an eyelid that had fallen shut at some point during the exchange.  “Are you using your time powers to spy on my grades?”

“Hardly.”  Clockwork picked up a pair of ornate scissors and snipped the string he'd been stitching Danny up with.  “But even so, I doubt you would notice if I removed one of your so-called organs.” 

“You could try,” said Danny.  He closed his eyes again and leaned to the side until he was slumped over on Clockwork, who made an offended noise.  “You’re trapped now.  Stuck.”

“I am a shapeshifter,” said Clockwork.  “You cannot ‘trap’ me simply by leaning on me.”

“Can too.”

Danny was tired.  Sometimes, he could shrug off both fights and injuries like they were nothing, but unicorns were vicious and Technus was mean.  Electricity always took a lot out of him.  

Clockwork sighed heavily.  Danny smiled.  

“You aren’t nearly as charming as you think,” said Clockwork.  

“And yet, you are neither kicking me out nor stealing my pancreas or lower intestine or anything like that.”

“I could.”

“But you haven’t.”  Danny tucked his feet underneath him and snuggled more heavily into Clockwork’s side.  

The ghost groaned, but obligingly made room for Danny.  Yes, yes, exactly according to plan.  The evil one, where he made friends with Clockwork.  He figured he was already halfway there, if Clockwork was willing to sew him up, but with this it was definitely closer to three quarters.  

Having thought this, Danny promptly fell asleep.  

.

The front doors of Clockwork’s tower were not made to slam open, but Danny, fingers of one hand clenched over his chest and still wearing a Far Frozen medical gown, managed anyway.  He was resourceful like that.  

“Clockwork?” he called.  “Clockwork!”  He flew from room to room, only sticking his head in long enough to assess them for Clockwork's presence.  

Finally, he found him.  

“Clockwork!” he shouted, re-energized by the sight.  “Did you steal my heart?  My heart?  My actual heart from my actual chest?”

Clockwork stared blankly at Danny for long enough that his panicked doubled and doubled again.  This was, quite literally, his only lead.

“No,” said Clockwork, finally.  “I stole the replica of your actual heart.  From your chest.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“Is it?” asked Clockwork, smugly.  “After all, you didn’t even notice this one was gone.”

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you did this.”  Friendship plan canceled.  Or something.

“I cannot imagine why,” said Clockwork.  “After all, I told you exactly what I was going to do.  You even gave me permission.”

“I thought you were joking.  Who’s going to think that you’re serious about stealing a friend’s organs?  That’s a joke.  A joke.  Banter, if you would.  Not an invitation to steal my literal heart.”

“Even so, it has been done.”

“Well, can you undo it?  Put it back in?  You didn’t, I don’t know, toss it out with last week’s eggshells or something?  Stick it in the back of the kitchen junk drawer.”

“No, I know exactly where I put it,” said Clockwork.  

“And you can undo it, right?  It’s not, like, expired?”

“It is difficult to get more expired than a ghost’s heart.”  

Danny stared at Clockwork expectantly.  

“Yes, I can undo it.  It will be the work of a moment to return it to its proper place.”  

“Great, so…  Lead on.”  Danny made a forward sweeping motion with both hands.  

Clockwork’s eyes slid back towards his time screen.  “Can it wait?”

“No!”

“You haven’t had it for weeks.  You won’t miss it for a few more minutes.”

“Uh, yes, I will!  You can time travel.  Whatever you’re doing, you can do it later.”

“I suppose,” said Clockwork.  “Very well.  Follow me.”

Clockwork led him back, through narrow halls, into a towering closet with spiral shelves.  It was full of what could only be collectively referred to as stuff.  

“Wow, I wasn’t serious about the junk drawer thing.”

“Oh, please,” said Clockwork.  “This is hardly junk.”

“You’re a hoarder.”

“I resent that appellation,” said Clockwork, flying up and rotating slightly.  Danny kept his feet on the ground, slightly intimidated.

“The only reason you aren’t drowning in all this is because your house doesn’t have to exist in Euclidean space.”

“And yet, I am not drowning in it.” Clockwork continued to float upwards, a faint frown on his face.  

“You do remember where you put it, right?”

“Yes, Daniel,” said Clockwork, visibly rolling his eyes.  “I put it right– Ah.  Interesting.”

“Interesting?  What do you mean interesting?” demanded Danny.  He flew up to hover near Clockwork's shoulder.  “Did something happen to it?  Is it– It's not there?  You said you knew where it was!”

“I said I knew where I put it, which is rather a different thing altogether.”

“No, it isn't!  It's not like it has legs!  It couldn't have wandered off on its oooohhhhhhhh my God, it could have wandered off on its own.  That thing had more ectoplasm in it than a Christmas turkey.”

“It is, in fact,” said Clockwork, “entirely made out of ectoplasm.”

“If it’s moving around like that, can we put it back in?  Would it– Would it try to escape?  Like, escape my chest?  Is that a thing?”

“Unlikely.”

“As unlikely as it starting to move around in the first place?”

“Unlikely,” repeated Clockwork.  

“Where even is it?  Do you know?  Can you tell?  Obviously, your whole ‘I know everything’ shtick is a lie, but can you, like, rewind things so that it’s here?”

“No,” said Clockwork.  “We will just have to look for it.”

“In your hoarder cave?”

“It is not a cave.”

“Ah, but you don't dispute the hoarder part?”  He spun, head over heels, trying and failing to see the entirety of the not-really-a-closet.  “What if there are things in here?  Like, living things?  Could it have been eaten?  By, like… Clockroaches?  Do you have clockroaches here?”

“Media tends to grossly exaggerate both the aggression and size of temporal boggles–”

“They’re real?”

“Why would you ask about them if you didn’t think they were real?”

“I don’t know.  It turns out I don’t think through the things I say to you very well.”

“Clearly.” 

Danny arrested his motion.  “Where do we even start?  This place is huge!”

“That statement assumes that it is still in this particular room.”

“Oh my God.”

“Although, if we are to search this room, it would make the most sense to start from either end and work towards the middle.”

Danny flipped over.  “I can’t even see the other end.”  This was only barely an exaggeration.

“Then we had best get started soon.”

Danny rubbed his face.  “Am I even going to recognize it?  What will it look like?”

“Like the organ it was imitating, of course,” said Clockwork.  “Oh, and don’t touch anything.”

Danny groaned.

.

There was something quivering and green huddled behind a bank of jars.  Was that… it couldn’t be…  He formed a stick out of ice and went to poke it.  

“What are you doing to that poor frog?” asked Clockwork.  

“Holy– It’s a frog?”

“Yes.” 

Danny stared.  Clockwork was covered in splatters and streaks of ectoplasm from head to tail.  

“Why do you– I don’t even want to know.  Did you find it?”

“Yes,” said Clockwork, holding up a jar.  There was…  Well.  It was a heart.  “Are you sure you want it back?  Surely, the sentimental value cannot be that great.”

“Wh– It’s not about the sentimental value.  Open it up, put it back in!”

Clockwork’s sigh was incredibly put-upon.  “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He unscrewed the lid of the jar, and the heart, which had up until that point, laid quiescent on the bottom of the jar, flew out, smacking Danny in the face.  

“Augh!”

“Grab it!” 

Danny managed to get a hand around a ventricle, but ectoplasm and ectoplasmic muscle was slippery.  It escaped his grip.  It flopped-flew its way down to the bottom of the genuinely-not-a-closet and made for the door.  Danny dove at it, only to get a faceful of ectoplasm from an artery for his trouble.  

Danny wondered if this was what Skulker felt like.  He let ectoplasm dribble out of his mouth.  

“That, bleh, that tastes like my ectoplasm,” he said.

“That’s because it is,” said Clockwork, tiredly.  “I will refrain from asking you to elaborate on your ectoplasm-tasting experiences.”

“Look, when nature gives you a weapon, and afterlife gives you enemies, you use the weapon.”  He peered cautiously out of the door, wary of being sprayed with what was essentially his own blood once again.  “Where do you think it–”

He got another mouthful of ectoplasm.  

“Bleh,” he said.  

“I don’t suppose you saw it?” asked Clockwork.  “Which way it went, etcetera, etcetera?”

“No,” said Danny.  

“Then this will be a long night.”

“Can’t you just, like, stop time or something?  So it won’t move around while we look”

Clockwork gave him a look.  

“I’ll take that as a no.”

.

“I think,” said Danny, from where he was dangling from the ceiling, a tangle of clock chains wrapped around his ankle, “that we need help.”

“Unfortunately, I must concur,” said Clockwork, who was underneath a pair of couches even he’d been surprised at owning.

“Unless you want to use your totally awesome time powers to find it.”

“No.”

.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam.  “What did you lose?”

“My heart,” said Danny.  “And I didn’t lose it.  Clockwork stole it.”

“Is this some kind of Ice Queen situation here?” asked Sam.  “Are you going to lose all empathy and care for other people?”

“No,” said Danny.  “It’s just the, um, physical thing.  And only my ghost half’s physical thing.  Apparently.  Apparently, the ‘human organs’ I have in my ghost form aren’t functional, unless the functionality is, like, the functionality of being incredibly annoying and spraying ectoplasm everywhere.”

“So, what should we bring for this thing?” asked Tucker.  “Butterfly nets?  Bow and arrow?  Guns?  What’s the endgame?”

“You want to shoot my heart?”

“I don’t know what you want here, dude.  I’m still kind of reeling over the fact that the guy you were hanging out with literally stole your heart.  Do you need someone to give him a stern talking to, make sure he gets you home before curfew?”

“That’s disgusting.  He could probably be my great-great-great-great-great-great–”

In ghost form, Danny didn’t have to breathe all that much, so he was able to go on like that until Sam and Tucker joined forces to stuff socks in his mouth.  

.

“How in the world did things escalate to Clockwork stealing your literal heart?” asked Jazz.  

“Okay, yeah, I see how that’d seem bad, out of context, but you see, it isn’t actually my literal heart–”

.

Danny glared at Clockwork’s idea of ‘help.’ “I bring three completely reasonable and competent people, and you bring them?”

“From my point of view, I am the one with the reasonable and competent people,” said Clockwork, gesturing at the combined forces of Nocturne, Ghost Writer, and Skulker.  “You, meanwhile, have brought three teenagers.”

“Are you really calling Skulker competent?”

“If not, he at least has experience in being outsmarted by you.”

“Hey!”

.

“Alas,” said Tucker, “the heart wants what the heart wants, and what it wants is freedom.”

“Where,” said Sam, kicking at a puddle, “is all this ectoplasm even coming from?”

“Around,” said Danny.  

“Ooh,” said Jazz, “it’s condensing it from the atmosphere?”  She paused.  “What are you all looking at me like that for?�� I can have scientific curiosity!”

“I think it’s more because of what’s happened to your hair,” said Ghost Writer.

“What’s happened to my hair?”

“You don’t want to know.”

.

“Danny, I think I hate you,” said Sam.  They were sitting on one of Clockwork’s couches.  Clockwork had a lot of couches.  A fact that Clockwork seemed both bemused and distressed by.  

“Oh, trust me, the feeling is mutual.  As in, I hate me too.”

Clockwork sat down on the couch next to Danny.  “Daniel, I must tell you that while hate is beneath me, I am seriously regretting my earlier decisions.”

“Does that mean that you’re going to time travel back to–”

“Absolutely not.”

Tucker ran past them with a butterfly net, chasing down a green blur.  

“That’s a blob ghost, isn’t it?” asked Sam.  

“I do believe so,” said Clockwork.

“Well,” said Danny.  “At least this all makes us friends, yeah?  Can’t go through something like this without being friends.”  At least he’d get something accomplished with all this insanity.  

“I wouldn’t call myself friends with Skulker.  Or Nocturne.  Acquaintances, more like.”

“I notice you didn’t say anything about Ghost Writer.”

Clockwork shrugged.  “He’s somewhat more tolerable.”

“And me?”

“I suppose.”

The heart fell straight down, into Danny’s lap.

“Are you serious–”

[delphi-shield]

detours in the pursuit of knowledge

Rebecca Chambers x Reader smut mdni wc: ~5.3k i wrote this as a birthday gift to myself and only just now bothered to edit and post it. (my birthday is in january lmfao) sorry for being a munch. (i'm not.)

summary: her interest in you is purely professional. your potential is being squandered under your current advisor. she can help you flourish.

content: professor/student relationship (graduate level), fem reader, rebecca's pov, public sex (rebecca's office), oral sex (rebecca receiving), dry humping, squirting, tit sucking, fingering.

Rebecca’s read your work. It's good work, but it could be better. She could make it better. You’ve got drive. You're resourceful, sharp - you take instruction well, but you don't need your hand held. You’re perfect for her. Everything she looks for in a protege wrapped up in a pretty package. 

The only issue is that you’re locked down by another professor.

It felt skeevy, scheming to steal another professor's graduate student, but in the interest of the professional development of the next generation of scientists, she felt she was justified in poaching you from boring, complacent Dr. Stonebriar. Stonebriar had more assistants that he knew what to do with, anyway. You weren’t getting the attention that you needed. Hell, you’d already been pushed into her lab.

She still remembers it - the way you had knocked at her door so timidly, poked your head in like you were afraid she’d snap at you to get out then and there.

“Hi – Dr. Chambers? Do you have a moment?”

Technically, she had been obligated to have a moment. You were in one of her lectures, had every right to show up to her office hours. Even if you hadn’t been, she enjoyed talking with students. The look of surprise on your face when she calls you by your name and confirms your class is endearing.

You’re endearing, she realizes. There’s an ease to talking to you despite your obvious nerves. You’d explained your situation as professionally as you could, and Rebecca’s soft smile had twisted to something knowing.

“Tired of people messing with your stuff, huh?” She cut you off in the middle of your (too polite, too generous) explanation. Relief rounded your shoulders and melted through your formal expression.

“Yes,” you sighed, exasperated. “Someone nearly threw out six months of my work the other day. I had labeled it and everything. I’m scared someone’s gonna set me back months. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you have room in your lab could I move in there?”

How was she supposed to say no to that? She felt your pain. There was nothing worse than people getting their hands all over your work, messing with it- god forbid, throwing it out. The fit she would throw if that happened would have been legendary. From what she’d seen of your lab habits, the two of you wouldn’t clash. There was no harm in helping a student out of a tricky situation.

She’d gone so far as to help you move your things over. It was equal parts kindness and nosiness. She’d looked over your work as she moved you across the hall, peppering you with questions about your goals, the thought process behind your experiments, what you’d hoped to achieve.

That first day had been enough to pique her interest. She’d leaned in to look over your numbers, shoulder brushing against yours, chalked the way your speech had faltered up to nerves. You held your own. That frightened little lamb look you’d first rolled into her office with was nowhere to be seen once you started talking science. You were quick, considering her questions fully before you answered.

She didn't normally take on graduate students. She was picky. It was a lot of time and energy to invest into someone when you did it right. She had to make certain that you were worth it, that you were cut out for this. Your work was solid. No doubt about it. 

A month into sharing a lab with you and she was sure of your character as well. What she’d initially interpreted as an almost pathological need to people please had given way to consideration. She’d only been ready to steal you away once you’d stood up for yourself, defended your process to her when she had poked holes at every turn.

She was sold on you for certain when she had eviscerated your thesis (per your request) and your only reaction had been to ask her to repeat that last part verbatim, that you hadn’t quite gotten it down yet. The awkwardness that would linger after a critique was absent. You’d taken it in stride, took note of her remarks, and asked what her weekend plans were.

You flourished with attention. Even the small things made you light up. For the first few weeks she’d been carefully plotting her lab time around yours, trying to ensure you stayed out of each other’s way. That quickly fell by the wayside. It was natural to be next to you. There was a familiarity in dancing around each other. A hand between your shoulder blades as she passed behind you, your knuckles ghosting against her hip to draw her attention - normal. All of it.

One day you’d showed up to lab with two coffees in hand. Rebecca had flitted over to you, hand hovering back and forth between the cups.

“Which one is which?”

“They’re both the same,” you’d shrugged. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

There it is again - so endearing. Her stomach flips. Just happy to have coffee, she’s sure. She takes a cup in hand with a satisfied smile, eyes gleaming behind her glasses. She waits for you to take yours, to join her.

Your face pinches on the first sip. You try to keep it together. Bless your cute little heart. Rebecca giggles.

“So?”

“That’s sweet,” you say, diplomatic. “Really sweet.”

Her giggle blooms into a laugh. She drops onto her stool, spins full circle, head tipped back.

“You don’t have to finish it.”

“No, no – I didn’t say it was bad.”

“Just sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“Really sweet.”

“Like, an above average amount.”

She picks you up your normal beverage on her way back from lunch. You pass her the remains of your sugary coffee and gulp mouthfuls of your new drink, throat bobbing.

Yeah. You’re gonna be hers.

Rebecca has her plan outlined. Your future could be secure in her hands. Stonebriar might have a contact with the CDC, but does he work directly with the BSAA? No. Of course he doesn't. He hasn't done anything close to cutting edge since the 80's. Stonebriar is riding that tenure til he keels over.

But not her. Rebecca could get you on the ground floor for some of the most advanced research in the country. She’s fully prepared, even in the case you gave her the bleeding heart response - I have a moral opposition to working under military contractors, Dr. Chambers. No problem. It wasn’t like she was pushing you to work with Lockheed Martin. If the BSAA wasn't your style, she already had TerraSave in her pocket.

Her plan is set. She knows your skill set, your interests, has tailored her speech to show you how she could help you grow. The real catalyst behind all of this is fear. You’re too trusting. She’d realized it quickly. The wrong mentor would slap their name on top of your work without a second thought. She’s protecting you. That’s all.

“Could you hang back for a minute?” Rebecca asks, catching you before you can slip into the stream of students flowing out of the lecture hall. She doesn’t look up from her computer, logging her last few notes from her lecture. Don’t screw this up, she tells herself. Keep it cool. Remember your talking points, Rebecca.

You toddle right up to her podium, hand tucked into the pocket of your jeans, thumb curled through your belt loop. Casual with her in a way that had been absent at the beginning of the semester.

“What’s up?” You chirp.

You keep looking at her with those big eyes and she keeps staring. She must not be smiling - you shift your weight from foot to foot, lean a little closer.

“Would you ever consider switching advisors?” She blurts out, her plan burning in her hands.

“Oh, for sure.”

“I know that it’s asking a lot.”

“Dr. Stonebriar is a nice guy and all but–”

Rebecca holds up a hand, trying to catch up. “Hang on– did you say yes already?”

You tip your head to the side. “Yeah. I can be yours, right?”

A thrill rattles up her spine. You shouldn’t have said it like that. Her thoughts skid to a stop, veer down some forbidden side street. Not going there. She turns that car right around, puts it back on the tracks. She steps around the podium. Keep it cool. Keep it professional.

“You’re already in my lab,” she says. “Let’s make it official.”

Rebecca doesn't know how you got here. 

Physically, yes, she knew the path that you took. She's certain you came in through the back entrance like you usually did. You would skip the elevator because it was slower than just walking to the second floor and you would trot up the stairs and around the winding hall until you got to her office, where you would knock twice for courtesy, peek through the little slat of a window, and badge your way inside. You're a creature of habit. It's endearing, if not predictable.

But she’s not sure how you got here, on your knees in the middle of her office, voice muffled by her cunt. She doesn't have the sense to feel bad about it, not with the way you press your fingers inside of her, slow and deep. She stuffs a fist into her mouth, leaving half-circles in her skin and still her noises slip out.

You reach up, hand tugging at her wrist. Your eyes are glued to her face, tongue laving over her in broad swipes, lips closing around her clit to suckle. Her body twists into a throb of pleasure. Her hips jut against your face, your moan vibrating through her pussy. She buries a hand in your hair, tells herself not to pull - and in her desperation not to, she pets over your hair awkwardly, stilted and too fast. You smile against her, tongue curling and eyes crinkling. Finally, you've managed to pry her hand away from her mouth and the exaggerated, high-pitched 'oh god' that floats out of her when her head arches backwards only seems to spur you.

“My neck hurts,” you mumble, and she wishes that she cared. Her hand wraps around the base of your skull, urges you back to her pussy. Your breath fans over her when you laugh, close enough to her that your nose rubs against her clit when you shake your head.

You shuffle on your knees, wedging her backwards. There’s not far to go, but her pants around her ankles have her making shuffling baby steps. The small of her back hits her desk and she hoists herself onto it. She doesn't need to be directed to throw her legs over your shoulder. It takes a moment, quiet giggling while you figure out the right angles. Her hips shift down, you hunker a little lower, head twisted at an awkward angle - but when your mouth is on her again, her arms shake.

How is she supposed to keep herself sitting up when you're going at her like that? She can hardly believe those sounds are coming from her body, the obscene slurping from your mouth has to be exaggerated.

Her hands paw at your hair, tugging and pushing, can’t figure out whether she wants you closer or whether it’s all too much. You nuzzle closer, burying your nose into her, your hands wrapped around the tops of her thighs to lock her in place.

“I'm gonna –” Her hips rock against your face, grinding her clit against your nose.

“Gonna what? Cum on my face?”

You suckle her clit again, swirling your tongue just to feel the scrape of her nails against your scalp. Rebecca whines. Her hands clasp around your head, keep you held just where you are as her body flops back against her desk. Back arched, pussy clenching, heartbeat in her clit. She cums when you plunge your fingers back into her, when she grinds her clit against your nose, when you moan into her cunt.

Rebecca bites down on her moan, keeps it locked behind clenched teeth while she writhes through the pleasure. Electricity in her veins makes her fist a hand in your hair, yanking you close, suffocating you and she swears to god she heard you whimper.

The pleasure seesaws back to too much, all that fire in her veins suddenly singing her nerves. The same hand that sealed your mouth against her pussy urges you back, fingers trembling.

“Sorry, sorry,” she pants, hand stroking your cheek in apology.

You didn’t say a word. Her legs hung limply at your shoulders. You caressed her calf softly, the wetness of your hand not lost to her even when she’s coming back to her senses. Had she cum all down your forearm? Jesus, that makes her thighs twitch.

Rebecca props herself up on her elbows. She looks down at you just in time to catch you swirling your tongue around your lips, savoring every taste of her. Your hand loops up to your mouth and you lick at your palm - a flat, broad swipe that she can feel the ghost of against her pussy, that makes her clench against phantom sensation.

She shuffled off her desk and you stayed on your knees, hand stroking her pale thigh. She doesn't know whether to apologize or to kick you out, but you laugh like you're pussy drunk, your nose crinkling. It turns into a snort. She wants to be annoyed, disgusted, anything to distance herself from you - but it's cute. You're cute. Has she always thought you were cute, ever since you walked into her office? Was it attraction, not ambition that had led her down this path?

No. Nope. Don’t go there, Rebecca.

"What?" She'd asked, defensive, wishing you'd get off your knees even if the view is pretty from up here.

"You, uh --" Your words bubble with your laughter, eyes narrowed to cute crescents. You massage your thumb into her hip and reach behind her to peel a paper off of her ass.

She's mortified, her face flushing red. She doesn't want to think of the mess that she's made of her desk, usually kept neat and tidy, in and out trays properly stacked now thrown askew.

"It's just Cady's report," you say, skimming the page. "Just toss it, give her a hundred. She needs the bump anyway."

That's so unethical. She takes the paper back from you, and the soiled feeling sinks into her core. This was wrong. All of this was wrong. Rebecca should chide you for being so callous about student work, about their grades - even though you're sort of right. Cady does need the leg up.

Rebecca sets it back on her desk. She shakes her head.

"That shouldn't have happened."

That gets you up off of your knees. Your smile drops off your face and amongst the shame Rebecca feels a sharp stab of regret. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just thought..."

You look at her with those wet puppy dog eyes, and her jaw clenches. She keeps her groan locked behind her teeth. She's immune to these tactics. She knows how to hold her ground. Doesn't mean she doesn't feel guilty. She can tell that you were waiting for her to interject, waiting for her to cut in, hoping for some gentle words.

"It can't happen again. This was– inappropriate doesn't even begin to describe what–"

There you go again. She's seen that look before when she had been critiquing your proposals, picking at your thesis and poking holes - too soft for it all underneath that cool exterior. She feels like she's reprimanding a puppy, like she’s got to rub your nose in – nope. Not going there.

Rebecca folds her arms across her chest tightly, tiny tits pressed together. She looks down at herself, only just now realizing that she's still exposed. She huffs, tugging her button-up closed and searching around for her panties. She ducks under her desk to search for them, her knees hitting the cold tile. 

When she rises, you’re holding something out to her. Her panties, crumpled in your palm, wet–

Good God, you really are a puppy. She stares for a moment, her body flushed with another wave of heat. You’d just been rocking against your fist, her panties clenched tight between your fingers the whole time you had your face buried in her pussy?

Why is that making her clit throb again?

“This can’t happen again,” she repeats firmly. She steps back into her panties, your own wetness settling cool against her heated, sensitive cunt. Was she just going to wear these the rest of the day? She should have just put her pants back on, let you keep that as a souvenir. (Jesus - no, not that either. What the hell is wrong with her?)

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I should never have let this go so far.”

“Are you mad?”

Yes. No. Jesus, she can’t think when you’re in the same room.

Rebecca fishes your shirt up from the floor, coaxes you to lift your arms and helps you get it back over your head.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s discuss your thesis some more. Maybe in a study room, or…”

The train of thought is clear. Not in her office. Not again, not after this. She’s going to be plagued by this memory for a long time. Oh, god, it probably smells like sex in here. She’s got more meetings today.

You nod meekly. It’s the smallest she’s seen you since you became her assistant. You shuffle out of her office without so much as a wave goodbye.

She can't get it out of her head.

It's a full week later but the image of your lips, shiny with her slick, is burned into her mind. Every time she blinks she's flashbanged by the remembrance of your tongue circling your mouth and chin to lick it all up - to lick her up, your eyes far away, pupils huge. You wipe your mouth with the heel of your hand and then lick that up too, and she crosses one leg over her knee and squeezes.

It’s enough sensation to make her moan. She drops her forehead against the steering wheel of her car.

This is unbearable. It’s immature, and she knows it, but she’s been taking lunch in her car ever since you’d fucked in her office. The  tension between the two of you was unbearable. Easy conversation, quiet, giggly gossip, all of it was stilted or non-existent now.

Twenty minutes left in her lunch. She can’t live like this anymore. She wants her favorite graduate assistant back. She wants to stop hiding in her car, to stop second guessing every word that comes out of her mouth.

Rebecca scrolls through her contacts until she finds the one person she knows will have lived experience with this sort of thing.

“Leon, hey! Are you busy?”

For her? Never.

She dances around the topic like she’s meant for it, lobbing prying questions at him until he grows sick of her obvious deflection.

“Rebecca,” Leon sighs. “This is great and all. Why'd you call?”

It all comes spilling out, picked at the scab and it started bleeding.

“I had sex with my graduate assistant,” she says in a rush. “In my office. On top of lab reports. I had to throw away student work. I couldn't just grade it and give it back to them.”

Silence. Tense, awkward silence. She shouldn’t have called. Oh, god, he definitely thinks she’s a creep and a pervert and he’s going to report her, and –

Leon laughs. Long and loud, like she hasn't heard from him in years. 

“Good for you.”

“What– Leon! This is serious!” She hisses.

“I am serious.” She can imagine him kicking his boots up on his desk. God, he's unbelievable. “What's the big deal? You fucked a grad student. Don't all the professors do that?”

Rebecca stumbles over her words, blubbering for a moment.

“You watch too much porn.”

“It beats what I was doing.”

“I can't believe I have to agree with that.”

“I’m serious,” Leon says. “Don't you have tenure? That's basically the same thing as diplomatic immunity.”

“Those aren't even remotely the same. And no, I don’t. The ‘big deal’ is that it’s wrong. It’s a total abuse of my position as her advisor.”

“Christ, Rebecca. She’s not some undergrad. You’re not out here banging Freshmen.”

“I’m in a position of authority over her. She’s a student.” Rebecca repeats slowly.

Leon must be pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a moment, lets out a long sigh. It seems to have clicked for him that the purpose of this call is to talk her off the ledge.

He lays it out for her plainly. Check her faculty handbook for potential repercussions, consider finding another member of faculty to take over your advisement if this is something she’s serious about pursuing. It seems simple when he lays it out like that - but the idea of someone else being your advisor, of packing your things up and moving you out of her lab, makes her sick to her stomach.

Maybe it’s what’s best. For you. For her. For the both of you.

“Hey,” Leon says before she can end the call. “Why'd you call me?”

“Well…” The truth dies on her tongue. She knows the reason. It just seems so mean to say out loud. “I knew you wouldn't judge me.”

Leon hums. “Because I have experience fucking people I shouldn't.”

“I didn't say that!”

“Don't have to,” Leon laughs. “All right, doc. Go get your freak on. Let me know how it goes.”

He hangs up before she can chew him out.

“I never should have called him.” She smiles to herself, tossing her phone back into her purse.

You come to her before she can call you to her. You linger in the doorway of her office.

“I don't like hovering,” she reminds you, her voice sing-song. Your gulp is audible.

“Sorry. I just, uh–” You lean out into the hall, glancing around. “They don't have cameras in the offices, right?”

She can't blame you for asking. She had thought the same thing after your first encounter, had even dug through the faculty handbook and made up excuses to discuss the cameras with maintenance.

What she can blame you for is acting all suspicious in the middle of the day, with students milling about and faculty hosting office hours. Rebecca sighs. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, leaving her to peer at you over the top of them. She doesn't miss the way your eyes flit up from her chest. Christ - you're insatiable. She wants to be exasperated, but her stomach churns with a gush of heat instead.

Rebecca waves you in with a curl of her fingers. You're not having this conversation with the door open. It's like your sense of self-preservation was just completely shot. You nudge the door shut, pointing back at it with a question mark tilt of your head.

“We should talk.”

You nod stiffly, eyes steeling over. Oh, you’d prepared yourself for this. She knew that look well, the same one you’d get before she would start poking and prodding at your theories. You draw a chair up to her desk. It kills her to see you looking so serious, but this is necessary. You need to clear the air once and for all.

But neither of you know who to speak first. The silence between you grows. Rebecca’s mind spins with all the things she should say, all the things that she needs to say.

“Let’s find you another advisor.”

Hurt pulls over your features in a flash. Of all the things she could have said, she never should have led with that.

“What?”

“It’s for the best.” Shit, she shouldn’t have said that either. “I’m not–”

“This is retaliatory. It’s bullshit.”

Rebecca fumbles. It is, you’re right, but you’re not supposed to call her on it. You’re supposed to nod, your brow furrowed, to jot down her observations the way you always do.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she counters. She can feel her hackles rise, can feel the defensiveness creeping up.

“Well, you are. I don’t want another advisor. I want to talk this out.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it never should have happened in the first place.”

“It did, though,” you snap. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t.”

She can. She can pretend her way through anything. That’s how you belong - you pretend until you’ve got everyone convinced. Why doesn’t it work with you?

“If it’s going to happen again, then you can’t be my graduate assistant.”

Rebecca’s heart stops. Your shoulders pin back, eyes flitting every which way. She can’t believe she said that - you can’t believe she did either, clearly. She hates the silence, wishes you would fill it again, wishes for your knuckles against your hip, for you to hum idly, for your little signs of life.

You stand from your chair. Rebecca mimics the movement, hand itching to reach out and catch your wrist, to keep you there. You’re going to leave, she’s sure of it. She doesn’t care for her reputation, for tenure - she’s losing you and it’s tearing her apart.

But you reach for her. Your fingers tremble when they trace their way up her arm. She steps around her desk and into you. You dip to kiss her, lips hovering inches from hers. Afraid to close that gap, afraid it’s the wrong thing to do. Maybe it is.

It doesn’t feel like it, though. She cranes her head, seals her mouth with yours. The caution gives way to desperation when you realize she’s not stepping back. Your hands tug at her dress shirt, untuck it from her slacks. You walk her backwards, back towards her desk - and she almost wants to laugh at how you’ve gotten this way again.

“Not on the desk.” Rebecca digs her heels in, voice firm. She flattens a palm against the back of your neck and loops a finger through your belt loop, pulling you with her as she navigates around her desk by muscle memory. 

You trot after her obediently. The moment before she plops into her chair, you catch her wrist. Carefully, you spin your way into her chair. Your hands curl on her hips and drag her to straddle one of your thighs. Her cunt drags against your leg, her toes pointed to the ground. Your hands curl at her hips, moving her back and forth against your leg. Once she’s found a rhythm on her own, you fumble with the buttons of her shirt.

Rebecca knows there’s students milling about - it’s not quite after hours. You could get caught at any moment. The other faculty are already gone for the day, but that doesn’t mean the risk is zero. It spurs her hips a little faster, excitement pooling in her stomach. Your other leg bounces erratically as you shove her shirt down her arms. 

Your hands are chilly against her flushed skin but your mouth is warm on her chest. You tug her bra down, push the cups aside just to latch onto her nipple. Your tongue swirls, flicks, teeth scraping experimentally, trying to figure out what will make her arch.

Can she cum like this? Both of you must be wondering. Her breath comes quick, her hips stuttering. No way. There’s no way.

Rebecca plants a hand at the base of your neck before you can find out. Proper experimentation can come later. She wobbles off of your leg, trying to ignore the way her pussy is practically dripping.

“What’s wrong?” You say, managing to pull your language processing together.

“I want your mouth again,” she pouts.

She’s never seen you move so fast. Your hands settle on her hips, flexing impatiently. You whirl her around, settle her into the chair you’d just been in, and crater to your knees. She has half a mind to ask if that hurt, but the scent of your arousal, or hers, or both, has her feeling lightheaded.

“Good girl,” Rebecca breathes out, her head smacking back against her cabinet. Your eager hands wiggle her slacks down. She strokes your hair as you prepare her, adjusting her limbs as needed. Her eyes slip shut, trying to catch her breath before you steal it from her again.

You bury your face between her thighs, nosing a stripe along her panties. Her legs tighten around your head. You lap at her through the cloth, moaning at the faintest taste, your thumbs digging into her hips.

You look up at her, dumb with lust. You’re pleading to take these off her, to lick your way between her folds. She lifts her hips and you dive in, all the permission you need to rip these off of her. You wad them in your palm, your hand disappearing into your pants. Heat flares through her, need pulsing. She’s already wet, already so ready.

Rebecca's fingers grip your hair tight. There's a surprising amount of strength in her hold, keeping you away from her pussy. It’s torture for the both of you, but the delay, the way you’re looking up at her - fuck, that’s hot.

She's unrecognizable, looking down her nose at you, pretty pink lips parted slightly. Her grip in your hair slackens and you surge forward.

You lick and such your way into her, hands roaming her skin. There’s nothing reserved to your movements, not like the first time. You make out with her pussy, devouring every inch you can reach. Rebecca cries out, high-pitched, needy. She stuffs her fist into her mouth, head smacking back into the cabinets hard. Her stomach spasms, pleasure curling her toes and rippling up through the rest of her body. Your palm splays against her, pats her tummy - the only bit of control, of reasoning that either of you have left.

You flatten your tongue against her and shake your head from side to side. Her back arches, each pass of your tongue stoking the fire in her belly higher. It spreads down her limbs, tingles in her finger tips.

“Wait, wait, wait–” Rebecca babbles, tugging your head closer, her hips rutting against your face. 

The kindling in the pit of her stomach expands, singes through her limbs. She cums, gushing into your mouth, down your chin. Your mouth closes over her, drinking down everything she gives. You keep circling her clit - harder, not faster - pulling everything she has to give from her body until she spasms in her chair, her thighs clamping tightly around your face.  Her body curls over you, forearms bracketing your head, muscles twinging.

The come down hits hard. She’s pulled muscles she wasn’t even sure it was possible to pull. She has got to stop letting you eat her out in these uncomfortable chairs (but it’s hard to argue with results).

Finally, when she manages to pull all her bones back together, she rolls her chair back just enough so she’s not smothering you. Though from the pitiful look in your eye when she pulls away, from the way your hand reaches out to her, you might have preferred if she didn’t.

“Don’t make me go.”

Your voice is soft. Rebecca shuts her eyes, allows herself this risky moment of peace. Her hand strokes your forehead gently.

“We’ll work something out,” she concedes.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” It’s not smart. She should be saying no, that this was a mistake again. 

She can’t. You would never forgive her. It really would be exploitative of her to go through all of this, to cum in your mouth and then leave you to find someone else, as if this meant nothing.

“I knew you’d cum around.”

You grin, lips shiny with her cum. Rebecca groans. A joke about throwing you out dies before it leaves her lips. Your tongue laps at your bottom lip, almost shy in the movement. Oh, god - she made the right choice, all right. 

“Don’t make me regret this.”

[violetmuses]

Angel - T. Richmond ❤️‍🩹

Title: Angel - T. Richmond ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Rebel Ridge” Film Universe

Character: Terry Richmond

Pairing: Terry Richmond + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Facing one nightmare could lead to unexpected joy.

@episodes-ff @diaries-of-me @blackgurlnhermoods @liquorlaughslove @babybratzmaraj @cloveroctobers @becauseimswagman1 @slippinninque 🏷

=====

2024

“Excuse me?” Grounded in the rural town of Shelby Springs, veteran Terry Richmond noticed your own steps moving down this federal corridor.

“Yes?” You've turned around mid-stride when someone catches your attention.

Goodness gracious.

Towering this muscular build as he chose one fitted shirt, veteran Terry Richmond offered unexpected height as his striking gaze reached your direction.

“I left the police station this morning and I don't have representation yet. Do you know anyone available?” His deep yet gentle voice nearly shook up your presence.

“Depending on your case, finding assistance could be difficult. Most of us scramble here with many circumstances.” Clearing your throat, an explanation offered the truth.

“Are you swamped?” Richmond handed out the question for obvious reasons.

“I might as well be.” You sighed while holding this briefcase. “This town is so small that you'll cough and everyone will know about it.”

“I just need help if something goes wrong.” Terry knew better.

“Follow me. Let's speak in private.” You offered this path while heading elsewhere.

______

“I'm sorry if there's too much going on, but how can I move forward?” Richmond sat across from you while placed in this cramped office.

“No chance in hell.” Struggling with advice, you shook your head after learning Terry Richmond's case. "Just show up on Monday like the Chief said or you've lost an opportunity.”

“He's not very nice.” Richmond settled his frustration regarding Sandy Burne, the arrogant Chief of Police.

“Burne is only tolerable if folks put up with his nonsense.” You say. “Defiance gets your ass kicked out.”

“I'll be gone if everything stays in order.” Terry just wanted to leave this place with his cousin Mike alive.

“Be careful out here.” Your voice cautioned. “The police department has more resources than everyone else.”

“Does Burne know who you are?” Terry still looked out.

“Enough to keep me working.” You almost scoffed behind the desk. “Tight skirts always make money. There's so many perverts that I even collected wedding rings for this side of town.”

Damn. Richmond thought.

“Apologies for wasting time.” Terry stood from the chair and gathered his backpack, ready to go.

“Here's my contact info as a safeguard.” You exchanged phone numbers.

“Thank you, Ma'am.” Terry nodded, leaving this establishment.

******

“Terry! I heard the news. Where are you?” You picked up this phone in broad daylight.

Reports explained drama that bled from the corrupt police station.

“At the hospital. Medics started helping Summer McBride.” Richmond acknowledged one of the other legal assistants.

“What's the next plan? You can't stay here forever.” Your voice warned again.

“I've figured out a settlement.” Terry explained further. “We locked enough proof to shut everything down.”

“What should I do?” You didn't even know what to think. “Summer's probably knocked off from ailments.”

“Please pick me up from the lobby.” Richmond continued speaking. “I lost my bike and just gave back one of their police cruisers.”

“Okay. Stay there.” You snatched car keys without thinking twice and rushed out of work.

******

“Terry!” You honked while staying in that driver's seat and Terry jogged outdoors, circled around to meet the passenger side.

“Thank you.” Despite expressing gratitude, Richmond couldn't smile when you punched the gas to avoid more problems.

______

“Where should we go, Terry?“ Given no other choice, you kept driving. “With Burne still mad, you're better off leaving this place.”

“Come with me.” Richmond pulled his deep voice again.

“What?” Squinting, you nearly pulled the car over right now.

“If I couldn't help Mike and Summer get out of here, maybe there's a chance with us.” Terry offered.

“I….” You've made one turn and led Richmond near the airport.

“No matter what happens, we'll keep looking out for each other. Deal?” His words revealed this vow.

“Deal.” You hurried to park the car before gas would run out and reached Terry's hand while entering that larger terminal.

*****

Scoring this new home, you joined Richmond and practically lived together now.

“No luck?” Terry snuck from behind as you work with your laptop by the kitchen table.

“Stop it!” Laughing, you almost swatted him away as this rare yet adorable smile brightened his face.

“I'm asking.” Richmond pointed to the main screen.

“Working soon.” You grinned while confirming another placement.

“Aight, c'mon…” Hardly responding, Terry lifted your weight and carried you over his shoulder, leading this moment upstairs.

“Wait, put me down!” Your laugh would echo straight through his mind forever.

[mawlaeina]

BIRTHDAYS | SAGAU Childe

🍊 content: SAGAU! Childe & Reader

✦ content w: none! it’s fluff sorta

July 20.

It was the day that you looked forward the most every year.

Back then, July 20 was just the same as any other day for you—maybe another boring day of school, another day of work, or maybe even a local holiday. Whatever it was, it bored you (—unless it’s also your birthdate, I’m sorry).

That was the case until he came out.

He piqued your interest, even his story quest made you invested in him—more than you expected. You wished on his banner, joking about how you’ll get him first pull.

Your jaw drops—you got him at first pull.

You stared at the screen in disbelief—eyes glued, and jaw parted in awe as Childe came home in all his ginger glory. Eventually, you farmed enough resources so that you could main him through and through.

Moving forward to the present, you see a few tiktoks showing that other users had little to no crit rate for their damage showcases. However, that wasn’t the case for you.

Childe would always crit when you used him, especially when you played co-op with friends. Oh, how you loved it. In a way, it made you feel a bit special—though you later thought that you were just being delusional.

Then the clock struck 12am, a quick notification coming from your calendar saying that it was now July 20. You got out of bed, excitedly making your way to the kitchen with a smile as you hold a few sheets of paper and a pen in hand.

You take out a small cake from the fridge—decorated with orange frosting and a blue narwhal shaped decoration sitting at the top.

Some oranges from the nearby fruit bowl for good luck and prosperity.

A bottle of vodka and a shotglass—because you think Childe likes alcohol like a typical russian.

The mini speaker from one of the shelves so that you could play ed sheeran songs.

And lastly, his newly posted birthday art that you printed in high resolution just a few moments ago after it was posted on Genshin’s socials.

Now everything was complete. You place everything into position, lights dimmed as you used candles—the scented ones that smelled like the ocean.

It was your 4th time celebrating his birthday now, and you did this little celebration annually since his release, as if it were some kind of ritual.

Sure, it wasn’t anything too fancy, like the ones you see on social media where they fill the table to the brim for Childe’s birthday. But you were doing this out of pure love for Childe.

You set the pen and papers aside as you began to sing him a happy birthday song. You laugh awkwardly since you celebrated alone, and it wasn’t even your birthday. This was why your friends called you delusional, but you didn’t mind it—not when it made you happy, and how it was a way you could express the love you have to offer for Childe.

Now midnight had long passed, and ed sheeran was playing over the speaker. The cake had been eaten in half, an orange 3/4th finished, and the vodka nearly half. You cursed yourself for continuing to take shots earlier despite having such low alcohol tolerance.

Yet that didn’t stop you from finishing the last act of celebrating Childe’s birthday—his birthday letter.

You sat at the counter, head rested on one of your hands as your elbow sat shakily on the counter. Your other hand was busy scribbling lazily on the paper—handwriting coming off as an imitation of cursive, but it was readable still.

There were about two or more letters that you had already finished, and now you were writing another one as Photograph began to play on the speaker.

You wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

Expressing your heart out in sweetness, bitterness, and affection, all directed towards Childe alone. You wrote about your days and experiences after the last celebration of his birthday—you were writing to him as if he were real.

You finished the last letter, ending it with your signature. You sighed before chuckling sadly, knowing that the letters won’t reach him—and if they do, you knew he might not acknowledge them.

You were lovesick for someone who wasn’t real, someone who doesn’t share the same skies as you do.

On the other hand, inside one of the homes of Snezhnaya. Childe is woken up on his birthday by Teucer, who shakes him in excitement, reminding him that it was his birthday today. Childe smiled at his younger brother, ruffling his hair as he says that he’ll come down in five minutes to celebrate his birthday with his family—he needed some sleep, he had just returned home after a fatui mission after all.

Teucer agrees and exits Childe’s room, and finally the ginger makes a move. He sits up and stretches lightly, ruffling his hair a bit as he lightly pinches the bridge of his nose. He makes it a mental note to keep the promise he made with Teucer to go ice fishing the other day.

He sighs before he glances at his pillow. He wonders if there would be letters today as well since it was his birthday.

Ever since he started to receive letters under his pillow from his 21st birthday (2021) from an unknown person, he began to receive them annually. The number of letters always gradually increasingly, and always coming from the same person.

He remembered that he tried to track the sender of the letter down, only to come to a dead end every time. Eventually, he just found himself looking forward to receiving them, ocassionally reading them from time to time during his breaks.

Maybe it came from you? The one from across the screen?

He sees you, yet he can’t seem to communicate with you. He hears you as well, and he can’t help but recall the sounds you make when you have your little victories with him after boss fights.

He initially gave it some thought, and later came to a conclusion that maybe it did come from you—since you rarely ever come online when it’s his birthday, but when you do it’s usually at the last remaining hours of the day.

He slides a hand under the pillow, almost immediately feeling what seemed to be like three or five sets of letters. He chuckled quietly to himself as he took them out, revealing an actual number of 6 letters.

He reads them one by one, laughing a bit every now and then from the jokes you made, confused at some of the ‘references’ that you made—who was ed sheeran?

Then, there’s the part where you wrote down about how you felt towards him. His smiles fade into a poker face as he reads them with an unreadable expression—he’s unsure of what he’s supposed to feel.

He doesn’t think that he shares the same feelings that you had for him, at least, that’s what he believes. All that he knows is that you’re worlds different from him—existentially speaking. So, he’s never thought about it in the first place.

He’s thought of you as a comrade more than anything else.

Yet the letters he receives from you never fails to include such feelings—the same love and affection directed towards him, all written differently over the years.

“Ajax!” He heard his mother call him from downstairs, it seemed like they were growing a bit impatient. He looked at the clock on the wall, finally realizing it had been more than 5 minutes as he’d been busy reading your letters.

“Coming!” He responds plainly before he lets out a small yawn.

He stands up from the bed and leaves it in its messy glory as he approached a wooden box that sat idly on the nearby shelf.

He opens the box, revealing all the other letters that he received from you since his 21st birthday. He stores the newly received letters on top of the others, stacking them neatly so that it doesn’t look as messy as his bed.

There were now 15 letters in the box, and in his mind he was still counting.

He closes the lid as he took out a shirt from the closet, putting it on before he exits his room.

He somehow feels guilty, or rather he feels weirdly uneasy that he can’t return the favor nor your feelings. He silently hopes that you’d grow out of it, that it’ll pass in the end.

Yet a part of him also doesn’t want that to happen. He’s somehow conflicted.

He temporarily pauses in front of the window across his bedroom door. He looks up at the sky, fully knowing that celestia isn’t quite real—that it only existed in this confined world that he was living in.

He wished maybe the skies that you had in yours were brighter, fresher (and doesn’t lag).

Childe proceeded to walk away from the window and towards the stairs. A little smile plastered on his face as he comes down to greet his large family. He opens his arms as they swarm him with a loving hug.

He began to think.

Maybe it would be nice if you were here too.

🍊 “delusional” oh you mean mentally unstable ^v^?

🍊 childe it’s fine if you don’t love me back, i have enough love for the both of us TwT <3

🍊 is it obvious that he’s my comfort character? what an odd guy, idk how he became my comfort character (i love him)

🍊 he’s ed sheeran of Snezhnaya, change my mind

🍊 i’m too emotionally invested in him, help

🍊 btw that little ritual is personal experience, i do it every year for him and i’ll do it this year too :)

[turning-monday-blue]

"Do you... enjoy this?"

Shit.

I need to deflect, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a low moan. I feel so... massive. I can barely think.

"The first time, I was just worried about you. The second time... I just thought it was a weird coincidence. But now," she gestures at all of me with both hands. It's a big gesture. "Three times feels like more than coincidence."

She's not wrong. I've got to say something.

"I've known other people who've gotten blown up, you know? And after they get... you know, fixed, they've- they've all developed phobias, or left town, or gone through really intense therapy. But you," she says, placing a palm on my exposed belly, "have been completely unfazed. You just keep coming back for more."

My skin feels electric where she touches me. Everything is so full and tight, every little brush of breeze against my exposed skin is searing pleasure. I moan again, and she whips her hand away like she'd laid it on a hot stove.

"Sorry! I know I shouldn't be so casual about this. I should really call someone to come help you." She starts patting her pockets looking for her phone. "Sorry," she says again, then she stops. She looks back up at me.

"Should I even call for help? I should, right?"

Is that even a question?

"But what if you just do this again?"

Ouch. I've been lax, I guess, but I haven't been doing this on purpose! I mean... I have thought about it, but... it hasn't been intentional.

I think.

"It just takes up my time. The medical crew's time. Company resources." She looks conflicted. "Maybe I should just leave you like this."

Oh.

I try to plead my case, deny it, but all that comes out is a halfhearted "Nnnnnnnnnn-" before she cuts me off again. I'm just too full to speak.

"I could have you transferred to taste-testing," she muses. "Putting up with weird shit is, like, their whole job description." She starts dialing on her phone. Someone answers promptly.

"Hey, you'll never guess what happened again. Yeah, again again. Third time. Yup, big enough to roll, for sure."

She absentmindedly pats my belly with her free hand, like I'm some sort of bad boy you could fit so many things in. It's thrilling, that small touch. I nearly lose it, right then and there. Thankfully though, she remembers I'm a person just in time to give me an apologetic look before clearing her throat and returning to her call.

"Can you see if R&D has any openings for a QA Consultant? I know, right? All my ideas are good ideas. She's clearly more interested in being a giant balloon full of wasted product than an accountant."

I guess she's not wrong.

"No, no need for a trip to the squeezer. Put a note in her file that she's only to be reduced if she asks for it explicitly. Maybe have them bring a safe-suit, too. Hm?"

She looks me up and down. It's a long, curious look.

"No idea what size. Big. Really, really big. Yeah. One of the ones with the belt. Mhm. Yeah, she's not exactly naked, but... yeah, let's not give HR anything to complain about. Right. Yes, I'll follow up with her landlord and emergency contacts as needed. Yup. Thanks. See ya."

She turns back to me. She takes another long look, and then sighs.

"Congratulations on your promotion," she says, with a weird mixture of sincerity and irony. "We'll obviously miss you in Finance, but we're happy that you'll be rolling onward to bigger opportunities."

Oh good, she's got jokes.

"Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't make fun. Company policy is to treat this as a medical emergency, so I'll be staying with you until help arrives."

She checks her phone again.

"If you want, I can come visit you once you get settled in? I know I've always been happy to see friendly faces amidst all the strangeness of a new job."

She looks up at me again, sadly this time.

"I was looking forward to getting to know you better, you know? I noticed how you started dressing differently after your first... incident. HR would probably have something to say about how much I was... noticing. I thought maybe you were trying to get away from the trauma by being more poised and put-together."

She kicks her heels off and slides down the wall until she's sitting, obscured by the curve of my body.

"Oh well. Probably better for everyone that I didn't start hitting on a coworker."

Wait.

"Especially not one who keeps finding excuses to swell up until she's spherical," she adds, wearily.

Fair.

"I really should have seen this coming, shouldn't I? I mean, you've been touring the factory floor on your lunch break weekly. That's on me, I guess."

She hops back to her feet. "I think I hear the Medical folks." She brushes her skirt out, and looks me in the eyes one last time. "Hey, listen... I'll see you a-round."

She smiles and rolls her eyes at her own terrible pun, and walks away.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silver Lining 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

Note: I was going to add this to the bookstore au but realised Bucky is a side character in Steve’s and not old so….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You leave the cafe with your lukewarm cup. You were so anxious you'd almost forgot about the pepperminty goodness. You sip, slightly disappointed in the temperature. Still, it's yummy and you have your bag of books in hand. The day has been a mild success.

You walk along the icy pavement, the season nipping at your cheeks. Most people complain about the snow but it's your favorite. You don't drive so you don't worry for a slippery commute, you have your heavy-treaded doc martens and a downy coat.

You head down Ironwood hoping to catch a streetcar car only to find it skimming past. You sigh and drop your shoulders. You could use the exercise and it would be so bad as long as the path behind Jerry's Submarines isn't snowed over.

You cut through to the next street along a short alley and hop over the bank between the sidewalk and the road. As you do, you slip and stumble, a pair of headlights turning just as you fall into the street. I long fearsome honk blows in your ears.

You whip around to face the driver, raising your hand in an apologetic wave. Not the smartest move but the street isn't usually that busy. You brows pop up as you recognize behind the wheel. Oh boy. Not again.

You skitter away hoping he didn't recognise you too. That very same man who invaded your personal bubble and insulted your taste. Lisa doesn't believe it when you say you're cursed but it's hard to deny from your vantage point.

You get to the other side and keep your head straight, marching away without looking back. He drives by slowly past your peripheral and you dip onto the path, letting out a breath. Alright, no way you'll see that jerk again.

There's a blanket if snow over the path but not enough to deter you. You kick through the powder as you bob to the music in your earbud. You know, Mariah Carey's non-Christmas tunes aren't too shabby either.

You come out on Orchard, sipping your mellowed candy cane cocoa and swing the paper bag carelessly. You could start your podcast. You have more than enough resources now and the new books will be the cherry on top.

As you stride along Orchard towards Cornish, a car door opens and shuts. You don't see the figure before you until they step over the curve and nearly take you off your feet. You drop your cup, spilling what's left of the cold hot chocolate.

“Oh, oof, d-dude–” you sputter out as the liquid drips down your lilac docs.

“Dude?” The man grips the bag in his left hand, his other opening and closing in a tight fist. No way.

“Ew,” you let out the syllable without filter.

“Ew?” He eyes you head to toe.

“Y-yeah, y-y-you're following me.”

“Following?” He growls, “you girls sure do have quite the imagination these days.”

“B-b-but… you saw me….g-go down the path.”

“I wasn't even looking at you, doll,” he scoffs.

“D-d-doll?” You scowl.

“Oh, don't even--I could call you worse.”

“L-leave me a-alone,” you back up, gripping the wire handle of the shopping bag tightly.

“Happily,” he sneers, “I have a job so get out of my way.”

He shoulders past you, harshly. Your trads slip on the salted walk as you grunt and turn to eatch him strut towards the house just a few feet down. You rub the sore spot left by his gruff impact.

You shake your head a leave, thinking better of shouting ‘old man’ at his back. You probably shouldn't antagonize him. So you spin and tuck your hands into your pockets and carry on.

Your street is only a few blocks away. By then, you've almost forgotten about the strange encounters. The closer you get to the haven of your bedroom, the more excited you are to crack open your new books.

Your parents house is trimmed in bright coloured lights and the lawn decorated with plastic candy canes and full entourage of fake reindeer. The familiarity of your childhood home is both comforting and stagnating. You can't believe you're still here.

You go inside, leaving your wet boots on the mat as your mother calls your stepdads name from the kitchen. You unzip your coat and hang it on the rack mounted against the wall. You reclaim your bag of books and make your way to the front room.

“Dean,” your mom calls again as she appears in the hall, peering in after you, “oh it's you.”

“Just me,” you drone and continue towards the stairs. You stop at the bottom, “mom,” she keeps from retreating and looks back at you, “need help?”

“Oh, no honey, I almost got it figured out. So, how's the job hunt?”

You try to smile. Oh, that. You can't live off severance forever and the settlement is never going to happen.

“Good,” you lie, shifting the bag behind your hands.

Maybe you should be a bit more prudent. It's an investment, for your podcast. You just need to figure out how to record. And how not to stutter every other word.

You're only thirty. You have time to smooth out details. Don't you?

You turn and plod up the stairs and into your bedroom. The clutter greets you along with the nest of blankets tangled in your bed. What are you even thinking? You can hardly keep your room tidy.

It's not your fault. Your mom says so. Lisa too. But it has to be. You had it all, a good job, a nice apartment, independence. You blew it all. If you'd just kept your mouth shut.

But wasn't that the problem? Isn't that why you're getting therapy? So you can speak up next time. So there won't be a next time.

You sniff and sit at the desk, adding the bag to the mess. You hang your head in the darkness as the snow reflects the sheen of street lights through the window. It takes time, Lisa says, but you feel it running out.

[multiwreckedmess]

Two Princes (The End?)

Pairing: Prince!Hyunjin x fem!servant!Reader x Prince!Felix Genre: Royalty AU Smut WC: 9k (ish) Summary: The realities of life hurt more than if the two Princes were just a daydream. It’s time to be honest. 

TW: Sexual assault (not by the boys, I will include additional detail below the cut to review at your own discretion), threats of violence (not to yn) CW: Sir title, creampie, anal penetration, dacryphilia, yn referred to as “darling” “toy” “girl” “cocksleeve”, mentions of marriage and family.

Genuinely idk what ya’ll want me to tag there.

Normal disclaimers, this is fiction not a resource manual for how to do literally anything in life. This does not represent ANYONE real or fictional. It’s a fantasy AU FFS if you cannot figure that out I cannot help you. Please do not interact if you are under 18. This content is meant for 18+ readers so by continuing below the cut you agree that you are 18+. Also not proofread sorry, I’m a gremlin in a human suit.

Part 1 | Part 2 you might wanna read. i’m not your mom.

For the TW and spoilers I guess? There is a third party who has yn touch him inappropriately without their consent or knowledge. She asks the boys not to do anything about it. They EMPHATICALLY want to do something about it but respect yn’s wishes.

 Hyunjin’s sleepy rustling barely registers in your exhausted body, one of his legs kicking out from under the sheet. The room is lit with rich blues and pinks, calling in the morning light. Sweat sticks to your forearms where they press into his side, a small way to prove to yourself it’s all really happened, it’s all physically real.  Felix is far more wrapped around you, nose and forehead planted in between your shoulder blades, light breaths running down your spine. An arm drapes over your waist, hand slid between your breasts, his knees slotted behind yours. The throb of his cock, perfectly slotted between your cheeks tightens a knot in your stomach. You push back against him, wiggling happily.  Sure enough he responds with a gravely moan, abs flexing as he rolls his hips back at you. His thumb finds your nipple, lazily flicking back and forth over the sensitive nub. Slowly your lower halves slip and slide against each other, still tired from the night prior. Winding each other up little by little. He’s never been as interested in your chest as he is right now. Pinching and pulling and playing with your pebbled nipples, measuring your jittering hips to perfect his slow torture. Your clit throbs as you whine and wiggle your toes to relieve the tension growing in your gut. It does nothing. Felix is a small explosion of a half chuckle.  “Sir?”   “You can use my name if you prefer.” His voice is huskier in the morning, vocal cords still not used to moving.  “Sir, I need it-” your voice bounces as you tap your toe against his shin, pleading.  He plucks his hand from your breast, tracing down your side to the cleft of your ass, pulling apart your cheeks, cold air hitting your cunt, stale cum seeping from you still. Teeth grazing your shoulder, he slides in easily, the whisper of a groan vibrating from his mouth to your arm. With a shift of the covers and a slide of your knee, you're open to the morning light, his cock languidly rubbing against your inner walls.   “See doll, simply ask your future kings, we will provide.”  Neither of you are in a hurry to climax, the carnal need having been spent the night before, drifting between conscious and semi conscious as your eyelids flutter. You think you orgasm, it’s so gentle in comparison to your soul rending affairs it feels like a different beast entirely. A wave of pleasure washes over you like a summer tide lapping at your ankles. Your eyes roll back with a sigh, his fingers lightly circling your clit. “Is this real?” You wonder aloud, full body sunk into his chest.

 “As real as you want it to be.” You nearly jump out of your skin, Hyunjin’s smiling face turned to you, still puffy from sleep, naked and obviously aroused.   “Sir! I’m - sorry, Hyunjin? Sir.” Somehow you sound both panicked and sheepish, stuffed cunt on full display. “I didn’t think-” Your train of thought is interrupted with a harsh thrust, Felix’s cock lodging itself straight into your g-spot.   “Don’t be mad ‘Jinnie, you’ve been awake the whole time, you could’ve joined.” Felix chuckles.  You stare incredulously at Hyunjin, who shrugs with a smile.   “What can I say, darling. I love watching you,” his face softens, hand reaching out to stroke your hair, “and asking for us all by yourself. Such a good girl.”  “Do you want him to join?” Felix purrs in his low bass that makes your eyelids flutter. “As a peace offering.”  “Yes,” you gasp as he pulls out, the sudden emptiness almost uncomfortable.   Felix rolls you to face him, “but I'm feeling a little greedy today, if that’s alright,” he states with a boyish grin, pecking you on the nose before hitching your top leg over his hip.

  Rolling to face him, Felix kisses your nose, taking your top leg over his hip and slotting his cock inside you again. Hyunjin’s weight shifts the mat behind you slightly as he closes in on the two of you, hands roaming your buttocks and low back.   “Our toy has gotten bold,” his breath is as warm as his skin, fanning over the back of your neck. “Darling just relax and let us take care of your every whim,” Hyunjin purrs. “Now that you’ve asked, we can provide.”   Another shift in the bed that you barely notice, Felix’s face buried in your chest as he slowly and sloppily thrusts up into you. The telltale clink of the glass vase of oil uncorking, glugs of the slick liquid sloshing in the container. The press of Hyunjins fingers to your other hole sends a shiver up your spine.  “S-sir?”  “Yes Darling?”  You gulp, “just nervous.” Whining you feel the heat of embarrassment spread across your face.  “Oh darling,” Hyunjin plants a kiss directly between your shoulder blades. Two well oiled fingers slip against you as Felix slows. You can’t help but wiggle back against them. “It was nice last time right? Your kings weren’t wrong were they?”   Your head buzzes with lust, eyelids drooping in the haze. “Sirs were right. Always right.”  “So you’d like to? I need to hear you want this.”   “Please Hyunjin Sir, I want it. Just, slow please.”  A short puff of a chuckle escapes from his nose, “oh darling, of course.” He mutters, a finger slipping past the tight ring of muscle, a protracted moan ripping through the morning air.   “Keep doing that, I think she likes it Hyune.” Felix groans, slowing even further with his thrusts. “I can tell that by your cute little cunt, doll.”  With gentle touches and slow patient progress Hyunjin’s fingers work you open. It’s easy to lean into his sure guidance, letting the two of them work together to adjust the tangle of legs to better present you.   The heat of the sun streaming through the window keeps your skin warm as the three of you lay exposed and unhurried. No words spoken, the space between breaths filling with hushed moans and light giggles. Your world feels like a perfect golden bubble, glinting as it drifts happily along on the early summer breeze.   Soon enough slender fingers are replaced by the blunt tip of Hyunjin’s cock, pressing steadily into the space prepared. Your breath quickens as the pressure stirs your guts, no matter how much he did with his fingers it still was a tight fit. “Deep breaths darling, you taking us both so well. Just a little more, love.” Hyunjin's voice floats dreamily in the sunlight. Felix’s short but strong fingers massaging your hips, indenting your skin as he molds your flesh. “That’s it, good little darling,” Hyunjin groans as his hips meet the cleft of your ass.   “Really full,” you burble, clinging onto Felix in front of you. “‘S good tho’. ‘S nice.” Head swimming you can barely compute thoughts into words. Very much at the mercy of two royals there's no place you’d rather be stuck. The heat and pheromones buzz in your brain and drown out lingering worries and doubts leaving it empty, quickly filled with the sounds of the Prince’s slow labored breaths. Laying on your side you don’t bounce much, instead letting the two men lazily shift your hips back and forth, sliding you between their bodies. When one drags the other pushes and vice versa.

 “I can’t anymore-” Felix whines. “She’s so wet. Fuck she’s squeezing-”  “You can go longer,” Hyunjin grunts. “She’s not done.” Purring in your ear he whispers, “darling, cum for us. Show your Prince’s how good they’ve been to you.” Hands snaking around you to play with your chest, the tickle in your ear has you shaking already.   Felix’s breath catches, strangled in his chest. His hands grip you harshly, “oh-” he mutters as his face open in shock. His cock throbs, pushed up and fit as snugly as possible, cum flooding as your walls spasm. “I’m sorry,” he whines, “cumming.”   Something about his whined apology, the way his eyes slowly blinked open marveling at you like some sort of precious thing he feared he’d disappointed, it flips something in you. Your vision darkens as your whole body clenches, gasping and flooding the man inside of you. Juices practically drench them as you spasm. Teeth bump against your shoulder as you feel Hyunjin’s lips attach, sucking a purple mark into your skin as he folds forward, emptying himself as well, a cascade effect of your release.   Exhaustion overtakes you, fading in and out of consciousness as the two men adjust you and clean you and come back to lay with you. Happy bubble. Shining happy sunlight. Your skins pressed together feel tacky with dried sweat but you don’t mind. And neither do they. They don’t mind the mess and the grime or the work.

 The work.

 Eyebrows furrowing you think about the work that you aren’t doing today. The small chores that stack up to make bigger headaches. You want to lay and bask but the nagging thought won’t leave you alone. The reminder that your absence would be noted. Your legs have never felt heavier as you try to pull yourself down the middle of the resting men so as to not disturb them.   “Stay,” Felix mutters groggily, hugging you tighter momentarily before returning to slumber. Gently you roll him to his back, letting his arm slide off your body and gingerly crawling over the other outstretched on the bed.   As you swing your legs over the edge of the bed you watch your feet dangle over the ornate floors. Calloused from years of standing, they’re workers' feet. A permanent crack in your nail bed that goes unpolished is further proof of this. “I’m sorry for the offense of my trodding but I must make myself scarce,” you think wryly as your toes touch down as lightly as you can muster.  A hand grabs your forearm. “Would you stay if we commanded it?”   “That’s my duty sir,” you say without looking at him.   “Must we always command it?”   With a sigh you turn into him, Hyunjin, a measure of sadness in his eyes. “I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to command it, sir. I wish I could just stay as you request. I wish I could stay of my own desire.  In my world, a command means everything, sir, and desire nothing.”  He nods, hand trailing down to interlace with your fingers. “And would it be so terrible if I commanded it?” Hyunjin flashes a smile at you   “Not so terrible to me, but you are the Prince of a small kingdom and a host of a castle, so you must think of others.”  Hyunjin flops dramatically backwards onto the mattress, jostling Felix. “Fine. My darling must leave me. I can’t monopolize her time. I see. I understand. If you must.” He whines. “A kiss first. A command. You must kiss me.”   Leaning over you first kiss Felix’s outstretched palm, watching him as he reflexively curls. Then you look at Hyunjin, lips pursed dramatically at you, waiting. “One kiss sir. Exactly as you commanded, are you sure you want that kind of kiss?”  He leans up, hand extending to pull you closer by the back of your neck. Lips locking with his, you both press into the kiss, unwilling to be the first to break.  You chuckle as you leave, tearing a hole in your heart as you close the door.

 No longer new to the routine of the monthly meeting, you’d become familiar with the quirks and habits of the usual attendees. Those who were lucky to live close frequently settled in early while those who lived in the farthest reaches would sprint in just in time for the Princes to sit down from their small talk. As the season progressed your uniform adapted as well, much to their delight. Layers paired down to a simple sweat-wicking chemise, corset, top and knee length skirt. Still plain but lighter during the summer heat. Easier to put on, easier to remove.

 This month was different. You took note of a new member, sitting crooked in his plush chair, chest bare but shoulders covered in a rich velvet cloak. Not the usual fashion of the kingdom or her provinces. Stubble was already pricking his skin and tinting his jawline, his mouth quirked to the side, there was something in his smile that turned your stomach. Not the fluttering flip that the Princes gave you of excitement and anticipation, it was a jittery yank violently downwards of dread.  ”I’d have thought to come to court more frequently had I known you were hiding away treasures as this in this stuffy old castle,” the man comments to the Princes. Felix’s normally cheery smile and bright eyes fading, setting into stone.  ”We’ve made no effort to hide her,” Hyunjin plasters a cold smile to his face, ever the diplomat. “As you know, our kingdom has always had an open door to yours, you only need knock.”  The Princes watch in a tense uneasy silence as you refill the man’s goblet. The only noise that breaks through is the steady stream of dark liquid splashing into the vessel. From this distance you can tell he’s at least two decades your senior, glittering silver streaks flecking through his hair. You can feel his fingertips brushing the backs of your thighs, clammy on your warm skin. He’s careful to go just high enough to meet the hem of your skirts, not high enough to be obvious except to yourself and him. Alert bells ring in your head but you hold firm and focused. The second it fills you bow shortly, just enough to pass as polite, and go to skitter back to the safety of your corner. To hide where you know best.

 But he grabs you by the elbow pulling you back into place. ”How much?” Hyunjin’s vacant smile falters as both Princes stare at the man. ”How much for the slave girl.”  Felix splutters, “she’s a human, she’s not for sale.”  ”Everything has a price my naive boys,” he laughs, turning to you. “How much?” Eyes flitting from your princes to this man, you shake like a leaf. His hands move boldly; traveling the front of your thighs, visible now to the princes. ”I asked, how much? What’s the price for a lick of that sweet little cunt of yours?”  ”Miss,” Felix’s voice booms in the chamber. “Do you want that man to handle you as he is?”  You shake your head swiftly, yanking yourself back from him.  ”The next appendage that so much as brushes against her apron will be lopped off and fed to the pigs,” Hyunjin's voice cuts through, direct to the man’s ears, striking like a snake. The court sits on a knife's edge, teetering precariously, waiting for someone to act. The visitor smirks, slowly lowering his hand to his lap with the shake of his head. “Now can you behave yourself long enough to sort out the new agreements or have you been so enfeebled by your long day’s travel that your brain is soft and you need to be excused to rest?”   The man smiles, eyes cold, “little princes, all of this bluster is not necessary. It was a simple question, that is all. We can proceed as planned.”

 No matter how hard you try you can’t escape the feeling of being watched. His lingering gaze torments you in your corner. You had trained years and years to be as invisible as possible and now you were so clearly not. Not just to the Princes, but to others. Others whose attention you didn’t want. You’d been good at it too, making yourself small and silent and unseen, or you’d thought. Now you weren’t so sure.  Your leg bounces nervously. Hyunjin, you notice, seems particularly distracted by the visitor, back stiff and straight, eyes darting around the room. It’s difficult to tell exactly what the Princes were saying but by body language Hyunjin is on edge, clearly pressing the agenda forward at a rapid pace. The visitor sips his wine leisurely, staring. Making a show of the empty cup as his hand jangles it around, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Hyunjin almost breaks then, jaw tensing as you approach the man. The rest of the visitors and advisors don’t notice as you slip between the seats with your vase.   “These big mean boys keep you locked away?” His voice turns your stomach sour. “It’s okay you can tell me. Just whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”  You shake your head in a small tight back and forth, “no. My state is well, thank you.”  The man’s nostrils flare. “Tell me girl, have you ever seen such riches as these?” His hand dives into the deep pocket of his velvet overcoat, pulling from it a wad of bills and tossing them on the table. “Can you even comprehend the amount of wealth I have?”  “No,” you whisper. “Please sir, is this all you require? I don’t want to disturb the meeting.”  Slowly heads and eyes are turning to you as you stand, sticking out like a sore thumb from the rest of the seated table. What happens next happens in slow motion. You watch as the man’s hand reaches forward to grab the goblet but instead of grasping the stem, he punches it out from underneath, tipping his glass towards himself, sending the contents spilling forward onto his lap. Without thinking you grab a napkin and begin to dab at the bubbles of liquid before they absorb fully into a variety of thick, plush, fabrics. It was the training, the years of muscle memory to protect the image of the court, to care for the guests of the kingdom, to remedy any ills that could potentially fall on your head, that kicked into gear. His lecherous smirk doesn’t even register fully until his low gruff chuckle passes by your ear.  “It’s okay everyone, just a small accident,” he waves to the hushed table to continue their discussions. Then he turns to you, voice low enough for only you to hear, “such an eager little wench. Take some change for your troubles,” his hand covers yours, big and rough, taking the napkin from you and gesturing towards the stack of money on the table. “See how your state likes that.”  You feel something flex below your fingers. Wrenching your hand away and gathering it to your chest with the other, you feel sick. You don’t want to know what you felt. The man gathers the money and slides it into the front of your apron with the same lascivious smile plastered on his face.   “There you go, girl, for doing such a good job.”

  Lips cemented shut for fear of the nausea worming in your gut becoming something more, you sit back at your stool and pray. This room had been a sight of many unreal feeling events but this was something else. Front teeth biting the inside of your lip you fight the tears welling in your eyes. You can’t bring yourself to look at them, the Princes, radiant as ever at the front of the room. Instead your eyes search the room for any excuse to leave first, break protocols and abandon your position, any emergency that needs immediate attention would do.   But nothing appears. For the rest of the meeting there are no hiccups, not that there ever were. The rest of the castle knew just how important this meeting was and acted accordingly like a well oiled machine, practiced and precise. Except for you. No amount of oil could make up for the misshapen way you felt. No amount of elbow grease or pressure could fix it. Nothing had made you more certain of that than this. The outline of the wad of bills in your white linen apron reminds you of your place. Another person would’ve found a better way out of it, or wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. Your body holds itself so stiffly you start to vibrate, imperceptible to everyone but yourself.

 The meeting wraps up, advisors slowly meander past your post, some lost in deep discussion, others give you small nods of thanks until few remain. You steal yourself, waiting for the moment you know is coming. Eyes to the floor you can still feel him standing slowly, footsteps heavy and elongated, slowly making his way, server in tow, to your stool. You can hear him take a breath to speak as a third pair of footsteps intercedes.  “If you have a request, allow me to personally attend to it.”   An angel stands with his back to you, separating the man from your line of sight. Your angel, swooping in to save you. Prince Felix, unmistakable from his wide shoulders and small waist. He walks perpendicular to the man, continuing to block you from him as he corrects course to the door. He’s caught and by the Prince no less. Though you can’t see him you know he can’t act without causing more trouble than you’re worth.  “Ah well you see my clothes are still a bit damp and-”   “-and I will have an outfit more befitting the climate sent to your room where you can undress and bathe yourself in privacy.”   Their voices grow faint as Felix walks with him out the door and into the hall, leaving no room for arguing. Finally the room is quiet, your eyes search for Hyunjin who is uncharacteristically missing. So you clean. Gathering glasses and plates and papers. Separating and stacking. Carefully placing onto trays and those trays onto the cart. Finally carting the dishes into the small auxiliary kitchen, the opposite direction of the way you normally leave with the Princes. Pushing the door open with your back and pulling the cart with you over the threshold, the happy sound of water sloshing into the large basin of the sink greets your ears.

 “How much did he give you,” the water turns off abruptly, before you have a chance to turn. The tone of his voice could cut glass like butter. You drop into a low curtsey out of shock.  “Prince Hyunjin sir! Why-where-here?”  “How much did he give you?” Hyunjin’s shoulders hunch up to his ears as his palms press into the lip of the sink, biceps flexed and knuckles white.   “I don’t- I didn’t count. I didn’t want to touch it. I couldn’t, sir i could never, I would never-”  He whips around, hands still damp, he reaches into your apron pocket and tosses the bills onto the small prep table in the corner. “Count them. Count them and he’ll get as many lashes.”  You gasp. “Sir, no. I can’t. Lashes? For what?”  “He insulted you. Therefore he insulted me. Therefore he insulted the kingdom and should be punished accordingly.”   “Sir. No.” Your stomach flips as you shrink into yourself. “Not me. Not me at all. I’m not worth the incident.”   His eyes look wild with anger. You wish more than anything you could evaporate under the heat of his fury. “Why not? You’re a human. You have dignity.”  “To a powerful man like that, I’m nothing. It’s his right.” Hyunjin’s words have pushed you back, thighs and palms holding the small table behind you as he stalks forward.  “Not here. Not in this Kingdom. Not in my Kingdom. Is that what we are to you? Your Princes are just powerful men exercising their right?”   “No! Sir-”   “Stop calling me that. We aren’t in court or the bedroom.”  “Hyunjin.” It isn’t you who says it. Mouth ready and open to heed his request, instead Felix, at the doorway, speaks his brother’s name sternly.  “You’re scaring her. Look at how small she’s made herself. If she doesn’t want us to do anything, we can’t do anything.”   Felix is right, you’ve curled reflexively around your middle as best you can, body naturally protecting your vital parts. With a gulp a flood of tears spill silently to your cheeks.  “He tricked her, Felix.” Hyunjin's full attention turns to him. Your breath stays held as you watch their showdown. “He tricked her into touching him. Then he tried to pay her for it. Tried to take her away from us. It was bad enough when he did it to our faces but to try to coerce her during court? Assault her? As though we don’t take care of our people. It was an insult to her autonomy. It was an insult to our authority!”   Felix doesn’t budge in the face of his tirade, resolute.“Take a walk, cool off. It’s equally her right to ask us not to interfere.”   Hyunjin opens his mouth to fight but Felix heads him off.   “As you are so concerned with her rights, you agree, it’s her right to ask us to not interfere.”  His mouth flaps open and closed soundlessly. For a second you think maybe he’s going to haul off and punch Felix. Instead he pushes past him into the hallway, not missing the opportunity to knock shoulders fiercely. You can hear his frustration echoing down the hall, exasperated groans and angered shouts rattling the stones of the foundation.

 If a black hole appeared and sucked you into it in a violent vortex of wind you wouldn’t be surprised. You’d be thankful for the quick and certain death at the hands of a celestial entity that was not made of flesh and bone and blood. Face still streaked with tears your body responds with automatic protocol. Most painfully, despite it all, dishes must be done, time stops for no one, not even powerful men. And so you start cleaning, soapy water still warm from Hyunjin’s washing. Each glass, used or not, gets carefully dipped and swirled around. The silverware clatters to the bottom to soak in the suds. There’s a calmness in the rhythm of it. Reach for the glass, grab the stem, dip the goblet, swish the soapy water, rinse with new water, place upside down to drain, repeat. Reach, grab, dip, swish, rinse, place, repeat.   “He means well, you know. It’s just seldom that anyone asks us to not do anything,” Felix sighs. His shoulder touches yours as he hunches over the sink with you, grabbing a glass for himself and following your lead.  “Please,” you whisper barely audible above the soothing sound of the water, “you really shouldn’t-”  “I’m just a Prince, I’m not totally and completely incapable of household chores. Besides, our Hyunjin is not the only one who hates to sit on the sidelines.”   Tears bubble again, you’re not sure why. You don’t fight him about it, instead leaning into him as the two of you work to clear the pile. He doesn’t remark on your crying, softly humming as he works. You almost feel like a normal couple, not a Prince and a member of his housestaff. Slowly your head leans over onto his shoulder, his long blonde hair tickling your ear.   With two people the remainder of the cart is cleared quickly, which you are thankful for. Pure emotional exhaustion fatigues your brain. You hardly notice how much weight you’re lending to Felix until he shrugs, your head bobbing with him. He’s midway through wiping his hands on his trousers, normally you’d be horrified to see the dirty dishwater soak into the richly dyed fabric but now you simply offer your apron to him.   “You’re tired,” Felix softly smiles. “May I?” His waterlogged thumb wipes the dried tears at the bottom of your jawline. You nod into his palm. The small gesture has tears welling at your lash line again. You love his care, you love his smile, you love him so much it hurts and catches in your chest. Felix tuts. “I only want tears if they’re from pleasure.”  “Then make it so,” you sniff. “Make them happy. Make me happy.” Your voice trembles and threatens to crack. Through watery vision you stare fiercely into his eyes.  His expression looking back at you is so soft in contrast, eyes kind but troubled. He chuckles, “quite the demand. I’m only a Prince but I'll see what I can do.”

 The moment you feel the helplessness threaten to collapse inside of you his lips catch yours. Wet and messy your lips, teeth, and tongues clash against each other as if by force you could express the sincerity of your feelings.  “I love you, my doll,” Felix manages to growl into your open mouth. Hips pinning yours to the counter you pant to catch your breath even for a moment. It smells like soap and skin and sunshine as he covers your face with small pecks. “If my love alone could protect you, you’d have no stronger shelter.”  “But it can’t Sir-” his lips dip down the column of your throat, a fresh hot wave of arousal traveling down your spine with a shudder.  “And you know this, how? How many Princes have loved you like I?” He holds you just far enough away so you can see the sparkle of his eyes.  “None.”  “Then you don’t know for sure that it can’t.”  “But it’s not--!”  “Then join me in pretend,” he kisses your warm cheek. “What use is logic and reason if all it does is make you sad? Just for now, just me.”   With a pointed nip at your neck he forces a moan from you. It’s difficult for your rational side to escape how overwhelmingly good it feels to be with him, how eagerly he kisses every inch of skin, how consumed he seems by you, his slight of hand tricks that seem to magic you into a more undressed state. In the warmth of his embrace feelings pool and flow over, drowning that small voice that tells you to be critical. One hand slipping up your skirt, he kneads the crease between your ass and thigh, fingers slowly working their way towards your entrance. The other pulls hastily at your bodice strings, not bothering to fully unlace anything that didn’t need it. He hitches your leg up over his hip, his knee pressing into the cupboards below the sink, arm looping around your thigh to support you.   “Britches, undo them, now” he pants as he leans the two of you back. His length throbs with your swollen cunt.   Still nowhere near as deft with his toggles as he was with your ties, your hands fumble over the buttons confining him within the cotton panel. Each slip of a button from its hole increases the heat of anticipation in your gut, as though this were the first time you’d seen him. The swollen tip of his thick length poking over the draped fabric has you giddy, hand automatically migrating to circle it.  “Did I say you could touch?” His face scrunches, fighting an airy whine.   Fingers of one hand still fumbling with buttons while the thumb of the other glosses the beaded precum over the spongy head you watch him struggle to keep his strict facade. “Please?”   With a deep breath he forces the air from his lungs in one guttural groan, “I can’t refuse my doll now can I? Not when you ask so sweetly. Not when you’re practically dripping on me.”  “I need you, please, sir, please,” his cock nearly fully out, a few buttons separating you from him. “How many buttons do you even need,” you grumble.   “Fuck the fucking buttons,” Felix perches you on the edge of the sink, teetering precariously as he hastily pulls the breaches the rest of the way down, shirt completely untucking. Your skirts get shoved up around your waist before he pulls you to him, cock searching blindly beneath the flood of fabric for your core. Catching on the muscle, with a sudden prod his blunt head slips past.  You wince and yelp, “Felix!”   Brushing your flyaways back he kisses you, “okay? You okay? I’m so sorry usually we- I know I- I want to take my time love but-”  “I’m fine, just sudden, just big,” you bite your lip and try to breathe. Felix holds you closer to steady the two of you, rocking the rest of his length up as you slowly sink down, all the while murmuring praise against your throat.  You feel delirious as his full length fills you, clit grinding against the caught mixture of fabrics of his shirt and your skirt. “Feels so good.” Your skin buzzes with endorphins. “Felix you feel so good.” A sob catches.  “Pretty doll, why are you crying?” He kisses your trembling shoulders. Bouncing you up on his hips, speared on his cock he coaxes the tears free with each percussive measured thrust.  “Hap-py, real-ly hap-py,” you burble, words broken up by air forced from your lungs. “Fu-ull and ha-ppy.”   His arms add to the thrusting, pulling you down faster than gravity onto him. Usually one to reply, Felix pours his full focus into pummeling your cunt, your single leg barely adding support as you wobble on your tippy toe. The leg held on his hip tensing and shaking. Fingers digging into his shoulder blades and wrinkling his shirt you cum. He seems to reveal in the feeling of your cunt working him, kissing you with more fervor as it pulses around him, happy to clench around something so thick. Eyelids fluttering and eyes rolling you’re  Gulping air and overstimulated he doesn’t let up, instead hammering into you as he chases his high. Every ounce of strength you can muster is diverted to withstanding the smack of his hipbones against your ass. His hips stutter and pace slows, you can hear his heart; a comforting fluttering thudding part of him that reminds you that you’re both just flesh and blood and emotions in squishy little bodies. The part of him you like most maybe, the soft tender man that lives in the shell of a mighty ordained being. You don’t even realize you are whimpering in his ear until you hear the door click and shift squeakily on its hinges. You duck your head into his chest, trying to curl completely into his shadow.  “Get. OUT.” Felix practically roars, mid climax and not waiting on formalities. The door slams shut quickly before you have a chance to peek over your lover's shoulder. He looks more lion-like than he’d ever, halo of golden hair wild and mane like, panting and hunched over you like prey he’d feasted on.   “Do you think-” you gulp and pant.   “No. If anything they saw my ass.”   “What if-”   “Then we handle it. Together.”

 Hair fixed, clothes smoothed and righted, you head back to your room in the soft glow of the hallway. The only reminder of your day is the slow trickle of cum streaking your thighs. You suppose all lovers do this to some extent, waddle their way to their own beds until they’re married. Was there even a chance of that with him, with them? Or was the inevitable end of your tryst a quiet disappearance into wider society. Standing in the full ground level kitchen you stir your herbal concoction. Queen Anne’s Lace, willow, pennyroyal, myrrh, and rue. A mash of plant parts from roots to seeds all put together, a well-tread recipe at this point, still horribly bitter to swallow and best chugged when cool. It could be worse, for you all that happened was light bleeding and cramping. You’d heard for some the potion made them bedridden for days. It was inconspicuous as long as you refilled what you’d taken from the kitchen garden.  Still you can’t help your burning curiosity as to who may have seen you or what may be said. Taking extra hours in the kitchen, assisting with the laundry, really adding any of the known gossip spots to your routine of chores. Strangely nothing. Not a peep of anyone, much less a Prince, using the auxiliary kitchen for auxiliary activities. You’d at least expected speculative whispers of who the man could’ve been. In particular the laundry day gossip had revolved around one of the stablehands' sexual conquests, questions of paternity of a noble woman’s eldest child, and whatever was happening at the far away chantry. So maybe a consensual romp in a kitchen wasn’t interesting enough without hints at who it might be. As an upside your extra hours had grown your estimation in your matron’s eyes, always pleased to see your head down, nose buried in work, keeping yourself out of trouble.  “I’d had my doubts some days,” you overheard her speaking with the head of the staff, “but she’s really taken to work like flies to honey.”   But flies who feed themselves fat on honey stick and drown.

 Normally beds were made in pairs but your partner was sick in bed that day. Doubled over with cramps she was in no state to lift mats and shake out duvets with you.  “Really I can-” she sat on the edge of her small cot, one arm wrapped around her stomach, shoulders hunched over. Practically shaking with pain, you carefully helped her back down.  “It’s fine, I’ll make up for the both of us.”   Face contorted in pain she nods. “Please, ask anything of me and I’ll help you.”  “It‘s fine,” you assure her, “it’ll be better than nothing.”  “Really, I refuse to be a burden. If you ever-” an anguished clench of her jaw interrupts the thought process. Refilling her water jug and placing it in arms reach, you leave her small room. Some day you may have to use that offer but for now you had to get going.  The work wasn’t easy or efficient but it was better done alone than not at all and better alone than dragging your friend around like a ball and chain. Carefully tucking opposing diagonal corners of the bottom sheet in before rotating and attending to the other pair, you work methodically through the upper guest rooms. In the summer heat the heavy shades are draw and rooms dark to preserve what cool night air you could. Still the heavy work left you panting and sweaty, hair frizzing in different wild directions. The thin layer of dried sweat reactivated by new beads as you progress through the rooms.  You sit on the edge of a half made bed to catch your breath. Limbs starting to hurt and drag you focus on the promise of a nice cool bath at the end of the day. You think about how the water would prickle against your overheated skin, numbing as you soak the pain of the day away. The air wicking the droplets off your exposed parts and cooling you further. Eyes closed the power of suggestion works it’s magic to refresh you even now.

 “Look at this darling present left all alone,” Hyunjin’s voice calls in a cheerful sing song as he closes the door behind him, leaving the two of you in near darkness.  Your heart beats wildly. “Prince Hyunjin, your royal highness?” You respond into the black.  A sigh from behind you has you spin on the top sheet. “Are we so unfamiliar even now?” You wish you could see his expression, but he sounds almost sad. “My darling, my gift, my love, I’m sorry.” The bed bends in behind you, his voice drawing nearer. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”  “Can I speak honestly?” You mutter sheepishly.  “Of course darling. Always. Forever.” You gulp down to ease the clench of your throat, “our worlds are so different. Yes they intersect but there are parts of mine that you’ll never understand and parts of yours I’ll never be privy to.”   “I-we know. But we-”   “Please. I need to finish before I regret this,” you take another breath, silence settling across the two of you. “I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know what I am to you. Either of you. And you can’t protect me from what may come of whatever we are. And I don’t want what may happen to hurt you. And no matter what we do you are who you are and I am who I am and we just- and, and, and-” you search for the words to express the depths of the helplessness you feel. Instead a sob rips the sudden silence apart at the seams.  “Oh my pretty darling, may I-” you feel him inch closer. You nod wordlessly, he doesn’t need to complete the request. You’re not even sure he can see you but your throat is so tight you can’t even squeak out a yes so you have to hope he can feel the slight bounce of the bed. Like a ray of god shining through the break in the curtains a beam of sun illuminates a sliver of bed. It hits his arm first, muscular and bare. As he leans towards you the strip travels his face, the area around his lips looks red and puffy, his nose too. The slight glimmer of his cheek tells you he’s been crying. Shoulder dipping as the weight of his cheek pours over it your head naturally falls onto his.  “Have you thought about country life?” His question trails into the dark nothingness. “I think about it a lot. Taking a cart and a horse and a wife onto some unsettled land. I’d still be a king even then. Just of a much smaller domain.”   “You would. And would you rule over your wife then? And children?”  “And cows and chickens too, and any of their babies,” he chuckles wryly. “Why? Would it bother you?”   You sigh and shrug him from your shoulder, collapsing back into the half made bed. “I don’t know, my lord, I think I’d like to be a partner in a marriage more than a subject.”  “My lord? You’ve gotten so cheeky,” he says with a swat to your thigh.   “Sir. Prince. His royal highness-”  Hyunjin lets out a deep sigh, a burst of air hitting you as he collapses backwards on the bed. The air itself is hot. Laying there in silence you feel his fingertips brush the back of your hand lightly, asking for permission from you.  “Hyunjin.”  “Darling?”  “If that’s what you want-”  He grips your hand so tightly it stops you. “You know what my father -our- Felix and my father said when Felix joined our family? The decree?”   Your heart pounds out of your chest. In all your years within the castle no one dared to broach the subject to the point where you could’ve sworn it was a punishable offense. You of course were too young to remember those years clearly, shortly after the passing of the sister queen and king to your land. Not related by blood but of bonds much deeper. “Something about no more queens to follow but I thought-”  “None. We may have heirs but neither Felix nor myself is promised a queen. Nor can we make a person a queen. No more Queens.”   He’s clearly eager but you don’t quite follow. “So if you marry…” your words trail slowly, waiting for him to finish your thought.   “They would be our partner. But nothing to the land. Only ours. Not a subject nor royalty. Just ours.” His hand shakes yours, he’s either excited or scared and you aren’t quite sure, even with your eyes adjusted to the dark.  You gulp, “but surely if they already were a princess or a queen…”  “They lose all status. Making us as princes, virtually worthless to their kingdoms.”   You’re not sure exactly what he is saying or why he is saying it to you now or what it means for any of the litany of worries you’d unleashed only minutes earlier. Pressing your lips together you try to follow his line of thought.   “Darling, I will die if I have to spell it out,” he sighs, exasperated.   You remain silent. The mattress tremors with the shifting of his anxiety.   “We’re cursed Princes. A death to Princesses and useless to those seeking to increase their social capital. Please. Think.” He rolls so that his slight frame leans over you, eyes staring directly down into yours for the first time since the incident. “What do you want from us? What do you want most of all from this relationship? If it’s Queenship, we cannot grant this. If it’s power, we cannot guarantee it.”

 Hardly breathing or maybe breathing too much, you can’t decide between the two, the tension holds invisible in the air, buoyed by the humidity. Gulping hard you watch him watch you. Study you. Eyes flitting over your features searching for your answer.   “Love.” You blurt, cracking under his intensity. “Care. You. Both of you.”   Hyunjin leans over, eyes crossing as he closes in on you, his hair curtaining down and tickling your cheeks. Slowly he tilts to the side, lips meeting your cheek. “Good,” he whispers, lips tickling the shell of your ear, sending a shiver through your spine.   Sweat droplets travel down your body soon followed by his hands, carefully stripping you. As Hyunjin works to undo the various ties you realize his hands are shaking ever so slightly. It was always Felix helping you from your garments, he was faster, more sure. Hyunjin was more cautious, as though he could rip your bodice from your body with the wrong flick of his wrist. The moments between your breaths the world feels still. You can hear him breathing too, holding for a moment as he fully inhales and again as his lungs empty, deep slow breaths.  “Sorry if I-” you mutter a half hearted apology.   “Sorry? For?”   “I’m sweaty. I probably smell. I’ve been cleaning all day-”   Interlocking his fingers with yours he presses another kiss to your cheek.  “It’s hot. You’re hot. That’s all.” Releasing your hand he slips down the outside of your thigh, tracing your outline on the covers.   “It’ll get on the bed,” you giggle as his fingers run across your skin, tickling all the way.   “And?” His voice is cocky as you spread your legs easily at the mere press of his knee.   “I just made it. It’s a waste.”  “If you sleep here, is it a waste?” Hips slotting between your thighs, warm skin to warm skin, still the upwards sweep of his fingertips against your shoulder leaves a wake of goosebumps on your body.  “I can’t sleep here I-”  “If we sleep here?” Hyunjin quickly interjects. Heavy and hot his erection lays waiting on your belly, pulsing as want courses through his veins. “Together. You’ll sleep here with me? Then it won’t be a waste.”  “Hyunjin, we have beds. Our own-”  “Then the floor.” He kisses you hurriedly, “I want to have you. Now.”  Another day of half work. You sigh. Heart and head tugging you in opposite directions again. Kissing the tops of your knees he waits attentively for you. “Hyunjin…the floor?”  “Anywhere. Anything. Let me take care of you.” The kisses move down your inner thighs, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted. “The castle won’t fall apart if a few beds are less than perfect, darling, trust me.” Hyunjin gazes up at you, plush lips hovering above your mound, hair curtaining down to you. He looks like a lion hunched over downed prey. To be wanted so desperately, so recklessly, excites you, sending shivers coursing through your body like white hot fire.  “Sir?” Your voice shakes in anticipation. “May I touch you?”  A short burst of hair escapes his nose, mouth closing and lips quirking into a small smile. “Darling, whatever you want from me. Whatever you need from me. Take it.”

 Fingers threading through his hair, pushing it back, your gazes lock as he lowers to kiss your cunt. A spark seemingly from his lips sends tingles to the base of your spine. Tongue dipping between your folds his breath fans across you. Your grip on his hair tightens as you moan, tugging as he tries to dive deeper. The intrusion of his tongue probing has you squirming and squealing.  “Darling?” He emerges, chin shiny. “Are you okay?”   You both pant, staring. “I’m sweaty…it can’t be…I’m sorry.”   “If you weren't delicious I wouldn’t, darling. I am a Prince after all.” Licking his lips, his eyes narrow, “if it’s alright with you, I’d like to eat what’s mine.” He nips your inner thigh, leaving a red mark of his presence. Pressed into the mattress his hands hold your trembling thighs apart. He feasts as though you’ve greatly offended him by suggesting any part of you was not the perfect fit for him, growls sending pleasant vibrations into your heat. It’s sloppy and wet as his tongue works to map every fold of your cunt. Giggling and shrieking and moaning your hips buck with abandon against him until you’re both left a mess of spit and slick.   Finally you tug at his hair to pull him to you, eyes unable to focus, fingers twitching. Lips locking with his in a messy expression of lust you can taste yourself on him, not unpleasant as you’d feared. A mix of salty sweat and natural sweet musk.  “Ride me.” Hyunjin tumbles backwards, pulling you over him. His eyes rake over you, “want to watch you take me. You look so beautiful. Let me watch you.”   Quaking like a newborn fawn you straddle his hips, he looks gorgeous with his arms up, cradling his head forward. You lower your palm to his chest to steady yourself and reach between your thighs to position him. The muscles in your legs burn as you slowly take him in, inch by inch.  “Gorgeous,” he says as you finally steady on top of him. “Bounce for me darling, I think you can take just a little more.” Hyunjin thrusts upwards, jostling you.  Your eyebrows shoot up as he slides just a little deeper, just enough to kiss your cervix, stirring in your gut. “Ha-Hyunjin!” Yelping and moaning as he fucks upwards again, letting gravity push him into you. Craning back with your chest to the sky, your mouth lolls open. Primal need overtakes you as you grind back against him.  “That’s it,” he coaxes, “does that feel good darling? Tell me how good I feel.”  A shiver runs through you, a hunger that’s indescribable. The ache of absolute need opens the pit of your stomach. A thirst that no water could possibly satiate coats your throat and dries your mouth. “Hyun-hyun-sir,” you babble, “I’m-I need to use you. I’m sorry it feels so good. I feel so good.” Repeating yourself over and over you steadily grind back and forth in time to your own chants. His hands join your hips, helping hold you to him, soft murmured praises fill the fuzz between your ears. Your pace increases steadily as the want grows, body burning and exhausted but driven by the promise of release. The wave of pleasure hits suddenly, the swell rocketing you forward, collapsing to his chest as you shake. The resistance of his cock filling you as your walls clench around him has your vision swimming even in the darkness of your closed eyelids. Holding your hips he continues the slow grind through your orgasm, not enough to push you over the edge again but enough to leave you in a state of bliss.  Hyunjin smothers your shoulder in kisses, hands running up and down your body. “You work so hard,” he says with extra honey to his tone, “you did so well.” He half scoops and half rolls you onto your back again. “Since you used me for your pleasure, it’s only fair I do the same, right? What do you say, darling?”   “Please, sir,” you mewl, senses lost as your minds float amongst the clouds. “I want nothing more than to be of service.”  “Good,” he growls as he practically picks your hips up and stacks them, folding you almost in half. Nothing could prepare you for the vigor with which he fucks down into you. The angle leaves you open and vulnerable, lungs sandwiched in on themselves so you can only manage half breaths. Your legs hang half over you uselessly wobbling even with the support of Hyunjin’s torso and shoulders. The first slam of his cock rams him right into your gspot, nearly knocking the wind from you. Mouth gaping in a wordless scream as his hips pummel against your ass, your body tenses and braces itself as best it can for the onslaught. Your hands search for anything to stabilize, finally reaching up to the headboard just before the top of your head makes contact. Blurry above you Hyunjin’s chest is red and coated in a thin layer of sweat, droplets slowly saturating his blonde locks.   Hyunjin pauses, resting his head on the headboard, panting. “No matter how much we fuck you, you’re still so tight. Our darling.” He thrusts pointedly again, smiling as you squirm and squeal, speared by him. “Such a good cocksleeve.” Another thrust that you can feel tickling the inside of your belly button, crying out again. His thumb brushes against your clit as you whine pathetically below him. “Going to cum again, darling?” Hyunjin teases.  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, only able to find one word at a time.  “Want me to cum in you? Fill you up like the good darling you are?”  “Yes,” you continue to chant like a stuck cuckoo clock.   Hyunjins thumb rubs more insistently as he slowly drive into you, both sliding easily with the natural lubrication. Inhuman noises gurgle up from your lungs although you are unable to hear them. The rush of dizzying pleasure fills your ears and eyes as your entire body bears down on the man fucking into you with abandon. As you cum his hand retreats, grasping your hips to better steady them for him to pull up as he plunges down. The room evaporates as you feel him spilling into you with a whine of his own. Making true of his word to fill you, a mix of your juices leaking out around him as he slowly presses himself tight to you, leaning to kiss your forehead gently.  Small orgasmic aftershocks follow you both, panting and sweating in the dark. Every time he shifts you whine and clench around him, forcing whats left from his withering cock deep into you with a groan. Slowly unfurling, your tendons burn as they release from their uncomfortable position. Hyunjin continues to mouth and nuzzle at your neck and shoulder gently, almost appreciatively.  “When we marry,” he whispers, “we’ll keep you stuffed full just like this. All the time. Our darling partner. Our favorite toy. Our love.”  “We?”   Hyunjin laughs, “didn’t the matron teach you? The Princes get gifts in equal pairs accepting where there is only one, which then will be shared. And you are the only one.”

Thank you all for all the love this unintended series has gotten! I really hope you don’t mind as I take a break to write some other things. Upcoming ideas include an angsty as fuck changbin oneshot, a smutty hongjoong best friend oneshot, and a semi-professional dom!san series. As always i respond well to requests so folks who are 18+ my asks are open. I have some basic rules (18+, i reserve the right to say naaaah) so please don’t be shy. I AM actually on here even though i’m bad at it.

[mystic-writings]

walk the line | one

SUMMARY — you crash land on d’qar and meet poe dameron. he makes a promise you know he won't be able to keep.

WORD COUNT — 2,735

WARNINGS — swearing, slight angst, mentions of panic, grief, & trauma

NOTES — it finally made it out of the drafts!!! fuck yeah concrete

m. masterlist | series masterlist

Kriff, your head hurts. Groaning, you did your best to orient yourself and quell the queasy feeling gripping at your stomach. Reaching up, you attempted to press your palm to the side of your head, only to find a strong grip restricting your movements. 

Your eyes flew open, pupils wide as they met dark, brooding ones. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who the hell are you?” He spat back, brows knit tight. Behind him, a fire blazed, roaring and rolling waves of heat right at you.

Craning your neck from where you were — on the ground, only previously held in a sitting position because of the person gripping both of your arms — you strained over his shoulder to find your TIE fighter in smouldering ruins, a rush of breath leaving your lips. 

“Oh, come on! That thing took me forever to build!” You groaned, lip pulling between your teeth as you continued to take in the damage. “What the hell am I gonna do now?”

The man’s grip loosened on your arms, eyes widening as his eyebrows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Wait. You built that thing?”

“Yeah, I did.” You glared at him. “It got me off Tatooine. I can’t believe the entire engine just decided to quit on me! Useless piece of Old Empire junk,”  

The man before you stuttered over his words, letting go of you entirely. Beside you, another man stood, worry painting his features. “Poe, are you sure you wanna do that—” 

“It’s fine, Snap. She’s a civilian.” The man, Poe, glanced back at you. “You are a civilian, right?”

You scoffed, laughing humorlessly as Poe stood, allowing you the room to copy his actions. “Like I would tell you if I was First Order. I mean, really, what kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“One smart enough to rebuild an Old Republic TIE fighter.”  

“From scratch,” you smiled wide. “On Tatooine. With very little resources. And lots of jerry-rigging.” 

“Maybe that’s why the engine gave out,” Poe remarked sarcastically, scoffing as you rolled your eyes. 

“I made sure the engine was genuine, dumbass.” You scoffed, side-stepping him. “I’ve rebuilt tons of podracers from nothing. This thing’s just a piece of junk.” 

Poe didn’t speak, and neither did his weary partner. You eyed them briefly before turning back to the wreckage. Reaching up, you grasped at the chain at your neck, breathing a relieved sigh when your fingers grazed at the small locket resting upon it. Then, as discreetly as you were able, you took a breath and reached into the inner pocket of your jacket, cool metal meeting your fingers with a relieved sigh. Still safe. 

You heard the underbrush rustle, warmth pulling at every fibre of your body, shocking you back to life. Twisting on your heel, your wide eyes met Poe’s, watching as his eyebrows furrowed again, seemingly confused at your every move. 

“Come on,” he said, dragging the sentence out, clearly still inspecting you. “We’re about a mile out from the base. If we haul ass, we can make it in time for dinner.” 

“Base?” It was your turn to furrow your eyebrows, letting go of your locket as you desperately pushed that warmth deep down, trying with everything you had to stamp it out. 

Poe, who’d already started walking away from the wreckage with Snap, turned back. “Yeah, base. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To join up.”

“Sorry, join up for what exactly?”

Poe’s lips split into a cocky smirk, hands falling to his hips as he nodded once. “The Resistance.”

———

The walk to the base was the closest you’d gotten to pure agony in a long while. 

With Poe in the lead and Snap taking up the rear, you could swear that you were stuck between the most talkative pair of people in the entire galaxy. They prattled on about dinner, presumably trying to sway you on whether or not you would actually join their cause. 

Once upon a time, you would’ve. The younger you would’ve jumped at the opportunity to fight for something as big as this, in the same way she jumped between the trees behind her childhood home. 

But that was a long time ago. Before everything you knew was nothing more than dust in the wind and you were sneaking onto passenger ships without papers, heading wherever was most convenient for you. And that was just who you were now. A woman with nowhere to go, with nothing ahead of her except for a little revenge and a triumphant return to her former career. 

“You’re gonna love what we’ve got to eat tonight, I promise,” Snap assured from behind you, and the eagerness in his voice made you want to break something. Whether it was just you being irritated, or the sudden inability to push that pesky feeling deep within you away, you weren’t really sure. All you wanted was for the both of them to shut up. 

Poe glanced back at Snap. “Well, you’re gonna have to save us a few plates, Snap. General Organa’s gonna want to speak to her,”

“I’m sorry, General Organa?” You baulked, nearly tripping over yourself. “As in—”

“Yep. Leia Organa wants to speak to you herself.” Poe smirked, glancing over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “What’d you say your name was, anyway?”

The cogs turned in your head as you searched desperately for an alias. For something fake. Something to keep you safe until you could get back to… wherever you could get to. Tanadoka, maybe? If Maz would even let you near the planet. 

But you couldn’t think of one. Suddenly, your mind was drawing nothing but blanks, that little pull growing stronger, sucking you in, consuming everything within you. You couldn’t get away from it. You couldn’t identify it, either. It’d been too long since you’d done anything like that, the signals mixing in your brain, drawing you back to one single answer. 

“You okay?” Poe’s voice rang clear as a bell through your mind, and it was only then that you realised the rest of the world had fallen away. The greenery, the crunch of the underbrush beneath your feet. Blinking, all of it rushed back, finding that Poe had stopped walking to face you, that same weary look on his face. 

“Uh—” you nodded, clearing your throat, cheeks burning as your eyes darted to the trees nearby before landing back on Poe. “Yeah. I’m fine. And my name’s Y/n. Y/n Dhara.”

———

“Dhara, you said?” Leia asked, eyes carefully examining your features. 

You nodded, muscles tense as you shrunk into yourself. The last thing you needed was an interrogation from Leia Organa. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know someone by the name of Lyxi Dhara, would you?” Her voice was gentle, as calm as you remembered it being described to you. 

Your heart stuttered for a moment, feeling as though the locket resting on your chest would burn right through the skin. 

“No, ma’am. She, uh… she died before I was born.” Not a complete lie, but the rest of it was true. You never got to know Lyxi Dhara. 

Leia’s eyes remained on you, her gaze piercing as yours fell to the floor. Beside you stood Poe, entirely confused at the interaction unfolding before him. “Poe, you’re dismissed. Go fix up a room for her, will you?”

Poe nodded briefly, turning to whisper to you before he left the bridge. “Come find me in the cantina afterward. I’ll help you settle in.” 

His voice was warm, soft and oddly comforting. You wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to hear him whisper to you more often. Quickly, you shook the thought from your head. You stopped being able to afford thinking like that a long time ago, and you’d been able to avoid it for almost a decade by now. What kind of man was Poe Dameron to break your resolve without even knowing who you were?

“Y/n,” Leia brought your attention back to her, watching her carefully as she stepped closer to you, nearly toe to toe. It was here that you saw the emotions swimming in her eyes, expertly held back tears making her eyes nearly bloodshot. “Are you lying to me?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am. I never knew Lyxi Dhara.” 

“General is just fine, Y/n.” She smiled, warm and comforting. “And I only ask because I knew her. Lyxi was… she was one of my best friends. Do you know anything about her sister? Ryara?”

You nodded, teeth gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you struggled to keep your composure. “She’s dead, ma’am— General. For over a decade now.” 

“Where?”

“On Yavin-4,” you said, forcing the image of her from your mind. 

“And Lyxi?”

“On Naboo, I think.” 

Leia inhaled, a humourless laugh falling from her lips as she nodded gently. “Of course. All she wanted was to go home, that one. Always begging my— her husband.” 

“If you don’t mind my asking, General, but who was her husband?” You couldn’t stop the words from leaving you, that burning curiosity from your childhood clawing at your chest, eating away at your brain. “I— I never knew her, so…” 

“Ryara never told you?”

You kept your lips sealed tight, hoping that nothing stupid would fall from your lips if you didn’t open them. Instead, you diverted your gaze back to the ground, shaking your head slowly. Maybe now was when you would finally get some answers. Maybe now, you could finally know a little bit about your mother. About the person who died for you without ever really knowing you. 

“How about this,” Leia proposed, checking something on a nearby datapad. “I want you to give this a real shot. In a few days, if you’re serious about this, and you really want it, I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know. And hopefully, you can answer some of my questions, too. If you don’t, I’ll arrange transport for wherever you want to go. Does that sound like a plan?”

“I—” if there was one thing you didn’t want to do, it was join the resistance. There was too much loss here, too much to lose. Even if you didn’t have anything yet, getting close to people was an inevitability here. You knew it all too well. And it would kill you to go through it again. But that childish craving within you was too deep to ignore. “Sure, General. I’ll see you then.”

Leia’s lips split into a wide, graceful smile. “Perfect. I’ll see you then, Miss Dhara.”

———

Trying to find Poe Dameron in the Resistance was like finding a needle in a haystack. Sure, he’d found you when you didn’t need him, shown up out of nowhere like a rock in your shoe. Now that it was you trying to find him, though, it was like he was a freaking ghost. 

Not knowing the layout of the base didn’t help much, either. 

Inevitably, you had to stop many people to ask if they knew where he was, only to be given several different answers. It confused you all the more, only for you to end up wandering the hangar, marvelling at the different fighter jets. They were marvellous, to say the least. And there were so many of them. It was every mechanic’s dream, seeing all of these top of the range jets in one place. It was every scrapper’s dream, too. 

As you admired an X-Wing, examining all its dings and scratches, running a hand over the cool, black metal, a voice rang from behind you. “Like what you see?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, fingers twitching as you instinctively reached for the weapon in your jacket pocket, before remembering that you didn’t need to use it. Especially around people who didn’t need to know you had it. 

Spinning on your heel, you found a smug-looking Poe standing behind you, leaning on the wing, arms crossed as he observed you patiently. “What the hell is wrong with you? I could’ve killed you just now.” 

“But you didn’t,” Poe smiled, pushing off the wing to stand beside you, looking up at the jet. “And you didn’t answer my question.” 

“Like it?” You huffed, glaring at him before looking back up at it. “It’s… I do. I like it. Is it custom? The paint job, I mean.”

Poe nodded. “It is. Perks of being Commander, I guess. And I’m glad you like it, otherwise my ego would be severely bruised right now.” 

“It seems like you could stand to have a bruised ego once in a while,” you smiled, light and small. When your gaze returned to him, his eyes were already on you, soft and shimmering in the hangar’s harsh artificial lights. “I’ve never seen anything like these before. They’re all so…”

“Big?” Poe guessed. 

“I was gonna say ‘new’,” you said. “Where I was, back on Tatooine, I never got to fly anything except podracers. Fixed up plenty of old jets, but nothing as good or as new as these. And if anyone did have a brand new jet, I was never anywhere near it.” 

Poe was silent for a moment, his hands linked behind his back. “Is that where you’re from? Tatooine?”

“No,” you shook your head, almost laughing at the thought. “Maker, no. I was just… stuck there for a while. Lost my way. I was born on Naboo.” 

“Never been,” Poe commented, his voice quiet. “What’s it like?”

You remained silent this time, head dipping for a moment as you said, “I don’t remember. My… I left when I was a baby. Spent half my life on Yavin-4. Left again. Travelled for a while, got stuck, ended up here.” 

Poe hummed, and you met his gaze, finding that familiar warmth infiltrating you again. Your breath shuddered, panic filling you for a moment as you tried to push it away, trying to pull yourself away from it, back to the familiar feeling of neutrality. Of the brink of emptiness. 

“Where did you grow up?” Poe asked. “On Yavin-4, I mean.”

“By— by that Jedi temple. Our house was pretty secluded.” 

“So did I.” Poe smiled wide, excited to have met someone who grew up in the same place as him. “In the village nearby.” 

“I used to visit there when I was young,” you smiled. “We— my aunt and I, we would go to the market and get our food there. There was this little stall at the very end, with these little cakes, and I always used to beg my aunt to get one,”

If it was even possible, Poe’s smile brightened. “The one with the little old lady, yeah,” he said, “I remember. My dad would buy one for me every once in a while.” 

Flooded with emotion, your mind turned into a battleground in moments. Hurt at the idea of reliving moments you swore you’d never look back on, but relieved that, for once, you weren’t looking back with sadness, but with a sense of nostalgia as you shared a piece of yourself with someone else. You were good enough at keeping tears at bay that Poe didn’t see any of the conflict within you, the sharp sting of the reminder of your aunt. 

“Is your family still there?” Poe asked, and your smile faltered. 

Beneath your ribs, your heart began to race. The turmoil within you increased, the warmth in Poe’s voice mixing with the one you were trying desperately to push away. You twisted your lips, teeth tugging them into your mouth before you let go with a sigh. “We don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“Do what?” 

“Get to know each other, be… friends.” You gestured vaguely to the small gap between you both. “I mean, thank you for the rescue, but… I’m not someone you want to be friends with, Poe.” 

Poe scoffed, turning to face you fully. “What makes you think you get to decide that, hmm?”

“Because I’m not friend material,” your half-hearted response only made Poe scoff again. “I’m serious, Poe. I’m not good at relationships of any kind. I tend to abandon people, or they tend to abandon me. Not exactly a healthy pattern, is it?”

“I don’t,” Poe said, way too confident in himself. “Just give it time, okay? I’m gonna change your mind, I promise.”

Now it was your turn to scoff. “No, you won’t.”

Poe smirked. “I can try, though.” 

———

masterlist | next chapter

series taglist: @whisperofthewild @violinbetty @lxntsxv (open!) [taglist form]

[bqstqnbruin]

Mat Barzal Teacher AU

@nicohischier listen I will crtl f if I want to but I didn't do it for this one

But this is the 9th one I've written and posted since Monday so that's gotta be something, right?

Teacher AU Series

Warnings: swearing

WC: 813

______________________________

“What are you doing?” Thea asks, walking into Orla’s room. 

“Looking at my glassware.”

“Is it nice to look at?”

Orla sighs, closing her cabinets. “I have to replace like half of what I bought brand new last year because the students broke everything.” 

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh, shit.”

Orla gets her computer out of her bag, where it had been sitting since she arrived in her classroom for the first time since the last school year ended, pulling up the Flinn website and praying that they had some sort of sale going on. Not that it was likely for the stuff she needed, but she could still have hope. “How much will it cost you?”

“The smallest beakers I need are five dollars, the largest are twenty three.”

“Each?”

“Each,” she groans, drawing the end of the word out. 

“Oh, shit.”

Orla laughs. “I think we found our new catchphrase for the year.”

“A downgrade from last years, ‘oh, fuck,’ if I do say so,” Thea laughs. 

Orla stares at the screen, adding everything she needed to buy new into the cart and watching the total cost increase by the second. “Why don’t we work at a school that pays for everything?”

“Because I don’t think those schools exist.” The two of them sit there for a second, Orla staring at her computer trying to figure out how she was going to pay for everything she needed for the school year. “Oh, do you know who your new humanities partner is?”

Orla shrugs. “Whoever that new French teacher is, I haven’t met him yet.” 

Thea sighs. “I got paired with Richard,” she grimaces. “Why do we have to do this again?”

Orla sits up straight, folding her hands in front of her on her desk and tilting her head back so her nose was pointed into the air. Thea burst out laughing, knowing that she was imitating the vice principal they both hated. “To ensure that we are providing the most extensive cross-curricular education to our students.”

“More like to ensure that we have more busy work we don’t want to do. I mean, what cross-curriculum stuff can we do between biology and English?”

Thea looks at her friend as she puts her feet up on the top of the desk she had commandeered. “You teach AP Bio.”

“And?”

“Don’t they have to read and comprehend long passages just to write essays about them?”

“And?”

“Babe, that’s English. Richard is the perfect person to pair you with.” 

“He’s a dick.”

“In more ways than one.”

Thea laughs, getting up to head back to her classroom to do some work before they had to head to the auditorium for their first week back meetings. She turns back to Orla “Don’t you know French?”

“Not really, no.”

Thea, with her hand on the door, stares out the window in the center. “One of your ex’s did, though, right?”

“Two; blue eyes and nostril boy.”

Thea nods, a smirk on her face that told Orla she wasn’t going to like whatever her friend was about to do next. 

Orla sat back in her chair as Thea finally left, the door closing behind her. Why would she mention Orla’s exes? It wasn’t like either of them would be a teacher. Blue eyes moved away a while ago, Orla losing track of him after he ended up somewhere in Canada. Nostrils, however, was still somewhere on the island, which she knew because she ran into him way too often for her liking. They broke up because Orla thought he was way too self-involved; stopping just short of an actual temper tantrum when he didn’t get his way. 

Granted, they were younger and much more immature when they dated, but it was still enough that Orla knew she didn’t want that.

She shrugs it off, going back to the Flinn website to see if she could pull any of their free resources that could be useful in order to make her feel better about the nearly one thousand dollar glassware purchase she was about to make.

She’s interrupted by a knock at her door while she’s reading about a nuclear decay inquiry lab, not looking up to see who walks in when she calls for them to enter.

“Orla?” she hears a familiar voice, her head snapping from her computer to see the one person she didn’t want in her classroom.

“Mat?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I teach here,” she says, hoping he can’t hear the shaking in her voice. Having a short conversation with him when they randomly happened to see each other was fine, but this? “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

The realization of what Thea’s facial expression meant finally dawned on her. You could see who was coming into the building from the hallway outside Orla’s classroom thanks to the weird design of the building. Thea had to have seen Mat coming in. “You’re the new French teacher.”

“You’re my curriculum partner.” 

“Oh, shit.”

[holy-puckslibrary]

sid to a furry friend's rescue!

florist!reader gets flustered during sid's calendar shoot

oh, nothing... just them playing house doing a mentorship day and stirring up the rumor mill... another tuesday!

gif from @ehghtyseven

Sidney remains cautious around the local amateur matchmaker, adopting a level of vigilance, one not unlike that of the state he experienced while on duty, whenever she and her cohort openly collude on his behalf. Unfortunately for him—and anyone else audacious enough to be single in their vicinity, their movements are as unpredictable as they are assured to occur.

He could be milling around the market down the block from the station, or waiting for his order at the hole-in-the-wall café beside your shop—even his mailbox was fair game. Blissfully alone one minute, and the next? He's center stage as Halifax's Most Eligible Bachelor, unwittingly sifting through a rolodex of eager contestants, many of whom present in name only.

Their community wasn't remarkable small, but it was quiet. So, Sid could understand the appeal. The residents, many of whom were nearing retirement or already had been for several years, had little else to fuss over. It wasn't uncommon for a single person to become a central topic of conversation at the bingo table or the church pew. Everyone got their turn.

But, of the community's ever-dwindling pool, Sidney Crosby is most definitely the favorite, with you not far behind.

When you arrived, Sid breathed a sigh of relief. Fresh meat meant that, at least a little while, the heat would be off his back. He could go about his business without a peanut gallery or having to stand trial over the state of his (non-existent) romantic life.

It felt somewhat callous to hope for someone else's life to be probed and scrutinized the way his has been, but his reprieve was long overdue. And it wasn't as though he intended for you to fend for yourself. He knew firsthand how relentless Madame Matchmaker—as she liked to be called—could be, and therefore, he could be a vital resource and a nice shoulder to lean on.

You were receptive to his aid and grateful for his kindness, and while Sidney anticipated this alliance of sorts would be largely one-way, he was pleasantly surprised to realize a positive, unintended consequence—a deterrence to meddling. With you by his side, Sidney was approached significantly less.

You both were.

And you knew why. It wasn't hard to connect the dots; appearing together effectively marked you as "off-limits," and, therefore, not worth their time or help.

However, it soon became clear the rouse worked a little too well. And, unwilling to fabricate a half-truth or outright lie, the horde of Cupids found reason to descend with renewed fervor. This time, with a fresh initiative: to bring their fantastical assumptions to fruition.

Today's doings were further fodder, and the pile of pooped toddlers curled between you being the chief culprits.

For nearly eight hours, you looked and behaved like a stereotypical nuclear family out for field trip. The day began with a breakfast spread seated at your breakfast nook and a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. Then, a trip to your shop for a light lesson in floriculture and an introduction to bouquet arrangement, before the four of you made your way to the station for an edu-chat on fire prevention and safety. And, of course, a gear try-on and (assisted) turns with the fire hose. (Sidney wishes he would've snuck a photo of you donning his helmet.)

As the sun slipped closer to the horizon, you crumpled onto a bench framing the park in the center of town.

Managing two children together for Mentor Day seemed less daunting than going it alone, and it had been—but at what cost?

The hushed giggles just within earshot are measure enough.

"We're never going to hear the end of this, are we?"

Sidney hides his splitting grin behind his hand, all too aware of the typical spectators not two yards from where you're sat. It was best to find amusement in their meddling whenever possible.

"Definitely not," he concurs.

You lapse into comfortable silence, as you usually do around this hour on one of your back porches. The fading sun paints the town square in a buttery golden light soon after. Neither of you can resist stealing glances, open and lingering, too eager to watch the color dance across the other's face to worry about public perception and speculation.

Tired eyes tracking over your face, Sidney hums, "Today was a good day."

He watches you nod in agreement, a dreamy little smile pulling at your mouth. Behind the children's heads, your warm fingers tangle in his. His heart thuds when your hand gently squeezes his three times.

"Yeah, it was."

—

someone let me give him kids! now!

as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!

READ MORE OF THEM HERE!

[2aceofspades]

Trick or treat! It's fanfic anon, here to drop off a treat for you! Rereading Wrong Fabricated Time Branch has me feeling things and I wrote this little magnetic duo thing-

---

Cassandra didn't come back.

Between Casey Junior, the entire rest of the Resistance, and trying and failing to be there for his family, Leo barely had time for himself. Heh, what was a little less time for himself when there was the rest of the world to take care of?

So then, Leo found himself caring for a child that wasn't his; said child sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. That part was fine, not at all stressful. With that child loosely swaddled in his own scarf, he paced around the room as he briefly (and quietly) laid out the plans for the next resource raid. His energy waned, his vision blurring and his words turning into white noise. His steps grew more haggard, but standing or sitting still wouldn't feel right either.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leo noticed a familiarly large silhouette walk past the open door. No, not quite walking past; more like walking towards. He merely nodded to address the other presence, not quite recognising who was standing there until he dismissed the rest a few minutes later.

The moment the last member left the room, Leo identified the closest horizontal surface, set Casey Junior on a chair, and immediately collapsed onto the hard wooden table.

"Leo?"

Leo could only groan in response, recognition finally taking root in his mind. He turned his head away from the source of the sound, groaning. He just wanted his two minutes of table time before the next team went in.

"Leo. It's important, we need'a talk."

Despite the fatigue in his bones, Leo sat up (yes, on the table) to face the snapping turtle. Oof, the big guy was getting blurrier than he remembered, but he assumed he looked focused enough to "make eye contact".

"What is it? News on Cass? Missing resources? Someone lost their kid?"

"Not that."

"Then what?"

There was silence, and Raph's glare (Leo's assuming) was piercing enough. Be it a result of their odd ability to mind meld or something similar, Leo knew Raph wasn't here to talk about the Resistance.

The slider sighed, "Then it isn't important."

Leo couldn't quite see the expression on Raph's face change, but there was a shift in the tension of the room. "Leo. Everyone can see it. You need rest."

"Wha-hat?" Leo sounded way too surprised for it to be funny, but he had to make an attempt at levity, "You think I'm tired? Are you mistaking me for Donnie?"

Raph didn't even pause. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Uh-" He stifled the way his words began to slur.

"Or the last time you had more than five minutes for yourself?"

"Well-" He fought his faltering vision.

"Or the last time we talked about stuff that doesn't concern the Resistance?"

"Come on, that isn't fair!" He knew Raph was mad, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Tell me."

The leader could nearly feel the glare on the other. He could only cross his arms, stopping himself from curling in on himself. Falling back into old habits wouldn't help anyone.

"Hey! I'm saving the world, right?" The slider tried to stop himself from sounding accusatory, but it came out targeted anyway, "Fixing my mistakes, making the right sacrifices, being a hero?"

"Listen to me-"

"We're doing better now than we were before; who cares if it takes a few all-nighters-"

"Leo-"

"I'm getting results!"

"Raph just wants his brother back!"

His vision blurred even more, cold streaks going down his face as the weight of those words sunk in. No, they didn't sink; Raph threw those words like bricks and Leo could only shatter like glass.

"You're the only one we barely see."

Leo let himself curl into a ball, holding his knees up to his plastron. He wanted to feel like a child again, but that wasn't what he deserved.

"Always busy talking to other members, never letting the rest of us help with Casey, always throwing yourself headfirst into danger when someone else was at risk," Raph muttered that last part, and Leo sunk his head into his shell, "You may be the leader, but Raph's still the oldest. I want to know what's going on with you."

It took a moment for Leo to construct a word, let alone the sentence. He made an attempt at speech, only for it to come out a defeated chirp.

Raph must've made a face, even if Leo could barely see it. He first heard the click of a door closing shut, then the softness of fabric against his wet eyes and cheeks. "Raph's sorry for yelling."

"Chhrrr..." (It was deserved.)

Raph didn't understand. Maybe much to Leo's benefit. "But please just listen to Raph for once... I won't leave you alone, none of us will. We're in this together, 'kay?"

"Erp..." (No promises.)

A pause.

"Can Raph hug you?" Leo paused, but nodded. He leaned forward and fell into a familiar embrace. Unconsciously, he found himself sinking into the warmth the other provided, melting like a cat in a container.

Strong, secure, safe, even when the apocalypse outside raged on. For once, he'll allow himself this one comfort.

GAH-

You...you can't do this to me okay???

THIS IS CANON NOW OKAY YEAH THIS HAPPENED-

I couldn't stop myself...

It...it was just too vivid in my mind 🥲